30 : Does writing calm you down or stress you out?

A little of each. There’s moment when the narrative just flows and that’s just wonderful. There’s entire days when I can’t drag one word to follow the other, and those SUCK. Nevertheless, I persist.

32 : Do you give your side-characters extensive backstories?

Depends on the side-character. Some get just enough information to get through the scene… some fucking take over and become mains. They grow as they exist.

35 : Is it more fun to write villains or heroes?

I am weirdly proficient at writing psychopaths (and that’s scary). I prefer to do either the heroic type or the villain type, so long as they have a decent personality. Character development counts.

37 : What’s one piece of advice you would give to new writers?

In one word - Persist.

If you keep writing, and write something every day, you will grow and learn and spread some magnificent wings. Take it one story at a time. One day at a time. One day, you might be on the bookshelves and talking at conventions and I hope we wind up on a panel together.

18 : If you could assign your story one song, what would it be?

I have so many stories, it’s not funny. My current novel-in-process doesn’t have any theme music, but I spent a large amount of Clockwork Souls listening to my Steampunk collection. There are some stories that get theme songs, but this time… I don’t have any.

Sorry.

22 : Has your own writing ever made you cry?

Frequently. I’ve also been angered and scared by my own writing. If I don’t feel it, then my audience won’t either.

24 : When did you start considering yourself a writer?

It took me a while. I started doing that when I started writing stories unrelated to fanfic a few years after I left High School, so… around 1992.

27 : Where do you get inspiration from?

90% Spite, actually. I end up yelling at screens about all kinds of things. Some of that list includes: articulated skeletons, daft protagonists, any of the tropes I despise, plot holes as big as a barge, and silly things that make no actual sense that play well on the screen [aka the planar wave in zero-g explosions, the teacup being the first thing that detects danger, etc.] Then I read things on Tumblr and think… that might be cool, let’s try it.

21 : Do you finish most of the stories you start?

I honestly try to. Some just end up in a nebulous state of Schroedinger’s Ending. There, I may have already written an end, or I might have more. I don’t know.

Novels, I definitely finish. I’m good there.

28 : On a scale of 1-10, how much do you stress about choosing character names?

12. Some are easy, some require good research. Some are whatever collection of syllables feels good in my mouth that day.

46 : What Hogwarts house would your protagonist(s) be in?

Hufflepuff. Every last one of them. All of my OC’s are “and the rest”. Some would leave little treats (not clothing!) for the House Elves.

Well. Maybe the psychopaths are Slytherin. Barely.

50 : Would you rather be remembered for your fantastic world-building or your lifelike characters?

Both, please? I like to put the effort into some degree of realism in everything I write. Realistic people - even if they’re technically birds - living in worlds that make sense, if only to me.

I want to write stories you could step into if only there wasn’t that darned book/screen in the way. I want you to feel for my peeps. I want them to be alive in your heads as you read the words I put together. That’d be brilliant.

3 : Do you outline according to big ideas or small details?

A little from column A, a little from column B. Usually, I have the vague shape of the story in my head and, when I get into actually writing it, I get little scenes that just HAVE to be in the thing. For fanfic, the reverse happens. I get a Scene and the fic has to happen around it.

4 : Which do you prefer–line-editing or plot-revisions?

Can I say ‘neither’? I hate editing. It is the bane of my existence. I usually try my best to make certiain my whole story is coherent first before I write a line. That way I don’t have to re-tool a plot. Fixing minor errata is better by far.

8 : What author would you be most excited to be compared to?

Sir Terry Pratchett (GNU), Lois McMasters Bujold, Douglas Adams, and possibly Terry Nation. They’re my heroes.

17 : Do you make soundtracks for each story?

Nope. If I was that organised, I swear I’d be further along in my alleged career. Or I’d have more bonus content for my Patrons on Patreon.

It should have been yet another day in the markets. Taako got distracted by some of the latest gizmos from Miller Labs and buttonholed the salesperson about how exactly their pastry roller could save time and effort when it required three times the messing about than the original pastry.

