#Yo... ahg

[kirexa]

Your ask vanished before my eyes .........

I saw the video though and all I got was P A N C A K E S

Oh, am I mistaken? I thought I heard someone say something about delicious pancakes..

[annabelle-creart]

KOBDase across the Multiverse be like:

👇

SG!Chase: Get that shit out my face

Swap!Chase: Release him and I'll think of it

SG!Knock Out: Am- Chase- sir- sorry- can you please-?

SG!Chase: Shut up! You have nothing yo do in this situation

Swap!Chase: That's not a cute way to talk to your partner

Mako Mori: I can tell the same

Raleigh Beckett: X2

The two human said from the big machine, an humanoid robot as giant as the Hunter's variants, the robot was called Gipsy Danger

Swap!Chase: Now you're conviced?

SG!Chase got back on his pedes, letting go the plant demon

SG!Knock Out: What were you thinking!?

Outlier!Chase: I don't like that bot

Adventure!Knock Out: Wow, what a beauty!

Swap!Chase: neither do I, but we have no reason to make this a gladiator arena

Mako: Thanks!

Raleigh: that's all? C'mon, Mak, let's show them some moves!

Mako: you're acting like a kid

Swap!Chase: This is probably the most weird experience I had in a while

Outlier!Knock Out: to be a rockstar is not one of them?

Swap!Chase: I'm not a rockstar, I just scanned the vehicle of a famous movie

Adventure!Knock Out: you sure you're okay?

Adventure!Breakdown: Something, nothing I can't regrow

Adventure!Chase: I knew that bot wasn't of trust

Mako: Ironic, he's our variant, if I'm not bad

Releigh: well, not because is your variant means you're the same, you hadn't pass through the same things, or didn't choose the same

Outlier!Breakdown: It is not to be obvious, but, where are the other three?

Mako: which other?

Outlier!Breakdown: the others

Hunter!Boulder: Ahem

Mako: WOW! RALEIGH!

Raleigh: KAIJU!?

LoRB!Chase: NONONO, THEY COME WITH US

Hunter!Boulder: That term is cruel!

Raleigh: It talks?

Hunter!Heatwave: Yes, we do, and we have names

Outlier!Breakdown: Oh, there are they

LoRB!Knock Out: Sorry, we didn't knew how to get in the middle of a fight without dying

LoRB!Breakdown: That doesn't explain the need to kill, is he a psycopath?

SG!Chase: Are all his variants this disgraced?

SG!Knock Out: Chase!

Raleigh: Auch, pal, that's not cool

SG!Chase: Don't call me like that

Swap!Chase: If you want to start again, I'm ready to neutralize you

Mako: Count on us

SG!Chase: tch!

LoRB!Chase: ah, what if we do something to relax us

LoRB!Knock Out: Like play cards?

Hunter!Boulder: We have some more!

LoRB!Knock Out: really?

Raleigh: Cool, I have some tricks under the sleeve

A frozen stick almost crosses the Gipsy's shoulder, on Raleigh's side

Crystal!Kim (KO): WHAT THE HECK?!

Crystal!Fang (Chase): sorry, the gun is worse state than I thought

Crystal!Buttercup (Breakdown): better let it for later, Kim doesn't have other 3 centuries to recover

Raleigh: Ahg, excuse me, WHAT WAS THAT?!

Miko: Your... thing, almost do some damage to us

Crystal!Fang: sorry for it, it wasn't for you

SW!Fang: Can I?

Crystal!Fang: No, this is not for little kids, same for animals

SW!Fang: Hey!

SW!Buttercup doesn't think it twice, and bites Crystal!Fang's hand

Crystal!Fang: AGH! YOU, LITTLE-

SW!Buttercup: HISS

Crystal!Fang: And you still ask why I always say kids and animals are the same?! Freacking racoon

LoRB!Chase: sorry, I don't think we saw you before

SG!Chase: I did, they're not the best people

SG!Knock Out: Hi!

Crystal!Kim: Knock Out! Dear!

SW!Fang: How many of us are?

LoRB!Chase: millions or more, as long as there's a universe, we will be there

Crystal!Fang: I see...

Mako: I didn't thought there were so many of us

Outlier!Knock Out: talking about it, where are you Break and Knock? Secret agent!

Swap!Chase: I don't want to talk about it

Outlier!Knock Out: Oh, come on!

Outlier!Chase: Knocky, don't insist... where are the others?

Crystal!Fang: Which others?

But from nowhere, the soil starts to move quickly

LoRB!Chase: everyone! Let's get to safety

From a hole on the earth, a creature emerges, big claws and almost non-existent eyes were the first thing the big creature let see

Hunter!Boulder: Bee!

LoRB!Chase: Why do you call him Bee?

Hunter!Boulder: that's his name!

Followed by the big creature, a thing that looked like an amalgamation of reptile and bird emerged too

Hunter!Blades: Hi, guys! What are you doing?

Hunter!Heatwave: small talk

Hunter!Blades: Have you seen Chase? I can't find him, he has something I need

Hunter!Boulder: Nope

Hunter!Heatwave: Sorry, Blades, Bee

Hunter!Blades: well, no problem, Bye!

And both got under ground again, leaving the rest surprised and frozen of the strange meeting

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

gratuitous nord demon backstory. following the battle of kastav, 1E392. tw: imprisonment/kidnapping

They hadn't bound her hands. Thank Kyne, thank Tsun, thank Mara, thank dead Shor in the ground, they hadn't bound her hands. Even with the gag forced into her mouth, with her hands free Barfok is not without a voice: she can sign, she can make herself known, even if her protestations are witnessed only by the walls of the dungeon and the back of the half-dead boy they threw down here with her, but oh, by Kyne, by Tsun, by Mara, by dead Shor in the ground, doesn't it make everything better? She flips off her captor when he throws her in and it is utter bliss.

So, hours into being in this dungeon, she sits against the wall, practising her signs the way she used to when Ysmir first taught her how to sign it. Ahg. Aak. Ah. Bah. Bah, ah, rah, fu'u, og, kah. Yo, su, mah, ikh, rah. She finds herself keeping tempo with the dripping water coming from one corner. There's a bucket under the drip, and she realises, slowly, that's the Whiterun men's idea of water for a guest.

Yo, su. It's a slow drip, or she'd go bathe.

She hears a soft groan. Kah, eg, mah, ah.

She's not alone in this prison. Her companion, the boy, proves himself to be a little less than half-dead. He's lying on the ground with his back turned to her, not his fault, just how he landed when they tossed him in. Barfok watches with mild curiosity as he slowly rolls himself onto his back, cranes his neck up, gasping for air. He, too, is gagged. His eyes are closed, his hair is long and only red-ish and plastered to his face with sweat. His breathing comes very shallowly.

He'd lost the battle for them. His first battle, sorry luck, that. He'd been wielding the thu'um and cantering through a Whiterun wheat-field alongside her when they'd speared his horse and he'd gone flying and landed hard on his chest in a way that Barfok was surprised hadn't killed him. No wonder he now gasps like a fish. Su, tah, ug, hag, nah. The wheezy little breath he's making is profoundly annoying.

The dungeon is cold. The floor is hard beneath the sad clumps of rotten hay that line it. Barfok's hands are growing clumsy, so she tucks them into her armpits for warmth.

She settles back against the wall, listening to her fellow Tongue die. It is going to be a long night.

-

Her fellow Tongue does not die. His lungs learn a way to work despite whatever wreckage lays inside him, and his breathing steadies, and his throat stops its wheezing. After the first night (there's no window, but it feels like a night) he stops moaning in pain. He lies very still in a certain position after that, reluctant to move, but he is breathing deeply, and not moaning in pain.

