#I actually only have a cast iron pot

[thebookworm0001]

Hi hello queer southerner here:

The word y’all is already inclusive. if I see one of y’all using “y’xll” because you don’t want to associate with the south, I’m smacking you with my cast iron skillet.

You’re not better than us because you’re from a northern/blue state.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Okay, so in one of the comments that you replied to in your “gold rush AU! Konig”, you stated that she’s heads over heels in love with him, but apparently hasn’t shown/told him yet. And even though he believes that she doesn’t love him, he’s still so in love with her and just wants to make her happy. (That has got to pull at her heartstrings because this odd but kind man simply just loves her.)

Would you be willing to do a next part? Showing that she was just resisting what she knew along and that was that she does love and only wants him. Because although he went about marrying her immediately instead of taking the time to get to know each other and even though he’s from an European background, who is a giant with an accent and working to hit gold to support her financially, he’s still been nothing but kind, loving, and can apparently rock her world in bed! (Basically she was resisting in giving in into admitting she loves him because she had this WHOLE mindset/vision about how it was ALL gonna go down but since it didn’t go the way she thought it would, she was resisting his love for the “fairytale” version she wanted.)

Eventually she finally confesses that she does love him but had to get to that conclusion slowly on her own terms. This of course makes him so happy and he feels so blessed to gain his wife’s love; he once again promises that he will do everything in his powers to ensure she’s happy for all the rest of the days of her life. Which he does because some time later he hits it big in gold which lets him upgrade the “shack” they’re living in to convert it into an actual home for them to spend the rest of their lives together (with future children).

And he asks her of what she wants him to buy for her since he can afford to get it for her, only for her to ask for a new and bigger (so he fits comfortably) reinforced bed; because she wants him to be able to rest properly in a comfortable bed AND she doesn’t want to hear it creak as he plows her into nirvana/heaven. This of course causes him to blue screen but once he reboots his brain, he promises that he’ll get the best bed that will not only support their nightly activities but be very comfortable for both of them.

It’s only once they get the new bed and use/“break it in”/“christen” it for the first time does he finally gets her pregnant on that first night.

Oh, your writings are just so good! 😊

Oh I love the bed scenario and König wanting to spoil her and the story about how he got her pregnant for the first time (you can’t tell me these two won’t have a small flock of annoying little kids running around eventually) so much! 😭💞

And I actually wrote a little something for this because people were putting me in jail for the roaring angst of the 1st part so here’s how these silly pookies got to their happily ever after:

Our pompous little mail order bride is, in fact, so in love with König that it’s not even funny.

It's so bad that she looks out the window and sighs as she waits for him to come home... Scoots away the minute she catches him in the horizon, of course. She has better things to do than wait by the window sill like some wanton prostitute!

She whimpers like one, however, when the door slams shut and her husband comes to grope her from behind, telling her he wants to take her on the table (there’s food there and they were supposed to eat first, what a horrible man!) Not to talk of getting wet just from the sight of him looming over her, she has no objections with getting spread on the sturdy planks for taking. She should probably be thankful that the dinner table is made of solid wood and is not some delicate piece hauled here from Europe because it could never take the brute force of König’s advances...

After they're both sated and done, he dares to dip his finger in one of the cast iron pots filled to the brim with stew. Has a taste while still inside her, only chuckles to himself when she furrows her brows from how uncivilised he is. What kind of a man barges in his home like a burglar, takes his wife on the table, then tastes the hearty stew like it’s only normal for a man to be hungry after plowing his lady until they're both shaking? Even the bed is about to break at night, these pieces of furniture have done nothing wrong to this man and yet he treats them like they're nothing but disposable bits of wood.

His lack of manners never ceases to astonish her; he even tries to give her a taste of the food too, and laughs when she pushes him away and straightens her skirts, how is she supposed to walk around with his seed running down her thighs? All the pretty things he got her from town are in need of a wash already, but she still hums a soft happy tune while looking at her reflection in the mirror, donning the pretty hat he just brought her along with coffee and flour. (She thinks he can’t hear or see her being visibly happy, but König takes mental notes every time her eyes shine a little brighter from his gifts. She's not lacking anything, that's for sure, and isn’t it nice that he remembered how she looked at that silly little hat when they walked by her favorite store…? Anything his princess wants, she shall have!)

Years and years of lonely digging in this harsh land far away from home have made her husband think that no woman could ever want him unless he buys their love, and she does enjoy the pretty little frills he brings her as offerings. But what would kill her is if he knew she had actual feelings for him… This was supposed to be an arrangement, a marriage between two adults, not a romantic passionate affair! That sort of thing only happens in books, that's the first thing she learned when she came here.

He should have courted her properly first, but now it's all ruined, there's no excitement and intensity... Except that her heart is always hammering in her chest, she feels like a trapped bird flitting inside her corset. She's always flustered when he goes under her skirts, her chest is about to collapse in on itself when she sees him flash a smile her way, carry her more silk and demurely apologize that the wrappings are dirty because of his hands, kiss her neck after copulation like it's the holiest place on earth...

And God Almighty, what would this man think of her if she confessed her love to him? He would probably laugh and think she’s a harlot who’s in desperate need of his cock, that she's indecent and impure…

Luckily, the brute is so stupid that he doesn’t see the way his little princess–as he now calls her–looks up at him when he traces her bottom lip with his thumb. She’s relatively sure he doesn’t notice the tiny gasps just before she comes, the helpless, adoring stares she shoots at him right after, because that glassy, worshipping stare of his own is only born of lust, that’s for sure.

He can’t see her figure flash in the window when he’s walking towards home, she’s made sure of that…

Or has she?

The man is dumb, but he’s not a total simpleton, even if his eternal sadness is slowly turning into a teasing, an even hungrier form of love. She fears he will simply devour her one of these days if he knew how deeply in love with him she is as well...

And she fears herself even more than she fears him. Didn’t the priest warn about exactly this kind of simple-minded, wanton lust in his last sermon? She was always taught that marriage is supposed to be about companionship and genial living together, not about sweaty, toe curling, mind numbing copulation.

They’re fornicating like animals in the little shack she has grown so fond of, shy to the changes he’s talking about every day since he struck some large gold vein. He openly fantasizes about getting them a large house, a small manor, even, and she knows it’s all just for her because this man is content with very little… So little, that he accepts any small crumb of affection she gives him like it’s an entire rain of manna from heaven.

And it’s only because she’s ashamed that she can’t show her true feelings for him. The gentlemen of the city now feel like fancy peacocks compared to this burly man who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty and his dick wet. Those men look delicate and boring and ridiculous next to the hairy giant who’s forearms she stares in the evenings like they’re her own personal cancan show.

It’s crazy, how she looks at him like he’s nothing but a piece of meat – are women even supposed to feel this way? She should say her prayers, because her foreign husband looks like a god while sharpening his ax by the fire, with slow, deliberate movements, the trembling hands finding a smooth, strong dance only when they’re wielding a pickaxe or a whetstone or a knife.

He catches her staring once, her frightful stare big and helpless in the flickering flames, and he gives her a sad, longing smile in return.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he gruffs softly. “Ich weiss… I know I should shave...”

Her head gives an involuntary shake, minimal and shy, because she doesn’t want him to shave. She adores that coarse stubble that leaves her skin red and irritated, she loves how he looks when he has so much going on in his life that he doesn’t have time to groom himself.

“No…?” He asks hesitantly, straightening a little on the chair that’s really only a piece of log. “You like it like this...?”

She nods. Shyly again, and just once, while her eyes drift on his lips.

It’s intimate, how the silence envelops them with both tension and grace. It’s all she can give right now, and he knows it, knows also that this whole exchange is basically a love confession. Her affection, her want, her dedication and surrender soar and swell all at once, and he can see it... All of it.

He rises, and abandons the ax, his softening stare never leaving hers. He walks to her like a gentleman, like he's Mr. Rochester himself, like she was Ms. Eyre – although she doesn’t want to be Jane Eyre and she doesn’t want him to be a dark, handsome gentleman. She wants him to be just as he is, the stranger from the North who works hard and loves even harder, who picks her up like she’s an angel and not a lady.

“Let’s get you to bed, hmm?”

His gaze is so soft, it’s starting to relax into some knowledge she has in her foolishness betrayed.

But it’s alright… Everything’s just as it should be.

She wraps her hands around his neck and whispers, “Yes,” and the smile that tugs at his lips finally melts into one of those I knew it smiles he sometimes wears when he brings her something nice from the town.

He doesn’t push her to reveal more information about how much she loves his stubble, but he does make her scream it out into the warm cottage air as he goes down between her legs. She doesn’t want to know what the local priest would say about this: a man making his mark on the insides of her thighs with that scraping beard, how he makes her core throb with his ever-hungry mouth. She doesn’t even care.

It’s a paradise and an inferno, where he’s sending her to, and who knew a brutish digger from some distant land could suddenly be so eloquent with his tongue? Who knew a man could do things like these to a woman...? Who knew married life could be like this?

“You liked that, didn’t you, princess,” he asks when he’s done with her, and holds her surprisingly gentle when she’s still shaking and squirming softly on the bed. Not God, not even the Devil, could cloud the full blown affection in her eyes. She’s in love – it’s not just lust, but love she feels for this man, and she feels like a fool for not recognizing she had gold in her hands all along.

“Yes,” she says, then smiles, then laughs, because it’s fairly obvious that she can’t speak those words even if she wanted to. He wrecked her so completely...

“I told you I’d make you happy, Sonnenschein.”

He smiles a little, looks down at her like she’s nothing but a baby who finally stopped her eternal crying.

“Oh I’m more than happy,” she says, this time tears clouding her vision, happy tears born from being free from years of imprisonment. He doesn’t strike her as the kind of man who cries, but there’s a faint glow in his eyes as well, a shimmer that both takes her in and pulls her under. This is something they don’t talk about in church... This is a thing they never write about in books.

She lays her hand on him, on the coarse cheek that is now slightly wet from a single tear.

“You’re crying,” she whispers, because her voice wouldn’t carry the weight of her words at this point.

“Ja…? Well... I’m happy too,” he explains, with a shortness of breath and a confusion to his voice.

He blinks the rest of it away, but the sweet moment stays, lingers on until she draws him into a kiss – another thing they never talk about in novels, a woman kissing a man – and she tastes both him and her on his lips, how well he loved her, and when he moans slightly from her reciprocating that love, she holds him closer, closer, closer… Until he shivers too.

[deviantly-inspired]

Ok so I've seen the idea of food 'made with love' being what Dream enjoys most but I really think we, as a collective fandom, need to lean in more to the idea of it, actually.

We KNOW from the comics that Dream eats food; that he was starving after his freedom. But even though he's hungry, even in the waking world, he won't eat because there's been nothing but bad intentions and malice directed to him for over a hundred years. He's wary. Like a spooked horsed.

But Hob Gadling has always been so unashamedly fond of Dream, that it's... tempting. to indulge.

(it's more than tempting. He's already starving: for dreams for nightmares for softness for sharpness. Hob is the only person Dream knows that he would take any of it from. If Hob were to offer him poison then Dream would take it gladly, if only to have something to fill the void within him. How miraculous it is, then, that Hob would only every offer succor)

So maybe Dream stares at some home-made food that's being eaten on some picnic while they're about. And Hob needles him just a bit, trying to get some information. What all goes into being Dream of the Endless? And Dream enjoys their wordplay and games so he dances around answering but his gaze keeps going back to that soft little picnic, not too far. Hob steers the conversation towards intent, and Dream admits that, yes, he can sense the intent things are made with, before directing the conversation to something a little safer then the art of consuming.

(Dream would take and take and take and take anything that Hob would give him. Even poison. And would thank him for the malaise of it. It is safer, then, to not let even the hint of hunger touch his waking form.)

But Hob didn't get to over 600 by being a slouch on his academics. He's smart. perceptive. He knows people, and Dream is certainly a 'people' even if he's not quite a person. So he makes something simple, that night. A stew maybe, and thinks of his mother's care and simple wishes whispered to the cast iron. love and kitchen magic. Spells for healthy children and a meal that will fill for longer than it should. Hob wonders, to this day, if maybe she was some sort of real witch and not just the magic that all good mothers are. But he can't ask her so he whispers wishes into his potatoes and encourages the bone to seep fully- he's going to be all bones like you if you don't fill him up- and thanks the meat for it's part and imagines it sticking to the inside of whatever Dream calls ribs to keep him going for a bit longer than he might have otherwise.

(there's all sorts of magic in the world. most of it regular folks will never get to touch. but there is a type of magic, the oldest kind, that's alive and well even in the most scientifically inclined people.)

Hob presents this stew casually. There's no fooling Dream though. It's simple appearance does nothing to hide all that was poured into it. The way the vegetables sing of harbors and the meat dreams of comfort. How the broth simmers with comfort and fullness and broken bread over centuries. love thickens the whole of it into something that will last. Something that will stick and keep him full long past when he should be hungry. To fill the most ravenous parts of him. He wants to consume. He cannot.

I shouldn't, Dream says.

It's yours, Hob replies. I made too much anyway. Wouldn't want this to go to waste.

The idea of it wasting, left to rot, a gift returned, is abhorrent. Dream never claimed to abide by the mortal concept of good. He eats the stew, and then the second bowl and then the third. And hob is only too happy to give him more and more and more, until the pot is empty and, still, Dream starves.

I shouldn't, Dream says with his eyes locked on Hob's lips.

I'm yours, Hob replies. I've always been yours. There's enough of me to pour into you, however much you want for however long you want.

I will want you endlessly, Dream warns with what little strength he has. There is nothing in me that does not hunger. I was born of Night most of all and this means that I know what it is to be a black hole, i know what it is to consume everything, even light, and still never be full.

Hob smiles and leans forward and pours himself into Dream's mouth, all of himself, all that he can spare and then more and more and more. He tastes like lightening and warm broth and bread broken under starry skies. It tastes like every daydream Hob has had for 600 years. It tastes like the knowledge that this will last, sticking to the inside of his ribs warming from within bolstering against that which would sap the meat from your bones. It tastes like something that will last.

(the oldest magic across every universe is love, of course. but you knew that already.

All stories return to their original form, after all.)

[misojunnie]

can i request this?

https://www.tumblr.com/misojunnie/728375539407159296/i-find-the-vampire-and-werewolf-rivalry-dynamic

but instead of vampires it's witch/warlock/wizard please?

☆ &team as your werewolf bf! w/ a witch (or warlock) partner :)

ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ʚϊɞ.

byun eui joo - ej

is very unserious about you being a witch

when you finally confessed his first question was to ask if you could cast a spell on him that gave him super strength

he's so easy going n sweet :( got very quickly acclimated to the magical door slamming, floating pots and pans, etc

"honey, next time you summon a goetic demon, can you please make sure he's gone by dinnertime?"

murata fuma - fuma

quite surprised you were a witch; probably made an awful pun to cover up his shock

will easily lay his life down to protect you from the people who are prejudiced against you, even if its a fellow werewolf

you love your man <3 someone tried to jump him once and you cursed them for all of eternity

"can you do the dishes tonight? and please don't bring them to life on accident again."

koga yudai- k

tried to scare you away with garlic when he found out, and you had to tell him that only works on vampires

despite his initial shock, he quickly got accustomed to your habits

read the entire wikipedia page on witches so he'd be "well informed of all your needs"

makes an awful witch themed pun at least once a week, ex: "witch, please."

wang yixiang- nicholas

found out you were a witch like a week before you broke the news

^ secretly peeked into your bedroom one time and saw you curling your hair with a levitating curling iron, but decided to say nothing until you were ready

hates it when you put spells on him, eg; "I'm leaving, and if you even try to immobilize me, y/n, I swear to god-"

has asked you to curse ta-ki more than once or twice

nakakita yuma - yuma

he thinks it's hot

asks you to put spells on him so he can walk on the ceiling, which you continually tell him don't exist

tried to prank you once and you used magic to throw him through six layers of drywall on instinct

safe to say he hasn't tried to prank you since

asakura jo - jo

didn't even believe you at first, his first reply was "oh, really? then where's your big hat?"

it took you a week to convince him that it wasn't a prank, and he only believed you after you sent him through space and time

always takes care of you after you exhaust yourself from casting too many spells

found out you were ironically terrified of the conjuring and still makes fun of you for it

shigeta harua - harua

was shocked at first, but quickly came around when he realized how wonderful your magic could be

always wants to hear witch lore and all the stories about your covens and history

was suspicious you put a love spell on him but eventually realized that he just loves you a lot. damn.

hates when you make him clean because he knows you could easily do it with magic

ta-ki

poor baby went into actual shock when you told him you were a witch, but he had no complaints

genuinely had no idea that witches existed

"wait, so do you have warts and stuff? no judgement."

is still amazed every time you do a spell, even years later

hirota riki - maki

his only knowledge of witches comes from playing minecraft

"so wait, you don't live in a hut? not even a swamp?"

when he gets too hyper you cast a spell on him that glues him to the wall or something (comes in handy when you need to study)

asks you to summon demons just to do his homework

ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ʚϊɞ.

a/n: sorry for this super late reply! I have very little knowledge of witches so I hope I did this request justice ;-; this was sooo fun

[velvetures]

AU Continuation: Perimeter Security

a.n.: Thank you to everyone who left comments, and gave this love! I hope to write more! This is thanks to @3dumbass and their suggestions.

summary: living with the 141 has its perks, and built-in security is one of them. it’s just not always easy for them to determine who’s actually a threat.

