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fearnesbells · 10 months ago

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wreck my mind while the planet turns | imodna | 3k+

hello hello hi

i got bitten by the imodna fic writing bug guys.

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Imogen blinks to get the red out of her eyes.

It’s snowing.

She pauses on the path to crane her neck and watch the flakes fall from the night sky. The red fades to the back of her mind, a low, distant ebb.

(Almost like a moon is there, maybe, pulling at tides.)

There is a small, sacred pleasure in watching the snow—from this angle, illuminated in midair by lantern light, the flakes falling almost look like stars. Momentary constellations, generated and broken apart moment-by-moment through the whims of the clouds overhead.

She is fascinated as she holds her hand just in front of her face. She watches the geometric ice crystals alight on her gloves, no longer for concealment and now purely for warmth.

For a while, she stays right where she is, content to quietly, happily watch the flakes accumulate and clump together on the knit purple texture over her hands. Snow is still endlessly entrancing to her desert-born soul. As the pink in her cheeks begins to shift to a chapped, bitten red and her shiver intensifies, though, she decides that it’s probably best to tear herself away and resume the journey back.

With the lantern brandished, she continues on, settling into a familiar, quickened pace as she rounds the next curve of the path. Her body knows this, by now, the pain of her sore muscles and aching bones all but lifted from her by the knowledge that she’s almost home.

Home—the stout, perfect cottage of stone and wood, built strong and small and warm against the wild of the woods. Honey-colored light spills out of the windows and glitters on the snow. A thin curl of smoke rises from the chimney, and a soft, unbidden smile rises to Imogen’s face as she senses Laudna’s familiar music nudging at her mind.

She lets her in. She always lets her in.

Laudna’s presence is unobtrusive and distinctly pleased in her head as Imogen takes an assessing look at the horses, safe and warm in the side barn. The familiar, sweet feeling makes her smile loosely as she knocks her boots free of snow on the porch.

A horseshoe hangs on the door, situated just above a bundle of dried thistleweed to keep the wraiths away. A sigil is carved on either side of the display—one in a spidery, thin-fingered script, the other burned into the wood at a skewed, lavender-tinted angle. Protection spells, from both of them.

Imogen’s key is stubborn in the lock, but turns eventually, and she stumbles inside.

The sigils flicker.

She experiences instant warmth from the roaring fire in the fireplace, a pot of stew boiling over top of it. The seizing, wholehearted fondness for the creature kneeling bent and delighted in front of it, though, dulls all other sensations down to nothing in comparison to its vibrancy. She practically can’t even notice the change in temperature.

Hey, sweet thing, she thinks, overflowing with affection, then says it aloud for good measure.

Laudna turns and tilts her face up to beam at her. “Hello,” she says again. “How was your day?”

Imogen opens her mouth and, curiously, has nothing to say. How was her day? Where has she been?

“It’s snowin’,” she tells her, stalling with a slowed cadence so she can sift through her memory anything about what transpired today.

All she has is the path, the snow.

“Well, yes, darling,” Laudna replies. She giggles a little bit, points to the thick, lead-paned windows that show the forest (and the snow) outside. “I saw.” She stands up and rests one hand on Imogen’s hip, the other on her cheek, still flushed from the wind and cold. Her thumb traces over the skin there. “You look extremely adorable like this. I feel as though I was robbed with all those years we didn’t spend in the snow.”

Imogen laughs, then, forgetting her forgotten day, and cups Laudna’s face in her purple-gloved hands to kiss her sweetly.

“Thanks, honey,” she murmurs, stepping back to begin peeling off her winter layers. A coatrack, roughly hewn, stands crooked by the door from the weight of coats and hats and scarves. “How was your day?”

“Went collecting, found some treasures,” Laudna says pleasantly, shrugs. It’s a short response from the normally verbose Laudna, and Imogen’s brows knit together in worry until Laudna leans in to kiss her again, nipping lightly at her lower lip.

“Glad to hear it,” Imogen says softly, and lets the world fall away for a moment save for her lover, who is so beautiful, and so all-encompassing. It’s easy to let her eclipse all the rest.

When the world comes back, she makes an effort to take it in.

She tucks her face in the thin crook of Laudna’s neck. The smell of dew-soaked earth surrounds her. Chilled. Familiar. Safe. She feels utter contentment, the likes of which she first encountered in those early days on the run—the two of them curled into each other nose-to-nose, awash in newly minted trust.

She had a small and sacred wish for this future, back then, held closer to her heart than its own beats.She didn’t dare to risk her closest hope by speaking it aloud.

She just wished for a home for them. Both of them want (then and now) nothing more than to never have to run again in their lives. They need somewhere to settle.

Imogen presses a brush of a kiss to the cool skin at the edge of Laudna’s jaw. “Dinner?” she asks softly, and when Laudna smiles Imogen feels the movement of it under her lips.

When she steps back, it’s all sharp teeth and sharp joy. “Dinner, yes.”

She moves to the hearth again, and Imogen follows her with a hand on the small of her back. Her eyes go to the tchotchkes scattered over the top of the fireplace.

Bones. Pieces of statues. Bundles of dried flowers.

A inexplicable snowflake interrupts her cataloguing and swirls across her vision, followed by a second, then a third. Imogen’s focus is magnetically pulled to their paths.

A voice says her name, somewhere. The sound does not come from inside the house.

Imogen dimly recognizes it as her name after the fact, like when you can label a birdsong only after the echo has long faded. She cannot tear her eyes away from the snowflakes, now accumulating over top of the fireplace like they did over the surface of her gloves earlier.

An awful feeling gathers in her chest.

“Imogen?”

This time, her name comes from just off to her side—oh, yes, Laudna. It’s all right. Laudna is here. The weight of the feeling eases at the sight of her girl, holding a bowl of stew and looking at her with her deep eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Peachy,” Imogen tells her through a dry throat. “I’m okay, honey, sorry. Heard something—or, well, saw something, I guess. Both.”

Something alights in those dark, dark eyes. “What did you see?”

“Probably nothing,” Imogen reassures. “I don’t want to worry you about it, okay? Probably just the aftereffects of the chill from outside. Maybe I’m gettin’ sick.”

Laudna rests the back of her free hand against Imogen’s forehead, cold and smooth.

“Eat this, darling, and we’ll talk.”

Imogen takes the bowl of stew with both hands and sits down, keeps her eyes on Laudna at the fire. The tension in her chest unwinds as the other woman ladles a serving into her own bowl, humming to herself.

The stew is delicious. It tastes like her father’s cooking, when he still cooked. Imogen has practically devoured half the bowl before she comes up for air.

Laudna sits at her side after a minute, and takes one of Imogen’s leyline-scarred hands in her own instead of beginning to eat. Laudna never needs to eat much.

“Tell me what you saw,” she says softly. “Like we do with your dreams.”

Imogen keeps her eyes on her face, finding comfort there like she always does as she starts speaking.

“Snow,” she murmurs. “I saw snow. Falling indoors, though—right over there, over our fireplace.”

“No moon?”

“No, there was no—no. Just snow.”

“Think, darling. Really think. Was there a moon?”

Imogen is confused by her insistence, but closes her eyes tightly, remembering the single flake, then the flurry. Remembers the way the snow had drifted together over their things.

Remembers red light from the moon falling through the windowpanes, glittering on the snow like fresh blood.

“There… there was, but…”

“But what?”

She opens her eyes, then, feels Laudna’s music in her mind, anxious now. It’s like a too-quick bow dashing across the strings of a fiddle.

Ruidus is visible now through the kitchen window, silhouetting Laudna’s form—how did she not see it before?

Imogen’s hand, flickering with violet light, clenches and unclenches over the surface of the dining room table.

More sigils are carved over its wood. These are in the thin, webby etching that must have been done by Laudna’s hand. They’re not traditional, instead made up of strung-together foundational symbols that have been cobbled into novel translations.

Refuge. Home. Stronghold.

Fight it, Imogen.

“But what, darling?”

She stares hard at the last sigil, remembering what it’s supposed to say, what they carved there in the first place, and finds that she can’t. Finds, in fact, that now all of the sigils are burning red, bright in her eyes, and that all of them now spell FIGHT, IMOGEN.

“We have to go,” she says desperately. “Laudna, I—.”

Laudna takes both of Imogen’s hands in hers, now, and turns fully to face her. The stew sitting in front of them both has gone quite cold.

“Breathe,” she says fiercely. “Breathe. Shut it out. It’s just that old moon again. He cannot find you here.” She holds Imogen’s gaze with her dark, caring eyes. “Breathe, Imogen.”

The red light recedes. Imogen’s breath still shakes on the way out.

Laudna takes her right index finger and touches it to her own lips before she rests it against her forehead, eyes still locked on Imogen.

Remember? she hears.

Imogen breathes out a weak laugh, and does the same—kisses her index finger, touches her own forehead.

I’m keepin’ you up there, she thinks. Don’t you worry.

“Good,” Laudna whispers, and moves her hand from her own forehead to cup Imogen’s cheek. “I’ll fight it off for you, okay? If it comes, I will fight it.”

Imogen leans into Laudna’s touch, twists just slightly so she can brush her lips against the palm of Laudna’s hand.

I don’t know if it can be fought, honey.

She keeps the thought just between their minds—some things are too terrifying to be said aloud.

“It can be fought, because I will make it so.” Laudna is determined, her eyes getting deeper and darker like they do when her form of dread begins to take its shape. “You are bound for more than that moon. I will not let it take you.”

Imogen smiles wanly at Laudna’s ferocity, but feels tears gather in her eyes, too.

“Everything we learn about Ruidus seems like it’s pointin’ right to me,” Imogen whispers. “My scars… my magic… hell, my mama, Laudna. This is my fate.”

“Why?” Laudna asks, broken. “Why is that your fate, and not this?”

Imogen looks around their home, its life and warmth and light, and a truth settles in her.

“This isn’t real,” she admits, finally. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not real.”

There is a lump in her throat that makes continuing feel impossible, but she tries to speak around it. She will always try for Laudna.

“I made my choice,” she says, the softest her voice can go. “I could’ve abandoned the mission—the group—I could’ve left, and gone to pursue this, with you. But I… at every point, when I could have changed my fate, I chose not to. And now I’ve bound myself to a path with one end.”

“Only one?”

Imogen smiles listlessly, on reflex, a shield more than anything else. Something to deflect the aching weight of Laudna’s gaze.

“Ruidus’ll be the end of me,” she says. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do. One way or another, my road ends there. I’m dying up there, Laud.”

Laudna watches her, quiet, and doesn’t say anything for a long while. It feels like she sees right through to the core of Imogen. It always does.

“So you’re giving up, then,” Laudna says, as a statement of fact.

“What? No, I’m—I’m seeing this through till the end, honey, that’s what I—”

“I woke up at the base of the tree,” Laudna interrupts her.

Laudna never interrupts her.

“I know.” Imogen hears her own voice shake.

“When I opened my eyes, I was so cold. I had never been that cold before, ever. And it was raining, and there was rope—” Laudna’s pale hand goes to her neck, to the friction scars that are textured over the skin there. “I was dead. And then I was alive again—but only partly. Half a life, tossed to me like scraps.”

“I know,” Imogen insists. “I know all of this, Laud, and I also know that you don’t like to talk about it, so we don’t have to…”

“Imogen. Please listen to me.”

It is a simple request, but it’s delivered with such sincerity that Imogen bites down on her tongue.

“Do you know what I did first?”

“Tried to find someone… to talk to?”

“I tried to climb back up the tree and retie the rope. To right the unnatural wrong that had been done.”

Imogen could not speak now if she wanted to. Bile crowds the back of her throat, tears burn at the corners of her eyes. Her vision is edged with red, and she doesn’t know if it’s Ruidus or the storm or the hot, awful press of grief and fear.

“I did not succeed, which you know, and it is something I am now grateful for. I am grateful in a manner so uncomplicated that it is beautiful. There is no regret in the fact that I am alive—or as alive as a Hollow One can be.”

Imogen grabs Laudna’s hands again, and holds them so tightly she fears a knuckle will pop out of place.

“You never told me that before,” Imogen breathes, through her burning, tight throat. “I—Laudna—”

“I continued on, after that, because I understood something that I am trying to get you to understand by telling you all of this, darling.” She squeezes Imogen’s hands right back, bony and strong. “I know what it is like to feel predestined for nothing but doom. I know that you do, too. But my love, my heart, you must understand that you cannot let yourself believe that. You are a creature of such capability and wonder—” she touches her forehead to Imogen’s, and Imogen feels their connection tug open—what a waste it would be if you arrived at the gates of hell and walked yourself in.

