#The Eternal Frozen Capital | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mother-homunculus · 10 days ago

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WINTERSUN

A year after the death of his first wife, Arra Norrey, Cregan Stark is practically pressured by other lords from the North to remarry. He finds a suitable candidate in Ylva, a daughter of House Umber, who would much rather stay in her family's remote castle.

Pairing: Cregan x OC

Hello my lovelies, I actually wanted to wait a little longer with this story, but some of you will certainly know how it is: If you have a good idea, it has to come out. And there simply has to be more fanfiction about our lovable Cregan.

As you could read in the description, my OC is a character from the House of Umber. I am a big fan of the families from the north, but I particularly like the Umbers. It's a shame that they aren't mentioned so much. But good for me, it gives me more freedom.

Small note: The seal of the house is the one from the books :)

And the capital is a little longer than intended.

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Angst, Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Cregan Stark, Grief/Mourning

Please note that an animal dies and is gutted.

Chapter 1: Fields of Snow

The air was thick with the weight of the winter, a biting cold that seeped into stone and bone alike—ancient, unforgiving, and eternal. It swept over the vast white expanse, where snow stretched unbroken for miles. The distant sound of the wind howling through the frozen hills blended with the occasional crack of ice and the groan of snow-laden trees.

Amidst the harshness of the region, Last Hearth stood as a dark and unyielding presence, carved from the cold, unrelenting stone of the land itself. The North's fierce resilience and the unwavering spirit of House Umber infuse every stone of this bastion against the wilds. The castle rose from a low hill, its silhouette dark against the horizon, framed by an endless sea of snow and the swirling gray sky. Its walls, thick and ancient, bore the scars of countless winters, their surfaces darkened by frost and weathered by the passage of time. Snow clung stubbornly to the cracks and crevices, the ice sparkling faintly in the wan light of the sun, which hovered low in the sky like a dying ember. Jagged towers rose like claws into the heavens, their watchful spires cloaked in snow and ice. Icicles hung from their eaves, glistening like shards of glass in the pale, meager light of the winter sun.

The gatehouse, a colossal construction of iron and oak, stood powerfully and unyieldingly before all who granted entry. Its doors, massive and imposing, bore the sigil of House Umber—a roaring giant breaking free of its chains—etched deep into the wood. Though the colors had faded, and the edges had worn smooth, the emblem remained a testament to the strength and fierceness of the house it represented. Above the gate, a lone banner fluttered weakly in the wind, its fabric frayed by years of relentless storms.

Beyond the fortress walls, the land sloped downward into dense forests, where towering fir trees and ancient oaks stood tall and silent, their branches heavy with snow, and their roots buried deep beneath the frozen earth. Trees formed a natural barrier, their canopy blocking out much of the fading light. Somewhere deep within those woods lay ancient secrets, the whispered memories of a land older than men.

The hunting party moved swiftly but cautiously, the chill of the early afternoon biting their exposed skin. Snow blanketed the ground in a crisp, unbroken sheet, muffling the sounds of hooves as the group moved forward. They were tracking a bear. The creature had been raiding the livestock near Last Hearth, leaving mauled carcasses and claw-marked trees in its wake.

Lord Jon Umber, his broad frame draped in a thick fur cloak, rode at the front, closely followed by his only daughter, Ylva. Beside her, Osric sat tall in the saddle, his face set in concentration, while Torren, ever impatient, kept pushing his horse just slightly ahead, his restless energy drawing a disapproving glance from their father.

Lord Umber commanded the group with effortless authority. His voice, rough and deep, carried over the soft crunch of snow.

"This one’s big and angry," Lord Umber said, gesturing to the massive claw marks on a tree trunk.

Hallis Hornwood, a veteran fighter and longtime friend of Lord Umber, chuckled as he leaned forward in his saddle. "Angry, aye, but maybe not as angry as you’ll be if one of your boys gets themselves mauled."

Torren shot him a glare, rising to his full height. "Worry about yourself, old man. You will need all your strength just to keep up."

"Enough, both of you," Lord Umber barked, his tone cutting through the exchange. "Focus on the trail. We are not here to bicker."

Osric looked at his sister.

"You have been quiet. Thoughts?"

Ylva’s gaze swept the scene as her mind pieced together the bear’s path. The broken branches ahead and the faint traces of fur snagged on bark told her all she needed to know.

"It’s heading northeast," she said, pointing toward the thicker part of the forest. "If we keep pace, we will catch it near the ravine." Her voice was calm, though her pulse quickened at the prospect of the hunt.

Her father nodded, approval gleaming in his eyes. "Good eye, Ylva. You heard her—move."

The group set off again, their horses’ hooves crunching through the snow. The ward of Lord Umber, a young man named Jeor, rode beside Ylva. He was lean and serious, his bow slung over his shoulder. "What is your plan when we corner it?" he asked her.

"Depends on where we find it," Ylva said, her fingers tightening around the reins. "But I suppose I will figure it out before you do."

Jeor smirked but said nothing, nudging his horse forward.

As they neared the ravine, Lord Umber raised a hand, signaling the group to stop. They dismounted silently, tying their horses to low-hanging trees. Osric unsheathed his sword, the sound whispering through the cold. Ylva gripped her spear, its weight familiar and comforting in her hand. She crouched down to inspect the tracks. Her leather armor creaked softly, and her bright eyes scanned the ground ahead. Ylva stood, brushing the snow from her hands.

"Do you think it is as big as that bear you and Osric took down last spring?" Torren asked, his voice a mix of nervousness and excitement.

Ylva smirked, standing and planting the butt of her spear in the snow. "Bigger, I hope. Last spring’s bear was hardly a challenge."

"Do not tempt fate, Ylva. Last time, you nearly got your arm ripped off." Osric said, his voice steady and laced with the calm of an older brother who had seen his sister’s confidence in action too many times. “You will regret those words when it is charging straight at you."

"I have seen her take on wilder things than a bear," Torren piped up, grinning. She behaves similarly to the kitchen staff when they run out of honey.

Ylva raised a hand to signal a halt, then turned to the group.

"It is doubling back toward the rocks," she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes sparkled with exhilaration. "If we move quickly, we can box it in."

The hunting party pressed onward, the snow growing thicker underfoot, the dense forest began to thin out, and the tracks veered sharply to the right. The group spread as Ylva instructed, forming a rough semicircle to trap the bear. They are heavy with anticipation, every crackle of frost or snap of a branch causing hands to tighten on weapons. Ylva crept forward, her spear at the ready, her movements fluid and quiet despite the layers of armor.

Torren, eager as always, impatiently shifted his weight as he followed his sister's lead. He tightly clutched his spear in his gloved hands.

"Torren, hold your place," Lord Umber commanded, his voice low but firm, his massive axe slung across his back. "This is not a game. That beast could split you in two before you’d even have time to raise your spear."

Torren grumbled but fell back, his youthful pride bruised.

A deep growl echoed through the trees, causing a chill to run down their spines. Without warning, the bear burst from the underbrush, a massive wall of muscle and fur as dark as midnight. Its roar shook the air, a terrifying sound that may froze the hearts of even the most seasoned men. The bear lunged toward the group, its claws swiping through the air with deadly precision.

Lord Umber was the first to act, his axe glinting in the pale light as he stepped into its path. The bear swiped at him, but he dodged to the side with surprising agility, his axe biting into the beast’s flank. The beast roared in pain and reared up on its hind legs, towering above them all.

"Hold your ground!" he shouted, his voice commanding.

Osric moved next, his sword slicing through the air to land a blow across the bear’s shoulder. Ylva’s heart raced, but she did not falter. With a quick motion, she hurled her spear, the weapon sinking into the bear’s flank. The beast turned toward her with an enraged roar, its massive paws striking the ground where she had stood moments before.

She rolled out of the way just as Torren charged in, rushing to her side with his own spear. Together, they circled the bear, forcing it to split its attention between them.

"Watch yourself, Torren!", Osric shouted, his voice taut with worry as the younger boy narrowly avoided a swipe from the bear’s claws.

"I am fine!" Torren yelled back, his voice tinged with both fear and exhilaration.

