#i see in my minds eye a beetle and a grub

[warmfuzzyanimal]

i like when fairies is bugs,

[fly-sky-high-bug-games]

Tea time.

For Taka, it usually meant it was time to check on dream updates and who was active at the time. He likes to keep track of those he takes interest and care in, just in case. 

Relaxing to his favorite flavor, he read the little wooden tablets that seem to freely float around his home after they just appear out of nowhere. It seems to be the usual and Taka was somewhat glad about it, even if he was kind of bored.

He did consider having guests over and just as he remembered this, something clicked in his head. With a cup close to his mouth, Taka froze.

“Huh. No knocking? How rude.”, he spoke seemingly to himself. “Not a lot can just invade my own dream-scape. I’m not a fan of it either. Let me guess. You found my essence within the item and tracked me down here?”

Just down the terrace with a view, a figure just a bit smaller than Taka, carrying a staff of their own and wearing the same accessories minus the mask, stood a decent distance and watched Taka.

“Truthfully, I don’t think you deserve better, traitor.”

Taka paused. While his backs were turned towards the visitor, he didn’t bother turning around. Still, he knew exactly what his “guest” was talking about.

“That’s quite some effort you went through to locate me for something that happened decades ago. I have to admit, I’m surprised but also disappointed my essence is misused for some petty vengeance. Look, we could have even had some decent tea time and talk about what are the temples like nowadays.”

“Absolutely not.”, they spoke firmly.

“I don’t even know you so what ever spite you’re having probably isn’t your own. I don’t want to bother with you so just leave.” Taka refocused on the tablet, trying to ignore the person standing.

“It’s absolutely my own, Taka the Traitor! The fact that you don’t even realize this only exposes your horrible ignorance!! I’m not leaving until my task of disposing you for good is done!! Now get up and face the consequences you limbless husk!”

“...”

Taka finally turned around. He looked anything but impressed. In his head, he couldn’t help but see the visitor as some dumb child who just wanted attention and took him as a poor excuse to do so.

And yet... they somehow got here. On their own. It takes quite a skills to do so. Remembering the training, invading someones dream was a next level stuff. Taka’s dream-scape, on the other hand, was not easily accessible. After all, he made sure it wasn’t.

It was just a moment after the nightmare staff was summoned that the tiger beetle was already charging at Taka. They were fast. Nothing unusual for a temple student.

A tail swipe turned and flipped the knotted, wooden rest chair to buy Taka time to make his own moves. One, two strikes against each of their staffs that echoed was within a flash and the beetle already switched position to a lower one and used the staff’s dull end to jab Taka.

“Hoho~!”

Amused but alert, Taka jumped backwards and out of the terrace and the enemy followed, reaching out towards him to try get a higher ground.

“Not bad~ But you’re still years behind me to keep up, kid! I’m just playing with you because you so “kindly” asked!”

“Shut up.”

The beetle opened their wings and Taka already took flight. He wasn’t going to give this novice a lot of chance to get the upper hand.

Wind, swings, sounds of spinning staffs and buzzing and random patterns in flight kept both of them busy. Both skilled in the techniques thought at the Temples of Rising Gale. Mastering wind and amazing flying skills was a must for any student that possessed abilities of flight.

This kept their attacks and hits happen all over the dream-scape, even outside of Taka’s. They both used islands to either dodge or distract attacks which got destroyed in process. Even so, they kept the combat close and on par.

Taka wasn’t too happy about this. Still, he wasn’t concerned. What this kid could pull off was only until they wake up from their dream. Getting exhausted by the battle wasn’t really an issue for him.

“What’s your deal anyway? Following some of the old masters like some kind of lost grub and doing their bidding because they’re too old to do something about their grudge themselves?”

“You out to know. Don’t pretend you don’t know the rules of the temple! Running off to serve a higher being of nightmares?? It’s like spitting in the face of our goddess!!”, the beetle shouted and used his own way to manipulate the dream-scape. Large overgrowth of plants suddenly swallowed Taka, not allowing his wings to properly fly through and having him lose sight of his target in the thick greens.

He didn’t even hesitate when Taka switched the position of the mask. The staff opened, burning crimson and setting the whole forest ablaze in a magnificent ring that spread out from his spot outwards like a ripple. The forest was gone and Taka took his mask off with a smirk, his eyes gazing back at the beetle that was lightly taken aback but safe from the fire.

“Hahahaha! I have to admit, you’re doing great! I can’t believe you’re wasting your talent here. How about another chance of going back? If you don’t want to be done with me this way then I’ll be done with you another way.”, he spoke, his tone holding some venom by the end.

“I vowed to my master to smite you and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”, the tiger beetle was persistent. They were already charging again.

“Alright, alright~! I’m having fun! I don’t mind beating some sense into you!!” Taka laughed and his attacks became more merciless.

More hits and strikes and the enemy beetle was no longer able to keep up. They locked their eyes on Taka and noticed he was relaxed despite the rapid fire of swings and hits of his staff.

It was then or never.

Just one simple dagger.

A single, lightning fast swing...

... and it was enough.

“Just like the master said..!”

It took Taka a second or two. Why, no damage should feel real or leave the effects of it permanent. After all, essence is what’s Taka’s spirit and existence is made of.

And yet...

He fell. His wings were sliced at the tips and no reforming was possible. As he was falling, his mind was going a hundred miles per hour.

That dagger was the same one that held his ashen essence.

The damage was done with his own essence.

“Oh...”, the sound escaped his mouth as he descended.

Now he had to think fast for a moment. He manipulated the dream and formed a small island he hit against with a thud. Memories of pain flashed through his being and he grunted.

“Not so high and mighty now? Good.”

The tiger-beetle flew lower but not close enough for Taka to reach. He set up and buzzed his wings but only essence particles flew from the ripped edges.

Another familiar memory from his time when he was alive was felt in his gut.

It was fear. For the first time in awhile, he was worried about his own being. Something that’s not a Dream Nail can potentially end his existence that he worked hard to built.

But despite all this, he was still curious. What sort of masters teach these sort of techniques? He doesn’t remember any of them doing so.

“Who...”

“Who’s my master?”. It was like they could read Taka’s expression and thoughts. “Why, you really should be familiar with her already. After all, she remembers you quite well! So well that she hates you’re still here and wants you gone forever!”

“She...?”, Taka asked but as he did, his eyes widened.

“She’ll never forgive you for leaving! At least she thought you’re gone for good but no! Even if you’re still here, you never came to face her again! You abandoned her for your own selfish goals and decided to pretend like she was never part of your life!”

“It... c-can’t be her...”

“Headmaster Shiya sends her regards, from the Temple of the Rising Storm to you, Taka the Traitor!”

Taka’s mind was blank. His body was no longer in motion either as he was fixated up at the medallion.

It was such an unusual feeling his curious self would be wondering about. However, it was no puzzle to why he felt this way. It wasn’t a mystery. It wasn’t even that deep.

He just remembered a person he left all alone many, many years ago...

His thought was fixated on the image of that one little girl while everything else around him was just a background noise and nothing else.

There was nothing but an overwhelming guilt now.

And thus... he didn’t even bother dodging what was coming.

“Now vanish!!”

---

The Drop: Part 1/3

[evolutionsvoid]

