#because otherwise there’s no way your messenger hawk knows to look for a group of kids on a bison

[leftmysoulbythesideoftheroad]

i love when avatar fic writers use messenger hawks as basically email, like if you put the recipient’s name on it the bird will know exactly where to go anywhere in the world. like, that isn’t how that works, but it’s much more convenient and very funny

[azvolrien]

Clearing the Air

One night a week after Asta’s return to the broch, she and Roan have a little chat about their respective pasts. Mostly Asta’s.

TW for discussion of slavery, I guess, but nothing terribly graphic.

~~~

           Asta smiled to herself in the gloom of the bedroom and cuddled closer to Roan under the blankets. The fire in the hearth below had died down, but the room was still warm with its residual heat and that of the chimney, while a small golden witchlight hovering above them cast just enough light to see by. It wavered slightly in the air; when Roan fell asleep it would vanish altogether, but she wasn’t quite there yet. She lay on her back, watching the ceiling through half-lidded eyes, and without speaking she brought one arm up to encircle Asta and hug her in against her side. A faint frown creased the skin between her eyebrows.

           Asta brushed her fingers over her cheek, tracing the shape of the water horse tattooed there. “What are you thinking about?” she said, only just above a whisper. Even that felt loud through the silence.

           Roan’s chest rose beneath Asta’s arm as she took a deep breath. Idly, she lifted her other hand to caress Asta’s hair, teasing her fingers through the ink-black strands. “Two years since you left for Stormhaven. One week since you came back. Suppose…” She shook her head. “Suppose maybe I’m just not used to sharing my sleeping space again yet.”

           Asta turned onto her front and propped her chin on one hand, trailing the other down over Roan’s jaw and throat to investigate the more abstract symbols inked into the skin there, before her fingers finally settled on the designs on her chest: strange notched rectangles below each collarbone and just above her breasts, the one on the right crossed by a zigzag line like an arrow broken in two places, and a disc between them over the top of her breastbone. The linen tunic Roan wore at night was a little looser than her day clothes, and the collar was low enough to show the tattoos that were normally hidden. “That’s not what you were going to say,” said Asta, taking a moment to observe the difference in their skin tones – hers the warm golden-brown of her Hawk Steppes grandmother, Roan’s dotted with tiny freckles but otherwise so pale it was almost white. “Is it?”

           Roan took another deep breath and looked up to meet Asta’s eyes. “No. No, it isn’t. You see… You’re the closest I’ve ever had to a long-term relationship. I did go out with a few other girls, at school and at university, but…” She paused, working her jaw from side to side. “They called it off when they found out I was a berserker. Every one of them. Understandable, I suppose. Most people don’t want to get too close.”

           “And you’re worried I’ll do the same?” said Asta, circling the disc on Roan’s chest with the tip of one finger.

           “I wouldn’t say ‘worried’ is the right word,” said Roan. “Gods, you’ve seen me go berserk – none of the others had. If it scared you that much you wouldn’t have come back here. But… in the dark, at the back of my mind… Aye. I suppose there’s some wee bit that’s feart you’ll decide you made a mistake and go back to Stormhaven. Back to civilisation.”

           “I know what you’re capable of,” said Asta. “I’ve seen you fight, yes – but you’ve always been gentle with me. I’m not afraid of you.”

           “You’ve had enough rough treatment to last you a lifetime,” said Roan. She brushed one hand over the scars on Asta’s back, raised enough that they were clear to the touch even through her nightdress, in case there was any doubt as to what she meant. “If this is your home now, then…”

           Asta leant down to kiss her and lightly touched her forehead to Roan’s, then settled back down beside her, resting her head on Roan’s shoulder. “Civilisation’s overrated anyway.”

           Roan smiled. “So you’re not secretly terrified nature meant me to be some brutal killer?”

           Asta propped herself on one elbow again and studied Roan’s face intently for a few seconds. “Gryphons are obligate carnivores. I’m going somewhere with this,” she added when Roan raised an eyebrow at the apparent non sequitur. “They can eat plant matter, as seasoning or to bulk out a meal a bit, but they have to eat meat; a gryphon that tried to cut it out of their diet altogether would end up starving themself.

           “The head housemistress for the apprentices boarding at the College of Sorcery back in Stormhaven is a gryphon. Matron Inkfoot. All the students adore her – for many of them she’s the closest they have to a parent for most of the year. I was speaking to her one day, and I made a comment that the gryphons weren’t what I’d expected – how some of them were in careers like the military or the police, careers where they were more likely to see combat, but far more worked as messengers, shopkeepers, teachers, bankers, cleaners; almost any line of work where you’d expect a human, there were some gryphons who’d chosen it. Things I wouldn’t have thought would be in the nature of a huge carnivore. Inkfoot sort of cocked her head thoughtfully and said ‘Look at me. Nature built me as a hunter, meant me to fly out after prey, drop from the sky and rip it apart with my beak and talons. Instead I work here, caring for all the generations of children who’ve passed through the College.’”

