#flesh thresh

[bekkomi]

Playing a carry vs playing a support

[baiika]

...

[nomie-11]

Chapter 11 - The Awakening of a Life Weaver

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The sun is bright and welcoming, a warm breeze lifts her hair. 

An older woman is standing in front of her, a red poppy in her hand. Her smile is familiar, her laugh is contagious, and as Genevieve looks at her, she can see that the woman in front of her looks like her too. 

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She moves to take a step forward, but with each step, the woman takes another step back. 

They’re in a field of flowers. The flowers are soft and the grass is lush, while the mountains roll behind them. Snow covered peaks give way to the spring streams, and the green dress the woman wears is covered in white lilies. 

The woman opens her mouth, and speaks. “Wake up,” She says, but Genevieve nods her head no. She can’t respond, but she never wants to leave. She’s home. “Wake up.” She says again. 

Genevieve’s voice returns to her. “Mother,” she whispers, reaching out to the woman in front of her. “I don’t want to wake up.” 

Her mother opens her mouth once more, but the voice that comes out is no longer hers. 

“WAKE!” The voice bellows. It’s Tairn. 

But why is he here? Genevieve looks at her hands, and she knows that she is young. Far too young to even know about the possibility of her bonding a dragon. But then her hands are red, covered in blood, and the voice screams out once more. 

“Wake before you die!” The mountains rumble, and suddenly her mother’s green dress is covered in blood. “Now!”

Her eyes fly open, and she gasps as the last remnants of the dream disintegrates. She’s not in a field of flowers, she’s in her room in-

“Move!” Tairn bellows, and Genevieve shoots out of bed, her hand stealing the dagger from under her pillow as she moves. 

“Fuck! She’s awake!” Moonlight reflects over a sword that is now impaled into the bed where Genevieve once lay. She stumbles, her movements still clouded by sleep. As her knees hit the floor, she unsheathes another dagger from under her mattress. 

She scans the room from her point on the floor, blowing the now grown out hair from her eyes. Her eyes meet the eyes of the unbounded first-year, but he’s not the only one. There are seven cadets in her room. There are four men, three women. 

The door slams behind a girl as she runs out of the room. It clicks in Genevieve’s mind, she’s the one who opened the door. 

The rest are all armed, all determined to kill an unkillable rider. Her hand tightens around the hilt of her daggers and her heart rate skyrockets. 

“This was a stupid mistake,” Genevieve says, her eyes glistening with the thrill of the kill. “Guess it won’t do much good to ask you to leave nicely?” 

“Get away from the wall! Don’t let them trap you!” Tairn’s echoing, commanding voice resonates within her. She moves, but there isn’t much room for her to move. 

“Damn it! I told you she was fast!” Oren hisses from the other side of the room, blocking Genevieve’s exit. 

“Violet should have killed you during Threshing,” Genevieve barks, her voice loud and commanding. She knows that if her voice is loud enough, someone will hear, Liam is just across—

A woman lunges for her, and she dodges, sliding along the icy pane of her window. The window!

“It’s too high. You’ll fall to the ravine and I cannot get there fast enough!” 

“No window. Got it.” Another woman throws her knife, rending the fabric of Genevieve’s nightshirt sleazes as it lodges in her armoire, but she misses her actual flesh. She spins, ripping the rest of the sleeve off, lunging her own hands towards the girl. 

  The hit lands, her dagger plunges down into the torso of the girl, and a surge of adrenaline. 

The girl collapses to the floor, her weight trapping Genevieve, and her body feels as if she was dead. Scrambling out from under her, Genevieve’s breathing is ragged. 

“Fuck! You have to go for her throat!” Oren shouts, registering the sudden death of his companion. “I’ll do it myself.” 

“She’s dead,” Tairn confirms, and another surge of adrenaline flies through Genevieve. It feels as if lightning was dancing across her skin, burning her, boiling her blood. Genevieve is panicked, but she moves her dagger to fend off an attack to her left, slicing down a forearm, and then another to the right, stabbing into a man’s thigh. 

“Use your brain!” Tairn bellows, and she lands an awfully hard dagger to a man’s gut. He collapses down to the floor as well, his sword tumbling after him. But now she’s cornered between the desk and the armoire. There are too many of them. They all rush in at once. 

In her state of overwhelming confusion, the daggers are snatched out of her hand with appalling ease, and her heart seizes as Oren grips her throat. Another attacker is pinning her hands behind her with a torn blanket. She attempts to sweep for his knees, but her lifts her off the ground and she never makes contact. She’s too far away for anything. 

“No. No. No.” She repeats over and over in her head, digging her nails into her palms, puncturing her skin as she attempts to claw free. His grip never eases as he crushes her throat. Air. There’s no air. 

“He’s almost there!” Tairn promises, panic lacing his tone. 

He who? Genevieve tries to respond, but she can’t breath, can’t think. 

“Finish her!” The one who’s hands pin Genevieve’s hands behind her back yells. “He’ll only respect us if we finish her!”

They’re after Tairn. 

His roar of rage fills Genevieve’s head as Oren lowers her body, flipping her around as he curls his arm so her back is against his chest. She can feel her feet back on the ground, but her vision is dark, her lungs fighting for oxygen that isn’t there. 

The greedy eyes of a bleeding first year stare back into Genevieve’s blank face. “Do it!” She demands. 

“You’re dragon is mine,” Oren hisses in her ear, and his hands fall away, replaced by a blade. 

Air rushes into her lungs as cold metal caresses her throat, the oxygen flooding her blood and clearing her head just enough for her to know that this is the end. She’s going to die. From one heartbeat to what will probably be her last, an overwhelming feeling of 

sorrow seizes her chest. 

What about Violet? Does she graduate? And Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer? Do they survive too? And Xaden, does Xaden regret not kissing me once more? 

The knife tip touches her skin. 

Her bedroom door flies open, the wood splintering as it slams against the stone wall, but she doesn’t have a chance to turn to see who is standing there before a harsh yell pierces her vision. 

“Now run!” Tairn screams. Skin-prickling energy zings down her spine and through her arms, then rushes to her fingertips and toes. 

A man to her left lunges at her, sword in full motion, and she’s dagger-less. 

In a last resort, she snaps the blanket that binds her hands, and holds them out, hoping to stop him in his tracks, but she doesn’t. Her hands make contact with him, and immediately he freezes, falling to the floor. 

“Go!” Tairn demands. 

She blinks at the man who has seemingly died from her touch. He isn’t breathing, isn’t moving. He’s dead. 

And before another one can take a hit on her, Genevieve darts to the door, nearly slamming full force into Xaden, who fills the doorway like some kind of dark, avenging angel, the messenger of the queen of gods. 

He’s fully dressed, his face a mask of veritable rage as shadows curl from the walls on either side of him. Relief immediately floods Genevieve’s mind, she feels so relieved that she could cry. 

“It’s about damned time,” Xaden’s gaze snaps to Genevieve, his onyx eyes flaring in shock and relief for a millisecond before he strides forwards, his shadows streaming before him as he stands at her side. He snaps his fingers, and the mage light illuminates the room around them. 

“You’re all fucking dead.” His voice is eerily calm and all the scarier for it. 

Every head in the room turns. 

“Riorson!” Oren’s dagger clatters to the floor. 

“You think surrendering will save you?” Xaden’s lethally soft tone sends goosebumps up her arms. “It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep.”

”But you know he should have never bonded her!” Oren says, putting his hands up, his palms facing them. “You of all people have reason to want her dead!”

“Dragons don’t make mistakes.” Xaden’s shadows grab every assailant but Oren by the throat, then constrict. They struggle, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces turn purple, the shadows holding tight as they sag to their knees, falling in an arc in front of her like lifeless puppets. 

Xaden prowls forward as though her has all the time in the world and holds out his palm as yet another tendril of darkness lifts Quinn’s dagger out from under the first girls’ body. 

“Let me explain.” Oren eyes the dagger, and his hands tremble. 

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” Xaden’s fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger. “You’re lucky she only had two daggers on hand, or you would already be dead. But I’m here to kill you now.” He slashes forward so quickly that Genevieve barely catches the moves, and Oren’s throat opens in a horizontal line, blood streaming down his neck and chest in a torrent. 

He grabs for this throat, but it’s useless. He bleeds out in seconds, crumpling to the floor. A crimson puddle grows around him. 

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick walks in, sheathing his sword as his gaze rakes over the room. “Morning Genevieve,” He nods. “No time for questioning?” His gaze sweeps over Genevieve, cataloging her injuries, catching on her throat. 

“No need for it,” Xaden counters as Bodhi enters, saying the same greeting, doing the same quick assessment that Garrick had. 

“Let me guess,” Bodhi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re on cleanup?” 

“Call for help if you need it,” Xaden answers with a nod, and suddenly, Genevieve is swept out of the room as she follows Xaden to his quarters silently. 

——————————————————————

Sitting on the bed in the center of his room, Genevieve rests her head in her hands, her breaths shallow as if she was still being choked. 

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. 

“Yes. You’re alive.” Xaden steps closer to her as he sits next to her. Her entire body shakes like a leaf as the adrenaline leaves her system, leaving her tired and hurting. 

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” She says, her tone an attempt at joking.

A few seconds pass in silence, just the sound of her breaths coming in short wheezes that Xaden can only describe as painful resonating in the walls of Xaden’s dorm. She shoves herself off of the bed quickly, muttering a quick apology as she nearly launches herself onto the trash can. 

