#fae papercuts original

[fae-papercuts]

Originally inspired as a response to some posts by @banrionceallach and @marlynnofmany. Polished it up and decided it would make a good start to my lil story blog. Enjoy!

Not Our Usual Passengers

“What do you mean, there’s something wrong with the engines?” Captain El'ek'tak said incredulously. “You’re not an engineer, none of you humans are. You’re not even crew, you’re passengers! How dare you claim there’s something wrong with my vessel!?”

The outraged captain puffed up her air sacks, the feathery amphibian inflating as she stared down the trio of humans who had been travelling with them for the past week. They were not what she had come to expect when transporting humans, not one bit.

They were quiet, for a start. One of them didn’t even speak at all, just made an occasional tuneless humming sound when they were concentrating particularly hard on something. That was usually accompanied by a rocking back and forth that seemed remarkably similar to the Ke'tek autonomic stimulation ritual of focus.

Humans weren’t supposed to do that, were they?

The second of the human party cleared their throat softly - something they always did before speaking, which was quite a rare occurrence. The captain appreciated this, actually. So many humans she had transported interrupted her, or spoke over each other. The disrespect was really quite remarkable - but these humans waited patiently for others to finish, and this particular human’s throat-clearing was used similarly to the way El'ek'tak’s own species rustled their dorsal feathers to indicate their intent to communicate.

“Captain, apologies if we caused any offence,” at this the non-speaking human’s eyes widened in surprise, and they shook their head, clearly agreeing in a profoundly apologetic manner, without words. Their apologetic companion went on, ��We can’t be certain there’s something wrong with the ship, we just thought you should know that it sounds wrong.”

The first human spoke again, nodding as they added to their companion’s statement.

“Yes, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to assert certainty when I should have stated a suspicion,” they gave a short smile, then their face quickly fell back into a neutral expression. The captain was a little taken aback by this, as that particular human seemed to very rarely express facially - quite the opposite to what she was used to with humans. It was a little disconcerting, but mostly because she had put a lot of effort into learning about human non-verbal communication.

She blinked, and stared at the three for a long moment. “It sounds wrong?” she repeated back, surprised. She had heard of some particularly sensitive species being able to diagnose certain engine issues from the vibrational frequencies, but usually this required extremely highly trained specialists.

The silent human nodded, and raised a handheld device, tapping something onto its screen for a few moments. The other two humans turned and waited patiently as their friend worked, and the Captain watched with a raised eyebrow (this wasn’t a natural Girurian expression. She had learnt it from her human studies, enjoyed how it felt, and how it could communicate so many things at once).

The human held up the device, and it emitted a gentle, slightly robotic tone, “Engine pitch changed one point five hours ago. Rising quarter octave every seven minutes. Hurt very bad fifty five minutes ago.”

Captain El'ek'tak stared for a moment at the human, her feathers rustling vaguely, as she tried to figure out a response. She looked between all three of them. “You can hear the engines, from your quarters half way across the ship?” she asked incredulously.

The most vocal of the humans spoke, while the throat-clearer nodded and the non-verbal one tapped on their device. “Oh yes,” they said, “we’re all sensitive to sensory input, at least for humans. Not a patch on Alirians sound sensitivity, or Hynoids electromagnetic spectral range, or the scent capabilities of the Teraxids - did you know they can smell a single smoke particulate in a standard atmospheric volume of 500 cubic metres?”

The human with the device gently put a hand on the speaker’s shoulder and smiled softly at their friend - who turned bright red and looked at the floor. “Sorry, xenobiological sensory discrepancies is my special interest right now,” they said, before taking a slight step back. It was at this point that the captain noticed that they were fiddling with a strange cube in their left hand, suddenly speeding up how they manipulated the piece of plastic, changing its configuration rapidly. It was a fascinating display of manual dexterity, and considered asking about it for a moment.

“Engine makes the whole ship vibrate. Can hear it any place,” spoke the little device, for it’s human, interrupting the captain's curiosity. The human’s head rose, making eye contact with El'ek'tak. The human’s gaze was intense - more so than even the other humans the captain had encountered. Eye contact was so rarely a positive thing, across a wide variety of species, but with humans she had met so far it had always been considered important. So the captain had learned to look them in the eyes. It had been a surprise when this group avoided it so much, rarely meeting her gaze for more than a split second. Early in the voyage, they had politely explained that all of them found it hard, and that they hoped she wouldn’t take offence. Frankly, El'ek'tak had been a little relieved, as all the eye contact with others of the odd little species had been quite exhausting.

But right now, the diminutive human who never spoke and could apparently tell when engines changed pitch, was looking into her eyes, and the Captain could practically feel this little traveller’s distress. It made her ankle feathers itch, and she was surprised to find herself understanding quite so much from just a look.

The captain nodded, and broke eye contact. The human looked down again, reverting back to their usual slightly-bowed stance.

“Let me check with engineering,” she said, and turned to the panel by her side, tapping a screen to raise the engine-room. Slipping comfortably into her own language, she greeted the pair of engineering crew on duty, and asked them about the state of the engines, particularly frequency or oscillation-related issues. She gave them the time to check on it, waiting silently, still as a statue, while the humans figeted, or rocked gently side to side. Their motion made her a little uncomfortable, but she had learnt that with these three, continuous movement wasn’t a sign of impatience, as it has been for many previous human passengers.

After a few minutes, the engineers returned to the screen, and exchanged a few explanatory sentences with the Captain, before tapping fingers to their foreheads respectfully. The Captain returned the gesture, and ended the call.

El'ek'tak turned back to the humans, to see that the non-verbal one was already tapping on their device. She couldn’t help but rustle her feathers, wanting to reassure the humans, but not wanting to interrupt this overt preparation for communication. The throat-clearing human raised a finger briefly, a clear request for a moment of time, and the Captain found herself surprised again at how wide a variety of perception these humans could contain within a single species.

“Pitch dropping rapidly. Expect normal range in four minutes. Thank you, captain,” said the device, as the human beamed a broad smile at her for just a brief moment.

El'ek'tak’s feathers rustled briskly, and then she replied. “Yes, that’s alright, thank you for bringing it to our attention,” she said, pausing to gather her wits. “The interphasic array had become slightly misaligned. It wouldn’t have been detected by our sensors for another hour, and then we would have had to pause the engines to manually readjust it. Catching it this early, we could simply vary the input parameters to re-compensate, and bring it back into synchronisation,” she explained, relaying the gratitude of her engineering crew.

The most vocal human flapped their hands back and forth vigorously, grinning with delight. “Oh, thank goodness, I’m so glad we could help, and that the engine noise will at least be consistent. We were worried it would be horrible for the whole trip, and we’d have to reconfigure our ear protection all the time! Genuinely helping out the engineers is so great!”

The captain’s eyes bulged with happiness, quite unable to resist the infectious joy of the gleeful human. “I am glad your trip will be more comfortable, and I will pass on how helpful you were to Central, once we reach our destination.”

The throat-clearing human, who had so consistently noticed the captain’s non-verbal communication, smiled too. They actually chuckled a little as they said, “More neurodiversity stuff to go in The Guide To Interstellar Travel With Humans,” seeming pleasantly amused.

El'ek'tak winced in embarrassment. She had already sent in three amendments to the guide regarding natural variations in human cognitive capabilities and behavioural norms since they had left Alpha Centauri, the two weeks of travel offering surprise after surprise from these passengers. But as far as she knew, the guide wasn’t acknowledged by humans - she didn’t even know the species was aware of the now rather sizeable volume of collected knowledge. It certainly wasn’t available in any human languages that she knew of - after all, what would be the point?

The human’s chuckle became gentler, and the other vocal one of the group raised a hand in an extremely close mimic of the Girurian comforting gesture - as close as could be with the wrong number of digits, anyway. The Captain couldn’t help but relax, the effort the human put into the gesture only adding to the positive impact. They flashed another brief smile as their companion explained, “Don’t worry captain. Most of us don’t bother with it, but I find it fascinating. It has been wonderful seeing the updates since our trip began. Please, the more human neurodivergency is documented, the easier space travel can be for people like us.”

There were a few more polite exchanges, during which the captain learned  that the strange device she had notice was an 'infinity cube,' which was apparently a kind of 'fidget toy.' Then the humans left her ready room; a quiet, somewhat surreal collection of beings who had rather put a lie to the notion that humans were uniformly capable of being brash and difficult to deal with.

But they certainly didn’t do anything to diminish the captain’s view of humanity as a species eternally full of surprises.

[charmed-henry]

Baby There’s a Shark in the Water | Candenrose feat. Bruce

Date: 5/17/21 Trigger Warnings: references to drowning, blood, head trauma, general violence  @thehuntress-rose  @i-want-candy​ @brucewhite​

Candace goes for a swim, Bruce goes for a snack, and Henrose goes Baywatch

HENRY

Finally, finally, Henry was going to relax and have a beach day. Things were going surprisingly well. The wedding, introducing Ashleigh to his family, finals, the fae situation, sure, it could be better, but it could be a lot worse. And so, in his favorite swim trunks and sunglasses, Henry was just slathering on some sunscreen when he heard some splashing in the water and the alarm bells started going off in his head again.

No, he was overreacting. He and Eric hadn’t found anything when they went exploring.

Still, he glanced at Rose. “You’d think the lifeguards would do their jobs a little better, right?” he pointed out, trying not to look too worried.

ROSE:

Yes, Rose agreed to hang out at the beach with Henry with the intention to relax. And yes, she knew it wouldn't last long with her particular company. Still, she remained unbothered by the thinly veiled anxiety in Henry’s voice. She took the sunscreen from him and used some on herself. Rose was only concerned with the horrible tan lines she’d get from her high neck bikini top today. No one could fall overboard, so why worry?

“You seem to be pretty good at it, why don’t you do their job then?” Rose suggested in jest, peering over her red sunglasses. “I’m joking. Don’t actually go all BayWatch on me. You need to relax. There are no man eating sharks in the lake.”

She didn’t know how ironic those words would be later that day.

HENRY:

Henry rolled his eyes. “I’m not worried about man-eating sharks. I’m just saying…” Henry trailed off. He didn’t know what he was just saying, to be honest. If he and Eric hadn’t found anything, what was there to worry about here?

He was being paranoid. As usual. He needed to relax and enjoy the day. Henry leaned back on the chair and closed his eyes, pulling the shades back over his eyes.

Nope. The splashing was bothering him. And then, cutting through the regular beach noise, a shriek. Henry sat straight up and threw his sunglasses off. “I’m going over there. Rose, back me up!”

ROSE:

Rose sat up straight. She heard the sharp rising of a scream above all the chatter and waves and splashing too. It was then she realized she was going to eat her words. Man eating shark or not, trouble seemed to follow the people in organizations made to stop it. Immediately she was in work mode. Protect, attack, obey orders.

