#Root canal in Camp

[mangeshvaidya]

Best Root canal in pune | Dr Contractor's Dental care

A root canal is typically needed when the pulp of a tooth becomes infected or damaged. This can occur due to deep decay, a cracked or broken tooth, or repeated dental procedures on the same tooth. When the pulp is infected, it can cause severe pain, swelling, and sensitivity to hot and cold temperatures. If left untreated, the infection can spread to the surrounding teeth and gums, leading to more serious dental problems. Dr Contractor's Dental care is one of the best Root canal in pune, Root canal in Laxmi road, Root canal in Camp, Root canal in nana peth

[tennessoui]

i’m probably going to need a root canal in a couple months and am saddened to see i won’t be able to reward myself w a treat after (alas)

I’m so sorry I wish I could say root canals are totally ok and fine but I am a little baby child and have literal wounds in the back of my hand from my fingernails digging into me while trying to keep calm during my dentist appointment

they called me brave so many times I was surprised no one offered me a sticker and a sugar free lollipop tbh

[monsterfuckerconfessions]

Ehem. Let me tell you a story, of a trans masc dude, who went for a swim into a lake and walked out after being railed by a eldritch monster and given a small octopus dick…

While you were camping nearby a small beach, on your own, without anyone near, you often had your mind driven towards the small lake that was created probably thousands of years ago. Each night, when you were sleeping, some alluring sounds tried to wake you up and drag there, towards the waters.

You tried your best not to give your body away to it, but it came out harder than you thought. You survived only a week before entering the shallow waters and having your afab body impaled by two tentacles, that soon spread your pussy’s walls wide and let a creature wiggle inside it’s way. A new body locator, as lightly as you could’ve say.

The monster, gigantic, dark, slimy tentacles hummed against your skin — promising that everything will be alright, as they still had you fully sat on them. Soothing the pain away, as the small and ink-alike octopus slithered it’s way inside your womb, another tentacle appeared from the depths.

It latched onto your skin, where your bottom lips ended in front and pubic hair decorated your skin. As an triple-flower it bit down harshly there, after the flower spread, a tentacle swallowing your screams once one shoved itself into your throat. Pumping some odd liquid which made you addicted to it like candy. You swore your belly got larger with each pump of the aphrodisiac.

The flower suction tentacle suddenly ripped off from it’s precious owner, and merged where you wished yours would be. It’s flowers began to spread then some slicker and thinner joints were let out of it’s semi-mouth. They dived and connected to your pussy’s lips, merging with your skin. With an audible cry of pleasure, you began feeling like a man, since a parasite-alike dick has officially connected with your body into one.

Feeling complete, your orgasm gushed over the black squid that slipped outside your womb and then lapped up your fluids, doing it so angrily and eagerly, as if it was it’s last meal.

The tentacle in your mouth began to split in many at the end, each end tearing off from it’s extremely thick base and falling down your throat, straight into your stomach.

Some of them had made their home, but some started to seek for better environment. Slithering through your guts they made their way towards your anal canal and then… rooted to it’s walls. You never felt so full before.

One — being pumped with the aphrodisiac, in which the split tentacles bathed now.

Two — having small and pleasurable guards up your asshole

Three — feeling the aggressive throbbing of your own semi-dick, as it almost spurred out with globs of cum

Four — the small squid living inside your body

Such tragedy for your mind, but a great pleasure for your body. You need to call your friends soon, so they could feel the way you did… or… feel the new pleasures while exploring the monster as they slither out from inside.

.

[i-cant-sing]

Did you always know that you were going to be a dentist? And have you ever had a root canal before? Apparently I have to get one and I’m scared 😭

if there was ONE thing that i knew i wasnt gonna be- it was a dentist. i never went to a dentist until i was what- 18? That too for a cleaning. all i remember was my mom taking me and my bro to a free dental camp when we were kids, and all i saw was children with gauzes in their mouths and one side of their face swollen because they had a tooth extracted and they were CRYING!!!! and this one girl kept on pulling the gauze out of her mouth and her mom like warned her not to do it 3 times, but then when she tried to pull it out a 4th time, her mom SMACKED her face right in front of everyone- and i thought thats just a universal experience to anyone who went to the dentist. i did not let go of my mom's leg and begged her to lets just leave (thankfully we did, and fortunately neither me or my bro had cavities)

anyways, fast forward to applying for med or dental school. i thought i was dumb for both. i wanted to go to med school but the one i wanted to go to, i didnt get in. BUT the same school was offering me a seat in dental school so i got in, because it is one of the best dental schools in the country and also cause i wanted to save up on fuel because my bro went to medschool at that place.

honestly, i never thought i wanted to become a doctor. i always dreamt of going in arts, graphic designing or becoming a writer. I've always loved writing and reading stories, as a child i was soooo into horror stories- like any adult who would be telling a horror story and i'd be in a trance, staring at them without blinking as they spoke, as if i was the one who was in the story. then yall know the "english teacher praising your writing skills" lore and that really made me interested in stories.

