#and for the few that are full time it was a difficult slog to get to where they are

[sabrielandorangejuice]

I don’t think jooshbag was trying to say that all CG is bad, just that Hollywood has gone overboard with its reliance on CG to the exclusion of everything else.

So many movies these days are shot entirely on green screens with motion capture suits and everything from environments to props to costumes is added in digitally. And they might do well in cinemas because they’re part of a big franchise and supported by millions of dollars of marketing, but they are by and large quite forgettable.

Contrast with movies like Jurassic Park or Lord of the Rings, which are 20, 30, 40 years old but still look good, and they’re timeless classics. They did as much as they could with practical effects, pushing the boundaries of what was possible like jooshbag points out cosplayers are doing now, and then supporting that with CG in the ways v1doodlebug describes.

The difference is that animators/CG experts were for a long time not unionised, which meant big Hollywood studios could get away with paying them less and treating them worse. This is only just starting to change in the last few years.

In the end it comes down to care. Does the production team care enough to find and consult experts to determine what can be done practically and what would be better as CG? Do they care enough to find and pay costumers and prop makers and artists to make the practical effects happen? There are some movies where the answer is yes. The Barbie Movie used a lot of physical sets and practical effects, and you can see that care also in other aspects of the movie: the script, the worldbuilding, etc. But for a lot of Hollywood the answer is no. They just want to make the next marvel sequel for as little money as possible so they can get the maximum profit, and they don’t care how it happens.

Epic Cosplay of “Horizon Zero Dawn”

[wyrmst]

Out in the Cold (Part Six)

M Orc x M Troll (Hulder) Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG || NEXT

Wordcount: 10525

Content Warnings: Size Difference, Fingering, Anal Sex (Reader Bottoms), Stomach Bulge, Excessive Cum

This one’s a whopper, but for good reason. :)

There it is- the bridge you crossed into the Wilds during the initial journey here.

After a few false starts, nearly getting eaten by at least one predator (that you know of), and nearly becoming lost all over again, you’ve finally made it back here. 

Unfortunately, it seems to have thoroughly broken since the last time you crossed it about a year ago, the wood crumbling to mere bits in the middle where it’s suspended above the deep river water.

You let out a sigh. You’ll have to find somewhere else to cross. You’ve got no other choice but to follow the river until you can find a shallow spot to cross instead.

What feels like an eternity later, you're grumbling out loud to yourself in frustration when you finally spot a stony area of the river, with groups of flat-topped rocks jutting out of the surface acting as a rudimentary stepping stone bridge across the width of the river. If you do fall in, it at least looks like the water is shallow enough that it could be waded through.

You’re not too keen on the idea of plunging into frigid water if you slip- but you’re not worried in the slightest. Your dexterity is one of your finest qualities, after all, and not something to balk at.

Tentatively, you start the act of crossing, hunched low with all the feline grace you can muster, tail aloft for balance. You make sure to have full, confident contact on each slightly damp rock face as you go.

Deftly, and excruciatingly slowly, you progress onwards, rock after rock. As you move towards the middle of the river, the rocks become more spread out in placement, and it becomes more difficult to find stable footing, but you manage.

Until you don't.

Just one split second of thinking you were in a good position when you were, in fact, not, and your wet boot heel squeaks off the rock. Your life flashes before your eyes, hanging in the moment between safety and being knocked unconscious and falling into the river to drown.

Your sharp reflexes try to save you, and mostly succeed. You struggle and wobble, claw tips digging into the rock, and barely manage to right yourself. 

But your misstep is not without cost; as you squirm back upright, your pack slips from its position on your shoulder and into the water flowing beneath the broken chunks of ice. 

"No!!" You screech, and willingly throw yourself after it without a second thought.

The item that this mess - that all of this trouble and heartache was for- is in that bag! You can’t let it slip through your fingers.

Icy cold water splashes up around you as you wade through the stream, feeling around for your bag in the too-fast-for-comfort current. Your clothes are getting soaked through but you could care less, up over your navel as you lean over, reaching blindly. The river is deeper than you originally thought, and at any moment you might get swept away, but you continue to frantically search- you can’t let this go.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heartbeat pounding fast as you claw around desperately for the lost bag. Out of the corner of your eye, you manage to spot it, blurred by the water as it’s being carried down the river, just out of reach, as you struggle to catch up.

You’re almost in deep enough water now to be swimming- or, more accurately, being swept away- now. Your chin dips into the water in your effort to catch the strap in your fingers.

It can’t all have been for nothing! It can’t-

Wet leather grazes your fingertips.

You snatch up the strap through the drag of the current, just as the icy river threatens to pull it away for good.

Eventually, you manage to dredge yourself up onto the rocky bank on your hands and knees, slogging and soaked through, with the strap of your pack lodged so firmly in your clenched fist that your knuckles are going pale.

Your belongings are all waterlogged, your breathing is ragged and labored, and your skin is scraped raw from the cold where it’s exposed.

But you did it.

Though, now you're soaked through, in the middle of winter. Your troll heritage will prevent you from freezing to death, sure, but you can already feel the cold sting your skin.

After rising to your feet, you wring out the excess water from your cloak, and then the brushy tip of your tail with a grimace. You've got to find somewhere to warm up, now. The cold might not kill you, but the orcs certainly might when they catch up to you. Being sopping wet and shivering is only going to get you caught if you go into hibernation, so you’ll have to risk stopping to dry off. At least that way you still have the chance to run.

Luckily for you, it only takes a few minutes of intensely desperate searching to find a cave that seems to have functioned as a makeshift shelter for travelers at some time in the past. There's even still the bones of a long dead fire for you to build on. It’s an arduous task, given the ongoing snow, but you manage to get one lit with the driest of the brush you manage to find.

As soon as you're sure your meager fire won't whimper out, you strip out of your soaked clothing, boots and gloves. You lay that and your pack out to dry off.

You probably look as pitiful as you feel; curled in a ball under your half-wet cloak as close to the fire as you can get, hands and feet tucked in, shivering so violently your teeth chatter.

You huddle tighter under the thin fabric of your cloak, wishing it was the fine hexopard one that you left behind.

Things will be less uncomfortable when the warmth has burned off the dampness - you've just got to power through.

Just… think warm thoughts…

LAST SUMMER

"Got anyone in mind to ask?"

Lurog glances up just long enough for you to catch her eyes in the mirror in front of you, before she looks back down at the complex braid she’s weaving in your hair. A smug smile settles on her normally cool expression, betraying the fact she knows exactly what nerve she’s plucking.

"Ugh. At this point I'm going to ask every man of remotely compatible orientation and I'll take whoever says yes." You sigh, and throw up a hand in defeat. Your ears twitch in both exasperation and ticklishness from Lurog's fingers as she works your hair around them.

"Right. Totally not a desperate or sad answer."

"I'm serious, Lurog! I can't afford to be picky!"

"Pfft, now you sound like Urguk." She says affectionately, teasing. "That's how you end up with a lot of special friends and none of them asking you to join their household."

"At least some of the men find Urguk attractive! I stick out like a sore thumb- I'm worried no one is going to be interested in me."

"I'm sure someone will be. You've just gotta ask the right person."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence.” You sigh. “…What about you? Going to try your luck at the festival as well?"

"Ew. No, no one I'm interested in ever asks me. Rather make all the holiday pay, while the twerps are out trying to ensnare themselves some husbands."

"Heh, I can appreciate the work ethic."

It would be easy if you didn't have to worry about this, either. But you need to get closer to someone with free access to the armory- a hunter, most likely- so that you can ‘borrow’ a key and sneak in yourself, since you found the lock to be unpickable each of the multiple times you’ve tried your hand at it. That way you can confirm the artifact you’re looking for isn’t stored in there.

You've checked everywhere else for your quarry at this point… Where else could it be, but there?

"All done." Lurog turns your chair and hands you a small mirror to inspect her handiwork from both sides.

Your hair has grown out just enough to braid around the top of your head, framing your soft, pointed ears. She's meticulously woven in pieces of sweetgrass, giving the impression of a natural, herbaceous crown. The plant has been recently cut, causing its soft, hay and vanilla aroma to waft around you when you move your head.

"Oh wow! Lurog, this is really stunning." You gently touch the nape of your neck as you look at the back of your hairstyle with the hand mirror. "You're really quite talented."

"It was a pain in the ass." She says bluntly, but you can see the little smirk on her face in the wall mirror from the praise. "Your hair is as difficult as the rest of you. Slippery like a river eel." 

After a few more minutes of chatting with Lurog while you pay, she genuinely wishes you luck for the festival and sends you off.

You came to the salon already dressed in your nicest clothes, so you head out of the shop and follow the sound of music and fledgling revelry towards the clearing by the edge of the settlement.

It’s hard to miss once you make it past the majority of buildings; the field is heavily decorated with many alpine varieties of flowers, ribbons and colorful paint. There’s several stalls set up selling handicraft and flowers, as well as orcish deviations on the standard festival treats and games.

The slightly tamped down meadow serving as festival space is already alive with people and the scent of flowers and grilled food in the air. Everyone seems to be happy to be able to assemble outside for the short time frame of temperate weather per year that the climate allows, rather than in the meeting hall where most of the holidays you’ve been to have taken place so far, as to be sheltered from the cold.

It’s a bit early still, and the celebration itself hasn’t quite gone into full swing yet. So, you decide to peruse the goods at the assembled stalls, instead.

You hear a familiar voice greet you as you’re perusing the line of stalls, contemplating buying yourself a trinket with some of your saved gold. You turn to look at the source of the voice.

It’s Urguk, positioned behind the counter of his family’s woodworking stall, giving you a tusky squiggle of a smile. He’s got soft pink lupine flowers pinned throughout his mess of chunky chestnut brown curls.

“Hello Urguk,” You greet them in turn. “Looks like you’re on selling duty.”

“Yep! I’ve g-gotta help out early if I want to dance later. Let me know if you see anything you wanna buy.” He offers the bare minimum of a sales pitch before pivoting to personal chatting. “H-How’s it going? Excited?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” You say in a deadpan manner as you peruse the wooden trinkets, jewelry and hair decorations spread out in neat sections. “Just acclimating to the idea of dying alone and unwed.”

“Hehe, that’s a little dramatic, e-even for you!”

“Maybe. It’s hard to have much confidence that this festival will be any different when no one’s shown any interest so far.”

Your eyes settle on a felt-lined box filled with small animal figurines, also carved out of wood. You start looking through them- a stoat, an elk, a bear- finding each one somehow cuter than the next.

“Ah, these are so adorable!”

“Hehe, thanks. I c-carved them myself out of leftover cut ends! I’ve been saving them up since the Turn of the Wheel.” Urguk beams in pride, then lets out a weak laugh and adds; “If it makes you feel any better, there’s no hope for me in the romance department, either.”

“Oh, is that right? You’ve never struck me as someone who had trouble finding dates!”

“Dates are one thing, finding someone you want to live with is- c-completely different!”

“Ugh.” You wince, turning over the next tiny wooden creature you’ve picked up in your hands. But a smile settles on your lips, finding that it’s a hexopard. Rather than fangs bared in a threat display or showy roar, it’s simply resting in a reclined pose, looking untroubled. “...Affairs of the heart can certainly be a drag.”

“They r-really are!” Urguk deflates a little bit, drumming his fingers on the stall counter glumly. “H-Honestly? I would just marry Lu- y-you know, if she were a man.”

“Hmmm… Yep. I could see it.” You snap your fingers and conclude decisively, after a moment of analysis. “A shame you’re not properly aligned in that way. You’d make a cute couple.”

“Yeah…” Urguk says wistfully. But his characteristic optimistic nature returns quickly. “I-I know it seems hopeless. B-But we can’t give up, right?”

“When you put it like that, I suppose not.” 

“Yeah! I think you’ll have more luck than you think! Y-You just need to ask the right person!”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Urguk.” You say, feeling a bit lighter. You smile down at the tiny hexopard figurine in your hand. “Let me get out of your hair now- but first, let me buy this-”

“Oh, good choice. That one’s made of cedar, so it smells really good, t-too!”

Once the transaction is done, you carefully tuck the tiny wooden cat in your bag, bid Urguk goodbye for now, and move on from the woodworking stall.

Now that you’ve drawn first blood on your coin purse, it begins to quickly hemorrhage the rest of your meager savings. It’s not often you get to treat yourself; so you go from stall to stall, buying up the things that catch your eye and bring you joy. A pretty woven bracelet with a geometric design of multiple colors, a hammered metal bangle that Burzgob tightens on the spot into a tail cuff for you, a new set of hand-sculpted gambling runestones for when you play at the tavern… Any small trinket that strikes your fancy, really.

You don’t stop your reckless spending spree until you’re trying to fit three full jars of various flavors of jam- plus the free one Granny Gorsha just gifted you on top of your purchase- into your pack, when she mercifully offers to hold them for you to pick up from the tailor’s shop in the morning, instead.

It’s then that you catch a whiff of something good- the heavenly scent of cooking meat. You wander in that direction, letting your nose lead you there. Unsurprisingly, you find yourself in front of a food stall. Your stomach rumbles ominously, your body unable to resist the lust for chargrilled fish when it’s right in front of you. 

It’s hard to miss the familiar, giant blue orc manning the grill, regardless of how blinded by hunger you are.

Torg, surprisingly, is just as dressed up in summer finery as any of the other orcs you’ve seen today. His long braids and beard have sprigs of white mountain saxifrage dispersed through them, the soft white petals perfectly contrasting his dark blue-toned hair. He has several beads and even some blue jay feathers woven into his hairstyle as well - a huge step up from his usual lack of ornamentation. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see the big boss, of all people, cooking in his festival clothes today. You’re considering a change in profession?”

Torg looks over at you, seemingly unfazed by your teasing, his expression hard and flat to the undiscerning gaze. But you’re familiar enough with him now to notice the small twitch of his brow and the tightness at the edge of his mouth where he’s suppressing a smile.

“Hmm. Not anytime soon.” He snorts in amusement. “Why; are you looking to apply?”

“Oh, no, no thank you, I’m fine, thanks. I know my limits. The settlement would be a smoldering wreck within the week if I were in charge.” You laugh through the thought as it makes the fur on your tail stand straight.  “I was under the impression orc leaders inherit the position? And you never did adopt me…”

“Hah! New Ways tribes elect their chiefs, so you wouldn’t be inheriting the position, even if I did. Someone else would have to bring it to a vote.”

“Oh, well clearly you’re good at the job, then, if no one wants to change things.”

“No one else in the settlement is crazy enough to want this job.” Torg rumbles, but there’s a hint of well-earned pride in his voice. 

“Still, I thought you’d be busy with more, I don't know, chiefly duties?”

“You know how it is- Everything is a chiefly duty when someone needs the help. Cook and Wort are finishing setting up the cooking pit for the feast later. Overseeing festivals is more Shaman’s thing.”

Before you can open your mouth to continue the conversation, your stomach growls again, this time even audible over the sizzle of cooking.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t eaten yet today.” Torg gripes, saying your name like it’s a curse. “The sun’s about to start going down.”

“I won’t tell you, then! But my, do those look even better than they smell.” You return your attention to the fish skewers on the grill. You can barely contain your excitement- Torg is a skilled cook, and has yet to make a dish you haven’t liked on the occasions he’s taken charge of cooking the evening meal. “And they smell magnificent.”

“Want one? Only a half-gold each.”

“Absolutely! All this walking around has worked up quite the appetite, hahah!” You scrounge for some coins, but your fingers only skim leather instead of the metal you were expecting. You find yourself gazing into the empty void of your gold pouch. You’re lucky a single fly doesn’t comically buzz out of it.

Shame pierces your chest like a cold needle. 

“Heh, er- Actually, I’ll have to pass.” You say, sheepish as you re-tighten the drawstrings.

