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zensations35 · 2 months

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Don't Cheat On Me (Haz/bin)

Yall were warned, here's another haz/bin fic. The hotel gang playing some board games. Vaggie reacts to them cheating. I played with morals and Angel being cute and Alastor being a sneaky bitch. This takes place mid season 1, cuz I wanted Pentious involved! Okay enjoy!

Husk sets the final two drinks on the table, taking care to scoot them far out of the way of the game board. Angel is propped with his elbow on his knee, chin resting on his palm as he concentrates on his next move.

“Alright,” he pinches one of the sheep tokens and moves it from the vale to his farm--which he dubbed ‘Haven’.

“What are you gonna do with all them sheep, Angel?” Husk asks.

“Nothing.”

“You aren’t going to eat them?!” Pentious yawps.

Angel squeaks. “No!”

Vaggie grumbles. “You’re gonna break the game. They’re currency for other shit.”

“Yeah! To be slaughtered!” Angel’s gold tooth winks in frustration.

Charlie, ever the ray of sunshine, even when talking about animal slaughter, picks up a game piece shaped like a human. “It’s to feed the meeples!” She dances it around happily.

Angel frowns. “Fuck the meeples.” He wraps his lower arms protectively around his sheep farm. “They’re my sheep. I can do whateverthefuck I want with them!”

Husk groans. “Rgh, just let Angel keep his damn sheep. We have other food sources for our population.” He flicks through his action cards, ears twitching with every shush of the card.

“Fine…” Vaggie grumbles. “You’re next, Pentious.”

Sir Pentious taps his fang with a bent claw, considering. It makes a soft tip tap tip tap. His eggbois start giving suggestions like “Trade for his sheep!” “Buy more lumber!” “Steal Vaggie’s coins!” Until soon they’re all chanting “STEAL! STEAL! STEAL! STEAL!”

Vaggie saws at her teeth, scrunching up her nose and suppressing another growl.

Charlie turns to her and offers a supportive arm squeeze. Then she looks encouragingly at Pentious and says, “We don’t steal. It’s very wrong.” She waggles a finger. “What should we do instead?”

Sir Pentious attempts to calm his eggs down, clearing his throat. “Yes, well, ahem. Eggbois!” He slithers into a spine-erect position, being commanding as he ever can manage. “We do not steal. That would be,” he cracks a small grin as if trumpets were blaring all around them, “Against the rules!”

Charlie claps, eyes glazed with pride.

Angel rolls his eyes and waves an upper arm, “Then, what are ya gonna do?”

Pentious hums for another long moment, tail swishing. Not surprisingly, one of the eggbois does not seem to take his words to heart. It clambors under the table and…is Vaggie seeing this? Is anyone else seeing this?? The eggboi’s hand pops up on Husk’s side of the table. Husk, who is mid drink, is too distracted to notice. The eggboi swipes several coins and scrambles back to Pentious, depositing it faithfully by his own pile.

Nobody says a word. Nobody else but Vaggie seems to have noticed.

Her mouth opens to warn them about the absolute betrayal taking place but instead, she’s overcome with a completely feral sensation in the core of her sinuses.

“Ih-hih!” Instinct has her hands forming a protective shield over her face, just as her shoulders shudder. “Eip’Sshieu!” her entire body cracks forward and Charlie gasps.

“Vaggie! Are you okay?” she massages the spot on Vaggie’s arm where her girlfriend bumped the table.

“Yeah, fine,” Vaggie waves her off, shooting a daggerlike glare at the clueless eggboi. Her eye narrows at Pentious who is taking his turn. Obviously the eggboi stealing the coins counted as cheating. But did it count as Pentious himself cheating if he didn’t know about it?

Vaggie heaves a sigh. Morals, she was learning, were fickle.

Husk has already decided what to do--two turns ago. He lays down an action card and helps himself to the public lumber market.

All eyes flick to Alastor. His strategy has been the hardest to read. His moves don’t seem to benefit himself much, but he’s made several plays that have changed the course of the game so far.

His red eyes glide over the cards in his clawed hand, his lips in a loose smile. He plucks a card and hands it to Angel. Angel raises the eyebrow above his dark eye and accepts the card. He looks shocked when he sees it.

“What the fuck?” he waves it at him.

Alastor just smiles and shrugs.

“What?” Vaggie swings her head left and right, looking between them both. “What did he give you?”

Angel snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know, sweetcakes?” he shimmies his shoulders suggestively.

Vaggie clutches her cards tighter. She wishes Alastor would say something. Normally no one can get the guy to shut the fuck up, but during game night, he’s eerily silent.

Charlie nudges her. She needs to take her turn. Vaggie peers down at her spread. Her cards are shit, she’s poor as fuck, and her meeples are isolated and starving.

