#I carry a paper bag bearing the name of the butcher's shop

[secicrexe]

to be empathetic

.

Je figure comme protecteur… je sauve ! Qui ?

Parfois c’est le trottoir qui me guide vers le droit chemin...

Je m’efforce d'être empathique, et mes doigts, telles des cordes tendues, révèlent un désir... Je remets des talons rouges derrière le miroir - encore – étrange ?... Je m'étrangle doucement, en robe d'homme rouge devant le miroir - toujours – étrange ! ...

Je porte un sac en papier du nom de la boucherie, fidèle compagnon, et dedans des salades fraîchement préparées, prêtes à être dégustées, dans la chaleur du repas à venir.

je me sauve ! de Qui ?

...

Khalid EL Morabethi

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[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Fan Fiction - Red Huntress Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Find this on Wattpad and on AO3

Left alone with the equine beast, Diana expected it to bolt, if not to attack her. For now, it seemed peaceful enough as she stroked its head, didn’t it? Yet she readied herself – whether to grab the horse’s halter or to dodge, she wasn’t sure.

Instead, it were steps behind her that made Diana flinch. They came from the manor. Diana froze, unable to decide whether to duck in a poor attempt of hiding, or to stay unperturbed like she belonged in this place.

Her hesitation took the decision from her, yet she was relieved when no one called out to her. So she turned – carefully, in chime with the horse’s movements – to see who was passing.

To her surprise, she found a girl barely older than her, striding along the manor’s parkway. Her proud gait alone, with assistance from her rich attire, revealed the girl to be Silver. She would’ve looked strange without either, with her hair so light it was more white than yellow like Diana’s own; and skin so pale it had almost a translucent violet sheen.

Diana hadn’t met many Silvers in her life, but she knew how they were, what they expected Reds to think of them. And yet, in that moment Diana didn’t see how different from her this Silver girl was. She was like her, Diana, a sulking teenager, and so pretty Diana felt the same kind of shudder as when the sight of Giselle took her breath away.

The girl stopped in the middle of the yard, raised her arms and waved them. Out of nothing, a gust breezed over the yard and onto the paddock and after a minute, clouds arrived from nowhere to cover the burning sun.

“It’s so hot!” the Silver girl cried out, turning on her heel to another person leaving the manor. Another Silver, an older boy with short dark hair and ochre skin.

“Hey!” Diana stood straighter in shock, because this was called into her direction. The Silver girl was staring at her.

Her heartbeat accelerated, sweat beaded on her skin. She couldn’t say anything. Maybe it was better not to say anything.

“Stable girl, don’t stand around like that,” the Silver told her. The boy reached his companion and grinned over her shoulder. “Don’t you have something to do?” the girl went on. “Feed the horses.”

Diana was still unable to act, too stunned the Silvers didn’t even consider she wasn’t supposed to be here. And why should they? They believed Reds were neither clever nor bold enough to sneak in somewhere, or to truly oppose Silvers. Diana’s people were roustabouts invisible to Silvers unless their skills came in handy.

So the boy and the girl didn’t spare Diana another glance, not caring if she did feed the horses or not. Thus, she concluded, they had to be guests needing to boss around although they had no idea how this manor or its workers operated. That should’ve incensed her, but in her panic, she realized that also made them unlikely to report her to anyone. To be sure, she ducked to get out of sight.

The Silvers crossed the rest of the parkway, reaching some transports waiting at a gate that seemed more like decoration than protection, if it came to it. The Silver girl sighed. “Lord Isère was a nice host.”

“ ‘Nice’ as in the little sister of shitty?” The boy chuckled.

The girl shrugged. “He looked away as we take some days off before … what was its name? Aerzen?”

The boy thought for a moment before he shrugged. “Probably, but let the others go there. Isère told me about a cliff at the lake here I’d like to see …”

Diana stopped listening. Aerzen was another village in the area, though in another county. Diana believed it was the next stop of the corvee. Thus, the two Silvers had to be here for the greeny corvee? The girl had looked like she was controlling the weather, like Silver storms could.

That meant the Silvers of the corvee were here but they didn’t bother to do their work.

Diana swallowed, and only moved when a horse whinnied. Then she picked up her mother’s rifle and ran. There couldn’t be merely two Silvers, the rest would still be around, or planned to arrive at the fields after all – although the boy as good as denied that. Either way, she had to warn her mother.

She didn’t have to search long; actually, she almost stumbled into her mother next to the stable. “The corvee Silvers are here!” Diana hissed, and her mother shifted into a sprint in an instant, pulling Diana along. Ducking, her mother urged her away from the pathway to the fastest way into the forest, where they ducked and stayed close to the brushwood.

Her mother continued to avoid the pathway, leading them farther into the underwood, unafraid of twigs and thorns but seemingly sure of the direction. Diana wasn’t as well-orientated but had no trouble to follow. Firstly, the brushwood wasn’t as much of a hindrance as expected, like her mother knew the animal paths, or had created some herself. And secondly because Mama’s pace began to slow quite soon.

Her mother’s backpack was filled to bulging now, and she could guess its heaviness from the sight alone. Was that it? Mama was broad and strong, but even she couldn’t run fast with such a weight to carry. Not for long. Yet they didn’t stop, not before they passed several kilometres and were closer to home than the manor.

