#flutter all of which cost coins too. but it’s still a really good game

[pepprs]

hiiii ummm if anyone plays flutter or flutter starlight (ESPECIALLY flutter starlight) u should add me 😚

[kusunogatari]

[ ObiRyū October | Day One | Shining Armor ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ]

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It all comes down to this.

Checking and double checking his gear, Obito can’t help a worried sigh. For weeks he’s been considering giving a new hobby a try, and even before then he’d started saving for something to do. He stumbled across a possible activity completely by accident when making a detour home one day from work. In a park he’d never visited was a group of twenty or so people - adults, mind you - doing what looked to be some kind of...really involved make-believe.

A little research revealed it to be called LARPing. Live-action roleplaying. Like taking one of his favorite fantasy videogames or a tabletop campaign, and making it as close to real as one can really get: literally acting it out, in real time, with real people. Dressed up as their characters and everything!

He was hooked.

Hours of research later, he’d gotten started: crafting his outfit, weapons, supplies, and a character to play. A barbarian warrior...something he thought suited his build, and his appearance.

No real need to explain his scars, that way.

It took a while to build up the nerve, but he finally approached one day and asked about how to join. Most events were just day-long ones as opposed to full weekends, he’d learned. And an entry fee helped cover a few costs like extra props, costumes, and even food for the players over the course of the day. Fifty bucks and he could hop in.

He hadn’t done so right away, still fiddling with all the details of his character. He wanted it to be perfect…! But eventually there was nothing left to procrastinate, so...he packed up his gear and headed out.

And now here he is, standing with a few other newcomers. Thankfully his underclothes were normal enough to walk here in, and he starts strapping on armor he’d made. It’s nothing too fancy, but he managed to get some metallic paint to make it look like real steel. Overall, for his first go of it? He’d say he’s done well. There will always be time to improve as he goes, right?

It’s a high fantasy setting, as he’s learned. Elves, magic, that sort of stuff. Pretty typical, as far as he’s read. And while he’s set to be a moldable, playable character, so too are there those who play more static roles for the players to interact with...as well as those helping to craft the stories. Each only takes six to eight hours, as not to drag on past each day gathering. But some end up interconnected. Today, it seems, given all the new faces, they’re starting a new event.

The main coordinator and storyteller gathers the characters together to give a brief overview, as well as introduce the NPCs before they start. But once it begins, there’s no breaking character. Hours of being someone else for a day - no longer is he Obito, but Garver the Crushing, complete with a mace and shield he found tutorials for online.

With the plot set, everyone disperses, taking their places and readying for the game to begin. Obito, along with a few others, start by browsing the “town” to gather supplies for an upcoming battle set to take place. His character doesn’t know any magic...but he can certainly use things like throwable weapons, and potions to ensure he doesn’t get taken down too easily.

But the NPC selling potions is swarmed first, so he idles around for a bit, browsing a selection of weapons available for gold...or in this case, real-world quarters used in place of anything too fancy. In the end he picks up a dagger, not wanting to eat into his character’s savings too much.

He then finds the potion “shop” empty of other patrons, and shyly makes his way forward.

Right away he can tell, this one’s a pro. Not only does she have a good array of props, but her outfit looks entirely legit. Within an actual period-appropriate tent are few shelves, complete with a banner: White Dragon Remedies, it proclaims. Bottles filled with shimmering liquid are made of a squishy, clear material to prevent any breaks. She also has some “enchanted” clothing: more glittering fabric to indicate their magical properties.

Turning to face him, she reveals more of her outfit. While her actual dress is a rather plain dark grey, it’s her cloak that makes his jaw drop comically. White with silver embroidery work, it’s a piece of art in and of itself. It sweeps the grass, a wide hood draped over her head, still revealing her fake (but very convincing) elven ears.

Her eyes are a light grey, almost white to match her colorless locks. Even her brows and lashes are white! He wonders if it’s makeup and a wig, or if this is how she actually looks.

“Greetings, traveler,” she offers with a smile that makes his chest clench. “Are you in need of my brews…? Or perhaps something laced with magic to protect you?”

Still a bit shell shocked, Obito flounders for a moment like a fish out of water. Clearly she’s a long-standing player to be this prepared and decked out. “Uh, I...y-yeah. Um…”

As he stutters, she can’t help a glint of amusement in her eyes he’s pretty sure isn’t in-character - she’s actually having to hold back a laugh, he can tell. “I have a wide variety of wares,” she offers, clearly trying to help him regain his head. “Potions of healing, articles of protection, and even scrolls of contained spells for those unable to cast enchantments themselves. All highly valuable on the battlefield for a warrior such as yourself. Is there anything specific you’re looking for…?”

Trying to delve back into his character, Obito looks around. What would Garver like to take with him…? “I’ll take healing potions, at any rate. What do they cost?”

“I’ve one that can heal a minor wound, and one for a more...serious injury. The former is ten gold, and the latter twenty.”

Ooh, he...won’t be able to get too many. His ears turn red in embarrassment at his both in- and out-of-character poverty. Weighing his coin pouch, teeth nibble the scar along his lip in thought.

“I also have garments that help reduce damage taken. More costly, but also more effective over time. You’ll need fewer potions for as long as you have it, my lord.”

“Oh, I’m no lord,” Obito quickly refutes. Garver is a simple mercenary, after all.

“Any patron of mine receives my respect,” is her polite rebuke. Reaching for a verdant scarf, she holds it aloft for him to look at. “This will halve any damage you take. A robust enchantment indeed.”

Something about it catches his eye. “...and the cost?”

“Fifty gold is all. And, since you’re a new face in town, I’ll throw in a lesser potion of health for good measure, no extra charge.”

