Archive of Our Own

The vault is filled with unspeakably dangerous things.

One must respect the tactics, hoarding such power to leave it unused. But like the devils I know, that arrogance will see him undone.

My associate and I have such plans for these trinkets. A shared vision. Promises made with misted breath.

One day I will meet the archdevil properly. The thought warms me in Cania’s unrelenting cold.

And for all his rage and hellfire, he will see the mortal who outfoxed him as the master tactician. Then I’ll bask in his furious, begrudging respect as the Lord of the Eighth kneels.⤴

The diabolist’s shop is quiet when we return covered in gore. She lingers politely, expectantly as we catch our breath.

The extraction from Cania was fraught, but easy enough. The picklock was true to her word; each portal closed before devils could follow.

As we ran, I watched my associate take down a gelugon, sailing through the air like they were dancing. It’s not the first fiendish blood I’ve tasted, but on their tongue it’s so sweet.

The diabolist sees us and knows, but knows not to see. She clears her throat pointedly, then Mammon, as always, gets his due.⤴

Brazen.

A predator conducting business in this very city. But it's comfortable, complacent. Once identified, catching it is simple.

Still, I wonder, why even interrogate a mindflayer? Yet this one has chosen a name. Speaks with its, no, his, own voice. Most worrisome, he lies.

The brain denies this can even happen.

Still, a flash of cunning may be needed to fetch the prism.

He's back at the helm of a nautiloid in a tenday. Returned to the collective, but I let him keep his self-important name.

Even brought so low, he has a place in this grandest of designs.⤴

The Gondians have truly outdone themselves.

Their leader has such vision for their Auto-Guard. He personally walks me through the magic and mechanics in their Hall of Wonders.

I was here not a month ago stealing relics; not that he knows.

Gond be praised, he says, That an artificer who climbed so high will champion our work.

Far be it from me to disabuse him from such useful conclusions. In the end, he leads his flock into the foundry himself.

When the Black Hand closes around them all, it’s with a sharp reminder:

The only vision that matters is mine.⤴

Too busy playing the petty king to our false god’s faithful, Ketheric sends this lackey as chaperone. Such tiresome mistrust. Disrespect.

Like so many, this slight will be remembered.

As the changeling promised, my associate’s husk is slumped bonelessly in a pod. This so-called Mistress of Souls says experiments are going well.

At the sound of her voice, they’re awake and snarling. Bloody, splintered claws scrabble at the glass.

I examine them. This madness only surfaced in flashes before, and there is a profound intimacy to seeing them so exposed. When I meet their unfocused gaze it's painful and exquisite.⤴

Will a cambion take the tadpole like the rest? The question has nagged me since we hatched this design.

It's a gift when one appears at Moonrise just before we depart. Praise the Black Hand, but what made her so unwary? She won’t say.

In my clipped infernal I explain how agonizing ceremorphosis must be for half-devils. How we plan to explore her limits, fine-tune her suffering. Yelling curses so vile they take form, she glares with hateful, burning eyes.

I imagine they’re his.

When she breaks, she will serve; just as he will. My matched set of infernal thralls.⤴

I built an empire from the ashes of what little life he left me. Now the snake's not half a block from my door.

He stands on his terrace like a nobleman taking in the air. But sometimes he’ll turn, look right up at me and wave.

Not here on his father’s orders; no, his game is different, personal. It always is.

I save a tadpole, keep it close; just for him, just in case.

Victory is far too close to lose focus.

But I catch musk and cherries on the wind sometimes, and my stomach can’t help but turn.⤴

He sneered when I met him. Never mind that we were cowering from the dark in lands he poisoned two gods ago.

It’s not my place to question Bane, but watching that old fool feign relevance from his pitiful throne tested my resolve.

Because if he didn't live above an illithid colony, I doubt Myrkul would have chosen him.

Whatever cunning madness remains of my associate persists, though. They actually led the rogue thralls who defeated him.

