#campaign: the land of horns and teeth

[grimvestige]

Hanzou changed up his disguise recently! He's going under the alias of 'Taigen' now :3

[thegildedbee]

Do-Over: May 20 Prompt from @calaisreno

Program Note: Since there are a bunch of these posties, I've also stuck them onto my ao3 site since that's easier than my going back through tumblr later if I end up trying to make them grow up into a real fic :-) You can also find them at the May 2024 Prompts collection, in the company of multitudes of breathtakingly creative ficsters and their fics to read and treasure, organized by @calaisreno -- what a maestro they are, with setting in motion this whole fantabulous outpouring of mayday-mayhem and orchestrating it all month long, amirite? Yes, I am! :-) ........................................................................... “Really? Really? I can’t even open a goddamn email message without getting knocked about and run over and pissed on,” John fumes, trapped in a fight-or-flight reaction that is equal parts fight and equal parts flight, making his head feel like it’s going to explode. He throws his coffee cup against the wall, and his only regret is that the effort does nothing in terms of relieving any of the pressure. “Of course it doesn’t,” he says through clenched teeth.

The last weeks have been an agony. The first weekend in February had ushered in heavy rains and sharp winds, which had him making his way across London while dragging his boots through grimy slush that inevitably trickled its way inside his socks in icy rivulets. He landed on his arse at one point while crossing the road, which annoyed the already angry drivers who leaned on their horns as they skidded around him.

He’d stayed inside for the next four days, until the sun appeared for a brief flirtation with the city before being swallowed up by the charcoal ash-smudged clouds once again.

He knows, obviously, that one month out from Sherlock’s funeral, that it's still early days for being able to have any sort of balance inside, but still, he hadn’t thought that there were bottoms below the bottoms to which he’d already plummeted. But whether he acknowledges it forthrightly or not, part of what is driving his internal fury is the incessant advertising for Valentine’s Day. It makes him want to take his gun and shoot a skull and crossbones into the nearest brick wall.

Staring at the mess of ceramic shards and wild splatters of coffee, he puts his hands on his hips and hangs his head. “You need to get it out, John,” he spits out in a whiny, imitative falsetto. “Say it now, John. Say what you didn’t say.”

There was the huge British Airways billboard, of a blue sky with a white fluffy cloud in the shape of a heart, with a jet and its contrail slicing through it like a cupid’s arrow:

“London to Singapore: This Valentine’s Day, Say it With an Escape Voucher.”

Escape. Right.

There was the Twitter campaign on the Underground, with large mock-ups of sarcastic dating tweets, like:

*finds a soulmate.* *swipes left in hope of finding a hotter soulmate.*

The mass text message from Angelo’s, advertising the Valentine’s Day prix fixe dinner:

“Eat with Your Heart.”

Today, though. Could this be any more ludicrous? It was nothing but a mundane email message, to be sent to the trash in a trice. But.

It was one of those emails, where the writer puts an inspirational quote underneath their signature.

“There are no do-overs, but there are second chances.”

Oh, yes, he was feeling so uplifted, now. So appreciative of the earnest guidance. So motivated to become more self-aware.

" . . . there are second chances."

Like hell there are.

He hears the sound of the door opening, and of his sister bustling into the vestibule, chattering and gesticulating her way toward the kitchen with her usual noise and bluster.

"Hey, Johnny? You home?” she asks, as she rounds the corner, stopping short at the sight of the smoldering vibrations he's giving off. “Oh. There you are. What happened?”

John shakes his head, giving her a sardonic smile. “I don’t know what to tell you, Harry. The mug just jumped right out of my hand and ran into the wall.”

She looks at him sideways, immediately aware from his tone that something is clearly gravely amiss, that the shattered cup is just the tip of something harsher. Although, when wasn’t he finding something amiss? It's been a never-ending rotation of anger, depression, anger, depression, anger, depression. 

“I picked up some groceries," she says, cautiously. "There’s some of that ice cream you like. Also fruit and veg if you’re going to take a stab at fighting off the scurvy you've got coming on.”

John walks into the kitchen, his demeanor collapsing from rage to stoicism. “Hey. Let me help.”

“Sure, thanks, Johnny. Oh, I wanted to ask you for a favor – it’s a bit daft, but I thought I’d just give it a shot."

“Okay.”

“Trina wants to go to a film on Valentine’s Day. Would it be possible for you to watch her two kids for a few hours at her place?”

John stares at her in disbelief, pulling back his neck and peering at her with skepticism.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says, hurriedly. "I see that’s going over real well. Never mind.”

John shakes his head. "Harry, it's just that I have no idea if I can be in charge of someone's kids right now. I imagine I could, but it’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I mean, safety first, with kids, and I'm not in the best head."

Harry brushes her shoulder against his, trying to lighten the mood. "Are you serious? Can you handle kids? What about living with Sherlock – you said it was like running a day nursery sometimes. And you kept him out of trouble just fine, kept him in one piece -- ”

Her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes go impossibly wide. “Oh no, I’m so sorry, Johnny, oh no, I didn’t think, I just let my mouth run on.” She looks at him standing there, rigid except for a slow inhale, and a scary length of time holding his breath, until he finally begins to let it escape in stingy exhalations. She tries to explain, with, “It’s just, you know, you always said it was like managing a child at times" -- and his expression is really alarming her now -- "oh no, never mind, I will shut up. Right now. I'm so sorry."

John says nothing. He turns his head to the side and looks behind him; looks above him; looks at Harry; looks down at his feet; clenches his hands; unclenches his hands; clenches his hands again; starts to say something; stops; shakes his head; looks at Harry again; rolls his eyes; and throws up his hands.

“That’s it. Harry, this isn't because of the last few moments, it’s just I'm at the end of my rope after a very bad few weeks. Look. I just need to get out of here. I'm going to go away for a few days. I appreciate what you're doing for me, and for being able to be here, but just for now, I need to get away."

“Okay, John," she says, placatingly, contrite. "I’m sorry, I really –” she stops when he holds up his hand.

“Not the issue, Harry. Truly.”

“But where are you going to go? Are you going to be okay?” she says urgently, worried about this sudden turn of events, and what it might mean.

“I don’t know," John says plainly, shrugging his shoulders. "I may just go to the train station and throw a dart at the departures board. But, look, I’m going to grab a few things and then I’ll be off. Best have me out the way for yourself as well.”

Not stopping to double-guess himself or to have to explain himself further, John jogs over to his room and hastily grabs at the first few things he sees that he might need, stuffs them into his rucksack, puts on his heavy coat, and gives Harry a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll let you know where I land.”

"Promise, Johnny?”

“Promise.”

John practically runs out the door, feeling like he's flying apart, and wanting to get outside and to start moving toward something, somewhere, even if it’s just pretend. He loves London, he does. So much, but he's been so many places around the city with Sherlock for so many different reasons, it’s an atlas of emotion that he is always aware of. To be honest, he also doesn’t want to leave London right now, for the same reason; London means Sherlock, and he wants to hold on to as much of him as he can right now.

Fight or flight.

He wonders: should he visit Sherlock's grave? Would that help him shake some of this? No, the gravesite is an ending, and he doesn’t want to be reminded of endings, of feeling like he's being ground into the pavement by a merciless force.

Some place that is a memory of beginnings? Bart’s is out, he says to himself with a harsh chuckle. Not 221B. 

Where then?

He thinks back to those first days, and pulls up his general knowledge of London transport and pleads with it to find him an answer.

Paddington, it says. Paddington? Ah, he knows this. All right, then: Paddington.

He’s going to Cardiff.

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

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

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

[soulmuppet]

CINDER AND ASH

Once one of the weapons of the Fellahanded, one of the Tower Wizards. This dark wizard made a gun that used the ashen blood of the Cinderbeasts as ammunition and their cloven horns as bullets. At the Fell Circle, he would summon a demon and beg it for its blood and teeth in exchange for the souls of those the bullets would kill. Any creature that would not parley with him, he would kill it and summon another. The black iron revolver, and its heavy drawstring bag fashioned from manflesh, are specially treated to stop the bullets and gunpowder evaporating into smoke and sulphur. The bullets then vanish while embedded in the flesh of their targets, dragging their souls with them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inevitable is a Arthurian Western roleplaying game for 2-6 players and a GM, where your party of disastrously sad cowboy knights fail to stop the apocalypse. This 284 page book contains all the rules, character creation and the setting for your campaign, thoroughly and evocatively detailing The Barren, the lands surrounding the Kingdom of Myth.

[grimvestige]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SCREAMING ABOUT THIS FOREVERRRRRR ;W;

Renewing their vows

My half of an art trade with @grimvestige ! 💖

[herowithnofear]

Anakin Skywalker.

23. He/Him (fc: Hayden Christensen).

Paladin of Dratho || Oath of the Jedi, the Chosen || Tiefling || Kelsvack

most people recognize him by his bruised knuckles and oil-stained hands, the wind in your hair and the sun blinding your eyes, the moment you leave atmosphere and become weightless and their righteous & vengeful. thereda is a large and mysterious land whose glad to have anakin skywalker roaming the lands.

Anakin hails from Kelsvack, where he and his mother were raised and made their livelihood as servants to the wealthier families in the over-populated village surrounding the river. His father never had a name, if he even had one.

Tempted by the vulnerability associated with overpopulation, where thieves can disappear into a crowd like water, the world upended for Anakin when bandits laid siege to the outermost Kelsvack--a place where he and his mother took up residence. It wasn't fair enough to call it a fight--it was simply a massacre.

Anakin survived by the grace of an unnamed Jedi, who cut through the masses declaring an attack of such magnitude and such disparity was one argued to be protected by the will of Dratho: death is inevitable, but it is not planned, and it was not time. Standing in the wreckage of his slummed quarters, the world seemingly on fire, Anakin took a vow in the name of justice, for revenge.

To the Oath, it felt like a sign. Sometimes, Anakin thinks it was simply a mistake. His duty is to maintain Fate, as was dictated by the stars in the destruction of his quarter. His grief and loss has always been viewed as something to be desired.

There is Death. We must prevent it if unjust in form.

The tiefling was then swept away from Kelsvack, and hasn't returned since. He sped through the ranks of apprentice and learner, a fierce warrior in a time of upheaval throughout Theredas, and what he lacked in diplomatic skill he made up for with sheer charm and battle prowess. Now, Anakin stands at the rank of Paladin, and has commandeered different skills of battle strategy, scouting, hunting, and the occasional required bounty.

He is a Master at Djem So, a fighting stance favoring dominance and attack in battle.

Growing up with the ghost stories surrounding the selvik, Anakin was familiar with the concept of death from a young age. Despite this, the deemed Hero with No Fear seems to have just one.

Anakin has a typical rugged appearance, his hair curling out from his horns and almost disguising them with its disheveled pattern. He dresses in loose clothing when he can, reminiscent of the warmer environment where he was raised, and maintains a steady resting neutral face (no more than neutral, nope, he's such a pleasant guy).

He boasts sandy-tan skin and darker orange horns that blend in just so with his hair--Anakin's grin is toothy and full of teeth.

Anakin lost his right arm in battle set just prior to the beginning of the campaign, and as such, is out of the field currently and recuperating by learning to live with his (currently shoddy) wooden prosthetic.

Sometimes, non-considering the Oath taken, the Paladin wished he could be an inventor--he often spends his time in Theredas admiring the artistry of the mechanics there, and is fascinated with robotic attachment and architecture.

He loves horse racing, and is deemed best in his class (don't listen to what anyone else has to say)

[minubell]

So I now there is very little chance of it arriving because how would it work ?? But I am so curious about a Angmar meeting Melkor fic haha (or just the Nazgûl in general meeting him)

Well so because Tides of War is actually all technically backstory for my dnd campaign which takes place in the 4th age, THEORETICALLY my players could reach a a point where the Nazgul and Morgoth meet each other. I suppose you could call it one of several bad endings.

Bad Ending: At the Door of Night

Angmar is exhausted. Weary in a way that he has not known for several thousand years. Tired not in body but in spirit. This war has weighed heavily upon him and now, faced with their victory, all he can feel is fatigue settling over him like a blanket.

The others lay scattered around him, thrown backwards by the thunderous shockwave. It had only been by plunging the tip of his blade into the earth and clinging to it like an anchor that he had not also been cast down, though he has been driven to one knee and forced to bow his head to brace against the backlash. He cannot muster the strength to stand.

The tempest has eased now, and Angmar lifts his head slowly, squinting past the messy strands of his own hair. His hands still cling to the hilt of his sword, the tips of his fingers blanched white from the force of his grip. His arms are shaking slightly, but if he untangles his grip from his weapon he will probably collapse.

The Door of Night rises before him. Impossibly tall, with pillars of rich black stone. The ruby red eyes of basalt dragons stare down upon him with a weight he cannot truly describe. Smoke stills pours past their carved snarls, but it is beginning to run thin and die. The two great gates of the Door no longer bar the entrance to the void. They have been cast open by his Master, and Angmar is free to stare past them into the Void.

There is… nothing there.

It is blacker than the Door itself, darker than the darkest of nights. There are no stars, no light, but a strange, low humming noise seems to rumble forth from the darkness. Staring directly at it feels sickening. Forbidden. Forbidden in a way that is somehow worse than how it felt when he first stepped foot upon these lands. It makes his skin crawl like the swarming of thousands of spiders across his entire body, and he can feel his hair stand on end in response to the terrible, indescribable wrongness.

This Door should have been left closed.

Some dark fog spills out from the open Door, rolling across the ground on an invisible wind that sweeps his hair slightly. Where it passes the grass shrivels and begins to turn white as crystals of frost gather on the thin surface of their leaves. As it creeps over his legs Angmar cannot suppress the shiver that passes through his body. It is cold, impossibly cold, far colder than the North.

He bares his teeth against the frigid air and exhales sharply. His breath is visible like a white cloud that hangs in the air before him for an instant before vanishing. It is growing colder still, as if that thick, noxious fog is sapping the very warmth from the air. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The Void is dripping now, and something thick and viscous like tar seeps out from the base like a wound.

A hand suddenly springs forth from the Door, blackened and oozing and slams against the frame. Claws dig into the stone as a second hand erupts from the dark and braces itself against the other side of the Door.

A third-fourth-fifth-DOZENS of hands emerge, grasping at the sides and top of the Door and digging into the earth at its base. Each of them blackened as if burned and dripping with that eerie, disgusting tar. There is a pause, then each hand tenses and begins to pull, dragging something out of the void. Something with a turbulent, unnatural, liquid-like body, something piercing white-blue eyes that seem to glow against the black of its body, something with scales and horns and feathers and skin and too many eyes, too many teeth, too many-

“Oh,” Khamul whispers reverently from somewhere on the ground behind him. Angmar could not disagree more.

The thing hauls itself completely from the Void, spilling pieces of itself upon the ground. It is as tall as the Door itself, and something that could vaguely assumed to be a head tips up towards the sky like a lizard bathing in the sunlight. It pauses there for several long moments, basking in the light. When it sighs more of that thick, choking fog spills past its sharp teeth.

“My Lord,” a voice calls out softly, and Angmar’s gaze snaps down to where his master stands just before the creature, impossibly tiny next to its bulk. The creature’s head drops and two large, strange, white-blue eyes focus on the significantly smaller figure. Several of its smaller eyes slide across its body until they too reach its face and are also able to stare at his master. Its face splits in a cracked, cruel smile, and Angmar grimaces against the wave of possessiveness that rolls across his own skin in response.

“Lieutenant,” the thing rumbles, its voice deep and rumbling like thunder. Hands, smaller than the ones that pulled it from the Void’s grasp, emerge from its body and reach out, running over his master’s shoulders, parsing through his hair, touching his face.

This time, Angmar does not bother resisting the possessiveness that bubbles up within him and escapes from his throat in a low growls.

The thing freezes. Its ever-changing, turbulent body goes impossibly still. Eyes blossom over its blackened, wet body, and in the moment it takes for Angmar to realize each of them are locked upon him, the creature moves.

One moment he is upon one knee, the next his head cracks against the ground and all Angmar can see are stars. He snarls even before his vision recovers, and in that moment he can feel a heavy weight pressing down upon his chest, holding him against the dirt. The stars sharpen back into reality, and Angmar realizes they are not stars at all but hundreds of eyes staring at him.

“Oh,” the thing purrs, a large hand pinning Angmar to the floor. A second and third hand pin his hands to the ground on either side of him, and Angmar instinctively closes his fist around the ring on his right hand so it cannot easily be stolen from him. A fourth hand reaches out, grasping for his face, and Angmar snaps his teeth at it, though it artfully avoids his jaws. A thumb presses against one of his cheeks and a finger presses against his other. Fingers curl under his chin and force his head upwards and slightly to one side, and those disgusting eyes are staring at him from all sides as the thing hunches over him. “Fascinating. Your soul is positively frayed, little one.”

“Little one?” Angmar snarls, cursing, trying to get his feet free enough to kick at the thing. His left foot connects with and then sinks into something wet and foul that must be the creature’s body. Incensed, Angmar lashes out with his other foot, and manages to get his leg up and around the arm pinning him down. It sinks into the tar-like substance slightly as well, but gives Angmar enough leverage to yank his other leg free. He aims his now freed leg higher, towards where the thing’s chin seems to be, but a fifth hand reaches out from the mass and catches his foot by the ankle before it can make contact.

“Hush, be still,” the thing coos at him, which only serves to make Angmar angrier, and he strains against the hand holding his face to try to bite it. It is not as if he wants any of that disgusting blackened tar in his mouth, but he is willing to suffer some if he can also inflict some pain in return. Were he not already so drained of might, perhaps Angmar could actually land a strike.

“Release him.”

Angmar watches those eyes slide sideways and glances to the side as well. Khamul has managed to find his feet, and stands a short distance away, legs shaking slightly from the effort. His sword is drawn once more, and he holds it at his side with one hand while the other wipes dirt and blood away from his cheek. “Please,” Khamul adds belatedly, a moment too late compared to his usual politeness.

