#ferve dream

[zae-heeyyy]

Boisterous

Summary: Arthur takes you to The Loft. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,095 Warnings: 18+ MDNI Tags: rough sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, biting

a/n: I somehow ended up spending literal hours trying to perfect this drawing. I traced a lot and freehanded a lot too, but overall, I'm happy with the final product. TYSM for taking the time to read, like, reply, and reblog; I appreciate every interaction!

Boisterous: behavior that is loud, energetic, and often unruly. It describes a person or situation that is full of noisy enthusiasm.

When Arthur found "The Loft" two nights ago, he was grateful to sleep in a bed surrounded by four sturdy walls. The accommodation would've been perfect, but you were missing from it all. Lewd images of your past escapades together infiltrated his mind as he tried to sleep, and he made his best efforts to push them aside. Your pretty face lit up his brain, and he wrapped his hand around his cock, trying his best to imitate the ecstasy only you could make him feel. No grip was as delectable as yours, though, and despite a quick release, he was more pent-up than ever. He needed you there with him and planned to sweep you up and bring you back as soon as the sun rose.

The cowboy's sonorous voice roused you from your dreams about him, the early morning sun casting a golden glow on his face as he leaned over you. His beard had grown since the few days you'd last seen him.

"Get dressed. M'taking you somewhere."

Without a second thought, you joined him on the back of his horse within the hour. Arthur spared the details of this urgent impromptu trip, keeping you in suspense for the duration of the ride.

In a few hours, you'd passed through Valentine, went by Fort Wallace, and climbed up into the mountains of the Grizzlies East. As you rode on, the clouds grew thick and gray, and the smell of petrichor filled your nostrils. Arthur caressed a hand you had wrapped around his waist, reassuring you.

"Almost there."

But you weren't close enough; the atmosphere released a torrential downpour in the last fifteen minutes of your journey, leaving you drenched. A little after noon, you reached a towering outpost that Arthur coined, The Loft. Arthur ushered you inside, futilely shielding you from the rain and promising the heat of a fireplace as he closed the door behind you.

While you stood, rubbing your arms for warmth, Arthur checked for signs of other people, climbing a ladder and peaking over the top for a second before sliding down.

You two were all alone, finally.

When he got a good look at you, he realized just how soaked you were, the layers of your clothes sticking to you and showing every curve of your body. Arthur swallowed, mouth salivating from the view of your hard nipples peeking through your blouse.

All the blood left his head and traveled south, damn near making him dizzy. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he was just a man, and you were the most alluring thing ever.

Two large steps were all it took to get to you. One hand found the back of your head, and the other rested on your hip as he drew your lips to his, practically swallowing you in a scalding kiss.

You could feel the groan rumbling in his chest, and you giggled against his lips. The noise crescendoed as his lips separated from yours to find your jaw and neck. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, inhaling your scent while the hand on the back of your head traveled to the small of your back.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "I missed y'so much."

And he had you all alone, truly alone, for the first time in your relationship. He'd been waiting to make love to you the way he really wanted. Your previous rendezvous were hushed, whispered, and sneaky, your moans muffled by Arthur's lips or hand. Even when he whisked you away to a hotel, he was keenly aware of everybody else around who could hear the two of you. Turning you into a whimpering mess filled him with fervent pride, but he wanted those parts of you, especially the sounds you made, all to himself.

The thought of finally hearing all those pretty little noises at full volume was enough to rile him up, and his hand groped your breast, kneading with a force he hadn't used on you before. You shivered against him; some of it was from your arousal, but the other part was the cold.

"The fire, Arthur," you said, shoving him off playfully. Grunting, he tore away from you, grateful for a log near the stove.

While his back was turned, you peeled the wet clothes off your body and dropped your blouse on the floor. Arthur spun back around right as you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you clad in your bloomers and nothing else. His breath hitched in his throat as if it were the first time your body had been bestowed upon him.

"Straight outta my dreams," he declared, his blue eyes shining with pure avidity. And just like that, Arthur strode across the room, dragging a chair with him and putting it against the door nob, just in case. You were back in his arms in an instant, his kisses emphasized with unadulterated sounds of pleasure. A rough hand slid into the waistband of your bloomers and grabbed a fistful of your ass, squeezing, letting go, and repeating.

You sigh breathlessly as he feels you up, leaning into his touch. Then without warning, he tastes you hungrily, tongue fucking your mouth.

His chest vibrates with titillation again, and you're hoisted up into his arms just a beat later, his hands cupping your rear. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on tight as he carries you across the room and dumps you on blue cotton blankets. Breathing heavily, you watch under eyes saturated with desire as he promptly removes his own damp clothes.