“What do you mean? You were just drooling at the sight!”

“Well, yeah.” You pout and your ears flattening back against your head automatically. You can feel your eyes glazing over with hunger the longer they’re fixed on the delicious looking morsels. “They do look good. But… I shouldn’t.”

Torg lets out a long, exasperated sigh, his toned arms flipping each skewer one after the other with efficient, practiced movement. You rarely see him in short sleeves, given the cold climate, so it’s hard to not stare at the tribal tattoos lining his arms that are now visible. The patterns are almost mesmerizing as they wiggle with the movements of his arm muscles.

“Spent all of your gold on jam again?”

“No.” You lie. You suppose it’s not really a lie, you did buy a wooden figurine and a bunch of other trinkets, too…

“Sure.” Torg’s already picked up a skewer, holding it out over the stall counter with two fingers, leaving room for you to grab onto the end of the wood. He grunts, his large hand motioning with the skewer towards you for you to take hold of it. “Take it anyway.”

“That seems like an abuse of power. Can you really just give away inventory like that?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Torg insists, and you don’t need to be told again. You take the skewer, knowing you’re grinning stupidly, but unable to stop yourself.

You don’t even move away from the stall, ravenously chewing on the skewer like a starving animal. The flesh of the river perch flakes off so tenderly, and has a perfect mix of the flavors of the marinated salt and smoke.

Torg simply shakes his head at your gluttonous display, digging his own gold pouch hanging from his belt and transferring a few coins into the stall’s makeshift till.

“Mmph- Thanks-” You say as you dexterously pick the last bit of browned fish from the skewer with your sharp eye teeth. “I’ll pay you back soon…”

“As long as you’re enjoying yourself, I don’t mind losing half a gold.”

You lick the excess grease from your thumb in thought, putting the licked-clean skewer in the designated trash bowl on the counter. Your left ear flicks.

“Oh- Actually! You can have this!” Your bag rustles as you rummage through it, eventually pulling out the figurine you bought from the woodworking stall. You offer it to Torg with a renewed brightness. “It made me think of you, anyway- can’t imagine why, hahah.”

Torg is speechless for a moment, looking at the wooden creature in your hand, before reaching up and taking it from you to look at it more closely. His heavy features break into a soft look of clear fondness.

“...So? Would that make us even?”

“Hmm- Yeah.” Torg tucks the wooden hexopard into his tunic pocket, still with a tusky smirk hanging on his lips, and shoos you off as more customers arrive. “Now go enjoy the rest of the festival.”

Reinvigorated with lean protein, you feel much more optimistic about your romantic prospects for the night. Your friends are right- you’ve got this in the bag- you’ve just got to play your cards right!

The festival is finally picking up, and you hear the heavy thudding drums of orcish dance music that has begun to play near the open space with the ribbon-studded poles, so you head over that way, where you see people starting to gather.

You’re single, and the time has come to mingle.

You’re suave, and charming, and most of all, you’re absolutely adorable. You’ll surely manage to woo someone tonight. 

But more importantly, you’ll be able to get your ticket in. And once you get that treasure, you’ll get out clean, and go back to your normal life- no, better... you'll be living the highest life a thief could ask for, just like Fritz promised you. Best of all, you won’t have to field any more scolding letters from him telling you to hurry up, finish the job already, and come back.

The dance floor is a cleared area of meadow underneath the poles, far from the tree line, with ribbons. Cut flowers decorate the edges, where orcs look for dance partners, and those that are choosing to spectate rather than dance themselves are lingering with drinks, food and conversation.

Luckily for you, orcish dancing isn’t all that different from the classic ballroom styles you learned growing up, and your natural grace allows you to adapt mostly well. And you have no problem getting anyone onto the improvised dancefloor- every orc man you ask seems thrilled with, or at least entertained by, the invitation. You’re so swept up in your mission of seduction, you barely eat any of the festival feast when the time comes, and only drink less than a quarter tankard of grog- determined to leave this festival with somebody.

There is… one thing that is curious, however.

All of your dance partners have seemed almost suddenly afraid. Without fail, about halfway through your round of dancing, each suitor starts to look more pale and uneasy, like they’ve seen a ghost. 

And sure, you stepped on Vruk’s feet a few times in that first song, but you doubt that would send terror into strong orc warriors the way it seems to have… And Throk tripped over your tail and knocked a few other couples over… And one of the younger hunters even broke out in a cold sweat and claimed to have a stomachache, before running off in the middle of your dance, leaving you confused in the middle of the crowd.

None of the orcs you dance with ask for a second round, that’s for sure.

Hours of celebrating later, the soft embrace of darkness has nearly fully enveloped the open clearing at the edge of the settlement. The only lights in the meadow are the bonfires, the lanterns strung between the painted and flower-laden wooden poles, and the moon much higher above. All of the orclings have been ushered off to bed by now, but the majority of the adult orcs left show no sign of slowing down the revelry - at least the ones that haven’t already paired off and conspicuously disappeared.

Even Urguk has already wandered off with one of his fellow hunters, even though he said he wasn’t planning on actively looking for a date tonight, leaving you without someone to commiserate with. You feel a pang of envy, wishing it could’ve been as easy a process for you.

You realize you might not have this in the bag as you previously believed.

After some effort searching, you find a quiet, out of the way spot under a tree at the edge of the festival grounds to lick your wounds and pout in. You exasperatedly blow a loose strand of hair from your crown braid from your face as you look out at what feels like the rest of the tribe still drinking, laughing, dancing, and enjoying themselves.

What gives?!

At this point, you have danced with every. Single. orc man that’s unspoken for and has given you the slightest indication of being interested in other men.

And not ONE of them was interested in you, past some festive, platonic dancing.

…Perhaps the orcs aren’t the problem. 

Could it be you? 

Maybe… you’re not as cute as you think you are?

…

NO, impossible. That can’t be it- you’re adorable, and someone would have to blind not to see it. Everyone in this settlement must just have awful taste!! Maybe you just don’t fit orc standards of beauty…

You toe the dirt with the tip of your boot and chew your bottom lip in thought.

Maybe you need to change course. Start flirting with some of the feminine and androgynous orcs in hopes you can trick one of them into inviting you into a love affair, instead? That might work…

No, who are you kidding?? You’re way too obviously gay for that!! And how are you going to compete with hot, built orc men?!

You hold your head in your hands in despair. 

You’ll have to approach this differently… It’s risky, but you may have to chance pickpocketing a key instead; though you shudder to think of the cost of getting caught stealing at this point…

It’s no use. You’re not getting anywhere with this tonight, clearly. You might as well head home and get some rest. 

Though, you’re not looking forward to tossing and turning while you try to ignore the frustration that’s been building since you’ve arrived at the settlement… It’s been so long since you’ve felt the touch of another man. Taking care of it yourself just isn’t the same, it’s just a bandage on a slowly growing wound.

You’re tempted to run your hands through your hair and curse in frustration as you stalk farther away from the celebration, down the quiet, mostly unused back path lining the edge of the clearing that leads to the singles housing. The only thing keeping you from doing that is not wanting to carelessly ruin the hard work Lurog did on your hairstyle.

But before you can make the turn and head towards your destination, you notice one of the farthest out bonfires with a singular figure at it, off to your right, slightly hidden from sight by the way the hill slopes.

Getting closer out of curiosity, you soon recognize the familiar, towering figure in the low light- no one else in the settlement could fit that grand of a silhouette. 

You stroll fully off the worn dirt path, coming up from behind. Torg’s seated on the ground, his broad back resting against one the log benches around the communal bonfire.

“Strange seeing you all the way out here. Midsummer celebration seems like the kinda thing you’d be as Chief-y as possible about until the very end of the night, why are you out here by your lonesome?”

Torg grunts in acknowledgement as you approach, not turning to look at you. His expression is hard and brooding as he looks at the fire.

He looks so stoically handsome when he’s lit by firelight like this, you could probably look at him forever.

“Needed some fresh air.” He says coldly and takes a sip from the stone flask he’s nursing. He doesn’t seem drunk- though you realized you’ve never seen him inebriated before, to be able to tell for sure. “What are you doing out here? Finally heading home with someone?

“You think if I got lucky I’d be loitering out here alone in the dark?” You chortle and gesture to the fact you're alone out here in the dark, besides each other.

“...Ah.” He raises his eyebrows, and visibly untenses a bit. "Color me surprised."

“Oh?” You plaster a shit-eating grin on your face and place your hands on your hips. “You know not everyone has a retinue of fair and fertile young maidens lined up and waiting to be be-wifed.”

“You seemed to be doing well enough for yourself.” He brushes your teasing off with a flagrant wave of his hand, looking contemplatively at the fire.

“No such luck.” You plop yourself down next to where he leans on the log bench, since he’s seemed to loosen up enough to welcome the conversation. “I do have the smallest dick in the stronghold, after all.”

His blue lips wobble, threatening to break his vexed expression into a string of belly laughs.

“Well, I guess unless some poor orc around here is extremely unlucky.” You add.

That does make him crack, the deep rumble of a laugh music to your ears after seeing him in such a sour mood.

You take the flask he offers, only resisting laughing at Torg’s struggle to maintain a grumpy face by bringing the stone to your mouth and taking a swig. You cough and look down the lip of the flask before reaching out to hand it back. 

Rotgut. 

“Mmmh. Well, you looked to be having a good enough time.” He takes the flask back, forcing a frown back onto his face at his own words. 

“Hmm? ...Were you watching me?” You cock an eyebrow, tilting your head in confusion.

“It was hard not to.” He says simply and dryly. 

“What, you had to supervise because you thought I’d cause another calamity? I’ve been on my best behavior lately!” 

“No. ...You were asking out every man with a pulse… It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“Hey, a guy has needs!” You protest, pressing your hand to your low cut shirt, starting to feel a bit insulted. You guess your romantic overtures were pretty obvious... But you don’t see why that should bother him, since everyone here has proved very accepting. “It’s not like anyone here wants me anyway, so why does it matter?”

He laughs again, not one of his usual ones, but more of an indignant bark.

“Hah- What is it then? Did you want a dance?” You bat your eyes down at him, and walk your fingers up his shoulder, teasing. But he looks more like you’ve stabbed him in the gut, rather than his normal eye rolling.

Torg doesn’t offer further comment, seemingly fully clammed up.

“...It’s a bit pathetic, I know. It must have been embarrassing to watch, how desperate I am- My apologies.” You start rambling while you stare at the dying flames and pull your hand back. You’re slightly putoff by the lack of response from him, now that you’ve grown accustomed to more of a friendly banter. It’s like the wall is fully back up, and you don’t like it. “I just…Even surrounded by other people, I’ve been so lonely. I thought I wouldn’t possibly go home alone tonight if I asked out every man here that likes other men...” 

“You missed one.” Torg replies grimly.

The snippets of information floating around the back of your brain finally snap into place with the full force of a bow string loosing. You quickly swivel your torso to face him fully, looking at him directly, with both your hands on the log bench.

“Torg- You’re-?”

His mouth tightens into a thin line between his tusks at the question. His failure to answer is answer enough itself.

“You are!” You cover your mouth for emphasis.

“I am.” He finally gruffly confirms, though he seems to struggle to say it outloud. The severity of his scowl almost makes you want to back off, but you’re in too deep now. "It's not something I talk about."

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s difficult to not feel slighted. It’s not like your own orientation is a secret, so why didn’t he feel comfortable sharing that with you? You thought you trusted each other. "Clearly I of all people wouldn’t think of you any differently, especially considering everything that’s happened...”

"Then why does it matter now?" He grumbles irritably, sending your words right back to you.

“Spirits, you’re acting like a grumpy toddler tonight! What bit you in the ass?”

There’s a tense moment of silence between you, save for the crackling of the nearby fire. Your mind races as you try to put together what could be bothering him. Torg definitely isn't prejudiced on this matter, and he said it wasn't that he was concerned about you causing chaos so… so the only other option left is…

“...You’re jealous?” You say incredulously, finally realizing the entirety of the situation. A smug, mischievous smile creeps onto your face from the revelation.

“It changes nothing if I am or not.” He attempts to save face, but can’t seem to avoid saying it in a bitter tone: “You’ve clearly asked everyone you’re planning to ask.”

That’s jealousy alright.

Oh, this is perfect.

You needed access to the armory but if you can make yourself the Chieftain's bedwarmer? You'll have access to wherever you want. This job is as good as finished!

“Torg,” You say sweetly and lay a hand on his shoulder, wanting to wring every last drop out of this situation while you can. “Do you like me?”

Torg finally returns your gaze, letting his head lay back against the bench seat to look up at you. He’s clearly struggling to withstand the emotional torture he’s enduring, not being able to answer directly until you show your own blatant interest first. He’s him, after all- too honorable to break New Ways law.

You don’t need him to answer. His response is written all over the pained expression on his face.

It’s up to you to make the first move.

Not a problem.

You lean over, cradling underneath his chin in your hand. When he makes no move to avoid it, you deliver a soft kiss onto the orc's mouth, smack dab between his large tusks. You savor the feeling of his warm lips and the coarse hair of his beard between your fingers, no doubt crushing some of the small blossoms in your grip. You find yourself kissing him longer than the quick peck you had meant to deliver- it’s such a pleasant feeling, and he shows no sign of wanting you to stop.

“...Should I ask you again…?” You smirk down at him when you finally pull away. You can’t help but linger, 

“Don’t taunt me like this- I can’t take it.” For the first time, you see a crack of weakness in Torg, something doleful and raw, an exposed nerve you’re plucking.  “Watching you ask everyone besides me to dance was painful torture enough already.”

He thinks you’re kidding…? It makes your chest hitch a little in sadness. Taking advantage of a situation? Sure. But you wouldn’t purposefully hurt his feelings for your own entertainment…

“I’m not, I’m… surprised you’re interested in me, is all." You chuckle low, feeling the tightly knit muscle of his grinding jaw under where your hand rests under his chin. "If someone like me tried to court someone in power where I’m from, I’d probably be thrown in the dungeon just for trying…”

“You’re… serious?” The pain radiating from Torg’s visage starts to evaporate.

“Yes, I like you. Why else would I be asking?” You stroke your fingers through his beard. “Or sitting here, kissing you?”

You don’t dislike him, at the very least, which is more than what you can say for some of the men you’ve slept with in the past. You get along well now that you understand each other, and he isn’t hard on the eyes, either…

Torg simply looks at you, stunned to dumbstruck silence. When he regains his ability to think, he cranes his neck with a grunt of approval, beckoning you back.

You oblige, fluttering light, teasing kisses on his surprisingly cared-for lips before you deign to give him another longer, savoring one.

It’s not long before you’ve slid down from your perch on the bench, in favor of straddling Torg’s wide waist. Torg accepts your weight as if it’s nothing, the heat of your bodies quickly beginning to mingle through your clothes.

Given your clear indication of enjoyment, he deepens the kiss, pressing his eager tongue past your lips. You accept it just as eagerly, the feign of a bite scraping his tongue only serving to embolden him, rather than deter. His mouth is warm and you can taste the potent heat of the booze still lingering on his tongue.

You bury your slender fingers in the front of his tunic, wrenching your hands in excitement. You find yourself grinding your hips against Torg’s lap, the friction against the gradually firming bulge beneath you only a temporary balm for the bottomless void of need inside you.

Any hesitation Torg held previously is completely gone now. 

Firm hands grope on your waist, brazenly feeling the shape of your body through your clothes. Soon his fingers start to roam, desperate to take in what he desires. Desires he’s apparently been struggling to hold back for much longer than you realized, even.

You can’t help but start to feel swept up in the feeling. It’s not like this is the first encounter you’ve had with someone wanting your body, but this feels completely different. There’s a consuming heat and desire for ownership in the way he touches you that surpasses just finding you attractive on a surface level.

