[AN: Monty doesn’t need these levels of bullshit in his life. The poor snan(snake man) ]

Being a teenager is awkward for any species. Technically speaking, Elves can be teenagers twice. Once in their actual teens, and again between their seventies and nineties, when they were handed all the responsibilities and expectations of adults and none of the freedoms. For an Elf, though, the time between their twenties and their eighties was just… too many years of awkwardness. On top of the harrowing experience of gaining on adulthood but being prevented from it, there was also the ever-increasing risk of a First Luume.

Or, as the young and lovelorn viewed it, the promise of a First Luume.

There was a thriving market of tawdry books on the topic from the penny press. Young Elf of either or an indeterminate gender with an older, more experienced, and above all understanding mentor in the bedroom. Usually following chapters upon chapters of dreamy longing on behalf of the younger Elf.

The mentor’s point of view, it might be noted, was conspicuous by its absence.

Young Elves of a certain age bought them by the ton.

Taako, who discovered boys on the exact same day his sister did, had been buying, stealing, or borrowing books in that genre for more than a few decades. He had memorised the basic plot of all of them, but that never mattered. If he saw a new title with the plot of a young boy’s first time with an understanding older man, he would snatch it up quicker than you could say ‘impossible attraction’.

If he owned them, he read the covers off them. He read them to pieces. He daydreamed that plot over and over again. Always with himself in the arms of his biggest crush, Kustaad Trifel. He was vaguely aware that he was also the crush of Kustaad’s kid - Kri. What had almost skipped his notice was that Kri was starting to read Those kinds of books, too.

Kri had picked up a lot of habits from the Twins, up to and including loafing off on top of the caravan they slept in. Taako, coming up for air from a particularly nice climax in the penny novel he’d been reading, noticed that Kri was loafing off on the roof of the caravan he shared with his family. Kri also had a battered penny novel with a lurid cover, and the same dopey expression on his face that Koko had been wearing just a few moments before. He rolled over and looked towards the caravan Koko shared with his family -blood and and adopted alike- but not to the rooftop where Koko was lounging.

Kri’s gaze was fixed to the campsite below Koko’s little nest. A dreamy look that fixed solidly on… Koko’s adopted mother - La’Ming Ton. Currently in her riding leathers and scrubbing at a stubborn stain in the washtub.

What? Koko lined up the angles to make sure. Okay. Ran an Insight Check just to be sure. Okay, fine. Good news: Kri was over his crush on Koko. Bad news… he now had a crush on La’Ming.

“…gross,” Koko muttered. He’d have to talk to the kid about this nonsense. Sort him out. Set things… back to normalcy.

He got his chance after dinner, sitting with his ex-crushee as they both worked their way through Lulu’s five-alarm stew. “So… uh. Gettin’ over the heartbreak okay?”

“Sure. I know having a crush on you was… a little bit immature.”

Koko didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved. “Into the more… uh… mature scene, eh?”

“Yeah,” sighed Kri, looking dreamily in the direction of La’ming… currently in the world’s ugliest khaftan and arguing with Lulu about exactly how many chili peppers the average intelligent lifeform could safely withstand.

“Yeah… uh…” Koko tried to figure out how to do this. “So… uh… Romance books are fine ‘n’ all… but -uh- reality’s kind’a… not that.”

Kri was a picture of innocence. “Why not?”

“Uhm. Well. People who write books… uhm… they don’t write stuff that actually happens?”

“They’ve got real names, though,” said Kri, whose picture of innocence might have used a little bit more scrutiny, but Koko was otherwise distracted.

“Yeah, but… uhm. The good adults? The ones who actually care? Uh… They… they’re more likely to -uhm- Have you heard of the ‘off switch’?”

“Oh, but the really good ones would want to help in the best way.”

“Uuuhhh… Depends on how you define that… I’ve met the bad ones, and… yeah. It’s not as great as the books make it sound.”

“Aaah, but they sound so nice,” he said. “I wanna help her through her next Luume…”

“Yeeks. Nope. No. Don’t go there. She’s gonna fuckin’ adopt ya, pal. You know why?”

“You mean the other kind of adopt… as a bedmate. A lifelong bond…”

“She’s old enough to be your parent. She’s gonna adopt you as her kid because you are a kid. There’s no way a grown-ass adult is gonna want anyone like you because… they’re…” The ‘oh shit’ landed heavily on his heart and shattered it to bits. “…’cause they’re gonna feel like parents around us…” He wiped away the sting in his eyes. “It’s the bad ones who do the stuff in the books.”

All his daydreams came crashing down around him. He didn’t see much of the world outside his head from that moment on. He was peripherally aware of Lulu coming to comfort him, because she was the one person who could understand his pain before he could articulate it.

He certainly didn’t notice Monty, Kustaad, and a few other circus people slipping Kri some shiny new coins.

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It was quite the crime scene. The miasma of burned sugar and almonds filled the house. Half a cake lay under a cover of preservation. Some blackened blobs of… something… lay on a baking tray. Bubbles were frozen in the blobs’ surface, and Kravitz noted with alarm that there was no parchment nor any baking paper between them and the tray, which meant that the tray was essentially ruined.

Opposite the cake and the tray was a spread of marzipan fondant, patterned with candy canes and snowflakes, as evidenced by the rolling pin with embossed shapes on it. There were holes cut in the layer, yuletide shapes of gingerbread men, snowmen, trees, and bells. There were those shapes of cookie cutters laying nearby, as well as a large spreader knife.