He looks terrible. Like at any moment he might collapse again. No doubt the weariness Angmar feels Khamul too must be feeling. Possibly even more so.

“Another one?” the thing murmurs thoughtfully. There is a shuffling from around him, and Angmar strains against the hand holding his face to try to see the source. Whatever it is has the thing’s eyes sprawling all over its body to apparently see everywhere all at once. “Ah, and more still? What are you?”

“Those are mine, my lord,” Angmar hears his master murmur from somewhere he cannot see. “I believe you are scaring them.”

“Yours?” the thing asks softly, body rolling as it seems to physically digest this information. One of the larger eyes focuses back on Angmar, and he snarls furiously at it.

“My Nazgul, yes.”

“Ringwraiths?” the thing hums. Its eyes turn back on Angmar and scour over his body for a moment before settling on his closed, right fist. The hand pinning his wrist adjusts slightly so that the finger can reach up and scrape over the part of the band still exposed to the air, and Angmar shivers in response. “Ah, I see. How clever, lieutenant.”

“Thank you, my lord. Will you release him now? As I said, you are scaring them.”

“…Of course,” the thing reluctantly relents, and the hands grasping Angmar’s body recede. Its body rolls for an instant, collapsing in on itself before a man emerges from the dark. Thick, flowing tar makes way for pale skin, except on the man’s hands which remained stained black like they have been burned. There is a surprisingly normal amount of eyes and arms and teeth.

Annoyingly, when Angmar slowly struggles to his own feet, he realizes the man is taller than he.

“They are just so adorable, lieutenant,” the man says, and Angmar is not the only one of the Nine that bristles. He can feel a prodding, wordless question through his ring from both Khamul and Indur of worryconcerndistress, but he ignores them both in favor of glaring up at the man. The remainder of the Nine slowly regroup behind him, huddling together in a familiar formation with Angmar at the point. One of them-Ren?-presses a sword back into Angmar’s hand, and his fingers curl around the blade as best he can. Angmar himself adjusts his stance to be slightly wider, providing more cover to them in his shadow, but any other movements seem beyond him at the moment. He still feels slightly pinned and breathless beneath the man’s sharp gaze. “May I have one? You have… nine, surely you do not need them all.”

“You may not,” his master responds, and there is a slight snap to his voice that Angmar is used to being on the receiving end. Apparently this man is not, because he finally drags his eyes away to turn around, and Angmar feels like he can breathe again without that gaze upon him.

“No?” The man is frowning slightly when he turns back towards Angmar. The other Nine take a reluctant step backwards when the man steps towards them, but Angmar only bares his teeth in a grimace in response. “Look, this one is not even frightened of me. You should let me keep it. I promise I will not even break it.”

“I only serve my master,” Angmar barks back before his master can respond. “Not you.”

“Angmar,” his master calls, and there is a warning in his voice that Angmar immediately ignores.

“I am your master’s master,” the man responds, head tilted to one side. One of his hands reaches out towards Angmar’s face again, but it pauses when Angmar raises his sword in warning. “If he obeys me, surely you must as well.”

“Never,” Angmar responds immediately, and gives him a rude gesture as well.

The man blinks down at him before his frown splits into an eerie, disgusting grin that makes the others take yet another step back and Angmar snarl.

“There are not many Men that would deny me,” the man purrs. He’s stepping closer, and blackened nails pinch Angmar’s sword, keeping him from swinging it. He leans forward slightly, thrusting his face directly into Angmar’s, those eerie, blue eyes staring deep into his. Angmar thinks he can see the Void in those eyes. Certainly something dangerous, not deep within them but rather close to the surface. Danger that drives the others back, but only makes Angmar steel himself. “I rather like you, I think. Are you certain you would not like to serve me instead?”

Angmar glances past him, and makes eye contact with his master for just a moment. A moment where his master immediately reads his expression and must see something telling, because he quickly opens his mouth to call out a warning.

“Angmar-“

Angmar bites the man on the nose.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Nauthiz

Warnings: noncon sex; hand job; oral; intercourse.

This is dark!viking!Thor and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Raiders arrive and chaos ensues.

Note: I think Viking Thor might be the greatest Thor I’ve ever written and I must share him with all of you.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Nauthiz - desire

Sæta = sweetie, cutie.

🌧️🌧️🌧️

The cold rain whipped across your face and your skirts flapped in the wind. It hadn’t stopped storming since they’d come. Since the raiders’ horn had wailed and signaled the imminent destruction. 

The downpour washed away the blood of those strewn around you. Your grandfather was among them. He’d spent his life for yours, or tried to. You’d begged him to stand down. To toss aside the rusty old sword he prized from his days following the former lord in the campaign to the Promised Land. He had died at home by the hands of another type of savage. A true savage.

You shivered and took Winifred’s hand as she sobbed. The men had been herded into several houses along the eastern row. Some were wounded, others dying. The invaders had been much rougher with them, though many of the women who stood with you wore torn bodices and bloodied skirts. The children were with the few elders in Alfie Halfers’s barn. Your sister and brother were there, with crooked old Mary Greene.

The men in their mail and armor stood all around with spears, axes, and blades. Winifred cried louder, along with several others. Like you, they’d lost family that day. Like you, they had no idea what was to happen to them. Like you, they were aggrieved, angry, and alone.

You couldn’t cry. You tried. You wanted to. Your grandfather’s blood was on your cuffs still, you could smell it. His voice was still in your head. ‘Run, my sweet child, run.’ You had run once he’d fallen but not fast enough. You hadn’t wanted to leave him yet he’d met the same fate you feared if you had. And you’d met that he’d died to prevent.

You were angry at these beastly men. Angry at fate, angry at yourself.

Lightning flashed in the sky and screams rose in fright. The approach of heavy boots squelching in the mud preceded the broad, fearsome shadow of a man. He emerged into the moonlight, filtered through the blowing rains. 

His golden hair poked out from beneath a fur cap and a thick beard hung from his jaw. The other men stood rigid as he approached. He spoke to them in another language. Then he turned and looked down the line of trembling women; some just girls. He smiled and his voice boomed again. This time, in your own tongue, lilted with a keen accent.

“We are not here to harm you. We only defended ourselves against your violent kin when they drew steel” He began. “Do not linger on the bloodshed, but consider our mercy. That you still stand here, that many still breathe, offered shelter still from this ragged storm.”

He preened at his own declaration. His English was fine for his kind. Many of the raiders knew only grunts and gibberish.

“And that we would prize you with our favour. Men of pure blood. Men descended from the gods.” He boomed and thunder echoed his tone. “Bow to us and we will be benevolent. Refuse and we will teach you to bend.”

Winifred nearly pulled you down with her as she crumpled into a heap. She wailed and murmured madly as the rain battered down on her. You tried to lift her to her feet but she wouldn’t budge. A man approached and forced her up, dragging her away as several other snuffed their sobs at the scene.

“What will they do to her?” One asked in a hoarse whisper and was shushed by others.

“We will not have you fine women out in the rain all night. You would grow ill, so let us proceed,” The blond man continued. 

He neared the far end of the line. Many craned to watch him as he began the long walk along the distraught women. You kept your head straight and blinked through the rain. Let him pass you by and leave you to languish with the rest.

He got closer and closer. You could hear his boots and the little comments he made and the laughter of his men in response. The toe of his hide boot appeared at the edge of your vision and without thinking, with all your spite, you spat at his feet. You looked up as he flinched and turned to face you. You stared into his eyes and curled your lip.

“Murderer,” You snarled. “Beast.”

He tilted his head and looked back and forth along the line. Then he glanced behind him at his men. He laughed. Loudly. All others were silent as he raised his head and backed away from you. He raised his hand and his chuckles died. He gestured to you with two fingers and a man approached to wrench you forward. You stumbled as you were thrust towards the large blonde man.

“Fiery woman,” He sneered. “I do admire your will.” He smirked. “So I will reward you.” He grabbed your chin as he stepped closer. “Behold, a mighty king does claim you. I, Thor, Son of Odin. First of his name.”

You bared your teeth and your nostrils flared. He pushed you away before you could spit again and you choked on your saliva.

“You might gird yourself,” He warned as he signaled to the man to grab you once more. “Within reason. I do like a taste of fire.” 

The man, a king by his word, Thor, turned away. You were urged after him by the man at your shoulder as the other gave an order in his own tongue. You tried to drag your feet, tried to fight, but your soles slipped in the mud. You grunted as you were nearly jerked off your feet by your escort as he muttered some unknown curse in your direction.

The sky flashed and the thunder was followed by the frantic voices of women and the guttural tones of the armored men. You peeked over your shoulder and blanched at the sight of the raiders closing in on the women as they huddled together in a fearful herd. They hauled them away from each other as you were ushered away. You were better off than no other. You would be better off among the bodies on the ground.

“Woman,” Thor called as he slowed to walk beside you and took your arm. The other man released you but tarried behind. “What do I call you?”

You pursed your lips and kept your eyes ahead, blinking away the droplets as they caught in your lashes.

“I will not keep from forcing it from you, so tell me.” He warned.

You sniffed and tried to tear your arm away. He didn’t falter as he kept on. You swallowed and answered him. He nodded.

“And which of these is yours?” He looked around at the varying houses; some little more than huts, other shared houses with sheds and troughs around the side. You were quiet again and he stopped to turn you to him. “I rarely repeat a threat twice before following through on it.”

You looked down at his hand and back to him. “Up that hill,” You peered over at the incline just a row away. “At the very top. The miller’s house.”

He patted your head with his large hand and angled you around the corner. He hurried you along as you struggled to keep up with his long strides. Your legs burned as you trekked through the mud up the hill. 

The rain pelted down heavier than before and you stopped dead as you came up to your grandfather’s fence. His body was still there. Just inside the gate. Thor nearly took you off your feet but paused too as he noticed the corpse. He let go of you and bent. He bowed his head and said some words to the mud. 

You backed away and he stood quickly to grab you again. He shook his head and pulled you through the gate.

“He died with a blade in his hands.” He said. “Brave.”

“Unlike you.” You hissed.

He chuckled and continued along the muddied patch to the front door. He shoved you ahead of him.

“I expect a warm welcome.” He taunted. “In.”

You pushed through the door and he was close behind. Your grandfather’s house was small; a single room. A fireplace against the back wall, a counter built of wood along the other, a table, several barren chairs. Your hay mattress rested in the corner and his own was placed at the foot. The door slammed and another roll of thunder sounded.

Thor let you go. 

“A light.” He commanded.

You went to the table and blindly felt around for the candle there. You lit it with the flint that sat on its tray and you backed away. The small glow cast shadows across the space. The king removed his hat and wrung it out before tossing it beside the clay basin on the counter. He unclasped his cloak and slung it over a chair.

He unbuttoned his lined jacket and looked at you. Your eyes went to the door.

“How far do you think you would get?” He asked pointedly. “My man is at the door and others will patrol the streets.”

You lowered your chin and turned away from him.

“You stay in that dress, you will be sick.” He said. “I will start the fire. You will undress.”

You spun back to him and crossed your arms. You were cold and resisted a shiver.You went to the chest and placed your hands on the strap. He followed and planted his muddied boot on the lid.

“What are you doing? I said undress.” He snarled.

“I will need a clean dress.”

“No.” He said. “Undress.”

You glared at him. He didn’t back down. He kept his foot on the chest and his hands gripped his hips as he stared you down. You reached to the laces along the front of your bodice and untied the top gruffly. You didn’t look away as you loosened them and pulled your collar open. He smirked and retreated.

He took the flint and knelt at the fireplace. You wriggled out of your dress and threw it across the chest. Your shift was just as wet and nearly transparent. You pulled it over your head and tossed it atop your dress. You ripped off your shoes and rolled down your damp stockings. Naked, you turned away, trying to hide behind air.

“Let me see you,” He said.

You peeked over your shoulder and turned slowly. He neared as you faced him and he stopped before you. His fingertips tickled your cheek as his eyes ventured further down. You couldn’t resist the shiver that rose along your back.

“Lay down.” He said. “Get under the covers. Get warm.”

You bit down and crept onto the mattress against the wall. He dragged your grandfather’s to rest beside yours and stood. You slid under the blanket as he tugged removed his mail then tugged his tunic over his head. He draped it across the back of the chair closest to the fire and bent to push his boots off.

He placed belt and the large hammer he wielded against the wall. His socks were stretched over the seat of the chair and he unlaced his pants deliberately. He threw those over his tunic and bent to free himself of his undershorts. He dropped those with his socks and you closed your eyes as he came around the table.

Your heart raced as you heard him near. He gave a low laugh as he approached and the floor creaked. You could sense him looming before you.

“Open your eyes.” He demanded. “Look at me.”

You covered your face and he laughed louder.

“You never seen a man before?” He asked.

“I have.” You uttered. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Afraid?” You felt the other mattress shift against yours as he got down on it. “I don’t blame you. You won’t be able to resist once you see me.”

You grimaced and kept your eyes shut.

“This is the last I’ll repeat my words.” He said. “Open your eyes, girl.”

Your eyes snapped open at his tone. He was on his knees before you. You stared at his face. He grinned.

“Look at all of me.” He hummed.

You gulped and inhaled. You drew the blanket snugger to your shoulders and your eyes fell almost without thinking. His chest stood broadly above his tightly muscled stomach and his arms were as thick as the rest of him. Unlike any man you’d seen before, often as they bathed, his member was large and upright before him. It bobbed against his stomach and he reached to cup stroke it.

“You ever seen a man like me?” He teased.

You turned onto your back and stared at the ceiling. “I told you. I’ve seen men before.”

“But not like me,” He said as he lowered himself across the mattress. “Girl,” He tugged on your blanket and spread it over him. “Come close. It will help you get warm.”

“I will stay.” You insisted.

He growled and shoved his arm under you. He rolled you against him and settled you under the blanket with him. He brought your head up on his shoulder and you could smell the rain in his hair and dried sweat on his flesh.

“I tire of your whims, girl.” He turned you until your breasts were pressed to him and his other hand groped your ass. “I am helping you. You were in the rain too long. You must warm yourself.”

You were silent, tense against him. You’d never been like this with a man. And he was right, you’d never seen a man like him. His fingers crawled over your skin.

“You have good hips.” He said. “But you have no children. That old man could not have been your husband.”

“My grandfather,” You said. “And no, I have no children.”

“You say you’ve seen men,” He caressed your arm. “Have you touched one?”

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

“No.” He answered for you. “Well, I can say I’ve touched a woman. I’ve made women scream.” He inhaled your scent as he clung. “I will do things to you you will never forget.”

You folded your arms against your chest as he rubbed your back lightly.

“Not tonight.” He purred. “Tonight, I will show you how to touch a man.”

He retracted his hand and grabbed yours. You resisted but only until he twisted your arm. He led your hand to his member and pressed your palm to the firm flesh. He bent your fingers around him and his thick veins bulged in your grip. He shuddered.

“Tightly,” He bid. “Move up.” He slid your hand to the tip. “Down.” He pushed it to his base. “And again.” He repeated the motion. “Don’t stop.”

He rescinded his hand and you kept on as he’d shown you. You listened to the crackle of the fire and his thick breaths as you numbly stroked him. He began to groan as his hand slapped against the mattress.

“Faster,” He begged. “Faster, girl.”

You obeyed. You didn’t ask why, you didn’t hesitate. Whatever was happening, you wanted to be over. He pushed his head back as he jutted his chest up and the blanket slowly slipped further and further down his torso. He grunted and flicked it away from him so it hung from your shoulder.

“Watch.” He rasped. “See what you can do to me.”

He lifted his head and looked down at your hand as it glided up and down his member. He bared his teeth as his blue eyes dilated in the dim light. His thighs tensed as your eyes stuck to the scene and his voice got louder. The arm beneath you curled and he pulled you closer. You could hear his heart as your head was pushed further onto his chest.

He exclaimed and his hips jerked. A warmth suddenly spilled down your hand and spread beneath your palm. The white liquid spurted up and coated your fingers as your lips parted. His hand stopped yours as he sputtered.

“Enough, enough,” He growled. “You know what that is, girl?” You blinked. “That’s my seed. If you are good, I will honour you with it.” He slowly released your hand. “You might be fortunate enough to carry a king’s child.”

Your hand slipped down and you wiped away his seed on the blanket. You quivered as the balmy smell of his sweat and arousal enshrined you. He drew away from you, carefully, and rose. He went to the table and snuffed out the candle. He returned to you through the flickering shadows of the fire and pulled you close once more.

“Where is that voice, girl?” He slung your leg over his. “I will help you find it again. Never fear.”

🌧️

You were wakeful, restless. The large behind you snored with his arm firmly around you as the storm raged without. When last it quelled and the steady beating stopped, you wriggled free of his grasp. You shivered as you turned your back to him and dozed for an hour before the sun in grey wisps through the cracks of the shuttered windows.

You woke as a warmth pressed to your back and Thor pressed his nose to the back of your head. He pushed himself against you. He was hard again. He rocked against you as he growled low in your ear. He drew away abruptly and sniffed. He sat up and the blanket fell from your shoulders and you shivered in the morning chill.

“Girl.” He said as he rose with a groan. “What will we break our fast with?”

You held the blanket to you as you crawled across the mattress and you went to the chest. You reached for your dress and he tilted his head in warning. He wagged his finger.

“Did I say you could do that?” He asked.

You dropped your hand as he neared and tugged the blanket away. He tossed it back on the mattresses and backed away. 

“I said you would cook my meal.” He turned and went to the fire, barely more than ashes. He added the splintered wood from the woven basket and stirred it until it sparked. “So, be quick.”

You rounded the other side of the table as he sat and you took the heavy iron pot from the counter. You added oats from the bag and emptied the last of the ewer into it. You added nutmeg and cinnamon bought from the merchants in the next town and hung it from the hook over the rising fire.

