I just thought of something: since Eliza is supposedly based on the Bride character in "The Haunted Mansion" rides, wouldn't that mean she's somewhat essentially the same as MC/Yuu?
See, because MC/Yuu is a blank slate/canvas, they can be whatever the player/audience/reader imagine them to be.
Like, if the Multiverse exists, then MC/Yuu would be the only character to have different versions of themselves in each universe (Enma Yuuken, Hirasaka Yuuka, Kuroki Yuuya, Mito Yuuta, etc.)
The same goes for Eliza. She's based on the Bride in THM, but the game never specifies which version of the character.
Is she based on the Tokyo!Bride?
Or Constance Hatchaway from the American Disney Parks?
Or Melanie Ravenswood from Disneyland Paris' "Phantom Manor"?
Or previous iterations of the American Brides before Connie?
Like, think about it, if canon!Eliza is supposedly spoiled but ultimately harmless, then what about other versions of her?
Like, if she's based on Connie, then she would be a ruthless gold-digger who marries a wealthy man, then the moment she's done with him, she'll kill him. And then she'll find a new rich guy as her next prey. And so on and so forth.
Or if she's based on Melanie, then she'd be a tragic young woman doomed to be alone for eternity, never knowing the fate of her soon-to-be husband...
As a bonus, the previous iterations of the Bride before Constance & the Tokyo!Bride have no known backstories, so fans can come up with whatever they want. The possibilities are endless!!
I totally agree!
The trend in the Twst manga where they have a different Yuu for every episode is really good for that, which was partially the inspiration for my Twst X Neverafter drabble.
I like the idea that, like Yuu, Eliza is more of a cipher, someone thatâs changeable compared to the rest of the characters in Twst, especially given that their origins arenât as âsolidâ as some of the other folks inhabiting this Wonderland. Especially as sheâs deceased, so thereâs always a question of how much of herself sheâs lost between her old life and nowâa question that can fairly be applied to many Yuus as well!
Funnily enough, Ravenswood was a partial inspiration for my Yuu. Her motherâs family name is Karatsumori, which is changed from karasu no mori.
Which, of course, means Ravenswood.
(Karatsu is also part of the Saga prefecture in Japan.)
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I saw clips from Hazbin Hotel, and thought Stayed Gone gave vibes of if Villianous Paranoiac Yuu ever returned to their world with new dark blot powers and decided to face their ex family.
I hope you know I had this song stuck in my head for a solid week after watching a clip of it.
And when Yuu returns to their world after their experiences in Twisted Wonderland?
Theyâre going to be a lot less scared of the threat of juvenile detention than they were before they wentâŠ
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Will you be adding Fellow and Gidel in your supervillain au?
Thank you for the ask, dear anon!
And yes! Theyâre certainly kicking around in the supervillain AU, even if theyâre beingâŠcareful about staying under the Night Ravenâs radar.
Their âemployerâ has had the misfortune of being designated as as a perpetrator of non-villainous crimes, after all.
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Me: Yes! My birthday falls on my day off! I get the chance to relax and work on my WIPs!
The cold virus hibernating until now: Nuh uh
Me, coughing: fym, ânuh uhâ?!
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Soooo..... These new soulmate posts, are they sneak peeks of what your're thinking for the soulmate method au?
Pls just this little has me so excited, I really liked the Riddle and Leona stories and I wanna see what else you cook for the overblot boys
Thank you for the ask, dear anon!
And yes! These are all snippets of what Iâve been working on for the other six soulmate method AUs!
Azulâs has really been kicking my butt so far, I keep thinking of stuff to add on to Vilâs, plus I also have the âSuing for Character Defamationâ AU and unanswered supervillain AU asks I wanna write for, not to mention all of the AUs of the Twst boys in Baldurâs Gate 3âŠ
So yeah, Iâm working on them! But man if I donât understand the pain of so many WIPs, so little timeâŠ
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If I may ask, what did Idia mean by "thaumaturgy" in your recent fic. Is it a play on words?
âThaumaturgyâ comes from the Greek thaĂ»ma and Ă©rgon which translates roughly to âmiracle work(ing)â. Itâs an old word that was used to describe how wizards, wise folk, or saints are meant to have the powers to do things mere mortals canât, whether they come from divinity or not.
Given that Twisted Wonderland has magic our world doesnât, Iâm basically using the word as a catch-all term for their expanded âlaws of physicsâ. i.e. their study of what magic is, what its limits are, how blot works, etc.
Iâll be honest, I didnât even clock that the official English translation renamed âmadolâ to âthaumarksâ, so good on you for catching it!
(Itâs also a spell in DND that lets you perform a minor miracle for 1 minute. Like opening and shutting all the windows in a building for dramatic effect.)
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Soul Searching (AKA Yuuâs really going through it)
Jamil:
Ahem.
Now that youâre moreâŠlucid, letâs fill in some of the gaps, shall we?
So, your soulmate. Very pretty, but not exactly the bastion of kindness and charity heâd presented himself as.
No, turns out your soul can only find its match in the kind of man who will mind control you and keep you prisoner so he can engineer the symptoms of an overblot in order to become Dorm Head, only to overblot himself after you steal his magic pen and bring in the Octavinelle trio to try and keep him from mind controlling anyone else.
