#he is a wild animal a hungry beast a gaping maw

[bosspigeon]

i never know what is a socially acceptable level of "i vibe rly hard w ur oc lore and here's why" dhdhfhhf

[sixsticks]

This is beautiful ah- but if I may suggest- just the opposite. Hear me out I beg of you.

Dragons are wicked horrible things. Gapping bloody maws, with hungry greedy teeth. They snatch up children in the streets, their musk pollutes the water, their greed the air. No one can afford to pay for food so there are beggars in the streets.

Evil. That’s what it is. It’s evil. The thing took my daughter! Now it will pay.

A hero is hired, a hero is paid. There is blood on his hands. But it is not just the dragons. But her haunting green blood covers the stench of iron that will come to be.

When a dragon dies the world sings. Plants and mushrooms rush to take back the body of something great and powerful. They flourish on its nutrients.

Flowers and weeds poke through the scales as wines wrap the dragons horns. It’s body churned as Mother Earth embraces her child. One of her eldest, one of her first. One of hers.

Humans and animals flock to its body. Admittedly only the creatures of the world do not gape at the feat. Only the humans congratulate the act. They pat the soilder on his back and they proclaim him a hero.

The dragon rots in a valley, years and decades, and time marches on. And her bones are all that remains. Time has passed but not for a mother. Not for the earth.

Never let it be said that a dragon is bad for its environment, something chitters. It is neither man nor beast. But it’s nothing really in between either. Nor is it the absence. It just is. And it laughs a song of bells and wind and pine touched earth, that the humans have moved on.

Never let it be said that a dragon is bad for it environment. It hunts what is hard to hunt, an apex predator that allows for the smaller prey to recover as the populations flux and change with time. Their shedings are plant food, their cavern homes provide protection for the small, and food for the sneaky.

A dragons whims are the best of thunder clouds, but the rain is a celebration in undergrowths and cool days alike. A fire is how the trees repopulate their lost. The seed released to ash filled soil.

A dragon can be necessary. And its loss is not forgotten.

A mother does not forget her children.

Slowly, as the bone marrow rots away from the ruby red drake, there is nothing left for Mother Earth to take from her child. So the plants will wither and the animals will suffer, and the humans will notice.

It has been many years since a dragon was killed. The hero is old and gray.

They still send him and his creaking bones when the wolves turn their sights to the village when they run out of deer to hunt. Children are quick to leave behind the slowest member of their herd to save their hides from snapping starving maws.

The hero kills the wolves and it better for a few months. But famine strikes the land and disease takes its hold. Too much prey. They are contaminating food, they are contaminating water. They are killing.

So off the hero goes and he slays the deer in the land. Tired and mumbling about curses and retribution. He slays all the deer in the land, and the people feast.

And it’s better for a while, the plant can breifly grow.

But then the land begins to rot.

A mother’s says goodbye, she presses a kiss to the earth where a daughter once lay.

The humans are hungry. They look to eachother.

The weakest go first. There is no hero left to save them. To kill the hungry hungry beasts. With snapping maws and bloody fangs. Vicious greedy teeth.

A dragon is not called a plague on the land because it does the land harm. It is a plague on the land for the earth values her children dearly. And the loss of her eldest one is full of grief.

A mother’s anger is in the way that those that live grow scales and horns. And look like her daughter but smaller and slight. Bound to the land, to her, to make up for the loss they carverd in her heart.

((I hope I didn’t get to wild with this. Just had an idea and ran with it!))

i think that killing a dragon should have catastrophic nuclear-fallout level environmental consequences tbh. their blood should scorch and wither the earth with fire and poison, the toxic fumes released as they decay should choke the land and all nearby living creatures, and the entire landscape where they fell should be transformed into a blighted wasteland where bleached leviathan bones loom upwards out of the ground as a warning that can be seen from miles away, the boundary markers of an exclusion zone.

[idontmeantosoundrudebut]

To start this off this HTTYD WHUMP Collection, I'm taking inspiration from a whumptober list and the second on the list was Gutspill and I had a fucking brainstorm (do mind my french, I swear like a sailor and a trooper, I'm also British). I wrote this five days ago and finished it, but as I was highlighting it so I could copy it to move here, I accidentally deleted half of it so... after my five-day meltdown, I've finally finished it and I think I turned out even better than it did the first time. I hope you have a box of kleenex or whatever tissue brand you have in your country, this one is a corker.

(you can also find my works on my archive of our own, name in profile)

__________________________________________________________________________________

There is blood everywhere. It's on his hands, on his face, on his sword, the world has become a thing of blood and ash, they clog up his lungs and he's choking on it. But his blood, it boils in his veins like water over fire and his heart pumps it hard throughout his body, hungry and starved for flesh, for death. Snotlout is a warrior, born and bred, and there is a mercifulness inside him that has long kept this beast at bay. But today, on this battlefield where mercy leaves you dead, he can let the starved beast writhing in his chest out and allow it to sate its hunger. Just for today, just for one day, he'll be an animal.

The shores of Berk are red with blood and will be for days afterwards. The bodies, broken and bloodied, add a layer onto the sand like a second crust, piling upon each other and almost looking like some gruesome, horrible beast that stretches on for miles. Those muddy, grasping hands, those black, gaping maws, those dead, dead eyes. The sky is terribly blue and dragons soar down with fire in the chests, spewing it across the enemy like they are wild monsters again, like they've forgotten kindness.

Today, everyone has forgotten the tenderness of mercy.

Snotlout slashes his sword across a man's chest and blood sprays across his face. The enemy falls onto one knee with a cry and lifts his mace to retaliate, but he's too slow to stop the blade from plunging into his stomach. Through the slits of the enemy's helmet, Snotlout notices that his eyes are green and, before he dies, that they are full of fear. Those eyes will haunt him tonight, but today there is no compassion in his heart for those who dare to threaten his home.

Pulling his sword from the corpse, he looks in awe at how it steams from fresh blood. Snotlout's face is hot with blood that is not his own and he can taste it on his teeth, a coppery wash on his tongue. Blood tastes like lightning. Two men try to rush him, but he cuts one down with a swipe to his legs and the other he grasps by the neck, headbutting him angrily. He drops the unconscious enemy and impales the floored man through the back. More blood, but it's not enough the please the hungry thing inside him.

He hears a mighty battle cry and turns to see Ruffnut, braids matted with blood and bleeding from both nostrils, she looks wild like a creature. She feels it too, she's also got a hungry beast inside her, she's also been starved of blood. She grabs a man, pulls his back to her chest and slices his throat with a smile some would say is mad. Today, we are all mad, mad things are best at killing.

Tuffnut is not far from her and he's swinging in circles, fatally hitting anyone brave (or stupid) enough to get close to him. Snotlout watches Ruffnut kill again, and he's falling in love with her all over again as she buries her dagger to the hilt into a man's eye. He screams. She laughs and slices his throat too. Her face and chest are washed with blood from his squirting neck.

They catch each other's' gaze and, just for a moment, the starved monsters crawl back into the darkest corners of their hearts to allow the tenderness to come back. Ruffnut's eyes soften, those thunderstorm eyes lose their madness and gaze deep into Snotlout, conveying all the words that they both struggle to say. He lets out a short, breathy exhale because, Gods, she is so beautiful, she must be from a dream.

Suddenly, Tuffnut is in the picture and he looks both disgusted and displeased.

"Uh, guys, big battle happening all around you," Tuffnut yells over the sound of war, gesturing around him with a blood-caked Macey II, "don't think this is an appropriate time to be making-love via eye-contact,"

An axe-wielding enemy charges towards Tuff and Ruff from behind. But before Snotlout can even open his mouth to warn them, Ruffnut throws her arm back and the man goes down hard and fast, a dagger lodged in his throat. Oh, by Freyja, he loves her so much. Ruffnut gives him a smirk, sharp and deadly, before charging away with a dragon-roar cry.

"See you on the other side, Princess!" Snotlout shouts and then the beast lunges out from the shadows of his aortas, he's back to being an animal again and races deeper into the battlefield.

His eyes catch sight of a monstrous opponent. The Commander. He's tall and wide, built like a mountain, decked out in black, hateful-looking armour and he's pulling his sword from the chest of a Berkian shield-maiden. Snotlout doesn't recognise her, almost mistakes her for Astrid from her blonde hair, but she's far too young, far too small, far too innocent to be here. Doesn't matter now, she's dead and being carried away on the backs of Valkyries to Valhalla. Still, she was too young.

Then, the all too familiar sonic-whistle fills the air and he watches the Commander look to the sky.

"NIGHT FURY!" A man distantly warns. Everyone ducks to the ground in fear. Snotlout remains standing. So does the Commander.

There's only a flash of Toothless, a black dart across the pale sky before a purple blast dives to the battlefield. The explosion is bright and blinding behind the dark silhouette of the Commander and a shockwave sends those already crouched down to the sand, but still he remains standing, unyielding. Snotlout also stands, unbowed.

