#but he's still very cryptic and delights in giving mysterious answers to question

[bookwyrminspiration]

Oh lord that was beautiful and I love how you write Fintan and now I need every drop of him that I can get because he seemed so delightfully nearly insane and addled as if he was flickering thoughts and finding amusement in his insanity and all the cracks along his body and the fire beneath his skin and the way he was loving burning up inside, that was great. He was still so chaotic, too!! I loved him, it was great. It seems like a pretty good leap for his character, going from sexy arson cartoon villain to this a shell of his former self; Still keeping his mirth and his brains but with so many thoughts flickering around like the tips of a flame, burning so bright inside that his candle is almost up. I can't wait for him to snap, see where that lands him, what happens to him when he can't hold any more, when he's burned too bright, when he collapses to the ground in fits of laughter and sobs as his whole life crashes around him and he's stuck with the clashing memories from before his rebellion and from now, how everything he did was for nothing as he witnesses his work crash and burn and only do more harm from good, as he has burnt himself so badly that he can't even recognise his reflection and thinks, for the first time ever, "what's the point?"

He's out of ideas, out of fire, out of fuel, put of life. There's nothing left to burn to keep him running. He's been trampled on and even his most trusted friends have abandoned him to a horrid fate. Some Fintante can even be slipped in as he's brought before the council and can't bare to look up and see the hatred in the inflictor's stormy grey eyes. He's been reduced to a puddle of snot and tears and laughter, worse than a broken mind, and yet. Bronte feels no guilt, no remorse. Only sadness that his once lively and kind beloved sought this route and became so pitiful, so small, nothing

Bronte does not feel grief or remorse because the Fintan he lived has been long dead

Do you have a list of chapters that Fintan's in so far?

!! This is all so sweet, thanks for waiting a little as I answered this as I was going to bed right as you sent it and couldn't answer immediately but!! You're incredibly kind, thank you <33

I was trying to achieve a balance of "something is very wrong with him" and also "he's very cunning and dangerous and someone to be wary of." I keep rereading the way you described him, finding amusement in the insanity and loving burning up because like!! yes!! that's what I wanted!! Despite all that's happened to him he's so enthralled with it all, he still loves fire and he loves to give himself over to it and it's almost unhinged, just how much he doesn't care. He knows when to be careful though, which is what makes the chaos more frightening because you know he's choosing to lose control of himself, at least in part.

The shell of his former self descriptor is apt!! He's still Fintan but he's also...not. He's a Fintan whose been through something we don't know (well, you don't know. I know what it was/is) and it's killing him inside. He wants to survive and to be in control and to let out all the flames pooling beneath his skin.

Also you saying that it's a realistic leap for his character is the best compliment ever, like I am going to be riding this high all day oaiergn. I always worry that I make the characters ooc, or at least unrealistically ooc. I know I change a few things--like deciding there was no romance between anyone--and have had to adjust them to fit into the situation I created, so it's nice to hear that they still read enough like themselves. And I love writing breakdowns so so much, they're like one of my favorite scenes/arcs to write so your detailing of him falling apart and burning down to the quick and wondering what the point of it all was is so appealing, like I love it so much.

Your ask is making me think about the council more because they haven't really been present in the au because they've lost a lot of power due to being moved underground and indebted to other species for their lives. I'm not going to slip any romantic or overtly fintante bits into the au simply because this is a no romance story and I don't want to, but!! a thing I've been doing that I do like is having moments between characters to give them time together out of the romantic context, so I 100% could slip in some tension between Bronte and Fintan that could be read a certain way if you want it to be! Depends on where Fintan's story ends if he'll have the chance to see Bronte again, who knows!

As for where Fintan has been so far: he's first mentioned at the very very end of chapter 19 (as a cliffhanger), then he's present at the beginning of chapter 20, then comes back towards the beginning of chapter 26, stays through 27 and the beginning of 28. He's part of an event-thing that's drawn out through those chapters.

He'll very likely make more appearances in the future, but for now that's where he is!

Thank you for reading and for your kind words, they seriously made my day <33

[itstimetotheorize]

little nightmares 2, would the world have been saved if the Black Tower fell?

A couple of weeks after the games release, David Mevrik, the lead narrative designer, sat down in an interview and answered some much needed questions about the little nightmares 2 game. Naturally, in an effort to maintain the mystery of the world, David proceeds to take every question that is thrown at him and gives a bizarre and cryptic answer in return. The only thing that he does confirm directly is the fact that little nightmares 2 take place before little nightmares 1, meaning that little nightmares 2 IS a prequel!

(link to interview)

https://www.gamingbible.co.uk/features/games-little-nightmares-2-ending-explained-writer-confirms-prequel-20210311

Although this one answer helped fans alleviate some major confusion, it still does not give us the answers needed to determine what exactly is going on in the little nightmares world. As the interview ends, David leaves us with his cryptic answers knowing fully well that we will do everything we can to try and decipher them in order to theorize for ourselves what is actually happening in this world of little nightmares. Now, out of al the things he was asked, one question in particular had constantly left my mind wondering and asking, “what did he mean by that?”

The question I am referring to is,  “ Who built the Signal Tower, and what was the inspiration behind it (both in terms of in-game lore and your IRL inspirations)?”

to which David replies, “The world of Little Nightmares doesn't work that way, creatures and places exist for a reason. In the first game, The Maw exists because the hunger exists, and here, The Signal Tower exists because the need for escapism exists. Sure, in the game it beams out The Transmission to everyone's TVs, but it would be trite and wrong to say that it's only about the ubiquity of screens. It's inspired by this idea of the spectacle; this thing that delights you in order to destroy you, that corrupts the way you see the world and blinds you to the true monsters. We have centuries of inspiration for something so foul, you just need a good pair of sunglasses.”

Out of all the details that can be taken from his cryptic answer, there was always one piece that had constantly stood out to me, “ The Maw exists because the hunger exists, and here, The Signal Tower exists because the need for escapism exists. Sure, in the game it beams out The Transmission to everyone's TVs, but it would be trite and wrong to say that it's only about the ubiquity of screens”

Out of all the words displayed within these sentences, David specifically chose “Trite” and “Ubiquity” in his response. Before, many of use were certain that we understood exactly what he meant, but did we really? when you look up the definition of these two words you would come to find that they mean so much more:

Trite- overused and consequently of little import; lacking originality or freshness.

Ubiquity- the fact of appearing everywhere or of being very common.

what does this mean exactly? it means that David might have been trying to tell us that just because the tower sends out its transmission to the world, it would be boring and unoriginal to believe that the world is the way it is just because there are a ton of tvs  broadcasting a single transmission. So then, if it truly isnt just about the tower and the tvs then what else could there be...or rather...what else is happening in the world that we don't yet know about?...what even is this world?!...perhaps... we have already been given that answer.

In the school, when mono is trying to solve the chess puzzle, there is something within the room that many of us, at the time, had overlooked and taken for granted. This particular item was something so common that we didn't even think about just how important it truly was within the little nightmares games and its world!, what exactly is this item that I am referring to?...its a region map...of the little nightmares world!

for those who do not know, world maps are often divided up into smaller pieces  to better organize them. The map seen within the school, reveals to us, a piece of the worlds geography! 

For the longest time, many of us had wondered what else was beyond the maw, sure we have seen the nest and the pale city, but this map is the first solid piece of evidence we have come across that tells us just how large the world of little nightmares is. What’s even more interesting is that this map, does not have the signal tower or the thin man drawn over it to symbolize their control/influence over the world!, what does it have drawn over every inch of it?... the all seeing eye!

For years we had suspected that an entity of higher power was present in the little nightmares games and for the longest time many of us had believed that the eyes, which were referenced all over the world, were a hint towards that higher entity. In another interview question, David is even asked, “A lot of fans believe that someone, some unseen threat, has been pulling the strings in the world Little Nightmares. Is this the case... and might we meet them one day?”

To which David replies, “That depends if I'm ever allowed to go out in public again.”

When David answers the question, he talks as if he were in a position where he lacks the free will to make his own simple choices, that he needs the permission of another presence that’s currently watching over him... just who or what is this other presence? well... isn't it obvious...its the eyes! 

Near the end of little nightmares 2, after mono frees six from her monstrous form, fans finally get the chance to meet the entity responsible for all the suffering faced by not just mono and six, but the entire world! As the tower begins to crumble, it reveals to us its true form, a gigantic fleshy mass comprised of giant eyes!

Whats even more surprising is that this giant eye entity may not just be located in the black tower. In Little nightmares 1, as well as the LN1 DLC, we see pictures of a similar eye within a structure/building!. 

However unlike the eye entity within the black tower, the eye seen in portraits on the maw appears to be located within some sort of light house...which ironically enough, if you look up the concept art of the maw, you would come to find that the maw had a lighthouse located atop the small island it carries! 

And I know what you are thinking, “but wait this is concept art, it didn't even make it into the final game”, yes, but the fact that this specific art is still seen REPEATEDLY throughout the maw in little nightmares 1 as well as the DLC, could possibly hint that this eye bearing lighthouse might still exist,  somewhere within the maw! What does this mean exactly? it means that even the maw, a large cruise ship that travels all throughout the oceans of the world, bears within it a large entity similar to the eye entity within the black tower of the pale city! What’s even more insane is that these two very distinct eyes, from two very distinct places, could very well be just two small pieces of a much larger mass watching over the entire world as it feeds upon its residents in one way or another! To be fair, we still dont know what exactly this thing is, let alone how it came to be in the world, but what we do know is that the residents of the world are obsessed with it!

David has always said that the maw exists because hunger exists and that the tower exists because escapism exists, but if each place existed from one corrupt human desire then I wonder... are there other structures like them in the world?, and do these other structures revolve around an entirely different existing human need that has been corrupted by the eye entities hypnotic light/spell ?...maybe...

Then again...this does beg the question... If the maw sank and if the tower was left to fall, would we have truly ended the nightmarish world that mono and six resided in or would we have simply ended two very small parts of a much larger nightmare occurring in the world? If the eye is truly responsible for all the suffering seen throughout the childrens lives, then what would the children of this world even do to fight the nightmare that they are trapped in ? would they continue to run and hide, hoping that it is enough to help them survive until adult hood?.... or would they need to accept the reality of this world... take the power that’s there...learn to make it their own and become themselves... little nightmares...

  honestly... whos to say.. should these children choose to make these heart wrenching decisions, would they still be viewed by the all seeing eye as victims?... or would they be seen as threats that need to be stopped before they have the chance to cripple the power it has used to feed upon the world it has latched itself onto....... I guess we will just have to wait and see... but hey, that’s just a theory, a little nightmares theory!

[soft-glitch]

A Tale of Peaks And Void

Chapter 1: Ominous onset

Word count: about 1200 words

Summary: High up in the mountains, on the verge of an old village lives Shadow, a reclusive woodcutter who wants nothing but calm and loneliness. But as a mysterious curse starts crawling across fields and forests, his fate intertwines with a kind-hearted shepherd's in a quest to save everything they hold dear.

- - - - -

The door creaked. It always creaked of course, usually more loudly first thing in the morning when the sun barely reached the cabin to warm its solitary silhouette.

It was like a ritual to Shadow. The door would creak as it opened and he would adjust it with care, before taking a good look at the endless forest covering the landscape. Breathe in the intangible sharpness of the fog clinging to the mountain flanks. Then get back indoors and take a moment to brew some coffee and fix himself some bread and jam.

The mornings were often harsh in the mountains. A cold, misty air would seep from the dew-covered grass, made worse by facetious winds dancing along the reliefs. Shadow was used to this, his thick wool jacket a sufficient help to withstand a day of work in the forest. He did not fear the blazing sun of summers nor the fierce snow of winters.

Something was off that day, though. The hedgehog felt it right away: a subtle hint of wrongness brought to him by the breeze, like a tainted promise of bad days to come. His quills stiffened slightly as he frowned, his intuition warning him of a vague menace from faraway.

Still, he closed the door to get breakfast. The woodcutter was pragmatic: ominous feelings or not, he needed some food to get on with his day. As the coffee pot heated on the old iron stove, the mobian's thoughts wandered. To the young bear who ordered reserves for the upcoming winter. To the old baker who would always give him a smile, tired but genuine. To his forever friend Rouge, and her eternal will to make him move closer to the rest of the village.

He shook his head and focused on preparing toasts. The bat's efforts were fruitless, obviously: the woodcutter was not one to meddle with others. His life was one of loneliness and contemplation, no matter how much his friend would complain, and it was a fate he accepted long ago. The villagers were sympathetic to him and he appreciated it, but he carefully kept his distance.

The fire gently roaring in the stove reflected in the golden bracelets he always kept on his arms and legs.

It's for their own good.

- - - - -

A branch creaked. They always creaked of course, it was a common occurrence in the woods with all sorts of critters wandering the wilderness. But Shadow was akin to a hunter, senses sharp enough to pick up the faintest hints after countless days spent in nature. He knew such a branch would not break under the lean step of a small animal.

After a glance at the tree he was working on to make sure it would not fall unprompted, he turned with a small smile. Leaning against his largest axe, he faced the tall bat nonchalantly walking to him.

"Nice to see you, Rouge." The lady grinned in return, taking a moment to look at her friend up and down. At the dawn of his thirties, the hedgehog had an inexplicably charming aura despite his abrupt demeanour —and the bits of leaves and bark constantly stuck on his shirt. To her eyes, he wasted his days living like some grumpy hermit.

"Hello honey. Figured I would find you around here rather than at your house. – Of course. The cold days are coming fast, the villagers need their wood and it requires time to dry beforehand."

The bat nodded as she glanced at his payload, a cart already half-full of chopped trunks and branches. "Have you considered taking a moment for yourself lately?" she asked, rolling her eyes at the sardonic huff in response. "Surely an ale with someone would not kill you, and I'm quite sure it would delight your neighbours. – We're not neighbours." Shadow growled as he picked his axe again. "The village needs me and I need the village. It is as simple as bees and flowers living thanks to each other. Nothing less, nothing more."

Rouge sighed at the blunt statement. Her friend was not mean-spirited, he was charitable and kind even. But his solitary nature only got worse as time passed, and not for a good reason.

“Ah well.” she sighed. “I see today is not the day I will bring you out of your shelter.” Shadow simply shrugged at the words, giving a powerful but precise strike at the tree in front of him.

“Anyway,” the bat continued as she sat on a large stump, “this is not why I came to see you. I need your help.” The woodcutter stopped his axe in-air, glancing at her curiously. Rouge was the oldest friend he had —not that he had many— and he could hear the concern in her voice as clearly as a nightingale song.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, taking a step towards the bat. “More than wrong.” she replied. “A farmer came to me because his crops are getting sick. A strange illness I never heard of, that turns plants dark and brittle like they were made of ash. – This does sound worrying.” Shadow nodded. He could not remember ever seeing such an ailment.

“It's the third case in a week.” she added with a sombre stare. “All different crops from different villages. They tried various remedies but the fields simply die. It's a slow illness but nothing seems to stop it. The other healers never saw it either, nor do their books mention it.” Now this was much more troublesome. If left unchecked, such a plague could starve families and compromise next year's reserves. Shadow gritted his teeth, the uneasy feeling from earlier growing more vivid.

“Do you know where to look for a solution? – I do not.” Rouge said with a shrug. “But maybe the wise cat knows something about it, or might have a clue to a cure." The hedgehog groaned at this. He could not stand the old one. No one questioned their unexplained powers and wisdom, not even Shadow, but they were always cryptic in their answers and painfully slow to provide. Plus their house was almost two days from the hedgehog's cabin.

"And you want me to go ask them." Shadow stated, defeat already peeking through his voice. "You know the things of nature better than anyone in this village besides me. And while I can fly, you're fast on your feet." she said with a gesture to his carefully maintained shoes. "What will you do in the meantime?" he asked, looking in the direction the village lied. "Study some samples, map where the disease has spread.” Rouge joined hands in a concerned gesture. ”As a healer I can't just leave like that, especially without an apprentice to replace me. We don’t even know if the sickness can spread to mobians. – Fine. I will go tomorrow by dawn," Shadow accepted reluctantly, "just let me finish my work for today. Plague or not, mobians need fire to live on."

With a chuckle, Rouge sat up and deployed her purple wings. "I know that well, do not worry. Come see me before you leave, and oh! If you see good mushrooms, please bring them along!" she exclaimed. "Ingredients for a remedy?" Shadow asked with curiosity. "Well yes, that too, but mostly to perfect my signature stew!" she laughed before soaring through the sparse foliage, leaving the woodcutter alone with his thoughts.

His guts were full of knots as he resumed his labour. His very nature made him sensitive to the whims of fate and magical threats, and right now his whole body buzzed as if to warn him of... something.

Maybe it was a good idea to seek Big the Wise.

[thebibliomancer]

Shadows of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 15

Shadows of the Dark Crystal by J. M. Lee because urVa is a delight.

Last times on book: Naia is on a journey to Ha’rar with Kylan to clear brother Gurjin’s name and warn the All-Maudra about all these dark crystals. Their journey took them through the Dark Woods where Naia dreamfasted with a tree and made the forest less spooky. Then urVa burst out of a tree and invited the Gelfling for a cryptic soup dinner.

Chapter 17

urVa teaches Naia about archery but mostly says a lot of cryptic stuff that Naia and Kylan can’t make sense of. That’s how it be.

Naia has a flying dream.

I swear, this has to be building up to something.

When she wakes up, Kylan is already up staring at the mysterious writing again because darnit he wants to know.

Naia ponders some more whether urVa is truly alone in this dirt hovel.

From the limited belongings he kept, it was hard for Naia to believe he was completely solitary. Life in Sog was very different, with every family keeping their own stock of meat and preserves, ranging gear and ceremonial garments, spears and bola, trinkets and family treasure. The Spriton had lived in communion with one another, too, each village hut full of material evidence of life and family and the village as a whole. Even the Podling burrow they’d found had had that same proof... but should urVa one day pass away, or leave for another place, the only thing left of him would be the bare walls with the writing Naia couldn’t read. And even then, it wouldn’t take long for the wild and the elements to eat away those as well, and then there would be no record he had existed at all.

Somewhere, the Skeksis have just broken out into a cold sweat.

urVa interrupts her melancholy to offer her some ta, which is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. Since it has red steam once the water hits the herbs, which I’ve never personally seen tea do. But as a name, ta still has the feel of caf or choc where writers don’t want to be just so mundane as to have coffee or chocolate in their fantastical world.

