#i don't know if i'd have the strength to remain civil

[donutdrawsthings]

I haven't seen anyone talk about it yet, but I've been receiving a lot of asks from bots trying to pretend they're struggling families from Gaza... which I know are from bots because I've seen the same message copy-pasted into my inbox and their blogs are almost completely barren. So sadly I feel I have to post this and urge you to please, please be careful who you donate to. I am actually, utterly and completely disgusted by the AMOUNT of bot asks I've received in such a short time, and even more disgusted that these bots seem to ACTUALLY BE REELING IN MONEY TOO. Please watch the wording and check if you haven't read it anywhere else before...

What kind of heinous person do you have to be to scam kind people out of their money in such a way... You might as well be stealing the money straight out of a Palestinian's hands...

[simlit]

All odd numbers for Kyrie!😁

What memory would your OC rather just forget?

I think he'd wish he could forget that he was given to the church as a baby. Not necessarily because he wants to reunite or even know his birth parents, he doesn't. But it's a constant reminder that he, quite literally, doesn't belong there. That he was given away as if he was a tool or some material good. It's just a lot to carry around with you.

What is your OC's fatal flaw? Are they aware of this flaw?

Fear of failure. Something that has only recently made itself evident to him (and me lol). In a way, he's a people pleaser. He doesn't want to disappoint those around him. He fears the ripple of consequences that might stem from his domino falling first, and doesn't want to be the person responsible for a larger collapse, so he sort of keeps to his duty as a cog, despite how he might not align with the objective.

How far is your OC willing to go to get what they want?

I would say... not very. He's lazy, certainly, but he's also sheltered, incredibly inexperienced, and lacks the means to get what he wants through pure brute strength, power or smarts. That being said, if the obstacle is something he can overcome, I think he'd be more inclined to actually try.

What's one way your OC has changed since you first came up with them?

I made Kyrie almost as a blank slate so that I could easily adapt him to the circumstances of the story. Because CotS is both interactive and filled with characters I didn't create, he had to be someone who could blend well with all types of people, and not have many "hardstops" so to speak, morally or otherwise. But along the way I've tried to make someone who is an "open template" entertaining, and I think Kyrie's almost lackadaisical unbothered humor emerged from all of ~that~. I didn't go in planning him to be such a huge fucking troll, but I'm glad he has his "thing". In a story with so many strong personalities, it would have been easy to get overtaken by the other cast members.

Do you have a specific lyric or quote which you associate with your OC?

"That's abominable." Because it's just so damn funny.

What is your OC's weapon of choice? Have they ever actually used it?

Yes, he has one, and no he doesn't use it. And it's been called into question multiple times in the story, and I still don't think a damn one of them knows the actual truth yet lmao. It's funnier that way. It wouldn't save him from getting murdered, obviously. It would probably just get him murdered faster.

If you met your OC, would the two of you get along?

Absolutely. If he wasn't so hot. Because honestly every time I look at him I just want to punch him in the face so 100% the conversation would go no where and I'd get arrested.

Does your OC have a faceclaim? If so, who?

No he doesn't.

What is the worst thing you have put your OC through story-wise?

I kind of... took his sister. Mean Jade go grr. I have this terrible habit of killing off loving sisters. I leave the bad ones though. Elsera says hi.

How does your OC behave when enraged?

He's one of those awful people who just gets stoic and civil when angry. As Tay said while having the absolute pleasure of being on the other end of it: that's probably worse. He's not been confronted with a situation that would make him exceptionally angry though, i.e. nothing life or death, so maybe that would change.

Does your OC have any illnesses or disorders? How do they handle it?

He doesn't.

What emotion is the hardest for your OC to process? How about express?

I think it would be loss. Which I guess is a generic answer, since it's pretty typical of human nature not to handle loss well. But I think when you have so very little in your life that is truly meaningful, then you're grasping at straws and have nothing to distract you from your grief. I think in the story currently, he's in a constant state of bracing. Trying to remain outwardly hopeful even though his body is already starting to reject the premise that things will turn out well, and that putting so much mental strength into denying it, degrades his focus in other facets of his life. Outside of the few moments where he's truly and genuinely amused, I do feel he's starting to lose himself under the pressure he would have, otherwise, been able to stand against without hesitation. I can't really imagine him in a place where he has to accept that loss is real, and I don't know how or if he can cope with it when it does.

