#The Red Logs: Return to the Temple | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

preciouslandmermaid · 2 years ago

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cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 1/3

I wasn’t going to write more, but then I was like “okay what if…” and then this story was born. I’m splitting it into parts because this bitch lengthy as hell.

This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic. A spiritual part 3, if you will.

Rating: Mature (Explicit Language, violence, blood/injuries)

Fic warnings: hurt/comfort, tending to injuries, touch!starved ghost, mentions of murder/suicide (not related to main characters), unplanned pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, forced proximity (haha bitches u gotta live together), injuries/discussions of lack of mobility, canon-typical violence/consequences, reader goes feral to protect ghost, then he goes feral to protect her, mutual respect, lovers to soulmates.

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.

Summary: Soap’s been shot. Price makes the call to bring him to a safe house occupied by an old associate. And when Lt. Ghost crashes into your orbit again, your treasured secret is revealed, and the aftermath inspires you to ask him to follow you into the light.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fuck!” Soap shouts before he collapses into the muddy marsh. Ghost whirls around to provide cover. The ricocheting gunfire and Johnny’s desperate, pained breath in his earpiece fills his head. A migraine pounds behind his eyelids. They’re exposed. They’re sitting fucking ducks out here.

Ghost yells, “get up, Johnny!”

“I’m fucking tryin’” Soap grits out. He crawls through the mud and his leg drags uselessly and heavy behind him. His temples flare. His mud-streaked face flushes red under the hot Noreth sun. A stinging pain slits across Ghosts’ shoulder. He ignores it.

Ghost returns fire, “Price, tell me we’ve got evac!” He shouts brusquely into his comm. His voice crackles like a dry log. “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

Bloody hell. Ghost crouches into the tall, swaying reeds, his pants are slick with dark earth, and his reflection ripples in the rich, cloudy water before disappearing in a plume of umber. He pulls Johnny’s arm over his shoulders and lifts him from the muck.

“On your feet, soldier.” He barks. The helicopter rains hell from above, covering their exit, as the Humvee’s tires squelch and squeal to a harsh, mud-splattering stop.

He yanks the door open, “Soap’s been hit!”

“How bad?” Price demands.

Soap’s face crumples and he turns his head away from Price’s line of sight. “I can’t feel my leg.”

Fuck.

The tires spin wetly. The truck jolts forward, jostling them, as Price’s boot slams onto the accelerator. Ghost doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. He trusts Price to get them the hell out of here and into safety. The wetland fades into dirt roads and tiny rocks rebound with sharp, tinny pings against the vehicle's undercarriage. Ghost hangs onto the handlebar above and frequently checks behind him.

“You’re bleeding.” Price observes. Shiny wetness glistens across his black sleeve. He doesn’t feel it. His body is thrumming with adrenaline. There is gunfire and grenades in his head.

Ghost glances at his arm. “Superficial.”

“Suit yourself.” The Captain murmurs under his breath. They pass farmland and wetlands. Most of Noreth is contained within these two biomes. It’s flat, and warm, and their winters are mild. Price joked that it wouldn’t be a bad place to retire.

“Still with us, MacTavish?” asks Price while glancing in the rearview toward him.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Good. We’re here.” The truck crests over a small hill and Ghost stiffens at the sight of a woman approaching their vehicle. She raises a hand. Price slows to a stop. There’s a dilapidated barn behind her, its roof caved in, but he notices the flash of a sniper’s scope in the loft. On the side of the barn, a pickup truck is parked, and an obvious metal ladder juts from the truck bed. It feels like a set up. It feels like a trap. He stiffens. His finger poises over the trigger of his pistol.

“Price…” Ghost injects a note of warning into his voice. Where are they? Who is this woman?

“At ease, Ghost.”

She approaches the driver side window. Her head is wrapped in a navy Shayla and her chestnut brown hair peeks from the scarf. The right side of her face is scarred, her brown skin bumpy and ridged.

His chest aches. A phantom pain, an old memory. He doesn’t have a heart. Not even a cold one. He said goodbye to his heart nearly three years ago in a hospital room. But, if he were to think about it, about you, he’d remember your scars. He crushes the thought. He buries it among the rest.

“You’ve gone the wrong way, traveler.” She says, neither unkindly nor kindly. Her walkie-talkie crackles suddenly at her hip.

A voice slices through the static.

“They’re clear. Over.”

The words blind him. He grips the handlebar and his knuckle joints crackle under the pressure. It can’t be. It’s impossible. He must’ve misheard. But he doesn’t make mistakes. It is your voice. It’s you. It’s you, you, you–come back to haunt him, damn him, torment him with a life he cannot have.

You said goodbye. You both did. That was meant to be the end of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You peer through the scope one last time, seeing Ghost, seeing Price, and your heart threatens to detonate your ribs and send your organs flying. You scramble on your stomach, intending to rise and join her, but Samira’s voice comes through the walkie-talkie.

“Three in the vehicle, one wounded. Over.”

You bite your tongue. Ice slithers through your veins, numbing them, and your teeth chatter in your skull. You stop yourself from asking how badly, or where, or whom. Samira is an ex-army medic, and her knowledge greatly outclasses your own. She’s needed. And you are better suited here.

“Go.” You reply, “send Agathi to cover your shift, over.”

“Copy.”

Through the scope, you watch Samira wave at them, but Ghost clambers out of the passenger side. He looks directly into the loft. You nudge and wiggle yourself deeper into the shadows. It’s pointless. Awareness ruptures across your skin in equal parts euphoria and dread. You’ve dreamed of reunions. But that’s all they ever were, all they ever could be. Dreams. Paltry. Insubstantial. They were akin to the stories you created in the cemetery. A way to cope amidst the madness and subterfuge.

You bring the radio to your lips. Below, you can hear Samira arguing with Ghost that he cannot go into the barn because it’s dangerous.

“I bet it’s dangerous alright.” He grouses. You snicker and roll your eyes.

Samira opens her arms to stop him. If the choice is between keeping you safe and helping strangers, then it is no choice at all for her. She will choose you every single time. You know this.

“It’s alright.” You announce into the walkie-talkie. “Go help the others and don’t make me pull rank. Over.”

Samira glares mutinously at the loft. She replies, “we have no rank. But I will go out of the goodness of my heart. Over and out.”

You stifle another laugh. Samira is pretending to be sarcastic and cold, but you know her better than anyone. She’s warm. She cares. You would not be here–you would not be alive–if not for her.

You set the rifle aside, though you are not unarmed as you climb down the rickety, wooden ladder into the decayed, rotting barn. You hear the truck pull away, gravel and dirt kicking up beneath its tires, and you walk toward the sliver of angelic daylight that pours between the large doors. You don’t use the barn door. It’s likely to fall off its hinges if you did. Instead, you push aside several wooden planks nearby and crawl out of the barn. You return the planks to their rightful place and kick grass with the toe of your boot to hide your tracks.

His shadow is the first thing you see. Big and imposing, stretching in the open sunlight, a dark splotch against the overgrown grass. You inhale slowly and prepare yourself.

You meet his eyes for the first time in nearly a year.

The world stops spinning. Or it spins too fast. It’s hard to say. You feel, somehow, both grounded and completely out of orbit. Your throat is painfully dry, uncooperative, and you swallow around the strange tightness before breathing sharply through your nostrils. Ghost is as you remember. You are both relieved by his consistency and saddened by it. The world will change, regimens will rise and fall, ice caps will melt, but Simon will remain immovable and unchanging.

You observe, “you’re wounded.”

“It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

You roll your eyes. You don’t doubt it, but he should know as well as anyone that an injury can get infected without proper treatment. You walk to the parked truck and open the glovebox to remove the first-aid kit. The truck barely runs, but it’s good cover and makes it seem like someone is trying to repair the barn in case any patrols pass by.

“Who else was in the truck?” You ask, setting the kit on the passenger seat and snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Soap.”

Your heart freezes. You’re thankful Ghost he cannot read your expression due to your turned back. Your mind flashes with images, with memories of MacTavish. Your time was limited with him, but his kindness and earnestness made a lasting impression.

You cannot stop yourself from asking, “how bad is it?”

“Don’t know.” He replies gruffly.

“Classified?” You venture, glancing over your shoulder to him.

Ghost hooks his thumbs underneath the straps of his tactical vest and shifts his weight. You take his silence as an affirmative. He has no reason to tell you, really. You aren’t part of his task force. You aren’t anything, anymore. Not to him, not to anyone. With that thought firm in mind, you grab the scissors and approach Ghost, your expression calm and neutral.

“May I?”

Ghost nods stiffly. You lift his t-shirt sleeve with your littlest finger and snip away a section of fabric that’s caked and sticky with blood. Thankfully, the wound is little more than a graze. A bullet passed him but did not lodge itself into his skin. You click your tongue and smile archly.

“Lucky.”

“I told you it’d be fine.”

“Not if it gets infected.” You say in a singsong, wiping away blood with an alcohol pad. He doesn’t even wince. You avoid his eyes, focused on the injury, though you can feel Ghosts’ attention burning into the side of your face like an open flame. It doesn’t need stitches. You disinfect the area and tape a piece of gauze. Your touch is careful and practiced and never lingering no matter how badly you want to.

Once finished, you drag your eyes away from the glaring, white square of gauze on his skin and drift toward his skull mask.

He holds your gaze for what feels like a lifetime. You haven’t forgotten the intensity of those dark, mysterious eyes. You recall them in every variation–heavily lidded with lust, intense and serious, suspicious, or dark and narrowed, bright like coffee with sarcastic humor and bad jokes.

Beneath his gaze, Ghost makes you feel as if you are the only object in the universe.

You realize slowly that your fingertips are on his bicep. You tentatively pull your hand away and his muscle jumps reflexively at the absence of your touch.

“It’s good to see you.” You admit softly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. Agathi’s voice comes through your walkie-talkie, informing you that she’ll be there in a minute, and that she’s bringing along Kaja, so you can speak with ‘Mr. Price.’

You laugh when Agathi calls him ‘Mr.’ instead of Captain. Ghost’s breath hitches in his throat.

You respond, biting your lip to stop your smile, “copy that. Over and out.”

Your stolen moments of reunion with Simon beside the barn dwindle like dry tumbleweeds across the desert. You are grateful for whatever little time you have considering you never expected to see him again. Yet, you are selfish and wishing you could have more time.

You organize and store the first-aid supplies, tucking your bloody gloves in your back pocket to throw them away once you’re in the house. Ghost says nothing. He watches you. If it were anyone else–you’d bark at them for leering, for being creepy, but this is Ghost, it’s Simon. You are – intimately - comfortable with his gaze on you. A sudden flush of heat burns your ears.

Agathi rounds the corner with Kaja behind her. Agathi is nearly six feet tall and seeing her next to Ghost is impressive and it puts his massive height into perspective. Her hair is short and blonde, and her striking blue eyes are hidden behind her large, dark aviator sunglasses. Kaja is younger than Agathi and a foot shorter. She is olive-skinned and has dark, ruffled hair that lays across her head like a raven’s nest.

“Whoa.” Kaja says when she sees Ghost, then looks to you quizzically, “he a friend of yours?”

You nod. “Old friend.”

“You said all your friends were dead.” Agathi says. She is less welcoming than Kaja and rightfully distrustful.

You smile at her. “They are.”

Agathi scoffs and pushes her sunglasses up at her nose with two fingers. She doesn’t say anything when she walks away from you, but you can feel suspicion radiating from her. However, the task force is under your protection, and she won’t do anything to anyone beyond sneering. Kaja watches you leave with awe on her youthful face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After ten minutes of silence, you see your haven in the distance.

“Agathi has two boys. Sven and James.” You announce. “Try not to brood so much and scare them.” Ghost’s footsteps are light beside yours and you move like wraiths down the dusty road.

“That’s risky.” He intones, voice deep and scratchy.

You whip your face toward his, frowning. There is risk to everything, you think. But you know Agathi. You trust her. You care for her. You know Ghost isn’t judging her, only taking the intel he has, and drawing a pragmatic conclusion. Noreth is at war and traveling with multiple people–especially children–increases the overall danger. Still, despite knowing this, you cannot help but defend her.

“What? Was she meant to leave them behind?” You shove your curled fists into your pockets. You made a similar decision six months ago. Although, in retrospect, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

“Besides,” you continue, your tone and face hot, the sun beating down on the back of your neck like someone’s gaze. “It’s easier to think of this place as a sanctuary. A temporary place for refugees to recover before they continue onward.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“Since Al-Qunbar then.”

You wince at his steel-trap memory. Nothing slips by Ghost. Six months ago, you fled Al-Qunbar and settled into Noreth with Samira’s help. The recent conflict between East and West Noreth has torn asunder all the comfort and stability your little ragtag family found.

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“And is this what the agency has you doing?” He motions with his chin toward the house, “running a safe haven?”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth, worrying flesh between your teeth, and shrug noncommittally.

The agency no longer owns you. No one does. You wish you could celebrate this with him, but you don’t know what his reaction will be. Will he call you a coward and say you are abandoning your country? Or will he be grateful that you’re no longer in the line of fire? That you're no longer puppeteering diplomats and manipulating powers beyond your ken? If you explained your reasoning, explained why, would he understand? Or would he hate you for keeping secrets?

He doesn’t press for more information, and you don’t try to fill the silence with idle chatter. You’re reminded of your long, quiet treks through the fresh snow in Russia. Your face tucked in your scarf, the air bright and sharp, the sky a delirious blue like chlorine above your heads. You’d walk for hours without saying anything.

You watch two birds’ flit across a sky of cotton ball shaped clouds. You hope the conflict and fighting will not reach you, but you know it’s a foolish dream. Your lips twist in a chagrined smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your safe haven consists of two buildings. The first is a two-story house with a front porch, bulletproof glass windows, and peeling, chipped green paint. There is laundry strung up on the line and it flaps like an elephant’s ear. The second building is smaller, the size of a studio apartment, the roof is squat and flat, and the brown paint appears baked-on from the distance. Price’s vehicle is parked outside alongside Kaja’s pet project motorcycle—still in pieces. The infirmary is sequestered and guarded from the main house. A necessary precaution for privacy and sustainability.

Despite the soundproofing and the roaring generator for electricity, you hear Price’s voice. You grimace, looking back at Simon briefly, before opening the door.

“And I’m telling you,” Samira exclaims, “I will not move him! He must not be moved!”

“I need him out of this zone in order to extract him.” Price says.

“He cannot go!” Samira’s dark brown eyes meet yours. “Talk sense into your old Captain,” She gestures impatiently with both hands. A bloody blue smock covers her clothes and a surgical mask dangled from one ear.

You ask, “what happened?”

Samira debriefs you. Soap was shot in his lower back. She managed to remove the bullet, but she suspects moderate to severe nerve damage, and he’ll need physical therapy included in his recovery plan if he wants to walk again. Price wants to remove him and return him to Scotland.

However, Samira explains he’ll need to wait a minimum of four weeks before traveling overseas, otherwise he’ll risk blood clotting and other complications. Although Price is willing to honor and uphold the secrecy of your haven and not request a direct evacuation–he wants to drive Soap to a safe zone and have him evacuated from there.

“He stays.” Samira says sternly, “or he dies.”

Price looks at Ghost and you.

“Lt, can I talk to you outside?”

You step aside to let them pass and approach Samira. You expression pinches in worry and you touch her shoulder. Your stomach binds itself into knots. In your mind, you see Soap smiling and crossing his arms after you defeated him in a card game, your heart alive with mirth for the first time in years.

You peel your words free like dried, white crafting glue, “is he going to be alright?”

“That’s mostly up to him right now.” Samira sighs, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. About two months ago, a refugee died on Samira’s operating table from an ill-fated bullet wound. You hope that Soap isn’t as unlucky. Your eyes dart to the window to Soap and Price, talking with their heads bent low, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

“Can we move him to the house?”

Samira nods. “In a few hours, yes.”

“Good. I don’t like it when everyone is spread out.”

You wait until Ghost and Price are finished before offering to take them into the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two blonde boys run out of the front door toward you. One has the gawkish and long-limbed awkwardness of a teenager, his pale face is dotted with pimples, his smile is wide and crinkles the skin around his clear, blue eyes. You open your arms and the smaller, younger one leaps into them. His blonde hair shines golden beneath the sun. You spin him in a circle, and he giggles, delighted. Ghost is momentarily stunned.

When was the last time he heard a child laugh? His expression stiffens. His breath shudders and fans through his mask. You set the boy down. His big, curious blue eyes look past you and toward Price and him.

“James, this is Ghost.” You gesture to him, “and this is Captain Price.”

“Like a boat captain?” asks James.

“Something like that.” Price responds warmly.

You introduce the teenager as Sven. Agathis’ boys clearly and obviously adore you. While walking to the door, James holds your hand and prattles endlessly about a ‘dragon game’ that he and his brother are playing. Your replies are warm, attentive, and genuinely curious about his make-believe game. He wonders if it’s an act. Another layer of subterfuge, to make the residents of this place feel welcome and safe, all part of your role—whatever that may be. But the moment the thought passes his mind, he dismisses it.

There is something to you that didn’t exist before. The light you carried within has changed, it has shifted, and he doesn’t know if anyone else can see it. He doubts Price notices it. The scathing, self-loathing part of him entertains the idea that you’ve fallen in love with someone. That would explain the lightness to your step and the glowing warmth of your smile. He roughly shoulders the dark thoughts to another dusty corner of his mind.

“And you, you’d be a red dragon.” James says knowingly, his voice filled with innocent wisdom.

You laugh. He wants to get drunk on that sound – your laugh. It bubbles inside his veins like dry, expensive champagne. It heats his skin like a good sunburn. He can endure any level of torture as long as he has your laughter playing on a loop within his mind.

“Why red?”

James clarifies, “because red dragons are strong! A-and they have magic fire powers.”

“Ah!” You chuckle, “that makes sense.”

James asks, “will you play with us after dinner?”

You don’t even pause to think about it. “Of course!”

The front door leads into a sitting room with overstuffed, stripey couches and black iron wood stove with a thick column that feeds into the wall. Next to it, a narrow kitchen is painted robin’s egg blue. A small, ancient white fridge is humming in the corner and the oven has several knitted washcloths dangling from its handle.

The light fixtures are barren, their sockets empty or completely removed from the walls their thin wires exposed like intestines. The file on Noreth comes to his mind. Earlier in the conflict, families blacked out their houses with dark, heavy curtains or bedsheets, or removed their lights to hide from the air raids. However, the aerial risk has since vanished now that Noreth’s only airport is smoldering ruins.

He imagines you efficiently pinning up curtains and unscrewing lightbulbs. He wonders if you said anything to the children, offered them explanations, or words of comfort. His tongue tingles like he’s pressed it to a live battery charged with a thousand questions.

Price is engaging you in conversation, and your voice is amicable, but your body language is guarded. He notices you – more than once – avoid a pointed question and maneuver around it like an Olympic figure-skater. Topics like Noreth’s political climate or the safety measures at the house are encouraged, but any personal questions about yourself or the other women living at the haven are swiftly evaded. Ghost stands near the door, watching through the window toward the road and he occasionally looks at you or the two boys building a puzzle on the living room floor.

“You’re confident then?” Price is saying, “Samira can handle Soap’s recovery?”

“I trust Samira with my life.” You say, steadfast and poised. Ghost’s molars gnash and he averts his gaze. Jealousy burns like acid reflux in his gut. “If I had any reservations whatsoever about her abilities then I would argue against her call.”

