A quick little drabble about the nature of being surrounded by magic as a nonmagical creature because I have brain rot for my underrepresented son Gadreel
Gadreel never thought that he had a particularly strong sense of smell growing up. He had thought that his mom always smelled like sunshine and warm bread because she enjoyed her gardening and cooking. He had never wondered why that scent clung to her even after she and mother had spent all day together in the forge, and mother’s skin wafted the scent of hot metal and cooling sweat. It wasn’t until much later that he was told a lot of mages, the utilitarian kind, the less powerful kind, the kind that reached for magic as a tool instead of a part of themselves, often don't consciously know what their magic projects from them. (Waylan read that in one of his many books he snuck back from the ‘big city’ that used to be Gadreel’s home. And Waylan had been somewhere between proud and fearful when he admitted that the smell of fire he exuded was just an extension of the burning he always felt under his skin.) How even after learning this he never wondered or worried why he could smell the magic under his mom’s and Waylan’s skin. How it wouldn’t be until much later he had to contemplate if it was something that was typical of orcs or elves or if it was something inherent to who he was. And how he was too much of a coward to ask Lugh about it. So he never did. He kept it to himself and tried not to let any of the others know.
How sitting out in the fields with Waylan never made him feel like they were getting fresh air because everytime the younger man got worked up or excited all he could breathe was smoke. How when he finally gotten to kiss Waylan, hold him close-- how a hard metal hand and thick rope of scars pressed against his skin, things he had never imagined during the dark nights he fantasized about touching his best friend like this-- he had never realized that the air between them would smell like burning, and that Waylan’s mouth would be open flame, and his skin would taste like ash.
How when Vani was with them she radiated warm sunshine, soft damp earth, wildflowers and sage. And when they went to see her home, even in the dead of winter he knew her magic was allowing her to carry a piece of her kingdom everywhere.
How when he was pushing himself between fragile, bold, timid Lughnasa (his half sibling-- just own it already everyone else already knows) and whatever danger was coming for them next he could smell wine and sweet rum, and touches of something like thick soft grass in a far off foreign meadow. How it made him wonder if Lugh’s magic was desperately latching on to the memories of their home and the toxins they'd tried to use to forget.
How when Ray reached out to him, her hands soothing his hurts in his mind and body, he would be overwhelmed with petricore and seawater. How when she did it in Ketterdam it was like walking along a beach after a gentle rain. But after they had visited Vasselheim, after her stint in the catacombs, and her sword had started to spew dark water-- he had recoiled from her spells. Because then her magic had taken on a horrible odor, a brackish briny rot of a bloated animal whose drowned body had washed up on a beach, left to fester and putrefy on the sand.
And how at first he liked that he knew this part of them, especially given they seemed so unaware of it themselves. And he had thought the longer this... arrangement, alliance, friendship went on he would just get used to it, put it away in the back of his mind. Because smells were something that people could get used to. But magic, he found, was not. He smelled it every time they did something as mundane as cleaning their clothes and changing their eye color (and what a strange privilege to be in any position where doing something like that could be considered commonplace) to ripping a monster from this plane of existence. But what was worse was the way the smells made him feel.
How at the faintest whisper of wine, water, or smoke, his whole body went tense. His fingers would curl around the hilt of whatever weapon was nearest and his eyes would dart around for any possible threats. How even if it was just Lugh weaving an encouraging phrase or Waylan lashing Ray with a flame that they both knew wasn't made to harm her, his body would coil itself tight because when his companions threw magic it was always a draw if they would be using it to play or to fight. Always a coin hanging in the air, filled with the heavy scent of possibility, for just long enough it may turn into a guillotine on the way down.
How he hadn't thought this was weighing on his mind before Jinx came along. Not until there was someone who didn't carry a smell that made the air tingle and hum obtrusively. No. Jinx smelled like old leather and sometimes gutter muck if she had been doing her favorite work of scaling buildings. But her scent could fall to the background. When they were together she was a sanctuary. Nothing about her being pushed in on his senses. She did not exude an aura that forced him to take notice of her, she simply was. And oftentimes, when she felt like it, she simply wasn't too. She had the amazing ability to make herself disappear. Not in the same way that Waylan or Lugh could-- though when she had their help the effect was only compounded. She could just become smaller, quieter, thinner, like existing in this reality had left her so tattered and threadbare that the shadows and cracks between cobblestones welcomed her and let her slip between them far away from prying eyes. He can admit that her being a blindspot, a dead zone, in the sea of magic he had been treading for the past-- two? Three, maybe?-- years is what made him approach her.