Their captors realise that as two Tongues of Morrowind they might be worth keeping alive. In the morning they're brought bowls of cold gloopy porridge and glasses of milk. The gag is narrow enough that, with some effort, the porridge and milk can be crammed around it, so Barfok eats inelegantly, smashing porridge through the fabric with lusty grunts of undignified gusto. She's used to being starved, thank Ysmir for his diligent tutorship, and the breaking of a fast never loses its thrill.

The boy half-dead watches her. He's finally opened his eyes and tilted his head to the side to look at her; he has very blue eyes, pretty in his fine features, even bloodshot and puffy-red as they are. Just for fun, Barfok locks eyes with him as she crams fully half of her porridge-coated hand into her mouth around the gag. His eyes narrow, and he looks away from her again, the expression of disgust unmistakeable-- prudish nobility!

Still, she doesn't touch his food. And some time in the supposed afternoon he rises unsteadily, shuffles the cell door, and eats with his hands, just as absent of dignity as she was.

-

There's an old fire-pit in their cell. In the fire-pit, there is charcoal. Some of the charcoal is in sticks. The sticks are long enough to write with.

Barfok thinks the other Tongue broke his ribs. It's in the way he keeps one arm folded over his chest, his shoulder stiff and raised. He favours one side in movement, holding the left, the one he fell on, very rigid. When he accidentally folds his abdomen he hisses and whimpers and then his breathing gets shallow again. Barfok signs to him, and he clearly understands her, but he never replies. He refuses to move his arm from his side. He lets the pain drive him from conversation.

Drawing, however, he can do. When Barfok sits next to him and writes: 'I am Barfok' on the cell floor in Dovahzul, he leans over awkwardly and writes, beneath it, unsteadily, 'Kema.'

So they talk like that. They just write to each other. There's nothing else to do down here, and he can manage it well enough with one hand. They switch to a wall when they run out of accessible floor. They sit close together so that passing the charcoal is easier.

They write to each other about the battle. They write about Morrowind and Monahven. They talk about Ysmir. They talk about his horse-riding. They talk about her home in Whiterun. They talk about their families, and her massacred hometown, and his assassinated mother. They ponder to each other if they'll be ransomed. They ponder to each other if they'll die.

She makes him laugh, by accident. The way he groans she worries it will kill him again.

-

There's no window in the cell. After long intervals a guard comes down to give them food-- porridge and milk, or bread soaked in milk. Mushy food that can be eaten around a gag. Not enough to sustain them but enough to prevent immediate death. Despite the cold, Barfok starts to sleep a lot, out of boredom as much as exhaustion. She does the trick she learned on Vvardenfell, where she curls up with her knees squishing her stomach to make it smaller, to make herself feel less hungry. It helps. She doens't have a choice but for it to help.

When she's awake, Kema draws for her.

(That's not his name, she recalls Ysmir using one with more vowels, when planning for that stupid, stupid battle. But she likes the simplicity of Kema. Kah, eg, mah, ah. She's so glad he's in too much pain to write out the extraneous letters.)

Kema is a good artist. He draws her pictures of his childhood home in the elf-land, a marvelous palace with a strange shape. He draws the Queen of that palace, who Barfok finds very beautiful. He draws Monahven, and Barfok stares at it, squints at it, pretends she's looking out of the window in her own childhood home.

Barfok cannot draw. Nonetheless, she tries: she copes his drawings of Monahven, and then adds her own of a stone circle and of a baby goat she once owned. She draws Red Mountain and an implausibly rotund Ysmir with a scraggly beard before it. She draws a bunch of leeks, because it's the only thing she can think of that she knows how it looks.

The drawing of the goat is so bad it makes him laugh again, and then their fun ends, because he goes back to lying very still with his arm bent up.

Later, once he runs out of chapters of his short life, he starts drawing horses. Barfok adds horns to them. Unicorns. A stick-figure Hircine with a spear in the background. He draws guars for her, round fat shapes sharing a banquet of hay. She adds another stick-Hircine, scratching his head in confusion. Did Hircine ever go to Morrowind? He spends a long time drawing a dragon, and Barfok, lying on her belly beside him, adds in a veritable feast for it: homesteads, fleeing figures, hawks, bears, squids, a whole army succumbing to its flames. Lying flat, her stretched-out stomach growls.

-

A few hours after their fifth meal-- or is it a few days, or a few minutes? Is it weeks? Is it years?-- after their fifth meal, as Barfok is trying to doze, the door is slammed open.

Barfok scrambles to her feet, raising her balled-up fists. A string of drool slips out of the corner of her gag.

There is no meal for her.

Here, instead, is Jarl Olaf in the flesh.

She might have lunged. She balls her fists, she prepares for it. But he, unlike they, has no gag in his mouth. The fus he breathes is not enough to send her flying, not enough to even send her stumbling, but it is a warning nonetheless.

Olaf stands in the doorway and surveys his spoils of war. His gaze on Barfok is so loathsome that she worries she might vomit around her gag. She cannot stop shaking, not with fear but with an animal desire to fling herself upon him, to tear, to rip, to maim, to hurt--

And then he is no longer looking at her. "Kul-se-Chimarvir," breathes Olaf towards his other prisoner. "Son of Chimarvir of Mournhold. No?"

When Barfok turns she sees that Kema is folded up against the back wall of the cell. He is sitting. He has not moved. He glares resignedly at Olaf.

"Perhaps not," drawls Olaf. "Mournhold has refused to ransom you."

Then Olaf turns to Barfok, and he says, "And you. None from Monahven know of you. Who do you belong to?"

Barfok's hands refuse to be unclenched from their fists. She takes several short sharp breaths, as if this will make her bloodlust less. She cannot even think for her own rage.

"How feeble Kjoric has become," drawls Olaf. "The Tongues he sends against me, unwanted children and nobodies. Tell me, at least," he addresses Barfok, "Give me the name of someone who will cough up a few coins for your safe return, won't you?"

Thank Kyne, thank Tsun, thank Mara, thank dead Shor in the ground they've left Barfok's hands unbound.

Barfok flips him off.

-

Olaf must think she's of some value to somebody out there, because the beating the guards give her is comparatively light. She ends up with a bloodied nose and a swollen lip and a swollen-shut eye and a few big boot-shaped bruises around her stomach, but her bones are pleasantly intact, and she's not coughing up blood, so she feels a smug sense of satisfaction, like she's gotten away with something.

Nonetheless, the aching starts up a while later, and it sets her in a foul mood. So, after she's washed her face the best she can with her filthy sleeves, she lies down in her corner, grumbling under her breath at every little ache. For not the first time she realises how unpleasant the gag is getting in her mouth, crusty and stinking pungently of curdled milk and her own rancid breath. Her clothing is scratchy for the sweat and dust caked into it. Her joints hurt from lying on the hard floor for so long and the beating hasn't distracted from that. At that dark moment, she feels very sorry for herself.

Kema, too, has been lying very still in his corner ever since Olaf's visit. He hadn't even stirred during her beating-- not that she can blame him for that, really. But lying there in the dark she hears him breathing in a weird way. She hears him shuffle around, then gasp in pain, and then he sucks in some hoarse breath, and moves against the ground again. This goes on for quite some time.

He's trying to puncture his own lung. Barfok realises this with a dim disinterest. This thought comes moments before she falls asleep.

-

Herma-Mora appears to her. She's sitting very still against the wall when the blackness before her blossoms into a thousand emerald eyes. A staring fractal descends upon her, infinity's watchfulness coalescing on a prisoner.

She thinks that he'll have the usual offer: he helps her and her soul wears away a little bit more. But he doesn't say anything. She can't say anything, either.

So she hangs there in a miasma of swamp black and forest green, being blinked at.

After a million years, or three hours, or a minute, or a second-- was she asleep?-- she blinks and he's gone again. The torches have been lit in the hallway again. She wonders if Herma-Mora would pay a ransom for her.

