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honourablejester · 2 years

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Homebrew Spelljammer Faction: The Telleril Conclave

A little expansion, some worldbuilding, for one of the concepts in this post. The spacefaring biodomes of the Telleril Druid Conclave:

Standing on the deck of your vessel, you see a glimmer of light in the distance, a gleam of starshine. As you move closer, a shape begins to resolve itself from amongst the void and stars. A vast, crystalline dome, close to a mile in diameter, the light of stars caressing its surface as it rotates. Inside, for it is translucent, almost transparent in places, you see light, and what looks like a landscape, a carpet of white and grey shadows. Beneath it, a dagger of rock, grey and glistening, pockmarked and scored by aeons among the asteroids and meteors of wildspace. It looks as if, once upon a time, some titanic force seized hold of the dome and all the rock beneath it and ripped it, whole and of a piece, from a planet’s surface. Tore it up, a jewel from its setting, and flung it out into the void to sail among the stars.

This is, of course, almost exactly what happened. Once, aeons ago. For what you see before you is Frostfound, the first and most ancient of the druid domes of the Telleril Conclave. Telleril was a world. Telleril is a world no more. The dome you see before you is one of the last, preserved remnants of that long-lost, shattered realm. A jewel among the stars. A living monument to what was lost.

Frostfound, of the Telleril Conclave.

The Telleril Conclave

The Telleril Conclave is both the collective name for the druid domes of the destroyed world of Telleril, and the name of the great meeting where all the surviving domes gather together in the Astral Sea. The timing of the conclave is complicated by the farflung locations of the domes sailing through wildspace and the Astral Sea, and is calculated based on a series of omens by the Quilak druids of the Frostfound dome and communicated to the other domes by some strange means that they are extremely careful not to reveal to outsiders. It is considered to happen ‘once a century’ by common knowledge, but whose century is anyone’s guess, although likelihood suggests Telleril’s.

The Conclave was created for the purpose of preserving as much of the natural world of Telleril as the druids could, against a looming cataclysm that they sensed coming. Each dome was forged by a titanic druidic working, their full circle working together, and contains a shard of Telleril’s surface, a discrete environment in which to preserve the nature, life and magic of the world.

Some of these domes are better known, more commonly encountered, than others. Frostfound, the icy tundra dome, cared for by the Quilak druids of the Circle of the Stars, whose study of omens first identified the vast terror among the stars that sought to lay waste to their world. Glorollon, a sphere of ocean and a fragment of rocky island encapsulated in a fully spherical dome. Istacan, the most vibrant of the domes, full of the verdant jungle life of Telleril’s humid equator, and prowled by the Circle of the Moon druids of the Txachatchi Circle. Tchimillil, guided by the Circle of Spores, whose black obsidian dome is perfectly opaque, shielding the fungal forests and raw stone of Telleril’s ancient heart.

Others have vanished, even from the Conclave itself, and are feared lost or destroyed. Baralatan, called the Eyrie, a vast oval dome holding the full height of Mount Soruhsaran, what was once the tallest peak on Telleril. This dome, perhaps the single largest of the Conclave, has not been seen in aeons. There are many rumours of what fate befell it, from the tales that it passed through a colour pool in the Astral Sea into the Hells or the Elemental Plane of Air, to the more fearsome stories that the Doom of Telleril itself, that malevolent, ravenous star, has finally begun tracking down the pieces of the world that were stolen from it, and destroying them one by one.

The Doom of Telleril is the most ancient enemy of the Conclave. An entity of the Far Realm, the Doom is a dark star, a monstrous hungering light that traverses the planes in search of ripe, ancient worlds, full of life and magic for it to devour. Most worlds never see it coming, a mote of light in their skies that becomes ever so incrementally larger over aeons as it drifts ever closer, as it reaches out with incomprehensibly vast tendrils of inky star matter to guide their world gently and inexorably into its maw. By the time it is close enough to cause alarm, thousands and thousands of years after it has first marked its prey, it is almost always too late. Though it may take centuries more to finally devour them, no world can escape its vast arms and hungering maw intact. It was only a truly ancient study of the stars, and the aid of a great crystal dragon sage, that allowed the Quilak Circle to see the omens in time to salvage as much of Telleril as they did.

The Conclave has not forgotten this most ancient and cataclysmic of their enemies. Nor, they greatly fear, has the Doom forgotten them. One of the many purposes of the domes, in this new life they have forged for themselves among the stars, is to search for omens and signs of the Doom’s passing, and hints of its future prey. The Conclave seeks to protect other worlds, to keep them from falling as Telleril did. Or, should they come too late, to teach the druids of other worlds the means to raise their own domes to the stars. Not all of the Conclave’s domes are Telleril’s any longer. The remnants of two other worlds find their place among them now.

And then there are Telleril’s Children. The place of these smaller, more artificial domes among the Conclave is debated at best, but they gather along with all the others, and vociferously argue their right to attend, such that they have not yet been forbidden entry to the Conclave.

It was argued, you see, that the domes of the Conclave had become stagnant. Fossilised, frozen in time. Their purpose was to preserve the life and environments of a lost world, but it is not nature’s way to stand still and remain forever unchanged. Over time, some of the druids of the Conclave’s many circles became uneasy with the Conclave’s purpose, viewing it as an unnatural attempt to prevent nature from healing, changing, and moving on. Nature, they said, was not a museum display, but an ever-living, ever-changing process. To keep the environments of long-lost Telleril forever pristine, forever unchanged, was unnatural to them. They argued that the domes should embrace new life, the life of other worlds, and allow it to influence and expand the life of the domes, representing Telleril’s new life among the stars. It would not dishonour the memory of their world, they said, to show how her remnants had adapted, changed and sprouted again among the stars.