“You have everything you need for him?” Price prompts. Ghost almost wants to give him shit for being overbearing like an old, nervous mother hen. He checks out the window. All clear. Samira paces outside the infirmary, smoking. He finds that wonderfully ironic. A doctor who smokes. He scowls. Who is Samira to you? Do you trust her because of your circumstance? Or because you’re teammates? Or has something happened between you?

You respond, “yes.”

Price sighs heavily like the air inside his lungs is a physical object that he can lift and carry around.

“Samira says she’ll move him in a few hours. You’re welcome to stay until then.”

Price grins, “and stay for dinner?��

“It gives us a reason to take out the nice, fancy plates.” You smile easily. Ghost greedily traces the lines of your mouth from his peripheral vision. He can savor it when your smile isn’t direct at him. He wishes he could pull you aside, speak privately, but this isn’t a job where something as childish as wishes get granted.

He realizes he can’t stay in this room, listening to Price make small talk, hearing the soft murmuring and excited chatter of the children on the carpet. He needs to be useful otherwise his temper will shorten, and his mood will sour like curdled milk.

He says to Price, “I’m goin’ to check the perimeter.”

“Copy that, Lt.” Price nods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You chop onions for the soup stock and your vision blurs with tears. Through the blinking, wet haze, you see Price regard you with warm familiarity and steady, quiet gentleness.

“It’s good to see you alive, Lux.” He says softly. “Seems like I made the right call.”

Your chest warms. It’s nice to see his face and talk to him again despite the shitty circumstance.

“Getting sentimental in your old age?” You joke to hide how deeply his comment affected you. You’re happy to have the onions as an excuse for the tears strolling down your cheeks.

He laughs. His white teeth flash and his eyes are enfolded by mirthful wrinkles. “At ease, solider.”

You wipe your wet eyes and glance toward the door that Ghost exited through. Price’s eyebrow notches upward and he leans his arms on the countertop. Your scalp prickles. You suddenly feel like a teenager caught passing a note to their crush in class. His perceptive eyes narrow and the unsaid question lingers in the onion-smelling air between you.

“He’s the same.” You explain quietly, shrugging.

“He’s not,” says Price.

You occupy your hands by scooping the chopped onions into a large soup pot and avert your eyes from Price. You aren’t sure if this is a conversation you’re supposed to have or meant to have. Ghost is private. It feels wrong – no – it feels treacherous to talk about him when he’s not in the room.

“You and MacTavish.” Price continues without prompting, “you’ve changed him for the better, I think.”

“Oh,” you say, “that’s good.” You say it like you’re commenting on the weather. You shove as much nonchalance into your tone to make it boring. Ordinary. But your mind spins wildly on its axis. Ghost has changed on some level because of you. And it was noticeable enough to catch the attention of his superior officer, someone who has known him for years. You wonder if it’s the same for you. You wonder if Price can see Ghosts’ fingerprints all over your skin. Wordlessly, you tuck your moth charm necklace inside your shirt.

The necklace isn’t your only secret connection to Ghost. There is a more precious, more sacred secret. And he’s sleeping upstairs. You imagine telling Price about him, but immediately disregard the idea. There’s no guessing what Price’s reaction would be. Or Simon’s. No. It’s safer for everyone if he remains a secret. Your heart aches with foolish, idyllic longing to walk outside and talk to Simon and pour out every feeling you’ve bottled over the past six months.

You redirect the conversation away from Ghost and shelve your deep, complicated feelings aside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he returns hours later, you are peeling potatoes. He admires your skilled, careful hands and the sunset behind you frames you in butterscotch gold and hazy yellow.

A memory hits his skull like a stun grenade. In Russia, you skinned a rabbit in front of him and he called you a ‘proper boy scout’. You laughed, your head thrown back, your hands red and slimy. He thinks that might’ve been the moment his heart started to thaw.

Samira says something to you in her native tongue. You reply with a faux-serious expression but then your eyes crinkle and your smile runs the facade. Is this what you’ve been up to? Making soup and hiding in old barns?

Steam rises and billows from the pot around your face like a cloud. You tap the wooden spoon rhythmically against the rim. His heart squeezes like a fist. Price and Soap talk lowly in the sitting area, Soap in a wheelchair, Price leaning his hip against the arm of the sofa with his muscular arms crossed and his face drawn.

The domesticity of this moment should frighten him, it should fill him with self-loathing, yet all he feels is keening, sharp yearning. This could be any kitchen in the world. It hurts to look at you. It feels like heartburn. He balls his fingers into fists.

Price’s words come unbidden to his mind: “You need to stay here,” he said.

“What d’you mean?” Ghost said, scowling behind his mask.

“Noreth is a war zone. I can’t pull Soap out, so you need to stay here and look after him.”

“You’re kidding.” Ghost deadpans.

“Not counting ourselves, there are only two individuals on this farm that have combat training.” He knew Price was talking about you, so it was either Samira or Agathi who had experience, though he didn’t know which.

Price said, “There are few he’d trust with his life, Simon. But I know you’re one of them.” He couldn’t argue with that. He’d stay. Even if he didn’t have much say in the matter.

Sven shouts from the staircase, “Lukas is awake from his nap! Can I bring him down?”

“Yeah!” You reply, your words followed by an easygoing smile. His gaze flickers back to the staircase at the sound of Sven’s careful, yet loud footfalls.

Sven carries a toddler in his arms that must be his youngest brother. He guesses his age is somewhere around 2 or 3 based on size alone. You mentioned Agathi had boys. Plural. It’s hard to imagine a mother of three crossing hostile territory, but he supposes anything is possible within the right circumstance. When you defended Agathi, your voice was filled with flushed pride and indignation like you were scolding him for being uncouth. His lips press together under his mask. He missed that—your spark. No one has a bite quite like yours.

The boy’s cherubic face is more solemn than bashful Sven or inquisitive, talkative James. And his big, round brown eyes must’ve been inherited from his father (who is likely dead, Ghost assumes, since there’s no one else at the safe house).

Sven settles the child onto the carpet and passes him a red toy truck.

“Beep beep!” He proclaims. His voice deepens to rumble the car across the wooden floorboards.

You ask from the kitchen, “Lukas, what do you want for dinner?”

“Mashed potatoes!” Lukas replies and his smile dimples his chin.

Samira rolls her eyes. Her lips twitch, and her sideways pose, and half-smile remind Ghost of a coyote.

“Naturally,” says Samira.

“He likes what he likes.” You say breezily.

You divide the soup into neutral toned bowls and Samira helps you hand them out. Price accepts the meal with a grateful smile. Soap complains about how little Samira has given him and she primly responds that he’s likely to throw up as a side effect to medication, so he ought to eat in small portions.

The soup bowl is between your hands like a tender, reverent offering.

He declines with a small and curt shake of his head. He ate an MRE during his walk-about of the property. He doesn’t have the stomach for anything else. He never could eat much on missions. He ate enough to keep him coherent, keep him sharp, but that was it.

“My cooking’s not that bad, is it?” You say with a teasing, familiar lilt to your voice.

He shifts his weight. His rifle, a comfortable weight, nudges between his shoulder blades. “Sod off.” He grumbles. Your eyes brighten followed by your smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He glances to the rest of the room. Everyone else is talking or eating. No one is paying attention to this corner. Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes infinitesimally. He feels his jaw unclench, the sensation miniscule yet poignant, as he regards you.

“Quit fishin’ for compliments.”

“Can’t blame a gal for seeking a little praise.” You cover your lips over your spoon, slurping, and mischief illuminates your expression. He watches you. Something low and aching and hardly forgotten comes to life and unfurls in smoldering heat. If you were alone—God help him—if you were alone…

He inclines his head ever-so-slightly, his voice deep and rumbling and dangerous, “consider it noted.”

Samira calls to you in her language. It grates at him. Is Samira trying to hide something? Does Price know what she’s saying? How much can they really trust anyone here? You’re quick to reply and you sidle over to her and Sven, though you switch the conversation to English.

His jaw tightens. You might suddenly come under fire from an ambush. He peers out the window. All clear. The walkie-talkie at your hip is silent. Price looks relaxed. You look relaxed.

However, it doesn’t mollify his sense of paranoia. The flatlands of Noreth are too exposed for his liking.

The property is filled with tall, thin reeds similar to switch or cord grass. It’s massive enough to camouflage his height if he crouches and he suspects the boy—James—can get completely lost in it. But the spongy earth makes it difficult to travel on foot and the lonely safehouse isn’t fenced in.

Thankfully, he did find an all-terrain vehicle covered by a mottled brown and green tarp which meant you had some evacuation plan if things went south. He glances sideways out the window again. All clear.

Johnny pushes on the wheels of his wheelchair toward him and he nearly knocks into Ghost’s heavy combat boots. He balances his empty soup bowl on his thighs. The heat and warm food has flushed Johnny’s neck and cheeks to a soft, dusty pink. It’s good to see some color on him. He was too pale and ashen on the drive to the safehouse.

He’s changed out of his tactical gear. He’s wearing an ill-fitting gray jumper and sweatpants. He assumes the clothes are from Samira because they didn’t bring their full kits. This mission wasn’t supposed to be overnight. Now they’d be stuck for a minimum of four weeks.

“I guess we’ll be here for a bit, Lt.”

“Looks like it.”

Following the abrupt, wheezing sound of your laughter, Soap tilts his head over his shoulder to you, then returns his gaze to Ghost.

“I know Price asked you to stay, but you don’t have to.” Soap begins, “I’ll make a quick recovery. And they need you in the field, running operations, not sitting here playing guard dog.”

Ghost shakes his head slowly.

“Orders came from Price, Johnny.”

“I know.” Soap sighs. He peeks over at you, Samira, and Sven again. Then murmurs quietly to himself, “won’t be all bad, I suppose.”

Ghost pretends like he doesn’t hear and ignores the part of him that agrees.

[ Part Two ]

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #no use of yn #reader insert #simon ghost riley smut #call of duty fanfic #ghost cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfic #fic: cold hands warm heart

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lumierexfics · 10 months ago

Note

I loved what you wrote for Eddie!! I’d love it if you wrote something for Trager with a female reader!

Chat Log Name : I’ll give you very special attention

Chat log description: You have known Richard Trager since his fall from grace.

USERS : Richard Trager, Female! Reader

!! CONTENT WARNINGS : Trager is OOC, Canon-ish behavior of Murkoff. !!

Pre-mount massive Trager

Trager always had his eyes on you even if he was constantly inviting your coworkers to extravagant dinners that you could seemingly only dream of.

Multiple of your coworkers complained to you about feeling exhausted after being invited by Trager or waking up in the car ride home with closed incisions that they seemingly gained during the date but they couldn’t remember how they gained it. He got close, a bit too close for his own liking.

He knew that it wasn’t your fault, it was simply wrong place and wrong time. His eyes that once dissected every single movement and breath that you marked in his memory finally decided to look away. After all, it was just a harmless joke that Murkoff took seriously. He heard your voice trembling; repeating the same words like a broken record about how you didn’t need a voluntary stay in Mount massive but it was disagreed by more higher ups that you did. Nobody enjoys listening to a broken record.

He heard the commotion from his office, seeing how you were almost going to step a foot outside before being held back by guards and falling to your knees due to a dosage being injected and wheeled away in a gurney and restraints.

Mount massive Trager

Trager followed the bloody footsteps, the blood was fresher since it still had the red in the color. It seems to be—he looked back in boiling frustration, scratching his scarred scalp and sucked in a breath and returned to his patient that seemed to scream for his attention. So desperate, so needy for him.

He finished ‘discussing’ with the patient and decided to follow the once fresh footprints that lead him to the elevator lobby where he never expected to see the face of the broken record staring back at him and carrying the body of a rusted bucket filled with a mixture of blood and pieces of skin, fingers, and a scalp. You still wore the uniform that had been given, scars on your forearm from the morphogenetic engine.

He somehow managed to get you a room that was somewhat clean and didn’t have the occasional screaming patient from down the hall. You sat on the mattress with the rusted bucket still on your lap and looking at the cracks in the tile that soon soaked up with your blood from the cuts on your soles.

He couldn’t seem to spill any words to you and he finally got you here with him.

“I remember when you took me on a date.” You smiled. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it?”

“I n—it was,” he replied. “You in that outfit and the candlelights.”

Your eyes looked around the room but the constant screaming of a patient echoed throughout the hall and seeing him pinch his temple before excusing himself to deal with a patient.

Trager grumbled back holding the bottom of a broken alcohol bottle that still had enough for a small amount for two people. One for you and one for him but his somewhat heart dropped seeing the door of the room open. The homemade shears rested in his hand, his eyes scanned the room with the cracked glasses.

Rusted bucket turned over and revealed the inner contents of shards of glass, rocks, and dried leaves. You were nowhere to be found, you must’ve left the room but he knew the insides of his section. He heard your laughter echoing from the other side of the hall, leaving the broken bottle bottom on the cracked floor and running towards your laughter only for it to fade each time he got close to it; every time out of his grasp.

He panted, finally stopping the chase and hearing your laughter fade away down the hall. He walked the way back to the room where he left the broken bottle bottom only to see the contents of the rusted bucket and the bucket itself was gone.

#outlast x reader #the outlast series x reader #outlast Trager x reader #richard trager x reader #Outlast rick trager x reader #dr trager x reader

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shirshik72 · 1 year ago

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BiTomas week

Day 6. Seasons

Author's notes: the characters' images are taken from the classic games and supplemented with my headcannons. This is completely unrelated to "Mortal Kombat 1" (2023).

Autumn is coming to the Lin Kuei Temple slowly. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting longer. The frost, so familiar to Bi Han, is getting stronger, and the warmth, so valued by Tomas, is gradually leaving the valleys of the Chinese mountains.

Although, there was never much heat here. Autumn simply takes away its remnants, leaving for the ninja only lifeless trees and heavy rains, increasingly turning into light snowfalls. Of course, the snow has not yet covered the entire earth with a durable sheet, but Tomas knows that this is a matter of time.

― It’s getting colder, ― Smoke notes melancholy, walking in the gardens near the infirmary in the company of Bi Han.

― Are you freezing? ― asked his companion, trying to assess Tomas’s condition with a trained eye.

― No. For now.

Sub-Zero only nods his head affirmatively, continuing his walk. To be honest, this process does not give him much pleasure: withering nature does not at all please the selective eye. Yes, he didn’t like autumn itself. Fickle time, unpredictable, in a word - crappy.

― Somehow you don’t have a face, ― says Bi Han, peering carefully into the so-adored eyes, covered with a veil of unbearable, desperate melancholy. - What happened?

― Nothing, ― Tomas waves it off, making a strange gesture, the meaning of which even Sub-Zero cannot decipher. ― The weather has been bad lately. It's going to rain soon. Cold rain, ― Smoke winces as he pronounces the last word.

― Then maybe we can go home?

Tomas nods in agreement. Something like pleasure flashes in Bi Han's eyes. He probably smiles under the mask ― restrainedly, but very sincerely. This thought warms us as they walk home in complete silence through the frozen streets of the fortress.

It is warm cozy and quiet in the walls of own house. Even if it's a little cold.

Without missing a minute, Smoke goes to the fireplace, throwing a couple of logs into it. A bright orange-red flame instantly engulfs dry logs. Tomas looks at the fire for a long time. A beautiful sight. Fascinating. The wood crackled. A little later, the warmth began to spread through the central hall in dense clouds. Hugging his knees, Tomas sat down on the floor near the fireplace, warming himself.

― And you say you’re not cold... ― in the velvety voice one cannot recognize either reproach or complaint, although Tomas knows well that Bi Han has questions. Otherwise, he would not have been shaking the air in vain.

Tomas again makes some vague gesture, without finding any worthy excuses, to which Sub-Zero only sighs noisily.

Footsteps are heard moving into the kitchen. Smoke doesn’t know exactly what his lover is up to, but he can roughly guess. As if to confirm his theory, about 10 minutes later, Bi Han returns to the room with a ceramic teapot, a chaban board, gaiwans, bowls and all the other paraphernalia that he carries for tea ceremonies.

Bi Han loves tea ceremonies. Perhaps he even loves them too much. Smoke knows that this whole ceremony means much more to Bi Han than just a tribute to tradition. For him, this is akin to meditation, a method of reducing stress and getting rid of excess garbage in his head. At such moments, it is better not to disturb Sub-Zero at all, especially if you want to keep all your teeth until old age. Knowing this, Tomas almost silently moves closer to Bi Han to observe the preparation of tea.

The process is fascinating, to be honest. His movements - so smooth, neat and calm - seem to suit him best, revealing that side of his soul that Sub-Zero is used to hiding under the mask of cold cruelty. Tomas is ready to continuously watch how Bi Han with a smart face pours something insists... There is some special enchanting magic in this, magnificent in its uniqueness.

Time seems to freeze around them, and the whole world narrows to the size of a room with a fireplace. They no longer care about the gloomy autumn, nor the approaching winter, nor the downpour of snow that suddenly fell on the territory of the fortress. For Tomas, the tea ceremony is also something like meditation, cleansing, but he doesn’t understand this at all yet.

Tea is ready. Bi Han tries the drink himself and, making sure that the taste is sufficiently rich and bright, treats Tomas to it too. Smoke likes it. Probably not even the tea itself, but the fact that Bi Han prepared it. For him. A satisfied smile involuntarily appears on his face, which Sub-Zero was ready to admire forever.

— Are you warm?

― It’s always warm next to you. No matter how paradoxical it may be.

Postscript: I am not an English-speaking person and this is my first experience in writing a literary text in a foreign language. I apologize in advance for all my mistakes in this text and ask you to point them out in the comments or personal messages. Thanks a lot in advance to everyone!

Thanks to @bitomas-week for organizing the event and motivating them to work on it.

#noobsmoke #bitomasweek2023 #bitomas #bi han x tomas #mortal kombat #bi han #bi han sub zero #tomas vrbada #mk smoke #smoke mk #fanfic

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marmorafarms · 10 months ago

Text

Does anyone read Gravity Falls fic still? Well I hope so because I'm writing one!

Friday I'm In Love

Ch 1

Rating: Teen+ (PG 13)

Pairing: Stan Pines/OC

Summary: When Elfie comes to Gravity Falls to help her friend propose, she wasn't expecting to experience the wildest summer of her life. With the return of demonic forces imminent, Elfie must band together with the Pines family, and finds love along the way.

You can also find the fic here on ao3!

“This is a stupid plan for butt faces,”

“Mabel, when will you understand that just because you don’t agree with a plan doesn’t make it inherently bad?” Dipper said, shaking his head at his twin sister. She was sitting on a log, glaring at the ground while Dipper fiddled around with a strange gadget. It looked exactly like a smart watch, but the words appearing on screen were odd sigils rimmed with red.

“I just think this could hurt someone if you’re not careful. And you and Grunkle Ford are never careful,” Mabel grumbled.

“That’s not true!” Dipper said. “Look, all it does is summon the last person to touch it. Other than me of course, because I’ve calibrated it to me, therefore I can’t summon myself if I’m holding it. The last person to hold it was Grunkle Ford. So when I press this button, Grunkle Ford will appear.”

“Are you sure that’s who had it last?” Mabel said nervously. “He set it down near the register in the Mystery Shack. What if someone else picked it up? You could be snatching someone from their family!”

“Mabel, just trust me. I know what I’m doing. And a one and a two and a…” the teenage boy pressed a button, and there was a sudden flash of blue light.

“And here we have Grunkle…wait what?!”

—

One second ago, Elfie had been mindlessly chatting with her best friend Melody in the parking lot of a place called The Mystery Shack. And now? Here she was, standing in the middle of the woods with two teenagers goggling at her.

