#The townspeople danced on the colorful road

[sarahisslytherin]

duty and honor.

cregan stark x tyrell!reader

summary: it has been decided. you are to wed the young lord stark. you know little of him or the north but will do your duty. this, however, does not release you from your worry of how the union will go or how you will settle into your role as lady of winterfell. luckily, cregan takes it upon himself to make you feel at home.

contains: fluff, people rooting for a bedding ceremony.

a/n: i am so in love with this man i need to be restrained.

word count: 2k

The carriage rocked on the road to Winterfell, your ocean blue gown ruffling as it did. You tried your best to ignore the wild beat of your heart in your chest, tried focusing instead on the growing pines that passed your window with increasing speed. Your mother sat at your side, a stoic presence that soothed you somehow. You took her hand in your own, and when she looked at you you didn’t have it in you to mask your utter fear. 

“You will be alright, child.” she sighed, bringing that same hand up to cup your cheek. “Lord Stark is a good man. I know you will be far from all that you know, but surely you will grow to love your new home as well as your betrothed.”

When you finally came to a halt outside its gates, you felt your heart drop to your stomach. You clutched your mother’s hand like a frightened babe when they drew open. The courtyard was full of expectant faces you knew you would eventually commit to memory. The townspeople were out and about, young rosy-cheeked girls squealing with delight as they spotted your carriage. Their soon-to-be Lady was within it, and you could only hope when the time came that you would not fall short of their expectations. They watched keenly as you stopped before them one final time, and you prepared to be devoured by hungry, prying eyes. You tugged on the fur lining of your cloak as your mother stepped down from the carriage. You quickly followed suit.

Indeed, you could feel their glares cutting clean through you. You had known enough ladies and lords to know they were searching for faults and virtues to remark upon as soon as you were out of earshot, but there were so many faces you could not focus on a single one. 

Instead your gaze swiftly fell upon the mountain of a man that was the young Lord Stark. His chestnut locks fell in such a manner that they delicately framed a rather rugged face, on which a scowl seemed to be permanently etched. But this was to be expected. It was common knowledge that smiles were rare amongst Northmen. Though winter was still months away, he was already cloaked head to toe in furs, an uncommonly large sword strapped across the broad expanse of his back. 

“Lady Y/N, welcome to Winterfell.” he rasped, his voice quite gravelly and masculine for so young a man. You offered him a small curtsy in return, but couldn’t quite muster up the agreeable smile your mother had asked you to perfect on the way here. You tried your best not to gawk as you took in the ancient castle, trailing behind Lord Stark as he strode through Winterfell’s stony halls. The biting cold of the north left your bones as you approached the hearth in the Great Hall. 

You listened as your mother exchanged pleasantries with members of Lord Stark’s court, though your eyes did not leave the dancing flames and glowing embers.

“You’re a long way from Highgarden.” he said as he came to stand beside you. His accent was harsh, the vowels flat and words clipped, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t find it somewhat pleasant to your ear.

You turned to regard him. Gods, he was beautiful. The fire cast his features in a golden hue, the color returning to his cheeks. He was a sight to behold, powerful and perhaps even fearsome, but in this moment so soft. You wondered what your future with him would look like. Would he take a liking to you? Would he hate you? When you eventually gave him children, would they take after their mother or father? Would it be a life worth living?

“Yes, my Lord.” you sighed, rubbing your hands up and down your arms. “A long way indeed.”

The muted ivory of your gown made you appear one with the snow of the Godswood. Your hair was unbound, save for the intricate braiding around the crown of your head. Only the moon’s and torches’ light showed you the way to the weirwood tree. Your father swiftly came to your side, looping your arm in his. He offered you a gentle caress along your icy cheek, a solemn look about his face as if watching a spring rose being sacrificed to the unforgiving cold of winter. Wordlessly, you began to walk.

Despite the North’s fame for brutal winters and even more brutal people, you couldn’t help but marvel at the quiet beauty of the Godswood. So still was it, that you could have sworn you felt its ancientness in your bones, could feel every ring of age around each tree stump. Snowflakes danced on their way down, coming to land upon strands of your hair. It was then that you saw him before the weirwood, his lips drawn into a thin line. He was covered in dark furs and a cloak, his hands clasped behind his straightened back. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” The words were spoken by a family ward. 

“Y/N of the House Tyrell.” your father replied. “She comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

You watched as Lord Stark approached, towering over you. You hoped you would grow accustomed to it, to him. You held your breath when he spoke. “Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” 

You dared to look up, to meet his gaze. You found nothing but gentleness in them. “Who gives her?” Your father spoke his name. And now the ward asked you the question. 

“Lady Y/N, will you take this man?”

You could feel the overbearing weight of watchful eyes, of held breaths and keen ears. But Cregan’s eyes hadn’t left yours, determined to hold your gaze. You could have sworn a flicker of joy shone in them when you gasped out. 

“I take this man.”

Cregan offered you a shy curl of his lips, then took your hands in his. You noted that they were far smaller in comparison to his weathered hands as he led you to the trunk of the weirwood tree. Its face provided you with some strange comfort. Perhaps the gods would heed your prayers. Perhaps they were watching over you as you both knelt before the trunk. Silence fell upon the Godswood as the wedding party prayed. No sooner had the moment passed that you and your now husband rose to your feet. Cregan’s large hands reached around you to gingerly remove your cloak, a golden Tyrell rose embroidered upon it by your mother. 

You shivered as the cold crept into your body, but were swiftly covered once again, this time in a Stark cloak, the wolf sigil stitched boldly enough for all to see. And just like that, it was done.

It was the first time you had seen him smile, truly smile, since you had arrived at Winterfell. From where you sat at his side on the dais, the entirety of the Great Hall stretched out before you. Jovial music filled the hall, and you watched the merry faces of Cregan’s men as they helped themselves to the wedding feast. Their chatter echoed on the stone walls, and for the first time since you had left Highgarden, you felt somewhat at home.

“Has Winterfell begun to grow on you, wife?” Cregan’s husky voice came from your left. When you turned to meet him he was wearing a boyish smirk. He was playing. You didn’t suspect the Wolf of the North had it in him.

“Well, it may be a while longer before that happens.” you sheepishly admitted, struggling to hold his intense gaze. “But I know I will come to love it.”

“Aye.” he said. “I know it will never be your true home, but I promise you I will do all in my power to make it the next best thing.” He placed his large hand atop your own, taking your palm and squeezing it gingerly. You were thankful for the gesture, and couldn’t ignore the flush of your cheeks that resulted from it.

“You’re timid.” he observed, only causing you further embarrassment. “It’s quite charming.”

“You may very well be the only person who finds it to be so. Even back home my soft temper has been known to irritate others. Most times people can barely hear me when I speak. I find it easier to keep to myself and observe.” you confessed. “I truly must grow a thicker skin if I am to survive amongst the wolves.”

“You won’t survive.” Cregan stated matter of factly. You whipped your head toward him with wide eyes at that, not prepared for what he would say next. “You will thrive.”

You felt your muscles loosen up once again, offering him an incredulous laugh.

“I am perfectly serious, my Lady.” he went on. “You will rule the North at my side.”

“I hardly think I am equipped to rule such an – unruly people, my Lord.” you tried to mask the nervous tremble of your hand as you brought your wine to your lips.

“Cregan.” he rasped. “Call me Cregan.” You nodded, eyes crinkling above a smile. He leaned in, as if he were about to tell you a most precious secret. “Sometimes all a beast truly needs is the touch of a gentle hand.” 

You backed away to meet his eyes. They held nothing but truth in them. Nothing but honor. But your moment was soon ended by the clamor of the wedding party. The men began to holler, whooping and howling in unison. “Time for the bedding!”

You had anticipated this, and you now braced yourself for the unpleasant experience of being hauled to a bed with Cregan. You had always known your first time would be like this, and though you loathed the idea, you could not alter tradition. It was a surprise to you when Cregan rose from his chair, planting his large hands on the dinner table before he spoke.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, but there will be no bedding ceremony tonight.” he bellowed out through the hall in a voice so commanding it was an effort not to shrink in his presence. “And I won’t hear any complaints about it. It’s too lovely an occasion to taint with a brawl.”

The men did their best to mask their disappointed groans as they returned to their dinner. You weren’t quite sure what had prompted Cregan to make such a decision. Did he not like you the way you had hoped? Perhaps he thought you fit to rule by him, to be a figurehead, but not someone he could ever desire in earnest. He must have read the emotions as they crossed your face, because he quickly took his seat beside you again. 

“Are you well, my Lady?” he asked. You merely nodded in response. He gently took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze towards his. “When you wish it to happen it will be just the two of us, husband and wife. No prying eyes or ears.”

Warmth bloomed in your heart at the words. It was as if he had quieted the growing storm in your mind with only the touch of a hand. A gentle hand.

“You are a man of honor, Cregan.” you said resolutely.

He only smiled in return as he brought you in closer, finally pressing his lips to yours. The touch sent sparks down your spine. It was in that moment you knew that spark would soon fan into a flame a thousand northern winds could not snuff out.

tagging: @velvetcloxds @oweninadaydream @spxllcxstxr @lovemesomevesey @shemisseshome @themissgreen24-blog @siriusement @kingdomzeldaquest @gayfordabae @slayis4ever

[best24news]

Rewari News: रंगारंग राहगिरी पर झूमे शहरवासी

Rewari News: रंगारंग राहगिरी पर झूमे शहरवासी

रेवाडी: हर घर तिरंगा अभियान थीम को समर्पित राहगीरी का आयोजन रविवार सुबह रंगारंग प्रस्तति से हुआ। रेजांगला पार्क के सामने राहगीरी का मंच सजा और सांस्कृतिक गतिविधियों के साथ खेल स्पर्धाओं के डेमो भी दिए गए। राहगीरी में डीसी अशोक कुमार गर्ग व कोसली से विधायक लक्ष्मण सिंह यादव ने रेवाड़ी वासियों को हर घर तिरंगा अभियान में भागीदार बनने के लिए प्रेरित किया। राहगीरी में सूत्रधार की भूमिका विख्यात…

[dizzydennis]

Sonic & Vector - Sonic Channel Cover Story [English Translation]

Translator note: Please understand that I am not fluent. I am doing this to get some language practice and to bring this fun story to other Sonic fans. Constructive criticism is fine, but please don’t be rude or overly criticize my translation efforts.

“Oh, Sonic! I see you’re active as usual, Mr. Lady-Killer!”

One afternoon, the clear blue sky washed over the chalk-white building of Apotos.

In the middle of the town plaza, Sonic was sitting on a pile of wreckage. This wreckage being Eggman’s robots. He was overwhelmed when he heard that voice shout at him. That strong voice belonged to the giant crocodile who was also an incredible private detective... Vector the Crocodile.

The town and the people within it had not yet calmed down from the trouble caused by Eggman’s robot attack. Sonic replied with a sigh while looking towards Vector.

“Lady-Killer, heh. That’s right. But I’m more hungry than attractive right now. The chilidog shop hasn’t reopened yet.”

“Hahaha, seems about right. I rushed over here as soon as I heard trouble going down, but it seems like things settled down without my help.”

As dusk came, a red hue covered the white city. After the chaos subsided, Sonic and Vector consulted with the townspeople who had gathered around. They were told that Apotos has been attacked by Eggman’s robots every couple days for the past few months, but nobody knew why.

Vector danced to Sonic’s side with a big smile. His passion was bubbling up inside too as he said “Now things are getting pretty interesting!”

“If you need somebody to solve this mystery, just leave it to Vector! Let’s just make this clear. The reward for solving this will be food and drinks! Everybody knows of my talents. Ain’t that right, Sonic?”

Since Sonic was brought up, the townspeople became struck with interest as they looked at the Blue Blur.

“What!? Well...uh... I guess he’s the best detective I know...”

Vector burst out in such a good mood that he didn’t notice Sonic mumbling,

“Although I don’t know of any other detectives...”

“Yeah! I’m the leader of the Chaotix Detective Agency and there’s no mystery that good ol’ Vector can’t solve!”

Sonic shrugged and chuckled bitterly. Anyway, the investigation into the Apotos attacks would soon begin.

Vector was in a good mood as he surveyed his surroundings in the morning.

While listening to Sonic, who followed with a blank expression, Vector grinned as he traced footprints left on the road by some mischievous robots.

After spending about half the day following these footprints, they ended up in front of a general store. Vector gave a mysterious look as he began to connect the dots.

“This shop smells funny ...the robots gross footprints cross right in front of this shop... Moreover, we heard that the attacks only occurred on clear days... and all the robots seemed like they were breaking at the seams... I got it!”

Vector’s eyes opened wide as he shouted,

“The chilidogs in this shop are so delicious that the robots can’t resist them!”

“WHAT!? How’d you come to that conclusion!?”

"It is a well-known fact among the locals that this here store, "Seagulls of the Waves," is secretly a chili dog store! On a clear day, customers even line up. Even a robot that could fall apart at any moment would be lured in by the smell and they’d stand here in this soil just to get a bite!"

“Robots don’t even eat. Did you forget that?”

“That’s exactly what Eggman wants you to think!”

Vector slipped past Sonic and threw his momentum into the door, swinging it open. He was greeted by the elderly shopkeeper.

“Ah, so it’s just a general store. Daily necessities, souvenirs, stones, antiques, and... look what we have here! A chili dog!”

Vector walked around the store, letting his mouth run to the flabbergasted shopkeeper. He suddenly noticed a dark stone by the window. He closed his eyes for a moment and while reaching for it, he grabbed the chilidog and started scarfing it down!

“What’a know! This ain’t half bad! So, the real culprit is you, Old Man!”

As expected, the elderly man got pretty angry and kicked Vector out of his shop. Vector dashed out into the town!

“Don’t try that nonsense again!”

“Oh, but my deductions...”

Nevertheless, Sonic was getting sick of Vector’s messy investigation skills, but then he something stuck out to him.

“Was it... just a ploy for him to steal it...”

The streets of Apotos shined blue beneath the moonlight. On a small hill overlooking the town, there was the faint figure of Vector with a delightfully devilish smile. It seemed like something was shining in his right hand.

Eggman’s robots began to show up. They were older models, broken and moving awkwardly, but they had their eyes et on Vector; he was seen as an enemy.

“Is it because of this little guy?”

In Vector’s hand was the stone he “borrowed” from the general store. Vector let out a strong cough and then belted out in a loud voice,

“Our story begins with the old man at the general store picking up this little fella! Sometimes, this little stone shimmers with pure energy with seven colors. It definitely seems like those robots are attracted to this thing.”

Dozens of robots made a circle around Vector and started to close in on him.

“I wonder if the signal this thing was sending out was attracting these old junkbots. On a clear day like today, perhaps they were able to detect it from far off? The real criminal of this case... is this... CHAOS EMERALD!?”

Vector raised the Chaos Emerald to the night sky with his right hand.

As if one cue, the robots moved in to attack Vector from every direction, but they were all wiped out in an instant cause in the wake of a blue afterimage.

Vector smiled as the robots were lifted up and exploded into nothingness. After a brief moment, Sonic appeared there without making a sound.

“After all that, the great Sonic appears! Seems you heard me then!”

“I’m just relieved that the stupid voice I heard wasn’t just some guy giving a soliloquy, but it was you, Vector!”

Sonic had quickly realized that Vector had “borrowed” the Chaos Emerald from the general store and, on his own, was following the detective crocodile. However, there were still things that Sonic didn’t understand.

“Why’d you just run off without explaining anything?”

“Well, if everybody in the town knew the source of these attacks, it’d cause a lot of trouble for that nice shopkeeper, right? My rewards were already decided, so what’s a little bit of shame on top of that. You know?”

“Phew,” Sonic whistled as he was impressed. Throughout it all, Vector was focused on solving the case.

“Now I get it,” Sonic muttered as he looked around and then said,

“But Vector... the people of this town are kind and understanding. Right, everyone?”

Sonic then gave a signal as he turned around to show the townspeople coming to the two heroes; the elderly shopkeeper too.

“The stone I had grabbed caused so much trouble to everyone...”

The townspeople replied, “Nobody in Apotos blames you for this!” “That’s right.” “We all think so too!”

There was so much compassion for the old man. However, Vector wanted to know the whole story,

“Why are all the townsfolk here!?”

Sonic quickly replied, “Sorry! The truth is... since you stole the Chaos Emerald from the general store, I told the nice man that I’d catch you and I brought them here.”

“Hey, hey! What kind of sick joke is this!?”

“Can’t you see this is how it happened? Well, just by chance, everything sort of worked out in front of everybody. So it’s all good!”

“Urgggh! (Give me a break. You told everybody about what I did.)”

Sonic was thinking about Vector’s future with the people of this town.

That’s right. Sonic was making sure that Vector was being taken care of. Even when faced with such a cool hero, Vector gave way to a bitter smile.

After all, Sonic would take care of the Chaos Emerald. Now the people of Apotos didn’t need to worry about being attacked by robots. They seemed overjoyed with his revelation.

That night, a feast was held to celebrate solving the case and to celebrate the heroes’ success. Sonic was very happy with his pile of chili dogs.

It turns out that for the first few minutes, Sonic was reluctant to be quiet, but after having reading the room, he could see Vector was being called "Detective" by everybody. It put the crocodile in a very good mood!

Involuntarily, the Vector’s overly excited tone popped out.

"Oh, my beloved fans! I am Vector, the leader of the Chaotix Detective Agency, and there’s no mystery that I can't solve!"

Sonic responded with a thumbs-up.

"You got it... Mr. Lady-Killer!"

[mysteriesofmarcy]

Mystery Monday #11

Strong, Smart and Sweet: Calamity Powers Everywhere!

Three weeks ago we talked about how each season has a Calamity theme. Now here are some other things that come in threes and have the Calamity themes (color coded for your convenience):

The girls. Obviously.

The temples. Even more obviously.

I guess you could say Andrias, Barrel and Leif

Olivia, Yunnan and Marcy, for reasons I've discussed previously

I'm going to go with Hop Pop, Sprig and Polly (Sprig and HP could be switched but I'm fairly certain of Polly)

Family Shrub: Sprig taming Skip's pumpkin monster, Polly destroying Pollianna's training simulator, and Anne solving Emma the Newt's puzzle dungeon

Hop-Popular: mounting a beetle, feeding baby birds, and being dropped in the forest naked and forced to find your way home

As well as boxing the other candidate, getting back up after being told to stay down, and knowing where to campaign (which, seriously Hop Pop, you're 68 years old. You've participated in enough elections to know that towns vote for each other's mayors in Amphibia.)

Snow Day: watching over the townspeople, fighting a weasel, and figuring out how to help the weasel feed its family.

Reunion: deciding to help Wartwood instead of Sasha, coming up with a way to get the frogs out of the tower, and sword-fighting Sasha

Handy Anne: because Anne cared about the Plantars' farm, she figured out how to disaster-proof it

Anne Hunter: track your prey, use your surroundings, do the dance (put aside your self-consciousness and save your family)

Scavenger Hunt: Anne getting the kill-a-pillar out of the tree, Doris trying to solve the puzzle, and Gertie giving Anne some gnatchos

Olm Town Road thru Fight or Flight: Some allies like Tritonio joined the resistance because they cared about their neighbors, some like Mother Olm because they knew Andrias was evil, and some like Beatrix because they simply couldn't fight against it

And know that these are probably not all the examples, just those I could think of while writing this post. In fact, I bet you could find this pattern in just about every episode. You know what, that's a great idea. If you find another example of the Calamity Powers at work in Amphibia, send in an ask or a submission.

See you next week!

(Sorry, this is 20 minutes late now because I've been working on it for a while)

[ladyfluffbutt]

Vanessa Wilson

Age:23

Height: 6'8"

Nickname(s): Nessa, Nessi

Species: Red-Eared Slider (charcoal color morph)

Apologies this is gonna be long lol

Eye color: Hazel with blue flecks

Location: Willow Bloom, NY (in Appalachian MTS. Think of like the Catskills)

Weapon(s): Bow, throwing axes, hand-to-hand, hunting knife(trained to survive in wilderness)

Occupation(s): Mechanic/Metal Worker/Handy Turtle. Also helps family maintain park and lands

Hobbies: Building weird contraptions ex: kinetic wind sculptures, battle robots, and other oddities that may or may not be dangerous (May be a bit of a mad scientist. Mythbusters really inspires her), riding the lands on her horse, Atlas, off-roading, swimming, singing, dancing, collecting strange knick-knacks, hiking.

Likes: Cream cheese, steampunk, salt and vinegar chips, animals, horror movies, bananas, haning out with the young folk or Willow Bloom, Mythbusters, battle bots.

Dislikes: Most perfumes, beer, peanut butter, chocolate, skunk stink, roller slates, legos, sarcasm, folks refering to her as "toots, sweetheart, angelcakes, (sorry Mikey) baby, or any typical pet name.

(It's either Vanessa, Nessa, Nessi, Miss, or Ma'am. Show a lady some respect. Only her Maw and Paw can call her Sweety, Honey, Baby girl, and whatnot)

Personality: Chill but can be quick tempered if the wrong buttons are pushed. Can also be Stern and parental when it comes to the young. She can be extremely fierce when defending her family. Best to not threaten them. She had no qualms about killing someone in the name of her family's safety.

Bio:

Vanessa doesn't remember where she came from. Her now Father found her down in Tenessee off a highway he was hiking alongside. She'd fully mutated and was filthy, cold, and starving when he quickly carried her to his little cabin.

There he and his wife nursed her back to health. They named her and she was taken in jist like that. They loved their odd turtle baby just as much as their own 3-year-old son.

When they returned to their home in Willow Bloom they introduced little infant Vanessa to Dominic's parents then to the whole town. Vanessa grew up basically like a normal kid. She went to school, hung out with her human friends, played, and did all the normal things. Willow Bloom was a very small town and it was well out of the way and isolated with a population of only 327.

When there was the occasional outsider the townspeople were very quick to hide little Vanessa and keep close watch on the outsider till they left. As far as they're all concerned they're family; Everyone watches out for each other and their kids.

She did have to go through some strength training by her Mom when she was a bit older, as she was a lot stronger than a normal kid and had accidentally broke Eric's arm while they were roughhousing. Irizhia aslo began teaching her hand to hand combat since she always liked watching her Mom train and work out.

Survival training and hunting lessons were also a must as the mountains were a dangerous place. One needed to know how to take care of themselves in the event they ran into trouble.

Fun Facts

Despite punk-like appearance, Vanessa has a very deep south accent. (Thanks Dad)

Was voted "Hottest voice" by her peers in her graduating class, much to her embarrassment.

She loves country music but also has a thing for Van Halen, AC/DC, and some other rock and metal music.

Has her own place out in the woods where she works on her crazy inventions. It's also a big hangout place for the local kids and teens.

Hosts her own battle bots completion at her place for entertainment. She's not a computer wiz like Donnie but she knows her way around wiring and metal work.

May have somehow built a jet engine at one point and threw shit up behind it just to watch it explode and blast off.