You were just as taken aback by his body as he was with yours. Brown curls adorned his chest and stomach and gathered in a carnal wreath around his manhood. Touching him was like running your hands over a textured map: his scars, old and new, like rivers and valleys, while his muscles, firm and hot, were mountains and volcanoes. You could spend eternity exploring that map. Arthur would never get used to you ogling him in such a way, but now your hungry eyes lured him to you.

He climbed on top of you, pinning you under his weight. Usually, he'd ask if you were okay, but you answered the question before he'd even asked by tangling your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles to bring him closer.

His hard-on brushed against your leg, making him shudder. You helped him remove the last garment of clothes between the two of you, lifting your hips to help him pull the bloomers down your legs and off your feet.

Arthur normally took his time meticulously exploring you, leaving kisses in his wake, but damn it, the thought of the sweet grip of your pussy had been on his mind for days, and he needed it now.

His forehead leaned against yours, and he clutched your jaw, holding your face still to gawk at it. If someone saw him this way, they'd think he'd just completed a full sprint, every exhale coming out in a loud pant. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, turning him animalistic. He couldn't wait any longer.

The gunslinger dipped his head to look between you, a guttural utterance escaping him as you spread your legs, exposing your needy cunt. He held his cock, nearly discolored from being so hard, and rubbed it up and down your center, coating himself in your juices.

"Need you, woman," he bellows. The bass in his voice sends goosebumps spreading down your arms, and you nod, mouth agape, eyes staring into his. His jaw also hinges as he watches himself disappear inside you. Once wholly sheathed, he moans long and loud, a stark contrast to his regular subduedness.

You'd never seen him like this, so desperate and uninhibited. Your body responds to the unexpected but welcomed change, your pussy clenching around him, making both of you jolt. Holding himself up on his forearms, he rocks his hips into you at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Shy and coy Arthur had left the building, replaced by wolfish Arthur, willing to howl and snarl for what he wanted. And in the moment, he wanted to brand you with his mouth. Bruising you was defacing a masterpiece, but it was a crime he was happy to commit. He was an outlaw, after all. He nipped at your neck with his teeth, leaving a mark before moving on to another spot to do the same.

You cried out, the first orgasm of the night building within you. He knew your body well and adjusted to give you what you needed, straightening his back, digging his thumbs into your ribs, and pistoning in and out, his hand going to rub your clit. Head tipped back, he moaned, no, roared, with every thrust.

You knew this was rare: Arthur Morgan losing complete control of himself. He was lost in you, lost in your wetness, lost in your tightness, and lost in those sounds. His head snapped down, and he stared right through you, eyes wild.

"Let me hear you," he demanded, slowing his strokes to get your attention. Head spinning, you gasped, too cock drunk to pay attention to what he was saying.

Grumbling, he pulled out of you to switch positions, now standing on the side of the bed. He guided you back to him, aligning your backside with his crotch. He hugged you to his chest, your back pressed into him. Your hands instantly went to his forearm, holding onto him as he practically held you in the air.

"I said let me hear you," he growled in your ear, accenting each word of his demand with an electrifying pulse of his hips. You arched your back into him, his name coming off your lips like thunder.

"That's it, darlin’."

Perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together and boisterous cries filled the cabin.

You were starting to see stars, your vision blurring as you focused on the pressure building in your insides, wanting so desperately for it to boil over. Your toes dug into the buckskin rug at your feet, trying to keep the rest of your body upright.

Arthur was a machine, pounding into you with the goal of bringing both of you to the edge. He didn't relent—didn't show any mercy for the mess you'd become under him. It was overstimulating in the best way possible.

You just needed a second, just one, to get your barrings. Attempting to scoot forward for that break was futile. Arthur moved with you, his length plunging deeper than ever.

"C'mere," he growled as his cock grazed against that sweet spot in the depths of your core, making you holler out and lose the little balance you had left. It didn't matter, though; he held you taught against him, pinning your body between him and the bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around you, the other touched you right where you craved.

"Now," he groaned into your ear, fingers circling your clit antagonizingly slow. A chuckle exited him as you melted to his touch. "Want you to come undone right here. Can you do that for me?"

Droplets of sweat fell from his head onto your back, and you moaned out, "Y-yes, Arthur."

You didn't take long then; a wave of warmth crashed over you as your velvet walls contracted around him, making the man curse into the now-hot cabin air. His hips kept their steady rhythm as you came, Arthur chasing his own climax now.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl," He moaned with every thrust as you clenched around him. He folded himself in half, once again putting his full weight on you, his heart pounding against your back like a drum. More erratic now, his rhythm lost its steady cadence as his balls tightened, his orgasm coursing through his veins.

