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therenlover · 3 years

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Would The Danny Bunch Survive A Holiday With My Family?

A/n: In the wake of recent life garbage, I have neglected to write a whole fic, and I’m sorry. In the interim, please enjoy this writing exercise I have put together in the hopes of nailing some characters I haven’t written for in the past in time for a larger project I’m working on! Cheers!

Characters: Laszlo Kreizler, Alex Kerner, Niki Lauda, Andrea Marowski, Ernst Schmidt, and Helmut Zemo

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Mild Misogyny, Mentions of Alcohol/Alcoholism, Mentions of Mental Illness, Non-Graphic Mentions of Death, Minor Spoilers for The Alienist Season One, Minor Spoilers for Goodbye, Lenin!, Spoilers for Rush (2013), Minor Spoilers for The Cloverfield Paradox maybe??? I haven’t actually seen the whole movie, blame Wikipedia if things are wrong.

Laszlo Kreizler

As the first of all of the Dannys to be put through the ringer, Laszlo Kreizler unfortunately would not survive a holiday with my family.

First of all, this man does not like massive huggy kissy crowds, so he’d already be off his game the second he walked into the packed house. That’s not why he’d die though, surprisingly.

His downfall would be his status as an Alienist.

There is simply so much mental illness and childhood trauma present at my family holidays that he would combust within 15 minutes of sitting in a room with all of my relatives.

Even if he were to somehow make it past the introductory phase, my family is nosey as hell, so they’d be grilling him about his arm and his own childhood trauma within the first hour.

Laszlo, for all of his strength, simply wouldn’t be able to withstand it.

His death wouldn’t come from the initial combustion though. No, it’s not that simple.

Knowing Laszlo, once he had combusted and entirely lost his composure the first time, he would become extremely intrigued about the interconnected nature of everyones issues with each other and he would start asking questions.

That’s where the problems would begin.

Because it’s one thing if my drunk great aunt starts badmouthing her sister at the table for abandoning her 90 year old mother for a lake house with her new boyfriend. That’s fine.

But when Laszlo hops in and starts picking apart the mommy issues and underlying reasons for their decades long sibling rivalry?

Oh it would be over for him.

The yelling would never end.

And, I have no doubt that Laszlo would start to psychoanalyze whoever started to yell at him, which would only lead to more yelling.

In the end, someone would throw a probably full and probably fresh out of the oven casserole dish at his head and he’d be unable to defend himself because of his weak arm.

We’d have to cart him out in a wheelchair and even if he were to technically survive, he’d never come back.

Therefor, Laszlo Kreizler would fall victim to my family and die before we even got to dessert.

Alex Kerner

YES

Ah, little baby Alex! A great contender here for holiday survival.

He seems relatively young in comparison to most of the Dannys on this list, though I don’t actually know how old he’s supposed to be.

Based on his relative youth, he would automatically get points with the fam for not seeming like a creep or sugar daddy. Instead, he could be just about any dude I brought home from college.

His skillset as a semi-skilled laborer would also earn him some points, seeing as several members of the family are in similar professions.

Alex might get lost in some of the more complex conversations about the local organic scene or the fine details of running a fine art gallery, but he would fit right in with the majority of the younger members of the family, smiling and nodding his way through the conversation.

His enthusiasm and optimism would brighten the room and leave everyone excited to see him around again.

There’s also the semi-small detail of him caring for his mother, which would earn sympathy from the older members of the family as they are in charge of caring for my deaf, blind great grandmother.

Now, all of these aspects have already set Alex up for a successful survival of a holiday dinner with my family, but the real secret weapon he has up his sleeve is what really cements him in place as a survivor.

What is his secret weapon, you may ask?

Lies.

Alex Kerner is really, really good at lying, and is even better at figuring out increasingly convoluted ways to keep his lies straight.

If he managed to hide to fuckin’ Berlin Wall coming down from his mother for as long as he did, he could keep a couple of white lies up for appearances if he was asked any potentially embarrassing or weird questions that would make him look bad.

He could also lie about enjoying my great aunt’s cooking, which is a vital skill for holiday survival in my family.

Therefor, at the end of the day, Alex Kerner would not only survive a holiday with my family, but he’d probably enjoy it and get invited back for every subsequent holiday he could possibly attend.

Niki Lauda

Niki is another Danny that falls very firmly into the category of characters that would absolutely not survive a holiday with my family, for many, many reasons.

First of all, just like Laszlo, Niki is not huge on going to big huggy kissy parties.

Both adults and children would be all over him the second he walked in the door, which would probably make Niki get very uncomfortable and cagey.

Little does he know at that point that people aren’t just all over you when you get in the door.

No, no, no; from the moment you show up to the moment you leave, if you’re at a holiday with my family you are being basically accosted with questions and hugs and conversations that get weirdly personal.

It doesn’t help that the whole entire house is packed and there are eyes on you at every moment, so he wouldn’t even be able to sneak in a break for air or a cigarette.

If my own mother can’t sneak out for a smoke when she’s been going to these events her whole life, the new guy who’s still being vetted by the family sure as hell won’t be able to either.

Needless to say, Niki would start to get really, really tired of it all in an hour tops. I’ll give him until dinner at most.

That’s where things would start getting really sticky.

See, a lovely little fact about the Niki Lauda that lives in my brain, as portrayed by Daniel Bruhl in Rush (2013), is that he’s just a little bit misogynistic. No more than would be period typical, but a little misogynistic.

Another fun little important thing to note is that my family is entirely matriarchal in nature.

There are only 4 reoccurring male guests at family holidays out of about 20 to 25 guests at each event; My great aunt’s husband of many, many years, the two male siblings my mother has that live in the area, and the young son of one of those siblings.

Men, specifically boyfriends, simply do not last in my family. They are considered pretty disposable and easily banned from family events after breakups or small mishaps.

So, not only would Niki not have any other manly men there to chat about sports with over a scotch and a cigarette, he would be surrounded by so much estrogen that he would definitely struggle with his inner asshole even more than usual.

In fact, we never have sports on, even on Thanksgiving. Poor Niki would be stuck hearing conversations about artisanal candlemakers and how to hand felt a woodland elf puppet.

Back to his downfall, the second he made a slightly sketchy joke about women in the kitchen at the dinner table to my great uncle, his fate would be sealed.

If you thought the yelling at Laszlo would have been bad, this yelling would be ten times worse, because he would be surrounded by like 20 very angry, very defensive, and very strong women waiting to beat the shit out of him and I would not be any help.

He dug the hole, so he can climb out of it.

In the end, his death would come when he tried to light a cigarette and calm himself down at the dinner table while trying to rescind his earlier statement, because smoking inside around all the precious textile art? Thats a big no no.

My great aunt would grab the lighter right out of his hand, light up whatever cocktail she had at the moment, and throw it all directly into Niki’s face.

It would be like crashing his car all over again, only this time he would be surrounded by people who would rather he burn than try to get him out of the situation.

Moral of the story, Niki would die within the first few hours of a holiday with my family because he made an asshole comment to a room full of women who don’t put up with that shit. Don’t be like Niki, even if you think you won’t get killed for it.

Andrea Marowski

YES

Andrea is pretty much the polar opposite of Niki here, and I love him for it.

He is very soft, very kind, very pure, and would never dare to say something rude at the dinner table like a certain racer we all know.

He couldn’t even say something rude if he tried to, because he probably wouldn’t have the English in his vocabulary to say the things he wanted to say even if he intended to say them out loud.

But let’s be honest here, Andrea would never.

Even with his limited English, Andrea would appreciate being surrounded by a whole bunch of people who think he’s the sweetest little thing since the invention of cake.

My great grandmother, despite being almost entirely blind and deaf, would say he looked darling and he would immediately be a member of the family from the moment he stuttered out his thanks.

Andrea, like Alex, is also relatively young, so he would get points for not being old enough to be my father.

I feel like, because Andrea was shown living happily in a tiny village by the ocean with two old ladies, he would have an appreciation for craft, so he wouldn’t mind sitting quietly as my great aunt pawns off a handmade blanket from my great grandmother to him.

He would also happily sit with the younger children and do whatever craft or simple game one of my aunts brought for them that time.

The cherry on top with Andrea is his skill with the violin.

My family is one that appreciates fine art a lot, but more than anything we appreciate music.

I wouldn’t say that any of us are anywhere close to Andrea’s proficiency, but we definitely aren’t terrible, and we all can appreciate the effort, practice, and talent that goes into getting truly good on an instrument like Andrea is on his violin.

He would be encouraged to play, of course, and he would happily oblige.

If he felt comfortable enough, I could even see my great uncle grabbing his guitar, my cousin sitting at the piano, and my sister bringing out her own violin to do a little quartet with some simple song they knew as everybody else sang along.

By the end of the holiday evening, once dinner was served and people were heading to the cars, Andrea would definitely be considered a member of the family.

Needless to say, he’d survive and pass their tests with better than flying colors, even despite the language barrier.

Ernst Schmidt

Now, Ernst was probably the most difficult one on this entire list to put into the living or dying category. In the end, though, there were a few things that couldn’t be overlooked that send him into bad territory.

To be fair, though, he would last the longest out of everyone who would die tragically at one of my family’s holiday gatherings.

He, like the past two victims, would not be exactly suited for the mushy crowding that’s inevitable when it comes to my family.

That being said, I think he would deal with it a little bit better than the other two did and would make polite conversation with the family when he could.

The fact that he was trapped in a packed house filled with drunk people who have several generations worth of beef with each other, though, would start to get him eventually.

If we consider all of the shit that happened while he was in space to be canonical minus, you know, the earth getting really fucked up, he would probably start to go a little bit nuts while packed together with that many passive aggressive people.

The second someone burst into tears on the way to the bathroom he would start to lose his shit.

Still, I think Schmidt would probably be fine-ish until dessert was served, because that’s about the time where all the adults are absurdly drunk, so insanity ensues.

They would start poking at him about his credentials and experiences as a physicist.

He would answer their questions at first, but, unfortunately for him, the questions would turn more and more personal and uncomfortable as time went on.

Did he ever still think about what happened up in space? Did he blame himself for not getting things to work correctly? How much did he miss his old world and old life? Did he ever have nightmares about what he saw? How much did it hurt to get shot?

They’d poke and poke and poke in their drunken state until poor Schmidt would snap at them, flying into a slight rage at their insistent probing.

From there, he would be swiftly asked to leave and then “accidentally” run over while calling an Uber to take him to wherever he’s staying as my drunk great aunt tries to back out of the driveway to drive down the block to her house.

In the end, Schmidt and his wit would be really close to surviving a holiday with my family , but he would, unfortunately, let his anger get the best of him, and it would be the last thing he ever did. Literally.

Helmut Zemo

YES, BUT ONLY BARELY

Okay, so my earlier comment about Ernst being the most difficult out of everyone was incorrect. Zemo was, by far, the hardest to put into one category or the other.

His wit and charm won out in the end, though, and I determined that he would survive one single holiday with my family.

If he ever came back for a second he definitely wouldn’t make it, but he would succeed in living past the first one.

Helmut’s problems start, surprisingly, not with the fact that he is a criminal. In fact that doesn’t even cause any problems for him.

No, instead they start with the fact that he is 43.

I am 99% sure that my mother is 43, and I know for a definite fact that he’s older than one of my uncles who would be present. I, at the time of writing this, am 18.

Needless to say, literally everyone would be massively suspicious of him and his intentions the second he walked through the door. The amount of money in his bank account definitely wouldn’t help in this situation either.

The family would warm up to him eventually, though, because if there’s one thing Helmut is good at besides killing people, it’s making people like him even if they absolutely shouldn’t.

With his expansive knowledge of what feels like literally everything rich and niche, he would slowly win over the older members of the family. Who knew the strange old man Jac brought home was so well versed in the American pottery scene, or that he could name specific jewelry artists from across the world that my family had done business with for years?

My family definitely wouldn’t. At least, not at first.

Oh how they’d learn, though.

Another nice thing about Zemo that would allow him to survive is his aggressive politeness.

No matter how many weird glances or dirty looks he got over the course of dinner, he would simply continue to be the best version of himself in the hopes of impressing everyone.

He would even pretend to enjoy my great aunt’s cooking and get himself seconds, because I’m sure it would be easier to scarf down than whatever he and his EKO Scorpion squad had to eat while serving in the Sokovian special forces.

On the tail end of reasons he would be accepted, Helmut Zemo drinks alcohol like it’s water, so he would fit right in drinking white wine and cocktails through the night with the rest of the adults.

((I think he’d totally tease me about not being able to drink with him, but that’s a story for another time. Anyways...))

His slight downfall would come from something entirely uncontrollable by him or anybody else.

And that something would be my flirty aunt.

I love my aunt. She’s wonderful in her own special way.

That being said, I know if a hot Sokovian baron with a nice smile and a fat pocketbook showed up to one of out holidays, even if he was introduced as my partner, she would be going for the kill all night long.

This would make Helmut more and more uncomfortable as she got more and more drunk, because lets face it, he’s probably not very comfortable with being touched by near-strangers anyways, and being touched by a drunk member of his partners family who is very obviously coming on to him?

That’s even more difficult to deal with.

That being said, Helmut is a man who has been shown to be extremely in control of his emotions.

He would swallow down whatever awkwardness he felt, make it to the end of the night, and, once he had escaped her clutches, he would politely say that he was never going back to another holiday function with my family again, though he would be happy to facilitate me still attending them.

So, in the end, Helmut Zemo would survive one holiday with his sheer stubborn politeness alone.

I will say that his patience would absolutely wear thin if he attended a couple more holidays and he would eventually die of a stress induced heart attack after being unable to politely decline my aunt’s advances.

For now, though, he’s safe.

#zemo #baron zemo #helmut zemo #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #niki lauda #andrea marowski #ernst schmidt #laszlo kreizler #alex kerner #jac rambles #imagine #the danny bunch

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darkwoods-darkdreams · 4 years

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Imagine you live on the edge of town (II)

“Hello!” Nyssa chimed from the front entrance. She closed the door behind her before joining you in the kitchen. She was so cheery despite it being so late. Upon seeing you, she stopped in her tracks. “Are you alright? You look like you haven’t slept.”

You waved off her concern as you transferred a large bowl from the shelf to the table. You had left the mixture of flour and water to ferment. It always smelled a little sour, as it should, but this time it was overwhelming. Your stomach was in knots just from being close to it. Your apron was still sitting differently on you. You were lucky enough that no one had noticed. You tried to angle yourself away from Nyssa. You had seen the looks she had been giving you lately. She knew that something was going on, but hadn’t asked outright.

“Do you need any-“

You couldn’t take it. You turned and vomited into the waste pail hooked on the wall. For a moment, you remained there, leaning over the bucket and trying to breathe through the nausea. You experimentally moved your tongue. You wanted to wash the acidic taste out, but you still felt ill.

Nyssa was by your side in an instant. She grabbed your arm in case you collapsed. “You can’t work like this. You need to see a physiker.”

You swallowed. You couldn’t allow for that to happen. If this was what you thought it was, if you were… You couldn’t let anyone attend to you. No one could know. If they did, you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. You glared at the bottom of the pail. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. It was just the first time you had been caught. “I’m fine.”

“You aren’t,” Nyssa insisted.

“The nearest physiker is in the next town over.” You shakily inhaled. Your eyes closed as you attempted to focus on anything but the nausea. “It’s not like I can walk there this late.”

Her grip on your arm loosened for a moment. Then, it returned to its full strength. “Then you should see my granny. She’ll know what to do.”

You managed to lift your head and look at her warily. You wiped your mouth on your sleeve. Nyssa’s grandmother had a reputation. The children of Fyerdin called her Granny Waxwood or the Waxwood Witch. She lived in a house on the outskirts of town. She was called the Waxwood Witch because she was obsessed with the healing properties of candles and their wax. She would leave candles burning at all hours. She would use the wax for everything. She would bathe in the melted wax and even use it as a perfume, coating layer upon layer onto her skin to the point that her skin looked like the bark of a tree. When she thought no one was looking, she would eat chunks of wax from a small pot she always-

You turned and vomited into the bucket once more. You sighed, knowing that you shouldn’t have thought too deeply about it. You doubted that you’d survive the trip unscathed. You’d probably end up with a set of candles shoved into your arms.

“Promise me that you’ll go,” Nyssa whispered. “I’ll take care of things here.”

You looked to her again. The concern on her face was undeniable. Your expression softened. “…Fine.”

“Good!” She clapped her hands. “Apron off. Out you go.”

You begrudgingly allowed her to take your apron and shoo you out of your own kitchen. You wouldn’t admit it, but the fresh air brought relief. It was a nice change compared to the yeast and booze. Still, that didn’t mean your journey was going to be a pleasant one.

Nyssa’s grandmother lived on the other side of a river. Crossing it was the only bridge in Fyerdin. Technically it existed as a symbol of the town’s limits, but that had been decreed when the town was only made up of twenty-five people.

You approached the bridge. Seeing it always reminded you of the stories your father had told you of trolls and goblins and other monsters. You wished that he had stayed home to tell you more stories rather than fight and die for some distant king.

You kept to the right side of the bridge. You glanced down at the water rushing beneath. The river was wide due to the snow still melting in the north. You raised your head again. Merchants and other travelers used these roads. You didn’t want to get hit by a cart or robbed by thieves.

The house was easy to find. All of the windowsills were filled with candles. The flames danced against the glass. Even the edges of the door were illuminated, as if all of the light was trapped inside and eager to burst free. As you drew closer, you could see Nyssa’s grandmother puttering about. Your brow furrowed as you wondered what she was doing. After watching for a bit longer, you realized she was rearranging the candles in her home. Your pace slowed as you considered the idea that maybe she wasn’t the best person to ask for advice. A pack of wolves howling in the distance forced your hand. You kept moving.

You hesitated when you reached the door. There were countless handprints along the wood. All of them were from frail, thin hands covered in wax. Your attention lowered to the doorknob. It was covered in wax, too. You decided to knock on the doorframe instead. “Hello?”

The old woman stopped moving. For a moment, you almost thought that all of the flames had gone still. Silence. Then, shuffled footsteps coming toward the door. “Who is it?”

“_____,” you replied. “I’m a friend of Nyssa’s. I was wondering if I could-“

The door swung open, revealing the Waxwood Witch in all of her glory. Her nightgown was stained with multiple layers. Her skin was coated in different colours and scents. Her feet were covered in soot. She stared up at you with wide eyes. When she tilted her head, her hair barely moved. There was too much wax coating her scalp.

You tried your best to take a subtle step back. The smell was making you dizzy. “I-I’m sorry if I woke you. Nyssa-“

“You want candles?”

“No, I’m looking for some help.”

“Help from candles.”

Your mouth opened, but you said nothing. You refocused. “No, not from candles. From you.”

She ushered you in. Against your better judgment, you obliged. You lifted your skirts to make sure that they didn’t catch flame. There were so many candles and so much wax covering the floor that it was hard to walk around. Narrow paths zigzagged through the house. You followed her into another room. There were two wooden chairs. One was completely clean. You guessed that it was where Nyssa sat when she visited. You sat down.

The woman sat down across from you. She looked you over. She seemed to be a bit more coherent now that she was back inside.

You waited, anxious. You didn’t know how useful she would be regarding your predicament. You weren’t even sure if she would keep this a secret from Nyssa. At the very least, the Waxwood Witch wouldn’t be able to tell anyone else. Whenever she came into town for supplies, she was avoided at all cost. She got most things for free because the townsfolk were afraid of her. Well, most of the townsfolk. The candlemaker was more than happy to see her.

You leaned forward. “What should I call you?”

“Granny Waxwood.”

You hesitated. “I mean your name.”

“Granny Waxwood.”

“I…I wouldn’t want to insult you.”

“Insult? I like it.”

You stared at her. This was going nowhere.

Her head tilted once more. “Boy or girl?”

Your body went cold. She couldn’t possibly be insinuating- “I’m a girl.”

“I know you’re girl. I mean little one.”

“L…” Your throat tightened. You couldn’t repeat it. “I-I’m- How-“

“Can tell.” She gestured to your abdomen. “I see?”

You didn’t want to, but she was already up before you could refuse. She placed her hand below your navel. Your face burned. The resistance against her hand was obvious. Still not noticeable at first glance, but enough to be felt, and it was growing bigger.

She shuffled away. “Very tiny little one.”

You sniffled. You had hoped that you were wrong when it first crossed your mind. Now, it felt like the weight of your reality was crashing down on top of you. “…What can I- What am I supposed to do?”

“No drink. Careful. Take rest.”

You didn’t know what to say. You had hoped that she would have a more short-term solution. You had heard people whispering about it. Certain herbs that would stop things before they progressed. Then again, you knew that there was a reason those things were whispered.

“River flowers.”

You looked to her once more.

“Crush up. Put in water. Drop of blood. Will glow.”

You hesitated. You hadn’t seen flowers on the way to her house.

“Married?”