AU: The 141 are at risk due to personal files being compromised. They’re laying low at a low-risk location until further notice.

tags?: Simon x 3rd person coded relationship, strangers, tension, well-meaning anger, protectiveness, misunderstanding.

Snow made everything on the ridge lines slow down. Thick, icy, blankets camouflaged roads and halted the daily movement of simple life. The mail didn’t run, and neither did the school busses in town. It was as if the whole mountain slept in for weeks at a time when this kind of weather trudged in over the skyline. Freezing water pipes -if you didn’t know to turn the tap on a little- and draining the battery in your vehicle leaving you stranded for days at a time. It’s what made a wood-burning stove a lifesaver and why the ornate Art Garland sitting in the living room more of a necessity than a gilded cast-iron luxury from 1898.

But getting firewood was a whole different experience… especially when the task force took up residence and experience their first winter with Price and Laswell’s goddaughter.

She did well to provide for herself. Not just well, really, better than that. Everything she could manage alone was done without any assistance, and she never complained about much. They all assumed it came from living in such a remote place. That she couldn’t rely on anyone and never got spoiled to living easily. What she couldn’t -or simply didn’t- want to manage, the locals down in town helped with by beaters, trades, or well-kept favors that just kept being passed back and forth.

Just another one of those slowed-down things that made a whole lot of sense in her life, but set the 141’s teeth on edge.

They could rely on each other and do just fine most of the time. But individually and as a squad, it made all of them feel inadequate beyond comprehension asking for or requiring help. And like with her was just one of the stinging wounds they couldn’t quite heal up. Seeing her trade strawberries for corn or a rough-sewn quilt for a hand-made kitchen knife was dignified enough… they just didn’t understand fully how deep the lifestyle ran.

Ghost’s encounter with “Bear” put that much more tension on the dynamic.

***

She’d been inside bent over a pot of soup for nearly the whole morning. Steam curling over her reddened cheeks and sucking up through the range hood when the faint sound of a truck came spinning up the steep snow-covered driveway. A flatbed with a steel-cage welded to the bed and stacks of wood covered with a blue tarp in the back with fraying bungee cords. A familiar sight for her since the man driving always brought her firewood when the weather got too cold to go and do it herself. Or when she’d been regrettably lazy… and didn’t feel like it either.

Barrett “Bear” Stephens. A real outdoorsman and not more than a couple years older than her. Most people around town thought he was a real prick since he didn’t talk much and kept to himself out on West Run Ridge. But she liked him well enough. Trusted him to let him in her house for dinner as thanks for keeping her house warm and always waved when she saw him in the grocery store despite the guarantee he wouldn’t aside her back. Hearing his truck ambling up through driveway wasn’t anything new.

It’s why she forgot to mention it to anyone else.

“Damn freezing out here,” He spit with gritted teeth, sliding out of the truck in four layers of coats. “You’re real lucky the biscuits you make are worth this shit.”

She couldn’t help but stifle a smile. Shifting back and forth to stave off the cold while wearing less than half of what Bear was. Only having come out to greet him since it was below freezing. Normally she’d leave him to drop off her bundles of kindling without the harassment of making him talk. But the snow was deep, and she felt guilty not at least helping him for a moment. Maybe it was good luck that she had though. Because Bear didn’t even make it to the back of the flatbed when a solid black figure smoothly appeared from the opposite side. Black steel glinting in evening light and the black hole of a rifled pistol aimed right at him.

She stopped dead in her tracks. The mistake washing over her seeing Ghost standing there in the scary-as-hell mask, with a white skull framed by a black hoodie and positive white snow all around him. Fuck, even the steam from his breath smoked out of the mask like he was fucking burning from the inside out and letting off pressure before he exploded. His eyes were dead and cold. Staring down the mountain man who’d came to just as still of a position. She was certain Ghost was the only one breathing.

“You’re not welcome,” his thick burred voice sounded more gritty than normal. Maybe from the cold weather… she’d not seen him inside her house in days. “Suggest you leave.”

Bear didn’t say a word, but his rapid nod of his head was enough to thaw her out. Stop this before it got any uglier than Ghost’s .45 making a damn-good threat.

“Wait! He’s… he’s here on purpose!” The excuse can’t great. There could be plenty of reasons he came with intent and then not be positive. “I needed him!”

The stiffness in Ghost miraculously gets worse. Frost in his wide shoulders turning to blue ice and that darkness in his eyes sharpening like flint from sloped hills behind the house. It made him more pissed, and she didn’t have the slightest idea of how to fix it.

He was cagey at the best of times. Like he’d bristle if he had fur on his back or bare fangs if he had the choice to. She hated making any of that anger show, but there wasn’t a better option right now. Besides… it was her damn house. She could have whoever she pleased so long as she thought they were safe. John had made it clear there wouldn’t be any restrictions unless something serious came up. And having visitors weren’t one of them. Especially since. Bear wasn’t coming in the house.

She’d been quite set in that decision anyways. Bear wasn’t the nosey type anyways. He didn’t talk much, did his job, and left. But that didn’t mean Ghost knew it. And his pistol didn’t even waver a centimeter even after she spoke.

“This… this yours?” Bear’s voice sounded shaky. His teeth unclenched and irritation with the cold wind dissolved. His question made her antsy. There were too many answers, and none of them felt right in her head.

“Long story,” she decided, taking a rounded pathway around Bear and towards Ghost. Purposefully staying far away from that damn pistol he felt still necessary to have out.

“He can be-”

“Lethal.”

Ghost’s interjection made her wince.

“Enough of that!” She snaps back, hissing and feeling the hot air freeze in front of her lips. “Let him drop off the firewood, and he’ll leave.”

One look back at Bear and she could see the slight confusion in his otherwise guarded expression. There was no chance in hell she was letting Ghost just disappear off somewhere after this. He couldn’t just point-blank threaten people. Bear was who kept the damn house warm half the winter whether she liked it or not. And Ghost couldn’t fuck it up just because he’d not been explicitly told anything.

“How ‘bout we lend a hand?”

Soap and Gaz walking up nearly gave her a heart attack. One of them was bad enough. Two more? Her faith in Bear not running and telling anyone who would listen about her was stretching thin. The grocery store, all three churches, and the fire department would think she was in a reverse harem by the end of the month. Even if Soap was already helping himself to the stacks of bundled wood in the back, this interaction felt centuries long with no hope of ending.

“Just three.” She finally gets the warning out, seeing Gaz going for a fourth bundle. He just nods, setting it back down and shooting a quite civil nod in the man’s direction.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” He adds, looking over the tall stacks. “How much?”

“Ten dollars a bundle.” Bear sounds half ready to pass out.

Gaz promptly drops the one he’s carrying and pulls out a wallet like he’s got no problem with Ghost still standing there like a human-centry gun. Pulling out a twenty and holding it out in his hand.

Is this some sort of fucking peace treaty?

Ghost only moves to holster his weapon after Bear takes the money and mutters something about ‘help yourself’ before shutting himself back inside the can of the truck without another word. Tension easing with each moment Soap spends stacking his arms tall with dry, red cedar and sycamore. She doesn’t even know where to begin. Wondering where John was. Wanting to know where Ghost had been. Why he’d even approached in the first place.

“I need a word with you.”

She can’t bring herself to do anything but stare out at Bear’s truck hightailing it off her property as she addresses Ghost. Hearing his very heavy boots creaking on the porch. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s clear once Gaz and Soap leave for inside that he’s not standing behind her for his own enjoyment.

“Do you have any idea what you might’ve just screwed up?” Her voice doesn’t sound like her own. It’s mad, sure. But almost panicked in a sense. The reality of the situation hitting her harder because she vividly remembered winter before the help. And it wasn’t pretty. Recent snows had been stable and quite pleasant actually. And Ghost nearly made target practice out of her own sure solution.

“Very aware,” that damn voice sounded too smooth. “Who is he?”

Another thick billow of fog curls out of her mouth. “Who he is, isn’t important. Keeping my fucking house from freezing is.” She can feel her fingers starting to prick from the cold even inside her coat.

“Don’t care for nameless men.” He counters just as seemingly unbothered.

If she could physically force herself to turn around and face him head-on, she would. But his utter disregard made it intimidating. Too much to handle.

“Jesus Christ….” She muttered, head dropping to thump against a porch post. “Barrett Stephens. We call him Bear.” It felt defeating to be forced to answer him like this.

Ghost’s boots strain the porch as he walks towards the firewood hoops. The sound of dry bark ready to catch an ember cracking and scratching as he moves it.

“Almost killed himself…”

“Yeah,” She chuckles dryly, biting the inside of her cheek and spinning around with some real anger. “M’sure the coroner would love to know how he got ahold of the pistol you have tucked in your fuckin’ jeans.”

That massive man turned on himself just as quickly. Closing a multiple-yard distance in just a couple long strides. His breathing heavier and that thick smoke trailing from the stitch-seams in his mask.

“Gonna get yourself killed too…” He warns. Low, and just like the wolf she pictured him being. Bared teeth, dilated eyes and all.

“Stop growlin’ at me…” The words come out of her mouth before she even thinks about how wrong it is. “Actin’ like a damn dog.”

He’s fast. So fast.

Hauling her backwards against the porch banister and towering high above her head with a low, and heavy sort of breath fizzling out in his chest. It’s the most threatening he’s been so far. And she can’t tell just how far she can continue to stand her ground without things truly getting ugly. Even her fingers have stopped tingling from the cold with just how fast her blood is pumping. Force feeding oxygen to her brain. Desperate to find a way to run from an inescapable situation she’d created.

“Mind tellin’ me where you got this idea to talk back to me, creeker?”

“When you started throwin’ that gun around like you have the right.”

The fear didn’t keep her mouth shut. Digging an even deeper grave all because he kept using that stupid fucking nickname. Pushing buttons and making it that much harder to be understanding of why he was always so bitter. Nothing she’d done had made a difference so far. And the patience she’d saved specifically for him was waning.

Ghost just chuckled, his head rolling to the side and the gloved hands gripping her coat tightened.

“The right?” It was almost impossible to imagine anything other than a smirk under that mask.

“Oh… I certainly have the right to defend what’s mine.”

Comments & Reblogs are Appreciated 🤎

[handweavers]

my mother has asked me to ask “that weaver friend of yours” lol — do you have experience dyeing linen? what does the process look like for natural vs synthetic dyes?

happy to be that weaver friend of yours 🥰❤️ dyeing linen is basically the same as dyeing cotton or any other cellulose fiber, so any synthetic dye that works for cotton will also work for linen. a professional grade fiber reactive dye like procion mx or dharma's procion (here) dyes cellulose fiber without heat, and the process is quick and painless. it just involves a large bucket, water, the dye powder and the cloth you wish to dye. i have little experience with rit dye so i'm not sure if you'd need heat for that, but procion dye is higher quality, comes in a lot more colours than rit, and a 2oz container is like $2 usd and goes a long way

the natural dye process for linen takes a lot longer than the procion dye process and requires several steps. cellulose fibers really don't like to take dyes so you basically have to do a bunch of alchemy to convince it to do what you want (compared to protein fibers like wool and silk which love dyes and only need some gentle nudges)

naturally dyeing linen depends on the dye you'd wish to use, but the process is essentially: scouring, mordanting, and dyeing. it's really important that you scour linen especially because it contains a lot of pectins that prevent dye from penetrating the fiber, so a harsh scouring is best (ie. washing it with hot water and ph neutral soap, even to the point of boiling the cloth. linen can take a lot of heat and is better for it, cotton is more sensitive) you'll probably have to do this before dyeing it with the synthetic dye too for best results

most natural dyes require that you mordant the cloth before dyeing. some dyes don't require a mordant (indigo is the big one, but if you're working with onion skins or other materials that contain tannins this is also true. however mordanting the cloth before dyeing with tannins or even mordanting with tannins is still recommended for better colour performance long-term unless you're working with indigo in which case using a mordant can actually cause problems) but if you're unsure, assume that you need to apply a mordant. you essentially have to simmer the cloth in a hot pot with either a material that contains tannins (tannic acid), a natural bio-accumulator of aluminum (symplocos), or use a metal salt (alum acetate is best for cellulose, but iron and copper salts can also be used. the metal salts route requires more safety precautions esp if you use copper salt, you can't dump that down the drain) your choice of mordant impacts the final colour with different mordants shifting the chemical reaction that happens in the cloth when you dye it

with cotton and linen, after you use the mordant you need to use either a chalk or wheat bran bath to remove excess mordant from the cloth, esp if you use alum acetate, otherwise it can leave a whitish cast over the cloth and also impede dyeing lol. wheat bran baths tend to cause a warmer tone to the final dyed cloth, chalk baths cause a cooler tone. i only use wheat bran baths bc i prefer the warmth and i get the bran cheaply at my local punjabi grocer

only then can you dye the cloth, again unless you're working with a dye like coffee or tea or onion skins OR indigo. linen really doesn't like to take natural dyes unless you do all the above steps, it's stubborn. the dye process itself depends on what dye you use and you can do stuff like solar dyeing if you don't want to simmer it in a pot on a stove. if you plan to go the natural dye route lmk and i can send you some scans of a book i have that contains precise instructions for preparing linen for dyeing

[a-pastel-edgelord]

The First Dream

fuck it! I'm writing it and I don't care. May god strike me down for my hubris or something idk

cw: vomiting

。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°

A small campfire is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes. It's blazing and bright. The world around him is pitch blackness, as if he sits in a vacuum of space. He can hear the sounds of insects chirping nearby, the sounds of rustling grass and undergrowth. The flickering flames eagerly run up and down through a modest pile of sticks and logs. There's a small cast iron pot bubbling above, suspended by a sturdy but hasty-looking structure of rope and bamboo. 

His stomach heaves as he tries to sit up and the world tilts on its axis. He turns on his side, away from the flames and vomits up pond water. He hacks, sputters and coughs until his throat is raw and the taste of stale sea water in his mouth is replaced by bile.

"Oh, good! I didn' think ya'd wake up!"

He looks up, someone in a worn kosode kneels a few feet away. The shifting light of the fire makes their features hard to make out; most of their silhouette is cast into shadow. How had he not sensed them?

"Who are you?" He grounds out, his voice sore from the expulsion of water from his stomach. "Where am I? What happened to the curse?"

"Oh, I took care of it, don't go worryin' 'bout it." They shrug good naturedly.

He scoffs. "You claim to be the one who exorcized a first-grade vengeful cursed spirit?" A likely story, only a skilled sorcerer would have been able to manage it.

"'Twas a special grade, actually, sir. S'how it did that strange drownin' from a distance technique. Gave me quite a fright too. It sure ain't the nicest thing to experience, I tell ye that." The easy-going rambling nature of the words, makes his jaw drop and a vein throb in his face all at the same time.

"You’re not one of those damnable clan whelps—from whence have you come here?”

“I’m no one of importance sir, just a wanderin’ sorcerer. Not  like yerself I dare say, you seem to be one of them proper ones—I could tell from yer clothes.” They nod emphatically to themselves. “‘Twas only right I stepped in to help. ‘S’not right to leave a comrade to die.”

His savior pokes a stick into the fire, it flashes bright for a moment and their face is thrown into sharp relief. This is a dream, he realizes. His breath hitches—it’s you. How long has it been since he’s seen your face? Heard your voice? The person from a lifetime he thought he’d long cast off like a snake shedding its skin, when he was a mere man. Just a mortal man. Before he ascended into a curse so powerful that it heralded in a new age of sorcery. His hands itch to touch you, to bury his face into your neck and never let go. To beg for… Absolution? No, he doesn’t desire your forgiveness, he never has. This strange desire for something hollows his gut and makes his mouth dry—it consumes him. 

A name long discarded trips off his tongue and the campfire before him is snuffed to nothing, the ambient noise of the night dies with it. The void swallows him, and he closes his eyes as it presses in around him. But wait he isn't alone. Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, the Disgraced One looks over his shoulder at a teenage boy. He's hovering in space with a stricken expression.

Get out of here, boy.

.

.

.

"Uh... Gojo-sensei?"

"What's up, kid?"

"You know how you said I should tell you if I like... remember something that's definitely not mine?"