This was not a Taako experiment. This was… a series of bad assumptions.

The house was quiet, save for the pleading mewls of the household cats. It was past their dinnertime by nearly half an hour, so they were clearly starving to death. Wait. Not quite silent… there were two separate sets of sobbing.

One in Angus’ room, one in Taako’s.

Kids came first.

He found Angus trying to pack to run away from home. He had an umbrella, which he was clearly planning to use as a bindle stick, and a large scarf upon which he was laying out what he thought of as the essentials. Since he was actually only three and a half, those things were mostly toys and favourite books. And a family portrait.

“Packing to leave?” asked Kravitz.

“I have to,” sniffled Angus. “…’m evil now.”

Um. What? “Nobody turns evil overnight, kiddo… Tell you what… I’ll talk about this with Apa. I don’t know what went wrong,” he could guess, but… “Just like Caleb Cleveland, I need all the facts.”

Taako was in a depression ball inside one of his terrible Candlenights sweaters. The one with the googly-eyed reindeer on it, which he utterly despised.

“Dove? Is there anything you need?”

“…jar of super-crunchy peanut butter an’ a jar of fuckin’ peanuts.”

Aaah, crap. This was bad.  He had to be stern with one of them, and Taako was obviously the toughest. “Dove… Taako. I need to know what the fuck happened here. At least come out enough to talk to me.”

He’d let his glamour go, and his makeup run, and his hair tangle. This… was fucking terrible.

“He thought… my marzipan fondant… was sugar cookies. And he tried t’ bake ‘em… while I was on the Stone to Marvellous Magic Magazine. I told him to wait… He didn’t wait… Do you know how long it takes to make marzipan from scratch, Krav? Do you know how long that takes?”

Kravitz could guess ‘more than a little while’ and moved on to the next obvious question. “Why were you making marzipan from scratch, love?”

“Fucking Suzan and her gods-damned neighbourhood Candlenights’ party. Like fuck am I using anything store bought for anything I bring there.” He shuddered and sobbed. “And worse, that baking tray is fucking ruined… It was one of our wedding gifts…”

Kravitz wrapped around him and let him cry it out. “So our boy made some bad choices… In his defence, we had been making sugar cookies all week…”

A shuddering breath in. “I know…”

“He probably thought he was trying to help.”

“I know…”

“So what’s the real trouble?”

“I dunno what t’ do about this,” Taako whimpered. “I might’a overreacted…”

“Angus did tell me he was evil now… and was trying to run away from home.”

“…oh gods…” Taako broke down in incoherent blubbering, but the gist of his teary babbling was that he never wanted any baby to feel unwanted. He never wanted to make Angus feel like he was hated, that life sucked. He was a bad parent and so on and so forth.

Kravitz carried Taako to Angus room so they could both bawl out their apologies to each other under his wing. In this case, literally under his wing… because the shelter of his wings hd always helped both husband and son feel safe.

They finally wound down to coherent words. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait. I wanted you to be proud I could do it all by myself.”

“I’m sorry I overreacted, baby. You’re not evil. And you’re not… anything else I said, I swear I don’t remember a lot of it, and I never meant a word. Apa got way too upset about a silly mistake.”

“All right. Now for a new house rule. You cause a mess, you at least try to fix it.”

“Guess that means tryin’a scrub burned marzipan off’a the baking tray,” mumbled Taako. “I’ll put all your stuff back to rights. Then we all learn Fabricate because fuck making marzipan from scratch after this meltdown.”

Taako could re-order Ango’s room on his own, but Angus would need supervision to at least try to get rid of burned marzipan. It was hard work, for sure, and Angus was not allowed to use Prestidigitation to clean it. He had to understand how much recovery was involved in a mistake like this one.

Angus managed to chip most of the bubbly blobs off and scour two burned marks off the surface before Taako declared, “Okay. That’s enough. You’re gonna wait when I tell ya from now, aren’t you, Ango?”

“…’essir.”

“M’kay. Lesson learned. Now for a fun one. Fabricate…”

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[AN: Sorry for taking WAY too long to get to this. My life is chaos with a side-trip to bedlam]

It was dark, and Angus was scared. He could smell the reek of ammonia and felt a chill that should not have come with the heavy blankets weighing him down. He lay stock still, trying to make the shape of something familiar out of the shadows.

If he moved, if he made a sound, if he cried… he would be sent to the Quiet Room. Angus strained his ears for the faintest creak of bedsprings, tried to find shadows in the darkness that meant that one of the other boys was taking aim.

Carefully, he slid one hand up to grab his pillow. If he could get it before he heard the slide of pyjama pants, he could curl up completely under the shield of its bulk and let the stream pool around him. He’d get in trouble for the pool unless he stayed under the pillow until dawn.

He hated that. He hated hardly being able to breathe for the stench and for the claustrophobic space under the pillow and the faint mildew stink of the pillow stuffing. It always felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Angus barely started to bring his feet up when a weight dropped on the bed. There was nothing like it in his memory, and he remembered a lot of horrible things. He screamed without thinking about it. Cringed and held his breath as the tears began to sting. He didn’t want to go into the Quiet Room! He hadn’t done anything wrong!

Instead of the ungentle footfalls of Nurse Stronginthearm, he heard a pattering of footfalls and a snap as lights came on. This was… this was not the orphanage. The weight on his bed was one of the household cats, currently kneading the comforter and glaring at Angus as if he was the asshole.