You shook your head. You knew it would be a problem as time passed. Soon enough, you wouldn’t be able to hide the pregnancy. Knowing that you weren’t married, the townsfolk would disapprove. You would be stared at. Gossiped about. They would smile to your face but shake their heads when you weren’t looking. And how were you supposed to raise a child? You owned a tavern. You couldn’t have them crying in another room when the patrons were too rowdy. You couldn’t close down. The werewolf was someone in the town. What if he tried to get involved? Your hands shook as you tried to think of a more positive outcome, but you only came up with more worries.

You stood up. You needed to leave. You needed to think of something. “Thank you. Good night.”

You hurried out before she could call after you.

You huffed in annoyance. You had walked alongside the riverbank as it twisted and curved until you were exhausted. The moon was hanging high in the darkness. You stared up at it, basking in the glow. Maybe Nyssa’s grandmother was wrong. Maybe the flowers were from somewhere far away. Your shoulders fell. They probably didn’t even exist in the first place.

The sight of something dark made you go still. It was faint, but you could still see it. Blood. You looked upstream, farther ahead on your path. There was a curve in the river. On the outer side was a dark figure. It was crouched by the edge of the water. Its pink tongue dipped into the river to pull up mouthfuls. Its maw was shining with a dark fluid. The river water was slowly washing it away as the beast drank.

You froze. It was the werewolf. You needed to leave. You watched the beast. If he heard or saw you, you were going to run and hide as fast as you could.

The wind shifted. You shivered as the cold blew over your back. The iciness only settled deeper into your chest when you saw the grass rustle in a slow path towards him.

The tongue disappeared. Ears swiveled. His head lifted as he sniffed the air. Then, he looked right at you.

“_____?”

You flinched. The voice had come from somewhere else. You turned in its direction.

Nyssa was standing a few feet away. Her hands were clasped together.

You glanced over your shoulder. The river was empty. You swallowed. For a moment, you wondered if you had really seen the beast or if you were just consumed by worry. You refocused on Nyssa. “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you!” She hurried closer. “You were gone for ages. I thought that something had happened, so I left the bar.”

Your priorities shifted. “You didn’t close down? What if something happens?”

She crossed her arms. “You’re the one in trouble, not-!”

A howl put a stop to your argument. It was close. Far too close. And it was alone. You knew what it was.

Nyssa grabbed your hand. “We need to go back. It’s too dangerous out here. We’ll sort everything out then.”

You allowed her to pull you back into town. Even as the urge to glance over your shoulder grew stronger and the weight of a distant gaze grew heavier, you kept your gaze on her.

The chill of night was being kept at bay by the flame before you. The tavern had been opened for a few hours already. You could hear people singing and talking and laughing. You were sure that every seat was full. It certainly sounded like it. With so many people drinking, you were hidden away in the kitchens making their food. You didn’t mind it in the slightest. You hadn’t been able to find the river flowers. There was no need. You hadn’t bled since the spring festival. The swell continued to grow. You couldn’t deny it any longer, as much as you wanted to. You were thankful that you always wore an apron. At least it made things a bit more ambiguous. But that wouldn’t last forever. You had seen some of the older women give you looks when you were running errands that morning. It wouldn’t be long until speculation became fact.

Your gaze fell. Your hand slipped between the white fabric and your dress. Fingertips ghosted over the curve. Against your better judgment, you gently pressed your palm against it. There was only slight resistance. You mostly felt your own flesh. You frowned. Soon enough, your womb would be full to the brim and it would be firm to the touch. You wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

“_____!”

Your hand immediately withdrew. You turned from the stove.

Nyssa stood in the doorway, panting. “Could you help me for a bit? It’s a madhouse out there.”

“Give me a moment to finish these and I’ll be right out.”

She sighed. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

You got back to what you were doing, hurrying this time. When everything was plated, you carried the food out yourself. Sliced and buttered bread for the regulars. Meat and potatoes for those with more of an appetite. Your final stop was at a table in the back corner. A few of the younger men were there, laughing. Kelv and Henris were in attendance. They usually stopped by whenever Kelv’s father had given him a bit of money to spend. It was clear that they were all drunk. Even the merchant you had danced with at the festival, Arthur, was slurring his words.

“You’re heaven-sent.” Tomas hunched over his plate the moment you set it down. “What do you put in this?”

You grinned, placing your hands on your hips. “If I told you that, I’d be out of a job.”

“I wish I could eat your cooking every day,” Arthur drawled. “I almost wish I didn’t have to leave at first light tomorrow. Could you make me something for the road?”

“I have some extra pastries that-“ You laughed as all four of them cheered. “I suppose I should bring out one for each of you?”

They nodded.

“Do any of you need another drink?”

Tomas sniffled. “She’s heaven-sent.”

“Nyssa just came by, so we’re all set,” Henris replied.

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.” You disappeared into the kitchen, returning with four more plates. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

“Your hand,” Kelv answered with a hiccup. “Not for me, though.” He gestured to Henris. “Please just get married already. I’m tired of hearing him whine about you.”

Henris’ expression faltered. He immediately sobered. His back straightened. He stared down at his dessert and didn’t say a word.

“The miller’s son and the best baker east of the Hymnals.” Arthur waved his hand like he was directing a music troupe. “The perfect match.”

You were about to go along with their game, but you noticed Henris’ brow twitch. His hand were clenched beneath the table. You relented. “Well, I’ll let Nyssa know that you’ve all had enough to drink. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

You continued down the line of booths. Nyssa flitted up and down the bar to refill mugs. She smiled when your fleeting gazes met. More ale and beer was poured. More barrels were opened.

The second-to-last booth housed some of the heaviest drinkers in Fyerdin. You smiled, though you made sure to keep your distance. Richard was the only one still awake, but his tendency to grope any woman that wasn’t his wife grew even stronger when he was drunk. “Do you need another drink?”

He stared up at you blankly. Then, his attention lowered.

You did your best to mask your disgust. You didn’t appreciate him ogling you on a normal night, but this was even worse.

He didn’t look up. “How about a sip from those tits of yours?”

You scowled. He hadn’t made that sort of comment before. Usually he just asked you to sit in his lap while you poured him another drink. You put your mask back on. Your laughter was a nervous lilt to it. “You and I both know that I don’t keep that in stock.” With that, you promptly walked past him. The booth nearest to the door looked empty. You hoped that it was. You had had enough of drunk men for the night.

Dark clothing came into view as you approached the table. Broad shoulders. Rough hands. It was the hair that gave him away. Black with wisps of silver, like stars in a midnight sky. Nikolas.

Your eyes narrowed. You said nothing. He had never stepped foot into your tavern before, so you weren’t sure why he was starting now. You had invited him countless times when you were still naïve and wanted to be kind to Ilya’s best friend. He always refused and walked off. Ilya tried to comfort you with the knowledge that he was quite nervous around people, but now you knew that he was just the type that didn’t know how to act around others.

Your annoyance grew worse as he didn’t even look at you. He was just staring down at his drink. You didn’t want to get him another one. Knowing him, he’d probably refuse.

Finally, you chose to speak up. “Did you come here to lick your wounds?”

Nikolas’ eyes lifted. He stared back at you.

“What got away from you this time? A deer?”

He leaned back against his seat. “No.”

You exhaled through your nose. The tension hang in the air. You looked to his mug. “Do you want another?”

“I’ll get it later.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you’re that attached to Nyssa, then bother her when she isn’t working.” You then headed farther back into the tavern.

At least, you would have, if Richard’s arm hadn’t shot out to stop you. He had gotten up from his seat and nearly collapsed onto you. One arm was around your waist, pulling your stomach flush against his. His other hand cupped your breast through your dress.

The tray you were folding clattered to the floor. One of the mugs broke with the impact. You tried to shove him away from you, but he was too persistent. “Let go of me!” you ordered.

“Whose brat is it?” He asked. His breath stank of ale.

You went to push him again. Another pair of hands grabbed Richard from behind. In the next instant, he was thrown to the floor. The room went quiet. Henris was standing beside you, red in the face from booze and rage. He turned to you. “Are you alright?”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

His gaze lingered on you, as if he wanted to say something else. He refocused on the drunk. “I think he’s had enough fun for the night.” He then grabbed Richard by the front of his shirt and hauled him up to his feet. Richard was nearly dragged out, his legs wobbling beneath him.

For a moment, you stood there. Your breathing had quickened despite it being such a brief struggle. Your heart was still pounding in your chest. Everyone had turned to look when Richard hit the floor. You hoped that no one had heard anything else. You glanced to Nikolas. He had been the closest. He wasn’t looking at you. He was taking another sip from his mug.

You took a shaky breath and disappeared into the kitchens once more.

Hours later, you closed the tavern for the night. The moment the doors were locked, your body wilted. Your hands slipped behind your back to arch it. Everything felt sore. You didn’t bother cleaning up. You would worry about it tomorrow. After what had happened, you just wanted to sleep and forget.

You trudged up the stairs. You were panting softly by the time you reached the top. Your gaze lowered to your abdomen. It still had so much growing to do. You didn’t know how you would manage. You swallowed. You supposed that you’d find out eventually.

Your bed was a welcome sight. You changed into a nightgown quickly. It sank beneath your hands and knees as you climbed inside. You lowered your head onto the pillow and shut your eyes.

You stirred as a distant noise woke you. You turned to look at the window. The sky was just beginning to change colour. The rooster hadn’t called out to start the day. You got up, mind still foggy. Your hands moved with practiced ease, even though you were still half asleep. You reached for the latch, only to feel that it wasn’t in place. You rubbed your eyes before taking a better look at it. You didn’t remember leaving it open. You gently pushed the panes apart. At first glance, there didn’t seem to be any damage. Your brow furrowed. You peered out the window. Your room was on the second floor. No one could reach the window unless they had a ladder There was no sign of anything like that in the soil. You straightened. You closed the window and locked it.

It wasn’t until you stepped away that you felt something strange. The fabric of your nightgown was sticking to your body. It didn’t make sense. You weren’t sweating. Your hair was completely dry. You grabbed the fabric and pulled it from your skin. The sight of a dark stain made you freeze. Not breathing, you lifted it higher. You whimpered, tears forming in your eyes as the shape came into view. Five marks were the darkest. Fingers from a hand larger than any man’s. At the ends were smaller, triangular stains. The tips of claws. The palm was faint. It had picked up the blood that had dripped from the fingers.

You let go. Your gaze followed the stain. It settled over your stomach once more. Dread washed over you. He had broken in while you were sleeping. He had stood behind you and placed his hand on the growing swell.

You wrenched the nightgown from your body and tossed it into the hamper. You grabbed a dress and began to put it on. You would worry about the stain later. You were far more concerned with how he had gotten in. Maybe there was evidence on one of the doors, or he had used a ladder to get to your room. You hurried down the stairs. The front door was too risky. He would have been seen by someone. The back entrance was much more likely.

When you turned to walk down the hallway leading to the back door, you stopped dead in your tracks. The door was open. Cautiously, you approached it. It was ajar. You couldn’t tell if it had been pulled close to shut by the wind or if the werewolf had moved it on his way out. You leaned down to examine the door more closely. The lock wasn’t broken, but it was covered in scratches. The frame was in the same state. Had he forced it open with his-

A figure moved to stand behind the door. You jumped to your feet with a gasp.

Kelv opened the door. “Did you just wake up?”

You stared at him. What was he doing at your back door? Why hadn’t he knocked on the front or shouted for you? You took a step away from him, your hand over your chest as you tried to calm your heart. “A few minutes ago. Why?”

He hesitated, as if it wasn’t something you should know. “Something happened last night.”

Your hand fell to your side. You steeled yourself. “What happened? Tell me.”

“Jonathan found a body in his fields.”

Your throat tightened. You had a bad feeling about this. “Whose body?”

“Richard’s.”

A second passed. Two. Three. The blood on your clothes. Was it from-

You strode past Kelv. You headed straight toward Jonathan’s property.

“_____, wait!”

“I need to see this for myself.”

He caught up, walking beside you. “You’re not wearing any shoes.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Is something going on? You’ve been acting strange lately.”

You didn’t reply. You just kept walking. Finding the scene was easy enough. Most of the townfolk were already gathered around. Women were clustered behind the fence, hands covering their mouths and tears in their eyes. Children leaned this way and that to get a closer look or played amongst themselves out of boredom. Men were staggered throughout the field, all facing one particular spot. Jonathan was talking to the mayor.

“_____!” Kelv called after you once more.

You didn’t listen. You stepped onto the field, ignoring the feeling of dewy grass and mud between your toes. Your attention shifted to someone standing behind Jonathan and the mayor. Henris. He was farther away than the others. His arms were crossed. He was staring at the ground. You faltered. He had been the one to pull Richard away from you and drag him out of the tavern. It was almost right after his friends had let slip that he had feelings for you. You swallowed. Was this his doing?

You stopped when the body came into view. Your lips pressed together. The smell of blood was so strong that you could taste it. You tried to breathe through the nausea as you looked over corpse. Richard’s body had been torn apart. His organs had spilled from gaping wounds in his abdomen, staining his skin and his clothes and the ground beneath him.

Nikolas was kneeling beside the body. He hadn’t looked up when you approached. His attention was focused on the wounds.

“What do you think?” The mayor moved to stand next to him.

“Too rabid to be a man. Too smart to be an animal.”

“A werewolf?” Jonathan asked. “Like the one that killed my cows and sheep?”

“It’s the same one. They’re solitary creatures. They don’t hunt in packs like wolves.”

“Were the sheep not enough? Has it moved onto humans now?”

“It wouldn’t kill a human if there was a better meal around. This was personal.”

You glanced to Henris. He had moved further away.

Suddenly, he was eclipsed by Nikolas’ shoulder. He was standing now, over a head taller than you were. His gaze was focused solely on you. It only lasted for a moment. Then, he turned away as if you weren’t even there. “The tracks lead into the forest. I won’t be able to trace it back to a source.”

“So you can’t figure out who it is,” you spoke up.

Several pairs of eyes flickered to you, including Nikolas’.

The mayor was the one to speak. “I trust that you’ll be able to sort this out, Nikolas.”

“There are wards I can use. Certain materials that can drive it away. But there’s another problem.”

You tensed. You had a feeling you knew where this was going.

“What is it?” the mayor asked.

“It’s likely that the werewolf is someone in Fyerdin.”

Silence fell over the field. When Nikolas looked to the forest, Henris was gone.

“It would be wise to start a curfew,” Nikolas continued. “You’ll have to get volunteers to stand guard at night.”

The mayor nodded. “I’ll ask around today. I hope that you’ll join them.”

“I will.”

With the decision made, the crowd began to disperse. You walked back to the tavern alone. For once, you were actually relieved by Nikolas’ presence. At the same time, you were worried that someone else would die. The werewolf had only chased off Ilya. If your suspicions were correct and the beast had killed Richard for touching you, he was becoming more territorial. You refused to think of it as him protecting you.

You slowed as you entered the garden behind the tavern. You grew some of your own supplies and bought everything else. Usually you only worried about the things that were too expensive to buy on its own. You looked over the mud and the glistening plants. Some of the stems were broken. There were footprints leading to the back door. You frowned. You brought out a rake and upturned what soil you could. It would look suspicious if you only worried about the pawprints. You wiped your brow when you were finished. You had never thought that you’d be hiding evidence of such a creature. Then again, you hadn’t even believed in such monsters a few moons ago.

You washed your feet off before heading back inside. You glanced to the stairs. You wondered if it would be better to burn the nightgown or wash it.

A knock at the door put a stop to those thoughts. You looked over your shoulder. The sound had come from the back door. You approached warily. The werewolf wouldn’t show up in the middle of the day. Someone would see him. You wondered if it was Henris, or Kelv, or-

Opening the door revealed none of the men you expected. You were instead met with the sight of dark leather. Your gaze lifted. Dark hair. Light eyes.

Nikolas.

#werewolf route #fpreg #live on the edge of town #series

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justfandomwritings · 5 years

Text

All A King Should Be (Part One - Tywin Lannister)

Pairing: Young Tywin Lannister x OC

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: none yet but we’ll see

Summary: Men like Tywin Lannister weren't made. They were born. His was a mind superior to the realms of men. No one but the gods could create such a thing. Poised for greatness and ready to cease it. Tywin Lannister was born to wear a crown, and she was going to be the one to put it on his head.

Notes: So this story starts Pre-Rains of Castamere, Pre-Ninepenny King. So Tywin is like 16.

This story will be continued on FF.net and AO3, not on Tumblr, but I wanted to share the introduction here too. Both of those are linked ^^ so please go follow there. But like/reblog this to let me know what you think.

“Father,” Tywin growled under his breath. “Must you bring her?”

“Be kind Tywin,” Tytos good-naturedly reprimanded his eldest son. Playfully shoving the stubborn young man in the shoulder, as if that would ease Tywin’s mood. “This is meant to be a lovely family journey to Lannisport, not one of your angry mealtime lectures.”

“The family does not include whatever woman is warming your bed tonight, Father,” Tywin spat with a venom that he made sure the unwelcome addition could hear.

“Tywin,” a shrill voice cut through the air. “Relax, dear. It is only some traders from Essos. This is meant to be fun!”

Fun. Tywin knew Megga’s idea of fun.

Megga was a candlemaker’s daughter, a lowborn woman who had worked her way into his father’s chambers one night after making a delivery of candles on her father’s behalf. It had taken her meer minutes to seduce Tytos Lannister into inviting her up to his chambers under the guise of choosing an arrangement for his next order of candles, and they had not left his room, except to order more wine, for three days after.

She delighted in nothing but possessions. Tytos’s words of affection did nothing for her. Megga’s father’s pride at her rising status did not warrant notice. The attention showered on her by knights and lesser lords looking to be in Tytos’s good graces meant little. Even her newfound friendship with that witch of a woman Ellyn Tarbeck was of no consequence.

Megga spoke one language: gold. She wanted bars of it for paperweights, more jewelry made of it than she could ever wear. She wanted to spend every last ounce of gold that came out of Casterly Rock’s mines, and Tytos Lannister had a mind to let her.

A fleet of merchant ships had docked in Lannisport and asked to speak with the ruling branch of the family. Normally, such a thing would have garnered no response from even such a weak willed man as Tytos, but the fleet held promise. They had sailed straight to Lannisport, and their hulls were still full of all their wears. If they had come from Westeros, that might not have been of note, but the ships had sailed all the way from Essos, all the way from Asshai, without stopping.

Even the usually disinterested Tywin had been intrigued to see what their stores held, but of course, Tytos brought Megga. What should have been a promising discussion of continued, mutually advantageous trade would instead be turned into a one-time spree aboard respectable merchant vessels who would never wish to return to House Lannister once they had met its pathetic excuse for rulers.

“Might I suggest, dear Megga,” Tywin looked around his father to glaring loathingly at the woman in question, “that you refrain from such indecencies and address your liege lords by their proper titles when in the presence of outsiders.”

“Of course, Tywin,” Megga smirked. “I’m happy to know you no longer see me as an outsider.”

Kevan snorted derisively at Tywin’s left hand side. “Brother, peace,” Kevan half-heartedly endeared, “we have the ride home to deal with, lest you forget.”

“Yes,” Tywin mused, “the ride home plus one carriage no doubt. I’m sure Tytos will have to buy one in Lannisport to fit all the goods Megga convinces him to buy for her.”

Tygett, riding behind his elder brothers, chuckled to himself. “And who, pray tell, is going to sacrifice their horse to pull the bloody thing, Tywin?”

Tywin glowered at the thought. “None of us are walking for that wench, brothers.” Tywin assured them.

The party of Tytos, his three eldest sons, his mistress, and a handful of guards rode for their extended family’s home in Lannisport, intent on informing their distant cousins of their presence should they wish to join the group in seeing the traders.

House Lannister of Lannisport was only a few miles from the Rock, and there had never been a want or need to build a castle so close by, simply for the cadet branch’s pleasure. Rather, their seat was a spacious villa, nestled right where the walls of Lannisport met the sea. It was a gorgeous place that Tywin often enjoyed visiting to escape Tytos on particularly agitating days when he could no longer tolerate the man. Tywin knew his extended family well.

“Ella?” Tywin called as he saw his distant relation standing at the road, seemingly waiting for them.

“Ser Tywin,” Ella curtsied to him but didn’t even bother acknowledging Tytos.

“What is this?” Megga addressed the young woman.

Ella diverted her gaze to the candlemaker’s daughter only briefly before her eyes turned back to Tywin. The cadet branch of the Lannister family had been one of the few houses in the Westerlands not to take advantage of Tytos’s cowardess. Lannister was their name Tytos so callously sullied as well. There would be no deference paid to a woman like Megga here, no matter how much she demanded it.

“My lord, the trading ships from Asshai have invited us to join you and have moved to dock just off our shore so that we might paddle out from here.” She said to Tywin. “Everyone else is prepared to leave. They are waiting at the water.”

“Excellent!” Tytos leapt from his horse in a rush to help Megga dismount hers.

Ella waved and called out to a group of boys lingering around the house, and the stable hands came running to take the lords’ horses.

“Tell me, Ella,” Kevan made conversation as they walked to the docks. “Do any of you know what this is all about?”

