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brewstersbru · 8 months

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I want to get more used to writing low stakes lil blurbs so please enjoy this, also posted on ao3 under my pseud brewstersbru :) hopefully being able to post it here will bring the perfectionism anxiety down lol

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Astarion is perhaps the one of the most interesting, irritating, but somehow undoubtedly kind people Halsin has ever observed. Though he’d flay anyone who had the audacity to tell him it.

The duties of an Arch-Druid are many, and often arduous in nature, but nonetheless rewarding. And it all boils down to watching, observing, noticing little idiosyncrasies in the people he leads. The people who trust him with their lives and wellbeing. Halsin has become well-accustomed to watching, as any good leader must and it is no surprise that the skill has followed him to where he is now, camping with a menagerie of illithid-infected souls, searching for a cure.

Though, with this aforementioned observational skill, Halsin has gotten the distinct impression that many of them seek quite a bit more than a simple cure. Absolution, freedom, a clearer path forward. It is so often in the words they don’t say, rather than those they choose to reveal. For example, Gale never talks of an ‘after’, a concept all of the others seem so enamored with, save Astarion, of course. He simply hums and offers a small melancholy smile when conversation turns to the topic of everyone’s plans after they find a cure. It wasn’t difficult to figure him out, not when Halsin had been paying attention. Gale is convinced that dying is the only way to atone for his sins. To be forgiven.

Halsin’s heart aches at the thought; poor child, it is not a sin to wish to be loved. But he digresses.

Astarion, curiosity that he is, had immediately captured Halsin’s attention when he’d joined camp. On the surface he seemed shallow, and ill-tempered, but Halsin has not gotten this far in life by making quick judgements on a person’s first actions after he’s met them. Sure enough, he’d caught a glimpse of the real Astarion not even two days later.

It had been a long day, brimming with long, arduous battles after which they had all come out exhausted and bloodied. Wyll, with his lion’s heart, had fought especially ferociously. Perhaps too much so. His robe was torn horribly across the front and he’d had to be propped up as they trudged back to camp, unfortunately neither Halsin nor Shadowheart had maintained enough energy to heal anyone.

Astarion had almost immediately wedged himself under Wyll’s arm, curling an arm around his waist while also berating him as they walked. “What in the hells were you thinking jumping out like that! You’re weak, leave the feats of strength to Karlach you dolt!” And on and on. The words were cutting, and not entirely fair, but still, his hands remained gentle against his friends skin and he walked slowly so as not to jostle his injuries.

Shadowheart- exhausted herself, likely with a beast of a headache after all of the concentration spells she’d been slinging- had told Astarion to shut it, only hearing the words and not the worry behind them. He had obliged- another kindness-as his eyes darted around the scrunched pain painted over her expression and his own expression set in resolve. Still, he performed a pout, and everyone took it for what it was- or rather, what he’d wanted them to take it for: Astarion being his usual surly self.

Halsin took it for what it truly was, a man doing his best to aid his friends and keep their spirits high after such a grueling encounter. He’d thought they needed someone to direct their exhausted irritation at, lest they start picking themselves apart instead (something Halsin had noticed, but was unaware Astarion knew of) and offered himself like it was as natural as breathing.

The kindnesses didn’t stop there, either. When they made it to camp he’d taken Wyll to his bedroll as the others collapsed onto their own. Rummaged through the camp supplies until he found a potion of greater healing, then did not feed it to Wyll until he was half asleep and delirious.

“Mmh… Dad?” Wyll had murmured, eyes squinted closed as he moved his head around. Astarion had simply hummed and continued feeding him the potion.

For the rest of the night he prepped ingredients with practiced efficiency and left them next to the communal cooking pot for when the rest of the party woke for breakfast. Halsin had needed to trance for a few hours, loathe as he was to turn away from the scene, and when he returned Wyll’s robe had been mended, folded and placed aside his head. Astarion was nowhere to be seen. Halsin hoped he’d found his way to his own tent for a short trance.

Elves do not need to sleep, this much is true, but even a short trance would have done wonders to refresh and replenish his energy. Astarion had to know that.

Halsin is still unsure what the other elf had done for the rest of that night, but he’d emerged from his tent with just as much practiced, haughty vigor as he’d always had halfway through breakfast the next morning.

“Astarion! Good morning! Thank you for aiding me in our trek back yesterday.” Wyll had smiled at him, something warm and molten in his eyes. Astarion simply huffed and waved it off, “Well, dear, someone needed to lecture you about the dangers of heroism. None of these dimwits were going to do it.” Wyll smiled and the others gave halfhearted protests from where they’d been digging into the breakfast Gale had prepared from the ingredients Astarion had left out for him. There was a sparkle in his eye as he caught sight of them eating it, something almost like pride, if Halsin had to name it.

The others had been dumbfounded, asking around the campfire about who had done it. When no one came forward they’d simply shrugged and taken it to mean that the culprit was too humble to take credit. Besides, who were they to question a miracle such as this. No one asked the vampire if he’d done the deed, why would he have? He doesn’t eat food anymore and he doesn’t even really like them.

It’s exactly what he wants them to think. Halsin has to give him points for his dedication to maintaining pretense. Wyll doesn’t mention his robe, but his eyes dart from hand to hand trying to scrutinize any bandages or pricks that might indicate a late-night sewing session. It’s a smart move on his part but Astarion, it seems, is a masterful tailor. His fingers are unbandaged and unbloodied.

Everything carefully thought out and executed. Every kindness meticulously planned and hidden. He truly is an enigma. He would rather his friends believe him selfish and cruel, than see him for the gentle, caring man he truly is.

The kindnesses continue, always carefully implemented so as to erase any and all suspicion that Astarion may have had any part in it. He continues to be outwardly difficult and mean so as to cover his tracks. Halsin can do little but watch, as he always has, that is, until Astarion’s little kindnesses eventually and inevitably extend to him, too.

He is not so easily fooled, has seen past the performance that the other man puts on for some reason that he is still trying to parse.

It’s a quiet evening, the battles of the day had been hard, but nothing they were ill-equipped to handle. The shadow curse has been getting to Halsin, though. Seeing his greatest failure in all of it’s unbearable misery has been weighing on him. And he knows his struggle is not invisible to his fellow party members. They seem unsure what to do about it, though, seeing as he is a centuries old former Arch-Druid with life experience they could hardly fathom. He enjoys his time at camp but cannot say with certainty that he is truly close to anyone there. Though he wishes to be, he is afraid they’ve placed him on somewhat of a pedestal after his actions in the grove, forgetting that he is fallible and full of emotion, same as them.

