Chapter 4

Dorian seemed shocked by Halward's request to join him in the study following their appointment with the Archon. He had accepted anyway, which came as a pleasant surprise even if his son did look too alert and not at all at ease. At this moment that same man, tall and stately, with his mother's hair and clever smile, sat on the large black couch, avoiding his gaze entirely. Halward tried to steady his hand as he poured the brandy. He had, undeniably, buggered many things in the past few years. This distance between them was of his making, he knew that. Picking up the glasses he turned, but for the moment he didn't approach the couch. He just stood, looking at his son with a swell of pride that had nothing to do with his own ego.

Before… before Dorian left, every time he felt that pride a little of it was for him. For breeding a powerful heir, for upholding his line, his duty. And now, now he knew the folly in that. It was all owed to Dorian and he had never given him that credit. He set his shoulders and approached his son, determined to do better.

He extended the glass with a steady hand, due only to the composure cultivated over his long years in the senate. Dorian didn't move for a moment, and when he did reach up to take the drink he persisted in his refusal to so much as glance at his father.

"To your new position," Halward said softly, raising his glass. Dorian nodded slightly in acknowledgement and sipped. "What will you do with it?" Just diving into the tough questions, Halward mused. Both hands wrapped around his glass, left index finger tapping absentmindedly.

Dorian rolled his eyes, lips twisted into a mocking smile.. "You can't honestly think I'm just going to open up to you now, after everything? Why would I do that, Pater? Gratitude for your efforts on my behalf, perhaps?"

"I am merely curious, Dorian," Halward snorted. "You've been working toward this for months, and you've such a clever mind. I can't imagine you don't have an agenda."

"Even if I did," Dorian growled, "and even if I were willing to share it with you, I doubt you'd approve."

"Dorian," he drawled slowly, letting the hurt into his voice but his son didn't look at him. Perhaps a different topic. He smiled. "I had dinner with your Fitzwilliam the other evening. He's a very interesting boy."

Dorian did look at him then, sharp daggers to match his words. "Oh yes? He didn't have anything better to do? No frivolity to entertain? That doesn't sound like him. He usually keeps better company." If looks could cut Halward would have been bleeding. Dorian's eyes were narrowed, suspicious. "Yes, I heard all about your supper. Fitzwilliam said you were asking a lot of questions about me."

Halward managed a weak half-smile. "I asked how you were doing, yes," he admitted. "I would have asked you, but…"

"But talking to me was never your strong suit," Dorian drawled. He stood then, drinking down his liquor in one long pull. "Thank you for the drink." It was clear to Halward that his son had dismissed him. Dorian held out the crystalline tumbler and he took it, just managing a weak smile.

"Thank you for sharing one with me, Dorian," he said as sincerely as possible. Expressiveness had never been his forte. Dorian's came from his mother. His son turned and headed toward the heavy dark-oak door. His hand was already on the knob when Halward mustered up the courage to say what he had brought Dorian to his study to hear.

"I'm proud of you," he nearly choked on those words. He felt like a coward, only managing to say it when Dorian had nearly gone. Dorian turned, looking at his father with wide eyes.

"I know you won't believe me, Dorian," he said voice pitched low, hardly loud enough to be heard from across the room. "But I am." He expected anger, white-hot and roiling as seemed to be his son's way.

"Thank you," Dorian whispered. His voice was, indeed, heavy with emotion, but devoid of the rage Halward anticipated. He smiled weakly. Dorian nodded, face oddly expressionless, opened the door and left only to be replaced by his mother. She glided in, sliding past her son and through the opening without disturbing the steady swing of the closing slab of wood.

Vanessah. The sight of her still made his heart jump, even after all these years. Even after their estrangement. He scowled bitterly at himself and sipped his drink. The punishing burn of it slid down his throat. He welcomed the pain, felt grounded by it. What an old fool he was... But he couldn't help the way his eyes lingered on her. The wispy muslin dress, purple and teal, clung to curves she had never lost. Her jewelry, gold and intricate, was impressive, but delicate. She had always favored those pieces. He was one of the few who knew she reinforced them with magic, each surrounded by a protective ward. Not a single one had ever been broken.

Those wards were a beautiful example of Vanessah's magic. Where other mages used their power to destroy she used hers to protect, to shield beauty in all its forms. He learned just how fierce that magic could be when she brought it to bear against him – when their son was the beauty she had needed to protect.