Ella gave an excited answer, “I would presume that, being from Asshai, they have something interesting like dragonglass, but if they’re making such a grand display to summon us all, I rather hope they have a dragon egg. I’ve heard there are several in Asshai, turned to rock with age.”

“Well, if they have such a thing I’d certainly enjoy seeing it.” Kevan agreed.

They joined Ella’s older sister and younger brother, Arcella and Lyman Lannister, at the docks and were greeted by their father, Lawsen. Three row boats had been prepared, and a small troop of guards was preparing to paddle out to meet their hosts.

Not far off the shore, Tywin could see a group of four large galley ships clustered in the harbor. Traders from Asshai ventured to Lannisport occasionally, but only as one stop of many along regular trading routes. None had ever been worthy of a visit from House Lannister. As a result, Tywin had never personally seen a trading ship from Asshai, but even if he hadn’t known what they came to see, he would have known what he was looking at. There was no mistaking the galleys as the property of anyone but Asshai.

Their wood was almost black against the crystal clear water and looked as dark as the Shadow from whence it came. Sails of gleaming gray billowed out from their mast; if they weren’t flowing in the wind, Tywin would have thought they were made of metal. Intricate carvings, too small in detail to make out from a distance, littered the bow of the ships, each unique from the one next to it. Three of the bows were capped by beautiful young mermaids, but the fourth, the largest in the center, was crested by the head of a dragon, complete with wooden wings folded back along the sides of the ship.

“Well, they don’t call them Asshai by the Shadow for no reason.” Tygett voiced his brother’s observations and chuckled as he climbed into one of the row boats.

Tywin nodded his agreement and followed his younger brother. “Not a traditional wood for a galley, I wonder what they used.”

“It can’t be very fast,” Tygett added.

Lawsen gave the order and his men on the shore pushed them off. Four guards paddled each of the boats: Tywin, Tygett, and Arcella in one; Lawsen with Tytos and his mistress in another; and Kevan, Ella, and Lyman in the boat bringing up the rear.

“Did they say which ship?” Tywin overheard Tytos asking.

Lawsen snorted. “The dragon of course,” he said as if it was the dumbest question in the world, and it probably was.

As they paddled in, two rope ladders were hauled over the expansive side of the dragon ship. “There,” Tywin got the attention of the guards and pointed to where they should go, “But follow after my father.”

It wasn’t that Tywin wanted Tytos and his mistress to mare the merchants’ impressions of them, and if it had just been his father he would have not cared for the disrespect of an heir going before his lord. Yet, with Lawsen present he didn’t want to further undermine his father’s authority. The man already made House Lannister look weak enough without help.

“Are you the Lannisters?” One of a cluster of men atop the ship deck asked.

“Yes,” Tytos called up the ladder as they pulled in close to the ships. “We have travelled from Casterly Rock.”

A slight figure, covered head to toe in black, pushed to the front of the group and flung themself over the railing. With deft hands, they descended one of the ladders down to the boats to greet them, stopping a few rungs above the tops of the Lannister parties heads.

“Which of you is the Lord of this party?” The voice that came from beneath the hood was too high to be a man’s. Tywin thought it odd that a boy so tall would lack any width or bulk, but these were sailors not soldiers, he supposed.

Tytos Lannister stood in his row boat and almost went tumbling over the side as he lost his footing. Scrambling back up with the help of a guard, Tytos tried to sound off with some of his lost authority. “Boy, I’m here to see your captain. I am Tytos Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

With one gloved hand still gripping the rope, the sailor hung leisurely off the side of the ship. “Boy?”

With a quick shake of the wrist, the glove fell from the figure’s free hand and landed in the water beneath, rushing down under the ship with the current. An exposed set of long, thin fingers reached up to push away the hood.

It was a woman, a Valyrian woman judging by her frosted hair and purple eyes, and like all of them, she was a beauty to behold.

Pale skin, strong in its unblemished perfection yet fragile in its delicate porcelain tone, was stretched over sharp cheek bones, colored only slightly despite the warmth of the midday sun and her all black attire. The hair behind her ears was pinned up in a twisted knot at the back of her head while a dozen locks came down both sides to frame her face; their shine made them easily mistakable for long chains of silver jewelry. Her lips were small, much like her narrow frame, but they were beautifully pink and perfectly shaped.

Her eyes, though, drew Tywin in. Not in the way bards loved to sing about falling for a woman’s eyes or the way his father lavished affections on ladies about their enchanting irises because it was an easy and appropriate thing to compliment.

Her eyes drew Tywin in with their depth, with their intelligence. They were a dark shade of royal purple, even darker than King Jaehaerys or Crown Prince Aerys. They gave her otherwise ethereal features a sense of foreboding. Her lips were quaint; her frame was petite; her skin was that of a doll; her hair was richly colored; but her eyes were fierce, discerning. Tywin thought, if the shade wasn’t so dark as to hide the wheels spinning inside her mind, he could watch her calculating her next move.

“Tytos,” her voice cut through the air, “was not the name I was told to look for, boy.” She spoke the Common Tongue with a thinly veiled accent that rolled each of her words into the next one, more like song than speech.

“I,” Tytos spluttered, “I don’t know the meaning of this. I am Lord Tytos Lannister of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West.”

“You are a lord?” The woman questioned in a doubtful tone, and when Tytos didn’t immediately respond she returned to the ladder and made to climb back up to her ship.

Tytos sat down beside Megga with a dramatic huff of air. No one else spoke as they watched the woman begin to climb, and Tywin grew frustrated with being so openly flouted. He had not wasted a day of productivity for this.

The guards with him paddled lazily at the water to keep the heir’s row boat from bumping into his father’s, but he was only a few feet further, well within earshot.

“My name is Ser Tywin Lannister, Heir to Casterly Rock.” Tywin carefully stood from his place and spoke with all the authority his father tried and failed to possess. “We were summoned here by the captain of this vessel, and we will speak to him immediately.”

The woman turned while he spoke and looked him over curiously, “Now that,” one of her eyebrows raised in amusement, “I actually believe.”

The still unnamed woman pressed two fingers to her lips and whistled to the men above, “Call for the Captain! They’re coming up!”

Tytos sent his eldest son an appreciative smile and helped Megga up onto the empty rope ladder first.

“No.”

A hand quickly whipped out and blocked Megga’s path up the side of the ship.

“What is this?” Tytos complained at being impeded yet again.

“Your men and the girls are welcome to come aboard, but her kind aren’t allowed on the ship. They cause too much dissent amongst the crew,” the woman sneered down at Megga from several rungs up the second ladder.

Megga was shocked, and even from his distance behind her, Tywin could see she was visibly enraged. “I beg your pardon; I am a guest of his Lord Tytos Lannister.”

“Guest or not, that does not change what you are.” The woman rolled her eyes at Megga’s attempts at defense.

“And what do you mean by that?” Tytos actually sounded as those he’d managed to work up some anger on behalf of his companion.

The woman didn’t even acknowledge Tytos spoke, she continued to address Megga directly, “Darling, you might fool weak Western lords, but I grew up in Lys. I know a whore when I see one.”

Tywin was conflicted. The sheer elation he felt watching Megga’s horror at being condescended to by someone other than himself was weighing against the utter embarrassment of being so openly called out on such indecency. As if Megga hadn’t damaged their reputation enough in the Westerlands or Westeros, now the world would know his shame.

“I-I will not be treated in this way,” Megga spoke utterly aghast.

With a swift kick to Megga’s right arm, the woman sent Tytos’s mistress tumbling back into the boat with a sharp cry of pain. A guard caught her while another steadied the boat against the hull of the ship to keep from capsizing, with Lawsen’s help.

“You will be treated as you are paid to be treated: cheaply, judging by the looks of you.” Purple eyes turned to Tywin, “Forgive me, but if you wish to return home by sundown we really should hurry this along. The whore stays in the boat. If your guards wish to come up, I can have a man wait with her.”

“Our guards will wait here.” The men being mostly in Lawsen’s employ, he answered the woman and settled the matter quickly.

“Good. Then follow me up.” The woman climbed up so quickly that when Tywin blinked she was already disappearing back at the top.

It was an ordeal to rotate the three boats close to the ladder so each of the Lannisters could climb up, but it was made worse by Megga’s constant moaning about her exclusion. “At least we won’t have to worry about being informally addressed,” Tygett commented to Tywin just loud enough for Megga to hear as the pair began to climb the two ladders.

Hooded figures bustled around the polished black deck of the ship, all resembling the woman who greeted them in their clothing. All black with not a color in sight, and every person was covered head to toe. The only distinction between each figure was their size. Making it obvious that, while most were men, there were clearly other women mixed in amongst the crew.

Tytos passed the time waiting for their group to assemble on the deck by trying to lecture the young woman who had allowed them up. His voice demanded very little and came out more as a whine that the woman blatantly ignored.

She was lounging, hood cast aside at her feet, on an ornately carved black staircase that led up to the bow of the ship. Her gaze paid far more attention to her ungloved fingers, which she was examining quite closely, than she paid to Tytos Lannister.

“Father,” Tywin called as he helped pull Ella over the side of the ship. “We have a meeting to attend to.”

The young woman hopped to her feet and pushed past Tytos without a second glance. “Yes, after me, all of you.”

She led them down a short set of stairs along the dingy hallway to the back of the ship and banged her fist on a wide door cut with the word captain.

“Enter,” came a voice from inside.

The door swung open, and Tywin, at the front of the group, got his first glimpse of the Captain who had assembled them.

The older man was a surprisingly slim physique, lacking any real breadth. His muscles were long and lean, just as his frame. His length forced his head to scrape the wooden beams above him, such that he had to duck down to fit in the space when he rose to his feet behind the desk.

Not a knight by any means, but still a war-worn man. His skin was beat to a deep tan by the sun, and scars littered the visible surface of his arms, scaring over in a rough texture that matched the thick callused skin of the hands holding him up on the desk. The man was not a merchant by any means; he was a sailor.

“Ashenna, these are our guests?” The captain finally put a name to the Valyrian woman’s face.

“Yes,” Ashenna gave a low nod, stepping out of the way to allow the entire traveling party to enter the room. “This is Ser Tywin Lannister.” She introduced Tywin to the Captain with a wave of her hand.

The Captain circled his desk and held out a hand to greet the younger knight, which the Lannister quickly accepted. “A pleasure, Ser Tywin. You are exactly the man we wished to speak to.”

Tywin’s gaze narrowed. “Then perhaps you could afford my Lord Father and I the pleasure of your name.”

“Of course,” The Captain turned to Lawsen, who quickly shook his head and directed a hand to Tytos. “It is an honor to be in the presence of the Lord of the Rock. I am Captain Tarik Rogare.”

Rogare. That was a name Tywin hadn’t heard since his days studying with his Maester.

“Where is that name familiar to me from?” Tytos clearly couldn’t recall his own lessons.

The Captain accepted the slight with relative ease. “The Rogare Bank, my Lord.” It was a name every Lord, especially one so rich in gold as the Lannisters, should know by heart. Still, the Captain briefly explained, “My family once ran the largest bank in the world, till untimely deaths saw to its collapse.”

“Oh yes!” It dawned on Tytos. “The Lysene Spring, how could I forget.”

Ashenna, as Tywin now knew the woman to be called, rolled her eyes and slid past the Lannister party towards a solid metal chest sitting in the corner of the room, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the Captain’s desk.

Captain Rogare stepped aside to let her past but continued speaking uninterrupted. “Much of our family still resides in Lys, but my brothers and I have made our names in Asshai. Our fleet controls the waters from the Jade Gate to the Saffron Straits and traverses from Bear Island to Ulthos to the Thousand Islands.”

“Quite an expanse of water,” Tygett commented idly.

“Indeed,” the Captain agreed with a small hint of pride. “Such dominance has afforded us many opportunities for trade and exploration, and of course,” Rogare turned to Ashenna with a wide smile, extending a hand to the chest in the corner, “adventure.”

Ashenna lifted the latch on the chest and hauled open its lid with some effort against the weight.

The Lannisters all seemed to hold their breath. The speculation was over. Whatever had brought Tarik Rogare to their shores and had assembled them in his quarters was to be revealed.

Ashenna pulled from the chest a long, thin wooden box. It was a beautifully made box, carved from what appeared to be driftwood but polished till it gleamed like the sea from whence it came.

Ashenna carried it like a child. Her steps towards the Captain’s desk were slow, deliberate, as if a single jostling of the contents in her arms would mark the end of her very existence. She cradled the box as she slowly lowered it to the empty surface and set it down with a heavy breath that was clearly relieved of no longer having such a responsibility.

The Captain joined Ashenna standing behind his desk and gestured for the eight Lannisters to come closer. Without much thought, the family crowded around the desk. A look of wonder gleamed in Tytos’ eyes that was mirrored in his Lannisport cousins.

Only Tywin seemed composed in the face of this mystery. He stood directly before the box looking on with the calculated disinterest of any born dealer. He was sure whatever was in the box Tytos would demand to have; he only hoped he could negotiate the deal. Captain Rogare could have demanded his right arm, and Tytos would have given it without even knowing what was inside.

“Our dear Ashenna,” Captain Rogare motioned to her, “brought this back to us from her travels. On her return to Asshai from Volantis, she came by way of the Gulf of Grief and, in avoiding a group of pirates, did as no man has done before. She navigated the Smoking Sea of the Doom of Valyria and survived to tell the tale.”

Tywin looked on the woman again in a new light. She couldn’t be older than himself, yet they claimed she was capable of a feat men could only lie and say they accomplished. She was either the greatest sailor on the seas or an utter charlatan.

“She found there, the wreckage of a ship against the side of a volcano, undisturbed even after three centuries; for she was the first to live long enough to see it.”

“And you have brought Valyrian treasure to us before the King?” Lawsen interrupted the story with a look of utter confusion.

Captain Rogare and Ashenna both smirked and shared a quick glance. They looked like the only two privy to a dark secret they were about to reveal before the world.

“The ship,” Rogare reached out and took a firm grip on the top of the wooden box, “was not Valyrian.”

Rogare removed the lid, and the room filled with a collective gasp.

It wasn’t the dragonglass the Lannisters had been expecting or the eggs Ella had been hoping to see. It wasn’t from the Shadow at all, or even from Essos for that matter.

It was a sword, and it was from Westeros. A sword from the Rock itself.

Tywin reached out a hand gently scooped the sheathed blade into his arms, marveling at a sight he had never hoped to see. The scabbard was a well worn leather he knew was not original to the thing, but there was no mistaking the sword for anything other than exactly what it was.

The hilt was a magnificently cast lion’s head, plated perfectly in a gold that remained untarnished even after so many years. It rested atop a beautifully carved crimson handle that led to a cross guard that swirled with design embossed in pure gold, meeting where the blade disappeared with a diamond of gold set inside a ruby frame.

With all the care he could manage, Tywin pulled out the blade, as much to wonder at its craftsmanship as to confirm its identity.

“You found it,” He murmured to himself, running his fingers over the flat edge of the fine Valyrian steel. “Brightroar.”

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Taglist:

Forever Taglist:

@maybe-a-fangurl / @libbymouse /

Game of Thrones Taglist:

@crimson-knuckles

Only Tagging because this is Tywin and the only person who loves Tywin as much as me is : @scarhades

#Tywin Lannister #tywin lannister x reader #tywin lannister x oc #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones imagine #got fanfiction #got fanfic #got one shot #got oneshot #game of thrones oneshot #game of thrones one shot #tywin lannister fanfiction #tywin lannister fanfic #tywin x reader #tywin x oc #tywin imagine #tywin fanfiction #tywin fanfic

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years

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A Flame For A Cabbage (Part 14)

Sneaking into the boiling rock is much easier than expected. All it takes is a long and convoluted plot. Such is easy for Azula to come up with. Really, all she had to do was put on a false mustache and claim that her name is Jake, from State Farm, there to update them on company policy. Everyone knows that State Farm is the insurance company used by the Boiling Rock. But Azula does not like such simple thinking. Instead she had come up with a much grander scheme. She journeyed deep into and past a plethora of boobytraps until she came to a lost tribal society. A society that owns the last few dragons in the world. Her world anyhow. They were kind enough to allow her to borrow dragons red dragon, free of charge. Azula, however, felt a sense of kinship with the blue dragon.

The tribesmen had clicked their tongues, tsking. But they said that she could take the blue dragon, all she needed to do was part take in a ritual sacrifice. Being that, according to mother dearest, she is the spawn of Satan himself, this was no big deal for Azula. Unfortunately they were not expecting to do a ritual so soon so they did not have all of the necessary alter tools. So it was that Azula had to journey to find the special dragon atheme. She searched each of the four nations but came up empty handed. She knew that she needed to enter a different dimension.

Unfortunately, Bosco had been in charge of all interdimensional and alternate universe travel--since his death glitches in time and space have been far and few in between. So Azula made her way to the Foggy Swamp where she met with the witch doctor, who informed her that witch doctors and necromancers are not the same thing so he could not resurrect Bosco. But the witch doctor was kind enough to point her in the direction of the Foggy Swamp necromancer. Feeling optimistic, she had knocked on the woman’s door. The woman said that she would help resurrect Bosco, but she was all out of ritual candles.

So it was that Azula journeyed back to the Fire Nation to pick up several ritual candles. But they were all out of black wax. However, the candlemaker was willing to make her a special order if she could procure an item for him. Azula had nodded and asked him what item he seeks. The man said that he needed some protective paper. Easy enough, Azula had thought, forgetting that the virus had left toilet paper in short supply.

After combing through dozens of stalls and finding them baren of toilet paper, the merchant decided that she would have to break into the palace and steal some from the Fire Lord’s stach. She had tried to bribe the guards but he wanted a free cabbage. By all means that was easy enough but Azula never sells her cabbages for free. Instead she seeks out an unlikely alley.

It had taken a lot of searching, but finally she found the hideout of team avatar. Upon asking for help, Katara threw several items at her including a crowbar, a ceiling fan, a spare tire, a walrus, and an electric stove. “You killed Aang!” She accused. And it was a true accusation. And so Azula informed her, “if you help me break into the place to steal toilet paper, I can go to the candlemaker who will make me some ritual candles to take to the necromancer will summon Bosco for me. And while she is resurrecting Bosco, she can resurrect that arrow-headed cabbage killer, Aang.”

Wholly confused by the whole situation, Katara agreed to help Azula break into the palace. “Here, you can borrow our Toph. That ought to get you in.” She had lifted the blind earthbender up and handed her to Azula.

Azula thought that it would be smooth sailing from there, but she was wrong. The Earthbender said that she would only help if Azula could make her see. So Azula tried seeking out Christ. But Azula is an unholy creature, according to her mother, and so it did not work. What she did not know is that all she had to do was go to confession and then she would be forgiven. But Azula is afraid of confessing anything so she chuckled nervously and accepted that it was a hopeless cause. Toph had laughed and said, “man, I’m just messing with you, I’ll help.”

With that they broke into the Fire Nation palace and stole a few rolls of toilet paper as well as the Fire Lord’s toothbrush. Sie cried out in frustration because it was actually his toothbrush.Toilet paper in hand, Azula returned the Toph and fetched the Katara. Katara followed her to the candlestick maker.

“I promised you enough black candles for one ritual!” The candlestick maker had noted. But Azula is intelligent. She had planned for this, “which is why I brought you two rolls and the Fire Lord’s special bedazzled roll!”

The candlestick maker’s eyes had lit up and he procured the black candles. So the cabbage merchant and Katara journeyed back to the foggy swamp where the necromancer lit the candles and resurrected Bosco and Aang. Aang muttered an apology to Azula for destroying her cabbages so many times. Azula faintly thought that she should have apologized to him for murdering him, but apologies are dumb. And for people who are wrong. Azula is, in fact, always right 100% of the time. The merchant and Katara parted ways. Bosco, thankfully was a slave to the necromancer who summoned him was forced to obey her commands. So he had to help Azula with her interdimensional travel. Unfortunately, the author forgot what Azula was supposed to fetch so she had to scroll all the way back up. Azula used this time to file her taxes. With her taxes done and out of the way she journeyed through several dimensions similar to her own but not the same and found the super special, magically sinister, dragon atheme. Having accomplished this she sought out Mai and her Kenu Reeves knife, fought Bosco, and banished him back to the other side. She returned the Kenu Reeves knife, but only because it was along the way to the tribe.

She arrived at the tribe and set the dagger before the tribesfolk who gathered around it and said, “ooo, ah” and “wow that’s so purtty” and “ain’t she a beauty.” They put the dagger aside and began the ritual which consisted of doing the soulja boy twice and the macarena once, followed by the cha cha slide. EVERYBODY CLAP YOUR HANDS!!! The closed the ritual by creating their own hybrid variation of all three dances. Satisfied, the blue dragon accompanied Azula to the Boiling Rock. Thank spirits that they have State Farm insurance, because they were about to need a good neighbor. For the dragon had punched through the window and placed Azula into one of the cells. “Watch my cabbages.” Azula requested of the dragon.

“I will if you bring me two cheez-its.”

With that promise in mind, Azula sets out on her real mission.

“Hello, Suki.” She greets.

Suki flips her off before apologizing and saying, “sorry I mistook you for someone else.”