There are so many tears on Imogen’s cheeks. She tries to swipe at them, and mostly fails. “Are you real?”

Laudna smiles in the same way Imogen did earlier—humorlessly, like it’s armor. “Yes. No.”

Imogen stands from their table, where the sigils are glowing red, and walks to the window.

Ruidus is closer now—larger. It has begun to storm outside instead of snow.

Someone is calling her name.

She turns back, looks at Laudna sitting at the table, there in all her open, perfect glory.

“I’m here to protect you,” Laudna continues to explain, softly. “From the storm.”

Imogen looks around the house again. Looks at it, really sees it.

It is so beautiful. Messy, like she’d always thought it would be. Flowers in vases, flowers framed on the wall, dried flowers hung in bunches to ward off wayward curses. Bones peppered in among the blooms.

She commits it to memory, just in case.

“I can have this,” she says aloud. “I can hope for this.”

“Yes, you can,” Laudna responds softly. “Always.”

Imogen goes to her, then, because how could she not? She wraps her in her arms, holds her close and flush and as tightly as she dares. Laudna holds her back.

“I want this,” she murmurs. “I’m going to fight for this.”

Fight, Imogen.

With Laudna gripping her hand, she takes one last look around a home that could be hers and strides out into the storm.

The snowy path, the barn, the shed, all of it is gone—there is only red. Lightning screams overhead like it has a voice.

COME.

It’s the call she’s familiar with, the one that she hears every night when she falls asleep. Ruidus—Predathos—calling her forth, beckoning her within.

She takes a step towards its eye. On what ground, she isn’t sure. She can’t see where her foot finds purchase.

COME.

Darling. Follow me.

Laudna, in her form of dread, stands spindly and tall at Imogen’s side, and beckons her away from the storm.

Imogen blinks. The red dims, slightly.

Come on, darling. I’m right here. We can get out of this.

With the effort of a god, Imogen reorients herself, takes a step in Laudna’s direction.

There you are. I’m your tether, right? I’m pulling you right along. Just follow me. It’ll be easy.

One step turns to two, to three. The howling intensifies, the storm’s voice crowding her mind and splitting her head in two with pain, pain, pain—

Sweet, melodic music undercuts the sound of screams, and then mutes them down to nothing.

Follow me, sweet. I’m right here.

I love you.

She’s running, now, the steps coming easier, and Laudna is loping right alongside her, a many-limbed thing with eyes like the night.

“I love you!” she shouts back, out loud. Her voice is stolen by the wind, but she knows Laudna hears.

Keep running! Don’t stop! I love you more than any—

“—thing.”

Laudna’s voice.

There is sun.

There is sun, falling over her skin, and the smell of dew-soaked earth.

“Oh—oh, gods—Imogen?”

Laudna is holding her. Laudna is cradling her, really, draped over the thin frame of her body, and her face is wide-eyed with a naked sort of hope.

“Hi, darlin’,” she croaks. Her throat is painfully dry. “I didn’t… am I okay?”

Black tears gather in Laudna’s eyes and she starts to laugh, then, holds her impossibly closer and shoves her face in the crook of Imogen’s neck.

Imogen nudges at Laudna’s mind, out of habit, and an explosion bursts forth of Imogen-Imogen-Imogen-my Imogen-my girl-Imogen-oh, Imogen-Imogen, Imogen, Imogen—

“You were gone,” she says, mostly against Imogen’s skin. “We were on the road towards Ludinus, and then you went out like a light—like a candle, or something—oh, Imogen, I’m so glad you’re awake,” she says, pulls back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Do you feel all right? Are you all right?”

Imogen leans in and kisses her, touches their foreheads together.

“I love you,” she says softly. “I’m all right.”

I can have this. I can hope for this.

She looks in Laudna’s eyes, sees the fierce, stubborn light behind them, refusing to wink out.

I’m going to fight to keep it.

#critical role #imodna #imogen temult #campaign 3 #laudna #imogen x laudna #bells hells #jackie loves the lesbian witches #the adventures of a first time critter #imodna fanfic #imodna fanfiction #critical role fic #critical role fanfiction #jackie writes #the coven of c3

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equbliss200 · 1 year ago

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equbliss20 · 1 year ago

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equinecares · 1 year ago

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slowd1ving · 5 months ago

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PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ vii.

DANCE FLOOR DOLOR (MAREUX)

"I choose death, not forgiveness, Sulking on the dance floor, Got me in a mood dancing by myself." wc: 10.6k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

All was not, in fact, well.

Actually, you’d go on record to say that it was positively tragic . At the very arse-crack of dawn, you were shaken awake by the very floors rumbling beneath your drowsy body – before the door was flung open with enough force to uproot several trees without breaking a sweat. There, emblazoned with a proud tweed jacket and jodhpurs, stood Vincent: arms splayed rigidly and connected to his hips, boots so polished your eyes hurt, and a fresh scowl lining his brow.

The previous evening had been spent at the smithy the day prior; a blasting furnace had long since made your skin raw and too-sensitive, and you spent the twilight hours keeping Group Four from fighting the poor, overworked blacksmith. But at long last, her hooves were fitted with new horseshoes, while the old ones practically crumbled off in a bleak pile. Similarly, you kept a close eye on her as Vincent demonstrated how to properly tack her up – yet, no matter how much you tried to look past it, the barley-green residue on the metal bit kept making you wince.

“Today, you’re going to ride and gear her up yourself. A jockey should always know how to groom and tack up a horse – especially in the Steel Ball Run, where grooms won’t be readily available,” he instructed caustically. It was then that you noticed the worn chaps he held in his turned–away hand; they were a dusky, faded sienna colour, and your eyes lit up at the sight of them. Gone were your childhood dreams of cowboys – no, they were coming into reality . “Wear gloves and thick trousers.”

“Sir!” you sat up blearily – still, your eyes watered and were crusted over with the evidence of your swift passing out. Groggily, you dressed; several times, you almost stumbled and fell head-first onto the timbered floors of your room – but you got it done. You eyed your reflection in the internal armoire mirror: your battered cargos were secured with an old belt you found in a drawer (half-covered by the chaps, but that was something to be grateful for, in this alien past) and a wide-brimmed hat covered your face in its shadow – it was tight with the security of a concealed helmet. Safety first .

In the stiff leather riding-gloves, your fingers itched with a burdensome numbness (and a healthy dose of anticipation).

With your belly comfortably sated with suspicious fruits and fresh bread, you strode out to Martha’s barnhouse, where Vincent was already waiting for you next to an ancient saddle horse.

“Gloves off, kid,” he ordered. After you had carefully perched them atop your new saddle, he handed you a hoof pick, and you grimaced. At that, he frowned at you. “Do it first to avoid it later.”

“Right,” you muttered, taking it with an ounce of trepidation. In the stables, Group Four was already tied off to an empty stall with a quick-release halter – she nickered quietly upon seeing you, and you couldn’t help but break into a smile. Despite your initial grin, it quickly devolved into you eyeing her hooves in no small amount of fear. Still, you plundered on; facing her hind quarters, you grasped the area just below the fetlock – easily, she let you angle it so you could swiftly dig out the muck in the hoof.

You held your breath as you carved out the dirt; quite frankly, it did not smell pleasant.

If you were being honest, it was extremely nerve-wracking more than it was stinky – especially in the danger zone of the back hooves. Yet, despite your frayed nerves and turbulent mind, Group Four didn’t so much as twitch. It was as if she sensed the viscous trickle of fear that clung to you: something which you were immensely thankful for.

“Dunno why I’m talking to a horse,” you murmured as you picked up a roughly bristled brush and began running it through her coat. Her ears swivelled at the soft noise, but you were too preoccupied focusing on the saddle area to pay much notice. “I’ve had barely any riding experience – but here I am, about to enter a real big fucking race.”

“Anyways,” you picked up the hoof pick that had dropped, forgotten, to the hay covering the wooden planks. “I’ll be right back with the bridle and saddle.”

As you walked back out to the connecting barn, the heavy tobacco-cigar smell fell upon you; there, still by the saddle horse, Vincent leaned against the wall as he spoke with Martha. By the rungs of the horse, you left the pick and brush.

“Saddle first, and loop the reins ‘round your shoulder and her neck when you do the bridle,” he reminded you, all the while showing three fingers to remind you of how loose the cinch had to be. As you heaved with the heavy Western-style saddle and thick saddle-pad, Martha burst into laughter at your waddle – a last ditch attempt so that the bridle wouldn’t fall off the crest of the leather.

“Alright, gramps,” you pointedly ignored the absolute mockery you were experiencing. Between the uproarious cackle bursting from the saleswoman, and the exasperated glower of the innkeeper, it was with a sigh of relief that you reentered the dim stables.

“You want to know your name?” you continued while slipping the bridle onto a stall peg, then the saddle onto the next stall’s open door. When you turned back to Group Four, her ears had pricked up noticeably, and you fought back a smile. “It’s Group Four.”

As you placed the thick pad on her back, you watched as her ears flicked interestedly – it was almost a question, and a hell of a better reaction than to Lucky . Why ?

“Well,” you began as the heavy saddle started its burdensome strain on your arms. Yet, somehow, you still managed to slip it on so the stirrups and cinch didn’t hit her side. You surveyed your handiwork proudly, before realising (with no small amount of horror) that you had to reach under her belly to grab the metal. Group Four, in her impatience, snorted loudly; you almost flew back as she startled you.

“Alright, alright,” you muttered – despite your outward attempt at composure, your heart had yet to settle. “You’re named after a group in the periodic table – which contains transition metals – don’t look at me like that, they’re really cool ! Chemically, they form colourful compounds and are frequently used as catalysts – which you will be in this race.”

Seemingly satisfied, she shook out her mane while you wrapped up your explanation.

Were you losing it? Something about having a half-conversation with your mare told you that somebody in the stables was losing the plot – and it probably wasn’t the horse.

It’s perfectly fine to talk with your horse , you sniffed haughtily. In a spurt of courage, you wrangled your cinch to the other side and began the arduous task of tugging on the leather enough to buckle it. If you really looked at it, the saddle looked a tad more finicky than those you saw on TV in those rich kid movies; instead of being highly polished and having a lighter shaper, this one was duller – but had rich embroidery and embossed leather patterns decorating the brown material. The Western saddle also rose and tapered into a horn at the front – something to help herd cattle, you presumed.

Huzzah ! Wiping your brow with your jacket, you took a cursory step back to examine your work; it was loose enough to fit in some fingers and not irritate Group Four, while also being tight enough that it wouldn’t fall off in the midst of riding. You left the stirrups high for the minute while slinging the bridle over your shoulder.

Idly, you thumbed the braided leather-cord reins as you looped them around her neck. With your free hand, you unclasped her halter and slipped the bridle on; even through your jacket, you could feel her warm breath on your arm. Being so close to her mouth made you slightly nervous – regardless of what you felt, though, you surged on. As you slipped the bit into her mouth, her velvet nose brushed against your palm. The sudden spongy-texture against your tattoo stirred Depeche Mode awake.

[‘S going on?]

I’m tacking Group Four up , you replied gleefully. With each cinch of the noseband and crown, with each correct point ticked off, the small victories avalanched until you observed your success with a concerning amount of pride. Depeche Mode sleepily murmured something in response, but you weren’t paying enough attention to catch it.

“I think that’s done,” you eyed Group Four cautiously, looping the looser reins higher up your shoulder. A final check to make sure the tack wasn’t pinching her anywhere, and you could grab your gloves off where they sat on the horn and slipped them back on; now – now – you felt like a true contender for the race. The Appaloosa blinked at you, in what appeared to be placid confirmation. “Great!”

It was not , in fact, great. When you walked her out of the stables (putting in the greatest amount of effort to make sure she didn’t bulldoze over you with her new-found energy), Vincent wordlessly began shifting all your adjustments by a hole or two; by the end of it, you stood there, rather deflated from your crushed pride.

“Not bad for someone who’d just watched a demonstration,” he attempted to pacify you once he saw that forlorn shadow wash over your face. Then, briskly, he took the reins off you and led the mare to a mounting block – this is it .