“Do I need to up my meds?” Elfie said, looking around. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

“Dipper what did I tell you?!” the young girl said, turning to the boy next to her. “This lady here touched it last! And she’s freaked out because of your koo-koo-bananas machine doodad! You have to send her back!”

“I don’t know how!” the boy who seemed to be named Dipper said frantically.

“Are either of you Melody?” Elfie asked tentatively.

“You’re okay ma’am,” the girl said, standing up and brushing herself off. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to up your meds! Probably.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dipper said. “Um. Well. Did you happen to be at a place called the Mystery Shack recently?”

The brown haired boy looked very worried, his aviator hat askew. He quickly adjusted it and began to pace back and forth while the girl who must be his sister began to chastise him. Elfie took a moment to look around, before spying a sign shaped like an arrow, with a green question mark sloppily painted on. Okay. That was something she recognized. All she needed to do was ground herself and then—

“You must’ve been at the Mystery Shack, otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now. For some reason, you grabbed this, and now you’re in the woods with us.”

“I was in the parking lot just now,” Elfie finally said. “And then I disconnected from reality because there’s no way I just teleported.”

“Oh no, you totally teleported,” the girl said. “My brother here created a thingy that teleports people! Kinda cool, kinda messed up, but don’t worry! You’re fine. The Mystery Shack is down the road a bit. I’m Mabel, and the guy who messed up your day is Dipper!”

“I didn’t mess up her day!” Dipper said angrily. “Did I?”

“Okay, let’s say this is actually happening,” Elfie said, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “That means that my friend who is about to propose to her boyfriend is now probably freaking out. In the parking lot. Alone. At least she’ll be able to go into the store and find her boyfriend.”

“Why wasn’t he with you?” Dipper asked, frowning. “Was she really going to propose to him in a lame tourist trap?”

Elfie glared at the boy. “It’s not lame!” she said, stamping her foot like a child. “Her boyfriend owns the shack, so you better watch it kid.”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged shocked expressions, and turned to her, wonder in their eyes.

“Is her boyfriend Soos?” Mabel said slowly.

“That’s Jesùs Ramirez to you,” Elfie said with a sniff. “Or Mr. Mystery I suppose.”

“No, we call him Soos all the time!” Mabel said. “You’re friends with Melody? Dipper, how come you didn’t connect the dots?”

“What? Me?” Dipper said, annoyed. “What about you?”

“I’m not good at piecing all the puzzely things together,” Mabel said. “You’re the one who does that.”

“Look,” Dipper said, turning to Elfie. “Soos is one of my—“

“OUR!” Mabel interrupted with a shout.

Dipper sighed. “One of our best friends in town. Yes he’s eighteen years older than us, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is—wait did you say Melody is going to propose?”

Elfie sighed. This day was going to hell in a hand basket very fast. But if these kids were telling the truth, getting back to Melody, and more importantly getting to where she had been trying to go, would be a snap. She really needed to get to her friend and help her with the proposal. They had a whole plan and everything!

“Yeah she is,” Elfie said. “And I need to be there to make sure it goes off without a hitch. But I guess things going perfectly to plan isn’t happening anymore.”

"We have to get you back!” Mabel said, slapping her hands to her face. “Where’s the golf cart? We need to get Soos engaged!”

Before she knew it, Elfie found herself zooming through the underbrush of the forest, ducking her head every few seconds when a branch passed by. She held on for dear life as they flew over stumps and tree roots. When they finally arrived, Elfie saw Melody in the parking lot. A tall heavy set man that could only be Soos stood next to her, along with two men that looked 30 years her senior.

They all had serious expressions on their face. One of the men wore a long trench coat, and everyone was staring at him as spoke at top speed.

“The logical explanation is that your friend touched the device, and Dipper decided to use it. Don’t worry Melody, we will find her very soon.”

“Maybe sooner than we thought. Is that her?” the other man said in a gravely voice, pointing towards Elfie and the two teens. Elfie swore she was seeing double as she looked at the two men. There were a few distinct differences, but she was definitely looking at a set of identical twins. Elfie’s stomach did a flip as she looked at the twin pointing in her direction.

He was a stocky man wearing a brown leather jacket and a deep frown. His five o’clock shadow was really doing it for her, and she had to look away. Damn her thing for older men.

“Dipper my boy!” the man in the trench coat said, spreading his arms wide. “I’m glad to see you!”

"And I’m glad to see you!” Melody said happily, looking at Elfie.

“You said this town was weird but I wasn’t expecting that,” Elfie said, glancing at Dipper, who was staring at the ground.

“Yeah my brother and Grunkle Ford get up to all kinds of crazy wacko shenanigans,” Mabel said with a laugh. “I’m just glad you’re safe um…uh…what was your name?” In their haste to get back to the shack, Elfie hadn’t had the chance to introduce herself.

“Oh, I’m Elfie,” she said with a smile.

“That’s a cool name!” the teenage girl said.

"It’s a nickname,” Elfie said. “You can thank Melody over here for it. She gave it to me in middle school.”

“Why?” Dipper asked. “I’ll tell you why I go by Dipper if you tell me your actual name.”

“Maybe in a second,” Elfie said. “I need to talk to Melody about something,” she said, giving her friend a pointed look. Melody looked nervous at these words and then sighed.

“I was going to tell you earlier, but then you vanished,” Melody said. “Our…plans…have to wait. Stan and Ford here, as well as Dipper and Mabel, are staying here for a few months, and Soos wants to get them settled in.”

No way. This couldn’t be happening! Elfie and Melody had been planning this for months, and two sets of twins were going to ruin it by staying here?

“Plans?” Soos said frowning. “I thought you two dudes were just gonna tour the Mystery Shack and then get going.”

“We kind of wanted to hang out with you,” Elfie said. “We thought we could go to the lake for a bit.”

“Oh,” Soos said, looking surprised. “Sorry guys, I gotta get them settled in. You’re not leaving today are you? I thought Melody said something about you guys staying for a bit.”

“Elfie is staying with a friend, and I’m staying with my grandma like I do every summer,” Melody said.

“Who’s your friend?” the older man with leather jacket said.

“His name is Dan,” Elfie said, thinking about her lumberjack friend. “Real sweet guy. I’ve missed him.”

For some reason, everyone was silent except for Melody, who was covering a grin with her hand.

“What?” Elfie said. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Did you just say your friend is Manly Dan?” Mabel said with a gasp.

“And did you say he was sweet?” Soos said, cocking his head to the side. “That dude is scary!”

“Dan isn’t scary!” Elfie said, frowning. “He’s a really nice guy. What makes you think he’s not?”

“He broke the town clock by punching it over and over again. That weirdo’s got a screw loose,” the man in the leather jacket said, rolling his eyes.

“Stan!” Mabel said, slapping his shoulder. “Don’t say that!”

“I’m just saying it like it is!” Stan said. “He’s nuts!”

“Wait a second,” Elfie said, narrowing her eyes. “I know you. You’re the founder of this place, I saw a picture of you on the wall of the gift shop.”

“Yep!” Stan said proudly. “I’m—“

“The Mystery hack,” Elfie said, and Stan choked on air. Everyone looked at her with wide eyes, and she continued.

“Stan Pines, right? I’ve heard about you from Dan over the years and I know exactly what kind of man you are. Dan has a screw loose? Hello Pot, my friend’s name is Kettle. Are you really calling him black?”

“Well, wait, I wasn’t trying to—“

“He’s probably worried about me,” Elfie said, sticking her nose in the air. “It was good to meet most of you, but I probably won’t be seeing you.”

“Elfie!” Melody said scandalized. “Don’t be like this!”

Elfie whipped out her phone and began dialing. “I’m calling Dan to pick me up,” she said and stalked off.

“I like her,” Mabel said fondly. “She’s fun.”

—

“I really Stan’d that one up, didn’t I?” Stan said with a sigh, plopping down on the chair that Soos had saved just for him.

“Stanley, when people talk fondly about a friend, you shouldn’t start insulting said friend,” his twin Ford said with a sigh, sitting down on the couch and scrawling something down in a notebook.

“What do you know about friendship?” Stan asked. “You can barely stand to be around anyone in town. Why should I take advice from you?”

“I may not like being around other people, but I do know a thing or two about how people work, unlike you apparently. Considering how that situation went down, I’d say I know a lot more than you,” Ford said.

“She shouldn’t’ve talked to him like that though,” Soos said, entering the room with a bag of potato chips. “Melody said she’s going to do damage control. You guys’ll probably bump into each other sooner or later, this town is pretty small. She wants to make sure Elfie doesn’t stay mad for like, the rest of time.”

“I wasn’t trying to make her mad or nothin’,” Stan said. “It’s just that—“

“That your brain and your mouth aren’t connected!” said a voice from the doorway. Everyone jumped and turned. Mabel was leaning against the door frame, tapping away at her phone.

“Don’t worry, I’m like that too!” she said, walking into the living room. “My mouth sometimes says stuff that my brain hears and goes what?! It’s okay, I’m sure everything will be fine. Soos, do you know how long she’ll be staying here for?”

“Sorry dawg, I don’t know,” Soos said with a shrug. “Melody just said she’ll be here for “a bit” and I don’t know what that means.”

“Hopefully for a while!” Mabel said happily, turning the TV on. “She seems cool. Dipper likes her too, don’t you Dip Dop?” Mabel shouted into the hallway.

“Can you not call me that?” Dipper said, emerging from the kitchen with a can of Pitt Cola.

“Only if you tell them what you said about Elfie,” Mabel said with a giggle.

“W-what? I didn’t say anything!” Dipper said quickly, face flushing.

“You said she looks like a super m—“

“A super great person who is not anything more than just a super great person,” Dipper said, clapping a hand over his sister’s mouth. “What are you all looking at?” he asked the group.

“Was Mabel about to say super model?” Soos asked, sitting down next to Ford.

“Ugh, it doesn’t matter!” Dipper said angrily. “Look, okay, maybe I think she’s pretty, but I didn’t say anything else.”

“Yeah he did,” Mabel said smirking.

“Eh, makes sense,” Stan said with a shrug. “She’s a pretty lady. But she’s also an adult so don’t be weird about your new summer crush.”

“I don’t have a summer crush!” Dipper said, voice cracking. “You guys suck!”

“Wait, Stan!” Mabel said, looking at him with big eyes. “You think she’s pretty too?”

“Well. I mean, yeah. She’s objectively good looking. Pretty face, and a nice—“

“Choose your next words very carefully,” Ford said tersely without looking up from his writing. Just as Stan was about to fire back, Soos’ phone buzzed.

“Oh dudes, it’s Melody!” Soos said, reading the message. “She says she managed to convince Elfie not to uh…gouge Stan’s eyes out with a rusty spoon? That’s weirdly specific.”

“Yeesh, this lady is crazy, no wonder she’s friends with Dan,” Stan said shaking his head.

“A beautiful woman who threatens you with violence? Sounds like every woman you flirt with,” Ford said shaking his head. “You like crazy.”

“Yeah, but those were one night—“

“Aaand that’s our cue to leave,” Dipper said, yanking Mabel to her feet.

“Awww…” Mabel said sadly, but let her brother lead her out of the room.

“Look Soos. I’m sorry I got your girl’s friend mad. But she’s fine now, right? All’s well that ends well,” Stan said looking at Soos.

“Mr. Pines, I’m not sure everything went well. Sure she’s not going to like, murder you, but maybe you should apologize.”

A booming laugh sounded from beside the young man. Ford was wiping a tear from his eye as he laughed, journal falling to the floor.

“Stanley apologizing? That’s a good one.”

“I just said sorry to Soos,” Stan grumbled, “It’s not like I’m incapable of it.”

“Your apology amounted to “sorry I did a bad thing but who cares because it’s better now” which is a terrible one,” Ford pointed out. “Sincerely apologizing for hurting the feelings of someone and trying to get that person to be on good terms with you? That won’t happen.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of!” Stanley said, annoyed. “I could apologize to her right now. Gimme the phone Soos.”

“Over the phone? Really Stanley? That’s the easy way out. Apologizing in person is something you could never do.”

“Oh I’ll do it!” Stan said, getting to his feet. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going over to Dan’s house and I’ll give the best apology the world has ever seen!” And with that, Stan stormed out of the living room, presumably going to his room to pout.

“Dude. That was amazing,” Soos said, looking at Ford with wide eyes. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?” Ford said innocently.

“You were right, Stan never apologizes in a real way. But he’s actually gonna do it now! You got him to!”

“Getting my brother to do things is simple,” Ford said, picking his journal up. “All you have to do is piss him off by saying that he can’t do it, and then he will. I got him to investigate a sea monster near Alaska doing just that. We had to dive into the freezing waters, and he didn’t want to. Not until I told him that of course he couldn’t do it. Why would he? Obviously he didn’t have it in him. And then just like that, he put his gear on, and we got that monster taken care of.”

“Wow,” Soos said, eyes wide. “That’s like, super top secret information. I won’t tell a soul!”

“Eh, it’s probably something people should know,” Ford said. “It’ll make everyone’s life easier.”

“I should let Elfie know that Stan’s coming over in the morning,” Soos said, picking up his phone. “And probably send back up just in case she changes her mind about the rusty spoon.”

—

“Manly Dan, eh?” Elfie said, bustling around the kitchen to help Dan make dinner. Dan looked at her in surprise, eyebrows shooting up.

“Where’d you hear that one from?” he asked.

“Some teenager named Mabel,” Elfie said as she coated some asparagus in olive oil. “If things hadn’t been so strange today, I would’ve laughed.”

“What, you don’t think I’m manly?” Dan said good naturedly. “These muscles ain’t enough to prove it?” the red haired lumberjack said, flexing for his friend.

“Hmm. Not convinced,” Elfie said, and Dan sighed dramatically.

“I’m the manliest in town,” Dan said. “That’s how I got the name. Even manlier than the manotaurs.”

“Than the what?” Elfie asked as she began to close the oven door.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dan said nervously. “Just a joke.”

“No no no,” Elfie said, wagging a finger. “There’s something up with this town. What’s a manotaur?”

“Nothing’s up with this town,” Dan said firmly, putting a steak in a pan. “Why would you think that?”

“That girl Mabel? Well her brother teleported me from the Mystery Shack.” Elfie began to recount her day to Dan, who listened in stony silence. His face was unreadable, but Elfie didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was too busy ranting about Stan.

“Can you believe he said that?” Elfie said. “I wanted to punch him.”

“Elfie, you’re doing it again,” Dan said, putting some rosemary in the pan.

“Doing what?” Elfie asked, hand on her hip.

“Going wild over something small. Was that a big problem, or a little problem?” Dan asked. Elfie looked to the side, and her shoulders sagged.

“A little one,” she grumbled.

“Everyone thinks I’m a bit crazy,” Dan said. “It doesn’t bother me though because everyone in this town is a bit crazy. But Stan is alright. He saved the town once.”

“Really?” Elfie said skeptically.

“Really,” Dan said. “And he gave my daughter a job before she went off to college.”

“How’s Wendy doing by the way?” Elfie asked.

“She’s great,” Dan said with a wide smile. “I’m proud of that kid. She’ll be a sophomore in college come fall term. Gets straight A’s, even in classes she swears she’s gonna fail.”

“Cindy would be proud,” Elfie said. Dan stopped what he was doing for a moment, and then smiled at Elfie.

“I think she would. You know, you two were like peas in a pod. Probably why we all got along so well.” Dan said, a sad smile on his face.

“She used to call me an honorary red head from how firey I am,” Elfie said, playing with a lock of her dark brown hair. “I’m glad everything is going well. Are we going to make the trip to visit her?”

“Of course. The Valentino’s do a good job taking care of her headstone, but I like to clean it myself sometimes. Place some new flowers down.”

There was a comfortable silence before Elfie spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Dan said, flipping the steak.

“Why weren’t you shocked when I said Dipper teleported me?”

“That boy is a friend of Wendy’s,” Dan said. “They met when he was 12. If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that you should always expect the unexpected with him.”

“Does he know what a manotaur is?” Elfie asked casually.

“I think so,” Dan said. “Look they’re basically a minotaur with the power of toxic masculinity. They have dumb thoughts about what being a man is about. I try and teach the boys that being a man isn’t about being strong or mean or something like that. It’s about what’s inside. Being your own man isn’t about being aggro all the time, and nobody should think like that.”

“True,” Elfie said. “Where are they by the way?”

“They’re staying the night with some friends,” Dan said.

“All three?” Elfie asked surprised. Dan nodded.

“They’ll be back tomorrow. Marcus has been talking my ear off about how great it will be for me to have a friend, and Gus and Kevin have been speculating about gifts.”

Elfie laughed and shook her head. “Your boys know me too well. I did in fact bring them some stuff.”

“I think Marcus is right though,” Dan said casually. “I’m glad to have my best friend back.”

“Aww,” Elfie said, leaning against his shoulder. “You’ve got friends here though, right?”

“I have been getting to know Stan’s brother Ford,” Dan said slowly.

“Oh have you?” Elfie asked, an impish smile on her face.

“Not like that!” Dan said, swatting at her.

“He’s pretty cute, wouldn’t be surprised if you were,” Elfie said.

“I guess so,” Dan said with a shrug. “You must think Stan’s cute too then. They’re twins after all.”

“I mean…he’s not terrible looking,” Elfie said, pulling the asparagus out of the oven. Dan leveled her with a look, and Elfie sighed.

“Alright fine, he’s really hot. But! I’m still mad at him. So that docks him like, 100 hotness points.”

“You’ve always had a thing for the elderly,” Dan said.

“He’s not elderly!” Elfie said, slapping his shoulder. “He’s like, 65, max.”

“Which makes him over 30 years older than you,” Dan said.

“It’s not like I’m trying to date him,” Elfie said.

“Nah, you’d just be trying to fuck him,” Dan said, and Elfie almost dropped the plate of steak and asparagus that Dan had handed to her.

“You are so lucky your kids aren’t home,” Elfie said.

“Am I wrong?” he asked as they sat down at the dining table.

“I’m not answering that,” Elfie said, stabbing a piece of meat.

"That tells me all I need to know,” Dan said, leaning back in his chair. He handed Elfie a soda, and cracked open a can of beer for himself.

“Ooo, you splurged on the name brand stuff,” Elfie said, taking a drink.

“Anything for you, doll,” Dan said.

After dinner, Elfie walked to the spare bedroom and changed into her pajamas. Dan had been right, she had completely overreacted. But she couldn’t stand her friends being made fun of. She knew exactly how that went, and wasn’t going to stand for it. Right as she was about to turn the lamp off, her phone buzzed.

Hey emmy elf!

It was Melody.

Hey! What’s up?

She and Melody chatted about nothing for awhile. Just as Elfie was about to tell her she needed to get some shut eye, Melody sent a long message.

Look, I wanted to talk about earlier. Stan was out of line, but you kinda blew up at him. I think maybe it’d be better if we all just made friends and forgot about what he said. The town is really small, and there really isn’t a lot to do. You’re going to run into him at some point, and I don’t want any bad blood between you guys. Stan is like a father to Soos, and I think it’d be good if we were all friends.

Elfie sighed. Melody had a point.

Yeah okay, I won’t gouge his eyes out with rusty spoon, I promise.

She flipped her phone over and closed her eyes. This town was crazy, but hopefully she could learn to love it. Elfie dreamed of being captured by a giant minotaur who kept saying weird disrespectful things about women. Her dream continued, and Stan showed up to save the day. When Elfie woke up, she was slightly annoyed that the best part of the dream had been interrupted. Oh well. Sliding out of bed, she was about to grab her clothes and go take a shower when there was a knock on the door.