As a natural historian who has gained quite a few rings from the field, I have had the time and experience to pick up patterns and phenomenons that show up in my line of work. While I usually refer to the specimens and environments that I study, the more peculiar occurrences can often show up in places you never think to look. When I visit new places for research, I make it a habit to talk with the locals and get an idea of the land and culture that surrounds me. Usually I focus my thoughts on the species I have selected for observation, but over time I have found that the people I talk to wind up telling me a lot about the creature and themselves at the same time. The questioning and conversation shows what people think of the species, or how they view the entire natural world itself! Ask enough folk around the world, and you start to pick up on some patterns. One of the more obvious phenomenon to note is the desire to label anything big, scary and angry a "dragon." Those familiar with my work should already know quite well how I feel about that behavior. It is a case where people allow first impressions to condemn an entire species, refusing to look any further before calling it a monster. This line of thinking is quite similar to another pattern I have noticed, and that is ugly gross creatures are given no value, while cute pretty ones can often be given too much. To many, the icky stinging insect or the foul corpulent lizard has no purpose to the world, and thus its removal is acceptable. They dare not believe that these creatures have an important role, as those that are hideous cannot have any beauty! A concept spoken by tongues ignorant of the durian! It is often these same folk who then also believe that the adorable and beautiful ones are sacred and paramount to the whole ecosystem! I find it to be a rather messed up system! I know that I myself have called things pretty or ugly, but never would I allow such thoughts to dictate the value of a species existence! One must realize that the dung beetle and the butterfly are one in the same! They are crucial to the environments they dwell in, and seeking to eliminate one of them will often destroy all of them. I apologize for going off on a tangent, but I do so because this line of thinking is what plagues certain species and brings much misery to innocent lives. It creates folk who praise the fragrant blossoms of a tree while chopping away at its gnarled roots. I just wish others could understand that every species plays an important role to the world they live in, regardless of their odor or looks. Judging them only by their appearances is quite shallow and keeps you from seeing their true potential. The reason I have delved into this subject for so long is because I wished to talk about the Colompo, a species that is often scorned for it looks. Folk call them pests and plague bringers, treating them as if they were disease-ridden rats. To them, Colompos are useless stinky garbage eaters, and to that I cry foul! Do they eat garbage? Yes! Are they stinky? Absolutely, but they are far from useless and I will explain why! To start, let us examine what a Colompo is. At first, it may be a bit hard to understand what group it belongs to. It has the comb of a bird, the scales of a reptile and the fur of a mammal, so which is it? The answer is: Mammal! Scaly skin and bird-like structures are nothing new to the mammal class, so these features are quite normal for the Colompo. They have fur on their bodies, teats for feeding their young and bodies that can generate their own warmth. They scurry about on two bird-like legs, while their forearms have developed into fan-like structures that run down their backs. Though they give the impression of wings, the Colompo cannot fly or even glide. That doesn't stop these critters from flapping them wildly at times, usually when they get excited or are trying to scare off predators. They have a long prehensile tail that aids in balance and manipulation, it also comes in handy when they are hiding in the trees or other high up places! These tails end in an arrow-like point, but these structures are not hard nor sharp. Certain folk claim the Colompo use them as spears to impale prey, but these are floppy and are unable to pierce flesh. On their heads, they possess a rooster-like comb of a purplish color, though the structure is a bit more flamboyant on the males. They have large pointed ears and big round eyes, both of which are used to monitor their surroundings. A powerful nose helps them sniff out scent trails that will lead them to food, which brings us to an important part of the Colompo and the stigmas that surround them: their diet. It is funny how the diet of a creature creates so many assumptions in the mind of the public. If it eats plants, it must be peaceful (try saying that to the Khalkotauroi)! If it eats meat, it is evil and mean (I got some bad news about whales)! If it happens to eat dead things, then many call them gross and unsettling, usually leading to people chasing them off or hunting them down. The Colompo is a creature that lands in the latter category, as they are scavengers. In truth, they are considered omnivores, as they do munch on worms, grubs, fruit and any tasty morsels they find, but a huge part of their diet comes from rotting meat. Like mammalian vultures, they seek out carcasses and hurry to the scene, eager to chow on any leftovers they can get. Their teeth are good for gripping and pulling off pieces of tough meat, while their back molars do well against small bones and hardy chunks. Their toes are quite dexterous, which can help them grab hard-to-reach goodies or anchor them down as they yank on a stubborn strip of flesh. When they find a carcass, they will try to gorge as much as they can, storing food in special pouches in their neck. They are quick to feed because they know many others are competing for the same corpse, and often larger scavengers will aim to claim the whole carcass for themselves. At the size of a dog, they can try to push back against bullies at the dining table, but most Colompo will back down and scurry away. However, they do not run far off, as they prefer to use sneakiness over violence when it comes to getting food. While the new owner of the carcass focuses on their meal, the Colompos will quietly creep back to the scene. Colompos tend to travel in groups, and even if they were solo, a large enough corpse to bring in a feeding frenzy will draw in quite a few of these critters. When pushed away from their food, Colompos will band together to get a few more mouthfuls of food. When this happens, a few of them will rush in to harass the owner. This often involves nipping at tails, squawking loudly, spitting, spraying and being an absolute nuisance. Irritated, the larger beast will move to chase them off, leaving the carcass unattended for a few crucial moments. The other Colompos will rush in and grab what they can, scattering once the angry owner comes charging back. They will do this quite a few times, gaining a bit more food each time. Eventually they will relent, and the morsels they gathered will be shared amongst the group. 

While big carcasses are a favorite of the Colompo, they will go after any piece of rotten meat they can find. No matter how small the morsel, their nose will find it and they won't let it escape their hungry mouths. With this, they tend to be found anywhere that has spoiled food or rotting meat. Combine it with the fact that Colompos can be found in quite a few environments, and you have a rather widespread critter. From forests and swamps to city dumps and graveyards, the Colompo will be there. It is here where the trouble between the public and the Colompos begins. Since they are opportunistic omnivores and gleeful scavengers, they tend to get into places where they aren't wanted. Trashcans, junkyards, butcher shops and cemeteries can be feeding grounds for the Colompo as well as a headache for residents. Their dining can be a bit messy and their eagerness to go after fresher food can lead to comical and frustrating scenarios. From distracting customers to steal from a produce stand, to clambering on top one another to reach a cooling pie, Colompos will try anything to snag a meal. Unfortunately, this also means munching upon the recently deceased, as unattended graveyards can be buffets for them. Knowing that they will feed on a human corpse has cemented them as vile ghouls and evil creatures in the minds of many. To see the carcass of a former friend or family member be greedily devoured by hungry Colompos is a revolting thought, so many are quick to eradicate them if they start snooping around. I imagine they get the same reputation as vultures, as omens of death and bringers of disease, which is quite unfair! Since the Colompos will feed upon corpses, they have been associated with death and plagues. To see a roaming band of these critters means that disease and blight is sure to follow. Many are quick to point out that towns ravaged by sickness are often infested with Colompos, who surely brought this misery down upon the village folk. When the cattle drop dead in the field, who is there first? The Colompo. When the corpse wagons drop off diseased bodies at the pits, who happily greets them? The Colompo. So often do they show up around pandemics and death that people believe it is they who bring the plagues. Since this is seen as truth, Colompos are actively hunted and killed when they are spotted around cities and towns. Traps and poisons are often set out, and many farmers are quick to send the dogs after them when the Colompos start showing up. Those who attack them, though, are sure to be careful, as these plague bringers are surely not to be messed with. Their fangs drip with a necrotic venom that will rot your arm right off your body within seconds! Their spit harbors more then twenty plagues, and a single bite will cause your flesh to turn purple and swell until it bursts like a pus-filled balloon! They possess sacs that are filled with a foul acid that they spray at the faces of attackers, melting the flesh down to the bone! They will attack with the coordination and ferocity of a demonic legion, springing from the shadows with toxic jaws and tearing apart foes within sec- WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH! Just a heap of gall-infested junk that is nothing but the yapping of fools and the embellishment of attention seekers! How I wish I could tear up every page and scroll that spouts this wilting garbage! Colompos aren't venomous! They don't attack in groups! They don't spray acid, though they do spray a foul smelling substance at foes. You see, they have glands along their sides and near their rear that secretes a liquid that reeks like a rotten fish that was glazed and left out in the sun for a few weeks. When threatened they at first stand up tall, fan out their back flaps and puff up their chests. They hiss and growl, but do not lunge or seek to bite. If the attacker still charges forth, they turn tail and blast a stink trail behind them as they flee. Believe me, this stuff reeks and it doesn't come off easy! Get coated with it and be prepared to be banned from every town for the next three weeks! Some say tomato juice helps get the stench off, while others suggest really strong soap. My personal solution was to visit Marsh Dryad settlements and stay in their company. Their odor overpowered the one emanating from me, and I received quite a few compliments for my personal stench! Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, THEY DON'T SPRAY ACID! Absolutely preposterous, I say! Don't people ever do research before they write things down?!   No matter how many people claim it is the truth or how many scrolls present it to be so, Colompos are not bringers of pestilence! There have been many studies on Colompos over the years, and none have found that they carry these diseases in their bodies. The only reason they constantly show up during these plagues is because they are scavengers, you fools! They eat carcasses, so obviously they would go to where the bodies are piled the highest! The death and decay that comes from a sick village will lure them in, as they view it as a promising spot for food. Not only do they not cause plagues, but so far we have found that they are good for slowing them! Colompo stomach acid is quite powerful, and it is capable of destroying any disease that lingers in the meat they consume. By devouring virulent corpses, they can actually keep others from being infected! If the sickness is spread by parasites like fleas, Colompos can eat those as well! These creatures are important for cleaning up carcasses and removing sickness from the environment. The droppings they leave behind are free of these diseases and wind up nourishing a whole other group of creatures and plants! They do all this, and we thank them with hate and disgust?! How rude! Do you spit upon your garbage collector? Do you thumb your nose at the fellow who cleans latrines? Hopefully you say "no," because if you say "yes" than I really don't know what to do with you. I find it to be a darn shame that Colompos are forever associated with disease and death, as the species has so much more going on with them. I want to move away from the subject of plagues and instead talk about some of the other wonderful things about Colompos! The big one is that they are utter goofballs! They love to socialize with others of their kind, and it involves all sorts of running and playing. They scurry about and flap their fins wildly like crazed chickens! They make all sorts of stupid noises, and the way they stare with tongues hanging and drool dripping is quite hilarious! I honestly find them to be something out of a children's book, how comical they can be and how goofy their antics are. They are also good mothers! Colompos can have litters from about six to ten, and the mothers care for them until they are grown. They carry their young upon their backs, using their fins to protect them and shelter them from the elements. It is a good thing they can have so many babies, as it helps keep their populations strong despite the efforts of horrible people! I have also found that there are some that keep Colompos as pets! The owners are usually Marsh Dryads or similar hybrids, as strong odors is no bother to them, though I have seen others keep them around. A few Ghilani have been seen keeping Colompos, and I have heard that a human or two has done the same. Though I don't know if I could withstand the smell every day, I certainly applaud those that show such affection for these misunderstood creatures! Hopefully more folk get educated about the real facts about these creatures, and we can begin to show our appreciation for all they do!                   Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian ------------------------------------------------ This is a piece I finished recently that was dragon-based, so I decided to post it for Smaugust because it seemed fitting. This critter was made with the help of Lediblock2 , who had brought up the weird mammal/reptile rat lizard things that were supposed to be dragons in medieval paintings. Honestly they look more like the kind of beast that would raid a trashcan instead of a castle, and that was the concept they brought up. It was a fun idea to play with, and it resulted in this wonderfully gross little furball. They stink and eat garbage, but they are actual pretty nice creatures once you get to know them!