-

One day, the jailor throws in a blanket, so now Barfok and Kema sleep side by side, Barfok pressed against his back so as not to harm his broken-up front. They don't really talk any more, they've run out of charcoal and he still won't move his arm. Barfok paces around the cell sometimes, and washes daily from the water-bucket, and signs poetry to herself, but Kema seems to have given up. Most of the time he just lies there. He seems to like staring at the old drawings they did together, of the horses and the dragon with its feast. When they wrote to each other, Barfok had offered condolences about his dead horse, and he'd said that he was sad about it, too. Krosis. Geh, Krosis. Men love their horses.

One day Barfok tries looking for more charcoal-- she wants to tell him about the Herma-Mora vision, she wants to confess to someone before she's dragged into Apocrypha the moment they die down here-- but they've used it all up. There's no word for Herma-Mora in Nordic Sign so she's forced to keep the secret.

On a different day, Barfok offers in sign to bathe him. He doesn't agree but he doesn't refuse either, and he doesn't fight when she unbuttons his now-crusty tunic and pulls it aside.

Below the fabric his chest is a tapestry of blue and purple and yellow and black. When he breathes the movement is asynchronous, the two sides of him rise at different times. His eyes are closed and he is breathing very shallowly, as if he's trying not to breathe at all, as if he's willing himself to be elsewhere.

Barfok uses a corner of his the blanket to clean the dirt away from his chin and his neck. It must have been trapped there since the battle, since he fell from his horse. There's even still strands of straw in his hair. He blighted all the wheat in the field. She'd never seen a thu'um like that; she found it-- finds it-- so horrifying it doesn't bear thinking of. But her own stomach remains empty, and she cannot help but feel just the tiniest bit gleeful, at the thought everyone up there will be going as sad and hungry as she is.

Barfok is not the caring sort. After a half-hearted attempt to clean him up, she braids his hair for him instead. He has very long, very pretty hair, and now that it hasn't been washed for a very long time, the colour has gone from flirting-with-blond to a definitive rusty red. Like an old wagon's axle, like the half-eaten blade of the sword her little brother found in the forest once. She puts it in very bad braids and then she leaves him to his sulking, overcome with her own misery.

He looks so dumb in those awful braids. They don't suit him at all. But he falls asleep with a peaceful comforted expression, unaware of the violence she just wrought upon him.

-

They are sitting on opposite walls and Barfok signs a question to him:

"When we get out, do you want to keep being friends?"

He's holding his arm rigid by his chest, the way he always does. She's surprised he's even sitting up. He's been growing more and more quiet over the past few-- what unit of time are they in, is it the next era already?-- and she thinks he's looking paler, that he's not breathing very well.

She is more surprised when he uncoils both arms and signs back to her:

"If."

-

The door is thrown open. Barfok had been asleep, and she's barely realised she's conscious again when the jailor barks: "Up."

For some stupid reason Barfok obeys; she's on her feet before she's even fully awake. Flustered with surprise, she flails both hands at the jailor, the universal Nordic sign for "What?"

"You've been ransomed," the jailor tells them. "I'm to take you to Dunmeth pass. Get up, come on, it's a long trip."

There's a drumming in Barfok's ears that she only belatedly realises is her own heart. She signs, "Who?" And then she raps out a series of letters: Yo, su, mah, ikh, rah? And then she signs the symbol for dragons. The symbol for king. She's babbling with her hands before she realises the jailor doesn't read sign.

"On your feet, now," the jailor barks again, and Barfok hears her friend also struggling to his feet. She does not go to help him but she doesn't hear him fall.

Then the jailor is leading them out, and they're walking through the hallway, walking together, walking… out of the cell, up the stairs, out of Oblivion, back into the world of mortals. They're crossing from one plane to another, treading over a billion stars.

Every step hurts. Her muscles feel very weak, the bruises from her beating are groaning with protest. She can hear Kema breathing through his nose in a way that suggests he's fighting back sobs. But the jailor walks before them, leading them boldly out, and he pays no notice to their agonies.

In fact, he's self-absorbed-- he's complaining to himself, though saying it as if he's addressing him. "Primitive heathens," he's spitting, "Imagine leaving your child to languish in an enemy dungeon for a week. A whole week!…"

-

They make it to Dunmeth pass, though Barfok does not recall the trip. Ysmir is there with the ransom, and the elven Queen is also there, and she is much prettier than she was in the charcoal drawing. And then, like wheels of cheese at a farmer's market, two young prisoners of war are passed off to their loved ones, and they're free, and they're safe, and they're home.

… There's a healer from Kogoruhn who sees to them. There's a special knife to pull away the gags, and there's Barfok, yelling, screaming at the top of her lungs just to get it all out. It's a gleeful sort of screaming, the delighted raucous of a goat kid learning to use its lungs for the first time-- incoherent hollering until Ysmir gives her a gentle slap about the head to shut her up. Then there's food, food, food! There's a cup of very strong flin with some sort of medicine in it, there's a clean tunic to get changed into, there's Ysmir, steady as a rock beside her, beside her, here, here. Barfok babbles through her mouthfuls of food, gleeful to be speaking aloud even more than she is for the nourishment and the rescue. She swears to Kyne, Tsun, Mara, Shor, all she wanted to do was talk. All she wants to do is talk and talk and talk. She's never loved the sound of her own voice so much.

They get on the road as soon as they can. There's a whole caravan that's come for them, carts and soldiers, a small army Ysmir's brought, he doesn't trust the Alessians. There's a second army that Barfok is told belongs to Mournhold. Reveling in her regained voice, Barfok hangs off of Ysmir's arm and chatters to every soldier that comes her way. Ysmir pretends not to approve of this display, but he lets her hold onto his arm, and he's never done that before, so she knows he must be pleased to hear her voice again. Ysmir's arm is terrifically warm.

And finally, after she's talked at Ysmir until her throat sounds like a frog croaking, after her lungs are burning and her head is swimming with flin, Barfok wanders off to find her newfound dungeon friend.

She finds him in a cart in the Mournhold half of the caravan. They've made a bed for him, he's lying in a nest of soft wool blankets and silk sheets. His filthy clothes have been changed for some soft-looking elven robes, and the Queen of Mournhold is sitting near his head, studiously untangling his hair from the horrid braids Barfok had put it in. A healer sits at the other side of him, preparing some pungent mixture to slather on his deformed purple-black chest.

In the light of day he looks closer to death than he had in the dungeon. Barfok even thinks he might be asleep, resting so peacefully in this decadent cart-back bedding. But when the Queen stops her work at Barfok's approach, he opens a single eye. He tilts his head very slightly and stares down at Barfok, half-lidded, his bloodless lips drawn into a thin line.

Barfok is half-drunk from medicated brandy, Barfok has an eye swollen shut from being beaten and is wearing an old ill-fitting tunic from Ysmir. She is not fit for an audience with nobility. She greets them nonetheless.

"Wow." Barfok says. And then, "You look like shit."

Now he opens both eyes, and he raises his head from his pillows to stare down at her.

"I'm Barfok," Barfok follows up, her voice unsteady. "And you're, eh, you're Kema, right?" She feels herself sway a little. "Kema of Mournhold. Yeah. Of Chimarvir."

He blinks very slowly. The Queen who sits behind him looks vaguely unimpressed.

"It's pronounced Chemua," he says, hoarsely. "And you are the most annoying woman I've ever met."

[jujuz299]

Mi reina (Fanrworld finn x reader) 2.

Sinopsis: eres una chica de que por lo que crees que eres normal sin saber mucho de tu pasado y siendo una de los mejores amigos de Fiona y su gata cake y al salir de lo que parece ser la cabeza de un hombre Simón empiezan a tener aventuras extrañas de tu conocer tu ser, tus orígenes, quien crees que eres y en el camino enamorarte de un hombre con un pasado confuso y helado los dos enamorándose de su lado más oscuro y más bríllate como rey y reina.

nota: hola, espero que les guste mucho este capitulo este historia tendrán partes eliminadas de la narrativa como el capitulo dos de la serie o otros en el futuro pero si quieren esas partes presentes pueden comentarlo con gusto, la serie original ninguno de mi los personajes son míos excepto tn/tu persona y también la historia la publicare en wattpad así que como avisare cuando este publicada allá ademas de progresar con los capítulos 3 y 4.

