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homenum-revelio-hq · 4 years

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Welcome (back) to the Order of the Phoenix, Ky!

You have been accepted for the role of non-biography character ADONIS CARROWwith the faceclaim of Ben Barnes! We’re so excited to watch you explore the darker side of the game! We especially liked you explanations for Adonis’s motivations and beliefs, and how he’s fit himself into a world where by all rights he shouldn’t...yet does.

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Ky

AGE: 28

TIMEZONE: PST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: Daily-ish! I can’t predict my on call schedule, but I’m usually available by Discord for plotting, at least!

ANYTHING ELSE: Nothing you don’t already know!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Adonis Carrow

AGE: 33

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cisgender male, he, bisexual

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood? Halfblood? Who knows!

ORDER RANK: Affiliated

HOUSE ALUMNI: Slytherin

ANY CHANGES: N/A

CHARACTER BACKGROUND: CONTENT WARNINGS FOR MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE AND DEATH.

PERSONALITY:

Charismatic, refined, perceptive, adaptable, and largely lacking such impediments as any sense of honour or loyalty, Adonis Carrow knows that nothing is forever. Not lineages, fortunes, masterworks, or wars. You only get so much in the world that’s actually yours. As such, the only thing he’s truly dedicated to is himself.

That’s not to say he’s cold. Far from it. He’s an artist, after all; not merely a liar, but a romantic one. Donnie knows how to pay attention, with such a warmth that it’s hard to resist basking in the glow. Is there always an ulterior motive, hiding behind that shine? Well, yes. He’d say so. (And the answer would never have a thing to do with loneliness. Not a thing.) It’s simply in his interests to entrench himself in as many corners of magical high society as possible. Networking, you know. Does that mean he doesn’t genuinely care about all those friendships and torrid dalliances and lingering affairs? No, no. At the very least, there’s base sentiments involved. Maybe some real fondness, even. The best lies have a bit of truth to them, don’t they? Just enough. Just enough that it wouldn’t hurt too terribly badly to cut it all loose the moment circumstances demand. That it won’t sting too much to remember that the most he’ll ever really be to these people is a taste of scandal - and the pitiable once-pureblood who tidies up their heirlooms.

In short, as much as he might enjoy their company or their bed, nobody’s likely to convince Donnie to rearrange his near-entirely selfish priorities. He’s not out to be a hero. He’s in it to survive, and thrive where he can. Donnie knows that’s he’s standing on dangerous, shifting ground, and he’s quick to adjust his footing when things start to slip one way or another. If he has to step on a few necks in the process, so be it.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

The Carrows were many things, back when they were anything; respected, feared, opulent, aspired to. Bearers of that fine, fine name sat the Wizengamot, riddled the Ministry, rose through the ranks of Aurors, had their professorial portraits hung on the walls of Hogwarts. Certainly, they had had their… missteps. Some say the family’s been as close to the Dark Arts as ivy to towers, ever since their far-flung beginnings. That might be a stretch, but it’s a matter of record, certainly, that several Carrows were interrogated at length in relation to their alleged involvement in the many crimes of Gellert Grindelwald. Nothing came of it, of course. In certain circles, their supposed nearness to such a notorious Dark wizard was quite the feather in their cap. Certain circles that continue to welcome them, despite their recent disgrace…

Yes, were, past tense. Now? Apolline stalks the mildewed halls of the family estate at the foot of the Cambrian Mountains, wrapped in her furious disdain and mouldering furs. Her eldest children, Amycus and Alecto - well, they’ve done nothing notable, have they? Except start a few ugly duels. And, apparently, take up service with the Dark Lord. Older than their baby brother by six years, and a difficult pregnancy, the twins had fallen from their parents’ good graces before they even arrived. When Adonis did, a beautiful boy with a beautiful name, cooed over and coddled and shown off as they never were, Amycus and Alecto found an easy target for their collective viciousness. They weren’t pranksters, to be clear. Bullies is hardly sufficient. The twins were torturers, dabbling in Unforgivables before they even wrote their O.W.L.S. - and testing them out, gleefully, on their baby brother. So long as their parents weren’t watching. Wouldn’t stand to see their favourite battered about, would they? Not when they had galas to dress him up for.

Apolline and Argus were never entirely sure where they’d went wrong with the twins. The derision and dismissal of their little childhood achievements? The unkind, constant comparisons? Who could say! An unpleasant feeling. So, they wholly neglected their oldest children, as much as possible - which was a great deal, when any wix would give their left arm to be so trusted by the Carrows as to nanny their apparent heirs. And so Adonis grew up with the benefit of the very best tutors and opportunities, and always striving to meet his parents’ exacting expectations - lest they change their minds, and abandon him to Alecto and Amycus.

He was doing rather a good job of it, it seemed, until everything came apart. Until the strength of their blood, the cornerstone of all they were and had, began to quake and crack. Until his father was found dead. Until his mother, never a sweet creature, soured in the face of owls unreturned and invitations dismissed. Until the twins became even quicker to lash out. At Adonis, most often. Now, Apolline didn’t stand in the way. They could fight for what remained of it all. Kill each other, if murder was what it came to. As her marriage had.

Adonis was out of that crumbling manor before his seventeenth birthday. He’s never been back; there’s nothing there for him, after all. The closest he’s come to his siblings is encouraging the Order to add them to that list of potential Death Eaters. Not that he had evidence, per se. But he wasn’t wrong, was he?

OCCUPATION: Appraiser/restorer of magical artifacts

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

It’s for spite, really. That’s what Donnie would insist, when it comes to his connection to the Order of the Phoenix. Spite, for the pureblood-mad society that cannibalized his family, that’s denied him the comfort and certainty and opportunities he was born for. If their Rome burns, he’ll take up the fucking fiddle for the occasion.

Too bad the Order’s rather less… fiery than he’d anticipated. He doesn’t enjoy the company of raving idealists, especially ones who, so far, seem rather bad at getting shit done. He’s also well aware that most of them don’t trust him, and doesn’t expect that to change; after all, what revolutionary bent on battling Dark sorcery would pick a Carrow to keep faith with? Everyone knows what Carrows are capable of. (Or think they do, anyway. Few know the half of it. Those grandparents who dallied with Grindelwald were hardly serving tea and hosting benefit balls.)

That’s not to say that his involvement should be seen as any sort of atonement on his family’s behalf. Goodness, no. There’s nothing of duty to any of this. Yes, it was a pleasure to see Professor McGonagall again, and he is rather fond of her, appreciative, genuinely, of her mentorship. But he doesn’t owe her, either. Or Dumbledore. Or any of them - these children, for the most part, out there playing partisan. Honestly, he thinks they’re woefully delusional. Too few. Too messy. Too hopelessly outmatched.

In fact, it’s rather risky of him to be helping them at all, and they should be bloody grateful, given that they’re certainly doing him no favours. The outcome of the war itself feels rather immaterial to Donnie; Carrows don’t matter anymore. He won’t be on anybody’s list, Ministry or Death Eater, at the end of all this. And if he doesn’t like how things evolve, from there, he’ll leave. Not as if there’s anything anchoring him where he is. There’s a whole world to see about, full of places (and people) he could settle into, all over again. His skills are, as they say, transferable.

Speaking of those skills. His professional capacities are occasionally of use to the Order, certainly; he’s a master of a niche craft, a field which demands mastery of transfiguration and cursebreaking both. However, it’s the inroads his career - and charms - provide that are most regularly valuable. Whether he’s quietly restoring the gables on the Greengrass summer estate or not-so-quietly seducing an Avery in some back room at the Ganymede, Donnie is well-positioned to notice things of interest to Dumbledore and his army. What, precisely, he passes their way really depends on his assessment. Is it believable? Can it be corroborated? Most importantly, is it likely to get him caught? His safety always comes first. But after that, sure - he’ll drop them a line, see what they make of his news. That’s about the extent of his involvement in the conflict, thus far. And honestly, he’s happy to keep it that way. He doubts the Order will win, but. He won’t lose, and he’s pleased to participate second-hand in the harassment and (ideally) destruction of Death Eaters. His brother and sister, specifically, if you don’t mind…

SURVIVAL:

Whether he’s delivering word to the inner circle or rubbing elbows (among other things) with Malfoys, Lestranges, Notts, and the like, Donnie is quick to assess the people around him, to gauge their values, to pick the right words and the best moments to smile and nod. Some might say he’s only so uncannily talented at all that fakery because he’s got no convictions of his own, nothing at all that matters to him. Untrue. It’s just that uncompromising ideals are an expensive thing to keep, and Donnie doesn’t have any he’s about to die for. Including the Order’s. Especially when they’re losing, which they unquestionably are. Disappointing, really.

When it comes to fight or flight, flight has always stood him in good stead - there wasn’t much else he could hope to do, as a child, facing the combined horror of the twins. This instinct became rather literal when he followed his precocious talents for transfiguration all the way to attempting to become an Animagus, and, with the help of Professor McGonagall, discovered his form to be a striking black barn owl. In truth, his Animagus is rather on the nose in several respects; growing up around the halls and manors of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Donnie learned young that staying silent and listening to the whispers were vital survival skills for anyone who couldn’t - or wouldn’t - rely on wicked wandwork to attain all their ends.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Donnie does rather a lot of relating. Invitations to all manner of extravagant social events, from that disastrous Ministry masquerade to solstice banquets at so-and-so’s country house to the extravagant fêtes of magical London, land on his desk quite regularly. Who’s he to say no? It’s an honour. Hardly arduous, either - he was raised to weather waltzes and hours of idle small talk. Such a schedule creates ample opportunities to refresh and extend that intricate web of connections that keeps him in silk shirts and Châteauneuf-du-Pape - and, yes, information for the Order. He has quite the tangle of fascinating acquaintances and dear, dear friends out there in the darker, purer corners of British wizardry. The things you can overhear…

From the moment he left the ancestral manor, Donnie’s been sidling from bed to bed, castle to penthouse, making his way on the largesse of wealthy lovers. His string of secretive romances wind on; there’s moneyed dowagers and miserable husbands a-plenty who’d happily welcome him back, open-armed and pining. One might think this could lead to some awkward run-ins and jealousies, but the convenient thing about being untouchable is that nobody will admit to having had their hands on you. So, in a way, his secrets keep themselves from each other. Unsurprising, given that those wix all stand to lose so much more than he does.

In addition to the general stuff above, here’s a few specific connections (any with existing characters have been discussed with and cleared by their players).

ALECTO & AMYCUS CARROW

The twins. The monsters he grew up hiding from, when he could. While Donnie can see that the cruelty of his siblings was rooted deep in that of their parents, he’d also say that the point at which they couldn’t fairly be held responsible for the things they did to him passed a long, long time ago. That toxic favoritism wasn’t his fault, either. But what’s done is done, what they’ve become, they’ve become, and Donnie’s not about to forgive or forget. He was quick to add the twins to the Order’s list of near-certain Death Eaters, and, to be fair, he had concrete reason to believe they were - and he wasn’t wrong. Besides that, all he knows of them, these days, is second hand. It’s been a while; he hasn’t seen either Amycus or Alecto since he left the family estate, seventeen years ago. And he’s not about to go looking.

EMMA VANITY

A cousin of some degree - it all gets so tangled, in pureblood families - Emma is someone Donnie is aware of, but only distantly. They haven’t properly met, but travel the same circles. Just, you know, in different ways. And as different people than they used to be. Both are well-familiar with the best and worst of pureblood society, and, so far, at least, they’ve managed to survive it, even turn their place in the world into an asset - for themselves, and the Order. Not without cost. If they were ever to come across one another, they might find they have rather a lot to talk about…

AINSLEY ABBOTT

A professional acquaintance and something of a personal amusement. It’s just oddly entertaining to see Ainsley all aflutter over whatever antique he’s brought her way. And why would he do that, anyway? Well, see, Donnie’s busy. His genius is in the remaking of things, and that’s fine, finicky spellwork, tricky, challenging, fascinating. The story behind an object, the provenance? He doesn’t find all that especially interesting, honestly. That’s the chore of the job. One which Ainsley is ecstatic to do on his behalf, when called. Saves him time and trouble, so he’s happy to take the help.

EDGAR BONES

It’s not often that Donnie gets called in to sort out a whole bloody house, and for halfbloods, at that, but the money spends. It was Edgar who approached him with the job of seeing to the Bones place. Quite the task, but Donnie’s been enjoying himself - and that elder Bones, Rigby, and his husband - rather more than he’d expected. Lovely family. Shame about the baby and all that, but they deserve a bit of fun before decaying into domestic mediocrity, or whatever.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: I always run with chemistry. That’s it, that’s all!

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

As a Carrow, Adonis was raised to be every bit a pureblood - privileges and prejudices included. People like him, like his family, were both the paragons and protectors of the best wizarding society had to offer, and rightfully in charge of shaping and governing the magical world. They had helped build it, and, obviously, had created something that would provide for them in return. Their wealth seemed endless, their social credit unlimited. Secure in every sense, the Carrows remained watchful, ever-ready to defend and shore up what they saw as theirs by right - and prepared to decry any possible stain on the society they’d tried to shape in their image. Muggles were a nasty nuisance, rather like rats, you know; plentiful and meaningless. Mudbloods? Repulsive. A sullying of magic itself. Halfbloods? Suspect, debased, common, not to be entrusted with anything too significant. Halfbreeds? Utterly vile, unnatural. The Carrows understood themselves, broadly, as part of a natural alliance of gracious stewards, the great and powerful and precious, standing against the meagre, weak, and mobbish. The Sacred Twenty-Eight existed to set a gloriously high standard, and maintain it, for the good of all of wizardkind. Nothing less would do.

The family’s messy, awfully public, and rather precipitous fall didn’t challenge those assumptions so much as render them fairly hollow, from Donnie’s perspective.

By the time he arrived at Hogwarts, his father was in the mausoleum and the rumors were at their thickest; school was no refuge from the scorn, and it certainly wasn’t just the purebloods of Slytherin house who participated. Halfbloods and muggleborns could be every bit as cruel, and, it seemed, enjoyed punching down just as much as any Flint or Bulstrode. Which meant that he would have to learn to take the hexes and hits - something he’d had too much of, growing up with the twins - or rise, somehow, at any cost. Amycus and Alecto had taken a third option, and brawled their way through the shame, incandescent with hate. Donnie rose. Even if those social scripts had turned on him, he still knew the plot, the roles. Could still play along, to get where he needed to go. Biting his tongue. Smiling at the spite. The price paid was nothing much, really. Integrity’s just a pretty word for putting other people and their principles and schemes before yourself and your own interests, isn’t it? Why would he ever do that? He can always pretend, anyway. That’s all it is. A game of pretend.

These days, Donnie’s playacting - and that pretty face - have won him a peculiar set of privileges. He can navigate the upper echelons of the wizarding world with ease, well-versed in its arcane etiquettes, close enough to power to hear its rumblings and bend ears, but comfortably far from any real responsibility, or the stifling expectations and strictures of being a proper member of high society. Rather liberating, in a sense. Limiting, in others.

Along the way, he’s developed a bizarrely practical perspective on the prejudices of his childhood and class. Donnie’s come to understand that few of the tenets he grew up knowing as givens truly are that. Call it sour grapes if you like, but… really, the whole notion of purebloodedness is just unsustainable, once you reach a certain point. And it’s rather apparent that the Sacred Twenty-Eight hit that a few centuries ago. So if the Order’s fighting a losing battle, so is Voldemort and his lot, aren’t they? Not to mention how many muggles there are, out there. He has to laugh at the notion that the Death Eaters could ever manage to rule much of anything, if that’s the idea. Those blood purists will breed themselves extinct, he figures, sooner than later. Magic will remain. All that ancient and noble shite will wither away, be sold off, melted down. Or wind up with him, perhaps. Delicious, isn’t it? The thought of such relics, the legacy of the high and mighty sorts he should have been, left in his hands. Dusted off and put on display in some chintzy gallery. Bought up to decorate the new muggleborn Minister’s office. Nobody giving a toss for their great, illustrious histories. Just pretty things. He’d enjoy that.

So… does that mean he’s any kind of egalitarian? Hardly. For the most part, Donnie enjoys paintings rather more than people. His formative years gave him no real reason to seek affection and affirmation from others. As for his regard for them, that’s largely dependent on how much you matter, as in, how useful you are to know. Beyond that, well - halfbreeds are simply disturbing, we can all agree. Squibs are miserable things, but he’s never been one to shed tears for strangers. Muggleborns are unfortunate, really, just… hamstrung, in terms of becoming as fully immersed in magical society as a wix ought to be. That’s hardly any concern of his, though. If they’re going to finally get on with it and guillotine some Gaunts and Fawleys or whatever, as those hysterical purebloods suspect, he’d be happy to sit back and enjoy the show. There’s halfbloods everywhere; any battle being waged against their ascendancy is long lost. Donnie isn’t bothered - he’s one of them now, apparently. Though, it does get tiresome, doesn’t it, when they get all up on their middling high horses, acting like the bearers of some new moral standard for wizardkind. Really.

If he truly despises anyone, with a proper passion, it’s those purebloods who are so entirely up their own arses as to presume that they’re better than him for being more reliably inbred. That, he fully acknowledges, is simply his share of the hereditary Carrow malice showing through. He’s been wronged, and he holds a grudge. At least he’s not delusional. Obviously, he’s not going to stop palling around with purebloodists. That wouldn’t be professionally feasible. Besides, there isn’t a swath of society that makes more sense to him than they do; he used to be them, after all. He was raised to withstand some odious company for the sake of appearances, so he can - for the sake of their galleons, now. And the occasional opportunity to cause some vexation through a well-placed whisper. Vicariously, of course. That’s what the Order’s for. He has paintings to finish.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?

