RolePlayer.me

Full Name: Helblindi LaufeysonNickname(s): Helby, Red, Crimson Frost, Age: A few thousand DOB: Might be a Scorpio ♏️ POB: JotunnheimSex: MaleSpecies: Frost Giant / JotunnOrientation: Bisexual - Male LeanProfession: God of Manipulation (mind & senses)Height: 5'10"Eye Color: Dull shade of GreenHair Color: Crimson/RedBody: Slim & Slender build. Pale skin.Tattoos: None 

 Who were the Vanir?                                                          (This is a collection of thoughts about the Vanir that I have gathered and are not all my own).As in so many cultures, ancient stories have survived through the centuries describing people who lived mysteriously close to the elements of the earth and were worshippers of nature. There are many examples of these and usually, they are labeled pagans. But in the case of Norse mythology, the Vanir, who …were gods of love, sex, wealth, and magic….truly adored the earth, skies, wind, and fire.                        In the words of our own King of Gymirsgard, Russell Lamara EOA,“As a warrior of Asgard, he was accustomed to the company of gods and goddesses, but there was something about Vanaheim, the realm of the Vanir, that stirred a different kind of excitement within him. It was a place where nature and magic intertwined seamlessly, and where the gods and goddesses radiated an ethereal beauty that was captivating and irresistible.” I wanted to write a resource for myself and others, gathering as many ideas about these interesting people. (I would appreciate and welcome any additional beliefs. This piece is heavy on the viewpoint according to Myth. Many comics have borrowed from myth…but the comic writers have also written them in their own ways.In Norse Mythology, Vanir gods and goddesses weren’t the central deities like the Aesir. However, this does not discount them as gods. The Vanir were a separate pantheon altogether. Their powers were intrinsically linked to the natural world. These gods and goddesses of agriculture, fertility, fair weather, and precious metals may have been few, but their influence over ancient Scandinavian societies is undeniable.In general, the Vanir were differentiated from the Aesir by their patronage of and association with fertility, maritime life (especially navigation), and material success. Further, they (especially Freyja) were associated with prophecy and the magical arts. Their differences with the Aesir also include sexual behaviors, as they were said to have practiced endogamy and even incest. The Vanir were overall a passionate, lascivious lot.Vanir worships the Skies, Wind, and their Deities. They are skilled warriors, (even as they much prefer peace,) and shipwrights and navigators who can sail the seas.                   They were humble and according to themselves, were not held in high regard. They have been witnessed to great acts of courage. Additionally, they share some of the values and ancient bloodlines with the Fey and some even maintain connections to other planes. In my reading, I have been impressed by their connections to the Sidhe. This would be because of their many similar characteristics. The Vanir, especially women who are called, Volur are gifted in magics. In the Vanirian culture, magic is referred to as Seidr. These women are involved in both ‘seeing’ and affecting the future. They, like elves, have protective and fertility powers and healing powers.Vanir are gifted in their mental as well as physical strength. They are lovers of nature and have a deep curiosity for the arts. Many light elves live in the Asgardian land of Alfheim but have intermarried with the Vanir in Vanaheim.These are just a few conclusions I have drawn about the Vanir and will continue to add to this journal.                              

    Italic = susceptible to changeBold = YesItalic bold = likes it very muchIs submissive // is dominant // prefers to top // prefers to bottom // likes to switch // identifies as heterosexual // identifies as homosexual // identifies as bisexual // identifies as pansexual // identifies as demisexual // identifies as asexual // enjoys sex with men // enjoys sex with women // enjoys sex with multiple people at once // initiates // waits for partner to initiate // spits // swallows // prefers sex in the morning // prefers sex at night // prefers sex anytime // no sex drive // low sex drive // average sex drive // high sex drive // fluctuating sex drive*/— body / appearanceSmall build // medium build // athletic build // muscular build // curvy build // voluptuous build // wears boxers // wears lingerie // goes ‘commando’ // shaves/waxes // doesn’t shave/wax // cup size a-c // cup size d-f // 1-5” in length // 6-9" in length // 10” or over in length */— soundsIs silent/makes little to no sounds // is very quiet // is very loud // grows in volume over time // bites partner // pillow to muffle themselves // calls out partner’s name // curses // fakes or exaggerates // prefers a quiet partner // prefers a loud partner // is turned on by dirty talk // is turned off by vulgar talk*/— turn ons / kinksHaving their hands pinned // pinning their partner’s hands // having their hair pulled // pulling their partner’s hair // being watched by partner // being watched by third party // watching their partner // receiving oral // giving oral // calling their partner ‘daddy’ // being called ‘daddy’ // giving praise // receiving praise // biting/marking // being bitten/marked // spanking // being spanked // teasing // being teased // having toys used on them // using toys on partner // giving anal // receiving anal // being rimmed // rimming // choking // being choked // being tied up // tying their partner up // being worshiped // worshiping their partner // humiliating // being humiliated // degrading // being degraded // knife play // blood play

Year: 1976Summary: Born in the rough predominantly Italian-American neighborhood of the North End in Boston, Massachusetts, Joe was born into a middle-class family and showed interest in music at a very young age. He would acquire his first guitar at the age of 12, then proceed to drop out of high school at the age of 16 to pursue a career in a rock band. Unlike most parents, Joe's were not opposed to his rebellious decisions to grow out his hair and enslave himself to the rock n' roll craze.At the age of nineteen, Joe was drafted into the Vietnam War in 1969. He started amateur boxing in his early teens and he continued training in the sport since then, giving him a strong lead in the short time he would spend at boot camp with other draftees. It was killing the enemy and those who may be associated with them that would be difficult. Gunning down the adolescent recruits of the Viet Cong took its toll on him. Performing duties as a tunnel rat was just as volatile. His suspenseful time in the jungles of Vietnam has hardened his body and soul.Honorably discharged in 1972 with a Purple Heart medal after sustaining a critical bullet wound, Joe found it very difficult to readjust to civilian life. A few times, he contemplated suicide. The only attempt on his life failed. Joe was only engaged in one serious relationship his whole life, that abuse he could no longer endure, and gained guardianship of his two-year-old son, Roman. Playing small-time gigs at pubs, festivals, and the state fair, Joe has very little ambition. Due to untreated post-traumatic stress disorder, fatherhood was another loop he had to jump through to continue his life normally.

