slightly obsessed

The bard is mute.

It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually.  The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe.  It comes up rather quickly though, often enough.  Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?

She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her.  She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.

She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water.  The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.

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The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming.  She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning.  The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar.  The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.

Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow.  She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse.  She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.

She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself.  It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well.  The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says.  The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house.  The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse.  The power’s an apology of sorts.

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The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous.  She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place.  She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.

There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream.  The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it.  She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes.  It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.

Her hair is too short.  She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.  

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The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least.  Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them.  She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.

She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough.  She never uses her axe against trees.  She doesn’t need to.  She can find a path through any brush without it.  She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.

Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened.  The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat.  The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place.  It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth.  One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t.  In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.

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The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse.  She’s not undead, mostly.  The undead are her job.  She knows that much.

She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world.  Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to.  Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.

She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods.  She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away.  She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin.  She doesn’t like princes.  She doesn’t like necromancers.

Yorozuya fashion inspired by the type of tea I associate them with!

Gin reminds me of strawberry black iced tea, sweet and sour and spicy <3 Kagura is raspberry, fresh and bubbly, whereas Shinpachi is honeydew milk tea, sweet and smooth ;D

So Kravitz got this assignment. Figured it’d be easy- 23 year old shopkeeper, shoulda checked in to the astral plain two years ago, but has been running around the continent with a pack of low-level adventurer’s instead. Very rude. Should make for easy pickings, though. He could use a quick one. It’s date night. 

But then. Then he actually finds her and, whoops. This isn’t necromancy. Reincarnated isn’t the same as undead. It’s still not exactly Kosher with the Queen’s rules, but. It wasn’t even her idea. Not her choice. She’s got a little kid. She’s also got like six really big kids, all of whom are very anxious to defend her, both verbally and physically. 

So he makes them an offer. Quick card game for her soul- a game he’s very much intending to throw. He’s not gonna separate a mom from her kids, he’s not a monster…. But he is an emissary, and while it’d be quicker to just let them off with a warning, he’s gotta make sure his own Mom gets her due respect. Just a quick formality, then he can get home to his boy. 

Except.

Except.

Every. Single. One of these fuckers are trying to help her cheat. And that’s fine, he’s literally trying to lose, but it’s really fucking hard to pretend he doesn’t notice. 

The young Monk, who was so stoic and eloquent presenting her friend’s case, has devolved into a weird sorority girl persona as she tries desperately to distract him from the little blue tiefling slipping aces under the table. The tielfing, who is giving him a very pouty death glare, is having trouble helping because her not-undead friend’s too busy trying to Mage Hand their wizard’s familiar over Kravitz’s shoulder to take the damn cards. 

The wizard’s stare is blank and he’s waving his hand like he expects someone to be there beside him but the only one close is a half orc who’s crouched down like he’s about to make a break for it. Kravitz can smell ozone. He really want’s to tell the guy that reapers can teleport, drop that spell before you hurt your own damn party, but his mouth feels weird and tacky and by his fucking god, what did that cow man put in this tea?? 

This is why he stopped eating Normal People Food in the first place, Taako has fucking ruined him. Taako is gonna fucking murder him if he comes home high off his ass on date night. That Aasimar standing in the back, menacingly sharpening her big ass sword, might actually manage to murder him if he accidentally wins this card game because he’s too distracted by this band of fucking hooligans. He’s not even gonna get a chance to pet the familiar. 

It is a goddess damned miracle he manages to lose the game and make it home in time. When he get’s back to the Astral plane he marches right up to Vax'ildan and tell him this is the absolute last time he’s dealing with a reincarnation case.