She throws up once, then dry heaves for a moment. Xaden immediately is next to her, his hand warm on her back. 

“It’s just the shock,” he says, his hands soft on her back. “Are you hurt?” His words are clipped, but they’re gentle, and the pain in her body ebbs forward at the reminder that it's there. Every breath feels like she’s shoving broken glass into her lungs, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m still angry at you.” She whispered, her voice hoarse and dry after throwing up. 

“Come on, Gen,” Xaden mutters, lifting her up off the floor next to the trash can and putting her gently onto the floor. “Tell me where you’re hurt.” 

The blood of the three cadets Genevieve has killed has dried underneath her finger nails, staining her hands red as she looks at them. Xaden killed three cadets, too, but he doesn’t look nearly as shaken as she does. Quinn’s dagger glitters on the table next to the door, but its blade is covered with blood, accentuating the ruby in the hilt. 

Genevieve can barely breath, her lungs burning with pain and fire. His fingers are warm under her chin as he tilts her head up so she’s looking at him, instead of her blood-crusted hands. “You’re breathing like crap, so I’m guessing it has to do with your ribs?” He says, his voice comforting as a hint of panic swirled behind his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” She lies. 

His focus snaps back to her eyes, his gaze no longer soft. 

“Don’t lie to me,” He says it with such ferocity, bit out through gritted teeth, that she can’t help but nod. 

“That’s rich coming from you,” She snaps, but her voice is too soft to have any real bite, and for some reason Xaden knows that Genevieve doesn’t mean it. Not right now, at least. Xaden’s eyes are trained onto hers, begging to know what’s wrong. “It hurts,” she finally admits, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her talk. 

“Let me see.” And she nods, so he pulls her nightshirt over her head, gently pulling it off so as not to shake whatever is hurting more than it already is. Their eyes meet, and a warmth flutters through her stomach. But the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and inspecting her right side, fingers gently stroke over the bruising on her ribs from when she clattered to the floor. 

“You have one hell of a bruise, but I don’t think they’re broken.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice still quiet. 

“Come on, let’s go,” He says, and all of a sudden, when Genevieve turns around to grab her boots, he kneels on the floor in front of her, boots in hand. “I need to take you to the flight field.” 

“Why?” She asks, and Xaden can’t help but feel like it’s almost as if she was a child again. Her voice is soft and innocent like a young girl who hasn’t seen anything, but he knows that when she wakes up tomorrow morning, refreshed and strong for the day, she’ll be back to normal. She’ll be back to ignoring him and casting him glares whenever he tries to give her pointers. 

“You and I need answers,” He says, finishing up her boots before handing her the cloak he must have grabbed when ushering her out of her crime scene of a room. “That was one hell of a signet if that's what that was.” 

Oh right, she can feel herself remember what she had just blocked out. The whole touching people and then they die thing. 

“And we have to ask Tairn what the hell just happened,” Xaden’s jaw flexes. “And I’m not just talking about the attacks. How the hell did they get past your locks.” 

Genevieve stumbled, her legs weak as she tried to fall into step beside Xaden. His arm snaked around her waist to keep her steady. 

“I don’t lock my door,” She said, her voice soft but the words rang clear. 

“Sorry?” Xaden says, his tone indicating that he wants her to try again. To say something else. Anything else. “You don’t lock your doors?”

”I don’t lock my door.” She repeated, not changing. “It scares me. I don’t like being behind locked doors.” 

“You know it locks from the inside, though,” Xaden says, dragging her down one confusing hallway after the next. She’s lost all sense of direction as mage lights flicker on and off above her. “You’re not going to be locked in.” 

Genevieve’s breath hitched as she tried to keep up with Xaden’s long strides. Every step jarred the ache in her ribs, but she bit her lip, refusing to let him see just how much it hurt. She wasn’t fragile. She had survived worse—much worse.

”I know,” she whispered, her voice sounding distant, like it was floating from someone else. “But it’s not the same. The feeling is the same.” 

Xaden’s brows furrowed as they walked. His face resembles concern and confusion. His hand still anchored at her waist tightened slightly, keeping her upright.“What do you mean?” 

Genevieve inhaled shakily, avoiding his gaze. Her mind raced, flashing back to the darkness, the dungeon, the cold stone walls that seemed to press in on her from all sides. The memory of Lilith’s mocking voice, the rattle of chains as she was left alone in the pitch-black cell with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing, clawed at her insides. Locked doors were cages. Locked doors were suffocating. 

She cleared her throat, willing herself to focus on the present. “I don’t like the idea that someone can lock me in, even if I’m the one doing the locking.” 

His grip on her waist loosened as the words sunk in, understanding flickering in his dark eyes. He took a breath, as if searching for the right words. “You’re not there anymore, Gen. No one’s locking you in.” His voice was quieter now, and it had an edge of softness she hadn’t expected from him. 

For a brief second, she almost believed him. Almost. But the remnants of fear still clung to her chest, suffocating her almost as much as her buried ribs. The weight of it all—the kills, the literal blood on her hands, the secrets—was too much. She couldn’t afford to feel safe. Not yet. 

She quickly broke her eye contact with Xaden, moving away from him, “I know.” She said, and her voice was strong. “Let’s just go to the flight field now.” 

The ground shifts beneath her feet as though it’s rocking, but she knows better. It’s her head, the rust of the pain and the stress, and now the reminder that this happened because she was too weak to even lock her doors. Her breath catches, and her steps wobble. 

Xaden moves next to her again, steadying her. They just continue down the pathway in a silence she can’t find herself to try and break. He just stands next to her as they walk down the cold stone corridor. 

“Why are you taking me to the flight field?” She asks again, her voice now clearer than before. “Because I can talk to Tairn whenever I want to, so unless you want to talk to him, there’s no reason for this.” 

Xaden stayed quiet, but his eyes watched her sharply. 

“You’re insane,” Genevieve said, her voice dropping to a tired murmur. “I can’t believe you want to talk to my dragon.” Her words were a mix of frustration and disbelief, but there was something else beneath it—something softer. Maybe even relief. 

Xaden didn’t respond, just continuing to take her farther and farther down the hall and then to a stonewall end of the tunnel. A few hand gestures and then another click sounds before he pushes open the door. They step into the crisp, freezingly cold November air. 

“What the hell,” she whispers. The door is built into a stack of boulders on the eastern side of the field. 

“It’s camouflaged.” Xaden waves a hand and the door closes, blending into the rocks as if it’s a part of it. “When you get better at lesser magic, I’ll teach you how to use this door as well.”

As they walk towards the center of the field, the grass grows behind her every step. It turns a little greener as she moves closer, and browns as she leaves, almost as if she was breathing life into the winter stricken earth with every step. Flowers bloom behind her movements, red poppies and white lilies spring across the field, illustrating her path. 

But Xaden and her don’t notice. They’re just focused on her hands, on the death that sprang from them. 

There’s a sound that she now recognizes as the steady beat of wings, and she looks up to see two dragons block out the stars as they descend. The earth shudders as they land in front of them. 

“I’m guessing the wingleader wants a word?” Tairn steps forward and Sgaeyl follows, her wings tucked in tight, her golden eyes narrowing in on Genevieve. 

“Yes, I want a word. What the hell kind of powers are you channeling to her?” Xaden demands, staring up at Tairn like he isn’t… Tairn. 

Yep. Ballsy. Every muscle in her body locks, sure that Tairn is bound to torch Xaden for impudence. 

“None of your business what I choose or do not choose to channel towards my rider,” Tairn answers with a growl. 

This is going well. 

“He says—” She starts. 

“I heard him,” Xaden counters, not sparing Genevieve a glance. 

“You what?” Her eyebrows raise so fast they nearly hit her hairline. Dragons only talk to their riders. That’s what Genevieve was taught. Despite whatever mate bond they have going on, Tairn should only talk to her. 

“It’s absolutely my business when you expect me to protect her,” Xaden retorts, his voice rising. 

“I got the message to you just fine, human.” Tairn’s head swivels in the snakelike motion that puts Genevieve on high alert. He’s more than agitated. 

“And I barely made it.” The words come out clipped through clenched teeth. “She would have been dead if I’d been thirty seconds later.”

“Seems like you had thirty seconds gifted to you.” Tairn’s chest rumbles with a growl. 

“And I’d like to know what the fuck happened in there!”

Genevieve inhales sharply. 

“I may hate him right now, but you said you wouldn’t flame him,” Genevieve reminds him, her words begging. “And he just saved me.” 

Tairn grumbles in response. 

“We need to know what happened in that room.” Xaden’s dark gaze cuts through Genevieve like a knife for a millisecond before he glares back at Tairn. 

“Don’t dare to try and read my rider or I, human, or you’ll regret it.” Tairn’s mouth opens, his tongue curling in a motion Genevieve knows well. She steps between the two, her gaze narrowing. 

What in Malek’s name does that mean?

“He’s just a little freaked out. Don’t scorch him.” 

“At least we agree on something.” A feminine voice sounds through Genevieve’s head. 

Sgaeyl. 

In awe, she blinks up at the navy blue dagger tail as Xaden moves to Genevieve’s side. 

“She talked to me.” 

“I know. I heard.” He folds his arms across his chest. For a moment he understood her second of frustration because that was his dragon, his beautiful blue dragon. “It’s because they’re mates. It’s the same reason you can feel my emotions. The same reason I’m chained to you.” 