He pulled out of you, one hand still gripping your side as the other one pumped furiously at his cock. Moaning, whimpering, and whining, Arthur threw his head back as hot spurts of his lust splattered across your back.

Hand falling from your hip, his breath slowed as clarity flowed back into his eyes. Using his discarded bandana, he wiped his sins away from your back before gently rolling you over. He scratched the back of his neck, a sly grin making home on his face as he watched you splayed out and spent. Arthur had gotten everything he'd ever wanted: a bed, four walls, and you.

[redvalentinesblog]

[…] il pasto fu acquistato

col sangue, e ognuno in disparte sedeva tetro

satollandosi nello sconforto: svanì l’amore;

la terra intera aveva un sol pensiero – la morte

ingloriosa e immediata; e i morsi della fame

si nutrivano dei visceri, gli uomini si estinguevano,

e le loro ossa rimanevano insepolte come la loro carne:

esseri scarniti da altri scarniti venivano divorati […]

Lord George Gordon Byron – L’oscurità

Buuuuuooon venerdì Readers ❤

Eccoci di nuovo con il nostro appuntamento del venerdì dedicato alle recensioni. In questo periodo sono moooolto propensa a leggere fantasy/fantascienza/horror, e per questo motivo la recensione di oggi la vorrei dedicare alla mia ultima lettura horror: Il Battello del Delirio, del tanto conosciuto, amato, criticato, invidiato, disprezzato, odiato George R. R. Martin, che tutti voi conoscerete per la saga de Le Cronache del Ghiaccio e del Fuoco.

Ebbene il nostro George, tra una pagina e l’altra, scrive e racconta nuove storie completamente svincolate dal Trono di Spade (di cui stiamo sempre aspettando il capitolo successivo) sempre legate all’atmosfera fantasy, con il suo inconfondibile stile fatto di personaggi spietati, black humor e tavole imbandite di ogni possibile leccornia (descritta  peraltro minuziosamente).

Ma prima della recensione, come sempre, la scheda con le info ↓↓↓

Titolo: Il Battello del Delirio Autore: George R. R. Martin Editore: Oscar Mondadori Pagine: 401 Prezzo IBS: 14,15€

Sinossi: St Louis, 1857. Dopo aver perso la sua flotta commerciale e ormai sull’orlo della bancarotta, il burbero capitano Abner Marsh accetta l’offerta di uno straniero bizzarro, Joshua York, che non solo si offre di rilevare metà delle quote della compagnia, ma anticipa anche il denaro per costruire un nuovo battello, il più lussuoso e veloce mai visto lungo il Mississippi, battezzato Fevre Dream. Poche le condizioni poste: non disturbare mai York durante il giorno ed eseguire sempre alla lettera i suoi ordini, per quanto insoliti, senza fare domande.

Tutto sembra andare per il meglio. Ma, a mano a mano che il battello discende il tortuoso corso del fiume, Marsh si insospettisce sempre di più. Perché York si mostra soltanto di notte? E cos’è quel vino nerastro dall’aspetto disgustoso con cui lui e i suoi amici si dissetano ogni sera?

Marsh decide di andare in fondo al mistero di Joshua York; ancora non sa di essersi unito a una spedizione più sinistra del suo peggiore incubo, e del più irrealizzabile sogno dell’umanità.

🌹ڰۣڿڰۣڿஇღԑ̮̑ঙღڰۣڿڰۣڿஇ🌹🌹ڰۣڿڰۣڿஇღԑ̮̑ঙღڰۣڿڰۣڿஇ🌹

Interessante, vero?

Dunque vorrei iniziare subito con il dire che non ho apprezzato le prime pagine, non ero più abituata allo stile di Martin: lento, calcolato, ogni informazione viene misurata e data con le giuste tempistiche (cioè con il contagocce). Per questo le prime pagine mi hanno quasi bloccata e messa in difficoltà, mi è sembrato tutto fin troppo lento, ripetitivo, con dettagli e descrizioni che francamente, ad un certo punto, ho ritenuto superflue.

I primi capitoli vengono dedicati alla presentazione dei due gruppi protagonisti: da un lato troviamo il bianco ed etereo Joshua York, in società con lo scorbutico, grasso e decisamente brutto capitano Abner Marsh; dall’altro scopriamo un gruppo di vampiri guidati dal tenebroso e seducente Demon Julian, aiutato dal tanto disprezzato e temuto Sour Billy Timpton. Tutta la trama si svolge nel caldo torrido di St Louis, sui battelli e sui fiumi più famosi di sempre, come il Mississippi, sul quale, tra il 1850 e il 1870 circa, navigavano numerosi batteri rimasti famosi per le loro storie e gare di velocità. Il tutto è condito dalle numerose e suggestive citazioni dedicate alla poesia L’Oscurità di Lord G. G. Byron (che vi consiglio di andare a leggere perché molto, molto bella).