Finally, Mama stopped at a fallen tree, slowing to a walk before she sat down on the log. Diana took the place opposite her, on the ground. Assessing her mother’s exhaustion, she offered her a bottle of water.

“What is in that bag?” she asked as Mama drank and sighed deeply.

Her mother took a few more breaths, and another sip.

“And what about the greenies? They’re supposed to do their part! How can they get away with this?”

Her mother shook her head and returned the bottle to Diana. As she drank, Mama smiled pitifully and turned her face upward. The sky was still coloured a bright blue, although the sunlight barely reached down into the woods where they hunkered. “It wasn’t extreme like this before,” Mama said. “Sometimes the greenies and their companions left early, or the storms and nymphs didn’t appear. Or,” she looked back to her daughter, “they grew more crop than was asked for. Do you understand, Diana?”

Diana nodded, her mind racing. “They … did this before, and ... had to make up for cutting work in other places.” She felt her anger rise. The quota for the corvee was unfair to begin with, but to give nothing to some villages and have others work harder, just because of Silver whims?

“I don’t believe they can always make up for their breaks,” Mama said. “But what should happen – to them? Were they young Silvers again?”

Diana nodded.

“The corvee is always performed by some youths with nothing better to do,” Mama went on, “folks with parents who’ll easily pay fines or make generous gifts to placate the crown with compensations.” Another of those joyless smiles. “And in the end, they can still claim the Reds had been too lazy, can’t they?”

“No,” Diana muttered.

“Indeed,” Mama agreed, and cleared her throat. “So, as the crown can’t rely on moody teenagers, the seeds are sent beforehand.

“And I took all of the seeds I could carry.”

Pride surged through Diana. “Really?”

Mama frowned. “It hardly matters. 30 kilos are all I can manage, and these seeds are customized for greeny abilities. I just wanted …” She shrugged. “Pure luck if more than half of it will bear fruit.”

“Mama. We left a large part of our field lying fallow …”

“And most of Sieverling didn’t save seeds for these lands? True. There’re few options left now, nor will everyone have money to spare for new seeds which are expensive this late in the year.”

“So can’t we do more?” Diana exclaimed. “Tell some neighbours to go to the manor, too – ”

“To steal, Diana. I’ve stolen these seeds, and if Isère notices, I am done for. How could I ask others? Whether they help me or not, they’d be guilty just for not reporting me.”

“But …” Diana didn’t understand. Mama’s words were clear, yet she felt a kind of challenge in them. “That can’t be all.”

“No?” Mama smiled sadly. “If this little will mean a couple more meals, someone or other in Sieverling might not die of starvation. Isn’t that enough?”

Diana didn’t reply because her mother was right. Every little thing counted, she knew. Just like Diana had to take care of her sister when she’d been a little child herself so her parents could work day or night. Like last winter, when Mama returned to hunting and the butcher just the day after she’d miscarried because they could neither afford the child nor a missed day of work. Not when she also had to make up for the day and money spent on purchasing the abortive drug.

“Simon offered I take over the shop,” Mama said without preamble.

Diana blinked. Simon was the young black master butcher who employed Diana’s mother. He was in bad health. His father had died last year, his mother much earlier. Conscripted for the war against Norta, she’d returned without her hands and died only weeks later of an infection in the stumps.

Diana swallowed. “Oh, I heard rumors about this. Congratulations, Mama.” She smiled for her sake.

Mama looked into the distance. “Simon will still own the shop and do the organizing and papers, but I’ll be in charge of the physical work, as the master butcher. Yet even this agreement, his father would’ve never accepted. He’d always hoped Simon’s health would improve, or that he married someone to share ownership with. When neither happened, he just ignored that Simon didn’t want to be the master butcher.” Diana nodded, although she didn’t grasp where this was going.

Her mother’s gaze on her was unwavering. “My family was so glad when I married Papa, you know. A spouse who’d take me in, and who had work for me, with him at first, and later at the butcher, after he’d used his connections. The other way round …” She bent forward and caressed Diana’s cheek. “We couldn’t have afforded a family. Not all three of us siblings. Not at the farm. Oh, there’s always need for another farm hand. But not enough crop to provide for all of them.

“Do you see, Diana? We’re lucky. You and Madeline, you can choose. Be a butcher, a hunter, or go to my family’s farm. You won’t have to worry if you have a job that feeds you.

“Isn’t that more?”

Diana almost choked. On her mother’s sadness, and also her own. She had to think of Giselle and her family who had lost their home after their village burned down in a fire. Their lord wouldn’t rebuilt or relocate them and so they’d had to search for another settlement to take them in. They’d been living in Sieverling only for a few months. They didn’t have their own lands here, and had to rely on other villagers to employ and pay them day after pay.

And yet. Diana felt awful for Giselle who wouldn’t let her fears and uncertainty show – because she had to, if she wanted to go on and enjoy the only life she had. What Mama said, that wasn’t more, not really. Rather more of the same, and Diana felt tears rising along with her ire. She swallowed a sob, though she couldn’t fool her mother. She cupped Diana’s face in her hands and Diana was certain that despite Mama’s arguments, they shared an opinion.

“What do you want, Diana?”