There was a blur in the doorway. The colours were all wrong for the orphanage. Angus tightened up in his huddle and at least tried to keep it to a whimper.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” singsonged the blur with golden hair. “You got your glasses right here, sweetie. Here they are…” Dusky brown hands offered his familiar frames.

Angus’ hand shook as he took them, and he couldn’t stop breathing hard as the blur resolved into one of his adopted dads. Mr Taako.

“…’m sorry sir…”

“It’s okay, pumpkin, nightmares in a new place are natural. You want me to sit with you?”

The cat was still treadling the comforter. It was now concentrating on its biscuits and not getting involved in the drama. Another one jumped up and the two felines wrestled with each other in a non-serious manner.

“…’es please,” Angus managed.

Taako sat on the bed, offering his presence as comfort. “I lost count of the nightmares I had whenever I was in a new place,” he said. “It was always the same kind’a dream. I was trapped in the worst place I’d ever been in before.”

Oh. Oh that was… way too close to the bone. He said, “You too?”

“Absolutely. Kind’a a handful of assholes after Saint Vingo’s, I gotta tell ya. After I lived through that one, everywhere else was a field of daisies.” He reached to touch Angus’ hair, but stopped when Angus flinched away. His hand hovered in the air for a couple of seconds but lit once more in his lap. “You were back in the bad place again, weren’t’cha?”

Angus nodded.

“Okay. Okay. Did you ever get into trouble for snapping your fingers?”

“…dunno how to do that, sir…”

Mr Taako showed him, demonstrating and always asking to touch before he did so. He remembered so many bad places. He knew what they could do to a kid. He knew that healing wasn’t easy. He knew that even the smallest things could cause abject terror at a moment’s notice.

“One snap is a little sound,” said Mr Taako. “They can’t track one snap. And it kind’a puts off any targeters, y’know. They think you got something on ‘em.” Mr Taako had a very knowing smirk, “I can teach you a li’l bit of my tricks, too. Give you an edge.”

One of the cats investigated Angus’ lap. It was warm and soft and friendly. The world seemed safer already, especially after he learned how to snap the lights on at a moment’s notice. Most especially after he learned that the Casa de Taako cats were the friendliest creatures in Faerun.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 1]

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Taako watched their adopted son going around in circles. Anxious or excited or just plain not wanting to go to sleep because the previous order of things was disrupted. It was easier to watch than trying to chase the kid down for sure. It had already been a long-ass day and he was personally too worn out to do extra pre-bedtime calisthenics.

Ango was obviously tired and just as obviously too stubborn to admit it. Going around the place in circles because keeping his body moving kept his brain awake or some shit like that. Taako, now a grown-ass adult, was more than a hundred years from that behaviour or those levels of energy.

How had his poor mother survived himself and Lup racing up and down the stairs on the twilit summer nights of Tre-Llew Ddion? No wonder she handed them off to Uncle Ench at summer’s end. They must have plain worn her the fuck out.

No, that was unfair. His whole family had secret weapons. Loggy foods. Pre-bedtime treats that were guaranteed to nail a kid down, stomach-first.

Taako smiled, leaving Angus to his orbits, and got out the kid-stopper ingredients. Sweet-pop fritters. Whipped cream, natch. The family recipe for hot chocolate… Flour, milk, cream (doy), honey -Ango was old enough for honey, but still too young for processed sugar- maple syrup, cocoa, maple sap, drinking chocolate, maple crystals, malt… herbs and spices…

Taako set up his prep station so he could keep an eye on Ango. All these recipes were the sort that could be put down in a second or less if an orbiting kid managed to trip and fall or otherwise hurt themself during their extended shenanigans. He seemed fine going around and around, but Taako wasn’t about to take any chances.

The thick, rich fritter batter was loaded with the nicer spices. Nutmeg, cinnamon, cardamom, and just the right zing of ginger, then peppered through with small cubes of green apple, sweet corn kernels, and a generous handful of raisins. A dash of just the right amount of maple syrup and they were ready to become fat golden blobs in the deep fryer.

Taako started the milk warming up. More cardamom and nutmeg, less ginger and cinnamon. Cocoa, of course. Malt was the new secret ingredient. The old one, Taako recalled, was a carefully-measured spoonful of medicinal rum. Not allowed in this day and age, no matter how medicinal it claimed to be. He sweetened the whole thing with honey and added a dollop of cream for richness before he began whipping the rest up for garnish, sweetened with the slightest dash of maple sap.

Once the fritters were fried on both sides, Taako let them drain and dry a little on Fantasy Paper Towels before dusting them over with a sparkling of maple crystals. This was magic enough to lure his boy to the kitchen counter, where wide, dark eyes watched the ordinary magic of meal prep in progress.

Long years in Sizzle it Up! gave Taako the knowledge of just the right amount of horseshit to add into the presentation. So when he plated up, he not only added some whipped cream flowers to Angus’ two middle-sized fritter blobs, but also some sparks from his Prestidigitation.

The hot chocolate was strained into Angus’ favourite mug, loaded with pink marshmallows and topped with more of the cream. It also got a light dusting of drinking chocolate.

It was better than a Sleep spell, and far more enjoyable to boot. Ango was nodding before he got halfway through his second fritter. Those freshly-sticky fingers of his were the perfect segue into tooth-brushing and bath time.