“Don’t make it sound so pleasant.” She quips, her eyes never leaving Sgaeyl. 

“Gen, don’t do this right now,” he turns to face her. “But you and I are exactly that, Gen. We’re chained. Tethered. You die, I die, so I damn well deserve to know how one second that cadet was alive and the next he was on the floor dead as if his life was taken from him. Is that the signet power you’ve manifested with Tairn? Come clean. Now.” His eyes bore into hers as she finally moved from Sgaeyl. 

“I don’t know what happened,” She answered honestly. 

Xaden’s frustration simmers, his gaze sharp as he watches her, watches the flowers that seemed to have spring from the frost coated ground around her, the vines that snake up her legs. “You’re telling me you don’t know how you killed someone just by touching them?” 

Genevieve shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, her ribs aching with every breath. She truly didn’t know how to explain it. One moment she was fighting for her life, her body reacting on instinct—then there was a hold of energy, like something had snapped within her, and everything had unraveled. The cadet had fallen at her feet, eyes wide and unseeing. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her mind replays the scene-the surge of power, the warmth in her hands, the sudden absence of life. It hadn’t felt like her. It had felt other. A force she had no control over. 

Xaden grits his teeth, but before he can respond, Tairn lets out a low rumble that reverberates through the ground beneath their feet. The dragon’s golden eyes flicker between the two of them before settling on Genevieve. 

“It was your signet,” Tairn’s voice echoes in her mind, deep and resonant. “You are a life-weaver, Genevieve.” 

Her breath catches, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the sound of his words. Life-weaver? She had heard of rare signets that could manipulate the life force of others, but they were legends—whispers passed down by riders who had never known anyone strong enough to possess such power. 

Xaden’s hand reached out to her, and panic immediately flashed through her eyes. She took a step back, shaking her head. 

“No, no, you can’t touch me,” She says, her voice rising in panic and fear. “I don’t know what will- I didn’t mean to—” Her words falter as her gaze drops to her hands, still stained with the blood of the cadet. The memory of that fleeting connection with his life—how it had pulsed and then slipped away like sand through her fingers—burns fresh in her mind. She had taken it, without even realizing it. 

Sgaeyl shifts, her broad wingspan stretching, casting a shadow over the group as her voice cuts in, smoother and more refined than Tairn’s. “Your power, Genevieve, is not just in taking life. You can give it as well.” 

Her brows furrows in confusion, her heart pounding. Give life? The concept seems too foreign, too overwhelming. she had always seen herself as someone who had survived by taking—taking control, taking lives, taking what was necessary to keep herself from falling apart. The idea of giving, of restoring life, feels impossible. 

“How… how do you know that?” She asks, her voice small. 

Sgaeyl’s eyes gleam as she tilts her head, her voice patient but firm. “It is in your nature, Genevieve. You want nothing more to live, and signets are manifestations of a rider's truest desires. In time, you will learn to control it.”

Xaden is still beside her, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Genevieve and his dragon. He seems torn between awe and concern, his dark eyes glancing between Tairn and Sgaeyl before settling on Genevieve once again. 

“And what happens if she doesn’t?” Xaden asks, his voice low. There’s a tension in his tone, a hint of fear that Genevieve hasn’t heard before.

Sgaeyl’s gaze sharpens, her voice no longer gentle. “If she cannot master her power, the consequences will be devastating. For her and those around her.” 

A chill runs down Genevieve’s spine. She can feel the weight of the warning in Sgaeyl’s words, the unspoken danger lurking beneath the surface of her newfound abilities. If she couldn’t control this power—this ability to manipulate life and death—then every touch, every moment of weakness could mean someone else’s end. The thought makes her stomach twist. 

“How do I control it?” She says, and she hopes her voice hasn’t cracked to give away the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to suppress. “How do I make sure I don’t hurt anyone else?” 

Tairn steps forward, his massive form towering over her as he speaks. “You will learn, Genevieve. But it will not be easy. This power comes at a cost—every life taken, every life restored, will demand something from you.” 

Xaden’s eyes darken at Tairn’s words, his protective instincts flaring. “What kind of cost?”

Tairn’s tail flicks, his eyes narrowing on Xaden before turning back to Genevieve. “That is for her to discover. The balance between life and death is delicate, and every choice will weigh on her soul.” 

Genevieve swallows hard, her mind racing. She wants to scream, to push the dragons and Xaden away, to shut out the overwhelming reality that her signet might be something far darker and more dangerous than she ever imagined. But there’s no escaping it now. This power is a part of her, whether she likes it or not. 

Xaden steps closer, his gaze softening as he looks down at her. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens… we’ll figure it out.” 

She looks up at him, her chest tight with emotion. The weight of what she has done, of what she might do in the future, threatens to crush her. But in his eyes, she sees something else—trust, perhaps, or maybe just a flicker of hope. Something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. 

“I’m not ready,” she whispers, her voice trembling. 

“You don’t have to be,” Xaden replies softly. His hand reaches for hers, and when his fingers lace through hers, she feels a warmth—life, not death—flow between them. But she immediately retracted hers, and watched as a flash of hurt echoed over his eyes. “We’ll take this one step at a time.” 

Tairn and Sgaeyl watched silently as the two stood there, connected by the fragile thread of shared understanding. Neither dragon speaks, but Genevieve can feel their presence, a steady and unwavering reminder that her journey has only just begun. She isn’t alone, not anymore. 

———————————————

The next morning, Liam Mairi was added to Genevieve’s squad, his own squad being dissolved as a result of him being one of three left. Amber Mavis was executed by Tairn’s fire for organizing an attack on a sleeping cadet, and Genevieve found herself face to face with the horrified eyes of her own squad mates. 

“So you killed them?” Sawyer asks, trying to get his facts straight. “With no weapons? Just your hands?”

“No,” Genevieve corrected. “I only killed one of them with my signet. The other two I stabbed. If you're going to look at me like I’m a monster, at least get your head out of the clouds and be realistic.” 

Sawyer glanced up and down, his eyes traveling from the unnaturally lush grass at her feet to her white hair. “What even is your signet? And what happened last night?” He asked again. 

“My signet is Life Weaving,” she said again. “Don’t ask me what it means, I have a day until Professor Carr starts training and then I learn what Life Weaving really is. And for the last time, I was attacked in my sleep by Oren and Amber Mavis and five other cadets. Two of them I murdered with a dagger and one of them I murdered just by touching him.” Her tone was final, and left no room for argument. “Now can you stop asking me? And I don’t like the face you’re making!”

“Gods, Genevieve,” Ridoc said, his voice low with a mix of admiration and fear. “You show up on the craziest dragon and now manifest the craziest signet?”

Genevieve stared at Ridoc, her eyes cold and calculating. His tone was laced with a sense of awe and apprehension, which only served to amplify her discomfort. She could sense the shift in the atmosphere around her squad—whispers and sideways glances punctuated the air as news of her signet traveled from person to person. They were both intrigued and frightened, and Genevieve didn’t need to be an inntinnsic to understand why. 

“Don’t get too caught up in the spectacle,” Genevieve said, her voice cutting through the murmur of the squad. “It’s not a show. It’s survival.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She could feel the vines growing up from her feet, twisting and winding up her legs and around her. The weight of her own abilities and the consequences of her decision were heavy on her shoulders, almost as heavily as Xaden’s gaze. 

Liam, who had been silent until now, still getting used to the squad, getting acquainted with the new people, nodded slowly. 

“You did what you had to do,” He says, and a flower blooms in the palm of her hand accidentally. “You didn’t want to kill them but you had to. And you’re alive now, isn’t that what matters?” 

“Exactly. I did what I had to do,” She shot a glare at Sawyer. “Now stop looking at me like that!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He says, putting his hands up in mock defense. “I just didn’t know everytime I high-fived you I was risking my life.” His voice carries a tone of joking play. 

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed at Sawyer’s attempt at humor, the flicker of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth despite herself. The tension in the air eased slightly, though the discomfort lingered beneath the surface. 

Liam’s thoughtful observation had brought a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, and Genevieve could see how the squad was beginning to adjust to the new dynamics. The lush grass beneath her feet seemed to pulse with the lingering energy of her confrontation from the night before, a reminder of both her power and her peril. 

Sawyer cleared his throat, his playful facade faltering as he looked around at the other squad members, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. “Alright, alright. I get it. No more questions about the ��craziest signet.’”

Ridoc, still with a glint of respect in his eyes, stepped forward. “We should focus on what’s ahead. We’ve got new training sessions starting soon, and we need to make sure we’re all on the same page. We go to the archives tomorrow, and then Genevieve and Sawyer start in Professor Carr’s class, so hopefully we can get some information on their signets.” 

The group nodded, everyone in agreement with the plan. 

“Alright team,” Rhiannon continued, stepping forward with her usual blend of authority and empathy. “Let’s put the past behind us and focus on the present. We need to be prepared for what’s coming. Signet training with Carr is going to beat Genevieve and Sawyer’s asses, so let’s get to it!”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the squad was united in their resolve. The previous night’s chaos had shaken them, but now there was a shared purpose in their eyes. Genevieve, though still reeling from the events, felt a flicker of something she hadn’t fully acknowledged—hope. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was there, nestled among the cracks of her hardened exterior. 

The squad’s camaraderie was palpable, a shared commitment to overcoming their trials together. the tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a cautious optimism. The lush grass around Genevieve continued to grow, a visual testament to her power and the new path she was forging. 

