This has been bothering me for a solid minute. Especially after I read Project Hail Mary and then watched the movie based on the book. I know damn well that Rocky was written with clothing on and yet...

Not a stitch on him. This is the latest in a long line of non-human naked aliens and I really would like a Doylist and a Watsonian explanation for this kind of choice.

Don't fight with me. It is a choice. The movie industry has been able to put clothes on fanciful creatures that, off screen, are actually puppets or CGI creations. I could argue that the offense is even worse when it's a CGI creation, because they could easily model clothes for that. They have the technology.

The people who made the movie out of Project Hail Mary had made tools and a tool belt for Rocky to wear when he was making stuff. Why not the clothes?

This isn't a new phenomenon either. Whenever an alien is represented by a puppet or animation, there's no clothes. When it's a human with bits on, then you get clothes.

Trust me, it goes ALL the way back. It's not to show they're animals. Many of these aliens are more advanced than Humanity. Like Thor from Stargate:

Doylistically, just the puppet is easier to make. Figuring out what Alien Fashion may look like is a bit of a task. Like, yay there's a body. What do we put on it that doesn't look like Earth++? Budgets, timetables and so on means that just having the puppet is often "good enough" for those making the thing.

Then there's shapeshifters. Yes, I could have picked on Odo, but he's played by a human actor with a wardrobe and so on. Human with bits on. Jake the Dog is an alien who thinks he's a talking dog through most of the cartoon series. In one episode, it's stated that he's wearing an invisible, skin-tight onesie. He's effectively naked and it's never mentioned again.

Yes, I know it's a cartoon for children. I'm using it to point out the ubiquity of that particular trope. It's in everything with a non-human alien in it.

And it vexes me.

It's about time I vented about this because I've had about enough of the type. Every couple of years, it seems, my feed fills with Opinions from people who want their fiction to be Pure. I can only presume that they've been raised in a blank, white box for approximately fifteen years before they were allowed loose in the real world.

Why?

Because their takes on what makes fiction "Pure" are absolutely buck wild.

• If you write about anyone who's even the slightest bit overweight, you're glorifying obesity
• If you write about anyone described as 'thin', then you're promoting eating disorders
• If you write about anyone who's queer, then you're pushing the LGBTQ+ agenda or "making people gay" [though it's usually the former]
• If your villains are at all sympathetic, then you're promoting abuse
• If your male characters show any kind of 'effeminate' skill or talent, then you're also pushing the LGBTQ+ agenda
• The same applies if your female characters show masculine skillsets. Either that or your book is "too woke" for their fragile sensibilities
• If you write teenagers falling in love, then you're a pedophile
• The same applies if you write children at all
• And if you write about kids in bad situations, then you're promoting child abuse

Basically, you have to write your men being Real Men, your women being Real Women, your villains being Absolutely Villainous and then Justifiably Punished. And if you write children, they must be cute, enigmas, and properly parented. Or else.

And only they decide what proper parenting looks like. Heaven help you if you get it the slightest bit wrong or (gasp) introduce weird pronouns.

Not one of these people have written a single thing outside of schooling. If they've written at all. They have no idea about the investment of time that it takes to write anything good. And now we have generative AI to make things fucking worse for us.

Because now that there's generative AI, they can use that to create the book of their dreams. And may they get sincerely bored of Elias Thorne and Alara Voss being blandly heterosexual in a book with literally no suspense, drama, or conflict.

Before generative AI - or the Plagiarism Machine, as I like to call it - these folks would be an utter pain in the bum for a decent handful of months. Then - I can only guess - they touched grass for the first time or came to the stunning realisation that Grownups Write Everything.

Or they found works about teenagers written by teenagers and came to a similar, stunning conclusion.

They used to vanish after a while because of that learning journey. Not that they don't cause a lot of damage in the process. They bullied the author, John Green off of social media with their shenanigans... whilst missing the actual sex pest and serial sexual assaulter on the same social media site.

I am kind of worried that they'll continue to be their willfully ignorant selves for the rest of time. Setting their puritanical sights on author after author as they drown the world in their boring, bland, 'pure' slop from the Plagiarism Machine.

They're not going to stop me, though. I've said many times that I can't not write, so I shall continue forward in my way, and when they appear again, I shall be ready with this:

Sometimes, issues at hand are too big to handle all at once. You can't write an entire novel in one day, for example. Or eat an entire roast chicken in one bite. In my recent history, there was a repair bill that I could not afford in one lump sum. So I negotiated a means by which I could handle paying it off in pieces.