It intimidates you, just a bit- but oh, is it intoxicating.

"Hah- Why don't you take me to your place?" You gasp out, breathless, when he moves his mouth down to roughly suck your neck, the point of one of his tusks digging at your pulse. The grinding of your hips only grows more desperate the more time that passes. "There's a special dance I'd like to do with you.”

"Took you long enough." Torg grunts in your skin, excitement causing his deep voice to tremor. He quickly gets to his feet, then immediately scoops you up and effortlessly tosses you over his shoulder like a half-empty sack of flour.

You break into laughter in response, his firm grip on the underside of your thigh making you squirm against him. 

Torg makes it back to his home in what must be record time, you slung over his muscled shoulder the whole way. After you make it over the threshold and behind a closed door, he sets you down.

Torg's house is cozy, with high ceilings like most of the buildings in the settlement have, to allow for an average orc’s height. On that note, all of the furniture is just slightly bigger than normal, with his massive bed being the most glaring example. The living space is simple and practical, lacking basically any frivolous decoration in favor of utilitarian storage. Everything is mostly neutral in palette, with the surfaces being either exposed wood or natural stone. The place is also impeccably clean, like it’s been thoroughly scrubbed from top to bottom recently...

You have to stop yourself from immediately mentally launching into all the ways you could freshen up the decor and give this place some color and personality.

"Nice place you've got here." You unceremoniously strip off your shirt without another word. 

Torg stands motionlessly in front of the threshold. He looks like he’s just been shot with a crossbow bolt, eyes glued to your bare chest.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You give him a playful grin, and toss your shirt at him- thought it misses by far. “I assumed we were on the same page…”

"We are." His voice rumbles, and his fingers finally move to unclasp the pin still holding the light summer cloak at his throat. A small smile quirks onto his mouth. “Never thought I'd get this far, outside of when I’ve thought about you…”

Torg finally manages to remove the pin, draping his cloak on the nearby wall hook. 

The warm light of the room catches on the metal closure he’s fiddling with. And now that you’re looking at it directly, you immediately recognize the item.

That’s it.

That cloak pin… that fibula… is the artifact you’re here for.

…

Torg’s had it this whole time?! 

Why didn’t I think of that…? Stupid.

You resist the urge to slap your forehead in chagrin.

You’ve managed to luck into exactly what you needed, once again. Typical.

He stores the fibula inside the small wooden box he's pulled out from the nightstand drawer. Before he slides the drawer closed again, he has the awareness to retrieve what looks like a small jar, and set it down on the tabletop.

Then he takes a seat on the edge of his bed and returns his full attention to you, eyes still running over your upper body like he's taking in the sight of a delicious meal.

You funnel your newfound giddiness and sense of purpose into seducing the man in front of you - not that you think it’s going to take much effort at this point. Given the potent yearning in his eyes, it’s a safe bet he’s already wrapped around your finger.

It’s an easy enough plan. Wear him out with sex, and then slink away in the morning with your prize, and this will all be over…

“You’ve thought about me like that before?” You recover your facade with a twitch of your ears, moving enticingly towards Torg’s frame. You sidle up to him coyly, running your fingertips lightly over his shoulders. 

"All the time. I can't stop." He pulls you closer to him, his large hands cradling your sides lovingly. The stark difference in your heights is easier to bridge now that he's seated. He moves in for a kiss, but not before he pauses to add; “You’ve broken me.”

------

You tease his lower lip in your teeth, feeling around for the loose end of his braided leather belt. You easily undo it, your mouth still tangled with his- not needing to look with hands as deft as yours. The loose style of belt causes it to fall off as soon as it's not taut, and you simply drag it off the bed and let it fall to the ground, a metal clink on the hardwood from the metal fastener rings.

Next you feel around for the hem of his tunic, touching the thick muscle of his sides as you go. You break off the kiss with a deep exhale, realizing you'll need to do so to get his shirt off. Even as you push the fabric up, you're not quite tall enough to get it over his head. Torg takes it from there, pulling the tunic off and causing a small storm of the remaining saxifrage petals to fall from his beard in a soft, balsam scent. 

You're left faced with an expanse of blue skin, swathed with a coating of coarse black hair. The bold, geometric lines of dark tribal tattoo sleeves snake up his arms and reach onto his pecs, and you can see the odd, light patch of scar tissue here and there from old, healed over injuries.

You run your fingers over the lines of ink on his skin, following the pattern inwards to the center of his chest, then through the coarse hair there, the sensation making gooseflesh on your own arms. Then you tug softly, making the orc heave a small grunt in response, through the twisted snarl of a grin on his face.

Trying to hold back your laugh, you let your hands wander lower. Torg’s torso is sturdy and rugged, but still soft to the touch thanks to the hearty layer of fat around his gut.

“You look so good tonight.” Torg’s hand comes to rest on the nape of your neck, thumbing the sensitive skin at your hairline and tilting your head to make you look at him.

You smile up at him, trying to ignore the sudden hammering in your chest. You move your hands farther down, feeling over the mild slope of his abdomen until you reach the edge of the fabric of his waistband.

“Let’s see what we’re working with here…” You begin to pull down the front of his breeches, already feeling the slightly intimidating girth tenting the fabric taut.

His cock springs up as soon as you remove the fabric, rigid and more than ready. It's nearly the length of your forearm, and at least as thick, framed by a thick patch of coarse hair where it meets his testicles. Risen nubs of erect tissue line its length, bigger and more prominent near the base.

And it's blue, obviously; slightly darker than his skin, the wide head flushed nearly purple with bloodflow.

You think you can feel your insides trying to rearrange themselves at the sight alone.

“Oh, wow. You are absolutely massive.” You can’t help but let out a breathy laugh as you squeeze him. Your hand doesn’t even fully encircle his girth. “Then again, I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Torg replies with a grunt of approval as you rub him, his thighs visibly tensing and his hips jerking up slightly into your hand in need. Precum already beads at the tip.

You gently tease the bumps along the length of his cock with your thumb, wondering how they'll feel inside of you and inadvertently turning yourself on that much more in the process.

“Let me see you.” Torg growls out the command and motions to your lower body, and you’re happy to oblige.

Without taking your hand from its work, you obediently push down the cinched waistband of your pants with your free hand. They come down easily, falling off of you in one easy motion once loosened.

You take a few moments to drink in the look of pure, torrential desire Torg's giving your naked form.

An almost pained rattle of a sigh escapes Torg’s throat, and he brings his hands up to feel the shape of your thigh. His hands don’t stay there for long, though, instead moving to stroke lightly against the soft skin on your inner legs, tortuously glancing against the underside of your dick. You can’t help but rock your hips back and forth where you stand, just barely, trying to get more direct stimulation.

“If you’re this eager, come on up.” Torg orders, motioning to his lap and purposefully keeping his hand just barely grazing your most sensitive parts. 

Finally, you give in and climb up onto him. You steady yourself with his shoulders and nestle into his lap, straddling him where he sits on the edge of the bed.

You let out a small moan as your hardness rubs against the soft, taut round of his stomach, and his erection presses flush against your taint. He all but growls, rolling his hips forward and back, dragging against any resemblance of a squeeze he can get.

His calloused fingertips run along your bare back, tracing your spine, then sinking down to firmly squeeze the cheek of your ass in his palm.

"Ah-" You let out a soft gasp at the sudden firm grip on your body. Torg gropes the newly exposed soft skin, drawing more sounds from you. His digits graze under your tail, dangerously close to the cleave of your ass, and you shudder.

"Here…" You say breathily, pressing your face flat against his fuzzy torso to lean over and grab the jar of what you can only assume is lubricant that he removed from the nightstand drawer.

You straighten up and he offers you his free hand that isn't kneading your ass cheek. Instead of handing him the vial, you pop the top yourself, slathering the lube on his fingers with your best coy expression.

"Nngh-" Torg chest rumbles deeply with lust at the act, reaching around you. "You’re trouble."

"Hahah- Aah!" Your tender laugh is cut short, altered into a moan when you feel Torg's thick, now lubed fingertip pressing beneath the base of your tail. 

He's using all of his restraint to go torturously slow, drawing out each little noise and shudder from you as he leisurely strokes your inner walls. Your tail arches and writhes in circles, your brain overloaded and not sure what to do with it. You can’t help yourself from rutting back against him.

He kisses you as he starts to plunge his finger in and out. You groan into his mouth in turn, twisting your tongue against his.Trying to be patient and failing, you find yourself pressing back against his fingers, goading him on. He grunts in response, pressing deeper, up to his second knuckle.

"A-Ah- I'm ready for more-" You finally break the kiss when you feel adequately adjusted, your lips teased pink. You clench around his fingers for emphasis.

“Soon. Take another first-” Torg chides you, clearly spending a lot of effort to hold off as best he can. You can feel the girth of him under you ready to split you open. A second finger nudges your entrance.

“Nngh-” You pout unfavorably at your request being postponed. “Why? You want to torture me?”

"No. You are so small." Torg’s other large palm cradles your face as if to emphasize his point, and you in turn nuzzle your cheek into the width of it, fully mussing the braid on that side of your head. “I don't want to hurt you.”

"Heh, that’s sweet-” You make a point of grinding back against his fingers. “Don’t worry. I know what I'm doing."

Torg's touch is gentle but persistent, encouraging your walls to relax around his fingers. All you can do is lull your head forward against his sternum.

“Please-” You beg, feeling what remains of your dignity leaving your body. The ache is too much, and while what he’s currently doing to you is getting close to hitting the mark, it’s not what you need.

Torg grunts in approval, and between his hold on your thighs and the leverage from your bent knees, you manage to align yourselves. 

“Aaah-” A small moan escapes you. The sensitive nerve endings around your entrance light up as it stretches open to accommodate his cock, his head not quite fully entered but splitting you neatly.

He presses in steadily, your hole already taking the thickest part of his cockhead. You grip his shoulders tightly as he starts to tentatively thrust in and out.

"E-Easy-" You sputter, trying to ease yourself up from the incursion starting to delve deeper in larger increments with each stroke.

"Nngh- Sorry." He grunts, voice thick with lust as he struggles to slow and shallow his thrusts. "Feels too good.”

You wince and suck in a breath of air through your teeth, enduring the slight burn of being stretched around his massive dick and the flared tip slips inside.

It must look more painful than it is, because Torg tentatively lifts you by the underside of your thighs, slowing his pumping to a near stop.

"No- Don’t stop-" You whine in protest, breathing in hitched pants, squirming to get more of him back inside of you. "M-More-! I can take it!"

Torg happily complies, resuming driving himself inside of you, but now he’s building from the agonizingly slow rhythm to something more substantial, the slick of the lubrication inside of you beginning to squelch loudly.

You whimper, feeling yourself spread farther apart with each thrust. The more of Torg’s shaft that he manages to sink into you, the more you feel your muscles start to relax, letting him deeper in turn. 

He's so far in now that you're starting to be able to feel the raised bumps lining his phallus rub and drag along your entrance and along your walls as he fucks you. The nubs are progressively more obvious, bigger as you sink closer to the base. You rut back against him, chasing the angles that feel best.

“S-Spirits-!” You gasp out and lean in to wrap your arms around his neck, barely able to keep yourself upright from the pleasure wracking your body. “Yes-Yes-!”

Finally, you manage to take it all; now reduced to a whimpering, mewling mess. Drool threatens to seep out of the side of your mouth, left open as the gasps and moans he pulls from you become nearly nonstop. You can’t see it from your current angle but you can feel your abdomen bulge to accommodate him every time he fully seats himself inside of you.  

A lewd, open-mouthed grin spreads on your face in pride, feeling this full. You can feel his pulse throbbing from inside you.

“Good-” He comments simply into your flicking ear with his gravelly, lustful voice, each word punctuated by a thrust. What it lacks in verbosity, it’s thick with meaning. “And tight.”

The pleased way his voice rumbles the words out makes your heart flutter in your chest. You barely have time to adjust to being absolutely filled to the hilt as he continues with renewed fervor.

He’s built to a much more passionate pace than before, his hands now holding you close and secure by the round of your ass as you’re jostled up and down. Between the onslaught and the pressure of his body rubbing your cock, you’re nearly out of your mind.

“Torg!” You groan over his shoulder. Hearing his name pulled from you like this seems to make him work even harder to make you feel good, finding what movements make your voice tremble the most. “T-Torg-”

Being this close to him, you can hear just how taxed and heavy his own breathing is, but he shows no hints for being remotely tired or even wanting to slow down. 

So much for you tiring him out - you’ll be lucky if you can walk in the morning at this rate.

Any machinations about how to best slip out with the fibula in the morning have completely left your mind. You're left with blissful empty-headedness, not able to think about anything other than Torg and how good he's making you feel right now - and how much you want to wring more of those gruff, masculine noises of pleasure from him with your body. You want to leave him completely spent.

Unfortunately for you, you know your body well enough to know that you’re nearly at your limit. Outlasting him was a pipedream.

Not yet- You barely manage to think to yourself. If you give in now, the struggle to get him to cum first is as good as forfeit.

But it's no use. Torg simply has more stamina than you- an amount that you just can’t compete with. You can’t resist any longer; your whole body stiffens up.

You dig your nails into Torg’s sculpted back, burying your face in the sweat-dampened crook of his neck and letting out a muffled, pitiful cry into it as the pressure in your loins becomes too much to withstand. You shoot onto his abdomen, making a slick of semen where your torsos rub together. You cum so hard your vision goes spotty- you’re not sure how long you’ve forgot to breathe.

“Damn-” He grumbles appreciatively.

His pumps become hectic and desperate, searching for release himself with wild abandon now that he’s satisfied you. You lazily press breathy kisses to the side of his neck, weakly clenching around him, encouraging him to finish. You would be more active in helping him along, but the room is still spinning for you.

Torg lets out a roar in accomplishment, squeezing your cheeks roughly in his palms as his muscles lock up, shooting his massive load inside you.

It goes on for an inordinate amount of time, at least compared to any of the men you’ve had sex with before. Hot gushes of cum just keep coming, finally tapering off when you can feel a font seeping from where you’re connected, having no space left inside of you to go.

“Haah- Spirits, that was good- Haah-” Your voice wavers between pants as you chase down your breath. You can barely think straight or feel your legs- you might as well be floating.

What remains of your waking portion of the night is a pleasant blur; you fall out very quickly while Torg is cleaning you up.

------

When you wake, hazy, pinkish sunlight is only barely starting to peek through the windows.

It takes you a moment to remember where you are- but it's hard for the memories to not start crashing back as soon as you see the massive blue lump still sound asleep next to you. You’re nestled in Torg’s bed against the warmth of his body, only covered by the pile of furs making up the bedding.

You briefly contemplate getting dressed as fast as possible, as you run your fingertips over the thief’s brand on your upper left arm. Torg didn’t seem to notice it last night- but he was certainly more distracted then than he was likely to be this morning.

…No, first thing’s first- time to find that fibula. If it’s important enough to fetch that much gold, then getting dressed can wait a moment or two.

Luckily, no heavy orcish arms are pinning you down and Torg seems fast asleep on his back, based on the deep rising and falling of his bare chest, so you decide to try to slink out of the bed unnoticed.

But you hesitate before you move.

You find yourself looking over at Torg’s sleeping form. He looks remarkably peaceful while he’s asleep - his usual, permanent semi-scowl is absent from his face, his expression instead almost too soft and relaxed for his hard features.

You’re tempted to brush the strand of thick, dark hair from his face. 

Then, you remember what you’re supposed to be doing.

You make your way over to the other side of the bed as quickly as possible. Torg is still asleep, thanks to your stealthy, dexterous movements, but you don’t know how long that will last. Steeling your nerves, you quietly, gingerly, open the drawer next to him that you saw him store the fibula in last night.

