Sabotage is a Big Word

cw: mention of murder

‘Do you exist only to incite the rage of those more deserving of life than you?’

Simonnet jolted at the sudden sneering voice that had pierced his trance, and reluctantly turned in his seat to see the only dragon on Paddingknoll so lacking in reverence for wizards as to actively interrupt them when they were occupied.

He wrinkled his brows as he looked Guillot dead on and asked innocently, ‘What could that question possibly mean?’

Guillot scowled. ‘Don’t try that insipid, snivelling act with me, witch.’ For a fraction of a second, Simonnet’s mask slipped and an ugly expression began to form before he replaced it. Guillot knew that it was demeaning to refer to wizards as witches. He knew. He just didn’t care. ‘I’d have you removed from Paddingknoll by lanternglow tonight if I had my way.’

‘And yet you don’t.’ Simonnet blinked slowly. ‘Perhaps there’s a lesson in that?’ It really wasn’t a question. ‘Now, may I return to my work or…?’

He noted with no small satisfaction how close Guillot seemed to losing his civility and strangling him. Luckily, the library, though empty of dragons save for the two of them, was not just a lifeless room of books. And Guillot knew better than to attack the wizard in his own domain, Simonnet knew.

So he held his cool - though with no small effort - and glared at Simonnet. ‘That massacre of my soldiers.’ He spat out through gritted teeth.

‘Which one? You seem to have… endured rather a lot of them as of late.’ Simonnet inspected his claws as he spoke, though he knew already which the elderly marshall spoke of.

The White Mountain patrol’s skeletal remains had turned up half buried in the desert that kept Wraithveil trapped underground. It wasn’t unusual that they had perished in the unforgivingly harsh desert environment aboveground. What was bizarre was that they had been one of the patrols tasked with squashing dissent amongst the civilian population of Wraithveil.

A population that existed nowhere near the surface.

Hearing Guillot’s foundation-shaking growl encouraged Simonnet to cooperate slightly. ‘I assume you mean the White Mountain patrol. You suspect foul play then?’

‘Of course I do. And you know damn well why!’

‘I can’t say that I do. I was at the meeting when the news was delivered. To transport six brutish-’ Simonnet ignored Guillot’s palpable rage at this descriptor, ‘dragons similar in nature and size to yourself would have left the average dragon in their place, rather than what actually occurred.’

‘But with magic-’

‘But with magic what?’ Simonnet finally snapped, and looked up from his inspection of his claws. ‘This is a new era, Guillot. It would not do for the marshall of the new world to start spreading twisted rumours about a council member. And certainly not on the baseless assumption that magic was involved based on your biases alone.’

‘Well no of course, I-’

Simonnet rose, shoulders squared. ‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ he said, ignoring the now-cowed Guillot, ‘I need to attend to some matters. In private.’ He strode out of the room, careful to only let a wicked grin spread across his face when he was certain only his shadows followed him.

Court Drama Trumps All

cw: mention of murder

When Annes entered the Council Chamber, her back stooped in a sign of reverence to the council members meeting within, she was balancing an array of drinks on a tray in her paws, each chalice positioned so as to lessen the risk of them spilling. She had already tasted each drink for poison, and had no interest in repeating the tedious task.

Her shoulders were stiff as she approached the large table, none of the council members taking notice of her entrance and approach. She positioned herself carefully next to Guillot Barbeau and waited to be acknowledged to begin giving out the drinks. The elderly dragon did not see her, in the middle of roaring down the table at an unaffected Simonnet Beaulieu. Mogge Auclair was perched delicately on Guillot’s lap and scowling at Simonnet as well, as Guillot patted the Skydancer’s thigh with his unoccupied paw absentmindedly. She swallowed the bile that arose in her throat looking at Mogge. Annes knew the dragon was bedding both Simonnet and Guillot, and Guillot was none the wiser.

She wished Mogge would kill Guillot already, but Mogge would rather drop dead than take advice from someone of such a lowborn rank that they were not invited to the Paddingknoll meetings, despite Annes’ own part in the plot that killed Elaria.