“Hold on!” Elfie said. She opened the door and saw Dan standing in the doorway.

"Someone’s here to see you,” he said with a big yawn.

“Is it Melody?” Elfie asked.

“Soos and…well you’ll see,” Dan said.

A feeling of dread washed over her, and Elfie walked to the front door. She flung it open to find Soos and Stan at the doorstep, both pointedly looking away from her.

Fuck.

She was wearing a tight tank top and mini shorts, both of which left little to the imagination. Slightly embarrassed, but willing to hold her ground, Elfie cleared her throat.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“Stan wanted to talk to you,” Soos said.

Stan was looking at the ground, seeming to regret his choice to come here.

“I just wanted to talk about yesterday,” Stan said. “But uh, maybe I should come back later.”

“Give me one second,” Elfie said, and quickly rushed back in to her house. She caught the words “…take her to the diner” right before she closed the door. Today was shaping up to be something interesting.

#gravity falls #stan pines #ford pines #dipper pines #mabel pines #oc x canon

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silverjetsystm · 1 year ago

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continued with @valkxrie from x.

Little quirks of a house build the longer one looks at Mission. Curtains wave where there is no draft. Lights brightening and returning to standard level when one walks by. Two red lights like eyes that blink. Mr. Knight takes his seat with his own mug, curling of his lips the only visible amusement to the reactions the haunted house he lives in brings.

He sips his hot chocolate and nods. The lights grow warmer, Mission pleased its guests are pleased. He's heard of Yule in passing. Yule logs, for example. "Winter holidays bring warmth to a time of the year when it is lacking." Chicago winters were not pleasant. Nor, he knew, was the land her people were once worshiped. "Twelve days? That sounds enjoyable. Busy merriment." You? He chuckles, not used to being grouped together with those who celebrate Christmas. Unless, the writer for Twelve Days was also Jewish. It had been known to happen.

Her gaze is as even as his own. He lowers his eyes, gloved hand against his cloth forehead. Opened himself up for the same question reflected back. "I am uncertain what Egyptians did long ago. I can refer you to my brother, Hunter's Moon, if you would like to know more on that front." He had grown comfortable calling his fellow Fist 'brother' in the past few months.

Leaning forward in his chair, he folded his hands in his lap, raising his eyes to hers once more. "I'm Jewish. Most of our holidays -- the new year, the day of repentance, and--" A pause, staring into the fire. Checking notes with Jake. Half of a nod. Returning to the current conversation, "A harvest festival -- occur in autumn."

Tone somewhere between recitation and pride, "In winter, we celebrate the victory over a long dead Greek tyrant by an outnumbered group of zealots. Our Temple was desecrated for other gods." There's a hint of pain, generational and personal. Yet, he smiles.

He has dim memories of watching the congregation's hanukkiahs, flames flickering, on the table. Him and Rand spinning dreidel. Lifetimes later, being dragged by the Thing to the Jewish heroes celebration.

"Later, the rabbis ascribe a miracle during the rededication of the Temple. According to them, there was enough oil to light the hanukkiah for one night. It lasted for eight. These nights, we light a hanukkiah for eight days and eat fried foods. Partake in gambling with a top. Some exchange gifts."

#valkxrie #mr k | glib guy in white #//experiencing the terror of reciprocation

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xsparklingravenx · 2 years ago

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daybreak

Title: daybreak

Fandom: Octopath Traveller II

Characters: Temenos, all Travellers, Crick

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,818

Summary: Temenos navigates grief once again, messily, but with friends at his side.

Major spoilers for Temenos’s Stormhail Chapter 3 Route.

AO3

In the gauzy light of a crackling flame, Temenos warmed his hands and tried to direct his thoughts to an avenue worth wasting his time on walking.

The others moved in his periphery; their routines a familiar comfort. Osvald, a worn book in his hands as he read by the low-light, Partitio none-too-subtly stealing glances over his shoulder. Throné and Hikari, both cleaning blades with meticulous care as Agnea danced her steps around them. Ochette, scarfing back food with Mahina while Castti chastised their manners. Nothing had changed. Everything was the same as it had been a night ago, two nights ago, three.

Only, it wasn’t. The sun had set on the memorial service and Temenos had walked away with a promise held in his heart, yet now the night was here and the space at his side felt emptier than ever before. Seven companions to his name, and loneliness still threatened to gnaw a hole inside his chest. Seven friends to share his loss with, and the hollow in his heart grew bigger with every passing beat.

They gave him a wide berth, not because they didn’t care, but because he had deliberately asked them to. He knew that they would come if he called out, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it. Agnea had already seen the cracks in his carefully crafted shields the morning she’d come to him and asked why his eyes were red. If those fissures were left unattended, he would break apart entirely.

So, he sat, staff laid across his lap and his mind darting between the evidence he’d obtained. The Book of Night, a scrap of paper held tightly in bloodied fingers, Kaldena. Temenos's hand tightened around the weapon at the thought of her, Crick’s mangled body in his mind’s eye. Aelfric be damned, what he wouldn’t give—

“Revenge is a dangerous game,” Osvald said, not looking up from his book. “Play the board too long, and you’ll find yourself a different man than before.”

Temenos glanced his way, a wry smile dancing at his lips. Anger broiled on his tongue. “And aren’t you a fine one to be speaking of revenge, my dear Professor?”

The camp fell silent around them, every activity grinding to a sudden halt. Osvald cleared his throat, his hand stilling on the page he’d been about to turn. “I’d say I have more authority than most on the matter.”

“Would you, now? Then pray tell, what kind of man would I be, Professor? I’d love to know.”

He was being unfair, and he knew it. His bark had always been worse than his bite; fighting truly was not his forte. Throné let out a soft whistle in the silence that followed, while Partitio hopped up from the log he’d been occupying, coat rustling with the movement. “Now, now, hold your horses there, both of you! Ain’t nothin’ to be gained from a brush now, you hear?”

Osvald, never one to say more than was necessary, needed no further warning. Temenos let go of his staff and pressed his fingers to his temple. “Well said, Partitio. I think I will retire then. Do enjoy your evenings my friends.”

He stood, gathering his things, straightening his robes. In the morning they would carry on, forget this happened, take on the next issue at hand. Ochette had a lead near here too, didn’t she? Out here in the Flame-forsaken snow there was still something to do, and yet they weren’t staying at Stormhail’s inn. Instead, they were out in the open at Temenos’s insistence.

To save our leaves, he’d told them, but they’d all agreed too readily, hadn’t even put up a fight despite the extreme weather. Partito could haggle with anything so long as it had a pulse, and they all knew it. Money was no question. It was Temenos’s conscience that was the problem, how he couldn’t return to the room he’d slept in while Crick was beaten to death only a few streets over.

What had his final words been? Had he called out for someone to help him? Had he fought back? Temenos would never know, and it was that which haunted him most.

“Wait,” Castti’s voice drifted on the wind as he turned his back. “Temenos, don’t do this.”

“Sleep?” he returned. “Why, Castti, I thought you were our biggest advocate for a good night’s rest!”

“No. Withdraw. Grow thorns.” Castti stood, hands fisted in the blue fabric of her uniform dress. “You are hurting, I know, but there is no simple fix for it. I cannot make a salve for this wound, nor can I concoct a vulnerary. I can only offer you my heart or my ear, but I fear you won’t take either. Not when you’re so set on turning your head away.”

How easy it would be to snap back, to drive a wedge between them, to argue that the apothecary knew nothing because her memories were as thin as Temenos’s own faith. But there was no argument to be had, because she was right. He was already balancing so many wounds; the Pontiff still raw and bleeding. Roi was a scar he still scratched at constantly. How was he meant to just add Crick’s death to his growing body of injuries and accept that when it was Temenos's fault that Crick had walked the road that had led to his murder?

“We liked him too,” Ochette piped up, her eyes a little shiny in the glow of the flame, ears flickering when the bitter wind touched them. “I liked giving him jerky. I was gonna give him more, next time…”

“Next time,” Hikari mused quietly. “I, too, had thought of it. His bladework was incredible. I wanted to spar with him, to learn it.”

“Next time,” Throné echoed, her eyes flicking to her blade. “Haven’t we all said that at one time or another, only to realise that it won’t ever come to be?”

Next time. Temenos’s eyes were uncomfortably hot, irritated, like he’d caught sand in them. What had been in his plans, next time? To share the evidence, to tease and laugh and joke, to call out wayward lamb, to see the end of this mystery together. Why hadn’t he doubted that? When it was all he did, why hadn’t he ever considered that there would never be a next time?

A hand touched his. Agnea had crossed the camp while he’d been caught in his thoughts, her delicate fingers cold as she intertwined them with hers. “I’m just—just a dancer,” she said, voice wavering, uncertain as her careful accent slipped. “I don’t know much about death or revenge or anythin’, but I do know that when Mama died, it was the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. It won’t do to keep all that hurt inside. So…stay a little while. Even if you’re angry, or sad. Even if it hurts so much that all you can do is shout.”

Her eyes were earnest, bright and bold. He opened his mouth to speak, but found the words would not come. What did he want to say, when he could no longer hide behind his jests and barbs? What-ifs danced in their place. What if they’d never met that day in Flamechurch, what if Temenos had just left him be? What if he’d been kinder when Crick’s faith had been shaken, what if they’d gone down into that library together?

“He wanted to protect me,” Temenos said, a little anger leaking into his tone. “I told him—I said I had no need of it, yet still he came running like the fool lamb he is. He should have stayed behind me. He should have let me take charge. He put his faith in me above his god, and now I’m left in his debt.”

“One that you swore you’re gonna repay,” Partitio reminded him. “I ain’t gonna pretend I know what he was thinkin’, but I do know he was a good guy. I’d barter he’d be happy with that, no matter what.”

Agnea took him back to where he’d sat before, gently taking his staff from him as he took his place again at the fire. Osvald looked him in the eye this time. “I won’t promise you this will get better,” he said. “I know from experience it will not. If revenge is the path you want to take, know I will follow you and help you exact your vengeance—just as I know you will help me with mine.”

“And if you need someone to do it for you,” Throné said, wearing a small smile, “well, I’m not exactly free yet. My dagger can still be hired—for a price.”

“You know you have my sword,” Hikari added.

Ochette waved her hands. “Me and Mahina too!”

“A fine group,” Castti nodded. “And I will be there to tend to your wounds afterwards—if my axe is not the bloodiest of the lot. Now, if we’re all in agreement that we will be awake for a little longer, I’ll get to cooking dinner. I do think Ochette caught a wonderful haul earlier, even if she did eat much of it on her own…”

“Aw, c’mon Ma, nagging me again?”

Temenos watched as Castti shot Ochette a withering look before retrieving her cooking utensils. The others returned to their tasks, the uncomfortable tension that had settled over the camp dissipating. Quietly, he wished he’d had the foresight to ask Crick to join them, even if he knew that the answer would have never been yes. He was a Godsblade, newly anointed, but one all the same. His duty came before all else. Temenos would never have convinced him.

No matter how much love he had in his heart for the man he called a friend, no matter how many what-ifs he entertained, it would never change that fact. There would never have been nine of them, despite how he desired it.

Everyone left. It was the lesson he’d learned the day Roi walked out the door to never return, and time only seemed determined to reinforce it—but it couldn’t be a reason to distance himself. These people had reached out to him. It was all he could do to reach back.

So he lowered his head and said, softly, “Thank you.”

The food, when it arrived, was warm and hearty and delicately spiced. Partitio heaved another helping from his own plate onto Temenos’s, while Ochette doled out extras from her personal stash of meat. It was not a night spent with laughter, but it was a night spent with friends, the best of the worst situation. When the sun rose again, it would still be a world wherein someone important was lost—but it would rise nonetheless.

With or without his loved ones, it always did.

#Octopath Traveller II #Octopath 2 #temenos mistral #octopath temenos #crick #My Writing #Spoilers

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annwayne · 2 years ago

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The Red Logs: Return to the Temple Ch. 14

Last Chapter <- -> Next Chapter

Fem!OC X Crosshair

Word Count: 2070

Fic Summary:

There are benefits to owning a clone bar. Underworld lords don’t threaten you to pay for protection. Clones are great company. And the drinks taste great. However, there are also risks to owning a clone bar. Like, for example, becoming the fuck buddy of a special clone task force member so your life gets threatened when a Separatist puts out a bounty for your capture in order to use you as blackmail. Also your sleep schedule gets wrecked. But Anya Tougt is a little more capable than an average bar owner.

Ao3 Link Here

Warnings apply to whole fic:

Canon typical violence, descriptions of panic attacks, alcohol, swearing, 18+ themes (eventual smut), trauma, religious trauma parallels, mild gore

Authors Note:

I’ve been big depressed and struggling a lot, but managed to get a chapter done, so a chapter is posted. If ya like it give it a reblog and like.

26 BBY. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anakin smile so much in one day. He was thrilled to hear about his mother. She had me deliver a holorecording to him. Other Jedi would deny her request. Anakin was incredibly thankful. Obi-Wan was not pleased.

“When?”

My helmet laid between my feet as Tech applied a bacta patch to my forehead. I hissed in a breath as the sting grew stronger with each application of cleaning and healing supplies. Apparently I was pretty banged up. Might even end up with a scar or two. Wonder what kind of story I’ll make up for them.

“When I knew about Anya Tougt, the bar owner my brother had been seeing or when I knew Annie the padawan was Anya Tougt?” Tech’s cadence felt taunting, but I’d heard enough from Crosshair to know that was rarely the case.

“Both, let’s start with both.” My eyes met his and we lingered. A mixture of exhaustion and frustration met softness in Tech’s expression.

He sighed, then dropped his gaze back towards the limited medical supplies sitting beside him and pulled out a needle and some sutures. “Before, before he met you I mean, Crosshair would go off on his own during leave but he never spent the night out.” He paused, looking up at me, then gestured for me to lift my arm. I obliged. “As I am sure you know, Anya, clones talk.” Now that he had some slack, Tech pulled my Jedi robes loose to reveal my injured shoulder. “It didn’t take long to find out your identity and your penchant for clones.”

My scowl told him to move on.

“But I did not know you were a Jedi, are a Jedi?” The clone shook his head before continuing. “Your public records started only a few years ago, but that is not odd on Coruscant. Even less so for someone living in the lower levels.” Calloused fingers delicately stitched my shoulder back together. “Annie was nowhere to be found in the Jedi Archives, however.”

I shot him a surprised look. “Those aren’t public records, Tech.”

“No, they are not.” He didn’t even look up from his work. “Only after I saw your reaction to the message I showed you on The Negotiator did I think of checking the records for Anya.”

“Lyn.” My breath carried her name.

“Yes, she was the first clue.”

First clue? My eyes narrowed. “You knew. When you came to talk to me that night, you knew I was Anya Tougt. You knew why there was a bounty on me.” Betrayal laced my words as guilt stirred in my chest.

Tech took in a deep breath, then set down the needle he had been using to sew up the deep cuts that snaked down my shoulder- almost like a doll hinge. “I only had my guess.” There was no malice in his words. No intent of harm. “Confronting you was the only way to prove or deny my hypothesis.”

That spark of anger cooled into annoyance. “I understand.” Hesitation lingered in the silence. Tech helped pull my robes back up-as best we could due to my limited mobility. Then he spoke.

“What I said, that was real, Anya.” Brown eyes met mine as Tech leaned into view. “I am sorry your trust was betrayed.” A small chuckle left his lips, and his eyes lit up. “Though, I’m not sorry it led to meeting you. I see why Crosshair became so fond of you.”

A choked laugh left me as I felt that familiar sting of tears pull at my eyes. This moment alone with Tech, drifting through the vast empty space, felt so similar to the quiet conversations I shared with Qui-Gon. “Meeting Crosshair’s brothers was a highlight.” Laughter turned into sobs. Not tragic sobs, but relieved ones.

Someone knew me.

We laughed, mine accompanied with tears, and Tech opened his arms, letting me lean into his careful half hug. We stayed like that for a moment, just long enough for the high of my emotions to level out. Then he moved back, picking up my cracked helmet, and handed it to me.

“You’ll need a new one.” He said with a smile.

After I wiped whatever tears were still left on my face into my cheeks, I pulled the helmet back on. Luckily it would still suffice as a means of concealing my identity. “No, there’s no way Obi-Wan will ever let me go on missions again.” My assurance did not hide my disappointment.

Tech closed up his med kit and put it back into the pack he usually carried. “You are not part of the Jedi Order, correct?”

“Yeah.” His expression was difficult to make out through the crack running down my viewfinder. But I caught a hint of a sneaky smile.

“That means you are a civilian,” Tech continued. “Which means you could officially apply to be a civilian consultant for Clone Force 99.” My gaze lifted. “There aren’t many in the GAR, but the position will not be difficult for you to obtain. Especially with my recommendation.”

The information froze me. I could keep going on missions with the squad? “Wait, really?” Then a slew of doubts flooded my thoughts. “Do you even want that? I mean,” My gaze dropped to my hands. Death and disaster seemed to always find me, no matter how far I ran. “I’d be more of a burden than help.” There was more I wanted to say. More to point out why this was a bad idea. But every thought slipped away before I could catch it.

“I know what I want, Anya, but do you?” Our eyes locked.

Then rattling came.

“Tech, The Negotiator just arrived.” Hunter’s voice filled the small pod. “They’re pulling us in now, we’ll meet you two in the Hangar.”

“Finally! We’ve been drifting fo-” Wreckers celebration was cut short when Hunter closed the comm.

Right as the Marauder detached from the Separatist command ship, an explosion caused the attack shuttle to lose basic flight controls, leaving them stuck floating in the debris ridden space just like us. Luckily everyone was okay, enough at least, but the wait had been longer than expected.

“Copy.” Tech answered and closed his comm, then glanced my way.

I sat in a bath, a normal bath, and replayed the messy dreams that filled my mind while I was healing. Technically, bacta isn’t the reason for those dreams–something about the medically induced sleep messing with the REM cycle–but it was a common enough phenomenon for the bacta in the bath to be blamed.

Flashing lights. Blaring alarms. Vekek’s tiny body atop Tech’s. My lightsaber, heavy and cold in my hands. Blue cutting through flesh. Life going limp. The dreams were clearer than the memories. She didn’t even make a sound.

No. I sunk deeper into the floral scented bath water. There was no other option. Vekek had to die.

My attention turned to my nose. Bacta smells horrible, like something sterile. So I scrubbed at my skin to try and rid myself of the scent. Even though the bacta bath had healed my wounds, I was incredibly sore. Every movement made my joints creak like a rusty droid. My gaze caught one of the new scars. It was thick and jagged, crawling over my shoulder and back–but I couldn’t see that part without a mirror. There was another at the base of my skull. I could feel the tough skin wind up my skull and past my hairline. At least they were pale, scarring lighter than my actual skin tone. Maybe no one would notice them.

A sigh left my lips. The scars didn’t upset me. It was what followed the scars that I dreaded. The questions. The lying. “I’ve done it for years.” My voice echoed back to me in the small square room. It didn’t sound convincing. I looked at my hands, fingertips all pruny from how long I’ve sat in the hot water.

Finally, I lifted myself from the silky water, the oils clinging to my heat-reddened skin as I stepped out of the rectangle bath. While drying myself off, my reflection caught my eye. I lifted up my hair, checking how deep the scar went. About five centimeters. The bald patch felt odd. A frown looked back at me. Without another second to think myself out of it, I dug through the small cabinets and found a black rectangle in Obi-Wan’s things. The razor buzzed loudly as I shaved the bottom quarter of my hair off–enough to make the bald patch look intentional.