You avoided looking at him as he watched you. He scoffed as he picked at the wood of the table.

“You want to say what makes you frown.” He said.

You looked up and he smiled. You averted your gaze and folded your hands. You would never used to being so bare. You raised your chin and swallowed.

“How do you know this language?” You asked.

He snickered and tapped his fingers on the table. He ran his hand over his beard and you made yourself look him in the eye.

“I’ve been to many villages like this. Those men I did not kill, I took as slaves. At least a dozen or so. The women… I never took many of them. They are not so strong for the field and their use is… fleeting. But those men I took, I spoke to them as I could.” He leaned back and dropped his hand to his lap. “I learned to tell men how I would kill them before I did.” He lifted a brow. “That fear before I bring my hammer down… that is… it is that destiny the gods made for me.”

You crinkled your nose without thinking and your blood turned cold. He spoke of killing as if he were shearing a sheep or sowing a field. He was amused and you wiped the disgust from your face. You turned and took a wooden spoon and crossed to the fire to stir the oats.

“No…” He began. “I never did take a woman. I feared they wouldn’t make the journey after… after they had bowed to me.”

You withdrew the spoon and returned to the counter with it. You set it down and peeked over at him.

“The ego is the male sin,” You said. “Tolerance is a woman’s penance.”

He inhaled and rumbled softly. “Our gods do not speak of sins. How grim. They speak of glory. To take and not beg from some spiteful wraith.”

You pushed your head back and said nothing. He kept his eyes on you. His gaze made you uneasy but if you let him see, it would only be another victory to proclaim.

“Oh, how glorious,” You took the wooden spoon and went to the pot again. “To take oats from an old man’s hearth.”

🌧️

Thor left you after he ate. His man remained outside the door, the occasional clink of his mail assuring you of his presence. You pulled on a dress unwrinkled by the rain and sat by the fire. The sky outside was grey and the sun refused to show. You spent your hours mending a collection of holey stockings and your grandfather’s old cloak. It was likely pointless work but it kept you from thinking.

You chewed on stale bread as the day wore on. Then you sat at the table in silence. The winds persisted but the rain did not return. You couldn’t hear the usual livestock grazing along the neighbour’s yard or the voices of children as they ran along the dusty paths. The was only the eerie dearth of life all around.

The door clattered and you sat up as you looked over your shoulder. Thor wore his cap and long fur-trimmed cloak. He came up beside you and his hand settled along the back of your neck.

“You’re dressed,” He remarked. “You think when I am gone, I am no longer king?”

“You’re not my king, here or there,” You said. “This is not your land.”

“It’s not?” He taunted. “This is a dead man’s house. I can only claim it as my own.” He ran his thumb along the bottom of your skull. “You will be allowed a shift at supper.”

You stood and shook his hand away. You went to the counter and bent to the basket of potatoes beneath. He snorted and followed you. He poked your head.

“We are not eating whatever gruel you can cook up,” He said. “My men are having a feast. In celebration of a fruitful journey.”

You stood and sidestepped him. You crossed the room and turned back to him.

“It is cold out. You expect to wear only a shift?”

“You shall have my cloak while we walk,” He unclasped the cloak. “My jacket is more than warm enough.”

You sighed and pulled the cowled neck of your dress over your head. You swept it away and threw it onto the floor. You stood in your shift, it fell just past your calves and left you frigid. You grabbed your shoes and pulled them on over your stockings. Thor neared and held out his cloak.

“Bear fur.” He said as you turned and let him place it over your shoulders. “Fell it by my own hand.”

When his large hands had secured the cape, you stepped away from him. It was oversize for you. You held onto the sides to keep it from dragging.

“We hunt for food, not sport.” You said.

“As do we. And there is much more to do with a bear than just eat.” He passed you and opened the door. “My people do not waste. We use every bit… until there is nothing left to be had.”

He let you out first. The man who stood guard at the door watched you pass as his king followed you. You descended the hill quietly and he guided you along as a din of voices rose from the church along Cutter’s Road. The priest had been housed with the elderly. He was the only ordained cleric in the village as the inhabitant paid their tithes in the upkeep of the chapel.

Inside, the pews were pushed against the walls and men sat in clusters all around steaming spits of roasted lamb, pig, and goat. The livelihoods of several families filled the stomachs of these killers. Thor led you to the front of the chapel and sat amid a group of a dozen men. They greeted him with deference and doffed their cups. Lee, the baker, also brewed his own ale, and it was quickly being drained from his hidden vats.

The king removed the cloak from your shoulders and spread it on the floor. He sat and drew you down beside him. The men around you leered openly as you sat on your knees and Thor withdrew a knife from his pelt to carve off a thick hunk of sheep meat. He offered you a piece and you accepted it wordlessly. You’d nibble so that you wouldn’t have to eat more.

As you stared at the floor, aware of the whispers spoken in another tongue but no doubt about you from around the circle. Thor humoured some, returned a bawdy joke, and ran a knuckle along your arm.

You stiffened as another hand rested on your knee. You sneered down at the hairy paw as it crawled up your thigh, the fabric of your shift threatened to rise. You dropped your handful of meat and slapped the man who dared to accost you. He swore as he drew away and you struck out at him, your palm met his cheek loudly.

He grunted and raised his own hand. It was stopped by another as Thor leaned over and pushed until the man rescinded. The king growled a warning and repeated it to the entire group. He sat back and played with the top of your shift.

“Girl. You are brave but stupid.” He tugged at your sleeve and his hand fell to rub his thigh, his thick legs crossed before him. “Sit with me.”

He pulled on your arm until you moved. You were clueless until he grabbed your hips and led you over into his lap. He took another bite of sheep and offered you a bite. You shook your head and he finished the slab on his own. He wiped his hands on a rag drawn from his pocket then wrapped his arms around you.

“Let me tell you something, girl.” He began as his hand spread over your stomach, his other pinched the fabric of your shift along your thigh. “I do not talk so much to the women of this land. I would have my way and be done. They are too meek.”

You shifted and he groaned, his fingers pressed against your middle. You felt his bulge against you.

“I bid you wear your shift for my own ease.” You glanced around, those men around you and others through the hall watched you. “Often, after such a feast, I would bend my prize over and the men would be unable to look away. When I finished, they would take their own pleasure.”

He took a deep breath and chuckled.

“I will disappoint them tonight. While I long to pull up your skirt and bury my fingers inside you, I have decided it would be wrong to share you with these men.” He purred and gripped your hips, pushing you down so you felt his arousal more plainly. “A woman has never riled me as much as you, sæta.”

You stiffened against him and grabbed his wrists. You felt as if you would melt beneath the heat of a hundred eyes.

“Not here, sæta,” He repeated the name. “I will have you and only me. I will taste you first.” He squeezed your hips. “And then claim you entirely.” He tickled your sides.. “And if I am satisfied, you might see my land and warm my bed there.”

🌧️

The men around you grew to a bawdy drunken racket. Words you couldn’t understand shouted to the response of laughter or plain threats. Their king did not discourage them as he only splendoured in the rowdy rapport. He paused only as you began to fidget impatiently. You were irritated by these raiders and you felt as if you were the crux of their amusement.

Thor pushed you up and you stood. A few men quieted by the din remained. The king lifted the cloak and wrapped it around you as he had before. He announced his departure as he bent to take his stein and rain the last of the fragrant ale. He let the cup fall back to the floor and led you to the church doors. Heads turned and grumbled laments bristled in your direction. The king had chosen not to share his spoils.

In the night air, the king clung to your arm through the thick cape. He traipsed along as he looked up at the moon. You wanted to run. To slip from his grasp and flee into the forest. You stumbled and he jerked you forward.

“That would be a fun game, sæta.” He lilted. “I am fast. Are you?”

You lowered your eyes and took a deep breath. You said nothing as he ushered you along.

“My people have a similar repast. A festival in honour of the gods. A hunt.” He explained. “Our maiden set off into the trees and we wait a while before we give chase. The last of the women to be found is our festival queen. She is adorned with furs and gems and she is the next to be wed.”

“We do not partake in those unholy rituals.” You assured him. 

“No, you take your crosses to listen to an old man ramble in a forgotten tongue.” He said. “This night, I will show you how your people live grey lives. The gods did not put us here to mourn our own being.”

“We live on our own toil, not by taking others’,” You muttered.

“You live by that quick mouth,” He hissed. “You do amuse me, sæta, but you tempt me to anger as well.”

“Would you bend to any who invaded your home and killed your people?” You countered as you set up the hill.

He was quiet as you approached the gate and he let you through. The man remained by the door in his armor and greeted his king with a dip of his head.

“Though you do not admit, we are more alike than you believe.” He opened the door and pressed his hand to the small of your back as he led you within. “You are right; I would not bend.” 

The door closed behind him. He swept the cloak from your shoulders and hung it as he had before from the chair. He pushed the candle towards you and turned to the fireplace. You lit the wick and he stirred the embers to spark the log he placed over them. He stood and removed his fur cap. His golden braids shone in the lowlight and the silver beads at their ends added to the glimmer.

He removed his jacket next, then his mail, and his sword belt which held a large hammer rather than a long blade. He set it down and straightened to look at you. He bent his leg and tore off his boot, and then the other. His eyes stuck to you as thoughts curved his lips.

“Undress and I will bend to you, sæta,” He said. “And you will feel the glory of my gods.”

You stared at him. You bent to slip out of your shoes. You stood but could not bring yourself to lift your shift. Even though the night before had bared all that you could hide from him, you couldn’t. You pressed your palms to the linen over your thighs and he neared.

He bunched the fabric along your hips and slowly raised it. He pulled up until you were forced to lift your arms and he drew the shift over your head. He let it fall behind you. His hands framed your face then slipped down to your neck. He turned them flat to your chest and dragged them down to cup your breasts. 

His hands continued their descent and he carefully got to his knees before you. His arms snaked around you he kneaded your ass before tickling along the back of your thighs. He shifted closer and pulled one of your legs up. You grabbed onto his shoulder with a gasp as you nearly toppled.

He bent your leg over his shoulder as his hand ran up past the top of your stocking to your hip. Your foot arched until you were on tiptoes and he bent closer until his hot breath tickled the hair along your vee. You shivered and wobbled as you tried to pull away.

He held you close and nuzzled you. You squeezed his shoulder as he hummed and his lips brushed your cunt. 

“What--” You choked on your voice as his tongue poked between your folds.

You’d never felt that before. Never felt such a cool heat. Never felt that tingle that started along your tailbone and rolled through you. Never felt the weight settle inside you as his tongue pressed to your bud and flicked back and forth. Your other hand went to his golden locks and you clung to him as your leg quivered beneath you, the other hooked snug around his shoulder.

He purred and it sent a delightful ripple through you. He lapped more eagerly and you turned your face up to the ceiling, your eyes rolling back. There was that voice inside telling you it was wrong; for this man to do what he was doing to you, to feel this way, to be unable to think of anything but the pulsing of your core.

Was that you? Were those your moans? You quaked as your body acted on its own. As you sank into the sheer joy of that moment. You bared your teeth as you reached the peak and plummeted over. You cried out and latched onto Thor as you tilted your hips into him. He stopped only as you quieted, breathless and barely standing.

He drew away and you felt an empty chill. You looked down at him, your vision a haze, and he tickled your thigh before slowly slipping it from his shoulder. You wavered as you held onto him to keep your balance.

He rose as he took your hands from him. His lips glistened as he gazed down at you hungrily.

“Look at you, sæta,” He smirked. “Aching for more already.” You pulled away from him and elicited a chuckle. “Do not be ashamed. Your god holds no power over me or mine.”

He backed away and pulled his tunic off in a single swipe. He tossed it away and it slid over the chair on the other side of the table. He undid his breeches, sighing as he opened the front and rolled them down his thick legs. He stepped out of them, along with his wool socks. He did not wear his undershorts. He was erect; proud as he stood naked before you.

He turned and pulled a chair close. He sat, his hands on his muscled thighs. 

“Here, sæta,” He beckoned you close with two fingers. “You have my patience… for now.”

You blinked and staggered forward. He caught your hand and drew you close. His other hand slapped his thigh.

“Up,” He commanded.

He tugged more adamantly and grasped your hips as he urged you into his lap, your legs folded over his thighs. You held yourself over his length as his chest puffed out and he sighed. His eyes held yours as he felt beneath you and led his tip along your folds. He pushed on your hip.

You resisted as his head pressed to your entrance. He pinched you and growled. You grabbed his shoulders and tried to keep yourself from slipping. His jaw squared and his other hand gripped your waist. He forced you down and you exclaimed. There was a pain so deep it felt close to pleasure. 

He pushed deeper and you slapped him. His flinched slightly and grabbed your hand. He took your other and guided both behind your back. His fingers wrapped around your wrists as he kept them there. His other hand went to your thigh and he began to rock beneath you. Each tilt of his hips had him impaling you deeper than the last. Your walls ached around him.

He leaned forward and nibbled at your breast. You couldn’t help the whine which escaped you. His mouth toyed with your nipple before taking the other. He snarled against your flesh as his grip tightened on your wrists and he guided your hips and the chair groaned.

He grunted and pushed his head back. He watched you hungrily as you gulped at air. The same pressure began to mount as he moved you faster and faster. His hand slipped back and stretched across your rear. He took a breath and stood with little effort as he kept you moving against him. You moaned as thrust into you from below, bouncing your body as if you were nothing. 

You wrapped your legs around him as he released your wrists. You hugged him to you as you writhed in desperation. You needed more. It didn’t matter what he’d done or who he was. You needed it. You needed that peculiar release which made you feel both empty and entirely full.

You buried your face in his neck as you came. Your body quaked as he didn’t let up. The noise of flesh slapping filled the space and the flicker of firelight had your vision cloudy. 

He began to walk, his steps uneven and clumsy. You clung to him tighter as he slowed you just slightly. He dropped to his knees on the straw mattress and it caused him to sink into you completely. You mewled and he reached to your arms. He untangled them as he bent over you and laid you on your back.

He sat up slowly. He kept your pelvis up against his, your weight upon your shoulders as he held you at an angle. He rutted into you harder. You whimpered and he did it again. Even rougher. He paused between each thrust, admiring your senseless cries. It wasn’t long before your eyelids met and you were once more squirming in bliss.

He grunted loudly with each jerk of his hips. His pace was steady and deliberate until he could control himself no more. Until he was crashing into you so rapidly you thought you would shatter into pieces. He snarled and let out a thunderous roar. The heat within you bloomed as his pelvis spasmed and stuttered to a shaky halt.

He let out a thick breath and fell forward over you. The smell of his sweat filled your nostrils and your eyes fluttered open. He stared down at you, his face flushed as he brushed his nose against yours.

“Sæta,” He rasped as his fingers tickled your cheek.

“What does that mean?” You uttered, trapped beneath him.

“It means you are sweet,” He said. “It means I will keep you.”

[grimvestige]

A scene which I hope for the sake of my D&D party doesn't come to pass, otherwise they're going to have to figure out how to navigate someone not dying.

“I always knew I would be the one to kill you.”

“I thought you changed.”

“I have. You haven’t.”

[grimvestige]

A lil Owl using his celestial aasimar wings for me as a treat ^.^

[chockfullofsecrets]

D20 Fantasy High: Making Room

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: She grunts, presumably shoving at him and not having much success given Fabian’s triumphant snickering. “I said make room-”

Riz pries himself up off the carpet, thinking of moving to help her, when Fabian lets out a startled squeak. Everyone goes quiet.

Fig leans off the bed with truly devilish glee in her tiefling eyes. “Guys, he’s ticklish.”

The Bad Kids try to plan a sleepover, Fabian needs to learn how to share, and Riz is maybe starting to get the hang of this whole friendship thing.

Wordcount: 2.1k

A/N: not to be entirely into D&D on main, but - hey, look, it’s another cool D&D campaign XD shoutout to @hypahticklish for expressing enough interest in this fic to make me want to write it <3

Loose spoilers for the end of Fantasy High Season 1, beware!

---

Riz thinks he’s really starting to get a handle on this whole friendship thing.

Solving a mystery and getting thrown in jail and killing a dragon together aren’t exactly reproducible results, which kind of sucks, but - hey, the six of them are friends now, and they’re hanging out in Fabian’s room on a summer evening, and it’s novel enough to feel like a solved case all on its own.

What’s less satisfying is the amount of missed work they have to catch up on if they want to start as sophomores next year; no one bothered to worry about bringing them homework while they were in actual prison, but all their professors sure seem to care about it now. He gets the feeling that at least part of it is Aguefort trying to keep some degree of respectability after everything that happened with Goldenhoard, but any attempt to reason with him thus far has gotten nowhere but wild-eyed stares and increasingly obtuse lectures on chronomancy and time management. And sure, Riz prides himself on being able to untangle obscure information, but he’s not touching that with a ten foot pole.

They’re all sprawled out on Fabian’s floor, working through assignments with varying levels of fervor ranging from Adaine - actually working with a stack of textbooks nearly up to her shoulder next to her on Fabian’s desk - to Kristen - texting Tracker with a lack of stealth that makes Riz want to grind his teeth a little, even more so than the way she goes bright red and giggles every time her crystal pings - when Fig groans and rolls onto her back.

“You know what?” she says to the room at large, throwing her arms wide. Her hand knocks into her bard notebook, somehow both dusty with disuse and covered in scribbled ballpoint pen sigils. She flips it neatly in the air and elbows it away in Adaine’s direction, earning a half-annoyed yelp. “We should have a sleepover.”

Half of them blink uncomprehendingly, but Kristen drops her crystal in a sudden rush of excitement. “YES,” she shouts. Gorgug, propped against the wall next to her and dozing off over barbarian meditation manuals, startles. “I can show you guys so many cool camp things! We just need a bunch of different colors of yarn and some sticks and - yeah, we can probably skip the holy water to keep the sinners away-”

Riz has - he’s had sleepovers before, if Penny coming over to babysit and finding him crashed out on the couch after a night of reading old case files from his mom counts. He reaches up and straightens his cap, trying to make it look smooth. “Hey, Fabian, do you have coffee here?”