The coordinated attacks of strikes and dodges began to wear the beast down, but it remained dangerous, lashing out with terrifying strength. Ylva maneuvered swiftly, delivering precise and fearless strikes, while her taunts deterred the bear from approaching the less experienced fighters. Jeor shot an arrow that found its mark in the bear’s shoulder, staggering it further.

Lord Umber and Hallis seized the opportunity, their weapons cutting deep into the creature with heavy, deliberate strikes. The older man stepped forward for the final blow. His axe came down in a powerful arc, striking the bear at the base of its neck. With a final growl, the bear collapsed into the snow, its massive body heaving once before going still.

Ylva stood over the fallen bear, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Cold and adrenaline flushed her cheeks. Ylva stepped forward, her spear still embedded in the beast’s side. She planted her boot on its thick fur and pulled the weapon free, a satisfied smile on her face.

Her father approached, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Quick, strong, and fearless," he said, pride gleaming in his eyes. "You’ve got the Umber blood, that’s for sure, girl."

Osric nodded in agreement, his face breaking into a rare smile despite his usual gruffness. "You handled yourself well, Ylva. Better than most men would have."

Torren grinned as he wiped blood from his face, his hands trembling slightly as he leaned on his own weapon. "Not bad for someone who spends her time playing nursemaid to the little ones," Torren teased, drawing a glare from Ylva. "I’ll remember that the next time you come whining to me about your aches after training."

The bear’s body loomed like a fallen mountain, its massive bulk spread across the snow, its dark fur matted with blood. The beast was enormous, its bulk nearly the size of the sledge they’d prepared to haul it back. Ylva stood over it, the cold seeping through her thick, dark wool tunic. She glanced toward the quiet forest, the thrill of the hunt still coursing through her veins. Around her, the others worked swiftly, their breaths rising in misty clouds as they prepared for the arduous task ahead. They had little daylight left; in a few hours the sun would die, and the blood would sooner or later attract other animals, especially wolves. This wasn’t her first hunt, but a bear was a prize unlike any other. It would provide them with food for weeks, and its fur could be used to make soft, warm cloaks.

Hallis tightened the leather straps of his gloves, his sharp eyes darting to the tree line as if expecting wolves to burst forth at any moment. Ryon, younger and less seasoned, shifted his weight nervously, one hand gripping the hilt of his blade while the other fumbled with the ropes slung over his shoulder.

Ylva crouched beside it; her knife was already in her hand, its blade sharp and ready.

“Never seen one this big,” Torren murmured, running a hand over the coarse fur.

“We’ve got daylight for maybe two or three hours—maybe less,” Hallis said gruffly, breaking the silence. His sharp eyes scanned the tree line before he gestured at Jeor, who lagged a few steps behind. “Let’s not waste it. Jeor, with me. Help me prepare the sledge." He gave a sheepish nod, his cheeks flushing as he joined Hallis. “Aye, I am coming.”

Ylva kneels at the bear’s head, glancing at its thick neck. Its enormous jaws slack, revealing yellow teeth that could have crushed a man’s skull, and the massive paws, tipped with claws the length of daggers, could have ripped her apart in an instant. Yet here it lay, lifeless and still. She glanced at Osric, who had already positioned himself to help.

“Start with the throat,” Osric instructed, his voice calm but firm as he crouched beside her. “We bleed it first.”

She nodded, her fingers stiff from the cold as she positioned the blade just below the jaw. The bear’s fur was dense, coarse against her gloves, and it took effort to press the blade into its flesh. The knife bit deep, and with a practiced pull, she opened the artery. Blood gushed out in a hot, steaming flow, pooling darkly in the snow. Torren, on the other side, held the bear’s massive head steady with both hands, his boots sinking into the crimson-stained ground.

“Good cut,” Torren muttered, glancing at her with a faint nod. “It will drain quickly.”

Hallis and Jeor were working in tandem to tie sturdy branches together with rawhide, but Jeor's face was a little pale. The young hunter’s hands shook slightly as he tied a knot, earning a sharp look from Hallis. He’d never processed a kill this large before, and the sheer size of the bear seemed to unsettle him.

“Steady, boy,” Hallis growled. “You’ve seen worse than this.”

“I know,” Ryon muttered, flushing. “It’s just… big. Feels like it’s still watching us.”

“Then work faster,” Hallis snapped, yanking the rope taut and testing the frame. “Wolves won’t wait for you to stop quivering.”

“Here,” Osric said, handing Ylva a larger blade. “Make the first cut down the belly. Torren, you hold the hide steady.”

Torren was at her side in moments, bracing the bear’s leg with his shoulder. “Got it,” he grunted.

Ylva made a long, deliberate cut from the chest to the hindquarters, slicing through the thick layers of fur and fat. The smell of warm flesh, rich and earthy, mingled with the metallic tang of blood, causing Ylva to wrinkle her nose as she continued to work.

“Not bad,” Torren muttered, pulling the edges of the hide apart as Ylva continued cutting. “You’re getting faster at this.”

The knife slid cleanly, revealing the rich red of muscle beneath. Osric leaned in, gripping the edges of the hide and pulling it back as she worked.

“Do not distract her,” Osric said with a smirk, but there was a note of pride in his voice. He moved to the other side, gripping the hide and helping peel it back. “Keep it steady.”

“Careful not to nick the meat,” he murmured. “Father won’t be pleased if this comes back torn to ribbons.”

“Father won’t bother looking,” Ylva replied dryly, earning a chuckle from Osric. Lord Umber rarely concerned himself with such tasks, trusting his children and men to handle the practicalities.

They worked methodically, peeling the hide from the massive body, the cold air biting at their exposed fingers. Ylva’s arms ached from the effort, but she did not stop. Torren grunted with exertion, his breath fogging in the air as he braced his boots against the snow for leverage.

With the hide finally free, they rolled it carefully and set it aside. “That will make fine cloaks,” Ylva remarked.

“Hallis, bring those sacks closer. We will need them for the fat.”

After finishing the final knot on the sledge, Hallis hauled the sacks over, with Ryon following closely behind. “The wolves will smell this from leagues away,” Hallis grumbled. “We’d best work faster.”

“Don’t forget the fat,” Lord Umber shouted from a few steps away. “That’ll fetch a price at the market if we don’t need it all.”

Ylva rolled her eyes playfully as Torren knelt nearby, carefully carving out chunks of the fatty layers, which glistened pale yellow in the dim light. Hallis packed the fatty layers into a sack, muttering about how much tallow they’d be able to render from it.

Ylva glanced over at him. “We will need some for Smalljon’s boots. He tore through the last pair already.”

Hallis smirked. “Aye, growing like a weed, that one.”

Afterwards Ylva focused on the bear’s hindquarters, the thick haunches rich with muscle. She carved through the layers with careful movements, her blade slicing cleanly along the bone. Torren joined her, his blade moving less smoothly but no less precisely. They worked together, slicing the flesh into manageable sections, each brimming with meat, and meticulously wrapping each piece in cloth to maintain its cleanliness.

Jeor, emboldened by the sight of the others working, took up an axe and moved to the ribs. “Careful,” Hallis said, watching him swing the axe to crack open the ribcage. “Don’t shatter it and waste beneficial marrow.”

“I know,” Jeor replied, his tone defensive but focused. The first swing was too light, the blade glancing off the bone with a dull thud.

Hallis responded with a slight smile. “Do it again, lad, and aim straight this time.”

Jeor flushed but tightened his grip, bringing the axe down again with more force. This time, the ribs cracked apart, the sound sharp in the stillness, exposing the tender meat inside. He grinned despite himself, looking to Hallis for approval, but the older hunter merely grunted and moved on.

Meanwhile, Ylva worked on removing the organs. The bear’s ribcage was cavernous, and the warmth of its innards was a stark contrast to the freezing air. She pulled free the heart, its weight solid and heavy in her hands, and handed it to Ryon, who placed it carefully in a sack. "Don't forget about the liver and kidneys," Osric said, reaching in to assist. The two of them worked swiftly, the rich, dark organs joining quickly.

As the light continued to fade, the group grew more urgent. Lord Umber supervised the packing process, making sure to secure every piece of usable meat, fat, and hide. Jeor and Ylva helped lash the larger cuts to the sled, their hands raw and cold despite their gloves.