A warm bath, with the white noise provided by the bubbles, had Ango floppy and complacent before the last button was done up on his fluffy, flannel PJ’s. Taako purred as he carried their boy to the big family cuddle cote.

“…w’nna wait f’r daddy,” Ango complained muzzily.

“I know, pun’kin,” Taako cooed. “Daddy’s havin’ a big adventure and we can’t be awake the whole time. ‘S bad for your health.” An idea came to him like a brilliant new recipe. “How about I teach you a way to get the same rest faster so you can be awake for longer? Would you like that?”

“Mm-hmm…”

Ango would probably fall asleep on the first attempt… and maybe up to the tenth, but it was worth a shot. Little half-Elves didn’t Trance as easily as the full-blooded ones. It all depended on how dominant his Elven side was, actually.

Taako helped him sit properly and taught the correct breathing rhythm. He got it straight out of the tin, brilliant lad. Next, guiding him into the meditative state of mindfulness and memory. This was where, according to the clever souls who wrote all those books, a half-Elf was most likely to slip into sleep.

Ango defied expectations and lifted off of the cushions of the cote for a solid minute. Of fucking course Taako took a Fantasy Polaroid of the event. Then, he fell into slumber and Taako guided him down into a comfortable sleeping position, tucked in with a warm, fluffy blanket and weighed down by one of the cats.

Gods-damned adorable.

Taako scooted a little away so he could Trance peacefully. When he came up -and floated down- Krav was just entering the cote, crawling inside with exaggerated care. They smiled at each other in recognition of the Parental fear of waking the baby.

“Hey, Dove,” Krav whispered. “Sorry I missed bedtime.”

“I got him rested anyway,” Taako whispered in turn. “I’d better be big spoon so our baby can see you when he wakes up.”

They enjoyed a good, long kiss before Krav settled down. As he got comfortable, he murmured, “What is in those fritters? I thought I was bone tired before, but… you could knock me out with a feather.”

Taako snorted at the pun. “Ancient Elven secret,” he said, playing with Krav’s hair. “Get some rest. I’ll watch over us.”

Krav didn’t need much more convincing. Those fritters packed a punch.

[AN: First, I’d like to apologise for taking so dang long with this. It’s been a busy week]

Angus shivered in his bed and dreaded opening his eyes. He was cold and soaked and terrified that, if he could breathe in through his nose, he would smell someone else’s pee. It certainly felt like he was huddled in a bunch of lumps that wanted to dig holes in his skin.

He could hear jingling jewellery and someone singing. “Good morning, starshine, the earth says ‘hello’… you twinkle above…” the singer trailed off, and a too-hot hand seared into Angus’ forehead. “You’re not okay, little man.”

The shadow above him glittered and gleamed. He managed to focus on golden hair and dusky skin that was mottled like a fawn and sprinkled with gold. He wasn’t in the orphanage any more, but it sure felt like he was in an orphanage bed. “…hurts,” he croaked.

“Hmm…” said Papa, who scooped him out of bed and into a thick, fluffy dressing gown. “Looks like Summerfaire Sniffles, there, buddy. Caught something from someone durin’ the holiday.” Papa was comfortingly warm, whilst Angus felt like his entire body was a loose sack full of snot.

“…’m sorry, papa…”

“Not your fault, hon. ‘S why the schools give people a whole month off after Summerfaire. Get all the viruses outta the system before they can recirculate.”

“…’r you mad at me?”

“Naw… It’s nothing some soup won’t cure. Cream of chicken soup with ginger, garlic, and all the fixings. All your favourite ingredients.”

“…’m n’t h'ngry…”

Papa cooed and juggled him around as his Mage Hands filled a hot water bottle and wrapped it up. “We’ll find something to tempt those tastebuds later on, punkin. Anything you need, you’re getting. Just say the word.”

“…cuddl’s…”

“M’kay,” Papa curled up with him, the hot water bottle, and a lot of blankets (the cats came to nest on them later) on the big cuddle couch and turned the fantasy television on to something that required no brainpower to appreciate.

Dad looked in on them in an hour or two. “Everything all right, babe?”

“Summerfaire Sniffles,” said Papa. “Some fantasy tylenol, a lot of cuddles, and some chicken soup and we’ll be fine.”

Dad’s touch was a little chilly, but welcome all the same. “Nothing to worry about,” he said.

When he said it, you could be sure.

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They took a few years to begin. Having the actual legends available in real life, in the newspapers, in the bookstores, tended to quell those of a cultish mind. Nevertheless, they began all the same.

There was the cult of Jeffandrew, which fizzled for the most part and lead a secluded life in the cracks when it did find a rare foothold. It was always covert. It was always discrete. It was always unreliable as a faith.

People could really get to Believe in the Seven Birds. They were real people. Real people with extraordinary abilities, granted, but real people all the same. The Twins wrote a series of books about their exploits: before, during, and after their hundred-year mission to strange new worlds and new civilisations.

For the most part, the Seven Birds had had enough of adventuring, and that was perfect for creating… cults.

Altars sprang up inside the first decade. Not just to the Seven Birds, but to those heavily associated with them. Those who came to The Twins prayed to be re-united with lost family members. Those who came specifically to Lup’s altars hoped to resolve a long-lasting crush. Those who came to Taako prayed for resolutions to great wrongs.

People came to The Lover to reaffirm long-held vows, to swear new ones, to ask for true and lasting love, and to beg for more time.

People asked The Protector for strength in battle, for the power to keep their loved ones safe, for help in dire straits.