Diana closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “More,” she repeated quietly, knowing that wasn’t a real answer. Or was it? She was just a child, what did she know? The rest of the world was a mystery to her, as she was caged in endless fields she couldn’t escape. She wanted to scream as she suffocated under the illusion of a peaceful life. The Red serfs were supposed to feel at home, to be happy on ‘their’  farms and glad the Silver lords left them mostly alone.

But nothing of that was true, when at any time, the same lords could take everything from you, make you lose your home because it was never really yours to own. Not even your life was, when you were forced into conscription as the peace in the north was also a lie.

Her tears did fall and she did nothing to stop them, just waiting for the feeling of helplessness to pass. So did her mother who continued to caress her cheeks.

“When Papa comes back,” Mama said, “not this fall, but for good, next year, he can teach you.”

“What?” Diana whispered.

Mama’s small shrug couldn’t hide her smile. It looked genuine now, exuding hope – and pride?

“What you want,” Mama said. “To fight, for example.”

 As the sun started to set, they arrived back at the fields. No Silver joined them until nightfall, when the last of the Reds left.

A/N: This is the conclusion of the events of this day - the next chapter will be about Farley as a teenager.

@elliemarchetti @lilyharvord @mareshmallow @mvaen @wessanade @scxrletguardsdawn @maudthebookeater @marecalrandomstuff @sxfik @neyrriz @misslucyhutton @shadykittentraveler @gamer670 @screams-internallly @vampsbeforetramps @almostconstantlyawkward @olivegreenolives @avid-author-activist @abbyboul @yjlover @ifyouholdmebackimightexplode @sparrow-ceol @choosemarecal @alicialichter @gisabarrovv @inopinion @redqueenfandom

[frogfacefinn]

Scorpio Races Festival 2017

@thescorpioracesfestival

Rider Challenge #1 

The Thisby ferry wheezed to a halt next to a decrepit looking dock. The wind smelled like fish and brine and carried the shouted words of vendors along the pier, peddling local merchandise. I stood alone on the top deck of the ferry and stared out at the island. There was a small cluster of buildings that passed as a town— Skarmouth is what the crumpled ticket in my hand told me. The town didn’t have set city limits, it just fizzled out the farther inland you got.

    The hand that wasn’t clutching my ticket was holding onto the guard railing with a white-knuckled grip. I could clearly picture staying still on the abandoned deck and letting the boat haul me back to the mainland where I would catch a plane back to Canada and land, broken and defeated. The fact that I could envision my failure so clearly made my decision to get off the stupid boat a little bit easier. I slowly let go of the rail, my hand stiff from holding on so tight and lowered myself to the gangplank. The pier was bustling with people, tourists and locals alike, scattered among the vendors and their ratty tents.

There were a couple stands that caught my eye; brightly painted teapots beneath a sign that read AUTOGRAPHED BY THISBY’S OWN KATE CONNOLLY in bold yellow letters. There was also a booth set up that was oozing the smell of cinnamon and honey. As I walked past I could see the rows of cinnamon twists and brightly coloured cakes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple coins. I had a loonie and three Canadian quarters. I stared longingly at the bakery tent for a moment longer before plowing my way through the crowd again.

It wasn’t until I got to Main Street that I had realized that I had no idea where I was going. I stopped on the cracked sidewalk and turned a slow circle, taking in the buildings around me. There was another bakery, a tack shop advertising racing colours, and a butcher shop. I couldn’t bear the smell of the bakery any longer and the tack shop looked nearly deserted. A single bell chimed as I opened the door to the butcher’s shop, but the sound was quickly drowned out by shouts of orders and the clanking of buckets.

There was a girl about my age behind the counter with long red curls pulled into a high ponytail and a thick black apron with GRATTON FINE MEATS stitched in block letters on the front. She was carrying a metal pail that I could smell from where I stood. As she handed the bucket over to the man beside me I could hear her say “only the best for the horses sir” before quickly turning to me and asking in a harsh tone born of weariness, “what can I get you today?”

“Directions,” I said. It sounded more like a question.

“Where to?” she asked, clearly believing that I was yet another tourist wasting her time. I probably was.

“The Holly Stables.” She finally looked up at me from where she had begun scrubbing the counter.

“What business do you have at Holly’s place?” She asked before making a point of looking me up and down. I suddenly felt self-conscious about the ratty duffel at my side and my second-hand clothes. “You don’t look like you’re in the market for a racehorse.”

“I’m the new exercise jockey. Now, will you give me directions or not?”

She eyed me again, but this time with a sort of grudging respect. She reached into her apron and grabbed a pad of order paper before writing out directions in tall, sloping print. I took a minute and examined the shop around me. There was a short line of men waiting for their orders and another group standing in a disorganized clump, yelling about something on the chalkboard behind the counter. I glanced at the chalkboard. It was divided into a chart with Riders written on the left and Mounts on the right. There were five names scrawled on the riders list, but only three names down in the Mounts list. At the very top of the lists were Adelaide and Vim. I brought my attention back the girl behind the counter as she pushed the order sheet across to me. I noticed distantly that she had blood caked under her nails.