It had been going on for some time before Market Security turned up.

“Sir,” said one of them. “Your son has been in an altercation with a local gang.”

He never expected his heart to drop like it did. “Where is he? Is he all right?” after half a second to actually think, he added, “Did he win?”

One of the guards handed the other two gold.

“Come with me, sir,” said the winner of the wager.

Taako was wont to walk a little faster than these particular members of the Watch, anxiously looking for any sign of a big trouble.

Burned bunting. Frozen bunting. Some upturned planters. Something had gone down here. Five guys bigger than Ango each were being seen to by Clerics whilst under the hairy eyeball of bigger, burlier Watchmen.

There, in a seat purloined from a nearby furniture store, was Ango. Bruised, battered, a little frost-rimed, but whole.

“Hello, sir.”

Taako felt like he could breathe again. “There’s my beautiful magic boy,” he said, and lunged.

“Oof! Sir… I haven’t had my turn with the local Clerics, yet.”

“Ah, what’s one point in grapple damage?” Taako breezed, pretending to not care but easing up all the same. “What happened, genius?”

Ango cast Mending on his glasses, which were a little warped. “I bumped into their leader as they were lifting some jewellery off the displays, thus revealing their ruse, sir. They took umbrage to that.”

“I’ll take my Umbrastaff to their asses if they try that shit again,” mumbled Taako.

“I don’t think that’s at all necessary, sir.”

“Horseshit,” said Taako, automatically.

“I mean… I did trounce them sir.”

“Sir?” said a Watchman. “The Clerics are ready for your son.”

Ango looked to Taako, who merely deferred a place of access for the priestly sort. He said, “Uh. He’s not my dad…”

“For shame,” Taako mock-sobbed. “Disowned by my own flesh and blood! Why are you ashamed of your old man? Is it because I remarried after your poor dear mother…”

“Sir…” Ango chided.

Taako faked more tears.

He cleared his throat. “Da-a-ad…”

Taako instantly recovered. “I forgive you,” he allowed. He leaned close to that cute little Humanman ear and whispered, “Nice job on the other two chucklefucks, but do not for one instant think I’m that easily gulled.”

They looked each other in the eye. One apprentice villain to an old master. Both were smiling, but in a calculating way.

Ango won, though, with upraised arms and, “Carry me home, daddy?”

Oooh. He was getting good.

At some point down the line, he’d have to explain that the Elven words for ‘apprentice’ and ‘child/descendent’ were one and the same.

Ango was damn heavy and awkward to carry. Despite that, or maybe because of it, Taako caught himself purring for the damn brat. Then he caught Ango’s sly smirk.

Damn kid already knew.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 8]

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Angus was allegedly helping Merle with Earl business in Bottlenose Cove. What he was actually doing was essentially imitating Radar from Fantasy MASH. Working out what the Cove needed for its assorted rebuilding projects, making a note of them, and telling Merle a fraction of a second ahead of Merle telling him to do the exact same thing.

Mavis, also trailing in his orbit, was detailing the guilds who could help with everything that needed organising. Meanwhile, Mookie was… just being Mookie.

“Sir you should really warn Mookie about–”

“GET DOWN OFF’A THERE BEFORE YOU FALL DOWN OFF’A THERE I ONLY HAVE SO MANY SPELL SLOTS FOR HEALS, PANDAMNIT!”

“Didja thee how far up I climbed, pop? That wath like two thtorieth or sump’n, wazinit?”

“Yeah you’re a regular Fantasy Sir Hillary. Knock it off before you kill your old man from fright, okay?” He paused for the seemingly mandatory wrestling match with his rambunctious son. “Keep it to heights you know you won’t bust your skull open from, okay?”

Construction sites were a semi-natural playground for Mookie. It seemed like a busted skull would only mildly slow him down.