Really good with her bow. Regularly makes trick shots.

Can even shoot bow with her feet.

Wears her bandana to cover up scars on her head.

Likes aqua/turquoise color cuz it was her Nana's favorite color.

Despite her size she's a really good dancer. She and her sis, Molly have won the local competition four years in a row.

Nessa has never really thought about where she came from or really what she is. She's fine not knowing and firmly believes she and Luma are the only giant turtle-people.

Has a "middle finger" tongue piercing she likes to show off. Also got her nose pierced and a slight split tongue.

Oof this took a lot longer to type out than I intended! But hey here's all about my Gal, Vanessa!

[danifics18]

🎃  Dance of the Wolves  🎃

Welcome to day one of Spooky Time Drabbles! I have thirty two prompts that I’m going to attempt to pump out in spirit of Spooky Season! If you want to see a continuation of any of these works- let me know! Once I post the majority of my Spooky Time Drabbles, I will be posting any extra smuts, or small continuations. 

Tags : Werewolf! Mingi//PWP//Marking//Slight ass play//cunnilingus//knotting// 

TW: Mentions of blood

Word Count : 4k

    General Masterlist    Ateez Masterlist

  With a cold breeze skittering down your spine, you place the last box inside your home to look around, figuring out where to place the new Halloween decorations you’d just bought that day.

  Moving away from a big city, to follow the feeling of Wanderlust- as your mother would’ve put it, to end up moving to a much smaller town in a more remote, forest area. It wasn’t even a quarter of the size that your previous town was, but you like it. The neighbors were kind, the community was tight-knit.

  It felt like home.

  And with the feeling of home and wanting to fit in in mind, you decided what better way to fit in than to join the town’s celebration by decorating your house to match the others. 

  Normally, for Halloween, you would’ve left a candy bowl out by your door for anyone in your apartment floor to get, along with hand delivering small bags of candy to your apartment’s security guard - Seokmin - for him and his kids to have, as well as to the elderly couple who lived right down the hall. But, besides that, you weren’t the one to really go out that night, preferring to stay in and watch movies like ‘Halloween Town’ or some other movie that wasn’t deemed as scary. 

  But much to your findings, people here didn’t celebrate Halloween, instead they celebrated something they called ‘The Dance of the Moon’ - where they essentially partied all night at home and at the town square. From what your town mayor , Mr. Song, explained to you, was that hundreds of years ago, the small town had been plagued by wolves. They would go after children, elderly, anyone who couldn’t readily fight back from being eaten. Every time someone was found missing, the townspeople would send a group to kill some wolves; how many people were taken and eaten- that was the amount of wolves that would be killed in return.

  “An eye for an eye,” as the older gentleman had explained, with a hardened look on his face.

  Supposedly, the resolution was found as the town had experimented with what would please the wolves- since back then, the closest town with a decent hunter was days away, and there weren’t enough people to both send out and watch over the rest of the town. The wolves would stop going after a lot of townspeople if there were sacrifices made.

  The Mayor was quick to assure that the legends hadn’t specified human sacrifices- they never exactly said what was sacrificed, really, but for the past thirty years or so, they had been using pigs, goats, or cows that were due to pass on soon. They would drop them off at a specific place in the forest, and knowing that the residents would be safe from any wolves, they would celebrate in the town festival until early dawn. 

  The last piece of information that Mayor Song had dropped on you before he handed you your house key- new residents had to participate in the festival. Seeing that you were the only resident to come in this year- it really is a small town with not a lot of travelers- he asked you to accompany the animals to the post; with his son, Mingi, of course. When you had agreed, Mayor Song had sent you on your way, notifying you that his son would pick you up with his animal hauler at around five, the evening of. 

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  To prepare yourself for the festival- that did make you a little unsettled, but you were sure it was just a stretched out rumor- you spent the week finding whatever Halloween knick-knacks for around the house that you could. 

  You had no plans of dressing up at all for the festival, until one of the ladies- Theresa- working the cash register, had asked if you had your outfit ready yet. With a glace to your face, she had explained that for the festival, people usually wear red, purple, white, and black. It didn’t have to be a full outfit or anything, but you would look like an outsider, since most of the town residents liked their outfits to look from back then. With that in mind, you quickly used up your last days trying to piece together an outfit with the corresponding colors.

  A white, knee-length, lace dress accompanied by a black headband, and purple nail polish. The red garment, however, left you slightly baffled. The only red clothing that you could find was a deep red cloak that you had bought on one of your ‘spurge days’, after getting your first job at seventeen. You didn’t need the item for anything, it just looked so cool that you had to have it. And now, so many years later, you contemplated wearing it- quickly deciding that you’d ask Mingi his opinion when he picked you up, but just in case, you’d wear a lipstick the same shade of red.

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  The day of the festival had left a pit of excitement in your gut. You hadn’t had work today- town’s rules that no work was permitted on holidays, and that included town holidays- and the same goes for tomorrow as well, although, it is asked of residents to come to the festival grounds to help clean up.

  As the day dwindled to late afternoon, you decided to head back home to get into your costume for later tonight, and then wait for the mayor’s son. This would be your first time meeting the boy, the only things you know is that you are the same age as him, and he’s got a deep voice- from what your coworker has told you.

  A loud knock on your front door snaps you out of your thoughts, checking yourself over one last time in the foyer mirror, before opening the door to see a tall man with brown hair- styled in a gelled undercut. 

  “Hi, I’m Mingi, it’s nice to meet you”, the mayor’s son reaches his hand out for a handshake, feeling your fingertips and palm tingle from the contact. Feeling thankful that he can’t notice the blush on your face, you shake his hand and return the greeting.

  You both take a moment to look each other over, and you have to admit, he looks good. He’s dressed in a flowy, long sleeve white shirt that has two untied strings in the front of the collar- showing off the black velvet choker with subtle deep purple moons embellished in the fabric - and a pair of cropped black pants. Looking up to meet his eyes properly, you gasp under your breath.

 Hearing a cow moo in the trailer behind him, he suggests that you guys leave now, before quickly turning to walk to his truck. Walking after him, you thank him as he opens your door for you, before he enters on his own side. 

  Throughout the drive, you both make small conversation about your likes and dislikes, finding out that you both had quite a bit in common. You were both shocked to find that you enjoyed things like Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, and neither one of you really like cake. You found out that he was a nature photographer who used to live a few hours away with some friends; he moved back a couple years prior after he had gotten attacked by some people who were illegally hunting who had mistaken him for an animal. He had plans to move back with his friends, he just felt like he should be back in his home roots for such a big injury. 

  Looking out the window, you try to make out any shapes of the passing by trees- the darkness of the early night made the forest a lot darker, being unable to see anything if it weren’t for Mingi’s headlights. For the next thirty minutes, the only view you could see was the dirt path with the occasional flying creature - probably bat - flying above the truck, before flying into the darkness. 

“We are almost where we need to be, there’s a small cabin that this road leads to. From there we can stop and walk the animals a mile out to the post”, Mingi says, his unnaturally bright, honey-colored eyes flashing over to you- being so bright that you can’t decide if they’re real or not. You’d been wanting to ask him since you had first noticed them, but you didn’t want to be nosy, or feel like you were asking a really obvious question. 

  Soon enough, the trees break away to show a meadow, a cabin and a shed in the middle of the clearing. Pulling the truck to a stop in the make-shift dirt driveway, you both get out and walk to the back end, where Mingi opens the back trailer revealing a single cow and two goats. Mingi hands you the leads for the goats as he takes the cow, and you both start walking down a pathway- stopping frequently when the animals decide to graze at the long grass. 

  Neither you or Mingi made conversation, besides the occasional comment towards the animals. Eventually, you both had made it to a pen of sorts, seeing other animals in the pen as well.

  Giving Mingi a questioning glance, he ignores you, taking the leads from you to walk the animals into the pen, before disappearing to the sheltered building, before coming out with handfuls of hay to give to the animals.

  “There’s no wolves out here, you know?” The tall man finally says, “ No actual wolves. Just me,” he finishes giving you a smile,” I know my father meant well, but I was hoping for this to be more natural.” Confused, you start walking backwards, your heart beating so hard you think it might go through your chest. 

  Not waiting for you to say anything, he continues, "I know you must be confused, but I can explain. You should probably stop walking back though; it is a full moon tonight, and my wolf isn’t in the playful mood tonight- especially not with how you smell.” As his last sentence rings through your ears, you quickly decide to ignore his warning, and run down the path back to the cabin.

  As you pump your legs faster you hear a forced laugh from the man, ”So this is the type of mate I have,” the pen gate rustles behind you, and as much as you want to look back, Mingi’s words make you feel the opposite. With the now red colored moon shining your path, you reach the cabin, not being able to decide what to do next. 

  Apparently, you wouldn’t have any time to decide anyways, seeing that as you started to go to the cabin’s door, a large hand grabs your shoulder, halting you from moving. Being forced to turn around, Mingi stares down at your form breathing heavily. Eyes widening, you start to squirm as you see his eyes now a deep red color, before freezing at the deep rumble that comes from his chest. 

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  “You're not too good at following directions, huh? C’mon, let’s get inside, I’ll make some tea and properly explain since you wouldn’t let me earlier. I won’t hurt you- if I had wanted to do that, I could've done that on the trip here,” He tells you with an unimpressed look, before walking you in front of him, to the cabin. 

  Minutes later, you were sitting down on a couch facing the fireplace with tea in hand, as Mingi sat on the recliner angled to the couch, tea in his hand as well. Taking a sip of his beverage, he clears his throat “ So, I’m sure my dad and some people have been talking about tonight’s festival,” you nod “Okay, well pretty much, my dad told you a different version of the town’s legend. We did try sending animals, but they hadn’t worked, it wasn’t until the town herbalist had offered to go out as a sacrifice instead. Seeing that nothing had worked, previously, and she was a recent widow, everyone let her,” Mingi stopped as he heard your soft gasp,” Apparently, she went out, and she did get attacked.”

  He paused, tilting his head as he asks” Did you know that wolves can tell when a human is pregnant?” You nod your head- you’d seen plenty of videos of how wolves in safe havens had reacted towards pregnant guests. Mingi smiles at your knowledge and continues on,” Well unfortunately, they noticed that she was pregnant after attacking her. As she was dying one of the she-wolves approached her, and somehow gave the human her life force- their spirits joining together. The lady survived, but she was the town’s first werewolf- her son being the first born werewolf. Seeing the power she had, the rest of the pack listened to her. As she went back to the town- the villagers considered it a blessing. It isn’t clear how it happened, but she was able to get the villagers to join their spirits with the pack. Of course there were people who rejected- and they left the village,” Mingi stops again sipping his drink.

  “How does that work though? Would that mean the entire town is full of werewolves? Isn’t that unsafe?” You ask, setting your now empty mug, on your lap. 

  “This has never been a town to get a lot of visitors. After a while of the town learning how to be wolves and humans, there were quite a few attempts to kill the pack from the people who’d left. The first woman, at that point she was what we call a Luna, had heard about a witch a few towns over who might be able to help- so they sought her out. After agreeing to help the witch with a small problem, the witch put a circle around the town. Other supernaturals can find the town- but to humans, this entire place is just forest. The only humans who can come here are like you, they’re mated. Destined to be with someone from here. And that person happens to be with me,” Pausing to gauge your reaction, he continues explaining,” Werewolves have mates, and they’re pretty much soulmates. I can tell because your scent is intoxicating for my wolf, it’s a very homey scent. You will be able to feel the pull the more we are around each other- for now, you’d probably get a ticklish feeling if I were to touch you,” You think back to when you’d shook his hands, and the feeling you got when you brushed against his arm- it makes sense, but earlier you had thought it was just your nerves from being around a handsome guy,” But eventually, you will develop a better sense of smell, and probably better hearing and sight- although it won’t be the same as being an actual werewolf. Unless, that is, you choose to reject me?” He questions with his facing down to look at the unlit fireplace.

  Taking a moment to think, you make up your mind before answering,” What do I have to lose?” You get up to place yourself on Mingi’s lap- something that you wouldn’t have done if it were anyone else, but you knew that you were comfortable with him.

  “I’m in a new town that although it might be new and strange, it still feels right. I definitely don’t understand the whole wolf thing, but there’s plenty of time to learn,” You finish, leaning into the large hand that was placed on your face. Feeling his breath on your face, you close your eyes as he gets closer.

  “I’m glad, now shall we go back to town? Everyone was really excited to be around a new face, you know,” Mingi says, placing a kiss on your nose.

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  Weeks turning into months, and months turning into years; two years precisely, you’d never imagined the day that you’d leave this cozy town that you had considered home.

  You and Mingi had officially started dating two weeks after first meeting- although, typically werewolves never really bothered with the whole dating thing, unless they weren’t mates- and you two were still going strong.

  With an influx of new packmates from a neighboring pack alliance, and Mingi’s need for joining back with his friends- which you had found out were actually his formed pack- you two decided to move away, to the plot of land that they owned.

  When you two had first pulled up to the place, you couldn’t help but scoff at your boyfriend’s words. “Only a small plot of land he says. And Disney World is just a small fair, right?” His only response had been a bashful grin. 

  The place still felt very homey, and very similar to your previous town; being located in the middle of nowhere, it was twenty acres of land, fenced off to show the property lines. It was pretty clever- seeing that when you first pulled into the main road in, it honestly looked pretty inconspicuous, if it weren’t for the big fence surrounding the place. 

  Meeting the pack members had made you a bit nervous, but you soon realized that they reminded you of brothers- very teasing, a little annoying at times, but you cared for them, and they cared for you. 

  Thankfully, you guys didn’t share a house together. It was bad enough that most times, you would wake up to find Wooyoung, Hongjoong, or hell- sometimes the entire pack in your house, eating your food and lounging about. Every pack member had their own individual houses- each spread out, and separated by a lot of trees.

  This was extremely helpful when it came to your boyfriend’s mating season.

  Usually, for his rutts, you guys had been fine for the most part. He hadn’t marked you yet, so of course, he would be a bit more aggressive and testy with the other males. But, unfortunately, his heat this time had definitely taken a toll on you both.

  With him being, essentially, part wolf, he can keep track of your cycles pretty well. If he’d noticed that you were bleeding, he’d be more attentive than usual. Early in your relationship, it had embarrassed you that he could literally smell you, but now - although it does cause some embarrassment - it doesn’t make you feel as weirded out, especially since he only tries to help you.

  But, a big downside of this has been him knowing when you’re ovulating. When this starts, you aren’t really allowed to go anywhere; Mingi’s wolf sees this time as your heat, even though humans don’t actually have one. It’s even worse when your ovulation is timed up with his rutt.

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  Laying on your stomach with your arms crossed under your head, you blink your eyes open, shutting them as the late afternoon sun works its way through your window. As you decide to fall back asleep before your boyfriend awakens, the hand that is wrapped around your waist, tightens; your naked body shifts under the loose sheet as you get moved to your side.

  You attempt to even out your breath to trick your needy boyfriend into thinking you were still asleep. You loved the attention he gave you during this time, but with how long you two were going at it earlier today - hence why you had taken the nap in the first place - you did have a small worry in the back of your head of you both getting over exhausted.

  Your plan quickly got thrown out the door; a growl emitting from the chest behind you, as Mingi rutts his bare length into your lower back.

  Spotting kisses around your neck and shoulder, your boyfriend speaks.

  “You know, I think it’s so cute,” placing a kiss on your shoulder “That you think I can’t tell when you’re awake,” placing a kiss where your shoulder meets your neck “When I can still smell your sweet cunt beg for attention when I barely graze you,” he finishes with a light bite below your ear; a place that makes you breathe out a whine.

  “Mingi, please,” “Please what?”

 Pouting at his teasing, you pull his hand that’s wrapped around your waist, and place it in between your legs- sure that he can feel the accumulated arousal.

  “Please fuck me, I really need it. I really need you,” You beg, tilting your head to the side as much as you can to tantalize him.

  In an instant, you are shoved onto your stomach, Mingi’s thick thighs straddling yours, his long length resting on your butt. Feeling his precum dripping onto you, you grind your ass up to feel some type of friction- being stopped by Mingi grabbing your hair and pulling you back enough for him to whisper in your ear.

  “Little mate, I suggest you not tease me. I would love to make you properly mine- but if you keep acting up, my wolf will take over, and you will be marked and knotted,” His raspy voice makes your eyes flutter back. Inhaling a deep breath, his hand in your hair tightens, as he undoubtedly smells the new wave of arousal gushing out from his words.

  “Please Mingi. Mark me, knot me, I don’t care. I just need you in -!” Your begging gets cut off as you feel your boyfriend crawl down you- him lifting your hips up, and sliding his tongue through your slit.

  Rolling your eyes back as his talented tongue does wonders on you, he grabs your ass cheeks for more leverage. After sliding his tongue into you a few times, mocking what’s next to come, he travels up, licking at the pink hole between your cheeks. Reaching your arms out behind you, you attempt to hold him in place to continue eating you out. Much to your disappointment, he gets back up to his previous position, holding your hands behind you.

  “Baby, hold yourself open for me,” You quickly obey, grabbing your cheeks to present yourself to him.

  His groan fills your ears, before feeling his cock enter you, him only stopping when his lower stomach is fully resting on you. Being left breathless from the sudden intrusion, you let out a loud moan when he pulls out, only to thrust back in- the power of the thrust shaking your form.

After a few more slower thrusts, his resolve finally breaks, as he starts snapping his hips into yours at a faster pace; the room filling with the sounds of moans, and slapping skin.

  Hands having fallen, you grasp the bed sheet, as you raise your hips back to meet Mingi’s thrusts.

  Feeling his cock throb inside you, you moan out, letting him know you’re close. He bends down closer to you, hips pistoning even faster. If it weren’t for the pillow between the wall and the headboard, you knew that there would for sure be a dent in the wall.

  Placing kisses on your shoulder, to sweeten the blow that was prepared to come, he finally finds your sweet spot; biting down on it as he feels you come around his length. Whining at the intensity of the strong orgasm, you don’t notice the trail of blood running down your collarbone, from where your boyfriend was latched onto you.

  Mingi finally pulls back, slowing down his thrusts as he comes, his cock swelling in size and pumping his seed into you directly.

  Gasping out at the slightly uncomfortable feeling, your attempts to wiggle around are thwarted by Mingi laying his upper body on you- turning your face to kiss it. 

  “So this is what knotting is?” you question, as the uncomfortable feeling subsides, having adjusted to his large size “Yes it is. The knot should go down in around twenty minutes- there was a lot that went in, so it’s going to take a little longer than usual,” He replies with a tired yawn.

  Turning over to your sides, you press your upper body against his before falling asleep feeling content.

[coffee-or-murder]

Harvest Day

Told from the perspective of my Drakewarden/smith half elf boy as he meets one Annabeth “Lemon” Bakhuizen. He has a crush, his family embaresses him, but he’s too lovestruck to really notice. Also his drake thinks he’s silly and just wants apples.

The door to his room was thrown open, the handle striking the wall with a crack, startling him and his drake awake with displeased grunts. Aodhán hissed at the short thin figure before pushing open the window and slipping out into the dark with a grumble. He turned bleary eyes to see his father striding into the room encased in a massive green sweater, a long thick yellow scarf wrapped around his neck that barely covered his wide grin and made his long eleven ears stick out horribly, and a pile of knitwear bundled in his arms.  

“Da’ what-”

“Get up Tadhgán it’s Harvest Day! We have so much to do and only a day to enjoy it!” he exclaimed as he walked to the bed and dropped the pile onto his lap. “Put those on and come out for breakfast. Aodhán’s scarf is the orange and yellow one. Make sure he wears it,” he ordered before turning and practically skipping out of his room. 

“It’s not even light yet!” he yelled after him, only getting a near maniacal laugh in response. His father loved Harvest Day, clearly, and always went a little crazy every year. The Bakhuizen Estate orchards grew nearly every fruit you could bake into something, but their apple orchard was by far the largest. They had nearly every color of apple you could imagine. After they’d done their main harvest, they always opened the gates to the townspeople so they could come and pick their fill. The morning was spent picking apples and catching up with neighbors, a picnic in the orchard for lunch, more picking, and then the town held their yearly Harvest Fair. There would be dancing and music and more food than they could ever eat. Strangely enough there were never any leftovers, no one could tell you who finished off the food. Tadhgán sighed, shrugging into the dark rusty red sweater, and hanging the brown and orange scarf around his neck. The sweater was a little tight on his broad shoulders, but not enough to be a problem. Da’s finally getting the hang of knitting these things. Simple breaches and works boots were hunted down easily enough, and he ran his fingers through his blond hair to tame it. He gathered up the long scarf for his drake before walking into the kitchen. Da’ was stirring something in the pot, oatmeal most likely, and singing one of his many poems barely in tune. His poor mother was still half asleep, head resting heavily on her hand as she glared down at her eggs and sausage. Tea was cooling in a mug next to the plate, but she was clearly not awake enough to notice it yet. 

“Morning Ma’,” he said quietly, chuckling as she grunted in response. As he walked past he reached out to ruffle Ma’s short dark hair, laughing as she swatted at his arm and jumped just out of reach. He’d pay for that later he knew, but it was always fun to tease her a bit when she was like this. Tadhgán opened the side door to the forge and smiled. The main forge was burning brightly, casting shadows all around the large open room and bathing Aodhán’s dark red scales in the orange light as he stared into the molten core of the forge. 

“Look. They are nearly waking,” the drake rumbled as he reached a claw down and shifted one of the eggs closer to the burning core. 

“I expect they’ll hatch by the end of the week. Won’t be happy about winter being right around the corner though,” he chuckled. His throat always felt a little strange when he spoke Draconic, like he’d gargled salt water wrong. Aodhán purred, or as close as a drake could get to purring, before he turned to look at him. Gold eyes quickly settled on the scarf in his arms and he sighed. 

“Again?”

“Every year. You know how much Da’ loves Harvest Day,” Tadhgán sighed. The drake hissed in annoyance, but let him wind the scarf around his neck and secure it with a messy knot. He patted his friend’s side before turning back to the kitchen and joining his family at the table. They ate in silence, his mother clearly still unhappy about being woken up so early, before gathering their baskets and slings to leave. Tadhgán quickly saddled up Aodhán, the two large baskets gently tapping the drake’s sides as he walked beside him. His parents were just ahead, Da’ linking their arms together and kissing his Ma’ hand. She grunted in response, and Da’ took the hint to stay quiet until she actually woke up. Da’ was such an early riser, and so happy about it, but it always took Ma’ awhile to get going. The walk to the Bakhuizen estate wasn’t too terribly far since they were already on the outskirts of town proper, and the fall air was crisp and cool. There were a few other people walking up the road to the estate, and they waved to each other. Thankfully everyone seemed to have come to the silent agreement that it was far too early to talk, so they all enjoyed the walk to the gates. They loomed ahead, easily twice the height of Aodhán, made entirely of bright white stone and gray metal. The gates had been pushed open, and some of the family were standing just inside to greet them. They had fresh scones and who knows how many kettles full of coffee or tea or ciders set out on a massive long table. A tiefling boy and firbolg were helping a half orc woman and halfling man sort out little cloths for people to wrap their scones in. The halfling made sure everyone walking in was at least offered a drink and a scone, but waved at Ma’ instead. Tadhgán waved for her, shaking his head at the offered food as he followed his father to the orchards. 