“Who?” The merchant asks.

“That guy who put me here!”

Azula nods. But she has no more time for discussion. She needs to find Iroh now.

.oOo.

“I'm telling you it wasn't me!” Vows the guard.

“Save your breath! I know you were working together. You threw Chit Sang in the very cooler they used to escape. It was all part of your plan.” Says the warden.

“That didn’t even happen.” The guard points out. And he is right. But now the warden feels all awkward so he decides that he will keep pretending that he is right, despite knowing very well that he is wrong. Before he can begin reveling in his wrongness the door opens and someone enters. “There's someone to see you.” Informs a less troublesome guard.

“Who told you to interrupt me?” The warden snaps.

“I did.” remarks princess Sie.

“Princess Sie, brave and powerful, Princess Sie! It is an honor to welcome you to the Fire Nation's most exemplary prison.” He backpedals. “I didn't realize you were coming.”

Sie enters the room and takes notice of the guard being interrogated. “Who is this?”

“He's a guard who was involved in a recent and feeble escape attempt.”

“What escape attempt!?” Asks the guard with more ferocity. With no real defense, he resorts to a harsh, “Quiet, you!”

Sie folds his arms. “You're wasting your time. Zuzu isn’t around to try to help Sokka break his father out of prison.”

The warden turns around with a look of shock and befuddlement. He does not realize what has transpired, dear reader. You see, in Ozai choosing not to acknowledge the eclipse, the eclipse had never happened. It had been skipped. But this has caused a horrific rift in time. It was in this chapter that Zuko was supposed to break free, but with the opportunity lost, the void had sucked him in and claimed his existence. Perhaps one day he will emerge again.

Presently, the warden looks at Sie. “How do you know?”

“Because I'm a people person.” This is not why. It is actually because he saw the void claim Zuko and he has seen enough bizzare happenings to know how it works. But, ‘I’m a people person’ sounded so much cooler.

.oOo.

Azula sits in her cell feeling like a complete and utter moron, but she knows that the absurd deeds that she is doing serve a greater purpose and she has never been one to shy away from a task. So, without thinking too much, she makes another hideous and obnoxious screech. She has been going for pterodactyl but she is not practiced enough to manage that yet. So she is only able to manage a brontosaurus screech.

It serves its purpose, for Iroh responds back. They have been communicating like so for the better part of the day. By the next morning each and every guard is equipped with a pair of ear plugs (the higher ranking guards get air pods). It is to her advantage for they, having their air pods in, don’t hear her slinking out of her cell.

She takes a moment to think of her cabbages because we have gone several paragraphs without mentioning them once. After listing off the anatomy of a cabbage in her head, Azula proceeds down the hall and finds Iroh’s cell. She gives a faint brontosaurus call to let him know that it is her before opening the cell.

“Here, take this.” Azula hands him a top hat and a wizard cloak. Azula, though off screen, has managed to acquire a guard uniform. She leads Iroh out of his cell. No one questions it because she looks like a guard. But really, she is a cabbage merchant. The top hat and the wizard cloak aren’t strictly necessary. They just make Iroh feel cool™. They please him. Suddenly the plague begins to retract.

The two confidently march out of the prison, Azula wearing gucci shades and Iroh wearing pimp shudder shades. Iroh had found himself a gun holster and is now packing! This would have worked out well and it would have looked so cool™, had the blue dragon not taken off. Azula had not been able to get her hands on any cheez-its.

Azula still isn’t worried. She looks at her new business partner. He gives a cool™ wink and pulls out his gun. He doesn’t have a chance to fire it when Hakoda shouts, “wait! Who's that?” You see, Hakoda was beginning to feel left out, this was supposed to be his time to shine.

“That's a problem. It's my sister and her friend.” Says Zuko as he emerges from the void. But he is different. Changed. His abs have abs and his eyes have a haunted look (and somehow they also have abs). Momo has abs too (but we already knew that). Iroh got abs in prison. Azula has abs. Literally everyone has abs right now. Everyone has abs except Haru who only has a mustache. Nothing else. Just a mustache.

Sie looks up at the gondola that Iroh and Azula are riding as they make their escape. Unfortunately the bit about abs had not been long enough for them to escape unnoticed. Sie decides that this is it. This will be the moment that he gets rid of that pesky merchant and her meddling cabbages.

.oOo.

Offering a guard no word of warning, Sie snatches a set of handcuffs from his belt. But it doesn’t matter because that guard is only a background character and everyone knows that background characters don’t have feelings. TyLee, happy for the opportunity to pretend like she is at the circus again, dashes up the cable. Sie blasts himself with a wave of green fire onto the gondola.

Azula is there. Iroh and Zuko are there (but they are not talking; everytime Zuko tries to speak Iroh ‘hmmps’ and turns his back). Hakoda is there. And for some reason, so is Suki. No one knows how Suki managed to get up there. She hadn’t even been a part of the breakout. No less she declares how excited she is for a rematch against TyLee.

“Me too!” Says Zuko. He looks over at Sie, who he has actually been getting along with rather well lately. He realizes that it is actually Azula who needs to fight the princess Sie. His fight is with Iroh. He knows how it will end. It will end with him in tears. And then Iroh crying for making him cry. And then he crying harder for making Iroh cry. And then Ursa crying for leaving her family behind and losing so much free entertainment.

Sie strikes first, kicking an arc of fire at Azula. The cabbage merchant dodges the attack. She wishes that she had her cabbages to throw. A hole in the sky opens up and her cabbage stall drops onto the gondola. Like a kid on a seesaw at the park, Suki is catapulted back to Kyoshi island. She is not happy that she didn’t get her rematch. But she is glad to be home, she had left the stove on.

Sie snarls, why did things always come so easily to that vile merchant. Nothing ever comes easily to him. He is just regular old princess Sie and his father expects so much from him. No less, he keeps blasting green fire at her. All the while TyLee is jabbing and swiping at the air, not realizing that her opponent is no longer there.

“I don’t need you Zuko, I have cool™ sunglasses now.” Iroh remarks.

“But I need you, uncle.” Zuko replies. “I made a mistake.” Sie was being supportive and everything, but Ozai! Ozai is a beat. A toilet paper shrouded absolute fiend. “I care about you, uncle.”

Iroh readjust his shades, “Did I ever tell you the story of the old man and his pet rabaroo?”

Zuko shakes his head and prepares himself for a long story with a confusing metaphors. Instead, Iroh relays the tale of the two lovers but with a rabaroo and an old man instead.

Hakoda doesn’t ‘do anything because he has stage fright and the guards have taken to watching the scene unfold with bowls of popcorn.

Sie does not have stage right, he kicks more fire at Azula who begins her magical girl transformation. “I don’t think so!” Sie declares before doing the unthinkable. He takes one of her own cabbages and throws it at her, knocking her to the floor, which is actually the roof because they are on the gondola, not in it. So the floor and the roof are technically the same thing???? Sie does not have time to contemplate the circumstances under which a roof can become a floor, for he finally has the upperhand.

“There's the warden! I see him!” One of the guards points out through a mouthful of popcorn. Sie shudders, he knows that something is going to go astray. Nothing ever just comes easily for him.

“Cut the line!” The wardan hollars. Unlike Suki, he is in the gondola for a reason. He likes to read sappy romance novels and shonen manga on his breaks. He is fine with everyone knowing that he likes romance novels, but no one can know that he is a weeb so he hides in a random gondola on his lunch breaks.

“He wants us to cut the line” Says the guard.

“But if we cut the line, there's no way he'll survive!” Declares the guard next to him. The first guard does not know why this one is shouting as they are sitting right next to each other.

“Shhhh!” hisses a third guard. “I’m trying to hear the movie!”

The first guard jams the gondola system with the nearest object he could find, which, surprisingly, is a mechanism specifically for emergency braking. The abrupt halt causes the merchant’s stall to teeter precariously. Sie smirks but the stall does not fall.

“WOOOO HOOO!” Aang shouts as he sails by on his glider. “I’M ALIVE AGAIN! WHEEEE!” The gust of wind that follows him, pushes the stall closer the the edge. Azula is twitching anxiously and Sie is watching smugly.

He swoops down a second time, this time Momo follows. Momo, who is still unapologetically jacked, only nudges the stall and it finally falls over the edge.

Azula’s eyes seem to narrow, but she doesn’t even have time to shout, “my cabbages!! Before TyLee exclaims, “they’re about to cut the line!”

Sie does not have time to relish in the cabbage merchant’s visible distress. “Then it's time to leave.” For once things go according to plan and her blasts himself onto a gondola that just so happens to be approaching. “Goodbye, merchant.”

“They're cutting the line! The gondola's about to go!” Zuko notes.

“Come on nephew, we will cry at each other later.” Iroh gives a particularly loud pterodactyl screech. The sky splits and a flock of the prehistoric marvels swoop down. Iroh extends a hand and helps Zuko onto one of them.

“What are you doing?” A guard shouts, drawing attention to Mai, who throws a fidget spinner in Sie’s direction.

“Testing out my new weapons.” She shrugs. She is confident that figit spinners are more effective than knives because in PG-13 shows blood is not allowed to be shown and she is very tired of having always missing her targets or simply pinning them to walls by their clothes. “I think that this one is going to work.”

Azula, not one to back down over a simple mild inconvenience, realizes that not all is lost. Her new business partner might have abandoned her, but her cabbage stall is still clinging to the gondola. She must stop them from cutting the line! “What is she doing?” Sie asks upon noticing Azula pickpocketing Mai for her fidget spinner.

Ty Lee shrugs and gives a mumbled “I dunno.”

Azula flicks the fidget spinner and it lands a few hits and one critical strike before returning to her. The guards have fallen. She watches the gondola and her cabbages drift off to safety. “My cabbages.” She sighs with relief.

“Leave us alone.” Most of the guards leave at Sie’s command. “I never expected this from you.” She looks to Mai and TyLee as though it was they who had assisted the gondala’s escape.”The thing I don't understand is why. Why would you do it? You know the consequences.”

Mai shrugs and says, “I didn’t know she could do that much damage with a fidget spinner.”

Sie turns to Azula. “And you! You know exactly what happens to people who interfere with my plans.” He pauses for a moment to recall his objective. For a moment, he doesn’t think that he has one. But then he remembers that his father had wanted him to find Zuko for betraying his nation again. He was also sent there to make sure that no prisoners escaped. Ozai bet one of his war generals 300 gold pieces and a roll of toilet paper that no one would ever escape the Boiling Rock. But now Hakoda, Suki, Iroh, and Zuko have escaped. “You know how this is going to end.”

“I guess you just don't know people as well as you think you do.” Azula says. She shudders to herself. Something is not right about this. No, she does not like this at all. She has a deep aversion to what she is about to say and she can’t place why. She ignores the unsettling feeling growing within her. “You miscalculated. I love cabbages more than I fear you!”

Sie’s face twists into a snarl and pulls out a calculator, it reads ‘12’. Just ‘12’. “No, you miscalculated!” He points furiously at the calculator. “You should have feared me more!”

Azula is in fact afraid. But not of the princess. She is afraid of the princess’ words. Not because they have been directed at her, but because of that something. That strange something, that she cannot place. She feels like she should be offended. She is suddenly overcome by a sadness. A feeling as though she has lost something dear and important. But her cabbages are safely sitting on the other rim of the volcano. So what then? What has she lost? Why did his words make her feel so hollow? Why did it leave her feeling so haunted to inform him that he has miscalculated.

Sie begins to generate lighting. Azula clutches the fidget spinner. Mai too holds a fidget spinner. But before Sie can send off his lightning bolt, TyLee jabs him several times and he falls. Azula can’t help but feel a hint of shock; she has no connection to TyLee whatsoever.

“Sorry, my hand slipped!” She explains apologetically, clearing up any confusion.

Sie is well aware that TyLee sometimes has muscle spasms. They mostly happen when she stands or sits still for too long. But in his disgust and outrage, he forgets this. Laying with his cheek pressed firmly against the floor, Sie declares, “you're both fools!”

Azula looks between Mai and TyLee. She isn’t sure which one of them isn’t a fool.

“What shall we do with them, princess?” Asks one of the remaining guards.

“Put them somewhere I'll never have to see their faces again, and let them rot!” Sie says. He realizes that he is being very harsh and that this is probably a misunderstanding. But he has had a taste of power and power changes people. He is a new man now. He decides that he is no longer going to be timid and shy. He is going to be a badass like Iroh.

The guards cuff Mai and TyLee and whisk them away before he can say that he was referring to Azula and TyLee, not Mai and TyLee. He does not have a problem with Mai, as far as he is concerned, she is a victim of the evil merchant too.

The merchant in question had pickpocketed two cheez-its and is smirking at him as a blue dragon flies her to safety. This is the worst day of Sie’s life.

.oOo.

Feeling a sense of accomplishment, Azula sets up her cabbage stall next to the one she had left in the Fire Nation capital. She takes down her ‘back in 15’ sign. And what an eventful fifteen minutes those had been!

“Oh good, I’ve been waiting for you for ten…”

Azula does not let the female soldier finish, for she knows that the woman is only going to set her stalls on fire again. She hastily packs up and hustles to find the tea man.

.oOo.

“Hello?” The warden says into the phone.

“Hello, warden!” Greets the man on the other end.

“Is this Jake from State Farm?”

“It is!” The many replies.

“Wonderful, I’m calling about a busted window and a broken gondola system…”

#Avatar #Azula #Cabbage Man #Zuko #Iroh #Mai #TyLee #Fanfiction

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kegareki · 5 years

Text

sometimes you write a 4500 word crossover between your naruto au and someone else’s. that’s just how life goes.

so here’s my 4500 word crossover between my naruto au shionverse (minato/oc, fix-it fic with gratuitous amounts of dimensional travel side-stories) and @crescentmoonrider‘s turtle au (kakashi dies; obito and rin say “fuck the system” and end up helping out at least two separate revolutions; meanwhile, in konoha, minato and orochimaru are science bffs)

“Being Shion’s apprentice will be fun,” he thought. “Space-time shenanigans are the most hilarious shenanigans,” he told Kakashi sagely. “I’ll be fine,” he assured Rin.

Obito would like to go back into the past and punch himself for being so fucking stupid.

“This is the third time this month!” he whisper-yells, tugging at his hair in despair. “Why am I so bad at sealwork?! /Why?!/”

Shion is peering at his quick rendering of his beautiful, dysfunctional seal, because sealwork is never kind enough to just follow them into another dimension. At least this time they’re in the same spot as they were before, in their own dimension, but that’s a questionable blessing, considering it’s Tobirama’s backyard. He had barely been born when Shion brought Hashirama and Tobirama back; he has no idea if the house looming behind them is actually Tobirama’s or if he appropriated it from another Senju Clan member.

/These/ things are what he has to concern himself with, now. Gods. Kakashi’s going to laugh at him as soon as they get back.

Tobirama had been /watching them/, too, from the safety of his kitchen. Obito bets that he’s going to finish his breakfast before meandering over to the Hokage Tower to tell Minato that his /spouse and almost-child/ have landed themselves in an entirely different universe.

Shion finally leans back onto their haunches, their forearms resettling on their thighs, and look at Obito. “It’s a very nice design,” they begin, because they /always/ begin with the compliments. “Incorporating the shape of your Mangekyo into the design, while remaining conscious of the Uzumaki spirals—it’s inspired. If you can make it work, it’s going to be a pretty piece of sealwork. However…”

Obito tries very hard not to sigh as he crouches down next to them to see the flaws that they’re pointing out.

Maybe he should have asked to shadow Minato during his Hokageship. That’d probably be easier than /this/.

- - -

After Obito has copied out the corrections onto his Correction Scroll, which documents his many failures, they wander out of the Senju Clan compound. It’s been half an hour, or nearly, and no one has come to investigate the presence of two people who should definitely not be here; it’s sort of disappointing.

Though, he thinks, eyeing the overgrowth on the path that in their dimension is kept tidy, maybe that has less to do with shitty security and more to do with an empty compound.

He makes a mental note to talk to Minato about it, just in case it really /is/ shitty security. With all the time they spend criticizing alternate universe Konohas, they really need to make sure that they have room to talk.

The landscape of every Konoha is a little different, even the Hokage Mountain: most of the time, it’s the four that he is familiar with—Hashirama, Tobirama, Hiruzen, and Minato—but sometimes there are additions, like Jiraiya as the Godaime, or substitutions, like Orochimaru as the Yondaime.

(No one talks about those dimensions, much. After hearing about how /their/ Orochimaru cut open Shion’s resurrections to see how close they are to real, alive people, Obito thinks that he understands. There are some things that you don’t want your mind to dwell on—things that you thought you knew would never happen, but did.)

In this dimension, there are no surprises on the Hokage Mountain. As they walk through the streets, passing from residential to commercial, Obito can pick out the familiar structures: there’s the convenience store with Saki’s favorite pudding cups; there’s the Mokuton-flush park that Kakashi’s pack loves so much; there’s the bakery that sells Yondaime cheesecakes.

He wonders if they still sell them, here. The current Hokage might not be the Yondaime.

As if sensing his thoughts, Shion nudges his ribs with an elbow and nods their head at a mysticism shop. “They bought the property from candlemakers two months ago.”

So Minato made it past his usual time of death. Obito perks up, at that: it’s always kind of fun to see Minato a decade into his Hokageship. It was alarming, the first time, to see him so overworked and /old/, and it’s still kind of sad to look at him if he’s a widower, but the dimensions where Minato is Hokage are usually better than dimensions where Hiruzen is.

That’s not really that hard to do, though, when compared to the guy who lets someone experimenting on Konoha’s clanless orphans go and who allows his old friend to continue recruiting children into an army sealed into obedience to someone other than the military leader of Konoha.

Honestly. Minato would actually have to /try/ to be worse.

- - -

He just /had/ to jinx it, didn’t he?

They’ve entered some weird dimensions, but this one is by far the most unsettling: Minato is Hokage, and that doesn’t actually seem to be a good thing.

As per their usual protocol, Shion and Obito snooped around a bit to check on the status of Konoha before deciding whether or not to approach the current Hokage. Konoha didn’t appear terribly beleaguered, in spite of several important missing chakra signatures (Obito isn’t here, and neither are Rin or Kakashi) and in spite of Orochimaru apparently being a jounin-sensei, so they went, “Eh, looks good enough,” and went and booked a meeting with the Hokage.

Obito is really, really regretting it.

It’s not that Minato thinks they’re actually very terrible spies instead of dimensional travelers. It’s that Minato’s grief is—weird. In most dimensions, where Minato’s ability to demolish an entire army by himself only happens once and only then during a war, Minato carries his grief with him like a smothering shroud, weighing him down. This dimension’s Minato has tapped into the more active side of grief, like it’s a path that he’s digging with other people’s graves.

Minato looks at him like a ghost, like he’s something lost, like he would kill the Shinigami to bring him back. It’s the sort of expression that’s at home on Shion’s face, during their darkest moments, but Obito has only ever seen Minato wear it once, during the Third War and speaking to a gore-covered Shion.

He doesn’t know how to feel about this look being leveled at him now.

“You saved him,” Minato says, to Shion, without taking his eyes off of Obito. “How?”

Obito sneaks a glance at his shishou. It’s a difficult question to answer without sounding callous—/I went back for him/ is tough to swallow when nearly every Minato they’ve met hadn’t.

Shion’s eyes shutter, for a moment, in the barely-longer-than-a-blink way of closing their eyes that Minato does, but it’s the only real sign of their discomfort. “You want to know if there was something you could’ve done,” they say, their voice even, measured. “There wasn’t. You do the same thing, every time.”

Minato’s face does a funny thing, like he wants to make an expression but doesn’t know which, and he rubs his cheek with his palm, finally looking away from Obito. Obito lets out a breath that he didn’t know that he was holding. “And the others?” Minato asks. “Kakashi, Rin—they’re safe, in your timeline?”

“Our timelines diverged much earlier than Kannabi Bridge,” Shion replies after a small pause. “Certain events may remain constant, but the players and outcomes vary.”

Obito has never been in a dimension where all three of Minato’s students die. It’s far more likely that this dimension’s Obito is out there somewhere, plotting the end of the world under the early guidance of Madara, but when he opens his mouth to tell Minato so, something stops him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Minato—even if this isn’t /his/ Minato, it’s still /a/ Minato—but…

But he has the feeling that if he tells Minato that his dimension’s Obito is still alive, it will be tantamount to signing that Obito’s death warrant.

Minato would never hurt him. He /knows/ that. That doesn’t stop his skin from crawling, and it doesn’t stop his danger-sense from going haywire.

He is a shinobi before he is Minato’s student. He listens to his instincts. So he shuts his mouth and lets Shion keep the lead on this one, because if anyone’s an expert on Minato, even a Minato that lets Orochimaru have a genin team, it’s them.

(He still can’t shake off his anxiety until they are allowed to leave his office.

There is something /wrong/ here, and he is afraid to name it.)

- - -

They’re not slammed into the T&I cells. They’re let go after Minato is done interrogating them, with the implicit knowledge that they will be supervised for the duration of their stay. It’s reasonably lenient; Obito tries to pretend that it isn’t a hidden noose.