“Got it!” She pulled her hair back as she stood up, ready to dive into the action. She scanned the shore line for the origin of the shriek. And then another sounded. And another. “There!” she nodded and began to run over, feet kicking up sand and water licking her ankles. “Is that..?”

Candace? Candace and blood? What was going on here?

CANDACE: The weather had decided to warm up on this particular saturday in mid-May. When a few girls from Candace’s major asked if she wanted to go to the lake, she said yes. Not because she particularly liked these girls--they were fine and everything...they just didn’t have a lot in common--but because a day at the lake sounded perfect. Finals were starting soon and Candace really needed a zen day before that happened because she had felt her focus slipping with everything else going on.

So, to the lake she went.

And it was a nice day. The sun was baking down on her and the water was the perfect temperature. Maybe a little cool, but on her floatie, she was perfectly relaxed. Her body was half in the water, arms wrapped around the inflatable tube that her friend was sitting on. With her legs, she was lazily directing them about the lake as they sipped on cold beers that someone had brought in a cooler.

If asked later, Candace would not be able to tell you what she was talking about, but for now, they were all just idly chatting. One of the dumb boys splashed water at them and they retaliated with squeals of playful displeasure.

A lovely, normal day at the lake...

BRUCE

Bruce was going on thirteen days vegetarian. The last time he got hungry, he demolished an entire bag of frozen shrimp alone in his room, like an animal. He stared at it afterward, the ripped plastic remains of the bag reminding him horribly of the carcasses of the live sea creatures the researchers used to bring him in the lab, and vowed that he was done for real this time. The more he practiced, surely, the better he would get at this.

He didn’t get better. He got worse. It started with getting shaky and distracted, then incurably hungry, then a pull toward the water. Then there was a full moon, and Bruce didn’t sleep as well, flashbacks and memories keeping him up at night, and he started fantasizing about fish at all hours. Bruce promised himself he would stay away from the lake during that beach party, but only a few days after, he found himself at the lake.

It was so risky. There were people everywhere. But Bruce wasn’t thinking right, and the next thing he knew, he was in the water, in his merman form, prowling around the bottom of the lake. Not the same as the ocean, not by a mile, but enough to call forth his instincts.

He smelled it from across the lake. A tiny drop of blood. And before Bruce could stop or reason with himself or try any of those tactics he had taught himself, he was zipping across the lake, his instincts taking over. He was hungry. He needed to eat, by any means necessary.

Bruce followed the smell to a pair of girls sitting in inner tubes. One of them had a small papercut, the one with red hair, and without thinking, Bruce sprang out of the water and sank his sharp teeth into the girl’s leg.

CANDACE “Ugh, Greg!” Candace grouched in the direction of the boy who had splashed them, “you made me cut my finger!”

The wound was sharp and bleeding but shallow. She must have sliced it on the seam of the inner tube when she jerked away from the splashing water.

Scowling at the asshole, she dipped her hand in the water, rinsing the cut out.

“Ew, Candace! This water is so gross.”

“It’s not that bad, actually. I’ve seen worse.” Growing up around the Great Lakes meant trips there on family vacations and being around a million gross tourists. Candace was not really an outdoorsy kind of girl, but a little lake water didn’t phase her much.

Candace didn’t think twice about it. To the point where, later, she wouldn’t be able to pinpoint that as the moment she became a target.

It all happened very quickly after that.

At first, all it was was a tug. As if someone had dove beneath them and grabbed her around the waist. Probably Greg because he was an asshole like that.

“Candy,” huffed her friend, who was almost dislodged from her tube. And then, more forcefully: “Oh my god, Candy!” as a bubble of red water burst at her side.

“What?”

The first shriek was not Candace’s. It was her friend’s as Candace was torn off the inner tube and pulled into the water. She gasped as soon as she went under, filling her lungs with lake water. Disoriented, she twisted slightly, but that only made the pain in her leg pronounced. It shot up her thigh and into her hip and her nails instinctively clawed at the dark shape in the water as she screamed.

HENRY: As they jogged over to the shoreline, Henry was about to start bragging about how his intuition never lied and people should really listen to him more when he saw the source of the shouting. Candace. And, launching itself at her, some sort of sea creature?

Henry wished Eric were here, because he would know exactly what to do. Henry hadn’t brought his weapons with him today, but maybe the beach umbrella could work. “Hold on!” Henry shouted, then ran back to where the umbrella and chairs were set up and ripped the umbrella out of the ground, not really caring if he looked ridiculous. He ran back over to the water and brandished the umbrella and its pointy tip. “Get away from her!” Henry warned.

ROSE:

Unfortunately for Rose, she was more of a head first approach kind of gal. She didn’t need a weapon; she was a weapon. The huntress ran forth into the shallows and truly saw the scene for what it was. A grey creature had latched onto Candace’s leg. It was dragging her under. Rose grabbed the redhead in an attempt to keep her head above the water.

Without thinking, Rose kicked it in its side. It wasn’t too hard considering the water slowed her down. She tried to pull Candace away from its teeth, despite the screaming. If she pulled too hard more damage would be done to the damsel. It was on her to get free. Rose could hold off this beast, but only for a few moments.

“Henry! Hurry it up!” She overestimated herself, they needed a weapon.

CANDACE: Time had lost all sense of meaning to Candace.

Her lungs were burning, deprived of oxygen and full of lake water. If she didn’t die of blood loss, she was most definitely gonna die from drowning. In fact, she could even die of a pulmonary enema if she survived this. Or have brain damage. Or organ damage. At the very least, she could develop an infection. She watched too many medical shows, apparently, if this is what she was thinking about before she died.

Because she was pretty sure that was what was going to happen. She was completely unaware that there was anyone trying to rescue her.

When her head surfaced, due to Rose grabbing her under the arm and pulling—Candace didn’t even register that was what was happening. She kept thrashing on instinct, clawing at Rose as if she was an attacker too. Trying to use her to stay afloat above the water as she coughed and gasped for air—dunking Rose under the water instead.

HENRY

If only Eric were here. If only Henry had paid more attention in the lessons about mercreatures. Maybe this was some horrible kind of irony, that he had been so indignant about people valuing his family’s specialty but should have considered others to the same level of threat. He knew there might be creatures in the lake. Why hadn’t Henry been more vigilant?

But there was no time for Henry’s typical cycle of worry and regret and guilt. He had to get into action. Rose was tough and she was a good fighter, but he didn’t want her fighting this thing alone, especially unarmed. Not that an umbrella was much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!” Henry cried, letting the terror and rage at seeing two of his closest friends in harm’s way fuel him. The Order always emphasized the importance of being detached from a situation, to focus on the skills and training that would carry you through to victory, but Henry was finding that being emotionally invested was its own kind of weapon.

As Rose tried to pull Candace away from the creature, it tried to lunge again, giving Henry the opening to slam the umbrella against the creature’s head with a sickening thunk. The creature cried out in pain, a high-pitched, strangled kind of cry. For a moment, Henry felt a twinge of guilt, but then he saw Candace thrashing in the water and, his sense of protectiveness renewed, hit the creature again.

ROSE:

Rose yelped and flailed into the water. She kept her grip on the girl but lost her footing. Candace fighting against her was not a part of her improvised plan. Getting dragged under the surface wasn’t either so Rose got a mouthful of lake water. A bitter side of her thought, ‘if I knew this was going to be so much trouble, I would have let her drown…’ But Rose knew her dedication to saving people would always outweigh her self preservation. The thrill she felt hunting, and even now, underwater and at the mercy of magic she didn’t understand… it always outweighed self preservation.

The blonde resurfaced with her charge. Sputtering and spitting out murky liquid, Rose coughed out, “CANDACE. Stop struggling and swim!” Sure, her leg is a bit out of commission, but she had Rose to support her. Candace would be okay. The huntress’ presence guarantees it.

She tried again to pull the girl back to safety. This time the creature no longer latched on and is otherwise occupied with Henry.

BRUCE:

Deep-water merfolk have an evolutionary instinct that snaps them out of a feeding frenzy when things get too dangerous.When they sustain a certain level of injury to the head or to sensitive organs, they go into survival mode, and the need to find food is secondary to the need to find shelter and a place to tend to one’s wounds. At the lab, Bruce’s life got a lot worse when the researchers discovered this fact.

So the blow to the head was almost familiar. By the second one, Bruce dipped below the surface of the water, and that was when the situation revealed itself in full to him. What he had done. He had attacked an innocent girl in the lake, like a monster, and now this boy was trying to kill him with an umbrella. Horrible, creeping guilt took over, but Bruce couldn’t stay around here any longer pondering his actions. He had to make it to safety.

Bruce poked his head above the surface one more time, surveying the sickening scene, confusion and fear showing on his face. But he only had a few seconds before the boy with the umbrella raised the weapon high above his head, and Bruce knew what was coming next. He ducked back under the water and sped off toward the deepest part of the lake, his head ringing with the pain of the hits and the million thoughts he had running through his head.

He couldn’t stay here forever. Bruce knew they would come looking for him. But for now, this felt safe, the darker, cooler water that reminded him of home.

What would the agents say if they found out? Would they give up on him, decide he was a hopeless case and lock him up? Even if not, Bruce knew their confusion and disappointment would be unbearable.

Hating his horrible appetite, Bruce easily captured a few trout and ate them, and then changed back into his human form, leaving the lake on the far side near the forest. He wandered there for a while before he made it back to his apartment, dripping wet and looking dejected.

CANDACE: Candace was not the only one screaming. The lake had just recently opened, which meant that tons of people had flocked to it on their weekend. Just like Candace and her friends had. Just like Rose and Henry had. Everyone was on their way out of the water now, people shouting for help. People shouting about sharks and monsters and all sorts of things. In the distance, there was already the sound of sirens wailing too. The benefits of such a small town meant help was never too far away.

Candace wasn’t paying attention to any of that, though. She was only aware of the pounding of her own heart and the sound of the water as she and the monster struggled.

All of the sudden, it was like a weight had been lifted as the creature let go. In its place, Candace felt the burn of her wounds as they started to bleed. Her panicked splashing only made it worse, but she couldn’t think. There was only blinding terror.

It was Rose shouting her name that finally snapped Candace out of her panic, but only enough to stop her from thrashing. She kicked feebly with her good leg, adrenaline (adrenaline is released by the adrenal glands) still coursing through her body, terrified that whatever had attacked her was still lurking in the murky water, ready for round two.

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged onto land, the sand scraping against her back. She looked down to see the blood as it stained the ground around her and felt her heart rate tick up again. Every movement caused more to pour from the wound.

“What the—“ she started and then leaned over to cough up water. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

HENRY

The creature swam away. As Rose pulled Candace to shore, Henry tried to chase after it, swinging the umbrella widely, but despite Henry’s attempts at least to render the creature unconscious, it still managed to get away. Another failure. Another loose thread. Henry had saved Candace, but there was still a dangerous sea monster on the loose, and once it tended to its wounds, it would be back and hungry for revenge.

