aliyn_raven: (Default)
Small fanfic stories about "Baldur's Gate 3", written during the first playthrough to calm down my own emotions.
Gen, philosophy, politics, a little romance without eroticism.
The game is not finished yet, so it will be continued.
Wyll fans should not read this! Tav is not an angel! There is a slash. The rest is at your own risk.

— 2 —

"I'm curious about one thing," Astarion said thoughtfully. "If this old junk is really a great and powerful wizard, why couldn't he get food for himself? He hunted a rabbit and two birds and sat hungry."
"Like you can cook," Gale grumbled, annoyed that no one in the camp treated his teacher with respect. "Do you even know what a 'kitchen' is, blueblood?"
"A well-bred nobleman, even a duke, always prepares the main course himself for an honoured guest." Astarion looked at Will. "Yes, Blade of the Frontier?"
"Daddy was not born into the nobility, but was given the title for his heroic deeds. And he took lessons from the palace cook so as not to be ashamed, because he only knew how to cook scrambled eggs with sausage. But even as a boy he could roast his prey on a bonfire."
Gale frowned. And Karlach snorted:
"A lazy, stupid scammer who likes to eat for free. I wouldn't trust a wizard like that to bewitch even old boots."
And she jabbed her finger into Tav's chest.
"You said it was his grandpa!"
"I didn't think you'd heard our conversation," Tav replied. "I didn't want to bother you."
"Soldier, I've been hunting devils for so many years that now I can hear a butterfly flying a kilometre away from me. And if I was sure that this swindler was not Gale's family, he would have lost his head immediately. And with the badass grandpa, you'd have to ask Gale first."
"He's not badass!" Gale was indignant again. "This is my friend and teacher, the most powerful and the wisest!"
"And he betrayed you," Lei'zel typed. "A friend would not come to demand your death, but to advise how to avoid such a fate."
"And if Mystra's neck had to be twisted for it," Tav added, "the friend would not hesitate."
"That's very true, soldier," Karlach smiled with satisfaction.
"Yes," Lae'zel snapped. "A true goddess must distinguish useful adepts from mediocrity and appreciate them. And for explosions, there are too many goblins and goblin-like creatures. If they die for the Absolute, they will also die against she."
"I told you right away, Gale," Karlach added, "it's not a goddess, it's shit. As you can see, I am not the only one who understands this."
To Gale's chagrin, no one was going to admire his selfless sacrifice. They only scolded the fool and demanded that the Mystra be sent to places Gale had never even heard of in the Yawning Portal of Waterdeep. Wyll and Shadowheart also added their no less malicious advice.
Only Astarion, strangely enough, listened in silence and did not, as usual, even begin to mock Tav's habit of meddling in other people's affairs.
And Tav was just looking somewhere in his thoughts, barely perceptibly smiling at them.
"When I become the Absolute, this Mystra will explode by herself. And then I will resurrect her, and she will explode again. No one dares touch those who belong to me."
"My cake," Astarion whispered in his ear. "I can hear the master's thoughts better than others. And yours are so exciting... Will you show me your power tonight?"
Astarion's heart fluttered. Tav could refuse. The only one in the world who could. Tav was not yet under Astarion's love spell, but he still had many who wanted to warm his bed for truly sweet caresses—Tav proved to be the most wonderful lover. And in a strange way, it all fascinated Astarion himself. And if you add Tava's goal... It became more and more of a trap for the elf-vampire.But Astarion had no intention of giving up. It is not yet known who will win!
And gently, imperceptibly to others, he kissed Tava's ear. And measured, waiting for an answer.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60267364
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Small fanfic stories about "Baldur's Gate 3", written during the first playthrough to calm down my own emotions.
Gen, philosophy, politics, a little romance without eroticism.
The game is not finished yet, so it will be continued.
Wyll fans should not read this! Tav is not an angel! There is a slash. The rest is at your own risk.

— 1 —

"Whoever this Absolute is, but first of all, she's a complete fool." Tav roasted pieces of meat and tomato strung on a thin twig over the fire. They took a short rest not far from the road.
"Why?" Gale wondered.
The Absolute scared him. But at the same time, she beckoned with huge magic.
Lae'zel snorted disdainfully.
"She got in touch with the Mind Flayers. Do you not understand yourself?"
Tav shook his head.
"No. This is not a reason, but a consequence. She has no allies other than Mind Flayers and goblins because she's a fool. And Absolute is a fool because she wants to turn everyone into an obedient doll without their own will. This means that she will be forced to do everything herself, from interstate agreements to cleaning cesspools in cities. A wise manager delegated things to interpretive subordinates and gave them full freedom to decide everything according to the situation. "Go to that place, act on the situations, and bring me the prize." The role of the ruler is to set the direction, but not to rush into business. And to observe how the path to the goal changes due to changing circumstances. The world is constantly changing, so a leader is needed to adjust the routes. And the fool Absolute acts as if the world is static. She tries to make it like that, but it's impossible."
Gale looked at Tav in surprise, and Lae'zel nodded.
"Yes. Vlaakith gives an order, but how it is carried out is up to the Githyankis themselves. So the sooner we get rid of the tadpole, the better. Who knows when this abomination will awaken and turn us into Mind Flayers and slaves of the Absolute? We are lucky that our tadpoles are sleeping, but it will not last forever."
Astarion was silent. It would be unwise to draw attention to himself now. He was forced to reveal himself as a vampire last night and now remains in the group only through the patronage of Tav, whom he has convinced of his usefulness. But if the band insists, Tav will banish Astarion, and that means death. Astarion will not be able to hide from his former master-kidnapper alone—he stole once; he will steal again. And then death will be better for him than punishment from Cazador. Astarion doesn't have the strength to fight back, and who knows if he ever will? There is no reason to even dream of a second escape, because the first one was only successful because of a lucky accident. The second time, fate will not be so generous. And Astarion, as a born nobleman, is not very good at earning money either, but he did not want to live with beggars in flophouses or collect clothes in donation boxes near temples.
Therefore, it is necessary to conquer this group, not the best but still very useful, in which Astarion suddenly found himself.
But it takes time to manipulate the whole band, not just Tav.
And since Tav is the decision-maker here, it is necessary to conquer him first of all. Sex is a sure-fire tool, and there is no one better at it than Astarion. Tav has already agreed to receive compensation from Astarion for the bite in the form of sex. And after the next night, he will be like wax in Astarion's fingers, wanting more and more caresses from him.
Maybe.
There was something strange about Tava. An otherness that made him unlike anyone Astarion had ever known.
And it was exciting. For once, sex for profit will be pleasant. Many years ago, when Astarion sought the position of Magistrate, things were much worse with influential lovers and mistresses. If it weren't for the entertainment in the brothels, it would be completely unbearable.
And Tav... At that time, Astarion would have seduced him simply for his own pleasure—even when he had already become a magistrate, and people themselves began to try to pay him not only with gold but also with sex.
"It follows from this," said Tav meanwhile, "that the Absolute herself has long since turned into a toy in the hands of the courtiers. But they are also just as stupid; otherwise, they would not have tried to choose the same path. Unless they have bet on their band of those who don't have a tadpole. A flock of shepherds and brainless sheep. It doesn't work either, because for a sweet life, managers still need people to wash wool, spin, and sell clothes. And those who will buy it. The case of Absolute is doomed just like her puppeteer. But it won't be tomorrow. We run a high risk of not living to see it. And at the same time, we have a chance to get huge opportunities and make life much better for ourselves than it was. If we are careful and prudent."
"Nothing useful can come from Mind Flayers!" cried Lae'zel. "This is disgusting! We must get rid of all this!"
"I said nothing of the Mind Flayers or the Absolute. I'm only talking about the power that these fools have and use ineptly. Power itself is neither good nor evil. It doesn't even have its own will. It's just a thing that anyone can take. Think how useful and important you will be to your queen and how she will reward and promote you when you gain more power than now. Do not answer immediately; just think without haste."
Lae'zel pouted at him like a child coaxed by her father to eat wholesome oatmeal.
"Tsk'va. I hate it when you're right!"
Astarion froze. Tav wants to become Absolute?! It's... Why not? He has already done a lot that others have not been able to do. At the very least, Astarion will get a lot of use out of it, maybe even find a way to destroy Cazador and his entire vile pack. And he will have time to escape if something goes wrong with Tav.
Therefore, Astarion needs to convince him of his loyalty. And inflame in him an unbearable thirst for Astarion's body.
Astarion was an artisan of both, long before he became a vampire. But Tav also proved to be far more difficult than high-ranking Baldurians and even Cazador, his former (okay, not quite former) kidnapper and master.
And yet Astarion refused to give up
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60267364
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по "Baldur's Gate 3", написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 6 —

Астаріон легко спокусив відразу двох Арфістів на секс. І хоча це знаходилось далеко за межами їх звичок і смаків, і вони обидва мали зацікавленість один в одному, та ще жінка була незайманою, а парубок взагалі ніколи не бажав сексу з чоловіком — Астаріон зміг їх швидко переконати. І залишити дуже задоволеними цим вчинком: вони навіть дали йому кров і прямо казали, що не проти все це повторити наступного вечора.
Коханьске мистецтво Астаріона не пошкодилось. Він, як і раніше, міг досягти чого завгодно через секс.
Добре, ні чого завгодно. Інші вміння теж потрібні: маніпулювати словами та сенсами, забалакати й обдурити. Тут Астаріон був майстерним ще у ті роки, коли добивався посаду магістрата.
І все ж секс і солодки слова були найкращою зброєю. Завжди успішною.
Але на Тава це не діяло. Як він і казав у першу їх ніч, "це тільки розвага". І розважався не лише з ним, ніскільки не цікавлячись, із ким і як розважається Астаріон.
І це дратувало. Навіть розлючувало.
Досі тільки один Казадор міг ігнорувати хитрощі та зваблення Астаріона. Та й то лише після укусу. А зробив його Казадор, коли Астаріон був майже мертвий. Хтозна, кому судилося би стати рабом, зустрить Астаріон Казадора у своєї повній силі.
Але цей клятий Тав!
Він не повірив, коли Астаріон дуже палко розповив, що несподівано для себе закохався до нього. Але не сперечався, коли Астаріон зізнався, що сам не знає, чого бажає та які почуття має до Тава. Він лише кивнув і тепло потиснув руку Астаріона, коли тот сказав, що залишитися у гурту Тава і біля самого Тава було би для нього, Астріона, приємно, і що він зацікавлений подорожувати і шукати позбавлення від пуголовка та інших халеп разом з гуртом Тава.
І нічого не змінилось. Якщо місце у ліжку Тава буде в якусь ніч вільним і з'явиться бажання у самого Астаріона, можна трохи та найдуже приємно покохатися. Чи не згадувати про це ніколи, розважаючись з купою інших. Обидва варіанти рівнозначні.
У цьому і є проблема, зрозумів Астаріон. Тав не пред'являв на нього права. Астаріон вільний піти в будь-яку мить. Але при цьому Астаріон не міг відмовити Таву в жодної просьбі. Це було сильніше за будь-який наказ Казадора.
Невизначеність зводила з розуму.
А тут ще Тав зруйнував єдину надію Астаріона дізнатися, що Казадор написав болючими шрамами у нього на спіні. І Астаріон, попри люті та обуренню, не зміг кинути Тава.
Але зараз настав час усе вирішити. Покласти край усім нерозумінням.
Астаріон урівався в намет Тава.
— Хто я для тебе? Іграшка? Попутник? Якщо ти мій володар, так відповідай за це! Якщо я вільний, не вирішуй за мене!
Тав, спокійний, як і завжди, граціозно (і, холера його з'їж, дуже сексуально!) перебирав струни лютні.
— Тебе ніхто не примушує слідувати моїм рішенням, — казав він так, ніби розмова йшла про страву для вечері. — Ти можеш піти сам. Як і раніше, я кажу, що разом боротися зручніше та більш шансів на перемогу. Але вирішувати тебе.
— Разом?! Це коли ти зламав угоду з Рафаелем, яка стосувалася мого життя, була спільна боротьба?!
— Якщо усі шляхи ведуть до Брами Балдуру, то у Браму Балдуру можна прийти різними дорогами.
— Та невже ж?! — отруйно здивувався Астаріон. — І як ти це плануєш зробити? Тільки без дешевої філософії!
— Найпростіше та очевидне — допитати труп Рафаеля, коли Юрґір вб'є його для мене.
— Що?! — Астаріон настільки вразився, що навіть сів на килим. — Ти збожеволів?
— В Райтвіні ти на власні очі бачив Коріллу, вірну шпигунку Рафаеля. І це не перший випадок, коли Рафаель надсилає її стежити за мною. — Тав глянув на Астаріона впритул. — Він не зупинитися, поки не зробить із мене свою річ. Чи перетворить на раба когось із мого гурта, щоб шантажувати мене. А може, хоче зробити рабів із нас усіх.
— Я не про це, — пробурмотів Астаріон. І вскочив. — Рафаель має надзвичайну потужність! І його сила тільки зростає от зустрічі до зустрічі.
— Ти знаєш, хто такий "ортон"?
— Диявол. Бойовий диявол, на відміну від звичайного, як той же Рафаель.
— Це не просто бойовик. Ортони — це мисливці за силою, абсолютне віддані своєму володарю. Тупі, щоб не скористалися силою сами, а віддавали господарю. Потужні та водночас спритні, щоб полювання було вдалим. Увага, питання: навіщо спраглому до могуті дияволу тримати у глухому кутку і тим більш бажати смерти для джерела своєї сили?
— У Юрґіра є причина для помсти, — зрозумів Астаріон.
— Так. І коли він своїм убогим мозком це усвідомлює, Рафаель швидко покине цей чудовий світ з усіма його вимірами.
Астаріон із сумнівом похитав головою.
— Але Рафаель все ж занадто могутній навить для ортона. Він боягуз, тому уникає бійки. Але є але.
— Тому я на цю бійку візьму Лей'зель, Карлак і Вілла. Вони люто ненавидять дияволів, тому охоче кинутися в бій. І вони найсильніші бійці у таборі. І не тільки у ньому. Юрґір буде головним тараном, ми станемо гуртом підтримки. У Рафаеля шансів не залишитися.
— Це маячня. Це неможливо! — відрізав Астаріон.
— Саме теж ти казав, коли я пішов у Підмрок.
— Ти завжди повний несподіванок. — Астаріон знову не знав, що думати. З одного боку Тав зіпсував його мрію, з іншого — саме Астаріон був найбільш імовірною жертвою для Рафаеля. І, на відміну від холерного Тава, не зміг би захиститися навіть через пуголовка.
— Стій, — Астаріон усвідомив ще одну річ. — Ти береш до бою Вілла, а не мене? Змінюєш мене на цього бовдура?
— Ниття Вілла швидко вб'є не тільки Рафаеля, а ще сотню його гостей, чи не так? — усміхнувся Тав.
— Це не час для твоїх жартів! — обурився Астаріон.
— Що ж… Якщо без жартів, то відсутність мозку та надлишок ниття не заважають Віллу бути найчудовим бойовиком. І крім цього, у настільки важкої бійки може бути ситуація, коли треба підставити когось одного під удар, щоб врятувати увесь гурт. Юрґір мені ще знадобиться. Лей'зель і Карлак тем більш потрібні. Та ще ці дівчинки мені подобаються як товарищи для мандрівок. А відсутність Вілла не помітить ніхто в ні у чому. Через це я і дозволяю такому нестерпному зануді, як Вілл, доси залишатися у таборі.
— Іноді ти лякаєш мені більш, ніж Казадор, — відступив на декілька кроків Астаріон.
— Мої ідеї працюють, — байдуже відповів Тав. — Завдяки їм ти досі живий. І вільний.
— Ні. Я не дарма кличу тебе "мій володарю".
— Немудро тягнути ліжкові слова у реальне життя.
— Це не ліжкові слова! — запальне скрикнув Астаріон. І додав тише: — Я не знаю, що ти зробив зі мною, але твоя влада значно більш той, що мав Казадор. З ним я був слухняним поріддям, маріонеткою, і ненавидів свою покірність. А ти керуєш мною так, що я боюсь залишиться без твоїх наказів!
— І шукаєш, де мене продати покоштовніше. Чи як використовувати. Продажний суддя скрізь однаковий. Але я — не твій начальник у Балдурському суді, на мене твої лестощі, зваблення та інші маніпуляцій не діють.
— Я нік… Так, це усе було. Тільки ідіот думає, що життя вищих ельфів легке та приємне. Коли розмовляєш з вищим ельфом, завжди чекай на ніж у спину. А якщо твоя родина — це дрібний незначний клан… Я хотів жити. Мені не було приємно лестити і смоктати старим продажним дурням в мерії, щоб посаду повигідніше отримати, але навіть це краще, ніж вдома чи в кланових спілках.
— Звичайно у шляхетських родинах, — помітив Тав, — чиновниками стають молодші діти, яким не отримати спадок.
— Так і було. Непотрібний зайвій рот, який повинен повернуть гроші, що були на нього витрачені в дитинстві. Вони навіть шукати мене не стали, відразу визнали мертвим! А могилу вчинили як для безрідної худоби! Цвинтар в Балдурі, не родинний склеп.
— Романтичні панночки дістають хусточки та ридають, — пирхнув Тав. — Але ти у час перебування магістратом не страждав. Навпаки. Де-не-де твої веселощі досі пам'ятають.
— Звідки ти… — почав Астаріон і зупинився. — Зентарін. Вони знайдуть будь-яке брудне нижнє, тільки гроші дай. Але вони не можуть знати, як ти змінив мене. — Він подивився на Тава, розвів руками. — Так. Усе це було. Я бачив наївного дурня, який рятує волоцюг і друїдів, панькається з нікчемними дітлахами та збирає невдах по дорозі. Легко вкусити. Легко звабити і змусити закохатися. Але… Для тебе наші ночі все ще незначна розвага, а я сам закохався.
— Брешеш, — усміхнувся Тав.
— Так. Але не знаю, хто ти є. Ти не є жертвою. Не є ціллю. Не є зупинкою на одну ніч, яку хочеться забути. Але… бодай йому, ЩО ти тоді таке?
— Твій поки що єдиний шлях до виживання та помсти, чи ні? — Тав ніби не був через це злим. Навіть спокійно грав щось затишне. — І ти мене забудеш, ледве все це закінчиться чи ти знайдеш дорогу покращ. — Він знизав плечима і казав: — Це є порядок речей у світобудові.
— А хто я для тебе? Ти не бажаєш помсти. Тебе не важко вижити на самоті. Ти завжди маєш, кого покласти в ліжко. Навіть Лей'зель стрибає туди з величезною охотою у будь-який час. Навіщо я тебе?
— Для крадіжок і шахрайств у шляху. А після всього цього… Адже вампіри ніколи не зникнуть із всесвіту, вірно? І мені потрібен хтось розумний і розважний, щоб тримати їх у міцній вузді. Ти прагнеш влади. Збіг інтересів наявний.
— Крім одного, — гірко відповів Астаріон. — Саме нас.
— Коли самотужки ти вирішиш, чого саме хочеш від нас, проблема зникне.
— Ти нестерпний! — знову розлютився Астаріон. — Ненавиджу тебе! І бажаю…
Тав відклав лютню.
— І я можу тебе поцілувати?
— Твої поцілунки ще гірше, ніж твоя кров.
Тав легенько розвів руками та знову потягнувся за лютнею. Астаріон його зупинив.
— Їх неможливо забути. Неможливо не бажати постійно. — І він сам забрав губи Тава поцілунком. І застогнав солодко, задоволено, коли Тав перехопив ініціативу, привласнив Астаріона у поцілунку.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по "Baldur's Gate 3", написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 5 —

Галсін здивовано оглянув коробку з медовими тістечками, яку протягнув йому Тав, і обережно взяв тендітну річ.
— Дякую. Це несподівано та дуже приємно. Шкодую, що не можу нічого запропонувати у відповідь. Хоча… Почекай!
Він поставив коробку на пеньок, перетворився на ведмедя й швидко зібрався високо на дерево. Незабаром спустився, тримаючи у пащі квітку орхідеї. Тримав обережно, за довгу ніжку. І перетворився на людину, витер стебло та приладив квітку до волосся Тава.
— Тобі личить цей колір, — задоволено посміхнуся Галсін.
Тав посміхнувся у відповідь.
— Дякую. Я люблю квіти. Хочу дім посеред саду, повного квітів. Я не пам'ятаю мого минулого, але є почуття, що я хотів цього завжди.
— Чесно казати, я не люблю сади. Рівні стежки, геометричні клумби. Фігури з зелені. Це неприродне.
— Я теж не люблю регулярні сади, — відповів Тав. — Вони ніби воскові. Нудні. Але є такі, що мають вільну форму. Натуральну, як у справжніх галявин.
— Насправді? — зацікавився Гасін. — Можеш розповісти про це детальніше?
— Навіть покажу. Ґейл навчив мене робити малюнки з магічного світла. І хоча все буде бузковім, ти зможеш зрозуміти більш-менш точний вигляд тих садів. Малювати я не вмію, але пуголовок покаже тебе мої спогади безпосередньо. У мене мало що залишилось, але сади, в яких, можливо, колись гуляв, пам'ятаю.
Галсін сів на пеньок, поклав коробку з тістечками на коліна. І зацікавлено глянув на Тава. Той посміхнувся в відповідь і начарував малюнок.
Галсін охнув вражено, побачив кам'яні гірки, невеликі, іграшкові, але природно виглядавши озера, стежки між квітів і кущів, які малі той самій звивистий вигляд, що і у лісі. Самі кущі та клумби не були чітких форм, але їх нерівності завжди робились такими, щоб пестити погляд.
— Це неймовірне! — захопився Галсін. — Невже ж люди хоча б десь почали розуміти природу?
— Як бачиш, — Тав сів на ствол дерева, что колись тут обрушилось. — Не думаю, що вони далеко просунулися на цьому шляху, але початок зробили. Навіть дорога в десять тисяч миль починається одним-єдиним кроком.
— Це вірно, — кивнув Галсін. — І слова підібрані гарно.
— Це дуже давня приказка, — посміхнувся Тав. — Одна з моїх улюблених. То, що я пам'ятаю попрі усьому.
— У тебе мудре серце, якщо у ньому міцно оселились таки речи.
Галсін попробував тістечко.
— Чарівне! — він почав задоволено лимзати частування. І дав одне Таву. — Хоча це й твоє, але не можна їсти на самоті.
Тав помахом руки прибрав магічний малюнок і взяв тістечко, легенько торкнувшись пальців Галсіна.
— Ти розумієш сенс в ласощах, вірне? — посміхнувся Тав.
— Авжеж! І ти у цих справах добре розбираєшся, тако ж?
— Це не мені судити. Треба запитати того, хто з'їсть ласощі зі мною разом. Я можу лише обіцяти багатий вибір смаків. У таких справах фантазія ніколи не завадить. Як і трохи гарячих страв.
— Дуже вірно! — зареготнув Галсін. — І вельми приємно побачити такий розумний підхід.
— Зараз пора до шляху, — відповів Тав. — Але після кожній подорожі буває час відпочинку. Якщо прикрасити його будь-яким смаколиком, це буде непогано.
— Мій намет завжди готовий для такого гостя.
Тав посміхнувся задоволене і пішов до табору збиратися до чергової подорожі.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по "Baldur's Gate 3", написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 4 —

