#but that section where you have to use claw and cloak to get across the bridge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fullfiresiren · 2 years ago

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unconquered // 9

[9; courage]

house of the dragon aemond targaryen x last valyrian!reader

[read on ao3]

The silence remains unbearable when it returns.

You would have thought by now, settling into life here at the Keep, forming bonds and relationships whilst finding some kind of happiness, that it would abide. It does not; claws already so deep into your flesh that you fear the wounds may never heal. It is like binding chains thick around your neck, that allow you some sense of freedom as long as you don’t wander too far. As long as you don’t stare directly at it, or question yourself too fiercely, they remain loose.

You dread the day the chains pull tight.

Some nights, like tonight, when it is particularly bad, you sneak out of the Keep to sleep beside Archeon.

Ser Erryk is easy to evade if you exercise your power to send him away, and using the passage he showed you, it is relatively simple to escape undetected. You’ve managed to learn which route to take, and as long as you wear an old cloak, blending in is not an issue. You fear for what may happen if you trek through the city. King’s Landing is seen by many of the smallfolk as lawless, and terrifying, and as a woman alone, it is ultimately far more dangerous. Although it takes considerably longer, sticking to the outskirts of the city and following it along to the beaches is best. If you do that, you reach them with little to no problem.

On nights like tonight, when the moon is high and the skies are clear, you are able to look out across the sand beaches, and see the tide break onto the shores. You are entirely alone here, and there are none who dare approach this section of King’s Landing -- with good reason. It’s like a portion of the Earth has been forgotten during its creation; left a blank space of nothingness, where all light and color fails to reach.

Archeon sprawls out in a mass of black.

He knows it is you when you approach, and lifts his head sleepily -- just enough for you to curl up with him in the same place you always have -- even when you hid from the doom. In the crook of his shoulder, against his chest, tucked away from the world. When he was younger, all those years ago, he would fall asleep with his head in your lap. Now, he sleeps with his font limbs crossed, head tucked around you tightly, protectively. He’s warm, the sand is soft, and the grumbles of his chest are loud, thick with tiredness.

Something akin to a soft warble gets stuck in his throat, and you know he’s falling back asleep. Your head moves with the rise and fall of his great body, and everything, in that moment, is quiet.

It is the most comfort you can find in this life.

Only when the sun breaks over the waves, do you wake, and return to the Keep. To aid you on your journey, Archeon helps you scale the cliffs, balancing you easily on his head, and lifting himself up, resting his chin on the grass atop the precipice. You slide off, and find footing on the edge.

He coos a few times at you, and then lowers back down.

“You will be receiving a saddle soon,” you call out when he shakes sleep from his body.

He gives you an incredulous look. Say you jest.

“You are still growing, are you not, my heart?” you say. “You are older than 200 and your size shows it. Please do not fight me on this. And do not fight those who come to fit you with it, either.”

He grumbles, but says nothing more, stalking out into the sea and sulking. You sigh. He’s like an impudent child at times.

Before dawn breaks fully, you are within the Keep once more. The warmth of your room welcomes you, and when you remove the cloak from your shoulders, Elen knocks once at your door. You panic, dishevelled state an obvious giveaway to your nighttime excursions, but there is little time to hide or change when she is already giving herself entrance.

She carries a plate of food -- your fresh breakfast, and gives you a startled look. It melts softly into a knowing expression.

“Good morning, your grace,” she greets warmly.

“Good morning, Elen,” you reply.

She sets the plates on the small table between your sofas, and immediately moves towards the standing bath.

“Although I am concerned about your nightly disappearances,” she begins, and you cringe at being caught, sitting to eat. “I am reassured that they are spent within the protective company of your dragon. You are far too precious for me to allow anything to happen to you.”

You smile between mouthfuls of oats. Mothering.

“I understand, Elen,” you hum, “I will be careful.”

“However,” she continues, swishing the water to check the temperature, “If I must beat pursuers off with a stick, your grace, rest assured I will. I am just an old lady, and no more than a servant, but... if you could ask Ser Erryk to accompany you in the future, it would help me sleep a little better. And at my age, your grace, it is something I desperately need.”

You look at her, and she's giving you a soft, pleading expression. You sigh.

“I do not wish to bother him,” you say. “He deserves his rest at night, as we all do.”

She huffs, “It is his duty, your grace.”

You shrug, the word becoming a nuisance. It sounds more like an excuse to you.

“You could always ask the prince?” she suggests.

You cough forcefully. “Is my bath ready?”

She smiles at your reaction. “Yes, your grace.”

You undress quickly, and sink into the depths of the water, restless with both your thoughts and your feelings. Elen fills a jug with water, pouring it over your head, your body, lathering soap into your skin, scrubbing your scalp.

“I will never understand the depth of the bond between dragon and rider,” she muses softly, speaking her thoughts aloud more than initiating conversation, and you are happy to listen. “Existing separate and yet, one entity. A ferocious and untameable beast -- why do they allow you to control them? To ride them? I do not think I will ever understand. I fear I would be a terrible Targaryen.” She laughs at her joke, rinsing your hair gently. “But if it is anything like the bond between a mother and a child, the ache when you are apart must be unbearable.”

You look down at your reflection. She stares back up at you, rippling in the water.

“Do you have children, Elen?”

She doesn’t pause in her work, but does not reply, either. You do not press her for an answer, feeling a bridge build itself between the topic and the answer. Her reflection looks sad.

Todays plans had come in the form of another note from the prince delivered last night. He offered for you to join him on a horseback ride through the Kingswood, expressing for the first time in written form, his pleasant hope that you would join him. You gave Ser Erryk a note to pass on this morning, conveying a happy acceptance of his offer.

“I am to meet this Prince this morning,” you voice, wishing to fill the silence with something, rather than keep it suspended in nothing at all. “At the stables.”

“To ride?” Elen asks.

You nod. “I have never ridden a horse before.”

“If you can ride a dragon, I am sure the two are not so different, your grace,” she laughs, “You will be fine.”

Elen dresses you in an outfit far less extravagant and noble than she would wish to; dark sturdy trousers tucked into calf-length boots and a loose blouse, and although she expresses her wish for you to live only in fine gowns, you remind her it must be suitable in some way for riding, at least. You would hate to ruin the beautiful garments you’ve been given all for the sake of appearance. She ties your hair up out of your face in a way that is all practicability, but allows a subtle beauty to take hold of your features. She foregoes jewellery, but makes you look all the size and notoriety of a royal regardless. You never fail to be impressed by her skills.

With a wave, and a reminder to have fun, she sends you off, Ser Erryk hot at your heels.

“I have never been to the stables of the Keep before,” you admit, looking up at your sworn sword as you walk through the long stone halls of the castle. “Have you?”

He nods. “I have, my lady. I think you will enjoy them.”

He holds various doors open for you as he walks ahead, and escorts you through the grounds, towards where noise and bustle becomes more prominent. You hear clopping hooves, braying, shovels scraping on stone, and the light smell of straw and hay that carries on the breeze.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you nod, once you feel you are close enough, and he stops. “Please spend the rest of the day doing as you wish. I will continue onwards from here alone.”

He bows to you formally, offering an “As you wish, my lady,” and with that, turns on his heels, and returns to the castle.

You watch him go for a moment, staring back up at the towering form of the Keep as it looms ever present, always watching. With the multitude of windows, you wonder if you are ever as truly alone as you feel. You turn away and continue onwards. The thought is one that does not comfort you.

You take your time inspecting the detailed work of the royal stables. Dark wood and black metal make up the prominent architecture, but the overall design is open and flowing. It’s inviting, and calming on the eye. Horses of every color snort and whinny at their leisure, soft fur and calm eyes, all exuding the air of being well tended to. Workers are busy tending to them, cleaning out stalls, preparing tack or food, and each of them move in a way that speaks to their professionalism and training. No less is expected from those in service to the crown.

But, you notice, the gentle sound of sobbing carries underneath it all.

You frown, heart thumping at the noise. For a moment, you thought you had simply imagined it. Retracing your steps towards the more secluded stalls in the outer buildings, however, tells you it is not from your mind as you had originally suspected. You are quiet when you creep forward, towards an empty stable from which the noise emanates. The bottom half of the stable door is shut, but the top half remains open, and you rise on your toes to glance inside.

At once, your hand flies over your mouth, and you stumble back quickly, quietly, taking care not to make a sound as you leave with haste, your presence remaining unseen.

Prince Aegon lay curled up on the straw floor of the stable, half asleep, crying quietly to himself. He was dressed in dirty rags, torn and unwashed, face flushed red with hot tears. If not for the unmistakable snowy head of white Targaryen hair, you would think he were just a poor stable boy, or one of the smallfolk.

Something twists in your gut at his lonely state, seeing him so desperately sad, and your ardent dislike of him wobbles on its track. Although you are gripped with curiosity about his situation, there is no one you can openly ask about it -- and even if there was, who is to say they would know? What has caused the sorrow? Is he simply drunk, or is there something deeply upsetting that troubles the oldest Targaryen son? What reason is there, for a prince of the realm to sleep in the cold stables, cry quietly to himself, and muffle his sobs so no one hears?

But, then again, what reason is there for you to escape the castle and choose to sleep beside your dragon on wet sand, rather than seek comfort in a warm bed?

Everyone has their wars to fight.

You are less determined in your steps, mind elsewhere as you continue onwards, towards where the stables open into a wide yard. Despite the multitude of workers going about their tasks, here, there is a sense of calm. Like the eye of a storm.

Two horses stand, already fully tacked up, and who else beside them, but your silver-haired prince. He is standing with his back to you, clad in black riding trousers, knee high boots, and a billowing white shirt tucked neatly into his pants. Stable attendants hold the reins to the two horses, as Prince Aemond coos softly to a beautiful dappled stallion, stroking its neck as he waits for you. Beside him, a chestnut colt, black mane and shiny coat. The horses are clearly well cared for, poised and alert, and their beauty almost leaves you breathless.

He seems to sense your approach, turning when you draw close. Is that mirth in his eye? You cannot be sure -- it leaves as soon as it appears. His arms clasp behind his back, and he nods to you. The change in his usual attire is startling, and suits him fervently; strong chest narrowing into a lithe waist, shirt tucked into his pants only accentuating the length of his legs. How he is without admirers is surely beyond you.

“Good morning, my lady,” Prince Aemond greets, silver hair slipping behind his shoulders. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” you look up at him when you speak, holding his gaze, “I did. I trust you slept well, too, my prince?”

He nods -- the dream he had of you last night invades his mind before he can conjure enough willpower to stop it. Desires kept at bay during his waking moments are let loose when he sleeps. His signature hum escapes him.

“I took the liberty of having the horses prepared before you arrived,” he begins, gesturing to the chestnut colt. “This one will be yours for the day.”

The horse shakes its head, snorting playfully when you approach.

“My goodness,” you hush, and it steps forward slightly into your touch. You stroke its soft muzzle, cooing, “You are handsome, are you not?”

Your voice is gentle and encouraging, Aemond thinks -- like a warm embrace. Is this how you would talk to a child, he wonders? His child?

He coughs, and your house jerks a little at the noise.

“Oh,” you voice, and he looks at your face. “My saddle is different from yours.”

You glance between them and he does the same.

“Yours is a side saddle,” he explains, nodding to the two pommels sicking out from the leather of your seat. “It is what ladies use to ride.”

Before you can conceal your disbelief, you scrunch your nose up in bewilderment, and laugh at the puzzling logic. He watches you with curiosity.

“Is that necessary?” you ask. “It looks uncomfortable...”

He takes a moment to answer, smiling with uncertainty. “I am not sure, my lady. Most noblewomen ride this way.”

“Will the saddle on my dragon also be made similarly?”

He shakes his head no, understanding your reluctance. “If you would prefer it, I am happy to order the attendants to change it to a regular one?”

“If you use a regular saddle, my prince, then I would like to use the same,” you nod, stroking your horses neck. “I’d like to be equal with you, if I can."

He gestures towards the attendants and explains his wishes, taking the reins of his dappled stallion so the workers may focus on leading your horse away. The air settles around you, but the hustle and bustle continues.

You glance up at Prince Aemond, watching him mutter soft words to his horse, the animal blinks slowly, as if comforted by the tone of his voice. His lips quirk upwards when he notices you staring, and, with a gentle voice, he speaks.

“This horse has been mine since I was a child,” he explains, stroking its neck softly, fixing stray wisps of the stallions mane. “A gift from my father.”

“He’s beautiful,” you whisper, stepping closer.

It makes a short, high-pitched noise at your approach, snorting a little, and Prince Aemond hushes him softly, pulling gently at the reins to redirect his attention.

“Calm, calm,” he hushes in Valyrian, rubbing the horses muzzle with a finger. It abides, settling quickly. “He is a little nervous with those he has never met before.”

The Prince returns to the common tongue, and opens his palm towards you; a silent invitation. You step closer slowly, until your shoulder brushes against his, but neither of you move to create space.

Your hand lifts, and your fingers thread through the stallions coat; dappled fur sliding against your palm. It’s soft, calming, and you relax in the movement, the horse nickering at your affectionate gesture. It nudges Prince Aemond gently, as if asking him to join you. He abides, hand coming up to stroke his horses neck, and you are content standing in the quiet beside him.

Your cannot help but allow your eyes to trace the details of his pale hand as it moves alongside your own.

Compared to yours, there is a sizeable difference. He has prominent veins, and long, elegant fingers that comb through the fur of his regal stallion. His nails are soft pink, clean, and well kept. From the size of his hands, there is a sense of power that lies dormant; an unspoken strength that palpitates in waves. Despite years and years of swordsmanship, however, they remain elegant. You think they would treat you with reverence.

Your pinkies brush accidentally, and you both pull away.

Notwithstanding the familiarity that grows, each of you continue to exist in awkwardness every now and them. Nowadays, though, its endearing, more than uncomfortable.

“Have you ever ridden before, my lady?” he asks, hands brushing either side of his horses face.

You shake your head. “I don’t think so, my prince. Perhaps I may have in Valyria, but I cannot be certain.”

“That is no problem,” he reassures. “Riding a dragon is far more difficult, so you will be fine. There is no need to be afraid or nervous.”

He goes on to point out the various important aspects of tack -- stirrups, bridle, reins, and how to use them efficiently. He teaches you how to ask your horse to move through the different gaits, how to slow, how to manoeuvre. There is a lot of information to take in, and Prince Aemond must notice your apprehensive expression.

“Don’t worry,” he hums, gentle. “If you are unsure at any point, just remember I will be by your side throughout.”

At the approaching sound of slow hooves, you turn, your chestnut colt arriving; re-tacked with a regular saddle upon the Princes request. Lead by an older stable worker with grey hair, when the horse stops before you, the man gives you an expectant look, holding up the reins for you to grasp.

“Here, High Lady,” he starts, voice rough with age but not without politeness. “Your horse.”

You look between the man and the reins in his outstretched hands a few times, before awkwardly reaching up to take them. You’re not sure what to do now, and so, you look back over your shoulder at your Prince.

“You may mount him, my lady,” he says with encouragement.

“How...” you look back to the worker, uncertainty threaded through your voice, “How do I get... on...?”

You feel a presence shift closer to your back, and turn to see the Prince move to take the reins from your hand, eye looking over your head towards the older stable attendant.

“Bring my lady a mounting block,” he orders, lips pursed as if annoyed.

The man nods, and hurries off quickly in search for the item. You watch him go, and then, peer up behind you.

Prince Aemond observes the worker closely, following him in his task, and then, feeling your gaze, he shifts his own. His eye softens considerably when he looks down at you, and he smiles shyly under your acute focus. Realising the space between you has grown almost non existent, however, he steps back a little, turning towards your horse instead. Moments later, the worker reappears with a short set of wooden steps -- what you can only assume is the mounting block.

He places it on the floor, and steps back, bowing to you both, before continuing on with his duties, leaving you in peace.

It is clear that you are supposed to climb up, and with a mix of nervous confidence that settles in the pit of your stomach, you ascend.

The block judders sharply, and you panic.

Hands fly out to steady yourself, and you’re not really sure what it is you’re reaching for. Is it the saddle? The horse? All you know is instinct takes over; the airs and graces of your position that keep you stoic disappear, replaced instead by the plummeting feeling of falling.

Prince Aemond’s hand grasps yours with a steady strength, offering a balance and stability nothing else could. He is without riding gloves, skin touching yours without interference or restriction, and it is a startling sensation.

You settle immediately, looking to him with a grateful expression.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asks quickly, expressing concern.

His hand holds yours a little tighter when your legs wobble, the mounting block juddering with every movement you take. Your horse is the least fazed out of all of you, and blinks slowly as if bored.

“Yes, yes,” you voice, heart hammering at the shock. “I’m fine. I just-- I wasn’t expecting that. Thank you, my prince.”

Nerves bubble up and spill forth from your lips in the form of awkward laughter, and you see his shoulders drop, relaxing with the knowledge that all is well.

“You frightened me,” he says quietly, bowing his head a little.

It is said with such tenderness, that a part of you wonders if you are hearing things. You want to say something in return, but before you can, he steals the moment, as if worried about what your response will be. Denying you the chance to speak, regardless of what your words would be. Is he truly so afraid of your opinion?

You wonder if you are thinking too much into it.

“Place your left foot here, my lady,” he instructs, avoiding your eyes, pointing to the stirrup closest to you, “and then hoist yourself up, and swing your other leg over.”

You follow his direction, mounting your horse swiftly, making sure your feet are placed well into the stirrups, sitting deep in the saddle. He holds your hand throughout to make sure you are steady and comfortable, and only when you are secure, and your horse stays calm, does he remove himself to mount his own.

His touch lingers long after it leaves, and Prince Aemond flexes the hand that was holding yours in a way that you cannot be sure even he is aware of. It speaks volumes of his inner thoughts, and you tear your gaze away before he notices, focusing instead on the space between your horses ears. This is the first time, you realize, that the two of you have touched one another, skin-on-skin, without the obstruction of clothing. He must realize it, too. He must.

His lips purse, his eyes are wide, and he mounts his own stallion, focusing instead on the path in front of him.

“Ask your horse to walk, my lady,” he says, squeezing his thighs to urge his own onwards.

You glance down at the animal, and with a soft voice, you ask, “Will you walk on?”

The horse lifts its neck a few times, but does as you ask, and sets a steady gait, moving side by side with the princes own stallion.

You leave the stables together, on a path out of the city, towards the Kingswood. The weather today is bright -- clear skies and shining sun, with a soft breeze that keeps the temperature bearable. You take the Kingsroad through the city; cobbled streets and tightly packed buildings on either side of you, until you reach a bridge that crosses the Blackwater Rush. The path ahead turns to a wide dirt path, small farm houses are few and far between, and then, ahead of you, there is nothing but an expanse; acres and acres of land covered by thick forest.

The horses themselves seem to know where to go, and your own needs little encouragement to stay true. Prince Aemond walks his ahead of you, taking the lead as he rides over the large wooden bridge, but has not said anything to you since you left the stables. The atmosphere is a little awkward. He is too far ahead of you to comfortably hold a conversation without raising your voice, and so, once the both of you have crossed the bridge, you squeeze your thighs, urging your horse to catch up to his left.

You manoeuvre your colt into his stallion purposefully, the horses bumping sideways into one another gently -- not enough to spook them, but enough to steal his attention. He looks at you with a quizzical expression, and you smirk wordlessly at him. He breathes a laugh through his nose, and just like that, the atmosphere becomes light.

The dull thud of the horses soft hooves on the dirt sets a rhythm for the both of you to relax into, and with that, conversation begins easily.

“My sister speaks fondly of you,” he begins. “I think she is very taken with your friendship.”

“I did not expect to grow as close with her as I have,” you admit, “but your sister is someone I now deeply treasure. She is unlike anyone I know.”

“She is the best of the Targaryen's,” he hums.

“You each have your qualities,” you express, adding, “I feel you are too hard on your family.”

He looks at you now. “In what ways?”

“Your father is kind -- and I think you are, too. You are a good man.”

You look up across the expanse of land when you speak. Various farm workers toil in the fields, those nearer to you stop to bow, or dip their heads in greeting. Prince Aemond continues looking at you, however. Far more interested in what you have to say than anything else.

You make a noise, something between a laugh and a derisive snort. “Your brother is yet to be judged by me, however.”

It is supposed to be light-hearted, but Prince Aemond sharply changes the subject. You feel there is perhaps a bridge burned between them that can never be rebuilt.

“The Kingswood is usually reserved for hunting,” he explains, nodding towards the looming forest. “My brother has spent a few namedays here, though my sister and myself have not.”

The path you are riding on is quickly reaching the mouth of the woods, beyond which, a trail through the thick trees and undergrowth is laid out. The scent of earth and foliage is strong, but not unpleasant.

“Do you often visit the Kingswood?” you ask, entering the forest with the prince by your side.

Birds of all varieties sing and vocalise above you, high up into the canopies of the trees. Some stretch so far up into the heavens that you must crane your neck to see the top of them. Although you cannot see it, you are certain that the forest around you is teeming with life.

“Not as often as I would wish,” he admits.

“Duty permits you little time to yourself, I suppose.”

It’s a rhetorical statement, and Prince Aemond says nothing further. Duty does permit him little time to relish in what he enjoys doing -- if there were anything at all that he enjoyed in the first place.

The two of you move deeper into the woods on horseback, through twists and turns that the path lays out. Some parts of the woodland floors are covered in delicate flowers, pale yellow and white, whilst others are filled with the remnants of branches that lived once high above. You are able to peer through the spaces of trees deeper into the forest, but all that exists is more of the same. For some reason, when you realise the gaps have been created from those that have fallen naturally or been chopped down, you are filled with a sense of sorrow.

If a tree falls where no one is to hear it, does it truly make a sound?

Prince Aemond watches you discreetly whilst you take in your surroundings. To him, there is something wholly captivating about you. Even though traversing conversations with you or being in your presence feels like a great obstacle to overcome. He is shy by nature, and learned painfully in his youth that meekness is an open invitation for pain. Those who are gentle and kind are easily exploited. When his eye was forcefully taken, he made a deep promise to his soul that no one will ever hurt him again. He would never allow anyone to see him small or fearful. Not once. Never.

Being with you is asking him to be open, when he has been nothing but shut tight since 10. It takes courage to be kind. It takes strength to be soft, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough yet. He will not voice it, nor look it directly in the eye, but at night, when he is most alone, he realises he is afraid.

Courage is not the absence of fear, however. It is the ability to push onwards to overcome it. Sometimes, he thinks that is your voice telling him to be brave. That only if he is brave enough to overcome his fears will he gain your hand... your respect... your love. It is only the brave who conquer.

He pushes onwards in pursuit of you.

You smile at him then, and he smiles back. The sun shines brightly against his skin, he thinks. Warm -- like a home he doesn't understand yet. If he is brave though, he will.

“I do not smile near half as much as I do when I am with you,” he speaks softly.

“Nor I,” you reply, voice like a song. “I am happiest with you, too.”

He feels like he is a child of ten again, giddy at innocent things.

The both of you reach a wide clearing atop a hill, and you can see the great expanse of forest from up here, stretching far beyond the Kings land. Your horses stand in tandem, overlooking the huge plain, and you have a great urge for freedom, a sudden desire to gallop.

You glance only once at Prince Aemond, grin growing wide, before you spur your horse with fervour, commanding it to launch into a sprinting gait, and you are away. The prince yells out after you, but his words are lost in the whipping winds that rush past your ears, and then, thundering hooves from behind signal his chase. He catches up easily, dappled stallion keeping pace beside yours with little effort, his white hair whipping out behind him. There is an elated emotion coursing through his veins that bubbles up and leaves his lips in a cry of happiness.

He’s grinning at you, and you are yelling out with joy.

From the skies above, a thunderous roar, deafening, and it shakes the very earth beneath you.

Archeon appears in great glory, soaring above the two of you, low enough that you can see the markings of his underbelly. With each beat of his gargantuan wings, the air wooshes past you from the force, and your body jostles with it. Prince Aemond doesn’t look afraid, but pure surprise and shock are etched deep into his handsome features. Your horses whinny at the colossal presence, and you both bring them to a juddering halt, least they bolt.

Your dragon circles the clearing as you watch, his flight over trees startles nesting birds who scatter when he passes, and he settles on landing where there is enough space. He descends legs first, as always, and his weight on the ground makes a deafening noise. His front limbs join, and when he is steady, he coos, loudly rumbling at you. There is something different about his appearance, you think, and when he lowers himself to the grass, you notice he has been fitted with a saddle; black, with silver details. He looks incredibly royal.

This is the first time Prince Aemond has seen Archeon.

His grip on the reins tightens considerably, and his stallion snorts at the tension.

His first thought recognises the strength and power from your dragon is sharply unlike his own. Where Vhagar is larger only slightly, she is sluggish, and old, wearing all 200 years of her life openly. Yours remains older than his -- if his knowledge of historical timelines is accurate -- and yet, is lithe with youth. He frowns, confused. Is there a reason? Your dragon shows no signs of old age. No lethargy, no muscle loss, no foul temper. Only raw power like he is in the prime of his life, and ready to throw his weight around.

“Would you like to meet him?”

Your voice pulls Prince Aemond from his thoughts, and when he turns to meet your gaze, you have already dismounted your horse, keen to approach your dragon.

Prince Aemond would be lying if he said he was not intimidated.

He approaches with you, but lingers slightly behind, your horses left to graze. The closer he gets, the more unsettled he feels. Your dragon is watching him intently; not focused at all on you, but fervent in his unblinking stare, holding his gaze. He even turns his head slightly to follow Prince Aemond’s movements.