I guess I’m just excited to perpetrate a new character on all you lovely people, and explore some “ends” the group that I haven’t been able to yet! Seriously though, you’re all great.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL)

Not exactly a drop so much as a connection, but I’m thinking it would be pretty neat and apropos for Donnie to have been involved in the mission to retrieve the orb from the Nott place - not directly, goodness no. Perhaps in tipping the Order off to the orb existing in the first place and where it would be? Or just appraising the orb they found, and determining it was a fake? Or both! Just a notion, seems like a natural way to tie him in.

Donnie also lends himself well to plots involving infiltration, theft, rumour-spreading, and distraction, and, obviously, anything related to magical artifacts. All pretty workable!

Maybe Donnie isn’t a true believer in the Order or its cause, and maybe he tends to see other people primarily as means to his ends, but… hey, he’s not entirely heartless. I’d be curious to see what might move him to take a more active role in the Order’s affairs, but I don’t at this point know what that might be. It’ll depend on the connections he makes!

ANYTHING ELSE? Not really!

EXTRA FOR NON-BIO CHARACTERS:

PAST:

Adonis was ten when the whispering began. His mother told the children not to mind such talk. That’s all it was. Baseless gossip that dared to imply that their pure, pure blood had been watered down by ambitious, filthy liars, that some branches of their sprawling family had not maintained their lineages so neatly as the others. The chatterings of jealousy; nothing, nothing at all, to a family that counted itself so loudly and proudly among the Sacred Twenty Eight. Nonsense. But that talk spread, and spread. Every rumour rang a little louder. The smiles at those galas took on a snide, superior glisten. Or, worse, to Apolline Carrow’s eyes - worse, those former friends and confidantes began to reek of pity. The sort that turned to laughter when you looked away. The snickers died when Argus Carrow did, suddenly, awfully. An error in his workshop, they said. Nobody looked to closely. Because nobody wanted to cross Apolline, even, perhaps especially, in the vicious throes of her house’s spiral into ruin. And, maybe most importantly… nobody much cared. The Carrows were respected, feared - not liked, by any means. If anything it was just another titillating chapter in an already sordid story. As for Adonis’ part in all that, well. His tale had never been so pretty as his face. He’d been the favoured son of a favoured family, and as the Carrows crumbled, so too had his parents’ doting affection, and with it, their willingness to protect him from his monstrous siblings. After Argus’ murder, Apolline and the twins burned through bridges and the fortune in vain, furious attempts to shore up what was theirs. By the time Adonis started at Hogwarts, he knew he couldn’t rely on much of anything - not his name, his blood, his money, his horror of a family. He’d have to make himself matter, on his own merits. Something a Carrow hadn’t had to do since the bloody middle ages.

PRESENT:

Thankfully, Donnie’s as talented as he is handsome. Which is saying something, isn’t it? His surpassing skills as a transfigurationist and cursebreaker, combined with his artistic gifts, led him quite naturally to a thoroughly respectable career in magical restoration. A prestigious career, given its intricacy. A career, nonetheless; something he’d never have needed to bother with, in the life that was taken from him. His days are comfortable, nonetheless, especially when ensconced in the generous arms of some new, wealthy darling or two. It’s still not much, coming from the opulence of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But it’s far from the depths his family’s sunk to, and the life he has is his own. He’s even managed to charm his way back into those circles he was raised in, the circles of power, politics, and wealth. Perhaps there’s only so far he can go, now, only so much he can aspire to. That doesn’t mean he isn’t looking and listening for opportunities to reach higher, as he makes his way around those familiar parties and dinners. Which is how he found out old Professor McGonagall wanted to see him. Which turned out to mean that Albus Dumbledore wanted to see him. Which, it seems, meant that the Order of the Phoenix needed him. And, perhaps to his own surprise, Donnie… acquiesced, at least. Cautiously. It was the part about the Order being out to thwart themselves some Death Eaters that got to him. Thwarting pureblood fanatics, like his sister, his brother. That sounded rather promising. Not that he’d be out there flinging hexes in the streets. No, he’d be much more useful right where he was. Where he can notice things. Useful things. Whispers, as every Carrow knows from brutal experience, can unmake not only men, but dynasties. So you have to keep yours close, and those of your enemies, even closer. Which are the Order’s? Hard to say, sometimes…

FC CHOICES: Ben Barnes, Gaspard Ulliel, Harry Shum Jr.

#homenumaccepted

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kog0ruhn · 5 years

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A Layman’s Guide to Shriek (a.k.a. The Most Obnoxious Woman on Sornieth)

If you can’t tell, in the great big world of my clan lore, Shriek is kind of a big deal. It’s hard to believe considering that her entire appearance is absolutely ridiculous and (in my head) she sounds like a female Bobcat Goldthwait, but she’s a powerful girl with a powerful grip on The Abandoned. You know, despite the fact that she has no trade skills to speak of and (until recently) wasn’t very good at the whole “fighting” thing.

But who is Shriek and why is she so important?

Welcome to V-Sauce, where we’ll be discussing this catastrophe in-depth.

Shriek was born above the Windswept Plateau, in a den on the Cloudsong. Her parents were lenient “hippie” parents, the draconic equivalent of New Age hipsters who think that disciplining their kid in any fashion will ruin them psychologically. This doesn’t couple well with Shriek since, from an early age, she’s been a curious and impulsive noodle who is easily distracted, endlessly energetic, and more than a little destructive. Much of her childhood was spent breaking everything she touched and making other kids uncomfortable, while her parents just nodded along in the background and told their neighbors, “She’s such a precocious girl, isn’t she?”

Her best friend growing up was an older coatl named Ramses. He was a transplant from an Earth clan who lived with his adoptive family, and wound up befriending Shriek because she decided they were friends and forced it to become true. He was bigger, she was more forceful, and they wound up getting into all sorts of trouble together. Every last shred of it was Shriek’s fault but Ramses, being passive as he was, had a habit of taking the fall for a lot of it.

Eventually, Shriek’s behavior got them both kicked out of their clan when Shriek--being the absolute genius she is--lost control of herself during a race with Ramses and managed to take herself out by crashing into the Windsinger effigy. The damage was minor and fixable (though Shriek still thinks the head looks crooked), but enough was enough. Everyone came together and decided, “This shit’s gotta stop.”

Ramses was heartbroken, but Shriek decided she could do better. And “better” was “The Outlanders.”

Who are The Outlanders?

The Outlanders are one of the clans in The Abandoned alliance, though nobody really wanted them there at first. They’re the culmination of Shriek’s surprisingly silver tongue and tendency to prey on want to help the desperate. Her intentions were always good--fellow outcasts with nowhere to go made her heart ache, and she wanted to provide them with a place of safety--but her methods were borderline harassment. While the bulk of the old guard of Outlanders will say they’re fine with where they are now, they’ll be the first to admit that Shriek pestered them for days to join up with her because she’s a neurotic mess who couldn’t stand the thought of leaving folks behind.

Even if they wanted to be left behind.

Pictured: Vincent, who wanted to be left behind.

The problem with The Outlanders is that Shriek didn’t really ever take the longevity of the clan into consideration. She didn’t give a good goddamn if there were capable hunters, crafters, and tradesmen around her. She recruited based on sentiment, sympathy, and whoever she found interesting. Ramses, who was stuck with her because what else would he do, acted as her right hand and the straightman of the whole ordeal, trying to figure out how to organize things to be sustainable while Shriek grabbed loners off the street and announced they were tagging along.

It wasn’t fun and there was a metric shit-ton of turnover in the membership of the clan. Dragons were in and out like kids at a McDonald’s Playplace.

Things became a little more stable when Shriek’s entourage of oddities wound up in Dragonhome, and Ramses forced her to settle down and make some alliances before they ran out of food and supplies. It required practically pinning her down at the Altar of Naught and frantically pantomiming apologies on her behalf, but she was eventually allowed to stay because her followers displayed a variety of niche skills that piqued The Fifteen’s interest.

Pictured: The “niche interest” people were interested in, because nothing catches a politician’s interest like a goddamn assassin.

So, You Joined an Alliance? Now What?

Well, if you’re Shriek, you’re not much for politics and The Abandoned requires a lot of politicking. This new alliance meant she was now part of The Fifteen and had to attend meetings and make negotiations and generally be what Ramses had been the entire time The Outlanders existed. She had no experience and found the whole thing annoying. She found her fellow clan leaders dry and dreadful, and thought most of their ideas were shit.

In particular, she wasn’t a fan of Snap who was a lot more judgmental, strict, and generally rough to deal with. She didn’t like the fact that so many dragons in the council were afraid to stand up to her so, despite being a tiny speck compared to the impressively buff Plague Guardian screaming over everyone’s head, she started to “negotiate” by loudly disagreeing with everything Snap said. The louder Snap got, the louder Shriek got, and arguments began to eat up council minutes. Everyone found it frustrating except for Shriek who thought she was standing up for the little guy instead of stalling progress and completely missing the point that Snap--harsh as she was--was actually a very good leader who was very good at setting her emotions aside to get shit done right.

This earned her a bit of a reputation as an annoyance and a troublemaker, and made it difficult for The Outlanders to really get anything out of joining The Abandoned. Ramses would occasionally attempt to go behind Shriek’s back and make deals, but Shriek usually managed to botch things anyway. Nobody liked her, everyone hated her, her own clan began to talk about mutiny as time wound on. Folks wanted to appoint Ramses leader or leave altogether.

Then, uh... Flauros happened right when things started to get real nasty.

The Fuck’s a Flauros?

That Looks Bad.

That is bad.

Flauros is a dragon who isn’t a dragon. She’s Shade-based, had no real mind of her own, and just randomly started destroying The Abandoned in a controlled attack that I’ve discussed a lot on my Flight Rising blog. The long and short of it is that a couple of asshole Mirrors who knew their magic managed to steal a summoned creature (Flauros) from her master, then used her to commit mass murder while making it appear as though she was doing it on her own. Lots of dragons died, entire clans were destroyed, The Fifteen became significantly less than Fifteen, and Shriek proved her mettle by using her context clues to solve the mystery, unmask the baddie, and then steal Flauros and use her to absolutely obliterate the Scooby-Doo villain at the end.

This should have marked Shriek as a hero and, in a lot of ways, it did. People realized fairly quick that without Shriek’s abstract way of thinking, stubbornness, curiosity, and attention to detail, that The Abandoned probably would have been wiped off the face of the earth. The problem is that, when all was said and done, Shriek--now wielding the enchanted amulet that Flauros was bound to--refused to turn it over to the bigger, better authorities so that they could get rid of Flauros once and for all.

There’s a number of reasons for her refusal. One was that, after years of being ridiculed and treated badly by The Fifteen (which was, honestly, her fault), she loved having something that made her the de facto strongest of the lot. Flauros and the acquisition of Flauros were proof that she was a competent dragon and gave her a nice shrield against her detractors. Secondly, she was maybe a little motivated by the fact that it pissed Snap off since Snap blatantly abused her authority and influence during the fight against Flauros (which, admittedly, worked out in The Abandoned’s favor and was done because she thought it was the best course of action).

Third was the biggest reason: It was very hard for Shriek to not think of Flauros as a dragon no matter how many times she was told that Flauros was definitely not a dragon. It looked and talked like a dragon, and nothing that happened was actually Flauros’ fault. The idea of her being “killed” for something she wasn’t responsible for made Shriek’s stomach turn, and she felt it was her personal responsibility to save her since she’s the one who “rescued” her in the first place.

And How Did That Turn Out?

What Does That Mean?

Flauros began to become a lot like Shriek. And Shriek began to become a lot like Flauros.

Because of the psychological impact that Shade energy has on dragons and Flauros now being bound to Shriek, she began to change. She was still excitable and energetic, but a lot of folks noted that Shriek was also more serious, dutiful, and even hostile. Actions she used to make out of spite were abandoned (for instance, she started working with Snap pretty easily), but any slight against her was met with rage. There was something dark boiling in that little green noodle, and everyone, even Shriek, knew Flauros was responsible for it.

The flip side was that Flauros started becoming sentient, and with that sentience she became mischievous, curious, and developed a strong sense of justice. Traits that a lot of people associated with Shriek.

It evens out in a lot of ways.

The fortunate part of Shriek’s change in demeanor is that it made her more capable when shit hit the fan in the wake of Flauros’ rampage, when a nasty little Spiral named Elder decided to stir up some civil unrest and then lead a charge against The Abandoned while their pants were down. Even though The Outlanders (and Shriek specifically) were exiled from the alliance, she kept her wits about her in a situation where she’d normally lose her mind. Then, grabbing Flauros by the horns, she cornered Elder in a cave and brought it down on top of him.

Not Flauros, as everyone thinks. Shriek. Shriek collapsed a cavern on top of another Spiral to keep him from murdering everyone to death.

So, Does This Mean She’s a Hero Again?

Yes, mostly. Folks are still wary of her moodswings and Flauros, but you can’t really not treat the girl who saved your ass twice with respect.

And so Shriek still sits with The Fifteen, her clan was allowed back into the alliance, Flauros is mostly left alone, and she spends her days doing Shriek things as per usual. She’s starting to act more like herself again, albeit with a bit of a dark turn, and Ramses is just glad he can spend more time with his daughter than managing the PR nightmare that is his boss.

But know that when danger rears its ugly head again, Shriek is probably going to be the first one on the front lines because, much like the honey badger of yore, Shriek don’t give a shit.

#dragon: shriek #very long hair #clan lore

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fandomsimaginationstation · 6 years

Text

Spiders are Insects | Claude Faustus x Reader

Summary: Claude’s S/O is terrified of bugs (including his precious spiders), and has a panic attack when discovering them one day.

Heyyyy, I’m sorry for the lack of requests I’ve been doing, been in a creative funk and WILL DO THEM it’s just I really love writing my own bursts of ideas every once and awhile cause they’re far and few lol. anYWay I know I’ve done a request similiar-ish to this but I just really loved it and every once and awhile I’ll get this spurt of energy where I’m like “dUDE I lOVE ClauDE he’s the worst, wife me up”. I’m sure none of you probably get that, haha, but like, of course I bully him but his character is really likeable to me and I think my crush on him is partially cause we’re opposites and I can vibe with that tbh. And I decided to add that huge fear to bugs/insects due to MY OWN MASSIVE FEAR OF THEM that causes panic attacks so why not.

Despite his strange tendencies, his coldness to people, and his glares he shot everything and everyone, Y/N found themselves liking the spider demon. Sure, he could try and smile for once in his life, and his weird obsession with the still very adolescent young Ciel made Y/N want to keep child protective services on speed dial, but they saw something in him no one else did. And that somewhere, in that cold, demon body of his, there was a heart, capable of beating for someone. Perhaps for Y/N. And sure, maybe that heart in itself was a little cold to the touch, and the true warmth that came from it was from your fingers. And just as the Grinch, it was three sizes too small, but with a little light into his life, they could nurture it and warm it right up.

Or, so, that’s what they believed they could. He was a handsome, tall, gentleman that some women would kill for. With his yellow eyes that seeped into the souls of those he looked at, and a smirk that always tugged at his lips. His hair slightly curled and the same color of black that you’d find on the soles of your shoes, and his skin a great contrast of white. He was a beauty, no doubt. But any hopes of a potential lover was slim as he scared all those who dared off.

Except for Y/N. You see, what seperated Y/N from the rest of his admirers on a conquest of love, is that Y/N was motivated by something other than his enchanting looks. It was who he was.

They did everything they could to find out. Aging him on with questions. Sneaking up on him and watching his dance performances that mimicked a spider weaving a web. And eventually, leading into the demon developing a great fascination with them. As soon as he saw they weren’t after his looks, or what they could profit off of from him, but it was that they were motivated with something much more terrifying. And a lot more thrilling. An interest into who he was.

So, ever so slightly, he’d let them in. But in return, he’d find out bits about them that interested him. He couldn’t deny it, he had began to take an interest in Y/N in return.

That’s all it how started. Now, it leads up to present day. After the math of what the curiosity in each other soon turned into a great love for each other.

It was the first time Y/N had been invited to Claude’s home. They were beaming. A wide smile etched across their skin, practically glowing with excitement. They really had earned the title of being courted by him, and this little endeavor signified it.

Bounding on the door soon led to Claude opening and greeting them with about as much happiness he could muster; a lack of a smile but his eyes did show some kind of joy when he looked at them. “Took you long enough,” Claude greeted almost grimly, but Y/N had grown to learn that declaring his undying love for them was not in his list of strong suits.

“Don’t act so disappointed, I know you’re excited to see me!” They took a step in, squeezing his hand gently that had rested by his side.

Claude smirked a bit. “Oh? And what tells you that, detective?”

Y/N turned a bit took a him, winking, before clearing their throat. “Well you see gentleman. . . As Sherlock Holmes, I know human emotions well. Yours especially in particular. I have studied your behavior closely and noticed that while you do not outright admit your feelings, you are always happy when I’m around.”

He shot them a doubtful look.

“Well, as happy as you can be..” They chuckled a bit under their breath.

“And here I thought I was seeing Y/N and not Sherlock Holmes. What a disappointment today’s been.” Claude had said, pausing a bit to rethink if this admittance of his feelings were a weakness to himself.

Y/N grinned, knowing exactly what he meant. For once, they’d been able to get Claude to admit in some way he liked them. A rare accomplishment on their part, but just as worth it as it would have been if in abundance.

“Now, I’ll excuse myself to get tea set up. You can go do all the snooping I know you’ve been waiting to do.” Claude said, and with a wink, he disappeared off in the opposite direction Y/N planned on heading.

With that, they parted down the hall, still smiling over the rather small, but meaningful feat. They wandered into various rooms, but all of them had a rather minimalistic look. Not much to look at, simple indeed, but still pretty in its own right. Y/N hummed a bit as they wandered into the last room that lined the halls, opening it’s doors, all with high hopes of expert snooping. As they swung open the door to find Claude’s bedroom, they knew they hit jackpot. Y/N was excited to look to see what kind of night time life Claude lived, before stumbling back and yelping once they saw all that lined the walls. Spiders. Live spiders. In every corner, niche, closet, crevice and surface all Y/N saw was the disgusting creepy crawlers.