Charlie sees Vaggie’s shit pit situation and her mouth tips down, the circles of her cheeks bobbing softly. “Oh, Vaggie,” she scrapes a handful of coins together and holds them out. “Do you want some of my gold? I have enough for my turn.”

Vaggie sucks in a breath, the itch more like a stab this time, and she flattens her hand over her face. “H’SHUiew!” she presses her palm firmly to her nose and lips as her shoulders flutter in tune with her throat, “Heig’SGM!”

What the fuck? That counted as cheating?! But Charlie was trying to help.

Rgh! This is a fucking board game!! Not a reason to revisit moral trauma!

A faint but curious hum trickles next to her right ear, where Alastor sits. Her heart skips and she catches a hint of scrutiny behind his flippant smirk.

What is he thinking??

“Vaggie?” Charlie’s voice pulls her from her paranoia.

“Not getting sick, are ya?” Husk grunts.

“Oh please do not infect us!” Sir Pentious drums his fingers together, “I don’t handle illness well at all!”

“I’m fine,” Vaggie snarls, slapping a card down--something barely helpful at all--and calls it a wash.

Charlie pushes a pile of gold into the pot and buys four apples and a sheep. Angel looks dismayed at this and he’s eyeing the last six sheep in the vale.

“Angel…” Husk’s voice is low and gravelly, like coins scraping together, “you really should think about gathering resources for your plot. You don’t even have enough coins for--”

Angel slams down a card: infinite sheep.

Vaggie’s mouth unhinges and she darts her eye at Alastor. The smug on his face says it all: that’s the card he gave Angel. What the fucks?

Angel scoops the rest of the sheep from the vale and places them delicately in his farm. He now owns 80% of the fucking sheep in the goddamn game.

Vaggie glares at Alastor, her hand flying in circles as she speaks, “Why did you give him that? You could have used that on Angel to steal all of his sheep!”

Angel’s hair flops into his dark eye as he gapes at them. “You could do that?” his voice breaks on the last word.

Alastor ignores them, eyes intent on organizing his meeples, apples, and coins by size and color.

Sir Pentious chooses to sell a few things for money--lumber mostly--but he miscounts and an argument sparks between him and Husk about how much lumber Pentious added to the pile.

Vaggie hiccups her next breath, drops the meeple she was organizing, and spills a “Hg’KtSHieW!” into jangled fingers. She grunts, pinching her nose and sniffling. “Can’t we snf just snf start the turn over and--”

“NO!”

The boys both yell together, wings and hood fanning out as they both scramble to grab at the pieces of lumber they’re arguing over.

“Ai’kTChieh!” Vaggie slumps and sighs. This is getting chaotic.

“Do you need some medicine?” Charlie asks, looking for all the world, more helpless than Vaggie herself.

Vaggie waves her away with a stuffy sniffle, “Seriously, I’m fine.” It wouldn’t help anyway. What Vaggie needs is a break and--

Something enters her field of vision. Right under her nose, a rose colored cloth held by Alastor, of course. He smirks at her, teeth bared, glassy eyes dark and discerning.

Vaggie snatches the handkerchief out of his hand making sure he feels the anger in her shaking fist, but it only seems to amuse him further.

Shitass.

Does he know? Like…know know?

Rgh! She snarls her noseblow as rough and messily as she possibly can into his stupid fucking hanky, then wads it up and offers it back to the Radio Demon.

His grin doesn’t falter one centimeter. Before the cloth can penetrate his personal space, it dissolves into a pool of smoky shadow, leaving Vaggie grasping black air.

UGH! I can’t even spite him!

A clicking static whines from the Radio Demon and he turns back to the game. He’d better not be fucking laughing at her.

It’s Alastor’s turn and again he chooses generosity--this time toward Husker, who just lost his turn to bad luck.

Alastor plays a sheep pass card where all of his sheep will be traded for all but one of Husk’s cards. Husk accepts, stating “my cards’re shit anyway.”

And it’s back to Vaggie. She’s still in a Not Great situation with her farm. Her only cards are to trade lumber for sheep--which no one will go for since Angel is a fucking hoarder and pickings are slim--or to buy stuff at the market, which--

“Hih-ih!” F-fuck! Her eye rolls up, squinting through a tear as her teeth chit into a snarl. “HgtNGSH!”

“What the fuck, Pentious!”

“I did nothing!” the snake insists.

Angel puffs out his chest. “Oh yeah? Well I saw ya! You stole one of my sheep!”

“I did no such thing!”

“Then why do you have a sheep. You didn’t have any on your turn.” Angel points at the lone sheep in Pentious’s farm.