Once you sank onto the leather, something would finalise. You didn’t know what , exactly, but an intrinsic tie to the future would be carved into the stone – you felt it in your guts, your bones, and everywhere else that instinct lingered.

If you were seated on that saddle, it would be akin to crossing the Rubicon.

Beneath the shadows of your hat, your mournful expression cracked – until all that was left was anticipation. It lingered thick on your tongue, and shrouded you with a tangible, crackling energy. You were restless; every neuron was firing at a rapid pace to acclimate you to the new information your body was receiving, and you hadn’t even started yet.

The jittery sensation had also spread to Group Four. Though her pace was even under the experienced hand of Vincent, her steps still juddered with a verve that mimicked your own vigour – yet, you couldn't be certain whether it stemmed from you, or the reality that someone else was handling her instead of you.

“Calm down, kid,” he ordered, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger. While his normal expression was already sombre enough, the firm set of his jaw prompted you into thinking this was truly a more serious affair. Fruitlessly, you tried to steady the arrhythmic beat of your desperate heart. “Your mood affects both your performance and your horse.”

“Right,” you swallowed dryly. If you thought it was imposing leading the horse, it was even more imposing when you stepped up to the heavy mounting block. Precariously, you wobbled at the last step – it was only when you grabbed the horn and reins tied loosely to it that you regained your balance. Fuck . What the hell were you supposed to do next?

“Start with the stirrup closest to you,” Vincent called out from where he stood nearby. Your eyes followed to where the stirrup swung with an alarming looseness that did not feel stable whatsoever. Despite it, your boots found the thick metal rung easily enough; after steeling yourself for a too-short moment, you gathered enough spunk to swing your left leg over the saddle as well. Like a bullet, it immediately shot to find shelter in the dangling stirrup (it may have taken you a few tries, but you finally got your foot shoved in there).

“I did it!” you half-yelled out in exhilaration. Swivelling around, you made eye contact with the innkeeper, then Martha – perhaps it was with a trace of smugness that followed triumphant novices, but who was to blame you? You blinked, and the ground was suddenly a lot further away than it had been just a mere moment ago.

“Get the reins and hold them so they go between your ring and smallest finger for both hands,” Vincent commanded while he came over to readjust the stirrups. “I trained the classical style – but this is Western-style tack, so you can relax your hold, and steer one handed with the reins looped between those two fingers, then your thumb and index – don’t do this when you’re galloping for your life .”

Inhale . The rapid thrum of your heart pounding against your ribcage had settled, until it was once more the steady thump you were accustomed to. Exhale . You did as you were told, and if you were being honest, it felt like taking hold of a steering wheel for the first time – like you had control . This was one of the biggest steps to reaching your goal; finally, you were taking that leap across the gaping chasm.

The sky had split into a rosy smile; azure firmament had brought with it a glaring sun – but try as it might, it didn’t so much as scratch at your eyes through your hat. With the shift of the heavens, hope rustled on the breeze; this was almost it . You could practically taste the start of the Steel Ball Run already.

Vincent, by all means and rights, was a harsh critic and even harsher teacher. From the very beginning, he drilled the foundation into you: what it meant to have a good seat when riding, just how much pressure you should be applying with leg aids, and how to keep steady no matter how fast Group Four sped up. Soon, the difference between a walk and trot, canter and gallop became as distinctive as night and day. Each of the few lessons wrangled you into a melted mass of unsteady muscles and aching ligaments – but you were sure you wouldn’t fall off your horse at the beginning of the fateful race, at least.

As the minutes turned into hours, and the hours turned into days, you eventually got used to feeling uncomfortable warm and sticky for a good part of the morning; the constant grip of your thighs against the leather saddle trapped copious amounts of sweat, and by the end of it you always smelled like horse and wished for nothing more than the luxury of a shower to sluice away the hard work. Eventually, you became accustomed to walking back to the inn with legs of measly rubber – then standing for the whole evening. In a gesture of goodwill, Vincent had let you off paperwork duty on the days you drilled, but never for your evening job.

Despite your unfortunate circumstances, customers somewhat liked you. Your sullen, exhausted face didn’t dissuade them from opening up to you in a way they were too intimidated by Vincent to (though that didn’t stop the more courageous – or shameless – of them). And despite your initial exasperation with all that came through those doors, you grew to enjoy the work.

Then one day, the balance shifted irrevocably.

. 　⁺ ✦

Dawn had shaken you awake with an innocuous rigour. By dawn, you meant Vincent. Just as every day before it, he thundered up the stairs and threw open your door with enough energy that it made you concerned, quite frankly – where the hell did he get it from? Your muscles ached, your brain was splitting in two and a war had broken out between both sides; even with your plaintive mumbling, he’d just brewed you a particularly strong cup of herbal tea and told you to get on with it.

Circumstance had given you a different teacher that morning.

You expected it, yet hadn’t prepared for that possibility quite so soon. Mundane routines were something that was common across all time periods; you took immense comfort in keeping with each boring slot, no matter how dull and lengthy it was. Vincent’s teaching had been something familiar , something you could take refuge in and get used to. However, Martha was different. Where Vincent had pushed for a more classical style of riding, Martha insisted on you learning the finer points on Western.

“It’s fine and all if he wants to show you the finicky styles of racing for show and flashiness,” she had uttered exasperatedly – this clearly was a basis for argument for the two of them. “Western is easier for endurance like this – but will that stubborn old geezer listen? No, he’s too stuck in his old glory days!”

She threw up her hands as she said it for added emphasis, but you could still hear the affectionate years of knowing him in her annoyed tone. Credit where credit was due; she was true to her word. It was easier to learn Western riding, considering that was the purpose with which the saddle was built. With Vincent, the lessons were focused more on the core of the body – it was considerably more difficult to trot in the classical style, but the Western gait was really more of a relaxed jog that you could seat yourself in easily.

Every passing hour brought with it a change in perspective that you found refreshing; there was peace to be granted after spending practical aeons at the lab daily. Being so entrenched outside, where the only issue was a stray wasp or two, was like a balm to your ragged soul. For the first time in years, worry melted away like cobwebs amidst the pour of rain. Of course you missed it – there was no other way about it – but this was a respite among the straining currents that had swept you from your feet daily, until all you could do was collapse into your creaky mattress as soon as you got home.

So this, too, shall pass .

You realised something crucial over those gruelling hours: whether it had been with the arduous training of Martha, or serving up drinks and food with Vincent, and even poring over homework with Dolly. Despite the burden you carried on your wearied shoulders, you were unencumbered with the stress that you might’ve otherwise felt. And there was a key reason for that.

I’m going to miss them all .

Unintentionally, you’d formed attachments to the people you came to call friends. Irate Vincent, cunning Martha, and chattering Dolly – you’d miss them all when you went back. Years later, would you see their name mentioned in history books? Years later, would you ever come across their descendants? It was disturbing to think about.

On one of the mornings – just a mere handful of days until the beginning of the race – you saw him for the first time.

As if he had always been there, he stood next to Martha as if the field was the place that he considered home. The thing that had initially struck you was the salient hat he wore; it covered his wispy, flaxen curls in bold zebra print that drew the eye whenever he walked. High on Group Four, you regarded him – in courteous return, he regarded you. That was the next thing you noticed; his eyes were those of a hawk – sharp, observant, analysing . At that moment, though you had the higher ground, the wariness within was almost primitive; was this how Dr Ferdinand’s specimens felt as she peered down at them with a burning curiosity? Should you flee, or fight ?

Then, the man named Mountain Tim broke into a minute smile, and his imposing presence shrunk into something more manageable. Shreds of trepidation still lingered, but you surveyed him more thoroughly. He looked like a cowboy that had walked straight off a Wild West movie; if you squinted, you could still see the white crackles of film surrounding him. Upon his head was a jauntily perched cowboy hat, slung on his shoulders was the pelt of what you could only presume to be leopard, and he wore a lasso and gun holster on his belt. Proudly emblazoned on his chest was a golden sheriff’s badge – something you only noticed later, despite its lustrous appearance.

Depeche Mode stirred in interest; yet, you couldn’t pinpoint why . The contemplative pause in thought prompted Group Four to come to a halt at the enclosure fence, until you were directly sat above eye-level of the strange man and Martha. Your shadow, and clearer sight from your own hat, let you gaze down at him without the glare of the sun – upon closer inspection, his eyes were a striking blue that had the merest pinprick of a pupil, and those were honed in straight on you.

“Barkeep! Meet Mountain Tim,” Martha had interrupted the growing silence with a platitude that woke something in the abyss of short-term memory. Mountain Tim . Mountain Tim. You tested it out with the tongue of the mind, replaying it over and over until it became a mantra for searching for answers.

[Isn’t he the one who Vincent was talking about a few weeks ago?]

The sudden input from Depeche Mode made your curiosity pique. As a general rule, Depeche Mode wasn’t exactly involved in your day-to-day life; for it to have remembered a snippet from so long ago made you wonder if this stranger was someone significant to your soul’s manifestation.

“He’s also entering the Steel Ball Run,” she continued amiably, gesturing to the stables. “He’s rented a stall for the remaining few days for his own steed.”

Steel Ball Run .

(“ Bunch of bigwigs entering, like Diego Brando and Mountain Tim . No way you’d bag first, in any case .”)

From the murky bottom of your short-term memory, Vincent's crude voice swam through the currents of brain-fluid. Yes, this was the so-called bigwig of the Steel Ball Run: someone to avoid, someone to fear . No. Here, dressed in rider garb and sitting confidently in the saddle, you were an equal . No longer would you cower in fear of someone’s reputation – this was not your life to play cautiously with. You held his quiet, stoic stare evenly.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he intoned, though it was a rather pleasant voice nonetheless: mellow and deep.

“Likewise,” you returned – polite, but curt . Then, you noticed something strange; unlike the usual hissy fit Group Four initiated whenever she was that close to someone she didn’t know, her head was courteously deferred in a bow . You stared for only a moment, before eyeing Mountain Tim in a mildly suspicious manner. He looked nonplussed as usual, though his eyes crinkled good-naturedly.

“I wish you the best,” you added, but the two of you knew it was an indirect dismissal. Still, as you continued the drill with Martha yelling out different gait switches from the fence, he watched by her side.

When you finally dismounted, he joined you in the stables as you took off Group Four’s tack; in the stall opposite, he geared up his own horse. It was rather disconcerting, but you kept the silence – in your gut, you knew he wouldn’t try to hurt you. Nonetheless, you kept an eye on his movements: only pausing to grimace at the wheat-green dried spittle on the metal bit. As you closed the stall behind you (with the bridle slung over your shoulder and saddle in your arms, he spoke.

“You’re that bartender at Vincent’s, aren’t you?”

You swivelled on your heel; while his tone was conversational enough, you could hear some genuine curiosity that shone through. “Yeah.”

“You served me that rum the other night,” he stated, and it was just that. A statement: nothing more, nothing less. “Vincent’s never had a bartender – and I've been there every year in a row.”

There . There it was, the underlying, burning curiosity that mirrored your own, scientific fervour you relied on to survive your internship. Was it the fact that you were the exception to a decade of self-imposed rules? Was it the fact that you looked at him as an equal? Was it the fact that you were a novice , about to compete in a competition that would go down in history as the most glorious? It was probably the latter; while there were plenty of foolhardy fledglings that chased the money and nothing more, your eyes didn’t possess the same avarice.

Maybe he’d talked to Martha, or even Vincent – God knew the two of them were well-acquainted with your notion of going home (not that they knew what exactly it entailed). Maybe he guessed it for himself; those cerulean eyes were astonishingly perceptive, after all.

Then, you paused. Your mind rewound to the first part of the question: you served me that rum the other night . Had you? Furiously, you wracked your brain for any data, any sort of image that you could recognise, but it was fruitless. You couldn’t place him – amidst the haze and blur, nobody in particular stood out, not even a cowboy that stood out like the sun in a night sky.

“Don’t recall, sorry,” you furrowed your brow; a careful selection of the former part of his statement, and he’d be forced to ask outright if he really wanted to pick your mind apart for those answers. “The evenings are really hectic.”

“Well, I was wearing other clothes,” he shrugged it off, and resumed brushing his horse. Maybe it hadn’t been curiosity after all. At least, that’s what you thought until he paused once more. “But surely it’s not as hectic as it would’ve been with only Vincent.”