Y/N had a distinct memory of disclosing to Claude their view on bugs. They of course, could recognize their purpose and the good of them, Y/N could appreciate that, but in no way could they ever grow to like them. They wanted bugs to be as far away from them as possible. As spiders got closer and closer to pouring out of their little nest of a room, Y/N inched to the door quickly before slamming it. Their breath had quickened and before long large tear drops formed in their eyes and spilled down their cheeks. They were close to passing out at that point, their breath quick and unfaltering as more and more tears crashed down her face. Full blown sobs developing.

To some, Y/N may seem dramatic. But it was a real fear of theirs brought to life. And with each second, they stumbled farther and farther back, trying to create a distance between them and the door. To Y/N, spiders could burst out any minute, and that terrified them. Y/N was almost choking on their own tears at that point when their back crashed into something tall, slender, and lingering over them.

“My, my, what do we have here?” Claude sneered momentarily. He was trying to contain his own resentment for the situation, as he hated human emotion. But if he did love anything in this dull life, it was Y/N. In seconds, he spun them around, before pushing them onto to their bottom.

“Breathe slow breaths throw your nose,” Claude’s gloved hands wiped gently at their soaked cheeks. His voice commanding and harsh, but helpful. He remained eye contact with them, making sure the only thing they focused on was his eyes and a steady breathing pattern. After a moment, their breaths slowed and they could breathe again. He gently pulled them to his chest, showing that whatever danger had caused them this big of a scare, was over. Before quickly releasing them, as affection was not his strong suit.

“Look at you,” Claude shook his head. “A real mess you’ve made of yourself. Such beautiful features soaked, huh? Now, what got you in such a freight, scaredy cat?”

While condescending and a bit demeaning, he did mean well. Y/N was more than understanding of his rather lack of compassionate demeanor and the way he liked to prod at those who were the opposite. In fact, they didn’t really mind. As most of the time it was welcomed and humourous now and again.

“I told you,” They shot him a glare, “that I didn’t like bugs. A-And that room. . . t-t-that room is full of them.”

“No, it’s not.” He returned their dissatisfied facial expression.

Y/N huffed, “Yes it is! It’s full of spiders! Everywhere! It’s terrifying! How do you live like that?!”

“Oh. As I said, not full of bugs. You said you don’t like bugs. Spiders are insects.” A matter of fact statement on Claude’s part.

Y/N stared, eyes shooting him the sharpest of looks, before then erupting into chuckles, that turned into full blown laughter.

“You’re terrible, Claude.”

“Ouch.” He feigned.

“Somehow, you make me like this kind of terrible.” Y/N added. Before, despite any protest of physical contact that may be on Claude’s part, leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips.

#claude faustus #black butler #black butler claude #black butler claude faustus #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji claude #anime #anime imagines #black butler imagines #imagines #kuroshitsuji imagines #reader insert #anime reader insert #black butler reader insert #claude faustus x reader #claude x reader

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shadowsong26fic · 6 years

Text

The Handler AU

As requested by @tigerkat24.

(I do also have fulltext for one scene in here, which will be posted and linked here in the near future, probably tomorrow, after I clean it up some.)

Right. So. A couple of notes before I get started:

1) This AU prominently features Lavinia, and also super self-indulgent. Gonna say that straight-out. This is me and my OC and a bunch of tropes I adore. It is not the most self-indulgent piece I’ve ever put together, but it’s probably up there. I say this because, while I am pretty much past the point as a fan/content creator/whatever where I’m ashamed of my self-indulgent BS, I understand that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, especially when it’s as obvious as this piece is. And I like people to know at least in general terms what they’re getting into when they open a piece of mine. So, you know, bear that in mind as you move forward.

2) Because of the way I work/develop AUs/OCs/etc., there are certain personality traits/satellite characters/plot points that are common to all/most of Lavinia’s storylines (...yeah, it’s a Thing I do, with OCs yeah but also with OC-free AUs and AUs of AUs and ‘hey what if I changed this plot point here, or put OC B in this situation instead of that one, or stuck Canon D in...look, y’all have seen my Distaff variants, you know the kind of thing I’m talking about; I don’t always stop at a single layer of canon-divergence, but then there has to be a thread connecting everything, or it becomes a totally different story/character, right? ...I’m not sure I’m explaining this very well. ...anyway, back on topic). As a result, despite being an AU of a completely different AU, this outline is therefore somewhat spoilery for a future Precipice arc. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve hinted at where I’m going with her in the fic proper and/or bonus content, or at least I’ve tried to, (plus, I know I’ve mentioned some things here on tumblr about particular narrative/character tropes I like), so it’s probably not too surprising? Or, at least, I hope it’s not. If it is, I need to get better at foreshadowing… Anyway, it is still technically a spoiler. To the point where I considered sitting on this (and a couple related AUs) at least until a particular event from Arc Seven that makes said future storyline about as clear as it can be until it actually happens. But…I decided ehhhhhh, why not (plus this was requested). But, you know, if that is something you want to avoid, might be best not to read this outline until after Arc…nine, I think? Just as a head’s up.

3) This is essentially a Kallus-centric Rebels fic (though, as mentioned above, also prominently featuring one of my OCs). And, other than that one bit in the Valdemar AU I wrote a month or so ago, this is the first time I’ve actually written Rebels content. (…granted, I’ve plotted more things--the closely-related Pellaeon AU features Rebels stuff pretty heavily, as does the middle arc of the Valdemar AU, which started as ‘Anakin would do really well as a Herald actually’ and has now turned into a massive three-part kudzu plot of a niche crossover and I should really redo that outline properly at some point, plus a few other things…) Anyway, the point is, I’m not necessarily super familiar with the conventions/etc. of this part of the fandom, and I apologize for any off-voice bits.

Okay! Now that I have warned for spoilers, inexperience, and self-indulgent BS…welcome to the Handler AU.

Oh, one more thing I want to mention—because this is, as stated above, super self-indulgent, Kanan is still alive because I said so. He got pretty crisped in that explosion and therefore missed the final battle, but didn’t actually die.

(Imperial records may have listed him as dead for a while, because No One Could Have Survived That, but he did survive.)

(How? IDK, maybe Ezra actually was able to do something from the between-place in this version.)

(Point is, we still have Kanan.)

(Ezra and Thrawn are still on a road trip with a bunch of space whales, though.)

ANYWAY. On to the good stuff.

It all kicks off like two months after Yavin.

Some timeline notes:

Because timelining anything in Star Wars is A Project, I am making some executive decisions here.

We’re approximately a year after the Rebels series finale.

(Meaning Jacen is like 3-4 months old, depending on exactly how pregnant Hera was at the time.)

This is also about how long Zeb and Kallus have been explicitly dating.

(There was SO MUCH PINING going on for a while there.)

(But it took that long for either of them to actually do anything about it.)

(Kallus figured out pretty early on that he was interested, but didn’t really think he deserved this/had earned it yet/that Zeb could possibly be interested in him, and therefore decided to bury his feelings Like A Goddamn Professional Okay.)

(Zeb took a while longer to clue in, and then couldn’t figure out if this was just him or what--see above re: burying things; worked a little bit too well--plus he has his own issues to work through.)

(And then there were some frantic Confessions and so-glad-we’re-alive sex and…)

(Yeah, this is a thing now.)

(Exactly zero people who have spent any time with these two dorks at all are surprised.)

(As is so often the case, the last people to clue in that this was A Mutual Thing are the two idiots involved.)

(There may or may not have been a pool or three going.)

(Hera won at least one of them.)

So. Kallus has made himself useful wherever he can since openly defecting, really, but generally works analyzing intelligence reports and training field agents for potential undercover missions. Even if his specific information is getting more and more out of date (few, if any, of the codes, etc. that he knows are still valid at this point), some things aren’t going to change that quickly, and his background is useful here.

Anyway. He gets called in--

“We’ve been approached by a would-be double agent deep in Imperial territory; received three transmissions in the past few weeks. So far, everything we’ve been sent checks out/has been useful, but.”

“But you’re wondering if this agent is an ISB plant.”

“Exactly. She calls herself Vector.”

“She?”

“Yeah. The scrambler she’s using is doing its job, which means we can’t actually use a voice print to ID her, but vocal pattern analysis got us that much. And that she’s likely Coruscanti, Human, and under thirty. That’s about all we know.”

He goes over the data and the recordings from the first three contacts and nothing jumps out as a red flag/any of the tricks he’s familiar with.

On the first call, there’s some dancing around; as if Vector’s trying to make sure of who she’s talking to. What he’d expect from either a plant or a genuine defector, really. Not particularly helpful.

The other two are fairly brief/straightforward, and start the same way each time--This is Vector. I have a data file for you. Do as you like with it. Also not particularly enlightening, given the question he’s been asked to answer.

The data itself, though, is--interesting. Not easy to access, for the most part, and not necessarily all from the same source. Parts of it are the kind of thing ISB would use as bait, but just as much of it is not. Some of it provides useful context for intel the Alliance has received from other sources (some covert, some not), which is not the kind of thing an ISB plant would send.

So, he goes back to his superiors and tentatively reports Vector as probably genuine. He wants to be on hand for her next transmission, though, to be sure.

(He wonders, idly, who they had evaluate his initial transmissions like this, or if using an established codename and protocol was enough…)

(He’s Concerned it might be the second.)

(There are some worrying gaps in Rebel Intelligence’s security that he can only do so much to patch.)

Of course, there’s a slight problem with that. Vector’s transmissions haven’t exactly been regular--the second one came four days after the first, and then it was nearly two weeks to the third.

And when they do come, they’re very brief, so if Kallus is, say, busy with a training exercise on the opposite side of the base…

(Or otherwise occupied in a supply closet.)

(He does have, y’know, a life when off-duty.)

(...which is something that still sends him into weird brainspirals of “how did this happen” and “i don’t deserve this” and “when is it going to blow up in my face” on occasion, but that is a separate problem. One that he buries. Like A Goddamn Professional.)

(no that’s not a habit of his why do you ask.)

IN ANY CASE, this means that it ends up being her sixth message, close to three weeks after Kallus is initially brought in, before he’s able to listen in live.

(Transmissions four and five, after he reviews them, don’t really change his analysis, but still.)

Transmission six comes in while Kallus happens to be in the tiny corner of the current base that Intelligence has claimed.

It starts like the others did--This is Vector. I have a data file for you. Do as you like with it.

Once the file transfer initiates, he responds.

“Vector, this is Fulcrum.”

(Okay, technically, he probably should be using a different handle now, since it’s really supposed to be for field agents only and he isn’t one anymore. And there are similar shared code names for Intelligence agents primarily on base duty, or he assumes there are, but even after over a year of not using it, it’s still the first one that comes to mind. Reflexive, almost. And now it’s going to stick.)

There’s a beat of silence from the other end, and Kallus is briefly concerned that he misjudged the situation, that she’d going to panic and cut the transmission.

But, “I can’t leave the link open long,” she says.

(Part of him thinks she sounds...almost relieved? Like she’s been waiting to be challenged like this, and the longer things went on without a test, the more nervous she got.)

(He can understand that worry. That sense of just waiting for the other shoe to drop.)

(And, yes, other Rebel Intelligence agents probably could have tested her like this, and if he hadn’t been around as a resource they almost certainly would have, but given that he knows exactly what to look for, the Powers That Be had decided to leave it in his hands.)

“Of course,” he says, and asks her a few questions, rapid-fire.

(He’s less interested in the specific details of her answers--and he’s not really asking her questions about her identity--then how she approaches answering him. Not necessarily something he can explain, which is part of why he didn’t coach any of the other officers and get this taken care of on transmission four or five, but just trying to get a sense of her.)

(One thing he does is privately revise the estimate of her age--he thinks she’s younger than the previous guess, probably twenty or so. Sabine’s age, maybe, at the oldest. Which makes her even less likely to be a plant in his opinion; ISB wouldn’t put this much effort into setting up an agent that inexperienced, not on a mission this sensitive, even if she was inconceivably talented and precocious. As an in-person infiltrator, yes, absolutely; but for this many layers of intrigue...no, they’d want someone Experienced.)

She ends the transmission somewhat abruptly, after about five minutes, but he was more or less expecting that and anyway he has what he needs.

“Well?”

“She’s genuine,” he says. “I’m as sure as I can be of that.”

“Good to hear.” A pause. “...you’ve run undercover agents before, correct?”

Kallus shuts down the knee-jerk paranoid response as fast and hard as he can.

(There are almost certainly people in the Alliance who still don’t trust me but none of them are in this room. I know that. Calm down.)

“Yes, once or twice,” he says, cautiously. “For short-term assignments.”

“Congratulations. You just volunteered to be Vector’s handler.”

(Hence the name of the AU. AKA the one where Kallus adopts a baby spy who JUST HAPPENS to be Palpatine’s daughter.)

(...yeah, he didn’t really see that one coming.)

(...at some point, I should probably go through and outline Lavinia’s politics and her reasons for defecting in detail, but in the interests of focusing on Kallus’s end of things, which is much more interesting, a (hopefully) brief digression on the subject:)

(Lavinia was created and trained to be a spy/manipulator, to perform the kind of tasks and access the kind of information that Palpatine could as the avuncular Chancellor but cannot as Emperor, now that he’s thrown that mask away.)

(...apart from very specific, carefully staged moments, like with Ezra.)

(So, part of manipulating people means understanding them, which means Lavinia does a lot of research to put her targets into context, and in so doing comes across a wide variety of cultures/forms of government, at least in an academic context.)

(And that means that, once she starts thinking beyond “how can I survive until tomorrow” and starts thinking about broader impact/more long-range plans, it doesn’t take her very long to realize that her father’s government is...well, let’s call it deeply flawed.)

(What she does when she comes to that conclusion varies, depending on other circumstances--but she doesn’t necessarily defect right away. Mostly for practical reasons; in Masks!Verse, which this AU is a variant of, she has no Rebel contacts that she’s absolutely sure of.)

(Meaning, in this case, both “absolutely sure is an actual Rebel and not just sympathetic to their aims/politics” and “absolutely sure would be willing to work with me despite my parentage.”)

(And if she approaches anyone she isn’t sure of, it’ll get her or her contact or both of them killed. Defecting from a distance, while she can better protect her identity, has a much bigger risk of interception, which, again, would get her and/or her contacts and possibly a lot of other people killed. Or worse.)

(Basically, she doesn’t think defection is a viable option for her--there are some other reasons for this, but those play a distant second to these concerns.)

(But then Alderaan happens.)

(And these concerns carry a lot less weight.)

(It takes her a couple months to figure out how to make contact with Rebel Intelligence, let alone how to do it safely, but she starts working on it at that point.)

(...I think that’s the salient points here. Like I said, I have a fair bit more about Lavinia’s politics/etc. and the ways/extent to which she’s willing to defy her father in various AUs, but that’s enough for this one, I think.)

So, Kallus can’t really argue with the assignment (even if part of him kind of wants to? Not because he thinks he can’t do it, but because he’s concerned that being another deep-cover informant’s handler is going to dig up a lot of stuff he’d really, really rather keep buried.)

(Look, he feels like he’s finally found his equilibrium. He’s even, somehow, approaching happy with his life for the first time in what feels like forever which, guilt-induced brainspirals aside, he doesn’t want to give up.)

(Besides, handling Vector wouldn’t be his only responsibility, and if he does start losing that equilibrium, he’s not sure how much his other work will be affected.)

(On the other hand...)

(On the other hand, there are very few people who have done what he did and survived long enough to make it back to Rebel lines.)

(Oh, there are other deep-cover informants, sure; but the majority of them are plants inserted by Rebel Intelligence.)

(And while, even leaving aside the technicalities involved with Senator Mothma and others among the leadership who had previously served in the Imperial Senate, there are plenty of defectors--up to and including General Madine and some other persons of very high rank--for the most part, once they make that decision, defectors grab what they can and run.)

(The ones that don’t usually don’t survive as long as he did.)

(Or, alternatively, they don’t identify themselves to the Alliance or even necessarily work directly with them; they perform internal sabotage rather than espionage.)

(Those embedded defectors tend to last longer, but not by much.)

(Which means that he’s probably the only person--certainly the only available person--who has been where Vector is. Who better to help her?)

(As for his own issues...well, he is a Professional, dammit. He can damn well compartmentalize. He’s very good at that.)

(...yeah, this is kind of a running theme for him. Sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s...very much not.)

(It remains to be seen how much it’ll help or hurt when dealing with Vector.)

So, he accepts the assignment, and goes back to his quarters to tell Zeb and collect a few things--given the irregularity of Vector’s transmissions, until he can talk to her again and set up a better protocol, he’s going to basically have to camp out in Intelligence.

(Which he’s not looking forward to, but it is what it is.)

Zeb is already there when he gets back--their current shifts don’t entirely line up, which is fine; they have at least a few hours overlap most days which is better than some pairs can say.

After several minutes saying hello...

“Did I miss anything interesting?” Kallus asks.

“That Skywalker kid came by a bit ago,” Zeb tells him. “Looking for Kanan.”

Kallus blinks, halfway through fixing caf for the two of them. “...aren’t he and Hera off investigating a potential supply line?”

(Which is, of course, far below Hera’s current paygrade, but she volunteers for that kind of mission on occasion. An excuse to spend private time with her family, while still technically being useful and not taking actual time off.)

“Yep,” Zeb says. “Apparently, this is the third or fourth time something like that has happened. They keep missing each other.”

"Well, I’m sure they’ll link up sooner or later,” he says. “Especially if Skywalker’s actively looking for Kanan.”

(He hasn’t actually met Luke yet at this point, but he’s heard the rumors. He has no real doubt of this fact.)

“Yeah, probably,” Zeb says. “I think Kanan’s been trying to track him down, too. He’ll be sorry he missed him.”

(...yeah, we’re going with Anakin-and-Grievous levels of contrived coincidence to keep those two from actually meeting for a while.)