“We’re nearly done. Just the bones left.” Osric was wiping his blade clean on a strip of cloth. He nodded toward the bear's skull and said, "The head. That’ll take two of us.”

Torren stepped forward without hesitation, gripping one side of the massive head while Osric took the other. And as the sun sank completely, they hoisted the bear’s head onto the sledge, its open jaws still a menacing sight. The younger one paused for a moment, catching his breath.

“That’s it,” Ylva said, stepping back to survey their work. The sled creaked under its weight, laden with the bounty of their hunt.

“Ready to move?” Osric asked, his breath visible in the freezing air.

“Ready,” his sister confirmed, gripping the sledge’s reins.

Hallis, Ylva, and Torren mounted their horses while Osric, Jeor, and some other men took care of the sledge. The first step proved to be the most challenging, as the sledge struggled against the frozen ground, but they managed to push it forward together. The wind whistled through the trees, and the faint howl of wolves echoed in the distance.

“Think they will catch our scent?” Torren asked nervously, glancing over his shoulder.

“If they do,” Hallis said with a grim smile, gripping his axe, “they’ll regret it.”

The group set off through the snow, it crunching beneath their boots. The forest grew darker with each step, the wind whispering through the trees, carrying the scent of blood and sweat. Ylva’s arms ached, but she felt relieved, knowing they would feast, and the bear’s gifts would see them through the harsh winter to come.

Ylva didn’t look back.

The Great Hall of Last Hearth was alive with its usual supper sounds—spoons clinking against wooden bowls, mugs slamming onto the long oak table, and voices rising in hearty chatter. Fires crackled in the hearths, their warmth a fierce contrast to the cold that prowled just beyond the thick stone walls. As the Umber family gathered for their evening meal, the scent of roasted venison, freshly baked bread, and hearty root vegetables crowded the long oak table, mingling with the faint tang of ale. Torches sputtered in their brackets, casting flickering light on the faces of the family and the ancient tapestries hanging on the walls. Outside, the wind howled its usual mournful tune, battering against the thick stone walls, but inside, the hearth blazed, defying the cold.

At the head of the table sat Lord Umber, his booming voice cutting through the din as he recounted the day’s events. His laughter rumbled like thunder as he recounted the latest news from the holdfasts and hunting trails. Around him sat his brood, ranging in age but all sharing the same sharp, unyielding features that spoke of their northern blood.

Ylva sat in her usual seat, close to her father, a bundle of mischief cradled on her lap. Her youngest brother, barely more than a year old, squirmed in her arms, faint tufts of pale hair that stuck up stubbornly, no matter how often she smoothed them down. His bright, wide eyes darted around, taking in the movement and noise of his older siblings and father. Ylva, ever patient, adjusted him gently so he could sit comfortably against her chest, his tiny hands reaching out to grab at the edge of the table.

A warm bowl of stew sat in front of them, steam curling upward, rich with the savory scents of slow-cooked meat, root vegetables, and fragrant herbs. Ylva dipped a wooden spoon into the broth, carefully blowing on the portion to cool it. Her lips pursed slightly as she tested the temperature against the back of her hand, ensuring it wasn’t too hot. Her eyes flicked to her brother’s face, checking to see if he was paying attention. Satisfied, she brought the spoon to her brother's small mouth.

“Open up, little bear,” she said softly, her voice laced with affection. The toddler looked up at her, his expression curious but wary. After a moment of hesitation, he opened his mouth, his tiny lips wrapping around the spoon as he tasted the stew. Ylva guided the spoon carefully, her steady hand ensuring not a drop spilled. His face lit up with delight, a wide smile spreading across his chubby cheeks.

“I knew you’d like it,” Ylva murmured, smiling as she scooped up another spoonful. She adjusted him on her lap, alternating between feeding him and eating her own meal, her movements fluid and practiced, a testament to how often she cared for him. When he became distracted, turning his head to watch their older brothers’ animated conversation, Ylva gently guided his attention back to her with a soft touch on his cheek.

Occasionally, the boy tried to grab the spoon himself, his tiny fingers wrapping around hers as she helped him guide it to his mouth. Ylva chuckled softly, her laughter low and soothing. “Oh, you think you’re ready for this, do you?” she teased, allowing him to guide the spoon toward his mouth with her assistance. His uncoordinated effort resulted in a smear of stew across his chin, but Ylva just laughed, grabbing a linen cloth from the table and dabbing at his face. She wiped away the mess with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times, her movements tender and unhurried. When he squirmed, distracted by the sound of their father’s booming laughter or the clatter of utensils, she gently turned his face back toward her with a soft touch on his cheek.

“Focus,” she said mock-sternly, though her tone carried nothing but affection. “We’ve got work to do here.” The boy settled again, leaning into her for warmth and comfort as he took another spoonful.

When the bowl was nearly empty, Ylva set the spoon down and wrapped both arms around the little boy, holding him close. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, her lips brushing against his warm skin as she whispered, “There we go, full belly and all.” The boy nuzzled into her shoulder, his breath slowing as he drifted toward sleep. Around them, the boisterous noise of the Umber family carried on. Her father glanced over, his expression softening as he watched them, and even her brothers, rough and rowdy as they were, paused to smile at the sight.

Lord Jon Umber leaned back in his chair, his broad hand curling around his goblet. His gaze swept the table, lingering for a moment on each of his children before he spoke.

Then, casually, almost as if the thought had just struck him, he spoke.

“Word reached me from Winterfell today,” he began, his deep voice carrying over the noise. The conversation faltered; curiosity piqued. His eyes flickered to Ylva, though his tone suggested he was speaking to no one in particular. “Cregan Stark might be considering a second wife. His boy needs a mother, and the North needs heirs.”

The statement lingered in the air; the casual delivery was unable to mask the significance of it. Slowly, the noise around the table began to quiet, and one by one, the eyes of the family turned toward Ylva, who was focused on her little brother in her arms. With time, Smalljon began to slump against her chest, his eyelids drooping and his small body growing heavier in her arms. Ylva brushed her fingers through his hair, humming a low Northern lullaby, her voice barely audible over the din of the room. The melody was haunting and soothing, a tune their mother had once sung on cold nights to quiet restless children.

The silence at the table stretched, unnatural and heavy. It wasn’t until the clatter of a dropped knife echoed through the quiet that Ylva realized the entire table had grown unnaturally still. Her movements slowed, and she glanced up, her brows furrowing as she took in the sea of expectant faces around her.

“What?” She asked, her voice level but edged with wariness.

Her father studied her with a look of faint amusement, as if waiting for her to take the bait. Osric leaned back with his arms crossed, his brow raised in silent curiosity. As he leaned forward, a sly grin spread across his face. “What indeed,” he said. “You heard Father. Winterfell’s lord needs a wife. You've always been so eager to prove yourself the equal of any man here. Who is better than a Stark? You’re strong enough to handle him.” A few of the younger boys snickered nervously, only to fall silent when Lord Umber gave them a pointed look. He leaned back in his chair with a mockingly grand gesture. “What say you, sister? Will you be the pride of the Umbers and warm the Warden of the North’s bed?”

The laughter this time was louder, more confident, emboldened by Osric’s audacity. But Ylva did not flinch. She let the moment linger, studying her brother as if he were a particularly foolish opponent in a sparring match.

“If it concerns you so much, Osric, perhaps you should offer to marry Lord Stark,” she said, her tone cold as the wind outside. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have such a clever, sharp-tongued companion to keep him warm.”

The laughter died instantly, replaced by a stunned silence. Osric’s smirk faltered, and his cheeks flushed red. The younger boys tried to stifle their snickers but failed miserably, their muffled guffaws echoing in the hall. Even Lord Umber let out a low chuckle as Torren sputtered, nearly choking on his bread.

Osric recovered quickly, leaning forward with mock indignation. “That’s no way to speak to your future liege, Ylva. If you think—”

“I think,” Ylva interrupted smoothly, “that I’ve said enough for one evening.” Ylva adjusted the boy’s blanket, pulling it snug around him as he burrowed closer. Her hands, calloused from years of training and work, handled him with a gentleness that belied her strength. She picked up the baby and rose from her seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the little one needs to sleep, and I have no interest in wasting more time on nonsense.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away; the toddler gurgled happily in her arms.

