#consider this an au otherwise

[paintedscales]

FFXIV Write 2023 :: Day 23

Prompt :: Suit Characters :: Nomin tal Kheeriin, Grathgar Senkasch Word Count :: 1,237

FFXIV Write 2023 Master List

The sands of Gangos were cool, thankfully, because the sun beat down otherwise on the cove where the Bozjans convened for war plans and debriefing. Though Nomin had come at the behest of Marsak when she had chanced to revisit Kugane once getting back from the First, she had distanced herself from the meetings. At least the ones that were more about upping morale, or providing words of inspiration. As it stood, Nomin felt as if she were not the greatest at either.

Instead, Nomin stood several fulms away from training dummies that the soldiers often used to keep their skills sharp. She held a gunblade in one hand, feeling its weight within her grasp. It had certainly been different from holding a spear, or using her bow. Hells, it had been weightier than the rapier and focus she had come to use to channel her aether to utilize red magic.

“Y’ain’t gonna get better at usin’ the thing the more ye stare at it, lass,” came a gruff voice.

Nomin looked behind her to the owner of the voice. There was a hrothgar standing there, his arms folded over his chest, and his expression not very discernable under his mane and scruff of white hair. A pair of goggles had been situated upon his head, crowning it.

The hrothgar’s name was Grathgar, and the one who had introduced to Nomin a gunblade of her own after she expressed mild interest in it. It was a training blade more than anything, with a failsafe so that the aether charges within had not produced as large a bang as the more combat-ready ones did. However, it was weighted to feel the same as holding the real thing.

“No need to remind me…” Nomin replied, partially frowning. She looked down at the blade and the cylinder that had clicked into place when she looked at how many charges it had. Flicking the cylinder and hearing it spin, Nomin walked over to Grathgar and huffed a quiet sigh.

“I hesitate to ask, mostly because the thought doesn’t really tickle my fancy…” Nomin started. “Though I don’t suppose there’s something that would fit me? A suit of armor so that I might get a feel for the weight and material while I train?”

Grathgar offered a soft chortle to the inquiry.

“Aye, that we do. We likely have somethin’ or other around here fer ye size…” Grathgar scratched his chin momentarily. Throwing a hand up, he then turned and led the way toward one of the supply tents. “Let’s see if we can get ye suited up, then.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Grathgar then asked, “ye ever wear somethin’ heavy an’ more suited fer protectin’ yer softer bits?”

“Nothing like plate or, uh, scale, if that’s what you’re asking,” Nomin admitted. She afforded the scales on the back of her hand a brief glance. “I’ve never really been one to stand on the front lines if I could help it. There are typically others more trained for it than I ever have been. The closest I’ve gotten is what I’ve worn for lance training in Eorzea -- but most of that has been leather and chain for protection.”

“Ah…then ye have quite an adjustment to make…” Grathgar responded. “We have armor that’s suited fer our practices, but it’s still gonna be heavier than what I imagine ye’ve been given afore.”

“Then it’s lucky I have this time to train and get some form of understanding of what I’ll be working with.” Nomin had fallen into step next to Grathgar, though had to skip forward every now and then just to keep up with his longer gait. “I don’t expect to use a gunblade immediately -- certainly not in the current short term. I’ll likely still be using a bow, or my red magic in order to aid and assist where I can. But at least having this training under my belt should I ever need to employ it in the future will be handy.”

The curl of a smirk grew on Grathgar’s lips as he and Nomin approached the supply tent. There were brief greetings made to those that were manning it, and Grathgar had explained briefly the situation as to their visit. The person that had been there nodded with some level of enthusiasm to getting to help with outfitting the Warrior of Light with something more than just light leathers and reinforced cloth.

With a little bit of aid into the armor and getting them secured, it took Nomin and the others a good chunk of a bell to ensure that each piece fit snugly and just right so that there were no mishaps due to misshapen pieces fit for a larger or smaller frame. Of course, it also turned out that Grathgar had not been exaggerating in the slightest when it came to the weight of the armor that now rested upon Nomin.

As it stood, the cloth had been reinforced underneath with chain, and the plating on her torso needed to be fitted with some padding underneath so as not to chafe. There were steel gauntlets underneath the sleeves of her coat, and steel pauldrons that sat upon her shoulders. Her neck had been covered up with tempered leather and thick steel to keep it protected. Perhaps the only truly obvious pieces of armor were the leather and steel boots that crawled all the way up to her thighs.