In their hotel room, after clearing it to make sure there are no bugs of any variety and slapping down a silencing seal, Shion sinks onto the corner of their bed and puts their face in their hands. Very quietly, they say, “We should have remembered that anyone can be an enemy.”

Obito’s nerves, already frazzled, leap straight to fraying. “But it’s /Minato-sensei/,” he insists, pushing off the chair at the desk to pace. “He can’t—he wouldn’t—”

“Minato does not always arrive on time,” Shion reminds him, “and anyone outside of our timeline is not an ally just because our version of them is.” They run their hands through their hair, fingers meeting at the nape of their neck, and let out a breath before sitting up, hands dropping to their lap. “We’ve gotten complacent. We need to be more thorough about information-gathering. If all three of you are presumed dead in this world…”

Generally, when people are assumed dead, they /are/ dead. Madara and Obito are the only consistent exceptions to that rule. Obito doesn't know how to feel about the idea that Rin or Kakashi might be playing dead, too. "I'll find their files," he says, feeling out their game plan. "It would've had to have been when Rin became a jinchuuriki, so... find out if their bodies were recovered." He pauses, then, with a kind of perverse cheer: "Oh, man, do you think Bakashi joined the Akatsuki with me?" Shion's mouth tugs at the corner. "It's gotta happen /sometime/. Maybe we'll get lucky and that'll be all this is." "Or maybe," Obito continues, "it's Rin who survived and turned me off the track of evildom, and we're, like, wandering monks who help people wherever we go! And we just avoid Konoha because we… didn't have you to get the compulsion seals off our hearts." His enthusiasm dampens, at that, and he sags against the wall. "Oh, man. Alternate versions of myself are so fucked."

“I would assume that an Akatsuki Kakashi and a wandering monk Rin would also be fucked,” Shion remarks, gently teasing. They crook their fingers at him in invitation, and he goes, lying across their lap with a gusty sigh. Shion makes a soft noise of amusement and begins to card their fingers through his hair. “Who knows? Maybe in this dimension, /you’re/ the good guy.”

Obito closes his eyes, tilting his head toward their hand. Kakashi would make fun of him for seeking positive touch, probably, if Kakashi didn’t do the exact same thing when stressed. “Guess I’m a wandering monk with Rin, then. Bakashi would never be able to convince me to be a good person. He /litters/.”

“I don’t think not picking up dog poop is littering.”

“He doesn’t find trash cans for his water bottles.”

“Oh, is /that/ who it is? Saki’s been complaining about the trash in Senju Park. Kakashi’s going to get himself banned if Saki catches him at it.”

Obito lets out a breath and relaxes. They’re going to figure out what to do and get out of Konoha before any traps are sprung. Everything will be fine.

- - -

In this, at least, he isn’t wrong. Over the course of the next few days, he flicks through a bunch of files in several different offices, committing the contents to memory, and all it takes to escape is a Kamui portal opening into a Uchiha safehouse thirty miles outside of Konoha.

He is never going to be able to thank his long-dead ancestors enough for their relentless paranoia. Uchiha safehouses are a /godsend/.

“Bakashi’s body was the only one recovered,” Obito explains. “He was missing his Sharingan, which points to either a very opportunistic thief or, uh, you know, me taking my eye back. It was definitely me, though, ‘cause…” He grimaces. “There’s, uh, research? On Madara’s body? Which was recovered from his super secret cave after it exploded?”

Shion stares at him for a long, uncomprehending moment. “They… Orochimaru has Madara’s body?”

“It’s all sanctioned, too, as far as I can tell,” Obito affirms. “I got the idea that they’re investigating, uh, death? And how to… delay it? Or stop it altogether?”

Shion’s mouth opens, as if to say something, but they close it without speaking. Their brow creases, and they turn to Konoha’s direction.

“Orochimaru took Team Seven to the Land of Waves,” Obito adds, quieter. “They signed out of Konoha the same day we got there.”

That’s a good thing: if Minato is endorsing Orochimaru’s death-defying research, Obito wants Shion to be as far from Orochimaru as possible. Even in other dimensions, where no one would have reason to know of Shion’s kekkai genkai, it worries him that one day someone /will/. The ability to raise the dead and to mold them into any shape they like—it’s a powerful kekkai genkai, and it’s not one that he wants Orochimaru to know of.

Maybe it’s silly, to be anxious about Orochimaru and Shion in the same place, but—their own Orochimaru played with Shion’s kekkai genkai when Shion was a chuunin, younger than Obito is now, and Obito would really like it if that never happened again.

The line of Shion’s shoulders is tense. They press their lips together, hard, before turning their head away from Konoha. “We should go farther before we stop,” they say after a moment.

Obito nods, accepting the unspoken request to move on from this subject, and opens another portal.

- - -

Moving on from Konoha and Orochimaru means that they’re on to this universe’s Obito and Rin, which is—well. Getting information on them would be easy, if they could figure out where to /go/. Neither Obito nor Rin have Shion’s Hiraishin seals inked on their bodies or Minato’s Hiraishin kunai on their bodies, and they have both been outside of Konoha for over a decade.

“This would be so much easier if our Kamuis led to the same dimension,” Obito complains. “We could’ve just hopped in there and waited til he needed something.”

Shion snorts. “Because /that/ sounds like a good idea that wouldn’t get us mauled by his jinchuuriki teammate.”

“I never said it was a good idea,” Obito points out. “I just said it’d be easier.”

“For a given definition of ‘easier’, sure.” Shion rolls their shoulders back and turns back to the map laid out in front of them, the set of their mouth falling into a grimace. “If you were going to avoid Konoha, where would you go?”

“The Dead Wastes,” Obito replies promptly. As a desert and as an oasis, people can go into the Dead Wastes and never come out. It’s pretty much the best spot for a villain lair, though alternate dimension Obitos never seem to think of it. “Failing that… probably Kiri, or I guess one of the smaller nations. Ame is pretty good at taking in fleeing shinobi, isn’t it?”

Shion hums thoughtfully. “It’s known for taking in refugees, yes. Why Kiri?”

Obito can’t say that it’s because the Mizukage is apparently very susceptible to genjutsu, if the various dimensions they’ve traveled to is any indication, which would be incredibly helpful if he ever wanted to make someone of extreme political import his pawn, so he instead says, “Um, obviously if I was a villain I’d want to have a great first appearance. You met a baby Naruto on a mission to Wave, right? And people almost died?” He doesn’t trip over the name of the Land of Waves, but he does frown, a little, remembering that that’s where Orochimaru is. Still: “That’d be such a great scene for villain-me to orchestrate. It’d really hammer home the kind of life a shinobi has. They’d probably cry.”

Shion lifts their head partway through his explanation to level him with an unimpressed look. "What? You /asked/," Obito defends. "I did," Shion agrees dryly, “though I wasn’t expecting such an /effervescent/ response.”

Obito rolls his eyes. “It’s not /my/ fault that I’d make a fantastic villain.”

- - -

It /is/ his fault that they go to Wave.

They travel most of the way through warp, but they make several stops to bury a Hiraishin tag. It provides a sense of security, Shion says, and Obito gets it, sort of: in order to warp using the Hiraishin, an anchor is needed.

After having Minato as his jounin-sensei, and now a few years into his apprenticeship under Shion, Obito is mostly used to them setting down tags like they think they’ll need to warp to a remote village in the Land of Hot Springs.

Mostly.

“It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs,” Obito groans once they hit the edge of Wave and Shion, predictably, puts down another tag. “All anyone has to do to find us is follow the trail of tags.”

“Are you /sure/ you got your tracking certification?” Shion wants to know. “I don’t think putting down a tag every few villages in a vague diagonal really counts as a trail.”

“A vague diagonal is still a diagonal. It’s a pattern. It’s a trail.”

“You seem very concerned that people are going to discover a dozen tags scattered across the Land of Hot Water and immediately realize that we have gone into Wave. We are going to be out of this dimension altogether by the end of the week.”

“We could also be /dead/ by the end of the week because you /put down a trail/.”

“Maybe if /this/ universe’s Obito ever learned to appreciate trails, we wouldn’t be hoping that he will be enough of a twelve-year-old villain to want to make his grand entrance on Zabuza’s coattails.”

Obito throws his hands into the air with a frustrated /augh!/ “Fine! Whatever! I give up! Leave as many trails as you want! Twelve-year-old villain Obito will be alive because he /didn’t/!”

“That is not necessarily a point in his favor, you realize,” Shion says, amused.

Obito jabs a finger at them. “You say that now, but just wait. We’re gonna be trampling everywhere, leaving Hiraishin tags, and he’s gonna sneak up on us and then we’ll be /dead/ because he’ll assume that Orochimaru made, like, test tube clone babies of him or something! /Just wait!/”

- - -

What actually happens is this:

After ten minutes of inspecting the impoverished village, Obito and Shion come to the conclusion that killing the rich and corrupt is a fully acceptable course of action, and after three days of observation of Gato’s men, they make their move—at the same time as this dimension’s Obito and Rin.

All four of them stop several feet from the entrance of Gato’s hideout and stare at each other in surprise.

The adrenaline has to go /somewhere/, so Obito blurts out, without thinking, “Holy shit, you really /are/ wandering monks!” and claps his hands over his mouth.

He is a little horrified at himself, but he’s not /wrong/. This universe’s Obito has /two/ eyes and one of those monk staffs. This universe’s Rin has a sidecut! Some part of his brain makes a note to bring that up to his Rin when they get home, just in case that’s something she’d be into. It looks good on, like, thirty-year-old her, anyway.

“What,” two-eyed Obito says.

“Oh my god,” sidecut Rin whispers, “he’s, like, sixteen.”

“I’m /seventeen/,” Obito corrects automatically. Kakashi and Rin’s birthdays are months before his, so he endures every winter stoically weathering their teasing about being a year younger than them. He /really/ does not want /alternate selves/ to do the same. “Uh—wow. Are you /avenging/ wandering monks? Are you here to kill Gato for being a corrupt piece of shit?”

Hesitantly, sidecut Rin nods. She is wearing one red glove, and pulls at the end of it, yanking it tighter against her fingers. “I assume you were going to do the same?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Obito confirms. “Cool. Now /this/ is an Obito I can get behind.” He doesn’t /look/ like a villain who wants to destroy the world with the moon. He’s more like the vengeance of the night, sneaking into rich people’s homes to slit their throats while they sleep. Or, he guesses, bludgeoning them with his monk staff.

Shion makes a vague annoyed noise. “I could have sworn I told you not to assume everyone is an ally less than a week ago,” they say, tugging Obito’s sleeve so that he falls back behind them.

He complies, but he huffs about it. “He’s /me/! If I can’t trust myself, who /can/ I trust?”

“Your shishou?” Shion says dryly, which, okay, point.

“Was I ever that peppy in my /life/?” two-eyed Obito whispers to sidecut Rin.

Sidecut Rin leans a little towards him to reply, bemused, “Oh, you /were/. You were /absolutely/ this peppy. Maybe even /worse/.”

“You’re lying,” he accuses her. “I was never that bad. Right? … Right?”

Instead of responding to him, she straightens and, with a clearing of her throat, redirects her attention to Shion and Obito. “We wouldn’t mind your help with Gato, if you’re still interested. Afterwards, we can…” She pauses delicately, sweeping her gaze over Shion (who probably didn’t become a shinobi in this universe) and Obito (who is very recognizably Obito, if a decade younger). “... talk.”

Shion gives them a long look before nodding. “That sounds reasonable.”

Obito sends two-eyed Obito and sidecut Rin a double thumbs-up. Being an avenging wandering monk is a dream that he didn’t even know he had until today, and now he’s /fulfilling it/.

Rin is going to be /so/ jealous when she hears about this.

- - -

Three hours and two dozen dead bodies later, they relocate to two-eyed Obito and sidecut Rin’s camp. It is not especially remarkable, except for how it has a barrier seal and a silencing seal. Sidecut Rin activates both with an ease of familiarity that their Rin lacks; although she wears tags on the strings connecting her overskirt, it still comes as a surprise. Two-eyed Obito nudges the pile of wood in the center of camp with his foot and adds another few branches before blowing fire onto it.

“I /told/ you that looks cool,” Obito tells Shion, feeling strangely satisfied.

Shion rolls their eyes. “I’ll try to be more impressed with your dragon-fire.”

Sidecut Rin smiles briefly, like that exchange is something nostalgic, and gestures for them to take a seat around the fire. “So,” she says, “you look like Obito, you talk like Obito, but this never happened in our past.”

Obito glances at Shion, who shrugs a go-ahead because apparently killing twenty-odd people without turning on each other is enough of a sign that they can be trusted with this much, and shrugs back. “Yeah, our timelines diverged, like, ten years before I was born or something. Tobirama tried to narrow it down to an exact timeframe, but I think he got fed up with the variables and quit.”

“He doesn’t /quit/, he delegates,” Shion corrects. “I think Saki’s cousin is figuring it out now.”

“Right, my mistake.”

“I’m sorry,” Rin says after a pause, “did you say Tobirama?”

“Yep.” Obito nods. They’ve moved easily into Obito’s favorite part of the explanation: the other party’s incredulity, growing until they hit a stage of suspended disbelief. “Senju Tobirama, you know, the Niidaime? Wears the funky faceplate? Looks like he’d sunburn in a second?”

Sidecut Rin and two-eyed Obito exchange a /look/.

“Did… did he not die in your timeline?” two-eyed Obito asks, sounding like he’s regretting the question even as he’s saying it.

“Oh, no, he did,” Obito assures them. “We just brought him back.”

“You what now,” two-eyed Obito says.

He and sidecut Rin exchange another look, longer this time. It’s an entire conversation with only facial expressions: two-eyed Obito’s eyes demand /what the fuck is happening/ and sidecut Rin’s equally agitated stare says /I have no idea, don’t ask me, ask your sixteen-year-old self/. This is, apparently, not what two-eyed Obito wants to hear, because he lets out a breath and runs a gloved hand through his hair.

“Okay, say that we believe you,” two-eyed Obito says, even though it’s obvious that they kind of do. “Why are you /here/? Are you avenging wandering dimension-travelers?”

Obito’s eyes widen. He turns to look hopefully at Shion.

“No,” Shion denies immediately, then amends, “Not until you’re a jounin. /I’m/ not going to be an avenging dimension-traveler, but you can take Tobirama along with you when you’re a jounin.”

Obito pumps his fist into the air. “Yesss. He’s gonna /love/ kicking Madara’s ass again.”

“So you travel dimensions… regularly?” two-eyed Obito tries to clarify.

Obito pulls a card out of his pouch and hands it over. On one side it says KONOHA’S TIME-SPACE DIVISION, with the members’ names below, and on the other side it lists major events that may make it differ from other dimensions.

“No Kyuubi Attack, no Naruto,” sidecut Rin reads aloud from over two-eyed Obito’s shoulder. “All members of Team Minato are…” Her voice trails off, and she reads the rest of the card in silence.

Two-eyed Obito’s eyes flash red, for a moment, possibly checking for genjutsu but maybe memorizing the contents of the card. He looks over at Obito and Shion, mouth pulling downward in a frown. “So you’re… Iekami Shion? I’ve never heard of you.”

Shion lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m usually a civilian or a member of ROOT.”

“Of… what?” sidecut Rin asks.

Obito breathes out an “oh, /man/” and laughs. “Wow. It feels really weird, now, to talk to someone from Konoha who doesn’t know about ROOT. It’s, like, Shimura Danzo’s underground army? He steals kids from orphanages and from their clan grounds and, like, brainwashes them.”

“What,” two-eyed Obito says flatly.

Obito looks at Shion. “You explain. You’re better at it than I am.”

Shion elbows him in the ribs. “You won’t get better if you keep passing it off to me.”

“I’m still your apprentice! You’re /obligated/ to take over when I’m in over my head!”

“/Itachi/ could do this, and he’s /eight/. Do you really want to be outdone by an eight-year-old?”

“That doesn’t count! He’d be a genin if he was allowed to graduate!”

“Am I supposed to agree that a genin should be better at giving reports than a jounin hopeful?”

“Well, when you put it like /that/…” Obito groans. “Okay, jeez. Turning on serious mode.” He takes in a breath and composes his expression into what he has termed his Serious Face, which looks a lot like Minato when Minato has his hands folded in front of his mouth and his elbows on his desk. “Shion-shishou was supervising my sealwork, since I was fiddling with dimensions—I’ve been trying to translate Kamui into sealwork, which is /so hard/, you have /no idea/—and, like usual, I fucked up and we landed in this dimension…”

#noriwritey #shionverse #turtle au #naruto #obito makes the 'konoha's time-space division' cards himself. sometimes he looks at all the shit he has to put on the back and just goes #'wow. life's really fucked up huh.'#kakashi (who has had to sit thru yrs of minato & shion's space-time shenanigans & now has to deal w obito's too): *sighs* it sure is #shion and obito are apparently physically incapable of not bickering or bantering with each other #it's even worse with kakashi in the mix #but . yeah. turtle au obito and rin listen to obito's entire long and embellished tale #(which includes a tangent abt the evils of man- and alienkind. turtle au obito nods along like yes u are so right #plant monsters are in fact the devil)#and if they end it without even once being like 'wow i want to adopt you plz be an avenging wandering monk w us' i will eat my hat #this also assumes that root is uh. a konoha secret? so people who left konoha wldnt know abt it if they didnt know before they left #what good is a secret underground army if its not actually secret ya kno #plz ask us about our aus we love them #i left this open-ended because. well. obito wld absolutely love to be an avenging wandering monk.#shion: we ? need to go back ? to our own universe ????#obito: then we just need to make sure we can come back *starts working on a seal to pin down this singular dimension*

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basalt-dnd · 6 years

Photo

The Yvel-Takan, or ‘Evil Taker’, a parasitic demon. Clarification that when the Yvel is banished from its host, it’s forced out of the body but not banished to another plane.

As usual, there’s a story with some background and lore under the cut. I have to say, I really like how the Yvel’s story turned out. A warning that it is rather long.

The art blended into the red splashes is the stock art ‘Ghost’ by Maria Semelevich. Please check out her work- her photomanipulations are amazing!

The cart trail became thick with mud as sheets of rain continued to fall. A mangy dog cowered underneath the bushes, whining at passing carriages. A passing donkey seemed fearful of its presence and tried to pull away from its lead. Most of the carts were heading home from market, and very few of the merchants paid the dog any attention. It was a miserable day, and getting out of the mud was the priority.

“Here, girl,” a man kneeled and gestured towards the dog. It sniffed in his direction, and he carefully offered it a piece of dried meat. The dog examined the meat and glanced warily at the man before chewing at it, “There you go. We should get you someplace warm.”

Every few paces the man took, he called softly back to the dog and waved it over. It followed him a few feet at a time. After depleting his supply of jerky and slogging through the mud for an hour until he reached the city, he arrived home.

He ducked into a tiny house with a gas lantern out from, and the dog shuffled after. Immediately, the man got to work collecting a bowl of rainwater for the dog, making a nest of old clothes for it to sleep in, and cleaning the mud from its fur. Despite having the nest of rags, it crawled into the man’s cot and shook off the rainwater on its fur, there. The man gave a soft smile and shook his head. A knock on the door startled the dog into running under the table.

“Vic! You’re back so late,” Mattias pulls down his hood and grins.

“I expected later, with the rain,” Vic responds, trying to coax the dog from under the table.

“Wh- You brought a dog?” Mattias shuts the door.

“Well, she was alone in the rain...” Vic starts to trail off.

“No, she’s perfect,” Mattias interrupts, leaning to look at the mutt under the table, “What’s her name?”

“I didn’t come up with one.”

“How about Tallow?” He suggests, reaching to let the dog lick his hand. Vic stands up.

“I’m not naming her after candles,” he begins unpacking his satchel, organizing his jars of wax and bound wicks.

“You love candlemaking,” Mattias points out as the dog headbutts his arm.

“I do it for a living. I don’t need to name the dog after it,” Vic counts through the silver he made at the market for the day, musing about how they’d need to get proper food for the dog.

“Don’t you like your new name, Tallow?” Under the table, Mattias laid down with the dog. She licked his face and he scratched her behind the ears.

“Fine, Tallow it is,” Vic sighed.

“You know you love me,” Mattias seemed to be joking to both of them. He got up from under the table- more of a barrel, really- and Tallow slowly wagged her tail at his feet. It was a peaceful night, with the rain drumming on the roof as they fell asleep. The cot was a bit too crowded and a bit too warm with the addition of Tallow, but it was okay. She had a home, now. That was what mattered.

---

Over a year passed, and the stormy autumn gave way to a chilling winter. They spent more silver than they ought to on quilts. Now, Vic was wrapped in one over a tiny cauldron of beeswax. He was always cold, and the room was all the colder without Mattias around. It was a busy week for the town guard, and Mattias wasn’t always able to come home for the night.

Tallow slept against Vic’s back as he dipped candles. They were almost ready, and just in time for the shortest days of the year. Candles were in high demand with the days growing shorter.