Those who prayed to The Lonely Journal Keeper prayed for fortitude to endure, as Lucretia had endured. They prayed for a dissolution of writer’s block. They prayed for a third option when the initial two were abhorrent.

Nevermind that it was Taako who saw it, the people Believed, and they Believed that Lucretia was the one who gave it to the entire world.

Those who went to The Peacemaker never went there for healing, which was probably just as well. They came to ask for a means to end conflict, and some for bountiful crops… though it was better not to investigate what those crops were.

The ones who prayed to The Wordless One prayed for successful journeys, for clarity of mind, for clarity of speech… for success at cards. For restoration of memory. For restoration of that which was lost.

They weren’t always successful prayers. That wasn’t the point. The point was that people prayed. In prayers, in belief, there is power.

They prayed also to The Detective, to The Bard, The Wedded Warriors… they prayed to The Artificer and The Deals Warlock and The Reaper and The Inventor’s Son. Some even prayed to The Bugbear.

Time ran out for living legends, as time inevitably does. Some lived their full span of life, some more than that. Some had far less. What mattered was the prayers, the Belief.

It’s quite a shock to wake up dead. It’s even more of a shock to wake up dead and deified.

A new pantheon made of people who once were flesh and blood. Given power, given elevation. Given a place in the Celestial Plane. All through Belief. New gods and goddesses, with new powers and responsibilities… and new dumb-ass followers they had to look after.

Just like all the other gods.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 0]

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Lucretia Clark wouldn’t talk. Sno could understand why. She had spent so long avoiding questions by being silent that it became her way of being. The problem was, she was age three, going on four, and language skills were a concern. In brief, it was get her to talk, or have Child Services make her talk.

That was not a thing she wanted happening to a small and already traumatised child. Therefore, she was using everything she could find to try and help Lucretia talk.

This was one such desperate measure. Lucretia liked watching Fascinating Planet and the host of the show was exhibiting some of the more socialised exotic animals to adults and kids for an entrance fee. Every child would be allowed to touch and handle these animals, and the host would talk. It was an intense experience.

Lucretia recognised the host in an instant and pointed. “Davenport,” she said.

It was the most syllables she’d said at one time. “Yes,” said Sno. “That’s Mr Dru Davenport. He hosts Fascinating Planet. We watch him every other Saturn-day.”

Lucretia, amazingly, started humming the theme tune. She was coming out of her shell already. It was a treat to see her happy.

The worrying part was that all the other kids coming to this thing were twelve and up. Some were almost adults. Lucretia noticed too, and clung tighter to Sno’s hand.

“You want an up-hug?” Sno offered.

Nod. Lucretia had gone quiet again.

Sno lifted her up and wrapped her in her arms, purring softly and soothingly. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I arranged things with the organisers. They know about us. They know about you. There’s no need to worry… You’ll see.”

Lucretia had her communications cards, and found the one that said, Rejection.

“They won’t throw us out. You’ll see.”

The queue let them shuffle forward and there, standing on the ticket desk, was the man himself.

“Davenport,” Lucretia whispered.

The world-famous Gnome had a rainbow parrot on a leash, which seemed interested in either climbing on top of Davenport’s head, or sidling along an arm. The bird had apparently learned a few choice phrases, one of which was, “Potty poo!” That one amused all the kids. Even Lucretia had a smile.

Davenport noticed them, and gestured to some of the staff. There was a Tiefling who gave them VIP lanyards and instructions to wait after the show. This was news to Sno.

“Pretty bird,” said Lucretia.

Davenport introduced the bird as Vina, and told all about how she was bred in captivity to help save her entire species. As well as, “Potty poo!” Vina could say, “Awesome,” and, “Wanna seed.” She was still a baby. Others of her kind could carry on prompted conversations.

Vina’s best trick was staying still and letting so many kids - including Lucretia - touch her vibrant feathers.

The show itself was amazing. Groups of twenty learned about animals they hadn’t known existed before, either from Davenport or some of the creatures’ handlers. They even had a swamp dragon named Errol who could follow a few commands for a nugget of sulphur.

Lucretia did not want to touch the little python, no matter how safe everyone said it was. She shrank away from it when Sno had it in her hands, so she handed it back and let the other kids have a go. The followup, including more hugs and purring, was a small monkey in a diaper who liked to braid long hair.

That one was a crowd favourite, and Davenport continued his lecture with a monkey giving him a plait.

It seemed like mere minutes, but the show was over and Sno waited with Lucretia for the others to file out.

Davenport was left alone with them. No animals to talk about. No rehearsed tricks to prompt. He sat where Lucretia could see him and said, “Hi, Lu-lu-lucretia. I know it’s a li-little strange to to to to hear me talk like this but… well… I used to ha-have trouble ta-talking too, I still do, some-sometimes.”

Lucretia voluntarily left Sno’s arms, and put her hand in Davenport’s outstretched one. “I don’t like to talk,” she said, barely above a whisper. “People wanna know everything. When I don’t talk, they stop asking.”

Sno knew better than to jump around cheering, despite the breakthrough moment. This was absolute proof that Lucretia’s language centers were just fine, thank you. As it was, she held as still as a stone and barely breathed.

“When I g-got your letter, I did some homework,” said Davenport. “It was-wasn’t ni-ni-nice, what happened. I can un-understand why you were sca-sca-scared of- of- of answering questions. You- you- you know the- the dangerous part is over, bu-but you just can’t… you can’t let g-go of the ha-ha-habit.”