On the surface, the new suit that adorned Nomin had not looked too different from what she might have seen Thancred normally wear. He seemed to have no difficulty at all in wearing his coat and armor pieces along with fighting with whatever techniques he acquired from his own gunblade trainer. He had made it look all so easy…but then again, with how it seemed the First’s passage of time before Nomin had been pulled to it had gone…it was unsurprising that he had all that time to train and temper himself further.

“Aye, there ye go, lass… Lookin’ fit fer runnin’ on the front lines o’ Bozja, ye are…” Grathgar said, looking over Nomin and folding his arms back over his chest with a contented look on his face. “Now…we should go ahead an’ get ye trained up with that blade of yers. Jus’ be mindful of the aether charges within, an ye’ll be golden. Six total -- don’t forget.”

Nodding, Nomin took up the blade from where she had rested it. It was certainly a little more cumbersome with the added weight upon her person, though she walked back toward the training dummies with Grathgar close behind. Taking in a breath, Nomin thought of the different techniques that she had been shown.

Locking her attention upon the one striking dummy, Nomin braced herself before she charged forward and swung the blade. She pulled the trigger on the blade, only to have it glance off of the dummy’s surface with a pitiful ‘click’...and then a series of other, equally pitiful ‘click, click, clicks.’

“What the…” Nomin started, pulling the trigger again. Even if it was just a training blade, something should have happened.

“Ye did make sure to put some aether charges in there, aye?” Grathgar asked, amusement evident in his tone.

Nomin had felt that rising sense of embarrassment however, and she immediately went to check the six-round cylinder.

It had indeed been quite bereft of any rounds.

[socksandbuttons]

And then you get a random Bean Bloodmoon and Dadcode comic cause UH i was going in a direction with the current canon but halfway through realized I need a bit more to handle that one. I'd need to think about his resurrection, how and why PLUS we already know Bloodmoon would be disgusted with KC's pacifism (a most in character reaction from Bloodmoon I would think). Not to mention KC owning up to just... leaving all three of his kids. Bloodmoon needs patience, to learn and to be handled with such. This would be way after Eclipse's return so KC has a better understanding of owning up to his kids. He's not so very proud of his past self though (the frame he was holding is suppose to be something from that arc in the base.). Anyway, I'm just thinking how KC literally handles them as children here, making sure there's a set meal schedule, they're actually not opposed to confronting KC's actions although in this case Bloodmoon just couldn't wait an extra five minutes for some ham, which KC isn't too impressed with. Bloodmoon also takes things by the literal word.

[slimeshade]

Song of the damned / Song of the terminarch

[mayhemspreadingguy]

aaaaand it's finally done :D. Coffee shop date.

Why use a chair when there's the better option?

[casually-eat-my-soul]

The continent always wondered what was the last straw for the Witchers before they snapped and stopped. Before they united, together as one rather than live separately. Before they become one kingdom.

Some thought it was due to the fall of Cintra.

The hunt for the lion cub, the heir to the blue mountains and the daughter of the White Wolf. The girl of elder blood and magic of an ancient time. The hope of the new bloods and of future for Witchers. While Ciri is beloved by many Witchers, this was not what caused the divide between Witcher and human.

Other thought it was due to the white wolf, the warlord of the north. A man who brought all the Witcher schools together. Who brought enemies, brothers and strangers and banded them under one cause. And while Geralt become their king, it was not him who caused the turning point. Why would Witcher fight for a man who didn’t care about them. Someone, who even became myth among the legends of Witchers, he lived just the same as any of them. Who lived, fought and died on the path. Those who thought it was Geralt of riviera were wrong.

In reality, it all came down to Jaskier, the bard.

The man who sang of Witchers as heroes. Who gave them a story beyond monster. Touched them with the kindness that was not afforded to them. Who loved with all this heart. Someone who wanted more for Witchers than to die on the path, fight for people who hated them. A human whom defended, in all counts of what was know, Monsters. And whom expected nothing back. And when the Witchers learned that he was to be executed they rebelled. For the continent, may not have Jaskier, who was a home for Witchers. They had lost enough, they would not lose their songs.

And so it began. The greatest change of the age, all due to a man with a heart that could love a monster.