Mookie took off again at Fantasy Warp Nine, up on the scaffolding with an innate hubris only ever reached by small children who had no idea of how badly the world could hurt, sometimes.

“Maybe you should quit–”

“I aughta quit casting Shield of Faith on the kid,” Merle grumbled as he cast Shield of Faith on the kid. “Teach him a lesson, maybe.”

Anyone and their kid brothers’ dog could tell he’d never go that far. Hekubah would fucking kill him if he did.

A newcomer tapped Angus on the shoulder. An Elven merchant, apparently, leading a camel that was seemingly chewing three bars of soap. “Young sir, can you remind your father that he has an appointment?”

Angus, inlined to his own brand of mischief, smirked and said, “Oh father, dear…”

“What? I ain’t your fuckin’ daddy.”

Right in front of strangers. Angus cried on cue. “How could you be so mean to me, daddy? Is it ‘cause I can’t grow a beard like you?”

Merle caught up with things. The Elf judging him hard, the way Mavis was hiding giggles behind her hand. The distant snorts of Taako, who had an over-the-horizon radar and instant approval for this kind of horseshit. “Aaaah, shit,” he muttered. “He’s not a Dwarf.”

“YOU MEAN I’M ADOPTED, TOO?”

Somewhere, he was sure, the twins were laughing their asses off. In fact, he could hear them. That high-pitched cackle of theirs carried.

Merle took him by the shoulder and glared up into his eyes. “Kid,” he said. “No matter what happens, I still got Li'l Smoosher.”

Angus cut the act cold. “In-joke amongst the crew, sir. I’m actually a humanman boy and no relation to Earl Merle, here.”

“Kids these days, anh?” said Merle. “Ango, you go practice casting Featherfall on Mookie before he hurts himself.”

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 9]

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[AN: You were expecting kink, weren’t you?]

Two thousand and something years before what we know as the present day…

Kravitz woke before the alarm went off, silencing the bell and, in the dark, tidied his bed so that it didn’t have so much as one wrinkle. He washed his face with the ewer and basin and put on the clothes he had left out the night before.

Daddy said, “Early to bed and early to rise…”

Shoes in his hands, he tip-toed downstairs and to the back door. He sat on a little stool to put on his shoes and went out to the privy. Always sure to bring back three logs from the log pile. Almost more than he could carry. After that, it was splitting them into firewood to stock the kitchen and feed the oven.

Of course he was careful to dust off his clothes and wash his hands. That, and remove his shoes because shoes were for the outside only.

His next destination was the one mirror in the Dressing Room. Move the sheet over it just so and make certain he was well-presented.

Daddy said, “Children should be seen and not heard,” and, “A well-presented man is a well-respected man,” and, “Vanity is the root of all sin.”

Therefore, the one mirror was always covered, and Kravitz only checked his appearance in it once, to be sure of his hair. He covered it again and went back into the kitchen.

Ham. Eggs. Sausage. Butter. Into the frying pan and onto the hob, waiting to get a good sizzle. No bread for Daddy, he said bread was for children and dogs, to make them hush. Kravitz filled the kettle from the pump and set it on the hob, too.

The one other clock in the house rang seven. Time for all goodly souls to be awake, Daddy said. Time for practice. Kravitz turned the breakfast and re-entered the Dressing Room, taking the cover off of the piano and turning over the hourglass.

Fifteen minutes of scales. In the keys of C major, D minor, E, F, and G minor.

Five minutes in, the kettle started boiling and whistlng, providing an insistant monotone to Kravitz’s scales. Any minute now, Daddy would come downstairs and make his pot of tea, and serve his breakfast.

It was the way it had always been. It was the way it always would be.

E… up and down. F… up and down. G minor… up and down.

Breakfast was starting to burn. Kravitz started to breathe faster. Daddy would be angry if he let breakfast burn. He would be angry if he stopped playing. He would be angry if he didn’t have his tea…

C major… up and down. The kettle still sang. The breakfast still burned. Daddy’s footsteps still didn’t come down the stairs.