______________________________________________________________

-solo un minuto-a lo que estaba alla afuera para terminar encontrándose a la persona menos esperada-scarab, hola-dice con una sonrisa forzada.

-curioso, siempre pensé que tenias una política de puerta abierta-dice entrando y acercándose a prismo con cierta elegancia dada por una clase de bastón de cristal-es el amigo de todos, prismo-dice señalándolo con el baston.

-hola soy yo, bien ¿que te trae por aquí scrabi?-dice mirándolo con una sonrisa.

-ya nadie me llama de ese modo-dice cruzándose los brazos con un tono molestia o nostalgia-estaba pasando por el vecindario haciendo entregas en la sala del juicio, cuando recibi una aleta sobre ti-

-yo-dice con una falsa sorpresa

-tu alarma de brecha universal se activo dos veces  y fue ignorada-

-ahh, solo tenía que cambiar las baterías nada de lo que un tipo importante como tu deba preocuparse- dice con despreocupación

-si todo en la sala tiempo esta muy bien-scarab no muy convencido empieza a caminar una poco por el lugar y empieza a tocar la puerta de las escaleras con el bastón- si, bueno, gracias por la visita se qe estas muy ocupado, asi que-

-prismo, casi parece que intentas deshacerte de mi-

-¿que? No, no me encanta. cuando me visitas hay que divertirnos-se acerca un poco a scarab-podemos ir de fiesta como antes.

-nunca fui invitado a tus fiestas-

-bien, hora de arreglar eso-

Volviendo a nosotros cinco, prismo guiándonos y nosotros cuatro hacia la salida creo no lo se esto aun sigo procesando todo lo que ha pasado últimamente hasta ahora.

-ahg, solo queremos regresar a Ooo ¿Por qué nos escondemos? -

-¿recuerdan cuando les dije que yo no debería crear nuevas realidades para mi?-dice con preocupación-a decir verdad, es algo grave y podría meterme en problemas por eso-escuchábamos mientras seguíamos bajando las escaleras.

-el tipo que esta en la puerta es el escarabajo, es un pesado auditor y si llega a enterarse de ustedes va a reportarme y luego ah mi jefe va a castigarme-

-tu jefe?-

-a  poco tienes jefecito- dije y por sorpresa y suerte al estar un poco lejos vi como los tres se caían hasta el fondo lo que me hizo a bajar con cuidado hasta que llegue a ellos viendo como se reían.

-descuida, fionna. Caminar en dos patas es duro-dice cake como consuelo por la resbalada que tuvo por la caída.

-no son mis piernas, es esta falda-

-pero te ves bien nena-

-ese tipo de faldas no sirven en huidas-dije

-que raro, nunca tuviste problemas con la falda en mis historias-

-pues ya no esta en tus historias- dije con indiferencia para seguir caminando mientras prismo le termina cambiando la falda por unos shorts.

-que tal unos shorts, eh?-dice con una sonrisa.

-que? ¿a que te refieres con shorts?-dice scarab haciéndole dar cuenta que metió la pata.

-eh, ya sabes, los mortales usan pantalones cortos porque son pequeños y sus vidas son muy cortas-

-ay tener dos conversaciones al mismo tiempo es duro –

-oh eso es mio-dice señalando el collar que antes hacia hablar a cake que se había caído al jacuzzi.

-y este pelo de gato también es tuyo? -dice agarrado un mechón de pelo de cake que se había quedado en el collar.

-no lo recuerdo- dice con falsa confusión.

 -me gustaría hacer una revisión del cubo para ver si hay alguna otra batería que deba ser cambiada-

-ah si por supuesto-

-oh, oh tomaremos un atajo por el nucleo- dice a lo que vemos a simon caminando sin ganas a paso lento.

-camina mas rápido, simon-

-apúrate simon que tenemos vidas temporales no inmortales-dije con mi acento español falso.

-¿en serio? no quieres que te atrape este tipo-

-no me importa, ¿enserio? Me muestras mi terrible pasado y esperas a que lo ignore como si no fuera algo grave, ya supéralo simon. Bueno talvez no quiero superarlo tal vez solo quiero sentarme aquí-dice sentándose a lo que tengo una cara pensativa.

-pensándolo de ese modo yo actuaria si estuviera en su situación, tu eres egoísta bicho rosa!- dije señalando a prismo la cual voltea los ojos y convierte el piso en una caminadora movible y nos empezamos a mover por ella a lo que entramos a un cuarto blanco y notar que arriba de nosotros ahí dos seres uno con forma de temporizador y otro con forma de relog de arena golpeándose con martillos haciendo un estallido de colores.

-poético- dije viendo los estallidos coloridos.

-¿qué demonios son esas cosas?- dice fionna

-son el núcleo del tiempo de hecho no creo que estén vivos tal vez mandan olas de tiempo a través del multiverso que son experimentadas como el paso del tiempo-

-solo pudiste decir que se encargan del tiempo del multiverso- dije viéndolo con sarcasmo.

De allí mi mente empezó a divagar un poco y solo escuchar como el tipo rosa les explicaba el multiverso para terminar mostrando donde estaba el nuestro la cual estaba muy lejos de los otros universos.

-nuestro universo es el callao de salón?-

-diablos, se ve tan solitario-

-Si, el callao del salón-

-si, como hice su universo fuera de los regitros, no puedes ser parte del multiverso el simple hecho de que existan podría tener efectos impredecibles en las otras realidades-dice explicando mas a fondo-son como radicales libres-

-grandioso-

-suena muy cool-

-yo siempre e sido radicalmente libre- digo para recibir una mirada de fionna.

-y que no renunciaste al trabajo de la panadería? -

-por la plata, sin chamba no hay plata-

En el otro lado con la otra parte de prismo y scarab caminando al otro lado del cuarto.

-tan majestuoso, trillones de olas de tiempo expandiéndose por la creación en un gran torrente- dice scarab maravillado.

-ay, los colores me dan jaqueca-

Yo misma me estaré preguntando cuantas escaleras hay aquí ni siquiera se les ocurrió poner un elevador, seria mas fácil pero como será ese tal escarabajo siento que seria el inteligente fastioso que siempre pregunta si hay tarea, ahora no entiendo por qué estoy pensando y diciendo referencias escolares eso es muy bajo. ¡Solo me gustaría estar en mi apartamento con aire acondicionado comiendo helado con galletas! Es mucho pedir. Tal parece que si ya que terminamos de subir unas escaleras.

-me quiero desmayar-

-estamos cerca? -

-por esta puerta-dice mientras empezamos a entrar a una clase de cuarto, y en cuanto fionna y cake estaban muy emocionadas yo solo me preguntaba de como saldremos exactamente de aquí y por que prisa de que no nos atrape el tal escarabajo, pero esas peguntas fueron o al menos una fueron respondidas, otro ritual locochon.

-esta listo el circulo-dice el prismo a otra que estaba en la sala-ya termine-

-oh hola que paso?-

-y la batería nueva?-en un instante aparece unos cables conectándose a un viejito-eres yo-

-Ese viejito eres tu? Fua échate una afeitadita-dije

-si, esto es confuso-

-prismo, donde está la salida?-

-fue bueno estar con ustedes, pero tienen que regresar ahora-

-que?-dicen las chicas mientras siento que es mejor revisar el lugar en silencio.

-simon, has la cosa esa del portal-

-no lo hare, no pasare ese dolor en el corazón de nuevo-

-literal o sentimental?-

-nosotros también nos vamos-dicen fionna y cake para después  corer del cuato e irse pero decidi quedarme en el cuarto, estoy consado.