By the Black Hand, Myrkul should have offered a better ally. And now I'm left with the changeling's bound blades and pale-eyed madness.⤴

Zariel's dalliance with Elturel was such a boon for us in so many ways. His sudden vulnerability was one of the best.

This was always part of the plan; but after so many years spent warning others that I stank of Avernus and duplicity, it’s so fitting he’s at my mercy, fresh from the hells.

I ensure he takes the tadpole straight from the brain, as befits his station.

Then he smiles as he raises me to power. Leads the applause as he hands me his wretched city. And I’ll make him watch, complimenting my prudent stewardship as it burns.⤴

He swore I would never kneel again except for Him, so I do so with zeal and gratitude. Then watch others kneel to me in turn.

I serve, and He rewards, and He demands more. After such blessings, I give it gladly.

A magnificent shrine to the Tyrant now hangs in Wyrm’s Rock. My guards wear His mark proudly. Even the symbol of our great hoax centers on the Black Hand.

Then His gifts are so generous in return.

The patriars lie dead. My automatons control the streets. My associate returns. I kneel again in thanks, and Bane demands more.⤴

He’s so innocent for one who wields the Dark Lord's will.

Didn’t even earn his way in. His mother pulled strings to get him this job at the foundry.

They haven’t given him a motivator yet, but he wants one. I see in his bright, defiant eyes how he craves true power.

Perhaps I will show him how it feels: the thrill of holding so many lives, killing on a whim. For now he’s practicing: his mace, his threats.

Soon he will know he’s caught my attention. Then he will kiss my boots and climb, have his kissed in time.⤴

I saw a kindred spirit in that cold glare, even between the bars in Moonrise.

Industrious, dogged ambition masked as leadership, such deft manipulation of his peoples’ pride and anger.

I know that unslakable thirst for power, just as I know his plans merely start with this crusade.

When the Gondians have outlived their use, I’ll give him his victory, then find another target for his ire.

Bane smiles on him already. Gaedral Ironhands lost him the moment he pressed his boot on someone's neck and wanted more.

And when all this is over, I believe we shall be friends.⤴

In crowning an aberration, we created another. We gave it a pleasing voice and told ourselves the crown was both an honor and a mark of service. It was obedient, at first.

But crowns change those who wear them. In her new home below the city, our false god swells with power as she gorges on the minds above.

Now the stone thrums with power. It whispers to me.

Does my associate’s stone whisper to the changeling? Does Ketheric’s stone whisper to them in turn? What does it promise them?

Do they still remember the promises we whispered in Cania?⤴

The changeling is dead, and my associate's mind has returned. Some part of it. Enough. And free from their father’s influence, they’re finally, truly mine.

We will command the brain together, then start anew; my steady hand guiding their blades as we carve the world to our design.

Our goals are too close to risk courting more than destiny now, but there will be time soon. I will remind them what tied the intricate bonds of our alliance.

At the brine pool, the netherstone radiates power and the brain simmers with defiance.

But any moment now, my rule shall begin.⤴

She’s seen so much in a life that’s been neither short nor kind, but both of us have vowed to keep our people whole.

The children treat this journey like an adventure; the horrors fade for them when their bellies are full. It’s good to hear them laugh.

They can relax because she understands hard times, how to make things stretch. She guards our meager supplies because she knows how quickly things can turn.

But rather this than Avernus. Rather exile than death at the hands of those who were once our friends in what used to be our home.⤴

I’ve never seen an elf that large, or a smile so welcoming. His grove opens to us, though the other druids’ eyes are hard and sullen.

A problem for another day, but for now my people can rest.

We talk into the night of duty, of service; failure and shame. We should head for Baldur’s Gate, he says, though he cautions the road is cursed.

The weight of leadership eases with one who knows its many burdens. The solitude has stolen so much of my joy.

So he reminds me how sweet respite can taste after naught but bitter sorrow.⤴

Victory made us bold, so we invited ourselves to their camp.