Все-таки шляхта — це діагноз. У цьому Тав впевнився, коли Астаріон почав отруйно вихвалювати його "велике серце" та "бажання завжди чинити правильно".
— Розбуди мозок, — порадив Тав. — Бісини працюють, торгують і покупають. Отож платять податки. А яка користь з гоблінів? Пограбували, поламали, прожерли, просерли та знову пусті кишені. Зате скрізь додалось сміття і пацюків с чумою.
— Друїди не виробляють нічого, — буркотнув ображений Астаріон. Він не для того заманював Тава на відокремлену галявину, щоб розмовляти про справи.
Але Тав бачив тільки їх. І казав:
— Тому друїдський гай — це постійний ринок збуту надлишків того, що відроблять бісині. А це усе знову податки. І відсутність необхідності роздавати за кошт казни хліб голодним, щоб уникнути бунта. Поки є торгівля, у людей багато праці, і вони купують значно більш речей, ніж шмат хліба. До того ж друїди варять і продають багато ліків і зілля. Це корисно. Неможливо мати виробництво всього потрібного в одному місце. — Тав посміхнувся. — А у Місячних Вежах, мій милий Астаріоне, є не тільки керувач усього цього безладу, у який ми потрапили, і його талісмани великої влади. Це ще торгові шляхи, ферми, багато замовлень на будівництво та все таке інше, чому зараз шкодить Тіньове Прокляття. Це все гроші на солодке життя правителя. Абсолют — дурна істота, якщо зробила ставку на гоблінів, прокляття та цейво. Вони легко доступні, ніби придорожні бур'яни, але й користи з них стільки ж.
— Та ти стратег, моє серденько, — задоволено посміхнувся Астаріон. — Це надзвичайне. Той герцог, що керував Брамою Балдура, коли я був там магістратом, такою здатністю не виблискував.
Тав, як і завжди, пропустив його лестощі повз вуха. Він думав. І це турбувало. Роздуми Тава завжди закінчувалися пригодами для дупи Астаріона, але не тими, що ведуть до насолоди.
А Тав промовив:
— Ти знав більшість законів, коли був магістратом. І після, коли полював на майбутніх рабів у нічних шинках і на веселих вулицях, не міг не дізнатися про їх зміні.
— Ти це до чого? — насторожився Астаріон.
— У якому віці людина ставала повнолітньою у Балдурі сім років тому?
— У двадцять один і тоді, і зараз.
— То як Мізора змогла укласти угоду з малоліткою? — запитав Тав. — Ця комерція недійсна.
— О, ти про це… Вона двічи дійсна. З шістнадцяти років будь-який балдуріць має право самостійно та своєвільне укласти будь-яку угоду про свою власність на суму не більш тисячі золотих монет. Душа — це власність Вілла. І людська душа безцінна, а тому, — Астаріон витончено зробив зневажливий жест, — вона не коштує взагалі нічого. Сімнадцятирічний Вілл як балдуріць міг торгувати нею скільки завгодно. Крім цього, він тоді був принцом. А його повнолітність починає діяти у шістнадцять.
— І принц, що рік як повнолітній, отримує звісточку, що десь у в місті діється злочин, але йде туди сам, без доброго гурта варти і без підкріплення, яке чекає на деяк випадок, тому що герцог кинув це місто без охорони. Але ніякого бунту оний герцог не отримав, коли їхав з міста. І розвідка герцога не стежила за злочинцями та сектантами, однак місто при цьому досі не зруйноване, навіть процвітає. Зате герцог підозро легко та швидко виженив принца. У Балдурі син герцога успадковує его титул і владу?
— Коли як… Звичайне одна династія керує три-чотири покоління, а після панівна родина змінюється через придворну змову чи черговий хвацький найманець з Полум'яних Кулаків примушує герцога оголосити його наступником в обмін на вільний виїзд дружини та дітей цього герцога з країни. Іноді герцог сам укладає угоду з найманцем, щоб той захистив його від власних діточок і після зречення від трону на користь цього найманця допомог йому безпечно поїхати до інших земель. — Розповідав це, Астаріон почав роздумі: — Ти хочеш сказати, що Алдер Вороній підставив невдалого сина, щоб одружитися та отримати нового наступника?
— Скільки дітей не отримай від нової дружини, а все одно спадкоємець Вілл. Нову дружину та її дітей це не потішить. А значіть будуть змови та інтриги.
— Це має сенс, мій улюблений друже. Але герцог досі самотній.
— Хтозна, скільки у нього позашлюбних дітей? Не сидів же він сімнадцять років без сексу.
— А зараз, — кивнув Астаріон, — він може вільно вибирати проміж байстрюками, кого визнати офіційне та оголосити наступником.
— Вілл з дрібного віку отримав виховання керівника. Це, крім манер та фехтування, ще юриспруденція, економіка, стратегія. Але він вміє тільки шаблею махати, заливатися вином і танцювати. Та й то останнє не дуже добре, — реготнув Тав. — Тобто це навички будь-якого дешевого найманця з будь-якого придорожнього шинка Фейруну. Він навіть не зміг отримати роботу молодшого товарного керівника чи глави служби безпеки при квартальному союзі торговців. Або керувати охороною купецьких обозів, як усі більш-менш здатні найманці.
— Він і не намагався це зробити, — помітив Астаріон. — Вілл хотів бути народним героєм, рятувати мешканців від чудовиськ.
— Керiвник і герой потрибни однакове, але це дуже різни людини, і для них не можна обіймати посади один одного. Але Вілл цілком провалився і як герой: без постійного керування від командира він може тільки влипнути до халепи. Вілл марній скрізь. Крім торговців віном, звісно. І це показує, що інтрига герцога мала сенс.
— Іноді ти дивуєш навіть мене, — казав Астарін. — Несподівано чути від тебе схвалення цьому вчинку.
— Герцог не викинув сина на вулицю голим, — помітив Тав. — Він відправив його на самий у те роки безпечний бік кордону, де Вілл мав постійну та непогану платню, казенну квартиру та багато вільного часу на його улюблені заняття. — Тав пальцями зобразив склянку й танці. — Цей посад занадто краще, ніж Вілл міг знайти самостійно. А як і куди Вілл по власній волі вліз, у які халепи потрапив — це не герцога провина.
— Згоден, — відповів Астаріон. — Але для чого це все?
— Мізора розраховувала, що герцог ринеться викупити душу сина, але тільки отримала непридатний товар, який ніяк не може збути з рук. Вона чимало мені заборгувала за те, що я досі не повернув до неї її мотлох. А підтримка дияволиці вельми корисна на пути до Абсолюта. Особливо коли моя інтуїція мене не підвела, і Мізора дійсно вляпалася в лайно у Місячних Вежах. Тоді вона буде змушена чимало заплатити мені за врятування. І це будуть не гроші.
— Чудовий задум, красеню, — посміхнувся Астаріон. — Я з задоволенням підтримую тебе на цьому шляху, мій улюблений володарю. А зараз ми можемо насолодиться твоєю владою інакше. — Він обійняв Тава.
— Непоганий план, — Тав так поцілував Астаріона, що у того закружилась голова.
Вечер безперечно вдався!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по "Baldur's Gate 3", написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 3 —

Коли Тав переплутав заклинання та замість того, щоб наділити гурт легкістю пір'їни, обрядив Тінесерду в рожевий обладунок, вона була у люті. Тем більш, що це було неможливо змінити до довгого відпочинку у таборі — у магії свої закони. Тінесерда не повірила, але Ґейл слові Тава підтвердив.
Тінесерда зітхнула та підкорилася поганої доле, лише молилася Темної Пани, щоб дала сіл це витримати.
А дали були чергові руїни з не в міру діяльними невмерлими. І велике дзеркало на стіни.
Тінесерда не хотіла у нього дивитися, це для клірикині негідно. Але раптом побачила.
І сховала дзеркало до рюкзака.
Чого не заперечуєш, коли розмова йде про Тава, так це те, що він має чудовий смак на одяг. Навіть позамежна незграба Ґейл після його порад перестав виглядати ніби селюк на ярмарці (чи ярмарочна мавпа) і перетворився на файного кавалера.
Вілл, зануда нестерпна, спочатку чинив опір вимогам Тава одягнути найдуже екзотичне вбрання, але програвши у кістки (Тав махлював, Тінесерда це бачила точно), підкорився. І став таким цікавим парубком! Навіть у Лей'зель слинки потекли, а шинкарки скрізь пропонували йому "трохи солодкого за рахунок закладу" — поки він мовчав, звісно. Ледве Вілл рота відкриє, від нього, як і раніше, усім хочеться втекти як можливо дали, навіть до мізкожерів.
Але оскільки у ліжку не розмовляють, Тінесерда запропонувала Віллу скоротити час очікування у таборі, коли вони неробно бовталися із кута до кута, інтимною грою.
О, Темна Пані! Цей йолоп злякався та засоромився ніби друїдська незайманка!
Як таке непорозуміння змогло зрости при дворі герцога, Тінесерда не могла встигнути.
І трохи потішилася з Воло. Ну треба ж остудити кров після невдалої розмови с красенем-імпотентом.
У скиту Шар не дарма казали, що для леді нема краще ліжкової іграшки, ніж бард.
А ще у леді завжди є дзеркало.
І раніше Тінесерда зневажала їх за це. "Потягни за сумочку і отримаєш душу жінки".
Але зараз у голови вперто крутилася думка, що трохи вбрання не пошкодить, пока вона не у скиту.
І це усе дуже міцно з'єднувалося зі спогадами, які розбудила клята шляхтоніжка.
Та щоб гобліни Тава з'їли! Це він змусив її скористатися цим грибом. Теж нашахраїл, напевно.
Але все ж Тінесерда була йому дуже вдячна. Повертати себе для себе виявилось вельми приємним.
І Тінесерда не хотіла це втрачати.
А зараз ще ці обладунки… Тінесерда бачила заздрість жінок і захоплення чоловіків від її вигляду. І себе бачити у дзеркалі стало раптом приємно.
Тінесерда боялася, що не захоче повернутися до скиту. І це лякало. Вірність Шар була сенсом її життя.
Вона не знала, що робити без скиту. Але запитала Тава, що краще купити у торгівця. І перший раз у житті взяла то, що бажала, а не то, що треба. Дуже файну сукню кольору смарагда й золота Та ще вишукане чоботи для неї.
І зараз милувалася собою у дзеркалі.
Решта почекає. Ці всі справи можна вирішити пізніше.
"Завтра. Я подумаю про це усе завтра".
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по Baldur's Gate 3, написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 2 —
— Мені одне цікаво, — роздумливо сказав Астаріон. — Якщо цей старий мотлох дійсно великий і могутній чарівник, чому він не міг собі їжу добути? Заполював кролика та двох пташок і сидів голодним.
— Ніби ти вмієш готувати, — буркотнув Ґейл, обурений тим, що ніхто в таборі не сприйняв його вчителя з повагою. — Ти хоча би знаєш, що таке "кухня", блакитнокровий?
— Добре вихований шляхтич, навіть герцог, завжди сам готує головну страву для шановного гостя. — Астаріон подивився на Вілла. — Так, Клинок Фронтиру?
— Тату не народився серед шляхти, а отримав титул за подвиги. І ходив на уроки до кухаря при палацу, щоб не зганбитися, вміючи готувати тільки яєчню з ковбасою. Але підсмажити на багатті видобуток він міг ще хлопчиськом.
Ґейл похмурився образливо. А Карлах пирхнула:
— Лайдачний тупий шахрай, люблячий пожерти нахаляву. Такому чарівнику я не довірю замагичить навіть старі чоботи.
І вона тицьнула пальцем у груди Тава.
— Ти казав, що це був його дідусь!
— Я не думав, що ти чула нашу розмову, — відповів Тав. — Не хотів тебе турбувати.
— Солдате, я стільки років полювала дияволів, що тепер чую, як летить метелик за кілометр від мене. І коли би я була впевнена, що цей шахрай не родина Ґейлу, він був би вже без голови. А з дідусем-поганусем все ж треба спочатку запитати Ґейла.
— Він не поганусь! — знову обурився Ґейл. — Це мій друг і вчитель, наймогутніший і наймудріший!
— Який тебе зрадив, — придрукувала Лей'зель. — Друг прийшов би не загибель твою вимагати, а порадити, як такий доли уникнути.
— І якщо для того треба звернути шию Містрі, — додав Тав, — друг не буде вагатися.
— Це дуже вірно, солдате, — посміхнулась задоволено Карлах.
— Так, — відрізала Лей'зель. — Справжня богиня повинна відрізняти корисних адептів від посередностей і цінувати їх. А для вибухів тем більш є забагато деякої швалі наче гоблінів. Якщо здихають за Абсолют, здохнуть і проти неї.
— Я тебе відразу сказала, Ґейле, — додала Карлах, — це не богиня, а гівно. Як бачиш, не я одна це розумію.
До досади Ґейлу, ніхто не збирався милуватися його самопожертвою. Тільки лаяли дурнем і вимагали послати Містру у такі місця, про які Ґейл не чув навіть у шинках на Караванному майдану у Глибоководді. Вілл і Тінесерда теж свої, не менш злосливі поради, додавали.
Тільки Астаріон, як не дивно, слухав розмову мовчки, навіть не став, як завжди, глузувати звичку Тава лізти до чужих справ.
А Тав лише дивився кудись у свої думки, ледве помітно їм посміхався.
"Коли я стану Абсолют, ця Містра сама вибухне. А після я її воскрешу, і вона вибухне ще раз. Ніхто не сміє чіпати тих, хто належить мені".
— Мій пундику, — прошепотів йому на вушко Астаріон. — Я вмию чути думки господаря краще інших. І твої так збуджують… Ти покажеш мені свою владу сьогодні вночі?
Серце Астаріона затремтіло. Тав міг і відмовити. Єдиний у світі, хто міг. Тав доси був не під коханьскими чарами Астаріона, та ще завжди мав багато тих, хто бажав зігріти йому ліжко заради дійсно солодких пестощів — Тав виявився найдуже гарним коханцем. І дивним чином це усе зачаровувало самого Астріона. А якщо ще додати мети Тава… Це все більш ставало пасткою для ельфа-вампіра.
Але здаватися Астаріон не планував. Ще невідомо, хто переможе!
І він ніжно, непомітне для інших поцілував вушко Тава. І замір, чекаючи на відповідь.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Дрібненькі оповіданнячкі-фанфікі по Baldur's Gate 3, написані по ходу першого проходження для заспокоєння власних емоцій і для мовної практики. І так, я граю українською.
Помилки перевіряв безкоштовний ШІ для школярів.
Джен, філософія, політика, трохи коханських стосунок без еротики.
Гру ще не пройшла, тому буде прода.
Прихильникам Вілла не читати! Тав не янгол! Слеш є. Решта на ваш ризик.

— 1 —
— Кім би не була ця Абсолют, а у першу чергу вона скінченна дурепа, — Тав смажив на багатті нанизані на тонку гілочку шматочки м'яса та помідора. Вони зробили короткий відпочинок недалеко від дороги.
— Чому? — здивувався Ґейл.
Абсолют його лякала. Але й одночасно манила величезною магією.
Лей'зель пирхнула зневажливо:
— Із мізкожерами зв'язалась. Невже ж сам не розумієш?
Тав заперечливо хитнув головою:
— Ні. Це не причина, а слідство. Вона дурепа, і тому для неї немає інших союзників, крім мізкожерів і гоблінів. А дурепа вона тому, що бажає всіх скрізь перетворить на покірних ляльок без власної воли. Це означає, що вона змушена буде робити сама всі справи, від державних угод до очищення вигрібних ям у містах. Розумний керівник делегує справи тлумачним підлеглим і дає їм повну волю вирішувати усе за ситуацією. "Піди до того місця, дій за умовами та принеси мені приз". Діло правителя показати напрям, але не бігати у справах. І стежити, як змінюється шлях до мети через зміну обставин. Світ постійно змінюється, тому потрібен керівник, щоб коригувати маршрути. А дурепа Абсолют діє так, ніби світ статичний. Чи намагається зробити його таким, а це неможливо.
Ґейл дивився на Тава здивовано, а Лей'зель кивнула.
— Так. Влаакіт дає наказ, але як його виконати, гіти вирішують сами. Тому чим швидше ми очистимося від пуголовка, тим краще. Хтозна, коли ця гидота прокинеться та перетворить нас на мізкожерів і рабів Абсолют. Нам пощастило, що наші пуголовки сплять, але це не назавжди.
Астаріон мовчав. Привертати на себе увагу зараз безглуздо. Він минулою ніччю змушений був проказав себе як вампіра, і зараз залишається у гурту тільки через заступництво Тава, якого переконав у свої корисності. Але якщо гурт наполягатиме, Тав Астаріона виженіть, а це смерть. Астаріон не зможе ховатися від колишнього господаря-викрадача на самоті — вкрав один раз, вкраде й другий. І тоді будь-яка смерть буде краще покарання, яке зробить для нього Казадор. А дати йому відсіч Астаріон не має сили, і хтозна, чи отримає її колись. Втекти другий раз немає чого навіть мріяти, тому що перший вдався тільки через щасливий випадок. Другий раз доля не буде настільки щедрою. Та й гроші заробляти Астаріон, як уроджений шляхтич, теж не дуже придатний, але жити з жебраками по безкоштовним нічліжкам, збирати одяг у ящиках для пожертвувань біля храмів не хотілося.
Тому треба підкорити цей не найкращий, але вельми корисний гурт, у якому Астаріон раптово опинився.
Але щоб маніпулювати усім гуртом, а не тільки Тавом, потрібен час.
І оскільки Тав тут вирішувач, треба підкорити у першу чергу його. Секс — засіб безвідмовний, у цей справі нікого краще Астаріона нема. Тав вже погодився отримати з Астаріону компенсацію за укус сексом. І після прийдешньої ночі він буде ніби віск у пальцях Астаріона, бажаючи від нього все нових і нових пестощів.
Можливо.
Було щось дивне у Тави. Якась інаковість, це робило його іншим, ніж усі, кого Астаріон колись знав.
І це збуджувало. У якийсь повіки секс для користи буде ще й приємним. У ті роки, коли Астаріон домагався посади магістрата, з впливовими коханцями та коханками було набагато гірше. Коли б не розваги по борделях, було б зовсім нестерпно.
А Тав… У той час Астаріон звабив би його просто для свого задоволення — навіть коли вже став магістратом, і йому самому почали намагатися платити не тільки золотом, але й сексом.
— Із цього слід, — казав тим часом Тав, — що сама Абсолют давно перетворилася на іграшку в руках придворних. Але вони теж таки ж дурні, інакше не намагались би обрати той же шлях. Хіба що в них буде ставка на свій гурт із тих, хто не має пуголовка. Зграя пастухів і безмозкі вівці. Теж не працює, тому що для солодкого життя керівникам треба ще мати тих, хто буде вовну мити, прясти та продавати одяг. І те, хто його купить. Справа Абсолют приречена на поразку так саме, як і її ляльковик. Але це буде не завтра. І ми маємо багато ризику до цього не дожити. І водночас маємо шанс отримати величезні можливості та зробити для себе життя набагато краще того, що було. Якщо будемо діяти обережно та розважливо.
— Не може бути нічого корисного від мізкожера! — взвилася Лей'зель. — Це гидота! Від усього цього треба позбавитися!
— Я нічого не казав про мізкожерив чи Абсолют. Я кажу тільки про силу, яку ці недоумки мають і невміло користують. Сила сама по себе не зла й не добра. Вона навіть не має власний воли. Це просто річ, яку бере будь-який, хто може. Подумай, якою корисною та важливою ти будеш для твоєї королеві, як вона тебе нагородить і підвищить, коли ти отримаєш силу більш ніж зараз. Не відповідай відразу, тільки подумай неспішно.
Лей'зель надулася на нього, ніби дитина, яку татко умовляє з'їсти корисну вівсянку.
— Tsk'va. Ненавиджу, коли ти маєш рацію!
Астаріон заціпенів. Тав хоче стати Абсолют?! Це… А чому ні? Він вже зробив багато такого, що не несила іншим. Принаймні, Астаріон отримає на цьому шляху чимало користі, можливо навіть засіб знищити Казадора з усією його мерзенною зграєю. І встигне втекти, якщо у Тава щось піде небажаним чином.
Тому треба переконати його у своїй вірності. І розпалити у ньому нестерпну спрагу до тіла Астаріона.
У обох справах Астаріон був майстром ще задовго до перетворення на вампіра. Але й Тав виявився набагато складнище високопосадних балдурців і навіть Казадора, його колишнього (добре, ще не зовсім колишнього) викрадача та господаря.
І все ж Астаріон не хотив здаватися.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094774
aliyn_raven: (Default)
Якщо вампір чогось хоче... Або когось.
(Фанфік по Baldur's Gate 3. Усі права належать правовласникам. Слеш, Тав/Астаріон, рейтинг PG-13)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/58573714

Для Аякса-Еміля, найкращої зірочки у світі, який надихнув мене вивчити солов'їну мову.