"Yeah. Why? It happened?"

"Uh, yeah I think so."

"How lucky~ Well, Yuuji. Tell me everything.”

[redflagshipwriter]

Reassembly 5

Masterpost

(What the frick is the bat guy about???)

They did serious damage to Lexy’s credit card in the form of a cast iron pan, a pot, basic cooking utensils and a four-person set of dishware before they even made it to the grocery store.

Peter tried not to go nuts there. He really did. But Kon had that empty kitchen! And to be honest, shopping was major wish fulfillment. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be eating all of the food he got way into it. They stocked up on easy freezer food like pizza rolls and fries. They got pasta mixes and jarred sauces and they got snacks and sweets. He even got Kon baking basics. It might take Kon a while to get into his fresh bread era, but it was going to happen. Peter was calling it now. Kon was just that kind of guy.

The last thing he got was meat. Meat and cheese and fresh vegetables. Peter ended up putting back half of what he initially put in the cart because, honestly, Kon didn’t have a massive super appetite and he didn’t know how to cook yet. Vegetables were just going to go bad, so he only got what he planned to use that night. He also stocked Kon up on breakfast supplies- bread and jam, eggs, sausage, coffee and tea and juice.

‘I wish I was staying with Kon to eat this. I’m going to be hungry again tomorrow.’

Peter pushed down that greedy little thought where it belonged. He was going to be eating lunch and dinner with Kon tonight, since they were cooking together. That was already really generous on Kon’s part. He couldn’t ask for more.

The boys ended up making spaghetti. Peter wasn’t the best cook in the world, but he could cut onion and garlic to cook meat in, shred in carrots and zucchini, and add a jar of red sauce to make something nutritionally dense that tasted really good. Kon hovered over his shoulder watching this process and making faux sports commentary. 

“Go away!” Peter shoved Kon with his shoulder, laughing. “Go start the garlic bread.”

“...Garlic bread?” Kon asked hopefully. He seemed way younger than he was sometimes. “You can make that at home?”

“You can, if you get to cutting garlic really small.” Peter tossed him a bulb without looking.

They ate dinner while watching some drama that Kon picked out on a streaming service. “Holy shit,” Kon said quietly after his first bite. He put down the plate and took a photo.

Peter snorted. Kon must have sent it to someone because his phone went off constantly after that.

He wasn’t even done eating their late lunch when he first wondered where he was going to sleep tonight. Peter stared down into his pasta like it might have some answers. When should he leave? What would he say if Kon asked for his phone number? He didn’t have one. He couldn’t give Kon the number to the phone he had on him– he was pretty sure that he really should get rid of it in case someone was tracking him. 

He should ask first. If he directed the conversation it would be easier to be normal than if he was just answering questions. So Peter swallowed hard, made himself smile, and said, “This was fun. Wanna hang out again?”

Kon noisily slurped down some sauce and wiggled in place while he chewed and swallowed. “Yeah, we should!” he agreed. “You uh, free later this week?”

He was jobless and homeless with no other acquaintances. 

“I have some time,” Peter said casually. “I’m kinda busy tomorrow, but the day after? Should I come over in the afternoon?”

“Yeah!” Kon bounced up off his seat for a moment. “We can finish the projects. Or work on them, at least.” He screwed his face up with a thought. “Can I get your handle or number, in case my work pops up?”

Peter’s smile turned fixed. “Actually, not now,” he said as casually as he could manage. “I dropped my phone in water. I just have my Dad’s old phone right now for emergencies.” He didn’t need to add that lie, but what if he needed to pull out the flip phone later? He didn’t want Kon to think that he just hadn’t wanted to give his number.

Kon laughed. “That sucks, man,” he empathized. 

Oh thank Thor, he bought it. 

The fabric was dry by then, so Peter helped Kon cut it out and sew it into place. Kon modeled his new look in the living room and then took approximately two hundred selfies while Peter worked on his project. Kon eventually flopped down on the sofa upside down and started sketching out design ideas. Peter glanced over and saw what looked like a boob window cut into some kind of top.

…Kon would look great in it. Peter didn’t comment. He smiled a little more when he went back to cutting out pieces for his own jacket.

“Smile!”

Peter looked over on reflex and cheesed. A shutter went off. “Can I send that to my friends?” Kon asked, so casually that Peter knew it mattered a lot. “Cassie says no way did I meet someone without her.”

“Go ahead.” Peter gave a thumbs up for reasons even he did not understand. Good thing he wasn’t a weird little guy! 

Kon looked relieved. There was less tension when he went back to looking at his phone. “Thanks, man. You want to think about dinner soon? You’ve been working for a couple of hours.”

Peter had to blink a few times to process that. Oh yeah, he was pretty stiff. He stretched experimentally. “You’re right,” he said, mildly surprised. “Huh. What did you have in mind?”

Kon shrugged. “Pizza?”

Peter hummed. “We can pull that off,” he decided. “We have… two more jars of marinara, one will do. Cheese, the bell peppers- yeah, that’ll work.” He stood in a smooth movement. “Could you get the flour down from where we put it- yeah, thanks.” Kon hovered back down and handed him the bag.

“I meant that we should order it,” Kon said, but he didn’t protest. “You can make pizza? At home?” He was delighted by this new information.

“You can make basically anything at home,” Peter said, because it apparently needed to be said. “Can you look up a pizza dough recipe?” He got out the salt and tried to remember where he’d put yeast.

Pizza did not go quite as smoothly as the pasta had. Kon brutalized the dough by over mixing it and the gluten developed bonds strong enough to rival the Hulk. But it was still edible! Kon was openly delighted with what he had made. Peter stole sideways glances at him, wondering if he should reassure that it was a great first try.

‘..I’m not sure he knows that it’s really tough,’ Peter decided. He said nothing. They watched one episode of Kon’s selected drama before Peter decided it was time to go.

Kon seemed surprised when Peter said that. He blinked at him a few times. “It felt like I was at the tow- a sleepover,” he said self consciously. He forced a laugh. “Yeah. You wanna leave your stuff here?”

Peter looked around Kon’s surgically clean living room and wondered if Lexy’s cleaning staff would throw away his stuff. “Yeah, sure,” he said, because it wasn’t like he had a place to store a project. “I appreciate that.”

He left not much later, making his excuses and backing out into the night with dread that he didn’t want to face curling in his gut. The feeling intensified as he got down to the lobby of Kon’s apartment building.

It was dark out, even with the streetlights on. The air was cold against his face. Peter huddled into his jacket, hand wound tightly around the strap of the bag with everything he owned in it.

At least he knew the time. It was a little past 10 pm.

He needed a shower and to sleep. The gym should be empty now. He could break back in, shower, and then go sleep on the library couch again. Even if the librarian came in early again, he could get a few hours of sleep.

He woke up again to the sound of keys in the door downstairs. This time he woke up feeling much better rested. Peter wandered blearily until he found a clocktower and realized it was nearly 9 am. Nice. He was working on his sleep debt, then. He surely hadn’t spent more than an hour between traveling to the gym, showering, and getting to the couch last night. That was maybe 9.5, 10 hours of sleep?

He left to a new hotel for a breakfast buffet. This one was particularly sad. He had two pieces of peanut butter toast and a glass of milk before he heard the front door staff quietly phone someone else asking if they had any teenagers staying at the moment. He left pretty quickly after that and walked for a while, heart pounding. The police didn’t descend on him with sirens and lights, so he was probably okay.

‘I can’t go back there.’

Later that day, Peter grimaced and took a moment to indulge in burying his face in his hands. He was overwhelmed and he still felt shitty and dirty and gross despite his shower. Maybe it was getting spotted as a homeless teen eating from the buffet? Yeah. Probably that.

He was in the library again, sitting in front of one of the older computers and hoping he'd get a reply from a potential client who had asked for some information. 

Maybe it was a little weird to spend all day in the library. He was on notice for librarians acting like they wanted him to clear out, just in case.

But, assuming no one had any problems with it, why not spend most of his daylight hours there? He could study computer science, use the computers to do his work, and be somewhere temperature controlled for free. They also had pitchers of coffee and tea for free that he took advantage of. 

He was hungry, though. He was always hungry. Maybe it had been a mistake to go to Kon’s house. It almost felt worse to be hungry again after eating everything he wanted two meals in a row. Peter suppressed despair. He was doing his best! He was taking care of himself.

"Is everything alright?" 

Peter shot up and gave a sheepish grin to the librarian. He hadn't noticed her approaching, but he'd been lost in his head. "It's fine," he said. 

The older woman gave him a sympathetic smile. "Well, let me know if there's anything I can help with. It's what I'm here for." 

Oh. Before she could turn away he blurted out, "College!" 

Her face lit up. "Are you applying?" 

"I need to." Peter wrung his hands together. "But I don't know where to start. I want to go somewhere with a strong sciences program but I think I need to go there on scholarship." 

She sat down beside him, an easy smile on her face like this was a topic that she enjoyed. “Do you care about where it is?”

Peter shook his head. “It would be best if I could stay in NYC since I know here, but I’m willing to go anywhere that meets those conditions.”

She nodded slowly. “There’s a few places I can think of.” She hesitated. “Do you expect to be eligible for testing related scholarships?”

“Yeah,” said Peter, who was so good at tests but would probably falsify the results that he needed if he didn’t manage to take tests in time. “I test well. Very well.”

“That’s great! And you said sciences? Technological sciences?” she didn’t glance at his current computer science book, but she didn’t have to. 

“Yes,” he said, not entirely sure what he should be focusing on. Engineering, to build some kind of portal? Astrophysics like Dr. Foster, to find an Einstein-Rosen bridge? He’d have to get his foot in the door to figure out what was going on in the fields here. Shit, he should have looked into that already. 

“And you would be looking to live by yourself, on campus? Or off? With family?”

“By myself,” Peter said, and wow that was depressing. “And whichever way is cheapest.” He cringed as he said it. That felt pathetic too. He wanted to say he wanted to live on campus since he’d be more likely to meet people that way. But honestly, he had no resources, at all. He couldn’t afford to be picky. 

The librarian’s smile was a bit fixed now. “I… I almost hate to suggest it, but have you considered Gotham?” She continued before Peter had to decide whether or not he should admit he didn’t know that university. “It’s a dangerous city to live in, but it’s very affordable, and there’s extensive funding for the sciences and student support services.”

“...Because it’s a dangerous city and doesn’t get many people?” Peter confirmed.

She was doing her best to keep a poker face. “That’s right. They have a brain drain situation at the moment, so the sciences are really well funded. I think you could probably go there with full support, though that might be contingent on taking an internship or job in Gotham after graduation.”

Huh. He considered it. He’d never heard of Gotham, so it had to be a city that didn’t exist back home. But so what? How bad could it be? It was like, Chicago or something? He could handle that. He was Spiderman. He was an Avenger, sort of. So he directed a real smile at the librarian. “If I could get a full scholarship there, I would go in a heartbeat,” Peter said. “Thanks for the suggestion! I’ll look into the university there.”

The librarian patted the side of his chair as she stood up. “Wonderful! Let me know if you change your mind or have any questions!”

He ended up having a lot of questions, actually, once he started looking into Gotham, but he didn’t think, “What the frick is the vampire bat guy about?” was what she’d had in mind.

[stealthnoodle]

How to Scrape Your Way Through Honour Mode and Look Reasonably Good Doing It

I won't say I beat Honour Mode on my first try, because my Dishonour Mode playthrough served as a critically useful dry run, but I will say that the first character I made with the intention of completing Honour Mode properly did in fact complete Honour Mode.

Below are the 13 most important lessons I learned along the way that made this possible.

1) Do not be Mothman.

You really want to minimize fights and maximize available vendors. Ask yourself "What would Mothman do?" and then do not do that thing.

2) Do be a half-orc.

Fights can go real wrong real fast, and in the early game, you are perpetually one bad round of combat away from oblivion. In my case, the harpies critted Shadowheart to death, and then every chucklefuck in my party failed their wisdom save at the same time. The other two members ate more multiattacks than they could handle, and then so did Pizzazz, but she held on with one single precious hit point after the last blow. She dug herself out of the hole with heal potions and her fists of righteous anger.

Pizzazz being a half-orc saved the entire run here. Having Death Ward once a day comes in fucking clutch when you're below level 5, and tbh the hardest part of Honour Mode is getting to level 5.

The harpy fight was also when I realized the need for a critical strategy:

3) Make one party member your panic button.

I only really needed this trick in the early game (I cannot emphasize enough how most of my close calls were before level 5), but it saved my ass several times. Panic early, panic often.

Pick the party member who has the least to contribute to a fight and park them where they can't get drawn into initiative. You can leave them all the way back at camp, or if you're me, just put them far back in hiding so it's easy to pull them in to help with late-fight cleanup if things are going well (or to finish a fight in the goofiest way possible, see above). Either way, their job is to run crying to Withers if everyone else dies.

Speaking of which…

4) Exploit Bone Daddy's indifference to being pickpocketed.

You can get back whatever "the price of balance" is by yoinking it right out of Withers's pockets. If you fail the sleight of hand check, no worries; you get pulled out of hiding, but he doesn't react at all, and you can just squat back down and get right back in there.

5) Tell Jesse you need to cook.

Potions of Speed are the goddamn Philosopher's Stones of this game. So I made Gale a Transmutation Wizard, made him proficient in Medicine, and put him in charge of alchemy. Just clearing the gnoll zone got me pretty well set for the first two acts.

Getting double heal pots sure doesn't hurt, either.

6) Start a local chapter of the Warding Bond Cleric Club.

This is something I discovered was possible while I was fretting over prepping for the end of Act 2, because last time was such a clusterfuck. You can hire three hirelings, give them fun names like Ouchie Magnet, Sexy Pincushion, and Yoohoo Loviatar, get them to cast Warding Bond on the party members you actually intend to use, and enjoy the full benefits of it out in the world while your hirelings stand around bleeding at camp.

Any buff that lasts until the next long rest and doesn't require concentration works like this, fyi. Death Ward and Longstrider are also especially handy (and once you get to level 11, Heroes' Feast). Setting this up is tedious enough that I only did it a few times during the game, when I was going into situations I couldn't easily extricate myself from in case of emergency. (So the Mindflayer Colony, the Iron Throne, the Steel Watch Foundry, and one last time for the Temple of Baal.)

7) Break big battles up into bite-sized skirmishes.

Why would I fight all the cultists at Moonrise Tower in a grand climactic battle when I could sneak around before finishing the Gauntlet of Shar and pick off my future foes in packs? Since they're not hostile yet, it's pretty simple to wipe them out one room at a time, using Minor Illusion to lure guards away from their posts. Then I got the joy of showing up with Jaheira and all her Harpers to curbstomp the two (2) guys I missed.

Also good for removing all the intellect devourers before you pick a fight with Mindflayers in the Mindflayer Colony and for surviving gnoll swarms. Sometimes you even get lucky and a hyena falls into a hole, somehow.

8) Fill your camp with literal tons of explosives.

See a smokepowder barrel? Pick it up and send it to camp. Do this consistently and you will have deeply nervous party members every time you light a campfire, probably, but you'll also have a way to cheese boss fights that you're worried about. I chugged elixirs that raised strength before the end of Act 2 so that I could bring a dozen smokepowder barrels with me to the Myrkul fight and absolutely trivialized it.

9) Become a partial illithid.

Mourn your aesthetic and commune with that frosty little worm. (Take Volo's amateur eye surgery, too, btw. Just fuck yourself up.) The powers are worth it. A truly hardcore player would also get their companions to dip a toe into ceremorphosis, but I started by asking Astarion, who fucking loves regular tadpoles, to try it, and his response made me feel so bad that I abandoned the cause entirely.

10) Start your day with a delicious and nutritious Heroes' Feast.

So I never really read the description closely because sometimes I'm just like that, but thanks to the Warding Bond Cleric Club, I started paying closer attention to buffs and holy shit??? Thoroughly Stuffed is a baller condition, and it also makes food. I didn't have to go grocery shopping even once! Having three bonus clerics with spell slots to burn also meant the 6th-level cost wasn't coming out of Shadowheart.

11) Accept that late-game enemy saving throws will mercilessly fuck you.

It feels real bad when you cast a 6th-level spell that operates on saving throws and your target shrugs it off with 0 damage. Spells with attack rolls are usually better bets, and Artistry of War is a wizard's once-per-short-rest MVP. Open Hand Monk Pizzazz was consistently my best damage dealer, especially once I looted the Bonespike Gloves from Strangler Luke.

12) Skip the high-risk low-reward quests in Act 3.

Consider your party composition and tactics and whether any optional quest line is worth completing for its rewards. Cazador, the Sharrans, and Ansur are non-trivially difficult fights that I didn't need to subject myself to, so I didn't. But there's real good shit under Sorcerous Sundries, so of course I cleared out that vault.