What is your favorite thing about your OC?

I love what a huge fuckin TROLL he is. Sorry, it's so entertaining to me. It's one of my main reasons for preferring him with ~certain~ members of the cast. Mostly the ones who are ripe for riling up ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[biblically-accurate-soup]

what did you mean about the title "no children" adding to the song? i don't quite understand and i'd love to read a big paragraph of analysis

hi hello sorry for taking a bit to get to this. i was rotating my answer in my head like a rotisserie chicken for a few days.

No Children by The Mountain Goats tells a simple, familiar story. As the lead singer, John Darnielle puts it, a story about a divorcing couple. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of these characters he’s created, starting the song off with: “I hope that our few remaining friends give up on trying to save us. I hope we come up with a failsafe plot to piss off the dumb few that forgave us.”

These are not happy people, that much is incredibly obvious from the start of the song. The point of view of the once-newlywed-now-NewlyWonderingHowWeWereEverWed is cemented even further as he continues: “I hope the fences we mended fall down beneath their own weight. And I hope we hang on past the last exit, I hope it's already too late.”

Our narrator is past being complacent in the crumbling of his relationships. He’s actively, and snidely, “hoping” for their complete destruction past the point of no return. He hopes that nothing remains of the fence TO be mended. He hopes that there are no more exits. He hopes that it is too late to save anything now, because if there is, he certainly isn’t about to try to do so now. He continues this hopeless train of hoping in the next few lines: “And I hope the junkyard a few blocks from here someday burns down. And I hope the rising black smoke carries me far away, and I never come back to this town again in my life.”

Finally, in the last lines of the first chorus, he refers to the person he is singing to. “I hope I lie and tell everyone you were a good wife.” In this line, he provides a sharp contrast to the earlier ones. It seems almost out of place. All of the hoping for destruction until there is nothing left to rebuild upon is suddenly cut with a line that sounds almost like it is trying to be civil, but does so in an undeniably backhanded way. He hopes in the future, when there is nothing left of the “We” they once were, he can tell everyone that it wasn’t all bad. But nevertheless, he wants his ex-wife to unmistakably know that it will be lie.

This thin attempt at civility is contrasted immediately with perhaps the most straightforward sentence of loathing ever put to song: “And I hope you die. I hope we both die.”

The rest of the song continues on similarly, with the narrator continuing his line of hoping for one of them to outwardly lose hope. Skipping forward a few lines: “I hope it stays dark forever. I hope the worst isn't over. And I hope you blink before I do. Yeah I hope I never get sober.” Even in what they can both see is a failed relationship, they still have their pride to uphold. This train wreck has become their own personal game of chicken, and the narrator hopes his former lover blinks first.

“And I hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say. And I'd hope that if I found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell out of my way.” Calling back to the prior line where he hopes he lies and says that his wife was a good one, he childishly refuses to concede their tug-of-war, even after years have passed without contact. He wants to be seen as the bigger person in the end, even if it is a decade from now.

Finally, moving on to probably the most famous lines of this song: “I am drowning. There is no sign of land. You are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand. And I hope you die. I hope we both die.” And it is famous for a reason. It is so simple in its wording yet so effective in its delivery. The first two lines paint a clear image that has been set up throughout the song: being resigned to the fact that his situation is hopeless. He’s pushed himself out so far into the water and away from land—his opportunities to fix things, for him to salvage what he and his partner had—and is finally starting to realize that yes, he is sinking, and it is too late to not go down with the ship.

Immediately after that, it gives a line that has been used by many a fanfiction writer to this day. “You are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand.” Like the rest of the song, it is so simple. So to the point. And it hits like a punch to the gut, because she is in the exact same situation as him. She sat there and helped him row the boat out to sea. She remained while the ship was sinking. Because despite it all, they’re going down together. Both of them are committed to bringing the other down with them.