It is an obvious warning -- as if one were even needed in the first place.

Your dragon is highly intelligent, that much is clear. He’s sitting stagnant right now because you are calm and relaxed, but Prince Aemond is sure if he made one wrong move, his death would be imminent.

He expects you to stop a few meters shy of your dragons snout, but to his amazement, you continue onwards, until you are physically leaning against it, arms stretching out to stroke him with tender affection. He hears Archeon click soft and high -- not unlike Vhagar when he talks to her, and when you laugh at his soft nudges, he warbles low.

“My heart,” you begin, and Aemond recognises the tone you use immediately. It’s the same one you spoke to his horse with -- the same one he hopes you use for his child. “This is Prince Aemond.”

There is a derisive snort from your monstrous beast, and he’s pulling away from you only slightly, attempting to show his obvious distain.

“Come, come,” you coo, lowering your voice so only your dragon can hear, “He is to be my husband, as you know. Son of the king, and rider of the great Vhagar.”

Archeon blows air out from his mouth, hot smoke wisping up. It does not impress me.

“Oh dear, my poor heart,” you sigh in mock dejection, and turn to walk away.

Prince Aemond watches your dragon turn sharply back, and release a sad noise at your apparent dismissal.

You flash the prince a smirk, before saying loudly over your shoulder, “And here I was thinking the two things most precious to me would be able to get along. Ah, I am so sad. This hurts me terribly. What am I to do...?”

Archeon wails loud and long, as if begging you to turn and come back, painfully wounded by your own apparent rejection of him. You turn swiftly and flit towards him once again.

Your wording, however, is not lost to the prince, and he repeats it like a mantra in his mind.

Most precious to me.

“Shall I try again, my heart?” you ask, and his chest grumbles softly. “This is Prince Aemond.”

You turn to open your palm towards him -- much like he did with his own horse earlier -- in a silent invitation to approach. Prince Aemond moves closer, legs unsteady under the weight of your dragons stare, and his shoulder brushes yours when he stops. Neither of you move to create space.

“He is as you described,” the prince says, taking in the detail of your dragon.

Thick black scales, black horns, black wings, and startling golden eyes. He is undeniably beautiful. Youthful, but with a stoic composure gained only from age -- wise beyond his years.

“You speak to him as if he were human,” Prince Aemond begins. “Why?”

You rest against Archeon’s muzzle when the dragon lowers his head to the grass.

“Because he can understand me as if he were. He converses with me but not with words -- in his own way. The bond is strong and unmarred. Sometimes it is as if I understand his thoughts better than my own.”

Prince Aemond understands to a certain extent. Vhagar knows his wishes unspoken, but she has enough free will to sometimes disobey. Perhaps it is because she had already bonded with three others before him, so the link isn't as strong as Archeons is with you. Maybe it is something more. Maybe a pure blood Valyrian royal knows the bond like no Targaryen ever will.

“Do you ever speak with Vhagar?”

He shakes his head. “Not like you do.”

“Maybe you should try,” you suggest. “You’ll be surprised at how much she’ll understand.”

He ponders on it for a moment, looking at the details of your face. Would it really be so different than talking to a person? Instead of the usual flat commands, perhaps he should speak to Vhagar like he would with any other?

“Would you like to feel him?” you ask.

Your dragon huffs, annoyed.

“Perhaps another time, my lady,” Prince Aemond answers, stepping back with a shy expression. “I have a feeling your dragon does not think too highly of me.”

The two of you relinquish the situation in favour of moving to sit higher up on the hill together, sharing food you brought with you. The breeze rushes up to greet you softly, in a tender way, parting the long grass like it does the waves of the sea, brushing the princes long white hair behind his shoulders gently, like the touch of a lover. Archeon lounges at the base of the hill, content to relax anywhere so long as he is near you, and your horses continue grazing at their leisure.

You speak openly about things, comfortable in one another's presence that your posture dissolves into laying down in the soft grass to stare up at the passing clouds, while the prince leans back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him.

“What is your dream, my lady?” he asks, staring up at the sky. From this angle, he looks like an innocent boy, untouched by the heavy weight of his position. “If you were not who you were, what would you want from life?”

He glances down at you from over his shoulder, and you blink up at him slowly.

“I’m not sure,” you answer honestly. “Would I still have Archeon?”

He hums, lips quirking up. “Yes, you would.”

“Then I’d want to travel all over the seven kingdoms. See the Riverlands, the Eyrie, the Reach. Even up to the far North. I’d want to visit everywhere. Essos and beyond. I’d want to be free.”

He looks up at the clouds, imagining your happiness at soaring through them, onwards in your never-ending journey.

“What about you, my prince?”

He doesn’t really have an answer. He was only interested in your own.

“I’d want the same, I think.”

“We could travel together,” you say, sitting up, and creating a wonderous fantasy. “To anywhere and everywhere. Seeing all the world holds side by side. At breakfast each day, we could toss a coin and the winner would decide where to fly to next. Or we could spar, and the victor of our battles would choose,” you laugh at that, then, and he does, too. “I have a feeling, though, that you would always be in charge of our next destination.”

“You would win sometimes,” he teases, “only because I’d let you.”

“Very gentlemanly of you, kind prince.”

You plop back down onto the grass, and this time, he joins you. You stare at the passing clouds together, imaging a future of only freedom.

“In our journeys, lunch could be determined by the shapes we see in the clouds,” he suggests, pointing upwards. “An animal means you win. A plant means I win.”

“What if it’s just a shapeless form?”

“Then you win, too.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” you laugh.

“I don’t mind.”

“What if there are no clouds? Or what if the day is overcast?”

“Then I win.”

“Ah, I see,” you narrow your eyes good-naturedly at him. “So our chances are equal again?”

“Exactly,” he hums, smirking. “It’s balanced.”

You laugh, closing your eyes in quiet content, happy to be in nature with your dragon and your future husband. The day has turned out far better than you could ever have hoped, and not once have you feared the silence.

“My lady,” Prince Aemond begins, and his voice wavers slightly when he speaks. You open your eyes to look at him beside you. “I enjoy spending time with you. I am not used to being in the company of women, and when I spoke to you in the past about my difficulties conversing with those I am unfamiliar with, it was the truth. I was... and sometimes even still... feel unsure of how to speak with you.” He feels terribly vulnerable, out in the open, unguarded, and buckles under the weight of your stare. Perhaps it was not the best time to admit his shortcomings. “I just— I hope I do not bore you. I feel perhaps that my company is not so greatly sought after, and I can understand why.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” you murmur, eyes soft. He wants you to look at only him like that. “Your company is most preferred by me. Perhaps if you could see yourself as I do, you would understand the weight of my affections. If I could spend every second beside you, I would.”

The last bit slips out accidentally, and you burn a furious red at the admission. You turn away. Prince Aemond does the same. Only the sky sees his elated reaction.

The sun creeps gently into the afternoon, skimming the canopies of the trees on its descent towards the horizon. Prince Aemond chances a glance at you. You are still staring up at the skies, taking in the shifting colors painted freely across the heavens; soft peach giving way to brilliant rouge, and in the golden light, you capture his breath. You are perfect. You look like the rest of his life.

“My lady, should we return to the Keep?” he asks, forcing himself to look away.

“Yes,” you sigh, and then, with a brighter tone, you add, “Would you like to fly back? Archeon will seat you with no issue, my prince.”

He gives you a look, uncertainty in his eyes. Your dragon is with saddle, of course, and could easily carry two, but there is something in the pit of his stomach that warns against it. Perhaps it is because he knows of the apparent dislike held by your beast towards him. He wonders mildly if Archeon would try to shrug him off mid-flight. With you there, however, the odds of that happening are slim to none.

It is only the brave who conquer.

“I would,” he says, but something in his voice betrays his lack of confidence.

“Archeon is gentle and kind,” you reassure. “He won’t harm you.”

Prince Aemond is by your side when you descend the slope of the hill towards your lounging dragon, who lifts his head only slightly at your approach. He locks eyes with the prince, and then immediately looks away, as if understanding what will soon be asked of him. His expression is neither here nor there; feelings on your betrothed are as of yet undecided.

Archeon senses your wish to mount, and lowers his shoulder to the ground without quarrel. He is vocal, Prince Aemond notices -- very much so. Your dragon often clicks and coos at you in a warm way that speaks volumes of his affection. His size makes it a jarring noise to hear -- something so tender rising up from the pit of a colossal beast.

You climb up onto his front foot, hoisting yourself up his shoulder, and scaling the sheer size of his body with practised ease. Where Prince Aemond uses ropes to mount Vhagar, you use Archeon’s horns. The dragons helps you out when he feels you lose momentum, nudging you upwards softly with his head, and when you make it to the saddle, you seat yourself with ease. Then, you glance down at him expectantly. You’re so high up, he can barely make out the details of your face.

He’s having second thoughts, and chances a sideways look to Archeon. The dragon blinks at him expressionless, as if he wishes to tell him to hurry up and get on with it. With caution and nerves suppressed, he makes towards your dragons foot.

To his surprise, there is no derisive snort, nor warning growl when Prince Aemond climbs up onto your beast. There is no move made to shake him off, nor fiery breath tunnelled towards him. In fact, Archeon seems pacified, content in the happenings around him, and soon, the prince is cresting his back, and making towards the saddle.

He feels awkward, hesitating slightly, but when you shuffle forwards to give him more space, he settles quickly behind you, chest tight against your back.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says, voice unsteady and full of embarrassment.

You grasp the silver handles of the saddle, glancing back at Prince Aemond as Archeon begins to rise.

“You may hold onto me if you wish, my prince,” you offer, “The situation is one that demands it for your own safety, so I do not mind.”

Archeon roars loud, spreading his wings, and Prince Aemond grasps onto you swiftly with understandable fright when your dragon launches himself upwards. The force pushes you deep into the saddle, and you slide backwards into the princes chest. The clearing beneath you grows smaller the further and higher Archeon climbs, until your horses are no longer visible, the hill disappears behind clouds, and even the forest itself seems like a forgotten memory.

Wind whips at your cheeks, rushes through your hair, and the feeling of being held tightly by the prince sets your soul ablaze. Archeon climbs higher, and higher still, vocalising loudly, beating his wings with a force that sounds like thunder, and then, as if in a fit of ill temper, snaps his jaws. He dips his head, body following suit, and plummets to the earth below.

Your dragon dives sharply, free falling, tucking his wings in close to his body to speed up his descent, and Prince Aemond releases a worrying cry, arms hugging you tighter out of sheer reflex. Archeon is falling at a terrifying speed, the forest reappears as he exits the clouds, and rushes up to greet you quickly.

“Don’t be afraid!” You place a hand over the princes iron-clad grip on your waist. “Don’t be afraid!”

And then, you let go.

Here, you have no chains, no expectations, no duty. Here you are not the last daughter, nor sole hope of your people. Here, in this moment, you are free. All that matters is your dragon, your prince, and you.

Archeon levels immediately, and spreads his wings like you do your arms. As if you, yourself are flying. He roars, and you cry out with joy, soaring over the Kingswood. The feeling is like nothing on earth. Archeon flies steady, gliding through the skies, taking you higher, keeping his balance, and you yell out, unable to contain the bubbling exhilaration within you. You look over your shoulder at Prince Aemond, and the man seems as delighted to be here as you are; wide grin that reaches all the way to his eye spreads across his face, and he looks full of youth and happiness.

He finds the courage to let go of your waist, and spreads his arms out to his side, following your lead, and everything is impossibly more staggering, more breath-taking, more incredible. Archeon himself responds to the princes bravery; chittering at the trust shown in himself, in you, in the bond.

In that moment, Prince Aemond forgets everything. Here, there is no crown, no succession, no trauma, no injury, no pain. There is only you, and the way you’re looking at him. It's like he’s the most important person in the world to you. The most precious.

You reach down to pet the scales beside your saddle, praising your dragon for his wonder, and then, you actively lean back against Prince Aemond. You’re laughing, settling into his chest like it’s your homeland. You are truly unlike any woman he’s ever met. He could travel the world, live a thousand lifetimes, and never know anyone quite like you.

Despite his efforts, he cannot deny the truth.

He is falling in love with you with no way to stop.

The thought both terrifies him, and sets him free.

——————

Night has fallen by the time Prince Aemond decides to visit Vhagar.

She is already fast asleep by the time he arrives, but rouses slowly upon his approach. He climbs the ropes by her neck, hoisting himself upwards to his saddle, and commands her to fly. She is irritable in her old age, but follows his order with little to no quarrel, and soon, he is flying her over the Kingsland to clear his mind.

Since he parted with you earlier, he has thought about nothing else.

You make him feel a way no one ever has.

He is like a dog, he thinks, in the way he yearns for your approval. Where he avoided your eyes before, now, he cannot look away. He is always searching for your gaze, and when you meet it, he ignites.

He had no weaknesses before you. None. He did not care at all for the feelings of others, and did not concern himself with their opinions. He took pride in speaking and acting however he pleased. The vicious one-eyed, the bringer of fire and fury, the monster of house Targaryen.

Now, his biggest weakness walks outside his body, and takes your form. You look at him like he is worth something, like he is only yours. Like you care about him.

If you forsake him, there would be no coming back from that place. He would be utterly destroyed. There is still time, he thinks, to drag himself back from the point of no return.

Vhagar voices the pain he cannot bring himself to utter in a hollow wail.

He settles on it then.

He will devote himself to his grandfathers plan. He will side with his mother. He will be the one to inflict the first wound, striking fast before you get a chance to do the same to him. You will, of course. There is no if. People like him will never obtain true happiness.

He'll find your dragons -- every last one.

And he’ll kill them.

[part 10]

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon

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demigodforfend · 2 years ago

Text

Twilight of the Demigods: Forfend Edition - Session 18

The assassin glanced over Forfend, assessing his situation at lightning speed. He lashed out with his blade a second time, catching Melzaryn across the chest.

He jumped back out the window amid the spray of blood.

Melzaryn snapped his fingers. A thunderous boom rattled the entire inn, launching the assassin gracelessly into the alley below.

Forfend heard the cloaked figure hit the ground with a rough grunt.

It rushed to press its hand over Melzaryn's bleeding throat.

Suddenly, the sound of wood splintering and crashing reverberated from only a few rooms over.

People screamed, clamoring from their beds to flee the inn's pandemonium.

"What the shit was that?!" Forfend panicked, magic lacing its words and closing Melzaryn's wound.

"The assassin's weren't just after me. They're after all of us. They're probably Envema," Melzaryn hurriedly explained. "Kagoshi's room is the one that sounded like he just slammed an assassin through the floor."

"Should we help him or go after Kairi?" Forfend asked, already collecting Melzaryn and his things into its arms.

"Does he sound like he's struggling?"

Forfend listened to the violent roars and aggressive thrashing.

"Also, he'll literally kill us if he finds out we went to get him before Kairi," Melzaryn added.

Forfend nodded. "To Kairi," it agreed and dashed out of the room.

As it passed Kagoshi's door, Forfend heard someone unfamiliar screaming for help. It doubted that would be the assassin. More likely, Kagoshi had cornered an inn patron in his overzealous attack on his assailant.

It dropped Melzaryn. "I have to--"

Melzaryn cut it off, "I've got Kairi. Kagoshi's room probably has a hole in the floor. It'll get you down quicker."

With that, he jumped on his flying broom and jetted toward the stairway.

Forfend turned, slammed open Kagoshi's door, and dropped directly through the hole he had indeed created in the center of the room.

Now on the second floor, it immediately saw Kagoshi had barrelled through the wall of this room into the next.

The assassin clawed at Kagoshi's flaming hand around his throat.

Kagoshi looked cramped, like his giant form had only come through halfway. He was all hulking muscle, but he wasn't even quite as tall as Forfend. Murder burned in his eyes.

Outside the window, someone wailed in abject terror.

Forfend stepped up on the bed to look out.

A man covered in burns from spending too long in Kagoshi's proximity lay groaning on the cobblestone.

Not even ten feet away from him stood Melzaryn's assassin. At the other end of the alley, another black-cloaked figure crouched. Both were rummaging through bags.

Forfend gripped the windowsill and ripped inward, cracking the window and a significant section of wood fully out of the wall.

"Kagoshi, do not kill him!" it ordered, healing magic coursing through its words. "He may be the only one we have."

Kagoshi growled and continued to thrash his opponent.

Forfend watched the wounds of the man in the alley close. It didn't bother to check that Kagoshi's injuries were doing the same. It shouldered halfway through the damaged hole where the window had been and managed an awkward leap.

Forfend thudded onto the cobblestone alleyway right between the inn patron and the assassin.

A reverberating thwip cut through the chaos.

Forfend was familiar with the sound of a bowstring releasing, but this sounded massive.

It whipped around, the magic in the Orison Aegis guiding its hand to the right position at supernatural speed.

A spinning arrow the size of a javelin struck the shield.

Forfend braced against the Orison Aegis as the enormous arrow twisted violently. Metal screeched, shredding the night air.

Forfend dug its heels into the cobblestone, yet was still pushed back by the relentless arrow.

Finally, it managed to shove the shield sideways, driving the arrow off it and into the wall of the next building over.

The twisted tip spun through the stone wall and burrowed into the floor on the other side.

Forfend hazarded a glance up at the direction the arrow had come from.

High up on the opposite rooftop stood a vaguely humanoid figure so wrapped in billowing brown cloth that only a single yellow eye shown through. The figure studied Forfend with cold malice.

Forfend turned away from him to face Melzaryn's assassin again.

The assassin shrank back, nervously flicking his eyes between Forfend and the deflected arrow.

Forfend knocked him over the head with its mace.

He staggered, turned, and fled around the corner of the building.

Behind Forfend, the inn patron screamed and barrelled up the alley toward the main street.

Forfend felt a prickle of unease run up its back and knew the bowman had drawn back for another shot.

Forfend readied its shield.

The bowman's enormous great bow, as tall as he was at least, lit up green as runes highlighted all across it. The corkscrew arrowhead gleamed ominously in the moonlight.

The bowman gave the arrow a slight twist just as he unleashed it.

The arrow sliced through the air, spinning like a twister.

It knocked Forfend's shield aside and buried itself through Forfend's stone body.

Even after it hit, it didn't stop spinning. Rocks and golden ichor spewed. The raw force pushed Forfend backwards.

Finally, when it had drilled nearly completely through Forfend, it stopped.

Forfend dropped to its knee, pain coursing through it.

The arrow lit up sickly green.

Dizziness assaulted Forfend's senses. Needles dug into its mind, picking it apart from the inside out. A high-pitch ring drowned out every other noise.

Suddenly, the sensations faded, leaving behind only deep-set exhaustion.

When Forfend's vision refocused, the arrow was gone. The last glimmers of green energy dissipated in the breeze.

Forfend pressed a trembling hand over the gaping wound left in the arrow's wake. Even its oversize hand couldn't conceal the full extent of the damage.

Ichor gushed, spilling down its front.

On the far side of the alley, the second assassin freed whatever he'd been looking for from his bag and plopped it on the ground.

Forfend couldn't see it well from this distance, but it looked to be a bag. If the barrels it had seen at the Teleportation Hub were any indication, the bag was probably a bomb.

An explosion blasted the walls out of both second floor rooms Kagoshi had been fighting in.

Forfend had assumed the assassins were Envema, but now it was certain.

Kagoshi appeared at the edge of the gaping, crumbling hole in the wall. Blood sizzled on his burning flesh.

"Hey, so they're Envema!" he called.

"I have noticed," it returned. "I told you not to kill him!"

"I didn't mean to! I'm on fire!" Kagoshi snapped.

He dropped into the alley.

His claustrophobic body immediately uncoiled. He grew to his full height, now standing even with the second floor he'd just exited. Even so, his stacks of muscles still seemed to be straining for more space beneath his skin.

"Get what he dropped!" Forfend ordered, pointing down the alleyway at the fleeing assassin.

The inn patron was also dashing that way in a desperate bid to escape being pinned between this fight. He was nearly to the main street.

Kagoshi started forward.

The inn patron shrieked as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the veritable fire giant he'd just escaped following him.

"Why are you still here?!" Kagoshi shouted at him.

A second shriek was the only reply.

"Watch the bowman," Forfend warned.

Kagoshi eyed Forfend over his shoulder. His eyebrows twitched upward as he seemed to notice the damage marring its body for the first time.

"Got it," he responded and dashed forward.

With Kagoshi here, the odds of handling this situation successfully had just drastically increased.

Forfend tapped the medallion on its chest and pointed up at the bowman.

A bolt of scorching orange shot forth.

The bowman jolted aside at the last second, the magic catching in his voluminous cloak and lighting up with bright sparks.

Forfend turned and rounded the corner after Melzaryn's assassin.

The man startled, nearly dropping his pack as he scrambled further down the back alley.

He hurriedly dropped a black bag, fiddled with it for a moment, and climbed up onto the opposite roof.

Forfend skidded to a halt right in front of the bag. It dropped to a knee and called upon the magic in its core.

Its body heated up. Golden ichor trickled down its face alongside the golden magic that coalesced around the bag.

The sound of a hammer striking metal rang out twice as the arcana solidified into an adamantine box.

With the bomb trapped safely away, Forfend pressed its hand to its grievous wound. Healing magic coursed through its fingers and limited the spilling ichor.

The assassin above turned as though he was going to run, but something suddenly stopped him.

He turned back around with slow, jerky movements. His eyes were clouded and distant.

"Oh, so I see you actually managed to handle the bombs," he said in a voice much clearer than his eyes. He sounded wrong. His voice was deep, sinister, and it didn't seem to belong to him. If Forfend had to guess, it would say the voice belonged to the bowman. "Looks like I'll have to use the failsafe." A malicious smirk twitched across his face. "You see, there's this one tale I know. One of Vallurn Senshi."

A sense of dread shot through the air. Powerful arcana loomed, though Forfend couldn't tell where it was coming from.

Forfend reached up. "Free him," it demanded and closed its fist around the invisible magic force swarming around the assassin's head.

The man swayed, blinking his eyes clear. He gasped and shrank in on himself. Terror seized him. His breaths came in uneven gasps. He pulled his mask down to breathe easier. "What's happening?! Where are we?!"

Forfend took a short step forward. "Come here," it requested gently.

The man's attention snapped from place to place. He couldn't figure out what he needed to focus on or what he needed to do, and especially not where he needed to go.

Red magic surged through the runes of his chest.

He yelped, clawing at the burning scars.

Forfend took another step closer, trying to will the magic to stop.

Luckily, the runes cooled. The light faded away.

The assassin pressed his hand to his heaving chest. "What's happening?" he whimpered.

"Come here. I will protect you," it promised, reaching its arms up high.

"Okay, okay," he nodded and carefully lowered himself off the roof.

Forfend caught him and eased him down onto the ground.

"Thank you," he managed shakily.

The assassin winced, blood inexplicably trickling from his nose and ears as a different assortment of the runes in his chest lit up again.

"What's happening?!" he panicked, clutching at his temples.

Suddenly, his body went rigid. His eyes rolled back in their sockets. He gasped desperately as his head jerked.

He snapped fully upright.

"Rude," the bowman's voice snarled. "You interrupted me."

Forfend studied the assassin's body.

He looked stiff. Too stiff to move.

It hazarded a guess that the bowman only had enough control to speak through him. It gathered the assassin carefully into its arms and looked back up to the tavern.

The commotion had more than doubled. People fled as quickly as they could down the stairs and presumably out the front doors.

Someone, maybe Kagoshi, dashed with blinding speed past the second story windows. He was collecting inn patrons and ushering them to the ground floor while carrying an elderly man over his shoulder.

Forfend tilted its head. It had never seen Kagoshi move like that. He was a rapid blur. But it couldn't piece together anyone else the man could be. It had to be Kagoshi.

He, Melzaryn, and Kairi had sensed the building arcana too.

There was nothing more Forfend could do from out here. It would have no choice but to trust them to clear the tavern before whatever spell was brewing struck.

"Now what was I saying?" the bowman hummed thoughtfully. "Ah, yes, Vallurn Senshi. You know, he was the first spellblade. The first ever to mix arcana and martial prowess. Everyone where I'm from knows about him."

Forfend bundled the assassin close against its chest and turned away from the inn, heading toward the open street behind it.

The assassin kept talking. Forfend listened, but it refused to react. It wasn't certain if the bowman could see it. It wouldn't appear rattled.

"His most famous battle was against the World's End. You know who that is, don't you? Of course you do, Forfend. You're a demigod."

Forfend felt its core drop in its center. The bowman knew not only its status, but its name as well.

Still, it remained staunchly impassive. Stoic. That was one of the perks of having no facial features: not having to hide the expressions on them.

"But the World's End isn't really what I'm talking about," the bowman continued. "I'm talking about Vallurn Senshi's spells. He created some extraordinarily powerful ones."

The inn patron that had been fleeing Kagoshi's wrath dashed past Forfend.

It watched him go, wailing into the charged night air. It wasn't certain how he'd gotten turned around, but at least he was out of harm's way now.

Forfend kept moving.

"One of them was called the Hail of Blades," the bowman casually kept explaining. "True to the name, it summoned innumerable arcane blades that descended upon his foes. Beautiful carnage, that was."

Reaching the open street, Forfend turned around to watch the Brass Buffalo. As far as it could tell, the two higher floors were completely empty. It hoped the bottom floor was too, but there were no windows in the tavern's kitchen for it to glimpse into.

Forfend turned its gaze upwards.

A runic circle of crackling blue arcana hung in the air a hundred feet or more above the inn like a murderous second moon.