Again, he was politely prodding in an indirect manner that would probably make the aforementioned man snap his disapproval. You, just like the old man, were slowly growing impatient at the evasion; it seemed his callousness had rubbed off onto you. Yet, unlike the old man, you evaded the question in turn – you shouldered the bridle once more and hummed in mild agreement. As you turned to exit the stable doors, he suddenly cleared his throat.

“I’ll be frank,” he admitted finally. Finally . “Who are you?”

“What’s it to you?” you challenged back, bluntly. Rather than a vicious provocation, there was only a firm redirection in your voice. His question was polite enough, but within it you could see others strung along. Who are you ? Why are you entering the race ? Why did Vincent take you in ? What’s your motive ? If you had been asked the question a month ago, you might’ve quietly acquiesced with a polite laugh to his previous, vague statements. But no. A few weeks of intense training and Vincent’s crude abrasiveness had sanded you down into a laconic person: one who didn’t shy away from his straight-forward nature, and one who certainly wouldn’t entertain silly questions and half-statements.

“I didn't mean to cause offence,” he held his hands up apologetically. “My curiosity and friendship with Vincent got the better of me – and most people don’t take kindly to coarse questions.”

“Right,” you canted your head in a picture of waiting . His stoicism was gone – replaced by a sheepish raise of eyebrows and a light grimace.

“I was worried about Vincent, when I heard he found a new worker,” he began brushing his horse’s mane, but his tone was honest and open. “I thought there must’ve been something going on behind the scenes – threats, bribes, something – so I decided to scope you out.”

You kept your silence in mild surprise. Then, your eyes found the sheriff badge that still shone, even in the dim light – and something clicked. Makes sense .

“But you were just a rather tired-looking bartender, and when I asked Martha, she told me you were working to get the fee for the race,” he continued, bending to oil the steed’s hooves.

“That’s a rather extreme assumption,” you replied with raised brows, but really, you were too worn-out to really question him.

“You don’t understand – the old man was hell-bent on never hiring anyone,” he shook his head in good-natured concern. “But looking at you now, the two of you are peas in a pod.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” there was an uncertainty in your voice as you responded; this was one of the most unusual conversations you had this week.

“Do,” he instructed nonchalantly. “You’re a good rider, just like he was. Blunt, just like he is.”

“Thanks?” you laughed – still with those shreds of hesitance, but there was palpable relief in the slump of your shoulders (if you were being truly honest, you appreciated that there was someone looking out for that crude old man).

“I’m honoured to be competing with you for the Steel Ball Run,” he continued sincerely, and you felt the blood roaring in your ears at the earnest tone.

[Real charmer.]

You ignored the cynical burr of Depeche Mode’s robotic voice; instead, you focused on the budding friendship between you and the cowboy.

Today went well .

It would be another few nights before you saw him again.

. 　⁺ ✦

Officially, there was no party. Unofficially, Stephen Steel’s entourage had paid for all the taverns in the area to be kept open around two hours after their typical closing time. And if you were really being technical, they were one gathering split into many – the riders for the Steel Ball Run had been trickling into town for the last few weeks, but only now would they combine into one teeming, competitive mass. Everyone who had a sensible head on their shoulders would be scoping out rivals and deciding exactly how well they would fare against another.

Initially, you felt compelled to slip off your barkeeping clothes for the night, and mingle with the contenders as an equal, much like you did with Mountain Tim. But on second thought, that urge was replaced by the rationalisation that it would be far better to go undercover for this; if you simply served drinks like you always did, you could look at rivals as objectively as you could – without the outwards hostility that came with opponents. You weren’t mistaken; that hostility would no doubt come regardless, but this offered you a unique perspective on the riders that a good majority wouldn’t have.

Dolly had gone to bed early – there were simply too many people packed in one place for you to effectively keep an eye on her.

And it was packed : everywhere you looked, everywhere you turned , was a flood of opponents clamouring for a drink. Your glare wasn’t interpreted as hostile – rather, you were just the ill-tempered bartender. As fast as possible, you doled out shots and glasses and scooped up coins to thin out the crowd at the bench. While you didn’t truly believe that whatever drink one chose reflected your personality – or whatever favourite shape, colour, or animal – it was certainly amusing trying to gauge their beverage based on how they interacted with the world.

The air was teeming with spirit and sweat; even as the sky turned to complete pitch, it was still relatively humid. Your head pounded, but you kept a careful eye on those who came up to wet their mouths with booze. Here, you could do half of gauging whether they could be allies or not in your own goal; the other half, of course, would be when you encountered them once more – be it in the throes of the race or the peace of checkpoints.

“Bartender!” Mountain Tim’s cheerful greeting roused you from your contemplative stupor. You stifled a yawn and grabbed a tumbler.

“Hi,” you replied, unenthusiastically. Perceptive as ever, he gave you a sympathetic smile before rattling off a gin and tonic combo. You gave him a once-over when you handed him the drink – true to his word, he really was wearing regular-degular clothes like he’d said, but there was still something that seemed different about him. And true to your previous, astute observation of his own perception, he sat in silence with his drink: no attempts to talk, no attempts to bother you, no nothing .

And you thanked him for it. Mentally, of course.

I’m gonna be out like a log when I get to bed .

Wistfully, you thought about that hard mattress and thin coverlet. Already, your limbs were beginning to relax into a fleshy puddle; your eyes had long since stopped roaming the crowded room for potential allegiances. Instead, your focus turned solely on not falling asleep on your feet.

[ Focus on scouting allies .]

Depeche Mode’s insistence had your face churn into a heavy scowl that semi-permanently etched itself into your muscles. I’m about to fall asleep on my feet. How the hell am I supposed to focus?

[This is one of your only chances, and you’re squandering it!]

You didn’t answer. Maybe the altercation robbed you of your spatial awareness for a split second, but when you turned back to face the room once more, you were met with bright (practically neon in the dim room) green eyes.

“Woah there,” you blinked, startled.

The stranger stood: salient in the ever-churning – ever- changing – crowd. His eyes, bottle-green now that his slatted hat tipped back down and plunged him into shadow, studied you: just like you studied him. In the glow of sconce lighting, his straw-coloured hair shone like spun gold – that evening, he wore it loose so it cascaded down his shoulders and chest. If you had to choose the most striking thing about his ensemble that evening, it would either be his strange belt-buckle (with those green, metal hands pointing straight at his crotch) or the shiny, emerald spheres that were slung by his hips in round holsters.

Instinctively, you straightened your back; just like Mountain Tim, there was a crackle of energy surrounding him that compelled you to stand like his equal. His lips, coated in green lipstick, were set in a stiff line, and those light eyebrows were drawn together in frustration. Now that your eyes had adjusted, you could see him clearly – those delicate features were offset by the marr of his frown, and the purple shadows reflecting off his shirt.

“What would you like to drink?” you inquired politely, just as you felt Depeche Mode stirring once more in its intrigue. Interesting .

“The Americas don’t have proper drink, do they?” The sardonic remark rolled off his tongue in a rich, baritoned accent that almost made you forget the comment. He leaned on the polished counter, until he was almost face to face with you – you could clearly see the irritation in his jaded eyes. “Bar after bar I’ve gone to tonight, and every one had watered down liquor and only three kinds.”

“Well,” you replied boredly. How the hell was that your problem? “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what you want to drink, genius.”

He scowled at the careless frivolity with which you addressed his desperate concerns; if you had to guess, he was some wealthy European kid. Would he choose one of those ludicrously priced vintages? Or maybe he’d order the most expensive thing off the menu – not that there was one. But there was nothing he could do about your flippant words; Vincent would’ve been ruder, certainly.

[He’s a Steel Ball Run jockey. Play nice so you don’t wake with a knife in your back.]

Fine , you conceded miserably. As long as you didn’t have to ally yourself with him, you’d be courteous.

“Right,” you attempted to sound apologetic, but it came out much too tersely to be considered such. His glare deepened. “I can’t guarantee we can satisfy your wishes, but there is a quite large collection of vintage labels – if sir wishes to know the names.”

The try at pleasantry wasn’t executed well at all; insincerity dripped from every letter, every syllable . However, he couldn’t do anything about it outside starting a brawl – and if there was anything that should be a general rule, it was to not pick fights with the hand that served him drink.

“Vintages won’t be necessary,” he forced out – strained – but it seemed like he was also attempting to be courteous. “Does this establishment serve amaretto?”

“I order it for the boss each fortnight,” you cast your eyes to the side as you perused your catalogue of memory; yes, you had served it from the half-full cask just a few days ago. It was particularly popular with those who loudly complained of their indigestion – try as you might to forget it, there were some things that your brain refused to let go of. “It’s pretty popular here.”

“Apologies for assuming otherwise,” he bit out, but you could see a thread of sheepishness amidst all the pride he emitted. “I’m particularly irate today, since my horse received an injury from a felled tree.”

It didn’t quite sound like a full apology, but you took it regardless.

“No harm done,” you shrugged, and he gave you a thin, clipped smile from those green lips. Frustrated customers were nothing new; you couldn’t bring yourself to care any more than you could about night turning into day, or day to night – it was just the way things were.

As you turned to fill his glass tumbler with the honey-coloured liquid, you considered his words. Indirectly, he had confirmed your suspicions; just like you, he was a competitor for the race. Although, the place was packed with them; it wasn’t exactly keen reasoning on your part. Sweet almond liqueur fragranced the space for a brief moment – it enveloped you in a brittle bubble of peace – but it vanished just as quickly as a gossamer web in a storm. In your palm, the cold glass was heavy with both exhaustion and the weight of your objectives.

You slid the glass over the counter, just as he placed the dollars with a resounding thunk on the counter. Studiously, you examined him as he drank – half-sitting, half-standing – by the counter. There were a few empty seats here or there, but you got the impression that he wasn’t the particularly sociable type. Though, there were certainly riders who gave him that side-long glance filled with interest; he certainly wasn’t bad-looking. On the contrary, his face was etched with a classical beauty that you’d find carved into a frieze – though, when he opened his mouth, the gold shine from his teeth was something that set him apart from relics of the past.

There were many things you could’ve said about him – from the irritated cant of his shoulders, to the way he drank hastily, as if afraid he was running out of time by savouring the taste – but at that moment in time, all you could think about was the end of your shift. Ultimately, you’d meet him once more on the field; whether it be as friend or foe, you wouldn’t know.

When he placed his empty glass back on the coppery wood, he met your eyes with a gaze that was silently remorseful. Not enough to truly appear contrite, but enough that your impression of him changed. Just a little. In turn, you felt your own dull ache of guilt; with a brief smile and the busy gathering of his glass, there was a truce in the air. Through that momentary gaze, a treaty had been delegated, and peace terms were proposed. Between tired bartender and tired client, amity had been tentatively restored.

[ Cheerful guy .]

Depeche Mode’s brusque comment as he slunk away from the table startled you out of watching him leave (there was something, something about that russet-coloured, rippling cloak that trailed from behind him that drew the eye, no matter how much you tried to look away). You shook your head out of the foggy haze you’d been put under; really, there was something about these particular customers that wore you out, no matter how well you had slept the previous night. Though, that morning, you had risen with a pounding headache and lingering throes of a nightmare – a sure inauspicious omen.

It was certain. You could taste something impending; dread pooled in your stomach until it was all that you could feel. It pressed and curled against your flesh like a barrow wight that clung to its unfortunate target until it breathed no longer – and even then, the afterlife was no haven for that soul.

From that night, there was the third and last encounter that had carved itself messily into the recesses of your grey matter of a brain.

It happened just as you were beginning to shuffle around the stock – after all, it was close to eleven, and Vincent had given you stern instructions to begin the heavier manoeuvring of casks to the storeroom. There, the air was stale with the sweet, bitter air of a pantry filled with alcohol and dry food; nonetheless, it was a cold respite amidst the damp air of the barroom. You’d spent an afternoon there, a few weeks back, reorganising the inventory and eyeing the disturbingly expired food tucked into the back of a cupboard.

As you were carrying a particularly heavy barrel of rum to lock back in the fireproof, cement box of a storeroom, it happened. In your exhausted arms, the wooden container teetered and sloshed perilously – but you were determined to not spill a drop. Your eyes, intent on focusing on your surroundings, spotted him as soon as he turned the bend of the corridor; how could you not, in the backwaters of the inn where the back was a ghost town in its own right?