Cough Star Wars Cough

Despite his size and dragging tail, he was surprisingly stealthy and was already halfway across the small den’s space, heading toward the kettle. As he walked, his spine snaked in a liquid motion from his head to his bulk.

This. This is some good description.

urVa makes a comment about having all three suns in the sky at the same time which makes me wonder if there’s a time when that doesn’t happen and what that does to day and night.

Ta apparently tastes tangy and like alfen fruit. Fascinating.

Naia asks for directions from the Black River and urVa just gets up and gets his stuff and sets out. He’s a show, don’t tell kinda guy, I guess.

The Dark Woods is some whole other animal after Naia healed it. Full of life and joy and new growth. They’re going to need a new name for it, probably.

When the group stops for lunch, Naia asks about the corded staff and feathered spears urVa carries and he explains that they’re bow and arrows and asks if she wants to see.

They leave Kylan to rest his feet and go to a ledge where urVa can demonstrate.

“Bow -- two ends connected by a single string. Arrow -- head and tail connected by a single shaft.”

“For hunting? They look like spears.”

“Bow and arrow do not hunt; a hunter hunts. I am not a hunter.”

Naia be like ‘doubt’ but she’s impressed when he fires an arrow.

urVa hands her the bow and she tries to use it but the thing is nearly as tall as she is and the bowstring is bowstrung with the expectation of a Mystic’s bulk and four arms. She doesn’t really have success pulling back the bowstring, even without an arrow.

He helps her pull back the string and she manages to shoot an arrow, although it goes bouncing off everything because she didn’t so much shoot it as lose her grip on the bowstring.

Neech wants to go chase the arrow because that’s what he do but Naia settles him down.

urVa chuckled. “We need a Gelfling-size bow.”

Oh there’s a really cool picture of Naia and urVa on the ledge. The art in this book is so good.

Naia shoots off a few more arrows, getting better at it. She also takes the time to examine the bow and how the string is notched, the amount of curve and the type of wood. She looks at all his different arrows too.

Each was unique, with a different engraving or colorful adornment. Some had glittering sea-green scales along the sides, some had feathers or barbed orange leaves. The arrowheads were an array of hard materials, from stones and claws to bone and ancient wood. One even appeared to be made of a tooth. Every arrow was different, made with painstaking care and detail.

I wonder if Naia takes and spreads this knowledge and that’s how archery among Gelfling becomes so widespread that Toolah in Beneath the Dark Crystal can use arrows to solve every problem.

I’d like to think so.

Naia offers to go retrieve the arrows she had fired but urVa just tells her he’ll make more.

She gets really antsy about this because of the craftsmanship of the arrows and how the tradition in the Sog is to retrieve your bola. It makes her feel a little like shit that such good arrows will be lost forever just so she could see how archery works. She goes to climb down anyway but urVa pulls her back gently.

“Ah, Gelfling, little Gelfling,” he said. “Let them go. They were made of Thra and have returned to Thra. Now that my quiver is nearly empty, I have room for new arrows.”

So there was a thing I saw in a magazine profile of urVa that said he was so good at archery because he knows when to let things go and it simultaneously annoyed and impressed me because I hadn’t quite reconciled archery with how the urRu usually are but the explanation made perfect sense and was also kind of wordplay.

But it really works here and it really works as a dynamic against which Naia can butt her head.

She considers sneaking down to retreive them anyway but he just keeps staring at her so she gives it up.

“A stone in each hand leaves no room for a fifth... Mm, or in case of Gelfling, a third. Holding on to things too tightly will prevent you from moving forward.”

He’s just super good at letting things go.

But this also doesn’t sit right with Naia and tries to argue the point that if you let go of the things you care about there’s no point in trying and that there are things that are more important than stones.

urVa didn’t argue, simply bobbing his head from side to side. Though she hadn’t really expected to change his mind, Naia felt a pinch of frustration when he didn’t reply at all, but she kept it to herself. It was fine to disagree, after all, so long as neither of them held the feeling in contempt.

Naia: ‘i came her for an argument!’

At least its not getting hit on the head lessons.

But, the more urVa the more I like urVa. People could learn a lesson from how chill he is.

Naia asks urVa whether the visions and phantoms the Cradle-Tree showed her were just illusions and echoes of her fears.

“Hmmm,” urVa murmured. “Yes and no.”

“Yes and no are opposites,” Naia said, though it pained her to state the obvious.

urVa’s point though is that the Cradle-Tree is a tree and can only show what’s already there. “If you heard it, someone said it. If you saw it, someone did it” but context is key.

This doesn’t really answer the question of whether it was real for Naia but I think she’s getting used to that at this point.

While on the arrow quest, Kylan has been dream-etching the words he saw in urVa’s hovel into his book.

“Smart one, this one,” urVa said with a chuckle ... “What words are for, you know. Passing along a message from one place to another, even when the original dreamer has, himself, passed along and gone.”

The group sets off again and they pass under where the broken bridge was. And nice scenery building, the broken bridge was actually a branch of the Cradle-Tree, broken due to its darkening. Nice. I like that it ties together.

But urVa draws their attention to a figure traveling along the ridge and tells the Gelfling that its looking for them and then shrugs when they ask how he knows.

“An archer knows the path of an arrow from either end.”

Another way of saying a hunter knows when he’s being hunted, Naia thought. At least sometimes his riddles made sense to her.

Naia doesn’t worry about their maybe stalker because there’s nothing she can do about it until the pursuer catches up except pick up the pace which she does do.

They arrive at a stream that urVa tells Naia and Kylan will lead them to the Black River.

“Thank you, urVa. And for showing us the way to the river.”

“May we meet again,” urVa replied. “Even be it in a different form.”

Uhhhhhhm I mean, I like the sentiment here but I have a sinking feeling that he is going to meet them in a different form and its not going to be as pleasant.

Cough the Hunter cough.

Naia: “He seems very wise, but what good is wisdom when it can’t be understood? I didn’t understand half of what he told us this entire time.”

That’s the Mystic experience for you, Naia.

Alas, I’d like more time with urVa but he has other plot to attend to and really he’s like a super high leveled guest party member. He’s a tension breaker. For the good of the story, he has to go shoot arrows to annoy Aughra.

Bye urVa. You were a delight.

[dlamp-dictator]

Allen Rambles about Code of Brawl

Man... remind me to never talk about having a future Rambling in the works, it’ll instantly fall into draft-hell. But anyway, I’ve been meaning to talk about Arknights in depth for a while now, but I’ve never had much drive to actually finish the damn draft of my initial thoughts a few months ago. I couldn’t tell you why, I just lost the drive to finish the thing. However, with Code of Brawl coming to a close and my thoughts on the event still lingering I think I can use it as jumping off point to actually talk about the game. 

That said, here’s the synopsis.

Arknights is a Tower Defense game for the PC mobile devices placed in the world of Terra, where an infectious disease known as Oripathy ravages the land, slowly turning people to minerals in a slow and painful process. You play as the Doctor, an amnesiac military commander of the Rhodes Island pharmaceutical company who fights against the Infected radicals known as the Reunion. 

That’s about as far as I can go in a single paragraph for main story, but Code of Brawl instead focuses on the eccentric adventures of Pengiun Logistics, side faction of the game that’s a seemingly innocent delivery company with quite the ragtag group in it, consisting of the happy-go-lucky gunner Exusiai, the cold and dismissive swordswoman Texas, the excitable and energetic Sora, and the business-savvy Croissant. All led by the charismatic and multi-talented Emperor. However, as their new intern Bison comes into the fold the group is caught in a series of gang wars and organized crime trying to snuff out the company.

And unlike Fire Emblem Three Houses, that really is the basic plot without me sarcastically building anything up. With that all said, I think I can move on and talk about... 

The Story

The story of Code of Brawl honestly has the best and worst of Arknights writing. I think having a story that focused on a group outside of Rhodes Island was for the better. For all the lore blurbs and archive notes we get, I think Code of Brawl proves just how little Rhodes Island is involved with the world of Terra at large despite it’s apparent reputation as a weird and quirky company with some terrifyingly powerful Operators and lofty ambitions. And while I’m still only on Chapter 4 since I’m grinding out some E2 before moving on, Rhodes Island really does more reacting to random Reunion plans than anything proactive with their goals of curing Oripathy. They feel more like a counter military force to Reunion, and a barely effective on at that given the point of the story I’m at. Code of Brawl, being focused on another group with a more direct conflict and villains, feels a lot more cohesive and interesting, as Penguin Logistics’s goal is to just get Bison through his first day and take out whatever force is harassing them this week. 

Penguin Logistics as a whole is a rather interesting bunch of ruffians and seeing them is gallivant around Lungmen trading blows and bullets with gangsters is a joy to read and see. Seeing some of the inner workings of Lungmen society, seeing a bit of the underbelly, as well as getting to see the cast just have more casual interactions with each other is great. We learn that Sora really is just gay for Texas, and the all of Penguin Logistics has only 3 function braincells with Texas having one and Mostima having the other two.  We get to see that Sora has probably beaten someone to death with her microphone at some point given how willing she is to bar fight. A lot of fun stuff.

And then... there’s Mostima. 

Look, I like this story, I really do, but Mostima really didn’t need to be here as far as the story is concerned. All she does plot-wise is rile up Exusiai, drop some cryptic advice for Bison, shows she knows more powerful than she leads on, and is a bit of a deus ex machina for the end of the plot, and not even by that much. You could had replaced her with Chen, Swire, Hoshigumi, ShiraYuki, or anyone else that would logically be in Lungmen at the time. Hell, ShiraYuki knowing everything a being cryptic about it would at least be in character for her. 

And that’s not to knock Mostima. I actually pulled her in my last ten-pull (didn’t get Waii Fu though, and I’m still salty about that), she’s a pretty good and damn near god-tier once you get her to E2 if some of the guides on her are to be believed, though her kit is a little niche for an AoE caster of her cost. However, as far as the story is concerned she shows a serious issue with Arknights as a whole. That’s its constant need to have half of their characters be mysterious.

Mysterious Characters

So, just to give an example, here is a list of characters in Arknights with a Mysterious Past™. These are characters that either have their archive notes explicitly state their past is unknown, or characters who’s past is implied but but deliberately kept unconfirmed.

With that said...

Mostima

Myrtle

Cuora

Skadi

Specter

Shining

Siege

Projekt Red

Specter

Blue Poison

Lappland

Texas (?)

ShiraYuki

AMIYA

Okay, I’m cheating a little with Texas since she has enough of her past implied, but it’s still technically a mystery as far as the specifics go. But you see my point, right? A lot of characters have a Mysterious Past™, which is a nice shorthand to not go into depth about writing their background. Now, you don’t need to give twenty paragraphs on their backstory, but something would be nice. Keeping things a mystery might be nice for the theory-crafters, but for me it’s annoy as hell to see so many character, so many high-rated that really just have their skills and design to go off of, especially with most the cast overall having a pretty simple background to them that are interesting when you read through the lore blurbs and think about it. Breeze is a former noble that wanted to do more good in the world than throwing money at a problem. Liskarm is a protective friend that joined Rhodes Island to make sure the problematic Franka integrated without problems. Frostleaf is a child soldier that wants to do some good in the world after becoming Infected. Kroos, Beagle, and Fang joined Rhodes Island after getting kicked out of their old jobs. You don’t need to be flashy, but giving answers isn’t an admission of lacking creativity. The hints might be nice for the analysts, but the fans would likely want some answers.

Again, Mostima isn’t a problem, and a lot characters in that list do have some concrete hints about their past. Texas and Lappland are likely a former mafia heiresses and old rivals. Shining was likely a highly skilled mercenary before realizing she could do more good in the world with a healing staff instead of a sword. Siege is likely apart of Londinium royalty, but was either exiled or ran due to political turmoil. But that’s the issue, likely isn’t confirmed. Mostima being a powerful character with a mysterious past just feels like a cop out to me. It’s not bad, but she’s a symptom of what some of the issues of Arknights story is. I’m not asking for AFK Arena-levels of lore, just... an explanation here or there would be nice. 

But anyway that’s my main issue, moving on.

General Gushing

Despite that large critique I have, there’s a lot I love about this story. For simplicity sake, because I’m tired of all the editing, I’ll put it into list form:

Penguin Logistics in general was just a joy to see. Watching them in action and just how laissez-faire they are is hilarious, especially when paired with the straightforward and reserved Bison freaking out over the wackiness. 

Speaking of, Bison made for a very good straight man to balance out all the wild antics of PL. He really kept things from getting too crazy by at least questioning the zaniness, and the point when he finally stops caring and just charges in with a crazy plan of his own just gave me the giddiest of smiles.

Given how they discuss it, PL apparently trade blows with criminals and thugs on a daily basis, and since they’re just a delivery company this implies they likely deliver drugs or other hot cargo the mafia and gangs want... and given Emperor’s personality, that wouldn’t shock me.

Emperor in general is a delight of a character. He’s about as charismatic and wild as his aesthetic makes him look. I would legit whale for him if he ever become an operator.

Learning a little bit about Lungmen culture was fun as well, as little of it as we see. It’s my personal headcanon now that the mafia and general thugs of Lungmen don’t mess with civilians because they’re either a sleeper agent under the Rat King’s protection or they might be a kung fu master in plain clothes like Waai Fu.

Waai Fu and Texas fist fighting in the streets of Lungmen is just hilarious and awesome. I honestly don’t know what that says about either of them. Texas is holding her own against a martial artist with over 10 years of experience barehanded, meanwhile Waai Fu is holding her own against what lore blurbs have implied is the former heiress/hitman of a mafia. All the while drunkards and Texas’s coworkers are egging them on. This is the dumb content I live for.

Save for some of the absolute bullshit of the challenge maps, I found the actual game content to be pretty fair and interesting. The Bullies required good defender placement, a lot of the ranged units focused on targeting the helpful buildings that buffed your characters and increased the operator deployment count, and maps themselves had a few clever chokepoints to work with... At least until they started spamming Fanatics.

Bison actually has a pretty solid kit for a free Operator. He buffs a lot of adjacent units, has a no real weakness, his tools don’t feel niche like Grani or Celycon, overall a great unit. Once I finish E2-ing all my main Operators I might build him next. 

While I have issues with her as a story element, Mostima is a 6-star that has instant utility once you promote her to E2, much like Chen and Siege. This is something I’m relieved to say as a lot of my 6-stars aren’t worth much until you E2 them and I’m still trying to E2 some of my easier units like Cuora and Gavial for Chapter 5 and CC.

That’s really all I have to say on that front. So to close things off...

For the Future

Like I always say in these Ramblings, I don’t like the idea of people prattling on about being able to “fix” or “rewrite” something has already been made. It always comes across as both arrogant and ignorant to me. However, I think it’s completely fair to make requests and suggestions for the future. ‘

That said, I'd like to continue seeing side stories without Rhodes Island’s involvement. Both to see other factions in their natural element and because, frankly, Rhodes Island always feels a little out of place when involved in other stories, or at least more of a distraction than a good element if chapter 2 and 3 are anything to go by. I think a Black Steel side story would be nice. Jessica, Franka, Liskarm, and Vanille getting into shenanigans in Columbia or something sounds like a fun time. Maybe have the leader/high commander of the organization as a new operator and they’re a really powerful Supporter than can buff the party, like a 6-star version of Sora or something that gives operators insane ASPD buffs... I don’t know, something like that anyway. Ideally something a little less wordy than Code of Brawl at least.

Anyway, that’s all I have to say. Next time... I’ll talk about something else. Maybe discuss a manga or something. 

See you all later.

[thanksjro]

Eugenesis Part Three, Scene Seven: Nightbeat’s Battle With Cancer

While the Quintesson camp gets ready to break the Geneva Convention over its knee like a cheap plastic ruler, our Quintessential Flying Fucks are watching the POWs pour into the building.

Ryknia- not a part of the comic canon, unless there’s something I missed looking him up- is twitchy about getting all these Cybertronians hooked up with Inhibitor Chips as soon as physically possible.

We get an explanation for the shotgun-style red paint job, and it’s even worse than my initial hypothesis.

The Quintessons are planning to reduce the identities of each individual robot to essentially nothing, so they won’t be able to fight back.

Someone teleports into the room, loaded up with the Chips. Oh happy day! Jolup decides to test them out, by way of stabbing the delivery boy in the neck with one. Yeah, they’re using Transformers to run their errands. Ryknia establishes himself as the serious one, yelling at Jolup for playing around when they still have an entire camp full of robots to beat into submission. Jolup responds… well.

Just kidding, he threatens Ryknia with death if he so much as looks at him funny again. Jolup is the wildcard.

Meanwhile, over in the collapsed tunnel, the Quintesson troops pull Sunstreaker, Hoist, and Grapple out of the rubble. No life-signs from Nightbeat or Optimus, so it’s to be assumed that they’re both dead.

You’d think it’d be common knowledge by now that Optimus Prime is completely incapable of staying dead for more than ten minutes. Nightbeat’s plot armor shoulder also still be protecting him, at least until we figure out what exactly shoved that stick up his ass.

Literally the next paragraph is catching up with Optimus and Nightbeat.

The mental image this creates is simply delightful. Don’t get too cozy now, Optimus, you still need to figure out how you’re going to escape this predicament.

The two of them are stuffed into a very small pocket in the debris, in the catacombs that line the underside of the city, having been used during the pre-war fighting to move non-combatants and the like to neutral territories.

The two have a little time, since they’re effectively trapped down here, so Optimus takes the opportunity to reflect on just how bonkers the last couple of hours have been for him.

Then he asks where his current self is. Nightbeat doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s dead. Luckily, he doesn’t have to, because Optimus immediately retracts the question.

Geez, Nightbeat, tell us how you really feel about the guy.

Optimus instead asks about just what the hell is going on that they would need him in the first place. As Nightbeat explains the situation, he starts getting cryptic again.

Nightbeat, all this dancing around the subject better be frickin’ worth it. It’s almost maddening how little I know about your character at this point.

After flubbing through his explanation, Nightbeat says ‘fuck it’ and just outright shows the mind-wiper to Optimus, who takes it surprisingly well.

Then the question regarding the ethics of this mission comes up. Good thing Perceptor and Prowl aren’t here, they’d hate this. Optimus is confused as to why Nightbeat would take this mission on if he didn’t agree with it.

