Some silliness… or what happens when you listen to Xanadu.
(rainbow-festooned Pan-Pacific Auditorium borrowed from the DVD cover art)
Because there are scarves in SWTOR. (And because I owed him a better version of this particular crossover. I left it all rough and sketchy…just like me. >_>)
[The Jedi] Order will be restored.
Famously bad dancer seeks friends with no rhythm to prevent destruction of galaxy. Like it when strangers frequently try to kill you? I’m your CO. We’ll bang, okay?
Me: blonde, sensitive, magical, romantic. You: bright light in dark times. Look for lit lantern in Darktown. Bring boots for long walks through sewers. We’ll make sparks fly and not just from our fingertips. Explosive relationship likely. ABSOLUTELY NO TEMPLARS.
Canadian with big heart and bigger stomach seeks like-minded gourmand for romantic dinners. Sweaters, steak and simple conversation. No vegetarians need apply. Integrity a must.
I AM THE FOLLOWING: enormously attractive super awesome mega pilot; best friends with Commander Shepard; can and WILL get you autographed personal items; sense of humor and other ASSets highly appreciated. I will fly you all night long ;)
Wanted: tutor in lamppost licking. Must like cheese—but not too much.
BIG BONED GINGER—CREAMY WHITE SKIN; EROTIC FRECKLE PATTERNS—SEEKS MULTIPLE SEXUAL PARTNERS FOR KINKY NIGHTS SHE DESPERATELY NEEDS IN ORDER TO STOP BEING SUCH A SPOILSPORT WITH BEST PIRATE FRIEND. SEND ALL APPLICATIONS C/O ISABELA AT THE HANGED MAN.
Handsome middle-aged pilot, widowed, occasionally funny, with plenty to offer and awesome best bud cool to hang out with, seriously needs attractive, level-headed, serious life partner to get me to work less hard, shit, Esteban, live a little!
Wild, wild witch seeking tainted sperm donor. No strings attached. Will not bite your head off during copulation despite temptation. Contribute to history. I will be waiting. ‘Tis a one-time only offer.
LARGE HEADED TIT WITH NO SENSE OF HUMOR—AT LEAST HE IS AMPLY ENDOWED—DESPERATELY REQUIRES FEMALE COMPANIONSHIP TO MAKE HIM MORE AGREEABLE. THE SEX WILL DO YOU GOOD CARVER. SEND ALL APPLICATIONS TO HAWKE ESTATE. XOXO
I am the very model of a scientist salarian. Has to be me. Someone else would get it wrong.
Me: superior in every way. You: tiresome primitive. Still, have not had intercourse in many a cycle. Learn how the Protheans did it. Warning: may be so intense you will die on the spot. We take no responsibility for the flimsy configuration of your primitive anatomy.
I am a charming and bendy elf, tan, coquettish, witty, flirtatious, fun-loving, only occasionally murderous, looking to find out if the rumors about Fereldan men and women are true. Naughty poetry very likely. Reporting for booty!
ME 4 TESTICLES, YUNG BUCK, KORGAN STRRRONG, REDDY 4 ACTION. WANT 2 LEARN BURDS N BEES. YEAHUHHH! ROCK U LIEK HURRYCANE!
Snippet of fiction… because I was having pangs for Thedas.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A man walks into a tavern at night. It sounds like the start of a joke, but his purpose is quite serious, even if the tavern bears the name Maid of the Brine.
He finds the downstairs empty, save for a burly woman wiping dishes at the bar. She’s beefy, really, with short-cropped red hair, and muscles straining against her shirt. The man briefly wonders what they feed people in these parts.
By way of greeting, he receives a grunt from the ginger proprietor, so the man lays on the charm, all soulful eyes and dashing grin. The tavern owner practically throws his mug of mead in his lap.
So the man waits a bit, patient. He drinks the surprisingly tasty brew, orders a meat pasty and tucks slowly into his late supper before launching into his questions. He first asks about the frequency of travelers - idle conversation really. He is met with a scowl. He asks about guests upstairs. He is met with a terse “not your coin, not your business.” He asks about a missing mage, fugitive from Kirkwall, Champion who started a war, a woman with ice blue eyes and raven hair.
He think he hears the proprietor’s jaw crack from clenching.
And when she glares but refuses to comment, he rises and moves to the bar, swift and deadly, as he was trained.
She surprises him by catching his wrist before his hand reaches her throat. She shocks him when, fast as lightning, she slams that wrist down upon the polished bar. She makes him feel fear for the first time in years when the pain from bone grinding against bone momentarily blurs his vision.
The proprietor orders him out, in a voice low and deep. She reminds the man that Kirkwall was years ago - a tale best forgotten, a city of chains turned to ash, a place that should remain in shadow and she won’t tolerate him bringing ghosts into her business. Neither ghosts, nor weapons, she says, eyeing the dagger he attempts to unsheathe.
And so he leaves, steps back into the night and the cold, no closer to answers. He has suspicions but also a broken wrist. He won’t be returning. Not anytime soon, that is.
When the door closes behind the man, the proprietor turns to find the cook standing behind her, a mallet in one hand and a cleaver in the other. His beard is mighty enough to make a dwarf jealous, but he still carries himself like the guardsman he was.
He nods once to the proprietor, and then once to the woman descending the stairs - a pirate tucking two lethal blades into her tall boots, never breaking stride.
The three confer for a moment, and the cook takes on the task of riding out to warn their friend - a woman with ice blue eyes and raven hair. He pauses, wondering if it’s safe to leave the women alone, then shakes his head, remembering how capable each is on her own. Together, well…he might just feel pity for anyone foolish enough to cross them.
When he leaves, the pirate comments on the change of tide, the squall on the horizon that means her imminent departure. The proprietor scoffs and says good riddance, complaining that she had long grown tired of hearing the other woman moaning through all hours of the night. And in response, the pirate laughs, scolding the proprietor for listening in when she should be doing some moaning of her own.
The proprietor reddens, calls her companion a poxy tart, then goes to pack her bag and retrieve her sword.
“Going to charge off towards danger and meet it halfway?” the pirate asks with mirth in her voice.
The proprietor smiles for the first time that night. “Let you and Hawke get ambushed and killed? Not on my watch.”
And the pirate nods, mischief in her eyes. “That’s my girl.”
So… because of some weird snippet of a dream I had last night, I have come to the conclusion that MotA’s ghasts might be based on the creature from ‘Inside the Closet’ - which was a Tales from the Darkside episode.
And I dare not post pics of said creature because it’s the stuff of nightmares from my then 11-yr old self.
Okay, in case anyone’s curious, here are all the Merribela ficlets, written and already submitted to their prompters as askbox fics as part of this fun little thing. One non-Merribela ficlet is still in the works.