"I need to speak with you," Vanessah said as she glided past him to the small bar in the corner of the room. He watched her at the decanters, pouring wine, weight shifted to one foot so that her hip cocked dramatically. She returned with a glass of white, chilled around her fingers and he could see the frost making delicate shard patterns that circled the pads of her fingers.

"What do you wish to speak of, my dear," he sighed. She glared at him, and his mouth picked up at one corner, a small smirk. She hated when he called her that. He took some comfort from knowing he could still get some reaction from the woman.

"What else?" she said. There was a dismissive air about her that made him grit his teeth, as if she were forcing the disinterest. "Our son, Halward. You'll remember him, tall, dark hair, mustache, just left your study?"

"What about him, Vanessah," he urged her to reach her point. Being in the room with her always made him feel uncomfortable.

She sipped her wine, seemingly unperturbed. Still, he saw the minor twist of her lips, the crinkle at her corner of her eyes, the way her nose squinched up as if she smelled something slightly odorous. She could fool almost anyone but never him. "He's in the court now, we need to talk about how we're going to handle affairs."

"The boy is old enough to handle his own affairs, dear," Halward said.

"Oblivious as ever," she groused. "Dorian has several contracts out on his seat, Halward. And there's more than one on that Inquisitor fellow."

Halward's lips lifted in a wry smile. "I think Fitzwilliam," he emphasized the name pointedly, "is a perfectly charming fellow, little dull maybe, but I cannot for the life of me understand your ire for the boy."

His wife rolled her eyes and fixed him with a frown. "No, of course you don't. That would require you to take the time to understand any number of things you have already proven you have no interest in – your son, his well-being, his life, me."

Oh he wanted to throttle her. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to shake her and kiss her to within an inch of her life and sanity. She was right about one thing – he didn't understand her. Not for lack of trying, either. It was simply hard too understand a woman who actively avoided you. He realized he still held Dorian's glass and crossed to put it down.

"Just," he sighed heavily, "tell me what you want from me."

"I want you to pay attention," she growled, lifting the glass to her red-stained lips. He watched as the wine vanished in one long pull. "And," she pressed on when she'd finished and set the glass on the mantle, "if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like you to make sure he doesn't get himself killed, Halward."

With that, not even waiting for so much as a nod, she stormed from the chamber. Happy to be rid of his company, no doubt. Still it was more than he'd seen of her in weeks and he couldn't help but be glad for that. Her scent lingered, familiar, tickling his memory – freesias.

She cultivated them in the garden. He remembered her bringing them to the manor after they had wed. At great length she had told him why she preferred only the red ones, inconsolable when they bloomed albino and colorless. He smiled fondly at the memory and without warning he found himself in the study of thirty years past. It hadn't changed much. But for a moment, to his eyes, his young wife sat upon the leather couch, weeping. Over flowers. He knew he should have found that frivolous and absurd, but he had a feeling they were more than plants to her. They had been a link to her home.

He comforted her all night and in the morning he sent the slaves to her father's home with orders to bring back every last red freesia. He would never forget the look on her face when he presented them to her – mouth agape, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She planted them all with great care, alongside the white ones. The next year the garden bloomed to reveal a brilliant sight. The red and white had cross-pollinated, producing stripped flowers with a powerful scent. To this day Vanessah had them pressed into perfume, only wearing them in her hair on special occasions. And when she did she looked like the innocent young woman he had married.

Halward flopped onto the couch. Suddenly feeling every year of his age. The talk with Dorian hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped nor had the following one with his wife. But, he supposed, any day where they were both willing to speak to him could be counted as an improvement.

It had been hard having Dorian at the manor. Halward delighted in having his son home, but he wondered if that really shone through. And, unsurprisingly, it brought up a lot of unresolved issues. Or, issue.

The ritual. The blighted, fool-headed blood ritual. He'd spent these last years going over it again and again in his mind. Some days he fell down on the side of "I wouldn't have gone through with it," on others he was less sure.

He had been so blind then, so lost and alone. So afraid.

What a dreadful thing, "fear." He'd been afraid for Dorian: of the struggle his life would be because of something he couldn't change. Of the pain his son would face in never being able to truly love a man here in Tevinter. Of losing his bright, jewel of a boy to that hurt. And he'd been afraid for himself: of Dorian leaving Halward to his loneliness, just like his mother. Those fears had bred in him a violent desperation. The blood ritual had been more than ill-conceived.