The answer is that glowing orb thing from Part One. Looks like we’re getting some answers.

Fucking finally.

Okay, so Nightbeat was a Headmaster, right? His head came off and turned into a smaller dude, it was a huge gimmick for years within the Transformers franchise. He had a few of these, one of them being his very best buddy Muzzle. I mentioned Muzzle in Part One, Scene Four.

So, Muzzle got colon cancer.

Towards the end, they shipped both Nightbeat and Muzzle off to Antartica, and then he died, exposing this nigh-immortal robot to mortality.

Nightbeat, what the 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔.

Fortunately, his chest orb doesn’t contain the rotting corpse of a cancer-riddled man, just his helmet. It’s all he’s got left of Muzzle, and he misses his friend terribly.

Now that Nightbeat’s shared his emotional trauma, Optimus decides that he’s going to return the favor, telling him about why exactly he joined the Autobots. Nightbeat believes what everyone else does- it was ★𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕪™★.

Yeah, no, it wasn’t, actually. Optimus just didn’t want to make things awkward when folks started heralding him as the robo-messiah.

So back in the day, Optimus Prime- back then he was Orion Pax, naturally- fought in the State Games as a gladiator. Megatron was also a gladiator, as he often is in Transformers. They faced off against each other, and Orion lost… because Megatron cheated, using an illegal fighting style. A few weeks later, the war kicked off, with Megatron giving the “Peace Through Tyranny” speech. During said speech, Orion rushed the stage, in what looked to be protest.

He just wanted another chance to kick Megatron’s butt, actually. Optimus Prime is who he is because he wanted to punch a guy in the face. Outstanding.

Meanwhile, back with Prowl and the Autobots, Quark’s discovery of an alternate route to the AMC rears its ugly head- the Quintessons are already there. Prowl assembles a small team and they go in. Tacker, Rad, Rev-Tone, Quark, Spindle and Chromedome all follow Prowl. Kup does not.

They catch up with the old-timer in front of Rodimus’ room, where they discover that absolutely nothing’s happened to him. Rodimus is perfectly fine- in a Quintesson-related fashion at least. He’s still completely jacked up and hanging on by a thread.

The other Autobots in the hospital aren’t so lucky.

Part Three’s friggin’ dark as shit, y’all.

They see Red Alert, miraculously still retaining his head, shoved off into a corner. Prowl isn’t taking any of this terribly well, entering a fugue state, while Chromedome gets to work resuscitating the head of security. Chromedome for Prime 2012.

After some explosive defibrillator action- Chromedome is literally thrown across the room by burst of electricity that’s created- Red Alert comes to, and so does Prowl.

Prowl decides to check on the rest of the wards while Kup and Chromedome get Red Alert talking again. He promptly runs into Perceptor, who I guess just decided to waltz into this war zone of a hospital on his own. He gets to IDW Shockwave-levels of ice-cold logicalness, noting the strategy the Quintessons are taking here, which kind of proves that dumping all your points into Intelligence is worthless without a little Wisdom so you know when to shut up.

Rad’s found something- Perceptor brought him along. They go into the operating theatre and find a scene that belongs on the cover of a Cannibal Corpse album.

I think First Aid might be dead, folks. Just a guess, though.

Up above, the Quintesson forces are rounding up the last of the Autobot war prisoners. Quantax calls, demanding that the Matrix be brought to him, seeing as the last team that went down to the AMC didn’t seem to be able to grab it. Maybe because they were too busy stringing up the medic like a holiday lanyard.

Back down below, most of the surviving Autobots are clustered together in the waiting room. Of course, Rev-Tone’s decided to be ornery, and has dragged Quark away from the throng so he can have company while he tries to break into some mysterious locked room.  

Next thing you know, he’ll be stabbing himself in the brain and removing his memories of his husbands just to not have to deal with the torment of it all.

Rev-Tone manages to get the door open, and finds someone inside. A survivor! Who could it be?

GODDAMMIT THROWBACK

Throwback, of course, asks just what the hell’s happened. Rev-Tone answers with his usual tact, stating that everyone’s dead.

Pipes just isn’t allowed to stay alive in a Roberts’ story. That’s just the rules.

The dream team unhook Throwback from his mess of cables and carry him back to the foyer, where Mommy and Daddy are fighting. Kup’s furious with Prowl, who believes- correctly, but we won’t tell him that- that the Quintessons will be back for Rodimus, and that they need to stay put and get ready to defend the Prime. It’s a right screaming match, and everyone has to watch it and be uncomfortable.

This really has been just the worst day.

[anamarialujan]

Patrick Turner Observes

Hello beautiful people! I leave this here, I do not know when I will return, we are close to the end of the course and all exams are hitting me in the head! Thank you for reading!

XII.

He was used to the phone ringing. In fact, the device did it constantly, it was as if always, no matter the day, time or place, the device would look for him and find him. Sometimes he didn't care, sometimes it bothered him a lot. But the sound of the phone came almost with his doctor's name, and it was the signal that someone, somewhere in Poplar, needed him.

But this time, that someone was not in Poplar.

There was no greeting. It was as if she knew he could recognize her voice among thousands of voices. That's why she didn't need a greeting, just a simple statement. He heard, unable to fully understand what was happening. She, so many months away, without giving him more than a few words in a letter to his son, was now talking to him on the phone, telling him that she would return.

He wanted to be selfish for a moment so he believed with all his might that she chose him, that she had not yet spoken with Nonnatus, that her first communication with the outside world, beyond letters, was by phone, and with him.

He listened carefully, as he sat on the edge of his desk and played with the telephone cord, completely bewitched by her voice. Many times he heard her on the phone, but she always had the urgent tone of a nurse calling the doctor. This time, her voice was warm and shy, he could hear her breathing so close to his ear, her breathing a little laborious though he could not detect whether it was due to recovery from illness or nervousness. Anyway, it was hard for him to listen to her beyond the sound of his own heart in his ears. This surprise made it beat like a free and wild horse, made him sweat his hands and feel as if he could jump off his skin.

She said something about living a wrong life but in the right place, and suddenly all the chips began to fall into his mind and he was encouraged to mention his shameful attitude: his letters written with such determination and insistence. He never knew if he said too little or too much, and it seemed good to be honest and ask her.

He did not expect her ragged response in which he guessed a small smile. She read them, and she wasn't insulting him for what she read. 

She considered having read what was necessary. The necessary? For what? The chips kept falling on his head, these continued to reveal a little more of the enigma he had been living in for months.

She had a decision. She wasn't telling him directly, but she was decided, and she was with him.

Then his medical side emerged, perhaps too sharply when she mentioned returning to Poplar by bus. He always considered her capable and intelligent, and strong enough to take care of herself, but unfortunately, she was also stubborn and was showing it to him. No one newly recovered and in the right mind should travel by public transport, surrounded by people with whom they know how many bacteria in their bodies. But she seemed determined to do so and his fear and care came to light in a way that he hated instantly when he opened his mouth.

To his luck and agony, she had the final word, the last lunge to leave him completely out of play:

Forgive me, but I don’t answer to that name anymore.

That simple and cryptic answer left him breathless. She wasn't her anymore, she was another person.

But who was she? He wanted to know it for a long time, and it seemed he had the possibility of solving the mystery only on the other side of the line, but Nurse Noakes' corpulent shadow caught his attention.

Sometimes, he hated his profession very much, and this was one of those times.

Her words before cutting off the communication sounded sad and disappointed and he wanted to tell her that he didn't abandon her because he didn't want to listen to her or talk to her, but she wasn't there anymore. Like a falling star, she had appeared for a moment and just as quickly, had disappeared. He stared at the phone, wishing she understood, that in the distance she could feel how his heart was still pounding and rampant, how his ears remained delighted by her voice, how he was desperate to see and tell her, this time face to face, all the love he wanted to give her.

***

He was always proud of the attention he gave to the patients, how different he was from the rest of most doctors who only looked quickly, made a diagnosis, and left.

However, this time he was like those doctors. The things with Dolly progressed and thanks to heaven Chummy was there, and they both had a friendship that would help the young mother. Therefore, he was not necessary and that was the best thing that could happen to him.

Something told him that Sister Bernadette, (every moment he thought of her, he corrected himself, she no longer had that name, but what was her name? Many times he tried to imagine it, but all the names that came to mind seemed look bad in her) would commit the sanitary madness of taking a bus. 

Just thinking about it, it made his skin bristle, he couldn't even imagine that she got sick again, not with how fragile she would surely be. He promised that he would always take care of her, and this was the first thing he should do, to prevent her from traveling alone with such an unstable day in a transport full of strangers.

He left the maternity home as fast as he could, his head focused on the road he had to take to get to the sanatorium. He did not realize that his own son was in the car, looking proud to be a surprise. He was always glad to see Timothy, but at that moment, he wished the boy were at school or anywhere else.

But Tim seemed determined, and if he thought about it...it wouldn't be bad if they went looking for her together. If things were like his mind, still moved, said they were, it would be better if Timothy was there. He was his family, it was a part of him. He must know what was about to happen, or at least he should know that his father was stupidly in love. It wasn't something a child wanted to know, especially when his mother was dead, but Tim was his son and he had the right. Also, if everything was very uncomfortable, Timothy could save the situation with his naughty questions and occurrences.

He concentrated on the increasingly foggy road, and on answering the long list of questions Tim had. It filled him with happiness that the boy was happy to see her, and that he was delighted by the makeshift trip to the countryside.

“Dad, do you like her?”

He felt that he was choking at the sudden question, but Tim looked serious. He needed an answer, and Patrick wasn't sure he could give it.

“Since when do you talk about liking someone?”

The boy shrugged.

“I don't, but I heard it at school. There are a couple of girls who like Jack, but he likes Tom's sister, which is disgusting because she is two years older than us. Two years! That is so much!”

He pressed the fingers on the steering wheel. He was much older than her. He didn't know how much, but he didn't need to do accounts. The little hope that had been born in his heart began to fade. It was unheard of for her to notice him, and besides, he didn't even know if she had really left the convent or not.

“Dad?”

He looked sideways at Tim. He must tell him, though the chances of the love being reciprocal were void.

“Yes, I like her.” 

He looked back at the road, looking for any sign of her, trying not to think about what he had just said. Tim said nothing, just looked out the window and then stuck his head out. He had not mood to reprimand him.

He imagined thousands of different scenarios. He thought that he would not find her, that he would, but she would not accept to travel with him, or that she would accept but the trip would be uncomfortable. He thought he would find her without her habit and see her in normal clothes, and finally discover what color her hair was. He also thought that he would see her as usual, with her nun's clothes and her head covered.

Timothy shouted and he slowed. Someone was walking along the road, although due to the fog he could not distinguish much. It was a woman, dressed with almost the same fog that surrounded her, carrying two suitcases. She turned, and he saw her.

She was so different, but her look was the same as always. Her eyes, those two lanterns of life that she had for eyes, looked directly at him, and he knew that the person he loved was there, although he did not even know how to call her, how to speak to her, how to approach her. 

She was like an angel, standing there in the middle of the road, looking at him and again, asking for help like so many other times. And he, as an automaton, got out of the car and for a second stared at her, assessing if this was another of his dreams, or reality, thinking if that ray of light in the fog was lighting him or it was just his imagination.

Then he went to her like a star attracted by the sun and suddenly everything was more than clear. His little mystery, the person he was observing first by curiosity and then to discover a little more about her, was there, waiting for him.

He didn't know what to look at or what to do first. She was so small, she seemed so fragile and about to cry, and so beautiful, and he wanted to hug her so that nothing and no one would push her away again, but his reason stopped him. That would have been imprudent, this time his medical side came to save him, and he immediately thought about her health. She was dressed in something very light, and the day was getting worse, and she had walked a lot carrying too much weight. None of it was good for her, and he panicked.

He raised his hand in fear, he still didn't know if he could touch her, but he needed to know. He rested his hand on her forehead, looking for fever, and maybe there was but he couldn't register it because her skin was so soft, and her eyes closed and her face was full of relief, as if for a long time she had waited this little contact.

His questions were whispered, he didn't want to scold or scare her, he just felt terribly worried that things had gone wrong, that he had lost her again. 

She looked him straight in the eye. They were a sea where he would gladly drown. For the first time he saw happiness there. Her face was something else, it was tinged with shame. She seemed more adorable to him than ever. He knew that he could have waited longer and all his life, if the reward would be this: she, so close, she, not being a nun, she, looking at him that way.

He suddenly remembered his coat. It was the first thing he had to do, give her the coat and get her out of this damp and damaging place, so he took it off and wrapped her with it, and he could feel his own scent floating around. 

He still couldn't hug her, but he would do it this way, giving her his coat, his warmth, his protection. She looked even smaller when he adjusted the neck to cover her as much as possible. She kept looking into his eyes, an open look, where he could see many things, so many that he was scared to think of everything was still a dream. He was afraid to wake up in his bed, or on the kitchen table or on the sofa, surrounded by cigarettes and loneliness.

But she spoke, and again saved him from his misfortune.

She knew him so little, and he did too. Despite all the observations, he still knew her so little…

Her barely whispered voice showed no concern, but sincerity. He noticed her swallow hard, he supposed that to say that was a great effort for her, as much as it was for him to pronounce the things he had been in his chest for a long time.

But she, despite everything and against all odds, was certain. Despite all his doubts, his mistakes, his miseries, she was certain of him. This celestial creature, small, blond, but strong and determined, who led a life so different and at the same time so similar to his, was sure to love him. And with her gaze, she begged him to be certain too.

Of course he told it to her, and she blessed him with a smile of relief and happiness.

He wanted to tell how much he loved her, wanted to scream and dance on the road, but she still looked at him, shy and at the same time convinced, and he could see in her smile that she wanted to say more.

So he helped her, asking what he so longed to know. 

Her name was Shelagh. He never thought of that name, and it fit her so well. 

Shelagh, a sweet and bright little whisper.

His own name sounded coarse and boring next to hers, like all of himself, but she was happy, he could see it in that smile he had loved for a long time, that frank smile, full of light, that smile that promised a life.

He wanted to kiss her, seal this incredible and perfect moment, but he was afraid to scare or bother her, or that she thought she was wrong by choosing an impulsive man who kissed her without permission in the middle of the road. 

He had faith that years would come with her and he could kiss her in the future as many times as he wanted. Just a little more waiting.

“You must be very cold, we better get into the car. Ah, there is Tim.”

Her face brightened more at the mention of the boy's name and she began to walk ahead of him, waving a hand to his son. Tim got out of the car and hugged her waist, asking dozens of questions almost without breathing. 

Patrick smiled in relief, his son agreed with this.

Very gently he rested a hand on her waist and she turned just to look at him, again with a smile.

As they returned to Poplar, he felt aching his face for smiling so much, something he had not done for a long time. He could feel her scent and heat next to him, and hear her voice and laughter, and know that she looked at him from time to time, shy but unrestricted.

He knew that now there were many things to do: paperwork, explanations, conversations...But he left them behind in his mind, concentrating on this trip, concentrating on observing her once more, concentrating on being surrounded by his Shelagh.

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Hi!! Can I get a fluffy Masamune fic where he tries to surprise mc for her birthday please? I love your work 😍😍😍

Masa planning something... I feel I can virtually sense Ieyasu rolling his eyes somewhere at the thought. I shall see what I can come up with. @xathia-89 Thank you very much for the compliment my dear ^^.

---

Azuchi Castle town market was lively as usual. The familiar sight of a certain warlord moving from stall to stall checking out the fresh ingredients was one that had the traders smiling and a fair few of the townswomen swooning. 

Masamune Date was aware of the glances his way he wasn’t blind, well not completely. He ignored them as best he could, a few people did speak to him directly and he replied in his typical friendly fashion but as far as lustful looks go he only had an eye for one girl.

Mc... He smiled to himself as he picked up a ripe watermelon remembering the last time he brought one back to his manor and how she took a deep bite of it only to get the juice of it trickling out of her delicious mouth. He felt his blood start to boil a little at the memory. 

The fun they had getting cleaned up together. The failed protest from Mc about how she couldn’t get clean if he was determined to get in the way and spill more on her. How she had blushed and purred in his ear.

“You seem to be in a happy mood today my Lord.” The old seller smiled at him as he spoke. 

“I am always in a happy mood on the market day. I’ll take this watermelon, 3 of those radishes and that bunch of carrots you have tied up there.” Masamune handed over some gold in payment as he received the items he requested and put them in a woven basket to carry them back to the manor. It was one of those gifts Mc had given him after seeing him practically juggling ingredients one day when he was preparing a meal for the Mitsus. 

“Of course. It is always a pleasure to be visited by such a valued customer. Thank you for your patronage, my Lord.” The trader gave a polite bow as Masamune left the stall and made his way home.

“I dare say it isn’t the fresh ingredients that has such a smile plastered on your face.” A chuckling voice called out from the shadows of a building. No need to ask who it was. 

“Mitsuhide. It is unlike you to be in the marketplace around the food stalls. What brings you here?” Masamune smiled happily at the resident kitsune of Azuchi. 

It was true the guy was a mystery but Masa had never felt anything seriously negative from him and believed in trusting his gut on these things so unlike Hideyoshi he was happy to pass the time of day with the man.

“I was just on my way back when I noticed one of my favourite sights. Well, at least half of it. Mc not with you today?” Mitsuhide made a pantomime out of looking around for the Princess.

“Nah, she had some work to deliver so I won’t see her until later.”

“Letting your pet run free... how very like you.” Mitsuhide’s smile appeared to grow as he teased.

“So are you going to tell me why you decided to talk to me or were you really just passing by?” Masa asked deciding it was better to ignore the last comment, if for no other reason than to avoid being the punchline in a more direct joke.

“Observant as always I see. No, I was just passing by on my way to give a report.” Mitsuhide fell into step beside Masa as they walked the last of the length of the market towards the castle and the manors. “Oh, a little bird told me someone has a rather special day coming soon.”

“Someone? Special day? I don’t suppose you can cut out the cryptic riddles for two minutes and just tell me what you are talking about?” Masa tilted his head giving a searching look at Mitsuhide. He didn’t know why he really bothered it wasn’t as if he could read the man anyway. he might as well be a book written in one of those foreign languages for all the sense he made at times.