           Asta paused to brush a loose hair out of Roan’s face. “The point she was trying to make is that… Only animals have to do what nature intended for them. A person,” she tapped the end of Roan’s nose with one finger, “has a choice. And I think, whatever nature intended for you, you made yours a long time ago – long before you ever came to live out here.”

           Roan smiled and pulled her back down in another hug, wrapping both arms tightly around her. “You’re quite wise, you ken.” Asta wriggled free and lay beside her, her head back on Roan’s shoulder. “My turn, then,” said Roan, brushing her fingers through Asta’s hair again. “What’s on your mind? I see you just… staring sometimes.”

           “Me? Nothing.”

           “As-ta…”

           Asta sighed. “Well, you were always perceptive. It’s memories that keep me awake at night, not worries about the future.”

           “Daro?”

           “He is where most of the nightmares come from,” said Asta. Roan held her a little tighter and nuzzled her hair. “But when I can’t sleep, it’s not just because of him. It’s… getting the news about my parents’ accident. Standing on the auction block at the slave market. Coming into Lady MacArra’s office that morning and finding her on the floor. Things like that.”

           “You’ve been through a lot. It’s no wonder it still needs some time to fade.”

           “It’s been years, though.”

           “Aye. And then, sometimes, it’s yesterday.”

           Asta stared unseeingly into space for a few moments before she nodded. “Exactly.” Another pause. “Can I… Never mind.”

           “Hm?”

           “Can I… can I tell you about the market?”

           “You can tell me anything,” said Roan. “Except,” she added more firmly, “that any of it was your fault.”

           Asta breathed a laugh and shifted her weight, laying her arm over Roan’s midriff. “There are a lot of slave markets in the Imperial City,” she began. “More than any other city in the Empire. Most of them are in the Great Market down by the shipyards at the river – you can buy anything there, and I really do mean practically anything – but there are others scattered throughout the city. Lots of different companies and auction houses, dealing with different types of people – different types on both ends of the transaction, the buyers and the bought – but all members of the Slavers’ League. People sometimes think the League is one big organisation, but really it’s a coalition of many different smaller ones.

           “I did a bit of research beforehand, looking at who the different groups were dealing in – I mean, I knew there wasn’t much point going to a company specialising in arena fighters. So I found an auction house that seemed promising, walked into their reception, and explained things. They were… not unsympathetic, in a detached sort of way. I’d already sold almost everything I had left, and had to sign everything else over to the slavers. Everything, right down to my clothes. The only thing I could keep was Pardus, and only because they couldn’t sell it; they still took it, but to pass on to whoever ended up buying me. They interviewed me, finding out things like my education, family background, skills and so on, and took me through to another room for a physical inspection by a healer. They gave me a shift to wear and took the rest of my clothes away. I assume they laundered them and passed them on to be sold, because I never saw them again. After that they just collared me and locked me in a cell at the back to wait for the auction. There were lots of them. Cells, I mean. Not a full prison’s worth, but enough for maybe thirty, forty people.

           “I remember… The walls between the cells were thin. Wood, not stone like the outside walls, though too sturdy to break through without tools. Not much furniture, though more than I’d expected – a bunk with a proper mattress and a blanket, not just straw on the floor, and a toilet in one corner instead of just a bucket. It was late Nivalis by then, just shy of the New Year, so it was freezing outside, but the window had glass in it behind the bars so it wasn’t that cold inside the cell itself. I lay down on the bunk and wrapped the blanket around myself.  

           “I started crying. Partly it was relief that whatever else happened, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting letters and, and visits from creditors any more, but mostly it was… other things. Grief – it was all still so recent, and I’d been so busy making all the arrangements that I hadn’t… hadn’t really had time to process things. Fear. Well, that one’s self-explanatory. Guilt. What right did I have to be scared, when I’d volunteered for slavery and some people get dragged off the back roads into it?” Without interrupting, Roan kissed her forehead and stroked her hair again.

           Asta fell silent, staring into space for a while. Roan just held her without prompting her to continue, and eventually she spoke again.

           “Somebody knocked on the wall behind me. There was a man in the next cell, quite a lot older than me by the sound of his voice. I never saw his face or learned his name, but… He spoke to me.