As they began to disperse, preparing for the day ahead, Genevieve felt her head clear for the first time since the attack.

Life really does go on after signet manifestation. 

——

Violet sat across from Genevieve at a secluded table in the archives, scribes that Violet knew, bustled around them, but Genevieve’s eyes were trained on the single book in between them. 

“I searched the entire archives and I could only find one thing on Life Weaving,” Violet says, “and it's from a guy who lived 400 years ago.”

“Great,” Genevieve groaned. The past few days had been hell for her, with everyone finding out what her signet is. From her squad, it was just her and Sawyer so far that had manifested their signets, and Professor Carr was of no help in figuring out what Life Weaving really meant, so she was on her own. Not to mention, she had been practically ignoring Xaden since October, now it was mid November, and the only time she had talked to him was when he came to save her. “Let me guess, it’s in some obscure language that only you or the scribes know, so I can’t even figure it out for myself.” 

“Let me finish.”Violet said, her voice snapping. “His name was Korrin Lysander, and according to this he’s the only other known Life Weaver, ever. Even then it was considered a rare and mythical power, even of the most skilled of riders.” Violet’s fingers gently brush over the worn pages, revealing a faded illustration of a man with pale eyes and pale hair, hand glowing with ethereal light as vines twisted behind him. “It’s said that Life Weavers can manipulate the very essence of life itself—both creating and destroying.” 

Genevieve leans in closer, her eyes scanning the text as Violet continues. “Lysander’s notes are vague at best. He describes it as a power tied to the rider’s deepest desires and emotions. He mentions something about ‘balancing the scales’ of life and death, but it’s mostly cryptic.” 

Liam appears from behind a bookshelf, pulling up a chair and sitting right next to Violet. Genevieve casts a sideways glance at how close the two of them are, but ultimately she ignores it, her fingers still trembling slightly as she turns the pages. The weight of the power she’s discovered presses heavily on her, each turn of the page feeling like a step deeper into the dark, uncertain path. 

“So this Life Weaving thing… it’s not just about killing, it’s about giving life?” Liam asks, snaking an arm around Violet. “And sorry, I searched all the old Tyrrish texts, but nothing. Sawyer and Ridoc are in the Luceran section, but no luck there either.” 

“Exactly,” Violet replies. “It seems like Lysander could heal as well as harm, but the specifics are unclear. Seems like his main mode of fighting was through rapidly growing vines and using them as whips or ropes. He also writes about the cost—how each act of weaving could take a toll on the rider’s own life force.” 

Genevieve’s brow furrowed as she absorbed the information, her mind racing with the implications. The idea that every time she used her signet, it could drain her, chip away at her own life, sent a chill down her spine. The thought of losing herself bit by bit, becoming weaker each time she saved someone else, felt like another chain around her neck. 

“So, I could heal people, but it’d drain me in the process?” Genevieve’s voice was quieter than she intended, her fingers tracing the faded ink of the ancient pages. She already carried the weight of her survival, the guilt of who she’d had to become to stay alive. But not, the possibility that her power could take even more from her—strip away her life—was overwhelming. 

Violet glanced at her, her expression more sympathetic than usual. “It seems that way. Lysander’s writings are frustratingly vague, but I had Jesenia help me, and we found that there’s enough here to suggest that in order to be able to take you need to give too, and giving is easier than taking. It does suggest that the power isn’t infinite though, the more you use it, the more it could cost. It’s all about balance—creating life, taking life, it all seems to go hand in hand.”

Genevieve swallowed hard, leaning back in her chair. The tension between her and Xaden over the past few weeks had been like a boulder pressing on her chest, and now, with this new layer of uncertainty, she felt even more isolated. It had been bad enough when her squad found out about her signet, the fear and awe in their eyes as she realized what she was capable of. But now, learning that the very thing that had saved her life in that brutal moment could also lead to her undoing…

“How in Malek’s name am I supposed to balance something like that?” Genevieve muttered, running a hand through her dark hair. “What if I can’t control it?”

Violet doesn’t respond immediately, instead, flipping another page and scanning the text. “You’re definitely not the first person to feel that way,” she finally said. “Lysander writes about the early days of his power, when he was terrified of using it, afraid that he’d lose control. But he learned!”

Genevieve scoffed softly, her skepticism cutting through her fear. “That’s great in theory. But Lysander had time. I don’t.” 

Liam, still seated close to Violet, finally spoke up again. “That’s why we’re here, right? To figure this out before something happens. And you won’t be on your own. You’ve got us.” 

Genevieve glanced at him, her lips twitching with a hint of a smile. Liam’s loyalty was something she could always count on, even when everything else seemed uncertain. But the truth was, this was a path she’d have to walk largely alone. Life Weaving was rare, mythical even. No one, not even her friends, could truly understand what it felt like to have this burden. 

Except Xaden. Shadow wielding was almost as rare as Life Weaving. He would know. 

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with gratitude and exhaustion. “I know.” 

But the unease lingered, heavy and suffocating. The memory of that night—of the cadets lying lifeless at her feet, of the vines she hadn’t even realized she’d summoned—flashed in her mind, and a part of her wondered how much of her life had already been taken. 

“What now?” Liam asked, breaking the silence. “Do we keep searching? I could go back and run through the Tyrrish section again, just to see if anything is stashed away?” 

Violet shook her head. “There’s no point. We’ve combed the archives top to bottom. If there’s anything more on Life Weaving, it’s buried so deep no one’s found it in centuries.” 

“Maybe she could practice on Ridoc?” Liam proposed, his voice light, as usual. “Kill him quickly and then revive him. He’d never know the difference.” 

“Be quiet!” Violet said, lightly hitting him on the arm. 

Genevieve’s hands tightened into fists on her lap. She could feel her chest tightening, her breaths shallow. Her instincts were screaming for action, for something to fight against, but there was no enemy in sight—just this invisible force tying her to a power she didn’t understand. 

“I need time,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I need to figure this out before it kills me or one of you.” She stood abruptly, pushing back the chair and grabbing the book, clutching it tightly as if it held the key to her survival. 

Violet stood as well, placing a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “It won’t-”

“Don’t touch me!” Genevieve said loudly, earning a harsh shush from one of the scribes nearby. Violet immediately retracted her hand, mumbling a quick sorry. 

“You don’t have to do this alone, Genevieve. We’ll figure it out together. Xaden will—”

”Don’t,” Genevieve cut her off again, her voice sharp. “Xaden and I… we’re not..” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The weight of their last encounter still hung heavily between them, unresolved and festering. She couldn’t think about him now, not when she didn’t know how to even deal with herself. 

Violet hesitated but nodded. “Just… don’t shut him out forever. He cares more than he lets on. And he’s literally in your head, all day every day, you can’t avoid him.”

Genevieve didn’t reply, her focus already shifting to the book in her hands. she needed answers—needed to understand what she had become. The path ahead was dark, but it was hers to walk, even if it meant risking everything in the process. 

————————————————

Hello all! I’m back a day early with this chapter, just because all of a sudden I’m getting a lot of love on this work, and I want to keep you all happy (make you all watch Genevieve slowly descend into a self-dedicating madness).

Either way, I’m going to update again on Wednesday this week with Chapter 12, and then Chapter 13 next Saturday or Sunday, but I want to know- I wrote chapter 13 with a little smut (😬) and it’s my first attempt ever so It sucks, do you still want me to post that?If no one says no I’ll post it with a warning LMAO.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and what do you think of her signet? I spent so much time thinking about it, and it’s definitely very much based off of the fates from Greek mythology. Please like and leave a comment on what you thought! Thank you~

[wintermoth]

So I just saw The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and i gotta say, they did a damn good job.

But I'm not altogether happy with how much they changed the Games from how they played out in the book. I get needing to condense them for runtime and I get needing to change certain things like having cameras in the tunnels. The 10th Games were literally bursts of activity followed by hours upon hours of nothing because they couldn't see underground.

But it's the progression of events, the kill order & swapping of kills, and the omission of events which bothers me. Rest under the cut cos Long Post.

First of all: the Bloodbath. In the book, there is no Bloodbath. The kids literally grabbed supplies and hauled ASS to safety. You know. Like terrified children would. I personally think it was a mistake having the Bloodbath at all but I'm guessing some studio execs pulled rank on this one. >_>

Weaponizing the drones was something which...should've only worked once but whatever.

Coral getting properly fleshed out to be the main antagonist in the arena? Cool shit. They combined various aspects of other characters like Treech (7) and Teslee (3) into her. It gives us someone to root against and, narratively, I understand why they did it. She wasn't someone who'd trained her whole life like, say, Cato. She was just a kid who was doing what she thought she had to to get home. She was a bully, yeah, but not a villain.

Dill dying to the poison instead of her illness...um okay? This one I really don't get. IMO Lucy Gray seeing little Wovey die to the poison as she did in the books would've been much harder on her and the audience considering earlier events. Deadass, I think it was their way of dealing with the Reaper Problem - more on this in a minute Wovey's death was a cheap attempt at shock value and, surprise, no one was shocked. EVERYONE knew that container was bad news--audience, capitol, tributes--except perhaps Wovey herself. We'll blame the trauma.