“My ssspecial ability allows me to--”

“Give me that!” Angel swipes the sheep out of his farm without waiting for his explanation.

Pentious’s hood fans, his tongue flicking out, irate. “How dare--”

“Ih-Shieu!” Vaggie’s elbows stab into the knobs of her knees and she heaves a breath.

“Hey! That’s mine!” Angel’s screech and scrambling is half-ignored at this point as Vaggie firmly tents her hands in a triangle over her mouth and nose. She’s had enough.

Husker joins the fray in an attempt to cool the brawl but the snake and spider won’t relinquish their stolen pieces.

Charlie tries to step in, explaining why this is wrong and how to apologize but she can hardly get a word in. Alastor continues to sit calmly with his smile, looking giddily around the table as if he had just been served a feast.

Vaggie feels the pull of another tickle and she snarls. She throws herself to her feet and hollers, “Stop fucking cheating!”

Everyone pauses, Angel’s body stretched halfway across the table, Husk holding Pentious’s arms back, Charlie’s hands clasped together in plea. They all look at Vaggie.

Then, “He started it!” all three boys say in unison.

“These games are about following rules! Not cheating! The only ones in this whole game who haven’t cheated are Husk and Alastor! If you can’t manage to do better than the fucking Radio asshat, then…” her eye flicks to Charlie and her heart plinks in her throat.

Charlie looks hurt. The gold of her eyes splashed like sunrise reflected off the ocean.

Fuck. Vaggie just accused her of cheating. And she compared her morals to Alastor. Shit fuck shit fuck. And Alastor is just sitting there, kicking his feet, staring at them with his chin in his palm as if he’s watching a show.

“RGH!”

Vaggie whirls and storms off, clattering through the double doors and slamming them behind her.

“Jeez,” Angel slumps back in his chair. “It’s just a--”

Husker cuts him off with a palm chop. “If you say it’s just a game, I’m gonna take all of your damn sheep and feed them to the snake’s eggs.”

Angel’s lips tighten and he moves protectively around his farm pen.

Charlie looks toward where Vaggie left and sighs. “I need to go after her. She’s upset.”

“Looks like you’re upset too, sweet cheeks.” Angel draws a circle around Charlie with his lower hand.

Husk smacks him and shoos Charlie. “You do you. We’ll figure this shit out. Trust me,” he turns a scrunched snarl toward the misbehaving duo, “I got plenty of experience with cheating fools.”

Vaggie sits on a couch, arms wrapped around herself. If she had told Charlie sooner, this wouldn’t be an issue. She just…

Can’t risk losing her. Can’t risk being abandoned. Having no one…

She shudders and takes a calming breath. Pushes it out of her mind.

No one suspects, right? There’s no proof even if they do. She’s safe. All Vaggie needs to do is--

The door creaks open and Charlie’s head appears between the wood.

“Hey Vaggie~”

Vaggie pushes at her eye and sniffs, “Hey.”

Charlie closes the door and carefully shuffles toward her girlfriend. “I’m so sorry for…well, all of that.”

“No, I’m sorry!” Vaggie takes her by the shoulders, “I was being stupid. I just…” she drops her hands and rubs one over her thigh, “I see the worst in people, I guess.”

Charlie’s silver lids lower and she bites her lip. “What do you mean?”

Vaggie sweeps the cup of her palm down her arm. “I…” she wants to tell her. She should tell her. Fuck fuck FUCK why is this so hard?! Charlie’s all about redemption!

Yeah. Redemption of sinners. Not you.

The confession dries up on Vaggie’s tongue. “I--I ruined the game.”

Charlie snorts, “You didn’t ruin anything,” she lets out a small giggle, “When I was leaving, I heard Alastor played Reverse Slaughterhouse. It kills everyone’s meeples based on how many sheep they had in their farms. So…”

Vaggie groans. “Everyone but him had sheep. Because he gave his all away.”

“Eeeeyeah.”

Vaggie has several words she could say, but she just bursts out laughing.

Charlie’s eyebrows fly up. “What’s so funny?”

Vaggie cackles, “Alastor didn’t cheat to win. He didn’t need to.”

Charlie smiles at her and drapes herself across her girlfriend. “You’re adorable, you know?”

Vaggie snorts. “You’re the only one allowed to say that. Ever.”

Charlie nuzzles her and breathes cheerily, “I know.”

#yall this was so much fun #i kept asking myself what angels would be allergic to??#and i was like fuck it #gotta be lying or cheating #and BOY DO I LOVE BOARD GAME SLICE OF LIFE SHIT #So had to go with that idea #i just love how i got to bring out everyone's personality here wuhhh it was nice #snz #snzfic #snz fic #zen fanfic #haz/bin #va/ggie #allergies

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moonshine-nightlight · 1 year

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Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Seventeen

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 17 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] Part Seventeen [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

“My lady,” you hear Grandfather say from somewhere behind you. Bracing yourself, you resist the urge to turn around and instead prepare for another uncomfortable conversation.