Cutting a problem into chunks is a great means of handling this stuff. Whatever small bits can be managed are the things to look for.

I have been procrastinating on cover art for my most recent short story. Soon to come out if I can get the art done by October. Which is -more or less- why I'm talking about that.

I. Art. Real. Slow.

I need examples of what I'm making, which I do trace [not a sin], so I gather them and photobash them together so I have a structure of what I'm going to do. Then, layer by layer, I work on each element. Sometimes, I try a little cheat, like using a pattern brush instead of doing all the details. Sometimes that fails and I go angst about it for a couple of days.

This has happened recently. I have to rework some concrete chunks since my lazy attempt looks like a glitch in the matrix. And that means doing the chunks individually. Which is what I'm procrastinating on.

I might do other land lumps covered in kudzu further in the background. Just to soothe what passes for my soul.

I know I've got this. There's only a few elements to go before I'm done.

I'm tackling the rewrite of A Devil's Tale in the same way. One chapter at a time. Improving things as I go. Copying the good stuff and keeping very specific darlings while I murder the others. I'm rebuilding book one while my reading group goes through book two. I think it might streamline the process. I certainly hope that it takes less time than four years.

I've got this. It can be done.

Just like I've been cataloguing items from a collection I possess for later resale. One handful at a time. Log, describe, add to the spreadsheet. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It only seems impossible from the top of the mountain of work.

Shovel by shovel, I will get to the bottom of it all. Just watch me.

The biggest thing to organise is time to get back onto my output schedule and serve you all with my regular doses of assorted nonsense. I know damn well that the best way to have it happen is to make it happen. Which is why I'm writing this on a Saturday to post on Wednesday.

Huzzah?

I don't know.

Following this, I shall see what can be done about posting my Patreon stuff. Then I get a wriggle on with the daily tale and my other shenanigans. Which, because of my stupid firkin ankle, means moderating the Promptcast streams.

My main obstacle in getting sorted has been endorphin-chasing. After a hard day's wrangling words into fiction, I want to chill and enjoy some downtime. Alas, during the hard day's wrangling words into fiction, I also crave downtime. And I have endorphin producing games in my phone. So I get wrapped up in telling virtual ants how to devour a pixelated picture for hours on end.

Good for me - Hank Green made a focus assistant app where a bean knits socks to discourage me from the siren call of ant game.

I'm still working on launching the bean before I get down to business (to defeat the Huns?). It's a process. I acknowledge this.

Doing what I can for income can feel like a grind, but... I know I have this. I have to have this because this is the last week that I have money.

Onwards to what I know I can do.

Life is being mean to me and I want to be able to sleep it off without consequences. Or that I had a magic ice cream tub that would make everything better when I got to the bottom of it.

Meanwhile, I have finished the alpha draft of A Devil's Tale. All six hundred chapters of it. Huzzah!

Primary read-through of book one tells me that there's going to be more chapters. Especially in Book 1. Some rewrites are necessary, but I am still taking a breather. I'm allowed. Plus reading through the other five books will help define the shape of the rewriting.

Life is going to be chaotic for a couple of months because Adorable's lease is not being renewed so four people and a cat will be moving in really soon now. Part of my duties will be chasing my spawn around and making sure they do their bit in helping clear the accumulated debris.

I've just been told we have about four weeks to get the house unfucked before new housemates fuck it up again. In their own unique way. There will be a new equilibrium. But there may also be less from me on the daily. If I lapse, there will be a twoferfest until I catch up once more. I've done that before for my daily tales.

As for my Patreon, this weekly blog, and some of my other nonsense... I have no firkin idea. I get back to it when I get back to it.

...and at some point, I need to find out if I can find a genius to help me install Linux on an Android tablet I accidentally purchased via Temu scam. Not any time soon though.

I have a feeling I'll be roped into doing the power tool stuff.

Things to do: Attach wire to the catio, build an extended enclosure for the patio to also contain the cats while certain new housemates enjoy the fresh air. There's plans to move accommodations around, plans to change sleeping arrangements. Plans to get stuff out of the house.

Life is going to be PURE CHAOS for me for a while.

Normal services are going to be debatable. I plan on spending my daylight doing stuff and evenings writing stuff. Wish me luck. I might not get there all the time.

