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[builders365]

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[lamuradex]

Signs of Light and Shadow - Book 1

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 1 - Life in the Woods

Rain misted over the leaves as a tree shuddered and fell. A young woman stood near the fallen trunk, axe in hand, catching her breath. Wiping her brow, she chopped the log into pieces and began her trek back through the forest with the lumber on a small sled.

She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with long black hair which hung down her back. Her complexion was a robust peach, with only small scratches, a few lingering freckles, and some flecks of mud to mar her skin. Her eyes were a deep, watery blue, but shone brightly out from beneath her dark eyebrows. Her cheeks and chin were soft and mild, her features surprisingly delicate for one so used to the outdoors. This was with the exception of a slightly crooked nose and a small scar on her left ear from some fight arguably won. Athletically built, her body was toned and agile. She wore a light-armoured garb, all greys and dark blues, made of leather and metal plates, tough but built for movement. It covered her from her neck to her boots, a dark red cape attached at the shoulders which hung down past her knees.

She hummed as she walked, her axe on her hip, as the rain slowed to a stop. Suddenly, she paused. There was a rustling in the brush. Only her head moved as she searched for the noise. She relaxed when she spotted it was just a small herd of deer. She licked her lips. Her hand went to her axe, slow and silent, but there was another rustle, as a fox ran from the trees and the deer scampered away in alarm.

She shrugged and kept walking.

She reached the camp and placed down her firewood, before chopping it into further chunks. The loud crack of wood rang out, and from the nearby den in a tree, another woman emerged.

“Cerris?” she called.

“I’m back,” Cerris answered between strikes.

“That was fast. Did you get food or firewood?”

“Thought that would have been obvious, Elena.” Cerris’s axe landed pointedly.

Elena sighed. Her blonde hair was tied up in a neat bun, while the sides hung down framing her face. Her complexion was smoother and warmer than Cerris’s, though more from makeup than sun. Her features were very much like her sister’s, only with a smaller, unbroken nose, rich brown eyes, and a lither figure. She wore a dress of pale-gold fabric, the hem of which stopped just above her ankles. Her prim shoes were made of sturdy but pretty leather, though they were of course speckled with dirt and mud. Finally, a necklace adorned her throat, five interconnected gold rings on a beaded chain for its charm, the piece pulling together her gilded appearance.

“So, you didn’t get anything to eat?” Elena surmised.

“No, I didn’t.” Cerris kept chopping. “Do we need food?”

“Not urgently, no. We still have those spices and vegetables from town. Could use some meat to go with it though,” Elena said, stepping out from the den.

“Maybe you should go hunting then?” Cerris smirked, finishing up and leaning on her axe.

Elena shook her head and started piling the chopped wood. “Very funny, Cerris.”

“It was just a suggestion.” Cerris sheathed her axe and headed inside, pushing open the blanket curtain door.

The inside was welcoming and warm, with beds, candles, a table and chairs. Two single beds were bathed in candlelight, each covered in soft linens. The furthest bed was dressed with yellow, almost golden, duvets embellished with swirling patterns. Meanwhile the closer one was made with simple dark green sheets. Between the beds was a small shelf, built into the wall. One end was littered with a collection of flower buds, a few gemstones, and a pearl, while the other end had a sharpening stone, a polishing cloth, and a coin purse. Opposite, to the left of the room, sat a disused double bed. The candles around it were unlit and the bed was buried in clutter. Amongst the clutter was a small wooden shrine, three carved figures barely discernible, the wooden block half buried by clothes.

Cerris paused, enjoyed the warmth for a moment, then grabbed one of the old chairs and dragged it outside. She placed it next to the fire pit, then placed a second chair almost directly opposite. With a relaxed sigh, she fell into a seat and made herself comfortable.

Elena had placed some of the wood in the firepit and was now grabbing a few dry twigs from the overhang of a tree for kindling. She returned and piled them all together.

“You’re going to want to make a little tent with the twigs,” Cerris suggested.

“I’m well aware,” Elena snipped. “Maybe if I go out hunting, you can stay here and make the fire, cook the meals, clean the beds, and most of the other chores?”

“I could, you know.”

“Yes, but much slower than just letting me do them.”

Elena grabbed one of the larger twigs by an end, and with her other hand, she pressed a finger against its longest branch. Like heated metal, parts of the twig began to glow, small symbols burning in the bark. Elena removed her finger and the runes glowed red hot. In a flash, the marks ignited, the twig caught, and it was placed burning amongst the kindling. Elena then followed Cerris’s example, but first retrieved an old dress with needle and thread before she sat in her own seat, straight backed and proper.

Cerris sat back languidly, holding out her hands to the flames, staring at the clear blue sky. She sighed happily. “So,” she began. “What did you get up to while I was gone?”

“Not much,” Elena said, stitching a rip in the dress. “Took a walk nearby looking for interesting plants. Cleaned inside. Tried to mend… this.” She focused on a particularly difficult stitch.  

“What happened to your dress?”

“Oh, nothing,” Elena said without looking up.

Cerris eyed her doubtfully. “So, it just ripped by itself?”

“It’s only a small tear. Near the shoulder strap.”

“Oh yeah. I remember seeing it,” Cerris recalled. She raised an eyebrow. “You wore that dress last time we went into town, right?”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You did.”

“Oh, well. Must have happened while I was out and about.” Elena waved a hand innocently.

Cerris aimed an accusatory smile. “You know, I think I remember seeing that rip when you came out of the tavern. You seemed very happy that day,” she teased. “Something happen while I was distracted?”

“Oh, why would you think that?”

“Because you’re blushing.”

Elena tried to appear affronted, but couldn’t against Cerris’s smug smile. Her insulted expression fell to embarrassed annoyance.

“Fine,” she pouted. “There was a rather nice gentleman who was there that night.”

“And?”

“He was charming. He even dared to kiss me on the cheek before the night was done.”

“Exciting,” Cerris rolled her eyes. “And did this kiss excite you so much your shoulder strap broke?”

“It wasn’t the whole strap,” Elena corrected indignantly, “just nearby it. And no, it wasn’t him who was responsible.”

“Aggressive moths then?”

“No. One of his drunkard friends tried to grab my shoulder. The gentleman apologised on the drunkard’s behalf, of course.”

“Quite the manners,” Cerris approved. “So, what was this mystery man’s name?”

“…I don’t know,” Elena deflated. “He introduced himself, I’m sure, but between the noise and the ale I’m not sure if I even heard him.”

“A regular?”

“No. Just passing through,” she said disheartened. “When he left at the end of the evening, he left town. I’ll likely not see him again.”

“Ah, well.” Cerris relaxed, staring again at the midday sky. “At least you had some fun.”

“I suppose,” Elena agreed sombrely. “Still, feels like quite the missed opportunity.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet someone nice.”

“Hmm…” Elena got back to her sewing.

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, as Cerris sat back and dozed in her chair. The fire crackled and danced. After a short while, Elena spoke again.

“I did find some new flowers on my walk.”

Cerris stirred from her dozing. “Hm… Anything good?”

“Some small grey blossoms outside that dead tree by the river.” Elena gestured in the general direction. “They make a sticky paste when crushed. Might be useful.”

“For mending and the like?”

“I think so. But I’ll wait until I can have someone check them out in town. Make sure they’re not poisonous.”

Cerris nodded. “Good plan. Don’t want to have them littered around the home, then find out they’ll make us sick.”

“They do smell lovely though,” Elena chirped. “Like roses and winter berries. A scrumptious smell, like those cakes the baker cooks around-”

A gurgling rumble cut off the conversation. Elena turned red.

“Was that your stomach?” Cerris grinned.

“Yes,” Elena shrunk back in her seat.

“If you’re hungry, we’ve got some fruit,” Cerris offered, pointing back at the den.

“I don’t know. I was hoping for something a little… heartier?” Elena said with veiled hope.

“So you want me to go hunting?” Cerris prompted.

Elena focused on her sewing. “Only if you want to.”

“Well good. Because I’m happy here.” Cerris sat back to relax again. “Unless you want to go hunting instead?”

Elena threw down the dress in her lap. “Cerris, what am I going to do against a deer? Jab it with a needle? Throw a stone?”

“An enchanted stone maybe?”

Elena went to answer, but just huffily got back to her sewing. When Cerris stayed seated, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, fine. If I must ask. Cerris, would you please go hunting?”

“I think I will,” Cerris stood and stretched, rolling her shoulders. “I could go for something with a bit more substance anyway. And I saw some deer before. Shouldn’t be too hard to track.”

“Thank you. And while you’re gone, I’ll get the stew going.”

“Sounds good.” Cerris looked to the sun, determining the time.

“And take your shield,” Elena said firmly.

Cerris nodded, walked back towards the den, and pulled her shield from beside the door. She took a moment to admire the intricate faded pattern that decorated it. A blue wolf stood before a red tree on a field of dull yellow. She wiped some dirt off it with a sleeve, then hung the shield over her shoulder on a strap.

“Okay then. I’ll be back soon. A few hours at most,” she smiled, then headed out across the clearing to the east.

* * *

Cerris stalked through the underbrush, barely crinkling the leaves beneath her feet, the wet weather keeping the forest soft and soundless. She crept around a large tree, then up a ridge overlooking a clearing. Dense foliage surrounded the glade, and a shallow stream ran through the middle. Her perch was a short cliff, about head height above the ground. Below, a herd of deer were gathered. Most bent their necks to graze, but some were stood bolt upright, ears swivelling. One stag stood in the centre, tall antlers visible over the crowd.

Cerris crouched on the ridge. She drew her axe from her belt with practiced ease, fingerless leather gloves and calloused fingers working it out thoughtlessly. She watched the herd. Her fingers shifted their grip. Her knees tensed. The leather of her greaves creaked. One of the deer spun its ears towards her. Cerris took a deep breath and pounced.

She leapt from the ridge, hit the ground and rolled. The first deer saw her and startled, the panic rippling through the herd. Cerris rose into a sprint, closing the distance. The herd began to move. Less than a step away, the closest doe was already bolting. Cerris loosened her grip and swung her arm out. The axe slid through her palm until her grip returned at the end of the handle. With the full length of the weapon, she swung. The blade clipped the rear leg of the deer. The animal stumbled as its leg failed, landing in a heap a few paces away. Its front legs struggled to stand, while its surviving rear leg was trapped beneath it. Cerris rounded to the creature’s head and held her axe ready.

With a sudden burst, the deer sprang up, its rear leg gaining traction. Its lame limb dangled as it bounced across the clearing, until it stumbled and stopped. Cerris took her chance. She charged and swung for the animal’s neck, but the axe cut empty air. The doe sprang and vanished past the tree-line. Cerris scowled.

“By the blasted skies! Dra’aming car’zit!” she cursed a blue streak. She then looked to the sky, took a calming breath, and reduced her anger to a grumble. “It’ll take hours to track that doe.”

She looked to the ground. It was muddy, grassy soil with silt rock nearer the stream, the softer earth torn up from the many hooves that had fled. Amongst it, there was a small splatter of blood where the doe had stood, and another patch where it had fallen. Cerris followed to where the deer had fled. No visible tracks, or too many from the herd. But the stream ran near the spot, the water shallow, muddy and about three strides wide. Something crimson floated on the water. A trail. Cerris gripped her axe tightly and followed it upstream, stance low and ready.

She followed the river for about half a mile, the blood trail still floating past. She stayed behind trees and out of the water wherever she could, quiet and tense, ready to strike.

Eventually, she reached a small turn in the river where the water pooled. The blood was still visible. She followed the pool’s edge until she found where the stream fed in. Clean. No blood at all. She continued to circle the pool until she found a trickle of crimson. It flowed over the silt like a small red snake. Further into the trees, the soil was dark and sodden. More blood than could have come from the deer’s wound. The trail headed uphill.

With some effort, gripping tree branches and rocks, Cerris struggled to the top. The slope levelled out and she steadied herself. The earth was heavy with red fluid. Her eyes followed the trail, the stream widening as it went. Finally, it ended at a large mound in the forest bed. A mound covered in cloth and bleeding.

Cerris walked over to the man. He was leant up against a tree, back to the slope, wearing a long brown and white robe with a hood that shrouded his face. What could be seen was old and weathered, his face deeply pale. A red flower of colour blossomed across his chest, which rose and fell as he struggled for breath.

“Hello?” Cerris called cautiously. She stepped around the figure and slipped her axe back into her belt. “Can you hear me?”

The figure moved, turning his head. “Yes… Yes I can,” he managed to say, his voice croaking and weak. Even so, he seemed cheerful. “Not for much longer I’d guess,” he smiled, his accent eloquent and foreign.

“You’re injured. Is there anything I can do?” Cerris knelt beside him. “My sister has magic. She might be able to help.”

He smiled wider at her kindness, but shook his head. “Not likely, dear girl. It’s alright. It’s been a grand journey, this life has. A long-” He was interrupted by an unpleasant, hacking cough. “It’s been a long and winding path,” he finished breathlessly.

“What-” Cerris started to ask.

“What happened?” the man finished for her, temporarily regaining his breath. “Let my guard down with a wolf. Drove off most of the pack, but the leader stayed to fight. Quick little devil.” He coughed again. “Got the blighter with my knife though, right in his shoulder,” he wheezed proudly.

“What… What’s your name?” Cerris asked, avoiding his eye and wringing her hands.

“Graham of the Great Cliffs. I’m a long way from home,” he said happily. “And you?”

“Cerris,” she answered. She could hardly look at him.

“You seem scared, Cerris. But then again, death must be new to a young lady like you.”

“No. It isn’t.”

His smile saddened. “Oh. I see. But that doesn’t make it easier,” he nodded.

Cerris looked him in the eye at last. He didn’t seem scared, but she still couldn’t hold his gaze for long.

“You are kind to try to help, Cerris.” He reached out a hand to pat her arm.

Cerris was silent.  She simply nodded, as the man’s breath became more strained. One hand raised to clutch his chest.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “And good luck to you in all that is to come. You may need it,” he chuckled.

Slowly, like a flame sputtering out, his eyes slid shut and his head slumped back. As he lay, his chest gradually slowed to a stop. When he was completely still, one last breath escaped. Cerris reached forward, placing a hand to his chest. There was nothing.

He was dead.

Cerris stood, looked him over, bowed her head solemnly, and seeing nothing else to do, she turned to leave.

Suddenly, each of the man’s hands began to glow. Cerris leapt back, raising her axe. His left hand radiated a pearly white light while his right was shrouded in an obsidian black. Both grew stronger, lightening and darkening their surroundings. The strange powers reached their zenith, almost eclipsing the man. Then they flared and died to nothing.

Cerris looked on, waiting for any other strangeness. She took a step closer, and prodded the body with her axe handle, but there was nothing. The body was still. He was definitely gone.