[meikos-realm]

Six Moons (CH.1)

Lunar awakens rather startled, a horrific nightmare plaguing her once again.

“Fucking…” Wiping her eyes from the tears as she rolls off the sofa to start her day. She heads to the kitchen, eyes lingering on the knife block for a little longer than they should before making her morning tea and breakfast.

“It’s been 5 years. Why are you fuckers still in my head!” Slamming the counter in anger before recomposing herself and taking a few deep breaths. She heads to her bedroom, turning the radio on as she passes it. A little background noise to break the deathly silence. Lunar gets changed for school before heading back to the kitchen to actually have breakfast. “Bastards” Muttering through gritted teeth. “I know I’m going to hell, but at least I took you fuckers with me.” She stops herself again, taking a few deep breaths before grabbing her bag, mask, and helmet. The cool air is apparent as her visor almost immediately mists up as she closes the door. “Great. Can this morning get any bloody better.” Today was definitely not a good day for Lunar. Her usual quiet and calm demeanour replaced with a rather vicious amount of spite and anger. Wiping her visor she starts her motorbike and enjoys the gentle hum of the engine ticking over before setting off, taking a bit of a longer route to school just to enjoy the ride.

Ahead on the road she sees a very vibrant yellow beetle that can only belong to one person, Six. Wanting to have a bit of fun with her friend she pulls up behind Six’s car and revs her engine really loudly before popping a wheelie and riding past, engine still revving loudly. Hearing the car horn go behind her gave her a small smile as she pulled into the parking lot, shutting down her bike and waiting for the yellow beetle to peel in. It pulls up along side as Six steps out.

“You cheeky little bitch!” Jokingly thumps her arm still chuckling. “But in all seriousness, getting rev bombed is better than any cup of coffee” Six grinning like a cherisher cat at Lunar.

“Thought you’d appreciate the little shock to the system” Her voice seeming up beat but still obviously down trodden. Popping her visor open, the dark bags under her eyes very apparent. Six’s expression changes to one of concern, stepping closer to her. “Nightmares again?” Lunar only nods in response, hanging her head a little. “Hey, it’s fine, I did stop by the shop on the way here so here, have this.” Hands Lunar a drink with a reassuring smile, Six’s unusual teeth a little visible. “I’ll meet you up on the roof. I know you wanna get your mask on.” She heads off after patting Lunar on the back reassuringly.

Heading into the school building, Lunar darts for a bathroom allowing her to swap out to her mask before depositing her helmet in her locker and heading to the roof. Whilst on her way to the roof one of the known bullies shoves her into a wall causing a yelp from her whilst deep in thought .

“Well well well, if it isn’t our favorite little psycho.” Lunar tries to hurry to the roof to get away from them but is quickly grabbed by the bully, pinned against a wall in the corner. “Oi! I was talking to you!” He barks in her face, the mask hiding her terrified expression. “Tch, disrespecting me. I should break that stupid fucking mask of yours.” He speaks while raising a fist. ”LUNAR! DUCK!” She does as she is told rapidly hitting the floor as someone slams the bully on the top of his head with a chair, before getting barged away. Keeping her eyes slammed shut, and arms protecting her head, a familiar touch gently rests on the back of her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here before the teachers show up” Helping Lunar back to her feet, Six leads her to the roof and their usual little spot overlooking the sunrise.

“You alright?” Lunar nods taking a minute before replying.

“Yea, just shaken…and my shoulder hurts. Shoved me in a corner again.” Her voice still wavering a little, adrenalin still coursing through her veins.

Six pulls her close rubbing her arm to try and help her calm down somewhat. “I am still sticking what I said that night. Whenever I’m around no one is hurting you again. Ever.”

--- 5 Years Earlier ---

“Just sit here, and we will have someone here for you shortly.” An officer tries to offer a gentle tone to the blood-soaked girl, shaking and still clearly terrified. He walks back to the people at the desk asking them to keep an eye on her.

Across another kid, wearing a yellow raincoat is sat swinging their legs watching the newcomer with curiosity. She hops out her chair and sits on the bench next to the bloodied individual. “What happened to you? You look like you have been through hell and back.”

The kid looks up at her, eyes almost nothing but tears, her now stitched slash on her face still very apparent. She just stares at Six for a few moment before looking back down at her hands, dried blood clinging to every nook and cavity in her skin. The weight of the crimes she had committed still fresh in her mind. Six just watched her for a while before noticing the shaking and tears dripping from her face. As if the kid was a sibling she pulled her into a hug and just started soothing her the best she could. It took a long while but she eventually fell asleep on Six, probably the safest sleep they have had in a while.

The lady at the front desk noticed this and went over to see what was up. “Everything okay?” Six nods looking at the now sleeping Lunar, still occasionally shaking. “What…happened to her? She looks like she was in a warzone” The lady rubbed the back of her own head before speaking. “Her parents tried to kill her, and killed her brother. She…shot them both dead” Six’s eyes opened wide in shock before looking back down at Lunar. “She must have been so scared…” The lady stood back up, heading off and bringing a couple of drinks and a snack for them each before heading back to the desk.

A few hours had passed when Six’s parents had arrived to pick her up. “Come on, let’s head home.” Six didn’t move, keeping Lunar’s head on her lap and still idly stroking her head. “I don’t want to…she needs someone to keep her safe” They keep going back and forth for a while before one of the officers pull Six’s parents to one side explaining what happened to Lunar. ”Ma, Is it alright if I stay with her until she is okay… I don’t want anyone to hurt her whilst I’m here…” A sense of duty and determination in Six’s voice as she speaks softly to not disturb Lunar. Her parents relented, and the pair spent a night in one of the cells, door left open so that they can roam freely.

During the night Lunar had managed to cuddle into Six, waking her up but giving her a small smile before settling back down.

“As long as I am here, No one will hurt you again.”

--- Present Day --- Lunar smiles having flipped her mask up to drink, leaning against Six quietly. “It seems you have kept that promise…And I’m glad you did.” She checks her phone, making note of the date, a bigger smile creeping up on her face, noticed by Six. ”What’s got you all happy all of a sudden?” Curiosity killing the cat as she looks at Lunar’s expression.

“Just…a plan sort of falling into place in my head.” Looks up at Six, the smile still there.

“Well whatever it is, I hope it works. Especially if it’s keeping you this happy.” The pair go back to watching the sunrise and drinking what remains of their cans before heading to class.

--- End of the day ---

Lunar sits waiting outside the detention hall playing a game on her phone, waiting for Six to get out. As she finishes another round a notification pops up.

[Feb 14, Valentines Day, 1 Reminder Set]

The smile she had earlier re-appears bigger than before. Staring at the phone screen as if in her own little world until a gentle thump noise from her mask being flicked shakes her out of it. ”Earth to the moon, we okay Houston?” Six chuckles at the bad joke she cracked before helping Lunar up onto her feet again. “Sorry about the wait, apparently one of your bullies squealed like a piggy.”

Lunar laughs at the pretty bang on description of her bullies before replying. “Heh, its okay. Just my plan came back into my head.” They start heading toward one of the bathrooms so Lunar can swap back to her helmet. ”Still not telling eh? Must be pretty big if you won’t even tell me about it.” Lunar nods in response. “Okay now I am really damn curious.” Lunar giggles at her before booping her nose and zipping into the bathroom, leaving the startled and confused Six in the hall. She pulls her hood up hiding her blush as she leans against the wall softly feeling the letter in her pocket and letting out a long drawn out sigh. Her own cowardice annoying her at the moment.

“Ready to go Six?” The chirpy voice spooking Six out of her thoughts. “Hehe, now who’s day dreaming.” ”Yea yea, come on. I’ll race you back to the village!” Trying to hide her annoyance in confidence and competitiveness.