Grandfather has managed to invite—or find those already invited—anyone who has the remotest affiliation with the study of the Depths or herblore or spiritual matters and promptly introduced you. He then pays particularly close attention throughout the conversation to you and them. You think he’s hoping someone more versed in such things might be able to sense or notice something about you or Dale that will prove his theory about some sort of demonic influence affecting you correct.

Luckily, none have acted odd so far—that you could tell. Instead it just makes for sudden, very nerve-wracking conversations where you feel more than ever like you are on a stage, performing. You dislike galas and balls and such already—these new examinations are not helping, except that occasionally after one, the rest of the event feels far less tense than before in comparison. At least Grandfather doesn’t seem to be preparing these individuals ahead of time with his suspicions.

Also, to be fair, Grandfather seems to have pulled back with his other methods of detection. There have been no more overly spiced meals or suspicious flower arrangements—baring the first ball in Connton which had been covered in white roses. Dale thankfully continues to give no signal he knows either of you are being tested, but he’d managed to smoothly tuck a flower in your hair. Your blush at such an obvious display just to show the flowers lack of effect had hopefully helped sell it. Dale even pricked himself on a thorn to show it had no poisonous effects to himself and demonstrate his blood is still red. You think you’re the only one to notice that his bandage is removed only three days later—and that it was on the wrong finger for the last day.

You’ve gotten this far though. One more conversation won’t be the end of it all, you try to remind yourself. You turn with a polite smile on your face to see Grandfather walking towards you with a sanctif at his side. You hope your face doesn’t give away your sudden apprehension at being confronted with an actual spiritual leader. The white and red robes mark him as likely the High Sanctif for all of Connton. Also, he’s older than Grandfather, which doesn’t bode particularly well either.

While the spiritual colleges in the north in recent years have moved in a more scientific direction—away from philosophy—the more older and southern sanctifs are far more likely to preach anything associated with the Depths as inherently dangerous, rather than something to be understood.

Which is probably why Grandfather is helping this sanctif into the seat next to you.

“His Illuminance, Ellon of Connton has found the time to join us for the next course,” Grandfather says as he sits down opposite you. This particular feast has many courses, with seating on various tiered daisies each with five or so smaller tables, between which guests are encouraged to switch seats so that all may socialize—within their daisies, of course. You’ve ended up staying primarily where you are as there has been no shortage of companions, as had Dale.

However, as it is nearly time for the next course, it appears he’s staying down with the transportation officials—a pity because you had wished to talk to them as well and there is no longer enough room for all of them. Perhaps it is a good thing because you doubt this sanctif is going to have anything particularly good to say. At least Grandmother has also been pulled away by some magistrates or she would no doubt make matters worse.

You nod politely to the sanctif. “Greetings, your Illuminance. How are you doing this evening?”

“Greetings to you as well,” he replies, his voice is stronger and brisker than you expect given his age and the distracted way he has already begun searching for the wine jug.

Once his eyes land on the jug, he reaches for it, but is at a bad angle for him to pick up well, so you stand up yourself. “Please, allow me to assist you.”

“My thanks, my thanks,” he says, sitting back as you pour him a glass of wine, then one for Grandfather, since he is also new to the table. A cousin of Dale’s to your left still has half a glass and so does one of his aunts.

You start to relax when only polite small talk is made while everyone else begins to settle into their seats. You’re happy to discuss the weather and food as many times as you need to because at least you don’t feel like you’re going to say the wrong thing.

It doesn’t last though.

“So, where do you hail from, my child?” Ellon asks as he butters a roll from the ever-refilling baskets on the table, the knife making a scraping sound against the butter dish which you try not to wince at.

Swallowing down your inappropriate offer to prepare it for him yourself just so the noise will stop, you tell him, “My family fief is Portsmith and with the bay of Glittany.” Glittany is what most have heard of when it comes to your family since it is the name of the bay and the major seaport city. Most barely are aware of the name of the fief it resides in.

Ellon seems to have heard of it, but, given the skeptical huff he lets out at the name, not positively. “Those that live on the seas court death, if you ask me.” You most assuredly had not, but you didn’t think he much cared if you had. “The Depths are most clearly expressed there, below those treacherous waves. Even close to the shore, it can steal the unwary away far too easily.”

You knew there was a certain amount of superstition about the deep waters among some, but while all those who worked on the seas had a healthy respect for the sea, none blamed the Depths. Biting your tongue so you didn’t mention that the places in the world where the border was thinnest were primarily above solid ground, you merely say, “I am certainly no sailor, though I admire the bravery of those who are.”