There was this one line from x men where as the movie ends, xavier says "but every few hundred millennia, evolution leaps forward" and i thought it was SICKEST line ever. best believe i wrote that shit in the end of every story/essay and the teachers ate it up.

but then dad had already told everyone that i was gonna be a doctor, so.... yeah, i couldnt let him down because- he made it so public. it was intense. also i became a doctor because if i chose to become anything else, everyone wouldve constantly compared me with my brother because "he's the doctor, so he's smart. and youre just sooo dumb snow" and yeah.... i guess that was stupid because i dont really care what people think of me now, respect me or not. at the end of the day, only Allah can give or take away your respect. literally no one else can do anything.

as for the root canal, ive never had one done, but ive studied all about it. if its done by a good dentist, youre all good. get it done.

[broken-everlark]

I'm writing that camping oneshot slowly but surely. I swear it'll be done soon! I'm struggling with trying to figure out schooling and what I actually want to do with my life lol. that and I just got a root canal done it hurts like hell. @pey0805

It's definitely the one I'm going to finish and then start on the angel Tyler fic. And hopefully chapter 2 of the spiderman au. @alysia5706

[buckybarnesss]

I saw where you said you refused to watch csi Miami even for hoechlin, but I'm curious if you've watched some of his other movies and what you think? My friend and I have started watching some of his early B movies like Melvin Smarty and Grizzly Rage, which are both so camp that I can't not love them. They're also free on youtube, which is a gift.

so here's the thing. i'm lazy. i've always intended to but just haven't got around to it. i like my comfort shows, you know. no extra energy for that.

the only reason i refuse to watch csi miami is because horatio cain annoys me and my blood pressure don't need that.

however i would rather be subjected to a root canal than watch 7th heaven. not only is the show preachy and weird but also the dad? stephen collins committed sex crimes against minors. i don't believe hoechlin has ever commented on it nor should he have to just so i'm clear.

but i think that'd be the only thing he's been in i'd actively avoid.

[sallertiafabrica]

So– me and @punkrockmxfrizzle were discussing the origins of Christmas in July, which led to the discovery that it originated in a summer camp, which led to the idea of Whispering Rock having a Christmas in July, which led to Sasha wearing a silly elf custome, which led to Santa Loboto and a fleet of teethdeer

They’re great fliers, but their braces legs are spindly, which makes them not so great walkers. Loboto cares for all of them, and has named them all: Denture, Filling, Suction, Nitrous, Retainer, Root canal, Molar, and Martha.

[trickstarbrave]

biden is still a better case scenario than trump even if he sucks, actually. voting is still important actually!

i do think ppl should still vote but like. voting is very basic stuff. and materially we have seen very little in the way of change. biden has done SOME stuff, but has also let or actively worked for rly shit stuff like deportations, work camps, war crimes, genocide.

all voting in a democrat has done has let less people to talking about the shit. biden has done a lot of the terrible shit people were on trump for, only this time a large majority of democrats have just been silent on it. and maybe a few changes too but not nearly enough for what we need, but a bunch of democrats keep telling people to shut the fuck up and stop being so pessimistic

what we need to actually have proper democracy is an overhaul of the voting system. allow prisoners to vote. abolish laws that allow blatant gerrymandering. allow multiple votes in order of preference. and knock it off with this two party only system where republicans are trying to put in a blatant fascist faux christian theocracy and democrats barely resist against it.

people would be less likely to be fucking through with the voting system here if there was more material change than "gets worse slightly less fast but everyone tries to tell you to shut up about it getting worse". like you're holding a gun to people's heads as the world melts around them and tell them "vote for a genocide supporter selling weapons for oil rights, or vote for a slightly less bad genocide supporter selling weapons for oil rights who might not make your life infinitely worse" and it is really no surprise people are fucking sick of that shit.

so like. yeah if you can vote go out and do it. i'll be doing it. but voting is like brushing your teeth. and in this case its like brushing your teeth when you have severe tooth decay and need like 5 root canals. like sure, if you just stop brushing your teeth it'll get worse faster but at this point people are throwing their toothbrushes to the wall going "can SOMEONE please just take me to the fucking dentist already?!" and i can't help but find some sympathy in it. because at the end of the day you can keep brushing your teeth and delaying it all you want, but eventually they will rot out of your skull and you need to go to the ER to get them all ripped out before you get a brain infection.

[brookston]

Holidays 3.17

Holidays

Buy Women Owned Day

Camp Fire Girls Day

Children’s Day (Bangladesh)

Day of Comics & Comic Books (Spain)

Doctor-Patient Trust Day

Ennensaii (Kyoto, Japan)

Evacuation Day (Suffolk County, MA)

Glider Day

Kustonu Diena (No Planting Day; Ancient Latvia)

Mobilization Employee Day (Ukraine)

National Children Day (Bangladesh)

National Muay Thai Day

National SBCD Day

National Slime Day

Patrick Star Day (SpongeBob)

Psyche Asteroid Day

Ramon Magsaysay Memorial Day (Philippines)

Rubber Band Day

Sheikh Mujibur Rahman Day (Bangladesh)

Social Care Day of Remembrance & Reflection (UK)

St. Carl’s Day (Sacrilege Brewing)

St. Patrick's Day (a.k.a. ...��

Corned Beef & Cabbage Day

Green Ribbon Day

Irish Coffee Day

Irish Stout Day

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

St. Catrick’s Day

Submarine Day [also 4.11]

317 Day (Indiana)

Vanguard I Day

Violet Day

Wood Anemone Day (French Republic)

World Maritime Day

World Shale Energy Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Irish Coffee Day

