Challenge #00967-B236: STEVEN!

callmegallifreya - I hope you like Steven Universe fluff.

Challenge #00966-B235: Consult the Tea

callmegallifreya wanted more about The Captain’s Cup, and more ze gets :3

Challenge #00962-B233: Where Have All the Dinos Gone?

callmegallifreya - I had fun with this one.

justshowerthoughts - it is now a thing. Grats.

Challenge #00962-B231: Just Like Bricks Don't

recklessprudence - thanks for that one :D

I love getting in references to HHGTTG

Challenge #00957-B226: Obligatory Baby Adventure

http://outofcontextdnd.tumblr.com/post/127351161618

“Dwarven baby sleeps like anvil. Wait shit, that is anvil. Where is baby?”

Hroogar the Mighty removed the swaddling to make certain. Yes. It was the actual anvil that she used for the head of her war-hammer. The handle lay innocently right next to Nagdar the Sorcerer’s staff, where it would get looked over by the casual eye.

Hroogar breathed deeply and slowly, lest she fly into a berserker rage and lay waste to everything she could see. For all she knew, that qualification also included the infant dwarven scion currently in their alleged care.

Think.

Look.

Take stock.

Nagdar was doing his meditation, doubtless preparing explosive runes. Elwyn the Bard was noodling some meditation music on her lyre. Which Hroogar was secretly glad of, for a change. It kept her mind together. Beltar was on her prayer mat, doing her daily devotion to the moon goddess.

Which left Tantethra suspicious by her absence.

Hroogar tasted the air. Finding only the slightest hint of the Rogue’s scent. Of course. Tantethra used all sorts of unguents and oils to obliterate her smell. Hroogar used every inch of her barbarian instincts to find the path of not-smell and obscured footprints that marked Tantethra’s ghostlike passage.

Which lead her to a meadow where, apparently, Tantethra had taken off most of her clothes so she could cuddle the baby.

The very nearly undressed baby.

“There, now,” Tantethra cooed. “Much better, hmm? You needed a little sun for that poor, red bottom, didn’t you. I told them. Fresh, clean water and a little sunshine and skin-to-skin cuddles. It’s aaalllll you needed…”

“Warning be good, too,” rumbled Hroogar. It wasn’t often that she got the drop on Tantethra, so she enjoyed the moment.

“What’s the point of warning you?” Tantethra pretended to be entirely un-bothered. The effort lacked much. “You’d only stop me.”

“You wanting cuddles, you say.”

“I did. You said no.”

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Challenge #00956-B225: Convoluted Jones

“[Name]? What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story. I have a tank.”

“I kind of noticed by the way you shelled the bad guys and then drove it through the wall, Jones. One, how the flakk did you get your hands on a pre-Shattering Terran tank, and two: how the flakk did you find live ammo for it?”

“That’s… another long story. Better told inside. It’s noisy, but there’s headsets. And you can take over from the AI, I had to code it in a hurry.”

“Because…?” Prompted Valance.

“That’s… um…”

Valance joined in with the chorus, “A long story. Right.” She raised her voice to Dressing Down Noobs level and hollered, “ALL RIGHT YOU LOT WE HAVE OURSELVES A SURPRISE RESCUE! PILE IN, PILE IN, PILE IN!”

Jones squeezed herself out of the way so Valance’s troops could hustle in as fast as possible. Valance paused long enough to high-five Jones on her way in. “I thought you were assigned to Provencia?”

“I was. Um. But -er…”

“Long story. Right. Let’s show these bastards what we’ve got.”

“I think they might be able to guess, sir.”

It was the kind of battle that goes down in both the history and the law books. And it was also the kind of battle that got Espers with JOAT training banned by the Qol’qhevva Convention.

Jones, and the people she had a love bond with, were sort of glad for the early retirement.

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Challenge #00951-B220: Pacifying Maneuvres

We haven’t checked other species yet, but it seems to be almost universal in humans that we can’t help but at least smile, and often begin laughing, when we see a giggly baby.

The Havenworlders retreated behind their safety shields as various human factions began raising their voices.

Shayde, somehow, broke out a gigantic cup of popcorn. She masticated whilst grinning.

Someone, somewhere, pressed a brightly-coloured button.

Starting at the main viewer, every screen in the Ambassadorial Meet became dominated by one image. That of a cooing, smiling human infant. Presently, the child began to chortle.

The effect was instant. Humans all over the Ambassadorial Meet smirked. Chuckled. Giggled.

The tension in the room drained so rapidly that the atmospheric pressure changed. Now the humans - even Shayde - were smiling and laughing and making small squeaking noises.

Calming music and descending flowers replaced the giggling baby. “This has been a group emotion mediation. Please approach your issues calmly.”