“I hope you die. I hope we both die.” The same lines heard earlier in the song, but this time with new meaning. The narrator loathes his ex-wife, but is aware that he is also guilty of the same crimes. He hopes she dies. I think deep down, he hopes that she hopes the same thing will happen to him.

This song is so clear and straightforward in giving us these two dysfunctional people. Two people caught up in their own game and are burning down the rest of their lives along with their failed relationship. These are two people who never, once in their relationship, were willing to be patient. Or willing to forgive. Or willing to change their ways. Two people so caught in their destruction that they kept destroying each other while drowning themselves. They truly must have wanted to be together at some point—otherwise, why would anyone have held out this long?

A couple like this, it’s a miracle they even got married in the first place. As John Darnielle so eloquently puts it: Midway through the writing, I'm thinking about what defines their life down there, and I thought, "Do they have kids or not?" At this point I had enough of the new songs to go, "No. Under no circumstances do you put children in these people's lives."

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 11

Silent scream

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n gets shut up

Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"Fuck you." I snapped, mustering all the saliva I could before spitting it at his face. He flinched back when it splattered over his cheek, his fingers swiping through the spittle before he was shaking it from them and standing back to his full height.

"It appears this one is never going to cooperate. If she won't give us information, why let our experimentations on her possibly...benefit the girl the the future?" The general spoke menacingly to the guards behind me. "How about way find a way to shut her up?"

My heat thudded so hard in my chest it was like someone was punching me from the inside, all air knocked from my lungs before I was being hoisted up to my feet again with two rough grips on my upper arms. My chest heaving, I coughed a ragged breath before composing myself. The glint of the silver blade in the corner of my vision sent my eyes bugging out of my skull and my mind into a flat panic.

So, I did what any rational person with my capabilities would do. I began to hum the deep melody - one a seldom sung - and a smirk crawled its way onto my now curved lips. Clearly, the general was prepared, but the two guards behind we weren't so lucky.

A desperate cry pierced my tune, harmonising with my voice as I heard the havoc I was causing. This was the first time I'd enjoyed a kill, the very first time I'd wanted to use my powers for such a horrific reason. I'd only ever used this part of my power a few times, but this was the only time I'd been fully lucid whilst doing so.

Some people want nothing more than to blow their enemies' brains out, and trust me when I tell you; It felt good.

However, luck was never on my side, and the General had come full prepared. He wasn't even affected, it must've been something to do with the funny earpiece he was wearing.

As my eyes met his, the General's face held non of the cocky, smug tones that I'd expect. No, the only word I could use to describe his old and crinkled features was pure ire, and it was directed at me.

"You conniving, vile little bitch!" He snarled, the flash of silver weeding a sense of utter and complete dread, tangled with fear inside of me, uprooting my confidence. I don't remember a lot after that, to tell you the truth. I know the blade sliced along my throat. I know everything was rained black. And that's about it.

...

Awakening with a gasp was the last thing I expected to happen. The sight of the blade risen in front of the general burned into my mind, almost as if it'd been scorned against my flesh. But here I was: awake, gasping for breath, completely surrounded by doctors I'd never seen before.

My hand instantly flew to my neck, a stinging sensation pulsing from the delicate skin. I hissed as my sweaty palm made contact with the bandage, the material corse and scratchy against my skin. As a doctor waddled over to me, needle in hand, I flailed desperately, a silent scream ripping from my throat.

Hang on a second-

Silent scream? I tried again, the shrill noise that should be tearing from me simply vanishing as it hit my throat. My eyes widened with the realisation, my bottom lip wobbling as I suddenly pieces together what had happened.

He said he'd have to shut me up, didn't he? The thought made me want to scream loudly, that the blade had touched my skin and left me with no defence.

They took away the hell they'd reigned upon me, something I'd wished I could be rid of for years, and now I was disappointed. Maybe this was their plan all along, that little voice in my head sang. The tears pricked at my eyes, which rolled back lazily as the scratch of the needle poked at my neck.

...

My calloused fingers ran over the cut tirelessly, trying to itch somewhere that I could never seem to find. I don't know how long I was sedated for, but since waking up the bleeding had stopped and there was now an offensive red line that slid horizontally across my neck.

