#jdfkla

[theskyexists]

critical role ep 14 part 1

ok wow molly is a good liar

but this is absolutely nervewrecking

what is MOLLY’S PAST??!?!?

NOTT AND FJORD DID SUCH GUTSY THINGS WWOWW (so glad fjord won ksjdfajlkdf AND DRINKING THE ACID - really love Matt’s speech pattern for the Gentleman)

‘you’ve got a nice face’

‘she’s got a nice face?’

THAT WAS A COMPLIMENT!

‘looks like we’re in bed one way or the other’

YOU SEE MARISHA THINKING LIKE

beau goes: ‘I mean...’ ;)

fjord: ‘leave that one alone’ LKAHFLHSDLJhaahaha

MATT SUCKS AT JESTER’S ACCENT SO MUCH hahaha it;s almost painful

it’s nice that this band of thieves apparently don’t actually practice actual organised crime - which leeches welfare from society and leaves it dry as a desert

caleb really IS charismatic. loved his little exchange with the ogre some great questions - and perfect timing from sam on telling that joke haha. and laura wracks her havoc in both sickness and health!

[hardmantofind]

He's got a bullet with Jack's name on it.

It's not a figure of speech. He'd carved it in there with the point of his knife, metal scratching against metal until his knife was dull and useless, good for killing someone only in the most imaginative of ways. Jack, six feet away, hadn't even woken up; the whisky and the stress meant that he'd slept like the dead. Quinn's eyes, when they weren't focused on the gleaming brass of the bullet, had tracked the way his ribs rose and fell, steady and slow. Each breath counted and stored away in his mind.

Jack doesn't know what the gleam of metal is that he sometimes catches from between Quinn's fingers, nor does he care to ask. He continues to be in turn resentful, and angry, and reluctantly satisfied.

It's always warm, the bullet. It sits in his pocket when he's busy, but whenever hands are idle, he likes to feel it next to his skin -- imparts fever-heat to the gun-cold metal with the palm of his hand as his thumbnail traces the neat, angular letters.

And when Jack sneers at him, lashes out at the impassive smirk that he hates not being able to push from Quinn's face, tells him you wouldn't kill me with a certainty that's almost naive, Quinn's smirk only widens as he lets the bullet roll onto the table.

Hot, smudged with the oil from his fingerprints. Named. Unmistakable in its message.

"Your life is in my hands, boy," he tells him as Jack stares at the bullet, jaw tightening and flexing at the sight of his own name on it, swallowing visibly. "Ain't nothing that can change that."

[learn-how-to-run]