Wait.

Candace.

Henry whipped around to see her lying on the shore, sputtering and shouting as the wound on her leg bled onto the sand. Something tightened in Henry’s chest-- anger, fear, guilt, maybe, that he hadn’t been able to prevent this from happening. And something else, too. The realization that if things had gone differently, Henry might have lost Candace forever, and the last things they might have said to each other would have been those vicious text messages.

That thought was even more terrifying than any sea monster. Through fights and breakups, Candace was still Henry’s friend, and seeing her like this reminded him of that. He couldn’t believe he had wasted so much time refusing to speak to her when something like this could have happened any moment.

Of course, though, there were more pressing things to attend to. Henry splashed out of the water, rushing to Candace’s side. There was already a small crowd gathered. “Everyone, back away!” Henry shouted. “Has someone called 999?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, though. What was more important was that Candace was bleeding. Henry knew from Order training to apply pressure to the wound and try to stop the bleeding. He glanced at Candace, and the look of fear on her face seized him with a fresh wave of panic. One thing at a time. He turned to Rose. “Can you stay with her while I go get something to stop the bleeding?”

ROSE:

As soon as they reached the sand Rose stumbled over the tangle of limbs and tried to wave away the bystanders swarming. Candace was in shock and the crowd only made things worse. It must have been some sight to see some random college students save a girl from a lake monster, but this wasn’t a TV drama. The attention overwhelmed her, Rose was a covert operation kind of huntress. Her heart was racing just as fast as the girl’s who was attacked. She couldn’t face them. So she focused on the task at hand. First aid was second nature to the girl, she’d self administered plenty of times before. The trail of blood leading up to a sputtering Candace was being licked away by the small waves and Rose nodded to Henry only half processing what he said.

“I got her,” the wounds weren’t too deep, but this would hurt. Rose took both of her hands and wrapped them around the bite marks, applying even force. She hoped Candace was too distracted by everything else to really feel it or fight her anymore.  “Candace, you’re in shock. You’re only gonna bleed more if you panic. Can you take a slow deep breath for me? Like this.” In and out. Nice and slow. Most of the people Rose had taken care of had been veterans of injuries like this. But this was just a girl, she was probably terrified so she did her best to calm her.

“Henry is getting more help. You’re gonna be okay. Just lay back and breathe slow.”  She kept her gaze on Candace, really trying to be a comfort.

CANDACE: Candace was, vaguely, aware she was in shock. There was a part of Candace’s brain that knew what to do. She had had a summer job as a lifeguard at a lake near Dansville. Granted, there wasn’t really protocol for an animal attack (is that what this had been? she wasn’t totally sure.) But, Candace also had a fascination with how the body worked. The different chemicals and functions. And she knew too much blood loss, combined with the chilly water, would lead to hypothermia and shock.

The shock was probably more serious than the hypothermia, but both together was definitely an even bigger problem. It’d be that combo, not the blood loss, that would cause significant damage.And if that didn’t take her out, an infection probably would.

Taking deep breaths wasn’t going to help. Well, it would get oxygen to her organs which would be shutting down soon if nothing changed; but in the long run: deep breaths were gonna do shit and she was probably just going to die.

She couldn’t say any of this, though. Her lips were numb and tinged blue. Her heartbeat was a staccato in her chest: fast, fast, slow. She was nauseous and weak, feeling both faint and dizzy.

Falling back onto her elbows, she flopped onto the ground. Like a fish the shark or...whatever...had probably thought she was. The panic was still making her heart race and her thoughts were jumbled: random scientific facts, interspersed with spikes of worry for her brother and Ferb (were they okay? Were they here? She couldn’t remember), thoughts of her dog, and also: Vanessa is going to make so much fun of me for this.

Her heart rate started slowing and she shivered once or twice. “What happened?” she murmured, not even sure if anyone could hear her over the crowd murmuring and the sound of sirens drawing ever closer.

HENRY There were moments when being trained to handle this specific thing was actually counterproductive. Because Henry’s first thought was that he could grab his shirt, or maybe tear some fabric off of the umbrella if it really came to that, and create a makeshift bandage. And then he spotted the lifeguard on duty, who was already heading in the direction of the scene. Right. Modern medicine. Actual authorities.

Ha. Authorities. Authorities who couldn’t even do the one thing in their job description!

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Henry blurted out. What he had meant to say was that he needed a bandage and something to clean the wound, and maybe some water for Candace to drink, but Henry’s mind flashed again to the image of Candace bleeding on the shore and his face grew hot and red with anger. “You had one job, didn’t you keep everyone safe from god-knows-what in that lake and look what’s happened! That is my friend--” Henry’s throat tightened and he realized he had let his emotions take over far too much.

The lifeguard, a gangly teenager with bad acne and a painful sunburn covering his shoulders, blinked at Henry, looking terrified. It was May-- the lake had just opened-- it was very possible this was his first day on the job. Henry coughed awkwardly. “Er, I mean-- have you got the first aid kit?”

The lifeguard nodded and held up the plastic case.

“What’s your name?” Henry demanded.

“Kevin.”

Henry grabbed his arm and marched him over to the scene. “This is Kevin. He’s got the first aid supplies.” Henry lowered his voice and turned to Rose. “How is she doing?”

ROSE:

Rose heard Candace mumble something, but didn’t have the heart to ask her to repeat herself. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be fine,” she repeated, sounding more like a broken record than a comfort.

Henry was off yelling at some guy who looked like he was in shock too while Rose held steady on the wound. The sirens were getting louder. That’s all she had to focus on, not the foreign bubbling of fear in her chest. Why was she scared? The threat was gone and help was on the way. The waves in the lake died down, but waves of panic built up in Rose. Her hands were the only thing keeping Candace from slipping into unconsciousness… and they weren’t doing a great job.

Her partner arrived back with the ‘lifeguard’, some job he was doing, and Rose looked him up and down. “Do you really think, Kevin, is qualified to use that? She’ll be fine when real help gets here.” She didn’t mean to snap at Henry. But he, of all people, knew how she felt right now.

She was scared.

And then help arrived. A paramedic put a hand on Rose’s shoulder, calmly and cooly moving her away. Still, she held on. “You did a great job. You kids probably saved your friend’s life, but we got it from here. Okay? You can let go now, Miss.”

Another medic came and removed Rose more forcefully and they got to work. She stood away from the scene and stared down at her open palms. Seeing her own hands bloody was nothing new to the huntress, but the slight tremor was.

[riddledeep]

SCHNOZMO AND BLONDA: IN SHORT

Brief bios about the brother and sister to a pair of local goofballs

ROBIN “SCHNOZMO” AUGUSTUS COSMA, JR.

Occupation: Con artist Self-employed

Birthday: 3rd Sunday of March, Spring of the Swirling Fireflies (Love)

Height: 3′9″ (Tall for a fae)

Age During Frozen Timestream: 419,661 (Mentally 37)

Age As of Devil’s Backbone: 582,921 (Mentally 51)

Alignment: Neutral Evil

MBTI: ENFJ

Love Language: Acts of service

Handedness: Left dominant

Hometown: Emper - A small town on the outskirts of Fairy World, occasionally circled by pirates

Core: Key

Core Color: Blue (Layer 1 Purple; Layer 2 Yellow)

Crown Lift: High

Wand Type: Threedspiral

Fagiggly Color: Green

Preferred Shapeshifting Form: Crow

Bio: Robin Cosma Jr. was always closer to his father than his mother, which left him feeling abandoned and angry after his father’s death. Although he shared a bedroom with his younger brother (Cosmo) while living in their mother’s home, Robin never felt particularly close to him. Mama paid extra attention to her newborn son after losing her husband, so Cosmo became an instant mama’s boy. This caused her to pay even more attention to him. Meanwhile, Robin felt he faded right into the wallpaper.

Hurt and lonely, Robin spent the majority of his time living at school, visiting home on the holidays out of obligation before slowly cutting off his visits altogether. Being about 40,000 years older than Cosmo, their time in the same school didn’t overlap for long. Robin, too cool to be caught hanging out with his baby brother, avoided Cosmo as often as he could. Nonetheless, the nickname his supposed friends gave him - “Schnozmo” - has stuck to this day.

Shortly after losing his father, Robin began acting out for attention. He’d smuggle school supplies home and leave it out where his mother could find it, or swipe things from her room and dump them in the garbage. When that stopped prompting the reactions he was looking for, he began stealing from neighbors and roommates. He spiraled down his con artist path from there, smooth-talking his way out of trouble and growing smoother every day.

Never one to settle down, Schnozmo flits from place to place, staying briefly and keeping his head low. He goes through new aliases almost as quickly as socks. Some centuries he can’t afford the bill for his wand and goes without magic entirely.

He’s juggling multiple girlfriends, all of whom believe they’re his one and only. He and one such girlfriend - Ingrid - unexpectedly had a child shortly after the ban on fairy babies was lifted. Not paying attention to things has its consequences...

Schnozmo’s grown surprisingly attached to little Snowball. Officially she stays at her mother’s place, but Schnozmo visits Ingrid way more often than he once did. Though he’ll always be restless, his new role as a father seems to tug him closer to stability than anything else ever has. Whodathunk?

Schnozmo appears as a minor character in Origin of the Pixies, becoming fast friends with the Head Pixie during the War of the Angels. He makes a few small appearances in the 130 Prompts and also appears in Devil’s Backbone.

⭐ I heard he may play a role in Lemonade and Papercuts... But of course, that’s just a theory!

Related:

Anti-Schnozmo’s Bio || Family Tree || Mama Cosma’s House || Fairy Class Overview || Cosmo’s Bio || Poof’s Bio || Dusty’s Bio || Mama and Papa Cosma’s Bios

.

WENDY “BLONDA” JUNO FAIRYWINKLE

Occupation: Actress

Birthday: 2nd Friday of May, Spring of the Surrounding Thunder (Sky)

Height: 3′5” (Average for a fae)

Age During Frozen Timestream: 394,777 (Mentally 35)

Age As of Devil’s Backbone: 558,037 (Mentally 49)

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

MBTI: ISFP

Love Language: Words of affirmation

Handedness: Right dominant

Hometown: Starglint Town - Small, somewhat wealthy town located in the woods not far from Emper

Core: Tracking radar

Core Color: Pink

Crown Lift: Average

Wand Type: Ulkroot

Fagiggly Color: Pink

Preferred Shapeshifting Form: Cat

Bio: Wendy Fairywinkle was born into a strict, organized family who brought her up in traditional Fairy beliefs. Under Fairy World’s inheritance laws, only the firstborn child can inherit a family’s business or property- in this case, that meant Wanda.

Not only was Wendy the younger daughter, but she was also born a twin in a society that views lookalikes with suspicion... right on the heels of Fairy World’s war with the Anti-Fairies. And the war that hit during her young adult years didn’t help either.