Vil:
âI didnât know who could accept the food you and Kalim brought from Scarabia, so I decided to give it to Azul-senpai for Monstro Lounge instead.â You take no small amount of glee in informing Viper-senpai. âHe gave me this present to give to you in return. Apparently itâs a good luck charm that will guarantee bad finances for our opponents.â
âI thought there were to be no curses under this roof,â Schoenheit-senpai mutters into his water.
âNo curses from you or anyone else in the NRC tribe, senpai.â You correct. âIf Azul-senpai or anyone else outside Ramshackle wants to give us their support, it would be rude to turn it down, right?â
âAah, beautĂ©!â Hunt-senpai proclaims. âThe bond between soulmates, allowing them to work in unison and support one another in their endeavorsâŠtruly, this is pure beautĂ©! A hundred points!â
Youâre not entirely sure how Hunt-senpai worked out Azul-senpai and Viper-senpai were soulmates, but you canât quite stifle your snickering when Viper-senpai drops his present back into the bag with a muttered, âSure, thatâs what this is.â
Idia:
You realize something then.
In all your time at Night Raven College, not once have you ever seen the dorm head of Ignihyde in person. His tablet, yes, but never the boy behind the screen.
Not until now, that is.
âFuck off is that your hair color.â You blurt. âThatâs. Thatâs amazing, what color even is that? Itâs so bright.â
Idia Shroud is making an odd, slightly wheezing noise thatâs rising in pitch the longer he stares at you.
Malleus:
âIâd rather be wrong and be thought of as a weirdo who gives bad advice about their soulmate than right and let Tsunotaro get hurt because I didnât say anything.â You insist, fingers squeezing around your mug. âI justâ! I need him to be okay.â
Oh.
Oh, Seven.
You do need that, donât you?
The thought of him not being okay, of being in danger, of being exposed to the very things youâve been fighting so hard for so longâŠit steals the air from your lungs. It makes you feel sick to the pit of your stomach. It makes your mind recoil from the very concept.
You feel all those things about Ace and Deuce and Grim and Jack, of course, how could you not, but theyâre so much less intense than when you think about Tsunotaro, clumsy, oblivious, proud, sweet Tsunotaro getting in any way involved with an overblot. Not because your friends donât matter to you, of course they do, of course, butâ!
Oh Seven, youâre in love.
Youâre in love with a man who isnât your soulmate.
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Soul Searching (Azul)
Itâs different, this dreaming.
Itâs soft rather than stark, not the vivid terror of the monster, but not the sensory deprivation you usually experience whenever you close your eyes. You can see, hear, feel things. Comprehensible things, understandable things, tinted by a haze of what must be memory.
You see miles upon miles of blue, dappled where sunlight pierces through far above and plays on the white sand below, colorful rocks and coral reefs breaking up the landscape.
Or rather, seascape.
A faint waft of warmth moves over your skin, ephemeral but somehow more solid than the breezes youâre accustomed to. An ocean current, flowing past your location.
There are far off cries and laughter, and you glimpse gleaming scales darting in and out of the coral.
You feel a strange, foreign longing to explore that place, to go and find out what more beauty it has to offer.
But you remain hidden, surrounded by curved ceramic walls throughout.
You wake up smiling.
Itâs impossible. Incomprehensible. Here you are, in a world thatâs nothing like your own, with a magic tanuki flopped over your chest and snoring, with less than nothing to your name.
And yet, youâve found your soulmate. Youâve met them. Youâre seeing their dreams.
And, you realize, smile slipping off your face as Grim the tanuki gives a yawn and plants a foot right in your solar plexus, you have absolutely no idea who they are.
They have to be someone you met yesterday, but you were paraded in front of a crowd of at least four hundred people, if not more. Finding out who they are will be like searching for a needle in an entire countryside of harvested grain.
And thatâs not even getting into the issue of what will happen to the pair of you when you find a way back to your world.
Itâs that thought which bolsters your resolve more than anything. You canât look for your soulmate, just to abandon them when it comes time for you to head back. For all you know, youâll be gone by the end of the week.
And yetâŠ
Your soulmate dreams of a world under the sea when they sleep.
You tuck that small kernel of information close to your heart as you shove the tanuki off you and go to pull on the itchy-new, school-branded clothes the headmaster provided for your new job as janitor.
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The Villainous Paranoiac Sues For Character Defamation (1.5)
âNii-san?!â
The lump in Idia Shroudâs bed lets out a pitiful groan.
âNii-san, are you alright?! Are you hungry?! Sick?!â Ortho demands. âHold on, Iâll do a scan to see whatâs wrong!â
A pale, long fingered hand emerges from beneath the covers. It points languidly.
ââŠsekaiâŠâ
âEh?â The android crowds closer to the bed. âWhat is it Nii-san? Your computer? Did something bad happen in one of your games? To Precipice Morai? Did an anime get cancelled?â
ââŠIsekaiâŠâ
âIsekai?â The android asks, confused. âNii-san, whatâ?â
âI CANâT ACCEPT THAT A REAL LIFE ISEKAI WOULD COME FROM SUCH A LAME LIGHT NOVEL!!â
Itâs with this impassioned cry that Idia Shroud throws off his duvet, hair flaring wildly.