           “‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I know you can hear me through there. Focus on my voice, and breathe slowly and deeply. You’ll get through this.’ I did as he said and sat up, still with the blanket around me. I was still shaking, only a bit from the cold, but I could stop crying. ‘This your first time on the wrong side of the auction block?’ I nodded, before I remembered he couldn’t see me, and said it was. ‘Not mine. This will be my… sixth. I’m a teacher, you see; rich families buy me as a tutor for their children, then sell me on when the children outgrow the schoolroom.’ He paused. ‘This auction house isn’t too bad, as they go. They don’t sample the goods and they give you a private cell instead of shoving you in a holding pen.

           “‘The auction is tomorrow. They’ll assign you a lot number in the morning, then come and get you from the cell when it’s time for you to go up. When you’re on the block, stand up straight, shoulders back, chin up – this house doesn’t strip you for the block, but people still like to see what they’re buying. Keep your eyes on the far wall. Don’t make eye contact with any of the buyers – you never know how they’ll react.  

           “‘Once you’re paid for, well, slaves are beneath notice for most of them; keep your head down and do your work and by and large you’ll probably be ignored. Not much recognition for your work, but they likely won’t be doling out beatings every day either. If you’re unlucky… Learn how to read your owner. Whatever they do will be over more quickly if you give them the reaction they’re looking for.’ I just swallowed, and I heard him sigh. ‘As slaves, the only protection we have under the law is what our owners give us. We all have to learn to look after ourselves – whatever that involves.’

           “We talked for a bit longer, just sharing stories, until it got fully dark outside and we were too tired to keep talking. Somehow, I managed to go to sleep. I never heard from him again – he must have been an earlier lot, and was taken away before my number came up. I do wonder what happened to him sometimes. I hope he made it out somehow, but failing that, I just hope someone kind bought him.”

           “As far as you can use that word for a slave-owner,” muttered Roan.

           “Mm,” said Asta, and paused for another few seconds. Again, Roan just waited for her to continue. “They came to get me mid-morning. A couple of guards took me through to the auction hall with my wrists tied, but they undid the cuffs before they shoved me up on the block. They weren’t unduly rough, just… brisk.” Roan frowned and her arm tightened slightly around Asta, but she remained silent. “Most of the auction’s a bit of a blur – like the man in the next cell told me, I tried to just stare at the far wall and ignore the buyers, but I can still remember exactly what the auctioneer said. ‘Lot Thirty-Four: Kiraani female; twenty-one-year-old nulligravida, five feet and five inches in height and physically sound. Educated to university level; fully literate and numerate. We’ll start the bidding at five hundred zolots.’”

           “‘Nulli-’”

           “It means I’ve never been pregnant,” said Asta. She gave a rather small, hollow laugh. “Well, there was quite a bidding war. There were a lot of bidders at first, but Lady MacArra soon stepped in and kept driving the price up and up until it was down to just her and one other, then just her, and the long and the short of it was I ended up selling for quite a lot more than five hundred zolots. The auctioneer looked a bit stunned from it all – she clearly hadn’t expected that much interest. The guards took me down from the block and handed me over as Lady MacArra signed to finalise the purchase, then she just gave me her coat – to wear, not to carry – and swept out of the auction house.

           “It wasn’t just her and me – she had her… her bodyguard-assistant with her, this very big, very quiet man called Angus – but he never said a word I could hear the whole time. We all went over to this restaurant not too far from the auction house.

           “She got us a table and waved for me and Angus to sit down. Handed me a menu and said to order whatever I wanted. ‘You look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in a good few days,’ she said, and sat down across the table from me. Daro must have got his eyes from her – they were this very bright, piercing blue, but they weren’t… they weren’t cold on her like they were on him. The waiter came to take our orders, and once he’d gone she kept talking. ‘My family believes I never buy slaves,’ she said. ‘In truth I buy them quite frequently – I buy them, and then I release them immediately, no questions asked.’ She must have seen the panic on my face, because she went on to say, ‘If your freedom is what you want then it is yours,’ and looked at me very carefully.

           “And… Well. If I was some heroine in a novel I’m sure I would’ve taken it, but when the alternative was sleeping in an alley in Nivalis with nothing but a linen shift between me and… anything… Some vague ideal of ‘freedom’ didn’t seem too high a price to pay. Don’t judge me,” she added, half pleading and half defensive.

           Roan just stroked her hair again.