The Bakhuizen family weren’t bad people, just a little strange. Their matriarch, a very small nearly ancient halfling named Rosalind, had a strange habit of adopting seemingly random children and raising them in the estate. Some of her children or grandchildren  had done the same, to the point where there were so many different races of people living behind the sprawling estate walls it was  practically it’s own city.  They had quite a few bakeries in different towns, though the one in their town drew the most tourist attention out of them all. They had more money then they knew what to do with thanks to their various business ventures, but with Rosalind still making all of the company's business decisions and refusing to simply give her family money without working for it, they mostly had their heads on right. Mostly. Of course some of the family was entitled and rude, but you have those people in nearly every family. The big scandal was that after  Rosalind’s first husband, a local turnip farmer, passed away she took a tall elegant looking elf as her husband. They seemed very happy together though, and he would often carry her around the orchard during the harvest and feed her apples as they quietly chatted. So a little batty, but all around good people. 

“I’m awake now,” his Ma’ grumbled, waving back at him before squinting up at the sunrise and rubbing her eyes. Da’ gleefully leaned up to kiss her cheek, and squeezed their linked arms before he chattered away about all of his plans for the day. His mother’s dark brown eyes simply gazed down at her exuberant husband and she smiled softly. They were a bit of an odd couple too, a human drakewarden smith and an elf writer turned househusband, but certainly not the strangest here.   

“Will I get baked apples again?” Aodhán asked as he kept pace. 

“I think your chances are pretty high. I can always throw an apple down to you and you can roast it yourself,” he answered. His drake rumbled, clearly pleased at the promise of the sweet treat and trotted a bit faster. The group quickly approached neat rows of immaculate apple trees, all heavy with fruit and stretching on for nearly as far as they could see. The other groups quickly broke off, heading in the direction of their favorite apples and following the helpful wooden signs staked into the ground. His family kept walking, occasionally coming upon other townsfolk or Bakhuizen family members having their own fun picking or playing chase together. A halfling woman wearing the Bakhuizen crest embroidered into her shawl was glaring angrily up into a tree, hands on her hips and a scowl marrying what could have been a pretty face. 

“You get down from there right now! This is not what young ladies do!” the halfling woman screeched up into the massive apple tree. Tadhgán looked up and felt the breath leap out of his lungs. A halfling girl was in the boughs of the tree, dark chestnut hair haloed in the sunrise. Large dark green eyes sparkled with mischief as she plucked another bright yellow apple and slipped it into the nearly full sling across her chest. She grinned, full lips curling up as she stared defiantly down at the woman. 

“Clearly it is, since I am in fact doing it and still a young lady,” the girl said. The wind caught her long thick braid, the yellow ribbon holding the strands together fluttering like a banner. Gods she was beautiful. His heart was pounding, and Aodhán rumbled, questioning his rider’s sudden nerves. 

“Listen to your mother and get down here before you fall!” the woman snapped. She stomped her foot for emphasis, but the girl looked entirely unimpressed. Her gaze suddenly met his and what little air he managed to get back was gone again as her grin widened. 

“You there! Will you help a lady down?” she called out to him. His tongue suddenly felt too heavy to move and he nodded instead, taking a step towards her. 

“Should we find you a ladder?” Da’ called up. She started to walk on a thick branch towards Tadhgán and shook her head. Her pants were nearly skin tight, showing off the curve of her thigh even as the large white shirt she wore covered the rest of her body. The sun still shone through the white fabric, showing just a hint of the gentle dip of her waist. She had no shoes. How had she climbed up with no shoes? Or ladder?

“You look pretty strong. Think you could catch me?” she asked instead, leaning over slightly to look at him with her head cocked. Her mother screeched something, he wasn’t really listening to be honest, and he nodded again. She couldn’t have been more than three feet tall after all, and he was nearly twice that. He’d worked in the forge and trained as a drakewarden since he could walk, so he certainly had the muscle mass to carry something as small as her. Still, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest when she simply fell off the branch towards him. He lurched forwards, catching her in his arms and holding her close for a moment. Apples. She smelled like apples and lemons and something baking. “Excellent job sir,” she said, patting his forearm with her tiny hand. She was so tiny, and shockingly warm against the chill.  

“No problem,” he mumbled, leaning over to put her on the ground. His hands flexed at his sides as she dusted her shirt off and beamed up at him. 

“Thank you for catching me. My name is Annabeth Bakhouzin, but you are very much welcome to call me Lemon,” she said with a small curtsy. She used the billowing fabric of her tunic as a skirt when she curtsied. He gulped, trying to swallow around the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. Aodhán cackled behind him, nudging his back and grunting for him to get it together. 

“Ah I’m Tadhgán McGowan at your service Miss. Lemon, the smith’s son,” he stuttered. She cocked her head to the side -gods her eyes were such a dark green he could barely make out her iris- and scrunched up her nose a bit. 

“I’m sorry your accent is a little hard for me. Your name is Tadhgán correct? Like tea-gon?” she asked, confused. He gulped, and nodded. Clearly he was not up to speaking. She smiled again, before turning around to face her mother, her braid swinging at the motion. “There. Mr. Tadhgán helped me out of the tree, and now I am solidly on the ground again. If you’ll excuse me, I have a new recipe to test with these lovely apples,” she said before looking back at him and winking. “If you come by the party tonight I’ll be sure to save you a couple turnovers. My new recipe is going to win the baking contest for sure.”

“He’ll be there lass, don’t worry. He’s an excellent dancer too,” Ma’ called out, smirking at her son as Da’ held back his laughter behind his hand. Lemon beamed at his Ma’ and nodded, waving at them as she ran off, closely followed by her still screeching mother. He watched her run away, the yellow ribbon streaming behind her, and he could barely catch his breath. 

“I remember the first time I met your mother,” Da’ sighed dreamily from beside Ma’. “Harvest Day is the best day of the year. It’s so romantic. Why when I met your mother I-.”

“Don’t tease the boy. He’s embarrassed enough,” Ma’ chuckled before leading Da’ on deeper into the orchard. Aodhán rumbled behind him, pushing his head into his back to get him moving again. Maybe Harvest Day was worth getting up before the light for, especially if he got to see Miss. Lemon again. Maybe later they’d need an extra hand around the estate?   

[lady-literature]

what a lion cannot manage

i have no excuse for this except that it is apparently my Brand™ now to write very niche AU’s that take one look at canon and then punch it in the face for being such a fucking nerd.

enjoy.

Ao3 | chp 1 | chp 2 | chp 3 | chp 4

Midoriya Izumi is born wailing.

A crying waif of a girl with eyes like copper-sulfate flames and magic bubbling hot and bright beneath her skin.

Inko stares, exhausted and flushed with the glow of new motherhood, down at her beautiful baby girl cradled in her arms. Her family gathers in close, yelling and jostling for a glimpse at their newest addition. 

She runs her pinkie finger down her daughter’s short stub of a nose, sweeps it under her fragile eye and over the bright apple of her chubby cheek all in one smooth motion. Izumi quiets almost immediately, and her big, green eyes stare up at Inko with far too much intelligence for a freshly born babe to have.

But, well, Izumi is no normal infant.

"Welcome to the world," Inko whispers over the shouts around her. Such a joyous occasion this is, she can’t fault them for yipping and barking in celebration. "It will shake beneath your feet, my sha’alabbin."

***

The family celebrates for three days following Izumi’s birth, as tradition dictates.

One day for love, one day for health, and one day for magic.

The celebration on the third day is very large indeed, for they have much to celebrate for.

***

Izumi is bundled into a cosy nursery nestled in the center of a large manor at the edge of a small, sleepy town. She sleeps in the nexus of the house, carefully chosen for her over the many months the family waited for her arrival.

Her room is decorated in forest greens and honey soft golds, filled with books and toys and many, many chairs for the steady stream of visitors she sees every day. There’s not a moment in her life where Izumi wonders if she is loved because it is painted in every crack and seam of her world.

Even she, still tender with infancy and still so ignorant to the world and how it works—but learning, oh, how quickly she learns—Izumi knows this. She knows because it’s obvious.

That doesn't stop her from crying when she thinks she’s alone, of course.

Object permanence takes longer to grasp than the love of her skulk.

***

No one in town can agree on exactly how many Midoriyas there are.

The family has lived there for generations, they’re as woven into the land and town as the roads and fields and rivers are. Everyone knows the Midoriyas.

But only as a group. A whole. Because knowing individual Midoriyas is infinitely trickier.

The family is friendly, and active enough in the town, but they’re so private. Living off at the very edge of town and half-hidden in the forest. And there always seems to be some strange relative visiting from one place or another, or family friends staying for this reason or that.

The number of Midoriays always seems to be changing.

But the townspeople, whenever asked, always seem to agree that there can’t be more than twelve at the house full time.

(There’s more than double that living within the manor. And none of them are ever ‘just visiting’.

None of the family ever corrects them.)

***

Izumi’s first word is momma.

Her second is why?

Her third is how?

Such a curious child, with questions spinning and whirling behind her eyes too fast to keep up with. She babbles non-stop, not quite words falling from her lips quicker than anyone can keep up with, including herself.

She cries when the skulk can’t understand her. Cries when her thoughts move too quickly for her to keep up with. Cries when she’s frustrated, hungry, sad, happy—cries and cries and cries.

All children cry when they’re young, but Midoriya Izumi never gets the memo to stop.

It becomes her most favored form of communication. And when you live in a house half bursting with foxes who can smell the different chemicals in your tears and hear the stuttering of your heartbeat, it’s a terribly valid way to do things.

So she does just fine, all things considered.

***

For the first few years, foxes are normal for the most part. Human, except for perhaps the ears and tail.

It’s not until they’re older that the strength comes in, or the strange affinity for words and Promises. It’s not until they’re older that magic begins pressing down on them with a suffocatingly affectionate weight, possessive in all things it deems to own.

At least, it shouldn’t. But as with so many things, the fledgling curse the Midoriyas are under complicates everything it touches.

It’s a good thing Inko had already been planning to be a stay at home mother, because Izumi is barely a year old and dances with magic like they are old friends. It clings to her in a way it hasn’t touched any of the skulk in years. Not since the curse that was meant to kill them bound them all to their own land instead.

Izumi is the first child born to the Midoriya skulk in over twenty years, is the first child born as Shual Nephesh in even longer. She is the first of the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter—a legacy of batsheva. Perhaps she would have been strange and different no matter what. Would have had this unusual relationship with the world even without the curse twisting everything.

But they will never know, and it does not help to think of what-ifs.

Inko worries, because her daughter is bright and clever and beloved even for a fox. Magic clings to her daughter’s soul and fate waits in her shadow and Inko worries because it doesn’t matter how much They may love Their avatars. So many great heroes of myth and legend—demi-gods by name and not—have been dearly loved and still shattered under the weight of their destiny.

One day, Izumi will burn for that life, and Inko will be helpless to stop her.

But for now, Izumi is allowed to just be small, is allowed to be a child and there is nowhere else Inko would rather be. So Inko stays at the family home even when the skulk could take care of her daughter as she worked, and she watches with pride and affection as her little Izumi grows and grows and grows.

***

Sat on Auntie Umi’s lap, Izumi hums without a care in the world.

Her Auntie’s long riot of black curls is pulled up on top of her head, safely out of reach of Izumi’s curious hands. She twists them into the strings of beads hanging around her Auntie’s neck instead. There are dozens of them carefully beaded onto the strings, each one unique in size and shape and color.

As Izumi touches them she knows—not sure how or why, but she knows—that they are not normal beads. Her fingers jolt at their touch and if she looks close, she can see they shine with a light that no normal glass bead has.

Everyone in the family has some. Prettily coloured not-beads hanging from necks and wrists and ears.

Nona has the most of them all. Her arms jangle and clink with all the jewelry she carries, but her neck stays bare save for a simple choker twined around her throat.

She asks then, because she’s never been good at keeping her words or questions to herself. Never quite grasped the talent of being silent. All her ideas and thoughts are too big and too many to keep neatly tucked away inside her head.

Uncle Kyo says that’s going to get her into trouble someday. He says that a silent fox is a clever fox, but Izumi doesn’t think that sounds quite right. Her thoughts are all too loud to keep them all inside. Isn’t it cleverer to get them out?

But then, she thinks, maybe she’s just a bad fox.

“They’re Promises, little kit.” Auntie Umi carefully untangles her fingers from the strings before playfully nipping at them and making her laugh. “Favors and debts and prizes I’ve won fair and square.”

“Like in a game?”

“Yes. I suppose,” Auntie Umi smiles in that way Izumi knows means she only got it kind of right. “It is quite like a game.”

***

Once she’s old enough to walk around town, Izumi captures the townspeople's hearts with startling ease. They quickly grow used to having her underfoot, always running about and asking questions and seemingly unintentionally causing mischief wherever she turns.

She’s such a curious and bright child. Spends hours upon hours reading any book she can get her hands on. Her eyes are a constant flicker of green, taking in everything around her with a sharpness no toddler should have.

Watching, learning, remembering—gorging herself on knowledge of any kind.

The librarians start to recognize and dote on her, so ardent in her pursuit of knowledge. They regularly give her treats and gifts, things Izumi takes and then repays as quickly as possible by helping to reshelve books or run errands or speak to the pixies living in the shelves to give back what they took when someone loses something valuable.

(“You are not fae,” her Nona says, “so your actions and words do not bind you. But debts are power just the same. You’ll do well to remember to never let another hold power over you, sha’alabbin.”)

She’s the town darling and Inko gets many offers for babysitting if she ever needs it and play-dates with the few other kids around his age.

Izumi always comes back home with more beads on her arms when she plays with the other kids.

Inko watches as she puts every one on her left wrist, never looking at them again, and finds herself smiling for no reason she can discern.

***

Izumi has two names: the one she's allowed to tell people and the real one.

Well, they’re both real, she supposes. Just in distinctly different ways.

The secret one though—the one she’s never told anyone because it’s the one written on her soul—that one has power.

All names have power, of course. It’s why foxes have two and why The Good Neighbors are so careful to never speak their own and why demons have none, angelic names burned and lost in the Fall.

But the secret name Izumi holds close to her heart, always so careful to protect, that one has power all on its own. Only her mother and Nona know it. Her mother, because she gave it to her, and Nona because she is Matriarch, leader and protector of them all. It’s her right to know it, just as it is Izumi’s to do with as she pleases.

It’s an Olde Name. One that is written only in the hearts of storytellers and hidden quietly in the wishes of victims yet to be saved.

Anyone can understand what it means. Somewhere in the back of their minds where instinct and history live, they know this name. The translation, should one know the path they must walk for this truth, would be easy.

Savior.

***

Izumi is three and the weight of names, so ignorantly given, press behind her teeth like bile. Bitter and making her ache with holding them all in. She has dozens of beads on her left wrist, pretty and light and jangling with names she doesn’t want. Promises she didn’t earn.

Her mother tells her the humans don’t know what it is they give away, that they cannot begin to understand the Promises they make. She tells her that humans can’t feel the weight of Magic on their skin like she can.

Izumi thinks that’s very sad. Poor mortals, deaf even to the magic floating around them when they are already clueless to so much.

It makes her want to protect them. Keep them safe from those that would use their ignorance without thought. Those who would play malicious tricks and spit cruel taunts of their superiority.

She tells her mother this childish wish and watches her smile, even as it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“How tiny you are for such large ambitions,” she tells her and playfully taps her nose, causing it to wrinkle. 

“I’ll grow!” Izumi insists, chest puffing out and tail fluffing to twice its normal size. “I’ll grow big and strong and I’ll be able to save everyone.”

“Yes,” her mom says, with that same sad smile. “Just like All Might, right?”

Izumi giggles and cheers at being compared to her hero, her idol, and in her chest, Inko’s heart remains steady. Because Inko has known this since Izumi was born. From that first moment her beautiful daughter had drawn breath, Inko had known. For all that Izumi seems too fragile and small now, one day…

One day Midoriya Izumi will be mighty.

***

There’s something strange about Izumi’s family.

She’s always known they aren’t quite normal, of course. Not by any human standard at least.

Half her family walks around with ears and tails most of the time and as brightly colored foxes for the rest. Lessons on illusions and glamours replace her bedtime stories and family time is always a mess of riddles and puzzles and languages that have never touched mortal lips.

So, no. Not normal, but there’s something else. Something no one ever speaks to her about.

She asks why she can’t go outside without hiding her tail and ears under the heady magics of a glamour, asks why she can’t speak about Nona and the outings they all have in the forest. Asks and asks and asks about why they must keep so many secrets. Why she always has to lie.

The only answer she ever really gets is: “So we can stay safe, sha’alabbin.”

Nobody ever tells her what they’re supposed to be staying safe from.

***

Tricksters—masters of illusion and rule-bending—are rarely ever held in place by bindings. Their magic is too slippery to be easily confined, unlike the proud dragons who hold magic in their throats or the rigid Nephilim, so solid in their convictions.

The magic of Shaalim Nephashoth twists and reshapes like smoke on the wind. Harmful magic passes through it, a natural defence for creatures who so often play pranks and tricks on important people. 

It takes a powerful magic user to bind a fox. And even then, they don’t stay bound for long, too often wiggling out of their enchantments.

To subdue an entire skulk of foxes, well…

The Takanashi clan may have been powerful hunters in their own rights, backed by sheer numbers if not skill, but they were no Grand Coven. The Midoriya Skulk, once so powerful and great, may have been weakened and bound to their land, but they were far from dying husks the hunters aimed for.

Their forest did not become their tomb, and they did not run scared.

The Midoriya Skulk survived their attack and that was the last mistake the Takanashi Clan ever made.

You do not wrong the Yōkai. Not if you’re smart, not if you wish to live happily.

(Not if you wish to live.)

***

It happens like this.

Izumi is born quirkless.

Izumi is born quirkless and it’s not a surprise. It’s almost expected when there is too much other in her veins to leave room for something so distinctly human.

This does not, of course, mean she is powerless.

Izumi, as a child, is more acquainted with power than most adults. It winds around her greedily and floats at her shoulders. It is her birthright, is her to command and call upon and do with as she pleases in spite of the Hunters’ irritating magical barrier she only vaguely knows exists.

(She is Shual Nephesh. She is a Midoriya. She is a batsheva legacy.

There is little she will be unable to do if she wishes it.)

But quirks and the power she wields are not the same, and they do not easily pass for one another. The skulk still waits in the shadows and the few remaining Takanashis still lurk at the edges, waiting for them to make a mistake.

A too powerful child will draw attention they cannot afford. But a powerless child is just as noticeable in this age of petty beliefs and false demi-gods.

So they lie.

A month after Izumi turns four, Inko tells anyone who asks that her daughter has enhanced senses, a common ‘quirk’ in their family. “Her newly sensitive nose gave her away,” Inko says with an amused chuckle.

It’s all perfectly ordinary and perfect for hiding in plain sight.

It’s not perfect for being a hero.

Before, when Izumi babbled happily about saving everyone in Japan (because Inko hasn’t told her yet, hasn’t yet dared to explain this unbearable truth), she got pats on the head and hearty encouragement.

Now, when she tells anyone who’ll listen about her dream of being the best hero ever, she’s met with only pity.

“Oh,” they whisper behind their hands, “ that poor girl will never make it. That poor girl with the world in her heart will get herself killed because she’s not strong enough, not big enough, not powerful enough.”

Izumi hears them, because no one ever realizes how much she hears or how much she pays attention.

She hears their heartbeats stutter too. When they tell her they believe in her, that she can do it, that they’ll be cheering her on the whole way.

And Izumi doesn’t understand.

She is clever and smart and powerful but she’s still so young. She hears all of this and doesn’t understand. She wants to yell at them, wants to scream that she can. That she’s enough.  

The truth burns on her tongue and Izumi wants to tell them everything so they’ll just stop.

She doesn’t. Instead, she swallows her words and bears the weight of it all. Every lie and pitiful look and useless piece of advice.

Izumi will be a hero. Whether anybody believes in her or not.

***

The townspeople aren’t mean and they aren’t cruel.

In fact, they’re very kind and Izumi loves them all in that way she adores all the best bits of humanity.

They aren’t cruel, but she thinks it might’ve been easier if they were. She thinks it would be easier to bear the disappointment of their lack of belief if they were hard-hearted and terrible.

But they aren’t.

And Izumi’s not sure how to feel about it.

***

She starts kindergarten with the ten other kids her age and finds she learns much faster than anybody else in her grade. Her small-town school can’t keep up with her hurricane mind.

They don’t let her skip kindergarten, because she’s meant to learn to socialize, but when she’s supposed to be starting first grade, they put her in a second-grade classroom instead. A spinning dervish of thoughts and ideas and questions half everyone’s size.

The second graders all call her Imouto-san and Izumi grins as she swings her feet beneath her too-big desk. No one else can see it, but Izumi’s tail wags fast enough to cause the wind to knock all of Hiro-san’s papers off his desk.

She apologizes, but can’t quite stop herself from doing it again.

***

Time moves on, and Izumi grows, but doesn’t change. Not really. Not in the ways that matter.

Magic still sings in her blood and sometimes, if she asks nicely and pays its price, it will do things for her. Not just glamours and charms but strange, impossible things that not even her Nona can do anymore.

(She is Shual Nephesh, is a Midoriya, is batsheva legacy, is fit to bursting with power. Sometimes, her Skulk wonders what she’d be like if not for the cage she’d been born into. Other times, they wonder if she's like that because of it, not in spite of.)

She’s still the town darling, sweet and kind enough to soften even Old Man Watanabe’s heart. She still cries and laughs often, and is still a bleeding heart.

It’s after school one day, when Izumi is walking home that she passes by the park. Normally, she cuts through the forest to get home instead of taking the main roads. That way she can run as fast as she likes without anyone asking questions.

But today was sunny and she wanted to enjoy it a little more. And, perhaps, she wanted to visit the Odd Shop on Main. Mrs Lily is always so nice and gives her new American sweets for free if she tells a joke—even if they're bad.

She's skipping passed the park gate when she notices it: harsh voices and the sound of someone being pushed over.

Her ears swivel automatically and her head follows a second later. When the scene registers, Izumi is already jumping over the tall fence, uncaring of who will see.

“Hey!” she yells, running full-tilt at the pair of third graders standing above Yashiro, one of her classmates. He was a soft-spoken kind of boy. Shy, but always nice to her even though she’s small and cries a lot.

The two older kids—twins she thinks, though she doesn’t know their names—turn to look at her. Their matching, glimmering insect wings buzz behind them in shock at her sudden arrival as she plants herself in front of Yashiro.

She puts her hands on her hips and tries to make the same face Nana Naoki makes when she’s particularly cross. “It’s not nice to push people,” she says scoldingly. “You should apologize.”