The directions she gave me led me right to the stone gates at the end of a wide gravel driveway. The drive curved up a sloping hill towards a stately stone house. In the distance, I could see a massive structure that must be the barn. Grooms shuffled about, kicking dust into the air. Horses called to each other over expanses of browning grass. I trekked cautiously up the driveway, taking in the sheer amount of activity buzzing around me. To my left, there was a huge round pen, much bigger than the one we had at home. A groom stood in the center with a man, trotting a tall bay stallion on a lunge line. It was clear that the man in the center was a buyer, his white shirt like a beacon among the muddy barn clothes on everyone else. The horse bronced at the end of the line and the groom jumped to correct him, flailing a lunge whip at the horse’s hindquarter. Idiot should’ve realized he was standing too far forward. On my right, was a stretch of soft dirt track. A few grooms were gathered around the fence, laughing and leaning on the railing. Out of curiosity, I made my way towards them and leaned as casually and inconspicuously as I could with my bag slung awkwardly over my shoulder. At the other end of the track, a pale mare pranced and pulled under her jockey, frothing heavily at the mouth. She was breathtakingly beautiful, even at a distance, with long legs, a thin, sinewy neck, and large intelligent eyes. She was gigantic, maybe 18 hands of pure muscle. The jockey tried to hold her back as she strained against the bit and fought her tie downs. Every time she took a step, the bells tied to her pasterns jangled sharply across the track.  A starting bell rang and the mare burst into action.

I have spent most of my life at the racetrack. I’ve seen some of the world’s fastest horses, but they were nothing compared to the speed of the white mare. She streaked past the crowd at the fence like a bolt of lightning, gone before you could blink. The horse made a lap in what must have been record beating time. Beside me, the grooms at the fence were making bets about the fate of the jockey.

“Ten pounds says she eats him before the end of the second lap”, Said one

“Twenty says she’ll throw him before he makes it around once”, replied another. I had no idea what they were talking about but they hadn’t noticed me yet and I wasn’t about to draw attention to myself. I found it impossible to take my eyes away from the sight in front of me. She was so breathtakingly fast, she looked like she was made of wind. As they rounded the straightaway back towards me for the second time, I could tell that something was wrong. The jockey was distracted, cheering something along the lines of “two whole laps”, and the horse was clearly about to take advantage of his distraction. I could see the reds of her nostrils, the way her ears were pinned tight to her head, and how her neck was arching dangerously to the to the side.

I suddenly understood why the grooms were placing bets.

I launched myself over the guardrail before I registered what was happening. The mare threw her head up so hard that the tie downs snapped, then swung her head to the side to catch the jockeys leg in her mouth, hauling him from his precarious perch on the saddle into the air before throwing him hard into the dirt. She reared up, causing the bells on her pasterns to chime as she struck against the air with her hooves. I sprinted across the track and managed to catch hold of her reins before she could take another piece out of the jockey.

Up close, I could see a patch of brown above her eye and where she was losing hair on her nose from rubbing against a halter. I had taken her by surprise, but I saw the moment her eyes flicked towards me and she bared her teeth into a gruesome grin. I  could distantly hear the yells of the grooms from behind me but before I could think, I had taken off my flannel shirt and thrown it over her eyes, tying the sleeves together under her chin. She instantly pulled back and shook her head wildly, trying to get the offending fabric off. I grabbed hold of the reins again and pulled down sharply, letting her know where I was and that I wasn’t to be messed with.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled someone to my right. The mare turned sharply towards the noise, nearly ripping my shoulder out of its socket. I put my hand up behind her ears and rubbed soothing circles, like I did with antsy thoroughbreds back home.

I turned towards groom who had spoken.

“Stopping her before she eats you idiots,” I spat. Now that I was closer, I could see all of the contraptions they had layered on the mares hide. There was a thick cloth braided with metal hanging down her flank and pieces of iron strung through the bridle, digging into the thin flesh of her face leaving bloody gashes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing to this horse?” I asked harshly. “It’s no wonder she’s losing her mind on the track, she’s covered in more bells and whistles than a freaking Christmas tree.”

I turned around sharply to see that a crowd had gathered around the fallen jockey. There was an older man with an older battered hat standing on the edge of the group, looking at me with a small smile on his face.

   I didn’t have time for this.

   “What do you want?” I snapped, “I’m a little busy.”

   “Oh, I’m just wondering how you managed to calm my horse down.”

I spun around quickly, taking in his appearance, although the clothes were older and worn, they were clearly expensive, and definitely not made for someone who mucked out his own stalls.

  It took me a moment to realize that the trimly dressed man in front of me was George Holly, the world-famous breeder. And my new boss. If he decided to keep me in after this disaster of a first day.  “Mr. Holly I’m so sorry!” I tried to reach my hand out for him to shake before remembering that it was holding the reins of a horse that would sooner eat me than look at me. “This is not how I wanted to meet you! I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have just-” Holly cut me off

“Calm down, if anyone should be apologizing it should be those ones,” he gestured over his shoulder to where the jockey and his friends were standing and staring. “They know Russa is off limits.”

“Russa,” I whispered.

“Anyways, I’ll lead you to her stall— she’s very specialized you see— then I can talk to you about your job.” Holly seemed excited, like a puppy or a small child. He began to lead the way, past the cluster of grooms, who all stopped their furious whispering to watch us pass. Russa’s saddle had slid sideways and the snapped tie-downs hung limply towards the ground. Her bells jangled as she walked and she looked completely docile, but her ears still moved rapidly under the flannel over her eyes and she quivered slightly where my hand was on her neck. I wasn’t fooled by the illusion. She followed behind me easily, the flannel forcing her to give in and trust me. She left a trail of blood droplets and foamy sweat behind her.