The relief warms us. We have so far still to go but our spirits are lifted, if only for one night.

He drinks too much, harassing us all with unguarded hopes and dreams. It's such a marvel to behold. I can barely remember being so young, believing pain had both a reason and an end.

I want them to stay this innocent. I want relief to follow hardship and safety to soothe fear. I want to protect them fiercely until I’m old enough to scoff and call them coddled.⤴

I teach with wooden swords, in hopes the children live long enough to use steel. But hope tastes like ashes in this dead, stagnant air.

I call us survivors, to keep us moving forward. But the cultists line us up, carving horrors in flesh, and we fall.

I tell the children we’ll be alright, pouring such confidence into empty words that the cultists focus on me. But the children spy their opening, and the fierce little warriors run.

I die slowly in pain and choking darkness, but swelling with pride.

I never taught the children to beg for their lives.⤴

Zevlor's hope abandoned us, and Asharak's bravery died screaming. The rest of us ran for our lives, but even cowardice is dangerous in these shadows.

So few of us found the Harpers. We stare into the hearth, the bottom of a tankard, knowing there's no good reason we're alive; just that we are.

And what happened to the children? So many are just gone.

I say we dined on hope and heroism for too long. Now we protect the living, keep moving forward. We’ve fewer mouths to feed; it's a small mercy we’d prefer not to have, but it helps.⤴

“Hey Cal, remember when Rolan almost burned down the house?”

“Yeah! He said it was a necessary sacrifice for his Art.”

“We still had to clean it up.”

“Danis, remember when you and Bex—”

“Guard’s coming. The mean one with the hat.”

…

“Clear.”

“I wish that pit would stop bloody screaming.”

“—But you and Bex came for dinner, remember? Rolan summoned that familiar?”

“The crab!”

“We taught it to do tricks!”

“Then he huffed and pouted for a week.”

“When was that?”

“Your first week in Elturel, I think?”

“Of course … I’d just asked her … Gods, I was so scared.”⤴

I can see it, hells, I can smell it right over the wall. Baldur's Gate is everything I dreamed, even from here.

Mol said she wants the Guild, but I want the Wide. I’ve heard it's stalls and shops far as the eye can see.

Just need a halfway-decent pitch to turn trash into treasure. Cause why bother cutting purses when they'll open themselves? That's just economics.

Everyone in that city is just waiting for me, even though they don't know it yet. Once I'm in, it’ll take no time at all.

Gonna live like a king in the Wide.⤴

Gifted with the Art from such a tender age, I knew exactly who I was. Then the application, the acceptance. I knew I’d rise quickly.

Just my luck I’d be dragged to Avernus, endure every hardship to make it here, then get kicked down the moment I was through the gates.

But honestly, the road here taught me more than any apprenticeship could.

And I rose, just not how I had imagined.

So who am I now? More than master to a tower, surely, but I could spend lifetimes learning Ramazith’s secrets. It is quite a view from the top.⤴

The diabolist didn’t ask questions, and neither did I.

So I have a forge and a landlord with a keen appreciation for infernal smithing. No contract, no bondage, and still in Faerûn.

Word of my skill is spreading, and with the Steel Watch sorted, there’s more infernal iron than I have time to work.

I still get a waft of Avernus from across the street sometimes, but my feet are firmly planted here. I’m building a life, whole and new, and the breeze in the Prime Material is cool on my skin whenever I leave the heat of my forge.⤴

Waiting tables in the Elfsong puts coins in my pocket; a smile earns a few more just for me.

And smiles are easier to conjure on this side of the wall. I’ll flirt with every person who comes through, hells, every person on the Sword Coast if I must, because Love is on the roof waiting for me.

Love and I dream. We plan. We talk about the future we didn't think we'd have. When we’re past words I smile into the taste of her and thank any gods that care to listen that Love is here, singing my name.⤴

Don’t miss mom and pops anymore, though it makes me sad to think of them sometimes.