“Always the sharp tongue,” her father called, though there was no disapproval in his voice. “You’ve got your mother’s wit, girl, but don’t think I’ll let you dodge the subject so easily.”

After Ylva left the hall, the conversation gradually shifted back to other topics—hunting, the preparations for winter, the comings and goings of the bannermen—but the atmosphere in the hall had subtly changed. Osric, for his part, merely muttered under his breath, though he wisely refrained from further comment.

#cregan stark x original female character #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark fanfiction #cregan stark #hotd fanfiction

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nbofvoid · 21 days ago

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Deep Eternity

Written for the dreamnblade christmas event @alterdnbweek is holding this year.

Day 4 Prompts: Holding Hands; Forever

This is inspired by the idea here. I loved the imagery of it and wanted to try my own hand at something in the same vein.

Anyway:

I can't think of anything to warn about for this one. Enjoy! :D

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The abyss is not something anything living can handle. The creatures and beasts that come from it tear across the land. Destroy the fields and territories of their peoples, killing everything living that they come across. Nothing but death is left in their wake.

Normally, such things would be taken care of by the patrols. They are trained and prepared for battle with anything that might be harassing travelers, farmers, villagers. Anyone. However, these creatures- these beasts- this corruption has a miasma about them that sickens those who get too close.

Hence why there is a small group of them who have proven capable of withstanding that miasma. Techno is one of them. One of the most skilled, one of the ones with the most successful battles, and one of the longest standing. He's been affected by these things since the one that ripped through his home village leaving him the only survivor.

This is the first time he's been ordered to descend into a rift. And it will be the last. No comes back from a rift.

"-need to regain whatever we can in the area," his highness is saying. The head scholar is standing to his right, face frozen into stillness, though Techno can smell the fear leaking from the man. "Your goal is to scout the area, clearing as you go, and building a report for further expeditions into the area. I want as much of our territory back as possible, understood."

Techno dips his head, mind already racing with what may be down there. He's familiar with the usual things that pop up here on the surface. Knows how to deal with them and seal the entrances they used to keep more from coming out. But this is entering into their domain. Their territory and he's not sure how that will change things.

"Your Highness," he starts, "your orders are heard and understood. They will be followed to our end. Is there anything else you require?"

King Sam tilts his head, eyes narrowed as they look past them, "Not at present. Keep in mind the standing orders for anything that may prove, interesting for our scholars, though, Blade."

He acknowledges that with a salute, holding the position as his highness reiterates their orders and finally dismisses them to their duty. They make their way from the throne room to the stables. The horses and supplies are already settled, Carl eyeing the just as wary stable hands as Techno steps up to him for his own double check. Everything looks in order and he wraps the reigns around his hand as he takes the lead. The other three fall into step behind him, a few servants running from their path as they walk out of the castle gates.

None of them swing into the saddle before they reach the exit in the city. It's already going to be a long ride and his highness made it clear he wanted as few stops as possible on the way there. They can get away with not riding in the capital with the congested streets and so they don't ride.

Luckily, there's nothing on the way to the city the abyss consumed. The horses start getting jittery as they reach the outer fields so they climb down, settle them into a field that doesn't look too corrupted by the creeping abyss threads and continue on foot. There's still nothing as they go. All of them tense for something to jump out at them yet there's nothing. There's always been something lingering along the edges of a rift. There's never been a clear area and Techno can't fight the feeling that there has to be something larger than any of them have ever come across before.

"...That's a big rift," Fundy mutters as they finally reach the rift.

They're looking over it, can see the pieces of the city floating in the confusing mess of not quite existence below them. There's no way they can know for certain how far down this rift goes, just that it swallowed the entirety of the city and they have to find a way to get into it.

It takes most of the day they have left before they manage to find something they can feasibly climb down. A really shaky ladder that ends above the torn up foundation of a house. Techno goes down first, sword shining brightly as the abyss curls around him with each step down. It's cloying, choking almost, yet he feels as though he's never been able to breath easier. Something to keep an eye on. They want to get as far as they can before they die.

Slowly, they make their way further down. Going through each building they can for a creature that may be there and dispatching the few wisps lingering in them though none have the source of the sounds Techno keeps expecting. None of them have any indication of about what may have been happening before the rift opened up. Just the signs of life they'd expect in a village suddenly vacated even though there's no hint to an attack.

"Can we camp outside of this place? It's so fucking cold," Wilbur complains getting a few grumbles of agreement from Fundy and Ian.

Techno frowns. He doesn't feel cold. If anything he's not feeling any kind of temperature, but they'll all have to be in their best condition to keep going. He looks up the way they came because-

"We aren't getting out," he sighs, gesturing upwards.

The path they've taken has shifted, changed, and he can clearly see the ladder they took down floating in a position they are not going to be able to get back up. The other three curse, shifting and Techno hates the sound of it. It feels too loud with the clanking metal and scratching leather, but he knows it is just him. That he always gets these instances where things feel like too much when they aren't and he can't let himself get distracted by it right now. They need to find a place to make a camp to rest. Somewhere they can secure yet big enough to fight if needed.

"That one looks like it might be good," Fundy suggests, pointing at a closer building. "It looks mostly intact and we should be able to get to it."

It's a bit of a trial getting to it, but it is a good spot to rest. A single room with two entrances they can easily barricade. Enough wood to get a fire set up in the middle of it and no sounds growing closer to their position even though their volume has grown.

They leave the window-entrance open as they settle down. Techno tucks his cloak around himself, watching the shifting black outside. His eyes drift along the shapes, tracking them as they keep twisting around their camp. It's a confusing mess of things and he can't help trying to figure out the meaning behind it. His eyes droop and he has no clue when he falls asleep.

-----_____-----_____-----_____-----_____-----_____-----_____-----

For as long as he's dreamt, Techno's dreams have been a comforting darkness curled just out of his reach.

He knows he is being watched by something. That it is curious and would welcome him to it with open arms. It is curled all around him though it doesn't touch him, reach into his space. It is always there no matter what Techno has done that day. How much blood drips from his hands.

He can see more in this dream.

Can see the figure above him with their face blocked by a mask towering over him. They are surrounded by the abyss, the darkness dripping around them in gentle cascades of impression. Their presence is enough to keep him from lifting past his kneeling state. Stuck staring up at them unable to move any part of his body even as he feels something start to drip down his face.

They hum, the sound rattling through his bones and his eyes flutter at the comfort it seeps through him. It's so much more than he's used to. Something he has only felt shadows of in so long he's unable to fight as his head drops down.

"Such a strong," the voice rumbles through him, "devoted warrior. Don't you deserve your own rest?"

He shudders, sinks further into the hand holding him. It's so tempting. It's been so long since he's had the chance to rest instead of rushing to the next battle Sam points him to. It would be so nice to have a moment to himself.

But he has his duty.

He swore the oath under full view of their Gods and Lords. It binds him to the will of the crown as it has all before him and he can't deny that. Sam knows Techno's limits, how to use his skills and abilities to their best. It would go against all of his training and self to stop following his orders.

"I see," it says, voice heavy as it keeps dragging him down. "I will be here always. Waiting for your return. Remember that, Abysswalker."

Techno gasps awake, alone on the ground beside the abyss rift and knowing the other three are not going to come back. He scrambles to his feet, shaking as he grabs his stuff somehow also here, and stumbling as though he's drunk to the field they left the horses.

Only Carl is there. His hooves bloody and somehow, somehow Techno manages to get into the saddle and start heading back to the castle.

He draws the cloak close to his body, clinging to the fabric even though it does nothing to bring him comfort or get rid of the sense of eyes on him.

**~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~**

Hope you enjoyed!