“Wait, wait, hold on a minute.” Fabian, sitting against his giant bed, waves dramatically for all their attention. He looks them over once he gets it, self-importantly adjusting his eyepatch. “Yes, The Ball, we have coffee, we’re not peasants - but sleep over where? Did I miss that part?”

“Uh, here?” Fig says, flinging herself upright. “You’re mom’s super hot - uh, cool, I bet she’d let us do anything.”

“Stop calling my mom hot!” Fabian yelps, glowering for a moment before his chest puffs with familial pride. “Well, we do have at least five guest bedrooms that we could house all of you in-”

“Oh, I don’t need a bed,” Gorgug says hastily. “I’d probably break it, I can just sleep on the floor.”

“Yeah, Fabian, no,” Kristen interjects, gesturing with her staff. Gorgug scrambles to remove the cups they’ve been drinking soda out of from her path. “We’re all supposed to hang out in the same room, that’s kind of the point!” She frowns a little, zeroing in on him. “Have you. Have you never been to a sleepover before?”

Riz hasn’t quite gotten around to making a conspiracy board of how all the specific issues of their messed up childhoods overlap, but he can read the way Fabian startles indignantly loud and clear. “Of - of course I have!” he blusters. “I just - why the fuck would you share a bed if you didn’t have to?”

Adaine scoffs. “Fabian, your bed is enormous, I think we could all fit on it with room for the Hangman left over.”

“No, it’s not!” Fabian scrambles up, chin still raised haughtily, and throws himself bodily on the bed - judging from the way his ankles hang off the edge, he’s starfishing out as far as he possibly can. “I’m - see, I’m a growing boy, I need my space! Cathilda says so.”

Adaine, having claimed the only chair in the room and therefore being the only one at eye level with the mattress, cranes her neck and laughs. “Fabian, you’re covering less than half of the bed. You can just say you’ve never been to a sleepover before, you know.”

Fig stands up and launches herself onto the bed too, landing heavily with the zippers on her leather jacket clanking behind her. “Yeah, you just have to - oof - make room-”

She grunts, presumably shoving at him and not having much success given Fabian’s triumphant snickering. “I said make room-”

Riz pries himself up off the carpet, thinking of moving to help her, when Fabian lets out a startled squeak. Everyone goes quiet.

Fig leans off the bed with truly devilish glee in her tiefling eyes. “Guys, he’s ticklish.”

The room erupts into chaos - Fabian shouting denials, Fig cackling evilly, and Kristen shooting up and banging her shins against the bed before scrambling around to Fabian’s other side. Riz hops up on the desk next to Adaine just in time to watch each of the other girls seize his outstretched arms and start to mercilessly tickle his armpits.

“GAHAHA - no, no, stoHOP-” Fabian flails helplessly between the two of them, still trying to sprawl out over the bed. He manages to wrench his arm free from Fig and shove her away even as he shouts with laughter. “Seacasters are not - ahaaa, haaAA - I’m not ticklish!”

“Oh, yeah?” Kristen taunts. “Then why are you laughing, you - ohshit-”

They’re trying to wrestle him down, but he’s too strong for Fig and too dextrous for Kristen. She lunges for him, red hair flying behind her, and falls straight into his lap.

Fabian catches both of Fig’s wrists in one big hand and uses the other to poke triumphantly at Kristen’s belly, sending her into a fit of cackling giggles. “Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly, struggling into a sitting position. “A Seacaster cannot simply be rousted from his territory!”

All of them know better than to say anything about his dad by now. “Gorgug, come help us hold him down!” Fig demands instead, kicking at Fabian with her platform boots and making him yelp in pain.

Gorgug pulls his headphones all the way off his ears and straightens just enough to take in the tangle of the three of them, looking dubious. “Are you sure? That sounds kind of mean.”

“It’s not a problem if he’s not ticklish, right, Fabian?,” Fig retorts. “And he’s breaking sleepover code by hogging the bed!"

Kristen, still laughing uproariously as she fails to save herself from Fabian’s tickling fingers, somehow manages to shoot Gorgug a pair of finger guns. “Get him, Gorgug!”

Gorgug still looks a little confused - Riz can relate - but he gamely climbs to his feet. “Well, okay.”

He pauses to knock gently on the bedframe, sighing in relief at the heavy thunk that echoes back. “Oh, cool, that’s pretty strong.”

Fig yelps as Fabian lets up on Kristen and starts prodding at her belly instead. “Gorgug, come on!”

“Oh, right,” Gorgug says, and sends the mattress an entire inch to the left as he scrambles on.

“Hell yeah!” Fig cheers as Gorgug climbs on the bed and sweeps Fabian up in a restraining hug. “Sig Figs solidarity!”

Kristen squirms out from between the three of them. “Hey, I’m here too!”

She flops down with a breathy sigh and hugs herself, grinning widely as she catches sight of the identical what-the-fuck expressions that Riz is pretty sure he and Adaine are wearing. “Ugh, I haven’t been tickled in forever.”

Adaine makes a considering sound as Kristen twists back to the battle royale happening behind her. Riz looks over at her, catches one of her ears twitching under the attention before she looks back. “I don’t think I’ve ever been tickled,” she murmurs, a little shy.

Penny’s tickled him before, and maybe his mom when he was little, but yeah, it’s been a while. He shrugs. “You think you’d like it?”

There’s another cry from the bed, and both of them whip around to look. Fig’s looming over a thoroughly trapped Fabian now - just barely, even with her horns - and wriggling her fingers evilly with gleaming eyes. “Are you going to say you’re sorry for breaking sleepover code?”

“There’s - there’s no sleepover code,” Fabian sputters, but he’s grinning sheepishly even as he squirms against Gorgug’s hold. “Gorgug, man, come on, you can’t just betray a fellow member of the Bloodrush team like this!”

“Oh - uh -” Gorgug looks pleadingly at the both of them. “But I’m in the Sig Figs too - does that mean one of you guys is going to be mad at me?”

Fabian barely blinks. “Yes.”

“YES,” says Fig, even louder.

“Oh, come on, you two.” Kristen sits up between Fig and Fabian, poking at both of their sides and cutting their protests off as they suck their lower lips between their teeth with identical wide-eyed looks. Then, with a curious tilt to her head, she reaches around to tickle Gorgug’s side too, grinning as he squeaks. “There are no sides in a tickle fight, everyone knows this.”

Riz forgets that Kristen has three little brothers, sometimes. It’s easy to, until she starts playing peacekeeper between the rest of them.

“Where are all these rules coming from?” Fabian questions indignantly. Adaine makes a sound of agreement next to Riz - is she writing these down?

Oh, who’s he kidding, he’s probably going to ask her for a copy afterwards.

Fig smirks. “Well, I think the person with their hands free should get to enforce the rules. Like so.” She reaches for the thin tank top Fabian’s wearing and scribbles her fingers over his belly, crowing in delight as he shrieks. “Not ticklish, huh? Who’s ticklish now, bitch?”

“You - ahaha, haaa, fuck - anyone’s ticklish when they’re being restrained!” Fabian insists through panicked laughter, wriggling for all he’s worth. Riz squints - maybe it’s just the rogue homework he’s been doing lately, but it looks like Gorgug’s not even holding him that tight.

He shrieks again as Kristen bounces excitedly and reaches for him too. “Nonono, NOHOHO - Kristen, ahaha! You said - eheheee, stop - you said no sihihides!”

“These are your hips, Fabian. And no sides doesn’t mean you can’t gang up on people,” Kristen sticks her tongue out in concentration, squeezing at one of his hips and then the other. “Hey, say you’re ticklish.”

“What? No - hahaha - shit, shiHIHIT-” Fabian starts to really thrash under their teasing - Riz catches him elbowing Gorgug neatly in the gut, but their barbarian absorbs the blow like it’s nothing. Riz tries not to feel jealous and doesn’t entirely succeed.

Kristen smiles beatifically from cheek to freckled cheek. “The truth’ll set you free, brother.”

Fabian shakes his head frantically, catching sight of Riz and Adaine by his desk through teary eyes. “The Ball - The Ball, help me, this isn’t - ahahaha, nonoplease - it’s not fair!” he pleads through the widest smile Riz has seen on him so far, which is saying something. “Don’t you care about justice?”

Fig looks over at them too, now, hair slipping from her braid and fangs on full display as she beams. “Yeah, you two, get over here or you’re next! You’re missing out on the sleepover fun!”

“Oh,” Adaine says uncertainly. “I didn’t know this was part of it.”

She looks over at Riz - not that he knows any better, but he’s absolutely not going to cop to it. “Oh, yeah, tickle fights,” he blusters. “Definitely part of sleepovers. To, uh, tire everyone out.”

Adaine looks out of the window at blue skies just barely starting to blush pink and gets a small, quiet grin on her face that he can’t help but return. “Oh, okay,” she says. “Riz, are you ticklish?”

Oh. Oh, no.

Riz stiffens. It doesn’t seem like anyone else has heard Adaine’s question, maybe he can get under the bed before any of them notice -

He. He could, is the thing, he’s an awesome rogue, but - out here seems pretty fun too. “That’s more of a hands-on investigation thing,” he shoots back, and leaps for the bed before she can catch hold of him.

He is, after all, an investigator first and foremost, and there’s more room to be made on that mattress.

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-three - beacon in the night

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

LESYA STRIDES INTO the Spartan war camp with the blood of their brother-in-arms still on her hands. She drives her spear into the ground and glances around at the sparring hoplites before approaching the central pavilion with the sealed edict in hand. The flaps are pulled open, a gathering of three men surround a small table looking over a fading and partially torn map of Boeotia and Attika. She almost pities the Spartan commander until he looks up– “Stentor?”

“You!” Stentor hisses, quarter drawing the short sword from his belt. The men under his command echo the motion, drawing swords and leveling spears. She takes a step back, hand reaching behind her back —fingers brushing over the cool leather hilt of her blade but instead, wrap around a piece of papyrus. 

“I have a message from the Kings of Sparta,” Lesya announces, holding out the scroll for all to see. The thunder of voices ebbs, all eyes on the sealed edict. Stentor —chest heaving— slams his sword back into its sheath, then spins away, stomping to the table at the center of the tent. Lesya follows him with the wary eyes of the Spartiates watching.

He takes the scroll and unfurls the message, face twisting and falling as he reads King Pausanias’s orders. Stentor rolls the edict back up. “Why was this entrusted to you?” He asks, sneering as he turns from the table —throwing the edict into a brazier to burn. She carried her own death sentence. 

Lesya watches the papyrus and ink burn, unable to discern any of the writing before flames take hold. “Brasidas asked me to deliver it,” she answers with a shrug, still unsure of why the general would trust her with such a task given her transgressions against him and Sparta. 

Stentor braces his weight against the map table, looking down at the fading rivers and hills and the markers for the Athenian and Spartan forces. What happened in Megaris still leaves a bitter taste in Stentor’s mouth, but he cannot deny her slaughter of the leader had been instrumental in their campaign’s success. He sees her as a means to an end, a tool to obtain victory in Boeotia and then discard. “I suppose now that you’re here–” he straightens and crosses his arms “–you may be of use.”

They glance at the map, and the stones huddled together representing the Korinthian fleet near the harbor city of Korsia. Stranded at sea for two moons, blocked on land by the Athenian army and at sea by their navy. “Our allies cannot make landfall,” Stentor says, motioning for his harmost and strategos to join them. Both men regard Lesya with disdain —each has seen men die at the blades of a ghost with copper hair. 

“You need me to clear a path,” Lesya surmises, whether by slaughter or diversion the Korinthian fleet needs to make landfall if Sparta is to secure Boeotia. She leans over the table, committing the lines of the city streets and walls to memory. 

“If you think you can manage what my men could not–” Stentor glares at her, his dark eyes harsh as daggers “–then yes.” 

Silence takes hold of the air, broken by the sound of knuckles cracking. Lesya looks up from the map —she will see the Spartan army receives the aid of their allies, if only for spite. Stentor rounds the table, exiting the tent. Sparing a final look at the map, she turns to follow. 

“Have you heard of the Boeotian Champions?” he asks, standing on a promontory overlooking Thebes in the distance. The meddlesome warriors spur the morale of the Athenian forces with each desecrated Spartan corpse. Lesya nods, know how to test the strength and resolve of Boeotian myths and legends. “Good.” His smile is grim. With the likes of her, they can end the war. “They say you are a weapon–” Lesya grimaces at his words and the reminder of what she’d been to the Cult “–be my weapon and secure this region for Sparta.” 

Her laurel gaze settles on the horizon —there is work to be done. Stentor grips onto her forearm before she can leave, drawing her close. “But do not forget,” he hisses, “I know who you are and that your blood is tainted.”

In turn, Lesya grips onto his vambrace and leans toward him with a smile capable of haunting dreams. “And do not forget that I could quash you and use your bones to pick my teeth,” she bites back. Stentor’s face —painted red with anger— drains of color. Pausanias has assigned him an impossible task. If the Cult’s champion wasn’t able to stop her, then how could he hope to do so? “You do not command me, Stentor,” Lesya grits out, eyes burning with unspeakable rage. “It would do you well to remember that.”

SHE CREEPS FORWARD through the fen and toward the harbor village. The night is muggy and the sky clear —the moon and stars shining like beacons, betraying everything in their silver veil. She stoops down, lifting wet earth to coat the metal pommel and edge of her daggers. Toads croak, and foxes and voles dart in and out of the tall ferns and shrubs. She halts at the edge of Korsia. 

Athenian hoplites line the wooden walls of the dock. The rest of the garrison —two taxiarchies each five hundred strong— sit encamped in and around the village streets. Stentor’s reticence had been wise. Assaulting this well-defended fort without the Korinthian fleet would bring the Spartans to their knees, and Boeotia would fall into Athens’ hands. Such a defeat could end the war.  

Bawdy roars echo from the hastily prepared taverns —where there are soldiers, there are drinks and hetaerae to warm their cots. Archers keep silent vigilance on the walls and rooftops, watching the seas and the streets. Against the stone buildings of the harbor, one structure stands out —a freshly hewn timber tower, upon which an archer strode with his chest bare and blue-and-white cape glinting. Far beyond the tower was the dark shapes of the Korinthian fleet, pocked with torches and braziers. The Korinthians could not hope to make landfall anywhere along the coastline without losing most of their men. 

She looks over her shoulder, eyeing the edges of bronze shields and the silver points of Spartan shields —all waiting for a signal. Ten men, Lesya thinks with silent laughter, I could do this alone. Turning back to the town, she moves through the thick ferns and around the outskirts of the walls. A break in the palisade just large enough for her to squeeze through and a sleeping guard presents her with a way in. 

Crouching next to the sleeping hoplite, Lesya unsheathes one of her daggers and draws it across the man’s neck. Blood gurgles, his eyes open wide, but he cannot cry out —seconds pass, and then he takes the outstretched arm of Charon. Throwing the fading blue cape across the corpse, she moves forward, gaze fixed on the archer’s tower. A pair of hoplites draw near to her hiding spot low in the flower beds at the front of a villa —their muted conversations rise and fall as they pass. 

Darting from the flower bed, she comes to the tower —pitch and oil-filled amphorae sit around the base, filling the fair with a heavy stench. Lesya turns her attention from the amphorae to the top of the archer’s tower, following a path of notches and binding ropes. The planks at the top of the platform groan as an archer strides back-and-forth. 

Lesya leaps up, clamping her hand over the archer’s mouth as her blade sinks into the soft flesh of his neck. She lets the archer’s body down silently and turns to the landward side of the village. Taking the archer’s bow and an arrow, she tears a strip of fabric from his chiton and ties it about the shaft, setting it alight. Lesya draws back the flaming arrow, aiming skyward and across the water —a streak of orange light across the clear sky. 

Long moments slip past as she watches the black hills in the distance —then one after another, small fires start to pock to the landscape and the Athenian hoplites manning the walls take notice. A war drum sounds in the distance, followed by the low moan of a war horn. The still of the night is broken by shouting. Hundreds of men spill from the taverns and tents into the streets and fenland. “Spartans!” They cry. “Take up arms!” The two taxiarchies fall into shambled formations, spreading out from Korsia to face the oncoming phantom army. 

Looking out over the water, Lesya remembers the stench from the jars of pitch and oil. A beacon. She glances between the burning brazier and amphorae below and acts rather than thinking. The flames topple downward, clay shatters, and fire takes hold of the tower with an explosion. Taking a running leap, Lesya plummets from the tower and into a pile of hay. Over the roar of the flames and shouting from the Athenians, the low echo of a hundred war drums fills the air as the Korinthian fleets bear down on the Boeotian shoreline. 

KASSANDRA FOLLOWS THE trail of blood and strung up bodies along the narrow forest path where whispers said she would find Deianeira and Astra. The Eagle Bearer stops at the last two corpses swaying in the breeze —both belong to women. One hangs by the ankle —throat gaping open with fresh blood still dripping to the patch of grass below. The second has a hole carved into her chest, her heart pinned to the trunk of the tree with an arrow and an ivory mask weeping red. She feels her stomach churn —Lesya. 

Ahead smoke rises, and through the trees, the misthios can see a small fire with a single shadow sitting beside it. “Doing my work for me?” Kassandra asks, sitting opposite of her. Long months have passed since they parted ways in Lakonia. Ikaros descends through the pines, perching on a boulder —mistrustful eyes trained on Lesya as she runs a worn whetstone down the edge of a spear-tip. 

“I work for myself, misthios,” she reminds Kassandra, feeling the leaf-shaped blade bite into the pad of her thumb. “It just happens our goals are aligned.” Satisfied with her work, she drives the spear into the ground next to her and reaches into a small canvas pouch. Lesya tosses a fragment of the artifact at Kass’ feet, proof of another successful hunt. “Deianeira is no more.”