The twins look hesitant now that she’s standing there. It doesn't matter that she’s half their size and weighs about thirty-eight pounds soaking wet.

Everyone in town knows who she is.

And if, by some strange circumstance, they don’t, they know her family. The green hair and eyes can only mean one thing after all and, while no one is quite sure why, everyone knows better than to cross the Midoriyas.

(There’s just something about them, the air they carry, that makes one very careful to not provoke them.)

When neither twin makes any move to either leave or do as she says, Izumi hums meaningfully, the air around her turning stifling.

The girl grumbles, and glares over Izumi’s shoulder. “He should’ve stayed out of our way,” is all she says before grabbing her brother and stalking out of the park.

Izumi’s mouth twists, because that was not an apology, but she decides against going after them.

Yashiro has pulled himself to his knees and is gathering the things that fell from his book bag. Izumi kneels to help.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She doesn’t smell any blood and his heartbeat sounds normal, but it’s probably polite to ask anyway.

Yashiro looks at her, cheeks pink and shoulders hunched to his ears. “Yes, I- Thank you, Midoriya.”

She grins, handing him his pencil bag, newly refilled with all his pencils. “Anytime!”

***

It becomes a Thing.

The whole, ‘Izumi stepping in between schoolyard squabbles’ Thing.

It gets to the point that the other kids, older and younger, begin to expect her to step in. Because of course Izumi will help. She always does.

(Sometimes, she can even hear kids using the threat of her name to ward off bullies rather than saying they’ll tell a teacher. It makes something warm bloom in her chest every time.)

The arguments are never anything serious, and cases of bullying like with Yashiro and the twins are few and far between. The townspeople are good and so are all the kids, but they’re all still children. They get rowdy or into stupid fights over toys or someone accidentally fires off their quirk.

It doesn't quite matter how or why a situation pops up, because, for no real discernible reason, Izumi always finds herself stepping in the middle of it to play mediator.

Which is okay. She wouldn’t do it if she minded or anything—and it’s not like she can really stop herself either. She just… moves when she hears voices raised, like some strange sort of pavlovian response.

It’s not a problem. In fact, it’s great because Izumi is saving people, even if it’s only in small ways (but that's okay for now, she’ll work her way up to bigger ones) and the other townspeople have started to stop looking at her so pitifully.

And, well. It’s not quite what she wanted, and it’s not the reason she’s doing any of this anyway, but it feels… nice. Like a weight lifted from her shoulders she didn’t know was there.

***

Four months after it all becomes a Thing, Izumi gets into a fight.

Not on purpose, because she never seems to do these kinds of things on purpose, but she steps in the middle of an argument she probably shouldn’t have. It was bound to happen eventually.

The bigger boy, Daiki, has some impressive anger issues and a quirk that makes people around him just as angry as he is. She’s interrupted many altercations between him and some poor kid who accidentally set off his quirk. Normally, it takes only a few soothing words to calm them down.

Daiki is quick to anger, but equally quick to calm, if you know how.

And now, it seems, her luck has run out. The moment her mouth opens, Daiki is already screaming at her and the anger is just there. It burns, acidic and hot at the base of her throat.

She swallows it back and refuses to shout back. This is not the first time she’s been on the wrong end of his quirk, she knows how it works and she knows how to handle it.

That is, until he throws a punch at her.

Her head snaps to the side, cheek stinging with pain. She slowly turns back to Daiki, and for the first time in Izumi’s young life, she is furious.

Her eyes burn with unfamiliar rage. The taste of copper and iron sit heavy on her tongue. She bares her teeth in a ferocious snarl and Daiki steps back, suddenly afraid.

Later, she’ll feel unbearably sorry and embarrassed enough to spend an entire day making cookies with her mom to give to Daiki as an apology. But right now?

Right now, Izumi looks over this boy and finds him lacking. She looks at him through the haze of red and hears the rabbit-quick beating of his heart over the whispers of magic twinning at her fingertips and she leaps.

***

She gets in trouble, obviously.

But everyone knows her and they know Daiki’s quirk. They aren’t really mad at her for fighting, but they are mad at her for biting and scratching Daiki enough to draw blood and send him to the nurse.

(She fought dirty. Fought the only way she knew how, with her teeth and claws and wicked sharp mind. All Daiki had was his fists and anger.

He never stood a chance.)

Izumi cries after the haze of Daiki’s quirk falls away. Babbles apology after apology through the hot burn and hiccups of her tears. She didn’t want that to happen, didn’t want to hurt anyone like that.

When her mom comes to pick her up from the principal's office she looks disapproving. When they get home, Nona calls to see her and looks disappointed.

Izumi wants to burrow into the ground and never come back up.

When Nona asks why she had gotten into a fight like that, Izumi has to explain it all. Daiki’s quirk and the interrupting situations and stopping big kids from picking on little ones. She can’t tell what Nona’s thinking when she finishes and she doesn’t ask.

“A good fox,” her Nona says after a long moment, “is a smart fox.”

Nona doesn’t continue, but Izumi knows what she means anyway. She’s heard it her entire life.

A smart fox avoids fights.

A smart fox does not seek them out.

A smart fox does not fight for everyone.

A smart fox, when they absolutely must, only fights for themselves and what is theirs and nothing else.

Izumi, for all that she tries to be, is not a good fox.

But she knew that already. The whole skulk knew that.

She’s too loyal, too stubborn, cares too much and speaks too loud. She wants to be a hero. Wants to save everyone she meets and even the people she hasn’t.

There is a want, a need, that burns in her chest even know. It grows hotter each passing year as she watches all her favorite Heroes swoop in to save the day on the news.

In her heart of hearts, she knows one day she’ll be on that screen too. No matter how un-fox-like it is.

When Nona tells her only to fight for what is hers, Izumi does not argue and she does not barter.

She knows it will not get her anywhere.

Instead, Izumi says okay and takes every innocent person and helpless victim and tucks them in her heart as hers. She Promises to fight for them, Promises to win for them, Promises everything she has to strangers she has never and will never meet. 

Izumi Promises herself to the world and, at the tender age of seven, a shackle twines itself around her right wrist. All the vicious intensity of her vow boiled into iron. Her impossible affection for the world made physical for everyone to see.

Her Nona sets her mouth in a firm line, but behind her, Izumi sees her mom smile. And for Izumi…

For Izumi that is enough.

***

She’s eight when she meets a boy with fireflies in his palms and caramel in his skin.

He moves into the house next door, almost half a mile down the road, and Izumi can hear him and his mother scream at each other for an hour before it suddenly stops, the sound of a door slamming echoing into the air.

The next day, the mom and boy show up on their porch.

Izumi answers the door.

***

Katsuki stares up at the looming, old house and glares.

He didn’t want to be here in this stupid, nowhere town with a bunch of useless nobodies.

He wanted to be back at his old school, where everyone told him how great he was and always did what he said. Here, in this stupid small town, there were barely even any kids to order around.

It made Katsuki angry.

But the Old Hag and his Pops didn’t seem to care. He yelled and cried and demanded to stay and they still just packed him up and moved out to this stupid house that’s apparently been in his mom’s family for generations.

It looked old and smelled like mothballs.

Katsuki hated it.

He hated it and his stupid weirdo grandfather for dying and telling them in his will that they had to live here. What did it matter to his grandfather? He was dead!

Katsuki is alive and almost nine years old and it’s the end of the world.

“Oh,” the Old Hag says in surprise when the door opens. “Hello there, cutie.”

Standing at the open door is, instead of some adult, a fluffy green-haired girl almost an entire head shorter than himself and absolutely covered in freckles. She’s half-hidden behind the door and keeps looking between him and his mom rapidly.

Katsuki glares at her, baring his teeth in the hopes she’ll run away scared like all the other girls from his school did.

Instead, she just blinks at him and beams, sunshine bright and delighted.

It doesn’t get better from there.

***

Izumi stares at the boy with fireflies in his palms and can’t help but think this. This is what she's been waiting for. This boy with power bursting from skin too small to hold it all and Fate clinging at his heels.

This boy who’s like me in all the ways no one else has ever been. 

The boy, Bakugou Katsuki, does not think so. In fact, he doesn’t seem to like Izumi at all.

Izumi tries not to take the yelling and insults personally. Katsuki is upset and sad and on unfamiliar land with people he doesn’t know. Izumi would be scared too.

When she says that to Katsuki, she only gets shoved to the ground by blisteringly hot palms.

“I’m not scared, idiot!” His heartbeat stutters in his chest. “Stay away from me!”

So Izumi does. For a little while, at least.

She gives him a week.

***

For all his screamed insults and crude personality, Izumi finds there’s much more hiding beneath the surface of one volatile Bakugou Katsuki.

Her first glimpse is when he walks into her fourth-grade classroom despite him being her age. Izumi grins at him when he enters, eyes bright as he takes the seat in front of her. He’s smart, apparently. Smart enough to skip a grade like her, or perhaps just hard-working enough to overcompensate.

Izumi watches him throughout class, sees the way he takes notes and asks questions, and thinks that, perhaps, it’s a combination of the two.

***

He wants to be a Hero like her.

Wants to fight and win and beat back the darkness with his fists and teeth and sheer tenacity.

It’s different from what she thought a Hero should be. And different still from the kind of Hero she wants to be.

Battle versus rescue.

An image of unyielding victory versus the quiet surety of hope Izumi wants to spread.

This new side of heroics fascinates her and she can’t help asking about it. She wants to know everything and asks question after question, barely pausing to breathe.

“Holy fuck,” he exclaims, causing Izumi’s eyes to go wide. “Do you ever shut up?”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Then, “No. Not really.”

His scowl is the kind that curdles milk and perhaps Izumi should be offended or scared or any type of normal reaction, but instead, she just grins and offers to share some of her sour gummies. He takes them all, snapping his teeth at her like he expects her to protest but she only laughs.

Katsuki is sharp and feral like the cats in the forest and Izumi thinks perhaps it’s just that he’s never been shown the right kind of kindness. She knows better than anyone how an environment shapes a person.

There’s a whisper in the air when Izumi looks at him, a voice just at the edge of her hearing. It tells her to pay attention. Pay attention to this half molded boy standing at the crossroads of destiny. Pay attention to him because he’s going to be important.

And, well. If that's true then Izumi is hardly going to let his bad mood chase her away.

***

Katsuki holds out for an entire month before Izumi’s constant giggling laughs and habit of following him around town wears him down. The other kids are stupid and don’t like how he yells. They don’t do as he says and that pisses him off so he yells more and the cycle starts all over again.

So, Katsuki decides that even practically useless, annoying, Izumi is better than no friends at all.

***

“Why do you do that?” he asks her angrily one day, a few weeks into their friendship—not that Katsuki will call it that.

She’s climbing down from a tree, kitten held in her arms and she stares at him in confusion, head tilted to the side.

“Do what?”

“That!” he says as she happily passes the kitten to the preschooler he belonged to. She waves the toddler off with a grin while Katsuki fumes at her side. “You’re always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, doing stupid things for everybody and running around town like a chicken with its damn head cut off. Why?”

She’s always running off. Always so busy because she’s agreed to help this person or do that thing. Doesn’t she ever just stop?

Izumi blinks, before thinking over the question carefully.

“Why do you want to be a Hero?”

Katsuki glares, mouth already opening to demand a real answer, not a stupid question to his question, but Izumi speaks over him. “No. Really think, Katsuki. You say you want to win and be the best, but you could do that in any job. If you like fighting, you could be an MMA fighter, or a bounty hunter, or even join the military. Become a colonel or something, the youngest ever. But you don’t want to do that. You wanna be a Pro Hero. Why?”

She- He doesn’t- That isn’t-

Katsuki glares at her when he can’t come up with an answer. Saying he wants to be better than All Might sounds childish, and… it’s not really what Izumi’s asking anyway. He’ll look stupid if that’s what he says.

But, he doesn’t know the answer to the question she asked either. He’s just… always known that’s what he’d do, from the very first moment he’d learned what a Hero was. He never bothered with anything else, never bothered to question why.

Izumi just stares at him, her gaze digging into him with burning intensity like none of his secrets or thoughts are safe from her.

“The answer isn’t in your head or your fists, you know,” she says, looking away to pick up her bright yellow bag covered in Hero stickers and pins. When she turns back, her eyes are filled with a secretive light. She pokes his chest lightly. “It’s in there.”

***

Katsuki’s unusually quiet for the next three days.

She worries that she messed up, that she may have pushed Katsuki too far too fast.

But then she sees him climb a tree, just to pick the brightest apple to give to a little girl. And hold the door for the people behind him instead of slamming it shut. And immediately move to pick up the rest of Old Man Watanabe’s groceries that she can’t carry herself.

It’s such small acts of kindness, but it’s all things he hadn’t been doing before. He grumbles and shouts and rages the entire time he does them, but he wouldn’t be Katsuki if he wasn’t acting like he was angry.

Izumi can tell he’s pleased though when Old Man Watanabe thanks them. Hears his heart trip over the lie when he says he doesn’t give a damn what the old man thinks, causing the two temperamental blonds to begin squabbling like a couple of old fishwives.

(Izumi tried hiding her giggles behind her hand, but she doesn’t think she succeeded since Katsuki started yelling at her too.)

***

It isn’t long before Katsuki becomes Kacchan and Izumi becomes Izu or nerd or crybaby or a thousand other throw away, half-insulting nicknames.

Katsuki bears his nickname with as much elegance he can muster—which isn’t a lot—while Izumi always seems so delighted by hers. Even the insulting ones.

Katsuki never quite understands her obsession with nicknames, with being so very careful about introducing herself. The third time Izumi tries explaining the power of names without giving away magic and skulks and the world hidden in the stars that she’ll never get to share with her best friend—and the fourth time she’s cried over it—she gets a determined look in her eye.

The next moment, both her hands are on Katsuki’s chest, right above that soft place where your ribs begin to fall away, vulnerable and warm. The pressure she applies is firm and ungentle.

There is nothing gentle about what she plans to do next.

Katsuki doesn’t have a second name, not like Izumi does. He wears his soul on his sleeve and that terrifies Izumi so she’s going to fix it.

***

The thing about a name, is that it’s not just what someone calls you.

A name is a brand upon your soul. A name is the story that your entire being is dedicated to writing. A name is the culmination of everything that you were, that you are, that you will ever be.

It is the key that unlocks you, that most easily makes you vulnerable.

Izumi places her hand over that key, tenderly grabs that thing inside Katsuki that makes him all that he is, was, will ever be, and then she rips it from its lock. She takes her first true friend and reforges him  into something else, something better, something he was always meant to be.

Katsuki screams for only a moment. And then…

The fireflies in his palms turn to stars.

***

Bakugou Katsuki has two names.

The first one, is the one he was born with, the one he’s told everyone his entire life was his name.

The other is the one his strange, otherworldly best friend burns into him at the tender age of eight years old.

It’s an Olde Name. One that is painted across cave walls in human blood and tucked neatly behind the teeth of every battlefield corpse.

Anyone can understand what it means. Somewhere in the back of their minds where instinct and history live, they know this name. The translation, if one was willing to sacrifice for such knowledge, would be easy.

Warrior.

***

After, Izumi whispers her own name in his ear.

Her other name, the one she should never tell unless she’s absolutely sure she can trust them.

(Because it is an Olde name. Because she is batsheva legacy. Because she is the youngest Midoriya. Because there is too much power in her chest to be so careless with her name even if it’s her right to do with as she pleases.)

But Izumi knows she can trust Kacchan because he’s Kacchan. If she could’ve, she might’ve waited longer to tell him. Until her birthday maybe or after she convinced him to stop handing his name out to anyone who asks.

But things changed and she grew impatient. She knows his name—chose his name. It’s only fair he knows hers too.

Katsuki doesn’t quite know what it means to be given this gift, just like he doesn't quite know what it is Izumi did to him, but he promises to guard it all the same.

***

The pair are practically attached at the hip after that.

It’s something no one in town ever saw coming. In fact, they all half-believed the two would end up killing each other��or, more likely, that Katsuki would eventually kill Izumi.

It’s practically a miracle. By all accounts, the two should have crumbled under the weight of their volatile differences. Two opposites that never should have mixed coming together and working in a way no one can quite explain.

Where Izumi—strange, selfless, little Izumi—prefers to use her mind and heart to solve the problems she’s always running at without a second thought, Katsuki, her ever-present shadow, uses his fists and sharp tongue as his opening move. A bleeding heart shoved in the center of a human explosion.

For every insult Katsuki sees fit to fling, Izumi is right behind him with an apology and kind words as if she was created to temper the blond.

For all the times Izumi is too caught up in her own mind, thoughts too loud and emotions too high and all the variables too much, Katsuki is there to snap her out of it with easy decisions and barked orders.

They ebb and flow around one another. An ever-present push and pull between the two that sparks up into stubborn drive and exuberant competition. For all their differences, there are some places where they're just too similar. But it’s those that allow them to function as a unit at all.

A yin and yang, balanced and opposing and complimentary all rolled into one relationship.

Izumi becomes the filter through which Katsuki can interact with the world. She understands him in a way few can, can read him and speaks his language and know when he’s just posturing to save face. And in turn, Katsuki becomes the flame and gasoline made to keep Izumi running, keep moving forward, keep reaching and growing and building.

The townspeople grow used to the two of them running around and causing havoc. Rarely a day goes by without hearing of a new situation the pair have somehow roped themselves into.

But if asked, they can all agree. One day…

One day those kids will be extraordinary.

***

Time passes. Katsuki turns nine with little fanfare while the whole town pitches in for Izumi’s celebration.

When they both turn ten, Izumi ignores the months between their birthdays and celebrates them together so Katsuki can have a big party too. (She still gets another one on her actual birthday, but it was the thought that counted.)

At ten years old, Katsuki refuses to admit that Izumi is the best friend he’s ever had. Everyone can see it, but he never says it out loud.

At ten years old, Izumi knows it anyway so it doesn't really matter. His heart tells her it every time it stutters around the words ‘I hate you.’

At ten years old, both Izumi and Katsuki are looking towards the stars, eager and excited for what the future has in store.

At ten years old, All Might disappears from the public eye, and Izumi feels something hollow settle in her stomach.

***

I used a lot of Hebrew words to describe the foxes and endearments. I did this because it's a pretty language and is honestly not used enough. I do not speak Hebrew but tried to keep it as accurate as possible.

TRANSLATIONS: sha’alabbin: sly fox batsheva: "bat" is daughter, "sheva" is the number 7, so it literally means "7th daughter." Shual Nephesh: "shual" is fox, "nephesh" is literally translated as a soul but is also referenced as living beings/sentient creations. kinda like spirits. Shaalim Nephashoth: plural form of the above

[pawsnread]

Rainfall ver. 2

I wrote another version of that “SongXiao kissing under an umbrella in a rainstorm” concept, but this time I went to the canon verse. 

In case you missed here, here is the LAHL version. And here is the Journeys Verse version.

(I really, really, really want art of this. I have such blissful mental images and horrible art concept skills.)

The torrential downpour sent a chill down to ones bones and made the road slick and difficult to maneuver. The long sleeves of his white robes were already soaked through, the hems splattered and stained with mud, and his hair was a heavy wet curtain down his back. Despite all that, there was a soft smile on Xiao Xingchen’s face as he slowly walked through the rainstorm. Wayward drops struck against Shuanghua’s pommel and hilt, creating a pleasant tinkling sound near his ear; coupled with the steady rhythm the rain beat against the paper umbrella over his head, it was a natural symphony that calmed his soul.

“You seem happy.”

The smile on his face widened a touch as Xiao Xingchen turned. Song Lan strolled next to him, close enough that Xiao Xingchen could feel his warmth seeping into his back and dispelling some of the chill. His dark robes were also drenched and flecked with mud. Over his shoulder, the cloth covering Fuxue was soaked through, revealing the dark bronzed outline of the circular cross guard. He appeared more dampened than Xiao Xingchen as Song Lan held the umbrella aloft in one hand, one long sleeve acting as an additional barrier for his companion.

“Of course,” Xiao Xingchen replied in good spirits. “It’s a pleasant day.”

A frown tugged at Song Lan’s lips as he indicated the wet conditions and all the townspeople scrambling for cover with a sweep of his hand. “How is this a pleasant day?”

“Because I’m here with you.” A quiet laughter escaped him at the spots of color that appeared on Song Lan’s cheek and his nervous cough. There was a soft touch to Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder before the pair resumed their slow walk through the drenching rain.

Soon, they were the only two people left on the streets, all the townspeople and vendors having abandoned the rain slicked streets for the safety and dryness of the indoors. Both Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen knew they needed to find available lodgings to change out of their waterlogged clothes, but they seemed in no hurry despite the weather. 

As they neared the end of a street, the rain grew heavier, forcing them to slow their pace even more until they were doing little more than shuffling along. There was an inn up ahead, its paper lantern swinging cheerfully in the dreary weather. Xiao Xingchen moved to make his way towards the entrance, but the grip on his wrist brought him to a stop. He turned to find Song Lan regarding him intently, fingers encircling Xiao Xingchen’s narrow wrist in a warm, firm grip.

“Zichen?”

His breath caught in his throat as Song Lan leaned in closer, stopping just before his lips met Xiao Xingchen’s. Song Lan didn’t move, simply waited as his warm breath stirred dark hair, his question left unasked.

After a moment’s pause, Xiao Xingchen dipped his chin in answer. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes dancing upon his cheeks as Song Lan closed the short distance between them. A pleasant warm seemed to seep into Xiao Xingchen at the kiss, pulsing under his skin. He could no longer feel the cold or the damp as Song Lan stepped closer, one hand cradling his face as the kiss went on.

A quiet sigh sounded as they separated, both of their cheeks flushed and warm as Song Lan leaned his forehead against Xiao Xingchen’s.

“Every day is a blessing when it’s shared with you,” he murmured, his words barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. A slow smile crept over his face at Xiao Xingchen’s answering sigh.

For a time they simply stood there, standing close and breathing each other in, fingers hooked together beneath their soaked sleeves. It wasn’t until the first rumble of thunder sounded did they move. They made their way slowly towards the awaiting in, Song Lan pressing his hand to the small of Xiao Xingchen’s back, small smiles of love and contentment on their faces.

[marvelousgeeks]

Spoilers Ahead

Welcome to the Sanditon weekly, darlings — grab a cup of tea and join our analytical discussion into the beautiful chaos inspired by Jane Austen’s unfinished novel of the same title. (These articles won’t cover the entire episode, viewers have already seen it, no one needs a retelling from another, instead, these reviews will break down the episode’s theme and character arcs and of course, there will be heaps of odes to romance.)