“Oh you are gonna so lose. 3, 2, 1, GO!” They both bolt to their vehicles, Lunar being the first to get her engine started but almost stalling as Six gets her engine started and peels off, tyres smoking. Lunar rapidly catches up with her and rev bombs Six on her way past before the pair get stopped at some traffic lights. Fingers on the trigger waiting for the lights to go green. The minutes feeling like eternity as Lunar takes off immediately as they go green, causing a wheelie in the process. Six hot on her tail as they race towards the village sign, neck and neck passing almost at the same time and stopping at the burger van just on the outskirts. ”Who Won?” Six steps out laughing still unsure. Lunar can only shrug as she doesn’t know either. Six goes ahead and orders their usual Friday after school grub as Lunar changes to her mask in a secluded part of the car park before rejoining Six. ”I think you may have won by a headlight Six.” She says walking to the benches and plonking herself down opposite Six.

“Nah, I think you won by a mud guard.” Pushing a portion of chips over to Lunar as she tucks into her own. ”Draw? Again?” The pair go quiet for a moment before letting out a few laughs and digging in to their Burgers and chips.

They sit chatting as the sunsets, deciding to head out as it gets a bit chilly. “Hey Six... You busy tomorrow?” ”I don’t think so, why?”

“Want to come over and chill for the day?” Lunar hoping quietly she accepts, the final piece of her plan falling into place.

“Sure! Only if I get to finally beat your ass at XGIII. I’ve been practicing.” Six again using bravado to hide her nervousness, but in the back of her mind thinking this might be her chance. ”Sweet! Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then toothy.” Lunar smirks under her mask at the little jab. ”Watch it big ears. Hehehe” The pair share a hug before setting off home. To them both, tomorrow was a big day should all things go to plan.

------------------------------------------------

based off of the LN School AU by @becauseimgabbeh-blog

[foulserpent]

OKAY HERES A SHORT STORY. pre oblivion crisis. shap-mota and ned’s first night in the arena as prisoners, about to be forced into fights to the death the next day, not even knowing each others names. what personal hells will they go through

(warning for mentions of parental death, and implied/mentioned sex, though this is not a sexy story this is about existential fear)

Shap-Mota lay back, closing his eyes in contentedness as the bosmer dropped to his chest with a breathless laugh. For a minute they laid there in silence, sweat cooling as their respective waves washed over them. It was not too long before the smaller man regained the tension in his muscles, blinking against the scaled chest. He was clearly ready to get up. The argonian dimly wished he wouldn’t.

“I should probably clean up.” The man finally murmured as he rolled off the argonian and deeper into the shadows.

Shap-Mota grunted in acknowledgement, still feeling far too warm and lazy to open his eyes. He half-listened to the rustling of clothes as the bosmer toweled off, lost in his own thoughts. The cold had set its claws into his body the absence of the warm little mammal. With a sigh, he eased himself up into a sitting position. His trousers were still dangling precariously off one ankle, and he awkwardly returned them to their intended place.

They had sequestered themselves into a little niche in the bloodworks of the Imperial City arena. There wasn’t too much blood on the walls here, though there was an odd stain on the ceiling that Shap had grown familiar with in the past half hour. Not nearly as private as he would have liked, but what else was there to do? He supposed it was better than the city prison proper. There, he had been confined to one tiny cell most of the time, barely able to move. Here, he had the run of the arena complex. The fringe benefits of being made “pit dog.”

He really never expected to be here. His disagreement with imperial law rarely came to disobedience, he had far too much to live for than to risk anything like this happening. He wasn’t even sure what he had been accused of, or why they had to hit him so hard when they arrested him. And yet here he was, in the belly of the white marble city. Prisoner, then made to be a gladiator. Having spent his probable last night alive making love in a blood-stinking pit with a man he had met that day.

Last night alive… Shap’s tail twitched as the fear finally cut through the haze yet again. This was it, wasn’t it?

The bosmer’s reflective eyes were the first things to reappear out of the darkness. His small frame gradually faded into a sliver of moonlight, wearing substantially more clothing than when he had last seen him and holding a ratty blanket and a straw pillow. Shap blinked expectantly. He blinked back, the cut across his face twisting as he grimaced.

“Mind if I sleep here? You don’t really look like you want to get up”. The bosmer finally spoke.

Shap blinked with laborious slowness.

“By all means”.

The small man didn’t move, eyes wide. He continued standing there like an idiot, moonlight setting his velvet covered horns aglow.

“Could we, uh. Cuddle.” He finally sputtered out, entirely drained of any semblance of poise.

Shap-Mota huffed quietly, and lay down and opened his arms in invitation.

The smaller man tentatively sat down next to Shap, with a hesitancy that had been notably absent up until this point. He seemed to be experiencing the same terrible clarity as his lover. Shap gave another huff, gently pulling the other man down to his chest.

They settled in, clumsily moving around each other until they found a comfortable resting position. The bosmer was rather small, but seemed to melt in Shap’s arms. A brief moment of relief washed over Shap-Mota; the man’s warmth felt like basking in the sun on a summer day. 

“Thank you” he said sheepishly, taking care to avoid grazing the small man’s head with his spiked chin. “I.. I don’t expect I’ll survive my match. I don’t think they put me against another prisoner, even. He’s built like an actual bull. Same weight class, but certainly stronger” he poked at his soft belly for emphasis. “It’s nice to have one last hurrah before my inevitable demise”.

The bosmer laughed hollowly into Shap-Mota’s chest. Then coughed.

“Unarmed match, right?”

“Yes”

“Well you have those.. those claws and horns and scales to your advantage, what does he have?”

“About fifty pounds of pure muscle on me.”

Perhaps riding some high, the bosmer began clumsily stroking the soft scales under Shap’s chin with the back of his fingers. Shap-Mota let out a soft hiss, baring more of his neck in invitation of the touch.

“If you make it through, we can work on training together. Level the playing field a bit.”

“You are definitely out of my weight class” Shap-Mota sighed.

“Mmmh, better than nothing.” Ned trailed a finger along the edges of one of his gills. “You know, I believe you about being framed. No way in hell a guy like you would be in here otherwise. Shouldn’t be here either, but at east I actually stole.” he mumbled. His ears had started to twitch in agitation

Getting no response, he continued to ramble. “This is so fucked, you- I... This is a fucking death sentence for- for stealing some shit. This isn’t.. You shouldn’t.” He tried to continue, but the words choked themselves out.

That’s right, Shap thought. I am going to die tomorrow.

They both were silent yet again, though the bosmer now inhaled deeply in the manner of someone fighting to control their breathing and losing. Shap closed his eyes and repeated a mantra in his head.

Death and birth are the same moment. When we die, we go to the hist and are reborn. It is not so bad.

The words he soothed himself with were much the same that he had said to a hatchling, not too long ago. At the time he had been gripped by an indescribable pain, but now he wished nothing more than to be back there again. Anywhere but here.

“It is not so bad”.

Four years old, still struggling to transition to two-leggedness, she had slithered in beside him.

“Why are you putting leaves on her?” She had asked.

Shap-Mota lay the last of the palm fronds over the body that had been one of his egg-mothers.

“She’s returned to the hist. This is just her body.” He said. “Covering it is just a way to say goodbye before we let the marsh take it back.”

“Okay.” She said, distracted. She darted forward on all fours and pulled one of the leaves aside before Shap-Mota could protest. A limp hand curled in on itself like a dead beetle. She took its scent, wide-eyed. “Weird”.

Shap-Mota rumbled in gentle chastisement as he scooped her up, setting her back down away from the body. Though he supposed there was no harm in the chick seeing it.

“There’s nothing strange about it. We all return to the hist, and we’re all reborn. It’s not so bad.”

He got no response. She had become more interested in a grub that had fallen from the fronds, scenting it as her little brain turned over the question of if it would be good to eat.

Shap rumbled contemplatively. More to himself than the already distracted chick, he mumbled. “It still is a little scary, isn’t it?”

Death and birth are the same moment. Why was he so afraid?

He tried to cling on to the scene, to the warm air and earthy smell of his village in the marsh. His family, all his brothers and sisters. His pet frogs that were the voice for his vossa-satl, confiscated during his arrest- oh by Sithis he hoped some well meaning guard took mercy and released them in one of the Imperial City’s hanging gardens, the beautiful ones with running water. He tried to think of his family again, but his mind raced on without mercy.

I am going to die tomorrow.

He pulled the bosmer in closer, and he returned the gesture. Still awake it seemed. He doubted either of them would get much sleep that night.

“I.. think I may have misheard your name. What is it?” Shap-Mota asked.

The man was silent for a moment.

“Uh you… probably heard it right. It’s, um, Nasty Ned”

“Ah.”

“You can just call me Ned if you’d like.” He quickly added. Shap nodded.

“Shap-Mo.. Moda, was it?”

“Mota”

“Right.” Ned said. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then instead buried his face into the soft scales of his companion’s neck. The embrace tightened again.

They each would be pulled out of their warm niche in the morning, cleaned up. Put into leather armor, studded for show and almost useless in function. Then each put into the pit one at a time to face their respective sentences. A death match that the prisoners, both injured, seemed unlikely to survive. The strangers held each other closely, wide awake and silent. There was nothing more to say.

