#dusty skirmishes

[silentium-symphony]

Book Buddies I (Link x Reader)

(a/n) hi! i'm nicole and thank you for checking out this story! i've been HORRENDOUSLY down bad for link and i started this blog just so i can gush about him asdjhfjk i literally love him sm

i haven't written anything creatively in awhile, so i'm rather rusty--sorry if there are any mistakes, and thank you for being patient with me!

as i was approaching an ungodly word count, i decided to split it into two parts. part 2 will be released shortly and will be linked here!

cw: afab!reader, researcher!reader, dusty libraries, link accidentally discovering your kink before even learning your name, started out as fluff then kinda devolved into... well, smth, some swearing oops

wc: 2.4k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Ah, Link--Captain of the Royal Guard, personal bodyguard to the Princess, battle-hardened warrior with dozens of well-fought battles under his belt, giddy little schoolboy head over heels for--wait, what?

This man--who has stared Death down until it flee from him--was tripping over a head-scratching, "aha"-ing, entrancing little Sheikah researcher?

You bet your ass he was.

It started out innocently enough. He had gone to the library to scout out some new battle tactics for the next skirmish he and his soldiers would inevitably be dragged into, and he happened to round a corner just in time to see a flair of (H/C) hair.

Oh Hylia, you were breathtaking.

Maybe it was the way the torches warmly contoured your face's every feature, or maybe how the sun got caught in that beautiful, silky hair of yours that seemed to frame your face in the most angelic way. Or maybe it was the way your brows crinkled and your nose scrunched as you absorbed the contents of the aged scroll balancing delicately between your cautious fingers.

Regardless, you were squarely in his line of sight and he made no effort to move (seemingly unaware of the rest of the library's patrons, who were scooting past him and shooting impatient scowls at the dazed captain).

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Your temples pounded a dull ache that sent any semblance of coherent thought out of your head; you let out a deep sigh, feeling your face relax as you do.

Ugh, you gotta stop doing that... Seriously, you look like a pig when you scrunch your nose like that.

The last sentiment was spoken in a thousand scornful voices, all the way from your mother to your fellow researchers. You threw your head back and felt your eyelids droop close, your eyes grateful to be getting a break from their swimming lessons. Your chest heaved slowly, filling the corner of your lungs with the smell of aged books and sun-caught dust.

As you exhaled, your eyes fluttered open and happened to catch a pair of wide, cerulean eyes eyeing you from afar.

You almost snorted your exhale and immediately threw your nose back into the scroll.

Shit shit shit! Oh gods, why Hylia, why of all people did he have to see that stupid expression of yours?! It could have been literally anyone but him!

Cheeks aflame and mind accursing, you slowly look up from your scroll and see the same pair of cerulean staring back at you, softer this time and with a hint of something else... Amusement?

You sent an awkward smile his way and nodded your head in acknowledgment before thickly swallowing the painful lump in your throat. Heart thundering loudly in your ears, you hadn't noticed it perfectly syncing with a pair of hurried metal footsteps barring against stone.

The door to the library creaked open and a pair of glistening silver helmets peeped through.

You heard a flurry of panicked whispers sourcing from the doorway and you couldn't help but peek your eyes just above the yellowed edge of your scroll. A gasp, followed by a barely there "Captain."

Link's eyes shot to the pair and side-eyed their raggedly breathing forms. Drills and exercise regimens aimed at improving one's cardiovascular system are in order. He tilted his head, beckoning for them to wait outside before they divulged possibly very important information to a room full of people without proper clearance. The pair nodded, understanding their silent captain's commands, and slowly closed the loudly creaking door (in which everyone grimaced).

Link let out an imperceptible huff and turned his gaze to you one last time. You both caught each other's eyes, a feeling of enrapturement encasing the both of you--but as quickly as you caught it, it was lost with a swift turn of his heel and the click of the door (which didn't creak this time, much to the relief of everyone).

You felt the cheekiest of smiles play at your lips, and you almost smacked that stupid lil' grin off your face. Boy oh boy did that man have you whipped.

You looked down, your eyes locking with the same paragraph you have been trying to read for the past half hour; you groaned.

You were gonna be here for awhile.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

With a belly full of the most mid meal ever warm food the chef cooked up with leftover ingredients, Link found himself aimlessly wandering the halls of Hyrule Castle, absently absorbing the estate's splendor and many banners that riddled its thick stone walls.

Calloused fingers lightly grazed the rough interior, a chill slithering up his arm and down his back. His mind, in an effort to counteract the sudden coolness, immediately flashed to a thought that made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

You, of course.

All throughout the walk to the courtyard, during the emergency meeting called by the king himself, throughout dinner with his fellow brothers-in-arms, all he could think about was you.

He hadn't the slightest clue as to why you, specifically, had him absolutely smitten. There were plenty of good-looking researchers and soldiers who've pursued him at one time or another, but he never reciprocated their affections regardless of how flattered he was. Duties to the crown and whatnot occupied every crevice of his mind; he hadn't caught feelings for anyone since... Wait, had he ever caught feelings for anyone?

He clicked his tongue and shook these unproductive thoughts out of his head. In all his time serving Hyrule and her people, he had not once caught a glimpse of you. The palace was teeming with researchers and soldiers, so the chances of seeing you again were pretty low. Coupled with his irregular schedule and lengthy trips away from home, he could practically dash all hopes of fostering any sort of relationship with you.

Gods, if only he had caught your name! Maybe he can ask Zelda or Purah...?

He stopped before a door and stared at it for a long while, strangely unable to open it himself. The library. It felt like his arms were being weighed down by a chain with a heavy ball attached to it.

He glanced towards the window and felt the familiar panic of seeing the moon nearing its peak and him far away from slumber. Sighing, he rested a hand on the brass doorknob and sluggishly turned it.

Oh well. He's already here. Might as well do some light reading or review old battle strategies. Maybe that'll release him from his insomniac torment.

As he lightly pressed the door open, he poked his head through and scanned the room.

Only to be met with groggy, dark-rimmed (E/C) eyes.

His heart lurched in his throat and he almost sent you beaming across the room had his brain not make the last-second announcement that you were a civilian.

You, who was not a solider by any means, let out something between a yelp and a scream and fumbled backwards, unceremoniously landing on your rump and sending all your study things flying in all directions.

"Augh... Geez..."

A sharp pain bloomed from the point of contact and you hissed, rubbing the sore spot and cursing at your carefully organized notes scattered all over the ground.

A resounding clap of wood against stone preluded the Captain rushing through the doorway and immediately attending to you, resting a firm clasp on your shoulder and looking at you with a face that screamed a thousand apologies.

You let out a weak smile and an airy chortle, waving off his concerns.

"I-I'm fine... You gave me quite a scare, Captain! That woke me right up."

You did your best to whip out your most reassuring smile, all the while fighting the prickly feeling of new tears beading at your eyes; of course, this did not go unnoticed by the hyperaware soldier and his eyes widened in alarm, then panic, and finally resolve.

He smoothly laced his fingers with yours and in one smooth motion, gently hoisted you to your feet and into a chair with a thoroughly practiced move. Before you could even utter a 'thanks,' he was back on the floor, scrambling to get your papers and books in order.

During the chaos, a thin, deliciously scandalous-looking book slipped out of the Captain's hastily made bundle of paper and book.

It was your turn to start reeling. Ice coursed through your veins as your cheeks lightened to every shade of crimson under the sun.

Okay, act cool! Maybe he didn't see i--NO STOP WHY ARE YOU REACHING FOR IT

"U-Um--! Wait, that's--!"

Everything was in slow motion.

Link's hand felt the ground for whatever he dropped, picked up the book and absently inspected the scantily clad woman with a... Wait, is he choking her--?

"NOOO!!!"

You felt a void from where you initially felt a chair and saw Link's confused face rapidly approaching your own as you dove straight for the book and onto the Captain himself.

The force of a whole person launching themselves at him knocked the air right out of his lungs; his arms wrapped around your back and pressed you closer to him, bracing for impact.

THUD!

Thank Hylia, a majority of the blow concentrated mostly on his shoulder. He'd take a sore shoulder over a split skull any day. Peering down, he saw trusses of (H/C) messily splayed atop his chest and your smaller body oh so perfectly filling in the empty spaces of his much larger frame.

More base thoughts seeped into his mind and he mentally flogged himself for thinking such things. He cleared his throat, raw from disuse, and groaned out, "you okay?"

You flinched at the deep, husky rumble in his chest and pathetically pushed yourself up.

How could you ever recover from this.

"Y-Yeah... I'm so sorry Captain, I... slipped."

He stared at you steadily, skepticism thinly veiled behind his eyes.

"... Slipped?"

"Y-... Yes."

Oh how you wished that Hylia would just whisk you away to the Demon King himself.

He maintains eye contact with you, several emotions you couldn't pick up on swimming just underneath his seafoam hues. He nodded slowly and sat up even slower, with you still wrapped up in his arms not that you minded but for the sake of decorum.

"Ah... Captain..."

You were practically straddling him now and his arms still remained tight behind your back. A flash of realization shot through him and he immediately released you, scooting back and back and back until he was nowhere near your personal bubble.

"I," he cleared his throat hoarsely, "apologize. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Oh no, it's okay! It's my fault really, I shouldn't have lunged--er, slipped, like that..."

You dusted the light brown dust that stained your garbs and offered a helping hand to the downed man. He looked up at you gratefully and clasped his hand in yours; it took everything in you to not get pulled down in the process.

As Link rocked back to his feet, The Book--still tightly gripped in the man's hand--flashed in your peripheral and you damn near shat bricks. You did all that and you couldn't even get the fucking book.

As if suddenly made aware of its existence, Link looked down at what he'd been holding this whole time and gazed upon the cover in its full, sultry glory. The tips of his ears began to adopt a shade of red you didn't think was possible and you snatched the book out of his hand.

"T-That's for a friend! She, uh, has been looking for this book for a really long time and I-I was just grabbing it for her! Please do not think that this is for me!"

You bowed your head, hoping that he couldn't see the beads of sweat dotting your brow or hear how fast your heart was racing. Link was silent for a moment, no doubt trying to process everything that went down in the past five minutes, before letting out a low chuckle.

"Well... You can tell your friend that there is no need to be embarrassed. She can pass her time however she pleases."

You strained a laugh and looked up bashfully, more than done with this conversation and itching for a topic change.

"Oh! Right! So, um... What brings you to the library so late at night?"

A vacant visage filled your vision as the soldier looked about the room--has he forgotten why he was here?

"I was... looking for a book to do some light reading. Do you or... your friend have any recommendations?"