Every time I touched it, it coaxed a wince from me, and yet that's all I seemed to do. It was like poking a bruise, I guess. The more it hurts the more you want to do it.

They'd returned me to my cell, clearly very little need for restraints against my weakened, starved and dehydrated body. I could see the flesh thinning on my arms, my ribs pressing painfully against my skin. Not only could I see the hunger, but I could feel it.

Manifesting, biting, gnawing hunger. The type that are you from inside out, devouring everything of you until the only thing you could think about was eating. Huh, I guess I was already at that stage then.

My eyes remained locked in place, glossy with the endless tears as I stared at the floor. If I really looked hard enough, the still wet blood smeared over the floors of the hallway resembled something close to strawberry jam. The thoughts of the sickly sweat substance spread over a perfectly toasted piece of bread, accompanied with a big glass of fresh orange juice and washed down by a large coffee made my mouth water. The booming rumble in my stomach made the groan, even more drawn out than expected when I remembered all I'd get to eat today: a small bread roll and a tiny glass of water.

Sadly, the sink in my cell did not contain drinking water. The liquid was so discoloured that I purposely avoided washing me hands, preferring to possible have my own germs coating my hands than whatever they were giving me. I'm not kicking you about, I genuinely think the water was filtered through a clump of fucking horse shit, mixed with fish guts and complimented with a hint of rotting fruit. If I could help it, I'd be dodging that water like the plague (if it didn't contain one already) for the rest of my life.

I'm not really sure why, but my head snapped up in surprise why the door sprang open, a single guard entering.

"The general requires your presence." He deadpanned, eyes cold as eyes and sharp as a knife as they stabbed through me. I wanted to fight back, stay glued to the spot and snap back some snarky remark, but in my current condition I almost couldn't bring myself to care where I was about to be taken, or why for that matter.

I stood without a word, silently following the man until we reached an unfamiliar metal door. I found it almost laughable, really, that they'd reduced my strength so much, that no one even considered putting me any sort of restraints anymore.

The door was pushed open with a child-like whine emitting from its rusty hinges, the metal scraping over the concrete floor painfully. The guard simply grabbed my arm before tugging me into the room, letting the door shut behind his with a hollow thunk.

"Ah, she has arrived!" The general's voice exclaimed, a deviant smile spreading over his thin lips. "And just in time to meet Mr Pierce, too." He said menacingly.

I felt embarrassed, exposed, stood before the room of men. My hair was a mess, tears streaking my reddened face, eyes puffy from crying and the only clothes a wore was a now-battered hospital gown. My eyes darted around nervously, trying to avoid the blonde man sat before me, chin resting in his palm as he surveyed me.

"Why is this one...important?" The man asked, eyeing me up and down before his eyes seemed to fixate on my neck. The scar.

"This," the general spoke, but Mr Pierce kept his eyes on me, "is Miss y/n Stark." Mr Pierce's eyes widened ever so slightly, but it was barely noticeable.

"As in Tony Stark?" Pierce pondered.

"The very same." The general smirked.

"She seems awfully...quiet, for a Stark." Pierce said with almost a hint of disgust, eyes still glued to my shaking frame.

"That's because we shut her up." The general snapped, awfully harshly.

"Is that the scar? How fresh is it?" Pierce jabbed his questions, curiosity clearly becoming him in the moment.

"Indeed. Our doctors here are very good, Sir. They had her all patched up and out of bandages in just three days." The general bragged, shoulders back and head held high as if he was posing for a portrait.

"I see." Pierce mused, brows furrowed in thought. "What do you plan to do with her? Now that she can't tell you anything?"

"Oh, trust me, sir. She wasn't giving anything up either way," he paused, striding over to me and yanking my head back with a fistful of hair, my back mow  pressed to his chest and his mouth at my ear, "isn't that right, sweetheart?"he clarified, and I didn't hesitate to nod my head as much as his grip would allow.

"So why isn't she dead?" Pierce gritted, seemingly annoyed. "It's not like Tony's attached to her, he never looked for her and I've never even heard him mention her."