And then, as so often happened when acting out of panic, all of those fears had become manifest. No blame could be laid on anyone but himself.

Halward cast a small ball of fire, almost idly calling it to his fingertips before tossing it into the dry wood in the hearth. It went up quickly, filling the air with cassia-scented smoke, driving away the memories. If only for a little while.

VVV

Dorian's body trembled as he entered the west wing of the manor. Where is Fitzwilliam? He found himself searching the bond, subconsciously, for a sense of direction. He sensed worry, and the thrum of energy that indicated his lover. It pulled him, growing stronger with every step. Fitzwilliam met him halfway, in the hall between the library and their sleeping chambers. His expression wrought with worry as he reached out to the mage. Fitzwilliam's fingers, steady and sure, entwined with his unsteady digits, soothing them with little more than a touch. A familiar warmth flooded him. It radiated first from those clasped hands, then again when Fitz lifted his marked palm, and pressed it to the side of Dorian's neck. Despite the white fingerless glove, the heat seeped into him. The man tugged gently, drawing the gap between them closed as their foreheads rested together.

The mage tried to focus on his breathing, on matching Fitzwilliam's cadence, on bringing his pounding heart to a slow. It was important. He could already feel the hum of his power building, seeking an outlet. There wasn't a lot of time before something slipped and he knew Fitzwilliam could feel it too. It had been happening more often lately and the panics had been coming with increasing frequency since their arrival in Minrathous. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly so that speckles of phantom light danced across his vision. Better that than the alternative: the wild unleashing of his magic.

It took several minutes, but eventually he calmed. "What happened, Serah?" Fitzwilliam whispered, refusing to lessen his grip.

His voice came out a tiny warbling thing, "My father said he was proud of me." A tenderness coursed through the Lenen'hima'sa, affectionate and warm and exasperated.

"That's a good thing," the man responded. Dorian could hear the smile on the wind of his words.

"I-I can't talk about this," he rasped. "Not right now, it's too… raw."

Another person would have argued but not Fitzwilliam. Whether it was a symptom of the bond, or just the kind of man the Inquisitor was, could be debated but regardless of the cause Dorian was soon opening his eyes as the man tugged at him. He pulled them down the hall and into their bedchamber, before swinging the heavy door shut behind them.

"Bed," Fitzwilliam ordered gently. Dorian's eyes widened in question, he stood frozen. The rogue had noticed the lack of movement and repeated himself. "Bed." The tone brooked no argument. Gone was the Inquisitor, the vapid arm-sweet. He had already carefully removed that mantle, and put on another. Fitz didn't even spare him a glance, certain his command would be followed as he unwound the supple leather coiled about his forearms. Dorian knew the vest would come off next, then the shirt. Sadly, this was not a time during which one was permitted to observe. He moved to the bed, standing at its foot, and bowed his head. His gaze fixed upon a snag in the fabric.

There were days Dorian cursed the Iron Bull for the instruction he had given his lover before they departed Skyhold. Fitzwilliam didn't have the raw power the Qunari did, but it had never been about the pain. It was about not having to think, about letting go. So he didn't ask what Fitzwilliam was doing, he didn't turn to seek him out. I'm proud of you. The words still clanged around in his head, painful, confusing.

"Shirt," he heard just beside his ear. Breath, hot and light, ghosted across his skin. Dorian reached up, fingers trembling on the clasps of his vest. Fitzwilliam stayed close, watching with cool patience. He didn't reprimand the mage when clumsy fingers slipped due to an unfocused mind. He took solace in the simple actions, attempting concentrate on them as fully as he would magical theory.

The vest slipped from his shoulders to the floor. Unceremoniously, he pulled the shirt over his head to join it. Dorian lowered his arms to his sides as Fitzwilliam's fingertips alighted on his skin. The touch was soft, light, like butterflies fluttering around him. A palm pressed between his shoulder blades. He was still wearing the white, fingerless gloves but Dorian could feel where the mark warmed the leather. It made a shiver run down his spine.

The contact was gone as soon as it had come, a whimper trailing from Dorian's throat after it. "You," Fitzwilliam said from somewhere behind the mage, "are so beautiful, Serah." The Inquisitor had moved away, his voice dispersed by the space between them. "Remove the rest."