A massive arrow glinted alongside the stars in the sky as its upward trajectory shifted into a sharp downturn. It was on a collision course with the suspended magic.

"I was particularly inspired by his Hail of Blades," the bowman explained. "While this will be a crude version of it, I think it's homage enough."

The arrow struck.

A brilliant blue flash highlighted Cragwall like lightning.

The arrow split into hundreds, even thousands, of duplicates.

They seemed to stall in the air for a moment. The startling blue faded, leaving only darkly glinting metal.

The rain of arrows fell, accelerating until they easily matched the force with which the bowman had fired the original.

"I wonder if you can handle it," the bowman mused.

A window at the side of the building shattered.

Several people, including the goblin chef and Narmoth, scrambled out of it and ran for safety.

Forfend waved them to it. "Is everyone clear?"

"I think so!" the goblin barked as he dashed over.

Narmoth quickly fell behind. Forfend feared he wouldn't escape the blast radius, but it had no time to get to him.

It reached for its magic and found its stores waning.

Suddenly, a giant leapt up onto the roof of the Brass Buffalo.

He sported skin the same light gray as rain clouds and hair so silvery it was nearly white. He seemed to almost be floating as he moved into position in the center of the rooftop.

The barrage of arrows was nearly upon him, but he seemed starkly determined.

Forfend realized with a start that this apparent cloud giant was Kagoshi, his scars glowing stormy blue.

A second massive arcane energy source charged the air.

Forfend recognized the icy lightning buzz of it.

Whatever Melzaryn was doing, Forfend desperately hoped it would work.

The magic surged with such force Forfend felt its core spark and spin.

Displaced air blasted through the streets, buffeting the fleeing tavern patrons.

A massive white blast of pure arcana launched into the air and burst, splitting into hundreds of Magic Missiles.

Forfend shielded the assassin's eyes from the brighter-than-midday light that careened across all of Cragwall.

Every Missile seeked out an arrow and collided with it, stopping its momentum dead.

Kagoshi clenched his fists and punched up at the arrows.

Thunder exploded with the force of the strike.

The arrows caught in the blast disintegrated, scattering in a haze of red energy.

Kagoshi swung again and again and again in such rapid section he was nothing but a blur of motion. He roared with all the fury of a hurricane.

Thunder rumbled constantly across the city.

A red dome of thunderous force rushed upwards from Kagoshi's position, annihilating every stalled arrow in its path.

Glimmering red sparkles filled the sky like stars and drifted harmlessly down in place of the massive piercing arrows.

The last crack of thunder faded out. The magical light dimmed until it was gone.

Kagoshi collapsed onto the rooftop.

Forfend felt the tension leave its body so quickly it nearly followed suit. Steam rushed through its chest.

"Heh, good," the bowman praised. "I knew you could do it. You're demigods after all."

A beat of silence passed as all of Cragwall stared up into the now quiet night sky.

"I'll see you again sometime, Forfend," the bowman promised ominously. "Have fun with this corpse."

The assassin fell limp. His body seized and twitched. Blood spilled from his ears, nose, and even his eyes.

Forfend clung to him. It pulled its magnetic medallion from its chest and pressed it directly to the burning red runes.

"Stop," it demanded.

Red magic coursed into the medallion and was quelled.

The assassin once again fell limp.

Forfend sent gently warm healing magic through the symbol instead. The divine arcana spread across the assassin's chest and upwards, lighting up behind the hollow of his eyes.

He gasped. His eyes cleared and immediately filled with tears that ran pink with the blood down his cheeks.

He clung to Forfend, sobbing into its chest.

"You are safe now," it promised. "Can you tell me your name?"

The assassin shivered and shook with the force of his sobs. He couldn't formulate an answer. He was too hysterical.

Still, Forfend needed to make sure his mind was functioning after the psychic damage it was pretty well certain he'd taken.

"Your name? Please?" it coaxed.

"D-Duncan," he squeaked out between shuddering gasps.

Forfend rubbed comfortingly at Duncan's back. "I am Forfend. I will make certain you are safe. Do you know where you are?"

Duncan shook his head. He wiped his eyes enough to clear his bleary vision and tried to take in his surroundings. "A city?"

Forfend nodded. "That is a good start. Can you tell me the name of the king of Tyrwedia?"

Duncan creased his brow. "Yeah. Uh, Falco Ledrian."

Forfend nodded again. "Good. You are aware. I will explain as much as I can soon. For now, please rest."

Duncan nodded. Tears welled up in his eyes again. He tucked his face against Forfend and resumed crying.

Forfend held him as carefully and gently as it could, and looked him over while it comforted him.

Like most of the last Envema members, Duncan also bore the build of an average working man. He lacked the muscle tone of someone who could silently scale buildings and deftly wield knives. He had not been anything akin to an assassin until Envema made him one.

Forfend wondered what awful magics they used to push average people so far past their bodies' limits.

"He, uh, gonna be okay?" the goblin cook sidled over to ask, though he was still watching the silent sky.

"I will make certain of it," Forfend swore.

#forfend #twilight of the demigods #session notes #session 18 #cragwall #dnd

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drabbles-of-writing · 4 years ago

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my head is pounding (I can't stop the pounding)

This is part of my Four Years AU

AO3

Masterpost

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“They say you travel dimensions,” Luz said, gazing up at the man, flickers of hope in her eyes. “Is it true?”

“My dear, of course it is!” The man chortled, a tall demon of sorts covered in fur, with a mane like a lion around his neck. “Interested in learning my ways, are you?”

“Very much, sir.” Luz nodded, a smile spreading across her face. “I’m looking to find a way to the human realm. I got separated from my mom, and she’s got to be worried sick about me by now.”

“I see, I see.” The man hummed, digging around in his pockets. “Yes, I believe I can help you. Come with me,” He said, withdrawing a card with his name on it and handing it to her. “Are your friends interested, as well?” He asked, peering over her shoulder towards the witches poking around at the knickknacks and items around in his shop.

“They’re here to help me find a way to the human realm,” Luz explained, swelling, just a bit, with pleading in her eyes. “We’ll take as much as you can offer.”

“That,” The man said, eyes flickering to the wanted poster sporting a crude drawing of a figure dressed in a purple and white cloak, an owl mask covering her face. “My dear, depends on how much you are offering.”

The building rippled like water, the scene smearing like wet paint. In the blink of an eye, the scene changed to inside a tent, Luz holding a potion bottle in her hand and peering at the murky, brownish green contents within. The man spoke words that meshed together like gibberish, as though his words had been forgotten, as he gestured towards gadgets with springs sticking out of them.

Luz quietly watched, clearly not listening to a word he was saying. Her face was blank, the faint traces of weary hope gone, like they’d never existed at all. Her shoulders were slumped, and she glanced at the potion in her hands before shaking her head and sighing.

“You’re not real,” She muttered, eyes downcast.

“Come again?” The man startled.

“You’ve never been to a dimension outside your own, have you?” Luz said, raising her head.

“What in the nine realms are you--”

“Nine realms?” Luz snorted bitterly, shaking the potion in her hand. “You really commit to the bit, don’t you?”

The scene rippled again. The two were still inside the tent, but the man had moved. There were tables covered with cloth now. He had a table between him and Luz, who was still holding the potion.

“I’m very busy,” He gruffed. “And I can’t afford to convince you of what's right before your eyes--”

“This isn’t even a potion,” Luz said, raising the ‘potion’ in the air before letting it drop, watching it dully as it cracked on the ground and the contents spilled out. Muddy swamp water, by the looks of it. “I would know. I’m practically surrounded by them.”

“Honestly,” The man scoffed, eyes darting around. “Do you want my help, or not? I assure you, it’s an arduous journey, but I could accomplish it, I believe you could, too.”

“I wanted your help when I thought you had the faintest idea of what you were doing,” Luz huffed, eyes half-lidded in annoyance as she kicked the fake potion aside.

The tent flickered, like an old tape with a scratch on it. Luz was on the other side of the tent now. The man was closer, one hand in his pocket.

“--vious really.” Luz’s voice faded back in.

“Well,” The man said, rearing back, his mane puffing up. “If you're so insistent that I am a fake, why are you still here?” He said, nose turned up.

“Because I told Gus to find me if you took longer than ten minutes, because Eda was worried you might try to jump me.” Luz said simply. “And it’s been fifteen, and he’s never later than two minutes. Which I’m willing to guess means you either tipped off someone, or you set traps. It was the biggest among my many lists of clues that you don’t give a damn about this whole thing.”

The man growled, looking around wildly as his fur continued to puff up. It would’ve been pretty amusing if Luz was in any other situation.

“I have been searching,” Luz started slowly pressing a hand against her face. “For five days straight trying to find you. And the last two people I met before you tried to feed me to a pit or get me in on their murder clan when they found out who I was.” She moved her fingers aside to free an eye, sending a seething glare.

“And you knew why I was trying to find a portal out of here,” She continued. “You knew I was trying to find my mother, and you insisted you had the answer. Why? Honestly, dude, why?” She threw her arms out in a wide gesture. “What do you gain out of this? Do you get a kick out of leading on grieving people? Cause you need to see someone for that.”

“Everyones trying to make a living, and I’m just making mine.” The man hissed, withdrawing his hand from his pocket, fist clenched. “You know how it is.”

“I’m trying to go home,” Luz spat, the seething in her gaze bordering on barely restrained fury. “And yet I’m standing here, wasting my time on the excuses you're throwing at me. So, no, I don’t--”

A tear tore through the scene, sections of the tent smeared over and blurred, forgotten. Words combined and mumbled like they were talking under water. Luz had her hood up now, turning away with some inaudible, but clearly harsh, words spitting out.

The man unclenched his fist, revealing a retractable blade that he switched upright. He hissed and held it tightly in his grip, crouching for just a moment, enough for Luz to give a bored glare back, before charging her.

In that same moment, a small, furry demon leapt out from under the cloth-covered tables, latching his teeth and claws into the man's leg.

“King!” Luz exclaimed, jerking back as soon as the man charged her.

The man howled, a distorted sound, kicking out his leg as he stumbled and tried to shake off the demon clinging in like a burr, drawing blood as he growled and kicked.

Eventually, the man just slammed his leg against the closest table, King squawking as he was hit straight on and falling to the ground with a wheeze, curling into a ball.

The man had barely turned to resume his attack before a pillar of ice hit him square in the face. He fell as vines wrapped around his limbs, pinning him to the ground as he struggled. Luz shoved the glyphs she didn’t use back into her pockets before rushing to King, scooping him up into her arms. He raised his head slightly, giving an affirmation he was fine, just winded, and Luz relaxed ever so slightly.

“Emperor’s Coven showed up,” King explained with a wheeze, waving off Luz when she tried to fret over him. “They’re fine, keeping ‘em at bay outside.” He said, tilting his head in the direction of the exit to the tent. “I just thought that, you know, you might be in trouble.”

“And what a brave demon you were,” Luz agreed, smiling down at him as King perked up under the praise.

Smoke flickered over the top of the tent for a moment, like a tape had skipped a scene, before returning to normal.

“You’d do best to stick to what you know!” The man snapped from where he writhed on the ground, managing not to wilt under Luz and King whirling to glare at him.

“Spreading that wild magic of yours to the human realm won’t do any good.” The man continued, hatred spilling off him in waves. “The Emperor didn’t take kindly to an Owlet like you, why would the human realm be any different?”

“It’s not,” Luz agreed, withdrawing a fire glyph and holding King closer to her with her other arm. “But my mom is.”

With that, she tapped the glyph with her thumb and let it fall to the ground. It burned away at the plants, momentarily singeing the man's limbs tied down. He yelped and sprung free when he could, staring with wide eyes when the fire quickly spread to the cloth across the tables of fake items, catching ablaze near instantly, like frames had been passed over to allow a smooth transition.

King stared wide-eyed, looking between the growing flames and the cold, hardened fury on Luz’s face. He shrunk back in her arms, though she didn’t seem to notice. With that, she turned sharply on her heel and left, storming out through the tent flaps as it, too, caught ablaze the second she touched it, glitching as it did so.

The scene itself was wrapped up in the inferno the moment Luz left it, flames cackling as they grew and spread and consumed everything it touched.

There was soon nothing but the roaring of the fire, the blinding smoke, the rippling of the world, and a golden eye blinking into existence behind the bonfire.

“Luz?”

She shot upright with a start, breathing heavily as she gasped and tugged at the sheets, staring at the far corner of her room. King jerked away from her old mattress she called a bed, head lowered and eyes wide, claws fiddling together.

“Sorry, sorry,” King said quickly, tucking his tail around his legs like a scolded cat. “I...is this a bad time? Should-should I get Eda…?”

“Huh?” Luz said dumbly, voice sounding hoarse as she turned to stare down at King, her body feeling weighted and numb.

“You, um…” King pointed to the side of his face, right under his eye.

Luz felt at her face, feeling instantly that she’d been crying. She quickly wiped at her eyes, breath raggedy as she tried to dry her face.

“Is...is it an episode?” King asked quietly. “Should I leave? I don’t want to--”

“No, no, it’s--” Luz sniffled, hating how her voice sounded and shaking her head, dropping her arm. “It's fine. Small one, mostly just...just a dream, really.” She said, cringing at how slow her movements felt as she leaned back against the wall her bed was pushed beside, attempting to shake off how it felt she was under an ocean.

“Oh...okay.” King said, staying right where he was, claws clinging to the edge of the bed as he looked away.

Luz closed her eyes in the ensuing silence, attempting to banish the memories from her head. It had been just a few days ago, and they’d finally made it back to the Owl House after all their walking and dodging the Coven only yesterday. Everything in between was a little hard for her to remember now that she thought about it. Probably for the best.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Luz eventually asked when her head didn’t quite feel like it was going to roll off her shoulders.

“No, I just...wanted to visit.” King mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Luz exhaled, forcing herself to bite back the desire to bury herself in her blankets and never see the light of day again, opening her arms slightly with a small, half crooked smile.

King noticed the invitation and took it instantly, scrambling up onto the bed and scurrying into her arms. He curled in her lap as she pulled him close, leaning her chin on the top of his head and exhaling heavily, only by force of will not slumping over and crushing him.

They stayed like that for a bit, waiting in the silence as Luz calmed herself down, clutching King tightly. If King was uncomfortable or had trouble breathing, he gave no indication. He stayed perfectly still and loose as Luz’s raspy breathing slowly calmed to something more manageable. It was late, but only just past dusk. The soft sounds of others in the house moving and talking softly on the floor below them could be heard if you strained your hearing.

“What brings you in here?” Luz finally asked, straightening her back a bit and squinting an eye, realizing King left the door open a crack and a sliver of light was seeping into the dark room.

King shrugged, a little comical considering Luz had wrapped her arms around his midsection like he was a teddy bear, his arms forced up a bit.

“Wanted to visit,” He repeated.

Luz didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t push, slumping back against the wall and crossing her legs as she situated King in her lap. She knew King would break and tell her if she left it be for a moment. Sometimes he needed a moment to get his thoughts in order.

“Back when,” King paused again and Luz didn’t move, waiting patiently until he spoke again. “When you were talking with that demon guy…”

Luz looked down at him again, only able to see the back of his head and horns from this angle. He didn’t attempt to turn around and she didn’t do it herself.

“Your mom,” He tried a second time. “If we…” King stopped when Luz tensed, ever so slightly. He kept quiet for a moment before tilting his head back, still not enough for Luz to see his face. “When we find her,” He started again. “What’s...the plan after that?”

“What?” Luz blinked in confusion, loosening her hold on King to let him sit more comfortably in his lap.

“It’s just…” King said, turning halfway now that Luz could see his worried, contemplative face. “You always talk about how much you want to get back to your mom, because she must be worried sick about you, but...what are you gonna do after you find her?”

“...apologize for the next decade?” Luz tried, raising a brow in confusion. “Be grounded for the rest of my life?”

“I mean, just,” King struggled for another moment, leaning back against her leg and glaring up at the ceiling. “What...what are you gonna do when you're home again?” He asked quietly. “Is your mom coming to the Boiling Isles?”

“Oh, definitely not.” Luz snorted, shaking her head, not noticing his sudden reclusion. “My mom would freak out at this place. No, she’s a human realm type of human.”

“Then...are you staying with her?” King asked, drawing his limbs close to his body.

Luz watched him then, surprise evident on her face. King wasn’t looking at her, only the ceiling. He was already pretty small, but now he looked as though he was trying to make himself shrink even more.

“Course not,” Luz said softly, pulling King closer to her chest. “I love my mami, but the human realm isn’t for me. Never really has, if I’m being honest.”

“But you said your mom wouldn’t stay here,” King frowned, looking up at her now. “Are you going to stay separate again?”

“Well, no, that’s not,” Luz pursed her lips, frowning as she glanced to the side. “We...we’ll work something out. Maybe I could visit. Or...you know, it’ll depend on the portal, so we’ll have to see.” She decided on. “She’ll have to watch the tapes first.”

“So you don’t know, then?” King said simply, as if he was discussing common knowledge.

“I know I just...need to work out finer details.” Luz insisted. “Look, it’s fine, really. I’m not going anywhere.” She assured, drawing him up and giving a quick hug. “And I’m sure my mami would understand. I’m sure she remembers how crazy I was, this shouldn’t be that big of a surprise.”

She didn’t sound too convinced herself. King frowned, hooking his claws into her shirt and thus keeping her from pulling him away. He used his new leverage to give her a serious, no-nonsense expression that was honestly pretty cute on him. His nose almost touched hers.

“But don’t you miss it?” King asked, tilting his head. “I mean, you’re always talking about how different the human realm is from here and...how safer it is, really.” His eyes strayed, only for a moment, towards the edges of a scar that poked out of the collar of her shirt, one that he knew stretched far further along her arm and body like an angry, tangled thicket.

“I mean, nothings trying to kill you the moment you step outside, yeah, but the human realm isn’t perfect.” Luz said with a shrug. “If I’m being completely honest, if my mami wasn’t there, I don’t think I’d ever be trying to go back.” She said, sounding only slightly surprised at her revelation.

“But it's your home, isn’t it?” King insisted.

“My home,” Luz said, booping his nose as she sat him down on her crossed legs, taking a moment to pull his claws off her shirt. “Is where I decide it is. And it’s not there.” She said, giving him a small, soft smile. “But my mom is part of what I consider home, and I won’t be home until I find her. Does that make sense?” She asked, head turned.

“I...think so.” King said with a frown.

“Hey, at the end of the day,” Luz said, scratching at the fur just under his skull, the demon leaning into it. “Just know that, no matter how much the Emperor tries otherwise, you guys are stuck with me, okay? Getting back to my mom won’t change that.”

King curled closer to her hand, still appearing a little doubtful, but far more reassured than earlier. Luz giggled as she used her other hand to scratch at his side, the demon kicking out his back leg happily.

“And, who knows,” Luz continued. “Maybe we’ll find your dad, too. Ask him a few questions, figure things out with him.”

“He probably wouldn’t care,” King sighed, deflating a bit and going limp in Luz’s lap. “You’ve at least got memories of your mom. I don’t have any.”

“Then he’s missing out,” Luz said, swooping down to hug the demon and giggle at his squirming. “His loss, really. I’ll be sure to tell him that if we ever meet him.”

“Even if he looks as big and terrifying as his mural?” King asked, moving his head just slightly.

“Even if he looks scarier than his mural.” Luz said with a very serious nod.

“Alright,” King said with a tsk, shaking his head. “But I’m not responsible if you get stepped on.”

“That’s fair,”

The two smiled at each other, chuckling quietly as Luz turned and flopped back on her bed, jolting King before he crawled up and curled into a ball on her stomach. Luz smiled up at the ceiling, stroking a hand down his back. King nuzzled her hand, yawning as he shut his eyes, wrapping his small claws around her fingers.

She turned her head to the side, off towards the bundle of items she stashed at the other end of her room. Her eyes locked on the box of tapes under a pile of clothes, the words FOR MOM written as large as possible on the side in sharpie. Her smile fell, and she looked away from the box, face pinched.

“I hope your mom likes us,” King mumbled sleepily. “It won’t change anything if she doesn't, right?” He cracked open an eye, the yellow and purple glow looking eerie as he gazed at Luz.

“She’ll like you,” Luz assured quickly, forgoing answering his second question as she stroked her other hand over his skull and down his back. King shut his eyes again and purred in response, tail wagging. “She’ll like you.” She repeated, quieter, gently squeezing her fingers around King’s claws.

She didn’t speak after that. She did, however, tighten her hold on his back with her other hand, like she was afraid he’d get ripped out of her hands from a simple gust of wind. If she was squeezing him too tightly, he didn’t say anything.

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btsinwonderland · 3 years ago

Text

A Drop of Poison - Ch. 9: The Creature

A Loki fanfiction!

Previous Chapter --- Next Chapter

Full Chapter List

-------------------------------------

“Ouch! You stepped on my foot!” Pom said to Mo as the three of you stumbled inside the invisibility cloak. It barely covered the three of you and Mo was uncomfortably crab walking.

“I’m sorry, I can barely see a thing,” he said.

“Will you both please be quiet? The cloak isn’t soundproof, Skurge could hear us from across the school at this point!” you said.

The three of you crossed the main hallway and were about ten feet away from a side entrance to the courtyard outside. It was then you heard footsteps. The three of you were in the middle of the hall and there was nowhere to hide, so you stood completely still and waited.

It was Professor Heimdall. He was the one teacher you were concerned about who could see beyond what was ‘normal’. You held your breath as he walked past you. He paused for a moment and glanced about the room, as if he sensed something off, but he moved on. When he was far enough away, Mo and Pom sighed deeply and you led them out the door.

The air was chilly, and a biting wind flapped the cloak against your feet. “Let’s move fast. We can’t afford someone seeing us! Hold the cloak and walk together!” you said, above the howling wind.

The trees rustled and leaves soared past you. Some hit the cloak and you tried to shake them off as best you could. At one point, Mo had bumped his head onto a tree branch since he was so occupied watching his own feet as to not step on anyone’s toes again.

When the three of you reached the treeline of the Forbidden Forest, you stopped and took off the cloak. The autumn air chilled you to the bone, but you shook it away, concentrating on what you were about to do.

“Mo! We need you to stay here in case something goes wrong. Get help only if you absolutely have to,” you said.

Pom nodded. “I don’t think there’s much of a vantage point from the windows, so if you stay close to the trees here, you should be covered until we come back with Ken.”

Your heart lurched at her positivity and you prayed he was still alive.

“Got it! You two better hurry your asses up, because it is cold and I want to keep my balls if you don’t mind.”

You rolled your eyes at him and looked at Pom. “You sure you want to come with me?” You said.

“I need to find him.”

Mo shouted behind you both, “don’t die!”

You threw the cloak around both of you and ventured into the darkness of the forest. The sun had set several hours ago, and it was nearly midnight. The trees were encased in shadow and the faint moonlight cast an eerie glow over the grey parts of the forest. Everything looked more dead than you remembered before. The leaves were dry and withered looking and many of the flowers had wilted. The ground was so uneven that it took you and Pom several minutes to get used to walking together with the cloak. You had no idea if invisibility would be helpful or not; it depended on the creature’s senses.

There was a distant howl in the woods that sent a chill down your spine.

***

Loki raced out of his office and down the corridors, heading to the main floor. He burst through one of the east exits and cold air slapped his face as he rushed to the Forbidden Forest in the direction that he had seen the students on the Marauder’s Map. The magical map did not lie. When it showed names, those people were there.

He jogged across the field and approached the treeline of the Forbidden Forest. “I know you’re there, Darwish! Show yourself or risk expulsion!” Loki yelled over the wind.

A figure slowly emerged, hands up and face panicked. “Professor Laufeyson! Please don’t expel me. I was just standing guard!”

Loki glowered at the student. “Quit your whining, you mewling quim! Where are the other two?”

The student’s eyes widened as he stammered, “P-P-Pom and Freya went into the forest to find her brother.”

Loki’s expression nearly lost its composure in a fit of anger, but he forced it together. Through clenched teeth he said, “take yourself to the Headmistress, now! And tell her to wait to expel you until I return. If she - the girls are dead, then expulsion will be the least of your punishment, I promise you that.”

The boy nearly tripped on his way back to the castle, glancing back at Loki with a horrified face. Loki flicked his wrist and an orb of green light shot into the forest. He rolled his shoulders once and ran into the dark.

***

“Freya, did you hear that?” Pom said, her voice a small squeak.

The woods were cold and night had become foggy. You took her hand and rubbed the top of it as you ventured deeper into the forest. There were all sorts of creaks and snaps, hissing and buzzing. It was when the forest quieted down that you grew concerned. No crickets or owls; not even the sound of a scurrying mouse.

“Why is it so quiet?” You whispered.

A crash sounded from the bushes beside you, and you and Pom fell backwards as a young centaur screamed at the top of his lungs. The light brown horse half of his body had a frightful gash along the side, revealing parts of his intestines. A large black mass jumped from where the centaur came and landed on the creature.

“No! Please! Help me!” The centaur screamed.

You and Pom gagged at the sight as this larger creature snapped its jaws and bit down on the centaur’s throat. You wished you did not know the sound of a breaking neck, but that last crack was forever seared into your mind.

The creature was an enormous black haired wolf. It was thrice the size of any normal wolf you had ever seen. Its gums were blood red and its yellowish teeth were as long as your forearm. You shivered underneath the cloak and prayed that the centaur’s blood was enough to keep your scent away.

“Freya, we can’t do this, we have to leave, oh my god!” Pom said, wriggling away.