He very nearly misses it, when it happens, too caught up in his thoughts to hear the slight shuffling near the entrance to his tent. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and emerges with a small smile.

Astarion freezes at the sound of his emergence, crouched over something small and wooden at his feet. Then, almost as if possessed, his shoulders relax and he looks up with a devilish grin. “Halsin! My dear, I was just looking for you. Some wretched little thing of a child has gifted me with perhaps the ugliest wooden duck I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on. And these things are in no way ‘beautiful’ on a good day. I cannot have something so… distasteful loitering around my tent. You mentioned you liked ducks so I thought it would be of better use here. Otherwise I’m throwing it in the river.” It’s a lot of words, more than the vampire generally tends to use in casual conversation, as much as he pretends he’s an insufferable chatterbox. That’s the second clue Halsin gets that perhaps there’s more to this than Astarion is telling him. The first being the way he froze, as if he hadn’t been expecting Halsin to be there. “Looking for you”, right…

Astarion stands and nods at the duck on the ground. It’s small, a little misshapen, but it’s got hearts carved where it’s eyes should be and for some reason Halsin finds that hopelessly endearing. He kneels and cradles the thing gently in his cupped palms.

When he looks up Astarion is grinning at him, still in that sneering performative way he likes to, but in his eyes that shine of pride makes itself known. Halsin likes the duck, it’s obvious. And Astarion is proud of himself, but he’ll never tell. He’ll never let anyone else be.

The third clue is dripping sluggishly down Astarion’s finger, stark and red against his deathly pale skin. Halsin remembers the first time he’d whittled. His hands had looked much of the same. He smiles.

“Thank you, Astarion. This is very good. Would you like some salve for your hand?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, only fractionally, but noticeable if you’d been looking in his eyes. And Halsin had been. Still, his expression shutters and he pastes another smirk on before turning his nose up at the duck.

“Thank the Gods, that ugly thing is your problem now. And I’ve no idea what you mean dear, my hand is perfectly serviceable.” He rushes away with a perfunctory wave, likely to rob Halsin of the opportunity to call him out on his bullshit. Halsin only smiles and cradles the duck. He’d bloodied his hands for this, for him. The surge of affection that washes through him is entirely involuntary but wholly welcome.

Astarion wakes from his trance the next morning to a gift settled gently at the entrance of his tent. It’s a wooden cat, masterfully carved from a dark oak and undeniably beautiful. Perfectly fitting the vampire’s tastes and sensibilities.

A note lies beside it in what he recognizes to be Halsin’s messy scrawl.

Thank you, Astarion, again for the duck. It thrills and delights me to know that you care. It did make me feel better, you know, and I still have that salve if you need. All you have to do is ask. I thought I’d return the favor, seeing as you do so much for the camp but refuse to let anyone see it, or thank you.

I see you. I thank you.

Yours,

Halsin

#bg3 #astarion #halsin #bloodbear #halsin x astarion #halstarion #gale being a wet cat #wyll being dashing and heroic #can you tell im swooning #i care him sm #you guys dont get it like i do #covert kindnesses #astarion is kind of like those cats that look away as they slide food towards you #like ‘gods ur pathetic but /here/ i guess’#brublurbs

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apollolovescheesecak · 5 months

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we aren’t speaking.

a good omens poem, through aziraphales pov.

my heart cries out for yesteryear, when you first tempted me at the gates of eden.

the aching melancholy and the absence of you both beg the same question. where did all the memories go?

caught in the forefront of my mind, enveloping me with wings of nostalgia, the same wings that sheltered me during that starstorm when i looked into your eyes, overflowing with joy the same way a glass overflows with water.

your eyes, your hips, your way of speaking, all the same yet so unique in the way you presented yourself to me. the very personification of sin itself, yet your body and words were more holy than god herself.

we traveled through the years, always pulled together in an ineffable sort of fashion. the way we followed each other was more faithful than the priest to the temple, each of us both the worshipper and the worshiped. our companionship ran deeper than the eyes you cast to me, as yellow and golden as the love we had.

the extreme of the blacks and whites of our mortality blend into a gray ocean of blurred lines, all good and evil mixed together to create the flaws and strengths of humanity incarnate. light and dark hues exist inside said ocean, but mellow and dulled. through your eyes, true evil and good do not exist, context the only value judging the grayscale, as impossible as it seemed to me at the time.

i see, now, the world is truly a menagerie of color and hue only to be compared to the fruits and fauna of the garden of eden, tragically and forevermore judged by colorblind eyes, our minds so inclined to point out the extremes instead of the subtle.

we never spoke about it, the simple truth of the fact we loved each other was a spirit, invisible and never quite enough proof to others that it existed, but nevertheless still hanging thick in the air.

the vastness of your affection and availability to me, and i to you, was more meaningful than any words alone. our avoidance of our true feelings was both the highest blessing, and the most torturous curse.

i wish i could tell you. i wish i could go back in time to tell you how much i need you, truly and deeply, the other half of me. my light cannot exist without your shadow, my sin cannot exist without your salvation. how i want to kiss you, not in an act of desperation and destruction, hoping it will bring you back to me, but in an act of kindness and mercy, knowing you are already there, willing to spend your last second by my side.

you are my best friend, my lover, a stranger and my enemy all at once. the words our relationship required to be described and understood, are hidden away from me, locked in a book in the tightest safe in my mind.

i’ve already forgiven you. i’ve forgiven most everyone i know. the only person that remains to be forgiven is myself. i can only hope that someday, you may forgive me.

but we aren’t speaking.

inspired by dreams i’ve had with these word in them, and the poems (mostly “do you remember”) of @ineffabildaddy. it’s been a while since i’ve written poetry so i hope you guys like it!

#poetry #trying something new hope y’all like it #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens 3 #kind of based on the “we aren’t speaking” comment #neil gaiman #text #angel #demon #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #ineffable lovers #might add more to this

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londonfalling · 12 days

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The Relentless Dowager

Name: Lady Deirdre Grey

Gender: woman (she/her)

Height: 5’3” (162cm)

Occupation: Pickpocket, previously Enquirer

Profile link

Prominent Skills: Watchful, Dangerous, Shadowy

Prominent Quirks: Ruthless, Austere, Melancholy, Daring

Reputation: Not much is known of the Lady Grey, a relatively new arrival in Fallen London, except that she is not picky about her line of work, however reputable it may be. Very little of her person is visible as well, covered as she is in high-collared black gowns and mourning veils. What is there, however, is strikingly unladylike- most of all the prominent burn scars that cover her face. Though she seems to abide by the explicit rules of etiquette and respectability, she does so in a manner so dogmatic one must doubt whether she has learned the unspoken rules of polite society. Rumour has it that she’s a social climber- a woman of ill repute who ended up marrying into nobility, hence her title. If so, then her widow’s garb might explain why she’s in London: an inheritance to claim, some say, while others whisper of a quest to avenge the death of a husband. Still, the people who have seen her walking- or rather marching- through Ladybones Road and Wolfstack Docks alike all agree that her mannerisms speak of a hard head and even harder boots, more often than not placed on some unfortunate fellow's face.