Kravitz snatched the hourglass off the piano and lay it carefully down on the floor. He would play the greater amount of time to make up. He dashed into the kitchen despite Daddy insisting that running around was for gadabout neer-do-wells and never, ever indoors.

Pan off the hob, kettle off the hob. Laying safe and out of potential harm.

No yelling from upstairs. No threatening stomp of feet. Silence there, and nothing more.

Perhaps Daddy was sick. That could be it. Sick in bed and therefore unable to get up and be angry. Listening for every sound, he crept upstairs. Tip-toed all the way to Daddy’s room, and very timidly knocked.

No man was going to hear that knock. Daddy said that a man would announce himself with confidence.

Except… he was a boy of eight.

Five deep breaths. Ratta-tat-tat. “Father. You are late for breakfast. Is anything amiss?”

In the following silence, the tick of the clock sounded like thunder.

Kravitz knocked again. Nothing. He tried the doorknob. Locked. There was a key, but it was on the other side.

He knew what to do about that one, even though he would get a drubbing for acting like a thief. Sheet of paper under the door. Poke the key out from the other side, then drag the sheet back to the side he was on, key and all. Then, he used the key to unlock the door and enter.

“My sincere apologies, Father, but I grew overly concerned,” he said. “You’re late for breakfast and you’re never late for breakfast.”

There was such a scene. His bedclothes were in disarray and Daddy had stripped out of his nightshirt and bedcap. There were pools of vomit on the floor.

“Father?” Careful of the noxious pools, Kravitz tip-toed about to reach Daddy. He was panting like a dog in the sun, and burning hot to the touch. He was also unable to be roused.

Further thievery was necessary now. He opened Father’s bureau and stole a sheet of paper and a modicum of ink to write, Dearest Father. I found you ill after you were late for breakfast, and therefore found it necessary to borrow the horse. I have gone to fetch the town Cleric and should return in good time. I’m well aware that I am overdue a good drubbing for my sins, and will await your earliest convenience.

Signed, Your loving son, Kravitz. He blotted, sanded, and blew the ink dry, sealing the inkwell and cleaning the pen before setting everything else in the bureau to rights. He left the paper where Daddy would see it and hurried out towards the stable.

He almost forgot to put on his shoes.

Kravitz could hear the clock ticking like thunder as he brushed down the horse, added blanket, saddle, and tack. Made certain the girth strap was tight before he mounted. Then he was off at a steady, but rapid, pace.

Daddy always said, “A steady pace is oft faster than racing. You whip a horse, you might as well shoot the thing.”

He was light and Double-Dash was eager enough to run. Kravitz wasted an illogical handful of seconds wondering what it might be like to let Double-Dash run and run wherever he wanted… but that was not the purpose of a horse.

Cleric found, Kravitz had to explain things three times. Once to him, once to his wife, who translated, and once more to him. He had to come. Daddy was very sick. Yes, he has a fever. Yes, he’s thrown up. No, Kravitz couldn’t wake him. Yes, he was still breathing. Yes of course we need to hurry, that’s what Kravitz was telling him! Please!

Kravitz rode with the Cleric. The wife rode behind. Nothing made a horse run faster than another horse running, Daddy said. The Cleric’s wife ran her horse hot and hard, so Double-Dash did his best to catch up. All the way home.

Where Kravitz caught his breath, took a drink of water, and sat back at the piano, setting up the hourglass where it belonged, with the most sand on the topmost side.

C major, up and down. D minor, up and down. E, up and down. F, up and down. G minor, up and down. Check the sand, start again. C major…

Around and around until his elbows ached. Kravitz paid no heed to what the Cleric and his wife were doing. Daddy said, “Let the professionals be professional and don’t pester them with questions,” so that was what Kravitz did, until the sand ran out.

Daddy always had work for him at this point in the routine. Daddy wasn’t here to give Kravitz something to do.

So he sat. Waiting. Stomach rumbling. At the piano.