Un battello dedicato alle crociere fluviali

Ebbene, i due gruppi non potrebbero essere più diversi di così: non hanno le stesse abitudini, né tanto meno gli stessi scopi o la stessa condotta nei confronti del genere umano. Lentamente scopriamo le loro storie e poco alla volta i protagonisti iniziano ad incrociare i propri destini, chi per caso e chi per necessità, finiscono per incontrarsi. E qui la faccenda si complica perché per natura, i vampiri descritti da Martin, tendono a sottomettere i più deboli della loro specie. Apprezzo l’idea di vampiro che l’autore ha ricreato, non c’è nulla di romantico in queste creature di Martin: sono forti, violente, crudeli e ingannatrici. Vi ha inoltre inserito qualcosa di nuovo e originale, conferendo loro una natura più complessa e decisamente poco magica, ma solo biologica.

Devo dire che circa da pagina 100 inizia ad essere veramente interessante e più scorrevole, ero molto curiosa di leggere questo libro perché si tratta del buon vecchio Martin, che conosco da ormai molto tempo grazie alle vicende del Trono di Spade. Di conseguenza volevo vederlo agire e scrivere in un contesto completamente diverso; il suo stile tuttavia è inconfondibile: accurato, preciso ma al tempo stesso molto lento (lo è sempre stato) con colpi di scena del tutto inaspettati.

🌹ڰۣڿڰۣڿஇღԑ̮̑ঙღڰۣڿڰۣڿஇ🌹🌹ڰۣڿڰۣڿஇღԑ̮̑ঙღڰۣڿڰۣڿஇ🌹

[…] dormivano nell’abisso privo di flutti.

Morte erano le onde; le maree erano sepolte,

la loro signora, la luna, era spirata prima;

i venti nell’aria stagnante s’erano inariditi,

e perirono le nubi; l’Oscurità non aveva bisogno

del loro aiuto: Ella era l’Universo.

Credo che con la sua ambientazione torrida e frenetica, Martin abbia voluto dare un contribuito a quelle storia di vampiri che spesso passano o trovano la loro ambientazione proprio tra St Louis e New Orleans – mi riferisco soprattutto ad Intervista col vampiro (Anne Rice) e alla saga horror di Anita Blake (Laurell K. Hamilton); ma mi vengono in mente anche altri storie come la leggendaria Finché non cala il buio (Charlaine Harris) di cui hanno sviluppato la famosissima serie tv TRUEBLOOD.

Ma torniamo alla trama…

Per buona parte della lettura mi sono resa conto di tifare fortemente per Abner Marsh, il risoluto capitano, umano e dalla mente ferrea; ma al tempo stesso non ho potuto fare a meno di credere nel vampiro Joshua York, di commuovermi per la sua storia e tifare anche per lui. Ma poi mi sono detta EHI, vacci piano qui stiamo parlando di Martin, lo scrittore spietato e stiamo anche parlando di vampiri. Quindi ho iniziato ad essere sospettosa e a cercare per tutto il libro “l’inghippo”, la trappola o la fregatura in agguato, in fondo con queste premesse come si fa a stare tranquilli?

Non mi importava, in ogni caso ho adorato la storia di Joshua e il lungo flashback a lui dedicato: il suo passato è un intreccio di avvenimenti costellati dalla fuga, dalla dolorosa scoperta della sua natura, delle sue capacità e abilità, fino ad andare a ritroso verso la culla della civiltà e delle due razze: la gente del giorno e la gente della notte. Tutto questo mi ha emozionata tantissimo!

QUINDI, SE AVRETE LA PAZIENZA DI LEGGERE QUESTO LIBRO NON VI DELUDERÀ E NE SARETE TOTALMENTE CATTURATI. Fatemi sapere in un commento se conoscete questo libro, se lo avete letto e cosa ne pensate. Alla prossima recensione!