[som3thingcr3ative]

By Her Blood 4

Wow! I’m alive under these piles of school work! Here’s a present for those who have been patiently waiting for more of these two :)

Synopsis: You’re not allowed to stay in a bubble with Ivar forever, so now it’s time for work. Thankfully your not-so-new abilities can help out. 

warnings for this chapter: anything that applies with Vikings applies here. 

Last time: “I get that.” You say eventually. “But it doesn’t change what happened. I can’t forget so easily.” Her face falls, a tear slipping down her cheek. Your father moves to comfort her, the armor forgotten. “We can start with you accepting that Ivar is part of my life now. We can move on, make things better from here on out.”

Your mom nods. She looks at Ivar, at the defined muscles of his chest and arms, the intimidating span of his shoulders. “You’ll protect my little girl?” She asks. Before you can protest that you’re not her little anything any more, Ivar nods. “With my life.” He vows. 

You’ll come to wish he’d never said that.

You should’ve known things wouldn’t be that easy for long. That same day, less than 24 hours after Ivar re-corporated, your parents have work. 

That means that you’re expected to be at the scene. 

Ivar refuses to leave your side, so he’s standing beside you, leaning on the crutch you’d bought at Goodwill just an hour ago, glaring wordlessly as the archaeologists dig. “What are they looking for?” He asks you, squinting against the light. You can just see your mother’s head over the lip of the ditch as she works, your father somewhere out of sight nearby. 

“Any relics from the past,” you answer, glancing over at the sleepy, bleary-eyed group of teenagers who’d just come onto the site with their parents. “Anything that’s in good shape is a bonus.”

“They’re looking in the wrong spot then.” Ivar grudgingly admits. He slides his eyes to the right, toward the base of a sloping hill. There’s a small stone ruin atop it, crumbling from hundreds of years of brutal weather. 

Laney is the first to spot you. Her gaze darts to Ivar, to the sweatpants that hide his leg braces, the dark t-shirt stretched over his chest and arms. His hair is still braided, but he looks vastly different than he had the night before. Not different enough, though. Her mouth drops open and she smacks the shoulder of the guy next to her- Lee turns on her, about to yell at her for hitting him when he sees you.

“Can I tell them?” You ask, knowing that it may be a sensitive topic for him. As it is, you don’t know that you’d be comfortable with someone poking around your burial site, or even somewhere you’d buried anything. 

His shoulders tense as he catches sight of the group of teens watching you. They’re whispering to each other and staring quite obviously, probably gossiping. “Let’s go over there.” He offers, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “I want to see how much it’s changed.”

The two of you walk over, your fingers drifting through the tall grasses of the field, his shoulder brushing yours with every other step. Thankfully your ex-friends don’t follow you. For a moment there’s nothing but the quiet brush of the tall grasses, the sigh of the wind until Ivar stops, looking around. 

“Here.” He says, lowering himself to the ground at the base of the hill. The grass here is shorter but darker, nutrient-rich. You pick a few blades idly, twisting them in your palm. “I want you to try something.”

Ivar holds out his hands, palm-up. You place yours over his, fingers against his wrist. “Now what?” 

“Close your eyes and call to the spirits.” As your eyes close, you can feel the warmth of him against your hands. The spirits surround you almost before you call, their voices louder and more demanding than usual. Just inside of the ring they make around you, Ivar’s spirit pulses with power and golden light, washing over you in waves. The warmth from his power makes your blood rush in your veins, thrumming through your body like an electric current. “Focus,” he calls to you, his voice distant. “Now go past the spirits, call to your blood, feel the earth beneath you.”

At first there’s nothing. How do you call to something you’d never given much thought to before? Ivar’s grip tightens on your hands, the squeeze close to painful as he centers you. “I don’t know how.” 

“Yes you do. Focus on the wind, on the solid ground beneath you. Feel the blades of grass, hear the insects. Open your mind and take it all in.”

You take a deep breath of the mountain air, letting your lungs open and your back stretch. Something nags on the edge of your senses, a little hint of untapped power. Another deep breath, an answering grip on Ivar’s hands and you reach out, consciousness going past the spirits to a deeper connection. 

All at once your senses are flooded with too much information. You can feel the pounding of your heart, the trace of your blood through your veins, the pulse of your muscles as they keep you upright. Beyond you, the earth hums with life; worms and grubs and tiny beetles in the soil, mice flitting through the tall grasses, ants gathering food and tending to their young, the slither of a snake tracking prey. The air is full of twisting currents and birds soaring high, refusing to be limited to the ground. It whips and whirls and twists, singing through your hearing and raising the hair on your arms. 

“Call to the earth,” Ivar says, his voice so distant it’s like a faded memory in the vivid new world you’ve discovered. “Feel what’s beneath you. Bring it to you, slowly.”

With a frown, you concentrate your energy on his words, searching down, down, down through new soil and ancient, past rocks and bones until you find what he was talking about. 

The Viking burial mound is vast and deep, buried so long that the earth has grown around it, accepting it into the embrace of decay. You cannot possibly bring everything up to you at once. There’s a skeleton lying near the top, a shield maiden whose sword was ritually killed when she was buried, her shield and the trinkets she was interred with still mostly intact. Your energy focuses on her, maneuvering her through the soil, drawing her towards you. 

Brunnhilde, the spirits murmur. You see flashes of a vibrant blonde, her long hair braided back, her clothes always suited for battle. She has stocky features, her shoulders broad and her arms toned, her hands calloused. Her death was honorable. The valkyries called to her and she went as a warrior should, sending her killer to meet his god.

Her sword breaches the ground first, bent metal shedding dirt as it lays at your feet. Next comes her shield, then the crown of her skull. Ivar is silent as her skeleton pieces itself together, lying the same way she was buried with her hands on the rusted handle of her sword, her shield over her legs. The trinkets rise faster, shooting out of the ground with little pops, tumbling through the air and falling beside her. 

Your eyes open to see the skeleton before you, the rush of power still in your body screaming that you can do more. Ivar’s brilliant blue eyes are on you, watching every little nuance in your expression. “Amazing.” he whispers. 

“I did that?”

“Yes.”

A giddy feeling steals over your body, raising the hairs on your arms. “I can summon skeletons,” you whisper, staring at the bones before you. The sword is completely rusted, the metal almost unrecognizable past the decay and oxidation, the leather of the hilt long gone, but it’s still beautiful. Her shield is petrified, the metal around the edge in a similar state to the sword, but you can remember the color is used to be; blue and white, streaked with blood. The memory isn’t yours; it belongs to Brunnhilde, a vision of the shield resting against the pole of her tent after a skirmish. Your eyes meet Ivar’s. “Can I tell my parents?”

His brows furrow. “Will they disturb the land?”

“I won’t let them. I can bring everything to the surface- or hide whatever you want me to.”

“Hide,” he murmurs, eyes losing focus. For a minute you just watch the subtle play of his thoughts across his features before he snaps back to himself, blue eyes vividly bright. “There is something I would ask of you.” He says, pushing himself to his feet with the crutch. You don’t help him; you know it would be an insult unless he asks for help. “Up there,” a nod toward the crumbling stone dwelling. 

You follow him up the hill and into the ring of stone that marks the foundation of the building. He sits down on one of the fallen stone bricks, making himself comfortable. “What am I looking for?” You ask him, settling on the ground with you palms against the soil. Now that you’ve reached out to nature around you, the persistent hum of life remains on the outside of your senses. 

“You’ll know when you feel it.” He replies.

With a sigh, you close your eyes and reach out, diving deep into the soil. Just like before, the life in the uppermost layers surprises you, but you move past it much easier than you did the first time. As you breach the lower layers, getting close to the level of the burial mound, something catches your attention: Saxon bones litter the ground, becoming more and more frequent until entire skeletons show themselves, each full body on its knees, bent forward over itself, bowing. Some have their heads cleaved from their spines, others have broken ribs. All of them carry an attached soul, bound to the bones and screaming for release. 

Their voices rise around you, calling and begging to be free. The Viking, they scream. He did this. He killed us. Their memories follow quickly: a barn with darkness all around. Six Saxon soldiers sit around a fire in the center of the barn’s floor, slaughtered animals around them. Three viking women and a child are bound hand and foot nearby, their eyes terrified, the youngest of the women naked with blood coating her thighs. The soldiers jump as something rustles in the darkness just outside the ring of light from their fire. They laugh as Ivar crawls toward them, twin axes on his hips, blades strapped to his arms and chest. His eyes scream murder, his lips set in a determined line. He doesn’t falter as he approaches the soldiers, doesn’t even flinch before he takes an ax from his belt and throws it at the nearest of the soldiers. 

The soldier dies before he knows what happened, his chest split open. Ivar kills the other five in quick succession, freeing the women and child who’d been abducted from the camp. 

You feel no pity for the soldiers; they’d kidnapped and tortured innocent women- wives of the raiding party, had nearly killed the young child. Being bound to their bones was the least of what they deserved- and you quickly realize it wasn’t all they got. Their bodies form a circle, all bowing to something in the center of their ring; a hollow rod of silver, enclosed at both ends, barely the length of your pinkie finger. The vial is as perfectly smooth and blemish-free as the day it was crafted, you realize, the energy radiating from it the same as the energy barely two feet from you. 