His ears are ringing from the explosion but there's an anger in his chest, building and building and building, soon its going burst out of his chest. Warriors lay around them, disorientated and directionless, and the Commander turns to him, his only worthy opponent. Snotlout breaths violently through his nose, a deep rage coursing through his blood like a forest fire and there is nothing that will stop the inferno in him. His entire body is shaking, like a dragon ready to take flight. Gods, if he was a dragon; the world would be ashes at his feet.

For a moment, they size each other up. Dragon-fire reflects of the Commander's black armour and Snotlout's blade of steel becomes a spine of flames. Everything in his life has been leading up to this moment, this moment which will change the course of his life forever, this is what the Fates have planned for him. Prove your worth, Dragon-Rider, Fire-Swallower, prove your worth to the ones who believe you to be nothing.

Snotlout closes his eyes and wraps both of his trembling hands around the hilt of his sword. The sounds of battle are distant and his heartbeat pulses in his ear like a war drum. This is it. Let the beast free, let it out the cage, let it off the chain. Let it kill them all.

Snotlout opens his eyes and that unbridled rage comes forth in the form of a thunderous howl, tearing through his throat. He runs towards what could be his beginning or his end, either will be fine but he'll die proving he's something, something fierce, something brave, something worthy. The Commander too starts to run, charging towards him with his blood-shining sword and he's silent like death, his eyes shimmering like stolen sapphires beneath his helmet.

And as they get closer, Snotlout raises his sword into the blood-thick air and again roars his worth for all to here, a stream of fire bursting like dying stars behind him.

But the beast is a primal thing, while the Commander is a calculating thing, silent and cunning; Beasts are sometimes made to be fools in their wrath.

And as Snotlout brings his blade down for the kill, the Commander falls and skids across the sand, kicking it up to momentarily blind him. It takes him a moment too late to realise the grave, fatal mistake he has made.

As the Commander slides past Snotlout, he slashes his sword across his gut and the terrible feeling of his skin and flesh being carved open makes him halt on the spot. His ears are ringing again and there isn't even pain, there is just a hotness in his gut and the vague feeling of something slipping, he doesn't understand what's happening. Dropping his sword, he stares wide-eyed into the distant and gasps for breath, it feels like he's been hit in the chest with a war hammer.

Over the ringing in his ears, Snotlout hears the movement of feet disturbing stand and the whistling sound of a sword cutting through the air. In the distance, far away, he hears a woman screaming in despair. He thinks it might be Ruffnut.

That primal beast wakes up again and he isn't even thinking when he turns around, hands up ready to catch something. The blade of a sword falls into his grasp and it cuts through his leather gloves, digging deep into his palms as he pushes the sword from his face. He bares his bloodied teeth like a cornered animal and stares deep into the eyes behind the helmet, blue and angry and hateful; they gaze back.

He's going to die, oh that's okay, but by the Gods is he taking this bastard with him.

Snotlout releases one hand to immediately grasp at the Commander's armoured wrist. The blade digs further into his hand, hot blood tracks down his arm. It is only due to the rage and adrenaline burning through him that allows Snotlout to twist the Enemy's hand till it near breaks before dislodging the sword from the cursing man and, as quick as lighting, he wraps his fingers around the hilt and does a half turn.

The sword is plunged deep into the Commander's stomach. Snotlout lets go of the stolen sword and allows it to fall with its owner behind him. He smells blood and ash, tastes it too. Gods, he's choking on HIS blood and he doesn't know what to do. Looking down to his stomach, Snotlout is full of horror as he sees his guts partially hanging out of the slice in his belly. He touches them with his hands and they come away red, hot, steaming.

"The Commander is dead!" Someone cries, "Retreat! Back to the boats!" Others chime.

Snotlout falls to the bloody-encrusted shore on his back and stares up the terribly blue sky, disturbed only by dark rising smoke and the shadows of retreating men that leap over his body. His breath is loud in his ears and he can feel the blood pouring from him, soaking into his tunic and running down his sides to stain the sand beneath him. There should be fear in his heart, but he can only find the sweetness of victory, the relief that the battle is over and they came out the victors.

A body skids beside him and he looks up to see Ruffnut, eyes white and wide with fear as she stares at his stomach, at the blood that pours and oozes, a never-ending river draining from his body. The tide will come in soon and wash it all away. Maybe it'll take his body too, the sea stealing him away and dragging him to the ends of the Earth, it sounds like a peaceful end.

"Gods, you idiot, what have you done?" She whispers, voice raw from screaming, from terror, and he watches in a dull sort of morbid curiosity as she pushes the exposed intestines back inside him.

The pain is suddenly everywhere as his cut flesh is disturbed and his body goes into spasms, agony setting his nerves ablaze and making tears sprout in his eyes as he shakes his head side to side. Snotlout lets out a broken scream, by Gods, won't he just die already. When the torment simmers down, he opens his watery eyes to see Hiccup knelt opposite Ruffnut, his hands using the fabric of one of Toothless' spare tails to stem the bleeding as he shouts orders to people. ("We need Gothi here! Now please!")

"Did we win?" He croaks stupidly, because he knows that they have but he wants to here it, wants to make sure it wasn't some illusion from his deluded mind.

Hiccup snaps his head to him and those green eyes are vast with panic and dread, but still a smile cracks across his cousin's face as his trembling hands are stained with his blood, stark against his pale skin.

"Yes, we won," Hiccup breathes, then swallows, "Thanks to you, Lout, we won and they won't be coming back, you did great, you were amazing! And you have to keep being amazing now, okay? You have to stay awake, just for a bit longer,"

"I-I don't think-" Another bout of pain, another agonized yell.

Ruffnut pauses for a brief moment, her hands hovering over his gut as she looks at him with anxious eyes, but she's an experienced healer and knows that the more time she wastes, the more blood he loses. The higher the chance she has of losing him. She continues to cut open his tunic so she can start to bandage him up. Snotlout recovers and regains his breath, body sweating and shivering from the pain.

"I don't think you can fix this," He whispers honestly, because there is so much blood and he feels so tired, Gods, there's a hole in him and it won't stop bleeding.

The sun is starting to set and the stars are faintly beginning to shine in the darkening sky, it's making everything feel like a dream, nothing feels real. Hiccup stares at him with low brows and a firm face before he replies, determination shimmering in his eyes as he looks back down at the blood-sodden fabric in his hands.

"Of course, I can,"

Ruffnut and Hiccup briefly share a look over Snotlout's bleeding body, she can see the dread beneath his determination, she can see his doubt. So can Snotlout.

"Where is he? Where's Snotlout?!" Comes a harsh, familiar voice and Snotlout watches as his dad pushes through the crowd circled around him, Chief Stoick and Gobber close behind him.

His dad pauses at the sight of him, dulled eyes glazing over as his chest expands with his shocked inhale, his axe slipping from his loose-fingered hand as he crumbles to the sand, crawling over to him. Snotlout has never seen this look on his dad before, never seen him broken like this, and it's making him realise how bad of a state he is in, how a jaded warrior like Spitelout can be brought to his knees just by the sight of him.

"Dad," Snotlout says quietly, he has never felt so relieved to see his dad in his life.

"I'm here, boyo, I'm here," His dad answers as he sooths his scarred hand over Snotlout's head, pushing away stray strands of blood-slick hair with a tenderness he has never shown to possess. (Spitelout lost all his kindness when his wife died, she took his heart with her)

"I'm sorry, my boy," He whispers, voiced choked from the sobs lodged in his throat, his other hand coming down to rest against Snotlout's jaw, "I've been a cruel man to you and I know-"

"Dad-" Snotlout interrupts, not wanting to hear his father's regrets because he can see them in his pale eyes, writhing around like trapped birds begging to get out. His dad, unsurprisingly, doesn't listen.

"I know it's too late now, but- But I don't want you going believing that I wasn't proud of you," And Snotlout gasps shakily at those words because that is all he's ever wanted, isn't it? His dad's acceptance, the knowledge that he wasn't some burden, that he was loved, "because I am, Snotlout, I am SO proud of the man you've become, a man I could only dream of being,"

Tears drip from his dad's eyelashes and the wetness that's gathered in Snotlout's eyes finally break over, pouring down the side of his face as his throat tightens up. He can feel Ruffnut swathing bandages aground his abdomen, the terrible pain nothing compared to the relief in his heart that if he dies today, he dies with everything he's ever wanted. He'll die like how good men should; worthy, accepted, loved.

"I'm not scared, dad, I'm- I'm not scared," Snotlout reassures, voice tight as more tears spill over, he needs his dad, everyone, to know that he's no afraid of dying, "I'm not afraid anymore,"

His dad smiles with quivering lips and lowers down to press his forehead against Snotlout's, he closes his eyes and he feels like a child, protected in his father's embrace, calloused hands cradling his jaw and head. This is goodbye and Snotlout only feels like he's just got his dad. But it doesn't matter, at some point in his life, his dad was proud of him and this small moment is enough. His dad presses a kiss to his head.

"I'm proud to call you my son," He whispers against his blood-caked skin and suddenly Snotlout knows what it is to be a son, knows what it is to be whole.

With hands hesitant to let go, Spitelout stands and stumbles backwards from his son, not daring to take his eyes off him. Stoick wraps a comforting arm around his back and takes hold of his bicep, squeezing it sympathetically.