âAfter all, there are so many worlds that would be so much more likely to be real?! A tech punk world like LoPri just violates several laws of physics, not to mention thaumaturgy?? Plus the characters are so bland and uninspiring, how is it meant to enrich the blackened hearts of this Wonderland if theyâre real?! At least if they were from Hyrule or Laputa or Exandria, they could teach us valuable life lessons that would lead to world improvement!â
His fist hits the mattress. âBut no! And on top of that, this happens at the same time as theyâre leaking that a LoPri movie is in the works?! Thatâs so cheap!! Itâs like an awful marketing tactic that takes your cherished childhood hopes and dreams and crushes them for a few wads of madol!! I canât believeââ
âNii-san, wait!â Ortho begs. âWhat do you mean, thereâs been a real life isekai? The sensors you installed should have noticed a large amount of energy coming from something like a world-crossing event.â
Idia jabs an accusatory finger at his computer screen, where the illustration and photo are posed side by side. âApparently, not if they hijack Night Ravenâs carriages to get here!â
Orthoâs optic sensors dilate and contract as his facial recognition software runs.
ââŠItâs a match.â He says. âBarring the 4% deviations from differing mediums, this person looks almost exactly like the illustrations from Lost Princess. And the Dark Mirror reported theyâre entirely magiclessâŠâ
Idia jumps when the facsimile of his younger brother appears in his space. âNii-san, what should we do?! If she really is from this other world, sheâs a criminal, isnât she? Should STYX take her into preventative custody??â
âEhâCalm down, Ortho.â The elder Shroud says sternly, as if he hadnât been in near hysterics only a moment ago. âItâs illegal to lock people up if they havenât done anything wrong yet.â
âBut Nii-sanâ!â
âBesides, as a bad guy sheâs like, seriously wimpy.â It takes a moment or two of flailing in the bedclothes before Idiaâs phone is retrieved. âSee? According to the wiki, even the worst stuff she does is thanks to abusing her rich familyâs power and money. Without that, sheâs as pathetic as some hero whoâs had all his strength sucked out. Even more harmless than a level one slime.â
Orthoâs synthetic brow furrows. âI guessâŠâ
âHeh. Some of those LoPri simps online might even say that this is divine retribution. Getting banished to a world where sheâs worth less than nothing.â Idia slumps, flicking through his apps idly. âAh, the fates are cruel. Whyâd I have to be inflicted with this?â
âI will monitor the villainess, Nii-san.â Ortho announces. âIf she attempts to partake in any criminal behavior, it will be reported to the authorities, so Nii-sanâs daily school life may continue unimpeded.â
âEh? Well, uh.â Idiaâs attention fights with the gacha heâs just opened, but ultimately surrenders to the colorful world within. âOnly if itâs a low priority thing, okay?â
âRoger!â
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In honor of Twstâs 4th Anniversary, Iâll be posting snippets from several of the drafts I have in progress!
Happy Four Years, Twisted Wonderland!
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Not me combining my dunmeshi and bg3 hyperfixations to headcanon that the reason Gale has abs is because heâs in a state of constant malnourishment.
Itâs like an actor or a bodybuilder. If you deprive the body of enough water, enough fat through fasting, even with little exercise you can have a physique thatâs fit for a magazine cover, or doing an action scene in a movie. But itâs not sustainable for long periods of time. It means youâre drained. Tired. Unable to perform physically or mentally at your best.
And the orb is constantly draining Gale. Itâs eaten away at his magic to the point where heâs gone from an archmage back to level one at the start of the game.
And maybe some of that is the tadpole, but we see the orb physically affecting him in game, when heâs afflicted with arcane hunger. Heâs hunched over, struggling for breath against the pangs wracking his body, snappy, cranky, desperate. The magical items heâs fed give him relief, but less and less each time, like someone starving slowly receiving the same small snack and expecting it to feel as filling as when they were mostly full.
Whoâs to say that, once Galeâs magic is drained, the orb doesnât begin eating away at other forms of energy his body produces? Siphoning away the nutrients he gets from eating and drinking, gradually eating into stored fat and water weight. Until the desperate grasp for sustenance, for nutrients, for energy, results in a supernova exceeding the limits of the human body.
The brightest stars burn out fastest, after all.
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Exceptâ!
âExcuse me, but you didnât happen to own a bakery, did you?â You ask, hoping against hope. âOn the west corner of Maidensbridge Road?â
The man blinks, lowering his weapon. âI-I, yes, I did before, before those hoodlums smashed it to smithereens. Hold on, are youâŠ?â
You feel your face break into a disbelieving, slightly manic grin. Of course. Of course youâd find exactly what you were looking for at the most inopportune time.
âI worked across the street, junior scribe at the mercenary guild. Passed it every day on my way to work, but I never got the chance to stop in before the Descent, and afterâŠâ
The woman straightens as well, beaming excitedly. âReally?! Thank the Companion you made it! I canât believe someone from the Royal Sword Guild managed to get here too!â
You feel your expression freeze. âAh. Well. Opposite direction.â
The pair of them stiffen, trading a Look. The same one you always get when you talk about your employment.