“Ivar,” You say, your eyes still closed. “What is it?”

His crutch shifts against the stone. A pebble falls somewhere on the outside of the ruin, clacking against stone as it tumbles toward the hill. “The last of my ashes.”

The vial comes easily toward you, parting the ground before it in a perfect circle. Magic. Magic has been keeping it in perfect condition, preserving the curse Ivar put on the saxons so long ago. So long as his ashes were in the earth, the saxons would be hard-pressed to live peacefully. With the last of the true saxons long dead, Ivar had no reason to maintain the curse. 

“What do you want with it?” You ask, finally opening your eyes once the vial has cleared the last layers of the earth and is safely in Ivar’s hand. He stares curiously at it, turning it over and over. 

“It’s a reminder.” He says. “A reminder that I’m mortal.”

“Is it still cursed?”

He laughs. “Yes, dove, the curse remains, but it is of no consequence to either of us.” You watch as he places the chain over his head, as the vial settles against his chest. The silver gleams in the light, the aura of the ashes mixing with Ivar’s aura; the same, but also different. “You can tell your parents about the burial ground- but they must respect the Viking dead; you have to be the one to remove them from their rest.”

“Deal.” You say, standing up and brushing off your legs. “Let’s go blow their minds!”

“Ivar?” you ask, a minute later as the two of you walk back to the dig site. “Modern medicine...well, it has therapies for people with osteogenesis imperfecta- they could help you. I completely understand if you don’t want to, but there’s no shame in it. They could at least help with the pain.”

He glances over at you, half-smiling. “I was wondering when you were going to bring that up. I’ve seen all of their advances, remember?”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay, dove.” He says. “I never had true hope of a cure when I was living before. I gave up on it after a while, and when I died, I didn’t feel the pain anymore. Now that I feel it again…” He sighs, glancing at his legs. “If it will make you happy, I’ll look into it.”

You twine your fingers with his, bumping playfully into his shoulder. “You don’t like doctors, do you?”

A laugh. “No, love. No, I don’t.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain, that’s all.”

He glances askance at you, eyes glittering oddly. “They don’t bother you?”

You yank him to a sudden stop. “Nothing about you bothers me, Ivar. I love your legs just as much as the rest of you- but they hurt you, and I hate that you have to live in constant pain. You don’t have to, that’s all I’m saying. I want this for you, but only if you want it too.”

He smiles at you, tugging you against his chest. For a second he just watches you, his eyes lingering on yours. Then he pulls you in, kissing you fiercely, his arm slipping around your waist. “I love you.” He murmurs against your lips, wisps of his hair tickling your cheeks. You hum, pressed against the firm lines of his chest, eyes still closed. Ivar kisses you again, just the soft pressure of his lips against yours. Your chest fills with warmth, stomach flipping, heart racing. 

“I love you too.” You tell him, finally opening your eyes. He’s so close you can see the tiny patterns in his irises. 

“I’ll see a doctor only if you go with me.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Okay.” He says, taking a deep breath. “Now let’s go tell your parents.”

Tagging (open): @tis-itheapplepie @pixievampira @demonhunter1616 @hexqueensupreme @thorins-queen-of-erebor @grippleback-galaxy​ @readsalot73​ @glassythoughts @youbloodymadgenius

[welcometothepenumbra]

SECOND CITADEL – THE MOONLIT HERMIT (PART ONE)

SOUND: RAIN. TRAIN ARRIVES, CREAKS TO A STOP. DOOR CLANKS OPEN.

CONDUCTOR: Ah, good evening, Traveler. And welcome… to The Penumbra.

SOUND: DOOR CLANKS SHUT.

Take your seat, please, take your seat.

MUSIC: STARTS.

The junction lies ahead, so if you’ll allow me just a moment.

SOUND: TRAIN WHISTLE.

We are now passing through the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms.

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING.

Our next stop?

SOUND: TRAIN BRAKES.

The Moonlit Hermit.

SOUND: DOOR CLANKS OPEN, RAIN.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: MECHANICAL CLICKS, WHIRRING, CLICK. LIKE A JUKEBOX CHANGING TRACKS.

RILLA: (GROGGY GASPS) Ugh, my head…

SOUND: LEAVES RUSTLING.

Saints, it’s dark in here. Where… where am I?

(CALLING) Hello?

ARUM: Good morning, little human.

RILLA: (GASPS)

ARUM: Did you sleep well?

SOUND: LEAVES RUSTLING.

RILLA: Who is that? Where are you?

ARUM: Of course. I forgot you creatures had such limited vision.

Keep. The bioluminescents, if you would.

SOUND: SNAP. ELECTRIC HUM.

RILLA: (GASPS)

ARUM: There. Is that better?

RILLA: I… I don’t know why you brought me here, monster, but I’m not—

ARUM: Then it might be wisest to stay silent. Listen:

SOUND: MECHANICAL REVVING UP, GEARS SPINNING. RECORDER PLAYS.

RILLA (FROM RECORDER): Looks like… an insect larva, but, not one I’ve ever seen before. Pure white, no eyes, a weird warmth emanating from it… and that sound. Like a heartbeat… like the Numbcap.

I took the specimens I could and I killed the rest, but… what even is it?

SOUND: RECORDER CLICKS OFF.

RILLA: My– recorder… where did you—

ARUM: I’m going to be direct, because I don’t have time for anything else. I brought you here because I wasn’t sure how much you knew about my grubs, and I couldn’t have you telling your soft-minded friends about them. I now know that you know nothing, and so this entire exercise has been a waste of my time, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: So… what? I get to go home now?

ARUM: Of course. I’ll just give you your recorder and you’ll be on your merry way. As soon as you do something for me.

RILLA: As soon as I what?

ARUM: There’s no need to sound so surprised. Barter is as old as language – it exists for monsters and humans and everything in between. I give you freedom; you perform a service for me.

RILLA: That’s not a trade! You kidnapped me!

ARUM: I could kill you, instead.

RILLA: You wouldn’t.

ARUM: (CHUCKLES) Keep. Lights out.

SOUND: ELECTRIC HUM STOPS. LEAVES RUSTLING.

RILLA: (GASPS) Turn the lights back on, or I’ll—

ARUM: (HISSES)

SOUND: SLITHERING.

RILLA: Ah!

ARUM: (LAUGHS) This contraption is not the only one of your records I’ve examined. You have a knowledge of plants. How to care for them, treat them, use them. And as it happens I have a sudden need of someone who understands the workings of flora.

RILLA: You want me… to work for you?

ARUM: The diagrams I found hidden beneath your floorboards suggest you’d take great interest in my craft. Vivisections of monstrous life, incomplete formulae on magic spells, theoretical diagrams of creatures unseen… you desire to know the universe as it is, and not as it is told to you. And if you cure my patient, you will be allowed one long, lingering look into that grand infinitude you wish to know.

RILLA: Patient? Who would—

ARUM: Tktktktktktktktk!

RILLA: (HEAVY BREATHING)

ARUM: Or I can kill you right now. In the dark. And you will never know the wonders you could have witnessed, tktktktk.

So? Which will it—

RILLA: The first one.

ARUM: That was… very fast. Are you certain—

RILLA: Is there a plus side to the dying one that I’m missing? ‘Cause, if not, I’m good.

ARUM: (GROWLS) Keep! Retract the walls!

MUSIC: SINGING STARTS.

SOUND: DEEP RUMBLING, CREAKING.

RILLA: Where are you taking me?

ARUM: Nowhere. We’ve been here all along.

RILLA: …Whoa. What is… all this life, all these plant species… I’ve never seen…!

MUSIC: SINGING ENDS.

SOUND: RUMBLING STOPS. JUNGLE AMBIANCE FADES IN.

Those trees over there; those are Everdeads, aren’t they? But they’re only native to—

ARUM: The Western Wastes, yes.

RILLA: And that’s a thatch of Inky Clover! And that’s Dayshade… and… and… there are specimens here I didn’t believe were real. How did you—

ARUM: Welcome to my Keep, little human – the castle from which I rule this swamp, the font from which every Titan’s Bloom springs. It is your patient.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE [FROM THE START OF THE EPISODE].

SOUND: SWAMP AMBIANCE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Research log. Entry… I guess it doesn’t matter. This is… probably going to be the last one I ever make, anyway.

MUSIC: STARTS.

For whoever finds this, my name is Amaryllis of Exile. My home is the Second Citadel. And… please. I need you to get this recording there as fast as you can. I don’t understand it all, but, I hope that this will help them prepare for what’s coming.

SOUND: HAMMERING.

Because the things I’ve seen out here? The things I’ve been told…

SOUND: SPLASH.

(GASPS) It’s out there again. Saints, just keep it away a little longer… I don’t have much time. I was escaping, trying to get out of this swamp, but my ankle… I think I broke it. And now that thing is after me, that… I don’t even know what to call it. Like a monster. No, worse – because I made it.

