#'root for the strike' or 'route for the strike' both make sense just slightly different meaning but joanna loves a homophone

[whiteshipnightjar]

The Air Again

by Joanna Newsom

June of ‘78 who are you, so arrayed on the banks of Lake Adair. Pale lacuna agape and like the moon in the lake you are not there, my poor canary.

At uncertain behest Maggie blown to the west in a shimmering dust of gold with her pale yellow hair they would call her ‘canary’. And I loved my Maggie so, and that is all you need to know.

But women here ain’t ever glad, not even Emma Nevada, coming back to share her wedding cake. Women here ain’t ever free (and Emma never left) we never leave, we never last we never ask we never stake a claim or complain or take.

Not till I made a play for a parcel that lay on the Amador county line. Had a notion that I’d find employ by-and-by at the Lonesome Willow Mine but they don’t enlist my kind. In the meantime, set to prospecting where I was able and laying my Maggie a table. And when it was warm we would pan, when it stormed play Fan-Tan, and when it was cold they’d come sniffin’ with gold in their hands. 

On and on and again on and on and again, you do what you can.

Take an eighth of an ounce in allowance for the dance, only a dance, if you’re alone and abandoned and cast aside. You know, the pastor tried in vain to ask her hand, even him, everybody did.

And I had a plan but I had to sign away my mine and the deed left us free to scrape and bleed and go to seed and never marry not canary canary canary canary canary canary canary canary canary canary.

In the spring of that year when the tinker was here, gals would hire him to mend their tin. I heard ‘em swarm from afar like a storm in a jar, like a choir of cherubim, singing *him, hymn, hymns.

Whispering, ‘Maggie had gone must’ve skipped with someone’, sounded wrong though it did seem fair.

April turned into May and I looked every day for you, Maggie, ‘til I heard they found a whore with the golden hair on the shores of Lake Adair. On the sluice she was spread loose and languid and dead from the kindness that she had shown. Still she told me her tale lifting veil after veil to expose a grin a-honed, my yellow rose in the lode a-blown.

And though I long to believe as I muddied my sleeve, and I studied the wiccan hap, and I want to revive, she was never alive. But by the grace and the whim, and the wheel, and again, and the wickedness of men.

But what to do then? I hauled myself up from the shore and I called at the door of the foreman. I told him and he laughed.

So, alas, there was savagery there. Left a hole in his heart you could roll a cabbage in ‘A cabbage?!‘ “Oh, no no, just a little one, Maggie, just a little one.”

On and on and again ‘til they saw what I am and I am never done, I am never done.

Went inside for the light, got a paper and a pen, where to begin? Do you sue for the rights? Root* for the strike? Through the alluvium to where it heeds *for I’m putting my own ruin ‘til the end to lure o’er the deed. A noose on a live oak tree bent toward the saloon tent and meant for me and Maggie.

And though it wasn’t him, it could’ve been him, or anyone who had done what I know so many men intended when they came to win. 

So arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant, arrogant. 

Held a cloth to my hands taking stock of my plans, well, there was something I had to make right. I took his old buggy whip and I lowered a skip in the glow of the sodium lights with a load of dynamite.

Maggie said, “I am here.” And with a touch on the ear, “After thirty years down in the mine, help me lead out the mules help me free the poor fools, let them see for the very first time they were blind, blind, blind.”

Then we rode through the rift and we beckoned to moon reflectin’ and she opened her neck like a stream. I saw the Father appear, heard her sob in my ear like a mob of cherubim, howling “him, him. It was him. It was him.”

So I threw a charge down the shaft in the cart with the pastor who spat and evangelized. He was the last and the worst — canary always goes first — to sing where the waters rise, hear her sing – go on now, Maggie –

On and on, on and on, on and on, and again and on and on on and on and again on and on and again.

Then a knock on the wall and a knock and we all fall in and down and in, and down and in and we pass away. But we pass only the baton man to man, and so they return. Pull the pumps, fill the sumps, for they’re takin’ something; they will never learn, they will never learn. And even if the churn drill and the stamp mill and the Pelton wheel, and the smoking furnace all a-burning, overturning, learning she will never breathe the air again air again air again air again air again air again air again air again air.

Like a screech of a flare, or like they’re reaching for air beneath the smothering eiderdown. Veins of gold, still outstretched in a silent arrest for miles and miles abound.

And if I’m underground let me join in that line, let me toil in that mine, let me find what is hiding there, let me dig where I durst, let me drink when I thirst and let me breathe the peril air.

And breathe for my canary, and breathe. Let me breathe. Let me breathe for my canary, breathe for my canary canary canary, breathe for my — canary always goes first — breathe for my canary canary canary canary, breathe for my — canary always goes first — breathe for my canary canary canary canary canary canary, breathe for my — canary always goes first — breathe for my canary canary canary canary canary canary canary canary.