“Is… is that what happens when people die?” she wondered. She’d seen bodies before, two at least, but she’d never seen the moment of death. She couldn’t be sure that wasn’t supposed to happen. She certainly hadn’t enjoyed it.

 She breathed a final sigh and turned to walk away. Then she stopped. Her stomach knotted as she eyed the dead man again. She turned and stood over the body, raising her hands together in front of her chest. Quietly, she prayed.

“By the heavens and earth, the spirits and the fire, let the soul of this man be guided well to the land beyond. May he be protected from evil and be honoured for his good deeds. May his friends remember him fondly-” she recited flatly, recalling the prayer as best she could.

As she prayed, two shapes moved in a nearby tree, two cats strolling through the branches.

“-may the great veil beyond grant passage, and the waters of the endless rivers carry him gently. Let the skies above look kindly upon him-”

The cats leapt from branch to branch and moved towards her, dancing around each other in their path. Cerris glanced at them but continued.

“-The earth accept his humble form, the winds carry his soul, the waters wash away his pain-”

The felines made no noise as they moved. One had white fur, speckled with golden brown. The other was black, flecked with auburn. Cerris watched them wryly, but continued her prayer unabated.

“-The Father of Skies watch over us all-”

The cats stopped a few feet away, perched on a branch near head height. They were definitely watching her. Staring at her.

Cerris stared back, then shook it off and turned back to the dead man. “-and may the light of… Aheazal shine upon us and the shadow of Zaheal cloak us,” she struggled to remember which was which.

“So close, but not an uncommon mistake,” a masculine voice echoed.

Cerris span, her axe and shield drawn. Her eyes scanned the area for the speaker, but she was alone. There was only the dead man. The dead man and the cats. The felines stared at her intently, each one the negative mirror of the other. After a moment, one cat turned towards the other.

“I do enjoy that prayer. I just wish we featured in it more.” A new voice came from nowhere, this one feminine and bright. The white cat jumped down from the branch. “Then again, what role do we actually play in their daily lives.”

“Their sunlight, their knowledge, their energy and motivation. Take your pick,” said the male voice cynically. The dark cat lowered its ears to its head and prowled along the branch. “At least in some abstract respects. And it isn’t like we actually hand it to them. I guess I take your point.”

“Hello?” Cerris called out, her voice shaking. The white cat bent its head up to stare at her.

“Down here, daughter of man,” said the female voice. Cerris looked down to meet the cat’s gaze. She stared into yellow eyes. Eyes that stared back.

“I believe she is confused. Maybe we should help her understand,” the male voice rang out. It almost sounded like it was coming from inside Cerris’s head, but she still turned towards the black cat.

“You’re right. Prepare yourself, human,” the female voice chirped.

The white cat began to radiate the same blinding light that had come from the dead man’s hand, as the black cat followed suit, its surroundings swallowed in an opaque black aura. Within each flare, the shape of the cats altered, unfolding and rising. Each form straightened up and faced her, their radiant aura’s dissipated, their new bodies revealed, one woman and one man. Beyond that though, they could not have been described as human.

The woman had robes made of light. Beneath them, darkness clung to her skin like silk, concealing her eyes beneath her hood. Her skin was radiant pearl and silver hair spilled about her shoulders. Her robes hung loose, a shimmering hunter’s tunic and trousers beneath, the clothes sculpted onto her frame. Her very presence glowed, her light welcoming, like the dawn after a long dark night. She smiled at Cerris.

The other figure was her opposite in almost every way. Darkness clung to him like a shroud, becoming impossibly darker beneath his cloak, his features given shape by how the shadows ebbed and waned. But his eyes shone through the blackness as two glowing stars in the night. His cloak was tied shut and entrapped him, his arms folded. Nothing was discernible beneath, not even movement. He glided over the ground, noiseless and without disturbing the grass. His presence engulfed everything, like a living shadow on a moonless night, as he glanced emotionless at the young woman before them.

“I am Aheazal, the Spirit of Darkness. You were incorrect in your prayer before,” the shadowed man said with a flat tone, his voice cold and indifferent.

“And I am Zaheal. I hope you can guess what I’m the god of,” the woman chimed, her voice bright and warm, though she held a calm air.

Cerris’s eyes darted back and forth between the two impossible beings before her. Her axe fell from her hand. Her shield dangled from her arm. Finally, understanding struck her and she fell to her knees. She dropped as low as she could and bowed her head. Her mouth froze, stumbling to find words, as her hands clasped together again in prayer before the gods.

The Spirit of Light chuckled, her laughter like echoing bells. “Is she afraid or is she happy to see us?”

“Neither. Now forget the mortal. We have business,” the Spirit of Shadows answered.

“Very well.”

Cerris watched as Aheazal, draped in his darkness, drifted across the area. His feet, if indeed he had any, made no noise as he moved, stopping at the side of the dead man. Zaheal meanwhile bounded across to the corpse, whipping the wind behind her, stopping between Cerris and the body. The dead man’s hands glowed once more at their presence.

“What a crying shame,” Zaheal shook her head reverently.

“An inevitability,” Aheazal countered.

“This one lived a long time though, and ventured so far from home. Almost halfway across the grand continent, seeking his own truths.”

“Halfway across Deivhara, all to discover and understand the world? I guess I can respect that. But now he dies to a random beast in some forgotten corner of one little forest.”

“Such is fate unforgiving, and now his blessings fade,” Zaheal said yieldingly.

“As with all the rest,” Aheazal spoke as fact.

“Now to choose who will host our marks next. I believe there are a few towns nearby?”

“I suppose. Warriors, adventurers or bards,” Aheazal grumbled.

“What do you suggest instead?”

“Why not just use the mortal which is already presented to us?”

They turned to Cerris, still knelt nearby. Her stomach went cold as their eyes fell on her.

“Strong, a hunter, and a woman?” Zaheal smiled. “This could be amusing.”

“Nearby is the only trait I’m concerned about,” Aheazal sighed.

“Providence by any other name. And it is how we picked the last one. We’ll have to do something different with the next.”

“Agreed.”

As they spoke, the dead man’s hands glowed brighter. With a single movement, both entities cast a hand in Cerris’s direction.

Cerris prayed to the dead to save her, as the gods were already before her. She thought of her parents. Then the gods’ powers filled her vision and everything went dark.

*  *  *

Images swirled. Shrouded in darkness. Glimpsed through the black.

A great red palace. Solid crimson walls. A legion of guards and the sounds of crowds.

The image shifted. A deep dark cavern. Words painted upon the wall. Silence in the stone.

Then a shifting form with claws and teeth. Moving. Changing.

A voice cut through the darkness. Light crept in with it.

The voice was distant but shouting.

Getting closer.

“Cerris?”

*  *  *

Cerris awoke on the forest floor. Sticks dug into her back through her armour. A voice called out. She could barely move. The world was dark.

“Cerris?” the voice called again. She knew it.

“Elena?” she whispered. The ground beneath her rustled as she tried to move.

“Cerris!” Elena called stressfully.

Cerris heard footsteps, running and breaking twigs. Elena was panting for breath.

“By the skies, Cerris, please be alright.”

Cerris opened her eyes. She was looking up through the forest canopy, and Elena was leant over her, eyes wild with fear. The moment they locked eyes, she visibly relaxed. The forest was dark, the moon hanging in the sky above. Cerris winced against her sore limbs and the cold night which bit at her. With an effort she pulled herself up.

“Elena?” Cerris murmured. Her head swam. “What happened?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Elena said unhappily. “First you say you’re going to catch some deer, then you disappear until well past sunset. When I finally find you, you’re lying here, freezing in the night air.”

“I found someone. They were hurt.” Cerris rubbed her sore head and glanced over to where the man had been. Nothing remained of him. Where he had been lying, a great gouge had been taken out of the earth. Cerris stared in dull confusion before searching her surroundings, but there was nothing. No sign of the cats or the people they had become. No sign of the man. Her axe still lay beside her. She picked it up and used it as a crutch to stand, as Elena grabbed her armoured shoulder and supported her. Between the axe, Cerris’s weak legs and Elena, they carefully headed home.

[crescentmoons-and-stardust]

Twisted Tales: The Boy Who Lied (Sequel to The Path in the Woods)

Peter saw things no one else did. A ghost walking a graveyard, fairies drinking milk from cats’ dishes, a poltergeist knocking pans from the shelf. No one believed Peter when he shared what he had seen. First they were concerned but that concern turned to annoyance and melded into anger. He was lying, he just wanted attention, they all reasoned. Soon Peter learned to stop sharing but his reputation as the village liar lived on.

Peter was fascinated by the strange woods that isolated his town. He saw things come in and out of it. He watched as his village sent girl after girl alone into it and wondered what things they’d see in there. He didn’t doubt that there were wolves but there were many other things as well. 

Lizzy had been a close friend of his, he was too young when she had been sent into the woods to realize it was love he felt for her. It had been three years since she had left and never came back. He was a young man of seventeen, and she would have been the same age. He liked to think she was still alive in there but he doubted it. At least he did, until one day, he saw her.

He was closer to the woods than he should have been. Trying to gather firewood that wasn’t damp from the previous night’s rain. He saw a wolf and then he saw a girl. And then he recognized her. “Lizzy?” He was startled. She was surprised to see him. She turned and ran. Peter thought of following but his feet were frozen to the ground. Instead he fled to Lizzy’s home. 

“I saw her! Lizzy I saw her! She’s still in the woods. Alive. We need to get her!”

Lizzy’s mother wept and her father scolded Peter so harshly it brought tears to his eyes. They did not believe her and as he was yelled at, he started to doubt himself as well. Did he actually see her or not? Did he actually see any of the strange things he thought he did?

Days passed. Peter kept his head down and tried not to think of Lizzy or the woods. The town glared at him as word spread that he had broken poor Lizzy’s family’s hearts with his cruel lies. He tried to avoid the woods but he needed mushrooms that only grew on the outskirts. He would not look into the woods he thought as he gathered. He would not. But then something flickered in the woods. A white dress and red cape. This time Lizzy was not surprised to see him but he was still surprised to see her.

“You aren’t real,” He told her.

“I am,” She smiled and it broke his heart. “I’ve missed you Peter,” She said  before turning back to the woods and running away. He swore he could hear her laughing sweetly as she did. This time Peter ran to the village courtroom.

“I saw her! She’s real and she’s alive. Maybe all those missing girls are. We have to save them!”

They flogged him this time. They brought him to the town square, tied his hands above his head to the gallows and flogged him till his back was covered with blood. They threatened to cut his tongue out if he told his lies again.

That night, Peter escaped into the woods. He knew it was forbidden but he know longer cared. His back ached with each step but he kept moving forward. He’d find Lizzy and bring her home, that way they would believe him. She was waiting for him this time.

“Come with me,” Peter said. 

“I cannot Peter. And you should not be here,” She said solemnly. “But you shouldn’t be in that village either Peter. It’s evil. The men know what happens in these woods and at the end of it. They know and they still send us here. We’re tired of it. It ends on the next full moon.”

Wolves had gathered around Lizzy as she spoke. They watched Peter but did not attack. Lizzy leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. “Flee while you can, Peter.” And with that she shed her skin and ran off with her sister wolves.

Peter was frightened. Both by what he saw and what she had said. The village was his home. He had to warn them, they had to believe him.

They didn’t. And with a red hot knife they cut out his tongue. When the full moon came, the wolves descended. They tore at the flesh of every man in town. They fed on the mayor but let the women and children go. Some of the younger girls even turned into wolves themselves. When three of the wolves found Peter sitting in his kitchen they stood on their hind legs and shifted back to girls. One was Lizzy. Another he recognized as Roana. Lizzy cupped his face lovingly. “They hurt you too,” She said. He opened his lips and showed them his tongueless mouth. 

“He can’t tell our secrets anymore,” Roana said. 

“He’s harmless,” The other said. “And he’s not quite human. I can smell it on him.”

“Then he can come with us,” Lizzy smiled and took him by the hand. He followed the wolves deep into the woods and there he stays till this day. A guardian of sorts, a father to Lizzy’s cubs. He keeps the woods secrets and helps raise a new generation. He thinks of his village from time to time and feels anger. Not because they didn’t believe him, but anger that he tried to warn them at all.

[siriannatan]

Beeduo Oneshots - Technoblade and Foolish interjection #1

Technoblade spends a lot of his time napping. Naps were nice. No voices, no governments, no people trying to use him. Steve and all the other bears and wolfs were enough to keep the place safe from monsters. Between his naps, he would catch up on rare news with Philza, gathered more firewood, chucked some snow at Ranboo, remove some snow from the roofs. The longest he was up was when Quackity recruited him to help with the Egg, and as much as he didn't like the guy he didn't like the Egg even more. He just regretted they couldn't save everyone the eggheads lured in with that party.

That day Techno said 'hi' to Phil who seemed a bit distracted, and in a hurry, he said something about having to check something in Manberg. He would have to ask about it later. The plan for that day was to gather some firewood, he bid Philza farewell and went out with his axe, not his combat axe he got from Ranboo... It was weird that he was suddenly moving in with Tubbo, not that it was Techno's business, he was still part of the Syndicate and the last president of Manburg seemed to be very much against governments and formal wear on anyone but Ranboo.

It wasn't all that cold that day, for a cold snowy tundra it is, anyone not used to cold would have a bad time but Techno was used to it.

Foolish wasn't having a good time. After the trip to Tubbo's mansion, he made the genius decision to visit 'Philza', he wasn't looking for Phil, he was looking for Technoblade. Everyone was afraid of him and if Foolish managed to befriend the anarchist maybe they wouldn't mess with him and his building projects... Why was everyone living in snowy tundra's can't they live in a nice warm jungle or even better, a dessert. It was far too cold.

As far as wood gathering trips go this one wasn't so bad. Just half an hour was enough to gather enough wood, no lost monsters under the trees, hiding from the sun. Some wild wolves run away as soon as they saw him approach. On the way back, in the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of the sun reflecting off of something. Turning around he saw a person? Should the sun be reflecting off of people's faces? Walking closer he poked the person with a long stick. No response. It was a person, with golden shining skin, both his piglin side and the voices were screaming in his head, conflicting, agreeing. Gold! GoLd! EEEE Help. help. Foolish... Shark-man, Blood for the blood god. EEEE GOLD help Technoblade just pushed it all to the back of his mind. With a heavy sigh, he dropped the bundle of firewood he carried, took off his cape, wrapped it around the person, threw them over his shoulder and after picking up his wood again began the march towards his a little more distant than he thought buildings, plumes of smoke from chimneys and fluffy warm Steve. He really should get over how tall Ranboo is and stop wearing high heeled shoes. At least the golden person wasn't heavy. Techno soft GOLD EMERALDS SOFT Technosoft Philza PHILZA EEEEEEE At least no one was home to mock him in person as he came back with ab unconscious person.