Hell isn't actually that bad on Honour Mode (no, really! The restoration faucets have unlimited uses!), but it's not a sure thing and I could live without the rewards. Had a tense moment passing the DC 30 Persuasion check with Kith'rak Voss later, but he chilled out and even let me borrow his dragon's breath.

The only unnecessary hard fight I did was the Steel Watcher Titan, which was a bad call on my part; I kinda wanted the crossbow and I really wanted to keep the runepowder bomb in case I needed it, but Mothman didn't do this fight, so I was not prepared for the Hellfire Steel Watcher Titan's bullshit. I won, but it was a closer shave than it should have been.

Then I ended up not using the crossbow at all.

13) Thank Gale for his sacrifice.

The Netherbrain is fucking nasty on Honour Mode. Fuck Karsite Grip. Fuck Aegis of the Absolute. Does it feel bad to make Gale sacrifice himself? Yes. Would it feel worse to lose the run right before the finish line? Also yes.

I brought every explosive I had with me (which required two rounds of strength-boosting elixirs, because the game hits you with a long rest before the Astral Plane) just in case Gale got cold feet and I burned all my inspiration fucking up the persuasion roll, then went through the sewers to avoid the larger fight. Someone (Gale, so I couldn't be too mad) failed a stealth check and aggroed them all anyway, but Pizzazz covered the ground to the brainstem in like three rounds and everyone warped up after her for the cutscene, so no harm no foul.

Then Gale volunteered—nay, insisted on blowing himself up and I felt bad! Real bad! Not bad enough to change course, but Pizzazz's face was also my face during epilogue:

P.S. At least for me, the achievement procced after the epilogue, credits, and post-credits scene, and I was tense af the entire time. But not so tense I couldn't be sad about Gale (oh no he wrote me a letter) and Astarion (oh no he's still in hiding because of Cazador). Luckily my big hot wife was there to support me.

Anyway, let's load an old autosave on another campaign and check out those golden dice, shall we?

Ahhh, my horrible son

[sreegs]

this started out as a short rant about non-stick cookware but i've got an infodump about cookware in general and suggestions for what's the most useful vs the least useful in the kitchen. the thing about cooking is you can do a lot with a little equipment, despite appearances to the contrary. however the vessels you cook in are the most used tools in the kitchen, aside from a chef's knife

ok, first my little rant about non-stick cookware:

it doesn't last, and that's the main flaw of non-stick cookware. whether it has a non-stick coating or it's a special material that is inherently non-stick (at first), eventually they wear down and the non-stick benefits you bought the pan for pretty much disappear.

that isn't to say non-stick cookware is not useful. I have one non-stick frying pan in my kitchen and I use it to cook eggs and other things that are notorious for sticking. i also use it to reheat leftovers just because it's easier to clean. that's all i use it for

so, if you're in the market for cookware because you're moving out or just finally getting a kitchen of your own, do not go buying all non-stick pots and pans. sauce pans, skillets, stock pots (the big pots you use for soup), sauté pans, etc, those actually need your food to stick in some cases, especially for soups and sauces. why's that?

it's about the fond. example: when you're making a soup you usually start by sautéing solid ingredients in the pan first. those get browned and they leave a bit of slightly-burned foodstuff on the bottom of the pot. that's called fond. it's super concentrated savory flavor. right before you add the stock to the soup, you "deglaze" the pan by adding a little bit of liquid to the bottom of the pot and gently scraping it off and integrating it into the soup. fond is also like the basis of all sauces and stews and gravies pretty much anything else you're cooking

where should you buy cookware? obviously you can always buy new, I suggest buying direct from the manufacturer if you really want new. you can also find good cookware at garage sales.

if you have access to them, restaurant supply stores have cheap cookware but it's also made to be beat to death in a commercial kitchen. it works just as well as the stuff aimed at the consumer because, well, metal pans are metal pans. it's not rocket science. but there is cheap bad cookware in the restaurant supply store so shop carefully

so what kind of cookware should you buy? here are options i recommend, but not in any particular order:

stainless steel

stainless steel pans are versatile and they last forever. they work on the stovetop and they go in the oven too. so not only can you use them to fry up some veggies, you can also use them to roast a beast in the oven. they're easy to keep clean, though they eventually get a patina especially on the bottom. use dish soap. the easiest way to get tough spots off them are gentle abrasives like Barkeeper's Friend. these range from cheap to expensive, and some of the expensive ones are worth it (but not too expensive. like $100-200 range for really nice ones. remember, they last forever, so it's like a one-time fee)

good stainless steel pans should be heavy. if you're out shopping for them, pick them up and compare how they feel. if you spot a really cheap one and it feels light like a non-stick pan, avoid it.

carbon steel

these got popular lately, and frankly i don't have too much experience with them since the one i had ended up being left behind in a move. however they're totally fine to work with and are easier to maintain than a cast iron pan. however they sometimes come with wooden handles (a lot of them are wok-shaped because, well, a lot of woks are carbon steel), so remember you can't put wooden-handle pans in the oven. also since they're thinner they're probably not as good for the oven as other materials in terms of both performance and longevity

taking care of them is a little harder than stainless steel, because after you wash and dry them, you have to coat them in a thin layer of oil to prevent rusting

cast iron

okay first i want to get the cleaning bit out the way: YOU CAN WASH YOUR CAST IRON PANS WITH DISH SOAP. that bullshit about only using salt and water and never getting soap on it is from an era when soaps were made of lye. MODERN DETERGENTS ARE NOT MADE OF LYE, THEY'RE NOT EVEN SOAP. HOWEVER: DO NOT SCRUB YOUR CAST IRON WITH METAL SCRUB SPONGES

now about cast iron itself: it's cheap and it's a long-term investment. your cast iron gradually becomes a non-stick pan over time if you maintain its seasoning. a cast iron pan becomes seasoned naturally over time as long as you wash it soon after it cools down from cooking (don't ever leave food or water in it, it will rust), and after it's clean, you cover it with an extremely thin layer of cooking oil.

you can re-season cast iron that has lost its seasoning too. i don't want to turn this post into a cast-iron infodump post so i'll leave it to you to google "how to season cast iron pans" and "how to maintain cast iron pans". just remember the "don't wash it with soap" line is bullshit unless you actually have dish soap that contains lye, like where'd you get that?

these are also great for cooking in the oven as well as the stovetop. their high-density and dark color make for good heat distribution. a lot of people swear by cast iron as the best material to sear meat with, however i never really noticed the difference between cast iron and stainless steel.

enameled cast iron

le creuset can sit on it and spin. don't buy their shit it's overpriced. enameled cast iron is much more affordable from companies like lodge who already make cheap, good, regular cast iron pans. it's a cast iron pan coated with ceramic. enameled cast iron is really good for even heat distribution, however you do have to be careful not to chip it. it may also, despite your best efforts, just wear down over time because ceramic isn't as wear-resistant as metal.

enameled pans can go in the oven as well.

non-stick pans

only buy one (1) non-stick pan. make it a frying pan or sauté pan. and do not spend a lot of money on it. like $40-50 tops. i've seen $100+ non-stick pans and i think someone made those as a joke. it's a grift. you will be replacing it on a semi-regular basis depending on how often you use it.

if your non-stick pan uses a coating, if it starts flaking it's time to get rid of it. those ceramic non-stick pans you just gotta toss it when they lose their smoothness

that's it. post over. go cook. if you have any questions send an ask

[nyaagolor]

I saw you talking about ace attorney teapots in the replies of some post and I am curious, I would ask more specifically but I don't know that much about AA.

ok so admittedly that was partially hyperbolic, there's only one teapot in the AA series I can actually make character references from (which I elaborated on here), the others give information that's a little more basic. Kristoph has a deft blue china set in his cell, which reaffirms what we already know (namely that he's a classy, wealthy europhile), while all the (numerous) tea sets in DGS serve more to establish cultural things than explicit character motivations

All the british characters have relatively simple glazed teapots as would be typical at the time, while the japanese characters have tetsubins-- these aren't teapots (as in, you wouldn't put the leaves in them) but cast iron kettles that you boil water in. There's a whole theory about how cast iron was used in Japan because Japanese water is incredibly soft (aka low mineral content) and the iron leeching into the water from the tea draws out different notes when it reacts with the chemicals in the tea leaves themselves and blah blah blah I won't bore you with that here. Anyway, the shapes of these teapots are very distinct and I thought it was a cute detail because it shows you exactly who lives in the house with a single glance

the most fun one, though, is Susato's matcha set. Susato is explicitly based off the yamato nadeshiko (an ideal woman, basically) so the inclusion of her cute lil matcha set just contributes to that concept. Making matcha for a tea ceremony requires extraordinary levels of skill and she has all the tools to do that, including a small furnace? In the middle of the office floor????? susato sweetie I think that's a fire hazard

So something relevant about green tea is that unlike basically every other tea type, which can handle boiling water, green tea will be "burnt" and taste icky if you try and brew it in boiling water. Japan is famous for its green tea culture, and matcha is a part of that, so there's always something in the tea ceremony to control the temperature of the water. That box in the middle is a full on charcoal stove, on top of which is a cast iron pot that holds the water and a hishaku (the ladle looking thing) which ensures you have the right amount of water and that it's sufficiently cooled when it hits the powder. On the adjacent tray there's a chasen (whisk) and chawan (bowl) both of which you would use for making the tea itself. Often times you'll also have a chasaku (j-shaped measuring stick for the powder itself) but I'm gonna assume that's out of sight or with the matcha powder. Cannot stress enough that for her to have this equipment and know how to use it is a pretty obvious display of education and wealth-- which combined with the tetsubin (stated to be hers) and the traditional japanese calligraphy set on her desk just adds more fuel to the idea that she was classically trained in lots of cultural arts. Classy lady :)

[area51-escapee]

Wait I actually have a poll

Inspired by that time my friend preheated the oven but there were pots and pans inside and I was like why didn’t you check for pots and pans and apparently that’s not a normal thing to ask-

[shannaraisles]

Unravelled - for @memaidraws

A commission for the fabulous @memaidraws, who has been an absolute star through the whole process - thank you, lovely!

Unravelled

Four cast pots, two iron pans, the campfire expanded to accommodate not only the broiling and boiling but also the baking and warming of various ingredients before they came together into a meal fit for kings.

Kings of the road, perhaps, but still kings for one night. Kings every night, when it was Gale of Waterdeep’s turn to cook. A man of dedicated taste and refined palate, he scoured each market and store they came across in search of new spices and flavourings, or to restock his supplies of those they already had. Rae was no slouch when it came to cooking himself, but he had to admit, Gale took it to an entirely different level. The others might complain about how long dinner took to make when the wizard was in charge of it, but there were never complaints about the quality when it finally arrived. 

It was a fascinating process to watch, too; the meat carefully dressed and trimmed, seared to perfection before it was wrapped in sturdy, flavoursome leaves and tucked into the warm embers at the far edge of the flames to bake slowly as sauces and vegetables were prepared with diligent care and attention to detail to some rhythm only Gale knew. And there was rhythm to it; a musical quality to each spoon swirled through some sticky soft mixture, or fork speared into the flesh of a tuber or brace of greens, testing their readiness with expert knowledge.

But Rae wasn’t watching purely to enjoy the aesthetic of Gale’s form as he cooked, oh no. Gale of Waterdeep had spent long years in a tower with only a tressym for company, and he had picked up a habit in her presence that he had never quite lost in her absence. Gale talked to himself as he cooked, and the subject of tonight’s curious ramblings was none other than their not-so-glorious leader, Rae himself. 

“If this were my tower, I could at the very least send out for pheasant or squid,” the wizard was muttering as Rae approached from behind. “Alas, a decent cut of beef and basic herbs shall have to do. But when we reach Baldur’s Gate, things will be different.”

His fingers flickered through a complicated sigil in mid-air, and a clutch of fresh rosemary appeared in his grasp, apparently freshly picked through the Weave from someone’s garden. Rae bit down a smile, hoping that garden was far enough away that no one would tie a mystery herb thief to the strange group that had just passed through their little town. Gale ripped the leaves from the woody stalks, crushing each just a little between his fingers before sprinkling his bounty into the pot before him.

“Baldur’s Gate will have everything I need,” the man continued, seemingly talking to mid-air. Rae couldn’t help but wonder if he was actually talking to Tara through the Weave somehow; anything was possible with Gale. “Perhaps I should forgo preparing the meal myself? It would make the evening seem more special, more deliberate. We could visit the Elfsong Tavern, though it is a very common sort of place. Perhaps one of the restaurants in the Wide ... The Heroes’ Feast, perhaps. It does have an excellent reputation, and Rae has expressed an interest in the heroes of the Bhaalspawn War. An evening of conversation with the grandchildren of Gorion’s ward might be just the ticket. And the food, I am told is excellent.” 

Rae’s brows rose; Gale was making plans for time they could spend together, just the two of them? And worrying, as he did over everything, about what would make it perfect. It was somehow both infuriating and endearing that Gale seemed to have no idea that just his presence was enough to make an evening perfect.

”But he seems to enjoy my labours in this area; it would be a travesty if the food were below par,” Gale went on, lifting a spoon to taste some mysterious concoction that somehow managed to sparkle briefly in the flicker of magic at his fingertips. “If their tales are of good enough quality, they could be invited to the tower as company - entertainment for the evening, perhaps. But if we are to go that far to seek entertainment for one evening, then would it not be better to take him to experience the theatre?”

There was a pause, no doubt for the expected response from Tara who was not present and therefore had nothing to say. But Gale still seemed to get a response of some sort, whether from the real tressym at some distance or from the imagined version of her in his mind’s eye, for he nodded sagely as though in answer to some comment, stepping to one side to flip the bread frying in a pan to the other side before adding it to the stack of already perfectly created flatbreads resting on a plate close by. 

“No, of course, the theatre is far too mundane,” he mused. “He has no doubt seen every production worth seeing already, and would know the quality of the players in the Gate far better than I. But in Waterdeep, we could take him - I could take him to The Yawning Portal; adventurers a-plenty there to whet his appetite for tales, and Durnan can be trusted to provide a more sheltered seat in one of the upper galleries in case the Undermountain decides to send a visitor to the main floor. It is a rather rowdy place, though, and quiet does seem to suit him better than raucous distraction ...”

He lapsed into silence for a long moment, unaware that the object of his eager affections was so close and so aware of every word he said. Rae felt his heart swell with each word; how had he not noticed how very much Gale wanted to impress and delight him? Had he been too acutely aware of his own uncertainties and perceived shortcomings that he had missed this adorable fumbling toward some grand gesture that might please? He couldn’t help but be grateful for the unspoken agreement among the entire party that anything Gale said while cooking was to be ignored and never spoken of again. Some things were too personal to tease about. 

“I have it!”

Gale snapped his fingers, the sudden sound startling Rae almost into revealing himself as the Wizard of Waterdeep beamed at no one across the fire in front of him. 

“We shall dine in my tower, but it shall be cloaked in the Weave, and wherever his fancy takes him, that shall be our entertainment,” he declared to no one in particular. “Exhausting for myself, of course, but nothing is too great a stretch for my love.” He sighed, seeming to sag for a moment, his voice softening with impossible desire. “I would give him the world, if I but had it within my grasp.”

Rae smiled, his heart somehow both melting and hammering in his chest at the tenderness in his lover’s voice. This was enough torture for one night, surely?

“I would rather a lifetime of ordinary evenings at your side, than watch you destroy yourself in the search for one perfect night.”

Gale straightened hurriedly, his head turning with affected nonchalance at the sound of his lover’s gentle approach.

“Ah.” He offered up a sheepish smile. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to forget you heard all that, could I?”

Rae’s smile flickered, somehow awkwardly shy yet brimming with unexpected confidence, fingertips ghosting down along Gale’s spine as the other hand reached for the package of baking beef. It was ... rather wonderful, to know he was not the only one in this relationship still feeling his way toward certainty. 

“I would rather forget how to touch the Weave than forget how much you love me,” he said, feeling his cheeks warm with how bold his words seemed, dropping his gaze to the food. “Any night with you is the perfect night, because I am with you. That is all that matters, Gale, truly.”

Gale sighed through a soft smile, unconsciously leaning into Rae’s side as they stood close together beside the busy campfire. His head lowered just enough to rest, temple to temple, against Rae’s, the two of them cloaked in a stillness of their own affectionate making amid the quiet bustle of their party’s evening camp. 

“I would give you nothing but perfection, if it were mine to give,” Gale murmured, twisting a little to brush his knuckles against Rae’s smooth cheek.

“I don’t need perfection, love,” Rae whispered, daring to raise his eyes to meet the tenderly adoring gaze levelled upon him. “I have you.”

“That you do.”

The brush of knuckles turned, Gale’s gentle palm curling to Rae’s cheek to draw him close. Lips covered lips, softness flavoured with the delicate prickle of hair that somehow heightened the experience, sweet and sinful and oh, so wonderful. For just one moment, even the Weave could have unravelled and everything would still have been perfect.