[sneverussape]

on catholicism and severus & tobias snape

if you're going to expect a very well-thought out essay about this, please let me stop you right there. it likely won't be :)) but this was prompted by comments of people on my hc of catholic!snape and a (long) conversation with @dementedlollipop on discord that just spurred so many Thoughts.

going under a cut coz i don't know how long this will be.

so. i have made several allusions via drawings and stuff that one of my (main) hcs is that snape and tobias are catholic. i don't think i explained properly before why it makes so much sense; i tend to just spazz, but i'll really try to be articulate this time.

first, the background:

i grew up catholic, but the culture i was raised in was also catholic, so it permeated the value system i and everyone else around me knew. people put a high value on respect, filial piety, obedience, family, etc. all the stuff you watched on Derry Girls. that's exactly how it is to grow up in catholic culture, at least where i'm from. american catholic culture is slightly different because it's placed in a very secular context so it has a lot of caveats. it's very different if you grow up culturally catholic, and in a country that still largely runs on religious practices.

how this relates to the snapes:

i always find it interesting to figure out why characters act the way they do, especially if there's very little said in canon about them. tobias was one of the characters i was so interested in, because i found his situation so unique.

he's a muggle, as we know, and it was alluded to that he had neglected and/or abused his son and/or wife. yet, as far as we can tell, he also didn't leave them. it was likely that by the time severus met lily he already knew both eileen and severus were magical. why did he stay with them, if he disliked magic? surely it would have been easier if he had just left and started over elsewhere?

it's not just tobias, but also severus; how he acted, his thought processes, why he did what he did. it all felt very familiar to me, and it all routed back to traditional catholic values, and the way that i know how you just can't shake them off, no matter how hard you push against the faith itself.

the things that feed the hc (and which also leads to more hcs):

- severus was born in 1960, which means tobias was born in the first half of the 20th century, sometime between the 20s and 40s. (i like to peg it as the late 20s, because i also like to hc him being a ww2 vet, not only because it fits the context but also like father, like son -- severus is also a soldier);

- tobias living through the first half of the 20th century means he would have lived in an england that was still 'religious' in a sense, wherein religion was still a big part of their culture (i mean it technically still is, but i would imagine more people back then were still practicing it actively). he didn't strike me as anglican or protestant tbh because he seemed too traditional, and by that i mean he had a strong sense of duty to his family, strong enough to not break his marriage vows and to stay despite the presence of magic;

- now, magic has always had a weird placement in catholicism. i've never really had issues with religion vs harry potter. we were never banned from it, however i do know that back then, the very concept of magic was something that scared the bejeezus out of the common folk because it was "the devil's work" (and yes, i know this belief is wrong and is rooted in oppression by the church, but this is not what we're discussing rn). the repulsion tobias feels about magic i feel is therefore something that's rooted in religion;

- it was dementedlollipop that pointed this out but severus wearing his mam's blouse can also be read as tobias not even minding this was happening. how could this happen in a hypermasculine society like a lower-class town in 60s england? if tobias had really cared about it (because shame, because what will the neighbors think of you running around looking like that), severus would have worn his da's shirt rather than his mam's, if only to save himself from possible punishment. but he didn't. we know, however, that he was neglected/punished as a child. in this case, the possible reason he would have been was precisely because of magic. now you tell me why an ordinary muggle man in this setting would even care that his child was magical? as poor as they were, he could have exploited their magic and tried to make money from it, but this type of behavior was never mentioned. it just strengthens the hc that tobias was more bothered by something else more fundamental about the magic: that his son was not just different, but different, in all the ways he knew was wrong;

- "he doesn't like anything, much" sounds like a description of a man resigned to his fate, that is, being in a marriage he couldn't get out of (divorce isn't allowed in the catholic church, and annulment is expensive and has many conditions before it can be granted, if it will be granted). the abuse we know that happened could be him retaliating to the situation by lashing out in a horrific manner whenever the final thread snapped;

- catholicism is very big on ethics, and places value in things like fortitude, temperance, piety. this isn't just taught to you via a book; people already behave like it and it's ingrained in your belief systems, so you also learn it by example. suffering is also a big thing in catholic culture. there's virtue in suffering, in subjecting yourself to copious amounts of guilt and making up for it via penance like giving yourself up for a higher cause. i mean, that already is peak severus imo, but it also works for tobias, because where else could severus have learned it? children don't just pick up this stuff on the fly; it's learned from one's parents and backed up by a very solid values system;

- we then have tobias, a born-and-raised catholic, with a wife and child whom he suddenly finds out can do things that have always been taught to him as "satanic", and yet he can't leave them due to his marriage vows, due to his sense of duty that's been drilled into him since time immemorial, and perhaps because he also does love them. it's his family, after all. severus is his only child. a child he had initially thought was blessed, a gift, but is now damned, and it's his fault, as a father. he must have done something in his life to deserve it, but what? why would god even curse him this way? but then god gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers, and so he will see it through. this is his burden to bear;

- now we have severus, who's raised on the same values as his father, but tempered by his mother's secret stories of the wizarding world. he would have adored his father, i think, prior to his magic being discovered, because tobias would have doted on him. they would have been avid churchgoers at some point, at least severus and tobias, and he would have been baptized in the local parish. he'd have gone to mass, would have heard it in latin, and would have learned latin enough to know it like a mother tongue. he would have recited prayers and hymns with his father in latin too. this would have given him a leg up in the wizarding world, as far as that language was concerned. it's no wonder he could create spells;

- imagine the heartache that would have occurred the moment tobias realized he was not at all normal. the rejection that would have happened, how tobias would have silently and swiftly cut off all affection, and young severus would have been left to wonder why, until eileen explained to him that his father's world and their world just could not mix, and it's always been the way with muggles (hence the somewhat anti-muggle sentiment he alludes to in canon when with lily). but severus would have also probably secretly thought it was all his fault;