"But then they'll keep coming. I don't want the avengers on my back, and I'm sure you don't either." Pierce hummed in agreement. "She's with them - her and that Captain America guy arrived together - so why not use her to send a message?" The general suggested.

...

That's how I found myself tied up, wrists bound and gun to my head as I sat shakily in a chair in the middle of the quinjet. I had no clue how long I'd been since that day, but I do know that I had been sedated once again. The flimsy hospital gown allowed a shiver to chill me, skin  forming goosebumps as I sat before the open door or the quinjet.

"You will tell them exactly as I just did. Got it?" The general pressed, pushing the gun into my head hard enough to make by head throb. Tears biting at my eyes, I nodded furiously, now determined to live with the promise of being free again. "Good. Soldat, make sure she gets back to New York without being seen, I'd hate to have to spill more blood than we intended." The general demanded, a figure rustling its way out of the shadows at the edge of the room. A gasp tore from my throat at the sight of him - clad in black leather and arm as silver as the moon. The soldier - my soldier.

But he simple stared through me, eyes blank and clouded in a coldness I'd never had directed at me from him before.

"And make sure you don't fail this time, soldat." The general snapped. The soldier nodded solemnly, the echoing of boots thudding filling both their ears as the general walked off the ship.

[the-huntress-songblade]

The Owl and the Raven

Part 2

"I go by Reth." He said, offering no further details.

The huntress tilted her head to one side before looking at the satyr, then back to the man called Reth, "You are not one of Salis' hunting trainees... what is your mission?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if confused by her question. "I do not know any such person." Then he nudged the stirring leader, who groaned from his injuries. "My mission? Who needs a mission to hunt these abominations?" Then he blinked at her. "And what is your mission, you sound quite official."

Arrianna looked the man up and down before retraining her bow on the satyr instead, pausing only long enough to pull down her mask so that more than just her amber eyes was visible, "I am Nightstorm, huntress aspirant under Salis Ashenbow's cadre." She looked about at the various crystals, then back to Reth, "The satyr here have been performing Fel magick and it was my mission to collect at least one of these crystals so that we could discover their intents."

He lowered his hands. "Well then, feel free to take your fill. I have no interest in demonic jewelry." The smoldering satyr was groaning and gripping at Reth's boots, like he was struggling to pull himself up. Reth kicked his hand away. "If you don't mind, I'm going to have a conversation with our friend here about where his comrades are hiding. And he's going to be very helpful if he knows what's good for him."

Arrianna's grip on her bow loosened, the string coming to rest back in its ready position as she looked between the elf and his prisoner. She glanced about at the crystals she'd been tasked with collecting, then back to the satyr again. If she had the information from the leader of the satyr about the rest of the vile creatures... Salis would be sure to not only reward her but she also could show her parents that she didn't need to be a druid or priestess to be successful. With several long moments taken to get to this train of thought, she looked back at Reth, voice still stern, "You mind sharing? That information would be invaluable to our people, after all."

Reth the hunter arched an eyebrow as he stared at her, the satyr still uselessly clawing at the ground. "Are you asking to interrogate a prisoner together? Strange idea for a first courting." He said with a chuckle. "What do I get in return for sharing this information?"

Arrianna recoiled slightly, the look on her face clearly one of frustration at his mention of courting, "Excuse me? First courting? You're a bold one..." She pursed her lips together in thought before answering, "What would you want from someone like me... and don't think about cracking wise." Her bow was now back in its sling, but her polearm was at her side, the blade so sharp it looked like it could shave the hide off the satyr before them in a scant second.

He held his hands up apologetically. "Relax, huntress, I was only jesting." He pushed the satyr with his foot, rolling the creature onto its back. "Since I assume you wish to know the information to hunt the satyrs yourself, how about you agree to leave any valuable items they may possess to me." There was a small sound of his stomach growling. Spending so much time in solitude, honing his skills and hunting demons was not precisely a lucrative career decision.

Arrianna looked the man over again, catching the sound of his stomach in her sensitive ears. She frowned, looking back to the satyr before nodding, "Of course... assuming the items are not helpful to my superiors, they are yours." She turned her attention to the satyr, baring her fangs at the creature as he stirred. "Looks like this one is about ready."