That afternoon, Mattias returned home. It was pitch-dark outside, as if it were night. He had dark bags under his eyes, and his smile was a bit weaker than usual. Part of his arm was wrapped in cloth and bandages.

“Let me get you some tea,” Vic hurried to make tea and placed it in Mattias’ hands. Something was wrong. He rarely saw Mattias like this.

“The demons are back,” he muttered between sips. Vic just nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Back? I thought it was devils, before,” he asked, rubbing Mattias’ back and wrapping him in a quilt as he drank his tea.

“Yeah, it was. Same thing,” Mattias said, never-mind that they both knew the differences between demons and devils. He put down the mug. Tallow rushed to his feet and wagged her tail, and his smile regained a bit of its strength, “Hey there, Tal.”

“She missed you,” Vic pats the dog on the head, and she walks in circles excitedly. Mattias gave a tiny chuckle and scratched Tallow’s ears.

“I missed both of you,” he took another sip of tea. Another peaceful night, haunted by the omnipresent danger of demon attack. Mattias re-bandaged his arm, which was scathed from the claws of a quasit. They may have been tiny, but their poison easily infected wounds. He ate, finished his tea, and immediately went to sleep. Vic didn’t know the last time Mattias had gotten rest. He stayed up a bit longer, playing with Tallow with a scrap of cloth and waiting for his candles to cool.

---

Mattias was gone by the time Vic woke up, having already left for his guard shift. Tallow was just outside, romping around in the thin layer of snow that coated the cobbled streets.

So the morning went as it usually did, with Vic fixing himself and Tallow breakfast. Vic paused from frying an egg as a growl came from outside. It sounded like Tallow, but in the time that he had gotten to know her, she almost never growled.

He threw open the door and looked around the street for signs of the dog. She had quieted down, but was staring towards an alley directly across the street. Vic could’ve sworn he saw a person’s shadow on the snow. It looked a bit like smoke.

“Tal, come here,” he waved her in, but she didn’t turn to look at him. She started walking down the street, and he ran after her, “Tal!” The dog turned and looked up at him, and Vic’s chest tightened. Something was wrong. Her expression wasn’t the same. Her tail didn’t wag when she saw him. Her ears were pointed back. She was almost limping.

“Tal, come on,” Vic crouched down in front of the dog, stretching out a hand. She usually headbutted him when he did that. He didn’t expect her to bite him. He didn’t expect her to draw little droplets of blood that speckled the snow. He didn’t expect to hear his own shout.

His chest rose and fell at an unsteady pace as he got to his feet. The snow stung against the bite as he lifted himself up, “Tallow...?” It was a whisper, now. The dog was backing away from him, her eyes darker. Snowflakes fell on her fur. Usually she would shake them off. She didn’t. She ran down the street, and Vic was frozen in place.

As the dog approached the frozen pond down the street, Vic heard the shouts of town guards. One rushed past him, a spear in hand. Another cornered the dog. It couldn’t have been Tallow. Vic couldn’t imagine it was Tallow.

One of the guards was bitten on his calf. A dog didn’t have that kind of bite. Rivulets of the blood ran in the cracks between the cobblestone. The other guard raised her spear and struck at the dog. Vic ran towards them.

“Hey!” His lungs felt raw from the scream, “Don’t hurt her!” He nearly slipped on the ice as he grabbed at the guard’s spear, trying to wrench it away from her. There was no way he was strong enough. She pulled the weapon back and it slipped from her grasp. A horrible yelp pierced the air as the spear embedded in the dog’s side.

“Sir, we’re dealing with a demon,” the guardswoman shook Vic off of her arm. He crashed to the ground beside the dog. He knew she meant well. He knew- but he wasn’t going to let it be the death of Tallow. Tears formed in his eyes as he held the dog to his chest. The guard stood above him. She wasn’t sure of what to do. Footsteps were approaching from all directions, closing in on the crumpled heap that insisted on saving a demon.

“Vic!” Mattias shouted, out-of-breath and bleeding. Vic only remembered the mutt struggling at him and ripping up his tunic. She bit at his face as he tried to hold her. The rest was a blur. He was dragged to his feet, and Tallow was pried from his arms. He was dizzy and couldn’t stand without Mattias’ support. Mattias also served to hold him back as the guards held the dog still. A cleric arrived. His name was Roderick- Vic had seen him at church, before. Dark smoke was pulled from Tallow’s nose. Her side was oozing black ichor and her chest quivered with painful convulsions. Mattias was trying not to break from an even face. If he did, he would cry. No, he was crying. They were silent tears, a contrast to Vic’s fitful sobbing.

Finally, finally Tallow slumped to the ground and the shadow fled in an instant. She remained still, and then stood. She was shivering and her tail drooped, but she ran to Vic and Mattias. She was alive. They had their Tallow back.

They had her back.

---

A week had passed. Demons had been driven from the border, at least for the moment. Vic and Mattias stood in the archway of the city’s largest church to thank Roderick.

“What was it?” Vic asked, after formalities had been said and they had repaid Roderick for his help with fine, tallow candles for the church. Vic couldn’t speak of the demon without squeezing Mattias’ hand.

“A Yvel-Takan, I believe,” Roderick answered, “The ‘evil-taker’. A smokey demon, not unlike a human in shape and size. It’s a parasite, of sorts. A devastating creature, and perhaps the worst of Abyssal creatures that are relatively common in the mortal realm.”

They didn’t say much more. After all, the couple needed to be on their way home to change Tallow’s bandage wrappings. They couldn’t pass up on getting her a treat of dried jerky on the way home. She took quite a liking to it after that day when she first met Vic. They may have never discovered where Tallow was from or why they met her, but she was a gift and a miracle that no demon would take from them.

“So if we ever find another dog, can we name them Wick? How about Chandler?”

“Cut it out with the candle names. Let’s get home.”

#dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #d&d 5e homebrew #homebrew #lore #npc #rpg #tabletop rpg #monster #creature #demon #statblock

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kits-arcana · 3 years

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Small Details About My MC

CW// I talk about things that can be uncomfy such as skin issues and general scarring. If those bother you maybe skip this post! These are details I don't usually talk about or draw (just because I'm not sure how to draw them :/)

Katherina has stretch marks! I have stretch marks of my own and putting them on a character that I love and is loved by others makes me feel more confident.

Katherina has scarring from random injuries and the end of Julian's story. Katherina was a very clumsy kid like me. I have some scarring from my misadventures, and I feel like it's obvious she would have some sort of scarring after the end of Julian's tale...the end of anyone's tale, really.

Katherina has eczema! Specifically, Dyshidrotic eczema, which is when small blisters and cracking/flakey skin cover your hands, feet, etc. Since I was about 12 I've had these blisters and really cracked hands, but my dad and I have theorized I had eczema since he had it as a kid. We aren't sure if that's for sure what's wrong, but considering it can be brought on by stress (that's what causes Katherina's eczema along with allergies) and this skin reaction started in one of the most stressful and upsetting times in my life, I've said I could have eczema for a long time. Anyways, giving Katherina something you rarely see characters having despite how common the issue is really was comforting to me.

So, as mentioned in the last bullet point, Katherina has allergies! She's allergic to cockroaches (weird, I know, but it's something I recall being told I was allergic to) or the Vesuvian equivalent, and certain plants.

And again, as mentioned above, Katherina has allergies to certain plants so she always works with gloves when working with her allergens.

Moving away from that, Katherina is an ENFJ-T.

Katherina plays guitar or the Vesuvian equivalent. Also the vielle, but she lets Julian handle that instrument.

Katherina burns in the sun, but the burn turns into a nice tan. She also gets freckles when out in the sun for a long time.

Sometime between the death of Lucio and the events of the prologue, she got in contact with her parents. Obviously when they thought she was dead but they received a message from her, they were freaked out. But she met up with them and let's just say they were ecstatic to see their child alive and well.

Katherina actually always dreamed of being a candlemaker. It's an odd career to picture someone dreaming of being, but she genuinely loves creating designs for candles and all of the colors. (I've always loved the concept of candle-making!)

Katherina's comfort food is garlic bread.

And that's all I can think of right now! TYSM for reading.

#the arcana #the arcana mc

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littlecajunlady · 6 years

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Critical Role Episode 46: Cindergrove Revisited

This episode is basically 3 hours of them fighting fire monsters so it really didn’t do much for me. Except for Gern Blanston, of course. I don’t think this one would have been nearly as entertaining without him.

10:45 – Game starts 13:54 – Can VM handle their own?, Grog to Scanlan "You're better than good, buddy" 22:35 – Gern Blanston, 24:25 – He introduces himself, a simple candlemaker 28:05 – Vox Machina sounds like a shite band, 29:00 – Coral, Stimpy, & Fatty Arbuckle 32:00 – Chris's infectious accent, purple hearts 33:10 - Keyleth's first time going fire elemental, Grog is worried about her (Keyleth intimidates some fire elementals, Vex sees Gern pocket something) 44:50 – Gern has Fatty Arbuckle deliver a candle, 47:55 – "Squeeze the candle, Fatty Arbuckle!" 57:05 – Scanlan inspires Gern ♪ "I was pretty inspired by your dick lightning" 1:03:40 – Gern "This is what Fatty would've wanted" 1:06:05 – Vex imitates Gern's accent and he doesn't appreciate it 1:14:55 – Scanlan gets HDYWTDT, Scanlan tries to impress Gern 1:17:15 - Grog destroys the creatures Gern froze, returns frozen Fatty to Gern 1:18:45 - Break starts 1:35:00 – Break ends (Fight with Efreeti begins at 1:41:00) 1:52:50 – Coral rolls on top of Gern to put out the flames, Stimpy throws a snowball 1:57:35 – Percy "I will be on fire", Gern "He brought a plastic shelf", Scanlan's resilient sphere 2:00:40 – Scanlan heals Gern ♪ (Disco Inferno) 2:03:50 – 50 to a million gallons of water, Keyleth's tidal wave takes out 2 elementals 2:08:35 – The Efreeti is a genie in a bottle 2:19:00 – Gern starts a dance party with his undead, uses inspiration and sings terribly 2:23:20 - Gern sees Scanlan, Liam ships it/2:24:44 – Scanlan heals Gern ♪ (Turn down for what) 2:28:30 – Chris plays Thriller and they all dance ♪ 2:30:45 – You don't want to fuck with Grog's beard, Chris "She has a name" 2:32:25 – Vax kills salamander creature/Grog thinks he can do magic now 2:34:10 – Gern pulls out his flying broom, Laura's reaction 2:38:55 – Gern is in lava & Vex helps, Sam "And to steal the broom"/Grog just wants to help Efreeti 2:40:00 – Scanlan's counterspell (Vex offers to hold the broom, Gern does 76 points of damage with a disintegrate spell, Percy also does a bunch of damage) 2:52:25 – Scanlan gets the HDYWTDT, Grog casts beheading 2:54:15 – Vex steals the broom 2:58:10 - Grog tries to use his "magic" to help with ritual to close the portal 3:00:30 – Gern gives Coral a candle to help close the rift, RIP Coral (Keyleth and Vax each help in the ritual) 3:08:20 – Keyleth helps Vax to his feet and heals him 3:10:05 - Gern just happy to help 3:10:35 – Keyleth's father is proud of her 3:13:00 - #FeelTheGern 3:14:10 – Chris plays Don't You Forget About Me ♪ 3:15:45 – Vex heals Gern 3:17:15 – Gern very quickly tells his backstory and leaves 3:19:30 – This isn't Keyleth's homeland, Scanlan 3:21:15 – Game ends

#critical role #timestamps #cr 46 #critical role spoilers #critical role episode 46 #critical role cindergrove revisited #cindergrove revisited

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jokikudistrict · 6 years

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c'est beaucoup [ héloïse | trial 3.5 | re: arisa, noctem | attn: alastor, noctem, yata ]

If Arisa was going to snap like that, then so was Héloïse. This girl wanted an interesting trial… oh boy. Clearly she was getting one now. Nothing could be more interesting than having someone die in the middle of something, and then get called out on stuff that is completely bs? Thanks Arisa.

“HAha, okay. FIRST OF ALL, b*tch, I did not take anything that was not going to be helpful to us. I just thought, oh, maybe, some other people here could do something similar! I put all of the bug traps I found in the garbage room back into Alastor’s room because I just needed to see if they were the same! Like I said before, I am not cleaning up after someone else’s mess!”

She waved her hand at Arisa, not caring about what she was saying.

“It is not my fault that the idiot candlemaker could not say anything! She never admitted to feeling sick! She never told any of us! She had so much time to get medical attention but she could not do that herself! If you are asking me, her death was her own fault at this point. She should take responsibility for it, not us! We did not know. How could I have known that she was poisoned too? I am not the idiot murderer here! If anything, they are the only ones to blame because they did not come forward earlier! Are you actually just so stupid you cannot even realize that?”

She lifted her hands towards Arisa.

“You slow f***ing snail! What did that note even say? Did you ever even learn how to read? If you are so angry about me keeping evidence then why do you not actually tell us something important for once?!”

She rolled her eyes. JEEZ. SOME PEOPLE, AMIRITE? She would have said more, but it was ~*~*lecture time~*~*~ again! The gymnast kept a steady glare towards Dororou, really not wanting to give him the time of day as he spewed his little speech towards her. Boring, boring boring. Let’s get on with this show. She turned to Yoshiko as she began speaking and- oh. Héloïse blinked, looking to Tomomi, who was still on the ground, and then to Yoshiko, and then to the idiot of the hour.

Prosthetics. Not a robot. Yes, that’s because the robot of the class is TomoOH MY GOD. Héloïse’s eyes widened as the previously tv-headed student was no longer covering their face and they looked… pathetic. Their makeup seemed to be running and, while their words were rather impressive this time around and thank GOODNESS that she didn’t have to listen to that disgusting grating robotic voice anymore… Maybe Megumi dying right next to them was for the better. It definitely made this trial more interesting.

It was nearly brought back to snoozeville with Seishiro’s pleas. Héloïse watched him cry and beg for death, crossing her arms and sighing as she rolled her eyes. At this point she was glad she just didn’t associate herself with him at all… Speaking of associates and interesting though… it was time for one of her closest peers to speak up… and oh. OH. Héloïse smiled as she watched Noctem leave his podium...

This was interesting. This was someone she could be… how they say… friends with. This was different. She was impressed. She was… also… oh my god. Wait.

Her eyes stuck to the ground for a bit, wide, before she finally… god, she’s really doing it. Héloïse facepalms and mumbles something in French to herself. It felt like nearly a lifetime ago, but… back when the gymnast first met the wizard…

~~...Alastor began to re-gather the blocks that were scattered, bringing them back into a Pile. Perhaps, if the mood was right, he could build again. For now, he stuck Nyx back into his nest. A pile of Twigs and Sticks and other bedding inside his Wizards Hat...~~

“Alastor keeps twigs in his stupid wizard’s hat as a nest for his bird.”

Her voice was flat, and this all might have been embarrassing, but Héloïse wasn’t going to admit something like that. How did it not click before?

“Yatagarasu or…Kurosawa, I guess... whoever… pull that stupid hat away from his head. There is probably a nest in there. Or at least a remainder of one. Idiot could not even keep some damn twigs inside of a hat…”

#Jokiku IC #Chapter 3 Trial #Heloise #Chapter 3 #submission

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poorquentyn · 7 years

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Hey, big fan of your blog! Following on from your recent post about Kevan Lannister, do you support BryndenBFish's theory that it was him rather than the High Sparrow who had the idea for Cersei's Walk of Shame through King's Landing, getting payback for the way she speaks to him and has him passed over for promotion in AFFC? If so, do you think this will be fully revealed or merely implied in Kevan's POV chapter?

Thanks! Yeah, I’m inclined to agree. It’s not a slam dunk, it could easily have been the High Sparrow–but as you say, GRRM sets up Kevan’s furious anger at Cersei, regarding not only how she treated him but also how she treated Lancel. Moreover, there’s the precedent of Tywin subjecting their late father’s mistress to the Walk; given how thoroughly Kevan idolized his older brother, it would fit if he followed in Tywin’s footsteps in this regard as in so many (hell, he too was Hand…before he, too, was brought low by a crossbow, though the little birds finished Kevan off). For me, this passage points to Kevan as the one behind the Walk:

I have no reason to feel guilty, Ser Kevan told himself. Tywin would understand that, surely. It was his daughter who brought shame down on our name, not I. What I did, I did for the good of House Lannister.

It was not as if his brother had never done the same. In their father’s final years, after their mother’s passing, their sire had taken the comely daughter of a candlemaker as mistress. It was not unknown for a widowed lord to keep a common girl as bedwarmer…but Lord Tytos soon began seating the woman beside him in the hall, showering her with gifts and honors, even asking her views on matters of state. Within a year she was dismissing servants, ordering about his household knights, even speaking for his lordship when he was indisposed. She grew so influential that it was said about

Lannisport that any man who wished for his petition to be heard should kneel before her and speak loudly to her lap…for Tytos Lannister’s ear was between his lady’s legs. She had even taken to wearing their mother’s jewels.

Until the day their lord father’s heart had burst in his chest as he was ascending a steep flight of steps to her bed, that is. All the self-seekers who had named themselves her friends and cultivated her favor had abandoned her quickly enough when Tywin had her stripped naked and paraded through Lannisport to the docks, like a common whore. Though no man laid a hand on her, that walk spelled the end of her power. Surely Tywin would never have dreamed that same fate awaited his own golden daughter.

“It had to be,” Ser Kevan muttered over the last of his wine. His High Holiness had to be appeased. Tommen needed the Faith behind him in the battles to come. And Cersei…the golden child had grown into a vain, foolish, greedy woman. Left to rule, she would have ruined Tommen as she had Joffrey.

That nagging guilt, comparing “what I did” to Tywin having “done the same” to Tytos’ mistress, the High Sparrow needing to be appeased rather than framed as the instigator himself…I think it all points to Nuncle Kevan putting his niece through the Walk.

#kevan lannister #tywin lannister #cersei lannister #the high sparrow #asoiaf meta