  I remember us before our paths got separated ambushI shall sing you safe on your way Astarion's posture changed entirely. Shoulders hunched forward, his fingers flexed into a twitching, clawed grasp, and his eyes throbbed with a bright crimson glow. Not glowing from hunger, as they'd always done while in Cazador's thrall. They shone with something else. A killer's instinct to kill, a protector's instinct to protect.He was off, barreling through the forest on nothing but scent and anger. Fenris's blood smelled sweet, addictive, like sun-warmed honey, and it had a strange added note of a cold, sharp tang--the lyrium. The combined scent filtered through the trees, faintly, but it was enough. He would only get closer by chasing it.He could smell that sickening, putrid smell of half-orc as well. And other scents layered behind those. Astarion's senses had increased dramatically upon this change in psyche; he could smell everything even better than normal.The vampire crossed through the forest easily, silently, quickly, knowing the terrain well from his mornings spent hunting. The sun wasn't so bright here--the groves were shaded, but his eyesight was so sensitive now that to stare too far ahead through the trees physically hurt him. He did it anyway, and hissed, breaking his own swift and silent approach as he did so.The hiss was because he'd passed into the meadow before the river. He'd seen it before, and hadn't crossed it--it would weaken him. There was a bridge, but it was miles away, and the forest had sustained him on small animals; he hadn't needed to travel farther out.But he could smell them there, could perhaps even see them if the sun's glare hadn't burned into his eyes so much. The hiss was a reckless vampire's attempt at a curse, because he already knew what was going to happen as he approached.The river was wide, but shallow, and he'd searched the banks thoroughly while hunting nearby. There were no short spans where he could jump from one bank to another, no brush or rocks laid out nicely to give him passage without touching the hated liquid. Yet he'd watched a family of deer toddle across the shallows one morning as they drank and watched the sunrise: near him, but never knowing it.He was going to do as they did, and cross the whole damned thing. Unlike the deer, he hit the river at a dead run, not pausing as he moved, not needing to thanks to his supernatural balance. Still, it burned, ached--had he not been so angry, it likely would have brought him to his knees, and then he would have been lost. Astarion's flesh on the inside of his shoes was hissing, fizzing as if he stepped through pure venom. But he barely lost speed, taking the far bank at a jump when he was near enough.Another hiss, this time from the pain, but it fell short on his lips. He could sense them, they were there, ahead. Fenris's life energy seemed to throb and glow through the forest, calling from between the trees like a lantern aimed directly for him. But it was flickering, fading, which only launched him at the group faster. As Astarion approached the fray, he noted everything he needed to note, quickly--One dead, crumpled by Fenris, the source of the stench, with blood pooled around his groin. Fenris, held down by an unsavory looking mercenary, his dark strands of hair grease-streaked. Two more were approaching; they had bindings in hand, ready to shackle the former slave--one had picked up his crossbow at the sound of the elf approaching, and he was quick enough that he'd already fired. Astarion remembered as the bolt left its machine that he had a wealth of weapons on his back, though he had no desire for them at the moment.Still, better safe than letting the one with a trigger nearby get any farther. He was only forty, thirty feet away, but he pivoted, dodging the bolt, and in the same movement, a throwing knife was grabbed, thrown. It met the shooter's neck as the next ten feet of gap closed between them. The man grunted, then gargled, and even the sweet sound of his own blood pooling in his mouth didn't sway Astarion from his true target.The one who held Fenris, the tallest of the group, barely had time to loosen his grip, or turn his torso to face the oncoming torpedo of a vampire. It didn't matter anyway; Astarion's lunge was so quick that he was little more than a blur to Fenris and the other remaining merc. The third man, ignored by the vampire at the moment, fumbled between staring at first his downed partner and the knife in his throat, second, the other dead merc's gory nether region, and finally down at his crossbow, which was unloaded.The leader of the group was thrown back and away from his prize; Astarion could have stayed on him, leapt with him, but he wanted to throw the bastard around, break his bones first. And so he tossed him instead, crossing over Fenris in seconds, grabbing the fumbling man and angrily throwing him a second time, even farther away from the group, before he turned to the other--the spare.Astarion's dagger was out and in his palm immediately, but his explosive thrust forward into the other's chest was so fierce that his entire arm buried into the ribcage, his fist exploding out the back, splintering spinal bones with it, the heart impaled on the now crimson blade. With a sickening noise, the rogue wrenched the dagger back out, flinging the organ off it with a squelch. Well, so much for the shirt he desperately wanted to keep free and clean of blood.No matter, he couldn't waste a second moment on that corpse. The moment was to be spent on the ringleader, whose nasally voice had filtered into Astarion's ears earlier, either from Fenris's bond, or from his enhanced hearing. Somehow, his insult to Fenris only made Astarion boil that much more.So much for leadership--he was now the sole survivor of his little gang of miscreants, and he looked terrified.It didn't matter, he wouldn't survive long. Astarion couldn't draw this out; Fenris was still hurt.The man had been thrown with such force that he still hadn't righted himself, and his last chance to do so ended when Astarion approached and stomped down on the merc's knee, shattering it with a strangely loud plop under his wet boot, where his own skin still screamed in pain against dripping leather.Another stomp for the other leg, but the bastard twitched and he missed the knee, instead landing it on both of the lower bones of the leg. Those crunches were far quieter, but the howls of pain were far louder, sweeter. Astarion ground the ball of his foot into the calf as if quelling embers, and then idly kicked the torso so the other was fully on his back.As they'd done to Fenris. The bandit was babbling--nonsense words, probably a prayer, and he was fumbling through his pockets for something. A knife.Astarion had set to pounce on him, but at this he drew back, grimly, curious to see what would happen. Crimson glowing eyes fell to the mercenary's shaky hand, covered in blood--Fenris's blood--Astarion snarled, again losing any patience or finesse or will to see the bastard suffer exquisitely for hours. He was going to give his head the same treatment as his legs.Then, through his murderous rage, he had one singular thought. A good thought! It was a splendid thought. A thought worthy of a rogue.He kicked the knife away and pulled the now lame mercenary to his bleeding, broken legs, only to sink his teeth into the other's flesh. Even the most disgusting, unwashed human still tasted exquisite to him, especially compared to two centuries' worth of rats. The vampire groaned despite himself as he tasted the warm blood, and he purposely washed his mouth, his neck with it, feeling his thin shirt stick to his chest. The Chantry sisters would never; he would need a new shirt, he supposed.But the thought of this stain bleeding in vain, and having his blood wasted was a delightful one, and besides, the shirt was already past hope.Several quiet moments of hungrily inhaling the blood passed, while the man thrashed and screamed in vain. Then, rather unexpectedly, Astarion licked the torn ragged edged puncture wounds--he'd purposely made them uneven and too deep. His saliva sealed the blood, at least partially; he shoved the leader of the mercenaries back down to the forest floor. With a final gulp of what was left behind in his throat, and a sneer, he throatily explained, "YOU are going to answer every question of mine. Soon."His eyes lit up more brightly at this promise, while the other man simply gasped for air and clawed at his neck wounds. Astarion looked over him one last time, and then pondered that he might have more hidden blades. His dagger swiftly found the other's forearm, and behind it, the dirt, pinning the tendon and muscle into the ground.Should do for a moment.Then he turned, forgetting the wretched thing entirely when he saw Fenris on the ground. Sh*t sh*t sh*t."Fenris," Astarion said in a rather clipped, commanding tone, as if he expected the other to yawn and awaken with bedhead. He knelt beside the other, and at first Astarion could only inhale, sensing the slow, but strong, heartbeat.Good. But…not normal. Fenris was in there, his heartbeat was like a beautiful song, but it should have been faster. It shouldn't have been so strong, it should have been calm. Something was off. It was a toxin, the elf could tell. He smelled it, too. The same smell as the one Fenris took from the mercenaries the same day they met.When Astarion remembered the purple vial, he licked his lips; his eyes dropped from the wide, green hues of his companion. There was a wound immediately visible, a bolt lodged into a weak spot near a collarbone, and Astarion immediately withdrew it, tossing it away carelessly as he searched for more, his fingers brushing against the wound as if to test it.He'd known where the other was going to be. He'd felt it hit. Their bond meant that he was able to find it almost instantly, and withdraw the bolt from the other's ribs as well. Dammit. Astarion knew the poison, had already attempted to extract it, but he had meager alchemy supplies here to make a proper antidote. They were days away from it, if not weeks. Dammit, DAMMIT.He could only repeat the curses in his mind as he unhooked the armor plate again, exposing both wounds to him. One was deeper--the collarbone bolt. It had been shot from intensely close range. The bastards. Astarion had done it in the recent past, and knew it was to save Fenris the work of processing the full hit of the toxin, so he should have felt no qualms about lowering his head to the wound and attempting to take any lingering, pooling poison out.He was immortal, it didn't affect him. But the vampire hesitated, with a face full of blood and wild hair and eyes. Fenris would know. There would be no denying it after this.He could lose him.Well, that didn’t matter, the warrior needed him. He held Fenris, cradling him as his head dipped to the other's collarbone, ripping away the leather to make a better seal for his lips. Astarion grimaced as he drank; it was bitter. Wrong. At first, the poison numbed his tongue and turned his stomach, but after several long gulps of the otherwise delicious blood, he could taste the sweetness and warmth returning. The poison was diluting.He quickly moved after a rather bloody lick and heady kiss to the first wound, sliding down across the dirt in a predatory-looking way. Astarion again pulled the frayed leather and torn cloth aside to repeat the gesture for the other wound. The taste was less bitter there, but it lingered for longer in his mouth; as he fed, Astarion realized he was gripping Fenris, pinning him, without meaning to.Instantly he righted, letting go of the other's body as if he were hot to the touch, and his eyes widened, the glow fading from them as he leaned over Fenris, cradling the warrior's bloodstained hair with his own bloodstained hands and finally meeting the other's eyes, grimacing inwardly at the shame he felt. Being seen like this. Worse than an animal. Bloodthirsty. Gods, he hadn't even explained what he was doing to Fenris. The other elf probably thought Astarion was simply getting his kicks on drinking his blood. Ugh. How he hated himself.Astarion's voice was still low and throaty, not his usual high-pitched, bantering tone, when he managed words. "Darling," he said apologetically, and stopped caressing the other's face long enough to pull his own forearm toward him, biting into the flesh below his wrist, where the blood would lazily drip into pools that, if nothing else, could land on the other's tongue. As he bit, Astarion's eyes drifted toward their little would-be captor.Still down, still screaming, still impaled by a dagger, still broken. Good.The flicker of his vision moved immediately back to what was most important; he held out his arm encouragingly, trying to overcome his own grimace at what was, perhaps, an unwilling feeding of blood. He knew how it felt. He'd been forced to drink before. He didn't want to put this on Fenris.But Astarion explained himself, his need, as he pressed the skin to his lover's lips. "I'm so sorry. But I…need you."  written by heedless moth, template by creativian #starlight{ width: 500px; background: #f9f9f9; border: 1px solid #f2f2f2;} .inner{ width: 450px; background: #fff; border: 1px solid #f2f2f2; margin: 25px 10px 25px 10px;} .secondinner{ width: 430px; background: #f9f9f9; border: 1px solid #f2f2f2; margin: 9px 0px 9px 0px;} .title{ width: 350px; font-family: georgia; font-weight: 800; font-size: 50px; letter-spacing: -4px; text-transform: lowercase; margin-top: 40px; line-height: 90%; border-top: 0px solid #1d1d1d; padding-top: 20px; color: #1d1d1d;} .uppersubtitle{ font-size: 8px; font-family: georgia; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px;} .bottomsubtitle{ font-size: 8px; font-family: georgia; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px;} .text{ width: 350px; text-align:left; font-size: 10.5px; margin: 40px 10px 40px 10px; line-height: 140%; color: #1d1d1d; font-family: courier; padding-bottom: 40px; border-bottom: 20px solid #1d1d1d;}