And as for Lucy Gray herself, of her three book kills, one was removed entirely, and two were changed. The first being Dill instead of Wovey. The second being the way in which she killed Treerch. She was supposed to use a snake mutt as a weapon which she'd protected and hidden in her dress--which served as both a callback to her Reaping with the mayor's daughter.....and a premonition of what would eventually happen in the woods outside 12. And she was supposed to outwit/outmaneuver Reaper, which was removed entirely.

So, Reaper Ash. Big guy from District 11. The Thresh of these games. It's like they didn't know what to do with him. They dedicated his little screen time before the Games to making it clear he was 100% That Bitch and there were several lines (most from Lucky) indicating he was a strong contender. One of a handful of instances of Checkov's Gun, a rule of writing which states if you're going to call attention to a detail, it better fucking be important.

Allow me to summarize book events for those of you who don't know: The night before the Games, he apologizes to the surviving tributes for having to kill them and Jessup, who has rabies, spits in his eye. At the start of the Games, he was one of the few to run to get weapons at the start and was ready to fight, but everyone else was gone. So he heads out to hunt them down. Reaper was the only one proactively looking for a fight. Later, Reaper finds Dill down in the tunnels and carries her out into the open and lays her down in the sun because she's dying already and he's not going to kill her. He leaves her to her own devices and moves on. The next time we see him, he mercifully lets Lucy Gray flee from him. Afterwards, he strikes up an agreement with Lamina, the girl from 7, who's cleverly holed up high off the ground, and shows himself to pragmatic, fair, and good to his word.

Lamina warns him of oncoming tributes and he flees. When he eventually returns, he finds her and another murdered. Incensed, he begins assembling his morgue. During this, he uses part of a Capitol flag to make himself a cape, which makes him happy. The next day, he added Wovey to his morgue. When the Snakes are released into the arena, he is out of the line of fire, up in the stands, and survives.

By now, though, the rabies is really starting to affect him. He continues to obsessively add to and protect his morgue. On the last day, when Lucy Gray tries to add the third place tribute to it, he scares her off. But it's just them now and he doesn't even try to kill her. All he cares about is maintaining the morgue and keeping their bodies covered. He is eventually run ragged by Lucy Gray, who knows he's sick, and meets his end by drinking a poisoned puddle. He crawls to his morgue and dies. Lucy Gray wins.

In the movie, there's a Bloodbath and kids start killing each other, and he's right in there with them. We see him throw down ONLY to defend Dill. Then they just kinda....disappear. And they stay disappeared throughout everything which follows. None of his moments with the other tributes occur. When they emerge, Dill is significantly ahead of him--which tbh makes little sense since, as her protector, he reasonably should've gone out first to ensure it's safe--and dies by drinking poison. He is devastated and screams dramatically. He then begins to make his morgue and offend the capitol by disrespecting the flag before making a big dramatic speech to the cameras daring them to punish him. He apparently stays by his morgue for the rest of the day and when the snake mutts get dropped into the arena, he is keenly aware of the danger. He warns Wovey away, though she doesn't listen. He is almost immediately engulfed by the snakes. He holds still, sits up straight and tall, closes his eyes, then falls forward dead, followed swiftly by the remaining tributes except Lucy Gray.

So, that being said.

Book Reaper's story is a young man who expected to win and was prepared to do it, only for his degenerating mind to focus on protecting the dignity of the murdered children around him. His death was ignoble.

Movie Reaper's story is a young man who expected to win and was prepared to do it, but was also determined to protect his weak district partner with his life, and upon losing her, presents the Capitol both middle fingers. His death was ignoble.

I get why they cut the rabies plotline for the movie. It definitely saved time.....and it REALLY wouldn't look good if the filmmakers had both black guys die of rabies. Just saying. What bothers me about his movie story is just how unfulfilling it was. Going back to Checkov's Gun, he was supposed to be a Threat. And then he just. Wasn't. All for a over-dramatic and tbh unnecessary moment of glory.

so yeah that's my two cents.

anyway go see the movie.

[voidcat]

Thought about convincing Narumi to dress up as Spirit Blossom Thresh and Evelynn for Halloween, stumbling into a hall or an empty room far late into the night, both of you tipsy and everyone else shitfaced drunk and sloppily making out

Him realizing you’re more receptive and touchy than usual and it’s not just the booze then it /hits/ him. “Babe… are you… do you have the hots for thresh?” And you’re trying to play it off, you really do, but he has this lopsided grin on his face now, partially proud of catching a detail like this, partially frustrated that you got the hots for a video game character- one from a game the two of you play no less

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten this wet for Thresh” he teases you, escaping your attempts at trying to keep him quiet. Then you mumble something, voice really low and your mouth pressed against his neck, your hands still wandering over his bare chest.

He leans further into you, ear facing your face “Ah-hah. What was that now?”

You catch his earlobe between your lips, teeth grazing at the tender flesh, drawing a moan from the man. “it’s spirit blossom thresh” you whisper the words into his ear.

Maybe he’s not as in control as he thought he was. Sure, he cornered you, even for a second maybe, but it’s the small victories, no? Either way, he knows this night will only end in ways satisfying you both so does it really matter who’s above whom?

“What’s that so hot about the guy, huh?” He teeths at your lips, hands firm on your waist to keep you fixed. Biting at your lips, he feels you suck something in, then inhale deeply.

Narumi tests iron on your lips then the realization dawns on him. Shit, you did picked up at your skin today, didn’t you? Your lip must be bleeding. And yet, he finds it difficult in him to pull back. And you don’t seem to care either. Instead, you bite into his skin, provoking him further. It’s going to leave a mark, he thinks.

And maybe that’s what you want from him.

One of his hands wanders south, groping at your flesh, feeling you up, lingering by your groin and slowly making his way around. “Don’t tell me you got all aroused-“ he says in between kisses, and is answered by your tongue forcing its way in to his mouth.

You must think it’s enough that you pull back and slow down your mouth’s assault on his. Couldn’t have been more wrong in your entire life if you thought he’d let this drop.

“-At the thought of spirit of obsession- at the sight of me dressed as him” he finishes his sentence like he was never interrupted and your hands halt in their place.

A grin creeps up on his face again at your reaction. Eyes casted to the side, your hand slightly grazes over the nape of his neck, pondering, thinking.

When you face him, something in your expression has shifted. Your free hand grabs his hand and brings it to your chest, groping at the muscle there.

“And what if I did?” You say, tilting your head to the side. The noise of the party still feels a distance away yet the low, colorful lights illuminate your face at a different angle now. Suddenly, you seem more like your costume than anything- mischief and a glint of something more in your gaze.

The motions of your hand is bolder now, adding pressure. Nails dragging against his skin and sending a jolt down his spine. Narumi feels heat building up and spreading all over his body and by his side he can feel something slowly rising

“What if I want a pretty man to be obsessed with me?” You say and hook your leg around his, pulling him into you in one go, crashing your lips to his once more

[marydithart]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞 - 𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮 "Ominous clouds, torn apart, unleashing a torrent of rain. Then, an unrelenting typhoon, connecting the heavens once again. Finally it shows its form: A hurricane made flesh. Bringing death through gale and storm, a dragon god ready to thresh."

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

The sands are repetitive, despite Laudna's best efforts to catalogue the differences – trying to allow each grain to wear its own hue, oil-slick petrol rainbow under the mid-day sun, rippled from sandstorm residue and snakes’ belly dancing, heat hazing horizon.

But it all replicates, barren, bleak, another blister to the sole from a charcoaled burn on Exandria’s surface.

Imogen's focus is elsewhere, on staving off exhaustion. She’s quiet. It leaves Laudna with too much mind to paint herself in the tattered black skirt guise of the desert.

Imogen stops for the fourth time in a short amount of it, hand to her hip retrieving then removing the cork stopper from her waterskin with her teeth before dabbing its contents onto her neckerchief, patting it over the exposed skin of her chest and forehead before she ties it back around her neck, bright yellow hue ambered.

Laudna has been studying. Deciphering what is adult human behaviour and what is Imogen. Comparing quirks against necessity, can argue the case for accommodating, for blending in.

Their pace has been slower than usual, much slower, and it must only be early afternoon, but Imogen’s waterskin is almost drained, and of course, Laudna will happily give Imogen her own supply, undoubtedly, but she fears that there is a quite likely reality where even double her ration will not be enough, is unsure of the amount of days travel ahead thanks to empty horizons.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?”

“huh?” Imogen pushes her hair off of her forehead with the heel of her palm, revealing all of the perspiration congregating at the roots of her hairline, percolating at her temples.

“The heat…”

Just a moment later and she is ruffling her fingertips through the front of her scalp, causing the lengths of lilac locks to cascade back over her forehead and cover more of her face from the sun.

“I can’t lie - I’ve been fantasizin’ about bein’ back in that forest during the rainstorm.”

That forest where Imogen had built them a shelter, had dried Laudna out, and as her thanks she had rouged Imogen’s lips with elf cup stain that her ichor blighted, answered her questions as if her intricacies were reward enough-

Imogen’s eyes squint from the bright light, or possibly the salty sweat that has gathered in the corners of them – probably both.

“Perhaps we should be travelling in the night and early morning. Let’s rest and try to make cover.”

Imogen shifts her weight between her feet, stepping from one onto the other, dancing on hot coals.

“I won’t say no.”

Laudna is just as grateful for that placation as she was for the one that had lead her finger to the swell of Imogen’s lip, maybe more. 