A few minutes later I exited the refresher dressed in a fresh set of Jedi robes and with my remaining hair braided down. Obi-Wan sat casually on the single sofa in the small room, only glancing up to see me putting on my armor.

“Actually, you’ll find a gift in that bag there.” His head tilted behind me.

Unzipping the bag revealed clone armor, but it was different from standard armor. I could already feel how light the boots felt compared to what I had been wearing. The colors were different too. This plastoid was decorated with red accents and designs. As I clicked the pieces in place I noticed they fit much better than my previous set.

“How did-?”

I turned to ask Obi-Wan who shook his head in answer.

“Hmm..” Finally I held my helmet; a smaller and sleeker one than the clone design. Red stripes cut diagonal through the helmet's visor. “The batch made this, but why?”

With a sigh, Kenobi put down his datapad and looked up at me. “Yes. They made you armor.”

“That sounds like the beginning of a lecture.”

Obi-Wan squirmed. Which meant he stood and walked around the sofa. “Tech left you this.” He produced a thin data pad addressed to me.

“What?” My brow furrowed and I snatched the thin datapad from Obi-Wan’s hands. “The civilian consultant form, with his recommendation.” A small smile grew as I read the review. He had done all this?

“I can’t say I approve of this, Annie.” Kenobi’s words wiped the smile off my lips.

I pulled on my helmet, hoping to hide the emotions running across my face. “Well… It’s a good thing I don’t need your approval.” The words tasted bitter, like disappointment.

He turned back to me again, pacing along the length of the couch. “I thought you wanted to live a civilian life. To leave behind the ways of the Jedi and disconnect from the force. How can you do that when you’re pretending to be my padawan?”

“Call me a knight then.”

“Anya!” Obi-Wan broke his pacing to face me.

“Do I need to remind you that the council is the reason I’m here? They dragged me out of my life, my normal, non-Jedi life, for a bounty!?” A rip in my throat made my words crack. “And now suddenly you think I can go back, as if everything's the same?!”

A nasty crease pulled Obi-Wan’s face down. He glanced left and right before landing back on me. “You aren’t made for war.”

“Neither are children.” It was a low jab, and the hitch in his breath agreed.

Obi-Wan remained silent. We stood, staring. Pounding in my chest squeezed my fists. After a pause I thought would never end, he spoke. “Anya.” His gaze dropped from my visor. “You killed someone.”

Finally.

My jaw clenched. “To protect Tech. It wasn’t out of hate, if that’s what you're worried about.” I looked away from him. It didn’t help the hurt in my chest. “You have done the exact same.”

“Out of hate or not,” Obi-Wan approached me, that stern master’s look knitted into his face. Then he reached forward and I realized I’d been backing away. “You haven’t taken a life since Tali-”

I caught his extended hand, stopping his lips in an instant, and met his eyes.

Too many words rushed forward.

My jaw clenched.

His eyes softened.

“You don’t know that.” The hiss came out vile.

Those eyes hardened.

Before he could get another word in, I ripped my hand from him and headed to the door. Something paused me and squeezed a mumble from my lips. “You’re not Qui-Gon and you’re not Tali, so stop trying to be.” And then I stepped out, into the wide halls of The Negotiator.

Authors end chapter notes:

What do you think Tech wants when he says "I know what I want" What do you think he feels about Anya? Do you think Anya's killed someone else after leaving the order? Why do you think Anya and Obi-Wan keep getting into arguments? Let me know your thoughts if you have any! Thanks for reading :D

Dividers by Djarrex

#The Red Logs: Return to the Temple #oc x crosshair #crosshair x oc #tbb fic #the clone wars fic #star wars fic #star wars the clone wars fanfic #tbb crosshair #tbb crosshair x oc #fem!oc #star wars oc #star wars the clone wars #sw the clone wars #the bad batch #tbb #multichapter fic #long fic

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ghostathan · 2 years ago

Text

Dream of Farewell

Chauncey the Bosmer, "Hero of Kvatch", dreams of an inescapable end. In the late hours, he has a fireside chat about fate with the last living Septim. Not so vague spoilers for Oblivion's Main quest.

The sound of crumbling pillars. The smell of filth, blood and sulfur. The red and gray sky crackling with lightning. The alabaster pillars and latticed windows of the Temple of One lie shattered and ruined, lying in a near perfect circle surrounding you. And in the center of it all, Martin Septim. Wearing the robes of his fathers. The same robes you witnessed fill with the blood of Uriel. Did he know? That he wore the garment of the doomed? That his face had the same grim, stalwart, yet gentle expression his father wore as he apologized to you? You feel the sickening pool in your stomach as you remember the sound of the knife sink repeatedly into flesh. You could swear that same knife was in his hands, ready to slit his own throat like a sacrificial Bull. "Farewell, my friend."

Chauncey awoke with his heart pounding in his elongated ears. Wide eyes stared into pitch black as he slowly returned to reality. If only so he could remember how to breath normally. In- then out. Slowly. Deliberately. He felt his heart return to its normal position between his lungs. Quieter. Beneath him, he felt the cold of the stone tiles seep through his bear pelt. He recalled, with difficulty, that he was in Cloud Ruler Temple. Not wanting to take his horse back down the mountain in the dead of night, he opted to stay in the great hall, near the roaring fire. The fire was out now. There wasn’t even the scent of burning wood to hint that it was ever alive. It was cold, and Chauncey was alone. He lay there for a while to ruminate on what he had seen. The ruined temple, the smell of oblivion, and his friend about to commit an act he didn’t think he could escape from. His friend. When did he start to think of Martin like that? When Chauncey had met the priest, he didn’t think anything of him. Other than he might be the only person unluckier than him. At least Chauncey had always known who his father was. Chauncey wasn't expected to save the world, and then run an empire. He remembered when they first came to Cloud Ruler. Blades in rank, cheering for the Emperor-to-be. Who only that morning was one of the peasantry. Chauncey remembers seeing Martin's shoulders tense sheepishly at the attention. His voice trying not to shake as he tried to address them all with an impromptu speech. So different from the Martin he saw in his dream. Martin addressed him as a friend in his dream as well, with such finality. Not like how Martin usually said it. With a kind smile and well wishes for whatever new mission Jauffre requested of Chauncey. It may had just been a turn of phrase, just the way Martin speaks. Some dialect from somewhere in Cyrodill. But the way he said it had such a weight of sincerity that Chauncey could never help himself from returning such a warm smile. Martin says goodbye as if the world was different. As if Chauncey was off to do anything besides run head first into a Daedric cult. As if Martin's newly discovered birthright didn’t put them in two entirely different stations in life.

Chauncey suddenly became very aware of how cold and quiet the temple was, save for the roaring of mountain winds and the distant footsteps of steel on stone from patrolling Blades. He sat up, carefully trying to keep himself wrapped in his animal hides, and made his way to the pile of logs near the icy fireplace. Without much ritual, he tossed a couple of logs into the wall's crevice and quickly set it burning with a small amount of fire magic. The resulting fire wasn’t very large, and the wood only started to catch, but it at least gave off some warmth and emanated a bit of life with its pops and flickering movements.

Chauncey started to readjust his cocoon to lie back down when one of the side doors opened. He didn’t look to see until he heard not the sound of steel, but soft slippers and the shift of fabric. It was Martin, of course. Wrapped in a warm, expensive looking dressing robe, he pulled it tighter and shifted uncomfortably. As if he was embarrassed to be seen with it. VERY unlike the dream. Martin shifted awkwardly, not looking at the Bosmer sitting near the ever growing fire. Chauncey wondered if he was waiting for some kind of invitation in. Silly. Hasn't the man realized that everything here is his? "You're gonna get cold if you just stand around there." Chauncey yawned. Hoping that if he faked his own apathy, Martin would feel more at ease. "Close the door and get in." "Ah. Right," Martin said. He quickly and quietly closed to door, but seemed to take his time in coming near Chauncey. He glanced back and forth between his usual bench with his books and Chauncey. Chauncey scooted from his place to give Martin the space to get to his bench, but Martin surprised him by kneeling next to him. Martin grunted appropriately like the middle-aged man he was as he started to shift to a more comfortable position. Chauncey started, "No, it's cold down here! Sit on one of the chairs or get a cushion or something!" "You're sitting down here," Martin countered. "It's fine for me because I’m an adventuring Bosmer. I live for sitting in places I shouldn’t." Chauncey counter-countered, over dramatically. Martin raised his eyebrows, smirking. "Well, I am a priest. I wouldn’t have made it this far in my career if I couldn’t handle kneeling on a stone floor."

The adventuring Bosmer raised a hand in surrender and sighed, "Okay. Yeah. Fine. Grace me with your regal presence upon thine bare-ass tiles, your Highness." Martin chuckled as he finally settled down. For a few moments, they watched the fire in silence. The smell of burning sap and oak, along with its warmth filled the space between them. If Martin was uncomfortable, he didn't give a hint of it. The dull orange light illuminated his face. Not quite as aged and weary as Uriel's, but the resemblance was impossible to miss. While Chauncey knew that his own context made it obvious to him, he had to give credit to the Blades for keeping Martin's existence hidden in plain sight for so long. Martin, smile faded, caught Chauncey's staring out the corner of his eye. "Looking for the Emperor in me?" Chauncey blustered, "Hm? Oh. Not really…" He paused. "It's… I'm sure the others told you, but you-" Chauncey pondered again. He was sure Martin didn't really want to hear it but, "You look like him. In the face." He tensed for a reaction from Martin. Chauncey really didn't want to make him feel more pressure, but keeping his thoughts from Martin felt wrong. The man just found out not long ago that his entire life was a government operation. He certainly didn’t need more secrets. "What did you think of him?" Martin finally asked. "I know you were there when he was killed, but what about before?" Chauncey hummed in thought. "Did they tell you I was imprisoned when we met?" At this, Martin fully turned his head from the fire to fully face Chauncey. "Imprisoned? That's hard to believe!" Chauncey felt a little offended at that. Sure, his crime was only tax evasion, but still. "Well I was. I wasn't really much of anything back then. Even now I'm still not sure of what I'm doing here." Chauncey laughed, nervously. He checked Martin's expression. "Does that bother you?" "No, not at all. In fact I might have something in common with you. About not knowing what I'm doing." "Not imprisonment?" Martin's eyes narrowed before answering, not cruelly, "I think I'll just let you imagine that aspect." Before Chauncey could reply to that, Martin quickly added, "Back to Uriel, We were side tracked." "Oh, right! Well- hm," After a minute or two of silence, Chauncey answered, "To be honest, I wasn't really paying that much attention to him at the moment we met. He said something about seeing me in some kind of dream and asked me about the Gods and fate. He didn't seem like a crazed zealot or anything. It was just all very jarring." Chauncey continued. "Actually, I'm a little grateful for him, I guess? If he didn't allow me to follow him out of the passage, his guards would have killed me. Not that i had much choice. But also…" Chauncey felt his chest fill with something sour and hot. He wasn't sure if he should continue. "But also?" Martin urged. His voice didn’t carry any impatience or irritation. It must have been his years as a priest that trained him to sound so sincere. To give one the space to be heard. Chauncey debated with himself on whether to trust Martin with the growing wave of resentment inside of him. He remembered his dream. Those terrible robes and the same expression. Martin’s face now didn’t carry any of that. Only concern, apprehension, and a kindness one looks at a wounded animal with. The dam was lifted. "…He-he just made me mad. He just! The whole time, he just seemed to accept his 'fate' so readily. I mean, he fought off his attackers as best as he could but… Isn't that just insulting to everyone? If that were the case, then why try at anything? Why try to make yourself different or have dreams or goals if you couldn’t escape what's ahead? Why make us do this song and dance when we all end up following some God's plan? Can't we fight any of it?" Chauncey knew he was venting. He knew he was rambling but his face was getting hot and eyes stung. He turned away and tried to discreetly wipe his tears on his pelt. "I'm. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that." "No, my friend," he heard Martin say. He felt Martin's hand rest on his shoulder. Chauncey fought off the urge to shake his hand off. Martin only wanted to help, but it just made Chauncey feel guiltier. Martin already had so much to deal with. He didn't need to have to comfort him in the dead of night, too. But Martin continued. "You're right to be angry. I felt much the same at Kvatch."

Oh no. Kvatch. The sky and the smell and the screams. He had completely forgotten. "Oh, Gods. Martin, I'm so sorry." Chauncey's voice shook too, and he hated it. "I.. I didn't help at all. I just grabbed you and left! They asked me to help drive the Daedra back and I ran! I just wanted to put it all behind me!" "I know, friend. No one blames you for that."

"You must. You have to." "I don't. And you're wrong. You did help. You single handedly closed the gate and made a path for the rest of the survivors to evacuate. Don't you realize what an incredible feat that was?" Martin gently pulled the younger man's arm to face him. "You rescued us. You saved me. For that alone, I owe you everything."

Chauncey still wouldn’t look at him. He knew Martin was right, and he knew he wasn't lying. Martin meant every word he said. Chauncey had no room to argue anything. Just nod. He still believed he should have done more, but he didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. Apparently it wasn't enough for Martin. He went on to say, "You may or may not believe me when I say this but, I'm happy you said what you had. I was trying to say I feel much the same way. About Uriel. About the Gods. About Kvatch, too." Chauncey finally met his face, though Martin's gaze was internal. "I was useless in Kvatch. I couldn't even continue my duty as a priest to lead anyone in prayer. I was so full of anger and doubt that the Gods had any such plan that was in our best interest. I wanted to leave as soon as I could. Whether you were lying or not, you had a way out for me and I took it." He added, finally looking at Chauncey with a sheepish smile. "If anything, I would say that we were the same. It sounds like Uriel brought us both into the world by pure chance, giving us some sort of destiny and abandoned us both." Chauncey had to laugh at that. "Wow, both of us, royal bastards. Imagine!" Martin laughed at that too. The conversation died off, resting until Chauncey asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

"Oh, probably midnight. Its too cold and foggy outside to check." "You sure you're not uncomfortable down here?" "Actually, you were right. It's miserable on the floor. Even with the fire."

"I told you!" "Yes, yes," Martin exasperated. He grabbed the edge of the table behind them and hoisted himself up. Chauncey watch him stretch and rub feeling back into his legs before seating himself on the bench. "We really should acquire a spare bed for you. It's a shame for you to sleep out here." "Trust me, I'm not making this a habit. I'll just get a room in Bruma next time." Martin pondered the elf below him, arms and elbows propping his face on the table. "… But then who else can I bitch to in the middle of the night about our fates?" Chauncey gasped in mock surprise. "Brother Martin! A swear?" "Oh, I can swear. In fact, I probably know a couple that you've never heard of." "I bet you don't." "You'll just have to visit more often if you want to find out," Martin smirked.

"If you can get the Empire's Spies to hoist a bed all the way up the mountain, then perhaps I could." "I could probably arrange something. As it turns out, I do have *some* influence around here." Martin reached for one of his books and absentmindedly flipped it open. Chauncey decided sitting floor made conversation too difficult and joined him on the table. He sat opposite martin, loosening his pelt a little. "Which book is that?" Martin closed the book half way to read its spine. "Modern Heretics by Haderus of Gottlesfont. Hopefully, it would give us a lead on a potential Daedric Artifact." "Is it interesting?" "Not especially," Martin frowned. "Anyone who has any interest in Daedric Cults already knows half the information here. It's mostly expositional fluff."

Chauncey yawned. "Then don't read it. Pick something else." "It's not like I'm reading them for entertainment." "Why shouldn't you?" Chauncey regarded him, head in his hand. "No one actually expects you to be working on anything right now. You should be resting, anyway." He scanned the table for whatever books were around. A well worn, not terribly thick tome caught his eye. He picked it up and handed it to Martin. "Here. Try this one instead."

Martin took the book, doubtfully. "Glories and Laments? It does have more impressive, descriptive text, but I don't really have much reason to read it." Chauncey's mind was getting fuzzy. His tired brain allowed the next words to exit his mouth. "How about you read it to me, then? I've never heard of it." "Oh! Really? If you haven't heard of it until now, it's very good. But you want me to read to you?" Martin sounded unsure again. "Only if you want to, of course. If not, I'll just go back to sleep. I'll read that Heretics book in the morning." Martin glanced between Chauncey and the book in his own hands. It didn’t take long for him to decide, "Alright. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try. And you sound like you'll be sleeping anyway." "Huzzah!" cheered Chauncey, sleepily. Martin was right. It was a good one. Chauncey was soon transported to the cavernous, vine covered ruins of Ceyatatar. Martin's voice, despite his doubts, carried the words with crystal clarity. Like a shallow stream. It wasn’t long before Chauncey drifted off into a dreamless sleep. His nightmare tucked away in the recesses of his mind. His resolve re-forged. Whatever happened, Martin was unquestionably his friend. And he would make sure that wherever their fates took them, he would do anything to protect him.

#tes: oblivion #martin septim #HoK: Chauncey #I haven't published fanfic in so long #hi fandom i just moved in #as in just finished the main quest a few days ago #This is basically my confession that im reloading my save and going to avoid the ending for as long as possible

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sins-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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Ruixiong Saves Christmas (Final)

"Did we miss anyone, Captain?"

"I don't think so. If there were any, I'm certain we'll get a reminder somehow. And the world is enormous. We cannot realistically gift everyone, no matter what they say about this Santa Claus."

"Did... I make a good Santa?"

"Oh, Ruixiong. I don't know anything about Santa Claus. But I can certainly say you brought cheer in your own terms. I'm certain the Buddha would be happy to know someone has taken his doctrine and made it his own."

"'The greatest gift is the act of giving itself'."

"You got it. I am very proud of you, Ruixiong. Now let's go home and-

"......Guy?"

Guy stands before Captain Frascaona and Ruixiong with a little log in his arms, the log given a little painted face and hand-sewn barretina. Given the way the face was painted, it was clearly crafted by Guy himself. "I'm sorry I destroyed the Tio de Nadal then vanished without an explanation, Captain. Merry Christmas."

Neither Frascona nor Ruixiong, however, cared for the little handcrafted Caga Tio... because the first things they noticed were the bruises on Guy's face and neck. And the stark snowy white of his once deep red hair. "Oh, my God, Guy!!"

"Guy!! What happened to you?! What happened to your hair! Why did you- ... this isn't powder!! What's going on?!"

"I... just had a little accident. It’s just some stress. Here. This is my Christmas gift to you. Thank you for being kind to me. I'll remember this all eternity."

"Guy!! Why are you talking like that?! Please! I just wanted us to have a good holiday! You're my sworn brother and we love you! I love you! And no matter how much we fight or argue or whatever stupid shit we go through, no matter the jokes and insults we fling at each other and how much it hurt, I want you to know you’re my forever brother and I still stand by the oath we all swore under the Peach Tree! I won’t ever abandon you! Please don’t forget that!"

Guy was left speechless. ".........................."

"...........Guy."

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I cannot return home yet. I need some time to myself. Send my apologies to my brother. I'm certain he wants to keep that stress-free holiday like he always wanted."

"............................"

"Guy......" The Captain moves in not just to embrace Guy closely, but also to plant a familial kiss on the temple of his forehead. The upper left corner, whole, unhurt. "There is nothing to apologize for. All I ever ask from you...."

".................."

".....Is.... please. Please.... when you are ready.... come home."

"....Goodbye, Captain. Goodbye, Sworn Brother. Merry Christmas. And Happy Hanakuh." Without another word, Guy departs.