He wags his finger, looking over his thick spectacles at you. “Mark my words, even living for so long with that salt air is dangerous. Why the great scholar and sanctif, Malarby of Airs said that those along the shore twice as likely to be taken than those who do not.”

You again refrain from saying that the scholar he speaks of had numerous critics during his own time, let alone now. At least, Grandfather seems skeptical of this claim, but it's also obvious he’s watching for your response more than anything. “My understanding is that the Glittany sacred community has procedures and safeguards in place to limit any such influences, however, I admit that I did not grow up in the city. I was not often well as a child and so grew up on our country estate, which is more than a day’s ride inland.”

“Yes,” Ellon agrees loud enough you flinch at his volume. “It is truly heartening to hear that some physicians know the healing air that can only come away from the watery death that surrounds us. Country air is not as fortifying or pure as mountain air, but I am sure that it was the best for you.” He pats your hand in what you assume he believes is a comforting manner and resist the urge to pull away. “We must find balance between keeping our family, our connections, with us in times of struggle and finding a truly blessed location where we can heal—as far from the physical negative influences as possible.”

“I do believe it was a far calmer environment to be in and my physicians were all very skilled,” you reply, not wanting to touch on his spiritual opinions. Were they more than opinions if they were from a sanctif? Regardless, you know the Glittany santifs didn’t talk like this, probably because they actually live and work next to the sea. You would pay money if this man had ever even been on a boat—or that he had and had simply immediately gotten seasick.

“I was not aware the sea was so treacherous beyond the literal dangers it presents,” Grandfather observes mildly, likely not wanting this topic to die when it is so close to where he likely wants it to go.

Unfortunately, that is all that Ellon needs as encouragement to continue in this vein. “Of course, anywhere the veil between the realms is a danger—whether man-made or natural. And while it is one folly to invite demons in yourself, it is another folly to go where they thrive. The chances of being taken in by such beings, of bringing home those who have stolen away, are far greater on the waters than on the land.”

Ellon is clearly enjoying the captive audience he has and you while you don’t believe any of this nonsense—you’d still rather he talk about the dangers of oceans than anything else related to the Depths. Without him asking, you refill his wine glass for him.

He nods his thanks with a smile and seems to really warm up to the topic, his voice growing a touch more theatrical as he says, “Beyond the threat of death from such supernatural dangers, there is the general threat of death from the natural. With that, there is the metaphysical danger which haunts these vessels. Many bodies are lost at sea, falling below those frigid waves—it is a far harder journey for the soul to ascend after death. Many no doubt, do not reach the light.”

Grandfather blinks at Ellon, clearly taken aback by this turn. “…I see.” From your observations, Grandfather does not have much interest or patience for the philosophical nor the spiritual, to your understanding, until recently. While spiritualists often warn against the Depths, Grandmother’s motivations and grudges seem to primarily come from a literal danger perspective, given the way demons and such influences have been used for violence—not hypothetical dangers to the soul.

“Are you saying that after death the soul can be held down by water?” a polite but skeptical voice interjects. You turn to see that Francesca, one of Dale’s cousins, has decided to join your conversation.

Ellon looks surprised by her question, but rallies quickly enough. “It is not the material involved but the distance, the fact that one is already below.”

“Then would not miners be similarly endangered?” she asks, raising one eyebrow up quizzically.

You know she hasn’t specifically joined the conversation to help you out, but you can’t help but feel like she has and it warms you to her. You are an adequate debater when prepared and a hesitant one when unprepared.

Ellon frowns at her argument, pursing his lips. “A miner can be brought up by his fellow workers and still cremated.”

Francesca hums, leaning back in her chair consideringly. “Is cremation truly so necessary? I know it is best practice, but I thought it was primarily for those left behind.”

“No, no,” he says, his mouth a grim line. “It is for both, the living and the deceased. The soul can be trapped if the body is not taken care of properly.”

“I see,” she replied, for all it’s very clear to you she’s still skeptical. “I was unaware that the body could become such a cage to the soul after death. I thought it was taught that death itself is what releases the soul from the body.”

That causes the sanctif to bristle. He make a show of frowning thoughtfully and drinking some more wine before grudgingly admitting, “Well, yes, that is the primary mechanism. And if there were no Depths, cremation would likely be unnecessary. However, given that there are forces working to keep a soul from ascending, we must do all we can to aid the deceased on their journey.”

“Pardon me,” you turn to see Francesca’s husband leaning towards you as well. “Are you proposing that denizens of the Depths or perhaps even the realm of the Depths itself can reach out to consume the souls of those born here based on location or method of death alone?”