- now this: even if he had rejected his father and the muggle faith he had been raised on just before going to hogwarts in order to make something new of himself, it wouldn't have worked. ironically, the wizarding world has living embodiments of the concepts he had learned at his father's knee and in the church, the same things he would have been trying to avoid and forget: the concept of souls was proven with ghosts, and eventually, horcruxes; voldemort dying and resurrecting proved power over death. the afterlife was also proven by harry's testimony from the graveyard when voldy got resurrected. voldemort himself, with his giant snake, would have also been like the living proof of satan and sin;

- i think severus would have been terrified at the realization that oh shit this stuff could actually true, and it would have pushed him towards religion, not away from it, if only to study it more. i mean i can only imagine him having a ton of theology books in his study just to read up on the subject matter. it would have also made the concept of him losing his soul upon killing dumbledore very very real and all the more terrifying, because then the sayings of him being doomed for all eternity may actually come true;

- (thou shall not kill. thou shall not kill. thou shall not kill)

- like his father before him though, he would have accepted his fate like a good soldier, and would have accepted the suffering that came with it. he also probably felt deep, deep guilt all throughout, because tobias had been right. he was exactly what his father had always been frightened of: damned in this life, and now the next. and it was all his fault.

[nighttimepixels]

I'm feeling pretty shaken from a panic attack and I was just wondering what lamia Blue would be like living in the forest, what's his duty in the group, and how would he deal with calming someone down were they to stumble upon him on accident on the edge of the forest while he was out?

First off, I hope you're doing better, and taking care of yourself. I know how hard panic attacks can be, and I'm sending all the good gentle recovery vibes your way. ♡♡♡

Second, to answer your question!

So, the skelebros-as-lamias don't quite get along as well as the Lilytale crew; in fact both the guys and the girls, in their sibling pairs, effectively met each other after a push from humans to try to 'curb the population'. They temporarily banded together against the insistent invasive hunting parties, pushing back enough to stop the attempts, but in the end once the immediate threat was gone, had a few too many... differences in outlook to long term stay together. The girls had bonded strongly in the adversity, and ended up leaving together; the guys meanwhile remained in the original territory, no longer living in the same cave, but branching out into neighboring caves... with one big one tucked way back that they get together in and brumate in during the winter months >v>

Backstory aside!

The guys still absolutely work as a sort of loose team/community. While they hunt on their own, they still have some stronger friendships among some of them, and for larger/broader tasks, agreed on divvying up the duties.

Blue - US Sans, aka, for my version of the guys, now known as Caelum -  is the primary healer/herbalist of the group (alongside his brother), and his other main duty is patrolling their favorite sunning & above grounds hotsprings! He's the only one the others agreed upon trusting to not get as territorial and maintain equal access to the coveted resource; and he takes his duty seriously. Though several of the others see him as one of the softest amongst them, he's got a strong sense of duty... and is just plain strong, period.

When he's not patrolling/guarding their hotsprings/sunning with his brother or, on rarer occasions, with Sable (SF Sans) or Lune (HT Pap), he's setting up traps to hunt or protect wider boundaries of the forest.

This is when he's most likely to come across a human - or when they're most likely to come across him, if they venture just a little too far in. Admittedly, the lamias have all had pretty bad encounters with humans in the past - many of their kind killed off - but he's been one of the ones that held more strongly to 'cruelty is the exception not the rule'... and so, when he comes across a human one day - curled up between the roots of one of the larger trees that tend to mark the point at which you're getting deep...

Well.

He... he can't just do nothing.

With the rustling of the leaves against his body blending in with the breeze that danced among the tree boughs, he slides from tree top to tree top, until he’s curled above the human, blending in well. He listens, soul aching more and more in empathy with each passing second. He knows the risk making himself known might have to himself and his brother and friends, but...

From his pouch, he plucks out an acorn.

You don't register it, at first; the little soft plunk as the seed falls from above, hitting bough, bough, root, root, mossy rock, clover at your feet. Half a minute later... The second one registers, but you're still stuck in the mental mire - breath short, curled up tight on yourself, vision tunneled. Too deep, you know you're too deep, but your heart won't stop beating, you swear you saw something a little bit ago and had to hide - but you were already hiding from what had your breath drawing short, you couldn't go back yet-

You blink when the next one hits you right on the nose.

It takes a minute, the panic hazing your senses, but you focus on the little acorn now nestled in your lap. Slowly, you pick it up-

-is that...

... are there... carvings on the tiny thing...?

The next one that falls lands right in your palm, almost bouncing off before you can react and keep it there - this one, with a simple little smiley face on it.

A beat.

Two beats.

And then you tilt your head back, eyes going up, and up.

There, in the sun dappled leaves, was that... a shocked glimmer of cerulean glow-?

Before you realize what your eyes are catching on, he's slithering back, down-  body coiling around the hefty branches, sturdy and growing for millenia, of course you’d sought shelter against this sort of tree-

-until he's hanging in front of you, tongue flickering out mindlessly as he tastes the air so very close to you, slitted eyelights wide and brilliantly blue with a dusting of magic on his cheeks.

Before you can even think to strangle a scream of surprise, your back already pressed to the trunk of the great tree, a flurry of color blinds you - a flower.