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Thank you for your patience.

~After the Shenanigans~

"Fifteen siblings, I can understand," said Astarion, hood up despite having full use of the Sunlight Ring. "Living far, far away, I can deal with. You never mentioned your dad worked in a fucking castle."

Oh, wait until he found out the rest of it. The broken curse, the mixed set of sibs, who the family was in this particular polity... Surprising him with all of it didn't seem quite fair. "He kind of has to," said Aldiirn. "You'll see when you meet him."

The guards let him pass in, though Aldiirn had to invite Astarion past every threshold. From public areas to private ones, all the way to Dad's office. Well. Almost to Dad's office. They had to wait in the Green Parlour while several other bits of business got out of the way. Then Hanagon, Dad's seneschal, made Astarion wait behind.

Aldiirn was arguing about it right up until he got engulfed by an anxious parent.

"Gruss gotts, what happened to you? Your letter didn't say nearly enough. Why'd it take you so long to find my ink? What's this? What's this? What happened to your eyes, liebe?"

"Da-a-ad..."

"Darling? Darling, something's happening!"

"O-oh, you found a snuggle-buddy? Dad was grinning. "They treating you right? You treating them right?"

"Dad!"

Astarion rushed in, holding the Githyanki egg's transportation arrangement as carefully as he could. For a moment, resembling an expectant mother experiencing their first contractions. "I heard something snap and there's a crack. I swear I didn't do anything to it."

Another snap. The shell flexed outwards a little as another crack formed.

"It's hatching! Oh my gods, we're having a baby!"

"Get Delia," Dad ordered someone in the hall. "Raus! Schnell!"

Aldiirn helped Astarion put it down, then rushed to remove the lid and stabilising clay. He didn't care about the acid burns getting it out. And a good thing too. The next snap came with a little green fist. A howl of outrage that only a newborn could be capable of.

"It's a girl!" Astarion crowed. "We have a little girl."

"I have a granddaughter," Dad cooed. He had doffed his velvet doublet, and offered it to wrap their baby in.

"Uh. Dad? This is Astarion Ancunin. My -uhm- my darling dear. And this...?" He looked to Astarion. "We haven't thought of names."

"You stole her fair and square, I'm guessing," said Dad. "Nevermind, one will find her. Wilcommen, kleine kinder."

The Githyanki infant had all her teeth, skin the bright green of olive oil fresh from the presses, and deep dark hair slicked against her skull from the egg goop. She was beautiful. She was perfect. Aldiirn held her close to his chest and cooed a welcome in Drowic. "You are beloved," he said, "A builder of a new kind of tomorrow." The name found her all right. "Koryss. Our beloved builder of a new hope."

"Koryss," cooed Astarion. "Koryss Ancunin-Deepborn. Our daughter."

END?

For a Bard, this Aldiirn fellow was remarkably covert. Astarion caught wind of it in the Goblin camp, where he managed to sneak his way into quite a lot of disarmament strategies. Sneaking poison into the booze cauldron so covertly that even Astarion hardly noticed. Breaking the wardrums whilst making it look like an accident. Separating and isolating the three leaders into their own covert corners. Well. Two out of three. The Drow leader was doing very well at separating herself.

The pinnacle of cheek had to be playing some concentration music for Dror Ragzlin.

Astarion, up in the rafters, almost missed it.

A subtle switch on the flute. A rapid breath during a natural break in the music.

Phoot...

And the Hobgoblin staggered in place, leaning suddenly on a barrel of firewine. All while Aldiirn danced out of range.

That was his cue.

"Ignis!"

The thundering explosion knocked them both off their feet, but also wrought devastation amongst Ragzlin and his acolytes. After that, it was just a matter of sniping the Drow from afar. And didn't the soft-looking, non confrontational Bard have an eye for secret and secluded places in which to do nefarious deeds without being detected?

He spotted traps Astarion didn't notice. Had an over-the-horizon sense for what may or may not be poisoned.

Aldiirn often said he was just a Bard.

Like hell was he only a Bard.

Gods damn it.

He was going to have to fuck this guy to gain access to his secrets.

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Of course a Rogue would go through everyone's packs. Astarion couldn't know that Aldiirn was a light sleeper. Not yet. Aldiirn sat up as Astarion sniffed something he'd unearthed in Aldiirn's pack,

"Find anything nice?" Aldiirn asked.