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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, ALEXANDRA! You’ve been accepted for the role of TEMPERANCE with the faceclaim of ZOE BARNARD. I was wholly unprepared for the straight-up laughter that your application would pull out of me, but Meraud is, like, perfect. She’s that even mixture of haughty and beautiful and hysterically arrogant that makes all of her blend together and form exactly what I was looking for in Temperance. The hints and touches of outright ridiculousness -- and the acknowledgment of that -- was icing on top of a delicious pastry. Still, there was an implied human quality to her that had me fully in-love by the end; you really showed to me how she could grow and change if given the chance. Just, completely enraptured -- you encapsulated both the gold filigree and the melting of that filigree as mentioned in the skeleton perfectly. I can’t wait to see what you both do!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC NAME: Alexandra PRONOUNS: she/her AGE: 22 TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST, fairly active? i have no job, and no university classes, and so my time is extremely free! ANYTHING ELSE?: Apologies in advance if i’ve spelled it ‘dishonoured’ at any point in the app, I’m a Canadian and sometimes the ‘u’ just pops out! Also - going through the worldbuilding tag and seeing ‘Brethren Lundqvist, Emissary Konecny’ made me wheeze irl Buzzfeed Unsolved style. TK as a religious emissary… the world trembles at the concept IN CHARACTER SKELETON: Temperance NAME: Meraud Cyrielle Azenari Meraud is a medieval Cornish name, with varying meanings depending on the source. Its connection to the sea within ‘mer’ is unquestionable, and it was that connection I enjoyed: the Azenari family draws their wealth through their connection to the sea, and while they are no longer seafaring, and instead profit off of other sailors, the family’s tradition of honouring that mercurial power. The fact that a different source I found says Meraud actually means ‘a profit from the sea’ is almost too perfect. Cyrielle, a French name, and the feminine variant on ‘Cyril’ — Meraud’s maternal grandfather’s name. Chosen not only to appease the man, a harsh fellow, who disapproved of his only daughter marrying a man whose family’s money was earned rather than inherited (her mother, you see, was from old money, since lost, but the name, and the pride, lingered). The selection of ‘Cyrielle’ appeased him, in part, and while he dotes on all his grandchildren, Meraud is a particular favourite as a result of her name. Azenari is a Basque surname, drawn from ‘azeri’ or ‘fox’. A rather good name for a family that makes their money through cleverness, isn’t it? FACECLAIM: Zoe Barnard (1) or Anya Chalotra (2)! AGE: 23 DETAILS: I found myself so, so torn between Temperance & the Lovers — I tend to go for the sapphic characters, and for Dishonored it was no different. I just adored Temperance when I read her skeleton, the way she was snobby and spoiled but still cultivating a friendship with the Hanged Man, the way she was spoiled and proud and too caught up in herself to appreciate or understand the pure love held by the World and the Lovers. She dreams of being a femme fatale, the protagonist, the heroine, but all she really is, is a spoiled little girl, with dreams and rages in turn, and no real understanding of the world around her beyond what she cares to see. There’s so much potential there, so much capacity for growing and changing, and, given the opportunity, my fingers itch to write it for her! BACKGROUND: What is this character’s history? Where do they come from? What makes them the way that they are? and little girl, who do you think you are? / you think you need it, you think you want love / you wouldn't want it if you knew what it was. The Azenari family was an old one, though not always a noble one. Dust off Tyrholm’s yellowing records and you will find them mentioned, a seafaring heritage, both in legal (merchant) and illegal (pirate) business. It was an easy profit, certainly, bringing luxuries and delights from across the world to bring tastes of warmth to the rocky city, and as they prospered, their power and influence grew. Gold and goods streamed into the city, and, newly ennobled — a gift from a long-past king, pleased at the benefits the port drew into his city, and seeking the influence he’d gain through their inclusion within his court — they flowered even as did the new exotic blooms in the castle’s greenhouse. Skip, then, ahead in the books by a century or two, to a more recent entry: a marriage, a joyful day, the union of Elazar Azenari and Nessa Enys. Scorned by a few in the bride’s family (no matter the hundreds of years which had passed since the Azenari family had been anything but noble, some clung to old prejudices, and a disdain for new money) but celebrated by most, the happy young couple set about their lives with futures light bright by Tyrholm’s most gifted candlemakers. Elazar was the oldest child, the heir to the docks and their wealth, raised to it all his life, and with the inevitable and long-expected passing of his mother provided him with all the responsibilities that came along with the family’s legacy, he shouldered them easily. Nessa was a sweet girl, enchanted by Elazar’s enthusiastic manner and the curious, whimsical gifts he brought her during their courtship, and any familial doubts about his heritage were more or less stifled by the economic reality: she was the youngest daughter of five, and her family could afford very little in the way of a dowry. And they did love each other, perhaps the most important detail of all, with a baby only eight months after, and another two years after, and a third, their only daughter and last child, a year after. Kenver & Ruan, born two years apart, and thick as thieves. Despite identifying quirks (the latter far prefers books and records, a born bookkeeper, the former in search of a knighthood even at a young age), many had trouble telling them apart, and the Azenari household was a rowdy thing before the birth of their youngest, their only girl, a long sought-after daughter: Meraud. She was spoiled, naturally, plied with treats, doted upon by her brothers, showered in delicacies from far-off lands, and grew to expect it all. Her mother taught her elegance, beauty, poise, things necessary for a lady of the Tyrholm nobility, and Meraud’s list of accomplishments and talents only grew as she grew older. She was an elegant thing, long legs, long eyelashes, a skilled dancer and successful flirt, the broken-hearted youth she left trailing after her as a teen only building her confidence, with nothing seeming to even approach shattering it. She had a place in the court, growing up alongside the World, never envying the other’s position or power, but simply glowing on the outskirts, a beautiful flower within the castle’s grey walls. She lacked nothing, and never really learned to distinguish between wants and needs — she received both, after all. Even a shattered engagement did little to impact her, at least not publicly, though inside she burned, hurt even though she refused to admit it to herself. After that, though, the world seemed a little less vibrant than it once had. Envy, loss (both of a friend who grew apart from her, a would-be engagement dissolved seemingly over nothing) hooked their claws in, and she grew spiteful, petulant. A girl who’d been raised to be good even to her lessers instead became disposed to throwing things at them, and many a servant quit rather than face one more morning of lighting a fire in her room only to face Meraud’s petulant rage at being awoken. Her parents refused to see the spoiled girl they’d raised, and continued only to dote upon her, and she grew consumed by herself. Whether the spell would break upon them, as her own refusal to see Tyrholm’s dark corners for anything beyond the home of velvet secrets, whispered confessions, has begun to fracture, remains to be seen. all the feeling was all or nothing / and i took everything I could Grew up very much spoiled by both & mom n dad who always wanted a girl both are awfully protective of her PLOT IDEAS: Regarding the Lovers & the World — I want Meraud to learn! To grow! It’s not as if she grew up without proper models of love in her life (her parents have a rather happy marriage, after all), but the rather superficial experiences she’s taken from the endless spoiling have rather overshadowed it all. Dependant on what the Lovers & the World’s writers want, and how those characters end up being written, I could see Meraud’s fascination with both going in a few directions. Temperance upright: peace, patience, harmony Meraud moves to a deeper comprehension of L&W’s relationship, learning to appreciate it rather than let it dig its claws deep with jealousy. The fire within her turns to soft, warming embers, rather than an inferno that threatens to consume her. Perhaps she learns to love the two platonically, appreciating their love for the beauty it holds, and embracing the importance of her own as different rather than lesser — maybe even finding a love of her own? (A little addition to this can be found in my headcanon regarding ‘Love’) Temperance reversed: discord, recklessness Meraud’s jealousy builds, spilling over, and she finds herself driven to hatred, rumours, gossip: she’s a rather experienced socialite, after all, and could very easily be pushed to attempts at driving a wedge between the two. I don’t see it working at all, really, rather a more tragic bitterness, perhaps that even leads her to work against the World in more political, less personal ways. Meraud! Getting! Woke! She’s closed her eyes to all that is wrong in Tyrholm for far too long, and though the process of opening her eyes has started, there’s a long path ahead for her. Though, frankly, the way she struggles with the dark side of the world may appear ridiculous to other characters, in light of all her privileges and a rather evident love of the luxurious, it’ll be rather overwhelming for her, and I foresee a great deal of gentle weeping on velvet couches with silken cloth dabbing gently at her eyes. I also do, eventually, imagine her pushing for the World as a leader. She does have a certain level of respect for them (fascination at them, longing for them?), and though I’d imaging depending how the above plot idea turns out, I can see her becoming a rather enthusiastic political supporter. Power She’s incredibly ineffectual, a spoiled young girl rather than the powerful figure she could be, if she wasn’t far too self-centered and petulant to achieve it. I’d like to see her grow into this potential, whether for good or ill in the end. She’s intelligent, witty, charming, if she tries, and if she gained a little more awareness of her own flaws, could certainly be a force to be reckoned with. CHARACTER DEATH: Strong yes! The ability to write a romantic, tragic ending for a character has so much potential, creativity-wise and can be incredibly satisfying, I’d love to write one for Meraud. WRITING SAMPLE Wide eyes veiled with dark lashes blink softly, brows furrowed. She’d been late in exiting her father’s office at the docks, summoned there for one reason or another, and had walked over with more than a little frown visible on her face. The gall he had! Meraud had things to do, and besides, the docks were the domain of Kenver and Ruan — she had little interest in the origins of the gilded jewelry upon her wrist, the satin gowns that draped delicately across her body. And then! Adding insult to injury, he father had forgotten their appointment. She’d waited, a dutiful daughter on occasion, but as an hour, then a second, passed, and his tousle-headed figure had remained absent, a fury had grown within her. She cared little for his rule about walking the docks alone. She’d not be here another minute, not wait around like one of her neglected dolls, but would return home herself. It was then, though, that the flaw appeared: far from the docks appearance on days she walked it with her brothers or her father, it was filled to the brim with loud, boorish men. She could smell the alcohol on their breath even from the office’s second-story window, and the things they said! Horrific, scandalous, disgusting, all of them. She shivered at the things they said, words about women that she’d never heard spoken before, ducking as one turned to face the open window. Their conversation turned to her father, and then, of course, to his family, filth in their words and in their intent shrinking her down upon the floor, silent sobs even as she drew her gown around her carefully. It was there her father found her, in the morning, a miscommunication evident in her day-early arrival. But the damage was done, then, in the vicious words of dockhands and pirates, merchants and sailors alike, even those she’d known as a child, her worldview shattered like a poorly-treated bit of porcelain. EXTRAS Anything you’d like can go here, whether that be a playlist, a pinterest board, some headcanons, or whatever you’d like to show us! pinterest board here: https://www.pinterest.ca/draconiform/01-meraud-azenari/ my occasionally serious occasionally not tag for meraud: https://draconicwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/ch%3A-meraud Also wow wow I listened to a lot of ‘Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812’ while writing this app and Natasha……. kindred spirit? So I’ve included some applicable lyrics below that I feel really apply to Meraud (or in many cases, apply to how she sees herself) From Natasha & Bolkonskys: And from the first glance I do not like Natasha / Too fashionably dressed / Frivolous and vain / Her beauty, youth, and happiness From the Opera: Pearls and silk / Glittering before our eyes / Feminine envy / A whole crowd of memories / Desires and emotions & They are looking at me / They are talking about me! / They all like me so much / The women envious / The men calming their jealousy Headcanons Pets — Meraud has two primary animals in her life. The first, a fluffy black longhaired cat, is named Parceval, and is more of a family pet. Not the typical mouser seen at the docks, he’s elegant, perhaps even a little snooty, despite his questionable origins. Meraud’s father brought him home as a kitten, even then filled with disdain, a stray discovered by a merchant among his wares. He had no interest in the childrens games, and instead grew, well, not fat, per say, but certainly a little plump, spending nights in front of the fire, well adored (as he should be). The second is Eme, a little songbird named for the emerald she so resembles. She’s a beautiful little creature, who adores Meraud, and is perhaps the creature she most loves (and loves unselfishly) outside members of her own family. Love — Were Tyrholm the modern day, we could call Meraud pansexual. She sees little difference between her capacity for infatuation for men or for any other gender (I hesitate to call it ‘love’, as she doesn’t quite understand the concept, but she could certainly be attracted romantically and sexually to anyone.) The problem, however, is that she’s picky. Meraud is rather self-centered, and the person she’d allow herself to care for must be similarly high-quality: wealthy, pleasing in appearance, fascinating in conversation… I’d rather like her to fall for someone that doesn’t meet these standards, because I think it’d be a good learning experience for her.

#accepted #accepted: temperance

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thevelvetlotus · 5 years

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🌟👽My newest candle, “Legend of the Star People” is dedicated to our ancestors of the stars. There are countless Native American legends and folklore that are rich with the belief that we were once extraterrestrials before making earth our home. Some legends say we came from the stars where others suggest that we were visited by Sky People who taught us many skills and even bred with us to make Star Seed children. I myself have seen an alien ship on several occasions and truly believe I was brought onto an alien spacecraft when I was 11 years old, my aunt has a similar story and we are both very sensitive to “hot spots” or places where there is alien activity. That’s a story for a different post, but I know for absolute certain that there are aliens and I believe that we are much closer to them than we realize. Have you had an encounter with an ET? I would love to hear all about it!👽I only have 4 of these candles available for purchase. They are made with a natural soy wax base with infused oils of Blue Sage, Pinion, Cedar, Wormwood Blossoms and Star Jasmine. It’s adorned with 3 Morion Points, an Ammonite Fossil Alien Carving, Epidote and Wormwood Blossoms. Please message me to purchase.👽🌟 #starpeople #skypeople #starseed #alien #aliens #aliensarereal #ufo #folklore #candles #candlemaking #candleshop #candlelover #magic #crystals #fossils #craft #handmade #witch #oddities #odditiesandcuriosities #horror #fantasy #thevelvetlotus https://www.instagram.com/p/B0UywC4Helt/?igshid=95ffqd93wmrz

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blessed-but-distressed · 7 years

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#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU.

also on ff.net

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal, @kat2609, @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon and whoever else asks me.

Thanks always to the cool-as-fuck @lenfaz, for her tireless efforts in keeping me motivated.

Killian

He could feel it, the regret, welling up in his chest, his vision blurring as he scrolled through page after page of poorly punctuated text.

14,202 responses.

14,202 people who were up for being Emma Swan's friend, and for some reason Killian Jones had appointed himself their gatekeeper.

14,202 reasons to wish he'd never even heard the name Emma Swan.

The task itself was burdensome enough, a time suck if ever there was one. But it was the sexually aggressive come ons he encountered that really propelled it towards torture. There was no other way of saying it: Men were pigs.

Barely three hundred messages in, and he was already half prepared to hand back his testicles and start writing long-winded notes of apology to every woman he'd ever met. Yes, Emma Swan was gorgeous. Yes, the #FindEmmaSwanAFriend campaign had made it clear there was an existing vacancy in her social life. But why hundreds of men had taken that to mean she would suddenly welcome obscene pick up lines and unsolicited dick pics was beyond him.

At least he wasn't entirely alone in this second circle of hell. It hadn't taken much inducement to get the boy to forego his cartoons in favour of helping out. The vague promise of a zoo excursion at some unspecified point in the near future, and the lad was putty in his hands. Which was how Killian found himself scouring through responses at the dining room table, with his eldest nephew, Callum, sitting opposite.

Even at eight years old, Callum was already the more steady influence of the two Jones boys, quiet and bookish, and far less prone to the feats of daring which tended to land Lachie in A&E every other month. His enthusiasm for penguins notwithstanding, history had a way of repeating itself in the most interesting of ways.

Killian had originally set the boy up to go through the pre-approved responses he'd already printed out, and asking him to choose people he felt good about. Children, Killian had found, were a bit like dogs; they were often better judges of character than most fully fledged adults. But the task must have grown wearisome at some point, because there came a small voice from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

"Uncle Killian, what's an orgasm?"

Killian snapped the lid of the laptop shut in a hurry, turning to the boy with a painted on smile. He hadn't even seen him move. "You know what, lad? Perhaps you'd be better off helping your father with dinner. You know how he likes to burn things."

As if his words had summoned him, Liam suddenly appeared in the doorway, surveying the scene with cool suspicion. "What fresh hell have you dragged my eldest into now?"

"Research," Killian replied, affecting a casual shrug. "I thought you'd be pleased. I'm 'making an effort'."

"Hmmm," his brother replied, still unconvinced. "And yet, one has to wonder if the reason for this sudden work ethic has anything to do with the fact that Emma Swan looks like that," he said, pointing to a stray copy of the original #FindEmmaSwanAFriend advertisement laying open on the counter, Emma's unrestrained smile spilling out from the page in a way that Killian had yet to see from her in real life.

Killian opened his mouth to protest, but it was his nephew who spoke first. "Dad," Callum interrupted, tugging at his father's sleeve. "What does orgasm mean?"

Liam's eyes widened comically, caught unawares, but it took only a moment before his gaze shifted back to his brother, his expression darkening as realisation took hold. Killian held arms aloft in an unconvincing display of innocence, but if looks could kill, he'd already be as charred as yesterday's Beef Wellington.

"Ahm, that's a question for your Mum, I think," Liam said, grabbing the boy about the shoulders and steering him out into the hallway. "In about five years or so," he added wryly, giving the boy a little push back towards the living room, and the distractions of the television.

"I can-" Killian began, as his brother turned back to glare at him.

"I really don't want to know," Liam sighed, cutting him off with a weary shake of his head. "Just clean this mess up before Elsa gets home, alright?"

He looked stressed, Killian realised, and not just about Callum's naive question. Though Liam had adopted his usual post-work uniform of loosened tie and rolled up shirtsleeves, there was little else in his posture to suggested he was at leisure. If that wasn't damning enough, his hair seemed to be sticking up more than normal, as if he'd been running his hands through it for the better part of the day. Killian was willing to bet if he got a little closer he'd even be able to see the purple vein on his brother's forehead visibly throbbing.

"Everything alright?" Killian asked, unable to mask his growing concern. "Your meeting with Ingrid?"

But if he had been expecting a confidential chat, as equals, perhaps Killian had been reading from the wrong script.

"Everything's fine," Liam snapped, with the kind of brusqueness that highly suggested otherwise. "Just get this cleared away, and stop corrupting my children. Elsa will be home any minute."

Killian was tempted to press the point, but they were both of them interrupted by the intrusive blaring of the smoke detector in the next room. Followed immediately by the tell-tale whiff of burnt rice.

"Bloody hell," Liam swore, tearing from the room. "Not again."

Killian moved instead towards the windows, welcoming the icy blast of fresh air with a shiver. It looked like takeaway was on the menu. Again.

How do you feel about athletic types? KJ

…

You mean in general, or is this about your list? ES

I mean, do you have a particular aversion to people whose Instagram feed consists entirely of gym selfies using the hashtag #demgains and pictures of salads? KJ

I think exercise is the devil, CrossFit is a cult, and bagels are life. ES

So that's a hard pass, then. Good to know. KJ

It was Friday night, and the streets of the Old Town appeared as they always did come the weekend, rife with roving gangs of stag parties and hen dos straight out of Chester or Newcastle, resplendent in their matching commemorative T-shirts and sashes. Killian watched them as they struggled down Victoria Street in impractical shoes, and took turns throwing up into the West Bow Well.

"Five points to kiss a man in a kilt!" one of the women slurred as he passed, having grown bold under the influence of what seemed to be one too many margaritas, by the stain down her dress. Killian settled for turning his collar up against the wind, and searching out a quiet corner from where he could check his phone.

Why she had agreed to meet him in the Grassmarket of all places, in the midst of all this calculated debauchery, puzzled him. Aye, it was populated. Aye, it was well-lit, all the better to see the tourist hordes slowly sinking into extreme inebriation. But it was hardly the right venue for getting one's measure, he thought.

But Killian wasn't one to turn down a drinks invitation from a pretty lass. Not least from the pretty lass he'd somehow roped into being a willing participant in his little sociological experiment.

So he waited. And he waited some more.

It was a quarter past the hour when he finally spotted her, long red curls billowing behind her as she hurried up from Candlemaker Row wrapped in a fluffy green coat, three young men following in her wake.

"Killian Jones?" she asked, approaching him warily.

"Aye," he said, stepping forward to shake her hand. "Glad you could make it."

Merida, as he planned to name her in his article, was what Killian might call Proper Scottish. She had the red hair. The clan name. The distinctive burr that seemed to come right out of some remote Highland glen. She was the living, breathing stereotype of a milk-fed country lassie, and he could think of no more qualified candidate to introduce Emma to the wonders of Scottish hospitality. If for no other reason than she was the only one on his shortlist who'd actually responded to his email.

The trio that trailed after her were her brothers, as it transpired, rather than her bodyguards. Though it would be easy enough to make that mistake, what with each giving Killian a bruising handshake and some whispered threat or other over the course of one too many drinks at the Beehive Inn. Drinks Killian was apparently expected to pay for.

"You shouldn't encourage 'em," she chided over her barely touched pint of Guinness. "They'll take advantage."

Too late for that.

"So what brought you to Edinburgh, lass?" Killian ventured, figuring they'd wasted enough time making idle chitchat.

"A job," she shrugged. "There's no' exactly a lo' of work goin' back in Dun Broch."

A familiar enough tale. As pretty as the Highlands were, there wasn't much in the way of industry these days unless you were willing to waste your life away behind a counter, selling keyrings and commemorative shot glasses to passing tourists. Young people tended to get out early, and stay gone.

"And your brothers followed you?" he asked. "Must be nice, having family close by."

The lass snorted, her Guinness threatening to spill out of her nose. "Sorry," she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Do you have any brothers?"

"Two."

"The' you ken. You love 'em, but the' can also be…"

"A lot to manage," Killian finished for her.

"Exactly," Merida smiled. "So wha's she like, then? Emma?" Merida asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Killian leaned back in his chair, considering the question properly. Aye, he'd already described her to his readers, but even then he'd felt his descriptions had been lacking, a poorly drawn caricature of who Emma Swan really was.

"She's complicated," Killian admitted. "Quick-witted. Stubborn. Strong. A rather developed sense of irony for an American."

"Nice?" Merida ventured, her uncertainty showing.

"Perhaps. With time. She's funny. Even without meaning to be. But I'm not going to lie to you, lass, she isn't the easiest person to get to know. At first she's a little brisk. Prickly, even. I get the impression she's been let down before, because she tends to automatically assume the worst of people, rather than wait around to be disappointed."

He knew he'd said too much when Merida leaned back in her chair, gaze subtly shifting over to the bar where her brothers stood, unsuccessfully trying to chat up a cohort of young women in matching pink tiaras and feather boas.

"I'm not doing a very good job at selling this, am I?" Killian said with a groan.

"You coul' be doin' better," she offered.

And yet, in that moment, he saw it. The flash of familiarity. Perhaps he wasn't entirely crazy for thinking these two might hit it off.

"Look, Emma doesn't make friends easily. That much is blatantly clear. But the ones she has made? It's clear they mean the world to her. And she to them. After all, they were the ones to instigate all of this, simply because they couldn't stand the thought of her being lonely out here."

"If my friends did tha' to me…" Merida shuddered.

"Agreed. But I'd like to think it takes a special kind of person to inspire that level of stupidity in others."

"Like decidin' to write abou' an American lassie finding friends for a whole year?"

"Like that," Killian conceded, with a smile.

"So you mus' think she's worth the effort, then?"

That pulled him up short. "I think…" he said, best trying to arrange his thoughts. " I think Emma deserves a real chance at happiness here. As much as anyone. And if my column can help with that, then all the better. So tell me, what made you respond to Emma's ad in the first place?"

I think I found a promising candidate for you. KJ

Oh? ES

Aye. I think you have plenty in common. Are you free tonight to discuss? KJ

It's Valentine's Day. ES

…

You have alternate plans? KJ

Of course not. But don't you? ES

After a fashion. But you're more than welcome to join. KJ

If that is a poncy British way of initiating a ménage à trois… ES

I'm babysitting. My brother is the one with the Valentine's plans. With his wife. I, on the other hand, am on nephew-wrangling duty, because apparently children can be a real mood killer. But as I said, you are welcome to come by. We're making tacos. KJ

Yeah, I'm not good with kids. ES.