“Of course not,” Ellon blusters, cheeks turning a bit red, “but the effect such things have on the soul are undeniable, beyond ill deeds weighing a soul down.”

“Actually, a recent paper from the Rokea Institute has called that into question,” Francesca says. “According to the scholars—”

“You trust one scholar over thousands of years of spiritual practice?” Ellon asks, his tone a mix of condescension and offense. “Scholars these days think they can measure and categorize and label each phenomenon they encounter and the second something cannot be so neatly sorted they fit it in where it does not belong, ignoring contradictory evidence. Rokea is among the worst for encouraging this type of thinking. Even the thinkers out of the Ha are more reliable in these modern times.”

Before anyone else could interject, he continues, “They decry hundreds of years of carefully documented experience, only relying on what they and peers they deem worthy have personally seen. They waste time questioning fact and reinventing the parts of the past they personally approve of to claim that knowledge as their own new discovery.

“Not to mention the poison seeping into the Vaomen universities.” That seems to be more what Grandfather, and you, were expecting rather than a spiritual debate about the nature of souls. “What used to be sole bastions of rational thought against their poor country’s perverse deal with the Depths has fallen to its influence rather than the reverse. They push aside safeguards and time-tested tools to allow demons full citizenship. How many times much a school, a city, a nation fall to those beasts and devils before this world learns its lessons?”

Francesca’s gaze darts to her Grandfather, likely fully aware of his and her grandmother’s opinions. As he does not look particularly upset, she cautiously says, “I’ve heard of no recent incidents at their colleges.”

Ellon scoffs. “Of course you haven’t. They are too arrogant, too proud to let such truths out into the world where they would be recriminated for their folly in front of all other accomplished and rational thinkers. They keep any word of failures and dangers to themselves unless they can be justified sufficiently. The deans of such institutions have fallen to their own pride and hubris—mark my words.”

The only good part of all this talk is that even Grandfather is beginning to look aggrieved, as though—perhaps—he might regret having sought out this specific sanctif, for all he’s certainly anti-demon. Grandfather is no believer in conspiracies, thank the light.

“I have always held that any interaction with the Depths is inherently dangerous to the soul even when my contemporaries disagreed,” Ellon puffs up as he says so, clearly proud of going against popular opinion in this and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “To see the world move so firmly in the wrong direction is disheartening, even with bastions of true spiritual stalwartness such as Northridge attempting to keep our country secure from incursions from Below.”

Both of Francesca’s eyebrows raise at that particular choice of words and she exchanges a suppressed but amused glance with her husband.

“Certainly proper precautions must be taken,” you take the time to say, hoping to move the sanctif away from more vehement proclamations. It also can’t hurt Grandfather’s impression of you to say the things you do believe. Just because matters have worked out, does not mean that they could easily not have. “Those who remove safeguards are truly foolish and we can only hope their lapses do not endanger more than themselves.”

The original Dale put his entire home in danger with whatever plans he had and you have no doubt he ignored safety measures as unnecessarily limiting, just given your assessment of his nature up to that point.

“Precisely,” Ellon nods with a smile for you. “Demonic influences are more common than anyone would like to admit and so one must be persistently wary and alert.” He punctuates this with raps on the table—luckily not nearly hard enough to knock anything over, though your hand automatically goes to your glass all the same. “The number of easy, necessary, precautions the everyman does not bother with is astounding. Of course, I must be even more careful, given my position as a person of faith and a lighthouse to others.

“Oh?” You don’t think he’ll need much more than that to continue. It's clear Francesca and her husband have lost true interest in what he has to say, writing him off as an eccentric. You can only hope their skepticism inspires Grandfather’s own. They’ve turned to talk to the companions on their other sides—unfortunately with two empty seats still on the sanctif’s and Grandfather’s other sides, there is no such easy diversion for you.

You’ve never been more relieved to see plates of fish being brought out in your life. Unfortunately, that relief is quickly dwarfed by the nerves that spring up to see Dale making his way over to you with a lady—bound for the openings still at your table.

“Yes, yes,” Ellon says, snapping your attention back to him. “Take meals for instance. I shall demonstrate as it is easily one of the times people feel most comfortable and yet are at their most vulnerable.” He begins digging in his pockets while Dale gestures the woman with him to the seat next to Grandfather.

As Dale takes the seat next to Ellon, introductions fly around—the lady is some sort of minister for Connton—and the sanctif’s is primarily distracted, but still polite. Dale gives no hint of nervousness at being introduced to a sanctif which is a good sign and—Ellon gives no indication he knows he’s just been introduced to a demon possessing a lord, so that’s good as well.

“Sanctif Ellon,” Grandfather says to the two latecomers, “would like to show us a device for…what was it again? Detecting poison or demonic influences of some kind?”