Snotlout can see the others standing there too, watching him die. Astrid has her shaking hands over her mouth and tears streak through the grime on her cheeks, he hates that he's caused that strong woman so much grief. Besides her, Fishlegs stands with his war hammer clutched in his grasp like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart, his face taut with sorrow and sadness. Tuffnut has his arms thrown up over his head and his teeth are bared in anguish, staring between Ruffnut and his broken body as his tears fall, gathering along his jaw.

He wants to apologies, but he feels so weak. It's nearly time to go.

Hiccup is still, sat back on his ankles with a despondent and grief-stricken look on his face as he watches Ruffnut securing his bandages, adding more layers as more blood seeps through, her hands frantic in their movement. And Snotlout thought he was the stubborn one, surely, she can see he's times up.

"Ruff-" Hiccup starts with a sob-choked voice but Ruffnut is shaking her head feverishly, face full of denial.

"No, we just need to get him out of here to Gothi's, she'll stitch him up and he'll be fine-"

"Sis-" Tuffnut steps forward, trying to reason with her.

"HE'LL BE FINE!" Her scream echoes around them all and it's so ferocious, so heartbroken, so desperate, he swears the stars will fall upon them.

Taken aback by the savageness in her eyes, Tuffnut quickly steps back and Ruffnut goes back to fussing with bandages, drawing more out from a compartment in her side armour so she can stem the flow. It won't work, he's lost too much blood. Snotlout know it, she knows it. He's too tired to do much, but he has to make her understand that this is it for them and he doesn't want to die without telling her.

With what little strength he has, he raises his hand and cards his hands into her hair, the part he's latched onto is silky smooth and free of blood, pure. Tugging her braid, Ruffnut turns to look at him, her wet eyes are wild with grief and anger and her lips are curled into a snarl tight with both sadness and rage.

"Don't," She growls, voice wavering, grabbing his hand to pull it away as she looks back to the already soaked through bandages, but he hasn't long left and he wants her to know, needs her to know, he needs to say it one last time.

Snotlout takes her hand into his and rubs his thumb over her bleeding knuckles with a tenderness that aches deep inside him, Ruffnut pauses and turns her head to him, looking hopeless and afraid.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," He breathes repeatedly, his mind is going dizzy but he doesn't need to think, he just needs to feel and the words come out on their own, drenched in his love and adoration for her, "Ruffnut, I love you, I love you, I love you, only you,"

With her head tilting, the tears dribble down her blood-slick face and over her trembling lips as she finally understands that this is it, sobs racking her body as she crawls swiftly over to him. They kiss because it's the last time they will hold each other again and it feels like freedom, feels like coming home. He touches her face gently, branding her eyes, her lips, her hair to his memory in hopes that he keeps it when he goes. If he can't live without her in life, he can't live without in death.

"Snotlout," Ruffnut begs with a keen, her quaking hand weaving through his hair, and he smiles at her, his hand falling from her face.

"It's okay, Princess... you can let me go," He murmurs softly.

Gods, he's going to miss seeing her in the morning, going to miss her barking laugh, going to miss the feeling of her hair in his hands as he braids her hair. He's going to miss her so much; he'll die again in Valhalla from the pain her absence.

"I don't want to," She weeps, shaking her head, cradling his face in her hands, "I don't want to let you go, Mutton-head, don't you get that? I can't!"

"You ca-can," He cracks, tears mixing with blood on his face, and he squeezes her hand, "Let me go,"

And with that, she slips her hand from his. She's taken the first step, she has to do the rest on her own now.

Suddenly, the sky is trembling with a roar and the Earth shudders as Hookfang lands upon the battlefield.

The Dragon's hide ignites when he sees his Rider and he kicks up bloodied sand as he races over to Snotlout, warriors scrambling out of the beasts frenzied path less they be trampled. Hookfang comes to him with alarmed noises in the back of his throat as he dances lightly around his Rider, a dreadful look in his eyes as he tries to find out what's wrong with him. When he sees the blood, an awfully sad wail leaps from his maw and his flames die out. Gods, Hookfang already looks sodden with grief.

"Hooky," Snotlout murmurs tiredly and he turns his head to look at him, his fire-streaked eyes are slitted in horror and with a desperate whine, digs his snout under the Rider's arm before lifting it up, but it falls limply back to the sand.

Get up, Hookfang is begging him, get up, get up, let's go home now.

"I'm sorry, Hooky," Snotlout apologises brokenly, shaking his head, "I can't,"

The Nightmare tenderly nudges his muzzle against Snotlout's red cheek with a guttural purr, the familiar warmth of his scales helps to ease his hurting heart. He lifts his head and again stares at Snotlout with that look, asking him to come home. Snotlout softly shakes his head, blinking away tears so his vision isn't blurry. This is the last time he's going to see his best friend; he can't waste a single second. After a moment, the desperation in Hookfang's eyes morphs into acceptance.

Weakly, Snotlout lifts his hand and holds it out to Hookfang, too exhausted to stretch it out any further, but his friend understands and meets him halfway. Gods, it's like the first time they touched all over again and there is a deep grief in his heart, he's never going to touch Hookfang again, he's never going to fly again. He'll fly with the Valkyries, but he'd choose Hookfang over them any day. He'd chose dragons wings over honour any day.

"You're my best friend," He says softly and in Hookfang's eyes, he sees himself. He doesn't have to say more, doesn't have to pour his heart out his mouth for Hookfang to understand, he just has to look at him and it's enough.

Looking to the sky, he feels his heartbeat slowing, feels very tired.

"Thank you," He breathes weakly and closes his eyes.

Snotlout's palm slips from Hookfang's muzzle, fingertips dragging against the scales like they don't want to let go before they fall, and his hand hits the sand with a sense of finality.

[theotherbloodfart]

Token Part 2

This is part 2 to the request made by @craftygoateeprincess

WARNING: VIOLENCE

27 years later

Ellie clutches the small wooden box tightly. She hasn’t opened it in years. Only opens it when she’s very stressed or needs to remind herself that magic is real. That miracles are possible. And things have been going well enough. But ever since she’d returned to her childhood town, Derry Maine, she’d felt the old stress returning.

The town itself is in turmoil. Children had started going missing in the past few months. Just like they had when she’d been small. It was all so like it had been. But her case had been different. She’d been saved.

She opens the box and gazes at it’s contents. A shriveled, desiccated piece of rubber. An old deflated balloon. Papery and nearly faded to pink from it’s old rich color of vibrant red.

Ellie can remember the one who'd given this balloon to her. Her guardian angel, tho he’d claimed he wasn’t. “Angel of the sewers.” He’d said. She smiles as she gently closes the box, and slides it into the pocket of an errant shirt in her closet. To keep it hidden. To keep it safe. Then she turns to gaze at herself in the full length mirror upon the inside of the closet door. Studies herself before heading out.

Derry is hosting a large carnival and she is looking forward to it. It’ll be nice distraction from her hectic life. She chooses to ride a bike and, as she pedals, she can’t help but think about why she is here. She would have never wanted to return to this place yet, that childhood memory of being saved by……. Whoever Pennywise is……… holds her here.

The carnival is a grand time. She wins a stuffed clown. Carries it with her as she munches on a corndog and enjoys the sights. She is completely unaware of the violence being enacted on a young man not far away. Has no idea what she’s heading into as she leaves the carnival and heads down a dark street, pushing her bike along, the clown plush tucked into the basket of her bike, enjoying the night air. Doesn’t realize she’s on an intercepting course with the aggressors of this brutal act.

She hears them before she sees them. Once brutal beasts, now reduced to frightened children, they are running, shoving each other out of the way. Not far from splitting up to hide from their own implication. It is dark, and they are moving so fast, she has no time to react before the largest of them, a run down brutish male, knocks flat into her, causing her to flail the ground, the bike clattering atop her as he falls atop the bike. His weight causes the cold steel of the bike frame to bite into her flesh. The clown plush sails away and lands softly in the gutter. The other aggressors, not seeing their comrade fall, continue off.

“Get…… OFF…….. of me.” She gasps, pushing and clawing at him.

“HEY! FUCK YOU! YOU WERE IN MY WAY!” Her vision shatters into bright stars as his fist connects with her temple.

……………………………………………..

It moans with pleasure as It slurps the blood from It’s fingertips. As always, the salty sweet of human terror leaves It sated. Not fully satisfied. Never fully satisfied. But it dulls the aching hunger for some time.

Turning It’s slender hands, It uses the cleaner portions of It’s silken gloves to slowly wipe the gore from It’s lips and cheeks. Crouching there, near the sewer pipe, cleaning It’s face with It’s hands, the glowing orbs of It’s eyes flashing about and occasionally disappearing as It’s eyes close, It looks feral and cat like. It doesn’t need to do this, could easily will Itself clean, but It relishes in the wildness of this action. Of both dirtying and cleaning Itself. Enjoys the mockery of the actions of living things that this represents.

It crouches lower, leaning It’s weight onto It’s finger tips upon the ground, tilting It’s head, then becomes motionless. It’s pupils wander in opposite directions. The yellow light from a nearby street light reflects off of a thin line of saliva running from It’s drooping lower lip. It is listening.