“Wait!” you said, pulling out our wand. “Homenum revelio!” A line of light shot from your wand and you felt a pressure just above you, as if something was leading you towards the left grove of trees.

You lifted Pom up by the hand and ran towards the trees, following the line of light. The creature was busy feasting on the unfortunate centaur as you slipped away. Beyond the grove of trees, there was an area that was covered in rock formations. Some dipped low and others created tricky hills to climb over. The spell led you down a steep rock into an area where several trees had been snapped in half and broken - no doubt by the monster you evaded. But just below a cracked log, the light of the spell disappeared.

A groan came from underneath the log. Your heart leapt. Pom shuffled away from you and ran towards the sound.

“Ken! Oh my god, Freya! It’s him!” Pom said, crying. She pulled out her wand and cast a levitation spell to remove the log from his body. His right leg was broken and his left arm was missing.

“Dear god, Ken,” you said, taking off the cloak.

“You...found..me...” he said in ragged breaths. The left arm that was missing had crystals of ice around the stump.

“He would’ve bled to death if you hadn’t frozen that,” you said.

A twig snapped, and you heard growling from between the trees. Your stomach dropped as Ken moaned. “Kill me, don’t let that thing get me, please! Just kill me now!”

Helping Pom lift him up, you waited until she was sure she could support his weight. “You two go, I’ll distract it.” You took the cloak and wrapped it around her and Ken.

Pom looked at you with tears in her eyes. “Freya, what if it gets you!”

“Just go!” You threw your arm out and shot red sparks between the trees, away from them.

The wolf shot through the bushes, soared above you, and landed between the trees in a vicious snarl. If you had hesitated even one more second, it would have found the three of you.

You climbed up and helped Pom lift Ken, who was trying to conceal his pain poorly. He mumbled and yelped, making all sorts of noise. “Get out of here and take him to the infirmary!”

The wolf howled as Pom and Ken escaped through the trees and you ran in the opposite direction. You heard the creature behind you and glanced over your shoulder as you saw it only a few feet away. The white of its teeth gleamed maliciously in the moonlight, and its mouth was stained with fresh blood. There was no way you would outrun that thing.

“Bombarda!” The ground exploded behind you in a hopeful effort to slow the wolf down. You jumped towards thicker sections of trees you thought were tight enough to protect you, but you heard them groan and give way to the gigantic wolf in a loud crash.

It growled behind you as you threw another exploding spell. This time, the creature dodged it and jumped up on the trunk of a large tree, gripping it with its long dextrous claws. You kept running and approached the bottom of a steep slab of stone covered in dark vines. It was too steep to climb. The wolf’s yellow eyes glowed as it eyed you with a crazed sort of hunger. It growled deep in its throat, ready to rush you.

You raised your wand, ready to deliver the killing curse, not even sure if it would work since you had never tried it. You knew they might send you to Azkaban for it, but you would rather die of a dementor’s kiss than be eviscerated like that centaur.

“Avada-” you said, and then your hand caught on something. A black vine twisted around the hand that your wand was in, which prevented you from moving.

The wolf jumped to the ground and stalked you slowly with what seemed to be a demented grin on its face. The gleam in its eyes now twinkled.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, struggling against the black vines and trying to untangle yourself with your free hand.

It opened its mouth, revealing a blood red tongue and horrible breath, and you wondered if this was the last thing you would ever see.

A green light whipped right past your face and the wolf was knocked off balance. You looked up and saw Professor Laufeyson with green fire blazing in his hands. You painfully slipped your hand out of the vine and ran to his side. “How did you find me?”

“I will answer your inquiries after we deal with a more pressing matter,” he said, throwing you a glare. The creature recovered and snarled at you and Professor Laufeyson.

It snapped its teeth, and drool fell from its lips. Professor Laufeyson raised his hands. “So, you’re Fenris, the dreaded beast of the Dark One,” he said, giving it a casual look. “Little smaller than I thought.”

It growled and lunged as Professor Laufeyson threw burning green balls of flame at it. It landed too close and swiped its massively sharp claws towards you. Professor Laufeyson shoved you aside and was knocked sideways against a tree.

“Professor!” you ran to his side and helped him sit up. The creature had raked two claws along his left side in deep wounds that stained half of his shirt with blood. His blood continued to flow at an alarming rate.

“Looks like I can’t get past the guard dog tonight,” he said with a pained laugh. “You might want to hold on, Miss Eves,” he said.

It occurred to you right away what he was going to do, and you immediately gripped his arm and felt your whole body twist around for a painful second as the wolf raised its claws again to strike you. One moment you were in the forest, and the next, you were in a dimly lit room.

You both swayed after Professor Laufeyson apparated you out of the forest. You recovered quickly, but Professor Laufeyson, on the other hand, swayed dangerously; nearly knocking over the nearby coat stand. You took him by the arm and led him to a four poster bed in the centre of the room.

“Are we in your room?” You said, realizing where you were.

He groaned, blinking several times. “Yes.”

You knelt in front of him and looked at his shirt; he was still bleeding profusely. “You need to get to the infirmary, you’re losing too much blood, sir.”

He shook his head lazily. “My shelf, bottom drawer...Blue vial...pour it on the wound…”

“What? I’m sure Volstagg will be a much better medic-”

“It’s poison. I need the antidote now,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

You ran to the shelf at the corner of the room and retrieved the vial. He laid back on his elbows, completely shirtless, and you told yourself this was no moment for leering. You glued your eyes to his wounds and poured the contents of the vial over them. He winced as the liquid bubbled over his wounds and hardened to a bluish coloured scab. The bleeding finally stopped. “Do you have bandages?” you said.

He nodded towards the shelf again and you opened several drawers, one of which contained a strange silver bowl with swirls of blue and white light. You closed that drawer and found the bandages in another.

You wrapped his abdomen in white gauze gently as he watched you quietly. Then, you left him to wet a cloth to clean the blood off. When you returned with the cloth, he was half sitting and half laying on the bed, fatigue in his eyes.

“Are you still dying?” you said, as you guided his head to the pillow.

His eyes closed, and he shook his head. “Sleeping...side effect….it’s fine.”

You smiled at his slurred speech and leaned over him to slip off his shoes. You brought the cloth to his chest and started to wipe the blood away, careful to not touch the covered wounds. After a few minutes, you thought he was asleep and turned to get up, when he grabbed you by the hand.

“Stay,” he said in a thick, sleepy voice.

Your heart fluttered as you stood there wondering what to do. His hand pulled on your arm and you nearly fell into bed beside him. You sat up against the headboard and he leaned away from his pillow until his head was in your lap. You sat there like a statue for several minutes, shocked. Only when his breathing evened out and he was truly asleep, could you relax. His head was warm on your lap and you wondered just how strong the side effects of that antidote were. His black hair was slightly greasy and matted, though it smelled quite wonderful, so you took your chance and lightly ran your fingers through it. It was utterly soft, and you nearly froze again when he snuggled closer in your lap and rubbed his face on your thigh with a tired sigh. Your body reacted with heat between your legs and you felt a rush of blood to your cheeks. This was certainly not the time to become a feverish mess, so you breathed in and out, calming yourself down.

You ran your hands over his hair in soft caresses and for that small moment, forgot anything you had to be worried about.

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characcoon · 4 years ago

Text

The Way of Business

Words: 2143

Summary: How Donnie first met Charles.

----------------------

"I'm trying my best to not question, but… "Cat claws, be sure they fell naturally" and he wrote the last word with capital bold letters." Donnie pokes the shopping list with his finger "And my favorite, "Coffee beans (digested)", which, by other terms, means coffee that has been shat."

"Keep not questioning." April says, hands on her pockets "It's witchy, magic stuff. We already went through this, Dee. Sometimes it doesn't make sense and that's fine."

"I'm aware. But it's not everyday you have poop coffee on your grocery list. What's he even going to do with these?"

"I don't think that anything Barry does should be our business."

April and Donnie walk around a busy street in the shopping district of the Hidden City, trying to identify the things on Draxum's list only by looking at the shops and vending stands, since the old sheep Yokai didn't think of writing where exactly to find the stuff.

"Maybe it's a cake." Donnie mumbles, stopping by a counter and quickly examining some items "Mikey's been teaching him some more recipies, he might be returning the favor by making Yokai food."

"Pooped coffee cat claws cake! Yummy." April gags, then points at a jar filled with sparkly deep blue glitter labelled mermaid bone powder "I think we need that one."

They continue shopping for another 20 minutes until they reach a part of the district that is definitely more shady and quiet. Sales are made among whispers and the shops have much less products on display, everything of importance stocked in the back.

As April intimidates a merchant to lower the price of the cat claws, Donnie spots something familiar in a corner and curiously turns around to look. It's one of Big Mama's guards, but not just any guard; it's that specific one that seems to be on a higher rank, that was at the scene when the spider Yokai first took the Shredder to make him her champion. Donnie hums, watching as the guard dives between two stores and vanishes into another street.

"Got it for half the price." April comes to him, smiling proudly and shaking a tiny bottle filled with cat claws, then notices Donnie isn't paying attention "Earth to Donnie?"

"Wanna put some noses where they don't belong?" He sends her a trickster smile, bumping his fingers together.

"That depends, are you going to explode the whole street again?"

"Scoff!" the turtle scoffs "I saw one of Big Mama's guards going that way."

"And we need to go after them because…"

"Because it's her personal guard. The personal, stealthy, silent guard. The guard she sends to kill people without leaving a trace. The guard that probably has a cool name that makes people shiver in fear upon hearing it. The guard I just saw going that way."

April puffs her cheeks and blows out air in sections, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then she sighs, puts the bottle on Donnie's hand and starts walking.

"Alright, let's seek trouble, why not."

Donnie silently celebrates and dashes across the street, April right on his tail, following the same path of the guard. They go between the stores and find themselves in a smaller street with much less stores that are much more shady, to the point of being just holes between the brick walls. They reach the end of the street, turn to the only side available into another short road that hits a dead end. The guard is on that far end, with their back to the two curious teens who are slowly and quietly getting closer by using the little things around that can be used as barricades.

“We could make business faster if you tell me what you want straight up, I don’t do well with riddles.”

Donnie peaks behind a depression in the wall he and April are hiding in and notices a big trashcan shoved inside the wall with some christmas lights dangling from the sides and some mechanisms bending the lid and forming a roof. The guard is in front of whoever’s speaking, neither Donnie or April can see who.

“Or you could send the Great Milf here personally! Would love to catch up with her, if you know what I mean.”

Donnie gags in silence.

“She wants the Barnacle.” the guard speaks, voice muffled and distorted.

“The Barnacle! Wow! And why would I have that, exactly?”

“You were seen with it, at the docks. Took the package from Captain Piel.”

“Stupid lump of rotten flesh ratted me out, huh.” the other mumbles and sighs “Alright, I’ll get it, gimme a minute.”

April and Donnie glance at each as they hear ruffling and some crashing, the immovable form of the guard giving no indication of noticing the eavesdropping happening behind them.

“Is she gonna pay me at least?” the guard doesn’t answer “Y’know, in my land we have this saying. Quem cala consente. It means “silence means yes”, so I’m expecting some good cash unless you say words. No? Nothing? Talking to a door is funnier than talking to you.”

“The Barnacle, Charles.”

With a flicker of their wrist, a kunai appears between the fingers of the guard. Donnie instinctively moves his arm to his back, near his staff, and April gets into a better position to either fight or run.

“Is that handle made of Calligraphy Stone?” the merchant, possibly named Charles, speaks with excitement “Oh, damn, how much do you want for that?”

“Not for sale.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s Calligraphy Stone!”

“Not for sale.”

“You’re boring. Y’know that? Boring. Wanna know what’s for sale? The Barnacle inside this box, this pretty doormat I made this morning and this GUN!”

A loud bang can be heard and the guard violently flies backwards, a blast of light illuminating the whole street. The guard smacks hard on the floor, smoke coming out of their chest, unmoving. Charles can now be seen; it’s a raccoon, very short, doesn’t go past Donnie’s knees. His tail is pink and orange, he wears duffle bags strapped to both sides of his hips, metal bracelets taking both his entire forearms and a gray sleeveless hoodie. On his face, big steampunk goggles and a wide, manic grin. On his hands, a gun definitely made out of garbage and nonsense, reminiscent of a grenade launcher, bigger than his whole body.

“I lied! The gun is not for sale!” he laughs and points the gun to the guard again “Now scram before I blast you into pieces!”

April notices the guard starting to move first, but doesn’t have time to warn everyone; they’re up and running in a second, blade slicing where Charles’ standing. The raccoon hops above the slash, smacks the guard in the head with the gun and drops it, then dashes towards the exit, but takes a sharp turn and bumps into the two teens. Before any of them can make any noise, he removes a disk from one of his bags, puts it on the floor and clicks. A translucent green wall blinks for a second before going orange. Donnie opens his mouth to speak, but the raccoon turns and shushes him so hard he even forgets what he was going to say. April goes equally quiet.

The guard finds his footing again after the blow and walks a few quick steps to the exit of the road, stopping right in front of the hideout of the other three. Charles silently clicks on his bracelets and long, sharp claws form as gauntlets on his hands and he gets into position, fur standing up, body tense and ready. Donnie’s breath gets caught on his throat when the guard swiftly turns their head and locks eyes with him, even knowing that the disk on the ground is some sort of cloaking tech making them all invisible.

The guard stands down, turns to the end of the road and walks back to the trashcan. They’re after the Barnacle, after all. Before they can reach it, however, the raccoon takes a small switch from his pocket and clicks on a button. The lid of the trashcan slaps close with a car alarm noise and the entire thing, wall included, poofs out of existence.

The road, not a dead end anymore, extends back to the one Donnie and April were previously on. Passersby and merchants turn to look at the wall that vanished and the guard just standing there, hand stretched to grasp nothing. Their stance slowly becomes neutral and it takes another minute for them to go away as a blur of movement.

Only then Charles snorts, so sudden and loud that Donnie jumps away from him.

“Idiot.” he continues laughing, disengaging his gauntlets and the cloaking device.

“That was so cool!” April speaks up “You played them so hard!”

“Yeah, I-” his ears go up and he flinches, remembering there were other people there too. “GUN!”

He turns around with two properly sized guns on each hand, pointing one to each of them. Donnie shows his hands and April smiles.

“You’re a human.” he shakes a gun at April “The hell you doing down here?”

“Shopping.”

“And the mecha-frog?”

“Frog?!” Donnie makes an offended expression and scoffs “Frog!”

“Are you a pokemon, only speaks your own name?”

“Wh- no! I’m a turtle!”

“Be nice, Dee. This dude’s super cool. And has a gun pointed at your face.”

“You should listen to the lady, Dee.”

“My name is Donnie.”

“Okay, Donnie Dee.” Charles opens his hands and his guns turn into liquid metal that surround his arms and turn back into being bracelets “I gotta go now. See ya around.”

He pulls the same switch he used to make the wall disappear and opens a side panel.

“Wait, you sell stuff, don’t you?” April takes Draxum’s list from Donnie “Do you have crystallized coral?”

“I do, yeah. But the shop’s all the way up to the surface now, so you should finish everything you have to do down here first. Y’know, time efficiency.”

“We are done here, right?” Donnie asks and analyzes the list “If you have the coral, digested coffee beans and petrified wood. Did we get the owl feathers?”

“We did.” April answers.

“Then.” he turns to the raccoon “Do you have those other three items?”

“100%.” Charles smiles “Hold onto me and we can warp there, pronto.”

Charles extends one hand to them and they grab one finger each, April making a squeaky noise. He clicks on his switch and they all teleport away.

Donnie recognizes the street they appear on, it’s not too far from the Lair. The trashcan store shoved into the wall is there, creating another dead end that he’s sure didn’t exist before. Charles rushes to it, opens the lid and jumps inside, sighing in relief.

“Alright, let’s get to business. Coral, wood, coffee. Talking about coffee, would you like some to drink? I always have one jar ready.”

“It’s not digested, right?” Donnie makes a face.

“No, it’s black coffee. From the store. Completely normal, I assure you.”

Donnie asks for a cup and the raccoon serves him, then asks which street they’re on. The turtle answers, gets a thanks and watches as the small merchant goes around opening drawers and boxes.

“What’s the Barnacle?” Donnie asks “And why would Big Mama want it?”

“It’s an invisible creature.” Charles answers, putting one big box with crystal coral by the counter “A plague. Sticks to the boats and sucks out life force to grow bigger. When a ghost ship is found and they can’t find out why everyone’s dead, they blame the Barnacle. 80% of the time they’re right.” another box, with petrified wood balls “And I think you can guess why Big Mama wants it. The damn thing might have a preference for boats, but it can stick to any wood structure.”

And finally, a bag of digested coffee beans.

“Pick as many of these as you need.” he points to the coral and wood “Only have this bag of coffee for sale. Stupid spider shut down more of my contacts.”

“You two seem to have some history” April starts to collect some wood balls.

“Oh, dear, if only you knew.” the raccoon laughs “You gotta keep a hold of the competition. It’s how business go.”

After taking the necessary quantity and paying, they say their farewells. Charles slides two business cards to them before they leave.

Quinquilharias, the card says, with a resume of the services and products in the back of it. Donnie hums as he reads it, considering returning more times soon, since it’s so close to the Lair and he’s the most charismatic merchant he’s ever met. And his coffee is decent enough.

And of course, he would be lying if he says he’s not curious about what’s his deal with Big Mama.

#The Tiny Trash Uncle #rottmnt #rottmnt fanfic #rottmnt self insert #rottmnt oc #rottmnt april #april o'neil #rottmnt donnie #rise of tmnt #2k words #fanfic #writing #char writes

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wri0thesley · 4 years ago

Text

Favourite - Diavolo x Reader (Kinktober Day #11: Collaring)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader. Neutral pronouns. VERY MUCH DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere warning. Non-Con warning. Mentions of past injury, forced oral sex, use of King Crimson for Bad Things, forced orgasm, collaring - captive reader. 2.5k

Diavolo has a surprise for you. If you’re good.

Diavolo’s training was a process you would prefer not to relive.

When he’d brought you here, you’d fought. You’d bitten and scratched at him tooth and nail, heedless of the fact that he was your employer and emperor and master in all things. You had bitten him hard enough to draw blood, once - though the ache of your jaw whispered that perhaps it had been more than once, in time that does not exist - and he had backhanded you so hard that you had seen stars.

“I am not averse to hurting you,” he had sneered. “You are useful to me alive. You do not need to be whole.”

You had cursed yourself and the stand power that you’d been gifted; any measure of power, you think, is not worth this. Perhaps in another life the idea of being mistress to the Don of Passione would have been better - romantic, even. You’re sure you would have imagined silk robes and expensive dinners and luxury, your hand around his arm, diamonds around your throat.

You would not have imagined the squalor of a cheap hotel room with the cameras ripped out of it. You would not have imagined the rough hands, the coos of how useful you will be to him, the way that his painted nails dig into your wrists so hard they leave crescent-moon shaped welts.

You had thought yourself brave.

You had been a member of Passione - perhaps not the most senior member, and perhaps you had little room for moving up the food chain, but you had been feared. People knew who you were and what you could do, and men looked respectfully away. You had cloaked yourself in the power of being Passione and forgotten that there was one man who could take it away whenever he wanted. Any position under a man is a precarious one.

Hell, you had seen Polpo’s test as a good thing.

If you had known then what you know now . . .

Your entire life changed in a matter of hours, once your stand had become common knowledge to your capo and then those higher than you. Diavolo tells you that those who knew of you - who care about you - are dead or gone, or paid handsomely to shut their mouths.

“And doesn’t that make them lucky?” He muses, fingers dragging along your skin, mapping the places your body is curved. His thumb skirts across your cheekbone, and you wince as he finds old bruises and presses down enough to make the flesh sing with pain. “Almost as lucky as you, tesoro.”

Lucky.

Lucky is his hand knit in your hair, the knee to your mid-section, the knife against your skin and the reminders of what he can do to you. His fingers brushing your eyelids, your mouth. The feel of his boot on your fingers. Legs tied apart with rough rope and a gag wedged in your mouth until it’s stained and wet with your own drool and tears.

And through it all, his reminder echoes in your mind - he does not need you whole. He simply needs you alive. When he steps on your wrist and you hear the crack. When he carves intricate markings into your other arm with a knife, mirroring his own tattoos.

“I could hurt you so much more,” he breathes against your ear, and you stiffen as the point of the knife travels down your body. “Be good, and I won’t.”

So you’d behaved. You had stopped fighting. You had stopped biting and scratching and sobbing, and been rewarded with Diavolo’s voice, softer this time. His fingers, pinching and plucking and stroking until you felt ecstasy at his hand and cried about it.

“See?” He murmurs, fingers inside you, his cock hard and straining against your thigh. “If you’re good for me? How I can make you feel?”

You lose your thoughts, your consciousness, part of your mind. You let them go somewhere far away from you and hope it is in a better place than you are. You are rewarded, Diavolo says, and you could laugh in his face and tear him into pieces if you weren’t so afraid of him.

“I have a surprise for you, tonight,” Diavolo tells you. “If you are good for me.”

Your voice is hollow.

“You know I live to serve, Imperatore.”

(Is it better than ‘Master’? Better than ‘signore’? Certainly, you know it’s better than; “don’t touch me you sick bastard, what’s wrong with you?”. You’d learnt that with the lash of his belt.)

“Good,” he murmurs, stepping towards you. The sound of his expensive shoes on the cheap, stained carpet makes you wince as a hundred memories of other times he has approached you surface. How long have you been here?

You hate the shoes, coincidentally. You stare at them, aware that you have nothing in this room but the torn blanket that has seen better days after months of your captivity. You wonder how much money Diavolo has thrown at the hotel proprietors to make you his prisoner here - whether they care. The state of the mattress tells you that they do not. When he isn’t here . . . when he isn’t here, you know that he must cloak himself in luxury. His shoes tell that story. And you hate him for it, though you bury the hate deep in the back of your mind.

You hate him, but you dampen it down because it is safer not to. It burns low in the back of your brain like a candle that cannot be snuffed out, and you’re able to ignore it enough that when he comes to stand in front of you and touches the top of your head like you’re a cherished pet instead of a prisoner, you strain upwards for his attention.

“Get on your knees, il mio prediletto.”

(You’re his favourite. He is always saying it. You hasten to obey.)

You fancy his fingers like claws, as they rake through your hair. His eyes follow the lines of your body with hunger, and you dampen down the urge to twitch your lip in disgust as you see his cock stir in his hideously ugly trousers. He breathes out, soft and low.

“Do you want it?” He asks you, and revulsion rises in the back of your throat. You do not show it. Your eyes are wide and your mouth is open, ignoring the signs your mind is telling you.

“Of course, Imperatore. I’m grateful for anything you give me.”

There it is. You shape the word ‘imperatore’ and his eyes ravenously trace the shape of your lips, and the bulge twitches, hardens. The reminder of his place - that he is king and you are servant, slave, subject - gets him going like nothing else. You have learnt such things, in your time here.

“Good,” he says, arousal thick in his throat. “Unzip me, then.”

You are no longer rope-bound and chained. You have been granted your freedom for the price of your silence and your willingness to submit, though the door does not budge and the window does not break and your screaming goes unheard. You reach forward and undo the zip of his trousers, hands delicate as they reach for his cock. He lets out a fluid hiss of pleasure, the hand in your hair briefly tightening - and, like clockwork, a dull throb of arousal makes itself known low in your stomach.

You have tried to fight it, but your body learns. It learns that no matter how much you hate him, he can still make you feel good - and certain cadences of his tone, brushes of his skin, ways he tugs on your hair . . . they light a fire within you that can only be quelled by his hand. This is Diavolo’s training, and you are nothing if not proof of how effective it is.

You pump the shaft once, twice - he is thick and pulsing in your hand, heat radiating off of him in waves. He lets out a shuddering breath through his teeth, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes.

He does not see you as you are, shivering and pathetic and bruised. He sees you as he wants you, as he’s making you - subservient, but powerful. An asset to him in every way. And you open your mouth and lean in, your tongue tracing the head of his cock, and let him see you exactly like that as you bob your head and swallow him down to the hilt.

He groans aloud, and once more you feel the hot sparks of need low between your legs and you press your thighs together for friction, whimpering around the hardness in your mouth. His fingers let go of the strands he’s holding onto, stroking you instead in an echo of closeness - the hand on the top of your head, though, just reminds you. Do what you’re doing and do it well, or I will force you to do it.

You lathe your tongue over the skin, trying to ignore the taste of him. You lap at the underside of his cock, bobbing your head, trying to make sure that he sees you are as eager a participant in your own despoiling as he is. Your tongue strokes the place where his head meets his shaft and he sighs, bucking forward.

The low moan that comes from his throats has you whimpering around it again, your thighs squeezing against your will. He looks down at you and sees the way you’re reacting - you wonder if your chest is heaving, your face flushed. You have often wondered if perhaps he can scent you in the air - if he is that attuned to tiny noises and the lightest change of your demeanour that you are shamed in that way too.

You feel the ghost of something behind you and feel fingers on your breasts and you know he has taken out his stand.

The first time he did this, he told you that you were privileged beyond all reason to see King Crimson - that nobody else but him knows exactly what the Stand is capable of. You are afraid of it, but it has touched you just as much as Diavolo has, and your back arches as it pinches nipples between forefinger and thumb and you feel them harden, little sparks of desire raining from the stimulation into the heated place nestled between your legs.

“You are so lucky,” he murmurs. You cannot thank your Imperatore with his cock stuffed down your throat, but you hope the ‘enthusiastic’ licking at the vein on his cock does it, the way you let the head bump against the back of your throat. Your gag reflex has long since been pounded into submission. “That I do this for you . . .”