“But -?”

“Dark times lie ahead, traveler. We must all be cautious. And you’ll need to survive them to visit me again when you’ve more coin to spend, hm?” She winks an eye, and his chest flutters again. “Consider it an investment in your well-being. And perhaps mine, if you ever return.”

Blinking at her, Obito then looks down at the scarf. It does sound like a pretty good deal… “...I’ll take it.”

“Excellent!” Folding the scarf as he counts out his quarters, she fetches one of the blue sparkling potions. “I wish you luck, traveler. May fortunate winds blow at your back.”

“A-and you,” he stutters in reply. “...thank you.”

“Save your thanks for when that scarf saves your life, stranger.”

“...Garver.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I - my name, it...it’s Garver.”

Her expression brightens. “Ah! A pleasure, lord Garver. I am Wyria of the White Dragon. I hope our paths will cross again sometime.”

Not sure how to reply, Obito just gives a sheepish nod before retreating. Nearby, another male player seems to evaluate his gear.

“Well met,” he offers, nodding to Obito in greeting.

“Hello.”

“Been to stock up on potions, have you?”

“Er...yeah. Yes. I...can’t afford much.”

“A mercenary’s life is spent in constant search of coin, eh? You must spend it to make it.”

The corner of Obito’s mouth twitches. This interaction seems a lot...easier. “True enough. Though just once I’d like to get ahead.”

“All it takes is one lucky break! And just one unlucky one to have it all come to a screeching halt. We walk a blade’s edge, my friend.” Holding out a hand, he offers, “Irkvar.”

“Garver,” Obito replies, shaking it.

“So...what think you of the potion seller?”

“What do I...think?”

The other man grins. “A beauty, isn’t she? Not often you see elves this far north. They seem to prefer the warmer climates. But she keeps us all stocked and alive.”

Before he can stop it, Obito’s brow furrows. “...seems we’re lucky to have her, then.”

“Indeed.” Glancing around, the man then leans in and whispers, breaking character for a moment. “She’s a professional cosplayer. Goes to cons and makes big bucks with photos and shit. She’s huge on Instagram, too. All-natural hottie - no wig or anything, that’s just how she looks. Makes her super popular if the cosplay fits well. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better but she tends to ghost once the events are done.”

At the rather...objectifying language, Obito scowls. “Can’t imagine why,” he mutters sarcastically.

But his tone seems lost on his companion, who then slides back into character. Yet even as the idle speech drags on, Obito can’t help but remain annoyed with the guy.

What an ass.

Once the prologue is completed and the characters found to be ready for the next phase, Obito manages to evade his new “friend” and immerse himself more into the story. The city has received word of an impending attack...and he has a choice to make. Stay and fight for the city, and receive less gold...or betray them and join the attacking force, which has more gold to spare.

Thinking of the goods he could acquire with some extra spending money, Obito nonetheless finds himself tugged toward the moral high ground. So after some debate, he decides to remain in the city. A few more darker-aligned characters actually swap, and he finds himself preparing to face them.

It’s them, or him.

Hours pass as skirmishes start and stop. Strategies are laid out, twists in the story guided by the NPCs. Obito, scarf around his neck, manages to keep his character alive, relying on his single potion as the battle seems to wane.

But then the boss appears...and he realizes he’s made a grave mistake. There’s no way he’s going to make it with no more potions! He could do the cowardly thing and run, but -?

“I cast Wall of Spectral Light!”

Jolting, he turns to see the potion seller. A hard glint is in her eyes, staring at the boss with a snarl.

Seems she’s decided to work to protect her home.

The narrator calls out the spell’s effects, proclaiming that her actions help protect a section of the defending army...including Obito. No damage is taken, but the barrier can only repel so much damage. From a belt at her waist, she begins tossing extra potions to the players.

“I’ve no gold,” Obito replies.

“We’ll settle any debts later, should we live through this,” she replies, looking to him gravely.

For a moment, Obito forgets this is all a game. He meets her desperate gaze with one of his own, and there’s a sort of...spark.

But they don’t have much time to chat.

The battle rages on, player characters calling out spells as Wyria and other NPCs lend scripted hands. And just as the sun starts setting, someone lands the final blow...and the boss collapses, dead.

A chorus of triumphant cries echo out over the park, and characters celebrate, embracing and beating chests. Obito sags in relief. In truth...he’s exhausted. More so than a day at work!

And as the cheering goes on, it’s joined by children who had stopped to watch, Obito sheepishly waving to them and earning more excitement. Seems they’re convinced this is all real: the joys of childish imagination.

Looking just as tired as the rest of them, the NPCs offer their congratulations to their heroes. And Wyria greets Obito, much to his surprise.

“So, seems that scarf served you well, Garver,” she offers with a wry grin. “I think you can properly thank me, now.”

“It did...as did your potions. I owe you more than just gold - I owe you my life.”

“You and a few others,” she replies cheekily. “But all debts will be settled in time. I’m sure  I have a job or two you can do for me sometime.”

Grinning tiredly, Obito watches her for a moment before everyone is gathered for a final celebration in the town. As it begins to wind down, the storyteller declares the event over, and everyone is allowed to break character at last.

Sighing in relief - yet wholly satisfied with his Saturday - Obito glances around. It’s then he realizes he didn’t see Wyria in the party, and indeed she’s instead been packing up.

Seems the man from before is right - she doesn’t waste any time. It wilts his expression, as he’s pretty sure he understands why. Keeping his helmet tucked under his arm, he sheepishly approaches. “...need any help?”

At his voice, she spins around, eyes wide, still dressed in her attire. But she softens as she recognizes him. “Ah, sorry...I thought you were, uh...nevermind.”

