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@widoglock
hey guysss so unfortunately the rumors are true and im leaving the narrative. Buttt the good news is my absence will create such a gaping hole in your lives that it will become a sort of presence itself, and so in a way it will kind of be like i never left! But i am. Leaving just to be clear.
no no. you don't get it. the reason I injure my blorbos until they can't walk is because that's the only way they'll ever let someone else carry them. the reason I curse them to be sick and feverish is so that they'll finally open up about their emotions while delirious. the reason I force them to overexert themselves to the point of exhaustion is so that when they pass out they can finally rest.
I'm doing this for their own good.
After Caleb’s breakdown…I wonder whether Trent bothered to be careful when removing the crystals from Caleb’s arms, knowing he was no longer of use to him. Because if Trent wasn’t laser-focused on that shit, Caleb would’ve suffered (possibly a great deal of) nerve damage.
“Damage to the nerves that control motor function can cause weakness, twitching and paralysis in the hand, wrist and arm. Sensory nerve damage symptoms include pain, numbness, tingling, increased sensitivity, burning and problems positioning the hand correctly.” —Golden State Orthopedics & Spine
I pinched by median nerve in college and lost the feeling in my fingertips for months. Luckily physical therapy got me back in the saddle—but I like to think about Caleb having to relearn how to cast with hands that don’t feel like they belong to him. Or maybe Caleb retains some sensation in his hands but suffers bouts of chronic burning pain that worsens with pressure and temperature changes. How does Caleb hold his pen now, to accommodate his loose grip; the pain; the shaking?
I could see Caleb swallowing it all without complaint, believing he deserves the pain and the disconnect. But slowly the party catches on to Caleb’s condition. And when Jester finally gets access to Greater Restoration/Regenerate, she asks Caleb’s permission to heal him. Can you imagine Caleb getting to pet his cat and actually feel fur under his fingers? To feel the hum of magic on his palm and fingertips the next time he casts? To touch and feel and hold without fear of pain?
I got to a point in my fic last night where I needed to stop and make myself a diagrammed play-by-play of Molly’s death scene and man. It’s kinda embarrassing to admit, but I felt genuinely sick with anxiety having to comb through that scene in granular detail. Even typing this post makes my stomach clench.
It’s just…fucking awful y’all.
I fell into CR2 circa 2022 (and I’m a VERY slow listener) so I only got to Molly’s death years after (what felt like) everyone had collectively decided his death was integral to the character development of his friends/the themes of the story overall. And I still feel adrift in that apparent consensus.
I know a ton of CR2 revolves around control, memory, and death—but I guess I wouldn’t describe any tabletop roleplay game longer than the One Piece anime as a cohesive (let alone tight) narrative treatise. “Yes-and” improv between attentive storytellers begets recurring themes. And the structure/scope of D&D as a tabletop roleplaying game lends itself to themes surrounding identity; chance/fate; the fragility of life and the power of connection. Like any longform roleplay game, CR2’s story…kinda dances all over the place. It’s great. I love the spontaneity. But I wouldn’t describe that experience as “pointed,” narratively or (even) thematically. And I don’t think it was ever CR2’s goal to make an airtight statement. I like to think the cast’s goal was to have fun, and build a story together as the pieces revealed themselves at the table. The themes are all there, but the connective tissue is tangled over 500+ hours of improv.
So no—I don’t think Molly had to die for CR2 to “work.” The story could’ve found fulfillment in a different direction. That alternate version of CR2 could’ve been a train wreck. It could’ve been a romp through the tulips. Some fans would’ve hated Molly and some fans would’ve loved Molly. In the words of Kermit the frog, “Same as it ever was.”
(It also doesn’t help that as much as I like Cad, I don’t love Cad. I enjoy his energy; I appreciate what he brings to the party. I’m just not invested in his personal journey the way I was with Mollymauk’s.)
All of this is a personal preference thing. Personally, I don’t like that Molly died. I don’t like that Kingsley woke up without any memories. Zooming out on the story as it unfolded, I’m not even sure I believe the final message about control and grief and death was all that coherent.
if you have a very strong/powerful character and you DON'T muzzle and chain them and beat it into them that they're only good as a blunt instrument of violence and use their completely natural reactions to this mistreatment as 'proof' that they're innately dangerous and the mistreatment is necessary + justified then what's even the point tbh
I may have just completed a certain quest in elden ring, so anyway, please consider:
Caleb gently placing an engagement ring on Mollymauk’s hand after the failed resurrection ritual. That is all—
I keep getting jumpscared by my notifs because people will like posts from this fanfic blog and then immediately like posts from my main blog and I'll be like HOWWW FDSAFDSADID YOU FIND MEEE?