The schism that resulted nearly destroyed the Conclave in a way that even the Doom had not. For some, particularly among the domes that had sailed mostly the Astral Sea, outside of time, and thus still remembered Telleril’s loss as freshly as the day they were flung to the stars, the thought of allowing those tiny fragments they had preserved to be changed and warped by other worlds very much was a dishonouring of her memory. To lose that tiny fragment, to allow it to be taken and changed and absorbed into the shadow of other, still-living worlds, as though Telleril herself had never existed, never held her own, was anathema. Nature healed, yes, nature changed, nature moved on, but the domes could do that by themselves. The environs of Old Telleril could change under the magic of starlight and wildspace without ever allowing other worlds to colonise her. Even the suggestion of doing otherwise was violently resisted among them.

For several centuries, the Conclave threatened to fracture between these two ideologies. Anger, grief, hope and outrage boiled beneath the crystalline shields of the domes. Finally, a compromise was offered. The creation of new domes, Telleril’s Children, where her life could mix and mingle freely with the life of the stars, while the original domes, those who still clung to the stone of Telleril’s skin, would keep her memory as pure as possible within their confines, with only their own environs to influence the change and growth of Telleril’s seeds.

The domes of Telleril’s Children are, generally, smaller. More purpose-built. They were created among the stars, having never touched the rock of a world. They are experimental gardens, new and strange environments where the seeds of many worlds mix and mingle under the guidance of the magic of Old Telleril. Their place among the Conclave is, even still, hotly contested, and old hatreds for them run deep in certain circles. But they hold their place, even still. They grow, and spread, and build, in ways that the Old Conclave cannot. And they still hold sacred, in their own way, the memory of lost Telleril.

All of these, old domes and new, gather once a century for the Conclave. They come from wherever they have roamed, from the depths of the Astral Sea, from wildspace, from the orbits of other worlds. They bring each other news, magic, word of the Doom. They shepherd the survivors of newly-lost worlds. They trade magic, seeds, knowledge, hope. People. They send those of their inhabitants better suited to another dome across to each other. They meet old friends, and argue with old enemies. They preserve memory, and encourage growth.

They are the domes of the Telleril Conclave. They are the last remnants of a destroyed world, and the seeds of many new ones. They keep the lives and memories of what was lost alive.

If you encounter one of them, in the voids of wildspace, or sailing the vast silver expanse of the Astral Sea, perhaps you might pay your respects.

#d&d #homebrew #spelljammer #factions #long post #worldbuilding #druids #biodomes #space fantasy is my jam #telleril conclave

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anangelofheaven · 7 months

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Sermon 13

How many of us are waiting for the revelation to come? And what do we expect to be revealed?

Every day, I go from the Angel Outpost in Pandemonium to the Serpent's Tavern, and every night, I go from the Serpent's Tavern to the Angel Outpost. In the outpost, I'm on my knees, praying, and in the tavern, I am on my feet, dancing. Always, I am meditating on the Lord.

You see, I am in an ongoing conversation with God. His revelation is a daily matter. Unlike the Prophet Habbakuk, who says, "the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay," I do not relegate my relationship with God to a particular hour, corner or event.

I am always talking with God. He is always on my right, having a conversation with me. I know He sees all I do. And I know He shows me what I need to see in its time.

In that regard, I agree with the prophets. All revelation occurs in its time. Yet I do wonder why others act as though God will show up somewhere down the road.

They expect Him to save them, at that distant junction in the road; the rough patch, the dark place or the crossroads. Or they expect Him to strike them down, to render judgment; to slap on the handcuffs, inflict the overdose or have their loved ones finally catch them in their lies.

Or, worst of all, they expect Him to prove His existence, and their purpose, at some farflung date. They wait for Him to part the clouds for them, get them off of the couch and away from the TV, drop them on the knees before the mountain of their own meaning and boom at them to "climb!"

They don't get that He is already there, beside them, watching them, telling them they matter, insisting His gift is fleeting, reminding them that life is delicate and precious, urging them to look in their soul for the treasures He left them. He is there. And those treasures - your dreams, your loves, your joys - are all there, waiting for you to brush the dust off of them and get to playing with them, using them.

I see the contrary all the time in the Serpent's Tavern. I see a lot of people, cycling through the same behavior, expecting someone to snap them out of it. They're waiting for the revelation. They're waiting for God to put that Special Someone in their arms. They're waiting for that Sage Advice to repeat itself over and over until they take action on it. They're waiting for the Wake Up Call that tells them that the time for screwing around is over and the real mission of one's life has begun.

Guess what? The real mission already started. It began when you were born. You're late. All that time you've used, you're not getting it back. And the time ahead, you don't know how much more you have of it. But your purpose, has always been there, inside you, waiting for you to listen and take action.

See, that's what many here in Pandemonium don't get. Revelations, meaning finding your purpose with life and living with that purpose, isn't about waiting for God. You don't wait for God. God is waiting for you.

There. That's your revelation. Now step out of Hell and start walking hand-in-hand with your soul, using what time you have left like the gift it is.

Not sure how to do that? Look to God. Follow His example. He's always there for a conversation. And it's that conversation, not revelation, that gives our lives the meaning they were meant to have.

#fantasy #god #godisgood #pandemonium #second life #angel #art #female writers #roleplay #writers and poets

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wickedsrest-rp · 1 year

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NAME: The Scribes

FOUNDING: While humanity as a whole continues to be unaware of the beasts they share their world with, supernatural threats only continue to grow. In places like Wicked’s Rest with high supernatural activity, this poses not only a threat to the town, but an ever growing risk to humanity itself. In the year 2000, when a giant egg appeared out in Gatlin Fields, this small group of humans who knew better than most knew they had to pull together for the better of the town. These future scholars determined that in order to protect everyone, the best thing they could do was compile and learn from as much information as they could. They observed the supernatural world around them. They took field notes. They searched for sources of information that spanned that globe. They put themselves in danger in order to learn. They made allies and developed their own philosophy. This marked the beginning of what would later be known as The Scribe Organization, and their collective goal was to gather information about the supernatural world that might later help protect humanity. The stewards of this information would come to call themselves the Scribes, and Wicked’s Rest seemed the perfect location to continue to grow their Library, located in their Oldtown Headquarters.