“Oh, I dare say you’ll figure it out sooner or later. Bye now.” Mitshide increased his pace and pulled away from Masa waving over his shoulder as he turned towards the castles gates. Leaving Masa standing at the crossroads.

“I swear that guy just gets weirder.”

---

Back in the manor, Masamune made his way to his own kitchen. He had plans tonight to turn this into a meal for two. a break in work had finally come for both of them and he would get to spend some time with Mc. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he imagined the look on her face as she enjoyed the meal. Gods how he loved how she looked when she was eating his food.

He was part way through prepping the vegetables when a knock on the door interrupted him. 

“Lord Masamune? Lord Ieyasu is here to see you.” A maid called out meekly from the doorway

“Ok, I’ll be right there.” Masa shouted back, taking the chopped vegetables he had and plunging them into a bowl of water to keep them from turning bad. 

---

“Ieyasu? What is it?” Masa came into the main corridor wiping his hands on a towel.

“Nothing. I was just sent on an errand. seriously I didn’t think that girl could have become even more trouble but she never fails to surpass my expectations.” Ieyasu muttered unhappily as he answered.

“What’s this got to do with Mc?” 

“Nobunaga wants to know what you wish to do about the banquet.” Ieyasu spoke flatly as if it was the dullest thing he had ever been asked to do.

“Banquet?” Masa asked even more confused. 

“Yeah, the one for Mc.” Ieyasu nodded.

“Why would we be having one for her?” Masa’s mind was now running as fast as his horse. Had he missed something? He was almost certain he hadn’t. 

“W-... Hang on she is your woman and you don’t even know it’s her birthday?” Ieyasu’s mouth hung open in mild shock. 

“BIRTHDAY!?” Masa practically screeched. 

“I suppose that answers my question. God, you are both insufferable.” Ieyasu rolled his eyes and huffed.

“When is it?” Masa asked grabbing Ieyasu by his shoulders looking him directly now almost nose to nose.

“Tomorrow.” Ieyasu sounded a little flustered now at the sudden closeness. “You really didn’t know?”

“It never came up.” Masa withdrew taking a step back. 

“Oh? well, I dare say it was the last thing on your mind to ask about.” Ieyasu’s sarcastic tone was not lost on him. Masa could hear the jibe aimed at him. 

“Yeah yeah go ahead call me a wolf all you like. I still have time though so thanks.” Without waiting for anything further Masa wedged on his shoes and ran out of his manor. Ieyasu’s voice growing more and more distant. 

“Hey hang on! You still haven’t... and he’s gone.”

---

Tomorrow... tomorrow... ok I still have time. I have to get something perfect for her. Gods why in the seven hells didn’t I think to ask her when her birthday was? She knows mine. In fact, I think she knows more about me than I do about her... what do I know about her? I know she is the cutest girl I’ve ever met. I know she blushes when I whisper in her ear. I know I love her. Hang on what am I panicking about? 

Slowing his pace he realised he had returned to the marketplace except this time it was not where all the food was. Stall after stall of different items lined the street around him and he remembered each one as a place she would often stop at. 

A familiar fabric trader came into sight and Masa walked right over to the stall.

“Welco- Oh! Lord Date. A pleasure to see you again. Is the young Princess with you today?”

“No, no not today. Today I am on a personal errand. Can you tell me if the Princess had mentioned to you anything about something she might be looking for?”

“Mmm, I remember her saying she would have killed for a sewing machine but I have no idea what one of those is I am afraid my lord.”

“I see.” No doubt it was one of those future things. Honestly though what do you get the girl who wants for nothing? 

He was just about to leave when something caught his eye. “What is that?”

“Oh, That my Lord is something of a novelty. Recently I found I had to diversify a little in order to make a little extra coin and a carpenter friend of mine built that for me as a trial piece.”

“How much?”

---

The banquet was lavish as always. Mc to her credit had managed to charm and delight everyone resulting in he receiving a number of gifts. 

Mitsunari had located some books, Ieyasu had made some tea to keep her from becoming too tired, Hideyoshi had found a new haori for her, Nobu had given her some of his precious candy and Mitsuhide had given her a bottle of sake with a note on it “do remember to share” Yeah... right.

Masa fidgetted as he watched her receive each one by one a smile on her face. 

“Are you ok?” Mc asked softly as she looked at him. What he wouldn't give to have her only look at him right now. 

“Yes, fine Kitten. I think you need some fresh air though.”

“Do I?” She chuckled.

“Yes, you do.” Masa smiled and in one swooping movement stood up and carried her out of the room. Ignoring the laughter and name calling as he left. 

---

“Masa that was rude you know?” Mc attempted to tell him off but failed as she crumbled into the sweetest laughter he had ever heard. 

“I’ll apologise if I have to tomorrow. Right now I want you all to myself.” Masa buried his face in Mc’s nape enjoying the feel of her warmth.

“Oh, you do?” Her voice lowered and her hands started to tease at his sleeve.

“Haha, hang on a second Kitten. That can come later I still have to give you your gift.” Masa took her hand and pulled her towards her room.

“Gift!? you got me a gift too?” 

“Of course I did. I’d be a sorry excuse for a, what did you call it, Boyfriend? If I didn’t.” He smirked as he slid the door back revealing what looked to be half of the market. “All for you.”

“All for me seriously? Oh but Masa its too much.” Mc’s eyes were wide as she tried to take in all of the different fabrics, the art supplies, her eyes didn’t stop darting until they fell on the one thing he wished her to see.

It was a beautifully carved puzzle box. He had seen one before at the docks that a trader had from China but this one was special. It had a carved dragon chasing a tiger around in a circle they were painted n beautiful coloured lacquers. It was the jewel in the sea of gifts. She ran her hand over the box looking at it in awe.

“Not at all. I mean I didn’t exactly have a long time to prepare anything but this is nothing compared to what I have planned for you next year.”

“You plan to do more next year?”  She spun around in shock.

“And the Year after that and the Year after that... every year Kitten.” He advanced on her each word from his mouth taking on a more sensual tone.

“Hahaha, I think we might need a bigger home in that case.” Mc laughed trying to mask her embarrassment. All it did was ignite his desire even more.

“Kitten you shall have a whole Castle. Trust me.” He purred pining her between his arms.

“I always do.”

---

[emeraldtawny]

Edgar x OC: Masquerade (Pt. 1/5)

Okay...attempting something a little different this time around.

So, I’ve never made an OC for Ikemen before but then this lil idea popped into my head and I wanted to write it....but I didn’t want to put Alice through the torture and angst I have planned, so I made a character to fit the prompt~! If OCs ain't your thing, all good. Just for this story (which should be around 4 fics long depending on if my brain has another sudden epiphany), I will be using this OC who I have drafted out already, name and all but shhhhh, it’s a surprise ;3

The angst build-up begins hehehe >:3

The Bright Family business. It isn’t anything glamorous - and hardly something to brag about - yet, to the man behind the closeted affairs, it’s all he knows and all he will ever know if history is to remain the unchanging mistress she is. He learned quickly never to ask “why?”; questions like that would be answered insufficiently, always leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and still does to this day. He’s a natural at this point, being the flawless Jack of All Trades that he is. Emotions are repugnant and make the jobs he does unsavoury, questions never help anyone and the best option is to remain silent and commit to the job at hand. As long as he remains the good puppet that he is, there won’t be any problems - as long as the blood-soaked hands of a sinner are never exposed to the light.

Tonight is a tame job, a simple infiltration into a coveted party for the elites of Cradle. He is to find evidence of possible espionage and, if any spies exist to conspire against the Red Army, to eliminate them without a commotion. He enters the mansion without incident, his clear emerald eyes brightly contrasting against the black masquerade mask he wears, a party theme he can’t help but smile at how perfect it is for him. Edgar keeps his carefully trained smile on his face, flowing through the throngs of people as his eyes scan the crowds and his ears eavesdrop each conversation with pinpoint accuracy.

The sound of a body hitting a table and glassware clinking loudly against other glasses pulls people’s attention to the scene unfolding, Edgar’s included. An older gentleman has a woman pushed against a table, his arms on either side of her enclosing her in. Her face hardly seems phased by the man’s incredibly aggressive actions, yet she attempts to free herself by grabbing his arm. He shoves her rather forcefully back, her hips hitting the table with a thud clearly resonating pain, yet still, the woman remains impassive.

(How very intriguing.)

Despite his priorities lying with his family duties, his gentlemanly upbringing - as well as his interest in this enigmatic woman - pulls him towards the discourse. As he gets closer, the man’s rushed, semi-slurred words become clearer.

“You woman are all the same. All you want is money and expensive jewellery, so why the hell are you turning my offer of everything you could ever want down?!”

(Ah, a man trying to save his fall from grace by shifting the blame. How boring.)

The woman’s response, however, makes him have to repress the sly quirk of his lips. “Because that would require me being within metres of you for long durations. No amount of money is worth that torture.”

Her delivery in the most aloof tone causes the man’s rage to peak. “Why you--!”

“Pardon me, sir.”

It is now that Edgar intervenes, the two sets of eyes moving from each other to focus on him. Edgar assesses the woman, her lavender eyes piercingly bright beneath her jet black mask, the edges adorned with golden feathers. The man seems flustered to have been interrupted but maintains a haughty demeanour against Edgar.

“What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy reprimanding this lady’s unsavoury manners?”

Edgar’s eyes move to the man now, his calculated smile constructed perfectly to give no hint of weakness away, “I was just going to thank you for entertaining my date. I was running late and couldn’t notify her in time, but I appreciate you keeping her company before I arrived.”

While the man seems taken aback and confused, the woman’s eyes remained locked on Edgar in a gaze that could only be described as analytical.

(Let’s see if my hunch about you is correct, shall we?)

Edgar’s lips curl into a more dazzling smile, holding his hand out to her. “Shall we be off then, my darling?”

Her eyes move to his outstretched gloved hand then back to his eyes, hues of green and purple conversing silently through vision alone. Then, as naturally as one could imagine, she takes his hand and moves to stand beside him, her free arm looping around his in a way reminiscent of couples, love one would dare say. The man baulks, completely stunned as the two saunter off as if nothing ever occurred.

Out of earshot, Edgar grins as he guides the mysterious woman adorning his arm through the ballroom. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. You don’t need to feign sympathy for me. I appreciate the help though, so thank you.”

He chuckles in response. “That’s an awfully bold assumption you’re making of someone you’ve only just met.”

She meets his gaze, an almost apathetic look in her eyes, “I consider myself quite good at reading people, as I’m sure you think so of yourself.”

(Well, well...she is just as I thought. Curiouser and curiouser.)

Allowing himself this slight diversion to his goals at hand, he guides her into the middle of the ballroom where couples move and sway to boringly dull orchestral music. Sensing his intentions, she releases his arm and Edgar takes the opportunity to pull her towards him, his hand resting reservedly on the curve of her waist as they stand in a ballroom dancing position. They meld perfectly into the crowd as they dance, becoming nothing more than two more faces in a nameless crowd; a perfect opportunity for discussions.

“You’re a curious girl. At a distinguished party for Cradle’s finest, and you’re here alone and already causing an uproar. Just what are you planning?”

She remains silent, simply keeping her eyes locked on his own as they move perfectly in sync with each other and the music, anyone watching their dance enraptured by the precision and perfection of their almost fluid-like movements. After a twirl, she leans in close as if having lost her balance, whispering discreetly, “Why would I tell the Jack of Hearts my reasoning for being here?”

Any other soldier would pale at their mission being uncovered, but Edgar simply chuckles, the sound almost delightful in a bone-chilling way. He wraps his arm tighter around her waist, holding her close enough for his hair to brush against and tickle her cheekbone as he whispers back, “So I know for sure what your objective is, and if it conflicts with my own.”

Edgar was expecting her lithe body to tense in his grip, her breathing to catch or at least shorten. Yet here she is, her eyes as calm and as emotionless as….as his own. It’s her turn to lean closer, to let the strands of hair that hang free from her partial updo brush against his skin, to hear her lips part to take in a breath before she whispers, her tone still calm despite the clear implications in her actions.

“White suit, red tie. In the far right corner. He’s who you’re after.”

“What--?”

Before he can even formulate a question, she pushes against his chest to free herself from his grip. He thinks to grab her and demand an answer to her cryptic clues, but thinks better of it; he’s already given himself more leeway on this mission than is necessary so any lead to reach his goal is one he will take advantage of. The woman, nameless and enigmatic, turns and walks back through the crowd, Edgar’s eyes lingering on her as she’s swept into the mass of people.

His eyes move to the corner of the room, a man in a pristine white suit and a blood red tie, his demeanour obvious to Edgar of his hushed whispers and failed attempts of being discreet.

(Got you.)

…

As Edgar leaves the building, his gloves removed and carefully disposed of, he can’t help but think back on the odd night that has occurred. Espionage was in play and he quelled any chance of it rearing its ugly head, enough of a reason to be satisfied, albeit in an empty, hardly fulfilling way. However, his way of obtaining the information he needed still sticks out in his mind.

Coming and going as quick as the wind, breathing a message to steer him towards his goal before leaving without a trace. Once again, she becomes just another faceless human in this hardly unique world. But for that brief moment, her individuality shone through, and Edgar couldn’t help but reflect on it.

(She knew who I was and what I was doing. If she was just guessing of my title as the Jack of Hearts, then I would have been liable to believe her...but she also knew who I was looking for.)

His delicate eyebrows furrow as his face is set in a hard frown, infuriatingly unable to reach a conclusion that makes any sense. Resigning himself to reaching no end to his stream of unanswerable questions, he sets off back to the Red Army headquarters, an odd feeling of relatability flickering softly in his chest.

For just a moment when that woman didn’t back down from his clear threat, when she just stood there and stared at him without an inkling of fear, he was reminded of himself; Edgar saw himself in her, this feeling of connecting with someone whose name he doesn’t even know foreign to the man who has been trained since birth to keep everyone at arm’s length. The thought makes him laugh, the sound melancholic and far from the feelings a laugh usually elicits.

(I’m not even worth the ground I walk on. My hands have caused so much strife that Hell likely has a seat reserved just for me.)

He smiles once again, the masquerade mask not the only concealment of the Jack’s true face. One final thought crosses his mind as he drifts off into the night.

(I’ll find you somehow, and then you’re going to tell me everything.)

[oosteven-universe]

Midnight Mystery City of Ghosts #1

Midnight Mystery City of Ghosts #1 Alterna Comics 2019 By Bernie Gonzalez Lettered by Wes Locher     Phantoms, spectres, spirits, and ghosts! Detective Zeke King has crossed paranormal paths with all of them in his search to explain the unexplained. But after being kidnapped and forced to work a cryptic case involving a dead man floating in the river, Zeke's latest adventure may be his last!     There are a few things I like about Alterna and that’s the fact they print in newsprint for that old school feel which keeps costs down. Then despite the publisher himself the talent that we get to see here is extraordinary. Bernie has impressed the heck out of me and I am genuinely enamoured with the series. Zeke is an interesting man and a wonderful character and that he didn’t start out to be someone who was involved with the paranormal but fate had other ideas. That he keeps going and knows but doesn’t understand it all is a great avenue to have taken with this character.     I am thoroughly enjoying the way that this book is structured. So by picking up with Zeke after being kidnapped where he meets a man who does a lot asking questions while providing very few answers. Two things here A. I love that we all feel the same way about this man, Ambrose and B. that suddenly Zeke is now a silver fox and one of the sexiest older men in comics today. The way that the story flows through these pages is incredibly well done, the ebb & flow of information and madness and sheer storytelling has this wonderful effect on the reader.     With the story & plot development being what it is and the pacing which is excellent there is also the character development of if you will the characterisation. Now as much as Ambrose likes to posture we get an immediate sense of who he is at his core and that while mainly from the dialogue but also from the design of the character. Now that Zeke is a tortured soul and with the last arc had a falling out with Gus but all of this really does keep him growing and evolving before our eyes and that Bernie is able that going like his is amazing. I love that we get to keep seeing different sides to him that emerge because of all he’s been through.     The interiors here are pretty marvellous in their own right. The linework is wonderful and the way that it’s utilised so that we get this superb attention to detail makes this absolutely delightful from a visual aspect. Plus getting to see the carnival at night like we do with the colour work and the atmosphere created is something unexpected. I love how the work on the people is done so that they increase the characterisation of the writing and that’s something that as a full on creator can only come from Bernie. The utilisation of the page layouts and how we see the angles and perspective in the panels show a stupendous eye for storytelling. The colour work is gorgeous as it has that four colour style that accompanies newsprint so well it’s really the way that colour blocking is utilised that makes the most out of what we see. Add in the creativity and imagination that we see and you’ve got an all around stellar package. ​     From the momentary glance at his new employer raises new questions about who came out that fire in the greenhouse. Also getting to see Caspar and Roland still lurking around giving us another clue to the identity of the man we saw and what their interest and plans are now remaining aloof just add another layer to the story. With Wes’ lettering and the way we see everything in the writing and the artwork here it’s no wonder why this has become one of those series I get excited about now.

[raiswanson]

Annual Writing Self Evaluation: 2017

Tagged by @universalfanfic, ooooh thank you!

I’m just going to tag in all the usuals I can think of at the moment @__@ everyone is welcome to fill this out though! @typeaadventures @helenpowers @jesse-is-inarguably-purple @h-brook-writes @bambmazing @my-words-are-light @scribbledwriting @tangledlinescrumpledpaper @otramble @prycarious @brynwrites @tundra-tiger @lilymaidofgallifrey @acfawkes @byjillianmaria @christinawritesfiction @audreyroseb

*All answers should be about works published in 2017

1.) List of works posted last year

Posted? None. I don’t post my work anywhere, aside from sharing Pryza with a few writing friends for general review.

2.) What work are you most proud of and why?

Dancing Sands, not only because it’s the first thing I’ve completed and been satisfied with, but because I wrote that bastard in 2 months, pre-planned almost nothing, hit 190k, and genuinely feel that it came out really well and will only need minor alterations to be the best it can be. (minor as in it will ultimately be the same, but smoother and refined)

3.) What work are you least proud of and why?

Dragon’s Totem. I could have done better last NaNo, and I was definitely pushing it to keep a stable word count even though I was still hung up on another story/probably needed a break from blasting through 80k-ish the month before. It came out forced, and will still need tons and tons of repair work to make up for the mess I made of it. Not to mention it feels like it drags a lot.

