Widomauk, T (but we'll see what happens in chapter 2), 3.5k, 1/2
“Ja, but—Mollymauk.” He takes a deep breath before meeting Molly’s eyes for a long few seconds. “You are not a piece of magic to figure out. I know that, and I should not have—”
“No harm done, I promise. Besides, the way you talk about magic—” For the very first time in the several months of their acquaintance, Molly breaks eye contact first. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t mind you figuring me out sometime.”
Or: Caleb is less used to the cold than he should be. Tieflings typically run warm. These two things are seemingly unrelated.
Campaign 4
Daybreak, or the end of the world
Bolaire character study-ish, T, 2.8k, one-shot
TALIESIN: And then one day, I saw one of your plays and for the first time, theater was more. And oh my god, Hal, everything you write changes everything. Knowing you has made me bigger. Watching your talent has made me capable of wanting to be more. Campaign 4, Episode 4: Stone-Faced
something something extremely sexy when magic users resort to physical violence. yeah i have the power of god and anime on my side but i also have THESE HANDS. i cast Punch You In The Face. i take my magic staff through which i channel the vast energies of the elements and the cosmos and i cast Severe Concussion And Skull Fracture. casting time for xenoglossy too long, chose the quicker route of Stab You In The Throat.
Lucien walking through the Soltryce Academy, dreaming he was a student who had the chance to study there, getting to learn without having to play a blood price for it...it just always breaks my heart.
Because really, he could've ended up there. He could have gone with his sister, when those silk merchants took her with them to Rexxentrum, to get her out of the Run. Lucien, who wanted to find a way for him and his sister to escape Shadycreek more than anything, who was willing to do anything to be able to provide for her, give her the kind of life he always felt she deserved.
"Her letters always began, 'My sweet brother.' Lucien didn't know if he felt sweet, but he had always endeavored to protect Aldreda, whose aimless, dreamy nature (the foreordination of the youngest sibling and only daughter) often left her at the mercy of others. The others, in this case, had been his parents. Lucien had done what he could to shield Aldreda and himself, and it was a point of pride for him that his younger sister had escaped the cutthroat speed of the Run for a better life out west.
They were only a year apart, but she always seemed so much younger. He could still remember her huge, round, red eyes as she waved goodbye, sitting off the back of a merchant's wagon, the last of their money sewn into the waistband of her skirt. The silk merchants that agreed to take her had promised she would find work in a manor house quickly, and it would only be a matter of time before she caught the eye of some rich, young nobleman in need of a pretty mistress or wife."
He could have gone with her, they both didn't have to be alone--she even asked him to join her, in some of her letters. Said she would find a place for him, that she wanted him to be there. He didn't have to go to the Orders, become a blood hunter--or he could have finally answered one of her letters, left for Rexxentrum as soon as he deserted the Orders.
They could have looked after each other. Maybe together, the two of them could have found another way to get by--without Aldreda having to marry and become a mother when she was still so young. Without Lucien having to pay for every coin in his own blood. The two of them together in the Shimmer Ward, side by side. Elric and their parents are wounds that might never heal, but at least they'd still have each other.
And I think it's so tragic that, even if everything went "right" after the hag and their parents, the family caravan Lucien set on fire--it's still very possible that Lucien might've ended up with the same fate.
What if he did get into the Solstryce Academy? Learn magic like he so badly wanted? He would've still met Vess, and I think he very much still would have taken her up on her offer--still be willing to do anything to have the coin and influence to give Aldreda a better life. I could see him still delving into ancient runes for any relics he could sell, hanging onto anything that looked particularly interesting. Lucien still diving into danger again and again, still coming home with too many scars and coin with a heavy cost, still unable to answer any of Aldreda's questions or even look her in the eye--
And that's not even going into the corruption of the Soltryce Academy itself that Lucien would be exposed to. He came across Ludinus there once in passing, and already recognized him as a "greedy tyrant" from the way he hungrily eyed a relic. Lucien is already familiar with exploring Molaesmyr, with unearthing ancient arcane treasures. And Vess could tell he was drawn to certain magical artifacts. He's fate touched.