But they couldn’t see what I see, those currents running under everything. The power inside me does. It talks to me louder than the world sometimes, and it says right now all I need is me.

It's fun as laughter, easy as breathing. It’s growing too; I can feel it begging me to follow it, use it more, so I do.

That scares folks sometimes, when I forget they're like mom and pops. But I prefer the power, so it don't worry me none.⤴

Took me less’en a tenday to talk my way into the guild. Just one of Fetcher’s brats right now, but timing’s everything with a con this big.

I miss my crew, but who doesn’t have regrets in this life? Gold has a tendency to cure those fast, and plenty of that coming when this all shakes out. No use in being sentimental.

Besides, that devil’s got my back. He says things’ll be bad for a bit, but I’ve seen nothing but bad in this life. Patience is part of the deal so I’ll gladly wait for my moment to strike.⤴

When Lihala died, I thought smiles could fade the pain. But pain lingers, tucked tight with the memories, clinging to good and bad alike.

But there wasn’t some trick to keep going; it was just moving forward. There’s laughter now, and so many smiles that the pain rarely hurts.

Because now when I play, it's in the sun, I sing of Home.

She's here, she's downstairs. I wait for Home’s shift to end, sing my love to her every night. I wake each morning in her arms and can scarcely believe there was a time when the dawn merely wept.⤴

I survive.

I don’t deserve the privilege, but can’t bring myself to do otherwise, so I carry the shame.

The druid offers me a seat in a cart full of children. I spend a season, then two, watching green things grow.

I shall never forget my sins, but a life has grown where shame once lived. Fragile at first, but the sweetness builds slowly as bitter sorrow fades. And the druid reminds me when I forget.

My sword isn’t quite a plowshare yet. It’s spending more time on the mantelpiece, though, as I fill my home with cautious, quiet joy.⤴

I was made to bring death to the world, but in Moonrise I discover a far grander design.

Father’s words cut through me like knives, but this proposal is whispered with a tenderness I’ve never known.

Eventually, I reply. It seems we both were made to serve visions far larger than ourselves.

Then it rises magnificent above me, and its whispers seem to dance.

«There is more than your Father, than even the ecstasy of death. So much more we can be together.»

It will be our thrall, but it welcomes the collar, so long as I hold the leash.⤴

Father, I beg forgiveness, again and again, for the mistake I keep on making.

Collapsed in contrition, scrawling frantic promises of slaughter, betrayal. I’ll stop. I’ll atone. Do it later, after.

Breath mingling as it misted in Cania; sharp gold on my tongue; a smile, quick and easy against my skin.

I’ll do it again.

The necromancer knows. I see it in the crypt-kept smile that splits his wounds, makes them weep something that once was blood. I would slice that smile deeper if it would do any good.

What happens next is no surprise.

There is no forgiveness here.⤴

The view from Father’s altar is rather underwhelming: cracked stone in the temple ceiling, my bloodkin smiling marble-grey above me, whispering of art and her glorious vision.

I don’t plead or threaten. We both know such things are meaningless here. To see this ceiling is the end of life. I accept mine calmly as she doggedly bores into my skull.

As I fade, I greet not Father, but the being she slips inside.

It pulses with excitement, embedding in my ruined flesh as it settles heavy behind my eye.

«Your end is not here,» it whispers. «This is our beginning.»⤴

When I can smell it’s blood and bile, meat and acid. It’s mine. It’s glorious.

The enthusiasm frightened her at first; how well I knew my Father’s flesh, how I met her curiosity with my own creative zeal.

But now she moans in time.

You are precious, she whispers, innocent and pure. She coaxes me open and trembles, traces her pleasure again and again as she explores.

You are mine, you are mine; like it’s a prayer.

What time I’d take to explore her, what care to keep her alive; if she were mine she’d whisper such beautiful, desperate prayers.⤴

The bard had two horns before. What had it taken to rip one off?