There was plenty of space for the two of you to pass comfortably by: a brief twist of fate’s string together, and the two of you would never cross paths afterwards. You didn’t know whose fault it was – maybe you were overestimating your exhausted capacity for walking in a straight line, maybe he was a drunk who lacked the virtue of spatial awareness. Regardless of who you pointed the finger at, it happened. He collided with you. You almost dropped the expensive barrel. Time resumed its brevity.

“Watch it,” you snapped as his shoulder connected with yours. In your flashing peripherals, you briefly registered the richly embroidered turquoise silk brush past the coarse linen of your own shirt. A lordling . You grimaced internally. Had you dropped the barrel, you wouldn’t have to just deal with Vincent’s iron-tongue lashing – you’d also be greeted by the unpleasant sight of a raging rich person as the amber liquor soaked through their velvet slippers, or whatever else they wore.

But no. As your vision cleared, it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t your average nobleman. No, he wore the garb of a jockey: beige, quality jodhpurs that had not a speck of dirt on them; black boots, that, try as you might, didn’t leave your mind out of envy – for they shone with such brilliance that convinced you they were some mythical relic out of a story book; and that tailored turquoise jacket you’d brushed against – with a second glance, you observed that the embroidered patterns coalesced into larger, geometric diamonds. Another Steel Ball Run competitor , you thought sourly.

You were in a hurry, but something about the cloying expression on his face halted your gait into uncertain steps. In the dim light of the oil lamps, his burnished-gold hair reflected a soft glow that was unfortunately marred by the acerb look furrowing his brow. But just as quickly as the lines appeared on his face, they disappeared: twisting into a sickly little smile that was disgustingly sweet . It was, in fact, a terrible jape of one – there was no sincerity, no feeling behind it, save that awful hollowness and dreadful mocking that was sure to prelude a catastrophe.

“Take care, lordling,” you uttered hastily, before bolting through the twisted corridors, before he even had a chance to open his mouth. You could feel your heart thrumming within; it fluttered like a desperate, frantic bird trying to claw its way out of its fragile cage – only outpaced by the racing adrenaline that coursed and bled into each cell of your body. Humidity was all but forgotten. Your body had provided an ample chill that spread up your spine and up your arms – your hackles, effectively, had raised.

Deep in the storeroom, you put the barrel down and leaned against an old, rotting shelf. What the fuck was that ? He had yet to open his mouth, but something inside you told you to get out before he could spit his oily words. It was frightening – it was terrible . He looked as if you were shit clinging to his pristine boots; never had you encountered someone so outwardly hostile . Even with Mountain Tim and that other stranger’s imposing presences, none had been such as this man’s.

No . You refused to give in to the dread that settled on your skin in a filmy layer of cold sweat, and neither did you acknowledge the bile that pooled on the back of your leaden tongue. He was human, just like you – so why were his eyes so cruel , so full of accumulated bitterness that you couldn’t help but hide from?

God . You were going to keep your head down during the race and pray he wouldn’t recognise you when you inevitably met again.

And when you did, would you rue the day you set this doom into motion?

. 　⁺ ✦

A mere two days before the beginning of the race, you rose with the doleful cries of the birds that nested in the overhanging ledge by your window: yet another inauspicious omen. Lately, it seemed as though your luck was plummeting for the worst. Flocks of carrion-birds had circled the small town for the past few days; surely, this was a sign that you were destined for ruination from the very beginning.

Trepidation enclosed you in the sepulchral depths of your mind. It was rather like trying to break out of a stone mausoleum with your bare hands – nothing but a fruitless endeavour. Despite the sinking feeling in your gut, you knew that this onsetting panic wasn’t your fault. Everything rested on your shoulders; it was a heavy burden to bear for someone who was thrown into this cesspit unwillingly.

Home .

Between all the threads that webbed you with an anxious, gut-churning feeling, there was the red string of determination that stood apart from the rest. Yes, you’d keep the corpse from the President – whatever that entailed – be it with allies or by yourself. Find a way .

Just like the dozens of days prior, you dressed with your usual morning garb: wide hat to protect your eyes from the sun, the thick fatigue cargos and chaps to prevent troublesome chafing, and the heeled boots Vincent had found to replace your flat, leather ones. Though, there were two new additions to the ensemble. Three , if you counted the addition of your old possession.

Among them, one stood out amidst all the bundles at your door. On top – wrapped hastily in brown, waxed paper – was a carmine jacket: with jewel-toned embroidery flashing across the chest and sleeves, and enough airiness to allow airflow to your torso (but enough thickness that should you button it, there’d be a noticeable warmth). You slipped it on quietly; there was no need to ask about its origins. All that he did, you couldn’t possibly repay.

In the capacious pockets, you found both a crinkling note and a swathe of fabric. The material, from what you could make out, seemed to be some sort of bandanna. With the dust that assaulted your lungs each morning, it would be a make-shift respirator to prevent you from coughing enough that you fell off Group Four in the desert winds. But that wasn’t all – it would also help you assume anonymity. You’d be imperceptible; the same in an endless crowd of faceless glory-seekers (and secretly, you wanted to avoid those cruel eyes recognising you yet again).

Yes, you wouldn’t make more friends; tearing away from the three you had made – four , if you included Mountain Tim among the sorry band – was already painful enough. You’d make allies , and keep up the impersonal bond through your anonymity. No names, no face, no case .

As you unfolded the crumpled note, the only noise permeating the silence was its quiet crinkle and the mournful song of birds.

“ Jamie would’ve wanted to compete in a race like this ,” it read. The ringing in your ears added to the symphony, as did the gruff voice of Vincent. “ Wear his legacy with pride, and continue his dream .”

Soundlessly, you slipped it back into the dead man’s pocket. Were you replacing him? Were you a placeholder for Vincent’s lost brother? Deep in your heart – as much as you wanted to believe against it – you felt the prickle of doubt for your friendship with Vincent. No . No , you shook your head in vehement protest. Vincent saw you as your own person – reason overcame the irrational gut-churning in a tumultuous battle.

Still, on your back you carried a corpse’s hopes – your burden had all but doubled. You tied the fabric onto your face resolutely.

Lastly, buried beneath all the waxed paper, were a pair of goggles – fashioned out of your thought-to-be-lost visor. Though, vaguely, you remembered handing the bent out-of-shape plastic over to Dolly when she had asked about it – it was a curious material, after all, but virtually useless to you now. Now, they were reworked into a slightly ramshackle pair of goggles that vaguely reminded you of your own lab ones. These, you presumed, were a crude replica of the sand-goggles a lot of the herders wore here, with straps attached to wear securely – but nonetheless, you’d wear them with pride during the race.

Strung to one of the straps was a little tag. If you hadn’t been holding it so closely, you might’ve missed the folded paper – but you were looking closely, so without further deliberation, you unfurled the note. If you were being honest, the writing was slightly illegible; however, you recognised the crude, clumsy loops of Dolly’s letters.

“ It was a bit hard to fashion that weird material, but I finally got it done with the help of some boiled water and a candle– ” looking more closely, you could see faint soot streaks around the rims of the goggles. “ –so it wasn’t too much of a problem. Now, your eyes will be protected during the race !”

You felt a stupid grin split your face like a lightning strike. Really, when Dolly asked about the visor, you thought she’d keep it in some box out of curiosity – or maybe display it – but certainly not that she would make them into a gift for you. A useful gift. You tied the straps loosely around your neck, so you’d be able to easily slip them on when the time came. Currently, they looked like some peculiar necklace, but you didn’t particularly care. It was a gift , and you’d treasure them all.

Any turmoil that still lingered over Vincent’s scrawled words vanished like dew on a burning summer’s day when you came down for breakfast. Dolly, through her mouthful of porridge, commented on how you looked just like a proper competitor (and to whoop their asses). Vincent – beginning the day’s meals by the furnace – told you only to remember to register for the race today. Despite his laconic nature, you were comforted by the ease of routine nonetheless. No mention was made of the note, and you made no effort to remind him of it. Besides, his eyes held no grief, no unwarranted familiarity (save a gruff affection); it was a quiet assurance that you were no replacement.

With a bag of your coins, you slipped out the backdoor and into the serene sunlight. The wind, just like you’d predicted, filled the billowing fabric of your jacket and swept it behind you in a stream of crimson. That morning, you were no bartender sent on yet another errand by Vincent; you were an imposing figure about to enter the grandest race in all of history. People you exchanged coin and drink with held no recognition in their eyes as you strode past with only your eyes and brow shown from beneath the fabric – and even then, those were shrouded in the shadows of your hat.

This was it. As soon as you signed your alias onto that entrance form and passed over the fee, you’d cross the Rubicon for good. No take-backs – fate would turn its irrevocable wheel and you’d be bound to complete what you set out to do.

Reject his victory .

The clerk in charge of entrants (one of the, at least) was a bumbling, plump little man who seemed ever-neurotic in the face of the eternal line of entrants. Before you were at least a dozen people – who each, no doubt, held dreams of grandeur and fame – but you weren’t there to judge. No, in another life, you might’ve very well been one of the eager participants who sought the honeyed taste of glory.

“Next!” the clerk bellowed – for such a small man, he sure had a set of pipes. You stepped forward with your moneybag and a hardened gaze. “Name?”

“Mr Brisk and Irate,” you replied nonchalantly. In this race, an alias would make everything less personal – yes, with an alias, you had no true, intimate moniker.

[And you say I’m bad.]

“That’s your name?” he uttered, peering up at you in a picture of exasperated disbelief. Your eyes met his evenly.

“Sure,” you lied, all too smoothly. Then, you leaned forward so your shadow loomed across his screwed-up face, and your eyes were fixed directly on his greasy black tonsure. “Got a problem with it?”

“Nope!” he squeaked out, scribbling it down hastily. His cap wobbled awkwardly on his brow as his throat bobbed in an anxious swallow. “Horse’s name? We’ll record its nose print and your fingerprint on the starting day.”

“Group Four,” you replied. The piece of paper containing all the necessary information was slid right next to the heavy canvas purse of money. With a cursory glance at the sheet – then the long-winded counting of all the coins stuffed within the bag – he poked his head back up with a nervous little smile.

“All good,” he yelped. Over the burred, unsanded slab of wooden planks serving as a counter, he passed over a metal pin and a green saddle cloth with a number printed on it. “Here is your commemoration badge and player identification number! Exchange of horses is strictly prohibited under the rules of the race. Thank you for entering!”

Silently, you pinned the bronze badge to your lapel. It was a pretty, rounded little thing: a montage of a horse in the middle of a gallop, on top of the race emblem and tied together with a raised horseshoe in the polished metal. The saddle cloth and copied papers you put in your pocket to look over later – but other than that, you were free to make your way back to the inn.

Except, you weren’t.

One minute the streets – though crowded – had been relatively peaceful; the next, yells and piercing whistles broke out in the square peddled with other registration kiosks. Only a few feet away was the eye of the storm – the irritated stranger you had just seen yesterday, standing over a man crouched below. Just like yesterday, his teeth flashed a lustrous gold; though now, they spread into a malicious smile. A sizable amount of people had gathered in a circle around the pair, and curiosity prompted you to take a few steps in that direction. The sudden proximity allowed you to better hear the altercation.

“So it was you after all, ladruncolo ,” those golden teeth were gritted in simmering anger. One of his hands was placed on the sphere holster at his hip, while the other gripped the felled man’s arm with a bruising pressure you could feel second-hand. “If I’m twenty dollars off, I won’t be able to enter the race now, will I?”

“Now,” the blond continued in a mock-oblivious tone and a patronising smile. “What do you do when you steal from someone, ladruncolo ?”

“ You give it back .”

The green metal buttons that criss-crossed his shirt chimed as he suddenly let go of the thief; caught off guard, the man collapsed to the dust-covered floor – where his hand opened from its fist to drop out two golden coins. A collective gasp went through the crowd, but you held your breath instead. Then, a collective groan rang out as the thief was grabbed by two security guards; the bloodlust of the crowd – who were all probably expecting a brawl – never failed to sicken you.

Nonchalantly, he picked up the two fallen coins and placed them on the counter for the clerk to add to his fee. When he looked round, however, those intensely green eyes met yours, and you froze. With the fabric pulled high over your nose, and the added anonymity of your hat, there was no way he recognised you, right ? There was no change in his sclera, no sudden widening in recognition – and you felt your shoulders slump minutely in relief. Instead, his eyes lingered a moment longer – though a mere second later you could hear a yell ring out.