Irish Stout Day

National Corned Beef and Cabbage Day

National Irish Beer Day

National Irish Food Day

3rd Sunday in March

American Chocolate Week begins [3rd Sunday]

Buzzard Sunday (a.k.a. National Buzzard Day) [Sunday after 15th]

Root Canal Awareness Week begins [3rd Sunday]

Silly Sunday [3rd Sunday]

Weekly Holidays beginning March 17 (3rd Week)

American Chocolate Week [3rd Full Week]

Clutter Awareness Week [3rd Full Week]

Consider Christianity Week [begins 2nd Sunday before Easter]

International Goof Off Week [3rd Full Week]

Jobs for Teens Week [3rd Full Week]

National Agriculture Week [3rd Full Week]

National Animal Poison Prevention Week [3rd Full Week]

National Anonymous Giving Week [3rd Full Week]

National Bubble Week [1st Week of Spring]

National Button Week [3rd Full Week]

National Clean Out Your Closet Week [3rd Full Week]

National Fix a Leak Week [3rd Full Week]

National Inhalants and Poisons Awareness Week [3rd Full Week]

National Introverts Week [3rd Full Week]

National Poison Prevention Week [3rd Full Week]

National Surveyors Week [begins 3rd Sunday]

Passion Week (thru 3.23) [Week before Holy Week; Christianity]

Passiontide (thru 3.30) [Passion Week + Holy Week]

Schools Library Media Center Week [3rd Full Week]

World Folktales & Fables Week [3rd Full Week]

Independence & Related Days

North Albania (Declared; 2009) [unrecognized]

Republic of Abrus (Declared; 2018) [unrecognized]

Venice Republic (Declared; 1848)

Festivals Beginning March 17, 2024

Austin Fringe Festival (Austin, Texas) [thru 3.24]

Kegs & Eggs Bar Brunch Block Party (Atlanta, Georgia)

NIOP Convention (Palm Springs, California) [thru 3.19]

St. Patrick’s Day Festival (Dublin, Ireland)

St. Patrick’s Day Parade (Birmingham, UK)

St. Patrick’s Day Parade (New Orleans, Louisiana)

St. Patrick’s Day Parade (Toronto, Ontario, Canada)

Feast Days

Agricola (Christian; Saint)

Alexius of Rome (Eastern Church)

All Snakes’ Day (Church of the SubGenius)

Damballah’s Day (a.k.a. Damballay Weddo; primordial snake of life Iwa; Vodou)

Dave the Dog (Muppetism)

Feast of the Blessed Leprechaun (Church of the SubGenius)

Gertrude of Nivelles (Christian; Saint)

Hans Namuth (Artology)

Jean Baptiste Oudry (Artology)

John Sarkander (Christian; Saint)

Joseph of Arimathea (Western Church)

Kate Greenaway (Artology)

Liberalia (Ancient Roman festival of Liber Pater)

The Martyrs of Serapeum (Christian; Martyrs)

Mikhail Vrubel (Artology)

Noah Entered the Ark Day (Middle Ages Christianity)

Patrick of Ireland (Christian; Saint) [Ireland] *

Paul of Cypress (Christian; Saint)

Shabbat HaChodesh (שַׁבָּת הַ��ֹדֶשׁ) [25 Adar]

St. Patrick’s Day Excuse (Pastafarian)

Tacitus (Positivist; Saint)

Trefuilnid Treochair (Feast of Triple Bearer of the Triple Key; Ireland)

Orthodox Christian Liturgical Calendar Holidays

Forgiveness Sunday (Orthodox Christian) [Last Sunday before Lent]

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Sakimake (先負 Japan) [Bad luck in the morning, good luck in the afternoon.]

Very Unlucky Day (Grafton’s Manual of 1565) [16 of 60]

Premieres

The Agony and the Ecstasy, by Irving Stone (Novel; 1958)

American Hot Wax (Film; 1978)

Batman & Mr. Freeze: Sub-Zero (WB Animated Film; 1998)

Beezus and Ramona, by Beverly Cleary (Novel; 1955)

Bound for Glory, by Woody Guthrie (Autobiography; 1943)

Bowery Bimbos (Oswald the Lucky Rabbit Cartoon; 1930)

Break Like the Wind, by Spinal Tap (Album; 1992)

Breathless (Film; 1960)

The Champion of Justice (Might Mouse Cartoon; 1944)

Circle of Friends (Film; 1995)

Dial “P” for Pink (Pink Panther Cartoon; 1965)

Erin Brockovich (Film; 2000)

Final Destination (Film; 2010)

Fletch Lives (Film; 1989)

Goofy and Wilbur (Disney Cartoon; 1939)

Gym Jam (Fleischer/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1950)

Iron Fist (TV Series; 2017)

iZombie (TV Series; 2015)

The Little Princess (Film; 1939)

The Magician’s Elephant (Animated Film; 2023)

Maiden Voyage, by Herbie Hancock (Album; 1965)

The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV Series; 2017)

Minx (TV Series; 2022)

Naughty Number Nine (Multiplication Rock Cartoon; Schoolhouse Rock; 1973)

Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Minor, by Frederic Chopin (Piano Concerto; 1830)

Plane Crazy (Disney Cartoon; 1929)

Purple Haze, by Jimi Hendrix (UK Song; 1967)

Shazam! Fury of the Gods (Film; 2023)

Son of a Son of a Sailor, by Jimmy Buffet (Album; 1978)