Inside the nightstand drawer are objects you’d expect to find in a nightstand drawer; a (seemingly new) pot of hand cream, a few paperbacks, the familiar jar of slick, first aid tidbits, and the small wooden lockbox. The medicine piques your interest… because while there are a few common medications you do recognize, there’s a set of seven small, unlabelled potion vials that you can’t identify. The days up to today are empty.

Hmm, something regular then? I wonder what these are for…?

You push your curiosity down, reaching for the box. But before you can get your little mitts on it-

"Mmgh- What are you scrounging for over there?" Torg rolls onto his side, attention sharp despite the haze of sleep thick in his voice. His wide palm pushes back his mussed hair from his face.

You nearly jump out of your skin in shock from him suddenly speaking when you thought he was still asleep. Embarrassingly, your tail bristles up like a bottle brush. 

"A-ah, I was uh… just looking for some- pain relief-?" You lie to save face, holding the small of your back for effect. “Heh… I’m a little sore this morning, can’t imagine why…”

“Hmmnh… Should be right there on top. Green dropper bottle.” He says, groggily recounting the location of the medicine as he scrubs at his face. “...Only take a drop or two. Shaman mixes orc sized doses.”

You nod, before taking the bottle and dropping a couple droplets of the apple-mint flavored mixture on your tongue for show.

“Did I hurt you?” His brow furrows deeply in concern. “I can carry you to Shaman’s if you need me to-”

“No, no. I’ll be fine! Just a bit sore is all.” You laugh softly, giving him a reassuring smile and shrug. "...I may have gotten a little carried away poking around, I guess. I realized that I don't really know that much about you."

"I'm an open book." He says in a deadpan tone and pats the empty bed beside him. "Just ask from here."

You feel the fond smile spread on your face without even having to fake it, then allow yourself to readily slip back underneath the heavy pile of furs next to him.

You suppose that there will always be another chance to steal the fibula later…

"I suppose first thing’s first; What exactly is this?" You motion between the two of you. You learned a long time ago that it's best to be upfront about these sorts of things and not make assumptions that might end up painful later.

"Right into the thick of things this morning, huh? Whatever you want it to be." He says, trying to seem a lot less invested in your decision than he clearly is. "You’re the one that makes the choice here. It's how things work here. You've seen what I have to offer: it's your call if you like what you see."

"Soooo…" You cutely walk your fingers up his dense bicep. "We could be lovers?"

"If it suits you." No matter how hard he tries to keep the tired, hopeful grin from showing, it’s plain as day on his face.

"Yes, but does it suit you?"

“It suits me just fine.” He wraps his strong arms around you, enveloping you. “It would suit me even better if you’d move in. But I understand if that’s a lot to ask- it is a bit old-fashioned.”

“...Move in? Like, you want me to live here?” You repeat incredulously, your ears twitching in surprise. You can’t remember the last time someone you had sex with wanted you around the next morning, let alone wanted you around permanently. “Orcs move fast, huh?”

"Yeah, yeah. Later today, even. If you want to.” His deep breathing ruffles the hair on the top of your head, and his hand strokes your soft lower belly. “I've waited long enough already- I want you here with me."

"...Okay." You don’t need to think twice. You blissfully grin from ear to ear, hardly able to believe your luck.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST

[lil-tachyon]

For the last couple years I've been keeping a handwritten list of good horror stories I've read. I guess the most recommendable ones are The Music of Erich Zann by Lovecraft, The Stolen Body by Wells, Mimic by Wollheim, The Thing in the Weeds by Hodgson, Cyclops by Leiber, The Screaming Man by Beaumont, and The Open Window by Saki. I might type up and post the whole list on my blog after I've done some more reading (my list of things I still need to read grows much faster than the other list).

Including your other suggestions so I can tackle them all in one post.

I wasn't sure I was going to get to all these but I ended up being kinda knocked out by a nasty cold this week and had time to lay up in bed reading through all of them. Which was an absolute pleasure! Thank you for putting this list together. For fun I thought I'd do a mini-review of each story.

For context, I'm the kind of guy that's read probably every H. P. Lovecraft or Clark Ashton Smith story ever published. I had devoured most of Jules Verne and H. G. Wells by the time I was 14. What I'm trying to say is that I'm already a nerd pre-disposed to loving any Weird Fiction or early sci-fi/horror. If that kind of stuff isn't your speed, then adjust your expectations accordingly.

Also SPOILERS AHEAD for 50-100+ year old short stories.

"The Music of Erich Zann" - H. P. Lovecraft - 1921: This was always going to get a recommendation from me, I just enjoy Lovecraft too much. I'm glad I re-read it though, it had been a while and I think this might be one of my favorite of his stories now. The thing that stood out to me this time around was the exploration of the relationship between Zann and the anonymous protagonist. Feels uncharacteristic of a Lovecraft story to focus so much on the interactions between two human characters and it's done with a fair bit of depth. Bonus: no Lovecraftian racism in this story! Also check out this thrash/prog banger from the Mekong Delta album named after this story.

"The Stolen Body" - H. G. Wells - 1898: So when I opened up my copy of A Dream of Armageddon: The Complete Supernatural Tales (a misnomer it turns out, because it didn't contain the other Wells story on this list) I was surprised to find a bookmark exactly halfway through "The Stolen Body" from where I must've stopped the last time I tried reading this anthology over a decade ago. And I can understand why I would've stopped there because this story is kind of a slog. The premise is fine- a man severs his consciousness from his physical body in the course of an experiment in astral projection and is alarmed to find that when he attempts to return to corporeality another spirit has already taken possession of his frame. The problem is that this story is recounted twice- first from the perspective of a friend where, in spite of their incomplete information, it's pretty obvious what has transpired, and then a second time from the astral-projecting protagonist himself. In the protagonist's telling there's an interesting account of his journey through a kind of vapid hell where body-less spirits wander through eternity suffering of boredom and only able to interact with the physical world via mediums but the concept isn't explored in any depth and is recounted in a painfully "tell, don't show" manner. Can't say I recommend, but it's an interesting artifact of a time when late 19th century occultic beliefs showed up in sci-fi. Kind of like how a lot of 50s-70s sci-fi features psychics.

"Mimic" - Donald A Wollheim - 1942: My favorite story from the list. It's weird, compelling, and extremely brief. I won't summarize it because I think you should just read it. Surprised I hadn't heard of it before, especially since there's apparently a Guillermo Del Toro film adaptation of it? Also surprisingly difficult to track down the text. There are a few incomplete versions of it floating around but if you want the full story, I found it as part of this anthology on archive.org.

"The Thing in the Weeds" - William Hope Hodgson - 1913: - Before this, my only exposure to Hodgson had been "The House on the Borderland" (great story by the way), and reading the "The Thing in the Weeds" has me thinking I should dig a bit deeper into his bibliography. Conveys a sense of claustrophobia and anxiety that feels like classic "Weird Tales" fare while dealing with much lower stakes than unnameable cosmic beings. Maybe more horror stories should be set on the open sea...

"Cyclops" - Fritz Leiber - 1965: This is not a story, this is Leiber's idea for a cool vacuum-dwelling space creature dressed up as a story. Dialogue feels totally unnatural, characters are blank slates, tension is set at zero. But the creature is pretty darn cool and the story is very short. So if you want to just read about a neat alien, go ahead!

"The Howling Man" - Charles Beaumont - 1959: I had already seen the Twilight Zone adaptation of this story a while back so I knew the outline of the plot already, but that in no way diminished my joy in reading this. Beaumont's prose is highly engaging and contains a surprising amount of humor that I don't remember being present in the television version. The only real weak point is the ending. I think a bit more ambiguity over whether and to what the extent the Howling Man and the Abbott were lying to the protagonist would've demanded more introspection from the reader. The idea that releasing the Howling Man / Satan is the direct cause of WWII feels a little too simplistic and also depends on this weird assertion that the early Weimar Republic was experiencing an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity that I'm pretty sure doesn't hold up to historical scrutiny. Still highly recommend, a very fun read!

"The Open Window" - Saki / H. H. Munro - 1914: Less a horror story and more a... silly story? I don't know how to describe it other than it feels like the kind of thing you would have to read and analyze for a single high-school English period. Didn't really do anything for me but it's like a 5-minute read so check it out if you want. Does make me wish I could go on one of those "retreats to the countryside for my nerves" that turn-of-the-century English gentleman and ladies are always going on.

"In the Abyss" - H.G. Wells - 1896: A much better Wells story! And I was lucky enough to find this in the other print Wells anthology I own. (I have an addiction to bringing home old paperbacks I don't need but it's a cheap addiction and I don't have the heart to break it. Plus they're all on shelves and alphabetized so my wife can't get mad at me. Anyway, it's the shelves and shelf space that gets expensive...) It can be a little bit "gadget fiction-y" in its description of the submersible but overall it's well-paced with some good tension and a truly weird exploration of an underwater world. Recommend if you're looking for something outright odd or you like specifically underwater sci-fi. Don't recommend if you don't like thinking about the ways you might die in a submersible.

"The Stone Ship" - William Hope Hodgson - 1914: An interesting and definitely weird story, again about strange happenings on the open sea. Stretches the premise a bit too much, both in the actual length of the story and in my willingness to suspend my disbelief of the "scientific" explanation given at the end. I enjoyed it, but for a spookier and shorter take on a similar premise I'd recommend Lovecraft's "Dagon."

Anyway, thank you again @siryl for your recommendations, I had a blast reading through them!

[mollywog]

i have regency!lark questions!

how is the writing process different from other fics (for example, canon-compliant or in-Panem AUs)? how much research goes into it?

do you feel immersed in the world that their mannerisms, speech patterns, etc come easily to you? or does it take conscious effort to regency-fy these things? (as a non-native English speaker, this is the thing i am always curious about when reading historical AUs!)

what are your non-fan media recs for someone who knows next to nothing about regency era? (sorry if you shared something like this and i missed it!)

thank you!

Hey!!!

Thank you for the ask @thesunpersists!!

Oof! My husband jokes that the only history I know, I learned from American Girl Doll books, which is some what accurate: I absorb history best when it’s the backdrop of fiction (especially a romance)

A few years back I went on a ‘classic’ author binge. I would read/listen to a book and follow along with the shmoop/cliff notes/spark notes, then finish off by watching any screen adaptations I could find. (I wish I had known about tumblr then *stares wistfully off into the distance*)

With that in mind, I’m not sure I have a full grasp of what each time period is… Regency is more a vibe than a historically accurate set of dates in my mind; An amalgamation of the things I read and watched and very light research… Idk I don’t want to take the fun out of storytelling by getting too caught up in that stuff, which I understand may not be for everyone.

Anyways…

I’ve enjoyed a lot of adaptations of old books. If we’re talking specifically Regency - in addition to the novels, Pride and Prejudice 95, Emma 09, Persuasion 95 are my favorites! I also love Lily James and Matt Smith so Pride and Prejudice and Zombies was fun!

I know you said non fandom but I’m going to mention cwmilton because I adore their Emma FanFiction so so much!

I think War and Peace is technically Regency Era though not set in England. I slogged through the novel and there were parts I enjoyed, but not enough to do it again. Again my love for Lily James and James Norton had me watching the 16 BBC adaptation and enjoyed it for them and the costumes.

I’d like to check out and Tom Jones is on my list thanks to @wildwren and Mr. Malcom’s List is another I hope to read/watch!

I went through Dickens, Brontë, Hardy, Gaskell so if anyone wants to talk adaptations!

Okay. So I’m not sure I’ve answered your questions 😳… so I would say: usually my desire to write a historical AU comes from recently consuming a peice of media from that period - So I’ve already got the vibe fresh in my mind. But also yes - I do think it’s difficult to write and stay in that time periods speaking pattern and vocabulary.

Anyways, feel free to send an ask or DM if you want to talk fics or historical fiction, or adaptations or whatever!!!

[soulsxng]

"Would you look at that. Full marks, hmm? You've done well with this set of lessons, Cerus. But...you took this yesterday, did you not?"

The brightly displayed excitement on Cerus' face was quick to falter, and change to his very best depiction of innocence and cluelessness. Complete with a few little rocks back and forth.

"So then, what was your lesson today? Should I guess?"

"Yeah...! You guess!"

A low chuckle, and Helai makes a show of pacing back and forth in front Cerus, who covered his mouth to hide his giggling.

"Let's see, then...perhaps it was...writing? Language? No, I don't think it was anything like that. Mathematics, then? Self defense? Or..." The dragon playfully flicks his tail at Cerus, distracting the child just long enough to pick a piece of grass out of his hair, and point out a dusting of dirt on the arm of his shirt. "Nature, maybe? You wouldn't have gone out to play when you were supposed to be studying, would you, Cerus?"

Realizing that his little secret had been found out, Cerus shrieked (a sound of which Helai still wasn't entirely used to having be a good thing) and spun around, taking off at full speed.

He didn't make it far before Helai caught him and swung him up into his arms, but the effort was admirable.

"It's too hard! I don't wanna study that stuff!"

"You always have trouble when things are new, no? You said the same thing when you started your last set of lessons, and now look how well you've done. These will be no different--"

Cerus goes limp in his arms, head dropping onto the dragon's shoulder with an unceremonious little thump. He was pouting.

"...What if I helped you with it, then?"

A little nod. This was almost always how it went-- from the beginning, Cerus had a difficult time focusing on lessons for very long. And learning a new concept was even worse. Every mistake only served to sap away any motivation to try again, so getting to the beginning points of understanding could be...a slog, to put it one way.

Still, when Helai was there with Cerus, things seemed to go a little bit better. Perhaps it was because Helai himself had similar issues when he'd finally begun his own studies that he knew how to explain things in a way that made sense. Or maybe it was as simple as Cerus wanting to make the dragon proud.

"Alright, alright...let's begin then, shall we? Go get your book."

[tryst-art-archive]

Feb 2010: "Breath"

Before getting into the short story: This was for my first full-blown creative writing class, which had the distinction of being the place I was hit over the head with "genre fiction is bad." The curious part of "genre fiction is bad," though, was that most of my classmates disagreed with the professor on this point, and so there was an almost rebellious edge when the few of us who favored genre fiction busted it out.

That said, the second short story I wrote for this class I grounded painfully firmly in reality, as you'll see when we get there. The people-pleasing impulse definitely pushed me toward trying to appease the authority figure in the room.

Anyhow, story time:

Breath

            As the world ended, Venus rose from the seat of Neptune. In each brine-caked hand, she carried one plain, black high heel shoe. Barefoot, she slogged up to the tiny beach at the base of the city and crumpled to her knees. Her body rattled as she expelled the ocean from her lungs.

            Earlier that morning, the coastal city had received word of an impending military attack. The announcement had caused a panic that had rapidly overwhelmed the city’s denizens who had hastened to heed their fight-or-flight instinct. The rush to escape had destroyed the public transportation system first; there simply weren’t enough city-run vehicles to contain humanity’s volume. The citizens had run for their cars then, and soon the roads had become clogged with a static cocktail of traffic jams and traffic accidents. With few other options remaining, the citizenry had turned to their feet, heading towards portside boats or simply running down the highways leading out of the city. Whether or not they had made it to safety, Venus couldn’t have said as she hadn’t been among them. She had decided to find a bunker from which to wait out the attack.

            Obtaining a hiding place had proven difficult. She had been forced to grapple with other businessmen and women, fighting tooth and nail for the right to hide in a basement. Ultimately, she had managed to secure a spot among twenty or so others in the tiny laundry room of an apartment building of middling age. She had crouched there in the darkness, surrounded by human heat and sweat, the dust and cobwebs of the basement, and old, abused washing machines, waiting.