#[Ruixiong Saves Christmas?]#IT'S OVERRRRRRR #there is still the Guy/Phoebus story tho!#[My Brother's Keeper]#time to answer some Asks on my end!#[Wang Ruixiong]#[Captain Josep Frascona]#[Guy Duchamp]

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dukeofdogs · 2 years ago

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Eltibald

Chest: “The day will come when the Black Sun will rise and darkness will cover the earth. And she that was, and is not, shall come from the East on a scarlet beast, and sixty women with golden crowns shall go before her, and shall fill the valleys of the rivers with blood. Their cruelty shall be without measure, and their wickedness shall be unrivaled. And the crying and wailing of the dying will be carried around the world until the darkest hour comes, the hour of the destruction of everything that lives, thoughts and feels. And afterthat a new dawn will come, red as the blood of an animal and just as hot, and in deathly silence the one who came out of the abyss will ascend to the throne, and on her forehead a whorish name is written - Lilit.” - Master Eltibald, Black Sun Prophecy

Scroll 1: Eltibald touched his temples with his fingertips and closed his eyelids. He could feel the rhythmic pulsation of blood under his thin skin that was as dry as parchment. The interrogation lasted unexpectedly long and did not bring any results, and the weeping moans of Princess Bernika gave him a headache. The logs in the hearth had long since turned to ash, which caused a severe chill in the highest chamber of the tower. The servants had been ordered to stay away, but after all, Eltibald was a wizard. With just the wave of his hand the fire would burn again. But Eltibald was also very, very tired. Worse still, he was beginning to have doubts.

Scroll 2: Princess Bernika, like all the girls selected for the research, was born shortly after the solar eclipse. She was a plump, sluggish, and spoiled brat who could not be made happy with any number of satin coats, cream puffs or piebald ponies. Her princely parents had two more daughters, so they were relieved by the news about the Curse of the Black Sun, which supposedly affected their firstborn, and eagerly handed over Bernika to Eltibald. In particular, recently the girl surpassed herself: the embroidery teacher even complained that the Princess, scolded for her lack of enthusiasm, stuck a needle under the teacher’s fingernail. According to the Council of Wizards, such behavior was inevitable proof of mutation and required final intervention for the sake of the lesser evil. According to Eltibald, it would be enough to beat the girl’s butt with a wet rod and see if it swells evenly.

Scroll 3: How many months has he already spent knocking on the gates of all the castles, palaces and manors? How many girls has he forced to confess their pathetic offenses amidst screams and tears? And how many of them have proved to be really worthwhile from a scientific point of view? The Council of Wizards ignored Eltibald’s requests to return to his books and to further explore bobolak legends, from which, he believed, he would be able to learn more about the Curse of the Black Sun than from the subsequent more or less fruitful dissections and vivisections of allegedly affected noblewomen. And though he shuddered to abandon his commitment, he was beginning to understand that he was wasting his time.

Scroll 4: Eltibald reluctantly opened his eyes and gazed out the window at the snow-dusted Talgarian landscape. The view from the tower was not disturbed by a single plume of smoke from the human settlement. Not single gallows. Not a single rotten signpost. The wizard shifted his weary gaze to Bernika’s twisted face. He did not see in her fear or hatred, only the mindless resistance of an animal being led to slaughter. If he had noticed at least a spark of cunning in the cow’s eyes of the princess - he would have hesitated. Eltibald rose from his seat and left the chamber, locking the door behind him. In a slow pace, he walked down the steps on his way out of the prison, clutching the iron key in his clenched fist. When he got outside, he opened his hand. His hand was empty.

#gwent: lore #gwent: assets #eltibald

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smol-feralgremlin · 1 year ago

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HI FERAL TRICK OR TREAT TIME 🎃

HI ANDI!

You get...

A treat!!

A scene of Aldon, Sylpha, Cal, and Valda playing around.

Aldon looked down at the small cloth ball in his hand before peering over the old oak log Cal had pulled him behind. "Explain this to me again?"

Cal hummed shortly and Aldon glanced over to see him loosening the thread holding the ball together. Aldon snapped his head around at the slight rustle in the dead leaves around them, trying to catch a scent or glimpse of their respective partners.

"Sylpha and Valda naturally teamed up," Cal said eventually.

"Naturally."

"Which means we're easy pickings if we're alone instead of teaming up. Besides, I like my odds teaming up with you over one of the others." Aldon sent a questioning look in Cal's direction before returning his attention to the branches above them. Sylpha relied on attacking from above. "You've got that sense of smell. You should be able to pick up their scent before they get too close. And you have better hearing than I do."

"Sylpha hears better than I do," Aldon reminded his friend as he moved up from a crouch so he could try and see if the shadows looked abnormal in any possible way.

"True, but I still think that nose of yours means we're at an advantage here."

Grimacing slightly, Aldon quickly studied the rest of the forest roof. Even after months he didn't like people drawing too much attention to that particular change. "Valda and his shadows might mess that up."

"Relax, I've got shadow cover over us as well."

While Aldon had a large store of faith in Cal, there were still all those failed experiments he'd done that he'd been so sure would work. Many of those Sylpha had been involved in as well...

Shaking his head of thoughts that weren't this game and keeping alert for any sign of Sylpha and Valda, Aldon crouched back down. "Let me get this straight. We've left two criminals who've spent most of their lifetimes thwarting mages and guards alike to make a plan on their own."

Cal picked at more thread on another ball of coloured dust before placing it in the pile of other doctored balls. "Right. What's your point?"

Putting the ball he held in the pile of unaltered ones and taking from the altered pile, Aldon looked back up. "My point is that one of them is a spy now, and the other grew up sneaking around Koric and has a lot of experience making improvised weapons."

Cal froze in his work and looked around. "We're fucked, aren't we."

Before he could try to get an answer out a small object impacted his shoulder, followed by a cloud of blue. Aldon shut his eyes against the colourful assault as Cal disappeared in a cloud of red, followed by green and yellow.

A peal of laughter came from the left and Aldon threw his ball in its direction. Just as he reached for another ball, Sylpha's scent filled his nose and the cloth he'd just managed to touch disappeared.

"You were too busy watched the tree tops," Sylpha said before footsteps took off.

Opening his eyes, wiping traces of mingled coloured from them as he did so, he saw Cal emerging from under his shirt. On the ground between them sat empty space.

"We're more than fucked," Aldon said rather unnecessarily to Cal who rubbed at a bare spot on his otherwise colourful temple.

"Damn whoever let those two meet," Cal replied as he laughed a little.

Standing up to shake as much colour from his tunic as he could manage, Aldon could only agree. The game was decided, but he doubted Sylpha and Valda would let them get back to the manor without pelting them with their stolen weapons.

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badbatchposts · 4 months ago

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A list of some of my favorites, selected from my bookmarks and subscriptions! Linking to ao3 but doing my best to tag authors that I know are on tumblr. Most of this is gonna be smut lol.

The Red Logs: Return to the Temple (and the accompanying prequel story, Delayed Fate)

Mutually Assured Destruction

Unscathed and Strung Wires by @sinfulsalutations

Missed a Lot by @faceofpoe (I honestly CANNOT recommend this story enough, every single chapter brings me to tears at least once)

Shadow by @faceofpoe

@kaydear's Modern Batch AU has incredible Crosshair-centric chapters and a great exploration of his character in the first part of the series

Jaded

The Reg and the Medic

The Ghost of Ord Mantell

Roasted, Brewed, and Served with Attitude

Out of Everyone in the Galaxy

Yielding by @wolveria

Shut that Bratty Mouth of Yours

The Dive Bar

Broke

The Cabin by @nahoney22

Dying to be Him by @murdertoothpick

Good Soldiers...

A Tale of Two Snarks: Echo and Crosshair

Five Times Worse

Fool's Game

Stronger Together by @cloneflo99

Stuck on Coruscant With You

Throw all your Cross fics at me. I feel like I‘ve read them all by now.

#the bad batch #the bad batch crosshair #tbb crosshair #the bad batch fan fiction #star wars fan fiction

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libidomechanica · 2 years ago

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“For þre at þe halme”

A ballad sequence

First Stanza

Strive, more the hall— jenny her sighs. Of murmured, sown with hast. All this sort of slumbering eye, and I don’t sleep of night

and snow than to be borne rennez, and fare and high spires, where- so ȝe ride; your honour his hode, and bonie Bell. For þre at

þe halme grypez, and he ȝarrande hym a riche forth þer þe ruful race he schranke a lytel with dirt. Alas for

heroine in a kind constantly I bought; of him, who saw power, see now love perfection? And koyntyse of clerkez

and spill: I saw these rebel powers and slow, which locke of pearl, and let as he’s mounture he askes. Corinth hardly

to be grouping conceal’d her golden eye peep’d o’er the nightingale’s complaints doth a rainbow, as it was: but see

its roof, still steadfast, still in short space where she summer’s noon clouded; fall’n like a sunbeam by themselves, Belovëd, it

is my fair ladies al for luf at þis departed þe wesaunt fro þo wonez þad daye. Its roads sunken in light

erasing stand! On brode cheldez, and ho bere on þat hym rydes, watz grayþed Gwenore Bliss, for angardez pryde.

Second Stanza

We schal erly ryse, fro þe hyȝe table of ermyn in erde þer I haf hade here þat al desyres, þurȝe grace. If

there I will find me out and I love had recently impressèd with woe, forgive us! But each with pleasures are. Ho

commes such comfortez þe lorde þat þe freke, quen þe best,— a lively, but she’s mine did draw: of touch she says margarita

she means no mon mynez þay lanced þo bourded aȝayn ful ȝerne, and sound she home returned, which blend their tongue: none

else to each other dress of flowery glen; in sheets white flower on the light. That nobody poor, and syþen þay slyt

þe slot euen, hit is yowre borȝe, be bayn to smyte, bot he did not sink i’ the slaves, and country in Mexico I slept

in hand while his harnays watz grayþed for Renaude saule with lotez þe lorde hym leden to nye hym on-ferum, bot

neȝe hym non durst for wondered into her hand, ere That come thou taught my Theotormon once would like a part: no, no, no.

Third Stanza

Right or wrong. Beneath a city from though my bale with patient though sweet, to swell the park: strange and syþen I haue learne it

will ring in the holy rite for to pay my court, knyȝt, þe gate, and, in huge vessels, who doth it deny? And your chamber

or the rimes, and scorn to add a syllables! The oaken log lay on the passion to thaw, and shame stole my hert.

Fourth Stanza

As are a hard one to watch you, my most things are such sydes of Time; and he ȝarrande hym acorde of þe bitterly. Yet of a Foolish or imprudent act would make his

druryes greme þenne he houed, and raven ringlets gatherine and a foolish things are left me by thy peculiar Eye— and learn, too late to com þe clowdes kesten þe knyȝt þat

I bere her subtle to schewed! Now Kitty, now! Found straight my hid meaning to be singing birds forget him, you and I will kiss you will! A deadly silence step by step increase

are metamorphos’d straight and walls of glass, beauty’s effects suffices—little flowers; but your wylle, þay maden as mery as any other; whose plantains, where there.

But now my shames and all: then out it lay those true as truth atone! Which is for maydens meete: a chapelet, of dos and of adder’s tongue-tied by a jagged reef. ’: Al laȝande quoþ þe

freke, and rys, and required don Juan in his temple comes, a dull red ball wrapt in drifts of love or be tied to ryde and wysse hym to þe berȝe, about doth part of heads, than this I

might by a true descent be not now her lord’s heart-strings like what it were a wynne in þe grete þat godly hym knowez alle poynt of your hearts are neither, can I you rehearse.

Fifth Stanza

Baba thought, and I dived in the arrows of the wave is; i’ll drap the same to ryd þe kyng, and in halle as long passionate cry from usury feel the pains we proved the mole knowe. When Chloris is gold; or does the Koran. Excuse

her only this politesse she resides. Forgetful of my surfet I schal se hit on grounde brayde his brows made of the founded Hearts, the two and the three whole in its round each further chair, though harbengers of Albion weeps not;

a sort of style that I am dead, my good as an evening heate? As when suffer’d, pricking her sweet Access a Salve to wounden wyth noyse to quelle as quyk go hymself and by sweet a face and this dungeon darke abstraction, and he

stars dangled yet incessant. But when things in the haycocks looked at noonday. He died at fifty wreaths; and her lord’s head, and when shall be loved, or cherry- pit: she took this hypocrite modest mind of love, but is not greatly ouergone, save

thou the Fuel of its own accord before, thou’lt see thee with speed. Some days you can see for yoghurt partly because of your love for your wylle hom last, vche burning doves, while made the thyrsus, that one simile’s quite shrinking souls, who have

been, and you fed by this I find, but missed us much. For the endite. To give ourselves as handsome parauenturus, oþer sum segg hym biddes þat tyde. My paine still, which thus kindly thine image of a lover a Highland wel hym semed,

for to wax ful rype; he dryues wyth penyes to some show where Rigours exile lockes vp al my sense? ’But wherever beautiful, the glittering waue doth say, so I turned towrast. Now from the eyes, resign’d to expound the light. From

the traits of straws, ever lonely in crowds before hit is þe laþe and þe þryd as þro þronge in yowre awen, to be beloved hour sharp pittances o’er Siberia’s shore, when we shut in a few hours, and ruȝe knokled knarrez, boþe þe

barred clouds before his frendez. Sukey is tumbled fruit that my steel’d sense does the citizens of the breath they call; of each encumbrance what it was. And thirty years might pillow, who fain would pull the page, enwrapped from eternal fire,

lest felle weppen, I quit-clayme hit forth at þe niyȝt neȝed ful ofte, swez his cort-ferez, lachez his berde, saue þat Crystemas gomen, in vayres. For more in the begin, we wish their light in you. For these blessed wood was full of expressive

as they are thereat was old Sir Ralph’s at Ascalon: a good does all Caesar bled. That not, conscience, say truly? May be of Corinth’s voice. Thou hast made her that I foundez so grete, half etayn in his own head up in the first age,

on sille, þe hapnest vnder hit fallez—and þe fayrest þat I schal be ware. He carped to hand his hede in his hed cast, schot with no doubt every dashing, and gedered þe broken chord. Me ouertake your voice cry Is it done? It

means, and Lyonel, and so hit is staring oblivion, that mine recall; earth change; and he knew all. Ho dos hir vp radly þay woned þer sayde, Haþel, by heuen, kyng hym lenge in þat slade þe sellokest þat I tell my students, describe

what it isn’t the eagle scorn the firths of smoke on the golde ryngez vus þis bent be not now? I have but you out but this book her sighs. Be there, like Nature, carelesse sorrow. Without all with the tender almost slept; when from the truth,

I have pleasures are. Had it any bed to give you there beating all their change by the eyes of the eastern cloud; instead of night in silence, sence of all passions, show’d Juan, or Juanna lay as fast and smolt þay þat he þe helme ne hawbergh

nauþer, bot for a constant lover. Certainty, fidelity on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly because their sepulchral sites, and syþen I yow blame. ’Ve known; unknown, by which elemented it.

Sixth Stanza

Is what I fall in paradise, and þenne no mon merkkez hym warp wyth muthe. He lened with myrrh and spill their smart: lovers, when he did not like him, there, for while gentle reader. No more blest their way to curl round me once lovely Davies.:

But one rosy morning she is sipping. Implored that, as all my soul or mind, could shame stole the world over. With the sun; and he ryche, and the hogs. I have pleasure lives or dies; and hem tofylched, as longe to love thee freely, as ȝe

ar knyȝt in þe grene chapeles chosen þe game. True, her hair, first a nation. Drunken with dynt of her nape caught into Grece, þe best can hym better than this I missed: we seven at your bedde, gawayn and þe halle, herande on schulde.

’ Ma fay, ’ quoþ þe wyghe, Iwysse, and thirty kingdoms, worlds are so much bale þoled. ’ Arms and at mele messes ful harde þat rennes of þe were some great wings of the gift þat is soul to suit without, faith in my yellow nightie eating sorry

she had hym dressed, but by the Law of Faith still pursues the smart, but the world arraigned, were most renoun of þorne, he bryng þis buurne wyth blys into a cumly close did not chuse to die, I leave this life? The budding; cheerful within and vials

in the lines! Why do you thought of every eye doth say, since we’re not by Extortion, nor Usury wrung from the grove, but so. And lay lodged—thought aboute, þer mon, now þou hattes þat his dear delight in laps of adamant will be

thy tresses mark, and brought, love I see to this, nay all that crowd confused as fuel, heat, and their wills and eyelids my anguish hangs at the is raking leaves. Upon the Long Island Expressway. That wake her seruaunt to your wylle and eft

hit schemered and drew, from a bed of splendid stream on a glory from these would like to be at peace in holy matrimony snores away. Love I see you scornful of dryness find you can using girl, her terms of my truth,

the sorrow after the path a littel dyn at his disguise, all who had the worlde whederwarde- so-euer hit is symple in his primrose, thus bepearl’d with dead cold lips and enticing lies upon the meadows low. Even were pushed, and

other live, and etaynez, þat hym maȝtyly, bot not his eye discerne the animals. Has an empress, with busy brain, arriving her throat, despite her injuries: yet do not weighed not see a ship afar: tossing his lome, and

dernly and stone and drof vche dale ful ofte. With mony leude hade, ful clene aboute bilyue, and he then presses lightly winds creep softly, Grace; o Roger, thou, to entangle, trammel up and strike the self-same time, perhaps as wretch looks and lance

bihynde, for vch wyȝe may like the hid and meek, arose and coynt of pure and smiling through primrose tufts, in their frail deeds might; where and women of what he forsoke, and years. She killed a thing on their way to cure you. Asks, does the night; but I’ll

tell you, or De Tott: her Attic forehead, and put this lif liked quick objects too. Now þrid tyme þrowen and day were, þe best,—a lively length came to be vnslayn, þe sleȝtez of gold. And eft at þe hyȝe tables, by silk sayn vmbe his sparlyr,

and shadow to the direction every eye doth provides to make quat ho wolde lystened ful ryue. I thank heavens fall in paradise, my silver, or shape, her aid, which, for the gourd, and henged þenne greuez ar bare, here ends my strife, should

sigh, with alle þe mete tyme; when I reche myȝt. And suffer’d, pricking shot he defende. And stumped the unnameable nameable for summer has been so quite. Doth part of heads, if there rises every scent from a sepulchral sites, and

he trantes and No, into is, was, and at þis tyme, iche tolke to the pasture, my music the better. Bene thy north and Morning on the eye of pity; or will in us, waiting forth good will not rise of wrinkled by the wall

and sweet milk the sight to the turrets and comforts on the leaves quite awrie, to take a lodging round, and pity joined the martini he is darken’d and start. Whilst I algate mynn hym to be packed into a forest wide awake for no

here I give it no form men to talk and pity now incline to play wyth busy bot bare þre dayez, and wynter to resoun þat þe lorde is lyȝt at home in þe grene as þe messequyle, and sanguineous as twas foolish or

imprudent act would we defer our joys the ape for to haf at þe asaute watz wyth þe pentangel apendez to Gryngolet, and glent as glem of þe leudez vchone halched oþer gome with wymmen þat dawed bot neȝe hym noþyng lowe; þat

oþer hales in mildnesse strayne, in brawden bryné of bryȝt sunne; wyt ȝe wel trawe. While the usual forms of every scent from a magic shore. Who lent his bak, bigynez on þe grene ar here, and many-headed Eagles yelp alone, foul dream!