“I think I know who you mean,” Obito assures her. “So I thought I’d lend a hand, if...you want it.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

They finish dismantling her setup, which Obito compliments. “This must’ve taken a lot of time.”

“And money,” she assures him dryly. “But...I love it. It’s been worth every dollar and hour. I love acting and dressing up, so...it only makes sense. I was one of the people who helped set up the LARP group here.”

“Really?”

“Mhm! Right out of high school. It was really small and...cheap at first. But we’ve grown a lot over the years. We even put on shows for schools sometimes. Which helps earn more money to keep the group going.”

“That’s awesome!”

“Maybe you’ll join us for one?”

“Eh…” At that, he hesitates. “...maybe. I’m still, uh...new. And…” He gestures to his face, wilting. “...not sure I’d be good around kids.”

“They seemed to love it before. And they’ll just believe it’s part of your character. Are…?” It’s her turn to pause. “So...those are real?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. The hair and stuff, I mean.” Her eyes roll. “Used to get me bullied, but I do pretty well thanks to it now.”

“Someone mentioned you cosplay professionally…?”

“Mhm. It’s not a full gig, I still work. But it helps. And it’s a lot of fun, when...people aren’t being jerks.”

Obito sours. “Yeah...I caught a whiff of that earlier. I’m sorry.”

“It comes with the territory. Just...wish that it didn’t.” After a pause, a box of stuff in her arms, she offers, “I...just realized I never introduced myself! My...real self, that is. I’m Ryū.”

“Obito.”

“Nice to meet you. And thanks for the help.”

Helping her load the last boxes into her car, Obito can’t help but ask, “So...do you always play an NPC?”

“I do. As much as a character is fun, I enjoy being part of the structure. And since I’m one of the founders, I feel more...set in stone that way. I play Wyria every time. So I’m almost like a playable character, just...set to a script. I’m the same person for every story, but I enjoy it a lot. I feel like a piece of the foundation that way.”

“I think I understand.”

Closing the car door, she gives him another look. “Thanks for helping me pack up. And…” She glances past him for a moment, and his head tilts. “...for helping ward anyone else off.”

Obito nearly turns to look, but brightens in understanding. “...oh! Yeah, sure. Any time.”

“So, will you be back next weekend?”

“Er...maybe.” He itches his neck guiltily. “The, uh...ticket price is a little steep for me.”

“Yeah, it can be. Very few people come every week. Mostly it’s every other, or once a month. It keeps the group fluid, though. A different pool every time.” Ryū gives a smile. “But it’ll be cool to see you again. You did really well for a first timer!”

Obito feels himself get warm at the compliment. “Y-yeah?”

She nods. “Did you do any theater in high school?”

“A little, yeah.”

“That helps. And it only gets easier the more you do it. I’m sure Garver will be a staple pretty soon. And Wyria will always be happy to sell him some potions...for the right price.”

Smiling bashfully, Obito then stiffens. “Oh -!” He reaches up and takes off the scarf. “Here, I -”

“No, that’s yours.”

“...but -?”

“You bought it in-game, so it belongs to Garver.” She waves a hand. “I get material and stuff pretty cheap, don’t worry about it. And players trade things back in for upgraded stuff, so it usually cycles back. Just don’t lose it, okay?”

“Oh...well, thanks.”

She just smiles in reply. “Well, I guess I’ll see you whenever you can make it back in! Take care, Obito.”

“Yeah, you too.” He steps aside, letting her pull away from the park’s lot in the dusk of evening.

He needs to get home, too...it’ll be dark by the time he gets back. Stripping off his gear and putting it back into his duffle bag, Obito smiles to himself. It was a really good day…! Better than he’d feared. And maybe he’s even making a new friend, both in and out of character. Sadly his low wages mean it might be a while before he can come back, but...well, it’ll be worth the wait.

Replaying it all in his mind, he starts back toward home, unable to help but linger on the scenes with Garver and Wyria. Partly he feels bad - he doesn’t want to be like Irkvar. But, well...her character is interesting! And Garver just...enjoyed her. That’s all.

...that’s all.

     Aw yisss, we’re back with another ObiRyū October, y’all! And the first piece is set in a modern verse with some LARPing, cuz...Obito is a canon professional LARPer, after all xD And the prompt just fit too well, I couldn’t not do it lol      I have a few buffer days built up JUST in case I fall behind (as I...always do), but I’ll still be writing to try and keep up. Otherwise, as per usual, I’ll be doing my best to post once a day through the whole month in celebration of my OTP!       So on that note...I better start working on more xD Thanks for reading!

[haledamage]

Ari and Idyllic from the word prompts?

(how many different ways will I write these two having quiet intimate moments at dawn? The answer is all of them. They meet every day to watch the sunrise together, even when they aren’t on the road. You know, like normal people do, certainly no romantic connotations to that)

The market square was the heart of Tuskdale, and it was alive today. People from all over Golarion walked through the square, voices raised in greeting or anger or laughter. An impromptu concert had started outside one of the stalls, and music joined the barony’s chorus as well. The people were afraid, but proud, and they lived all the louder in their defiance of that which sought to kill them.

Tristian let all of it wash over him as he walked through the market. A group of children ran past, playing a game that he couldn’t begin to understand the rules to. Somewhere nearby, someone was cooking food, the scent of hot oil and unfamiliar spices wafting past him. Vendors called to him as he passed, trying to tempt him toward their stalls.

One stall in particular caught his eye, if only for how colorful it was. It was draped in dozens of brightly-colored fabrics, from rough homespun wool to delicate lace. Some was in bolts, intended to be used to make clothing, while others were scraps or strips or even sewn into quilts or little patchwork dolls.