The Eagle Bearer glances back at the path of corpses. “And the others?”

Lesya shrugs. “They got in my way.” 

The callous response sends a cold shiver down Kassandra’s spine. She imagines Lesya has left similar trails of destruction across Hellas. “You’ve been busy then?”

Her laugh is morose, her smile grim. There is a dark glint in her eyes that Kassandra has never seen before —something has changed her. “Carved a path for the Korinthian fleet to make landfall and have rid Hellas of three more Cultists,” Lesya answers. A more impressive feat than winning an Olympic wreath. 

At the edge of the clearing, something rustles in the underbrush. Lesya reaches for the small blade on the inside of her bracer. A hare jumps from into the open, and Lesya’s stomach grumbles. She flicks the blade into the air, catching the hare by the neck —it squeals once, then falls still and silent. Rising, she goes to collect her kill. 

Kassandra watches as Lesya skins the hare, the silver rays of Selene’s light dappling her skin through the canopy above. Her cuts are precise and efficient —the work of one used to taking life and skin from the living, whether it be man or beast. She guts the dead animal first, dumping the offal into a shallow hole but keeping the heart and liver before slicing a neat line all along the underbelly and ripping the skin free in a single tug. It may not be much, but it will fill their bellies for the night.

Fat drips down onto the stones surrounding the fire, sizzling as Lesya turns the hare over the flames using one of her daggers. Kassandra watches still, honing the blade of her kopis. She wants to ask after her brother —to know if Lesya has seen Deimos since they parted ways, but she refrains. A part of her knows the darkness surrounding her is because of him. Neither of them can find much more to say, not even as they split the roast hare. 

Lesya lays back under the stars with a soft sigh and cannot help but wonder if Deimos is looking up at the same night sky. 

[taglist:  @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @elizabethroestone @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @dynamicorbit @kvitravn]

[grimvestige]

YESSSS THEY ALL LOOK SO HAPPY TOGETHERRRRRRR!!!!

sorry I did immediately cause family drama last session, my position as GM calls for it >:3

Presenting the Buttonwood family from @daisy-todd ‘s dnd campaign!

From left to right: Swarm of Bees, Chip, and Barley

I play Bees and Barley together in the campaign. They’re traveling bards. Chip stays with Bees’ sister Glimmering Opal on her ship and trains under her to be part of a ship crew since he loves the ocean. 

they make me so happy and i havent drawn a nice picture of them all together yet so i did.

❤️please do not repost without permission or remove caption ❤️

[notapaladin]

and this faith is gettin' heavy (but you know it carries me) redux

This is literally and unironically the SECOND TIME i have added another thousand words to this fic but now it is finally done. Behold, over 10k words of food as metaphor for love/angst-with-a-happy-ending! In which Teomitl goes missing on a foreign battlefield, and Acatl mourns...but events in his dreams suggest Teomitl maybe isn’t gone for good.

Also on AO3

-

Acatl grimaced as he stepped from the coolness of his home into the day’s bright, punishing sunlight. Today was the day the army was due to return from their campaign in Mixtec lands, and so he was forced to don his skull mask and owl-trimmed cloak on a day that was far too hot for it. Not for the first time, he was thankful that priests of Lord Death weren’t required to paint their faces and bodies for special occasions; the thought of anything else touching his skin made him shudder.

He’d barely made it out of his courtyard when Acamapichtli strode up to him, face grave underneath his blue and black paint. “Ah, Acatl. I’m glad I could catch you.”

“Come to tell me that the army is at our gates again?” They would never be friends, he and Acamapichtli, but they had achieved something like a truce in the year since the plague. Still, Acatl couldn’t help but be on his guard. There was something...off about the expression on the other man’s face, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He’d borne the same look when delivering the news of a death to a grieving family. Ah. A loss, then.

He’d expected Acamapichtli to spread his hands, a wordless statement of there having been nothing he could have done. He didn’t expect him to take a deep breath and slide his sightless eyes away. “I have. The runners all say it is a great victory; Tizoc-tzin has brought back several hundred prisoners.”

It should have pleased him. Instead, a cold chill slid down his spine. “What are you not telling me? I’ve no time for games.”

Acamapichtli let out a long sigh. “There were losses. A flood swept across the plain, carrying away several of our best warriors. Among them...the Master of the House of Darts. They looked—I’m assured that they looked!—but his body was not found.”

No. No. No. A yawning chasm cracked open beneath his ribs. He knew he was still breathing, but he couldn’t feel the air in his lungs. Even as he wanted, desperately, to grab Acamapichtli by the shoulders and shake him, to scream at him for being a liar, he knew the man was telling the truth. That his face and mannerisms, the careful movements of a man who knew he brought horrible news, showed his words to be honest. That Teomitl—who had left four months before with a kiss for Mihmatini and an affectionate clasp for Acatl’s arm—would not return.

It took real effort to focus on Acamapichtli’s next words. The man’s eyes were full of a horrible sympathy, and he wanted to scream. “I thought you should know in advance. Before—before they arrived.”

“Thank you,” he forced out through numb lips.

Acamapichtli turned away. “...I’m sorry, Acatl.”

After a long, long moment, he made himself start walking again. There was the rest of the army to greet, after all. Even if Teomitl wouldn’t be among them.

Even if he’d never return from war again.

Greeting the army was a ceremony, one he usually took some joy in—it had meant that Teomitl would be home, would be safe, and his sister would be happy. Now it passed in a blue, and he registered absolutely none of it. Someone must have already given the news to Mihmatini when he arrived; she was an utterly silent presence at his side, face pale and lips thin. She wouldn’t cry in public, but he saw the way her eyes glimmered when she blinked. He couldn’t bring himself to so much as lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. If he touched her, if he felt the fabric of her cloak beneath his hand, that meant it was real.

It couldn’t be real. Jade Skirt was Teomitl’s patron goddess, She wouldn’t let him simply drown. But there was an empty space to Tizoc’s left where Teomitl should have been, and no sign of his white-and-red regalia. Acatl’s eyes burned as he blinked away the sun.

Tizoc was still speaking, but Acatl heard none of his words. It was all too still, too quiet; everything was muffled, as though he was hearing it through water. If there was justice, came the first spinning thought, every wall would be crumbling. No...if there was justice, Teomitl would be...

He drew in a long breath, feeling chilled to the bone even as he sweated under his cloak. Now that his mind had chosen to rouse itself, its eye was relentless. He barely saw the plaza around him, packed with proud warriors and colorful nobles; it was too easy to imagine a far-flung province to the south, a jungle thick with trees and blood. A river bursting its banks, carrying Teomitl straight into his enemies’ arms. They would capture him, of course; he was a valiant fighter and he’d taken very well to the magic of living blood, but even he couldn’t hold off an army alone.

And once they had him, they would sacrifice him.

Somewhere behind the army, Acatl knew, were lines of captured warriors whose hearts would be removed to feed the Sun, whose bodies would be flung down the Temple steps to feed the beasts in the House of Animals, whose heads would hang on the skull-rack. It was necessary, and their deaths would serve a greater purpose.  He’d seen it thousands of times. There was no use mourning them. It was simply the way nearly all captured warriors went.

It was what Teomitl would want. An honorable death on the sacrifice stone. It was better to die than to be a slave all your life. But at least he would have a life—all unbidden, the alternative rose clear in Acatl’s mind. Teomitl, face whitened with chalk. Teomitl, laying down on the stone. Teomitl, teeth clenched, meeting his death with open eyes. Teomitl’s blood on the priests’ hands.

Nausea rose hot and bitter in his throat, and he shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. In for a count of three, out for a count of five. Repeat. It didn’t hurt to breathe, but he felt as if it should. He felt as if everything should hurt. He felt a sudden, vicious urge to draw thorns through his earlobes until the pain erased all thoughts, but he made his hands still. If he started, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop.

Still, it seemed to take an eternity for the speeches and the dances to be over and done with. By the time they finished, he was light-headed with the strain of remaining upright, and Mihmatini had slipped a hand into his elbow. Even that single point of contact burned through his veins. They still hadn’t spoken. He wondered if she, too, couldn’t quite find her own voice under the screaming chasm of grief.

And then, after all that, when all he yearned for was to go home and lay down until the world felt right again—maybe until the Sixth Sun rose, that would probably be enough time—there was a banquet, and he was forced to attend.

Of course there’s a banquet, he thought dully. This is a victory, after all. Tizoc had wasted no time in promoting a new Master of the House of Darts to replace his fallen brother, with many empty platitudes about how Teomitl would surely be missed and how he’d not want them to linger in their grief, but to move on and keep earning glory for the Mexica. Moctezuma, his replacement, was seventeen and haughty; where Teomitl’s arrogance had begun to settle into firm, well-considered authority and the flames of his impatience had burnt down to embers, Moctezuma’s gaze swept the room and visibly dismissed everyone in it as not worth his concern. It reminded Acatl horribly of Quenami.

Mihmatini sat on the same mat she always did, but now there was a space beside her like a missing tooth. She still wore her hair in the twisted horn-braids of married women, and against all rules of mourning she had painted her face with the blue of the Duality. Underneath it, her face was set in an emotionless mask. She did not eat.

Neither did Acatl. He wasn’t sure he could stomach food. So instead his gaze flickered around the room, unable to settle, and he gradually realized that he and Mihmatini weren’t alone in the crowd. The assembled lords and warriors should have been celebrating, but there was a subdued air that hung over every stilted laugh and negligent bite of fine food. Neighbors avoided each other’s eyes; Neutemoc, sitting with his fellow Jaguar Warriors, was staring at his empty plate as though it held the secrets of the heavens. He looked well, until Acatl saw the expression on his face. It was a mirror of his own.

At least his fellow High Priests didn’t try to engage him in conversation, for which he was grateful. Acamapichtli kept glancing at him almost warily, but he hadn’t voiced any more empty platitudes—and when Quenami had opened his mouth to say something, he’d taken the unprecedented step of leaning around Acatl and glaring him into silence.

If they’d been friends, Acatl would have been touched; as it was, it made a burning ember of rage lodge itself in his throat. Don’t you pity me. Don’t you dare pity me. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt, clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms, and didn’t speak. If he spoke, he would scream.

Even the plates in front of him weren’t enough of a distraction. Roasted meats glistened in their vibrant red or green or orange sauces. Each breath brought the deliciously warm fragrance of chilies and pumpkin seeds and vanilla to his nose. The fish and lake shrimp, grilled in their own juices and arrayed on beds of corn husks, would at any other time have tempted him to take a bite. Soups and stews were carried from table to table by serving women in gleaming white cotton; he breathed in as one woman passed and nearly choked on the rich peppery scent. He didn’t need to look to know it was his usual favorite, chunks of firm white fish and bitter greens in what was sure to be a fiery broth. Teomitl had always teased him for that, saying it was a miracle he could even taste the greens with so much chili in the way.

Don’t look. Don’t think about it. The ember in his throat was slowly scorching a path through his gut. He couldn’t eat. Didn’t even try.

There were more courses, obviously. More fish, more vegetables, more haunches of venison or rabbits bathed in spicy-sweet sauce. More doves and quail, and even a spoonbill put back in its own pink feathers for a centerpiece. When the final course was triumphantly set in front of him—wedges and cubes of fruit, with a little cup of spiced honey—he was nearly sick over the sweet crimson pitaya split open on his plate. It had been Teomitl’s favorite.

Somehow, he held it together until after the dessert had been cleared away. He rose jerkily to his feet, legs trembling, and fixed his mind firmly on getting home in one piece. No one hailed him on his way out of the room, and for a hopeful moment he thought he was safe.

Quenami’s voice stopped him in the next hallway. “Ah, Acatl. A lovely banquet, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t turn around. “Mn.” Go away.

Quenami didn’t. In fact he took a step closer, as though they were friends, as though he’d never tried to have Acatl killed. His voice was like a mosquito in his ear. “You must not be feeling well; you hardly touched your food. Some might see that as an insult. I’m sure Tizoc-tzin would.”

“Mm.”

“Or is it worry over Teomitl that’s affecting you? You shouldn’t fret so, Acatl. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not dead after all; there are plenty of cenotes in the southlands, and a determined man could easily hide out there for the rest of his life. He probably just took the coward’s way out, sick of his responsibilities—“

He whirled around, sucking in a breath that scorched his lungs. It was the last thing he felt before he let Mictlan’s chill spill through his veins and overflow. His suddenly-numb skin loosened on his neck; his fingers burned with the cold that came only from the underworld. He knew that his skin was black glass, his muscles smoke, his bones moonlight on ice, his eyes burning voids. All around him was the howling lament of the dead, the stench of decay and the dry, acrid scent of dust and dry bones. When he spoke, his voice echoed like a bell rung in a tomb.

“Silence.”

You do not call him a coward. You do not even speak his name. I could have your tongue for that. He stepped forward, gaze locked with Quenami’s. It would be easy, too. He could do it without even blinking—could take his tongue for slander, his eyes for that sneering gaze, could reach inside his skin and debone him like a turkey—all it would take would be a single wrong word—

Quenami recoiled, jaw going slack in terror. Silently—blessedly, mercifully, infuriatingly silently—he turned on his heel and left.

Acatl took one breath, two, and let the magic drain out of his shaking limbs. He hadn’t meant to do that. It should probably have sickened him that he’d nearly misused Lord Death’s power like that, especially on a man who ought to have been his superior and ally, but instead all he felt was a vicious sort of stymied rage—a jaguar missing a leap and coming up with nothing but air between his claws. He wanted to scream. He wanted blood under his nails, the shifting crack of breaking bones under his knuckles. He wanted to hurt something.

He made it to the next courtyard, blessedly empty of party guests, and collapsed on the nearest bench like a dead man. His stomach ached. I could have killed him. Gods, I wanted to kill him. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life. All because...all because he said his name...

“...Acatl?”

Mihmatini’s voice, admirably controlled. He made himself lift his head and answer. “In here.”

She padded into the courtyard and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, skirt swishing around her feet as she walked. Gold ornaments had been sewn into its hem, and he wondered if they’d been gifts from Teomitl. “I saw Quenami running like all the beasts of the underworld were on his tail. What did you do?”

Nothing. But that would have been a lie, and he refused to do that to his own flesh and blood. “...He said…” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “He said that Teomitl might have deserted. He dared to say that—” The idea choked him, and he couldn’t finish the words. That Teomitl was a coward. That he would run from his responsibilities, from his destiny, at the first opportunity…

She tensed immediately, eyes going cold in a way that suggested Quenami had better be a very fast runner indeed. “He would never. You know that.”

Air seemed to be coming a bit easier now. “I do. But…”

Of course, she pounced on his hesitation. “But?”

I want him so badly to not be dead. “Nothing.”

Mihmatini was silent for a while, wringing her hands together. Finally, she spoke. “He would never have deserted. But...Acatl…”

“What?”

“I don’t know if he’s dead.” She set a hand on her chest. “The magic that connects us—I can still feel it in here. It’s faint, really faint, but it’s there. He might…” She took a breath, and tears welled up in her eyes. “He might still be alive.”

Alive. The word was a conch shell in his head, sounding to wake the dawn. For an instant, he let himself imagine it. Teomitl alive, maybe in hiding, maybe trying to find his way home to them.

Maybe held captive by the Mixteca, until such time as they can tear out his heart. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the sound of his own breathing. It didn’t help. He hated how pathetic his own voice sounded as he asked, “You think so?”

“It’s—” She scrubbed ineffectually at her eyes with the back of a hand. “It’s possible. Isn’t it?”

“...I suppose.” He took a breath. “I think it’s time for me to get some sleep. I’ll...see you tomorrow.”

He knew he wouldn’t sleep—knew, in fact, that he’d be lucky if he even managed to close his eyes—but he needed to get home. He refused to disgrace himself by weeping in public.

&

The first dream came a week later.

He’d managed to avoid them until then; he’d thrown himself headlong into his work, not stopping until he was so tired that his “sleep” was really more like “passing out.” But it seemed his body could adapt to the conditions he subjected it to much easier than he’d thought, because he woke with tears on his face and the scraps of a nightmare scattering in the dawn light. There had been blood and screaming and a ravaged and horrible face staring into his that somehow he’d known. He did his best to put it from his mind, and for a day he thought he’d succeeded. He shed blood for the gods, stood vigil for the dead, tallied up the ledgers for the living. Remembered, occasionally, to put food into his mouth, but he couldn’t have said what he was eating. Collapsed onto his mat and prayed that he wouldn’t have a dream like that again.

It wasn’t like that. It was worse.

He was walking through a jungle made of shadows, trees shedding gray dust from their leaves as he passed under them. There was no birdsong, no rippling of distant waters or crunching of underbrush, and he knew deep in his soul that nothing was alive here anymore. Not even himself. Though his legs ached and his lungs burned, it was pain that felt like it was happening to someone else. His gut held, not the stretched desiccation of Mictlan, but a nasty twisting feeling of wrongness; part of him wanted to be sick, but he couldn’t stop. Ahead of him, someone was making their way through the undergrowth, and it was a stride he’d know anywhere.

Teomitl. He thought he called out to him, but no sound escaped his mouth even though his throat hurt as though he’d been screaming. He tried again. Teomitl! This time, he managed a tiny squeak, something even an owl wouldn’t have heard.

Teomitl didn’t slow down, but somehow the distance between them shortened. Now Acatl could make out the tattered remains of his feather suit, singed and bloodstained until it was more red than white, and the way his bare feet had been cut to ribbons. He still wasn’t looking behind him. It was like Acatl wasn’t there at all. Ahead of them, the trees were thinning out.

And then they were on a flat plain strewn with corpses, bright crimson blood the only color Acatl could see. Teomitl was standing still in front of him as water slowly seeped out of the ground, covering his feet and lapping gently at his ankles. There were thin threads of red in it.