It can hear a struggle, smell animal like fear. An inhuman fanged smile splits It’s face.

…………………………………………………

Ellie is still conscious, but almost wishes she isn’t. She registers the tickling warm sensation of liquid running from her nose. Blood. The vision of the male above her swims. The blurry figure pulls back his elbow, as if he intends to punch her again. She struggles to lift her face, her vision clearing, yet the weight of both man and bike crush the air from her lungs.

And suddenly, the weight is gone. The bike is still there, but the man is no longer upon it. His face is also no longer in her vision. She struggles up to support herself on one elbow.

When she sees where he’s gone, her entire body reacts. Freezes. Her eyes widen. Her mouth dries. It’s him! Her sewer angel!

The clown seems bigger than she remembers. And dirtier. The ruff around his neck is blood stained, as is the front of his suit and the orange poofs are sodden and limp from it. His chin and cheeks also have several obvious smears of blood upon them as well.

He’s holding the male by his neck by one hand, his glove appearing brown from dried blood. His fingers grasp so tightly that she can see the male’s flesh puckering around his fingers. He’s flailing and kicking, clawing uselessly at the silver clad arm. His actions make the strings of tiny bells here shimmer and tinkle. His face is turning purple, his tongue lolls out of his slack mouth. The whites of his eyes are visible as he gazes upon his aggressor in utter terror.

“Hello Webby.” The voice is just as she remembers as well, only he isn’t talking in the same sing song way. He’s gleefully snarling his words. Hungry.

“Whatcha runnin from?” The clown purses his lips playfully, his brows raising. He looks like an inquisitive painted child for the barest of moments before speaking again. “You afraid of a lil gay boy, Webby?” The clown makes a loud wet kissie face at the male before he throws his head back to roar laughter at the night sky.

Webby, or so Ellie now believes the male is called, chokes out, and reaches out a desperate hand to try to strike the face of the clown, but his arm doesn’t reach. The clown now stares at him mildly, before opening his mouth. Wide, wider. Webby makes bubbling noises, trying to scream, as the clown’s teeth lengthen and sharpen. His gums push past his lips, more teeth blossoming from the red flesh with wet popping sounds. He leans forward with comical slowness. He looks as if he’s about to bite directly onto the face of the man.

Ellie is in awe of him. He appears as some alien bipedal lion. She should be afraid. She SHOULD be. But she’s not. This Webby had HURT her. Had intended to hurt her even more. Yet here was her friend, rescuing her again. He was a lot dirtier and far more fearsome than she remembered. Vicious and terrifying and brutal. He is beautiful.

“Pennywise.” This is barely more than a whisper. She hasn’t even realized that she’s murmured it. But the clown freezes, his mouth splayed wide around Webby's face, a few of the longer teeth already puncturing his skin.

He slowly pulls his face away from the man’s, his gaping maw slowly retracting, before slinging it around to finally look at her. His lips are set in an irritated sneer, the rows of scalpel teeth still quite visible, his buck teeth apparent in the display, though longer and sharper. The dried blood on his chin is wet again from the deluge of saliva, which drizzles down onto his stained neck ruff. His eyes are a bloody red that she’s never seen before, and they glow like dirty neon.

Webby is still flailing miserably, still moving the clown’s bells in a desperate rhythm. Yet Pennywise doesn’t seem the least bit taxed from holding him suspended in one hand.

“You know ole Pennywise?” The tone of his voice is wicked and raspy and dark. His irises twitch and one drifts back to gaze at Webby as the other remains focused on Ellie. His nostrils flare and his head jerks. His mouth hangs slack and he’s making animal snuffing noises as he takes in her scent on the light breeze. Reads her thoughts.

Then his lips spread again, revealing impossible rows of teeth as he grins at her.

“Elliiiiiieeeeee.” It’s a low, drawn out hiss. Without moving the rest of his body, the clown tosses Webby carelessly away, both eyes now focused on her own eyes.

Webby splutters and struggles to stand.

“Better leave that light on in the hallway, Webby.” The clown’s eyes remain fixed on Ellie as he speaks. “I most certainly WILL be in your linen closet next time.” A low hiccuping growl leaks from his mouth. The most evil and quiet laughter ever imaginable. Webby’s face recoils in horror as he turns and runs soundlessly away.

Ellie is now completely alone with Pennywise for the first time in 27 years.

[roanoaks]

Can You Breathe?

She could not see. It was suffocating, the dark that surrounded her. It held no temperature, and was both weightless and the heaviest thing she ever had to carry. It was indescribable, and pressed on her from all sides.

There was a crunch as teeth met bone and did not stop. The wet sound of a mouth devouring muscle and bone, licking up blood on a reddened maw. He chewed, and ate, and grunted like a beast with carnal instinct. Human ate human.

They ran, gasping for breath through an unforgiving wood. Nature would not care, it never did. The pursuit was marked by the glint of a knife in the moonlight, occasionally blocked by trees. They continued to run for their life, not knowing if they would make it.

She tried to move, but found her body paralyzed. She tried to breathe, but found no air to take. She tried to escape, to leave but found only a numb acceptance. She tried to struggle but her mind was dull. It was all around her. It was nothing, and everything. She tried to feel something, but all she got was the feeling of fog settling over her mind, it seeped into her skin and bones and made her numb.

He threw what he could not consume away, without care where it went, and tore the next piece to devour. His hands were covered in red, his body in filth. His hair was matted with viscera and knots. His eyes were wild, and hungry, and he devoured without remorse.

They stumbled, breath hitching as they wondered if it would be their fatal mistake. They continued to run. Their legs burned, their stomach heaved. They were tired, but did not want to die. The wood did not watch, it simply grew and existed. They felt branches scratch their face as they ran. They only had one direction. They knew if they turned they might fall.

She tried to scream, but her voice was gone. She tried to cry, but she wasn't sure if she had eyes. She tried to flail, to struggle, to live, but wondered if the body she felt even existed. She wanted to close her eyes and rest, but she didn't know if she had the ability to. Her energy was stagnant, neither being used or not being used. It just stilled, as if everything had stopped.

They wondered if the wood went on forever. They could see no end or path, and as their body grew tired they grew clumsy. Each mistake felt fatal. They knew they could not run forever but still, they tried. Their feet slowed without their control and each step behind them seemed to come closer. The knife's pace didn't slow. The pursuer never tired.

She felt numb, she felt nothing. She was lost and found. It was her reality. The dark was her existence.

He finished the piece, and searched for more. Digging through guts and torn skin, before he finally leaned down and tore savagely with his teeth. He cared not for any single bit, only to eat. Like a starved animal he devoured, the taste of human was all he knew. The crunch and squish of bone and viscera filled the air.

They could not run any longer, and slowed. They accepted death, and the pursuit ended. A knife came up, preparing to come down and end their life. A stab from the back seemed oddly appropriate. Still, the wood did not care.

Suddenly, all at once, she feels life flood in. The numbness is destroyed, replaced with the sudden feeling of choking. She struggles, able to move and opens her eyes to see nothing but dark. It is crushing. She chokes, suffocating on the dark.

He finishes his meal, and still feels hungry. He will never be satiated. Never be full. His hunger is infinite, and it leaves a gaping hole in his stomach. He growls, screams. He bites his fingers, through the bone without thought. Pain is nothing. He devours, his own flesh and bone.

They feel their life end, shattering across like a constellation. There is no pain. Only the ceasing of breath. They fall to the floor. The wood does not care. The blood will feed it. The knife stays where it is. The world keeps spinning. The pursuer walks away. They lay in their murder, and the wood does not speak, or care, or listen.

Can you breathe? Does the breath in your lungs give you life? Do you live? Do you feel? How does the world work? Questions are answered by reality, and not by fate. The world is strung together by veins and blood. It is nothing but an incomplete body, falling apart and moaning in the mess that it is.

Does the air come in and out? Does your heartbeat? Are you empty, or full? If you exist, does that mean you matter? The universe things you are nothing. You are a speck of dust that will never be remembered. But you are a vein, and an arm, and a body and a counscious. You exist, and your place in the world will not change that. Nature does not care if you are inferior, or superior. Miracle or mistake, it will always take you.

The world keeps spinning, and you do to. Does it matter in the end? We are all going to our deaths. But if that's the case, what stops us from living? What limitations are there? What can we break, and what is immovable? Do those change as well? Is anything ever the same? If you're breathing, is it heavy? Or is it natural?

If we are changing and constant, and the universe is not perfect but a collection of flaws and contradictions are we any different? What makes small and insignificant? What makes us dust? How are we not infinite, too? How are we not universes, and galaxies, and billions of things? What makes us inferior?

Can you breathe? How many times have you taken a breath? How many more breaths will you take? Do you ever think that maybe it is impossible to mean anything or nothing? That perhaps existance, like nature, in unquestionable and uncaring? Why does it define us? Does it define us?

Can you breathe? Does your breath change? What makes it do that? How do our bodies work? Should we work to keep them healthy, or does it matter in the end? We are all each other. We are all existence and reality. How will you define yours? How will I define mine?

