#Medicine Lake Lookout

[thorsenmark]

Itineraries in Exploring Jasper National Park by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While at an overlook with Medicine Lake and a view looking to the southeast. This is in Jasper National Park. My thought on composing this image was to zoom in with the focal length and align myself to create a layered look with the nearby shoreline, to the blue waters of the lake, and then to more distant ridges and peaks. I also wanted to bring out a look with the mountainsides with that almost sideways. Nearby was the mountainside of the Medicine Lake Slabs and it's almost vertical rise. One could then a more distant set of ridges and peaks with the Queen Elizabeth Range.

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[just-a-slytherpuff]

Snape's Snokemon team

Got inspired to design a full Pokemon team for Snape so here we go.

First off is Serperior: the Regal Pokemon. It's a snake, it's royal, what more justification do you need? I think the Half Blood Prince wouldn't be able to resist that sort of combination. Serperior is definitely the Pokemon he claims as his main one for the sake of appearances.

Second is Paras: the Mushroom Pokemon. I figure Snape originally caught this one for the cordyceps mushrooms on its back, which are known for their use in herbal medicine, and then decided to keep it around. Also, @dastardly-lemondrops informed me that Paras in Legends Arceus are bizarrely aggro and that it would be funny if Snape's Paras was like an angry chihuahua.

Third is Watchog: the Lookout Pokemon. I picked this one because it seems like it would be great for helping him search for ingredients while out in the forest. Plus, I think that with Snape's past of being targeted when alone, he'd love a Pokemon that's always on the lookout for him instead. Because of that, Watchog ends up very protective of him, to the point where Snape tends to only call it out when others aren't around.

Fourth is Golduck: the Duck Pokemon. I figure Snape needs a water-type for underwater gathering and Golduck seemed a great fit for that. It regularly scours the lake for interesting ingredients that Snape can add to his potions. Also, Golduck has telepathic abilities that allows it to pass on knowledge to its trainer that I'm sure Snape would love.

Fifth is Delphox: the Fox Pokemon. With the witch and prophecy theming, I thought Delphox was a good pick for Snape, even if he wouldn't exactly like it. Therefore, I've decided that the reason he kept it around is that it's a shiny that just showed up one day and wouldn't leave him alone. It's very insistent on sticking around and he enjoys the prestige of having a shiny so now he just has to deal with this thing looming over his shoulder and starting all his fires for him.

And the final pick is Crobat: the Bat Pokemon. It wouldn't be a Snape team without at least one poison-type, so I figured why not lean into the dungeon bat theme. I've decided he raised this one all the way up from a Zubat, maybe even his first Pokmon. Also, since Crobat is a friendship based evolution, it would give a hint as to his true nature. People who don't remember him having a Zubat assume he got lucky in finding one, and those who do remember his little Zubat assume he got rid of it in exchange for the final evolution.

Also: honorable mentions to Inkay, Polteageist, and Shuckle for being great potential picks that didn't make the cut.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[cascadeclan-gen]

Moon 4

“Are you sure we can’t go with Otterdive and Hyssopbloom on border patrol?” Pebblepaw asks. It was sunny and warm, and Pebblepaw was itching to take a long walk through the forest. Especially with Otterdive - the young warrior would always take time to show him new plants or interesting bugs.

“Yes, Pebblepaw,” Snowstar replied, still patient even though this was the third time he’d asked. “This is an important lesson. One that is well past due.”

Through a great feat of restraint, Pebblepaw didn’t roll his eyes. Snowstar thought every lesson was important. He plodded after his mentor through the undergrowth, but his sour mood dissipated as they arrived at Lookout Point. Pebblepaw raced the last few foxlengths forward to stop at the edge of the cliff. A warm breeze ruffled his fur. The landscape spread out below him, greens and blues disappearing as they combined with the cloudy gray sky.

Snowstar sat beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s time I tell you our story, kit. The whole truth.” Pebblepaw sat down next to Snowstar, close enough their pelts were brushing. He didn’t say anything and let the leader collect his thoughts.

Snowstar curled his tail around Pebblepaw, and began to speak. “We are from LightClan, of the tallest peak. A Clan named after the stars that guided them, proud and pious. But the Clan was built on cowardice and vanity. LightClan once lived here, in this territory, with two other Clans.

“Their names and histories have been lost to time, but the three Clans thrived in their home. Until one fateful day, a wildfire swept through. One of the medicine cats was given warning, so that they could aid the other Clans, and all three could survive. But terrified and panicked, the one Clan fled without telling the other two. They followed the brightest star to a mountain peak, and called themselves LightClan. They thought themselves important and chosen. They were cowards,” Snowstar spits. Pebblepaw looked out onto the CascadeClan territory, picturing it ravaged by flame, and pressed closer to his mentor.

“By the time I became an elder, my former mentor was the oldest cat in the Clan. She whispered this tale to me, passed down through her family, for she had neither mate nor kits. But someone needed to know of LightClan’s past. One not of glory, but of shame. And I knew that someone had to do something. I called a meeting and told the Clan the truth, and called for them to join me and return to this territory and right our wrongs. To find the descendants of those Clans, if they had survived, and restore the three Clans. But LightClan would not listen.

“In the end, only a pawful of cats joined me. Your mother, Ridgepelt, saw this as a sign, and wanted to join me on a grand adventure. Skystripe knew that we would need healing and aid on our journey. And you, kit, brought with your mother. I think you remember the rest well enough; you helped found the Clan, after all.”

Pebblepaw nodded, silent. He could understand Snowstar’s frustration with the ancient Clan who had abandoned cats to die. But he wasn’t sure that his leader had done the right thing, recreating a Clan that had been snuffed out so long ago. After all, wouldn’t StarClan have warned all the medicine cats about the fire if all Clans were meant to survive? And he had only heard the story from an old elder. What if it was wrong?

But Pebblepaw loved his home. He couldn’t remember LightClan very well, and his life was here by the lake. Besides, he trusted Snowstar. He knew the old tom always tried to do the right thing. So he would trust him to be right about this, too. “We’re only one Clan, though. How will we create two more?”

Snowstar smiled. “I believe that the territory wants us here. It wants three Clans once more. I promise you, kit, cats will come, and the forest will be whole once more.”

Pebblepaw sunbathed with Mistyfur and Doveshade. He asked them about life at the Lodge before they joined the Clan, and marveled at how different it was!

Currantkit joins Pebblepaw for a meal. The kit is starting to eat solid food, and asks Pebblepaw about all of his favorite prey.

Doveshade’s whitecough doesn’t improve, but it doesn’t worsen either.

Mistyfur’s tail becomes infected.

Skystripe struggles to care for Doveshade and Mistyfur while also caring for her two kits, but doesn’t trust her Clanmates to properly heal her patients, and doesn’t ask for help.

[selestialwarriors]

Cloudclan territory consists of six mountain peaks and a glacier. Cloudclan lives in a crystal cave on a tall mountain just above the tree line on the western edge of the territory. The valleys between them are connected by tunnels that the Twolegs had once built but long abandoned. Some cats believe that they were trying to obtain the strange crystals that are common across the region. Twolegs are strange creatures, so whether this is true or not is yet to be determined. What Cloudclan does know is that they are rarely seen in Cloudclan territory. During Greenleaf and early Leaffall, Twolegs come to spend time in the tiny houses on the territory. They often travel on the small thunder path in their monsters to the top of a steep hill to look at IcePeak and Skycrystal. But the Twolegs disappear during late Leaffall through most of Newleaf. Some cats believe that this is because the monsters struggle on snowy and icy surfaces. The near-constant cloud cover during cold moons may also play a role in the absence of twolegs.

(I will be updating these posts as I draw the landmarks)

Important Landmarks

Twoleg Place and Twoleg Gathering place- A group of small cabins where Twolegs can camp. There's a road connecting the cabins to a lookout point where Twolegs can marvel at both the Skycrystal and IcePeak.

Skycrystal-.This unusually large crystal structure sits atop a mountain on the eastern edge of Cloudclan's territory. Skycrystal is a sacred place where Cloudclan connects with Starclan. Leaders receive their nine lives here, and Medicine Cats visit each moon to speak to Starclan. When traveling to Skycrystal, they use a cave system inside the mountain that leads up to the top.

Spiritmeadow- Cloudclan's burial ground, is located in a large valley meadow that blooms with a rainbow of flowers every Newleaf. This valley is directly below Skycrystal Mountain.

Pine Forest- A dense alpine forest that provides a safer place to hunt during the colder moons. Deer, elk, and the occasional moose are commonly seen here.

The Twisted tree- A windswept juniper tree that hides the entrance to the cave system that Cloudclan uses to circumvent the steep slopes of Skycrystal Mountain. It's located at the edge of Spiritmeadow.

IcePeak - a large melting glacier that's the source of a small lake that's near their camp. The water runs down to the lake in a spectacular waterfall that can be seen from the Twoleg Gathering Place.

ColdPool - An abnormally clear lake that's fed by the melting of IcePeak. It's possible to swim and hunt fish in ColdPool. Though it isn't recommended to newcomers to the clan. Any cat without Cloudclan's signature double coated fur can easily catch hypothermia in the frigid waters.

[twilights-800-cats]

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Chapter 6

Crowflight and the others made their way back to the Arrival as the moon climbed high into the sky, silent and determined. Their pawsteps were quick and light, and the chill in the air didn’t bother them – they had accomplished their mission, and the excitement of telling their Clanmates about their new homes was bigger than an impending leafbare could ever be.

They dodged around the patch of land that crumbled away into the lake and headed uphill towards the fallen tree stump and clumps of bushes where the Clans were currently sheltering. Silhouetted against the faint moonlight, Crowflight could make out cats moving here and there between the bushes. He tried to guess who they were, but it was impossible, and the mingled scents of the Clans coming down from the hills meant even less.

A pair of lookouts spotted them quickly, however, and Crowflight recognized them at least by voice – Thornpaw of his own Clan, and Smokepaw of ShadowClan. The two ought to have been asleep at this time of night, by Crowflight’s guess, but awake they were, and they were positioned on the high point of one of the hills bordering the Clan’s temporary camp.

“They’re back!” Thornpaw yowled into the night. She turned and cried, “The patrol’s come back!”

There was an immediate stirring in the shadows. Cats poured out from every bush, behind every hill, and suddenly, before the patrol had even stepped paw into the camp proper, they were surrounded.

“What’d you find?” Dustpelt of ThunderClan demanded, his pale eyes glaring at Mistyfoot. “Plenty of trees?”

“Do we have homes?” Heavystep, a RiverClan warrior, was looking at Tawnypelt. “Is there room for us here?”

“What’d you see?” asked another cat.

“I want to hear!” cried an apprentice. “Tell me, tell me!”

Crowflight pressed himself against Stoneheart. The patrol was barraged with questions from understandably eager cats, but that didn’t make it any less annoying or intrusive, especially when Crowflight wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep off his tired paws.

The others were just as shocked and overwhelmed, pressing together into a tight ball. How could they possibly answer all of these questions? Crowflight bristled, wondering if he might have to swat some cat on the muzzle if they got too close to him.

A commanding yowl saved them: “Enough!”