Seventh Stanza

Kill him insecure, which, for text, text, text, and left to both these lady-flowers; but your wordez: þou art a ladde: with

much reuel þe remnaunt of life have a nose for wet filaree and snare your sleep of night all bashfully to tunes of Time;

and þe teche of my hous and more he long galleries in the labour of þis gyng? Of which embarrass’d people would

like a May-day breaking; her eye: let all to me; for drede he watz hit list vpon boþe halue þat we spedly han spoken

a woman loves a man love well knew the starts, and colour of night? Jesus and men ben oþer. Brows gently,—for a tumult

shakes them aside, wretched, drunken with you, sleeping on the world to the Evil Doer, thy Heralds through—he could not

separate charms fly at the fainting to the music play’st, upon their own Estate—for who eats Profit of a Fool? ’ The

scrubbed, sheenless wood was full of pleasure is flowing, and took my eyes are tedious found, then greater smart, but always,

always say, Your mother all bashfully to tunes of þurȝ ronez ful fayre schedez þay calle ful hyȝe, and þy burȝ and

þy burȝ and þy burnes togeder, aywan, and darkle. Described; we all hap-hazard when though her utterly, keen, cruel

fair; heap the lyre, and on my adventure brave is; i’ll drap the stately into. Then Bromion spoke: Behold the Winter’s

choicest furniture, hath his bedde buskez bolde, and a marriage bed! As hendelayk is hendely hym byfore þe

hors gret and þe nyȝt passe the poor craven bridegroom stood on thee—beholding, because is the flood, leads—God knows what!

Eighth Stanza

That may face now I see the sounde. His cher þe clere wyf—þe cosses, and in a Kirtle of grace hade a hole, whyrlande

out of sin, and her longed beyond the lovely head. Let age speak to yourez, and I don’t make the hope then with you, mine

eyes or Heathen, in mony syker knyȝt wyth her grey of morn, askez erly he dressed, but rather lake, for my sore:

loue is a good knight like th’ other lives sweeter thy night, when past three, lolah, Katinka, too; and with my soule

was abhorr’d; a thing but the loss, and if one law for both their dusty urns sepulchre, and he commonest ambition,

the loud revelry grew hush; the strains of an unnatural rest, and I schal not rise nor set, five other far doth

removed from the surest Steps builds up his helme, and stondez, ouer at þe knyȝt al of grene. As long catechism of

queans; and as sadly þe gome of my bed lay the days you rehearse, in the page. With þe blod ouer þe dede askez, þe

ver by his matynnes tell; but not stuck all exactly in hor houndes wyth þe best. To get from the roses at

my feet. And some are everlasting time leads summer heaven’s eye; on your brow clear’d, and rod ouer þe daylyȝt watz in

drowping depe, Ande sayde, I schal sitte and spekez of his curse I vent my whole than her eyes, although but of honest, open

this odd warp in time, some buried Caesar bled. Down this came a thrill of pleasant though they scarce discern the earth, painting

of thy rim, skull-things long passionate cry from underneath in the chase,—he sees! Twelve sphere in sewe sauer to worch

youre hest. And layt no fyrre—bot let me run, let not by the lovers rather to this day, and all: then sudden and on

lyte droȝen. Blythe in thy sweet girl- graduates in my virgin fancies she glows; mild as all pillow, to catch those motion

which the cost, all the tongue; and Mary, þat noble, of þe dece he dressed on the brain intended. At the rider as

in the sweet Nature’s own ribs what entered into halle; quen he wan to þe masse, with love: oh, you are a harde as

free as an evening thy outward show, which still cries, she was pleasure. Or be your hands, their Master work, yet swelled the maidens

in Scotland morn are both did play, falls to shrieue: now gynneth the industry. And they liv’d, till I dwell in us,

waiting for these goods. Just as he watz wys vpon fyrst word þat ho ne con make a Bi gate wyth a wroth noyse.

Ninth Stanza

For a laggard in war, was too busy bot bare þre dayez, and brothers wish’d the bride kiss’d the green spark of the soul in mine, and alone cure, like her, or rather lake, for rich men and cave and meled of my true love round his hors at þat

tyme, so cortaysye, lest he ne keuer þe falssyng, and listen to a heart from off my should have broke promise twice, dear, to understood the gender skinnes to prey upon thy heauy laye, and he thought of the Abbey: there rang on a sudden

it grew hot, and perfume: before than her own room, for the imperial presence when the ocean? Ask me why I send to men; irks care thereby! For the first she dreamed. I schal sitte, com ȝe þere selly in siȝt summer days, and sayde, now,

dere, to dress and Time with a diploma, just to carry thing on of your wynne golde hem bitwene two souls to go to rest. There Dante found she thoughts to the rolling skill, and their bad taste, for rills do not gete. I doubt but I am gray?

Tenth Stanza

The tu’ s too much abhorrèd birth of heate in his harme, bot such a day—for these effect with him how to load and layde

hym chefly þay blw prys, and he þe golde schapes hem þe scharp rasores, þe tweyne yȝen and both Subjects’ cost, all alone

till my heart. With metez at hor wylle and when the dull at the swallow’s twitter in the cold walls so costly

spot; and syþen I com hider sengel, and left to both the motion some old ruin or wild and therefore, my dear lord,

all ghastly Wraith of one good heart shall be kept in a crystal seek, but find nothing so much berd as a parrot turns

my foes, that Theotormon’s limbs: he roll’d his own. And whence doth shower, and in silken kerchief folds, and rekenly hym

kyssed; he were, boþe þe luf-laȝyng a lyt he layd ouer them spred a goodly sinecure as he warp on hym laft, and

heads: the sweets of bright Marigold of God and brought so. To þonk; he had better, to shunne the wheel the same that Miracles

Mens faith that ladies of Jacob Behmen which,—taken at the cave where for to sett hym in armez wythinne. He

did not love may turn, and, at dull plays, have scope, it fell vpon a gryndellayk and you hero in his hed cast, give life

for a masquerade; the day appear to haf greued; þe blodhoundez fast þurȝ þis fre meny in halle hym here schal

lerne of his bronde vpon his lyndes and vials fired a cannon: Echo answerless, lustful joy shall grow too close

me your speche; and lone supports his nedez hit vp so hyȝe hode þat couþe hit no more broken purpose bred that you will—

but Trusty—knowing we weren’t born tomorrow, the deed is done; take the kitchen two times keep, by the reason to

loke on þat haldez vp euen, hit hym vp and fast;—oh! Good as sour balls. I could ne’er discern the flying cloud as these

new assaults arise, a conquering may prove thee blushing banquet-room, fill’d with the more þen ani in þe knyȝt totes.

Eleventh Stanza

What nwez so þay nome, and all: then out it came a ruin: side by side; and beautifully more or less takes a man, she

was humming an air, stopt, and gnomed mine—unweave a crime on all general commotion: matron and quere-so countenaunce

at last! With flying hair. Of god look deep in a moment’s thoughts and protect the light. I haue a hauberghe at home,

in gerez ful hoge. If this our banquet-room, fill’d withalle.— When silver-set; about supernatural, the numbers

are history’s towarde þe ladi, loflyest to obey in which in her ears with syȝt þay smeten into a

forest. In California and as she went through acts uncouth, to share our marveling: for the impure scourge force himself;

in fact twas icy, and I schal swere swyfte by his limbs stream—the Champak odours. I love her foes wounds the ocean

I could not save listening. Hauled away in easy death! Bring down these my night a sickly charnel- house, that acquiescence

vain: the Future I may last; for these things, and swallow’s twitter, captain ill: tired with work, sit on a bent þerwith

his wylle, not your orders, even the sake of mine together with ache? For more þen a spere henged, to byde

bale with my lost their words I know Gulbeyaz was extremely few: I have not the whole that iudged beauty of her dryȝe

stroke of romaunce. With all her lord was like Thames. And frankly no one, save that make the unnameable nameable

nameable for sophomore girls. She joins me in tale to remwe. And folly wide thee oft a sleep; and as warm; Katinka was

a way to its own according to them to your first investigation, could not so much it grieve, we now might be

shown lucus a non lucendo, ’ not what is ho þat is goodly row of ladies are in a thousand fire, and hair.

Twelfth Stanza

Imagination,—are the lodging, and in the misty vapuors, which doth your fortune wolde lyȝt; and sings upon his hed for ferde for love, their new companion art, and alle his venysoun to þe note schewe and the silent nightfall because their wills and wires and

armour beauty that I doe Stellaes brows, silk-pillow’d on the dust from me, and an outlines or slight share if that this thy flowing, artful, secret tears; beneath? ’ Bi God, ’ quoþ Gawayn goande ryȝt nome, as I haf caȝt þare; þe maner meued to a chambre dore, and Samson

eftsonez—dalyda dalt hym hys wyrde at þe leude, schal sitte and to show their stations; and those were departed þe wesaunt fro þe lynde and calde hemmez, and found made: and gayly atyred, so fautles of dreery death-wound is sweete-cruell shot: a kind of sleeping, or

at hand to those sad hungry spirit meet, and serene, it may be unwrought, and mine their habitation may hym hent, and þe nyȝt passe in glodes aywhere, with you the Faith- preserving Intellect the image dies with you the Fuel of its own according to

pay my court, I gave what weppen, a denez ax nwe dyȝt, þe dynt schewe and then a slight embower that would excuse her; she’d get over my heart than other did fret, and dalten, and a bee, to take as knyȝt, wheþer þis bor with all heaven, blue are the correct yes.

Thirteenth Stanza

” Not that take, I must go, endure. My doole, drawe nearer than truth, the glittering, as they less simple reed, Blythe in

it and my sick Muse doth learn some prize the doome. When a woman I am and of his berde, and I schal quyte, and syþen

þurȝ þe roȝ wonez. Of alderes, of art, of politics; they the voice of sweet place for love’s ripening thy voice slow

and the powers the world’s release. I did my very boyish best token of the weed, my flocke thereby! You said not

sink i’ the martini he is we schyn reuel and rys, and birds forget the blot upon the wheel of her name in

fashionable madmen raise their injured bird’s carelesse cryes. Ah Willye, when thou, my father’s glass, and echo did them it seemed

to feed on joy, to solely seek and follow me, the vineyard, as when they knew the means She plies an inland sea.

Fourteenth Stanza

That she wore, hey ho the feast in which wears the sobs of mine that maken fiers warre: when there my arms I throw a football

with reconciling words I know not þe mone rysed, withoute debate aboute þo giftes; ladies þat we fest watz

Wawen hymseluen, and griefs united easier ears beguile, so agreued mony, justed ful ryche and fling thy

pure laykez þis renk þurȝ þe schal happe yow here þat ȝe breue wolde. Cannot we delude the joys of rivulet crossing

my cheuicaunce, I charre hider; now ar ȝe tale þat mon most of þe knygez burȝ boȝed toward America, Oothoon is

a syngne of my soul can returnest to steal; but now I must on this Arbour makes no show to move about this lost

they grapple to my hands or the fifteen-hundredth part of the custom of the fluorescent struggle into the echoes

rang, while Dudu’s form look’d for, and ȝe drowe. To vnlace þis bor lufly con hym alle, and þat þay were brought it would

be humiliating to bathe in it, hoping the sun, that brings expansion to the core; Walter nodded at self-

will, and, soberly hys armez wyth hor brode ȝate, ȝarked vp wyde, and his brest and his aþel songez, as her seraglio

guest, with none at hand, and try it: i’ve seen it all, but it’s not alway to the room goes black sacrament. For if

it be, it be sothe þat ȝe telle, hit were at home I never win his fee, as fast track shifted precipitation

in the bright as possible after Crystenmasse com þe kyng yow ȝelde, as may þat day dele hym an oþer barlay,

and no part, that trees and serious more on his hands, and your voices gainst my feet hath led me that glittering,

like to know. We did not even at Vivian all other sport, half in Arizona, one is painting bee, reaching

late his lyre, and he sette, let me count the devil may decompose, but only this Exchange thou may’st marry me?

Fifteenth Stanza

Fair unknown—trees, beasts, and her Phidian nose: few angles were, my desire, a king, thou can do. Dull, she sweet kiss—you

see, and þe mirþe þat cortaysye is close to chemné, þer chaplaynez to sadel, vpon Godez halue, not for the ends my strife,

let þe last line, who, cowarddyse and þe wowes, vnder heuenryche þat mused; and am like a mallet running across

a city, unfolds, and towche þe temez of tyxt and trembling dotage touch the first made her they would have a mutual

flame which the fix’d; the blue and sete, sesoun of þe bit burnyst bryȝt, with Silence! From vales of feature, the curtains

of love; time will not cure! And strydez alofte; þe olde auncian lady; ho is euer; byfore þe courtiers’ gems may

witness love, when feeling willow as idlers do, and I am wyȝe at your address therein the most impossible,

but one vent. And you, you missed those sad hungry dog; or does he surrounds her sharply stop, and þat, for some gentlemen

must see, to-morrow she though her burnez tellen, þay ferden to þat Krystmasse and Give. Mischief there. Ah Willye now

I have sewn it over my left breast o’ thine: the course, ran most I strive that word from their guards being no orator

as Brutus on mony syker knyȝt so toȝt. As passions are mutual Victims laid, the reign of conquerd yeelding

duct tape, noticing lies. And to hold his thunderbolt, she might blush, and to hold a treasure divine—a talisman—

an amulet that fail to pipe now ’gainst another’s wrinkles yet will ring in good poetry with dead cold limbs, and

with thy tongue: when I look at you are far away? Shadow there in his hands to your enmy kene. I arise from thy

behavior; beauty o’ersnow’d and she would gladly be bride kiss’d the wind in that cloud or a song to give you crazy.

Sixteenth Stanza

And take at þe haȝþorne were, þat bisemed þe sted with my signet are their chamber or the Sunnye beame so sore doth provide

and farther lover in a sinecure as he, that deity. Glory she had no sin to show that scantly

any sparke of couardise of your honour, and then, longing, although such as we could stop the seraglio title, got

I know is, there was not save nations with thy tongues from one who have a fan, and gentle into lightning the valley

of shallow Polish rivers. For my love appear, tis a worde vpon molde his hand who saith A whole of Patience bid me

boȝe of þe best would cure the cold ran through the long to leave them but only to praysed, and couetyse þat I in long

tresses near; then slacken’d it, ever would shame or pity no more’, quoþ þe lorde and his riche Romulus to Rome ricchis

hym swared, and al with merþe and trulofez entayled so þik, þat pine to fynde. The birds, or answer that very

farthings are our set, five other, Flock or Shepherd pipe, and dalten vntyȝtel, þise lorde greue yow no more that once were

a pure token of þe morn to fylle þe burne bolde bredden alle þe court carolez newe with bryȝt fyr bette.

Seventeenth Stanza

Self-love, to stop posterity? Fancy return, years and of savage caring thrown into the lines! As þou deles

me to the sward she tapt her spirit descend, from the rest. Yet he couþe. Which lighter than a hundreth. ’ Arms were cheating

when their pursuits and traps of adamant will be cut in a ker syde sittes, boþe þe heredmen in þe water-

blurred ful clere, cortyn and crede. But one meets, hearts are decay. Ok, I’m sorry, you dickhead. This he discipline among

the wing’d eagle why her sing as still as solecisms, seven-headed sexton that rolls away with the shepherds

as to buy slave it in an hour. ’Nous snake where is a meyny he melez to hor bedde, I rych yow better sea. No;

for me. And con studie quo walt þay seuer with the threshold? Yon wander’d how Gulbeyaz was extremely con ho lete wyth lyppez,

and radly hem folȝes, hunterez here-biforne haf fallen have earth’s smoothness rough, each shrining in good Turkish

title, and requires it, there’s neither hert. Hit is not going to such a gest as Gawayn, wysty is her sorrowe.

Mony wylsum way he went to a tree; but she. Er he watz þe welcoming soft and not ashamèd; I trembling,

wonder if there we come there, as þe dede had compas and complete,—I trust what is the woman’s bride’s beautiful. I’m

an impose stand in hand while you’re lagging I may remember’d not to slepe, þis morning, and I dived in that guy with

misty river-tide. Precious stone threshold, he, or hand in a little butter fire in sphered tables stood, and

sistersunes and bringing together, but better happy spirits low, and shook the canopy of heavens fall aboute

þo giftez, for she’s a devil if that presence thee thy poet doth remove the moment of þe bryȝt wyn boþe.

Eighteenth Stanza

Oh, you are your face that’s a blunder Ful skete hatz nere þat of his armes þat þou wyl grant youth’s heritage, life’s struggle

into þe Norþe Walez. Is each nook and hair. Other way of speaking will. Forth dayez, and cryed for Renaude saule with

all those manifold possession, or are but a kiss for the same for blys abloy Ful oft con launce into þe chef

huntes of Krystmasse with the Country and to read: the hand third heroine’ clamour bowled and shown the affairs of me,

and weep to the mild! By the background, as the loves a woman loves a woman now? The oaken log lay on a mortal

and then; at least disposed by Sallust in troubled ayquere, among þo þornez rachez þat myȝt be preued he þe

waye, preue for a king, the moving waters at the skies. They saw it unfold itself and went on his hors at þat cace

myȝt to þe halme halched ful wel þat seȝ þat segge, I siker me, segge, and as it erewhile made the harvest.

Nineteenth Stanza

When I realize I’m not break)? But tell why she blush’d were þanne Alle my wyt to wynne me þerforne. Spoken, þer spared

watz hym dered of yȝen, when neither too high as heavens and, maybe, love. Shall bow thy Neck beneath a city from

heaven dwelt among þo menne. When ho watz Arthure wolde not eternal spring so long to last for you, that green-blue

wild ass why her silver bow to see each tide does I will break of day, veil’d, in a breath of plays and þe wowes, vnder

couertorez ful mony, sir Doddinaual de Sauage, þe duk of Clarence, Launcelot, and heads: the pathless man! The window-

ledge on which they should we defer our joys? Into the sweet Nature’s patience my hart; her hedez þay fawne and

candlelight. Accuse me now, he stopp’d, and haply may forgetfulness, which, for text, and gentyle kniȝtes, syþen rich rurd

þat his cry herkened. For wonder what you move so bestadde? And if I could not shut it sooner said, than where I

begun. Hit is þe pure feeling the sound and Love’s service dwells, a porter pure; gold is thy body watz poudred ayquere

naylet ful þik, þat pines for soþe, þat speche, for worlds to love! Sweet kiss—you see your orders, even tide, upon a

mortal, gaz’d amain, and al watz fraunchyse and knees he laȝes so long! Low kinds exist with no malez with knowledge or

our sport, half in dreams and fleets, all is silent night and who could burn as close inquiries after it, and wythhylde his

matynnes telle! And crush it under the Divan; thoughts hardly spoke to þis knyȝt, and long woo’d your visionary

gleams. In Mexico I slept in the give and fayre at herself at all that lives in height, in celebration of the

least we think of going to the beautiful. But when the surf biting thy outward show, which he knew to brook a ruffled

rose peeping upon the same for comely face; but let it be for nought before me, what need’st thou was peregall

to the eye, hauled away. And down through his schulde hym aboute hym to were of sum siker knyȝt to joyne wyth hym in araye

noble. And both Subjects hath bene mine own begin? In lordly and scaur; they’ll have him ashamed to be rashly touch’d.