Personality:

RUTHLESS: Simply put, Deirdre is not the type of person to stray from the path she’s set herself on, be it a journey of revenge, a social climb or whatever her latest venture is. She also isn’t the type to know when to stop when said venture gets a bit too dangerous for her to handle, or when others are involved that may end up as collateral damage. She isn’t usually rash in her actions, but she definitely doesn’t fully calculate the consequences of her action much farther than doing A gets me to B;

AUSTERE: Though she isn’t especially religious, Deirdre holds the firm belief that idle hands work for the Devil, so to speak, and so she doesn’t often participate in high society gatherings, or indulge in neathy delights unless her work calls for it. Probably these distracting idylls would force her to be alone with her thoughts for more than five minutes, or God forbid, hold polite and empty conversation in front of a number of people much higher than she is comfortable with.

MELANCHOLY: There’s something decidedly fatalistic in her way of thinking- she’d say that sometimes one loses because they were never meant to play the game in the first place, or that people cannot change who they truly are, only put on masks to their own detriment. The very literal veil hiding her face makes it clear that these sentiments are spoken from personal experience.

DARING: In the sentence “she isn’t usually rash” the keyword is “usually”. Deirdre doesn’t handle frustration very well: when a situation slips out of her control or goes sideways, she’s prone to acting erratically and diving headfirst into the first solution that comes to mind, or in yet another dangerous venture to distract herself from her own lack of patience.

+ EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED: Between the strange sense of propriety and her insistence to never stop whatever quest she’s on, it’s no wonder Deirdre hasn’t processed a single emotion of hers since the year 1867.

Fun facts:

She was born in 1855 in Belfast, and should be about 44 now, if the year 1899 hadn't stretched on beyond all possible reason.

Since the feast of Whitsun, her lodgings have become some sort of menagerie for a variety of animal companions, which she is forced to admit she loves dearly, and that if anything happened to them she would kill all of London and then herself.

(I also have a spotify playlist for her!)

#fallen london #fallen london oc #the relentless dowager #here's the reference post as promised ;)

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goldenponcho · 5 months

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You Can Lead a Castellan to Water…

Another chapter! Can ya believe it?!

Chapter 10: The Silence

Ramon drained his glass.

The fuzzy numbness in his head surprised him as he discovered that he was indeed still susceptible to inebriation. A shake of the recently opened bottle of Gran Reserva produced a hollow slosh of the last few drops at the bottom.

Dark lips stiffened, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Was his nerve so frail that he couldn’t handle a single troubling thought without seeking a way to sedate himself? Pathetic… The churning in his stomach and the pins and needles throughout his body only worsened, and he felt himself on the brink of vomiting.

Pushing the nausea down, he straightened himself. ‘CEASE this pitiful melancholy! Sniveling little weakling… You think yourself a SALAZAR?!’ The voice in his head took on the cadence of his father’s usual condescending tone. He had done away with the man long ago, but he had never quite had the decency to shut up.

Ramon felt a wash of heat prickle up the back of his neck. Why was he putting this off? He should speak with Lord Saddler now while he could still muster an ounce of dignity. Besides, did he not always quell his doubts? His true father had never failed him yet.

With a deep, steady breath, Ramon’s eyes settled shut as he reached incorporeal tendrils outward, slithering around the menagerie of simplistic thoughts broadcasting from hundreds of weaker souls in search of Lord Saddler’s consciousness. He was never difficult to find; his Lord’s metaphysical essence glowed so brightly, Ramon was convinced he could have sensed him if he were on the other side of the planet. One need only reach out and touch.

But as he reached out with grasping fingers, his breath hitched, and he felt his heart stop. He began to strain, and as he struggled to grasp for his Lord…for ANYTHING, he reached physical arms in front of him in his effort to feel something.

He quaked, before yellow eyes burst open, bulging frantically. Where WAS he?! He couldn’t feel him ANYWHERE!!

Ramon looked to the Verdugo to his right and was almost startled the two were there with him.

“Isidro…” his voice quivered, and the Verdugo gave a light trill that would normally come with thoughts, but there was nothing.

Ramon stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. He could only stare as the creature garbled incoherently in his direction.

The realization came with the deepest sense of dread he could ever recall having in his life. ‘I’m alone!’

“Isidro?!” Ramon ran to grasp at the Verdugo’s robes. “SPEAK to me!!” Ramon felt himself on the verge of hyperventilating. “PLEASE, ISIDRO!! SAY something!! DAMN YOU!! DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE!!”

Isidro draped long talons around his master’s small shoulders growling and roaring helplessly. Pesanta approached the two, screeching in desperation as well.

“WHY CAN’T I HEAR YOU?!!! WHY CAN’T I HEAR YOU?!!!” Ramon was on the verge of retching when suddenly, a flood of desperate voices rushed through his mind.

‘We are HERE, Master!! We are HERE!! Why can’t you hear us?!!’

He heaved with erratic breathe, still hyperventilating as the terror of being severed from the body prickled hotly under his skin. As he attempted to calm himself, he spoke with the newly mended link that almost throbbed as a physical severing and reattachment of a limb would have.

Ramon shook like a leaf, clinging to the two creatures’ robes, head buried in the silk fabric. “What WAS that?! You were GONE!! Why couldn’t I HEAR you?!”

‘We do not know, Master Ramon!! Such HORROR!! We could not FEEL, Master!’

Ramon clung to the two, his throat raspy, causing him to cough as he slowed his breathing. He wiped the tears that flowed down his cheeks onto Pesanta’s robes, all the more embarrassed at himself. The closeness of the insectoid creatures was not at all like that of a warm, pliant, human body, but they brought comfort all the same.

He finally backed from his loyal guards with another small cough, wiping his eyes again on the ruffle of his sleeve. What WAS that? It felt AWEFUL! Hollow. Empty. He was certain he had NEVER felt anything worse. Would it happen again?!

He caught his reflection in one of the silver pitchers set on the table and could see that his eyes were especially bloodshot. He would need to calm himself now before speaking with Lord Saddler. He couldn’t approach his hallowed leader in such disgrace.