She nodded.

“I have a sta-stammer. It kept me quiet for- for a long time,” he breathed a laugh. “They-they-they used to call me the-the Wordless One in school. And one day… Some-something incredible ha-happened.”

Lucretia was entranced. “What happened?”

“A re-representative from- from the local zoo came by with a- with a Pangolin. They- they were there to- to- to teach the kids about pres-preservation efforts and why zoos were- were important. They didn’t get to- to talk that day. They just asked one- one question. ‘Does anyone know what this is’.“

“You knew,” said Lucretia, eyes twinkling.

“I infodumped. The-the amazing thing? When I’m ta-talking about animals, I don’t- I don’t stammer. It’s like… I’m home. Safer than home. When I- when I have an animal nearby I– It’s like someone hit a swi-switch.”

Lucretia nodded. She could see the difference in Davenport with animals and Davenport without. “I don’t have a switch.”

“Lots of people do-don’t,” he agreed. “Lots of people ha-have to- have to find the-their own way. There- there’s no map, there’s no guy-guide, no- no- no compass. You, Mi-miss Lucretia… are your- your- your own trailblazer. I be- believe you can find a way out of- out of your habit.”

Lucretia said, “I’ll try,” and, “Thank you, sir.”

Two weeks later, and her school was complaining that she wouldn’t stop talking.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 1]

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The greatest news of Lucas’ life was that they were making a movie based on Fires in Elfington. The worst news, when it arrived three months later, was that they were making it all live action.

There were several reasons not to do things like that. For a start, the casting was generally off from the animated originals, in more than merely possessing internal organs and working musculature. In this case, the producers chose an actress to play Syn’amon who was… decidedly more curvaceous than the ectomorphic animated model and her real-life counterpart - Officer Snocoun Ton of the Neverwinter Police Department.

Worse - they whitewashed as much as they could about literally everyone in the entire cast. Everyone was, where possible, as pale as possible. They cast a pale green, buxom Sea Elf as Syn’amon instead of getting a Beach Elf, and there were people who could tell the difference. They lightened up the Mischief Twins’ skin tones to paper-bag brown, and generally miscast the entire thing.

Lucas was in a foul mood by the time he got to the premier. Therefore, seeing a buxom Sea Elf parading around in a sexier version of Syn’amon’s default outfit was like a red flag to a bull. He was an important person in the STEM fields, damnit. He came here as a representative of the Fires fandom. He shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of misrepresentation.

“Hey, do you know who wrote the original episodes of Fires in Elfington, and what inspired them to do it?” he said.

The Sea Elf in costume was busy doing T&A poses for the flickering cameras.

“Do you know how many episodes that outfit featured in and why they were worn?” he demanded.

Still not a thing. The woman wrapped her arm around him and feigned a swoon.

“How about how many episodes were commissioned for the third extended season?” he snapped. “Do you know anything about Fires in Elfington like at all?”

Someone in Mue Sakka costume came out of the crowd. It was scary accurate and faithful to the anime. “Shiringami Tatonaka, a news story about Officer Snocoun Ton rescuing the young lady who’s now her daughter; thirty-seven in the original run and two hundred in the extended series; and twenty-five. Are you done geek checking my spouse now?”

The woman in costume said, “Dude, this is just my day job, okay? I didn’t need to pass a test to wear an outfit. Gods…” she let him go and posed with her wife. She shouted so the crowd could hear her. “This lovely woman made my outfit from scratch, using the fifty seconds of clear footage available in the first teaser. Isn’t she amazing? Take a bow, babe.”

Lucas raged. “That outfit isn’t at all true to the original anime! It’s an affront to the fandom! Productions like that and outfits like this should be banned from all gatherings! It isn’t fair to Tatonaka-san!”

The wife, a mousy brunette, wheeled on him. “It’s people like you who are an affront to fandom! Do you know how long it takes to draft a pattern from fifty seconds of footage? The number of times I had to go back and forth on the freeze-frames to take detailed notes? The best guesses I had to take? How about how long it takes to source material that looks and acts like the finished costume, before it’s sewn? How about how many stitches does it take to fake the veins and structure inside a skeleton leaf? Do you know what kind of wadding gives the right flexibility and resilience whilst also not developing a wrinkle memory? Do you know any of that, mister smarty-pants?”

A couple done up as the Mischief Twins were capering about in the background, barely visible in his peripheral vision. He didn’t care about them. He cared about his rights as the keeper of trivia. “I bet you don’t even know how many frames were involved in the famous science scene.”

“Foreground, background, or by plane?” challenged the wife. “Even if I told you, you’d claim I memorised it to impress you. News flash, assmunch, I’m actually KnowHaver98 on your precious forum. I curate your precious trivia archives. And finally, nobody actually wants your attention, you greasy unwashed nerd.”

The woman playing Syn’amon pointed up, showing him that the Mischief Twins had created a gigantic, illusory sign above his head. It said, World’s Most Obnoxious Jackass, in bright, pink letters.

Lucas stormed away from that scene, retreating to the relative safety of the local Whinging Fanboy Corner, where a pocket echo chamber soothed his frazzled ego.

“Who does she think she is, parading around in that thing like a slut,” he grumbled.

“Uh. Sno’s mom?” said one of the crew.

Wait. What?

“You didn’t know that?” said a lieutenant. “You didn’t know that?”

