I don't know if I'm too late to jump on the fic title game, but if I'm not...
Fic Title: To Undo Graves
Ohh, that sounds lovely! Apologies for how the wait. I know Matt later said he misspoke and corrected himself, but I always liked his initial answer that it was a follower of the Moonweaver who broke Trent's spell in Vergesson. So, tying into that:
It was obvious from the handmade oracle deck that Mollymauk favored her--the trickster goddess with that mischievous gleam in her eyes, that warm, playful laughter. Imbued with the same lithe grace and cunning swiftness in his steps, another charming rogue in a dashing mask. Gilded stories spun of vicious truths. A taste of sweet dreams to banish all the nightmares.
He could see why Molly was so enamored with her--and the allure of Mollymauk as a devoted follower. What he could not comprehend, couldn't even begin to contemplate--was what Sehanine had seen in him. What drew a goddess of clandestine trysts and playful mischief to a soul so utterly wretched and broken? One who carved out his own heart long ago?
What could he possibly offer her, with only the blood on his hands to give? Why save him and not Mollymauk? How could she? When he held such faith, looked to her for guidance, sanctuary--
How could she abandon him? It should have been me--
Caleb Widogast never bowed before any god, dared not entrust his faith to any soul but himself. And yet...one evening, haloed in the light of Catha's brilliant glow, he's seized by a sudden impulse. A fleeting whim. It's ridiculous, it's--indulgent. Foolish.
But the cards are there, tucked away safely in the haversack, patiently waiting for an owner that will never return. He knows just how to arrange the deck, how to read them. Not by any gift of prophecy from a distant goddess, capricious as her beloved fey. But because he remembers, perfectly, irrevocably; the showman's flourish and light-fingered touch, a glint of mirth dancing in his eyes, every coy word upon his silver-tongue--
Caleb fans out the deck with a deft touch, lets his calloused, bandaged fingertips trail over each card in turn--drawn not by intuition, but a desperate longing, reaching for a heart he already buried.
"It's a game of stories," Molly said once. That was the lure, the rouse; how to cold read a series of disjointed images and archetypes into a seamlessly coherent, compelling narrative. The secret to ensnaring another wanting, shattered heart. "And whatever tale you weave, it better be good."
"Well, Mollymauk?" Caleb said softly. "Tell me a story."
And he turned the first card.
2087
germansingergirl
izzy806
gummygunk