It was Leopardstar. The dappled she-cat pushed her way through the crowd, her presence – and the presence of Russetstar, Tinystar, and Mudclaw just behind her – quieting the group of eager warriors. Leopardstar’s amber eyes flashed and she glared at the surrounding cats until they took at least two steps back each.

“There's no need to crowd,” Tinystar offered, his tone and demeanor more amicable than Leopardstar’s. His ice blue eyes lighted on each cat from the patrol. “They’ve a lot to tell us, I presume, and you’ll hear all the details soon enough!”

Russetstar was nodding in agreement. “We’ll convene with the members of the patrol and hear their reports,” she stated firmly. Her gaze rested solely on Stoneheart. “We’ll take what they’ve told us and approximate our territories from there.”

“And then we can leave,” Mudclaw finished. His eyes burned into Crowflight, and Crowflight resisted the urge to shrink beneath his former mentor’s gaze.

Mudclaw stood on no more ceremony – he flicked his tail at Crowflight and then headed off into the night. Crowflight swallowed. He’d wanted to tell Shadepaw all he’d seen first, not Mudclaw; but he couldn’t see her in the crowd – she was probably with the other medicine cats, talking about their own issues. He'd have to talk to her later – Mudclaw didn’t like to wait.

The patrol split. Tawnypelt followed Leopardstar towards the lake shore, and Crowflight caught sight of Falcontail’s shape slinking away from the crowd to join them. Tinystar summoned his senior warriors with a flick of his tail, ushering them, Mistyfoot, and Nightfrost away towards where the bushes were thickest. Russetstar brought Blackfoot and Wolftooth with her as she and Stoneheart made their way towards the tree stump.

Crowflight’s pelt prickled. He didn’t like the way they were all huddling in secret, but there was nothing for it now. Lines had to be drawn. The four Clans had to be four once more, no matter what. He got to his paws and hurried after Mudclaw, leaving the remaining cats, disappointed to not have been chosen for the discussion, to speculate.

Mudclaw met him on the top of the farthest bordering hill, with Onewhisker and Ashfoot. Crowflight greeted his mother with a short purr and a touch of the nose before he sat down before them. He curled his tail around his paws, hoping that he could hide his nerves. He’d never been singled out in a positive way before, not by Mudclaw.

“Tell us what you found.” Mudclaw’s tone was simple, cutting right to it.

Crowflight swallowed. Suddenly his mouth felt too dry to speak. He glanced at Ashfoot and Onewhisker, both of whom look far more eager to hear what he had to say than Mudclaw did. He took their curiosity as confidence.

“The moorland here is vast,” Crowflight began. “It seems to go on forever – there's far more land here than WindClan will ever need.”

“How was prey running?” Onewhisker asked.

“It seemed to run just fine,” Crowflight responded. “It was plentiful, for this time of year. The prey here hasn’t had to deal with Clans before, though, so once we establish ourselves hunting might become harder.”

Onewhisker nodded in agreement, his gaze turning thoughtful.

Ashfoot was next, her eyes curious, “Were there any dangers?”

Crowflight thought of the two kittypets, Jaques and Susan, and grimaced. Thankfully they would be firmly on the other side of the lake – ShadowClan's problem, presumably.

He responded, “We didn’t get a chance to explore every whisker of the land, but in our territory, and in the camp I found, I scented nothing out of the ordinary.”

“We’ll have to scour the entire moor,” Ashfoot mewed thoughtfully. “Daunting, but not impossible!” Crowflight thought he saw an adventurous gleam in his mother’s eye. It made her look much younger, and happier.  

“Tell us about the camp,” Onewhisker mewed, his eyes brightening. “Please!”

Crowflight glanced at Mudclaw. So far, the deputy had not asked anything. It was so difficult to read the brown tabby’s gaze. Wasn’t he at all curious? Was he angry? Had Crowflight done something wrong?

All he could do was go on: “The spot I found was a small clearing surrounded by a few high hills. There’s plenty of rocks for sentry points, and it’s well-hidden from outside view. There’s a large rowan growing out of one of the hills, and I think it’ll provide good cover when it blooms again. There’s a lot of gorse and brambles to clear out, but once we do I think there’ll be more than enough space for us all.”

Mudclaw spoke, finally: “Did the others see the camp?”

Crowflight flicked an ear. “Uh... no,” he answered. “I discovered it on my own.” He decided to leave out the bit about failing the catch the rabbit – from Mudclaw’s intense expression, he guessed that wouldn’t be prudent.

“Good,” Mudclaw decided. “Did you see the other’s prospective camps?”

Crowflight bristled at his hackles. “Yes,” he admitted. What was Mudclaw getting at?

Mudclaw didn’t say anything further on it, however: “We’ll scout out this camp of yours in the morning, but it sounds suitable. In the meantime, tell me about the territory – what areas would make good borders?”

Crowflight blinked, confused. Suitable? That’s all you have to say?  

Crowflight forced his voice to be even as he meowed on, “Well, I don’t know what’ll make a good border on this side of the lake, but I doubt we’ll need territory beyond that horseplace over there. On the ThunderClan side, though, there’s a decently large river that cuts into the forest – it doesn’t bend too far in any direction, so I think that might be a good, easy border with them.”

Mudclaw frowned. He glanced out across the lake, though Crowflight guessed he probably couldn’t see much in the darkness. "That leaves some forest on our side, no?” he guessed.

“It does,” Crowflight explained, “but not much.”

“Good,” Mudclaw grunted.

Onewhisker’s tail curled around his paws. “I don’t know,” he mewed. “It sounds like we’ll have more than enough land. Do we need the forest?”

Mudclaw flashed the smaller warrior a scrutinizing look. Ashfoot, however, offered, “We can figure out the details later. Right now, I think the simplest solution is best for the borders, no? At least until the others figure out what they want? We don’t want to start fights for nothing.”

Crowflight had to agree, nodding alongside his mother. There was no need to get overcomplicated right now, when the territories were so new. Onewhisker, seemingly oblivious to the glare he was getting from Mudclaw, shrugged and grunted in agreement.

Mudclaw gave no opinion, only lashed his tail. “I’ll go and speak with the other leaders.”

Without another word he was off, heading for the tree stump. Russetstar was already there, but Crowflight could see Leopardstar and Tinystar coming away from their own conversations to join them.

“They’ll be talking most of the night, I’ll bet,” Onewhisker sighed. He perked up and mewed, “Well! Glad it’s not me! I’d hate to have to negotiate anything with Leopardstar...”

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Crowflight?” Ashfoot suggested. “You must be exhausted.”

Crowflight frowned. He'd been too excited to bring the news of their territory back to his Clanmates to think much about how tired he was. He could feel sleep pulling hard at his paws now, and he nodded to his mother wordlessly. Ashfoot looked at him with a fond, proud expression that made Crowflight’s pelt warm, and she licked his forehead.

Crowflight turned away from his mother and Onewhisker and headed back into WindClan’s part of the camp – but he didn’t get far before he was being badgered by his Clanmates about their territory.  

“Tell us!” Thornpaw was begging. “I want to hear about the camp!”

Weaselpaw and Thistlepaw were beside her, their eyes round and eager. Thistlepaw piped up, “Please!”

“I want to know the best spot to hunt!” Smokewillow mewed.

“Are we getting any of those trees?” wondered Bramblefur.

Tornear curled his lip. “I hope not!”

Softbreeze nodded in agreement. “WindClan has never needed trees!”

“Well, I hope we have enough territory,” Webfoot grumbled. “Those others are going to take all they can, for sure!”

Emberstep took a step towards Crowflight. “Well? What’s it like?” Duskwhisker was a shadow behind her, looking just as curious as everyone else.

Crowflight wasn’t sure what to do. He was so tired, but they wanted to know so badly, and when was the last time his Clanmates had looked at him so eagerly? Certainly not for a long, long time!

“Excuse me,” a polite mew said.

Crowflight sniffed. Shadepaw’s scent crossed his nose, warm and comforting, just before the tortoiseshell cat appeared from the shadows.

“I’m not a full medicine cat yet, but I can say for certain that Crowflight is very tired from his journey,” Shadepaw meowed, her tone crisp. “You should let him rest – there'll be plenty of time to ask questions in the morning; and not only that, you’ll be able to explore your territories for yourselves soon enough!”

The apprentices groaned collectively, along with Emberstep, Duskwhisker, and the other younger warriors, but Tornear and Webfoot were nodding in agreement, looking apologetically at Crowflight, as if they regretted badgering him. They all stepped away, and Crowflight felt Shadepaw press against his shoulder as she guided him towards a quiet, grassy spot further away from the crowd.

They lay down together in the field, and Crowflight rolled onto his back. Above he could see the stars, shining brilliantly in the dark sky. He spotted the Father, and noted that it seemed like it was right above the lake, brighter than any star in Silverpelt. It had been so far away before – what would it be like, laying almost beneath it now?

Shadepaw lay her head on her paws. “You’ve had quite the adventure,” she mewed. “Nightfrost told me some of it. You fought kittypets?”

“Yeah,” Crowflight sighed. His pelt shivered at the thought. “One tried to take off Stoneheart’s head!”

Shadepaw cringed. “That sounds awful,” she admitted. “Mistyfoot was really scratched up. She’ll be okay, but I can’t imagine living near them!”

Crowflight shrugged. “It’s gonna be ShadowClan’s problem, I’ll bet,” he sighed, nestling into the grass. “It’s deep in the pines, I don’t think they can reasonably pin them on ThunderClan.”

Shadepaw poked him with a paw. “That’s not nice,” she chided.

“What?” Crowflight blinked at her, turning his head to face Shadepaw. She did indeed look a little cross, and Crowflight felt badly about that, but: “They’ll be across the lake from WindClan. What could we do to help them?”

Shadepaw’s crossness faded to sorrow at his point sorely made. “I wish we weren’t separating,” she murmured. “Feathertail and Stormfur are gone, and now it feels like I’ll lose Stoneheart, and you, too...”

Crowflight felt a pang in his gut as her eyes shimmered with emotion. He rolled onto his belly, wrapping his body around her. “I don’t want to part, either,” he murmured, laying his head beside her forepaws. “But you’re a medicine cat, and we’re warriors. Medicine cats don’t see borders so rigidly, but if the rest of us can’t go back to being warriors who follow the warrior code...”

“I know,” Shadepaw sighed. She laid her head down on her paws, their whiskers tickling one another. “There must always be four Clans. I know that. But, after all this... does that really make sense anymore?”

Crowflight frowned. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” he reasoned, something uncomfortable wiggling in his stomach, “but do you really think we’d all be able to work together forever? There’s just too much that makes each Clan different for that to work.”

Shadepaw said nothing, but Crowflight sensed her grumbling inside. He wished he could console her, but just the fact that they were laying here together was probably drawing attention. It was best not to go further than that, especially since the Clans were separating, and doing it tomorrow morning, in fact.

“Did you guys see anything strange on your patrol?” Shadepaw asked. “Like, any weird landmarks or stones?”

Crowflight shook his head, after thinking back. “Just some Twoleg stuff,” he answered simply. “Why?”

Shadepaw sighed. “We’re so far away from the Moonstone, now,” she explained, lowering her voice. The cats around them were coming down from their excitement, each finding a place to sleep within their own Clans. Crowflight could hear kits complaining about that not far off, but that was nothing compared to the realization that had just dawned on him due to Shadepaw’s words.