A firm boot, that rock, a wrenching twist. I calculate leverage and tolerance, knowing I’ve done it before.

Despite her claims, she fought. She sang deep around the fire, but in the dark her frantic song was high: crisp and pure with the innocence of her fear and all the sweeter for its brevity.

After, there is wonder and reverence, and I know I've carved such beauty before.

So why hide from the others? They’ve confessed their secrets. Now they can meet me properly as well.⤴

Such deference with its simpering smile. I do not remember it, but I know this creature is mine.

It knows what I am, but will not explain. It says I am diminished, but will not say how. Each death I carve is a beloved offering, but to what?

It hands me a cloak to hide with, like I would ever hide my glory.

So I throw it at the rogue and he thanks me. The others commend him on his personal growth.

They know what I am yet they choose to believe I’m no threat.

These pawns will do nicely.⤴

We take such care to aid the tieflings, free the gnomes, even save a foolish wizard when he runs into the dark.

Now the inn is glutted with sacrifices, yet for whom I do not know.

I groan with release when the light fades from those sliver eyes. It feels right. Familiar.

Then screams twist my pleasure. Curdling as guilt hollows my throat.

So I rip the wings from the traitor, clinging to his terror as he begs to have them back. If only I could give him his wish, take them again and again until all below is quiet.⤴

It’s a foolish, brazen insult to chain this sacrifice like a child’s first kill.

But I play along in this self-indulgent pageantry, dance for the lesser slaughter-kin and his chorus of bloody failures. Soon, everything shall be repaid.

Besides, chains or not, the creature is vile. I saw that myself.

When it dies, a sensation burns through me, even brighter the sharp ecstasy of death.

It’s satisfaction. A job well done that needed doing.

Is this what it feels like to serve a greater good?

But what is goodness in a world so vile it allowed us both to breathe?⤴

In this place I once ruled, I scan the upturned faces of faithful I cannot name.

Now my true form is bared to all, and the Harper who believed I could change is at the gate, ready to put me down.

My pawns — my companions — look on with horror at what I have always been, what they chose not to see.

And my sister chitters across from me, ready to kill.

Either way, one of us will fall.

Either way, our duel will be glorious.

I make my choice, and use Father’s finest gift to seal my own wretched fate.⤴

I’m surprised by the relief when Father’s wrath bleeds me dry. My blood was never mine so it’s right He reclaims it.

At least as He carves me to useless meat, my choices feel like my own.

Made for a purpose I cannot fulfil, it's so freeing to accept the gift I gave so many. At least now I can finally rest.

To see this ceiling is the end of life. To see it twice is more mercy than I deserve.

The third time I see it another god stands above me, hands me a purpose before I even rise.⤴

Five hands; a simple task for a true unholy assassin. He’s even given a team to help.

But death is not the point for him; it’s how eyes turn to fear as they follow him around the room, that surge of power when he knows they know they’re at the mercy of someone who has none to give.

Death is the disappointment of breaking a toy, not an act of worship. That is not Father’s way.

The Blackguard tells him he’s unworthy to enter, yet he begs like a petulant fool. He’s earned no glorious becoming with such childish games.⤴

Blinded by the pleasure of his own flesh, he delights in new life.

Such pride in the beauty of his line, how his power over them compounds with each perverse generation, how obediently they worship on their backs and knees.

This relic of a different age shames us all, he was simply born to breed.

Born not made.

Father made me to cull, to stand alone at the end of all things.

It’s no surprise when he fights his destiny, but he dies as easily as the rest. And now he kneels before Father as his daughters did for him.⤴

She couldn’t braid her own hair, but she wanted it all the same.

So I learned to use fingers like knives to weave fine plaits until she could do it on her own.

She couldn’t be loved by Father, not like me, but she wanted it all the same.

So she planned and persisted, then boldly tried to steal my blessing for herself.

She can't win, but she begs for the duel all the same.