Instead, she had been offered the position of cupbearer, and had the insulting task of tasting the council’s drinks.

Only Simonnet had looked irritated at that. Or as irritated as the Fae was capable of looking.

So when Annes came across information that indicated that Guillot was hoping to expand the military’s influence, she didn’t hesitate to share it with Simonnet. She sympathised with the dragon’s plight, as his magic cast him as an outsider amongst these other nobles, despite his rank matching or outranking theirs. And if one of Guillot’s patrol went missing not two days later? Well, she never claimed to value others’ lives.

Finally, Guillot stopped his ranting and noticed her standing next to him. “Must you wait every time?” He growled, and Annes took it as assent to begin.

Yes, she had to wait every time. The time that she hadn’t had seen her lashed, and she was not keen to repeat the experience.

When she reached Simonnet, the corner of his mouth turned upwards as he murmured a thank you, which was as close to beaming as the unruffleable dragon ever got.

A warm feeling in her belly, she finished, and resumed her position next to Guillot, who was back to roaring at Simonnet for some snarky comment or another. As she waited for the marshall to remember his surroundings, she took careful note of the map on the table and the notes in front of Guillot.

Suddenly, Mogge twisted around and caught her eye. He scowled, marring his youthful face, and shifted on Guillot, so that paper was no longer visible to Annes. The movement caught Guillot’s attention and he abruptly stopped, growled at Annes to leave and then turned back to Simonnet, glowering at the wizard, but finally silent.

She left as quietly as she had come in, and found herself okay with the realisation that the warm feeling from Simonnet’s acknowledgement had remained.

Conversation Takes Two

cw: lightly suggestive

Mogge looked on indolently as Guillot poured two generous glasses of wine and picked up one with his large paw.

“Oh darling,” he purred, taking the glass from Guillot, “you really shouldn’t have.”

Guillot sat up straighter and looked away from Mogge, brows lowered. Mogge got the feeling that heat was rising to the older dragon’s face. Ever since he had followed Guillot back to his room all those months ago when they had celebrated the death of the tyrant Queen Elaria, he had been waited on the marshall hand and foot. And yet he still remained near tongue-tied whenever he was alone with Mogge.

Not so with the Paddingknoll.

Mogge had witnessed his fits of raged ranting that had left the other council members in implicit agreement that the marshall had slipped, and was no longer good for anything that wasn’t the use of force. Mogge knew it chafed at Guillot, to have anything he said discredited by a subtly sly comment from Simonnet that would make the others have to look away to stifle their snickers.

He often wondered idly about how Guillot would feel, knowing that he was bedding his enemy at the same time as the Ridgeback, but often found it near impossible to care about such a thing. After all, he hadn’t found out, and if it remained that way, Mogge saw no reason to get hung up on moral quandaries.

Guillot was furtively stealing glances at him, and fidgeting. Mogge took a long sip of his glass, then lowered his lashes.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “you’ve been working for far too long, you need to relax. You seem so tense.”

Guillot looked at him, and Mogge had the distinct impression of a dog who had heard the word “walk”.

Slowly, he put his glass down and rose from his chair sauntering over to Guillot’s own. Even the movement seemed to relax the dragon, and he began sinking slightly in his cushy seat, eyes fluttering closed.

Mogge rubbed masseuse oil over his hands, a bottle conveniently placed on the tray that had held their glasses and the wine. Mogge suspected Guillot had been hoping for something like this, and he was happy to please.

He began slowly working his paws over Guillot’s shoulders, and meticulously worked at the knots he felt beneath them.

The meetings that had left such tension in Guillot’s shoulders had of course included Mogge, though no one was surprised that he didn’t listen or contribute. Truthfully, he didn’t care what was decided in the meeting, and he knew that the other council members, Guillot and Simonnet included, thought of him as a foppish dragon with no brains to speak of. He was perfectly happy to accept that description.

It meant that no one would wonder what he had been up to during and before the war that had killed Elaria.