It could be so much better and I just don’t know what to do for it :/

4.) A favorite excerpt of your writing

Enjoy some Maika being....Maika. ;p

  Rewill looked immensely pleased with himself when I finished dressing and stepped out of the room with a sulky expression, arms crossed and shoulders bunched at my neck. He motioned for me to turn despite the death glare I was trying to melt him with, and I made a half-assed attempt to indulge him. He clapped once I was facing him again, and I stood sulking at the genuine delight on his face.

  “I’m not cheering for yours. I want you to know that,” I grumbled, gesturing to the suit he had thrown over his shoulder. Not missing a beat, he grinned back and lifted the article in question.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s just a tux. Nothing special,” he agreed, then gestured to me. “That fits alright, right? It looked your size but if it needs fitting they offer that service,” he asked. I blinked in surprise and uncrossed my arms to take another look.

  “Actually, it fit perfectly. How’d you call that so well?” I asked as he moved into the dressing room.

  “Oh, I just have an eye for that sort of thing.”

  “Is that a dodgy way of saying you have a clothing-size recognition program in your fake eye? Because that’s what it sounds like. And that’s weird,” I said, making the cyborg’s cackle fill the waiting room.

~

  “Aw, c’mon, this isn’t so bad. It’s nice to see you in heels again!” Rewill insisted as we filed into a station hover-rickshaw to ride to the docks. I settled into my seat as far from him as possible and crossed a leg over my knee to give him a sour look.

  “I’m going to stomp you with these heels if you don’t stop being so damned cryptic about what we’re—”

  “Hey, there are people that would pay for that kind of treatment from a woman that looks like you,” Rewill blurted with a playful nudge. My breath exploded out of my lungs, and I choked on my words a while before I could even process what he’d said with such a stupid grin.

  “Wh-what? You—  Rewill Lase, watch your tongue or I’ll rip it out of your unthinking head—”

  “Just a little longer, okay Mai? You’ll know what we’re up to before it matters, I promise,” he assured me over my sputtering. I chewed the inside of my cheek and glared him down, calming somewhat to see he’d sobered. Clucking my tongue, I turned my gaze to the passing view of the station below.

  “Fine. But, Rewill?” I waited long enough to ensure he was listening, then pointed one painted nail--further courtesy of his mysterious influx of wealth--at him as threatening as I could. “Stop calling me that or I will put one of these heels through the back of your metal head,” I warned. To my chagrin he only laughed and gave my curled up-do a gentle ruffle.

  “Man, I really did miss that while I was running around in the dust storms. Never change, Miss Sumi,” he replied, snatching his hand back when I reared on him. “Ack! What?! What’d I do?! I didn’t say it!” he protested as I cocked an arm back.

  Even the android driving the rickshaw winced at the thump that followed.

5.) Share or describe a favorite comment you received

@typeaadventures put me into freaking tears with these three words

But seriously all of the feedback I’ve gotten on Pryza thus far has been glorious and I’m so happy with what I’ve gotten back on it. All of it. Perfect. Love you guys. Your enthusiasm and wonderful comments saved the project. I mean that.

6.) A time when writing was really, really, hard.

LAST NOVEMBER WAS PRETTY DANG BAD NGL

I re-learned that when I got on a crazy burst with my writing, I need to take a break afterward or I crash and burn and lose more time than I would have if I’d just sat back and let myself rest. (Will this stop me from pushing myself again next time? Probably not. I’m a workaholic until I’m literally too stuck to move, and even then I gripe and wish I was writing)

7.) A scene or character you wrote that surprised you.

 I’m always surprised. Things never go according to plan. Never.

But to cite an especially surprising character, there’s always Iwiw, from Dancing Sands. When I planned his character he was supposed to be fairly stiff and serious/stern, super professional, very dry. Y’know, that character that isn’t any fun. But, when he finally swaggered into his introduction paragraph he was anything but. He was biting and witty and brought more life to things than I ever would have expected, and turned into basically the darling of the whole book.

damn you, Iwiw.

8.) How did you grow as a writer last year?

Well I learned that I CAN in fact complete a book if I try hard enough, and ironed out a few punctuation errors I’ve allowed to perpetuate for far too long. So that’s good.

9.) How do you hope to grow as a writer this year?

Uhh I dunno learning how to complete books FASTER would be a nice improvement ;p

10.) Who was your greatest positive influence last year?

The tiny writers group I made on discord with the remains of a camp nano cabin. As stated above, I love you guys. My creativity train had been running on fumes for a while and you were (and continue to be) a heaping pile of coal on the fire. Thank you so much for giving Pryza a try <3

11.) Anything from your real life turn up in your writing last year?

No, that doesn’t really tend to happen. I kinda make an active effort to ignore real life when focusing on writing. I want to enjoy my fictional world, yknow?

12.) Any new wisdom you can share with other writers.

Uh. Idk about NEW, but... Look, you can follow all the advice you want and listen to as many tips and tricks that you can find, but you need to remember that it’s your story you’re writing, and no one knows what’s best for it but you. Listen to advice, but make the ultimate call yourself. No one can tell you the RIGHT way to write something--they can only tell you what they think works best for them. If you disagree, neither of you are wrong. You just have differing views. This is okay.

Above all, write what makes you happy.

13.) Any new projects you’re excited to start this year?

Book 2 of Pryza is singing to me from the distance like a siren, and while they aren’t new I am looking forward to revisiting Truant Goddess to clean it up and I really hope to finish Lovely Teeth at last. :)

[ripplestitchskein]

Whether We Wake or Sleep part 7

Part One     Part Two     Part Three     Part Four   Part Five     Part Six

On AO3

Word Count: approx 11K+   Rating: Teen & Up  (Will be Mature or Explicit in later chapters)

Summary: A canon-divergence set after Killian and Emma return to Rumpelstiltskin’s castle, an expanded epic Captain Swan adventure. Killian and Emma must work to break a new curse, one with an unsettling timeline, and align themselves with friends and foes alike. 

Notes: My everlasting and undying love to my instrumental wife @caprelloidea​ for the read through and the expert beta. And my love to Mandy @thesschesthair​ for my beautiful banner that always makes me smile. 

_____

Maleficent’s answering smile was every bit the reptilian creature that lurked beneath the bubblegum and lollipop exterior before them. She paused for a moment, twirling the bottle idly in her hand.

“My sleeping curse requires a very rare and difficult to procure ingredient. One that is out of my reach now. But if you want more of this potion, then you two will need to fetch it for me.”

Killian slouched, indolent, his eyes already rolling. Emma could tell though, by the set of his jaw, the faint white of his knuckles as he gripped his belt, that he was far more on edge than he appeared, deliberately not looking at her again.

“I'm sure it will be just as simple as popping down to the village market. We’ll make a day of it,” the false cheer and wide blue eyes had unease stirring in her stomach. The arrogant pirate captain of old making an appearance never boded well, brought out when things were particularly dire, when he had few other options at his disposal, but rarely was it because of her decision. It was clear he didn't want her to take this path and it seemed wrong to have him doubt her, to not have his full support.

 “Not quite,” Maleficent was all teeth.

 “What fearsome hell creature are we to slay then?” Killian asked. “Or is this an errand of the rob and run variety?”

 “Nothing quite so dire,” Maleficent eyed the pair of them. “Have you heard of the Forest Mother?”

 Emma and Killian both said “No” in unison but where Emma’s was an answer to the question, Killian’s was a firm declaration of intent. Maleficent’s eyes danced at him.

“Then I'm sure you understand the… difficulties in acquiring it myself,” she addressed the statement to Killian alone.

 “Well I don't,” Emma snapped, impatience and exhaustion threatening what little sanity she had. She was tired of these little meetings of the Super Cryptic Enchanted Forest Club, tired of being on the back foot, beholden to wicked witches and ridiculously poofy sorceresses and never knowing at any moment what fresh new horror awaited them. Tired of feeling like her judgement was impaired, like nothing she did was the right choice. Mostly she was just plain tired. She just wanted to go home, she just wanted to sleep.

 “And I don't care. Charles give her the map.”

 “Love, I don't think-” he started but Emma glared at him, cutting off the coming protest. He sighed, resigned, and shuffled a bit, reaching into the satchel crossed along his chest with jerking, frustrated movements.

 “Forest Mother doesn't sound particularly frightening, I think we can handle it. Mark where we need to go and tell us what the hell we need to get,” Emma bit out.

 Maleficent laughed, tinkly and mocking, enjoying their division. She took the reluctantly offered map.

 “Of course, dear,” she waved a hand, a ridiculous purple feathered quill appearing between her fingers to scrawl a rough circle on the parchment with a pleased flourish. It reminded Emma of contracts signed in blood, of  souls given away for dark promises. Maleficent let the feather play across her lips for a moment, very much enjoying herself, before vanishing it away. Killian took it back with a false smile, his hand fisting around it as he stuffed it back into his bag.

 “But that won’t be enough,” she crooned. “That forest is where the witch lives but she will be much more difficult to actually find.”

 “Of course she is,” Emma said rolling her eyes. “So how do we find her?”

 Maleficent waved her hand again, a small ball of yarn appearing where the quill had been. It seemed to glow with a golden internal light, definitely not for blankets then, and Killian took this as well, eyeing it skeptically.

 “When you reach the Dark Forest this will guide you to her.”

  “What are we asking her for?” His question was asked with clenched-teeth reluctance, practically vibrating with tension. It was evident he was very much not in favor of this course, and that was particularly troubling considering his usual willingness to do whatever was necessary, despite his or her concerns. It was also extremely aggravating, exhaustion spiking against her nerves. She glared at him, and he looked momentarily cowed, giving her a glance of apology even as his hand squeezed around the yarn, the light glowing between the spaces of his fingers.

 She had seen him brave many terrible things, charging forth without a thought to his well being firsthand. Whoever this “Forest Mother” was he did not want to tangle with her and that was perhaps the most unsettling part of an already terrifying day. Wanted posters on the road, that terrifying climb, a dragon witch, and now some mysterious forest dweller who made him look like he’d rather eat glass than make her acquaintance.

 “The horn of a black unicorn.”

 Emma snorted, her discomfort and Hook’s conflicting behavior forgotten.

 “A unicorn? Seriously? Do you need us to jaunt over to Candyland and steal some gumdrops from Lord Licorice as well?”

 “Not a unicorn,” Maleficent said ignoring her, not even batting an eyelash at what was surely a rather bizarre and definitely not timeline friendly statement. Emma was too exhausted to care anymore.

 “A black unicorn. An aberration, born of darkness and cursed by death himself.”

 “How cheery,” Emma rolled her eyes again. “How much is this unicorn horn going to cost us?”

 “I don't set the price,” Maleficent said. “She’ll let you know.”

 “So something between a farthing and our immortal souls,” Killian said, all sarcasm. Maleficent looked completely unsympathetic.

 “Do you want my potion or not?”

 Killian opened his mouth, no doubt an eloquent description of exactly where the witch could put her potion poised to come out, but Emma was faster.

 “I do. We’ll follow your sparkly ball of yarn and get your stupid evil unicorn horn or whatever,” she stepped in front of him and held out her hand.

 “Just a little taste,” Maleficent beckoned her forward, her voice soft. “To ensure you come back.” She paused. “Well, if she lets you that is.”

 Emma looked down at the bottle once again in the woman's hands, at the long needle she drew out of it, fear rising along her spine. It was thick and wickedly sharp at the end, made of blackened wood, like the spindle of a spinning wheel. Visions of green smoke and raven’s eyes, a pretty cartoon princess caught in a trance flashed through her mind. She had never been a fan of that particular movie as a child and even less so now, facing a needle held by the main attraction.

 “Em-Leia, are you sure you want to do this?” Killian asked quietly behind her.

 She didn't look at him, couldn't look at him, lest her resolve crumble, stepping forward towards Maleficent as her answer instead.

 The sorceress’s hand was icy cold as she took Emma’s in her own, freezing against her skin as she slowly turned her palm up, holding the needle above it.

 “Just a little prick,” Maleficent murmured, and pressed the tip into Emma’s thumb.

 It stung, a sharp stick of pain, and blood welled, dripping down the slope towards her palm as she tried to pull back with a hiss, but it was short lived.

 Emma’s knees buckled suddenly beneath her as a wave of pure sensation washed along her body in a rushing tide. It poured down from her scalp to her toes, an all encompassing ecstasy, a drowsy sort of liquid honey heat filling her up, spilling over. Killian was there in an instant, catching her in his arms, her legs unable to support her as she turned, sagged into him, and moaned against his chest.

 It was the most incredible feeling in the world, a building sort of energy beneath her skin, sparks of heat at the edges setting her alight. She could feel every nerve, every point of contact between them, and she shifted further into his space, unable to help herself, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her cheek to the firm hot skin between the vee of his shirt. She was on fire with it, drawing in his warmth, the feel of him beneath her, letting it coalesce with the pleasure sinking into her bones.

 “Oh my god,” Emma panted out against him. He tensed, clutching her tighter with his arms. When she looked up at him, his jaw was set again, his eyes darker, searing into hers, conflicted worry set on his face. Emma swallowed, and grabbed blindly at his shirt, fingers scrabbling across his chest. Her legs felt even weaker if that was possible, no longer sore, and the world was sharper and brighter to her eyes, everything honed around the edges.

 Maleficent’s dark knowing laugh pulled Emma away from it, away from him, had her jerking out of his arms with sudden realization. She was practically climbing the man, and he looked tense and conflicted when she darted her eyes back up to his. He shuffled uncomfortably in place, still clutching the ridiculous ball of yarn. She couldn't care very much though, fleeting thoughts of consequences vanished in an instant, a concern for another day. She couldn't be bothered to worry. Not when she felt like this. Like she had awoken from the world’s best nap, like sheets warmed to body temperature and lazy Sundays in bed, orgasmic delight suffused and concentrated in its purest form. She was boneless and weak with it, but energized as well, electric heat zipping along her limbs. She felt like she could do anything.

 “Don't get used to it dear,” Maleficent's said dryly her eyes raking over her. “The next time is never as incredible as the first.”

 She looked almost sad, glancing down at the bottle clutched in her hand, her face yearning with memory. That was scarier than anything. Emma had spent enough time on the streets, had dealt with enough of the seedier sides of life to know the look of an addict, the hollow emptiness and resignation of the recovered. She almost felt sorry for the witch, and very, very unsure if this was a good idea.

 Maleficent closed her fist around the glass.

 “This is not a cure, mind you, it will only… temporarily mask the symptoms. As soon as that little taste wears off the curse will hit you again, like you had never taken this at all.”

 The thought of going back, of feeling that terrible ache, the helpless fog, or worse, was scarier still, a rapidly building tower of one new fear after another. Emma wanted to snatch the bottle from her hands, hoard it away, keep herself from ever feeling the helpless pain again. Instead she squared her shoulders, shaking out her limbs to rid them of the tingling buzz, and stared at Maleficent levelly, her fingers still trembling.

 “Guess we better get our hands on that horn quickly then.”

 ______

 “This place is creepy as hell.”

 Killian only grunted in response, had only grunted in response since they’d left Maleficent's fortress, his attention fixed firmly on the rapidly unfurling ball of yarn, the tail end tucked into his hand.

 It was incredibly creepy. The Dark Forest, the patch of map Maleficent had indicated, apparently wasn't named for the color of the foliage, or even the amount of light it received, but rather the general feeling of unease it evoked. The bark on the trees was silvery white, reminding Emma of bleached bone, a sea of skeleton sentries surrounding them on every side. Gnarled twisting branches reached down from all angles, like creeping hands and knotted fingers. It was colder in the wood too, the spring to summer sun hidden behind a sudden blanket of gray winter clouds overhead, the wind crisp and chilling. It had her pulling her cloak tighter around her, shifting into Killian’s space to leech his warmth, trying not to feel the pang of hurt when he shifted away.

 Still, it didn't seem to be just the temperature that set a chill to her bones, there was something about the place, a hanging presence, a low fog of disquiet blanketing everything. The red leaves carpeting the forest floor rolled before them like a river of blood, and as with Maleficent’s lake valley, it was completely and utterly silent.

 “I feel a little like a cat,” Emma tried again. His silence was freaking her out as much as their surroundings, the flickering muscle in his cheek making rapid time with their footsteps. If she had been standing closer she imagined she could hear the scrape of his clenched teeth over the rustle of the leaves under their feet.

 That did get his attention however.

 “Pardon?”

 Emma gestured to the yarn. It still glowed with that faint yellow light, the tightly wound ball skipping over the roots and dead leaves, the rocks and furrows, as if it hovered or flew through the air.

 “Cats,” Emma said. “They chase yarn.”

 “They do?” He almost stopped walking.

 “They don't have cats where you come from?” It was a ridiculous conversation but Emma was feeling keyed up and giddy, nervous energy filling the wells of her joints, the rush of adrenaline from the potion slow to fade, and the silence of the wood made her feel like she should say something.

 And Killian was almost... scared. She could tell by the furrow of his brow, the uneasy flicker of his eyes. She had seen him scared before, his face twisted in fear, eyes wide, but it had always been for her, or Henry, never for himself. Fear for himself took on a different cast, like a man determinedly facing the gallows, and it frightened her. He had been uneasy in the castle, reluctant, but now he looked paler and drawn, the yarn almost trembling where he gripped it.

 “Of course they bloody do, but they chase rats and pests not bits of string,” the look on his face was so filled with disgust she had to bite back a smile to keep from laughing at him directly. “What use is chasing a ball of yarn?”

 “It's cute?” Emma offered. He only huffed, and kept moving forward. “Seriously. Killian.” She reached forward, grabbing the arm of his coat to stop him.

 “What is wrong with you?”

 Emma chased his flickering eyes with her own, trying to catch them. She attempted a different question.

 “Who is this Forest Mother?”

 “A children’s tale,” he waved his hand, the string dancing in the air. “A fairy story.”

 “Lemme guess, she's not the nicest witch in the wood?”

 Killian gave a little motion, a half shrug. A lie told in body language.

 “She is not a figure of evil if that’s what you’re asking,” he said finally, and continued forward, the ball of yarn further ahead of them now.

 “Then why are are you all-” Emma gestured at him as she walked. “Like this.”

 He was silent a moment, before he sighed, resigned.