âYouâre one of the Night Ravenâs mercenaries?â The baker asks, wariness in his eyes.
âWas! Was from Night Raven.â You specify hastily. âOnly ever a scribe, and theyâd stopped paying my wages by the time arrests started, so as far as Iâm concerned Iâm unemployed.â
That makes them both relax somewhat.
âWell,â The woman claps her hands together. âHaving someone with that kind of experience at camp could be a blessing in disguise! Youâve probably had to deal with far worse than gnolls and goblins, havenât you?â
You spread your hands. âIâll admit, theyâre a sight fairer than most of my ex-colleagues.â
The three of you share an awkward laugh.
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Thinking about the Twst boys in BG3, and the urge to make Idia a particularly tall deep gnome is real
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The Letter Kills (Unless We Do First)
Astarion wakes to warmth and brightness for the first time in centuries.
The syrup slow lassitude of waking with the sun on his face transitions unkindly to panic once he remembers why he has not felt this sensation in so long.
He flinches, trying to find shadows, find cover, but.
But he isnât burning.
But the sun feels as gentle as an unwary loverâs caress.
But he cannot feel his master.
The laugh that escapes him is a hideous combination of a cackle and a whoop. Something vicious and victorious that his master would never have allowed.
But Cazador isnât here, he thinks gleefully. He has no way to tell Astarion whatâs not allowed. No way to punish him for doing what he shouldnât.
No way to ever make him go back.
As if on cue to dampen this marvelous revelation, there is a disgusting sensation of squirming along his optic nerve.
He shudders, resisting the growing urge to claw wildly at his face.
Ah. Right. That.
A twinge in his stomach reminds him that there is also the not inconsiderable matter of finding something to eat.
Well. One of these he can remedy much more easily than the other.
Astarion sets off down the beach, more than ready to select his first meal to celebrate freedomâŠ
Only to hide behind a large rock when he spots the cleric he declined to save aboard the Nautiloid hammering on an ancient wood door.
Sheâs certainly looking no worse for wear despite being left for dead! âŠThough the way sheâs just snapped that lockpick clean in two and thrown it to the floor to stomp on what remains of the poor tool suggests she may be feeling slightly frustrated.
He watches as the cleric points a finger at the glinting metal, and it bursts into too bright flames.
âŠHe has decided to find another route inland.
One that steers clear of the young woman with lingering anger issues.
But itâs hardly his fault, he declares in the privacy of his own mind as he sneaks past several more of those brains on legs. There simply wasnât time to begin picking through every last room to save stragglers, not when the ship could have gone down and killed them all anyway.
Besides, it won him points with that warrior to follow her orders and press ahead and given she was his only source of protection, who was he to jeopardize that?
Although, he considers as he emerges on the other side of the wreckage into fresh air, sheâs nowhere to be found. Escaped, dead, whoâs to say? Though it is a shame to lose such a convenient defenderâif heâd fluttered his eyelashes, he could have had a convenient shield against Cazador for however long her interest held.
Thereâs another one of those pods further down the path, and a set of booted footprints making sticky pink tracks away from it.
Astarion smiles to himself. Perhaps his luck hasnât run totally dry yet.
He straightens out of a crouch, makes sure gravel crunches slightly under his feet as he walks. This is one introduction where it may be better to announce his presence first.
Not that the podâs occupant seems to be at all aware of the courtesy heâs extending for them.
The slight figure seems entirely absorbed in trying to scan the horizon from their position perched on a treeâs roots near the edge of a cliff, muttering something indistinct.
From behind, he spots the tips of a pair of horns jutting upwards. A tiefling then. But one without the tail that usually curls from their backsides.
Well, he can work with that. Astarionâs a dab hand at cooing over scars while reassuring their bearers that it doesnât change how he thinks of them, not one bit. And in all honesty, it didnât.
Not when they were going to be meals for Cazador by the end of the night regardless.
He begins picking his way through the undergrowth, putting on his most guileless expression. âOh thank heavensâyou are another survivor of the crash, arenât you?â
The first thought he has on the tiefling whirling around to face him is that theyâre young. A teenager, at most.
Itâs the only way to explain those genuinely atrocious fashion choices.
The, to be charitable, mop of dark hair that hides most of their face is heavily contrasted against the jester-like costume they wear, ruff and brown patterned doublet and bright blue striped sleeves. He half expects to see small golden bells attached to the toes of their boots.
The only credit he can give them is the bright blue sleeves set off the bruise pink of their skin nicely.
And theyâre holding a lyre! Heâs traded a trained warrior for a wandering minstrel. And a poorly dressed one at that.
How splendid.
Their mouth twists into something wary, a hint of pomposity in the jaw that reminds him of the noble heâd tempted back to Cazador, gods, was it only yesterday?
âWho wants to know?â
He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. âI swear I mean no harmâI was held captive on that ship, just like you.â
ââŠExcept, thatâs not quite true.â The teenager says, considering. âAfter all, I was kept locked in that pod for the entirety of that ill-fated flight, while youâŠI saw you. Running about the ship, unmonitored and unhindered.â
They tilt their head, corvid-like. Their eyes burn uncanny blue against black. âOdd, to say the least. Whereâs your frieânnghk?!â
There is a vicious twisting inside his skull, sharp and stabbing andâ
Your hand aches with how tightly you grip the quill while the mercenary screams at you, sword a hairsbreadth from your face. Others leer at you over her shoulders, hunger in their eyes.