Loose Lips and All That

One of the benefits of being a cupbearer, Annes decided as she checked the coast was clear before entering the strategy room, was the ability to enter most rooms, without being seen as a spy. Guillot far underestimated her, that she knew, and though Mogge would have loved to see her tossed out on her ear, he did not have the ability to command such a thing. Not yet at least.

Anyways, she had every right to be gathering cups from wherever she pleased. She tucked the tray underneath one of her large arms and scanned the large strategy room, trying to think like Simonnet, and determine where the fae would’ve started looking for the census papers. Naturally, had Guillot seen Simonnet in the strategy room looking through cupboards the wizard would have been tossed out on his ear, and speculation run rife through Paddingknoll as suspicion towards him grew. No, it was better that Annes did this for him.

She set her tray down carefully, dampening possible noises as best she could. The room was split in half, with large walls cutting through it and only a small opening providing access to the other part of the room. While it was intended to allow for further privacy, had the citadel come under attack, it also meant she could be ambushed if she wasn’t careful. This part of the room was lit and therefore brighter, with a large, elliptical table in the centre of it and chairs haphazardly surrounding it, as if the last meeting had resulted in a furious argument. With Guillot’s renowned temper, she wouldn’t be surprised to find out that that was the case.

Ignoring all that, she made her way over to the writing desk in a shadowy corner of the room. There were no papers on the table, so she assumed that they had been stashed in one of the chests of drawers in the room, or indeed in the writing desk’s own drawers. The tiled floors made the rooms freezing during the colder months, but reduced the chance of noise from things like creaking floorboards.

It did mean, however, that it was significantly easier for someone to sneak up on her. And as she carefully opened a drawer of a desk that was filled with papers curling from age, her ears straining to hear anyone who could possibly catch her redpawed, she heard the muted shuffling of a dragon.

She quickly closed the cupboard as carefully as she could, her heart in her throat, and busied herself opening and closing drawers with haste, as if she was looking for cups and cutlery.

She didn’t turn around even as the shuffling crossed from the other part of the room to hers, and got closer.

“Annes.” Came the raspy voice. “What a surprise.”

She relaxed, but only minutely. It wasn’t Guillot or Mogge, at the very least. It was Einilda Auberjonois, Simonnet’s assistant, and, to hear him tell it, the biggest thorn in his side since Elaria. “Hello. I hope I didn’t disrupt you.”

“No you didn’t.” She replied, and she moved over to the chairs to sit down. Annes’ heart sank slightly. It seemed she wanted to talk.

“Do you regularly have use of the strategy room?” Annes asked as politely as she could, wondering if her plans would be disrupted by Einilda later.

“No. I…” Einilda ducked her head. “I fell asleep. After the last meeting.”

“Oh.” Annes said, and reassessed the dragon. “The meetings seem a bit technical, I’m glad to not have to attend.”

Einilda suddenly groaned and buried her head in her arms. startling Annes slightly. “You can’t imagine! And they all get so angry over the stupidest things. Listen to this.” She suddenly said conspiratorially, dragging her chair closer to a bewildered Annes. “Can you believe that today Guillot and Simonnet were up in arms about something as silly as the number of dragons in Ichorstain? I said, just recount them, and they both furiously said no. I can’t even imagine why that would cause such ruckus. Simonnet is convinced that Guillot instructed his patrols to fudge the numbers or something. How ridiculous!”

Annes’ ears pricked up, and saying a silent sorry to Simonnet for her next actions, she leant in closer, feigning surprise. “No, that can’t be! What did Guillot do after?”

A Source of Warmth

Simonnet was forcefully shaken from his thoughts when a door slammed loudly enough down the corridor to rattle the books in the library shelves. He went to the door of the empty library and peered out, trying to figure out what could have caused such commotion.

He looked up and down the corridor, and hearing nothing, considered that the pressure of the wind might have caused a large enough suction to slam a door.

But they were heavy.

Hesitating for only a moment, he left his room, and walked cautiously in the direction of the slammed door, which he surmised must have been to the left of the library’s doors, considering that that was where the noise had originated.