           “So instead Lady MacArra nodded and said ‘Then I will make you a different offer. It seems I am in need of a secretary. Come back to Duncraig with me. I shall provide you with a stipend for your personal use, to save or to spend as you see fit, on top of full room and board. Five years, or until my death; whichever comes soonest. That should give you time to get back on your feet.’ And… I just started crying, but she realised immediately that it was from relief and just nodded again. ‘We have a long journey back to Duncraig ahead of us. We shall need to find you some proper clothes.’

           “And… That’s kind of where the story stops being interesting. We went to a shop and got me enough clothes to get me back to Duncraig, stayed one more night in the Imperial City – she’d booked rooms in a hotel, enough for all three of us – then got in a coach and started on the road back to the Sea Lochs. It took a while, but nothing much happened on the way.”

           “Five years,” mused Roan. “You said you lived with her for five years, back then.”

           “Just short of it, really,” said Asta. “As I said – she bought me in late Nivalis of 2732, and she died in mid-Gracilis of 2737.” She gave another hollow little laugh and cast her eyes down. “If she’d lived for just one more month, I would have been free and Daro would never have been able to do anything about it.” She sighed. “But then I would never have met you. A lot of things have happened that I could have done without,” almost unconsciously, she reached back over her shoulder to touch the scars, “but that isn’t one of them.”

           “Good to know.” Roan rolled onto her side so they lay face-to-face and ran one hand slowly over Asta’s back again, gently exploring the scars with her fingertips. “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?” she asked.

           “A tattoo? Well… My grandmother on my father’s side had some, but she was from the Hawk Steppes; they were tribal markings. They’re not really a Kiraani tradition. They’ve become rather fashionable as Prince Zarannon became more prominent – his mother is Yaigan, one of the Steppe tribes, though not the one Grandma was from – and even more so now he’s the Emperor, but a lot of the older generation still look down on them. Why do you ask?”

           “When I was getting the seal on my back done, I wasn’t the only customer in the tattoo shop,” said Roan. “One of the other tattooists was working with a man who’d been caught in a house fire; one arm and half of his face was covered in scarring, and maybe more I couldn’t see. But once the burns had healed, he’d decided to get them covered in tattoos – not to disguise them, but to turn them into a work of art. My tattooist explained that they get quite a few people like that – people who’d been attacked, had accidents, or just otherwise had something big happen to their bodies against their will. She said it was a way of taking back control, of going ‘this is mine, and I won’t let what happened change that.’”

           “I wasn’t raped,” said Asta quietly. “I’ve told you that.”

           “I know, and I’m glad you did, because I don’t know if I could bear to ask if you hadn’t. But there’s more than one kind of violation. Maybe it would help you… I don’t know. Just forget I said anything.”

           Asta drew in a long, deep breath and slowly let it back out. “Well,” she said, stroking one finger down Roan’s nose from the bridge to the tip, “I wouldn’t want to copy your style.”

           Roan gave a small smile, and her chest quivered slightly with a silent laugh. “I take it that’s a ‘no’.”

           “More of a ‘perhaps, I’ll give it some thought’,” said Asta. She reached up and tugged one of her ears. “But then, maybe I’ll just get another earring instead. This might surprise you, considering everything else, but I don’t know if I have the pain threshold to sit still long enough for a tattoo.” She paused. “So, your tattoos…”

           “Don’t have any tragic stories behind them,” Roan assured her. Her smile broadened into a grin. “Though some of them were pretty sore to have done.”  

           “What was the worst?”

           “It’s probably a toss-up between this one,” Roan touched the crescent on her forehead, “and this one.” The disc above her heart. “Close to the bone, you know. Where there’s more flesh to cushion the needle it just feels a bit like this.” She found Asta’s shoulder under the blankets and scraped a fingernail across her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

           “I suppose you are practically a living pain chart for tattoos,” said Asta with a grin.

           “You’re not joking as much as you think you are.” Roan turned her face aside for a moment, yawning so widely her jaw clicked, and laid one arm over Asta to hug her close enough to breathe in the scent of her hair. Asta curled up against her, wriggled comfortably, and closed her eyes.

           “Any plans for tomorrow?” she asked without opening them.

           “We could take a walk up the coast, if you’re up for it. I’d like to show you the cave where I gather the chert for my arrowheads – it’s a couple of miles away, but the walk’s mostly on the flat.”

           “Mm, that does sound interesting.” Asta pulled the blankets more snugly around herself and hooked one leg around the back of Roan’s knee. “We can see what the weather’s like in the morning.”

           Roan chuckled softly and brushed one more kiss against Asta’s forehead. “Sleep well, love.”

           Asta didn’t answer. The last of the tension had left her body, and her breathing was deep and steady. Roan closed her own eyes, let the witchlight vanish, and followed her into sleep.