“C-Can’t you just go back there?” he wondered.

Shadepaw looked troubled. “We don’t know,” she mewed, her eyes glittering with a new concern, “and it’s so far. If we’re to see StarClan every half-moon, it’s just not a practical journey to make. We’d be gone longer than we’d be in our own Clans! And what if StarClan isn’t at the Moonstone anymore? If they came with us on their own Great Journey, they’re here now, not there.”

Crowflight swallowed around a lump in his throat. He hadn’t even thought of any of that – the privilege of being a warrior, he supposed. Still, “If we can't speak with StarClan...”

Shadepaw guessed his line of thinking: “We might not be able to stay here.”

Crowflight bristled. “But StarClan led us here!” he hissed, lifting his muzzle from his paws. They can’t mean to bring us all this way, put us through so much, only to have us pick up and leave again! How many cats would they lose if they had to go on a second Great Journey? Would the four Clans even be four Clans at the end?

Shadepaw covered his muzzle with a paw. “Hush!” she insisted, eyes wide and worried. “And, yes, we all know that. But if we can’t speak to them, how do we really know their intentions?”

“So, we need a new Moonstone,” Crowflight concluded.

Shadepaw nodded. “We do.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “But... that’s not for warriors to worry about, I suppose.”

Crowfight fought to keep his voice down: “Fox-dung! You’re worried about it, aren't you? That’s enough for me!”

“Mouse-brain!” Shadepaw chuckled. Amusement lit her gaze, and her whiskers twitched. “Be quiet, will you? I’m sure it’ll sort itself out, if this is where we’re meant to be. And it is, I’m sure of it! So, get some sleep!”

Crowflight opened his jaws to argue, but Shadepaw’s firm gaze made him clamp his muzzle shut. He felt a rush of affection for the she-cat as he laid his head back down at his paws. The idea of having no means of communicating with StarClan was very worrying, but Shadepaw did have a point – it would sort itself out, if this was where the Clans were meant to be.

He closed his eyes, breathing in Shadepaw’s scent. It wasn’t up to him to think about anything beyond that – he was just a warrior, after all.

If anyone can figure it out, it's Shadepaw.

———————————————————

Crowflight was awake at dawn, and found that Shadepaw was gone. He sighed, lamenting her loss, but he got to his paws. After last night’s conversation and what today marked for the Clans, it made sense that Shadepaw would be on her paws already. There was much to do.

She’s probably with Brackenfur or Mothwing, he thought. Shadepaw had been assigned to help the RiverClan medicine cat on the journey, after she’d lost her mentor Mudfur to old age not long after her own training had begun. That meant looking after two Clans worth of cats! Crowflight certainly didn’t envy that amount of responsibility.

He breathed in the air. Some cats were missing, presumably on last-minute hunting patrols, but not many. The Clans were milling about, excited, waking up those that were still dozing. He spotted Nightfrost being barraged by Spiderpaw and Whitepaw, probably about their new territory. Stoneheart was with Rowanclaw, the two mates grooming one another’s sleep away while Finchsong’s kits bounced around them. A flash of blue-gray by the stump told him that Mistyfoot was talking with Tinystar, their heads bent and voices quiet.

Crowflight searched for his own Clanmates. While the other Clans were organizing themselves for the journey ahead, WindClan was, to Crowflight’s surprise, doing nothing of the sort. His Clanmates were gathered up, yes, but they were huddled about a tree’s length away from the bush where Tallstar was resting, and no cat seemed excited to move out – a stark contrast to the night before, where they hadn’t been able to stop bothering Crowflight about their new home.

Confused, Crowflight trotted over to his mother. Ashfoot was with Poppyfoot and Softbreeze, their gazes fixed on Tallstar’s resting place. Crowfight peered between the branches and spotted Barkface’s dark shape inside the makeshift den. There was another cat in there, too, but Crowflight couldn’t make them out.

“What’s going on?” Crowflight wondered.

The leaves rustled, and Tornear stepped out of the den. The older tom looked immeasurably sad, and he sat down beside Webfoot, his chin low. Duskwhisker rose and took his place, her dark pelt disappearing into Tallstar’s den.

Ashfoot blinked at her son. “Tallstar is dying,” she meowed quietly. “His last life is slipping away.”

“W-What?!” The words caught in Crowflight’s throat.

Softbreeze nodded. “We’re saying our good-byes,” she explained.

Duskwhisker slid out of the den, her expression dark. She padded over to the side, wrapping her tail around her paws, alone. Whitetail slipped in, next.

Crowflight felt like choking, his eyes fixated on Tallstar’s den. This can’t be happening! He thought. It was something every cat in WindClan knew would happen soon, but it was so unfair! He should be able to see his Clan in their new camp! He’s come this far already, wouldn’t a few more steps be just fine?

“Almost every cat has seen him,” Ashfoot explained. “We’re not sure if we’ll be able to hold a proper vigil.” Her gaze softened on him. “Go on, Crowflight. Tell him about where we’ll be living.”

“He’d like that,” Poppyfoot agreed. Softbreeze nodded, too.

Crowflight swallowed. Was he the last cat to see Tallstar off? His paws trembled, and time seemed to stretch on and on, into forever. This was so incredibly unfair! It only felt like yesterday that Tallstar had given him his full name, and back then he had seemed so strong!

I’m the last warrior that Tallstar will ever have named, he realized. Oh, StarClan...

Whitetail emerged from the den, and Ashfoot nudged Crowflight forward. “Tell him, Crow,” Ashfoot murmured into his ear. “Tell him we’ll be okay.”

Crowflight had no choice. He moved through the crowd as if his paws were stuck in a peat bog, sluggish and slow. His Clanmates that weren’t privately grieving turned their gazes to him, their eyes piercing like claws, but Crowflight couldn’t focus on that.

What did one say to their leader as he lay dying?

He pushed his way into the bush. It was warm inside, the shelter bolstered against the chill by a hasty wall of bracken and moss that covered any gaps. Barkface was there, dabbing at Tallstar’s forehead with a soaked ball of moss.

Crowflight could tell by Tallstar’s expression that no medicine would help him now. His eyes were unfocused, pale and staring far-away, crusted with sleep, the white fur of his muzzle stained by running liquid. His body was stretched out, his ribs poking through his pelt, his side shivering with every breath he struggled to take. The light in his eye was fading, barely visible at all.  

When Crowflight entered, Tallstar tried to raise his head, but failed. “Deadfoot?” he rasped, chin falling, “Is... is that you?”

The words stung. Crowflight swallowed, glancing at Barkface, who looked just as stunned. Crowflight’s father had been Tallstar’s deputy before Mudclaw, dying in the battle against BloodClan at Fourtrees in the old forest before Crowflight had even been born. Not only that, but Tallstar and Deadfoot had been mentor and apprentice – they'd been very close friends.  

It might’ve been sweet, once, to be confused for Deadfoot; but now it only showcased how far gone Tallstar’s mind was. “It’s Crowflight,” he corrected gently. “Not... not Deadfoot.

Tallstar blinked. “Ah,” he sighed. “I see, now. Your eyes... your mother’s eyes...”

Crowflight edged closer to the old black-and-white tom. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts – he didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“I’ve found us a home,” he began tentatively, glancing at the medicine cat. When Barkface nodded for him to go on, Crowflight began to describe all he had seen to Tallstar. He was by no means a good storyteller, but Tallstar’s eyes widened, even sparkled, at Crowflight’s words, and that spurred the younger warrior on. Perhaps he embellished a detail or two, to make Tallstar’s imagination run wild one last time, but it was worth it to see his dying leader’s face light up with a life that had been fading for moons.

Tallstar laid his chin down when Crowflight was done and sighed. “It sounds... lovely,” he breathed. “So, so lovely...”

“It will be,” Crowflight said.

“I want WindClan to have a new start,” Tallstar went on. “This place... it’s the perfect time. Isn’t it? Things have changed... things must change...”

Crowflight swallowed. Barkface dabbed at Tallstar’s forehead and murmured, “Easy, Tallstar. Save your breath...”

“No,” Tallstar groaned. His expression grew alert, intense. “I am leader of WindClan yet,” he rasped. “I will not see... blood upon the heather.” His eyes locked onto Barkface. “Fetch Onewhisker.”

Barkface dropped his moss ball, shocked. “T-Tallstar! You mustn’t-”

“You heard me!” Tallstar growled, his eyes narrowing. “Do it! And you!”

Crowflight stood stiff, shocked by the surge of energy Tallstar was experiencing. “Me?” he said clumsily.

“Get me Tinystar,” Tallstar meowed. “And-” he broke off to cough, “hurry!”

Once again Crowflight looked to Barkface, who must’ve been just as shocked as Crowflight, if not more so. Still, though, the old medicine cat’s hackles fell, and he sighed to Crowflight, “It’s what he wants. And he is right – he's still our leader...”

“I am!” Tallstar huffed, resting his chin on the side of his nest. “So why are you both still here?!”

Crowflight jumped to his paws, and Barkface was scrambling, too. He tried not to bolt out of the den – that would’ve attracted too much attention – but his expression wasn’t something he could easily contain as he stumbled towards the ThunderClan cats outside.

What’s going on? He wondered. He would obey Tallstar, for sure, but what did he have in mind?

“What’s up with you?” asked a sharp voice – Duskwhisker, whom Crowflight had nearly barreled into. She looked cross, her mourning interrupted by his carelessness. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry!” Crowflight breathed.

He darted around her and took off at a run, pushing through ThunderClan cat after ThunderClan cat until he reached their heart, where Tinystar was sitting, chatting with Mistyfoot beside the stump. Beyond the complaints of her Clanmates, it was Mistyfoot who turned to him and mewed, “Crowflight? What’s wrong?”

“Tallstar is dying,” he breathed. He looked to ThunderClan’s leader. “He wants to see you, Tinystar.”

Tinystar’s expression turned to sadness, though his eyes sparked with intrigue. “Very well,” he meowed. “Mistyfoot, let’s finish our conversation on the way...”

Crowflight sat by while the two padded off, heading directly for Tallstar’s nest. Crowflight followed, unable to bear the annoyed and concerned looks he was getting from the other ThunderClan cats. He arrived in time to see Tinystar enter the den – there was a yowl from Tallstar, and Mistyfoot, surprised, joined her leader inside.

What’s that about? Crowflight wondered, sitting down on his haunches. Not long after, the rising sun turning them both yellow, Barkface and Onewhisker appeared. Barkface tried to enter, but had to step back – Crowflight tensed. Tallstar had denied his own medicine cat entrance?

By now it was clear to everyone that something was happening. Barkface, however, refused to allow any WindClan cats inside, and the other three Clans were gathering up at a respectful distance, their eyes curious.

Crowflight resented that. How dare they stick their muzzles into WindClan affairs? But Tallstar had asked for Tinystar, he thought. The two leaders were famously friendly, but something about it still rubbed Crowflight’s pelt the wrong way.

“What’s happening?” demanded Tornear. “Why’s Tinystar in there?”

“Where’s Mudclaw?” asked Whitetail. The small white she-cat peered through the crowd. “Is he still out hunting?”