He soon stopped in front of Mogge’s cabinet, a room that he rarely found the younger dragon in. He pressed his ear to the door, as he had done to each previous door. He could hear someone muttering to themselves, the echoey nature of the tiled floors causing the sounds to be louder but more muffled than they might have otherwise been.

Knocking, he considered what he might find within, and hoped it wouldn’t be Guillot. He had no interest in getting into a battle with the grump, and though Annes was gathering information Simonnet could use to make a move against him, he still didn’t fancy adding another tally mark to the dragon’s suspicions of him. Much better if he could keep a low profile.

A few minutes passed, then Mogge opened the door, looking unruffled and it occurred to Simonnet that perhaps he hadn’t been the cause of the noise.

That was soon dispelled when Mogge aimed a sweet smile at him. “Dear. I wasn’t expecting company again after that last exit.” He spat the last word.

Simonnet only raised an eyebrow. He had rarely seen Mogge spiteful or seen anything even vaguely resembling a negative emotion on his face. “Might I come in? I’m sorry I haven’t spent the night as of late.”

Mogge smiled again at him, and stepped aside, allowing him to step inside into the warm room. A fire was lit. “It was Guillot of course.” He sighed heavily, and scrubbed a paw across his face as he shut the door behind Simonnet. “He’s been so on edge as of late, it becomes difficult to enjoy his company.”

Simonnet hummed as he lowered himself into one of Mogge’s cushy armchairs, and Mogge lay his head in his lap, allowing Simonnet to stroke his head pensively. “Ah, Guillot. He finds it difficult really to mesh with the Paddingknoll. I often wonder if…”

“What?” Mogge said, and his voice was slow and lazy, yet Simonnet did not feel inclined to let his guard down.

“Oh, simply that I hope he enjoys the work we do for the vision we have realised as a group.” Simonnet replied, shutting his eyes, and allowed the heat to soak into his bones.

“Let us not talk of such matters anyway.” Mogge said, and Simonnet silently agreed. He did not discuss politics with Mogge, and he sharply refused to learn of the younger noble’s affliations. It simply wasn’t a concern to him. He did what he did with Mogge for pleasure, and perhaps for the thrill of knowing that Guillot had no idea what Mogge did when he wasn’t with the marshall. “How has your research been going?”

“Ah well.” Simonnet said, resting his paw gently in Mogge’s shoulder length, grey-streaked purple hair. “It moves as quickly as ever. Einilda of course, is no help in that regard.”

Mogge scoffed. “She’s so boring. I don’t know why she of all dragons was chosen to help you and the Paddingknoll.”

Simonnet had his own reasons, but chose not to voice them. “She just doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of silence for silence’s sake.” Although, if Annes was to be believed, this was a boon to his own plans. “The number of experiments she has ruined with her clumsiness.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, and Mogge laughed a slow laugh. He nudged the dragon in his lap. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Mm.” Mogge sighed, and wriggled closer to Simonnet.

Simonnet huffed a laugh, and let silence and the drowsy heat carry him into peaceful oblivion.

A Small Problem

cw: mention of child kidnapping

Ferricus couldn’t help twitching at every noise. Lanterngloom was not a nice time to be outside in Wraithveil, the darkness of the grotto worsened by the presumed lack of light aboveground. Ferricus would have remorselessly gutted anyone who suggested he was afraid of the dark, but even he had to admit that he’d rather be inside than here, waiting for Simonnet to receive the wriggling bag he had brought for him. Ferricus could tell that there was a small hatchling inside the bag, and though it made him a little queasy to carry such an item, he was under strict instructions to not open it and he didn’t think the archimage would take too kindly to his commands being disobeyed.