#dnbxmas24 #dreamnoblade #technoblade #dream #day 4 #god!dream #technically

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morsking · 7 months ago

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earlier today some comrades and i had a discussion on dialectical materialism and we spent a lot of time talking about the unity of opposites. the unity of opposites argues the way in which concepts are understood is by comparing things that exist in opposition. opposites can only exist in relation to one another and cannot be inherently defined in isolation. the example given in rob sewell's text is light and darkness, cold and heat, life and death, the finite and infinity, thinking and being, among others. we understand that in existence, under the laws of physics as we understand them, all matter must change and move and though things can be opposites and therefore seem irreconcilable, the fact of the matter (heh) is that just like the yin and yang, you will find in everything traces of its opposite. that is why under capitalism, you will inevitably find the seeds of socialism germinating, and once socialism flourishes, within you'll find the seeds of communism. this is because capitalism in itself came from the seeds of feudalism, and that too came from a pre-existing shape of society that kept evolving in an endless chain of cause and effect where conditions necessitated change. and that chain predates and will likely transcend communism into a new form of society, on and on, at least according to how i understood the text.

understanding this gave me a greater appreciation of the politics of the film snowpiercer, which i just watched with my roommate tonight, purely on a whim. the engine of the titular train is touted as eternal. it'll never stop and it'll never die, and as such humanity can keep existing long after the earth was frozen. the inherent contradiction of this statement is the engine itself needs constant maintenance. it is only as eternal as its creator, wilford, can keep throwing parts (and eventually, people) into it to keep it running. no matter what, the engine, though being described as infinite and mechanical, still exists within the constraint of that which is human to keep moving. and that contradiction is underscored by the fact the seemingly eternal (infinite) engine can only exist in the constrained (finite) space of the train which is stressed to have a head (front, beginning) and a tail (back, end).

thought and therefore people exist in a state that is markedly limited. an alternative form of existence that does not split people into the binary of front (bourgeois) and tail (proletariat) passengers is violently discouraged, because the existence of the train and dominion over it by wilford can only justify themselves through that dialectic, that life can only happen inside and that death is the only thing that waits outside. there is an extended contradiction in that message in the form of wilford culling the population at the back of the train periodically so the train can sustain itself by not straining its stockpiled resources. meaning that even inside the supposed sanctuary of the train, people will die arbitrarily. wilford and his cronies all stress this is natural, that there is a preordained relationship of sacrifices and beneficiaries, and those at the tail are the intended sacrificed who must not rise above their station (heh). furthermore, this highlights the contradiction that though humanity survives on the train, everyone is, in some form or another, objectified and dehumanized within it to justify the absurd inequality and abuses that occur within as people are thought as parts of a machinery that need to be in place for it to work. this metaphor is made literal by how children from the tail younger than 5 become unwilling replacements for extinct parts of the engine, meaning the system, the machine, only works by breaking people so profoundly they cease to think of themselves as human and can only think of themselves as machinery.

this is all so wilford can enjoy the luxuries of the train unimpeded and undisturbed, far away from the squalor of the tail. he has built the train, yet has prevented himself from running its whole length, of seeing the end to his beginning. this is in opposition to protagonist curtis, who has seen the train end to end and thus can see it for what it is in a way wilford thinks is identical to his yet could not be more different. wilford doesn't have a high opinion of humanity, as he tells curtis that people are naturally selfish and destructive despite the fact he built the train in such a way that deliberately fostered conditions that turned people desperate for food at the tail to resort to murder and cannibalism and people at the front to be selfish and destructively hedonistic. he should have no reason to want humanity to survive if he's that convinced humanity is inherently unworthy, and yet he knows he can only enjoy leadership, recognition, and comfort by having people to exist below him and shape their behavior to conform to his need of preserving a stagnant hierarchy he is aware he can only enjoy so long as he is alive. he wants the train to be his legacy, for it to be eternal in a way he cannot be as a mortal. humanity in the train will stay the same and he has no hope of the world outside being different, and if the world outside cannot be different then humanity is also forbidden from being different. within the train you cannot think, you can only be, yet you can only be because one the thought of how you can exist has been created by someone else who operates under a self-serving and restricted view of what humanity is. wilford's definition of humanity in nature only works in an artificial space.

but dialectical materialism is about change and evolution, about events that build up over time and burst into a force that sets things in motion once more for the next major event to happen. though wilford had thought he created a societal structure that was permanent, he unwittingly set the conditions for individuals who wanted to overturn it and discard it to rise and succeed. that is why namgoong, the train's security specialist, wants to cause a literal explosion that will blow the train apart and free him and his daughter yona from existence within the train. he has noticed that for years, the ice covering the earth has melted gradually, meaning that heat is slowly restoring in the frozen world and it just needs a push to keep falling apart and uncover what remains. within a frozen world, there was the undeniable and real potential for a world that thawed. sooner or later, there would not be a need for the train as the world changes, and people would have to (re-)learn to live in this changed world, themselves needing to change the relationship they have to it and themselves. which is why neither yona nor timmy, a boy kidnapped to be a replacement part in the engine, have surviving parents or comrades at the end of the movie. they too must learn to survive in a world with traces of life without their predecessors to guide them. and that is why the message of the movie is to embrace change and transform throughout the trajectory of socioeconomic change from one structure to another rather than limit humanity, a species that constantly needs to overcome its limits collectively, rather than individually, to survive as a whole.

#snowpiercer

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theblackbookofarkera · 30 days ago

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Phunjar

The official capital of the Empire of Lahm squats like a diseased beast upon the banks of the River Mhara. Once a jewel of civilization, Garakaru has devolved into a sprawling necropolis of suffering where the air itself carries death. The city's ancient stone walls, blackened by centuries of decay, contain narrow streets choked with the dying and desperate. Temples dedicated to forbidden gods rise above the squalor, their spires wrapped in thorned vines that seem to pulse with malevolent life.

The emperor's ancestral palace stands empty at the heart of Garakaru, its halls echoing with memories of former glory. The noble houses maintain their crumbling estates out of tradition, but few dare to actually dwell within the plague-ridden capital. Those with means fled long ago, leaving the city to be ruled by ruthless merchant princes who profit from the suffering of the common folk.

Garakaru's infamous "Plague Markets" operate day and night, selling dubious remedies and magickal talismans to the desperate. The city's numerous plague pits are said to be so deep they connect to ancient catacombs dating back to the time before the Judgement. Some whisper that the plagues that grip Garakaru are punishment from the gods, while others claim they rise from these forbidden depths where nameless horrors still dwell.

In stark contrast to the diseased capital stands Phunjar, the emperor's preferred seat of power. Built to seduce foreign merchants and dignitaries, Phunjar is a city of calculated beauty and hidden cruelty. Its painted stone buildings, crafted to resemble massive merchant caravans, create the illusion of an eternal bazaar frozen in stone. The streets are wide and clean, maintained by an army of slaves who are executed if they fail in their duties.

The emperor's summer palace crowns Phunjar's central hill, its gardens visible for miles. These legendary gardens are said to contain impossible flowers that bloom in winter and trees that weep precious gems. The palace is guarded by the Lotus Eunuchs, warriors who have sacrificed their flesh to achieve mystical perfection in combat. These feared guardians are known to kill first and never bother with questions, their silver blades permanently stained with the blood of trespassers.

While Phunjar presents a face of splendor to the world, its beauty is built upon foundations of suffering. Beneath the painted stones lies a vast network of slave pens where thousands toil to maintain the city's immaculate appearance. The hovels outside the city walls house the laborers who are deemed too unsightly to live within, their misery carefully hidden from visiting merchants and dignitaries.

The contrast between Garakaru and Phunjar perfectly embodies the dual nature of the Empire of Lahm - a realm where opulent beauty and horrific suffering exist in perfect, terrible balance. The emperor's abandonment of the traditional capital for the artificial splendor of Phunjar is seen by many as symbolic of the empire's slow descent into decadence and inevitable doom.

"In Garakaru they die in the streets, while in Phunjar they die in silk sheets. The gods care not which." - Anonymous Lahmi Saying

#conworld #worldbuilding #low fantasy #world building #arkera #creative writing #dark fantasy #fantasy world #dune #high fantasy

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omegaremix · 7 months ago

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Spring 2015 Mixtape.