Ramon thought for a moment he might open another bottle of wine before considering that perhaps the wine had been the culprit of his mental blockage. Yes! CERTAINLY it must have been! How foolish he was…

“Perhaps I have gone a bit overboard tonight…” He forced a nervous chuckle through steadily calming sobs with a weak shrug toward Isidro and Pesanta, “…that’s all.”

~*~*~*~

Gail groaned as she awoke to her door creaking open and the tap of footsteps against the stone floor. She forced her heavy lids open to see that a lady zealot had brought her a tray of the usual breakfast fare.

She cocked her head. “I’m guessing Ramon doesn’t feel like company this morning…”

She, of course, got no answer, but still assumed this must have been the case. Something REALLY must have been bothering him last night.

Gail had taken the tray of food onto her blanket covered lap, and as the zealot left, she felt a slight stinging in her ankle that reminded her of the bite she had sustained last night. Setting the platter aside, she uncovered her feet.

The color washed from her face at the sight of the bite. For a brief, horrifying moment, she thought the flesh was rotting, the greyed, crusted over flesh now about the size of a baseball. But pressing a cautious finger to it caused no pain, and other than creasing the dead layer of drying skin, the tissue resumed its shape as it should have.

She stared motionless at her leg as if it were foreign to her, and as she attempted to manage the maelstrom in her head, she sat unmoving for nearly four minutes. It was obvious that the venom had interacted with her DNA, but to what extent, there was no way to tell. Her appearance had never been affected by her cadou before. Was it even finished changing yet? Would it be permanent?

She was finally aware of the rest of the space around her again, noticing her limply cupped hand had been resting at her lips. She cleared her throat, shoulders stiff before slowly taking a cream puff from the platter.

She wasn’t dying; that was the major concern she could disregard.

After eating her fill, which happened to be the entire platter, she rotated the ankle a few times before standing. A bit stiff, but not at all impossible to walk on.

She already knew Ramon wasn’t close by, nor were Isidro or Pesanta. Her sense of them was so faint, it was clear they were in an entirely different area of the castle.

Not only that, but it was Saturday. She would have to find some way to entertain herself. Perhaps now that she had been introduced to the wolves she would take a walk in the garden. She would have plenty of time to find her way out if she got lost. Sure! It was as good a way to pass the time as any.

Luckily, she had been right about the canines being more acclimated to her. Arturo and Azùcar even greeted her, sticking nearby as she wandered through the labyrinth of greenery. She spent a bit of time by the fountain, a bit of time on the overlooking bridge in the center… She even repaired one of the kennel doors that had come off its hinges. As she explored she was quickly acclimating herself to navigating the twisting hedges.

When Gail had found the exit for the third time, she patted the wolves farewell, and set off for another activity to pass the time.

Sticking to the main halls, she wished she could have explored the castle freely. Certainly, she was resilient far beyond the average person, but she would sure feel stupid if she went traipsing to her doom on one of her days off. The fire chamber might have been fine to pop her head in and check out, but she was still unclear on EXACTLY what went on in that room, so it would probably be wise to wait on Ramon to show her that one on Monday…or tomorrow, if he decided to grace her with his presence.

She came to the balcony with the crumbling guardrails. Ramon was much closer now. Isidro and Pesanta, unsurprisingly, weren’t far from him, probably guarding the entrances to whatever room he was in. Whatever he was doing, it was clear he didn’t want to be bothered.

Gail spent the rest of the day meandering about the halls. Further exploring some if the rooms she had briefly gotten to see weeks ago more closely. She especially enjoyed the water hall and had made a note to ask Ramon if she could swim in the pools later.

But the day came and went with no Ramon to be seen. She wondered if she had said something wrong last night. Whether it was of her doing or not, it was clear that something had him out of sorts.

Whatever… She wasn’t a mind reader, and if he really had a problem, he would have to bring it to the table himself.

~*~*~*~

Ramon spent the entirety of the day desperately trying to distract himself. In the amount of time he had been in his library, he should have plowed through at least five novel-length books. He had not completed one. A pile of reading material had accumulated on the bed and next to him on the floor and on the tables nearby. He finally lied in a sprawl on the bed, practically catatonic, for a long while before finally dozing off. He rarely allowed himself sleep anymore. If he didn’t need it to stay alive, why waste the time? And he didn’t trust his dreams enough to attempt it often anymore. But his brain needed to be off now, and so he remained unconscious for nearly three hours.

Until gold eyes flashed open at the overwhelming presence making its way to him. Lord Saddler was in the castle. Quite near, in fact, and moving steadily closer.

Ramon scrambled from the bed, smoothing out the mussed coverlet before frantically preening himself, smoothing down the wild flyaways he knew were there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and straightening his vest and shirtsleeves. It was only seconds before he heard the door in the hall toward the other end of the study open.

The young Castellan rushed through the dividing archway to the other side of the large room, loathe to make his master walk further to meet him.

“Son.”

There was a warmth that permeated his frayed nerves, and he smiled up at the man before bowing. “My Lord!” The mixture of excitement to be host to his true father one on one and the anxieties of the day made his stomach squelch unpleasantly. “You cannot imagine how gracious I am for your visit, Lord Saddler! Had I known you were coming, I would have met with you in a more convenient part of the castle.”

“Nonsense, my boy!” Saddler placed a large hand onto the small man’s shoulder and gave the crown of his head a paternal stroke, “This is a fine, intimate place to converse with you, child. I confess I have missed our talks.”

Ramon beamed, momentarily forgetting his nausea before hugging the larger man tight at the waist, “As have I, my Master.” He felt his muscles relax as Saddler’s sheltering arms engulfed him. He savored the embrace for as long as he could before his Lord released him to look down into his golden eyes.

Bouncing lightly on his feet, the new flutter of happiness made him forget any of his doubts. Lord Saddler did always relieve his fears just by being near. No one else provided him the warmth and safety he longed for like his Master did.

Noticing the silence, Ramon nearly hopped to pull a chair out from the closest table, shoving aside a stack of books, “Please make yourself at home, my Lord! I do apologize for the clutter. I have spent much of the day studying.”

“Thank you, my boy!” He seated himself, propping his staff against the table. The slowness of the action belied the absolute power the man truly possessed.

Ramon grinned as he sat opposite the older man, sending a mental signal to the nearest zealot to bring them glasses and a pitcher of water. “I do hope God has blessed you this day, Master.”

Lord Saddler’s sharp features softened subtilely, “He has greatly, child! Plans are being carried out without resistance as of yet. The American mercenary has proved an essential asset. We have mere months before we will be ready to make our move.”

The younger man nodded, “I hope to prove myself useful when the time comes, my Lord.”