Ostensibly an ambassador who ferried messages between the Paddingknoll and the few Beastclans that lived aboveground and maintained relations with Wraithveil, Ferricus had had his eyes on bigger things ever since queen Elaria fell, and was all too pleased the first time he was approached by a dragon in Ichorstain that he would never name, to give something to a council member. Since then, he had made a not so secret side living as a smuggler, and as he passed from Paddingknoll to the - below ground - neutral meeting place where the Beastclan envoys had long since agreed to meet him, he would carry goods and secrets - and sometimes, dragons - to and from Paddingknoll. His one command that he lived by was that he would never reveal the name of a sender, even on the pain of death, and so his clients had grown to grudgingly respect him for his values. Or really, value.

“Ah, sorry, I was caught up.” Came the smooth voice that Ferricus had long since begun recognising as Simonnet’s. “You have it, I trust?”

Ferricus silently held out the bag that had stopped wriggling to Simonnet, whose eyes gleamed in the dark as he beheld it.

“Wonderful. Truly wonderful.” He took it and slowly loosened the drawstring and lifted out a small hatchling, a Fathom girl, who couldn’t have been much older than a newborn. Her eyes were an electric blue colour, and they seemed to crackle as she swivelled her head between the two dragons. “Yes, she will do wonderfully.” He then lowered her back into the bag, and Ferricus restrained a noise of protest that Simonnet was so rough with her. He shouldn’t have cared.

“And you have my payment?” He said gruffly, clearing his throat.

“Yes, I do.” Simonnet reached into his own pockets and lifted out two small hessian pouches which Ferricus assumed contained hundreds of chips of limestone, a decent payment for such a job. He reached out to accept them, but Simonnet hesitated. “However. I need you to take care of her for me.”

“What?” Ferricus couldn’t help his exclamation, and Simonnet narrowed his eyes in warning. It wouldn’t do to get caught now. “You want me to do what?” He hissed.

“Care for the child. I obviously cannot have a child tripping over herself following me when I’m busy. So you take her to wherever it is that you live and you keep her with you. Discreetly. When I have use of her, I’ll call on you.”

“That’s- I can’t- what?” Ferricus spluttered.

Simonnet could not have seen less concerned. “What is it you want? More money?”

“No, that’s not it! I have things I need to do myself, my own responsibilities.”

“Well in that case, I don’t accept the delivery. It’s incomplete. I can’t pay you for incomplete work.”

Ferricus felt his face grow hot as he clenched his fists. Simonnet smiled smugly. “Look, Ferricus. If you do the simple thing and agree to care for this child, I will pay you your full sum, and you can easily continue your diplomacy and smuggling as you please. Otherwise, don’t think I won’t take more than your money from you.” The threat was clear to Ferricus, and he looked down at the now wriggling bag in Simonnet’s paws, defeated.

“Fine.” He said, ears flattening in defeat. “I’ll take her.”

“Wonderful.” Simonnet said, and having handed the bag to Ferricus and offloaded now three bags of the chips, and clapped. “Well I’ll be on my way. It wouldn’t be good if I were missed. And you.” He said, pausing. “Make sure not to grow too attached. I do have plans for her.”

Looking down at the bag containing the child, Ferricus wondered helplessly how he could ever find himself attached to such a problem.

All This For Wine?

cw: mention of murder

The robbery turned murder that she has been tasked with cleaning up left a foul taste in Adelaidis’ mouth, but far be it from her to complain about such a rare opportunity.

Typically Aleaume thought her unsuitable for murder cleanups, as when she had been tasked with two particularly gory cases early on in her career, she had fainted. Despite her pointing out that those cases had been too much for an employee so wet around the ears to handle, her boss had disagreed, and the gleam in his eyes warned her not to push the matter any further.

And so, she was glad to be trusted again - if such a word could be used in relation to such a deeply paranoid dragon as Aleaume - to clean up the scene for the landlord to come and sell the house under false pretences to desperate dragons in need of a home.

It didn’t concern Adelaidis though. Her only thought, as she shoved her rickety cleaning cart down the narrow alleyway towards the looming house, was of the reward she could fetch for whatever items she could loot from the house. She had always reasoned to herself that the measly pay provided by Aleaume wouldn’t be enough for a hatchling to live on, let alone a dragon of her age. And so it didn’t bother her to root around a home, pointedly ignoring the ransacked scene she was meant to clean up and take what could be easily and anonymously sold in Wishbone Market before she got on with her job.