Crowflight’s heart hammered in his chest. There was no sign of Mudclaw at all. Where was WindClan’s deputy when they needed him most? He’ll be our leader soon... he needs to be here!

“I’ll go fetch him!” Thornpaw chimed. Before any cat could protest, she shot off, heading towards the horseplace.

“I’ll go with her,” Emberstep sighed. "Apprentices!” The dark she-cat brushed past Crowflight, her paws pounding to catch up to Thornpaw.

Crowflight turned his attention back to Tallstar’s den. Some cats were creeping closer, ears swiveled to eavesdrop, and frustration at his own Clanmates welled up inside Crowflight.

“What are you, queens at a Gathering?” he snarled, stepping forward. He glared at his Clanmates, at Webfoot and Smokewillow, who seemed intent to get closer. “These are Tallstar’s final moments, and you want to spy?”

The two warriors slunk back, tails low. Crowflight positioned himself between the den and his Clanmates, his stance firm and his tail lashing. Whatever Tallstar was saying, he couldn’t hear it – but he would defend his leader’s right to say it in private. They were his last words, after all.

It felt like ages before there were any developments. When the bush finally rustled, it was sunhigh. Most of the non-WindClan cats had gone off to arrange their own affairs, the move to their new territories delayed for certain but not put off completely yet. Mudclaw still had not returned, and neither had Emberstep nor Thornpaw, who were still searching for him on unfamiliar ground.

Crowflight moved aside, his muscles tense as he watched the bush. Onewhisker and Mistyfoot came out as one, and draped between them was the body of Tallstar, limp, his paws and long tail dragging against the grass.

A gasp of shock and horror rippled through the crowd of WindClan cats. Crowflight’s heart sank. He’s gone, he thought dismally. He’s really gone.

He locked eyes with Mistyfoot, and found her expression... troubling. Onewhisker’s, too, was not the grief that Crowflight expected. Crowflight’s stomach twisted. What had happened?

As if to answer him, Tinystar appeared. His expression, at least, was fitting – full of sorrow for his old friend as he lifted his muzzle and announced: “Tallstar is dead.”

[fairest]

The strums

I love summer tourist season. Especially when it’s hot and muggy. The suburban vibrates through my grid like ancient black holes compose music for the universe. The husband and wife in matching Cubs gear or sacrifices to St. Louis. In the lobby of the Willis I watch the foreign families place orders. The men take care of the children, the women take care of themselves. The stateless hide here, the fallen, while on the skydeck you buy tickets and pretend to fall. When I leave the lobby I greet the smell of human sweat in the wedge of revolving door. I go around again, I do it all before, my contribution to our stench. On Michigan Avenue I am the gray urban man. Oohing and aahing the climate control on my way into your experience. I embrace my role as a Karen. Stop riding your Divvy on the sidewalk! I am the cop, the trembling Russian soldier, the notetaker, the lookout. In the median strips of Mag Mile the state troopers idle. They protect not you, not me, they protect Neimans and its mormon products. “If the message of western civilization is I am alone,” you won’t find any notifications here. One thing I love about originality is doing the same thing all over again. Like dropping a thirty dollar bill in the beggar’s cup. This man is older than my arrhythmia. Mein herz gets medicine but his is still beat. It doesn’t give me the blues so much as the strums.

I am the body in joy. My happiness complete. It’s hard not to get sentimental about vinyl records, when you pull out a Nonesuch and hear, the first movement of Horenstein’s Mahler 3. Last week I streamed it three times after the barista made me the Purple Eye. He wanted to prove to me it was a real thing, three shots of espresso and drip, he showed me the listing in his training manual, a binder of three rings. On Monday morning I found the Horenstein vinyl. Gregg told me he’s not so into these slower tempo interpretations. Gregg pauses when I talk about my love for Tinter’s Bruckner 2. Tinter even got mad when people killed cockroaches, and you know those Europeans have seen a lot of vermin, and you know to be a vegetarian you must take things as they come. I watched All Quiet on the Western Front. I wasn’t moved, like the war’s advance. You can just read current events if you must be moved by World War I. An exhibit in progress.

Every June, happy intern parade, we love you Miss Hannigan. My conservative girls are poetry stars from eight years ago, frescos up their quads and down their hammies. With Uptown girls you need to talk, find out what they’re interested in, quote Pennymaker, quote Badioo. You’ve got to say things about boygenius like, Phoebe is the waitress wearing a mask, Lucy is the waitress not wearing the mask, Julian Baker is the waitress in the back on her smoke break, and then Uptown girls have to call you a romantic or a misogynist. You talk the same time they talk, like Iris and Nate in Dimes Square.

Downtown my girls are different. You can say um or for sure and not feel like an idiot. What are they carrying in those shoulder bags? Mischievous and tight and testing the sexual patience of the men on this commuter train. Even I can’t concentrate on my cancer while she does her eyebrows. The Evanston of the Mind. The Digestive System of Lake Bluff. She sees my hard chest in a Performance polo, licks her lips. Maybe I’m not like every other award-winning dentist who chose the quiet car. We’re back at her hotel and when I go to leave I see Nordstrom Rack price stickers in the heels of her heels.

Back at home they’re all asleep. I sink my feet into the bowl we use for salads. After seeing the home runs I put on California Split. Elliott Gould once said “blogging is not writing it is graffiti with punctuation.” That’s more Monica’s Dad on Friends than Charlie Waters, his character in Split. I want to write Patrick back about all the thrilling stuff he said about Succession and tell him it has the word success in it. He made this typo for “like” as “lips” and he corrected it and I said, don’t correct your typos, don’t bother writing, just keep typing, because when I’d read “lips” I’d thought it correct. The topic made you wanna open your trap, loosen your jaw, and let the spit that gathers at the collective corners of our mouth water the lawns of our brains with meanings. I want a creamy white sweater like George Segal wears in Split but it won’t look the same on my frame.

Yeah, I will write Patrick, all cunty poetry a footnote to Ginsberg’s “I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.” I think there’s a lot of cunty poetry out there but it’s still very academic. We’re using cunty in a good way. I feel like I heard a lot of cunty stuff in Seattle this year with Charles, who manages to find the cool things. When I go to those creative writing events I always end up applauding a White guy who lives up to his capitalization. But all the freakazoids Charles finds, they’re working through interesting stuff, as those types usually are. Yeah, it was the best stuff about Succession. Better than my sentencing mind. Dad had to die early in the season, “an absence that needed to be felt in order to feel the full force of Kendall’s ecstatic embrace of fascism in his eulogy at the funeral, a funeral that he transforms into a black mass, baptizing himself as one of the True Killers…” we all want big fat letters like this stringing a zither across our navel, not “the hostile shafts of paid critics.” What I really need to tell Patrick is I wouldn’t have California Split without him, the two-toned credits my safe space, the absence of music but the engorging sound just like an OG Columbo episode, the murderer money, the finest example the elevator thrumming at the beginning of La Notte. Have you ever noticed the sign outside the titty bar. When Gould’s just walking up. Licking his likes. Lipping his money. The sign that says the titty bar has “the worst piano player on earth.”

My son says Daddy, what do you call the lines you string, do you call them the plucks, and I say you call them the strings, and on the strings you strum, but you can call them whatever you want because I will never forget the things you used to say. I wake up just after midnight and reorder the flow of the deck. In the morning I carry my son’s bike up the street and ride him around the track. Tears come to my eyes when I say the thing you need to do is look straight ahead, tighten your tummy, and think about what this will feel like when you don’t need Daddy’s help. He says that won’t be today. I say it could be today. He says it will probably be in, like, 200 days. I say it could be in 50 days. He says it won’t be tomorrow. I say, well, it could be today. The lesson of western civilization is that our children grow up. I’m sweating and overusing an underutilized part of my shoulder, the name of the part I forget, my masseuse says it helps with the initial lift. Helping with the initial lift is my business.

[christhiry]

Medicine Bow Range, Wyoming. Lookout Lake. June 26, 2022

[slytherinsnekxvii]

this isn't my best work, but it's still pretty good for something i wrote when i was 15 after having a half a year of writer's block. anyways, ahem, presenting the fic in which severus says fuck it after the lake incident and just doesn't go back to hogwarts but potentially gets dragged into the war anyway despite living in the muggle world for like,, three years, part 1 (aka the only chapter i wrote bc my writer's block came back oops):

It starts simply, like most things do. It starts with a few words, tossed out without care and full of childish conviction. It escalates to brawls in the corridors and duels in the dungeons--if you could even call them that when it was four-on-one and most encounters left him reeling. It continues until he's twitchy and hypervigilant and awkward, always on the lookout for an attack, ready to bite before anyone could bite him.

It ends much the same. The events leading up to this are a production fit for the theatre, if the crowd is anything to by, but the ending itself is quite simple. Gasping for air near the shore of the Black Lake and battling a headache that hurts almost as much as the sharp press of his heart at the thought of what he'd done to Lily, he simply gives up. He picks himself up, tells himself this is the end of it and goes about collecting his belongings.

His wand comes to his hand easily enough with a mumbled Accio. His bag does, as well. Its contents, on the other hand, have to be collected by hand. His textbooks and ink are strewn beneath the tree, mostly, but the loose parchment and his quill are lost to the wind. He snatches up what he can find before someone gets it into their head to come further humiliate him and turns to head back into into the castle. Only to be smacked in the face by a bound sheaf of parchment and a quill. It's suspicious, and he's tempted to burn it then and there. It's his, but they were definitely scattered about the grounds two seconds ago. He doesn't burn it. He hesitates, puts it in his bag and returns to the castle, intent on making his way to Gryffindor Tower.

The apology doesn't go well. Lily isn't interested, refuses to hear it. He returns to the Slytherin dorms, drops into his bed and thanks Merlin that they'll be going home soon. Cokeworth is God-awful, but at least there's only one man trying to kill him there and only one woman for him to disappoint.

So, he waits it out. Spends his final classes looking over his shoulder and staring blankly at his parchment every time he remembers that they tried to kill him and they humiliated him and they got away with both. He shrinks into himself, avoiding the corridors at all costs, skipping meals to avoid being in the Great Hall and spends as much time as possible in the Library and the dusty old Potions Lab on the Fourth Floor that no one knows about, losing himself in research so he doesn't have to interact with his Housemates. He sits alone at the Leaving Feast, refuses to touch his plate until Evan Rosier falls into the seat next to him and bothers him into eating. The Headmaster dismisses them, says that they'll see each other come September and lets them filter out onto the train.

He ends up sharing a compartment with Mulciber, Avery and Rosier even though he's barely spoken to any of them since the incident. Evan needles him about everything and nothing the whole way to King's Cross, and when they get there, Evan claps him on shoulder and that's goodbye.

He gathers up his things, goes to meet his mother so they can Apparate home and not waste what little money they have on transport. Eileen's cheeks are sunken, her arms rail thin, her dress loose-fitting. He'd still rather see her than anyone even loosely affiliated with Hogwarts. She nods at him, he nods back. They go home.

He spends his summer making himself useful. He does odd jobs for the neighbours, is grudgingly polite to his father, takes care of his mother. By the time term rolls around, people are talking about that Snape boy. Strange, and quiet, too, but he works well, doesn't he? September first dawns bright and early, and Severus doesn't go back to Hogwarts.