EZRA MOONWHO ARE YOU REALLY? All the best friends I've ever had have been drowned by the dust.  You have crept in the tree of an old oak village I once knew before I was bornAway I have found a way to the one I've felt for years The warriors were content to beat their brains against the charm-turned-prison; this thing, this…demon?--had turned his magic against him, and to be frank, Gale couldn’t concentrate on counteracting it as long as Astarion was outside of the orb, being held in place by the thing’s lightning spell.  Magic coursed up from the sticky, tar-covered ground and surged through the vampire.  Karlach seemed to make the most progress against their orb, but just as her feet slid forward, they moved back and she cursed when her own heat moved in a wave against her.  They were trapped–at least for the moment, but the wizard felt his heart leap with hope anyway when the lightning finally dissipated.  Astarion stumbled to the ground, groaning as he fought to keep from going to his knees.The bastard still had strength to fight.  But just as Gale, and in front of him, Minsc, moved to celebrate, they saw the horror-stricken look on the white-haired elf’s face.  “Astarion! Focus! Don’t let it–whatever it did in your head! Shadowheart, can you cast gui–”“Already trying,” she said sternly, amid the chaos of the prison bubble, where their own magic stirred within, unable to leave its confines.  Karlach shouted, drowning out both spellcasters.  “ASTARION! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”So to the point, that one.  Gale gripped his staff unnaturally firmly as he awaited the elf’s answer.  Astarion’s red eyes were round, frightened, and they glinted against the pale purple shimmer of magic as he surveyed the gap between his friends, and the demon that finally released him.  It was only moments being in the thrall of the thing, but the group had no way of knowing just how long those moments felt. Or how painful they were.  “I…I saw…my memories,” he said in a faint voice, regarding the creature with a new kind of fear.  Terror, really.  Gale cursed inwardly; that could be very bad.  Aloud, he voiced in what he hoped was a helpful tone, “Don’t believe its visions–it can make anything seem true!”The demon-thing chuckled, a warbled noise that almost sounded birdlike.  Astarion rose to his full height, finally, out of breath.  His hair and eyes were both wild as he turned toward the group.  “No, no–it was real.  It was my real memories.  I had no idea…I…”“BE CAREFUL!” Karlach advised ever so loudly, as she picked up her axe again.  In a lower tone, she growled, “I’m going to burst this goddamn bubble with pure anger, DAMMIT ALL!!”“Do us all the favor, please,” Lae’Zel hissed.  But as the warriors focused on the magic again, Gale’s eyes were only on the elf beyond.  The demon, in its tattered robes, had begun floating across the blackness toward Astarion, a seemingly hungry look in what Gale supposed were its beady, hate-filled eyes.It had said something earlier.  Something not good.  Gale struggled to understand, to piece together meanings.  It wanted Astarion’s soul. A soul the vampire was certain he’d never had.  Several in the group had their doubts about this, and though they conversed quietly when he wasn’t around, no one quite had the heart or nerve to bring it up to the rogue officially.  Besides, it was just a theory, based on several observations.  It held no water.Well, until NOW, with a bloody demon vocalizing its want for the supposedly-existing-soul.  Of course Astarion didn’t just have any regular soul, either, apparently.  Gale was cursing himself for not knowing more of Astarion’s background, and more of Elven souls, when he heard a sound from nearby.  A voice.  No, two voices.  Plus a dog barking, loudly.  Ah, Gods, had someone found them?  He recognized the bark as Scratch’s.  Then the first voice.  Halsin’s.  Wyll answered, then bellowed down the cavernous hole.  Good grief, were they actually close to civilization?  Maybe this nightmare would end soon.  Hopefully, with Astarion in one piece.—--------------------He didn’t even see the creature move to consume him again.  It was simply there, rapidly in his space, the roar of his companions fading to nothing in Astarion’s ears.  He was standing, at least–he thought he was–and he tried very hard to look away from the twinkling, crustacean-like eyestalks that peered from the darkness toward him.Its voice was a resonant claw with a painful grasp, a murky river that reflected nothing on its surface.  I HAVE SO MUCH TO OFFER YOU.  “I doubt that,” Astarion sneered aloud, not knowing whether or not he’d imagined the booming words.  They reverberated still, in his head, and he felt something–a tentacle? A claw?--tighten around his neck.  He gasped and clawed at his throat, but there was nothing there.“Stop this,” he hissed, as if the most powerful enemy they’d ever faced was nothing but an annoying child; again, his feet rose from the floor, again he was caught in its web.  It was thinking, he realized….it contemplated, it mused on what to do with him.  He was struggling for air.  But he didn’t need it–it was a comfort, though one he badly wanted.  The rogue had lost his weapons…where had they gone?“I am no mage,” it continued to hiss, “I have an army at my command.  All you must do is sacrifice this hell you live, for a heaven.  A happier spot.  Then your troubles will fade, and I gain a new conduit of power to separate, to make a realm.  A new home.  As your people did.”  This last part was a tease–it had learned something from him, and was now teasing him about it.  Astarion fought, struggling even now to recall the newly uncovered memories.  His mind felt like a bruised apple; hardy at one point, but softening with each blow, and soon destined to become a tasty, if unappetizing looking, treat for someone else.  “I can’t,” he choked, sagging against the sensation finally.  His feet kicked no more; he was done.  Somewhere, Gale was yelling, but Astarion couldn’t make out the words.  He didn’t even know what it was he ‘couldn’t’ do.  Was he turning down the creature’s offer?  Or saying he could no longer listen?  He didn’t know.  His eyes were closed; this felt so similar to many nights caught in Cazador’s cruel web of torture.  He could simply float away, and come back later.  If his body was able to come back later.Astarion felt as if he were drifting into a pleasant sleep, and the last thing he heard was the creature smugly offering, “I have learned you, elf….now, let me show you a taste.  Of what can be yours.”Don’t you ache for silence, for stillness?For the love you’ve never had?It was a woman’s voice…kind.Don’t you wish to go home?Home? Where was home? What was home?“You cannot tempt me,” Astarion panted, and he was surprised to hear how small his voice was.  He needed to call, for help.  From someone.  Who?Please, Astarion.  Come home.  Then it was all darkness and silence.—----------------Astarion opened his eyes, startled.  He felt a great rush of wind at his back, and someone ran past him, cursing in an unfamiliar language.  Who was that?  An elf, with white hair.  She wore an emerald, velvet dress.  His sister.  What was her name again?“You could at least close the door for yourself!  That snowstorm is frightful! Don’t even see how you made it here at all.”“His arms are full, give the poor man a break!”  The sharp voice of the wizard was a surprise to Astarion.  He turned, realizing two things at once–firstly, several others had entered with him, one being Gale–and two, everyone in the group carried heavy parcels.  Wrapped.Presents.  For what?  They were all bundled up in winter finery, too, even Karlach.  Astarion stared at his friend, realizing that she wasn’t….well…smoldering.  The telltale ticking of her infernal engine, which he heard anytime he listened, was gone.  She didn’t have the engine.  She had…he listened….a heartbeat!  Even more strangely, she was in a regal black gown, with a black fur coat.  She looked less like a warrior and more like a dark queen, more radiant than anything on the Material Plane.  Despite his confusion, Astarion’s heart soared, and Karlach moved past him, her arms full of boxes, and she scooped up his armful as she passed by.  Her eyebrow arched.  “What are you looking at me like that for?”“I….”“It’s the dress, idn’t it? I know, I can already feel the chafi–”“He’s just captivated by your beauty,” Gale said easily, clapping Astarion on the shoulder as he moved past.  The wizard spun, pointing in a vaguely upstairs direction.  “Am I to assume we’re rooming in the same spot as last season?  Third floor, west corridor?” As if to explain his ask, he nodded, “I know I rode in with you all, but I had a farther journey!”“You took a portal,” Karlach snorted.  The group that spilled into the large main hall were in a huge, warmly lit manor that seemed all-too-familiar to Astarion.  From where?  Marble floors.  Warm, buttery candlelight, reflected by magic and made brighter.  A crackling hearth in the ballroom, and a large white tree at the head of the magnificent entry room, decorated in baubles for the winter holiday.  This was Baldur’s Gate, he remembered.  This palace belonged to…it was…whose was it?  He fought, wrestling with the lack of memory as Gale continued, “Come, Tara!”The tressym leapt from behind Astarion, who finally turned to look behind him where they’d entered.  His sister had shut the door, but he doubled back to stare out one of the frosted windows.  After wiping his palm across the ice, Astarion nearly jumped; the ice bit his fingers with an unfamiliar sting of cold.  He stared at peach-toned digits.  Fingers, not claws. He turned his hand over.  Was he….alive?Eyes widened dramatically, and he peered out the glass at what little he could see.  A large carriage was pulling away from the snow-covered entrance, and behind it were more, waiting for their turn to drop off their cargo.  A party, he recalled, as if someone slipped him the memory on a note.  A party for the holiday.  Midwinter.  He had another memory resurface with this; he recalled standing on a spire, balancing, practicing ballroom dance moves.  Was that how he’d learned?  Why had he been outside in the cold?  Astarion’s palms moved down his own jacket front.  It was luxurious.  Silk and embroidery.  Silver and blue.  Just as he peered into the window glass, seeking his own reflection, another hearty voice called out.  “There you are!  Wondered if I was going to have to send in an ice dragon to find you in this.”  It was a warm, matronly tone; he spun on his heel, nearly tripping toward the beloved woman.  “Kaylessa!”And then it all flooded back to him.  His home, in the Star Elf cloister.  His parents, his siblings, his upbringing.  The other realm, the before.  Kaylessa beamed as if pleased at his sudden inrush of memories; she brought her adopted son into a crushingly-tight hug, which he heartily returned, burying his nose onto her shoulder and inhaling deeply.  Rosemary.  Firelight.  She was his family.  He remembered.  Gods, it was good to be home.  In his family’s palace.  Of course.  They’d all come here together once their realm was beyond repair–once it had been overrun with intruders.  “I missed you too, Little Star,” she said with a heavy-handed pat on his back; he smirked.  Just as she’d done when he was little.  Now he was a bit more sturdy, but she still steered him farther into the ballroom, moving toward an adjacent sitting area near a fireplace.  It seemed many more partygoers congregated here, but Astarion looked around at the wider scene.  Karlach was already moving the mountainous pile of presents toward the white tree at the front of the room.  They toppled and she laughed, eagerly scooping them back up and trying to make the mountain as presentable as the pristinely-decorated tree.  Gale, true to form, was heading for his bedroom first, despite being lavishly dressed; he was peppy, chatting with Tara as he ascended the staircase.   Astarion’s other companions were here–they greeted each other as a smile wound its way onto the elf’s lips.  Another carriage was waiting to disembark; his siblings bickered about standing behind the massive door to shut it yet again, or call a servant. He intended to move back toward them; he could handle the door.  He was already overwhelmed with everything; perhaps being a doorman would afford him a break–“And have Nessa go talk to the chefs and servers, we’re going to need more–Astarion!”  The voice was musical, light; his head snapped back to the sitting area, where she waltzed, weaving between the plush sofas in an extravagantly beautiful white silk dress.  He knew her.  He’d seen her.  His whole life, hadn’t he?“More Astarion, indeed,” Kaylessa tutted, patting his back again before she departed with a smile.  “Mother,” he said in a very small voice, and Astarion let her approach him.  Her hug was the opposite of his other mother’s; the Star Elf was lithe, dainty, chill to the touch, she smelled of twilight and wood smoke.  Her white curls were down, instead of in their usual braid.  And as a sign of her royal lineage, she wore a dainty circlet on her head.  “My little star,” she cooed, and their embrace was fragile, sweet.  Why did he feel like bursting into tears?  As if to explain his tremble, Astarion said with an inhale, “I’ve…missed you so.”“Come now,” she said, pulling back, giving him a wink and the slightest of smirks.  Her grey eyebrows lifted coyly.  “You saw us just this autumn.  We’re not so far away, though you could stand to visit more!”“Don’t be so precious, Astarion,” one of his siblings goaded from behind them, and the youngest scowled, ignoring the voice.  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said instead to his mother, who steered him toward the middle of the ballroom.  “It just…feels like longer.”“It always does, and will, until you return home for good as I’ve asked.”  They were near the tree; what was she standing, posing for?  He mimicked her stance unintentionally, and his head canted toward the beautiful elf.  As if to explain, she gestured.  “You know every politician and reporter in Baldur’s Gate will be at this ball.  Always treating these affairs as if they’re political maneuvers.”He inhaled sharply, more memories flooding into his mind as if they were being poured, fresh, as from a mug.  His family had been here for decades.  Hadn’t they?“And I know you are a guest, but,” she patted his hand with her own.  He squeezed hers in response, his gaze never leaving his mother’s.  “I expect you to shake a few hands, my love.  It’s the least you can do as a magister.”“A magister.”“Astarion, are you feeling alright?”  Despite the very obvious fact that an elf didn’t suffer human fevers, she still mimicked the very human gesture of putting her palm to his forehead.  The beautiful woman frowned, and he desperately stared at her face, wanting to remember every detail, forever.  She was so lovely.  So kind.  “You are a bit warm.  Perhaps you need a rest?”A bit warm!  He beamed, though he didn’t know why.  Astarion clasped his mother’s hand again and kissed it.  One of his sisters passed by, carrying a plate of something, and she scoffed at him.  “What, you’re letting him get out of this social nightmare without even nagging him about his engagement?”Her eyes lit up; his widened in confusion.  His what now.“Oh, darling, we MUST talk about it, even if it’s not tonight.  You’re here for a whole tenday, yes?  We need to plan for the wedding, of course, but also discuss with your father, your plans…you’ll move home, won’t you? We’ve plenty of bedrooms here–”“Whyyyyy in the nine hells would I need plenty of bedrooms!”  His ears were reddening, he could feel it.  Why was that feeling so foreign to him?She looked taken aback.  Astarion’s sister laughed, an evil cackle, as she tiptoed away, happy for the chaos she’d caused.  She threw a mischievous look over her shoulder, and he frowned, turning back toward the uncannily beautiful elf.  His mother seemed genuinely confused why he asked.“Well, for the children, of course!”He sputtered, but only managed, “MOTHER!”As the new carriage, and more guests, filtered in from across the large room, a voice sounded on the steps nearest their alcove. It was a deep voice with a strangely comforting resonance, a voice he’d heard….somewhere.  “I see she’s giving you the children talk already,” the other, lanky elf said as he sauntered in, looking deeply uncomfortable in his decidedly understated plainclothes.  His normally flat-affect was heightened somewhat; his eyebrows lifted at the sight of Astarion, and his lips settled into what was, decidedly, a smirk.  Albeit a very small one that only the most well-trained eyes could see.Astarion’s shock at seeing his mother doubled as he looked at the elf.  White hair, green eyes.  But no markings.  What markings?  The other lifted a dark eyebrow, as curious at Astarion’s staring as everyone else had been.  The handsome, dark-skinned elf snorted as his eyes cut toward his to-be mother-in-law.“Don’t worry, I told her about logistics, she won’t listen.”  Eirianwen tutted, and actually poked the tall elf in the arm playfully.  She recognized his words as a tease, even though Astarion was still in the processing stage of seeing Fenris.  Here.  Different.  How?  He couldn’t remember.  Why couldn’t he remember things?“I’m aware of the…the…logistics, dear!” his mother hissed in faux-annoyance, but her smile gave her thoughts away completely.  “You’ll be able to adopt, or look for surrogacy, or–”“MOTHER!” Astarion was utterly horrified; his eyes nearly shot out of his head at this, and his entire face turned red.  Somewhere nearby, his sister laughed, and thankfully the familiar visage of Wyll’s father, the Grand Duke, moved toward the trio.  Duke Ravengard had no eyes for Astarion, only his mother, as he moved forward in a bow and a greeting of admiration.  She gave her son one more pointed smile before turning toward him, ever the gracious hostess.  His learned manners all left him; Astarion’s shoulders sagged as he stared again at Fenris, in complete awe.  What was the other elf doing here?  Why couldn’t Astarion remember things?  This was supposed to be a lovely night.  He’d prepared for this party for weeks–they all had.  There would be gifts, and feasting and drinking and dancing.  As if on a whim the shorter elf reached up and pulled away the black collar of the simple shirt; Fenris allowed this, but drew back slightly.  Astarion remembered biting the other’s neck…he had, hadn’t he?  He remembered the sting of lyrium blood on his own tongue.  Remembered the scar that landed across the lyrium tattoo.  But there were no neck piercings to be found…in fact, there was no lyrium tattoo down the elf’s neck.  Something was wrong, wasn’t it?Fenris’s green eyes were warm, curious.  He put a steadying arm on Astarion’s elbow.  “Are you all right, Astarion?”At his name the elf sharply gazed upward; he was remembering other things.  The tattoos.  He would remember those anywhere.  He could recall their blue hue, shining on them both in the dark.  Fenris, standing in the rain, drenched in blood.  Relishing the moment while the droplets stung Astarion’s flesh.  He’d bared his teeth.  His fangs.  He’d been afraid to do it in the warrior’s presence.  Astarion’s tongue shot toward his fang and found only a tooth; he peered earnestly at the other elf.  Fenris wouldn’t lie to him.  Fenris couldn’t.  But how could he ask, how could he know what the truth was?“I need you to tell me,” he began curtly.  “What color are my eyes?”“Your eyes?”  Fenris seemed bemused, but he nodded once, his satin voice smooth as always, as his forest-green eyes flickered across the rogue’s face.  “Grey.”“Fenris.”Green eyes continued to stare, perplexed, but patient.  “You’re not real.  This isn’t real, is it.”The visage was supposed to lie, to comfort him. Console him.  Do the bidding of the thing conjuring this scene.  But it didn’t.  Even here, in his mind, Fenris couldn’t lie.  Wouldn’t lie.  He stared, perhaps with a strange sorrow, at the curly-haired elf.  It returned to Astarion then.  The truth.  Hearing the warrior’s voice had given his memories willpower, as if a surge of truth propelled into his mind.  A deep anger grew within him.  This wasn’t his family’s palace.  It was Cazador’s.  He turned, rounding on the demon as the place fell away around him.  Gone was the warm crackle of the fire and the hum of pleased guests.  Gone was his mother, gone were his siblings, his companions.  Gone was Fenris’s touch on his arm.  The demon stared at him as if put out, annoyed.  It had been interrupted in its work by Wyll and Halsin’s arrival.  Astarion’s face was in a snarl; he didn’t know it, but tears cascaded down his cheeks.  “How dare you, how…how…cruel…” he spat, his hands shaking.  He needed to find his weapons.  “Cruel!”  It sounded offended.  “Have you not spoken to every God and Goddess and heard nothing?  Have you not ached for a heaven of your very own?  Have you not longed for paradise, even a sliver of it?  I offer it to you and you still question. Willful young elf.”He found the hilt of his dagger just as it fell into one of the nearby pools of black sludge.  Astarion’s vision was so blurred by his tears that he didn’t register what was happening around him, didn’t see his freed friends rushing across the bleak swamp of despair toward him.  “I’ve seen enough,” he snapped, the hurt in his voice clear as he flourished the blade.  —--------Wyll was just as concerned as the others when the blowback of the thing’s last-resort attack knocked everyone but Astarion off their feet; instead of being hit with the force, the elf was suspended; hung in the air by a bolt of lightning; Wyll thrust a hand out, drawing on his own power to pull the vampire toward him.  Even though Astarion suffered no damage from electricity, who knew what this thing’s plan was for him?In hasty, chopped sentences the group had explained their arrival, and the demon’s subsequent fascination with Astarion and his soul, to the others.  This alarmed Wyll even more than it did some of the other party, as he’d wrestled personally with his own soul against a demon.  So now he fought, hard, to wrench Astarion from its grasp.  The pull worked; Astarion flew back to topple into the heap of the rest of the group, and with one last shriek, the eldritch horror vaporized, flinging black, slimy tar and blood across the group.  The cavern was still dark, but the gloom it carried lifted, and the weary fighters all lay in their spots, catching their breath.  Well, except Karlach, who was already on her feet and whooping about what a fight it had been.  Halsin warned, “I sense that the creature was not downed…it merely grew weak and departed.  We should find sunlight with haste.”Wyll was slower to untangle than the druid; Astarion had fallen almost on top of him, and now he struggled to stand and hold up the shorter vampire.  “Are you all right?”“I…I think so.  Gods what a headache,” Astarion grumbled, and he uncharacteristically tossed his daggers to the muddy ground in favor of sitting, pressing his palms into his temples, his head shaking to and fro as if he could remove cobwebs from it.It was surprisingly Lae’Zael who spoke next, even more surprisingly, with a soft voice of concern.  “Is your…mind, intact as well?  Do you recall the demon’s torturings?”“Its what? My what?”  Astarion squinted, looking paler than usual.  “I know it….did something to me, to hurt me.  I can’t recall what it did or said.  It wanted something from me, didn’t it?”  The rogue frowned deeply when he saw how alarmed the others looked.  “What? Why are you staring at me like that?  What did the damned thing want?”Gale tried, after exchanging a very troubled look with Shadowheart.  “Do you….remember anything of what it may have told you?  You said earlier it showed you…erm, well.  Memories.”“Memories? Of what?”His indignation was growing, Wyll could tell.  The vampire’s shoulders were moving back, he was inhaling a large breath.  He was about to get angry and may everyone be out of his warpath.  Shadowheart’s voice was just as smooth, calm, and worried as the other’s.  “We don’t know, Astarion…it only showed them to you.”Crimson eyes glanced suspiciously at the too-quiet crowd.  “Tricks, then?  Some…demon lure?  Lies, all of it, I assume?”When no one spoke, Wyll felt compelled to.  He hadn’t been present for any of this, but his unease at the discontent was strong.  His tone was patient, soothing.  “I’m sure that’s what it was, Astarion.”    written by heedless moth, template by creativian