And my heart swells with pride as even her hair melts into gore.

Because in the end Father did bless her.

He took her whole.⤴

After the docks, it’s quiet.

The world I saved from myself spins along without me. I fall into irrelevance, godless and alone.

Like wasted seed, hot sin cools to unwelcome introspection in the years that follow. My broken mind crowds with questions none who live can answer.

Had he survived, would we have ruled together, as we promised? If I’d kept my destiny, would the fading smile and cooling gold of that next-to-final kill feel more right than this dull excuse for victory?

I would have always stood alone in the end, wondering if any decisions were ever truly mine.⤴

More outsiders? Our grove is quiet for years and suddenly we’re overwhelmed.

I oppose the ritual, of course, but Mistress Kagha warned it may come to this. It’s a drastic measure, but supplies are short and we must protect our own.

A pity we cannot aid the tieflings, but Silvanus cares nothing for pity. Still, I pray each night that the Oak Father will guard those refugees on their travels. That’s all I can do.

So is there anything you need? I lower my prices for fellow druids, of course. Always happy to help those who follow the first circle.⤴

You look right canny, your Majesticality! I see you checkin' out the merchandise. Ready to spend what's jangling in your pocket?

Got fresh spoils from Waukeen’s Rest! Loot nicked from the temple! Even have some druid kit coming in soon.

Priestess Gut said the goddess is gold from the sky. And the more we've got comin’ together in her embrace, the more blessings keep rainin’ down. Absolute’s got us covered better than Maglubiyet ever did.

One day soon, the whole world’s gonna flip real quick-like. See us on toppa things for once. Then ain’t nothing there is we can’t do.⤴

The Myconids live in such harmony. Each one has a unique personality, but finds strength and joy in unity.

So it is with the Society of Brilliance! We research separately and return to our lodge to share our research. And commerce is not directly incompatible with the Society’s mission; I do enjoy a good bargain. So please peruse my private collection if there’s anything you require.

I’ve wondered, though, if trade is keeping us from the peace one finds among the mushrooms.

If we could work together without it, perhaps the Underdark could sustain us without so much pointless suffering.⤴

Chk. These wretched istiks have no self-respect.

The arrogance of them, bleating as we took what was rightfully ours. And I’m left elbow-deep in their filth, sorting through their meager provisions and flimsy so-called weapons in case any are worth adding to our supplies.

But everything here is tainted: rotting and leaking; rusted, bloody, caked in tsk’va. So we keep sending the scouts out looking for more.

The stench of this plane is punishment enough without the inquisition breathing down our necks. So if you’re so keen to trade, I’m only taking clean items. Pristine, if you can manage it.⤴

There’s no shame in the oblivion of death, but these patients are sure to recover. Just resting now, medicated to ease the pain.

And don’t call the doctor, please! I’ve no place to question, but he leaves injury to fester, wants nothing wasted on the feeble. But when I find poor creatures in the dark, these hands twitch and I cannot help but soothe them. Most unorthodox, I know. The doctor disapproves.

But are you poorly? Oh! Quite poorly indeed. Not much left, but I’ve medical supplies on hand: potions, sutures, anesthetic.

Please don’t tell the doctor about the anesthetic.⤴

You hear things working with provisions.

Harpers don’t run from fights, but that doesn’t stop the worrying or wishing we’d leave. Folks are on edge, but we’re all still here seeing it through.

I’ll admit things are grim. We keep our torches lit but those shadows keep coming, creeping ‘round the edges of the light. I just know Jaheria’s always got a plan, so as long as she’s alright with staying here, staying here’s alright by me.

But hey now, just tell me what you need.

And keep your chin up, I figure what we’ve got should just about do.⤴

Samples are difficult to acquire pre-ceremorphosis. The window is so small, you see, and at best the subjects are uncooperative.

So when I discovered this nest of dormant illithids I settled in to indulge my innate curiosity. All I had to do was arrive in the spirit of trade.