As long as she wasn’t caught in the act and her boss was left none the wiser, she could not have cared less.

Huffing and puffing, she dragged the wheel-less cart through the cluttered front yard and up the stairs. The house was nothing to write home about, with identical houses crammed next to and behind it. The streets were quiet, as most of the suburbs of Ichorstain were, and Adelaidis, seeing no sign of trouble or onlookers, pushed her way into the house, having used the key procured by Aleaume to enter.

Now inside, she sized up the dingy bungalow with narrowed eyes. The receiving room - if it could be called that, was one of two rooms in the house. There was a curtain hanging limply in the airless doorway which separated this room from what she presumed would be a kitchenette, seeing no sign of cooking tools. She had no interest in that however, the murder had been committed in the front room, and considering that there were smudged, but still visible paw prints leading to the door and back, she doubted that the kitchenette was why the robbers had come. No, they must have been looking for something in this room.

Her assessment done, she did a rudimentary search in the chest of drawers and underneath the moth-eaten couch that flanked adjacent walls. It was when she dropped the couch with a loud thud that she heard it.

The unmistakeable dull sound of a vibration passing through a thick glass bottle.

There was alcohol in this room. Adelaidis smiled, her lips curving up to reveal crooked and crowded teeth.

Carefully she began removing the blood-splattered pillows and throws on the couch. She had dismissed these as gaudy but now considered might have been intentionally placed to conceal alcohol, which was likely not purchased legally. It was the third throw that she lifted up that revealed what she had been looking for. A nearly full bottle of wine.

She uncorked it gingerly, and took a deep inhale to see if she could determine the kind. Her late mother had had quite the obsession with wines, and though it had been a long time since she had even seen an glass of wine, let alone smelt the aroma, she was certain it was a Clairet.

And it was definitely not legal.

Unfortunately, it being open and drank from would cause problems for her if she tried to sell it. She barely heard the creaking in the other room or the way that the curtain shifted slightly, as she frowned down at the bottle, deep in thought.

For one, Wishbone Market residents were suspicious to a fault, nearly as bad as Aleaume. Though Aleaume was unsubtle in his constant paranoia, if she tried to sell this the wrong way and was suspected to be part of a patrol, she might return to the place where the markets had last been and find that they had moved, and without any notice or warning. She would be unlikely to find them again, and her bones, after years of bending over to clean up after Ichorstain’s seediest residents, would not take kindly to a hunt for their new location.

And secondly, the open bottle would certainly fetch a lower price, perhaps as little as half of what a full, unopened bottle might have gotten her. But to top it up with water ran the risk of selling it to someone who knew their wines as well as she did, and she didn’t fancy winding up in the sewerage tunnels for her troubles.

And it was as she mulled this last thought that she turned around, still distracted, and came face to face with a spindly, bone-white dragon shrouded in a black hood. And then it opened its mouth, and started screaming.

Temple Gossip

cw: mention of cultish practices

Garnier’s eyebrow raised as he watched his acolyte and most loyal follower Jacques, carefully light the altar candles. His progress was slow, his young claws stiff with arthritis that he had apparently had since birth, though it had seemingly worsened as of late. It would be too messy to replace him, Garnier mused, and worse yet, his acolytes and congregation might start asking questions. No, he was stuck with inefficiency for now.

Not that it was so bad, he supposed. At least the mirror didn’t question him, didn’t doubt his orders. He knew that if he instructed him to jump he would only question the direction in which to go. There were some in his temple’s members, he knew, that he couldn’t say the same of.

He was to deliver a sermon to the congregation when they arrived in half an hour, lanternglow setting as they did so. Instructions were strictly followed in his temple, and members were meant to self segregate from the rest of Ichorstain. He was convinced that there were some who hoped to hold onto their worldliness while receiving the benefits of the church. And that simply wouldn’t do at all.

He was roused from his thoughts by Jacques’ meek clearing of his throat from right beside him. The dragon had the infuriating ability to sneak up on oneself and Garnier only tolerated it and him because it was useful when he had need to put him to work.