 “When I was a lad, the crew, they told all sorts of tales, not a lot to do on a ship after all. Many of them were the cautionary sort, meant to frighten children in the night, make them think twice about poor behavior. The Forest Mother was a particular favorite of theirs.” He said it matter of factly but his eyes gave away his discomfort, the burden of memory. He may have mastered his voice but he had never quite figured out the eyes.

 The thought of a younger Killian, floppy dark hair and those same revealing eyes, hiding beneath the covers after hearing scary stories in the dark had her heart clenching in her chest.

 “What's so scary about her?” Emma asked softly.

 “She peers into your soul, takes the measure of you, and if she doesn't like what she finds, she throws you into her oven, and consumes you,” Killian said this too as if it was the most normal thing in the world, which she supposed, given where he’d grown up, it was.

 “Where I come from if you’re a bad kid Santa just doesn't bring you presents,” Emma offered.

 “It's said she can see into your soul. Your true soul,” Killian was speaking quietly as he moved, almost inaudible over the sounds of the leaves, ignoring the mention of Santa completely. “Only the pure of heart can seek her help or stand unmolested before her.”

 Emma swallowed, understanding a bit. She could remember the shame and anguish on his face in the cave, the guilt that he carried, always so heavy on his shoulders, weighing him down as surely as his trademark leather coat. Even now he walked as if he still wore it, centuries of terrible deeds trailing behind him.

 “And you thought she was going to...eat you?” Emma asked.

 He flashed her that false smile as they moved forward, chasing the yarn.

 “I was a difficult child, rebellious, for... many reasons,” his smile turned a bit more genuine. “I'm sure that's difficult to believe.”

 “I am having a lot of trouble picturing it,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work, and the smile fell from his face completely.

 “When we’d make shore they’d take us to the woods. Leave us on the edge. A simple jest to keep us in line, but an effective one,” he swallowed, overcome with memory and Emma’s heart lurched. “I never feared the punishment,” he said, looking away from her again, fixated on the ball making its way across the forest floor. “Just the confirmation.”

 “Little you thought he had, what? Some blackened soul?”

 The shrug he gave was small but no less heartbreaking.

 “I imagine if it wasn’t then, it surely is now,” he looked further ahead. “We’re getting behind.”

 “Killian wait-” Emma struggled to follow him, his longer strides eating up more ground than she could cover, plowing through the dense leaves more easily. “Killian-”

 Killian froze in front of her, the strand of yarn falling forgotten to the forest floor. The connection broken, the leading ball seized up as well, shuddering to a stop yards away.

 “What-” before she could say another word Killian grabbed her hand jerking her roughly to the side as hooves sliced the air where she’d been standing. Emma fell hard, pain vibrating up her elbows as she landed, and above her a horse gave a terrible shriek.

 The rider was white as moonlight, pure and glowing before them, a faceless specter on a ghostly mount. She cried out startled, as Killian grabbed her again, barely rolling her out of the way as the creature brought its hooves down once more, clawing at the leaves where she had been sitting.

 “Your sword,” she heard him cry, already drawing his own as he stood. Emma fumbled, rising on wobbly knees with shaking hands, barely able to wrap them around the blade before the rider struck out at her. She scarcely dodged in time, the blade cutting through the air, a sharp whistle in her ear.

 “Swan!” Killian’s yell told her his position behind her but she couldn't take her eyes off their opponent to check his condition.

The rider backed his mount up a few paces, but his blade, a crystalline shard of opalescent glass, was still wickedly sharp and pointed right at her, ready to strike.

 Emma swallowed. She could feel Killian pressing into her back as he moved, apparently upright and unharmed, leaves rustling under his feet in the silence, solid and firm against her. She wanted to sag in relief that he was okay, but she held her sword out instead, rigid.

 “What do we do?” She asked. The snowy mount whickered. It was a haunting noise unlike any animal she had ever heard before, worlds away from Four’s friendly sounds, turning her blood to ice water in her veins. She shivered.

 “There’s two more,” Killian said grimly.

 “Damnit,” she could feel him nod behind her in agreement and she cast her eyes quickly to the side to check their positions.

 The one in her periphery was red as blood, seeming to rise up from the scarlet leaves of the forest. Where he ended and they began was indistinguishable, and that was extremely unsettling. He was more solid than his white counterpart, less formless, but no less formidable. She turned slightly, and saw the third, this one completely devoid of color, leeching the light from all that surrounded him, a fathomless human shape only vaguely a man cutting into the tree line like a rift in space. Terror seized her at the sight of him, a walking nightmare in gray daylight.

 “What the hell are those?” Emma bit out, her grip tightening around her weapon. It didn't seem like enough.

 “I have no idea,” Killian murmured. “But they don't seem pleased to see us.”

 “You think?” Emma snapped. She could barely breathe, fear was filling her lungs, solid and choking in her throat. It poured off them, an invisible mist settling over her skin, making it crawl and itch as the feeling intensified, an almost tangible thing. She tried for levity, anything to shake the feeling off, to make it go away.

 “I used to watch this show as a kid. Always thought I’d make a good Yellow Ranger.”

 Killian huffed impatiently behind her, clearly not getting the reference, as he settled into a tense defensive posture. Emma however was babbling.

 “Sorry Black is taken. You can be Blue though. It would go well with your eyes. I never really liked the Green Ranger so we’ll skip that one.”

 “Excellent, whatever your heart desires. After we handle this, aye?”

 She tried to focus on them, to look at their faces, be bold, but her eyes kept sliding past of their own accord, burning and stinging with every attempt. Clever quips and taunts died formless in her mouth.

 She could feel Killian’s every move behind her pressed against her back, the faint tremble of his body vibrating up her spine, similarly affected by the crippling fear that had settled in the clearing at the rider’s appearance. The creatures, for these were no men, were death incarnate, something otherworldly and wrong. And they were definitely going to kill them.

 Emma reached blindly back with her free hand, skirting his hips, and grasped his wooden hand, giving it a squeeze, more for herself than him. He tugged back, a reassurance, and something else, as he stepped forward.

 “It seems we haven't been properly introduced,” Killian said finally, his voice was calm, just a faint tremor under his usual bravado. Emma could hear her blood rushing in her ears, the nameless terror replaced with fear for him as he stepped forward. She turned, catching the end of his bow, the urge to ask him what the hell he was doing, to grab him and run, was overwhelming her, her legs burning with the need to move.

 He was ignoring her though, half circling her to face each of the figures in turn.

 “Killian Jones,” he said to them. “We seek audience with the Forest Mother or The Bone Mother, as she may be known to you.”

 “If Maleficent had led with that title I probably wouldn't have accepted so fast,” Emma muttered. Killian shot her a look that could only mean “Shut up, Swan.”  She clapped her lips closed.

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 The three of them spoke as one, the sound of their voices scraping down her spine, sinking the terror into her bones, goose flesh springing up among her arms.

 “Not so good with riddles, mates,” Killian said. “Come again?”

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 This time the voices were accompanied by the quiet hum of energy, their weapons: the crystalline sword, the scythe of shadow, and a ruby tipped stave glowed bright, brighter, charging, as one.

 “What does that mean?” Emma looked at Killian, exchanging a wild eyed glance before he took a step back towards her.

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 The humming buzz of electricity grew louder, the weapons glowing brighter.

 “No idea, but we should probably figure it out,” Killian said, no lack of urgency in his voice as he pressed against her back again, the two of them trying to keep the specters in their lines of vision.

 “We’re surrounded by forest! And we are looking right at you.” Emma said frantically, her eyes darting from tree to tree, seeing no break in the wood. She tried to focus her eyes on them again, but they kept shifting away, their faces burning embers, the rapidly growing light of their weapons too harsh, like staring into the sun, purple and blue splotches in her vision when she blinked.

 “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”

 “Emma!” Killian was jerking her around, his sword falling forgotten into the leaves. The energy hummed and spit like downed power lines, sparking in the air around them. His hand grasped her shoulder, fingers digging in, the wooden hand pressing against her arm. He stared at her, blue eyes locking with her own. “Look at me,” he said firmly. “Only me.”

 Emma wasn't sure if this was a final moment thing, a fleeting glimpse of each other before death took them, but she knew she couldn't look away if she tried. If the last thing she saw was him that wouldn't be so bad, she reasoned. The temptation to shift her eyes away, to check the riders was overwhelming, but Killian’s were steady and true, open and honest, and she couldn't look away.

 The clearing was suddenly silent, the harsh pants of their breath the only sound. Emma looked up at him in confusion, unsure if it was safe to move, unsure if she wanted to. His fingers pressed further into her arm. It was a subtle sway, the feel of his breath on her face, and she leaned in.

 “Oh very good. Two hearts for one,” the voice was ancient and accented, breaking through the silence. Emma jerked back as a bundle of rags and fabric joined them in the clearing at the edge of her vision. She was still too afraid to move, to turn her head to look at it fully.

 “Well come along then. I won’t wait all day,” the figure shuffled, leaves rustling with rasping rhythmic sweeps somewhere beside them. The thick inflection on her words made them sound more like “vell” and “vont” and “den” but Emma could understand well enough.

 She looked at Killian in question, his face a bit paler, his shoulders slumping with equal parts concern and relief, chest still rising and falling with gasping breaths. He hitched them in a little shrug, and they turned as one to face the new arrival.

 An old woman, hunched over and twisted by time was hobbling away, a silver birch broom painting along the path behind her. The riders were gone from the clearing, disappeared as quickly as they had come, and in their place a small hovel rose into the air, surrounded on all sides by a fence of thick white sticks and rounded posts. Emma pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a noise when she realized what exactly it was made of. She grabbed Killian’s arm, tugging on it.

 Bones. Skulls. A fence of human remains marked the perimeter of the old woman’s house with haunting grins, yellowed with age, and flaming sockets where eyes would be. The house the fence protected was decrepit and sad, made of darkened rotting wood and crumbling decaying thatch, rising up into the canopy of the trees on thick heavy stilts, sinking into itself with the burden of time and neglect.

 Emma did kind of shriek when it moved, Killian barely getting his hand over her mouth in time, palm hovering just above her lips, his fingers warm against her cheek as the stilts shifted, as they walked. The house turned in a circle on towering chicken-like legs, sharp talons as thick and wide as several people digging into the dirt and leaves. It lifted one to scratch the other, and settled back to the forest floor.

 “What the hell is that thing, ” Emma hissed into the cup of his hand. Killian pulled her back against him, his breath hot in her ear, his chest firm against her back once again.

 “Careful, love, I don't think she’ll take too kindly to us insulting her dwelling,” he warned in a whisper, for her ears only, releasing her to step hesitantly forward. Emma shivered, her face flushing.

 “Etiquette in these situations is rather...fraught. Probably best if I take the lead on this one,” he murmured. He didn't sound particularly delighted by the prospect.

 Emma scoffed at the implication, forgetting his nearness in her indignation. She could be polite if she needed to be. She watched as the house turned, scratching ineffectually at the dirt, the flaming eyes of the skull fence posts flickering with the disturbance, and she bit off a startled curse. He might have a point, and by the rise of his eyebrow he knew it.

 The old woman turned suddenly at the gate, pointing the handle of her broom at the two of them. Her face was a map of deep and jagged wrinkles, her nose as gnarled and twisted as the skeleton trees, hooked at the end like every scary witch in every scary story Emma had ever read. But her eyes were lovely sea glass green, twinkling and ominous at the same time. She jabbed the handle at them again, and Killian leaned back in defense.

 “Do you come of your own will or another's?”

 They answered at the same time, only put off for a moment by the abruptness of the question.

 “My own,” Killian said, bowing slightly.

 “Another’s,” Emma said warily.

 Killian tilted his head to look at her in exasperation.

 The woman stared at them hard for a moment, the pupils of her magnificent eyes an impossible black, and Emma could barely breathe under the scrutiny.

 “Your truth reveals much. It will be important for what is to come,” the witch said. It was unclear, however, who she was talking to, and she simply turned, beckoning them with an easy wave to follow her.

 Emma swallowed, looking up at Killian. He looked as uneasy as she felt, his tongue swiping across his lip as if steeling himself for something. She wanted to reach out, to grab his hand, comfort and solidarity in one simple gesture, but he was already moving protectively in front of her, walking through the gate of bones.

 ____

 The tales from the mouths of impish hardened sailors took on life before his eyes and old childhood fears, thick and cold, filled his chest as the old crone led them through the gate.

 It was just as they said. A hovel on the legs of birds. A fence of bone, her victims held forever to stand guard against the unworthy. There was a mouth of gnashing teeth set in the rotted wood of a door, where knob and keyhole should be, and Killian repressed a shudder as the teeth snapped playfully at her fingers when she opened it. The pair followed her into the house, the spindly legs bending low to allow them entrance.

 “Who were those guys?” Emma asked from behind him. Never content to do as he asked his Swan, never one to just blindly follow his lead. He glared at her without heat, but she was focused on the dwelling, her eyes taking it in, grasping the wall to steady herself as the house rose suddenly into the air again. “The ones on the horses.” She looked queasy, clutching her stomach as the dwelling moved beneath them.

 “The price for the answers you seek is precious time, would you have me waste mine on such trivialities?” The crone asked, casting one sea green eye over her shoulder as she reached to stoke the flame of her oven.

 He knew that oven. It ate the bones of the wicked and the vengeful. It charred them as black as their unworthy souls and the witch would feast for days, or so the stories said. It was a monstrous thing to finally see in person, the grates like snarling teeth and haunting eyes, the flame within burning blue and green with an unnatural heat. No mere coals and wood could produce such hellfire.

 Killian shifted back, setting himself firmly between Emma and the heaving stove.

 “I guess not?” Emma was saying, looking up at him bewildered and he shook his head slightly. It was best to be direct and to the point, get in and get out before things went wildly off course. He didn't particularly care who the creatures had been anyway, they were gone and the witch was before them. She was the real threat here

 The witch looked at Emma with a sharp disappointment. “If only you were willing.” She murmured. Emma frowned at him in concerned confusion. He shrugged.

 He had met his fair share of seers and soothsayers, knew they spoke in riddles and delighted in tricks and could certainly not be trusted. That the mother of this wood hadn't immediately struck them down was fortune enough, and he didn't feel the need to push their luck any further with pointless queries as to the nature of her servants, or fall into any of her clever traps.

 He stepped forward.

 “We have been sent to obtain a-” the old woman’s craggy hand waved him off, hobbling across the broken boards of the floor.

 The entire place seemed on the verge of collapse, and it shifted imperceptibly as the creature’s legs below shuffled and moved. He should have found the subtle sway and ebb comforting, like ocean waves, but it was rather like being in the belly of a great beast, swallowed alive and left to decay.

 Killian resisted the urge to gulp.

 “I know what you seek,” she led them across the hut to a darkened corner and motioned for them to sit. The table, and the mismatched set of chairs around it were the only furniture in the room save for a spartan sleeping pallet on the other side of the dwelling, and of course the infernal heaving oven.

 One of the chairs, however, was already occupied.

 “There’s. A. Skeleton,” Emma hissed quietly at his back, as if his eyes were not able to suss that out for himself.

 It was dressed very well for a bag of bones he thought, a top hat sitting jauntily on a yellowed skull, a cravat tied smartly about its bony neck. It was as much a guest as they were it seemed, a saucer and teacup set at the place before it, the shadows of the corner barely hiding it from view.

 “My Ivan,” the old woman said waving another hand dismissively. “Now. A drink to honor guests and honor hosts.”

 Killian sat hesitantly as she bid on a rickety rocking chair pushed up to the table, motioning for Emma to do the same on the small stool beside him. He had a bit of experience here as well, lifetimes of witches and sorcerers and fae, all with different codes and unwritten rules. To eat in one set of company could damn you for eternity, to not eat in another could result in a swiftly assured death. That the only other guest in attendance was a pile of nicely attired bones did not bode well for their chances of choosing correctly.

 “You may call me Baba Yaga,” the woman said, bustling about the room as she prepared a pot of tea. The clink of porcelain and the hiss of steam filled the cabin mixing with the acrid smoke. Emma glanced at him uneasily.

 “You come to seek a gift,” Baba Yaga said, setting a small teapot down in the center of the table. “Answers to your questions.”

 “We only need a black unicorn horn,” Killian corrected. “Nothing more.”

 “I know what you seek,” she repeated, settling into the chair. “I provide only what the willing need. Let us drink,” She motioned to the teapot, and smiled, a wicked pull of lips across teeth. He raised an eyebrow at her.

 Killian was also, despite what he had told the riders in the wood, well versed in tricks and riddles, one could not survive the dangers of Neverland without that particular skill, and he smiled at her winningly.

 “Just me milady, begging your pardon,” he bowed his head respectfully, careful to keep one eye trained on the witch. Her smile grew, yellowed skin stretching across bone, and she nodded, pouring a bitter brew from the teapot.

 “Your will is your own after all,” she said slyly. She cast her eyes to Emma. “And hers is another’s.”

 “Precisely,” he took a sip of the tea before Emma could protest or question him, giving her a warning glance and nothing more. She looked at him, still confused, but things were moving too quickly for them to confer, trapped high above the ground in a witch’s cabin, invited to tea with skeletons. He just hoped she would follow his lead, would keep silent and safe and let him handle this. He had no idea what he was doing truly, what horror awaited him in this hovel, in that cup, but better him than her. That was the only truth he knew.

 He tried not to gag. The tea was stagnant and tepid, as stagnant as it smelled, but he sipped again and again until the cup was empty. His stomach roiled in protest, water filling his mouth as he tried not to vomit.

 Baba Yaga’s lips pulled against her teeth again in delight and she snatched the cup away, turning it in her hand once, twice, and a third time before overturning it on the mismatched saucer before him.

 “No peeking,” she warned.

 “Wouldn't dream of it,” Killian rasped. His voice was hoarse and raw, choked with bile, and he appreciated the comforting hand Emma laid on his arm, the concern and confusion written on her face. He smiled at her reassuringly. Wanted to tell her that this witch had no power over the unwilling, that Emma could not help him lest they both fall victim to her tricks. That was the point of her question, to see the full scope of her dominion, the reason she had invited them both to drink. He couldn't speak however, not with the witch right there.

 “The question of your future is mine to see. The answer a gift to give,” Baba Yaga said. She picked the cup up again and peered inside, gnarled fingers twisting it back and forth in her grasp. What she saw there was a mystery, her face giving nothing away.