Reth planted his foot on the demon's chest, none too gently. "You heard the lady, demon. Speak. Tell us where your disgusting comrades are." The demon managed to raise and turn his head slightly, the better for him to fire a glob of fel-glowing spit onto Reth's boots. "So rude... suppose I shouldn't be surprised." He drew one of his blades and held the tip down against the satyr's throat. "Lets try that again... with a little more civility." The demon unleashed a stream of demonic, what could only be insults.

Arrianna watched the exchange in silence. With a quiet inhale, she grabbed her polearm and brought it to the satyr's foul hide, making a two-inch cut on his arm, drawing blood and a sharp hiss from between his teeth. But she seemed unfazed by his reaction, saying only, "I'd suggest you answer his question, foul beast... and every time you don't, I'll add another cut... a single one won't kill you, but you won't last past the thousandth."

The hunter glanced up at her with a bit of surprise at her ruthlessness. Reth pressed his foot down harder. "It seems my new friend here is even less in the mood for impoliteness.” The satyr swore again and began to speak, entirely in demonic. And though his words were unintelligible, he turned a charred arm and pointed northwest, seemingly in the direction of the woods at the western base of the mountain. "That wasn't so hard was it?" He removed his blade and his foot and turned to the woman. "Any other questions?"

Arrianna thought about it for several moments before shaking her head, "No... no, I think not." She tied her polearm to her back before moving to tuck the glowing crystals in the vicinity into a leather satchel.

The satyr had a momentary look of relief. A look that was short-lived. Reth nodded and looked down at the demon. "Thank you." His sword sliced through the air and cut across the demon's flesh, trachea, and arteries. Blood flowed from the wound and pooled around his body as jerky thrashes overtook him for a moment. Then his strength gave out and he fell still. "Been hunting this one for three days,” Reth mused.

Arrianna's face held an impressed expression, and she looked him over again as she tied the satchel to her waist, "Only three days? I wasn't even sent here for him... just the lesser satyr. Salis will be quite impressed that we got to one of the leaders." She tilted her head again, looking Reth over in confusion, "How is it you don't have a superior officer to report to?"

He arched a brow again, equally confused and amused by her question. "Because some of us have no interest in following along like a child. I'm quite fine pursuing my own goals, on my own schedule." He paused for a moment, blinking. "And what's this about 'we'? Did we become partners at some point?"

The huntress made a scoffing noise at him, hands landing on her hips, "I'm sorry, did I confuse us as being of the same people? Can't imagine why I would've done that." She stared at him for several long seconds and retorted, "And using 'we' is just a... a habit, I suppose..." She frowned, looking the man over again, taking in the full sight of his form wrapped in worn leather armor.

He sheathed his blades at his belt and moved to spy around one of the tents at the rest of the camp. The satyrs seemed to have assumed he'd escaped into the woods as the camp was mostly empty save a few sentries left behind. "Yes, well, my 'people' aren't really my people. So you might say I'm better off on my own. Now, WE should probably make ourselves scarce before they come back even angrier."

Arrianna blinked as he started looking about the rest of the camp, and gave a nod, following after him quietly, "Yes, you're probably right."

Reth glanced over his shoulder as she followed him, then quickly stood and made his way out of the camp, heading west.

She had little trouble keeping up with him, pausing only to grab more crystals on their path - she knew the fewer the satyr had, the more advantage her people could get over them, however small that might be. But as they walked, her mind was on something else... something he'd said. "Thank you." she offered simply as they made their way west.

The hunter looked over his shoulder as she spoke, making their way around the shore of the lake. He looked mystified. "For what?"

"For sharing... you didn't have to do that."

He shrugged, as if it didn't seem like a big deal to him. "Uhm... you're welcome. It’s just information, as long as you're not going to get in my way, I don't see the problem... and I'd prefer if you not tell any one of your... superiors about me."

Arrianna frowned more, tugging her hood from her head so she could shake out her short silvery-white hair. Her golden eyes shone back at him confusedly, "What exactly is your issue with our people?"