“Yes?” He asked brusquely. Jacques was the only one privileged enough to hear his true voice, and even that had not been by choice. The dragon had snuck up on him in much the same fashion as now and he had spoken without thinking. Jacques’ eyes had widened slightly, but he had not reacted past that. Even Garnier had to grudgingly appreciate that. Everyone else heard his airy, affected voice and it helped the illusion. He sometimes wondered why Jacques had not picked at the discrepancy when he had discovered it, but Garnier hoped everything else was enough to distract him. Foolish of him, he knew.

“Will your Grace need help getting dressed today?” Came the quiet reply.

Garnier narrowed his eyes. “No.” He only needed ‘help’ - he smarted at that word, even as his better judgement knew the acolyte had meant nothing by it - when he had had a vision.

He had not had one for months, nothing he could even twist into something resembling a vision. He felt certain Jacques should have known, but he bizarrely felt ever so queasy seeing the other dragon deflate slightly. Had he not minded the demeaning task?

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, he supposed. He was admired by his temple’s members, who fervently viewed his visions as a way out of the darkness and misery that had cling to Ichorstain its entire history. And though the visions were of a mundane nature, the kind one might see as deja vu had they not been vivid whenever they occurred for Garnier, he had managed from those first few weeks, to build them up as a sign that some god, somewhere, still remembered Ichorstain. They were not foresaken.

Garnier had quickly begun preaching in the streets, and when he had started requesting money and goods from his slowly growing congregation to keep up a lifestyle worthy of the god’s attention, he had not looked back. There was nothing wrong with what he was saying. It was simple logic, really. But it prickled at him that three months had passed without anything, when a month didn’t normally pass without a vision. And so, he wondered if dissent was brewing in the congregation. And he wondered if Jacques could have been undermining him this whole time.

The thought discomfited him more than he was ready to admit.

Jokes for Days

Adelaidis’ ear flicked with annoyance. “Stop that.” She hissed at the hooded figure currently batting a mouse, who had had the unfortunate luck of ending up in her house, back and forth. "If you're going to kill it, do it quickly. Don't just toy with it. It's..." Then she realised who - or really, what - she was talking to. "...Nevermind."

The dragon lazily picked up the mouse and dropped it into its maw. Adelaidis looked away as the creature disappeared, and scowled.

"What could you possibly want anyway?" She asked angrily. She had come home from a long day arguing with Aleaume for her pay - something that happened fortnightly, yet Aleaume never stopped trying to cut her out - and she was not eager to entertain a disruptive spirit in her house. The spirits always milled around, shadows coalescing at the edge of her vision with such regularity that she rarely took notice anymore. But forming a corporeal body took energy that they could only regain by eating, and they didn't seem to like doing that much. So while it wasn't odd that the spirit was here, annoying her, she knew that it must have something it wanted to say to her.

"Not an it." It - ugh, he - said waspishly.

Adelaidis gritted her teeth. She hated that they could read her thoughts, but apparently that was part and parcel of being a pyschopomp - or at least, that was what her long dead ancestor Simonnet told her. She often wished she had never tried looting that house all those months ago.

"Ah well." He said, turning towards her. "You'll get over it. Eventually. Really, I don't understand how it's possible to still be whingeing about something that happened that long ago."

"Shut up." She snapped. "Again, who are you, and what do you want?"

"Simonnet wants you to find something for him."

"What? No."

"It wasn't really a 'choice' thing." When she mimicked him, his skeletal jaw clicked. "Don't do that, you know we can't pull expressions like you."

"Why do you think I did it?"

"Anyway," he said, ignoring her. "There's some sort of cult running about this place. They have something of Simonnet's and he thinks you're more deserving of it than them. Couldn't possibly tell you why."

"Did you not hear me before? I said no."

"Did you not hear Simonnet last time? You must know that refusing to do his bidding is a death sentence. And why not? It helps you, it helps us. Don't see what's so wrong with that. And we'll protect you. Or," and he looked at his paws, and Adelaidis felt a strong sense of dismay, "you know, as best we can."