What had kept him at her side was how she had been so out of her depth, unfamiliar with so much of the world, so much of the world's strangeness each of the others represented. How she had a story of her own-- orphaned, growing up in foster homes, and then on the street. How that wasn't an uncommon story in big cities. How he had been so relieved to hear her old wounds were something mundane enough for him to empathize with. How he could understand those while banishment, dragon inherited fury, siblings lost in Hell, and rebelliousness that nearly brought a civil war were so far out of his depth he never felt like he could say the right thing to his friends. How he never felt right voicing his own concerns and struggles with them when they were so little. Jinx, smelling like the mud caked on her boots from their long day's travel, leather of her gloves and coin pouch, and the oil he had given her to keep her blades clean and sharp, would walk up to him, or wander off with him, and ask him his thoughts. She would be glib and she would be tactless, and she would understand. She was like him, so far removed from magic, from being extraordinary in the strange exotic way the rest of their friends were, and she made him feel like it was okay for them to exist in that space. To be nothing like the others, and still matter. Like they did help, even if they could only hack and slash, couldn't close a fatal wound with a shining gem and a few murmured words. She gave him respite when the heavy press of magic all around them made him feel like he was seconds away from shaking apart trying to hold still or having to fight for their lives. She bought him a little bit of sanity the nights that he could sit in their camp, surrounded by all of them, and her presence allowed him to believe the smoke on the air was the fire they'd lit to keep them warm, and the sweet smell of wine was the skin she would pass him between sentences. And for now, that would be just enough to give him peace.
Note: As most of you know my campaign has well as truly taken over my life and I’ve been writing little (and not so little) stories based around it. And I’ve decided to post them from time to time, they’re going to be tagged ‘cotd fics’ if you want to blacklist them, I’m also sticking them under a ‘read more’ but I know they glitch a lot so sorry if it doesn’t take. Here’s a little one because I’ve been plagued by the fact that dragon bloodline sorcerers canonically have scales.
His mother noticed when he was five.
She found little patches of pebbled skin on his shoulders, along his elbows and knees, and running along his spine. The skin wasn’t red, or itchy, or like any rash she’d seen but she’d been worried and taken him to the local physician anyway. The older man hadn’t known what to make of the tough little bumps either and had given them a special lotion. Waylan got in the habit of putting it on the patches every night and morning, but the pebbled skin never went away.
***
His father takes notice of it when he’s nine.
His mother has been dead for eleven months and things are different now. There’s no more music constantly drifting through their home, his father works longer hours, and Waylan is silently expected to care for himself. The expectation is distant. His father doesn’t call him a burden, doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes when he asks for something, but he makes a point of showing Waylan how things are done in the house and where things are so that he doesn’t have to ask for them again. So Waylan learns how to make and tend fires around the house, for warmth and cooking, how to do his laundry, and eventually, where the first-aid kit is.
He burns his hand on the fire poker, not having realized that he’d left it resting too close to the roaring flame he’d brought to life. His father heard his scream from across the house and he’d come running. The sharp red line already had two blisters bubbling up inside of it and his father had picked him up and taken him straight to the bathroom, setting him on the edge of the tub before rooting around in the small dresser that sat beside the door. He’d put a thick cream on the raw skin, wrapped it, and warned Waylan to be more careful.
When he’d taken the bandages off a few days later the blisters were gone, but a distinct line of that pebbled skin had risen in their place.
***
Waylan figures it out when he’s fourteen.
After his hands catch fire, after he can suddenly hold a piece of wire and talk to someone over a hundred feet away, after he realizes he has magic. And once he realizes it he starts to research, finding scant moments to slip away from his father when they’re in Creta so that he can buy as many books as his bag can hold about the arcane. And when they’re home he reads. He learns about the different sources people have for their abilities. There are people who use words and songs to pull their magic from the strings of the universe, people who through their own means and study are able to learn the craft like a science, people who draw power from the natural world, and people who are just born with arcane magic. Though his mother had taught him to play piano when he was still little he doubts his fumblings there are the source of the fire he can feel burning under his skin. So he figures he must have just been born like this.