Dorian did. Sandals went first, little more than a swift pull on the silken ropes and a kick of the foot. Then his trousers. Then his small clothes. They all joined the messy pile on the floor and Dorian stood looking at the bed. He was startled to find he was hard. His manhood red and aching already, and Fitzwilliam had hardly touched him.

"I believe," Fitzwilliam scolded, "we have talked about you leaving your things in mounds, Dorian." The mage cringed, feeling the rebuke like a blow. They had talked about it. He knew he was supposed to clean up after himself.

He nodded, hanging his head in shame. He would have apologized, but wasn't supposed to talk at times like this. Not unless Fitz told him to. "Tidy it, then grab the cane." Dorian grimaced, but did as he was told. He bent over, scooping up the discarded garments and took them to a large wooden chair beside the wardrobe.

He folded each item carefully, just the way Fitzwilliam had shown him on their first session weeks and weeks ago. He moved with measured, deliberate movements, another exercise in mindfulness. The trousers first, lining up the seams, draping them over the high back of the chair. Then he placed the shirt, sleeves tucked carefully within, atop them. Finally, the vest blanketed over it all. His smallclothes, silken and black, he folded into a small square which found a home on the seat of the chair. Last of all, Dorian sank to his knees and, one at a time, wrapped the soft ropes of silk around the thin leather sole of each sandal before placing them, side by side, under the chair.

Task done, he stood, grabbed the thick cane and returned to his position before the bed. The ash felt cool in his hands, smooth, hard. His cock twitched as his fingers stroked the wood. It had no right doing such a thing. He could hear the soft footfalls of Fitzwilliam moving toward him. A moment passed before the man reached out and took the rod. "Hands on the bed," he said. An empty hand smoothed across the bared flesh of Dorian's shoulders. Confused nerves sent signals of pain that isn't there. His body jumped. He knew what would come if he delayed too long and he was already receiving one punishment. He had no desire to add a second. He leaned over, bracing his hands on curve of the footboard. The cane tapped across his backside and the tops of his thighs in truncated, rapid movements, small slaps meant to pull blood to the surface of his skin. It would cushion his muscles, Bull had explained to them, so that when proper blows landed the damage would not be severe. Of course the act also had the added effect of making the flesh tender. The Qunari had sworn that the straps that landed were never swung as hard as Dorian thought. This part would take several minutes, he knew, and he felt his mind beginning to wander, seeking occupation.

At this moment he focused on the bond – the pulsing, mystical connection that allowed him to feel what Fitzwilliam felt. In a situation like this he expected the man to feel one of two extremes as anyone who engaged in these types of sessions might feel. The first would be pleasure. There were many who would have enjoyed the submissive nature of this engagement on a primal level. But as he searched the bond for that sensation he realized it wasn't there. It never was, but the lack of it always surprised him. It seemed the Inquisitor had no desire to make Dorian subservient to him. He moved on, anticipating disgust. Fitzwilliam had always been such a kind man. He hated to see the ones he loved get hurt, and he was fiercely defensive of them. Providing this service to Dorian, no matter how desperately needed, should have been upsetting to him. Again, however, he did not find what he was looking for. He felt something lingering there, but found himself unable to decipher it in the allotted time.

The first blow landed across his backside with an audible crack, forcing his body into an arch. He grit his teeth and clutched at the bedframe. "One," he counted, not needing to wait for the instruction. The first hadn't been particularly hard. It never was. It smarted, but it was far from the pain he knew Fitzwilliam could inflict. The second landed with more force, enough to make his jaw ache as he bit back a cry. "Two," he ground out. He wasn't sure how many blows would come. That was part of the punishment. Dorian hated not knowing anything. The third managed to pull a sharp cry from him. It was no use holding them back forever. He wasn't ready when four came, and his knees buckled. Arm strength alone saw him remain upright. Five and six came one right after the other and Dorian screamed. His legs gave out again and then there was the loud clatter of the cane on the floor, Fitzwilliam's arms wrapped around him, offering support.

He held him until Dorian's heart slowed and his breathing steadied. Then he dropped a kiss on his back and stepped away. "On your stomach," he said firmly. The mage managed the few steps to the side of the bed and eased down on to his front. Fingertips ran over exposed flesh, the sensations tangled with throbbing and adrenaline until it left him shaking. But he persisted, and soon the touch was calming instead. Palms and lips and whispered words of praise made his heart tight. When had the gloves come off?