PASSING THE TORCH: Today, some of those original founders continue to work at the growing Scribe Organization. Others may have passed the torch to their children, who could have been raised to understand the importance of their parents’ work, or perhaps only learned the truth about it as an adult. Some expectation of legacy seems to have already formed. Some of the founders spread far and wide across the globe, specializing in collecting knowledge on farflung creatures, while others stayed in Wicked’s Rest, trying to anticipate the next disaster. One thing is certain – as hard as the founders worked, there is still so much information that needs to be collected.

INFORMATION & KNOWLEDGE: Today, many Scribes are still dedicated to field research and observing what they see in the world, taking studious notes to file away. While they’ve proven their use in many situations already, the Library was only getting started, and some Scribes may dedicate themselves to collections of supernatural volumes, while others may be more focused on the keeping and preservation of knowledge. Other Scribes may function more like archaeologists or anthropologists, going out in the world and getting their hands dirty in the name of learning. More recently, Scribes have amassed several rarely disclosed locations that house dangerous artifacts. These have the potential to cause harm in the wrong hands – or the Scribes may simply not know enough about an artifact to keep in their main headquarters at the Library. Should some of these artifacts fall into the wrong hands, the results could be catastrophic. Scribes, however, feel strongly that they are the right hands.

MORALITY: Above all else, the Wicked’s Rest Scribes seek to keep the town and humanity as a whole safe from the numerous threats it faces day in and day out. They’ve developed their own codes and philosophy to help guide them in this lofty endeavor. Within their code, Scribes agree to be pragmatic with all issues the town faces and like to map out potential consequences of sharing valuable knowledge. Scribes pride themselves on their objectivity and prioritize accordingly, with the greater good in mind. They operate as a democracy and every decision the organization makes is put to a vote amongst its ranks. To some, this can become frustrating as it can sometimes take a while for decisions to be made.

The Scribes are aware that they share the town with many non-human species as sentient as they are. On this matter, they also strive for neutrality. They tend to avoid working with any individuals who have only violence in mind, or individuals of any species that are currently attempting to exert control over the town. In general, they have a vested interest in keeping the supernatural secret from humans who are not in the know. Given their study on the subject and personal experience, they know just how dangerous it can be when humans begin to pry into the supernatural. Some Scribes see the irony (or hypocrisy) in this more than others, but most agree it’s for the best.

Each Scribe has their own approach, but as a whole, they will work neutrally with any species, provided they have assessed the situation, need, motive, and likely outcomes to be for the greater good. While it is rare they will interfere with different disputes among species, if things escalate to a certain point, Scribes will provide necessary information to other parties that are de-escalating any conflict. They tend to focus on large-scale issues that plague the town as a whole as these tend to require more specialized knowledge. Scribes will also keep records of events like this in order to help future generations who may encounter similar problems.

SECRECY: Because of their recent founding, even those who grew up within the supernatural community may not have heard of the Scribes. Though the Scribes value working with others, they also value secrecy and ultimately wish to remain relatively undisturbed. They understand that the knowledge they hold is valuable, and as such, Scribes typically reveal themselves only when they feel the situation or time call for it, so as not to put a target on their back or cause greater conflict. However, regardless of being covert, those with a keen interest in the supernatural, as well as those in need of assistance, often find themselves face to face with the Scribes.

RECRUITMENT: In order to even enter the Library, an invite from one of its stewards is required. Information in the wrong hands can be a very dangerous thing and those rare few who are invited to join the Wicked’s Rest Scribes, rather than legacied in, are thoroughly vetted. New members are occasionally recruited by an active scribe who has deemed them trustworthy. Before officially joining, recruits have to take a test with both multiple choice and written answers. For the character portion of the exam, the paper is spelled to prevent lying. Part of this section is an oath to not commit violence or murder. While not impossible to circumvent this spellwork here, in order to cheat one has to be very skilled at compartmentalization. The oath itself is not magically binding.

COMMUNITY DYNAMICS: While the Wicked’s Rest Scribes themselves are pledged to nonviolence, they will share information with hunters, vampires, spellcasters, and a variety of species to help take down any threats to the town. They have a network of people in town who they may be able to call upon to help, and they wish to grow that network. Their goal is to be respected by most species (at least, the individuals who know of them) due to their pragmatism when it comes to keeping all citizens of Wicked’s Rest safe. However, they’re not quite there yet. Some species may not appreciate being studied, while others might feel the Scribes are “useless” because they don’t take up arms themselves and instead try to remain neutral which sometimes leads to detrimental inaction. Opinions differ based on who you talk to and what the latest conflict was. Some notable dynamics are below:

Hunters: Scribes and hunters use each other as valuable resources in the exchange of information pertaining to the supernatural. Because the Scribes are a predominantly human organization, some hunters disapprove of them being involved in the supernatural, and especially of them disseminating information to others who aren’t in that world. Scribes can also cast judgment on hunters who kill indiscriminately or feel that they own certain knowledge. Despite these circumstantial bumps, hunters and Scribes can be of great use to each other.

Mediums: Where does one go when they need to research who a malicious ghost was when they were alive? Scribes have some of the most accurate records of supernaturally inclined ne’er-do-wellers and that can often help mediums figure out how to best some of the toughest specters. However, some mediums may feel that the Scribes’ efforts to understand the nature of ghosts are misplaced at best.