[s-c-l-n]

college zukka roommates where its 3 am, sokka walks into their dorm and sees zuko playing every version of “please, please, please let me get what i want” with candles light all around his side of the room and notes that say “passing grade” on just about ever surface while zuko is sleeping

(sokka turns around and closes the door to go bother suki into letting him stay in her room for the night)

[cabeswaterdrowned]

finally starting iwtv. my mutuals cheer

[taniushka12]

one day im gonna make fanart of MY fbc director!alan au with barry being Head of Communications and his right hand man (a win for nepotism!) because theres No Way hes being the director all on his own theres just No Way

[quirkle2]

Does zombie mob have fangs? When he's cured would still have them? Also how strong is zombie mob compared to human mob?

i like to pronounce fangs in my art bc it's fun and i think it looks cool but zombie mob doesn't actually have bigger or sharper canines than humans do. it's the Bite that's dangerous, not the sharp teeth, and that's not just because a zombie bite can turn you*

zombie mob is Very strong! ritsu first discovered this when trying to gently (and then with more oomph) push him down onto blankets to get him to sleep and it was basically impossible to even budge him, no matter how much strength behind it he applied—if mob doesn't wanna lie down, He Simply Won't <3

ritsu was reminded of this later, during the incident where tome was swarmed and mob defended her. during the fight mob had grabbed one of the zombie's heads and slammed it into the wall of a nearby trailer and the dent it made,,, let's just say that was Not caused by human levels of strength.

*after that ^ fight, ritsu came to the realization that zombie jaw strength is Wicked. they can bite down on metal and bend it if they wish—if they wanted to break bone with a bite, they could do so. mob was Incredibly lucky he got away with as few wounds as he did during that quarrel; the ones in his arm are Bone Deep and if that same level of strength had been applied to his neck, it woulda ended everything in a snap

important to note that bc he's prolly one of the healthiest zombies out there, that also means he's not as shaky as the others from starvation—zombie mob could potentially have a lot of strength underneath that docile nature, more than most zombies could muster up

luckily, ritsu has never been on the receiving end of mob's new abilities, but that also means he's largely in the dark about what he's capable of. mob never rly uses his strength outside of fights, and when ritsu tries to get him to lift something heavy, mob just kinda stares at him and then gets distracted by a bee. it's very hard to utilize any advantages his brother may give him in surviving, and ritsu doesn't wanna treat him like some servant, so he largely forgets about his strength until it's used in very dangerous close calls

[bleue-flora]

Hey same anon :]

Undiagnosed more in a "he's clearly some type of neurodivergent, but his parents refuse to acknowledge it and shame P!Tommy for any type of coping mechanisms he tries to form (stop shaking your hands, we're in public. Stop making that noise, it's annoying. You dont need the plushie, you're too old to carry it around. Cant you stop making things up for attention?) so sometimes he meltdown badly and gets completly overwhelmed even tho normally he doesn't mind/likes lots of noise and people"

And thats when he asks to go to Exile, because he's overwhelmed, doesn't want anyone to see him like that, and is deeply upset about how a happy moment turned sour so quick. + he doesn't want to scream at his friends if they try to talk to him :[

[context]

I mean you have a right to believe what you want or make up your own kid Tommy for this concept of it all being an imagination game between kids, but again in my mind I don't think any version of Tommy is or should be considered neurodivergent/autistic, he just doesn't have the characteristics and that's saying something considering that the spectrum is pretty diverse. And I say that as someone who is autistic and has ADHD, whose friends are pretty much all diagnosed or undiagnosed neurodivegent with autistic and/or ADHD, whose family has a whole bunch of neurodivergence and who sees a therapist regularly who specializes in autism. Now I'm not going to claim I know everything, but I think from personal experience both from being around others and my own life as well as having researched and studied it enough to say Tommy is an annoying kid, but that doesn't make him autistic. Some kids are just annoying and loud and stuff but that doesn't mean he's stimming or whatever. Plus we don't see cc!Tommy stim, we don't see c!Tommy stim so why would p!Tommy, a kid who plays c!Tommy in his game of make believe stim? It doesn't make sense.

Some common traits of autism (obviously not all inclusive) is logical minded, struggle to understand emotions, tendency to be honest to the point of rude (not to say we can't lie but it's not our default and if we are lying there's either a reason or it's part of masking), tendency to follow rules and like fairness and justice, tend to be good at patterns and puzzles... do those sound like Tommy to you? because while the spectrum is diverse these are just a few examples of him missing the mark entirely... or perhaps the biggest reason Tommy isn't autistic - he doesn't make sense to me. He lacks all logic and the things he does do not make sense to me or my autistic friends I've told, not because I am unempathetic or unable to see people's point of view (I have actually spent a lot of time working on myself to develop those skills), but because he is neurotypical and I will always struggle to understand them because my brain does not think like they do...