“Teomitl,” he said, and this time his voice obeyed him.

Teomitl turned to him, smiling as though he’d just noticed he was there. His chest was a red ruin, the bones of his ribcage snapped wide open to pull out his beating heart. A tiny ahuizotl curled in the space where it had been.

He took one step back. Another.

Teomitl’s smile grew sad, and he reached for him with a bloody hand. “Acatl, I’m sorry.”

He awoke suddenly and all at once, curling in on himself with a ragged sob. It was still dark out; the sun hadn’t made its appearance yet. There was no one to see when he shook himself to pieces around the space in his heart. It was a dream, he told himself sternly. Just a dream. My soul is only wandering through my own grief. It doesn’t mean anything.

But then it returned the next night, and the next. While the details differed—sometimes Teomitl was swimming a river that suddenly turned to blood and dissolved his flesh, sometimes one of his own ahuizotls turned into a jaguar and sprang for his face—the end was always the same. Teomitl dead and still walking, reaching for him with an apology on his lips. Sometimes it even lingered after he woke. Once he jolted awake utterly convinced that he wasn’t alone—that Teomitl was in the room, a sad smile on his lips and an outstretched hand hovering in the air. Only when he looked around, searching for that other presence, did reality reassert itself and he remembered with gutwrenching pain that it had only been a nightmare. That Teomitl was dead somewhere on a Mixtec altar, his heart an offering to the Sun.

He started timing his treks across the Sacred Precinct to avoid the Great Temple’s sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli. Sleep grew more and more difficult to achieve, and even when he caught a few hours’ rest it never seemed to help. He even thought, fleetingly, of asking the priests of Patecatl if anything they had would be useful, only to dismiss it the next day. He would survive this. It wasn’t worth baring his soul to anyone else’s prying eyes or clumsy but well-meaning words. He would work and pray, and that would keep him occupied. There was a haunting case that needed his attention; while he was tracking down the cause he had an excuse not to focus on anything else. He forgot to eat, no matter how much Ichtaca scolded him. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth, anyway.

Still, when one of Neutemoc’s slaves came to his door asking whether he would come to dinner at his house that night, he didn’t waste time in accepting. Dinner with Neutemoc’s family had become...normal. He needed normal, even if it still felt like walking on broken glass.

Up until the first course was served, he even thought he’d get it. Neutemoc had been nearly silent when he’d arrived, but he’d unbent enough to start a conversation about his daughters’ studies. Necalli and Mazatl were more subdued than they normally were, but they’d heard what happened to their newest uncle-by-marriage and were no doubt mourning in their own ways. Mihmatini’s face was as pale and set as white jade, but as the conversation wore on he thought he saw her smile.

He didn’t much feel like smiling himself. The smells of the meal were turning his stomach. It was simple enough fare—fish with peppers, lightly boiled vegetables in a salty, spicy sauce, plenty of soft flatbread to mop it up—but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The last time he’d eaten a meal like this had been with Teomitl at his side, hugging Mazatl and fondly ruffling up Necalli’s hair and barely paying any attention to his own plate until Mazatl had swiped something off it and he’d tickled her as revenge, the both of them laughing. Acatl would never forget the look on his face the first time she’d called him uncle.

He was vaguely aware Neutemoc was frowning at him. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

He put some fish onto his plate. He ate it. He couldn’t say what it tasted like. Peppers, mostly. It sat in his stomach like a lead weight, and he swallowed so roughly that for a moment he was afraid he’d choke. I can’t do this. But they would notice if he didn’t eat, and then they’d worry about him. He forced himself to take a few more bites, filling the yawning void within.

A second course arrived eventually. Roasted agave worms and greens, which he usually liked. He took a small portion, nibbled on it, and set his plate down.

“More greens?”

Neutemoc’s voice was too careful for his liking, but he nodded. Another portion of greens was duly set onto his plate, and he ate without really tasting it. He only managed a few bites before he had to give up, his gorge rising.

Mihmatini picked at her own dish, and Neutemoc frowned at her. “You’re not hungry?”

She shook her head.

Silence descended again, but It didn’t reign for long before Neutemoc said, “Acatl. Any interesting cases lately?” With a quick glance at his children, he added, “That we can talk about in front of the kids?”

“Aww, Dad...”

Neutemoc gave his eldest the same look his father had once given him. “When you go off to war, Necalli, I will let you listen to all the awful details.”

It wasn’t enough to make Acatl smile, but nevertheless the tension in his throat eased. “Well,” he began, “we’ve been trying to figure out what’s been strangling merchants in the featherworkers’ district…”

Laying out the facts of a suspicious death or two was always calming. He could forget the ache in his heart, even if only briefly. But even when he was done and had just started to relax, Neutemoc was still talking to him as though he expected to see his younger brother shatter any minute. The slaves, too, were unusually solicitous of him—rushing to fill up his cup, to heap delicacies on his plate. At any other time he might have suspected the whole thing to be a bribe or an awkward apology for some unremembered slight; now, he just felt uneasy.

When the meal was done, he declined Neutemoc’s offer of a pipe and got to his feet. “I think I’ll get some air.”

The courtyard outside was empty. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, charting the path of the four hundred stars above. Ceyaxochitl’s death hadn’t hit him anywhere near as hard as this, but gods, he thought he could recover in time if only the people around him stopped coddling him. Everywhere he went there were sympathetic glances and soft words, and even the priests of his own temple were stepping gingerly around him. As though he needed to be treated like...like...

Like a new widow. Like Mihmatini. He sat down hard, feeling like his legs had been cut out from under him. Air seemed to be in short supply, and the gulf in his chest yawned wide.

But I’m not. I care for Teomitl, of course, but it’s not like that. It’s not—

He thought about Teomitl sacrificed as a war captive or drowned in a river far from home, and nearly choked at the fist of grief that tightened around his heart. No. He shook his head as though that would clear it. He wouldn’t want me to grieve over him. He wouldn’t want me to think of him dead, drowned, sacrificed—he’d want me to remember him happy. I can do that much for him, at least.

He could. It was easy. He closed his eyes and remembered.

Remembered the smile that lit up rooms and outshone the Sun, the one that could pull an answering burst of happiness out of the depths of his soul. Remembered the way Teomitl had laughed and rolled around the floor with Mazatl, the way he’d helped Ollin to walk holding onto his hands, the way he sparred with Necalli and asked about Ohtli’s lessons in the calmecac, and how all of those moment strung together like pearls on a string into something that made Acatl’s heart warm as well. Remembered impatient haggling in the marketplace, haphazard rowing on the lake, strong arms flexing such that he couldn’t look away, the touch of a warm hand lingering even after Teomitl had withdrawn—

He remembered how it had felt, in that space between dreams and waking, where he’d thought Teomitl was by his side even in Mictlan. Where, for the span of a heartbeat, he’d been happy.

There was a sound—a soft, miserable whine. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat, that he’d drawn his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them. That he was shaking again, and had been for some time. As nausea oozed up in his throat, he regretted having eaten.

It was like that, after all.

And he’d realized too late. Even if he’d ever been able to do anything about it—which he never would anyway, the man was married to his sister—there was no chance of it now, because Teomitl was gone.

He forced his burning eyes to stay open. If he blinked, if he let his eyes close even for an instant, the tears would fall.

Approaching footsteps made him raise his head. Mihmatini was walking quietly and carefully towards him, as though she didn’t want to disturb him. As though I’m fragile. You too, Mihmatini?

“Ah. There you are.” Even her voice was soft.

He uncurled himself and arranged his limbs into a more dignified position, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from trembling. At least when he finally blinked, his eyes were dry. “Hm.”

She sat next to him, not touching. There was something calming about her company, but gods, he prayed she couldn’t see the thoughts written on his face. She stretched out a hand and he thought she’d lay it soothingly on his shoulder, but instead she traced a meaningless pattern in the dirt. “...It’s hard, isn’t it?”

His dry throat made a clicking noise when he swallowed. “It is.”

“At least we’re both in the same boat,” she murmured.

The words refused to make sense in his head at first—but then they did, and he reared back and stared at her. No. I’ve only just realized it myself, she can’t have...she can’t be thinking that I—! “I beg your pardon?”

Her voice lowered even further, so that he had to strain to hear her. There was a faint, sad smile on her face. “You love him just the same as I do, don’t you?”

He drew a long breath. He knew what he should say, what the right and proper words would be. No, like a son. Or like my brother. But he couldn’t lie to her, not even to spare what was left of her broken heart, and so what came out instead was, “Yes. Gods, yes.” Hate me for it. Tell me I have no right to love him, that you’re the one who has his heart. Tell me I’m a fool.

She lifted her head, and her faint smile grew to something bright and brittle. “Good.”

Good?! He blinked uselessly at her, gaping like a fish before he could find his voice again. “You—you approve?”

“You’re my favorite brother,” she said simply. “And...well.”

She fell silent, her smile fading until it vanished entirely. He waited. Finally, in a much softer voice, she continued, “If you love him, there’s no harm in telling you what he swore me to secrecy over.”

Dread gripped him. Of course Teomitl was entitled to his secrets, but he couldn’t imagine what would be so horrible that Mihmatini wouldn’t tell him. At least, not while he lived. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “...What?”

She blinked rapidly, fingers going still. She’d traced something that looked, from a certain angle, like a flower glyph. “...He...he loved you, too.”

No.

But Mihmatini was still talking. “He didn’t want me to tell you; he was sure you’d scorn him. But he loved you the same way he loved me...gods, probably more than he loved me.”

It was the last straw. His nails bit into his palms hard enough to draw blood, and he barely recognized his own voice as rage filled it. “Why are you telling me this?!”

Mihmatini took a shuddering breath; he realized she was fighting tears, and had been since she’d spilled Teomitl’s heart to the night air. “In case he comes back. If he does...no, when he does...you should tell him how you feel.”

He rose on shaking legs. “I think I need to be alone.”

Without really seeing his surroundings, he walked until he came to the canal outside the house. The family’s boats were tied up outside, bobbing gently on the water. When he sat down, the stone under him was cold; the water he dipped his fingers in was colder still. Neither revived him. Neither was as cold as the pit cracking open in his gut. Mictlan was worse, true, but all the inexorable pains of Mictlan were dull aches compared to this.

In case he comes back. In case he comes back. I love him—I am in love, that’s what this pain is—and I will never see him again in this world. Mihmatini says he loves me too, and it doesn’t matter, because his bones lie somewhere in the jungle and his flesh feeds the crows and I will never get to tell him.

Between one breath and another, the tears came. They spilled hot and salty down his face; he let them, shoulders shaking, because he no longer had the strength to stop them. And nobody would come to offer unwanted sympathy, anyway. Mihmatini had her own grief, and the hurrying footsteps he’d grown so used to hearing would never run after him again.

Eventually, when he was spent, he wiped his face and left. It was time to go home.

&

The rest of the month ground on slowly, and his dreams began to change.

At first they were minor changes—the blood was less vibrant, the forests and plains brighter. Teomitl bled less. Acatl woke without feeling as though the inside of his chest had been hollowed out and replaced with ash. His appetite started to return; he still never felt properly hungry, and his meals didn’t exactly fill him with joy, but he could eat without feeling sick. The bones in his wrists were not quite so prominent as they’d been. And if that was all, he might have simply thought he was beginning to deal with his sorrow. Such things happened, after all. Eventually the knives scraping away at his chest would lose their edges, and he would face a life without Teomitl’s sunny smile.

But there was more than just a lessening of pain. He dreamed of a sunsoaked forest in the south, and woke feeling like a lizard basking on a rock, warm in a way he couldn’t blame on the heat of the rainy season. He dreamed that Teomitl was fording a fast-flowing river—one that did not turn to blood this time—and when dawn broke his legs were soaked up to the shins. That got him to visit a healing priest; he knew when he was out of his depth, and if his soul was wandering too far in his nightmares then he wanted to be sure it would come back to him by dawn. But the priest was as befuddled as he was, and only told him to call again if he woke in pain or with unexplained wounds.

Unexplained wounds? he thought bitterly. You mean, like the one where half my heart’s been torn from my chest? But he knew better than to say that out loud; his feelings for Teomitl were none of this man’s business. So he thanked him and left, paying a fistful of cacao beans for the consultation, and tried not to think about it until the next time he slept and the dreams returned.

And they were dreams now, and not nightmares. While he slept his soul seemed content to follow Teomitl’s solitary travels through the very outskirts of the Empire, and he no longer had to see him torn apart by monsters or smiling ruinously with bloody teeth. Teomitl barely bled at all now, and his wounds were only the normal ones a man might get from traversing hostile terrain alone—a scraped knee here, a bound-up cut there. He sang to himself as he walked, though the words slipped through Acatl’s mind like water. Once Acatl stood just over his shoulder at a smoky campfire while he roasted fish in the ashes, and his heart ached as he watched him cry.

“Acatl-tzin,” he whispered into his folded knees. “Acatl, I should have told you.”

“Should have told me what?” he tried to ask, but before he could form the words he woke up. There were tears in his own eyes.

It’s only because I miss him, he told himself. This is grief, that’s all. But there was the smell of smoke and the sweet fresh scent of cooked fish clinging to his skin, and a single damp leaf was stuck to the bottom of his bare foot. It hadn’t rained in Tenochtitlan last night. He stared at it for a long time.

Each night went on in the same vein. He would clean his teeth, lay down on his mat, and drift off to sleep—and in his dreams, there would be Teomitl, hale and whole and walking onwards. Despite himself, Acatl started to wake with a faint stirring of hope. Maybe Teomitl really had only been separated from the army. Maybe he truly was on his way home. And maybe I’m delusional, came the inevitable bitter thought when he’d finished his morning rituals. It had become much harder to listen to.

It was almost a surprise when he dreamed about a city he knew. It was a small but bustling place about half a day’s walk from Tenochtitlan, and as he walked through the streets he realized that the torches had been lit for a funeral. He could hear the chants ahead of him. There was a darker shape in the shadows which spilled down the dusty road, and he knew the man’s stride like he knew his own.

“Teomitl!” He hadn’t been mute in his dreams for a while now.

Teomitl didn’t turn. He never turned. But he stopped, and by the way his head tilted Acatl just knew he was smiling. Wordlessly, he pointed at the courtyard ahead.

A funeral pyre had been lit, and it was so like the rituals he presided over that he felt a distinct sense of deja vu. There was the priest singing a hymn to Lord Death; there were the weeping family members of the deceased. There were the marigolds and the other offerings, brilliant in the gloom.

“That could have been me,” Teomitl said, and Acatl heard his voice as though he was standing next to him in the waking world instead of only in a dream. “But it’s not yet, and it won’t be for a good long while. So you don’t need to fear for me. I keep my promises.”

They’d never touched before. But this time Teomitl turned to face him, and the hand he held out was free of blood entirely. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Teomitl pressed his palm to his. Their fingers laced together, warm and strong and almost real.

“Teomitl,” he said helplessly.

“Acatl.” Teomitl’s smile was like the sun. “I’m sorry I made you worry, but I’ll be home soon.”

And then he woke up, the dream shredded apart by the blasts of the conch-shell horns that heralded the dawn. For a long moment, he stared blankly up at the ceiling. He could still feel Teomitl’s hand in his; each little scar and callus felt etched on his skin. He lives. The slow certainty of it welled up in him like blood. He lives, and he is coming back.

He rose and made his devotions before dressing, but now his hands shook with something that was no longer grief. As soon as he left for his temple, he could feel the change In the air. Scraps of excited conversation whirled past him, but he couldn’t focus long enough to pick any out. He concentrated on breathing steadily and walking with the dignity befitting a High Priest. He would not sprint for the temple, would not grab the nearest housewife or warrior or priest and demand answers. They would come soon enough.

They came in the form of Ezamahual, rushing out of the temple complex to meet him. “Acatl-tzin! Acatl-tzin, there is wonderful news!”

Briefly, he thought he should have worn the hated regalia. “What news?”

Ezamahual’s words tumbled out in a headlong rush, almost too fast to follow. “The Master of the House of Darts—Teomitl-tzin—he’s returned! Our warriors met him at the city gates!”

Even though he’d half expected it—even though the recurring dreams, his soul journeying through the night at Teomitl’s side, had kept alive the flickering flame of hope that now burned within him—he still briefly felt like fainting. He clenched his fists, the pain of his nails in his palms keeping him upright. “You’re sure?”

Ezamahual nodded enthusiastically. “The Revered Speaker has reinstated him to his old position, and there’s talk of a banquet at the palace to celebrate his safe return. I think he’s at the Duality House now, though—they’re like an anthill over there.”

Right. He exhaled slowly, forcing down joy and disappointment alike. Of course Teomitl would want to see his wife first above all, to reassure her that he was well, and of course he had no right to intrude. Nor would he even if he did—Mihmatini deserved her husband back in her life, deserved all the joy she would wring from it. The things she’d told him didn’t—couldn’t—matter in the face of their union. “I see. I suppose we’ll learn more later. Come—tell me if there’s been any new developments in those strangling cases.”

Ezamahual looked briefly baffled, but then he nodded. “Of course, Acatl-tzin. It’s like this…”

The latest crop of mysterious deaths turned out to be quite straightforward in the end, once they tracked down their newest lead and had him sing like a bird. He nodded at the appropriate times, sent out a double team of priests after the perpetrators, and had it very nearly wrapped up by lunch—a meal that, for once, he was almost looking forward to. He was settling down with the account ledgers to mark payment of two gold-filled quills to the priests of Mixcoatl for their aid when he heard footsteps outside.

Familiar footsteps.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tightness in his chest eased. But he didn’t have a chance to revel in it, because he knew the voice calling his name.

“Acatl? Acatl!”