And there are plenty of records of other born sorcerers. There are some who can’t contain their magic and strange, sometimes destructive, things happen around them. But he understands what Sabroth and Dojhan say when they speak draconic and he’s never been taught. And he thinks that maybe he should be more surprised to find out that there’s dragon blood somewhere in his family line. But he’s more relieved just to find some answers. He reads the chapter on mages with dragon blood four times that night. And when he goes to bed he traces his fingers lightly over the raised rough skin along his shoulders and the backs of his forearms.
Scales. Thin and flesh colored, not the metallic (or dare he think, chromatic) color of his ancestor, but another remnant of them. Something left behind to protect him.
He stops using the strange lotions from his childhood.
***
Gadreel doesn’t notice them until after they start to date.
That’s not a surprise really. The protective patches blend in with his skin, they’re pretty nondescript until they’re felt. Gad’s fingers twitch where they’re curled around his hips, his calloused fingers taking note of the unexpected tough texture.
“Scales,” Waylan mutters against his throat. He wants to try and press himself closer into Gad’s lap, but he’s still unsure and off balance. The stump of his arm aches and it would really kill the mood if he fell over because he couldn’t catch himself.
“Scales?”
“Dragon blood.” He says in draconic, nipping sharply along the edge of his jaw. He taught Gadreel the tongue he’d been given by birthright. “Now fuck me.” Waylan adds in the orcish Gad had taught him.
He doesn’t comment on the patches of scales he finds as he runs his hands along the rest of his body.
***
Ray finds out shortly after.
She is their resident healer, though both Lugh and Vani can make due in a pinch, and he is the resident torture victim. He’s got a lot of healing to do. Ray chatters away at him when he seeks her out to take a look at his arm. She healed a lot of the damaged, closed the bone over the marrow and stopped the bleeding when they’d found him. But the damage to the muscles and nerves required a check-up. So he lets her chatter and waits patiently as she finishes unwrapping the bandages to get a better look.
“Oh,” he doesn’t look at her or at the rough stump of his arm. His stomach twists and sinks. That wasn’t a bad sound necessarily, but he doesn’t like the idea that she’s surprised by some new development with the injury. “Does this always happen when you’re hurt?” Teeth clenched, he finally glances down at the stump.
The scales are thicker, thicker then he’s ever seen them anywhere on his body, almost as defined as Dojhan’s. They’re an unhappy, flushed raw color where they’re swelling around the stitches Ray’s supposed to be removing.
“Never been hurt like this before.” He grunts in response. Ray mulls that over for a second. He wonders what inane thing she’ll come up with this time and half wants to yank away from her touch. He’s not half bad with a medical kit himself, he could probably take care of this on his own the slow way.
But instead Ray just says, “Tell me if anything hurts.” And starts trimming away the black thread. When she checks the bandages on his chest as well they find a similar line of rough thick scales.
***
He notices after a few more months of traveling with the party that the scales don’t go back to the way they were before.
The ones around the stump of his left arm are still thick and rigid, a protective insulation against the potential discomfort of his mechanical prosthetic when he manages to procure one. As are the ones tracing the wound left by Gadreel’s axe. But he starts to notice the scales growing thicker in other places. Along his other arm, down the front of his chest and thighs, spider webbing out from the slash the Crimson Sign left across the hollow of his throat. The more they fight, the more his magic grows, the more scales he feels on his skin. They’re still invisible save for the pink tinged ones that line his scars, but Waylan can’t help but note the changes.
The scales are for protection and the gods know he could use as much as he can get traveling with this lot. And when he leaves them, leaves Gadreel, only a few days after the winter solstice to travel to one of the most isolated and dangerous places in the world, he's grateful to carry that protection on his skin.
***
He tells Corzaren.