[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

What if Kaiju!Rook can mimic other Kaijus sounds and voice. It's almost the same sound, and when researchers analyze the sound Rook make with the Kaiju he was copying, the match of the vocalization is about 95-98%

I thought maybe this can be the equivalent of Rook's French.

In reference to this ask here:

Ooooooh, that’s an interesting theory there! In a way, it matches what marine biologists discovered when it came to orcas and dolphins: the orcas communicated with dolphins using dolphin-like whistles, clicks, and buzzes to communicate with their social partners!

If we take that into consideration with Rook and his normal language, it would be safe to say that—much like how he taught Ace how to talk to the lost hedgehogs Ace’s dorm uniform card—he’s very skilled at mimicry and communication. So how would this translate in Kaiju language? How would it sound to human ears?

Well, normally, when he speaks in his native language, it sounds musical—like windchimes mixed with a low rumbling tremor that fills the air with a thrum (kinda like a pleasant tingling sensation if he's right next to you). Which can be quite jarring hearing it come from something that looks like he should be as loud as Leona, given he looks like a lion made of stone (with mantis limbs for hunting/striking). Perhaps due to the nature of his body structure, there’s a hollowness in his chest or throat that allows wind to pass through and mimic the sounds of wind-based instruments like an ocarina made of clay? Hmm...something to think about. 🤔

Either way, this same skill allows him to replicate the tones and pitches of the other Kaiju so he can communicate with them, mimicking Vil and Epel more often than not since he spends more time with them as part of their pack (or perhaps Vil calls it a flock? Hmm…). Though on occasion when he either doesn’t know the word or doesn’t feel it would be strong enough, he will revert to his original language. This same skill—however—may also have been the catalyst for the researchers to get so close to making a breakthrough in communicating with the Kaiju themselves!

If only their efforts hadn’t been cut so short before Yuu’s awakening... U.U

[sturthepotofmadness]

(I can never tell if the images I made transparent are still transparent in tumblr, let’s hope this is—)

For @pastelpaperplanes ‘s 10k DTIYS :)

The vine border decided to be a nightmare to draw, since it was on the highest layer but bits went behind Oppy and Megsy. When I was putting this in the app I use to make parts of images transparent, I kept having to redo it because I forgot shading somewhere on this like five separate times. It was very annoying, but there it is!

[fightingthetides]

'small things' (for Yamamoto)

[Original] ||Accepting|| @squaletta From a meme tag in my other blog

Readmore because it got long (~2k) because I went with actual canon scenes.

For Yamamoto, it wasn’t very accurate to say that he’d think any memories he had with others were insignificant, as he simply treasured any moment he spent with his friends and family. What could be said was that there were some memories that became something like a ‘core memory’ for one reason or another. Just a memory that he falls back to every once in a while to remember how things began.

Speaking of that, of course the most important memory is how he’d first met Squaletta. Initially, it was just a regular day out with the guys, in the shopping district. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so average, considering they skipped school that Sunday to hang out with friends instead. It was just prep day, so it’s no big deal. Basil came crashing in (literally) into Tsuna and there she was, Squaletta.

He can remember the chaos in the moment with people screaming and debris flying everywhere as she was causing a fuss with her attacks. Honestly, Basil was quite the guy to have gotten that far with Squaletta hot on his tail. He may have lost the rings in the end, but the fact that he managed to keep his life was impressive enough.

Gokudera and Yamamoto teamed up together when Squaletta approached Tsuna, asking about the relation she had with Basil. Maybe for Gokudera it was mostly his sense of duty for protecting his ‘boss,’ but at the time Yamamoto had moved because of his sense of camaraderie. He viewed Tsuna as a respectable friend. He didn’t have an instilled sense of her being his ‘boss’ or anything yet. The mafia business just felt like… yeah, a game.

Don’t get him wrong, games were important to him. He took each game very seriously, but a game of mafia was secondary to the wellbeing of his friends, that’s where he and Gokudera mostly differed.

Just when he felt concerned for Tsuna, he felt his bat at his side, like some trusty sidekick that could be summoned at will. Funny, right? Even if he’d seen first hand how capable Squaletta was (the destruction in her wake was telling enough, after all), he wasn’t a true swordsman by any means. He had an instinctual aversion to hurting someone with the blade.

He didn’t have the guts to seriously hurt, much less kill someone with the blade. He didn’t think about it at the moment, but there was a part of him that held back because Squaletta was a woman. What if he could overpower her and hurt her?