He cast a knowing smile your way and you fought the urge to swipe that smug grin off his pretty face. You inhaled sharply, maintaining your composure, and flashed him a bright smile.

"Of course! What genres are you interested in?"

He hummed thoughtfully and drummed a finger on his chin.

"I... am not sure. I have only read strategy books and training manuals and the like. Perhaps something easy for the mind, but engaging enough to be read any time of the day."

"Hm..." While your head was filtering through a lifetime's collection of good reads, your feet shifted from under you and you found yourself weaving through the different aisles. The Captain loosely trailed behind you.

"At first glance, you seem like an action type of guy who'd do nicely with a good war story... But I assume you have enough of that in your life?"

"Yes." He lightly winced.

"Actually Captain," you start, dragging your fingers across a myriad of different book spines, "there's a fair amount of literature centered around you and your exploits."

"What? Really?" It filled his chest with a funny, lighthearted feeling. "Well, I suppose that makes sense..."

It felt rather strange to have whole books dedicated to you and your past accomplishments, but he recognized that not everyone has the privilege of getting their exploits penned down for the enjoyment of future generations. He couldn't help but wonder... Have you read any of them?

"Ah! Here it is!" Your deft hand snapped a book from the shelf, the remaining books gently folding in on each other to account for the sudden absence of their neighbor. The deep purple cover seamlessly blended into the dark corners of the library with only the occasional glint of the book's gold accent outlining its shape.

"This is a classic detective novel called Louis and Sholmes. The novel takes its sweet time building to its climax, but once you get to the good parts it's a real page-turner!"

Huh... Climax...

Link cleared his throat and bowed gratefully to you.

"Thank you for your recommendation, um..."

"Oh!" You placed a hand on your chest and bowed deeply. "(F/N). My name is (F/N)."

[probablyasocialecologist]

When an Iraqi militant group killed three U.S. service members at a base in Jordan over the weekend, the militants were clear about their motives: It was retaliation for American support for Israel. “As we said before, if the U.S. keeps supporting Israel, there will [be] escalations,” a senior official from an alliance of Iraqi militia groups said in claiming responsibility for the attack. “All the U.S. interests in the region are legitimate targets, and we don’t care about U.S. threats to respond.” The statement is not new or surprising. While the need for U.S. troops to be stationed at the Tower 22 military base — a dusty outpost on the Syria–Jordan border — has a dubious, if any, relationship to U.S. national security, the U.S. presence has been very helpful to Israel. The U.S. military in the region serves to deter Iran as well as Israel’s many other enemies. Now, establishing deterrence against Israel’s adversaries is threatening to suck the U.S. back into a broader, open conflict in the Middle East. Take, for example, the recent U.S. attacks against the Houthis in Yemen, which began after the rebels attacked ships in the Red Sea to force an Israeli ceasefire in Gaza. Especially at a time when the U.S. is trying to pivot away from the region, Israel increasingly looks like a liability to U.S. interests in the Middle East. American officials are forced to expend significant economic, political, and military resources to shield Israel’s government from local threats and deflect international outrage over its campaign in Gaza. Israel, it turns out, extracts a tremendous cost from the U.S. — often in treasure but, as the world saw over the weekend in Jordan, sometimes in blood — with few discernable strategic gains for the Americans.

[...]

U.S. military officials periodically criticize the impact of uncritical U.S. support for Israel on American interests in the region, where Israel remains unpopular for its policies against Palestinians. These complaints, even from U.S. military officials, have often been walked back under political pressure. Despite repeated vows by American leaders to reduce the country’s footprint in the Middle East, the U.S.’s commitment to Israel has turned into military involvement across the region. There are strikes against the Houthis in Yemen, aircraft carriers in the eastern Mediterranean to deter Hezbollah in Lebanon, and skirmishes with Iranian-backed militias in Syria and Iraq. The costs for the U.S. from this new era of conflict are rapidly adding up. According to a recent report in Politico, an estimated $1.6 billion has already been spent on unanticipated U.S. military expenses in the region since October 7 — a price tag Pentagon officials say they cannot pay without a new budget from Congress. Global ammunition shortages are also forcing the U.S. to scramble to replenish its depleted supplies at a time when it is also struggling to contain threats in Europe and East Asia. For Israel, however, the U.S.’s presence only fortifies its strategic initiatives. “The Israelis view the American presence in the region as very important, because it creates a backstop for them,” said Parsi. “The U.S. presence gives Israel greater maneuverability to carry out strikes in places like Syria and Lebanon, but also a sense of deterrence against those who would like to retaliate against them, since it may mean that the U.S. is dragged into the conflict as well.”

[bite-the-bloody-hand]

Dramatis Personae

For the sake of having the most important details of Zell's person and history written down somewhere, I have been compelled to create this character sheet of sorts. FULL of spoilers for Kingmaker and Wrath of the Righteous.

Name: Grenzel 'Zell' Marion Hellsing Birth name: Salyut Pronouns: He/Him Gender: Trans Man Species: Dhampir (Vampire King Ancestry) Age: He thinks he's 19, but he's off by a few decades. Birthday: 20th Gozran :weed emoji: Star Sign: The Bridge (or The Daughter, I think he's right on the cusp?)/The Underworld Dragon Sexuality: Pansexual, Panromantic Deity/Religion: None Class: Bloodrager Primalist - Celestial & Arcane bloodline. Background: Nomad- Honglian and Ustlavic Alignment: Chaotic Neutral to Chaotic Good Path: Azata+ Love interest: Daeran Arendae Starting Stats: (Level one): STR 16 DEX 8 CON 14 INT 12 WIS 14 CHA 16 Top 3 Skills: Perception, Athletics, Persuasion Hobbies: Spinning thread, bug hunting, venue crashing (plays drums, flute, trumpet, and lute as cover) Horseback riding, various kinds of entertainment-derived mischief, Improv theater, bone carving Accent: Ustlavic - while fluent in Common he prefers to let people think otherwise. His accent will get thicker when he's tired, annoyed, or fucking with someone. Will speak in broken Ustlavic or a paint-blisteringly thick Honglian regional accent at the drop of a hat.

Quotes: "Come drink with me, friend." "Even foul water puts out wildfires." "Echh… we're really in the rice now."

Appearance: 5'5", broad shouldered with a somewhat wolfish appearance. Works out, but wouldn't say no to a cookie kind of physique. His hands and feet are oversized and a bit paw-like. He has hip-length, greying black hair that he keeps braided - usually in two simple plaits but he does love a fancy set of braids when time allows. His skin is a dusty gold-grey, as if undeath has left an actual tarnish behind.

His face is wedge-shaped, with high cheekbones, square jaw, and a slightly large nose crooked from catching one too many right hooks. Eyes are sharp, with small pupils and colored a bright blue-green - like the afterglow of a lightning strike - that reflect eerily in darkness or low light. Heavy, sharp eyebrows give him a somewhat cynical, predatory look that gets enhanced by his easy grin - he's not shy about showing off his fangs. He has one large deep scar bisecting his right eyebrow that sadly doesn't have a cool origin - a clay pot fell on him when he was trying to get it off a tall shelf. Otherwise he bears a few cut marks on his arms and legs from skirmishes, a deeper set of clawmarks over his ribs from a bad run-in with a wolverine, and the scars from affirming surgery. Finally, the fatal gutwound from his 'death' in the Stolen Lands, and the subsequent chest scar from Areelu's botched experiment.

Generally he gives off the air of a wolf desperately trying to domesticate itself, or a half-feral stray hunting dog. Real freak on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere energy. In the kindest of terms he can be described as unsettling but beautiful.

He favors jade, carnelian, and silver accessories when he can get them, and has simple bar earrings in each ear that he can't quite recall ever getting. (They're tracker tags from Areelu on account of his habit of fucking off in a random direction and getting stuck or lost somewhere upsetting.) He has issues with the joints in his hands being hypermobile that he corrects with silver splint rings. He favors primarily black outfits with pops of bright color, and minimal armor to avoid any issues with spellcasting. He has long debated the merits of getting a tongue piercing but hasn't decided whether to commit yet. He has a tattoo around his left leg of reindeer stones, and plans on getting more but isn't sure on the designs yet.

Personality: Zell by nature is an exhuberant, friendly, genuinely loving person who has learned the hard way to be extremely reseved with his trust and care. He affects an easygoing, relaxed demeanor that covers an anxious intensity soaked by deep, deep rage that is difficult to percieve until that switch flips. He leans on his innate charisma as social currency, is something of a barfly and enjoys sneaking himself into events by claiming to be 'with the band.' He especially loves crashing weddings and birthdays in this manner. Is generally known as The Guy to go to if you need something delivered, furniture moved, wood chopped, or defensive horseback riding lessons. Sometimes given to bouts of deep introspection, he has something he's searching for or working towards that drives him obsessively. Suffers from chronic joint pain and light-induced migraines, dyslexia, and severe abandonment issues. Runs hot, therefore gets heat exhausted easily.

Archetypes: Ringleader, Bon Vivant, Ambitious Sorceror.

Merits: Kind, supportive, loyal, gentle.

Flaws: Bloodthirsty, capricious, self-destructive, deceptive.

History: CW for forced cultural assimilation, forced detransition, child abuse

Zell was born under mysterious circumstances in the Hongli steppe. His mother was absent - whether she died or abandoned him was never explained - but he was raised within her tribe to be a happy and healthy child. Nobody was over concerned with gender, so he identified as a boy from early on and easily fell in with his peers. He excelled at riding horses, but had difficulty with a bow, so he trained in polearms and sword instead. While he doesn't remember much of his earliest childhood, he fondly recalls the parts of his youth leading a gaggle of youngsters across the steppe and icy desert, hunting for the tribe, herding goats and reindeer, finding cool bugs, and generally reveling in his freedom.

Unfortunately, it was not to last. When he was close to coming of age, he began to develop strange sorcerous abilities. Arcane necromancy and suggestive, enchanting magic came easily to him, and his control was nebulous at best. Still, he had help from his tribe and rarely had any extreme issues.

Soon however, strangers in terrifying black armor came from across the land bridge. They met with the elders that had raised him, and demanded to take him over to distant Avistan. He was devastated when the elders agreed to let him go, and tried to run away on his own. He was caught after weeks of evasion, and severely punished by his new handlers. The next time he was fully conscious, they were already more than halfway over the land bridge.