He studies at home instead, nose buried in his mum's old books. He plants the few ingredients he has hidden away in his trunk at the back of the house and uses what grows to brew medicines and weedkillers and anything he can think of after experimenting a bit. Mr. and Mrs. Smith down the street both swear up and down he's working magic on their little garden and their old bones.

He feeds cats, delivers packages for the grocer, takes tables and nightstands home to cast Reparo on. Someone tells the pub owner about him, and the next thing he knows, he's frying chips and learning how to mix drinks even though the most complicated thing anyone ever orders is a pint of the beer that they have on tap.

It's not a bad existence. Eventually, slowly, his mother starts coming back to herself. She takes over the brewing when he isn't around. Annotates his annotations and even makes a trip to Diagon Alley for more ingredients to add to their garden when Severus forgets to write Narcissa to ask her to send a few more.

Severus is old enough now to drag his father home from the pub behind him when he's done working. One evening, they come home and Tobias nearly trips over the end table that Severus is meant to be fixing for Mr. Williams three houses up. Severus works his wand out of his boot and goes to cast a spell, but Tobias grumbles and bats his hand away. Drunk as he is, he still digs out his toolbox and gets to work. The job turns out almost decent.

By December, Severus is at the pub, feeding cats on his break and making deliveries when he has the time. Eileen is brewing and Tobias is doing carpenter's work fixing and building wardrobes, cupboards, cabinets and everything else. It keeps him busy enough that some days he doesn't see a drink at all. It's not much, but there's a little food on the table at the end of each day, and Severus thinks that he's probably better off than he would have been at Hogwarts.

Sometime around Christmas, his mother talks him into getting a Muggle education and writing his NEWTs. He writes the O-Levels for his Muggle exams in January. They're a breeze, given how well-read he is. He sees Petunia at the store shortly after, and she sneers vaguely in his direction. He hears her condescending voice in the back of his head and decides to sit the A-Levels in May out of spite.

His birthday comes and goes, the NEWTs come right after and he aces each and every one of the written exams. The practicals are spread out across the following weeks, and he's leaving the Ministry after his last exam to find that the date coincides with that of a field trip for the Sixth Years at Hogwarts.

He watches them a little, tearing his gaze away after he catches sight of a tanned arm draped over a shoulder touched by a red braid. The students mill near the doors for a while and so, Severus looks around for escape routes, eyes skipping hurriedly from door to door until they rest on a Ravenclaw who'd also taken the January NEWTs. All kinds of people had been there, adults who hadn't passed when they were younger and needed to retake the exams to get jobs, teenagers who had family fortunes waiting for them whose parents wanted them to at least look like they were competent, and overachievers--like Severus assumed the Ravenclaw was--who wanted to know where they stood before the actual exam. He jerks his chin toward another door, this one proclaiming to lead to the "Apparition Division". Severus nods once at him and makes his way toward it.

There's a one-day course for Apparition, apparently. The woman at the receptionist desk doesn't even bother looking at him, just points him in the direction of the Training Room with her nail file. He stays for nearly the rest of the day, until they're finally done. He gets his license and is quietly pleased to see that the building is nearly devoid of life when he leaves. He goes home.

May and June come around and bring with them the A-Levels. He finds them only marginally more challenging than his O-Levels and returns to his routine. It's a nice routine, which takes him all the way through to July of the next year when Lily starts coming in with Black and Potter and Pettigrew and Lupin. The first time it happens, he leaves the counter so fast that the patron he'd just given a glass of water to is convinced he teleported. He's already taken his regular break to go feed Mrs. Jones' cats, so he steps into the kitchen and tells Jimmy he's taking a smoke break. Jimmy snorts and reminds him that he doesn't smoke.

He fidgets, trying to think up a way to avoid going back out, when the ruckus they're making makes Jimmy look through the little window and see the lot of them crowded around a little table. He gets a peculiar look on face for a bit, before he asks Severus if they have something to do with why he doesn't go to his fancy school anymore. He doesn't need an answer, just tells him to keep an eye on the food and steps out to man the counter. Severus stays late, frying chips and washing dishes until the early hours of the morning when Jimmy pats him on the back and kicks him out.

It keeps up until September comes around, and by then, Severus has taken so many smoke breaks that he's actually started smoking. He keeps smoking long after they're gone.

He goes back to his routine until it's broken again by a letter that comes by owl. It's a short letter, coming from a Potions Master whose apprentice had been overseeing the exams. It claims that his work was the best either of them had seen in years and after asking around, they'd found that he was unbound to any Master and was highly recommended by the Malfoys. It ends with an offer. Severus would think himself foolish not to accept, so, he does. After that, two days a week are dedicated to Flooing to Master Diogene's laboratory to fulfil the requirements of his apprenticeship. It finds its own little nook in his routine and so he continues until June of 1980.

He's preparing to go to the pub when there's a knock at the door. It's not so uncommon anymore, so he thinks nothing of it, only that he hopes it doesn't take too long. His shift starts in half an hour. He pushes his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, where they perpetually are these days, and decides he'll roll them up properly later. He opens the door.

"Good afternoon," a very pregnant Lily says, and standing next to her is the Ravenclaw from the Ministry, back straight, arms clasped behind his back, his entire being alert.

"Good afternoon," he replies, awkward. After a long moment of silence, he asks, "Can I help you?"

"Depends on whether or not you let us in," she says.

Wordlessly, he steps aside, sliding the three pairs of shoes nearer to the wall in order to let them pass. "Do you want tea?"

"No," she says, at the exact same time her Auror friend says, "Thank you."

He gestures them into the little kitchen, where they sit at the little table where he and his mother and his father take their meals. He tugs his wand out of his boot, flicks it so that the cauldron bubbling away on the stove scoots aside but doesn't spill. The burner beneath lights on its own. He puts the kettle, already full, on to boil. "So," he begins, absentmindedly rolling up his sleeves. "Is there something you need from me?"

Lily smiles, strained. "Can't I just visit an old friend?"

"Sure," he says, quietly. "You made it very clear that you would prefer if we weren't, though."

Her expression twists. "And with good reason," she grits.

He says nothing. The kettle whistles. He searches for the boxes of tea, sets about mixing two cups of mint. He puts them both on a tray with milk and sugar, as well as the small container of honey kept for special occasions. He puts it on the table.

"I'm sorry."

She doesn't say anything, just watches him with bright, green eyes aflame with old anger. She picks up one of the teacups and starts doctoring it to her liking. Her Auror friend follows suit. It really is obvious, Severus thinks, watching the man scan the room from top to bottom, corner to corner. He sighs. "Why are you here, Lily?"

She glares at her tea. The Auror shifts uncomfortably. Severus sighs again. "You know, when people visit old friends, they usually don't bring Aurors with them."

"Trainee, actually. This is my last year." He grins sheepishly. "That obvious?"

Severus nods.

He leans over the table, stretches out a hand. His right, Severus notices. He leans over and shakes with his left.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," the Auror trainee introduces himself.

"Severus Snape, but you already knew that."

"Ah, yes. Of course."

Lily continues to glare at her tea. Shacklebolt fidgets. Severus stares, adjusts the heat on the burner below the cauldron. Silence prevails. The door creaks open, just then, and Eileen comes in, stirring rod in hand. "You'll be late if--oh," she says, noticing their guests. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," the other three respond with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"Well, if it isn't Lily Evans. It's been quite a while, hasn't it? You look well," Eileen says, nudging her son out of the way so she can poke at the mixture in the cauldron.

"You as well," Lily mumbles. "And it's, ah, it's Potter now, actually. Lily Evans Potter."

"Ah, I see. My mistake. Congratulations are in order, then, Mrs. Potter."

"Congratulations," Severus echoes.

"And you're a Shacklebolt, yes?" Eileen continues, her hands methodically sprinkling ground lavender into the cauldron. "Elodie's son, I should think. You resemble her quite a bit."

"Yes, ma'am," the trainee replies. "Grandmother says I'm nearly a carbon copy."

Eileen hums, lowers the heat under the cauldron. She takes out the stirring rod, examining the clinging lavender paste before wiping it off and placing it on the counter. "I suppose I'll leave you it, though Doris just passed, and she said that Jimmy has a full house, so, do try to hurry. It's already nearly four."

"Yes, Mam."

She leaves, and once more, silence settles over the small kitchen. Severus looks at the clock on the wall, sees that it does, indeed, say that it's minutes to four. Eleven minutes, to be exact, and it's a ten minute walk to the pub. He starts gathering the tea things, has just taken Shacklebolt's empty teacup when Lily clears her throat.

"Are you a Death Eater?" she asks.

"No," Severus tells her, and takes her teacup. Ten minutes to four.

"Prove it," she says, glaring.

Severus sets down the tray and leans across the table, arms outstretched, palms up, forearms exposed. The skin on either arm is pale, smooth and utterly unmarked, save and except for the scars one is bound to get when their preferred work involves knives and hot cauldrons.

"You keep regular contact with Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, as well as Regulus Black and Evan Rosier, all of whom are suspected Death Eaters. Why?"

Severus' eyes narrow. "Lucius is sponsoring my Potions Mastery. Narcissa, for whatever reason, enjoys my conversation. Regulus and Evan both seem to think that I'll drop dead if I don't speak to them at least once a week and I haven't been able to disabuse them of the notion--though, not for lack of trying."

"So, you aren't planning to become a Death Eater?" Seven minutes to four.

"I'm not," Severus says, biting down on something rising in his chest. He returns the tea things to their proper places, washes the cups and sets them to dry. When he looks at them again, Lily's glare has softened into an unwavering stare.

"Are you certain?" she asks, and Severus grits his teeth.

"Oh, no, not at all. I only left the Wizarding World to live in a Muggle neighbourhood with my Muggle father, work for a Muggle and feed old ladies' cats and fix their husbands' cabinets because I thought it would make it easier for me when I decided I wanted to murder them all. Obviously," he snaps, throat closing around the words as soon they've been forced out of his mouth. His jaw clamps shut. Three minutes to four.

"You're being an a—" she starts, but then she bites her tongue. "Why... why did you leave?"

He stands silent for a moment. "Reasons I don't believe we have time to discuss. It appears that I'm late for work, I'm afraid." The clock reads three fifty-nine. By the time, he reaches the front door, it will be four o' clock. He starts walking.

"But–" Lily begins, standing.

He gestures them onto the porch while he shoves his feet into his boots. "Terribly sorry to leave in a hurry like this, but duty calls. Things to do, people to see. Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Potter. Auror Trainee Shacklebolt." Four o' clock.

"Really–"

"Until next time, Mr. Snape," Shacklebolt interjects, and with a stiff nod, he and Lily make their way towards the Apparition Point they'd used and Severus is walking down the street. He exhales, slowly, carefully at the quiet, telltale crack of Disapparition off in the distance. He picks up the pace and hopes that'll be the end of it. He knows it won't, though. Until next time, Shacklebolt said.

It isn't the end, of course. It never is. There's a knock at the door just before he's ready to leave the next afternoon, and he contemplates just not answering the door and staying at home for the foreseeable future. There's enough food to last at least a week, and he could always just tell Mrs. Havisham that he wasn't feeling well. The news would make it around the town and back within the day. The knock sounds again. He sighs and gets up to go answer it. "Can I help you?"