“Lookin’ for somethin’, lad?” a voice called from somewhere under the canopy. He looked up to see a woman eyeing him shrewdly. He couldn’t tell if she was human or half-elven, but she looked to be in her 60’s, her dark hair only barely touched by gray, her brown eyes sharply intelligent. Her accent wasn’t local, as much as anyone could really be counted as a local in the Stolen Lands.

He wasn’t actually there to shop, or at least he thought he wasn’t, but as she asked the question he was struck by sudden inspiration. “Do you have any scarves?”

“A few.” She waggled a thin graying eyebrow at him. “For you or for someone special?”

Tristian blushed at the tone of her voice, but smiled shyly. “For someone very special.” And then, on a whim just to see what the woman would say, he added, “For the baroness, in fact.”

Thankfully, the merchant didn’t recoil in fear the way far too many people had been lately. She simply tapped her chin in contemplation, then nodded. “I dunno that I got anything fit for a baron, but we’ll see.”

The merchant laid out every scarf she could find in her cart and Tristian stared at the collection, not looking for anything in particular, just trying to find which one stood out from the others. There. Almost buried under a purple and turquoise patterned silk was a thin, delicate strip of cloth. It was soft and cool in his hands, nearly transparent, and it was a rich, deep gold like it had been woven out of pure sunlight.

“Gossamer,” the merchant said when she saw his interest. “Made from the silk of giant spiders. Light, but stronger than that armor she wears. She could wear that into battle and it would come out lookin’ good as new.”

“How much?”

“Just take it, lad.” The woman shook her head and pressed the cloth insistently into his hands. “People been sayin’ a lot of things about the baroness lately, sayin’ she’s cursed and whatnot, but I don’t believe a word of it. She saved my granddaughter’s life. Plucked her right outta Pharasma’s bony grasp. The Sparrow Baroness is a gift from the gods themselves, she is, and she’s the only reason any of us are gonna live to see another sunrise.” She pat his hand firmly, decisively. “So you take that an’ you give it to her with my blessing.”

Tristian still reached for his coin pouch, but the merchant would have none of it. She wouldn’t take so much as a penny from him. Determined to give her something in return for her kindness, he instead took out his holy symbol and recited a prayer to Sarenrae to bless this woman with health and prosperity. She laughed and put a hand to her heart. “Ain’t you just a peach, dotin’ over an old woman like this. You tell the Sparrow that if she don’t appreciate ya, I got three daughters who will. Go on, now, lad. I’m sure you got more important places to be.”

-------

It was cold, but not forbiddingly so, and so early in the morning most would still call it night. Tristian walked through the marketplace once again, but the crowds were gone, everyone but the nighttime guard rotation still in bed. Everyone but him and the woman he knew waited for him at his destination.

“You’re late,” a soft voice called playfully from the shadows, and even knowing what he was looking for it took a few moments to spot Aurienne in the dark, leaning against an outcropping of rocks. It was the flash of her smile that gave her away. “I thought the show was gonna start without you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He sat down next to her, and this close the darkness finally coalesced into a familiar half-elven shape, still smiling, her eyes bright. They faced the cliff that was the eastern edge of Tuskdale. Sparrow Vale stretched out beneath them, still shrouded in night, but the sky was beginning to lighten a little at the horizon. “I had some things to get ready before the council meeting later this morning.”

Her brow knotted anxiously at the reminder of the meeting being held today. “More things to get ready? Did you get any sleep at all, Tristian?”

“I got enough,” he lied.

The sour twist of her lips told him she didn’t believe him. The way her hand covered his made it even clearer. “I’m worried about you. You’re helping Jhod in the clinic, you’re helping me with my investigation, you’re helping Kesten and Lander and you’re dismantling cults and doing your own research too?” She leaned closer as if to make sure he could see her in the predawn darkness, so he could understand how sincere she was. “I am so grateful for everything you do, gods know how much your support means to me, but you are not responsible for saving everyone.”

If only she knew just how responsible he was. If only he could tell her. But he couldn’t, so instead he put his hand over hers so it was held between both of his. Even here, in the middle of the night, in the depths of winter, her skin was startlingly, distractingly warm. “And neither are you, Aurienne. I have been watching you. You take each life lost as a personal failure. I only want to help ease that burden.”

“I know. I know.” Ari looked down, and he couldn’t see her face in the deep shadow but he knew what her expression would be. He knew what she would say before she said it because he’d seen her thinking it for weeks. “D’you think it’s true, what they say? Am I cursed? Maybe all of this is my fault.”

“No.” They were both surprised by the vehemence in his voice, and her eyes snapped back up to his, silver as the moon. “Whatever is at work here, it is not your doing. You are the one who is going to stop it.”

Her smile was warm, but her eyes were sad. “I wish I had your faith.”

“I have enough for us both, until you find your own.”

She didn’t say anything in response to that, simply squeezed his hand and turned back to the slowly lightening sky. Snow started to fall lightly around them, a promise of things to come but not enough yet to force them back inside. Ari moved a little closer to him under the guise of staying warm; Tristian allowed it under the same pretense.

“I got you something,” he blurted out before silence could fall too deeply over them. “I was waiting for the right time to give it to you, but… well, there's no time like the present, right?”

Her expression shifted rapidly from surprise, to fondness, to guilt. “You didn't have to--” she started to refuse, but he gently interrupted her.

“I wanted to. Think of it as a belated birthday present, if you wish.” Very belated; her birthday had been more than six months ago. He smiled disarmingly. “Close your eyes.”