“Yes, quite right—both,” he says without looking up from his search. Dale goes a bit still at Grandfather’s words, but you think it is only because you are paying attention that you even notice it. Unfortunately, Grandfather is paying attention too. Still he’s further away from Dale so perhaps he didn’t.

“Here we are,” Ellon finally pulls whatever he has been looking for out of his robes. He seems to be brandishing a small circular glass, not unlike a monocle or other magnifying device, although it looks rather cloudy—or perhaps dirty?

“It took me years to develop and find the right minded people to help me in our research,” he seems to be turning sections of the small handle and the glass gets more opaque. “It’s still a little temperamental, a bit slow, but as I tell young people,” he wags his finger at you in particular as the youngest person near him no doubt, “life is all about patience and the determination to see something through.”

“Now, in addition to showing poisons in food,” he points to the dish of fish now before him. All have you have been served, but those in seats adjacent to Ellon have refrained from eating—even Francesca and her husband on your other side seem to be intrigued with your conversation once more. Likely because the sanctif is no longer moralizing and is instead explaining something practical. “It can also show possession in humans.”

He turns his head to look over all those around him and you feel your anticipation tighten. He ends up looking directly at you. “Pardon me, my lady, but would you mind helping me with this demonstration?”

While you are nervous at being the focus of some sort of demonstration, you realize it’s an infinitely better option than Dale. “Of course not,” you reply, your voice seemed steady enough, right?

“Now, for the resting state, the glass starts off as murky and gray,” Ellon gestures with the device, moving it around so everyone can see how gray and fogged over it is. Before he pushes some things aside and takes your hand in his free one, laying flat on the table. “But as I hold it over her hand,” he holds the glass steady over your hand. “It fades, leaving only a red-ish tinge over her hand.”

Indeed, before your eyes, the fog grows less and less thick, getting a faint red tint, like clouds lit up by a fading sunset. “This proves her to be human. The lack of color on the other objects in view shows them as non-living. Demonic influences would cause the smoke to darken from the original light gray or even blacken if held over a true demon.”

Everyone murmurs as they take a look and you make a purposeful effort not to look at Grandfather and see his reaction. Maybe this was a good thing after all, some proof he might believe. After all you truly aren’t influenced by demonic anything—beyond new Dale’s personality, you suppose.

After a moment when the effect seems to no longer intensify, he pulls away and you take your hand back, feeling more relieved than you have in days. “To reset it, you merely agitate the vapors once more.” He shakes the glass so it fills with fog again. You move to lean back in your seat, rather limp with your relief when he turns to his right, turns to Dale. All that tension is shoots right back up your spine, when he pulls the glass over Dale’s left hand, resting on the table. “After this quick refresh, it is ready to be used once more.”

Unfortunately, unlike with your hand, the fog does not lighten or dissipate. Instead it continues to swirl, perhaps from the sanctif’s motion, but also likely because of Dale himself. You can barely breathe, you refuse to look at Dale’s face, as the sanctif frowns. The fog gradually grows darker “Hm, sometimes it can get stuck so to speak. Nothing a good shake can’t fix.”

He pulls the glass away and shakes it even more vigorously than before. Your eyes can’t help but dart to Dale, who appears to be staring at his hand, but almost unfocused—like he’s concentrating on something you can’t see. You hope he knows some way to deceive this little device because otherwise…

Ellon moves the glass back over Dale’s hand. This time, the vapors slowly stop spinning and then, over what feels like ages but must only be seconds, slowly start to dissipate. Lightening and turning a mild pink, they outline his hand in an effect similar to, if not much weaker than when it was used on your own hand.

“Ah! There we are, see! On the slow side but ultimately works like a charm. The more use it sees, the weaker and slower it gets,” Ellon says with a triumphant smile before he pulls the glass away. “It needs a full day in sunlight to properly charge. So many courses means I’ve had to use it far more often this evening than usual. Forgive me for wanting to save its strength for the food yet to come.”

“Of course,” Dale replies, motioning with his right hand—not the one that was just examined. It stays where it is on the table, looking rather limp. “If you do not mind, I am rather hungry for this next course.”

“Yes, it looks delicious,” Ellon replies. “Please, please, do not let me delay our meal any longer with my sidetracks.”

“Nonsense,” Grandfather says and you finally risk a glance at him. He looks a bit shaken, but he also appears relieved. He smiles at the sanctif. “We greatly enjoyed your demonstration.”

“Good, good,” Ellon says with a proud smile as he begins to cut his fish. You shakily take up your own utensils. You hope no one notices Dale is only using his untested hand for his food.

You barely taste the food you put in your mouth, still coming down from the flash of fear from the moment Ellon turned that glass on Dale. You wonder if your heart will ever recover as it continues to spin through what might have happened if Dale hadn’t managed to subvert the device.