The Story of Philosophy: The Lives and Opinions of the World's Greatest Philosophers, by Will Durant (Book; 1926)

Thank You for Smoking (Film; 2006)

This Year’s Model, by Elvis Costello (Album; 1978)

Traffic Troubles (Disney Cartoon; 1931)

Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky, by Patrick Hamilton (Novel; 1935)

V for Vendetta (Film; 2006)

William Gibson (Writerism)

William Tell, by Friedrich Schiller (Play; 1804)

Yakety Yak, recorded by The Coasters (Song; 1958)

Today’s Name Days

Gertraud, Gertrud, Patrick (Austria)

Domagoj, Gertruda, Hrvatin, Patricija, Patrik (Croatia)

Vlastimil (Czech Republic)

Gertrud (Denmark)

Gerda, Gertrud, Kärdi, Kärt, Kerli, Kert, Kertu, Ruta, Ruuta, Truude, Truuta (Estonia)

Kerttu, Kerttuli (Finland)

Patrice, Patrick (France)

Gertraud, Gertrud, Patrick (Germany)

Alekos, Alexios, Alexis, Gertrude (Greece)

Gertrúd, Patrik (Hungary)

Patrizio, Teodoro, Wanda, Vanda (Italy)

Gerda, Ģertrūde, Karīna (Latvia)

Gendvilas, Gertrūda, Patrikas, Varūna, Vytė (Lithuania)

Gjertrud, Trude (Norway)

Gertruda, Harasym, Jan, Patrycjusz, Patryk, Regina, Rena, Zbigniew, Zbygniew, Zbyszko (Poland)

Alexie (Romania)

Ľubica (Slovakia)

Patricio (Spain)

Gertrud (Sweden)

Oleska (Ukraine)

Paden, Pat, Patrice, Patricia, Patrick, Patsy, Patti, Patty, Trish, Trisha (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 77 of 2024; 289 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 7 of week 11 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Fearn (Alder) [Day 1 of 28]

Chinese: Month 2 (Ding-Mao), Day 8 (Geng-Chen)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025)

Hebrew: 7 Adair II 5784

Islamic: 7 Ramadan 1445

J Cal: 17 Green; Threesday [17 of 30]

Julian: 4 March 2024

Moon: 59%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 21 Aristotle (3rd Month) [Socrates]

Runic Half Month: Beore (Birch Tree) [Day 8 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 88 of 89)

Week: 3rd Week of March

Zodiac: Pisces (Day 28 of 30)

Calendar Changes

Fearn (Alder) [Celtic Tree Calendar; Month 3 of 13]

[thewordworrier]

April Camp NaNoWriMo - Day 10

Daily goal: 700 words. Month total goal: 21,000 words. Words written today: 870 words. Today’s goal: 7,000 words. Today’s (total) word count: 9,478 / 21,000 words. Worked On: ~ Future NormalAU stuff ~ The Origin Story. Comments? Well, I do not react well to anaesthetic anymore. Blehhhh. I have not felt great today. But I managed to get myself together and go to work, so that’s a small win. I’ve managed to book off the date for my root canal, and the say after so I have recovery time. That’s good. I can definitely feel where the dentist stuck at least one of the needles in my face though - there’s a lil lump there and it’s kinda tender. And I’ve been able to taste the anaesthetic on and off a lil bit today. Utterly gross. I emailed my landlord to get an answer to a little bit of a silly question regarding the sorting of the bathroom at the end of the week, and got a good answer back to that, so that’s another thing. Favourite line: :)

“What makes you think that?” Ray asked.

Gerard shrugged. “I don’t know, instinct?”

That seemed like a good enough answer for the rest of them, to be perfectly honest.

.

[aonoexpat]

Road trip - Day 3

09-04-2023

I'm very happy with the long hot water bottle and extra blanket I bought yesterday, because this night was a lot more comfortable. My toasty bed experience was cut short, however, by my alarm at 06:20. Time for a sunrise hike! I really wasn't as sleepy as I thought I would be, which I'll attribute to falling asleep around 22:00 last night (mom, aren't you proud of my suddenly orthodox sleep schedule?). I put on my hiking pants (thank you army surplus store), hiking boots and coat and rolled out of my tent and into the forest. I felt very thankful for having the right clothing to do this comfortably, and for having two working legs that could carry me across the tree roots, along the river and to the viewpoint. One of those moments that makes you feel really quite alive.

Unfortunately the mountain was covered in clouds, but I still managed to take some pretty pictures:

After walking back and having a relaxed breakfast, we packed up and took off once more. The first stop of the day was Te Rere o Kapuni, or Dawson Falls: a beautiful part of Egmont National Park that they clearly want to keep that way (bringing a dog inside can land you with a $10.000 fine)!