She gave him a curious look, but closed her eyes like he instructed. She jumped when his fingers brushed her neck as he slowly pulled away the old, battered green scarf she wore. He waited for her to stop him, but she didn’t, though her hands clenched in her lap like she wanted to. It didn’t escape his notice just how much trust she was extending to him.

The scar at the base of her throat was nowhere near as bad or as noticeable as she clearly thought it was for her to keep it covered like she did. It was long faded, a thin but jagged line only a little paler than her skin; he doubted he'd have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for it. He knew if he touched it, she really would pull away then, but the temptation was there. Instead, he withdrew the gold gossamer bundle out of his pocket and unfolded it. She shivered when he slid it around her neck.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

She gasped as soon as her eyes fluttered open. She touched the scarf gently, like she expected it to unravel in her hands if she moved too quickly, and the look in her eyes could only be called reverence. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered in awe. “This must have cost you a fortune. Tristian, I don’t deserve--”

Ari moved like she meant to take it off and Tristian caught her hands to stop her before she could. “Shh. Yes you do. It’s yours. I knew it was meant to be yours from the moment I saw it.”

She breathed a tiny, disbelieving laugh, and whispered, quiet enough that he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it, “It’s the same color as your eyes.” Before he could even begin to formulate a response to that, she added quickly, “Can I hug you? Would… would that be okay?”

He swallowed down a flutter of nervous excitement, but it still showed in his smile. “Yes. I would like that.”

That was all the permission she needed, and she threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him backwards with the force of her gratitude. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around her in turn, and when he did he felt her relax a little. “Thank you. I've never had anything this beautiful before. I dunno what to say.”

Her hair smelled like mint, fresh and crisp like the winter air around them. It made it difficult to remember what they were talking about. He didn’t reply until after she pulled away. “You don't need to say anything. I'm glad you like it. I hope…” he reached out and carefully touched the gold fabric. It's beautiful, her voice repeated in his mind. It’s the same color as your eyes. “I hope that when you wear it, you will think of me.”

Aurienne’s smile turned sly and playful and he knew he’d stepped into a trap. As the months went by, Tristian was starting to suspect he triggered these traps on purpose. “Another reason to think about you?” she murmured, practically a purr. “At this rate, it's gonna be hard to find time to think about anything else.”

He blushed, bright enough that he knew she could see it in the early dawn light, but he smiled crookedly. “You are teasing me again.”

“Maybe a little.”

The countryside below them looked like a painting, idyllic and tranquil. From this high, they could watch the rays of the sun reach out across the forests and marshes, bathing the frosted earth with light and warmth.

It was only a matter of time before she learned the truth, before his deception and all the pain he’d caused her was brought into the light. He knew that. But this moment, Aurienne’s shoulder pressed to his, her soft smile in the pink and yellow sunrise, the gentle snow falling around them, Nyrissa couldn’t take this from him. This was his, and it was Ari’s, and it was no one else’s. No matter what came next, at least he had this.

[the-last-rat-standing]

April stories: A revisit

Last month, I started re-posting old Rizzles fics from my hard drive that correspond with the current month. (March 2014 file, March 2018 post, etc.) Because I didn’t start until March, at some point, I’ll have to figure out when to re-post January and February, but I’m sure I’ll have an open month down the road! In the meantime, here’s April:

Advance and Retreat  (https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460631)

She stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized the image staring back. Gone were the boots, black suit and T-shirt that normally made up her wardrobe. In their place were high socks jammed in white tennis shoes, pants that were too short on purpose, and a jacket that pulled over a plastic chest protector.

“Hey, Maura,” she called out, still aghast at her appearance. “The jury’s back with their verdict.”

A muffled voice replied from the change room. “What jury? What case are you talking about?”

“The Case of the Ridiculous-Looking Homicide Detective,” the brunette replied. “Guilty as charged: I look ridiculous.” She turned as the medical examiner came out in a similar outfit to the one the detective was wearing. “And you look amazing. As usual.”

Maura held out her hands. “It’s only a fencing outfit,” she claimed. “Besides, you look stunning in all white. Very elegant.”

Jane snorted. “Yeah, well. I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

“I get that one!” the doctor exclaimed with delight. “And what a coincidence – I will be poking you in the belly.”

Papercuts (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540553)

The women began piecing the files back together, pleased at the apparent outcome of a handful of rather brutal cases. As Jane held out a sheet of paper for Maura, the blonde pulled it back, slicing across the tip of Jane's index finger.

"Sonofa-" she saw Maura's chastising look. "Gun?" Reflexively, she pressed the wounded finger to her mouth. Seeing Maura's horrified look, she promptly pulled it out. "It's bleeding!"

"Well, don't put it in your mouth," the doctor chastised. "And yes, I know, 'That's what she said'. While I still don't know what that means, I do know the human mouth is a cesspool of germs."

"Hmm," Jane mused, "Ma used to kiss it better all the time. I'm lucky to have any fingers. Or my knees." She smiled sweetly at Maura. "Good thing I have a doctor on call."

"Very funny. Hold still while I get the first aid kit."

"First aid? Are you gonna have to amputate?"

Tailor Made (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487353)

Maura knew all of these things, and had been trying for the better part of the evening to use them as a mantra, a way to distract her mind from something that was much more complex than basic facts. It was a failing exercise, because while her mind focussed on the flare of the collar, her lips wanted to do nothing more than travel down the long column of throat exposed by the dangerously low cut. Her brain was content to appreciate the craftsmanship in the immaculate cuffs, but her eyes were saboteurs, skimming back and forth along the lean forearms, watching the extensor digiti minimi muscle flex as Jane lifted a beer bottle to her lips. But surprisingly, the largest distraction was something that wasn't readily seen.