Can you breathe?

[qhostqizmo]

I can’t Bear to keep this secret

I’m still not good at titling. Ya’ll have to live with me like this. I’m sorry.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The event played beneath his eyelids every time he closed them to rest. A menacing beast towering above; maw spread wide to reveal large teeth and a bellowing roar he could feel in his bones. It was a sight that didn’t give him nightmares, up until recently.

Where the bear had bitten him and drawn blood, he’d been able to pass off as a swipe from its claws. It was healed before anyone had a chance to inspect what had truly caused the wound.

He was ashamed, and frightened. Maybe a little of himself; as he felt the curse of the werebear weigh heavily with each passing day in his veins, but mostly, of them. These traveling companions he called friends were more then just his allies at the end of the day. They were family. Each one had slowly become, on some strange quirky level, someone he trusted. How often had he been given these privileges? What were the odds anyone else would accept him as he was; with what he had done to his step-brother, with all his broken pieces and strange dark secrets.

If he hurt a single hair on their heads, he’d never be able to forgive himself. But if they turned away from him… The thought made his insides quiver. He would have nothing. Nothing.

He bit his tongue, jostled by the wagon ride to open his eyes once again and banish the sight of glowing eyes descending upon him and sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. He reached up to grasp at it; a ghostly pain there but not there.

“Are you alright, m’lord? Do you need some of your ointment rubbed on your shoulder?”

Amon cleared his throat roughly as he gazed to the woman sitting beside him. She wore her bleeding heart of concern open on her chest, and in the furrow of her brow as her worried eyes gazed him over.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. He dropped his hand. Truly, he felt much better, at least, for the moment. He was centered by the gravity of her eyes; the sun pulling him back into orbit.

Although Essätha didn’t appear entirely convinced, she smiled at him warmly just the same. Her hand stretched across to lay upon his as a sign of reassurance. Her touch left a trail of tingling awareness in its wake. Although she made no sign to remove her hand, he turned his over greedily to take hold of hers. He was going to need all the strength he could get tonight, and maybe it was selfish, but if he could imprint as much of the puzzled but soft look in her gaze upon him, or the smell of lavender on her hair, or the softness of her touch in his mind, maybe he’d be okay.

“We made great time, it looks like the campsite’s just ahead,” Sulhadur called out to the back in a chipper voice.

“Glad we made it before sundown,” Adela sighed, swishing her tail idly back and forth as she joked, “I’d hate to be ambushed by any wolves.”

The nobleman had to suppress a grimace. He too was grateful they made it before sundown, and prayed Adela’s jest wasn’t a bad omen for an entirely different creature: the one residing inside him.

As the wagon jerked and fumbled down the short lane to the camping site, K’varr finally took its beady-eyed glaring off of him to take to the sky, screeching. He didn’t blame the bird’s distrust; it’s instincts were likely more keen then anyone else on the cart. The only animal companion who didn’t seem to shy away from him still was Caesar, who rested their head protectively upon his knee and hefted a large and imposing yawn with gaping jaws and all as they finally came to a halt.

“Pile out!” Ravamora shrieked, eagerly leaping off the side and into the grass.

“I’d like to get up, really I would, but I can no longer feel my legs,” Penimra announced, glancing up towards Abe as he dismounted from the front. “Abbbeeee-”

“Manners, Master Penimra, ladies first,” the Paladin spiritedly replied, offering out a hand to aid Adela out of the back first.

Caesar whimpered as Amon gently pat his head, the mastiff rising to his paws to look over at him. Although the great dog’s face was usually droopy in expression, he appeared extra saggy around his eyes as though deeply worried. He offered a great huff, and hobbled over to jump from the back with ease, waiting patiently for him to step out.

Amon climbed out the back and offered his hand to Essie, who wobbled and almost fell into his arms on the way out. He offered her a crooked smile and a blush she returned, trying to ignore the way Abernathy had stopped to watch them with his own beaming grin.

“I’ll start the fire!” Pri’cha chirped with their usually pleasant demeanor. They didn’t wait for anyone to respond before scurrying over around the edges of the wilds to collect firewood.

“We’ll get to work on building the tents,” Abe grunted, pointing to Sul as the Dragonborn offered a nod. “Penimra, why don’t you go with Adela to refill the waterskins; I can hear the stream some yards down that way.”

“Ugghhh why are you giving me work?”

“You can otherwise join Rava, who seems to be doing a fine job picking from the berry bushes we saw up on the road.”

“… Waterskins it is.”

“Mmm, guess that leaves us as the unpacking crew,” Essie remarked as she nudged him.

He offered her a strained smile. His skin was growing itchy and uncomfortable, and he was growing all too aware of the emptiness in his stomach. The sun still had a few hours before it hit the horizon, but with each passing minute his focus seemed to erratically jump.

As the group parted into their pairs to begin setting up for the evening, the nobleman found it a bit easier then even normal to lift and parade around all their goods to the security of the tents and trees to keep away from the wildlife and, well… bears. After unloading much of the cart by himself far before the two paladins had even began working on the second tent, he excused Essie to join Pri’cha in setting up dinner.

It didn’t take long before the wafting aromas of supper was filling the air. His stomach growled furiously, and with each sound Caesar whined and scampered helplessly around his feet.

While the rest of them chatted and exchanged jokes, Amon kept his hands busy. They felt small and clumsy, for some reason. He tied some of the luggage up into the safety of the branches, and added everyone’s things into their preferred sleeping areas. While the roast of meat and potatoes crackled on the iron skillet over the flames, he forced himself to gather firewood and avoid the conversation. Or more importantly, avoid diving his hands into the coals themselves to feast, and feed the bear inside of him.

“Amon!” Abe called out, appeared baffled as they all joined along the edges of the fire. “Come, join us. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Swallowing the puddle of drool sitting on his tongue, the nobleman obediently lumbered his way over to take a seat near Essätha.

The food smelt heavenly. Even his faithful canine and Adela’s bird forgot to glower and stare at him, sensing the predator beneath his skin. Sitting in a pool of sauce with mushrooms and a glistening of meat fats, the potatoes perfectly fork-tender and piles of warmed breads loaves piled along the edges to soak up the greasy gravy. There as some cheese sliced, and a pan of green beans with onions and crushed up nuts. Rava’s berries collection had made it into a beat-up looking serving bowl, with sprigs of mint they’d scrounged up. What appeared to be some sort of attempt at a bread-pudding, but clearly a bit overcooked, sat near it for the berries to be served atop.

“You burned desert,” the wood-elf sniffed.

“I couldn’t watch all of it,” Essie defended, filling one of the tin plates with food. “I was busy moving the beans from being directly over the fire.”

“You should have let those burn.”

“Well, you won’t be getting desert anyway unless you eat all your vegetables,” Abernathy reminded her with a twinkle in his eye.

“No thanks, I won’t be wanting burned sweet-bread anyway.”

“Ungrateful,” Essätha mumbled, shaking her head. She turned a smile up to the nobleman, offering him the plate she’d filled. “Hungry?”

Amon swallowed. Their words had all been a muffled haze to him, staring at the mouth-watering spread.

“I could eat.”

She snickered, helping to ladle out some of the gravy upon Pri’cha’s dish. “Hopefully it’s not too overcooked for you, m’lord.”

Still steaming from the heat of the raging fire, Amon stabbed his fork into the juicy piece of meat. It was tender, and flaked into pieces. He shoved it into his mouth; the searing heat burning his tongue but the staring monster inside rumbling with encouragement.

Tears in his eyes from the heat, he shamefully gorged himself on another bite while everyone was still settling into their spots and blowing on their food.

Measuring how fast he ate was an obstacle. He tried to sneak one spoonful here, and another there when everyone was too preoccupied and leaning into each other laughing and chatting to notice him. If not for Essätha’s vigilance, he wasn’t even sure if he’d have the thought of mind to feed Caesar as distracted as he was. She filled the bowl carved with his name so no one would mistakenly eat from it up with some of the meat, and some dried jerky for him to dig into.

Amon was disgusted with his jealousy. The dog got to dive right in, make a mess, and woof his food down without any comment. But his stomach gurgled and demanded more. He could not rip into his meal with a voracious appetite no; he was a man, and not an animal. At least… that’s what he tried to remind himself.

Groaning, bellies full, everyone began to lounge back with ease. Ravamora leaned forward just enough to peer over the skillets and pans with interest, declaring with a color of shock in her tone, “Wow. No leftovers.”

“Guess some of you will be up early finding food for breakfast,” Penimra declared. “I’d prefer some eggs, I think. And bacon, if you’d like to get started setting up traps for a hog.”

“Shut up Pen, or we’ll cook your goose,” Adela threatened.

The group burst into a barking jolly of laughter. Only Amon remained silent, itching at his flesh and thinking of how badly still his chest gnawed and ache with hunger.

“I’ll be taking first watch!” Abe called out eagerly. “Who’ll join me?”

“I will!” Pri’cha elected, raising two of their arms with a delicate wave.

“I guess I’ll be taking second,” Sul reported.