It was the thief, furiously struggling with his hands pressed to his sides by the guards.

“It’s not over, man!” he hollered. “You think you’re so big, over twenty dollars, don’t you? Fight me! Fight me , and we’ll see who’s right!”

“Is that your weapon? That dirty, round thing at your hip?” he continued, provocatively, though the blond just dusted off the saddle by his feet and hoisted it onto his arm. There was an air of boredom about the exasperated set of his eyebrows – as if he knew the conversation was over and was just waiting for the other party to get the memo as well. “Well? Go ahead and do it – kill me with that thing!”

The crowd was still and silent. Not one person let out a breath – not a single murmur broke the tense quiet that had bubbled up and threatened to spill over. You couldn’t move, not even if you wanted to, but something snapped.

Abruptly, the thief twisted in the guards’ grasp and reached for one’s holster – triumphantly, he grasped a gun, and the crowd froze in place.

“You’re dead!” he crowed out – but still, the man in question refused to turn around to face the steel barrel about to blow his brains out.

Still, the safety was on; with a brief struggle, the guards managed to wrench the weapon from the thief’s impassioned grasp. Though, the taunts didn’t stop – even with the man held down on the heated ground, he continued spewing imprecations.

“If I felt like it, you’d be dead by now!” he yelled. “You listening, bastard? I’m gonna enter the race, and hinder you throughout – block your horse, cut you off, and make you eat shit! I’m seriously gonna annoy you, from the very bottom of my soul!”

The stranger paused his slow, methodical walk from the kiosks. He spoke without acknowledging, without even turning to face the man on the floor.

“If you’re done talking, give him the gun back.”

Muttering struck through the crowd – varying degrees of ‘what?’ threaded through the disbelieving, until the writhing mass of bodies turned as one to watch the showdown. Even the guards – inexperienced in matters like this – gave each other confused glances, as if they didn’t know what they were hearing.

“You heard me. I won’t charge the man – in fact, I’ll let this slight go. Give him the gun back,” he spoke with such intense authority that the guard whose gun had been taken slowly – but surely – placed it back on the dusty floor. It lay beside the thief’s bulging eyes, then by his knees as he sat up on them. He stared at the lethal weapon, then back at the stranger who wore a neutral expression on his face.

“Pick it up,” the stranger commanded once more. Not a single ounce of hesitation traced his voice: no tremble, no unwarranted twitch of facial muscles. He was so certain of himself that the crowd stilled at once. A duel – a duel – was about to take place; you’d never in your wildest dreams imagined that you’d be standing a mere few feet from one. “That’ll be the signal – if you’re truly serious about annoying me.”

The thief, still kneeling, hesitated with his palm on the ground – but ultimately, he didn’t pick it up. His hands, instead, were held up in surrender and his unsure smile was lined with sweat.

“Hey,” he stammered out. “It’s just a joke – I’m just a pickpocket, I swear, so don’t look at me with that scary face – everything I said was a bluff, nothing more! Good luck with the race, I mean..”

Silence was broken by the stirring of the crowd as the sheriff barrelled his way past – for a brief moment, the blond looked at his arrival.

“You two! What’s going on here?”

And in that split second, the thief grabbed the gun and held it up – for the second time that day, the stranger was turned away from his impending death.

But he was faster. Before you even had time to process the scene in front of you, he threw one of those steel balls straight at the shoulder of the thief.

The gun bent down as the flesh of his arm rippled : twisting and driving itself into his clavicle. Then, the green sphere rebounded straight to the blond’s waiting hand – it crackled and pulsed with such faint energy that you were later left wondering if you had imagined it.

A building crescendo of horror erupted as the flesh of the thief’s arm spiralled into trembling, meaty ripples – yet the climax hadn’t even been reached yet.

“I’m not a nice guy,” those green lips delivered impassively – it was stated as nothing more (nothing less) than fact. “Let go of that gun, and see a doctor.. Before lunch, preferably.”

Once more, he turned away with his saddle in tow. But the thief, who had his pride trodden on enough, raised the gun once more – ready to shoot.

“You bastard!”

As the thief pulled the trigger, his arm shifted so the barrel was pointed straight to his own forehead.

He shot.

The aftermath crashed down on the gathered crowd – yells, screams rang out in the seconds following the bang. But all you could hear was the roaring silence in your ears; transfixed, you gazed at the terrible gun smoke pouring from the barrel, and the poor dead fool, lying in his own blood.

And all you could see was the stranger's cloak rippling from behind him as he walked away once more.

Who the hell is he ?

“–just a duel. No laws were broken–”

“–threw that steel ball. Then it accidentally bounced back–”

No . You saw it, clear as day. It was no accident , like the sheriff wanted to believe. That spinning sphere had twisted the uppermost muscles of the man’s arm, until his arm was forced to turn back to him. What terrifying power . And to think you’d be competing with such people and worse ; even if you weren’t gunning for the top prize, they wouldn’t necessarily know that. The earlier trepidation came back in full force, and you could feel the bitter film of vomit rising through your throat.

As you left the scene, all you could think about was the blood and brain matter seeping out from his head: staining the dust in a sanguine identical to the shade of your jacket.

. 　⁺ ✦

#johnny joestar #gyro zeppeli #diego brando #steel ball run #sbr #jjba #johnny joestar x reader #gyro zeppeli x reader #diego brando x reader #hot pants #funny valentine #slowd1ving #res ･ﾟ writing #jojo no kimyou na bouken

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recentadultburnout · 1 year ago

Text

Info for writer in Thai series fandom: Lullabies

Some well know song used for lullabies, games, ect.

Notes:

I notice that using lullabies or nursery rhymes in writing is a common occurrence, so in this chapter I will give you something in case you want some Thai songs for that. Oh, but if you are more comfortable using an English song, then I would like to assure you that many of them are well known in Thai. Don't worry.

I added all song links on AO3, but just some here due to the post limit.

lullabies and Children's song

I added some song links on AO3, but not here, sorry.

นกกาเหว่า : nok-ka-wao (Cuckoo song)

กาเหว่าเอย ไข่ไว้ให้แม่กาฟัก kawao oei khai wai hai mae ka fak The cuckoo lays an egg for the mother crow to hatch.

แม่กาก็หลงรัก คิดว่าลูกในอุทร mae ka ko long rak khit wa luk nai uthon The crow fell in love and thought that the egg was her own,

คาบเอาข้าวมาเผื่อ ไปคาบเอาเหยื่อมาป้อน khap ao khao ma phuea pai khap ao yuea ma pon carrying food and prey back to feed it,

ถนอมไว้ในรังนอน ซ่อนเหยื่อมาให้กิน thanom wai nai rang non son yuea ma hai kin cherish it in the nest, and hide the prey for it to eat.

ปีกเจ้ายังอ่อนคลอแคล ท้อแท้จะสอนบิน pik chao yang on khlokhlae thothae cha son bin Your wings are still too weak to teach to fly.

แม่กาพาไปกิน ที่ปากน้ำพระคงคา mae ka pha pai kin thi paknam phra khongkha The mother crow took it to eat at the estuary of the Ganges river.

ตีนเจ้าเหยียบสาหร่าย ปากก็ไซ้หาปลา tin chao yiap sarai pak ko sai ha pla Feet are stepping on algae, and the mouth is searching for fish.

กินกุ้งแลกินกั้ง กินหอยกระพังแมงดา kin kung lae kin kang kin hoi kra phang maengda Eat shrimp and crayfish. Eat mussels and horseshoe crabs.

กินแล้วก็โผมา จับที่ต้นหว้าโพธิ์ทอง kin laeoko pho ma chap thi ton wa pho thong Then dart to the Wa Pho Thong tree.

ยังมีนายพราน เที่ยวเยี่ยมเยี่ยมมองมอง yang mi naiphran thiao yiam yiam mong mong There is also a hunter sneaking a peek at them.

ยกเอาปืนขึ้นส่อง จ้องเอาแม่กาดำ yok ao puen khuen song chong ao mae ka dam Raising the gun and staring at the black crow,

ตัวหนึ่งว่าจะต้ม อีกตัวว่าจะยำ tua nueng wa cha tom ik tua wa cha yam one is to boil, another one will be made into yum.

กินนางแม่กาดำ ค่ำวันนี้อุแม่นา kin nang mae ka dam kham wanni u mae na This evening we will eat the mother black crow.

youtube

*These two clips word some lyrics a little different, but overall, it's the same.

นกขมิ้น : nok-kha-min (Canary song)

เจ้านกขมิ้นเหลืองอ่อนเอ๋ย chao nokkhaminlueang-on oei O light yellow canary

ค่ำแล้วจะนอนที่ตรงไหน kham laeo cha non thi trong nai Where will you sleep at night?

จะนอนไหนก็นอนได้ cha non nai ko non dai You can sleep anywhere.

สุมทุมพุ่มไม้ก็เคยนอน sumthum phummai ko khoei non The bushes used to sleep

ลมพระพายชายพัดมาอ่อนๆ lom phra phai chai phat ma on on The gentle wind blows

เจ้าเคยจรมานอนรังเอย chao khoei chon ma non rang oei You used to wander and come to sleep in the nest.

youtube

วัดโบถส์ (Bot temple)

วัดเอ๋ย วัดโบสถ์ wat oei watbot Temple Oey, Bot temple

*Bot means a place for monks to use for rites but is sometimes used as a temple name. Watbot means Bot temple.

ปลูกข้าวโพด สาลี pluk khaophot sali planting wheat

ลูกเขยตกยาก lukkhoei tokyak son-in-law become impoverished

แม่ยายก็พรากลูกสาวหนี maeyai ko phrak luksao ni The mother-in-law took her daughter away.

โอ้ข้าวโพด สาลี o khaophot sali oh wheat

ป่านฉะนี้ จะโรยราเอย panchani cha roira oei Thus far, it will wither

**Normally, khaophot means corn and sali means wheat, but according to La Loubere, khaophot sali here should mean wheat.

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วัดเอ๋ย วัดโบสถ์ wat oei watbot Wat Oey, Wat Bot

มีต้นตะโหนด อยู่ 7 ต้น mi ton ta not yu chet ton There are 7 tanote trees.

เจ้าขุนทองจะไปปล้น chao khunthong cha pai plon Chao Khun Thong is went out to rob

ตะโหนด 7 ต้น ของคนดง ta not chet ton khong khon dong 7 tanodes of the barbarian people

เจ้าขุนทองตายแล้ว chao khunthong tai laeo Chao Khun Thong is dead.

เหลือแต่กระดูกแก้ว ให้คนปอง luea tae kraduk kaeo hai khon pong Only bones left for people to get

มือขวาถือฉัตร muekhwa thue chat right hand holding a tier

มือซ้ายสะบัดขึ้นถือธง muesai sabat khuen thue thong left hand flutters up to hold the flag.

ตั้งใจจะไปปลง tangchai cha pai plong intend to cremate

ศพเจ้าขุนทอง sop chao khunthong The corpse of Chao Khun Thong

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วัดเอ๋ยวัดโบสถ์ wat oei watbot Wat Oey, Wat Bot

มีตาลโตนดอยู่7ต้น mi tantanot yu chet ton There are 7 palm tanot trees.

พ่อขุนทองก็ไปปล้น phokhun thong ko pai plon por Khun Thong went to rob *Usually พ่อ(por) means father, but here it is a term use for a younger man with intimacy or affection.

ป่านฉะนี้ไม่เห็นมา panchani mai hen ma even now he still can't be seen came back.

เมียคดข้าวใส่ห่อ mia khotkhao sai ho Wife dip out rice and wrapped it

ถ่อเรือไปตามหา thoruea pai tamha punt out to find him

เขาก็เล่าลือมา khao ko laolue ma people are rumored

ว่าพ่อขุนทองตายแล้ว wa phokhun thong tai laeo that por Khun Thong is dead

เหลืออยู่แต่กระดูกแก้ว luea yu tae kraduk kaeo Only the bone remains

เมียรักจะไปปลง mia rak cha pai plong dear wife will go to cremate

เจ้าขุนศรีจะถือฉัตร chao khun si cha thue chat Chao Khun Sri will hold a tier.