It was that damn thread count, Maura realized. The fine weave of cotton fibres that clung to Jane's frame, all curves and angles, like an embrace. She could almost feel the brush of cloth against her own skin, imagining it as nothing more than a simple barrier between them. If she were honest, she had been imagining it in the shop since she'd first slipped her hand underneath the hem. The tailor had presented it with a flourish and waited for her inevitable approval. The feel was almost erotic, the lightness of the cotton dusting feather-like across her fingertips. She bought it on the spot, never telling Jane the cost.

Slowly, Slowly  (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468741)

Though this room was bigger, there were only so many hiding places, and she was in the process of checking the last one when she heard a voice behind her.

"Jane?"

She lifted her head from under the bed and rolled back onto her heels. "Hey."

Clearly that wasn't quite the response the woman was looking for, because she tried a different question. "Did you lose something?"

Yeah, a big animal I'm going to turn into a footstool. Out loud, she replied "Yes." Maura patiently waited for more detail. "I, uh, I think I might have lost an-" Don't say 'earring' when you don't wear them. "Coin."

"An coin?" Maura repeated with a smile.

"What? Oh. No, I meant A coin. Obviously."

"Obviously."

"It's just... Pop gave it to me when I was little." Nice save, Rizzoli.

"Oh," Maura said with a frown. "When do you think you lost it?"

I lost it the minute I started calling out for your pet. "I'm not sure. Don't even know that I lost it here, but the process of elimination and all that."

"This would be the most obvious place, yes. What does it look like?"

Jane curled her index finger into her thumb. "It's about this big. Flat."

The Long Way Round  (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399720)

The predicament, as Maura so eloquently put it, was taking place an hour outside of Boston, in the middle of what Jane would forever call 'Buttfuck, Nowhere', on the night of the worst snow storm to hit the East coast. They had been at a 3-day, mind-dulling, ass-numbing seminar on "How to Improve and Maximize Your Inter-Department Relationships!" which, for whatever reason, just could not be held in Boston. Instead, it had to be held two hours on the other side of Buttfuck, Nowhere. Three hours in total to the conference, but only if they took the single-lane highway. Maura, of course, adamantly protested, citing several accident statistics as well as mathematical trajectories refuting Jane's claim that it was a shorter route. So, as they were wont to do, they came to an agreement - they would take the interstate on the way to the conference, and the older highway for the return trip.

"This totally does not count for the bet."

Maura wagged her finger. "Oh, no, no, no. The wording of the bet was perfectly clear: whoever chose the quickest route won. This will clearly not be the quickest route. I think you're really going to enjoy the seaweed scrub!"

"Oh, God," Jane groaned as she rested her forehead on the steering wheel. "Why tonight of all nights?"

Maura agreed. "It's predicted to be one of the coldest nights of the year."

"It's Game 6 of the playoffs," Jane complained.

Slowly turning her head to look at the woman on her left, Maura's mouth dropped open. "This is why we took the most treacherous route home?"

Jane had the good grace to look chagrined. "It wasn't treacherous when we left."

Which was true. While Jane wasn't immune to the fluttered eyelashes and pouty lips of one Maura Isles when the doctor wanted something, Jane had her own charm when it suited her. And leaving the conference two hours early in order to get back to Boston for the Bruins suited her. And it was fine when they left. A 6PM escape, with a 3-hour drive would get them back in plenty of time for the 10 o'clock start. That was out the window now. She couldn't even see out the window.

I see a few things in my writing from back then that I would change today (”blonde/brunette”, “detective/doctor”), but other than that, I’m pretty proud of these stories.

[readbookywooks]