“You already have, my son!” Saddler chuckled, giving the young man’s chin a playful nudge with his knuckle.

“I am happy for that, Master.”

The zealot came quickly with their beverages, pouring them each a cool glass before leaving them alone again.

Saddler gestured toward Ramon with his glass, “And I have no doubt that you will again.”

The matter of fact statement reached his momentarily forgotten anxiety, and his stomach flipped again, before he caught himself, and raised his own glass politely to follow his Lord in taking a drink. The cool liquid did help...a little. He really should drink more water.

“If I am not mistaken…” Lord Saddler tapped the side of his glass with a barbed nail, “…the trolley in the Audience Hall has been recently renovated, has it not?”

Ramon was relieved at the transition to such a casual question, “It has! Gail made very quick work of it. She will be beginning another project for me this Monday.”

Saddler’s brow arched, “It seems your instinct was correct in regards to that girl,” he lifted his glass to thin lips again, “Such a shame she was ruined so needlessly.”

Ramon’s heart began to thud in his ears, “R…ruined?”

“She told you, did she not? Of the sickness that is the cause of her rejection of our holy body?”

Pounding heat squeezed his chest tight, and he thought perhaps his plaga had seized his heart, “She- …yes…she did.”

“You see, I thought I could save her as well,” Saddler’s face was grim, “I thought the plaga might overpower the growth inside her and create something exquisite. Alas, still the thought strikes me that there may be some way yet to reclaim her.”

“Surely there IS a way?” Ramon felt his fist clench, “You’ve said yourself that EVERYONE will one day receive God’s bounty. It isn’t fair that she should be exempt because of something that was forced upon her.”

“It is not, dear boy…” Saddler reached to cover the little fist on the table in front of him, “I too pray that salvation will be found for our lost lamb.” He squeezed Ramon’s balled hand, and looked intently into the young man’s eyes, “But I must implore you, my son, be wary of this wayward child. For many that attempt to urge lost souls toward the light are instead drawn further into the dark.”

Ramon felt his jaw quiver, and he quickly lowered his gaze before giving a week nod, “ Yes…I know, Master. I will not let any worldly affection impede my divine duty.”

The older man smiled, engulfing a small hand in two large ones and giving a light shake. “Good boy.”

Ramon swallowed hard as if trying to push down the flood of confusing emotions. There was hope, though, right? Saddler was praying for her; surely there couldn’t be a thing more powerful than that. Perhaps if he prayed as well…

“I thank you for your time, dear boy, though it be brief,” Lord Saddler stood from his chair, “I hope to have more in the future.”

“As do I!” Ramon rose to give a departing hug, “You give me strength, my Master…” he nuzzled into the luxurious fabric of the man’s robes, “…and I shall never disappoint you.”

A finger raised his chin as the two separated, “Such a brave child, my dear Ramon.” A hand feathered over his delicate jaw before leaving him to grab the staff that leaned against the table, “Remain vigilant, son. Soon, our worries will be naught but a distant memory.”

Ramon watched the man leave him, the presence growing steadily fainter. He hadn’t mentioned the terrifying silence he had experienced the night before, and he wasn’t sure he could have brought himself to.

‘Give it time,’ he told himself, ‘If it happens again, I will tell him.’

The crippling anxiety had dulled to an aching melancholy that he was much more accustomed to.

But still, he reminded himself, there was hope. There was always hope.

#ramon salazar #resident evil 4 #resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #you can lead a castellan to water #osmund saddler

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jonfucius · 10 months

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Great Star Trek Rewatch - The Original Series S1

Originally posted on Twitter 16 October 2020 - 26 October 2020

Star Trek: The Original Series Season 1 is up next in my Great Star Trek Rewatch. As with ENT, DSC, and STX, mini-reviews will document my progress.

The Cage: Star Trek’s would-be pilot from 1964 suddenly has incredible relevance to today’s Star Trek: Discovery. This is one of my favorite episodes of any series, and it gave us TOS’s only two-parter. Pike goes from wounded, vulnerable leader to the man we know in DSC. 10/10

The Man Trap: A solid but unremarkable episode. I can see why NBC picked this one to be the first episode shown, but it's not nearly as strong as "The Cage" or "Where No Man Has Gone Before." The creature makeup scared me as a child and still evokes a little primal fear. 6/10

Charlie X: Adolescence is challenge aplenty, and more so when you're omnipotent. This isn't a horrible episode, but it's not great either. Thus begins TOS's frequent encounters with all-powerful beings of energies. Extra point awarded for Spock and Uhura's duet. 7/10

Where No Man Has Gone Before: Star Trek's second pilot, and a stronger entry than the previous two. Kirk's speech about humanity needing its frailties is a nice counterpart to his need for his pain in Star Trek V. 9/10

The Naked Time: This episode is famous for our heroes acting out of character, and while it is entertaining I feel like it would have been more powerful if it came a couple episodes later. 7/10

The Enemy Within: Evil twin and transporter accident episodes are a well-worn Trek trope these days, but this is the first and arguably one of the best. Shatner does some good work portraying both sides of Kirk's psyche. 7/10

Mudd's Women: I love Roger C. Carmel in the role of Harcourt Fenton Mudd.

THAT BEING SAID

I hate this episode. It's misogynistic, it's gross, it's sexist, it's everything wrong with TOS distilled into one interminable slog. This episode gets one point for Roger C. Carmel. 1/10

What Are Little Girls Made Of?: Ruk is a little scary, and the android makeup effects are decent for the mid-60s, but the premise (are duplicates with our full selves really us?) isn't fully explored. Hoping S2 of Star Trek: Picard really dives into this idea. 6/10

Miri: The titular Miri's crush on Kirk is cringey (to say the least). The duplicate Earth really has no bearing on the plot, other than a "huh, weird" reaction at the top of the episode. The "Fountain of Youth=DANGER" plot is an old Trek trope, given birth here. 5/10

Dagger of the Mind: I've always had a crush on Dr. Noel (Kirk clearly did as well). Woodward, Gregory, and Hill are excellent in their roles, and the neural neutralizer was kinda frightening to young Jonfucius. Plus, who doesn't love a good Christmas episode? 8/10

The Corbomite Maneuver: Here's an episode that should've aired first, in place of "The Man Trap". The Balok puppet is frightening, sure, but it's a classic Star Trek story of realizing the "bad guys" are merely misunderstood. Shows Kirk as a master tactician, as well. 10/10

The Menagerie, Part 1: An ingenious reuse of the unaired "The Cage" footage that establishes history for Spock and the Enterprise, thus growing the show's larger universe. 10/10

The Menagerie, Part 2: Spock's trial concludes, as we learn that the whole point was to give Pike a new life. 10/10