It’s a rare one - at least to humans, who know better to venture into the depths of these forests in search of rarer flora, where monsters roam. It's lovely and delicate, yet sturdy in it’s own way, like it could weather cold weather or heavy rain... and, it just so happens, is your favorite color.

Not that he could have known that.

... Right...?

The flower shakes a little then, waving as if insistently - and your gaze raises, meeting the bright cerulean eyelights of this strange lamia, watching you, intent, curious... nervous...?

No, surely not that-

but... he also clearly wants you to have the flower. You’ve never met a lamia before, no one you know has - no one did, and lived to tell the tale-

-yet, body language was body language, and the gentle, dare you say hopeful look on the face of the creature that every story told you you should be running from right now - surely... there was no other way to interpret this offered flower.

It would be... rude, or perhaps stupid, to refuse a lamia's gift, right?

Well, that's what you tell yourself is your reasoning, anyways, as the hand not holding several (cutely carved) acorns tentatively reaches out, and curls around the stem of the flower.

The next moment, when the skeletal face of the lamia brightens like the dawning of the sun, glimmers of bright blue magic the color of the clearest of afternoon skies, you forget to even notice how your breathing has evened out, and a tension in you has begun to relax.

"TOO LOVELY A DAY TO BE LOST," he announces to your shock, his rich, deep, striking voice not anything you could have expected. There's a strange accent curling it, and a hint of a lamia's hiss to his 's'. He smiles wider then, and he winks. "ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU'RE THE LOVELIEST THING ABOUT IT!"

Your flustering only sends his beaming wider, and before you know it, he's giving you directions and even sliding down to the ground, massive and so very pretty as well as handsome. He seems to hear something in the distance, head turning, and with chagrin he shifts in clear intent to part ways... but not before delicately placing a second, smaller flower into your hair - and a small, smooth shiny stone into your palm. It's slightly warm, and glows softly.

"WARMTH AND LIGHT WARDS OFF THE BAD," he assures you, the tips of his phalanges ghosting over your palm. You wonder if that's electricity in his touch, or just your imagination. "IT'S NOT THE SUN, BUT IT'S GOOD LUCK NONETHELESS!"

He lingers a moment longer, and then... and then, with a small sigh as if he heard something in the distance yet again, he's disappearing once more - up into the boughs of the tree.

You linger, breathing even, but heart... heart still going a little fast.

It's only a minute later, when one last acorn drops onto your shoulder, that you move from staring up into the dappled, great branches of the tree.

You stoop to pluck it up, realizing that the afternoon is getting worryingly long to be dallying within the shadows of the forest...

...and if your heart skips a beat as you walk away, finally following his earlier directions, a safer and more direct route out of the trees than had lead you in...

Well, who else was going to see that little acorn you tucked away with the rest into your pocket- the one carved with a tiny sun, and a little heart on the other side?

[cataclizard]

I keep remembering this drabble thing I’ve had in my files for a while, and I was kinda hesitating on posting it due to wanting to draw a thing for it but [LOUD SHRUGGING]  Featuring @alphahusk‘s Astraea because obvs :y 

-Invisible-

The streets of Suramar were quiet, as one could expect when the sun finally set. However, it had proven itself to be a restless city, making the sudden, vacant streets seem unusual... if not a bit unnerving. One lone figure walked along the back alleys of the city, clutching the strap of his shoulder bag as his glowing gaze wandered the surroundings. The figure in question was not as he appeared, however, being one of the many 'Outlanders' bearing a Nightborne disguise so he could traverse the city; it was not without its faults, but it was enough to slip past most citizens without so much as a second glance. It was more than enough comfort for Andel keep his pace steady, turning a random corner and finding himself in an open garden of sorts. Looking around, he felt a light breeze flow past him, causing the willow branches overhead to sway and emit a gentle, chiming sound. Glancing up, he felt a burst of awe at the twinkling 'stars' that were nestled close to the inner curve of the canopy. Briefly clenching his jaw, the disguised half-elf returned his attention to the ground, checking the area for any guards. He approached one of the many stone benches strewn about the area, opening his satchel and peering at its contents; some crystalized, ancient mana he had gathered for the struggling Nightborne that he came across, along with a whole assortment of flora that he had found in Suramar. Though he could admit the latter was moreso for research and sharing with his allies in this city. As he went about separating the differing flowers, roots, and general supplies, Andel's peripheral vision made him take notice of the fountain to his immediate right, pausing from his sorting to look more fully at the shimmering water. The disguised half-elf felt a cool, sharp pang of realization strike the very core of his being as his reflection became more clear...