She was resigned to her fate. Simonnet's orders were not to be dismissed. She knew what his wrath had done to Wraithveil, and the thought of that unending anger being focused on her... she'd rather tell Aleaume she had been stealing from him. "Whatever. I'll do it when I get a chance to get away from work."

"Oh no. He wants it now. The cult's leader is getting annoyed with the item, and Simonnet fears he might break it, or worse, secret it away."

She groaned. "What about my work? You know, keeping you lot satisfied takes money."

"We'll take care of that." Came the clipped reply.

"Gods above. Fine. Are you at least going to tell me where - or even what - the item or hell, the cult is?"

The wraith turned towards her, and Adelaidis felt her fur raising along her neck as she got the sensation that it was grinning mirthlessly. "Now what would be the fun in that?"

A Simple Mistake

cw: mention of cultish practices

He stiffened as Jacques approached him, but Jacques made sure to approach slowly, aching paws held upright as if to signal to the angry priest that he only came in peace.

“I have nothing to say to you.” His Prophet said, barely holding back a snarl as he turned his face away sharply.

Jacques tried not to feel crestfallen. It had been so long since Garnier LaRue had been so intentionally short-tempered with him. He had thought - well, really, hoped - that the time spent helping his Prophet would have thawed the icy attitude that hid barely behind the benevolent exterior. But perhaps he had only been humoring Jacques, and knew how smitten Jacques was for a dragon that wouldn't have been fit to remove Garnier's cloak. Regardless, he looked at his Prophet, gaze softening. "I just wanted to make sure that you were okay."

"Make sure I'm okay?" Garnier snapped, turning to Jacques abruptly. "You saw what happened. I froze."

Jacques' heart ached for his Prophet, and simultaneously soared at his allowing himself to acknowledge what had happened, and in front of Jacques, of all the acolytes. Perhaps the last few months hadn't been for naught after all. "I saw Your Grace lost in the beauty of his revelations." He murmured, ducking his head as he picked his words carefully. He knew Garnier - gods forbid that his Prophet ever hear Jacques call him that, but it felt more personal - and didn't doubt for a moment that what he needed was reassurance that he was needed. This was still Prophet LaRue, after all.

Yes, Garnier had frozen. But he also hadn't had a vision in three months. It wasn't unexpected to Jacques that his Prophet might have been a little tongue-tied with the gods busy right now. That had to be the only explanation, in his mind. The gods were busy and would grace their loyal followers soon, and Garnier had gotten tongue-tied. He could not be convinced differently.

A slight movement caught Jacques' attention. He looked up to see Garnier hugging himself, angry flush high on his cheeks, and Jacques ached to take him into his own arms. He feared the repercussions too much though, but couldn't help but to think of himself as a coward, for not comforting his Prophet when he needed it.

"I..." Jacques' eyes flicked back up to the slightly taller dragon as his voice cracked, and waited patiently as he cleared his throat and continued. "I need you to do something for me."

"Anything." He promised, and knew it would always be true. He would follow Garnier to the ends of Wraithveil, if he was asked.

"I need you to talk to the congregation. Find out if there are any whispers of discontent amongst them. I need to make sure that only the loyal stay with me."

Jacques only blinked once at the request. It had been such a proud moment for Jacques when he was hand selected to be the Prophet's attendant, and gods be damned if he was going to give up on such a role because his Prophet was struggling with his connection. The gods were testing them. They had been told time and time again by the Prophet that they would do this to ensure that their followers were loyal, and so to prepare by foregoing mortal connections. Jacques remembered how his Prophet had seemed almost taken aback that he had interpreted those words to mean that he should move into the temple to better serve Garnier, but he had soon acquiesced.

So if his Prophet believed that the gods were testing his congregation through him and some were failing? Well then, Jacques knew what he needed to do.

Garnier was all Jacques had. And anybody who got in the way of his Prophet's happiness would find themselves facing off with Jacques.