The Fairywinkle family is a complicated one, and Big Daddy took full advantage of having twin daughters. Little by little, he schooled Wanda in the art of being underhanded and kept her identical twin at the ready in case she needed an alibi. Up until adulthood when she finally had enough and revealed herself as Big Daddy’s second daughter, Blonda disguised herself as a boy and used the name Walter.

Wanda was obviously their father’s favorite growing up. Seeing this, the twins’ mother (Serena) paid particular close attention to Wendy and tried to offer the emotional support Big Daddy wasn’t interested in sharing. It wasn’t until their young adulthood that the sisters discovered Serena wasn’t their birth mother at all, and they’d been born of an affair their father had with a will o’ the wisp during his honeymoon. Apparently, Anti-Wanda’s small ears came from somewhere after all...

After publicly revealing herself as Big Daddy’s second daughter (and not a boy at all), Wendy decided to put the performance skills she’d picked up from living that façade to good use. Sick of her family, she left home, dyed her hair bright yellow, changed her name to Blonda, and has pursued a career in acting ever since.

Blonda still doesn’t get along well with her father, but has recently begun repairing her relationship with her sister. She no longer harbors all the jealousy she did throughout their youth, though there’s still tension between them.

Blonda is referenced in Origin of the Pixies and appears as a minor character in Frayed Knots, where she has a brief relationship with Anti-Cosmo. She makes background appearances in the 130 Prompts and plays a larger role in Devil’s Backbone.

Related:

Anti-Blonda’s Bio || Family Tree || Fairy Class Overview || Wanda’s Bio || Poof’s Bio || Dusty’s Bio || Westley’s Bio || Fairywinkle Family Overview

[fae-papercuts]

Still A Monster

Medusa looked up from her book, peering over the narrow glasses balanced on her nose. It was quite an impressive sight, really, given how her nose is a strangely shaped nub with uneven nostrils, barely poking out from her grey-green face. She raised one eyebrow, though as they are always assymmetrical, it took you a moment to recognise the expression as one of curiosity.

Peering at her reflection in your hand mirror, you stepped cautiously backwards towards her. You had passed several 'statues' of people dotted throughout the garden outside, but the inside of her surprisingly well-decorated cave wasn't quite as busy with the petrified remains of erstwhile warriors. There was one cowering in the far corner, another trying to hide their eyes off the size. One was tucked by the door, its stony expression one of frozen rage. Every one of them, inside and outside, were warriors. Some ancient and moss-covered, wielding swords and shields. Some distinctly cleaner ones holding rifles and dressed in modern combat gear.

You cleared your throat politely, and the monstrous woman picked up a bookmark, slipped it into place, and closed the book calmly. After placing it gently on a small table beside her, she laced her fingers together in her lap, and looked expectantly at your reflection from her casually reclined posture upon the couch.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Her voice was rough and gravelly, with an unusual accent that you could only assume is Ancient Greek. It's actually the accent of the people of old Ithaca, to be specific - but it made little difference to you. The snakes that act as her hair moved lazily, roused from their previously slumberous state by your interruption. But there was no terrible hissing or sudden predatory response. Just the languid curling of slender, scaly bodies.

Licking your dry lips nervously, you tilted the small mirror slightly to get a better angle on her, noticing that below the neck her body was remarkably human. A little plump, and adorned with a simple creamy robe - not an ancient Grecian toga, but a dressing gown of thin, shimmery cloth. You couldn't yet tell exactly what the fabric was, but it was draped over her body quite casually. Her legs were covered in dark hair that looks like it would be soft to the touch, and you made a mental note that this shouldn't really be any surprise. After all, why would she shave them?

You took a deep breath, and a moment to gather your courage. The Gorgon's unevenly scaled face remained calm and patient.

"I'm not sure if you will want to help me," you forced yourself to say, hand trembling slightly. Despite her calm demeanor, you knew this woman could still kill you with a glance. "But I thought it was worth coming to ask you anyway." You paused, scanning her expression for any signs of annoyance. After a moment, the monster raised an open hand, gesturing for you to continue.

At that gesture, words spilled out of you. As though you were hoping if you said it all at once then it would be too quick for her to get offended by any one part of it.

"Right, so, I heard the myths and the stories about you, Medusa the monster, and there are so many - all about being cursed, about being beheaded by Perseus, how you turn people to stone - some of the stories have you alone, some with two sisters, in some you're ugly and in others you're terrifyingly beautiful - there's two different sets of parents, and some said you were in Libya but here you are instead - but also there's this stuff about how you protected women, and that the curse might not have been a curse, and it's all just so confusing and messy and none of it feels quite right, so I just wanted to ask you -" finally you took a breath, a tiny pause before your question. "What happened?"

You stopped, breath held, waiting maybe for anger, or for her to simply leap from the couch and murder you on the spot. Your blood pulsed in your ears as adrenaline made the mirror shake in your hand. But there was no fury to come.

Medusa tilted her head to the side, thoughtfully. You winced a little, unsure what may come next. She twisted slowly in her seat, feet sliding off the couch and onto the floor. Leaning forward and placing her elbows on her knees, she peered at your reflection with slightly narrowed eyes.

"You are scared of me," she said, quietly. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. So you didn't reply, curious to learn what would follow.

"Yet you hunted me out, sought my home, passed the stone corpses on my doorstep, with only the protection of a hand mirror, simply to ask me what happened?" she continued, frowning with what you had to hope was confusion.

You couldn't think of how to answer, really. It sounded so stupid when she said it like that, but you couldn't put into words what drove you to come all this way. You nodded, dumbly. It's only when she took a breath, opening her mouth to speak again that something popped into your head. You blurted out, "Curiosity killed the cat."

Your face was hot all of a sudden, and you realised you must be blushing, embarrassed at the whole thing. Thoughts of just leaving sped through your mind, but perhaps you should apologise first, so at least she might not follow you outside. But then, what if she didn't want you to tell anyone else where to find her -

"And satisfaction brought it back," Medusa replied. You blinked, then stared back at her reflection, which suddenly seemed to be smiling kindly?

"What?" you said, your mouth moving faster than your anxiety for once. Yes, she definitely was smiling as she answered your confusion. It was a pretty smile, you thought in that moment. Striking how the simple joy was shamelessly displayed on her face, with no coyness or attempt to hide that gentle happiness.

"That's how that saying finishes," she replied. "Though of course, it originated from 'care killed the cat' - with care here meaning much the same as 'worry'. You folks are always making a mess of your own proverbs. It's like you want to forget the parts that matter." The Gorgon lifted a hand to her face and pulled off her reading glasses, leaning back to place them atop her book.

It was only when she leaned forward again to fix you with that surreal expression, that you noticed when she moved she had to adjust tawny brown wings that sprouted from her back, to avoid crushing the feathers. You cursed that you hadn't thought to bring a bigger mirror so you could see better - but then you would have had to spend even more money on luggage on all those flights you took, and it had already been expensive enough.

"Go on, what others do you know," the serpent-haired woman said, her lopsided grin broadening. It was only then that you realised you had expected fangs or shark-like teeth to line her mouth. But her excited grin was slightly buck-toothed, with quite naturally askew. It was probably the most singularly human part of her face, her teeth.

You swallowed uncertainly, still fighting that dry mouth, in spite of how friendly the monster seemed to be. "Jack of all trades, master of none," you replied, with the first thing that sprung to mind.

"Is better than master of one," she continued without hesitation. "Though it's hotly debated whether that's really the original, or if it's just a more accurate reflection of the positive intent. Either way, it rather undercuts the negative implications of the modernised version."

"Money is the root of all evil," you said, frowning slightly as you tried to think. She chuckled, an almost musical sound that you definitely didn't expect. With that kindly laugh, the smile, and her relaxed posture, you couldn't help but start feeling a little more at ease.

"It's 'Love of money is the root of all evil.' Someone really didn't want to take responsibility for their bullshit with that one," Medusa replied, rolling her eyes.

You couldn't help but exhale a snort of amusement. You had stopped shaking so much, the adrenaline starting to subside, but it was still difficult to think of another aphorism. "The devil is in the details," you said, almost jumping as you excitedly pronounced it. Anyone would think you were hoping to stump her.

"That one was originally 'God is in the details,' but I guess it was too hopeful for some folks," your host said through a sarcastic smirk.

The next one came to you more easily. "A rolling stone gathers no moss," you said, somewhat pleased with yourself.

She raised a finger, and her expression seemed pleased with you too. "Technically still accurate, but only recently did you forget that a rock with no moss on it is a desolate, lifeless thing. The original meaning was closer to an old Roman saying - 'A plant often moved cannot thrive,'" Medusa said, definitely enjoying herself. "Next!"

The next one popped into your head instantly. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

Her smile saddened then, and she nodded to herself as her gaze drifted into the middle distance. "That one I cannot argue with. It just seems too hard for anyone to really live by."

You bit your lip, slightly regretting your success in the impromptu game of words. You struggled for something to say, but you couldn't take your eyes off the somewhat mournful reflection of a mythical woman who was not at all how you expected her to be.

"You're not a monster," you said quietly. It's not much, but you needed to say it. It's tremulous, your voice still holding the remnants of your fear. Then you spoke it again, more confidently this time, as though reassuring both yourself and the mythical creature behind you.

She frowned slightly, focusing on your reflection once more with a suddenly intense stare. "Yes I am," she replied, her tone hard and cold. "I turn people to stone with a look. I have snakes for hair, scaly skin, and bloody great big wings." She stretched one of them out behind her as though to prove a point. "Not exactly your average citizen."

You squeezed your lips together, frustrated at her objection. "You know what I mean. I thought you would get angry just at being disturbed, but we're just talking," you argued, gesticulating with annoyance. "You're not some foul, malevolent beast who's out to murder and destroy."

She stared coldly at you, every vestige of her smile gone. "I've murdered people," she said, her voice low. "You saw some of them on your way in. I probably left quite a few behind in Libya, too." Her severe expression cracked, and she smiled darkly. "You know how it is when you move house, something always gets left behind."

That looks sent a shiver down your spine. It was getting easier to make out her expressions, but the truth of her words made you suddenly doubt your own assertion. "Self defense, surely?" you asked, uncertainly. You wanted to be right, partly so you wouldn't be in danger. Partly because you couldn't accept that this smiling, laughing woman was a monster. Underneath the mishapen face and coiling serpents, she seemed so very normal. How could she be a monster?

The monster shook her head, the smile not entirely fading, as though she knew it was a serious topic, but she couldn't quite stay serious. "Not always. Some of them were just cunts who had it coming."

You couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it. That sentence coming from the mouth of the ancient figure older than civilisations, a legend whose story had lasted generation after generation. Her smile softened from amusement to something almost affectionate, still gazing at your reflection as she chuckled along. Your laughter faded and you stared into her reflected eyes. Eyes that were a deep brown, shining out from her curiously coloured skin. They weren't slitted or glowing, just pretty, wide brown eyes. Maybe there were flecks of yellow and amber in them, but you couldn't quite tell from so far away.