EZRA MOONWHO ARE YOU REALLY? All the best friends I've ever had have been drowned by the dust.  You have crept in the tree of an old oak village I once knew before I was bornAway I have found a way to the one I've felt for years The warriors were content to beat their brains against the charm-turned-prison; this thing, this…demon?--had turned his magic against him, and to be frank, Gale couldn’t concentrate on counteracting it as long as Astarion was outside of the orb, being held in place by the thing’s lightning spell.  Magic coursed up from the sticky, tar-covered ground and surged through the vampire.  Karlach seemed to make the most progress against their orb, but just as her feet slid forward, they moved back and she cursed when her own heat moved in a wave against her.  They were trapped–at least for the moment, but the wizard felt his heart leap with hope anyway when the lightning finally dissipated.  Astarion stumbled to the ground, groaning as he fought to keep from going to his knees.The bastard still had strength to fight.  But just as Gale, and in front of him, Minsc, moved to celebrate, they saw the horror-stricken look on the white-haired elf’s face.  “Astarion! Focus! Don’t let it–whatever it did in your head! Shadowheart, can you cast gui–”“Already trying,” she said sternly, amid the chaos of the prison bubble, where their own magic stirred within, unable to leave its confines.  Karlach shouted, drowning out both spellcasters.  “ASTARION! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”So to the point, that one.  Gale gripped his staff unnaturally firmly as he awaited the elf’s answer.  Astarion’s red eyes were round, frightened, and they glinted against the pale purple shimmer of magic as he surveyed the gap between his friends, and the demon that finally released him.  It was only moments being in the thrall of the thing, but the group had no way of knowing just how long those moments felt. Or how painful they were.  “I…I saw…my memories,” he said in a faint voice, regarding the creature with a new kind of fear.  Terror, really.  Gale cursed inwardly; that could be very bad.  Aloud, he voiced in what he hoped was a helpful tone, “Don’t believe its visions–it can make anything seem true!”The demon-thing chuckled, a warbled noise that almost sounded birdlike.  Astarion rose to his full height, finally, out of breath.  His hair and eyes were both wild as he turned toward the group.  “No, no–it was real.  It was my real memories.  I had no idea…I…”“BE CAREFUL!” Karlach advised ever so loudly, as she picked up her axe again.  In a lower tone, she growled, “I’m going to burst this goddamn bubble with pure anger, DAMMIT ALL!!”“Do us all the favor, please,” Lae’Zel hissed.  But as the warriors focused on the magic again, Gale’s eyes were only on the elf beyond.  The demon, in its tattered robes, had begun floating across the blackness toward Astarion, a seemingly hungry look in what Gale supposed were its beady, hate-filled eyes.It had said something earlier.  Something not good.  Gale struggled to understand, to piece together meanings.  It wanted Astarion’s soul. A soul the vampire was certain he’d never had.  Several in the group had their doubts about this, and though they conversed quietly when he wasn’t around, no one quite had the heart or nerve to bring it up to the rogue officially.  Besides, it was just a theory, based on several observations.  It held no water.Well, until NOW, with a bloody demon vocalizing its want for the supposedly-existing-soul.  Of course Astarion didn’t just have any regular soul, either, apparently.  Gale was cursing himself for not knowing more of Astarion’s background, and more of Elven souls, when he heard a sound from nearby.  A voice.  No, two voices.  Plus a dog barking, loudly.  Ah, Gods, had someone found them?  He recognized the bark as Scratch’s.  Then the first voice.  Halsin’s.  Wyll answered, then bellowed down the cavernous hole.  Good grief, were they actually close to civilization?  Maybe this nightmare would end soon.  Hopefully, with Astarion in one piece.—--------------------He didn’t even see the creature move to consume him again.  It was simply there, rapidly in his space, the roar of his companions fading to nothing in Astarion’s ears.  He was standing, at least–he thought he was–and he tried very hard to look away from the twinkling, crustacean-like eyestalks that peered from the darkness toward him.Its voice was a resonant claw with a painful grasp, a murky river that reflected nothing on its surface.  I HAVE SO MUCH TO OFFER YOU.  “I doubt that,” Astarion sneered aloud, not knowing whether or not he’d imagined the booming words.  They reverberated still, in his head, and he felt something–a tentacle? A claw?--tighten around his neck.  He gasped and clawed at his throat, but there was nothing there.“Stop this,” he hissed, as if the most powerful enemy they’d ever faced was nothing but an annoying child; again, his feet rose from the floor, again he was caught in its web.  It was thinking, he realized….it contemplated, it mused on what to do with him.  He was struggling for air.  But he didn’t need it–it was a comfort, though one he badly wanted.  The rogue had lost his weapons…where had they gone?“I am no mage,” it continued to hiss, “I have an army at my command.  All you must do is sacrifice this hell you live, for a heaven.  A happier spot.  Then your troubles will fade, and I gain a new conduit of power to separate, to make a realm.  A new home.  As your people did.”  This last part was a tease–it had learned something from him, and was now teasing him about it.  Astarion fought, struggling even now to recall the newly uncovered memories.  His mind felt like a bruised apple; hardy at one point, but softening with each blow, and soon destined to become a tasty, if unappetizing looking, treat for someone else.  “I can’t,” he choked, sagging against the sensation finally.  His feet kicked no more; he was done.  Somewhere, Gale was yelling, but Astarion couldn’t make out the words.  He didn’t even know what it was he ‘couldn’t’ do.  Was he turning down the creature’s offer?  Or saying he could no longer listen?  He didn’t know.  His eyes were closed; this felt so similar to many nights caught in Cazador’s cruel web of torture.  He could simply float away, and come back later.  If his body was able to come back later.Astarion felt as if he were drifting into a pleasant sleep, and the last thing he heard was the creature smugly offering, “I have learned you, elf….now, let me show you a taste.  Of what can be yours.”Don’t you ache for silence, for stillness?For the love you’ve never had?It was a woman’s voice…kind.Don’t you wish to go home?Home? Where was home? What was home?“You cannot tempt me,” Astarion panted, and he was surprised to hear how small his voice was.  He needed to call, for help.  From someone.  Who?Please, Astarion.  Come home.  Then it was all darkness and silence.—----------------Astarion opened his eyes, startled.  He felt a great rush of wind at his back, and someone ran past him, cursing in an unfamiliar language.  Who was that?  An elf, with white hair.  She wore an emerald, velvet dress.  His sister.  What was her name again?“You could at least close the door for yourself!  That snowstorm is frightful! Don’t even see how you made it here at all.”“His arms are full, give the poor man a break!”  The sharp voice of the wizard was a surprise to Astarion.  He turned, realizing two things at once–firstly, several others had entered with him, one being Gale–and two, everyone in the group carried heavy parcels.  Wrapped.Presents.  For what?  They were all bundled up in winter finery, too, even Karlach.  Astarion stared at his friend, realizing that she wasn’t….well…smoldering.  The telltale ticking of her infernal engine, which he heard anytime he listened, was gone.  She didn’t have the engine.  She had…he listened….a heartbeat!  Even more strangely, she was in a regal black gown, with a black fur coat.  She looked less like a warrior and more like a dark queen, more radiant than anything on the Material Plane.  Despite his confusion, Astarion’s heart soared, and Karlach moved past him, her arms full of boxes, and she scooped up his armful as she passed by.  Her eyebrow arched.  “What are you looking at me like that for?”“I….”“It’s the dress, idn’t it? I know, I can already feel the chafi–”“He’s just captivated by your beauty,” Gale said easily, clapping Astarion on the shoulder as he moved past.  The wizard spun, pointing in a vaguely upstairs direction.  “Am I to assume we’re rooming in the same spot as last season?  Third floor, west corridor?” As if to explain his ask, he nodded, “I know I rode in with you all, but I had a farther journey!”“You took a portal,” Karlach snorted.  The group that spilled into the large main hall were in a huge, warmly lit manor that seemed all-too-familiar to Astarion.  From where?  Marble floors.  Warm, buttery candlelight, reflected by magic and made brighter.  A crackling hearth in the ballroom, and a large white tree at the head of the magnificent entry room, decorated in baubles for the winter holiday.  This was Baldur’s Gate, he remembered.  This palace belonged to…it was…whose was it?  He fought, wrestling with the lack of memory as Gale continued, “Come, Tara!”The tressym leapt from behind Astarion, who finally turned to look behind him where they’d entered.  His sister had shut the door, but he doubled back to stare out one of the frosted windows.  After wiping his palm across the ice, Astarion nearly jumped; the ice bit his fingers with an unfamiliar sting of cold.  He stared at peach-toned digits.  Fingers, not claws. He turned his hand over.  Was he….alive?Eyes widened dramatically, and he peered out the glass at what little he could see.  A large carriage was pulling away from the snow-covered entrance, and behind it were more, waiting for their turn to drop off their cargo.  A party, he recalled, as if someone slipped him the memory on a note.  A party for the holiday.  Midwinter.  He had another memory resurface with this; he recalled standing on a spire, balancing, practicing ballroom dance moves.  Was that how he’d learned?  Why had he been outside in the cold?  Astarion’s palms moved down his own jacket front.  It was luxurious.  Silk and embroidery.  Silver and blue.  Just as he peered into the window glass, seeking his own reflection, another hearty voice called out.  “There you are!  Wondered if I was going to have to send in an ice dragon to find you in this.”  It was a warm, matronly tone; he spun on his heel, nearly tripping toward the beloved woman.  “Kaylessa!”And then it all flooded back to him.  His home, in the Star Elf cloister.  His parents, his siblings, his upbringing.  The other realm, the before.  Kaylessa beamed as if pleased at his sudden inrush of memories; she brought her adopted son into a crushingly-tight hug, which he heartily returned, burying his nose onto her shoulder and inhaling deeply.  Rosemary.  Firelight.  She was his family.  He remembered.  Gods, it was good to be home.  In his family’s palace.  Of course.  They’d all come here together once their realm was beyond repair–once it had been overrun with intruders.  “I missed you too, Little Star,” she said with a heavy-handed pat on his back; he smirked.  Just as she’d done when he was little.  Now he was a bit more sturdy, but she still steered him farther into the ballroom, moving toward an adjacent sitting area near a fireplace.  It seemed many more partygoers congregated here, but Astarion looked around at the wider scene.  Karlach was already moving the mountainous pile of presents toward the white tree at the front of the room.  They toppled and she laughed, eagerly scooping them back up and trying to make the mountain as presentable as the pristinely-decorated tree.  Gale, true to form, was heading for his bedroom first, despite being lavishly dressed; he was peppy, chatting with Tara as he ascended the staircase.   Astarion’s other companions were here–they greeted each other as a smile wound its way onto the elf’s lips.  Another carriage was waiting to disembark; his siblings bickered about standing behind the massive door to shut it yet again, or call a servant. He intended to move back toward them; he could handle the door.  He was already overwhelmed with everything; perhaps being a doorman would afford him a break–“And have Nessa go talk to the chefs and servers, we’re going to need more–Astarion!”  The voice was musical, light; his head snapped back to the sitting area, where she waltzed, weaving between the plush sofas in an extravagantly beautiful white silk dress.  He knew her.  He’d seen her.  His whole life, hadn’t he?“More Astarion, indeed,” Kaylessa tutted, patting his back again before she departed with a smile.  “Mother,” he said in a very small voice, and Astarion let her approach him.  Her hug was the opposite of his other mother’s; the Star Elf was lithe, dainty, chill to the touch, she smelled of twilight and wood smoke.  Her white curls were down, instead of in their usual braid.  And as a sign of her royal lineage, she wore a dainty circlet on her head.  “My little star,” she cooed, and their embrace was fragile, sweet.  Why did he feel like bursting into tears?  As if to explain his tremble, Astarion said with an inhale, “I’ve…missed you so.”“Come now,” she said, pulling back, giving him a wink and the slightest of smirks.  Her grey eyebrows lifted coyly.  “You saw us just this autumn.  We’re not so far away, though you could stand to visit more!”“Don’t be so precious, Astarion,” one of his siblings goaded from behind them, and the youngest scowled, ignoring the voice.  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said instead to his mother, who steered him toward the middle of the ballroom.  “It just…feels like longer.”“It always does, and will, until you return home for good as I’ve asked.”  They were near the tree; what was she standing, posing for?  He mimicked her stance unintentionally, and his head canted toward the beautiful elf.  As if to explain, she gestured.  “You know every politician and reporter in Baldur’s Gate will be at this ball.  Always treating these affairs as if they’re political maneuvers.”He inhaled sharply, more memories flooding into his mind as if they were being poured, fresh, as from a mug.  His family had been here for decades.  Hadn’t they?“And I know you are a guest, but,” she patted his hand with her own.  He squeezed hers in response, his gaze never leaving his mother’s.  “I expect you to shake a few hands, my love.  It’s the least you can do as a magister.”“A magister.”“Astarion, are you feeling alright?”  Despite the very obvious fact that an elf didn’t suffer human fevers, she still mimicked the very human gesture of putting her palm to his forehead.  The beautiful woman frowned, and he desperately stared at her face, wanting to remember every detail, forever.  She was so lovely.  So kind.  “You are a bit warm.  Perhaps you need a rest?”A bit warm!  He beamed, though he didn’t know why.  Astarion clasped his mother’s hand again and kissed it.  One of his sisters passed by, carrying a plate of something, and she scoffed at him.  “What, you’re letting him get out of this social nightmare without even nagging him about his engagement?”Her eyes lit up; his widened in confusion.  His what now.“Oh, darling, we MUST talk about it, even if it’s not tonight.  You’re here for a whole tenday, yes?  We need to plan for the wedding, of course, but also discuss with your father, your plans…you’ll move home, won’t you? We’ve plenty of bedrooms here–”“Whyyyyy in the nine hells would I need plenty of bedrooms!”  His ears were reddening, he could feel it.  Why was that feeling so foreign to him?She looked taken aback.  Astarion’s sister laughed, an evil cackle, as she tiptoed away, happy for the chaos she’d caused.  She threw a mischievous look over her shoulder, and he frowned, turning back toward the uncannily beautiful elf.  His mother seemed genuinely confused why he asked.“Well, for the children, of course!”He sputtered, but only managed, “MOTHER!”As the new carriage, and more guests, filtered in from across the large room, a voice sounded on the steps nearest their alcove. It was a deep voice with a strangely comforting resonance, a voice he’d heard….somewhere.  “I see she’s giving you the children talk already,” the other, lanky elf said as he sauntered in, looking deeply uncomfortable in his decidedly understated plainclothes.  His normally flat-affect was heightened somewhat; his eyebrows lifted at the sight of Astarion, and his lips settled into what was, decidedly, a smirk.  Albeit a very small one that only the most well-trained eyes could see.Astarion’s shock at seeing his mother doubled as he looked at the elf.  White hair, green eyes.  But no markings.  What markings?  The other lifted a dark eyebrow, as curious at Astarion’s staring as everyone else had been.  The handsome, dark-skinned elf snorted as his eyes cut toward his to-be mother-in-law.“Don’t worry, I told her about logistics, she won’t listen.”  Eirianwen tutted, and actually poked the tall elf in the arm playfully.  She recognized his words as a tease, even though Astarion was still in the processing stage of seeing Fenris.  Here.  Different.  How?  He couldn’t remember.  Why couldn’t he remember things?“I’m aware of the…the…logistics, dear!” his mother hissed in faux-annoyance, but her smile gave her thoughts away completely.  “You’ll be able to adopt, or look for surrogacy, or–”“MOTHER!” Astarion was utterly horrified; his eyes nearly shot out of his head at this, and his entire face turned red.  Somewhere nearby, his sister laughed, and thankfully the familiar visage of Wyll’s father, the Grand Duke, moved toward the trio.  Duke Ravengard had no eyes for Astarion, only his mother, as he moved forward in a bow and a greeting of admiration.  She gave her son one more pointed smile before turning toward him, ever the gracious hostess.  His learned manners all left him; Astarion’s shoulders sagged as he stared again at Fenris, in complete awe.  What was the other elf doing here?  Why couldn’t Astarion remember things?  This was supposed to be a lovely night.  He’d prepared for this party for weeks–they all had.  There would be gifts, and feasting and drinking and dancing.  As if on a whim the shorter elf reached up and pulled away the black collar of the simple shirt; Fenris allowed this, but drew back slightly.  Astarion remembered biting the other’s neck…he had, hadn’t he?  He remembered the sting of lyrium blood on his own tongue.  Remembered the scar that landed across the lyrium tattoo.  But there were no neck piercings to be found…in fact, there was no lyrium tattoo down the elf’s neck.  Something was wrong, wasn’t it?Fenris’s green eyes were warm, curious.  He put a steadying arm on Astarion’s elbow.  “Are you all right, Astarion?”At his name the elf sharply gazed upward; he was remembering other things.  The tattoos.  He would remember those anywhere.  He could recall their blue hue, shining on them both in the dark.  Fenris, standing in the rain, drenched in blood.  Relishing the moment while the droplets stung Astarion’s flesh.  He’d bared his teeth.  His fangs.  He’d been afraid to do it in the warrior’s presence.  Astarion’s tongue shot toward his fang and found only a tooth; he peered earnestly at the other elf.  Fenris wouldn’t lie to him.  Fenris couldn’t.  But how could he ask, how could he know what the truth was?“I need you to tell me,” he began curtly.  “What color are my eyes?”“Your eyes?”  Fenris seemed bemused, but he nodded once, his satin voice smooth as always, as his forest-green eyes flickered across the rogue’s face.  “Grey.”“Fenris.”Green eyes continued to stare, perplexed, but patient.  “You’re not real.  This isn’t real, is it.”The visage was supposed to lie, to comfort him. Console him.  Do the bidding of the thing conjuring this scene.  But it didn’t.  Even here, in his mind, Fenris couldn’t lie.  Wouldn’t lie.  He stared, perhaps with a strange sorrow, at the curly-haired elf.  It returned to Astarion then.  The truth.  Hearing the warrior’s voice had given his memories willpower, as if a surge of truth propelled into his mind.  A deep anger grew within him.  This wasn’t his family’s palace.  It was Cazador’s.  He turned, rounding on the demon as the place fell away around him.  Gone was the warm crackle of the fire and the hum of pleased guests.  Gone was his mother, gone were his siblings, his companions.  Gone was Fenris’s touch on his arm.  The demon stared at him as if put out, annoyed.  It had been interrupted in its work by Wyll and Halsin’s arrival.  Astarion’s face was in a snarl; he didn’t know it, but tears cascaded down his cheeks.  “How dare you, how…how…cruel…” he spat, his hands shaking.  He needed to find his weapons.  “Cruel!”  It sounded offended.  “Have you not spoken to every God and Goddess and heard nothing?  Have you not ached for a heaven of your very own?  Have you not longed for paradise, even a sliver of it?  I offer it to you and you still question. Willful young elf.”He found the hilt of his dagger just as it fell into one of the nearby pools of black sludge.  Astarion’s vision was so blurred by his tears that he didn’t register what was happening around him, didn’t see his freed friends rushing across the bleak swamp of despair toward him.  “I’ve seen enough,” he snapped, the hurt in his voice clear as he flourished the blade.  —--------Wyll was just as concerned as the others when the blowback of the thing’s last-resort attack knocked everyone but Astarion off their feet; instead of being hit with the force, the elf was suspended; hung in the air by a bolt of lightning; Wyll thrust a hand out, drawing on his own power to pull the vampire toward him.  Even though Astarion suffered no damage from electricity, who knew what this thing’s plan was for him?In hasty, chopped sentences the group had explained their arrival, and the demon’s subsequent fascination with Astarion and his soul, to the others.  This alarmed Wyll even more than it did some of the other party, as he’d wrestled personally with his own soul against a demon.  So now he fought, hard, to wrench Astarion from its grasp.  The pull worked; Astarion flew back to topple into the heap of the rest of the group, and with one last shriek, the eldritch horror vaporized, flinging black, slimy tar and blood across the group.  The cavern was still dark, but the gloom it carried lifted, and the weary fighters all lay in their spots, catching their breath.  Well, except Karlach, who was already on her feet and whooping about what a fight it had been.  Halsin warned, “I sense that the creature was not downed…it merely grew weak and departed.  We should find sunlight with haste.”Wyll was slower to untangle than the druid; Astarion had fallen almost on top of him, and now he struggled to stand and hold up the shorter vampire.  “Are you all right?”“I…I think so.  Gods what a headache,” Astarion grumbled, and he uncharacteristically tossed his daggers to the muddy ground in favor of sitting, pressing his palms into his temples, his head shaking to and fro as if he could remove cobwebs from it.It was surprisingly Lae’Zael who spoke next, even more surprisingly, with a soft voice of concern.  “Is your…mind, intact as well?  Do you recall the demon’s torturings?”“Its what? My what?”  Astarion squinted, looking paler than usual.  “I know it….did something to me, to hurt me.  I can’t recall what it did or said.  It wanted something from me, didn’t it?”  The rogue frowned deeply when he saw how alarmed the others looked.  “What? Why are you staring at me like that?  What did the damned thing want?”Gale tried, after exchanging a very troubled look with Shadowheart.  “Do you….remember anything of what it may have told you?  You said earlier it showed you…erm, well.  Memories.”“Memories? Of what?”His indignation was growing, Wyll could tell.  The vampire’s shoulders were moving back, he was inhaling a large breath.  He was about to get angry and may everyone be out of his warpath.  Shadowheart’s voice was just as smooth, calm, and worried as the other’s.  “We don’t know, Astarion…it only showed them to you.”Crimson eyes glanced suspiciously at the too-quiet crowd.  “Tricks, then?  Some…demon lure?  Lies, all of it, I assume?”When no one spoke, Wyll felt compelled to.  He hadn’t been present for any of this, but his unease at the discontent was strong.  His tone was patient, soothing.  “I’m sure that’s what it was, Astarion.”    written by heedless moth, template by creativian