Grimes ft. Blood Diamonds “Go”

La Sera “Break My Heart”

Capital Steez “Last Straw”

Honeyblood “Super Rat”

Happy Meals Apero

Fisherman Remixed

Raveonettes, The “Sisters”

Godspeed You Black Emperor! “Piss Crowns Are Trebled”

Eternal Summers “Together Or Alone”

Dinner “Going Out”

Ye Olde Maids “In The Palms Of God’s Hands”

Death Grips “Inanimate Sensation”

Gateway Drugs “Night Swimming”

18+ “OIXU”

Raveonettes, The “A Hell Below”

Polysick “Barry Talks”

Ronnie Laws “Always There”

Sweet Mixture “House Of Fun And Love”

L.A. Boppers “Saturday”

Pharmakon Bestial Burden

Prurient Pleasure Ground

Tantor “Niederwohren”

Pop Eye “Lazy Haze”

Chocolate Star “Stay With Me”

Disco Ruido! “Prisma”

Soft Moon Deeper

Uniform “Footnote”

Dinner “Say What You Want (Love Is Death)”

Big Youth “Every N*gg*r Is A Star”

Sauveur Mallia “Future Vision”

Metric “The Shade”

MNDR “Lock & Load” (f. Killer Mike)

Uniform “Buyer’s Remorse”

Prurient Frozen Niagara Falls

Steve Moore “Zero-Point Field”

Disco Ruido! “Sol”

Rockwell “Childhood Memories”

Black Lips “Bad Kids”

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zoeywhumps · 7 months ago

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contents: villain x hero, intense hurt/minimal comfort, villain is mad scientist adjacent and has necromancy powers and hero has healing and flight powers

TWS: overdose suicide attempt, suicidal whumpee, severe depression. this gets heavy, please don't read if you think it'll trigger you! i am writing it midbreakdown so it's... sure something.

villain was tired. they were so, so tired. all they had ever wanted was to help others. but life had... ruined that. life had beaten them until they had screamed out, 'okay! i'll be the bad guy if you want me to so badly!'

and now? they were hated. despised, vilified, abhorred, loathed.

after reading the news that day, reading the eyewitness testimony of those who had been traumatized when the villain had burnt down the capital building last week, they were... finished. they couldn't go on anymore. they were rotten to their core, incapable of change.

they wanted out.

villain sat on the bathroom counter, their eyes full of tears, their expression broken as they held the bottle of pills. their own creation, they knew deep down, would be the thing to kill them. the pills would render them paralyzed fully within minutes, while attacking their nerves and causing agonizing pain. just one would put someone in the worst pain of their life- but that wasn't good enough after what villain had done. no, villain desired a death so shockingly horrible that when their body was found, the silent scream on their frozen face would terrify others. villain wanted to suffer for what they had done.

they tilted their head back. they opened the bottle. and they swallowed every last damn pill.

the pain shocked them to their core. they were falling into an active volcano, they were bleeding out, they were shot in the gut, they were stabbed through the throat, their body covered in burns, their fingernails torn off-

was this hell? the agony beyond words, beyond description, beyond measure?

villain couldn't even scream.

all they were conscious of was torture, eternal, never ending. the lava was eating at their bones, their flesh was being flayed out and their guts spilled.

they could feel the moment when their heart stopped.

they could feel the moment when it restarted.

when their limbs unfroze and they immediately thrashed wildly, screams coming from them in waves, their eyes wild.

"VILLAIN! IT'S OKAY- IT'S ME!"

they couldn't comprehend hero's words. rocking back and forth, screaming hoarsely, their mouth not closing.

the hero's palms pressed roughly against the sides of their face, and a chill swept through their entire body, evaporating the pain like it had never been there.

their face streaming with tears, blood trickling from their mouth, nose and eyes, they looked up at the hero who had just healed them with a touch.

"oh gods... villain, what did you do?" hero stammered.

"nothing that i don't deserve."

#whump #whump community #tw sui #suicide tw #tw suicide attempt #tw depression

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theoldaeroplane · 1 year ago

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Intercessor

Behold, a hyperfixation-fueled day-in-the-life of my new Apocalypse World character! His name is Fray and he definitely isn't 85% just BotW Link. This was written mostly for my GM and fellow party members, so the brief rundown is that we're in an eternal magic winter, surviving in pockets of tolerable cold, with steampunk/Victorian-esque tech.

4.3k, no content warnings. I put his character sheet under the cut at the bottom as a bonus :)

---

“Fray! Saint Fray!”

Hold on.

Saint?

Fray’s not sure when that started happening.

He’s heard hero and gallant and even champion—all of them kind of feel like too much—but saint is new. Sainthood seems really excessive.

He was not consulted on this. But then, he never is.

Fray stops in his tracks, peering over a heavily-obscured shoulder to see who’s calling. His new scarf, all wool and possum fur, feels like sitting in a sauna, but it’s terribly bulky, especially with his pack in the mix. It might be too big. He doesn’t cut an impressive figure in it. But then, he never does.

Behind him, squeezing between frozen-over remains of archaic vehicles in the narrow alleyway with all the grace of a puppy, comes—ah. Of course.

Andrei.

Fray turns, eyebrows cocked as Andrei halts his bulk bare inches in front of him. Fray is short, but Andrei’s ridiculous. Six and a half feet, top-heavy, all muscle he’s never done a thing to earn as far as Fray can tell. Deep pockets and a deeper voice. Sort of cute with his gold hair and dimples, but not Fray’s type. Still, he’s nice enough. If nothing else he’s bought his way into Fray’s good graces with beer after beer at the Manufacturing. “You’re so fast,” Andrei complains, leaning on his knees. “Gimme a second.”

So: Fray shoves his hands in his pockets and thinks through his agenda. He’s not in a rush. The tailor’s doesn’t close for hours yet. The yotes that have apparently found a way to worm their frozen bodies under the wardings and onto the Merchants’ land won’t come out until the shifts change. He’ll work dinner into the middle somewhere. He’s got time for whatever this is.

There’s another thing about Andrei that Fray likes. When Fray tugs off his top pair of mittens to free the thin-gloved fingers underneath and signs S-A-I-N-T?, he can see Andrei focus on his hands, lips jutting out in his concentration. Andrei is nowhere near fluent, probably will never be, but being able to sort-of read what feels like Fray’s first language goes a long way in endearing Andrei to him.

“Um,” Andrei says. “Are you not? That’s what they’re calling you.”

Fray squints at him. Signs: T-H-E-Y?

“The Children?”

It always takes Fray a moment to realize people usually say Children with a capital “C” around here. His face twists up in a grimace, and he shakes his head no emphatically. W-H-Y?

“Don’t know,” Andrei says, guileless as always. “I won’t say it no more, if you like.” At Fray’s resigned, bewildered shrug, he goes on, “Well, but, I’m glad I caught you!” With this he claps a huge hand on Fray’s shoulder, the blow barely cushioned by the thick layers of wool. Fray staggers instantly, unprepared knees almost buckling. Andrei yelps and helps him regain his feet. “Sorry! Sorry! Here, this is it, this is all, look, my sister got these and I thought to myself, you know who’d love that? Fray, that’s who! Lucky thing we crossed paths!”

The thing he shoves in Fray’s face smells like heaven. He starts salivating like a damn dog. It locks Fray in place momentarily, trying to piece together where he knows it from. What it reminds him of. It’s there somewhere, on the edge of things, but—

“It’s doughnuts,” Andrei tells him, conspiratorial. “Like at the market that time. You know?”

Fray remembers. A wagon on the merchant circuit pulled by four aurochs. The overpowering smell of fried dough drawing him nearly straight from his house. Standing in line for thirty minutes when Andrei pulled him in. Finally being handed the paper bag, translucent with oil and steaming hot, and looking into it to see not just the miniature doughnuts, but for the first time he can remember in—a long time—sugar.

It had been physically painful for him to keep himself from cramming the whole thing into his mouth. Instead he forced himself to savor it. That had almost been worse, it turned out, because now his memory of it was such that he does not think anything will ever near its equal.

Andrei had said they were pretty good doughnuts.

Fray stares at the oil-soaked paper that Andrei holds level with his eyes, and before he can quite stop himself he looks from bag to man with naked want on his face. He points at himself with a disbelief that is exaggerated both to be clear enough for Andrei to pick up on, and as a show of his genuine surprise and delight. He probably does look like a dog, waiting for a treat. That’s fine. Fray knows what he is about.

Andrei, generous enough to overlook how Fray is practically vibrating, pushes the bag into his hands with a lopsided grin. “You bet! I remembered how much you liked them—oh, no, no,” he cuts himself off when he sees Fray pull out his wallet. “It’s a gift!”