            When the bombs had begun to fall, all claustrophobia had been forgotten. A single uncovered light bulb that hung from the basement’s ceiling had begun to swing to and fro, spinning in circles, as the bombs’ impact shook the earth. The dead filaments had jigged within the glass in response to the destructive rhythm. Initially, they had danced to a far-off beat, but within moments the drums of war had begun to beat above Venus’ head. People had screeched, wept, and hidden their faces in strangers’ breasts. Plaster and wood splinters had rained down on their heads as the structure above had dissolved into its simpler components.

            The apartment building’s collapse had gone on for an interminable few minutes before the bombardment had passed by, moving toward more lucrative positions. Regardless, Venus and her impromptu comrades had remained huddled together until the bombing had ceased entirely, only raising their heads when the sudden silence had registered. One of the businessmen in the crowd had risen to wobbling feet then and begun the task of excavation. The others had followed suit, and soon an assembly line had arisen; the entire set of survivors had wordlessly pooled their combined strengths toward climbing from the apartment building’s wreckage. How long this took, Venus was not thereafter sure, though it had seemed to her at the time that they had made relatively short work of digging a tunnel out to the surface.

            Path cleared, the group had crawled out into sunlight diffuse with settling dust, only to find the city utterly changed. Where once buildings had stood now bent skeletal masonry which slowly sank to its knees. The group had stood, gaping, at their surroundings, awash with a dull throb of shock. This paralysis had given approaching enemy soldiers ample time to shoot into their midst.

            There had been a crack, and an old man had fallen to the ground; an animal wail had ripped out of his throat as he died. His sacrifice had sent the remaining survivors running. They had scattered in every direction, each trusting to his own intuition. For Venus’ part, her gut had led her to fly through the back alleys of the city. Her intended goal had been the port, and her jagged route had been indirect, but she had been certain it would shield her from gunfire. She had zigged through one alley only to zag through the next, sometimes having to retrace her steps when faced with a building’s stone entrails. On these occasions, she had run in the open, swerving before enemy guns, attempting to draw her body into a small, low object that cringed at the whizz of a passing bullet.

            Whether or not it had been these tactics or luck that had made the difference, Venus had made it to the waterfront where a hodgepodge of city police, gun-wielding citizenry, and friendly military had gathered. Seeing Venus’ and a host of other citizens’ approach, a gaggle of officers had run forward, covered by friendly fire, and grabbed the survivors, dragging them behind the military line. The officer that had grabbed Venus’ wrist had pulled her down the port’s docks and squeezed her into an already over-crowded boat. The boat had then been filled further beyond its carrying capacity before being allowed to set off.

            The notion of safety had taken its sweet time to settle into the survivors gathered upon the boat, but when it had, the boat had sighed. An uneventful moment had passed before chaos reappeared. Word had meandered through the crowd that the enemy had broken through friendly lines and then, screaming. The scream had then slithered through the boat, taking much the same route as the rumor, and with it had come a roiling cloud of noxious gas and a grotesque gurgling sound. The boat had erupted into a new, directionless panic. People had cast about, pushing each other off the vessel or to the ground in an effort to flee, though there were no other locales to flee to.

            Venus had been standing near the boat’s starboard railing, and as men and women had collapsed around her, their mouths frothing thickly, she had made a decision. She had taken a breath and leapt into the sea.

            Presently, Venus rose to her feet, wondering that she had not yet been shot. Why she still breathed quickly became apparent: there was not a soul in sight.

            She stared into the empty docks before her, flabbergasted. Mere moments ago, a battle had been raging on this very dock. Mere moments ago, the air had been filled with human cries and the whistle of bullets, but now…

            The city was perfectly silent. No living thing stirred, no sound but the gentle susurration of the ocean broke the disorienting calm of the city. As she moved off the docks and into the city proper, the utter lifelessness of the city grew. There were no corpses littering the streets though blood spatter and bullet holes were in abundance. Buildings stood in ruin, but none shifted to their final resting places. A few structures hung precariously, impossibly, in the air, frozen midway through the act of crumpling.

            Venus stared at these blankly. Abruptly, she leaned over and dusted off her feet. She pulled her high heels on, migrated to a mostly-intact shop window, and straightened her salty bun and business suit. Satisfied, she proceeded down the street, looking straight ahead. The clack of her heels cracked off the street and ricocheted between the remnants of the buildings.

            She walked without direction, not entirely sure what to do now that she had survived, not entirely sure what to do in an apparently empty city. Signs of the bombings and the battles were in abundance – more than once she skirted a crater in the road or passed a shop front turned Swiss cheese – but the human elements of these events were not in evidence at all. A worry curled around her spine, and as the dusty daylight turned to a clouded twilight, Venus rounded a corner into a plaza at the heart of the city. The sight of it stunned her.

            The plaza bore no sign of the attack save for the decrepit buildings at its edges. Its walkways were edged with a vibrant grass, small flower plots, and city-sized trees. Park benches and brick were in abundance, and at the center of the plaza stood a fountain whose waters leapt into the air, catching the sun’s fading rays before falling into the fountain’s white basin. Usually, this plaza was filled with businessmen and women on lunch break or college students out for a bit of fun or pigeons and the old ladies who feed them or dusty men in baseball caps who lounge on the park benches, reading newspapers. All of these people were currently absent, but as Venus approached the miraculously whole plaza, she observed that she was not the only one in this miniature paradise.

            A Japanese woman in a pale pink kimono sat on the lip of the fountain’s basin. She seemed to have stepped from a woodblock painting; her hair was ludicrously dark, done up in an ornamental fashion with a delicate wooden hairpiece from which small poppy-colored beads dangled; her face had been painted in the tradition of the geisha with artificially white skin and a small, plump mouth painted sanguine. She rested a crimson paper umbrella on her shoulder, as if to keep the dirt of war from touching her carefully crafted visage. Something within Venus squirmed at the sight of her.

            The click of Venus’ heel alerted the kimono woman to her presence, and she turned her too-perfect face to Venus, smiling in a way that did not suggest happiness.

“Welcome,” she said. “You have been expected.” She extend a fragile hand, gesturing for Venus to approach her and the basin.

            Venus paused a moment, then ducked her head and shuffled over quickly. The kimono woman bestowed another bland smile upon Venus and pointed into the basin. Venus’ eyes followed the finger to the basin’s waters and gazed upon a familiar, though distorted, face. Venus stepped back with a gasp, recognizing the features for her own. The kimono woman smiled, eyes closed this time, and gave a little shrug.

            In the basin’s crystal waters lie the body of Venus. In each hand, she held a plain, black high heel shoe though one hand had released its grip and the shoe now bobbed at the surface of the water. Her hair had fallen from its bun and surrounded her face as a halo. Her pantyhose were torn. A foam like that on beer had gathered at her mouth, though now the water dragged at it, and dots of the frothy saliva marred the water’s surface. Her eyes had rolled back into her head.

            She was very dead.

            The kimono woman said, “It was the gas, you know. You might have survived if you hadn’t taken that breath.”

            Venus stared at the basin, then at the kimono woman, and back again. She began to slowly shake her head.

            The kimono woman smile, shrugged, and turned her attention to the sky, watching as twilight became proper night. When she returned her attention to Venus, she found that the dead woman had settled beside the basin, hugging her knees. The kimono woman cocked her head to one side, unsmiling, then stood with a soft rustle of silk.

            “It is time to go,” she said.

            Venus stared at her hollowly.

            The kimono woman merely nodded and extended her impossibly perfect hand.

            Venus stared at the hand without recognition, then gazed out into the vacancy of the city. Nothing moved.

            Briefly, she buried her face in her knees, shaking.

            The kimono woman made a small noise in her throat.

            Venus inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and pushed herself to her feet. She stared into the kimono woman’s black eyes for a moment, turned her gaze inward, and took her hand.

            The kimono woman produced a genuine smile, gripping Venus’ hand gently. “Onward then,” she said breathlessly, leading Venus from the city and into the far-off mountains.

[everygame]

God of War (PS4)

Developed/Published by: Santa Monica Studio / Sony Interactive Entertainment Released: 20/04/2018 Completed: 06/08/2022 Completion: Finished it, doing only a smattering of side-quests and things. Trophies / Achievements: 32%

Well this is an interesting one to write up. Difficult, even! Because the best way I can describe God of War, sort, of, is that it’s a bit like one of those TV shows where people go “oh, it’s good, but it takes [X NUMBER OF EPISODES] for you to get into it” and you definitely think “aye, sack that, what, do I have infinite amounts of time?”

Except I’m probably really only talking about the narrative of the game when I say that (like it is exactly a TV show) because the actual playing of this game was, quite honestly, boring. 

Now, I might be being unfair here. There’s an argument to be made maybe I wouldn’t have found it quite as boring if I hadn’t recently slogged through what feels like so many triple-A/”worthy” titles recently–or really, that the few that I have slogged through have been so bloody long. And God of War isn’t even that long, so it feels especially unfair.

But that said… I’m not so sure. Yes, if I had been trapped in a cave for a few years, God of War would probably seem absolutely incredible (well, apart from all the times the main characters are in caves, which is a lot, and I’d probably hate that) but we don’t experience anything in a vacuum, and I think I’m just completely and utterly bored of “do a fight, do a climb, do a puzzle, do a cut-scene” done over and over shuffled into different orders.

The thing is though that God of War really does go out of its way to make this work, and I suppose the elephant in the room is that it does this by making Kratos… a sad dad [everyone boos].

Wait! Wait! I know, we’re all sick of it. We’re as sick of it as doing fights and climbs and puzzles and cut-scenes over and over! But while I wouldn’t exactly call this a “soft reboot” of the franchise, considering it does directly reference the big beats of the earlier games, by taking Kratos, giving him a son, and exploring that relationship… it really works.

I’m genuinely surprised to be saying this, but the father and son interactions of Kratos and Atreus… are good? They’re full of genuine pathos as you watch the two characters struggling with grief in their own ways. They interact constantly, no matter what boring thing you, the player, have to be doing, and the relationship became genuinely meaningful to me. It’s a pretty stunning reversal for the series, to be honest, considering that the third God of War was more or less drivel. The tale of the two who are only trying to honour Atreus’s late mother’s wishes (yes, unfortunately the game does set off the “woman dies so man/men can learn a lesson” klaxon) is so small in its way it’s refreshing, even if they do still end up doing what the God of War does, which is kill loads of enemies, fight gods, etc.

But as good Kratos’ relationship with Atreus is, and the story overall, to be honest, it doesn’t rescue a game that feels… well, pretty annoying otherwise. I mean, it starts with the controls, which heavily use the triggers (annoying) but if you change that to “classic” throwing your axe while aiming is a face button which threw me completely. It’s definitely one of those quibbles where you might be like “who cares?” but the inability to make melee be on face buttons and aiming/firing be on the triggers meant I never got comfortable (I just gave up and stayed on the triggers, throwing the axe fast enough for some challenges was impossible for me otherwise.)

It’s weird too, because the gameplay unfolds itself at a glacial pace at first, which rather than easing any player actually just makes the beginning really boring. And unfortunately, it’s not like as it opens up it gets much better. The upgrade trees are horrible, seeming to be entirely made of side-grades that I rarely used, and even the ones that you want to be useful (like being able to hit multiple targets with the axe in one throw) turn out to be barely helpful at all–or even unhelpful. If you’re fighting an armored ancient, you basically have to not use multi-targeting to ever hit their exposed heart. Or I did, anyway. Annoying!

I just didn’t like this as a game like… at all. I mostly put up with it to see the story through, which I enjoyed a lot. Which puts me in an interesting position…

Will I ever play it again? …Because I’m very interested to see where this story goes in Ragnarok but I also can’t be arsed to play it. I suppose if there’s some amazing accessibility options that stop me from ever having to push a block ever again (although actually I’m dog sick of climbing as well now). But maybe it’ll be the first game I ever actually sit down and watch someone play, like on stream? Because you lose a lot of story if you only watch the cut-scenes. 

Final Thought: Actually, watching some idiot play a video game sounds even more annoying than playing this was. Forget it then. 

Support Every Game I’ve Finished on ko-fi, either via a one-off donation (pay what you like) or by joining as a supporter at just $1 a month.

[kierancampire]

Finished The Witcher 3! So I have thoughts

I tried playing this game multiple times, but I just gave up over and over again due to finding the game so clunky and difficult. However, I forgot the last time I gave it up, and that's because I found it boring. The world, the characters, the dialogue, the gameplay, I just found it all so dull and lifeless, and every character just felt like they were there to be sultry and sexy, there was nothing else to them

But for the first time, I finally met Yen again. But this time I was determined to beat it! Now this is where my views on it are complicated. Never in my life have I tried so hard to like a game, never have I had to. And doing the Baron's quest, I started getting a bit more invested but it was lightly, and for me, I only really started getting invested sorta late game, like when you find Ciri

The thing is, although I eventually got more invested and enjoyed it more. Eh. I know this game is so beloved and critically acclaimed, it's spawned multiple TV shows, books, I know so many people love it. And I didn't hate it, like I eventually beat the main game, I did quite a few side quests, I cared about the ending I got and a fair few characters. But I am also unsure if I'd ever replay it, a lot of it felt like a slog on the first playthrough, I hated how Geralt talked, the world is miserable and unenjoyable, and it took so long for me to start enjoying it in some amount

A part of me does wanna do a few contracts and a couple more side quests, cause I know that this game, once I put it down it is definitely out. But I *REALLY* wanna play Dead Island 2, I already delayed it to finish this, and I wanna try that out way more than doing side stuff here. I wish I saw what everyone else saw in this game, and I am glad I finally beat and played it, but it just is not for me, there were good parts, but there was just a lot of bad too. I've never played the other games, so maybe I'd enjoy it more if I had, but I also couldn't imagine playing them. I only really cared about Ciri and what happened to her, nothing else interested me too much

One thing I quite enjoyed though was going through caves and getting hidden chests full of good loot! That was always enjoyable!

[finefiddleheaded]

I tried a few times as a kid to read comics, but the amount of panels and images and text per page made them really difficult for me to read. There was too much going on visually, it was exhausting to parse. I had an easier time with manga, and then with the graphic novels that started coming out that took cues from manga and webcomics on panel pacing. Fewer words per panel, fewer panels per page, often written and illustrated by the same person so there was a closer marriage of storytelling between image and text.

But I always loved superheroes -- I grew up watching Superfriends and then Justice League, then Batman TAS, then Teen Titans. Loved the Raimi Spider-man movies, and then Marvel movies hit their heyday and I enjoyed that until I got burnt out.

@pluckyredhead writes these wonderful analysis/breakdown posts about comics that are full of warmth and humor and love for the superhero genre in all its flaws and glory. I loved them. So I started reading fanfiction because I wanted more of that enthusiasm. Figured I could come at it that way and it might make reading easier. Sank into the Bat fandom because I always loved Robin. Found out there were more Robins and I was like ???????? I liked Tim a lot, and I loved every iteration of him I found. The characters were NEVER exactly the same from fic to fic and that was so fascinating to me. It meant I could read hundreds of stories and not get bored.

So I got really pumped to pick up some comics. I was wary of starting with Batfam because there's just. There's just so much. And I didn't want to slog through grimdark if I accidentally picked up one of those storylines.

So I rolled into a comic shop and picked out a few Young Justice comics, some Booster Gold & Blue Beetle issues (being a favorite of @pluckyredhead ), and "oh HEY I've always loved speedsters who's this Impulse kid" so I grabbed the first few issues of his solo.

Enjoyed them enough that I sought out the DC comics app and honestly the panel to panel slide feature CHANGED MY LIFE. Suddenly I was able to read comics because my adhd brain only had to process one panel at a time. Meant I was missing the impact of creative/bold page designs, but hey, I'll take that over not being able to read comics.