As the weather report predicted rain, we quickly hurried along to our next camping spot in Kawhia for the night. We got there ahead of the bad weather and set up the tents, and were finished just in time for the low tide to start: the perfect moment to go check out the hot water beach. As the whole of Te Ikaroa is volcanic landscape, this beach (again fully black sand) has hot water springs right beneath the surface. We brought our bathing suits (locally referred to as togs, so I've learned) and little else, except for two large shovels we had borrowed from the campsite. It goes as follows: you walk along the beach in bare feet, feeling for a hot spot. Once you've found a good one, and I mean one that feels like if you bury your feet into the sand you'll burn them, you start digging. You dig a hole big enough to lie in, piling the sand up on the side of the hole facing the ocean. The hole fills itself up with hot water seeping up through the sand, so you dig little canals for the receding cold ocean water to mix into your pool, and then you dip and enjoy the natural spa ❤️ It's genuinely one of the coolest things I've ever done. The whole beach smells like sulfur, so your bathing suit will too, and you'll end up with half the beach in your bikini bottoms because guess what, even once you're chilling in the pool, the digging never stops. Sand gradually slides back in, keeping you on your toes and in the cold breeze if you don't watch out. We spent a good hour and a half at the beach, and we weren't the only ones. It was really cool to see you could easily leave your stuff unattended, people were exchanging tips on how to dig a better pool, where to dig it, and sharing shovels. A really fun end to the day ❤️

Here's a picture from TripAdvisor that gives you a pretty good idea of what it looked like:

A little while after we got back the rain started pouring down, and it hasn't stopped since. No chance for our wet clothes to dry, hopefully we'll manage in the morning. For now I'm filling up that water bottle again and going to bed well content ❤️

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Aleksander Moroza x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Summary: Alyra Koshkova has always lived in the shadows, concealing her true nature to survive. But when tragedy forces her into the heart of Ravka's Second Army, she finds herself under the watchful eye of General Kirigan, the Darkling—a man as enigmatic as he is powerful. Struggling to come to terms with her newfound role, Alyra must navigate a world of hidden threats and dangerous alliances. As secrets unravel and the Darkling’s intentions grow ever more unclear, Alyra’s choices could reshape the fate of a nation—or lead to her own undoing.

Series Masterlist

Read on A03

Warnings: Violence, Death, Language

Additional Tags: Canon Divergence, Language, Depictions of Violence, War, Political Intrigue, Horror Elements, The Darkling has a Heart, Grisha!OC, Grisha Sympathetic, Alcohol, The Darkling was right about a lot of things

Chapter 2: The Wolves, the Sheep

Alyra was no stranger to death.

She had been only sick when her father, exhausted and frail, finally succumbed to the wasting illness that had plagued him as far back as she could remember. Winter fevers swept through their village, carrying off playmates and their parents, and had nearly taken her and her mother one particularly cold year. Things in Ryevost had been no better. Starvation and violence ran like an undercurrent through the streets and every year, as the snow melted and fed the Sokol, it carried the plague along the canals.

In those balmy monthly, from the confines of the little apothecary on a corner in Lowtown, she became intimately acquainted with the chiming of funeral bells. They were a constant companion as, night and day, Pavel mixed remedy after remedy for the afflicted. And when he seemed likely to collapse, unable to keep up with the increasing demand for relief, Alyra was there to take over. She knew the ragged gasps of a man about to take his last breaths and had seen the way skin turned from blue to black in the advances of decay. And when the Kerch undertaker struggled to keep up with the volume of the dead waiting to be collected to burn beyond the city walls, she soon learned the smell of bodies left to the elements.

Yet despite death’s constant specter at the doorway, she had never given much thought to how or where it might one day come for her. Now, as summer faded to autumn in a torrent of rain, she thought of little else.

Today’s march was proving more brutal than the last. The mud sucked at her boots, snatching at her heels and slowing her movement. She wrenched a leg free, her muscles screaming from the effort of slogging through the sodden path that wound between ancient pines. The chains about her wrists and ankles further complicated her progress, clinking and catching as she went. Rain splattered a steady rhythm against her cheeks and her coat, soaked through, offered little protection against the biting wind.

“Keep moving, witch,” a ginger-bearded man snarled when she faltered, following up with a shove that nearly sent her careening sideways.

Alyra’s palms stung as she caught herself against a tree, bark rasping against her skin. She struggled to catch her breath. Exhaustion was a leaden shawl on her shoulders, heavy as the weight of her weight coat as her numb fingers fumbled to adjust the tattered fabric.

It felt like ages before the Commander raised his gloved fist and his men ground to a stop behind him. Then he barked an order and they dispersed in a flurry of dark fabric to make camp. She watched them with disinterest until one of her captors tugged at her chains and guided her to a nearby oak, securing them around the trunk.

She did her best to settle against the gnarled roots, back pressed against the bark, and tried to a least be grateful to be off her feet. A few yards away, a young Druskelle started about making a fire. The effort was made difficult by damp kindling and cold fingers, but finally, a spark caught, and soon a fire roared to life at the center camp. It was not close enough to chase off all the chill, but the warmth licked at her face and brought some life back to her frozen limbs. Her eyes drifted shut, basking in the sensation as flames danced against the inside of her eyelids.

She wasn’t sure how long she dozed, only that she woke to the feeling of eyes on her. When she came to, the first thing she found was a pair of blue ice chips boring into her. The man with the ginger beard stood a few paces away, backlit in blazing orange, his bulky frame blocking out the light. She waited for him to pass, but he continued to stare at her as if he were trying to peer through her bones and into the core of her being. 

Righting herself, she repressed the urge to shiver.

The rest of the Druskelle were undoubtedly cruel. Alyra still had the scars from the Commander to prove it. Yet, besides a quick cuff when she slowed or wary glances at night from the watch, the majority seemed content to ignore her presence. But not this man, the hulking red-faced brute that hovered near like a wasp anytime she turned her head.