We made our way to the ancient barn. The building was made with gray stones that had been worn smooth from the weather. There was moss growing between the cracks and massive oak rafters loomed in the arched ceiling. The tall stained glass windows cast red shadows over the dusty floor. Most of the stalls had been renovated and had thin walls raised through the center to make more room. Near the back of the barn, the stalls were larger and more heavily fortified. We passed several shiny, expensive looking horses. Most of the time, when horses walk past other horses in the barn, at least one horse will call out to greet them. They are social animals; they like to interact with each other. When we passed with Russa, every single horse backed away and pinned their ears in fear. I couldn’t help but wonder why Russa had such a reputation, with both horses and people.  I led Russa into the last stall on the end. The stall was larger than most with a big window and thick stone walls. I hooked Russa to the cross ties in her stall and noticed that the ropes were threaded with thick iron chain and bolted to the stone walls.

I gently took the bridle off and turned to hang it up outside the stall. As I turned Holly’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Turn your back on her,” Holly replied.

I turned back to Russa and stared at the blood dripping down her nose. The more I looked at her the more I realized that she didn’t look like a horse. Her neck was too long and skinny and so were her legs. Her head was strong and fine but her eyes were too deep set to be natural.

“What breed is she?” I asked. I had never seen anything like her, she was new and unnatural and I was, unfortunately, obsessed.

“She isn’t a horse,” said Holly. “She’s something else entirely.” I didn’t turn to look at him, instead, I ran my hands along her hide until I reached the where the saddle sat haphazardly on her back. I unfastened the girth and let the saddle fall into a lifeless heap at her feet. She started at the noise but didn’t come any closer. Her ears flicked towards me beneath the flannel.

“I don’t know how much you know about Thisby, but every year, around mid-October, the Scorpio Sea begins to spit out these vile, horse-like creatures, the Capaill Uisce. For some reason, a couple thousand years ago, some fools decided to start racing them. That’s why the island is so busy and why I need to hire more grooms. They all want the fame that winning the races will bring. That’s why they all want to be the one to ride Russa.” I thought of the unbridled speed as she pushed herself down the track. It hadn’t even looked like she was trying. “She’s the fastest thing on this island, but no one has been able to stay on her back long enough to be a contender. I’ll probably sell her once training starts. Or I’ll let her go back to the sea.”

The entire time he was talking I was brushing down the mare. She didn’t smell like the horses I was used to, of sweat and dust and Cowboy Magic. She smelled like salt and rot and the Scorpio Sea. I gently unclipped her from the ties and removed my shirt from her eyes. When I took it off, she leveled a cold brown eye on me. It looked like she was deciding whether or not I was a worthy meal.

I exited the stall and stared hard at Holly.

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked. Why was nobody on this stupid island taking me seriously?

“It’s not funny at all miss—”

“Murphy,” I answered his unasked question. “Charlene Murphy.”

“Well Charlene, I assure you it’s no joke. Ask anyone on the island. Hell, go down to the beach tomorrow and see for yourself. All of the hopeful riders are beginning training down there.”

As we turned to leave, Russa neighed. But it was less of a neigh and more like a scream. It was ancient and dangerous and it called to something deep inside of me. It stirred the horses around me into a panicked frenzy. I looked back to Russa and saw that her ears were pricked and her eyes were fixed out her window towards the turbulent sea along the horizon.

That night I fell asleep with my flannel pressed against my chest. It no longer smelled like home. It smelled like salt and rot and Russa.

Also massive shoutout to @ho-onthego for being my beta because I don’t actually know how to write.

[ftb-writes]

Okay, so I had writer's block all week so I dug out the first chapter of what I had intended to be a multi chapter novel that I started just before getting my retail job. I haven't had any time to work on it further, but it does make for a good read so far, and I even have a few pics that I might post to go with it later. Also, the formatting is wonky... I tried to fix it.

---

The hiss is low and guttural; it is a warning, Chrys knows. He stops and stares up the path, scanning the trees ahead of them.

“It’s probably just an animal,” Bryn grunts behind him. “Or something.”

“It might be the ‘or something,’” Chrys replies, motioning for Bryn to stay still.

“You don’t think it’s a dragon, do you,” Bryn asks.

“If it is, it’s only a small one,” Chrys reassures his hunting companion. “It’s probably just a fox or coyote, but best to let it move on to be safe. We’ve already got enough meat anyway, and foxes tend to be thinner during winter.”

“If you’re sure,” Bryn mutters.

A few hundred yards down the path, something moves out into the open. It is not a fox, but it is not a dragon, either. It is a braksi, a large female with arching horns. Bryn reaches for his bow, but Chrys puts up his hand to stop him. The sound of their movements spook the braksi, however, and she runs off.

“Why did you stop me,” Bryn demands. “We could have sold the extra meat for some coin.”

“She was pregnant. If we bring in all the braksi, there wouldn’t be enough for the next generation to eat.” Chrys starts back down the path, but he turns back when Bryn does not immediately follow. “Coming, Bryn?”

“Yeah,” Bryn sighs, finally following Chrys. “Never thought of it like that. You think of the little things, Chrys.”

“One of us has to,” Chrys teases.

“Now that’s low,” Bryn snorts. “Even for you.”