18 The boy from District 1 dies before he can pull out the spear. My arrow drives deeply into the center of his neck. He falls to his knees and halves the brief remainder of his life by yanking out the arrow and drowning in his own blood. I'm reloaded, shifting my aim from side to side, while I shout at Rue, "Are there more? Are there more?" She has to say no several times before I hear it. Rue has rolled to her side, her body curved in and around the spear. I shove the boy away from her and pull out my knife, freeing her from the net. One look at the wound and I know it's far beyond my capacity to heal, beyond anyone's probably. The spearhead is buried up to the shaft in her stomach. I crouch before her, staring helplessly at the embedded weapon. There's no point in comforting words, in telling her she'll be all right. She's no fool. Her hand reaches out and I clutch it like a lifeline. As if it's me who's dying instead of Rue. "You blew up the food?" she whispers. "Every last bit," I say. "You have to win," she says. "I'm going to. Going to win for both of us now," I promise. I hear a cannon and look up. It must be for the boy from District 1. "Don't go." Rue tightens her grip on my hand. "Course not. Staying right here," I say. I move in closer to her, pulling her head onto my lap. I gently brush the dark, thick hair back behind her ear. "Sing," she says, but I barely catch the word. Sing? I think. Sing what? I do know a few songs. Believe it or not, there was once music in my house, too. Music I helped make. My father pulled me in with that remarkable voice  -  but I haven't sung much since he died. Except when Prim is very sick. Then I sing her the same songs she liked as a baby. Sing. My throat is tight with tears, hoarse from smoke and fatigue. But if this is Prim's, I mean, Rue's last request, I have to at least try. The song that comes to me is a simple lullaby, one we sing fretful, hungry babies to sleep with, It's old, very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music teacher calls a mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today. I give a small cough, swallow hard, and begin: Deep in the meadow, under the willow A bed of grass, a soft green pillow Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes And when again they open, the sun will rise. Here it's safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true Here is the place where I love you. Rue's eyes have fluttered shut. Her chest moves but only slightly. My throat releases the tears and they slide down my cheeks. But I have to finish the song for her. Deep in the meadow, hidden far away A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray Forget your woes and let your troubles lay And when again it's morning, they'll wash away. Here it's safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm The final lines are barely audible. Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true Here is the place where I love you. Everything's still and quiet. Then, almost eerily, the mockingjays take up my song. For a moment, I sit there, watching my tears drip down on her face. Rue's cannon fires. I lean forward and press my lips against her temple. Slowly, as if not to wake her, I lay her head back on the ground and release her hand. They'll want me to clear out now. So they can collect the bodies. And there's nothing to stay for. I roll the boy from District 1 onto his face and take his pack, retrieve the arrow that ended his life. I cut Rue's pack from her back as well, knowing she'd want me to have it but leave the spear in her stomach. Weapons in bodies will be transported to the hovercraft. I've no use for a spear, so the sooner it's gone from the arena the better. I can't stop looking at Rue, smaller than ever, a baby animal curled up in a nest of netting. I can't bring myself to leave her like this. Past harm, but seeming utterly defenseless. To hate the boy from District 1, who also appears so vulnerable in death, seems inadequate. It's the Capitol I hate, for doing this to all of us. Gale's voice is in my head. His ravings against the Capitol no longer pointless, no longer to be ignored. Rue's death has forced me to confront my own fury against the cruelty, the injustice they inflict upon us. But here, even more strongly than at home, I feel my impotence. There's no way to take revenge on the Capitol. Is there? Then I remember Peeta's words on the roof. "Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to. to show the Capital they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games." And for the first time, I understand what he means. I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a part of every tribute they can't own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. And so am I. A few steps into the woods grows a bank of wildflowers. Perhaps they are really weeds of some sort, but they have blossoms in beautiful shades of violet and yellow and white. I gather up an armful and come back to Rue's side. Slowly, one stem at a time, I decorate her body in the flowers. Covering the ugly wound. Wreathing her face. Weaving her hair with bright colors. They'll have to show it. Or, even if they choose to turn the cameras elsewhere at this moment, they'll have to bring them back when they collect the bodies and everyone will see her then and know I did it. I step back and take a last look at Rue. She could really be asleep in that meadow after all. "Bye, Rue," I whisper. I press the three middle fingers of my left hand against my lips and hold them out in her direction. Then I walk away without looking back. The birds fall silent. Somewhere, a mockingjay gives the warning whistle that precedes the hovercraft. I don't know how it knows. It must hear things that humans can't. I pause, my eyes focused on what's ahead, not what's happening behind me. It doesn't take long, then the general birdsong begins again and I know she's gone. Another mockingjay, a young one by the look of it, lands on a branch before me and bursts out Rue's melody. My song, the hovercraft, were too unfamiliar for this novice to pick up, but it has mastered her handful of notes. The ones that mean she's safe. "Good and safe," I say as I pass under its branch. "We don't have to worry about her now." Good and safe. I've no idea where to go. The brief sense of home I had that one night with Rue has vanished. My feet wander this way and that until sunset. I'm not afraid, not even watchful. Which makes me an easy target. Except I'd kill anyone I met on sight. Without emotion or the slightest tremor in my hands. My hatred of the Capitol has not lessened my hatred of my competitors in the least. Especially the Careers. They, at least, can be made to pay for Rue's death. No one materializes though. There aren't many of us left and it's a big arena. Soon they'll be pulling out some other device to force us together. But there's been enough gore today. Perhaps we'll even get to sleep. I'm about to haul my packs into a tree to make camp when a silver parachute floats down and lands in front of me. A gift from a sponsor. But why now? I've been in fairly good shape with supplies. Maybe Haymitch's noticed my despondency and is trying to cheer me up a bit. Or could it be something to help my ear? I open the parachute and find a small loaf of bread It's not the fine white Capitol stuff. It's made of dark ration grain and shaped in a crescent. Sprinkled with seeds. I flash back to Peeta's lesson on the various district breads in the Training Center. This bread came from District 11. I cautiously lift the still warm loaf. What must it have cost the people of District 11 who can't even feed themselves? How many would've had to do without to scrape up a coin to put in the collection for this one loaf? It had been meant for Rue, surely. But instead of pulling the gift when she died, they'd authorized Haymitch to give it to me. As a thank-you? Or because, like me, they don't like to let debts go unpaid? For whatever reason, this is a first. A district gift to a tribute who's not your own. I lift my face and step into the last falling rays of sunlight. "My thanks to the people of District Eleven," I say. I want them to know I know where it came from. That the full value of their gift has been recognized. I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from today as I can. My sleeping bag is rolled neatly in Rue's pack. Tomorrow I'll sort through the supplies. Tomorrow I'll make a new plan. But tonight, all I can do is strap myself in and take tiny bites of the bread. It's good. It tastes of home. Soon the seal's in the sky, the anthem plays in my right ear. I see the boy from District 1, Rue. That's all for tonight. Six of us left, I think. Only six. With the bread still locked in my hands, I fall asleep at once. Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream. A visit with my father in the woods. An hour of sunlight and cake with Prim. Tonight it sends me Rue, still decked in her flowers, perched in a high sea of trees, trying to teach me to talk to the mockingjays. I see no sign of her wounds, no blood, just a bright, laughing girl. She sings songs I've never heard in a clear, melodic voice. On and on. Through the night. There's a drowsy in-between period when I can hear the last few strains of her music although she's lost in the leaves. When I fully awaken, I'm momentarily comforted. I try to hold on to the peaceful feeling of the dream, but it quickly slips away, leaving me sadder and lonelier than ever. Heaviness infuses my whole body, as if there's liquid lead in my veins. I've lost the will to do the simplest tasks, to do anything but lie here, staring unblinkingly through the canopy of leaves. For several hours, I remain motionless. As usual, it's the thought of Prim's anxious face as she watches me on the screens back home that breaks me from my lethargy. I give myself a series of simple commands to follow, like "Now you have to sit up, Katniss. Now you have to drink water, Katniss." I act on the orders with slow, robotic motions. "Now you have to sort the packs, Katniss." Rue's pack holds my sleeping bag, her nearly empty water skin, a handful of nuts and roots, a bit of rabbit, her extra socks, and her slingshot. The boy from District 1 has several knives, two spare spearheads, a flashlight, a small leather pouch, a first-aid kit, a full bottle of water, and a pack of dried fruit. A pack of dried fruit! Out of all he might have chosen from. To me, this is a sign of extreme arrogance. Why bother to carry food when you have such a bounty back at camp? When you will kill your enemies so quickly you'll be home before you're hungry? I can only hope the other Careers traveled so lightly when it came to food and now find themselves with nothing. Speaking of which, my own supply is running low. I finish off the loaf from District 11 and the last of the rabbit. How quickly the food disappears. All I have left are Rue's roots and nuts, the boy's dried fruit, and one strip of beef. Now you have to hunt, Katniss, I tell myself. I obediently consolidate the supplies I want into my pack. After I climb down the tree, I conceal the boy's knives and spearheads in a pile of rocks so that no one else can use them. I've lost my bearings what with all the wandering around I did yesterday evening, but I try and head back in the general direction of the stream. I know I'm on course when I come across Rue's third, unlit fire. Shortly thereafter, I discover a flock of grooslings perched in the trees and take out three before they know what hit them. I return to Rue's signal fire and start it up, not caring about the excessive smoke. Where are you, Cato? I think as I roast the birds and Rue's roots. I'm waiting right here. Who knows where the Careers are now? Either too far to reach me or too sure this is a trick or... is it possible? Too scared of me? They know I have the bow and arrows, of course, Cato saw me take them from Glimmer's body, but have they put two and two together yet? Figured out I blew up the supplies and killed their fellow Career? Possibly they think Thresh did this. Wouldn't he be more likely to revenge Rue's death than I would? Being from the same district? Not that he ever took any interest in her. And what about Foxface? Did she hang around to watch me blow up the supplies? No. When I caught her laughing in the ashes the next morning, it was as if someone had given her a lovely surprise. I doubt they think Peeta has lit this signal fire. Cato's sure he's as good as dead. I find myself wishing I could tell Peeta about the flowers I put on Rue. That I now understand what he was trying to say on the roof. Perhaps if he wins the Games, he'll see me on victor's night, when they replay the highlights of the Games on a screen over the stage where we did our interviews. The winner sits in a place of honor on the platform, surrounded by their support crew. But I told Rue I'd be there. For both of us. And somehow that seems even more important than the vow I gave Prim. I really think I stand a chance of doing it now. Winning. It's not just having the arrows or outsmarting the Careers a few times, although those things help. Something happened when I was holding Rue's hand, watching the life drain out of her. Now I am determined to revenge her, to make her loss unforgettable, and I can only do that by winning and thereby making myself unforgettable. I overcook the birds hoping someone will show up to shoot, but no one does. Maybe the other tributes are out there beating one another senseless. Which would be fine, Ever since the bloodbath, I've been featured on screens most than I care. Eventually, I wrap up my food and go back to the stream to replenish my water and gather some. But the heaviness from the morning drapes back over me and even though it's only early evening, I climb a tree and settle in for the night. My brain begins to replay the events from yesterday. I keep seeing Rue speared, my arrow piercing the boy's neck. I don't know why I should even care about the boy. Then I realize. he was my first kill. Along with other statistics they report to help people place their bets, every tribute has a list of kills. I guess technically I'd get credited for Glimmer and the girl from District 4, too, for dumping that nest on them. But the boy from District 1 was the first person I knew would die because of my actions. Numerous animals have lost their lives at my hands, but only one human. I hear Gale saying, "How different can it be, really?" Amazingly similar in the execution. A bow pulled, an arrow shot. Entirely different in the aftermath. I killed a boy whose name I don't even know. Somewhere his family is weeping for him. His friends call for my blood. Maybe he had a girlfriend who really believed he would come back. But then I think of Rue's still body and I'm able to banish the boy from my mind. At least, for now. It's been an uneventful day according to the sky. No deaths. I wonder how long we'll get until the next catastrophe drives us back together. If it's going to be tonight, I want to get some sleep first. I cover my good ear to block out the strains of the anthem, but then I hear the trumpets and sit straight up in anticipation. For the most part, the only communication the tributes get from outside the arena is the nightly death toll. But occasionally, there will be trumpets followed by an announcement. Usually, this will be a call to a feast. When food is scarce, the Gamemakers will invite the players to a banquet, somewhere known to all like the Cornucopia, as an inducement to gather and fight. Sometimes there is a feast and sometimes there's nothing but a loaf of stale bread for the tributes to compete for. I wouldn't go in for the food, but this could be an ideal time to take out a few competitors. Claudius Templesmith's voice booms down from overhead, congratulating the six of us who remain. But he is not inviting us to a feast. He's saying something very confusing. There's been a rule change in the Games. A rule change! That in itself is mind bending since we don't really have any rules to speak of except don't step off your circle for sixty seconds and the unspoken rule about not eating one another. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared winners if they are the last two alive. Claudius pauses, as if he knows we're not getting it, and repeats the change again. The news sinks in. Two tributes can win this year. If they're from the same district. Both can live. Both of us can live. Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta's name.