The slam of his lips. Your jaw, aching. The taste of him invading every one of your senses.

You lose track of time as King Crimson’s fingers slide down your body, over your stomach - as you part your thighs for him and the stand finds your sex slick with arousal and needy to be touched. Diavolo’s laugh at that discovery is breathless.

“How you’ve changed,” he tells you, the pride dripping from his voice settling around you like a mantle of your own ignominy. “How well you know your place, now.”

You do. You know your place as you spread your knees further and two of King Crimson’s fingers stroke your folds, teasing at your entrance. As his thumb swipes across your clit. As those same two fingers plunge inside you without warning and your body welcomes them with open arms and a moan that makes Diavolo’s hand on your hair become a vice once more.

You know he can feel the way you clench and pulse around King Crimson’s fingers, and you know from how he begins to fuck your face with eager strokes that he’s pleased with you. All you can do is kneel there, legs spread wide, as the fingers inside you scissor and fuck and tease and the cock in your mouth fucks that same cavern quick and brutally.

He’s close. He always is, when he gets like this - pretends at gentility now that your fire has been extinguished and shows himself as animal when his peak creeps up on him. Your tongue teases at his cockhead, once, twice - and then, he’s pulled his cock out of your mouth and he’s pumping it with the hand not in your hair.

The wetness of the ropes of pearls spilling onto your face are no longer a humiliation as they once were. Not as the fingers inside you crook just so and the tight ball of tension inside you is allowed to be released and you come on King Crimson’s fingers, the bulbous green protrusions at his knuckle rubbing against your heated sex.

No, now they are a welcome reminder that you have done what he wants of you. A medal given to a participant of a race.

Almost.

“Good,” Diavolo breathes, as he tucks himself away, wiping what little of his come is left on his cock across the unsullied side of your face. “You did well, tesoro. You shall have your reward.”

Your back stiffens. King Crimson fades away, his purpose completed, and you are reminded of how cold the room is on the scars and bruises of your back. You’re unable to tear your eyes away as Diavolo reaches into a pocket and pulls out something small and dark.

He unfurls it in his hand. It’s a band of soft leather, embedded with silver-set green gemstones that wink even in the flickering fluorescent light of the hotel room. A buckle rests at the back in the same silver - and you realise, with a sickening lurch, what it is as he leans forward to fasten it around your neck.

His hands are quick and deft as the leather is pulled taut against you, not so tight it digs but tight enough that you are able to feel it. The click of the buckle, sliding into place is frighteningly final.

“Just a reminder of who you belong to,” Diavolo murmurs, pulling back, enjoying his handiwork. “It looks very pretty on you. Like it’s meant to be there. Pet.”

You have been collared. It burns; a reminder of what you have become. No doubt you could remove it - but at what cost? What revenge would Diavolo take out on you if you were to reject him so fiercely, after he thinks you’ve finally ‘learnt your place’?

No. You leave it be. You do not even bring your hands up to touch it.

And though that part of you buried deep in your subconscious is screaming and longing to be let out, you are helpless to do anything but pretend to be thrilled - to breathe deep and whisper, as if you have never received a greater gift in your life;

“Thank you, Imperatore.”

The indulgent smile he gives you tells you that he knows he owns you, in every way that’s important.

#not sfw #writing #kinktober collection #non con for ts #yandere for ts #injury for ts #dead dove do not eat #dark content #diavolo

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maxwell-grant · 3 years ago

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That time The Shadow kidnapped a guy in order to walk into a death trap in his place, and then tried rescuing the villain from his own death trap while wounded and barely conscious

The Radium Murders is definitely one of the more underrated Shadow novels, even I’ve never quite paid much attention to it recently. It’s one of those novels I’d particularly recommend to those who want to get a solid grip on The Shadow’s characterization. So I’m going to highlight some of my favorite sections of it, such as the part mentioned above. SPOILERS for The Radium Murders, should you decide to read it, which you should.

Context is, The Shadow is investigating an old professor who’s murdering his investors through radium poisoning, and has contacted one of the investors soon to visit him and fall victim. He warns the man repeteadly that he must quickly take his place, but that doesn’t work and said man attacks him.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Nothing about the invention − I mean, nothing has happened to Professor Dorth?"

"Nothing," replied The Shadow, "except that there will be danger if you visit him. There is no time for lengthy discussion, Mr. Wadsford. I need your full confidence!"

"Concerning what?"

"The visit to Dorth's. I intend to go in your place!"

Wadsford came to his feet, glaring at The Shadow, who was seated in the chair nearest the door. "Professor Dorth warned me of this!" exclaimed Wadsford. "He told me to beware of strangers who might seek facts concerning his invention. If −"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Wadsford," interposed The Shadow, his eyes fixed upon the man. "I said before that time was limited. I intend to give instructions, your part is to follow them!"

Wadsford's teeth gritted. Angrily, the man reached for the doorknob. The Shadow extended an intervening hand. He caught Wadsford's forearm in a rigid grip.

"Remain here," ordered The Shadow, "until we have made our arrangements concerning −"

Wadsford interrupted with a sudden action. Twisting, he lunged for The Shadow, trying to thrust back the arm that held him at length. Wadsford's thrust was powerful; he started a shout as he came. The Shadow stopped him short. The gripping hand tightened; it twisted. Wadsford writhed; The Shadow's free hand clapped upon his lips.

With a shove, The Shadow sent his attacker half across the drawing−room, then used Wadsford's own weight to pull himself to his feet. Clamping his forearm about the man's neck, The Shadow added a quick choke that dropped the fellow limply into a chair. Wadsford gasped helplessly; he was dazed by the jujitsu thrust.

The Shadow clamped the man's hands behind him; bound them with a leather thong, that he had carried on this expedition in case of trouble with Dorth's dead servant, Tardon. He used Wadsford's handkerchief to gag the man. Another strip of leather took care of Wadsford's ankles. It was swift work; and with double reason.

Wadsford was recovering by the time The Shadow completed the task; moreover, The Shadow had much to do within the coming minutes.

And then, he succeeds in quieting the man by reenacting a scene straight out of a horror movie, where he proceeds to shape his face into the man’s own right in front of him. Which does the trick in regards to scaring him into sitting down quietly.

The Shadow had dropped his cloak upon a chair, with the bulky objects beneath it. Staring with wide−opened eyes, Wadsford saw him lift the cloak and lay aside a brace of automatics. He watched The Shadow pick up a flat box, which proved to be a make−up kit. Propping Wadsford back against a chair, The Shadow rested the make−up box in his own lap. Eyeing a mirror, looking beyond it, he began a facial transformation.

Steadily, carefully, he bulged the contour of his forehead; squared his jaw; added a putty−like substance to his cheeks. It required longer for The Shadow to shape his nose like Wadsford's. Then, with a warning whisper, he leaned across and pulled the gag from Wadsford's teeth.

The prisoner made no outcry. He was as awed as he was helpless. The Shadow studied Wadsford's lips; tightened the gag between the man's teeth; went on to complete his make−up.

As a final touch, he took a shell−gold tooth from his make−up kit and fitted it over one of his own bicuspids, to match a gold tooth that glittered from Wadsford's own mouth.

Packing his make−up kit, The Shadow followed with a careful search of Wadsford's pockets. He found various items that he wanted, including Wadsford's Pullman ticket stub. Rising, The Shadow picked up his various belongings, turned out the drawing−room lights and opened the door.

He saw the porter sitting idly at the front of the car; the attendant was the only person faced in The Shadow's direction. A moment later, the porter dozed. The Shadow stepped from the drawing−room and closed the door behind him.

And then, as he predicted, the villains proceed to try and trap him. Most would expect this to be the point where The Shadow breaks out into a storm of cackling violence against them, and they definitely deserve it by this point. But that’s not how the pulp Shadow works. Because there are very hard lines that The Shadow respects when it’s time to decide to take a life. One of those being, he will only address deadly force towards murderers. He offers one of the villains, a swindler involved in the professor’s schemes, a chance, and he’s willing to throw his life on the line to see if he takes it, and of course put on a very convincing act to do it.

At any instant, he could have ended this farce; sudden blasts through the leather would have dropped Jadway before the plotter could fire.

Such action would have left Dorth and Van Bryck dumbfounded, easy prey for The Shadow. Nevertheless, The Shadow desisted from the move. He was willing to continue his part as Price Wadsford for a while longer.

The Shadow had given Jadway a chance to play square. The crook had not taken it. Therefore, Jadway deserved the same fate as Dorth and Van Bryck.

Yet The Shadow was giving him the absolute limit, to see if he wavered at the sight of an innocent man going to doom. It was only one chance in a thousand that Jadway would do so; yet until the swindler had actually participated in a move of murder, The Shadow intended to let him live.

Mechanically, his lips wavering piteously, The Shadow moved back into the horror cell, still clutching his briefcase and the gun within it. Jadway snapped an order to Dorth:

"Close him in!"

It was the verdict for death. It marked Jadway as a murderer. Dorth pressed the switch; the wall turned and the opening was closed.

As the window holes went by, Jadway saw the terrified face of Wadsford; the victim appeared too scared to move. Jadway laughed gloatingly at the view.

And even later, when he breaks out of the trap and the novel’s ending on a gunfight, and the professor is the only one left and he is about to suffer the karmic death that befalls the usual Shadow villains, The Shadow even tries to rescue him, to spare him the cruelty he so gleefully inflicted on others (including The Shadow and Harry Vincent prior), and is stopped from doing so because he’s bleeding out and losing consciousness and barely able to move in a spinning room.

The Shadow, wounded, would seek refuge. His only place would be the horror cell. That would afford him as good a barrier as the desk which served Dorth. If The Shadow entered the cell again, there would be a chance to trick him − so Dorth reasoned.

Even while the room revolved, The Shadow acted in a manner that made Dorth chuckle. He seemed to be taking the bait; with backward crawl, he was moving toward the opening that would soon be the entrance to the cell of doom. When the room stopped, The Shadow was but a few feet from the opening. He made a final effort; then slumped and flattened on the floor.

The Shadow lay silent, his arms obscured beneath his cloak. Dorth thought that he lacked effort to move farther. With a fiendish chuckle, Dorth pounced out from the desk; bounded forward, aiming as he came. As Dorth pressed the trigger for the first, a report sounded from the folds of The Shadow's cloak. A flash from a revolver muzzle ripped straight for Dorth's body. Dorth had taken the bait; not The Shadow.

Staggering wildly, Dorth lost his gun; he clamped both hands to his body and reeled forward, blindly. He stumbled upon The Shadow; lost his footing and pitched headlong, straight through the opening into the crackling cell.As he writhed upon the floor, Dorth realized where he was. Screaming, he tried to gain his feet; he failed.

He saw Dorth claw the sides of the cell; then sag. The murderer was withering under the devastating rays of his own death device. The cell had reached its fury point, wherein a single minute would suffice for death to overwhelm an unfortunate occupant.

The Shadow was rising; he steadied and turned toward the cell. Though Dorth deserved death, The Shadow had no desire to see him suffer so horrible a fate, even though it was the sort of retribution that belonged to the old professor.

The Shadow stepped toward the cell; then wavered. His wound had brought a loss of blood; he was too weak for heavy effort.

Clutching the wall of the room, The Shadow tried to steady. He heard Dorth utter a last gasped scream; saw the murderer stretch upon the floor of the cell.

Hardly had Dorth's fate been settled before a click sounded; the glaring ceiling light faded; the floor sagged downward. Dorth's body slid through the trap; passing from The Shadow's view, it dropped to its final resting place. A crash told that the old professor had landed among the bones of his own victims.

#the shadow #pulp heroes #the radium murders #pulp fiction #the shadow pulps

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fanfic-collection · 4 years ago

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Loki x Reader: December - 19 Midnight

vampire!Loki

please comment

The night air was cool and refreshing. It was a pleasant change of pace compared to the stifling parlour that you had just escaped.

Marriage.

You scoffed inwardly, gripping tight on the crossbow in your hands, and looking about warily as your boots crunched on the fresh fallen snow. The moon floated high in the sky, illuminating the forest clearly and casting sharp shadows. You walked on a well-traveled path, highwaymen and bandits were unlikely at this hour and at this place. Still though, your weapon should keep assailants at bay.

Your thoughts turned once more to the boiling room. The man who stood too close, his hands desperately groping at you, his breath pungent, his words repulsive and demanding: you shuddered.

Where were you walking to? What escape did you have? The dowry was already set, you were already to be sold to the wretched older man. There you would live out your days as a housewife, forcing out children and raising them while he did whatever it is he felt like. Unless of course he failed to provide for you and you found a way to divorce him. Then you’d be an unwanted divorcee. You’d be even more wretched. Your worth as a commodity would be so much less, then so much older, who would pay a dowry for you then?

You felt bitter tears well in your eyes. Entering into a wider section of the path, you came to a stop and looked around. A dark figure stood at the opposite end.

Terrified, you took a step back, widened your stance and raised the crossbow to shoot.

“If you’re going to point that thing at me, child, you had better now how to use it.” The figure had a deep intoxicating voice, with an accent you couldn’t quite place. By its voice, and soon by its features you could tell it was a man as it strode toward you across the clearing. His footsteps were deathly silent in the snow, and his attire was far more elegant than someone wandering through the forest at this time of night should be wearing. With a high collared cloak and a green vest with a puffy white shirt underneath, he was dressed in expensive garments, but that’s not what caught your attention.

The man had long black hair, fairly wavy though with some sort of product in it to keep it slicked back. His face was pale with tall sharp cheek bones and an angled jaw, his forehead tall, and you could just make out slightly disfigured ears. Something in your stomach told you they looked wrong, but you couldn’t place why. The man had pale lips, with just a touch of rouge in them, and the faintest sign of sharp teeth poking out. In the dark, you couldn’t make out his eye color.

But the teeth.

You raised your crossbow, flexing your finger on the trigger. With a soft cry, you pulled the trigger. The bolt loosed and launched at the man.

You didn’t see him move, but he plucked it out of the air and before you could blink, he was holding the bolt, inches from his heart, blinking down at you amused.

“Oh my, you’re a lot more bold than I expected.” The man smirked.

You stepped back, fumbling for another bolt.

The man, well you realized he was a vampire, stepped forward, matching you, step for step. “Now, what is a frail little lamb such as yourself doing all alone in the woods?”

“I’m not frail.” You replied, but your voice shook. With your reply you fired another bolt.

This time he knocked the bolt away with a clawed hand, slicing it in half. Tutting softly, he said, “Ah, ah, ah. You shouldn’t tease creatures such as myself, darling. We’re not exactly known for our patience.”

You swallowed hard, you were running low on bolts. This defense you brought hadn’t been planned for multiple attacks, just one swift defense and then an escape. You needed to get out of here. But if you ran, he would catch you in a heartbeat.

A smile grew on the vampire’s face, as if reading your thoughts.

“What do you want?” You asked, trying to sound bold. Holding your chin high, you kept the crossbow pointed at him.

“I asked you a question first.”

You faltered, then looking away you muttered “I was clearing my head from a terrible marriage proposal.” Quickly you looked back at him, gripping the crossbow tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

The vampire chuckled darkly, “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that, my dear, you already have me thoroughly captivated.”

You swallowed hard, once again raising the crossbow.

The vampire rolled, “Have you forgotten I wasn’t human? Shall I give you a reminder?” He stepped forward into the crossbow, pressing his chest into the bolt. His eyes bore into yours as you held your finger on the trigger, staring up at him. Silently he goaded you, daring you to pull the trigger.

You closed your eyes and tugged, hearing the click. There was a satisfying grunt and you opened your eyes.

The vampire held the bolt. It had merely pressed into his chest, it had not even broken skin, if he were human it would perhaps have left a bruise.

You swallowed hard, staring up into his eyes and opening and closing your mouth.

Wrenching the crossbow from your hands, with one clawed hand he snapped it into pieces and tossed them to the side. “Are you quite finished with that nonsense now?”

You stepped back, trembling.

Hushing you softly, he stepped forward, thumb on your chin and finger on your lower lip, “Now, now, none of that. Tell me your name, little lamb.”

Terrified, you whispered your name to him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, “I am Loki. These woods are my domain, and you are trespassing.” As he spoke, he moved his thumb from your chin and smoothed it over your cheek. His dagger sharp claws sliding along your skin, careful not to break the tender surface.

You held your breath, staring at him, unable to look away.

“Now, now, little one. What am I going to do with you?” He crooned. “I can’t send you back to that terrible marriage, can I?”

“I don’t care what you do.” You stammered defiantly, trying not to shake.

“We both know that’s not true.”

You felt tears well in your eyes.

“What if I drain you, drink you until you’re dry as a husk?”

“Do it.”

Loki leaned down, pressing his lips to your neck.

You stiffen, inhaling sharply. You could feel his sharp fangs press against your throat and you squeaked in fear. With all your strength you scrambled and struggled against him.

Soft laughter rumbled from Loki’s chest as he pulled away from you, licking your neck gently as he moved. Straightening up, he looked down at you and winked. “Careful darling, you’re starting to sound as if you care.”

Your breath came in short sharp gasps.

“It is… unwise, of you to lead on, something such as I.” Loki gripped your chin again, looking off towards the sky.

You nodded quickly.

Slowly he turned back towards you, “I think I’ll keep you.” A grin spread across his face, his cool breath brushing over your face as he spoke. “You will do finely. Consider your marriage proposal ended. You are mine now.”

#Loki x reader #december 2020 #ficbit

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petri808 · 4 years ago

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my story for the @bakudekubigbang w/artist @kurisutythehero

Summary: Kitsune yokai Midoriya Izuku is a simple shrine fox protecting the Tamaki-jinjja shrine as well as the surrounding forest. One day he comes across hunters who dare to poach in his forest along with an injured wolf they'd shot. But after nursing this wolf back to health, Izuku learns... he's a yokai too.

Tags: fantasy AU, Japanese folklore, Sex, A/B/O elements, marking, elemental magic. Kitsune & Okami.

Ch 1 of 4 to be posted in completion between now and New Years 😊 and when the artist posts I’ll add a link into the story.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352196

The loud cry of a wolf rings out through the sacred forest surrounding Tamaki-jinjja shrine. It’s spirit keeper, a kitsune fox yokai named Izuku Midoriya looks out, training his ears towards the direction it had come from. A second guttural growl pierces his ears causing him to flinch; the animal was in pain, followed by the fainter sound of male human voices. How dare! Hunters in his forest and so close to the shrine! Furious, the kitsune races through the dense brush using his keen senses to track the hunter’s movements. They would pay dearly for coming here.

In the 1100 hundred years since the shrine had been created, a kitsune yokai has protected it and all those that sought to gain enlightenment through Shugendo. Nature was sacred to these mountain worshipers and they believed that deities could be communed with there. The forest surrounding Mount Tamaki was precious to Midoriya and he didn’t care if a wolf could provide meat for the humans, they needed to leave this place in peace! He was only 200 years into this job, and he would be damned if he let a bunch of hunter’s ruin Tamaki’s tranquility.

The men were traipsing through the brush as well searching for the wolf. Midoriya could hear them talking now, the animal had been hit by an arrow twice but managed to escape into the dense underbrush. He needed to be careful, scare these men away and not become a victim too, but his cleaver and somewhat devious nature was one of the reasons a fox yokai guarded the temple. His two-tails swish excitedly as he survey’s what turns out to be only two men, one with a bow and the other brandishing a large broad-bladed knife. Based on their attire, he assumed they were most likely just peasants from a nearby village at the base of the mountain.

He needed to work quickly for the stench of blood rang true in the air. The wolf was definitely hit and bleeding badly enough for its smell to permeate the surrounding area. Midoriya turns on his invisibility magic and moves in to where the hunters would be able to see him.

“Who dares to disturb this sacred forest! We will not allow you to hunt within our territory!”

“What the hell is that?!” Midoriya sees the hunters ready their weapons and frantically scan the area. The one who’d asked the question has their bow knocked and raised.

“This land is protected by the spirit guardians of Mount Tamaki.” Midoriya sends out a blast of spiritual, blue-flamed fox fire close to the men as a warning. “Leave now and never come back or face the wrath of the kami!!”

“I told you this place was inhabited by spirits!” The second man now speaks up, punching his friend in the shoulder. “That’s why no one hunts up here, baka!”

“I don’t believe in stupid spirits!”

‘Oh, you don’t huh?’ Midoriya sends out another blast of fire this time hitting the man’s bow. The man screams and drops the weapon as the fire quickly consumes it. He takes off without a second look, running along with his friend, and heading down the mountain. “Good riddance,” the kitsune grins and turns off his invisibility. Now to find the wolf.

It couldn’t have made it very far. He tracks the trails of blood and scent through the forest for about one hundred feet back toward the side of the mountain. Perhaps it was heading for a cave? But beneath one of the ancient cedar trees, he finds the wolf barely clinging to life. One arrow had hit it in a hind leg, and the other the chest area. The frightened wolf growls at him.

“Don’t be afraid,” Midoriya shuts off his cloaking magic to show the wolf he was no ordinary human. “I am the spirit guardian of the mountain and shrine. I can help you.” He tries to reach out, but the wolf continues with a low growl. “You will not survive unless we take care of those wounds.” Frankly, until he inspected the chest wound, he wouldn’t know for sure. He lowers his ears to show concern, “please let me help you. It is my duty to care for this forest and its inhabitants and I do not want to see any die.”

Now that he was up close, this wolf was unusual for the area with its yellowish fur and red eyes. Japanese wolves were usually a brownish gray color. He kneels next to it and tries again to reach out his hand, very slowly, allowing the wolf to take in his scent. The wolf’s heartbeat was strangely calmer than he expected it to be, shouldn’t it be beating rapidly? But just as Midoriya lowers his hand again, the wolf tries to get up and run. It makes it only a few feet before collapsing with a pained cry.

The kitsune rushes over and drops next to the wolf with tears building in his eyes, its tail flicking with agitation. “Please let me help you!” He reaches for the wolf, but this time, it growls low, and turns its head away, communicating its intention not to stop him.

Midoriya assesses the wolf to determine the best way to get it back to the shrine. He would have to carry it as gently as he could. The terrain shouldn’t be too difficult for him, but ugh, it would be so much easier if he had more powers. Those came with age and experience, and at 450 years old, he was still young in the eyes of other yokai. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers as he picks the wolf up, knowing the jostling and shifting of its body would cause more pain. It shrieks, but at least doesn’t try to bite.

He takes the wolf to his part of the temple, a section reserved only for the spirit guardian where the human priests are forbidden from entering. There he creates a simple make-shift bed and begins collecting medicinal herbs to treat the wounds. The monks keep many on hand in case lost or injured travelers are found. Midoriya places a few drops of Hokuto mint into the wolfs mouth, hoping it will have the same pain killing effects on an animal as it does for humans.

“This will hurt, so I am binding your mouth and limbs to keep you from injuring yourself or me,” Midoriya explains as he wraps a strip of fabric around the animal’s mouth. “I need to remove the arrow.” Luckily, based on what he saw from the hunters, they were only using plain pointed sticks rather than full arrow heads. If he’d had to dig out arrow heads, things would be a lot more complicated.

“Okay guy, brace yourself,” he warns regardless if the wolf understood him or not. But when the wolf looks away and locks the muscles its jaw, Midoriya realizes that somehow it understood. Odd, but nevertheless a minor mental note is made for later.

Using his sharp claws, the kitsune slices through the skin where the arrow has lodged itself to make freeing it a smoother transition. Surprisingly, the wolf’s body only reacts with a slight tremor and nothing more. Animals often refrained from showing weakness, but this was strange. Shoving that intrigue to the back of his mind, Midoriya focuses on his task, removing the two arrows and using various medicinal rubs to stem the blood loss. He stitches up the wound’s gaps, then wraps bandages around the area to keep infection to a minimal.

He sits back on his haunches, twin tails flickering as he gauges the animal. “You’ll need time to heal Mr. wolf, but you can stay here where no one will bother you. I’ll have to change the ointments and bandages daily, and hopefully you’ll be back to new in no time. Until the flesh mends and the stitches are no longer required, you shouldn’t move around.”

The wolf just stares at him but makes no movement to get up from where it lay.

Midoriya smiles and chuckles, “It’s so weird that you understand me. Stay here, I’ll fetch you some food and water, you must be hungry.” Maybe it was a part of his magic that allowed animals to understand him. Wouldn’t it work both ways if that was the case? Again, he pushes the idea to the back of his mind for now. He places a bowl of water next to the wolf along with some fresh meat and goes back to his shrine duties, promising to check on him through the day.

He swore every time he entered the room where the wolf lay, it’s ruby red eyes would track his movements like a predator stalking its prey. No sounds, no head movement, just the eyes. If it was a human, Midoriya would have sworn it was glaring at him. He didn’t blame the wolf for being wary. All across Japan, wolves were slowly being hunted, and in some areas to extinction. Well, as long as there was a forest guardian, they would do their best to protect this area.

“Not hungry?” the kitsune questions the wolf when he sees the food untouched. “Does it hurt to eat? You really should put something in your stomach,” he holds the bowl closer, “to help you keep up your strength.” But the wolf doesn’t make a move. “Here,” he picks up a piece of meat and holds it next to the animals mouth, “please?”

After a couple of seconds, the wolf blows out a puff of air as if it was huffing in annoyance but takes the meat gently from Midoriya’s hand. Did it roll it’s eyes at him? Regardless, the kitsune repeats the action, and again the wolf takes the meat. Well at least this was working. He continues to feed the wolf until all the meat was gone, then holds the bowl of water close enough to the animal’s mouth so it can lap up the liquid.