Your expression is placid. Your words are your only defense, so weild them. You will not show weakness. You will not die here. You refuseâ!
He returns to himself with an throughly unpleasant jolt.
The teenager is slumped against the tree, one hand to their head. âWhat, what wasâŠ?â
âItâs the tadpoles.â He explains. âOn the ship, when I was freed by that, that kind warrior, it happened with her too. Iâve been looking for her since I woke up among the wreckage, but youâre the first person Iâve come across.â
He can see their guard lowering, so he moves in closer, softens his tone. âIâll be the first to admit Iâve no idea how we can get these parasites under control, let alone rid ourselves of them. But I suspect weâll have far better chances finding answers together than either of us would apart. And Iâll admit, travelling in the company of someone like yourselfâŠwell. It certainly couldnât be unpleasant.â
He gives them his coy grin, the one charming enough to inspire confidence in even the most curmudgeonly morsel.
He never had to consider the difference between sunlight and candlelight when employing it before.
The eerie blue eyes widen.
The tiefling immediately shifts back and away, holding up the lyre like they intend to hit him with it.
âHowâWhat in the hells are you?!â They hiss. âWhat, is Szarr employing dhampir now?!â
If the blood still flowed in his veins, he would swear it would freeze at those words.
âHow do you know that name.â His voice is slow, deliberate.
A counterpoint to his mind whirling, trying to figure out how quickly he can kill this tiefling or if it would be best to just run.
They scoff, lyre at the ready. âOh donât give me that. I had to get kidnapped by mind flayers to escape the last one he set to take me! Youâd think a, a vampire would have better things to do than hunt down a scribe over some letters!â
It feels like time ought to grind to a halt. Birdsong stop, the wind fall dead, flames on the Nautiloid pause, that sort of thing.
In reality, all of these continue as usual even as two pieces click into place in his head.
ââŠLetters.â He says, his own voice sounding distant. âThe ones with the wax raven seal? Holding keys in its talons?â
ââŠYes?â The teenager actually lowers the instrument. âWait, how do you know what it looks liâ?â
Astarion punches them in the face.
They cry out, holding their cheek for a moment of glorious stupefaction.
Then, with a demonic howl, they lunge for his hair and yank.
What follows is an admittedly pathetic brawl, the pair of them tumbling to the ground in a flurry of wild, often severely mistimed blows. He tries to bite them, only for his fangs to snag on the folds of that stupid starched ruff around their throat. He then yells in outrage when their teeth close over his hand. A swift knee between their legs takes care of that issue, but it does mean heâs unprepared for the elbow to his nose.
Heâs not sure how many minutes the two of them scuffle like that before they somehow roll apart, groaning and muffling curses.
He can smell where the blood has burst their veins under their skin. He is aching in ways that for the first time in centuries donât come from lovemaking or torture.
He is resolutely ignoring the side of him thatâs oddly satisfied.
âWhat,â The tiefling pants. âthe fuck is wrong with you?!â
âDo you know,â He grits out. âWhat he would do to us, every, single, time, he got one of those fucking letters?!â
âNo!â The teenager has the gall to sit up and glare at him. âSurprisingly enough, I have no gods-be-damned idea what youâre talking about, given that you forwent the convenient explanation and just hit me!â
Astarion leans forward, âWell, my darling, those letters made my all powerful vampiric master very cross whenever they darkened his desk these past four years. So cross in fact, he would forgo having me or the other spawn in his thrall go out to bring him meals. All the rage your letters inflicted on him, he would take out on us in ways you couldnât even dream of.â
Theyâre looking discomforted.
Good.
âHave you ever been flensed? Slowly, mind you. Peeling off only the most delicate pieces of your flesh one. By. One. That was what he would do once the worst of his black mood had passed, and we would weep with the relief it gave us. Can you imagine what must have come before that? The kinds of unique torment I had to endure? And all because of those damned letters which you authoredâ!â
âI didnât.â They interrupt.
He canât help the hysterically angry laugh that escapes him. âIâm sorry, you just admitted that youâ!â
ââNo, I wrote them.â They claim with an odd amount of vehemence. âIt was my employer who authored every last belittlement and affront and humiliation in those letters, and then read them over to ensure Iâd transcribed his dictation correctly. Whoâd cut what little I earned or make me work through the night if I ever tried to soften any blows, and whoâd have me write out the whole thing again and again and again until he was bloody satisfied!â
Their laugh is almost as bitter as his own as they reminisce. âOh, but heâd never fire me. No, heâs far too gracious a man for that. Heâd just let the vampire patriar he pissed off hunt me down instead.â
Astarion blinks, frowning hard.
âThatâs all very well, but it hardly makes much difference to me, does it?â He snaps. âCazador still took it out on me and my âbrothers and sistersâ, regardless of who created them. And heâll be trying to hunt me down with far more resources than heâd ever expend on you, so.â
Theyâre quiet for several moments.