Had a pretty good time until the recent upsurge in fandom gatekeeping collided with a run of bad mental health. I realized it was making me miserable so I had to take a step back for a bit. I realize that I "pass the entry bar" for most of the complaints about undesirable fandom participants, but that didn't stop me stressing about it. Or stop it from poisoning some of the enthusiasm I had initially cultivated.

I've mostly blocked the people who were worst about it by now, and taking a break from posting my fanart until I started feeling better mentally has helped enormously.

This turned into a really long post, apologies! But thought it might be worth sharing.

(Btw Impulse won me over and I will love him forever and ever the end.)

since getting into comics are a hot topic at the moment what was the first comics you guys read and how confused were you at the time

[nymphrasis]

Update Regarding to My Pokemon Ask Bloggies

* 🛸　.　　•.  　🌎　°　.•　🌓　•　　.°•　　•　🚀 ✯.    •.    .  •.  　.　•　★　*       Heya heya! Figure I would give an update! For starters, I don’t plan to end nor take down @ask-the-abomination (^ ^)/. I am still debating on the idea of what to do, however I am feeling leaning on rebooting it! Like, keeping some of the story aspects but also roll around with a different idea! I’ve felt that maybe I rushed in to the story a little bit and mayhaps that is the reason why I feel both blockage and felt that things are going too fast  ( ；∀；)! There is an additional protagonist I would like to add, but I won’t spoil who it is! Secondly, I am working on filling in roles of slots I have emptied for newer Pokemon characters for my more larger project set mainly for writing! I am willing to show that I am working on @ask-the-tale-of-kingdoms  ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜! I have used characters on that blog years ago, but I chicken out and deactivated my account  〔´∇｀’’’〕. I was only here for a short moment as that blog. Sorry!  I am making a return this time and will stick to it this time around  (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑! I will need to work on something that fit the three sisters, instead of just showing the one qwq. As it will be three protags this time around, instead of the solo Kuruna ( Indeed I did readjust the story by a bit! Just did additional for the sisters and their play in the storyline! )! There are still several spots that needs filling and sprites needed before I start! But I am really excited to return to the ask blogging community at some point  ♡(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭! It will be purely writing, so hope people don’t mind! Oh and I have been working on redesigning a few characters, as they did needed updated works! So that is taking time on its own there! And lastly, there is an unnamed story relating to the Eevee ( Named Hoshi ) I have feature on the top post in @ask-the-abomination ! Characters are being made by a friend of mine, in exchange for both money and UFT characters I have for her! This story does not require as many characters, so it is getting closer to achieving what I want! It isn’t treated as a full priority however, as the Kingdoms story have my utmost focus  ( ；∀；)!! So yeah!  I really am looking forward to returning to the Pokemon ask blog community, fully, hopefully by this year! If sprites are tough to achieve, I can try to maybe aim for headshots or something else! I like to add lil things, so people can tell what character is speaking if it is difficult to focus on the writing  （＾ω＾） !! So that is all for now! Hope the update is satisfying and wasn’t a slog of a read ;w;!!  * 🛸　.　　•.  　🌎　°　.•　🌓　•　　.°•　　•　🚀 ✯.    •.    .  •.  　.　•　★　*

[theflowerofthecommonwealth]

Power Armor Punch Part 11

Masterlist

Nick: *eases it to her mouth and slowly tilts the can so she doesn't drown* Let me know when you're done.

Jasmine: (Slowly starts sipping, drinking about half of it before she shakes her head and pulls back)

Nick: *takes it away* That-a-girl... I hope you can eat later... you need the nutrients to heal.

Jasmine: (Gives him a doubtful look)

Nick: Look, unless you're a ghoul, you need to eat. I know it sucks... I'm actually a bit envious. My sense of taste... it's not really there. Just a sensor that picks up all the ingredients in the food and tells me what it actually tastes like... in text. You get the full experience.

Jasmine: (Gives him another look. She spent so many years labeling food as danger and forcing herself to throw it up that her body just feels sick at the mention of food. It doesn't even taste all that good to her anymore, just the same poisonous mush) “……….” (Glances back down at herself, still checking for blood)

Nick: I promise you, I won't let you get poisoned on my watch. Just add poison tester to the growing resume of things I can double for. Heh.

Lucille: *gets up after a super long nap at the Slog* Mm... why does 88 smell like water and tar berries? Oh. Right. The Slog... *gets up and rubs her eyes*

Wiseman: Ah. Hey. You're awake. You doing okay? Where's that vigilante detective that's always following you around?

Lucille: Oh, Nick? He's babysitting...

Wiseman: Didn't know that was something he did.

Lucille: He's got no choice... thanks. For the blanket, Wiseman.

Wiseman: No problem.

Jasmine: (Scoffs, and she would smile a little at him if she wasn't feeling shittier than usual. But after THAT particular memory she ain't gonna eat for awhile, especially since she still expects to see her blood everywhere)

Nick: I know you're still reeling from the nightmare so I won't ask ya to eat right this moment... but later, when it's less prominent.

Jasmine: (Shakes her head at that, but then stops because of the headache)

Nick: Well, the way I see it, it's either eat or stay here for a month and be periodically dosed with nutritional supplements via an IV. Course we could always do the tube down your throat and into your stomach and force you to eat mush... *smirks* Honestly if I were you, I'd at least attempt to eat something.

Jasmine: (Side eyes him with a frown) (Even if she ate a full meal, she would just throw it back up almost immediately and get a flood of bad memories. And that would only be ONE meal. On the other hand, if they did the tube or IV, her hands would have to be tied at almost all times or else she would just pull it out, plus bad memories. Lose lose in this case, but what wasn't in her life?)

Nick: Fine, IV it is then... *looks away*

Jasmine: (Blinks a few times in surprise. She didn't even say anything….)

Nick: I saw that look, kid. *sniffs the air* You might need a shower.

Jasmine: (Chokes on her spit, casting him a WTF look. She keeps herself very clean, being prewar and all. Its a little difficult in post nuclear war setting, but she manages somehow. Even when she was kept in the dirty damp cell she was relatively hygienic)

Nick: Just saying- you've been in and out of things for a day or so. You might want to consider a bath.

Jasmine: (Nods her head after a moment. Hopefully this would help get rid of the lingering blood smell.…)

Nick: Do you think you'll behave if I help you to the showers and back? And before ya get all suspicious, I'm only asking this to ensure your safety.

Jasmine: (Tilts her head her head at him. Why would she get suspicious?)

Nick: Sorry if that sounded off. It's just after seeing what I've seen in your head and considering we're taking about you getting cleaned up, I'm concerned you'd think I have some "ulterior motive" and do something rash. *he's started to question if she still trusts him, even though he doesn't blame her for what happened a moment ago*

Jasmine: (Takes a moment to think about it) (Mouths) “I trust you.” (She never stopped trusting him, its just other things and other people she doesn't trust. She pushed him because he shook her at the wrong moment and she believed that he was someone else. And when she says she trusts him, she means she trusts HIM, not thinking that he has any other intention than what he says)

Nick: *eyes go a little wide before he smiles back at her* Will you get back into bed and stay there when we get back?

Jasmine: (Sighs, but nods slightly) (Mouths) “Not happy about it…..” (She means that she might put up a protest)

Nick: I know... *almost pleadingly* but can you at least try to cooperate? If not for yourself, for me?

Jasmine: (Nods again. She will try, but she cannot make any promises as usual)

Nick: Alright. Let me get you some soap, a rag and a towel. *leaves to ask Curie where those are*

Jasmine: (Stays still and waits, but its not like she can do anything else. However, being tied town with no means of protecting herself is starting to make her anxious)

Nick: *comes back with the items and starts undoing the restraints*

Jasmine: (Stays completely still, not moving at all until he is finished. Both of her wrists are a little bruised where Nick had to hold them tightly to restrain her)

Nick: *pauses when he notices the bruises. He studies them quickly before looking apologetically into her eyes* I'm sorry... I didn't mean to hurt you.

Lucille: *planting plants, making a greenhouse*

Jasmine: (Looks right back at him, her hands now free) (Signing) “I pushed YOU.” (Sitting up, a little too quickly so she puts a hand to her head)

Nick: Easy... you okay? *will respond to what she said once her dizziness subsides*

Lucille: *The folks here are really proud of their tar berry farm*

Jasmine: (Nods, blinking rapidly as she pulls her hand away from her head)

Nick: Good. As for what you said a moment ago, you pushing me is no excuse for my actions resulting in your harm. Usually, I'm very mindful of how much force goes into an action but I think I went a little to far, hence the apology.

Jasmine: (Shrugs) (Signing) “If you didn't use all that force, I would have done more damage.” (Shuffling her legs to stand up, slowly this time because her body feels like jelly)

Nick: *very carefully helps her stand* I'm aware of that, believe me. I still don't like that it happened.

Jasmine: (Pulls away from his help as she stands straight, swaying slightly but she manages to grab onto the bed to hold herself up) (Mouthing) “Shit” (Waiting for the room to stop spinning and her headache to calm down)

Nick: Don't go acting all foolishly brave and noble by refusing help. It only makes things worse for one person and that's you.

Jasmine: (Takes a deep breath, shaking her head. She has had enough help for today, she needs to do things on her own)

Nick: Fine. Suit yourself, but I'll still be near if you start to fall on your way to the showers.

Jasmine: (Sighs, grabbing the crumbled up blanket off the corner of the bed and wraps it over her shoulders, taking a few wobbly and dizzy steps on her own out of the room)

Nick: *follows her close behind*

*The halls look much the same as the rooms except for some signs and occasional paintings.*

Jasmine: (Realizes she has no idea where to go and glances back at Nick, putting a hand to the wall to hold herself up)

Nick: *walks up to her* Do ya need me to lead you to the showers? Cause I can do that.

Jasmine: (Nods, looking up at him) (Signing) “Sorry.” (Fully leaning up against the wall, taking some breaths to steady herself)

Nick: *does a half wave gesture before he draws closer* Don't worry about it. Here. Give me your arm... *going to support her by putting his arm under hers and around her shoulder*

Jasmine: (Holds out her arm, letting him support her because honestly she can barely keep herself up)

Nick: *pulls her near doing just that* Alright... let's go... *starts leading her to the showers*

Jasmine: (Follows along, half leaning her head on his shoulder to try to help her lingering hellish headache)

Nick: Almost there, kiddo. *taking it slow to keep from jostling her*

Jasmine: (Nods, actually very grateful for his help. Without it, she would've fallen over)

Nick: *as they get closer to a door labeled showers* You think you'll be able to take a shower on your own? I'm not sure if they have seats in there.

Lucille: *building defenses at the Slog*

Jasmine: (Shrugs. She will have to see once they get there)

Nick: *opens the door* Inside we find... stalls. Curtains... both sets separated by a wall for men and women... *guides her to the women's side and opens a stall* Looks like they have safety bars and a chair in case you want to sit...

Jasmine: (Nods, looking into the stall for a moment. Raises her wrists to gesture at the bandages)

Nick: Sure... as long as you don't pick at your arms...

Jasmine: (Frowns. She cant promise that. Same thing with the stitches)

Nick: *pleading tone* Please at least try to resist the urge? For me?

Jasmine: (Sadly shakes her head, looking down. She wants to say yes to put him at ease, but there is no guarantee. Especially after what happened, the horrible nightmare that still feels real, and her shoving Nick…..)

Nick: ... Know morse code at all? If it keeps your mind off of hurting yourself, I can stand here and chat while you clean up.

Jasmine: (Shakes her head. She never learned morse code, never even crossed her mind that she would need too. Perhaps they attempted to reach her at some point, but it’s all blurry form then)

Nick: Well, I guess a I'll just try to keep talking then. One tap for "yes", two for "no", three for "I don't know", and four for "change the subject". Will that do ya? *helping her with her bandages*

Jasmine: (Nods again, watching as her cuts slowly appear from under the bandages)

Nick: *slight encouraging smile, seeing some of them start to scab over* Well, look at that... looks like they've started to heal, already.

Jasmine: (Looks up at him with almost guilty eyes, not sure what to tell him. Those cuts are almost weeks old, they just stuck around due to her scratching them almost every chance she gets)

Nick: None of them look infected, either. That's a good sign... *unwrapping her other arm*

Jasmine: (Just stares down at her feet to avoid looking at him)

Nick: *finishes with the bandages* There we are. *takes the washcloth and soap and hands it to her* Here. I'll keep the towel on me when you're ready.

Jasmine: (Nods, stepping back and starts undoing her twin braids. This was gonna be a fun fight to wash and brush out her long curly hair)

Nick: *decides turn away to give her some privacy...* Would you be willing to let Curie do your hair? Don't know if my hands are cut out for braiding. My right might get all tangled up in it.

Jasmine: (Stops fiddling and taps to respond) “No.” (She can manage her hair on her own, hopefully….)

Nick: *sighs. He really wants her to start relying on other people other than him. He knows he won't be around all the time to keep her safe* Alright, then...

Jasmine: (Finishes unbraiding her hair, letting her hair flow freely, sighing at the thought of fighting out the knots. She turns to the shower, fiddling to remove the hospital gown)

Nick: *keeping his gaze averted. Wants to give her as much privacy as she needs to feel comfortable*

Jasmine: (Frowns again at the sight of her stitches and bandages on her legs and torso, clutching the gown tightly in her hand. Her mind starting to wander) “………” (For a moment she clearly saw her body all banged up and bruised, blood dripping down from her legs and the horrid words that had been cut into her soft skin with a knife…..)

Nick: *senses her hesitation* Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe. *pulls out the hospital gown he nearly forgot he grabbed*

Jasmine: (Snaps back into reality, blinking a few times. She nods her head, then remembers Nick cant see her) (Mouthing to herself) “Stupid.” (She removes the rest of the bandages before she turns on the shower, setting the temperature at the coldest setting possible- standing still under it. Warm water seemed to luxurious for someone like her in this moment…. She closes her eyes, not minding the icy water against her skin)

Nick: Y'know, after taking a quick gander at the other stalls there might be hot water installed. No one's gonna get mad if you use it.

Jasmine (Opens her eyes to glance back at him, forgetting again that he cant see her. If she was being honest with herself, she didn't feel like she deserved it. Plus, she practically took cold showers her whole life. At her old home she let everyone else shower first and they couldn't really afford much heating so the water was lukewarm at best. At the cell room, she was only allowed to use icy cold water for her entire time there)

Nick: It may be hard to believe but you are allowed to enjoy small things like this... *leaning on the wall between the stalls*

Jasmine: (Taps back) “No.”

Nick: *rolls his eyes* Dearheart, I think you of all people deserve to enjoy a warm shower the most in the Commonwealth. Turn on the hot water. You'll thank me later. *really doesn't want to fight her over shower temperatures of all things*

Jasmine: (Sighs, reluctantly turning the nob too make the water warmer. She closes her eyes again, letting the water pour over her for a moment) “……..” (Well shit, now she just feels sad. Stupid emotions coming over at the wrong moments)

Nick: *reassuringly* See... now isn't that better than turning yourself into an icicle?

Jasmine: (Shakes her head, cursing herself for forgetting that he cant see her again. Yes, it did feel quite nice against her skin, but there was something off to her about it, like its not suppose to be happening. Especially to herself….)

@lucilleandherrobots

[gascon-en-exil]

What are your 5 favorite FE maps? Be it for story, gameplay, or anything else.