-alto-

-vamos a donde queremos- es lo ultimo que escucho para sentarme alado de el viejo.

-es la ultima vez que hago un universo no autorizado- solo se podría decir que estaban en un cuarto de almacenamientos de pepinillos picantes y que primos metió la pata.

-¿universo no autorizado?-

-meti la pata-

Mientras las chicas corrian a un corredor que parecía infinito con imágenes de prismo mientras prismo, simon  estaban sentados desahogándose yo estaba sentado escuchándolos con un bolso peluche de buho que me dio prismo escuchando lo que decían ellos.

-ey, por que no fuiste con tus amigas?- pregunta prismo

-hmm creo que lo que hacen es una pérdida de tiempo dado que este es tu lugar y no lo conocemos y estoy cansado de caminar-dije tranquilamente solo para ver como asentía la cabeza dándome la razón.

Y volviendo a prismo con scarab intentando persuadirlo a que se fuera o algo asi diciéndole que le dará cualquier cosa que desee.

-oh vamos scrabi, hagamos un trato puedo darte cualquier cosa que quieras un nuevo auto, una bola de popo-esperando cualquier respuesta positiva termina recibiendo como scarab le lanza al suelo un frasco de pepinillos picantes.

-ah, no mis pepinillos picantes-

-acabas de entregarme lo único que mas quería-dice en una posición dramática.

-pepinillos?-

-¡la sala del tiempo!-dice con fastidio-yo debí ser el amo de los deseos y ahora lo seré, solamente tengo que entregar tu universo alterno para probar que no eres digno-

-pff-bufe prismo con cierta broma-de que me preocupo, el no se dejaría encontrar-

-lo escondiste en una persona? -

-volví a meter la pata-

-está aquí no es cierto- dice para después apuntar su bastón la cual se había convertido en una espada anteriormente para apuntársela en el cuello de prismo con enfado.

-no-dice para después cerrar todas las puertas del cuarto y desaparecer.

-cometí un error-dice un tercer prismo uniéndose a nosotros.

-únete al club-dice para unir las tres versiones en uno mismo y eructar por la bebida que tomaban lo que me hizo reír.

-escucho pisadas-dije mirando la salida del cuarto.

-son ellas-

-hora de aventura! -

-pff-dije en broma-diablos debí haber apostado esto, hubiera ganado! -

-que paso? -

-que grosero, solamente nos hiciste correr en círculos-

-je, muy bien se acabó el tiempo tienes que regresar a su cabeza ahora-dice pero fue interrumpido por una explosión lo que me hizo alejarme inmediato de la explosión poniéndome el bolso y acércame a las chicas.

-los encontré!-

-ese es scrabi?-dije recibiendo un asentimiento rápido de prismo.

-ah las que cruzaron-dice mirándonos a las tres-son evidencia también las encerrare-

-espérate ¿ no, nos pues dejar libre? creo que somos algo extra en todo esto-dije solo para ser ignorada-maleducado-

-y después de esto irán al incinerador con el resto de la basura-al escuchar esto todos nos quedamos sorprendidos y yo enojada.

-ya me caes mal insecto malvado!- dije

-Eh no!- dice pismo sorprendiendo a simon y a scarab.

-ellas son fionna, cake y ___ y ellas irán a donde quieran-dice para darle un control remoto con un botón rosa y a lo que prismo crea una pared volviendo a encerrar a scarab en la habitación y ponerse detrás de la pared-corran y sigan corriendo este tipo las perseguirá como un oso polar-

-prismo-dice fionna preocupada

-oprime el botón correcto y sujétense entre ustedes con fuerza-dije  a lo que me agarra de la pata de cake miraba prismo con agradecimiento solo para mirar a simon aun sentado, en shock tal parece solo para que fionna le alce la mano y lo miremos.

-cual es el punto-dice solo para recibir una cachetada de fionna.

-upa eso sono fuerte-dije

-oye tonto si no nos ayudas simon todo nuestro mundo y a quienes conocemos morirán-dice fionna en lágrimas haciendo que la consolemos cake y yo mientras sentía como caían algunas lagrimas a mi también.

-por favor ayúdanos-dice cake

-por favor simon-dije en suplica mirando tristemente su rostro de snock.

-corran!-Mientras primo aun seguía conteniendo la pared y a scarab  podía ver la mano de fionna temblorosa ser agarrada por la mano de simón estando cerca a lo que le sonreímos de agradecimiento y preparándonos.

-de hecho podría hacer que-no termina dado que la pared termina siendo destruida por scarab y como simon toca el botón con rapidez mientras me agarraba fuerte mente de cake y desaparecer y aparecer a una clase de maizal.

-regresamos al mundo mágico?-pregunta fionna.

-no creo-

-no, esto no parece Ooo-dice simon para escuchar un suspiro de decepción de las chicas mientras yo decido agarrar unos maíces y guárdalos en mi bolso por instintos.

-¿y que vamos a hacer?-dice fionna mientras cake se transforma una clase de platillo volador gracioso-ese insecto sigue tras nosotros y no podemos enfrentarlo-cake vuelve a la normalidad para terminar abrazar juntas a fionna como consuelo.

-yo hubiera capas de derrotar a ejércitos completos de tontos como el, pero ahora soy inútil-

-Wow cuan tanta baja autoestima tienes de ti mismo?-dije mirándolo con lastima

-ah si lo sabemos-dice cake con cierto aburrimiento después para agarrar el control con entusiasmo- uh quisas esto nos pueda enviar-

-si-dice fionna para que las dos pongan cara de pensamiento para saber que haces-oprime todos los botones-dice para las dos prepararse en hacer lo siguiente.

 -alto, alto, alto no sabemos que numero de canal le corresponde a Ooo, podríamos regresar a la sala del tiempo donde el escarabajo se va a comer mi cabeza! -dice simon.

-bueno también quiero comer, tengo hambre fionna-dice cake mientras le ruge la pansa.

-revisare en mi mochila nueva-dice fionna mientras busco en mi en mi mochila unas galletas de chocolate.

-no tienes algo en ese vejestorio?-pregunta cake a simon el cual ve con su vestido para mantenerse tocando una de sus mangas mientras fionna y cake comen unos sándwiches yyo unas galletas.

-conozco un modo para protegerlas del escarabajo, y traer devuelta la magia a su mundo y hacer que dure para siempre-dice simon mientras observo las caras de sorpresa de ellas.

-debo convertirme en el rey helado otra vez-de las sorpresa fionna y cake tragan su bocado.

-te volverás un pitufo maquiavélico otra vez- dije con una sonrisa mientras seguía comiendo la galleta.

______________________________________________________________

gracias por leer 🦑✨

[blackspacesinners]

- No fue tu culpa chico, ahora estaría media tripulación dando vueltas en ese abismo si no fuera por...

- Jhon ¿No lo entiendes? ¡Hice todo mal! Por 2 segundos llegué a creer que haría algo bien al fin. Pero,...Ahg,...es que... Olvídalo.

- Ahora escúchame James Hawkins.

¡Tienes la fuerza de tu grandeza! Pero tienes que tomar el timón y decidir tu propio curso, ¡síguelo! ¡No importa que duela! y... cuando el viento venga a decirte que tienes que izar tus velas y ser todo un hombre...yo, espero estar ahí, recibiendo algo de la luz que emitas ese día.

El planeta del tesoro.

[lovetperfection12]

Cómo soy nueva en esto les platicare un poco de por que eh tomado esta decisión, bueno lo primero esq cuando yo era niña estaba por mi peso bajo mi mamá se preocupo y me empezó a dar vitaminas que hicieron que subiera muy rápido de peso!!! ... ahora solo quiero ser delgada de nuevo

Ahg ahora soy una gorda

Les empezare a dar resultadoss ahorita las cosas van asi

Estatura 150cm

Peso: de 44 a 45 kg

[boba-hijueputa]

Yo tan: me habló el amor de mi vida.