🌹ڰۣڿڰۣڿஇღԑ̮̑ঙღڰۣڿڰۣڿஇ🌹🌹ڰۣڿڰۣڿஇღԑ̮̑ঙღڰۣڿڰۣڿஇ🌹

Note sull’autore. George R.R. Martin (Bayonne, New Jersey, 1948) è l’autore delle celebri “Cronache del Ghiaccio e del Fuoco”. Sceneggiatore per il cinema e la televisione, ha pubblicato racconti e romanzi di fantascienza, vincendo numerosi premi, tra cui l’Hugo, il Nebula, il Bram Stoker e il Locus. Mondadori ha pubblicato tutti i libri delle “Cronache” compreso il recente prequel Il Cavaliere dei Sette Regni(2014) e La Principessa e la Regina (contenuto in La Principessa e la Regina e altre storie di donne pericolose, antologia curata da Martin stesso assieme a Gardner Dozois, 2015), e il volume Il Mondo del Ghiaccio e del Fuoco: la storia ufficiale di Westeros e del Trono di Spade(2014, con Linda Antonsson e Elio M. García Jr.), le raccolte di racconti Le Torri di Cenere (2007) e I re di sabbia (2008), il romanzo Il Pianeta dei Venti (2012, con Lisa Tuttle), i due volumi di racconti I Canti del Sogno (2015) e la serie di romanzi a mosaico da lui coordinata Wild Cards.

Valentina ∼ Il Profumo dei Libri

  |RECENSIONE|Il battello del delirio – G.R.R. Martin [...] il pasto fu acquistato col sangue, e ognuno in disparte sedeva tetro satollandosi nello sconforto: svanì l'amore;

[danviers]

ARE YOU A SOLDIER, A POET, OR A KING ?

THE SOLDIER

"  there will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword  -  he will tear your city down.  "  righteousness.  strength. violence.  you see a door and break through it.  you wonder, sometimes, if anger is the only thing you can feel.  remember : love is passion too.  you made your own rules and will follow them to death.  you try and forget that there is only one rule, and that it is " fight ".  you are tired of fighting.  you try to forget that, too, and keep going.  you dream of quiet.  your love is where you heal.  god knows you deserve to. ( really.  you deserve to. )

tagged by:  stolen from myself tagging:  @shcftingpieces,  @girlofsteel,  @unitcd,  @fervs,  @heroslegacy,  @storyofwhoiam​,  and anyone else who wants to

[nanowrimo]

20th Anniversary: A Celebration of Our Participants - Part 1

It’s NaNoWriMo’s 20th Anniversary, and to celebrate, we reached out to our participants to her about their experiences. Wrimos really are a shining example of what makes humanity great, and it’s wild that I got to hear from so many of them. So I’ll just get out of their way and let our participants speak for themselves:

Did y’all know that we have some incredible people participating in NaNoWriMo?

Like Frankie Finch (participating 2018-present), who let us know that their favorite NaNoWriMo memory is “novelling on the calmer disneyland rides last year!” Even on calm rides, I would be terrified of dropping my laptop (or notebook) and losing it forever to the bowels of Disneyland.

Or Brandy (2014-present), who let us know that during NaNoWriMo, they have always “written at least a short story.” The outcome of this writing? “Those short stories then became my Dungeon & Dragons homebrew campaigns where I flesh out details and build on my story.” Very cool! Is there an LFG thread on the forums? Somebody make one!

Sarah Alley’s (2012-present) roleplaying ended up having a somewhat different impact on their life. Their favorite memory: “Meeting my husband in the RP forums, our characters getting married after meeting each other, and then we married almost a year to the day later.” You heard it here first, folks: participating in NaNoWriMo will do wonders for your love life. Who knew? (We all secretly knew this already, didn’t we?)

However, the most common answer when asked about your favorite NaNoWriMo memory, by far, was finishing for the first time. 

Sky has been participating off and on since 2006, and shared their favorite memory: “Last year when I participated in my 12th NaNoWriMo and got my FIRST win.” I love that Sky kept trying for over a decade, and finally achieved their goal. NaNoWriMo is about persistence, after all, and Sky definitely persisted.

The experience of winning for the first time “transformed my confidence,” says Jenai May (participating off-and-on since the distant year of 2003), a sentiment echoed by participants Ferv, Caroline Redman, Catherine, and many others.

Sara Gonia, an 8 year participant, talks about finding confidence in the process, rather than the final achievement: “Making it past my first serious goal I set during Nano: 10,000 words. It's not 50,000, but just that small step gave me a confidence boost like no other goal has. I finally felt like I could write something big and grand, and not regard it as a childhood dream anymore.”

Whether you’ve written 100 words this month, or 100,000, we hope you’re remembering that extrinsic rewards aren’t everything! Badges are cool (and I resent that I’ve missed out on some of them), checking in on your graph and all your stats is exciting…

But what ultimately matters is the writing itself. 

What matters is finding your voice, and telling your story.