"Only if you want to. May I come in?" Shacklebolt asks.

Against his better judgement, Severus lets him in.

[you-had-me-at-e-flat-major]

Hello hello!! Sorry for a random ask, but I know you went to uni in Edinburgh and I'm trying to plan a roadtrip from London up to Scotland this September - are there any rural spots (castles, pretty villages, lakes, beaches, lay-bys to camp in) that you'd recommend? Or places to eat and drink in Edinburgh itself?

I know you're not a travel blog lol but any advice would be so appreciated and you're the only person I know with a connection to Scotland!!!

I'm not sure how rural you mean because scotland has lots of countryside but west highland way is super pretty, as are all the islands, lochgelly, loch lomond, etc. as for places for food in edi that's where i'll shine:

breakfast/brunch:

- urban angel

- hula juice bar

- loudons

- southpour

- (not sure it can return post-covid but) checkpoint

cafés:

- union brew lab

- black medicine

- wanderlust

- wellington coffee

- salut

- (not sure if it can return post-covid but) elephants and bagels

lunch/dinner (for meat eaters):

- l'escargot bleu

- café andaluz

- the wedgwood

- the kitchin

- cellar door

- pizza posto

- white horse

- fazenda

lunch/dinner (for veggies/vegans*)

*not all of these are wholly vegetarian/vegan but I'm just using this list for places that aren't shit for vegans

- harmonium

- seeds for the soul

- beetroot sauvage

- namaste kathmandu

- the lookout

- bread meats bread

- matto pizza

- civerinos/civerinos slice

- kalpna

- tanjore

- mosque kitchen

bars/pubs:

- raging bull

- fox and faun

- paradise palms

- revolution

- tonic

- boteco do brasil

- candy bar

- auld hoose

- the jolly botanist

- the cauldron

honourable mentions:

- whittard of chelsea just because i work there (not an eatery it's a tea shop)

- mary's milk bar, an excellent ice cream shop

- maison de moggy, edinburgh's first and only cat café

feel free to add to this if you're an edinburger cunt fae edinburgh yourself xx

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

Like A Dream

October 4, 2021

Prompt - Walks in the Forest

Characters - Mack, Brady, Royce, and Bentley

Notes - This takes place in the same "camping with the Birch's AU" as the one I did a couple days ago.

October 4th,

So Mick’s world is weird. They have phones that aren’t connected to the wall, some of their cars don’t have doors, and their music is… interesting. We’ve been here since, I think, Friday. Their world and ours are days apart - give or take seventy years - and it’s still screwing me up a bit. It’s nice to be here, though. I actually like the cabin life so far. Aunt Mack and Uncle Brady are so much nicer than I thought they’d be. It’s like they treat Benny and me like their own kids sometimes, even though they already have Mick. They’re always making breakfast for everyone and spending time with us all. It feels like I’m in one of those TV shows back home where it’s all about family and they treat their kids really well and, even when something bad happens, in the end, they’re all happy. I’m so happy we did this. It’s kind of like a dream.

With a contented sigh, Royce closed his journal and set it under his pillow. Bentley had been up for about five minutes, the smell of cooking bacon being the thing that woke him. Royce, on the other hand, had been awake for the better part of an hour, lounging in bed for the most part before deciding to write a bit. Bentley rose from his bed, finally, stretching until he hit the top bar of Royce’s bunk. The fourteen-year-old pulled himself up, peering over the side of the metal bars so he could see Royce’s face.

“Why are you in bed still?” he asked.

“I should be asking you why you aren’t,” Royce teased, pushing his brother back with a hand to the face. “Mr. I-sleep-until-noon-on-Saturdays.”

Bentley let out a muffled, “Hey!” before dropping himself to the floor again. “I think Auntie Mack is making breakfast again. That’s the only reason I’m awake.”

Royce slid to the end of the bed and climbed down, following Bentley downstairs. “Place your bets, is she making pancakes or waffles? I’m saying waffles.”

“I think pancakes,” Bentley said after thinking for a moment. “We had waffles yesterday.”

“Yeah, but Uncle Brady loves waffles,” Royce stated as they made their way down the stairs to the main floor.

“Good morning, boys!” Brady called from his seat on one of the island barstools. “Are you ready for an adventure today?”

“Are we going swimming in the lake again?” Bentley asked as he perched himself on Brady’s left. A plate of food was placed before him and his brother as Mack turned to see them.

“No,” Mack stated firmly, sending her husband a look as he opened his mouth to speak. “It’s only going to be in the mid-fifties today, so the water will be far too cold for you boys to swim in. I don’t want either of you to end up sick, especially on vacation.”

Brady shut his mouth and nodded, knowing better than to argue with his wife. “Yes, ma’am,” he sighed. “Maybe Wednesday. It’s supposed to be in the seventies.”

“So,” Royce began from his spot on Brady’s other side, “what adventure were you talking about?”

Brady lit up once again, reaching up and placing a hand on each of the boys’ backs. “I figured we could go on a walk in the woods today. There’s a trail just east of the lake that we can take. It leads up to a lookout lodge so we can see the entire area. The view is amazing from up there.”

Mack sighed, leaning against the counter with a small frown. “Brady, as much as I love the idea of walking in the woods for who knows how long, Royce has asthma. I don’t think he should-”

“I can manage!” Royce insisted, cutting the older woman off hurriedly. After realizing his mistake, he paused. “Sorry, Aunt Mack. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

With a smile, Mack reached over and ran a hand over Royce’s hair before leaving it on his cheek a moment. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re excited and I understand that; I just want you to stay safe. I don’t want anything to happen to any of you. Did you bring your inhaler?”

“Miles keeps it for me,” Royce stated matter-of-factly. “If we ask, I’m sure he’ll let me bring it.”

“Bring what?” Miles asked sleepily as he made his way into the kitchen. His hair was a disaster and he was still in his pajamas, making it known to everyone that he was barely awake.

“Royce needs his inhaler so we can go on a walk in the forest with Uncle Brady and Auntie Mack,” Bentley said around a mouthful of eggs.

Miles nodded slowly as Mack handed him a cup of coffee. “It’s in my backpack. I’ll dig it out before you go.”

“You’re not going?” Brady asked.

“Nah,” Miles said with a shake of his head. “Lela wanted to go take pictures of birds so I’m going with her to Curly Creek while Mick and Butch go shopping.”

“Oh, Lela will love that,” Mack claimed with a bright smile. “We’ll miss you guys on the walk.”

“You’ll have fun,” Miles brushed off, waving his hand briefly before picking up his coffee and heading for the lounge to watch TV. Along the way, he ruffled both his brothers’ hair, smiling at them before leaving the room. “Take pictures for me.”

After eating their breakfast, the boys headed for their bedroom, grabbing whatever they deemed necessary for their walk. Backpacks were filled with snacks and water, and the boys were dressed in their usual clothes with an additional, borrowed flannel from Brady. They made their way downstairs not long after they’d laced up their boots, meeting Mack and Brady on the outside porch after grabbing Royce’s inhaler from Miles just in case. Mack was dressed in a long-sleeved, purple shirt with a light, plaid vest over it while Brady donned a light jacket. Brady had a backpack secured over his shoulders and clasped in the front while Mack only had her phone in her pocket and a water bottle in her hand.

A few minutes of walking later, and they reached the beginning of the trail. It was well lit and maintained, with fallen trees and thin logs gracing the sides of the path so it wouldn’t be strayed from. The trees seemed to fill the skies as they began their trek. Large pines, sugar maples, firs, and the occasional birch trees lined the area, sprawling onward as far as their eyes could see. The walk was filled with chatter as they conversed with one another and stopped for the occasional picture. It was truly beautiful. Some leaves had fallen as others were turning colors and, with the sun illuminating them from above, they cast a glow of fiery colors around the area.

While the air had a certain chill to it, the amount of walking they were doing made up for it. The trail, thankfully, wasn’t too much of an incline, just the occasional hill as they walked up the mountain. Now and then, they’d stop to drink, perhaps taking a bit longer to see the streams when they got close enough to see them. All in all, it took almost an hour before they could see the lodge in the distance.

“Look, Royce,” Bentley called from the front of their line, “we’re almost there!”

“Yeah,” Royce huffed before coughing. He hated this. Well, he didn’t hate the nature around them or the journey with his brother, Mack, and Brady, just how his lungs reacted to the walking. There weren’t very many bugs around to bother them or any other people on the trail so there was nothing to complain about apart from his crappy lung capacity.

Brady, who had taken up the rear so he could make sure everyone was safe, placed a hand on Royce’s back. “You need to stop, bud?” Royce shook his head, making Brady knit his eyebrows together. “You sure? It’s fine if you do.”

“I can make it,” the sixteen-year-old exhaled sharply, sucking in another breath. “It’s not-” he paused to cough a few times, “it’s not far.”

“Royce,” Mack began, stopping in her place. Although she sounded firm, Royce could make out the gentleness in her tone, “you’re not sounding good. If you want to stop and use your inhaler, we can. It’s not a problem.”

“I’m fi-” and queue more coughing, “Ugh.”

Bentley peeked around Mack’s shoulder before moving around her and stepping toward his brother. “You’re sweating and you sound all wheezy.”

“It h-hurts.” Royce sucked in a sharp breath, a cough forcing its way out of him as he reached a hand to his chest. Brady began rubbing circles on Royce’s back, the only thing he could think of that would help. After a minute, Royce stopped coughing, allowing Brady to guide him to sit on one of the tree branches that lined the pathway.

Bentley pulled off his backpack and pulled a bottle of water out of it. He handed it to Royce as he crouched in front of him, watching Mack as she sat next to Royce and took one of his hands. “Bentley, honey, where’s Royce’s inhaler?”

“The front pocket,” the youngest answered softly. He turned to his brother and sighed, “I told you when we stopped last time that you should’ve taken it.”

Royce nodded slowly, not wanting to argue as Mack pulled his inhaler from his bag. “Can you take it now or do you need a minute?” she asked him, placing a hand on his arm.

Royce shook his head, fidgeting with the water bottle in his grasp. He gripped the cover and opened it, taking in a choppy, deep breath to steady his hands as he lifted it to take a drink. Afterward, he took his inhaler from Mack and, while it took him two tries to get in any medicine, he’d still been able to get it into him. They sat in relative silence for a few minutes as Bentley knelt on the ground, gripping Royce’s knees, Mack held one of his hands, and Brady rubbed circles over his back. As calming as it was, Royce couldn’t help the embarrassment he felt. He’d been so eager to have fun and get to the lodge that he’d neglected his health and now, apart from Bentley, some people he barely knew, had to take care of him.

“I’m-” he gave a short cough. At least he sounded less wheezy when he breathed. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, baby,” Mack spoke to him. “It’s not something you can control.”

“It is,” he mumbled insistently.

Brady sighed, taking Royce’s water bottle and setting it down before taking hold of the teenager’s hand. “You were excited and weren’t focused on it, that’s all. I would’ve done the same thing. Nobody is going to blame you for being an excited kid.”

Royce spared a glance to either side, seeing nothing but concern and love from Mack and Brady. It was weird. He’d messed up and refused to take his inhaler even though he knew he needed it, why were they being so nice? “Why-Why aren’t you mad?”