#deathly {background-color: #183048; width: 400PX; margin: auto; padding: 15PX; border: solid 5PX #FFF; box-shadow: 1PX 1PX 3PX #0F0F0F;)} #dtitle {font-family: serif-sans; color: #FFF; text-align: center; font-size: 35PX; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: bold; padding: 4PX;} #dcontent {font-family: serif-sans; background-color: #FFF; opacity: 0.7; margin: 10PX; padding: 10PX; font-size: 13PX; line-height: 14PX; box-shadow: 1PX 1PX 5PX #000; text-align: justify;} on discussions (This is taken from my 'vampire diaries' series which is a rambling bulletin for the old Myspace rpers here who remember when we used to just ramble in bulletins, but this one actually has an important update in it.) hello my beautiful treasures.  I've realized something just this morning and I had to put it out there, because it's going to affect my writing.  my process? my something.So, I mention all the time that I need plotting and can't do rp without it.  I have never really sat on this and thought about it as it relates to my writing in general other than to sayyyy (not patting my own back but)I am a very prolific solo writer and I have a stupid amount of solo writing where my only boundary is time and life.  And yet witih 99% of people, even people I truly enjoy, co-writing is a bit of a nightmare for me. Why do I do this to myself? I don't know.  I have found some amazing, incredible people through writing collaboratively, and have had some wonderful stories that I could not have pioneered on my own.But I've noticed something about myself.  Because I've written for years it's very easy for me to get into a flow state when writing (you know, the 'in the zone' magic spot) it happens almost immediately as long as I know what I'm writing.  And that's the hangup.  A lot of RP is like little short mini-attention-span stuff, and "let's figure it out as we go" and my brain does *not* like that at all.  And worse, it prevents the flow state.So I find myself sitting here wondering why someone who has 150 chapters from last year alone, let alone the 30 or so on a fanfic from this year, can't figure out a short few paragraph reply on a low-risk storyline.  Low-risk as in, I know and like the author, they know and like me, things should jive.And it's because the lack of excitement, the lack of creativity sitting in front of me, has me incapable of going into my flow state.  This is actually why I don't like most TV or movies--I don't know what's happening and I can't predict it and it feels like a waste of creative energy when I'm sitting along wondering what is happening.  Some shows/movies obviously earn my trust but they are few and far between.I love to write.  But I absolutely require novel-writing-level planning beforehand.  I was fighting this instinct when I started writing Astarion, and a lot of you have heard me say "I'm trying to get better at banter" along with "I like to discuss but I'll try to wing it."Today I must admit that winging it doesn't work for me.  I am what I am.  I require us to figure out a plot/a problem, and perhaps a few of them, as we start to write.  I want to know how, in the future, our characters will get along or not get along. I need to know these things to write in my flow state, so that I'm not pausing, stopping, asking questions, getting lost, blahblahblah.  When I sit down to write it's a beautiful thing if all of the stars align with my planning.If I try to lower or change my focus, this gets messy.  I have ADHD, and my one strength is my hyperfocus.  If I'm distracted from our story, I'm going to be SO F***ING DISTRACTED.  And nobody wants that.  I can no longer operate on the level that others do--I'm amazed by you, I don't know how you do it, but I am just a one-track-mind with writing and I have my ways. I am aware this makes me high maintenance.  I mean, I guess it fits the muse.If you can handle this level of obnoxiousness please do reach out.  If we have a story that I am replying to very, very slowly *cough, lillianna, cough, rose* please know that more discussions will warrant us a better story and I am always always always ALLLLLLLLLLLWAYYYYYYSdown to discuss more and more and more.  If you're reading this and you're like "wow, this guy sounds awful" please feel free to delete without any guilt at all.  We're not all going to be each others' cups of tea.  If you hate discussions and hate the idea of talking ooc and building an entire novel-length saga of plots and villains and NPCs, then that's okay too. I still love you and wish you the best.THATS ALL I GOT--HEY, IT'S THURSDAY! LOVE YOU BYE ✖