Fray looks at the bag again, to Andrei again, to the bag once more. He gets it settled in his off-hand so he can use the other. W-H-Y?

“Well, because we’re friends, twerp,” Andrei says with the kind of smile that Fray can only read as knew you’d say that. Because this has happened before.

Because Fray kind of doesn’t … do friends.

Not on purpose. He’d rather if he did have friends. It just seems like it never quite sticks. It’s not unusual for him to be hailed in the street by someone grateful for some favor or other he’s gone and done for them months ago, something he’s already forgotten. But those aren’t friends. Or at least, he’s pretty sure they aren’t. Lots of people ask him for favors after what happened.

There just seems to be something about him that keeps people from wanting to stay too long.

Except Andrei, apparently.

Fray pulls the bag closer to his chest and lets the fried smell warm him inside and out. He works his face into something he hopes looks appropriately sheepish. “Thanks,” he signs, because he’s pretty sure Andrei knows that one. (He does, by the way he beams.) Fray adds, afterwards, F-A-V-O-R-I-T-E.

“Hell, Fray, you’re my favorite too,” Andrei says with amusement. Before Fray can correct him—tell him he meant the doughnuts—Andrei straightens and sticks his hands into his armpits against the cold. “Hoo! Bad as witch piss out here. I’ve got to be getting. See you at Manufacturing tomorrow night? I hear there’s going to new music!”

Fray nods, giving up on the favorite comment. Sure, Andrei might as well be his favorite person. He likes him well enough. It’s not like there’s anyone else, not really. The thought stings a little more than it used to.

---

He doesn’t get swarmed just trying to cross the dome anymore, at least. That had been a problem last year. Far Haven has a scant few hundred souls to its name, and Fray is sure every single one of them has talked to him at one point or another by now. It drove him into hiding for a while, nerves shot with so much attention. The flocks of opinionated strangers only died off with time, as memories and emotions faded and what he’d done drifted out of the city’s mind.

Saving the lives of every one of those few hundred souls takes some time to drift.

These days he’ll only get a few hangers-ons, most of them children who want to see the sword. The children do not get to see the sword. Fray tries to prevent anyone from seeing the sword in general. This has never deterred them, and he cannot bring himself to frighten off kids. It’s not uncommon to see Fray making his steadfast way through snow and slush with three or four ragamuffins tailing him, telling each other stories of the thing their parents say he did. Fray never confirms (or denies) anything.

That’s happening now, as a matter of fact.

“I heard you’s killed the thieves dead!” says a gap-toothed girl at least ten years younger than him, but nearly as tall. She reminds him of someone, he thinks as he eats the doughnuts. He wonders who. “I heard there was forty of ’em!”

“Nuh-uh! It was three! But they were big and scary and frostbitted!” This from a blond-haired boy with huge glasses and a mouth entombed by a scarf.

“You jokers gotta get your stories straight,” says that absolute goblin of a red-head girl with the false arm. Her voice is like a vulture croaking. “Short stuff, hey! Mr. Hero! You were there, weren’tcha? Cough up the details!”

She’s all but dog-piled by the other two. “Mr. Fray can’t talk!” protests the boy. “Because he got hit in the throat by the frostbitted!”

“Horseshit, I see him talk. Came saw my dad about maps and shit last week, didn’t he? He talks. Not a lot, maybe. You guys think he’s too stupid to say much or just stuck-up?”

“Definitely stupid,” says Fray in the painful scrape of his rusted-over voice, loud enough to catch all three of them off guard. There’s a shocked silence until he looks back at them and winks, and then giggles send up after him like a train of bubbles.

They peel off when he’s about a block from the tailor’s. Just as well. Fray pauses in the dark overhang of the tailor’s doorstep to pull his scarf down and palm his throat. The heat from his hand does little against the stain of discolored skin, blanched pale and blue against his dusky skin. It bleeds down his neck like a port-wine stain, a slashed jugular bleeding ice.

Fray thinks he is maybe supposed to be dead, with the way that ice-white blemish hugs his neck. The skin is cold and hard, and it glitters at him whenever he looks at it in the mirror, like crusted snow.

Well. Nothing to be done. Fray fixes his scarf and pushes his way into the relative heat of the tailor’s.

Warm air licks at his face. He sighs in relief, stopping for a moment to relish it as it caresses his ears and cheeks. The shuffle of fabric and leather draws him out of his reverie for but a moment, long enough to cast a glance toward where Elle’s apprentice sticks her head out from the back. “Oh! Mr. Fray! Got more?”

Fray gives her an apologetic nod, unshouldering his pack to pull it open. From within he produces no less than five shirts, all of them damaged in exactly the same place and exactly the same way. Each one is black—he learned that lesson a long time ago, not to wear anything but black against his skin—and each one has perfectly round holes burned into the same spot on the forearms. They’re as big as eggs, two on each arm. One of the shirts has similar burned holes in a long row down the spine, all identical and evenly spaced. Elle’s apprentice looks the garments over and tuts. “There won’t be much of these left to repair at this rate, you know,” she scolds. “One day I’m going to refuse you until you at least tell me how you keep getting them.”

Fray nods and has the decency to look embarrassed.

She scoots him out posthaste, telling him to return in two days. He should really learn how to repair his own clothes. It’d be a way to pass the time if nothing else. And to avoid awkward questions.

That’s all Fray has in front of him for the rest of the day: passing the time. He meanders. He picks up and loses more trails of children, none of whom get to see the sword. He finds lunch in the form of beaver steak and turnips at that place that has a jester on its sign. He pings back and forth slowly between shop after shop, recognized at each one, buying nothing.

Mostly he thinks, stopping at a mirror in one store to surreptitiously peek beneath his scarf again: this frost thing would have looked cooler if it had gone over my heart.

Because Fray’s kind of … done everything around here. A couple times. Often with encouragement and enabling from strangers who see his bright eyes and dull hair and go oh! Fray! Come in! He’s done everything, including worry about the cold-dead magic stuck to his throat, but nothing’s changed. Now he just thinks it’s ironic he got a neck wound only after his voice skedaddled.

If the frost-rot weapon had connected with his heart instead of his neck, Fray muses, he would probably be dead. That seems like a more vulnerable part of him. Which—that might have been interesting, to see what happened if he died. But that would come at the cost of him probably not being alive anymore.

Which itself probably hinges on whether or not he counts as alive.

He gets a snack as he makes for the Merchants’ territory. The doughnuts are gone. The sausages he buys aren’t nearly as good as he wants them to be. He’s nearly out of the market when he’s waylaid by a tall, dark woman with wide eyes, the most visible thing in her bundled-up face. “Aren’t you the one who saved the city?” she says, breathless. “From that break-in?”

This is one of those questions where the answer makes him feel like a jackass, no matter how factual it is. But he nods anyway, meekly. The vibes on this woman aren’t great. He’s not sure how much he wants to admit to her.

Her wide eyes go wider, until Fray thinks they might eclipse the rest of her face. “Saint,” she breathes, all awe and devotion. Fray almost cringes. “The Children are with you.”

He doesn’t know how to react until he remembers to capitalize that “C”. Oh. One of them. One of those cuckoos that worships the arcane frost that sits outside their little dome waiting to kill anyone it can. Fray gives her a weak smile and hopes it’s not very encouraging. “I would walk with you, Saint,” the woman says, catching up his left hand as she slips to his side. “Allow me to feel your presence.”

Oh, son of a bitch.

There are people you do not want to piss off, and those people are the Children of the Frost. They’re a religion? Cult? Club? Something. They’re fans of the cold nightmare outside this pocket of survivability. Really into Frostbitten, he thinks. Most of them seem a little moonblinked. Unfortunately for him and everyone else, they’ve wormed their way into the council seats. They run half of Far Haven.

She starts walking before Fray can pull back, and as she is nearly as tall as Andrei, she does a marvelous job of pulling Fray along like one of those toy ducks on wheels. She’s power walking, even. They’re still headed where he needs to go, to the outer bounds of the dome, but there are fewer and fewer people here as witnesses. Fray does not love that. Fray’s of the belief that the Children need babysitters.

There’s just one person left in sight when Fray finally locks his knees and digs his heels in. He pulls his hand away and the woman rounds on him with alarming speed. “Something the matter?” she asks sweetly, looming.