Fitzwilliam carefully avoided the round globes of his bum, red as anything if the heat there was any indication, until last. Dorian couldn't help the sharp hiss he made upon contact. But his lover was well-practiced now. The tantalizingly timid touches have vanished, replaced by a firmer hand. It hurt, but in the solid stinging way of something he could understand, not the disordered firing of synapses. There's a pause, and then something cool is being massaged into the angry skin. The salve did its work quickly, taking away a good bit of the bite.

The bed shifted and Fitzwilliam stretched out across it, draping his body half-over Dorian's, their naked flesh pressed together. When had he finish undressing? Had Dorian seen him naked? He couldn't recall. Fitzwilliam's un-marked hand cupped his jaw, thumb stroking across his sharp cheekbone. He felt a flash of admiration through the bond that faded quickly. "You know we aren't done," Fitzwilliam sighed. "That was only your punishment." Dorian nodded silently. "Good."

He can't help but wonder what it will be this time. A show for the Inquisitor? Service? Denial? The bed shifted again, losing the weight of Fitzwilliam, and Dorian doesn't have to wonder any longer. "Knees," he said. Dorian pulled his legs up and planted his knees hip-width apart. His forehead rested on the bedding, his elbows took his weight.

He felt the thick, blunt pressure of an oiled cock prodding his entrance. He grunted as Fitzwilliam made an unceremonious press forward. It hurt and the throbbing of his cheeks, though somewhat dulled by the salve, added to the pain in a way that had his watchword pushing to the tip of his tongue. With Iron Bull he had never needed one, but when Fitzwilliam had taken over the Qunari had insisted they settle on it. He had not gone with "Venatori" as Bull had suggested one drunken night a lifetime ago. He'd chosen something innocuous, something he would never call out in the heat of the moment – "whiskey." And until now he had only uttered it once. He waited, the familiar burn of the stretch would ease, he knew. The sensation astounded him, but it would pass.

The Inquisitor seated himself to the hilt, then stilled completely. Breathing, a harsh, muffled white noise, resonated in Dorian's ears. "When you are ready," Fitzwilliam said, a tremble in his voice despite the tight reign he had on the situation, "you may move." Dorian lifted his head to nod where it would be seen. So many of these scenes focused around the dominant partner taking what they wanted but Fitzwilliam wasn't that kind of man. He couldn't just selfishly take his pleasure from Dorian. So instead he had dreamed this up. It was his least favorite of all their set-ups, but it was quite good at making sure he couldn't focus on anything else. The mage would have to do all the work, thusly relieving the dubious lack of consent, and putting that choice to him. And, when all was said and done, the watchword was there for a reason. There was always a choice, and it was always his to make.

Several deep inhales and he had managed to swallow the watchword back. He could do this. The amount of waiting his lover was willing to allot him before he could expect a punishment was limited, and Dorian knew he was testing it. A final, steadying breath and he found the will to rock his hips forward. A jolt of pleasure swayed him, echoed and amplified through the bond and sent his body surging. He could feel Fitzwilliam's length as it slid. Abruptly and dangerously close to pulling free, the broad flare of the head stretched his ring and the burning revived. This was a good demonstration as to why this particular scene took all his focus to perform. If he didn't move, punishment awaited, if Fitzwilliam fell out, punishment awaited, if he talked, punishment – well one did get the idea.

For a moment he pushed the pleasure to the edges of his awareness so that he might zero in on his control. Abdominal muscles pulled tight to stabilize him. Shoulders shifted forward, taking more weight onto his arms, his legs still too unstable from the caning to both hold and propel him. He grit his teeth and went to work. The pace he set was achingly slow, which was a detriment really, because it required his movements to be studied, precise. He trembled. It was a tradeoff, either move mindfully and have to have complete focus, or move quickly and become overwhelmed.

He began to give himself instruction. Forward. Clench. Steady. Back. Easy. Maker. Forward. He kept up the mantra until it mesmerized him. Movement and thought became hypnotic, melding together. His body began moving of its own accord, his mind going blank, blissfully empty. The tight ball in his chest, the one that made it hard to breathe, that made his vision go dark at the edges, melted as the ritual did its work and took him over.