~~~

Roan is quite pale despite her generally outdoorsy lifestyle; partly because she lives in Fantasy Scotland, and partly because she’s one of those people who just gets frecklier and frecklier without ever really tanning.

[essence-flux-primed]

ringmaster jack:

That voice…it was familiar, though at the time, he couldn’t quite place it.  He seemed distracted by, unsurprisingly, a street performance of sorts– though one of a more musical inclination then the explorer had probably witnessed of him in recent times.  The man held a fiddle, and though not many were around, a few had lingered in his presence to listen to the skillful melodies he made– and they too followed the musician’s gaze to the out of place blonde who had shouted for him across the way.  It all clicked when he caught a glimpse of him.  He was unmistakable, even from afar– he’d never really known the kid for being tactful, and that still held true to this day.

It had been weeks since he’d sent out that messenger hawk from the ship that they’d stowed away on, a friendly bird he’d found himself bonding with, though he hadn’t the slightest idea who actually owned it.  He could barely recall writing to him, but he knew he did – that whole trip was sort of a blur in his mind considering he’d spent most of it near delirious and bent over the rails, or a bucket, or really anything to contain the miserable seasickness that was always present when he was subjected to sea travel.  Ironic, considering he’d grown up in a seafaring town.

 He looked different, but certainly not unrecognizable to anyone who knew him.  Less abrasive attire, something to blend in with the locals– no colorful eye contacts, no product to keep his hair from taking its natural curl under the briny assault of the island’s air. He also looked healthier than he had in years, some much-needed weight on his bones and a warmer complexion, certainly far from almost dead as his note had read.  The look he gave the younger man was not a friendly one, however– scolding, if anything, and silently demanding before it would avert back to his makeshift crowd, obviously trying to play it off like he wasn’t being beckoned by the boy.  He continued with his song, whether Ezreal opted to continue approaching or not.  It was a somewhat melancholy tune, but captivating nonetheless.  A shame the showman didn’t show off his musical prowess more often.

“I hang the moon that looks to the west,

Tied to your pillow and twice ‘round your chest.

Should the sky thunder, and should the stars mist,

Water the branches that sprout from your wrist~”

⋆ — Bilgewater is ... well, it’s a much nicer place to be now that he’s figured out ways to keep his coin purse from being lifted or pilfered or purloined or snatched or sliced or otherwise stolen (and it took just about that many tries to find something that worked, too). One of the best and worst things about it is always that Ezreal doesn’t need to dress up for it at all—so many people come and go though the set of islands that Ezreal barely stands out at all. Besides, of course, the ways he normally stands out; shiny gauntlet, sparkling personality, absolutely breathtaking good looks ... you know, the usual. 

     He’s here because of the letter. Ezreal doesn’t normally go on weeks-long journeys based on vague notes scribbled onto torn cloth, but Jack has been in his life and  helped him out long enough that Ezreal feels it’s the least he can do. They look after each other, in the end. So when he makes this huge journey and searches high and low only to find Jack singing on the side of the road, he’s a bit concerned. 

     ... But if the stares are anything to go by, maybe now isn’t the best time to catch up. People in the crowd turn to look but Ezreal is well used to people staring at him (again, devastating good looks). It’s the look from Jack that makes him freeze up and, turning in his heel, walk right past the group of viewers. It’s definitely Jack he saw, he knows the voice and the unfortunately handsome face, but there’s gotta be a reason the guy’s been missing as long as he has. And that letter? What if he’s really in trouble? Well, Ezreal can play it cool. Cool is practically his middle name. “Jack, hey!” He says, reaching out and shaking the hand of someone several paces beyond the group of listeners, taking long enough to get there that most people have looked away by the time the stranger tears his hand out of Ezreal’s grasp and spits at his boots. Boy, Bilgewater really be like that, huh? 

     Well, whatever. He’s just going to clamber up a couple of boxes a short ways away and sit down, legs dangling and foot tapping to the eerie rhythm of Jack’s song, looking for all the world like another trader or dealer waiting for the right person to walk by.