Me neither. And yet, somehow, the little cretins haven't died on my watch yet. KJ

I don't know… ES

Aren't you curious who your new best friend is going to be? KJ

Not the gym bunny? ES

Perish the thought. KJ

And there will be tacos? ES

There will indeed be tacos. KJ

Hard shell or soft? ES

Both. KJ

Well played, Jones. ES

See you at 7 then, Swan? KJ

For only the twentieth time that day, Killian Jones wondered where exactly he got all of his bright ideas from.

Aye, he needed to convince Emma to give a meeting with Merida a shot. And he needed to extract some sliver of personal information out of her. He couldn't hope to sustain his column with his witticisms forever. At some point, Emma had to step forward and become a character in her own right, if he had any hope of appealing to his subscription base. And to do that, he had to get to know her.

So he did need to see her. And he was going out of town for a few days, so there wasn't a lot of flexibility in his schedule. But inviting her to help babysit his nephews? What had he been thinking?

It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not least because it required the permission of at least one of their parents. Neither of which was looking like an attractive option, considering the amount of grief he was likely to get over it.

He still hadn't made his mind up which one to approach when his decision was made for him, his sister-in-law calling his name from down the hall.

"Killian?"

Well, at least she was the more sympathetic of the two.

"You beckoned?" he asked, popping his head around the door frame.

Elsa stood in front of a full length mirror, fretting with the sleeve of her pale blue dress. As per usual, she looked ethereally lovely, a state which was at odds with the frown she wore in her reflection.

Killian whistled in appreciation. "You do realise it's not too late? You could always ditch Liam and run off with the younger, more dashing brother?" he offered sardonically.

She turned to him, her eye roll still managing to be affectionate somehow. "Thank you, I think. Can you zip me up?" She asked, gesturing to the back of her dress.

"As the lady insists," he said with an exaggerated bow, stepping closer to assess the task at hand. When he went out he tended to wear his prosthetic, but at home he often went without, switching it over for the more versatile, but slightly more discomfiting hook. The last thing Elsa needed was for him to tear a hole right through her shiny new dress.

"I appreciate this, you know," Elsa said suddenly, startling Killian as he reached out to take the zipper. "You taking care of the boys. I know there are probably other things you'd rather be doing. It's just, I know Liam's been stressing himself out with Ingrid in town. I want him to have fun tonight. Let it go for a few hours."

"I'm happy to help," Killian replied, pulling the zip up the rest of the way. And then sensing he wasn't going to get any better opening than that, he ripped off that plaster. "Having said that, perhaps there is something you can do for me?"

"Oh?" she asked, turning around to face him with an amused smile curving her lips.

"Do you remember Emma?"

"Emma?" she repeated, her eyebrows furrowing together. "You mean #FindEmmaSwanAFriend, Emma?"

"Aye," Killian said, reaching up to scratch behind one ear. "I've been meaning to touch base with her, but I'm off to Glasgow tomorrow for the film festival. I was sort of hoping I could invite her here."

She looked puzzled by his request. "This is your house too, Killian. You know you don't need my permission to invite someone over."

Killian took a deep breath. "Only, I might have mentioned I was babysitting tonight, and invited her to eat with me and the boys?"

"You invited her to babysit with you?" Elsa clarified, in such a way he couldn't be sure of her feelings on the matter.

"If you're not comfortable with that-" Killian began.

"Just to be clear," Elsa interrupted him. "You invited Emma Swan, the woman you agreed to write about all this year, home to eat tacos and watch Pixar movies with you and my sons. On Valentine's Day?"

This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "Bloody hell, Elsa. It's not a date."

"But it's not exactly work either, is it?"

"It's a… it's a friendly gesture," Killian admitted. "But you don't understand. Emma is... she's guarded, alright? If I want people to really connect with her, if I want her story to truly resonate, then I need to know a little more about her. And there's no way she'll ever be comfortable enough to give me that, unless I'm prepared to do the same."

"So this is a case of 'I show you mine, you show me yours'?" Elsa asked, her tone still far too amused for Killian's liking.

"You make it sound crass, love."

"No, I think I understand. I do," she emphasised, when Killian shot her a look. "It shows you've really thought about it. About how you're going to sustain that relationship over the year. It's kind of impressive, actually."

"So you're okay with her coming by?" Killian clarified.

"Of course. I trust you to do the right thing."

"Thank you, love," he said, releasing a long held breath and leaning forward to brush a brotherly kiss to her temple. "I appreciate that."

"But Killian?" she said, stopping him dead in the doorway before he could make himself scarce. "It's okay if you just want to get to know her for the sake of it, you know?"

He paused for a moment, biting back a retort. "Have fun tonight, Elsa. And keep my brother out of trouble," he said, before leaving to her to get ready alone.

Emma

Okay, so Killian Jones was rich.

When Google Maps had led her directly in front of a two-storey Victorian in Merchiston, with honest-to-god ivy growing on the walls, Emma figured she had the wrong address. But after double-checking Killian's text, she couldn't see how she could've screwed up.

And as she walked down the paved drive, the impressive facade of the house looming over her, she wondered if she really had Killian Jones quite as figured out as she thought she did.

The entranceway was ridiculous. A church's worth of stained glass framing an imposing black door, a solid brass knocker in the center. Feeling a little bit foolish, she lifted the handle, bringing it down three times.

Why couldn't they just have a doorbell?

She heard a shuffle of movement from inside, and then Killian Jones appeared in front of her. He was minus the leather jacket she had come to expect from him. A waistcoat, it turned out, was what lay underneath, and he managed to make it work. His prosthetic, she noticed, had been replaced with some kind of metal attachment. But not wishing for him to catch her staring, she instead drew her eyes to her immediate surroundings.

"You neglected to mention you were loaded," Emma said, by way of greeting, stepping past him into the front hall and out of the cold. "This house is…" she trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Opulent?" Killian suggested, closing the door after her. "And I'm not loaded." Killian added with a smirk, taking her jacket from her. "My sister-in-law however… Let's just say, if anyone is the reacher in that relationship, it's my brother."

"Your brother, the editor?"

"That's the one. So," he said, rubbing his hands together, so much as he could. "Ready to meet the gremlins?"

"When you put it like that…" She grimaced, but allowed herself to be led down the hallway anyway, emboldened by the promise of tacos.

The living room itself was like something right out of a furniture catalogue, and not one from IKEA, either. The furniture all matched, the art on the walls was tasteful and there was a real marble fireplace, with an actual fire burning in the grate. The whole tableau wouldn't have looked out of place in a Burt Reynolds photoshoot, if it weren't for the two small boys clad in superhero pajamas sat around a small coffee table, fit to bursting with taco fixings.

They looked up as they entered, tiny faces lit with excitement and smeared with excess salsa.

"Lachie, Callum," Killian said, pointing to each boy in turn. "This is Emma. She's a friend from work. I've invited her to eat with us. And you're going to be on your very best behaviour for our guest, aye?"

Both boys nodded solemnly, before the oldest emitted a sudden and overloud burp, the two of them bursting into peals of laughter.

Ah, children.

"Hi," Emma said, her opening gambit as pathetic as her wave. "Thanks for letting me join you."

"They won't bite, Swan," Killian whispered from her side, suddenly much closer than she remembered. "Well, Lachie might. But you've had all your jabs, correct?"

And then before she could figure out if he was kidding or not, he pushed her into the open space beside the youngest, the aforementioned Lachie. Who may or may not bite.

"Hi," she said again, settling down on a cushion beside him. "Would you be able to pass me a plate?"

"You talk funny," the boy said, reaching over the extract a plastic plate from the stack piled high on the table.

Killian shot the boy a sharp look, but Emma waved him off. "Yeah, that's because I'm from America. Do you know where that is?"

"That's where Aunty Anna lives," came the voice of the eldest, Callum, from the other side of the table. "She lives in New York City with Uncle Kristoff. And they have a dog. His name is Sven and he's a Norwegian Elkhound. Uncle Kristoff says he can talk, but only to him. Aunty Anna thinks Uncle Kristoff is very silly."

The kid was clearly precocious, but not such a big fan of pausing between his sentences, making the entire spiel seem like one long run-on sentence.

"Oh," said Emma, not expecting this wealth of new information. "And have you ever gone to visit Aunty Anna?"

"We were in her wedding," Callum continued. "It was my job to carry the flowers. And I started sneezing all the time. Mummy said it was hayfever. And I remember the penguins at the zoo. And the big buildings. And the park. I remember, but Lachie was just a baby, so he doesn't remember it at all."

"I do so!" came the vehement reply of his younger brother, unhappy with being left out of the narrative.

"Do not!"

"Do so!"

"Boys!" Killian cried, causing both of them to abandon their mounting argument. "Remember what I said about best behaviour?"

The two boys fell into a sullen silence, but Killian on the other hand, merely looked amused. "Cheer up, lass," he said, as he leaned forward to snag a bowl of chopped tomatoes out from under her nose. "What would you rather be doing with your evening? Watching Netflix?"

Okay, so the tacos were pretty good. And when they weren't getting into arguments over inane details, the two Jones boys were kind of cute. Sort of. Emma wasn't really a kids person. Even when she was a kid, she hadn't been a big fan.

Fortunately, bedtime came around soon enough, Killian disappearing upstairs to tuck them in while Emma did a great job of pretending she wasn't snooping. It wasn't snooping if they had the pictures on display in the common areas, right?

Emma didn't recognize the couple in the wedding photo that took pride of place on the mantelpiece, but she recognized the best man easily enough. Killian Jones. He'd been younger then, his hair longer and shaggier, but it was undeniably him. Mugging for the camera with his arm around his brother's shoulders. One hand clutching a beer bottle, the other holding a bunch of flowers. Two hands. Not a prosthetic, back then.

So the missing hand hadn't always been missing, then. And it was a fairly recent development. She heard footsteps on the stairs and she turned away from the photograph, pretending to admire the Jones' not inconsiderable record collection. John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters seemed to come up a lot. She idly wondered if they belonged to the brother, or his wife. Or if it was an interest they both shared.

"Warm beverage?" came a voice near her elbow, startling her out of her thoughts.

"I think we should get you a collar with a bell on it," Emma said, clutching her chest, turning around to find Killian already holding out a mug, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You didn't think two hot chocolates were enough already?" Emma asked, taking the cup from his hand.

"Third time's the charm," he shrugged. "Also I spiked this one."

Emma, who already had her mug halfway to her lips took an experimental sip, causing her to cough out loud. "Wow," she said with a little laugh, lowering the mug. "Yeah, you did. Do I look that terrified?" She asked, moving to take a seat on the designer looking couch. She was almost afraid to bring her mug with her, in case she spilled something on it.

"Only a little," Killian said, taking a seat on the opposite end, clutching a beverage of his own. How exactly he'd managed to carry both in from the kitchen in one trip, Emma couldn't say. "You put up a good front. Kids can smell fear, but I think you had them fooled."

"But not you, huh?" Emma said, curling her feet underneath her.

"Well, I'm quite perceptive lass," he said, with a smirk.

"And modest, too," Emma remarked, earning a chuckle in response.

"You're good with them," she said suddenly. "Your nephews, I mean. You seem really close. Do you babysit a lot?"

"Well…" This smile faltered a little, and Emma wondered if she'd made an accidental faux pas. Had she misread the situation? "Actually," he began again, looking visibly uncomfortable. "The truth is that I live here. In the guest room. It was supposed to be a temporary situation, but I suppose we're now entering the stage where it's hard to kid myself on that score any longer. So at this point I think they just consider me part of the furniture."

He seemed almost ashamed somehow. As if there was something wrong with wanting to live in a beautiful house, surrounded by your own flesh and blood.

"Neighborhood too bourgeois for you?" Emma asked, before she could stop herself.

She was rewarded with another laugh, the furrow between his brows disappearing. "Well, there is that," he smiled. "I don't know. Don't get me wrong, I realise this is a palace. Compared to the places my brother and I grew up?" He shook his head. "I suppose I just miss the independence. Miss having my brother's disapproving looks at more than an arm's length."

"It must be hard," Emma mused. "Your boss being your brother. Your brother being your boss."

"I think bossing me around comes quite naturally to him, actually. Only, I'm not quite as good at taking orders as I used to be. Sometimes for so large a house it can be suffocatingly small."

It wasn't really a confession you could build on. Emma didn't have any sibling stories to share, and she doubted he wanted to hear about her crappy childhood anyway. She settled for taking another sip from her mug, letting the amaretto warm her from the inside out.

"You're not really one for sharing, are you?" Killian noted, regarding her with more scrutiny than she was really comfortable with.

"Don't have much to share," Emma shrugged.

"I doubt that very much. You seem like many things, Emma Swan. But boring? I doubt it. Take this, for instance. How does a lass like you end up on the wrong side of the Atlantic anyhow, teaching American history to a bunch of kids who couldn't quite scrape into Cambridge?"

"I applied?"

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "No one leaves all their friends and family behind and starts a new life three thousand miles away without a reason. So what was it? Bad break-up?"

"No." Walsh's face flashed in her mind for an instant. "Well, yes. But no, I mean, that's not why I came here."

He looked unconvinced. "No?"

"No."

"Then might I inquire…?"

"So you can write it all down in your little article? I don't think so, Buddy."

"Off the record, then," he said, pushing his phone across the table towards her in a show of good faith. "Why Scotland? Why now? And I swear, if you say anything about Outlander, we're done here."

She poked her tongue out at him for that. Sure, Jamie Fraser was one fine slice of Highland prime beef, but he hadn't really figured much into her decision. Her own decision hadn’t been half so simple. But hell, he’d asked for it, right?

"The break-up wasn't the reason, exactly. But it made it easier. Less to leave, I guess. And then I lost my job. Voluntary redundancy, or whatever. But at least I got a payout. And my friends, well they've all got their own stuff going on. Mary Margaret's trying for a baby. Ruby and Victor are moving in together. August has his book. And I had this money, burning a hole in my pocket. I guess I figured I had nothing to lose."

"You do realise this is the most you've ever spoken about yourself since I met you?" Killian pointed out, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

"And you say you do this for a living?" Emma asked in disbelief.

"Well, I think I also implied I'm a bit of a problem employee. So I'm guessing you were the dumper, rather than the dumpee?"

"What, with Walsh? Why would you assume that?" Emma asked, feeling her hackles raise.

"Well, you're something of an open book, lass. For one thing, you don't seem all that cut up about it. And for another, I think if you were properly distraught you would have sought out the company of your friends, rather than choosing to isolate yourself in some far off place."

He was right, damn him. Why did he have to be right?

"Fine. I'm the one who broke it off, happy? He proposed, and instead of saying yes, like a normal person, I decided I'd rather break his heart into little itty bitty pieces."

"You were in love with him?"

What was with the men in her life, and their fixation with Emma's feelings about Walsh?

"Sure, I guess. He's a good guy. We just weren't… endgame."

"Hmmm," said Killian thoughtfully.

"What?" Emma asked, wondering if she was really ready for another one of his theories.

"He didn't really get it, did he? The orphan thing?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "How the fuck did you know that?"

"Well I didn't, for sure. But I suspected. I've been around my share of orphans. There's a certain look, when you've been left on your own too long. And you, Swan, have the look."

Emma knew the look he meant. One part neglect to two parts chip on one's shoulder. It never entirely left you, no matter how many birthdays you had, or paychecks you cashed. An orphan was always an orphan.

"You're one to talk. Your brother raised you, didn't he?" Emma hadn't needed to meet Liam Jones to realize why he loomed so large in his brother's imagination. Not a case of sibling rivalry at all, but a lingering fear of not living up to his brother's expectations.

"He did," Killian confirmed. "But our father isn't dead. He just left, not too long after our mother passed. He turned up about ten years ago, out of the blue with a whole new family. A brother we never even knew existed."

"Ouch."

"Liam didn't take it very well. Not that I can blame him. They're still not on speaking terms."

"And you?"

"It's not our brother's fault his father is a coward. He's in his first year of university now, down in Exeter. We email sometimes. I can't quite bring myself to write to my father. I doubt anything I wanted to say could be expressed via email anyway."

For a man who might have been just about one of the most articulate people Emma had ever met, that might've been hard to swallow. But she thought she understood what he meant. Sometimes it wasn't about words. But sometimes they were all you had.

"I'm from Maine, originally," Emma blurted out. "You asked me once. That's where I was found on the side of the road, as a baby." She didn't want to play this game. This 'whose childhood was worse' game. But she felt compelled to give him something. "So, you were right about me. I grew up bouncing from foster home to foster home until I aged out of the system. Had a near-miss with the law and decided I didn't want to be a statistic. So I got my GED, applied to a bunch of colleges and took out a mountain of student loans. Somehow I ended up back in a small town in Maine about fifty miles from where I started, studying history, and I liked it there, so I stayed for a while. And now I'm here?"

"Here you are," Killian said, raising his mug to clink against her own. "Nice to meet you at last, Emma Swan," he said, piercing blue eyes meeting hers.

It would have been easy to lower her gaze, but she didn't, even as she drained the last of her cup. "Likewise, Killian Jones."

"So," Emma said, fingers tracing the rim of her empty mug. "You mentioned you found me a new best friend?"

Her name was Merida.

Or at least, that was what Killian was going to call her in his column. Anonymity apparently only an option for people who hadn't already had their real name splashed all over the internet.

"I can't decide if you're going to get along like a house on fire, or try to kill each other," he'd said, as if that was in any way a solid recommendation.

And then he'd suggested archery, of all activities. Because this Merida was apparently something of an expert. At archery.

"You really think it's wise sending me out into the hinterland with a complete stranger, armed with deadly weapons?" Emma had asked.

"You'll have deadly weapons too, Swan," he reminded her, in an overly cheerful way. As if that made it any better. It's wasn't like she knew how to use them.

The archery range was a long cab ride out of the city, set among farmland dotted with harassed looking cows and unsightly power lines. And just as Killian had promised, there was a young woman waiting by the front gate, immediately recognizable by her tangle of red curls.

"You're Emma?" the girl asked with a sideways smile, stepping forward to shake Emma's hand.

"I am," she said, grasping her hand in a firm handshake. "And I guess you're the person who was crazy enough to answer Killian's email?"

"Aye. Seems like. You ever shoot an arrow before, Emma?" Her accent was astronomical. Emma liked to think she had grown accustomed to the soft burr of the natives, but this was something else altogether.

"Uh, no. A friend of mine, um... back home. She went through an archery phase in college. I was much more into the spectating side of things."

"Well, there's no time like th' present," the girl said, leading the way to what seemed to be a storage shed.

"You're not worried it might rain?" Emma called out, pointing out the gunmetal grey of the clouds that were fast gathering on the horizon.

The girl shrugged, not even bothering to turn around. "It'll pass. Weather changes fast here."

With that apparently cleared up, Emma had no choice but to follow after her.

The weather did change fast. One minute Emma was being lectured to about her terrible stance in relative sunshine, the next the rain was coming in sideways.

Merida, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned, still focused intently on her target.

"This doesn't bother you?" Emma called, having to shout to make herself heard over the roar of the tempest beating down on them.

"It's Scotland!" the girl shouted back in answer, not moving a millimeter.

"It's freezing!"

Apparently having realized the shine had rather worn off for Emma, the girl gave a huff of annoyance, and let her bow drop back to her side. It was only when she turned around and saw Emma huddled there, shivering, that her face softened a little.

"Alrigh' fine," she said, holding her hands up in defeat. "We'll getcha warmed up."

They ended up taking refuge in Merida's car, a battered green Ford probably about as old as Merida herself. Emma felt a momentary pang of longing for her own ancient Volkswagen, probably still sitting under a dusty tarp in Mary Margaret's garage.

Emma wouldn't have minded a bit of heating to help with the whole drying process, but Merida never moved to switch on the ignition, and she felt she should be grateful she'd even gotten this far. Instead they sat in awkward silence, watching the first flurries of snow begin to fall.

"It'll pass?" Emma repeated. She couldn't help it.

Merida didn't say a fucking word.

So? KJ

How'd it go? KJ

...

Swan? KJ

Emma? Are you alright? KJ

Emma, answer your bloody phone! KJ

I have a class. I'll call you later. ES

Are you alright, lass? KJ

I'll tell you later. ES

There was that sliver of a moment, right after someone picked up the phone. That tiny breath of silence, when your heart leapt into your throat, and your nerve endings were shot. Where anticipation and fear started duking it out in your lower belly.

Emma wanted to live in that moment forever. Anything to delay the inevitable. But that was the thing about time. It didn't care what you wanted.

"Emma?" She sounded breathless, like she'd been running to grab the phone.

"Mary Margaret?" Emma said, not quite managing to keep the wobble out of her voice.

"Sweetie?"

That was all it took. One word. The confirmation that someone, somewhere, out there, gave a shit. She felt the tears gathering even before she spoke.

"You were right. I'm not okay."

#cs ff #cs au #cs au ff #FindEmmaSwanAFriend

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