He was brought to Lepistadt in Ustalav to live with the "Hellsing" family, a deeply interconnected group of nobles and high-ranking Hellknights dedicated to the obstruction of a specific group of malicious vampires... When they aren't running an anti-Iomedaen protestant shadow crusade. Under the auspice of being closer to his father - who he would never meet - and 'necessary' training of his sorcerous power, he was put under the care of Nora Hellsing: a vicious, rigid woman whose first and foremost goal was to forcibly erase as much of Zell's identity as possible. Treated like a burden and an atrocity, he was denied the comfort of his language, his name, and all freedoms he had been allowed in Hongli. Alongside this, Nora did everything she could to stoke Zell's bloodlust and rage, honing him into a devastating fighter and wicked spellcaster. As a capstone, he was put through the same military academy as the other youths in the Hellsing organization. Faced with culture shock, unwinnable tasks, and Nora's cruel attention, his teenage years were a nightmare.

Nora reshaped Zell into Marion Hellsing with the intent of creating the face of the organization's next generation of Vampire Hunters, a devastating half-vampire princess that could be used as much as propaganda as a weapon. She succeeded in making Zell more dangerous, but failed in nearly every other capacity. As Marion, Zell used enchantments, intimidation, and sheer physical prowess to rebell at every opportunity; taking Nora's progressively extreme punishments while fighting indoctrination with every weapon at his disposal. He quickly learned that Nora and the more retaliatory Hellknights would stop short of anything that would kill him - though whether it was because they didn't want to risk him becoming a vampire or wished to avoid the wrath of his absentee father he could not immediately guess. Unfortunately this meant that anyone close to him was fair game - so his closest companions had to either be strong enough to hold their own or they would feel the brunt of the punishment. This did not deter Zell in the slightest, instead only fueling his rage. Zell played the part of a delinquent, bratty punk: deliberately failed classes, slept around with teachers and upperclassmen, and refused to behave unless inspired to exploit the rules to his advantage. He led a small gang of other disaffected youths upset by their involuntary placement at the Academy, and was consistent annoyance to just about anyone in power.

Even so he had few friends, and those that did get close did so for safety more than a sense of genuine friendship. Zell secretly found more solace in the labyrinthine libraries of Lepistadt's universities, more concerned with researching things on his own terms than following the ridgid precepts of Hellknight military training (or literally anything Nora wanted him to read). Eventually, his curiosity -and perhaps the occasional supernatual nudge - led him to discover interesting secrets about Hellsing's origins, and his own.

He discovers during this time that Hellsing is connected by familial relation to the Vampire King - who before becoming a vampire was the last known Aasimar of the newly dead god, Aroden. After being turned, he had apparently wandered and spent some time briefly in Tian Xia - long enough to sire a single child: - Salyut, Zell's childhood name. The child is meant to be Zell, but would have been born decades before. It will be many years before Zell eventually learns that he was given to Areelu by his father, raised til about age seven, and then left nearly a century later with the children and grandchildren of his mortal siblings with only the vaguest memories attached.

He also discovers that Hellsing's Anti-Iomedaen bent is more than just superficial: all the families are either related by blood to the Vampire King (and therefore, Aroden himself) or former clerics and paladins of the fallen god. It is unclear whether they are working directly with Areelu Vorlesh or if her involvement is just a coincidence, but they seem to believe the Vampire King's scion potentially holds a piece of Aroden's soul.

This causes him great concern… after all, Hellsing as an organization doesn't care about him as a person - they only care about Marion Hellsing the figure, and what she can do for their legitimacy and power. If they think 'Marion' holds a piece of Aroden's soul and want to try and do something with that, he doubts he'll come out the other side with any sense of self.

Learning all of this, his goals soon shifted from being the most annoying little shit on the planet to securing his own safety and freedom from Hellsing. While chasing these leads and preparing his escape, he stumbled upon caches of research left behind by Nora… and eventually proof that she was planning on becoming a lich. The particulars of her research, and how she plans to use the power of lichdom, disgusted Zell, but there was no one within Hellsing he could turn to in order to stop her. His only choice was to flee, and hope that Nora never succeeded in her plans.

This time, escaping the Hellknights was a far easier task. Armed with years of learning their tactics and the surrounding lands, he easily slipped away from Lepistadt and made his way south. The plan was to make for Absalom - perhaps strike up with some scholars who could point him towards more information about fallen Aroden. Picking the name 'Grenzel' for himself, he began his new life.

After a year or so on the road taking courier work and odd jobs, he happened to meet the captain of a river barge while chartering passage for a job. Captain Aslan Ciardha soon blew through all Zell's barriers and became his dearest friend and brother in arms. They traveled together for several years before Zell broke away to follow a lead in the Tors of Levenies. The lead was a dead end however, which allowed Zell to rejoin his friend - now a Baron in the tumultuous Stolen Lands.

He had difficulty falling in with Aslan's new crew; having little in common with most of them and no tolerance for the particulars of running a kingdom. His foremost goal was to protect and champion his friend - who had apparently come under the thrall of the wicked fae at the heart of the blight in the Stolen Lands. While Zell could see the signs of his friend being perhaps a little too invested in redeeming a clearly evil fae, there was little he could do to sway his friend. And soon, sensing his interference, Nyrissa would ensure that Zell was just as distracted.

He had not expected Tristian - of all people - to show any interest in him beyond the seemingly genuine concern of a healer. Even so he was charmed by Tristian's gentle, if fumbling, persistence, and eventually started to worry less about Aslan's predicament. While bemused and a little terrified of the prospect, Zell let himself start to fall in love and relax more around the other companions, finally gaining a sense of ease among them.

When Tristian inevitably turned coat and betrayed them all in Vordekai's tomb, Zell was devastated. He went with Aslan to Candlemere to try and talk sense into Tristian, but learning how thoroughly he'd been played truly broke his heart. While Aslan was determined to prove Tristian could be saved and made for the Temple of the Elk, Zell opted instead to support Amiri in confronting Armag. While he wasn't seeking his own death in battle - distraction and a few unlucky breaks put him on the receiving end of a mortal gut wound.

Before any of his allies could return with help, Areelu Vorlesh whisked him from the battlefield to save his life and initiate her final experiment: Alchemizing his soul with Nahyndrian crystal. Now, with his soul so full of rage and heartbreak, seemed to her to be the best moment to strike. She threw in the top surgery for free, as a treat.

Delirious, heartbroken, and in a body slightly altered from normal was how Zell came to in Kenabras square, unsure how he even got there or even why he was still alive.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Aether Whump | Things Money Can Buy - Intro

A/N: Yup, the series is back - sort of. I'm going to be remaking what's here already to make it an actual story instead of just random whumpy scenes. CW: Canon violence.

Honed blades clash, sending a handful of blue sparks flying. Growling, Kunikuzuchi withdraws his blade and brings it down with double the force, just for his weapon to be stopped by Aether’s sword, held firmly in his experienced hands. The Traveler pushes forward, forcing his opponent to take a step back under his relentless pressure. The katana is raised just in time to stop a follow up blow, but the sheer force bends his whole body backwards. 

Scaramouche doesn't have time to ready his own attack as Aether maintains the pressure, delivering blow after blow to his opponent. Each clash creates dents in his blade, the white iron chips flying every time he barely manages to block. 

“Worthless… weapon…!” The puppet speaks, grinding his teeth as he strains with each blow. An attempt to stab the human is foiled with an efficient parry, sending him back on the defensive. 

“Not used to fighting, are you?” His golden eyes are filled with grim determination. “Or risking your own skin in the first place, huh?”

At last his katana reaches the end of its rope and Aether's next strike cuts it clean in half, the end of his blade slashing through Scaramouche's chest. He stumbles backwards, clumsily raising his iron bracer to stop the next strike. No blood from the cut stains the dusty boards or the Delusion factory. 

The warrior mind of his opponent remains unphased at this, instantly winding another strike. Scaramouche throws out his hands, summoning bolts of Electro with all of his might. His opponent is stopped in his tracks, forced to stand his ground and block the attack with a rapidly deployed Geo shield. He shoots another bolt but as he does so, the shield explodes into jagged, yellow shards of rock. They strike his vessel, embedding into his shoulder and offsetting the lightning to harmlessly strike the floor. Wasting no time, the enemy charges forwards and strikes true. 

The Harbinger’s arm clutters to the ground amongst servos and gears. Wires short out in the wound, shooting sparks out of the wound. He falls to his knees, dazed, clutching the removed part of his mechanical body. 

Seeing his opponent unarmed in both meanings of the word, Aether takes a step back. He uses the tip of his weapon to slide the katana’s remnants away from Scaramouche. 

“Hah. It seems like you're not only figuratively heartless.” 

Unflinching, Kunikuzuchi looks up at his enemy, his mouth a snarling grimace. 

“Whatever you are, you'll pay. You'll pay for the war.” He points his sword at Scaramouche’s throat. “Tens of thousands dead, just so you Fatui could lay your hands on the Gnosis. But no more.”

There is no inkling of neither hesitation nor mercy in his eyes - only stone cold resolve. Scaramouche’s expression softens. In the silence of the room he can feel a pulse in his chest. 

His hand clutches over the wound. He has been destroyed, defeated. He is left kneeling before his enemy like never before. It is over. 

Scaramouche feels his throat tighten in fear as he awaits death. 

But Aether stands still. In the corner of his eye, Behind the man, Scaramouche sees a splash of red on the wooden backdrop. He focuses and sure enough, he spots a handful of Skirmishers looking on from a balcony above them. 

Useless minions, he thinks, but his thoughts are stopped dead in their tracks as he spots a rifle trained straight at Aether. 

Scaramouche's eyes shoot open. Maybe they aren't so useless after all. 

Noticing this, the Traveler turns his head only to be welcomed with a loud gunshot.

He spins around, instantly summoning a shield to defend himself. Scaramouche summons Electro in his remaining hand and slashes across his would-be killer's shins. Aether screams out as the energy burns through his trousers and into his exposed flesh. He falls forward, the puppet using this opportunity to get back to his feet. Feeling the anger and hate boil inside him, he outstretches his arm and summons a shockwave, sending the momentarily unbalanced Aether flying at the wall. Barreling through various shelves and crates, his body smashes against the stone wall with a dull thud, sword cluttering to the ground. 

Kunikuzuchi smiles. He curls his fingers, lifting Aether into the air and slamming him into the debris-ridden floor. As he impacts a small cloud of dust arises from the broken furniture. Aether is picked up again and thrown to the side, his face meeting the cold stone of a fireplace. 

“You should not have returned here, you fool. Just destroying our plan wasn't enough for you, so you thought - the audacity! - that you could capture me too?” Scaramouche dusts his knees off, gazing smugly at the human, slowly raising to his feet. Before he can stabilize himself though he is raised up again and tossed like a ragdoll to the opposite end of the room. “And then you don't even kill me when you have the chance. You're a mockery.”