Астаріон мав дуже багато коханців і коханок, але ніколи не пам'ятав їхніх імен і облич. Це були тільки інструменти для вмагмування голоду харчового та сексуального. Для обидвох випадків апетит Астаріона був дуже міцним.
Звісно, наволочний загарбник і господар не дозволяв розважатися так, як Астаріону бажалося, але й він не був таким дурнем, яким його описував Астаріон — це зрозумів би кожен, хто має здатність думати: занадто вже гарно білявий кровопивця виглядав. Звісно, Казадор — садюга та маніяк, але вмів використовувати свої речі так, щоб і задоволення отримати, і не зіпсувати. Тому шрами від ігор Казадора залишись справжні, але жерти деяку пакість Астаріону доводилось дуже рідко, і завжди через свій занадто довгий і швидкий язик. Адже відомо, що не показуй норову, доки не знайшов спосіб покласти свого господаря до труни. А там вже плюй чи сери на його могилу, скільки забажається.
Однак усе закінчилось через іншого загарбника та господаря. Теж наволоч, але тупий. Астаріон легко від нього втік, та ще з непоганим трофеєм. Зараз можна не тільки сховатися від пошуків Казадора та нишком пристроїти його до труни, але й ще помститися цьому покидьку за його болючі ігри. А як додати, що тепер молодість, краса та чарівність будуть з Астаріоном набагато довше, ніж судилося ельфу, то життя безперечно вдалось.
І коли вбити Казадора, то з новою здатністю можна отримати з нього спадок. А це дуже смачний шмат.
Усе інше, типу перетворення через нову здатність на потвору, як-небудь само собою налагодиться на користь Астаріона. Так завжди було з усіма його халепами.
Але з Астаріоном трапився Тав. Спочатку він здався йому йолопом, якого легко обдурити і яким легко користуватися. Тільки усе обернулося на інший бік. Тав легко дав Астаріон свою кров, ще легше погодився на секс… І на цьому втратив до Астаріона будь-який інтерес. Тав залишив корисного супутника у гурті, був не проти допомогти йому з помстою, тому що бачив у ній свій профіт, і… І нічого більш. Ще ніхто не кидав Астаріона. Завжди він залишав після себе купу розбитих сердець. Ні, Тав не був жорстоким. Навпаки. Ніч, що провів з ним Астаріон, подарувала таку насолоду, яку цей розпусник ще не знав. Але більш нічого Астаріон не отримав. Тав відразу бачив усі його хитрощі, і, хоча схвалював амбіції Астаріона, ніколи не дозволив користуватися собою.
І це прив'язало ельфа-вампіра до Тава міцнише, ніж усі закляття Казадора чи магія мізкожерів. Але Тав не хотiв тримати при собі здобич. Астаріон був вільний піти у будь-яку мить. Тільки навіщо? Усе стало порожнім без того, кому серцеїд не потрібен.
Доля — люта месниця. Покарання за глузування над тими, хто необережно закохався в Астаріона, виявилося болючим.
Але… Надія все ж є. Хай Тав не бажав більш кохатися з Астаріоном, він і з іншими не мав пристрасті більш одного разу. А тому був вільним. І Астаріон ще має шанс захопить володаря свого серця навічно.
***
— Мій володарю, — Астаріон опустився на коліна біля Тава. Колись Астаріон думав, що вже ні для кого це не зробить. Ніколи.
Але… Тав підкорив його пестощами та ласкавістю більш, ніж Казадор болем та магією чи мізкожер гіпнозом.
А можливо, Казадор і мізкожер щось зламали у вільному характері Астаріона, і він більш не може жити без господаря. Коли так, то краще Тава не буде нікого.
— Кажи, що ти бажаєш, мій чарівний господарю? — Астаріон веде долонею по стегну Тава. Вони обидва у затишному, закритому кута табора, тому інші члени гурту їм не завадять. — Я виконаю все. Навіть коли ти схочеш зробити мене боляче.
Тав дивиться на нього з легким здивуванням, потім з незлим глузуванням.
— Ти хочеш цього для мене чи для себе?
Астаріон відчув, що червоніє, ніби незайманка на першому побаченні. Селуне та Шар! Він вже був впевнений, що нічого у житті не може його збентижити.
— Я хочу бути твоим, володарю, так глибоко та міцно, як це тільки можливо. Хочу твоїх пестищей. І навіть хочу болю, щоб чути, як безмежно ти володієш мною.
— Ти знаток збочень, — схвально посміхнувся Тав і ніжно попестив вушко Астаріона. І відразу міцно, владно, до болю стиснув загривок Астаріона, направивши до свого паху.
Астаріон застогнав від голодного збудження, потягнувся до ласощі…
…і прокинувся.
Прокляття!
Він на самоті у своєму наметі, Тав спить у себе, та нікого не бажає знайти у своєму ліжку.
Але!
Він там самотний.
А тому…
Астаріон нечутною тінню ковзнув до намета Таву.
aliyn_raven: (Default)
A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.


— 5 —

"Do quchu-yinying!" Tina demanded. "Quickly, if you want to live!"
"Do what?" I didn't understand.
She made some signs in the air. I repeated them, but nothing happened.
"Put the Force in it, you idiot!" Tina growled. "Faster or you're finished!"
I still didn't understand anything, but I did as she said. She didn't mean me any harm, unless the Force was lying. And I was too confused and scared to decide for myself.
I felt a pleasantly cool wave of Force, and that was it. Tina smiled faintly.
"All the data from all the tracking devices in the library for the last minute has been erased. The cameras and microphones will be working again shortly."
A new wave of Force, or rather a shadow of the wave, told me that surveillance had been activated. A moment later, security ran into the library.
"It was boys," Tina said. "They threw a firecracker and ran off. I didn't see their faces. And I'm not hurt. And you?" She looked at me.
"I'm fine. And I didn't have time to see them either too."
I didn't feel the Force in Tina, but she hid the consequences of its use very confidently and skilfully.
The guards left. And Tina said:
"Never try to talk to me. Never at all. I don't communicate with Force-wankers."
She, barely holding back a painful groan, rose on her crutches and hobbled towards the exit. I still didn't understand anything, but I wasn't surprised. This is my usual fate: as soon as something good starts, some absurd accident ruins it.
I'm back on my project. There's still some time left before the end of this lesson, and I need to finish collecting the material.
And then... I'll write everything as it is. If I get kicked out of the Academy, I'll sit in a municipal school until the end of the school year. They're required to accept students at any time. And I'll start fourth grade at some good online school. Anyway, real life rejects me wherever I go. Things are going much better for me on the net.
And I wrote everything I thought. And about the fact that the Resistance fought with meat, that is, didn't consider the losses in manpower, too. The Empire, in my opinion, took care of people, despite the fact that its stormtroopers were only good for killing unarmed peasants. In short, a plague on both your houses, as Major Tucker said about the Order and the Guard, about the Galactic Republic and the Empire. (I know about Shakespeare; I'm not a savage or an ignoramus.)
Tucker was well versed in the subject. He had been raised as a Sith since birth, and at sixteen he had run away to the Jedi. Tucker had been there for three years, and when he had finally become convinced that the Light Ones were no different from the Dark Ones, he had fled to the nearest Foreign Legion on a well-developed planet.
Tucker had served Kadvir for two years when the Tivan Border War began. Tucker had shown great valour, and the government had given him ahead of schedule citizenship, awarded him the Order of the Purple Rose, and sent him to the Army College. Tucker said he had always known that Major was the highest rank he was fit for. But Tucker had earned it quickly. He said that Kadvir's army was fair.
Tucker had planned to happily remain a major until age retirement, but a serious wound forced him into disability retirement. His military base gave him recommendations for several schools and security companies to keep him from becoming depressed and feeling useless and alone. He chose the Irene Weiss School because it was near the house Tucker had bought shortly before his wound.
...Strangely enough, my project was a success. There was an interesting discussion with my classmates; I even formed my own faction in the game of the Great Council of Worlds, which was organised by the teacher. She made some purely technical corrections to my project without affecting its meaning and sent it to the competition.
I didn't mind. I needed the scores for the university.
It was much worse with the Force. It didn't manifest itself in any way; none of the Jedi or Sith training Major Tucker recommended helped to find it. But I understood that hoping for liberation from the Force was stupid. It will crawl out when it is least needed.
The project took an unexpected turn. Sliff Tfail, a Serpenian guy from our strategy study group, brought me a high school girl, the captain of the football team, to help her develop a programme to kick ass for the Genuill Kid College team.
I was a little surprised by Sliffe's choice; football is not the most convenient sport for Serpenians; they, with their four arms and ability to stand on the end of a long tail, they are basketball stars, but if the football team sees his usefulness as a player, then to hell with stereotypes.
I knew nothing about football and had not yet caught the school rivalry bug, but the task itself intrigued me. I began to study the rules and the results of the games. I also got Sliffe involved; he is a footballer and should be able to be an analyst.
He resisted a little, saying that he could only kick the ball around but not plan, but he obeyed the captain, who found my idea useful.
"Sliff can talk anyone into anything, that's why I'm here," the captain said. "He must be my successor. I'm in my penultimate year at this school, and I'll have time to prepare him. Sliff can manage people; he will be able to keep the team united and motivated."
I modelled match variants; the captain liked my ideas; she even invited me to train and watch famous professional matches. And with Sliff, we started talking about movies and books and doing homework together. (Boarding school and homework, yes). We even started building a common farm in a sandbox video game.
Of course, a story this good couldn't help but end in complete failure. The Force. That scoundrel showed up exactly when Sliff and I had escaped the noise of the classrooms for independent work and were doing our homework in the garden. I was writing essays for both of us in Ur-Kittât, the ceremonial dialect of the Sithish, and Sliff was solving his and my math tasks.
As Kadvir is a neutral state, ordinary citizens do business with both the Republic and the Empire. Sithish, with all its three dialects, and Republic Basic Standard are the most useful for finding good jobs. They are the most commonly taught in schools. And yes: Republican Basic Standard is the language of the Big Republic, Republicish, but not the pan-galactic language, no matter what the Republic imagines of itself as the centre of the universe.
There are many places in the galaxy that are highly developed economically, legally, and scientifically where people have no idea of the Republicish and value Bocce and Sithish more (it is not only spoken in the Empire and its satellites).
Kadvirish is also quite popular.
But enough about linguistics. There are more important problems. I, cursing the ban on the use of gadgets and Galaxnet during homework time and the power of the jammers that would not allow me to turn on the phone, dug into the damn paper dictionary and grammar reference, trying to figure out where I had screwed up, trying to express Sliffe's idea about the future of sport on Ur-Kittât. The phrase sounded awkward, and this language is quite musical; everything should sound smooth; the runes should also form a harmonious ribbon, similar to lace.
I began to hum the phrase, hoping to find the error that way. But my ears are hanging on a tree in music; even Sliff, who was not at all brilliant in Sithish, fell off the bench onto the grass laughing.
"The tail of the Great Iffu! Eirian, did you hear what you said?!"
I looked at him sombrely. Sithish is a tonal language, and the same word, pronounced in different tones, has different meanings: "tuoshvi" in a rising tone means "game"; if the tone is falling, it is "river"; falling-rising means "breakfast"; rising-falling... There are eight tones in total in all, and a harmless phrase can easily turn into an obscene curse.
At my previous school, my Mum consoled me by saying that the CEO only reads the most important correspondence and writes replies, and my Dad said that when I start getting serious about business, I will hire the most beautiful Sith of any race as a translator. But at this school, much more attention was paid to rhetoric, and I immediately slid from "good" to "satisfactory" and even to "insufficient". I was lucky that I didn't get "failure".
I sighed, added a transcription and tones in Common Sith to the phrase, and tried to read it, conducting myself with my hand. It turned out, judging by Sliffe's amusement, even worse than before: a person devoid of musicality sincerely believes that he sings correctly, but those around him say that he has not hit a single note. I did not sing, but the principle is similar.
"Unbelievable! You're not even conducting in time!" laughed Sliff.
Okay, to hell with Sliff's hilarity, but I found the error. I rewrote the phrase, added the transcription, and started reading, again helping myself with hand movements.
Out of nowhere came a river of packets of ready-to-eat breakfast foods; the tip is "Just Add Water". Each one, in addition to the company name and logo, had the words "Receive a ticket to the game of the season!". Sliff shouted in horror and ran away.
And I was stunned with amazement, seeing the Force for the first time. Streams of black, white, and grey plasma intertwined, flowed into each other, and broke up into bright big sparks of all those colours that monochrome actually consists of. And again gathered into three streams of plasma.
The Force disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. And I woke up from my stupor. A pile of drifter food, a frightened friend who doesn't want to know me, and an upcoming grand scandal in the media: "The heir of Gwalchtan-TNC is a Forsian without self-control, dangerous to society." So what next? A boarding shelter for freaks, life with parents on a wild planet, or being forced to choose between the Order and the Guard?
The media will latch onto parents simply because they are a fat target. The proletarians and office plankton love it when the media gnaws at the rich and do not think that a scandal that caused a fall in shares will leave them without work: business partners will rush to escape from the noise so as not to get caught in the crossfire themselves, banks will not give loans, and similar events. The lumpen will add fire, since yelling at protests for free booze is their favourite pastime.
I headed for the school building. I was hoping the "Put on a cheeky face and accuse everyone of slander" option would work. I don't know anything; I'm a victim; I was lying unconscious, and that's all!
To my surprise, all the students had gathered in the hall on the second floor, where the self-study classes were, and were shouting at the top of their lungs and discussing the appearance of Forcian at the Academy.
Sliff ran up to me.
"Hooray, you're alive! I saw you washed away by the Force. I called for help. They didn't believe me!"
"I wasn't washed away. I fell behind the bench and passed out."
Sliff pulled me to the nurse, telling me that he saw a very tall, even by adult standards, human or reptiloid in a uniform jacket and kepi, who staged a provocation with the Force.
"But why does Forcean need so much drifter food?" Sliff wondered. "If he wants to go to the match, he can charm the stadium security and sit in the VIP box. No need to win a prize for an economy class seat. A kepi and a jacket in the summer—he's just arrived from the Frontier Belt. When my family moved here, we were cold even in the summer the first year."
I followed him listlessly, trying to figure out what was going on. "Tall"—Sliff was lying on the grass when I was standing, so his shocked brain could remember me like that. Jacket and kepi—I shiver the whole time. Everyone except the new settlers from the Belt, Tina, stoned on sedatives, and me, the eternally sick one, wears short-sleeved uniform shirts.
But otherwise... Why doesn't Sliff remember that I was the author of the witchcraft? Someone has done some serious work on his memories. But who? It certainly wasn't me, and it certainly wasn't the Force itself. There's another Forcean here. And for some reason, they have rescued me.
But what do they want in return?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game
aliyn_raven: (Default)
A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Note: Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.