He had to keep Daddy happy.

That meant doing everything Daddy wanted him to do. Which meant doing what he was told. When that something was absent, he sat. Waiting. Perfect posture. Perfectly still.

For a father’s smile that would never come.

The Cleric’s wife eventually fed him the cold ham, sausage, and eggs, and gave him a slice of fresh bread and a big glass of milk. She said words that didn’t make sense to Kravitz. Inheritance. Estate law. Regency. In loco parentis.

He said, “Father will sort it out. Father will sort out everything. Once he is done, I will receive the drubbing I am overdue. I have acted like a criminal, even though it was for a good cause.”

The Cleric’s wife snatched him off the chair and hugged him tight and said, “You don’t worry about that. You don’t worry about that ever again.”

It would be months before he realised that his father was dying at that very moment, upstairs.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 10]

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“I mean… yeah. Sure. We always argue about stupid stuff. It’s a thing.” Lup shrugged. Trying to act casual about just… not having her brother there. These interviews had to be conducted one on one. Captain evaluating potential crew. She hadn’t thought talking to a rather young Gnome would be intimidating, but there she was. Nervous about talking to a man who needed a booster seat to see over his desk.

“So. Why do you need Taako to be part of this crew? What does he bring that can’t be supplied by any other crewmember?”

His right hand in my left, she thought, but couldn’t say out loud. That was too brief. Too glib. Too easily missed by such a stern and dour man who looked like he’d never had a friend nor a happy thought in his life. He hadn’t had anyone like Taako, that was for sure.

He’d never had…

The someone who was always there. The rock of reliability in seas of uncertainty. The one person she could always turn to. Even in the living hell of Saint Vingo’s, he had been there for her. Always.

He’d never had…

A brother at age five, usually timid of anyone else, shielding her from Mr Bingbong as he drunkenly capered about in the Tre Llew-Ddion streets. Picking up a chunk of hard, mouldy cheese that had been thrown at them mere moments before, and flung it towards the drunk clown with the sad umbrella. She’d followed suit after three such throws, laughing as Mr Bingbong turned and squeaked miserably away.

He’d never had…

Instant acceptance at age ten, when she told him in secret, and then told the world when she defended her identity against some bigger, older kids. When the news had reached their mother, he was an eager font of ideas on how to scratch together one thousand gold pieces worth of gemstones when they could barely keep a copper piece between them. He’d never had someone who worked so hard for so long to help when there was pain like that for every day of existence.

He’d never had…

Someone else purring in her ear to ground her when the nightmares came. Someone to gather herbs and medicines when it was just them on the road. Someone’s shoulder to cry on. Someone’s warmth to share. Someone to warn her of a bad idea. Someone who could sell pig dung to farmers like it was precious gems…

Lup thought long and hard about everything she loved about her brother. How he could sell ice to frost giants. Thought hard about what he’d say to sell her to this stern and stoic man. Then she thought about what he’d want her to say about him.

She took a deep breath. Began with his favourite word. “Listen…” she said. “I may say the words ‘dumb baby brother’ about Taako, but that’s like, a joke on the universe. You’ve seen our test scores, you know he’s not an idiot. Hell, I’m not even sure if he made mistakes on purpose ‘cause he knew I wanted to get in. He’s–” my entire heart. If you take him away from me, I will be a soulless shell. No. Don’t say that. “There’s been entire decades when Taako’s the only reason I got up in the morning, you know? He– We’re twins. You know what that means for Elves?”

“I’m familiar with the superstitions. It’s bad luck to separate twins. They’re two bodies with one soul… all that nonsense.”

Gods it was a fight not to get angry. “For us… it’s almost true. We’re…” Deep breaths, and don’t incinerate the nice man with his finger on the button of your future, Lulu… “You’ve got all our records. You know we didn’t always wash up in nice places.”

“Saint Vingo’s stands out,” he said. “It always does.”