They’re in the ruined castle, and after weeks he’s finally persuaded the undead creature to remove his armor. Seeing what two hundred years of decay has done to the knight is strange, but in a different way than he’d expected it to be. Waylan had known that Corzaren would be nightmarish. But the skeleton in front of him with red coal bright pinpricks of light burning in its eye sockets isn’t frightening really. Though he wonders if he’d feel differently if he didn’t know Corzaren as well as he does.
“Can I?” He raises his flesh hand.
“Of course.” Corzaren leans forward, still far taller than him even without his thick armored boots and helmet, and lets Waylan carefully cup his fingers over the bones of his face. It is strange to see the mandible part and hear the words slip out with no assistance from lips or tongue. The bones are rough under his fingers and the heavy thrum of necrotic energy that keeps the knight’s soul bound and animating his corpse makes Waylan’s hand start to go cold and numb after a few moments.
“Can you feel this?” He asks, drops his fingers down to the creature’s neck so he can carefully touch the interlocking pieces of his spine.
“Vaguely. I mostly note the pressure. I imagine I feel your touch as much as you can feel this.” He reaches out and runs his fingers along the metal arm. And the magic and machinery that keep the prosthetic going does transmit some of that sensation to him. Mainly a whisper of pressure, and a slight twinge that he suspects is the arm’s magic reacting to Corzaren’s necrotic energies. But no registration of texture or temperature.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“I am content being as close to you as I am able.” That makes his heart do a funny thing behind his ribs so Waylan just settles for tracing careful fingers along the thin bones of Corzaren’s instead. They feel brittle, like even he could break them without much effort, but when he does press a little more roughly he finds them solid as steel under his hand. Corzaren doesn’t even acknowledge the attempt, and to be honest Waylan wouldn’t have even tried if he thought for a second he’d actually do the other man harm.
When Corzaren’s touch moves from his prosthetic to his cheek he doesn’t say anything, just leans in to the touch slightly as he continues his inspection of the knight’s skeleton. There’s no flesh left on him, and Waylan’s a little grateful for that. He thinks this would be a lot more unpleasant if Cor looked like some of the bodies mouldering away on the lawn. Instead the old bones are clean, and scarred. A deep gouge in his rib here, a nick along his vertebrae there, and notably a crack, long and thin a few centimeters from his sternum on the left side of his ribcage. When Way’s fingers hesitate there Corzaren says,
“When Westly finished the ritual he asked me to fall on his blade. He was too far gone to sever his own soul from his body, but if I was willing then he could sever mine. Spare me the fate that was coming for everyone in the castle.”
“And avenge him and his mother?”
“No, Westly was a kind man, I don’t think revenge would have ever crossed his mind.”
Waylan doesn’t say anything when Crozaren’s fingers drop to his throat. He’s not wearing his necklace, and the pale pink scar smiles along his throat. “Same person who did almost all the rest of it.” Is all he offers in explanation. He hasn’t told Corzaren about the Sign yet. He’ll get around to it eventually. He doesn’t flinch as the thin bones run over the scar, but they make a loud rough sound in the quiet room despite the soft touch. The undead creature pauses and then does it again, as if he doesn’t know quite what to make of the discordant and unfamiliar sound. “I grow scales over my deepest scars.”
“Were you anyone else I would think that was a metaphor.”
“Good thing I’m not then.”
***
Terran knows he has scales after the first five minutes they speak.
Which is fair, he supposes, considering the man is a real dragon and an old one at that. He’s been around long enough to have seen other sorcerers.
(“Do you have any kids?” He asked one day when the thought crossed his mind.
“Absolutely not.” The other had replied with such an air of disgust Waylan couldn’t be sure it wasn’t intentionally exaggerated as a joke. “I have far more important things to do than contend with offspring or run around spreading my seed like a base animal, unlike some.”)
Waylan doesn’t realize how nice it is not to have to explain himself until he suddenly doesn’t have to. When they start sleeping together and Terran’s hands find the patch of scales running along his sternum, Waylan's mouth automatically opens to speak. But Terran doesn’t hesitate, just scrapes the whisper of claws between the interlocking pattern before continuing on. He doesn’t even blink. And the thing is Waylan never thought he was particularly self-conscious about the patches, but having them treated as if they are no more interesting than any other piece of skin loosens a coil of tension that he hadn’t even realized was taut in him. Terran neither pays them special attention nor ignores them. And that bland acceptance is something Waylan didn’t even know he wanted.