ยกกระบัตรถือธง yokkrabat thue thong raising the flag

ถือท้ายพายเรือหงส์ thuethai phairuea hong steer a swan boat *a state barge with a swan as a figurehead

จะไปปลงศพเจ้าพ่อนา cha pai plongsop chaopho na to go to the funeral of him Na

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วัดเอ๋ย วัดโบสถ์ wat oei watbot Wat Oey, Wat Bot

มีตาลตะโหนด อยู่7ต้น mi tan ta not yu chet ton There are 7 palm tanodes.

เจ้าขุนทอง ไปปล้น chao khunthong pai plon Chao Khun Thong went to rob

ป่านฉะนี้ ไม่เห็นมา panchani mai hen ma its been a long time but he still not came back

คดข้าว ใส่ห่อ khotkhao sai ho dip out rice, wrapped

ถ่อเรือ ไปหา thoruea pai ha punt out to find

เขา ก ร่ำฦๅมา khao kram lue ma people are rumored

ว่าเจ้าขุนทอง ตายแล้ว wa chao khunthong tai laeo that Chao Khun Thong is dead

เหลือแต่ โกศแก้ว luea tae kot kaeo Leave only the glass urn

เมียรัก จักมาปลง mia rak chak ma plong dear wife will come

จักถ่อพาย ท้ายเรือหงส์ chak tho phai thairuea hong Will paddle at the back of the swan boat

ไปปลงศพ อุแม่นา pai plongsop u mae na Go to the funeral u mae na * u mae na is a kind of suffix used in some old songs.

youtube

This is the first one.

youtube

This is the third one.

Originally I knew only 2 versions of this song, but since I found 4 when I searched, I put all 4 here.

The version of this song that mentions Khun Thong actually has political implications. First, is that Khun Thong died fighting for our country and we should honor his action; and then, afterward, Khun Thong kind of became a symbol of the act of a revolutionary, as that name got used in literature about the uprising on October 14th, 1973, and the massacre on October 6th, 1976.

จันทร์เจ้าขา (Moon song)

"Chaokha" is a word used by women to politely call or beg the elderly. It's quite old-fashioned and is rarely used nowadays.

จันทร์เจ้าขา ขอข้าวขอแกง ขอแหวนทองแดง ผูกมือน้องข้า chan chaokha kho khao kho kaeng kho waen thongdaeng phuk mue nong kha Moon Chao Kha, I ask for rice, for curry (soup/stew), and for a copper ring to bind my Nong's hand.

ขอช้าง ขอม้า ให้น้องข้าขี่ ขอเก้าอี้ ให้น้องข้านั่ง khochang kho ma hai nong kha khi kho kao-i hai nong kha nang Asking for an elephant, for a horse, for my Nong to ride, for a chair, for my Nong to sit on.

ขอเตียงตั่ง ให้น้องข้านอน ขอละคร ให้น้องข้าดู kho tiang tang hai nong kha non kho lakhon hai nong kha du Ask for a bed for my Nong to sleep in. Ask for a play for my Nong to watch.

ขอยายชู เลี้ยงน้องข้าเถิด ขอยายเกิด เลี้ยงตัวข้าเอง kho yai chu liang nong kha thoet kho yai koet liangtua kha eng ask for granny Chu, take care of my Nong. Ask for Grandma koet, take care of me.

เดือนหงาย (Waxing moon song)

เดือนเอ๋ยเดือนหงายดาวกระจายทรงกลด duean oei dueanngai daokrachai songklot Moon eoi, moonlit night. Star scatter and the moon have halo

อุ้มเจ้าขึ้นใส่รถว่าจะพาไปชมเดือน um chao khuen sai rot wa cha pha pai chom duean carry you in the car to take you to see the moon

พิศแลดูดาวไปดาวก็ไม่งามเหมือน phit lae du dao pai dao ko mai ngam muean Looking at the stars, the stars are not as beautiful.

พิศแลดูเดือนเหมือนนวลอุแม่นา phit lae du duean muean nuan u mae na Look at the moon, its beautiful like you u mae na

น้ำท่วมเมฆ (Flood clouds)

โยกเยกเอย yokyek oei swaying oei *eoi is an apostrophe after a name, or an introductory noun. , or at the end of the poem

น้ำท่วมเมฆ namthuam mek flood of clouds

กระต่ายลอยคอ kratai loikho floating rabbit

หมาหางงอ ma hang ngo bent-tailed dog

กอดคอโยกเยก kot kho yokyek hugging each other neck swaying

ค้างคาว (Bat song)

ค้างคาวเอ๋ย khangkhao oei bat oei

บินมายืด ๆ bin ma yuet yuet slowly fly over

ค่ำ ๆ มืด ๆ kham kham muet muet late at night

จะไปสวนไหน cha pai suan nai which garden will you go

จะไปสวนนอก cha pai suan nok if going to the garden outside

เอาลูกมะกอกมาฝากบ้างนะ ao luk makok ma fak bang na Do bring some olives back for us.

��ิงโจ้ Chingcho

*Chingcho have many meaning such as

Pond Skaters

a type of crib mobile nursery décor.

Female soldiers in the reign of King Rama V

kangaroo

mythical creatures

a type of bird.

I grew up thinking the word Chingcho here meant the bird, but after doing some searching I found a more convincing explanation, which is that the word Chingcho in this song did not refer to anything above but the swaying movement that all things above have in common, and this song is about Chinese people who sailed to Thailand to trade and do the swaying movement in order to sail the ship. จิงเอย จิงโจ้ ching oei chingcho ching oei chingcho มาโล้สำเภา ma lo samphao making the junk sailing along the waves หมาไนไล่เห่า manai lai hao The dog barks จิงโจ้ตกน้ำ chingcho tok nam chingcho falls into water หมาไนไล่ซ้ำ manai lai sam dog repeatedly chasing จิงโจ้ดำหนี chingcho dam ni chingcho dives away, fleeing ได้กล้วยสองหวี dai kluai song wi get two hand of bananas ทำขวัญจิงโจ้ thamkhwan chingcho thamkhwan chingcho *Tham khwan refers to the practice of performing a ceremony to encourage or resurrect spirits after experiencing a loss of khwan.

It can also mean to pay damages or compensation, to give something for consolation (of the people of north Thailand), to perform rites of welcome or to compensate, or to recompense.

กาพย์เห่เรือ ตอน เห่ชมเรือ

เกริ่นโคลง introductory poem

ปางเสด็จประเวศด้าว ชลาลัย pang sadet prawet dao chalalai ทรงรัตนพิมานชัย กิ่งแก้ว song rattana phiman chai king kaeo พรั��งพร้อมพวกพลไกร แหนแห่ phrangphrom phuak phon krai haen hae เรือกระบวนต้นแพร้ว เพริศพริ้งพรายทอง ruea krabuan ton phraeo phroetphring phrai thong

กาพย์ poem ช้าละวะเห่ cha la wa he

พระเสด็จโดยแดนชล ทรงเรือต้นงามเฉิดฉาย phra sadet doi daen chon song ruea ton ngam choetchai กิ่งเเก้วแพร้วพรรณราย พายอ่อนหยับจับงามงอน king kaeo phraeo phanrai phai on yap chap ngamngon นาวาแน่นเป็นขนัด ล้วนรูปสัตว์แสนยากร nawa naen pen khanat luan rup sat saenyakon เรือริ้วทิวธงสลอน สาครลั่นครั่นครื้นฟอง ruea rio thio thong salon sakhon lan khran khruen fong เรือครุฑยุดนาคหิ้ว ลิ่วลอยมาพาผันผยอง ruea khrut yut nak hio lio loi ma pha phanphayong พลพายกรายพายทอง ร้องโห่เห่โอ้เห่มา phon phai krai phai thong rong ho he o he ma สรมุขมุขสี่ด้าน เพียงพิมานผ่านเมฆา son muk muk si dan phiang phiman phan mekha ม่านกรองทองรจนา หลังคาแดงแย่งมังกร man krongthong rotna langkha daeng yaeng mangkon สมรรถชัยไกรกาบแก้ว แสงแวววับจับสาคร samat chai krai kap kaeo saeng waeowap chap sakhon เรียบเรียงเคียงคู่จร ดั่งร่อนฟ้ามาแดนดิน riapriang khiangkhu chon dang ron fa ma daen din สุวรรณหงส์ทรงพู่ห้อย งามชดช้อยลอยหลังสินธุ์ suwan hong song phu hoi ngam chotchoi loi lang sin เพียงหงส์ทรงพรมมินทร์ ลินลาศเลื่อนเตือนตาชม phiang hong song phrom min lin lat luean tueanta chom เรือชัยไวว่องวิ่ง รวดเร็วจริงยิ่งอย่างลม ruea chai wai wong wing ruatreo ching ying yang lom เสียงเส้าเร้าระดม ห่มท้ายเยิ่นเดินคู่กัน siang sao rao radom hom thai yoen doen khu kan

This one is a part of a type of poem used for sing while paddling a boat so it isn't excetly a lullaby but some people do used as one including my family. The content of this poem is to admire the beauty of the parade of royal ships. I decided that translating it would be too difficult for me. So I will just leave it at that.

ช้าง (Elephant song)\

ช้างช้างช้าง chang chang chang elephant elephant elephant

น้องเคยเห็นช้างหรือเปล่า nong khoei hen chang rueplao Have Nong ever seen an elephant?

ช้างมันตัวโตไม่เบา จมูกยาวๆ เรียกว่างวง chang man tua to maibao chamuk yao yao riakwa nguang The elephant is very big and has a long nose called a proboscis.

มีเขี้ยวใต้งวงเรียกว่างา mi khiao tai nguang riakwa nga It has fangs under its trunk called tusks.

มีหู มีตา หางยาว mihu mita hangyao have ears, eyes, long tail

กบเอยทำไมจึงร้อง(Why is the frog crying?)

กบเอยทำไมจึงร้อง กบเอยทำไมจึงร้อง kop oei thammai chueng rong kop oei thammai chueng rong Why is the frog crying? Why is the frog crying?

จำเป็นต้องร้องก็เพราะว่าท้องมันปวด champen tong rong ko phrowa thong man puat The frog groaned because his stomach ached.

ท้องเอยทำไมจึงปวด ท้องเอยทำไมจึงปวด thong oei thammai chueng puatthong oei thammai chueng puat Why does the frog stomach hurt? Why does the frog stomach hurt?

ท้องมันปวดก็เพราะว่าข้าวมันดิบ thong man puat ko phrowa khaoman dip The frog stomach hurts because the rice is raw.

ข้าวเอยทำไมจึงดิบ ข้าวเอยทำไมจึงดิบ khao oei thammai chueng dip khao oei thammai chueng dip Why is the rice so raw? Why is the rice so raw?

ข้าวมันดิบก็เพราะว่าไฟมันดับ khaoman dip ko phrowa fai man dap The rice was raw because the fire was extinguished.

ไฟเอยทำไมจึงดับ ไฟเอยทำไมจึงดับ fai oei thammai chueng dapfai oei thammai chueng dap Why did the fire go out? Why did the fire go out?

ไฟมันดับก็เพราะว่าฟืนมันเปียก fai man dap ko phrowa fuen man piak The fire was extinguished because the firewood was wet.

ฟืนเอยทำไมจึงเปียก ฟืนเอยทำไมจึงเปียก fuen oei thammai chueng piak fuen oei thammai chueng piak Why is the firewood wet? Why is the firewood wet?

ฟืนมันเปียกก็เพราะว่าฝนมันตก fuen man piak ko phrowa fon man tok The firewood is wet because it rains.

ฝนเอยทำไมจึงตก ฝนเอยทำไมจึงตก fon oei thammai chueng tok fon oei thammai chueng tok Why does it rain? Why does it rain?

ฝนมันตกก็เพราะว่ากบมันร้อง fon man tok ko phrowa kop man rong It's raining because the frogs sing.

กบมันร้องก็เพราะว่าท้องมันปวด kop man rong ko phrowa thong man puat The frog groaned because his stomach ached.

youtube

หนูมาลี nu mali

หนูมาลีมีลูกแมวเหมียวลูกแมวเหมียวลูกแมวเหมียว nu mali mi lukmaeo miao lukmaeo miao lukmaeo miao Malee has a kitty cat, a kitty cat, a kitty cat

หนูมาลีมีลูกแมวเหมียวขนมันคล้ายสำลี nu mali mi lukmaeo miao khon man khlai samli Malee has a kitty cat. Its fur is like cotton wool.