Mack and Brady shared a look over Royce’s shoulder “Mad?” Brady wondered aloud. “Of course not. Why would we be?”

Bentley huffed from the ground, picking blades of grass from the path. “Dad was always mad.”

Mack sighed, brushing Bentley’s hair from his face and threading her fingers through Royce’s curls. “We could never be mad at either of you, especially for something like this. We love you both far too much for that.”

“We know you love us,” Bentley said with a smile. “We love you guys.”

“Yeah,” Royce confirmed, clearing his throat before continuing. “What do we do now?”

“Well,” Brady began slowly, “we’ll sit for a few until the albuterol kicks in, and then we’ll make it the rest of the way.”

“We can go now,” Royce stated. “I’m feeling better.”

Mack scoffed lightly, “We do that and Brady will probably carry you to the lodge.”

“I absolutely will,” Brady confirmed. “How about you boys tell us about that book you were reading last night on the couch? The Time Machine, right? By H.G. Wells?”

“Yeah!” Bentley exclaimed, quickly going into a rant on the book, allowing Royce to chime in from time to time as he rattled on.

Now and then, Royce looked to Mack and Brady out of the corner of his eyes, seeing them smiling warmly at Bentley and himself. He could still feel his ears burning with embarrassment but, if he was going to be honest with himself, it felt nice to be taken care of by them. Mack and Brady were so kind and cared for him and Bentley so much more than he could’ve ever expected them to. It was weird, but certainly not unwelcome.

It was times like these that he really did feel like he was in one of those shows back home and he was right; it was like a dream.

[thorsenmark]

A Distant View of Mountains from a Medicine Lake Lookout (Jasper National Park) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While at an overlook with Medicine Lake and a view looking to the southeast to more distant peaks and ridges of the Western Queen Elizabeth Ranges. This is in Jasper National Park.

[travelonourown]

Tue 8/10

Got up early and left to hike to Avalanche Lake, but no luck parking at 8:30a. Went up the Sun Road to Logan Pass but also no luck parking. Drat! Continued on and saw a bear busily foraging on the side of the road; passed by him just a couple of feet away but he paid no attention whatsoever! Stopped at the St Mary Visitor Center to ask for advice on choosing Many Glacier area or Two Medicine area to find parking. Based on the Ranger’s suggestion we drove to the Two Medicine area and luckily found a parking spot. Hiked to Aster Falls & Aster Park lookout- quite nice, ~4.5 miles and 800’ of climbing from Two Medicine Lake. Elena picked handfuls of huckleberries along the trail which we gobbled up. A great view of mountains in the area and the lake from the trail’s end. After our hike we drove out of the Park and all the way around it to the south, west and then north on the way back to Kalispell. Had good pizza & beer at the Moose Saloon before heading back for sleep.

[gravelish]

San Francisco to Seattle

17 May - 5 June 2021

I thought it might be good to provide a summary of my recent 20-day ride from San Francisco to Seattle. Each day resulted in its own entry (linked below), but I wanted to provide a broader overview. (LINK: post about gear and bike setup).

My route covered 1187 miles over 20 days (I-5, by car, is 820 miles). I averaged 62 miles per day, not counting my rest day (daily miles ranged from 32 to 88). I chose to take an inland route, in part because the roads were less trafficked and in part because I have a fondness of the wide open spaces of the interior. If I had been riding north to south, I might have opted for the coast, but there was no way I was going to add persistent northerly headwinds to an already very hilly and heavily trafficked (but very scenic) route.

Here are the links to individual days:

Day 1. 5-17. San Francisco to Petaluma. Pacific Ocean. Golden Gate Bridge. Dinner with M.

Day 2. 5-18. Petaluma to Clearlake. Santa Rosa. Chalk Hills. Ida Clayton Road. Middletown.

Day 3. 5-19. Clearlake to Williams. Clear Lake. Bartlett Springs Road. Leesville Grade.

Day 4. 5-20. Williams to Browns Valley. Sacramento River. Sutter Buttes. Central Valley.

Day 5. 5-21. Browns Valley to La Porte. Uphill, all day. Log trucks and wet snow.

Day 6. 5-22. La Porte to Quincy. North Sierras.

Day 7. 5-23. Quincy to Bogard. Spanish Fork. Taylorsville. Moonlight Pass. Westwood.

Day 8. 5-24. Bogard to Fall River Mills. Old Station. Hat Creek. Cassell Road.

Day 9. 5-25. Fall River Mills to Lava Beds. Bieber. Lookout. Tionesta.

Day 10. 5-26. Lava Beds to Klamath Falls. Lava. Tule Lake. Oregon.

Day 11. 5-27. Klamath Falls to Mazama Village. Klamath Lake. Crater Lake NP.

Day 12. 5-28. Mazama Village to Davis Creek. Crater Lake. US97. Cascade Lakes.

Day 13. 5-29. Davis Creek to Bend. Sun River. Deschutes River Trail.

Day 14. 5-30. Bend to Santiam Pass. Sisters. Lost Lake.

Day 15. 5-31. Santiam Pass to Sublimity. Detroit.

Day 16. 6-1. Sublimity to Portland. Silverton. Oregon City. The Willamette River.

Day 17. 6-2. Portland. Rest day.

Day 18. 6-3. Portland to Kelso. US 30 along Columbia. Longview.

Day 19. 6-4. Kelso to Yelm. Castle Rock. Chehalis. Tenino.

Day 20. 6-5. Yelm to Seattle. Spanaway. Puyallup. Green and Duwamish Rivers. Downtown.

The following is a link to the entire route in RideWithGPS. Note that this is a close approximation of the route, but not necessarily exact. The day-by-day posts above link to the actual ride data, which show enough detail to capture wrong turns, side trips, and exactly where I stopped for food, camped, or pulled off for a view.

My steepest climbs were Ida Clayton Road in Sonoma County on the second day and Bartlett Springs Road east of Clear Lake on the third. My longest climb was on the western slope of the northern Sierras, which rose from near sea level to over 6500'. Day 5, from Browns Valley to La Porte, resulted in a total climb of almost 8800’, the most I’ve ever done in a day. Other notable, but easier climbs included Moonlight Pass north of Taylorsville (Day 7), the climb to Crater Lake (Day 11), and the ascent of Santiam Pass (Day 14). The highest point on the ride was 7600’ along the west rim of Crater Lake (Day 12). I crisscrossed the Pacific Crest Trail numerous times in CA and OR.

Geologically, this was a very volcanic route. Lots of lava. Lots of cones and craters and calderas. I saw Sutter Buttes, Lassen, Shasta, Medicine Lake (Lava Beds), McLaughlin, Mazama (Crater Lake), Thielsen, Diamond Peak, Newberry (Paulina Peak), Bachelor, The Sisters, Washington, Jefferson, Hood, Adams, St Helens, and Rainier. Some were closer than others, but they were all around me.

While there were some great (rough, difficult, but sometimes wonderful) gravel segments, a vast majority of the ride was on pavement. The most memorable gravel was on Bartlett Springs Road and on Moonlight Valley/Old Town Road between Taylorsville and Westwood. The Deschutes River Trail was a great dirt ride, mainly easy single track, but made me glad I was riding a gravel bike with a bike packing setup and not my touring bike with panniers. The Ida Clayton Road north of Santa Rosa and Hill Road east Lava Beds National Monument were paved, but badly, and should probably count as gravel!

I stayed in motels when I could and camped when I needed to. Motels are often generic and uninteresting (not always) and expensive, but they have running water and hot showers, outlets for charging, a place to wash out and dry clothing, and are much warmer when you get up in the morning. They are usually near stores and restaurants and usually have WiFi and cell service (not always). Camping is more rewarding and more immersive. Cold nights. Full moons. Misty lakes. Wildlife. Noisy birds. There were a couple of regular campgrounds and a bunch of wild camps or primitive sites that were nearly wild.

Highlights are always tough (and often the highlights of bike trip are moments not spent on the bike). The Golden Gate Bridge. Dinner with M on her birthday along the Petaluma River. Dropping down the Leesville Grade. Indian Valley and Young's Market in Taylorsville. The view of Lassen and Shasta over the Hat Creek Valley. The patio at the Fall River Hotel. Crater Lake. Riding into Bend along the Deschutes River Trail. The morning mist on Lost Lake west of Santiam Pass. Coffee at Dragonfly and breakfast at Besaw on my rest day in Portland.

And then there are the people and the conversations. The volunteers at the randoneuring check point in Quincy. Scott and Barb and Les in Fall River. Tom at Lava Beds. The guy in the coffee shop in Klamath Falls. The family at Crater Lake. Another family at the coffee shop in Sisters. Many others.

Ultimately, what impacts me the most is the notion of riding alone through a vast landscape. The surroundings change slowly because you are moving slowly. But they do change, and rarely do you go half a day without finding yourself in a very different kind of place. Over almost three weeks there are mountains and desert and lava and forest and city and ocean. The remoteness and the solitude is both a compelling attraction and a big source of stress. It’s wonderful, scary, and a little overwhelming, which is probably why it is so powerful emotionally. I enjoy the challenge, the anticipation, and doing something that's a little more difficult in a life that's otherwise remarkably easy. Of course, when I'm doing it, I often wish I was home, going out for the routine coffee, sitting in the back yard, and puttering around the house.

There are always what-ifs. I discovered and fixed a loose derailleur on the second day before something disastrous happened. I had no flats or other mechanical problems, other than constant issues with a drive chain desperately in need of a cleaning. If it had been colder AND wetter, things might have gotten unpleasant, but as it was, weather was pretty ideal most of the time. If my periodic toothache or my sore peroneal tendon had gotten worse, there might have been a reckoning. I was passed by thousands of cars and trucks, but if they were texting or on their fifth beer, I didn’t notice (but I did think about it). Hypothermia and dehydration should always be concerns, but I brought proper gear and planned my route carefully and flexibly, making those outcomes highly unlikely. Ultimately, I suspect the most dangerous aspect of this kind of ride is my own inattention. It’s hitting something, catching the edge of pavement, or sliding in loose gravel, and taking a bad spill.

COVID impacted the trip in the same way it affects our broader lives these days. Rules, attitudes, and adherence varied from place to place and not always in the patterns you might expect - but that's true about a lot of things when traveling. The biggest issue was that places I normally rely on weren't always available - from fast food dining rooms to bathrooms. It was harder to get out of the sun, refill water bottles, charge batteries, or find WiFi.

[the-awkward-outlaw]

A New Adventure - Pt. 8

Okay, y’all I know I been super absent on this piece. It’s not for lack of desire or care, I promise! It’s because when I started this, I was planning on using activities I did over this summer to inspire this, but then covid happened and I been stuck in my house all summer. K, excuses over. This one is extra fluffy with a side serving of even more fluff, so enjoy! 

Masterlist

Read on AO3

Silver Lingings

Things have been different between you and Arthur. Since you told him some of your insecurities and he comforted you, things have been better. 

You’ve never been able to easily open up to people but with Arthur, it’s different. Perhaps it’s because he’s the first person who’s told you to your face that he cares. 

Arthur has been warmer towards you. Not that he wasn’t before. But he’s even moreso. 

One day you come home from the store. You’d offered him to come, but he said he wanted to stay home, take a shower maybe. 