The last thing Foolish remembered from before he passed out was cold. What he felt now was warm, fluffy and was tickling his nose "Achoo".

"Let's hope the cause was Steve and not cold," he hears an unfamiliar voice. It wasn't hard to see who it was, the room was small and full of furniture, Chests, alchemical stands a table and two chairs. Very shabby craftsmanship, Foolish was close to screaming at how simplistic it was. By that table sat the Blade.

Long pink hair let loose reached way past his waist adorned with a golden crown decorated with gems. Narrow thin shoulders devoid of the red cape he heard about, high heeled knee-high boots. Every part of Foolish screamed that this man was dangerous. Especially the red eyes focused entirely on Foolish, he could feel them moving between his forehead and eyes. Foolish didn't want to look him in the eye, instead, he focused on the emerald earring hanging from his ear.

"Steve?" Foolish asked. He could barely feel his limbs.

"My emotional support bear," The Technoblade said, little pig ears in his hair twitched as his jaw pointer a little to Foolish's right. With barely a move of his head, Foolish noticed what was the fluffy thing keeping him warm. A fully grown polar bear, softly breathing as it slept, "he likes ear scratches, I blame Philza and Ranboo for that. I'm Technoblade, but you probably know that," the host introduced himself as Foolish slowly moved his arm to scratch the bear behind his tiny ears, discovering that Thechnoblade's famous cape was currently wrapped around him, helping him keep warm.

"Foolish G. The God of Immortality, Sky and Oceans," he introduced himself, "I've indeed heard about you, Technoblade."

"And what is a god doing in my little anarchist commune?" The blade asked suddenly getting up and moving out of Foolish's eyesight, the right of his vision was just Steve, who was indeed rather happy with behind ear scratches he was receiving.

"Looking for help?" Foolish had nothing but two of his lives to lose, he could as well say it.

"Is there an anti-god government here now?" Technoblade almost sounded amused.

"Not really, it's just... even though I'm a god I'm not good at fighting, I swore off my violent days and people are kind of taking advantage of that, messing with my hard work, with me..."

"And you thought you'd ask me to kill them for you?" that sounded rather threatening.

"Not kill, just hang out around from time to time to spook them? Like if they think we're friends they might leave me alone?" This conversation was going bad way "I can... build something for you? I'm good at building. You saw Tubbo and Ranboo's mansion? I build it. If you need like... a separate house for Steve? Orafakemarriagetoavoidtaxes?" the last part was said very quickly and not necessarily was meant to say.

"Haeh?" Technoblade looked shocked, for the first time since he woke up Foolish saw him lose confidence. For a split second, he wasn't that threatening.

Once the confusion passed Technoblade laughed, loudly, and for a while. Steve gave his master (?was he ever tamed or did he enjoy the warmth and free food?) a puzzled look.

"That beats everything anyone ever used to get me to help them, I haven't laughed that much in a while. A marriage for taxes? There are no taxes here and I pity anyone who would try to tax me o my friends." That was it Foolish was going to lose his second life while trying to protect himself. "Achoo," suddenly the Blade sneezed. "Sorry, so why now? You've been here for a while."

"Ponk moved into my dessert, build a big red eyesore and put a cursed pumpkin on my head. At first, I was planning to take Sam out for a date but apparently, he isn't safe, at least that's what Tubbo said when I went for advice to him."

Techno laughed a bit more. "Why Tubbo? I never heard of him having any dating experiences."

"He and Ranboo are married aren't they?" Foolish asked still petting Steve. Techno's confused face was enough to answer "You had no idea?! It makes sense why they would... with Tubbo being a former president... I messed up. Please don't tell them I told you, knowing Tubbo he'll want another mansion, I can't do it, I hate chandeliers because of the last one I build him!"

"I won't tell them." Techno seemed to be confused at this reaction "I had my suspicions anyway, they spend too much time together for me to not be suspicious. What is your stand on governments?" the pink-haired warrior asked standing up and again disappearing behind Steve.

"Don't like them," Foolish said with a sigh of relief. "I destroyed a few back in my God of Death days..." he smiled fondly at old memories. No one would dare to put a pumpkin on him back then.

"Why did you stop fighting?" Techno asked giving Foolish a mug of tea. "I'm out of sugar, sorry. I would ask Phil for some but he went out and Ranboo is with his husband. Don't feel like going through their stuff."

"There is a limit to how much bloodshed one can handle, how many friends you can die because of your action, how many towns you can raise to the ground," he muttered looking at the dark liquid, it was warm, warm was nice, "I wonder, what is the Blood God's limit?"

"What is any other man's limit?" Techno said, "I know people call me that, I don't mind, it keeps some away  on its own, but in the end, I'm just a man, I may not age but I can still be killed."

To say Foolish was shocked would be an understatement. He took nearly on everyone Dream brought to his realm, almost alone not counting an army of Dogs and Philza. He fought them amongst a rain of TNT and Wither's. That was beyond anything any mortal was supposed to be able to do. "I think there is a God who very much enjoys your actions," he said sipping the tea, it was bitter but warm. Steve was snoring again.

"You were there at the Red Ball of whatever?" Technoblade asked ignoring what he had said.

"Yes, I...."

"I'm sorry we couldn't stop them earlier," that was surprising. hearing the most feared person apologise...

"It's okay. I'm not a fan of dying but it's okay, everyone else survived and that's all that matters, the Egg cult is scattered to the four winds, some have left it even. In the end, I'd call the day a win."

"I see..."

For a while, they sat in silence, crackling of fire and Steve's snoring being the only noises in the room until Technoblade sneezed again.

"Do you want your cape back?" Foolish asked, "Steve's plenty warm."

Techno just nodded as he was passed the garment. "I take it you don't like cold."

"Not really, I prefer my summer home, it's in the desert, it's warm there."

"I see... do people often miss with your building projects?"

"Not recently, I don't think many people know where I live and I like it that way. Nice builds don't last long in these lands. But I'm glad I'm here. I made some new friends meet some old friends. It's not all bad here."

Techno just nodded, He looked a bit more like a fearsome warrior now that he had his cape on. "So you need help keeping it that way?"

"And maybe keeping people from requesting outlandish stuff, if possible." Now that the main subject was back the atmosphere turned awkward again.

"So I'll just need to hang out around you sometimes, glare at people if they bother you and be an 'I'm sorry I have a plan with Techno' excuse?"

"Yes?" Foolish muttered into his mug.

"Any relations I need to be aware of? Friends, enemies, family members?" Techno asked.

"Puffy is kind of my father, Eret I used to know a long time ago, we once faked a marriage, destroyed some cults together, doesn't seem to remember me, Tubbo... we're kind of cousins and Ranboo is his husband... most other people I'm rather neutral towards, don't like eggheads... Sam creeps me out lately... Tubbo said he cut off Ponk's arm, don't know if it's true. Dream... Dream is in prison so I guess we won't have to worry about him. Dream XD tends to avoid me." Foolish never really thought about his connections to people on the server. "I'd rather we not cause much bodily harm unless necessary."

Technoblade just nodded, voices were rather quiet ever since Mr God of Immortality Sea and Sky woke up, it was like they were coming to him through a lot of water, and they were much less intensive. That was a nice change. "Okay, so I help you and you build my dogs and bears a nicer kennel? I don't mind what Phil build but the herd outgrew it rather quickly. I hope we don't have to be too showy about it." he finally said.

"I hope you're not agreeing because of what happened at the Ball," Foolish looked at him rather seriously, at least as much as someone buried in blankets, leaning on and petting a bear could be.

"I'm doing it so Quackity stops flirting with me, and to gave bragging rights over Dream," Techno said mate factly, "Look at me chat, I have a Husband and the Teletubby is in prison..." Techno forced a joke out "a warning, I owe Dream a favour. That and voices are quieter near you, is it some part of you being a God?"

Foolish blinked, he didn't know many people with voices like Technoblade's. "I don't think so, I can bring down lightning, enrage the sea, cause sandstorms, nothing to do with voices."

"Hmm, it's getting dark." Technoblade noticed, "want to stay here or should I walk you back to your dessert?"

"I can stay here with Steve and start on that new kennel tomorrow," Foolish shrugged, he wasn't ready for another trek through the snow, "We can go to Eret when coming back to do Ranboo and Tubbo and sign wedding papers."

"Okay, I'll try to figure out somewhere to sleep for you," Techno said with a bit of a laugh at the last part, "and you better tell me about those governments and cults and cities you wrecked."

[castlevania-afterdark-imagines]

Can I please request? For Drac, Alu, Trevy, Hector and Issac please? Their s/o is slightly clingy but they don't know how to approach them with, then suddenly one day a rainy day triggers some bad, depressive thoughts and so their s/o tries to find them and cling on to them for comfort but hesitates because they dont want to disturb them.

Writing this one up because lord knows everybody could use this right now with all the shit going on in the world.  Making this a liiiiittle more broad into how these guys would react to their S/O’s depressive episodes rather than the specific rain trigger, just so it can be more broadly applicable. 

Dracula:

He’s seen some shit, he knows as well as anyone how overwhelming the world can be.

Doting hubby to the T, he hates seeing the light of his life upset about anything at all.

Lots of touching, from full body embraces to carefully threading his fingers through their hair. The usual number of kisses to the forehead and temples increases tenfold.

Probably the best at talking things out of the characters, his low voice gentle and soothing, and he has the experience to draw from when it comes to working things out. 

He makes it a point to never get judgemental over what his s/o is feeling right then, no matter how small it might be in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes it’s the small things that cause the most suffering.

Basically can make a blanket fort out of that cape so he will not complain if you ask to hide away with him under it.

Alucard:

Tbh the guy probably has enough experience with his own melancholic moods to know how to handle these pretty well.

Though the best thing he can offer is the one thing he didn’t have the luxury of, the presence of another being. Just making himself available for whatever they need.

He can fill the conversational void with hours of talking if they need the distraction, he’s more than happy to lay in bed with them and pet their hair if they need touch.

The hardest one is if they say they need a little alone time, because then he can’t keep an eye on them, but he will oblige as best as he can. 

Probably still going to pop into their room once or twice to bring offerings of water and some small snacks.

Always torn about asking them to talk about it. He’s narrated his woes out loud to himself thousands of times but he was never sure if it helped or just kept the negative thoughts hanging in the air.

Of course he will talk to them about it if they want to, he just won’t let them fall down the circular loop of self degradation over it.

Trevor:

King of “I’m shit at words so let me just hold you for a while and shut up so you can talk.”

Honest to god thinks he’s utter shit at dealing with the episodes, but probably better than expected?

He can sense when one is starting like a critter knows to run before an earthquake. But he never runs away.

If they weren’t already clinging to him he’s practically glued to their hip, itching and ready to take care of any menial thing that pops up. 

Hungry? Got you covered. Need something to drink? Yup. Fireplace running low? Give him five minutes and he’ll be back in with fresh firewood to keep you guys warm all night.

He won’t be inclined to let them just hide in bed all day, he will join in for some extended morning snuggles but will encourage them to get up, get the most basic level of dressed, and potentially just sit outside for a bit. 

Subscribes to the train of thought that sometimes to stop being stuck in your head you have to actually move.

Hector:

Gentle boi. Might be kinda oblivious at first to the shift, he can sense ‘something’ is up but doesn’t really pin it as depression.

Clinging to his arm, maybe they’re just extra affectionate today? Sure, this is fine- wait those are tears about the bubble over, hold up-

Cuddles up with you and Cesar, carefully trying to ask if you want to talk about it or just sit with him for a while.

Provider of creature comforts, he’d offer to run into town to get anything you’d need or gather it from the garden. 

Anything that would have been s/o’s household chores are done faster than they can try to tell him they’ll do it later.

He can’t directly change their mood, but he can maintain a safe environment.

Isaac:

The one who probably treats them the most normal out of the rest.

It’s not that he doesn’t notice or care about the shift in their mood, but he’s never been the type to bow to those kinds of thoughts. In his mind, it’s like letting them win.

If they need more touch, it’s just like any other day they need more touch in his books. Or if they need more rest they simply need more rest, he can address the needs for what they are without coddling the depression itself.

Of course he’s going to make sure they eat and drink, bringing a meal to their bed is not something out of the blue either.

Better at listening than he is talking during these times. He’s aware his advice can be harsh, so it’s best to save it for a better time than at his s/o’s weakest moments.

Regardless of how he tries to not act differently towards them, he is going to be 110 levels more aggressive to anybody else in your path.

If somebody so much as half remarks that his s/o isn’t putting in their usual share of work for the day they’re going to be nursing a split lip later in the day.

-Mod Soviet

[jackidy]

To Star Lake: Chapter 3

Rating: T Pairings: Todoroki Shouto/Sero Hanta Characters: Various Universe: Howls Moving Castle Au

Summary: A day of impossibilities starts with a mystery man, with mismatched eyes and cold hands, rescuing him in a dark alleyway as he attempted to go about his business and the pet name sweetheart being said a little too tenderly. It ends with another stranger cursing him in his own store after telling them to leave.

Things like this don’t happen to people like Sero Hanta.

AO3 Previous Chapter Next Chapter

----

“Stop fucking hovering, Deku.”

“He spent most of the night on that stool, Kacchan! What if he’s too sore to move?”

There’s the sound of something being set down, the crackling of firewood sounding endearingly angry as Sero is reluctantly pulled from sleep. Who or, rather, what was a Deku? His track record of meeting new people recently having been reduced to sentient inanimate objects, mentally running through a list of possibilities only to open his eyes and find not an object but a very, very human face.

Sero isn’t sure why he’s so disappointed by that fact.

It’s no surprise he’s as sore as he was the previous morning, if not more so, knowing he should be more concerned about the deafening crack his back makes as he sits up than he is, the concentrated pain in his spine seeming to bleed out into a more bearable ache that bloomed over his shoulder blades and rib cage. The kid, Deku if Bakugou was to be believed, was there in an instant hovering with his arms open, having absolutely no idea where to place them.

“I’m good.” Sero croaks, dismissing the kid with a wave of his hand, legs mid swing off the bed when someone knocks on the door, watching with humoured curiosity as the green haired boy runs down the stairs, back up them again, draping a cloak over his shoulders and changing his appearance with a pull up of his hood as Bakugou barks out what door it was.

How can it lead to Port Haven when Sero had come in through the wastes?

“Is the great wizard Frostfire present?”

His confusion of the name speaks volumes of how little information on magic had made it to the countryside, Sero pushing himself off of the bed with another grunt, smiling to himself when he notices his walking stick leaning against the arm rest of the sofa he’d previously been sleeping on. How had he gotten onto the sofa anyway? Surely that teenager at best hadn’t carried him over?

“He’s out at the moment, sir, but I’ll be sure to pass on any message.”

