#scripteur

caleb   is   unsure   what   this   young   girl   expects   him   to   do   about   her   troubles.         he   has   magic,   yes,   and   it   seems   that   such   powers   are   rarities   in   this   land.      his   king   knows   this      —      half   the   reason   he   brings   his   court   mage   along,   caleb   expects,   is   to   show   off   what   westeros   does   not   have.      he   orders   a   demonstration   for   this   boy-king,   and   caleb   delivers   a   roaring,   fiery   illusion   of   a   lion      —      planned   beforehand,   of   course,   for   house   lannisters’   sigil.      king   joffrey’s   reactions   are   mixed,   to   caleb’s   eye,   but   his   king   only   reads   success   and   envy   therein.

he   remembers   @scripteur​​   from   the   throne   room      —      small,   pale,   and   auburn-haired.      she   is   a   pretty   dove   .   .   .      and   she   is   frightened.      and   he   may   be   a   mage,   but   caleb   is   of   no   use   to   her.

“i know it looks bad.” it looks worse than bad. it looks horrendous. shit, it feels horrendous. he got lucky; he knows that. his life is a domino set up of lucky moment after lucky moment. 

doesn’t feel too lucky. never really does. 

a muscle in his jaw jumps as he props himself up on the couch by an elbow. 

100 INDULGENT TROPES. ( accepting !! )

When it comes down to travelling, the best part was the rooms provided for them for the right price. More cheaper if the haggling had succeeded. ( If you'd rolled right. ) Percival's back was sore, more than usual in his case due to Grog's misstep. He landed on Percival and knocked the wind out of him, so he wheezed in pain as his airways sucked in the cold air. Just another "interesting" adventure with the Vox Machina. The tavern was inviting and warm - candles lit and wax melting; a comfortable atmosphere including the patrons who drank without care, clinking their tankards and laughing jolly-like.

100 INDULGENT TROPES. ( accepting !! )

Exhaustion was evident on his face; another night sought towards his craftsmanship than to let the nightmares win. He would work to the bone until Percival could allow himself to pass out, knowing that his dreams will be dreamless. ( Or hopefully they will become dreamless. Percival was sometimes successful in that department, if the Gods will bless him with such. )

    “Journeyman Scribe, Veronica Renata Santangelo. Brotherhood of Steel, Former New California Republic Chapter - Current Mojave Chapter.”

  The words escape her in a practiced fashion, despite the soft lilting and slow cadence the absinthe has her underneath. She’s been trained to know those words, to know that speech. That was her identifier, that was her identity. Outside of the Brotherhood she had no identity. Outside of the Brotherhood she had no purpose.

  She was made of Steel, from the day she was born until the day she died... Okay, she needed another glass. Maybe the whole bottle.

‘𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘’ 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈.

“  there are monsters everywhere,  ”   @scripteur​  says.  it cuts straight to the bone, through the bluster she keeps fronted up with her hiked shoulders  &  fists hocked at her hips.  the twist of her brow is terse, twisted up over the fact that they can share some knowledge of that.   

she could say that out loud, offer out some type of consoling commentary about how there are good people in the world.  

“  no shit,  ”  is what comes out of her mouth instead.  the words are chewed up, hoarse, bitten off in a way that might seem acerbic if jessica didn’t come across this type of thing every damned day in her life.  “  people love to spew that bullshit about it getting better.  ”   her camera slings beneath her scarf, zoom lens ready to capture all the evidence she might need.   she thrusts a boot up against the chain links locking around the fence in front of them to give it a testing battle.   “  -------  world’s full of these kinds of assholes.  ”