Over the course of the next few months that treatment has Waylan not thinking about them as if they’re anything strange or special either. It’s just his skin. Not his skin and the patches of scales. It’s all just him, and it’s no more worth acknowledgement than his eyelashes or fingernails.
So maybe that’s why he’s so confused when Terran starts muttering, voice low and angry, one rare sunny afternoon as they’re laying tangled in a pile of furs together. He feels the dragon’s fingers on his spine, pressing and pulling at his skin, it’s not painful, but the skin is still tight. The draconic letters he’d had Terran carve into his skin finished healing a few weeks ago, but it’s still tender.
“What’s got your tail in a twist?” He mumbles into the cradle of his flesh arm, reaching back with the metal one to push Terran’s probing fingers away. “If you wrote it wrong I’m going to kill you.”
“Oh no pet, it’s worse than branding you incorrectly.” He hisses, smacking Waylan’s hand away in response and putting his fingers back on his skin. “You’re marked correctly, and I’m afraid I’m debating the merits of killing you.”
A few months ago a statement like that would have actually frightened him. Now, “If you’re going to break up with me at least wait until Corzaren comes back so he can sooth my heartbreak.”
Terran swats him on the ass. “I’m being quite serious, brat.”
“Sure, why are you dumping me?”
“Because your scales are coming in.” Terran half snarls.
And that does give him pause. “My scales? You’ve already seen my scales.”
“Not these,” to accentuate his point he grinds his thumbs along the inner curve of his shoulder blades. Waylan makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat, the scales there must have gotten more pronounced because Terran puts a fair amount of pressure when he touches them and they ache as he draws his hand back.
“Ow.”
“Suck it up I have bigger problems.”
“You know what, you’re a jackass, I’m dumping you.” He makes precisely no move to extract himself from the furs and go find his scattered clothes.
“Your wing plates are starting to grow.” Terran finally says.
“What?”
“They serve as a place for you to focus your magic and manifest your wings once you’re able to sustain that kind of power.” Waylan considers this for a moment. He knew that sorcerers like him could eventually learn how to create wings and fly, he didn’t know there would be a physical change to accompany the magical one.
“Okay, so why are you mad?”
“Because your skin is pink.”
“Yes. Sorry I can’t be as sallow and pale as you.”
Terran pinches the back of his neck this time and Way yelps. “You are my blood,” he hisses in draconic. “And we do not come in pink.”
Ah. So that's it. “So you’re saying you won’t love me anymore if we clash colors?”
“I should have known from your affinity with fire.” He laments. “But with your eyes and hair I had hoped. A metallic would be better than--” He lets out a string of curses, mostly in draconic, but Waylan thinks he hears the rough incomprehensible sounds of abyssal thrown in as well.
“Would you rather I be green?” Like you.
“That was never a possibility, pet,” Terran finally says, huffing out a sigh before pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “You’re far too terrible at manipulation and subterfuge for starters.” He doesn’t bother taking it as an insult. “But really? Couldn’t you have been gold? Brass even?”
“I can’t control my blood.”
“Have you tried?” They’re quiet for a few minutes. And eventually Terran’s hands return to his shoulder blades and he runs his fingers over the scales again and again.
“When do you think I’ll be able to fly?” Waylan finally asks.
“I’m not sure, it’ll depend on how quickly you develop your gifts. But I think you’ll enjoy it.” He makes a soft sound of agreement in the back of his throat. “It will be torture to fly that slowly, but when you can perhaps I can teach you a thing or two.”
“You’re going to still want to be seen with me if I am red?”
“I suppose, and if I change my mind swatting you out of the sky will be a very efficient way of solving that problem.” Waylan huffs, but doesn’t say anything. After all, Terran doesn’t stop pressing soft reverent touches to the forming wing plates.
He’s twenty-one when he learns he’s going to have true scales and the wings to match. And he’s greatly looking forward to showing them off.