(Partly because it’s easier than figuring out all the timeline/plot implications that might have (and I’m lazy, and that is the focus of another story), but mostly because I think it’s funny.)

Kallus nods. “...did he and Hera take Jacen with them, or...?”

(He hadn’t seen any evidence the baby had been left with them, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.)

But Zeb shakes his head. “Nah, Sabine has him this time. Why? Something going on?”

“I have an assignment,” Kallus tells him.

“Huh. Extraction?”

(Logical assumption--the bulk of the fieldwork he does now, all-hands-on-deck situations like Lothal aside, is extractions. Occasionally helping sell an insertion, but generally the reverse.)

“No, not this time,” he says. “The agent who reached out, the one I told you about--I’ve been assigned as her handler.”

(He has long since gotten permission to discuss at least surface generalities of his work with Zeb, and they both know where the line is.)

Zeb’s ears flick a little, and Kallus can practically see him weighing the same pros and cons that he himself did earlier--and probably several others he hadn’t thought of.

“So, I guess that means you’re camping out in intelligence for a while?”

“Unfortunately,” he says. “Of course, there is a difference between being on-call and being on duty. And my schedule technically won’t change.”

Zeb perks up at that and grins before kissing him. “Well, I’m sure I an find an excuse to be in the area. Sometimes. Just in case. You know.”

“Mm.”

Fortunately, call number seven comes less than a week later.

This is Vector. I have a data file for you. Do as you like with it.

“Vector, this is Fulcrum.”

A brief pause. “Yes.”

“I’ve been assigned as your handler.”

(He figures the best way to deal with someone who’s probably twitchy and paranoid and otherwise on high alert is to be as scrupulously honest as he can. That doesn’t mean telling her everything, of course, but it does mean being straightforward, difficult as it is, and not outright lying.)

(If he can. So far, he can.)

Another pause. “I understand.”

(She’s hard to read on this one, whether or not she finds it suspicious. She might even be relieved again, that she’ll have a set contact point, rather than a whoever’s-available sort of situation.)

“There are some protocols I’d like to establish, for further contacts.”

“I can’t call at a set time,” she says immediately. “Or at set intervals.”

"I understand,” he said. “But I’m going to give you a more specific frequency to call.”

“Yes,” she says, and that definitely has a faint note of relief.

“Can you, if nothing else, send an all-clear transmission every two weeks?” he asks. “It doesn’t need to be at a set time, but so we can gauge--” whether or not you’re alive and uncompromised “--how concerned we need to be after a long silence.”

She pauses. “...I think so. Yes. I can do that.”

(Definitely young, he thinks, maybe even younger than Ezra--would be.)

“That’s all for now,” he says. There are others he wants to establish, of course, but those are the most important and her file transfer is nearly complete.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says; hesitates a second; “Vector out.”

(...well, she’s signing off officially now, rather than just abruptly terminating the connection. Progress. I think.)

He goes back to his quarters, and life settles into a new routine.

He keeps up his old duties--analyzing reports, training potential undercover agents, etc.--and also keeps track of Vector and her reports.

That last one proves...well, his early optimism wasn’t entirely misplaced?

Vector is very, very good at what she does. Her files are varied in their content, and sometimes not as useful as she might’ve hoped, due to timing or other resource concerns, but the quality of the work she does never comes into question.

But part of being a double agent’s handler is assessing how they’re holding up under the incredible stress of the position. And she is frustratingly vague when it comes to anything approaching anything personal about herself.

In addition, there are two additional protocols he wants to set up early on--first is a way for him to reach her.

“Just because I have access doesn’t mean I have influence,” she says. “I can’t seed disinformation for you. Not without getting caught.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

(Though, of course, he had considered the possibility--as well-positioned as Vector seems to be, how could he not?--but while he doesn’t completely rule out the idea, he files it away under “only as a last resort.” Better to leave her in place as long as possible.)

“But if there’s something specific we want you to keep an eye out for--or if we need to warn you about something...”

“Right,” she says. “That’s fine, then.”

The second, though...the second is where they run into real problems.

“I also want to establish an emergency signal. If you need extraction, or if you end up captured by Rebel agents.”

(He still wonders, sometimes, if staying behind when Ezra came to extract him was the right decision. It had seemed so at the time, but...)

(He’ll probably never know. And fretting about it doesn’t do any good.)

(knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to stop.)

“No,” she says.

“Vector--”

And she hangs up on him.

Exactly why she’s so reticent to establish something like that, he isn’t sure--he has some theories, but...

It’s frustrating, to be sure. Makes it harder for him to do his job.

(And it makes him worried about her--if she’s working without any kind of exit strategy, that likely means she doesn’t think such a thing will be possible. Which, on the one hand, shows her dedication to the cause, but on the other hand...on the other hand, if she thinks getting caught is inevitable, she might get sloppy with her own security and that might well turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.)

(The other alternative, that she doesn’t trust him, or the Alliance, with her safety if things do go wrong, is...well, probably more distressing, in all honesty.)

(Though not, perhaps, altogether surprising.)

He decides to seek Kanan’s advice on the problem.

(Kanan, after all, knows best what to do with unruly teenagers.)

(...well, so does Hera, but Hera’s advice would probably be less applicable/harder to apply to his specific situation. Also, she has better things to do than help him do his job.)

(Which is the other frustrating thing, that he can’t handle this by himself.)

Kanan’s advice is pretty straightforward--be patient, and don’t push her too hard. You can’t help her if she won’t let you.

(This is part of why I wanted him still around, incidentally.)

(Because there is something utterly hilarious about Kallus going to Kanan for parenting advice.)

(And that’s exactly what he’s doing.)

(Even if he hasn’t quite figured that out yet.)

So, taking this in mind, he backs off. A little bit. Decides to start from square one, and build a rapport, and go from there to get some of the other basics that he wants established.

Standard interrogation technique, technically. Not one favored by ISB, obviously, or really encouraged, but even they knew it had its uses.

Vector is still cagey about personal details, but she does start to soften a little as several weeks go by.

He brings up the idea of an emergency code phrase again, after about two months of this kind of sporadic contact.

This time, she says she’ll think about it.

Things hold in this pattern for about a year, and then Vector makes a call, as usual.

Or, it starts like a normal call, anyway.

“You probably won’t hear from me for a while,” she says, as the file transfer is wrapping up and they’re about to sign off.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No,” she says. “Nothing like that. And nothing related to the work we’ve been doing. But things are going to be...difficult. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to get an all-clear message out for a while.”

He doesn’t like this at all. “How long?”

“A month,” she says. “Probably. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. I’ll contact you as soon as I can safely.”

It is one of the longer months of his life.

But, as promised, the dedicated comm he has for her lights up eventually.

This is Vector. I have a data file for you.

“Vector, this is Fulcrum,” he says. “Good to hear from you again. Everything all right?”

“Yes,” she says. And she seems fine, and he breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

When he tells Zeb about it later, though, is where it gets...interesting.

“Glad to hear your kid’s okay,” he says.

“My--she’s not my child, Zeb,” Kallus says.

“Really.”

“....”

“Look, you talk about her the same way Kanan talks about Sabine, when she’s off blowing things up on Mandalore.”

“I...wait, really?”

“Yep,” Zeb says, and grins at him. “I mean, it’s not a problem. S’kind of what we do in this family, isn’t it? Take in strays. ‘Bout time you got in on it, really.”

Kallus just stares at him. “I...what.”

Zeb waves a hand in front of his face. “Alex. Babe. You all right in there?”

He shakes himself. “Yes, of course. Sorry."

“Ehh, don’t worry about it. I mean, it’d probably have been nice for the two of us to talk about kids in general before we started adopting our own strays, but--”

Really, sometimes Kallus thinks that Zeb likes the expression he makes when utterly poleaxed like that.

(He does. He thinks it’s adorable.)

(Also, Zeb figures this is a conversation they maybe should have, because they’re clearly both in this for the long haul and he saw this opening and...look, no one ever said Zeb was good at broaching delicate topics gently.)

“...do you?” Kallus asks, when he recovers. “Want children, someday?”

“I mean...yeah,” Zeb says. “If you do. I mean.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he confesses.

(Because long-range planning is hard; because they’re at war, because he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, because he doesn’t deserve any of this and planning for a future he doesn’t deserve is just--a little much for him sometimes.)

“But...yes,” Kallus says. “I think so, yes. I would like to raise children with you. Someday.”

Zeb’s response to that is positive and enthusiastic and leads to things they will definitely not be discussing with their hypothetical children ever.

It’s a month or two after that that Kallus finds out who Vector is.

(…well, for a given value of ‘finds out,’ anyway.)

He and Zeb are babysitting--Sabine is back on Mandalore; Hera is on duty; Kanan was supposed to be finally meeting Luke but there was an issue at the spaceport and he’s stranded for the next few hours.

(Like I said. Anakin-and-Grievous levels of contrived coincidence.)

Zeb has just put the kid to bed, and Kallus is watching the news.

“You’re still watching that?” he asks, nudging Kallus to make room for him on the couch and drawing him to lean on his shoulder.

“I’ve told you before, dear, knowing what the Empire is saying, no matter how different that is from what they’re doing, has its uses.”

“Especially if you know how their propaganda is constructed, I know,” Zeb says, and nuzzles his ear. “Just thought you were almost done.”

Kallus smiles faintly and leans into the caress. “I am, I promise. I’ll shut it off in a minute. I just want to--”

He pauses. Rewinds the feed. Pauses it--pre-recorded coverage of some public event the Emperor’s kid had been at, with the newscaster commenting on the progress of whatever “public works” project it was supposed to kick off.

“…what is it? Something she said?”

(...something to do with whatever this “project” is covering up?)

“Hush,” he says, fiddling with a few buttons and calling up a printed transcript and skims through it before sinking back against Zeb, letting out a breath.

“Babe?”

“I think I know who Vector is,” he says.

Zeb stares at him for a minute, then stares at the paused footage--frozen on the Princess’s face, icy and composed.

“…her?”

“Her,” he confirms.

“Why…?”

“Little things,” he says. “The way she talks, some unique turns of phrase. And she fits the profile--young, Human, Coruscanti, close to someone powerful but essentially a civilian herself…and…when Vector disappeared on me last month, that coincided with a period where the Princess was more visible than usual.”

“Karabast,” he mutters. “When you put it like that…”

“It’s all conjecture,” Kallus points out. “I can’t prove any it. Not without digging deeper--which, if I’m right, risks compromising her cover--or asking her straight-out.”

(Which, of course, would also be a bad idea. It would probably seriously damage the trust he’s spent the past year and more building, and it might not even get him an honest answer anyway.)

“Right,” Zeb says. “…any chance someone else could put this together?”

Kallus makes a face. “Unlikely,” he says, though he doesn’t sound totally sure. “The recordings of our conversations are kept as hard copies only, for security. Not uploaded onto any networked drives. And a very small set of people have access to those copies. I doubt anyone could put it together without that access. Still…”

(Someone dedicated enough, who managed to access one of those recordings, or intercept a transmission along the way, or compromise the lines of communication from the other side…)

“Kriff,” he says. “Anything you can do about it?”

“Not really,” he says. “Other than brief Draven and keep doing what I’ve been doing.”

“Yeah,” he says, and studies the picture again; glances over at the morose look on Kallus’s face; feels his ears twitching. “Huh. Never would’ve figured the Emperor’s kriffing daughter to defect.”

Kallus jumps a little, drawn out of his thoughts, then rolls his eyes and gives Zeb a fond, exasperated smile (which was really the point, honestly; to needle him into a better mood), and rather dryly points out, “There was a time you would’ve said the same about me.”

“True,” Zeb says, and grins at him. “Guess it just goes to show, people surprise you all the time.”

“Indeed,” Kallus says, then reaches over to shut off the feed and changes the subject.

Six weeks after that, Vector goes quiet again. This time without warning.

When her two-week check-in goes by with nothing, he’s immediately concerned. She’s never missed a check-in before, not without warning. He decides to give her a day, and then ping her himself.

(He generally avoids doing that--only when he absolutely needs to speak with her about something time-sensitive that can’t wait for her to reach out.)

There’s no response to his message, either.

He reports the missed check-in, of course. Tries again the next day. And a third.

Still nothing.

(He knows a rescue won’t be authorized--technically, they don’t actually know for sure who or even where Vector is, and if his theory is correct, they cannot make a run on Coruscant for one agent, especially not one as visible as Princess Lavinia.)

(He keeps telling himself that. Over and over again. As he tries a fourth and fifth time to reach her.)

“Zeb,” he says, after a third full week has gone by since the last time he heard from her. “I need you to talk me out of doing something stupid.”

“Uh, sure, babe. What’s going on?”

He explains the situation as briefly as he can. “And I am this close to staging a half-assed unauthorized raid on Coruscant to extract her.”

“...nah, if we’re doing an unauthorized raid on Coruscant, it should be a full-assed thing.”

That...that wasn’t really the answer Kallus was looking for.

(In hindsight, he thinks, as he tries to redraw building plans from memory and plan this stupid, stupid venture, he probably should have gone to Hera if he really wanted someone to talk him down. Or possibly Kanan. ...no, Hera.)

(...it could be worse, though.)

(he could’ve tried asking Sabine.)

Fortunately, before they can actually run off and get themselves killed--

(or court-martialed)

(or in trouble with Hera)

--Kallus’ dedicated comm chimes.

“All clear,” he breathes. “That’s the all-clear. She’s...she’s alive.”

It’s nearly another week before he hears anything else, but finally a real call comes.

This is Vector. I have a data file for you. Do as you like with it.

“Vector, this is Fulcrum. Are you all right?”

(she doesn’t sound all right; it’s hard to tell through her scrambler, but she seems strained.)

“Everything’s fine,” she says. “I apologize for the delay, but things are settled now. My cover is intact.”

Which is good to know, but not what he asked.

“And what about you?” he says.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Vector?”

“I’m here,” she says. “And everything is under control. You don’t need to worry about me. Nothing that--it wasn’t anything to do with this, I was caught on the fringes of something unrelated. It won’t interfere with my work going forward.”

Which still isn’t an answer.

(He’s pretty sure the non-answer is his answer, though. Damn it.)

(He knows the risks. Better than most. And he knows she knows them, too. It doesn’t make it any easier to hear, especially knowing that there is kriff-all he can do to help her.)

Into the silence, she says, “I’m your asset, Fulcrum. Not your friend.”

“......”

“I’m just--” She sighs. “I’m your asset. Not your friend. It’s...we should both remember that. It’s probably better, in the long run.”

And part of him is hurt; part of him is annoyed that he is being lectured on professionalism by a damned child; part of him is worried again--he did finally talk her into an emergency code phrase, in case of capture or other disaster, but here she goes again, hinting that she doesn’t have an exit strategy.

(Not like I did, either, he reminds himself. Can’t plan that far ahead. Not when you’re doing this kind of work. And even when Ezra came for me--)

(He buries it. Because he is a goddamn professional, Vector’s reproof aside.)

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she says. “And I’ve had worse.”

“........”

All right, that he likes even less.

“Vector--”

“I have to go,” she says. “I’ll be in touch when I have something else. And I’ll do my best to warn you if I have to disappear again. Vector out.”

And, in the interests of “good Lord this thing is close to 6k already,” we’re going to skip ahead quite a bit, about a year and a half, to just after the evacuation of Echo Base.

For the first time in a while, the whole family (minus Ezra) is back on the Ghost together.

(Kanan, Hera, Chopper, Sabine, Zeb, Kallus, Rex, and Jacen.)

(They’ve all been in touch and met up fairly frequently, but they’re no longer a discrete cell and they all have their own, often separate, duties with the wider Rebellion. So, while the circumstances leading to it are awful, it’s nice to have an opportunity like this.)

Orders are to lay low, and make their way by a prearranged roundabout route to the fleet rendezvous five days later.

The first night, they mostly spend catching up and letting Sabine fleece them all at cards.

(Except Rex. Do Not Play Sabaac With Rex.)

(They had all forgotten that rule.)

Hera is sending occasional messages back and forth to Command, to confirm/make adjustments/etc., but otherwise things are fairly quiet after the frantic rush of the evacuation itself.

(Fortunately, none of them were injured in the escape. It’s happened before, when they’ve had to leave a base in a hurry. That was a week no one wanted to repeat.)

It’s their second night of drifting, and Kallus is just starting to fall asleep (Zeb is snoring beside him; the noise honestly probably should have been annoying but is genuinely comforting at this point, to the point where he has trouble sleeping without it) when his comm beeps.

It’s Vector.

More accurately, it’s her emergency signal.

He extracts himself from the bed and slips out into the hall to talk the call.

“Fulcrum.”

“It’s Vector,” she says, unnecessarily. She’s not using her usual scrambler this time, but a more standard vocoder, probably cannibalized from a stolen helmet. She sounds drained, and slightly breathless. “I’ve been burned. I got...I got away. I had more..." She stops, clears her throat. “I got away. I was able to remove my tracker and I’m as--I’m as sure as I reasonably can be that I’ve lost anyone following me by other means. I-I pulled as much raw data as I could onto a couple of portable drives on my way out, but I’m on a...I’m on a sliced public terminal right now, I don’t want to keep the line open long enough to send them in the usual way and I...I don’t know what the protocol is now. Please advise.”

“Where are you now?” he asks. There are so many other questions he wants to ask, needs to ask, both from a personal and a professional standpoint--is she all right; how did she get caught; how did she escape; how long has she been compromised--but they can wait until she’s been located and brought in safely. He sets them all aside, and focuses.

(Like A Goddamn Professional.)

“Ixaly,” she says. “I’m on...I’m on Ixaly.”

He closes his eyes, mentally traces their route through hyperspace. Ixaly is in this sector, it shouldn’t be far...yes. If he’s counted right--they’ll be doing a navigation stop shortly, and dropping out of hyperspace. From there--a few hours to Ixaly, unless he’s completely turned around.

“There’s a cantina,” he says, “in the Diira district in Central City. The White Shale. Can you be there in six hours?”

