Tagged by the ever amazing @saltymaplesyrup, though I have been less than active on here, or anywhere else in fannish contexts, so thanks for thinking of me! Tagging forward, @gilgamish, @thequeenofthewinter, @kookaburra1701 and whoever else is around (this is purely based on occasionally opening my dash and finding your lovely usernames still active in it, no pressure to share at all).
I have been slowly and quietly chipping away at "To Wit," a Pathfinder WOTR Wip that I started some time ago, abandoned for ages, then came back to. Experimentally writing this whole thing first before even considering posting it.
Trickster mythic, ship involving evil gnomes of the Hellknight conviction, shameless smut, and much metaphysical musings, along with a reprehensible amount of puns. Excerpt below the cut for the latter two.
"It is said, typically by those who fancy themselves speaking with authority, that one cannot change one’s nature. And this, as far as Lem’s concerned, is the problem with speaking with authority—since authority rarely listens to anything but the sound of its own unshakeable gravitas. From there it waxes philosophical about how one’s choice was always justified. Justified to what, it tends to conveniently omit, not that the point needs belaboring, since authority only ever justifies itself. In this, Nocticula, Iomedae, and Mendev’s Once and Future Queen have more in common than they’d care to admit, though in the race for authority’s foundational lack of curiosity, the Inheritor has the other two beat fair and square. As all things self-satisfied, Celestials suffer no questions about the nature of “nature”—theirs especially, and they’re nothing if not generous in their intransigence.
Perhaps, on another road untraveled, her power would have glowed with righteous fury—or else with “goodness,” or maybe even “freedom,” that smuggest of self-congratulatory wanks. Or even Law, (a tall order if ever there was one). No explanation needed then, since the nature of the choice would have been self-explanatory.
A handy explanation, “nature.” Like Mendev’s gentry, it has little use for small change, and nothing short of dazzling displays of divinity will do. If Arue isn’t proof of that, she doesn’t know who is.
Except that in practice, divinity, like all Mendev gentry, proves miserly, and strategically forgets its coin purse at home, deeming its mere presence boon enough. Another thing Celestials and Demon Lords have in common: the firm belief that their attention is a universal solvent. Whatever else might be said of the Lucky Drunk, at least his understanding of liquidity doesn’t try to swindle.
So divinity resolutely stops short of any actionable help, on account of not wanting to start an interplanar war or some such. Stops short, but doesn’t hold back on demanding a choice be made according to its specifications, because when the answer to all questions is war, the only question that matters is who is dying for what. The choice, like all such choices, is of the tails or head variety. Call it, sweet thing. To wit: scrub yourself of the proffered corruption; unsoil your soul; refuse Areelu's questionable “gift” and its associative taint—for your own good, of course. Free yourself, or some such. Or don’t, and become “one of those” in the eyes of the Rightfully Ascended. From there, receive a lecture on socially acceptable stairways—the marble ones, with the carpet runner—and be reminded that Heaven suffers no back doors. Then close the Worldwound and die, as is only proper, and be rewarded with the moral satisfaction of walking uphill both ways. Seven out of ten companions agree, if one doesn’t count the Count, the resident psychopath, and the kitsune."