At least he was an honest thief. "Just looking for anything valuable. Or blackmail-worthy, if I'm being completely honest. What in the hells is this?"

It was a black prism, a solid substance that had once been pressed into a mould with fancy patterns on the broadest sides. Aldiirn smiled as he accepted it from Astarion's hands. Carved into one side, in Infernal, were the words, Remember to write home, treasured son. "Oh, Dad," he sighed. Inhaled the perfume he'd added to it. It smelled like home. "It's ink. So I write my family. Dad made it himself before I left for my adventures." The tears sprung up against his will. "And now I don't know where I am or how I can send it. Even if I had the paper to write on. Thanks for finding it. It's been driving me crazy trying to figure out what he hid in my pack and where."

Astarion was staring as if the whole scene was incomprehensible. Like a benevolent Beholder. "You... love... your family?"

"It's hard not to. After Dad stole me, they've been the best family anyone could want..." A couple of the sillier stories spilled out. Little things. Almost... dumb things. Yet he had Astarion's complete fascination. As if 'family' was another form of torture and torment for him.

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"There. In the bushes. Can you see it?"

The fancy clothing had put Aldiirn off guard. He didn't see the blade until it was almost too late. Years of training in the Art of Shadows kicked in and he threw the pale Elf, taking the dagger off him on the way.

His veneer of confidence and bravado stripped away like cheap paint. He cowered, trembling, in the dirt. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me!"

"Let's not try that again," said Aldiirn. "What were you trying to prove, anyway?"

"You're with them, aren't you? What were you and those tentacled freaks doing to me? What have they done to me?"

"But I'm not with--" The splitting headache. The now-familiar rush of images through another's eyes. The light. The fear.

"What was that?"

"Head worms," said Aldiirn. "If we don't find a way to be rid of them, they'll turn us into more mind-flayers."

"Turn us into--" There it was. That look. Another lost soul who expected nothing but pain and knew no help was coming. "Of course it's going to turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?"

He couldn't not rescue this man. Dad wouldn't have it any other way, and now neither would Aldiirn. Whatever it took to show him and keep showing him that there was kindness and comfort in the world... Aldiirn would do it.

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Even if he had to fuck this guy to show him he deserved love.

It had seemed like a decent jam session in Fraygo's. He suspected something was up with some of the prostitutes here. Something amiss that made people go missing once they walked out with someone pretty on their arm.

Then the giant tentacle broke through the wall and the next thing he knew... there was a tadpole in his eye and a whole bunch of fucked-up horseshit to deal with. Not to mention scary women in his immediate aura. Aldiirn had thought that close proximity to sisters had cured him of his terrors, but no... These were women he had not held in his arms when they were babies. They were strangers with fearsome abilities and worse tempers.

And once again, he resorted to nervous tooting.

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What in all the hells made the both of them look to him as the leader? He was supposed to be working as support class!

And he was out of his depth on an Illithid Starjammer, for fuck's sake.

~Some Significant Years Later~

"You have everything you need, ja? You have your balm? Enough of your balm? And the recipes too? You're sure you want to go adventuring as a Bard?"

"Yes, Dad," Aldiirn sighed. Dad was such a worrywart, sometimes. "It would be unfair to adventure as a Monk," Aldiirn smiled, enduring the umpty-billionth farewell hug from his Dad, and then his Mum, and then each of his fifteen siblings. "I'll be fine, Dad. Don't worry about me."

"I'm your parent, it's my job to worry about you," he leaned down to press his brow to Aldiirn's. "I'll miss you, kleiner..."

Mum, better known as Lady Cordelia, said, "Remember everything I taught you about avoiding little surprises. I know how Bards are."

"Mu-u-um... Not this Bard. I think I'm a bit broken in that direction..." The blush burned his face anyway. "I'll be fine."

"I've hidden a little something in your pack. I'm sure you'll let me know when you find it."

"Da-a-ad..." He sighed. It was embarrassing. Twenty-one years old, and still having his parents fuss over him. He knelt to embrace the youngest twins, aged just past four. "You two have the most important job of all. Keep Mum and Dad distracted enough so they don't worry themselves bald, okay? Get in lots and lots of trouble for me."

Mercy and Consideration giggled at the idea.