The two laugh easily, teasing back and forth as they step out of the forest into the village of Telvinne. It is a small village, bordered on three sides by the thick forest the hunters made their living from; Telvinne is the last town on the way to the Scarast Mountain Range, with a butcher, a blacksmith, an herbalist, and the houses of the laborers in the area. With eight farms, a well, and nearby Lake Tel, for which the village was named, Telvinne is the home of hardworking folk, and traders came through twice a year for the villagers to get anything they could not make themselves, and so the villagers could sell any home-made goods.

Chrys and Bryn are two of nine hunters in the village; of the nearly seventy residents of Telvinne, thirty-seven are farmers, and the village’s main exports are their crops. The farmers will tell you the fertility of the soil is due to the nearby mountains, long believed by the people in Telvinne and the surrounding towns and cities to be the home of nature spirits, while the other hunters often swear it is the droppings of the large diversity of animals from the surrounding forest. Chrys thinks it may be a bit of both.

Chrys and Bryn make their way up the slope toward the main group of buildings along the main road into and out of Telvinne, waving to the farmers and the children as they passed.

“Here, I’ll take the meat to the butcher. Your wife probably has dinner going.” Bryn is married to a beautiful farmer named Ralla, who had given him a pair of twin sons a few years back. Bryn loves them dearly, and misses them on the long days spent tracking and hunting in the woods.

Bryn passes the bag with their catches and sighs. “Chrys, when you get a chance, settle down and marry a nice girl,” Bryn tells him. “Having dinner ready when you get home is a wonderful thing.”

Chrys gives Bryn a tight smile. “Sure, Bryn,” he placates, shooing the older man off. Chrys knows Bryn means well, but Chrys does not plan on settling down and getting married. Chrys has more important things to worry about.

“Ah, Chrys!” Marc greets everyone by name, and Chrys is no exception when he enters the butcher-shop.

“Hey, Marc,” Chrys replies. Chrys respects Marc with his kinder nature. Marc has bright hair and brighter eyes, and a gentle strength that can wield the knives that split bones for the man’s living. One of Marc’s sons is carefully taking stock of the meat behind the counter.

“Bryn and I just got back from a hunting trip,” Chrys tells the butcher. “Think you can do your thing?”

Marc laughs easily. “Sure thing, Chrys. See any dragons?”

“Nah,” Chrys answers as he passes the catch over. “I wish. I love dragon-watching.”

Marc smiles while he takes stock of the handful of small game, the pair of braksis, and a large buck. “Only you would want to actually see a dragon, Chrys. You’re crazy.”

“Crazy? Or interesting?” Chrys spins around, motioning out the window in the direction of the closest city, Nycelia, on the Southern Plains. “If I become a dragon expert, everyone in the city will want to get to know me!”

Marc rolls his eyes, but he knows from experience not to try to discourage the younger man. Chrys whirls back to Marc with a bright, excited smile. “I’ll be able to get into the royal court even, maybe!”

“Alright, Chrys,” Marc tells him. “Listen, it’ll take me two days to get all this cut up and figure on a proper price for you two. Come back then.”

Chrys nods. “See you then.”

The sun is beginning to set as Chrys leaves the butcher and starts for home. Chrys had built a small house for himself a bit out of the village, set back into the edge of the forest surrounding Telvinne, just south of Lake Tel.

The walls are covered in sketches of dragons, flora and fauna local to the region, and of villagers from Telvinne and the surrounding area. Unfinished sketches cover the small table in the main room, and Chrys is quick to close the door and avoid the breeze blowing the loose papers around.

Curled up on the table in the kitchen is a large cat that yawns in way of greeting. Chrys sighs. “I know it’s late, Bigelow. Marc and I got to talking. I caught a buck,” he tells the cat as he collects the loose sketches and stirs a pot of stew he had set to cook before he had left that morning with Bryn. “We can eat for a while off this catch, from the looks of it.”

Bigelow yawns again and sets his head on his paws. Chrys ladles some of the stew into a wooden bowl. “Catch any mice today?” Of course, Bigelow does not answer, but Chrys carries on talking as he sets his place at the table. “I didn’t see any dragons this time, not even a little one, but that’s not surprising. They don’t come this far north in the colder months, usually. Maybe when it gets warmer.”

Bigelow gets up and pads over to the door. Chrys frowns as the cat nudges it open and pads out into the deepening twilight.

“Eat it before you come inside,” Chrys calls after him. It would not be the first time Chrys woke up to an unexpected gift from Bigelow. Anything from mice and voles to rabbits and hares and even a young braksi, once; nothing is safe from Bigelow. Even bears and wolves stay out of the feline’s way.

Chrys grabs a hunk of bread he had made a few days ago and dips it into his stew, but Chrys jumps when he hears a loud yowl from outside. Chrys glances up toward the still open door, stew-soaked bread halfway to his lips. He sighs and pops the bread into his mouth and chews quickly. “What, Bigs, is there dew on the grass,” he teases as he walks outside. What he sees makes him freeze.

Bigelow is laying a few feet away from the door, on his back, staring unseeing at the night sky, completely still except for his shallow breathing. Chrys’s stomach somehow both drops and lurches up into his throat at the same time. Chrys slams the door behind him and scrambles over to his cat. Bigelow does not acknowledge the young man as Chrys leans over him, carefully stroking the cat’s cheek as if expecting the cat to sit back up. “Bigs,” Chrys asks quietly. “Bigs?”