Fray puts his hands up and shakes his head, then throws a thumb over his shoulder. I need to go that way. He could get to the Merchants’ from here, yes, but he could get there from a couple streets over, too, and those streets have lights. And people. It’s not that he feels in danger—Fray very rarely feels like he’s in danger from anything—but something about this is making his skin crawl.

The woman watches him with eyes that seem much too large for her skull. “Oh, of course,” she says, as if in a daze. “But, brother in the snow, would you grant me one favor?”

Well. He’s the favor guy. It would probably not go over well if he turned down what is evidently such a big fan. He makes a point of not actually nodding, but he does pause and wait to hear her request.

The woman says, “May I see it?” Her voice trembles. “Your kiss?”

Fray mouths the words what the fuck? before he can stop himself.

“Your mark?” the woman tries again, grabbing the plush fabric of his coat when he tries to back away. “The gift the frost left you. Grant me this, let me gaze upon it, Saint Fray of the Frost.”

Before he can think better of it Fray pulls her hands off with a firm grasp, and squares his shoulders before he shakes his head. To emphasize his point he crosses his arms in front of him, the universal gesture for no. No on several levels. No on the levels of stop-calling-me-that and who-the-fuck-are-you-anyway. (And perhaps most importantly, no-one-gets-to-see-that.)

“I understand,” the woman says after a long pause. She sounds a million miles away. Her hand lifts again, drawn toward his scarf as if it was magnetized. “At least then allow me to fix your wardrobe.” Her fingertips brush the very edge of the scarf. The hair on the back of Fray’s neck prickles and shivers, and that’s his signal to leave.

By rights he should have been out of there before she could manage anything. He would have been, except his foot slips on the iced-over cobbles when he tries to retreat. The woman’s fingers sink into his scarf and it tears away in her hand as he pratfalls hard. The cold air strikes like a serpent at his exposed throat, and he swears he actually sees the glitter under his own chin as the uncloaked moon falls upon him.

The woman is agape. She falls to her knees in fervent prayer. Fray wonders if all the Children are actually fucking insane, or if he lucked out. For now he snatches back his scarf and sprints back up the road. Not as fast as he can go, nowhere near, but more than enough to put a few blocks between himself and the Child. He weaves through a few other snow-crushed buildings and through the edge of the red-light district just to be sure he’s not followed.

God. That probably won’t lead to anything good. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Fray shakes himself and sighs and politely waves off the folk pulling double shifts on the world’s oldest profession. He tugs the scarf tighter against his neck. There’s nothing for him here, either, not until he figures this frostrot thing out.

---

It’s dark, the borders of the pasture empty of lights or people. The yotes shine dull white, glossed with blue icicles melting off their fur outside the embrace of the permafrost. They snarl and yap at him with eyes as pale and empty as the moon. He is between them and the Merchants’ wool flock. If these creatures get loose among the merinos, not only will Fray not get paid, but will probably not go a week before someone tries to assassinate him. The goodwill he’s won does not, he suspect, apply to the pragmatic Merchants.

And then he’d have to kill the assassin, and it would just be messy and he doesn’t want to piss off the Merchants.

But he’s not worried about that.

They’re not enormous, the yotes, but their skinny bodies are lithe and fast and hard to predict. There’s six of them. They have claws and superior weight. They have greater numbers. They have those ice-bound teeth that shatter into frostrot the moment they hit blood.

Fray has the sword.

The yotes mouth at each other, excited and riled. Only two of them seem to stop long enough to notice that Fray has set his arms before him as if he held a shield and a blade. For a moment he looks idiotic. In the next, he looks inhuman.

The shield ripples out of nothing across his arm, held there only with the humming of the gold-tinted implants set into his flesh. The air fills with the smell of singed cotton, the superheated elements too much for the fabric to resist. In his opposite hand the implant on his wrist makes a dull thrum, and suddenly the pretend sword in his fingers is not pretend at all. It is, instead (as Fray thought the first time he saw it), a fucking knight’s broadsword. The blade is made of light, and it sits easy in his practiced hand. Both armaments glow and roil like molten gold, not adorned with any boss but a constantly shifting pattern of faint hexagons. He knows from experience it’s not just them: his eyes are lit up, too, glowing gold, those hexagons mirrored by his pupils. Fray checks his grip on the sword, raises the shield, and charges.

There would be no point in detailing the fight. It lasts around seventeen seconds.

The yotes on the ground, now mostly divested from their heads or guts, lay still. Fray approaches one, ever on guard, and nudges its crazed face with the flat of the blade. It’s already dissolving into that sludgy, slushy substance so many frost-touched creatures return to if they perish outside their domain. It’s gross. He wipes the blade off on the clean snow to its side, despite not needing too, and then the blade dissolves from sight. The shield follows, and not long after the dull hum of the implants dies down and goes back to matching his heartbeat. (He hopes it’s a heart he’s got in there.)

Well. That’s his job finished, then. Nothing more to be done here.

Fray stands there for a long time, watching the corrupted bodies melt into the snow.

---

It’s not that the drop in his mood is unexpected so much as Fray doesn’t know how to mitigate it. Right now, curled on the nest of blankets he calls a bed, he feels like he’s in free-fall and he does not know why. It’s always worse if it’s a culling job like this one. He’s developed a sick kind of sympathy for the creatures he cuts down. They aren’t normal animals. Most of them were once, a pack of wolves, a flock of ravens, things the frost struck down before reshaping into its own kind of native inhabitant. They don’t eat. They don’t even kill, some of them. They just carry the frost with them, trying to bring it into the places the Chasm has not yet fully swallowed. There’s no understanding in their white marble eyes. They don’t know what they’re doing.

Fray tries to remember how he got here, to Far Haven. He’d been journeying, he thinks. He’d just done something he was grimly, blackly satisfied with. He could feel the stain of its gratification on his soul. He has no idea what it was, but he thinks he knew once, and he knows it was—

… he knows it was worth what he had to sacrifice. It has to have been.

Only, he wishes he knew which part of him had been used to pay for it. His voice? His memory? The flesh that had been excised from his arms and the golden implants set in their place? All of it, or a combination?

Does it matter?

No, is the answer he arrives on again, trying to sink further into the warmth of his bed. It doesn’t. He’s here now, he’s helping people, he’s doing what it feels like he’s supposed to be doing. That should be enough.

In his dream, Fray is again in the underground chamber that keeps the entire city warm enough to survive. The implants’ roar as they form the golden sword shakes him down to his teeth. The thieves are very annoyed that he’s here. In front of him they argue about who betrayed their plan to extract the generator’s heart and let Far Haven freeze to death, a few hundred miserable lives less valuable than their payout will be. Fray does nothing but keep an eye on the young woman that’s accompanied them, the one who looks fraught and sick with guilt. She barely looks past girlhood.

They fight. It gives him more trouble than it feels like it should. After one of the men shoves a strange gauntlet against his throat and squeezes, after the glittering death of frostrot embeds itself in his neck—after Fray cuts him down and rushes to recover the ancient battery and shove it back into the squealing generator—he remembers the girl.

He finds her clinging to the edge of the magic runoff and its mile-long drop into a red-tinted black, her arms bloody and slipping against the steep concrete. I’m sorry, she wails as he runs to her, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this, please help me, please, please. I won’t tell anyone what you are.

He stops in the middle of reaching for her hand, startled stiff by her last words. Just for a moment. Just long enough that when her weakening arms seize and fail her, his dive to grab her is just that little bit too late.

She falls, and Fray watches in horror. In his dream, he can see her panicked face right until the very end. When she hits the ground impact shocks him awake, and he staggers off to the washroom to vomit up greasy doughnut batter and undigested sausages. In the mirror, the inert embrace of the arcane frost—the kiss of death—glitters in the candlelight, clutching his throat like a lover. The implants start to hum as his heart speeds up.

Fray wishes he knew her name. He wishes she could have told him what he is.

But there’s nothing to be done about that now.

---

Thank you for reading!!! as promised, Fray's character sheet. We're playing a hack of AW called Burned Over, and I'm playing a class called The Weaponized, which is what led to me calling Fray "RoboCop Link" until I settled on his name.

#saint fray #corgiwrites!#apocalypse world #northern echoes #writing

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