— 4 —

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

I still transferred to the Youth Military Academy. Dad didn't show it, but I knew he was very happy because he and all his ancestors had studied at this school, starting from the moment the family became wealthy.
In essence, the Academy was a school for heirs, the only military elements in it being a few daily ceremonies and a cadet uniform—a rudiment of the years when Kadvir was populated by mercenary gangs. And training the children of a leader of grouping in a military school guaranteed the loyalty of the peasants and artisans who had accepted the guardianship of one of the gangs. Civilians, driven from their homes by a severe economic crisis, could not survive on their own on a barely developed planet, among dangerous predators and unorganised bandit groups. And organised teams needed a source of food and clothing independent of external supplies. Equal cooperation didn't happen immediately, but competition between the groups forced the bandits to respect peaceful people.
There are still two months left before the long autumn holidays, and I will have time to finish the difference in subjects. It is insignificant between the two schools.
Twenty-eight days have passed since the day the tattoo created problems for the first time. And eleven days since that skirmish in the school yard. The Force has not shown itself in any way since the skirmish. I was beginning to hope that it had disappeared completely.
Now I was sitting in the library of the Youth Military Academy and collecting materials on the galaxnet for a research project. Next to me sat a fair-haired and blue-eyed girl with a splint on her leg. She had fifth-year stripes, which meant she was fifteen. She looked quite grown up. But she poked at the computer sensor like a little child.
I glanced at her screen. Ballistics calculations. But no one does them manually!
Oh, judging by the look on the girl's face, I said that out loud.
"No one," she said, "except for the combat AI testers. And if I don't pass the exams to join this special group, I'll have to go home."
Oh... I see. She's here on a grant, and life at home is hell.
"Don't look at me like that," said the girl. "My Mum is very good. She's ready to jump out of her skin and sell her bones, if only I had what she doesn't have. The problem is that I want a completely different kind of happiness for myself. She needs time to be alone, to calm down and understand that I'm no longer the sweet doll in a lace dress that I was ten years ago, and that the army…"
She looked at her splinted leg and sobbed. The girl didn't look like a crybaby; it was clearly the strong painkillers and stress that had sapped her self-control.
"Limping is no obstacle for the army," I said quickly. "You can be a pilot without any legs at all."
"I was only accepted here because of football. So that I could bring prizes for the Academy. But..." she started crying after all.
I was frantically trying to come up with a way out. There was no use in sympathy; here we had to solve the problem. It was not easy to get into the Army College; the municipal school would not be enough. All applicants from ordinary families studied on grants in good private schools. This girl wasn't doing well in math and physics; all the places in eSports were taken, otherwise, she would have started with it…
"A charity fund!" I realized. "You can get a scholarship through some creative project. What troops did you want to serve in?"
"Epsilon Intelligence."
For flights on a reconnaissance module in Epsilon-space, the leg doesn't matter; everything is controlled manually. Physics and chemistry are enough in the volume of a general education course of a municipal school; mathematics is even less needed; the main thing is agility, quickness of thought, and... midi-chlorians. And the latter is needed precisely in microdoses. The only field of activity where the Force makes sense. And then only if it is not excessive.
"There you need to colour the midi-chlorians with the necessary reagents and arrange them in the correct order," I recalled the little I knew about Epsilon-cosmos. "Fractal graphics as a method of navigation and control…"
"What are you talking about? There is very strong math!" The girl was indignant. "Epsilon-Navigator is not a job for everyone."
"Everyone loves stickers with routes through Epsilon-cosmos..." I continued out loud so that stupid prejudices would not distract me from my thoughts. "Managing dynamic space through midi-chlorians, which are correctly located... Colouring is a way to understand where and how many of them are there; the colour is determined by the number... And what if you draw navigation maps using art AI? Like animation for video games."
"I'm terrible at drawing," the girl shook her head.
"And you don't need to do it. There are plenty of AIs that make pictures in different styles based on scribbles on a tablet. Even a primary school student can draw their room so that it can't be confused with a forest meadow and vice versa. And AI will create a classic oil painting or an impressionist creation out of it."
"Flight charts aren't made like that," the girl snapped.
I glanced at the name tag on her uniform jacket.
"Tina Alverist, all these over-aged blockheads are constantly telling us that we don't understand anything about serious things because we're kids. So take advantage of this! A charity will be afraid to deny a scholarship to a child who is so imaginative that he made a navigation route from the capital to the Big Port using art-AI templates and a set of correction commands. Especially if you write that a real manager does not deal with routine tasks themselves; their job is to wisely distribute them between live subordinates and droids. And it doesn't matter how much your imagination works! The main thing is that you pay for the sixth, final year of middle school. And you'll come up with something for high school. A year is a long time."
“I have no idea how to use art-AI,” Tina muttered. "And this subject doesn't fit with the ones I've chosen at all. There could be problems."
"Go to a psychologist and tell him you want to take training in running art-AI as a form of art therapy. It distracts from trauma, calms you down, and all that. And make your own project and apply to the Shaidi Foundation. It'll be the easiest to get a scholarship there. I know this because my family sponsors several foundations."
Tina looked at me thoughtfully.
"It's worth a try, at least." And she smiled: "Where did you come from here, so smart? This is the first time I've seen a fry so rocked out about business. Even if their families run corporations."
"I'm new. I transferred recently."
"Straight to some special group, probably?"
I told her about the essay. And added:
"But I'm not sure that's the issue. My parents donated well to the grant fund of my former school."
Tina laughed.
"You'll definitely be able to run the family company well."
"Why are you here and not in the hospital?" I asked. "It's hard for you to sit, I can tell. And it hurts to move even in the air chair."
"Lying there and thinking that I'll never be able to even run out for ice cream again, let alone play football, hurts a lot more. And the doctor's words that there will be no scars, so I can wear a miniskirt as soon as the splint is removed, and in a couple of years I will be able to dance moderately on a date, do not help me at all. Crutches and ballistic tasks are better. That way, I don't feel like a discarded candy wrapper."
"No," I said. "You're not a wrapper. You're an Intuist-Navigator. Listening to space, perfecting your midi-chlorians sense. If it works for idiots with a lightsaber who can't tell their head from their ass without a tonne of midi-chlorians, an officer of Epsilon Intelligence will do all the better."
Tina laughed again.
"That's a strange comparison. But I like it!"
She glanced at my screen.
"Oh, so you're studying the Order and the Guard. It's clear why you say that.
"Not exactly," I said. "I just want to form my own opinion. One of the teachers at my old school says that Anakin Skywalker was a nobody, just a brainless, spineless bag with midi-chlorians. But I don't think so. Obi-Wan Kenobi tried very hard to deprive him of his personality and freedom of thought; he slowed down his development, and still Anakin tried to be himself, and he did the Jedi job better than Kenobi. It's a pity Anakin didn't leave the Order. He could have become a cool racer to have adrenaline and glory, and with the prize money, open a chain of repair shops to have a guarantee of a comfortable life even for his great-grandchildren. No repairman has ever sat without a bun with a thick layer of butter."
"That's why I don't like Padmé!" said Tina. "She should have suggested all this to Anakin. What's the point of a wife if she doesn't give her husband smart advice?"
A wife needs a good IQ to do that. And I have serious reasons to doubt that Padmé had it. But I can't tell everyone about my conclusions. And I spoke carefully:
"She didn't see that Kenobi was going crazy with envy of Anakin's talents. And the fact that he had a mother. Anakin was separated from her, and he began to enter the age when friends and adventures were more interesting to boys than their parents, but Anakin's life was warmed by memories of the person who blew on his skinned knees, told him fairy tales, and chased the bogeyman from under his bed when Anakin had bad dreams. Anakin knew what family was, and Kenobi had been raised as a tool. Qui-Gon Jinn understood that and tried to be a father to both of them, not a teacher. But Obi-Wan… It annoyed him. However, Anakin was comfortable. I think Qui-Gon would have helped him meet his mother, and would have found a way to save her. If Qui-Gon hadn't died, Anakin's talent would have been able to blossom to the fullest, and his character would have been revealed. But the Jedi Order broke the guy before Palpatine even got to him."
"It's possible," Tina said slowly. And she added, "I think Qui-Gon would have advised Anakin to leave the Order if the self-centred Padmé didn't have the brains to do it. She saw only herself, her ideas and ambitions."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk about Padmé. My grandmother and grandfather, who were my Mum's parents, told me a lot about how miners lived on the moons of Naboo. Escaping from there was the greatest success in their lives. And during Padmé's reign and senatorship, everything was much worse. It was not for nothing that miners of that time collected copper coins for a bounty hunter—not at all for nothing. Although the most famous of those who ordered Padmé's death was Nute Gunray, there were still a huge number of people who wanted to see her in a coffin.
I glanced at Tina and thought for a moment. She knows history, she understands business, and her head doesn't seem to be cluttered with prejudices. And I asked the question I couldn't find an answer to:
"Do you think the midi-chlorians really raped Shmi Skywalker? Then why didn't she have an abortion?"
Tina wasn't surprised or indignant, and I continued quickly, until Tina got tired of chatting about the distant past:
"Shmi doesn't look like a religious fanatic or a wacky pro-lifer. And she's not one of those who lose their personality so much that they don't care about themselves or their children, and reproduce even in the most horrible and dead-end conditions, just because that's the way it turned out."
Tina was silent and looked at me with interest. I said:
"There are no gynaecological clinics for female slaves, but all the media write that women on orthodox planets solve this problem themselves. And it doesn't always happen with a risk to their lives. A piece of bent wire is a lot of planets more backward than Tatooine. And even more so, women quickly solve this problem if they get pregnant while drunk, and the lady herself doesn't remember when and with whom it happened. Slaves have a hard life, especially women, and drowning their sorrows in alcohol and drugs is almost inevitable. But no one with even a grain of common sense would leave a foetus conceived in such a state. And even more so, no normal person would foredoom a child to slavery..."
Tina listened attentively and didn't argue. Encouraged, I finished my thought:
"I don't understand! And if midi-chlorians can rape women, then why was Shmi the only victim? Even if they like only tall, brown-haired Scandinavian-type human women, there are many such ones. There must be more victims."
"Don't talk nonsense," Tina chuckled. "There was no father. I carried her, I gave birth, I raised her, I can't explain what happened." That's what my Mum says about me. And I highly doubt she ever read the details of Shmi's biography to know her words. It's simpler. My father was a small clerk at Corporate Alliance. A run-of-the-mill office plankton, but handsome. He convinced my Mum to leave the accidental pregnancy. Contraception sometimes fails, you know... He promised to marry, but before this, he must persuade his grandfather not to disinherit him. But as soon as my mother's belly started to stick out more than her bust, my father's love turned into a zilch. And he disappeared somewhere in the starry distance so that no lawsuit for alimony could find him. With Shmi, it's even simpler: the owner or his son spoke of love, promised to make her free, wanted a child… But as soon as it started to approach responsibility, that is, to childbirth, he sold Shmi far away. In such cases, a woman either gives the child up for adoption immediately after childbirth or decides to raise it herself and tells everyone that there was never a father. And what did the Jedi hear in Shmi's words, and even more so how historians distorted these words... Dude, life is not as romantic as TV series and legendary biographies try to convince us."
"Damn," I was shocked by the obviousness of the solution. "In real life, everything really is much simpler."
"And dirtier," added Tina.
"That's true," I agreed. And Tina said:
"I just hope Shmi had secret love affairs with Cliegg Lars before he bought her. It's a terrible thing to be forced into marriage with a trash who needs an heir but who has been rejected by all the local maidens and widows."
"Cliegg already had a son when he married Shmi," I said, looking at the biography. "And it looks like she married the man she was in love with before the wedding. And by Tatooine standards, Cliegg was well off and respected, not some lowlifer with an appendage who was looking for a cheap housekeeper, nanny, and bedding. Cliegg was a decent option for many widows and maidens on Tatooine."
"I hope so," Tina said thoughtfully. She glanced at me, bit her lip a little, and decided:
"You don't want to work with me on the art navigation project? I understand that you need it like you need garbage, but you're pretty good at it. After all, cool business people often pilot their modules."
"I get seasick even in the lift," I chuckled. "Why do you think I'm here and not in gym class? But..." I looked at Tina. "Can you cook simple dishes? Street food, a product range of an economy-class cafe without a drone-cook."
"Of course. But why do you need it?"
"I want a profession in case of vicissitudes of fate. And the cook at the Academy is trying to teach me something that can't be sold in difficult times."
Tina shook her head.
"You're not like the others. But I don't meddle in other people's affairs. I agree to barter."
I smiled and nodded. The Academy is a boarding school, and I will only be home on weekends now. Mum will cook with me there if she hasn't forgotten how to do it yet. But the main studies will be here.
And I need to ask Tina about other skills of everyday life, practice. It's clearly her first year at the Academy, and therefore she knows a new simple life—the one that Mum remembers is no longer relevant.
We sealed the deal with a handshake, and I returned to my project. Whatever you say, I had to write something coherent about the operation to bring back Luke Skywalker. To me, that was utter nonsense: the Resistance was blowing up Death Stars just fine without that piece of old junk. Luke himself was a very cool guy and a clever person, until he got into Jedi ravings up to his ears and became a loser because of it. And the fact that Kylo Ren was an even bigger loser doesn't change the truth. And it is noteworthy that Leia, having considerable Force and huge ambitions, didn't even think about getting into Jedi. Senator, general, but not a Jedi. A really smart person doesn't choose stupidity. It's a pity I can't write all this…
I felt sad about the brainlessness of the world, and the Force, as if wanting to console me, flew to the ceiling, curled up into a ball there, and exploded into fireworks.
All I could do was curse with words that are strictly forbidden in the Academy.
I'm screwed.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game
aliyn_raven: (Default)
A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.

— 3 —

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

When enemies fly around the schoolyard like volleyball, it's nice. But it raises unnecessary questions.
There was never much bullying in my school. And yet, there was always some of that nastiness. Of course, I was the most favourite victim. So I knew perfectly well where the surveillance cameras were located, which would immediately raise the alarm if their AI noticed something prohibited.
Chris, Thara and Mgono smashed one of the cameras with something long-range. I don't know how they got it past the security indicators. It was probably a simple homemade slingshot, like on the primitive planets. But it doesn't matter.
The real problem was the Force. After about half a minute of me trying to break free, an invisible wave came from somewhere and threw the assholes in different directions.
I was afraid they would break their bones—I hate this trio, but I hate harming people even more. Even if they barely fit the definition of "people." And the wave obediently reduced its intensity; these three idiots escaped with bruises.
When Chris, Thara and Mgono were pushing me around like a ball, everyone in the yard tried hard to pretend that nothing was happening. But as soon as the three of them started pretending to be birds, a general howl arose. The guards came running, the teacher on duty, and I, along with the three chumps, were taken to the principal.
"I didn't expect this from you, Mx. Gwalchtan!" he exclaimed.
"And did you expect it from these gentlemen?" I asked, nodding at the trio. "And did nothing to prevent vandalism and violence?"
The principal's eyes bulged out indignantly, and he launched into a speech about how it was not for me to judge the behaviour of adults.
"The mass media will be interested to know about victim-blaming," I interrupted him. "And about violence."
"Are you blackmailing me?" The principal instantly became furious. "You brought a weapon to school!"
The trio behind me were silent and even tried to breathe every other time. They were stupid, but they had been to the principal often enough to understand: if you were caught breaking the rules, you had to try to impersonate furniture, blend into the wall, then the punishment would be less severe.
"Did I bring a weapon through your security?" I said sarcastically. "The Parents' Council and the Trustees' Committee will also be delighted. By the way, what did this trio use to break the camera? Didn't they hurt themselves with these same weapons because of their clumsy hands?"
"You are suspended from classes for a week for insolence and arguing!"
This is serious. Being suspended greatly reduces your personal score for university admission. Even if you do well on the national exam, your personal score may not be enough to apply to a good university.
I tried to smile politely:
"And the mass media will find this a very interesting topic."
"The mass media will bring down the stock price of your father's company," the principal said through gritted teeth.
"My Mum is a trader now and a crisis manager in the past. She knows how to make stock rise out of a scandal. But this school has no specialists. And my parents will be very proud that I am defending my honour from unfounded accusations."
The principal hissed in anger—in the literal sense, he is a reptiloid, and some things are beyond his control, just as humans cannot control the reddening of their faces.
"You will study only remotely until the state exam," he decided. "To preserve your health. I will call the speeder and the escort droid now. And the three of you," he nodded at Chris, Thara, and Mgono, "go to the classroom. I will have a special talk with your parents."
I sat down in the visitors' chair, watching with some glee as the trio turned sour. They were too stupid to realise the danger the mass media was to their parents' business, and they were confident that they could get away with bullying because it was approved by their parents, but the magic phrase "stock quote" still pressed the panic button in their empty heads.
Chris, Thara and Mgono left. I traced a flower on the upholstery of the chair with my finger. Phones are forbidden at the school; they have to be handed in at the entrance, so waiting is boring. I hope the speeder and the free droid (both of which constantly carry out the principal's orders) will come quickly.
The secretary-droid's communicator on the principal's desk reported that Major Tucker urgently wanted to see him regarding the Mx. Gwalchtan case.
Interesting. Tucker is a retired Army officer who teaches military science to high school students. I only know him because of his beauty (he is tall, has big green eyes, brown wavy hair, antique features, and the same figure), the girls and some boys in our class often talk about him and look forward to when they grow up to prepare for the army—as if that would stop them from being schoolchildren and little pieces, and Tucker would become so stupid that he would forget about it.
Two years of conscript military service are mandatory for everyone in Kadvir; we have to protect our neutrality. But there are many different types of service, not just running around with a blaster. Dad served in a unit that repairs and maintains droids in government-run nursing homes for the disabled and elderly. His mother was ill, his father had died, and he had to manage businesses that employed many people. Daytime service in nursing homes allowed him to at least attend to the affairs of Gwalchtan-TNC in the evenings. And my Mum needed to save more money for her parents for a down payment to buy her own bakery and needed extra scores for the university to get a scholarship. So my mother chose combat service; she was a heavy fighter pilot on the border. She didn't miss the opportunity to improve her staff manager skills, attended various additional classes, and quickly became a crew commander. And at the university, immediately after entering, she received certification in three subjects and was able to spend this time learning additional skills. Well, with a good down payment, she easily took out a mortgage.
But that's not the point. How does a high school teacher know about a thirteen-year-old schoolkid, and why does an army person need someone who is doomed to receive the stamp "Unfit for all types of service" in their personal file?
"Mx. Klharr," Tucker began, barely greeting, "Mx. Gwalchtan's essay has attracted the interest of the Youth Military Academy. I must discuss the possibility of a transfer with them."
"What?!" I said at the same time as the principal.
"What kind of transfer can there be," asked the principal, "if physical training is not available for Mx. Gwalchtan?"
"Don't exaggerate, Mx. Klharr," Tucker chuckled. "This is a regular middle and high school. No one there forbids you to replace physical education with a library if your child has health problems. Except that the Youth Military Academy has a special uniform, military history, and strategy tasks. It was in the latter that Mx. Gwalchtan distinguished themselves. Their essay proved interesting to the Academy due to a very original analysis of the Battle of Vistlavia. And yes, it was I, as befits a Major in Kadvir's army, albeit retired, who presented the essay to the Educational Council at the Academy. Mx. Mary Davidson came to me to consult about the grade that Mx. Gwalchtan's work deserved."
Wow! I actually wrote such an essay for another project on logic—the Battle of Vistlavia was in history at this time, and it seemed to me that it illustrated well the problems that we studied in logic.
I didn't think anyone read the essay except Davidson, the logic teacher. She didn't even single out my essay from the others. She silently gave it an "Excellent" and that was it. The history teacher didn't say anything either.
The sensor horns on the principal's head spread out in irritation. He didn't like a student with problems, but he didn't want to lose the goose that lays golden eggs, that is, awards at competitions and scores in the school's rating.
"Mx. Klharr?" said Tucker.
"The question of transfer is decided by Mx. Gwalchtan's parents."
"But only after the student expresses their free opinion about what subjects they want to study and where. If you want, after me, Mx. Gwalchtan will talk to a psychologist."
"You're both free," the principal muttered. "Major Tucker, after the conversation, take Mx. Gwalchtan home and talk to their parents."
Tucker led me to his small office on the teachers' floor, pointed to the guest chair, sat down in the work chair, and said:
"I want to dot all the i's, Mx. Gwalchtan. Your essay really interested the Military Academy, but they will write to your parents without my participation. I must talk to you about something else." He made a movement with his hand, and a bottle of soda and two glasses flew from the shelf by the wall onto the table. And I felt a wave of Force. It turned out to be pleasant.
Oops... Tucker is a refugee from the Guard or the Order.
"I don't want to be either a Sith or a Jedi," I said. "Sith see enemies everywhere, and Jedi find Dark Force at every turn."
Tucker raised an eyebrow. It was either an irony or a surprise.
"I've heard that crippled and poor children are psychologically much more mature than their biological years. But you've gone a bit overboard with your age. Don't rush to grow up, buddy. Enjoy the carefree childhood while it lasts."
Yeah, my parents are smarter. They never said such nonsense.
"Childhood is a prison," I said. "Therefore there can be no child who does not want to become an adult as soon as possible."
"Be kind enough to explain, Mx. Gwalchtan," Tucker said discontentedly.
"You are under someone's control all the time; you are forbidden many things, and you must get permission for everything. And at the same time you constantly hear that at eighteen you will be in charge of yourself. And the law will guarantee you the right to speak, obliging the world to hear you. But until then, your opinion doesn't matter."
"Have you talked about this with your parents?"
"Many times," I answered. "Mum and Dad warned me that the world will always treat a cripple like a child, so if I want to be free and heard at eighteen, I need to learn independence and maturity early."
Tucker was surprised, thought about it, and said reluctantly:
"You are lucky with your parents."
"Very lucky," I nodded. "But I have a question for you, Major Tucker. My Mum says that a good army is not held together by obedience but by iron jawed. A good soldier must always be ready to make his own decisions and act independently, because the big shoulder straps cannot see where the charges are flying at you and the civilians behind your back."
"That's right," Tucker nodded. "A soldier has orders, but they act according to the situation, and if their willfulness ends in failure, they will go to hard labour for many years, but if one succeeds, they will be greeted as a hero. Remember the recent events in the Frontier Belt? A huge gang of terrorists attacked Kadvir's territory on the planet Ivrion. It was an agricultural sector with a small number of border guards. And the crew of one tank, four conscript girls, who were busy with another training raid, didn't listen to the order to return to the base but went to check on the village nearby. If they had died, everyone would have said, "To hell with them, the fools, but it's a shame about the tank." If the girls had been captured, everyone would have been angry that they had to be rescued to be brought to justice. But these young ladies repelled the attack of a large group of terrorists and saved the village. Houses, fields, and people were not damaged. The award to these brave and resourceful ladies was presented by the president in the Main Hall of Celebrations, and all of Kadvir learned of their feat."
"Sassy, self-confident, and unpredictable," I said. "That's what made them heroes, and that's what saved people. But why did those qualities of Anakin Skywalker cause so much negativity in the Jedi Order? After all, a Jedi always acts alone, far from the possibility of requesting reinforcements; they must bend a negatively minded and violence-used environment; they must be unpredictable in order not to be killed and, moreover, to complete the mission. I think the Sith have the same: a step to the right or left of the intended line is a crime, although reality requires a different approach."
"Anakin is a mediocre creature," Tucker said. "Just a bag of midi-chlorians. Anakin himself was worth little. Take the Force away from him, and he'd be an unremarkable office plankton or a repairman in a shop. There are crowds of such people on every corner, and they all cost one galactic credit per bundle. The Jedi have a truly tragic history." Tucker sighed and paused. He took a sip of soda and said: "Qui-Gon Jinn. With his intellect, unconventional thinking, and diplomatic talent, he would have made a brilliant career in any transgalactic corporation or in the politics of any country. And for the Jedi, he was like a suitcase without a handle, which is inconvenient to carry, but they don't want to throw him away so that the enemy doesn't get him, and they are afraid to put him in the garbage shredder because it will cause general indignation. I don't understand what made him stay in the Order. Same with Oliver Nullen and Ghrao Myodi with the Sith."
I thought about what was said. Qui-Gon's personality didn't attract my attention, but this seems to be due to inexperience and insufficient knowledge of life. I am only thirteen, and this is not enough to fully analyse the situation. I need to find more information, think about it, talk to my parents, and think it over again myself.
"You have done a lot of good work, Mx. Gwalchtan. But you have much more to do. And this work is too hard for a child. I am not afraid to tell you this, because you are mature enough to assess your capabilities sensibly. And I offer you my help. Your parents know nothing about the Force, do they?"
I bit my lip. Maybe I was wrong, and my silence doesn't save Mum and Dad but puts them in danger? And not only them. Gwalchtan-TNC gives thousands of people a living. During his army years, Dad gave up his dream of becoming a combat pilot to save the company.
But I'm not just a naive child with the Force who can be used in their games. I'm also a valuable hostage and the heir to a not very large but quite tangible fortune. There are too many who want to gain my trust and manipulate me for money.
There is a third reason for hesitation and doubt. My parents, sincerely wanting to save me, destroyed my health. I can't blame them; I don't know what I would have done if Forsean had been my child. But I don't want them to do something like that again, trying to protect me.
I need the support of someone who knows not only the Force. This person must also know the Order and the Guard well.
But how sincere is Tucker in his desire to help?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game
aliyn_raven: (Default)
A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.