He ends up being manipulated by mages in power his whole life. Would anyone other than Vess have tried to take advantage of Lucien's potential? I don't think he'd be considered a Volstrucker candidate, but...I do think it's possible someone like Ludinus would have also tried to manipulate him--
(little post c4e25: targeted fic because Holy Molly)
Bolaire finds Azune sitting on the bottom steps of a secluded staircase, far from the agitation of what had been the gala. The Arcane Marshal holds his head between his palms, elbows on his knees and half-lidded eyes staring blankly at the ground before him; he does not move at the curator's approach, but something brushes up against Bolaire's consciousness, inquisitive and crackling in a way that's quickly becoming familiar — then it backs off, retreating in the battered body crouched in the darkness.
"Rough night," Bolaire calls out, leaving Azune the choice of acknowledging his presence or not.
For a moment, he believes that Azune is going to ignore him; but then the man shifts and looks up, sunset eyes dulled, lines of exhaustion and misery etched deep into his young face.
"I've had better," he answers. His voice is rough, fraying at the edges; Bolaire has no doubt that if he'd stayed among the chaos of the ballroom he would have eventually blown up — though in tears or flames, he cannot say.
"Do you want some company?" Bolaire asks, stopping a few steps away.
Azune stares at him, then blinks sluggishly, shrugs.
"If you wish."
Bolaire does not move.
"This isn't what I asked. Do you want me to stay?"
Azune tenses up, and there's a spark of annoyance in his eyes now, though it is quickly smothered by the usual cool professionalism. They stare at each other, blue pinprick to dusky hues; Azune blinks first. He looks away, hugging his knees against his chest.
"I don't mind if you do."
That's as good as he's going to get. Bolaire closes the distance and sits next to Azune, leaving some space between them. Silence stretches, the strain bleeding into disinterest — then, eventually, into a tenuous sort of camaraderie.
"I didn't think I'd see her here," Azune says, breaking their little bubble of quiet. "I didn't think I would see her anywhere ever again, honestly."
Bolaire lets out a barely audible hum.
"This is the week of long-lost sisters, it would seem," he comments. It gets an humorless chuckle from Azune.
"Yours sounds like she might become a problem."
And yours doesn't? Bolaire bites his borrowed tongue, makes a non-committal noise.
"Perhaps Termina will be happy enough gnawing on Lady Cormoray's carcass for a while. Who knows? She didn't stick around to discuss her plans."
Azune's fingers tighten on his calf; Bolaire doesn't need to read his mind to know he's thinking of his own sister, narrowly escaping with her life just a few hours ago. There's a lull again, one that Bolaire lets linger and sprawl; Azune appears lost in thoughts, but some of the stiffness has melted from his posture.
"I'm scared I will never meet her again," he confesses after a while. "But I am also scared I will. It's been so long. We're both very different people. She — what if she comes to hate me? She looked like she's been through hell, and I never looked for her, I assumed— I believed —"
Azune is getting agitated once again, nervously rocking back and forth in a way that is terribly uncharacteristic of his usual focused composure. There's a volatile energy to him, a smell of ozone in the air — static electricity raising the hairs on Bolaire's arms, even through his layers of clothing.
"Stop," Bolaire commands, and Azune's mouth snaps shut. "She didn't look either. This does not lay on your shoulders alone."
Azune glances at him; there's a sheen to his eyes, the echo of a desperate need to beat himself up until he can bear to stand again. Bolaire isn't inclined to let him.
"You think yourself a cornerstone," Bolaire says slowly, letting his words sink in. "You're so eager to take on the weight of the world, with your lists and your contingencies. You have fashioned yourself into both the sword and the shield, begging to be put to good use. But you're a person, not a thing." Azune gives him a sharp glance; Bolaire raises a hand, silencing him when he looks about to speak. "You're only responsible for your own actions. Do you trust me? Do you trust Murray, do you trust Hal?"
Azune frowns confusedly. "Of course."
"Then trust us with our own decisions. Trust your sister. Trust that Thjazi — for all his faults — did what he did according to his beliefs. You are not the pillar holding up the heavens. You are a man among many others."