“Oh, blast it all, I forgot the spice,” Gale suddenly declared, pulling from the kiss in a distracted huff at his own sense of failure.

Rae bit down a laugh at the abrupt end to what could have been a perfect moment for a lot longer, and reached for the little pot that was currently the focus of his lover’s ire. 

“Show me what to do with it?” he suggested, tilting his head with curious interest.

Gale looked at him, his eyes flickering from the little spice pot in one hand to the sweet softness of the lips he had just abandoned, to the warm interest in the eyes that held him in thrall. His own lips curved in an unthinking smile, unable to resist the siren’s call of the man who had captured his heart so thoroughly without even seeming to try. 

“Come here,” he said, gathering Rae into his side to draw him to the appropriate pot. “You need just a pinch, in this one ...” And here and now, as they talked and touched and learned each other in ways more binding than simple lust-fueled intimacy, among friends in the wilderness between their respective worlds where each thread did not need to be woven to become a fabric of infinite possibility ... this was perfect.

[scribblertown]

Fates of the Fateless Ch. 6: New Faces New Places and a Horse

The gang grows a little bigger and you get to know others a little more.

ao3

wattpad

“The life at sea is a grand and hard. Harder than anything we’ve faced here on land.” Pearson was going off on one of his sailor tangents again. Every time he did you couldn’t help thinking of an old man desperate to relive his glory years. “The fear in your gut wondering if you’ll have enough to last you till next port is beyond imagining.” You’ve heard this story before, more than once actually. Next, he’s going to bring up eating seal meat. “The waters up north are absolutely teaming with seals.” Yep, here we go. “Their meat is real’ greasy you know, has a certain flavor to it. Like a mix of duck and veal.” As he reminisced on his voyages you were stuck cutting and peeling vegetables, nothing you haven’t done before. But the amount to be prepped today was more than usual. Like, an exceptionally larger amount. “I still get cravings for the stuff, can’t find it anywhere ‘round here.”

 His droning tales began to fade away as your mind wondered. Your eyes drifting back and forth to the Juniper tree that sat just behind your tent. The fixation of your attention for the past couple of weeks.

 Peel, peel, peel. A glance at the tree. Chop, chop, chop. A glance at the tree. Peel, peel. A glance. Chop, chop. A glance. It had become an obsession at this point. Every time someone would drift a little too close to the tree, you’d feel yourself tense up, unable to look away until they finally move onto another part of camp. You weren’t sure what would happen if anyone stumbled upon your little secret hidden away in the winding tangled roots of the grand and old juniper. But after witnessing Arthur’s more than adequate show of putting down a man three times your size, you couldn’t help but snatch up that precious pistol. It almost seemed like life had deliberately sent it in your direction, right there at your feet for the taking. At least, if it really came down to it, you had a chance at defending yourself.

 “Once you’re done with those potatoes, throw them in that pot of water. Give the skins to the chickens.” Pearson had swung around with his freshly skinned and cleaved rabbits, the choice meat around these parts apparently. He then does a quick count on his fingers muttering softly under his breath. A gradual scowl crosses his face as his brow furrows, his mustache consumes his mouth in a frown. “Hmm… we’re not gonna have enough for the next week at this rate.” That didn’t seem right.

 “This seems like a lot of food for just us.” Sure, you may be new to the ways of life in the 1800’s, but your pretty sure meal prepping wasn’t a concept of the time beyond canning.

 “It ain’t, Dutch made some connections with some of the mining men up in Bingham. Should be here by nightfall.” Oh great, more strange men. “Rigorous work like that, tends to give one quite the appetite.” He’s quick to grab what carrots and onions you have done before tossing them into the cast iron with a big glob of some sort of animal fat. The smell of it was always a little gamey. “I’m hoping this means more money. More money means better eatin’.” Pearson was nice enough; he had a sweet face and a nice singing voice. You got the impression he was desperate to socialize. Which might work to your advantage.

 “What kind of work does Dutch do?” Maybe you’d get a different piece to the puzzle. “I hear he does dangerous work.”

 “All work is dangerous in this day and age.” Damn it.

 “Have you been traveling long? No place to call home?”

 “Dutch and couple of the others have been out on the road a lot longer than me. I only just joined up maybe… four years ago.”

 “Four years?!” You gaped at him flabbergasted. Four years of this same boring routine of grueling work, of never having a roof over their head, and rarely socializing outside of the camp circle. Is that what your future would be with these people? “And you never left?”

 “No, and I’m not sure I ever want to.” He collects another batch of vegetables from you. “I had made some desperate money decisions, borrowed from a few fellers thinking I’d manage to make up what I owed and some extra to get back on my feet. I didn’t, not even close and some real mean-spirited men were sent after me. Forced me to marry a woman and took everything I had to my name. I’m sure they would’ve taken my life as well had Dutch and Hosea not stepped in.” A smile began to slowly build on his lips, and his eyes became misty and soft. “They paid my debts. Some lowly, good for nothing-nobody they knew shit about. But they saved me anyway.” His eyes then drifted to yours, his brow was tightly furrowed and his gaze suddenly bold and serious. “Everyone here has a similar story, many of them worse than mine.” His voice is deep and breathy. “This world is a cruel and unforgivable place, one that don’t want folk like us. People will do what they have to for survival, but folk like Dutch. Like Hosea. They do what they have to for more than just themselves. They do what they have to for us.” He didn’t say much after that. Leaving you with a new worry in your gut.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 When the sun had begun to paint the sky a plethora of warm colors, the men came. Talking loudly and cheerfully. Lead by Dutch, Arthur, and William on horseback. Five new dark silhouettes grew closer before they dismounted their horses just outside of the camps main grounds. You tried to keep yourself from staring, pretending to be all too focused on redoing the seams on a jacket arm. Settled just a few feet from the cooking pot accompanied by Tilly with her own sewing project. The smell of the rabbit and vegetable stew you’d prepped drifting from its large confines of black iron as the two of you observed in silence.

 “Mmmm! Something smells damn good!” The voice that cried out was an unfamiliar one, a bit shrill. His voice sounded quite young.

 “It’s been so long since I’ve had a decent meal…” An older man, rough and worn.

 “Gentlemen, as the first day of our partnership, I would ask you eat to your hearts content knowing that your lives are now you’re own.” Dutch led the line of men towards the large pot, striking a match on his boot. The quick flicker of flame illuminating his face for a quick second before fluttering into a soft glow as he lit a pipe. The group hooping and hollering as they swarmed the area. Two straggled behind a bit. A man and a woman.

 “I’ll getchu a bowl Agatha, you just take a seat and rest a spell.” The man donned bright red hair, swept to the side and styled with some sort of hair grease. His face was angular and skinny, with a decoration of freckles that covered his pale face. He cradled the woman in a gentle and intimate manner.  

 “Alright, but I want you to get yourself a bowl first.” The woman spoke in a broken and course voice. A dark bruise around her left eye, barely hidden behind her dark locks that draped freely down her back and shoulders. They bickered softly for a moment before she finally took a seat on a spare crate near the chicken coop as he joined the rest of the men. A deep sigh fell from her lips as she practically melted into her seat.

 “I certainly hope that bruise isn’t from one of these boys…” Tilly commented under her breath, watching the new group like a hawk with critical eyes scanning every little exchange and movement. You replied with a hum. Out of the corner of your eye Arthur could be seen slipping away into the shadows with a fat saddle bag hefted over his shoulder with a rambunctious William at his tail. Your eyes curiously trailed them as they ventured towards the camps outskirts before your view was cut off by a large figure.  

 “Well well, I wasn’t expectin’ lovely ladies in your band of gunslingers Mr. Van der Linde.” This man was the tallest of the lot, taller than even Arthur or Dutch. Stocky in build with an equally round and stocky face, short salt and pepper hair without a single strand out of place parted down the middle, a thin pencil mustache sat upon his upper lip and sunken light brown eyes that had that familiar predatory stare. An all too happy smirk on his face as his eyes openly wandered your bodies. You unconsciously leaned towards Tilly to block her from his view, before sending him a death glare from under your lashes. “Oooo… Now you don’t wanna go ruinin’ that pretty little face of yours with such an ugly scowl hm?” He chuckled teasingly before bringing another scoop of stew to his mouth full of rotten and crooked teeth. You could just smell the infection on his breath. “Not very lady like.” Bits of food flung out as he spoke.

 “Can’t you be a dumb hunk of shit somewhere else?” Tilly snapped at him brandishing an equally fiery scowl. The rest of the men let out an explosion of laughter. The man’s face quickly became red and tense. Gripping his spoon with enough force to almost bend it in his meaty sausage fingers.

 “Stupid bitch I oughta-” He begins to swing his arm back preparing to strike, you tense spreading your body around Tilly as much as you can awaiting the blow but before he can get enough momentum Dutch is quick to slip between you and dickhead.

 “Wow now Mr. Samson!” His hands are up and his posture relaxed in a mock surrender, “I’ve got rules in my camp, and that includes causin’ trouble for the girls.” His hand drifts to his hip, sweeping aside his jacket flaps exposing his lavish pistol. “You don’t wanna go ruinin’ a beautiful friendship before it even starts.” Samson stares at the pistol a moment before returning to Dutch’s face. “Do you, Mr. Samson?” His face twists before he let out an angry huff, marching off to no doubt sulk in the shadows.

 Hosea then emerges seemingly out of nowhere with John, Arthur, Grimshaw, and William in tow. The saddle bag nowhere to be seen.

 “Been awhile since we’ve had this many people.” Hosea’s eyes wonder over the group of newcomers, rubbing his chin with a small smile. “Guess I better go say hello.” In a matter of seconds of him entering the circle, the men fall under the sweet old man’s charming spell.

 “Just more mouths to feed, and smaller shares for us.” John sulks with a scowl on his face, clearly not happy with the change in guard.

 William has a similar distasteful look, “More like sheep dan men if ya ask me.”

 Dutch comes up behind the two, his hands coming down onto their shoulders with a fierce grip, his pipe nestled between his teeth. “Ooh you boys were just like those poor souls once upon a time.” He spoke through his teeth with a smile. “In fact, I recall you two being a lot more pathetic.”  

 Grimshaw then steps forward, “Dutch I take it you still want us to be packing up to move soon?”

 “Mmhm, after tonight’s haul I imagine word will get out sooner than later. Rather not be so close to town.”

 “What? We’re moving already?” You were just beginning to settle in. “Why?”

 The look of surprise on Dutch’s face made you wonder if he hadn’t realized you were still lingering. “Miss (y/n)! I almost forgot you could talk!”

 “No kiddin’, she’s a real bore.” William shrugs Dutch off his shoulder. “All work ‘nd no play.” That puts a frown on your face knowing full well William’s idea of fun is hassling anyone and everyone he can. “Don’t even know how ta ride a horse. Can ya believe dat?” He’s still going on about that?!

 “At least I don’t smell like one…” you mutter.

 “Dat’s another ting! I know ya go down to the creek for your precious baths princess. Every day!” Your face immediately goes flush and hot. “No one should bathe dat much.”

 “Have you been spying on me?!” You’re standing now, hands clenched in tight fists glaring him in his good eye. He just grins. Which is quickly wiped off his face as Grimshaw swoops in to tug at his ear with a harsh pull.

 “Ooowowowow!” He cries out as she twists him downwards, casually turning to you.

 “Why don’t you girls get yerself something to eat and call it a night. I’m going to have a word with Mr. O’brien.” She gives another hard tug, leading herself and William away. “Goodnight gentlemen.”

 “Ow! What’re ya doin’ ya crazy old hag!” William’s cries of protest fading with each step. Dutch and the other boys simply laugh at his expense.

 “C’mon (y/n) let’s grab some stew and sit by the fire.” Tilly tosses her fabric to the side, quick to jump on her feet and excitedly veer towards the pot.

 Thankfully there was still a decent amount of stew left sticking to the bottom of the cast iron pot, bubbling on the brink of being caramelized and burnt. The two of you quickly found a spot around the main fire where the other men had collected, Uncle balancing a banjo on his knee as he laughs and plays a familiar tune. Out of the corner of your eye you spot John awkwardly standing a decent distance away from you before finally deciding to sit down in the spot to your right.

 “Hi John.”

 “Hi…” He’s not looking at you as he watches his spoon lazily push around a hunk of rabbit. Soon Arthur appears to take up the spot next to him with a hunk of bread in his mouth. “I-I could teach you.”

 “Huh?” John was still staring down at his food, his eyes darting back and forth from his bowl to you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he struggled to speak his next words.

 “To ride a horse.” He turns his head to make brief eye contact before they divert to anything but you. “I could teach you how.” You’ve only ever gotten a hello out of the guy and now he’s suddenly offering you free riding lessons.

 “I don’t have a horse.”

 “You can ride mine, or… one of the spare work horses.” He clears his throat before shoveling a large spoonful into his mouth. Just past him you can see Arthur giving him a strange side eye. “Y-yeah, I think… I think you should learn how to ride is all.” He takes another huge mouthful.

 “Alright. That would be very helpful actually.” You sit up a little straighter, turning your body towards him with a small hint of a smile. He visibly freezes hunched over; eyes downcast before he quickly shovels the rest of his food down as fast as he can. He then bolts from his seat, walking almost fast enough to have to break out into a slight jog shouting over his shoulder.

 “Alright I’ll see you later then!”

 “Ok…” a bit baffled at the blunt and brief conversation.

 Arthur scoffs out a slight chuckle, “I would find a different teacher if I were you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You were grateful for the early bedtime rest as it seemed Grimshaw felt the need to wake you up earlier than usual.  

 “Up up up! It’s time we start packin’!” another swift, sharp kick to your shins only increasing your rising annoyance to such a rude awakening.

 “Alright alright!” you take a second to rub the lingering sleep from your eyes. Blinking slowly to find it was still relatively dark out. Grimshaw who was somehow fully dressed, hair done, and with a pep in her step marched off to wake her next victim. “What time is it?”

 “Is it gonna make you get up faster if I tell you?” Tilly is somehow already on her feet and messing with her hair pins. “I’d get going now if I were you, don’t want that pig from last night getting a glimpse at us in our undergarments.” She moves like lighting twisting and readjusting the pins in her hair before she’s rummaging in your shared chest for her skirt, she grabs yours as well and throws it in your face. “Well? Hurry up!”

 “Hold on, I gotta wash my face first.” You crumble the bunch of clothes in your arms and unhappily get to your feet. Nights in the desert were surprisingly cold, only made getting up all the more difficult. It left any and all the water ice cold, a splash to the face was enough to finally bring you out of your groggy state. Shaking your hands to rid yourself of the lingering drops of chilled water you spotted the woman from last night timidly approaching you. “Good morning.” Your sleepy voice coming out deep and low.

 “Good morning.” She gave a small smile, reaching for the ladle that hung off the lip of the barrels opening and taking a gracious drink. You stood there a little awkwardly unsure if it would be more rude to just leave or start some sort of petty small talk.

 “I’m (y/n).” You seemed to have made the right decision as her eyes lit up with a smile.

 “My name is Agatha.” She gave a brief pause, hands tucked neatly in front of her, “I’m happy to see there are other women here.”

 “Oh, believe me, I thought the same thing when I first joined up.”

 “Have you been here long?”

 “Well…. Not really, only about 3ish months.” I think… “I wasn’t expecting a woman to come from Bingham mine. I figured we’d just be getting men.”

 “Oh, I’d follow Joseph to the ends of the earth. But I’m happy to be away from that place. They were working him to death.” You couldn’t help but stare at the bruise on her eye, she seemed to notice. “This was a parting gift from my previous employer.” She touched the purpling skin delicately. “Joseph was sure to give him twice the beating.”

 “Sounds like you picked a good one.” Just past Agatha you could see Grimshaw prowling about. You’ve been taking up too much time. “Uh, I gotta get to work but let’s chat some more later, ok?” You start to walk backwards as you spoke.

 “Of course! It was nice to meet you.”

 “Nice to meet you too!” You shouted over your shoulder before bolting back to your tent. Tilly had already rolled up your sleeping pads, thankfully leaving the chest and tent up for you. You glance around to find no one else was nearby. You quickly slipped to the Juniper tree crouching down and delving into the roots, fiddling around blindly until the cold steel met your fingertips. Swiftly wrapping the pistol in the change of clothes you had engulfed in your arms. Acting nonchalant as you pretended you were simply packing away your belongings. Careful to bury it at the bottom of the chest where only your belongings laid. Quick to actually get dressed and begin the grueling process of carefully taking down the tent, folding it properly and playing a game of tetris fitting it all into the wagon. Next came everything else that wasn’t absolutely needed. Tables, clothes, personal belongings, most of Pearson’s dry goods and cooking ware. If it wasn’t nailed down or on a horse, it goes in the wagons.