The glare of the morning sun makes him wince, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his free hand, blinking rapidly in the aftermath. He’d never seen the ocean before, never really left the small town he’d grown up in, living vicariously through Mina when she would talk so enthusiastically about everywhere she had visited to gather inspiration for the hat shop. He wonders, fondly, how mad they were going to be when he eventually came home and he revealed he’d finally left town, not because of them but because he had a run in with two wizards.

“It has been requested by his Majesty that all witches and wizards are to report to the capitol city at once for service in the war to come.”

How much of this would they believe though? The only reason he was due to the fact he was living it for how often did stories of curses, magic fires and scarecrows, and moving castles turn out to be true?  Not often enough to be true. How many stories of Shouto’s supposed victims had been proven false now? Too many for the concept of him as a heart eater to really have any credibility but not enough to dismiss them entirely.

“Oh, he’s not going to be happy about this.” The kid mutters walking up the steps, carry a scroll he deposits on the table, the form of an old man melting back into him as he pulled the hood down and cloak off. He jumps upon noticing Sero staring at him, Bakugou laughing at the teens expense in a way that was more cackle than anything else. “I forgot to ask! What’s your name? I’m Midoriya Izuku, also how did you get in here? Are you a wizard too? Are you one of Master Shouto’s friends?”

“I’m Sero Ha-”

“KINGSBURY DOOR!” Bakugou yells, cutting off Sero and pushing Midoriya back into a slight panic, yellow cape back on and the old man he had been moments before came back into view. Weren’t they in Port Haven? How were they getting knocks in Kingsbury? Sero leaning over the railing as teenager took a breath and turned the small dial above the handle, the sound of seagulls and the near by port being drowned by the clamour of a busy city, the rumble of cars and the sound of people going about their day.

“Hello, is this the residence of the wizard Iceflame?”

First Frostfire and now Iceflame, how many aliases did Shouto have anyway and why would he even need them? Perhaps he should stop going down that train of thought now, nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand, he has his own issues to deal with without getting caught up in the dramatics of wizards anymore than he already has done. Conversation with the men at the door over, Midoriya closes the door, resting his head against it before changing the small dial again, the vibrance of the city melting away into the dull pallor of the wastes and the gentle sound of rain fall.

“Sero, I walked in, no and no.” He offers in hopes of melting away at least some of the stress off of the other’s face, only for it to be replaced with confusion, the teenager still wearing that face as he walked up the stairs and deposited yet another scroll next to the one he’d been handed not even five minutes ago. Even Bakugou looks on the sceptical side of confusion, making it perfectly clear he didn’t believe a word Sero had just said.

“That doesn’t make sense, most people can’t just walk in here, especially those who aren’t friends with Shouto.” Midoriya stated firmly, a determined look on his face, Sero half concerned he was going to challenge him to a fight despite any assertion Sero may give that he was right and that he did not know who Shouto was, just the rumours that followed him everywhere.

“I’ve never met the guy.” Sero states flatly, earning another strange reaction from Midoriya, this time one of confused surprise, and an oddly smug look from Bakugou. Was he missing something here that he should know, the old man sighing before moving to inspect the cluttered counters around them, frowning at the sight of potions mixed with food, parchments filled with recipes draped over crockery that were perhaps beyond the point of saving.

How anyone lived like this was beyond him, knowing full well he wasn’t the tidiest but he’d never let his messes get to this point, wondering vaguely which side of the line between too busy to clean and too lazy to try the occupants of this house fell under. It’s why its so surprising when Sero finally manages to find food, still fresh and edible, hidden partially beneath a cloche, eyeing the bacon and eggs hungrily before looking up and checking for other ingredients.

Carbs. He was missing carbs, bread being the best suited for what he had in mind but he would take any at this point in order add some bulk to the meal. Vegetables he’d given up on looking for, the only splash of greenery coming from the patches of mould attached to what was once food residue. How was Midoriya an image of health in conditions like this, he was feeling ill just thinking about what layer in the deeper layers of mess.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.” He replies like it’s obvious, gently extracting the basket of meat and eggs from the side, wincing at the clatter of plates as they fell into the gap left behind, hooking it into his elbow and grinning as he finally spotted a loaf of bread on the table, still fresh and, with any luck, not entirely stale. “Do we have anything to make tea with?”

“Yes, we have a teapot but Kacchan doesn’t listen to anyone bar Shouto and even then, its reluctantly!” the panic in his voice is palpable, Sero only acknowledging his statement with a click of his tongue, setting the food down on a stool by the fire demon, turning his attention instead to the collection of pans hung against the wall. The second from the left is his best option, Sero thinks, big enough for two portions, maybe even three at a push, eyeing the irritated fire and wondering if it even ate.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll listen.” Sero grins, perking up the way he always did when he was about to get Kaminari in trouble with Mina or vice versa, turning he cast iron frying pan in his hand. It’s a comfortable weight, pleasantly surprised that even with the aches and pains ridiculing his body he was able to hold it this easily, moving back over to the hearth, smile widening with every step as Bakugou started to look more and more like a pissed off cat. “Won’t you Bakugou?”

“Fuck off.” The crackle of fire wood and the floating specs of flame is more comforting than intimidating, Sero feeling more like he was in the presence of a friend than personified fire. “I aint doing shit for you.”

“I guess I’m telling Shouto of our deal then.” Sero smirks, voice dropping to a low whisper so Midoriya could not hear them, taking small joy from the way the fire seemed to still, looking away from the fire to the pan as he turned it in his hands again. He had become more daring with age, it seemed, knowing full well he’d have at least given it a second thought before speaking so brazenly with Bakugou. “Do I look like a man with much left to get fucked up by a wizard?”

The sound of steam, a billow of smoke, fire tempering down to a blue concentrated flame as Sero brings the pan down, flames kissing blackened iron and his hand hovering over metal to check how the pan was heating up. “Then have this curse from me, may all your food burn, bastard.” It doesn’t sting, no anger behind the words masquerading as a curse, Sero noting that the other seemed almost impressed again, electing to not comment on it.

There’s an awed whisper somewhere behind him of ‘Kacchan is doing what he says’, Sero shaking his hand as he moved it from the frying pan, finally hot enough, to the slices of bacon thick enough to be belly pork. Two or three? Two or three? He settles on three, unsure of if it was an apology slice to Bakugou or an extra one for Midoriya, a level of concern in him over the way the teenager stood shorter than him despite Sero having shrunk with age. Maybe this is why his friends referred to him as their dad jokingly.

Sero barely notices the creak of an opening door, the tap of footsteps on stairs, Sero too focused on the sizzling fat and inward lamentation at the lack of seasoning to give the new distraction his attention. “Master Shouto! You’re back early, you received summons from the palace as both aliases, what do we...” The teenager trails off before brightening again, Sero freezing as something cold radiates beside him.

Before a burning fire demon and yet it felt like all the warm had been sucked away, a shiver running down his spine as he looked up at the source of the drop in temperature and he feels himself freeze further.

Apparently, he had met Shouto after all.

It was the man from the alley way, the man who swept him off his feet and into the air, had let him float onto a balcony, kissed his knuckles and called him his. He’d not only met Shouto, he’d also been haunted by the man for the past thirty six hours, the curiosity over what it had all meant dying on his tongue as he remembered his bitterness from yesterday. It was Shouto’s fault he was in this predicament, Sero having only made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Obedience isn’t like you.” A quiet quip, a light laugh in his voice as the sound of a gas stove seems to increasing in volume, Sero throwing himself further into cooking so he didn’t become lost in that voice all over again. Flip the bacon? Check. Add the eggs? Check. Empty shells lay on the edge of the hearth, the sizzle of opaquing whites an all too welcome distraction as the wizard spoke again, this time addressing Sero. “And you are?”

“Oh! That’s Sero.” Midoriya chirps in, Sero thankful for the teenager’s interruption, still not entirely sure of what he wanted to say to the wizard. ‘Thank you for saving me, by the way, I appreciate that the price of not being mugged was being a pensioner’ was too angry, too antagonistic for this time in the morning, smiling at the memory of his grandmother telling him that aggression should not be spoken before breakfast, least they sour the food.

“Here let me-”

“No.” His voice is firm, the silence in the kitchen stifling, as Sero looks up at the wizard, look as set as his tone, tightening his grip on the panhandle, challenging the other to try and take it from him. “I don’t trust people who let their kitchen be this messy to cook for me.” Maybe his new found age had made him too bold, watching shock overtake Shouto’s face before he’s laughing behind his hand again.

“Okay, that’s fair.” He leaves Sero’s side then, scooping up the eggshells and moving them closer to Bakugou, turning on his heel to busy himself with something behind the old man. A clatter of ceramic, the whistle of a boiling kettle and the awed curiosity from Midoriya that spilled from his lips like a waterfall, Shouto answering every single one with patience.

Maybe the rumours were incorrect after all, Sero surmises, turning to the table, pan in hand, to find a corner haphazardly cleared, for how many Casanovas spent their time answering a multitude of questions on the properties of rosehip tea from a teenager that was made of curiosity and wonder. He’s barely taken three steps when Shouto is by his side again, strangely reminiscent of the alleyway only this time the cold hand is on his shoulder, not his waist, the warm hand brushing over his own holding the pan before gripping it just above the towel.

Why wasn’t that burning his hand? “Here, let me.”  It’s difficult to not listen to what that voice, kitchen towel falling to the floor with a dull thump, hand slipping from his shoulder to the middle of his back to give an encouraging push forward. Midoriya is in the middle of pouring tea when he takes his seat, eyebrows raising in mild disbelief at the small bowl he is given in place of a cup, noting that the makeshift cups for both Shouto and Deku seem to be in a similar state of not being remotely cup or mug shaped.

Plate of food slide towards him, Sero nearly drops his head into his hands as Midoriya offers him a selection of two spoons and a fork, commenting a little awkwardly that he could only have one as ‘the rest are dirty’, Sero taking the fork, making sure to wipe it on his shirt before trusting it enough near his food. He’d been through the wastes and slept in this shirt yet he still trusted it more than this kitchen area.

“So, is there a reason why you’re in my kitchen, Sero?” His voice isn’t accusatory, just a gentle curiosity that takes Sero by surprise and renders him off guard. Shouldn’t he be more annoyed by this? Was a random man that much of a common occurrence in his home that he found no need to question it or was it something else? He daren’t entertain the idea that Shouto not only knew he was cursed but could see him as he actually was.

“I’m your new house keeper, Bakugou hired me.” There’s a choked noise from the hearth, Sero once again questioning where this boldness came from, focusing on looking at the cooling eggs as opposed to giving Shouto any form of visual acknowledgement. He’s going to end up in more trouble, the wave of confidence that came in the form of believing things couldn’t get worse seeming to have dried out already.

Things could get worse. There was still so much he could lose.

“It would be nice to have a more organised kitchen.” It’s Midoriya that speaks now, contemplative, Sero biting back a laugh at the offended noise from Shouto, feeling more at ease. He’s not sure what it is, something about the green haired boy is putting him at ease, the tension that was slowly building in his shoulders slipping away just as easily as it came. “Would probably stop customers commenting on everything.”

The younger pair slip into easy conversation, mostly one sided as Midoriya talked of practicalities within their art of magic, Shouto only offering the odd word here and there in either agreement of dismissal, Sero tuning out the conversation easily enough. Where would he even begin with a place like this? Eyes flicking from the pile of books and parchment before him, to the dire state of the sideboards, looking past Shouto to look at the hearth, grimacing. He hasn’t known Bakugou long but he already knows cleaning the mountains of ash and charcoal from the hearth was going to be an endeavour in and of itself. Maybe he should save that for last.

“Sero?” He jumps at his name, looking back to the magical pair and finding them both looking at him, Sero blinking owlishly under the mix of concerned and humoured looks. Why did Shouto look like that? What had he missed? “I asked you what was in your pocket.”

His pocket?

Wrinkled hands pat trouser pockets, bemusement clear as day when something crinkles under his touch, slipping his hand into his pocket to find a note. How long had that been there? These had been fresh out of the drawer when he’d put them on, his only handling of paper when he left the note for Mina and Uraraka, eyeing the purple note warily before placing it in Shouto’s extended, expectant hand.

Paper touches skin. Paper explodes into blue flame and ash, hands recoiling at the flash of heat as intricate details scorch themselves into the table, Sero quickly checking his hand for any burns before looking to Shouto, no longer weird in his welcome but aggravated, a tension building in his shoulders, something about the expression seeming weirdly familiar but Sero couldn’t place why.

The silence stretches as a pale hand presses against the table, the smell of acrid, burnt flesh filling the air as blue fire sparked to life around Shouto’s hand. Sighing deeply, Shout stands, the mark on the table gone and the hand that had been on the table now cradled to his chest, the remainder of his tea downed, his half eaten plate of food dumped into Bakugou’s flames.

“Move the castle seventy miles north, I’ll be needing hot water too.”

It’s Midoriya who first breaks the silence at the table, Bakugou cursing up a storm towards Shouto in the background as he turned to Sero, a set look on his face that the teenager was failing to not show as threatening. “Are you working for Dabi?” His voice is low, Sero growing more confusion at the sudden tension. He hadn’t known who Shouto was until about ten minutes ago, how was he supposed to know who this Dabi was?

“Kid I have no idea who Da-”

“Pass that on to little Shouto, would you.”

Something snaps in him then. A white boiling rage that was so out of character for him that it threatened to suffocate him. Dabi. Dabi was the man following Shouto. Dabi was the bastard who had done this to him. Slamming his hand on the table, he barely feels the pain from the impact, Midoriya jumping back from him and even Bakugou stops his tirade against Shouto.

“I do not work for Dabi.” He spat his name out like it was poison. “He’s the reason I-”

His lips seal, a pain developing in his vocal cords as he tried to speak of the curse, tried to tell the increasingly panicked looking teenager about how he wasn’t in his seventies but twenty four, how he’d been cursed for just being seen with his master. Sero’s attempts to speak of his predicament end with an angry sob, coughs wracking his sore throat, a warm hand rubbing his back as another cup of tea was slid towards him, the comfort Midoriya offered welcome but doing little to ease his mood.

“I don’t work for Dabi.” He repeated softly, the floral tea providing another performative sense of comfort, warming his old bones and easing the physical aches and pains that plagued him.

“I know, I’m sorry I asked.”

[kaekiro]

Amends

Pairing: Eren/Mikasa II Rating: T II Words: 2,465 II [AO3] Warnings: A bit of swearing, mentions of injuries/blood/death A/N: Prompt: Immediately after one of the many expeditions to clear titans from Wall Maria, Eren tends to Mikasa's wounds. I want to dedicate this one specifically to Ayna ( @aynashi) and Karsyn ( @spoilerarlert)!! Both of you really motivated me to write this fic :') ♥️ thank you for all you do, and I hope you two like this!!   