Él tan: ahg, otra vez esta piroba.

[barfok]

wrt last post fuck it. gratuitous nord demon backstory. after the battle of kastav

tw kidnapping/imprisonment

They hadn't bound her hands. Thank Kyne, thank Tsun, thank Mara, thank dead Shor in the ground, they hadn't bound her hands. Even with the gag forced into her mouth, with her hands free Barfok is not without a voice: she can sign, she can make herself known, even if her protestations are witnessed only by the walls of the dungeon and the back of the half-dead boy they threw down here with her, but oh, by Kyne, by Tsun, by Mara, by dead Shor in the ground, doesn't it make everything better? She flips off her captor when he throws her in and it is utter bliss.

So, hours into being in this dungeon, she sits against the wall, practising her signs the way she used to when Ysimr first taught her how to sign it. Ahg. Aak. Ah. Bah. Bah, ah, rah, fu'u, og, kah. Yo, su, mah, ikh, rah. She finds herself keeping tempo with the dripping water coming from one corner. There's a bucket under the drip, and she realises, slowly, that's the Whiterun mens' idea of water for a guest.

Yo, su. It's a slow drip, or she'd go bathe.

She hears a soft groan. Kah, eg, mah, ah.

She's not alone in this prison. Her companion, the boy, proves himself to be a little less than half-dead. He's lying on the ground with his back turned to her, not his fault, just how he landed when they tossed him in. Barfok watches with mild curiosity as he slowly rolls himself onto his back, cranes his neck up, gasping for air. He, too, is gagged. His eyes are closed, his hair is long and only-red-ish and plastered to his face with sweat. His breathing comes very shallowly.

He'd lost the battle for them. His first battle, sorry luck, that. He'd been wielding the thu'um and cantering through a Whiterun wheat-field alongside her when they'd speared his horse and he'd gone flying and landed hard on his chest in a way that Barfok was surprised hadn't killed him. No wonder he now gasps like a fish. Su, tah, ug, hag, nah. The wheezy little breath he's making is profoundly annoying.

The dungeon is cold. The floor is hard beneath the sad clumps of rotten hay that line it. Barfok's hands are growing clumsy, so she tucks them into her armpits for warmth.

She settles back against the wall, listening to her fellow Tongue die. It is going to be a long night.

-

Her fellow Tongue does not die. His lungs learn a way to work despite whatever wreckage lays inside him, and his breathing steadies, and his throat stops its wheezing. After the first night (there's no window, but it feels like a night) he stops moaning in pain. He lies very still in a certain position after that, reluctant to move, but he is breathing deeply, and not moaning in pain.

Their captors realise that as two Tongues of Morrowind they might be worth keeping alive. In the morning they're brought bowls of cold gloopy porridge and glasses of milk. The gag is narrow enough that, with some effort, the porridge and milk can be crammed around it, so Barfok eats inelegantly, smashing porridge through the fabric with lusty grunts of undignified gusto. She's used to being starved, thank Ysmir for his diligent tutorship, and the breaking of a fast never loses its thrill.

The boy half-dead watches her. He's finally opened his eyes and tilted his head to the side to look at her; he has very blue eyes, pretty in his fine features, even bloodshot and puffy-red as they are. Just for fun, Barfok locks eyes with him as she crams fully half of her porridge-coated hand into her mouth around the gag. His eyes narrow, and he looks away from her again, the expression of disgust unmistakeable-- prudish nobility!

Still, she doesn't touch his food. And some time in the supposed afternoon he rises unsteadily, shuffles the cell door, and eats with his hands, just as absent of dignity as she was.

-

There's an old fire-pit in their cell. In the fire-pit, there is charcoal. Some of the charcoal is in sticks. The sticks are long enough to write with.

Barfok thinks the other Tongue broke his ribs. It's in the way he keeps one arm folded over his chest, his shoulder stiff and raised. He favours one side in movement, holding the left, the one he fell on, very rigid. When he accidentally folds his abdomen he hisses and whimpers and then his breathing gets shallow again. Barfok signs to him, and he clearly understands her, but he never replies. He refuses to move his arm from his side. He lets the pain drive him from conversation.

Drawing, however, he can do. When Barfok sits next to him and writes: 'I am Barfok' on the cell floor in Dovahzul, he leans over awkwardly and writes, beneath it, unsteadily, 'Kema.'

So they talk like that. They just write to each other. There's nothing else to do down here, and he can manage it well enough with one hand. They switch to a wall when they run out of accessible floor. They sit close together so that passing the charcoal is easier.

They write to each other about the battle. They write about Morrowind and Monahven. They talk about Ysmir. They talk about his horse-riding. They talk about her home in Whiterun. They talk about their families, and her massacred hometown, and his assassinated mother. They ponder to each other if they'll be ransomed. They ponder to each other if they'll die.

She makes him laugh, by accident. The way he groans she worries it will kill him again.

-

There's no window in the cell. After long intervals a guard comes down to give them food-- porridge and milk, or bread soaked in milk. Mushy food that can be eaten around a gag. Not enough to sustain them but enough to prevent immediate death. Despite the cold, Barfok starts to sleep a lot, out of boredom as much as exhaustion. She does the trick she learned on Vvardenfell, where she curls up with her knees squishing her stomach to make it smaller, to make herself feel less hungry. It helps. She doens't have a choice but for it to help.

When she's awake, Kema draws for her.

(That's not his name, she recalls Ysmir using one with more vowels, when planning for that stupid, stupid battle. But she likes the simplicity of Kema. Kah, eg, mah, ah. She's so glad he's in too much pain to write out the extraneous letters.)

Kema is a good artist. He draws her pictures of his childhood home in the elf-land, a marvelous palace with a strange shape. He draws the Queen of that palace, who Barfok finds very beautiful. He draws Monahven, and Barfok stares at it, squints at it, pretends she's looking out of the window in her own childhood home.

Barfok cannot draw. Nonetheless, she tries: she copes his drawings of Monahven, and then adds her own of a stone circle and of a baby goat she once owned. She draws Red Mountain and an implausibly rotund Ysmir with a scraggly beard before it. She draws a bunch of leeks, because it's the only thing she can think of that she knows how it looks.

The drawing of the goat is so bad it makes him laugh again, and then their fun ends, because he goes back to lying very still with his arm bent up.

Later, once he runs out of chapters of his short life, he starts drawing horses. Barfok adds horns to them. Unicorns. A stick-figure Hircine with a spear in the background. He draws guars for her, round fat shapes sharing a banquet of hay. She adds another stick-Hircine, scratching his head in confusion. Did Hircine ever go to Morrowind? He spends a long time drawing a dragon, and Barfok, lying on her belly beside him, adds in a veritable feast for it: homesteads, fleeing figures, hawks, bears, squids, a whole army succumbing to its flames. Lying flat, her stretched-out stomach growls.

-

A few hours after their fifth meal-- or is it a few days, or a few minutes? Is it weeks? Is it years?-- after their fifth meal, as Barfok is trying to doze, the door is slammed open.

Barfok scrambles to her feet, raising her balled-up fists. A string of drool slips out of the corner of her gag.

There is no meal for her.

Here, instead, is Jarl Olaf in the flesh.

She might have lunged. She balls her fists, she prepares for it. But he, unlike they, has no gag in his mouth. The fus he breathes is not enough to send her flying, not enough to even send her stumbling, but it is a warning nonetheless.

Olaf stands in the doorway and surveys his spoils of war. His gaze on Barfok is so loathsome that she worries she might vomit around her gag. She cannot stop shaking, not with fear but with an animal desire to fling herself upon him, to tear, to rip, to maim, to hurt--

And then he is no longer looking at her. "Kul-se-Chimarvir," breathes Olaf towards his other prisoner. "Son of Chimarvir of Mournhold. No?"