Astarion almost wants to throw a fistful of soil at them, punch them again, just so they fucking say something.
âI am sorry.â They state. âThat I couldnât do anything. But I think that you didâyou do have the right of it.â
âOh?â He inserts as much mockery as he feels they deserve into the word. âI usually do darling, but youâll have to be more specific than that.â
ïżœïżœIf I tried to turn you over to him, Iâd be dead before I open my mouth, if Iâm very, very lucky.â Their creepy eyes meet his as they bluntly continue. âIf you tried to turn me over to him, it sounds like what heâd do to you in returnâs be worse than death.â
He chuckles without humor. âSuch a very tame way of putting it.â
âAs far as I see it, we both share two goals. One,â A clawed finger goes up. âTo negate these tadpoles by any means we can find before they eat us. Two,â A second joins the first. âTo evade Cazador Szarr until he loses interest or we come by a means of permanently destroying him.â
Oh.
Now heâs interested.
âAnd I understand if youâd rather slit my throat than work with me,â The teenager says stiffly. âBut Iâd bet that alone we each last three days before weâre captured, and thatâs if Tymora decides to weight the dice in our favor. The only way either of us are making it though this is together. After all, youâve had to endure Szarrâs company for however long and Iâve worked for a guild that specializes in doing things that are morally grey at best. Together, weââ
Thereâs the crunching of gravel.
Astarion is up in a moment, hand of the hilt of his dagger. Next to him the tiefling stands, brandishing their retrieved lyre like itâs going to do anything.
He gives them an incredulous side eye.
They stick their tongue out at him.
âIs everything alright? I thought I heardâŠ?â The cleric Astarion had been hoping to avoid crests the hill.
Her face falls into a glower. âOh. Itâs you.â
He forces his face into a relieved beam. âYouâreâyouâre alive! Oh thank all the gods above and below, I was so worriedâ!â
âOh please,â She scoffs. âDonât strain yourself. You left me to die up there quite happily with your little githâaugh!â
That horrendous squirming against the inside of his skull is as unwelcome as it is familiar.
Anger, beginning to simmer like bile in the pit of her stomach.
Bitterness, at herself, at that useless fop of an elf, but most of all at that damned toady gith bitch who is the entire reason she was left behind, to die alone and far from her Ladyâs embrace, just like the rest ofâ!
The jerk as the connection is severed is considerably more painful than the previous two instances.
Well, he thinks as he shakes off the afterimages. It seems that little miss cleric here has some secrets in that head of hers she doesnât want anyone seeing.
Now, how toâ?
âIt seems I must apologize for my older brother here.â Comes the voice of the tiefling at his side. âI wish I could say heâs usually better company, but that would be lying.â
what.
No, seriously.
What??
The cleric stares between the two of them, suspicion clear on her face. âBrother? ButâŠyouâreâŠ?â
The teenager shrugs, slinging the lyre over their shoulder. âMother dearest decided a deal with a devil was the best way to stave off crowâs feet. Of course, the jig was up when my horns started growing in. Father was furious, divorced her straight away, sent she and I back to her family in Elturel to avoid the scandal.â
Thereâs a nudge in his mind. A voice murmurs quietly. âPlay along.â
He fakes a laugh so he can take a moment to goggle at the audacity of this child.
âI hardly think this poor woman needs to hear all of our sordid family historyâŠâ
Fuck. He doesnât know their name. How is he meant to sell this if he doesnât know their name. Fuck!
âFor the last time, Brother, itâs Yuu now.â The tiefling groans, rolling their eyes. They mutter conspiratorially to the cleric. âItâs been a month, and he still hasnât got it quite right yet.â
âHah! As if you werenât switching it every three days or so, saying âoh Brother Astarion, I canât decide!â in every letter.â He extemporizes, offense only partly feigned. âIâm not a mind reader, Yuu dear. I need to be kept abreast of changes to be aware of them.â
âWhâI do not sound like that!â They squawk in affected outrage. âThere! Do you see what I have to put up with?!â
To his surprise, the clericâs mouth quirks into a smirk. âHm. My condolence on your relations then.â
The tiefling huffs slightly, scuffing the dirt with their boot. âWell. He can be irritating, but heâs not entirely awful. I suppose.â
Itâs his turn to roll his eyes. âSuch high praise, how will I ever contain myself? See if I come after you next time you get kidnapped.â
âWell Iââ
âAs charming as this is.â The cleric cuts in. âWe only have a limited period to deal with these parasites before they turn us into mind flayers. It would be better not to waste it bickering, wouldnât you agree?â
Astarion takes it as his cue to duck his head sheepishly. âOf courseâyou are quite right.â
âWould it be alright if we travelled with you, lady?â The tiefling suggests. âIt seems youâre more knowledgeable about this than we, and it might be easier to look for a healer if weâre able to support one another.â
The cleric frowns, but less severely than Astarion would have suspected. Considering, rather than an outright rejection.
He decides to try weighting the scales a bit.
âIf it makes any difference at all, I would like you to know how deeply sorry I am.â He hangs his head as if in contrition, looking up at her through his lashes. âI was fixated on finding my fool of a sibling here, but that was hardly an excuse to ignore your suffering. I would dearly appreciate the chance to make up this wrong to you, in any way I can.â
Her breath catches. A slight flush rises to the clericâs cheeks.