The Conscience of the King: Beginning Star Trek’s long association with the Bard, this one is steeped in Shakespearean tone and plot. A truly tragic ending, moody direction, and heightened performances sets this murder mystery apart from others. 9/10

Balance of Terror: When Star Trek: The Original Series fires on all cylinders, it puts out episodes like this one. A tense naval battle with a melancholy ending, this is one of the best episodes of all time. Mark Lenard is superb as the Romulan commander. 10/10

Shore Leave: Finnegan is just the worst. A surreal escapade with just a little camp. Serviceable and cromulent. 7/10

The Galileo Seven: Spock still has a lot to learn about humanity. Star Trek's first shuttlecraft mishap is still one of its best. Great visual effects (especially with the remastered edition). 8/10

The Squire of Gothos: Trelane is a rough draft for Q, and boy is most of this episode rough. The twist at the end is pretty great, however. 6/10

Arena: I've seen this one a few times, and each time, I fail to understand why the fandom adores this one. It's very slow in the middle, made up for by the unseen Gorn attack at the top and Kirk's morality play at the end. 7/10

Tomorrow is Yesterday: A light-hearted time travel yarn with a compelling guest performance, deftly told by D.C. Fontana’s script (with some obvious Gene Coon touches). One of my all-time favorites from TOS. 9/10

Court Martial: Technically the 2nd courtroom drama (“The Menagerie”), but it is the first one to use a trial to examine our heroes. Shoutout to Richard Webb’s Finney, and a court-martial panel with an Afro-Portuguese and South Asian membership - a rarity in 1960s TV. 7/10

The Return of the Archons: Kirk's first opportunity to talk a computer to death, this episode is surreal and a little creepy. However, I don't consider it to be of The Body (of outstanding episodes). 6/10

Space Seed: Gee, I wonder if we'll ever follow up on those Augments left behind on Ceti Alpha V…

Jokes (and problematic brownface aside), this is rightly a classic episode. 9/10

A Taste of Armageddon: A thoughtful meditation on human nature and war, another strong S1 entry. I can't help but feel some parallels to the Americans who have just shrugged and accepted COVID-19 as a fact of life, rather than something that can be defeated. 8/10

This Side of Paradise: A strong acting showcase for Shatner and Nimoy. Some classic philosophical banter in the tag. 8/10

The Devil in the Dark: An episode that rightly deserves the epithet "classic." Ignore the goofy Horta costume and focus on the story. Classically Star Trek through and through. 10/10

Errand of Mercy: Introducing the Klingons with John Colicos was a masterstroke. The brownface is horrendous, but the performances and the story are superb. 8/10

The Alternative Factor: The "what is the worst episode of TOS?" debates rarely mention this absolute turd. Might have something to do with being sandwiched between two pretty great episodes. "Mudd's Women" at least has Carmel's performance going for it. 0/10

The City on the Edge of Forever: It's certainly in contention for the GOAT title, but it's not my all-time favorite. Still, Harlan Ellison's script (rewritten by Roddenberry) and the performances are firing on all cylinders, and the ending is truly shattering. 9/10

Operation -- Annihilate!: This episode creeped me out as a kid, but it's a wimpy episode to end a season on. 6/10

And with that, Season 1 of TOS comes to an end in my Great Star Trek Rewatch. Final score: 7.43/10. Highest score(s): "The Cage," "The Corbomite Maneuver," "The Menagerie," "Balance of Terror," "The Devil in the Dark." Lowest score(s): “The Alternative Factor."

#star trek #star trek tos #great star trek rewatch

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remotespontaneouscombustion · 1 year

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Mildly concerning realization that your most violent coworker has possibly found you.

#or more like I found him by scouring through the dtb rp tag and going 'WAIT HOLD UP'#hi wei!!!#maki: uh. hm. well. honestly I didn't think I'd ever talk to you that seemed like it was up to amber and amagiri.#melancholy menagerie #melancholy menagerie (wei)#💥 status update #just howling in the shadows 💥 home canon

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cameliawrites · 2 months

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1,4, 18

(answering this ask post)

Hi friend!!

1: What is the first fandom you were ever a part of?

Hmmm, this is kind of hard to answer, because, like, what is a fandom? What is being part of a fandom? Six of Crows is the only fandom I've ever written fanfiction for, but I was a childhood nerd so I read all the popular fantasy books - Lord of the Rings, Percy Jackson, HP, Twilight, etc. - and started reading fanfiction in middle school, probably? I've also been a lifelong Star Wars fan, because my parents had the original trilogy on DVD and we had one of those shitty little car-DVD players in my mom's minivan, so my sibling and I would watch them on road trips. :)

4: Pairing that makes no sense to you?

I mean, I feel like it might be too easy an answer, but Darklina, lol. No comment necessary, I think.

18: All-time favorite fanfic?

THIS IS SO HARD. THIS IS SO SO HARD.

Okay, I have to at least list a few of them - gosh this is so much pressure - um - (obviously these are all kanej lol):

to be lost and found (and lost and found again) by halfahint, which is a Vietnam War AU and is so obscenely good???? I sobbed at the ending the first time I read it because it made me feel just as moved as the end of Crooked Kingdom makes me feel, which is a very very high bar to cross.

all in good time by terribletruths, which is post-ROW and just feels like canonical kanej to me. The humor and the tenderness and the hope are all there. I always return to this one. Always always always.

the air you breathe by alltheworldsinmyhead, because kanej daughter is just something that can be so personal... Something about the simple, sweet nostalgia and melancholy in this fic just speaks to me. I could live in this scene forever.

ebb and flood by arbitrarily. This fic is poetry. P O E T R Y.

Between the Lightning-Bug and the Lightning by oneofthewednesdays, because I love Kaz interacting with Mama & Papa Ghafa so much. This whole series is so good - every single fic in it is top-tier.

Homeland by unfortunate17, which is THE "kanej go back to Lij" fic for me. This is THE ONE. I love revisiting this fic.

My Dearest Inej by A_nonnie_mouse. This is my comfort fic. Shh. Don't tell the others. It's just for me. It's my special treat when I need a pick-me-up.

The Last Songbird by Frick6101719, which is an AU where Jordie lives and Kaz works for the Dime Lions and Inej continues to work in the Menagerie. It's dark and harsh and moody and gut-wrenching, yet, at times, light and humorous and hopeful...it makes me FEEL THINGS. I devoured every single chapter as it was posted, and I absolutely couldn't put it down.

The Strangeness of Home by insignificant457, which is THE "Inej returns to the Suli caravan" fic for me. The sequel fic might be even better...I love it so much. I love Inej so much as a character, and this fic does her justice.