In the water, he could see someone that only vaguely resembled him. No horns sprouting from his head, no snout-like nose, no wings... the triangular markings were still there, but they had become more fanciful, with a distinct shimmer that often highlighted them in certain lighting. Pitch black hair was now a shimmering off-white, but otherwise remained the same, pulled back and gathered in a ponytail to keep it out of the way. Andel blinked, looking down at himself and seeing no signs of his clawed, three-digit hands; but in their place were normal elven ones, five fingers and mildly calloused. It took a physical effort for the half-elf to breathe again, his gaze returning to the water. Was this what it was like to be... normal? Such a thought was always fleeting for someone like him, living with the double-edged blade of being both the child of a cross faction couple, and being sired by the Betrayer himself. Always one or the other when it came to the basis of people's wary looks and gossiping mutters, and he had gotten so used to simply ignoring them that the sudden lack of it had barely registered until now. The feeling of being so... unnoticed felt alien to him. Creeping anxiety manifested as he felt the urge to leave, slip through one of Oculus' portals so he could shed the disguising spell and feel comfortable in his skin again-

"Andel...?" a new voice cut through his increasingly racing thoughts, making him visibly wince before looking towards the source of the voice. His tense self easing slightly at the familiar face. "Astraea! Ah... what're you doing here?" he asked, his voice the one thing that remained wholly unchanged. The Nightborne fidgeted with the fabric of her outfit as he noticed her wandering eyes, wondering just how clear his newfound turmoil was to an outside viewer, "You um," she paused, her free hand loosely gesturing towards the open satchel of plants, "You mentioned how you could get flora from outside of the city, and that you wanted to show me some of it when you returned, so..."

Andel watched her shrug slightly, then cleared his throat and haphazardly set out the rest of the plants he'd gathered, doing his best to calm himself and his trembling hands, "Right, right. Sorry I'm just..." a soft huff of frustration left his lips, "Distracted..."

The half-elf hadn't realized the Nightborne had stepped closer, sitting opposite of him on the stone bench and resting her folded hands in her lap, though her eyes were no longer on the dried flowers between them. Her head cocked to the side slightly, glowing eyes scanning his face with a sudden, newfound intensity, "Is something troubling you?"

Her inquiry made Andel tense again, this time in a more subtle fashion. How could he word it? Should he even say anything about it? A small thought slipped through and to the forefront of his mind... the two had formed a surprising companionship since Suramar's barrier had been torn down, and it had shown Andel places in Suramar he never would have ever known had it not been for her. Still, he had no way of knowing how Astraea would view him if he admitted to using this magic-based disguise. With the current societal state, being skeptical was often the best route for survival...

Andel mirrored her gesture, letting his hands rest on his lap as he constructed his thoughts, "Have you... have you ever had a moment where you felt invisible? Not in a negative way, mind you, just... having this sense of... belonging, I guess?" He shifted his weight slightly, reaching up to scratch an itch on his cheek before he thought to continue, "I've always felt a bit out of place, and I don't know what it is but... something about today made me realize how it felt to be a part of a crowd, even though I'd been in them hundreds of times before."

The Nightborne across from him bobbed her head, a moment of silence floating between them as she turned her attention to the nearby willow that hung overhead, "I suppose I have. Living in the Nighthold, there's a sort of... disconnect, when you step outside and walk among the rest of the city," Astraea's gaze returned to him, "It's liberating in it's own way, but sometimes you just can't shake the feeling of 'I don't think I'm supposed to be here' even if people are paying you no mind otherwise. But..."

The silence captured Andel's attention, and with it, he could have sworn he saw a sense of... sadness in her eyes? Though he often tried to avoid presuming one's emotions and thoughts, this seemed unusual, even for the Nightborne. His pointed ears lowered as the silence persisted, reaching one hand up and pausing... then lowering it and instead leaning to the side, within her peripheral vision and deciding to ease his wary 'survival' skills for a bit,

"I know I don't talk about it often, but I've actually been outside of Suramar City." he said, his voice taking on a more gentle tone. He watched Astraea blink, brows knitting together as she looked to him again, "The actual city?"

He nodded, "That's how I've been getting these flowers, and maybe... maybe someday, when all of this is over, you can come with me! If... if you'd like to, of course." The Nightborne nodded with him, looking down at her hands as she considered this proposal of his. "I... I would love to." she said finally, a rare smile peeking through as her shoulders bunched up with mirth.

And in that moment, Andel felt a sudden, glowing warmth in his chest as he saw her small but oh so significant reaction. He couldn't recall right away seeing her so genuinely happy looking, but deep down, the half-elf wanted to help her smile again and again... she deserved that much, at the very least.

[azvolrien]