In spite of every confidence he had in himself, in spite of everything they'd taught him, it was still terrifying to strike out into the world as Aldiirn Deepborn, the technically clanless half-drow who was not at all affiliated with a whole damn polity by adoption. Seeking somewhere that didn't know him so he could make a name of his own. Just to find a way to make the world better with his own merits.

Somewhere far away would be a good start.

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Baldur's Gate, probably. That might be far enough away.

Aldiirn didn't really believe he was Kosh's son until that Winter. The entire family journeyed down to Enclave Yaztel, babies and all. Including some volunteer nurses and staff to help with everything. Making certain that Kosh and the Lady Cordelia had time for Aldiirn.

The colony of Drow was flourishing. Buildings, crops, and infrastructure coming along very well. There was even architecture beginning to emerge. And one place naming itself the Whitekeep Embassy.

It was the twins who got to him first. Babbling as they learned to talk, they mastered 'mama', and 'papa' for Kosh and Lady Cordelia. They also had 'nur-nur' for their nurses, 'dow' for 'Drow', 'bah-wah' for each other... and finally, 'bee bah-wah'. For him.

Lady Cordelia pointed it out, having much more experience with their babbling. "They're calling you 'big brother'. I think it's wonderful."

They'll forget me. You'll forget me. You should be leaving me behind... Aldiirn's knees went out from under him as his inner world turned on its head. He couldn't fathom it. Big brother. Wonderful. Why won't they forget me?

The twins thought his tumble was hilarious, and toddled to hug him. Lady Cordelia was a lot more concerned, though she hid it from her babies. Her, "Oops-a-daisy," hid a lot more panic from them than from him.

It was in her eyes. She was concerned for him. Worried about him.

There was the fresh breath of Spring in her Druidic magic, and the scent of daffodils washed over him as she reached out her hand.

"Are you all right, my love?"

This--

This wasn't--

This wasn't how it worked.

He was useless. Forgettable. Regrettable. A burden. He was way overdue to be someone else's problem or punished for taking too much food from worthier mouths and stealing clothing from worthier backs or taking up too much space or being in the way or being too loud or...

Aldiirn couldn't breathe.

He'd made the babies start crying.

There was no air

He'd made Lady Cordelia cry.

There was no light.

"I'm... sor--"

There was no sound. No gravity. Was he dying? Was he dead?

Evidently not. He came to in Vhaeraun's temple. The priest was winding up an adapted dance with two baby Tieflings underfoot, and Lady Cordelia was putting her every effort into her own healing magic.

But she didn't have to.

"...wh--?" Aldiirn managed.

"Oh thank the gods," Lady Cordelia snatched him up in a hug, babbling about how worried she'd been, and how he was allowed to tell her if he was feeling unwell. She could help. She wanted to help. She was his mother, it was her job. It was her delight.

Oh.

She wanted to.

Oh.

She really wanted to.

He whispered, "Thank you, mum..." and realised then and there that he meant it. It would take him a few more years and two more baby siblings to cement it into his head.

He had a mum and dad. He had siblings.

He had a family.

Aldiirn had people who loved him and treasured him and were willing to help if he needed it and not hold him in debt over it.

This took a lot of getting used to.

Spring to Summer would have been a delight, were it not for having to do politics. Keeping his Barons behaving themselves was a distraction from caring for his family. Poor Aldiirn. He kept behaving like he expected to be ignored. The twins needed their Papa. Aldiirn needed his Dad.

His Barons needed to be chased around with a gottsverdammt switch.

The tiny heirs to the throne had a staff, true, but Kosh would never let himself be as uninvolved as his own father. He could change diapers and burp them or pace with them as they were inconsolable about their horns or their teeth. The proper father things. And while they were sleeping and the daylight still shone, he could squeeze lessons in martial arts with Aldiirn. The lad was a natural at the covert parts, and had excellent breath. Kosh always appreciated a fast study, strengthening the weaker points while gently encouraging what he had down pat.

The sand ran out of the hourglass and Kosh reluctantly returned to the accounting with a groan.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Not you, liebchen. These verdammt Barons of mine. Tansie's book-keeping is a waking nightmare, and in order to sort out whatever fucked-up shit he's trying to pull, I have to unfuck these piles of ill-organised paperwork."

Aldiirn peered over Kosh's elbow. "Oh. You can not get that terrible by accident. That's deliberate. I'll need a piece of pure, clear quartz with no flaws, a live spider, and an ink-cap. As well as a copybook, please."

"Any particular species of spider?"

"Anything that spins a web will do."