...And then I'll realize for the nth time that they're just going through the widomauk tag and I have posts in there from both blogs lawlfasdasdafda
Every once in a while I think about Kingsley melting out of the darkness one night, passing out on Caleb and Essek’s doorstep from blood loss or illness. About him nuzzling drunkenly into the familiar-unfamiliar hands that bundle him inside—soothe the coat from his back and the boots from his feet, and arrange his aching body somewhere soft and safe. I think about Kingsley and Caleb at a kitchen table maybe a day later, at some ungodly hour, sharing a bowl of snap peas from the garden. Kingsley is still shaky from whatever healing magic got him back on his feet. He can’t bear the pain of clutching onto this burning thing anymore. He lets it fall onto the table between them: “I’m sorry you got me instead of him.”
Do you think Caleb and Kingsley still flirt and tease each other post campaign. Do they ever get to share more tender forehead kisses. Does Kingsley know Caleb was the one who tried to initially perform his resurrection? Does he still feel Caleb's blood on Lucien's hands--on his hands--
When Liam says Kingsley falling head over heels for Caleb is "perfect" and "Caleb enjoys it"...Do you think. They ever get to talk about that. Do you think Caleb ever wonders if he felt the same as Mollymauk. Does Kingsley ever get the courage to ask Caleb what Molly meant to him--
...And by god, I WILL make a "Drag Path" Widomauk PMV one day! Mark my words!!
TW discussions of disordered eating (and Trent Ikathon) but I was writing about Trent subjecting his students to military-style “stress exposure training” by keeping them awake for days on end/starving them/abandoning them in dangerous environments with minimal supplies etc…
And like. Now I’m so curious about Caleb’s relationship with food. It feels like a safe bet that he suffers from a scarcity mindset, never trusting a meal to still be there the next day. But I also wonder if, in a scenario where Trent controlled his students’ access to food as well as everything else, Caleb might’ve developed an eating disorder.
Does Caleb feel “sharper”/like he functions better when he’s hungry? Does he think he only “deserves” to feel full when he’s accomplished something noteworthy that day? Does the thought of eating a full plate of food in front of his friends make his stomach churn? Does the nausea and anxiety make it harder for him to eat complex foods/does he gravitate towards simple carbs and sugars when given the option?
I’m FINALLY on the tunnels arc (ep 50) and of course there’s not a single episode that goes by without me thinking “I wonder how Molly would react to this” but BOY am I devastated we didn’t get a Molly panic attack here
Caleb pouring his whole heart into Molly’s resurrection ritual only to roll a 1 is Orpheus looking back. To me
Sorry I still can’t believe Caleb was the only thing stopping Mollymauk from getting torn apart or spirited away by a rift in space and time?? A rift that still resonates with those echoes of Lucien’s memory…? What was up with that—?
Also, that moment where Caleb’s voice snaps Molly out of this trance…it just feels so reminiscent of how Caleb kept breaking through Lucien’s control in Cognouza.
Caleb protecting Molly from the very beginning, even thought he doesn’t trust him. Intends to only use him as a means to an end. “Why are you with him? It makes no sense. He’s a circus performer, he’s not going to help you.” And yet, he becomes Molly’s anchor—
Oh my gosh YES. And what drives me extra super duper crazy is that those are only the second words animated!Caleb ever says to Molly! (I count "we cannot give up" as the first, but I guess that's arguable since Caleb only looks at Molly as he finishes the line.)
Either way, Caleb's first words to Molly are caring and, like you said, anchoring. Versus Molly's first words to Caleb in this adaptation, meanwhile...
It's just such a fascinating reversal of their tabletop dynamic, with Caleb speaking from a place of hope and care versus Mollymauk's grief and despair ("So sure; have a laugh over your imaginary friend, and your liquor, and your insults. Just...keep it the fuck down, please.") Caleb meets Molly on what must be the worst day of his (short) life, while he's raw and bleeding and lashing out in anguish. Only later does Caleb discover Molly the walking rainbow—the lover; performer; trickster from the first episode of the tabletop campaign.
And then within like...72 hours of their meeting in the jail cell, Caleb is telling the Nein the story of how he killed his parents. It's always killed me that Molly never got to hear that story from Caleb. But I feel like in this version, Caleb and Molly meet each other's deepest hurts right off the bat. It's such a fun new sandbox to play in and I'm being. SO. Brave about it.
i've survived far worse. i've also died to far less though so who knows
WHOOPS @dent-de-leon's TAGS GOT ME AGAIN
In the end, he and Yasha are the only ones who make it through the storm.
It's not for lack of trying. Essek is pushing into the wind right up until the moment his eyes roll back and his knees give out. Fjord only stops to drag the unconscious drow to safety. Veth; Beau; Jester; Caduceus—all struck out at the storm, and all were left wobbly as newborn fawns for their trouble, stranded at the outskirts of Caleb's magical onslaught.
Later, Kingsley will ask: Why him? Why Yasha? And the prevailing theory will have much to do with swimming. Or maybe drowning.
Few people in Exandria know what it's like to have your body turned into a fishbowl—to be the fly caught in the gap between sliding doors, or the mite stuck in a water droplet, beating uselessly at the film separating your soul from sensation.