 “Take it, with my compliments,” Killian swallowed as best he could, the bitter herbs caught in his throat. His mind was swimming as his vision snapped in and out of focus.

 Drugged surely. He thought. Poisoned probably.

 “Killian,” Emma grabbed his arm as he swayed. He could barely feel the warmth of her through his coat, could barely make out the pressure of her fingers. Not the best of signs.

 “Are you okay?” It was a firm question, all the words she wasn't saying written in her eyes. We can go. You don't have to do anything else. We can run. He appreciated it, and just smiled at her again, a sappy ridiculous thing he was sure, but his vision was growing even dimmer.

 “What the hell did you do to him?”

 Far away at the end of a long tunnel he saw Emma rise from her stool, his hand lifting weakly, trying to grab her, but falling leaden and useless to his side as words of warning caught on a tongue that was too thick and heavy to speak.

 “By his own will,” the woman reminded her.

 Whatever Emma replied was lost to the sounds of his pulse in his ears, whatever she did too far away and dark to see anymore.

 _____

 He blinked awake to a familiar cabin, cramped and dirty, smelling of salt and fish and rotting wood. The ropes of ancient hammocks swung in time to the rocking of a ship long since lost to the sea. A dingy blanket of burlap and unraveling wool on one of them was the only personal effect in sight. It was a spartan and coldly familiar place. He had slept in that hammock, curled under that blanket into Liam’s side night after night, crying himself to sleep until it became apparent that tears weren't going to bring their father back, that their new masters would be no less cruel, and it looked no different now than it had centuries before.

 “My gifts are not without price,” Baba Yaga said, and he turned to face her pushing down the startled leap in his chest to give her a cool stare. Childhood fears would have to wait.

 “I don't need ‘gifts’ just one item, the horn of-” she cut him off, holding up an impatient hand.

 “We both know that is not all you seek Captain,” her accent twisted the word, her eyes shining with mirth. He pushed down the surprise that she knew who he was as well, merely raising an eyebrow.

 “Oh? And what is that? Do, please enlighten me,” he waved a lazy open palm towards her and leaned back, trying not to appear as unsettled by their surroundings as he was. He was barely resisting the urge to pick up the blanket and breathe in the long forgotten scent of his brother, witches and their hallucinogenic tea be damned.

 “If I give you the horn where do you plan to go?” She asked instead. He opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off. “Be warned and be willing Captain, for now and for then and for forever hence, in this wood the answer to questions is the gift of time, mine or yours it matters not, but the price will be paid.”

 Killian was silent. In truth, he didn't even know the answer. Emma’s and his course was not set as yet, they were moving from moment to moment, dealing with problems as they arose, chasing solutions with no clear endgame in sight. Maleficent did not have the answers they’d hoped for, merely a bandage for a gaping wound, and after this mission he was at a loss. So he said nothing.

 Baba Yaga grinned, knowing, and tilted her head.

 “I can give you the answers you seek, the gifts you will need. You have earned the horn in deed alone already, and a question of your own if you accept, but I can give you more.”

 There was nothing seductive about the hunched over form in front of him, nothing externally appealing about her sallow skin, and bony limbs, but her voice whispered over him like a lover’s caress, temptation and desire brushing against his skin. He closed his eyes and pushed it away with a small shake of his head. No good would come of deals with the devil, or from a woman worthy to be the devil’s bride.

 “Perhaps, I will remind you of your price,” Baba Yaga’s voice slithered across him.

 He heard the rasp of fabric, felt the prickling electricity of magic, and a familiar scent filled his nose, over the smells of brine and unwashed men came something sweet and clean. He opened his eyes.

 “Swan,” he breathed out.

 He knew, logically, this was an illusion, the old woman shifting and morphing before his very eyes told him that. Silver hair turned butter yellow, thick and curling against the gentle slope of her shoulders as she straightened and grew taller. It was Emma in form, but instead of dark moss her eyes were the cool sea glass green of the witch’s. He growled.

 “Your parlor tricks won't work on me siren,” he spat. “I'll have the horn and the horn alone.”

 “You haven't heard my proposal,” the woman said, her accent fading to Emma’s gentler voice.

 “And I've no wish to,” he said.

 “I do not deal in wishes,” Baba Yaga said, her voice hard and suddenly her own again. She shifted, shrinking down back to the hunched over old woman, leather and suede traded for dirty rags and stained linen. He breathed a bit easier facing her as herself, even the face of Emma was enough to take him off guard, enough to make him question his resolve. “My trade is in noble deeds freely given and questions of the heart worth a year of time apiece.”

 “Noble.” Killian scoffed. “Afraid you have the wrong Captain then, madam.”

 “You drank the tea,” she reminded him gently. “Of your own will.”

 “To protect Emma,” he snapped. “From whatever ridiculous farce we’re playing out here. Which I very much hope will find its end soon, we’re on a bit of a schedule.”

 She ignored his rudeness, her eyes glinting.

 “A sacrifice for another is not noble?”

 Killian gritted his teeth in frustration. They were getting nowhere, the rock and pitch of the ship and the smells of faded memory were making him ill, mixing with the bitter tea and hatred of these games, twisting against his insides where the ghost of a frightened little boy begged him to be cautious, reminded him she could cook him alive for his insolence.

 “I merely offer you a trade,” Baba Yaga said finally when he didn't answer, looking strangely disappointed. “Three gifts, three questions. You have one gift and one question already if you complete that task to its end, when the deed is satisfied you may return to claim them.”

 “And you get what?” Killian sneered. “Trade implies parity.”

 The woman stared at him and merely smiled, her lips remained pointedly closed.

 Killian sighed in frustration. She had mentioned there was a price for answers, and she was well practiced in avoiding giving them it seemed.

 “Lay out your terms,” he said instead. Not quite a question. She seemed pleased he was catching on so quickly and nodded.

 “Three deeds for each of my gifts and for each of my answers,” she said simply.

 Killian frowned.

 “I'm assuming one of the gifts is the horn?” he asked. Baba Yaga pursed her lips again. “A statement.” He corrected, setting his jaw in annoyance.  “Not a question.”

 “An excellent assumption,” she smiled.

 “For drinking the tea and accepting your game,” he did not bother to phrase this as a question either, knowing she would play this game all day, and she smiled wider, impressed.

 “A noble deed to be sure,” she replied.

 Killian thought a moment, his mind whirling, trying to pick apart every moment, every odd phrase, piecing it together as best he could. He despised the round and round of riddles, impatience prickling against his nerves, but he knew they wouldn't get the horn otherwise, that he had to figure out her tricks to keep them safe and see them on their way. He sighed.

 “But I had to do it willingly,” he mused aloud.

 Her smile faltered a bit.

 “You asked one question already, and we both answered,” he said, crossing the room. “But only I was willing then, by my own admission.” He peered up at her. “Answers are gifts, time, you said.” He licked his lips as the thoughts formed and slowly pieced themselves together. “A year. A year of time apiece.” He repeated her words, and waved a finger at her, knowing by the stony expression on her face that he was on to something.

 “So each deed is worth a gift, something tangible like the horn. But only from the willing,” he continued to watch her expressions carefully. “That’s why you wanted Emma to drink the tea.”

 Baba Yaga set her her jaw, eyes flashing, and he tried not to smile as she confirmed what he had suspected in the hovel. She had no power over Emma, and that would at least keep Emma safe no matter how this played out.

 “I'm assuming if one fails at the deed the gift is forfeit?” He raised an eyebrow at her but she continued to stare at him, implacable. So he continued on, the game knitting together in his mind as the words left his lips. “And every answer is a gift, a year.”  He repeated the words, realization dawning as he spoke them again.

 “Clever Captain,” Baba Yaga praised with a smirk, yellow teeth flashing in delight as the implication of that snapped together in his mind and he looked at her with barely contained fury.

 “So I owe you a year of my life for answering a bloody question?” he hissed. “That is a question by the way.” He glared.

 Baba Yaga was practically grinning now at his frustration, her teeth sharp and terrifying in the dim light of the cabin.  

 “You can earn it back,” she teased. “I will answer no more than three, as I said, one for each deed. Acceptance of my deal will grant you the first of them.”

 “I'm assuming you’ll try to get me to answer more as we go along, that's the way of it?” He grumbled. “And if I don't play along I can't collect the question you owe me already.”

  She just smiled.

 “You may take, how you say,...the gamble.” She said slowly, her eyes dancing with dark mischief. “Or, you can be on your way.” She hummed to herself for a second, considering. “I will still give you the horn and you will give me the year, but nothing more. I am not unreasonable.”

 “I think I'll take my chance with just the horn then,” he said finally. “I'm not all that keen on learning more about meself anyway. And I've lived for centuries, I can spare one year.”

 “The questions need not be about you-” Baba Yaga rocked back on the stool, her smile knowing again. No longer did she wear the wicked sly grins or stony neutrality that had twisted her visage so far, but instead the happy softness of an assured victory, it made his skin crawl to see it as his heart sank. “-but about the woman you love. Her future. Her path.”

 Killian swallowed. She had already seen the truth of their situation. They had no plan after this. Obtain the horn, return it to Maleficent in exchange for more of that vile potion, and then...what? The potion would buy them time but not knowledge. It was also one thing to fall into a trap blind and unknowing, it was quite another to walk into it freely. Noble, Baba Yaga had said, the word now full of dark trickery and ill purpose. To continue on for Emma’s sake would certainly be noble, after all the cost would be only his to pay if he failed. In those terms it didn't seem like so much of a gamble after all. They had what they had come for in hand already, if he could possibly win the knowledge they needed to save her he had no choice but to take that risk.

 “Alright,” he said.

 When Baba Yaga looked at him again it was a predatory thing, the seaglass green of her eyes now practically black with hunger and greed. Killian swallowed around the sharp anxiety in his throat, the feeling that he was making a mistake. He was already down one year of his worthless existence, but she had offered up three of her own, those odds were better than some he had faced before.

 Baba Yaga reached beneath the grimy kerchief that covered her silver hair, and pulled from beneath it a single strand.

 “The second of your deeds, either an absolution in frozen time or a way forward,” she said holding it out to him.  “This must be tied into three knots and then blown upon like the whistling wind.”  She pursed her lips and blew.

 Killian took the hair and looked at it. It glinted in the sparse light, drooping along his knuckles. It looked ordinary otherwise, a simple thread of regular hair. He glanced back up at Baba Yaga but she sat there, poised and serene, waiting for him to carry out her odd little task.

 It was undoubtedly a trick, he knew without even attempting to ask that should he complete the mission something terrible would probably be inflicted upon his person. That's how these things worked. In story and in life there was always a caveat and he was without the means to question her further and find it out. He frowned at the little hair, considering, trying to remember the tales of his youth, the memories too far away to grasp.

 “Perhaps you should demonstrate what you mean,” he said after a moment, holding the hair out for her to take. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to these things.” He held up his wooden hand apologetically and turned it, smiling innocently.

 “One would think the Captain of a ship would know his way around a series of simple knots,” Baba Yaga replied taking it from him nonetheless.

 “I won't tell if you won't,” he smirked. Baba Yaga didn't look angry though as she took it from him, to the contrary she looked almost pleased, her worn fingers moving over the thread quickly with a nimbleness that belied her age, tying it into three minuscule knots.

 “Show me the bit with the blowing again too,” Killian said, still all innocent politeness. “I've forgotten.”

 “Careful,” Baba Yaga warned. “Your clever mind and fairy looks get you much, but arrogance is deadly, Captain.” Despite this she pursed her lips again, blowing cool air over the knotted strand.

 Almost at once it glowed with silver light, spreading across her wrinkled hand, up her arm, covering her in a soft ethereal glow. Killian stepped back in mute surprise as her body froze, as it became entombed in smooth granite that trickled over her like gentle water, flowing in the wake of the light. A statue.

 Killian gaped at her, at a loss. As far as victories were concerned this was a new one for him. Though he doubted the witch could collect the year he owed as a piece of statuary, so it was at least a fortunate outcome, and perhaps they could still find the horn among her things when he returned. He looked around at the creaking ship, waiting for the vision to fade, for the run down hovel to appear and Emma’s worried face to stare down at him.

 The ship rocked again and sighed around him. He frowned.

 The statue creaked along with it, splintered and cracked, small fissures opening along her cheeks and neck. The silver light poured forth again, and the stone crumbled away to dust, disappearing on unseen wind. Baba Yaga smiled at him.

 “You did not think my own spell would hold me?” She said with a mocking laugh. Killian pursed his lips in annoyance, but knew better than to answer.

 “The deed, nevertheless, was completed. I believe I am owed a forfeit. And a question,” he snapped, impatient. “And don't think I've forgotten you owe me a question for that foul tea and accepting this farce, madam, and the horn as well.”

 “Indeed my boy, I will not forget. That is for when we return, not before, ” her tone was a dark warning, but she reached into her sleeve, and pulled out a single feather. “This is your reward for now.” It was a watercolor of reds, yellows and orange, shining in the light like flickering flames, from the tail of a large bird based on its size and shape. She held it out to him.

 “Time is a tricky business. To give this to you, I must give this to you. On and on we go, round and round.” Baba Yaga laughed to herself.

 Killian hesitated a moment, raising a suspicious and confused eyebrow at the mad woman before he took the gift.

 “A feather,” he said dully, unimpressed. He turned it in his fingers. “I suppose it will make for a handsome quill.” He offered, at a loss for what other purpose it could possibly serve.

 “Foolish man,” Baba Yaga snapped, her laughter fading as quickly as it had come. “That is the feather of the Firebird. A powerful ally when one has need of one.”

 “My thanks then, milady,” Killian bowed a bit in deference, disconcerted by her sudden anger, and placed the feather carefully in his satchel. He was unsure if it would still be there when they returned to reality, or what use a bird could be, but he was  unwilling to waste his question to ask, nor did he want to anger her any further, he was already pushing the boundaries of politeness.

 “You may ask your question, but consider it carefully against its worth,” Baba Yaga sat, calming and settling into a stool at the side of the room. She arranged her ragged dress and cloak around her withered form and waited.

 It was a moment before he asked the question that had been burning him from the inside since all this began, since Zelena had confronted him by the carriage, or perhaps even earlier on the doorstep of the woman he loved, in a strange city, the ghost of her lips mingling with the crushing disappointment that his kiss had failed, that she still didn't remember, that he wasn't the one.

 “Where can we find the person with the means to break Emma’s curse? Her-” Killian swallowed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth, gravel in his throat. “-true love.”

 Baba Yaga’s eyes burned into him, burned through him. He could feel the heat of them as sharp and hot as the midday sun. Her face was expressionless as she weighed the answer but those eyes glinted with something unidentifiable.

 “There is a man, her true love, within half a day’s climb of my Red Sun. He is somewhere between here and there,” she said finally.

 Killian’s knees felt like water, his heart a leaden stone in his chest as the last bit of hope he held there drained away. It was one thing to have the Wicked Witch taunt you with your worst fear, or to have the proof of it in failed kisses, but hearing it so plainly spoken, that such a man did actually exist, such a man was here and close and waiting, was another thing entirely. He couldn't even be annoyed at the cryptic answer, that the man existed was enough. Killian swallowed, his eyes stinging, and looked away.

 Baba Yaga sat in silence, cupping her hands serenely in her lap and waited.

 They were square now, the year of his life regained, the horn and this odd feather won. He could leave it here, cut his losses and go. But he needed more information, they still needed a way home, even if he was unsure of where that place was for him, he knew where Emma belonged. He still had a duty to her, still loved her, despite the truth, as useless and wasted as that love might end up being. And while she might not love him in return, his feelings would remain unchanged, forever. He would keep his promise and get her home. He stood up straighter.

 “The last task,” Killian croaked after a long quiet moment. “Let's get on with it.”

 “Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head and with it the room spun.

 _____

 When Killian blinked awake the second time it was in a place he did not know. Cold and damp and silent, he squinted against the dim light of torches hung on the wall and took in his new surroundings. It was a crypt of some sort, or a mausoleum, the final resting places of the dead carved into the walls with open shallow caverns where bones and bodies were laid to rest. The floor was covered in them, broken skulls and limbs mixing with rocks and dirt. He shuddered against his will and backed away, his boots sliding against the macabre debris.

 “What are we doing here?” He tried to keep his voice level, nonchalant, but it tremored faintly anyway.

 Baba Yaga stepped out of the shadows.

 “Which one is your Emma?” She asked without preamble.

 “What?” Killian gasped out. He whirled back to the wall of graves, his heart thundering. It couldn't be, she couldn't be.

 “Which one is your Emma?” Baba Yaga repeated.

 She reached out and grabbed a torch from its place on the wall, holding it aloft to cast light across the shallow caves carved into the face of it.

 Nine heads of identical golden hair shone in the light, all of them dressed just as Emma had been, the suede pants, the soft leather jerkin, the heels of her sturdy borrowed boots. They all lay there serene, peaceful, nine pairs of small delicate hands clasped across nine stomachs. Killian wanted to scream seeing them there, all of them looking like Emma, like her body, tucked away on identical stone beds in the repose of death, not one of them different than any other. It was a nightmare come to life, seeing the woman he loved dead and in this place, even worse to have the image repeated, over and over again.

 He shut his eyes against it. Shook his head in denial, his throat filling with tears and terror in equal measure. It was like being ripped open, a cold hand reaching into his chest and squeezing. He could barely breathe with the weight of it.

 “You didn't-” he gasped out and shook his head again. “Not her. It’s not her. None of them are her.” The weight of her question pressed against his denials, his Emma was among them she had said. HIS Emma was laying there as dead as all the other unfortunate souls that covered the floor. She was Bone Mother, she struck down the unworthy, she burned them in her oven or killed them with her tricks and now his Emma was lying in one of these graves.

 “Do you wish to know the truth?” Baba Yaga asked curiously.

 “Yes,” he answered before he could think, needing to know. He was too desperate to curse himself for being so careless, too anguished to care.

 “None of those you see before you are the Emma of the flesh but one of them is the Emma of your heart. She is safe. Now. Which Emma is your Emma?” She repeated, her voice emotionless.

 Killian almost staggered with relief at the words. It wasn't real. None of this was real. Emma was safe somewhere outside of this nightmare, she was alive and well. This was an illusion, a dream just as the ship had been. His eyes snapped open in realization.

 “If I answer to pass the test, I give another year,” he turned on her accusingly. “Either way I lose, again.”