Shayde offered Rael some of the popcorn. “And here am I thinkin’ it was goin’ tae be like the UN all over again. Galactics are bloody spoilsports…”

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Challenge #00949-B218: To Boldly Bed…

Turns out humans can interbreed with almost any cogniscient species and produce viable offspring. This breaks several laws of physics, logic, and basic biology. At this point the rest of the galaxy just throws its hand up in defeat and stops trying to figure out how they do the things they do.

[AN: I have had it since Amalgam’s inception that Humans can’t spread their genes around the cosmos like that. Ergo, this has to be Star Trek]

Admiral Pavel Checkov took the roll before starting his lectures. This year, the F’s were taking up a majority of his time.

“Fitzkirk, Elaine,” a half-betazoid raised her hand. “Fitzkirk, Fukari,” a half-orion. “Fitzkirk, Glii,” a half-horta.

How the flying hell had his old captain managed that one?

After that particular lecture (featuring a significant percentage of Fitzkirks) Pavel meandered over to the central offices for Starfleet Medical and asked them how the fuck humans could breed with anything capable of communicating lust.

Starfleet Medical had been working on it since the first dozen Fitzkirks turned up. And would continue to work on for centuries.

One of the universal anomalies, it seemed.

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Challenge #00948-B217: Death Be Not Proud

The Tale of the Good Necromancer

[AN: Have to do a rewrite since my internet is a sack of suck and I forgot to save the text when I refreshed the edit screen. Fuck my life.]

The necromancer who called herself Corviddia wore black, of course. Because some things about necromancy can not be avoided. But she made sure it was a neat and respectable black. Austere without being severe. Dark without being menacing. She wore ribbon flowers on her hat and wound a rainbow of ribbons around her mage’s staff.

Death follows necromancers. Everyone knows this. It’s why you never see one riding a living animal. Sure, some can and do choose to ride skeletal steeds, but its never comfortable and it always smells. Therefore, when she can not obtain a cart or a carriage, she walks.

And yet, Corviddia insists she can heal. People are glad to see her and the peculiar, grey porcelain doll she carries with her. It only has eyes and a mouth. And is dressed in a simple shift. Few have been brave enough to ask her what it is for. Most of the time, it sits or lies around when she is working on the very ill.

When it comes to ‘kill or cure’, Corviddia knows her stuff.

Goodie Wainwright was rather glad it had come out as ‘cure’ this time, and fussed over tea. She could have easily used a necromancer months ago, when Millie’s twin brother had been found in the duck pond.

Far too late, now.

“I don’t understand,“ she said, pouring hot water very carefully into her Best Teapot. “Necromancy’s death magic. You kill things.”

Corviddia was wan and weak from her work, so she whispered. As always, the doll sat next to her. “I enhance the death present in all life. Mostly, when I choose to.” Her fingers trembled a little as they wrapped around the cup.

“Aye. I know. So how is it that Millie is alive and well and sleeping off consumption?”

Corviddia sipped her tea. Added some honey and stirred it in. The bell-like ring of teaspoon against china was the only sound. “Consumption is caused by unimaginably tiny life,” she said. “Hosts of them could exist on a pin-prick.”

Goodie Wainwright turned to stare in horror at her sewing basket.

“No. They don’t really live there,” a soft chuckle. “I’m trying to give you a sense of scale.” Sip. Sigh. “And if hosts can live on a pinprick, then there is no word for the number that was living in your Millie. More than millions.”

“I’m havin’ a hard time thinking beyond hundreds, beggin’ your pardon.”

Corviddia nodded. “I brought death to all of them. All of their hundreds of hosts. And I directed their corpses into her bowels. She will have a rough night on the privy, but that will be the end of it.”

“Don’t your kind feed off death?”

“Some choose to. That way lies corruption… at least… the way you mean it. All life feeds off death. Some are just more… direct.” Corviddia spared a smile, “And besides, bacteria deaths taste awful.”

This was supposed to be a joke. Goodie Wainwright plucked up a smile and the ghost of a laugh.

Corviddia sipped her tea again and talked to apparently thin air. “Yes, I know you want to talk. Use the doll. That’s what it’s there for.”

The doll, apparently slumbering in the neighbouring chair, raised its head and opened its eyes. Its previously featureless face now looked like Ardie.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen, Ama. I only wanted to get a skater beetle ‘cause it was so pretty. I didn’t know the stones were all over yuck. I should’a stayed out of it. I didn’t wanna make you cry.”

Tears stung her eyes. Flooded her face. Goodie Wainwright covered her mouth to keep herself from bawling anew. “…oh my baby…” she whimpered through her fingers. “…i know, sweetie. I know…”

“Millie can hear me, so I’m helping her stay out of trouble,” said the doll with Ardie’s voice. “I love you, Ama.” The doll sagged and closed its eyes. It was just a grey, porcelain doll again.

“…come back?” pleaded Goodie Wainwright.

“Only the strongest of souls can wear a deathclay golem full time,” said Corviddia. “Even then, it is difficult to move and perform simple tasks. You’ve doubtless heard of the Everlasting King?”