— 2 —

The tattoo disappeared. As if it had never been there.
The Force grew even more and began to make problems more often.
I made a copy of the tattoo from the outer skin of a speeder and hung it around my neck on a braided leather strap. It looks like a normal teenager's trinket. And it's not visible under business or ceremonial clothes.
I don't know if this will help hide the extra midi-chlorians. But doing nothing is even worse.
I realised that circumstances might force me to run away from home to protect my parents. So I need to hide a disposable phone somewhere in the house. Then I can send messages to my parents.
And I'll also need to earn money somehow. Making flower bouquets and assembling speeders is good for a newly divorced housewife. People love unique models of speeders; assembling them from ready-made parts doesn't require much intelligence; what's important here is the taste and imagination of the designer, not the knowledge of the engineer. But they won't hire a child for such a job. I make speeders for friends, as do many teenagers from my school.
The problem is that places that flout the law to the point of hiring children don't need unique speeders—they're happy with stolen standard models. Or they build something that requires a weapons engineer.
And from what age can you work? I looked it up on the galaxnet.
On all normal planets, you can hire teenagers from the age of thirteen for jobs with first-level hardy and for three hours a day. The signature of one of the parents or guardians on the work permit is required; a child's ID card is also required.
Working in factories and fields is suicide. After the tattoo disappeared, my health improved, but not enough to do the work of droids.
That's the problem. Where people don't have money for droids, there is no chance of survival unless you were raised on the streets from birth. And anywhere where life is better, there is no need for illegal workers, especially teenagers.
Levelling up and selling video game characters is not for me; I'm bad at playing. I don't understand how to use any programmes to speed up levelling, and I don't know how to hide them from the game server's security systems.
Drawing, making music, and other things with the help of AI is already a better variat; I have experience and orders, but film studios, game developers, and others require a legal wallet, by which it will be easy to track me, and everything illegal threatens not only non-payment but also you will be robbed.
Well... I'll try the classics—I'll learn how to cook street food and dishes for simple cafes, which are usually made by a machine. On a backward planet, where fugitives usually hide, this is a good way to survive.
It remains to figure out the Force. How monopolised is its use? And why use it at all? Where, except for the dubious usefulness of the Jedi Order and the same Sith Guard, is it applicable?
I searched the galaxnet again. The results were surprising. It seemed that the Republic and the Empire, with the support of neighbouring states, had driven the midi-chlorians freaks into cages so that they wouldn't bother normal people, and were convincing the poor fellows of their usefulness by giving them absurd assignments. A sort of suitcase without a handle, which is inconvenient to carry, and throwing them away, that is, putting them to sleep like a sick dog, is inhumane.
Was there really no one among the Sith and Jedi who would understand this and escape to normal life?
It turned out, no. Questionable material, that is, those who turned out to be smarter, were sent to the Service Corps. And the Order and the Guard make good money on their slaves... Exploration Corps, Educational, Medical and Agricultural ones are part of the Service. I was hasty with the definition of "smarter": Jedi and Sith worked there for food.
It's very hard for a child to survive alone—almost impossible, so you'll tolerate even the Order and the Guard, but didn't the adults leave? Okay, the bulk of the Order and the Guard are staffed with good-for-nothing, but the Service Corps are specialists who will find a good vacancy anywhere.
Are their brains so polluted by propaganda that these people don't perceive themselves as individuals?
I want to become a Jedi or a Sith even less! If the concept of "even less" applies to "never wanted and don't want now".
But the ability to control the Force is necessary. Without it, I can't survive.
"What two know, even a hen knows."
It can't be that there are not abundant information leaks from the Order and the Guard—at least as a consequence of cyber attacks between them.
I started looking. And, besides exercises, I found a lot of things that dropped my mood deeper than the Ice Abyss.
I need to talk to my parents. I'm a realist: I can't figure it out without adults. And although I know a fair number of adults who know and can do more than my parents, who are wiser than them, only my Mum and Dad are sincerely interested in my well-being.
There was still time before supper, and I would come up with a cover for my questions so as not to worry my parents.
I searched the web again and found the perfect excuse. I sent the link to my phone and went to the garden. On such a wonderful evening, my Mum would probably order to serve the food for us there.
And so it turned out. The droids set the table, brought bowls and jugs for washing hands, and turned on cosy music.
I chatted a little with my parents about various trifles and then showed the page with the essay contest, in which I supposedly wanted to participate.
"I don't want to write banal things about the sides of the Force, the ideology of the Empire and the Republic, or about gender discrimination in the Order and the Guard. I'm more interested in the staff management in both institutions. But there's a lot that's unclear here."
"It's impossible to understand fools," Dad chuckled.
"What exactly didn't you understand?" Mum asked with interest.
The parents met when Dad wanted to see the authors of the winning project for the reorganisation of a loss-making enterprise that Gwalchtan-TNC had acquired through debt obligations. Dad is a very responsible and conscientious manager; he didn't delegate everything to his subordinates but wanted to personally talk to those who would revive the half-dead company, to listen to their evidence that revival and profitability are possible. Mum was a staff manager in this group. They fell in love with each other almost immediately, but Mum didn't give up her career after the wedding; she worked hard for four more years to achieve the prosperity of that very company. And when Mum wanted children, because of a difficult pregnancy she couldn't work as before, Dad taught her how to play the stock market so that she could work from her bedroom or the clinic. He very needed a smart trader, and Mum couldn't live without an interesting and challenging occupation. Mum liked her new job, and she continued to work at the stock exchange after she recovered from giving birth, but staff management was her first love, and she couldn’t resist the temptation.
"Mum, I don't understand how the Order ensured the loyalty of its people. For example, Yoda senses that Anakin is in pain but does nothing to help him. Same with the murder of the younglings in the Temple: Yoda knew what was happening, knew who the criminal was, but did nothing to stop the crime and save at least some of the children."
"I always thought he was in cahoots with Palpatine," Dad said. "There's no other way to explain it. Or all that talk about a Jedi always knowing if someone in the universe is using the Force is a lie. They don't even see if someone is using the Force right next to them."
"Well, yes," Mum nodded. "The Empire, which was supposedly hunting the Jedi, didn’t see Obi-Wan Kenobi, who escaped from Tatooine only with the Force, waving their stupid lightsaber, and Yoda training Luke Skywalker in a place more than visible to the Guard."
"It doesn't matter," I said. "I'm interested in something else. The Jedi say you have to listen to the Force; they have meditations and visions all the time, but when Anakin complains about nightmares about his mother's death, Kenobi doesn't take him to see Shmi. After all, they could have prevented her kidnapping or rescued her from captivity much earlier, when she was still cured. On the contrary, Kenobi said that dreams do not matter, and Anakin should ignore them. It turns out that Anakin was right when he said that Kenobi was to blame for Shmi's death just as much as the Tuskens. The Order didn't even think about buying Shmi out and finding her a job in the Republic. And when Anakin started having nightmares about his wife's possible death, Yoda told him "The fear of loss is a path to the dark side" and "Rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force." For that, any person would have smashed Yoda's mug! On what basis should people be loyal to the Order?"
"Anakin's story is a complete fabrication," Mum said. "Let everybody push it everywhere, not less than Pinocchio's story, but Anakin himself is no more real than the wooden boy. But at the same time, Anakin's story is very indicative. The Order has always had a problem with the abundant transition of Jedi and Padawans to the Guard. The Sith have everything the same, from the mores and customs within their institution to the transitions to the Jedi, but the Forceans have nowhere else to run, since after a Jedi or Sith education, people are good only as janitors on droidless planets."
"And the Service Corps?" I asked.
"Same thing. Without subsidies from the Republic and the Empire, the Jedi and the Sith would starve to death. The Force is not needed anywhere. There is no demand for it."
"Then why does Kadvir give the Order and the Guard children?" I began to approach the necessary topic.
"They give away those who aren't needed by their families, which means they will still grow up as a source of problems. My parents are poor, semiliterate refugees. But they did everything so that I could study, not work. I received grants—first for school, then for university. Back in high school, I used the prize from one of the competitions I won to buy my parents training to become bakers. And in my first year of work after university, I took out a mortgage on a bakery and a house next to it."
Wow, what a twist. My Mum is a Forsean? I wonder what my grandparents were like. They were always kind and cheerful; their recent death was a great grief for our family. But the hard life had taken its toll on their health.
In any case, the Force was of no use to anyone. To make buns, cakes, and bread according to recipes that droids can't handle, you need completely different talents. Our cook is also a living person, not a droid.
But how did Mum cope with the Force? She doesn't have a tattoo. At least, not where her skin isn't covered by a bikini, which has never been particularly modest.
Luke Skywalker didn't suffer from uncontrollable manifestations of the Force, either, nor did Anakin. And both of them are declared to be powerful Forseans. Even if their story is fiction, it is based on the adventures of many real Forseans.
Why is everything so problematic for me?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game
aliyn_raven: (Default)
A long time in a galaxy far, far away, everything was completely different from what was written in the history textbooks at the demand of the rulers and their rivals.
The teenager received abilities one didn't want. A happy life is destroyed, and survival and freedom can become empty words. But if the world wants to turn you into a toy, you can make it play your own game with you.
***
Note: Self-consolation scribbles. I found a great Star Wars game but couldn't even get past the prologue because the controls were so complicated. This fanfic is NOT like that game. And it is AU for SW. I specifically try not to show who the character is, a boy or a girl, what their appearance is, so that readers can choose all this themselves, like in a video game.

— 1 —

Everyone hates it when someone tells them about their illnesses. So I will say very little just to understand the situation.
I've been sick since birth, all my thirteen years. And I've even gotten used to treating it with humour: "If something hurts, then you're still alive, which means you can change everything for the better."
Of course, I rarely go to school; I study mostly remotely, and when I come to class, I sit quietly in the corner. All my friends are online. But there are many of them; they are busy with all sorts of interesting things and can tell Malory from maltol.
So I think I'm lucky. It could have been much worse, including a coffin or a box for a vegetable person.
But today my tattoo suddenly started hurting. That's right—not my head, heart, or stomach, but my tattoo.
I've had it for a long time; I was only a few months old when my nanny (yes, a person, not a droid; my parents were concerned about me socialising faster) made it to protect me from the evil eye. Mum immediately fired this fool, making sure that she never worked with kids again. But the parents didn't remove the tattoo; they were afraid to subject the child to another medical procedure in addition to many. Over time, everyone forgot about the tattoo.
And today it reminded me of itself. I went into the dressing room, opened the three-panel mirror to see my back, and took off my T-shirt. The tattoo was still there, between the shoulder blades, but it glowed and shimmered no worse than a supermarket sign. Even brighter, because in daylight the lights of shops and clubs are not visible, and the tattoo shone in spite of all the lamps in the dressing room.
And then suddenly my glasses started to bother me. It even hurt my eyes! And I couldn't see well. I tore off my glasses and realised that I could see perfectly well without them. It couldn't be... I ran out onto the balcony to check.
Unbelievable! I can see the whole garden, the fence, and even the neighbors' garden without glasses. Everything is clear and distinct up to the horizon, which is quite far away on a sunny summer afternoon. I didn't have time to think about it; the phone reminded me of the need to get dressed for lunch.
Breakfasts and suppers belong only to our family; they are informal and fun, but lunch and dinner almost always have important guests, so I have to live up to them.
Today I was even glad of the ceremonial clothes. Their thick, heavy fabric completely hid the glow of the tattoo.
I don't want to pretend that I'm sick so as not to scare my parents, and it's impossible to show strangers that such things are happening to me. For the first time, etiquette and ceremony are useful.
Before the dining room doors opened, I washed my hands at a special fountain and entered the room. Only my father was at the table. I greeted him ceremoniously, wished him a pleasant appetite, and sat down at the table.
Hmm... There is little cutlery on the table. Is it really possible for me to chat with my parents instead of pretending to smile at other people's boring mugs?
"You ordered contact lenses after all," Dad said approvingly. "Well done. You're almost an adult now; it's time to take care of your appearance."
Dad has glasses. Mum, too. But they have little diopters, so the frame is light and elegant, adding beauty to their faces.
"Where's Mum?" I asked.
"She's having lunch with Greta Funberg."
"A nightmare," I replied. This old crocodile was the last person in the world you'd want to talk to.
"Business is business," Dad sighed. And he suggested, "I have some free time after lunch. Let's make a bouquet for Mum in her workroom. She needs to feel our support and gratitude."
I nodded. Everyone says I have a talent for floristry. I don't know. But I like making bouquets. But I like putting together droids and speeders even more.
Dad will probably start a game of tag in the garden, pretending that I won. He still thinks I'm a baby. But this he needs to relax, be a kid for a while, and limber up. Of course, he takes care of his body and works out on the machines and in the pool, but it's not the same. It's work. And Dad needs a rest.
The droids got the food from the dumbwaiter and served it on the table. Dad and I started eating lunch.
The tattoo was burning more and more. Any more, and I wouldn't be able to hide it. Luckily, I managed to get the painkiller without being noticed and hide it among the pills I was supposed to take with my meals, and Dad didn't know that something was wrong with me.
I am not afraid or ashamed to ask for help; I have no complexes, but first I want to understand what happened.
And then I saw that all the objects in the dining room, and Dad, and food, and things, and droids had a slight glow of different colours. It looked as if everything around was covered in barely noticeable, almost completely transparent clouds.
Very interesting.
If books and movies tell the truth, this is how the Jedi and Sith see the world.
But I've been through so many tests in excellent clinics since birth that extra midi-chlorians didn't have a chance to go unnoticed.
I must do the tests myself. Scanners and programmes for such analysis are not available to ordinary people, but if you show a little creativity and remember very ancient manuscripts, you can make your own test potion from ingredients that are available in any supermarket. I just have to rummage around in the kitchen, among the spices, and in the pantry with cleaners.
It's useful to be a nerd.
I inserted neutral words in my dad's story about work, noting with a lower level of attention what would be useful in the future (My parents taught me, this is an important skill for business life!), and I myself thought that I didn't want to get into the Jedi Academy. If for a half-pauper, barely literate farmer from the savage Tatooine the Order became a good social lift, then for me it is degradation. In addition, the Jedi take children to their braindryer when they are tiny, depriving them of any connection with their families and changing their names and those crumbs of memories that the little ones managed to accumulate.
Of course, there are families where parents then law must have to be left without children, and fairness would have left them without reproductive organs, because a shelter is better than a house like theirs, but I have a wonderful family! Even if we lived on welfare in a council flat, my parents were a wonderful family. And Kadvir is not Tatooine; here, even in the council quarter, there is a normal life, with grants and online special courses for talented children. I know this for sure because my parents are teaching me about business life, gradually handing over the management of a charitable foundation.
I also want to be as far away from the Sith School as possible. Kadvir is in the neutral zone, so we are free from the veil of lies of the New (How many new ones were? Three or four?) Republic, and everyone here knows that the Empire never killed little Forseans. On the contrary, the Empire gathered them for training first in orphanages, then, when they grew up, handed them over to a Sith Knight, who lived like an ordinary citizen and had one, sometimes two charges of different ages. This looked like an ordinary single father or mother, which exist throughout the universe and whose name is legion, and therefore was imperceptible to the uninformed.
By the way, this semblance of family and home was a serious reason for a considerable number of Jedi to go over to the Emperor's side. The Republics, whether Old or New, are silent about this.
But I don't like the Empire. It's the same hypocritical, semi-slave Republic, only from a different angle. Besides, the Empire is poorer because the state constantly interferes in the commerce and personal lives of citizens, and this spoils the economy.
Unfortunately, neutral territories are too weak to completely get rid of the influence of the Republic and the Empire. But still, "it is not the Jedi and Sith who win, but the machine guns." Neutral territories didn't abandon the old gunpowder weapons, TNT, and the like. Not on purpose; it was a forced measure due to the lack of funds for blasters and plasmauders. And suddenly practice showed that the Force runs away at the sight of a machine gun.
Living in a perpetual war is a dead end, so neutral territories balance between the Empire and the Republic, sell food, civilian goods, and weapons to both sides, and remain free.
And yet, Kadvir is forced to hand over children with an excess of midi-chlorians to the Jedi or Sith.
So it turns out that the tattoo was not done by a crazy nanny, but by my parents? And it hid the midi-chlorians? Perhaps this is also related to the fact that I was sick all the time.
Ohh... I don't know what I would do in their place.
If I think about it, it's better to be sick at home than to be healthy in the orphanage or at the Academy.
But I'm growing, my midi-chlorians are increasing, and the tattoo doesn't hide them anymore.
I don't want to lose my family to the ravings of a herd of moronsaurs, no matter if they are Light or Dark.
And I need freedom. I am a Kadvirishone, not a Republican or Imperial puppet!
Lunch was over, and Dad and I went to pick a flower bouquet. I tried to make it as gentle and soothing as possible, and in Mum's favourite colours.
Ikebana is very difficult work; I forgot about the Force, the tattoo, and so on. The damn newfound abilities reminded me of themselves when I was inserting the energy crystals in the speeder's engine.
The engine melted, and the workshop almost caught fire. Everything turned out well only because the fire extinguisher itself flew into my hands when I thought about it.
Now I'm sitting in the gazebo in the garden and wondering what to do next. I need to learn to manage the Force before it kills me with its accidental release, but how can I do this without harming my family or becoming a slave to one of the two Orders?
I can't cope without the help of adults. However, any adult would want to use me and especially my parents. After all, there are many Forseans, but there is always little money. Even if we, the Gwalchtans, are far from the richest in Kadvir, it is still a tasty morsel.
I don't know. And I can't imagine who to ask for advice. One thing is clear: my parents don't know what to do either. Otherwise, they wouldn't have given me a tattoo.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638197
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14376014/1/My-Own-Game
aliyn_raven: (Default)
— 10 —