A stupid and conceited thought to have considering that Squaletta defeated Gokudera and him without breaking a sweat. He can still remember the rebuke they both got from Reborn after everything was finished with Dino’s intervention:

“At the level you’re fighting at right now, you’ll be nothing but a bother. You two can go home.”

“Especially you, don’t think yourself so highly and accomplished to think you can look down on a swordswoman for something so arbitrary like her gender. That woman is a master at her craft and should be respected as such.”

Man, the kiddo always knows how to knock some sense into you with some harsh words, but he needed to hear it! After being defeated so one-sidedly, it ignited a spark of competition and vengeance that he didn’t know was possible for him if the subject wasn’t baseball.

If this woman was a master at her craft, then the only way for him to get his revenge match would be to study a craft himself, and he knew just who to talk to. The Asari dojo was finally going to welcome him within her walls as a student even though he’d rejected her for years in lieu of baseball.

(ref: ch. 82-84)

-

“We are the Cervello Organization, a branch of the Millefiore. No more and no less.” Weird how these women look the same as the ones that oversaw the Ring battles between Vongola 10 and the Varia. Yamamoto vaguely recalls at the time wondering if they were all clones or something.

“The Cervello… of the Millefiore?” “Screw this! Whoever you are, you’re blatantly on the enemies side!”

Leave it to Gokudera to start firing off verbally. The one who is brave enough to speak his mind where others may hesitate or not be able to see the issue regarding bias.

“Oh, no, they will judge fairly. It’s their specialty. Indeed, surely it is you who are not following the rules of fair play?”

It was Kikyo who spoke next to build off Byakuran’s statement, “I feel obliged to congratulate the individual in question for her impressive ability to conceal 99.99% of her bloodthirsty presence… but faint though it may be, I can still sense the remaining .001% there is somebody hidden in that base unit of yours.”

That’s when Squaletta emerged from the base. She had hidden herself in there so well that none of the others had noticed her there. “The heck! So you showed up!” Yamamoto smiles at the discovery.

Varia-quality indeed, being able to hide 99.99% of her bloodthirsty presence. Though, that Kikyo guy was also impressive to even pick up on that.

“Don’t get me wrong, ya piece of trash! I just snuck in in the hope of causing a bit of madness and mayhem.”

“Hahaha”

That’s what he can expect from her. Secretly, he’d been pretty disappointed that she couldn’t be around to witness the battle. She’d spent her time training him so that he’d be ready for battle and it was a shame that she couldn’t watch over him—but here she is!

“The thing holding you back is the fact you’ve never fully embraced the sword.” “Never fully embraced the sword?” “The you I knew in this era was the same way.” The two were camping out in the woods to train in seclusion. The fish that Squaletta had caught while on the fishing boat was being grilled over an open fire. Yamamoto felt that it was almost like having a camping trip, but he kept those thoughts to himself. “It always pissed me off… but I accepted it as part of who you were.” “What…what are you talking about?” Yamamoto did have a hunch as to what she was talking about, but it was a difficult topic for him and he almost wanted to avoid it. Would he be able to discard baseball forever in order to focus on the blade, or would he choose to remain focused on both, not giving either one his full attention and efforts? Of course, giving up on the blade wasn’t an option. “If you really want to become strong, there’s just one thing you have to do! Baseball or the blade. You have to choose one.” The gravity of her tone was too much for Yamamoto to dismiss it easily with a laugh, his usual go to knee-jerk response. He’s silent before he cracks a small joke when the awkward air hung too heavy on his shoulders. “What are you, my career counselor?” “I know you have the talent to handle both at once! But the blade isn’t something you ‘handle,’ it’s something you stake everything on!” Squaletta hopped onto her feet to scream these words at him. Yamamoto goes silent again, watching her from past the fire. Slowly, a smile shows up on his face, “Then the answer’s obvious. I’ll devote myself to the blade.” He grabs his blade that was sitting beside him and holds it close to him. “You know, when I fought Genkishi, I felt confident that I could win… that I’d take him down, and we’d all go back home to the past…” he remembers the pain of running full force into a wall, damaging his skull. The memory causes him to wince, “But the difference in power was just crazy, he slaughtered me. As my consciousness faded away, I found myself overcome with regret… that I hadn’t taken the blade seriously enough that I’d brought shame upon the name of my Old man’s Shigure Souenryuu… and most of all... that I hadn’t done the best I possibly could for the sake of my pals.” It wasn’t often, but Yamamoto was opening up about the thoughts he always kept hidden deep inside. He usually opted to keep his thoughts to himself, and wallow in his thoughts when alone, but he felt that perhaps Squaletta would understand him, or at least understand the feelings of regret he had at the time. Perhaps that’s why she went silent and listened to him speak. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again. But you know what, It’s strange-“ he lays down against the log that he was sitting on earlier. “Now that I’ve decided to focus on the blade alone, suddenly it’s like a huge weight’s fallen off my shoulders.” “So you were letting that get to you, huh…” That was her sole comment for him. “Still, it’s kind of sad… forgetting all about baseball, even if it’s just for a while.” He smiles, knowing that she was going to scream at him the moment she registers that Yamamoto was going to focus on the blade solely for a temporary moment. “OI!!!”