 “Careful vith my equipment! It’s very fragile!”

 “Relax Strauss, I know how glass works.” The camp was bare and empty now with only remnants of footprints and the old campfire among the red sand. The sun was now only just starting to come up as you hefted the last bit of supplies into its rightful spot. “You want me to take your bag too?” you reached out a hand, eyeing his medical bag that he carried around. He cradled it close to his chest with a distasteful look.

 “No, it stays vith me.”

 “Alright well… I guess pick your ride and we can get out of here.” You keep yourself from rolling your eyes and dropped your hand, he hadn’t lifted a finger to help out, didn’t even take down his own tent. “And William calls me princess…” you mutter under your breath as you settle onto a pile of fabric tightly rolled together just outside of the wagon opening. Strauss hesitates a moment before also climbing aboard, sitting adjacent to you, cradling his bag in his lap. Your eyes wandered to find most everyone else has loaded up and found their respective spots to travel. The wagon just in front of you holds Agatha and the red head you now know as Joseph, feet dangling off the edge, their horse tied just in front of them with their personal belongings on its back. You gave her a wave; she gave one back. Thankfully it seemed Samson wasn’t around, along with the regular bread winners. Arthur wasn’t around, nor were John or William. You took some comfort in that.

“Good morning!” Pearson’s chipper chubby face appears as he hops up onto the coach, scooching over as a young man takes the spot next to him.

 “Hello.” His voice was hushed and smooth. Kind dark brown eyes, clean shaven with long silky black hair tied in a braid down his back and donning a simple looking leather hat to keep the sun out of his deep tan face.

 “Ah Guten Morgen Mr. Pearson.”

 “Have you met Jay yet?” Pearson glances over his shoulder at the two of you, the reins resting limply in his hands as you all await the caravan to move along.

 “It’s Jie, Mr. Pearson.” The man corrects him with a smile, he meets your eyes again, “Jie Liu. It’s nice to meet you.” His face carved deep lines up from his jaw and into his cheeks when he smiled.

 “Hallo, Jee-eh, I am Doctor Leopold Strauss.” The poor man’s names get butchered again mixed with Strauss’ heavy European accent, it makes you cringe a little. But Jie just smiles and nods at him seemingly unbothered. Turning to you next.

 “And I already know who you are. Your little confrontation with Mr. O’brien was enough for us to quickly learn your name.” He has a slight accent, it’s very subtle, though it’s noticeable with certain words. “What’s the saying? Cleanliness is close to Godliness!” He laughs. You feel a little embarrassed to remember you had an audience watching your little fight last night.

 “You know I’m pretty sure that’s the most emotion I’ve seen you show since you’ve gotten here.” Pearson has a sly glint in his eye. “Seems some of Grimshaw’s charm is rubbing off on you.”

 You roll your eyes. He just laughs. The wagon in front of you starts to move. You all jolt forward slightly as Pearson snaps the reins.

 “Jee-eh, I take it you’re an immigrant, yes?” Strauss is holding a book in his hands now jotting something down as he speaks.

 “Yes, I am originally from Hong Kong. I take it you are also an immigrant Mr. Strauss?”

 “Austrian. But like everything about this country, I’ve been consumed into the American masses.”

 Jie gives a chipper response. “It is quite the country.”

 “Hong Kong huh? That’s so far away, how and why did you come here?” You ask.

 “My home, the little neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t exactly a good one. Big cities like that tend to attract a lot of… bad people.” He pauses a moment before picking back up again. “I lived their most of my adolescent life but… there’s nothing left for me there.” There’s a sadness in his voice, and the implications of what that might mean makes you wish you didn’t ask.

 “I’m sorry to hear that…” You spoke softly, awaiting his next words with reverence. The other two remain silent.

 He lets out a long sigh, “So, I ended up leaving the country to come here. I was swept up into the work most migrants end up doing. I met a friend who got me into the mining business at Bingham, lost him in the cave ins and now I’m here.”

 “Agatha mentioned something about the mine almost working Joseph to death.”

 “It’s definitely work I hope to never have to fall into again. It paid decently but when you take into account how much goes into food, housing, and medicine, you lose it just as quickly as you gained it.”

 “I haven’t had the chance to talk to the other new recruits. I take it they left under similar circumstances?” Pearson asks curiously.

 “To be honest, I am not very familiar with the others beyond their names. But yes, considering the recent cave in and other issues arising from poor work conditions, I’m actually surprised we didn’t have more men take up Mr. Van der Linde’s offer.”

 “They vere fools not to.”

 “Oh, Strauss you can be a very cold man sometimes you know that?” Pearson lets out a holler, “We got a lot of miles to cover and so much to talk about. You know I was a sailor on the seas once upon a time. Back when I was far younger and had a little more on my head and a little less on my stomach, AHAHA!”

 Dear God no… Not again…

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 This was by far the farthest and longest you’ve traveled so far. It was a shift in driving wagons, sleeping when night fell, and getting back on the road before the sun even came up. Swapping places here and there so you weren’t stuck with some of the more miserable members of your mysterious caravan. Encountering the two other men you hadn’t had a chance to talk to. The oldest of the bunch was an aged and worn man by the name of Crisoforo Abadiano. His skin was dark and sun damaged, deep lines in his face from years of wear and tear. He was the older than even Hosea it seemed. His dark eyes framed by heavy lashes and a sad distant look to them. Hair short and combed back with slivers of silver amongst his jet-black hair, covered by a large brimmed hat. He never really talked much and when he did it was usually single word responses. While very quiet he was the type you could be comfortable in silence with.

 “You have any hobbies Mr. Abadiano?”

 “No.”

 “Really, nothing at all?”

 “Cards.” He was fantastic at ending conversations before they really began.

  And of course, Joseph with Agatha practically attached at his hip. He was quite young, younger than you at least. Both ambitious and optimistic, excited to exchange stories and meet new people.

 “How did you two meet anyway?”

 “Well, I was working at the mining town’s saloon as a waitress and card dealer, you get good commission when all the men want to do after work is drink and gamble all they’re earnings away, sometimes they’d forget I’d already been paid.” Agatha gives a giggle. “Well one night, I was having particular trouble with a tenet who’d pulled a knife on me, accusing me of cheating him out of his winnin’s. I thought I was ‘bout to be gutted when a strapping,” Agatha breathes in a hushed voice as if just the memory of this incident left her breathless, looking dreamily at Joseph, “strong, young, and handsome hero stepped in to save me.” She lets out a long sigh as her lashes flutter in a half-lidded look. “I knew he was the one for me.”

 “Oh Agatha, you’ll never know what joy your words bring to my foolish heart.” Joseph, whose face was red as a tomato and clearly flustered was now cradling Agatha in his arms with a similar look of intense love in his eyes. “I love you, Agatha.”

 “I love you too, Joseph.” The two then shared a chaste kiss leading to another and another until they were holding each other long and tender. Leaving you to uncomfortably look around at anything but the spontaneous make out session you had the misfortune of being an audience for. They were cute and easy to talk to but… they were just too… lovey dovey.

 Other than the small talk, watching the scenery slooowly pass by and napping were your pastimes. (That and avoiding Mr. Samson like the plague personified). It was so incredibly boring to be traveling at a snail’s pace with nothing to occupy yourself. You started to pick up on some of the mannerisms of many of the others.

 Uncle at any point you were caught in his presence was buzzed 9 times out of 10. Bessie had impeccable posture seemingly always sitting straight as a plank. Hosea never seemed hot, even on the hottest of days, you’ve never seen him break a sweat. In more ways than one. Dutch and Annabelle were usually resting against each other, shoulder to shoulder, whispering and giggling to each other. You even managed to catch some poetry from Dutch. It actually wasn’t half bad.

 The bread winners had returned during the night on one of your rest stops, suddenly just there one morning around the coffee pot after having been missing for so long, it had caught you off guard. John was as awkward as ever giving a small hello without looking you in the eyes, Arthur was a bit grumpy and just grunted, and William had that distinct sneer he’d always give you, not saying a word. The stupid bastard.

 They led the rest of the way to a secluded canyon, the jagged red and pink sand rocks speckled with an assortment of desert trees and shrubbery, towering on both sides of a large level bed of rock with two openings that split off into two different directions and a third that you all entered through. It was shaded and cool, quiet and untouched.

 Dutch and Annabelle were excitedly taking in the view of the grand open space, as the rest of you began to unpack. “Quiet, secluded, no nosey neighbors. This place is perfect Arthur!”

 “Thought you’d like it.” Arthur gave a smirk, pulling up a match to light a cigarette perched on his lips. You assisted Pearson with unloading, watching Tilly curiously survey the campsite before boldly stomping up a cloud of dust.

 “I’m claiming this spot for the women!” She announces with wide smile. The area just to the right of the opening to the north.

 “Oh? And where will you be sleeping?” Uncle teases her, he had a box in his arms seemingly pitching in with the labor before realizing it was full of liquor.

Back and forth, back and forth. The camp slowly came to life. Dutch’s tent went up first, next was Bessie’s and Hosea’s, and then Arthur’s and so on and so forth until only yours was left.

 Only problem is it was smothered under an unfamiliar large wooden chest. Sun bleached in places and chipped in others. Barred by rusted iron hinges and simple looking. Only issue was how unexpectedly heavy it was. Even with both hands you barely managed to scoot it an inch.

 “Hmpphh!” You give a harsh pull, causing whatever’s inside to slide and tumble.  

 “Wow, there miss.” Arthur slides into view, hands quick to find the handles, his calloused fingers grazing yours slightly, tickling the little hairs on the back of your hands. His hat shrouds his face from you. “Let me get this out of your way.” He picks it up like it weighs nothing, and heads off towards Dutch’s tent. You watch as Dutch’s eyes light up at the sight of him. Quick to swoop him into his tent and draw back the canvas curtains, shrouding them from view.

 Odd. Very odd.

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  You could feel eyes on your back as you awkwardly finish ramming the final stake into the ground. Giving the twine a good tug before making yourself recognize the presence.

 “Hi John,” you toss the hammer back into the wooden tool box, wiping sand from your hands. “You uh… need something?”

 “Let’s go riding.”

 “Oh, you wanna do the lessons now?” your eyes wander around looking for Grimshaw, you’d rather not wander off without her approval. Not worth the scolding you think.

 “Yes.” He’s quick to start a march towards the horses looking back at you, still unmoved from your spot. “Come on then!” He yells in haste. You stand there hesitantly shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Taking a moment to consider if John is someone you want to be alone with. I mean he’s just a kid, but…

 “But Grimshaw won’t like it if I ditch work!”

 “Your chores will still be here when you get back.” He lets out a huff, clearly anxious to get going, “Now come on!”

 “Can Tilly come?”

 “Huh?” Tilly juggling an arm full of pots and pans shoots you a look of absolute confusion. “I got stuff to do around here!”

 “But I don’t-“ You step a foot closer to her, voice low enough only she can hear. “I don’t want to be alone with a strange man er-boy!”

 “John ain’t gonna do nothin’. He’s as dumb as a bag of dirt but he ain’t bad.” Her hand jumps to catch a cast iron pan that was slipping from underneath her elbow, snagging painfully on her finger. You relieve her of the heavy pan and find it a more convenient place in her jumbled arms. “You’ll be fine. Although I’m not sure you’ll actually learn anything.”

 You can see his horse patiently awaiting its rider, a big and burly warm brown stallion already harnessed. Next to it was one of the driving horses, even bigger than John’s horse and rippling with muscle. Black and white like a cow, towering over everything and everyone else.

 “Uum, isn’t he a little big?” Your eyes scan the big beast, just how in the hell are you even supposed to get on this giant?

 “Horses are for riding. He’s a horse, so ride him.” A blanket is tossed onto the curved slope of the horse’s back before a saddle follows. He’s quick and efficient as he pulls and ties the various leather straps into place, clearly very familiar with his way around a horse. “Alright, hop on up.” You’re a bit hesitant as you nervously approach.

 Please don’t kick me, Mr. Horse.

 Your first instinct is to grab the saddle horn, which is barely within your reach. Next you pick up your foot to awkwardly sit in the stirrup leaving you hanging off of the side like a monkey.

 “You’re doing it wrong.”

 “Huh?” you peek over at John, fidgeting with his suspenders. “How?”

 “Well, uh, you’re just getting on wrong.” You look down at your right foot twisted in the stirrup at an angle, then at your hands tangled together before looking at him quizzically. “You hafta swing your leg over… so you gotta…” He’s at a loss of words, mind clearly working overtime, his face beginning to redden. “Just watch me! Ok?” He places his left foot into the horse’s left stirrup before swinging his right over and finding his perfect perch atop his horse. “Like that.”

 “Ooh.” You readjust yourself to place the correct foot in the stirrup before hopping once, twice, and thrice heaving yourself up and your leg over the seat of the saddle. “Oomph!” your leg only hooks itself at the knee, leaving you to depend on your arms to pull the rest of your body upwards, hands barely having enough room to hold onto the tiny saddle horn before finally getting into your seat. Already looking like an idiot. You scoop the reins into your hands gingerly, actively making sure they are lax in your grip afraid you might cause the horse to move before you’re ready. “Now what?” you ask.

 “Now, we get a move on.” He clicks his tongue and turns his horse out toward the open desert. He gets a ways out before realizing you’re not following. “Are you coming!?” He yells.

 You’re digging your heels into the horse’s sides, clicking your tongue, pulling on the reins trying to get the thing to move, but he remains still. “How do I get him to move!?” you call back.

 “Squeeze his chest!”

 “Squeeze his chest?” pondering for a second, you almost give the big guy a hug before it clicked in your brain to use your legs, he moves almost immediately. “He’s doing it!” Your smiling, excited with your small little accomplishment. “Good boy.” Caressing his long wispy mane as you slowly make your way toward John.

 “There we go, now try and keep up with me.” John goes from a simple walk into a trot. You give his chest another squeeze with your legs, your pace remains the same, you then give a go at digging your heels in. That gets him going a little faster. John goes from a trot to a sort of jog, so you follow suit. Your lower back and bottom bouncing up and down on the saddle uncomfortably.

 “Aren’t we going a little fast?” You cry out. John peeks over his shoulder with a blank confused look.

 “Uh, no? We can go way faster.” His eyes drift off before looking back at you, “Did you wanna go faster?”

 “No, I think that would be a bad idea. I don’t even know how to stop this thing.” Oh my lord, Tilly wasn’t exaggerating. John pulls to the side and slows down, keeping pace on your right. His horse was a considerable amount shorter than yours, causing his head to only reach as high as your shoulder. He sits up a little taller.  

 “You know, I’m the one who found the spot.”

 “Hm? The campsite?”

 “Yeah, I’m the one who found it. Not Arthur.” He spits out Arthur’s name with some disdain.

 “It’s nice.” A pocket of silence fills the air.

 “The foods been better, and I noticed my shirts are not so full of holes.” He clears his throat. “You do good work.”

 “Why are your shirts so fond of holes anyhow?” Your mind drifts to that notorious green shirt. “I swear some of the clothes have had blood on them too.” You watch him carefully from the corner of your eye. Trying to keep a casual, calm air about yourself. “You ought to be more careful.”

 “We uh- get into fights sometimes.” His response isn’t very confident. “But! I mean- we don’t start ‘em.” He steers his horse into yours, “Lets take a left up here.”

 Just what kind of fights are you getting into?

 “Arthur’s good in a fight. I got to see that first hand.” John gets quiet.  You dared a peek to see his face was in a scowl. “Where we goin’ anyway?”

 “There’s another spot I found, thought you’d like it.”

 “So that’s where you boys went? Sight-seeing?”

 “It ain’t like that, someone’s gotta make sure the way ahead is safe.”

 Safe from what?

 “Can’t say I’m not jealous. A break from camp would be nice every once in a while.”

 “Well, we can go riding anytime you want.”

 “I’m sure Grimshaw would not be too keen on the idea.” Another round of silence. The area around you is beginning to become much greener, blooming cactus, flourishing sage brush and a particular earthy smell permeates the air like a delicate perfume. Each step forward becomes an oasis of thriving plant life, and just as your about to ask how, you see it.

 A great pool of water extends the majority of the horizon, reflecting the bright light of the sun and creating a perfect mirror image of the surrounding environment. A small group of Big Horned Sheep could be seen taking a gracious drink off the tranquil water’s surface. Various kinds of birds nesting in the blooms of the Joshua trees providing a sweet melody. Everything was flourishing.

 John’s horse maneuvers itself in front of yours, bringing you to a stop and putting said riders face right in your line of view. “I figured you could come here when you need to… ya know.” His face flushes red. “Bathe.”