Chrys bolts for Telvinne, his beloved pet cradled in his arms. “Hang on, hang on,” he gasps to the cat. “Stay with me, Bigs!” Bigelow makes a strange, breathy noise, but otherwise does not respond.

Telvinne is slumbering, but Chrys knows that the herbalist does not sleep until far later into the night. He goes straight for the her shop and home. “Elvira,” he calls desperately, shouldering open the door. “Elvira, theres something wrong with Bigelow!”

“Set him on the table,” the herbalist, Elvira orders, calm but authoritative, striding through the door to a back room. Chrys hurries to comply, laying Bigelow onto the exam table Elvira kept carefully clean.

She takes one look at the stricken feline and sighs. “I can save him, but I recognize the signs. Wake the rest of the village, everyone is to get to the bunker. This is the work of a cockatrice. Best to wait for it to leave the area.” Chrys nods and reaches for Bigelow, but Elvira shakes her head. “I will bring him after he’s healed. Go.”

Chrys shoots one more look at his cat before doing as he is told. Chrys trusts Elvira, he knows how capable she is. Elvira could set a broken bone, dose an ill sheep, stitch up a farming accident. But Bigelow has been a companion to Chrys for several years now, and the feline’s sudden attack has shaken Chrys.

Chrys leaves Elvira’s and decides to start with the houses that are closest to his; the cockatrice had passed his place first, after all, and Chrys worries that if it does come into the village, it will be from that direction. If a cockatrice does get into the village, it would be a catastrophe waiting to happen, especially with the children in Telvinne not knowing to steer clear.

Bryn’s house is the first he goes to. “Bryn! Bryn, please, wake up,” Chrys cries, banging on the door desperately.

Bryn’s hair is tousled when he answers, eyes weary from sleep. “Chrys? What’s wrong, what time--”

“A cockatrice attacked Bigelow in front of my house. Elvira wants everyone in the bunker, now.”

Bryn leans back inside, shouting to wake his family. “I’ll get Ralla and the boys off and I’ll help wake everyone,” Bryn tells Chrys, before darting back inside to help his wife and sons. Chrys turns and darts across the dirt road to the farmer, Dale’s, home. Dale is still young, like Chrys, and he doesn’t have a wife or children either and is quick to offer to help wake the rest of the village as well.

Between the three of them, Bryn, Chrys, and Dale are able to rouse everyone and send them for the bunker in a short time. When the three men arrive at the bunker themselves, helping Marc and his wife, the blacksmith Mira, herd their five children through the dark streets, Elvira is waiting. She waves them all in and shuts the door, and then turns her brown eyes to Chrys.

She quietly greets him, and carefully passes a bundle to him. Bigelow is sleeping peacefully, but he lazily opens an eye to glance up at Chrys, before he begins purring softly as he drifts to sleep in his owners arms.

“He will be a bit out of sorts for a few days. Best to keep an eye on him until he returns to normal,” the herbalist instructs. “Now, let us retreat deeper in. It is late, but we are all safe thanks to the fact the beast ran into Bigelow first; I am sure the others are grateful, and they are glad that he is alright.”

Chrys has never been inside the bunker, has never really needed to. Telvinne has it’s very own, as most of the villages, towns, and cities in the country of Belaro; they were built during the great dragon wars a few hundred years ago, and they are kept in good repair thanks to the crown. These days, they are mostly used for storage. Telvinne’s bunker is dug into a large hill opposite Chrys’s home, lined with stones to keep the walls from falling in and with a handful of large beams scattered through the single room to hold up the ceiling.

Chrys does not like it at all. The walls feel too close, the ceiling too low, despite it being large enough inside the bunker to hold several of the houses of Telvinne inside comfortably. Chrys settles down in a quiet, out of the way spot by the door to wait while his skin feels like it is crawling off, and Bigelow’s quiet purring seems to be the only thing that can calm the young hunter. It takes three days of sending out a small party a few times a day for Elvira to be satisfied that the cockatrice did not stay in the area, and during those days Chrys sleeps little.

The day after the cockatrice-induced seclusion ends, it snows in Telvinne; for the first time in nearly half a century, Telvinne is covered in several inches of thick flakes. By the end of the day, those several inches have grown to a foot, and the next morning sees Chrys struggling to get his front door open. Bigelow seems content to wait out the snow, but Chrys had some salted stew-meat and the money from the hunting catch to retrieve from Marc at the butcher shop.

Halfway to town, Chrys runs into Dale. The farmer has tripped or slipped on the way to check the farm he works, and he is stuck so deep in the snow he is barely visible. Dale had moved to Telvinne from further south by Nycelia, and likely had never experienced snow like this before.

“Need any help, Dale,” Chrys asks as he approaches. It takes Dale a moment of squirming to get his head totally above the snow, and when he does, he has to squint against the sun.

“Ah, no, Chrys, I’m fine,” Dale says, teeth chattering slightly. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and huffs.

“So, what are you doing, then?” Chrys wades a little closer. The snow is up to his waist already, and though it has slowed down, the snow is still falling. Chrys usually lets Dale do things himself and Dale usually does not ask for help, but in this snow that mentality could be dangerous.

“I--” Dale starts to say, and sneezes. The two stare at each other for a moment in surprised silence before Dale sighs. “I’m stuck.”