He dropped the ledgers and his pen, getting ink all over his fingers. As the entrance curtain was flung aside in a cacophony of copper bells, he scrambled to his feet. Had he been tired and listless before? That must have been a thousand years ago. He thought he might weep for the sheer relief of hearing that beloved voice again. “Gods—Teomitl—”

He had a confused impression of gold jewelry and feather ornaments, but then Teomitl was flinging himself into his arms and the only thing that sunk into his mind was warmth. There were strong arms wrapped around him and a head pressed against his temple, and Teomitl’s voice shook as he breathed, “Duality, I missed you so much.”

Slowly, he raised his shaking hands and set them at Teomitl’s shoulderblades. He could feel his racing heart, feel the way he sucked in each breath as though trying not to sob. It was overwhelming; his eyes burned as he fought to blink back his own tears. He couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth, he knew he’d lose the battle—and there were no words for this, anyway.

Teomitl abruptly released him, turning his face away. His voice was a soft, ragged thing, and his expression was a careful blank. “Forgive me. I was...Mihmatini said you’d be glad to see me. I wanted to look less like I’d been dragged over the mountains backwards, first.”

He swallowed several times until he thought he could risk a response, even as his eyes drank in the sight of Teomitl in front of him. He looks the same, he thought. His skin had been further darkened by the sun, there were new scars looping across his arms and legs, and someone had talked him into a fortune in gold and jade with quetzal feathers tied into his hair, but he had the same face and body and sweet, sweet voice. “It’s—there’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you’ve returned.”

“They told me everyone thought I was dead.” Teomitl bit his lip. “Except for Mihmatini. And you.”

He steered his mind firmly away from the shoals of crushing grief that still lurked under the joy of seeing Teomitl before him. He is here, and hale, and whole, just as I dreamed. I have nothing to weep over. “I knew you weren’t. You wouldn’t let something like a flood stop you.”

There was the first glimmer of a smile tugging at Teomitl’s lips. “You have such faith in me, Acatl.”

“You’re well deserving of it,” he replied. And I love you, and even in dreams I could not think of any other path than your survival. That, he refused to say.

Especially because Teomitl still wasn’t looking at him.

They stood in agonizing silence, and he couldn’t bring himself to break it. Teomitl was so close, still within arms’ range; if he was brave enough, he could reach out and pull him back into his arms. Could bury his face in his hair and crush the fabric of his cloak in his hands and tell him...what? It didn’t matter what Mihmatini had said to him. There was simply no space for him in the life Teomitl deserved, nothing beyond that Acatl already occupied. He wouldn’t burden him with useless feelings.

But then Teomitl shook himself like an ahuitzotl and turned back to him, holding his gaze. “Do you want to know what got me home, Acatl? What sustained me?”

Mutely, he nodded. He still didn’t trust his voice.

“You.”

He felt like he’d been gutted. “I...Teomitl…”

Whatever Teomitl saw in his face made his eyes soften. He took a step forward, hands coming up to rest like butterfly wings on Acatl’s waist, and Acatl let him. “I thought about you. I...Southern Hummingbird blind me, I dreamed about you. Every night! I made myself a promise while I was out there, in the event I ever saw you again. Scorn me for it all you’d like, but I’m going to keep it now.”

Oh, Teomitl. I could never scorn you. They were very, very close now, and Teomitl’s gaze had fallen to his parted lips. His mouth went dry.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

It started out soft and gentle, lips barely tracing Acatl’s own. Asking permission, he thought with an absurd spike of giddiness—and so, leaning in a little shyly, he gave it.

Teomitl wasted no time. The kiss grew harder, fingers digging into Acatl’s skin as he hauled their bodies together. They were pressed together from chest to hip but it still wasn’t enough, they weren’t close enough; blood roaring in his ears, he wrapped his arms around Teomitl’s back and clung tightly. His mouth opened with a breathy little whine stolen immediately by Teomitl’s invading tongue, and when he dared to do the same, Teomitl made a noise like a jaguar and let go of his waist in favor of clawing at the back of his cloak, grabbing fistfuls of fabric along with strands of his hair. It pulled too hard, but he didn’t care. The pain meant it was real, that this was really happening. That for once it wasn’t a dream.

Teomitl only drew away to breathe, “Gods—I love you—” before claiming his mouth again, as though he couldn’t bear to be apart.

Acatl twisted in his arms, knowing he was making a probably incoherent and definitely embarrassing noise, but shame wasn’t an emotion he was capable of at the moment. He loves me. By the Duality, he loves me. “I didn’t think—Mihmatini told me, but I didn’t think...”

Teomitl jerked back, brow furrowed. “Wait. Mihmatini told you?!”

His grip on the back of Teomitl’s cloak tightened at the memory. “She was trying to reassure me, I think. I’d just told her...well.” He couldn’t say it, even with Teomitl in his arms, and settled for uncurling one fist and running his hand up the back of Teomitl’s neck in lieu of words.

He was rewarded with a shiver, and the near-panic in Teomitl’s eyes ebbed into something soft. “What did you tell her, Acatl?”

He’d asked. He’d asked, and Acatl had always been honest with him. He’d be honest now, even if it made his heart race and his hands tremble. “That I love you.”

Teomitl made a desperate noise and kissed him again. There was no gentleness now; he kissed like a man possessed, hungry as a jaguar, and Acatl buried a hand in his hair to make sure he didn’t stop. Teeth caught at his lower lip, and he moaned out loud. This seemed to spur Teomitl on, because his mouth left Acatl’s to nip at his throat instead; the first sting of teeth sent a wave of arousal through him so strong it nearly swamped him. “Ah—!”

Teomitl soothed the skin with a delicate kiss that didn’t help at all, and then he returned his focus to Acath’s mouth. This time he was gentle, a careful little caress that gave Acatl just enough brainpower back to realize that he’d probably been a bit loud. Which is Teomitl’s fault, anyway, so he can’t complain. “Mmm...”

Even when they eventually pulled apart, they clung to each other for a long while. Acatl stroked up and down Teomitl’s spine, tracing each bump of vertebrae and the trembling muscles of his back. Teomitl dropped his head onto Acatl’s shoulder, breathing slow and deep. He’d twined locks of long hair through his fingers, gently running his fingers through the strands. Acatl had to close his eyes, overwhelmed. The stone beneath my feet is real. Teomitl’s skin under my hands is real. This—this is real. He is in my arms, and he loves me.

“I don’t want to let you go,” Teomitl whispered. “I never want to let you out of my sight again.”

Neither do I. He tilted his head, nosing at Teomitl’s hair. Gods, even cut to a proper length again it was so adorably fluffy. He sighed into it. “You’ll have to eventually.” Even though he hated the thought, he couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the Master of the House of Darts, aren’t you? You have an army to help lead. Wars to wage. Glory to bring to the Empire.”

“Hrmph.” The arms around him tightened in wordless refusal.

Joy bubbled up within him, and he chuckled quietly. Still such a stubborn young man. But now he was Acatl’s young man, and there was something wonderful about that. He felt loose as unspun cotton, ready to sink into the floor with the release of all the tension he’d been carrying, but it had left a void behind. A void that rumbled—loudly—to be filled. His face burned with embarrassment at the noise. “...Ah. Why don’t we see about lunch?”

Teomitl snorted. “I have been gone a long time. You’re remembering to eat for once.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had an appetite for food, but he decided not to mention that. Teomitl would worry too much. But eating lunch meant that they had to be seen in public, which meant they both had to actually let go of each other. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and lowered his arms, finding himself stymied halfway through by Teomitl’s serpentlike hold on his ribs. “Teomitl.”

At least now he wasn’t the only one blushing. “Right. You’re right. We should eat.” Teomitl stepped back, clearing his throat, but the look in his eyes was more awestruck than awkward. He was staring at Acatl as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight.

And since Acatl found himself doing the same thing, he couldn’t blame him. Had his eyes always been that dark? Was that scar slicing a pale line across his skin new, or had he just never noticed it before? I might have gone my whole life without this. What an idiot I was.

It took longer than Acatl liked for he and Teomitl to be properly alone again, this time with a plate of food between them. Lunch was simple fare: a plate of grilled newts and amaranth dough with a vibrant red sauce so spicy it made his nose prickle. The serving priests had taken one look at Teomitl and thoughtfully put it on the side instead of directly on their meal, which he’d had to thank them for. As he sat down, inhaling the scent, he felt as though his body was waking up after a long slumber. It filled his lungs and swirled through his veins, and his mouth watered.

He dug in greedily. Gods, it had been so long since he’d properly tasted the food he put into his mouth. The juicy grilled meat was the most savory thing he’d had in ages, and he couldn’t blame his suddenly blurry vision on the sauce he dunked his next bite in. It was perfect. He had one of the amaranth dough sticks to smother the burn, finding it crunchy and slightly sweet with its dusting of seeds on top. “Mmm.”

A hand landed on his thigh. “Enjoying yourself?”

He lifted his head, face hot. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

“That’s good. You need to eat more, anyway.” Teomitl smiled, and he couldn’t help smiling in return. “Pass me some sauce?”

He passed the sauce. Teomitl tore at his own grilled newt with more manners but just as much enthusiasm. The long trek through the wilderness must have hardened him, because he didn’t wince at the heat of the accompanying sauce. Then again, he also didn’t use quite so much. “Mm. This is good.”

There was a fleck of bright red chili paste by the corner of Teomitl’s mouth. He wanted to kiss it away. A heartbeat later, he realized that he could. They were alone. Nothing was stopping him now.

So he did, and Teomitl went crimson. “Acatl!” he yelped delightedly, grinning even as he turned his head and kissed him back.

Chaste as it was, it lingered long enough that Acatl was flushed when he pulled away. His pulse thrummed under his skin; he felt like he’d drunk a cup of pulque, dizzy at his own daring as it sunk in. They were alone. Good food was in his belly for once, giving him the energy he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. They could do a lot more than kiss, if they wanted.

Teomitl’s grin turned teasing. “I missed doing that.”

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” he muttered. “You’re insatiable.” But there was no heat to it, and he found his hand resting at Teomitl’s waist. The skin under his palm was just so warm. He’d felt cold bones and grave dust for too long.

An eyebrow went up in stunning imitation of Mihmatini. “And I’ve waited years for even one kiss, Acatl. There’s a backlog to get through, you know.”

The blush had just started to fade, but now it returned with a vengeance. “Years?”

“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like to make up for lost time, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He swallowed hard. Now that he could think again he wanted to know how Teomitl had survived, how he’d managed to make it all the way back home—the unreal fragments he’d witnessed each night had not been informative—but his questions suddenly didn’t seem that important anymore. Not when there were other, more immediate desires to be sated. “...I would not.”

And so their mouths met. Teomitl’s idea of making up for lost time was long and hungry and tingled with the spice of their meal; Acatl’s lips parted for his tongue almost before he knew what he was doing, and that was still a little strange but far from unwelcome. Especially when Teomitl drew back, mouth wet and red, to catch his lower lip between his teeth in another one of those stinging little nips that made his blood sing. A breathy noise escaped him, but this time Teomitl didn’t soothe it.

No, this time he lowered his mouth to Acatl’s neck and did it again. It was light and delicate, unlikely to leave marks, but Teomitl’s teeth were sharp enough that he felt each one in a burst of light behind his closed eyelids. He had to bury one hand in Teomitl’s hair and wrap the other around his waist just to keep himself upright; he couldn’t entirely muffle his own gasps. “Ahh...gods...”

Teomitl hummed, low and wordless, and slid a hand down his stomach. Acatl’s fevered blood roared in his ears, and all of a sudden it was almost too much. “Teomitl.”

Teomitl lifted his head, eyes bright. “Mm?”

“You.” He sucked in a breath, willing his heartrate to slow down. There had to be some limits. Too much had already happened much too quickly. “You can’t keep doing that here.”

“You don’t like it?” Teomitl grinned at him. “Or do you like it too much, Acatl?”

If by some miracle all the rest of it hadn’t already made him blush, hearing Teomitl purr his name like that would definitely have done the trick. He had to turn his face away. “You know damned well it’s the latter. We both have our duties; we can’t very well take the rest of the day off to…” Flustered, he gestured between them.

“Hrmph,” Teomitl said, and kissed him again. This time it was slow and sweet and came with warm arms sliding around him, and he lingered in it for long, long minutes.

By the time they finally remembered the rest of their food, it was stone cold. They ate anyway; cold food was still good, especially with the chili sauce. Acatl was privately of the opinion that it even made the sauce taste better, but he’d learned that people tended to look at him strangely when he voiced it. Besides, Teomitl was leaning against him with one arm slung loosely around his waist, a reassuring weight against his side anchoring him to the earth. There wasn’t a need for speech in moments like this.

Not to mention that, strangely enough, he was still hungry. The joy he’d first felt at knowing Teomitl was safe and alive had opened the floodgates, but it felt as though his body was determined to make up for lost sustenance. Even after their plates were both thoroughly clean, he was still rather looking forward to dinner.

The afternoon light was turning the air gold when Teomitl reluctantly got to his feet. Acatl followed; they stood without touching for a moment that was just long enough to be awkward, and then Teomitl pulled him into a fierce hug. Acatl knew it was coming this time; he marveled at how they just seemed to fit together, with one hand buried in Teomitl’s hair and the other pressed flat between his shoulderblades to feel the steady beat of his heart.

Teomitl took a long, slow breath. “Lunch wasn’t long enough.”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed softly. “But there will be others. Many others.” With Teomitl by his side, he didn’t think he’d ever skip a meal again.

Despite the hint of dismissal—yes, he loved the man with all his heart, but they did both have other things to do—Teomitl made no move to let go of him. In fact, he squeezed a little tighter, turning to bury his face in Acatl’s hair. “Mrghh...”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to quell the urge to laugh. As fond as he was, he knew it probably wouldn’t go over well. He made do with stroking Teomitl’s hair—gods, it was so soft—and taking a deliberate step back so that Teomitl had to release him or be pulled off-balance. Now Teomitl was glaring at him, but nothing would stop the slow upwell of joy in his veins. “Go on. I’ll see you at the banquet tonight.” He knew he’d enjoy this one.

Teomitl’s eyes were fierce as an eagle’s. “And afterwards? Will I see you afterwards, Acatl?”

He had a pretty good feeling he knew what Teomitl had in mind for a private celebration. Nerves twisted his gut, but only for a moment. He’d come this far, hadn’t he? “Yes,” he said simply.

The way Teomitl’s lips parted in wonder let him know he’d made the right choice. For the rest of my life. Whenever you want, for the rest of my life, I’ll be there.

Teomitl didn’t reach for him—he seemed to be deliberately holding himself still, tension ringing through his body like a drawn bowstring—but he looked like he wanted to. He looked like he wanted to yank Acatl back into his arms and finish what they’d started earlier, and the thought was exhilarating. “My chambers in the palace? They’re closest.”

Acatl flushed, shaking his head. That was a risk he refused to take. The palace had too many people, too many ears and eyes. Far too many chances to be interrupted. If he was going to do this, it would be somewhere safe. “My house. I’ll...I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” There was a wild, radiant smile.

He smiled back. Though he’d miss Teomitl while he worked—Duality, they’d been apart for so long—it would be fine. He was already looking forward to the banquet and what would come after, when nothing would part them again save the dawn.

Teomitl had promised, after all.

[michaelgambons]

This is my first ever Drabble/imagine/ fanfic (whatever you want to call it!) so please bare with! It’s set in the UK, so if you encounter any unfamiliar language, places or references, please shoot me a message!

This chapter is intended to set the scene and introduce the characters, but it will get more exciting soon!

Baseline Romantic

Chapter 1

It was pouring with rain as the train pulled into the station. Grimacing slightly against the cold wind that was coming in from the gap in the train door, Y/N turned the collar of her coat up and picked up her bag, ready to hop off the train and made a dash for the nearest cover.

Once off the train and under shelter, Y/N paused slightly before heading for the exit. She bowed her head slightly against the rain, but it still managed to trickle down her neck and a shiver ran through her. It wasn’t just the cold and the wet that was making her shiver, though. As much as she was excited to see her friends, the idea of spending a long weekend socialising was enough to make her take a deep breath to steady herself.

For the last 10 years, without fail, Y/N and her friends had gathered in Charlie’s mum’s house on the outskirts of Peterborough for the August bank holiday. The tradition had been borne out of the boredom of the university summer holidays, during which, when stuck at home, too broke to travel, too lazy to work and keen to return to the freedom of university, they had spent the remainder of their student finance on train fares to spend the long weekend together. Charlie’s mum’s house was perfect for the piss up that ensued; it was in the middle of nowhere so they could play music as loud as they wanted, as late as they wanted, and, crucially, Charlie’s mum spent most of the year living at her boyfriend’s in Surrey. The weekends had become the stuff of legend.

As she stepped out of the station and glanced around for a lift, a horn sounded. Looking around for its source, she spotted a battered Land Rover parked a few meters away, whose driver and passenger were waving furiously at her, grins splashed across their faces. Y/N’s face broke into a wide smile as she ran across the car park to join them.

———

Half an hour later, nestled in front of a roaring fire, gin and tonic grasped in her hand, Y/N had finally started to warm up. She sighed deeply to herself, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax into the deep sofa, but a sudden roar of laughter brought her back to the room.

‘I’m so glad you managed to come, Y/N’ Catherine said. ‘I can’t believe you were going to put your *job* ahead of spending time with your friends’ she continued with a laugh.

Y/N smiles vaguely. ‘Mate me too’ she replied. ‘Honestly though, it was touch and go right until yesterday! If the shite weather hadn’t meant that the trip had to be cancelled, you wouldn’t have been graced with my company at all’

‘What trip was this?’ Dominic asked, putting down his beer.

‘Urghhh, don’t get me started’ Y/N said. ‘It was the most stereotypical thing ever. I was taking some MP’s on a ruddy fishing trip to talk to them about protecting freshwater rivers’.

She looked round and saw everyone staring at her, unsure whether to take her seriously or not.