Sanditon’s first episode isn’t the strongest Pilot per say, but the sufficient glimpse we get into the lives of the auspiciously polite and the deliciously outrageous is a great start. It’s a pilot that promises ambitious choices, exhilarating surprises, and a much tastefully racier side to classic literature. It’s bold, it’s funny, and it’s downright beautiful in every way. But most importantly, it’s the opening to get to know our remarkable heroine in an episode full of some jaw dropping moments, gorgeous scenic shots, “abrupt and inattentive” love interests. Austen’s story’s often have common themes sprinkled throughout, and in the case of this untitled episode, let’s deem it “the one with all the telling”. In the first episode, we’re told a lot about the townspeople, and while normally I’d be opposed, in this case it works in foreshadowing a lot of what we’ll see in the upcoming season. The seeds planted in the beginning come to pass seamlessly in the finale and that’s the kind of writing I’m here to commend. When it comes to Sanditon, some will regret their stay while others will love every minute of it. It’s evident from the very beginning that there’s a long and winding road to the clifftops where magic will arise, and it gives viewers the chance to recognize that there’s going to be a lot of twists and turns before a happy ending is reached.

But what I want to discuss most is Charlotte Heywood and the glimmer of hope that’s found in a pair of blue shoes. In a great number of analyses, the color blue is often associated with the sky and the sea, appropriate for this show especially, and the symbolic representation of freedom and depth that are emblems throughout the series for our heroine’s journey. The episode is merely a beginning in our heroine’s curiosity and challenges. A farmer’s daughter in a world of dances and marriage proposals is every kind of Cinderella story dream without all the wicked step-sisters and tragic losses. But when the prince isn’t exactly the kind of charming the fairytale often presents; it does a remarkable of job of foreshadowing the work love will do in a town that’s desperate for a little more of it. Charlotte’s innocence is intricately linked to her curiosity and goodness, the pure choice to want every person to be at their best even if it means giving up on the things that they hold dear. However, no matter how pure the intent, even naiveté could lead to quarrels and misunderstandings. But the freedom and profound longing she’ll come to discover in Sanditon is going to be a running theme I can’t wait to discuss further as the series progresses. There’s great freedom in the opportunity to simply have choices and that alone in regency era is tremendous progress.

Continue Reading

[lynnafred]

A Quest - A Short Story

Last year, I wrote a short story on my old blog that I’d called “A Favor” based on a prompt from @merigreenleaf. Then December hit, Tumblr decided my blog was no longer worthy, and forced me to abandon nine years of shitty memes and audio posts and here I am. But there were shorts on there that I liked, dammit, so I’m posting them again. So, for no particular reason than because I like the way it came out, I (re)present: A Quest. Instead of breaking it into parts, I’ve decided to post the whole story here for ease.

A Quest (Light Swearing, no other warnings, First Person POV, 4970 words total)

“I need a favor.”

I rolled over in my bed to face where the voice had come from. However, I refused to open my eyes to see who the requester was. “Are you shitting me?” It was well past three in the morning, and I had a massive hangover. I was in no condition to be doing anyone any favors.

“I understand that it’s late, but this errand is of the utmost importance.”

With a sigh, I cracked one eye open. It was the town blacksmith. Of course it was. I’m sure that I know her name, but my mind was too foggy and my desires too minimal to be bothered to remember it. “And what is this favor of the ‘utmost importance’ on this fine day at three am?” I tried not to be sarcastic, but it was hard not to be.

“There is an item that my wife desires, called ‘That.’ She speaks of it often, always wishing that it was in my possession,” the blacksmith explained. “If you were to find me ‘That,’ I would compensate you for your time.”

“Seriously? It’s called ‘That?’ Are you running out of names?”

HEY, NO METAGAMING. THIS IS MY FIRST CAMPAIGN AND YOU SAID YOU’D BE NICE. SO FUCK OFF, IT’S CALLED THAT.

“Ugh, this sucks,” I muttered. I considered my options. I could indulge the blacksmith, or I could tell her to stuff herself, roll back over, and go back to sleep until the innkeeper threw me out. I groaned, audibly, before swinging my feet over the edge of the bed. I hated being a Paladin. “Fine, fine. I’ll find you ‘That,’ but this compensation had better be worth my time.” I put on my armor as I spoke. “Do you have an idea of there I’ll be able to find ‘That?’ Or am I left on my own to figure it out?”

The blacksmith’s eyes lit up at my words. “Oh, kind paladin, thank you for your help. I’ve heard that there is an item collector in the next town. Rumors have been circulating that he has ‘That’ in his possession.”

Great. A three am excursion to the next town. Luckily for me, the next town wasn’t more than a few hours’ walk. If I worked quickly, I’d be able to get there and back within the same day and still be able to rest before I continued my journey. I still had an adventuring party to assemble and a dragon to slay.

The early morning air was brisk. I could feel the cold through my armor, and that only made me wish that I could go back to the inn and sleep until a more reasonable hour. Regardless, I promised I’d find her the item. So, I made the trek as fast as my feet could carry me, trying my best to avoid any confrontations with marauders and goblins as I went.

The sun was rising over the treetops by the time I made it to the neighboring town of Selkirk. Even though it was still relatively early, there were plenty of people out and about in the market. I looked over the market as I walked, gawking at the items that some of the vendors were selling. Figures, all the best products show up first thing in the morning when I don’t have the money to purchase them.

It didn’t matter, I wasn’t here for sightseeing or shopping, I was here to find the item collector. At the end of the main road, I found the place I was looking for. Walking inside, it looked more like a pawn shop than the house of a man who hoarded collectables.

“I’m looking for an item,” I announced as I walked inside.

The shopkeeper, an older man, totally ignored me.

WHAT’S YOUR DAMAGE? CAN’T YOU MANAGE A ‘GOOD MORNING,’ AT LEAST?

“I just want to get this over with so my character can go back to bed. I can’t heal unless I rest for a full eight hours.”

YOU WOULDN’T HEAL ANYWAY. YOUR CHARACTER WASN’T RESTING, YOU PASSED OUT FROM DRINKING TOO MUCH ALE. THEY’RE NOT THE SAME.

I shrugged. Touche. “Uh, good morning,” I said. “I’m looking for an item.”

The shopkeeper turned around to look at me this time. “Ah, welcome. Good morning.” The man smiled. He was missing a tooth that caused him to whistle as he breathed. “As you can see, I have many items here.”

I straightened my posture and tried to ignore the sharp sound that accompanied every sound that started with an ‘S.’ “This may be harder to find than most, but I’ve been told that it’s in your possession. I’m looking for a legendary item called ‘That.’”

“Ah, yes, I do have the item you seek,” the shopkeeper said. His eyes sparkled as he spoke. “However, ‘That’ is an item worth far more than any amount of coin could buy. I’d be willing to trade for it, though, if you were to provide me with ‘This’ in return.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you kidding me?” I asked. This couldn’t be happening to me.

“I assure you, I do not jest. If you want ‘That,’ I will require ‘This’ in trade.”

I rolled my eyes as I asked, “And do you know where ‘This’ would be located?”

“For twenty silver, I can tell you where ‘This’ might be.”

“This is bullshit!” I yelled.

YOU’RE MORE THAN WELCOME TO LOOK FOR IT YOURSELF IF YOU DON’T WANT TO SPEND THE TWENTY SILVER.

The booming voice of the Dungeon Master (that only I could hear, apparently,) had a point. Paying twenty silver could take days - weeks! - off of my quest for ‘This.’ I begrudgingly slid a satchel with the requested amount of coins across the table. “Fine, here’s your twenty silver. Now where can I find ‘This?’”

“The last time ‘This’ was seen was a day’s journey from here, alongside the flooded streambed.”

I gritted my teeth. This was the absolute worst. “Very well, I’ll seek out ‘This.’ But I require ‘That’ in return.”

The shopkeeper smiled. “Of course. I won’t trade ‘That’ for anything other than ‘This.’ Save travels, Paladin.” With that, he turned his back to me. I was no longer worth his time if I didn’t have ‘This’ or coin to spend. With a huff, I exited the shop and went back into the busy town.

 The day had turned out to be fairly warm, for autumn. The town market still bustled with activity, but the only thing that I could focus on was getting out of here and getting to the flooded streambed before anyone else could find the item I needed. Without ‘This’ I’d never get my hands on ‘That’ unless I resulted to drastic measures. Like killing the shopkeeper. Even then, I had no idea what I was looking for. I wouldn’t know what ‘That’ looked like if it bit me in the ass.

So instead, I found myself trudging through the woods, looking for the streambed. Townspeople that I’d spoken to were of little help, but I was able to glean that the stream bed was pretty distinctive. A day’s journey, though, was pretty intense. I could only hope that there was little danger in the woods ahead of me. If I wasn’t able to rest, then my exhaustion would get the better of me.

At sunset, I built myself a small fire near a rock outcropping and decided to wait until morning to continue my journey. These woods got eerily quiet at night, and darker than most I’d traveled through. They made me nervous, and as a result, I didn’t sleep well.

Exhausted, I made sure the embers of my fire were extinguished before making my way to where the townsfolk had insisted the flooded streambed was. Ahead of me, down a small hill, I saw what I could only assume is what the townsfolk had talked about. There was no stream, but instead a small vernal pool where a good deal of the spring rains had collected. Dancing near the shores of the pool was a goblin. I drew my claymore and approached it with caution.

“Halt, goblin!” I called as I approached it. The last thing I needed was a goblin horde to attack.

The goblin stopped its dance and looked at me, caution plaguing its features. “I am no normal goblin, human,” it spat. “Stay back.”

In its hand, I noticed a small spherical object. “The item you keep. Is that -”

The goblin hid the item behind its back. “Not ‘That!’ This is ‘This.’”

My stomach sank. The goblin had gotten to it before me. “Give me ‘This!’”

“‘This’ is mine!” the goblin growled. “Finders keepers!”

“I need ‘This’ to trade for ‘That!’” I yelled. “Give it to me!”

The goblin hissed at me and clutched ‘This’ close to its chest. “No! If you want ‘This’ then I need a lock of hair from the silver-haired maiden.”

I cocked an eyebrow. A maiden? This was way more my speed. “Silver-haired maiden?”

The goblin eagerly nodded. “Yes, the silver-haired maiden. She lives in the woods over there.” The goblin gestured to where it meant. “Her beauty is captivating, but you mustn’t succumb to her charms, human.”

I crossed my arms. “Fine. A lock of hair from the silver-haired maiden for ‘This.’ You have a deal.”

The goblin nodded. “Good. I will be in hiding but will emerge when I hear your footfalls. Come back with the lock of hair, human,” it instructed before running away down the streambed.

The woods the goblin spoke of weren’t too far. In only an hour’s walk, I came to a large clearing in the forest, decorated in all of autumn’s colors. In the middle was a large boulder, and on top of it, the maiden that I sought.

Her hair glittered in the afternoon sunlight with an ethereal glow. Resisting her charms was going to be far harder than I thought. I took a tentative step into her space as I called, “Excuse me, maiden, may I have a moment of your time?”

WHY ARE YOU SUCH A DICK TO EVERYONE ELSE BUT KIND TO THE MAIDEN?

“Have you seen her? She’s beautiful, look at her. Maybe I can relieve her of her status as a maiden for a lock of her hair.”

YOU’RE DISGUSTING AND THINKING WITH YOUR DICK. I DON’T GET WHAT CHERYL SEES IN YOU.

The maiden turned her attention towards me, beckoning me over with a wave. “For you? I may be able to spare a moment.”

I stepped further into the meadow, cautious of any traps. “I’ve come looking for something, my lady.”

The maiden’s voice was even toned, but tinted with curiosity. She smiled as she spoke, “And what might that be? I may not be of much assistance.”

“A simple lock of the maiden’s hair.”

Her face fell and she looked at me, blank-faced. “A lock of my hair?”

I nodded, the metal on my helmet clinking as I did so. “Yes, my lady, I’m in need of a lock of your hair. Would it please you to do so?”

The maiden, perched atop a boulder, furrowed her brow in concentration. “I accept, but will require something in return.”

Of course she does. “Anything, my lady.” Probably not the best thing to reply. But she was beautiful. In spite of the goblin’s words, I was definitely captivated by her beauty.

“I require an apple.”

I paused mid eyeroll. “Wait. An apple? Is that all you require?”

The maiden nodded. “Yes, an apple.” Her smile was warm, but something deadly glinted in her blue eyes. “The sweetest apples are found in a valley high in the mountains to the east, guarded from the deadly frosts around them by a spirit who resides in a deep blue lake. I require an apple from those mountain hills, for that is the only way I will be able to taste one. I cannot leave these woods.”

I nodded. “As you wish, my lady. An apple from the mountains in the east.”

She smiled. “Thank you, kind traveler.”

I was able to hitch a ride with a traveling merchant to take me most of the way to the mountains in the east. The journey was long, a few days, but the merchant kept me company and allowed me to sleep while he minded his shop during the day as long as I guided the cart at night and protected him from beasts and attackers. For the first time in my journey, someone hadn’t asked something impossible of me.

He regaled me with stories of the spirit in the mountains that I was headed to, a young child who guarded over the apple trees I sought. He urged me to be cautious in my ascent, and as thanks for protecting him from danger, gave me a fleece-lined doublet before sending me on my way. He said that he hoped that the doublet would help me shrug off the cold that I was going to experience in my journey up the mountain cliffs.

And he wasn’t kidding. Scaling the mountain was hard work. There were hardly any paths once I reached about a third of the way up the mountain, and skeletons and wolves were everywhere. As much as I’d wished the merchant had gifted me with potions, the doublet kept me from getting cold, even as the temperatures around me continued to fall.

It wasn’t only the temperatures that fell, either. The higher up the mountain I went, the more intense the snowfall became, until I was climbing up sheer mountainsides in a blizzard. I hoped that I found the valley before my hands slipped and sent me to my death.

A cave provided me with the shelter I needed to make a warm fire and sleep for a few hours before starting on my way again. As exhausted and injured as I was from all the fighting, I was eager to meet the spirit in the mountain valley, to see if it was anything like the merchant’s stories.

Finally, after what seemed like days, I found the valley. Snow blew through the valley and obscured the apple trees a bit, but there was no mistaking the blue lake in its center. I steeled myself and took my first step towards the lake. It almost felt sacrilegious to set foot in such a pristine area of the world.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to think that. I wasn’t even halfway to the lake yet when I felt the earth move beneath my feet. The snow subsided and the wind died down as I saw it. The spirit rose from the lake, water of the purest blue pouring off of its form as it rose. “Human, why do you disturb this valley?”

I rested my hand on the hilt of my claymore, preparing for a fight if these negotiations failed. This looked like no child I’d ever seen before. “I have journeyed from far in the west, seeking the sweetest apple that grows under your protection.”

The spirit’s voice boomed, sending shockwaves from its place, as it spoke to me. “For whom is this apple meant?”

“A silver-haired maiden, bound to the deep forests of Aboyne.”

“These apples are not for mere mortals,” the spirit thundered.

My eyes shone. “This is no mere mortal,” I replied. “This maiden is fair and beautiful. An apple from this valley is the only thing she has ever asked of me.” Not a lie, it was the only thing that she’s asked of me.

“Very well,” the spirit said finally. “There is a scholar at the base of this mountain, in the town of Kinross. Tell him I desire a vanilla pod from his orchids.”

“Vanilla? Vanilla only grows in tropical areas, it’s not going to be found in a temperate town on the base of a snowy mountain.”

I DON’T REMEMBER ASKING YOU YOUR OPINION ON QUEST ITEMS, MIKE.

“I’m a fucking botanist! You can’t tell me to get a plant based item and not have me scrutinize it!”

I DIDN’T HEAR YOU BITCHING ABOUT MOUNTAIN APPLES.

“Because that’s almost plausible! Depending on the depth of the valley and the lake, the thermal heat of the body of water -”

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET THE VANILLA.

“Jesus, so touchy, alright.” I turned my attention from the sky back to the spirit. “Very well, I’ll get you your vanilla. May I ask you why you need it?”

The spirit gazed at me, its face unable to hide its disdain. “No,” it said before vanishing in a flash of water. From the empty air, its voice was barely an echo. “Do not return here unless you have what I seek.”

I looked around me and sighed. Getting out of here was going to suck. Getting off the mountain was going to suck harder.

 It took me another two days to get down from the snowy mountain valley, but I was relieved to feel the comparative warmth of the autumn air in the quiet town. I passed the traveling merchant on my way into town, who gave me a knowing smile on his way past. He knew that his doublet had save my life. There was no need for me to say it again.

I trudged through the town, greeting the remaining townsfolk as I went. Merchants tried to get me to purchase what was left of their daily wares, but I was too tired and too broke to think about getting anything for now. A group of particularly chatty kids pointed me in the direction of the scholar’s library. I hoped that the scholar was still there, because it was nearing sunset. Many people were heading back to their homes for the night.

I wrenched open the door to the scholar’s library. “Good evening!” I called.

The place was completely dark. I looked around me for a lamp, and upon finding it, used a small burst of fire magic to ignite it. Long shadows were cast from its glow across the room.

“Turn that off this instant!” a voice screamed from the corner. “This experiment is light sensitive!”

I quickly put the lamp out. “You could have replied to me when I called for someone!” I spat. “Are you the scholar?”

“The only scholar in the village!” the man, a high elf, replied. “Now what do you need, now that you’ve ruined my experiment?”

“I’m looking for a pod of your vanilla for the spirit in the mountains.”

The scholar clicked his tongue. “Again? I’m starting to think making a deal with her was a mistake. Very well, I’ll give you a pod of vanilla for her if you will buy me some coffee from the grocer up the road.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, coffee. I’ve been up for days without rest, and I need some coffee in order to keep up this pace.”

“Perhaps you should just rest, then?”

“I’ll rest when my experiments are complete!” the elf yelled. He tossed me a small satchel. “This should be enough to buy the coffee, as well as some extra for your trouble.”

I caught the satchel and slipped it into my pocket. It felt light, but I took his word for it anyway. “You have my gratitude.”

“And you have my coin. Now go get me that coffee.”

I ran out of the scholar��s library as fast as my feet could carry me without tripping myself and headed to the grocer’s stall. The grocer, a portly woman of middle age, smiled upon my approach. “Coffee for the scholar?”

I nodded. “Please tell me you have some?”

The woman’s smile grew even larger. “For him? I always have some!” She flashed me a gesture to tell me to wait as she dug through the saddlebags on her horse. “There you go, my dear,” she said. “The strongest coffee I have, ground yesterday in my mill on the farm.”

I pulled out the satchel the scholar gave me. “How much?”

“He usually gives me a gemstone,” she replied. “His gemstones are worth more than my whole farm, but I’m the only one who’s figured out how to grow coffee.” She winked at me.

I looked in the satchel the scholar had given me. Inside were three rubies, a diamond, and an emerald. I gave the woman the diamond without any hesitation. “For you,” I said as I handed it to her.

Her face fell as she took it. “There must be some mistake,” she said. “This is too nice a gemstone.”

I couldn’t hide my grin. “No, no,” I replied. “You’ve done me a great service. I can at least give you this.”

ARE YOU SURE YOU SHOULD HAVE GIVEN HER THE DIAMOND? THERE WAS ONLY ONE DIAMOND.

“Fuck off, Rebecca,” I replied as I ran back to the scholar’s library. “The woman is a saint and deserves a life of luxury and comfort, I’ll find another diamond.”

YEAH, OKAY, WHATEVER. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT WHEN YOU FIND YOURSELF IN NEED OF A DIAMOND.

The scholar greeted me at the door, taking the coffee from me and eating the grounds by the handful. I rolled my eyes. Why were elves always like this? “For you, the best pod of vanilla that my orchids have produced,” he said as he handed me the pod. “Now go, before the spirit gets angry.”

I trudged my way back up the mountain and announced myself when I got to the banks of the spirit’s lake.

Its voice was a rippling whisper over the valley. “Toss the offering into my spring, human.”

I did as I was told and tossed the vanilla pod into the deep blue lake. “As you wish.”

With a flash of light, the spirit appeared before me again, this time in the form of a small child. The temperature seemed to have gone up, as well, because I found myself uncomfortable in the relative heat of the valley. “Thank you for your offering, human,” it said, its voice light like that of the Fey. “For you, the sweetest, largest apple off of my trees for a silver-haired maiden.”

The spirit produced a large apple, cold to the touch, into my hands. I slid it into an empty bag at my hips, not willing to risk it getting ruined on my long journey back to the woods where the maiden resided.

As one last favor to me, the spirit used its magic to deposit me immediately back outside the woods where the silver-haired maiden resided. She still sat at the top of her boulder, her hair still illuminated by the sun, and smiled at me when she saw my approach. For the first time since I’d met her, she slid off the rock and met me at its base.

“For you, my lady,” I said with a bow as I held the apple out to her.

She smiled as she took it into her own hands. “It’s everything that I’d hoped it would be,” she smiled. “As promised, you may take a lock of my hair.”

I took my dagger out of my satchel and gingerly took a small lock of hair from her. Her hair felt like silk to the touch. Along with being the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life, she also had the most beautiful hair. “Thank you, my lady,” I replied finally as I slid the lock of hair into the pouch where the apple had been not moments before.

“May the gods bring you glory, Paladin,” she responded. I shuddered when she ran her hand down my cheek, but not from attraction or arousal. My blood ran cold when she touched me, fear settling in the pit of my stomach. I needed to get out of these woods, and fast. She smiled down at the apple.

I turned away from her to make my journey back to the goblin when I heard her bite into the apple and laugh. Against my better judgement, I looked behind me, hoping to catch a glimpse of her enjoying the gift I’d brought her. Left in her place, though, was a ring of gently glowing flowers and the apple, as perfect and unblemished as it had been when I’d brought it.

I ran out of the woods without another look back.

I was tired and out of breath by the time I’d gotten back to the vernal pool where I’d met the goblin. Not seeing it, I decided to start heading back to the village. It had promised to find me, and I was going to take it at its word.

It peeked out from the rocky outcropping where I’d made my camp, what seemed like forever ago. “Human!” It greeted me. “Welcome. You have the hair?”

I nodded, still struggling to catch my breath.

“Sit, sit,” it offered as it lit a fire. “The sun sets soon and these woods are not safe at night.

So that’s where my initial feeling of dread came from. I took the offered seat and fished in my satchel for the hair. Upon brandishing it to the goblin, it grinned. “You managed it!”

I laughed and handed it the hair. “It wasn’t easy, I assure you.”

The goblin devoured the hair before I could stop it. In a flash of smoke, a dwarf sat where the goblin had just been.

CONGRATS, MIKE. YOU JUST FREED YOUR GIRLFRIEND FROM HER CURSE AND SHE CAN JOIN THE CAMPAIGN AGAIN.

“What the fuck.”

CHERYL, COME JOIN THE CAMPAIGN! MIKE JUST FREED YOU! AND GRAB ME ANOTHER SLICE OF PIZZA!

“Thank you, friend!” the dwarf roared with laughter. She gave me a firm slap on the back that knocked the wind out of my lungs, like I hadn’t just caught my breath. “You are a true friend to dwarvenkind.”

The dwarf sat by the fire with me as she braided her beard. “The silver haired maiden lured me into her trap with her charm. Turned me into a goblin and left me for dead in these woods.” She caught sight of my blank stare and laughed, deep and rumbling. “It seems that only your ignorance of this place protected you, human. Tonight, we stay here, but from tomorrow I will accompany you on your journey to repay my debt.”