A brief pause; he can hear her breathing. “Yes,” she says, at last. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“That’s the fastest I can arrange a pickup,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

(If he’s right about how close they are, it might not actually take him that long, but there’s a balance between getting to her as quickly as possible and budgeting in time for something to go wrong. He doesn’t want to risk being late and having her move on because she thinks he’s not coming. He may not be able to contact her if something goes wrong; not if she’s relying on sliced public terminals to reach out to him. And he has no idea when she’ll be able to make contact again, or how long whatever data’s on her drives will stay viable...so, six hours. He’ll have to trust her to stay alive that long.)

“I’ll be there,” she promises. “White Shale cantina, Diira district, Central City, six hours.”

“Exactly. You know how to reach me if there are any problems.”

“Yes,” she says.

“It’s almost over,” he says. “You’ve done well, getting yourself this far. Just hold on for a little while longer, all right?”

“I will,” she says; takes a breath. “I’ll see you in six hours. Vector out.”

The line goes dead.

Half a heartbeat later, he feels the familiar rumble of the hyperdrive cutting out, switching over to sublight engines.

He’s in his window now, he doesn’t have time--

As he heads for the Phantom, he runs into Kanan.

“...what’s wrong?”

“Vector,” he says, clipped. “She’s had to run. She’s not far--”

“Go,” he says. “I’ll let Hera know. ...take Zeb with you. In case you need backup.”

(Which he doesn’t really need, and it might well spook his contact if he brings a team--he has run extractions like this before, after all, and Vector is particularly cagey--but he nods.)

“I will. Thank you.”

“How long do we wait before sending our own rescue party?” Kanan asks.

Kallus does some quick mental math--six hours to the meet; going by Vector’s history, she may need some convincing to come along (like I did, until it was too late; but it’s already too late for her, isn’t it?); she might be wrong about having a tail; they might run into unrelated trouble...

“I’ll send word once we leave the system. If you haven’t heard from me in twelve hours, that’s when you worry.”

“Got it,” he says, and starts off towards the cockpit to update Hera, when Kallus realizes--

“Wait,” he says.

Kanan pauses, half-turns back to him.

“I don’t know who Vector is, not for certain,” he says, “but I have considerable circumstantial evidence that she’s Princess Lavinia.”

Kanan takes that in, then nods slowly. “Right. Thanks for the head’s up. I’ll pass that along.”

“Thank you,” Kallus says again, and the two of them separate--Kallus goes to wake Zeb and then get the Phantom prepped and underway; Kanan goes to tell Hera what’s going on.

(...and corral his son.)

(Jacen has developed this habit lately of hiding on the Phantom when he thinks it’s going somewhere Interesting.)

(Which is usually whenever someone other than Mamma is driving.)

(He likes going on Adventures with his various uncles and Auntie ‘Bine, okay.)

(They go on the best Adventures.)

(But retrieving one of Kallus’s deep-cover agents whose cover was blown like a week ago at most is maaaaaaybe not the best Adventure for a three-year-old.)

Fortunately, Zeb isn’t hard to wake and grasps the situation quickly. The two of them head for the Phantom--

And find Sabine sitting there waiting for them, spinning idly in the pilot’s chair.

“...Sabine--” Zeb starts.

“Whatever it is that’s got you two running around frantically when we’re supposed to be lying low,” she says, “I wanna help. You might need backup.”

On the one hand, Kallus is pretty sure they won’t. And his prior concerns about spooking Vector if he comes in with a team still apply.

On the other hand, Sabine is one of the best people to have beside them in a crisis, if things do go all to hell. She’s creative and generally carrying an array of weapons that defies the very laws of physics.

Besides, he doesn’t have time to argue with her.

“Fine,” he says. “But you follow my lead--both of you. Neither of you has been on an extraction like this before, and this is what I do. All right?”

“All right,” Sabine says. “Who is it we’re extracting, exactly?”

“A spy, working under the code name Vector,” he says. “She’s been feeding us intel for close to three years now. Her cover was compromised, and she had to run.”

Sabine nods. “Got it,” she says.

“And, if I’m right,” he says--because if he is, Sabine will have to know before they get there, “she’s the Emperor’s daughter.”

“...all right, then,” Sabine manages, after a moment of stunned silence. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

They detach, and the Ghost disappears behind them back into hyperspace as Kallus sets a course for Ixaly.

And now, since I’m sure y’all are wondering the same thing Kallus is--i.e., how did she get caught/how did she escape--let’s backtrack and leave Kallus’s POV for another brief digression--

It all comes down to a man named Vedric Greer.

Vedric Greer is a Royal Guard. He’s been in that elite unit for over fifteen years at this point, selected more or less straight out of the Academy.

He’s been the head of Lavinia’s detail since she was twelve.

(Before that, he had a variety of assignments; he never got stuck with Vader, for which he is profoundly grateful, but he guarded a few valuable objects/locations, and he was on Tarkin’s detail for a couple of years.)

See, here’s the thing about Royal Guards. They’re put through a lot of conditioning, both physically and mentally, to become living weapons who are absolutely loyal.

And he is. Vedric Greer is an absolutely loyal man.

The thing is, to be a Royal Guard assigned to any living being other than Palpatine himself--Vader, Tarkin, Mas Amedda, Lavinia, a few others--means to be equal parts bodyguard and prison guard. Such a Guard is at least partly there to protect his principal from external threats, of course, but if said principal steps out of line or he’s given certain orders, he becomes their jailer. Or executioner. Or worse.

When he’s assigned to someone like Tarkin, of course, that isn’t much of a problem.

But a lonely, precocious twelve-year-old kid like Lavinia? Who, whatever traits she may have inherited from her father, has them tempered by an actual conscience?

...yeah, it doesn’t take a whole lot for him to bond with her, just a little.

(Throw in the fact that he has a lover, an Imperial Archivist who survived Scarif by being transferred to Coruscant days before Tarkin blew it up...well. Maybe the cracks in his armor aren’t only to do with the little girl he’s been made responsible for.)

So. Vedric Greer is a Royal Guard, and that means he is a living weapon, and absolutely loyal.

But over the past seven years--and especially the last three--maybe, just maybe, that loyalty has started to shift.

(He doesn’t even realize it, at first; and when he does notice the traces of affection, of tangential loyalty in himself...well, he reasons that Lavinia is all but an extension of her father’s will, anyway. Right? And if he conveniently fails to see certain signs...)

(Reynard, his lover, knows way before Vedric does where this is going, of course.)

And then, one morning, his orders change, and all those little things come crashing down.

(It was such a simple thing that screwed her over; Palpatine seeds bait among his minions constantly, little nuggets of information so that, if there is a high-placed leak, he can track it back to its source right away. Standard counter-intelligence, really; and everyone, everyone, is under suspicion. Everyone is tested.)

(Lavinia is normally very good at spotting this sort of thing--she has a natural aptitude for espionage, she was trained by the best, and she puts just as much effort into surviving her father and completing her mission as he did into taking over the galaxy. How else would she have lasted nineteen years as her father’s daughter--let alone three as a deep-cover Rebel spy?)

(But this time--this time she missed it. And now he knows.)

And Vedric Greer has a choice to make.

It’s surprising, in the end, how simple it is.

“My lady,” he informs her, “you are undone.”

He helps her cut out the tracking device implanted inside her ribcage (which is also fitted with a killswitch, of course, in case she ever tried to slip her leash); she asks him to come with her; he refuses.

(He is not a Rebel. He is not disloyal.)

(What he is, is her protector. What he is, is--hers.)

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“So am I,” he says, and, “Go. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

“Goodbye,” she says, and disappears.

He sends a brief message to Reynard--hoping he’ll know what it means (he will; he always knew this might happen), and prepares himself to meet his death.

(Or, at least, that’s what he believes is going to happen.)

(...look, as I said before, this is Self-Indulgent BS(tm). Like I’m really gonna let Greer die. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have no earthly idea how he survives but he does. Because this is my self-indulgent BS, dammit.)

Okay. Back to Ixaly, and the actual rescue/extraction mission.

(…by which I also mean forward, since it’s like a week later.)

Our Heroes reach Central City about an hour ahead of schedule. After a brief discussion, Sabine disappears into the district to be on-hand for immediate help, if needed; Zeb, who doesn’t blend in as well, will stay with the Phantom; Kallus of course goes to the cantina to find his contact.

He heads there more or less directly, taking in as much detail of the city and the specific neighborhood as he can.

He’s been here before, but it’s been several years; there is a garrison in place, but the occupation seems comparatively light.

Which means there’s a not-unreasonable chance that this will go smoothly.

(Of course, as soon as he thinks that, he starts coming up with all the potential problems that could still happen. For one thing, he or Vector or Sabine might be recognized…)

Security on the cantina itself; mostly local talent, just as it was on his last visit. This is a fairly middle-of-the-road place; just dishonest enough that he and Vector should blend, not so dishonest that they’re likely to get caught in the middle of any…unpleasantness. Part of why he picked this place. That, the fact that it isn’t particularly difficult to find, and is fairly close to his ideal landing site.

(Not the official port, naturally; while Kallus doesn’t doubt that they could bluff their way through, he’d rather not try it on such short notice. They’d landed the Phantom on the city outskirts, about fifteen minutes away by foot.)

In other words, things are about as well-situated as they could be, under the circumstances. He has three separate exit routes at least tentatively mapped out, of varying efficiency and difficulty.

(And, if it came down to it, Sabine or Zeb could create one for him, of course, but he’d prefer to avoid that if at all possible.)

(In any case, best to have backup plans; he’ll pick the best route of the three once he has a better idea of what Vector’s capable of at the moment.)

(He’s almost certain she’s hurt, and he doesn’t know how badly, and she’ll never actually tell him, so that’s the best he can do.)

Inside, the cantina is fairly crowded--which is a mixed blessing; on the one hand, more cover for their activities/conversation, but on the other, more people to see them.

It’s a varied crowd; mostly local shift workers, a few semi-legitimate traders and mid-level bounty hunters. Most importantly, though, there are no troopers that he can identify, even off-duty. Excellent.

He gets a drink (to blend in, primarily) and finds a table in the corner where he can keep an eye on the other patrons and watch the door without being obvious about it.

He’s not kept waiting long.

She blends in pretty well--she’s managed to dress herself in a slightly-outdated local fashion, one that helpfully comes with a cowl that doesn’t quite hide her face, but does enough to keep her mostly anonymous from a distance and make dodging any security cameras easier.

(A few other women in the cantina are dressed similarly; not many, but enough that she doesn’t really stand out.)

She doesn’t head straight for him. She weaves through the crowd for a minute, hesitates by the bar as if she’s considering something, orders a drink. Her attention drifts over the crowd; she doesn’t linger on him, but her hand twitches a little.

(Ah. She spotted him, then. Good.)

(He isn’t really surprised that she figured out which Fulcrum she was working with. And it does make things simpler--there are a few signals he could have tried, but there wasn’t time, when she called, to pick one of them and be sure.)

(An advantage, if a counter-intuitive one, to using the legacy code name with her, he supposes.)

She starts moving again; doing everything right--wandering as if she’s looking for a seat, gradually making her way to a small empty table next to his.

(The whole thing takes probably less than two minutes. It feels longer. Then again, it always does--this isn’t the first time he’s met a contact like this, and that never changes. Doesn’t matter whether he’s the first or second to arrive.)

He taps out a quick signal on his commlink--contact made, everything’s on track so far--and waits.

“I have a data file for you,” she says softly. “Several, in fact.”

He smiles faintly into his drink. “Well done.”

The way the tables are laid out, they’re sitting next to one another, both with their backs against the wall. It’s a simple matter for her to slide the two drives over to him, and just as easy for him to make them disappear.

(Leaving together discreetly will be a little harder, but he’s been doing this for quite a while. They’ll manage.)

“I have transport off-planet,” he tells her. “We should wait a few minutes, not get up right away, but it’s best if we leave sooner rather than later.”

She shakes her head. “I'm not coming with you.”

(He wishes he could say he was surprised.)

He doesn’t turn to look at her, as much as he wants to. “If you’re concerned about reprisals…”

“I’m not,” she says. “Not really. It’s just…not a good idea.”

...and in the interests of “good Lord this thing is probably pushing 10k and it’s not even the full fic it’s an outline,” I’m going to skip the rest of this conversation. Suffice to say, he’s right and she’s wrong, though she takes some convincing, but they leave the cantina together like fifteen minutes later. Also, he confirms that his theory as to her identity was correct somewhere in here.

Anyway, like I said, he talks her down, and she agrees to leave with him.

Once out of the cantina, he can get a better look at her, assess how badly she’s hurt.

(He knows she is for certain now; she’s breathing carefully, shallowly, and a little too fast--but he could only see her hands and the vague shadow of her cowl before.)

“Are you all right?” he asks; even though the answer is obvious; she’s favoring her left side and very pale.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she says.

A characteristic non-answer, but a step above denial. He supposes.

“All right,” he says. “Let me know if you need help.”

(There’s not much else he can do here and now, anyway; they have some supplies back on the Ghost, and she can get proper medical attention once they rendezvous with the fleet.)

“I will,” she says, which is something at least.

They make it two blocks before they run into a squad of stormtroopers.

It’s a routine patrol; and, even with a wounded asset to escort, it wouldn’t have been a problem under most circumstances. He could avoid the confrontation, or talk his way past.

But the squad sergeant stiffens in a particular way, staring at him.

“Karabast,” he mutters.

(You’d think, after all these years, this would stop happening so often. But, no, it’s still even odds that, out in the field, someone will recognize him.)

Lavinia takes half a step back. “I can--”

“They’re not here for you,” he tells her, then drags her behind cover a split second before the troopers start firing.

Then takes a minute to take stock.

This is...not an ideal position for a standoff. And while they might be able to fight their way through...

Best plan is to stay put, hold them off as long as they can, and call in Zeb and Sabine for backup.

Good thing I listened to Kanan, he thinks.

He takes out his sidearm, then pulls his holdout pistol from his boot and offers it to Lavinia.

But she shakes her head. “Father kept my focus narrow. I’d do more harm than good.”

“...right.”

Even less ideal. But it’s all right. He can handle this.

He takes his comm, switches it to the voice setting.

“Specter Four, this is Fulcrum. We’re going to need a slightly more dramatic exit than I planned for.”

“Copy that, Fulcrum,” Zeb says. “Could use an opening, Specter Five.”

“And to think you boys wanted to leave me behind,” Sabine says.

“Yes, yes, can we save the ‘I-told-you-sos’ until after we’re clear?” Kallus says, firing off a handful of shots to keep the squad at bay.

“She does have a point, babe.”

“Not on open comms, dear, how many times...”

(Honestly, the little bit of flirting is at this point half an inside joke, after the one time they legitimately forgot to switch channels, and half a way to quickly gauge how serious the situation actually is.)

(Plus, it’s fun. They like flirting.)

“Thirty seconds,” Sabine cuts in.

“Right,” Zeb says. “I’m headed to your position. ETA two minutes.”

“Copy. Fulcrum out.”

Two minutes, under these conditions, is a long, long time.

But, right on cue, thirty seconds later, there is a magnificent explosion, which gives them some breathing room, and then Sabine slides down the wall to land next to him.

“Not my best work,” she says critically, watching the cloud on the horizon, “but it’ll clear a path. Hi,” she adds, for Lavinia’s benefit.

“Hi,” she says, softly.

“...she doesn’t have a blaster,” Sabine says, turning almost accusingly to Kallus.

“Because I’ve never had one before,” Lavinia answers for him. “And this really doesn’t seem the time or place to learn.”

“Well, we’ll fix that later,” Sabine says.

“All right,” Lavinia says, then ducks down as Sabine positions herself better to start shooting back.

The next ninety seconds go much quicker, and then comes the welcome sound of the Phantom’s engines on approach.

It’ll have to be a quick exit, and for a split second, Kallus wonders about getting Lavinia up the ramp fast enough without Zeb actually landing--

But then he sees that Sabine has her jetpack.

(He has never been so pleased to see it in his life.)

“Take her,” he says, once the shuttle is in sight. “I’ll cover you.”

Sabine catches his drift right away, and nods. “Hold on,” she tells Lavinia, who blinks, but does.

And then they’re off.

Kallus just keeps firing at the troopers until, based on the noise it’s making, he judges that the Phantom is close enough that he can make the jump.

He’s--almost right.

He comes within half an inch of missing, then Lavinia’s hands shoot out and grab one of his wrists; Sabine grabs the other and the girls haul him on board.

“We’re good, Zeb, go!” Sabine shouts, while Lavinia drags Kallus the rest of the way in and slams the hatch shut.

We did it.

He takes a minute to catch his breath--he knows it isn’t really over; there’s still a great deal of work to do once they get back to the Ghost and then to the fleet proper.

But for now--they’re all alive, they’re all safe, they’re all at least as intact as they were when they got to Ixaly; the extraction was successful.

Kallus decides to let the rest of the problems wait, and take the win.

He picks himself up and heads to the cockpit, to give Zeb a quick hug and send word to Kanan and the others.

For all the drama and the worry when it started, today turned out to be a very good day.

And I think that’s a good stopping point, don’t you? There is definitely more, featuring (in no particular order) the worlds most #Awkward Road Trip; Kanan and Lavinia meeting; Kanan and Luke finally meeting; Zeb and Kallus adopting a kid or three; Lando; Jacen being precious; and so much more.

But, uh, see all my notes above about “how long is this thing now?!”

(And, again this isn’t even fulltext.)

(This is just the outline.)

...so, uh, yeah, if you made it this far, thank you and I hope you enjoyed my Self-Indulgent BS(tm). <333333333

#shadowsong26fic #shadowsong writes star wars #shadowsong writes self-indulgent bs #au outlines for the win #tigerkat24

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liibertus · 6 years

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Another Munday Prompt Except This Was Made On a Sunday Because I’m a Rebel but not as much bc it’s actually munday now

Remember to repost, not reblog!