“I’m going to check your wounds, okay? To make sure it looks okay.” Midoriya feeds the wolf a few drops of the mint once more, enough to last him the night. He then slowly unwraps the bandages, careful not to pull in the areas where the drying blood has stuck to the wounds.

The wolf flinches and growls lightly when he tugs to get the last of the stuck areas off. “Sorry, sorry!” the kitsune flinches too, ears drooping. He’s never endured such a wound before, so he couldn’t even imagine what kind of pain the animal might be in. When the wolf settles down, Midoriya leans closer to inspect the flesh. There was a bit of bruising, but the area was a nice pink color indicating the blood flow was good and working on healing. So far, so good, no indication of infection, and the bleeding had stopped.

He smiles at the wolf, “you’re on the road to recovery my friend.” After removing the old bandages and placing them to the side, he readies fresh ones. He wipes off the old honey and ointments gently with a wet cloth, then pats the area dry. Then he applies a new coat of medicinal ointments and honey, explaining as he goes along. “I know, it probably seems weird right?” he chuckles, “but the honey helps against infection.” The kitsune finishes securing the new bandages and sits back to admire his handywork; not bad for his first time tending to a wounded creature.

“Are you comfortable mister wolf? Hmm, you know I should give you a name.” He taps his chin, “how about Akaime?” The animal blows a deep puff of air at him and growls. “No? Okay, um, what about Tsuyoshi?” Again, the wolf just stares at him looking irritated. “Alright fine, how about Ryota since you’re such a strong one.” The wolf puts his head back down. Midoriya couldn’t tell if the wolf was annoyed, gave up, or really didn’t care. “I’m just gonna call you Ryota then.” He bundles up the old linen to wash and stands up, “I’ll see you in the morning Ryota. Good night. Oh,” he turns back around and smiles, “I’m Izuku by the way.”

He finishes tidying up, depositing the soiled linens into the laundry pile, washing the food bowl, and putting away the medicine jars. After one last look at the wolf who appeared to be asleep, Midoriya grabs his candlelight and moves into an adjacent room to set up his futon bedding. It had been a tiring, but exciting day for sure and he was ready to get some sleep.

Part of him wondered if the wolf had been waiting until the cover of darkness to sneak away in the middle of the night. It wouldn’t surprise him considering it was a wild animal that shouldn’t be very comfortable around a human establishment. But then again, in its condition Midoriya also knew it wouldn’t be able to get away very quietly. Judging from the fact it hadn’t moved at all through the day, not even to adjust its position, the wolf had to still be in a lot of pain.

‘I wonder if there are other wolves in the area?’ These animals tended to live in packs, but where was Ryotas? It wasn’t impossible for it to be a lone wolf, just odd if it was. Maybe because he looks very different from the others… In fact, why was it a different color? Is there something special about it? All the questions that had concerned him were coming back up as he tried to get to sleep, but probably the biggest one was why did it seem like the wolf understood what he was saying? ‘I’ll probably never get an answer,’ considering the animal couldn’t talk.

Guess it can’t be helped.

As the week went by, each day Midoriya would dutifully care for the wolf’s injuries, making sure it was fed, and carrying it outside whenever it needed to take care of bodily functions. It was a strange little relationship that by the second day, the monks were aware of the animals presence in the shrine because the kitsune required extra meats and supplies. Not that they questioned anything, nor would they dare to venture too close, but it was unusual.

Slowly but surely, the wolf was getting better. By the end of the week, it could limp outside to do its own business, and yet would still return to the bed Midoriya had made for it. This only added to the kitsune’s confusion, confirming that the animal truly understood it was being cared for. Confused, but it brought a smile to his face to know he was doing something truly good. Under his tender care the wound was almost fully closed up and soon the wolf would be able to return to the wild good as new.

But another part of him wasn’t happy about that idea. It was almost a full two weeks since the day he’d saved Ryota from those hunters and the wolf was becoming like a roommate to the kitsune. Even though the animal couldn’t talk back, it didn’t stop the forest spirit from conversing with it, sharing things that happen at the shrine or just things about himself. It passed the lonely hours away especially in the evenings and he looked forward to hanging out with the wolf once his shrine duties were finished. He couldn’t tell for sure and yet it felt to him as if the wolf was tolerating it... maybe even enjoying the company too? Yeah… he was sure gonna miss his new friend when it left.

“Well, Ryota,” Midoriya sits back after unwrapping the last bandage, “you’re pretty much all healed up now.” A bit of moisture gathers in his eyes. “You could go home now, wherever home may be.”

The wolf looks at where the injury had been as if inspecting it for itself, giving it a sniff, before looking back to the kitsune. After a minute, it stands up, stretches it’s body and legs, then bolts out of the door into the night.

Midoriya hangs his head, wiping the fresh tears away. Knowing this day was coming didn’t make it any easier, but hey, ‘you did a great job,’ he assures himself, ‘you saved that wolf.’ “I know,” his voice murmurs out to no one but the empty room. Maybe he’ll see the wolf around again. “Goodbye, Ryota.” ‘I’ll miss you.’

For the rest of the night, Midoriya putters around through his normal routine. He disassembles the makeshift bed the wolf used while under the kitsune’s care and disposes of the soiled linens. When he was finished cleaning up, it was as if Ryota had never been there at all. With a heavy heart, Midoriya climbs into his own bed and closes his eyes. Tomorrow will be a new day. It was time he resumed his normal life once more.

“Mmm, warm…” Midoriya mumbles and wraps his arms around the furry warm body. His mind was only semi lucid and certain it was a dream, but a really amazing one for Ryota had come back and curled up next to him in his bed. “Missed you…”

When he opens his eyes the next morning, Midoriya yawns and stretches, reaching out but finding nothing. He frowns, it really was just a dream that felt so real! Wait a minute? The kitsune sniffs at the bedding. It smelled like Ryota! The wolf had come back in the night but left before he woke up. Why had it done that? This wolf brought about a plethora of unanswered questions for the kitsune and even after two weeks he really knew nothing.

Days turn to weeks as a strange new routine takes root between the kitsune and the wolf. On random nights the wolf would return after Midoriya has gone to sleep to curl up with him in bed. There was no rhyme or reason to these visits. Sometimes the wolf would sneak in for several nights in a row while at other times it would disappear for many days. Always waiting for him to be asleep and always gone by morning, leaving only his scent and the lingering warmth he’d brought to the kitsune. It was odd to say the least, like having a ghost for a pet.

Life at the shrine could get lonely at times, so these gestures filled Midoriya’s heart with happiness. He hoped Ryota was doing it because he cared for the kitsune. Sort of like accepting him into its pack. His only wish was that it would show itself when he was awake. So many nights would go by with Midoriya’s last thoughts centered around the wolf and those ruby red eyes that almost peered into your soul.

But this wasn’t the only change in their relationship.

Because of the shrines location set away from urban settlements and knowing that visitors would leave money in the offering box, wayward robbers would occasionally pass through and break into the prayer box. It happened so infrequently, that Midoriya and the priests didn’t try to stop them because it would require someone to be on guard all night, every night. All that would remain was a broken box empty of its contents.

“What’s this?” Midoriya surveys the broken offering box laying on the ground that morning. It appeared to have been cracked open, but the money was still in it. He looks around curiously and notes a few more signs of the intended robbery. The gravel area next to the box was disturbed as if a scuffle had taken place as well as finding several drops of blood still tacky to the touch along the stone walkway leading away from the shrine.

Someone or something had evidently thwarted the robbery. The kitsune tips his nose to the air scenting for any other traces, then follows it to a nearby shrub. There he finds a tuft of yellowish blonde fur stuck to the brush. “Ryota?” Midoriya looks around even though the wolf’s scent was no longer in the immediate vicinity. Had the wolf stopped the robbery? And where were the robbers? He hoped the wolf had not killed them, for even though what they did was wrong, he didn’t believe in killing unless absolutely necessary.

A part of him wanted to search for his missing friend, but his duties at the shrine were more important for now. He washes the blood off the stone walkway, smooths back out the gravel of the garden, and takes the offering box to his rooms to fix. Ryota’s scent was definitely on the box, so it must have touched it at some point during the fight. Was this the wolfs way of paying him back for his kindness? If it was such a gesture, the kitsune was appreciative and so were the priests.

Almost a month later, a similar incident is discovered bright and early one morning. Another broken offering box, another thwarted robbery. This time the thief had gotten farther than the last one. There were coins scattered across the stone walkway, but the bulk of it remained inside the vessel. To Midoriya, it looked as if the box had been dropped, perhaps when the savior had caught the robber in the act. He gathers up all the coins, placing them back into the box before taking it back to his room to fix, while another priest takes care of cleaning up the area.

As he works on fixing the wooden container, Midoriya can’t help but think about what’s been going on. He was certain that Ryota had snuck into his room last night… and come to think of it, the wolf had been here during the previous robbery as well. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, only that it made the thwarted robberies easier on the wolf to deal with. “Maybe that’s why he comes here?” He thinks out loud. “So, he can be closer?”

But on the third incident a few weeks later, that logic doesn’t apply. Ryota hadn’t made his nightly visits to Midoriya for several days, and on the night of the latest attempted theft, the wolf never came to his room. Yet it was clear based on a few strands of fur left behind, it was Ryota that had saved the offerings once again.

#bakudeku big bang 2020 #bakudeku #bkdk #bakudeku fan fiction #bakudeku fan fic #bakugou katsuki #midoriya Izuku #katsudeku #ktdk #kitsune midoriya #okami bakugou

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zmwrites · 4 years ago

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tag: 20 first lines

I was tagged by @teasenpaiwrites! Thank you!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20 stories just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag others!

I was tagged in a similar game LITERALLY forever ago by @scmalarky PRE-BLOG MOVE, which makes it the oldest tag game sitting my drafts. It came with the following rules:

Rules: list the first lines of your last ten published stories. note if there are any patterns yourself and see if anyone else notices any! tag ten friends!

I put it off bc to date I’ve only published two stories over on Wattpad. So doing the first lines from the last twenty projects is somehow...easier? I suppose?

I’ll be putting the opening paragraph or so of each piece, and will only be using WIPs that I actually started at the beginning. Anything that doesn’t start at the actual beginning will be skipped.

Anyways, this is going under a cut bc I know it’s going to be ridiculously long. In order of ‘last modified by me’ as per Google Docs:

Remnants

Radka had been a seamstress in a previous life. Trained from childhood on the most delicate stitches, the most intricate embellishments. She had worked for royalty, sewing crystals and spun gold into skirts for the biggest social events of the year. Her steady hand and attention to detail had earned her a job in the palace by fourteen, and a spot on the queen’s personal seamstress team by fifteen. But that was years in the past. The girl she had been then, demure and innocent, wouldn’t recognize the woman she had grown up to be.

Open Seas

Theresia Bowen sat in the back of one of her family carriages, forehead pressed against the window as she watched the countryside fly past. The sky stretched on forever above her, interrupted only by the occasional wispy white clouds, and the spring sun had melted the snow from the hills to her left. The grass was still struggling to grow but was scattered in patches across the mud. To her right, the sea rolled and waved to the horizon. Ships dotted the deep blue, their sails bright and full with wind. Most were trading ships, a few navy, and the smallest of them all were pleasure ships. It was how she knew they were close to her destination.

Indigo Wars

Violet Colby sat cross-legged on her narrow bed in the room she shared with her two sisters at Osbrick Estate. The name was a holdover from the property’s previous life as a stately home, though not much else had carried over. The walled compound was nestled in the eastern sands of Edristan, less than two kilometres west of the capital city, with sun-bleached buildings that housed several dozen orphans and foundlings.

Pine Hollow

It was a miserable Monday morning, with dark, heavy clouds masking the rising sun and a steady rain pounding the town of Pine Hollow and the surrounding area. The dirt trails through the dense forest were slick with mud, the tire ruts becoming puddles and the puddles becoming proper ponds. It was as far from ideal body hunting conditions as possible without snow, but Virginia Crane had a job to do and she wasn’t about to let some adverse weather stop her.

Rochester WIP

The wedding was supposed to begin in five minutes and the bride was nowhere to be found.

Evelyn Rochester, for her part, was not surprised. Her sister Dorothea had claimed a headache a week earlier to get out of a family outing and had been gone by the time they’d returned. A small chest and a collection of her clothing had been gone as well. Their parents had made inquiries to some family friends but no one had seen Dottie, and at twenty-six she was allowed to do as she pleased, so they’d been left to wait to see if she’d return.

Just Jane

Jane rolled over in the narrow bed, pressing her face into the pillow as though it would make it any easier to sleep. Even as she breathed in the warm, sweet scent of the bed owner’s favourite perfume—myrrh, rose, styrax, and marjoram—a new sound made her ears prick to attention.

UNSS Spectre

The spacecraft glided through the void, following its prey silently. It was using its minimum operating power, leaving the two inside to perform their duties without overhead or emergency lighting. Only the glow of their instruments illuminated the interior of the craft.

“Cloaking device operating as normal,” Ensign Graecyn Ramsey said. She didn’t need to provide verbal updates since Captain Mezei could see everything that she could see and there was no one else aboard the tiny stealth class craft, but it was habit and she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Fissures

Katherine Delacroix was seething. It was hard enough trying to get a gaggle of thirteen to eighteen year old girls to focus under normal circumstances but having the #1 most eligible bachelor of the school just hanging out at the back of the auditorium was making it nearly impossible. To make matters worse, the attention paid to the blond was bruising the egos of the boys in the group and she was painfully aware of how desperately the musical needed them not to quit. They already had a female Cogsworth and Le Fou; they didn't have enough girls with deep voices to play Gaston or Lumiere or, god forbid, Beast.

Snapshots

“Are you still looking for a roommate?” Misha asked, voice muffled slightly by whatever she was doing on the opposite end of the phone.

“You mean since you stole my last one? Yes,” Micah replied. He was stuck in traffic on his commute home from work, something his twin sister Misha knew, which was why she’d called when he had no excuse not to talk to her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like talking to her, he just wasn’t much of a talker.

“You’re gonna have to get over that,” she said.

The Tournament

The coin spun in lazy circles on the table, defying every law of physics. Izora Graham watched it with one hand held in a claw-like position over it. She didn't need to but it made it easier to cover the coin should anyone watch it too closely. The bar was still fairly empty so early in the evening and she was tucked away in the back booth away from the few early birds sitting at the counter, however any displays of magic would bring unwanted attention. Especially something that could be useful to any of the Upper Houses like her telekinesis.

Noyama Contest

Earthens had spread across dozens of galaxies once they’d perfected faster-than-light travel, and hundreds of solar systems within those galaxies. PT-759 was one of the galaxies they’d colonized only to find that it was already inhabited. It had ended up working out alright though, as the native species had radically different planetary needs and also happened to find Earthens downright adorable.

Naetov was a smaller planet at the edge of Federation-controlled space in PT-759. It had a few key cities where government funding was funneled to keep them perfect for non-Earthen tourists. Those cities were clean and friendly, open spaces and carefully maintained flora making up the downtown cores, streamlined designs and shiny surfaces giving the impression of a planet on the cusp of significance.

Gossamer Girl

It was the first day of winter and things were already looking bad. Even though the cold weather had held off for an extra two weeks, the harvest had been poor. A mold had festered in their southern field during the wet spring and had spread quickly. They’d razed the infected sections as soon as the fungus had been discovered but it had already destroyed a large swath of plants. They’d lost nearly a quarter of their usual yield and the troubles had only spiralled from there.

Knotted Strings

The room was just a bit too cold to be comfortable. The walls were wood panelled with some sort of reddish wood that matched the flooring. Rows of chairs with collapsible desks filled most of the lecture hall, with the front of the room dominated by a whiteboard and a table. The professor, hawkish in appearance, was perched on a bar stool facing the students and overlooking the table.

Tess lounged in her seat at the table at the front of the room, notebook open on the table in front of her and pen moving deftly across the page. She watched her competition critically as he spoke. His argument was solid enough to cast reasonable doubt on her case, or it would have been had he bothered to address a small piece of evidence she found to be damning. He finished his conclusion to a spatter of applause and returned to his seat across from her.

“Well done, Mr. Wynn. Miss Kinney, would you like a few moments to prepare your rebuttal?” the professor asked.

“No, I’m good,” Tess replied. She sat up, scribbled a note in her book, and then pushed the book across the table.

Oh, Ophelia

Alexis lounged in the shade next to the pool, sipping a daiquiri and considering her next move. She’d been using the same identity for nearly fifteen years and the neighbours were starting to get suspicious. With all the new beauty products and surgeries available to people of her wealth it was easier to convince people she was nearing forty when she was in the body of a twenty-three year old, but now she had to deal with people asking for her skincare routines and her doctors and the identity wasn’t worth all of the research she was having to do. She was getting sick of Malibu anyways, what with the yearly forest fires that got closer each year. She missed the deep-rooted history of Europe, the memories she had in all of the major cities, the people like her who were still living in their castles and manors pretending like the world hadn’t left them behind.

Bloodlines

Ten of Wands. The Tower. Two of Swords.

Morrigan Keeling sat on the floor of her bedroom, chewing the end of a pen and staring intently at the tarot cards spread in front of her. It was a simple three card spread to indicate how her day was going to go: a card to describe herself, one to indicate what was going to greet her, and another to show the outcome of the situation. She’d gotten into the habit of doing it every day while living at home, and even five years after moving out she found it a relaxing routine to start the day.

The day’s cards, however, were not very relaxing.

PerDeA

The backseat of the car was dark, only illuminated for short intervals by the orange glow of the streetlights. Two figures sat across from each other in the shifting light. In the backwards-facing seat on the driver’s side was PerDeA. Her dark hair was pulled tightly into a ponytail, lips slightly parted as she stared unblinking out the back window. Shoulders square, back straight, chin up, hands folded neatly in her lap, her breathing perfectly rhythmic; she would have looked human if not for the faintly glowing cybernetic blue rings superimposed over her black eyes.

Westhaven

Her eyes were open but she couldn’t see anything. There were mechanical sounds ‒ beeping, whirring ‒ all around her, and voices too far away for her to understand. The sharp smell of antiseptic and the softer detergent scent beneath it.

“Initiate optical system,” a muted female voice instructed. Between one breath and the next she started processing visual information: bright white lights above her, the featureless ceiling beyond, her own nose and eyelashes. She couldn’t move her head to see much else. Walls that matched the ceiling so well it was hard to tell where one became the other, bits of the bed she was on with its bleachable white sheets and side rails.

“Increase tactile responsivity by fifty percent and disengage the motion inhibitors.”

Pro Patria Mori

She sat on the narrow bed with her packed suitcase next to her. Her blonde hair was pinned back, her blue eyes fixed on a spot next to the door, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The winter chill clung like burrs to the house, helped by the heavy spring rain that beat against the window in a staccato rhythm. Outside, trees bowed under the charcoal sky. The old house creaked and groaned around her, the wind whistling and wailing as the storm continued to batter the country estate. She waited.

At any moment there would be a knock on the main door of the house. Godfrey, the aged and shuffling butler, would answer. Standing on the other side would be some men in crisp uniforms, holding up her picture and asking if he knew her. She had seen them in town the evening before, and it wouldn’t take more than a day before someone pointed them in the right direction. They looked like military men but there was something different in their manner, something sharper. Godfrey would lead them up, and up, and up, until they reached her third floor apartment. The butler would introduce them, she would smile politely, and she would leave with them without a fight.

The Clocktower

Astra hated Capperham. The way it sprawled its squalor from border to border, from the sea in the west to the battlements in the other three directions. The harbour reeked of dead fish and unwashed human, the slums of sickness and stale beer. Even the neighbourhoods of rich merchants and factory owners lay under the thick smog of black soot the mines and mills spat out day and night. The grit and dirt was part of everything, so deeply ingrained that even the most rigorous scrubbing couldn’t make something clean.

Stars Incline Us

The Christmas gala was in full swing. The entire ballroom was full of people Pippa didn’t know, all wearing fancy clothes that probably cost more than her rent. Her own dress was aubergine and a simple V-neck, form-fitting enough to be attractive but loose enough to not draw too much attention.

She and another girl who didn’t seem to know anyone at the event were chatting with Antero and Mr. Rabinoff near the edge of the dance floor. Antero was already antsy to leave despite the dinner having just ended, but Mr. Rabinoff had trapped him in a debate he was too proud to back down from. The other girl was from legal and either found them hilarious or had had a little too much to drink because she kept giggling, leaving Pippa no choice but to laugh along while adding the occasional remark to the back and forth between the men.

That brings us all the way back to October 2016. Which tells me that I need to start at the beginning of more stories haha. If anyone has questions about any of these, please feel free to ask. Also, if you read all of that, you are a saint and a hero and have my eternal friendship.

I tag @the-writing-avocado, @radiowrites, @pigeon-hold, @sleepyowlwrites, @akindofmagictoo, and anyone else who wants to share their projects!! As always, no pressure (to play or to read this whole post lmao).

#tag games #about me

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pettyelves · 4 years ago

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lachesism II

[ part 1 ]

The beaches of Dead Sun were mostly uninterrupted, save for one section on which an arena of medium size had been built. Risers lined the side and a podium stood where all trials by combat were overseen by a Sun Speaker. Not every dispute need be settled in such a way for Dead Sun-- but the method was favored by even the most peaceful of the Shal’Thera. As dusk began to settle onto the horizon, the four families gather en mass alongside Dead Sun residents who had no idea about the quarrel but were eager all the same for entertainment.

One side of the pit, Fadrina stood beside her younger sister-- the Alor’anir’s banner flanking either of their sides. Even for combat, she wore white cloth pants and a wrapping blouse. A fur cloak adorned her, even in the heat of Dead Sun bay.

“Remember that she is Meridianna’s daughter,” Yria said to Fadrina on the side of the Pits in Dead Sun. Fadrina gave a curt nod and slid her fur hood down off her hair. “That means that she fast, sister. Small and fast-- but she cannot withstand strong hits. Use --” “Yria.” Fadrina shot her a warning look.

The younger sister shook her head, “Just don’t be stupid.” Opposite, the Thal’Ana banner flew beside Eilithe-- though she had chosen to enter the Pit alone. She was Fadrina’s antithesis, her hair and clothes black--a cut off tank and bagging pants which tappered in at the knees let her little fabric to be grappled with. Her hair was twisted back into a braid--today she looked every inch her mother’s daughter.

As the eldest member of the Shans, Ur’Sen Seawalker stood and walked to the edge of the platform roughly ten feet above the pit itself. “Shan’Min Whitemoon and Shan’Min An’Diel have agreed to trial by comber on the terms that should Fadrina lose, Eilithe will assume the seat of the Shan’Di. Should Eilithe lose, she will remove herself henceforth from the family entire.” Despite the obvious fact that Eilithe was his niece, Ur’sen’s voice never wavered toward favoritism. “Their duel will go as long as it needs to-- until yield, or death. Shans, at your ready.” Both women left their side and entered the center of the Pit alone. A respectful bow came from Eilithe first, “Ya’til-anath, kah’vin.” Die well, kin. Fadrina dipped her body for respect of the creed, not the woman in front of her. “Ya’til-anath.” “Begin!” Ur’Sen boomed out.

A single sword of Kaldorei make was the traditional weapon of choice in Tal’ashar. The irony, as both women drew their single sword, was that Eilithe’s father had made both weapons. The ridge of the curved down and flicked backward, the edge opposite razor sharp-- the slightest blue tinge, from the moonsteel that it was forged by. Eilithe liked to think that her father had made her sword special, but in reality each of his swords were some of the finest made by Kaldorei hands. Eilithe was a historically patient fighter, typically waiting an attack and while Fadrina knew this-- she wasted no time in making an attempt to exploit her larger size. Right hand closest to the hilt, Fadrina drew up and slashed across at Eilithe’s chest. A single, focused breath released from Eilithe as she brought her edge facing out and dipped her sword at a ninety degree angle to let the force of the blow slide down her blade. Eilithe stepped into Fadrina and rotated her feet and hip in one quick motion to throw her body weight into the woman and knock her back. Immediately she flipped her blade and brought it in a swipe at across the woman’s body, cutting smoothly through the white fabric and into the skin.

Traditionally, the object not to kill--though it was legal and accepted. Eilithe’s blow, even as it stained the white of Fadrina’s blouse, was not meant to kill her.

Fadrina staggered back and sucked in a breath and practically breathed out fire from her lungs. A rage filled war cry erupted from her and she took full speed delivering four blows in quick succession. One. Eilithe barely withstood the sheer force. Two. The edge caught Eilithe across the ribs as she turned. Three. A cut against her hands saw the grip on her sword weakening. Four. Fadrina twisted her sword up under, and batted Eilithe’s across the pit and into the sand.

Fadrina’s assault did not cease and she raised for a blow which would have cut deep across Eilithe’s chest. It was then that Eilithe did what she did best. Moved quick and struck fast. A juke to the right saw Fadrina’s sword sailing by her, and she raised her knee up and into Fadrina’s stomach, which was followed by a sweep of her leg around Fadrina’s to send them both rolling into the dirt. Fadrina hit the ground and clung to her swords, which left Eilithe ontop of her. Before Eilithe could get a punch off Fadrina swung the sword up sloppily and stuck it into Eilithe like an axe to a tree. A snarl escaped Eilithe and in the second of pain Fadrina drew the sword back and went to hack again.