 You let out a huff of a laugh and a smirk. “You know, bathing isn’t my whole personality. But I appreciate it.” You both sit in silence as you take it all in. It actually began to make you emotional, tears brimming to the surface of your eyes. You attempt to keep composure but it’s in vain as John clearly notices.

 “A-are you ok?” He sounds almost frightened. No doubt caught off guard by your sudden decent into sadness.

 “I-I’m sorry.” You turn away from him, dabbing away at your eyes. Face scrunched painfully as you try your hardest to hold back the sob desperately trying to come up your throat. “I-I don’t know what’s come over me.” Your voice cracks as you speak. It’s an awkward silence as you fail to keep your feelings at bay. You almost don’t feel the couple soft taps on your shoulder.

 “It’ll be okay…” John attempts say comfortingly, though it comes out sounding more like a question. It was… very sweet of him.

 Your horse seems to dislike the change in mood as he winnies in agitation, swaying side to side before moving suddenly.

 “WHoawhoa-WHOA!!” You shriek in surprise as your horse bolts forward with vigor, your hands yanking on the reins causing him to simply jerk his head and rip them from your grip. “Ah!” your hands desperately grab for his neck, looping around the large and taught muscle before you feel your legs turn cold. Your horse had felt the sudden need to plunge himself directly into the water taking you with him. Your wide eyes meet John’s still in shock.

 “Guess he was hot.” John remarks. The horse let’s out a long grunty sigh that vibrates from underneath you. You’re up to your shoulders in water, soaking you from your socks to your underwear.

 And you laugh.

 A long joyous slip of bliss from your lips, the first in a long time. And it goes on and on and on. Leaving you breathless as you pitter down to little giggles, only to rev back into a fit. Slapping the horse gently on his side.

 “You-hoohoo silly horse- ahahaha!” You can hear John letting loose a few laughs as well.

 “Well, lookie here!” A new voice arises from the shoreline. It’s Arthur. Basking down at you from atop his trusty mare, leaning forward and a twinkle in his eye.

 “What’re you doin’ here?” John doesn’t look happy, eyeing Arthur up with a challenging look in his eyes.

 “Lookin’ for you two.” He attempts to smack John, who swerves harshly out the way nearly falling off his saddle. “You’ve got night watch.”

 “So do you!” John retorts in annoyance.

 “Yeah, and you better not fall asleep on me!” Arthur goes for another swing, this time landing upside John’s head with a smack.

 “Ow!” John’s face scrunches up into a scowl, he retaliates with a smack of his own that causes Arthur’s hat to fall forward into his face. You let out a soft giggle at the sight.

 Like a couple of toddlers.

 Arthur adjusts his hat back into place, clearing his throat before speaking to you in a much more tender tone.

 “You need some help there, ma’am?”

 “uhh…” you grab for the reins floating just on the water’s surface, giving them a pull upwards, backwards and to the side. But the horse simply remains submerged and relaxed. You swing yourself off it’s back, now soaking every inch of you completely. Wading towards the bank as both young men dismount to meet you. Arthur has his hands extended before John practically shoves him out of the way causing Arthur to exclaim an irritated “Hey!”. You’re assisted up and out of the pond, John’s hand lingering in yours long after your clearly on dry solid land.

 “Thanks.”

 John nods with an eager smile. “Course!”

 “You can let go of my hand now…”  

 “Oh uh! Yeah…” He stammers a bit, looking at your intwined hands before finally releasing you from his grip.

 “What about him?” You motion to the large horse still sitting unmoved.

 Arthur looks to John and nods his head towards the water. “You get him.”

 “What!? No way, you do it!”

 “I know you chose the horse. So, you get to pull him out.” Arthur corrals you to follow him back to Boadicea, throwing in one last remark to John before placing you just behind him.  “Maybe you’ll finally learn to swim!”

 John flips him off leaving Arthur to laugh as the two of you ride away.

 “He can’t swim?” You ask genuinely worried.

 “Yeah, so don’t go askin’ for lessons.”

 “Is he gonna be ok?” I mean you did just leave him all alone surrounded by a large body of water.

 “Little John knows how to take care of himself. Drowning won’t be what kills him.” You look back to see John hollering and waving a carrot around trying to get the horse’s attention.

 You only give an uncertain hum, falling quiet. You try not to get too close, for both personal space and to not soak his entire back with your still sopping wet clothes.

 You’d be lying if you said Arthur didn’t scare you. Out of everyone in camp, you knew the least about him. And with his clearly appropriate label as the muscle of camp, it worried you to think if and when he’d use that muscle on you.

 “We haven’t really had a chance to talk much, you and I.” Arthur speaks.

 “Well-“ You exhale, “-it’s been a strange couple of months. Not like I’ve been in the mood to talk anyway.”

 He responds with a hum. “How ya holdin’ up?”

 “I don’t know… I’ll feel ok for a while and then out of nowhere I’m having a mental breakdown.” You fidget with the sleeve of your blouse. “I’m not sure holding on is something I can do for too much longer.”

 “Well… it hasn’t been that long ago since… ya know. But things will get better miss. These things just take time.” He perks up a bit, “And hey, being able to laugh in your situation, I’d say you’re well on your way to healin’.”

 Your lips twitch into an almost small smile. “I sure hope so, it’s a lot to adjust to… And I can’t say how much I appreciate you all taking me in and giving me so much.”

 “What happened to you? If you don’t mind me askin’?”

 “I…I got lost…”

 “Lost?” He sounds confused.

 “But I can never go back home. I can never…” Your throat constricts with the thought of people you once knew flash across your mind. “I-I don’t want to talk about it…”  

 “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” And you both fall back into the awkward silence. The only sound being the muffled trotting of Boadicea’s hooves on soft sand.

 Arthur suddenly pulls Boadicea to a stop, causing you to squeeze his waist extra hard and smooshing your face against his broad back. Catching a whiff of cigarettes and… Oh god he needs a bath.

 “What? What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” you quickly slip your arms away as he dismounts, grabbing a rifle from the saddle. You freeze up in fear as he meets your eyes and puts his finger to his lips.

 “Sshh…” he shushes softly. He lowers himself to the ground. Soft careful steps in the direction of a large cluster of brush. Your eyes scan the area finding nothing, fixing back to Arthur confused as to what in the world he’s doing.  

 He stops, stock still. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder before BANG and then another BANG. Making you jump each time. He proceeds to jog over to whatever he decided needed to die. His face is a light with a smile, rifle over one shoulder and two rabbits dangling from his hand held up with triumph.

 “Dinner!” he calls out. Swinging the carcasses over his shoulder. Making his way back to you, you spot dark splotches beginning to form on his shirt.

 Oh my god. It’s animal blood!

 A wave of relief falls over you, hand at your chest as you let go of so much stress and anxiety over that damned bloody shirt.

 “I was wondering where that blood came from.”  He looks at his now red stained shoulder as he ties a rabbit to each side of the saddle.

 “Oh yeah… sorry about that.” He attempts to wipe the blood off his hands before remounting, his hands now a bright pink. “I’ll wash this one, don’t worry about it.”

 “Oh? You know how to do your own laundry?”

 He laughs, “Yes, I know how to do laundry. Susan made sure of that.”

 “And you’re on a first name basis with her too it seems.” You notice the damp imprint you made on his back and can’t help but distance yourself from him a little more.

 “We’ve known each other a long time. I mean she practically raised me.”

 Raised him, so he was a kid when he joined up. My god that’s a long time.

 “Did you know your parents?”

 “I don’t remember much of my Mama, but my Daddy… I wish I didn’t remember much of him.” A bad father figure, not much of a surprise.

 “Must have been hard…”

 “Hard for everyone isn’t it?”

 “Yeah but… doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”

 He stays quiet for a moment before he speaks again, softly this time. “Your right… it don’t.” The conversation dies down after that. You make no effort to change that.

 You start to descend where the camp lies, completely hidden from view until you were basically walking in the front door. Once on the ground you utter a small “thank you” to Arthur. Turning to his horse

 “Thank you, girl.” You stroke her side gently; she eyes you with curiosity as if waiting for something. “Sorry I don’t have a treat for you.”

 “Here, give her this.” Arthur fishes around his bag before pulling out a round pale thing. You take it in your hand, inspecting it a moment. It was light and delicate. A rice cake without the rice. You offer it to Boadicea, palm open as she plucks it up with her big whiskery lips. And you let out an air of a laugh through your nose as she tickles your hand.

 “It was nice talking to you miss.” Arthur speaks with a smile, eyes shrouded by his hat, but you can still see the bright glint of his eyes. The two rabbits hanging over his shoulder.

 “It was nice talking to you too. I hope you sleep well.” You both awkwardly nod a goodbye as he departs.

   The second Arthur leaves your side, a new body takes his place. Samson towers over you and far too close for your liking. Taking two steps back, only for him to take two steps forward.

 “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He utters with a far too innocent look.

 “What do you want?” you blurt out your question with no effort in sounding in the least bit interested in what he has to say.

 “I want to apologize for the terrible first impression I left on you that first night.” He waits for a response from you, you don’t give him one. “I don’t want us to start off on bad terms, I’m really not a bad fella.” You roll your eyes, it’s the stupid nice guy bullshit even in this era. Turning to leave before you feel his disgusting giant meaty paw clamp onto your forearm like a vice. “Wow wow! I’m not done talking!” He barks angrily, yanking you back to your spot right in front of him causing you to yelp. “I think we could be real good friends. But it takes two my dear.”

 “I don’t want to be your friend!” You spit out at him, yanking your arm only causing him to grip it even tighter. He smiles wide.

 “Good. Neither do I.” Your stomach twists at the way his eyes linger in intimate places as they rave up your body before they fall behind you. Smile dropping and hand quick to release, causing you to stumble back. Gentle hands find themselves cradling your shoulder, pushing you behind a body.

 “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?!” Arthur’s voice comes out deep and low. Eyes staring daggers into Samson as your hidden from view. His shoulders taught and raised like the hackles of a cat. In the moment Arthur seemed to tower over Samson.

 “Nothing, just a friendly chat.” Samson feigns ignorance. “Not like it’s your business anyhow.”

 “When it comes to the safety of the women, it’s my business.” Arthur barks loud and gruff. Samson seems to notice the little exchange is drawing attention, eyes from others peeking around corners and watching. He fidgets.

 “She’s fine, ain’t no hair out of place or bruise on her.” He dares to meet your eyes again, but his view is blocked by Arthur’s body once more. “Like I said, it was just a friendly chat.” And with his final statement he finally leaves.

 Only once he’s out of sight does Arthur relax. “You alright?” His voice no longer holding the animosity he had only seconds ago. Now soft and hushed. You cradle the arm, no marks or bruising. But the feeling of that dirty hand lingers like a burn.

 “Yeah… I’m ok.” Your eyes remain fixated on your hand now rubbing your forearm. “Thank you for stepping in…” Despite the tense situation, you didn’t feel uncomfortable. You felt safe, secure, calm. You can see him fidget in your peripheral. Shifting from foot to foot.

 “If he gives you trouble, you come to me, Alright?” You finally look up into his eyes, kind and concerned. Nothing like the way Samson was looking at you. You nod slowly.

 “I’ll come to you…” His eyes drift from each of your eyes a moment more, before he nods his head.

 “Ok… You be well Ma’am.” You watch as he leaves, hands twitching and shoulders adjusting themselves. He approaches Dutch and Hosea who were sitting and chatting away with cups of coffee. There smiles dissipate as Arthur speaks. Their gaze looking off in the direction of Samson and then they turn to you. Your eyes meet there’s for a split second before you turn away quickly. Wondering off to find a nice sunny spot to dry off and lie low for a while.

[hongtiddiez]

The Lyrebird King - Chapter 3

(before we get into the last chapter i have prepped i just wanna give the biggest thank you to @lukaherehelp - i've been writing this novel since roughly the beginning of the year and recently slowed WAY down on writing it because there just didn't seem to be an interest and it's hard to want to keep writing if there are no readers. luka motivated me to post this here and i've cherished every reaction and tag so much, it made me love my boys again.)

Caius was not accustomed to the days passing in a blur as they had been. Aries brought an energy to the stagnant ruins that he hadn’t anticipated; the man practically breathed life into the cold cobblestones and worn brick. He’d insisted they clean things up, turn it into a proper living space for them both, and Caius was unable to refuse a sensible request. 

The first few days were spent clearing a cell for Aries (arguably a waste of time for how little he actually slept in it,) as well as craft a pair of makeshift doors for their respective rooms. Next, came the task of creating a pantry and a kitchen. Together, they managed to cobble together a proper stove and oven as well as a relatively weather proofed larder that filled over the coming days.

Throughout it all, Caius was constantly surprised by Aries’ ingenuity and craftsmanship. The man did not hesitate to launch into various projects, obtaining supplies from the surface and creating whatever they needed to suit their needs. It seemed those scarred hands of his were good for far more than grasping lovers and beating opponents. 

Their days were spent close together and Caius was forced to become familiar with sharing the company of another body day in and day out. He found he didn’t hate it, at least not when it was Aries with his affable smiles and easy going nature. He was not unlike a loyal pup, all boundless energy and eagerness to please. It was a personality that he would have previously found grating but now he thought of it as endearing. 

“You know, there’s a lot of space here. Feels empty sometimes, doesn’t it?” Aries spoke up one night over dinner; a simple stew they’d let brew in a cast iron pot and some wine pilfered from a vendor in the market that liked to mark up his prices three times more than what the product was worth. That had been news to Caius, but Aries had pointed out the vintner of the wine and the cost at other vendors. He was sensible with his coin like that and Caius couldn’t help but respect him all the more for it. 

“I suppose. More full now than before.” Caius gestured with his glass in Aries’ direction before pushing his now-empty bowl aside and kicking his feet up on one of the wobbly stools across the table (not one of Aries’ make, he never would have allowed the wobble to persist.) 

“Maybe to a recluse like you. You do know human company is good for you, don’t you?” Aries smiled but there was no barb to his words, only gentle teasing. It had taken a while for Caius to get used to it but he found he quite liked the easy camaraderie between them now. 

“So you say,” he snorted and lifted his glass to take a sip, certain the ruby color of the wine was staining his lips if the way Aries’ eye following the motion was any indication. “Are you alluding to something?” He couldn’t help but wonder if this was an invitation to his bed for the night, or perhaps a hint at inviting more into their little pocket of safety - something Caius would rather die than let happen.

“S’pose not, just an observation.” Aries hummed in response and the subject dropped there for the foreseeable future. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘𓅪∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Aries wasn’t entirely incorrect. Human company was good, though Caius could only truly tolerate the company of two people by design - Aries and his beloved mother. It’d been months since he’d been able to get away and spend time with her and the anxiety that brought him must have shown. He was restless, irritable, and bereft of any drive or goal. This attitude lasted several days before Aries finally pulled him aside, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in that way that was so caring and so confusing to Caius. 

“Listen, I don’t know what’s gotten into you but it’s clear something is festering under your skin. Go take care of it, the ruins are safe with me.” He promised and Caius was powerless to refuse. His mind tormented him in a way that was unique, a way only his mother could soothe, and so like a moth to a flame he drifted from the ruins and traveled far beyond the boundaries of Larkfield. 

He always knew how to find her despite the nature of her home; once their home. He walked along common roads and paths for days before slipping into a nondescript forest, a flash of rich cerulean cloth tied to a high branch the only indicator that he was in the correct place. He kept his steps quiet and measured, the glow of a large campfire finally breaking through the din of the dense forest and bringing a sense of comfort to his breast. Caius slipped through the treeline, hood high and steps sure, and came to stand beside several figures gathered around the beckoning fire. 

“Evening, gentlemen.” He spoke up during a lull of conversation, grinning beneath his cowl at the way each person jumped at the sound of his voice. 

“Lucien! Gods alive, you really have to stop doing that.” A brawny man covered from head to toe in various tattoos laughed loud and free from deep in his belly. He had missed that sound far more than he ever thought he would.

“Now where would the fun in that be?” He grinned and let his hood fall away just as the color of his hair and face drained away. He only felt comfortable dropping the facade here, among the people that had known him since birth. His once fair skin faded away to a pale slate gray and his hair stripped away to a brilliant white while the white of his eyes bled away to black. Where the enigmatic Caius had once been now stood a statuesque facsimile of a person with no remarkable features; a blank slate. 

“Is your mother expecting you?” A young woman spoke from across the fire, seemingly unperturbed by the eerie metamorphosis that had just taken place in the span of seconds. 

“No, thought I’d surprise her.” Once Caius, now Lucien, chuckled as they let their cloak fall away completely before rolling up the sleeves of their shirt to alleviate some of the heat from the fire. Streaks of shimmering gold littered their skin, long healed scars left behind from acts of hubris and bravery alike. 

“She’ll be delighted to see you, we set her up just beyond the cook’s cart.” A grizzled looking man spoke as he tossed a few twigs into the fire. “She’s not with anyone at the moment so you’re good.” He winked and Lucien could only smile fondly at the assurance. 