The next morning, Cheryl Ryngwyn and I headed back to town to meet with the pawnbroker. His shop was as cluttered as the last time we’d met, but he smiled when he saw us enter the shop. “Greetings, Paladin! I see you’ve made a friend in your quest.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I’d been through too much the past week. Between the Fey masquerading as a maiden and the knowledge that my girlfriend has been playing D&D with her friends as a bearded dwarven woman, I was suspicious of everything I came into contact with. “Indeed. I have ‘This,’ so now it’s time to hand over ‘That,’ as promised.”

The pawnbroker smiled. “Of course. ‘That’ for ‘This’ as promised.” He reached behind the counter and produced a small disc. I took it from him as Ryngwyn handed him ‘This.’ The man behind the counter smiled. “Thank you, travelers. ‘This’ is going to look good among my personal collection. ‘That’ might be more valuable, but ‘This’ is truly a treasure.”

I looked down at the item that he had given us. “This is a copy of Shrek 2.”

DAMMIT, MIKE, I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MINIFIGURES AND PROPS FOR EVERYTHING YET. WHY ARE YOU BEING SO CRITICAL?

“I’m not trying to be critical, I was just hoping that it would be more impressive than Shrek 2.”

Beside me, Ryngwyn laughed.

WELL IT’S NOT, SO THE LEGENDARY ITEM ‘THAT’ IS A DVD COPY OF SHREK 2, OKAY? YOU CAN BRING THE PROPS NEXT TIME.

Ryngwyn and I shared a look before we left, hurrying back down the beaten dirt road to the town I’d started in. We paused halfway there to eat a portion of our rations before continuing on our way. We nearly collapsed from exhaustion when we arrived at the blacksmith’s house.

I knocked on the door and waited for the blacksmith to answer. It was late, but if she could bother me at three am to go on a goose hunt, she could surface at midnight to answer her door. Eventually, she cracked the door open and looked at us with suspicion. “Paladin? Have you returned with what I seek?”

I held Shrek 2 in front of me. “Yes, I have… ‘That’ …in my posession. Do you have the payment you promised?”

The blacksmith nodded. “Yes, I do.” She invite us in and motioned to a table. “I’m prepared to offer you the best claymore that I have ever forged in exchange for ‘That.’ It’s been enchanted with holy magic, making it particularly effective against evil creatures.” The blacksmith looked at it fondly. “I’m sure it will help you on your journey, Paladin.”

I smiled and handed the blacksmith ‘That.’ Her calloused hands brushed against mine. “Thank you, this is an extraordinary weapon.” I picked the weapon up and gave it a preliminary swing to get a feel for the weapon. For something so big, it was well balanced. “This is an offer I’ll gladly accept.”

The blacksmith smiled and clutched ‘That’ close to her. “I’m glad you’re fond of the trade. Thank you, Paladin.”

As we turned to leave, I cast a look over to Ryngwyn and smiled. “Tavern?”

The dwarf laughed and slapped me on the back. “Let’s just pick up some adventurers so we can slay that dragon, alright? We can celebrate at the tavern once we’re done.”

[whattimeisitintokyo]

Somos Familia- Ch 2

Chapter 1 here: https://whattimeisitintokyo.tumblr.com/post/170479472164/somos-familia

Chapter 2: Santa Cecilia

 As soon as the train squealed to a halt in Santa Cecilia station and the harried train attendant managed to pry open the door, Héctor leapt from the passenger car, belting out a soulful grito and twirled in a circle, swinging his cases and nearly taking out a few bewildered pedestrians in his wake.

“Buenos Dias, Santa Cecilia! Aaaay-ha-heeyyy!... Ah heh- perdon, señora.” Héctor reigned in his excitement long enough to apologize to the poor old lady whose head was nearly knocked off by his guitar case. He also didn’t notice the train attendant shake his head and sigh, glad to be rid of this annoying boy who talked his ear off for eight hours about his beloved familia.

The train station was very small, and by the time he passed the ticket booth Héctor was in the outer marketplace. Héctor face lit up as he saw all the familiar faces at their own stalls, and he took a deep breath in. Smells of leather, straw, oil, animals, and street food, all cooking under the hot sun and melding together into a wave of nostalgia, melting away the ache in his chest. I’m home. Finally!

“Héctor?”

Héctor turned to the direction of the voice and smiled as he recognized his neighbor. “Facundo! Qué onda?!” He set his cases down and embraced, then lifted, the shorter man.

“Oy oy oy, basta! You know I hate it when you do that!” Héctor put the man down, but still smiled. “I am surprised to see you, though. It’s been what, eight months since you left?”

“Six actually,” Héctor sighed, “but it might as well have been eight. I must have really been homesick if I’ve missed seeing that mug of yours.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.” Facundo harrumphed. “Well, amigo, I haven’t seen you or Ernesto’s names splashed across the papers, so I’m guessing your little path to fame and glory didn’t turn out quite like you had hoped?”

Héctor scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “Ah heh heh-… It’s true, were not famous, per se, it’s more like we’re… well known! I haven’t given up with my tail tucked between my legs, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just been put on the back burner for a while so I can spend time with my precious girls.”

“Ah si… you’re… girls.” Facundo awkwardly coughed and shifted his gaze away from Héctor. “Well, I was just getting some feed for my horses, but if you want I can give you a lift back home.”

“Ah, Facundo, I have so much energy right now I could practically sprint home!” Héctor sighed, and then turned with a smirk. “But if you’re offering…”

 -------------------------

Sitting backwards of Facundo’s horse drawn buggy on top hard bags of grain, Héctor waved at passersby and shouted greetings to all the neighbors, the viejos, and snot-nosed brats that he didn’t ever think he would miss six months ago. Some waved happily, while others, which caused Héctor some concern, shouted back that they didn’t they would ever see him again. Never come back? How? His family lived here, why wouldn’t he return?

               Finally, the buggy pulled up to a courtyard with the large set of green doors that he had painted himself, and Héctor jumped off in excitement and joy. “Gracias, Facundo!”

               “De nada, Héctor.”

               “Oye, why don’t you stay for lunch? It’s Friday, so I’m sure Imelda will be making sopa de pescado!”

               “No gracias amigo, I don’t want to be caught in the cross fires.”

               “Eh?”

               Without another word, Facundo snapped his reins and made a quick escape from the Rivera complex. Héctor shrugged. More for him anyway. In his haste to come home he had ignored his stomach by bypassing all the stalls selling grilled meats and pan dulce, not to mention he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, which was only half of a chorizo that had seen better days. Just the thought of Imelda’s cooking made his stomach fold in on itself to remind him how empty it was.

               As he walked up to the doors he heard a sweet sound, like tinkling little bells, and a large grin split his face. Ah, how he had missed that voice! Peering through the crack at the doors, his heart melted at what he saw: His sweet little Coco, sitting on the ground by the edge of the boarded up well, humming a little song to herself while making her doll dance and twirl to the tune. Even from a distance he could tell she had grown a bit since he had last seen her, and that the song she was humming was their song: Remember Me.

               Héctor took his guitar out of his case and, slowly and quietly, eased the double doors open and slipped inside. Thankfully she was facing away from him. Then, very softly, he started to play the accompaniment. Coco stopped humming and looked up and around, probably thinking her mind was playing tricks on her, and that’s when he finished the song with a loud flourish. Coco’s head whipped over her shoulder in shock, and her eyes grew big as saucers and let out a gasp too big to have come from such a little body. Héctor put the guitar on the ground and held out his arms.

               “Mija…”

               “PAPÁ!”

               Coco shot up from the ground and sprinted as fast as her chubby little legs would allow, letting out high pitched squeals and stumbling a little. Héctor met her halfway through and pulled her into his arms, spinning her around, laughing with tears in his eyes. Then he peppered her little face with wet kisses.

“I- *mwah*- missed- *mwah*- you- *mwah*- so much! Ay, my sweet little Coco!” He kissed the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of talcum powder, lilac soap and milk, and hugged her tight. “Pobrecita, I’m so sorry I was away for so long.”

“It’s been forever since your last letter, Papá! I was worried!” Coco said as she looked up with big doe eyes.

“Perdonome, mija. But I’m here now! And isn’t your Papá in the flesh better than some old letter?”

“Sí!” she giggled, which turned into shrieking laughs as Héctor started blowing raspberries on her neck. They were so busy laughing and hugging, they didn’t notice they were being watched, until-

“Yes, it has been a while since your last letter. A whole month, to be exact.” An icy voice startled Héctor out of his revelry, and he saw his wife standing in the doorway, arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face. Oh, that face. So strong like steel, but still so soft and warm that it made his insides turn to jelly. And those sharp eyes sent a bolt of lightning straight to his very core.

“Imelda…” Héctor whispered. “Me amor-“

“Would you be so kind as to hand me my daughter please?” Héctor could not deny her anything, yet he reluctantly handed Coco to Imelda, despite only just being reunited with her. Imelda looked at Coco and smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mija, why don’t you go inside and set the table with your tios, make sure they don’t break anything.”

“Sí, Mamá!” Coco chirped, and skipped inside where Oscar and Felipe were waiting, looking at Héctor like they had seen a ghost. Héctor tipped his head and waved to them, which they meekly returned before slamming the door shut.

“Imelda, I cannot tell you how much I-“

*WHACK!*

An explosion of pain whitened out Héctor’s vision before a sea of colorful stars cascaded down. He pinched his nose and barely managed to bite down several curses, knowing little ears were nearby. Having been so enamored with seeing his wife, he didn’t notice Imelda stealthily slipping off her boot the second she had put Coco down. As his vision slowly came back, he was faced with his irate spouse, wagging the shoe in front of his face as if threatening to hit him again.

“For weeks I have waited for you without a word! Would it have killed you to at least write to let me know where you were?! I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, or off with some tavern maid!” she screeched.

“I-Imelda, I would never- Ay, I think you broke my nose!”

“Oh please, if I was trying to break your nose, you would surely know it!” She huffed. “You could have at least written to Coco. For four nights I’ve had to console her, she’s had such horrible nightmares of you never returning home!” Her hardened face cracked a little and Héctor could see the hurt behind the fire. “And the stares of the townspeople. And the talks I hear whispered as I walk past. I can take a lot of things, Héctor Rivera, but I will not stand being abandoned!”

Héctor sniffed and looked at his fingers. No blood. That was a good sign. “Never! I would never abandon you, mi diosa-“

“Don’t call me your diosa!” she snarled. “You abandoned me and your daughter as soon as you walked out the door with that payaso to follow some stupid musical fantasy!”

“You’re right.”

“And now you come crawling back- wait what?”

“I said you’re right.” Héctor smiled sadly and rubbed his sore nose. “It was stupid. I thought that if I traveled the road I would be inspired to write new songs. I should have realized from the beginning that all my inspiration came from you. And Coco. My beautiful muses.” Imelda’s expression didn’t change from the flattery, so maybe some humor would. “You know what kind of song I managed to come up with? Let see, there was Ten Hangovers in a Row, then came the romantic ditty Why Are There Brown Stains on the Ceiling?, and of course, my favorite, The Ballad of the Snoring, Sleep-Talking Roomate!”

Nothing, not even a smile. Mierda.

“I had writer’s block so bad, I couldn’t even write to you these last few weeks. I must have started a dozen letters, but nothing I wrote could describe how miserable I was, how much I wanted to sleep in my own bed, braid my daughters hair, hold you in my arms as we danced to La Llorona for the hundredth time. How much I just wanted to come back home. And in the end, I just figured I would show up to surprise you both! I guess you were surprised, huh?”

Imelda looked away and sighed, and the toll of the last few weeks showed in her face and voice. “I’m… relieved more than anything.” She turned back to glare. “But I’m also wary.”

“About?”

“You want to come home now, but what about the future? What if you get antsy again and want to pursue your fame and glory with Ernesto again? How long would you be gone then? Would you come back-“

“Then!” Héctor interjected while holding up placating hands. “Then I would think back on this trip and decide it’s just not worth it! And it’s not.” Imelda still stared hard. “Please, Imelda, what can I do to prove to you that I’m here to stay?”

Imelda folded her arms again and pondered, and then her eyes fell to something on the ground. “Your guitar.”

Héctor looked over his shoulder to where he had left the instrument on the ground and back to Imelda. “Sí?”

“Smash it.”

Héctor felt the blood drain from his face and his heart lurch. He looked back at the guitar frantically and then to his wife. He let out a weak chuckle. “Pero, mi amor.” He paused and gulped down the lump in his throat. “You-you gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Sí, I bought it, and now I want it gone. You said you wanted to prove to me that you’re here to stay; this is the only way I can keep you from wandering off again. No-more-music!” She emphasized.

His eyes widened at that. No more music? A guitar was one thing, but to give up all music entirely? Would it be worth it? But, again, he thought about the last few months were he had nothing but music, and no loving family to come home to. That life was not ideal either. Maybe some time down the line things could change and she would lighten up, but right now was a crucial moment in their relationship, and he was determined to save it. He sighed and nodded. “Aye, only for you, mi amor.”

Héctor slowly walked over, picked up his guitar, and walked over the center well. That would be the best place to cause the most damage. Holding the instrument like an axe, he tapped it against the edge of the stone border, then raised it high above his head, the gold tooth of the painted skull winking at him for the last time. “Adios, amigo.” He said, and then brought it down.

“NO, STOP!”

Muscles tensed in reaction, halting the guitar descent into oblivion, and then gravity kicked in, sending Héctor flying backwards and hard onto his rump. The guitar slipped out of his grasp and hit the ground with a twang! but was otherwise unharmed. Héctor groaned and sat up, rubbing his sore behind as a flurry of purple skirts flashed passed him and knelt by the guitar. “Dios mio, it’s not scratched is it?!” Imelda shouted as she looked over the guitar from every angle before sighing, relieved to know it survived unscathed.

“Imelda?” Héctor was confused. What was going on?

Imelda looked at Héctor with wide eyes. “You-… You were really going to do it. You were going to smash your guitar, for me?”

Héctor’s eyes softened and he reached out and caressed her cheek, happy that he didn’t flinch away. “I would do anything for you, diosa.”

Imelda face crumpled and she launched herself into Héctor’s chest, wrapping her arms around him squeezing hard. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I would never make you make that choice. I might as well have asked you to cut off your arms!”

“I think I might draw the line there.” Héctor chuckled.

“Oh Héctor, how I have missed you.” Then she planted such a passionate kiss on Héctor’s lips, which he happily reciprocated. All the worry, loneliness and stress melted away from them as they reclaimed their passion for each other. All was right with the world again.

They finally broke apart when Imelda accidentally ground down on the sore part of his face. “Ay! Why did you have to hit my nose?”

“It was the biggest target.” Imelda deadpanned, and Héctor couldn’t help but bark out a laugh and kiss her again. Imelda squeezed his sides again, and then pinched his belly, causing him to yelp again. “You’ve lost weight, idiota.”

“Yeah, I suppose I have-“

“You can’t afford to lose weight, flaco! I can feel your ribs underneath your suit!”

“Oye!” The two of them turned to see Felipe leaning casually in the window sill, smirking. “If you two lovebirds are done screeching at each other, the sopa de pescado is about to boil over!”

“Then take it off the fire, you lazy bum!” Imelda rose to her feet and patted the dust off her dress. “And you!” she glared at her husband. “You are going to eat no less than three bowls as well some bread and fruit. You did not come home just so you can keel over and die from malnutrition!”

Héctor laughed. “Ah Imelda, you are an inspiration! I’m not home five minutes and I’ve already come up with some new lyrics to an old classic!” He picked up his guitar, grateful to still have his old friend, and plucked out a familiar tune.

Imelda recognized it immediately. “Oh no…”

You say “Smash your guitar!”

Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!                    

But then you change your mind

Ay mi amor, Ay mi amor!

“Callate!” Imelda screeched as she ran into the house, laughing like she hadn’t done in a long time.

You nearly broke my nose

Ay mi amor, Ay mi amor!

It doesn’t need to get any bigger

Ay mi amor, ay mi ammooorrrr…..

[hollowgroverp]

The Founders’ Council is excited to presents....                             The Rose Cresswell Memorial                                Saint Valentine Charity Ball

In honor of his beloved daughter Rose Cresswell, who lost her life during the tragedies of the Bitter Ball last year, Mayor Cresswell is honored to announce this year's Valentine’s Day Event. After last year’s tragedy the Founders’ Council has made the decision to retire the annual Bitter Ball and in the spirit of starting fresh has decided to start a new tradition. Join us at Mayor Cresswell’s for an elegant night of charity and romance. 

Hello my loves! I am so very excited to announce our next event. While trying to put the past behind them the people of Hollow Grove are about to watch history repeat itself in some ways. This event is going to be a charity ball with a twist.  An unexpected snow storm is about to ravage Hollow Grove and chaos is bound to happen. With that in mind many will be stuck at the Cresswell Manor on the edge of the town near the harbor, others who may have chosen to leave or who decided not to attend at all may find themselves trapped else where. We’d like you to take this opportunity to plot with one another during the event. Whether that means a few characters are trapped in an elevator or maybe a fire breaks out at the location your character is, or flooding from the storm, there are a ton of possibilities. Below the cut you will find full details of the event, including details for the Charity Ball and timeline of events for the storm. The ball will take place in one night in game and the effects of the storm will carry out over the few days that follow and you will be able to play this out over one week. Don’t forget to tag your posts hgvday. The event will take place in game on February 17th through the 19th but will take place in the group over the course of a week starting February 16th at 5pm CST and running through til the 24th at midnight.

As always please make sure you run major plots by us, this is mostly to ensure we don’t have the same plot happening multiple times and will help us keep track of what’s going on. It will also make it easier for us to drop event updates if you keep us posted.

THE DETAILS

When will the event take place in game?: The  ball will take place the night of February 17th, 2018 and the storm over the next two days (see timeline below)

When will the event take place?: February 16th at 5pm CST through February 24th at midnight CST. Starters can take place at any point during this, we’d ask open starters start out at the ball and later starters can be during the storm. 

Where: The Charity Ball will take place at the Cresswell Manor located on the edge of town near the harbor.

Dress code: Formal attire

Tag to be used: hgvday (if you create a starter during the snow storm it may help to tag a location if they are not at the Cresswell manor)

WHAT’S THE TIMELINE?

Friday, January 17th

The event begins at 5 pm with cocktails and music

Dinner will be served at 6pm 

Musical Guest Justin Timberlake starts at 7 pm in the main ballroom

Musical Guest The Weekend starts at 9:30 pm in the main ballroom

10:15 pm the storm begins. It sweeps in through the harbor bringing rain. The temperature drops drastically and the rain begins to freeze, soon comes the freezing rain and its falling at an alarming pace. The winds pick up from the northeast and soon the snow begins. A mess of snow, lightning, and thunder its a storm like no other.  Before anyone realizes it there are complete whiteout conditions as the snow comes down at an alarming rate covering icy conditions that make travel impossible. The storm pushes the ocean tides into the shower causing serious flooding around the harbor.

At 11:15 pm the lights flicker and guest realize the storm has swept through.

By midnight almost 12 inches of snow has fallen.

Saturday, January 18th

8 am the snow finally stops. Having slowed overnight the accumulated amount is still drastic at 18 inches.

Around 11:30 am few people start making their way out into the world.

The plows are able to get up and running around 4 pm and begin work on the roads. The icy conditions prove to be difficult and the plows begin by clearing emergency routes. The flooding has caused concern.

Sunday, January 19th

5 pm all roads have been cleared

The snow has begun to melt but seems to be contributing to excessive flooding that was pushed into the harbor.

ACTIVITIES TAKING PLACE DURING THE BALL

The night's festivities promise an array of activities throughout the Cresswell’s manor. The place is decked from floor to ceiling in roses of every color and the place I decorated in the very definition of elegance. Activities Hollow Grove townspeople can expect:

Photobooth 

In the study, you will find a full fledge photo studio. Grab a friend and some fun props and take some fun pictures to commemorate the night. 

Romance and Movies

In the theater room, you will find a series of old romantic movies playing. Curl up with your love and enjoy the show. 

Poker 

Take a slay ride through the snow from the Cresswell Manor out to the boathouse where you will find a casino layout that would make Vegas jealous. 

Burlesque Show

 In the east wing library, you’ll find a world of tantalizing entertainment. Enjoy the burlesque show amongst private cabanas and hooka pipe setups. 

Dinner

The dinner spread for the evening is just as luxurious as you could imagine. From decadent desserts to scrumptious entrees. You can find everything your heart could desire from sushi to sirloin steak. Eat to your heart's content. 

Live Music and DJ’s

Enjoy musical guest Justin Timberlake and the Weekend. You’ll also find a DJ spinning tracks and you can dance the night away. 

Sweets and Treats

Help yourself to the desserts station of your dreams, with a chocolate fountain and several dipping options to the cookie decorating station your sweet tooth is sure to be satisfied. 

[a-year-of-musicals]

Day 124/365 - Priscilla Queen of the Desert

By Stephan Elliott, Allan Scott and various artists

The drag queen Mitzi Mitosis – whose real name is Anthony "Tick" Belrose – is performing at a club (Downtown/I've Never Been to Me/It's Raining Men) when his wife Marion, whom he has been separated from for several years because of his homosexuality, calls in for a favour. While Tick is offstage, fellow drag queen Miss Understanding performs her own number (What's Love Got to Do With It?). From the phone in Tick's dressing room, Marion reveals that she needs an act for a few weeks at her business in distant Alice Springs, Australia. Tick is at first reluctant, but Marion informs him that part of the reason she's asking is because their now eight-year-old son Benji wants to meet his father (I Say A Little Prayer). Tick confides in another fellow drag queen Farrah, before deciding he will leave for Alice Springs. After he decides to do the job, Tick calls a friend, a transexual named Bernadette – whose birth name is Ralph – to join him but sadly, Bernadette's husband has just died. The pair meet at the funeral (Don't Leave Me This Way) where Bernadette agrees to join him. Tick also asks a friend Felicia – whose real name is Adam Whitely – to come with them (Venus/Material Girl), with Bernadette taking an immediate dislike to his show-off performance style. Nonetheless, the newly formed trio buy a "budget Barbie campervan" they nickname "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" (Go West). Tick informs them that the trip is a favour to his wife, but does not tell them it is also to meet his son who wants to see him (I Say A Little Prayer Reprise). As the journey to Alice Springs begins, Adam angers Bernadette after cracking jokes about her old life before being a transsexual. Later the group goes into a bar, in full drag, and start a bar dance party (I Love the Nightlife), but when they return to the bus learn that the townspeople wrote hateful statements on the bus in spray paint. Tick is very upset, but Adam and Bernadette comfort him (Both Sides, Now/True Colors). While on the road, Adam practices his lip-syncing as Felicia sitting in the giant high heel on the roof of the van (Follie! Delirio vano è questo! Sempre libera (from La traviata)). The next morning, Priscilla breaks down and Adam buys lavender paint to erase the vandalism (Colour My World). They manage to get the locals of another town on their side and meet Bob, a mechanic from a small town nearby who agrees to help fix Priscilla. The group celebrates that they've found people that accept them (I Will Survive).