As they delegated among themselves who would be taking watch for the evening, the nobleman clutched at his chest. There was an ache in his lungs. His mouth felt weird; like his teeth were too large for his jaw. As he shifted, he was certain he felt one of his cuspid teeth graze his tongue. Definitely sharper.

A soft voice cleared their throat beside him. “M’lord, it’s growing dark. Would you like to turn in for the night with me?”

He grunted, running his hand over his face. Quickly, he tried to hide it, horrified to see thicker hair peering out from beneath his cuff.

“I’ll join you in a bit,” he answered, feeling a growling vibration in the back of his throat. “I’m not feeling that great.”

The same cloud of concern hung over her once more, and stole the light from her eyes. “Is there anything I can do, or get you?”

Amon nearly groaned beneath her delicate touch, but swallowed it. He wasn’t sure if that was a reaction was from the bear, or from him.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured her, patting her hand. “I think I just need a bit of fresh air. Give me a moment to cool off and freshen up in the river.”

He took hold of her hand then, and removed it from his side. It tug on his heartstrings guiltily to glimpse her face at that last second. She looked surprised, and worried, and a little hurt as he placed her hand back on her knee. He slipped his cloak off his shoulders and folded it over once to place on the worn logging beside her as he stepped away.

Slipping past Sulhadur as he moved in to occupy his tent, and Adela and Rava as they went to organize their things and get changed, Amon slipped past the trees down the slightly overgrown path that lead in the direction of the river. The sound of water lapping grew louder and louder as he moved down a gradual embankment, careful not to tread any poison oak strewn about. The last of the branches and bushes parted way to reveal a small grassy bank, and the currents of the stream sluggishly moving and winding out of sight.

Sighing, he looked to the sky. Sure enough, the moon was rising, and the last rays of light had left only stains of red and orange fading out as the brightest starts began to bloom.

His limbs were shaking uncontrollably as Amon wrestled with his jerkin. He dropped on the ground hastily, and began to pull the hem of his tunic up. A groan echoed in the back of his throat, feeling a flare like fire in his aching joints ignite.

He snapped his belt out of the loops, perspiration dripping from his chest, his temples, his forehead. Amon gasped, dropping to his knees. He didn’t untie his boots, but helplessly and forcefully shoved them off. The cool, springy grass or cool breeze coming off the water did nothing to lower his body temperature, which felt like it was rising to inferno levels.

Collapsing, exhausted, he writhed. He gasped. He clutched at his chest, panting.

With a hideous snap, his spine cracked and popped. What cry he had was stuck in his throat as he flipped and turned; eyes rolling back in his head as he shut them. The pain was agonizing, immeasurable. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, what he was.

A carpeting of fur began to rapidly grow upon his chest. The nobleman clawed at the dirt, shocked to see that indeed instead of finding grassroots beneath his fingernails, he had elongated claws. He gasped for air once more, his back arching, his joints creaking like doorhinges, his jaw popping as it shifted unnaturally.

When he opened his eyes again, the world had taken on more hues of gray then color, but he could still smell the flora shampoo in Essie’s hair even from out here.

He lunged, trying to stand up, and his still-morphing legs fell out from beneath him, making the beast he had become cry out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear… what?”

“That noise,” Essätha whispered, staring out into the forest.

“What did you think you hear?” Adela inquired, suppressing a yawn to the best of her ability.

“I don’t know how to describe it… a groan?” she helplessly explained. Her hand moved over her chest, feeling an unmistakable longing. But to what?

Grunting, Abernathy pushed himself to his knees and set aside the honing stone he’d been using on his axe. “There are many things in the woods, Essätha. You’re bound to hear something out there.”

Her burning gaze rounded on the half-orc. “M’lord’s out there, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And he’s a capable man,” the elder paladin reminded her gently, readjusting his grip on the large weapon. “But you’re right, we should go check on him. Being near a water source, there’s bound to be plenty of creatures wanting to quench their thirst.”

Relieved, she hopped up from her seat to scamper towards the pathway. Her eyes darted back and forth impatiently, waiting for Abernathy to round up some of the others from the tent. In the end, not wanting to leave their gear open to wildlife or other roadside travelers, he elected on himself, Sulhadur, and Adela to join the one member of the party who would unquestionably be scouting out for the nobleman.

“Are the lot of you ready?” she inquired, her voice testy.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Essie,” Adela scolded. “Let Sul get his sword and shield from his tent.

She huffed, folding her arms. Busy glowering, and pouting, she didn’t notice Caesar come padding over until the dog was nosing her side, whimpering. Her gaze flickered down to those big, soft brown eyes pleading up at her, and his paw extending to lightly brush the bottom of her slacks as he lamented.

She rubbed the dog’s ears, but he remained looking positively depressed. “It’s okay Caesar, I’ll be right back with dad.”

“Arrrrwuff,” he responded, circling her to point down the lush covered path.

“No. You’re staying here. We need someone responsible to look after camp.”

Another whimper. The mastiff tucked their tail low and went to circle anxiously around the camp, like he wasn’t sure what to do and couldn’t sit still.

“What’s wrong with Caesar?” Sul rumbled, puffing smoke out of his nostrils as he joined her.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, “but I have a bad feeling about it.”

“Alright! Everyone’s ready,” Abe burst in happily, strutting over with a gleaming smile and his spike-bracers wrapped around his arms.

Sulhadur exchanged a look with her, questioning, but she shook her head. She’d rather not think about why the dog was acting up, while shoving vines out of her way and ducking below tree limbs to maneuver through the woodlands. Adela let out a quiet curse as she stumbled over some roots tangling up from the forest floor. Overhead, the sound of a crow; quite possibly K’varr themselves stretching their wings, let out a horrendous screeching.

Nerves weary, Essie slid down the embankment first. Her boot caught on something, nearly hurtling her to ground before she caught herself. She turned back to warn the others of whatever she’d nearly fallen over, and stared.

One of Amon’s boots.

Sulhadur came next, followed by Abernathy who was helping Adela down the slope.

“Amon!” Abe called out, brushing a few leaves from his clothes.

“Uh… Abe.” Adela visibly swallowed, pointing a finger towards the bank.

Following the Tiefling’s digit, Essie’s eyes rounded. They all hurried over, nearly tripping over each other in a rush.

“Those are Amon’s trousers,” Abe grimly reported, rubbing his beard.

“They’re torn nearly to shreds,” Sulhadur observed, softly.

No. No no no, this wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. Her breathing became more shallow and a vague lightheadedness swam over her as her eyes jerked and danced across the pool of water moving downstream, its surface glistening with the full moon’s brilliant glow.

A series of grunts and growls had everyone whipping their head towards the right. Fumbling along the bushes, a disoriented looking bear clamored loudly through the edges of undergrowth. It turned towards them, letting out a soft, almost cooing whine.

“Sulhadur, check the riverbank and water for evidence of Amon,” Torm’s follower directed, his orc-teeth bare at the bear in a challenge.

“Oh my gods,” Essie whispered, appalled. Her head was churning; her legs were shaking. She looked at the dirt; unable to distinguish anything.

As the grizzly backed the remaining distance out of shrubs, Abernathy charged. The bear somehow managed to fumble out of the way of the first swing, where the sharpened blade struck a tree instead. It backed up, nearly into the water, before turning towards them.

Pulling her arm back, Adela howled the words of her ancestors, and sent a spiraling ball of fire at the creature. It sprang into the edge of the water, splashing water everywhere to avoid the embers that hurdled past it. The chuffing sound it created wasn’t one of fury, but one of fear.

There was no blood on the ground. No blood and in fact, no signs of a struggle. The grass was clean from signs of a fight; no smears from boots straining to stand firm, no sticks used to fend off the animal, not even mud along the banks like the nobleman may have tried fleeing into the depths. Even the trees seemed unscathed from conflict, when surely anyone would have tried climbing or escaping by weaving through the growth.

She looked to Sulhadur, scanning the riverbank, treading knee-deep through some of its lapping tide. He kept looking back at them all with confusion and worry that he was not initiating an attack.

Essätha turned to look at the bear. Its gaze, whipping from Adela to her, locked on to her eyes. Breathing heavily, it regarded with wide, intelligent eyes.

She narrowed her own suspiciously. There was something unnervingly familiar about the way it looked at her. As it moved, the bands of light and shadow across its pelt revealed hues of black among the russet and brown of its fur color.

Abernathy charged, shouting. With a startled bellow, the monster launched itself from the water and jerkily dove from left to right as if to avoid the carpenter. But no matter its tactic, it was too large and unsteady on its paws; not nearly agile enough to avoid Abe’s axe a second time.

The blade struck the beast’s side, and it screamed.

“… Oh, Jubata,” Essie prayed aloud in horror.

As Adela began to weave a pattern into the air, Essätha ran by and shoved her. The other sorceress shrieked, falling sideways and splashing into the water.

“Abernathy, stop!”

The paladin raised his axe, preparing to swing a second time as the bear staggered.

“No!”

He brought the blade around in a wide arc just as she darted between him, and the werebear.

Abe pulled the weapon in, terror in his eyes. The edge clipped through her cape, tearing through fabric loudly.