Now, he stood before her, lips curling into the faintest of snarls like something foul had passed in front of his nose. And as he adjusted the rifle at his shoulder, Alyra thought she would be lucky to live long enough for starvation or the elements to finish her off.

He spat at her feet before turning and stomping off to the other side of camp, and she released a shaky breath, trying to still her racing heart. Fear had been a millstone around her neck from the moment of her capture, and it hung heavy still, slowly eroding her spirits and chipping away at her hope.

Her fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms, drawing as close to the flames as the chains would allow, jumping when the kindling popped. A shower of sparks burst red and gold before fizzling out into the damp earth. She listened to the rhythm of rustling pine needles and heavy footfalls in the mud, the familiar sounds of soldiers roaming the perimeter. 

Had terror racked Pavel’s body this way when they dragged him and his wife from their bed?

Had her mother laid there night after night, kept awake by the same jagged daggers of dread Alyra had felt every time darkness fell on her out here in the wilds?

And when she too disappeared, would there be anyone left to mourn her?

Lost in her thoughts, she barely registered the dull rumble of conversation from the three men sitting closest to the fire, settled on overturned crates. She let the rolling timbre of Fjerdan wash over her like a wave, the words foreign and indecipherable. Until a phrase caught her attention, one she knew. She straightened, straining to hear as her ghosts retreated back into the dark edges of the woods.

Second Army.

She recognized the Commander’s baritone a second before she caught sight of the sharp angles and planes of his pale face. His blond brow furrowed, posture ramrod straight as he settled by the men with a dour expression.

Alyra could not follow all of what he said next, the words too rapid and her grasp of the language far too tenuous. But she understood the fear that rippled through his men when he said, “Vronche.”

Darkling.

He spat the word like a curse. The effect was immediate-- those hovering nearby paused their chores. And as they crept closer towards the fire to listen, she could not blame them.

The Black General was a household name in Ravka. Street corners from Caryeva to Tsibeya were ripe with tales of the Darkling-- the fierce, cold man who not only led the Second Army but controlled the shadows themselves. 

Beyond the borders, he was a symbol of ruthlessness. Commanding his Grisha soldiers with a dedicated discipline, his enemies seemed to disperse like rats wherever they were deployed.

Yet to Alyra, General Kirigan had always been a blurry figure, as intangible as folklore, another fable to thrill and frighten children. She knew how this world worked. In times of war, a frightened populace was always quick to prop up such a figure, desperate for an idol worth worshiping or a villain to blame in times of uncertainty. But in reality, he was a man, as fallible and disappointing as any other. In her mind’s eye, she pictured a pampered sycophant, another puppet dancing to the king’s beck and call while the people starved and war dragged away sons and daughters to become gun fodder.

To the Druskelle, he was a demon that made widows of righteous men and devoured babes in arms to fuel his unholy powers. And as she roved over each of their somber, angry faces, she could it plain as day - the fearful reverence behind the hatred. 

The fervor was quelled when a rumble of thunder exploded above them, shattering the pall that had fallen over the camp in a black blanket. Alyra jumped, smacking the back of her head against the tree, the sound sending her heart into a fresh frenzy of flips. The ginger-beared man leaped to his feet in a rush of rapid Fjerdan, rounding on her, his eyes blazing.

And before she could blink, he was bearing down on her, raving to his brothers. But she could not make any sense of it, not with the barrel of a rifle now inches from her nose.

“This is your doing, witch,” he hissed in halting accented Ravkan, jabbing the gun forward for emphasis. “You called this unholy storm upon us to summon the Darkling.”

Cold metal brushed the time of her nose, glinting in the firelight. Her mouth dropped open and then closed, gaping like a fish as she struggled to hear over the blood rushing through her ears. But any protest died on her tongue. They did not care that she couldn’t actually summon storms or that she had never been in any army. It did not matter. She was Grisha, condemned from the second they saw her powers. To them, she had been born guilty.

Behind the rifle, the man’s face was mottled with fury, blue eyes glowing like a demon’s in the firelight. The gun cocked, the sound piercing through her bones. She scrambled backward, trapped against the tree. 

Terror was a thing with teeth. They would not have brought her this far just to shoot her dead only a few miles from the border, would they?

She spared a frantic glance to where the Commander had resumed a position leaning against a cart. He cast a sidelong glance in their direction, expression almost bored before turning back to light his pipe.

Gingerbeard’s hand wrapped around the trigger. The world fell silent as Alyra squeezed her eyes shut and waited for it to all be over.

Just then, the trees rustled. Every set of eyes in the camp turned towards the noise with a synchronization that would been comical had Alyra not been scared out of her wits.

A scout stepped out of the brush and they eased, breathing a collective exhale as he rushed to the Commander with singular focus. Whispers were exchanged in rapid fire, tones hushed and urgent. Then, the Commander’s features pulled into a grin and he clapped the young soldier on the back with a force that nearly bowled him over.

Seconds later, the rest of the scouting party flooded into camp. Alyra watched the line of soldiers bob into view one after the other, each one tall with the pride of victory. She couldn’t make sense of it until the last soldier stomped through the brush, a rope held in his hands. He gave it a merciless tug, and Alyra’s stomach lurched as she realized that there was a person on the other end.

The man stumbled into the clearing, hands in front of him, face grim beneath the discolored spate of bruises. Beneath his muddy cloak, she spied the uniform of the Second Army--the red kefta shining like a homing beacon in the dim light. 