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

The flight was short and ended with a rather unpleasant contact with the floor, onto which the dragon carelessly placed me. It's a good thing he didn't throw me.
The net had partially disappeared, and only my mouth and hands were tied, and my legs had fetters so that I could barely walk.
The dragon (Or is this his servant? Now he was a guy of about twenty-three, dressed in a red and purple robe from the tenth century) turned me around a little and pushed me in the back. I hobbled across the huge ancient hall of the castle in the direction indicated. We passed under the arch, which changed colour from white to green and then turned white again. The arch didn't match the style of the grey stone walls at all, and it looked new. It looked like some kind of detector.
The corridor we walked along was quite long and led us to the foot of the stairs to the tower. I pretended that with such fetters on my feet and no way to balance with my hands, I couldn't climb the stairs. But the trick didn't help. The convoyer grabbed me with his arms and... It was probably that same teleportation that fantasy novels talked about.
Everything around us turned into a flickering of colour spots for a moment, and we found ourselves in a spacious room, from the windows of which we could see snow-capped mountains, over which the dawn was rising. And there are no signs of habitation. Bad. It is not clear how to escape from here. And it is unknown whether it is possible to escape at all without a helicopter or a teleport. Alnorria is a tiny island, and its permafrost zone is packed with tourists looking for a change of pace between summer skiing in Austria and Italy. However, this doesn't mean that there are no deserted wilderness areas between the hotels in Alnorria where it is impossible to survive without equipment and mountaineering training. Not to mention warm clothes and food supplies.
And only after realising this truth did I notice the completely mediaeval furnishings of the room; the only modern things here were the window panes, lamps, and a heater. It was standing next to a very fat woman with an emaciated face. It sounds strange to mention emaciation together with fatness, but that's exactly it: she looked as if she had been loading sacks of potatoes for three days without sleep or rest. Not in terms of clothing; her robe was clean, fresh, and quite expensive, but the general tiredness of the woman herself evoked associations with slave labour in the fields. This thought was also encouraged by the fact that the woman sat behind an extremely huge frame with dense silk and embroidered.
"This is Alex, my wife," the guy told her.
What?! I even jumped at such a statement. And the woman screamed hysterically:
"This is Blackrocks! Throw her into the abyss immediately!"
This shit even better than previous... By the way, these two maniacs speak Old-Alnorrian.
And there isn't the slightest hope that I have gone crazy; I ended up in the clinic, and a beneficial injection of haloperidol will stop this delirium.
"She's a Terrent," the guy objected to the woman.
"You're a weakling and a shame for your father," the woman hissed. "But he," she said, putting her hand on her stomach, "senses sacrilege blood in her!"
"Blackrocks' blood runs through all the old families of Aesa. Even you."
"It is as fresh as morning dew in her!" The woman got angry. "Who was her mother?"
"A refugee from Rudlig," the guy snorted. "And Dave Terrent was married to Fiona Lightwell."
"So her mother is a whore who cuckolded Albert Terrent with the Blackrocks! And her brat can only be a whore!"
"She's Albert Terrent's daughter. Genetic testing is never wrong," the guy insisted.
While they were bickering, my fidgeting with my jaw and wrists brought results: the bonds on my hands loosened, and those that were on my face fell off.
"I have long ceased to be a virgin!" I immediately screamed. "Everyone knows that dragons only kidnap virgins! But I've had plenty of lovers and..."
"It doesn't matter," the woman interrupted me. "You yourselves destroyed this rule with your sexual revolution and feminism. Chastity became an empty phrase." She looked at the guy. "But this wench is Blackrocks. And she will bring only evil. Throw her into the abyss immediately and find yourself a good wife!"
"I don't know anything about any Blackrocks," I quickly intervened. "And if you bring me back to the city, I won't tell anyone anything. Just think about it: if I even mention dragons, everyone will think I'm crazy and won't listen."
"Terrent doesn't know about the Blackrocks?" the woman asked sarcastically. "You couldn't invent a more stupid lie."
"I'm Calvin. My mother and Albert Terrent decided to run away on different roads before I was born. Oh, I'm illegitimate! I don't match your bloodline."
"I already said that after whores in your parliament equalised the rights of legitimate children with bastards, the concept of chastity disappeared," the woman threw at me and again began to insist on the guy that the brat of the Blackrocks should be thrown into the abyss.
It's obvious that the Blackrocks are some kind of clan in Aesa, and Fiona Lightwell made my father together with one of their representatives.
However, this doesn't make it any easier for me. I frantically thought up arguments in my defence, but nothing came to mind. And the guy said:
"This woman has a strong gift of folitvoner. She will pass it on to my sons."
"A woman can't pass on anything! Our nature is to continue the gifts of our husbands, and nothing more."
Hmm. Misogyny is disgusting, but female misogyny is terrible. Especially when it's generously seasoned with stupidity. The guy said mockingly:
"When did you manage to become a geneticist? And if the woman can't pass on anything, why are you afraid of the descendant of Violette Blackrocks and don't want to recognise my wife as the descendant of Ramder Narriun? If you haven't forgotten, Violette Blackrocks ran away from my ancestor while pregnant, gave birth safely, and lived to see numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren."
Wow, she could have run away? And she did it, apparently, quite a long time ago, several generations ago. Well, that's encouraging.
The woman wanted to say something, but the guy interrupted:
"This is my will and my order. If you want to change it, first be born, grow up, and win a duel with me for supremacy over the clan."
Who is he addressing? An embryo or something? He really is a complete psycho.
The woman wanted to answer, but the guy got ahead of her:
"I swear that my wife will not touch paper, pens, or ink. Pencils, markers, or slates either. And I will lock her up more securely than Ramder locked up Violette."
The guy suddenly hit me in the face.
"This is the first lesson in obedience," he said, not so much to me as to the woman. She became as pleased as a cur who had eaten his fill of meat. And I was too shocked and scared to say anything meaningful.
"It's still a bad idea," the woman said.
"But my wife has a good dowry."
"Eleanor Terrent has an even better dowry," the woman answered angrily. "And she knows her place and purpose well."
"Eleanor Terrent is pregnant. And I can't wait for her to give birth. You know very well that a wife must appear in the house of Narriun before Lughnasadh this year. And Litha ended the day before yesterday. Or do you want the Narriun house to acquire a human bastard for many years and his descendants forever? Eleanor's offspring can only be left in the Terrents' house or in the shelter after she gives birth!"
"You would have given her a miscarriage!" The woman was angry. "It isn't a sin to interrupt the insignificant blood. And if you are too weak for such magic, your brother would have done it."
"He doesn't see what he is doing yet," the guy answered calmly. "His miscarriage will make Eleanor sterile. This chick didn't get pregnant during the wedding season for nothing."
"Then any low-born girl on the church threshold is better than a wench with Blackrocks blood! Or are you so weak that you can't even steal a wife for yourself?"
I didn't understand anything in their gibberish anymore. I just wanted to sleep. It was already morning, and I hadn't slept all night. So I need to get some; I must sleep, eat, and then think it over and find a way to escape.
The guy was also tired of the discussion. He growled, "I have decided and declared my will!" He grabbed me and teleported again. The new room was similar to the one the woman had been sitting in, but it was clearly not lived in; the furniture had been assembled in a hurry; they didn't match each other in style; and the cleaning had also been done poorly—the cobwebs had not been swept off the walls everywhere.
However, on the table there was an expensive graphics tablet in a store box and a box with an additional set of stylus attachments. There was also a laptop, but judging by the half-erased children's stickers on the case, it was old and weak, bought at some flea market.
The guy said:
"Sorry for hitting you. But I must silence my mother. While she is pregnant with a boy, she needs to participate in the most important ceremonies and rituals, almost like a man. And there her words will be heard, since dragons believe that it is not the woman who speaks but the man in her womb. She saw the slap and almost calmed down. Therefore, she will not ask for help from the families related to the Narriuns."
It sounded like nonsense, but dragons are clearly not the brightest. However, this one specifically seems to have the beginnings of a brain. And I said:
"Do you understand that I don't want to be your wife?"
"I don't want to marry you either. I especially don't need children. So don't be afraid; I won't get into your briefs. You will make the idru-folitvons I need, and you will be free. I will take you to the station in Gilwell and give you money for tickets to any point in Alnorria."
He really isn't stupid. Gilwell is the largest rail and road junction in Aesa. Almost the entire town is one big hotel with rooms of different price categories, and you can easily hide from everyone.
But it's not that simple. There are too many dangerous details for me that this dude wants to keep silent about. And I risked testing the waters:
"Idru-folitvon is a ligature with a more complex pattern than the usual quadristella. The work is expensive; how will you pay?"
"You should pay me for saving you from marrying the exiled dragons. Dave Terrent sold you to them for the elixir of life. If it weren't for me, you'd be one sex slave for four, living in a cage and giving birth every year until you died."
"And these four shared the joy of the purchase with you?" I asked ironically.
"Eleanor Terrent was supposed to be my wife. But she found out who your grandfather wanted to sell her to. Eleanor is incredibly stupid, but she is very good at eavesdropping. And one of her closest servants, not wanting to lose a lucrative, easy job, advised her to get pregnant as soon as possible. Now she is out of marriage access for a year, and a year is a long time. During this time, either the shah or the donkey will die."
I was a little surprised. But not by Eleanor's intrigues or Dave's machinations, but by the fact that my interlocutor knows a fairy tale popular in the Near and Middle East that is little known in Europe. Fatima told it to me.
In short, a cheerful, kind swindler, who has his own name in every country, tricked a greedy Shah (emir, maharajah, sultan, etc.) out of a thousand gold pieces to help the poor under the pretext that in ten years he would teach a donkey to speak better than the shah himself. And to the concern of the poor that the Shah would execute the swindler for such a trick, the said swindler said: "Ten years is a long time. During this time, either the Shah or the donkey will die, and then the Almighty himself will not say which of them spoke better. And while you have money to feed your children during the bad harvest, I have a young thoroughbred donkey for travel. Let us rejoice in the present, but not fear the future."
But the point is not in the fairy tale but in the fact that my interlocutor, who never told me his name, is not telling me much if he is not lying with every word.
"Why does Eleanor need these body movements," I asked, "if she can easily take her share of the property from Dave and go to the US or England? There will be more than enough money for her to spend the rest of her life lounging on the couch, watching TV series during the day, and walking around fashionable brands in nightclubs that are significantly above average in the evening. If Eleanor also files a lawsuit on behalf of her son, she will have enough not only for round-the-clock nannies and a good boarding school but also for excellent security."
"You're talking like a rootless shopkeeper," the guy curled his lips. "If Eleanor takes the money, she won't want for anything for the rest of her days, and she'll even leave something to her grandchildren, but she'll turn from Miss Terrent into a nameless nobody."
"As if you or any other dragon couldn't buy her from Dave next year," I said.
"A noble dragon would never marry a female human, even if she was a princess. It would be a humiliating misalliance. A commoner who doesn't have the magic or money to guard his wife well will steal a simpleton, and a very simple one even by human standards: she has an ultra-religious family and is homeschooled; that is, she is illiterate, unable to live independently in the big world, and accustomed to obedience. The Narriuns have suffered some hardships and have been forced to take human wives for generations. But they were from ancient families. In Aesa, all the old families are connected with dragons. The Narriuns are not the only ones who have known bad times. But I am the only one who is not married. So, thanks to you being here, Eleanor's fate is safe."
"For religious people, a dragon is the spawn of the devil." I didn't believe it.
"What, you don't know the teachings of the Alnorrian Bible Church at all?" The guy was surprised. "Dragons are blessed to protect and guard this island; serving them is an honour for a human."
"The Alnorrian Church is Protestant, so it doesn't have a single structure with one supreme government. There is only a general council of everyone and no one—a very amorphous union. And in every parish of the Alnorrian Church, there are many different sub-churches and movements with their own teachings. Outside of Aesa, no one has ever mentioned dragons anywhere. There are no bad words, no good ones. For most people in Alnorria, dragons are a fairy tale. Or the ravings of madmen. You don't just hide from the world for nothing."
"It doesn't matter," the guy said. "The important thing for you is that I saved you, so you owe me idru-folitvon."
I only owe him a good slap in the face and a lawsuit for kidnapping, but it's unwise to say that out loud. And then there are those four dragons that Dave allegedly sold me to.
"The bathroom is there," the guy said. "I will bring you lunch by one o'clock. Do not try to leave the room. Your tribe can't cast spells, but a female human pregnant with a dragon gains a little magic. My mother will come to check if I have locked you in well. That is why my friend, the one who brought you here, set as many death traps as necessary to calm her down."
"Where's your father?" I asked.
"He died. But before that, he managed to impregnate my mother. And that's why I got a chance for freedom. I'll explain everything to you over lunch."
He left.
And I went to wash myself and think about why this lover of folitvons didn't turn to the hundreds of designers who graduate from Alnorrian universities every year.
Something about all this was wrong. And it for sure stinks.
And how did Violette Blackrocks escape?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3371534/1/If-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
aliyn_raven: (Default)
I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
*****
Modern urban fantasy, our world, mythical creatures in our world, adventures, an active heroine, maybe a slash, but more than a Gen.
The name of the novel may be changed.
If someone corrects the grammar mistakes, I will be glad.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216

Emil, thanks for the preliminary reading.

I tried to calm down. Even though there was never any stress in my previous life, I didn't have conflicts with anyone, but I'm not a piece of jelly! My granny taught me to be calm and strong and to be able to defend my rights. Of course, kidnapping, captivity, and this maniacal house, a constant convoy, all of these don't add anything to self-confidence, but it is too early to turn into a hysterical person.
Why am I so upset anyway?
Ah, got it. On the carpet lay a newspaper with a full-page headline, "Mortal Kombat in TGS: There can be only one."
The rag, judging by the headline, is yellower than a lemon, but even such publications don't write lies. They exaggerate, embellish, or understate, but they don't lie.
This means someone has already been killed here. The police didn't find evidence; this happens, but there was noise in the newspapers. Who was killed then? Could it have been my father?
Because of the lawyer's visit, I thought Albert Terrent had died two or three months ago, but nothing in the house suggests there had been a recent funeral. Even if Dave treated his son with indifference and was happy about his death, then death itself will continue to influence the existence of the house itself, and especially the enterprise, for a long time. Irma, Eleanor, or even Chris would definitely have blurted out about Albert's recent death. Or even more so, Chris, who had an affair with Albert.
It turns out that my father died a long time ago. And Dave hoped to make Eleanor's son an heir, but something went wrong, and I was needed.
This means that the father was killed. I don't want to know why; it doesn't matter; all that matters to me is the threat to my life. And it's more difficult to defend against her than against Diongus Tinoliadis.
"What?" I asked. Dave was saying something all this time, but I listened.
"The gift of a calligrapher-ligaturer can't leave the family!" Dave growled, rather furious.
"Oh, come on, it doesn't have any value!" I said it contemptuously. "A crowd of designers, historians, and specialists in dead languages graduates every year. Hire at least a dozen calligraphers. Or did you imagine that I, as a relative, would do the design for free? Eat shit!"
Dave looked at me very strangely: with an absolute amazement, which gave way to suspicion, and then he said accusingly:
"You don't believe in the power of folitvons?"
"Do you treat yourself with an elixir made from hare droppings?" I asked sarcastically. "That's noticeable."
Dave glared at me with hatred. I just grinned contemptuously. And Dave said,
"The Alnorrian Bible Church recognises the grace of folitvons."
"I amn't interested in the opinion of any religious institution, and in a civilised country, they can all express it only within the confines of their institutions."
"No one from the Terrent family can ignore the church!" Dave growled. "And all Terrents are only Biblians!"
"I'm Calvin. And you owe me."
To my surprise, Dave didn't argue or blackmail me. He suddenly smiled as sweetly as possible with his nefarious mug and said that we would discuss this topic later, and now he had an important online meeting.
I felt scared. What is this ghoul up to?
But strangely enough, until the ball itself—this is a week—nothing significant happened. Even in the interview Dave arranged the day after our conversation, nothing special happened. Five journalists came, obviously from TGS-friendly publications, and said that there would be a live broadcast on their television and online channels. I told the cameras that I wanted to take my father's property, pay off the debts for the candy shop, and, if my granny wanted to withdraw from business, find a tenant. Then I will go to the east of the country and create a fund for the development of Old-Alnorrian, joining those who are seeking recognition of it as the fourth state language.
The fact is that the meeting with journalists was in the afternoon, and in the morning Professor Gatti brought fresh newspapers and five modern books of different genres in Old-Alnorrian to choose from, so that I could do independent reading, as is done when studying any language. And also a DVD with one of the anime that I planned to watch before the kidnapping—now it's clear why he asked what films I had in my queue to watch: Gatti was looking for interesting training material for listening.
I was surprised and excited that in the east of the country, the real language of our island is so well developed. There, they took the revival of real Alnorria culture seriously. Enthusiasts of Old-Alnorrian banded together, did serious research into which of the three types of writing was best adapted to modern software and easier for children to learn, and adopted it as the main one—not forgetting the other two as a constantly used addition. Since there were programmers among the Old-Alnorrian fan groups, they created language packs for several of the most popular personal computer operating systems and negotiated with their owners to add these packs to their product—via online download, of course. Support groups of Old-Alnorrian made alnorrizations of popular video games and contacted the developers so that such an addition would become official and could be downloaded through the settings of the game purchased on all popular game sites. There were Alnorrian subtitles and amateur voice-overs for movies and television series.
But what outraged me even more was that this was not known in other parts of the tiny island. In the east, for some reason, they decided that the revival of the Alnorrian language was interesting only to the inhabitants of their region.
And then I realised what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. There must be his real language on the island! And not only in the east, but everywhere. This needs to start from the east, because there is a base there with which you can work: teacher training centres, people who can make online courses and self-instruction applications for phones, and all that stuff.
Of course, the languages of the occupiers will not disappear in the coming decades, or even completely, but Alnorrian should have equal status with them!
We need to clarify here. If a tiny island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea has many fresh springs, then in an era when there were no desalination plants and refrigerators on ships, even a piece of this island will be tried to be conquered by everyone who has even heard about the Mediterranean Sea. In very ancient times, Egyptians, Mesopotamians, Phoenicians, Greeks, Persians, Romans, Vikings... Many others made their mark here. And in the not so distant years, the south of Alnorria was controlled more often and longer by the Venetians; in the north, England was more successful than other competitors; and in the west, the Teutonic Order first dug in, then the Margraviate of Brandenburg.
And almost every vicegerent left by the occupiers very quickly realised what a treasure he had and how he could influence the politics of two continents if he became independent. And in order to turn his masters away, he needs to conclude an alliance with the aborigines, giving them more rights and freedoms, and then, with their support, enter into a second alliance, this time with the rest of the vicegerents who want independence. The occupiers soon began a new seizure, and the vicegerents again declared independence... In short, until the beginning of the 17th century, it was fun on the island. Afterwards, the United Republic of Alnorria appeared, and things became calmer.
The east of the island was captured on a residual basis, the British and Venetians looked at it more as a satellite than a colony; the Germans didn't need the east of the island because there is not a single natural harbour there capable of accepting anything larger than a fishing boat.
Groundwater is also scarce, and artesian waters lie too deep to have been extracted in the pre-industrial era. Accordingly, only in the east was the true language of the island preserved in the form in which it was. Although it was not used very actively, Italian and English were needed for trade.
What adds piquancy is that the languages of the occupiers were influenced by Alnorrian, and therefore we do not have English, German and Italian, but our own dialects based on them. Although, of course, the differences are not as many as the founders of the Republic Of Alnorria claimed when they declared final independence in 1614.
But it's time to return to our days. Dave didn't argue with me during the interview; he just said that he hoped to persuade me to join the Terrent family and become the heir to the conglomerate during the time that I was visiting here. I replied that he had Eleanor and her son, who would be more suitable for this role.
The news of Eleanor's pregnancy became a much greater sensation than my appearance in the Terrent family. The journalists instantly latched on to Dave, and he immediately ended the interview.
I didn't find out what statement Eleanor herself made to the press; I had enough worries with letters from friends and with my studies.
Fatima found all the wills on the Terret property, and Niccolò—he is a law student—said that the situation is quite murky. The Terrents themselves tried to create a majorat by means of their wills. This is when possessions can't be inherited by a woman or transferred through a woman, but everything automatically goes to the closest male relative through the male line.
The heirs rarely argued with this, but there were still cases. The fact is that in Alnorria there was never formally an aristocracy; from the very beginning, a republic of trading shops and workshops was created, and therefore the freedom to individually dispose of property became the basis of the foundations. In addition, Alnorrian women have had the right to property since the very beginning of the state. They could not give a dowry to their husbands if they didn't want to; Alnorrian women were only obliged to pay an annual interest on the house and children. Likewise, the husband alone owned his property and paid interest to the family. If one of the spouses wanted, then at the local city hall, he or she drew up a power of attorney for his half to manage the property or gave it to him or her as a gift.
And there were many cases when men, busy with long-distance business trips or politics, transferred all management of their property to their wife or sister. And a married woman was free to bequeath her funds to anyone, even the first tramp she met, leaving nothing to her children or husband. There were many cases when a man bequeathed all his houses and lands not to his sons but passed them on to his daughter or niece, who showed more business qualities, and she was not necessarily the eldest.
At the same time, there was a law according to which it was impossible to leave children, the living half of the marriage union, and parents completely without funds; the testator was obliged to allocate at least something to them that could save them from starvation.
On the other hand, there is the same freedom to individually dispose of property and the inviolability of property.
It is easy to guess that in such conditions, lawyers and judges in inheritance cases have never suffered from unemployment. And the 20th century, with its demands for complete gender equality and the abolition of distinctions between children born of wedlock and extramarital, only added fire to the judicial furnace.
In relation to Dave, all of the above meant that he could simultaneously bequeath the conglomerate and estates to any outsider, and at the same time, he was firmly bound by the need to transfer the property to the closest male relative on any line, be it male or female.
Therefore, there are precedents for any court decision. Law in Alnorria is normative; that is, it is based only on a set of laws adopted by parliament and not precedent, but in any normative decision, the experience of past verdicts matters. That's why pure normative law, also known as continental law, doesn't exist anywhere. And the most interesting thing, Eleanor may even try to sue Dave for all his property on behalf of her son. The success of such a process is doubtful, but she will receive a considerable share of the conglomerate and estates. Niccolò had just started studying the differences between normative and case law at university, and the Terrents' situation became a good question in class.
Considering that TGS is on the verge of bankruptcy, snatching at least something and bringing it under the hammer means ensuring a more than comfortable and carefree future for yourself.
However, all this is a matter of the future. And I need to solve current problems.
Now I'm at that same ball at City Hall. My dress and shoes are what I wanted. But the event itself is very boring. There are no normal dances, no stand-up comedians. There is no one to even chat with since there is only the society of "old money" and those who seek their favor. I am an outcast for both. Even my convoyers stepped aside so as not to get dirty from my unworthiness.
So I can finally escape.
No matter what granny says about the danger from Diongus Tinoliadis, Dave is even more dangerous. Therefore, I need to get out of the city hall, catch a taxi, and go to Fatima. I'll think of something there. And Fatima's mother will probably lend me money for the first time. Who, if not her, can understand my trouble?
And Carlita is a genius at searching the Internet for any secret information and knows how to use the darknet. She had already started looking for Diongus. He couldn't help but leave traces on the network. So we'll hand him over to the cops before they can find him.
Eleanor, by the way, didn't come to the ball. And, judging by the snippets of conversations that I heard, this is the main gossip of the evening. The gloating of the local ladies was off the charts; Eleanor, it seemed, really was an unattainable star among them. And now everyone is happily trampling the former champion into the dirt.
That's what this fool needs. If she had immediately agreed to help me, one would not have gotten into a scandal. Eleanor for sure had a plan to make the local sanctimonious patriarchal bunch of vipers consider the birth of an illegitimate child a matter of honour, but such transformations take time, and this is exactly what Eleanor lost thanks to her stupid stubbornness and snobbery.
A small thing, but nice. And now I need to start escaping.
I followed where the waiters went and slipped through the service door. Now I need to find some kind of jacket, a chef's or a waitress's one, so that the staff won't kick me out into the ball hall.
I looked for the utility room. And she found a grey janitor's robe there. Just what I need. The uniform will be noticed earlier than the fact that the ammunition sticking out from under it is by no means for work. And as you know, people in uniform always become invisible, even to other people in uniform.
I walked through the room where the servers were pouring champagne and water into glasses and placing canapés and tiny cakes on trays. (Cakes are lousy, it should be noted. Even our far-from-elite candy shop makes better cakes! Although, if there are two types of champagne here, for gentlemen and for rabble, then there are better cakes than the ones they served me.)
But that's not my problem.
I found the service door and walked out into the backyard of City Hall. The wicket and gate were locked, but I climbed over the fence. I chose the right dress—not the best clothes for parkour; however, escape is still possible.
Behind the city hall there is a small park, and behind it there is Ascension Square, which, if Niccolò understood the guidebooks correctly, is always full of taxis. Even if this park was a risky place for a lonely girl at night, it was safer to walk through it than to be seen on the street, which was probably full of the press and video bloggers.
Before I had walked a hundred metres, the park, the city hall, and Aesa lived up to their bad reputation: a fight broke out in the park. And not just like that, but with the use of flash grenades, which for some reason exploded in the hands of the fighters and did it silently.
But this is bullshit. The main thing is that now there will be a crowd of journalists and bloggers.
And I ran as fast as I could towards the square. It's good that the shoes have a small heel; although it's difficult to run, it’s possible.
Something huge collapsed right in front of me; I barely had time to jump to the side.
The dragon.
A real dragon, like from a fantasy movie. With the size of a bus, plus a long neck, tail, and wings.
I covered my mouth with my hands to keep from screaming. All I need to make a complete screw up is to get the attention of bloggers, police, and kids, journalists, and other extremely undesirable audiences.
But where do I get glitches from? I didn't even drink champagne at the ball. There couldn't be a drug in a crappy brownie, could there?
I don't give a damn about it. Only taxis matter. And I rushed through the hallucination.
The dragon turned out to be prickly and hard.
Can glitches be so realistic? Or do dragons exist? Then why didn't anyone see them?
Doesn't matter. I need to go to the square. I'll think about everything else in the taxi.
I stepped off the path into the bushes to walk around the dragon on the lawn. But a wave ran through his body, and the huge carcass turned into a man. An unremarkable man of about thirty, average height, fair hair, wearing dark jeans and a T-shirt.
I took off running, but I was tightly entangled, from head to toe, by a net that came from nowhere. And a few moments later, some thick cable or flexible manipulator threw me onto something that looked like a hard sofa, and this sofa rose into the air and flew somewhere.
I was kidnapped by a dragon?!
aliyn_raven: (Default)
I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
*****
Novel, modern urban fantasy, our world.
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.