Of all the things that come with being a Scout, he’s sure that this is the worst. No matter how many times he’s done this, he knows he’ll never get used to it. There’s a sense of guilt as he helps cover the lifeless faces of his comrades with white sheets, and the cries of those who knew the deceased only make the task harder than it needs to be. He doesn’t say anything though. He knows all too well the grief of losing friends in such a cruel way. So he always makes sure to lift them onto the cart with great care, trying his best to keep his thoughts minimal lest they consume him.

“Are you alright?”

He looks up at Mikasa as they set down another body swathed in a blood-soaked sheet, wiping at his nose with the back of his wrist before nodding. 

“Yeah… I’m alright.” 

She watches him for another moment and he gives her his ‘I’m telling the truth’ look, holding her gaze until she breaks it away. They silently continue their work, preparing to lift another body with a makeshift stretcher. 

“Ready?” 

“Mm.” 

They begin to lift at the same time, and just as he mentally sighs over the fact that they are only a little over halfway done, Mikasa suddenly gasps and lets go of her end before she can fully pick up the person. This shocks him out of his state of mind, and he worries at the way her face is contorted with pain. 

“Mikasa?! What’s wrong? What happened?” She puts her hands up before he gets close to her, waving her hand dismissively. Within seconds her face becomes neutral again, as if nothing happened just now. 

“It’s nothing. It was just… a large bug. It crawled really fast and surprised me…” 

‘The hell…?’ Before he can comment on how weird it is for her to get scared of a bug when she takes down man-eating beasts without batting an eye, it suddenly dawns on him that she’s lying. He sighs out loud this time, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“You’re such a terrible liar. Let me see your arm.” Her eyes widen a fraction, cracking her calm composure and before she tries to play it off, he speaks up again. “I saw the way you were holding it. You’re clearly hurt.” Mikasa knows she’s caught because this time, her eyes downcast guiltily. She concedes, and after he finds others to temporarily cover their job for them, she allows him to take her where other Scouts are being tended. They walk up to the nearest “medic” (in essence someone who gives temporary treatment before a real doctor can take over), and they are almost immediately turned away. 

He grits his teeth. “What do you mean you can’t give her treatment? Isn’t that your job?” 

The man doesn’t look up at them, hastily patching up another soldier’s injury. “There’s only three of us and we’re overwhelmed with how many people need medical attention. I’m sorry, but I have to prioritize injuries more critical than an arm ache.” 

He steps forward, feeling more agitated than he has the right to be but he didn’t even look at her goddamn arm, and he’s already downplaying what could be a serious injury- 

“Eren” she pleads, tugging at his sleeve and moving them aside. “It's okay, I’ll take care of this when we get back. Let’s just focus on our job.” 

He looks at her, feeling his anger wither at her expression. ‘How does she do that?’ he wonders passively, glancing aside with a smidge of guilt. She’s literally the only one who can quickly bring him back down to a (relatively) calm state, and she doesn’t even have to say anything. 

“Let’s go,” she grabs his hand with her good arm, encouraging him to follow her but he resists her pull. “Eren?” 

He gently detaches her hand from his, looking down at her injury. “It’s fine if they can’t see you. I’ll just treat it myself.” 

“...Huh?” 

He looks over her shoulder and spots a crate a small distance behind her, near additional supplies. “There,” he points, “wait there for me there, I’m going to grab what I need.” Without waiting for a response, he turns away and takes full advantage of how busy the medics are, managing to snag some spare materials. He approaches her from the side, settling into a kneel directly in front of her to place the items on the ground. 

“I can make room for you,” she suggests, getting ready to move over on the crate but he shakes his head. “There isn’t enough space, I’m okay like this.” Once again, she’s giving him that look and he insists on the decision with one of his own. She undoes the fastening on her cape and he stands to help carefully remove the sleeve of her jacket from her bad arm. Returning to a kneel, he takes her wrist in his hands and undoes the buttons at the cuff of her sleeve, being slow and mindful as he rolls up the loosened fabric until it’s bunched at her bicep. He feels dismayed at the bruises that surround the slightly swollen joint of her elbow, and then angry again at that medic because this definitely isn’t a simple arm ache. He shoots a glare at that man’s back until her voice draws his attention back. 

“It looks worse than it is.” 

He closes his eyes and sighs, suppressing his emotions so he can focus. “You don’t know that for sure. It could be more serious than you think.” He begins to put his basic “medical training” (which he’s sure is only a step up from knowing how to apply a bandaid) to practice, using a roll of bandages to wrap the entirety of the joint. He instructs her to bend her arm so he can wrap the binding appropriately, knowing that it’s going to have to be bent anyway for the sling. He apologizes every time Mikasa becomes tense or flinches, and in return, she reassures him that she’s okay. 

“You know,” he quietly starts, trying to tear the strip of cloth evenly, “there’s no need to lie about these things. I know you’re strong… but even you need to learn when to stop pushing yourself so hard. You tell me that all the time, don’t you?” In his periphery, he only sees her nod. After setting aside the roll, he finishes securing the bindings in place, keeping his hand and eyes on the taut cotton for a moment. 

“How did this even happen?” he asks, looking up at her. 

Mikasa shifts her eyes in the direction of the town her squad returned from, but she is void of emotion as she tells him the story. “There was an abnormal… and one of the newer recruits got too confident. I made it there just in time to save them, but when I grappled onto a nearby house, I didn’t realize that I was attached to a weak point. It crumbled and I had a rough landing.”

“...Oh.” 

She looks down to where his hand still rests on her arm and he suddenly remembers himself, moving it away to grab a wider strip of cloth for a sling. Both of them silently work together to comfortably set her arm within the make-shift sling, and though he tries to put all his focus on this, he finds himself stuck on what happened to her, bothered by the things that could’ve happened. What if there had been a horde of titans when she fell? If she was with those new recruits, who would have come to save her life? Without his mind’s true consent, he imagines her face amongst the corpses they were carrying and it makes his stomach pit. The image crosses his mind the moment he brings the two ends of the sling together and ties the first knot, her quiet noise of pain signaling that he pulled it too tight. He curses and quickly undoes the tie as he apologizes, horrified by the direction of his thoughts. Desperate to forget, he forces himself to concentrate on the task at hand, thinking about each of his movements and the necessary steps that follow. Mikasa reaches behind to pull away the hair behind her neck, ensuring that the strands don’t get caught in the double knot he’s making. She let’s go when he tells her he’s finished, her dark hair covering the tie as it falls back into place.

“Is that okay?” 

She turns to face him, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “Yes. Thank you, Eren, I’ll repay you as soon as I can.”

He rubs the back of his neck, unable to hold her gaze. “It was nothing… don’t worry about it.” 

“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice calls. They both turn their heads to find an older soldier standing there, pointing at the crate she’s sitting on. “I need to open that.” 

They promptly remove themselves from the area, and within minutes of walking back, Hanji signals for everyone to begin preparing their return to Wall Rose. Neither of them say much as they walk towards the wagons, but this isn’t out of the ordinary. Things were always this way when they walked back home from collecting firewood, or when they headed back to their respective barracks as soldiers. Though… it’s been a long time since it’s been just him and Mikasa outside of their day-to-day responsibilities. When was the last time they spent time together for the sake of spending time? 

A man startles everyone nearby when he begins yelling, grabbing one of the men who replaced him and Mikasa by the collar and shaking him. He cries, accusing the man of lying about someone losing their life. The confrontation nearly takes a violent turn but two more people manage to tear him away. Unable to hold himself up, he crumbles entirely to the ground, sobbing a feminine name that doesn’t sound familiar. When she moves closer to his side, he glances over at Mikasa, who watches the scene unfold with pitying eyes. The thought that unwillingly occurred to him earlier returns, but now all he sees is himself in the stead of that broken soldier. 

“…Mikasa?” he calls when things quiet down, looking off to the side.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to go with me tomorrow to the marketplace?” She looks up at him with an odd expression, and he begins to feel awkward. He didn’t think it was a strange thing to ask. “It doesn’t matter which one,” he starts to explain, “I just… the other day I was thinking about home, and I’ve been wanting to have some of my mom’s soup. You know… the one she showed you how to make…?” At that moment, he wants to do nothing more than facepalm. It sounds like he’s using his mom’s cooking as an excuse, why couldn’t he just be straightforward about simply spending time together? Was it because of the weird way she looked at him? 

Before he can further chastise himself, Mikasa stops walking and looks down at her arm regrettably. “But… I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it.”

He stares at her for a moment, then holds back a snort as he pokes at her forehead. “I’m not asking if you can make it! I can do these things on my own just fine. I only need help with finding all the ingredients… and…” he refuses to look at her, realizing he’s contradicting himself. “I need some instruction on how to prepare it.” 

She gives a small smile at the admission. “I thought you just said you could do those things on your own though?” 

She’s clearly teasing him, and this causes a little lighthearted bickering to ensue. He’s grown out of arguing over petty things but somehow, it still amuses him to get such a rare reaction from her. They go back and forth for a bit before he finally clicks his tongue, letting her win this one time since he can’t think of any more remarks. It falls quiet between them again for a few moments, until he remembers that she didn’t answer his question. 

“So…? Are you going with me or not?” he grumbles. 

Mikasa smiles again but this time there’s an unadulterated fondness in her eyes, and he can physically feel himself relent at the sight. Just as she opens her mouth to respond, Mikasa is nearly tackled by Sasha’s embrace from behind.  

“Mikasa! Why do you have that thing around your neck?! You’re hurt? Seriously? What happened?!” 

She fires off question after question as Mikasa tells her story again, and her nearly overdramatic reaction draws the attention of their other friends. They all circle Mikasa worriedly, and the conversation branches off into close calls they experienced during the expedition today. 

“Eren?” Armin asks while Connie and Sasha reenact their story, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” 

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine, why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing, you just looked... annoyed.”

“Please, Armin,” Jean says, crossing his arms, “he always looks like that.” 

 “Oh! I interrupted your conversation with Mikasa, didn’t I? I’m sorry! What were you two talking about?” 

Everyone’s eyes are on him and he feels a twinge of irritation, wondering why they are so nosy all of a sudden. What’s wrong with me, he thinks as he flounders for words, they’re just asking a simple question, it’s not a big deal. 

“Eren and I were just making plans to go to the marketplace tomorrow,” Mikasa answers for him, “there’s no need to apologize Sasha.” 

“The marketplace?” Sasha enthusiastically repeats, grabbing Mikasa’s free hand. “We should all go! Let’s head for Trost, Jean can show us some hidden shops since he grew up there!”

“Who said I even wanted to go?”

“It’s not like you have anything better to do,” Sasha shrugs, turning away at Hanji’s final call for everyone to prepare to head out. Connie laughs and Jean is hot on her tail, arguing that he indeed has a life outside of their friend group and the military. Armin, like the mediator he is, reasons with Sasha but also encourages Jean to join them, insisting that it will be a good time. 

“Eren?” Mikasa looks over her shoulder, calling when she sees him trailing a little behind the group. He walks faster to catch up for her sake, but he can’t help his frown. It was just supposed to be him and Mikasa… but now everyone is coming with. He shakes his head, chiding himself once again. So what if everyone comes along, it doesn’t make a difference either way, right?

[capetownfirewood]

Valentines Day Poem by Cape Town Firewood

Roses may wilt, but love stays true, And when it's cold, our firewood too.

With each crackling log, we warm the heart, A symbol of love, that won't depart.

So come with me, let's light the fire, As we bask in love's warm desire.

Together we'll watch the flames dance high, A reflection of the love in our eyes.

For on this day, and every day, With firewood, we'll light the way.

To a future bright, and love that's strong, Our hearts beating in unison, all night long.

So here's to us, and our love so bright, A warm fire burning, all through the night.

Stock up at www.capetownfirewood.co.za

[builders365]

Kikuyu roll on the lawn in Cape Town

From: Find Kikuyu roll on the lawn in Cape Town, South Africa. We Are Suppliers of Various Bricks, Paving and Cobbles, Sands, Grey Stone, Construction Materials, and More. Kikuyu roll on the lawn in Cape Town is the most popular lawn for home and garden lawn solutions. Kikuyu is an evergreen lawn and offers an all-year-round green well-presented lawn.

[neworegoncoastcamping-blog]

Oregon Coast Camping: Free Or Nearly Free Spots

Just north of Bandon, Oregon, Bullards Beach State Park provides up RV camping by the ocean with scenic views of the historic Coquille River Lighthouse. Nestled among shore pines, guests can explore the Coquille River Lighthouse, the mouth of the river, and the shoreline. The lighthouse itself is open to visitors daily for guests to study about the building and the area.

A small campground located just north of Tillcum Beach Campground, this area has 42 tent sites and two yurts with loads of ocean views close by. A beautiful state park situated simply south of Oregon Coast Camping area with 23 tent websites, two rustic yurts, two rustic log cabins, and 6 deluxe yurts. This campground is generally a well-kept secret with Umpqua River Lighthouse, which has an adjoining museum and is managed by the Douglas County Parks Department, nearby. Located two miles north of Bandon-by-the-sea, this state park has lots to see and do with nearby Coquille River Lighthouse and Bandon Marsh National Wildlife Refuge. The park has 13 yurts and no tent websites, unfortunately, however does sport a horse camp with eight primitive websites. The close by city of Bandon, the "Cranberry Capitol of the World," has shops, galleries, and eating places available.

We had a nice time and this activity was particularly enjoyed by our teenage daughter. My first thought is that no matter how a lot time you determine to spend on the Oregon coast, it won't be sufficient. The seashores are all beautiful and the residents are friendly and welcoming.

On the southern half, when such amenities are unavailable, replenish with freshwater from streams and rivers. Study the tide tables so you understand what to expect on long stretches of seashore. Officially, the Oregon Coast Trail is 382 miles lengthy, but the precise distance varies depending on the way you select to hike it.

Further south from right here, much more tenting with breathtaking views could be found, making this a fantastic first night’s stop on a trip down the Oregon Coast. Cape Lookout provides easy accessibility to the seaside and a perfect view of the ocean. If you love to hike, you will find eight miles of mountaineering and walking trails via a lush old-growth forest. The campground also offers 13 yurts, six deluxe cabins, 2 group tent tenting sites, sizzling showers and bogs, and one electrical website with water. Our final pick for the Oregon Coast is the Umpqua Lighthouse State Park, situated in the Central Oregon Coast. This is a smaller campground, featuring solely 17 websites with hookups; eight are full hookups and 9 are electrical and water only. [newline]It’s nonetheless got plenty of features that make it a fantastic possibility for that winter camping journey you’ve been dreaming of.