Fae: Among the most insular species, fae don’t take kindly to anyone prying into their secrets and communities, especially humans. They feel this secrecy is necessary to protect themselves, and knowledge escaping from them is only a threat. Fae dislike Scribes for the attempts at collecting this information, and some may even be moved enough to act against them. On the other hand, some fae may have fun providing inaccurate information. As such, the material the Scribes have on fae is sparse and laced with things that might be completely fabricated.

#lore #the scribes #town lore

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prokopetz · 2 years

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Hey, do you happen to know any systems that do a good job capturing that kind of episodic soft sci-fi adventure where characters show up in a place and unravel some strange and mysterious goings-on, à la Doctor Who or Star Trek TOS? I've been trying to google about it, but I'm only finding discussions about running whodunits in D&D.

Could do. I'm going to assume that the reason the "how to run a whodunnit in D&D" stuff wasn't up to snuff is that you want the mechanics to actually address the mystery-solving side of things (whereas most "how to run a whodunnit in D&D" advice boils down to "freeform everything that isn't the fighty bits"), and with that assumption in mind, you have a few options.

My first impulse would be Ashen Stars. It's a GUMSHOE System variant focused on spacefaring sci-fi, with an emphasis on the "episodic sci-fi as procedural murder mystery" side of the genre. It's a great one if you want player characters with weird specialisations like forensic entomology to be able to contribute as much as characters who specialise in shooting things with guns. The big drawback is that out of the box it's rather grittier than either of your cited inspirations; its mechanical approach to mystery-solving can also be rather a lot to take in if you're new to the genre.

If you'd prefer something a little less weighty – and if the Apocalypse Engine isn't a dealbreaker – you might instead have a look at Farflung. The setting is sort of a gonzo post-scarcity transhumanist thing, so it's great for players who want to play extremely powerful (or extremely weird) characters – in fact, one of the standard playbooks is literally just the Doctor with the serial numbers filed off. It positions itself as a "mature audiences" game, but honestly its content is mostly rated PG, apart from the incredibly horny art direction (and fair warning about that!); you could basically prepare a version of the game that's suitable for high school audiences just by swapping out the playbook illustrations.

Finally, you could give Rose Bailey's Beautiful Anomalies a spin. I'm putting this one last not because it's the least suitable, but because it's the least flexible: it basically does classic Doctor Who and only classic Doctor Who. Which is fantastic if that's what you're in the market for, and a major stumbling block if you want to do something a little more Trek-like. This one's entry barrier is in the setup phase: it uses a special deck of cards and a few other unusual bits and bobs, and your favourite virtual tabletop app definitely doesn't have any presets for it, so the GM will have some work cut out for them getting ready to play.

(I’m also going to throw in a slightly off-point plug for the sci-fi Blades in the Dark hack Scum and Villainy, in the event that your group is interested in being the ones causing the murder mysteries rather than solving them. Like the game it’s based on, it’s very focused on running heist capers, and isn’t good for a whole lot outside of that, but it’s very good at what it does.)

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #tabletop rpg recommendations #violence mention #death mention

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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Start With This

Summary: Luke accidentally hurts Spencer because they are both hopelessly stupid, but when Spencer's faced with a dangerous situation there's nothing he wants more than Luke. Calling him turns out to be a very good decision.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Misunderstandings, Making Up, Getting Together

Pairing: Luke x Spencer

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: implied/mentioned sexual assault, more detailed cw on the end notes of the AO3 post <3

Read on AO3

Luke knows he’s getting obvious. His subtlety has completely thrown itself out the window, his dignity’s in the wind, and he’s so, so painfully aware of it all.

He was probably in love with Spencer before he even met the man: his reputation had preceded him -- as he’d told him that first day in the briefing room -- and the way his friends talked about him, the gentleness he seemed to possess along with the dynamite intelligence of a 187 IQ had his stomach fluttering as he walked in to meet him for the first time. And hadn’t that just sealed the deal.

Spencer’s face as he walked into the room feels like it’s been permanently burned into the back of his eyelids ever since. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t someone so adorable. He’d been so open and welcoming and they’d hit it off straight away, every look shared between them, every joint task on the case in Arizona had him buzzing with excitement. If he could spend every waking moment with Spencer, he would.

And he’s been so good at keeping it under wraps, but lately the looks the girls and Rossi have been sending his way are a bit too… knowing. Like they see right through him. It’s terrifying, really. He’s never had a bad coming out story, mostly because he didn’t until his late twenties when it was much less taboo to be gay and he was surrounded by people who cared far too much about him as a person to care about who he fucked. But he’s also never had a crush on a coworker before, not even a friend, so to be under so much scrutiny in a situation that feels so out of his depths is overwhelming to say the least.

The next case they take on, then, he takes extra caution to be subtle. He volunteers to pair up with others before Emily can assign him something with Spencer; he ignores the looks he directs his way and leaves him behind to room with JJ while he pairs up with Steven. Maybe it’s even more obvious, maybe the looks he’s getting now are far harder to deal with than the ones before but he’s made his bed. Now he’ll lie in it.

And he’ll pointedly refuse to acknowledge the hurt looks Spencer is shooting his way. It’s better to ruffle a few feathers now and get over his crush than ruin such a good friendship and drive a wedge through the team, even if his gut twists and his heart protests as Spencer furrows his brow and looks at his feet.

★

Spencer is fully aware that his chances with Luke are slim to none -- he’s not delusional -- but boy does it hurt being avoided like the plague. It takes him back to school, when he was either politely ignored, mocked from a distance or straight up bullied, when nobody could associate themselves with him without risking a beating of their own.