“Man. I thought you knew everything about Fires in Elfington…”

“What a traitor.”

Wow. That had to be rock bottom. Kicked out of his own group of loyal detail addicts. He staggered away from that scene, ordered a stiff drink, and took solace in the numbing effects of alcohol.

The glowing sign dissolved, eventually, and Lucas slunk into his appointed seat, prepared for the worst.

He got… something remarkably good. All the nasty rumours about the movie were just that. Big ol’ sacks of foul-smelling air. He found himself actually enjoying it, since the studio really did hire the best actors for the roles.

*

The fans still on his side by the time his take-down finished going viral were actually impressed with his rationality in his critique. There were less of them by the time he posted an introspective blog entry entitled, Are there any true fans? His answer was a lengthy diatribe on how it depended on how you counted it.

Lucas stayed very quiet in the fandom. He’d been deposed by the echo chamber crew, and watched with distant eyes as that particular aspect of the fandom imploded from its own toxicity. Meanwhile, people were loving the movies, live action regardless. They were finding out all the cool things that roped him into the fandom and -he had to admit- several hundred Syn’amon/Original Male Character fanfics.

When he came crawling back to Firefaire, he did so in a staid ancient Humanman outfit he’d made himself. From scratch. He’d taught himself after he realised that Makarune Ton was a very impressive seamstress. Her tutorials were right on the button, too.

That was where he met… her.

She was more or less an average nerd. Pasty, slightly doughy, and seeming unfit. She did, however, have a pretty darn accurate costume for Peppakorn, a background Elf who maybe had three total minutes of screen time in any version of Fires in Elfington. He politely asked for a photo and she surprised the pants off him by popping an accurate -and uncomfortable- pose.

They talked shop about costume creation and fanfic for seeming hours. Losing track of time, space, and any other relative dimensions. For the first time in his life, he made a friend of the female persuasion.

Her name was Aurie Kenisson, and she taught yoga for a living. She’d loved the show from the instant Tatonaka-san had blogged about the possibility and she had dived straight into Elven history to find out if it was plausible.

There were a few historical figures who could have been the real-life Syn’amon, but it was more likely that this was a result of synchronicity than any actual research. Many of the records were indistinct about who did what where and when. It was Elven. All descriptors were verbs, so it was hard to translate into Common.

Lucas was impressed as hell that she’d learned Elven just to verify her research. She was dedicated. He had to admire that.

It took him quite a while to realise he had fallen in love. Ten, twenty years ago? He’d have dismissed her, ignored her, and gone drooling over a body pillow artwork with impossible anatomy.

Things change. People change.

Lucas was glad that he was changing, too.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 0]

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There are many names for it. The paddy wagon, the come-along cart, the chunderbox… Whatever it’s named, it’s usually used to haul masses prisoners to incarceration, and its use is mandatory in City Watch pre-nuptual parties. Stag night, hen night, bachelor parties, spinster parties… they have many names too.

Sno expected the SWAT gear, and the wagon, and the blindfold. She did not expect to emerge in a sort of picnic area and what looked like giant, colourful blocks. They suited her up in some armour and safety goggles. Half the precinct’s officers were wearing blue armbands. The other half were wearing red. She had a red armband.

Avi had a red one, too. It was the lower ranks against the higher brass. Including their captain.

Then he handed her a paintball gun and they all filed onto the range with the colourful blocks.

“You’re telling me that we’re to shoot at our commanding officer?” she said, seemingly appalled. “Avi, I couldn’t possibly - SNEAK ATTACK!” Pow, pow pow!

The games were on. They were really more fun than they should have been.

The only worrying part was the gigantic cake lurking incongruously near the range. In plain view like the Eiffel Tower was in plain view in Paris. Avi had to have something planned, but she knew it wouldn’t happen until they had all finished shelling the living piss out of the senior brass.

It was more fun than should have been legal, and the Chief was all colours of the rainbow when they all staggered off the range to crack some cold ones.

Sno wasn’t far behind the rainbow parade, having got as good as she gave, but now that the safety goggles were off, her eyes kept drifting back towards the gigantic, fake cake.

Following that, and a wash and a change of clothes, it was back in the wagon for another blindfolded trip to somewhere far more intimate, with friends and family. Or so Avi said.

“I know you have something planned with that cake, Burnsides,” she managed, losing track of the turns they took. “It didn’t pop off at the range… what’s going on?”

Avi, annoyingly, said, “Spoilers.”

Sno stewed on that for all of five minutes before she said, “This is about the stunt I pulled for yours, isn’t it?”

“Spoilers…” This time, there was a breathy giggle underneath the noise of the engines.

The door opened to Koko in white tie and tails, “M’lady, this way to the extravaganza…” He offered his elbow and handed her down out of the wagon as if he were handing royalty out of their armoured car. He was the very image of picture perfect grace and style.

The facade of the place he was leading her into had a palatial feel, and there were other friends and family playing the roles of entourage for this part of her journey. Lulu became her personal assistant, and Sno was sure she spotted her Mom as one of the makeover assistants, but it was hard to tell because they kept blinding her with cucumber slices.

On one hand, the spa and makeover sesh was exactly what she needed to unwind after the looming cake on the range. On the other hand, she still had no idea what the hell Burnsides was up to.

They dressed her up in the frilliest, fanciest, faberge meringue of a Princess Dress, replete with enough bling to sink a barge. Gave her a few lessons on how to behave like a Princess, including how to walk in unfamiliar heels. Then they turned her into the Grand Banquet Hall for the “Suitor’s Ball.”