South Jetty Rv & Tenting Resort

The nostalgic 1920’s-era Promenade is perfect for strolling or biking along the beach and the seaside itself is extensive and clean and ideal for taking part in or relaxing. Harris Beach State Park has everything you’ll need, apart from laundry. Amenities include clear shower and flush bogs, firewood on the market, onsite camp host, playground, dump station. And of course, the best amenity of all, the location right on the coast!

Ask An Rv Pro: 10 Tenting Tips That May Remodel Your Travels 311534

Instead, we ventured on to Cape Perpetua Scenic Area and spent at least an hour making an attempt to seize the perfect shot of the Spouting Horn and Thor’s Well. Tillamook is house to the long-lasting Tillamook Cheese Factory where you'll find a way to watch the production of a few of the one hundred seventy,000 kilos of cheese that they produce day by day. It’s additionally blessed with five rivers, five bays and of course the Pacific Ocean so it’s an excellent spot for water activities. About six miles north of Port Orford on the South Oregon Coast. Large, first-come, first-served campsites tucked into the trees; cabins, group and horse camps additionally out there by reservation.

Nestled close to a river, with straightforward accessibility to the path of the autumn. The coastal campground lies a pair miles south of the place the Alsea River meets the Pacific Ocean. The campground gives a selection of single-family campsites, a few which have each electrical and water hookups. The campground gives a wonderful location for whale watching. Most campsites have beachfront views, and sunsets are to not be missed. Many Campendium guests rave about how clean the park is and the natural beauty you can find here while tenting on the Oregon coast.

Devil’s Lake State Recreation area provides RV and tent tenting, and is lower than a half day’s drive north of Beverly Beach. With 28 full hook-ups and 54 tent sites, you can normally discover the proper spot here in the trees but be ready for crowds. This is the one OR campground positioned in a city, Lincoln City to be specific. Summer activity includes boat leases and day use on the lake. Like nearly all Oregon tenting, yurts are also available for an inexpensive payment. Beverly Beach is five miles north of the city of Newport, and can be a state park.

Pacific

Campsites are amongst sparse bushes ¼-mile inland from a sandy seashore at the mouth of the Umpqua River. Campsites inland amongst bushes, but solely a brief walk from Sunset Bay. Nearby Shore Acres and Cape Arago state parks are a short drive away.

The site is along a big creek with mountaineering trails to Alsea and Green Peak falls. There’s a swimming gap, outhouses, and an attractive landscape filled with ferns and bushes. This web site provides a more primitive camping experience, excellent for the camper on the lookout for a chance to find a little bit of solitude and enjoy nature. A chance to camp at Green Mountain is value braving the tough access road.

At the tip of a enjoyable day exploring and wandering, retire to your Oregon vacation rentals on the coast, excellent for watching the sundown, and rely the celebrities. Come expertise a seaside glamping journey, and guide your individual beach camping! These are simply five of the most effective campgrounds situated alongside the Oregon Coast.

If you need an much more spectacular show, go at sunrise or sundown as well and get a shot that can shock even the most skilled of photographers. After heading again to camp from the Circles in the sand appearance, we were enjoying a lazy and euphoric evening. Luckily our canines were around, the rasciliy raccoon tripped over my tent stake, and triggered Zoey into a barking frenzy. Zoey is my canine that is half Cocker Spaniel, part poodle and definitely likes to chase animals of any type. This group was started by a person named Denny, who in an effort to search out that inner peace, you started to attract in the sand.

The answer is to use designated Oregon coast camping when you don’t wish to hunt down the uncommon coastal tenting to stake your territory with your outside recliner chair or tent. Campsites are on a grassy space with some timber, near Floras Lake. A quick trail leads previous the lake to dunes and a long, sandy seaside.

Oregons 12 Greatest Tenting Locations

We went at low tide later in the evening and it looks like folks had already picked the beach for the whole sand dollars. The Bigelow Hot Springs was solely a 0.1-mile trek in if that. Make certain you include water shoes because the rocks usually are not pleasant on bare ft.

For a whole listing of coastal cities in Oregon go to Visit the Oregon Coast website. This park is positioned on the south finish of town in Florence, OR, and is a superb place to name home while you explore the central Oregon coast. Bring your seashore bag and loosen up at Cape Cove Beach on the south side of Heceta Head after your hike. This rocky beach is a great place to watch sea birds and explore tide pools. Heceta Head is house to a lighthouse on the Oregon coast, is thirteen miles north of Florence, and thirteen miles south of Yachats.

With 33 campsites, Jones Creek is a superb spot to cool off from the summer season heat. With swimming holes at every turn, plenty of shaded campsites, and trails to explore at the Tillamook Forestry Center, there's greater than enough to fill a lazy weekend. The nearby Wilson River offers extra swimming and fishing opportunities. On the larger side,Nehalem Bay State Parkoffers a various vary of actions for all visitors. From crabbing to horseback using on the beach, the chances really feel countless. Quite busy through the warm summer months, reservations are really helpful here.

We found this spot listed on UltimateCampgrounds but we stopped in at the BLM workplace inCoos Bay to get the inside track on the world. They did warn us we wouldn’t be the only campers on the market and once we arrived, we understood what they had been getting at. Southern Oregon Coast Camping  near Gold Beach Oregon on Hwy 101 just 37 miles North of the California Boarder close to the Rogue River. In northern California, many of the public campgrounds are within the redwoods they usually refill quickly, so reservations are required during peak months and ought to be made well in advance. If you wish to combine it up, try the close by Yaquina Bay Lighthouse or the Oregon Coast Aquarium.

I hope this text on Free or practically free tenting Oregon coast was value studying. A novel kids’ playground is in fashion with locals in addition to campers. Guests take pleasure in strolling on the seashore and fishing within the surf. Seashore guests have to be cautious of sneaker waves and harmful rip currents. The close-by Sand Lake Estuary offers fishing, swimming, crabbing, kayaking, climbing, and wildlife viewing. Kayak excursions are equipped 7 miles south on Beaver Creek throughout July by the labor-day weekend.

After coming again house we realized we have been zero.25 miles away from where it really was. I don't imagine that path is just 2.5 miles although personally, my Fitbit said I had gone 3.92 miles by the time we rotated. We have been extremely disappointed about missing this feature as this can be a very fashionable trail. Be positive you explore the Tamolitch Blue Pool Trail on Google Maps and drop the little man to see what it looks like on a traditional day. There are a number of areas that appear to be the right spot, however alas aren't any. 1- Continue along the path that can convey you to a total of 10 totally different Waterfalls, every with its own distinctive look.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

To Build a Home - Geralt/Jaskier & Ciri

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account

Whatever forces control the world – be it spirits or gods or something else entirely – they seem keen on making sure that the girl is delivered into his care. Two Law of Surprises enacted, years separating them, both concerning that Geralt be given the same person. If that isn’t destiny, he thinks to himself, then he isn’t sure what is.

Zola places a bowl of stew in front of him. The house is modest, sheltered by a forest on all sides, but seems to be far enough away from the falling city. No one makes to move away. Zola continues to pour food out for those gathered around the wooden table, while Yurga fetches more firewood from the shed towards the back of the house.

Geralt eats, content to let the silence sitting over them sit for a moment longer. It’s broken every so often by a soft sigh from Zola, or the whining of the family dog from the hearth. Geralt regards the animal. A mangy-looking thing, it keeps looking to the main door to the house. It probably senses the explosions in the forest. Every whine is a reminder that there are other people interested in the girl.

The girl watches him out of the corner of her eye, in between picking at pieces of bread. She hasn’t eaten much of the food that was placed in front of her almost ten minutes ago. But Geralt looks back. She looks thin, too thin for a girl of her age. But in the time she has spent running from her home, through woodlands and out of the reach of Nilfgaard soldiers, he supposes her appetite has been left behind.

You’ll need to eat, he wants to say to her. I don’t know where I’ll take you, but you’ll need your strength.

He knows that Zola knows – that Yurga enacted the Law of Surprise on Geralt’s behalf. The child is his now. She’ll have to let her go. If that’s why she hasn’t said more than five words to him since sitting himself down at her table, then he understands. Then again, he’s grown used to people not talking to him over lesser reasons.

There’s a boy, too. Geralt ignores the inquisitive stares being bore into him from the lad, seated opposite Ciri. Eventually, the boy’s gaze moves from him, and to his two sheathed swords resting against the table’s edge.

The boy’s mouth opens, but anything that was going to come out of it is halted entirely when Yurga steps back into the house. His arms are laden with heavy blocks of wood. “Right,” Yurga huffs, setting the blocks down by the hearth. “That should do us for the night.”

He dusts his hands on his tunic, surveying the room.

“The main road is a five-minute ride west of here,” he says, regarding Ciri for a second. “If you keep following it north, it should take you to the nearest town.”

Geralt grunts. “I think we’ll avoid the main roads for the time being.” Even though the air sits still now, the Nilfgaardian armies may not have wandered far.

And then there’s the question that’s been stalking around in his mind.

Where the fuck am I going to take you?

When their bellies are full and Geralt's leg has been seen to, he heads outside. Roach knickers softly as Geralt approaches her. He still walks with a limp. The muscles in his leg shake and throb as the last of the necrophage’s bite heals. As he approaches the mare, she bows her head, sniffing at the cloth tie around his thigh. Geralt huffs, patting Roach’s neck. “I’ve gotten out of worse.”

The mare snorts.

“I have,” Geralt argues, picking some dirt out of her mane. “I’m not going to let a nercophage of all things be the last of me.”

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps. Looking over his shoulder, Geralt relaxes at the sight of Ciri. Her fingers fidget by her side. Zola had given her clothes to wear, warming things made out of wool and cotton to stave off the cold. But she still wears the cobalt blue cape. Geralt sets his jaw. It would be easier for them if she remained anonymous. A cape that well made stands out in this part of the continent. But he understands its importance to her. And she’s carried it all this way so far.

Who is Yennefer? It’s one of a myriad of questions that continue to stalk around his mind. They’ll haunt him like shadows for the next couple of days. As soon as he seems to understand one thing, something else comes along to beat the wind out of him.

Ciri glances over to Roach. A small, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of her lip when the mare paws at the ground.

Geralt brushes Roach’s muzzle gently with the back of his knuckles. “Be nice,” he mumbles to the mare. Looking over to Ciri, he inclines his head. “Do you want to pet her?”

She regards the horse for a minute, before stepping forward. Roach, to her credit, and Geralt’s relief, doesn’t move a muscle. When Ciri’s hand comes to rest on Roach’s muzzle, the mare snorts softly, before pushing it into Ciri’s palm.

The air is so still now. Not an hour ago, an attack was taking place a couple of miles from here. Now, all that’s left is a gaunt quiet.

Both Yurga and Zola join them by the entrance of the stable. Yurga directs him on where to go; the main road would get them far away quicker, but soldiers may be marching on it. And while he’s sure he can fight off Nilfgaardian boys who have never so much as held a sword, then swung it in battle, Geralt has to think of Ciri now. Something greater than himself is tying him to the girl. And he made a promise to her grandmother.

Zola hands him a pack. Bread, cheese, some cured meats, all wrapped in a linen cloth. Enough food to carry them for at least three days. Geralt nods a thank you before tying it to Roach’s saddle. Ciri still stands by the mare’s head, trailing her fingers lightly over the mare’s jaw.

The woman wanders over to Ciri, bowing slightly to her height. Geralt tries not to watch. There’s something in Zola’s eyes that reminds him too much of pain. “Stay safe, girl,” she says tightly, tucking a stray strand of Ciri’s hair behind her ear. “I hope we get to meet again someday.”

All other roads from the south are too damaged to use. Geralt barely contains a curse once he learns that, despite the cold, churning feeling in his stomach, he’ll have to take the main road. He has Roach’s reins gathered up, and his heels rest against her side: ready to launch into a gallop if needs be. He tries not to tense: if he’s on edge, then so is she. And so is the girl sitting in front of him.

Ciri fiddles with the hair on Roach’s withers, braiding the shorter strands together and making them lie flat against her neck. Geralt looks down every so often, wondering how in Melitele’s name Roach is allowing it. If anything, the mare seems to be enjoying it; occasionally puffing air and snorting.

As long as the sun is perched in the sky, they keep following the main road. There is a northerly bite to the air. Winter winds are starting to travel down from the mountains. The sun can barely fight through the thicket of clouds that slump over the hills. Geralt shrugs his shoulders. “Are you cold?”

Ciri doesn’t stop weaving strands of Roach’s mane together. “No,” she eventually replies. Her voice is soft, barely carrying itself into the air. If it were anyone else, they may not have heard her at all. But Geralt does. He hums, and goes back to looking at the road ahead. It stretches on for what could be leagues. Other dirt roads eventually join it, as do other travellers. He watches them out of the corner of his eye. Solo riders trot by – hunters, mostly, with bows slung over their shoulders and snares tied to the saddle of their mounts. Occasionally, a caravan will join them. Merchants and their wares trudge by. Sometimes, it’s a cart laden with a field’s harvest. If winter is going to settle in this early, Geralt supposes it would be wise for the farmers to haul their produce in now.

Ciri shuffles slightly, setting her back against Geralt’s chest. The movement barely disturbs Roach.

The road’s surface fades from pressed and worn-down dirt into cobblestones within a league. With the change come more people on the road. Geralt bristles slightly at the sight of what seems to be refugees; their belongings either bundled in their arms or on their backs, or stuffed on to an ox-drawn cart.

Ciri must see them too. Her head bows slightly. Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You’re alright,” he says quietly. Even the elderly couple hobbling next to Roach don’t pick up on his words. “Nothing is going to harm you. I’ll keep you safe.”

The town they eventually wander into isn’t meant for many people. Those who they walked with keep going, following the main road straight through the town and on to the next. Those who stay tether their horses to hitches out front. A couple of inns open their doors, beckoning people in for food and rest.

They should keep going. But Geralt looks up at the sky. The sun is gone now, smothered behind grey, heavy clouds. Geralt blinks. Rain seems on the way.

He brings them to one of the last taverns in the town. A maid is outside, directing a caravan to the next town. Geralt pulls Roach up. “Any room left?”

The woman regards him for a second. He knows the look. The look that goes from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes. But something catches the woman’s eyes. Softens them. The girl sitting in front of him. He can only imagine what they look like: what she imagines that they look like.

“Were you caught up in the attack?” the maid asks, setting her arms crossed over her chest.

Geralt nods.

A long, tired-sounding sigh leaves the woman. “I’m sure we can fit you somewhere,” she says, gesturing to a small alley separating the tavern from a neighbouring building. “Stables ‘round the back. My brother can take your horse there.”

Geralt quickly learns that none of the taverns has been taking coin for the people rushing into them. Bastards burned straight through my fields, he hears a farmer hiss from one side of the tavern. The land is ruined.