As soon as the case is over, he declines Emily’s invitation to go for a drink at her place with the rest of the team, instead opting to go out by himself. There’s a small, hole-in-the-wall joint a few blocks from his apartment that he’s been to a few times; it’s low-key and reasonably quiet, and the food is nice, too. It’ll do him good, he thinks, to get out of his head a bit with a few drinks and a book or three. He’s met the guy who owns the place a few times, and no-one pays enough attention to care that he’s reading a book at a bar instead of solemnly staring into a pint or gyrating on the dance floor, neither of which especially appeal to him.

As predicted, the bar is quiet, so he orders a drink and some nachos and heads to a table in the back. He used to hate bars; so full of people and germs he tended to avoid them at all costs. Now though, he finds the background noise soothing, the chatter and music a comforting backdrop to his own isolation. And on days like today, after difficult cases and tricky emotional minefields to navigate, it’s the perfect setting to sit quietly and read, far more preferable than the deafening silence of his apartment.

For some reason, though, he simply cannot get his mind off Luke. He was so hopelessly gone for him and it was making everyday tasks that much harder. Even psyching himself up to get out of bed and go to work was proving more and more difficult: knowing he would have to face the man he loved so much who clearly did not love him back was bordering on psychological torture at this point.

His one saving grace, though, was that he’d always been able to take refuge in the fact that they were friends. That even if he could never have Luke kiss him or take him on a date or sleep in his bed, he could have his friendship. He’d have the warm smiles and hugs and inside jokes and that would be enough. But now even that was seeming like a farflung pipe dream. Had he figured him out? Did he realise Spencer’s feelings for him and feel disgusted? Violated even?

It’s only after Spencer’s been reading the same page over and over for nearly 10 minutes that he gives up and orders another drink. If he can’t distract himself, he may as well drown his sorrows now he’s here.

And drown them he does. He finally stumbles onto the pavement outside the bar in the small hours of the morning feeling a little dazed and confused, and he squints his eyes as he tries to get his bearings. He lives round here, he knows that much, but where? He’s looking around for a taxi when a man he’d seen sitting not far from him in the bar approaches him.

“Hey, baby,” he grins, checking Spencer out as obviously as he’d been doing inside.

It takes Spencer’s mind only a few seconds to recognise that he’s in a potentially vulnerable or dangerous situation but he can’t for the life of him sort through his muddled brain fast enough to figure out the correct response, here. Instead he stares dumbly at the man in front of him, trying to not look as scared as he feels.

“You looking for a good time?” the man asks, reaching a hand forward to pet crudely at his face. Spencer wishes his flinch wasn’t so obviously borne from terror, but he’s sad and drunk and confused so all he can do is shake his head aggressively and back away. “Aww, come on. I’m a catch, I promise.”

Spencer jumps back further, his back hitting a brick wall as he finally finds his voice. “No, leave me alone, thank you,” he says, trying to sound firm but only sounding scared shitless. The man is huge, Spencer is not, and the street is quiet. Spencer does not like any of these variables, let alone a cocktail made from them.

The man laughs cruelly, but before he gets a chance to respond another beefy guy he recognises from inside the bar comes over, cigarette in his hand, and clocks the situation. “Oi,” he shouts aggressively, approaching the two of them. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Dude said no.”

“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

Before Spencer can blink, the beefy guy punches his assailant square in the eye, causing him to cuss them both out before telling Spencer he isn’t even worth the trouble and leaving to lick his wounds. “Hey, you okay?” the beefy dude asks, voice much softer when talking to Spencer. “You need me to call someone?”

At this moment, the only person Spencer wants is Luke. He’s shaken up and so sad, and even if Luke is sort of the reason for that, he has to try, right? Maybe… maybe he just was having a bad day and it isn’t Spencer at all. He could call JJ but even her cuddles wouldn’t scratch the itch that’s burning away at his skin, so he finally shakes his head at the guy looking at him with concern. “No, no it’s okay,” he says slowly, voice catching a little. “I know who to call.”

★

Luke also says no to Emily’s invitation, instead heading back to his own place and cracking open a bottle of wine before plonking himself in front of the team and appreciating the cuddles Roxy chooses to bestow on him. He throws in an oven pizza sometime around 11pm and eats it, laughing humourlessly at the scene for a moment. God, if his colleagues could see just how pathetic he is Emily would have to boot him off the team.

The wine and the warm temperature of the room have him dozing off on the sofa by midnight but he’s woken up abruptly by his phone ringing not long after. The clock on the wall says 1.50am so this is either a case or an emergency; blearily he picks it up to see Spencer’s name on the screen and he can’t slide his finger to answer it fast enough.

“Spencer?” he asks, voice full of concern.

The only reply is a choked off sob, making Luke sit up on high alert. “Spence, what’s wrong?” his voice is gentle but determined, he wants to know what’s wrong so he can fix it damnit.

“Can you-- Can you come and get me?” Spencer asks tearfully. He sounds hesitant like he thinks Luke might say no or be angry with him which doesn’t make any sense. He’d never feel like that, not for anything Spencer needs from him.

“Of course,” he reassures him, gently, still a little bewildered by the absurdity of it all. He springs into action and leaps off the sofa, slipping into some trainers and grabbing his keys. “Where are you, Spence? I’m on my way to the car.”

Spencer rattles off an address before he says, “Wait, don’t go, can you stay on the phone with me?”

Luke’s heart damn near melts at that but he obeys and stays on the phone with him, mumbling platitudes and promising he’s on his way the whole five minute drive until he pulls up in front of the address Spencer gave him, immediately spotting the younger man hunched down against a wall. He parks the car quickly and rushes over, crouching down in front of Spencer and gently pulling his head away from his knees so he can look into his eyes. He immediately recognises he’s drunk and sighs internally, hoping this won’t be too impossible.