This time Eilithe gripped on Fadrina’s wrist and twisted until she howled and dropped the sword. Promptly, Eilithe kicked the sword away and aimed a offhanded right punch squarely for Fadrina’s nose. Punch after punch, until Fadrina shot a knee into Eilithe’s back. Following through with the momentum and raised up to smack her forehead into Eilithe’s nose.

Eilithe went backwards into the dirt and Fadrina chased hammering into Eilithe’s breast bone. Three solid punches, a sickly crunch coming as the last landed. Another. Another. Eilithe’s body jolted, as though it were seconds from limp until something snapped. Eilithe wheezed out and brought up her knee squarely into Fadrina’s groin and followed it through with a roll of their body weight. Atop Fadrina, Eilithe let rage take her-- something she’d bitten back thus far. The courage to say I deserve Shan’di, I will fight for this, found itself growing in her stomach. Eilithe drew her hand back and punched Fadrina’s jaw with a scream, “YIELD.” Fadrina’s vision blurred and she struggled to bring her arms up to guard her face. Eilithe beat relentlessly against her forearms, like a wild animal clawing through a door. Another punch through and clocked her in the face. “YIELD!” Eilithe screamed, the punch cracking across Fadrina’s face with a loud and ugly CRUCNH. Blood sputtered from her lips, but Fadrina did not utter the words. And so, Eilithe could not relent. “YIELD!” Another punch. Fadrina coughed blood from her mouth and wheezed out, “You will never be her.” She paused, for only second still holding Fadrina down-- fist cocked back. “I know..” Eilithe said, so quiet that no one in the roaring stands would hear them. “And I miss her too, kah’vin.” Fadrina drew in a ragged breath, her face beaten nearly beyond recognition. Her white eyes, blood shot, turned to the night sky beyond Eilithe’s equally battered face. Another breath slow motion and she exhaled out, “I yield.”

Ur’sen stood up from his seat and called out, “Brothers and sisters, it is decided. I present to you, Shan’di Ei’lithene An’Diel-- leader and protector of our people.”

A cry of cheers came out over the risers, the banging of banner poles against wood. But Eilithe could not.. would not indulge in it. She knelt before the Shans but her eyes drifted to Fadrina. Eilithe stood up, weight wobbling from side to side. “Shan’Min Whitemoon requires healing,” she said, and though her tone was callous--she felt tears welling in her eyes as she turned to leave the Pit, this time wearing the mantle her grandmother and aunt had worn before her.

@theshalthera @revthepunchbear

#part II

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belladxne · 4 years ago

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i will see you where the shadow ends | chapter 2

[see notes for ao3 and ff links]

part of the put your faith in the light that you cannot see series AU: Breath of the Wild pairing: KiriBaku word count: 5,548

chapter 2: there’s a stirring in this head of mine (i can’t find the things i’d known)

Inko, Eijiro is not at all surprised to discover, is a very kind old woman. She tells him a little about the Great Plateau—about how it’s said to be the birthplace of Hyrule, about the nearby ruins of a once-significant temple left abandoned after the decline of the kingdom one hundred years before, about how she’d been living here some fifty years and hasn’t had a visitor in decades. He’s suddenly very glad he did decide to talk with her.

He doesn’t know how to even begin to explain his situation when she asks, mostly because he doesn’t know anything about it himself, but she doesn’t pry further. She warns him of monsters in the area, and offers him her torch to use as a weapon should he run across any.

And when they’re done talking, she gives him directions to her home, and asks—well, insists, really, that he join her for lunch, so long as he hunts around for some of their meal himself and helps her cook. Eijiro’s—well, he’s very anxious to get going and figure out just what it is the voice needs him to do, but he has no idea how to do that, and no idea how to even start to figure it out, so he can’t find a good reason to turn her down.

Also… a home-cooked meal sounds really good and the mysteriously disappeared voice isn’t berating him or anything for so much as considering it, so he doesn’t really want to turn her down. The matter settled, Inko shifts, brushes herself off, and reaches a hand out to him imploringly.

“Be a dear and help me up, won’t you?” she asks, voice tinged with humor. “These old bones just aren’t as sprightly as they used to be, I’m afraid.”

Eijiro’s already reaching to help before she even finishes speaking, smiling brightly as he chirps, “Of course!”

He was right when he thought of her as a little old lady before. She’s not quite a foot shorter than him, but Eijiro still towers over her just a little when he gently pulls her to her feet, and he flashes a huge, sharp-toothed grin when the portly woman grants him a grateful look and thanks him, before turning and gathering her walking stick.

“Glad to help!” He beams—before gasping suddenly. “Your cloak!”

She pauses in her steps, looking down at it as though she expects to find a tear, or a stain. “Hm?”

“It’s—that’s the Sheikah symbol on the back,” he says, bouncing on his feet with excitement because—because—he might be actually getting somewhere, finally!

“Oh!” Understanding crosses her face, and Inko nods. “So it is.”

“So—so if you’re a Sheikah—you have to know something about the cave I just came out of! It was—I don’t know, these two weird sealed rooms, with smooth stone walls that had glowing constellations on them? I was in some, uh, tub of weird blue liquid? The door to get out—the big, main door—it had the Sheikah symbol on it.”

He hadn’t really thought about how batshit the stuff he was saying was, until he sees how high the eyebrows on her face have lifted. But—but if she’s Sheikah, she has to know something. Doesn’t she? Even if this is crazy, she should be able to tell him something.

He knows the desperation is showing on his face, but he can’t help it. If she can tell him anything at all about the strange place he woke up, then maybe it’ll give him some hint of where he needs to go. He has to find the voice—has to help him with—with—he doesn’t even know what, and that’s the whole problem.

“Well, that’s...” Inko flounders, and Eijiro can already tell from the way her brows draw together and the lines on her face deepen in thought that he’s not going to get what he wants out of this conversation. Please, he wants to beg—her, or the Goddesses, or someone. But he doesn’t know what good it would do, and Inko keeps speaking, “quite the story.”

He must look truly pathetic in his disappointment, because it’s unimaginable how thoroughly sympathetic and rueful her own expression grows in response. It almost kinda makes him feel worse, knowing that he must look that pitiful about it.

“I’m sorry, Eijiro,” she says, finally, once she seems to have processed the—well, the mess of a recounting he’d given her. “I spent most of my life with the Sheikah, but I don’t even come close to knowing all their secrets. A lot of it’s beyond me, to be honest—and that’s just counting the things the Sheikah themselves remember.” She shrugs gently, hands spreading out before her in apology. “It sounds like you’re talking about one of many, many ancient structures the Sheikah built ten thousand years ago—and even the Sheikah have forgotten much of their history and workings. An effort was made a hundred years ago to unearth them and study them, but—well… with the fall of the kingdom, not enough progress was made. I doubt there’s a soul alive who can fully explain what you just described to me.”

Eijiro’s shoulders slump, and he sighs. “But… you can’t tell me anything?”

Again, the compassion and remorse overtake her expression. “Why don’t you get to work on finding something for us to eat, and we’ll brainstorm over lunch? I won’t be able to tell you much, but it’ll be easier for us both to figure out on full stomachs after a warm meal, I think.”

It doesn’t occur to him until after he’s sullenly agreed, set off, and faced up against no less than four bokoblins—weak ones, which gave him a lot more trouble than he thinks they should have—that Inko didn’t even really question that he’d said he’d woken up in the strange basin of glowing blue water, or ask him how he’d gotten there at all.

Not that he’d have been able to answer, but it strikes him as just a little odd. Or a lot odd.

He’ll go with a lot.

It’s when he’s scaling a large rock jutting out of the middle of a field near Inko’s house to gather some rushrooms from the cracks in the stone that he hears it—or, well, almost hears it. He kind of misses it, at first, though he tilts his head when there’s just—almost—something. He assumes he’s imagining it, because it’s so barely-there, but as he moves to tuck the rushrooms in his pocket it’s a little stronger, a little more pressing, and it has the indescribable feeling of the voice.

He startles, so excited to hear from him again that he loses his grip on the stone, and it’s all he can do to keep from dropping the rushrooms as he slides and skids his way some fifteen feet down the rock face. His feet hit the earth at the base of the surface with a heavy thump, but he manages not to stumble or keel over.

Eijiro…

The voice is muted and distant somehow, but he hears it this time, head jerking around wildly even though he knows at this point he’s not going to find its source. It’s just instinct, to look for him.

Eijiro, the voice persists, and this time it’s actually distinct, only growing clearer and more solidly present the longer he speaks, Don’t just ignore that Sheikah Slate I left you. There’s a point marked on the map. Go there.

Eijiro doesn’t know the voice can see him, but he thinks he can. The comments he’d gotten earlier make the most sense if the voice was watching somehow. So he nods, tucking the rushrooms he’d grabbed into his pocket and reaching for the Sheikah Slate with the same hand. He winces expectantly when he glances towards his free hand, the one he’d scrabbled against the stone surface for purchase when he’d begun to slip, expecting to discover his fingers scraped raw, but—

—he blinks when his eyes find that his hand’s not really much of a hand, at the moment; the skin replaced by vivid crimson scales, fingers and nails sharpened to something more like talons, making his hand look something more like a claw. Like a dragon claw.

He can do that. He can do that! He hasn’t thought about it once, since waking—hadn’t once bothered to ponder what his sharp, fang-like teeth meant, mostly because it was so normal to him, so straightforward. Of course he’s dragonblooded—it’s not something he’s remembering, but more something he’d known the whole time and just hadn’t thought about.

When he pulls his hand away from the stone, his dragonscales and claws soften and mold back into regular skin exactly the way he’s used to as he reaches a finger to navigate the screen of the Sheikah Slate. A map, this thing has a map somehow… and he finds it, after just a moment—though, uh, map seems like maybe an overstatement.

It’s just a blank blue screen, dark and not at all very informative. The only distinctive features are a few lighter blue lines that seem to section off huge chunks of land and three symbols sort of near to each other in the middle: an odd blue emblem, a flashing yellow circle, and below them a yellow triangular arrow—which he figures out must mark his position on the map when he turns the slate, and the arrow rotates with him.

That… that’s crazy, he thinks; sure, you can mark your current position on a map, but to have that mark move with you? And even keep track of the way you’re facing on the map? He doesn’t know if this is magic or some other means, but he still thinks it’s crazy. And cool as all hell.

Based on his own orientation, he thinks the blue marking must be the odd cavern he’d come from. When he moves his finger over it, words appear on the surface of the map—it says Shrine of Resurrection in text of the same bright blue, and below that, in smaller text, Travel. He stares. What does that mean? What does that mean—resurrection?

It gives him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why in the hell is he popping out of weird tubs of glowing stuff in a shrine of resurrection with no idea who he is or how he got there? Is he a dead guy? Oh, gods, is he a ghost? What the hell is going on?

Oi, oi. The voice gets his attention, snapping him out of his thoughts as they spiral further into conspiracy theorizing, but this time the voice doesn’t ease any of his anxiety as he tears his gaze from the—the shrine on the map. You’re wasting daylight, asshole. Get moving.

Again, he finds himself pouting. “Has anyone ever told you you’re pretty grumpy?”

The voice doesn’t dignify that with a response, so he sighs, eyes once more drawn to the bright blue text, and with a swallow he tears his eyes away instead towards the flashing yellow circle. Even without process of elimination, that’s obviously the point the voice was talking about.

Clipping the Sheikah Slate back onto his belt, Eijiro reaches down to his feet where he’d left his satchel—it was easier to climb without it—and pulls it over his shoulder, numb and distracted. He moves the rushrooms from his pocket to the bag, and then sets off. Even with his mind muddled and desperate for answers, it doesn’t occur to him to ignore what the voice said. He just—just knows it. If the voice wants him to do something, he has a good reason.

There are quite a few bokoblins between him and the mark on the map—most of them scattered in the field directly around his destination. It’s taxing, fighting them all, but the rhythm of combat settles him somewhat. It’s mindless and familiar, and shifts his thinking to action. There isn’t time to get existential when he’s got to keep track of enemies’ positions, the pattern of their strikes, his own dodges and attempts to get past their guards.

So he’s a lot more grounded by the time he’s slinging a boko bow over his back, one that he’s just pilfered from one of the last few monsters guarding this spot. He pulls out the Sheikah Slate to double check, but…

But he’s here. He’s here, and it’s... just a pile of rocks. The voice had... sent him to a stack of boulders?

Why?

He does see something, though, now that he narrows his eyes at the gap in between the boulders—a hint of stone that looks different. Looks like the same smooth, tan material he’d seen some of in the dark interior of the… the Shrine of Resurrection. Immediately more alert, he jogs closer.

He realizes quickly that there’s more space than he thought under the huge slabs of stone—that the rocks are covering and held up by another structure, the tan stone he’d seen forming pillars of some sort, maybe? There’s a ridge, like a low half-wall, made of the same stuff, and when he gets under the overhang of rock that darkens it all, he sees that the floor of this area is the same black stone from inside the shrine, and in the center of it all—another pedestal.

Clambering over the low ridge ringing the structure, he all but runs to the pedestal, in a hurry to inspect it. Unlike the ones in the shrine, it’s not lit up—not until he gets closer, and it starts giving a dull, slowly-pulsing orange glow. Just like the first pedestal in the shrine, this one has a rectangular indent, just the right shape for the slate. As soon as he closes the last two steps, the uncanny feminine voice from the shrine sounds.

“Place the Sheikah Slate into the pedestal.”

He examines it a moment—both the rectangular depression, and the little clamp that sticks out from the bottom of it. He tries to remember how the first pedestal had offered the slate to him. The eye had been facing towards him, and the handle up, he recalls, so he pulls the slate from his waist and fits it into the clasp the same way.

The clamp smoothly rotates the slate so that the screen is facing him and then lays it into the indent, before the whole thing glows brighter. A blue Sheikah eye lights up on the screen as he leans closer to watch, eyes wide in fascination, and then the inhuman voice chimes, “Sheikah Tower activated. Please watch for falling rocks.”

Just as he starts to wonder what any of that means, he hears an odd whooshing noise above his head, and suddenly—there’s an earth-shaking rumble below him, so intense he struggles to keep his feet under him. Struggles, right up until he doesn’t, because with one more immense shake he’s knocked to the ground hard enough to smack his head against the stone, and then there’s a swooping in his gut as he feels himself being lifted, and fast.

It’s fast enough to shatter all the stone that had formed around and leaned against this structure, sending it all flying as the whole thing jerks into the air, and Eijiro has his eyes squeezed shut through most of it, groaning from the bump that’s surely forming on the back of his head.

By the time he does open his eyes again, he’s shockingly out in the open, surrounded by bright blue sky on all sides, and the structure—oh, the tower, that’s what it had meant when it said Sheikah Tower activated—is still somehow rising. Its ascent has smoothened out and slowed somewhat, but the deceleration sends his stomach swooping in a different way, now. Not for the first time in this past hour, he finds himself thinking, What in the actual, ever-loving fuck is going on?

The tower settles at its full height, after a few moments, and some—he doesn’t even know, antennas?—lift themselves up at the top of the structure, before a line of blue light shoots up the center of the tower and mists off of it for a moment. Dazed and baffled, he slowly and admittedly ungracefully climbs his way to his feet, looking around him in—

Well, in awe.

That may have been crazy, and absurd, and absolutely unpredictable, but—the wind whips his hair around his face and the world opens up around him and if he felt like he could see most of Hyrule from the cliff outside the Shrine of Resurrection, it was nothing compared to this. And—his eyes widen in surprise, as he realizes that there are now more of those towers out there that he can see—that must have all pushed themselves up out of the earth with the one he stands on now.

“Distilling local information.”

Eijiro’s focus is pulled back towards the plinth where the Sheikah Slate still rests, and as he watches, an odd black stone that hangs suspended above it lights up blue with the Sheikah symbol and several lines of glowing Sheikah text slowly sliding down its surface, towards a curved point directly above his slate, where… it seems to turn into a gathering of blue liquid? Maybe the same stuff from the shrine?

The same musical, repeated beeping tone from when his slate ‘authenticated’ sounds, and as he watches, a large droplet forms slowly before it finally drips off, splattering onto the screen of his slate with a loud plink!

Most of it seems to somehow absorb into the smooth surface of the screen, but some mists off in odd, glowing blue tendrils that Eijiro flinches away from, half afraid they were about to splash into his eyes. The slate chimes and lights up blue for a moment, and as he leans closer again, the map appears—and fills in, all of a sudden! Where before there was a single dark, lined-in area with no features, now the center of the map is colored in shades of brown and blue, and he can make out trees and structures and lines of elevation and bodies of water.

It’s an actual map, now, one that makes sense to read and actually maps his surroundings—though he realizes all of the other outlined chunks of the map still remain dark. Still, it’s something, and he eyes it curiously.

“Regional map extracted,” the odd, high-pitched voice says, and then the center of the pedestal is familiarly rotating and lifting, and the Sheikah Slate is once again being lifted out of the depression it had rested in and presented to him. Still amazed, he plucks it out of its clasp and moves once again to hook it to his belt, before turning away.

He doesn’t get far—not even far enough to start wondering how in the hell he’s going to get down from here—when the faint, barely discernible tones of the voice are back, and this time the unknown man’s voice is accompanied by an odd, mystical humming in the distance.

Remember… the voice says, muffled, but this time when Eijiro whips his head around, towards the sound of the rumbling hum, he does see a sign of the voice—that same explosion of golden light from before. Only this time, it has a source: the room at the heart of the castle in the distance—of Hyrule Castle.

You have to try to remember.

As he stares, fully turning to face towards the source of the light and the voice, Eijiro’s enraptured and relieved, to finally know where it’s coming from; where he has to go to find him. He can’t help but run to the edge of the platform, though the distance it closes isn’t much.

You’ve been asleep, Eijiro. For—fuck, for a hundred years now.

He freezes in his tracks at that, bug-eyed and caught completely off-guard. He doesn’t even have time to process, before there’s another heavy rumbling at his feet, forcing him to scramble for solid footing as the earth shakes.

The monster, here— the voice presses on, not deterred by the trembling of the entire world around him, —when this shithead’s back at full strength, it’s going to destroy everything. Everything, Eijiro.

Eijiro watches in horror as, while the voice speaks, a sickly-looking black mist begins rising and swirling around Hyrule Castle. Though it’s obviously some kind of odd smoke, or gas, it just—just looks somehow oily and slimy. It’s disgusting to behold as some shape seems to form out of it—a horrifying murky face that trails more of the smoke behind itself as it begins to circle the castle. An enraged roar so loud it carries all the way across Hyrule Fields to where Eijiro stands emits from it, and the voice raises its volume in irritation to be heard over it.

So I’m waiting. You don’t have a lot of time to help me stop this. So—so hurry the fuck up.

Both the light and the grimy mist seem to flair and swell and then—Eijiro gasps, as all at once both seem to be swallowed up into the heart of the castle again. It… it looks like one smothered the other, but he can’t tell which. All he knows is he can’t leave the voice alone with—with whatever the hell that creature was. He can’t.

The voice didn’t—wouldn’t say as much earlier, but he needs Eijiro. And Eijiro’s not going to let him down.

The climb down from the tower is an ordeal.

It’s the first time he’s really, very certain that something is wrong. He remembers the short climb, only ten feet or so, to get out of the Shrine of Resurrection, and how it had left him a little winded. Somehow he knows that it should have been easier—that he’s able, or should be able, to climb heights more effortlessly.

He shouldn’t, at least, have to deal with his arms aching and shaking, fingers stiff and sore, before he’s even a quarter of the way down the tower. After that, he has to start alternating between trying to climb down the oddly-latticed bars of tan stone, and just letting go to drop down to the rest platforms littered every twenty or so feet down the sides. It’s an attempt to spare his knees from the impact and his muscles from the strain in equal measure, and it helps, somewhat.

The voice—he’d said Eijiro had slept for… for one hundred years. Had slept, for that long. Is that why he feels so weak?

He’s unsettled and unsteady in more ways than one by the time that his feet touch down on solid ground, and he startles slightly when he hears Inko’s voice calling for him. Sagging a little against the side of the tower, he blinks and looks up at her as she approaches. She’s moving faster than he would have expected, honestly.

“Well, now,” she says, once she’s close enough that her voice carries without shouting. “This is certainly something, isn’t it?” She cranes her head back with apparent awe, before once again looking to him shrewdly. “If you were up there, you must have seen that this wasn’t the only one of these odd towers to erupt. They’re just about everywhere you look, it seems. Like something very old deep below the earth has woken up...”

There’s wonder in her tone, and then her eyes flick down to the slate at his hip, then back towards the shrine he’d emerged from, before she asks, “Did you have something to do with this?”

“Um...” Gods, he hopes she doesn’t expect him to explain it, because he doesn’t understand any of what just happened. Certainly not enough to put it into words. At a loss, all he really manages in answer is a nod. She lets out a hum, thoughtful and considering.

“If you don’t mind me prying,” she starts, and Eijiro winces, unsure how to express any part at all of that process, or gods-forbid how it worked, but instead she asks, “Did anything strange happen while you were on top of the tower?”

Oh, boy. Where to begin. He pushes off from the tower, having caught his breath, and scratches self-consciously at the back of his head. How do you tell the sweet old lady, who invited you into her home for lunch, that you’re hearing things?

“Uh, I kinda… I heard a voice?”

Instead of looking at him dubiously, or like he was some kind of weirdo, her eyes light up in interest. “Is that so! A voice, hm… Did you recognize this voice?”

Eijiro falters again, at that. Does he recognize the voice? He doesn’t… sound familiar, or at least, Eijiro’s not sure if he sounds familiar, but… he trusts the voice completely, and finds himself calming whenever he hears him. He can even read the voice, all of the tics and underlying tones—would he be able to do that, if he doesn’t know the voice?

But as hard as he tries to place the voice in his memories, it all comes up as blank as most other things. He can’t remember.

“No, I, ah… I don’t think so?” he answers, wishing he could be sure of the response. He didn’t recognize the voice, but… should he have?

For a brief second he thinks he sees a flash of disappointment cross Inko’s face, but it’s gone so fast he’s not sure he didn’t make it up, replaced with a thoughtful look. “Hm, that’s too bad.”

Before he can form a response, she turns away, slightly, gazing off towards the direction of Hyrule Castle in the distance, and seemingly changing the subject. Though—admittedly, it is still pretty relevant, considering what the voice told him up there.

“If you were that high up,” she starts, nose just slightly crinkling in distaste as she regards the castle, “You must have noticed all that awful mess surrounding the castle. That, young man, is what we all know as the Calamity, All For One.”

He turns to look at her, before facing the castle, eyes wide. The name is familiar; there had been legends—a horrible entity that sought only complete control and destruction of Hyrule. It was only a legend, but… it was said that it was supposed to be coming back. He inhales sharply, realization overtaking him.

One hundred years, the voice had told him. During which, the Calamity had come back, it seemed.

“One hundred years ago, that horrible thing brought the entire kingdom of Hyrule to ruin,” she continues, oblivious to his own dawning horror and understanding. “It appeared right out of the blue, when no one could have expected, and it tore through everything in its way. Many… many, innocent lives were lost, back then. Too many.”

Her voice is soft, and impossibly sad. She doesn’t look quite close to a hundred, herself—not old enough to have lived through it, but she talks as though it were a personal ache. Sheikah could be old enough to have seen it, but she’d said she’d only spent time among the Sheikah, not that she was one.

He looks over to see tears pouring freely down her face, and oh, no—he’s always been an empathetic crier, and he feels his own eyes start stinging in response as he quickly pulls his gaze away to stare at the ruins of the castle again.

“Sorry, forgive me,” she mumbles as he sees her wipe at her eyes in his periphery, and he can only shake his head at the notion that she has anything to apologize for, before she presses on again, “For a century now, the heart of Hyrule itself, the castle, has somehow been able to contain that evil. But only barely. You can see it, how it festers in there, building up strength to break free and loose itself on the land once more. From the looks of it, that won’t be long at all.”

She sounds scared—terrified, at the prospect, and he doesn’t blame her one bit. It’s… what she’s describing, what the voice described, it can’t happen.

Sniffling, Inko wipes again at her eyes, before turning to him. She looks… so, so sad, but for him, somehow. “If you’ll forgive me prying again… be honest with me, Eijiro. You plan to go to the castle, don’t you?”

He blinks, surprised that she somehow read him. It’s that motherly thing she has going on, it has to be; moms know everything. He doesn’t get it. So he takes a shaky breath, eyes still watering profusely in response to hers, to steady himself for the obvious answer.

“I do.”

He has to. The voice is there. And someone—someone has to stop that monster, before it can cause any more catastrophes.

She huffs out a somber little laugh. “I knew that would be your answer.” She turns forward again, this time not looking to the castle, but to the edge of the plateau, where it drops off into an abrupt cliff. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, dear, but this plateau is very isolated. We’re surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs and drop-offs, and the walls that line the plateau are ancient and crumbling. They’d break apart beneath your feet if you tried to climb down them, and you’d tumble to certain death. The path to come in and out got caved in decades ago, and filled up with rainwater. I’m afraid there’s no safe way down from the plateau. There hasn’t been for a very long time.”

What? But—but—that can’t be true! The voice needs him, and she—she’d even seemed to accept that Eijiro was going. If there’s no way, then…

“So, we’ll just have to figure out a new way down, I suppose,” she continues, with a mournful-sounding sigh, and he looks back to her with desperate hope. “Which sounds like another matter to think on over lunch.”

It sounds definite, and he feels gratitude fill him as he grants her a watery smile. Boy, he’s had a full and emotionally taxing day, and he hasn’t even been awake for a full hour and a half. She reaches out to him then, to pat him reassuringly on the arm.