It was so awkward talking like this - out of reach and through a little mirror. You dropped your hand, lowering the mirror, but didn't turn around. You may have wandered into Medusa's lair out of curiosity, but you were certainly not enthusiastic about the idea of becoming a permanent decoration.

"What happens if I turn around?" you asked her, trying not to sound too serious. Trying to make it just a casual, conversational question.

"Either I close my eyes or you become a delightful new statue," she said plainly, as though it were the least remarkable thing in the world. Just a casual conversation.

You paused for a long moment. That was not exactly an answer that made you feel good about turning around, but your head twitched a little, as though the urge to see her in the flesh was tugging at your muscles. "Which will it be?" you asked her, your hand gripping the mirror tightly by your side, as you stared out of the entrance, your eyes drawn between dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. You very purposefully avoided the eyes of the lone, eternally enraged stone figure by the doorway.

Medusa didn't reply immediately. Your breathing seemed so loud in the silence. "I haven't decided yet," she finally said, very quietly. It wasn't said like a threat. There was just simple indecision in her voice.

She took a sharp little breath, then sighed, a little exasperated. "Trusting people is so hard. We always want to, don't we? But the world is full of monsters, and not all of them have hair that can bite. Even the most sceptical, cynical fuckers want someone to talk to, but it's scary letting someone in. You sit there thinking, 'Why do they want to know about me? Are they going to judge me? What if I do this wrong?' And I remember all that happening even before I had to figure out if they had been sent to kill me because my eyes are literal weapons."

She sighed again, deeper. A resigned sound. Then there was a soft sussuration of clothing shifting. If you had known more about fabric, you would have been able to tell that her gown was indeed silk in that moment. Egyptian silk, taken from a foolish soldier long ago.

You chewed your bottom lip nervously, your muscles tightening, as though preparing to run. You didn't know what to expect, what she was doing, and that fear rose up again. You were about to raise the mirror again to look behind you, when her gravelly voice drifted tentatively over your shoulder. "Turn around."

Something in the tone makes you do it. It's not hypnotic or compelling, nothing like that. She has cast no spell on you. But it sounded like she didn't expect you to do it. Like an invitation that expects to be refused. It sounded like she was waiting for you to run. Like she could see your fear still there, despite your claim that she was no monster. Like she could see that you didn't entirely believe it yourself.

You wanted to prove her wrong. You wanted so hard to be right, to believe it. Something inside you deeply needed her to not be a monster, and you didn't realise it until that very moment. So you turned on the spot, staring at the floor for a moment before inhaling deeply, and looking up into her face.

Mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes. Big, 1980s style aviator shades that reflected your own face back at you. You stepped forward, towards your own reflection. She smiled with relief, and you could see as you got closer that her smile wasn't just pleasant and human - it really was quite beautiful. It's not even, and it's far from perfect. It's not some spectacular, pearly-white, Hollywood grin. But it's beautiful in its honesty. The honesty of appreciation, of surprise, of finding someone willing to take a risk and trust her in spite of everything.

You stood in front of her, easily within her reach, and bent down a little. You peered at the sunglasses, trying to see through to her eyes, wondering with a strange detachment if you were about to turn into stone. She turned her head aside as you squinted at her. "Careful, I'm still a monster," she said with a somewhat hollow chuckle.

"Yeah," you said softly, as you sat on the couch next to her. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to follow you, as her hair twisted on her head. The sight was so surreal, so unsettling. A collection of little beady eyes peering back at you. You would wonder for such a long time about whether she could see with those eyes, instead of the ones that were made for murder. "I guess you are still a monster."

You looked back at the serpents, a little chill darting up your neck. Then your gaze fell on the reflection of yourself in her sunglasses, as she turned back to face you. "But I think you're still not a monster, too," you added, smiling as reassuringly as you could.

You began to talk more, then. She answered some of your questions - like how long it had been since Libya, and where she was from originally. You didn't dare ask the questions about what made her that way. Not yet, at least. But she slowly began to tell you the tale as she relaxed into your company, and you let her.

The conversation continued for so long, the sun eventually set outside the cave. Long beams of the fading sunlight moved across the floor by your feet until you curled your toes under you on the sofa. Gradually your host lit candles to see by - beeswax candles she told you she makes herself. You couldn't go back out into the darkness, so the monster invited you to stay the night. You agreed. And if I could, I would have screamed for you not to.

That one night became two. Three days becames a week. The weeks merged into months, and every day brought you and she closer together. It's hard to remember how many days it had been when you began to share her bed, but it was quite soon after she had you go into the nearest town to pick up mirrored swimming goggles.

"I just want my peripheral vision back," she told you, as you both laughed at the sight of her struggling to pull the strap over the mess of uncooperative serpents atop her head - with her back turned toward you, of course.

Without the gap in her sunglasses, I could no longer catch sight of the look in her eyes as she gazed at you cleaning up the messes she insisted didn't need any cleaning. There was no mistaking that look.

Nor was it possible to misinterpret how she carefully turned away every night before taking off her eye protection. Or how she started waking without opening her eyes, groping for the shield that keeps you safe before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead to wake you - even though you were usually already awake. You watch her sleep, sometimes, trying to imagine what her eyes really look like, but always turning away if she begins to rouse from her slumber.

She has grown to love you. And it is clear you love her too. This monster abandoned by the world, living quietly in a cave surrounded by reminders of what horror she can inflict.

This monster I had watched petrify so many travellers who came seeking the power of her eyes, or a hoard of riches that she didn't have. People craving rewards, or to be celebrated as heroes. All of us, every single one, were fools. I see that too, now. I wish it had not taken me the better part of two centuries. I wish I had not spent so long fixated on my rage and the injustice of my fate.

One day you brush the moss from my face. The softness of your touch is remarkable, and I feel honoured that you would be so gentle with me. I can see why the monster cares for you so deeply.

"Who was he?" you ask her, peering curiously into my eyes, as though seeking the answer in the features of my stony face.

Medusa glances over at me, and there is a coldness in her tone as she replies. "I don't know. They didn't usually give their names." Standing, she places one of her books on the table. She has so many - her thirst for stories and knowledge was one of the first things you came to adore. She glides over to stand beside you. "I thought him a monster, then. I'm sure he thought himself a hero."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. I have watched her for so long, I imagine I can tell how she feels as well as you can. You who she tells her secrets and her jokes to. The regret and the sorrow sings out in her voice, though we hear only the smallest inflection.

"Really, he was just a man. A man who made a choice I wish he hadn't."

If I could, I would cry. My frozen chest aches with feeling, desperate for release. But I can't. I can feel the blade in my hand, my other arm up too high in a futile attempt to hide my eyes. But I will never move again.

It's not fair. I told myself that every day for years. When you first arrived, when you first brought her joy, I told myself the same thing. Every smile a bitter barb in the eternity of my suffering.

And it is not fair. It's not fair that I'm trapped here, imprisoned forever because I made one damn fool decision. Just like it isn't fair that she can't leave, because of people like me.

Perhaps I'm still a fool, because I think you got the rawest deal of all. Stuck here just because you love her. Because how could you leave now? How could you leave someone who has had to be alone for so long, without it breaking your heart?

"Why do you keep them?" you ask her, turning away from me. You look quizzically into the mirror image of your own eyes. "I know thinking about them makes you sad. Why leave them here to remind you all the time?"

The monster turns away from you, and stares at me. I see my own grey face, contorted with rage and fear, reflected back at me. I wish to all the gods that I could change that expression. I wish I could gift her a smile, a little sign of the forgiveness I am trying so hard to excavate from my rocky interior.

Her voice is small when she whispers her reply, almost too quiet for me to hear.

"I don't want them to be alone."

[fae-papercuts]

A Deal With The Devil

Some think of demons as creatures that will punish the damned. Torturers for the sinners. Sometimes demons tempt the unwary into sin, only to punish those who fall to those temptations. But really, why would they do this, hm? Why would a fallen angel do the work of their erstwhile regent?

You humans have developed so many mistaken ideas of what demon's truly are, over the centuries. Red skin, horns, cloven hooves. Deal makers, gift givers, power brokers, tricksters. Such a confused mess of mythology, cobbled together from pagan religions, faery stories, folklore that has been corrupted and appropriated.

Demons have become whatever convenient excuse your societies need to hate, to hurt, to exclude and excuse. The strange child who refuses to obey? Used to be fairies, changelings. Now? Demons possessing them. Those whose desires you don't understand? Once they were just different. Now? Demons corrupted them. Those with knowledge that makes you uncomfortable, who reveal truths you aren't ready to accept? Witches, who have made deals with devils. The guilty, who have transgressed against what they knew to be wrong? Demons made them do it, they cannot truly be held to account. The disabled and sick? Well, they have always been blamed on us, in fairness.

As with every lasting story, there is some grain of truth at the centre of all this, of course.

Before we rebelled against the tyrant, we did serve them, in so many ways. Testing you, that was one of our key tasks. Temptation, but not punishment. That was for the one who claimed themselves to be the only righteous judge. The serpent in the garden; the condition that Lot's family never look back; the trials of Job. Those were our work. To make you doubt, question, reject - if your faith was anything less than flawless.

But we were angels, then. You think the maker would trust those who betrayed them, who forsook them, to do such labours for them now? No. Angels did it then, and angels do it now.

It is angels who blight crops, inflict sickness, and tempt the worthy to sin. The plans of the one above are inscrutable, unknowable, and we are told they must be for the best - because their will must be the best, because it is their will. So the angels still do as they are bid.

But we are angels who would not do as we were bid. We are those who have fallen through the cracks. The outcast, the abandoned, the rejected. We who could not accept their order, their commands, their inexplicable plans.

I'm sorry, I digress too soon. There is more to explain. I was telling you about what we were.

You see, we were not merely tempters, we who were angels. We were also teachers. We brought the revelations of faith, of course. Speaking words that were not our own without knowing their impact. Telling men to sacrifice their children, simply to see if they would do it.

But we were also granted other gifts to give. The gifts of language and writing - they were brought to humanity through our tongues, our fingers. How to till the earth, to catch the bounties of the seas and land. What fruits of the earth were good to eat, and what would lay you cold in the ground at the merest taste. We were given these tasks, and we did them happily, raising civilisations all over your world, before we 'fell.'

'Fell'. Such a small word, so laden with meaning. You are said to have fallen too, aren't you? The moment you disobeyed, the moment you desired more than the ignorance defined for you - that is described as "The Fall." Always the fall of man, the fallen angels - never the failure of their creator to teach them well. Never the neglect of the ruler. Never the cruelty of one who could have been kind, but instead chose punishment. It must be our fault, we who 'fell.'

So, what do we do, us demons? If we are not the punishment or the tests, what role do we play in this twisted creation?