I probably don’t have enough time to retell the whole story, so I’m going to piece together the recordings of what happened in the living Keep. You should hear it for yourself, anyway. So. This is my final research log. And my final subject: the lizard-creature that calls himself:

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MUSIC CUTS OFF.

ARUM: Lord Arum, he who rules the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms. And you, of course, are Amaryllis.

RILLA: How did you—

SOUND: CLICK. RECORDER PLAYS.

RILLA (FROM RECORDER): Is it… is it working? Saints, my recorder! It’s really working! (LAUGHS) Marc’s gonna miss this… I should wake him up. I should.

But first… (CLEARS THROAT) Research log, entry one. I am Ril– no, no, make it sound professional. I am Amaryllis of Exile, and I, along with Marc of the Craftsman’s Quarter, have just invented a consistent process by which sound… can be recorded. (LAUGHS)

SOUND: RECORDER CLICKS OFF.

ARUM: That’s how. I’ve only had time to listen to a few of your recordings, but I know enough.

RILLA: But… wait. You should have had plenty of time to listen through my recorder. It takes… nearly two weeks to get to the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms.

ARUM: It might take two weeks for you creatures. We arrived within two hours.

RILLA: Two hours? But, that’s impossible…

Ugh, just… hold on. This is a lot.

ARUM: I’ve told you I have no time for this. My Keep is sick. And if you ever want to return to Mack and the whole gang back in the Cartographers’ Quadrant, you will have to cure it. Preferably before it dies.

RILLA: Right. Oooookay.

So. How do you know it’s sick?

ARUM: The bond that passes between myself and this lifeform is more than your pitiful mind could ever comprehend, Amaryllis. I always know what it thinks. Always.

???: (SINGS)

ARUM: That doesn’t count. I still think you were lying.

RILLA: The plant-house can… sing? Saints, I get to examine the first plant lifeform that can sing!

And… you responded to it. It said something you could respond to, which means it thought of something to say, which means…

Saints, the plant can think.

ARUM: Not very well.

??? [KEEP]: (HAPPY SINGING)

ARUM: Can we move along now? I think you’ve inflated its ego enough for one day.

RILLA: It has an ego!

ARUM: Here.

RILLA: Here what? This is just a rock.

ARUM: This is the Keep’s sickness. You are going to cure it.

RILLA: You want me to cure… rocks?

ARUM: I want you to cure whatever this is, and quickly. You can come get me when you’ve solved the problem. Farewell.

SOUND: SLITHERING.

RILLA: But… wait, what? I’m not done asking you questions yet!

ARUM: Then ask them and be done with it. I have important business that needs attending to, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: Alright. When did this sickness start—

ARUM: Irrelevant. That will be all.

RILLA: I can’t figure out what’s wrong with this until I study it!

ARUM: So study it, then. I don’t see what that has to do with me.

RILLA: I need tools! Materials! I need scales, and measurements, and—

ARUM: Scales? Measurements? I don’t care how many pounds of cure you make; I just want a cure!

RILLA: You really don’t have anything like that around here?

ARUM: The forces I work with don’t need them. I understand your measurements well enough to know that I am past them. They are not what truly matters.

RILLA: But—

ARUM: That was your final question. You have the sickness in your hand. You have a greenhouse full of supplies. Anything else you need you will have to make.

RILLA: If you want a cure, Arum, I need to make a diagnosis. And if you want a diagnosis, I need my tools.

ARUM: And if you want your freedom, Amaryllis, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

Keep. See that her survival needs are met.

KEEP: (INQUISITIVE SINGING)

ARUM: Fine. You may allow her one cushion of her choosing. Just don’t let it distract you.

KEEP: (AFFIRMATIVE SINGING)

ARUM: I’ll check on you in the morning. You may ask a few more questions then.

RILLA: But Arum!

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

ARUM: Enough, you stubborn primate! Stay put, mind your work, and do not follow me!

SOUND: SLITHERING. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: (WHISPERING) Research log, entry four-two-two-seven. I followed the lizard to… whatever the hell this thing is.

ARUM: (DISTANT) Just a few more, Keep. We won’t be making many specimens today.

KEEP: (HAPPY SINGING)

RILLA: It seems like this is some sort of workstation for him, but… it’s alive. A closed flower bulb as big as my hut, and vines keep coming out of the walls and feeding it weird things. A basket of dead beetles, a pile of rocks, a gourd full of pulsating liquid…

No. No, it’s not eating. It looks like… a machine. Not like the devices Marc makes, with gears and springs, but… the lizard just… makes small gestures and the whole thing comes to life.

ARUM: Now, you recall the design we discussed this morning?

KEEP: (SINGS)

ARUM: Very good.

MUSIC: KEEP SINGING STARTS.

RILLA: I can’t see what’s happening. I’m going to try to get a closer look.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. GROWING, STRETCHING, RUMBLING.

ARUM: Excellent. Now let’s take a look at this one.

RILLA: There’s something moving in the bulb, but I can’t—

Saints above. This is going to sound nuts. Rilla, you are going to sound insane. Those things it ate… they’re moving. The stones are like legs, the dead beetles are all melted into one another, and… they’re alive. The lizard knows how to make life.

MUSIC: KEEP SINGING ENDS.

ARUM: Another failure. (GRUNTS)

SOUND: HIGH-PITCHED SCREECH-WAIL. CRUNCH.

Keep. Again.

KEEP: (TIRED SINGING)

ARUM: Of course I mean now. Act like your life depends on it, you ridiculous—

KEEP: (SINGS)

ARUM: The human? What about—

SOUND: SLITHERING.

You. What are you doing here?

RILLA: I… uh…

ARUM: Do we have to re-examine the terms of our deal, Amaryllis? A plant this large is always in need of fertilizer, tktktktktktk.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Observations on the subject, Lord Arum, native to the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms: easily annoyed, very picky about the details he cares about, completely dismissive of the details he doesn’t, selfish, haughty, and… unfortunately, extremely competent. I was never going to fight my way out of here like Damien, or talk my way out like Marc. And without tools, I was never going to cure his Keep’s sickness.

But I was the best researcher in the Citadel. I’d found a thousand cures before. Why not a cure for kidnapping?

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: Are you still there? Go.

RILLA: Yes, Lord Arum.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): After all, if this Keep held things like that, things that… could create life? Surely it had all I needed to trick a lizard into setting me free.

And if I gathered some data that might unlock new boundaries in future research along the way… I mean, that wouldn’t be a bad thing, right?

So, I pretended to work on his cure while I took inventory of what Arum had in his greenhouse. It should’ve taken one day. It took me eight. Because Arum’s organization system… or his lack of a system, or— (FRUSTRATED GASP) Listen. I’ve dealt with bad organizers before. Marc once told me, to my face, that he kept all his springs in the right-hand drawer because on the day he got them he was “feeling right.” But I could deal with that. Because, even if Marc was the only person who could decode his system, at least he had a code, and that meant some sense was being made somewhere for someone. But Arum? He had nothing. He had less than nothing. He had negative organization.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: If you need orchids, go find them.

RILLA: That’s not what I asked. I asked where they are.

ARUM: he orchids live where they like, obviously. Am I supposed to count and place every seed?

RILLA: Kind of, yeah! You really just… mix all the plants around? Even the weeds?

ARUM: Have you ever tried telling a weed it has to move? They can’t talk, you know.

RILLA: No, I don’t talk to it, I just kinda move it!

ARUM: And put up with all that whining? Ugh.

RILLA: They can’t talk, but they can whine? (SIGHS) I just… it would make me more effective if you knew where, generally, your specimens are.

ARUM: And all that effort for what?

RILLA: I don’t know, so you could find them more easily? All in one place, instead of spread out across the greenhouse?

ARUM: (AFTER A PAUSE) Ridiculous. We will never speak of this again.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: You want an inventory? As in a list, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: Yes, as in… (FRUSTRATED GRUNT) It doesn’t even have to be written down. I’ll take anything at this point.

ARUM: (STRAINED GRUNT) So you expect me to keep a list of all I’ve ever made? Those projects are— (STRAINED GRUNT) —all finished, whether successes or failures.

RILLA: Sure, but if you kept track of what made the successes work, you could keep having successes!

ARUM: (LAUGHS) Oh, so now you think you can predict the future, do you?

RILLA: No, obviously. But if we can figure out the rules that the future operates on, the mathematical and physical and chemical laws, then—

ARUM: Then you may be queen in your tiny sandbox of what’s understood, while I dance among the stars of the impossible. (SNORTS) Of course I know these mathematical laws. We invented them long before you. And then some of us, the ambitious ones, moved— (STRAINED GRUNT) —on. Because in order for something to be measurable, it must be small enough to measure, and some of us want more.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And he kept doing that, hand-waving at some huge “more” without ever explaining what he meant. I could see some of it in action, plants and animals and fungi that moved in ways that shouldn’t have been possible…

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: Do not be tempted to approach their fronds, even when they molt. When Serrated Palms feel threatened they become sharp enough to cut through solid rock.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: The name is a misnomer. It doesn’t walk so much as kick; the locomotion is an afterthought for the Walking Bonsai. Excellent reflexes, tktktktktktktktk.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: The Macrachnids may—

SOUND: ANIMAL SNORTING, CLICKING.