Aether grunts. Scaramouche observes as he drags himself to his knees and coughs out a bloodstained tooth. His eyes flicker with excitement. 

Adrenaline rushing through his body, Scaramouche steps forward using his powers to pick his defenseless opponent up yet again. With a satisfied groan, he gestures downwards with his whole arm, sending Aether crashing against the ground. Then, Scaramouche repeats. Then again. And again. 

With each gesture of his hand and each painful impact, Aether groans in pain. His cries become quieter and quieter as the deceptively hard floor stains with more and more blood. When Scaramouche can hear the pained sounds no more, he finally releases the human from his grip, letting him fall to the floor. 

As the Traveler moans weakly, Scaramouche laughs to himself. “Pathetic.”

Aether clutches his stomach, coughing as the Fatui approaches him. Every now and then a few new droplets of blood stain the floorboards. Using his foot, Scaramouche turns his enemy over onto his back. He aims his leg and stomps onto his stomach, sending him into a coughing fit. 

“I would gladly end your misery here, if only you weren't such a nuisance, Traveler.” The man tries to turn his head to look up at him, but is forced into place with Kunikuzuchi’s sandal on his head. 

Aether spits, sending him a look of defiance.

“You'll pay”, he speaks with a mocking voice. 

With a kick to the head, Aether's world is plunged into darkness. 

Scaramouche takes a step back, admiring the battered body of his opponent. He turns sharply towards his saviors. 

“What are you waiting for, morons? Tie him up. We'll take ‘the Traveler’ on a really memorable journey.”

Thanks for reading!

[atac-agent]

Remnants of Ashes

masterlist

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 1097

Summary: Gale Hawthorne, now a Peacekeeper in District 2, struggles to adapt to its ambitious, unfamiliar atmosphere while haunted by memories of Katniss Everdeen from District 12.

***

District 2 was a world apart from District 12, place of stone and metal rather than ash and coal. Gale Hawthorne tried to make this new district feel like home, but the familiarity of District 12's ruins haunted him. The bustling activity of District 2 felt foreign, the people here driven by ambitions and ideals so different from the grim survival that had characterized his old life.

Each morning, Gale woke with the sun. He dressed quickly, leaving his small apartment and heading out into the city before the streets filled with people. His role as a Peacekeeper was a pragmatic choice, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He told himself it was for the greater good, to help rebuild Panem—but deep down, he knew he was running from ghosts.

He was running from Katniss.

Katniss Everdeen. The girl on fire. The Mockingjay.

To him, she had been so much more than just a symbol.

She had been his partner in crime, his confidante, his closest friend. But the war had changed everything. They had changed, and now, she was a phantom pain, an echo of what once was.

***

It was a Sunday when Gale decided to visit the training fields. It was a place of order and discipline, filled with recruits who were eager to shape the new world. He watched them sparring, their movements precise and calculated, so different from the desperate skirmishes he had known.

"You're here early," a voice said, breaking his reverie.

Gale turned to see Lyda, one of the senior Peacekeepers, approaching him. She was a tall woman with a sharp gaze, her uniform crisp and spotless.

"Couldn't sleep," Gale admitted, shrugging. "Thought I'd come see how the new recruits are doing."

Lyda nodded, her expression softening slightly. "You still think about her, don't you?"

Gale's jaw tightened.

"Every day."

That night, Gale couldn't sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence.

The nights in the woods with Katniss, the warmth of the fire, the shared stories, the unspoken bond between them. Those nights were gone, buried under the rubble of war and time...

He got up and walked to the window, looking out at the city. District 2 was thriving, rebuilding itself with a ferocity that mirrored his own determination. Yet, it felt hollow.

No amount of anything could fill the void left by Katniss.

Gale sighed and turned away from the window. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small, battered notebook. It was filled with sketches and notes, plans for traps and strategies. But between the lines of his meticulous handwriting were glimpses of another story— drawings of mockingjays, notes about hunting trips, fragments of poetry that he would never admit to writing.

He flipped to a blank page and stared at it. Slowly, he began to write.

***

Weeks turned into months, and Gale threw himself into his work. He trained recruits, devised new strategies, and worked tirelessly to ensure the safety of the district. He became known as a strict but fair leader, respected by his peers and subordinates. But despite his accomplishments, the emptiness lingered.

***

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Gale found himself wandering the outskirts of District 2. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the dusty heat of the city. He walked until he found a secluded spot, a small hill overlooking a valley. He sat down and let the silence envelop him.

"Hey, Catnip," he whispered to the wind. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I need to talk to you."

He paused, taking a deep breath. "I miss you. I miss us. The way things used to be before... everything. I know things can never go back to the way they were, and I don't even know if you'd want them to. But I can't help thinking about what we lost."

Gale closed his eyes, feeling a tear slide down his cheek. "I wish I could tell you this in person. I wish I could see you, hear your voice. But I can't. So I'll just keep talking to the wind and hope that somehow, you'll hear me."

***

As the seasons changed, so did Gale. He found solace in small things—a recruit's success, a well-executed plan, the beauty of a sunrise over the mountains. He began to accept that Katniss was a part of his past, a cherished memory that he would carry with him always.

One day, while sorting through his belongings, Gale found the notebook again. He flipped through the pages, smiling at the memories. When he reached the end, he saw the words he had written that first night in District 2.

"Katniss, if you ever read this, I want you to know that I forgive you. And I hope you can forgive me too. We did what we had to do, and we survived. That's all that matters."

He closed the notebook and placed it back in the drawer. It was time to move forward.

***

Katniss's POV:

Katniss stood by the rusted fence, the setting sun casting a golden hue over District 12. Memories of Gale flooded her mind. Unbidden. Unrelenting.

Gale.

The name alone caused a pang in her stomach.

His grey eyes, always intense, haunted her thoughts. The woods had been their sanctuary, a place to escape the harsh realities of their lives... their laughter, shared meals, and whispered dreams of a future free from the Capitol's grip.

Now, those dreams felt like distant echoes.

The fence, once a boundary she and Gale had often crossed together, now felt like a wall separating her from her past. Katniss ran her fingers along the cold metal, feeling the rough texture beneath her fingertips. Each ridge and rusted spot a reminder of times gone by.

A soft breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth. She closed her eyes, breathing it in deeply, trying to anchor herself in the present. But it was no use. Her thoughts drifted back to the days when she and Gale would venture beyond the fence, into the wild, untamed woods where they could be free, if only for a while.

She could almost hear his voice, low and comforting, as he spoke of rebellion and hope. "Someday, Katniss," he had said, his voice filled with conviction, "someday things will be different. We won't have to live in fear."

But someday had come and gone. The rebellion had happened. The world had changed.

[papercutsunset]

death on a dusty moon

999 words of pigslop about a bad boss being mean to comet buckminster, a heart attack, and a ship crash for @flashfictionfridayofficial. i miss fttc and i wish i had the spark to write something more full-form for it tbh.

The sirens won’t stop sounding off. One more misstep and she’ll crash The Tiverton. One more shrill moment and she’ll puke. 

Comet can think of a thousand things she could have done better— least of all paying attention. She tosses the book onto the seat and takes up the controls, trying to steer away from here. All the chiding in the world won’t fix this; she does it anyway. If only Comet Buckminster knew how to stop talking, stop getting absorbed in her work, and pay attention. If only she knew how to pull herself out of this mess before— 

The cockpit door slams open; Comet’s shoulders tense; and the voice of Captain Gerda McKinley comes shattering out over the screaming alarm and her descending shadow. “The hell is this? I was sleeping, fuckwit.” 

“I— I’m sorry, Captain. Something malfunctioned— We were traveling at faster-than-light, like you said to— And then we tried to jump out to Albyltian Five, like you said, but it chimmied up and now we’re here— I think we got clipped by a piece of debris, or something from that last skirmish didn’t get repaired correctly—”

“You mean you didn’t repair it correctly?” She steps into the cockpit, barely big enough for the two of them, towering over Comet. “When you repaired it back on Evis?” 

“I did what I could,” she squeaks. 

“Evis is a nothing planet. And you’re a nothing mechanic.” 

“I’m a medic.” It comes out just as soft. It isn’t often that she feels her size— small, skitterish, nothing— but she has felt it more and more often over the past month and a half of work here. Dr. Hadzic never made her feel this way, and he was six-foot-five and half as wide. Blitzen never makes her feel this way, and he’s her big brother. Captain McKinley is full of the horrible truth— so why shouldn’t she crowd in and use that as a threat? Why shouldn’t she use what’s at her disposal? Why shouldn’t she use fear to halt an ever-moving tongue?

“I hired you as a one-stop shop. So do I need to repeat myself? Wasn’t fixing the hull your job? Do I need to dock your pay?” 

“We can try something else,” Comet stammers, palms itching over the controls. She leans into the glass and peers out the window. Forward, she decides. Forward toward the planet in the distance; toward the ribbons of some sort of dust in the place beyond; toward stars blinking like streetlamps lining the street.  “If I can get this ship back on course, then we can land on that moon, there— it’s abandoned, but it’ll work— and then I can fix any damage to the Tiverton and to the FTL drive that I might have missed—”  

“You’re running out of opportunities to say things I want to hear.” 

“We’re running out of opportunities for me to fix this.” 

“I have an idea.” Captain McKinley muscles her way into the spot Comet’s trying to occupy, handling the controls with more grace than her shoulders would imply she possesses. A bit of sweat transfers when her shoulder hits Comet; and when Comet’s shoulder hits the wall.

Captain McKinley doesn’t announce her moves. It’s unnecessary. She was always going to stop on that abandoned moon; she was always going to slam the nose of the ship into the soft, gray dust covering its ground; and she was always going to, in the aftershocks landing, whip around to glare at Comet with nostrils flaring. 

“You are going to fix this,” she seethes. “I’m going back to sleep. I’m tired as hell, all your ship-jostling made my chest hurt, and looking at you makes me want to puke.” 

Narrowing her eyes just slightly, Comet considers that while scampering to gather her tools and breathing apparatus. “Is your chest tight?” 

“Stop asking me stupid questions.” 

“It’s an important question. Captain McKinley, if your chest is uncomfortable and you feel—”

The captain stalks off without indulging her, covertly rubbing at parts of her middle-back. “Just fix the drive. I want off this moon by the time I’m awake.”

Fine, Comet decides. Ignore the signs of what’s happening. Ignore what you did wrong. Shitass fucking captain. She should just hijack the ship and leave. 

