Also, here's what Flammagenitus looked like as Flammin before she is later refitted into a war-torch monolith. There is also a sketch of her as a human, a dreamform Queen Nike helped create for her.
Flammin was an elderly living paintbrush. As shown here, the surface of her wooden core is rough from permanent wear and tear. Their bristles are short and straggly from past use. Flammin was a senior muralist back before their kingdom, Jazera, was destroyed by enemy relics. The holes in her ichor limbs and the permanent scar on her face were from her escape when her kingdom burned.
One day, she will return that hateful flame to those who wronged her.
Sports headcanon for Ferengi and Trill! (Based on redesigned versions)
-Ferengi are excellent climbers because of their body structure and sticky hands, and they are less often afraid of heights due to their bat/treefrog heritage, so they tend to make good acrobats. Their short height and large head to body ratio make them excellent gymnasts!
-Trill are most at home in the water, able to dive to extreme depths even in freezing temperatures. While poor jumpers and sprinters, they are some of the best swimmers to be found. They excel at free diving and all swimming sports.
Lizzie watched with wide brown eyes as the red-haired woman placed the picture book, a few pieces of paper, and a pencil into the empty, fraying carpet bag she’d carried into the room this morning. It was hard to think of the woman by her name. Lizzie knew it, but the name ‘Westlie’ was very brusque and forceful, and it was really hard to think it at the same time as she was matter-of-factly sweeping about the room. If Lizzie hadn’t seen her quiet, or somewhat embarassed, or seen her quietly working on the big book in the office, she would have been scared enough to run outright. There was some edge to the brusqueness that reminded her of Madam Florence. She hadn’t yelled, or hit her, or demanded a quota though, so she supposed this was better. She’d gotten breakfast (for free! no stealing!) which she’d scarfed down immediately. Lizzie had stuffed a few extra breadrolls in her pocket as well.
The other younger woman though. Morgan- (Morgan suited her. Lizzie didn’t have the same naming trouble as Westlie.) -was unpredictable. She’d eyed her all through breakfast - not in a ‘you’re going to steal something’-way, because Morgan had definitely seen her put the bread roll in her pocket, and the watchful expression didn’t change in the slightest. It kind of felt like the gaze of the other children at the orphanage who weren’t Benji and Sally, actually. Watchful, envious. Unwilling to take her place as Ms. Florences’ prize themselves, but they had a hawk-like eye if she made any kind of slip. They weren’t friends, they were vultures. Morgan was a vulture.
That was terrifying actually, now she thought about it. Lizzie edged closer to where Westlie was sweeping about the room, now stuffing things into another carpetbag on the bed. This one was a bit nicer; burgundy, neat, with black trim. There was a dress, and a jacket poking out the top, along with a few books and an angular metal instrument with a point on one end and pencil on the other.
Lizzie looked back and forth between the two while Westlie packed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Finally the woman turned and matter-of-factly handed her the older dusty carpet bag. It smelled like mothballs. Lizzie sneezed.
Westlie ignored it. “Here you are.” She gathered up the burgundy bag and slapped the bed forcefully so the quilt laid flat. The room was stark and bare again. Not that it hadn’t been stark and bare before, but it at least looked a little lived in. Now it looked like an empty room with a dresser and a bed. Westlie looked down at her with a curt, friendly little nod. “Ready?”
Where are we going? Lizzie wanted to speak but the words stuck her her throat. She stared up at the woman.
The woman took that as a yes and stepped off towards the door without looking back. Lizzie had to scurry after her. She slipped into the hallway and the woman turned about, shutting the door to the room.
“Morgan!”
The woman swept down the hallway. It was scary how quick she moved when she had her mind set on something. Lizzie clutched the carpetbag to her chest in both hands and raced after her. They made their way down the stairs, pausing in the hallway. Westlie glanced up in the entranceway and Lizzie could feel her getting more exasperated.
After a second Morgan appeared at the stop of the stairs. She had the same pants and shirt on as the day before, clean though, and the collar was mended. She hopped on the bannister, placed the carpetbag on her lap and slid all the way down where she popped off in front of them. “It’s early. You said 3pm.”
“Ten minutes to walk, five to get settled.”
“It doesn’t-” Morgan stopped with a sour look and finally glanced down at Lizzie. There was the same disgruntled face. Not displeasure, just... offput, unsettled, wary. Westlie either didn’t notice or ignored it.
“On our way then.”