Name: Jade

Prefered pronouns: he/him

Selectivity: kind of selective. also all my blogs are private now so theres that

Favorite animal: Siberian husky I miss my floof kids

Favorite muse you’ve had so far ever: honestly probably libs

Muse you kinda wanna pick up: literally all of them I’m so inactive rip. I really want to get on Ridley Duchannes. Give her an FFXV verse idk.

Most identifiable fictional character: oof difficult… I usually ignore characters I am like in favor of ones I like. I’ve always had an affinity / identified with Jaden/Judai Yuki I guess. Admittedly a little bit of Lena Duchannes in her artistic but isolated spirit, being outcasted and Ethan Wate with his suffocating small town trapped feelings. They’re from same series Ridley is from.

What color your aura is/think it is: red of some sort. Either metallic or a deep maroon.

Personality stuff you agree with (astrology, mbti, Hogwarts house, etc be as specific as you want!): Aries sun, Cap moon, Scorpio rising has pinned me well. ENTP lmao. Chaotic Neutral with spices of Lawful Evil. 356 ennegram. I forget all my wings. Slytherin biiiitch. Wand make up was super legit tho. 12 ¾ inches. Cedar w/ Dragon Heartstring core. Slightly springy.

Do you think you’re a good driver: I’m better than not, I guess. Generally speaking I’m pretty passive but I do tend to speed. Not like 55 in a 35 but like 40-45. So normal ish?

Favorite minor discourse (pinapple on pizza, what color is the dress, etc):honestly ice cream w/ fries amuses me. It’s not even disbuted anymore but it’s funny to me. RAISINS ARE GROSS. that’s a biiiig discourse in my family. Torbjorn is a valid support healer covince me otherwise.

Favorite vine and/or meme: hi welcome to chilli’s.

Why did you choose this muse: actually it was bc i didn’t really care for him at first. I choose characters im not very interested in or don’t like at all if I have any i feel that strongly for and take those canon muses up. Also i typically pick up the small corner niche muses and as I took lib up right after KG came out lmao

Favorite rp memory: realizing Rook was also in the fandom I moved too asdjdfhsa I literally screamed

Favorite thing you’ve written, in rp or not: there’s a ship I’m writing in the OW fandom that’s curing my depression and indulging a stupid au idea. and it’s my otp in that fandom jkfdkjfkashj

A line/lyrics/quote/etc you like or that means a lot to you: “One step at a time,” is one. “Just live. Live until you find a good reason to.” Seraph of the End, actually. That one means a lot to me. Finally probably the biggest but most like… difficult to explain context is a lyric from Nickelback’s “Far Away.” “I love you, I have loved you all along / and I forgive you, for being away for far too long.”

Give a shout-out to someone: @floweringeclipse who’s basically made my fandom experience the best askjf ily ate <3 <3 <3

Tagged by: me. I made this on my main lmao.

Tagging: everyone. @floweringeclipse again lmao @thekingsshield @gingersmiith @croweoftheglaive @nyx-ulric-of-galahd @warpstrikeassassin @battlexfodder @tenebrianflower @insomniasprince @somnusvincitomnia @bestchocobro @kidsofthekelvinhero EVERYONE I TAG EVERYONE there are so many of u i am afraid bc its been so long dhasfh BUT I LOVE YOU ALL STILL

#munday post #tag games

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lilpootworldtour · 3 years

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Saturday 11/21/2020 Roswell, NM - Las Cruces, NM

First we woke up. We were very excited because we had left over dominos. I do not know if we ate any because we ate too much the night before, but we had lava cakes. Boy oh boy, it was yummy. Okay, so then, first stop on our trip out of Roswell. Donuts. We had donuts. Roswell donuts. We got one Bear Claw, One Apple Fritter, One Chocolate, One Chocolate Glaze with sprinkles. The Bear Claw was on recommendation from the worker bee, all very good, Bear claw was clear winner, glad she recommended it. Yeast based donut: not quite as good as Krispy Kreme, but still top tier. Second stop was hotly debated, we definitely wanted coffee but did not know where from. Based purely off of yelp reviews, positive yelp reviews I might add, and niche appeal, we decided to go to Perk ’N Jerk coffee and Jerkey emporium. When we got there, oh boy did we realize we were in for an experience. There was not a soul around except for a 90’s ford station wagon in the condition you’d expect parked right in front of the front door. Naturally, you would think it was a customer, but when we walked up and didn’t see anyone inside, we realized the owner was the type of person who owns a business and parks in the closest parking spot either not expecting anyone to come so no need to leave it open or he wants to claim it first, who knows. He welcomed us in and asked us what we wanted, we responded with “A Perk and Jerk please.” His flavor board had two sides to it. We were confused and thought that only one side was jerky, so we only ordered salt and pepper jerky. We asked if he had any other jerkies, maybe something hot, and he said, “The board has two sides to it, the other side is spicy.” So we also got red pepper, which was literally just red pepper flakes on jerky. After receiving our order, he went to retrieve the jerk. He went into the back and brought large Tupperware storage containers out and placed them on the table in the middle of the room. He then grabbed a box of quart sized zip locks, a zip lock full of labels, and a sharpie. He straighten up a food scale that was on the table and zeroed it. When he opened the first Tupperware, we were able to see a sea of jerky which he grabbed a hand full of and placed on the scale. After getting the desired weight by adding and removing tears of meat, he sealed the bag, slapped a label on, and scribbled the date. He did the same with the second jerky. After getting the jerky bagged and tagged, he asked if we were interested in any coffee. Upon entering, we both felt that we did not want to buy any coffee from the joint, but when asked point blank, we panicked! Hannah got an iced coffee and I got a hot coffee. He asked us about our trip plans while preparing our coffee and we told him our next stop was White Sands. He muttered something under his breath that made us feel like he didn’t think too highly of our trip and began giving us a few suggestions of his own. One being to go to an Airplane museum that had a legitimate plane of a certain, very specific model. I asked about the plane, to get a better idea of what to visualize, and he must of thought I wasn’t worth anymore of his time because he replied with a change of subject. He handed us our coffee, we paid, and we were on our way. While we were waiting for our coffee and Jerky, we took in the ambiance he made by putting up pictures of army things and his “Will return soon” signs. You can see these arts in the photos. After leaving Perk and Jerk we got on the road heading west on the way to White Sands National Park. Starting some point around Wyoming, during our last trip, as we drove through the rolling west of open land, I couldn’t help but imagine myself riding along beside the camper in cowboy boots, wranglers, very cool cowboy style shirt, bandana/bolo, and cowboy hat - full gallop on the back of a stallion I broke all on my lonesome and consider to be my best pardner. By the time we were west of Wyoming I knew if I saw a nice pair of cowboy boots or cowboy hat I was going to buy them regardless of any practicality post trip. I never found the little genuine cowboy store I was expecting in any of the one stop sign towns we drove through via country back roads so I just kept hoping and looking and as we spent time back in Wilmington with Lil Poot in the shop those desires kept floating further and further to the back of my mind. Those thoughts and desires, though, never fully disappeared, and when we made It to Texas they rushed back into my heart like a tornado and I couldn’t drive for being blinded by a flurry of images of me riding horses, roping cattle, riding full gallop chasing bandits with a six shooter in each hand one firing straight to my chase and one firing behind me at my chaser. I must have blacked out or passed out or just plain fell asleep, for I woke up to Hannah shaking me saying “David! Wake up!” I snapped out of the most realistic reality where I was defending a train car from a robbery with TNT exploding all around me, and worse, exploded the on coming bridge. We only had 15 seconds to get all 250 passengers off the train before we were all taking the express elevator down the 700’ cliff and, I am sorry, but no stops between or getting off, this is the express elevator. Right as the engine started to drop and the wheels of the last train car left the tracks, only a dozen passengers managed to jump off the train prior, their fate unknown. I started calming the people in my car telling them we were on our way to Dairy Queen and everyone is going to get a free Sundae, knowing full well I didn’t have enough gold and silver for five sundaes. My eyes opened and I saw Hannah for the first time in what felt like years. I started to smile as Hannah pointed to her right, which led my gaze to the on coming tractor trailer who must have gotten in my lane after I fell asleep and became a sheriff. I soon realized I had drifted in to their lane so I perked up and jerked the wheel to the right making all six wheels squeal and smoke till we were over the double yellows and I was yanking the wheel to the left in hope of correction, locking the e- brake, down shifting, sliding back, gassing it, gaining traction, and we were back on track, in the right lane, going 50. After being on the road for an hour or two post Perk and Jerk Hannah spotted a store called Frank English’s Custom Boots and we both knew we had to pull in! We pulled back hard on Lil Poot’s reins, then to the right, guiding the good steed to Frank English’s hitching post. After putting Poot in park, we found our masks, wallets, sense of direction, and headed inside. During the short walk from the camper to the door, I imagined all sorts of awesome boots we were soon to see and how difficult it will be to choose just one pair to buy leading us both to walk out of the store cash poor and boot rich. After entering, as soon as our eyes adjusted to the light, we saw that we were not in the boot emporium we expected and that we allowed our desires to lead us astray once again. Frank English politely put down the boot he was working on and asked how he could help. I sheepishly explained how we were expecting an emporium of ready made boots and how I have been dreaming of being a cowboy recently with Hannah supporting me through the whole confession. Frank took it easy and told us we could go up the street to a store that sold lame boots and we were almost out the door when he asked us to halt and listen to what we should look for when buying boots. He then captivated us for an hour using a spare boot as a prop, pointing to various parts and explaining what to look for in a good boot. He then put the boot down, with a loving last look and feel, turned his attention to us, and asked about who we were and where in the world we were coming from. We obliged, telling how we left New York during the pandemic, headed down to NC to live in our parent’s abodes before buying an RV and hitting the road. He cut in a few times with his own stories of living in NYC, moving around, and suggestions for us as we head west. One of those suggestion being Silver City NM where he used to live and where there is a neat coffee shop in the arts district called Tranquil Buzz owned by Dale. With heavy hearts we said our good byes and tootalous, headed back to Lil Poot, who was shuffling his tires in the dirt and humming rock ballads, loaded up, and got back on the road. As we continued on towards White Sands, we looked at each other and decided we should have bought boots from Frank. With this decision we talked about turning around, but decided on looking him up instead, maybe we could talk about the buying process first. Hannah found an article on him and read aloud, boy, Frank is COOL. I will include the article somewhere in this post. After learning about Frank, and driving some more, we made it to White Sands National Park. We took a right off the highway, like everyone else coming from the east, headed down the one road weaving between the white dunes. We saw the road turned from asphalt to salt, the main component of these dunes, so we pulled off at the pull off just before the change. From there, we got out to stretch our legs, decided to return tomorrow and bike down the gypsum salt road but enjoy the short boardwalk here since the sun will be setting soon. We walked along the board walk reading the info signs as we went, learning about the mice and lizards that adapted to live in the dunes as well as the insane life story this once lake told scientists of how the world used to be and how it was once a youthful, fun body of water looking for a good time, not worried about all its salt flying around. After returning to Lil Poot, this time he was hunched over in the corner of the parking lot with his back to the sun, head shadowing his gameboy trying his hardest to beat Misty with out taking the proper amount of time to train his Pokemon, got inside and headed west to our BLM land campsite near Las Cruces. After finding our camp site and getting the camper ready for parked mode, we hung Christmas lights below the cabinets and around the ceiling while listening to Christmas music. After playing with the lights some, they have different modes, one of which reacts to music, we settle on leaving the colored lights, under the cabinets, on solid and let the white lights, our crown molding, dance to the music. Hannah started boiling hot water for Hot Toddies and David probably looked at his instagram feed, soon both were drinking hot toddies and crafting.

https://www.taosnews.com/opinion/columns/know-your-neighbor-frank-english/article_e50ba70e-48ce-5371-91f1-7a1c7cc19e14.html

#lilpoot #lascruces #whitesands #frankenglish #perknjerk #pizzaomlette #newmexico

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roxannarambles · 6 years

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Dumb ‘ship ramblings/cut fanfic scene under the link

In one of my original conceptions of my fic I imagined Heath & Legault becoming close friends much sooner in the story and Heath slowly developing a massive dorky crush on Legault

and eventually he ends up having very . . . very detailed, interesting dreams about him :3 which fluster and upset him to no end.

and one of the nights he wakes up from an especially vivid dream and decides to go have a cold shower ahahaha

so he goes to the mens shower tent (I mean, they had those in awakening, not mentioned in blazing blade I guess but ah well) and gets into one of the lil stalls like . . . you know, like they have in MASH? (they’re just wood boards up to waist-level or so to provide a minimal level of privacy) and turns the water on and is like “urggh . . . .”

[in the stall next to him, someone pops up]

legault: hi!

Heath: AAAHH!

XD But anyway, along that original outline, I had already written a full chapter that I eventually ended up reworking & using for later on instead

Thought I’d post the original here for the freaking heck of it though. ‘Cause . . . I still sometimes think about that alternate route I guess. Maybe in a future fic I’ll do something else with those strands of ideas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It was lovely chatting with you. I hope people continue to shower you in riches."

"Hah! This is the most business I've had all month! Come back any time you like."

Legault smiled,

"Not sure when I'll be out this way again, but I'll keep it in mind."

The bells hanging off the door jangled merrily as Legault exited the small shop. The air smelled crisp and fresh, the sun just starting to slip below the horizon. A young man was walking down the small village street lighting the street lamps, and a few other late shoppers were milling about, but it was largely empty and quiet. The quaint little mountain village was one of the last in the chain Eliwood's army had been passing through, and it was a welcome bit of peace before the next part of their journey.

Legault stepped out onto the street, trying his best to juggle all the goods he had in tow. The crew had needed to restock on a number of supplies and he gladly volunteered for the duty. The simple truth was, in between the sudden spats of battling, travel with Eliwood's group could be terribly dull at times. Buying supplies was at least something to do. The other source of Legault's entertainment as of late, pestering Heath during his nightwatch, was unfortunately not available this evening. Eliwood's company was camped just outside of the village, being far too numorous to occupy the tiny village inns, and the Lords had not seen any reason to put up a watch for tonight. The village was tucked away in a very sheltered location in the mountains, and rarely saw troublemakers of any sort.

Legault hummed to himself as he strolled down the village street, wondering if everyone else had already returned to camp. He knew a few others had gone out to either fool about or ask the locals about the best path out of the mountains. Considering how long it had taken him to gather up supplies, he imagined everyone had left by now. As he passed by the pub, he peered through the window, but nothing of particular interest seemed to be going on inside; just a few denizens nursing their ales. He carried on walking, past a row of mossy-roofed storefronts.

Legault was in the midst of ruminating on the shoe repair shop he was passing, considering how worn his boots had become, when some low voices caught his ear. He slowed and looked about, trying to pinpoint the source. There was something decidedly . . . threatening about the voices, and it made his skin prickle. Cautiously, he traced the sounds to the lip of a wide alleyway sandwiched between a row of stores and a little church of St. Elime. As he carefully peeked around the corner, what he saw made his blood run cold.

There were wyvern riders-- three of them-- all in shining-bright armor, flowing capes, carrying ornate silver lances. They sat upon pitch-black wyverns, larger and more vicious-looking than he was used to seeing. The trio had their lances drawn and trained upon a man who was backed up against the alley wall. It was Heath.

Legault ducked back to the edge of the wall and shoved aside the bundle of goods he'd been carrying, and then peered down the alley again. Heath was not injured, and was standing with a defiant look upon his face, but his weapon was noticably absent. After a moment Legault spotted it against the wall, to the left of one of the fat wyverns, well beyond reach. The three wyvern knights easily blocked Heath's exit completely. Legault's heart sank as it became perfectly clear this was the moment they'd often spent discussing-- Heath's tormentors catching up to him when he least expected. And now they had him literally backed into a corner.

The thief spun and looked about frantically, searching for someone, anyone else about-- what the fuck was he supposed to do? It was as silent and solitary as the grave out here, with no hope of assistance. These were goddamn wyvern lords. Three of them. He stood there, with nothing more than his pitiful little dagger. He couldn't take on three wyvern lords like this. The element of surprise meant nothing when you would be swatted away like a fly.

"Try to understand," one of the wyvern riders was saying in a low, dangerous tone,

"It's not that we wouldn't enjoy gutting you right here. But we have our orders to take you alive if possible. The General really had his heart set on a public execution."

"I wouldn't give him the satisfaction," Heath spat.

"So you'd rather die in some alley, alone, like the coward you are?"

Legault felt the dump of adrenaline in his system start to make his hands shake and his entire body quiver. He scanned the alley wildly, searching for a solution-- there had to be something. The sides were all bricked off solidly, no gaps or niches, no slipping through. The wall Heath was backed against was too high for him to climb. Legault's eye settled upon the top of the wall. Too high to climb, but if Legault circled around from the other side of the alley and stepped up from the shop ledges, he could drop down? But what use was that? At most, he'd last a few seconds before being shredded. If only he'd bought a mine or something today--

Legault turned and yanked at the bundle of vulneries and other random items from the shop. The wyvern lords continued to threaten Heath as Legault's hand fell upon a couple of torches Eliwood had asked him to buy. He had no flint, but his eye whipped up to the lit street lamps. There was no time to wonder if it would work.

The next part was a bit of a blur for Legault. He honestly was not even aware of moving around the corner to reach the alley from the opposite side and getting up the wall, but it must have happened, because the next thing he knew, he was perched above everyone, seeing the wyvern lords from above, watching their eyes lift up curiously, almost as if in slow-motion. He remembered the way he held the torch aloft in one hand as he leapt, sliding down the wall with his other hand, the rough brick digging and tearing at his fingers. He did not recall feeling his feet touching the ground, but he did recall the sound of his boots slamming down, the noise echoing in the tiny space. He knew he took the torch in both hands, and he leapt forth, charging with a scream, spinning and whipping the flames wildly to and fro, rushing headlong into the trio of wyverns.