“In the meantime, though, there’s something I think I ought to show you. Come here.”

With that, she turns away, starting to walk up an incline to their left, to give them a better view in the direction she indicates. He follows curiously, and they both seem to take the time to compose themselves. When they do clear the top of it, she points with the hand that holds her walking stick off towards another structure—a bizarrely-shaped, large lump of a thing that’s clearly made from the same smooth, black and tan stones that make up the rest of Sheikah buildings. And most of it is glowing, orange.

“You see that funny structure there?” she asks, turning to make sure his gaze is focused in the right direction. “It wasn’t glowing before. It didn’t light up until the exact same moment you sent that tower shooting up into the sky. There’s an awful lot of those shrines around Hyrule, but none of them have glowed for as long as I lived—they’ve been dead as a doornail, and no one could get into them. Certainly not for lack of trying. I think whatever you did with that tower woke them up, and it might just be possible to get inside now.”

She turns to look at him, expression encouraging. “I was just thinking, if that voice you talked about spoke to you because you found that tower, maybe it would want you to enter these shrines, as well, since they seem to be connected.”

Eijiro almost jumps for joy—he’d been thinking exactly the same thing! Every time the voice spoke to him, it was either because he’d just used some Sheikah technology, or because he was telling Eijiro to use some Sheikah technology. Maybe—maybe whatever was in these shrines would help him figure out a way off of this plateau? Or at least give him more information on the shrine he’d come from.

“Inko, I think you’re right!” he gushes, excited, and he’s already taking his first, eager step in that direction. “He probably would, I have to—”

He’s stopped by a hand on his arm as she scolds him, tone amused, “Ah, ah, ah! You’re not charging off to that shrine right this second, young man. You’re starving, and I know you haven’t had anything but that baked apple and whatever you could find to snack on around here. You’ll go to that shrine later, after we’ve gotten a hot meal in your belly.”

“But...” It’s so close, and he’s so glad to have some real idea of a next step! But she tugs gently on his arm, pulling him in the direction of her home, and once again Eijiro finds himself cursed by the burden of being unable to say no to a kind old woman.

He’s all but vibrating with eagerness to get to that shrine, to figure out what’s inside, but… but it’s like she said. Later.

Besides… now that she’s mentioned it—(his stomach releases a roaringly loud grumble to assert its own take on the matter)—gods, he is starving.

#kiribaku #bakushima #krbk #bkshm #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijiro #bakugo katsuki #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #fic #fanfic #fanfiction

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maverick-werewolf · 4 years ago

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Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends - Pre-order Link & Preview

Interior illustration for Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends, drawn by Justin RR Stebbins

More promised previews - as well as a preview of an interior illustration of Caiden wrestling with a werebear! You can find a lot more werebear action (and berserker lore for my setting) in the previews below, please be sure to check them out!

For more info on the book itself, you can also check out this post. Also be sure to check out the Hunt Never Ends tag for a whole lot more book previews!

And now in very important news... Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends is available for preorder on Amazon.com!

Pre-Order Link

Please note that, while the ebook is now available for preorder, Wulfgard: The Hunt Never Ends will also be available in paperback on October 30 from the same Amazon listing! Paperbacks cannot be preordered using Amazon’s system, however.

Be sure to check back October 30 for the physical (paperback) edition!

In the third section of the book, Caiden and Gwen hunt for a mysterious berserker whom the locals claim is causing trouble... and, for the first time, Caiden truly sees how hard it is to draw the line between man and monster.

If you’re interested in purchasing the book digitally, you can now pre-order it right here and have it immediately on October 30!

(Paperback edition will be available on Amazon on October 30)

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“Thoughts?” she asked.

Caiden threw her a quick look. “We check the forest north of here, the direction he was heading. By now, maybe he’s calmed down some, even if he hasn’t turned back.”

‘Turned back.’ It was insane. Humans weren’t meant to turn into anything else, and neither was any other creature. The curses and magic he’d learned about since joining the Venatori, even not being able to read… He still couldn’t imagine a man turning into something he wasn’t.

No way he could imagine what that actually sounded like, what that drunk had to have heard – or what it looked like, for that matter. What it actually involved. It defied all nature, all sense, or at least any he’d known for his entire life.

They left their horses in town, setting off on foot to track the monster. As Caiden pulled his crossbow from his back and loaded it, Gwen nocked an arrow to her bow and spoke.

“So what do we know about berserkers – we know they bond their souls somehow to some kind of magical skins they wear, and this gives them special powers. Usually they bond with wolves, but they say that’s also the most dangerous, so some of them bond with other animals like bears instead. Because if they take it too far, they can lose control and lose themselves, turning into monsters.”

Caiden nodded. “Do we know for sure if they ever turn back?”

“There were at least two cases where they did that I read in some old accounts, but I don’t know how accurate they were.”

Tracking the berserker was easy, like Caiden figured. The monster had carved a swath of maddened destruction leading away from the city, toward the forest. He’d barreled over saplings, charged through streams, knocking aside underbrush and stones as he drove ever deeper into the wilderness.

Then, the tracks stopped.

There, sitting with his back against a tree trunk, was a man clad in little more than a few tattered clothes and furs that barely kept him decent. Every inch of him was made of tattooed muscle, scars, and some fresh bloodstains. A ragged grey beard covered half his face and reached down to his chest, full of unkempt remains of braids…

But he wore no animal skin.

What he did wear was not physical: a palpable cloak of regret. A pain so deep Caiden almost felt inclined to regret along with him as he drew near, the berserker’s emotions filling the air like a cloud of dreary, remorseful rain.

“I won’t fight,” the berserker said at once, showing empty hands and fingers stained with blood. “Show me mercy – I won’t fight.”

Gwen stood a few feet away, bow at the ready again, watching them. Caiden narrowed his eyes at him.

Slowly, the berserker stood, keeping his hands in plain view. Gwen swore under her breath, just loud enough for Caiden to hear. Even if he couldn’t match up to Caiden’s height, that didn’t make him small.

“I never meant to do what I did,” the berserker said slowly, his deep green eyes flicking between the two of them. “Whatever it was that I did.”

“You don’t remember?” Gwen asked.

“I remember some Imperials gathering around me and throwing insults…”

Caiden could hardly focus on the berserker’s words for the emotions churning in the air. Worry, even fear, and some strange anger that seemed to lurk like a monster waiting to spring. But there was a weariness, too. Something old and tired that yearned for only one thing: peace.

And always that remorse. Like someone who’d taken a life out of necessity, not desire – like a soldier in his legion who’d killed a man in self-defense. He’d felt this regret before, this guilt.

But monsters, supposedly, didn’t have remorse.

Caiden blinked, scowled harder against the sensations, and locked his eyes firmer onto the berserker before him.

“I fought for control, but… I am old. My skin took me years ago. I can fight it, but when pressed, it will always win in the end.”

“Yet,” said Gwen, “you came into an Imperial settlement knowing perfectly well you might lose control and kill innocent people there.”

Caiden glanced at her. Gwen kept her bow trained, ready to loose, a fire and distrust in her tone not quite like any he’d heard from her before. Still the berserker didn’t move, maintaining his calm, despite a sorrow in him that deepened to the point of leaving a lead weight setting heavy in Caiden’s stomach.

“Yes,” the berserker said, quieter now. “I was traveling – tired and hungry, in need of only shelter and nourishment.”

“None of that,” Gwen answered firmly, “excuses what you did.”

The berserker’s voice lifted, defensive, and pride came to grapple with his fear. “I am Gundahar of the Frost Raven clan, once a respected warrior. This is the first time I’ve ever harmed another with this curse – do not accuse me of not being careful. I know what I am and what the beast will do.” Wearing a scowl, he let his hands drop at last. “I only wanted a drink.”

Gwen glanced at him. Caiden glanced back.

And he lowered his crossbow.

“Caiden?” she said, perhaps a little stunned, the grip on her bow tightening in a way Caiden didn’t much like.

“Easy, Gwen,” he said, extending a hand toward her, lowering it, motioning for her to back off. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

She wasn’t having it, and she didn’t lower her bow. “Monsters hide in good men. The Venatori have taught it for eons – once someone is cursed, they can’t be trusted.”

Cursed. There was that word again, one he’d heard so often in this order of monster hunters. It meant so many different things, and every time he heard it, he wondered if there was some dark corner of that word reserved for him.

“Maybe not,” he said, stepping nearer to her and looking her in the eye. “If that turns out to be the case, I’ll shoulder the blame. But I’m asking you to lower your weapon.”

Gundahar neither moved nor spoke. He stood there watching with a dark look of jaded weariness etched across his features. Caiden couldn’t help but feel he’d seen a look disturbingly similar in one of the mirrors in Castle Greywatch.

At length, Gwen nodded. She lowered her bow, straightening herself and taking a deep breath, saying only, “I hope you’re right.”

Caiden nodded back. He returned his attention to Gundahar, but the berserker to speak first.

“I am sorry, truly, for what happened… Though perhaps your Imperial youths could use more lessons in how to stay their tongues. I came here peacefully, did nothing wrong, and they ridiculed me. Insulted me. Accused me of witchcraft and devilry – they didn’t know the holy powers of Odin they slandered with their words…”

His voice drifted. The pride faded away again, dissipating, pushed aside by the resurgence of guilt. Caiden’s near-eternal scowl almost softened around the edges. Almost.

“Tell us what happened,” he prompted.

(Werebear action under the cut!)

------------

Down in the lamplit streets, a mob surged furiously around their quarry, torches aloft and voices raised. From here, Caiden couldn’t make out much, but he didn’t have to make any guesses to know what was happening.

Turning, he threw his crossbow over his shoulder, grabbed his harness covered in weapons and potions, and pulled it on over only his shirt while he burst through the door to his room and stormed down the stairs. No time for his armor or the rest of his gear.

Not far from the inn doors, where the innkeeper and his daughter stood watching in horror, Caiden found exactly what he’d feared.

In the center of that mob they dragged Gundahar along by a rope around his neck. He struggled, clawing at it, getting to his feet to stand tall around most of the civilians around him. The instant he did, several rushed forward, brandishing cudgels to beat over his arms and legs, trying to force him back down.

Gwen, groggy and confused, appeared at his side with her weapons in hand.

“Dammit,” Caiden growled.

Charging forward, he shouldered his way straight into the mob with Gwen following in the wake he cleared. They parted around him like water against a stone.

He glanced at her and said, “Talk them down or distract them. I’m going after the berserker.”

She nodded.

Each step he took toward Gundahar, the air seemed to grow thicker. Stuffier. Harder to breathe, full of a desperate fear, a wild need to escape. He felt like he walked toward a cornered animal, one tired and scared – but not wanting to hurt anyone.

They reached the center, where Caiden grabbed one shoulder of a man with his club raised over the fallen Gundahar and shoved him aside hard enough to send him staggering away, teetering awkwardly like a drunk. Judging by the smell, he probably was. As was half the mob.

Somewhere behind him, Gwen tried to raise her voice over the din of confusion, anger, and accusations. Telling them to calm down, that this was their job, to go back home…

Caiden barely listened. He’d trust her with that. With the talking. She liked doing it, after all, and he’d be damned if he had words for these idiots. Not with how he felt something in Gundahar that wanted to snap. He couldn’t let that happen.

Kneeling, he put a heavy hand on Gundahar’s shoulder as he half lay in the street, bruised and bleeding. He’d fallen silent. Gone were all the hoarse yells and pleas and him trying to explain. Spent. There weren’t any words left in him, only ragged, sharp breaths and a hard twitch of the muscles in his neck. The instant Caiden touched him, something almost seemed to lash out – something with claws, and something very intent to kill.

Caiden gripped his shoulder anyway, prompting Gundahar to look up at him. He blinked, locking gazes, sending Caiden almost more pain and remorse than he knew what to do with.

“Gundahar,” he said, “breathe. Focus. Get on your feet – I’m taking you out of here.”

“N-no— no, Venator—” he gasped. “Too late— please—”

Whatever else he might have said died on his lips, fell to a look of resignation that passed over his features in a blink. Caiden knew it was over then, even before Gundahar’s jaw set and frigid determination rushed from him, like a gale from the North.

Gundahar surged to his feet, and with one swipe made of inhuman strength, slammed his arm across Caiden’s head powerful enough to send even him sprawling into the street, skull cracking hard against the cobblestones.

Whatever happened next, Caiden didn’t see it. Didn’t much hear it, either, for the ringing in his ears. Screaming, ripping, popping – strange sounds rippling like water swam through his head as if they were ten leagues away and drowned.

This was new. All of it. The wash of cold, biting down deep, right to the bone, and the fury. It was like nothing he’d felt before, a high-pitched scream tearing on around him, and into him, settling like it wished to stay. Wished for him to scream along with it, to give in to the anger. He almost didn’t even realize that screams – even worse, distorted, full of more pain than he and all his experience could even imagine – were also very real, filling the air around him.

And when Caiden scrambled to his feet again, his head pounding from where he’d knocked it against the ground, Gundahar was already gone.

A monster stood in his place.

Caiden stared straight down a wrinkled muzzle, lips already starting to drip strands of white froth. The thing before him looked like the largest bear he’d ever seen. Massive, hulking, covered in brown, grizzled fur and twitching muscles the size of which no man could ever achieve. Yet its shape looked almost human, with arms, and great hands bearing fingers that ended in long, hooked claws.

No recognition stirred in the green eyes like he’d seen on the man wearing this monster’s skin – or the man skin the monster wore. Maybe Gwen had been right.

Because when the bear-monster turned, it opened its wide, toothy maw and lifted a hand-paw the size of Caiden’s entire head, ready to bring it down on the nearest fleeing civilian.

This was their fault – the civilians.

But right now, that wasn’t important. All that mattered was stopping it.

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apollosvotive · 5 years ago

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PETRICHOR — PROLOGUE

the last he sees of nataliya

also available on wattpad here

(in continuation)

Kursick is a grey town. Dump town. Dull and morose. An air of sickness hovers over everything in an ever-present shroud. Houses are dirty and squat and made of crumbling brick, slumped against each other as if huddling for warmth against the cold too. Everything around them acts as a reminder of how depressing this town is. Dead trees, black leaves, the ground steeped in shit and piss. No wall is ever too pristine to be fully white. Even the snow that descends lightly around them is tinged grey with a polluted quality to it.

At this age, Nataliya is smart and sharp. She’s a pair of beady black eyes darting back and forth, scanning her surroundings and drinking in information. As much as he hates to admit it, she’s the backbone of the two of them. She’s the reason for their escapades’ success, the sole cause for their survival. It’s been a few months since they’ve settled into this rhythm, uncertain at first, then slowly growing steady as they acclimatize to the newness of each other’s presence. They steal together and flee together. They split the profits of their latest raid between them equally and revel in the flush of their victory. They’re good together, able to match each other without much effort. Quick and efficient like a good set of hands. But for all the time he’s spent with her, Nataliya remains an enigma, shrouded in mystery. The inner workings of her mind are a puzzle. She’s a tough read, or not a read at all, and Thomas has always prided himself on knowing what people want.

“Here,” she signals. The two slink across the street, the cover of night protecting them like a cloak. The only source of illumination is a street lamp emitting an orange glow. The streets are empty, save for the stray vagabond who clutches a coarsely cut knife in his hand threateningly.

The house belongs to a military officer from the city center, Azus, who is stationed in Kursick to monitor the ruined village, no doubt another out of the hundreds of men populating the rich capital with an overabundant belly and grubby fat fingers. He stands in a long line of victims. Anyone from Azus who comes to Kursick are buffoons. They’re essentially positioning themselves like low-hanging fruit in the reach of a town full of ravenous people, just waiting to be plucked. While the people of Kursick stole and fought and killed for something to sustain themselves, these officials lined their tables with roast chicken and attested to their generous helpings of food with their big potbellies.

It is important that they do this. It is important that they take from the selfish and the privileged. The city people are scoundrels to allow them to survive like this, cold and haggard and starved to the bone, while they drape themselves in tapestries made from finer material that people from this town could ever imagine. Stealing from them is an act of vengeance that barely paid a morsel of the price.

East Kosenyka is the affluent neighbourhood. It’s a gated estate with houses built on either side of a road that stretches throughout the plot of land. It opens at a metal gate, where a guardhouse is situated. The street is heavily surveilled, which is why hardly anyone tried to steal anything from the residents here. It’s only Nataliya who looked at the gold window of light from where they crouched in the dark one day, with a look in her eyes that told him the plan was already forming in her head. Turns out that that plan was the thing that would feed them better than anyone ate in this stupid town. This time, though, it seems that there is an entire battalion parked outside the street. It has to be someone important, then. Nataliya narrows her eyes.

In this distance, Thomas can see several more soldiers pacing outside a house. The lights in the house are all switched off.

“What the fuck is this?” Thomas hisses. In all their time spent raiding, he’s never seen such security for a single official before. “How do we get in like this?”

Usually, they will scale the gate to get into the neighbourhood, but they can’t now.

“There has to be a way in.”

Nataliya scrubs a hand through her hair in frustration. It’s black and cropped at her shoulders. Thomas remembers when it used to be long. They were on another one of their righteous escapades, just about to slide through the cracks of the estate and escape, when the end of her hair got caught on the gate. Without a moment’s hesitation, she sheared the entire lock of hair off with a paring knife. There was no emotion in her eyes.

Thomas swears. “Damn it, Nat. I’m fucking starving.”

“Shut up, Thomas. I didn’t say there wouldn’t be food tonight.”

Nataliya stalks off in the opposite direction. Thomas trails behind her. They circle the perimeter of the street, careful to remain hidden. The moon hangs like a silver orb in the sky. He wishes it didn’t. The night isn’t potent enough. It’s not dark enough to keep them hidden. Plus, it doesn’t help matters that the entire city center’s supply of soldiers has been emptied out in this street, right in front of the house they are going to rob. Anxiety prickles in him, flooding his senses.

“Nat. Nat,” Thomas snaps. “We shouldn’t. It’s too dangerous.”

Nataliya’s back portrait doesn’t falter. The cadence of her footfalls still goes strong. “We can find a blindspot. I know we can.”

“We can starve for a night.”

A sigh. “It’s not about that. Didn’t you hear when we were in the marketplace this morning?”

“What about?”

Thomas tries to recall the moment but can only remember the gloss of a green apple staring back at him. He was ravenous then. He’s ravenous now.

Though he can’t see her, he can imagine her shaking his head.

“There’s a new king. Military officials are going to be sent back for the coronation. No one’s going to be coming to Kursick for a while. And in between everyone fighting for the apples in the orchards and the food in the shophouses, I already know there’s going to be a food shortage. We need to gather a supply of food now.”

“We can steal the reserves from the apple orchards now. We don’t have to steal from here.”

“It’s apples,” Nataliya says. “We’re gonna rot in between the time in next official comes. Think about it, Tommy. Rich chicken breast, sweetcorn, sugar bread. Don’t you want that kind of feast again?”

Thomas can feel himself salivating, but dread pools in his stomach. “If we get caught, they might kill us.”

“They won’t.” Nataliya sounds so sure, Thomas wants to believe her. Because if there is one thing that he has learned about her during the course of their time together, it’s that he should put all his faith in her and trust that she knows better than him. She has never failed them and she wouldn’t now. She has always been the smarter out of the two of them. He remembers their first encounter —the feeling of his father’s meaty fist curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him over the water before letting him plunge in. He thought that that was it for him, the end of a sorry life of an insignificant boy, but before he could even comprehend what was going on, he felt himself rising to the surface and being dragged to the bank. Once he finished shuddering and gasping and spewing out water, he found himself staring into curious black eyes. His first thought went to organ harvester. It was not that uncommon. Many people might have seen a scrawny, helpless kid and thought to make some use out of him, but she just fought away his hostile hands and patiently fended off his bite. When the fight finally seeped out of him, they’d stared at each other with a kind of uncertainty and a knowing that this, this thing between them, was something that did not belong in a place like Kursick.

They walk until Nataliya stops in her tracks. She’s looking at the back of the estate, where a young soldier fumbles with his rifle. In total, there are three soldiers along the perimeter. Two at either ends, and the young one, squarely in the middle. He’s standing in front of their usual entrance, the section of loose bricks which they have come to find with detailed scouting will give way with a slight push. The young soldier is still pockmarked, with the faintest trace of hair at his chin. He carries the rifle like he still doesn’t know how. This time, Thomas knows what Nataliya is thinking without her having to say it aloud first.

“Distract the other two,” Nataliya tells him. “I’ll deal with that one. After that, join me through the hole. I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

Thomas makes a noise of assent.

“Done and dusted,” he replies, and slinks away to the side of the street. Neither of them looks back at the other.

Heart thumping a lopsided rhythm against his chest, he picks up a rock and dashes it across his skin. The stinging pain follows more as an afterthought. He’s weathered worse. A rivulet of blood leaks out from the gash. He composes himself. Then he bursts out of the undergrowth, yelling: “HELP! HELP ME!”

There are sounds of a rifles being cocked. So many shutters all at once, like a flock of birds taking flight. He collapses onto the ground, holding out his bleeding hand for everyone to see.

“There’s a wild boar chasing me. Help me, please!”

He keeps yelling until he’s sure it reaches the four corners of this street. There’s the heavy sound of footfalls as soldiers run over to see the commotion. The line of soldiers along the back of the estate draws nearer to him as planned. Thomas doesn’t dare look up. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground because he’s sure if he does so, he’ll see a million gun barrels pointed at him and his stomach will go lurching. He just hopes Nataliya makes it in.

Cold metal forces his chin up. He has to open his eyes. The stern visage of a soldier is outlined in silver in the moonlight. This is a soldier from the city center. Azus’ own army. He hates them. He hates them so much, though they are generally harmless. They’re the claws of a buffoon king, a fat man who has grown complacent and idle on top of the throne while his kingdom withers, and so it comes as no surprise that the army has all the efficiency of its leader. They’re all bark and no bite. Usually they will make fun of him, shove him around, spit on him, but in the end let him go more or less in one piece, because even for the luxurious city center the morally decrepit place is masquerading as, they still have appearances to upkeep. The life of a small Kursick boy is still a life, no matter how insubstantial.

But this night a red beret rests atop the soldier’s head, a new addition. Realisation dawns on Thomas. The new king and his army. This is completely different threat they were used to dealing with.

“What do we have here? A street rat?”

The man’s voice is slow and rumbling, like a thunderstorm.

“Please, sir, help me. I was searching for food in the forest when a wild boar started chasing me.” Thomas clutches his injured arm harder for emphasis.

The soldier smiles. It’s horrifying. Skin pulls away to reveal a set of gleaming white teeth. He looks like he’ll eat Thomas alive. A sudden flood of regret fills him. He should have just insisted to Nataliya that they leave. Now the bad feeling is real and alive, beating inside Thomas like a second heart. He needs to get Nataliya out of there. This is far more than either of them anticipated.

“Look at the poor boy,” the soldier murmurs. “He can barely help himself. This is why I hate Kursick. No one can seem to fend for themselves. Always complaining about how the capital doesn’t feed them when they don’t even want to do the work themselves.”

Thomas opens his mouth to respond, but a dull thwack across his jaw sends his mind ringing. The force of impact is so great and filled with such brute strength that death flashes before his eyes. This is not the first time he’s experienced this, in fact he’s well-acquainted with it by now, but it still sends adrenaline coursing through his veins. His heart batters against his chest furiously. His vision blacks out for a split second, and it returns just to catch a glimpse of gold before it flickers out of view. The soldier signals to another soldier. “Get him out.”

With only those words, he’s picked up by his arms and thrown out at the front of the street. Pain explodes on his body. His shoulder joints pop and squeal. The thought of Nataliya pulsates frantically in his mind. The moment he lands in the dirt, he sprints back to the spot where he and Nataliya stood minutes ago to find the young soldier standing the same way they find him, still pacing about with uncertainty. Thomas turns his eyes up to the house they are protecting, where a single light that wasn’t turned on a few minutes ago now is.

If he knew this is the last time he will be seeing Nataliya, what would he have done? It will be months of waiting by their usual spots, of surveying the crime scene over and over till there’s nothing more to make out of it, of sitting by the freezing lake waiting for her familiar presence to make itself known to him before he finally understands that she’s never coming back. In time to come he will find out she’s right. Food will turn scarce and everyone will be fighting, man against man for that last apple in the orchard. There will be nights when Thomas will circle the perimeter of East Kosenyka but will never actually steal from them again because it’s simply not the same without her. He will grow cold and hungry and alone. Not that he wasn’t these things before, but it’s just that there used to be the warmth of her presence, her always-there presence, to stave them out of his mind. He will have nowhere to go. Home has nothing but fire and fury and bloody fists. He will press up against the dirty cinderblock, shivering and alone, feeling like a stranger in the only place he has known as home. But it won’t always be like this. He shouldn’t underestimate the lengths that his honed survival instinct will bring him to. In time he will come to love this place, this terrible, shoddy town, like a parent learns to love the face of an ugly child. He will learn what it means to survive and what one will do. Kill or be killed. It will come to be the thing which he finds the most true in this world and the governing principle of his life. He will learn to make a name for himself. He will adapt to the loss of an important limb — the most important limb — and traverse through the grey snow with ease as if he has never lost something crucial to him. He will never think of Nataliya again. Never, except in his moments of piercing sobriety, which he finds will be incredibly rare, when he is held ransom to his wandering thoughts.

But for now he is thirteen and stupid and cold. Always cold. It occurs to him that the last he sees of her is her back. Her small, scrawny frame, the dogged set of her shoulders, the jagged crop of her dark hair. The portrait burns its way into his memory forever.

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