╭ ─┉─   •   ─┉─ ╮ [ "Quote" ] ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯   (Picture)   ┏━━━    ━━━┓ [ Basic information ] ┗━━━    ━━━┛   First name: ☆   Meaning: ☆   Middle name: ☆   Meaning: ☆   Last name: ☆   Meaning: ☆   Nicknames ☆ ☆ ☆   Age: ☆   Birthday: ☆ ☆ 0/0/0000   Zodiac: ☆   Gender: ☆   Pronouns: ☆   Ethnicity/Race: ☆   Sexuality: ☆   Species:   Languages They can speak: ☆ ☆ ☆   Occupation: ☆   Skills/Talents ☆ ☆ ☆   ╭ ─┉─   •   ─┉─ ╮ [ "Quote" ] ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯   (Picture)   ┏━━━    ━━━┓ [ Appearance ] ┗━━━    ━━━┛   Faceclaim: ☆   Hair color: ☆   Hair length/type: ☆   Eye color: ☆   Weight: ☆   Build: ☆   Style ☆ ☆ ☆   Tattoos: ☆   Piercings: ☆   Scars ☆   ╭ ─┉─   •   ─┉─ ╮ [ "Quote" ] ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯   (Picture)   ┏━━━    ━━━┓ [ Personality] ┗━━━    ━━━┛   Basic summary of personality: ☆   Positive traits: ☆ ☆ ☆   Negative traits: ☆ ☆ ☆   Likes: ☆ ☆ ☆   Dislikes: ☆ ☆ ☆   Hobbies: ☆ ☆ ☆   Habits ☆ ☆ ☆   Nervous tics: ☆ ☆ ☆   ╭ ─┉─   •   ─┉─ ╮ [ "Quote" ] ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯   (Picture)   ┏━━━    ━━━┓ [ Family and Relations ] ┗━━━    ━━━┛   Mother: ☆   Father: ☆   Siblings: ☆ ☆ ☆   Friends: ☆ ☆ ☆   Currently relationship: ☆   ╭ ─┉─   •   ─┉─ ╮ [ "Quote" ] ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯   (Picture)   ┏━━━    ━━━┓ [ Health ] ┗━━━    ━━━┛   Smoking: ☆   Drinking: ☆   Addiction: ☆   Fears: ☆   Illnesses: ☆   Disabilities: ☆   Disorders: ☆   ╭ ─┉─   •   ─┉─ ╮ [ "Quote" ] ╰ ─┉─¡! • !¡─┉─ ╯   (Picture)   ┏━━━    ━━━┓ [ Current relevant Information ] ┗━━━    ━━━┛   Location: ☆   Home: ☆   Relationship status: ☆