Looks like she’ll get to see the fruits of their training after all.

(ref: ch. 243 & 246)

-

Yamamoto was awake, staring up at the ceiling. He was alive, well… if you can call it that. He kept fading in and out of consciousness. He’d lost a lot of blood and the shock of being betrayed by a friend was something he needed to wrap his mind around.

Whenever his mind was awake, it wasn’t for long, with how much drugs were in his system at the moment. The doctors did everything that they could in order to keep him alive. His condition was severe, and the doctors were sure that there was a higher chance that he’d never be able to walk again.

He could only hear bits and pieces of what was going on around him, but he wasn’t sure what parts actually happened, and what may have been caused by the delirium of all the drugs and adrenaline in his body.

Maybe some of what he ‘remembered then’ was a figment of his imagination.

He can remember feeling the presence of his father being by his bedside, his hand shaking with nervousness. They’d already lost his mother, and his Old man wouldn’t be able to handle losing him as well. If nothing else, he had to pull through for his Old man.

He had a few visitors who came by to visit and drop by small get-well gifts.

It may have been a fever dream, but he can remember his father reading off a message Yamamoto received. He couldn’t understand it at the time, but he later found out from the others that Chrome was tasked with making an illusionary version of him to take his place during some ceremony. He wished he could’ve been there for Tsuna and the rest of them—but… what can you do when you were fighting for your life?

Not sure how much of a life he could’ve had if his prospects was that he wouldn’t be able to walk. He’d have to effectively lose both his dreams of playing baseball and being a swordsman forever.

Apparently, Dino and Squaletta had both noticed the fake instantly and asked for details. Squaletta had sent a message off during the ceremony that he’d better work hard to recover. Someone of his caliber shouldn’t listen to some lame doctor who says there’s a ‘good chance’ he’ll never walk again. Unless his legs are chopped off, he better find a way to make them move or she’ll render his useless herself.

Harsh words, but so like her.

At least, that’s what he THINKS he remembers.

Luckily, someone came by to heal him back to new, so he could rush off to go be with his friends. He also wanted to clear the air with his misguided buddy.

(Inspo ch.295)

[trainingdummyrabbit]

what they dont tell you abt growing up is that every day is another journey of "okay well i didnt think That character archetype would hit me as hard as it is but all right i guess."

[sabraeal]

The Vagrant's Season, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Written for @onedivinemisfit for her birthday! This is part of Annie's Shapeshifter AU; a prequel to this piece, filling in the weeks from when Obi arrived in The Valley to the start of mating season. There are a half dozen version of the song I adapt for Shirayuki in this, but I referred to two specific ones to cobble together this one: Marianne Lihannah's and Pernille Anker's. There is also one line from this folk song in the last scene!

“You’re a shy little one, aren’t you?” The vixen doesn’t stoop or sing-song, not like how the menfolk would when they saw him like this, just a shadow and a snout hidden amongst their shrubbery. A good thing too; if she shrilled the way the goodwives would, calling him a sweet pup and lille vennen and gutten min, he’d have skittered away faster than mice in a pantry.

Instead her voice is soft, riding the same rise and lull as her song, and her hands never pause in their picking. A practiced motion— reach, pinch, twist; reach, pinch, twist— that never falters, even when she slants him her curious glance. “I mean you no harm. There’s more than enough for the both of us here, if we only take for the needing.”

Ah, now that stings him, just a little. He’d seen her sorting out her tubers and berries that first time, plucking the bounty he’d meant to have all to himself until spring, and well— he’d scampered off, sure, half-scared of even a wilder’s shadow, but he’d come back too. Gave himself two good hands to pillage with and glutted himself on what she’d left behind, sure he’d find some other hole to weather out the last of winter.