Lizzie looked over her shoulder as Westlie gently ushered her in front of her towards the door, but she didn’t really know where they were going. They’d just mentioned a ship- they’d just mentioned a ship- to London, they’d said and the red-haired woman had reassured. But where was London? Where were they going? She swallowed and her feet stopped. Westlie stopped behind her, but Morgan brushed past them both. She turned around in the doorway.
Westlie looked down at Lizzie. The switch in expression was odd. This was the softer woman. Her eyes didn’t judge. She waited patiently, for Lizzie to speak to her, and after a minute without saying anything gently offered to take her carpetbag. Lizzie gripped it to her chest and Westlie stopped. The eyes became confused.
It was like a silent tug-of-war. Where are we going? Lizzie begged in her head. Please. I don’t understand.
Westlie wanted to talk. Lizzie could see it. But she was equally unsure, scared of asking, and scared of giving the wrong answer.
“Do you want to go to London?” Westlie finally asked.
There it was again. London. London. Her and Benji and Sally had heard about London. Madam Florence said London worked little children to the bone (worse than they were) and hungry gangs roamed the streets. They were lucky, she said, to have been born in Port Prosper to land in the orphanage there. ...Madam Florence said a lot of things like that.
Lizzie clung to the carpetbag like she was drowning. Westlie looked helpless and scared above her.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Morgan stalked back into the room and tossed her carpetbag on the floor. She knelt down in one knee and looked straight into Lizzie’s eyes. God, she was really scary. Westlie was scary when she walked with that stiff purposeful stride. Morgan was scary-er all the time. Her eyes bored right into her and Lizzie clung to the carpetbag. Her voice was surprisingly low though, and like Westlie’s, it was gentler when talking directly to her; the distaste had disappeared. “Westlie wants to take you to London.” Morgan was blunt. “I know it might be scary, but she thinks you’ll be safer there than here. She doesn’t want you to go back to the orphanage, and since we have to go back to London and we don’t know anyone here-” Lizzie caught a hidden caveat in her voice. Morgan knew more people but she wasn’t going to say anything. “-she thinks it’s safer for you to come with us. We’re going on a locomotive. A Bedivere. Have you ever travelled before?”
Lizzie managed to shake her head.
“It’s not scary.”
Somehow, in Morgan’s voice, there was a command, and Lizzie felt the fear melt out of her. It wasn’t scary. She was going to be alright. London. She was going to London. She was going to London on a Bedivere locomotive, whatever that was.
“It will be okay.” Morgan didn’t need to command it, but there was another wave of reassurance. Lizzie’s gaze followed Morgan as she stood up. The hint of distaste was back, but it wasn’t as bad as before, just quiet resignation. Maybe she was trustworthy, maybe she wasn’t. Lizzie couldn’t tell how she felt about that.
On the other hand, Westlie knelt beside her and gently reached for the carpetbag with the one hand already holding her own. Lizzie let it go. Westlie offered her hand just like the day before. Her eyes were soft and open, questioning. It was the same feeling Lizzie had gotten on the curb, even though she didn’t know her, couldn’t tell the woman from anyone else on the street. Westlie wasn’t going to make her do anything she didn’t want to do, and that in itself was a reason for trust.
Lizzie could make that work.
Very slowly she took her hand.
Westlie straightened up and held it gently, squeezing it very softly as she stepped forward. Lizzie could imagine her saying the same things Morgan had, but in a much more uncertain tone because words were so hard. It’s okay. I want to help. I want to make sure you’re safe.
They made their way to the docks, Morgan strolling purposefully in front and ignoring them, Westlie still holding her hand. Lizzie didn’t need it at that point, but it seemed too awkward to pull away, so she kept holding on. It was only when they got to the docks Westlie let go and she handed her back the ratty green carpetbag with a little smile. Are you alright?
Lizzie looked up at her. She didn’t smile, but she wondered if the lack of stress in her face showed. She grabbed the little carpetbag and let it drop to her side.
“Up we go then.” Westlie held onto the side of the locomotive. Lizzie was just tall enough to peek into the locomotive and she stood on her tip-toes at the edge of the dock. Morgan had already disappeared inside. Well. Here went nothing. She swung the carpetbag inside (It made a pleasing thunk.) and clambered onboard.
Even just inside the hold, the engine was a captive bubble of sound that drowned out the separate noises of the docks. Pipes ran across the ceiling. Little wires crackled every so often. There were footsteps in the inner hall from the crew. A raucous chatter and laughter resounding from the pipes.