The scene was twisted chaos, the massive hulking beasts screaming and rearing up, wings, tails, and lances flailing wildly. Legault spun the torch right at the dragon's faces, driving it right into their eyes and snouts, dazzling their vision and making them shriek and leap, bucking their riders about. Over the screaming he could hear Heath shout something, although he had no idea what. As Legault saw an opening appear among the panicing wyverns, he shouted back to Heath as loud as he could:

"I'VE GOT THIS! RUN!"

Heath dashed forward, but he yanked his wayward lance off the ground and sprang back up, yelling,

"LIKE HELL!"

Lances clashed together and armor scraped against the alley wall, as Legault cursed under his breath and doggedly kept after the wyverns, not wanting them to regain their composure and footing. It was starting to become a problem, though-- and he was standing in the midst of three extremely angry, frightened monsters that were eventually going to tear his head off, no matter how artful his dodging. Barely avoiding the low sweep of a massive tail, Legault cried out as a brilliant shooting pain ran through him, a silver lance embedding deep into his shoulder. The wyvern lord wrenched the lance out savagely and thrust again, the blade destined for Legault's heart, but Heath's sideswipe battered it aside with frightful velocity. A horrid metal scrape cut the air as another of the lords drove their lance into Heath's back, and Legault watched as the jaws of death seemed to close around them, the wyvern riders closing in from all sides. He blinked hazily at the torch he'd dropped on the floor.

With his good arm he snatched the torch back up and threw it spinning into the face of the man gouging into Heath's side. The lord twisted about wildly, battering into his brother, and Legault felt his arm being yanked. White-hot pain filled all his perception, dragged along by his injured limb, and then he collided with the alley wall. He felt an arm wrap around him and haul him along, and it took far too long for him to realize Heath was dragging them out of there.

Somehow, they made it to the mouth of the alley. Legault's head was swimming, but his survival instinct cut through and he rasped,

"Not this way, go over there!"

"But camp is that way!"

"Trust me! We're not making it back to camp like this!"

Heath complied and they spun about, hobbling frantically along the street. The trip was agonizing, a walk that took a minute feeling like centuries now. Against all odds, they lumbered past the row of shops and came upon a familiar sight.

"In there!"

Heath didn't question Legault's choice and instead pushed the both of them through the door, bells crashing and clanging as they barged in. The shop owner looked up at them, jaw hanging agape.

"Came back a bit sooner than I expected," Legault said with a pained smile. The shopkeeper spluttered,

"What happened?!"

"I'll be sure to regale you with the details later. Could you hide us for now?"

The woman glanced around, a moment of hesitation in her eye, but then she nodded and gestured,

"Over here, just-- get behind the counter, there's nowhere else!"

The two came forward gratefully and dropped down, diving behind the small counter space behind her. It was only a minute or so before the door jangled open again.

Heavy boots stepped in and the door slammed shut.

"Good evening," the shopkeeper said, large smile glued to her face, but she'd gone a bit pale. The boots stepped forward, and a cold voice replied,

"Good evening. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me."

"Sure," she said, her tone full of forced cheer.

The cold voice drew closer as the man came right up to them.

"My friends and I are pursuing some very dangerous men. They've just passed by through here. We know they cannot have gone far."

"O-oh. That's-- that's not good."

"Have you seen anyone tonight?"

"Well, uh. I. . . I had a few customers earlier today?"

"It is a tall man with spiked green hair and armor that bears a symbol like my own. He is with a caped man with lavander hair."

The shop keeper swallowed, but answered,

"Don't think I've seen anyone like that, sorry."

Legault could feel the tension in the air, although he could see nothing from his position on the floor but the nervous shopkeeper. After a beat, the voice asked,

"Are you certain?"

The shopkeeper nodded.

"Yeah, I'm sorry."

The voice came coolly,

"I see. I want to be clear: they are both very dangerous. One is to stand trial for high treason and slaughtering innocents. The other is his accomplice. They will kill without hesitation."

Legault heard a creak as the man leaned against the counter.

"I wouldn't want you to come to harm if you failed to mention anything."

The shop owner stared, like a jackrabbit caught in a trap, apparently locked in the wyvern lord's gaze. Legault bit his lip, silently watching and praying.

The shopkeeper forced the smile back onto her face.

"Thank you for checking on me," she said,

"That's very kind of you. I hope you'll have the time to check on my neighbors as well. Do you think you'll be able to keep our village safe?"

The cold voice answered flatly,

"As long as we have cooperation, yes."

"That's a relief. I'm sure everyone will be happy to help. You see, everyone here, we look out for each other."

"Is that so?"

She nodded, then narrowed her eyes.

"Yeah. We can't stand to see anyone down on their luck. If we were to come across anyone like that . . . we'd do what we could to help them."

The little shop was very quiet for a few moments, and then;

"Be sure to inform us if you notice anything unusual later."

"Of course. I hope you find those horrible men."

The door slammed shut with enough force that the bells went crashing off entirely. The shopkeeper looked intently for a few moments out the window, then gave the all-clear. Heath unfolded from the tiny space and Legault grimaced as he helped him climb to his feet.

"My dear, that was-- ahh! ooh. easy-- that was masterfully done. Thank you--"

"--look, I don't know your story, but you two better beat feet. They're headed off towards the cottages, but that won't occupy them long."

Legault nodded at her and they shuffled over to the door, Heath telling her before stepping out,

"You have our deepest gratitude."

"Just get out of here! You're bleeding on the floor."

The journey back to camp was exhausting, but it seemed they were able to succesfully give their pursuers the slip. Village roads gave way to a dusty trail that cut across a fallow field and over a small creek, then wound through some trees before reaching the edge of camp. Heath had to half-drag Legault along, but they made a decent pace. It was only when they began entering camp that Legault realized his vision was starting to go black at the edges.

"Um, I have a problem."

Heath tugged Legault along, saying,

"We're there, come on, we've made it back!"

Legault felt his legs buckle and then everything was spinning. He was vaguely aware of Heath grabbing at him and shouting:

"Legault! Don't you dare! Get up!"

"Sorry," Legault mumbled, as his vision was swallowed up in blackness.

When he later woke, it was only through a disorienting fog upon his mind. Everything was too bright when he first opened his eyes, and he mumbled, squinting them shut again. He tried to move, shifting a little, but a little spark of pain stopped him from going far.

"Hey," a sudden voice said, drawing nearer,

"Hey, you awake?"

He winced as somebody prodded at him.

"Can you hear me? You should be doing way better now."

Cautiously, Legault opened his eyes, recognizing the pig-tailed girl staring down at him as Serra, one of the clerics.

"Oh, joy," he said, voice thick with sarcasm.

"I know, isn't it? That's what many people say when they see me. How you feeling?"

Legault regarded the cot he was laid across a moment and the dreary canvas ceiling of the medical tent.

"My head feels like it's full of cotton. How long-- aah!"

He stopped in his attempt at sitting up, slipping back into the pillow.

"Oh, don't do that. You're not ready yet, you need one more healing session. You lost a lot of blood. Like, a lot."

"I did?"

"Don't you remember?"

Legault mumbled,

"I may recall something about running around and doing something really stupid."

"Yeah, that's what the knight who brought you in here said. Wow, he was super rude, too. He kept yelling at me. Oh, that reminds me."

She vanished from sight, towards the other side of the tent, hollering,

"Hey! Wyvern guy! Your friend's awake!"

After a few moments, a lanky figure appeared over Legault, crossing his arms and smiling a little.

"You moron."

"Good to see you too."

"You should be dead right now."

"Yes, but so should you."

Heath gestured widely,

"What happened to being stealthy?"

Legault chuckled, which hurt a little.

"Even I can't sneak up on three mounted wyvern lords. What would I do, throw rocks at them?"

"So you charged directly at them with a torch instead?"

Legault smiled sheepishly.

"Well, maybe you're rubbing off on me."

Heath shook his head,

"No, even I'm not that brash."

"Hey, it wasn't that crazy. I remembered you telling me wyverns feared fire."

"But that doesn't-- gods, Legault, you're made of sterner steel than I'd thought."

Legault laughed,

"Ow. I think you were right the first time, I am kind of a moron."

Heath gazed at him a moment. Quieter, he asked,

"Why did you do it?"

The thief gave a loopy smile and replied,

"Must be this thing called 'love', you know?"

"Legault--"

"All right, all right, sorry. Look, it's no big deal, right? That's what friends do for friends fleeing from relentless headhunters."

The knight studied him with intense pale eyes. His voice came almost gently as he said,

"I would have--"

"--are you two done? I need to get back to work here!"

Heath turned and scowled at Serra. Legault glared daggers at her.

"Don't give me those looks! You both need second healing sessions and I have another person to take care of, too. That's on top of the supplies I have to pack tonight! I'm a very busy girl!"

Legault heaved a sigh. He glanced to Heath.

"I guess visiting hours are over. I'll see you when I'm a little more vertically-inclined, hm?"

Heath nodded at him.

"Hopefully the additional exposure to the cleric will not be too damaging to your health."

It took Serra several moments, but then she becried,

"HEY! What's that supposed to mean?!"

Legault supressed his smirk as Serra shooed the knight away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#mystuff #tbh I have over 50 pages of bits of cut or modified content #and notes and outlines and alternative scenes #fire emblem #legault/heath #fe7 #fanfic

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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London Burning

There she was, Madame, suspended above the table. Then two, she became exact doppelgängers, on opposite sides of the room. Each sporting black leather gloves and suede boots on slender pale legs that mimicked their counterparts from across the room. And back on the table, there was Monsieur Adrien, sporting a knife pressed to his neck, and suddenly, he was the one pressing the knife to his assailant. The commanding officer, Antoine, was nowhere to be found, but small glimpses of him flew across the room, on trailed by his thunderous laugh whenever he found something amusing. I, found myself ducked under a table. I was hired as catering staff for the evening, and had lost my appetite for these political disputes.

“Well dah-lin, don’t be shy come on out.”

Before me was the very - volumptuous - woman, who called herself Beatrice. Madame Beatrice. In the political sphere, she simply went by Madame, as there was none other like her. Besides herself. What I mean by that is, only she, can be herself, her own reflection if she had one.

“We gotta get you cleaned up, why, what a mess we made. Awful sorry about the whole lot”

I looked around. She was right, it was a disaster. Plates and tablecloth couldn’t be distinguished, every piece of furniture or furnishings prior this evening, had become scraps not even strays would pick at. And everyone, except them, was dead. Somewhere through the settling chaos in my mind, I realized I was not going to get paid for my service that night.

“Take me with you”

Madame raised her eyes, and looked at her partners. They knew, however, she was the shotcaller, and they couldn’t care for initiations. She shrugged too, as if to say ‘why not’, and extended her hand.

“Welcome to the Crimson Lotus”

The Crimson Lotus was, or still is rather, an independent party. Though they’ve gained immense influence and power in the recent months, they still fall short to be categorized into the official tables. However, everyone knew by now, that they were going to get there. Extremely skilled, and all their members - all three, or four now with me - were shrouded in mystery. However, one thing was for certain: their specialty of misdirection.

The party I was catering, before everyone was so abruptly disposed of, was called the Hounds of London. Their niche laid in sleight of hand. They were notorious for initiating promising thieves from the subways or streets. They rose to power, from a mix of both cheap tricks and in sheer quantity of manpower. No city lacks thieves, and frankly if it did, then politics was not it’s primary concern.

As for me, I was never one for politics. What’s interesting about it, was that with enough merit, anyone could be in charge. The pickpockets on the metro, had they set their mind to it, could fill the same seats that had been passed down for generations in legacy and lineages. I never took much of an interest in magic or illusions. We all know that tricks no matter how impressive, could only be performed in a parlor. But through the many decades of this city, those in charge grew more powerful, like waves crashing into shore. Each new wave would crash a bit higher on shore, having a stronger foundation to build upon. And as a city, we agreed this was a fair governance. Who should be in council, if not the people themselves? Those who butcher at docks, who tend bars on the pier, who relay messages to their higher ups. And those who know how to lead, who can sway masses through just words and glares. There is power in many forms, some in brute strength, some from intellectual prowess. But all power is from merit, and all merit is from power. Power is not given, authority is not a birthright. It is earned, it is seized. That is how a good council is run.

“I think, before we make any more decisions, we should teach you some tricks” said the Madame. I was always one for mathematics. The catering held me over as I finished my schooling. It is a beautiful world, mathematics. All rules can be bent, even toppled inward, and still not break. Rules could be written on the whim, or ignored altogether. It was a much more preferable world for me. One without interpersonal relationships, political tensions.

“But first, allow us to introduce ourselves. I am the Madame, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. And from the last political debate, you see what I do yes? From across the room, I can throw mirror projections. Which one is me? Ha, even I don’t know sometimes”

“You can call me Adrien” a gruffer voice spoke. The man was quite tall and slender, with a salt and pepper beard peeking from his neck. “I am able to, I switch places.” And he left it at that

Finally, the one who eluded sight, spoke. “Antoine. I’m a ventriloquist by trade. But do reconnaissance.” I suppose him too wasn’t one for much words.

“I’m Byre. I study mathematics.”

“Ah, then you have come to the perfect place”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I soon learned the world of magic was not so different from mathematics. All rules, could be made up. In maths, we construct dimensions with base units to whatever we desire them to be. In magic, it is more of a deconstruction. Of breaking an already set dimensions, into what units make it up. We all view the world differently. Some view it through waves of light and sound. Others view it passionately, through emotions and feelings. I saw the world as a construct of numbers. Quantities of forces, always colliding and separating, never finding an equilibrium where both sides are content.

And so in the coming days, Antoine took me under his wing. He did have a body, but was actually quite introverted, hence his constant shadowing of his actual self. He was not unattractive. Ruffled dirty blond hair, no matter how hard the wind blew, and dark brown eyes that would remind me of wet sand at the beach, perhaps the ruins of a castle that collapsed into its moat. Adrien was a very kind person, and it was clear fighting was not in his nature, he left that for the other two. Often he would stand in the enemy’s numbers, projecting his voice so that they would look elsewhere and he would follow, misdirecting them.

He took me in because we thought similarly, atleast according to the Madame. He would always first listen to the acoustics of a setting. How his voice travelled, and where it would end up. Perhaps we were similar, in that we felt the need to calculate, in order to be certain. But in an open environment, where we were exposed, and the rules were not ours for making, we felt uncomfortable.

I did pick up a few tricks. Very much attributed to Adrien. At the end of my practicing, I could, to an extent, project an image of a small rabbit. I say much thanks to Adrien as he inspired much of the idea. Light waves, like sound waves, can bounce. They can be pulled and distorted. They are but little particles that hit your eye and you believe you see something. So with a small ray off a table, a glimmer off the chandelier. With these pieces, I could stitch and sew together a hologram, in a place that, should have housed nothing but empty space. But they are just soft holograms, unlike Madame’s doppelgängers. If one were to see the image of their beloved pet, and go to hug, I would only be rewarded with a sudden realization that, I too, am just a cheap charlatan, playing off blind spots of the mind.

When Antoine and the Madame both thought it was satisfactory, we began to plot the next movement. There were only two parties left: the rats, and the snakes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rats and snakes have been at each other since the founding of London. Naturally, they are nemesis. And so, they always have pitted against each other. In a single battle, any member of the rat party would suffer defeat from the snakes. But still, like in nature, no matter how many snakes in a field, there will always be mice to feast on the crops.

The snakes were known for their battle prowess. In the same way how real snakes shed, those part of the party could always barely slither away, when absolutely necessary, leaving a shell of their old selves behind, when their captors finally found them. But with daggers as sharp as fangs, tipped in poison, they could coil and strike with fluidity no one else could hope to match. To onlookers, it may seem they are simply very skilled in martial arts. There is no magic. But in that, there is something more than physical training. To mirror your opponents and see through every one of them. Know where they are weak, and to know what you must do to take advantage of their ignorance. No different than making a coin disappear from a magicians hand. Their power does not come from their own abilities, rather, exposing their enemy’s weaknesses.

The rats, have always been the most elusive. Never one to combat face to face, they strike in groups, and always guard each other’s back. Though weak in offense, their numbers more than cover their defenses. A snake may circle around a rat, only to find their is another one behind, keeping watch. And perhaps another one on the side, flanking and observing for all of them. And when absolutely cornered, they will sacrifice themselves, in hopes the others may escape, and live on. That is how the rats are. A single straw can snap in a breeze, but a bushel is almost impossible to cut. Almost impossible.

And their abilities come into how they protect themselves. They must hear, see, smell, their enemies, before their opponents even get the chance. A snake, no matter how careful, is bound to snap a twig. And in that one small action, will capsize their whole attack. Because these small mice, will already be fields away. Grazing on another plane.

It is not hard to see why, that historically, the snakes have appealed to the bourgeoisie. The ones in power, who prey on the weak. And the mice are the laborers. Though many in number, they lack the power to overthrow their predicament. Always, it has been a battle between snakes and mice. London was no different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We chose to overthrow the snakes first. If we succeeded against the rats, but failed against the snakes, then all of London was doomed to serve. We are, after all, not animals, and have compassion for those who work in factories and fields, laboring to feed the entire city.

The party was strong, I can not lie. But what is a snake to do against opponents that are, or were, never there? They would slit open the neck of Madame only to find the other was the real one. And when they cornered that target, they found once again, her clone across the room. Well and alive and putting up an immense fight. When scents and sights deceive a snake, they simply can not win. As for me, with my abilities, I am quite proud of this as it was also my first battle. On a very large fire pit, I made it seem as though there were no flames. The beauty of heat is, it is just a weaker form of light. And with ten, no, twenty heads on my tail, they all fell in. Scathed and burnt until they stopped thrashing.

And then we turned our objectives onto the rat party. Only a few nights after overthrowing the ones in power, the city was in shock. The factories served no one anymore. There were no oppressors. And when headlines finally made sense of who was behind the coup, it was too late. We had already began our onset onto the plebeians.