With a suddenness, the beady eyes of the bear seemed to lose focus. It nearly shoved Essätha over as it leaned over her, opening its jaws to show its teeth all the way to the gumline, and roared at Abernathy. The sound was like thunder crashing down from the heavens.

“Stop! Stop stop stop stop,” Essie insisted, gasping as she spread her arms out between the two. The bear, disgruntled, sluggishly stepped back. It turned its head, trying to reach the gash at its side to lick.

Abernathy, mouth agape and breathing heavily, glared at her.

“Essätha, I could have killed yo-”

“That’s not a bear!”

“… Essie. Dear Essie. Sweetheart. I think you’re in shock.”

“That’s. Not. A. Bear,” she gritted out, jutting out a finger to point at what was, obviously, a large grizzly. “That’s Amon.”

“Are you crazy?!” Adela coughed, clinging on to Sulhadur as he helped her out of the water. “You just pushed me in water to protect the bear that probably sent Amon’s body down the river. Or what remains of it.”

“Adela, there’s no reason to get nasty.”

“I’m not crazy!” she insisted, trying to bury that horrifying image Adela conjured beneath six feet of mental dirt. She turned fully towards the bear, circling itself like a dog trying to catch its tail, only to desperately try lapping at the wound in its side.

“This is Amon! Look, there’s no blood on the ground; not even claw marks or a scuffle.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly!” she exasperated back at the Tiefling. Heaving a deep breath, Essie stepped closer to the werebear, causing it to freeze; eyes piercing at her and tongue hanging part of the way out.

“Twenty-two days ago, we fought a rogue werebear, banished from its tribe,” she recalled aloud, taking a step towards the bear. It rumbled, taking an uneasy step back as she continued pressing forward on foot and in speech, “We unfortunately had to kill the man, but not before he changed into his bear counter-part form. M’lord had said that he was fine; that only the claws had grazed him, but… I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Look at him,” she pleaded, sidestepping around the creature. It had silenced its rumbling and watched her as she slipped off her torn cape. She balled it up, gingerly pressing the material to the bear’s wound.

It groaned in agony, shaking its head.

“Shhhh,” Essie soothed. Pressing her weight into one hand to keep the material in place, she reached out to stroke the mane of fur along his head. The werebear closed its eyes into half-slits, much like a content cat.

“The fur has black mixed in with it. His eyes are smart. He didn’t even want to fight any of us; he tried to avoid confrontation. He didn’t hurt anyone, because only he was here. Only the trousers are torn up, and there’s no gore; his jerkin is lying over there, as are his boots, perfectly intact. And look at the moon, it’s full tonight!”

“The werebear must have bitten him,” she concluded. “A wild bear wouldn’t let me this close.”

“Those are all… wild stretches, Essie,” Abernathy hoarsely whispered, staring at the twinkling eyes of the bear.

She snorted. “If anyone knows a thing or two about keeping a part of yourself a secret; especially something like this, I think I’d know. I’m asking for you to trust me and to just… look.”

Offering a soft smile, she combed her fingers down the werebear’s spine. He huffed in response, turning to snuffle his nose against her hair, the nape of her neck, her ear. She tried not to laugh at the cool, damp nose against her skin, keeping a firm, steady hand to their bloody side.

Abe was the first to approach. Slowly, he placed his axe upon the ground and grew closer.

The bear turned to regard him. It shrank back, lowering its head.

“… Amon,” he whispered cautiously. “… My boy is that… really you?”

The bear snorted quietly.

“I am so, terribly sorry,” he muttered hoarsely. Reaching up, Abe placed his hand lightly upon Amon’s shoulder.

A stream of white-light emitted from his palm, and upon the fuzzy hair of the bear. Amon groaned, and the wound shimmered with a faint, pulsing light as it closed upon itself and healed over.

Relieved, Essätha reached for his face. Startled, Amon huffed as she grabbed hair from behind his ears, looking him in the eye.

“We are going to have words, m’lord,” she scolded. “Why on Earth would you keep such a secret from us, from me? Have you any idea what could have happened if one of us didn’t find out? Or if someone else found you?” Her voice cracked at the end, wavering as her lip did for a moment.

He whined, lowering his face. His head brushed hers, but what was meant to be expressed as a tender affection instead smothered her face in hair that left her sneezing and a few hairs on her lip.

“Gross, I got bear-hair on my tongue.”

“Urrnf,” Amon grunted, offended.

“I’ll gather his things,” Sulhadur cut in softly. “Now that we know what’s going on, and no one’s in danger, I guess we can go back to camp.”

“And get in fresh clothes,” Adela grumbled, passing a look towards Essie.

Abe placed a large hand on Essätha’s shoulder, making her jump. There was a knowing, warm light in his eyes, but also one of remorse.

“Thank Torm for your perception skills, Essie. I’m sorry I doubted you. I should have trusted you’d be able to see through Amon, no matter his form, with such ease.”

The blood in her face instantly grew hot. She swallowed, unable to do more then nod. She felt numb and unable to create a sentence, even if she tried.

“And Amon,” he turned towards the werebear. “I am truly, unbelievably sorry. I would have never struck you if I had realized, and known the story. I would never have unintentionally caused you harm.”

The bear bobbed its bulky head to the best of his ability, blinking.

Torn with regret, the paladin bowed deeply towards Amon. He still appeared deeply upset, the weight of his shoulders sagging and his face fallen as he dragged his feet over to Sulhadur and Adela, who were picking up Amon’s boots near the route back to camp.

Essie glanced back to Amon. He looked back at her, and tilted his head.

“Nu-uh. Not even cute bear eyes are getting you out of thisss,” she warned him in a hiss. “You’ve no idea how scared I was- I thought… For a minute I thought…”

She worried her lower lip.

“Rrrrr,” Amon attempted, pitifully, to apologize in a rolling rumble deep in his chest. He stepped closer, rubbing his head against her side.

Sniffling, the Yuan-Ti wiped at her eyes. “Let’s just get back to camp for now. We’ll talk about the rest when you have the chance to defend yourself.”

Whining, the nobleman plodded after her as they headed after the others. They made their way up the gradual slope without much difficulty, although Essie felt her face grow embarrassingly hot when a bear snout helped push her back to help her get up the last few feet. Amon lumbered nervously behind them, lingering wearily in the shadows to let them go ahead. It was an opportunity for them to explain the strange events they’d uncover, and for the others to absorb the information before Essätha waved him to join them from hiding.

Slowly, Amon’s bear-form lumbered into camp.

“Oh,” Penimra murmured, “I always thought Amon was more of an otter.”

Essätha swatted him on the arm.

“Cool,” Rava stated in her usual go-with-the-flow tone. “If we put Amon and Essie together now, we have a really cruddy druid.”

“Shut up, Rava.”

“I was just saying.”

“Krrrr, you look very soft, Lord Anon,” Pri’cha encouraged, dipping their head respectfully.

This time, a smile tugged at Essie’s lips. “Regal, as always.”

Amon shuffled in place as though he was… embarrassed?

Essie cleared her throat. “I’m going to respectfully ask everyone to go about their usual business now. It can be a bit… overwhelming, for people to be staring at you when you’re… not in your usual flesh,” she offered. “Let’s give m’lord some peace and space.”

There were a few grumbles from a few of the more curious, but they all begrudgingly began to slip back off to what they had been doing. Questions could wait another day or two.

Essätha turned, smirking to see Caesar circling beneath and around his master. He whimpered, nosing at the werebear’s fur and sniffing every inch of him. When Amon lowered their head, inspecting his companion, Caesar wagged his tail, albeit a bit nervously, and licked the nobleman on the snout.

“Phhu!” Amon sneezed, shaking his head.

She snickered, shaking her head.

As the evening waned a little further, everyone finally stopped gawking as openly at the bear sitting far from the campfire, and began to head into their tents. Essätha disappeared into the one she shared with Amon, hearing his distant and quiet coo of sorrow. She returned, carrying three blankets.

The first, and largest, he watched as she threw out over the ground. She pointed at him, then upon it. He looked at her for a minute, grumbled at her in some bear-ish gibberish that she could probably was him telling her to stop fussing, and circled the spot. He flopped down, huffing.

Caesar, eager, bounded over with his tail wagging enthusiastically. He pressed himself against Amon’s side, rolling around and groaning with pleasure.

Giggling, Essie snapped open another blanket over Amon. It barely draped over a quarter of his size. He looked from the blanket, to her.

“I’m trying.”

He breathed out, slowly. Closing his eyes, Amon nuzzled his face against the side of her head.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and squeezed gently. A rumble moved through him, and he sighed.

Taking the final blanket, she wrapped herself in a cocoon, and laid against the free side of the bear not taken by the overexcited canine.

Amon turned to nudge her. He looked to their tent, and then looked back to her. It was hard to describe a bear’s face as looking ‘stern’, but that was the impression she was getting.

“Nu-uh, I’m staying right here with you,” she defended. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Huff.

“Consider it part of your punishment,” she grumbled, rolling up into a ball. She rubbed her cheek against his plush fur. He was quite comfy.