A cough from next to your stirs you from your thoughts. The sound loud and wracking enough that you glance over at him out of the corner of your eye. You frown, turning more fully when he drops his fork with a clatter. Ellon’s face is pinking and he starts to take deep breaths, though they don’t appear to be working if the way his breathing speeds up is any indication.

“Is something wrong, your Illuminance?” Grandfather asks, brow furrowing as the sanctif gulps down some water before pushing his chair back from the table, as if to get more space. Dale tries to help, but he can’t seem to grip Ellon’s chair well with his left hand.

“Yes,” the man's voice is much thinner than it had been, rougher despite the drink. “Need a doctor.” He coughs and then makes an urgent gesture with his hand when everyone just stares. “Now!”

“Yes!”

“Right!”

Francesca and Charles get up at once and head in opposite directions in search of a physician, while the minister tries to flag down an attendant who might find one quicker.

You hastily refill Ellon’s water glass, at a loss for what else you can do for him. What could be happening to him? Abruptly, you realize in all his demonstrating, he never actually ran the detection glass over his own food.

Grandfather puts the same facts together as you do, “Heights, have you been poisoned?”

Ellon shakes his head though, trying to look at the dish through eyes that are watering up. You don’t know what he sees, but some understanding dawns on him even as his breathing gets rougher.

“All-” he coughs, trying unsuccessfully to clear his throat, but it appears as though his airway is closing, “Al-lergi-c,” he manages to pant out.

“Oh!,” you hastily rifle through your own pockets. You only carry a handful of tonics at all times, but with your own allergy to keep in mind—this is always one of them. You pull out a small bottle and work to get the cork off hastily and explain, “Tonic of soma?”

Recognition lights up in his watery eyes and Ellon reaches towards you desperately. “Yes,” he croaks.

Once the cork is free you pass the little bottle over to him and he drinks it down as best he can, swallowing convulsively. Soma tonic is a medicine for allergic reactions, containing ephedra and other balancing herbs for opening up one’s airways. A temporary solution to be taken only when truly needed, it should buy the sanctif enough time for a doctor with proper treatments to arrive.

He drains the dose and drinks another full cup of water, before his breathing eases. “I’m sorry, I only have one dose. But it can be dangerous to take two as it is,” you find yourself saying. “It should be enough to help.” You hope that’s true as you refill his cup, your hand is shaking. You’ve never had to use the medicine more than once and that had been on yourself, not a prominent spiritual official. There’s no reason it won’t work and yet, you are scared that either it will somehow make things worse.

“Thank you,” Ellon manages to say between breaths but you don’t feel like being thanked is appropriate, not when he still seems in too fragile of a condition. Then two doctors descend on your table in a flurry of activity. You manage to communicate what you gave him, handing over the bottle with its neat label you had spent time months ago writing. The large bottle you get had been carefully dosed in several smaller ones so you could more easily have them in your pockets without weighing your skirts down oddly.

You find yourself explaining this to Dale, who had walked around to your side without you realizing. The doctor you handed it over to doesn’t seem to listen, merely reading the label, which is probably for the best. Instead, he turns to you and asks only, “Can we keep this?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” you answer automatically.

Two footmen help Ellon into a wheelchair, which they then bodily carry off the dais, with one of the doctors going with them. The other stays behind to say, “He’s going to be fine, truly. We’ll give him some proper medicine and then monitor him overnight. He has his own medication for such attacks—it appears that the sauce has some sort of nut he cannot eat in it.” Sighs of relief come from those around you and you feel your own heart finally start to slow back down.

The doctor talks with Grandfather, who also came around to your side of the table at some point. Before he leaves though, the doctor takes a moment to say to you, “Very pleased you had this on you, my lady. Do you have a similar condition?” You nod ‘yes’ and he nods in reply. “Smart thinking to carry some with you. You’ve made this a far less close call than it could have been. My gratitude.”

He leaves before you can think of a reply. Slowly, you all sit back down, trying to return to some semblance of normalcy. Your table is rather subdued and you keep getting interruptions from others who come to ask what all the fuss was about. When this course concludes, you stand up to leave the table for the first time in the night, wanting to move to another table in the hopes of regaining something of a typical mood.

When the minister Dale brought over, indicates the two of you should accompany her to her table, she asks Grandfather if he would like to come as well.

“No thank you, my lady,” he replies with a kind smile. “I’m certain my grandchildren would prefer some time with others. I have plenty more to catch up with.”

Dale laughs and so does the minister. As you walk away, trying to put your finger on what was different about Grandfather, you realize that for the first time since the hunt, he included you once more in his family.

[Part Eighteen]

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