She’s not going to do that. 

With tubes pumping oxygen to a mask over her nose and mouth, body covered by protective layers of cooling garments, insulation, and synthetic polymers, and her face covered by a gold-coated plexiglass visor, she looks out at the universe beyond her. It’s so beautiful and still from here. Why would she rob herself of its enchantment by working for a woman like Gerda for a moment longer? The stark stillness of this abandoned moon? The stars she has learned to love and navigate beyond it? The very principles of science that govern it? 

Fuck this. She’ll go work for Blitzen before she works for this woman again. Being self-sufficient isn’t worth this. 

Fixing the FTL drive is easy enough. She tinkered with so many of those for extra cash as a side hustle during her medical training that it’s like second nature to her. Fixing the hull is easier, even if her fingers are less dextrous with the spacewalk suit’s gloves over them. 

The easier part is walking into The Tiverton and finding it quiet. Finding it halcyon. 

There’s a reason for that, she finds, as she heads to the captain’s quarters (so much more resplendent than her own). The captain is still; breathless; and, when Comet raises her wrist to check, without a pulse. 

She chuckles once, harsh and short. Maybe Captain McKinley shouldn’t have ignored that heart attack. 

Fine, Comet decides, trying not to grin. There is an experiment she has wanted to try. Reconstituting a body? Bringing the dead back to life? How shall she do it, she wonders? 

Must she know right now? She has all the time in the galaxy and nobody to report to.

[insertgeniusblognamehere]

MOON 1

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

The pounding of Lionstar’s feet against the ground drummed along in sync to the fierce beating of her heart as she raced through the forest.

Being the leader of a Clan was a hard, and sometimes a suffocating task, but Lionstar wouldn’t give it up for anything. She was incredibly proud of her Clan and the mark they’ve made on the territories and the respect they’d earned from the other Clans. 

That being said, it was good to get away and breathe sometimes, even for only a few moments. 

Lionstar pushed her muscles harder, urging her legs to go faster and faster until she burst into a clearing near the edge of the territory. A lone tree stood across from her, its thick trunk and low branches begging to be climbed. How could she not indulge? 

She climbed higher and higher and higher and — snap. The thin branch buckled under her weight and disappeared. Lionstar yowled as she plummeted towards the forest floor, the only thing slowing her fall were more branches that broke as she barreled through them before she hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow. 

Lionstar groaned, not daring to move in case something was broken. After a few more dizzy panic induced moments and confirming that nothing was broken, she slowly pushed herself to her feet. Still winded, she shook out her pelt, eager to get her breathing back to normal.

Thank StarClan no one was around to see that.

Snap. 

She smelt it’s foul stench before she saw it. Heard the snarl and lash of its tail before she turned around, coming face to face with dark russet fur and orange eyes. A fox. A huge fox. Lionstar was bigger than most of her peers and the older warriors, moons of well earned muscle hiding beneath her thick tortoiseshell pelt contributed to that, and this thing was still easily twice her size. 

Fox-dung. Literally. 

Lionstar flattened her ears and responded with a low threatening growl of her own while unsheathing her sharp claws. She wasn’t named after a lion for nothing. She would not back down from a challenge.

The crazed fox did not seem to like that one bit. It lunged wildly at her, and though Lionstar was well trained, she did just fall out of a tree, and the fox’s sheer size helped it land a few solid hits against her. But not enough. Lionstar fought off the creature with only a few bloody scratches to show for before it went fleeing into the underbrush.

─ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ─

“Lionstar!” Quailpelt gasped, “I smell blood. Did you get into a border skirmish?”

“Something like that.” She answered, flicking her tail and letting the last remaining droplets of blood fall into the dirt. “Fell into a fox den.”

If Quailpelt could facepalm, she would. “Of course you did. Moondapple’s gonna have a field day with you. Don’t you remember the ‘don't get into stupid fights’ speech she gave to Fallingstream, Silverhaze, and Halffox the other day?”

Lionstar chuckled inwardly. Moondapple, SleekClan’s incredibly talented and composed Medicine Cat had almost torn the three cats ears off, reaming them out for their childish behaviour, especially since Silverhaze and Fallingstream were three times Halffox’s senior, and older than Moondapple herself. Yet the pair were always getting into mischief, and had been since we were all kits. Roping in other cats was just part of their daily fun.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Harestripe emerged with a yawn nap from the warriors den and a well-deserved nap. He stretched out his limbs, taking the clearing into view. The cats were few and far in between, most busy or out of camp, with the exception of a small group of warriors talking animatedly near the camp entrance. The group spotted him and one of the warriors slipped away from the group and came towards him.

“Harestripe!” The dusty brown she-cat called as she bounded over. “I’m leading a patrol with Daisychase and Halffox. Care to join us?”

“Thanks, Bluesight, but I’ll sit this one out. Three paws are better than four when hunting.” Harestripe said. “Too many cats scare off the prey.”

While the thought of racing alongside the younger warriors through the underbrush, hunting prey and chasing off other clans to no end, used to excite him, it now only reminded him of how sore his limbs would be that night in his nest. He sighed and made his way over to the fresh-kill pile. 

“Something the matter, Harestripe?” A voice said from behind him, jolting him out of his thoughts and the orange tom nearly leapt out of his fur. 

“Nothing really. Just a bit tired, is all.”

As if she could read his mind, Moondapple sighed. “Either you ask her, or your trips to my den will become more and more frequent, Harestripe, and she’ll do it without you asking. It's better if you save yourself the trouble.”

Lionstar had been grumpy all day — bed rest was not his leader's strong suit — and Harestripe was ready to take that as a sign from StarClan and not ask to retire. But Moondapple was right. It was getting harder to hide his trips to the she-cats den for various herbs to soothe his aching bones and help him sleep.

Harestripe sighed and pushed himself to his paws. “When did you go and get so wise?” He grumbled with a slight laugh. Moondapple simply smiled in return, and nodded in the direction of Lionstar’s den where the brown she-cat was emerging to presumably pace circles around the camp again.

“Lionstar? Could I get a word?”

“Harestripe, of course. What can I do for you?”

“I…I’d like to retire. Become an elder.”

Lionstar ground to a halt and nearly tripped over her own paws, face filled with surprise. “An elder? You’re not that old, Harestripe.”

“I feel the passing of moons in my bones and I’ve got grey in my muzzle, Lionstar. This past leaf-bare was harder than I’d like to admit. I thank you that you don’t see it, but I feel it.” Harestripe said, finishing with a small smile.

Lionstar gave a soft smile. “If it is your wish, how can I not honor it? When will you like me to announce it to the Clan?”

Harestripe snorted. “Before Quailpelt announces the Dawn Patrol warriors would be nice.” 

Lionstar laughed as they reached the base of the meeting rock in the centre of camp. “Very well. We’ll do it now, before the evening patrol as well.” She paused, mid hunch, and turned her head over her shoulder. “Last chance. Are you sure?”

Harestripe let out a long breath, and nodded. Lionstar nodded back and smiled, then jumped up to the top of the rock. “All cats swift under the stars, join me at the Grand Rock for a Clan Meeting!” 

Well, no going back now. Maybe Halffox would still let me in on that patrol later. Harestripe made his way over to sit at the base of the rock as he watched his clanmates gather in the small clearing. Moondapple was the last to join, and she gave a small nod of approval from in the crowd.

“This is not an announcement that I thought I’d be giving this evening, but I shall still honour it.” Lionstar began once the group had settled, then leapt gracefully down from the rock to stand facing the Clan. “Harestripe, step forwards. You have asked to retire, and I respect your decision. You have served SleekClan well as both a warrior and role model, and the Clan will miss your skills. Though you’ve left big paws to fill, we look forward to many more moons of wisdom from you in the Elders Den.”

Harestripe touched the young leader's nose. “Thank you, Lionstar.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You can’t keep me in here forever, Moondapple.”

“It’s my job to keep you in here forever, Lionstar.”

“Oh yeah? Says who?”

“StarClan.” She quipped back matter-of-factly without looking back. Lionstar rolled her eyes, tail flicking boredly against the cool floor. The soft new-leaf breeze rustled the stray steams and leaves on the ground of the medicine cat den. Moondapple seemed to take no notice as she continued to sort the herbs slotted into the grooves of the inside of the fallen log.

The dark she-cat flicked her tail, attention never leaving the work in front of her. “I can feel your annoyance all the way over here, Lionstar.”

“What can I say, herb cataloging never appealed to me.”

Moondapple gave a snort as she turned. “Well, it’s about to. You can come help me gather goldenrod and cobwebs.”

“Oh now I’m allowed out of camp, just to help you.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay here.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

─ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ─

After being den-confined for a day, the cool breeze blowing off the river was a welcome change to Lionstars fur. Ever since she became leader, there hadn’t been a day she’d never left camp, so she was relishing in the afternoon warmth outside.

“How’s your tail feeling?”

“Perfectly peachy. It’s my only injury, you know.”

“Lucky you.”

“Strange that such an experienced medicine cat as you would confine me over something so small.” Lionstar stated, holding Moondapples golden gaze with a sly smirk. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you kept me in there just to hang out with me.”

“Right.” Moondapple paused so that they’d come nose to nose. “And last time I checked, you were the leader of SleekClan and really didn’t have to stay in there if you didn't want to, so if I didn't know any better, I’d say you stayed to hang out with me.”

“Touche.”

Moondapple smirked, something few and far in between, and continued down the trail to a ring of willow trees where most of the more common herbs grow. As the golden-eyed she-cat set about her work pruning and collecting herbs, Lionstar leapt up to the more low hanging branches above the goldenrod. A gap in the branches above her let the soft glow of the new-leaf sun warm her fur.

Lionstar rested her chin on her front paws, her tail swaying low in the wind, as she watched her friend go about her job. “Hey, Moondapple? There’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you, by the way. I’ve been trying to make sense of it for some time now, but I can’t.”

“Yeah? What is it?” Moondapple hummed.

“A dream I had a few nights ago. While you were at the Half Moon Gathering.” Lionstar started, and saw Moondapple prick her ears which urged her to continue .“I was standing in the camp, and all the trees were replaced by clouds. I tried to walk through them, but it was like something was pushing me back. And then they all got swept away by a golden river.”

“Isn’t that curious.” Moondapple murmured. “I don’t think I know what that means.” She paused. “ Not yet anyways.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Silverhaze yelped, a stinging pain erupting in her cheek and neck. She practically leapt out of her nest and just nearly missed making a new hole in the tightly packed fern-fronds that made up the ceiling of the Warriors Den.