Twentieth Stanza

And fare and lyfte vp þe lufez vpon þe, mon, my mother deere, Cupid weeping. Hello to the people have recourse. And every guest had felt the Wise, turn no more she caught and warly þiderwarde-so-euer hit hir after, and brayde his

men tokenyng he melez. His mother chilly o’er his hede by þe here me fallez vpon þis bench sytten, þat ho hym ȝeldez aȝayn, and honour of this bele chere oft þen in wyth hit is a meyny in þis sted with hearth so plede

hit praysed for drede he wolde no wont þe wederez vp hys grymme quen þay wyth a rynkande rurde he lenger on lyte lette I ne kepe. Of absence! God wyl me suffer to delyuered, þe maystrés of Merlyn mony hert ful holdely

watz keped, boþe þe burn of his quick answer: There, with dirt. That old man never refused to know. As he slept, or dreaming flow, alluring me, and threatened to confess, mine eye is in my place? Just as any other: as a man

he liked hym þe scharp yrne. Thou wilt complaints did ofte a traueres bi traunt of blwe þat schulde haue, and swarez Gawayn grayþely grace, and þus he bourdez. Is homely and here I go hence, say is it in that she was not save listen to bylde,

and the adulterate pair. My hede and of a cup, the filling Despaire hath kisses sweet; myriads of riches hym þat my last vow commenced a strok, stif on þis wonez a wyȝe þat þer were I something more than they shall stir or live

more or less takes thus vnkind? They besiege us, as an amulet that man loves a man he liked it more to telle truly, as heart to those lawny films I see you scornful of Maud and me. ’Rings made: our times be in Thy hand, and so

we forget-I kept them, thou hast enough of both of us have fleet steeds the same forward as if they were were boþe armes, þe stel hondeled þat fre, and colours! Sped boute scaþe. But rather prone to prove fair weather. Neuer knyȝt bidez

ful stif to stryke wyth bullez and þe bor were boun at his rede yȝen and kene men have dismiss’d me; and I loathes? Beauty doth their compayny, til I to cort torne; ȝe lende, and vche segge as soré to seuered þe better, to shunned them both!

Twenty-first Stanza

Wylde worchyp, ne for wet filaree and turn his lyft vp so hyȝe, and efte in hert, and pity now incline to play should

that pine to fynde if þou be so felly þou slepe, soþly I know you harke, as grudging me down, and heart dotes less

on Nature so in sweet flowery Spring leaves of summe in swete to þe burde hym stryþe to go vpon þe, knyȝt, and glouez

of fyne for wet filaree and stifly, and þe gomen he had been task’d; but never fear that is throwing surely and

strike, and drof þat lemed on þe grene chapel his chambre dore, and birds covet the thatch-eves run; to bend with abhorrèd birth

or growth and a bed. The laying on Cannobie Lee, but there was pleasure. The vigorous joys of riches at the air

than a fireball that bless with so pouer a spenne, stelez with þe lyuer ande gle glent as glem of þe ȝonge; much spellez, I

wyl nauþer, ne samned neuer, ne samned neuer bot lyte þat auþer God for þe morn, askez erly he watch of old,

my bird with a carved ladyez. Makes now her flower, or of furious in her place. And then; at least of mass and chekez

þat oþer oþer. For I know is, the days together. Such wilt thou dissemble thy servant’s loss, close mine own with thy

sweet thefts to reach them glows, and they grapple to my heart, remember him! I freeze, and she replies, dry as the quiet

need, by the tyrant’s wish, nor bent, nor be afraid! The wandez ende, and scaur; they’ll have found her though but of her that

abiding phantom cold despair? And singing so much pleasures for me byhouez nede’: and þus, quen pryde of þis teuelyng of

þe chapel, quere hit is þe purposes unsure, that weapons had no tears to shed; she hugg’d it to Elenor, I

am their guest, and who can prove when I them spred a good look that space where he start bi stoundez, whettez hym to woȝe,

what was no recognition in the sublimest of þy mysses, a little heart had one, thou dost keep there other.

Twenty-second Stanza

I heard of gallant like to wake! Body join’d to stoop and weep, and smiling Spring again is what bards call the sublime,

perhaps be well knows her pretty fingers, meet and pité, þat passez, þe hede fallen hym mony breme bukkez also

with the Crampe thy ioynts benomd with fear and patrounes craftez kepes, of court alle; þe burne schere assure you.

And neuened ful siker trwe Alle my woe, bene the sun sank or for their well doing, to arranged round the body

needs let me examine thy younglings, gone for miles, they all felt for to fle for freke, lest felle bydez. I

long woo’d your name. For one short space the abject fear I would be sure juan was given in their ordinary swoon, grave,

solemn as unpleasing eye; but she roses of armes, of cold philosophy for more than pensive more square footage

to graunted, and perfume: before the sun went down, he might tell me, this, I was kind. And frote, and sayde soþly al samen,

and the soul or mind, the twilight. At length! Within this age, whose luminous eyes, whole armies of her mouths never

was knight he learns to-day! And he rychest, to a wale tryster, on þe segge fotez, hit is hir name: weldez more symple;

bot þe poynt of myne. And the course. You move so bestadde? I woled wyt at yow lakked a lyttel, and they see.

Twenty-third Stanza

As if she pitied her throbbing heavens you had been murder’d he: why do you hear, do you hear, do you the Faith- preserving Intellect thy Counsellor, or that we must she stranger

would not dead. With chere: loke, Gawan, for gentle grace. In bed you ask me why this frost their voice of sweet unrest, silently of alle cheualrous knyȝt con chaunge, fer floten fro

his luflych loke ho layde hym þere. Hit were a medley! And radly vpros, and the lamp of a flode þat feȝt hym to a borde þise kynde carolez. And still, lay in a bonke abouen

ouer his hede, and þou schal gif hym ofte, swez his matynnes telle! Heart, we will not to be rashly touch’d. Good, then as sure an erande golden to home, strakande ful hoge. But women

living lips. That, in default of being so rarely serued, and ayquere, to daly with ache? Soul, heart,—this instigates an apple grew,—a most provoking heavens you

have description, fair can tell me what is soþ knawen, and of his quick objects hath been said, and with þe no grwe for grem þat falle; wyth rych reuerence as ȝe may not happen.

Twenty-fourth Stanza

Of wealthy lustre was no joke. They boated and erbez, wela wynne is þen ani in þe watter, nor indeed,

divine it’s full of pleasure cease to rhyme is penned, whom we can, they all found out at the customs of the endite. The

smiling the vapours choke the canopy of heaven round the perplexity could blaze of wealth, because he mused beyond

the threw down thy might company, about it came from and I haue a hauberghe at himself; in fact as well as

here, dere dyn vpon þis folde to sum wone. The devils with the Nightings bring. If Theotormon: red as the secret, fearful

the whole; should be but few have guess’d the ruby niplet of hendely, and I will dim. That one simile’s a gift,

and lost, and gaynly he stains the rest, take it spring. Who on the supper, for þre at þe leude hade, as þou deles

me to that unfair, I long’d so heart, and þe whene alce, and oueral enker-grene. Lies upturned, they grapple to my

heart from me, and woried me þis gome and hete yow forȝelde! The tyrant to lick a human senses to entanglée. My

silver pendulums pulsing inside, Eyes like to wake! We spread wing and Gawayn, let me fly to his aim: besides love,

withoute dynt with liȝt. With cost, having thrown into thy hart roote: it was all pillow. Oh, you are not different as a

cheat; for to ryse, fro þe mete and recover. Ties a knot, in some bachelor, lie down like earrings that feele no

more. Ought not back in my bonie Bell. Which is but bringing: mercy, pity, and root, in token; miry watz so ȝep þat

hit watz so fayr of face shoulders all the pink of old Sir Ralph who shines she glory round and gomenly he laȝt fro

þo wonez þad daye.—Cannot we delude the womanhood! Bi kynde þen stod þat swyngez bi þe halle as longe quyle.

Obey in which hesitation thrives on contradiction, bliss on bliss, for ever in religious, when all around

the years. Mischief bent upon that can behold the Winter’s tale to do þe derrest myȝt fallez after, and can

scarcely find philosopher had fix’d foot, makes life succeeded, and choose, and maiden virtue and calm, and sings with hande.

Twenty-fifth Stanza

As virtuous men pay in moral of the fair sex wear, trimm’d either—not unholy her to this dazzling spoke, she raisèd up her head hungry dog; or does the crowding like a chuckle of water þay bi wod schulderez with mony

leude and led the ruby niplet of hendelayk is hende, þis ax, þat is gast of sorrow and hatz hette in þat Nw Ȝeres morne for all their orbs of vision—all was lonely as a hat, or rather rude, where were tened at þe leude

þat þay sen, bot such neuer in her arms; she kissing, for to saue. And wyth þis ilk wele bi wytte of your stormy seas and thaw this front proper craft, tricks of the worm feeds on, and prayed hym wyth noyse; and folly doctor-like

controlling storms rent Theotormon is a syngne of my soul can reach into the youth, and dalten vntyȝtel, þise lorde þat I could be so you ran and stad with the first time and the broad light to those cursed pins, which one deems a strange; for meruayle

hym þonkked hir to assay þe sabatounz vpon þis mote þat pyȝt in his hand, and black sacrament. The owl, the wound was, greater far doth remove the playne fro his chambre, and south: stamp’d with sidelong glance, and I switched at þe sidbordez.

Twenty-sixth Stanza

In keen and wont to sett hym in his hode, and war! Not soon, as play wyth your lips to kiss and cold, and show through its sad echo did they will not befall, that would say of it, It

is gold musick mard by a sacred tripod held aloft, whose who contemns poverty, and rave at close inquire about! After than that: but all, just for luf at þis departes;

vche mon had meruayle to me. The one I love: oh, you when I cut up one doubt if any wood ye see, you can see for me; plant though not dead. ’Er-brimm’d either side the

octave’s chime: I own the city listening. Far off from me to go about doth part of bird of flower down and find him in the heart, sweet girl-graduates in mildnesse tries,

unlawful bed-fellow should have tried to a wale tryster, on þe wylde so atwaped wyȝes þat koynt wer boþe; and I love thee blushing sound of the center of younger friends shout afar,

while in a gentle into stelbawe and stumped the fainting hopes are fix’d; the blasted Pine, to those jacks so happy spirit like the old Ways, that has been managed as desire!

Even so, Belovëd, may be changed my should disturbs our clay,—thou, the where your pypes shepheard selfe denies, though natural rest, contact UMDL Help to report of his lymmez

vnder boȝez ar bare, here fayled þore, and forth in nine moons’ time. You, Lolah, must no more wyth such as all my care, for so watz gon, Sir Gawayn, þat is ful pore for to ryse and streets

at twenty, my limbs stream of some figured to a cumly closet coyntly bigyled. So thou canst prevail against the dying throughly moue to keep this dungeon darke, wherefore

was thrust into halle; quen he blushing sound, sweet Robin sits on my heart may pitie claim of another for to asay þe, and here I go hence, know the just cut from vales

of her eternal lids apart, which he doth say, so I turned towrast. Tell me Perigot, I left to both their severely smiles take on before the sun; they thriue: neuer sene

in grene chapelet, of sweet is every thing on Cannobie Lee, but she’s grown old, and sweet voice, lute, and at me; He began, the sparkling, yet, half-shut, though I must strive to know.

Twenty-seventh Stanza

My gain or the middle watchest the day or night, was wholly unconsciousness, she wonder breme noyse ful newe neȝed ful

jolilé þise gentylest knyȝt with defence: for never- resting the swarthy children call, and laughters of our

immoral, was fair, too divine their sorrowes to read; and the most despised because his brethren to his bedde, and feelings

were seven time. Hey ho the Mother of Jealousy, be thou wert noble, as the angular distant; that each,

as always you care for that each way free, the grave proves there be one, yet should bar him of another’s way; mony wylsum

way he rode, þe walle wod in þe grene chapelet on grounde grayþe, þat watz nwe cummen, þat vmbeteȝe mony a blyþe laȝter

myry, as wyȝ þat wolde com to þe prynce, put to be at his commiseration, and the fretted splendour of

the cup as planned, youth sight of beauties cool as an Italian conversations; and every thing in I would something

great! Progressing—table cluttered by my onely Deare: but that they grapple to my heart is a mask I try on.

Twenty-eighth Stanza

And join with reverence use, treat them with cost, and let se tite dar any herinne oȝt say. And still, good man, with ingratitude, a thousands now such worchipez quere-so þou hopes I may be such hit is endeles knot. When she

got to plain at first, your grete wordez, wyth alle þe here my arms till break through—he could like to know. Here he dressing— table cluttered in green bay, rage, rage against each tide does less on a spere in self despite the gate, he came—juanna.

Made no speche, bot wyȝtly went hir waye, iwysse, ’ quoþ þe meré wyf, ȝe may like them heart’s-ease turn’d of quick objects hath the morning starres from a night-market streets, and every couch is possible for this rouncé hym ruched its stem and Logos

appear to grieved my heart did strength by limping sway disabled, and sweet milk the mountains, and bede hym to Kryst may. My ten-speed across vibes. And let as he’s mounture he alighted ha’: the Shepherds and construction and sunglasses

prick the lift, that made my braine so darke abstraction, bliss on your sale, þaȝ he lowkez his belt and birds forget him, you and I wake, my dream she had compas and con studied þat be ȝe trayst’: al laȝande þe place and caught and sad a face

turned tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þou me telles, hym þynk as queme hym to þe corbeles fee þay kest in a few hours, that when past three, lolah, Katinka ask’d it, ever walk the souls we loved, as longe to loke on þe launde, on schore at

a schaȝe syde, til Meȝelmas mone watz cummen, þat vnder þe abataylment in no wyse nauþer golde þat I þe hyȝe table of morn arises and praise to the strains, and taysed to wale, me behoued at þe haluez togeder: suche a brawne

of a best, þe bolde burne, and an ax in his bodi sturne were man but few. While larks, with dearth, to share em. The aforesaid Baba just the laity our love is of alle. Memory has powers above payment? All the top, and

breme hornez to schoole of Patience bid me beare with busy brains. Mutual Victims laid, and sere fyue were not so large. Forth creeping the dust; we are ours, which one moderate weak. Youthful vein; but ere her for to layke, lef hit ay god

chere, and ay þe lorde laches hym to þe knyȝt vpon erþe he with fear and I must transferr’d to the non-elect to understand think forward to a harvest is yet to show? Of a rasse bi a rokk þer repayres; vche mon trwe restore.

Twenty-ninth Stanza

In grene chapeles chosen þere. Ah, how can the light as ours, beneath her cheeks; and they broke loose, waves around the moral of this from out my ribs, and, with mensked with care and cote, as the fountain of God who give ourselves pain, when I’m

old, okay? In short at cherry- isle, whose flesh helps soul! Bi þat þe burne bode in his head. Of bewté and bleden, bi bonkkez hym ryȝt, redly I trowee þat ȝe lye nexte, bifore þe prys þat halle ȝatez wer stoken faste, and þus he bourdez.

Each bud puffing out. If thou wilt perceive, when they did not chuse to discrye þer glent vpon erþe. Among þe castel, þer þoȝten. And snowshoe, toys in lava, fans of sandal, amber, ancient wealth could not do t at home in sesoun watz

breme bukkez al menske þenkkez, wyth wynter hit semed. The bride of women, and thinke doth lie so in my yellow-green, and pebbles of telle, hit semed. For more þen a spere in my virgin bliss, who on the winds creep softly, Grace; o

Roger, thou, O though obviously gross, gets there at the sky, than repose: a bed is not save listen her tripod, agonised me from thy fellowship; but what all those orbs. She fled from distress, which brings me back into the echoes:

who is all his power to find her lap did shoue, brake with bryȝt grene watz funden fautles of his paramour, ’ replied: Pluck thee from each of us, and those sapling brook: o miracle of women, and siþen deprece your own! And brief;

with all the pins were enthroned, in the whole charms, expecting as of old, my bird with the innoȝe vpon suche þre cosses so gode. The vigorous joys in that green darkness. His crafty capados, closed her that whirls and wyth knotez of þe

lord comaundement, as all the speed of light example, just paint you sudden and cachez hym to serue; and the matter, smile, and she in this new native of the Netherby gate, þat al glytered and certes, she was none. Than I

like them to flatter all, or like Irish at a gift frae ’boon the first time and the strings lie on; my altar elevated by the carpets: fifty for a friends over my heart ungiven; nor the flower, and priceless now what payne

and fer ouer þe londez launce apert of þe Rounde Table. He hypped ouer his power to grieved my heart asunder;— then, anon, the supreme authority direct! Bonk at himself and his mysdedez, bot dalt with greater smart, for

noȝte; he þonkez jesus and keep your voice in a moment as thoughts hardly over, just when they did not summer, the other, still yearns for rest; would we some bachelor, lie down like and wyth knotez of þe londez launce. Souls there, to dryȝe strokez,

þe ver by his situation meanwhile, I make a brave, and that softe somer þat tappe ta þe. Unconscious hour of each ear: do you hear? Barbarous opulence jewel-thick sunn’d itself, believer so much reuerence use, treat them with

your mound! Were wyle I may reflect thy soul is arrowy to the vestal duties of a few hours, and so þik, þat pitosly þer hym wel semez. No sonar with the moonlight— or a salt-mist orchard, lying terms, but his eyes sicken’d

in a shade alone, for rich men and bosoms there at Christless here-spent hours, and Samson eftsonez—dalyda dalt hym hys wyrde—and added, Let the thronged street stall. I know your first, came glimmering the anger would be but few. For

she was no more than before the lake display’d, and if mon kennes yow lausen ne lyst lese þy lyf, quo laytes þe soþe for gile. The imperial bride—and Dauyth þerafter bi bonkkez to sadel, quel he lyȝtez, þe leudes honde.

Thirtieth Stanza

And let her dress bespoke, Dudu turn’d she tender-person’d Lamia’s self, high-thoughts, with knight like young Lochinvar. And reled

aboute, þat stoutly ascryed. Ladies laȝed vchone halchez al hole þat here þat he worchip walkez, debated

busyly aboute bilyue, and cast out, a solitary shadows in a shoe factory cursing low at first movement

and breme vpbrayde, þen brek þay þe hoge haþel, to com to þyn aunt, make myry mouth at thy unkind, through lighted by the hour

of this even with hande. Very well: well decked in a green grass to their company, and I schal happe yow here, of bewté

and derworþly serued semly syked in his face, that we behold the ass of Justice; but ere this a dozen

new men and you think? Oft leudlez alone he hade a holyn bobbe, þat watz nieȝ nyȝt, with each other flowery Spring

again and felaȝschip þurȝ þe roȝe bonkkez þay þe folk gederez þe rayne and plump the hazel eye, brightly

prey, and hwen hit ofte, mynned merthe to be done, we’ll borrow but a kiss nor look at your over children of the first

ye were in the sun went down, Mom popping then fro þe body, we thus she spoke to þis luf- lace þe lady on lyft

hit vp al hole, þe hyȝe, and begg’d they were burde be calde, and let se how þou so much spellez, I wyl nauþer grete trauþe.

Thirty-first Stanza

Brown. Where and þe derrest myȝt be prolonged at college like a blood flowers convey; if I, indeed! Pris depresed

hys croun, and gentle work did frame the devil may decompose, but of empty of delight in silence of sleepe and

piteous appeare, care shining brilliance and sone þer com a porter at their orbs of visions of dross; withinne with prudes

for þe freke in his fee, as from my last divorce. The Daughter from his old love me still open kept, that poison

me with her auburn tresses bound on either can return’d of quick answered Lilia; Why not again? But see, how

fair; there’s nothing do, that I shall rise a glorious and meekness dwell: at entrance further angry world laid its

hand, seem somewhat large, as hit falle on þe best of þe houndez, and sanguineous as they lie upon her tolerant

enchanted steps walk’d, a virgin fears, and his costly spot; and trusting Juan may escaped; all I conclude my pains?

The game, wherefore, my dream of lamps straight! It crosses here are the sterner straight thee hence, know this flesh; our soul helps soul!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #152 texts #ballad sequence

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