 Baba Yaga shrugged, indifferent, almost lazy, the flame of the torch in her grip bobbing with the action.

 “There is no rule against it,” she pointed out. “You did not set those terms.”

 “I thought it was bloody obvious you cheating-” Killian had to clench his fist to keep from striking out at the woman, anger hot and stifling overriding all his fear and relief.

 “The deed remains the deed. Fail it and forfeit. Win and you lose nothing and gain my gifts,” she said. “Now. Enough. Which Emma is your Emma?”

 Killian closed his eyes again, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to rip her throat out, frustration and rage sweeping over him in a dark tide. She was right though. He hadn't specified, he should have known. He was a fool to think he could win this outright, a fool to think the deck was not stacked against him from the start.

 He had to win. He needed the answers. Needed to get back to Emma, get away from this foul creature and her games, needed to get them home. The year of his life didn't matter, but if he won they would be even, three questions apiece, three answers each. He didn't care to have a year of the witch’s life, he just wanted it to end.

 He took a deep steadying breath and stepped towards the wall.

 Each of them were identical as far as he could see, down to the smallest detail. All beautiful, all Emma. The slope of her nose, the tiny indent of her chin, the soft luster of her hair. He took another breath and stepped closer.

 He couldn't smell her. The air of the crypt was foul with decay and the musty scent of ancient things. Nor could he look in her eyes and know. If he could see their eyes he had no doubt he could see the truth in them.

 Killian closed his own, trying to think. She had said it was the Emma of his heart.

 “Whatever that bloody means,” he muttered to himself. He tried to focus, to feel something, anything, some hint or sign. There was no magical pull, no internal sixth sense, no guiding light to show him the way. His body was utterly silent, just the harshness of his even angry breaths, overly loud in the silence of the crypt, and the thundering of the blood in his ears.

 Killian was familiar with following his heart.  As black as it was at times he had let it guide him, had rarely questioned it, or the path it had taken him on. Not until the day it was pulled in opposing directions, one leading to vengeance, the other to a small fierce woman and her improbable family had he even paid it any mind. He had always just trusted it to guide him, from shore to shore, one foot in front of the other. Nothing changed now. He supposed it didn't matter anyway, the Emma of his heart was whichever Emma he chose. Or at least he hoped that was the way of it.

 He stepped forward at random and reached out to the one in the center. His hand brushed the silk skin of her cheek, still warm even in the chill of the tomb. His fingers traced down, and pressed against the smooth curve of her lips, thumbed at the hollow of her chin.

 “This one,” he said hoarsely, his eyes still closed, knowing it was true before he spoke the words aloud. “This is my Emma.”

 “Your gift, Captain,” Baba Yaga said softly. He turned to face her. She looked kinder in the torchlight, sympathetic even. It did nothing to quiet his anger, or the remnants of fear and sadness at war within him. She smiled at him softly and held out a small green bottle.

 He looked at her in question, but didn't ask it, knowing it was pointless anyway.

 “Memory potion,” she said as he took it, the glass cold in his hand. “To help when needed, as the feather is.”

 “Suppose that could be useful,” he acknowledged stiffly, putting it into his satchel with the feather. “In case our disguises fail us.”

 “Or if one just needed to forget,” she said slyly. Killian clenched his teeth. “It has many purposes for many things my boy. Now, your question, if it pleases you.”

 Killian hesitated, his gaze flickering to the Emma he had chosen, his Emma according to the test. He should ask for the way home, for more information on the True Love that awaited her somewhere in this time, in this realm, apparently near enough to require less than half a day's ride. He had one more question though when they returned, when he collected Emma and the horn, and so he asked the only question he could, the only answer that he truly needed. The answer he needed to go forward.

 “Will she be happy,” his voice was soft and rasping, echoing off the walls of the crypt. “Will Emma be happy?”

 Again, Baba Yaga looked at him as if she could see into his soul. The soft smile pulling her lips across her yellow teeth once more.

 “Noble,” she murmured quietly. “I told you, Captain.”

 “Answer the question,” he bit out.

 “On the day that potion is used-” Baba Yaga said motioning towards his bag. “-she will be happier than she has ever been.”

 The strap of the satchel around his shoulder suddenly felt impossibly heavy, digging into his flesh through the fabric of clothing.

 “Used on who?” He asked. Baba Yaga just looked at him, expressionless and he ground his teeth in frustration.

 “Is this your final question?” She smirked. Killian didn't answer. He couldn't use the last question on that, he had to know how to get them back. He clenched his teeth harder.

 “Take us back, witch,” he snapped instead. “So we can get the horn, ask my question, and be on our way.”

 “Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head again, and the room spun.

  ____

[amyalicechristensen-blog]

The Pleasure Path

Two weeks before New Year’s Eve I was in the grocery store and I made sure to grab a package of black eyed peas while they were in stock. My son and I have an established tradition at our house.  I make Mice and Beans, we drink champagne, we state one resolution and then we stay up until midnight to greet the brand new year.  The champagne is sparkling grape juice.  The Mice and Beans is actually Hoppin’ John a dish made with black eyed peas because my mother and Martha Stewart say that they bring you luck for the New Year.  My son doesn’t remember why we call it Mice and Beans, but when he was little we read about Skippy John, a Siamese cat that had an adventure to Mexico in his magic closet. He met some Chihuahuas who asked him if he liked rice and beans.  Skippy John responded “Si! I love Mice and Beans!”  Because he’s a cat…not a Chihuahua.  Anyway, I held those black eyed peas in my hand for several minutes remembering Skippy John Jones.  I won’t ever forget that silly cat even though my son doesn’t remember that story anymore.  

I was laughing outright as I tossed those peas into my cart. Then it hit me – by the Gods I was laughing!  With reckless abandon in a grocery store filled with people who might be judging me! What the heck was going on?  I was actually happy.  

Sadly, that’s really not my default setting.  I really like to simmer in my sadness and delve into my despondency.  I live to mourn my life.  

Singing along to the Christmas Carols in that grocery store I started to ponder if maybe there was a different route to consider.  I went home and I began working on a project to reflect on 2016.  I wanted to know precisely what made me unhappy.  Although, I knew that if I really wanted to make a change – that is if I wanted to keep this mysterious mirthful mood – what might be even more important was to consider what made me happy.

Research in behavioral science has suggested that there seems to be an evolutionary factor for why it is easier to remember the worst things that happened rather than the good things.  It stands to reason that if something can kill you, you might want the memory of that permanently etched on the back of your eyelids.  But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s how easily mired I can become with all that negativity.  Really, most of the things I carry with me looming like a dark cloud over my head, while uncomfortable, are not really environmental threats to my survival.  Yes, I wanted to learn and grow from the mistakes I made in 2016, but really the burning question I had was, “What makes me happy?” I couldn’t necessarily find that by reliving my failures.

Then, I was sifting through blogs on Tumblr and came across a post by TheCrownedCrow.  It was a divination challenge to create a personal map for 2017 in order to help you realize your goals.  Although I knew I’d probably be the only geomancer in the challenge, I was hooked. Particularly when I read the seeking question for day 2:  The New Year also brings a moment of reflection.  What is something I learned in the previous year that will help me grow in this one?

That is the beauty of geomancy.  There’s very little about it that’s cryptic. Geomancy says, “Look right here for your answer.”  I already had the memory project well underway. All I had to do was roll my geomancy dice, and cast the house chart.  A repeat of the first symbol would tell me exactly what memory would be the most helpful to focus on!  Part of me thought that it would lead to a particularly painful lesson I endured in 2016, if I could master that it would be the key to lasting happiness in 2017! But my dice had a different tale to tell.

The first figure was Via or Way, I often interpret this as path or road.  I was very pleased to see this figure.  This was going to be an interesting reading.  I cast the chart, and Via reappeared in none other than the House of Children.  The Fifth Astrological House can represent actual growing children, but it also uses the concept of children as a metaphor. Children are strongly motivated by pleasure, so in a geomantic reading, the symbol in the fifth house also represents things that induce pleasure.

So, the key to my growth in 2017?  It was to look at what makes me happy.  I must look at everything that brought me a semblance of joy in 2016 and instead of collecting negativity to loom over me, I needed to draw my positive experiences with me into 2017.  I’m so obsessed with my work with Accidental Talismans and getting rid of things, I had never really taken the time to consider what things are important to keep.  The key to my growth was waiting for me in those treasures of memory rolling around in the back of mind.  I just needed to give them a place of prominence.  I needed them to tell me their stories.

January 2016

In January I was looking for something my son and I could do and I found a Dog Sledding event called Musher Mania.  It was fun and spontaneous.  We got out of the house and participated in an event that fed our connection.  Then, I did some pretty scrapbook pages because I gave myself the time to do this small hobby that brings me joy.

The lesson that I took from this was the celebration of the spontaneous.  There actually wasn’t a lick of snow, we mushed in the mud which probably made it that much more hilarious.  The event planners worked with the weather they were given and it was still a blast.  I learned that you don’t need perfection to have a perfect day.  Just live in the moment.

Capturing the moment was also significant.  The scrapbook pages I made were some of my favorites of the year.  I love scrapbooking.  I love it.  It makes me happy.  If I am to follow a new path, scrapbooking then is important.  It is a mile marker on the road to happiness.

February 2016

Every year in association with Valentine’s Day my son and I visit Medieval Times.  It is a tradition that we both look forward to every year. I love the show and I love the tradition.  I worry so much about being repetitive and boring but tradition is a touchstone so worth keeping.  

March 2016

I am a serious homebody, vacations are often not relaxing for me.  In 2016 I took a huge risk, for the first time I traveled to another country with my child!  We went to Grand Cayman.  My son took me snorkeling and in Devil’s Grotto, we looked down over the edge of the reef and saw two huge sharks enjoying the waters.  I have absolutely no photographic evidence of the event. My son and I were so stunned by these magnificent creatures that we just observed them in frozen awe.  

I learned that I was capable of risk!  I was also pretty proud that I paid for that risk in cold hard cash!  No banks were broken in the making of this moment.  Definitely my financial planning is a skill to be proud of!  

April 2016

I really loved doing the Council Oak Fundraiser as Ruby Ruse.  I loved telling fortunes and found that I was very good at it.  I often give people the option to consider that I might just be reading their body language and reactions more than I am looking into their future; because if what I say is helpful, then it doesn’t really matter where the information comes from.  But how I knew a former accountant was changing careers to be a librarian…that’s a bit difficult to explain away with body language.  You know what? Being a creepy fortune teller in pink sparkles really makes me deliriously happy.

May 2016

In May I finally got the opportunity to work with visual art in three dimensional way.  Joan Forest Mage teamed me up to create an Art Adventure for the Life Force Arts Center with Errol McLendon.  I created the second event, a Creative Drama program called Come Play With Me.  The participants really got into it and I was delighted to dust off my skills in improvisational performance.  I learned that I am indeed a creative individual.  More than anything else, it is my creativity that I feel defines me. And, when I am being creative, I am happy.  

June 2016

I really love fitness. That is a fact.  I was intensely involved in my training and doing research on fitness for a summer presentation.  I was perhaps in the best shape of my life in June of 2016 and that really made me happy.  Scientific research suggests that a fit body releases endorphins in the brain that perpetuates happiness.    

July 2016

Very few people know when my birthday is.  I don’t like to share the information partly because it is on the holiday weekend and my birthday gets swept away under the national fervor.  But the deeper (and darker) reason is my belief that my birth was an accident and that my parents really didn’t want me.  It’s a little difficult to celebrate your birthday if you wonder whether you really were meant to be born.  

However, hopped up on all those fitness endorphins I was hell bound and determined to have a happy birthday.  As I was polling my friends for trip suggestions, one clever soul offered up the City Museum in St. Louis and I was hooked from the mention of seven-story slide. The City Museum was completely awesome yet I loved pretty much everything about that trip!  

The most important thing I learned was that I didn’t always have to worry about what everyone else may or may not be thinking.  I spent my childhood and a great deal of my adult life trying to do what I thought my parents wanted me to do.  I did this hoping to prove to them that I was worth their love, even though I was an accident.  I carried that mentality into my most of my relationships.  I chose activities based on what I thought somebody else might want. This isn’t the fortune telling that makes me happy, this is just crazy making!

This time, in July of 2016, I went somewhere that I wanted to go without worrying about what someone else wanted.  And it not only turned out okay – it was better than okay – it was awesome!

August 2016

For reasons I may write about later (or perhaps never) I was in an exceptionally dark place in August. It was quite possibly the lowest I have ever been yet.  My child brings me joy, but my happiness is not his responsibility.  He knew I was depressed, but there was nothing he could have done and I sure wasn’t going to disclose to him just how bad I really felt.

It was my cat Bing who pulled me out of the dark.  When I picked her up from the groomer she was so darn happy to see me!  And she was just so cute with her hair all shaved off, rolling on her back and telling me to rub her belly.  She loves getting her hair cut.  She just would rather be naked – she’s a weird cat.  She made me laugh and then she licked away my tears with that sandpaper tongue.  She quietly listened to all of my darkness and took in all of it without so much as flick of her tail.

“Silly Amy Alice,” she said. “I love you.  See, you’re worthy of love.  Now rub this naked belly!”  

Bing, a half blind naked cat, taught me that there is unconditional love in this world, I just have to be willing to accept it in whatever package it may come in.

September 2016

September was about just surviving; it was just about putting one foot in front of the other.  As luck would have it, the Summer of 2016 was the summer Pokemon Go became all the rage.  As the season was coming to a close I put one foot in front of the other while capturing Pokemons with my son.    We would walk for hours and talk about all sorts of things.  I don’t think that I will ever forget that.  What a wonderful game.  Sometimes happiness comes in tiny packages – in this case, anime animals on an IPhone.

October 2016

I adore Halloween.  It was hard for me to choose just one highlight; it was a toss-up between the Trick-or-Treat in Oak Park or Fright Fest at Six Flags – both were Halloween themed fun.  I love making Halloween Costumes.  I just love it!  It’s not lost on me that this is another example of a hobby.  It was also the aspect of using a skill.  A part of the joy in those events was the oohs and ahhs my son and I received over our one-of-a-kind costumes.  I also love to see the obvious surge of pride on my son’s face when he informs his fans, “This costume is handmade.”  I love that my son gives me picture and trusts that I will bring it to life.  My sewing skill alone can bring me happiness, but to share that joy with my son makes me that much more deliriously joyful!

November 2016

This makes me feel a little sheepish to admit…but the best thing in November was discovering how much I like the television show Supernatural.  And not just the show, the character of Sam Winchester.  I finally felt like a normal human being because I had a legitimate crush!  Albeit it was on a fictional character who I would consider far too young for me in real life, but I hadn’t had a sweet and innocent crush since William Shatner ruled 1970’s syndication as Captain Kirk, so I’ll just take it for what it is.  

This little crush made me research the actor Jared Padalecki; and I learned that he too suffered from depression.  He had a crisis in the early seasons of the show, probably because he was enjoying so much success and a part of himself was screaming that there was no way that he could possibly deserve it.  I was able to make that assumption because I feel that way so much of the time.  I love too that he used his own creation of Sam Winchester to see himself through.  He reminded himself that Sam always kept fighting, and that became his mantra.  He founded a whole awareness campaign with that as the slogan. Jared Padalecki is a hero to me because he risked stigma and rejection to help others who share the battle with depression.  In him, I found someone to model.  

Isn’t that what the arts are supposed to do?  Give you something to model so that you can find and become the very best version of yourself?  Art shows us the possibilities.  And when it comes to possibilities you want the outlandish, the bigger the better! If we imagine ourselves fighting the very Darkness Herself then perhaps it is then easier to find a flashlight when the circuit in the kitchen blows.  

Watching Supernatural gave me the ability to see possibilities as I shrieked in gleeful terror watching the impossible adventures of the Winchester brothers.  It made me laugh when I needed a break from my sadness. It gave me adventure when I wanted to get away from the monotony of my job.  It made me realize that I had emotions…even the flirty one I wasn’t sure I had.  It gave me hope.  

It would seem that frivolity has its wisdom too.

December 2016

While sweet Sam Winchester was leading me down a new path of hope, the day everything suddenly changed was when I responded to Errol McLendon’s request to share my thoughts about death and what happens after that event.  I wrote to him about my son’s birth, and how it nearly killed me.  I had such a strong, spiritual, and life changing experience.  I found my Goddess and I found my purpose - I found that when I died.  

I sent him a long message detailing my experience and then I went to his show.  It was so very profound that the audience stayed for more than an hour afterwards to talk, and to be with one another.  After that, it was as if the dark cloud that I had carrying over my head burst.  I was free. I was happy again.  I felt more myself than I had for longer than I could remember.  Errol’s show stayed with me and I thought about it that whole week.  Then, I decided to write about the experience again. This time I posted it on my blog. It was one of the most well received posts I had ever written; probably because it was the very best article I had ever written.  It was the best, because it was so true.

I learn so much about myself when I write.  In my blog post about my death, it was during the process of writing that I discovered something so important:  when my body was dead and there was nothing left of me except my own instinct and my own feelings, what I wanted – what I needed more than anything – was to be a mother. I realized that it was really the first time I had expressed a deep desire that came not from someone else’s expectations of me, but truly from my own desire – my own instinct and feelings. Despite the mistakes I had made as a mother and despite the fact that I had been unable to control all the circumstances, ultimately being a mother had brought me the greatest joy I had ever known. It made me wonder what I could accomplish if I trusted my desire more often.  I wondered what I could accomplish if I listened to my own instinct and my feelings instead of giving that power away to someone else.  I wondered this because I wrote.  The dark cloud burst when I told my story.

There were things from 2015 that I stuffed into that dark cloud I carried all through 2016.  My geomancy reading suggests that there is a new path for 2017 through the House of Children.  I must make time for hobbies.  I must celebrate my traditions.  I must take pride in the financial freedom I worked so hard to earn. I must acknowledge my talents.  I must be creativity at every opportunity. I must pump my iron.  I must exercise my independence.  I must love my pets (particularly by rubbing my naked cat’s belly). I must play, just play.  I must utilize my skills.  I must give myself every opportunity to experience possibility, the more impossible the better.  And finally, I must tell my story.  It really doesn’t matter if it isn’t important to someone else, it’s important to me.  I matter – to my son, to my weird cat, to me.

Happy New Year!