There was a startled little cry behind him, and a bound woman trailing behind stumbled before she was wrenched up to her feet. She too was clad in a kefta, though hers was blue.

More Grisha, Alyra noted grimly.

The one in red was resolute the stern line of his lips bloodless and jaw taut as they wrangled him to his knees. At his side, his companion knelt without aid, pliant as a little doll as she roved the camp with a glassy, thousand-yard stare. Tears streaked her round cheeks, and Alyra was struck by how young she looked.

Her attention was diverted when the press of bodies parted, Commander emerging through the mass of soldiers to circle the prisoners like a vulture scenting carrion.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked, coming to a stop in front of them. When the Grisha in red shifted, she watched the Commander’s hand ghost over his whip.

Closer now to the firelight, she could make out more of the prisoner’s features, enough to think that ‘boy’ seemed an unfitting description. Even on his knees, the man was tall. And for the jut of his cheekbones, the way his dark eyes raked over the camp with the wary air of experience, he couldn’t be younger than his late twenties. His jaw ticked, his chin tilted forward in defiance. No, this was no frightened boy--this was a man who had seen his fair share of war.

Still, he said nothing.

The Commander’s wrist flicked. Leather cracked. And Alyra winced as a viper strike lashed across the man’s face. 

The first sound she ever heard him make was a grunt of pain as the momentum knocked him sideways. His face contorted, teeth bared as his elbow sank into the ground and a trail of fresh blood tricked down his cheek.

Alyra had felt the sting of their whips when a few weeks prior she had carelessly trod on a soldier’s foot during a march. The skin on her back radiated in remembrance of the pain--sharp and bruising all at once. 

Whether it was the noise or the sudden movement that broke her from her trance, the other Grisha started, eyes rounding in panic. She caught sight of her companion, rushing forward to his aid only to stop mid-motion when he shot her a single, reproving look. 

She sunk back onto her knees as amusement rippled through the ranks. A wall of black and silver pressed them in at all sides like a pack of wolves. 

“You will tell me your orders, drüsje,” the Commander said in a conversational tone, the whip hanging limply from his hand, a cock-sure smile on his lips. “And perhaps your suffering will be less.”

Silence stretched out endlessly, sucking all the air from the camp. And for one horrible moment, Alyra feared for the wrath that might rain down upon the prisoners. 

Then the man in red spoke, voice hoarse but rich and level, “My orders are simple. Kill any Fjerdan scum I see.”

His dark eyes locked on the Commander’s, bright with defiance.

A murmur of anger swept through the men, but their leader simply threw back his sandy blond head and laughed. Then he turned towards the woman. “And you, genta? What information do you have for me?”

She trembled like a rabbit in a trap, but to her credit, she kept her head high, proud despite her fear. There was no answer, only a slight glance towards the other captive.

The Commander eyed them both for a long moment then turned to his men, ushering two forward with a wave of his gloved fingers. 

Alyra didn’t understand what he said next, barking orders in sharp Fjerdan, but it seemed the man in red did, because he jerked forward, struggling against his bonds like a man possessed. His eyes were wild, frantic as he tried to reach his comrade.

Alarm was apparent in the young woman’s wide, hazel eyes, scrambling back onto her elbows as a hunter marched towards her. And as he raised his gun, Alyra understood. 

There was only a need for one.

She wrestled down the bile searing a trail up her throat and braced herself as one shot fired, then another.

Bang. 

Bang.

Perched high in the trees, a murder of crows to to the sky in a flutter of wings and frightened cries. Although her ears rang and the acrid smell of gunpowder burned her nostrils, all she could focus on was the blood. Red rivulets streamed through the little valleys carved into the mud by the rain, mingling with the dirty water until it made ugly, rusted rivers. She followed their path back to the spot where the dead girl lay, the fabric of her kefta turning black at the chest and her eyes fixed unseeing at some faraway point above, reflecting back black feathers.

With a ragged cry, the man in red clawed his way toward his fallen comrade, only to be sent backward with a merciless tug on his tether. Undeterred, he bounced back with a vengeance, lashing out in a flurry of elbows and bruising kicks that sent the nearest soldiers reeling. It took five soldiers, in the end, to take him to the ground. Two more to fully subdue him. It seemed overkill to Alyra, even for a man of his size.

And then, cheek pressed to the mud and a knee digging into his back, their eyes met. Black met brown and beneath his pained, glassy stare, recognition flickered though they had never met before. Her heart stuttered, something deep inside her veins thrumming in response.

The trees whispered overhead, the back of a rifle sailed through the air, and he collapsed like a ragdoll into the mud.

---

Ivan was awoken by a warm breeze and the shuffle of bodies as the Druskelle packed up the last of their camp. Men barked orders, the wind rustled the trees, and he opened his eyes, squinting against a bright, cloudless morning.

Dappled sunlight broke through the branches, painting the clearing in yellow light as he watched a skinny young Druskelle stamp out the last embers of the night’s fire. The wind picked up, stinging his eyes with smoke and irritating his parched throat. His tongue darted out to daub his dry lips, tasting copper. When he tried to raise a hand to inspect the wound, the cold bite of shackles held his wrists apart. The metal links were heavy, unyielding—unmistakably Fjerdan.