Even with no stars yet in the sky he knew the footfalls that would take him toward Yuris, toward Tanbar, toward any place but that little glade and the vixen whose scent lingered on every leaf. And yet honey and bitter greens never quite left his nose, turning his paws in circles, spiraling him back to this very clearing, over and over. Spirit-blind he may be, but let it never be said Obi couldn't take a hint from one, when it was given.

“It’s warmer here in the sun.” Her tone is conversational rather than cajoling, and Obi’s tempted to take the invitation. Spread out his shorter legs, cramped from where he’s been camped in the bushes, waiting for her to finish her picking and sorting. Maybe even see if she might feed him from her hands, the way the young girls did at the village outskirts, too young to know the difference between a fox and a pup. “I know fur so fine as yours must keep you warm even in the snows, but it’s quite nice to have the light on you.”

She breathes in, misting the air with her exhale. “You can almost believe it’s spring.”

It will come soon enough; he smells it on the air even now, the promise of plenty enough to make his belly tremble. A few more weeks and he could eat his fill, strengthen up for whatever journey still laid ahead. Nice as it might be to survive on the outskirts of the Valley, growing fat on their game and forage, that sour scent in the north will mosey its way down here sometime this summer. Unpleasant as that dog smells, he’ll be needing to deal with the Keeper, trade with the other wilder in his pack. Maybe even mate, if he could find a vixen to stand him.

This vixen sits back on her heels, sigh as sweet as her scent wafting up from her lips. “Well, that’s that then. Guess we won’t meet today, little one.”

Toes curl beneath her, and with the sort of limber grace village girls lacked but wilder women possessed in spades, she bounces up to her feet, basket teetering on her hip like a smile does on her lips. “Maybe next time, then. Be a pity for neighbors not to get along with each other.”

When he steps out of the brush, it’s on two legs, one hand scratching at the nape of his neck.

“Get along,” he mutters, shoving a berry into his mouth. It breaks sour over his tongue. “See how long that lasts.”

*

There’s no convenient cave to make his camp, no abandoned lean-to left by a less wary vagrant passing through to warmer climes, but Obi does find a hollow not far from the vixen’s glade. An old yew, wider than two of him together could wrap around, beginning to rot from the inside. The sort of thing the volva would have clucked their collective tongues over, proclaiming that its spirit was sick and frail, a terrible portents for the future of their community.

But for him it’s only a tight squeeze on two legs and a cozy hideaway on four. Keeps him dry at least, and warm when the winds blow, though even as he drifts asleep, he hears the wood creaking like their voices, stay too long as a little one and you’ll be wild in truth.

It becomes habit to watch the vixen about her business; mostly small, letting his dark fur hide him among the shadows even as she tries to call him out from cover, her sweet smile more tempting than even the berries she offers. As it warms he sheds that skin more often, letting his legs stretch until he smells herbs on the wind and hears the first strains of her honeyed songs.

It’s inevitable that at some point, he forgets.

*

The dawn breaks warm that morning; the first tease of true spring before the spirits unfurl their sleeping tendrils and wake in truth. At least, so the volva say; Obi’s never seen a lick of them as long as he’s lived. Blind, they called him, but if it’s the price he pays to walk comfortably among the townsfolk each winter, he’ll pay it gladly.

There’s a tree at the edge of the vixen’s glade, an old birch so piebald it’s half shadow itself, its spiny little leaves coming in strong with the first hint of winter’s breaking. They don’t grow like this near the menfolk— there it’s straight little stands of bone-white trunks, but here, it’s a gnarled, knotted mess of a grandmother, so thick and bent from reaching out toward the light the glade promises that a body could get lost trying to find their way through its branches.

He sprawls his across one so thick it could be its own tree, legs dangling as wild as tangled ivy. Dappled in the sun’s light, it’s a cozy enough spot to let his blood warm up to the promise of the day. His head tips back, eyes fluttering closed, and ah, if he lets his mind drift enough, he can fool himself into thinking the volva are shuffling after him still, looking for that lazy boy, more scent than sense—

“The kit is placed in her cradle, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing.” Breath tumbles out of him in a snort, rousing him in shorter order than the vixen’s song, so close each word comes as a caress instead of a whisper on the wind. “Her mother cares for her, trouble, trouble, trouble.”

Already he reaches for his smaller body, eager to put fur over flesh and scamper into cover, but—

“Sleep now, sleep now” —copper flickers over bush tops, like a bullfinch buzzing over the brush— “in the arms of the mother tree, keep watch, o spirits, and hold this kit safe.”