A series of letters between Waylan, a human draconic bloodline sorcerer, and one of his evil boyfriends Terran, the ancient green dragon. For anyone who doesn’t want to see fics from my party’s campaign the blacklist tag is “cotd fics”. I don’t know how many of these there will be as they take place outside of the canon timeline.
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12. Rielik. P.1072
T,
It’s been a few weeks. We ended up traveling through Zhento and Ray met a nasty postmaster so of course she proceeded to rope Lugh into helping her rob and burn the building down– our only saving grace is that she at least had the foresight to do this in disguise. Unfortunately, in doing so she stuffed about seven hundred sheets of stamps and hundreds of envelopes into the bag of holding which is nearly at capacity now. She refuses to part with her spoils unless they are used for their appropriate purpose and I can only write ‘fuck you’ on a letter and hand it over to Lugh or her so many times before it gets old.
I don’t know how discrete you would want me to be with these letters, so I will refrain from naming you, your place of residence, or the name of our dear go-between who will be delivering these letters to you. I know given his position he can’t receive his own letters, so give him my love. We are continuing to travel, but if you want to write back I’m sure you have your ways of finding me.
A series of letters between Waylan, a human draconic bloodline sorcerer, and one of his evil boyfriends Terran, the ancient green dragon. For anyone who doesn’t want to see fics from my party’s campaign the blacklist tag is “cotd fics”. I don’t know how many of these there will be as they take place outside of the canon timeline.
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3. Suriel. P.1072
Little mage,
How cute, to think my enemies could even have the slightest idea that you even exist. Your attempts at discretion are something that I will find humor in for years after the flesh has rotted from your bones.
And speaking of which, our dear sends his love in return. He’s close to achieving his goals here and when there has been a date set for the final deed I am sure you will receive an invitation. He’s very proud of his work here and he looks forward to sharing the kingdom of his memories with you. Given my current position it is probably my duty to tell him that what he sees in his nostalgia tinted memories is not what’s waiting for him on the other side of this, because you and I both know that this change will be more than these people can accept. Even with what he has gathered, two hundred years of lies aren’t so easily uprooted and he won’t be able to replace the things he lost.
As for your friends I doubt the most trouble they’ve gotten you into as of late has been as pedestrian as theft and arson. Do remind them if you’re unable to return to us whole and healthy that I will make sure they never return to a whole and healthy person or home for as long as I deem.
A series of letters between Waylan, a human draconic bloodline sorcerer, and one of his evil boyfriends Terran, the ancient green dragon. For anyone who doesn’t want to see fics from my party’s campaign the blacklist tag is “cotd fics”. I don’t know how many of these there will be as they take place outside of the canon timeline.
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5. Zahal. P. 1072
Mayfly,
Now, now, let’s not get testy. I just deepened those marks after all. And your friend has appeared more often in your correspondences than you’ve even corresponded, is there something I should know about, little mage? You know we’re not adverse to sharing, but we’d like a warning upfront.
Things are moving steadily here. Our Knight marches forward and rebuilds his past with cloudy visions of the future. The castle is nearly complete now. It was an unpleasant thing, in your last letter, when you specifically called out parts of myself that I didn’t believe I’d shown you. You’re correct in thinking I don’t like debts and in saying being here for our Knight in the aftermath would help to purge those from me. But while the castle is nearly complete, it is not. And for the first time in my very long life time seems to vacillate wildly between a gallop and a crawl. Because while the mortar dries between the stones my home is burning and I do not know how much longer I will be able to stay here and wait.
I have my ways of finding you. If you live long enough perhaps I could even be persuaded to show them to you. Be safe in your travels if you want me to stop threatening your friends. And tell Radiance to stop making deals. Or make one with me. Either is fine.
A series of letters between Waylan, a human draconic bloodline sorcerer, and one of his evil boyfriends Terran, the ancient green dragon. For anyone who doesn’t want to see fics from my party’s campaign the blacklist tag is “cotd fics”. I don’t know how many of these there will be as they take place outside of the canon timeline.
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2. Asdel. P1073
Pet,
Your depth of feelings towards the belligerent woman you introduced me to have me, for the first time in nearly half a century, confounded. But your feelings are yours. I look forward to seeing her justify being worthy of them.