“Do you want me to get you out?” Chrys leans closer to Dale to brush snow off his head.

“Yes, please,” the farmer replies, rather meekly.

Chrys rolls his eyes. “It’s okay to ask for help, Dale,” he tells the farmer gently as he begins digging. “We only have each other out here.”

Dale smiles. "I know," he tells Chrys. "I know. I just--" he sighs again, heavy with thought. "I'm not used to having anyone to ask for help. I lost my parents to a bear when I was still pretty young, so I’m used to just doing everything myself."

Chrys glances up at Dale and gasps. "Dale, woah, I'm so sorry."

Dale sniffs. "'S alright. It was a long time ago, I don’t really remember it all that much."

Chrys helps Dale up and helps him dust off. "It's still pretty horrible. I can't imagine what that must have been like for you." When Dale just shrugs again, Chrys sighs. "Hey, listen, Dale. My house is kinda snowed in right now, but if you're out late in the fields, you're welcome to crash at my place. It's closer to your farm than the village is."

Dale chuckles. "Yeah, thanks, Chrys. And, ah, if you need a place to crash not buried in snow..."

Chrys laughs. "Thanks Dale. I might just take you up on that. Spirits know Bigelow hates the snow, poor boy won't leave the house."

Dale joins his laughter, the sadness from a moment ago forgotten, even if only temporarily.

"I mean, aren't you worried about the dragons, too," Dale asks.

"Nah, they don't bother me," Chrys tells him, waving as if to brush the concern away. "C'mon, if you walk me back to my place, I have something I wanna show you."

The two talk while Chrys retrieves his meats, and they help each other trudge back through the snow. Chrys glances at Dale once before he pushes the door to his home open.

Dale's mouth falls open. He steps into the house, slowly spinning to take in all the pictures. "Did you draw all these," he wonders. "They're amazing!"

"Thank you," Chrys laughs, blushing slightly.

"Where did you see these dragons," Dale continues, motioning to some of the sketches. "Were they in a book?"

"No, these are dragons I've seen while hunting. Or they've strolled across my yard. This one--" Chrys reaches up to a cluster of sketches of the same dragon, a large male with curling horns and dark scales. His wings have some minor tears along the edges, and he's covered in scars; there is a determined gleam in his eyes in all the sketches Chrys has of him. "I call him Big Boy," Chrys explains. "He's the most territorial in the area. I think he's the one in charge around here. He's the first dragon in during the warm months and the last one out when it gets colder. I saw him quite a lot while I was building my home. Nothing happens in the area without Big Boy knowing about it."

"Really?" Dale cocks an eyebrow. " Does he know about me?"

"Probably," Chrys tells him, shrugging. "He may have never seen you," he reassures when Dale looks mildly alarmed, "but he knows everyone in the area by scent."

"Wow. And he just wanders through your yard every now and again?"

Chrys nods and motions to another cluster of sketches. These feature a female, one with a blind eye and a missing claw on one of her front feet. There are less sketches overall than of Big Boy, but they are more detailed. "This is Skye. She's a bit more shy, but she sits for hours once she is comfortable. She's Big Boy's mate. Whatever she's doing, she's doing it right. Most males mate with a different female each year, but Big Boy keeps going back to her."

"Who's that," Dale asks, pointing up at another sketch. It's a jet black male, with no scars or injuries. The sketch looks hurried, and the dragon it features appears to be asleep. That sketch is the only one of this particular dragon.

"That's Shadow," Chrys says, fondness in his voice. "He's my favorite. Never sits still, but he's a gentle soul. Bigelow's gone hunting with him a few times. He's a little smaller, or maybe he's just young. He checks in with me every year when the dragons come back north for the spring and go south for the winter."

Dale glances up at Chrys. He has a gleam in his eyes; Dale can see that this is not mere curiosity, like most of the villagers assume -- Chrys is obsessed, he's living and breathing and dreaming dragons.

"Crazy idea," Dale says. Chrys turns his gaze back to the farmer with a teasing smirk.

"Crazy," he asks, "or interesting?"

Dale snorts, and then reaches up to motion to all the sketches. "Could I bring my uncle down here sometime? He lives in Nycelia, and he's an old drinking buddy of Nycelia's current dragon expert, Tern--"

"Yes," Chrys interrupts. "Of course." He scoops Dale into a tight hug, a light, airy giggle tumbling off his lips. "Thank you, Dale," Chrys says as he lets the farmer go. "None of the others have ever taken my dreams seriously."

Dale flushes at the honesty in Chrys's voice. "Just don't forget to come home every now and again, yeah?"

Chrys nudges him gently. "Hey, why don't you come along, Dale? It's bound to be an adventure, and I could use an extra set of hands -- wherever it is that studying dragons will take me."

Dale looks around the sketches, at Chrys's excited grin, and he feels himself grinning back.

"You have to show me me all the local dragons, first," he says.

"As soon as it warms up," Chrys promises.

"Then I'm glad to be on board," Dale agrees, shaking Chrys's hand. "Now, come on. I'll help you move Bigelow up to my house. Besides, it's weird that there's more snow here than up in the village."

"There is a slight slope," Chrys chuckles, turning to grab a blanket. "When the snow gets too heavy, it pushes everything down towards me."

“I’m never gonna get you northerners,” Dale sighs.