“Hey, Spence, what’s going on?” he asks earnestly, holding onto the man’s forearms partially to help steady himself and partially to offer a noninvasive point of contact for Spencer.

“Sad,” Spencer says, looking into Luke’s eyes with wide, honest eyes. “You’re angry at me.”

“What?” Luke asks incredulously. “I’m not angry at you, Spencer.”

“Yes,” Spencer nods enthusiastically. “You wanted to work with other people on the case today. You were ignoring me.”

He’s not quite slurring his words but it’s close, and if Luke wasn’t so concerned about the situation at hand he’d find it adorable. “Oh, Spencer, no,” he protests, a sinking feeling in his chest. His own insecurities and fears had got the better of him and he’d managed to make Spencer feel bad about himself. “That was unrelated and not your fault at all, okay? It’s complicated and definitely not a conversation to have on the ground outside a bar at 2am, but we can talk about it somewhere else if you’d like. Do you want me to take you back to your place?”

Spencer looks back at him. “No, don’t want to be alone, please don’t leave me on my own, Luke,” he says, eyes wide in fear this time, not honesty.

“Okay, okay,” he placates him. “Would you like to come back to mine?”

Spencer launches forward to hug Luke, burying his face into his neck and Luke takes the opportunity to relish the feeling of Spencer’s lithe body against his own, the intimacy he craves so deeply finally being awarded in a small way. “Should I take that as a yes?” he chuckles.

As soon as they get into Luke’s apartment, he gets to sobering Spencer up. He’d managed to pry the number of drinks he’d had out of him in the car, and as soon as they get back he butters him some toast and gives him a glass of water to drink on the sofa while he fills up another glass and grabs some advil.

“How’s that, Spence, are you okay?” he asks softly as he joins him on the sofa where Spencer is dutifully munching down the toast while late-night TV plays in the background.

“Yeah,” he whispers, smiling up at Luke, already looking more lucid than he did on the street, though he suspects part of the reason was he was scared and a bit disoriented then and now feels safe. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Spencer,” he smiles back, patting his knee affectionately as he pours him another glass of water. “Have your toast and another glass of water and then you can have a shower, if you like. It’ll help ground you and warm you up a bit.”

Spencer’s compliant through it all, which is obviously desirable, but he’s also quiet. He takes the hoodie Luke chucks his way without comment and slips it on -- Luke very pointedly does not think about how good he looks -- before looking to him for his next direction.

His eyes are much clearer now and he seems far more sad than drunk, so Luke steers him back to the sofa and hands him a blanket. “Hey, Spencer,” he says, waiting for him to look up before continuing. “What’s going on? Why did you need me to pick you up?”

Spencer fidgets with the blanket as he answers. “Well, I went to the bar to stop thinking, like distract myself, but it didn’t really work so I just decided to have some wine instead, which was really nice and I liked the fuzziness, but then when I left there was this man. He came up to me and was trying to… like he was trying to ask me to sleep with him,” he risks a quick look up to check if Luke is listening to him but averts his eyes from the intense stare when he realises he is. “But I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do and I panicked but then this man came out of the bar and he punched the other guy and helped me but then I called you so he didn’t have to do anything else.” His voice is nervous as he talks, clearly unsure of himself from the way he darts around from point to point, his typical eloquence evading him.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” Luke says, earnestly. “I’m sorry that happened to you but I’m even more sorry that you were sad enough to drown your sorrowsbecause of me. Tomorrow, I promise we can talk about this and I’ll explain everything, but right now I think you should sleep. You can take my bed or the sofa tonight, whichever one makes you feel more comfortable, and then I’ll make you whatever you want for breakfast in the morning and we can chat. How does that sound?”

Spencer looks satisfied for now, cocking his head to the side. “Hm, can I have pancakes?” he asks.

Luke laughs fondly at that, leaning forward to ruffle Spencer’s hair lightly as he tries not to read into it when Spencer leans into his touch. “Are you kidding?” he teases. “You’re looking at the pancake maker extraordinaire right here.” He relishes Spencer’s giggle at that, pleased at how relaxed he looks now he knows Luke isn’t angry at him. “Pancakes in the morning. For now, where would you like to sleep?”

“The sofa’s fine,” Spencer says softly, a small smile playing over his face as he follows Luke with his eyes as he stands up to collect some blankets and pillows. “Thank you, Luke.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he smiles back, and hands him the extra blankets and cushions. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

★

Spencer wakes up to the sound of dog paws on wooden floors and is momentarily confused -- he does not have a dog nor wooden floors -- before the events of last night flood into his head with a crashing wave of humiliation. He sits up abruptly, blinking his eyes against the soft grey light of the gloomy day, and looks around until he meets Luke’s eyes where he’s sat drinking a cup of coffee at the dining table.

He knows he’s flushing an embarrassing shade of red but he can’t help it, this whole situation is so bizarre. “Good morning,” he finally says.

“Morning Spencer,” Luke says, hiding his far-too-wide smile behind his coffee mug. “Did you sleep okay?”

He just nods and hums in response, before excusing himself and rushing to the bathroom for a small semblance of privacy. Looking in the mirror, he splashes his face with some cold water and fiddles with his hair until it’s sat the way he wants it to before taking some deep breaths in a vain attempt at composure. He’s sort of in love with Luke, being in his apartment like this is mildly intoxicating.

Eventually, he surfaces back in the main living area where Luke’s already started on the pancakes. “Hey, you good?” he calls over his shoulder as he flips the pan, a delish smell intoxicating the kitchen.

“I’m good,” Spencer confirms, joining him in the kitchen for a front row seat of Luke cooking. Chatting menially together as the pancake stash slowly builds, Spencer gathers all the toppings at Luke’s direction before they move to sit at the table and start tucking in, both trying to ignore the rising tension at what they both know is coming.