He cleared his throat as they walked through the forest paths, toward the northern woods. "Those people have an issue with me. They think me corrupted simply because I refuse to hide timidly in the trees. Fine with me, I can get more done without 'orders'."

Arrianna tilted her head to the side, brow furrowed deeply on her visage, "Why would anyone think you corrupted? You are as talented a hunter as any of the rest of us... perhaps more, considering how quickly you located the leader of that group of satyr." She sounded genuinely confused as to why anyone would feel alienated against him. She thought about it further, remembering the look in his silver eyes and suddenly wondering where she'd seen that look before.

He remained silent for a moment, a bit longer than he usually took to answer. "Because they seem to think that hiding like frightened children is preferable to employing ALL possible weapons in order to drive the terrors from our home. Stormrage was right to turn the demons' power against them... and they call him Betrayer."

At this Arrianna blinked in surprise, staring at the hunter's back as they stopped in their walking. "... you... I know where I've seen you... I saw several of you whispering amongst yourselves some weeks ago... something about the Stormrage brother... the one who traded away his sight." She frowned again, jogging to stand before him and look at him more fully, her tone both stern and reassuring, "There's nothing wrong with seeking to destroy our enemies, you know." Her piercing amber gaze was unwavering as she looked back at him, her youth betrayed with her face fully visible - she could not be much more than three hundred years old, barely past her Coming of Age. Her facial tattoo still looked fresh on her face, framing her eyes like the feathers of an owl.

He glared at her from beneath his mask and hood, and after a moment finally pulled both free to reveal his smooth face and mane of messy, shoulder length black hair. "Yes. And a waste of time. Some of the more... zealous followers seem to believe they can break Illidan from his prison... a fool's errand. I would rather seek out his source of power directly." He paused in his explanation as he looked over the girl, apparently younger than him by a small amount. "You would think that would be true, but apparently leaving ourselves vulnerable is a fine price to pay to remain 'honorable'... which I'm sure the thousands who've died appreciate."

Arrianna looked taken aback at the hunter's brazenness. And at his overall physical wildness. But seemed ensnared by his sharp mercurial gaze. It took a few times of her mouth opening and closing before she said, "That... that's exactly right! Where our elders continue to try to stick to outdated traditions... where someone like me should be dressed in a priestess' garb and singing prayers to the White Lady, or at the very least training under her father to follow in the footsteps of Cenarius' teachings, to be of any value to society... why must we hide and remain passive in our pursuit of safety and happiness in life?!" She looked him over again, a slight hint of color painting her purple cheeks. "You... you said your name was Reth?"

He nodded along, seemingly impressed with how agreeable she was. "Reth'lazar. The whole thing is a bit much. Reth is fine." He cleared his throat again. "Nice to meet someone who seems to see some sense. Besides, I don't think you'd look as good in a priestess’ robes." Then he raised his eyes as if he were trying to look at himself. "Not that I can talk much."

Arrianna smirked at his comment, shaking her head. "No, that's... I think you look just fine." Even as she said it, she averted her amber gaze to one side awkwardly, glancing back up the path they'd been walking. She looked back at him curiously, hand motioning toward Hyjal, "Where, eh... where do you call home? Near the base?"

He ran his fingers through his wild hair, as if somewhat surprised at the compliment. "Thanks. And... not exactly. I live wherever I find a piece of cover to sleep beneath."

The huntress took a turn to run her gloved hand through her own hair, glancing up the path, "Well, Reth'lazar... I still need to turn these crystals in to my superior... are you hungry?"

"Reth, please. Ahem... I suppose a meal wouldn't go amiss."

Anna smirked again, nodding, "Well then... my name is Arrianna. Arrianna Nightstorm. And I'm inviting you to dinner. As thanks." She looked back up the path, "The glade a little further north is where I call home... and anyone who helps hunt the satyrs is welcome."

He nodded with a slight grin. "So long as you don't plan to try and recruit me, I'll be glad to accept."

"Psh." She chuckled and shook her head, "I'm not an officer, I'm just an aspirant... a trainee. I'm a nobody."

He moved to follow her this time. "I don't think that's likely."