He knows he has her, even before she brusquely says. âWell, itâs only practical. We should get moving inland before nightfall. Work out where we are and if there are healers nearby, at the least.â
âFantastic!â The teenager declares. âWeâll be in your care, missâŠ?â
âShadowheart.â
It takes everything in Astarionâs power to not undo all his hard work by laughing at the name.
The cleric turns and begins walking at a brisk pace.
As the two of them follow, the tailless tiefling whispers, âA cleric will be good to have if we get the chance to kill Szarr, no?â
Astarion feels a smirk curling his lips, cruel and exhilarating.
âFor once, my dear, we are perfectly in agreement.â
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Astarion sets off down the beach, more than ready to select his first meal to celebrate freedomâŠ
Only to hide behind a large rock when he spots the cleric he declined to save aboard the Nautiloid hammering on an ancient wood door.
Sheâs certainly looking no worse for wear despite being left for dead!
âŠThough the way sheâs just snapped that lockpick clean in two and thrown it to the floor to stomp on what remains of the poor tool suggests she may be feeling slightly frustrated.
He watches as the cleric points a finger at the glinting metal, and it bursts into too bright flames.
âŠHe has decided to find another route inland.
One that steers clear of the young woman with lingering anger issues.
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The Letter Kills (Unless We Do First)
âAh, there you are, my dear scribe!â
The tiefling child dwarfed by the large wooden desk in the center of the guild hall looks up from her transcription. Her face twists into an expression of resigned politesse
âWelcome back, Guild Master Crowley.â She recites dutifully. âDid you have a pleasant walk?â
Dire Crowley preens as he strides closer to the reception desk. âSome of the fine gentlemen of the Hellriders wished to express their admiration, but regrettably I could not spare the time for them! It is truly a trial, my dear scribe, to be a man in such urgent demand!â
âIâll take your word for it, Guild Master.â She says, insultingly returning her attention to the documents in front of her. âWeâve received several new requests in the interim. A few are more trouble than theyâre worth, like this one to kidnap Archivist Frostsong of Candlekeep for an artificer in Athkatla, but there are some othersââ
âAh-hem!â He holds up a stern finger. âMy dear, you should know better than to bother me with such trivialities! I wouldâve thought a girl of ten summers would understand the importance of Need To Know.â
He is very fond of phrases like Need To Know.
They make running this mercenary guild so much more easier on him personally.
The childâs face twitches briefly, before she replies carefully. âIâm twelve, Guild Master. And Iâm, Iâm noââ
âYou see?â Crowley shakes his head solemnly, âThatâs hardly Need To Know information now, is it? But I shall overlook your misstep, as I am so gracious. Especially given there is an important task for you to complete! One that the future of the Night Raven Mercenary Guild could depend on!â
At this, the junior scribe straightens, finally taking her duties seriously. âA task, Guild Master?â
âLock the doors, my dear scribe.â Crowley intones. âWe must not be disturbed for this.â
The child swallows, before opening a drawer in the desk and pulling out the master key.
She wavers slightly as she trots to the door, steps stumbling and unsure without the tail her species uses to serve as a counterbalance. Or is it perhaps a rudder?
It is hardly information that Crowley Needs To Know, after all.
The heavy lock snaps into place, and the preteen turns to see Crowley perched on the edge of her desk. Trepidation crawls across her features. âWhat now, Guild Master?â
Crowley reaches into his fine, feathered cloak and withdraws a sheaf of parchment with a flourish. âThere is an important missive in dire need of dictation.â
He spares a moment to chuckle at his own joke. Ah, what a witty man he is!
The childâs shoulders tense. âOh. Any particular reason?â
âWould I ever lead you astray, my dear scribe?â He coos. âBut, I will forgive your doubts of my honorable character, as I am so gracious.â
He waits for her to totter back to the desk before laying the parchment before her. âPlease note the date at the top left, and this address at the right.â
He is pleased to see that there are no errant smudges of the black ink as her left hand dutifully inscribes what he has demanded.
It had taken him more effort than usual to correct that mistake.
By the time she has finished writing though, that silly pinch in her brow has returned.
âGuild Master, do you truly trust me to hear this? This address, it sounds like it could belong to a patriar of the Gate.â
âThat is because it does belong to a patriar of the Gate, my dear scribe.â He smiles fondly at her foolishness. âAnd one with whom I have a special relationship, so I expect the finest penmanship you have to offer.â
He draws himself upright, clearing his throat a few times to ensure his enunciation is clear. It wouldnât do to have a word or phrase muddled
âBegin with this: My dear Lord Szarrââ
âAre you sure I should be transcribing this?â The child asks, almost desperately. âI mean, this is, is private correspondence, Guild Master.â
Dire Crowley puffs up like the bird he stole his name from. âNow, what is all this fuss, hm? I had thought you a mature enough girl to handle such a task with discretion and professionalism. Of course, if you no longer wish to keep the position I have so graciously provided you withââ
âNo!â The force of the cry seems to startle the junior scribe as much as it does her employer. Remembering herself, she sits, eyes cast down in humility. âNo, Guild Master. My apologies. Iâll write it.â
âWonderful!â He beams. âThere, that wasnât so difficult, was it? We will look past this, as I am so gracious. Now, where was I? A-he-hem! My dear Lord SzarrâŠâ
By the time he has finished dictating, the young tieflingâs face has somehow managed to pale a few shades, in spite of the vivid hue of her skin. She traces out the last few lines, gently presses blotting paper to soak up any excess ink, and hands it over for Crowley to examine.