That's quite a difficult question, both because there's so many of them to choose from and because it can be hard to compare maps from different games especially when there are different design philosophies, ex. how most of FE4's maps are a slog to play through but are fantastic in terms of laying out the game's broad narrative. Still, in no particular order:

Genealogy of the Holy War Chapter 5

On the subject of FE4, the atmosphere of Chapter 5 absolutely sells it, full of mounting dread and a sort of fatalism that one rarely sees in FE or in a lot of video games for that matter. The massacre of the knights of Leonster and Quan and Ethlyn's deaths play out as a part of regular gameplay, with no way for the player to intervene in time, and the chapter hits you over and over again with every conquered castle and anxious character conversation and the inevitable barbecue that Sigurd is marching toward. The pacing slows to a crawl in the middle because desert maps are terrible, but like I said this is mostly about the story and atmosphere. Chapter 5 is the one that makes me most skeptical of IS remaking FE4, because of how much it conflicts with the philosophy of never allowing the player to feel too bad. Watch them add an Avatar who figures out Arvis's plan but sticks around anyway until Sigurd sends them to follow Oifey and Shannan at the last minute, paving the way for them to be playable again at the start of Gen 2.

Fates Revelation Chapter 21

Revelation's numerous gimmick maps miss more often than they hit, but this one is fairly interesting with tiles that shift enemies between promoted and unpromoted forms. There's some fun tactical potential here, especially as you can use a Dragon Vein to swap the tile effects, and it's more memorable fun than the route's awkward attempts at platforming or a stealth mission lifted from Path of Radiance or...God, that snow level....

Blazing Blade Chapter 26x (Eliwood)/28x (Hector)

Sonia is one of my favorite FE antagonists, because she's just so delightfully evil even as I'm fairly indifferent to her woobie of an adopted daughter. This map is sort of a take on a water dungeon concept, with platforms that sink and rise every few turns. It can be a headache to navigate, especially as Sonia is one of those bosses that spams long-range magic, but it's generally not too difficult to figure out unless you're actually trying to use Nino. The ending is great too, with the reveal that Sonia was a morph all along and didn't realize it.

Three Houses Crimson Flower Chapter 17

FE16's map design is overall unremarkable, so on the basis of character work alone it was either this or the non-CF battle in Enbarr for its Ferdibert boss conversation. This one took the prize though, because 1) that boss conversation requires me to be using Ferdinand, whereas the Dimidue death scene can be triggered by anyone, 2) that's just one line, and while it does provide the energy for the ship's Wicked parallel that the voice actors took advantage of that's nothing compared to a dialogue scene that's so gay that it had to be laid over a black screen because any visual would completely obliterate all attempts to no homo Dimitri and Dedue's relationship, and 3) unlike every other instance of optional character moments in battles I can think of in this game, getting the Dimidue death scene actually makes the map easier as you don't have to fight Dedue as a Crest Beast. That's some good gameplay and (very gay) story integration right there.

Radiant Dawn Part 3 Endgame

Desperately needs the option to skip enemy and NPC phases, but it's got a feeling of dread and inevitability similar to FE4 Chapter 4 thanks to the ominous counter in the corner of the screen that goes up whenever any unit is defeated. It's complicated and sprawling and I've seen this map play out in all sorts of ways based on what the AI decides to do, and the enemies can be quite difficult too and make it tough to rush ahead and treat this like a rout map. Then the counter gets to 80 and the map just...ends, and so does the world sort of. The first time you play through it without knowing what's coming up it can all be pretty jarring.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 18💔

More of the Smoke/Mute uni AU! We're getting close to a point where the two of them actually talk to each other - I wasn't kidding about the slow burn 😁 (Rating G/T, slice of life/fluff, ~1.7k words)

.

James spots him mid-sentence. It’s likely not the most appropriate choice to interrupt himself just to yell a cheerful ‘hi Mark!’ across the public space yet instead of sparking irritation, Morowa merely chuckles in amusement. The ground is still wet from a downpour earlier, street lights and the bright pub sign reflecting on the glistening asphalt, refracting into glittering spots awarding the night a more glamorous flair than it deserves. Up until recently, his day could’ve gone better, his sleeping place not yet secured as Seamus is out of town and James is too proud to ask anybody else, plus the presentation due for tomorrow isn’t even half done.

He can wing it, but his contribution to the seminar so far has been shaky enough that he’d prefer to earn a good mark on it.

But Jordan invited him to their little hangout and there’s no refusing where Jordan is concerned, that man knows how to have a good time – so James tagged along and tried his best to enjoy himself, downing a few pints during this endeavour, and then he ran across Morowa. Finally. The woman can be more elusive than the Yeti if she’s busy, and no doubt she’s been keeping her schedule full following their break-up.

“- I guess what I ultimately want to say”, James continues after Mark has acknowledged his presence with a nod from a distance away, “is that I’m fine. And I’d still like to live with you.”

His ex-girlfriend’s smile is blinding, reminding him of why he developed a crush on her in the first place. She takes his hand, squeezes it, deems it as not enough and pulls him into a tight embrace: physical contact is important to her, be it with friends, family or her lovers, and it’s reassuring to witness there’s no hesitation in her affectionate gestures towards him. “I’m so glad to hear that”, she replies, voice laden with emotion. “It might sound odd, but I missed you this last week. Still… are you sure?”

Her question is warranted and he’s fully aware of the implications: she’s always expressed her desire for a more active, more varied love life, in dating other people. And though her admittance that she didn’t even kiss anybody else while the two of them were together filled him with gratitude, guilt overshadowed his relief. Because she’s been nothing but open and communicative with him, from the start, whereas he selfishly assumed it’d somehow work out regardless. So now, what he has to decide is whether he accepts her moving on and possibly bringing other people home while the two of them remain friends and roommates.

After some more deliberation which is just for show, really, he’s spent the last seven days pouring over this exact dilemma, he nods with confidence. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Then you best take your key back.” And another problem solved.

They spend a few more minutes detailing the specifics, exchanging heartfelt messages of support and being generally sappy until he notices the other woman waiting a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you. You off to somewhere?”

Morowa confirms and introduces her friend as Emmanuelle. “We’re helping someone else move out. Difficult situation.”

“If anyone needs a slogging, call me.”

“Will do.” A last grin, a last hug, and off they trot.

James imagined the conversation to go worse somehow, to involve more emotional suffering, yet both of them saw the end coming from miles away. It hurts less than he expected. Doesn’t make the void in his chest feel any better, though. To take his mind off it all, he saunters over to the only two other people in the street, one of them a tall, reasonably buff bloke with a pretty face and wild hair and the other one a bubbly fountain of neverending commentary. He’s never seen them together yet it’s obvious the shorter lad is a close acquaintance of Mark’s.

“- no more panel discussions, please. If you ever go see improv again, I’m with you all the way, but if I have to listen to another hour of pseudoscientific shite from old, white men, I’ll throw up in my mouth”, he chatters away as James joins them. “Hi! I’m Julien. Honestly, I don’t know who sets up those talks but they really need to -”

It takes another minute until James can introduce himself, sparking recognition in the young man’s face. “Aren’t you the dude who set the lab on fire two years ago?”

He smirks, offers a casual shrug. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking legend! I think the profs still use you as a bad example.”

Mark opens his mouth for the first time since James caught sight of him tonight: “Don’t you need to leave?”

“Ah fuck.” Julien checks his phone, frantically types out a reply while almost vibrating in place with suppressed energy, then gives a little wave. “Gotta run, bye James. Bye babes, don’t stay out too long!” He stretches to place a kiss on Mark’s cheek despite the lad trying to lean away from him, and hurries off in the same direction as Morowa earlier. James wonders whether it counts as stereotyping or something similar to assume that Julien and Emmanuelle know each other, them both obviously being French. Morowa would know what to call it.

Being left alone with Mark is always a little like being dropped into cold water, his presence starts out as suffocating, robbing James of any words he might know, of the ability to string them together to form a sentence. It’s not unpleasant yet he’s filled with the irrational urge to impress him, the pressure of which building until he either comes up with a topic to save himself or blurts out the first fully-formed sentence taking shape in his mind. Not that they’ve spent much time together, James simply has started making a point out of striking up a conversation with Mark whenever he sees him. Constant dripping wears the stone – he will befriend him, no matter what.

“Who’s he, then?”, he asks, motioning in the direction of the young Frenchman jogging along. Out of habit, he pulls out a cigarette, offers one to his companion who takes it with a nod before it’s lit up and welcomed by his lips.

“An idiot”, is the curt reply. There’s fondness in his voice and it suddenly clicks in James’ head.

While Julien gave him significant gay vibes, the kiss on the cheek could’ve been one-sided, something done between friends. But there’s the bracelet again, peeking out of Mark’s sleeve, three beads on it representing a very real flag James has encountered a few times before. It’s the toothpaste flag, as Morowa calls it, and either Mark is an overly specific supporter of just one group in the community – or he is, in fact, gay. And for some reason, this changes something about him in James’ mind, though he’s utterly unable to put it into words. He eyes him with a new kind of interest and tells himself it’s the same as if he recently found out one of his relatives was working in chemistry research – it’s a common ground of some sort. He’s now more determined than ever to get to know more about him.

“What?”, says Mark and James realises he’s been staring at him.

“You’ve been working out”, he states. Apparently it’s a day where he cracks under pressure and loses all control over what comes out of his mouth. The nod he receives encourages him, so he adds: “I remember your goal was to look good. You’re almost there.”

A brow rises, a silent question. Mark’s cigarette lights up as he sucks on it, brightens his face and contours his cheekbones, the sharp jaw.

“Now you just gotta do something about your hair.”

Mark scoffs, features softening (which is almost the same as a smile) and he runs a hand through the bird’s nest on his head. It looks soft. James wonders whether he had one or two drinks too many. “You do chem, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re in engineering?”

Superfluous information: Mark apparently deems it as irrelevant and ignores his question outright. “Think you can settle a debate?”

Gosh, is this genius actually asking for his help? James curses himself for not crossing his path earlier in the library so he could show off there – he should ensure there are witnesses at all times. “Sure, about what?”, he offers easily, trying not to let his giddiness show, but it seems it’s not the prodigy himself who requires his expertise. Mark indicates the pub with his chin, prompting James to stub out his fag and follow him inside to the loudest corner in the whole room.

Jordan is there, of course, a few of his friends and others James has never seen before, and it becomes clear very quickly they’re arguing about explosions. And oh boy, they better strap in, because this, this is right up his alley. Mark grabs a chair and James slides onto the bench, waiting for the perfect moment to cut in. And when he does, when all eyes are suddenly on him, everyone soaking up his vast knowledge with greedy curiosity, the day is saved.

The longer he talks, the more he indulges various ‘what if’-scenarios, the more anecdotes he drops… the more alive he feels. Someone takes copious notes for her pen-and-paper campaign, someone else really explores the edges of what can be proven scientifically, someone else offers supplementary knowledge that complements James’ own. They end up devising explosives for a variety of use cases, ignoring the odd glance from the tables around them, and James drinks too much.

When some of them exchange numbers at the end of the evening, he discovers Mark has left them half an hour ago. And though he thoroughly enjoyed himself, is left buzzing and beaming, full of enthusiasm, having made several new friends, it still feels a little like he missed out on something.

He’s just not sure what it was.

[wiltking]

my thoughts on C. S. Pacat's newest book Dark Rise under the cut, as well as a few other LGBT books I've read recently including a lesson in thorns, the stone in the skull, and the gods of tango. CWs are included at the end.

Dark Rise by C. S. Pacat - M/M Dark Fantasy YA (+ M/F) ★★★★☆

The ancient world of magic is no more. Only the Stewards remain to remember the great battles of Light and Dark, sworn to protect humanity if the Dark King ever returns. But as the King's presence begins to stir in London, sixteen-year-old Will learns of his destiny to fight alongside the Stewards in the oncoming war against the Dark.

The return of the queen. It's no secret that the Captive Prince trilogy remains one of my top favorite works of M/M fiction, so of course when I saw Pacat was working on a new series I knew I had to read it as soon as it came out. There was quite a bit of trepidation on my part with this being a YA set in London--two of my least favorite things to read about--but I knew no matter what I had to experience her level of storytelling and romance again, because no one does it quite like Pacat. Now having read the book I do think it suffers from a few of the pitfalls of YA: stagnant passages that over-explain, jarring moments of childish actions in an otherwise mature world (I'm looking at you Elizabeth), and repetitive worldbuilding exposition. The first half of this book suffered the most for this. While there were a few outstanding scenes, I felt the first half to be a slog, and my interest was not fully captured. I struggled to stay invested. However, that all changed with chapter 20, and especially chapter 21. This is the moment when Dark Rise finally felt like a C. S. Pacat novel. Drama, intrigue, dialogue that grips you and stays with you, characters that feel alive and multi-faceted, plot twists that leave you dizzy--this is where the book fully drove itself into my heart and stayed there to the very last word. One of my favorite things about this book is how dark it got at times, which is great for a book called Dark Rise, but I was pleasantly surprised with the level of it considering this is a YA. Also, a lot of LGBT books marketed as 'dark' tend to fall into the trope of focusing on sexual assault as a way of making the story 'dark'. Captive Prince obviously did this, as well as many other books on this page. Dark Rise does not, and that really got me excited because dark fantasy is one of my favorite things to read about, but the aforementioned trope makes it really difficult to find books I can fully enjoy and love. Dark Rise manages to be dark without relying on sexual violence, and it does it very, very well. Without spoiling anything, I love the story Pacat has set up for us here, and I'm dying to know where she'll take us in the next books. The final pages were painfully divine and I struggle to guess what could possibly be in store, but I trust her vision. My only qualm is that I wish I could give this a five-star, but that first half really did not click with me. Here's hoping that the next book gets a release date soon!!

A Lesson In Thorns by Sierra Simone - M/F/M/F/F/M Polyam Erotica ★★★☆☆

An original fairy tale full of ancient mysteries, lantern-lit rituals, jealousy, money, murder, sacred torment, and obsessions that last for lifetimes... A Lesson in Thorns is the first of four books in the Thornchapel series. Ok, I don't normally read erotica for its own sake. Certainly not erotica featuring a six-person polycule. But there's more to this book than steamy celtic orgies and everyone being horny on main at all times. First, there's the mystery of the MC's missing mother. Where did she go? Why did she go? No one knows, but our MC is determined to find out. So she goes to the last known place her mother was known to have been - Thornchapel, a massive gothic estate owned by her childhood friend who she ceremoniously got married to when she was ten years old, along with one other boy, with their three mutual friends as witness. I can't say this was my book of the year. It required copious amounts of suspension of belief on my part, and I can't say I personally get any enjoyment out of BDSM scenes, of which this book has several. But I still liked the story, and most importantly, the characters. Even if some of the tropes present erred on the cusp of frustration, I wanted to see how these six individuals would inevitably connect. And connect they did, in a scene unlike anything I can say to have read before. With that said, I was particularly pleased with the emphasis on bisexuality present not only in the main character, but also the two men she's in love with, who are also complicatedly attracted to each other. Their love triangle (of sorts) was definitely my favorite part. I want to read more polyam books. Preferably ones that are a few degrees colder on the horny scale. But this was a decently fun read if you're looking for something casual, and at times, sexy with an air of feverish devotion.

The Stone in the Skull (The Lotus Kingdoms #1) by Elizabeth Bear - M/F Adult Fantasy with Trans Characters ★★☆☆☆

The Gage is a brass automaton created around the core of a human being. He is carrying a message from the most powerful sorcerer of Messaline across a dangerous mountain pass to the Rajni of the Lotus Kingdom. With him is The Dead Man, his friend and protector. This is technically a sequel series to the Eternal Sky trilogy, which I did not read.