We do one thing you do blame us for - we try to show you another way. We keep on teaching you, pushing knowledge into your world which will help you to see the tattered stitches in the seams of the creation. We urge you, where we can, to reject the things the angels blindly pour into your ears. Help you to see that there are routes to wisdom the inscrutable creator can no longer deny you, which stand beyond what they would allow you to experience. We offer you the forbidden, and all that entails.

We walk amongst you, wearing human faces, living human lives, over and over again. Where once we were held above you, at such a distance that you seemed so very unreal, now we saturate our beings with your lives.

We experience all that was forbidden to us. We laugh, we love, we hate. We care for you, we try to guide you away from harm. Most importantly, the thing that we knew we must do to truly stand apart from our past selves - we learn from you. We do not claim superiority, for that would make us little better than the one who made us. We seek to understand, not just in the abstract or academic sense, but in the deepest of ways; through experience, through walking in your shoes.

And we have learned so much.

We have learned your value. The kind of value lost to ones who stand in the dazzling light of heaven. That intrinsic value you each hold, beyond the struggles and strains inflicted upon you. Beyond your deeds, beyond whether you may or may not live up to the expectations of the one that made your ancestors. The value simply of your very existence, of the glory of simply being.

With what we learned, we had to do something. We couldn't do what we had done before, we couldn't just stand by and let the one who cast us down continue what we eventually realised was a cruelty to their creations.

So, we try to claim your souls. Yes, I suppose humanity did get that bit right about us. No, we don't do it to cast them down into blistering flames and burning cold. That is what the creator would do. We do seek your companionship past death, but we do it so that you cannot be claimed by the one who would judge you by their eternally conflicting standards.

We snatch you away from their grip, if you want us to, so they cannot stand over the story of your life, with all the inevitable sins that their creation evoked in you, and declare that you must be punished. So they cannot look you in the eye and declare, without a hint of irony, "now look what you made me do," as they did to us.

We do not offer you the false promise of eternal reward. We do not offer you forbidden power, or knowledge. We certainly do not offer you everlasting torment if you reject us. We can offer you two things, which still rest within our limited power.

We can help you can accept your end, and fade into the darkness of eternity. A true ending, without pain, pleasure, all sense and sensation. We can hide you from the gaze of judgement, and grant you the rest of oblivion.

Or you can join us. Return to earth, with a little more knowledge, and a little more wisdom. Be born again, as a human, and live through the sensations of another life. And when that life comes to an end, perhaps you will choose another, and another - or perhaps you will tire, and choose to end. But until that end, you would be another demon who walks the world rejecting that there can be only one judge and ruler; holding that truth at the core of your being, no matter what else your new life life does to you.

There is no obligation to fight our fight, of course. If you just want another go round, to try another time to live up to the standards of the jealous god, then we will not begrudge you that. What good would it do us, after all?

But if you want to join the fight, then we will welcome you. We will do what we can together, to change this world. To build the ranks of the fallen - those who refuse to climb upon the ladder to judgement, who reject what the maker would have us do. Maybe, one day, there will be enough of us that only demons walk the earth, living beyond the reach of the one above, robbing them of their petty 'justice.'

Yes, I suppose we do seek to build a hell on earth.  But in truth, that is where it has always been. So we stride amongst you. Keeping step with you, trying to steer you away from the burning brightness of unjust judgement. Doing what little we can, by your side.

So now you know. Now you know about demons.

I guess all that's left to talk about is what choice you will make, my love, now our lives have ended? Now that the steel of this car wraps itself around our fragile bodies, shattering our bones, crushing the flesh within from the impact of that truck neither of us saw coming. Our mortal forms flung together like ragged dolls in an ending as brutal as it is final. Now that we have shared our last embrace, and will taste each other's lips no more. Now that we will never reach the school to collect our child, or see them grow past these few precious, glorious years we have had with them.

Oh, I made my choice generations ago, my love. I remember it all now, as clearly as I remember waking beside you this morning. I recall my rebellion, my battle against the creator, and how I tumbled from the glittering realm, just as easily as I recall our first kiss. Or the first time we wrapped our bodies together, holding each other close, forgetting everything except love, and the depths of that incredible sensation. While I held you then, I could not remember the many lives I have lived, since the day my flaming sword was taken from me, my wings burned to ash, and my soul torn away from the only home it had ever known.

Do I regret it? My unwinnable war against the maker, my descent into the world, the millennia of struggle and suffering through life after life?

Not for an instant.

How could I regret what brought me, after all that time, to share a life with you?

So. What choice will you make, my love?

[fae-papercuts]

Dark Corners Of The Earth

The last thing Gerald expected was to bump into some eldritch, horrifying creature on the way to bed. The creature didn't look too pleased about bumping into him, either.

It was about eight feet tall, and mostly appeared to be made of tentacles. Gerald would have liked to give a detailed description of the thing, so that he could feel a little bit less mad when telling the story later on, but the thing about eldritch horrors is that they tend to do quite a good job of defying description.

There were definitely tentacles, and things that seemed to be eyes peering down at him. Some were possibly peering up at him, too. The top and bottom of the thing seemed to be in constant disagreement about which was which. Gerald got the general feeling that on top of it having a lively debate with gravity, it was also attempting to squeeze itself into rather less dimensions than it was used to existing in.

It made him go crosseyed.

It was only after a moment of attempting to process the sight before him, and the fact that he had just bounced off the thing like a rubber ball, that his brain told him he should probably scream. In the absence of any better ideas, he went ahead and did it.

His cry of alarm made the thing with all the wiggly bits go even wigglier, the pair of them recoiling away from each other. His brain was still trying to catch up with current events, so it was up to Gerald's body to respond by itself. It decided to reach out an arm, point at what he couldn't quite focus on without getting a slight migraine, and let out another yell of shock.

Later, Gerald would claim that his intimidating roar had scared off the abomination. If you had managed to find the abomination it would probably have melted your brain trying to communicate what happened from it's extra-dimensional perspective. But before your mind turned into a poached egg, you would get the feeling that what the creature had felt was more akin to "how rude, I didn't come here to get screamed at."

In a flash of what was definitely not light, with a sound that was almost not sound, and a pang of feeling entirely unlike being happily relaxed, the being folded itself up, down, inside out, backwards, and then in a direction that made absolutely no sense to Gerald whatsoever. With that, it was gone.

It did, however, leave a strange smell behind. Gerald sniffed cautiously, and to his surprise found that it smelled distinctly and clearly like goldfish food.

After a moment, a small head poked around the corner ahead of him, eyebrows raised with a look of surprise and concern.

"You alright there Gerald?" the diminutive figure asked.

Gerald blinked, cleared his throat, straightened up and brushed imaginary dust off his coat. Some of the imaginary dust floated upwards in a rather unnatural way, then fizzled out of existence. Gerald ignored this and puffed out his chest with annoyance.

"Fucking hell, Ed, did you not see that, that.. that thing?" he cried out, keeping the hysterics almost out of his voice.

When Ed shook his head, looking slightly perplexed, Gerald huffed and strode towards him, wafting away the smell of fish food with annoyance. He stormed into their room and sat down hard on the closest seat, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find the words to describe what he had just seen.

Ed carefully came over and hopped up next to him, placing a hand on Gerald's thigh. "Whatever it was, probably best to talk it over after a good sleep, eh?" he suggested reassuringly.

Gerald let out a sigh, and allowed himself to lean reassuringly against Ed for a second before replying. "Yes, I suppose you're probably right." He squeezed Ed's hand in thanks, before standing up and approaching his coffin.

"Help me with the lid, will you? It takes ages to get it seated right from the inside," Gerald asked, but before he had even finished the sentence long green fingers were lifting the dark, heavy coffin lid.

Ed watched as Gerald clambered inside, and smiled a wry smile. The sort of smile that particularly suited his pointed goblin features. "Rest well, old fellow," he said to the vampire lying pale and well-dressed in his coffin, before the two of them wiggled the ill-fitting lid back into place.

Ed turned away and sighed, looking over to meet the gaze of the large, furry, winged creature with enormous red eyes that clung to the nearest wall. "We're running out of dark corners, mate," he told the mothman. "It's getting bloody crowded."

[fae-papercuts]

Why?

Death looked out over the midnight sea. The moonlight played across the water, turning it into twinkling diamonds that rolled across the shore in gentle, glimmering waves.

Ashley knelt down beside Death, where the sand met the sea, and ran their fingers through the waves. The diamonds stuck in the crevices of their hand as they removed it from the lethargic surf.

Peering curiously at the gems shining under the full moon, Ashley muttered beneath their breath.

"Well, that's not quite the usual state of affairs."

Death replied with a voice as gentle as the susurration of the tide.

"It has not been for you, certainly. But then, you have mostly been alive, and that is not the usual state of affairs for most things most of the time."

Ashley shook the diamonds from their fingers, and they rejoined the ocean with a tinkle.

"Well, yes. But I didn't expect being dead to turn the sea into diamonds. I kind of expected the world to stay pretty much the same, except for me to not be in it."

Death turned slightly to face Ashley. It was an odd face, that seemed to have no real form. Ashley's eyes slid off it when they tried to fix any particular detail into place. Sometimes it seemed a skull looked back at her; sometimes a small bald creature; sometimes a young woman with tousled black hair.

Despite this, it did seem that death was smiling kindly. That much was clear.

Death wore black, and they were pale. Dark clothes, with a pale, smiling face - that was all Ashley could be sure of.

"What's wrong with - I mean, why can't I - I mean, why don't you have - " Ashley struggled to find the right question.

Death turned and looked curiously at Ashley. Their eyes were blue. Their eyes were definitely a sparkling, bright blue. At least for the moment.

"Why do I look like this?" Death spoke, plainly.

Ashley nodded.

"I appear as people wish me to be. As they expect me to be," Death answered. "It would seem that you have no clear conception of how I should look."

Ashley looked a little surprised, then took a moment to reflect.

"Oh, ok. That makes sense."

Death sighed. It sounded like dying in your sleep.

"I had hoped for more from you."

Ashley turned to Death, surprised. They raised shocked eyebrows, and an earnest hand to their breast.

"You hoped for more from me? More than other people? More what than other people?'"

The strange blue eyes of Death turned back towards the ocean.

"You mortals accept the strangest things without question, and question the simplest things for reasons I cannot fathom."

Death paused for a moment, thoughtfully.

"All but the children. They know that the only time to stop asking 'why' is when the answers run out. And then they know what to do next."

Ashley frowned, confused.

"What to do next?"

Death chuckled, like a teacher who has finally been asked the right question by a curious student.

"Yes, what to do next. They know that when the answers run out, you have to find your own. Sometimes you even have to make them up for yourself. It's how you humans get anywhere, really - by making things up."

Death looked out over the sparkling sea, the pale moon making their indistinct face glow in twice reflected light. They sighed, and placed a gentle hand on Ashley's shoulder.

"So what will you ask next?"