The sand is hot. The sand is hot so Imogen can’t stay still. The sand is so hot that the heat transfers through the soles of her shoes, so it must transfer through her dress, her shorts, through the pile of their blanket. Laudna gathers sticks, branches, has no need for kindling. Laudna gathers tangled brush and bark from dead wood and dried up shrubs and weaves them all together like a nest, instinct maternal, infertile, basket weaver, furnishings gathered in the back of a butcher’s cart. They build it together (the shelter, not a nest, not a basket, not a home), Laudna arranging the twigs like plaited threshing and Imogen driving longer, more substantial branches into the ground, energy exerting, muscle and flesh sculpture shadows exaggerated under sun four posts for canopy tarpaulin and perspiring profusely and Laudna wishes that maybe her lungs could hold a much greater capacity, that she could walk the two of them, Imogen wrapped under arm-awning’ed shade of her cloak and fanned by cold breaths like a draught from under a snow-capped cabin’s door.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

John the Baptist Prepares the Way

1 In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, Pontius Pilate being governor of Judea, and Herod being tetrarch of Galilee, and his brother Philip tetrarch of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene, 2 during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah in the wilderness. 3 And he went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 4 As it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet,

“The voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. 5 Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall become straight, and the rough places shall become level ways, 6 and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”

7 He said therefore to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? 8 Bear fruits in keeping with repentance. And do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ For I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children for Abraham. 9 Even now the axe is laid to the root of the trees. Every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”

10 And the crowds asked him, “What then shall we do?” 11 And he answered them, “Whoever has two tunics is to share with him who has none, and whoever has food is to do likewise.” 12 Tax collectors also came to be baptized and said to him, “Teacher, what shall we do?” 13 And he said to them, “Collect no more than you are authorized to do.” 14 Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what shall we do?” And he said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or by false accusation, and be content with your wages.”

15 As the people were in expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Christ, 16 John answered them all, saying, “I baptize you with water, but he who is mightier than I is coming, the strap of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. 17 His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

18 So with many other exhortations he preached good news to the people. 19 But Herod the tetrarch, who had been reproved by him for Herodias, his brother's wife, and for all the evil things that Herod had done, 20 added this to them all, that he locked up John in prison. — Luke 3:1-20 | English Standard Version (ESV) The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Cross References: Exodus 20:16; Exodus 23:1; Isaiah 30:24; Isaiah 40:3-4 and 5; Isaiah 42:16; Isaiah 58:7; Ezekiel 18:7; Ezekiel 33:24; Matthew 3:3; Matthew 3:5-6 and 7; Matthew 3:8-9; Matthew 3:11-12; Matthew 4:12; Matthew 7:19; Matthew 12:34; Matthew 14:1; Matthew 14:3; Matthew 14:6; Matthew 16:7; Matthew 21:32; Matthew 26:3; Mark 1:2-3; Mark 1:7-8; Mark 6:17; Mark 9:48; Luke 1:16; Luke 2:30; Luke 7:29; Luke 13:6-7; John 1:19-20; John 3:24; Acts 2:37-38; Acts 20:2; Romans 12:8

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What Is the Fruit That Befits Repentance?

[ms-scarletwings]

Oh,

to sink down in the tower and weep

as the fury of Her pain rips through my flesh

and the weight of her despair takes me under

and leaves behind my bones

like her false stones, forgotten on the shore.

Would She hear my prayer, or does She sleep

Far beneath the sand and seaward thresh?

Did her sisters tear her forever

asunder

could she be made less alone

if I followed her to be forgotten, another memory deplored?

Oh,

To dunk my head into that reddened stream

and float in the tunnels beyond the bounds

where the lost ones linger, and mutter, and

wallow in their past

and speaking without hearing,

forever stuck in another time.

Would I wallow too, stuck between the world and a dream;

Only by the next new trespasser to be found?

Would I join them to murmur and muse and idle while I rasp

Drinking it, always fearing

made too a prisoner of my mind?

Oh,

To be the offering laid at your feet, willingly or not

Or perhaps the reluctant acolyte breaking the earth.

Should I have been the keeper lapping from your well?

Or would you rather me as the blood within,

carried from the husk between your roots?

As either I’d learn the song of the trees, of bugs and rot.

I would be faithful to the soil, wrought to fill its dearth.

As either I’d know the sights of graves and bloodbells.

Imagine what beauty that’d flourish from the flavor of my sin,

If I joined the whispers beneath my boots.

Oh,

To follow the path that you carved for me,

the one that rounds the hill and leads to your home.

To bow at your throne of tendons and jaws,

and flayed by my welcoming host’s hands;

I’ll be stripped of skin, unwound, unraveled.

Certainly at once in hers I would truly be

as snug as the grub laid to fester in wasp’s comb,

Twsited and formed anew, witnessing with awe

as my fodder inspires someone else’s plans.

What a family I’ll find, down a road untraveled.

Oh,

To pursue you down to your starving center,

to feel the teeth clamp down and crush,

to be your hapless dweller betrayed

and feel the acid’s unforgiving burn.

Just how would your vengeance taste?

“So, so sorry” I may cry, too late to realize what I’ve done wrong.

What if I could be foolish enough to enter

and vivisect you from foundation to truss

and become your cruel traitor repaid,

given the punishment I must deserve?

A vagrant morsel, a hungry house: both wastes.

“Finally again,” we may sigh,

“evermore to someone I belong”

[eilinelsghost]

Many Sentences Monday

Tagged by @thelordofgifs to share the last six sentences or the last sentence I wrote. I shall combine the two and share the last seven because otherwise this thing stops mid-stanza and we can't have that.

Bëor is at it again with the Atani lore in this installment, this time in song:

To sickle’s sound our tongues will sing a threshing song, a cadence bring to flail and scythe. We sound the drum as fly the grains amid the hum of voices hoarse.

Now beat the grain as tell the wise of Tässil fair and Satheweis who saw him there in golden fields and there at once his heart did yield to death’s fell course.

The god of Song, the Speech divine, did founder then as though with wine besotted. Swift he donned the shroud of flesh as quiet Tässil plowed through choking gorse.

He follows him. And in the gloaming goes to him, the music roaming through the grasses and the rye. Bewildered, Tässil lifts his eye and knows the source.

Tagging @searchingforserendipity25, @sallysavestheday, @welcomingdisaster, and @actual-bill-potts if this sounds fun!

[41eb-yuu]

Spared Ribs

(Originally posted on Facebook)

For when God had thought to create a man, He made him with clay.

He took from the earth of where we come from and shared him His display.

A pair of eyes to see the beauty of the tallest of trees to the deepest of seas.

He carved out ears to listen to the earth such as the humming of the breeze.

He gifted the sense of feeling, to touch and feel with the heart's rhythm.

He sculpted lips to sing Him praises, and taste the goodness of Him.

On his face, He molded him a nose in order to bring life to man.

A single breath is what it took, He blew into him and that's how it all began.

And life in man flourished, a steward to God's creations on earth.

Yet emptiness grew and the silence was loud from man's birth

For man was still lonely treading the grounds he came forth.

And the sun was not there in the night to provide man warmth.

Seeing this dilemma, God provided him company in every way He can.

He plucked from clouds, made feathery friends that took to the sky for man.

Filled the oceans with animals to disturb the waters' mundane dance.

And created creatures on land that aided His steward on his prance.

Yet it did nothing to alleviate the lonesomeness the fields provided.

Rather, it opened man's eyes to the absence of help as he resided.

So God had put him to a slumber ever so deep due to his somber.

For the longing of man had made him look ghastly, almost macabre.

As the man slept, God opened his chest where his heartache resides.

Upon hearing the heartbeat, he took from his ribs that caused feelings to divide.

From His likeness once more, he took inspiration to create another

With the man's ribs, he took flesh and sculpted a woman unlike any other.

And with this, through the bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh,

The two were now separated like grain and plant through thresh.

Man had become an incomplete symphony as he awoke from his sleep.

And with half of what he used to be, yet never more complete, he weeps.

For no longer was he alone to fathom the wonder of the creations of God,

No longer would he have to single handedly spill sweat and blood.

For there was that to share every experience, every feeling together

With her who would stay faithful and loyal to him, her very partner.

And mayhaps that is but the feeling of longing when I am far from you.

That God took ribs from man for incomplete pieces to go to

That through the union of the two, flesh becomes one and complete.

So one shall traverse across the lands for loneliness to be obsolete.

[empyrean-thrones]

I have a question about your M’eudial series (which I love by the way🥰🥰). In the 4th part, Naolin talks about how that isn’t his real name and he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing it.

Will that be elaborated on in a later fic and will we ever learn his real name?

And secondly, where did you get the idea for the Rigai and the whole plot/lore around it because it is bomb and I literally just consider it and Nao’s backstory canon now.

Again, love you works and thank you for taking the time to answer!😁

Omg thank you so much!!! I’m glad you love this series!

And it’s funny you sent this ask because I was just talking about this with a friend a few minutes before you sent it. I plan on writing a fic where they get married so it’ll definitely be mentioned in there at some point. 🥰

The Rigai is partially based off of the Morrigan from Irish mythology. She serves as a harbinger of death who typically appears to riders and fliers alike (though Navarre doesn’t recognize her as a god). She usually just pops in to say “hey, you’re gonna die in x days. Just a heads up.” Sometimes she takes the souls the stillborn and infants, but mostly stays around soldiers since they die more often. Occasionally, she can be bartered with, but gambling with your life is usually advised against due to the high cost. She’s also close pals with Malek.