"Then all I need is a minute." Without much fuss at all, but with the right breath, Kosh stepped into one shadow and out another. Onto the streets of the city where gem-vendors would be plying their trade. He overpaid for the quartz, and knew it, but this was a matter of urgency. It balanced out. His vendors generally gave discounts to the desperate and never applied the Tiefling Tax. Another jaunt took him to a fallow field where some ink-caps had sprouted in the shade, then to a little place he knew where spiders always liked to lurk.

He might have overdone it, but he kept his word and was back in a minute with the basket. And a half-dozen new copybooks.

"I only needed one of each," protested Aldiirn.

"I suspected, but... now you can pick the best." He handed over the basket with full respect and stood back to watch his son work his magic. It was a ritual, that much Kosh could tell.

Aldiirn put the spider on the glass of the spherical bottle there on the desk to improve light. Placed the tangled accounting inside that beam. Next, linking the tangle with the blank copybook via the crystal. Pointing from the tangle to the blank. The ink-cap, large and mature, completed the triangle. The key to it all was the caster himself, playing a song related to the passage of time and the importance of truth.

Line by line, entry by entry, the whole tangled mess turned into proper double-entry bookkeeping. In a fraction of the time it would have stolen from his days under ordinary circumstances.

And laying Tansie's attempted scam bare.

"Oh, meine kluges kind... Clan Asshole was fucking stupid to let you go. Liebchen. Can you teach my accountants this spell?

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Instant nervousness. Doubt. Poor child probably thought he would be teaching his replacement.

"I'll have more hours for you, and the rest of my family, but if you'd rather work, you should get a wage. Not that I'm fond of kinder working for their keep... It's your choice, liebchen. It's always your choice."

The Drow called it Surface Sickness. Kosh couldn't pronounce the Drowic name for it. But since Drow were made for much deeper climes. If he wanted to become used to the mountain air, he'd have to spend time adjusting. Slowly moving up and up each week so that he could acclimate to the thinner air.

That said, the mountain winters were still very cruel to him.

Poor Kosh was beside himself with guilt, fretting over Aldiirn. He stopped in once a day, at minimum, and insisted on helping Aldiirn move to a higher residence. It took Aldiirn three such weeks to realise that Kosh was hiring work crews to make the suites for Aldiirn's temporary residences.

And when he reached his new suite in the castle proper...

It was an echo of the Underdark above ground. Work crews had made a cavern that was a close imitation of the deep dark. There were even crops of fungus suitable for both food and medicine. What shocked Aldiirn was how close it was to Kosh's suite and the open sky. Just a few twists of corridor and a small stairway, and he had ready access to the sunshine.

Mistress-- Lady Cordelia was very much great with child when they met again. She invited Aldiirn to feel her progeny kicking, but he did not want to touch his doom.

By summer... Kosh wouldn't even notice if Aldiirn vanished.

So Aldiirn thought.

"Your tutors have been alerted," Kosh told him. "If you suffer a relapse, they'll help you down to a lower level before they notify me or Delia. The healers know all about the medicines you need and the kitchens know what to add to your meals and what to withhold. We won't be doing any elevated training for a few weeks."

Aldiirn said, "Thanks, Dad," and almost kicked himself. He didn't want any hearts broken. But a look at Kosh's face proved that the Tiefling's heart was flying.

Kosh... would not mean to forget.

That hurt a little more, if Aldiirn was honest with himself.

Icebreak festival was lovely. Fun. People enjoyed seeing their Earl and his ward out and about. Some greeted Aldiirn by name. Some were even worried about his health. That was surprising, to say the least of it. He didn't think he was worth remembering.

"Well, liebchen? Feel like playing for the people?" Kosh gestured towards a stage. "Word's got around about your music."

It was the first time he heard applause in relation to his playing. Aldiirn still closed his eyes as he lifted the flute to his lips. Breathe.

And play.

He began with a familiar tune that always helped him relax. The cheers were next to shocking. He was too used to thrown objects from Alean Micaror.

Enclave Yaztel had rarely heard Aldiirn play. He'd been too sick, most of the time.

Kosh was smiling for him, yet staying out of everyone else's way.

Inspired, Aldiirn launched into a livelier tune. Keeping time with a foot. A drummer joined in, and then a lutist. It was joyful.

It was as close as he could get to heaven while alive.

The cheers. The applause. The singing and dancing of the crowd. They loved him.