“You’re being so nice to me now but all throughout the case you barely looked at me, I mean you couldn’t even share a room with me in the hotel,” Spencer says after a few moments of silent apprehension as they have their first bites. “Is it… is it because I’m gay?” His voice drops to a whisper, face contorting from confusion to apprehension, feeling a little nervous that Luke might get angry now he’s reminded him of it.

“What, no, Spencer, of course not,” Luke says defensively. “God, I’m not a homophobe. The exact opposite, actually. I’m gay, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Luke puts his knife and fork down and runs a hand over his face as he psychs himself up. “That’s the problem. The truth is, I’m into you, Spencer, very much so. And I’m fully aware that you’re my best friend and you won’t feel the same way, so… that’s a problem. The others were starting to realise so I distanced myself, but it has nothing to do with you, it’s all me so please don’t blame yourself, alright?”

“Oh.” Spencer’s brain is short-circuiting.

“I’m sorry, I just needed to explain why I acted like that.” Luke apologises, sitting forward again. “I know this is probably making you uncomfortable, I can drop you back or call you a cab or something--”

“No,” Spencer says suddenly, snapping back into action as the information finally processes. Leaving right now is the last thing he wants. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just caught off guard. You… like me?”

“Well, yeah,” Luke smiles, a little awkwardly. “If you want to put it like that.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment as everything finally clicks into place. “We are both very stupid.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the primary reason I was sad and drinking at a bar alone last night was because I am very much in love with you and feared you were pushing me away. That I’d lost my chance forever,” Spencer explains. “I don’t have much experience with relationships, so I didn’t know how to deal with it and when you started acting distant I did the same and… ran away, I guess.”

Luke’s glad that Spencer’s eyes are clear this morning and his eloquence is back or he’d fear he’s still somehow drunk out of his mind still and has no idea what he’s saying. “Oh.” It’s his turn to blank on a response.

“To be honest, Luke, I don’t know where to go from here,” Spencer laughs, a little awkwardly.

“Let’s start with this,” Luke says, getting up from his seat across the table and sliding into the chair next to Spencer, bridging the gap between the two before he kisses him gently. Spencer’s hand reaches forward to grip the front of his shirt, kissing back with just as much trusting desire as he feels Luke smile against his lips. They part at the kiss’ natural conclusion, pulling back to look at each other, tense awkwardness replaced with a new understanding of one another.

“Yeah,” Spencer smiles. “That feels like a good start.”

It’s a good start, but it’s by no means the end. The heaviness that had weighed between them for so long finally lifts and the lightness that replaces it means they both breathe easier, finishing their pancakes in between shy, cautious looks and shameless giggles. “Do you have anything you need to do today?” Luke asks as he washes their plates up, Spencer perched on the kitchen counter next to him.

“Nope,” Spencer says, smiling at the implication of such an answer.

“Well, what do you feel like doing?” he asks, wearing far too cheeky of a grin for Spencer to avoid leaning down and planting a kiss on his lips.

“Hm,” Spencer ponders, looking out the window at the rainy day. “I think movies and snacks would be perfect if I have you as company.”

“You smooth little thing,” Luke teases, poking Spencer’s side with a wet finger and delighting in the giggle that escaped his lips. “That sounds perfect to me.” He washes the frying pan last and quickly wipes down the kitchen before they head to the sofa, arms piled high with all the crisps, chocolate and cookies they can find in his cupboards. Spencer also digs about in the freezer and finds a pint of ice cream to share, which they feed each other bites of later in a sickeningly sweet, cliched moment of tenderness.

Luke chooses the first movie, picking out a Marvel film that Spencer ends up actually enjoying, though Luke can’t exactly say the same about Spencer’s choice, an obscure period piece from the 1960s. Still, he cuddles him close and pays attention to every minute. If it matters to Spencer, it matters to him.

And if wasting the day away with movies, snacks, and heart to hearts turns out to be exhausting enough that Spencer just has to stay the night again, this time sharing Luke’s bed with him and Roxy, then they’ll just have to make the absolute most out of such a terribly inconvenient situation. And they’ll deal with how to hide a 2 night love-fest from a team of profilers in the morning, because they’re far too oblivious to realise they already know.

Tags: @johanna-swann @pretty-b0yy

#criminal minds #criminal minds writing #criminal minds fic #ralvez #spencer reid #luke alvez #criminal minds angst #my writing

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oracleofkairos · 2 years

Text

Welcome Home, Such As It Is

This was one of the last things the Oracle had expected, if he was being honest. Meeting old friends from the Monarchy? Absolutely, he would be ashamed if he had somehow missed all of them, especially some of the younger members, who had been with him since he started as a Guardian. But he’d expected nothing more than an exchange of words and condolences over the recent times, maybe giving them some glimmer to help them on their way, or receiving some small trinket of personal value that he could trust to help safeguard his conscience on bleaker nights. This… This was too much, though. Such a small thing, just a key, but to him, it meant oh so much.

Embarrassingly, he’d kind of… Blanked out, once he realized exactly what he’d been given, the well wishes and farewells a blur in his brain before his feet took him out of the building, and down the street. Past the former Monarchy borders, into the heart of the city, just past the bazaar, a few doors down from the small park where he’d first met Zorya.

He swallowed, looking up at the doorway in front of him, and Custode finally chose to join him. “You okay, Oracle? You’re usually not this shaken up.” “I’m alright, Custode… I just… I can’t believe they’d do this for me.” “What was that old saying you loved? One good turn deserves another?”