Don’t think I didn’t catch that remark about friendship and romance, mage. Is the blacksmith still traveling with you? And do I need to offer my services again in making sure you’re no longer haunted by unpleasant ghosts?
As for my home, I hope one day I’ll be able to show it to you. I had hoped this would be on my terms but there are ripples stretching out over everything and I am unhappily pondering if Tiamat has plans for me. My own plans are still in flux, my information inconsistent, and my allies are pulling me in many directions. When I decide which needs my immediate attention I will let you and our Knight know if your assistance is needed. And please, darling, make sure to impress upon your friends that I am not a carriage service and I will eat them if they ever try to climb on my back without explicit permission. Or don’t, I have so missed the taste of mortal flesh. I’ve heard moon elves taste like dew on sweetgrass.
The castle has been completed and the coronation date is in the process of being selected. Given his ego I have no doubt that Perkas will settle on the spring equinox. I’m sure our dear will send you an invitation if he believes it will be safe for you to be here. Though Perkas might be persuaded to wait until summer if things continue the way they are. Do you remember the ferocity of the storm that forced you to seek shelter in my lair, and in my bed? Since that time last year the storms have only grown worse. Our Knight hardly has to worry about sending monsters into the villages now when every other day a building is being struck by lightning or an untethered wagon is being picked up and thrown by the wind. Do remind me, what goddess has your tiefling sworn herself to? I would like the name of at least one tempest deity to direct my ire at.
As for your paranoid friend, I have heard of the events taking place in Tipen. I had sincerely hoped that you were not involved, but given the time it took your last letter to reach me I can only offer you my condolences. Be safe.
And as for the package you sent; this isn’t a tribute, Waylan. I have lived a very long time and received a great many tributes from those afraid and pleading. I have even received totems from those who have been blindly devoted. What you’ve given me is a gift-- something you’re only able to do because I am yours as much as you are mine. I look forward to watching you lose Go when we play each other next.
A series of letters between Waylan, a human draconic bloodline sorcerer, and one of his evil boyfriends Terran, the ancient green dragon. For anyone who doesn’t want to see fics from my party’s campaign the blacklist tag is “cotd fics”. I don’t know how many of these there will be as they take place outside of the canon timeline.
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13. Suriel. P. 1072
Insufferable prick,
I had a very nice long conversation with Ray’s friend Maka today. She’s an arcane trained tattoo artist and she has some great ideas about how to cover up this nasty patch of scars I have running down my back. I’m really looking forward to working with her and getting these ugly things off my skin. Ray also says to remind you she doesn’t fear you, the gods, or death. I would like to remind you that if something happens to me and you take it out on my friends I will know and I will never forgive you.
But aside from your pointlessly aggressive posturing in your last letter I did take note of what you said about our Knight. You’ve given this a lot of thought, especially if it’s the one thing you would choose to write me about after these past few months, and I understand. You’re not wrong. We both know he desperately longs to set things right, but I don’t think he’s as blind to the future as you seem to. He knows that once the sword falls there will be chaos. There’s a reason he has inserted himself so high on the food chain before making his final move. He has the loyalty of so many that he has saved and provided he’s careful with his identity I have every faith that he’ll be able to handle what comes after. If you’re so worried then maybe you should consider using the ‘many skills you’ve cultivated over your long life’ to actually assist him rather than sitting up in your cave twiddling your claws. If you don’t help him in the actual execution, of the plan or otherwise, then be there for him in the aftermath. I don’t know if he’ll be keen to have me there if things get as bad as you seem to suspect they will be, so if I’m not please attempt to express some compassion as he finally starts to work through this grief that has kept him tethered for the past two centuries. Or do what you did for me which was significantly less supportive and more direct. Our Knight is a direct man, he might appreciate your style of belittling someone into doing better more. Either way I urge you to trust him to know what he’s getting into and if not I very tentatively trust you to take care of him in my absence. He’s done a lot to care for us and I know you don’t like owing anyone anything, so consider this an opportunity to settle your debts.
We received a crow a few days ago. Someone Ray owes a debt to is cashing it in and things are moving quickly here. I don’t know where we’ll be going next, but given how quickly your last letter found me I doubt that you will have issue writing me again.
Not yours until you stop being an insufferable prick,