Of course Kosh made certain Aldiirn didn't spend all day working on the stage. Every child should have some fun. The games, the rides, the food that was definitely bad for him. And a warm cloak when the sun set and the lamps lit, as Kosh pretty much followed him around and enjoyed watching Aldiirn have fun.

Kosh carried him back to the castle. Footsore, queasy, and close to exhaustion. Aldiirn didn't remember being tucked in, but he woke with Kosh waiting by his bed.

"You have baby brothers," Kosh announced. "Twins. Delia and I broke the curse, so... they're little teufellen."

"And... everyone's okay?"

"Yes. Probably better for me being out of everyone's way. Danke, meine kleiner, for getting me away from my worries." A deep breath. A sigh. "I would like, if I may, to take you to meet them."

There was just enough light to bring colour to the birthing room. Lady Cordelia blinked awake and smiled as they entered. "...'lo m' loves," she breathed. She raised a hand to greet Aldiirn. "...'s been a hard job for me. Hope y' don't mind I stay put?"

Aldiirn had witnessed births, playing to soothe the matriarch in question's pains and punished if he stumbled. Surface folk were reportedly weaker than Drow, but no Drow had ever birthed twins to Aldiirn's knowledge. "You take your rest, mist-- ma'am. We won't bother you long."

The babies had been placed head-to-foot next to each other. One with a single stripe in his swaddling, and the other with two.

"The firstborn inherits the other family curse," whispered Kosh, gently brushing the one-stripe baby on his blue cheek. "Meet Kormwind Arachis Felbourne Whitekeep, tenth to have the name. May the gods forgive me for that. And his brother... Benevolence Honesty Vambrace Whitekeep."

He could stove their soft heads in with his flute. He could likely do it before anyone could react. That would not do him any favours all the same. Better to let his own rejection happen naturally. Just as he predicted.

"They will need a lot more than you do," said Kosh. "They can't feed themselves, nor dress themselves... they can't even talk. Not yet. They are literally helpless. And they are just as much loved as you are. I won't pick favourites... but will have to pick who might need me more."

"I know," said Aldiirn. He gave it two months. Maybe three. Then he could fade from notice.

He was used to that.

Kosh learned a significant amount of Drow speech from Aldiirn, so it was only fair that he taught some Infernal in response. The only downside was that Aldiirn was far better at learning Infernal than Kosh was at learning Drowic. At least he could mangle his way through some civil greetings and a few important phrases and words.

He was certain his grammar sucked. He could tell by the way Aldiirn kept politely wincing.

The Drow - Elistraeians - were polite about it too, but there were also little winces. They knew he was trying his best. Earning a peace between Whitekeep and its new neighbour was tricky, to say the least of it.

That was one good thing in the middle of the woes. Making sure his Barons behaved, restructuring the tax system. Cordelia was ill, yet insisting all was in perfect working order. He'd whispered about it to Cumulous, who told him he was being an idiot.

The Elistraeians were amenable to trade, and against slavery. Good news for him, good news for Whitekeep, and probably better news for the Drow. Whitekeep had a vile antagony when faced with slavers. The last thing he needed was war.

Well. Second-last thing.

He didn't need to be fretting himself grey over Cordelia's illness. Nor did he need to see his son turning up to training with signs of another sickness.

He'd just got a family and a loving wife and the alleged security of being an Earl in their own realm. Having the two closest to him fall sick might just let him assume he was cursed. Kosh knew damned well that nobody could get close enough to poison either his beloved Delia nor Aldiirn. And they both used the little charms he'd given them to warn and guard against such things.

Like fuck was he going to let an assassin's attempt splash on his dearest people.

"Liebe... you're not well." He knelt to test Aldiirn's brow and cheeks. Hot. Clammy.

"I'll be fine," he murmured. "I won't be a burden. Don't worry."

"You're never a burden," he said. He scooped up his son and, since Cumulous was busy seeing to Delia, he went to the next biggest experts. The undercity of Gloomstalk.

He didn't bother to change from his Shadow Arts uniform. He barely took the time to tell his seneschal, Hanagon, where he was going. He ran. Down and down, through the rooms excavated from the living stone of the mountain. Down through the catacombs. Down through the freshest tunnels that lead to a far more amenable meeting spot in Gloomstalk.

He didn't have an appointment to burst from the carved embassy, so none of the people who normally worked there were prepared. He must have terrified a lot of them.