Suddenly, he cried out, pain blazing into awareness and drawing him back to the present. He froze, blinking, trying to understand what had happened. "Serah," Fitzwilliam said behind him, questioning and worried. The voice sounded watery, boxed in. "Dorian," he said again, more firmly. His mouth worked, but he only managed a strangled sound. Fitz's marked hand smoothed down his flank, warm and pacifying. He couldn't imagine that the Inquisitor would have hit him again. He must have just touched the tender redness on his backside but, he probably hadn't expected such an intense reaction. "Dorian!" he could hear the slight panic in the tenor of Fitzwilliam's voice. "Whiskey or water?" his lover asked. Dorian sensed the tightly held reigns of Fitzwilliam's control slipping. If he didn't say something soon, Fitz would end up making the call.

"Water," he rasped out, shocked at the gravel in his voice.

He knows Fitzwilliam has an advantage Iron Bull never did – the Lenen'hima'sa. Fitz felt him achieve that peace, it must have been what drew the touch of his hand. The contact was meant to be participation, meant to bring an end to the scene, but it had startled instead. Dorian paused his train of thought momentarily, as a probing at the edge of his consciousness drew his attention. It took a while to decipher but it soon crystalized and he could tell Fitzwilliam was doing something with the bond. Attempting to gain insight, perhaps. The mage tried to communicate ease, gratification, desire, anything that would help him understand. A small grunt from behind him seemed to indicate Fitz's satisfaction.

"Touch yourself," Fitzwilliam said, voice deep with his want.

Dorian, still shivering from sensation, did not dally. His head and shoulders went down as one arm slipped under and back. A low groan escaped him as fingers wrapped around his swollen and painfully erect shaft. The session was over and now they could fall into the familiar rhythm of them. Fitz's hands went to Dorian's hips, careful to avoid the delicate skin of his rear. For that, Dorian was grateful. There was already more than enough sensation there with the warmth from the beating, and the fullness of Fitzwilliam inside him, and the shards of discomfort that hit with each increasingly quick smack of skin on skin.

It seemed neither man had been left unaffected. Dorian was hardly holding himself up. His hand moved furiously, pumping his cock, sweeping a thumb over the weeping head, just on the verge of begging. And Fitzwilliam, for his part, was pounding him with abandon. It was often like this when the situation forced him to stay still and passive for a long time – when action was finally possible it was enthusiastic and unrestrained.

Neither spoke. There were gasps and grunts and whimpers and moans, but words stayed locked away. Dorian was trapped in an endless tumbling of responsiveness. First he would feel the slide of Fitzwilliam inside him, the shiver of pleasure through the bond, then his own, his hand, stroking, amplifying, augmenting, and then he felt Fitzwilliam's reaction to all of that. It escalated hastily until they were both teetering.

Dorian arrived with a sharp, broken cry, somewhat muffled by burying his face in the mattress. His cock spasmed into his hand, white stickiness coating his fingers and the duvet. As the pleasure of that crest washed through him, he felt Fitzwilliam's grip on his hips tighten as his body went rigid. He could feel the press of the tops of his lover's thighs against the sensitive backs of his own, feel the tight hardness that came with flexing them, felt his hips tremble where they pressed close. And lastly, most deliciously, the thing that drew his climax out into longer seconds, he felt Fitzwilliam's length shuddering inside him, pulsing, filling him.

They collapsed to the side, clutching at each other. Hands groped for fingers, lips sought out salty, sweat-slicked skin, and legs entangled. The Lenen'hima'sa thrummed with love and satisfaction and a sense of being safe, of belonging.

Later there would be words, clever and sweet, and there would be wine and fruit, and there would be reading and plotting. But all of those things could wait. Now, there was just this. And it was enough.

AN: Well, it is finally here. I'd like to apologize for my tardiness – it's been a rather hard couple weeks. But the good news is chapter five's rough draft is already done.

In an effort to prevent further delays I am moving updates to Sundays. This will work out better for everyone, including our artist/editor Eclectify (check out her Tumblr).

Also, please visit the page, if you feel inclined. There are tons of levels but for as little as $5/mo you will get access to author's posts, chapter drafts, and doodles! I will, of course, continue to write regardless, but a show of support is always appreciated. ( rikkitikkicathy)

Next chapter: we see more of Ataashi and are introduced to a new character! Exciting!

As always, thank you for reading, commenting, donating and just being generally awesome!

~Love!