When Barfok turns she sees that Kema is folded up against the back wall of the cell. He is sitting. He has not moved. He glares resignedly at Olaf.

"Perhaps not," drawls Olaf. "Mournhold has refused to ransom you."

Then Olaf turns to Barfok, and he says, "And you. None from Monahven know of you. Who do you belong to?"

Barfok's hands refuse to be unclenched from their fists. She takes several short sharp breaths, as if this will make her bloodlust less. She cannot even think for her own rage.

"How feeble Kjoric has become," drawls Olaf. "The Tongues he sends against me, unwanted children and nobodies. Tell me, at least," he addresses Barfok, "Give me the name of someone who will cough up a few coins for your safe return, won't you?"

Thank Kyne, thank Tsun, thank Mara, thank dead Shor in the ground they've left Barfok's hands unbound.

Barfok flips him off.

-

Olaf must think she's of some value to somebody out there, because the beating the guards give her is comparatively light. She ends up with a bloodied nose and a swollen lip and a swollen-shut eye and a few big boot-shaped bruises around her stomach, but her bones are pleasantly intact, and she's not coughing up blood, so she feels a smug sense of satisfaction, like she's gotten away with something.

Nonetheless, the aching starts up a while later, and it sets her in a foul mood. So, after she's washed her face the best she can with her filthy sleeves, she lies down in her corner, grumbling under her breath at every little ache. For not the first time she realises how unpleasant the gag is getting in her mouth, crusty and stinking pungently of curdled milk and her own rancid breath. Her clothing is scratchy for the sweat and dust caked into it. Her joints hurt from lying on the hard floor for so long and the beating hasn't distracted from that. At that dark moment, she feels very sorry for herself.

Kema, too, has been lying very still in his corner ever since Olaf's visit. He hadn't even stirred during her beating-- not that she can blame him for that, really. But lying there in the dark she hears him breathing in a weird way. She hears him shuffle around, then gasp in pain, and then he sucks in some hoarse breath, and moves against the ground again. This goes on for quite some time.

He's trying to puncture his own lung. Barfok realises this with a dim disinterest. This thought comes moments before she falls asleep.

-

Herma-Mora appears to her. She's sitting very still against the wall when the blackness before her blossoms into a thousand emerald eyes. A staring fractal descends upon her, infinity's watchfulness coalescing on a prisoner.

She thinks that he'll have the usual offer: he helps her and her soul wears away a little bit more. But he doesn't say anything. She can't say anything, either.

So she hangs there in a miasma of swamp black and forest green, being blinked at.

After a million years, or three hours, or a minute, or a second-- was she asleep?-- she blinks and he's gone again. The torches have been lit in the hallway again. She wonders if Herma-Mora would pay a ransom for her.

-

One day, the jailor throws in a blanket, so now Barfok and Kema sleep side by side, Barfok pressed against his back so as not to harm his broken-up front. They don't really talk any more, they've run out of charcoal and he still won't move his arm. Barfok paces around the cell sometimes, and washes daily from the water-bucket, and signs poetry to herself, but Kema seems to have given up. Most of the time he just lies there. He seems to like staring at the old drawings they did together, of the horses and the dragon with its feast. When they wrote to each other, Barfok had offered condolences about his dead horse, and he'd said that he was sad about it, too. Krosis. Geh, Krosis. Men love their horses.

One day Barfok tries looking for more charcoal-- she wants to tell him about the Herma-Mora vision, she wants to confess to someone before she's dragged into Apocrypha the moment they die down here-- but they've used it all up. There's no word for Herma-Mora in Nordic Sign so she's forced to keep the secret.

On a different day, Barfok offers in sign to bathe him. He doesn't agree but he doesn't refuse either, and he doesn't fight when she unbuttons his now-crusty tunic and pulls it aside.

Below the fabric his chest is a tapestry of blue and purple and yellow and black. When he breathes the movement is asynchronous, the two sides of him rise at different times. His eyes are closed and he is breathing very shallowly, as if he's trying not to breathe at all, as if he's willing himself to be elsewhere.

Barfok uses a corner of his the blanket to clean the dirt away from his chin and his neck. It must have been trapped there since the battle, since he fell from his horse. There's even still strands of straw in his hair. He blighted all the wheat in the field. She'd never seen a thu'um like that; she found it-- finds it-- so horrifying it doesn't bear thinking of. But her own stomach remains empty, and she cannot help but feel just the tiniest bit gleeful, at the thought everyone up there will be going as sad and hungry as she is.

Barfok is not the caring sort. After a half-hearted attempt to clean him up, she braids his hair for him instead. He has very long, very pretty hair, and now that it hasn't been washed for a very long time, the colour has gone from flirting-with-blond to a definitive rusty red. Like an old wagon's axle, like the half-eaten blade of the sword her little brother found in the forest once. She puts it in very bad braids and then she leaves him to his sulking, overcome with her own misery.

He looks so dumb in those awful braids. They don't suit him at all. But he falls asleep with a peaceful comforted expression, unaware of the violence she just wrought upon him.

-

They are sitting on opposite walls and Barfok signs a question to him:

"When we get out, do you want to keep being friends?"

He's holding his arm rigid by his chest, the way he always does. She's surprised he's even sitting up. He's been growing more and more quiet over the past few-- what unit of time are they in, is it the next era already?-- and she thinks he's looking paler, that he's not breathing very well.

She is more surprised when he uncoils both arms and signs back to her:

"If."

-

The door is thrown open. Barfok had been asleep, and she's barely realised she's conscious again when the jailor barks: "Up."

For some stupid reason Barfok obeys; she's on her feet before she's even fully awake. Flustered with surprise, she flails both hands at the jailor, the universal Nordic sign for "What?"

"You've been ransomed," the jailor tells them. "I'm to take you to Dunmeth pass. Get up, come on, it's a long trip."

There's a drumming in Barfok's ears that she only belatedly realises is her own heart. She signs, "Who?" And then she raps out a series of letters: Yo, su, mah, ikh, rah? And then she signs the symbol for dragons. The symbol for king. She's babbling with her hands before she realises the jailor doesn't read sign.

"On your feet, now," the jailor barks again, and Barfok hears her friend also struggling to his feet. She does not go to help him but she doesn't hear him fall.

Then the jailor is leading them out, and they're walking through the hallway, walking together, walking… out of the cell, up the stairs, out of Oblivion, back into the world of mortals. They're crossing from one plane to another, treading over a billion stars.

Every step hurts. Her muscles feel very weak, the bruises from her beating are groaning with protest. She can hear Kema breathing through his nose in a way that suggests he's fighting back sobs. But the jailor walks before them, leading them boldly out, and he pays no notice to their agonies.

In fact, he's self-absorbed-- he's complaining to himself, though saying it as if he's addressing him. "Primitive heathens," he's spitting, "Imagine leaving your child to languish in an enemy dungeon for a week. A whole week!…"

-

They make it to Dunmeth pass, though Barfok does not recall the trip. Ysmir is there with the ransom, and the elven Queen is also there, and she is much prettier than she was in the charcoal drawing. And then, like wheels of cheese at a farmer's market, two young prisoners of war are passed off to their loved ones, and they're free, and they're safe, and they're home.

… There's a healer from Kogoruhn who sees to them. There's a special knife to pull away the gags, and there's Barfok, yelling, screaming at the top of her lungs just to get it all out. It's a gleeful sort of screaming, the delighted raucous of a goat kid learning to use its lungs for the first time-- incoherent hollering until Ysmir gives her a gentle slap about the head to shut her up. Then there's food, food, food! There's a cup of very strong flin with some sort of medicine in it, there's a clean tunic to get changed into, there's Ysmir, steady as a rock beside her, beside her, here, here. Barfok babbles through her mouthfuls of food, gleeful to be speaking aloud even more than she is for the nourishment and the rescue. She swears to Kyne, Tsun, Mara, Shor, all she wanted to do was talk. All she wants to do is talk and talk and talk. She's never loved the sound of her own voice so much.