I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm by sarathedreamer, because the emotional hurt/comfort is !!!!!!!! And I can't lie, I love a "huddling for warmth" trope fic. It just hits different.

don't let it burn, don't let it fade by apropensityforcharm, which is THE kanej sickfic for me. The ending is just such great emotional payoff. Kaz is down so bad for Inej and I eat it up.

Okay, I have to admit that I am SUPER impressed with myself for keeping this list as short as I did. Which sounds insane. But. There we are.

#thank you for sending the ask!#I literally love all these fics so much that typing out this list made me want to go re-read all of them lmao #ask games #camelia answers #fic recs

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thedivinelights · 1 year

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co-writers: @vincentholdsapen , @vixx-ari

Ten years have passed since those fateful visitations, and Ebenezer Scrooge finally casts off his life as a mortal to ascend to the afterlife. Yet this is not the end of his tale, for Jacob Marley comes with a proposal he wouldn't dare to refuse.

Now learning how to harness his newfound abilities, the former miser must now prepare himself to defend the both the living and the dead, wielding the chains he cast aside to collect the rebellious souls who dare to harm either realm alongside the spectres who once guided him... with some unfamiliar spirits.

Needless to say, Scrooge has quite the journey ahead of him.

[SNIPPET UNDER THE CUT]

"Ignatius Sinclair had dreams of building magnificent vessels." He mused, his voice tinged with melancholy. "He had a vision of conquering the seas with his craftsmanship and leaving a lasting legacy for his family. It's a shame to see it reduced to ruins."

Scrooge offered nothing but a low hum as he surveyed his surroundings. A few of his chains tighten their grip on his arm, casting a brilliant glow that illuminated the darkened edifice. "What caused Ignatius to switch from shipbuilding to steelworks when he transitioned to the afterlife?"

Melbourne paused, pondering on his words before he answered his question. "From what I understand, it was a matter rooted from practicality. As you can probably guess, demand for ships in the afterlife are not nearly as high as those here on Earth. Ignatius knew that stagnation only led to deterioration, so he thought to change with the times and the places... no matter how difficult a decision it must have been."

Scrooge sighed and turned his gaze to the forgotten and scattered remnants of metalwork and machinery, his breath forming a mist in the damp air. "Passion without discipline is reckless, like a ship without a rudder."

"Wise words, indeed."

"'Twas from an author not yet born in our time." Scrooge chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of nostalgia. "But it rings true nonetheless."

Melbourne tittered, a terse rumble forming in his chest. "I see Future has been spoiling you with the written works of what is to come. Nothing significantly world altering, I hope?"

Scrooge smirked, his eyes glimmering with mischief. "Oh, nothing too cataclysmic, I assure you. Just a few technological advancements, scientific discoveries, and a charming little invention called the telephone. It seems the future holds many marvels."

Melbourne's lips curled into a smile, and he chuckled softly, looking towards Future who appeared to be surrounded by a menagerie of woodland creatures. "Well, I must say that whatever is to come seems full of surprises. Perhaps one day I shall have the pleasure of experiencing these wonders for myself. Maybe I can persuade our good friend to let me borrow some of those literary gems."

"I'll be sure to put in a good word for you, Melbourne, so you needn't worry one bit."

They continued exploring the shipyard, the rain pattering down harshly against the tiles of the roof above them. Marley followed closely behind, his steps light and deliberate. He cast a glance at the intricate carvings on the ship's hull, still visible despite the passage of time and decay.

"The craftsmanship is truly incredible." He remarked, running his hand over the weathered wood. "It's a shame it never had the chance to set sail."

Future, still cradling the slumbering squirrel in their hand, floated near the ship, their eyes scanning the surroundings with a mix of curiosity and vigilance. They pointed their scythe towards a section of the shipyard where a cluster of shadows seemed to flicker and shift in the rain-soaked gloom.

"What is it, Future?" Melbourne inquired. "Did you find something?"

Then, an ungodly shriek unlike any other echoed throughout the building, scattering the creatures hither and thither. Melbourne turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one responsible for such a noise-

"LORD MELBOURNE!!"

Tagged: @undeadchestnut @girlbosseveyhammond @pinkytoothlesso11

#scrooge a christmas carol #scrooge: a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #2022 scrooge #netflix scrooge #scrooge 2022 #scrooge netflix #ao3 #jacob marley #a christmas carol #ebenezer/jacob #scrooge x marley #y'all are eating good here

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videcoeur · 5 months

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@melancholy-menagerie continued from X

"Dear me! What a rude way to phrase things, Hawks, old boy!" the former magician replies, as if aghast, putting his hands up innocently and shaking his head -- a dramatic display, as always. "Your expression looked like that of a soggy cat that's been left out on the porch during a rainstorm, so I thought I'd tag along and lend you an ear for whatever is on your mind; go on now, no need to be shy, between allies."

"First of all, you don't know me very well, comparing me to a cat. Couldn't it have been a dog?" It's not that Hawks hates cats. It's just that cats. Well, they do kill a lot of birds, you know? As for his sad, wet, pathetic beast of an expression, he was quick to kill it.

Not sure how Compress managed to see that, but now he had to get his Top-Notch™ acting skills on point. Couldn't let the guy know that he'd been given the right to kill if things went awry and that he wasn't feeling too good about it. It wasn't a good look for a guy trying to pretend he was a villain.

"And secondly, friend, I'm not really looking for a therapist. But if you must know, that phone call was about my mother." Might as well use her, since she's never made herself useful in the first place. Not like the League cared about a drunk woman who made bad boyfriends decisions and didn't care about her children. At least not enough to Not Sell Him to the Commission.

"She got arrested again. Drunk and disorderly. It's no big deal." Now, that should be enough to get Compress off his back. "But hey, if you want to buy me a drink to cheer me up~" Hawks flirted, his usual dishonest celebrity grin popping up again. Everything's fine!

#( t; hawks. )#( bnharp. )#melancholy-menagery #melancholy menagery #super duper late but ayyyy im still interested if u are!!

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spookystirfry · 1 year

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Today the I'm brining you the Teardrop spear from the menagerie! Bring some melancholy to your enemies with it!

#art #ttrpg #pathfinder #pathfinder 2e #pathfinder2e #pf2e #dnd art #illustration #painting #magic item #homebrew #viklander menagerie

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wintershades · 2 years

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Thinking of Persuasion, my brain went: “Anne and Captain Wentworth, but make it Jester and Fjord.” So here’s my favorite scene, Fjorester-style: A surprise encounter many years after Jester was persuaded to break their engagement.