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. ┊       ┊             ┊       ┊ ┊       ┊       ☆       ┊        ┊ ┊        ☆                  ☆           ┊ ★                                              ★ ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── ‘’ I will protect you with my life!‘’ Gemstone -Quartz   Nicknames -Black Rosa Quartz   Age & Birthday -100+/?   Gem Placement -belly   Gender & Pronouns -female|her/she   Sexuality -Bi ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Appearance -Pictures  Other Outfits -Depends ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Traits -Introvert   Positive-nice -sweet -caring -loving   Negative-anxious -shy -sad -depressed ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Relationships   Friends -Black Peal   Family -Quartz/Universe   Enemies -N/A   Lover -Black Peal ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Backstory -N/A ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Status -Alive ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Template by Turtle

Let's run away together September 25th 1980late afternoonKaitlyn had been looking forward to this day off for nearly a week now. It seriously wasn’t for the job…hell, she loved working at the Black Cat, but she needed a break every so often. And today would be a perfect day to head to the park. That was until she heard the newscaster break in. At first she didn’t think much of it, but once she heard the name Led Zeppelin, she froze and turned the radio up. She and Robert had been seeing each other since June of the past year.“John Bonham of Led Zeppelin found dead this morning, cause still undetermined.”Kaitlyn sighed and dropped her purse onto the chair, deciding it would be better to wait for Robert to call. From what she had understood from a conversation she and Robert had had a few days prior, they were to begin a tour in Canada, since they had not toured since 1977.No sooner had she walked into the kitchen to grab a bag of chips, the phone started ringing. She shuffled the bag into one arm and picked the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”“Katie, are you sitting down?” Robert’s voice could be heard on the other end of the line.“I heard, Robert. Apparently the media has already picked up the news. Where are you?” She placed the bag down on the table and pulled out a chair and sat facing the phone. Once she’d found that Robert had flown down to Los Angeles from Canada, and was now at a payphone, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Robert, why don’t you come over and we can talk. Those payphones run out after a while. Plus it’ll be safer, and you won’t be seen and get mobbed.”“Give me half an hour, babe. I’ll be there soon.” Robert replied then hung up the phone, pulled over a plate and got a handful of chips, but honestly being as concerned for Robert and the rest of the band. It seemed she stared at the chips for a good half hour when she heard a knock from the door. She glanced at the door, but didn’t want to appear overeager, but she knew Robert was going to need support, and she needed to be there for him. Taking a deep breath, she stood from the chair and crossed the room to the door and opened it. Before she knew it, Robert was in her arms. Instinctively and protectively, she wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t about to push him for answers. Not until he was ready.“Four quadruple screwdrivers, Katie. And he just kept drinking. After rehearsals, we put him to bed, and he must have died during the night at some point.”She lightly trailed her fingertips along his spine, and exhaled slowly and closed her eyes. Alcohol poisoning. There were just no two ways about it, and being a bartender she’d seen far too many who’d done just that…even having cut people off when they seemed to be a few sheets to the wind. “What about the band, Robert?”He was silent for a moment, then pulled back just enough to look at her without breaking the embrace, and looked into her eyes. He shook his head. “Zeppelin died with Bonham, Katie. That’s over.”She searched his eyes and reached up to brush a stray lock of hair behind his ear that had fallen into his face. “I’m so sorry, baby.” she whispered softly and compassionately. Honestly, she didn’t know what else to say.“In about two or three days they’ll fly him back to England for a private service with only close friends and family. They want me to go over there with him, but since my son, Katie…I don’t think I can do this alone.”Kaitlyn thought for a moment. “I would go, Robert, but I have a job here, plus the process to procure a passport would take too long. I don’t think there’s enough time to go through the process, even though money is not an issue…”He silenced her by placing two fingers on her lips. “Just having you here is enough Kaitlyn. Don’t worry about that. Ultimately it’s my decision to go or not. They know how I am at funerals. They’ll understand if I don’t go.”. CREDIT: WU SHIFU

~ Made by: This beautiful person~ ╔══════•♡•══════╗ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ╚══════•♡•══════╝ .·:*¨༺ nαmє ༻¨*:·. -Christen Ross   .·:*¨༺ nícknαmєs ༻¨*:·. -Chris -Rose -Al -Mini   .·:*¨༺ αgє ༻¨*:·. -18+ ╔══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*══╗ “Noice!”   ╚══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*══╝ .·:*¨༺ gєndєr ༻¨*:·. -Female   .·:*¨༺ ѕєхuαlítч ༻¨*:·. -Bi ╔══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*══╗ “sshh!”   ╚══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*══╝ ╔══════•♡•══════╗ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ╚══════•♡•══════╝ .·:*¨༺ gσσd trαítѕ ༻¨*:·. -happy -nice -sweet -caring -loving   .·:*¨༺ вαd trαítѕ ༻¨*:·. -anxious -sad -depressed -shy -anger issues    .·:*¨༺ quírkѕ ༻¨*:·. -moody -stutter -weird 