But the plot of that story came to me in a bout of panic because it was for a fic exchange and I had a real bad case of writer’s block. Eventually, I said “fuck it” and went with Naolin’s death scene since I had literally hours before the deadline hit. As soon as I got off work I rushed to my computer and started typing like a madman lol. I’d already planned for Naolin to be from Poromiel before then; I just couldn’t find a way to incorporate it into my story.

Originally, it was going to be a time loop story where he kept repeating his time at Basgiath + deployment years up until the Tyrrish Rebellion. Every time he died, the loop would reset back to the day before Threshing. I recycled the idea into a part of the Deep End since it’d take longer for me to flesh out.

I know if we get any canon shit about Naolin, it might completely override the M’eudail series, but shh. Canon died with Liam. We write our own lore in this household.

[yumesei]

Heyaaa, for the ask game :3 🍓, 🥀, 🍁 and 🍉, for Thresh 🖤

Thanks for the ask Lotus <33

🍓 what's your favorite thing you own in real life that reminds you of/is about your F/O?

I answered this one here !

🥀 are there any flaws your F/O has that scare/upset/disgust you and flaws you hate/don't like that they have?

We both know that Thresh has a lot of flaws : he's a sadist, narcissist, manipulative, cold-blooded killer, and the list goes on... But I don't dislike it nor does it disgust me. I love him as he is and he wouldn't be the character I love if he wasn't exactly such a bastard :'3

🍁 are the any headcanons/"interpretations" of your F/O that the general fandom has that you like/love?

I think his fanbase has really good takes on him/understand his character in general so that's makes me happy. That said, I once heard someone said that he would usually fuck in his unbound form but will do it in his wraith form when he's angry to scare you and that kinda stuck to me (in a good way), even tho I don't see him being particularly attracted to sex you know, it was just pretty hot as an headcanon 🤧

🍉 are there any headcanons/"interpretations" of your F/O that the general fandom has that you don't like/hate?

Not headcanons per se, and as I said before I think the fandom understand him pretty well in general. BUT, when unbound came out, people were sooooo dumb about it. Screaming everywhere about how Thresh having a human form doesn't make sense for his character since he says that "flesh in a prison". And I could talk for hours about when he says that, he doesn't mean flesh in itself (even tho mortality is constricting, but even then having a human disguise doesn't make him mortal again), he means how human morality stopped him from doing what he wanted when he was human, that's the whole thing about him in the Ruination book, he doesn't care about what he's made of/what he looks like, he only cares about what he can get away with.

Plus actual flesh being bad is literally Mordekaiser character so idk why they bring that to Thresh.

[tealbeats-archived]

@spiritlantern sent: ❛ i'm sorry, what was that? i can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making. ❜

Green locks; vibrant verdant; splayed underneath his head like a holy crown; light skin coloured in vibrant shades of violets and reds; hips decorated with similar bruises from sharp claws that had dug into his supple flesh. Bare of all clothing; his flesh was all presented for the spirit to see and to use.

Ezreal’s voice echoes from every thrust that is slammed into him. He can feel those claws now dig into the supple flesh of his legs as their pushed back for the spirit to his deeper within him; Ezreal’s hands bound above his head by chains; cold against his warm skin and tight enough to keep him from wriggling free. There were several attempts to speak; always seemingly cut off when Thresh managed to hit such a sensitive little spot and cause all critical thinking to leave Ezreal’s mind if only for a moment.

“F—fuck—“ it’s difficult for him to get his words out; skin flushed crimson and heart pounding so hard in his chest that he could feel it wanting to leave it’s confinements. His teeth grit down; he’d let the spirit consume him ( metaphorically—or perhaps it was literal now? He didn’t know. ), but that didn’t mean Thresh was immune to Ezreal’s behaviour.

“I s—said—“ the youth sputters out his words as his body trembles from movement, gritting his teeth down to suppress a whine that managed to escape anyway as his body writhed and arched underneath Thresh’s own, citrine gaze half lidded as he stared up at him; exhaling shakily through his nostrils.

“T—this is nothing—“ Bratty behaviour was not uncommon, even when his body had already submitted to the Spirit; evident by the way Ezreal’s inner sanctum squeezed tightly onto Thresh’s cock; or the way that Ezreal’s face was contorted in pleasure—they both knew he now belonged to Thresh—but Ezreal was still willing to try and keep up with his little game, regardless of how close he was to his second orgasm or however many more were to come. Moans cut through the silence between any words that the smaller tried to sputter out; knowing his resolve was breaking.

“Y…y’can do…haaaah—way better then this, Thresh—“ he taunts him; half lidded gaze glossed over. “S’nothing…I could…fall asleep—nnngh—right h-here—“

[chaotic-zora]

Hhhhhh been fleshing out Thresh's Domain lore for awhile now. So far I have the usurper King, a warrior who overthrew the previous royals and corrupt council after Nyvor's sentence (Thresh leaving had a domino effect). He has no noble blood and is unmated so his reign is largely contested, but the zora of their domain love him and refuse to accept any other.

Then there is his advisor/diplomat zora, the mastermind behind the coup, who is essentially a shadow leader. They are a retired captain with a sharp mind who during his time fighting, wielded powerful ice magic over weapons. Though he is still able to use ice magic in times of need, it puts a huge strain on his mind and body.

Many in Thresh's Domain worship the Giants of Termania (changed the giants to match the respective races of each area, so Zora, Deku, Goron, and the undead of Ikana). Though not located in Termania (and if following Majoras Mask lore Termania exists in a parallel world), the legend of the four giants prevail to this day in Thresh's Domain.

It is said that you can contact the giants during sleep, when the veils between realms are the thinnest. If you sacrifice something of yourself, the giant may grant you amplified abilities. The greater the sacrifice the better the amplification. Nyvor, did this to amplify his healing abilities (sacrificed his venom glands and swore an oath to never fight). The advisor did this to amplify his ice magic abilities. Thresh did this too (lol heres my fish tities thanks for taking them, win win). And the usurper King is an avid worshiper (borderline zealot? Frequently makes offerings of his own blood. Healers are exhausted by his antics).

Whether or not it actually works ....no one knows. But those that have done this swear their abilities feel different afterwards, and that the respective giant they met visits them in their sleep during times of need.

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

For one word prompts, I'm finally seeing some green in my garden again, so: Sage?

Oh, of course you know how to appeal to me. I hope this brings the vibes <3 ~

There was a variety of sage (still is, most likely) - sanctified – a herb that they would dry hanged from the rafters and tie into bundles like broomstick bristles, its own fibrous stem knotted in noose around the neck and ankles of the bale, burnt at the stakes and raised pitchforks to sweep away the wicked.

The smoke was what woke her, herbaceous floral distress signal, thrown through the open (paneless) window, accompanied by salt and circle.

They hoped to lure her out the front ‘door’ - she concluded with groggy post-dream clarity - strategized to trap her between saline force field and stone and mortar.

She stumbled over herself, gathered her few possessions. In time shorter the flames carpeted the threshing covering the floor, climbed into her bed to alight the straw stuffing the mattress, exorcised from there to cross exposed rafters to the mossy thatching comprising the roof-

She left through the vacant fireplace.

From a distance fled she observed the thick grapevine coiling of smoke as it billowed out above the forest canopy from a chimney that had crumbled decades ago.

Fire-licked masonry, tattered and scorched fabrics. Perhaps their malice left the cabin more befitting, well-suited, paralleled - outfitted in ash grey skin and soot ichor stains. The hunting party retreated but she could not return. She wondered who would take up residence in the hollow shell - as such a body must be an invite, must be a vessel (at least that was a lesson she was soon to learn) - but who would cohabitate with the spiders, birds, and other small mammals?

The thick smoke filtered through the pines

All of her grievances aside (packed away once again with her bedroll and cauldron), it smelt rather wonderful-

~

There was another sage (surely must be, still) - common - cultivated in window boxes and allotments, the leaves torn to marinade meats, to infuse healing balms, unbiased towards the dead or the living, transmuting itself for both in order to permeate soft tissue.

Laudna would grab handfuls of the silver-furred leaves; amass them in pocket-lint-lined-bundles of potpourri. Crushed the sage between her fingers, rubbed it on her pulse points, tied it with red twine dried in parcels of cheesecloth that she decorated around her person. Loose in her coin pouch, trinkets, her spell component satchel too, sewn into Pâté’s stuffing, flattened behind her belts and tucked into the front of her bodice and trampled in the soles of her shoes-

Never sure if it was necessity or in her head, not like when she wore flushing and sweating flesh, saturated, awkward teenager dealing with the stubborn stench of puberty or drenched in the fragrance of a farm-girl-butcher’s-daughter composting straw manure and coagulated pigs’ blood –

-not the perfume of The Ladies, certainly, refined with their age, aged mahogany liquor barrel vintage sophisticated palate, finery of silks satin lace velvet layers stored in lacquered marquetry hardwood armoires and mausoleum-sized wardrobes, aired in gilded vase and bouquet’ed marble surroundings, chandeliers ornately framed paintings in alabaster hallways-

She would feel rather self-conscious of it; of her differences - but continued her play with the worms in the forest regardless.

Then, for a short time, she slept with them.

Or rather, she woke to fall onto a heap moving with them, dancing drunken room-spin carpet shag pile of maggots and flies and mosquitoes and pillows of other larvae unidentified, turning familiar faces into fertiliser.