Ciri curls in on herself. The bowl of stew that the maid set in front of her has been touched. Geralt tears off some grain bread that the maid left them. “Eat something,” he says, nodding to the bowl. She eventually does, moving chunks of potato and carrot and stewed meat around in her bowl. Geralt watches her. It takes almost half an hour for her to eat, but she does.

The tavern isn’t as loud as it should be. Normally, with warm food and good ale sitting on tables, people are talkative. But there’s only a hum of conversation in the tavern. Everyone who can’t find it in themselves to speak keep their heads down, picking at their own food. Geralt sighs. When the door opens, letting in more travellers, he catches a glimpse of the sky. It’s starting to darken.

“You didn’t answer me,” Ciri suddenly says. It occurs to Geralt that this is the most words he’s heard come out of her. When he looks back at the girl, a slight frown furrows her brow. “In the forest. You didn’t answer me when I asked who Yennefer is.”

He grunts into his tankard. After a measured sip of ale, he drums the fingers of his free hand against the table. “A sorceress.” And he leaves it at that.

Ciri doesn’t. “Do you know where she is?”

The bow of Geralt’s lip threatens to lift into a snarl. She’s a child, he has to remind himself. She doesn’t know any better. “No,” he mutters, finishing the last of his drink.

The more towns they put behind them, the more of Nilfgaard’s shadow they leave behind. The Emperor – or whoever the fuck it is in charge these days – seems content with just securing the south of the continent for now. Until he intends on setting his sights somewhere else, Geralt keeps them moving northwards.

Nights spent in forest clearings are few and far between now. It was something he had grown used to, when it had been just him and Roach. The mare would contently graze nearby, always a sharp whistle away, while Geralt slept. When he travelled with others, they didn't mind. Bed rolls and tents sheltered by canopies, or else out in meadows and clearings. There was never any complaint. Well, Geralt can think of some who complained.

He catches himself every so often. When he thinks of people he’s met, or more accurately, those who have stayed with him for longer than a week, he starts to feel them. Like afterimages, their likenesses will flash before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he’ll see what seems to be the soft blue of Jaskier’s doublet, or the dark train of Yennefer’s dress. And he’ll turn, only to find nothing.

But with the child, he tries his best to cover as much ground as he can during the day, in order to have a roof over their head. They’ve stayed in the upstairs rooms of taverns, inns, even the barn of a shepherd who took pity on them. Well, took pity on Ciri.

After a night spent at a farrier’s home, Ciri adjusts the girth of Roach’s saddle. The mare’s tail swishes, probably aiming for the girl’s face. “Stop it,” she huffs with a small smile, patting the mare’s neck. “Just making sure that we don’t fall off.” Really, she should have her own mount. But Geralt’s keen to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s safe. And if that means Roach has to bear the weight of her master and Ciri, then so be it.

The farrier’s home sits among fallowed fields that stretch out towards the horizon. Each of their harvests has been brought in before the winter, and the oncoming war, can settle in. Ciri finishes securing the last of their packs on to Roach’s saddle. Bread and cured meats will keep them going for a couple of days, until they can reach the next town.

When Geralt joins them, it’s a couple of minutes later. Roach snorts in greeting, tugging softly at where she’s tied to the stable door. Geralt looks her over. “Everything secured?”

Ciri nods.

“Next town should be a day’s ride that way,” the farrier gestures down a dirt road. Geralt nods, gathers Roach’s reins, and leads them out of the barn. They aren’t the first people to stay here. The farrier and his wife told them of others who came in the days before: all fleeing the south and heading as far north as they can.

He hoists Ciri up on to Roach’s back first. The mare cranes her neck around, and noses at the toe of Ciri’s boot. The girl nudges her away with a soft smile. Geralt follows up, adjusting them both, making sure that Roach can bare the two of them for the walk ahead.

The farrier folds his arms. “Are ya sure ya don’t want another horse for the wee’un?”

Geralt regards the man for a second before shaking his head. “We can manage.”

“Thank you,” Ciri says after a time. Peering up at Geralt, she lifts her brow at the look he gives her.

He’s pretty sure he’s been all over the continent at least once. That’s bound to happen when your age starts hitting triple digits. He visits some places more than others: towns that are more hospitable to his kind, and don’t mind him eating their food and sleeping in their beds. He knows that the road they’re on no goes to one of those towns. It’s a small thing, but too big to be called a village. In the days they’ve spent travelling, Ciri’s tongue has loosened. They make idly conversation as Roach plods along the road. She asks him questions, mostly. When she learned that he wouldn’t release any more information on Yennefer, she started asking him about other things. What exactly is a Witcher? Are there any more of them? What is the biggest monster he’s killed?

And for the most part, Geralt answers them. To be honest, his answers come as grunts or just a couple of words, but he answers.

She asks him about magic. Can he do it? What does it feel like?

But she can do magic too. He hasn’t seen it, but he feels it. Something settles and sits over her like an aura.

“It’s different,” she says, looking up at him. “What I can do...isn’t good.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

She fidgets with the fabric of her cloak, tightening it around her when a particularly bitter wind rushes up through the road. “I...I don’t know what happened, but when I was running from Cintra, I, I was attacked by some boys I knew.”

Geralt’s grip on the reins tightens. If it weren’t for his gloves, she’d be able to see how white his knuckles turn.

“Nothing happened,” she rushes, maybe feeling how still he is. “I remember that I, I screamed and...everything around me was destroyed.”

Geralt frowns. Chaos.

She can’t control her chaos.

She looks up at him. Bright, wide blue eyes blinking up at him. “What I can do, it isn’t good. It doesn’t help anyone. It just kills.”

Geralt sets his jaw. “You’ll learn how to control it,” he says simply. It must be enough for her to hear, at least for now, because Ciri turns back to look out on to the road.

Geralt swallows a sigh.

He’ll need Yennefer.

She’ll need Yennefer.

[wbenvs3000]

Music in Nature

I thought I would take some time for everyone to understand more about my love for nature! As well as include some honorable mentions for songs that take me back to nature. First of all, this week got me thinking more about nature and my love of photography. One thing I always do when camping, hiking, or anything nature related is take photos. I am obviously not a professional, but I try my best to highlight different aspects of nature. One thing I try to do is have a main focus in my photos. Whether that focus be an animal, insect, tree, or some other aspect; I try to highlight their natural features in my photographs. For me, my main takeaway from this week was the “tips for taking better photos and videos with your phone” (Beck et al., 2018). My phone is something that goes everywhere with me. One of the tips was to use different photo modes when taking a photo (Beck et al., 2018). This tip I can vouch for because I have used this to capture some of my photos.

Photo of my Fiancé adding twigs to our campfire. Photo taken by me on June 24, 2019.

When standing in a flat area surrounded by mountains, trying to take photos on your phone can be difficult. Some parts of the mountain end up getting cut off even when having your phone titled horizontally. I struggled with this when I was at the Ashokan Reservoir. I really wanted to capture the surrounding mountain ranges, but my normal photo mode wouldn’t capture everything. I then switched my photo app to panorama mode and slowly moved my phone from left to right to capture everything I wanted. In doing so I got a beautiful photo of all the mountains around me.

A panorama photo of the Catskill Mountains from the Ashokan Reservoir. Photo taken by me on October 31, 2019.

A tip which I will use going forward is turning off my flash when taking photos (Beck et al., 2018). Something I am notorious for is my phone constantly dying. I never knew just having the flash on would contribute to draining my phone battery. When camping the only time I can charge my phone is when my Fiancé and I go into town to buy firewood and ice. We always camp at places without electricity to better get in touch with nature. We only listen to music when at the beaches or driving. Once we are at a campsite we like to take in the music of nature. This also means no charging phones.

Photo of my Fiancé and I at a overlook at North-South Lake. Photo taken by my Fiancé on June 25, 2019.

So, we always put our phones on airplane mode to prolong our batteries, however, my phone always seems to die the fastest. This is because I have never taken the flash off of my photos. My Fiancé and I take basically the same number of photos, but his phone always outlasts mine. When I called him this morning, he said that he turns his flash off when taking photos. Lesson learned, going forward I will always have my flash off when taking photos.

Now for some honorable mentions of songs which take me to a natural landscape!

“The Nights” by Avicii was a close second to Runaway (U & I) by Galantis. I chose the song by Galantis as the top song due to the meaning it has for my Fiancé and I; it is our song after all.  The lyrics and music video of “the Nights” does take me to a natural landscape. It also reminds me of all the adventures we have gone on together!

Finally, another song that takes me to a natural landscape is the Wellerman (220 KID & Billen Ted Remix) by Nathan Evans. Sea shanties have something mysterious associated with them (in terms of legends), however, it is no mystery that this song takes me to Cape Cod (Chatham) with my Fiancé. This song reminds me of swimming in the ocean with my Fiancé, taking long walks at night along the beach, going for walks early in the morning in the wildlife refuge and pirate mini golf!

Photo of my Fiancé and I mini golfing in Cape Cod with his family. Photo taken by my Fiancé August, 2018.

References Beck, L., Cable, T. T., & Knudson, D. M. (2018). Interpreting cultural and natural heritage for a better world. Urbana, Illinois; Sagamore-Venture Publishing.

[idiosinkrasies]

The Prince Bride

The story begins on a small countryside outside of the beautiful country of Florin. On this countryside lives a handsome young boy by the name of Smitty. Now Smitty has a fairly simple life, riding his horse, sewing clothes, cooking, and going into town for his mother to buy bread and vegetables.

He wouldn't do most of the hard work in the field or the house, that was left to the simple man who worked there. The man's name was John, but Smitty never called him that. He only ever called him "Farmboy" whenever he wanted something.

"Farmboy," He would say, "put my horse in the stable and polish it saddle, I want to see my face in it by morning." And John would only have one response, "As you wish."

"Farmboy," He said one day, carrying two empty buckets and placing them in front of the man who was currently cutting firewood, "Fill these with water." John stares at him with a knowing smile. "Please." Smitty finishes.

"As you wish." He whispered. And it was then that Smitty knew that when John said 'As you wish' he was actually saying 'I love you'. And it was quite a day when he realized that he loved him back Smitty had been in the house making the bread for him and his family when John walked in and placed wooden stakes next to the door.

"Farmboy," The shorter man called out before the other could leave, John turned to him. His eyes darted around the room to find something for the farmboy to do. "Fetch me that pitcher?" He asked, looking at the pitcher above him he could easily reach. The taller walked over to the other man so they stood face to face and slowly reached up to grab the pitcher off the hook it was on and held it to the other.

"As you wish." He whispered and Jaren felt his breath on his lips. Smitty took it and smiled widely at him. John moved his hand up to brush away Smitty's hair from his face, leaving his palm to rest on his cheek before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Smitty's, sharing their first of many true loves kisses.

John had no money and therefore could not marry his love, so he set out to find work overseas, hoping to find fortunes to care for Smitty and himself. He packed his bag and said his goodbyes, promising that one day he would return.

"I fear I'll never see you again," Smitty revealed, tear threatening to spill from his eyes.

"Of course you will, I'll be back before you know it," John replied hugging his love close, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"But what if something happens to you?" He asked, and John pulls his face away to look him in the eyes.

"Hear this now: I will always come for you."

"But how can you be sure?" The tears are close to making their way down Smitty's face.

"This is true love. You think this happens every day?" John said while brushing hair from his lover's face with a reassuring smile resting on his lips. Soon that smile raised into one of true happiness and Smitty couldn't help but smile back at the man he fell so deeply in love with before they leaned into a small kiss.

John never reached his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Notorious, who never left captives alive. When Smitty got the news that John was murdered, he locked himself in his room, not eating nor sleeping for days.

"I will never love again." He said to himself, feeling dead inside.

5 years had past and the main of Florin square was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Prince Fitz's husband-to-be. The sound of trumpets rang out through the square and a man standing at 6'5 walked out on top of the highest tower on the castle. He wore a red outfit and a crown and stood looking out over the sea of commoners.

"My people," The man, Fitz, said. "a month from now, our country will have it's five hundredth anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a Lord who was once a commoner like yourselves, but perhaps you will not find him common now. Would you like to meet him?" Cheers and applause rang out through the square.

"My people," Fitz raises his hand to gesture to an entrance to the square covered with a red carpet lined with white flowers. "The Prince Smitty."

The townspeople all turn to see a man in all white walk through the entrance and onto the carpet, his cape dragging behind him. The people start to bow down as he makes his way to the top of the stairs leading into the crowd. He looked around sadly finally resting his eyes on the prince staring down at him. His emptiness had consumed him, and although the law of the land gave Fitz the right to choose his husband, he did not love him.

Despite Fitz's reassurance that he would grow to love him, the only joy he found was in his daily ride. One day as he rode through the forest, his red cape and blouse blowing in the wind, he came upon three people standing in the road, one of them was very short, and had sword at his side, the other was a woman who had a regal-looking white blouse and black dress pants that went well with her boots. The last of them was a big man with dark skin who looked very friendly, unlike his associates.

"A word, my lord?" The woman spoke as Smitty stopped his horse. "We are but poor, lost circus performers, is there perhaps a village nearby?"

"There is nothing nearby, not for miles." Smitty provided helpfully. The look on the woman's voice turned sinister as the big man approached him.

"Then there will be no one to hear you scream." The man raised his hand and grabbed the prince by the neck, hitting a certain pressure point that made him fall unconscious before he could get out even a simple 'help'.

Soon the man was loaded onto a ship and the woman was ripping off a patch of cloth from a cape with an emblem sewn onto it. Once it is ripped off the woman pins it to the horse's saddle and the short man, who was helping load the ship stood at the side and spoke up.

"What is that you are ripping?" He asks.

"It's fabric from the uniform of an army officer from Gildir." She responds.

"Who is Gilder?" The big man asks as he holds the prince bridle style.

"The country across the sea. The sworn enemy of Florin." The woman says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She hits the horse and yells 'go' and the horse starts to ride back to the castle.

"Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make Prince Fitz suspect that they were the ones who abducted his love, and when he finds his body dead on the Gilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed."

"Woah woah woah, you never said anything about killing anyone." The big man said, eyebrows furrowed.

"I hired you to help me start a war, this is a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition." The woman says, picking at her nails.

"I just don't think it's right, killing an innocent boy." The woman looks up at the man in front of her.

"Am I going mad? Or did the word 'think' escape your lips?" She says, raising her voice. "You were NOT hired for your brains, you hippopotamic land mass!"

"I agree with Grizzy." The small man says, jumping over the port side of the small ship and walking to the stern.

"Oh, the sot has spoken!" She turns to follow the man to the stern and she climbs up the captain's quarters. "What happens to him is not your concern, Eric, I will kill him, and remember this, NEVER FORGET THIS;" She screams at him, pointing at him making him lean over the edge of the ship. "When I found you, you were some slobbering drunk and high off your arse, you could even buy brandy or marijuana!