Caleb is forty-one years old. That means as of this year, he's spent about a fourth of his life lying catatonic in a sanatorium. It's not the same, but when Kingsley steps into the maelstrom—well. It's not unlike being Molly again, thrashing around in the well of his own skull, only ever skimming the controls by happenstance.
Kingsley knows that pain. Yasha knows that pain. And it's not like it doesn't crumple them: It just crumples them in a way they're practiced at.
So: Caleb's magic forms a squall line between him and his only hope of rescue. So, the Nein step into his personal hurricane—a wall of grief and helplessness and need that tears through the Halls of Halas like tissue paper.
So, only Yasha and Kingsley emerge on the other side of the clouds.
The veil lifts. Like someone flipped a switch, all sound cuts out. No screaming winds—no screaming friends. Caleb stands in the eye of the hurricane, palm raised and bristling with magic. His eyes are empty.
Kingsley's fingers hurt from how hard he's squeezing Yasha's hand—or maybe how hard she's squeezing his.
Yasha exhales. Kingsley copies her.
They embrace.
Kingsley doesn't remember what he says, but she lets him go. She tells him she'll be right behind him.
Kingsley nods. He's terrified. He knows that feeling too.
He walks towards Caleb.
Caleb is already monologuing by this point. Or, whatever entity saw fit to use Caleb's magic and Caleb's pain is also using Caleb's tongue.
"…How his dying breath," Caleb's mouth is saying, "holds the might of tempests. Now you see the puppet strings. Now you see the nature of my gift to you."
Kingsley speaks past the body in front of him, down to the spirit huddled in its closet: "Mister Caleb. We really ought to stop meeting like this."
Caleb's eyes flash. "Have you not listened to a word I've said? Your wizard is gone."
Kingsley cups Caleb's face in his hands. He leans close, nuzzling their foreheads together.
He feels Caleb draw a sharp, sobbing breath.
Kingsley hovers for a second. Steels himself. Kisses him on the mouth.
Kingsley doesn't think it's overly conceited to claim he has a unique relationship with his soul. He's had his essence rattled around enough times to approximate the size and shape of its container. He knows what it feels like to live in the center of his body versus its back pockets—what it feels like to hover outside it, even, in the nauseating haze of resurrection. Kingsley reaches inward, feeling around for the part of him that makes him real. He kisses Caleb, and he coaxes his essence from its nest between his ribs, to press along the metaphysical line between their bodies. The fingers of his left hand stray into Caleb's hair. Internally, he brushes up against something warm and fluttery.
"There you are," Kingsley murmurs.
A flicker. Their souls find each other through a gap in the firmament. Even in this, Caleb is warm. Kingsley opens his mind to his wizard, pouring out joy and love and fear. He kisses Caleb's jaw.
Caleb chokes. He grasps at Kingsley's lapels like they're his last tether to reality.
Kingsley whispers into Caleb's neck,
"I have you. I won't let you hurt anyone."
Caleb makes a wretched little sound and shakes his head. Shame; terror; anguish flashfloods the space between them. It takes all of Kingsley's willpower not to brace against the barrage. He forces himself to follow the push and pull of Caleb's hurt, the way a tree bends with the wind.
It feels like drowning. It feels like the day Kingsley remembered killing his friends. It feels like every day after that, waking up to a reality he nearly tore to sinew—to the choice of whether to finish the job.
In, two three. Hold. Out, two three. In the physical realm, Kingsley takes Caleb's hand and squeezes. He lets them sit there in the muck of their broken hearts for a while. Gives the wound a chance to breathe.
Then Kingsley thinks very hard about pocket bacon.
He thinks about tin cup coffee and bumpy back roads. He thinks about the anemones in Cadeuceus' garden. He thinks about Hupperdook fireworks and the way they backlit Caleb's hair. He thinks about laughter and wind chimes and firebugs and carnival glass. He thinks about the ocean. He thinks about puffy duvets—the kind all the upscale inns seem to carry, that weigh the same as an embrace and make a crinkle sound when you turn over, barely louder than the scratch of quill on parchment across the room. Through half-shut eyes, Caleb is a soft blur of brown and orange and lamplight. Calm, love, sunshine, ribbons, antique shops, the prickle of cat claws on his shoulder for the first time, I love you.
"I have you," Kingsley repeats. He swallows back tears. "It's safe to come out now. I have you."
Caleb covers his face with his free hand. He's one of those silent criers, but his jerking shoulders betray him.
Kingsley pulls Caleb into his arms. Caleb all but collapses into his chest. Kingsley isn't sure he's ever felt someone shake this hard.
"Tut mir leid," Caleb says. "Tut mir leid. Es tut mir unendlich leid..."
He says it over and over into Kingsley's shirt, the syllables pitching with the force of his sobs. Kingsley holds Caleb tighter. With their bodies flush, Kingsley can feel Caleb's heart pounding. He presses a fierce kiss to his temple and stays there, cheek to cheek—shushing; sheltering.
Around them, the clouds thin. The air warms. The veil lifts. Yasha calls out to their friends on the horizon.