You haul in the few sacks of groceries, remembering the one that has the refill on Arthur’s meds. 

You’ve been doing some research on TB lately, as a way to try and help Arthur in his recovery. It’s not pretty to know that even today, well over a million people die a year from the disease, and those who recover are permanently damaged, their lungs scarred. Not only that, they suffer bouts of symptoms even though they no longer have the disease. Along with those is the fact that their immune system is greatly damaged and they’re more prone to other infections. 

The moment you walk in, you hear whistling. Is that Arthur? It makes you smile. 

When you get into the kitchen, he walks over and takes the groceries from you. “Let me help ya, darlin’.” 

You blush at his nickname for you. How can he be so terrifying in the ways you’ve seen and even made him be in the game, and yet so sweet? He’s a complicated man, and unpredictable in the best ways. 

He continues to whistle as he helps you put things away, and then he grabs the boxes of meds. You hear him give a heavy sigh. 

It’s no secret that these medications have kicked his ass nearly as well as the disease itself. 

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Just… don’t like these things. But I guess they’re better than the alternative.” 

“I know. But hey, you’re halfway through. Only three more months.” 

Arthur turns to look at you and leans his back on the counter. “These medicines have side effects, right?” 

“Course. Pretty much every medication does. Why? You having some?”

He rubs the back of his neck, not looking at you. “Yeah. A few. Kind of… embarrassin’ though.” 

“Arthur, it’s fine. My mother’s a nurse. She’s been a nurse longer than I been alive. Trust me, after hearing the things she saw, none of it really phases me.” 

Arthur grunts and then tells you in vague details some of the things he’s dealing with. Tingling in his hands and feet, occasional joint pain, and then he mentions in an embarrassed way about how his body fluids have been colored more orange. 

“Those are common, Arthur. Unfortunately nothing we can really do for most of them. You haven’t been drinking alcohol, have you?” 

He grunts that he’s had a couple beers a week. 

“Well, no more. That’s one reason why your body fluids have been discolored. It’s your liver doing it. And for your joint pain? That can be fixed with tylenol.” 

After a few seconds, you add “You’ve been coughing less.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Been havin’ less pain in my lungs too.” 

You can tell he’s a little put out by the discussion of his medical problems. 

“Arthur, let’s do something fun this week. Even though covid is still strong, some places are starting to open up. We just have to reserve a spot ahead of time.” 

“How do you do that?” he asks. 

“Easy. Just by tickets on the internet.” 

He grunts again and looks out the window. The internet, well, most electronic technology baffles him. You once caught him trying to literally pop your phone open to see what was inside. He’s been more gentle since you explained phones don’t open up unless you destroy them. 

“Maybe. But… ain’t there places we can go we don’t have to reserve a place?” 

“Sure,” you say. “There’s plenty of lakes and trails we can go on.” 

He immediately perks up when you say that. 

“Can we go to one of them places today?” 

“Sure,” you say. “I know a nice little place.” 

An hour later, you’re driving up one of the many canyons towards a place called Silver Lake near Brighton Ski Resort. 

Arthur’s a bit baffled by your explanation of skiing. Even though you’ve lived in Utah your whole life (which reportedly has the greatest snow on earth) you’ve never been skiing or snowboarding. But you do your best to explain them. 

Arthur’s mood greatly improves the further in the canyon you get. He loves how wild it is, even this close to the city. And the quiet. He loves it all. 

You laugh when he gets particularly excited about seeing a moose cow standing in the marshes of a beaver’s pond, a heron sauntering nearby. 

Because you know how unusual it is to see a moose, you pull over and roll down the windows so he can see. 

The smell coming from the forest is intoxicating. 

The drive to the lake is nearly an hour, and by the time you finally get there, Arthur’s smiling. It’s rather contagious. 

However you have to catch yourself when you see how happy he is. It just makes him all that much more handsome. You’ve been trying to be so careful not to fall for him. 

The air is nice and cool up here, a relieving reprieve from the triple degree heat down in the city. 

Arthur’s donned his leather hat and blue shirt for this walk. It looks great out here and even though there’s some people, no one will think anything of his outfit.

The hike around the lake is very easy and is a good hour walk if you take your time. Perfect for Arthur as it won’t irritate his lungs. 

The path lies right against the shores of the lake, which is not any larger than lake Owanjilla in the game, and also quite shallow. 

As you walk along the boardwalk on the marshy end of the lake, Arthur stops and looks over the railing. There, you can both easily see minnows hiding in the reeds. 

Once you hit the trees, Arthur looks around. There’s no one around. 

He shocks you by taking your hand in his and just holding it as you both walk. You can’t help but smile up at him. 

At the halfway point of the lake, there is a bench on the trail. It has a great lookout on the lake and you can even see Mickey Mouse mountain, a curious mountain with a permanent bald spot that forms the shape of the famous mouse’s head. 

You and Arthur sit on the bench and say nothing. There is nothing that needs to be said here at this moment. It’s so quiet and calm, to say anything would spoil it. 

Arthur unleashes your hand, to which you feel sad about. You’d really been enjoying it. 

Then he surprises you. He feins scratching the back of his neck and then his arm drapes along the back of the bench behind you. 

It’s getting harder and harder to control yourself around him, and you find that you’re really not wanting to anymore. 

With the encouragement of the solitude and Arthur’s arm draped behind you, it’s not long before you’re leaning into his side and resting your head on his shoulder. 

Only seconds after you get into this position, you feel Arthur’s arm winding around you. 

Is this real? Are you cuddling with Arthur Morgan? The Arthur Morgan? 

It feels real, and it feels right. 

Just as you’re beginning to truly appreciate the beauty of the lake and the forest, Arthur speaks up. 

“I was afraid places like this wouldn’t be around anymore.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Well, in that city. It’s so big and loud and… unnatural. Mostly big though. I was beginning to think man had truly driven any kind of wildness out.” 

“Well, we mostly have. But we also know the value of places like this. If we destroy them, we destroy ourselves.” 

Arthur sighs and falls silent for a moment. When he speaks up again, he takes you off guard. 

“Thank you, darlin’. For bringin’ me here. This is the best kind of medication.” 

You look up at him and are about to say “you’re welcome” when you’re stopped by his smile, the light in his eyes. That’s one thing the game failed to do despite being so detailed and lifelike. It failed to capture how truly beautiful and alive his eyes are. 

Just as you’re about to speak, Arthur closes the few inches between your faces and places his lips on yours. 

To say your heart stops is an understatement. How long have you thought of doing this with him? Much longer than you’ve known him, that’s for sure. 

His lips are better than you could have ever imagined. They’re not chapped (though that might be because you introduced him to chapstick), but warm and alive. Your hand leaves his knee and slides up his chest and to his neck. 

His free hand does the same, gently settling on your back to bring you closer. 

After a few seconds, Arthur pulls away. “Sorry, darlin’. That was… unwarranted.” 

You blush and smile. “Arthur, did it feel like I didn’t want it?” 

He smiles back. “Then… would you mind for a second?” 

You answer him by bringing your lips right back to his. This one is more fervent, more sure. 

It’s during this kiss you really begin to appreciate him, his body. How he feels, how he smells. 

Though a lot of his wild scent has been tamed by your home, he still holds onto some of it. That hint of leather, gun powder, tobacco. It’s like it’s been ingrained into his very skin. 

You don’t know it, but Arthur is appreciating the way you smell and feel too. 

He’s longed to feel you pressed against him like this since not long after he first met you. Oh, how he wished to do something like this with you during that earthquake. 

When he’d held you in his arms that night, oh it had felt so right, so pure. So good that he knew he didn’t deserve it. 

But this. Kissing you, holding you, bathed in the shade and the perfume of the pines. It’s beyond perfect. 

He doesn’t care that he thinks he’s too bad of a man for someone as good and kind as you. He just wants to revel in this moment. 

You’re both still deep in the kiss when you hear voices approaching from down the trail, and some of them belong to children. 

The two of you quickly break apart, but not before the man in the family sees you both smooching. 

He gives you both a hearty wink while the mother looks rather disapproving as they pass. 

You can’t help but smile as you blush, still nestled in Arthur’s arm. 

He rubs your back soothingly while the family passes. 

After a short while, the two of you decide it’s time to head back to the car and go home. 

Arthur holds your hand every second, and even sometimes brings your hand to his lips. 

Towards the end of the walk, the boardwalk allows people to walk out to nearly the center of the lake to either fish or look down into the water. 

You and Arthur head down it, finding yourselves alone on the planks though people can be seen on the trail still. 

Once there, Arthur takes you in his arms and kisses you again. This surprises you as you always took him to be a very private man who was not a fan of pdo. 

However, he doesn’t seem to care in this moment. Neither do you, so you loop your arms around his neck and press yourself into the kiss. 

Arthur chuckles when the kiss ends. “Sorry, had to do that. The sun hit your hair, made it so pretty. Just… had to kiss ya.” 

You smile and kiss the tip of his nose. “You can kiss me any time you want, Mr. Morgan.”

[vivadivageri]

One more day until Color Street opens in Canada!! 💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻 Today we are talking about the Province of Alberta. Some of the most impressive scenery in Canada can be found in Alberta. From the majestic snow-capped peaks to the mind-blowing glaciers, there’s no shortage of picturesque natural attractions to visit and behold. Beyond the divine natural landmarks in Alberta, there are also a slew of cultural and heritage attractions for visitors. ➡Banff National Park Arguably the most visited tourist attraction in the whole province of Alberta, the Banff National Park is an impressive park that showcases the best of Alberta’s natural beauty and wildlife. Abundant in recreational activities to enjoy, the park is home to gorgeous mountain scenery, exciting ski resorts, crystal clear lakes, and a famous tourist town called Banff. ➡Wildlife opportunities to see wolves, elk, caribous, grizzly and black bears and many more beautiful animals within the park and the main highway. Also lots of hiking trails at Banff National Park’s with numerous lookouts that offer breathtaking views of the lakes, glaciers and mountains. ➡ Banff Upper Hot Springs Banff is also home to the unique Upper Hot Springs. Enjoy utter relaxation in the steamy hot mineral water of the springs ➡Gondola Rides Feast your eyes on the spectacular and magical views of six gorgeous mountain ranges aboard the Banff Gondola. Rides on the gondola pass over the lovely Bow Valley and pass by the summit of Sulphur Mountain ➡Wood Buffalo National Park The world's largest dark sky preserve is a Canadian park established to preserve the country's last wood bison. ➡Buffalo Nations Museum ➡Cascades of Time Gardens ➡Fish Creek Provincial Park ➡Fort Edmonton Park ➡Jasper National Park ➡Banff Springs Hotel ➡Waterton Lakes National Park ➡Glacier Skywalk ➡Glenbow Museum ➡Heritage Park Historical Village ➡Hoodoos of Drumheller Valley ➡Lake Minnewanka Cruise ➡Maligne Canyon ➡Medicine Lake ➡Royal Tyrrell Museum ➡Canmore Cave Tours ➡University of Alberta Botanic Gardens If you live in Alberta or have visited, please share your favorite areas or memories. #vivadivageri #alberta #joincolorstreetcanada #mycanada https://www.instagram.com/p/CSUwEmbLt0i/?utm_medium=tumblr