“Something like that…” He tentatively reached out, pressing the key into the lock, unable to help a shudder as the mechanism clicked, and the door slowly yawned open, sunlight spilling in to light the interior. It was hardly impressive, two floors of mostly empty space, broken only by a few piles of dissued crates and paperwork, coated in a thick dust. This place had likely been dissued before the Longest Night, and had just been all but abandoned now. It was dark, dissued, and potentially even downright dreary, for now. But it was theirs, their own slice of home, right in the middle of the Last City, something they’d only dared to speak of in distant hypotheticals, or farflung dreams. Yet, here they were, on the precipice of such greater things, in this space they could call their own. “It’s really ours.” “It is.” They shared a smile. “We should probably get started, dusting at least.” “Oh by the Light yes, I feel like I’m about to sneeze.” And so, after a brief stop to collect some supplies, they set to work.

#to walk on the branches of possibility | the oracle of kairos #the esprit de corps | custode #drabble #//had this idea in my head awhile #//and seemed a good way to start of some stuff this coming week #//so enjoy

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elfyourmother · 5 years

Text

Prompt 20: Bisect

There comes a certain point in a woman’s life when she must admit defeat, and Gisele found herself there, sitting before a Xaela cookfire, when the smoky scent of searing meat turning slowly upon it nearly set her to weeping.

In truth, Gisele did not care overmuch for the fruits of the sea, and never had, but her distaste for them grew a thousandfold after that fateful night in Ul’dah. It was a feast of the rarest Lominsan catch served in the Sultana’s palace, per the custom among the wealthy and powerful in the glittering desert city, for it cost a small fortune. Of course, she would never finish her gilded plate, thanks to the machinations of thrice-damned Teledji Adeledji, and ever since then, the mere briny scent of seafood stirred unpleasant memories within Gisele, and churned her stomach unbearably, and so she avoided it at all costs.

This aversion posed a far greater challenge to her than any on the field of battle, during this sojourn to the Far East, for the Hingan diet consisted almost entirely of such foods, and Doman cuisine was only slightly less reliant upon it. Of a surety, Gisele had not eaten so heartily since first the Scions set foot upon these farflung shores. Always, the intricate dance of etiquette was upon her mind, and so she made token efforts in the hopes that she would not offer offense to the myriad hosts she and her friends had encountered. But she felt as though she had been hungry for weeks, and misliked it; it minded her too much of the hard days of her impoverished childhood in the Denerim alienage, when she felt the sharp knife of deprivation more often than not.

This night was no different, as she sat exhausted at the edge of one of the myriad fires at the Xaela gathering place. Scattered here and there about the massive encampment, Haurchefant and the others were bartering for supplies, and learning what they could of the nomadic Au Ra tribes. By rights, Gisele should have been among them, gleaning information, but the endless road had caught up to her—along with the hunger.

“May I join you, friend?”

Lord Hien stood a respectful distance from her, gazing down at her with a warm expression upon his handsome face, with a small sack in his hand.

“Of course, my lord,” Gisele said, with a wan smile. Hien crossed over to her, lowering himself to the grass to sit beside her, with a chuckle.

“How many times must I tell you that such formality is not necessary?” Hien gently chided her. “Here, upon the Steppe, I am neither Doman lord nor prince. I am naught but a humble pair of hands upon which the Mol tribe can rely. In this, we are equals, no?” His grin was wry, and handsome, and it made Gisele giggle lightly, lowering her eyes upon her finger, and the ever present scarlet unicorn signet.

“I suppose we are,” she replied. Her stomach rolled then, a loud growling sound escaping for what seemed an eternity.

“It appears you have smuggled a tiger into your robes, my friend,” Hien said with a light chuckle. “Have you eaten much?”

Gisele wrapped her arms about her belly in utter mortification. “I…please forgive me if I sound like the worst sort of ill-mannered ijin, but I cannot abide seafood, for it makes me ill, and…well…”

To his credit, Hien’s lips curved into a warm and sympathetic smile. “Ah. I see. There is nothing to forgive, Gisele. You have not given offense, and in truth, your candor is welcome. But it grieves me to hear. We should remedy this, at once.” Gisele watched in curiosity as Hien reached into the sack he’d been carrying, and pulled out a large, steaming pastry. The mere scent of it was enough to raise another cacophony in her stomach. “Naught that swims the Ruby Sea has crossed this with its shadow. The Xaela stuff these pies with dzo and all manner of vegetables...whatever is at hand, in truth, but the Mol make it best, I think.”

He held it out to her, and she shook her head. She could have devoured it whole, but she could not accept such a gift.

“I thank you, Hien, but I cannot take the whole of this from you…what will you eat?”

Hien reached behind his waist, drawing a short, straight blade—a knife, truly, though far more exquisitely forged than such a prosaic term would imply—and with a deft hand, sliced the savory pie in perfect twain, then carefully wiped the blade before returning it to the small, lacquered sheath upon his belt. One half of the pie, he held out to Gisele.

“For the sake of your conscience,” Hien said, smiling impishly. “Though I must warn you, this will not nearly be enough, once you’ve sampled it.”

Gisele could not help the tears that formed at the corners of her violet eyes—whether they were of mirth or gratitude, she could not say, but in the end believed it was a mixture of both. But she reached out to grasp the proffered pastry, staring at the seared pieces of ground dzo that were exposed upon the inside in undisguised longing; it was speckled through with spices and pieces of carrot and onion and vegetables this Eorzean culinarian had no name for.

“You have my thanks,” Gisele said.

“Shall we toast this new friendship, Gisele Fortemps?” Hien asked, holding his half of the pie aloft as though it were a cup of sake, and at that, Gisele did laugh.

“Indeed, Hien Rijin,” Gisele agreed with a giggle, and took a bite.

#bisho writes #gisele surana #hien rijin #wol x hien #food cw #FFxivWrite2019 #actual disney samurai prince #ot3: steel blossoms #otp: silk and steel

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