The second act opens with a group of bogans singing (Thank God I'm A Country Boy). Bernadette talks with Bob and learns that when he was in Sydney, he saw her when she was a young "Les Girl" (A Fine Romance). The two begin to grow feelings for each other. Later in a bar (Thank God I'm A Country Boy Reprise), the trio is about to perform (Shake Your Groove Thing) when Cynthia, Bob's wife, interrupts their act by "popping" ping-pong balls (Pop Muzik). After this, the trio leaves, leaving Bob to wonder about his feelings for Bernadette (A Fine Romance Reprise). All of a sudden, Bernadette asks if he wants a free ride back to his real home, in which he agrees (Girls Just Wanna Have Fun). Later when they arrive, Adam dresses up like a woman to try to meet men (Hot Stuff), but ends up getting chased and nearly becomes the victim of a hate crime until Bernadette rescues him by kicking one of his attackers. Later as they arrive in Alice Springs, Tick reflects on the trip after someone literally leaves the cake out in the rain (MacArthur Park). As another act performs first (Boogie Wonderland), the trio gets ready to perform a variety of songs that they sang or lip-synced on their journey (The Floor Show). Afterwards, Tick finally meets his son, Benji, who accepts his father's sexuality and lifestyle (Always on My Mind/I Say a Little Prayer) and Adam gets to perform his own solo Madonna hit, (Like A Prayer/Confide in Me/Kylie Medley), his favorite singer. Afterwards the gang talks about their plans after Alice Springs, and realize they can't leave each other (We Belong). They go off stage together and the company performs a medley of songs to close the show (Finally Finale).

Such a hoot of a musical with lots of feel-good songs but still lots of important points surrounding sexuality and acceptance.

Favourite Songs: I love them all but I think my favourite would have to be “I Will Survive”

Favourite Character: Bernadette

Check that sass!

[thatwhichmovesthestars]

Chapter Two: The Dreams That Came

Chapter 2

The Dreams That Came20 March 1823Seven years later…

Waiting in the antechamber of her mother's sickroom with Sir Walter, Beatrice stared out of the cottage's main window in a trance: it was the first day of Spring. When he and Logan arrived minutes before, she opened a window to let the sweet scent of an overgrown honeysuckle shrub find its way into the home. On the edge of the window rested three tightly sealed jars, each with different colored glass. Inside of the jars were leaves, herbs, and berries of different kinds melding together to make sun tea. Behind the jars, a wind chime that Beatrice made for her mum played simple melodies with the breeze. Through the window and past their yard, an ocean of bluebells near the Brightwall Library swayed harmoniously with the wind and seemed to dance with the chime's music. While we love her every season, Beatrice thought of the old maxim, it is springtime in Albion that makes the blind wish they could see again.

And it was the exact reason her mother requested to live out the rest of her days in Brightwall, rather than stay at the castle in Bowerstone. When Beatrice asked why she wanted to move to the country town last Spring, her mother replied, "My love, because the bluebells are to die for," with a wry smile. It was now eleven months later and the violet-blue bulbs were appearing yet again, although Beatrice knew this would be her mother's last season. She had been dreading this day. Beatrice could not shake the feeling that her mother's indomitable will to stay alive these past few weeks, despite being at the peak of her illness, was for the sole purpose of seeing the flower in bloom one final time. She felt a heavy pull in her chest as she stared into the rich blue blossoms; it was only a matter of time.

"Beatrice," Walter interrupted her thoughts. "I know this is hard for you, and I want you to know that I am always here. Before your father left, he asked me to take care of you and your mum until he returned," he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "and I have done so with honor. So, tell me kid, is there anything I can do?" He gave her a serious look, "Because honest to Avo, you look like you'd jump out the window next to me if I weren't here to grab you."

She took her eyes off the bluebells and smiled weakly at Walter, "I'm sorry, I wasn't meaning to ignore you. It's that…everything hurts like it did when Papa went missing." She squinted her eyes and searched for words, "Even, even the flowers, Walter…I wish I could pause the sun and stars for one day." He nodded his head in sympathy. He is too kind to me, Beatrice thought to herself about her companion. Since her father left, Sir Walter had graciously filled the empty spot in Beatrice's life. Most days he trained her in combat, some days they would walk the gardens while she asked him questions and he shared war stories. He escaped to the provincial village to visit her as often as he could, and she knew he was too busy to come as often as he did.

He had been her listening ear when work consumed Logan. The arms that reached her during her darkest days and placed her on her feet time and time again. A shoulder to cry on when Jasper explained to a young Beatrice that, "feelings for the housekeeper's son are natural, but he is not of your class." The calloused hands that escorted her and her mother to their seats at royal banquets when others had their husbands and fathers to fulfill the duty. The heart that took in his king and closest friend's children when he had not asked for the task, when he had not had children of his own. None of this was lost on Beatrice and she was eternally thankful for his unconditional love. Knowing that her mother's death was coming and that Sir Walter would try to take on the role of both parents, her gut became heavy with guilt.

"There is something you can do for me," she said to clear her mind. "Don't let Logan leave for Aurora. We need him here. I need him here. I imagine it will only be days when he is no longer prince regent and crowned the new king." Her voice was rising in anger with each word. "What could possibly be so important that he would leave at a time like this?"

"You know your brother. When his mind is settled, it is impossible to move him. He is like a boulder," Walter said before lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "Beatrice, you and I both know he hasn't been himself lately. Like you, he too is in pain. He busies himself to cope," Walter stood up and motioned for Beatrice to do the same. He held out his arms to her and she could not help but want the comfort of his embrace. She didn't make a noise as she rested her head on his shoulder. He squeezed her tightly and, when she closed her eyes, it was as if she was hugging her father again.

"Have you gotten taller?" Walter asked.

"I think so. I'm fourteen, soon to be fifteen, you know. Logan is almost as tall as Papa was, maybe I will be too," she replied.

"Wow, only fourteen, huh? And to think you're more mature than me," he laughed.

Beatrice knew he was trying to distract her, trying to make her feel better for even a moment. But she couldn't stand it, not when she wanted answers and certainty. She cleared her throat and asked, "Are you going with Logan to Aurora, Walter?"

He paused and responded, "No, I'm staying in Albion. We've already worked it out." Softly, he stroked the back of her head.

Beatrice let out an exhausted sigh. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chanted. Pulling back and cupping her hands around his in appreciation, she gushed, "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Thank your brother then. It was one of his many pre-departure plans," Walter replied. Now that she was more grounded, Beatrice could sense a cloud of resistance growing within him.

"What other plans does he have?" she asked.

Walter shook his head in exasperation, "Logan has scheduled a meeting with our favorite business advisor. He wants to give him complete control of industry while the soon-to-be king is away. It's an absolute balls idea, but he cannot be convinced otherwise."

"Does that mean Reaver will visit Bowerstone more often?" she asked.

"I suppose. I know that he is having a manor built in Millsfield, so he'll be physically closer." The reaction of the princess surprised Walter. It was the first time she displayed an ounce of energy since he and Logan arrived, "Why? Do you need to see him?"

"Oh no, I'm just shocked is all. I cannot believe Logan is sharing any of his work burdens, especially with the likes of Reaver." Beatrice was lying, but Walter failed to notice. Unbeknownst to anyone except her mother, Beatrice had been trying to contact those that would be able to help her find her missing father and Reaver was on her list.

Beatrice had wanted to search for her father the moment he was declared "dead," but it was as if life circumstance prevented her. Her mother's sickness, which meant she was now living outside of the castle in Brightwall, and knowing Logan refused to discuss the subject, left Beatrice few options. She tucked her desire to find her papa beneath her duty as her mother's caretaker and did not mention it again.

She had been living in Brightwall for exactly five months when the dreams began.

On the first night, she dreamt that she was a child again, sleeping in her bedroom at Bowerstone Castle. Her papa stood in her doorframe and beckoned her to follow him. She struggled to keep up with his long stride while they wandered the hallways. Finally, reaching their destination at the doors of his office, her papa turned around and smiled at her. Walking toward the bookshelves that lined his walls, he knelt, grabbed her small hand, and ran her fingers over the spines of his books. Suddenly, she was back at the start of the dream and her papa stood in the doorframe once more. The dream repeated itself for the rest of the night.

When Beatrice awoke the next morning, she quickly reached for the dream journal she kept near her bed. Everything had felt so real – as if it were a memory rather than a dream. Thumbing through pages and pages of entries for that year, she looked for any mention of her father. Not once had she dreamed of him; instead, her entries were riddled with nonsensical images and the same recurring nightmares from her childhood. Beatrice wanted to believe it was a sign, but as the excitement of seeing her father again settled down. She told herself that his "visit" was simply a product of missing him.

Yet the next night, she dreamed of him again. She knew she was in a portside town when salty air filled her lungs. A large stone building was to her right. At first, she thought it was a castle in ruins, but as she approached she realized it was a stadium. Roads were muddy and houses were unkept, and most townspeople around her mimicked their surroundings in both attitude and uncleanliness. She could feel that she was taller and more powerful than her waking self; she must have been older. Beatrice looked around for her papa, but he was nowhere to be found. An overwhelming sense of panic filled her and she began running up the hill towards a wooden tower that overlooked the town; any reservation she had was gone as she desperately looked through the crowd of people for her father.

"Papa! Papa!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, but it was not her voice she produced. She stopped in her tracks right before hitting the tower. Beatrice felt a hand on her back and she swiveled around.

"Ah, Sparrow! There you are," the man said with a large grin. "Got that 5,000 gold for me yet?"

"Who are...?" Beatrice replied.

"You'll be well-pleased with the results, Sparrow. This area is ripe for expandoration!" The man laughed again and Beatrice stared at him incredulously.

"What did you call me?" she asked.

"Sparrow? That is you, innit? You look the same as ever," his mouth relaxed into a straight line. Beatrice reached behind her and immediately felt the hilt of a sword. Pulling it over her head, she gazed into her reflection. Looking back at her, in the polished metal of the blade, was the face of her father. She was him.

"Do you see it?" the man asked.

Beatrice returned her sword to its rightful place, "I think I do."

"No. Do you see it?" He asked again and pointed to a pocket on her chest.

"Oh!" Beatrice slipped her hand into the pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper along its single crease, revealing a photograph.

"Do you see it?" The man was smiling again.

Beatrice studied the photo; it was of her Papa and a woman. And despite the woman being older than she was now, Beatrice knew it was her. They stood next to each other, stone-faced, directly facing the camera. Their bodies were identically postured, with one glowing hand to their side and another hand rested on the hilt of a long, uneven sword balanced on its tip. The man before her stepped forward and ran his finger back and forth over the crease in the photo. He placed his hands over Beatrice's, folding and unfolding the photo before her eyes. She realized that when folded, her father laid perfectly on top of her. They were mirror images. One of the same.

"I see it now," she whispered.

Beatrice hit the ground beside her bed with a hard thud. Moments passed before she realized where she was and her mind was racing. Grabbing her journal, she stumbled through the dark to her desk. After finding a match to light an oil lamp, she began sketching furiously. She drew the face of the man from her dream, the town she had visited, and in as best detail as she could, the photograph. Trance-like, it wasn't until she had finished that Beatrice took stock of what laid before her. None of it was recognizable, but she knew it held significance.

The third evening, Beatrice was jittery with anticipation. She was afraid that she had overthought it – that she ruined the possibility she would dream about her father again because she wanted it so badly. She closed her eyes and concentrated her breathing to lull herself to sleep. Four breaths in, six breaths out, she thought as her chest filled and deflated.

Soon, Beatrice found herself standing at the top of a tall peak. Her senses were heightened and she was filled with wild anticipation. She looked down at her hands; they were her hands. She felt her face and ran her fingers through her hair; it was her face and her hair. She was dressed in the same chemise she had gone to bed in. Looking around the gray rock on which she stood, she could see figures materializing to her left, front, and right, but it was difficult to concentrate on any single object.

"Beatrice, what exactly does Lucien want?" said a familiar voice to her right. In complete disbelief, she turned toward the direction from which the comment came. Standing face-to-face with Reaver, Beatrice did not immediately recognize him. He was leaner, youthful even, with blue eyes that were intense and unnatural. There was no foreboding discomfort. No air of malaise. No hint of existential ennui. It was not the dark figure to which she had become accustomed. Beatrice was bewildered that he seemed to have asked a question for which he did not already know the answer.

"Reaver…are, are you okay?" she asked.

"Aside from godlike power? Hmm, that's a tough one," said a woman to her left, who Beatrice immediately recognized as Hammer.

It dawned on her. She knew enough history about the Heroes of the past, including her father, to know the story that was playing before her eyes. It was the night her father defeated Lucien. Her eyes scanned the darkness and soon, as she expected, the foggy image of Garth began to form.

"That kind of power is a means, not an end. What does he want to do?" Reaver replied.

The apparition of Garth had turned into a corporeal being. He spoke, "When I knew him, he wanted to resurrect his family. Probably still does. But, give a beggar a million gold, he'll buy food – until he's full. And then he realizes bread isn't the only thing for sale." Beatrice could not believe it – the stories of her childhood were coming to life before her and it felt so very real.

"Now we can begin…" came a woman's voice from behind her. "Stand in the center, Beatrice. You represent that which binds the three together: Strength, Skill, and Will." Cautiously, Beatrice stepped toward the area asked of her by the voice. She looked at the Heroes that surrounded her. Auras were forming around their bodies and it wasn't until she heard the scraping of Reaver's boots against the stone that she realized they were being lifted from the ground. Each, floating in the air, was held in place like stiffly shifting animals caught in a trap.

"Gaze into them, Beatrice," the voice felt closer, as if inside her own mind. "Gaze into them in the way that I know you can."

Closing her eyes, Beatrice felt a cracking stone under a hammer, the recoil of a discharged pistol, the hanged man's snapping rope. Her head broke the surface of their tepid inner waters and she drew in a sharp breath, her first breath. She opened her eyes and felt the flutter of eight eyelids. Staring in front of her, she saw herself from three perspectives while still maintaining her own line of sight. She looked down and saw Garth's hands, Hammer's hands, Reaver's hands, her hands before her. She felt their rage and her calm, their fear and her excitement, their strong push and her stronger pull.

Becoming faint, Beatrice concentrated all eyes to the center of the circle and stared at her own body before her – this is strange, this is strange, this is strange, this is strange, she thought, and the words echoed through four minds harmoniously. Her body, her true body and not the others she currently inhabited, rotated its neck and the three necks around her moved in complete synchrony. She balled Garth's fist and all the other fists followed. She pushed Hammer's foot into the ground and felt the ground push back four times over. She ran Reaver's hand down the length of his other arm and felt the sensation hundreds of times over, as both the one touching and the one being touched. It was an exponential combination of limbs.

And it dawned on her; Beatrice was not controlling them, no, she was experiencing them. I represent that which binds, they all thought while a smile spread across their four faces.

"Good evening, princess."

Beatrice shot up from her deep sleep and stared at the end of the bed. She felt nauseous as her focus adjusted to being only a single set again. She tightly closed her eyes and placed her palms on her temples as the room spun around her.

"Good evening, princess," the voice called out again and she knew it was real. Beatrice's eyes shot open to reveal her bedroom illuminated with a bright light. It was as if someone had sucked the pigment out of the entire room. Everything was a shade of gray.

A hooded woman stood at her footboard, her hands clasped before her. "I would introduce myself, but I do believe you recognize me."

Beatrice studied the woman as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her heart felt as if it were in her throat. "Yes," she whispered, "you're Theresa. It was your voice in my dream."

"That it was," Theresa replied as she stood still as stone. "I realize you could not have expected me. My presence on the night of Lucien's defeat did not make the history books."

Beatrice nodded, "I know you from my father's journals. He was an excellent artist."

"Much like yourself," Theresa moved a single arm and beckoned for Beatrice to follow her. As if being pulled by an invisible string, Beatrice's body immediately reacted.

"Is this a dream?" the princess asked.

"Does it feel like one?"

"No, but neither did my other dreams."

"Interesting," Theresa replied as she guided them to the bedroom desk where Beatrice immediately opened her journal and inked the steel tip of her dip pen. "Listen carefully princess, it is time to begin the search for your father. You are the only one capable of leading him home."

"Where is he?" Beatrice wrote in her journal, directly under the area she had transcribed what Theresa had told her a moment before.

"No place that I can reach. But, I believe the three Heroes of your father's past can aid you. Begin with your father's journals, within them lie secrets that only you can decipher." Theresa paused, "The two of you share much more than blood, Beatrice."

And as quickly as she had appeared, Theresa vanished.

Before her mother reached a point of no return in her illness, Beatrice would sneak away from Brightwall to the castle and look through her father's journals for the clues Theresa had mentioned.

Four months before, she found the whereabouts of Hammer, a now central figure of the Warrior Monks of the North. Beatrice wrote a letter to her pleading for her help. Hammer responded and politely declined, sharing her condolences for Beatrice's loss and citing her role as head of the monastery for the reason she could not leave.

Not that I'd expect you to remember, but I was there a few days after you were born Beatrice. I had never seen a man more in love with a little face when Sparrow held you in his hands. Your father was a protective and resilient warrior, Hammer wrote, and if he is out there physically, or spiritually, I know he is still taking care of you in his own way.

A month before, Beatrice located Garth and tried a different approach to his letter. Both being students of Will, Beatrice confessed to him that she had sensed her father's energy well past when he was believed to be dead, and when it did vanish it was not the way one's life force slowly slips away in death. She had received his letter only one week before.

Garth, unlike Hammer, did not express an ounce of empathy. The only good to have come from his letter was an affirmation: he too had interpreted Sparrow's disappearance in a similar manner as Beatrice. Garth suggested that her father had not died but instead transformed. It would explain the supposed evaporation of his life force from the limited spiritual plane that Beatrice had access to at her stage of Will development. He had also warned her that she might prefer not to find Sparrow if his prediction were true, that her efforts could be worthless, dangerous, or unviable. Surprisingly, Garth had invited her to visit him if she had the desire to become his apprentice in all matters of Will. Beatrice refused to respond to him: she was angry and afraid of his prediction. Any hope of finding her father was depleting daily, but she still had one more person left to contact and she was saving him for last.

Despite his role as advisor to both her father and brother, Beatrice had not interacted much with the bizarre industrialist since her father left for his quest in the Winter of 1819. Even before Theresa suggested contacting her father's old friends, Beatrice had thought Reaver was hiding information about her father. He was a man that knew a considerable amount on every subject and going-on under the Albion sun. She had wanted to talk to him, but she suspected that Reaver actively avoided her. And, truth be told, she was hesitant to approach him.

Even when she tried to find him, Reaver was always a room or hallway away, surrounded by others like a shield or had departed alone without a word. She knew he attended royal events and met with her brother regularly, but he somehow stayed just out of her reach like a dark mirage. But despite his distance, Beatrice sensed he kept a keen eye on her every move, whether they were standing inches apart or on opposite ends of a ballroom. And though she still was still unable to read him, she could not mistake the burn of his stare.

After neither her father nor his men returned by 1821, Reaver suggested that Logan stage a symbolic burial for their father and solidify her brother as the future monarch. The closed casket ceremony had taken place a year ago, and it was the last time she had tried to speak to Reaver about her father.

"We need to talk after the burial. Privately," Beatrice had said in a low tone after arriving at his immediate right. She had snuck away from her mother, fought her way through a crowd of admiring men and women, and forced a woman near him to move after giving her a quick shock on the thigh. Despite his not showing it, she knew he had not expected her to approach him; she had broken their unspoken agreement to stay away from each other.

"No," he replied in one short note.

"I was not asking you," she responded.

He looked at her from the side with surprise, scanning her from head to toe. "My, my, how bold you've become, little princess. Your demands are a hard slap across the face, whereas good persuasion should be as delicate as a kiss upon the cheek." He placed one gloved hand on her shoulder and hissed in her ear, "Which do you think I prefer?"

"I do not know," she replied with sincerity. He continued to stand near her in silence. When she looked up to his face, which was considerably closer than when she was a child, he seemed to be waiting. And even she knew Reaver did not wait for long. Beatrice cleared her throat, "May I speak to you, in private, after the service ends?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sighed. "I'm rather busy, but I will think about it during this charade of a memorial." Before leaving her side, he asked, "Do tell, how is your training coming along with Sir Walter? I've seen you practicing quite often during my visits with your brother. His choice in office location allows him to have a full survey of castle grounds from his window." Reaver smirked, "Discovering any newfound talents, princess?"

"I will share every detail you desire after our discussion," Beatrice replied coolly. Reaver let a small hoot, and if she were correct, it seemed as if he were amused by her candor. He nodded his head and tipped his hat to her before sauntering off to his seat where a butler waited with an umbrella to block the sun from his skin.

Once the funeral had ended, she searched for him in the ample crowd of attendees that flooded the front courtyard of the castle. Considering his height, and ostentatious manner of dress, she quickly noticed him walking alone into the castle and toward the gardens. As if he could sense her stare, Reaver turned and looked at her. She knew it was an invitation to follow.

Beatrice attempted to move through the crowd, but mourning nobles surrounded her to express their long-winded sympathies. Her agitation was beginning to show and she was getting short with the guests. She could feel that they were either emotionally vacant or fearful of the coming change in power, not necessarily upset by her father's assumed death.

"Yes, yes, thank you. Yes, it is awful. Absolutely, I understand. Okay, thank you. Thank you. May I please get…okay, yes, I know. This is a difficult day for us all, but I need to move…" Beatrice muttered to the crowd while trying to avoid eye contact. The number of people surrounding her seemed to grow by the second. It overwhelmed her.

She struggled to break free from their touch and questions when her fingers began tingling. "Oh no," she muttered to herself and looked at her hands. They felt stiff as if readying for an attack. In her confusion, she could not discern what power was building in her; fire, wind, electricity, or something else entirely? Whatever it was, it was numbing her extremities and made her feel as if she were standing ten feet away from her body, like a specter watching a human drama unfold. She wrapped her arms around her chest as if she were giving herself a hug to ground herself in the present. Beatrice tried to speed her breathing back up instead of slipping into the tranquil state of her Will, where time moved infinitely slower and her thoughts became dangerously singular. She readied to move out of the growing circle of people around her before unintentionally injuring them and outing her powers on the most public day of her life.

Unexpectedly, she felt the firm grip of two hands on both of her shoulders and it snapped her out of her trance. Logan placed his head near her ear and softly spoke. "Beatrice, can you at least act the part today?"

She turned to her brother, arms still wrapped around her chest, and pleaded, "Logan, please. Please, I need to go to the garden, you don't understand…"

He cut her off and spoke through clenched teeth, "No, I think I understand completely. You are a princess, and with the privileged life comes an irrevocable duty to act like one. Right now you are being a child."