Kosh stopped by the first non-busy Drow and instantly forgot everything of Drowic he had learned. He reverted to the language he used the longest - Zemnian. "Hilfe! Mein kleiner Junge ist krank!"

They clearly did not understand.

He scrambled for the right words. "Baby. Baby me. Much well not baby me. For permission? Permission?"

The Drow woman managed to filter those words into some kind of meaning and moved to take Aldiirn from Kosh's arms.

He flinched away. "Baby me! Baby me!"

She kept her voice gentle and soft, and guided him along by his elbow.

"Much well not," he repeated. "Fear big. Baby me want remain."

The temple was devoted to the Masked Dancer. Known variously as the Masked Lord or Vhaeraun. Kosh, devoted to Tyr, knew that any given god was only as good as their worshippers. These people were good people, and the Dancer was a god of life and light.

He could trust this temple.

The Cleric wore only a mask and a loincloth, and kept his pale hair so long that it trailed after him like some bizarre serpent. But he also had a soothing tone and soft gentle hands.

Kosh was still weeping with worry even after a solid dose of Calm Emotion. Prayers to Tyr fell out of him in a tangled babble, for all that the blind old git never responded.

I don't mind my own suffering, for all that it's unearned, he thought. But don't you dare let those I love suffer because of me or we are going to have PROBLEMS after I die. I'm due to be set in your scales before you send me to the hells, no matter how you've already doomed me. If you allow this little one to come to harm, I owe you more than a broken fucking nose.

Gentle hands and soothing tones guided him to lay Aldiirn in a cot, but could not make him let go. The best compromise Kosh was capable of was holding his son's hand while staying as much out of the way as he could.

Elistraeian prayer involved dance, to a greater or lesser extent. Kosh could at least hum along with the refrain, but leaving Aldiirn to twirl with the priest? Unthinkable. He was not turning his back on his child.

The soft glow of healing magic settled over Aldiirn, and his fever broke in a small wash of sweat.

The nearly nude priest had some hurried words as soon as it was clear that Aldiirn could understand them.

"He says," murmured Aldiirn, "that you are allowed to let go. They will not steal me from you."

"Baby me," Kosh repeated. Then, in Common, "My baby. I look after him."

The Cleric had a very eloquent way of rolling his eyes.

Aldiirn had tears in his own eyes.

"Was ist das?" Kosh cooed, automatically drying Aldiirn's dear little face with his kerchief. "Are you still hurting?"

"No. Not... physically. It's okay. I don't mind staying here. They're good people and I can still translate for you."

"It's just a little illness, ja?" Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was a Drow or half-blooded thing that meant Aldiirn had to stay in the safety of the Underdark. "Ask Herr Skyclad here if this is a serious malady. I'm not leaving you if I can help it."

"But you have to," said Aldiirn, almost whispering. "You won't want me after your own baby is born."

Kosh hit a brick wall of non-understanding. He comprehended each and every word Aldiirn said, but... together, they made no sense. "Liebchen, I stole you away from a nest of cruelty. I threatened war to keep you. I am not giving you up without a fight." The ache in his heart would not go away. "Not unless it's your health at stake, and even then I'll find a way to care for you and the verdammt realm."

Aldiirn patted his hand. Tried to display sympathy despite what looked like a breaking heart. "It's easier this way. Once Spring comes by, you'll forget all about me and I'll just... not be important any more."

"And what's happening in Spring besides Icebreak Festival?"

An aggravated sigh. "That's when Mistress Cordelia's giving birth to your heir."

Wait. What. Wait. What? "Horseshit. Nobles don't have heirs for at least five years. It takes them that long to like each other enough to--" Wait... "I have been an idiot, haven't I? And I let you think-- Gotts!" He snatched his son up and hugged the stuffing out of him. "You are my son. I don't give two shits that you're not from my body. And when your baby sibling is born, you will be part of the naming ceremony. You will always have a place in Whitekeep."

He kept his word. He always kept his word. Even when it became uncomfortable, even when it was inconvenient. Even when it was downright painful... He kept his word.

Even when the healers announced that Whitekeep's winters were too hard on Aldiirn and the boy would have to spend a season in the more stable climate of the Underdark.

Well... Winter was effectively the off season anyway. The public didn't expect much from their Earl except the occasional public appearance. He could spend more of his time learning Drowic by immersion.

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