❁˟*❁⃝͙*˟❁ ❁˟*❁⃝͙*˟❁ ❁˟*❁⃝͙*˟❁ ❁˟*❁⃝͙*˟❁ ¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸ ❀𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍:04/07/2024 ❀𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍: ¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸  ................................... .•° ✿ °•. ┊┊┊ ┊ °.┊ ┊┊ ┊ ❁. ┊ °❀· ✿ ✻┊ ⋆ ┊⋆✿°.┊✾.⋆ ┊ `⋆┊°✾┊✾.ੈ┊✼´ ⋆  •°.  ｡  .°•  ⋆ `  ✿  ´ ╭┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ┊ ❀𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 ┊ ❀𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘 ┊ ❀ 𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 ┊ ❀ 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙿𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ┊ ❀ 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 ┊ ❀ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 ┊ ❀ 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ┊ ❀ 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜~ ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ┊┊┊ ┊ °.┊ ┊┊ ┊ ❁. ┊ °❀· ✿ ✻┊ ⋆ ┊⋆✿°.┊✾.⋆ ┊ `⋆┊°✾┊✾.ੈ┊✼´ ⋆  •°.  ｡  .°•  ⋆ `  ✿  ´ ❀𝙵𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎 ❀ ❝Amazing!❞ ROSERIO ╔*•✿-✿•* ═════════════╗ 𝓝𝓸𝔀 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰:ROSE ╚══════════*•✿-✿•*═╝  ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓘𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ╚═══════════*•✿-✿•*═╝   𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀ Roserio Maine    𝓝𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Rose ❀Rio   𝓑𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓮/𝓐𝓰𝓮 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀10/01||14+   𝓘𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝔂| .•° ✿ °•. ❀Female||Her/She   𝓞𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Demi||Bi  ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓛𝓲𝓯𝓮 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓵𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓜𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀N/A   𝓞𝓬𝓬𝓾𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Waterpainter   𝓒𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓡𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Home/Neighborhood   ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓛𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝓗𝓮𝓲𝓰𝓱 + 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽| .•° ✿ °•. ❀5FT||40LBS   𝓗𝓪𝓲𝓻 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓣𝓮𝔁𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀PINK   𝓔𝔂𝓮 𝓢𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Black   𝓢𝓴𝓲𝓷 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Brown/Pink/White   𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Depends  𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓮 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Depends   𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽’𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓫𝓪𝓰?| .•° ✿ °•. ❀Depends     ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝓟𝓱𝔂𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓵 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Blind    𝓜𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓵 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓽𝓱 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Anxious  ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓲𝓼 _______? | .•° ✿ °•. [a loving caring maiden and artist]   𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓘𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀bossy   𝓟𝓸𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓼| .•° ✿ °•.                    ✓Nice ✓Caring ✓Loving   𝓝𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓼| .•° ✿ °•.                    xAnxious xNeedy xShy   𝓟𝓮𝓽 𝓟𝓮𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀N ❀A   𝓢𝓸𝓯𝓽 𝓢𝓹𝓸𝓽𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Wally ❀Animals    𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓼 + 𝓟𝓱𝓸𝓫𝓲𝓪𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. DarknessHeights  ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓡𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓹𝓼 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝓖𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓷𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•.   ❀N   ❀A   *•✿-✿•*   𝓢𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•.   ❀N   ❀A   *•✿-✿•*   𝓞𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓡𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•.   ❀N   ❀A   *•✿-✿•*   𝓕𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Wally   ❀Eddie   *•✿-✿•*   𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀Wally   ❀Barnaby   *•✿-✿•*   𝓟𝓮𝓽𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•.   ❀dog   ❀cat   *•✿-✿•*   𝓕𝓸𝓮𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀n   ❀a  ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓑𝓲𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱𝔂 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓭 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀N/A   𝓣𝓮𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓨𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓼 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀n/a   𝓐𝓭𝓾𝓵𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓭 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀n/a   𝓝𝓸𝔀 | .•° ✿ °•. ❀n/a  ╔*•✿-✿•*═════════════╗ 𝓒𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓼 ╚═════════════*•✿-✿•*╝   𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝙳𝙴 𝙱𝚈: @Emveeon on all platforms    #EmveeonTemplate

**Not Goodbye** Time was moving too rapidly, evaporating as quickly as a droplet in a mid-July afternoon. She made her parents stay up late into the night playing Scrabble, Monopoly, Snakes & Ladders, and any of the old games she could remember. She woke up early and had coffee with them, pulling out a textbook when they opened the morning paper. She insisted her father read out loud in his study while she took her own notes from an open textbook on the floor. Her mother tried to soothe the young woman by assuring her they had the whole summer before she had to go back to school, but Hermione had different plans. During the day, once they left for their comically ordinary dentist office in downtown London, Hermione poured over texts and notes, which included muggle medical texts, studying the brain, the mind, and every theory, rule and law of memory charms the young witch could get her hands on. She was planning to do a bit of extremely complicated memory alterations and if she wasn’t careful she could erase the wrong things. As much as she hated it she’d even ventured out and, not without guilt, practiced on random pedestrians in the park. Time was trickling through the cracks of her fingers like water, the tighter she tried to cup the remaining time in her palms the quicker it seemed to disappear. It felt like only yesterday when she arrived at Hogwarts after meeting her soon to be best friends on the train. Seemed like only yesterday she was merely eleven and receiving her letter. She now regretted the summers and Christmases she’d spent at The Burrow instead of at home. So many memories she missed, so much time she took for granted. Time. Seven days. Hermione knew she worked best with deadlines and schedules and so she gave herself seven days to perfect it. Seven days to make the needed arrangements and to spend as much time with her parents as she could, before she made them forget that they ever had a daughter. Much less a daughter who turned out to be a witch. She felt so incredibly guilty that her gift put them in this kind of danger. But she also knew she played a vital part in keeping them safe. If Voldemort won, they were in even more danger than they presently were in London.  While they didn’t know it yet, they were part of an extremely discriminated group-- Muggles. Until Hermione started attending Hogwarts she never had anything to be ashamed of. She was smart, a bright student, a good person and always did the right thing. Draco Malfoy had made her feel tarnished, defected in some way when he’d first spat that filthy word at her and for the first time in her life Hermione Granger knew prejudice and shame for being different. It had lit a fire in her young belly after the initial shame had passed and anger had settled in. Again she realized how quickly time had moved that first year. Her friendship with Ron and Harry purely accidental and entirely due to her bossy nature.  Had she not heard Ron and Harry talk about sneaking out that first time she never would’ve waited in the common room to stop them, never would’ve gotten locked out of the common room trying to persuade them to stay; and then never would’ve ended up unlocking the third floor corridor and learned about Fluffy. If she had never thought Snape was out to get the stone and hurt Harry she never would’ve gone behind the teachers backs. Hermione simply wasn’t the rule breaking type, but she also wasn’t the passive bystander type either. Harry and Ron barely knew any basic spells, that much was clear from classes, how would they have gotten through some of those messes if she hadn’t been there? She soon realised though that life during impending war meant breaking a few rules, and with Harry Potter sometimes rules got broken for you.  She was twelve then, and now only a few months away from 18. A young adult by Wizarding World laws and soon by muggle standards as well. Up until a month ago Hermione had a vague image of what her life would be like. She would graduate from Hogwarts and continue on to the Ministry to pick a specialty. She would join the Order of the Phoenix and she would continue to fight alongside Harry. How quickly that all changed, how quickly your life’s plan can spiral out of recognition. In the last month it felt as though everything she knew was crumbling before her eyes. Professor Dumbledore had been murdered by Professor Snape. A man she had defended time and time again, only to have him hand Harry an “I told you so.’ on a silver platter to serve to her at the end of the year. Which he had graciously not done. Harry had confirmed he was not returning to Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione, who had always known he would decide to leave, had, without ever verbalising it, known they would follow. Now there was no graduation, no Ministry, no Order even...“Not now at least, not yet…” She thought, refusing to let her mind even fathom an outcome where none of them made it out in the end. She had decided on the memory charm for her parents before she’d even left Hogwarts, the night Harry told them he would be leaving, it was the only way to keep them safe. She couldn’t take them with her, she’d also never dared tell them about Voldemort, she knew they would insist on taking her away, they would try to keep her safe. None of them had ever imagined something like this. Never did Hermione expect to be fighting in a war, much less a magical one. As she moved through her childhood home memories of her life drifted in and out of her thoughts. She would see them again, she assured herself as she made her way to their bedroom. They would go to Australia, open a small office there and be as happy as they are now, perhaps even more, and once Voldemort is dead she would go and fix what she’d done. She would get them back. This was better. She gently pushed open their bedroom door. It was late, both asleep. The scrabble board still lay open downstairs, the sink filled with plates and glasses. The Granger home was peaceful, quiet, save for the clock in the hallway. Two sleeping figured distorted the usually neat line of the mattress, two people you could tell loved each other by the way they slept. Her father laid behind her mom, arm wrapped around her, cheek resting to her crown. Her mother's fingers were just barely still laced with the hand she’d fallen asleep holding. ‘They’ll be okay without me.’ she softly reassured herself. ‘They’ll still be happy.’  With a quick wipe at her cheeks as stubborn tears trickled down she rose a slightly shaky hand. ‘It’s better this way. They’ll be safe.’ a selfish part of her wanted to keep them close though. “Perhaps if Dumbledore–” But she cut the pointless thought off with a soft choked sob at the thought of the late headmaster. She drew a breath and steeled herself. The tip of her wand flickered before two orbs popped from the end and made their way to the sleeping figures. Her wand hand was as steady as a boulder but stubborn tears of loss fell over flushed cheeks. Jaw was set as she concentrated on doing this just right. The orbs darted about the bedframe before finding their respective sources and slipped into their ears. Hermione saw a ripple pass through the room and as she turned she saw her image slowly dissolving from family portraits. She didn’t dare look at them again, didn’t dare take a final farewell glance. She knew she’d breakdown if she did. Knew she wouldn’t be able to walk out like she needed to. There was so much that had to be done before they left to look for Horcruxes. She didn’t dare open the books she got from Dumbledore’s office while at home. Moving quickly Hermione went to her bedroom, her trunk was already shrunk down and in the rucksack on her bed. Her parents would wake in the morning with the idea that they had been planning for months to move to Australia. By July 31st, they would have their grand opening of their new dentist office.  She pulled the rucksack over her head, fingers combing through her unruly curls as she scanned the room one last time. She could only hope that Death Eaters didn’t come looking. That they didn’t destroy it. Luckily, if they came, her face would be in none of the portraits. Hopefully they would think they got the wrong house. She moved through the house with purpose this time. Not meandering to linger on the past. A desensitized glaze washed over her as she trudged down the stairs and down the hall. Passing the living room with the bowl of half eaten popcorn, past the dining room where the scrabble board lay. Eyes straight ahead her wand was slipped into her hip pocket, door knob turned and once off the property she instantly apparated to the small hill near The Burrow. As her feet hit the grass Hermione allowed the steel to crack ever so slightly. She drew a shaky breath as a fist closed on her heart and around her throat. She knew she stood little chance of surviving this war, but this wasn’t about her. It was about everyone. Everyone was in danger while Voldemort survived, and only Harry knew how to kill him. She straightened up and with a scowl started to comb her mess of a mane back into a ponytail , wrapping the hair tie around the messy bun as she walked to the Burrow. Her home away from home. 

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