Confusion stirred in his sluggish mind until a man passed by, arms full of firewood, and dreadful realization crashed down. There was no mistaking the black and silver uniform of the Druskelle.

The events of the previous night surged back: the scouting mission near the border, the ambush, the rain-soaked march, and the gunfire as Petra collapsed into the mud--

Petra.

 The name was a bolt of lightning to the chest, jolting him upright despite the skull-splitting ache at the base of his head. He craned his neck, searching frantically for his subordinate. His voice, a hoarse whisper, failed to call out her name.

But it didn’t matter. Moments later, his roving eyes found her crumpled form just a few yards away.

Leaves crunched beneath his palms as he crawled towards her, awkwardly hindered by his bound hands. Her back was to him, blue kefta soiled by dirt and last night’s heavy rain. He reached for her shoulder, desperate to shake her awake, but the chains rattled, halting his progress.

A bark of laughter cut through his panic. Ivan turned to see a Druskelle approaching, the man’s veiny, broken nose nearly lost in a mass of discolored, swollen flesh. Mud-caked boots stopped inches from Ivan, and he knew instinctively that he had caused the man’s injuries.

But vengeance wasn’t on the man’s mind—at least not the physical kind.

“Drüsje” he called in a rasping bass, followed by a string of words that came so quickly Ivan’s concussed mind to decipher. The druskelle sighed, annoyed, and added in Ravkan, “Look.”

With a nudge, his boot hooked under Petra’s body and turned her over. She sprawled onto her back like a broken doll, arms lolling out far enough for her pale fingers to brush against Ivan’s. Her eyes, blank and glassy as marble, stared up at nothing. The black, congealed blood streaking her neck and chest told the rest.

Dead.

Ivan’s stomach lurched. He twisted to the side, heaving the meager contents of his stomach in the brush.

This wasn’t the first corpse he’d seen. Far from it. He’d witnessed the carnage made by shrapnel, seen Grisha and otkazat’sya alike bleed out from torn limbs and gunshot wounds. He was a seasoned soldier, a Corporalnik who could crush a heart with a flick of his wrist. Squeamishness had been torn from him long ago, destroyed in the crucible on endless was.

But this was different. Petra Antonova had been not only a friend, but his charge. He was responsible for guiding her through her first scouting mission, to bring her back safely. She had trusted him and now she was dead.

He wretched again, muscles spasming, as his stomach expelled nothing but bile. Acid burned his tongue, soured his mouth. The druskelle laughed, yanking him to his feet with a rough grip on his bicep.

“Time to go,” the man grunted, shoving him forward.

Ivan’s eyes darted back to Petra, waiting for someone—anyone— to collect her body. But the soldiers simply stepped over her, indifferent. Cold realization washed over him like ice water.

“No!” he cried out, voice breaking as he tried to plead with the nearest soldier. “You can’t just leave her like this.”

A nudge from the druskelle behind him was the only response. Ivan dug in his heels, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

The man grunted in frustration, and Ivan met nothing but cold stares. Then he saw her—the woman from last night. It had struck his as odd then that she was there at all. Women didn’t join the ranks of the Druskelle, and from her haggard appearance, it was clear she wasn’t a cherished wife or beloved daughter. When they’d first locked eyes, suspicion had stirred—one that roared back to life now.

She broke eye contact first, her face tipping down as she took in Petra’s body with a misty-eyed detachment. Her face a pale, lips tight. Her dark eye flickered with something Ivan couldn’t name as they swept back up to meet his.

They were wide, impossibly large within her gaunt, pinched face. Perhaps it was pity he saw in their depths. She tilted her head slightly, as if trying to make sense of him. Beneath the shade of the trees, the true color of her hair was hard to discern in its dirty, matted state as if slipped over her thin shoulder, resting against her jutting collarbones. If he were a more generous man, he would call her frail.

Then his eyes fell to the long chain snaking through the dirt and the fetter between her wrists—a twin to his own. Hope flickered, a dangerous ember in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask the question on his lips, but she stopped him with a severe expression and a mild shake of her head. The hope fizzled out.

Grisha or not, this little waif of a prisoner wouldn’t help him make this right.

He leveled her with a hard stare, eye narrowing when the Commander appeared in his peripheral vision. Ivan swung around, chest stifled with impotent fury as he stepped forward to block the man’s path.

“If you were any kind of true soldier,” he began, voice choked with emotion that barely felt like his own, “you’d let me bury her.”

The Commander arched a brow, peering down at Ivan as if he were not more than a cockroach skittering over his boots. Then he laughed—a cruel sound—and crossed over to where Petra lay. Ivan’s stomach dropped into the dirt as he towered over her. With a pointed look at Ivan, he kicked a layer of mud over her chest. 

“There’s your burial. And it’s far more than any of your kind deserves. If circumstance allowed it, I would burn her so she might never know the warmth of Djel’s embrace.”

Hate was molten beneath Ivan’s skin, searing through his veins, threatening to swallow him whole. His hands clenched, and he took a step forward--only to be tugged backward by the man holding his leash.

Satisfied, the Commander turned back to his men, Ivan forgotten as he called, “Enough dawdling, I hope to reach the edge of the forest before nightfall.”

As the Druskelle spurred into movement and Ivan was frogmarched ahead, he gave one last, lingering look over his shoulder to where Petra lay, watching her form shrink until she was just another speck on the horizon.