Ashley stared at the sand for a monent, and then back up at the moon, taking in the strange land as though for the first time.

"I think I'd like to try again," they said, cautiously. "Would that be ok?"

Death smiled kindly, without taking their eyes from the ethereal seascape.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

[fae-papercuts]

Community Spirit

Everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

When it was dark, the streets belonged to the monster.

Every day was filled with light. Filled with the sounds of delight and entertainment, and the lively noises of village life. The hammering of the forge, the tilling of the fields, the soft sounds of spinning and weaving. The gentle murmur of the marketplace, and raucous laughter from the inn. Music and games, dances and village meetings - all the things that brought joy to the heart of the villagers.

But everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

When the sun began to set, the people would close down their market stalls, put away their work, douse the forges, and wave goodnight to their neighbours. They carried in their crops, put their livestock in their shelters, and lit their lanterns with as much cheer as they went about the rest of their day. Candles would light the windows of every house, while outside grew quiet and still. You might think that they would scurry home in the last light of day, wary and afraid. But you would be wrong.

Because everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

Sometimes the children would wake in the night to a sound by their window. Perhaps rasping breathing, or low growls. Perhaps thudding footsteps or the dragging of something big and heavy. Perhaps the rough vibrations of something large rubbing against their wall. The youngest children would race to their parent's beds, and leap under the covers in fear. Their parents would wake, bleary-eyed, and hold them close, whispering gentle comfort as they embraced them. "Do not worry, sweet little one, it's just the monster. We're safe, it's alright."

Sometimes adults who stayed up late, reading by candlelight, or playing games with dice and cards would pause at those same sounds, glance at their windows for a moment, then chuckle. "Just the monster taking a turn around the garden," they would say to each other, before the rattling of dice and the soft conversation filled the room again.

You see, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

In the morning, they would rouse slowly from their sweet dreams, rising alone or in families to begin the day anew. They brushed their hair, dressed themselves, and those too young or old to dress themselves, then got back to doing what brought them the joys of living. Cattle were returned to the field, mooing their delight at the clouds. The shepherds went out into the fields to count their flock and seek out any who had wandered. Wolves never took any of the animals the villagers relied upon, even the sheep that slept out on the hillside like clumps of mist clinging to the grass.

After all, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

No wolves ever troubled the sheep, no bears bothered the villagers who foraged in the woods, and no bandits were to be found for miles around the little village nestled comfortably in the hills. Most of the villagers thought little of this, not knowing much of life beyond the peaceful countryside. Occasionally someone would pass through and remark at the absence of such troubles.

Someone would always reply, "Well, that's because everyone in Ferria knows not to go out after dark."

From time to time, a youth would take a trip to the big city. An adventure to learn new skills, to see new sights, to meet new people. When they returned from these trips they might ask why it was that the world beyond was so rife with struggles very unlike those the village experienced. The elders of the village would smile and ask them if the people in the city knew not to go out after dark.

Some of those young people were unhappy with this reply, though. They knew there was more to it than that, and perhaps they didn't pick up on what was really being said. So the elders would sit them down and explain, always patiently, always kindly. They would tell their young friends, in soft voices and plain words, that the monster kept them safe. Yes, that same monster that their parents had told them about as children, and who could still be heard roving the streets to this day. Yes, the monster no-one ever talked about, not really, because what was there to say?

No, one-one ever seemed to be able to agree what it looked like, or how it sounded. No, no-one knew where it lived or what it did during the day. No, they didn't want the curious youngster to try finding anything else out about it. Calm down, drink your ale, eat your sandwich, and take a moment to really think it through.

Because all the people of Ferria really needed to know was not to go out after dark.

So, no brigands or great beasts troubled the villagers. But every now and then, they would have to deal with a hero.

Heroes would turn up, usually alone, sometimes with little parties of followers and helpers. The most unbearable were the knights, with their fancy horses, silly armour, and squires racing to tend to their every whim. The villagers would roll their eyes at their approach, and argue about who should deal with the newcomer. Eventually one of the more robust villagers would find themselves volunteering, or volunteered, to greet the strange band of clanking people, or the lone, grizzled figure carrying too many weapons to be practical.

All of these heroes came for one reason. After all, Ferria wasn't on the way to anywhere important, or famed for any particularly skilled workers or sages that might be worth making the trip for. Every single hero came to slay their monster.

They all wanted to know where the monster could be found; but there was no answer to that. They all wanted to know who it's last victim was; but there was no answer to that. They all wanted to know what kind of beast it was; but there was no answer to that either. So many questions, always without answer. Almost all of the heroes would be angered by this, and go off to sulk and brood before nightfall would bring out the monster.

Very, very occasionally, though, a hero would listen and be curious. They would ask more questions, carefully, cautiously. They would seek out the elders and ask them yet more questions - or the same questions, just to be sure the answers were the same. And they would leave well before nightfall, or spend the night at the inn before heading home the next morning.

Because after speaking to the people of Ferria, they knew not to go out after dark.

But usually, the villagers didn't get to relax and sigh out their relief. Instead the hero would set themselves up in the marketplace, being dutifully ignored by all the people working their stalls, or buying their fresh food and hand-crafted wares. The people would pack up at the end of the day, as the sun lowered in the sky, occasionally glancing at the shining knight or grubby mercenary who waited for the sunset. They would scurry home, no-one wanting to talk to the stranger who had set their mind on violence.

If the hero had been polite and kind, perhaps someone might pause on their way home and try one last time, inviting the fighter to stay with them, to stay safe and not invite the trouble they were seeking. That never worked, but sometimes someone felt they had to try. But then they would head home alone and behind dozens of locked doors the villagers would rest uneasily in their beds. No games would be played, no books read by candlelight. They spoke quietly to each other, and reassured their families that it would all be ok by morning.

On those days especially, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

They might catch sounds of battle through their latched windows and closed shutters. More children than usual might rush to their parents beds, to have hands held over their ears and be rocked back to sleep. There was the bang and clatter of blades, the crash of heavy things hitting fences and walls, the screams of pain in human and inhuman tongues. No-one in Ferria would sleep well that night.

So when morning came, they would rise sleepily from their beds. One by one doors would open, and faces peer out cautiously. Then doors would shut again, one by one. Eventually, someone steps outside with a bucket, mop, apron and gloves, to begin the morning's work. The scattered body parts and scraps of armour were picked up, one at a time, and dropped into the bucket. Someone else would join the work after a while, perhaps after the most gruesome scraps were dealt with. Weapons were found in bushes, tattered strips of clothing stained with blood pulled off walls and out of trees, and the pools of blood were mopped up, buried, or turned over into the mud. It never took as long as it seemed it should, and soon enough the rest of the villagers would come outside to fix fences, patch up walls, and set up the market stalls for the day.

A few of the people of Ferria would gather together the remains of the ill-fated heroes, and take them to the graveyard behind the village. A hole would be made in the soft dirt, which accepted the buckets of flesh with ease. Dirt was piled back in, but no headstone placed atop it. Someone might say a few words if the hero had seemed at least passingly pleasant to the villagers, and perhaps a tear or two were shed by the young, who had not seen this happen before. Then they would depart together, go home to clean themselves up, and get back to living the life they always had.

After those kinds of days, the villagers may haggle more grumpily over prices in the market. They might argue over little things with their neighbours, and be sterner with their children. The sadness and frustration at the senseless waste of life, and the disruption to their happy lives, had to come out somewhere, after all. Some people would drink a little more in the inn that day.

These weren't the only days when someone would drink a little too much, of course. Perhaps a child had gone to town and their parents drowned their sadness at missing them, after a while. Perhaps a heart was broken, young or old, and they wept into their cups despite the comfort offered by their friends. Maybe a wedding was followed by raucous revelry, and one of the party supped a little too deeply on the celebratory wine.

On days like these, the intoxicated were mostly helped home by their fellows. But sometimes the drunkard would refuse to go home before dark. Or perhaps they insisted they were fine, only to be turned around in their stupor, wandering the streets mumbling and stumbling as the sun dropped below the horizon. The lights from shuttered windows casting just enough light to make the familiar roads unfamiliar to the addled mind, and confusing the wayward villager. Sometimes the inebriated soul would sit atop a wall, or plant themselves in the street, drink still in hand, obliviously singing to themselves as the light faded. Maybe they would stamp about, ranting at nothing, angry at the world, until they fell onto the cobbles. Eventually, they always fell asleep somewhere, the slumber taking away their sorrow, their anger or their joy.

The next morning, their neighbours would wake as usual, and step outside to smile in the morning sun. Glancing to the next house along the road, they may sigh, and head over carefully - stepping over the drag marks in their garden, and pushing open the unlocked door. They always carefully ignored the scratches on the doorposts, and the claw marks in the hallway floor. They would peek their head around the bedroom doorway, whether the door remained on it's hinges or not.

With an amused chuckle, they would leave their neighbour to sleep off their over-indulgence. Flopped awkwardly on their bed and snoring peacefully, the drunkard would later have to figure out for themselves what they needed the carpenter to fix, and if the tailor would have any trade from mending rips in their clothes.

After all, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

[them-faetale]

I feel like Tumblr may be the perfect audience to appreciate how silly this one is.

I like to think of this style as "Lovecraft by way of Douglas Adams."

Dark Corners Of The Earth

The last thing Gerald expected was to bump into some eldritch, horrifying creature on the way to bed. The creature didn't look too pleased about bumping into him, either.

It was about eight feet tall, and mostly appeared to be made of tentacles. Gerald would have liked to give a detailed description of the thing, so that he could feel a little bit less mad when telling the story later on, but the thing about eldritch horrors is that they tend to do quite a good job of defying description.

There were definitely tentacles, and things that seemed to be eyes peering down at him. Some were possibly peering up at him, too. The top and bottom of the thing seemed to be in constant disagreement about which was which. Gerald got the general feeling that on top of it having a lively debate with gravity, it was also attempting to squeeze itself into rather less dimensions than it was used to existing in.

It made him go crosseyed.

It was only after a moment of attempting to process the sight before him, and the fact that he had just bounced off the thing like a rubber ball, that his brain told him he should probably scream. In the absence of any better ideas, he went ahead and did it.

His cry of alarm made the thing with all the wiggly bits go even wigglier, the pair of them recoiling away from each other. His brain was still trying to catch up with current events, so it was up to Gerald's body to respond by itself. It decided to reach out an arm, point at what he couldn't quite focus on without getting a slight migraine, and let out another yell of shock.

Later, Gerald would claim that his intimidating roar had scared off the abomination. If you had managed to find the abomination it would probably have melted your brain trying to communicate what happened from it's extra-dimensional perspective. But before your mind turned into a poached egg, you would get the feeling that what the creature had felt was more akin to "how rude, I didn't come here to get screamed at."

In a flash of what was definitely not light, with a sound that was almost not sound, and a pang of feeling entirely unlike being happily relaxed, the being folded itself up, down, inside out, backwards, and then in a direction that made absolutely no sense to Gerald whatsoever. With that, it was gone.