They get on the road as soon as they can. There's a whole caravan that's come for them, carts and soldiers, a small army Ysmir's brought, he doesn't trust the Alessians. There's a second army that Barfok is told belongs to Mournhold. Reveling in her regained voice, Barfok hangs off of Ysmir's arm and chatters to every soldier that comes her way. Ysmir pretends not to approve of this display, but he lets her hold onto his arm, and he's never done that before, so she knows he must be pleased to hear her voice again. Ysmir's arm is terrifically warm.

And finally, after she's talked at Ysmir until her throat sounds like a frog croaking, after her lungs are burning and her head is swimming with flin, Barfok wanders off to find her newfound dungeon friend.

She finds him in a cart in the Mournhold half of the caravan. They've made a bed for him, he's lying in a nest of soft wool blankets and silk sheets. His filthy clothes have been changed for some soft-looking elven robes, and the Queen of Mournhold is sitting near his head, studiously untangling his hair from the horrid braids Barfok had put it in. A healer sits at the other side of him, preparing some pungent mixture to slather on his deformed purple-black chest.

In the light of day he looks closer to death than he had in the dungeon. Barfok even thinks he might be asleep, resting so peacefully in this decadent cart-back bedding. But when the Queen stops her work at Barfok's approach, he opens a single eye. He tilts his head very slightly and stares down at Barfok, half-lidded, his bloodless lips drawn into a thin line.

Barfok is half-drunk from medicated brandy, Barfok has an eye swollen shut from being beaten and is wearing an old ill-fitting tunic from Ysmir. She is not fit for an audience with nobility. She greets them nonetheless.

"Wow." Barfok says. And then, "You look like shit."

Now he opens both eyes, and he raises his head from his pillows to stare down at her.

"I'm Barfok," Barfok follows up, her voice unsteady. "And you're, eh, you're Kema, right?" She feels herself sway a little. "Kema of Mournhold. Yeah. Of Chimarvir."

He blinks very slowly. The Queen who sits behind him looks vaguely unimpressed.

"It's pronounced Chemua," he says, hoarsely. "And you are the most annoying woman I've ever met."

[bubbasaywer23]

Bombs pased away ghost x reader

G: te voy a atrapar niña!!!

tn: * Corriendo *

G: jaajaaaj no eres lo sufientemente rapida o si ? *la agarra del brazo* no servirias en ejercito

tn: Porfavor no me mates !!! *al borde del llanto*

G: *PRENDE LA RADIO * La tengo

?? : Bien echo , ahora traela al las coordenadas xxxxx

G: Okay , entendido cambio y fuera , * apaga la radio*

tn: *llorando*

G: No llores....Levantate .

tn:*Gimoteando*

G: DIJE QUE TE LEVANTES !! * le patea el estomago*

tn: *escupiendo sangre *

G: ACASO UN MALDITO GOLPE NO FUNCIONA PARA QUE HAGAS LO QUE TE ORDENAN?!

G : AHG!!! BIEN SI NO TE QUIERES LEVANTAR ....YO HARE QUE NO TE PUEDAS LEVANTAR !!

tn: ehh!?

(Ghost la levanta y la lleva a su camioneta)

G: * La tira adentro de la camioneta* Bien si no haces lo que te ordeno habra que obligarte a obedecer

( Ghost empieza a desnudar a la chica al mismo tiempo que asi mismo )

tn: O-oye espera , que haces!?

G: * La abofetea para que se calle *

tn: *gimotendo despacio*

G: * se saca la p1j4 y la empieza a penetrar*

tn: ahh!! *llorando*

G:mmmm~ no sabia que fueras tan r1c4 ~

( despues del acto Ghost no entrego a la chica a su general , porque se encariñado al mismo tiempo que enamorado , y tn tambien pero siempre pensaba , * Porque me enamore de el ? *

Hola mis chiquistriquis jeje ya subi esta historia que espero que lo suban a wattpad jeje bueno adios mui mui~

Hello my little ones hehe I already uploaded this story that I hope they upload it to wattpad hehe good bye mui mui~

[juguitodemedico]

Me encanta la idea del diario compartido, siento que ayuda bastante a la gestion de la distancia, y esa sensacion de soledad que de vez en cuando me agarra porque hace ya 2 meses que no te veo, pero... Por otro lado lo mas dificil es dejar el sexo, es una cosa brutal, follabamos 5 o 6 veces cada que nos veiamos, era una calentura tan deliciosa, brutal en la que tu y yo solo con vernos era una mierda brutal que reaccionaba instantaneamente mi cuerpo con el tuyo, y solo con sonreirme y respirarme en la nuca me tenias agarrandote del cuello y tratandote como mi deposito personal de semen, y follandote por horas, atandote, y tu comiendotela toda y disfrutando.. Extraño muchisimo y cada vez que veo fotos de nosotros y todo recuerdo todas esas noches que dios... Amanecia con dolor pelvico y abdominal y despertaba con mis geniales destrozados.... La verdad ahg puto rural y puta distancia de mierda

[guardianasdelrpg]

PERO POR FAVOR NO ES TAN DIFÍCIL CORTAR UNA IMG. Ni siquiera se necesita saber diseñar... Ahg >_< || No, mamá, no me pegue que me duele... Digo, ehem... Yo tengo años intentando mejorar en PS y nada, quizá porque no soy muy paciente y termino poniendo un recorte vil y crudo sin ningún tipo de efecto porque nunca se me da ni siguiendo tutoriales. Si ves a alguien con un recorte básico seguramente soy yo, y yo sí acepto avatares gratis. Es como vasito de agua, no se rechaza(?)

Jajajajajaja también os podéis pasar por las galerías del foro

Syndra⭐️

[azlovesem]

All the so called americab superstats dont look so super compared to me. Fuck sales i made all of you look qeak and stupud. Youre sll rifht taylor but look at florida ding bat. Dont ever bothercme again or ill find uour old man and put a bulket right yhrough his fuckn head. She likes ne better i ssid. Ahg we can 86 anyone you her snyo e how tough youbferl noe look at florida. Tou wanna lose the fuckn election? Fuxk j z whays up nogga. We re gonna get ya. Youre fone. Youre deas mist likley Michael. Yo nigga i font gear nothing ur a butch ur wife needs more plastic surgery shes getn old. Hey rm i talk to your bot h ass fuckn boi like this. Yeah fuck jamiaica sew wgst i did to it j.

[rayof-sunshine-ar]

Que si es detestable??

Claro que lo es, maldita sea... Otra vez me estoy atorando con ese sentimiento, me emferma saber que esto es lo que se supone que debo de hacer, me ves cara de una maldita marioneta? No, claro que no porque siquiera tienes el valor de mirarme, lo peor es que yo permiti que mi maldita cabeza quedara llena de esas estupidas ideas que ya no se como ser yo, jaja ay no... Ahg!... MIERDA.

[konoko]

Futuro porque no adivinas quién soy, pero es seguro que lo serás

Aw corazón, yo también lo ignoro somos dos, tome algo pero sigo igual tal vez es el estrés

Ahg lo roban? ladronas no ven que es un plan de conquista JAJSJAJS

hmmm qué cruel, quiero saber quién sos ahora :<

:( quizás dormir te ayude a sentirte mejor

PERO q bobi

[ki-la-vie]

Tengo todo lo que pedí

O bueno

Más o menos

Y sigo siendo tan infeliz

Las cosas se siguen acomodando

Todo es como El Equilibrista que finge caer

Y yo soy la señora que se come todo el acto.

Dios es bromista

Yo aún soy yo

Ahg

Que ganas de ser ese conejo.

[boba-hijueputa]

Yo: que ganas de una cita, quiero conocer hombres.

Un hombre: hola.

Yo: ahg, qué querrá este bobo hijueputa.