[ebonybow]

what the fuck?; spring breeaaak; timmy's ball !!!

what the fuck?: what was the scariest episode?

for me i think The Disturbing Murders at Keddie Cabin. i personally find the true crime eps scarier than the supernatural eps (despite being a boogara lmao)

spring breeaaak: what’s your dream vacation?

right now it’s anywhere that i can see a hockey game, probably with my best friend. maybe somewhere there’s a beach? i love getting in the ocean. idk i’m so far away from being able to go on any kind of vacation that i don’t really have an answer for this lmao. hockey game + beach + best friend.

timmy’s ball: what object could bring you back from the dead?

like in a nercomancy type ritual? maybe my denim jacket or my glasses lmao. or a can of diet coke and a shot of vodka.

thanks ferv!!!

[ommvx]

Versão alternativa  - "Fine Knight 2015" Letra/voz : OMMAX /Demond Dushawn Instrumental :  Autimatik Mix/Master : Pilaco Records Imagens : Brendow Leite e Thales Santos Edição : Thales Santos   FINE KNIGHT (Lyrics) deMond dUshawn Hold On... For So Long... 40 Ounce dreams Feels like I'm taking one for the team Bucking shots in vacant lots For niggaz locked in the Bing Where younger niggaz turn to older niggaz Life is a dream But son you better wake up Chicago's not what it seems Flow and rider like Joakim In gators serving these fiends Who guard nets like Kevin Love  to come up with schemes What's a triple double? Can't point guard against me With 36 bars and straight jackets How could you breathe? Smoking back to back squares Like I forgot about trees It's gonna be a fine night I need a couple of G's To stand with me Don't forget me Be the greatest of ease Lost my mind over time Felt like I miss placed keys And I did So I slid into these Chi-Town streets Break the beat down and beat you down with nothing but these Open handed, reprimanded Top dollars and thieves It's gonna be a fine nights My peace is resting with me. OMMVX E a nação vai filhos da pátria desnaturada e sem pai Sua herança é do tipo de liberdade forjada que trai A condição que nos deram pós escravidão A perifa senti na pele e no coração Febre do ouro, ouro de tolo Ouro sonho, luxo lucro Dinheiro ganho, a custo de tudo Luxo sonho lixo Tratar pessoas que nem bicho pro sonho alcançar? Ouro ferve derrete, ouro febre, sonho a custo de suor fúnebre Sistema e seus ganhos planos Monstros devoradores de sonhos São os sonhos que nos movem Em umas dessas uns enfrentam outros correm Uns se perdem outros morrem Aceitar tudo não te faz humilde te torna fraco Obsessão pela religião te torna cego Vivemos na era do dinheiro é fato flagro Subversão da realidade união amor fraterno. 3B PRODUÇÔES © 016 PILACO RECORDS 2016

[calemor]

Poison

The Heroes of Fannen-Dar, Chapter 3

Robin got home and closed the door behind her.  Or rather, she arrived back at the unused wooden dumpster behind the abandoned alchemical warehouse and shut the lid after she climbed in.  It wasn't a gorgeous place, but it was a place she could call home.  At least to herself.

She lit the lamp that had been given to her by a pitying merchant.  The light fell upon her one other shirt, a box with no lock, and a pot next to a sack of whatever edibles she had managed to scrounge up.  Crouching, since there was not enough room to stand, she moved over to the box.  She had once heard a story of a box with no lock yet could not be opened.  There was no key, no password, and no hinges, yet something rattled within it, so the story went.  Robin didn't keep a lock on her box because she hadn't found one that worked.  She opened it up and took out a dull knife.

Robin opened the sack and put the pot on top of the lamp.  It still had a bit of rainwater in it.  She dumped some of the contents of the sack into the pot; turnip stems, potato skins, and the rare slice of carrot floated in the murky water.  She took a brown apple core and began cutting it up with the knife.

She sighed as she prepared her supper.  She wondered how her life had reached this point, and how she was doomed to live like this for the rest of it.  It had seemed so simple; you take what you want and enjoy yourself.  It got more complicated, however, when you factored in the degrees to which people go to hold on to their things.  Thievery was her loftiest goal, but it wasn't her only option.  Street performing had gotten her nowhere.  Of course, no gang would let her join, even just as a messenger or lookout.  She had even tried begging, but that got her more kicks to the shins than iron coins.  It was a matter of her dreams and her talents not matching up.  She had dreams, but no talents.  She finished dicing the apple core and watched the perfect cubes bobbing in the stew.

Robin had just turned to her collection of discarded pamphlets when a dull, scraping sound caught her attention.  Robin looked back at the pot.  It was where she left it, the occasional bubble rising to the stagnant surface.  Another scrape thrummed down her spine.  It was the kind of sound only something terribly heavy could make.  Robin pressed her ear up against the side of the dumpster that was touching the warehouse wall.  When another scrape came, it pounded her ear, dragging it down into the depths of pitch where you could feel sounds.  Long, painful, dragged-out sounds, coming from the vague direction of upwards.  Then it was suddenly cut short.