What in StarClan’s name was that? 

Peering down at the mossy green nest, a small brown clump stood out to her. A few, small brown clumps , actually. Thorns. Some cat put thorns in her nest. Silverhaze stuck her head outside the den and glared out across  the clearing, bright chrome eyes landing on Fallingstream, who was currently sharing tongues with Scorchfeather and Harestripe. The perfect alibi. Ever since the pair had gotten scolded by Moondapple, they’d taken to doing their mischief in a more … secretive fashion. A quiet prank war, if you will.

Silverhaze watched as Fallingstream looked up and straight at her, golden eyes glinting in the strong afternoon sun. He shot her a playful grin before turning back to Scorchfeather, who was still talking with Harestripe and hadn’t noticed that Fallingstream had stopped listening.

Silverhaze glared at the dark speckled tom, a revenge plan already forming in her mind. She would definitely get back at him.

[choccy-zefirka]

Polishing up the little gift fic I made for @mutantenfisch a few years ago, as part of my "My old writing isn't cringe actually, let's repost it!" healing journey.

Erandur lingers for a few more moments on the road. He wants to make absolutely certain that he and Lindis have done all they could for this poor traveler: a lost young Khajiit, with anxiously twitching ears about twice the size of his head, on his way to catch up with his caravan.

The fine feline fellow (not a very elegant description; a proper bard like Lindis would surely wince in distaste) is fully healed and rested, if a bit… dusty after their skirmish with bandits. In between licks at his clawed hand, he reassures Erandur that no, no, “this one is all set now, no need to fuss!” and eventually bids his final farewell. Once he is off down the road they pointed out to him — a cheery long-tailed silhouette skipping along a trail of worn cobblestones, which are lodged like mosaic pieces between little patches of dirt — Dunmeri priest turns around to check on his companion. She’s nestled under a birch tree, among the wilting brown ferns, and is back to sorting through the basket of the herbs she has gathered. That was the original purpose of their little trek in the wilds, before they were sidetracked by the bandits and their hapless furry mugging target. Erandur and Lindis have come here to collect alchemical ingredients for the mages at the College of Winterhold.

The copper lattice of the birch’s canopy is dripping honeyed glow from the pale sky; it has outlined the thick, wavy mane of Lindis’ hair in blaring white, and dabbed paint-like strokes of gold over her sharp cheekbones and pointy chin. Most wayfarers that cross paths with Lindis — your friendly neighbourhood herbalist and wandering bard extraordinaire! — take her to be a true daughter of Skyrim, with her golden hair traditional face paint… But to a keener eye, her features are the tiniest bit too angular for a full-blooded Nord. And now, wreathed in the sun’s warm glow, her skin caressed by these touches of gold, she looks even more like her father: an Altmer who dared to love a human.

My parents were ready to flee to the coldest reaches of Winterhold; to the very end of Nirn, if that meant they could be together, Lindis once told Erandur, during a late-night conversation at their adventurers’ campfire.

She tilted her head up thoughtfully as she spoke, and her eyes — with human-like whites, but shaded vividly like the richest amber —reflected the silky coils of the aurora overhead. He still remembers that light in her gaze; if Vaermina decides to return to him this very night, to punish him with yet another nightmare, she will have to dig her spindly arms elbow-deep into his heart to pry the memory away from him.

As a little girl, I would scarcely dare dream about finding a love like theirs. It just did not seem possible to me… But now I know it is.

The echo of her sweet words overcomes him, and he freezes on the side of the road, not daring approach Lindis, even as she glances up, straight at him, and nods her head expectantly, pulling out her trusty lute and strumming the strings.

As it often is with her, the music — like the warble of a merry little creek, promising refreshment and reprieve — coaxes all manner of tiny, fuzzy critters from the undergrowth, where they must have concealed themselves, pressed against the ground and only barely poking their fretful little nose noses from under the velvety curtains of

step moss. Before Erandur knows it, an entire family of wild rabbits emerges into full view, sleek brown backs on fearless display. They lift themselves off their hind paws, stretching instinctively towards the music, the sunlight turning their ears into pulsing pinkish seashells. Then, a hedgehog rustles busily through the autumn grass, and the mushroom that it has pinned on its needles bobs, boat-like, on the orange waves. A flock of songbirds descends on Lindis next: tiny fat balls of down and feathers, chirping along to the tune. She has to slow down her playing, though, as the birds have nestled in a row along the neck of her lute, and she delicately maneuvers her fingers in between them.

Erandur’s heart jolts. And his mind is pierced by an overpowering silent scream: a command to run, run, run, and never turn back. Once, young Casimir would have once obeyed it blindly, exactly like he did when the purple stream of the Miasma frothed behind him, and on all sides, his siblings in Vaermina’s shadow folded down onto hard stone floor, right beside the Orcish invaders, and let the enchanted sleep claim them. Ih, how he ran then, and how he wants to run now.

Because, even after all this time; after all the adventures they have had together - it still does not feel quite right. Especially when he sees her like this, bathed in sunlight, mesmerizing even the most skittish of forest creatures, like a princess out of storybook. A perfect woman, dreaming of a perfect love. A love like her parents’. A love that she surely deserves. All honey, gilt and light.

He cannot give her that. He is so far removed from perfection, he might as well be its walking antithesis. He is old, and broken, and marred by so much darkness that even a lifetime of prostrating himself before Lady Mara’s altar will not wash away all the ash and blood that he still feels on his skin, caked deep into the crevices of his gnarly hands.

She should never have chosen him, should never have believed in him. She still has a chance to realize it — if he just runs. If he lets the bone-white jaws of the Pale swallow him and then clasp tight in his wake. If he locks himself away from the world, like he once intended — amid the howling silence of the Nightcaller Temple, with no company but the empty-eyed, accusing skulls that were once Veren and Thorek…

Then, she’ll have time to forget about him, and set out to look for someone that would be to her what her father was to her mother. Perfect.

But he — he does not run. He does not toss himself into the Pale’s icy-teethed maw. The draw of the music, the warmth, the love radiating from Lindis — this graceful apparition with a halo of blaring white along the contours of her hair — is far too strong to resist. Not for someone who has been alone most of his life, changing names and callings but never quite fitting in, rolling across the entire map of Tamriel like a tumbleweed, losing friends to war, to vampirism, to his own panicked urge to push everyone away… Until he looked into a pair of amber eyes, and felt this entire wretched world falling away somewhere into pink-tinted nothingness.

The ache in Erandur’s chest congeals, sweetens, acquires a heady tang. His lips twitching to mirror Lindis’ smile, he takes an uncertain step away from the road, then another, and another still. The rabbits and hedgehog bolt back into hiding; the birds zoom away; he and Lindis now have the little clearing in the birch’s shelter all to themselves.

She finishes her melody just as he approaches; sets the lute gingerly against the sun-warmed white trunk… And draws herself to her full breathtaking height — mighty Nord meeting willowy Altmer. From that height, she leans in to kiss the tiny, almost dizzy, flushed Dunmer, her fingers weaving through the strands of his long silver-specked hair .

The thrill of her mouth against his resounds through Erandur, as if his chest, too, were a lute. He floats off, lightheaded, swept off by this noiseless music, forgetting that he does not deserve it. Forgetting that he will never be as perfect as Lindis. Forgetting to hate himself.

[guthrie-odonto]

So. @orbitalsparkle

Last thing I remember, I was in a really rough dust storm and my first ever glimmer of true consciousness was right before I powered down

I wake up and there’s a bunch of humans (how do I know what those are???) and the surroundings aren’t anything like the red dusty rocky place I’ve been in my whole life and what the hell this isn’t my body

We end up in a skirmish with some guard types and one of them (Lulu; @cambriascall ) goes fucking feral goth mode, growing wings and murdering one of them (I got an electric prod out of it though)

Some funny looking girl (Mimi; @melonkittii) is excited about something she has called a wiki?

We see a room with two orbs about to be pushed together and the girl with glasses who woke me up (Raini; @moreclaypigeons ) throws a screwdriver at it, which shuts down the machine but makes the orbs touch, causing an explosion that merges all the lab people in the room into a huge abomination

After it hurts Glasses, I try zapping the thing, but it snaps and gets absorbed and then the monster’s focus is on me now

The feral goth, who’s named Cythe apparently, tears this thing apart

This weird horned lava lamp thingy hops in, let’s the red orb (which was a soul???) go free, and gives Wiki girl the blue orb (fairy), and also it says I’m Pluto which is weird because I’m a Mars rover???

[heroineimages]

More D&D Shenanigans

So playing through my Age of Antiquity campaign at the library last night, the teens arrived at the town they were ordered to scout, and immediately hit the local tavern. They proceeded to start up a drinking contest with some of the locals, which our Gaul barbarian with the insane Constitution won handily.

So now I'm visualizing these six Roman soldiers waltzing into a tavern near the border of Roman/Parthian territory. They're heavily armed and wearing lorica hamata and Gallic helmets, dusty from the ride and a little bloodied from a skirmish with Parthian light-cavalry earlier. Every citizen knows there's a Roman invasion imminent, and a clash between Crassus's legions and the Parthian army is inevitable. Every patron at the tavern is apprehensive at the appearance of these Roman scouts. And then the Romans throw down some money and start up a drinking competition.

[evilwriter-originals]

What was Sol’s and Dyon’s first meeting like?

Oh, this was fun! Thank you for asking!

It had been a very long time since King Sol of Nessar had seen a human. Perhaps 80 years or so. He’d certainly never dealt with a human king before. However, this was his first meeting with King Dyon of the human land of Aborsken. They’d agreed to meet at their borders, both too wary to venture past them into the heart of the other’s kingdom. 

The meeting had started with a letter, a letter sent by Sol to Dyon and his people. He’d suggested a treaty, as they hadn’t really had any large disagreements or skirmishes in years. A decade was long enough for a human to gain some trust, wasn’t it? After all, they hardly lived as long as Nessari. 

It wasn’t necessarily long enough for Sol to give up his distrust of humans though, especially not after what had happened to his brother, but he wanted to make an effort, extend a kind hand. He could feel war looming, tensions brewing, and he would need allies if he was to win it. What that war was though? He, as of yet, had no idea. 

They were meeting in a keep that had been left abandoned for decades. For a long while, it had served as a reminder of the bitter tensions between Nessari and humans, something that was constantly fought over. But, after some time, both sides had deemed the keep not worth the fighting, and had both abandoned it to time. 

Now though, it was being warmed with fires in the dusty hearths, and it’s age being hidden by fresh cleaning, furniture, and tapestries. This would make a good meeting place for both kings.