"Enough cheap blackmail," I cut him off. "If Dave deal a small harm to my granny, it will ruin the affairs of TGS very much. Doctors are obliged to keep everything secret about the patients but they are obliged to draw attention to someone who is dangerous to them. Especially if they can glorify their own account on social networks with this. Doctors are humans too, and they want a lot of views. And even Dave can't buy them all."
James glared at me with rage. When this sleepy fish gets angry, he becomes very sexy. But he is a boor and a bandit. Therefore, James goes for a walk in the forest, as far away from me as possible.
Helmut said, "Go to the sewing room, Herrin. You will be provided with everything you need to study."
"Where to?" I was astonished. "Why not the garden shed?"
"The sewing room is for ladies who are busy with fine needlework. Even the British royal family has a sewing room! And not only princesses but also princes make embroidery and soft toys for charity auctions."
"And the British royal family makes a reality show out of every their sneeze and fart, not to mention family scandals, and all just so that the taxpayers, out of curiosity for the next series, do not vote for the abolition of the monarchy."
"You…" Helmut began but I interrupted him:
"Nothing is ever heard of the rest of the royal families. They work out their content by doing troublesome things like the administration and logistics of cultural and social projects without making a fuss. Many people outside of a monarchical country do not even know that it is not a republic. And only the British royal family is always at the top of world news."
"Herrin, Eleanor is in the lady's study room right now. I doubt you want to see her. You need permission from the Chairman to study in the gentlemen's study room. And even more so, you need his permission to get your own study room. And the sewing room has a work table where you can write."
"I will not go to any rooms!" I said. "A football team can practice in my living room. Rearrange the furniture so that there is a work area with everything a designer needs and a meeting table for four. I want to be ready to do any business."
"Ladies and gentlemen don't do room zoning," James replied arrogantly. "This is the lot of the plebeians, who have no means for a decent house."
"I'm not interested in what and how professional slackers and their bedding do. A business lady doesn't waste time running around when there is no real need for it. Only idiots throw time away because they don't understand how it is profitable to invest. Therefore," my voice became commanding, "you have half an hour to make areas for work, guests, tea drinking and simple relaxation in my living room, including a large-screen TV, music center and massage chair. Although you can put an armchair in the bedroom, it's not significant."
That's it! If Dave needs me, let him pay.
"This is impossible!" Raoul exclaimed. "This is not your home!"
"I'm the heiress of this house, am I not? Therefore follow the order."
"Signorina…" Marco began to fly in the face of me too but I cut him off:
"You all totally screwed up with your shitty stylist. So now you do what I say, and do not argue. You, Marco, are with me in the garden. The rest are to work."
I went to the garden doors. If these four use violence, then I declare a war in which I will not take prisoners. I have a phone with a message for Fatima.
James stepped in my way.
"Young miss," he began with a fuse, but I growled like an angry tigress:
"Go from here! And if you don't do as I say, I'll tell Dave that I saw you four selling drugs to the servants!"
The convoyers was flabbergasted. And I continued the attack:
"Dave is a bandit, he will believe and start checking. And he will find many of your crimes against him because you are bandits and thieves!"
James bulged his eyes and stepped towards me, but Helmut stopped him.
"Start looking for furniture. And you, Herrin, besides Marco, will be escorted by Raul."
I didn't argue. And it's such a good win. My escorts walked behind me, were silent, and didn't interfere. I took a walk in the garden, you can count it as gymnastics, and returned to the room.
Now it's a completely different matter! A lot of useless space was intelligently organized, and the room became habitable and comfortable. But as I got closer to the work area, I cursed hard. These bastards didn't bring a laptop or a tablet, but they put only one marker board and they brought markers for kindergarten drawing but not for design!
There were several sheets of children's paper for drawing and the school dictionary of Old-Alnorrian on the table — it is a paper book, they didn't even load any textbooks and dictionaries into the book reader. I hate paper books because there is no interactive instant search in them, it's only for stupid schoolchildren who need to stretch the imitation of learning activities for a whole lesson.
I immediately expressed all these claims to the convoyers but the potential teacher — a good-looking old man in a blue suit — looked at me with poorly hidden irritation and asked if I knew how many types of writing were in ancient Alnorria. In response, I asked how to write down the phrase "Krempira imr dedelane", that is, "We having hurled the deadline", if etiquette forbids writing congratulations with vrel; walsur is intended for less significant events; tumguk creates too many signs for a postcard; and dimtush is rough, this letter style fit only at the airport signs "toilet" and "cash desk".
So what? There are three types of writing in Japanese that are used simultaneously, and one of them has two readings. The Celtic languages had three scripts, and each was also encrypted. The Alnorria of old times didn't really stand out from such a company.
The old man looked at me with interest, introduced himself as a doctor of linguistics, Robeto Gatti, and advised me to use syllabic rather than letter dimtush.
I sighed and began to write. The syllabic notation is more ancient, we studied it less in the courses, and it was not in the dictionary. I couldn't help telling the convoyers what idiots they were if they didn't bring Gerstein's dictionary. Moreover, markers with a standard sting, it is very inconvenient for them to do calligraphy — styluses for graphics tablets have at least five nibs for a reason. And it was not out of idleness that the Alnorrianishes of the old times, who adored calligraphy, invented seven types of feather sharpening.
"I don't like her…" I said. "The view is not marketable, boring. The inscription should catch and caress the eye, but this one is not. What if the syllable in the center of the inscription is replaced with tumguk?" And I wrote. It was really catchy and attractive.
"It is a controversial decision," Gatti displeasedly answered.
"Controversial" does not mean "wrong," I objected. "You just need to choose the shape of a postcard that will make the combination of different types of writing correct — a triangle or a circle… Or… a ritual frame! There are eight types in eight variants of its, something cannot but fit. And color symbolism. Yellow background, blue and red frame, white lettering. If you violate the canons in such a way that you get a message that is impeccable in meaning, then the violation of the canons turns into merit. Our ancestors liked to show off the ambiguity of ceremonial letters and painting for screens. But I don't remember all the frames. And there is no reference book."
Gatti looked at me with no small interest and drew a frame from a group of honoring warriors. But I didn't remember its additional meaning. And Gatti said:
"To be on time for the deadline is a significant victory in the competitive war. And this is always the protection of possessions, in other words, of the company, associated with their expansion, that is, with a new order. Therefore, the Chaush frame is best suited. Write in it, Miss Terrent."
"Mx Kelvin," I clarified. "My mother was not married to Albert, but I have professional diplomas in the name of Kelvin."
I made an inscription, I myself remembered one of the round frames for the wishes of successful trade, intended specifically for warriors, and made an inscription in a circle.
"This is for the chocolate medals," I explained to Gatti. "They are ordered at least as often as sugar postcards."
"Not bad," he nodded with liking. "Very well, Mx. Kelvin. Now make a ligature for the quadristella."
I nodded and sat down at the table. The quadristella, a rhombus with concave sides, vaguely resembling a star, was one of the Alnorrianishes' favorite forms for fibulae and rings. Now such quadristellas are back in fashion, they are molded everywhere: on coffee cups, on branded folders for papers, on a restaurant menu…
I drew a grid of the golden ratio on a sheet of paper - Gatti was surprised again but immediately smiled approvingly and quietly. Looks like I've proven my skills. However, this is not the kind of thing that really needs my attention. I drew a rhombus on the grid and began to make a ligature, focusing on how the grid affects the rhombus. I ruined four sheets of paper with unsuccessful attempts but still made something decent.
"That’s well, it's a draft," I said. "I would not let it go on sale but we can already work with this source."
Gatti looked shocked.
"That's wonderful, dear Mx! You have talent! The best calligraphers would have competed for the right to call you a student in the old days, and the city authorities would have given you the right to vote as a man. The gift of a ligature calligrapher is very rare. The sorcerers of the tribe were chosen from such people in pagan years. Mx Kelvin, you definitely need at least a bachelor's degree in order for your talent to flourish to its full potential."
I was surprised. My artworks did not stand out in any way In the courses. But the teaching there was not brilliant, specifically in terms of Old-Alnorrian and calligraphy.
"I didn’t even make it to high school, what’s a bachelor’s degree?" I muttered.
"You have completed a professional two-year course, I understand correctly?" Gatti asked. "Do you have work experience in your specialty?"
"I have been officially working since the age of thirteen. My granny is the owner of a candy shop. I took the course for three years. First, confectioner was the main profession, after chocolatier as an additional specialization."
"That's the equivalent of a full school education," Gatti said. "Even with the first year of university, or at least the first semester."
"I know. Half of our group enrolled immediately for the second semester. But I won't be able to pass the exams. I couldn't do it even at school!"
"No need," said Gatti. "If you take a prize in the university competition for workers, then you will enter without exams. After all, you do not apply for discounted tuition, and even more so for a scholarship. Universities are interested in the talents that will glorify it, and are more than lenient towards those who are already working in their specialty."
"The teachers in the courses didn’t say that," I doubted.
"If they say this, then who will pay for the elective for exam preparation?" Gatti chuckled. "Contests are popular with high school freelancers and senior workers. But everyone who works legally is allowed. And you do not have to participate as a confectioner or chocolatier. Design is a broad field. But you can get into both Alnorria linguistics and history with a ligature."
"Thank you," I said. And Gatti looked at my convoyers.
"Bring your lady all the literature she needs for the preparation, in a form convenient for her, and modern equipment. Just because I can't read the screen after the accident doesn't mean I've ever banned students from using the latest technology. There is a printer in this world, you know!"
The convoyers looked… They looked very strange. As if the fact that I had an aptitude for ancient Alnorria calligraphy mattered to anyone but me. They were shocked and even scared. I didn't understand anything. What is so special about calligraphy? Well, it's trendy. And you can quickly find a job with a good salary. But a software tester, which is made by AI, earns much more, and this profession requires more important abilities.
I decided not to fill my head with the fantasies of fools and focus on the lesson. I have accumulated a huge number of questions to the doctor of linguistics!
We did a good job, and the convoyers even brought brushes, pens and paper for calligraphy, special ink and paints. I didn’t know how to work with anything, the courses were only markers with different types of stings and styluses for a graphics tablet, but it never hurts to learn something new. Gatti left closer to lunch, and I ran to the bathroom to wash off the paint and mascara, with which I was heavily smeared. Nothing, I'll practice and be a real calligrapher! Handwritten folitvons — a beautifully written wise saying or its ligature, enclosed in a painted frame, which in the Middle Ages everyone claimed to be culture hung on the wall — are also back in fashion. And they pay well for it. Even if the design fails, I don't have to stay in the candy shop for the rest of my life.
There was nothing interesting at lunch, even Dave was wandering around somewhere, but this was for the best - his face did not add appetite. The thought that my children might inherit their great-grandfather's looks made me shiver. It is a serious motive to be child-free or to take foster children.
I decided to take a walk after eating to shake the fat and then to work out my calligraphy, but now Japanese one. I studied this language at school, and since here you can pump it better than anywhere else, you must use the opportunity.
But as soon as I went out into the garden, Dave called Helmut and demanded to bring me to him. Eleanor was standing at the door of his office. She looked kind of worn out and tired. But that's not my problem.
But Dave managed to intrigue me. As soon as I entered the office, he threw newspapers at me. I picked up the one that fell on the table next to me.
Paper newspapers are not needed in the days of cheap large-screen smartphones and penny high-speed Internet but all self-respecting news centers do duplicate especially important messages on paper, only now newspapers are not twenty pages, as before, but four or even two, and are not printed in the morning and in the evening every day, and special editions as needed and at any time of the day. I don't know why people are still buying such leaflets, but if I see newspaper vendors appearing on the street, I immediately look at the news in the phone application, which collects them from all the news sites: there is something very interesting and extremely important.
This time, I was the news. More precisely, the fact of the appearance of a granddaughter at the head of the TGS. Wow, how fast! I expected the special issue to be in the evening. How did Fatima manage to stir up the media in such a way just through a message in the guestbook of their sites? But it is not important. The main thing is that now I am in control of the situation.
"You pay me compensation and return the inheritance," I said to Dave, "and we quietly part ways forever. Or the media will know about the kidnapping and all the rest."
"The Terrent family cannot be so disgraced that one of them leaves the family!" Dave growled.
"You were supposed to take Grandma and me to America on your plane and pay for accommodation in some tourist center while the police catch Diongs Tinoliadis here. I wouldn’t even know that you were my relative, I would think that my grandmother wanted to relax or won a trip in the lottery. Now rake the consequences of kidnapping and theft of inheritance."
"Chris", Dave said, "send these four to the farm. And for Miss Alex, I found more reliable gentlemen."
Horror darkened my eyes. What is this old freak up to?
"Don’t even hope to force me with drugs and violence!" I yelled. I was shaking like some hysterical hen. "The press will demand an independent check of my health."
And I also hoped for Eleanor. Not just because she was waiting at the door. Eleanor is my chance to escape from here.
Or does she hope to kill me and do something to this end? After all, Eleanor categorically does not want to pay me a single brang!
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
aliyn_raven: (Default)
I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
*****
Novel, modern urban fantasy, our world.
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.

Fatima already knew the answer, she looked for information about Dave Terence as soon as she read my letter.
And my whereabouts scared me more than the kidnapping.
Aeterna Saltus. Aesa for short. The special territory of the Republic of Alnorria, located on the border of the western and southern districts, has the status of a district, but it is called "special territory". They speak the northern dialect here, I could guess where I am, but I forgot about Aesa because this is one of those places on Earth where I would never want to go.
Aesa at the end of the 17th century was inhabited by religious fanatics, who were kicked out of their homelands by their own neighbors, since the unmoderated moderation didn't please normal people. But the Alnorrianishes have always loved the "golden mean", frantic epicureanism, as well as rabid asceticism, are equally unpleasant for us, therefore the Independents and their brothers in mind from other faiths didn't arouse sympathy from anyone. However, the Alnorrianishes have always been very practical as well, allowing fanatics to settle in the uninhabited lands and live there to their liking in exchange for the fanatics keeping the mountain roads constantly passable.
Alnorria is a small island, only 388'311 km2 (an easy number to remember, our schoolchildren were lucky), it was possible quickly to sail on a ship around it all in a circle even in those days, but at that time there were many battles in the Mediterranean Sea, much more than ever was in this eternally warring watery expanse. Therefore, small merchants, the backbone and driving force of Alnorria, were afraid to swim even along the coast. And no one ever wanted to cross the high mountains and deep gorges in the center of the island, and because the mountain valleys of Aeterna Saltus remained uninhabited for a long time.
Fanatics turned up in time under the arm of the parliament of Alnorria, and an agreement was concluded with them: "We don't ask what happens in the depths of the valleys, you build federal roads, keep them in order and don't interfere in the life of roadside taverns". This agreement is still in force today to a large extent. Aesa respects federal laws, but there are few of them, each district of Alnorria has its own parliament and its own constitution, its own Supreme Court — his verdict can be challenged in the Federal Court, but this is a very long process (although it is not hopeless!).
But I am here. And half of Aesa's land belongs to TGS and Dave.
I will never believe that my grandmother, even in a drunken stupor, could wish me to live in Aesa!
I tell everything for a long time, but in fact, all the memories and thoughts took a few seconds.
I said goodbye to Fatima and called my grandmother. I wake her up and scare her, but otherwise, she will suffer much more.
Granny answered after the third ring, and before I even had time to say hello, she said:
"You should stay in Terr-Court and don't go anywhere. Wait at least a month. This is necessary for your survival. My son is in Alnorria and he wants to kill you."
"What?!" I was taken aback. "But you only had my mother!"
"You already know about Rudlig,” granny said. "Dave couldn't help but tell you."
"I know," I replied. "But…"
I didn't finish, my thoughts were confused. And the granny said:
"I married a well-to-do man at the age of twenty, gave birth to a daughter, and two years later a son was born. I enjoyed the life of a housewoman without even thinking about studying and working. For fourteen years my marriage was quite decent, and my husband behaved adequately. But after that, he began to turn into a religious fanatic, an admirer of the president, and a domestic tyrant. Our lives have deteriorated, entertainment has disappeared, and my husband has stopped buying me fashionable clothes. We fought all the time. But I was afraid to get divorced. I tolerated his transformation into cattle for two years. And I got the inevitable. One day my husband hit me. And I realized that I must immediately save my life. Then Rudlig had not yet completely turned into a medieval dictatorship, and I was able to get a divorce, sue half of what was acquired in marriage, and move to another city, away from my ex-husband and his persecution. I bought a trading warehouse with the help of a good agency, rented it out to a store, and could continue the life of a well-to-do housewoman. The daughter left with me, and the son took the side of the father."
"I understand," I said. Then I figured out the dates, recalled some history lessons from school, and asked: "Shortly after your divorce, Rudlig began to pass those terrible laws that turned it into a dictatorship? And your son is completely..." I hesitated, but told the truth: "Has he lost his mind?"
"Dictatorship in the full sense of the word began later, but your mother was a very smart and active child, she was interested in things that fifteen-year-olds usually don't care about. It was she who insisted that soon everything would get worse, that it was necessary to learn languages and leave for a normal country. I admitted that she was right, but I had no idea how I would look for a job. My property was wealth only for Rudlig, and it is just funds for a few weeks of a good life in Europe or America. But more importantly, I didn't know how to persuade Diongus to leave his father and come to me. I studied English and French because my lover said they were the most beneficial for emigrating, and my daughter wanted more language practice, she needed to speak English and French at home. So three years passed, and the situation became critical. My lover was a good programmer, but he didn't have a diploma and official work experience, because he ran away from his drunker parents at the age of thirteen."
"Was he your kept guy?" I was surprised. "A woman has every right to buy toyboys but this isn't your style. You don't like weaklings."
"Oh no," granny laughed. "He wasn't a whore. At first, Tiasiy lived in gaming clubs, earned money by the exaltation of characters, and at the age of sixteen, as soon as he received a passport and the right to a bank account, he rented an apartment and began working in the creation of indie games. He was twenty by the time we met, he didn't need money, he had his own apartment, car and stable good fees, and therefore he was too lazy to get an education and look for a job under a contract. We met for three years, and our lives suited us, and we would continue to talk about emigration, without doing anything about this, only once every six months we flew on tourist visas for a few days to France and the US. We were afraid of change, afraid to decide. We had our cozy shell, and we did not even dare to stick our noses out of it, although Rudlig was getting worse day by day, the president constantly limited little by little progress and freedom. However, we told ourselves that everything would be fine. But the Day of the Seven Laws happened, after which it became dangerous to stay in Rudlig. A housewoman and an illegal programmer decided they would never find a job and needed a workaround."
Granny sighed.
"There are going to be some very ugly things to come. The current problems are largely generated by our decision."
"Did you forge documents?" I understood.
"Almost. The news was just saying that in one of the southern cities of Alnorria there was a strong earthquake. There was no exact information about who died and who survived. Tiasiy hacked the website of the district registration service and found among the lists of citizens a single guy and a married couple with no relatives who had an eighteen-year-old daughter. All were descendants of Filipino settlers and were of the same age as us, only the birthdays were different. It is easy to find a double in the metropolis. And they all didn't use social media much, so there was no one to point out the difference in our faces. In the confusion, no one can tell a refugee from a volunteer, and the northern dialect of Alnorria is English in practically, archaic compared to British or American, but in the north of Alnorria, no one will be surprised that the southerners speak standard English instead of a dialect."
"Yes," I agreed. "There is such a thing. Northern Alnorrianishes never study English, they switch to it after a couple of hours of training. And no one will ask why a southerner does not know either the southern dialect or Italian. As long as you can talk to social services and your neighbors, no one cares if you know any other language."
"I quickly, at a reduced price, sold the apartment, the warehouse and the car, closed the bank account and bought gold jewelry with all the money, hung them all on myself. Many women are hung with blings like a Christmas tree in Rudlig, that's why no one paid attention to me in the customs of Rudlig. Tiasiy bought the shares and somehow arranged anonymous access for them. We flew as tourists to Turkey, and there the customs officers also didn't pay attention to the gilded savage woman, they see such people every day. Tiasiy and I hired a little yacht that took us illegally to Alnorria. We have become missing for Turkey and Rudlig, and new citizens have appeared in Alnorria. In the chaos that was then going on at the crash site, no one was surprised that the dead were alive. There were many such cases. But…"
Granny sighed bitterly.
"When we saw what was in this city… Woe of people, destruction. The photographs didn't convey even half of the nightmare. We acted disgustingly. We could leave differently. We could spend ninety days as tourists in the same Turkey, find a job using the internet in Europe — this term is more than sufficient, and indie companies and all sorts of chocolate shops are not demanding diplomas, the governments of European countries are not too greedy in the area of their own analogs of the "profession libérale" visa, in other words, talent-without-diploma-and-experience… If you have a good portfolio… However, we were afraid of difficulties and did mean things. Tiasiy two days later gave all the shares to help the victims of the earthquake and committed suicide. I also wanted this all the time, but I had a frightened daughter who should not suffer because of my stupidity and cowardice. And I had a son who I was supposed to drag into a good country as the fetus of my old adultery, which remained in Rudlig. I gave half of the gold to the relief fund and drove north. But due to chance, I found a job in a pastry shop in Weissberg."
Granny sighed heavily again and continued her story:
"I was on duty in the kitchen in the refugee camp and made some sweets for the children. And one of the volunteers immediately took me to her relative, who needed an assistant in a pastry shop. I didn't know a word in the western dialect of Alnorria or German, but that didn't surprise anyone. An ex-housewife had every right to live within her own neighborhood and speak only the language of the diaspora. The owner of the confectionery, a very nice old woman, spoke a fluent northern dialect and did not distinguish the Philippines from Algeria. But she needed a person who was good at making French cakes and Arabic jalebis. I have always loved making sweet pastries and homemade chocolate, I liked using a variety of recipes, and the owner of the candy shop was delighted with my skills. She was a kind woman and helped what she thought was a refugee with finding an apartment and language courses. After a while, she said that she was tired and wanted to retire, but she was depressed at the thought that the new owner would turn the candy shop into a video rental shop or laundry. And I asked her to make a recommendation about me for a bank. So I got a loan and became the owner of a store and an apartment. I spent the gold that I had left on small but useful improvements, and the store became quite successful, I paid off all debts for a year. And just at that moment, my daughter Feonia, who was now Nancy, met Albert Terrent."
Granny muttered a swear word and said:
"I told her that this rich puppy would be of no use, but she imagined herself to be Cinderella and didn't hear a single word."
"I understand," I said. "And it’s not for me to judge whether you acted badly or well. I don't know how I would have acted in such a situation."
"I learned from my mistakes," Granny replied. "You have a profession, you know how to earn money, you rely only on yourself and are not afraid of change."
"Tell me about Diongus," I asked. "Why do you say he wants to kill me?"
"I wrote him letters and emails, and I promised help in escaping from Rudlig and legalization in Alnorria. When he came of age, I began to persuade him to come for family reunification, but he didn't answer. And once he demanded to forget about him, or he would report me to the authorities of Alnorria. I wasn't afraid for myself, but Nancy and you... I couldn't risk it. I didn't know anything about Diongus for a long time. And a year ago, when covid restrictions eased, my grandson Gregor, son of Diongus, sent me my letters. And he asked me to do for him what I promised his father."
"And you didn't tell me anything?" I was outraged.
"It was illegal again. I bought a private flight, flew to the Philippines and paid smugglers to bring Gregor to me. There it is a long-standing and well-established service - to arrange for a Rudligish to escape from the country. And then I illegally brought Gregor to Alnorria on another private flight, placed him with the migrants, then helped him get arrested by the migration police and sent a lawyer. Alnorria deported only adults, and even then not always, but the court could not help but leave a fourteen-year-old child in the country, and the social service placed him in a foster family. Gregor told the police that he himself ran away from home and hid on a cargo ship with migrants, he himself escaped from it in the port and tried to get caught by the police in order to ask them to protect him from his family. They believed him.
"It's like an adventure novel," I said with shock.
Granny chuckled and replied:
"Such a scam cost me dearly, I pawned a confectionery and an apartment, but it was worth it. Gregor quickly received a scholarship to a private boarding school. He was capable and played the violin in the church band. Gregor wanted to learn to play the guitar banned in Rudlig and learn modern rock vocals, he wanted to learn how to dance. He got it all at school. But Diongus tracked him down through social media."
"Oh shit!" I gasped, guessing what happened next. And the granny said:
"Gregor didn't mention me or you anywhere, did not try to communicate with us, and spoke to me only via instant messengers, but Diongus could easily put two and two together. He arrived in Alnorria and killed Gregor. Diongus swore to kill me and you. The police are looking for him, they will soon arrest him. He'll get a life sentence, and then you'll be safe. But right now you need good security. Diongus wouldn't venture into Terr-Court. An expensive hospital and a health resort hotel for those who want to remain anonymous are also too tough for him."
"This is madness," I said.
"Yes," granny agreed. "This is madness. I wanted to save my grandson and granddaughter from him, but there was too much madness."
"What is your real name?" I asked.
"Gregor's and Diongus' surnames are Tinoliadis. And I'm Olivia Kelvin. And only Olivia Kelvin!"
"I understand you."
"Diongus has turned into a maniac," granny said. "I hate to admit it, but it's true. Therefore, stay under guard until he is arrested and watches the press."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll sit in Terr-Court and wait for Diongus to be arrested."
I didn't intend to do this, but I didn't want to worry my granny. Her health is really very bad. She is only sixty, but she has lived too long in Rudlig, and the crappy ecology of an underdeveloped country greatly destroys the body. I want to save granny! It is better to press the police through the media so that the case of Diongus Tinoliadis is transferred to the more prompt Republican Security Service.
There was still some money left on the phone, for one SOS-sms. I set it up to be sent to Fatima.
Now sleep. After all the news, I felt exhausted and overwhelmed.
When the convoyers began pounding on the bedroom door, it seemed to me that I had slept for only one minute. And when I looked at the alarm clock, which was on the nightstand by the bed, I cursed very rudely. Five in the morning! Are they crazy?
I covered my head with a second pillow and tried to fall asleep again. But the convoyers broke into the bedroom through the servants' door.
"Young miss!" James' voice almost made my head explode, he was so nasty. "The lady gets up early to make herself worthy appearance for first breakfast."
"My appearance is always worthy because it is mine!" I snapped. "And you don't dare interfere with me until I call you."
"Herrin…" Helmut began, but I threw the alarm clock at him and a slipper flew at James. I missed both, but James and Helmut escaped at the speed of light.
That is great. I buried myself in the pillow and fell asleep.
I slept until eight in the morning and was not even much late for the first breakfast. To my surprise, there was a light salad and low-fat yogurt on the food table. Dave didn't comment on it in any way, he only said that yesterday's circumstances prevented me from undergoing a medical examination, and today the doctor will come to Joyterr.
I forgot with all the shit that happened to me that there was supposed to be testing. James said "It's scheduled for tomorrow", while I was looking at the catalogs, that is, it was the day before yesterday. But yesterday, Eleanor doused me with paint, and I had to wash for a long time.
"Oh yes," I said. "I necessarily need a doctor. What if the paint is toxic? I asked about a doctor yesterday."
Eleanor tensed up, but Dave continued to pick at the plate as if nothing had happened. But Chris said:
"This is a common interior paint, odorless, and safe for humans."
"The amount of compensation that the TGS should add to the inheritance has doubled," I replied. "Now it's five million six hundred thousand brangs under a pre-trial agreement. Or eleven million two hundred thousand ones the court."
Eleanor twisted with rage, but she said nothing. And Dave replied:
"Things like this are discussed in the office. I will receive you after the second breakfast."
"Ladies sleep during the day," Chris said. And I gasped:
"What does "sleep" mean? Like in "Gone with the Wind"? Do you know what year it is?"
"A lady remains a lady," Dave snapped. "And you should get used to it quickly."
"I'm not a brainless cowardly Melanie Hamilton to live like the sow."
Dave chuckled.
"All women adore Rhett Butler and hate Melanie Wilkes, whom he greatly respected and called the true lady. Is it jealousy?"
"Rhett Butler needs to be kicked away from yourself," I said. "And not because he left Scarlet in the middle of the road. Right there, he was completely right. But otherwise, he is a manipulator and abuser with a sadistic streak. That's why he drooled over Melanie as an ideal victim and a doormat. And Melanie wretchedly carried a torch for wacky Scarlett and is beastly dead from childbirth that was obviously dangerous for her, instead of declaring herself an old maid, getting all the independence due to them, and living happily with an adequate companioness or even with two. And there were ways to prevent pregnancy or make early miscarriage in those days, too, so if Melanie Hamilton needed this worthless Ashley Wilkes so much, she could avoid suffering from reproduction."
Dave listened to me with an impenetrable look. And said:
"You're jealous of Mitchell."
"The novel by Mitchell is brilliant and immortal precisely because it perfectly showed how the wind carried away the trash that no one needed. And those who wanted to live among people had to change a lot."
Dave looked at me searchingly.
"Meeting at one o'clock in the afternoon in my office." And he left. Eleanor left her half-eaten omelet and ran after him.
And Helmut told me that a doctor was waiting for me.
"He will wait some more," I replied. "I'll have breakfast first."
They didn't argue with me. The convoyers gradually began to realize that I didn't need all this and that I didn't owe anything to anyone here. And the medical examination was strange. The doctor didn't bring a portable tomograph with him (I saw one in the series about an ambulance) or something like that, and didn't take blood from me. He was not a doctor at all, but some kind of chakra-scanning charlatan. Yes, he directly said that he would scan the chakras, and poked me with something like a microphone connected to a laptop. Dave's mind is completely off.
But I don't give a damn. It is necessary to use big and other people's money for your own benefit, and not waste time thinking about stupid things.
"This mausoleum is full of people," I told my convoyers. "And there's bound to be an Old-Alnorrian language specialist. I want to practice in it."
The convoyers were taken aback. I was surprised: Old-Alnorrian has been in vogue in recent years, in the east of the country they are even trying to revive it as the language of everyday communication and make it the fourth state language. I don't think it's possible to bring back something that fell into disuse three hundred years ago, but clients often want inscriptions on cakes and chocolate cards in Old-Alnorrian, so in the poet's courses we studied a little this language, trained in calligraphy and in ways to connect the letters of the word into a ligature according to canonical rules — residents of medieval Alnorria liked to stuff a word or even a phrase onto rings and buckles, so the art of ligatures was very much appreciated.
An inheritance, a compensation, a court — it isn't known whether this will be successful or not but the ability to write in Old-Alnorrian will be valuable for a long time to come. And this thing is needed not only for a candy shop: any design firm will jump on such an employee since no AI can handle Old-Alnorrian. Because I don't want to forget what I know. In addition, studying Old-Alnorrian is an expensive pleasure, there are few qualified teachers, and the preparation was so-so in the courses, online learning was also not encouraging. And Dave can't have a great specialist.
Helmut started to say that Old-Alnorrian was not a lady's business, but I told him to shut up and follow orders.
"The Chairman won't approve of this," James said. "And you need his support for your grandmother."
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
aliyn_raven: (Default)
I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
*****
Modern urban fantasy, our world.
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
*****