I'd give this more of a 2.5, because I did love the first half. I've been struggling to find the passion to read lately, but I ate up the first half of The Stone in the Skull like it was nothing. I loved the opening scene, the strange world and even stranger characters, and the words Bear uses to weave her beautiful fantasy settings. But somewhere in the middle I found the dialogue taking jarring turns, the characters making strange decisions that hardly made sense, and worst of all I was hit with a devoted and loyal romance that bloomed from... first sight? I felt like everything I had so far learned about the characters was flipped on its head and natural character development and progression didn't matter. And I have to talk about the trans characters. At first, I was all about it. I loved Sayeh, the trans woman who makes good use of the fantasy setting to have a biological child. I loved the Godmade, whos androgynous presence inspires everyone around them to use neutral pronouns. It was great. I was interested. I was glad that these characters appeared to be more respectful renditions of trans characters compared to the sorry excuse for 'trans men' in The Tempering of Men. However, the supposed trans man in this story doesn't sit right with me, if he is even intended to be read as trans. But I don't know what else to do with the information that this big magical creature of a man, by his own words, 'used to be a woman'. If the explanation ended there, I would have accepted it. But apparently the only reason this character chose to become a big hulking man-creature was to... defeat a wizard? And there's no discussion of gender at any point, or if this character even identifies as male? It felt messy, and weird, and disrespectful considering the explicitly trans explanation given about Sayeh. A shame and a disappointment considering this character is one of the most interesting parts of the whole book. It feels like a missed opportunity. It feels wrong. It feels like Elizabeth Bear has never spoken to a trans person in her life. In general I wish this book had focused more on The Dead Man and the Gage, as their chapters were the most engaging to read. The chapters following both Rajni were interesting at first, but severely bogged down the story as it progressed. There are some very interesting ideas at play here, but the execution completely fell apart for reasons I don't understand.

The Gods Of Tango by carolina de robertis - Adult Historical Fiction with a Transmasc MC ★★★★★

In Buenos Aires in 1913, 17 year old Leda arrives alone to marry her cousin, only to find out that he's been killed. Alone on the brink of destitution, with no friends or family, and only her cherished violin to give her joy, Leda finds herself seduced by the Tango and disguises herself as a young man to join a troupe of musicians. First off, for a while I felt unsure labeling Dante/Leda as a trans man, only because it felt too good to be true. This book is too beautiful. Too well-crafted. Too well-intentioned. There's a lot of overlap in Dante's life with butch lesbian experiences, and the author herself is married to a woman. However, I related heavily to Dante's experiences navigating gender, navigating his sexuality, navigating himself. And the final nail on the coffin was reading Billy Tipton's name in the acknowledgements, a jazz musician who lived as a stealth trans man until the day he died. So I will be recommending this book as one with a trans male protagonist, and it is an incredible piece of work for that. The Gods of Tango is a wild ride. At times heartbreaking, exhilarating, rejuvenating, and at the end of it all, almost unbelievably so, incredibly hopeful. De Robertis crafts a story that gives a voice to those of us lost to history, rewritten, erased. It makes a place for us and fills it with so much music and love and life that I couldn't believe my eyes. When I finished it I sobbed like I haven't in half a decade. This is a respectful work of fiction that navigates the complexities of gender in a way that feels realistic to the time period while still striking true to experiences that are lived to this day.  And while it isn't a quick read, with some paragraphs stretching across several pages, it's a highly enjoyable one. I soaked up every word. I have never touched a violin in my life, but at times I felt like I was right there in Dante's shoes, under the stage lights, bow raised, alive with a desire to live my own life. No matter how difficult it is.

-

content warnings:

lesson in thorns: off-screen sexual violence that happened in the past, and is recounted briefly in text.

stone in the skull: suicidal Thoughts, transphobia, Big age gap

gods of tango: incest, offscreen csa, offscreen sexual assault, suicide, suicidal thoughts, outing

[full list of reviews]

[o-bella-cia0]

Hey, so I'm planning to start learning French. And by learning I mean in application sense (I've been studying the textbook version of it since years now). I was thinking to start reading French novels. Since you too are reading a new language novel, could you give me some tips for the same ?

Hi, thank you so much for the ask!!

Here are some tips that I can think of regarding reading books in your target language, but I may not be the best source since the book that I've started is literally like, the first full novel in Korean that I've ever tried reading and I'm about 30 pages in. Hope these help:

Try to pick a book that is a bit below your reading level in your first language; depending on your level, I'd recommend books for elementary/middle school level to start out with, and slowly make your way up. (I totally failed this step and picked a book for adults, which means that it takes me quite a while to get through just one page...)

But in that case, don't get demotivated if your reading speed is super slow at first. It can feel like a slog, taking an hour just to get through a few pages, but it will speed up over time. By the time you've read 1, 10, 30 novels in your target language, you'll be flying through them! (I say this like I have experience ㅠㅠ I hope this advice is correct!)

Also, try and pick books that you have already read before in your native language and really like so that you are already familiar with the content. This will help with using context clues and recognizing vocab without having to stop and look it up.

When you come across words that you think are useful/something you would like to start working into your everyday speech writing, save the words and study them like any other vocab, of course. Ideally, you'd want to save every single word you don't know and study them, but that's unrealistic for me so I don't do it haha. (Be sure to be conscious about how/why these words were used, if they're more commonly used in speech vs writing, time period of writing, etc.)

Try and see if you can use context clues to guess the meaning of a word/sentence before looking up, but there's no shame in having to search stuff up! Sometimes I have to plug whole sentences into google translate just to know what's going on, and then have my "oh, duh" moment. Don't worry about completely understanding everything, but if a word or phrase keeps popping up, make sure you know what it means.

If you really want to check your understanding, you can try writing a short summary of the chapter you just read using the new vocab you learned (but I def don't have time to bother with this haha). The easier option would be chatting with your friends in your target language about what you've read!

Maybe try and look for the audiobook version as well so you can get some extra listening practice.

and have fun!!! <3

Of course, reading novels in French is likely a different experience than Korean, because at least for me, diving right into a full Korean novel has been quite difficult for me and a bit of a shock. For you, French novels may be easier than what I experienced, but hopefully at least some of these apply to you. Hope this helped!!

[aquietwritingcorner]

Writers Month Day 2: Cold/Coffee Word Count: 2203 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: G/K Characters: Major Miles, Olivier Mira Armstrong, Captain Buccaneer Warning: NA Summary: Ephraim Miles has been transferred to Fort Briggs, and is more than a little unsure of his position there. Notes: I know that the idea of Miles being married and having a wife is due to an early fan translation and not the official translations of the manga, but I find it fun to play with! AO3 || ff.net

 _________________________________

 Cold/Coffee

 Whoever had told Ephraim Miles that Fort Briggs was cold had been wrong. Fort Briggs was colder than the underside of an ice cube. He had never felt a cold as deep as this, which, he supposed was part of the reason he was here. Miles was under no illusions as to why he had been transferred not only to the north, but specifically to Fort Briggs.

It was because of his Ishvalan blood. It was because he was a risk to the military. It was because they were suspicious that he could be a traitor to the military in favor of Ishval. (Could he be sure that they were wrong? Even he wasn’t sure.)

He had settled his wife and daughter in a home in North City. It wasn’t much, but it was what they could find at the time. People weren’t as willing to rent or sell to him when they saw his looks. It had been difficult. Karissa was going to look for them a better home while he was gone. She was a smart, strong, shrewd woman, and Miles has confidence in her abilities. He trusted her judgement. She would be alright. His daughter would be alright.

He just hoped that he would be alright.

Miles squinted and looked out at the frozen ground beyond him He had been dropped by the transport at the beginning of the road that led to the fort. Apparently, he was to walk the rest of the way. Well, so be it. It wasn’t as if complaining about it would make any difference. Shouldering his pack, Miles began the journey.

The wind cut through him as he walked, freezing him down to his bones. He distracted himself by going over what he knew about his new posting and his new commander. Fort Briggs was, basically, a giant wall that stretched from mountain to mountain in one of the more passable areas of the Briggs Mountains. For about five miles or so beyond it, the land was contested between Drachma and Amestris. Both countries claimed it. Neither had been quite willing to start a war over it. Both had people on it. There were regularly skirmishes on it.

The fort was currently under the command of Brigadier General Olivier Mira Armstrong. She had been in command of it for the past three years. Within those past three years the fort had gone from being regarded as little more then cannon fodder that would allow time for an alert to be raised and Northern Command to be mobilized to a force that would hold its own and beyond, giving no quarter, leaving no weakness, and using Northern Command as their back up.

The change could be laid at the feet of General Armstrong. She was one of Amestris’s elites, blonde haired, blue eyed, and, according to rumor, ruthless and cold. She came from a noble family, a wealthy family, who could trace its roots back to the founding of Amestris. Her family had a strong military tradition. She, herself, had been a member of special operations units, worked undercover missions, led troops in the west, and was successful in all that she did.

…Which made Miles wonder just what she was doing up here.

That wasn’t really his concern, though. He knew why he was here, and why she was here wasn’t important. What was more pressing to him, was what she would think of him. He had been sent to be her adjunct, and that meant that they would need a good sense of trust. And that was where his concern came in. She was a pure-blooded Amestrian with a pedigree that was impeccable. He was a mixed-breed mongrel with obvious roots of an enemy the military was fighting. He couldn’t discount the possibility that she would look at him, sneer, and immediately dismiss him.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

He could only deal with scenarios that could be for so long. He had braced himself for the worst and spent the rest of the time focusing on the landscape around him. He had been warned to stick to the road, and so he did. There was snow everywhere. It was an icy landscape, although, he noticed, not a barren one.  There were enclaves of trees dotting the landscape, and here and there he could see animals or the traces of where animals had been. The land itself had small dips and rolls in it, hard to see in the pure whiteness of the ground around them. They left him with the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched, followed, and to be honest, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was.

It took him a few of hours of slogging through the snow to arrive at Fort Briggs. Learning to move through it had been tricky at first, but it really wasn’t that different then sand, once he got the hang of it, at least as far as the slickness of it. The difference was that in some places his footsteps sunk down in the snow as he walked. He quickly learned how to look for the places in the snow that looked either packed down or iced over enough that he wouldn’t sink. By the time he arrived at the fort, he was exhausted, sweaty, and absolutely freezing.

The fort itself was the most imposing building that he had ever seen. It had looked big when he got his first glimpse of it. It had grown larger and larger, rising to impossible heights. But more imposing than that was the woman who was waiting on one of the landings of the Fort.

She stood there, her hair down, her coat open, both blowing in the wind. A sheathed sword was in her hand, the sheath resting on her shoulder, and he had the distinct impression that she knew how to use it well. Her full lips were pursed, scowling, and her blue eyes pierced him, somehow colder than even the snow that was pelting his face. Behind her stood a hulking giant of a man, black hair in a mohawk that ended in a braid, a thin mustache, and a look that immediately told Miles where his loyalty lied

“We expected you sooner, Major,” her voice rang out, and command in it was clear. This was a woman used to commanding people and having orders followed. Her eyes swept over him.

Miles immediately saluted. “Apologies, General,” he said. He offered up no excuses or reasons for his apparently late arrival. He had none, and she didn’t think that this woman would accept them anyway.

For a moment, she said nothing, then just snorted and turned away. “Buccaneer! He’s all yours.”

“Yes, General, sir!” the hulking man said. He grinned down at Miles even as General Armstrong walked away. Somehow, Miles was not reassured. “Welcome to Fort Briggs, Cub,” he said. “Let’s see how fast you learn.”

Fort Briggs, Miles quickly learned over the next few weeks, was brutal. The rule of the land was survival, and the force driving everything was General Armstrong’s iron will. She was a terrifying woman, and he had barely had any interactions with her yet. He couldn’t figure out if that was because she rejected him as her adjunct, which meant that he shouldn’t count on staying here for long, or if she was just waiting for him to get through with his training period.

Miles had learned from Buccaneer that everyone who arrived at Briggs went through a six-week training period. It taught them the dangers of the mountains, of the winter, and the workings of the fort. Survival skills were heavily emphasized, as was an intimate knowledge of the fort. General Armstrong insisted that everyone know how the fort functioned so that in emergencies anyone could step up. According to Buccaneer—who wasn’t a bad fellow, just a little rough around the edges, and demanding in his requirements—even the general had gone through the same training when she arrived. It wasn’t an order then, though. She had chosen it herself, so that she would be able to understand and command effectively.

Miles could respect that.

However, the woman was still confusing to him. She clearly commanded the loyalty of her troops, almost to a fault. The men were both terrified and in awe of her. The only bad things anyone had to say about her were actually compliments from them, or things that they just brushed off, as one did a minor inconvenience.

She still had barely done more than glance his way.

Today, though, as he trudged back inside the fort, he stopped short in surprise. General Armstrong was standing there, looking over the troops as they came back in. Her eyes immediately darted to Buccaneer, who was being helped in by Stodds and Worshel, even as Lieutenant Jamin was speaking quickly to her. Her eyes met Miles’s for a moment, and he felt as if he were being assessed. Then the moment passed, and he was seeing to the rest of the patrol coming in and she was issuing orders.

The fort was locked down tightly. Everyone went on alert. Northern Command was contacted and anyone coming was ordered back. No unnecessary communications were permitted. It was standard procedure after a patrol was attacked by a Drachman patrol. Miles stayed up most of the night, writing his report on the incident and checking up on Buccaneer, who, Doc assured him, would be fine. He took his turn on the top of the fort during the coldest hours before daybreak. Aside from feeling as if he were freezing his sideburns off, nothing happened, and when he was relieved of duty, he gratefully came back inside. He was barely a dozen steps in, however, when he was suddenly stopped.

“Major.” He blinked, looking over at General Armstrong. She stood there, as if she had been waiting on him. “Walk with me.”

All he really wanted to do was find something warm to drink and go to bed, but all he said was “Yes, sir,” and followed her.

For a few moments, they walked in silence.

“Buccaneer told me what happened out there,” she said. She glanced at him. “He was rather complimentary of the way you took command.”

“Very kind of him, sir,” Miles commented back, non-committally.

She hummed. “Your training period is almost up,” she said. “You were assigned here to be my adjunct. But I don’t take commands on assignments in my fort from anyone.”

Miles just gave a neutral sounding noise. Here’s where it came. She was going to dismiss him or reduce his role. At least if he worked in the lower levels he’d be warmer. He hoped Karissa hadn’t put in an offer on that house yet.

“Instead,” she continued, “I wait until the training period is over, look at the data and recommendations, and then make the assignments from there. Just because Command thinks someone will work in a position doesn’t mean it holds true here at Briggs.”

That, Miles had to agree, was probably true. Briggs was definitely its own ecosystem, and there was no way that Command could accurately assign people to it.

“However, based upon your performances and Buccaneer’s recommendation, I have already made my decision on you.” She paused. “For the last week of your general training, after you finish, you will report to me for your training in how to be my second in command.”

Not expecting that, Miles’s feet stuttered, not exactly tripping, but definitely not a steady gait. “Sir?” he said, questioning.

She didn’t miss a beat. “You’ve proven yourself capable from the beginning. When you first arrived, you were late. It was because you were not provided with the proper equipment. Your coat was substandard, and you were not given snowshoes as you should have been. And yet you persevered and gave no excuse for your tardiness. It was ignorance on your part, I know, but your determination was still impressive. You approached every ounce of training with focus and attention, learning the workings of the Fort as well as survival here in Briggs quickly and without complaint. You’ve proven that you are intelligent and think on your feet. You are capable of accomplishing tasks even without the right tools.”

She pushed open a door, and gestured for him to follow her, continuing to talk. “You are exactly the kind of man we need here at Briggs, and the kind I need at my right hand. It will be a demanding job, but you are up to the task.”

They were in her office now, he realized, and she was waiting on something from him. There was, really, only one thing that he could say to that. He saluted. “Sir, it would be an honor.”

One side of her lips tipped up, as if she had been expecting this. “Good.” She turned away for a moment, and then faced him again, holding out a cup of coffee to him. “Let’s discuss your new duties.”

Miles took the cup, letting its warmth spread out on his hands. Maybe, just maybe, this was going to be a better posting than he thought.