Sol had arrived first, it had seemed. Perhaps it was faster to fly than it was to walk, or use some animal as a mode of transportation. (Sol remembered that humans often rode horses. Why the animals tolerated this: he had no idea.)

But now Sol stood in the courtyard, hands folded in front of him. He had no weapons with him, though his guards were armed. He wanted to show that he was here for peace, but not let his guard down too easily. Besides, if anything went wrong, he had his magic. 

A horn blew from the wall, a clear note in the cloudless day. Dyon and his entourage had arrived. 

“Open the gates!” Sol called. He was nervous for this, but he wasn’t going to admit it, or show it, to anyone. 

Sol got his first glimpse of a human in almost a century as the gates opened, and the king and his men came riding in. The king was a tall man, around Sol’s height, with dark blond hair and an equally colored pointed beard, (though his beard had some gray in it.) His eyes were a dark gray, his nose pointed. 

He dismounted his horse easily, showing no soreness in having been riding. Sol didn’t understand how humans did it. 

He took off his riding gloves as his men began to dismount as well, taking his doing so as a sign of being able to themselves. 

He was looking around the keep, completely ignoring Sol. Sol tried his best not to frown and keep his expression passive. 

“You call this a keep?” Dyon asked incredulously. “No wonder we stopped fighting over it.” 

Oh, he’s that kind of person, Sol thought. He knew, right then and there, that he didn’t like this man. However, this meeting wasn’t about whether they liked each other personally or not - it was about the good of their nations. 

“You call that a greeting?” Sol couldn’t help himself. He knew he shouldn’t have given attitude as a king, but Dyon had gone there first.

“My apologies, Majesty,” Dyon said, though it didn’t sound like he actually meant it. He handed the reins of his horse to one of his men, then headed over to Sol. “I see you arrived first.” He looked through the large double doors of the keep that were open to let in some air. The summer was hot in Nessar. “I suppose you’ve made the keep livable, for the time being?”

“Of course,” Sol said. “Let us talk inside.” 

He was glad that Dyon and his guards walked beside him rather than behind him when entering the keep. He didn’t trust his back and wings to a human, especially one he’d just met. 

They sat together in one of the main dining rooms. It still smelled of dust, but looked much brighter with the cleaning and the windows open. Dyon appeared to already be sweating from the heat, probably not used to it, as Aborsken was north of Nessar. 

Servants poured them drinks, but from different pitchers. Dyon raised his eyebrows at this, but didn’t ask why, which Sol was grateful for. He didn’t need Dyon to know his past with alcohol and that he only really drank grape juice in favor of wine these days. 

“So…” Dyon tapped his fingers on the table, reaching for his goblet. “You propose a treaty.”

“I do.” 

“And what would be the benefits of said treaty?” Dyon asked. He took a sip of wine, eyeing Sol over the goblet. 

And so Sol went into his speech, having rehearsed it many times. He told Dyon of the resources Nessar could provide, that they could help each other in battle if the need ever arose. 

Then he provided the last bit of it, the part he hated, but the part that was necessary: 

He told Dyon that his daughter was unmarried. He knew that Dyon had a son around her age, that, (as far as he was aware), was also unmarried. 

“And where is your daughter?” Dyon asked. “I don’t see her presence here.” 

“She is attending to my duties back in Feycrest,” Sol responded. “I see you didn’t bring your son either.” 

“No,” Dyon said, placing his goblet down a little too hard. He stroked his beard. “You think a marriage would unite our peoples?” 

“I do.” 

“And what if a human and Nessari cannot conceive?” 

Sol hated thinking about it, but he had thought of it. He’d done research with the help of the royal librarians, and had found old records about unification between Nessari and human. 

“My research has shown me that it is possible,” Sol said, trying not to grit his teeth. He had spoken to Anaria about this of course, had told her he was trying to arrange a marriage between her and a human. She wasn’t quite happy about it, but she knew her duties. She’d told Sol this herself.  

“How old is your research?” Dyon asked. “Humans and Nessari have been at odds for a very long time.”

Sol didn’t like looking like he didn’t have anything good to propose, but he needed to be honest. 

“A thousand years old, give or take a few decades,” Sol explained. He hadn’t been born then, and the records were old, even for Nessari. 

Dyon frowned, clearly thinking. 

“If your son already has a prior engagement, I understand, but-”

“He does not.” Dyon shook his head. “Girad has never really been that interested in women.” 

“Oh, well, if he isn’t, then-” 

“He will marry Anaria,” Dyon interrupted again. 

Sol didn’t like that. This man was haughty and clearly thought himself above him, though they both held the same station. Perhaps it was a farce. He knew that Nessari had magic and longer lifetimes. That was part of what had caused unrest between the two races. Humans had no - or very little - magic themselves, and distrusted Nessari greatly for their ability to use it.

Dyon sighed. “I suppose now it is time to try to draw up a treaty.”

Sol nodded. A treaty would be good, despite his distaste for the man. “I suppose it is.” 

[ofgoldengrove]

where : a ship full of prisoners just off the shore of the summer isles what : the arbor has sent ships in crusade as a response to the burning of the septs, the waters are now treacherous as an impending fight is about to take place.

tw: imprisonment and drowning.

the months dragged on as the second son of goldengrove sat within his cell aboard a ship, with only a small window of sunlight upon to remind him of the world outside of it. it seemed a deal was struck with the osgrey's, with his life being the cost of part of it, though to some it was death, to him it was imprisonment, which felt more of the same.

still, he persevered. calculating every day how he might escape, most possibilities ending in actual death. every time they docked and set foot outside, laboring all throughout the day, the eyes of mathis rowan honed in on the sea - his escape.

the opportunity finally came, as a game of cyvasse was played with a fellow prisoner, with small pebbles found within the dusty floor of the cell, when yelling was heard from the upper deck. he looked to the man across from him, almost as if they both understood what this could mean, and soon, chaos erupted within the . guards entered, barking orders that mathis could not quite make out. they were suddenly filed together, being brought upon the main deck of the ship.

was this finally it? were they finally being disposed of? mathis figured the time would come sooner or later. perhaps it was too many mouths to feed, not enough results yielded from their labors, regardless it only made him realize the window to find an escape was closing.

the sun, something so golden and cherished to him, was suddenly blinding, strikingly so, orbs squinted as he tried to make out the waters surrounding them, but he did not have time to assess the situation fully before he heard the first scream, a man pushed into the water, deep and unforgiving, and then another, and another….

this was it. he thought. trying to loosen the ropes that dug into the flesh of his wrists as the haunting sound of bodies hitting the water far below continued. there was more yelling, suddenly, panicked it seemed. why were the guards panicking? eyes adjusted to the light finally, and this time he saw sails in the near distance, sails so familiar to him he thought he must be mistaken.

but he was not, and suddenly a fight broke out, swords drawn, defenseless, mathis found himself amongst the remaining prisoners, cornered. only two options remain: jump, or be cut down. a couple took the first option, weighing their odds, a few, including mathis, stood there.

as the guards moved in closer, the second son of goldengrove closed his eyes. inhaling deeply. the sea air was refreshing, the sun was warm on his face, perhaps this was an ok time to go. head tilted upwards, eyes closed, he spoke the words he had learned in his youth a lifetime ago:

"to the gods we belong and to the gods we return."

suddenly, the booming sound of a cannon rung in his ears, the splintering of wood blinding, the screams of men deafening. and instantly the ship was boarded by men of the arbor, men he recognized somewhat. would they recognize him?

they skillfully cut down the men of the summer isles, men who were not trained in such combat as those of the arbor were, men who were likely fairly green except for a skirmish here and there. mathis found himself dodging blows and eventually on the ground. a hand grabbed him roughly and stood him up. it became clear that he was the last man standing at this point, now surrounded by arbor sailors.

the ropes upon his wrists had come undone, and he held up his hands to show he was not one of the others, and not armed. this was his only chance now.

"my name is mathis rowan, second son of goldengrove, brother of tirius, former hand to cedric tyrell. and i humbly request safe passage back to the reach."

[twowk]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Book Bettyville A novel.

[teine-mallaichte]

whumperless whump event day 1

Prompt: Self done stiches / alcohol as sanitizer / "it's just a scratch, i've had worse."

I'm picking on Fenris today for @whumperless-whump-event Fandom: Dragon age 2 Character: Fenris CW: medical procedures I guess - ie suturing a wound Words: 995 (was about twice the length before I realised I'd gone into WAY TOO MUCH DETAIL with the sutures and am not actually writing a how to guide 🤣 )

The moonlight spilled through the broken windows of the abandoned mansion, casting eerie shadows on the dusty floor. Fenris winced as he limped into the room, his fingers brushing against the deep gash on his side. The makeshift bandage he had wrapped around it during the mission was soaked through with blood. He gritted his teeth, thankful that the mage had not been with them, and that Hawke had been too distracted to notice. The last thing he needed was attention being drawn to such a show of weakness. Fenris knew all too well that one's worth was solely determined by utility, it was a lesson he had learnt over and over in his life. And being injured in what was in reality a simply fight, that was an unacceptable display of weakness.

“It’s just a scratch,” he muttered, his voice strained, “I’ve had worse.”

Collecting supplies—a half-full bottle of alcohol, a rag that had once been fine linen, a fresh roll of bandage, and a small suturing kit—he had no intention of seeking help. Dealing with such injuries alone was familiar territory for him.

Settling himself on a rickety chair, the wooden legs creaking under his weight, he placed the supplies on the dusty table before him, before removing his armour and unwrapping the hastily done wrapping. His breath hissed through his teeth as he exposed the wound to the cool night air. Blood trickled from the gash, mixing with the dirt and grime from the day's skirmish. With a scowl, he uncorked the bottle of alcohol, its sharp scent immediately filling the room.

Pouring a generous amount onto the rag. He braced himself, before pressing the alcohol-soaked linen against the gash, unable to stifle the sharp intake. The alcohol burned like fire, searing through the layers of dirt and grime that had accumulated around the wound, his muscles tensed; every fibre of his being urging him to pull away from the agonizing sting. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to clean the wound thoroughly.

When the initial burning subsided, he exhaled a shaky breath, his skin clammy and slick with sweat. He discarded the rag and reached for the suturing kit, his fingers shaking slightly. The pain pulsed through him, a constant reminder of the task at hand. He glanced around, half-expecting Hawke or one of the others to burst in. But the room remained empty, he was on his own.

His trembling fingers unwrapped the suturing kit, revealing sterile thread and a curved needle. The needle glinted in the dim light, along with the other tools within the kit. Fenris gritted his teeth, determination etched into his features. He’d survived worse—slavery, betrayal, and battles that left scars both visible and hidden.