‘I’m not joking!’ She said, laughing. ‘It’s as ridiculous as it sounds- I would have had to have worn fucking fishing trousers. Believe me, I’m much happier, and warmer, to be here.’

‘No Dan?’ Misha asked.

Y/N grimaced internally. She was hoping she could have had at least one G&T before she had to answer that question. She didn’t need reminding of the massive argument they had had just before she’d left. Her boyfriend Dan hated these gatherings; hated the fact that they pushed him out of his comfort zone by having to spend the weekend with people who weren’t constantly plotting the next Bolshevik revolution, like he was.

‘I just don’t understand why you like these people, Y/N. They’re all so painfully middle class and you just spend the weekend drinking overpriced wine and eating twattish Waitrose food’ he had shouted as she had packed.

‘You’re being ridiculous Dan’ she had yelled back. ‘These people are as left wing and educated as they come. Just because they don’t sing Red Flag to themselves every morning doesn’t mean that they’re as vapid as you seem to think they are.’

They hadn’t managed to resolve the argument before she’d had to leave for her train. There was, ultimately, no resolution to it. Dan had taken a dislike to her friends ever since he’d met them, two bank holidays ago. He’d spent the evening on the same sofa as she was now sat on, preaching about the Marxist benefits of agriculture. Happy to entertain this for the initial hour, Y/N and her friends had happily joined in. When, 2 hours later, he showed no sign of wanting to change the subject, they had all gradually excused themselves to bed.

‘Ignorant Tories’ Dan had muttered to Y/N as they got ready for bed.

Back in the present, Y/N took a gulp of her drink before she replied.

‘He had some protest I think? He says hello though!’ she said, trying to sound bubbly and casual as she lied through her teeth.

No one seemed to question this though, and the conversation gradually drifted back to what they were going to have for dinner. Catherine, however, caught her eye from across the room, and motioned her outside.

When Y/N joined Catherine outside, she’s shivering under her coat, cigarette in hand, glancing up at the sky and grimacing at the black cloud that is looming over them.

‘So’ Catherine says. ‘Why is Dan really not here? I didn’t believe a minute of that protest bullshit’.

Y/N might have realised that, if anyone was going to see past her feeble excuse, it would be Catherine. Catherine who had lived with her on and off for the last 10 years. The only one of her friends Dan liked and simultaneously the friend of hers who liked Dan the least.

She’d just finished telling Catherine the story, when the backdoor opened again and Ben came into the garden. He stopped as soon as he saw their serious expressions though and gestured back to the door.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt- just wanted a cig. I’ll come back...’

He turned to leave, but Y/N shouted after him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous Ben, it’s not a state secret. Just Dan being a shit’ Y/N said.

Ben smiles sympathetically as he comes over to the two of them. He lights a cigarette and runs his hand through his shocking blonde hair.

‘Actually Ben, you could be useful. Y/N tell Ben the same thing you told me.’ Catherine said.

Five minutes later, Ben had been fully debriefed. Both girls turned to him to see his reaction; he took a drag of his cigarette, brow furrowed.

‘He’s being a complete fucking idiot’. He says, bluntly. ‘Totally disrespectful. You don’t always have to like your partners friends, but you should always make an effort. That’s what being in a relationship is for fucks sake’

Both girls snigger and smile into their cigarettes, opinions confirmed.

‘Catherine?’ Charlie shouts from the kitchen. ‘What am I doing with these courgettes?’

Catherine sighs and stubbs our her cigarette, before walking back into the kitchen, leaving Y/N with Ben.

Ben was the only member of the group who wasn’t part of the original university crew. He had first come to their August break 5 years ago; Dom’s out of work actor flatmate from London who was going through a bad breakup and was in dire need of wine, company and good food. No one else had joined the group before or since, but Ben had slotted in perfectly, and remained a permanent fixture. He was undoubtedly one of Y/N favourite members of the group; down to earth, thoughtful, but with a cruel sense of humour which complemented Y/N’s well. The two could spend hours snorting with laughter at jokes their friends failed to understand.

‘Mate we need to have a SERIOUS chat about your last year’ Y/N said, turning to Ben. ‘We haven’t caught up properly since before Christmas, and you’ve been to the Oscars since then for god’s sake! What was it like?’

Ben snorts into his wine. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint but it was actually very underwhelming. Fucking long and you can’t go out for food or a cigarette’.

‘That is so disappointing. I’ve been rehearing my Oscar acceptance speech since I was at least 10 with a shampoo bottle- don’t tell me it’s not all what it’s cracked up to be’ Y/N pouted.

Ben laughed. ‘What on earth are you winning this Oscar for? Have you switched careers while I was in LA?’

‘Best Documentary’. Y/A answers firmly and quickly. ‘An expose of a corrupt politician where I go undercover as his campaign manager whilst hooked up to a wire. Critics would praise my bravery and unique take on the issue’. She grinned at Ben, who is laughing at her.

‘Dan really doesn’t know what he’s missing’ Ben laughed.

The smile fades off Y/N’s face. Ben immediately realises his mistake and tries to change the subject, but it’s too late.

‘I’m sorry Y/N I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business. I just... he’s... you deserve better’ he finishes faintly.

‘Dinner!’ Comes a shout from the kitchen, before Y/N is able to reply.

————

Two hours and several glasses of wine later, Y/N finally had finally forgotten about Dan for the moment. She was warm, well fed, tipsy and in good company.

‘And that’ Misha shouts, voice confident with the gin he’s been drinking since lunchtime, ‘is how I ended up as Robert Mugabe’s private pilot’

Everyone around the table roars with laughter. Y/N catches the eye of Ben who is sitting across her on the table. Y/N looks away quickly. She doesn’t want Ben to think she’s staring at him- but it’s hard not to when you’re sat opposite someone as ridiculously pretty as him. Instead she reaches for the wine bottle to refill her glass. When she next looks up, however, she swears she catches Ben quickly looking away from her. She shakes her head slightly to clear it of the wine fog that’s descended on her.

Y/N catches sight of her reflection in the back of her wine glass. Of course Ben wasn’t staring at her. Her curly hair was all over the place after the day’s travel, and her make up had faded and smudged under eyes. Whilst far from unattractive, she’s no where near as polished as the skin thin models he was undoubtedly fucking over in LA. And anyway, she had Dan to think of.

Brushing the thought from her mind, Y/N turned to Cleo who was sat next to her and joined in the conversation she and Charlie were engaged in. Out of the corner of her eye though, she kept Ben in her peripheral vision.

—————

‘Y/N I’ve got a banger lined up for you in a second’ said Dominic with a cheeky grin. He was controlling the music they are listening to in the living room, which they’ve retreated to now dinner had been cleared away.

‘Oh no, what have you got lined up? Cleo moaned.

‘It’s either Baseline Junkie or Rocky Racoon if it’s for Y/N’ Charlie said laughing.

Hearing this, Y/N sat up in her chair, which she had previously been slumped in, letting the conversation wash over her, content but tired by the days events.

~ Hey turn the base off, turn the base off

Big dirty stinking base, dirty stinking base ~

Y/N leaps out of her chair. The group collectively moans and laughs as they watch Y/N sing and dance along to the song- completely out of rhythm but with a huge smile over her face.

She turns to each member of the group in turn, signing a line of the song to them. As she reaches Ben, she realises he is recording her sing, grinning into his camera. Slightly taken aback for a moment at the fact that this would undoubtedly be posted to his million + followers on instragram, instead of stopping, Y/N redoubles her efforts at performing the song into his camera.

As the song comes to an end, she bows into his camera as a round of applause rings out.

She suspects she’ll regret that in the morning

Chapter 2 now out!

————-

[michiigii-writes]

Of Shadows and Tyr (1.5/??)

A continuation of our DnD campaign’s first session right here.  Because there is a limit to text on text posts. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

In the beginning:  There was a city (2/2)

We spent about a week living in the Church of Tyr.  Elyssia provided us with a constant stream of free food, and it was a safe, dry place to stay.  Craven and Valzan were also always around, but I spent the most of my time with the Tiefling girl.

She never spoke.  I was pretty sure she could understand common, from the way that she listened to the rest of us speak, but the most she ever said was during that first fight with the slavers.  I wondered if she knew how to write or draw, but she tended to keep herself otherwise occupied, so I never got much of a chance to ask.

She had scars all over her arm and neck, like she had been shackled for a long time and the bonds had chafed.  I tried touching her to cure her wounds, the first evening at the church.  She looked so small and guarded, and had clearly had a rough life; I was worried that there was some kind of wound that she was keeping to herself.

I was promptly bitten for my efforts.

I had hoped that clearly being an ally would have warmed me up to her even a little, but she definitely did not like to be touched ever.  I drew back with a grimace.

“I’m only trying to help you,” I grumbled, keeping my low but feeling annoyance bubble into my tone.

For a reply, she bared her teeth at me in warning.  I frowned, then recalled a different spell that might work.

[May you find sweet grass and gentle water,] I murmured, sending healing words her way.

The spell wasn’t as strong as if I had touched her, but I saw her sit up a bit straighter in shock as she felt the healing take effect.  I couldn’t see or feel if what I had done was enough, but seeing her surprised yet calm was enough to satisfy my efforts.  At the very least, she was well, and I had to be content with that.

For the rest of the week, she remained in my sights, not necessarily beside me, but always nearby.  I’m not sure who thought of her name first.  It might of been me, joking referring to her as “my shadow” whenever I spoke about her.  It might have been Elyssia, nodding to how the young Tiefling always managed to find the darkest, most secret corners of a room.

It was definitely not Craven.  The giant somehow found out that she liked all things that glittered in the light, and from then on, he called her, “Shiny.”

But by the time our company decided to go out and explore Kendrith as a group, we had somehow all elected to refer to call her, “Shadow.”  And she seemed to like it just fine.

Craven and Valzan had a few errands they wanted to run, before investigating about the slavers we had come across.  I heard mention of “books,” so I wanted to go, and wherever I went, Shadow tended to follow.

It was another bright day; I found the weather rather pleasant in comparison to the humid, warm days we had in the swamp.  Shadow walked to and fro behind us, while Valzan and Craven walked ahead.  As usual, I kept my distance from Valzan, but I had to admit he was growing on me.  He treated Shadow and I with the same courtesy he paid Craven.  I still kept my horns tucked away in his presence, whipping my hood up when he approached, but more than once, I had accidentally let my tail peek out while talking to him.  I was getting comfortable around the human, and that troubled me, a little.  Was Valzan the exception, or had it been the humans in my past?

Time and experience would have to tell.  Maybe there was a reason Master didn’t want me to return until a good year had passed.

Not too far from the church, Shadow ended up distracted by sparkling glass shards by the side of the road.  Tail swishing back and forth under the cloak that Elyssia had provided her, she crouched low and fixated on the twinkling remains of what might have been a bottle.

Our party ended up right within reach of a nearby game stall.  There were targets set up, and according to the hawker, if we hit a bulls-eye with a throwing axe, we would get a voucher for a free drink at a local tavern.

I heard “free.”  Considering I had about two silver pieces to my name, that was enough to get my attention.

I waited for Valzan and Craven to play, first.  Craven managed to snag three free drinks!  I was impressed, but not too surprised; the Kalashtar barbarian was huge.

I was, however, surprised when he gave his prizes to Valzan.  Who turned down something that was free?  And Craven didn’t seem particularly wealthy, to me.

When it came to my turn, I did my best, but I clearly had never used a throwing axe, before.  I could hit the targets, but not well enough to win anything.  For my last throw, I could see that it was about to fall just a little too low.  Wanting that stupid coupon, I drew on my Druidcraft and encouraged a light puff of wind to boost the axe up, a little.

I was too encouraging.  The axe ended up blown too high above the target.

"You better not be trying to pull any funny business,” the stall-keeper said suspiciously, looking between the target and I.

Feeling cornered, I forced a laugh.

“Well, if I were going to cheat, you would think I’d be more successful,” I joked, mentally kicking myself for being so eager about a free drink.

The stall-keeper seemed to agree, but I don’t think he completely bought it.  He offered me another try, but I declined; only the first round was free, and it would probably be cheaper to just buy myself my own drink.  Valzan asked the man where we could get information, and he was told that a woman who worked at the tavern where our coupons applied might help us.  Convenient, but good enough for me!

Our next stop was to the library.  I’d never seen so many books in one place, before; I had thought Master had a grand collection, but even all of his tomes would barely take up a shelf.  I was also relieved to see that the librarian was half orc(?).  I hoped humans like Valzan were the rule and not the exception, but I really didn’t want to test it in the library.

Craven walked off in search of books on plagues and blights, of all things.  I opted for herbs.  I was only familiar with swampy things, and it would be nice to see what could be used for healing or poison from local flora.  Shadow followed suit, even finding me a couple books with some excellent diagrams.  Nothing with words, though...I was becoming more certain that she didn’t know how to read or write.  I considered teaching her for a moment, before throwing the idea away.  I wasn’t patient enough to teach, and if she wanted to learn, she was clearly determined enough that she would have made some signs of it.

Still, I wanted her to have something to take from the library.  The books were free.  Everyone should take advantage of free.  I knew she liked shiny things, and Valzan had recently given her a brass bell that she liked, but I asked her what kind of books she wanted.  However, she either didn’t hear or didn’t have time to answer, because Craven took that moment to materialize.

He wanted to know if I knew anything about creeping blights; according to him, the land of his home was slowly dying by some unknown evil.  He said he realized that I was in-tune with nature, and knew about growing things, so he felt that I was his key, or destined to meet him, or something?

He got a bit fuzzy, after that, turning red and tripping over his words.  I thought he was being silly, in an endearing sort of way, and couldn’t help but smile a little.  Shadow, on the other hand, seemed irritated with him, hissing her displeasure.  That seemed to cool Craven off, and rather than let me really respond in any way, the giant lumbered off, muttering to himself as he was wont to do.

I looked at Shadow, and saw that she looked ready to leave the library.  I grabbed a book on healing herbs, and one on poisons, and when the librarian said I could take a third, and snagged a book with a lot of rather beautifully illustrated gemstones.  With my hand, the librarian set some kind of enchantment that would return the books automatically, once a week was up.  I liked it; that would prevent me from accidentally paying late fees, and I wouldn’t need to worry about losing the books.

When we left the library, I handed the book on gems to Shadow.  I had meant well, but from the way she looked at me, she was very clearly offended that I thought she would enjoy a children’s book.

“She’s probably older than she looks,” Valzan pointed out.

I rolled my eyes and tried not to groan, while Shadow moved to the side of the group furthest from me.  It’s not like she mentioned what she did want to check out!  How was I supposed to know!?

I clearly wasn’t doing a good job getting on Shadow’s good side.

And, to add insult to injury, she excepted a shiny marble from Valzan.

“How is that not condescending?!” I exclaimed, while Shadow contentedly added the bauble to a pocket of what I was certain contained a growing collection of shiny things.

Instead of answering, Valzan shrugged dismissively.  The desire to grab a less shiny rock and throw it at his head occurred to me, but instead, we continued to our second stop:  A pet store.

Craven was under the impression that he could find a bear for a pet.  The shopkeeper was surprised, most likely because that seemed more like an exotic/black market kind of pet.  However, when he offered up hedgehogs as an adequate alternative, I was on Craven’s side:  bears are to hedgehogs as falcons are to finches.  They are not equal.

Naturally, Craven got even more upset when the shopkeeper suggested a squirrel, instead. 

To use as bait.

None of us were pleased!  Craven began roaring about what a terrible person the shopkeeper was, and I’m pretty sure when Shadow called him a squirrel murderer, his nose started bleeding.  Valzan ushered us out, but when Craven suggested we return after dark to Free the Enslaved, I readily agreed.  I wanted to Speak to the animals, to see if they were all in danger or just the squirrels, but there wasn’t enough time; already, we were out the door.

It didn’t take us long to reach the top of the hill, finding the tavern where we could redeem Craven’s vouchers was situated.  A creaky sign with the words “Scout’s Mug Bar and Inn” hung over the doorway that we entered, Craven stooping slightly to fit through.  I braced myself for noise, but it was early enough in the day that there weren’t too many patrons.

Shadow moved straight to a table in a secluded corner, dark but safe; I and the rest followed suit.  Craven, of course, immediately ordered every dessert on the menu.  I tried not to let my eyes pop out of my head as plate after plate of confection and pastry were brought by the waitress and placed before him.  I was about to ask how he could possibly eat all of those desserts by himself, when I saw him push all the plates to Shadow.  

...Of course they weren’t just for himself.  I made a note to myself to be a little less snide toward Craven.

Eyeing all the desserts, I surreptitiously slid what looked like a slice of apple pie towards myself.  Shadow didn’t seem to notice.  And while she did have a good appetite, I doubted she could finish everything.  Besides, the pie was warm and smelled heavenly.  I never got to eat anything like this, in the swamp.

Valzan, ever dutiful, was already in the process of asking for Mildred, the woman who would most likely have information for us.  By some stroke of luck, our waitress was Mildred.

Things were coming together smoothly!  Perhaps things would be simple from now on, I thought.

Suddenly, a bang came at the bar’s entrance; someone had slammed open the door.  A dishevelled man rushed in, eyes wild, hands wringing in worry.

...of course it wouldn’t be that easy, I sighed inwardly.

“My daughter!  They took my daughter!” he exclaimed.

I sat up straight, head whipping around to look at the man in surprise.  His daughter?  Taken?  That was awful!  The very idea made me sick.

And yet, for some unfathomable reason, all the patrons of the bar started laughing at the man.

What on earth is going on?

---tbc--

Continuation here!

[grimvestige]

AAAAAAAA LOOKIT SATORU!!!! LOOKIT LUTH!!!!! AAAAAAAAA

Man this is so cool!!!! I'm gonna have to cook up a really cool revenge for you >:3c

Artwork for @daisy-todd of their character, Satoru!

I’m Team Bloom on ArtFight!