These poor fellow mice. Their sight is strong, their hearing is powerful. When you lie to these senses, they are but timid vermin with no place to escape. We made sure of that, much thanks to Adrien. I conjured about an image of their leader, Adrien breathed into her a voice. Even the rats have a queen. And he commanded their army into disarray. Each scrambling into a nest that was not their, but actually a trap set by us. And one by one, the little creatures, with sights blinded and whiskers dulled, could only hope to escape as they heard our footsteps draw near their holes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And we, the Crimson Lotus, were put into power. There was no official paperwork, as there was no magistrate. Politics was something the people learnt through word of mouth or periodical headlines. And as I walk through the streets, trailing Madame or Adrien or Antoine, I could not help but notice no one knew who we were. Our bread was still a quid. Our wine was still ten pounds. It seemed as though, our arduous climb offered no rewards.

And Adrien, one for few words, spoke. “You, the mathematician, should know this the best. We can now dictate the rules. We can bend London to our will, reinvent it from the ground up, or run it as it always has been. My esteemed colleague Byre, what more would you hope for? We have the whole city to play with.” The others grinned, and I could not help myself from letting loose a sly smile too. The closest term, for us, may perhaps be anarchists. To rule, with no rules.

And it has been many summers since our victory. London has not been merrier, and we still have not been more recognized on the streets. We will gather for cheese and crackers every Thursday, recalling new books we’ve read, or visits from family abroad. But still, the headlines scramble to try and capture who was behind the scenes, pulling the strings. Perhaps the old leader for the Hounds. Or the Queen of rats, now living a calm life as a house wife. For two beautiful children no less, as we’ve visited. Tensions aside, we are not animals, we are humans, and condolences and reparations are paid where due.

But I’ve learnt that, by observing the people, they may never know who I really am. This whole political debacle, is all smoke and mirrors anyway. Perhaps one day we’ll be overthrown, and no one will know who’s pulling the strings. A magician, never reveals their tricks.

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kiraraneko · 7 years

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Hi! I've been drawing for a long time, and am really wanting to get into a digital art career. Do you have any tips, or might be able to help per chance?

Hi there Zalupeh! OH boy, that’s a mighty complex question and I’m absolutely honored that you think I’d be qualified to answer it :’)I can tell you some lessons I have learned along the way, but I am by no means an expert and everyone’s artistic journey is very different. Before I begin, I feel it’s important to note that I have never attended any kind of specialized art institution and my only “career” experience has been with freelancing and occasional contract work, thus is the only thing I can give advice on.1. I’ll start with the one thing everyone can agree on: practice. Anyone with a skill they are trying to hone is going to hear this word a lot, and is never going to stop hearing it. It’s a word that is going to frustrate you, inspire you, and kick your ass sometimes, but it is the root of everything that makes art, art. Practice anatomy, practice styles, practice different media, practice practice practice. Some artists find success in a certain niche, but being flexible in what you can do artistically is never a bad thing and will open more doors for you.2. Now for something I feel many people (both artists and non-artists) have a hard time realizing: art is a job. I cannot stress this enough. Freelancing is actually many jobs, and I do not fault anyone for deciding to keep art as a hobby and getting a regular 9 to 5. You have to be your own boss, your own manager, your own tax agent, your own PR. You have to run your own social media, be engaging with your audience, maintain a gallery, portfolio, and/or website, create brand-recognition with your art, manage your own store and ship your own products if you decide to sell handmade items, keep yourself on schedule, balance your time appropriately, manage money and refunds if you take commissions, respond to customer messages and emails, the list goes absolutely on and on, and that’s not even including the mentally and physically taxing aspect of actually creating the art! You’ve got to be a disciplined and reliable person, otherwise you’re going to get overwhelmed very quickly. I’ve unfortunately seen it happen to many artists, and have of course dug myself into holes as well.3. This one is more open to interpretation: don’t sell yourself short, but also understand the market. There’s a caveat there because many people will scream from the rooftops “don’t undersell yourself!” while simultaneously having no idea what it’s like to try and get noticed in a market flooded with people who will paint you a mural for $5. (I feel terrible for those artists, because doing an insane amount of work for insanely little is a surefire way to burn yourself out.) Price your art for what it’s worth, price it for the time you spent on it, and don’t sell it for a price that makes you feel sad or resentful for how hard you worked on it, but the key here is less about price and more about standing out in the marketplace. There will always be someone willing to draw for cheap, so what makes your art so special? What makes someone want to give money to you instead of this other person? Sometimes it’s a unique style, a different material, an interesting idea, a set of colors you really like or theme you enjoy drawing most. You want your art to get noticed because it’s cool and unique, not just because it’s cheap. Prices come secondary to customers who truly enjoy and want your work.4. Let’s end on something I still struggle with: don’t be afraid of advertising. Remember when I said art is a business? Businesses survive on advertising - on getting their stuff in front of as many people’s eyes as possible. This can be done in any number of ways, but it should be understood that if you are trying to make a living off of art, people need to see that art. You cannot sit in a metaphorical corner by yourself and just hope that a fanbase springs out of the ground. There are instances of artists getting very popular almost overnight because something took off, but cases in which that happens is very rare and those people are very lucky and that is not something you should ever actually count on happening to you. You have got to put yourself out there - join groups that showcase the kind of stuff you like to draw, be social and engaging with those that express interest in what you do, take advantage of holidays and sales that might get you noticed, be open to collaboration projects, contests, or platforms you can get featured on, and lord don’t EVER apologize for posting your art. If people follow you, they want to see it. They want to see all of it. Post it everywhere. Ahaha well I think I’ve rambled on long enough, but hopefully there’s something in there that helps you! I tried to make my talking points fairly general and applicable to basically any freelancing craft, and of course anyone with experience in these things is more than welcome to add on to this post :)

#freelancing #digital art #artists #advice #drawing #artists on tumblr #freelance #zalupeh

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zacknano17 · 7 years

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Day 3: words 5092 - 7633

In which, Taako makes a friend. (No, he doesn’t.)

“You can put 'em in the corner over there,” Taako says, gesturing. He's sitting on the bed, paging through the room service catalog, not really paying Magnus any mind.

Magnus does so, and he thinks he ought to leave the room now. Instead, he pauses. “You're not still mad about me not wanting to think we were a thing, are you?” he asks.

“Nah, homie.” Taako still isn't looking at him. “We're not a thing, so why would I be mad? I just didn't like the implication that I'm an undatable hellion.”

“You're -- what? No. That isn't what I meant!”

“Yeah, I got that.” Taako doesn't sound angry, but he does seem a little miffed. “It's fine, dude. I ain't even mad.”

“I'm sure you could get like a hundred people to agree to marry you, just by giving them a little glance. You're like, the prettiest elf in the world.”

Taako pushes his hat up a little bit, an almost subconscious motion. There's only the smallest change in his expression, but Magnus can tell he's improved Taako's mood a little. “Top five percent, I'd say,” he agrees. “Really, though, don't worry about it, big guy. Ch'boy's not exactly the marrying type either.”

“Oh.” Magnus is. Was.

Taako's eyes focus on Magnus' hand for a moment, and he adds, “...anymore?”

Magnus runs his thumb over the groove in his ring finger absently. So Taako had noticed.

He never really intended to keep Julia a secret. He just doesn't really relish the idea of talking about her. He had lost her a few years ago now, but it still feels like an open wound on his heart. Talking about her, thinking about her, all of that -- it is still painful.

“Yeah. I, uh. She died,” he says.

He can almost see the light bulb go on over Taako's head. “Julia,” he says.

Oh, shit. Does he talk in his sleep or something? “How did you -- ”

“You asked Kravitz to tell Julia you loved her,” Taako explains, shrugging. “I was thinking sister at the time for some reason. I guess wife would make as much sense.”

For as dumb as Taako pretends to be sometimes, he sure is good at putting things together.

Magnus sits down on the bed next to Taako. “I used to be a carpenter,” he explains, knotting his fingers together. “I had a mentor, and he had a daughter. Julia. Then the, ah, the village got attacked while I was gone once, and when I came back, I...didn't have either of them anymore.”

Taako is quiet for a long moment. “...sucks, dude,” he says.

Magnus laughs. It's not a happy laugh, just a sort of rueful sound, acknowledging the truth in Taako's words. “Yeah,” he agrees.

They sit in silence for a moment, and Magnus thinks again that he ought to leave. He doesn't. Instead, he asks, “What about you? You could have anybody you wanted, probably, but I don't see you go on many dates.”

“Eh, been out of the dating scene for a while. My last relationship ended...bad,” Taako says. “I haven't been real eager to jump aboard that train again. There's a lot of trust issues with that sort of shit. Namely, I don't trust anybody.”

“I can see that being a problem, yeah,” Magnus agrees. “You don't even trust me and Merle?”

“Hell no,” Taako replies emphatically. “Everybody up and leaves eventually. It's just the way things are. You either get left behind, or you're the one who leaves. No way around it, homie.”

“You really think I'm gonna just up and leave you behind someday?” Magnus asks.

Taako gives him a look. Magnus isn't sure what emotion is meant to be conveyed by it. He looks irritated, but there's another part of him that just looks...very old and withered. “You're a human. You've got like, what, a hundred years left?” he asks.

“Well, uh, no, more like fifty, actually,” Magnus says, but he gets the point. Sometimes he forgets that Taako is well over a hundred years old.

Taako stands up and makes his way over to the suitcases, very clearly done with the conversation, and drags it over to the bed. “I guess with the asshole brigade backing me up, we're going to be staying a while, huh?” he comments as he opens it up. “Might as well unpack.”

It's a dismissal if Magnus ever heard one, and he's not sure how much more of Taako's depressing world view he can stomach right now anyway, so he stands up. His thumb rubs away at that groove on his ring finger again, and he considers.

“You know, if I had known I was going to lose Julia so soon...I think I'd have held on more tightly,” he says.

“Yeah,” Taako says flippantly, “cause you're an idiot.”

In spite of being a current hot spot for aspiring spouses all over Faerun, the building that houses Wedding Wonders is modest and in a rather obscure location. The three of them have had no trouble finding it, however. It seems as though everyone knows where it is and how to get there, even people who would seem to have no use for a wedding planner.

Wedding Wonders is run out of a large, old fashioned house just off the business district of Waterdeep. Ms. Joiner works and lives in the same building, it seems; she has not bothered to move to a more convenient location, although she surely has the means to do so, with how well her business is doing.

The people of Waterdeep are more than happy to spread rumors about the business and its proprietor. They learn quickly that Ms. Joiner has so many clients that she has to turn down people frequently. There seems to be no rhyme or reason how she picks her patrons. Oftentimes wealthy families will offer her higher payments and other benefits, and she will turn them down in favor of a poorer couple without any explanation.

Upon further discussion, the Tres Horny Boys have decided that Merle's job hunt bluff is as good a story as any. The only other idea they have come up with involves a lot of stealth, and none of them are really looking forward to trying that one, even the Ruff Boi and Level 2 Rogue himself, Magnus Burnsides.

Taako's last job interview had involved getting punched so hard by an ogre that he had nearly died. He hopes that this one will be less strenuous.

He has dressed for the occasion in purples and blues, with a flowing skirt that reaches his ankles and a loose, translucent blouse over a form fitting long sleeved black shirt, and silver pumps with three inch heels. He fancies up his hair with some elaborate braiding techniques that Magnus is very good at for some reason and puts on his best set of silver jewelry. He looks positively dashing. Too bad he has to hide it a bit by using the umbra staff, this time as a sunbrella. It is still not a great idea to get recognized.

Merle is wearing a Fantasy Hawaiian t-shirt with a small stain right in the front that isn't quite hidden by his beard. He is wearing what he calls “capris,” but look as though they are actually just a pair of Magnus' old cargo shorts that have been repurposed for dwarf legs. He is wearing socks with sandals. This is his normal look. The only difference between this and their trip to Goldcliffe is that he has his X-treme Teen Bible in hand rather than tucked away safely in his pack until it is needed.

Magnus is wearing the same thing he wore yesterday, unless he packed an identical outfit. He has buttoned an extra button at the top, for...respectability, maybe? He is even carrying his shield and axe still, and Steven bumps along at his hip. Charming.

They reach the old house and Taako leads the way within, the umbra staff now doubling as a very fancy cane. The front door leads into a room that seems to have been repurposed from a sitting room. The room is papered in a lovely rose decal, garnished by heavy velvet curtains that block view of the adjoining rooms. The floor is a dark wood, covered by a large, tasseled rug. The walls display pictures in heavy golden frames of various couples in formal clothing, presumably couples that have been married through the Wedding Wonders company.

At the far end of the room is an intricately carved wooden desk, stained a dark color to match the floor. It is covered in neat stacks of paper, a few books, an ink well, and a large feather quill. Behind the desk sits the fanciest orcish man Taako has ever seen, complete with neatly combed hair, a neat suit jacket and tie, and a pince-nez on his nose, attached to his vest pocket with a slender golden chain.

He stands up from the desk when he sees the three of them enter in. He is easily seven feet tall and makes even Magnus look very small. “Greetings, and welcome to Wedding Wonders,” he says, his voice thick with a pleasant accent that Taako can't quite place. “My name is Salvatore. How might I assist you today?”

“Hello, darling, a pleasure to meet you,” Taako rattles off. This orc seems to be dripping with his very brand of fake charm, and he appreciates that. “My name is Taako -- you might recognize me from TV -- and we're here to offer you a once in a lifetime premium offer. That's right, my good man, I am offering you the chance to have my fabulous self -- and these two imbeciles as well, I suppose -- help you staff the newly anticipated expansion to your lovely business.

“As I mentioned, you may already recognize me from my show? On TV? You know the one. I'm absolutely certain I could bring in a number of promising clientele. Your quaint little business here fills a very specific niche, but one our society didn't know needed filling. And I am proposing you open up a branch in -- wait for it -- Neverwinter. That's right, the capital of the world. My man, Wedding Wonders is going places, and I, Taako, plan to take you there.

“Now, could you be a dear and let Ms. Jer -- J...um, the lady in charge here?”

“Ms. Joiner,” Salvatore says.

“Yes, yes. Of course. You'll have to excuse me, I meet so many people. Ms. Joiner. If you could just let her know I'm here to see her? Me, Taako, from TV? Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wait right here.”

Salvatore has not changed his mild, politely interested expression through the entire speech. He merely inclines his head slightly when Taako finishes. “We here at Wedding Wonders do sincerely appreciate your enthusiasm,” he says, “but I'm afraid Ms. Joiner only meets with potential business partners by appointment. Even ones as undoubtedly important as you are, good sir.”

“I think you might be underestimating how much Ms. J is going to want to -- ”

“Furthermore, sir, I know of no such plans to expand the business. As much as the 'niche' we fill requires that filling, Ms. Joiner can hardly take on more clients than she already does. As it is, people travel from all over Faerun for our services, and another branch, even one in a lucrative location such as Neverwinter, would only serve to disappoint the many, many clients we cannot accommodate.”

“I'm sorry, perhaps I didn't make myself clear, but I'm Taako? You know, from -- ”

“And it is fantastic to meet you in person, sir, but I'm afraid you will have to schedule an appointment, like everyone else,” Salvatore continues. He sits down again at the desk and pulls out a book labeled 'Appointments.' He flips through it, and continues to flip, and continues for a few moments. “Here we are, we have an opening for three months from now, in -- ”

Taako slams a hand down on the book. “Taako. From TV. I want an appointment this afternoon. Make it happen.” He will not be outdone by this fucker. He will not.

“If you give me your Stone of Farspeech frequency, I can alert you if we have an opening this afternoon, but I'm very sorry. Ms. Joiner won't even return to the office until -- ”

“I will wait, then.”

“Very well, sir.” Salvatore closes the appointment book and goes back to the stack of papers he had been regarding when the three of them had entered.

“Um, excuse me, sir -- ” Magnus tries.

“Shut it, Mango, I've got this,” Taako snaps. “Listen. My good man. My entourage here and I will need a place to...rest until the Lady J-dawg makes it back from her...whatever she's doing, at which time you'll of course let her know I'm here. Do you have a sitting room or something?”

Taako feels a rush of satisfaction as he notices that the orc's eyebrow is twitching, just a little. At fucking last, he is finally getting to this guy.

“Yes, of course,” Salvatore says, standing again. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

He leads the three of them to one of the curtained off rooms and pulls back the drape. Within is a sitting room, fancy as the rest of the house that they had seen thus far. It contains two uncomfortable looking sofas facing one another with a low coffee table in between and two chairs on the far end, all matching. The walls here have more portraits with more couples at their weddings.

“Feel free to make yourselves comfortable. We do not offer a tea service or anything, I'm afraid,” Salvatore says, gesturing into the room.

“Barbarians,” Taako mutters under his breath as he glides within. He has the satisfaction of seeing that eyebrow twitch yet again. Now it's personal, Salvatore.

“Fat load of good that did us,” Merle grumbles in a stage whisper, once Salvatore is out of direct hearing distance.

“Yeah. I mean, that was some nice fast talking there, Taako, but there's no way he's actually going to tell us when she gets back,” Magnus says, sitting down on one of the sofas.

“Exactly,” Taako remarks. He settles down demurely in one of the chairs, crossing his ankle over his knee. “We learned two things here today. First of all, the big lady in charge isn't currently in the building, which means right now might be an optimal time to scope out the place.”

“Oooh, sounds like a job for Mr. Level 2 Stealthy here,” Merle suggests.

“That's good and all, but that Salvatore guy is still out front,” Magnus points out. “That dude's even more stacked than I am, which is sayin' something. How'm I gonna get past him?”

“Oh, I'm sure I can distract him,” Taako snorts.

“Okay, okay, this sounds pretty good. I can help Taako out a bit too, buy Magnus some time,” Merle says. “But there's just one thing. What's the second thing? You said we learned two things.”

Taako shrugs. “Guys, I don't think they're hiring.”

#tying the nano

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