This wound was just another obstacle to overcome.

After dipping the needle into the alcohol, sterilizing it further, he held it hovering above the wound, poised for entry. Taking a steadying breath, he pierced the skin, the needle gliding through the dermis. Pain flared, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to waver. The second puncture mirrored the first, and he pulled the thread through, creating the first stitch, adjusting the tension, ensuring the edges aligned perfectly before pulling it through.

Each tug sent a jolt of pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and continued. Fenris worked methodically, blocking out everything but the wound, slowly closing the gap, securing the edges of torn flesh. His breaths came in shallow gasps, sweat dampening his brow as he completed each stitch with meticulous care. The needle moved in and out, the thread weaving through his skin, pulling the wound closed. Fenris focused on the rhythm, the steady, deliberate movements that brought him closer to finishing the task.

His breath caught in his throat as he secured the final knot, the thread biting into his skin. Sweat dripped down his forehead, mingling with the blood and dirt the seemed to cover his entire body.

Leaning back, to take a moment to assess his handiwork. The wound was now a jagged line of stitches, the flesh pulled taut and secure. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but it would hold. He reached for the remnants of the linen rag, pouring on more alcohol and wiping the areas around the wound, forcing himself to suppress the wince. The sharp sting was a small price to pay for cleanliness and a reduced risk of infection.

Satisfied with his work, he discarded the rag and allowed himself a brief moment of rest. He leaned back in the rickety chair, letting his eyes close for a few precious seconds. His mind drifted back to the fight, the blinding flash of steel and the acrid scent of blood and sweat. It had been a simple mission, one they should have completed without any issues. But Fenris had been careless, and now he was paying the price.

He glanced at the moonlight streaming through the window, its silver glow illuminating the dust motes suspended in the air. Grabbing the roll of bandages he begun the final step of securing the wound. Fenris wrapped the fresh bandages tightly around the wound, ensuring the stitches were protected.

"It's just a scratch," he muttered again.

Closing his eyes briefly, Fenris pushed himself to stand, the pain was a dull throb now, tolerable but insistent. He gathered the used supplies—the blood-stained rag, the empty alcohol bottle, the discarded suturing kit—and packed them away ready for next time.

Part 2

[companionwolf]

Toy Soldiers Ch 13

The snow melts, the world blooms, and the Commander recovers.

One morning, before the sun rises, they wake, get dressed, and grab their travel pack from its place in their closet. Central, half asleep on the second pillow, rouses at their touch as they pick him up and tuck him into a pocket.

You’re up early, he says.

“We’re going to HQ,” they say.

Oh, says Central.

They head down the stairs, pause only to say hello and goodbye to the other toys before they’re out the door, the house disappearing into the trees as they start into the forest proper.

How long will it take to get there?

“A while,” they say, “but I’ve been preparing.”

They make camp that evening, beside where the forest opens to a long empty asphalt road. The Commander makes a small fire, warms soup over it. In the dark, they look down at Central, who’s precariously perched on their knee. The firelight casts him bronzy orange.

You think there’ll be anything left?

“Maybe,” they say. “Can’t hurt to look.”

They continue this way for at least a week, traveling during the day and stopping in the evenings. They pass through ruined suburbs, navigate winding overpass tangles, slip past decaying fences and skirt ADVENT checkpoints. They ever stray toward any city center.

They reach the base on a warm spring evening, the Commander slipping through the broken door to the emergency stairwell. Down they go, blinking the black as they fumble for a flashlight.

Is it weird, Central asks as they heave the inner door open at the bottom of the stairwell, to be here?

They step out into the main control room, the Hologlobe dead, the computers overturned and dusty. Gingerly they walk through, barely breathing, as if they’re afraid to wake something. The place smells of smoke and death-- the Commander steps over bodies, tries not to recognize them, fails.

Distantly they hear gunshots, plasma fire, but they aren’t sure if it’s real. They’re white knuckled, one hand in their pocket gripping Central as if he’s a life line, and they guess at this moment he is.

I’m here, says Central.

“I’m glad you are,” they manage through the lump in their throat.

Their head hurts.

Their heart hurts.

The Commander distracts themselves by pulling down flags, rolling them up, tucking them away. Down in the research wing they prod and poke at ancient computers, try to boot them, fail. They rummage through the engineering wing, grabbing any overlooked blueprints and datapads.

Finally they go to the barracks, stand in the doorway.

“I can’t go in there,” they say finally, and turn away.

Where else is there to go?

A pause. “My quarters.”

Let’s go, then.

The walk is slow, hesitant. The Commander stands in front of the door to the small, stuffy suite, takes a long breath before they gently push it open and go inside. It is as if they never left -- a desk scattered with papers, a neatly made bed, bare walls, a long dead computer. They clamber up onto the bed, push aside a ceiling tile, and find the journal they’d hoped would be there.

What’s that?

“It was the main way me and Asaru talked,” they say, closing the ceiling tile again. “Besides internally, I mean.”

Oh, says Central. When you went to help the Reapers, did you learn anything?

“Not really,” they say as they sit on the bed, dropping their bag at the foot of it. “The Skirmishers said that they’d heard rumors of a new facility similar to the one I was in, up in the Arctic. That’s all I’ve got. No way to get there, either…”

I’m sorry, Commander.

“It’s -- it’s better this way,” they say. The journal sits heavy in their lap. They rub a thumb across the leather. They can’t bring themselves to open it, so they slide it into their bag and lie down, staring up at the ceiling.

You never answered my question, Central says.

“It is weird,” they say. “That’s the best I’ve got, is the word weird. I didn’t--- I guess I expected it all to be gone. For it to have died with everything else. For there not to be a corpse.”

The Commander pulls Central from their pocket, holding him against their chest. “It shouldn't be this way,” they say after a while. “It should be bustling and noisy and full of life and people, or pristine and quiet because we won and we don’t need it anymore, not in ruins.”

You did what you could, Central says. That’s all you could do.

“I should have expected it,” they say. Their throat is tight. “We knew the aliens had Psionic powers, we should have anticipated that those included mind control, that they’d send the best of the best, use every advantage they had.”

I think blaming yourself is just a way to try to control it, the toy soldier says. If it’s your fault, it’s easier, or something.

The Commander sighs. “I guess. I just…wish it hadn’t ended this way.”

There’s still a chance for a better ending, if you wanted to take it.

They huff out a laugh. “No, Central, I’m not joining the resistance,” they say.

But it might be worth it, he says. You could have a second chance at all this, maybe.

“I had my chance and blew it,” they say.

You’re so stubborn, says Central, it drives me mad.

“You’re stubborn right back,” they say. “You never shut up!”

Make me, says Central.

The Commander sits up, holds the toy soldier at chin level. The two of them stare at each other. Then: “When I was sick, I remember I asked if I could kiss you…and you said yeah. Is that-- was that real? Were you being--”

I meant it, the toy soldier says.

“Oh,” says the Commander, and their insides twist.

You still haven’t made me shut up, Central goes on. His voice is lilting, teasing almost.

“Maybe this’ll do the trick, then,” they say, and they kiss him.

At first it’s gentle, but there’s a hunger under it, and soon they’re kissing his cheeks, the top of his head, a peck on his shoulders, every palace they can get to. Central is laughing, and they’re laughing, and--

“So, does this mean anything?”

If you want it to, he says.

God, they want it to.

“Yeah,” they say between kisses. “Yeah, I do.”

Then I guess Shen’s right after all.

They break away from him, admiring him in the dark through soft touches. They stay like this for a while, kissing and touching, until the Commander stops, takes a breath.

Something wrong?

“I want to say it,” they say, “but I’m scared.”

I’ll do it then, he says. I love you, Commander.

“I love you too.”

[grandma-susan]

The feral imp had become so docile. It was cringe worthy, but at least he was polite. Susan's lips began to purse as he started oversharing his thoughts and his past. She didn't need to know it. He was a scoundrel who was going to leave in a few days time and he was a sure idiot if he shared too much as a criminal. Man, was he a knucklehead.

The way he sucked on the candy and was nestling into he sheets was disgustingly cute, though. And Susan grimaced deeply at this twinge of softness and she might as well call the softness a pang in her old dusty, dried up heart. She was going to vomit if he was going to be spewing more of this innocent, mushy, gushy, cat rolling....Bambi shit. "So a farm boy. Wouldn't have guessed." She said sarcastically, "At least you're not some urban rat trying to play cowboy." He really was just a child at heart. The range of expressions he had, was far greater than most grown men of his age, and the speed he would flip through them was more characteristic of a child. And now this...a little bit of suppressant and he was a dreamy little whelp. Still day dreaming about milk and eggs. He really was a milk sop cub. "Yeah?" She huffed as she cleaned up the things she had brought in. "Guess that makes two of us..." she uttered. Thinking about how during her unfortunately long life, she was prone to attracting opportunities that were frowned upon for a woman during her time. And during one of those she was granted the duty of dealing with snappy little mouths full of teeth. "Minus the ones who were the same species...." she muttered under her breath. "Hang tight." she said leaving the room and coming back shortly after and tossed the hat onto his lap. "There's your hat. " She said gruffly. The hat was old, worn, and had the odor of years of a hot wrathian heat and sweat. Besides its age, it had accumulated a number of newer signs of wear in it, likely from Striker's recent skirmish. The hat's typical dusty color was darker in some areas, with what looked and felt like water marks and brushing. There had been some effort in cleaning out the blood and other bodily fluids that soaked into it. Though Susan didn't say anything. It was simply to keep her hands occupied and for the thing not to fully crust over and start spoiling the fibers. "If there's nothing else, go the fuck to sleep." she said sternly.

"Yes please, madam."

Feeling a bit let down by the woman's reluctance to share her name, Striker kept his disappointment to himself, choosing instead to focus on the moment. He was starting to feel drowsy from the laudanum, but he managed to grab the two cubes of crystallized ginger candy to counteract the bitter taste.

When she replied to his question about the scratching at the door with a simple "my pet", the imp nodded and felt the sudden need to share a few things of his past.

The drug was messing with his self-control.

"I never had pets of my own, but my parents had a few farm animals, like chickens, pigs, goats, even a cow...I drank fresh milk and had eggs almost every day...'t was nice..."

He sighed wistfully at the pleasant memories, stubbornly resisting the urge to close his eyes as he munched on the candy.

"I often went exploring on my own. Didn't have any siblings or other kids around to play with, but critters would let me pet 'em and never got bitten or stung once."