The Lady of Kaltara - Chapter Three

In which we finally meet the eponymous character.

~~~

           They took the train out of the hills, first backtracking south towards the Imperial City before branching off to Ulcaster, a small town in the easternmost reaches of the hills and the terminus of the line. It had its roots in one of the many Legion forts built to watch the frontiers of the Empire and still showed them in the layout of its streets, but the military tents had long since been replaced with civilian houses and shops and the central headquarters with a public hall. Its protective earthworks, however, remained firmly in place, topped by walls of stone, brick and wood, and the gates were always guarded.

           Beyond them to the east was nothing but the plains. Close to the town they had been fenced off and parcelled out as fields of crops or livestock, but only a couple of miles from the walls, the fences disappeared and open land stretched to the horizon.

           Wygar reined in Rathus at the edge of the last field and squinted into the distance. Behind him, Una knelt up in the saddle to peek over his shoulder, and he closed his eyes in concentration.

           “She’s still a long way off,” he said in reply to Una’s questioning grunt. “But the direction hasn’t changed much. We’re still on track.” He opened his eyes again and gazed up at the sky. “The sun’s at our backs now, but this far north it won’t set for a while yet.”

           “We should try to get as far as we can before dark,” said Una.

           “You took the words out of my mouth. Sit down, sweetheart, and hang on. I’ve never given you a ride on Rathus at really full tilt before – you could get badly hurt if you fall.”

           Una sat down and wrapped both arms tightly around Wygar’s waist, gripping the saddle with her knees.

           “If you feel yourself slipping, just shout and I’ll slow him down enough for you to get your balance again,” said Wygar. “All right?”

           “All right. Though, can’t you fly?”

           “I crashed rather hard the last time I tried, so certainly not while carrying you, sweetheart, and I hate doing it at the best of times. Are you ready?”

           Una hugged him a little tighter and nodded resolutely.

           “Good.” Wygar dug in his heels. “Rathus – run.”

           There was no sense of shifting up through the gaits, from walk to trot to canter as there might have been on a horse. Rathus simply went straight from standing still to a full gallop in the space of a heartbeat, tearing across the plains with each long stride. Ulcaster soon vanished into the distance behind them. Within half an hour, even the mountains had fallen below the horizon, and there was nothing to any point of the compass but long grass swaying in the wind. Once, a herd of deer scattered before the construct; another time, a huge aurochs bull made as if to square up to him, then thought better of it and hastened out of the way.

           At dusk, after the sun had set but before the sky had fully darkened, Wygar finally reined Rathus to a halt, thoughtfully studying the plume of smoke rising from a small clump of trees up ahead. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

           Una just groaned and slumped against his back.

           “Fair enough. We’ll stop for the night soon – this might be a good spot to camp, if whoever’s already there doesn’t mind sharing.” He nudged Rathus back into a walk up to the edge of the copse. Firelight glinted between the trees. “Think you can get up into that tree there?” he said, softly enough that whoever waited at the fire would not hear him.

           Una looked the tree up and down, judging the distance. “Take Rathus a little closer,” she said. Wygar ducked his head to avoid a low branch; Una stood up to grab it in both hands and heaved herself up onto it, before scooting along to the trunk and clambering a few branches higher to hide in the shadows there.

           “Stay up there while I check this out,” said Wygar. “I’ll come and get you if it’s safe, all right?”

           Una nodded, hooking an arm around the trunk to steady herself. “Not the first time someone in our family’s hidden in a tree,” she muttered.

           Wygar winced at the observation, but did not reject it. “Either way, I’ll be back soon.”

           The campfire sat in a sheltered hollow left by an uprooted tree; a tarpaulin had been stretched down from the roots to create a small half-tent over a sleeping bag and a canvas rucksack. Its owner sat by the fire, roasting the carcass of a rabbit on a spit.

           “Smelled the meat, did you?” said the man without looking up, fanning the flames with his wide-brimmed hat.

           “Saw the smoke,” said Wygar, climbing down from the saddle.  

           “Hm. Is that so.” The man set the hat on his head, braced his hands on his knees, and got to his feet. He was about Wygar’s height, perhaps a hair taller, but far broader in the chest and shoulders and carrying a great deal more muscle. One hand rested not-quite-casually on a long knife at his hip. “I reckon you’re going to hand me those reins, pal.”

           “I’m sorry, he’s not for sale.”

           “Didn’t say anything about buying.” He loosened the knife in its sheath.

           Wygar sighed and shifted his weight slightly, adjusting the positions of his feet. “Rathus is bound to obey me alone,” he explained. “He wouldn’t listen to your orders – you’d just have to leave him here when you broke camp. I was going to ask if you would mind sharing your fire for the night, but I can see you like your privacy. I apologise, and I’ll be on my way.”

           “Nah, you’re staying here, longears.” The knife came out, and the man lunged with astonishing speed for his size.

           It was a split-second decision. There was no time to mount Rathus and flee; the man would catch up before Wygar even got one foot in the stirrup. Instead Wygar bent his knees, dropped into Master Kendrick’s favourite fighting stance, and drove a swift jab backed by the force of a concussive strike into the man’s solar plexus. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers as the man went flying, hit the trunk of a tree back-first, and fell to the ground in a dazed, winded heap.

           Wygar picked up the knife – the man’s eyes widened – and hurled it into the trees, where it landed somewhere in the gloom with a rustle of leaves. “Given the option,” he said, his breath shaking, “I would prefer not to leave a trail of bodies in my wake on my journey. I don’t enjoy doing it and it doesn’t set a good example for my daughter. So I am, you will be pleased to hear, not going to kill you.” The man managed a weak, nervous smile. Wygar crouched down in front of him and held up one of the pendants around his own neck, a small oval locket on a chain. “I have one question, and then – as promised – I’ll leave you to your fire.” He clicked open the locket to show him a delicate miniature portrait of Fayn. “Have you seen this woman?”