He knew. He’d read all about it. Yet here he was, giving them a chance. “Places like that… have a lasting effect. Without Taako by my side, I’d…” wither away to nothing… “He’s like… all of my impulse control, now. Saint Vingo’s is where I lost the last of my patience for anything. I’m… I’m his sense of restraint. Like, sometimes, he’ll go off on a really terrible idea, and I have to stop him because - he won’t. He stops me. We’re each other’s brakes.” Well. That was this job down the tubes. “He’s my up when I’m down. I’m his warmth when he’s cold. We have a joke, together. As a pair? We make one functional Elf. We’re a team. We’ve been a team since forever.”

He was taking notes. “Mm-hm…”

“We were born holding hands. We’re a team. We’re unit. We’re a package deal. Double or nothing, Captain. And if you need me to tell you how good he is or why you need him and me?” All or nothing. Do or die. There were no grey areas any more. She’d had enough of grey in Saint Vingo’s. “You can just fuck right off to hell.”

She marched right out of there without giving him any form of comeback opportunity. Only imagining her entire future burning to ashes. All the way back to the little place she shared with her brother. Head high, as if she hadn’t just destroyed every single hope she’d had of every having her best dream come true.

She kept her appearances up all the way in to their pokey little living room, where Taako had baked a cake. It was shaped like the ship still under construction, sailing off towards the sky. A tiny fondant likeness stood on the prow, one arm raised and pointing the way. There was a banner across the wall that red, Congrats Captain Lup!

That was when she broke. He hadn’t even put a fondant Taako on that ship. He knew. He fucking knew… He knew they were angling to leave him out of the expedition. Already. That was when she broke.

Taako was wrapped around her in instants. Listening to her incoherent howling about how she’d fucked it up for both of them. “Hey, hey, hey,” he cooed, “I’m the debbie downer in this duo. Stop stealin’ my act. We always knew you were goin’ and -hey- it’s just two months. I’m sure I can survive that long. Taako’s good out here.”

She sighed. “Nah. I fucked it for both of us.”

Taako leaned over the cake, turning the fondant figure around and then changing her hand to giving the entire ship the finger. “Eh, so you get to be captain of the next one. I get to be two eye see. Who needs those losers, right? Remember whats-her-face? Didn’t know we were twins for like two months?”

Lup snorted, pushing him away. “You butt-waffle.”

“If I’m a butt-waffle, you’re an ass-erole.”

He was her ability to laugh when she was feeling her worst. They had cake anyway. And the biggest surprise of their lives when the captain put the both of them on his short list the next morning.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 11]

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Patience is a virtue, tho’ it makes you jump through hoops,
Seldom seen in Humans, and never seen in Lup – A Taako Original.

Life was rarely fair for the twins. Take birthdays. Lup always managed to have hers celebrated, but -thanks to a small matter of forty-five minutes edging into the first four minutes of the next day- Taako inevitably missed out. Lup, as the first-born, was legally entitled to whatever their missing family could provide her. If an inheritance had ever really been in the offing, Taako would have got the scraps.

He was ninety percent of her impulse control, and the harbinger of doom who had always managed to pull her out of some situation her usual recklessness had got her into. He was her back-up, her confidante, her loyal second… her entire heart. She might have been the smart and outgoing one, but Taako always managed to form the bonds with the most meaning. He had the keenest eye and the shrewdest mind for finding new directions to take. That brother of hers could salvage a con gone sour with very little in the way of warning.

Which was why she was leafing through Taako’s cookbooks while he was out looking for interesting ingredients. Looking for a recipe to help add a balm to his battered soul.

They were one hundred and forty-seven. They had been one hundred and forty-seven for thirty years so far, and it showed no sign of coming to an end. He had put up with so much shit in that time, not the least of which was watching her die so often. The first time that happened, he’d just… collapsed[1]. He hadn’t dealt any better with it the other six times.