Robin grabbed the pot and threw herself against the side of the dumpster just as an anvil came crashing down through the lid.

The cloud of dirt that the anvil had shuddered from its rest made Robin cough as she checked herself over to make sure she was still alive.  Her stomach was in her feet.  Her heart was in her throat.  Her brain was running around in circles, screaming.  Everything was where it should be.  Somehow, the stew had not spilled, and Robin only realized now that the pot was burning her arms where she was hugging it as if it were her newborn child.

The remnants of the dumpster's lid moved, and Robin blinked in the sunlight.  A hand reached down and picked her up by the collar of her leather shirt.  Someone did this about every other day, so Robin had patched up her collar so that it was baggy and easy to grab, but didn't tug on her neck when it was pulled.  The hot water sloshed as she shook and looked into the eyes of the three-quarters-orc from the Bloodroot gang.

"Hallo, there," he said.  "Member me?"

"Yugh."

"Fought so."  He grabbed the edge of the wrecked dumpster and effortlessly tore down what was left of the wall.  "Nice place you got," he said with a toothy grin.  Of course, it was hard for a half-orc not to have a toothy grin, what with the tusks and all.

Robin shivered.  "It...it was, I guess.  Can I...help you?”

"Oh, why, yeah, you kin help me, all right."  He now grabbed her with two hands.  Her neck remained unrestrained, but it still had the intended effect of making her even more terrified than she thought she could be.  "The Bloodroots are great.  You made us look like dingbats."  He leaned in, and Robin could smell his breath.  It was like a bouquet of flowers and a mug of apple cider were mixed together with a slab of three-week-old venison.  Robin tried not to look down at the chunky water she held.  "We don't like looking like dingbats," the half-orc snarled.

Robin swallowed, which she quickly regretted, as the smell was then turned into taste that slid down her throat.  Her brain, at least, had stopped running into the walls of her head, but it was now shrunk down against her temple.  It wasn't focused enough to prevent her from saying, "It wasn't me, it was King Dom!  He made you look like dingbats!"

"Did you just call us dingbats?" the half-orc grumbled.

Robin whimpered.

"Listen," he said, shaking her once.  The water sloshed again, and a bit landed on Robin's arm.  It was still hot enough to sting.  The half-orc continued, "You may think you're great, you may think you kin keep getting away with whatever you want because King Dom took some sore of shine to you, but I'm not letting it slide.  Broos may think it's good for us to listen to him, but I'm gonna give you the biggest pounding you ever had."

Robin sighed.  "All right.  But I just want to say one thing before we get started."

"Wuss that?"

"Hope you like garbage stew."

Robin thrust her arms forward and dumped the hot water over the half-orc's head.  He shouted and loosened his grip just enough for Robin to swing the pot, knocking it over his head, then slip to the ground and run like a devil that just found out it committed a virtue.

Robin instantly remembered that she had gotten no sleep and her legs were still sore from being chased halfway across town the day before.

She turned a corner and began to climb up the wall of the warehouse.  There were enough windows and loose bricks to act as footholds.  Robin grabbed onto the ledge above, tried pulling herself up, and found that she lacked the upper arm strength.  Her foot found a hold, and then her other foot found a higher one.  Her right hand shot up without a thought and reached for the slot of a missing brick above the window.  She heard heavy footsteps from the back of the warehouse.  When she looked down to see how far she had gotten, she froze in fear.

The half-orc came charging around the corner and picked her up from her spot three feet up the wall.

"Wait!" she shouted, squirming against his pincer-like grip.  "We can work this out, I can make it up to the Bloodroots!"

"Yeah, you can," the brute replied, "by sitting still and mergede-burg."

Robin took a few shallow breaths.  "Uh...can you repeat that?"

"Mordaga-ferv..."  A look of confusion spread across the half-orc's face, but it was quickly replaced with unconsciousness as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his tongue lolled out of his mouth along with white froth, and he and Robin both collapsed onto the ground.

She twisted her body until she was free from his arms.  He didn't seem to mind.  Robin heard someone else click their tongue.

"Well, that didn't happen in quite the manner I expected," a voice said.  Robin looked up to the top of a shorter building next to the warehouse.  A man was lying on the roof, looking over the edge with his head in his hands.  When Robin looked up, he waved.  Not knowing what else to do, Robin waved back.  "Busy day, then?" the man asked.

"I...I suppose you could say that," Robin replied.  The figure above got to his feet and jumped, stuck to the opposite wall for a brief moment, launched off again, did a front flip through the air, and landed on his back on the alley floor.