"Reaver is waiting for me in the garden, I need to speak to him!" She was raising her voice and he gave her a quizzical look.

"He is not waiting for you," Logan pointed toward the cobblestone road that led to the castle gates, "He is leaving," Just as her brother had stated, Reaver was walking toward his carriage with the quickened gait of someone not returning to their previous place. Her heart sank and any cresting Will left inside of her fell back immediately.

She knew she could run after him. It would have been easy to scatter the horde of people with a burst of fire from her hands. It would have been exciting to leap upon his moving carriage and stealthily slide through the door with grace. And it would have been satisfying to sit across from Reaver and have this full attention. No doubt he would have been impressed, even if he tried to hide it.

Yet, she did not move; instead, she kept up appearances for the sake of Logan and the court. In that moment, as she watched Reaver head away from the castle, she made a promise to herself that changed the course of her life. From that point on, she Beatrice, daughter of Sparrow of Bowerstone and Iris of Woodseed, Hero Princess of Albion, would stay loyal to her own desires and not to the expectations of others. Especially those who demanded arbitrary social order.

Her father's mock funeral occurred the year before and during that time her mother was soundlessly developing a deep sickness. Beatrice immediately felt whatever was growing inside and was terrified beyond words. It was no surprise when the royal physician shared the results of her mother's exam weeks later: she was dying. As months passed, her mother became a shell of her former self. She lost weight to the point of being skeletal, bruised easily with even the gentlest touch, and found it increasingly difficult to breathe with activity. Beatrice tended to her daily. She read her books from the castle library, made her various tonics from the garden, and would lie in bed with her mother and watch her sleep. The reality of her mother's coming death consumed her thoughts and she was obsessed with keeping her well. It wasn't until Theresa's visit those few months before that Beatrice even considered taking up the task of finding her father again. She shared Theresa's prophecy with her mother and it was the first time the ill queen felt hope for a future she would not see.

Despite her death coming soon, Iris asked to be moved to Brightwall to live out her final months. It was where she met Sparrow all those years before becoming Queen, before bearing their children, before she knew what it meant and what it took to love a Hero. They had married in the newly built Brightwall Library, a gift from her fiancé and inspired by her love of knowledge. It was there, as her first act as new queen, she tended to a large vegetable garden that supplied free food for Brightwall citizens. She taught classes on herbology and passed down familial recipes to anyone who would attend. It was that same garden that she had taught Logan and Beatrice about the omnipresent spirit of nature and how to listen to its voice. Brightwall was the place that Logan learned how to swim and Beatrice climbed trees. It was the place that Iris discovered Beatrice could make the same fire as her husband within her tiny hands. And it was the last place she had seen her love, Sparrow, before he left on his final and fated quest. Beatrice knew these details well, and when her mother asked to move to Brightwall during the Winter of 1822, she happily agreed to go with her. It would not be until their mother passed away that Logan would finally gain the official title King of Albion…

"Beatrice," she heard softly behind her. Snapped back to the present again, she turned to see a solemn Logan leaving their mum's room. "I've missed you," he confessed as he approached her. Beatrice immediately felt the urge to run to her brother, but she stopped herself. He looked sick with grief and responsibility. The wrinkles along his forehead belied his twenty-one years of age.

"Oh Logan," she sighed. Within a single hand, her brother could hold all things he cared for, but he cared for them so deeply that he hid them from himself. When Beatrice peered into her brother, she felt his love for family and country and it looked very different than her own. Logan could easily be overwhelmed if he felt those same things he cared for were slipping, like the potential loss of their mother, so Beatrice eased herself into his space. Just as when they were children, Beatrice had to follow Logan's rules if he was upset. Otherwise, he would let his anger get the best of him.

"Don't use your little gift to read me if you hug me," he said flatly.

"Brother, I wouldn't dare," she replied as she walked into his open arms. Trying her best to keep her promise, Beatrice focused on physical senses so as not to "read" him. She felt his warmth, heard his rapid heartbeat, and discerned the difference between the smell of his waistcoat versus the smell of his skin. His body was stiff and she reminded him, "I've told you before, I cannot hear thoughts and I do not see the future. I just sense things, like feelings," she closed her eyes and hugged him closer. "Logan, your face has always revealed how you felt. There is nothing to hide with you because it is already on display," she added, attempting to relax him. It worked.

She felt his body soften a little and he reciprocated the strength of her embrace. What she did not mention was that her little "gift" of reading others was developing quickly. It was no longer just feelings and images she saw when she read someone – now they stayed longer and were in her control. No surprise readings anymore. She could see clearer and search deeper, peeling back the layers of a person's inner world like the petals of a rose. Just days before, she touched an object and successfully detected the residual emotions imprinted upon it. She would not dare mention this to Logan, who she knew would have felt threatened.

"You smell like home," she commented.

"You should come back to Bowerstone once this situation has," he hesitated, "finished."

Beatrice nodded in agreement, but her return would not be the return her brother expected. It would be easier for her to explore her father's belongings and continue her search for him. "Logan, I would love to come back to the castle. Are all of my things there?"

"Just as you left them," he responded.

"And what about father's things? I wish to archive them with Samuel. They are artifacts of our country's history now," she asked with hope.

"Well, yes. Anything that you would consider appropriate for a library has been moved to his former office. I don't go in there often. I have turned the War Room into my personal study."

"That sends quite the message, doesn't it?" she commented. Walter, who had been waiting quietly while the siblings spoke, coughed to stifle a small laugh. For a moment, she thought the remark would upset Logan. Sometimes it was if he regarded every one of her actions as an attack. But, instead, he laughed softly.

"I cannot wait for that wit to return home. How has the castle survived without it?" He replied in jest and walked to his coat. "Beatrice, these past few years have been trying ones. I do appreciate the time you have spent with mother. I hope I do not come off as unaffected." Buttoning up his coat and retying his cravat, he nodded at Walter that is was time to leave.

"You hurt, Logan, just like the rest of us. It may appear differently, but I will never dismiss your feelings because they do not look like mine. I love you." Beatrice sighed, "But I wish you would hold back your voyage to Aurora until after the funeral, I don't want to do this without you."

His signature frustration with her began to arise. "Beatrice, you are not alone. The court will assist you with all arrangements. The staff will wait for your word and properly take care of any issues. You are well supported without my presence. You are turning fifteen soon, you are nearly an adult." She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a single finger. "This is how I wished to see mother last, alive and with her full dignity. She is not upset with me. Unlike you, she is fully aware and understands the duties of a king, just as she did with Father. Albion cannot wait a moment longer."

Beatrice kept her mouth shut tightly. A part of her wanted to fight him on this, point out the error of his thoughts, tell him that she needed him there, not for taking care of arrangements, but for solidarity. But a much larger part reminded her that with Logan's absence, she could return to searching her father's journals without his watchful eye. "I do hope you are more successful than Papa with your campaign."

He ignored her comment until he reached the door. "Do not worry yourself any more than necessary, Beatrice. It isn't good for your health. I will see you as soon as I return," and with that, Logan and Walter left the cottage.

Three days had passed since Logan left for Aurora. Sir Walter had returned to the cottage and brought several of the castle staff with him. They came in shifts; one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one for overnight. Beatrice didn't mind the extra company, although she felt there was not much to be done except wait. Obviously, she told herself, when Mum passes their real work will begin. Beatrice let out a ragged sigh and walked outside to the front of the house. She turned in the direction that she knew faced Bowerstone and felt incredibly empty.

"What will I do without her?" she asked herself. Coming from behind, she heard the pitter-patter of little feet. She turned to see a young girl running toward the house holding a bonnet in one hand and a small parcel in the other. Beatrice walked toward the road to the greet the girl.

"Hello there!" Beatrice said and bent down to meet the tiny messenger at her eye-level. "Are you coming to visit me?"

The girl was grinning from ear-to-ear. She whispered, "Are you Princess Beatrice?"

"Why yes, I am," Beatrice pulled up the sides of her dress slightly to denote a small curtsy while still balancing herself low to the ground. "And what is your name?"

"Martha," she replied and returned the curtsy.

"Princess Martha?" Beatrice responded quickly with an encouraging smile. She loved the energy of happy children. It was infectious.

"Princess Martha!" the little girl mimicked with enthusiasm.

"And what royal business do you bring me today, Princess Martha?" she asked.

"This here is a parcel for you, princess. I was told to run!" Martha handed the package to Beatrice. She turned it over and saw a tag with distinctly untidy handwriting spelling out her name. Immediately she knew it was from Elliot. Reaching into the front pocket of her half-apron, she fished out two silver coins and a small piece of candy for the girl. Martha squealed with happiness, waved goodbye, and ran back in the direction from which she came.

Inside the parcel were four items: a small satchel of dried tulip petals, a needlework bookmark embroidered with from my Heart, a dark green ribbon, and a small note. Beatrice unfolded the paper and read:

My dearest,

My parents and I are swiftly traveling back to Albion. I plan to meet you in Brightwall unless I receive word to do otherwise. The satchel is for your mum and the rest is for you. I have missed you greatly and wished my return was under different circumstance.

Tenderly,

Elliot

She placed the contents of the parcel into her half-apron and went back to the house. Beatrice had not sent for Elliot, although she was relieved to hear of his return. She now knew members of the court in Bowerstone were sending word to those close to their royal family. People were gathering, preparing for a ceremonial transition of power, but she refused to acknowledge it aloud. I wish Logan were here, she thought.

Without saying a word to anyone in the house, she hurriedly ran up the stairs to her mother's room. As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted with the scent of medicinal herbs and fresh flowers. Her mother weakly looked in the direction of the door. With every passing day, Beatrice's heart sank while she watched her mother disintegrate in front of her eyes. Her bones jutted out of her skin unnaturally, like poles meant to pitch the fabric of a tent. Her legs had swollen beyond use, leaving her bedridden. It wasn't long before she had stopped eating completely. Unsure if out of solidarity or grief, Beatrice had stopped eating too. As minutes passed Beatrice knew she was approaching her greatest fear: death meant that she and her mother would be eternally separated by the impenetrable void, cast from each other only to be left completely alone. And for what? she found herself asking the silence of her mind.

Since birth, Beatrice was told she was the mirror image of her mother, Iris. Everything about them was fluid. Their round and expressive faces, curved figures, ocean blue eyes, silken hair the color of honey. Both moved their bodies freely like water running down a window and possessed a presence that warmed those around them like summer rain. And now her mother laid before her as solid as a corpse, each gurgled exhale sounding as if she were drowning in herself. Without her mother, without her mirror image looking back at her, Beatrice did not know who she was to be anymore.

"You look beautiful," Beatrice whispered and she meant it. Iris smiled. "Elliot sent a gift for you," she said as she pulled the satchel from her half-apron. "They're dried tulips. The fragrance is pleasant." Her mother did not react but closed her eyes. Beatrice pulled a small stool close to the bed and sat down. She clutched her mother's hand, "Mum, I wish you would eat. If not for you, then for me?" At that, her mother's eyes slowly opened again and she turned her head to face her.

"Trust me," she said so softly that Beatrice almost thought it was in her own head. "I am not leaving."

"Yes, you are," Beatrice spat out through clenched teeth. Her own bitterness shocked her and she instantly regretted her tone.

"I am only…changing," Iris struggled with her words. It sounded as if stones were tumbling around her lungs with each breath. "You are the love of my life," she paused and looked her daughter in the eye. "And that," she exhaled roughly, "doesn't die."

Beatrice leaned forward and rested her head near where she clutched her mother's hand, "I do trust you, Mum."

Iris was ready to depart from this world, and without being able to explain it, she knew Beatrice was somehow keeping her alive. She had no tangible proof, but she had long accepted there were forces at play in this world much bigger than herself. Her daughter, like her husband, was given the gifts of a Hero. Was that not proof enough of the divine? But, there was another power inside of her daughter that was not skill, nor strength, nor an ability to conjure fire at her will. Iris always described it as Beatrice being able to see another's soul, but she did not know her daughter could also reach inside and hold that soul in her hand. She discerned that Beatrice was not aware of it either, at least not yet.

Knowing it was the only way she would be able to move on, Iris asked her daughter what she had wanted to ask as soon as the bluebells bloomed that final Spring, "Let me go? I am tired, my love."

Beatrice noiselessly lifted her head from its place on the bed with a wide-eyed expression. Tears had been cascading down her face since she had laid her cheek to the quilt. The two women stared at each other in complete silence. Beatrice's emotionless face slowly turned into one of realization and Iris did not have to ask; she knew her daughter was reading her in that moment. And she knew Beatrice understood the depth of her request in the way only one who can hold souls can understand.

Delicately, Beatrice pulled her hand out of her mother's, stood above the bed, and kissed Iris on the forehead. "I love you," she managed to say while trying to control the lump growing in her throat. Iris looked up at Beatrice to reply, but Beatrice just smiled and nodded her head, "Sweet dreams, Mum."

"Goodbye, my love, until we meet again," Iris closed her eyes peacefully as if falling asleep. Beatrice silently walked across the room and sat in an armchair that faced the bed. She laid back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the feeling in the room. Her mother's essence was vanishing. If death only changes us, Beatrice thought as the life force across from her faded, I have yet to find the new form of anyone I've lost.

She thought of a young Logan dancing in the kitchen while their mum made rosewater and of Jasper helping her mother fix her crown, which always seemed crooked. She fondly remembered Sir Walter chasing a weasel out of her mother's castle apartment while the children yelled at him, "Don't hurt the little weasel! Sir Walter, be careful, he's so tiny!" and her mother laughing until she produced tears. Beatrice thought of her mother and father and their glances to each other, always with the hint of a smile and always filled with love. And then there was just her mother; the image of her in the garden, wearing her favorite white gown that settled like seafoam at her feet, smiling and opening her arms to her daughter.

When Beatrice opened her eyes, her mother was completely still. She sat for a moment, checking the room again for any sign of her mother's presence, but she could find none. Beatrice exited the room and shut the door behind her softly. She looked at the lady's maid that waited near the wall and solemnly nodded her head.

"She's gone for good."

[thegnasticious]

The Relay

In a place not far away from our own solar system, A small house-sized metallic orb hurtles through space. A distant galaxy’s sun reflects off it’s aluminum-like carapace. It travels at a speed almost undetectable to the human eye. Besides a strange shooting-star like streak in the sky, one can hardly make out what it is from afar. It’s traveling seems to be that of a fluid mercury, rotating like a boomerang and subsequently moving forward. No portholes dot it’s foreign structure and whether a pilot is present at all remains debatable.

It’s speed starts accelerating and like a hot, molten metal, it turns bright orange. It spins in a way no human pilot could possibly tolerate. Then in an instant, blinks and vanishes. It appears somewhere off the dark side of the moon, a place or portal usually obscured from eye and telescope by both darkness and planetary positioning.

It starts rotating forward away from the moon’s pull and into our own. Spinning through the air like a giant silver boomerang.

Far below, a place called Cal’s bar adorns it’s usual late-night three customers. One of these customers, in a leather jacket, younger man, hair as black as his jacket. He sits outside the bar smoking a cigarette and holding a beer. He gazes off into the night sky with a sort of vacant stare. Bruce Springsteen’s, “Hungry Heart”, blasts from the bar radio. He holds his cigarette up to take drag, eyes still locked on the sky. Right where he was gazing at, a sort of metallic object flashes through the clouds. It looks a bit like lightning. It travels right over the bar, at first appearing in the distance like a spinning trash can, then nearing the size of a small plane as it was right above. No lights emanated and a strange wind swooshed after it passed.

The orb, now below the clouds, speeds over a river-side town. Not one inhabitant besides the aforementioned bar customer notices it’s speedy descent towards the banks of the Mississippi. It crashes through the rushing river water like a heavy boulder. Branches, fish and all sorts of organic life get sucked and shredded in it’s forceful pull. For a moment, the river above reflects a crimson red in the late moonlight. The crimson feeds from a whirlpool rushing in the middle of the current. Like a bell-mouth spillway back-feeding, the middle juts out a spray of blood and black flesh as a Volkswagen sized catfish found it’s way into the orb’s rip current. Below surface, the orb fights the pull of the river and travels to the river bed. Metal spikes then shoot from the sides and affix themselves like hooks, firmly embedded at least 10-20 feet into the riverbed.

At that moment a belt-like opening appears near the middle and a red glow comes from it. It starts making these strange sonar-like noises underwater and it tunes to “Hungry Heart”, by Bruce Springsteen. The bar’s radio at Cal’s starts to flicker, then the volume turns really loud. The bartender tries to turn it down but it doesn’t budge. He smacks the radio in frustration, when he contacts it, it makes a theremin sort of noise and his pupils grew to the size of his iris. In a sort of trance he walks to the back of the bar, prepares three beers. In his mind he could just hear the song and a voice telling him to ‘burn it down, cleanse yourself in the river’. He grabs the rat poison they usually use for the rats and mixes it into the beers with some pills he usually took from his pocket. He brings the round out to the customers and hands it to each of them without a word, just a strange smile. None of them question his strange generosity or why he left immediately after giving it to them, or closing the bar an hour after it should of been. Still in a trance, he walked to the River’s nearby rushing. It was so close to the bar, you could faintly hear it’s noise all day. He sits on a vacant park-bench in the black of night, his old grey hair kind of floats in the winds blowing off the shore. His eyes fix to the middle of the rushing black water and in his vision he sees a stark Red cyclone, deep below the surface of the water to the shore. It’s colors dance about his trance, entertaining his conscious self back into a lodge in the back of his head somewhere. The thing now controlling his old body, was foreign and no longer himself. It longed for the thing hiding in the rushing water.

It was the alien.

He returned to the bar to find it empty, everyone had apparently left, but the radio was still blaring. This time it was a strange noise like a high pitched frequency, with an old 70′s like song kicking in on increments, almost writing itself over the airwaves. At a certain point the lyrics were something like “I’m always down when I’m in your town”, and an old depressing piano followed their disdain, as it speeded the voice lowered instead of going higher with the rest of the instruments, as if it was bending. The lyrics in this new speed morphed to something that sounded like “Burn it down”, on repeat. The bartender smashed his most expensive liquors, cutting his hands without even flinching or noticing. He then went to the back-shed and grabbed his can of gasoline he usually saved for people who were stranded on the road. He emptied it on the bar’s old wooden counters with the message repeating over and over again from the radio, it’s amplitude and pronunciation becoming more demonic. He pulls an old matchbook from his pocket and lights the matchstick, throws it behind the bar and exits out the Saloon’s old wooden gates one last time.

His mind enslaved by the messaging, gravitated toward the source of this thing broadcasting to him. As he neared the shore of the river, the broadcast he heard earlier, now embedded in his conscience, grew in volume with the river’s flow. He heard things he could not describe to anyone else, glowing things. These things kept his conscious-self rooted in a state of perpetual automation.

This is why as his body drifted off into the Black abyss known as the Mississippi, no one else found what anyone else saw at Cal’s night. The whole thing was lost in the currents of a river.

As three family’s awoke to their two working father’s not waking up for work and one college level son as well, news broadcasters from a nearby bigger town over the bridge in Iowa, rushed with their cameras and vans to be the first reporters on scene. The strange story broadcasted throughout most of the state of Illinois. What appeared to be a triple homicide and disappearance, also the destruction of a historical bar by it’s owner, for unknown reasons.. Everyone was confused. The Bar owner’s wife Connie Miller went on local access news testifying for her husband, “All I hope is he come home safe and whoever did this brings him back. It just breaks my heart to think of him in pain or in trouble. He would never do a thing like this.......... it’s just not like him”. Any surveillance records burned with the bar.

Many of the news broadcasts blacked out, even on nearby networks. Interference would kick in on some of the TV’s and reports of strange voices being hidden in the broadcasts were beginning to surface. Most of the mainstream media neglected to mention this as the broadcasters didn’t possibly suspect that by reporting at ground zero, they might also be spreading whatever caused the bar to burn down that night.

Below the river’s rushing currents nearby, the broadcasts parallel feed into the strange orb. Using the river as a sort of antenna as the sun goes down, these strange electric bursts happen incrementally, sending droves of dead fish upstream. It seemed to be powering itself.

By the next morning, reports of many electronic devices as well as violent behaviors in dogs started to come up. One local junkyard owner had to put his own dog down because, in his words something from the radio, made it so crazed, that it tried to kill him after killing 2 of his other dogs randomly, no signs of that kind of behavior beforehand. Stories like this showed up all over the county, but as it usually goes also did men in Black suits, waving badges and telling people they didn’t see or hear anything showed up as much as the stories did. The broadcasts grew in intensity with the bursts, mainly affecting analog tv and radio waves, also anything antenna based. People’s TVs and radios turned themselves on broadcasting strange messages in the middle of then night, then shutting themselves off. People’s waking dreams and nightmares became the alien as they awoke with constant flu’s and unexplainable vertigo. As most aliens go they aren’t in little Grey men, but in us or however much we let that in us. People were afraid to buy things, even the bars that once seemed to be the lifeblood of this river-town were no longer active. Kids and adults were sick daily from the broadcasts, absences in work and school were on a mass level.

A general unease stained the air of Bordeaux.

People of the town began to blame the outsiders who have been trying to feed outside commerce, that they were intentionally trying to sabotage it. The most developed arguments all led to a conclusion that the town could no longer sustain itself and much of the businesses would have to be abandoned if another major flood occurred. The structural damage was too far out of control already and with these broadcast based sicknesses, people began to think that this was really the end times for the town.

As the towns leader’s adjourned their meetings on a possible evacuation, the vote was to try to stay out whatever else might come, despite the growing waters and concerns of the townspeople. The night following this meeting, a big storm came to Bordeaux. It appeared as if the sky was day with how strong the lightning flashes were. Thunder shook and rattled the town’s old buildings about. The businesses stood closed, most people had left or were getting ready to. People were allowed to stay at their own expense, glued to the TV watching updates about the flood.

All the code signals for ‘flood’ and ‘abandonment’ as well as ‘success’ began to distribute to the neural network of the pod. As these signals activated it started out-feeding subliminal messages into the broadcasts about the flood, strange messages like ‘leave’, ‘reap’, and ‘harvest’. Something in the pod then clicked on, a jolt happened and everything electrified in a bubble around the pod. A pressure then emanated from its armor blowing out a field of suspension in the bubble surrounding. Everything rushed at thousand of miles of pressure around, like being caught in the pumps of a monumental dam. Fish corpses fell from the water wall above, flapping on the wet ground. As the bubble of air grew around it, generators within the pod ran with the strength of suns, holding the rushing water above. The river then began to spill way over it’s shores in what was to be reported as one the worst floods of the Mississippi.

Bordeaux would subsequently be abandoned, the rushing river growing past it’s sidewalks. Little mention of why ever happened because the sickness and broadcast issues were never officially linked together. As Black coats came and swept up the numerous messes and people feeding it’s small countryside; most of the people reporting anything in relation or damage were blackmailed into rehabilitation and institution-type complexes, adequately constructed nearby, for a type of government level hypnosis, to hide anything left by what the Black coat’s would file ‘The Relay’