Not like she’d done any better, watching him die twice during those years. The first time, she’d gone on a rampage of vengeance. Literally blazing a path of destruction across that suck-ass reality that, only in retrospect, she had not been proud of. The other time… The other time she’d followed him into the metaphorical grinder, not seeing a worth to her life if he wasn’t in it.

Which was just one reason upon thousands why she was searching through his recipes. She wanted to surprise him with one of his favourites. Cooked by her own hand. Because food was one thing they had in common, because it was his birthday, because she wanted to apologise for the last time she’d died, because food was one of the thousands of ways of saying ‘I love you’. Good food, especially, between the two of them.

She owed him much more than that, of course; but this was a good start.

The best way to find the best-loved recipes in any cookbook was to look for the one with the most stains. She knew Taako had a whole mouth full of sweet tooths -sweet teeth?- so picked out some of the stickiest pages in there. Sure, many of the ingredients of the original recipes weren’t around any more, but Taako was thorough. In every dimension, he insisted on finding the best substitutes he could and jotting them down. Thus, the books became a near-indecipherable mess that Lucretia attempted to sort out once every decade.

Heer dear, darling, paranoid obsessive brother had one clear favourite that didn’t involve trucking around half of this reality to get the ingredients. He called it a Fruity Tuity and it was somewhere between a figgy duff and a plum pudding. Typical Taako, it involved four kinds of sweetening and -yikes- Fifty-seven steps. Sixty, if you included the time spent soaking it in rum or honey mead, and putting unfinished steps into the cold box to chill.

Two days prep? Fuck that noise.

Surely, there’s a few steps I can skip to speed this thing along a smidge…

*

It had been a long, tiring, and somewhat fun day. Taako returned with his prizes - ninety percent ingredients, ten percent fashion, and some weird shit that was probably unique to this particular reality that might be useful at some later date. He ignored Maggie complaining behind him.

“…why I have to be your beast of burden,” he was whining. “I mean, it’s not like any of it is really heavy, so much, as it’s… awkward…”

Taako sniffed the air. There was sugar, and rum… and… “Dragonfruit?”

Lup appeared with the multiverse’s fakest grin on her face. Which was smeared with flour, syrup, and something looking remarkably like soot. She was wearing an apron that was similarly besmirched. “Taako… You’re early…”

“It’s getting late, actually.” He sniffed the air again. Charcoal? “Lulu, have you been fucking up my kitchen?”

“Me? Fuck up your kitchen? Hahaha! I know better than to make a mess in our kitchen, brother-dear.” Oh shit. Something had gone mega terri-bad. That ‘brother-dear’ was a dead give-away. “I was just tryin’a -youknow- arrange a little surprise for your birthday…”

“Uh… why’d you borrow my apron, there, sis?”

“So I thought I’d just whip up one of your faves…”

“That ain’t aromatic smoke in the air, goofus.”

“…and I might have had a few technical issues…”

“What the fuck did you do, Lulu?” Taako dumped his share of the shopping bags on the handiest patch of floor, sailing down the spiral stairs that lead into the mess.

In this case - the literal mess. This was three times worse than the last time they’d done a fuck-it-let’s-cook-literally-everything gourmet extravaganza because Merle owed them a month of washing up. It was worse than the time Barold attempted to cook the whole crew dinner, which was -by no co-incidence at all- the last time anyone insisted on sharing duties on the Starblaster.

It was worse than the time Maggie burned the Spaghetti and attempted to make up for it with pancakes. Which he also burned. And got stuck to the ceiling.

“Oh my sweet merciful gods…”

“It isn’t as bad as it looks?” said Lup.

“YES IT FUCKING IS!” Taako gestured at the wreckage. “What the fuck were you trying to make?”

“I thought you might like a Fruity Tuity?” She edged past him to release the valve on the pressure cooker.

“…in the presh-pot…”

“I figured it didn’t need to be as complicated as you set it out if I approached it with logic and science on my side–”

“…oh gods, no…” Taako moaned. “The nerdlord’s infected you.”