For as many times as he has seen her, it’s always been with a little one’s eyes, limited to the muted grays and dunny browns they can create. Enough to get the idea of most wilders on whom he’s let his gaze linger, but this vixen— her hair alone is red and gold together, an autumn forest ablaze and yet tame beneath her hands. And when she lets her eyes skim over the brushline, looking for him…

Green. The same as the leaves that flutter between them, hiding him from sight. He hunkers down, belly to branch, and bides his time.

*

The vixen lingers longer as the weather warms, shedding her heavy cloak before she settles in to work, spreading it beneath her knees. There’s more for her to do now; with the snow near half melted, more greens unfurl between her visits, and the thin stopgap of winter berries turning into a bounty of sweet spring fruit. She sorts them as she works, each kind going into their own cloth before she rolls them up and tucks them into her basket, humming with satisfaction.

Most days he keeps her company as a little one; it delights her to coax him out step by step, creeping closer and closer to sharing sunlight. But more and more often, he lingers, watching her with wilder eyes as she goes about her business. Wonders, sometimes, if her pelt is just as bright as her hair when she trots about in her smaller form, if the gold would shine the way it does in the morning sun.

When she settles herself today— I shall give to my sister my seven gold rings, all under the linden so green— it’s with two baskets, one set in front and the other just behind. No difference between them that Obi can see, no reason one berry goes in one and not the either, just one plump little fruit, one after the other. Each one leaves juice smeared across her fingertips, so ripe his mouth salivates just thinking of how they’ll taste on his tongue, of how they’ll burst beneath his teeth.

“You know,” she calls out, her mouth hooked in the wryest of her smiles. “It’s polite to announce yourself if you’re going to linger in a vixen's territory. Especially a dog like yourself.”

Obi blinks between his branches, glancing from left to right, but there’s no dog for her to be talking to, not unless—

He glances down, right to where she stands, staring square at him through the branches. “You might introduce yourself at least. Now that I know you haven’t gone wild.”

His arms fold and his chin tilts, the way that makes most dogs shy from his company, let alone the wiser vixens. “I’m not the sort a vixen like you would want to know.”

Her jaw sets, even as that smiles pulls sweeter. “I think that’s up to me, isn’t it?”

Obi has to admit, she has a point there.

“This is my territory you’ve been lingering in, after all.” Her shrug is a soft bounce of her shoulders, but her scent presses heavily around him. Her territory. Unmated female she may be, but he is an unmated male, living on her sufferance. “I should know who I have the pleasure of sharing my patch with.”

“No point,” he sniffs, tilting his chin higher. “I’m just passing through.”

“For three weeks?” Her mouth twitches, not from fear. “I think that’s a little more than passing through.”

Ah, he hadn’t realized she’d be counting. “Just until there’s forage elsewhere.”

By the cock of her hip, he knows his excuse is as thin as tissue, ready to be torn under her able paws. “A name might be nice. I can’t just call you vagrant this whole time.”

“I have lots of names.” One for each year he’s wintered over among the menfolk. But they’ve always slipped off him like his fur does his skin, never sticking the whole season. Eirik had been the one he gave Goody, a smile on his lips, but she shook her head the way the menfolk always do, as if they already knew it doesn’t fit. “Which one do you want?”

The smile he gives her is all teeth, but she doesn’t flinch like she’s supposed to. No, she just furrows that brow at him, concerned. “The one you want to give me.”

His shoulder burns even beneath his hand. “I already said I wouldn’t be around long.”

“Fine, Vagrant it is then,” the vixen sighs, tucking her plants against her waist, tying them to the space under her belt. “I hope you have a nice day, Vagrant.”

It’s not until she’s gone that he realizes she left one of her baskets behind, but when he goes to call out—

Well, it seems he never got a name either.

[padfootastic]

Crack AU where Voldemort reveals he thinks the Potters are the targets and every single member of his Inner Circle just laughs in his face and says they’d sooner kill him now than let him face an enraged and grieving Sirius Black.

bonus points if this is the previous environment we’ve been talking about where all the DEs are terrified of sirius (and not the dark!sirius one) lol.

voldemort: there is just…one more obstacle in our grand plans now. the potters. they must go.

literally everyone else: well, it was nice knowing you, my lord. it’s been swell.

voldemort, who’s literally cheated death: ???

sirius, driving a basilisk fang thru the last horcrux: right, so. tell me more about your plan for world domination again.