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

“If I’d known you’d be in Palma Flora, I’d have gotten you an invitation to dinner,” Veth said as she entered the sitting room, her favorite button earrings in hand. “We could have had a Chaos Crew reunion!”

Jester smiled at the thought. She’d offered to stand in for the Brenattos’ nursemaid, and so, there’d be no evening gowns or fine crystal for her that night. Instead, she’d sit at a halfling-sized table, and she’d clean halfling-sized brushes, and she’d help Luc paint a picture of the harbor.

“We’ll all catch up soon enough,” the tiefling assured her. “Who are you going with, anyway?”

Veth made a humming noise. “Beau, as I told you,” she said, “and Caleb Widogast, a scholar from the Empire.—Yeza, you met him once, didn’t you?”

“Yes, at a lecture,” Yeza said as he draped Veth’s shawl about her shoulders. “Mr. Widogast is the brilliant, melancholy sort. You’d have fun trying to make him laugh.”

“I’m sure I would,” Jester said wistfully. It’d been a long time since she’d had the pleasure of old friends or new acquaintances. A very long time.

“And there’s another fellow,” Veth continued. “The captain of their ship . . . Oh, what was his name?”

At once, Jester perked up. Matters of the sea were always of interest to her; every week, she perused the naval columns until her fingers were stained with ink. No one knew she was looking for a particular name. A name she’d rarely heard in years, ever since she sold her first painting. The name of one—

“Captain Stone,” said Yeza.

The tiefling froze. Her paintbrush tipped forward and nearly tumbled from her fingers.

“S-Stone?” she repeated aloud, just as a knock came at the door.

The noise sent the Brenattos hurrying out to greet their companions. Luc raced off to join them, his laugh echoing down the hall. And for her part, Jester sat in stunned silence, her heart in her mouth.

This was a coincidence, of course.

It must be.

Don’t be foolish, she thought. Stone was a very common name! Why, there must have been a hundred Stones captaining ships on the waters of Exandria—fifty Stones who might make port on the Menagerie Coast at any given time—a dozen Stones who might encounter and socialize with her friends—and certainly not the one Stone that she knew—

Suddenly, there were voices in the hall. They were inviting the others in. Jester jumped up and instinctively turned from the door, and as she did, she caught her reflection in the window.

And she thought: What if it is him?

The way she’d imagined it, they’d cross paths in a distant ballroom. There, she’d be arrayed in her finest, and the setting would lend her the courage to speak with him again. She’d draw him away from prying eyes, and she’d confess that she’d never forgotten him.

She’d share every regret that weighed on her heart.

She’d apologize.

Instead, here she was: Wearing the plain frock that she’d hurried over in—her hair a mess of fly-aways—trapped in this tiny room, with no hope for private conversation. As Jester pulled off her apron and threw it behind the nearest houseplant, she considered making an escape through the window.

But the footsteps were drawing nearer, and nearer, until—

“Jester!” Beau exclaimed with joy. And what could Jester do? . . . She had to turn around.

So, she did.

At first, all she saw was Beau rushing forward to embrace her. In that whirl of greetings and laughter, she looked over the woman’s shoulder, and she noticed a red-haired gentleman speaking with Yeza. Another fellow stood in the threshold, listening.

Finally, Jester looked to this “Captain Stone”—or rather, to the collar of his coat, as she’d forgotten just how very tall he was. Because it was him—it was the Captain Stone she knew—only, he hadn’t been a captain back then. To her, he’d been “Fjord.”

She lifted her gaze, and their eyes met.

It only lasted a second. Perhaps two. But the sight of him put a wild rush of emotion through her, and Jester was grateful for the support of Beau’s embrace.

Fjord was safe and well.

Fjord was here.

And how did he feel, seeing her? . . . It was difficult to tell. Fjord’s gaze swept over her from head to toe—a quick flick of his golden eyes, performed with scarcely a hint of interest. He gave a slight bow, as if he didn’t want to interrupt.

Of course, Jester knew better.

“It’s been forever!” Beau exclaimed. “What are you even doing here?”

The tiefling managed to answer this question—and she hoped her lie was convincing, as she could barely hear herself speak. Her mind was all abuzz; her attention was pulling toward the others. Beau took notice and began to make introductions, starting with the captain, but Jester stopped her short.

“We’re acquainted,” she said softly.

“What? No way!” Beau crossed her arms and gave Fjord a look. “I talked about her all the time, and you never told me that.”

He offered an easy smile. “Acquaintances, Beau. It’s been at least six or seven years since she and I crossed paths.”

“Eight-and-a-half,” Jester blurted out. When they both looked at her, she gestured awkwardly. “I remember because there was another thing that happened, and—that was—. . . that’s how I remember.”

She pushed a stray curl behind her ear, only for it to immediately pop back out. Beau raised an eyebrow, but Fjord’s expression remained unchanged.

“I defer to Miss Lavorre’s memory,” he said, all pleasantness. “She seems to have more to recall from that day than I do.”

. . . Miss Lavorre. He’d called her Miss Lavorre, and that stung like nothing else. When Beau took her by the arm, Jester allowed herself to be led toward the group, and a blur of conversation followed. Now and then, she dared to steal glances at the captain, to see how he’d changed.

Fjord was—tall. Yes, of course he was tall, he’d always been tall. But he was broader about the shoulders than Jester remembered; he stood up straight, and he no longer seemed afraid to occupy space.

And look! His forelock fell in a neat wave, behaving as it never had before; she used to twist those strands in her fingers and laugh when they held a curl. His beard was thick but precisely trimmed; she used to rub her face against his cheek and praise the progress of his stubble. His tusks peeked over his bottom lip; she’d told him once, tearfully, “You’re perfect with or without them. But please, Fjord—don’t hurt yourself anymore.”

Yet, it was his voice that surprised her most. He was using his real accent, not that ill-fitting drawl. All together, it conveyed a sense of self-confidence that he’d struggled with as a younger man. Looking at him, Jester felt a glow of pride.

He was himself. How wonderful.

Her friends were in such a hurry, though. When they gave their regrets and departed, it was like being shaken from a dream, but Jester was very much awake. Everything about her was sharp and bright. She’d not seen color so vividly in ages—a striking realization for an artist.

They’d met again. They’d been in the same room.

And they hadn’t even said hello.

“I want to add a ship,” Luc announced as he returned to his painting. It took her a moment, but finally, Jester tore her gaze from the empty doorway.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s add a ship.”

#fjorester #sofw writes #sofw wips #i am not immune to the self-indulgent power of the Regency AU #but who will flirt with Fjord and fling themselves from a sea wall?#only time will tell

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