Westlie swung in beside her and caught Lizzie’s eye with a brief smile. “It’s a bit scary,” -she must have taken that from Morgan- “but you’ll get used to it. Promise.”
They made their way inside.
There were three cots lined up in the cargo hold. Morgan had already snagged the one on the end, closest to the bow of the locomotive. Westlie took the one in the middle. Lizzie ended up closest to the engine. It wasn’t bad really. She looked around the hold and at the large crates packed against the wall next to her cot. She could hide behind those maybe. They looked fun to play on. She placed the ratty carpetbag on the bed. It was at that point the engine took off with a lurch.
It was kind of funny, Lizzie realized as she shoved her nose against the porthole glass of the cargo hold, that all three of them were doing the same thing. The other two liked to pretend they were above it, but Westlie seemed to be bubbling with a bit of inner happiness and Morgan had straight-up come alive. They swayed in the air for a moment above the docks. Steam hissed and obscured the view of the port. Then, like a baptism, they rose steadily above the city. Minute by minute taking them higher until Lizzie could see every building. She knew every street and route and alley but she’d never seen it from above, all at once, even on a map.
She could make out places where she and Benji had stolen figs together. There was the step on the city council where Sally liked to read. (And beg, but mostly read.) There was the orphanage - fuck that awful place - and in the distance rose the transit relay, locomotives pouring in and out. There was the flash of light as it processed another train, and the engine of their own Bedivere hissed loudly as it began to shriek towards it.
London.
Lizzie took a big breath. London. She was really going to London.
At that point she had to sit down. Westlie was still gazing out the window, wistful now. Morgan had bolted out the room and Lizzie assumed she was somewhere else on the train. Possibly a more interesting room than the cargo hold, but she wasn’t going to chase after her to find out.
She pulled the paper and pencil out of the bag and stared at it for a long minute. Port Prosper. That was a good thing to work on. Port Prosper from the air, like she’d never seen it before. Lizzie put the pencil to paper and started drawing.
At some point they passed through the relay with a large clang that made the locomotive shake, but Lizzie barely noticed. It was only after several hours passed (her drawing of Port Prosper was looking better and better) she realized Westlie was gone and whoever had turned the lights on was entirely different.
Morgan flopped on her cot in the corner and turned to stare at her.
Lizzie stared back.
It was funny how alike the sisters looked. Westlie hadn’t said they were sisters, but Lizzie assumed, with the dry comments and the similarities and the red hair, that they were related. They both had the same sharp brown eyes. Morgan’s were a bit lighter. Brown, but almost grey, reflective of her lighter, copper-colored hair. Westlie’s was darker. The difference wasn’t obvious, but noticeable when you had them side by side. Morgan was more lackadasical with hers too. She’d had it in a long braid when they got off the train and it was twisted into the same careless braid now. Disdainful. Unstructured. Westlie’s was pulled into the customary updo for her social class. Polite, methodical.
Lizzie stared at Morgan for another minute, not breaking her gaze.
“I’m bored,” Morgan finally said. “Are you bored?”
Lizzie just stared at her, a bit more wary.
Morgan shoved herself upright on the cot, again, lackadaisical, nonchalant. “I love traveling, but I hate it. Hate it. When there’s a terrible crew. They don’t want to talk. They just want to do their jobs. It’s fucking annoying.”
Lizzie watched her.
“Do you talk?”
Not to you, Lizzie thought, pleased with the comeback.
Morgan leaned forward, cocking her head. “I know you understand me.”
Morgan’s eyes sharpened and Lizzie felt herself recoil a bit at how quickly the woman flipped from conversationalist to detective. Her and Westlie had that trait apparently. It was (fucking) unsettling. “Are you from Port Prosper?”
Lizzie didn’t plan on answering, but she felt compelled to nod.
“From the orphanage?”
Another nod.
“Do you want to go to London?”
Lizzie paused- and Morgan paused too. Maybe she knew that could be a step too far. That was a question, wasn’t it? Lizzie considered it. London was big. It might have multiple orphanages. Westlie wouldn’t hurt her. Westlie said she wanted her to be safe. She’d probably get to choose which one she went to. That all seemed like a far better option than heading to New Winchester or staying in Prosper, if far scarier. Lizzie nodded.
“Hm.” Morgan kicked back and flopped on the bed again. “You know, I like trains. I like the Reach.”
Riveting information.
”I try to come back to the Reach at least twice a year. I stay for months. But it’s always back to London.... I hate London.”