“Wonderful. I’ll catch up with you all later.” Lucien turned and made their way through the camp with a wave over their shoulder. They walked the line of various carts, each marked with a crude symbol to designate their purpose: the tattoo artist, the apothecary, the jeweler, a general shop, the cook, and the fortune teller. They stopped at this one, smiling at the indigo drapery dotted with constellations as they pushed past the beads in the doorway and found comfort in the way they clicked and clattered just as they had in their memories. 

“Ma?” They called before entering the main space of the cart, a smile breaking over their face at the sight of their mother gently sorting through a stack of cards. “Hi.” They whispered almost like a child, and somehow they always felt a little like one whenever they came home. 

“Lucien!” Their mother, Astrid, beamed from the little circle of cushions she’d been sitting in. She rose in a swirl of tassels, skirts, and wavy brown hair. Her arms instantly crushed them to her chest and her lips wasted no time in pressing to their temple. They melted into the embrace, the gnawing and rushing thoughts that had risen to a horrible crescendo of anxiety fading away with each inhale of her familiar scent. Incense and herbs and home.

“How have you been, my darling?” Astrid asked as she pulled away, one hand lingering on their shoulders as the other pinched their chin and turned their face this way and that. It was a familiar song and dance - Lucien pretended they weren’t routinely putting theirself in mortal danger and Astrid inspected them closely each time they returned to the caravan. 

“Fine, busy.” They finally tugged their chin away and led their mother back to the cushions. They urged her to sit before moving to the tiny stove where they put the kettle on to boil. 

“You’ve been busy since the day you were born, that doesn’t tell me anything.” She held up her empty cup when they turned and they took it from her to refill once the water was ready. “I heard about Sir Reinald.”

“Did you?” Lucien answered noncommittally and lifted a random tin of leaves to their nose. Their face scrunched at the scent and they hastily set it aside before grabbing another and repeating the action. 

“Mm, seems a little hero made sure his crimes were exposed to all of Larkfield.” They could sense the knowing smile she directed at their back. 

“Perhaps not a hero but a fool.” They muttered, pinching the leaves into the cups. It’d been a long time since they’d done a reading. 

“Oh, shush now. Doing what is right is never foolish, Lucien. I just hope they’re being careful and don’t get caught.” She raised her brow and they were instantly five years old, clutching a stolen trinket and wallowing in their mother’s disappointment. 

“I’m sure they are.” Lucien replied, watching the leaves swirl violently as they poured in the scalding water. “Rumor has it they have help now.” 

“Oh?” Astrid perked up, practically sitting on her knees, and they were reminded of how very young their mother was. She’d only been freshly in her fifteenth year when she gave birth to them, just a child herself and newly welcomed to this very band of merchants and performers. They’d grown together in a strange way and perhaps that was a large factor in how they’d found themselves considering their own mother as their dearest friend. 

“Mm. Word is they’ve met a brawler type, good with their hands and thus far loyal.” Lucien joined Astrid at the low table and set a cup in front of her while cradling their own between their palms, swiping their thumb over the chipped handle. 

“Thus far? Do they think he’ll betray them?” She wondered as she dropped a few cubes of sugar among the soggy leaves. Her dark eyes were too knowing, too piercing, and they were forced to look away and into their own drink. 

“People will always betray you,” They spoke to their own sepia reflection as Astrid dropped three cubes into their tea. “Ma don’t waste-” 

“Shush. Has this man given them any reason to suspect a betrayal?” She wondered as she stirred her drink with the tiniest spoon Lucien had ever seen, and yet somehow it looked perfectly in place in their mother’s dainty, manicured hands. 

“Not yet, but it will come.” They simply swirled the cup a few times before deeming it mixed enough to take a sip. They avoided their mother’s eyes until she tucked a finger beneath their chin and drew their gaze towards her. 

“Lucien, some people are simply good and you must let them be.” She smiled fondly as her thumb swiped at the corner of their pale lips, just over where they were bisected with a golden scar. “Do you consider me a traitor?”

“Of course not but you’re the exception, not the rule.” They shook their head and squeezed the cup between their palms. 

“Oh, my darling. I know the world has been cruel but it is not inherently so. You can’t turn your back on the good for fear of the bad.” 

“Am I meant to turn my back to the bad so it may stab me when I least expect?” 

Astrid groaned, clearly exasperated with a conversation they’d had many, many times before. 

“You know that is not what I’m saying, you’re being obtuse on purpose,” she chided and gently slapped their knee. Lucien couldn’t help but smile in the face of her fond frustration. “Stay vigilant, but stay kind. Kindness is not weakness, Lucien, I know you know this.” 

“I do,” they acquiesced and took a long, calming sip of the almost-too-sweet tea. “Their new ally… I have heard he is kind. He smiles often and with his whole heart.” They confessed, voice nearly a whisper. 

“And he’s good to them?” She asked, once again far too perceptive for her own good. 

“Far too kind. He is a fool who will someday find himself in a snare.” Lucien ran their thumb over the chipped handle again. 

“Then I hope the hero protects him. Family is important, whether it’s one you’re born into or one you build.” Astrid applied the slightest pressure to their knee, a reassuring squeeze that was both comfort and warning. “What do the leaves say?” 

Lucien drained the remaining liquid from the cup and set it on the crowded table in front of them, careful not to topple any of the stacks of cards. The dregs formed the vague shape of a kite, hovering just near the lip of the mug. 

“Quite the reading, hero.” Astrid smiled and they did not miss the way she tucked her own mug to the side, a clear shape of a cross settled at the bottom. 

Lucien had never put much stake in leaf readings anyway.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘𓅪∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Lucien didn’t stay long, just a single evening surrounded by family and friends from long ago. They all filled their bellies with food and drink and shared stories around the fire until the morning light crept through the thick canopy above. With the light of dawn they crept away to make their leave, effectively avoiding the discomfort of saying goodbye as most were now asleep. Shrugging on both the cloak and his identity, Caius returned to the ruins within a matter of days. 

Where he normally found comfort in the hollow echo of his steps down the winding stairs he found only unease. He could not hear Aries within the halls, could not hear the way his heavy steps or groans of frustration projected his presence, despite the lit torches that indicated he was here. There was no friendly greeting or immediate questions of his day, only a cloying silence that put Caius on edge. 

Slowly, he made his way towards their makeshift bedrooms, ignoring his own door for the one propped open beside it. He carefully nudged the wood to swing just a fraction of an inch, just enough so he could see inside, and the sight twisted his gut and had him swallowing a snarl. Aries sat beside his own bed, half asleep with a damp cloth in hand. A figure Caius did not know slept in the bed, too pale and too small. 

This time, he deliberately shoved the door to ensure it would squeak and announce his presence in the archway. Sure enough Aries lifted his head with a startle, alarm and guilt immediately evident in his eyes. Good. 

“Aries.” Caius lifted a brow and leaned his shoulder against the entryway with a calmness he did not feel. Barely contained rage rippled beneath his skin but he would at the very least allow his companion to explain himself, no matter how shoddy the excuse may prove to be. 

“Cai,” Aries spoke softly and rose from his chair. He spared a glance back at the figure sleeping on the bed and Caius sunk his nails into his own palms, only just stopping himself from grabbing Aries and demanding he look at him. He was the danger here, not the slumbering interloper. “Please let me explain.” He implored, warm hand coming to rest on Caius’ shoulder as he coaxed him out of the room. 

“Then explain.” Caius wasted no words as he crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance. He had only allowed himself to be maneuvered just outside the door where they could offer the stranger a poor attempt at peace. 

“He was caught stealing in the market today. The guard thought they’d use him for their usual games,” Aries said the word with a sneer and it painted a vivid picture in Caius’ mind. He knew what cruel games the guards liked to play, the way they would beat and break and crush their captives beneath their heels. “He’s just a boy, Cai, I couldn’t leave him in the street and no one even took the time to look at him.” Gods damn Aries’ gentle, bleeding heart. 

Caius took a moment to assess the situation, closing his eyes and drawing in a number of slow and measured breaths. He lifted a hand and swiped it from his temples to his jaw, massaging pressure points all the way. 

“Cai?” Aries spoke softly, tenderly, in that way he usually reserved for when they were tangled in bed and he was trying to urge Caius to stay. 

“It’s fine. I understand why you did it.” He wasn’t sure if he would have made the same choice, and he hated himself a little for it. “How long has he been here?” 

“Since yesterday afternoon. He only woke up once but he was pretty out of it, they hit his head pretty hard.” Aries explained and Caius watched as his shoulders dropped and the crease between his brows lessened. It was good that he knew the severity of what he’d done. 

“And I assume you’ve been with him all the while. Go to my quarters and get some rest, I’ll take over.” Caius waved him away and took a step in the direction of Aries’ room only to halt at a gentle tug on his elbow. 

“You just got back, you need to rest too.” Aries insisted, the crease returning but this time in concern. 

“I’m fine.” Caius carefully removed the grasp around his arm. “I’m quite rested after my visit. Sleep, Aries. I can spare a few hours to tend to your impromptu patient.” 

Aries hesitated just a moment and Caius could see each thought, each doubt, flicker across his face before it settled into quiet resignation. 

“Alright, but come get me whenever you feel tired.” He only nodded before continuing into Aries’ quarters. Now that shock and anger were no longer waging a battle in his stomach he could take a long look at the boy in the bed. 

He couldn’t be more than sixteen, his skin bruised and sallow and his dark hair wiry and unkempt. His features were different and yet so similar Caius could almost see the ghost of an old friend in front of him and it brought him up short. He froze, hand hovering just above the boy’s brow. A tremble ran through his body before he blinked it away and snatched the cold cloth.

He turned his back to the bed and dipped the cloth in a basin of water beside the bed, squeezing the excess water with mechanical movements. He was grateful when he turned around and no longer saw a memory but a stranger. Gently, he set the cloth on the boy’s forehead and allowed himself to relax into the well-crafted chair beside the bed where he slowly relaxed, loose limbed and exhausted both emotionally and physically. 

Aries wouldn’t wake for several hours but when he entered the room Caius instantly glanced up. The boy was sitting up on the bed, picking at a platter of various different foods and sipping at a mug of tea. He looked better; color had returned to his cheeks and his various bandages were neat and clean. 

“Was I out long?” Aries asked, voice still rough with the remnants of sleep. 

“Not terribly, Thorn woke just a bit ago.” Caius replied, watching from the corner of his eye as the name brought a smile to the boy’s face. 

“Your name is Thorn?” Aries wondered as he came to stand just behind the wooden chair, his large palm resting against Caius’ shoulder naturally. With anyone else, he would have found it oppressive and annoying. He despised the way it felt like comfort. 

“It is now.” Caius answered when the boy seemed too shy, shrinking in on himself slightly. “Will you be alright if I speak with my friend for a moment?” 

Thorn nodded eagerly and shoved another piece of food in his mouth, though he was careful not to eat too quickly and risk upsetting his fragile stomach. Caius offered him the best smile he could and hoped it came across as comforting and approving. He stood and led Aries just outside the door to the very spot they’d stood hours ago. 

“He’s staying,” he announced with no preamble and ignored the way Aries’ eyebrows rose dramatically. “And so is anyone else that may need it. You were right, this space is empty, we could do with some company.” 

“Caius, are you serious?” Aries wondered and Caius couldn’t help but give a genuine smile at the hope in his voice. 

“I am. The world is cruel but that does not mean we have to be. We can provide safety and shelter to those who need it. Thorn has the makings of an excellent pickpocket, stole my own keys right out from under me when I was changing his bandages. We can give him a home and a place to hone his skills.” He shrugged as if his thought process was very simple. It sounded selfless in practice, far more selfless than he was capable of being, and that was because it was not. It would just be another means to an end, transactional as all things in life were. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if he was any better than the very people he killed.

“You’re doing a good thing, Cai. We can help a lot of people with this, a lot of people like us.” Aries gestured between the two of them and the door, “People cast out and forgotten by society, people othered in the eyes of the nobility or their peers.” 

“Emphasis on the we. You will be helping me, Aries.” Caius watched none of Aries’ excitement waver. 

“Of course I will be, we’re partners, hm?” 

“Yes, I suppose we are.” 

[discount-limeade]

Slipknot: A Review

Part 2

(See Slipknot Vs. Batman For Iowa Era)

Conrad's Ratings On How Well He Thinks The Knot Members can Cook (+ What their favorite Poptart Flavor is)

#0 Sid Wilson

8/10

I actually REALLY fuck with Subliminal Versus hhh

No hair in the food. He's got a Tie on so he MUST know what he's doing. -1 for refuses to use the right noodles for the Dish. -1 Stares at you the Entire time you eat.

Poptart: Blueberry. He peels the Crust off.

#1 JOEY JORDISON

3/10

CANNOT COOK! -2 for does he LOOK like he owns a fucking pot OR a Pan. -1 Only has Ketchup and Half a Coke in the fridge. -1 he "Customizes" his Fast Food Orders. (BK BBQ Sauce on a Crunch Wrap Supreme ETC.) -2.5 for Asks you what you want then says no to every Option until you say what he wants. -.5 put salt in your Drink.

Poptart: Cherry or S'Mores.

#2 Paul Gray

10/10

Classic "Spaghetti Date" kinda Guy.

Homemade Sauce. Garlic Bread and Salad as Sides. No Complaints, he just knows what he's doing.

In a Not Spaghetti Setting, he will Cut your food up for you.

Poptart: Cherry. Toasted with Butter.

#3 Chris Fehn

6/10

Look at him Crackin MAD jokes in this Picture, love it.

-2 for "I love Cast Iron Pans Because you don't have to clean them". YES YOU DO. -1 Too much Salt. -1 can't make Eggs. Look at that picture, man looks like he FUCKS UP some Boiled eggs. But look again and Tell me He knows how to Fry one. Exactly.

Poptart: Berry Blast. Don't even know if that's a Real Flavor but it's his favorite FOR SURE.

#4 Jim Root

5/10

This is a Situation where I think that James, THE MAN, is actually a fuckin Superb Chef. This picture however, not Gonna Cut it.

-1 everything is Spicy as FUCK. Like Run To the fuckin Faucet For water, Damn Near Inedible For some Dishes. -1 for ONCE AGAIN I REALLY don't think this man Washes his Hands. It keeps me up at Night. -1 you made a Comment on a piece of his House Decorations and He Spit in your Sauce. -2 doesn't own Actual Plates or Silverware. Styrofoam Babyyy.

Poptart: Banana. Again, don't know if it's Really, but he looks like he likes That Fake Banana Flavor.

#5 Craig Jones

7/10

I think he'd be REALLY good at Grillin.

-1 for seasons Steak with Salt. Not exclusively but it's part of his Steak seasoning blend, it's just wrong. -1 Grill Brush Bristle in your Burger. -1 wears an Apron that has a print of some guys hairy Chest on it, that man is Wearing Speedos...

Poptart: None. Prefers Apple Toaster Strudels.

#6 Clown

5/10

It's Not that he CAN'T cook, he just doesn't.

-1 for Dirty Dishes. -1 for inappropriate Dinner Conversation. He is telling you about the Process of which This Specific kind of meat is Harvested.

(Personally I'd be Mad interested but Some people can't handle all that YK).

-2 for didn't shower before you came over. Nothing and Everything to do with Cooking. -1 His edibles are Kinda Weak.

Poptart: Cookies N Creme. Cream or Creme?

#7 Mick Thomson

8/10

Nah man, look at this fuckin, LOOK. Got me Gay As Hell.

-1 for the Opposite Cast Iron thing. He soaks it. Unforgivable Really. Now you have to season it EVERY TIME. -1 for He gave you a Mickey Mouse Spoon. -1 for he uses the Microwave A LOT. -1 butter butter butter, beer, butter butter. (This is how he keeps the Meat Moist.)

+2 for Dinner was Served on a Zoopals plate of your choosing.

Poptart: Cinnamon. The Superior Flavor.

#8 Corey Taylor

2/10

This is coming Out of pure Hatred for A post someone made. It Inspired me to make this Whole review. In this post, it was a Picture of the most UNDERCOOKED, UNDER SEASONED, WHITE PEOPLE LOOKIN CHICKEN THAT EVER EXISTED. And it was Some like, thing Where Corey was like, 'Made Dinner'. It was BEYOND foul. I know these Ratings are Based on the picture Provided but fucking -3 for That Post.

There is a Method Of Jacking off Wear you put soup in a Ziploc bag, then put it in a sock to make a Fleshlight. -2 for he served you the Sock Soup.

(I have never Tried this, spare me Please.)

-1 for look how dirty his hands are. Motherfucker doesn't even OWN a Sink. -1 for he Keeps sticking his fingers in the food to Taste it.

Poptart: Fudge. Toasted.

The End.