           The man squinted hard at the tiny painting, then shook his head.

           “I see. They must have taken a different route, then. Thank you anyway.” Wygar began to straighten up, paused, and lifted the man’s hat from his head. “I’m keeping this.”

           “That’s fine!” squeaked the man.

           Una, thankfully, was still waiting in the tree when Wygar returned. “Well?” she asked.

           “We’ll find somewhere else,” he said, letting the hat fall to the ground and holding out both arms. “Hop down, I’ll catch you.”

           Una leapt from the tree into his arms. He staggered back under her weight, before he caught his balance and lifted her onto Rathus’s back.

           “Did you steal their hat?” asked Una, sounding impressed.

           Wygar picked up the hat and put it on, hiding the points of his ears beneath the band. “He tried to stab me, sweetheart,” he said as he climbed up in front of her. “I don’t feel unjustified in stealing his hat.”

           Una just sniggered, and held on around his waist again as he spurred Rathus into a trot and out of the copse.

           They finally stopped a few miles further on and set up camp in the bend of a gentle river, protected on three sides by the water. Una wandered down to poke through the debris washed up on the bank and collected an armful of wood. “This’ll need to dry out if we want a fire of our own,” she said.

           “I know a trick for that,” said Wygar absently, kneeling by the water and taking off his newfound hat again.

           “What are you doing?”

           “Thinking.” Wygar leant over to study what little of his reflection he could make out in the dim light.

           “About what?”

           “About how distinctive I look.”

           “Yeah, you stand out a bit,” said Una, laying each stick out side-by-side. “What about it?”

           “That’s probably not a good thing while on a rescue mission. Your mother and I… Well, we enjoy a certain small degree of fame. After all our travels, a lot of people have heard of us, in a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend sort of way at least. I just think it might be better – safer – if, for a while, I look… less like myself.” He poked at the tattoo on his face, then ran one hand back over his hair. “There’s a knife in the bottom of the left saddlebag,” he said. “Can you go and get it for me?”

           “What are you going to do with it?” asked Una, narrowing her eyes.

           “Nothing permanent, sweetheart.”

           Una made a doubtful sound, but shrugged and fetched the knife regardless. It wasn’t as long as the copse-dweller’s, but the edge was still wickedly sharp. Wygar lightly tested it with his thumb, steeled himself, and sawed his ponytail off above the tie.

           Una gasped, clapping both hands over her mouth. “Your hair!”

           “I know, sweetheart. I know.” Wygar quickly sliced his sidelocks off to match before he could lose his nerve and incinerated the shorn hair with a wave of his hand. Una wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell. “I am very proud of my hair. However, the safety of you and your mother ranks considerably higher in importance.”

           “I hope Mam still recognises you,” said Una.

           Wygar had to laugh. “She may not have very good eyesight,” he said, grinning, “but I don’t think it’s so bad that she can’t recognise her own husband after a haircut.”

           “So what about the…” Una tapped her cheek, indicating Wygar’s tattoo.

           “Well, we don’t have any makeup to cover it,” he said, looking back at his reflection in the river. “I suppose…” He stood up and took his rolled-up blanket from where it was buckled to the underside of one saddlebag, then cut a long, wide strip from the edge with the knife. Una tilted her head as Wygar wound the cloth around his own, covering both the tattoo and the eye beside it. “This’ll have to do,” he said, tying the ends in a knot at the back of his head. “So,” he said, putting the hat back on. “What do you think?”

           Una giggled. “You look like the Wanderer.”

           “Who?”

           “From the Fjord Quest books – he’s a one-eyed man in a big hat like that. It’s never really made clear who he is, like if he’s a spirit or a wizard or just a knowledgeable man, but he shows up in all the books to help the main characters.”

           “Well, I suppose there are worse comparisons.” Wygar fished around in the same saddlebag and came out with a flask of water, an apple and a square of flatbread. “I’ll raise some wards and make us a fire,” he said, handing the food to Una. “Eat these and get some sleep – we still have a long way to go tomorrow.”  

           Una ate slowly, watching in silence as Wygar dried the sticks she had gathered and stacked them into a proper fire, then wrapped herself up in her blanket as he walked in a circle around their campsite, scraping protective runes into the earth with the butt of his staff. A ring of magic shimmered gold for an instant as the wards activated, then settled back into invisibility. Wygar nodded and made Rathus lie down by the fire, then sat down with his back against the construct’s side.

           “There,” he said. “We’re safe for the night. Nobody can see, hear or get to us through those wards.”

           Una shuffled along to sit next to him against Rathus. “Yeah.”

           “How are you holding up?”

           Una pulled the blanket up over her nose, closing her eyes tightly. “I’m scared,” she admitted, barely audible.

           “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

           “It’s not really me I’m scared for.”

           “I know, sweetheart.” He laid one arm around her shoulders, and she huddled closer against his side. Her breathing shook raggedly and she pressed the blanket over her eyes. “I’m scared too. But your mother is the toughest person I know, and we. Are. Going. To. Find. Her. We’ll find her safe and well and bring her home.” He gazed unseeingly at the fire, making no move to brush away the tears trickling down his own face. “That is the only outcome I will allow.”

***

           Vidra sailed through the fort’s gates. Inside the walls, it could almost have been the stronghold of any minor noble in the Empire: a courtyard paved with grey flagstones, some outbuildings along one wall, and a four-storey keep roofed with slates and sporting a round tower at each corner. The only difference was that the courtyard flagstones came to an end halfway across the enclosure and were replaced by stagnant water and wooden jetties. Vidra bumped up against one and Edri leapt out to deftly tie the mooring lines.