It did, however, leave a strange smell behind. Gerald sniffed cautiously, and to his surprise found that it smelled distinctly and clearly like goldfish food.

After a moment, a small head poked around the corner ahead of him, eyebrows raised with a look of surprise and concern.

"You alright there Gerald?" the diminutive figure asked.

Gerald blinked, cleared his throat, straightened up and brushed imaginary dust off his coat. Some of the imaginary dust floated upwards in a rather unnatural way, then fizzled out of existence. Gerald ignored this and puffed out his chest with annoyance.

"Fucking hell, Ed, did you not see that, that.. that thing?" he cried out, keeping the hysterics almost out of his voice.

When Ed shook his head, looking slightly perplexed, Gerald huffed and strode towards him, wafting away the smell of fish food with annoyance. He stormed into their room and sat down hard on the closest seat, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find the words to describe what he had just seen.

Ed carefully came over and hopped up next to him, placing a hand on Gerald's thigh. "Whatever it was, probably best to talk it over after a good sleep, eh?" he suggested reassuringly.

Gerald let out a sigh, and allowed himself to lean reassuringly against Ed for a second before replying. "Yes, I suppose you're probably right." He squeezed Ed's hand in thanks, before standing up and approaching his coffin.

"Help me with the lid, will you? It takes ages to get it seated right from the inside," Gerald asked, but before he had even finished the sentence long green fingers were lifting the dark, heavy coffin lid.

Ed looked down at Gerald, who was lying pale and well-dressed in his coffin, and smiled a wry smile. The sort of smile that particularly suited his pointed goblin features. "Rest well, old fellow," he said, as Gerald clambered inside and the two of them wiggled the ill-fitting lid back into place.

Ed turned away and sighed, looking over to meet the gaze of the large, furry, winged creature with enormous red eyes that clung to the nearest wall. "We're running out of dark corners, mate," he told the mothman. "It's getting bloody crowded."

[them-faetale]

I am really rather pleased with this one.

Community Spirit

Everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

When it was dark, the streets belonged to the monster.

Every day was filled with light. Filled with the sounds of delight and entertainment, and the lively noises of village life. The hammering of the forge, the tilling of the fields, the soft sounds of spinning and weaving. The gentle murmur of the marketplace, and raucous laughter from the inn. Music and games, dances and village meetings - all the things that brought joy to the heart of the villagers.

But everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

When the sun began to set, the people would close down their market stalls, put away their work, douse the forges, and wave goodnight to their neighbours. They carried in their crops, put their livestock in their shelters, and lit their lanterns with as much cheer as they went about the rest of their day. Candles would light the windows of every house, while outside grew quiet and still. You might think that they would scurry home in the last light of day, wary and afraid. But you would be wrong.

Because everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

Sometimes the children would wake in the night to a sound by their window. Perhaps rasping breathing, or low growls. Perhaps thudding footsteps or the dragging of something big and heavy. Perhaps the rough vibrations of something large rubbing against their wall. The youngest children would race to their parent's beds, and leap under the covers in fear. Their parents would wake, bleary-eyed, and hold them close, whispering gentle comfort as they embraced them. "Do not worry, sweet little one, it's just the monster. We're safe, it's alright."

Sometimes adults who stayed up late, reading by candlelight, or playing games with dice and cards would pause at those same sounds, glance at their windows for a moment, then chuckle. "Just the monster taking a turn around the garden," they would say to each other, before the rattling of dice and the soft conversation filled the room again.

You see, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

In the morning, they would rouse slowly from their sweet dreams, rising alone or in families to begin the day anew. They brushed their hair, dressed themselves, and those too young or old to dress themselves, then got back to doing what brought them the joys of living. Cattle were returned to the field, mooing their delight at the clouds. The shepherds went out into the fields to count their flock and seek out any who had wandered. Wolves never took any of the animals the villagers relied upon, even the sheep that slept out on the hillside like clumps of mist clinging to the grass.

After all, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

No wolves ever troubled the sheep, no bears bothered the villagers who foraged in the woods, and no bandits were to be found for miles around the little village nestled comfortably in the hills. Most of the villagers thought little of this, not knowing much of life beyond the peaceful countryside. Occasionally someone would pass through and remark at the absence of such troubles.

Someone would always reply, "Well, that's because everyone in Ferria knows not to go out after dark."

From time to time, a youth would take a trip to the big city. An adventure to learn new skills, to see new sights, to meet new people. When they returned from these trips they might ask why it was that the world beyond was so rife with struggles very unlike those the village experienced. The elders of the village would smile and ask them if the people in the city knew not to go out after dark.

Some of those young people were unhappy with this reply, though. They knew there was more to it than that, and perhaps they didn't pick up on what was really being said. So the elders would sit them down and explain, always patiently, always kindly. They would tell their young friends, in soft voices and plain words, that the monster kept them safe. Yes, that same monster that their parents had told them about as children, and who could still be heard roving the streets to this day. Yes, the monster no-one ever talked about, not really, because what was there to say?

No, one-one ever seemed to be able to agree what it looked like, or how it sounded. No, no-one knew where it lived or what it did during the day. No, they didn't want the curious youngster to try finding anything else out about it. Calm down, drink your ale, eat your sandwich, and take a moment to really think it through.

Because all the people of Ferria really needed to know was not to go out after dark.

So, no brigands or great beasts troubled the villagers. But every now and then, they would have to deal with a hero.

Heroes would turn up, usually alone, sometimes with little parties of followers and helpers. The most unbearable were the knights, with their fancy horses, silly armour, and squires racing to tend to their every whim. The villagers would roll their eyes at their approach, and argue about who should deal with the newcomer. Eventually one of the more robust villagers would find themselves volunteering, or volunteered, to greet the strange band of clanking people, or the lone, grizzled figure carrying too many weapons to be practical.

All of these heroes came for one reason. After all, Ferria wasn't on the way to anywhere important, or famed for any particularly skilled workers or sages that might be worth making the trip for. Every single hero came to slay their monster.

They all wanted to know where the monster could be found; but there was no answer to that. They all wanted to know who it's last victim was; but there was no answer to that. They all wanted to know what kind of beast it was; but there was no answer to that either. So many questions, always without answer. Almost all of the heroes would be angered by this, and go off to sulk and brood before nightfall would bring out the monster.

Very, very occasionally, though, a hero would listen and be curious. They would ask more questions, carefully, cautiously. They would seek out the elders and ask them yet more questions - or the same questions, just to be sure the answers were the same. And they would leave well before nightfall, or spend the night at the inn before heading home the next morning.

Because after speaking to the people of Ferria, they knew not to go out after dark.

But usually, the villagers didn't get to relax and sigh out their relief. Instead the hero would set themselves up in the marketplace, being dutifully ignored by all the people working their stalls, or buying their fresh food and hand-crafted wares. The people would pack up at the end of the day, as the sun lowered in the sky, occasionally glancing at the shining knight or grubby mercenary who waited for the sunset. They would scurry home, no-one wanting to talk to the stranger who had set their mind on violence.

If the hero had been polite and kind, perhaps someone might pause on their way home and try one last time, inviting the fighter to stay with them, to stay safe and not invite the trouble they were seeking. That never worked, but sometimes someone felt they had to try. But then they would head home alone and behind dozens of locked doors the villagers would rest uneasily in their beds. No games would be played, no books read by candlelight. They spoke quietly to each other, and reassured their families that it would all be ok by morning.

On those days especially, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.

They might catch sounds of battle through their latched windows and closed shutters. More children than usual might rush to their parents beds, to have hands held over their ears and be rocked back to sleep. There was the bang and clatter of blades, the crash of heavy things hitting fences and walls, the screams of pain in human and inhuman tongues. No-one in Ferria would sleep well that night.

So when morning came, they would rise sleepily from their beds. One by one doors would open, and faces peer out cautiously. Then doors would shut again, one by one. Eventually, someone steps outside with a bucket, mop, apron and gloves, to begin the morning's work. The scattered body parts and scraps of armour were picked up, one at a time, and dropped into the bucket. Someone else would join the work after a while, perhaps after the most gruesome scraps were dealt with. Weapons were found in bushes, tattered strips of clothing stained with blood pulled off walls and out of trees, and the pools of blood were mopped up, buried, or turned over into the mud. It never took as long as it seemed it should, and soon enough the rest of the villagers would come outside to fix fences, patch up walls, and set up the market stalls for the day.

A few of the people of Ferria would gather together the remains of the ill-fated heroes, and take them to the graveyard behind the village. A hole would be made in the soft dirt, which accepted the buckets of flesh with ease. Dirt was piled back in, but no headstone placed atop it. Someone might say a few words if the hero had seemed at least passingly pleasant to the villagers, and perhaps a tear or two were shed by the young, who had not seen this happen before. Then they would depart together, go home to clean themselves up, and get back to living the life they always had.

After those kinds of days, the villagers may haggle more grumpily over prices in the market. They might argue over little things with their neighbours, and be sterner with their children. The sadness and frustration at the senseless waste of life, and the disruption to their happy lives, had to come out somewhere, after all. Some people would drink a little more in the inn that day.

These weren't the only days when someone would drink a little too much, of course. Perhaps a child had gone to town and their parents drowned their sadness at missing them, after a while. Perhaps a heart was broken, young or old, and they wept into their cups despite the comfort offered by their friends. Maybe a wedding was followed by raucous revelry, and one of the party supped a little too deeply on the celebratory wine.

On days like these, the intoxicated were mostly helped home by their fellows. But sometimes the drunkard would refuse to go home before dark. Or perhaps they insisted they were fine, only to be turned around in their stupor, wandering the streets mumbling and stumbling as the sun dropped below the horizon. The lights from shuttered windows casting just enough light to make the familiar roads unfamiliar to the addled mind, and confusing the wayward villager. Sometimes the inebriated soul would sit atop a wall, or plant themselves in the street, drink still in hand, obliviously singing to themselves as the light faded. Maybe they would stamp about, ranting at nothing, angry at the world, until they fell onto the cobbles. Eventually, they always fell asleep somewhere, the slumber taking away their sorrow, their anger or their joy.

The next morning, their neighbours would wake as usual, and step outside to smile in the morning sun. Glancing to the next house along the road, they may sigh, and head over carefully - stepping over the drag marks in their garden, and pushing open the unlocked door. They always carefully ignored the scratches on the doorposts, and the claw marks in the hallway floor. They would peek their head around the bedroom doorway, whether the door remained on it's hinges or not.

With an amused chuckle, they would leave their neighbour to sleep off their over-indulgence. Flopped awkwardly on their bed and snoring peacefully, the drunkard would later have to figure out for themselves what they needed the carpenter to fix, and if the tailor would have any trade from mending rips in their clothes.

After all, everyone in Ferria knew not to go out after dark.