Amon tried to shift and push her off three times, each time ending in failure. He huffed, looking to the tent and back to her. She blatantly ignored him, closing her eyes and waiting for him to give up so she could get some sleep.

With finality, Amon snorted at her, and rather loudly sprawled out to lay his head down, defeated.

Essätha patted his side, cuddling up against him. “Goodnight, m’lord Amon.”

“Arrrgg,” he acknowledged with begrudging acceptance.

She drifted off slowly, vaguely aware at some point that his eyes were upon her. It gave her the same feeling it always did, that of safety, of warm happiness, and of peace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Essätha woke up, blinking in the early morning light. She shifted, wincing at the creak in her spine, and turned over.

She was… on the ground?

Snoring greeted her. A wide grin spread across her face at the habitual morning ritual of the sound, and she forced her aching muscles to guide her in sitting up.

Sprawled out on his back, Amon lay snoring.

A slow, reddening color rose to her cheeks.

Rising clumsily to her feet, Essie stumbled over to the nearest tent. The residents inside groaned as she pulled back the flap.

“Ssssulhadur,” she hissed. “Get up. Come help me with something.”

“Nnng… right now?”

“Yesss, right now!”

“Alright alright, I’m coming I’m… getting up.”

She allowed the flap to fall and waited, tapping her boot on the ground. After a few seconds, the Dragonborn slipped out.

“What d’you need?” he yawned, revealing a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

She pointed over to where the nobleman lay, Caesar still asleep at his side, also upon his back.

“Could you please pick up m’lord Amon, and help get him to our tent?”

Sul blinked. “Ah. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

The Dragonborn shuffled over, and scooped the nobleman up from the ground. Caesar gave a gruff good morning bark, and Amon’s head lulled, slurring drowsily.

“Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Relax, m’lord. We’re just getting you to our tent.”

Running ahead of Sulhadur, Essie parted the sides of the tent for him to duck into. It was darker in here. The Dragonborn deposited him gently to the ground. As Sul stepped out, yawning yet again, Caesar came crowding inside to flop himself down near Amon’s feet.

“Nnng… Essätha?” Amon groaned. He flinched, resting a hand against his side, where the red faded line from where the axe had struck him lay.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, sitting down beside him. “I’m right here.”

He grunted, growing still and quiet. She hummed to him leisurely, combing her fingers through his locks.

“… You’re not yelling at me,” he rasped, his eyes closed.

“I’m not going to yell at you. But we will be having words, when you’re fully awake, fed, and feeling a bit better.”

He grunted, prying his eyes open. The nobleman tried to shift.

Swiftly, her cheeks bright pink, Essie sprawled her hands out over his chest, stalling him.

“I-I don’t think so,” she stammered. “You’re q-quite nude beneath that blanket.”

The tired half-mast of Amon’s eyes grew wide and round. He looked down at the material draped over him, and wrapped it a bit more tightly around his waist.

With a cheesy, half smile, Essätha joked, “Once is a peek, twice is a show.”

To her surprise, Amon’s face grew equally red. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably against the bedroll beneath him. It was little protection from the cold, hard ground beneath.

“Lay back for now, and get some rest,” she reassured him in a compelling, adoring voice, lightly pressing a hand to his chest. He obeyed, looking from where her hand touched him up to her face. The light of the sun was beginning to lighten the top of their tent, piercing through with just the right angles of faded shafts.

He breathed in and out raggedly.

“Are you… feeling alright?”

“Yes,” he strained, reaching up to hold her hand. “I-… I mean in some ways, I am.”

She smiled at him, puzzled. Allowing him to hold one hand, she slowly laid down beside the nobleman, reaching over to continue combing through his hair.

“This alright with you?”

“Yes.” He sounded breathless. He closed his eyes, immersed in the experience. A shiver passed over him.

“… You know you could have told us,” she murmured. “You could have told me. I would have kept your secret. I could have tried to help you.”

“… I’m sorry,” he rasped quietly. He opened his mouth to continue.

“Tsssh. Nevermind; not right now. It can wait. Forget I said anything. Rest right now. Yesterday was… a lot to take in, I’m sure. Just rest right now.”

“Okay,” he grumbled, not sounding too thrilled with the idea. He curled his hand over hers, cradling it over his heart as he breathed, in and out, slowly and deeply.

She continued threading her fingers through his hair, looking upon his facial features. He looked tired; the circles a bit darker beneath his eyes, but he also looked positively peaceful.

Leaning in closer, she rested her hair against his side. Amon’s arm wound around her, rubbing her side.

A tug on her heartstrings.

She sighed gratefully, curling in to his open side, allowing her eyes to close.

She had utterly no idea the nobleman cracked his eyes open to stare down at her, a loving glow in his gaze. Positively clueless that the longer he stared, the more he wished he could pull her into a full embrace and kiss those inviting soft lips.

But this tender moment would do just fine; his hand rubbing circles along her side, and their intertwined fingers resting to his chest as she caressed his scalp.

[chaospenelope]

Dreaming Ch.2

For @jflare205

The door flew from his paw slamming into the wall. A gloomy room was on the other side. There was a couch and chair facing an old TV it's staticky screen eerily illuminating the dull wallpaper. There were a sparse amount of toys abandoned on the floor. The scratching sounded like it was coming from the wooden door at the other side of the room. He traveled across the old white carpet. The scratches grew louder and louder, becoming as abrasive as claws on a chalkboard. Suddenly it all fell silent as he approached. He gripped the handle harder this time expecting it to swing again, but it remained in his hand as he slowly opened it. The next area was a bedroom with various toys sitting on a shelf and a messy child's bed, but that wasn't what caught his attention.

They were huddled at the scratched up window. A heard of grotesque Rabbit-like creatures with white slimy skin that seemed to hang from their bony frames. Their ghostly milky blue eyes turned to look at him. A toxic blue fluid rolled out of the sockets. Each one was warped in different ways with some limbs and features bloated or missing. Some opened their mouths revealing cracked and bleeding teeth with blue tongues slumped out. They all swayed toward him with hungry hisses. The monsters clawed at him with surprising bursts of speed. Lu shifted into a strong stance. The strong, resilient muscles under his skin coiled into a position ready to strike like an agitated cobra. He lashed out with a swift punch as the closest one leapt at him. It's head was easily dented with the sickly blood seeping through the point of impact. It swayed backwards but threw itself forward again. He didn't miss a beat as he landed a kick to it's chest. A weak hiss came out of it's mouth as it jolted backwards smacking into another. Two more charged with gaping maws. Lu struck at one's leg, snapping it in half. The other had it's spine cracked into an uncomfortable position. They kept moving. They crawled toward him. Blue oozed from their wounds as they refused to yield. After a few blows he quickly figured out their skulls can be bashed hard enough to stop them. He started aiming strictly for the head. One well placed kick would knock them off or smash them like a ripe pumpkin. The whole room and his clothes were splattered with blue muck. More crawled in from the window and others were slamming on the door behind him. He punched one of the rabbit's jaws clean off only for his elbow to smack into another. The banging on the door was getting worse and a mass of white and blue surrounded him. He felt the warm splatter of blood on his face as he split open another skull. Finally the door behind him gave way. He expected to be caught from behind. Instead, a large set of pale blue fists crushed down on one about to bite Lu. He looked over to see a tall rabbit with pale blue fur and wide purple eyes. His broad, muscular chest stretched as he wound up a devastating punch followed by a crack. The rabbit silently helped fight the horde off. The monsters seemed to gravitate toward the newcomer. Gradually they'd start attacking him more often until they completely ignored Lu. He tried to help his new ally, striking down the beasts like flies. Unfortunately, for every one he killed three more would shuffle in. They climbed onto the tall bunny and started to bite down on him. His red blood trickled down and matted up his fur. He grimaced from the pain and started to pant heavily. There was a strange pulse in the air. Eerily glowing crack formed on the flesh. They traveled around his body starting from his now blackened eyes. His mouth split open into a swirling black and purple void. He grabbed one of the creatures and tore it in half. His fists pounded the zombie-like beings until every single one was a slurry. "Have to admit that was impressive." Lu examined the pile of bodies around him, some parts still twitching. He then looked toward the blue bunny, still panting but had shifted back to normal. The ally flashed a thumbs up and a weary smile. A roar in the distance took it all away. His floppy ears stood up on end as he looked out the window. There was a sickening sweet smell in the air, like cotton candy. Out the window, at the edge of the woods was a lumbering red behemoth the size of a car. It resembled a mutated wild bear with dark spines protruding from it's back. A dark red, almost black slime dripped from it's growling jaws. There were claws the length of a small child. With an unbelievable burst of speed the animal charged. The red blur obliterated the window and sunk it's horrible fangs into the blue rabbit. The last thing he saw was the wide purple eyes. Lu felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and back as if he was bitten. Falling onto his back from the weight of a car. He saw the world around him grow dark and fade away. Suddenly the doors were swirling around him as the ground and walls formed. He sat up to a new chorus of sounds. The clanging pots were now accompanied with running water. There was the clopping of horses hooves on dirt. Feedback from a microphone came from a new door, but another door caught attention. Behind it the crying of a small child.