Lizzie leaned on Westlie’s cot in the center of the three. Morgan glanced over at her and saw the questioning look. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why. There’s a lot to do. There’s still unexplored bits of the city. I keep thinking I’ve turned the whole thing upside down when I’m bored out of my goddamn mind, but then I’ll find something new and it keeps me entertained for at least a week or so. But the Reach-” Lizzie saw something flicker in Morgan’s eyes, a hunger. Lizzie was curious despite herself. “-The Reach is something beautiful. Something wild, something unique from the rest. It’s beautiful, it’s perfect, it’s limitless.” Morgan flopped back on the bed. “... I hate leaving. Westlie is- Westlie is the only person who matters to me. But- I miss the Reach.”
They were quiet for a long minute. Lizzie stashed all that information in her head for later, because it seemed important.
After a long minute, Morgan shoved herself upright again and focused on Lizzie. “... I’m bored.”
You’re bored a lot, aren’t you. Lizzie wanted to say. She didn’t.
“Do you know how to play chess?” Morgan was already digging through her carpetbag. Lizzie had the familiar sensation of it not mattering if she said yes or no. “I’m going to teach you. Quiet people are the best at chess. Get over here. Sit on the other side of the bed.”
Lizzie scooted around Westlie’s bed and crawled onto Morgan’s cot. The woman was already cross-legged on the headboard side, flipping out a cloth checkered board with practiced ease. “Sit over there. Pull out the pieces from my bag. Be careful with them- those are bronzewood and ivory. I won those in a game of Quitzal.”
What the fuck is quitzal? Lizzie pulled out the pieces.
“You’re ivory- you’re white. White always goes first. Set up the pieces like this.” Morgan was fast. Lizzie tried to follow as the woman grabbed handfuls of pieces and put them in place with almost muscle-memory speed. She copied it on her end. Morgan didn’t bother her to do it faster, thankfully, and she took the time to examine the little pieces as she set them down. There was a large bat, a sword, a locomotive, angled upward, a sun with rings about it, a crown, and several small figures, carved roughly in the shape of people. “Each piece moves differently.” Morgan pulled out her pieces that weren’t tiny people and put them on their squares. “Diagonal, straight, any movement, only one square in any direction.” She looked at Lizzie with an intensity that would have frightened her if she hadn’t seen the woman bored out of her mind five seconds before.
“Let’s play.”
Morgan corrected her several times before Lizzie got the hang of the pieces, however, it only took those seven times for Morgan to move her queen one space and suddenly her sun was trapped.
“Checked.” Morgan tipped the sun over. Lizzie stared at the board, trying to sort the emotions of awe, annoyance, and confusion. “I win. Let’s play again.”
They set up the board. Lizzie moved her pieces in a slightly different configuration, sending the sword diagonally to take Morgan’s queen. Her pawns suffered heavy losses. She got checked.
They were halfway through the forth game (she was about to lose again, and this time she was a bit saltier) when there were footsteps in the hall. It’d always helped her to remember footsteps and Lizzie was pleasantly surprised to realize they were Westlie’s.
The woman opened the door with a book in her hand. She looked tired, but relaxed. She glanced over the scene of them on the bed. “How many times have you beat her, Mor?”
“Three, and counting.” Morgan narrowed her eyes in friendly competition.
Lizzie narrowed her eyes back. You know what, I’m going to beat you someday.
A slick grin slid across Morgan’s face in enthusiastic wild understanding like she’d received an early birthday present. Fuck yes, Lizzie could imagine her saying. I’m going to enjoy seeing you try.
Westlie sighed quietly. “Dinner.”
Morgan leaped off the bed, once again shamelessly careless, and after glancing at the board - memorizing it? - she strolled towards the door like Lizzie didn’t even exist. Lizzie stared at her retreating back in confusion.
Westlie must have seen the look on her face because she looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. You get used to it. She’s... Morgan’s...” Westlie looked helpless and Lizzie realized Westlie couldn’t control her either - probably didn’t want to - and had no fucking idea what her motives were either. “She’s... Morgan.” Westlie shrugged. She looked back at the checkerboard, then at Lizzie. “Are you alright? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so absorbed in my book. I didn’t think I’d take so long. If you don’t want to play I’ll tell her to stop”
Lizzie shook her head.
Westlie gave her a little smile. “Right then. Dinner?”
She nodded and she followed Westlie closely down the hall to the kitchen.