There were definitely a few Fantasy Chippendales in the mix. Orc, Dragonborn, Humanman, Elf, Tiefling… even an Aarakocra. All civil as hell when she danced to the orchestra’s tune. Yet, lurking in a corner off to the side of the buffet… there was that damned fake cake again. Sticking out like a baboon’s buttocks. Taunting her.

She almost didn’t notice Mukaara taking her hand.

“It’s not a proper Princess Experience without your Prince, right?” he said.

Well. At least he was going to share in the mortification when the inevitable happened. “You are my best nerd,” she whispered. “Where’s Mom and her -uh- ‘work friends’?”

“Being paparazzi?”

Utter confusion. “What? All of them?”

“Yahuh.”

Suspicion. “Where’s Burnsides?”

“Dancing with his grandkid on his feet. Why?”

“See the cake on your ten?”

Mukaara looked. “Oh shit. This is about the thing with the nuns, right?”

“Yeah. I thought he’d forgiven me, but… yeah.”

It was a mostly enjoyable night, if it wasn’t for that fucking cake, it would have been perfect. The glitter, the glamour, the chance to be as girly as she liked without judgement… Sno loved it.

She just couldn’t forget about the cake, though.

Burnsides, when she could catch a glance at him - or a murder glare at him - was loving every inch of the evening.

All good things still came to an end, with Magnus dragging Mukaara off for an overdue bucks’ night, and Sno catching a pumpkin-shaped carriage all the way back to her flat with an evilly-smirking partner in the other seat.

“Okay, Burnsides. What the fuck?”

“Revenge,” he said. “I had you dreading that cake all night, didn’t I?”

“Who was in there?”

“Nobody. It’s empty. A dummy. A blank.”

“YOU GOT ME ANXIOUS OVER A FUCKING BLANK CAKE?”

He laughed. “Revenge served cold, Nono-dear.”

“You know I’m gonna owe you big time for that.”

“True, but you can’t fault the artistry of it.”

She had to admit. He had her on that one. “This wedding better go off without a snag. And without a certain cake.”

“Aw, but Barry was gonna jump out of it for the Reception…”

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 1]

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[AN: I can certainly try]

Every day, Barclay had a good reason to curse the name of Ned Fuckin’ Chicane. That good reason was Agent “up your ass” Stern. Hanging out at the lodge, investigating things. Asking questions. Being underfoot.

“What does everyone do around here?”

(Try to pretend to have everyday lives.)

“What’s with the menu? Is it normal to have this much variety?”

(So many Sylphs had special diets, it was easier just to have those options available.)

“Man, I love those springs. I feel so energised whenever I’ve used them. What’s the secret?”

(Barclay made up some bullshit about trace minerals.)

So, in desperation, Barclay was taking Agent Stern around Kepler for a sightseeing spree. The active waterparks, the inactive ones where some of the kids went to skate. The local all-in-one takeout place. The general store. The stores that weren’t so general and were -generally- a place for the local hobbyists to keep their completed works.

And, of course, the Cryptonomica.

Barclay knew damn well that the “unedited footage” in the Cryptonomica - available for a fee - was heavily edited to remove any footage that could be plausibly used forensically. Kirby had added digital ‘snow’ to the cuts so that they looked like something hit the camera and caused a flaw.

Stern watched it four times.

Barclay couldn’t stand to watch it once. He hated being photographed even with his Seeming on. Being caught as Bigfoot, even with Ned’s shaky photography, was worse than excruciatingly embarrassing. Worse, there was only so much time he could spend staring at all of Chicane’s fake bullshit exhibits.

Stern finally emerged. “Amazing. Amazing. That has to be the best footage I’ve ever seen.”

Barclay kept his voice low. “You know it’s all fake, right?”

Stern frowned. “I know most Bigfoot films are faked,” he allowed. “This is the most realistic footage I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, costumes are amazing, these days. Ned’s quite the artist. Look at this,” he pointed to the mummified remnants of some mythical creature in a case. There were no other rubes around, but he still kept his voice to a whisper. “Looks real, right?”

“It is impressive…”

“Chicken bones, A little plaster. A lot of toilet paper, and some latex. Paint and low light does the rest. I can show you how to make ‘em.” It was a good thing he knew, too. He could make a very convincing copy.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I can even show you how he turned a cheap-ass Star Wars costume into that realistic-looking Sasquatch you were just drooling over.”

That was a beginning of something interesting. Something… Barclay might have regretted if he’d had the foresight to see it.

Barclay had a little workshop in an out-of-the-way space off the beaten path of Kepler proper. In it, he had all sorts of things that the old team had used to use for disguises and suchlike. He had absorbed most of the skills by osmosis and, in a pinch, could claim that it had been a few years since he’d applied those skills.

He never anticipated Stern having fun with it.

There were two projects, to begin with. The Sasquatch from Wookie, and the Mummified Thing. They were weeks at it. Adding convincing fur to the wookie costume, retooling the feet and adding extra internal structure to add height.

The Mummified Thing involved gathering or making interesting bones, and destroying any joints that might give the game away. Building up the layers of fake anatomy had them pressing their heads together over the fine details and finding things to laugh about.

He never expected to bond with the man. He certainly hadn’t expected to fall, ever so slowly, in love.

Every day, Barclay had good reason to bless the name of Ned Fuckin’ Chicane…

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 1]

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