Otherwise known as the King of Nothing. So selfish and spiteful that he refused to give his kingdom to anyone and ruled it from a clay body that had been filled with his bones. His kingdom had since been abandoned and all he had left was a crumbling ruin of a castle and his granite throne.

“You could make Ardie a body of corn husks and a drop of your blood. Or Millie’s. It would need constant maintenance, but you would see and hear him again. And he would never be as strong as he once was.”

“We don’t grow corn. Soil’s bad for it.”

Corviddia put her tea down so she could rummage in her pack. She brought out a porcelain spoon, of the same grey matter as the doll. She put it down on the table. “This will be easier for him He can point it, or make it tap.”

The spoon obeyed, spinning in place. Then it tapped out Ardie’s knock.

“One tap for yes, twice for no. And you can point the handle in any way you want your Ama to look,” said Corviddia.

Ardie spun the handle to point to Millie and tapped once.

Millie had woken up. “Ama? You know about Ardie, now? Why I didn’t cry?”

“Aye,” said Goodie Wainwright. “I dare say we’ll all know about Ardie before long.”

Ardie made the spoon rock and dance on the table.

“He’s glad,” translated Millie.

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Let Sleeping Beauties Lie…

The cursed princess in the castle tower was asleep for a very good reason.  The people of her kingdom were only safe during the day… and even then just barely.

(#00947-B216)

Prince Philip wasn’t exactly inclined to listen to good advice. As a child he ate sweets before dinnertime, and crept off to play with the faeries in the wood.

The fae didn’t want him, which possibly tells you all you never needed to know about Prince Philip.

Now that he is grown, though, he pays specific attention to the don’ts that people tell him. Just so he can do them and seem brave for surviving. Things like, Don’t go into the swamp, or, Don’t seek out the menacing beast, had increased his reputation as a mighty warrior.

Don’t go to the Empty Kingdom…

He had to find it, first. One hundred years of neglect had practically erased it from the map. Yet there were still neglected roads to a place nobody went.

Don’t seek out the castle…

The houses were remarkably preserved, despite the fact that thorny briars choked out every other form of life. Philip had long since swapped his sword for a sturdy, robust axe. Long since turned his horse loose. A mighty war steed did him no good in a kingdom of weeds.

He had plenty of fuel for his fires, and meals of mushrooms and rabbit after he devoured the contents of his saddle bags. And lots of exercise. And mocking-birds for company.

The old stories told of a magnificent treasure inside the castle. Of a miraculously-preserved maiden. And Philip had to see if it was true.

Don’t step inside…

The weeds were not inside. Everything was perfectly preserved. Well. Almost everything. Banquets on the tables had long since rotted. Rats made their nests in the skeletons of dogs. Everything that the vermin could reach… they had. There was a definite tide-line of decay around the ground floor.

Don’t climb the towers…

The castle was magnificent, in its heyday. Stained glass decorated the windows. The walls were faced in marble, inlaid with gold and ivory. Were he more avaricious, he would have spent many happy hours levering wealth out of the very walls.

But Philip had his mind on another prize.

Don’t seek the Princess…

Philip stepped over human bones as he approached her bed. Her room, apart from the skeletal carpet, was fabulous. Lined with jewels. Hung with tapestries. Every window full of stained glass pictures. And old, old story.

A maiden with hair of gold and red, rosy lips. A witch. A curse. And waiting… waiting for a kiss.

All these other bones had to be others who had failed before.

Do not kiss her…

Her hair was, indeed, gold. Her lips, rosy red. Her skin like alabaster. Her eyes were closed and her chest gently rose and fell in the rhythm of solid slumber.

Philip did not notice that his axe fell into a rusting pile of axes and swords by her bed. He had eyes only on her face.

So lovely. So beautiful.

She had to be his.

Philip sat by her and leaned into her lips. Felt her cold flesh quicken and move beneath him. Felt her hands against his arms. Welcoming.

Her eyes were not sea-blue. They were red. Their slit pupils widened as she opened them.

And sharp fangs bit into his lips and tongue.

Sharp fingers sank into his arms.

Too late, he tried to wriggle free. Tried to get loose to reach his axe. Tried to grope for the blades he had foolishly left outside her door.

She would never be his. He was hers.

Her serpentine tongue choked off his air as she drank up his blood. He was dimly aware of her chewing his flesh from his bones as his mind fled from pain and his life fled his body.

Sharp talons tore away his armor and raiment. Scattered it to the corners with the armor and sad scraps of others who had not listened to the story. And in hours… less than hours… his bones would join the carpet of men who felt that they could possess her.

There was a reason why the Empty Kingdom was so empty. Why the briars and thorns grew so thickly. Why nothing alive went upstairs and why, if it did, it never came down again.

She is roaming, now. Wandering her empty kingdom and looking for more flesh. Do not look for her. Do not sleep with your windows open. Do not leave your door unbarred.

She is hungry.

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