"It's none of your business, filthborn!" Eleanor stretched into a string and turned up her nose. "It is your duty to remove your plebeian blood from an honorable house."
"Talk to Dave about it," I said calmly. "Let him pay me compensation for the kidnapping and return me home."
Eleanor began to squeal something, but I interrupted her in the bud:
"Give me your phone, I'll call the police and make a statement about the kidnapping on social networks so that the police can't refuse to work."
Eleanor choked on her own screech. I mockingly asked:
"You don't have a smartphone? Are you a savage or are you in prison? Do you have a credit card and a driver's license? Or are you a slave here?"
"A plebeian is incapable of judging the life of a higher caste. But if you don't write a renunciation of any claim to be related to the Terrences, you will regret it."
Eleanor is gone. And servants brought me lunch. It was superbly delicious. I said "thank you" and gladly ate it all. And when I satisfied my hunger, I decided that it was time to take advantage of the big money.
"Where is the beauty salon? I want a massage, a body wrap with the best healing mud and a super-duper face mask."
"The lady doesn't do that sort of thing during the day," James said sternly. "It's employment only for early in the morning, everything must end no later than two hours before the first breakfast, while no one can see her."
"It's for a simple lady," I replied. "But a business lady cleans herself up when it suits her. Therefore, follow the order or go to Dave for a transfer to another place."
"Gerrin," Helmut interrupted, "you've got an appointment with a stylist now. Gotta hurry, she's on her way."
"Is it at such a time?!" James exclaimed indignantly.
"What other stylist?" I was surprised.
"You need a dress for the City Hall ball," Helmut told me. "This is your debut in the high life, and the dress is extremely important. This will affect not only you personally but also TGS shares.
While I was trying to understand what the connection was between duds, even an evening one, and stocks, Helmut admonished James:
"Our lady has no time. Too little time to prepare. And changing the image is not an easy task, she has to learn to be natural with a new look."
"Don't you dare think about any image changes!" I snapped. "I like my look. I need to buy an evening dress, but I will not remake myself."
"And if you like madame Lucy Alouette's ideas?" Raoul asked.
"All stylists are idiots. Those stars who listen to them always look like a scarecrow in a torture device. I myself know what I need! We're going to the store."
The convoyers again stared at me with astonishment and wariness. I realized that arguing or demanding to be taken anywhere was dangerous: it would arouse suspicion. But what to do with the phone in my bra? And I have no more gold for a bribe. But this Lucy Alouette will not take anything — if she was called to Terre Court, she earns a car a week, and it is more profitable for her to look after Dave's interests.
"Do you think you're more versed than Lucy Alouette?" Raoul asked indignantly.
"This is the first time I hear about her." I began to piss off all this fuss around a simple issue that can be solved in fifteen minutes and in three clicks. Moreover, I lost hope of escaping through the store ... I grunted: "If it turns out that she is the same shit as all the stylists, then all you shut up forever and silently do what I say. Now take me to this Alouette."
As I walked, I thought about how to hide the phone. Say that I urgently need to go to the toilet and hide the phone there? But where is the guarantee that I will be allowed to return to the same toilet room, and not be pointed to the toilet in the fitting room? And is there a toilet in the fitting room to hide the phone there and then take it away? In one of my favorite films, a girl (it was in prison) hid a can opener in her vagina. But the phone will deteriorate from moisture. And there is electricity in the phone — albeit very tiny, but I don't want to get even such a discharge, especially in such a tender and vulnerable place.
I didn't come up with anything. And I was taken to a spacious room next to that nightmarish apartment that Dave wanted to slip me into at the very beginning.
There were island hangers in the room, all with monstrous dresses — layered, over-fluffy and too-long skirts, dress bodice with sleeves (its short, but it's still a damn generator of sweat), abnormally narrow waist (I remembered articles about stars which fainting because of a corset ), and even the color of the dresses is pale and sad: white and so light blue and pink that it is almost white. A blonde in a cherry-colored pantsuit stood next to the hangers, too tight-fitting for a businesswoman, and she had skin-colored stilettos that rivaled the height of a sea lighthouse in height. It was impossible to say anything about the dame's face, instead of it there was such a massive and wide black frame of optical glasses that if it turned out to be Dave with false ass and tits, no one would have seen the difference. It seems that the physiognomy of the dame is also one of those with which they try not to go out to people.
The convoyers rushed after me.
"Young miss!" James yelled.
Wow, young again. Is it a promotion from "little" or a demotion? It doesn't care. It's not interesting to understand the varieties of shit. And Raoul said:
"This is the most famous stylist and the most respected fashion expert in Alnorria. She brought dresses for a girl from an honorable family. And you need to learn how to wear them in only a week. You will be walking in the dress chosen for you for almost the remaining time. The dress for the ball will be the same, just a new one."
"My dress will be straight, moderately fitted and as simple as possible," I said. "It's green, not dark and not too bright, soft silk. Dress with straps, but with a bra — I hate it when my breasts swing. It must be a bra, not a corset! Nothing oppressive or uncomfortable. The length of one is strict to the ankle, I don't want to think about how not to step on my hem. Shoes in tone and with a heel of four centimeters and with normal, not pointed toes."
"Herrin…" Helmut began, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
"You are silent and follow the order if you brought a shitty stylist. And around my neck, I will wear one centimeter-diameter diamond, in a droplet pendant, on a platinum chain. And the same drop earrings, but a stone of five millimeters, so that it would not be hard on the ears."
"Diamonds are meant only for married ladies, Herrin, and a girl wears pearls. Green clothes are a lot of courtesans, and the lady wears..."
"If these moronic rules," I interrupted, "did exist, then they were canceled by even the First World War. And since it is always hot at any party, the clothes are needed so that in the toilet you can quickly wipe your armpits with sanitary napkins, and return fresh to the hall."
"Lady's dresses always have absorbent pads sewn into them," Helmut blushed a little in embarrassment as he replied. Victorian virgin, damn it!
"And rub the skin," I replied venomously.
"The lady is patient, young miss," James interjected.
"Lady's dresses always have absorbent pads sewn into them," Helmut blushed a little in embarrassment as he replied. Victorian virgin, damn it!
"And rub the skin," I replied venomously.
"The lady knows how to endure, young miss," James interjected.
"Enduring, forgiving and waiting are occupations for a doormat," I enlightened him. And cut off: "The conversation is over. Bring a trainer and beautician! I want a gym and body wrap."
And I went to my new apartment. The convoyers tried to send me to the old one, but I pleaded bad memories and refused. Putting a wiretap is a matter of five minutes, but I don’t want to simplify the life of the local panopticon. It's better to hide your phone and change for a workout. I changed my capri pants and tank top for leggings and a long T-shirt, and went out into the living room. This time the convoyers didn't argue, they even brought a swimsuit, which I forgot to buy.
Nothing interesting happened for the rest of the day. I have been training, swam in the pool, enjoyed all the delights of a homely, but no less equipped beauty salon, watched a streaming series in the movie room on a cinema-sized TV screen, and read a couple of fan fiction. Of course, I wrote to my friends from the book reader that at night, as soon as I could hide from everyone, I would call them. Finally, everything in the house was quiet, even the convoyers left the living room. I went to the bathroom and took out my phone.
But who better to call? The phone model is old and primitive, it turned out that there is no conference mode here, and you have to choose an interlocutor. Who will help, and who will betray? Big money changes everything. Even though I'm not the official heir to TGS, I'm nevertheless the owner of a very expensive property. And after Dave's death, I get a considerable share in the TGS, whether Dave wants it or not — even if he bequeaths everything to Eleanor or charities, or the church, I can sue myself a good piece.
My friends don’t have that kind of money and can’t have it in the near future, so envy is more than possible. And it doesn’t give a damn that I have nothing and that I still have to sue for my father’s inheritance, and for this I need to escape from the cage.
But time is running out, and I need to choose an interlocutor quickly, before they catch me.
I called Fatima. Her mom also fled, and not only from the family, but also from the country, Fatima even said that her mom could have been killed.
"Hi," I said as soon as Fatima picked up the phone. "Did you receive my letters?"
"We all called your granny. She said that it was vital for you to stay with your grandfather so as not to lose the candy store and end up in the Philippines again. And that you're just a little nervous about having to maintain the security measures required for anyone who can be kidnapped for ransom."
"Made granny say it!" I exclaimed. And I told Fatima everything. And when I finished, I added: "Dave could have been lying. Granny never spoke a word of Rudligish, never mentioned Rudlig."
My mom also never speaks Berber or Arabic and doesn't want to hear about her former country. She was too frightened by the prospect of becoming the wife of an old man instead of entering the university and the sadistic methods that the family forced her to agree to. After that, she ran away with great difficulty first from her orthodox family, and thereafter from the country, so that the family would not get her. But it was even more difficult to get from the refugee camp on a scholarship to the university. If you listen to my mom, then her life began at the age of nineteen on a Spanish campus, and before that, mom was not in the world. Bad memories can make you do even more things. And Rudlig is a mix of North Korea and Afghanistan: a military-religious dictatorship, except Rudlig is a Christian country. Your granny was very lucky that she was able to escape from there.
"Okay, so be it," I agreed. "But why did Dave kidnap me?"
"You are prolific."
"What?" I didn't understand.
"You said that after your mother, perfectly healthy and therefore never went to the doctors, suddenly died of an aneurysm, your granny began to give you a complete medical examination twice a year. And you go to the hospital yourself from the age of sixteen. You laugh at it, you swear, but you don't want to worry your granny. Your medical record has a long history. If any wish, one can easily hack your personal account on the website of the Ministry of Health or in an insurance company and look into your medical record. Dave is sure that you can give birth to even four healthy children. And Eleanor, apparently, is barren."
"She's pregnant!"
"It means that she has a great risk of supplying the child with pathologies," Fatima replied. "Or pathologies have already been identified, but Eleanor does not want to have an abortion, because incapacity does not deprive a person of the right to inherit, and Eleanor will be the guardian of his property. You don't know who owns what, what wills were before. It is quite possible that Dave cannot completely dispose of TGS, but must leave it to the son of one of his granddaughters or nieces. I will try to find the wills of the Terrents in the site of Property Register because any will go to the state archives after the announcement."
"Thank you. And look, please, on the Internet for information about the profitability of TGS, maybe anyone is going to buy up the conglomerate in parts."
"All right," Fatima said, "I’ll look. And you carefully watch that you aren't married off under drugs and anyone not knocked up you."
"What?" I was taken aback.
"The only reason Dave would take you into the house is because of a marriage that combines two family fortunes. Eleanor turned out to be unsuitable, and Dave had to be used a bastardess. The second-class of her blood is better than the absence of successors of the family."
"What for delirium?!" I was outraged.
"Old money," Fatima said with a touch of disgust. "They still live in the Middle Ages and don’t see the real world. If the empire is inherited by a princess, she must marry the one who will rule, but her mission is to give birth to heirs and be an embellishment to the family mansion."
"Idiocy!"I could only gasp. But Fatima's words explained all the strange training that Dave tried to impose on me, the confiscation of my phone, credit card and driver's license.
"Idiocy," Fatima agreed. "But the line of blood is important to them. So when your granny called Dave and asked for help with the candy shop's pandemic debt, he made you crown princess. He has no other relatives."
"Did granny call?" I was amazed.
"She said yes. Your granny called Dave's reception and reminded him that he had a granddaughter, asked for money. And Dave called back and said he was inviting you to live in Joyterr and learn how to run a business. We were all very surprised but there was no reason not to believe your granny. Especially if Dave pays such an expensive hospital for her."
I tried to understand all this. It turned out bad. Fatima added:
"Granny might not know all of Dave's plans. I'm sure she was thinking about your career, not about forced marriage and excessively early children."
"Yes," I muttered. "Probably. Grandmother always said that men are unreliable, love is fleeting, and therefore a girl can only hope for her job."
I frantically thought about what to do. And decided:
"Write on all social networks where I am. Show your surprise why there is no interview with me, and I don't tell my friends anything, I don’t invite them to visit. You be sure to write about Alnorria's lazy media who don't know news like Cinderella's real-life transformation into a Princess. We need to get Dave to curb his appetite."
"If you go hunting a tiger, be prepared to meet him, so as not to become prey yourself," Fatima answered with the proverb of Northern India, the homeland of her father's ancestors.
"The same goes for Dave, doesn't it?" I said. "Or did he think that a normal person would forgive him for kidnapping and imprisonment, even if it was a gilded prison? I want children, but not earlier than about fifteen years, and their father will be the one I choose myself. And now I'm at risk of unnecessary reproduction without the possibility of an abortion. I don't want to torture my body with pregnancy and childbirth in order to give the baby to torment in an abnormal world. And even sex here will be under duress. I have no choice. The retaliatory strike must be struck immediately."
"I totally agree, but first you have to protect yourself! Dave has a lot of weapons, you have nothing."
"My only weapon is publicity," I said. "Dave didn't just take me out of touch with the world."
"You're right. And I'll ask my mom how to arrange a miscarriage without risking death myself. In her former country, abortion is prohibited, contraception is very bad, but there are enough women who do not torture themselves with an excessive quantity of childbirth. My mom was taught the art be protected by improvised means and making miscarriages by her mother, despite all her orthodoxy. And Dave and his accomplices can deprive you of the ability to choose and control your body. I will send the recipes to you in an personal box on the fanfiction site. I hope it opens with a book reader."
"That would be great," I said. "Now I have to call my granny. I need to know why she shoved me in here."
I wanted to said goodbye and to press the end button, but I remembered one more important thing:
"Fatima, please look on the Internet for the location of Terre Court."

https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
aliyn_raven: (Default)
I haven't forgotten about Alex, her adventures continue, and there will be a new chapter tonight.
For those who don't know her yet, Alex is waiting for a visit:
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
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