           An imperious grey-haired woman in a long open-fronted robe strode up to the end of the jetty, flanked by couple of guards bearing spears. “This had better be – oh. It’s you.” She straightened the hem of her tunic and folded her arms. “Vil. You know the Lady wasn’t best pleased to see you the last time you were here.” One of the guards meaningfully tested the point of his spear.

           “Yes, Steward Brennar,” mumbled Vil, looking down as his hands as he wrung them. “But – you see… Um…” He nodded towards Vidra.

           “Up you come, Mistress Wolf,” whispered Edri, untying Fayn’s collar from the awning and heaving her onto her feet.

           Brennar raised an eyebrow. “Dabbling in slavery, Vil? I thought you lost the stomach for that years ago.”

           “Yeah… Well.” He nodded to Edri, who kept one hand firmly around Fayn’s collar and drew back her hood with the other. Fayn flinched back under the awning, wincing in the sudden light.

           Brennar’s eyes widened and she sucked her breath in through her teeth. “Ah-hm. You’d better bring her inside.” She waved for them to follow her and turned back to the iron-studded door of the keep.

           Vil knelt to untie Fayn’s ankles. “Please don’t make us carry you,” he said quietly as he stood back up and, like Edri, clamped one hand around the back of her collar.

           Fayn cast an eye around the dock-courtyard. The insides of the stone walls lacked anything approaching a decent handhold: not only were the blocks perfectly flat on all sides, but mortar had been smoothed over the joins to eliminate the cracks, and the only gate she could see was the one Vidra had sailed through. A troop of archers stood guard atop both the walls and the keep’s towers; a few of them had nocked arrows and were intently watching the newcomers, though no bowstrings had yet been drawn. Escape would have to wait. Fayn nodded briefly and allowed Vil and Edri to lead her off the boat.  

           Brennar pushed open the heavy door and waved them in, while her two guards took up stations to either side. “Finally,” she said, standing aside to let Vil, Edri and Fayn through the door. “There’s only so much Cruon can do with rats and ferrets – a moontouched human should be much more useful. And if this doesn’t work…” She sighed. “Well, nobody can say the Lady hasn’t tried everything she could. Come, come – she’s upstairs.”

           She led them up a spiral staircase in one corner of the keep, too narrow for two people to walk abreast; Edri moved ahead of Fayn while Vil kept his hold on her collar, all the way up the stairs until Brennar let them through into a room that took up the entire top floor of the keep. At one end, a chair that needed only a little more gold leaf to be a throne stood against the wall, beneath an arch crafted from the jawbones of an ancient whale and flanked by two ceramic-and-metal statues of odd catlike creatures; at the other, a fireplace big enough to roast a wild boar on a spit sat cold and empty. In between, a man and a woman pored over a large table strewn with documents, watched by a few more guards around the walls.

           Brennar cleared her throat. “My Lady. Vil the boatman and his niece have returned to Vosta.”

           “And if that swamp-rat isn’t here with what I asked for, they can turn right back around and leave again,” said the woman at the table without looking up.

           “Thankfully that won’t be a problem,” said Brennar, waving them forwards.

           The woman looked up from the sheaf of papers she studied, and froze at the sight of Fayn for an instant before a broad grin appeared on her face. “I don’t believe it,” she said, leaving the table and striding over to Fayn. She was tall – almost Wygar’s height – and built with the solid, functional muscle of an arena fighter. Old scars on her hands and bare forearms and a hint of a tattoo on one shoulder suggested that that might, indeed, have been her profession once, and a sheathed gladius hung from her belt. “A true moontouched, too,” she said, peering closely at Fayn’s eyes. “We’ve had a few people trying to pass off just pale blondes as having the moon’s blessing, but you, you’re the real deal.”

           Something Rhona had once said in passing drifted to the surface of Fayn’s memory, and she clenched her hands into fists to stop them shaking.

           There are places in the world where they eat people with gwynder because they think it’ll give them magic.

           “Those runes on the collar,” said the Lady. “I don’t recognise them. What are they for?”

           “She’s – she’s beast-blooded, milady,” said Edri shyly. “They’re to stop her changing form. I – well, I can do a bit of rune-magic as well as my portals.”

           “Beast-blooded, you say? Which one?”

           “Wolf and otter, milady,” said Vil, looking at the floor.

           “Wolf and otter?” The Lady stood back a little, rubbing her chin in calculating thought. “That’s very rare, isn’t it?”

           “In the sense that I’ve never even heard of anyone with more than one,” said the man at the table, “yes, it’s rare.”

           “Blessed by the wolf, the otter and the moon,” mused the Lady. “There’s going to be a lot of power tied up in you and no mistake.” She straightened her broad back, a sense of decision etched on her features. “You, you, you and you,” she said, pointing at four guards in turn. They all stepped forwards. “Assist Cruon. Vil, you and your niece can leave now; welcome back to Vosta. Cruon?”

           “Yes, my Lady?” said the man at the table. He didn’t look more than a few years older than Edri; certainly he was considerably younger than both Fayn and the Lady, though he tried to disguise it with an artfully stubbly chin.

           “You know all the right amounts?”

           “Of course, my Lady,” said Cruon, sounding mildly offended by the question.

           “Good.” She paused as the two of the guards replaced Vil and Edri in holding Fayn, then waved one hand towards the door; Vil, halfway through it, stopped for a moment before Brennar gave him a pointed look and he disappeared down the stairs. “Take her down to your lab and bleed her ’til she passes out. You know the drill.”

~~~

Cruon might not be his real name, I dunno. Much like whatever Vil did to get on the Lady’s bad side, it’s open to interpretation.

It’s going to take Wygar quite a while to grow his ponytail back, but he’ll get there eventually.