Azune stares at him for a while, eyes scrutinizing every inch of his porcelain surface. Then he looks down to his hands, fingers flexing tight then relaxing turn by turn.
"You're better at being a person than I am," he murmurs, voice tinged with grief and something like envy. "You say you're a thing, but you are also so deeply yourself. I —" He huffs, and his hands close into fists again. "You know what I realized? I don't know who I am. I don't know — I don't know if I'm the real me, even among friends. If I'm playing a role, trying to be who you need me to be. I don't know if there is a real me, after all this time."
"And?" Bolaire prompts. Azune squints at him.
"And what?"
"What will you do about it? You're a doer. You solve problems."
Azune seems to fall into deep contemplation. The hubbub buzzing deep in the bowels of the Archanade has somewhat ebbed as party goers are told to go home and Marshals finish taking notes of the damage. Azune's tension seems to relax by increment, until he's slumped again, head in his hands, back bowed.
"There's no time," he ends up declaring, half-muffled and directed at the ground. "No time for this right now."
"Time for what?" Bolaire asks idly, examining the tip of his gloved fingers.
"I don't know!" Azune all but whines. "For growing a personality, I guess? For — for seeking a sense of identity that might be buried in me? I'm more useful as a tool, I can deal with this once the world isn't on fire anymore —"
"This isn't ever going to happen," Bolaire interrupts with a bit more cheerfulness that the thought warrants. He corrects his tone to something more considerate: "I was created seventy years ago, Azune. Granted, I've mostly been awake to witness and participate in turmoil. But even if you only consider the short time I've been able to make my own choices, live my own life — the world is always on the edge of crumbling. Pressure rises until it blows; there's a brief moment of peace in the aftermath, during which people swear to never let it get this bad again. And then it does, because that's the way things go. You're never going to have time to catch your breath, or to find yourself, whichever. In my experience, life is a series of crisis."
Azune glances at him, a hint of something confused in the narrowing of his eyes.
"Is this meant to comfort me?"
Bolaire shrugs. "Not really. It's more of a reminder. You're always going to feel like there's one last fire to put out, one last orphan to rescue. You're never going to simply have the time."
Azune sighs — tired, resigned. "So I should just... take it? Is this what you're saying?"
Bolaire hums pensively and stretches his legs in front of him.
"I don't think me telling you what to do is conductive to the goal you intend to achieve. Do or do not. The world will keep moving anyway. Though, between you and me —" Bolaire knocks his knees against Azune's, continues: "I think you could stand to be a bit more selfish. Consider that a gentle encouragement."
He gets back up, giving his breeches a cursory swipe to dislodge any stray dust. The unrest of the assassination attempt back in the ballroom has finally quieted to a murmur; Bolaire offers his hand to Azune.
"Ready to get back into the fray? I'm sure Murray and Hal will be looking for you."
Azune hesitates. The weariness has mostly faded from his face, the despair has all but vanished; yet he looks fragile still, like a stiff wind could send him sailing through the sky.
"You go ahead," he declines. "I'll be there in a minute, I just need — I —"
Bolaire dismisses his excuse with a flutter of his fingers. "Shush. I'll let them know you'll be there once you're available." He takes a step away, intending to stroll back into the remains of the gala — stops abruptly and turns back around, twirling on his heels.
"For what it's worth — I don't think you're a mask. I don't think you're playing a role, when you're around them. I don't think you're a thing to them, either. They know you." He lets a smile stretch across his painted lips. "No offense, you're not that good of an actor."
Azune snorts; the sound is jagged but genuine.
"Excuse me, I am an excellent liar."
Bolaire winks. "The lies don't make the role. See you later."
He starts leaving again; Azune calls behind him.
"Bolaire! Thank you."
Bolaire doesn't stop walking, but he waves a hand over his shoulder.
convenient AO3 link that i'm tacking in a reblog so that tumblr won't nuke the visibility on the original post - please don't hesitate to go read and comment there <3 (also like reblog this version if you do thank youuu)
GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS
New Dispel Logic animatic with king Gus.
Gods, he looks incredible. I've never wanted to fuck something from Brennan's imagination so bad.