He skims the paper eagerly, chuckling to himself at a few of his favorite lines. How clever he is, to possess a wit that even amuses himself!
âGuild MasterâŠâ He is brought out of his musings at the hesitant tone of the tiefling pre-teen. âI, I know it is none of my business, so forgive my curiosity, but. But is it truly alright to send such a missive to a patriar of Baldurâs Gate? His titles alone suggestââ
âMy dear scribe, why wouldnât it be?â Crowley soothes absent-mindedly.
A look of consternation crosses her face. âIf I may be plain, guild master, this letter is a gossamer-sheathed dagger to the ribs. Far more brutal and damaging than a naked blade for all the beauty of the language it is clothed in.â
A frisson of glee squirms down Crowleyâs spine. âSuch a lovely turn of phrase! Why, if it were not so apt you would make me blush!â
âGuild Master.â The irritation in the girlâs voice is almost enough to break his fine mood. âI, I worry. A letter like this is liable to bring down all the hired thugs this Szarr can buy on Night Ravenâs heads from High Moor and the Gateâs Undercity, and thatâs if he is not overconfident enough to travel to Elturel to try to strangle you himself.â
At this, Crowley cannot help but burst into delighted laughter.
âOh, my dear young scribe.â He enthuses, wiping away a tear of mirth. âFor Lord Szarr to travel to Elturel is as possible as it is for a mortal to travel to the moon! We need never worry about him darkening the guildâs door.â
âI donât. Iâm afraid I donât follow, Guild Master.â The child says, confused. âThe address of the lordâs estate is in Baldurâs Gate. Itâs less than a tenday by carriage, surely?â
âAh, but my dear, sweet scribe.â Crowley shakes his head. âThat is because you do not possess that knowledge I have about our dear Lord Szarr. Ah, but how foresighted I am! I almost frighten myself!â
âKnowledge, Guild Master?â The young scribe asks.
Crowley takes great joy in leaning in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
âLord Cazador Szarr,â He confides. âIs a vampire.â
The instinctive terror that overtakes the childâs face is delicious. But then he watches as her mind begins to work, begins to consider the implications, possibilities, ramifications. The terror does not recede entirely, but it sinks back to sit in the curve of her thoughtful frown.
âA vampireâŠbut, because the Companion shines over Elturgardââ
âThat is correct! He cannot hope to enter the land, let alone the city, without being burnt to a crisp!â He proclaims, cloak billowing impressively as he throws his arms in the air. âAnd neither can any of his spawn! Even if he attempts to hire outside help, our connections with ahem, local interests, make the pool of would-be retaliators unfortunately small for our dear lord, which is childâs play to monitor!!â
He is overcome with the need to press a hand to his forehead. âAh, I am such an intelligent man! Hold fast, my dear scribe! Do not faint from awe at my intellect!â
Heâs met with nothing but silence, so he supposes the girlâs efforts to do so are too taxing for words.
He reaches the end of the letter, and frowns. âScribe, this is incomplete.â
âWhat? But I recorded every word youââ
âYes, but see?â He gestures to the space under where his signature will reside. âYou have failed to credit yourself! I mean, really my dear, letting Lord Szarr think he holds enough import for me to write personally? What is the world coming to?!â
The girl fidgets, discomfort plain on her face. âBut Guild Master, Iâ!â
âNo buts!â He thrusts the final page back onto the desk. âPlace down here, in small print if you please, transcribed by, your name, junior scribe of the Night Raven Mercenary Guild.â
She stares up at him, little form tense. Those creepy blue eyes burning against black sclera.
âNow, scribe.â He says warningly. âUnless you know of another in the city who would be so gracious as I, to give you employment?â
The creepy stare finally drops as her head falls. He thinks for a moment heâll need to prompt her again, before the silly girl finally picks up her quill and follows his orders.
âThere! That was hardly a trial now, was it?â Dire Crowley beams, plucking up the quill himself and signing with a flourish. âNow, blot that, seal it and have it delivered to the postal courier. You may even use a ten minute break to do so, as I am so gracious.â
He waits for the child to nod slowly. âThank you, Guild Master.â
As he is a thoughtful man, he adds. âIt will have to come out of your lunch hour later, though! We are running a business, after all!â
And with that, Dire Crowley waltzes his way to his quarters on the third floor, mind already intent on the newest novel heâs going to read. It came eagerly recommended to him by a dear friendâ this Tusk Love is apparently a creative masterpiece!
His junior scribe could benefit from some more creativity, he muses to himself as he pour a generous glass of Ithbank and settles himself in on the chaise.
After all, of all the nicknames, pseudonyms, and noms de plume to pick from, who but the most insistent dullard would choose the name âYuuâ?
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The last character you drew/wrote about is now stuck in the last game you played. How screwed are they?
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