She was not sure if it was the memory, or the actual (un)working order of things

Permanently rotting 

Hard to smell past the end of a decomposing nose

Perhaps it wasn’t so hard to tell for others?

Every time she passed the plant she filled her pockets and hands - ironically unaware of how time had stilled, that she was embalming herself - hoping it would fight the trauma-ever-present smell, that she could throw off the(ir) scent.

~

There is a sage that blooms violet throughout the summer - wild - like early humid evenings with head thrown back in laughter and perspiration jeweling tanned neck, clouds underlit and voluminous as purple-sunset tousled hair.

Imogen points it out with inquisition; at the gatherings of spears of blossoms lanced into soil growing not far from the bank of a river in the sun-bleached and crunching-under-foot tall grasses of an open field.

Seeds from dried out flower heads are carried along the docile breeze, ashes falling in hazing-heat ground fog, smithing dandelion diamond rings to decorate the fingers of the willows that lazily wave, bid farewell to the jewellery that doesn’t fit, allowing it to marry elsewhere between clumps over the grass and charms accumulated at the banks of the gently moving river.

“D’ya know what this is? Smells good.”

She kneels down with her palm held open to the purple blooming sage, presentory, skin offering the tan lines above her knees exposed from the displacement of the tops of her tall leather boots, a dandelion seed catching in the mass of her mane like a feather, her hand not designated to indicating specimen shading above one of her eyes squinted shut and the corner of her mouth raised baring teeth as she looks to Laudna with the midday sun over her shoulder.  

It’s a bit overwhelming, the life and the bliss it elicits.

Laudna walks the few paces over to her, gives a quick inspection with the cast of her shadow.

Smiles in familiarity, nods to the plant in greeting

“Would you like to try it?”

Imogen starts the fire, uses the abundance of dried grasses as kindling. It smells just like the burning cottage had, does so every time. Laudna prunes the wild sage, gathering toothed leaves and small violet petals into her wicker basket, rolls the fragranced stems between the pads of her fingers and inhales, implores the herbal scent to momentarily mask the memory of deterioration as it once had. Imogen sets up the frame for hanging the cauldron, drives the iron spikes into the dry ground, fills it from the river, has to submerge her hand into the gathered water, fingers tweezers removing errant dandelion parachutes that she wipes onto her gauzy dress skirt, skin glistening with the cascading droplets that intuitively follow the scarring of her lightning marks and drip onto the floor, where a lizard with skin like stones flees under the weave of the trodden grass once her footfall returns, retreats for safer ground. Laudna questions whether it will turn to watch the fire or let instinct tell it to keep running-

“You’re quiet…”

Imogen states, offers a softened and upturned corner of her mouth.

Another feather of an airborne seed lands in her hair. A warning arrow shot through the window and puncturing her pillow, innards flying-

“I seem to be having a reflective day, sorry.”

 “Anythin’ you wanna share?”

Imogen wears her empathetic apology in her brow, strained, and Laudna isn’t sure of how legible abstract memories are to her, if the furrow is from an attempt at unknotting the tangles, mostly it feels a weight too unquantifiable to know what to share with intention.

“Not now. I think this is good, something new.”

Present is good, a gift, shared (willingly, in part).

“I don’t dislike it…”

Imogen declares, staring into her cup as she swirls its contents under inquisitive-eyed assessment.

“It sounds like you are warming up for a caveat there.”

She pauses, holds the pottery between her hands on her lap.

“I’m not, s’just new. Tea back home was mostly black and made with lemons and alotta honey or sugar; was cold if the occasion were special-” she tucks her hair behind her ear as her eyes read the pattern of the blanket they had laid over the floor. Laudna wonders if there were birthday parties on picnic blankets out in the paddocks, waited by her father, Imogen and her childhood friends drinking sweet tea and running around in daisy crowns “-I guess we had other teas, but they were more for if y’all were sick?”

She doesn’t like to think of that.

The birds and the crickets carry on their background accompaniment, Imogen's hand returning to the other cradling the cup. Laudna feels as though she can see the slow turn of the skin on her exposed thighs from bronzed tan to sun-kissed red, convinced she is observing the freckles multiplying.

“This one is supposed to be good for anxiety.”

Imogen scoffs, it causes a nearby bird in the brush to scatter

“Yeah? Well I’ll report back on that - maybe we should take more with us just in case.”

Laudna laughs agreeably, enthusiastic. She knows how to make plenty of room for sage.

To follow the tea she also makes them a salad with the plant’s greens; a field-foraged thing prepared with borage and dandelion leaves, fleshed out with wild strawberries, a little olive oil and a little cider vinegar, served in a wooden bowl. 

finishes the assemblage with an intentionally random flecking of the wild sage's violet petals, as though the bowl is a miniature diorama of the meadow in which they sit, olive oil babbling brook and cast iron fork fallen-tree bridge ready to present on a plinth, garden plans proposed by the landscaper in the study to a snooty gent stroking his chin and um-ing and ah-ing -

the hidden door that was disguised behind ornate wooden panelling, adjoining the ransacked and emptied floor to ceiling shelves of the study via dark stone corridors to the equipped and practical, cell-like laboratory- 

She thinks that was the layout, at least - worries who she will rouse if she thinks too hard on it. There is comfort in the answer being left immaterial.

“All’a those times I was sittin’ in fields of flowers, I never really thought I could be eatin�� them.”

It is so nice to have someone she adores break up her ruminations.

“You had a lot of quality produce, there wasn’t really the need.”

"I guess not. Honestly, I think I prefer the salad to the tea." 

Imogen licks her teeth, reveals a violet petal plastered over incisor that she shortly removes with a blade-of dry-grass toothpick, re-places the petal on the flat of her tongue, rolling it around her mouth and swallowing it. 

Laudna stares.

"You like the flowers?" she finds herself leaning towards Imogen. Wants to tell her that for years this one was her perfume - pomanders adorned and concealed in tattered layers.

“They’re purple, ‘course I do.” she giggles, resting sat cross-legged with her weight behind her on her palms. Her head rolls towards Laudna, leaves their foreheads almost resting against one another, Laudna able to count each individual eyelash.

Purple, like the deep undertones of her hair. That much Laudna was very aware of.

“I should have guessed that that would be what caught your attention.” She brings her hand up and wraps her bony index finger in a ringlet of Imogen's hair.

“More like your magic, I was thinkin’…” She drawls, tenor lowered and breathy. 

“And the taste?”

Imogen visibly swallows, cheeks flushing a further tint than what the sun has already given - it makes Laudna feel overly aware of the networking of her own heart and veins.

Imogen clears her throat

"’s’good - kinda familiar."

Laudna feels overwhelmed by the compelling need to kiss her - so she does. Her hand with finger still tied in ringlets of hair sprawling over Imogen's chest as she responds with a squeaked moan that reverberates underneath it. Her lungs halt in their expansion as her mouth is sealed with her own, the increasing pulse at the base of her neck decipherable carved runes under the tip of her fingers, her heart thudding against her palm.

Familiar. Laudna can muse on that in the future, certainly.

She sits back from Imogen - already breathless and chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen - and appreciates the sight she helped curate; the picture of her looking a little dazed on their tartan blanket with the surrounding flora densely reaching above her shoulders, crowned in multi-coloured paint strokes.

“Familiar? And here I thought that was your first time eating a flower.”

Causes her to blush furiously

“Don’t you use ma’words against me.” She pushes Laudna playfully at her shoulder, pretends to look away in dissatisfaction, bottom lip pouting.

“I apologise, that is your advantage to keep. My words are but humble ammunition for your armoury.” Laudna exaggeratedly plays acting pious at Imogen’s half-turned back, Imogen turning back to her with one eyebrow raised and a laugh she is clearly trying to keep within her stomach murmuring at the corners of her lips.

"That so? Well alright, how would y’all describe it?" 

She puffs out air towards her head, hairs previously put behind her ear falling back out of (or into, depending on which of them you ask) place, sits forward again, arms folded. Adorable. Laudna is aware of how susceptible Imogen is to her teasing, always so charming and charismatic, and so often a bumbling mess - and it is intoxicating - to exercise any sort of outcome on such a gifted sorceresses’ disposition, is doing her best to learn what the differences and distinctions are between that and her own longer ongoing situation…

Focus.

Despite the more imposing associations, she can still remember

Can still remember her father butchering the pig, her mother in the kitchen slicing its fatty flesh into patchwork diamonds, stuffing the incised indents with sage and garlic and other seasonings, the slab of flesh tied with butcher’s twine around a whole peeled onion and roasted, skin crackling, the three of them sat around the oak table, talking about the small things, Laudna's mother showing off the basket Laudna had weaved that day, presented like a cornucopia on the kitchen table top, holding that weeks offering of vegetables.

She would describe it as herbaceous, sweet, and floral. Peppery, perhaps like a minty aniseed. Earthy. Mulchy. Rich as the soil it grew from. Could also admit to it being 'like the first home I'd made burning down, like the incense I'd crush between my palms and rub behind my ears so as to not offend any people who would be so kind as to get close enough to notice the death’

what she does say is

"nostalgic." 

not a lie - though she hopes in futures she won’t be drowned marinating in it, the complex layering of all of the ingredients and flavours, hopes one can remain dominant, bountiful and nourishing.

Imogen there, seen over the end of a nose that did not rot and fall off. She’s sure that it can change.