"And you!" She turns to the big man, Grizzy. "Friendless, brainless, helpless, hopeless! Do you want me to send you back to where you were?! Unemployed in Greenland?!" She walks off to the bow of the ship, leaving a distressed Grizzy and a disgruntled Eric left to help his friend.

"That Toby, she can fuss." He says, putting an emphasis on the word 'fuss'.

"Fuss, fuss," Grizzy says to himself before he smiles. "I think he likes to scream at us!" He puts emphasis on 'us'.

"She probably means no harm."

"She's very very short on...charm!" The two of them are both smiling now.

"You have a great gift for rhyme!" Eric tells the other man.

"Yes yes, some of the time."

"Enough of that!" Toby yells at the two men.

"Grizzy, are there rocks ahead?" Eric asks, trying to irk the woman who was at the bow.

"If there are, we'll all be dead!"

"No more rhymes now, I mean it!" Toby says, getting angry again.

"Anybody want a peanut?" A yell erupts from the woman who looks like she's ready to strangle the two as the boat sets off into the sunset.

[pancake-man]

i’m already cursed

This is my Pinescone Secret Santa for Pamela @ladynightmare12 ! She gave me the prompt Fairytale and I instantly knew what to do. I’ve been wanting to write something for this song for so long! Thanks so much, I hope you enjoy it!

Here it is on Ao3!

Story below the readmore!

Lyrics and Inspiration: Fairytale by Alexander Rybak

Years ago, when I was younger,

I kinda liked a girl I knew.

She was mine, and we were sweethearts.

That was then, but then it's true.

Two children, hair wild around their heads like messy halos, dirt clinging to the edges of their clothes and mud stuck between their toes. Smiles on their faces growing as wide as their eyes at each new thing. A stick bug looking for food. A deer stepping lightly through a forest. The call of a bird, shrill and loud above the gentle sounds of the forest.

Dipper’s cap is long forgotten. He doesn’t need to hide, not out here. His birthmark is clearly visible, freckles in an odd pattern, connected by a shaky line of pen. Wirt says he looks cool.

And Wirt, forever cold, even with the warm sun beating down on their backs, closed up in his cape. The ends are frayed and covered in burs, but the blue stands out brilliantly against all the green. Dipper doesn’t ask. It’s not important.

It’s a summer of laughter and running wildly through the woods, shouting Catch me, catch me! And hiding in thickets. Neither of them wants to leave.

But growing up is impossible to avoid, and both have their responsibilities. Dipper packs up his gap-toothed grin and Wirt abandons his dissonant laughter. The wind is ready for winter, and they say see you later!  instead of goodbye. 

I'm in love with a fairytale

Even though it hurts.

'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind.

I'm already cursed.

Sometimes Wirt is there. Sometimes he isn’t. Dipper is thirteen, his voice hoarse from changing hormones and from screaming into the silence hoping for some kind of response. He thinks he sees blue through the leaves, but it’s the sky, and he wants to give up.

A childhood of silly games and happy giggles is a fading memory. Dipper wonders if he dreamed it. 

The awkward smile seems like a curse, haunting him at the back of his mind when he wonders what he did wrong.

Dipper has never been one for sitting around doing nothing, so instead he does something. He picks himself up and starts writing. He documents the way the temperature seems to drop around certain parts of the wood. He illustrates in rapidly-improving style the odd twists of the trees. He finds the money for a library computer pass and does whatever research he can. Maybe he doesn’t have time for anything else. He knows it’s worth it.

Every day we started fighting,

Every night we fell in love.

No one else could make me sadder,

But no one else could lift me high above.

Dipper is fifteen. Two years of research have given him a book of matches and bags beneath his eyes. The forest seems colder than he remembers when he steps into it for the first time this summer. Nine months of seasons and he still knows where each root and rock is, carefully making his way to the center even when he can’t see his feet.

The match casts shadows over the trees around him, turning the knotted wood into pained, twisted bodies, calling out for his help. Dipper isn’t there for them.

He steps closer to Wirt’s favorite tree, a towering mess of tangled limbs and leaves. The blaze of the match is nothing compared to the blaze of his eyes. 

“Please,” comes the voice from behind him. Dipper spins around, his match extinguishing. In the shadows he can only make out the vague shape of a cloak. “Don’t do this,” the voice whispers.

“Why not?” Dipper asks, arms crossed because even if he can’t see Wirt, he knows Wirt can see him, and it’s important that Wirt know how pissed he is. 

There’s a pause. “You know what I am, then?”

“I have an idea,” Dipper says, and it’s so hard to keep malice in his tone when Wirt sounds like that. 

Wirt sighs and his shadow melts a bit. “I’m sorry, I couldn't-”

“Sorry?” Dipper interrupts. He actually wasn’t expecting an apology. “You abandoned me. You lied to me!”

“Lied? I never-”

“‘See you later’, that’s what you said. It’s later, Wirt! And I can’t even see you!” Wirt’s outline shrinks a bit. “I want more than ‘I’m sorry’, now. I want an explanation.”

The silence of the forest becomes deafening for a long moment. Dipper has to cover his ears, and then Wirt is speaking again. “Come again tomorrow, in the day. I’ll… explain what I can.”

“No,” Dipper pulls his hands from his ears. “Everything.”

“...Right. Everything.”

I don't know what I was doing

When suddenly we fell apart.

Nowadays I cannot find her,

But when I do, we'll get a brand new start.

Wirt isn’t there the next day. Or the next. Dipper’s research stagnates, and then one of his journals is lost when a leak in the ceiling soaks the pages beyond legibility. He’s seventeen and walking through the forest when he should be somewhere, anywhere else. He’s given up on seeing Wirt, but something about the air still calms him the way Wirt’s smile always did.

Dipper is eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Every summer he still goes back to the forest. He talks out loud to the rabbits, the raccoons, the birds. He tells them about his life, how he’s doing, asks if they could please let Wirt know he’s okay. Dipper is studying mythology now. He wants to be a researcher. The things he found on his hunt for Wirt lit something within him, and he regrew his passion into something more… productive. Dipper sits on a log, his head in his hands.

“Please, Wirt, I don’t…” Maybe he’s finally going crazy, talking to open air like this. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand, but I want to. I miss you. Wirt..” 

Dipper imagines the hand on his shoulder, and dreams the cold comfort he gets from it.

I'm in love with a fairytale

Even though it hurts.

'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind.

I'm already cursed.

The forest is no place for a home, not for him. Not for someone whose clothes and hair and mannerisms are all manufactured, manmade, fake. But Dipper stays close, his useless degree at least getting him a job as a forester. He clears fallen trees, checks on the wildlife, chases away hunters(not that the forest needed any help with the last one) and more than anything, he talks to Wirt.

Occasionally Dipper needs extra cash, and he’ll venture into town for odd jobs. The people trust him with their work and nothing else. The crazy man who talks to the trees he lives with. Dipper is fine with that reputation. 

And with time, he’s happy. The forest is calming and protective of him. People are difficult and scary. More and more of his home leaves the grid, until he’s surviving on rainwater and old logs for firewood. He knows Wirt keeps him safe. Wirt is the one who leads him home when the skies darken, or to bushes full of berries when he’s hungry. Maybe he can’t see Wirt, but he’s there, in the trees and in Dipper’s heart.

She's a fairytale, yeah.

Even though it hurts.

'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind.

I'm already cursed.

Dipper hardly notices as he becomes more and more a part of the forest. Leaves in his bed in the morning likely blew through the cracked ceiling, or twigs caught in his hair are from midnight walks through the wood. 

His face sags with content wrinkles and his hands grow knobby. Checking on the trees becomes painful as his joints creak and scream. He fashions a cane from a branch left on his doorstep. Pamphlets advertising retirement are promptly burned. Dipper is old, and in love, and happy.

Soon it isn’t skinned rabbits or firewood on his doorstep. It’s Wirt, his age indeterminate. He’s older than Dipper remembers, though he has the body of a young twenty-something. The only tell of his true age are the bags hanging heavy beneath his eyes.

“You came back,” Dipper says.

“I said I would,” Wirt replies.

“It’s time then?”

Wirt nods. “Is there anything you’d like to say goodbye to?”

Dipper looks about at his home, a rundown cabin on the brink of collapse, nestled on the edge of the forest he loves so much. “No.”

Wirt hums, sways awkwardly. “Are you ready?”

Dipper smiles, and seeing this Wirt relaxes. He smiles back.

Two men, boys, friends, lovers, soulmates meet in an embrace as warm as the sun and strong as the trees. Years of waiting, loving, proving themselves worthy. 

The townsfolk tell stories of the crazy old man who protected the forest. He talked to the trees, they say, and one day he disappeared. His body was never found. The people know the rules: Never enter the forest alone. Never hurt a living being within the forest. Never disrespect the trees. 

[husheduphistory]

The Jumper, Jack, and the Railroad Tracks

The town of Uitenhage, located in the Eastern Cape Province of South Africa, was founded in the early 1800s and by the 1870s it was a stop for the thousands traveling along the Port Elizabeth Mainline Railroad from Port Elizabeth to the capital city of Capetown. Working the signals at the town’s train station was a man named James Wide, better known as “Jumper”, and his assistant. The station ran smoothly until the day the two were visited by their superiors. When they saw what was going on they were completely stunned.

“Jumper” Wide was a railway man who earned his nickname. While working as a guard for the Cape Town’s Port Authority Railway Service he became known for his preferred method of traveling between the trains, jumping and swinging on ropes in between the rail cars, regardless if they were moving. It was while jumping between the cars one day in 1877 that tragedy struck. Jumper slipped on a canvas and fell straight down to the tracks directly in the path of a moving train. The massive metal wheels crunched over Jumper’s legs, severing them both at the knee and leaving him unable to perform his job. After recovering from his injuries, Jumper pleaded with the railway to somehow keep him on as an employee and he was eventually assigned to the Uitenhage station to serve as a signalman.

Wide adapted to his new circumstances as best he could, carving himself a set of wooden peg legs that strapped onto his body and building a wooden cart to help wheel himself from his home to the train station. One Saturday morning Wide was pushing himself around a bustling Uitenhage marketplace when he saw a team of oxen being led through the market, completely under the control of an amazingly capable chacma baboon. Seeing how much the animal was helping the man driving the oxen, it dawned on Wide how much a companion like the baboon could help him in his daily life. He spied the owner, wheeled his cart over to introduce himself, and asked him if he would ever consider parting ways with his furry companion. With Wide sitting before him on a cart with two carved wooden legs the oxen driver had a difficult decision to make, but in the end he agreed to hand his beloved baboon over to Wide. He had one vital piece of advice, if he wanted to keep the baboon happy he had to give him a small cup of “good Cape brandy” every night. Otherwise, he would sulk the next day and refuse to help until he got his preferred beverage.

Chacma baboon. Image via Wikipedia.

Although there were a few times that Wide forgot the brandy and learned that the ox driver’s warning was true, he and his new companion, now named Jack, became very fast friends. Jack was extremely intelligent and absorbed his new surroundings with ease, quickly learning how to help Wide clean his small home and waking each morning to accompany him to the Uitenhage train station for the workday. The two shared a small cottage located half a mile from the station and each morning Wide would sit on his handcrafted cart while Jack pushed him to work. Along the route was a small hill and Jack would push his friend to the top before jumping on the cart and riding down the other side together. Ever-observant, Jack would spy old condemned wooden railway sleepers and bring pieces back to Wide to use as firewood. He learned to help sweep, clean up garbage, and became a faithful guardian, snarling and gnashing his teeth at anyone who came near until he was assured the visitor was safe. Jack was always willing to help Wide, and soon his incredible learning ability began to reveal itself in a remarkable way.

Wide and Jack with Wide’s trolley cart. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

Part of Wide’s job as a signalman at the railway station was to listen for the approaching trains so that he could hand them a key that allowed them to get into the coal sheds. The key was kept near the signal box and every day when Wide would hear the familiar four blasts from an approaching train’s whistle he would hobble out to the platform on his crutches and hold the key out to the locomotive driver. One day Wide heard the whistles calling him and before he could get to his crutches he watched as Jack jumped up, went out to the platform, grabbed the key, and successfully handed it off to the surprised conductor.

Handling the signals at the station was a hugely important job that required absolute accuracy. Different blasts from the train whistles required signals to be changed in order to direct the trains safely and Wide wondered if his friend Jack could figure out the task. It began with Wide showing Jack how to pull the levers, then he developed hand signals to tell Jack which levers to pull for which whistle blow. Amazingly, within a few weeks Jack the baboon had successfully memorized the various whistle patterns and was able to turn the correct signals over and over again. Wondering if it was just a matter of Jack memorizing a set schedule, he decided to test him, asking conductors to send different signals to see if it would trip up the baboon. He never failed once.

Wide and Jack at the signal levers. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

The news about the train station being run by a baboon spread fast and, for the most part, it was a story that people loved, bringing passengers to their train windows to witness Jack standing on the platform with Wide standing behind him on his hand-carved wooden legs. But, one day the train had a very prominent woman riding on board and the sight and story of Jack did not delight her, she was absolutely horrified. Fearing for her safety, she reported Jack to authorities in Cape Town. Inspectors went to the station and upon finding the signals being handled by a baboon, they quickly dismissed Wide from his job.

Wide once again found himself pleading for his place in the railroad, insisting to the system manager that Jack was more than able of performing the job as signalman and begging for the opportunity to show them just how capable he was. Finally, for reasons unknown, the manager finally agreed to test Jack. A conductor was given a long list of secret sequences that he would blast from the train whistle and wait for the baboon’s response. To the complete and utter amazement of everyone present, Jack answered every last whistle blast by pulling the correct set of levers to switch the signals. Not only did he respond with the right signals at precisely the right time, they also witnessed him looking down the tracks to where an oncoming train would be approaching to make sure the signals were correct down the line. The manager and his associates could not deny what they saw. Jack was completely fluent in the train signals, even double checking his work in front of them. What they saw was impressive. Wide got his job back, but they also officially hired Jack, granting him an official railroad employee number and paying him a ration of twenty cents a day and half a bottle of beer weekly. Jack the Signalman was official.

He was also here to stay. Jack continued working for the railroad with his friend Wide, who he doted on. After a visit to the station in 1890 the railway superintendent George B. Howe wrote: “Jack knows the signal whistle as well as I do, also every one of the levers…It was very touching to see his fondness for his master. As I drew near they were both sitting on the trolley. The baboon’s arms round his master’s neck, the other stroking Wide’s face.”

Wide and Jack at their train station. Image via Wikipedia.

Jack manned the signals at the railway station with Wide for nine years before he passed away from tuberculosis in 1890. During those nine years on the job Jack the signalman baboon never made a single mistake.

Today, Jack’s skull is on display at the Albany Museum in Grahamstown, South Africa.