“Nonsense, Koko. It’s going to be fine. So I was a little bit more creative than usual. So what? No progress without experimentation and this–” she opened the lid at last and took a peek. “–is… not… what I expected.”

Her face said it all. All her best-laid plans, attempts at improv, and possibly five pounds of wasted ingredients had come to naught. Taako peeked anyway.

“Yeesh. Looks like the results of the last time Merle tried to cook.” And by that, he meant the diarrhea. “Is that one of my good pudding cloths?”

Lup was aghast. She knew the ships’ rule. You fuck it up, you’re eating it. “I’m so sorry, Koko…”

“Maybe next time follow all the instructions, hm?”

Maggie, meanwhile, had taken a spoonful to sample. “Mmm. Crunchy.”

“It’s not s’posed’a be crunchy!” Lup wailed.

They were gonna have to send out for pizza and ice cream before they even thought of cleaning up after this one.

[1] See The Worst Year, as chronicled by yours truly.

You had to know where to look for it. You had to know it was there in the first place to even know where to look for it. So naturally the band of Reclaimers known to all as Tres Horny Bois found it in under a minute. It only took them that long because Merle had to be pried out of the gardening section.

Some places have a discrete curtain between Adult interests and the rest of the store. Some places have a door that’s guarded by a big burly bloke named ‘Bubba’, who has four-letter words tattooed across his knuckles. In classier establishments, Bubba’s tattoos are even spelled correctly.

Here, however, the inner sanctum of naughty things is guarded by: an illusory display of Fantasy Furbies (cursed), a hallway of cunning traps, pitfalls, poison spikes and approximately five magical golems, seven interesting puzzles depending on illogic, irrational behaviour, and a certain amount of really stupid decision-making skills.

Naturally, Garfield - or one of his Prime Material Plane Physical Manifestations - is always waiting for them when they enter.

The less said about Merle’s Arbor Ardour, the better. Let’s just say that there’s a surprisingly healthy collection of books about vines, greenery, and the use of fertilizer. Fantasy Chuck Tingle has written most of them.

As for the other two…

“TUSK LOVE TWO: THE LOVE OF THE WARRIOR WOMAN,” said Garfield. “THAT SEEMS TO BE A FAVOURITE OF YOURS. PERHAPS YOU’D LIKE TO BUY INSTEAD OF RENTING?”

Someone behind the shelves, perhaps wearing a two-foot pointy hat, snorted.

“Shaddup…” Magnus said out the side of his mouth. “There’s other people here.”

“YOU ROOM WITH THEM, THEY SHOULD KNOW EVERYTHING BY NOW.”

“Yahbut… you don’t gotta shout from the rooftops or anything…”

“MY SILENCE COSTS EXTRA, MY GOOD MAN.”

Magnus grumbled an paid for the rental of Tusk Love 2. Then slunk back out the entrance like someone who had committed a crime.

Merle didn’t even bother. Nobody wanted to hear about his personal proclivities and Garfield didn’t want to announce them, either.

Taako was smart enough to wait until everyone else was gone before ponying up to the counter with his selection. Nevertheless, it startled the deals warlock.

“THIS?” said Garfield. “THIS IS A VERY PECULIAR SELECTION, SIR…”

“I know it,” said Taako. “How much to rent it?”

“I’M SURPRISED WE HAD IT AT ALL. I DON’T THINK IT’S MOVED OFF THE SHELVES IN YEARS.”

“Then it should be cheap,” said Taako. “And since it won’t be missed, how about I borrow it for a month?”

Garfield looked at the cover of the boxed set. Then back up to the smiling, seemingly unintelligent face of his customer. Nobody could be as stupid as he seemed… He checked the case, all present and correct. No illusions, no sneaky bullshit. Nothing. 

Finally, he shrugged and rang it up. Far be it for him to dictate what got people through the night.

He still had to wonder what the hell Taako found so raunchy about Homesteader Hubbies.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 8]

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