He got up and brushed himself off, as if he had planned the whole thing.  Robin got the impression that it wasn't an attempt to cover his mistake, but rather a routine that happened so often he had forgotten he was striving for something more elegant.  The man himself, however, was incredibly elegant.  He was an alfar, a high elf, the ones you read about in stories who built towers that touched the moon, traveled the world through magic portals, and made faeries weep when they laughed.  He had straight, golden hair that framed his face and brushed down his back, with a single strand resting against his chest.  His ears were tapered, rising all the way up to the top of his head.  He wore sleek black leather, covered in buckles and studs, that displayed his thin but muscular torso.  He was the kind of thin you would call lithe, as opposed to Robin, whom you would merely call skinny, if you were trying to be polite.  She couldn't help crossing her arms in an attempt to use her pointed elbows to increase her visual width.

"Greetings," the alfar said, holding out a gloved hand.  "My name is Gwyntmarwolaeth."  Robin noticed a dagger sticking out of the sleeve on the arm he had held out to her.  She stared at it until he lowered his hand.  "Everyone just refers to me as Gwynt, though," he added, without losing a hint of cheerfulness.

"Did you have something to do with him?" Robin said, pointing towards the pile of half-orc.

Gwynt nodded.  "I was testing out a new sedative of mine.  I found a lovely little pot of water and thought, no better test subject than homeless dumpster-dweller whom nobody would miss, ha ha!"

"Ha ha!  Ha," Robin said, an octave higher than usual.

"So, it didn't work out exactly as I had planned, but the potion was tested in the end!"  He grinned at the unmoving body next to him.  His smile filled his whole face, causing his solid green eyes to squint.  Alfar didn't have crow's feet, for their skin never wrinkled, but no human could have put on a happier expression.

Robin coughed.  "So, he's just asleep, then?"

"Oh, no, he's clearly quite dead.  The potion was a complete failure as a sedative.  Of course, I should have known when I added another dose of deathvine."  Gwynt laughed, and while Robin didn't hear any faeries weeping, perhaps a crow did make a garbled attempt at singing.  "That's just the ups and downs of being an assassin, though.  Sometimes a sedative turns out to be a poison!"

"Of course."

"But you're not a helpless, homeless cretin after all!" Gwynt said, looking her up and down from head to toe.  "What is it you do for a living?"

Robin shuffled her feet.  "I've been told it's not true, but I consider myself a thief."  She wasn't too worried about confessing her illegal profession to an admitted assassin.

"Say!" Gwynt clapped and pointed at Robin as if he had just noticed her.  He then looked back and forth between her and the dead half-orc.  "Does this mean you can't work with him anymore?"

"Well, I wasn't working with him, but I do find myself without employment at the moment."

Gwynt raised his hand to his chest and his jaw fell open in shock.  "Employment?  You are too good to be merely working for another group.  You should be the one calling the shots!"

Robin couldn't remember ever being praised before, so at first she thought that Gwynt was demeaning her.  "Well, we can't all be fan-tratten-tastic assassins, as you so clearly are," she snapped.

"I'm honored, my lady," Gwynt said, a shade of pink creeping up his cheeks.

Robin closed her mouth, then opened it again.  "Wait, were you serious?"

"Absolutely."  Gwynt motioned for Robin to follow him, and they walked back to the rear of the warehouse.  Gwynt waved his hands over the scene, replaying Robin's daring and short-lived escape in his head.  "The way you ingeniously escaped that brute's clutches, adroitly evaded him for quite some time, and then cleverly stalled until my poison took effect...It was like watching a work of art spread across the canvas by itself."

It was Robin's turn to blush.  "Gee," she mumbled.

"I think you would fit right in with myself and my cohorts."

Robin's eyes turned into double moons.  Yesterday she (technically) stole something for the first time, and now she was being asked to join a gang!  It was almost too much excitement at once.  It was too much when you considered she hadn't gotten any sleep.  Robin staggered, then fell into a sitting position on a crate propped against the warehouse wall.

"You want...me?  To be a professional thief?" she said.

Gwynt shrugged.  "Well, it's not up to me, but I can introduce you and offer up my recommendation.  And you won't start with a leadership position, of course, since Anzo is...well, you'll meet him, and the rest."  He smiled.  "But, yes!  We're sorely lacking a good thief at the moment."

Robin looked over at the dumpster she had privately called home for the past three years.  It was now just a pile of wood surrounding an overturned anvil.  A ragged strand of blue cloth that she had used as decoration flapped uselessly in the breeze.  It was beyond repair, especially because no one else even remembered it existed.

"I'm in," she said.  Gwynt laughed again and cheered.  "What do you call yourselves?" Robin added.

Gwynt bowed formally, with an odd flourish of his hand.  "I am but a humble servant of the group, destined for greatness, known as...Bedlam."

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