หนูมาลีจะไปที่ใดไปที่ใดไปที่ใด nu mali cha pai thidai pai thidai pai thidai No matter where Malee goes

หนูมาลีจะไปที่ใดมันตามไปทุกที่ nu mali cha pai thidai man tam pai thuk thi No matter where Malee goes. it follows everywhere.

เป็ดอาบน้ำ bath duck

ก้าบ ก้าบ ก้าบ เป็ดอาบน้ำในคลอง kap kap kap pet apnam nai khlong Kab Kab Kab Duck bathing in the canal

ตาก็จ้องแลมองเพราะในคลองมีหอย ปู ปลา ta ko chong lae mong phro nai khlong mi hoi pu pla It eyes staring because there were shells, crabs and fish in the canal.

กำมือ fist your hand

กำมือขึ้นแล้วหมุนๆ kammue khuen laeo mun mun ชูมือขึ้นโบกไปมา chu muekhuen bok paima fist your hand, raise it and turn around, raise your hand and wave it back and forth.*2

กางแขนขึ้นแหละลง kangkhaen khuen lae long arms up and down

พับแขนมือแตะไหล่ phap khaen mue tae lai folded arms touching shoulders

กางแขนขึ้นแหละลง kangkhaen khuen lae long arms up and down

ชูมือขึ้นหมุนไปรอบตัว chu muekhuen mun pai roptua Put your hands up and spin around.

โรงเรียนของเราน่าอยู่ Our school is nice

โรงเรียนของเราน่าอยู่ rongrian khong rao na yu Our school is nice

คุณครูใจดีทุกคน khunkhru chaidi thuk khon All teachers are kind.

เด็ก ๆ ก็ไม่ซุกซน dek dek ko mai sukson Children are not naughty.

พวกเราทุกคนชอบมาโรงเรียน phuakrao thuk khon chop ma rongrian We all like to come to school.

ชอบมา ชอบมาโรงเรียน chop ma chop ma rongrian like to, like to come to school

For my entire life, I had never seen anyone sing this song sincerely.

แมงมุมลายตัวนั้น That striped spider

แมงมุมลายตัวนั้น maengmum lai tua nan that striped spider

ฉันเห็นมันซมซานเหลือทน chan hen man somsan lueathon I saw that it looked unbearable.

วันหนึ่งมันเปียกฝนไหลหล่นจากบนหลังคา wan nueng man piak fon lai lon chak bon langkha one day it was wet with rain flowing from the roof

พระอาทิตย์ส่องแสงน้ำแห้งเหือดไปลับตา phra-athit songsaeng nam haenghueat pai lapta the sun shines The dry water ran out of sight.

มันรีบไต่ขึ้นฟ้าหันหลังมาทำตาลุกวาว man rip tai khuen fa hanlang ma thamta lukwao It hurriedly climbed into the sky. Turning around, eyes sparkling.

After some searching, I found out that this one is actually an English song, Itsy Bitsy Spider, translated into Thai, but it is not that match between the two versions, so I am not using the original lyrics here.

songs in children's games

รีรีข้าวสาร Reree Khaosan

รีรีข้าวสาร ri ri khaosan Reree Khaosan

สองทะนานข้าวเปลือก song thanan khaoplueak two pans of paddy

เลือกท้องใบลาน lueak thong bailan choose palm leaves

เก็บเบี้ยใต้ถุนร้าน kepbiataithunran collect the allowance under the store.

คดข้าวใส่จาน khotkhao sai chan crooked rice on a plate

พานเอาคนข้างหลังไว้ให้ดี phan ao khon khanglang wai hai di Take the person behind you.

ไอ้เข้ไอ้โขง ai khe ai khon

อ้ายเข้อ้ายโขง aikhe ai khong Ai crocodile

อยู่ในโพรงไม้สัก yu nai phrong maisak live in the hollow of teak

อ้ายเข้ฟันหัก aikhe fan hak Ai crocodile tooth are broken

กัดคนไม่เข้า kat khon mai khao can't biting people

The lyrics in this clip and the lyrics I write are a little different, but the meaning is still the same.

งูกินหาง tail-eating snake

Father Snake :

แม่งูเอ๋ยกินน้ำบ่อไหน mae ngu oei kin nambo nai Where does mother snake drink water? Mother Snake :

กินน้ำบ่อโสกโยกไปโยกมา kin nambo sok yok pai yok ma drinking water from the well, rocking and swaying Father Snake :

แม่งูเอ๋ยกินน้ำบ่อไหน mae ngu oei kin nambo nai Where does mother snake drink water? Mother Snake :

กินน้ำบ่อหินบินไปบินมา kin nambo hin bin pai bin ma Drink water at stone pond, flying back and forth. Father Snake :

แม่งูเอ๋ยกินน้ำบ่อไหน mae ngu oei kin nambo nai Where does mother snake drink water? Mother Snake :

กินน้ำบ่อทรายย้ายไปย้ายมา kin nambo sai yai pai yai ma Drink water at sand wells, move back and forth. Father Snake :

กินหัวกินหางกินกลางตลอดตัว kin hua kinhang kin klang talot tua Eat head, eat tail, eat in the middle to the whole body.

มอญซ่อนผ้า Mon hides the cloth

มอญซ่อนผ้า mon son pha Mon hides the cloth

ตุ๊กตาอยู่ข้างหลัง tukta yu khanglang doll on the back

ไว้��ู่นไว้นี่ wai non wai ni keep it right there. Keep it right here

ฉันจะตีก้นเธอ chan cha ti kon thoe I will spank you

จ้ำจี้มะเขือเปราะ chamchi makhuea pro

จ้ำจี้มะเขือเปราะ กระเทาะหน้าแว่น chamchi makhuea pro kratho nawaen chamchi eggplant kratho nawaen

พายเรืออกแอ่น กระแท่นต้นกุ่ม phairuea ok aen krathaen ton kum Rowing until the chest bent. Almost stuck to the kum tree.

สาวๆ หนุ่มๆ อาบน้ำท่าไหน sao sao num num apnam tha nai Where do young people take a bath?

อาบน้ำท่าวัด เอาแป้งที่ไหนผัด apnam tha wat ao paeng thinai phat Take a bath at the temple's waterside. Where do they get the face powder from?

เอากระจกที่ไหนส่อง เยี่ยมๆ มองๆ นกขุนทองร้องฮู้ ao krachok thinai song yiam yiam mong mong nokkhunthong rong hu Where will they get a mirror to use? Sneak a peek secretly. Khun Thong birds sing hoo.

โพงพาง phongphang

โพงพางเอ๋ย ปลาเข้าลอด phongphang oei pla khao lot fish trap oei, the fish enters through.

ปลาตาบอด เข้าลอดโพงพาง pla tabot khao lot phongphang A blind fish enters the fish trap.

youtube

*When I was a kid, I actually didn't know this game's name or that it had a song. We call it "live fish, dead fish" and just shout that at the beginning of the game, lol.

เป่ายิ้งฉุบ

ยันยินเยาปั๊กกะเป่ายิ้งฉุบ yan yin yao pak ka pao ying chup

There are actually a lot of songs to sing before Rock Paper Scissors, but the one you saw above is the one almost every version has and also the only thing most people actually use because the other verses are too long. Many times, it gets shortened to the point of using only the last word.

Songs for university activities or camp.

แจว Paddle

แจวมาแจวจ้ำจึก chaeo ma chaeo cham chuek Paddle, come paddle.

น้ำนิ่งไหลลึกนึกถึงคนแจว *2 namninglailuek nuekthueng khon chaeo Still, water flows deep. Thinking of a rower.

แจวเรือจะไปซื้อ “word” chaeoruea cha pai sue “word” Sailing boats will go buy a "word".

ขอเชิญ “name” ลุกขึ้นมาแจว kho choen “name” luk khuen ma chaeo Invite "name" to come up.

*“word” and “name” must be rhyming words.

youtube

ไก่ย่าง grilled chicken

ไก่ย่างถูกเผา*2 kaiyang thuk phao *2 The grilled chicken got burnt *2

มันจะถูกไม้เสียบ*2 man cha thuk mai siap *2 It will be skewed *2

เสียบตูดซ้ายเสียบตูดขวา siap tut sai siap tut khwa Plug in the left ass, plug in the right ass

เสียบตูดซ้ายเสียบตูดขวาเอ๊า!! siap tut sai siap tut khwa ao!! Plug in the left ass, plug in the right ass, ah!!

ร้อนจริงๆร้อนจริงๆร้อนจริงๆ ron ching ching *3 extremely hot *3

ตาแดงๆ Red, red eyes

ตาแดง ๆ อย่ามายะน้องแรง น้องเจ็บหัวเข่า *2 tadaeng tadaeng ya ma ya nong raeng nong chep huakhao *2 Red red eyes, don't come fxxk me hard. My knee hurt. *2

น้องบอกอย่ามายะ อย่ามายะ!! *2 nong bok ya ma ya ya ma ya *2 I said, "don't come, don't come !! *2

อย่ามายะน้องแรง น้องเจ็บหัวเข่า ya ma ya nong raeng nong chep huakhao Don't come fxxk me hard. My knee hurt.

ปีหน้าจะมีรำวง *2 pi na cha mi ramwong *2 Next year there will be a dance. *2

น้องกลัวท้องป่อง อย่ามายะ อย่ามายะ nong klua thong pong ya ma ya ya ma ya I'm scared of a big belly. Don't come, don't come.

This one is filthy, but due to its popularity, I chose to put it in. I'm a modest person, I swear.(ﾉ∀＼*)

ฮิปโป Hippo

ฮิป! ฮิป! ฮิป! ฮิปโป Hip! Hip! Hip! hippo Hip! Hip! Hip! hippo

โอ้โห ตัวมันใหญ่มัน o ho tua man yai man Oh, it's big.

เดินอุ้ยอ้าย มันเดินอุ้ย doen ui-ai man doen ui Walks slowly, it walks slowly.

ลัลล้า ลัลลัลลา ลัลล้ลลา lan la lan lan la lan lon la lalala lalala lalala

ตุ่ม Jar

ตุ่มใส่น้ำใส่น้ำให้เต็มตุ่ม tum sai nam sai nam hai tem tum *2 Water jar, fill the jar with water *2

แล้วเราจะชื่นใจ laeo rao cha chuenchai *2 Then we will rejoice *2

รถตุ๊กๆ Tuk tuk car

รถตุ๊กๆ บรรทุกถ่าน rot tuk tuk banthuk than tuk tuk car, carry charcoal

รถขึ้นสะพาน rot khuen saphan car up the bridge

รถลงสะพาน rot long saphan car down the bridge

รถเลี้ยวซ้าย rot liaosai car turn left

รถเลี้ยวขวา rot liao khwa car turn right

ชักกระตุกๆๆๆ chakkratuk kratuk kratuk kratuk twitch*4

สับปะรด Pineapple

มีตารอบตัว รอบตัว รอบตัว mita roptua roptua roptua have eyes everywhere

มีตัวลายตา ลายตา ลายตา mi tua laita laita laita have dazzling body. Dazzling, dazzling, dazzling.

ฮูลาฮูลา สับปะรด ๆ hu la hu la sapparot sapparot Hula Hula Pineapple.

(เปรี้ยวไหม ๆ? เปรี้ยว!) เปรี้ยวทำยังไง? (priao mai priao mai? Priao!) priao tham yangngai? (Is it sour? Yes!) What if it's sour?

เปรี้ยวก็จิ้มเกลือ priao ko chim kluea sour, then dipped in salt.

หวานก็จิ้มเกลือ wan ko chim kluea sweet, then dipped in salt.

เปรี้ยวก็จิ้มเกลือ priao ko chim kluea sour, then dipped in salt.

หวานก็จิ้มเกลือ wan ko chim kluea sweet, then dipped in salt.

ถ้าไม่มีเกลือ ก็ไม่ต้องจิ้ม tha mai mi kluea ko mai tong chim If there is no salt, no need to dip.

หม่ำไปเลย ๆ mam pai loei mam pai loei Eat it up*2

กิ่งก้านใบ Branches, stems, and leaves

กิ่งก้านใบ ชะ ชะ ใบก้านกิ่ง kingkan bai chacha bai kan king Branches, stems, and leaves. Water wash leaves, stems, and branches.

ฝนตกลงมาจริง ๆ fontok long ma ching ching It's really raining.

ชะ ชะ กิ่งก้านใบ chacha kingkan bai Branches, stems, and leaves get wash by water

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