So, have you considered my offer? Your assistance would greatly help my research. Alchemical breakthroughs have incredible value in Menzoberranzan. It’s a lot of gold for such a little prick.

And please, talk to your obstinate friend — Just a drop of blood from an illithid-tainted Baenre would be a prize sample.⤴

Ah, it’s you.

Much as I’d love to chat, I’m reverse-engineering Tempusian smokepowder, so I’ve no time to stand here idle while you go rifling through my things.

And why are you even back here? You promised me some heroism, if I recall? Yet my friend remains glaringly unrescued. I'm not sensing any urgency to remedy that.

Make no mistake, I’d much prefer to not count on you. But my own misadventure taught me little more than what brutal horrors this life can hold.

So I’ll do my part according to my talents. And perhaps you can finally do yours.⤴

Oh yes, I know your bliss. I’m all too happy to read the story in your eyes. Choose your sin, and my Caress will give that story the most thrilling ending you can afford.

But bliss was just my beginning, sweeting. These skillful hands built a home for pleasure and those who wield it. In my shrine to Mother of Cats, the courtesans smile, and not just for coin.

Now the whole city knows our bliss. Clients come into my Caress for sustenance, decadence, all manner of voids that need filling. And after, they leave as well-spent as their gold.⤴

Don’t matter if it was a god or a brain; The Absolute had power. Add deep pockets and followers with more faith than sense, we'd've been mad not to find some faith.

But it's tricky trying to hitch a ride on a scam that big. Done best when it’s quick: in on the ground floor, out before the building comes down. So naturally, by the time the Gate got saved me and my crew was just tidying up the Guild.

We Zhentarim are simple merchants, yeah? So we take care of our own, and friends of the family of course.⤴

You’ve actually never heard of the Gyldro Angleiron? Best smith in Rivington? He’s only a living legend.

Oh sure, he says I’m “far too loud” and “giving him a headache,” but he’s really such a sweetheart, unless he’s in the zone. He does get a bit snippy if you bother him in the zone. I remember it like this: “Gyldro’s in the zone? Just leave him alone!”

But you look like you want a shield. How about arrows? Everyone needs arrows. Oh! Do you not have a bow? I can sell you a bow! C’mon, we have so many bows!!⤴

Wants to buys a tasty hand? Don’t even has to fights a rat for it. All rats is pre-fought when you buys from Popper!

Everyone says “TOUGH BUSINESSLORD POPPER HAS EVERYTHINGS FIGURED OUT!” but it ain’t all shinies and treatos and gettings smooshed to bits by spicy drow.

Even with perfectly safe circus, every time the beasts eat kiddos Popper gets closed for hours. Then it's less monies for Popper!

And Popper has to finds his stocks wherever the circus goes. Diggings is hards!

Yeah, tough businesslord lifestyle nots for everybodies! Popper's just so good at hustlings it looks easy!⤴

He looks at me so slyly sometimes, like he knows all the secrets I hold in my heart. We glare back and forth, then a slow blink and a scritch about the ears settles things. Walrus knows his proper place, for now.

When it happened, no one said “Sorry for your loss.”

And at first, there was fear at being alone. But when trade picked up at the shop, some weight I hadn’t noticed began to lift. Then I woke one morning smiling with my face pressed into warm fur.

Cause ain’t you heard? Noblestalk heals all sorts of things.⤴

You just couldn’t stay away from me, eh Petal? Wouldn’t be the first, you cheeky thing.

Heroic shitheels come here with knickers atwist any time they realize the game’s rigged. But everyone plays in the end.

Cause you can’t kill an idea, or love, or hope.

Hard times always have ‘em begging, and here we are, sweetness. You look so good on your knees.

So, I ripped your spine out your arsehole. That’s on you.

Cause your Auntie Ethel keeps her word, and that’s more’n you can say for any divine blessings or devils' crafty deals.

Now let’s talk terms.⤴