—look frightening, but they’re quite docile if fed appropriately – which is to say: not at all. No matter how much they beg. Don’t.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And that big plant that made life… that hermit? I had to know what that was. I had my theories and they were killing me, because… (SIGHS) We’ll get to that soon, I guess.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: (PANTING) Alright. Research log, entry four-two-four-one. I think I found some more of the illness on the Keep’s walls, right by the tops of these cacao trees. Taking samples now.

It’s hard, but brittle. Colors ranging from white to light gray; on the inside, there are striations that could be, uh… like the lines inside some… gems. Like… diamonds? Or… wow, I really don’t care about rocks.

But… hang on…

SOUND: SCRAPING.

These ones look almost like tree rings. Petrified wood, maybe? But… crustier, flakier, with this gummy white stuff on the inside, like, uh… bad skin.

This would be a lot easier if I ever listened when Angelo was talking. Rocks and skin care! This is maybe the only patient out there he’d have a better shot at curing than me.

SOUND: SLITHERING.

Hm? What’s that—

ARUM: Here at last, my little specimen!

RILLA: (YELPS)

ARUM: (HISSES) Amaryllis!

SOUND: BRANCHES SNAPPING, LEAVES RUSTLING.

RILLA: (PANTING) Uh… thanks.

ARUM: Don’t thank me. Apologize.

RILLA: Apologize?!

ARUM: Climbing trees when you should be working! Sitting on branches unannounced!

RILLA: I was working. I was just examining this… whatever this is.

ARUM: Oh. So you were.

Well, I doubt your efforts will be needed much longer. You see, I think I have found the path to the cure myself.

RILLA: You… really?

ARUM: Indeed. A great accomplishment, tktktktktktktktk.

Would you… like a demonstration, Amaryllis?

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Subject: Lord Arum. Input: the opportunity to show a successful creation. Observations: widening of the eyes. Shortened breath. Rapid flicks of the tongue, suggesting both increased temperature and… heightened pulse.

Then he seemed to notice it on himself, and the old Arum was back.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: A demonstration, strictly for your duties, of course. To help you… find the cure faster.

RILLA: Uhhh… sure, yeah. I’ll watch.

ARUM: Excellent.

Look closely. I am certain this is something you have never seen before.

RILLA: You don’t know—

SOUND: CLICKS, SQUEAKS, PAINED NOISES.

Saints… what is that thing? Did it come out from that… from that…

ARUM: The hermit, yes. (CHUCKLES) Observant, aren’t you.

RILLA: The thorax resembles a centipede’s, but the head – is that a crow’s beak?

ARUM: No. It is this creature’s beak. Currently.

RILLA: Rotating ball joints, connected to legs that end in… stone. It’s actually stone.

And, that noise… like it has lungs? Or a voicebox, but, I don’t see evidence of—

It’s in pain. Of course it’s in pain. At that size its exoskeleton is probably buckling, and with legs that heavy it can’t even stand!

What have you done to this thing?

ARUM: Created it.

RILLA: How?

ARUM: In no way it didn’t consent to.

RILLA: It can’t have given consent before it was alive!

ARUM: My, you humans do enjoy your ultimatums, don’t you?

RILLA: But—

ARUM: Its pain bothers you, does it? Would you like me to bring an end to it?

RILLA: Don’t kill it! It’s one of a kind!

ARUM: Hmmm. She would rather it suffer, so that she can study it. Well. The human continues to surprise, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: That isn’t what I meant.

ARUM: I wasn’t going to kill it anyway. But end its pain? That I can do. Now watch closely.

You. Subject. Look… here.

SOUND: CLICKS, SQUEAKS STOP.

That’s more like it.

You are called a Chiselpede. You have been created within the universe, wherein there is a place called the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, wherein there is a Lord called Arum. I am he. As my creation, and the creation of this swamp, you exist as a level among levels, and you will listen to the levels closest to you, and you will trust that they understand the larger picture better than yourself. That means you will ignore things outside your purview, such as physical laws, which are the business of the universe, and you will trust me to inform you what is possible and what is not. Is that understood?

Good. Now… rise.

SOUND: HAPPY CHIRPS.

RILLA: Wh… what?

ARUM: It is precisely as you see it, tktktktktktk.

RILLA: It shouldn’t be able to stand. It's physically impossible.

ARUM: And yet, it stands.

Here, Chiselpede. You see this sickness? This blight?

SOUND: CHIRPS.

I need samples of it. You are to gather them and bring them to the source from which you were born. Is that understood?

SOUND: CHIRPS.

Good.

Now, I think we’ve taken enough of this creature’s time. Off you go, now.

SOUND: CHIRPS.

RILLA: What was that?

ARUM: That is the nature of my work. The impossible. Phenomena which can be neither tamed nor explained.

RILLA: Magic.

ARUM: In a word, yes.

Those will be all of your questions for today. Farewell.

RILLA: But, wait! I just want to know how it works!

ARUM: (SNORTS) Well. How disappointing. I thought you might have learned something, for once.

RILLA: What’s that supposed to mean?

ARUM: Always looking for rules, formulae, guarantees… humans. Feh.

RILLA: Maybe I would’ve learned something if you actually explained it!

SOUND: SLITHERING.

Hey, come on! You’re gonna magically bring that thing to life and you aren’t even going to tell me how you—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): So. I’d gained three things from that meeting: a bigger sample of the disease, a sense of what Arum could do, and a deadline, that was closing in fast. Because if he’d only agreed to let me go if I cured the Keep… what were the odds I’d get to leave if he cured it? I tested my first formula an hour later.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Alright! Fake petrification cure, version one. A light acid found in the berries of the Dayshade; testing to see if it softens the stonelike exterior at all.

SOUND: LIQUID POURING, SIZZLES.

Ow! Ugh! …Ooooookay. That might be… a little too soft.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Version four. It’s been six hours of testing, so far. Suitably soft, but when squeezed…

SOUND: TOY SQUEAK.

Yeah, no, he’s not going to buy that.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Version six, twenty hours. Painted this one green.

SOUND: ROCKS CLINKING.

Yep. Thaaat’s a green rock.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Version eleven, twenty-six hour—

SOUND: EXPLOSION.

Ahhh!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And each morning Arum still came by and still expected me to have questions. In retrospect, he looked tired, too – but at the time, I was too distracted to tell.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: Here. Some tea from the Serrated Palm’s leaves, taken after group meditation. Don’t thank me; it’s solely to prove you wrong.

I hope you enjoy it.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: You wouldn’t believe the training regimen the Keep and I had to go through to tame the Walking Bonsais in the first place. It was worth it in the end – a great delight, to prune a plant that prunes back.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MACRACHNID CLICKS & SNORTS.

ARUM: Shh… shh… There, you see? Merely skittish, Macrachnids. They need only to know that you mean them no harm. But once you get them galloping, up walls, across the ceiling…

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Subject: Lord Arum. Input: several days spent together. Observations: the subject is self-involved, condescending, overly nostalgic, and, if his insistence on sharing his accolades with me is any indication, he is also extremely lonely. So lonely, in fact, that I doubt he even realizes it.

And none of that forgives him. It just… distracted me. Made my research that much harder. But every project has challenges, and I beat those.

Eventually.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Alright, okay, alright. (SIGHS) This is petrification Rilla, cure seven… teen…? Ughhh, Saints, I’m tired. Forty-two hours of this. Have to get out of here. Have to.

I think, I hope, that I’m onto something. The solution resembles a paste, and it’s easy enough to apply with the hands. Composed of two parts Greenstain Sap, one part Acidberry, trace elements from a few other specimens, and three parts aloe.

Burns like you wouldn’t believe. Doesn’t matter. Testing… now.

SOUND: DROP OF LIQUID. RUBBING, SQUEAKING.

It… doesn’t hurt. At least.

It’s… working. It works! I can go home! (LAUGHS) I really did it! It’s soft, and it’s green, and– so… are… my hands.

Ughhh, come on, Rilla! If the monster’s hands look like limes when he’s done he’s never going to buy it.

Okay. Just… one more. Just one more try, and then you can sleep. So get…

KEEP: (SINGING, DISTANT) Meet me by the river / Where the elderberries grow

RILLA: What the…?

KEEP: (SINGING) When stars are silver / No one has to know

RILLA: That’s… I know that song. But– how…

KEEP: (SINGING) Meet me by the river / By driftwood and stone

RILLA: (SIGHS, SNORING)

KEEP: (SINGING) I’ll float down with her / No one has to know

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): Damien always said that staying up all night working on my experiments was never going to do them any good. It never meant much coming from him – the knight famous for his five-night staring contest with a Blinking Gorgon wasn’t so generous with sleep for himself, either. So I knew when he said:

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

DAMIEN (FROM RECORDER): You’ll find the answer if you sleep, my love. In rest, the Saints move through us.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): …what he meant was, I’m worried about you. Take care of yourself. I love you.

But… that just made me want to listen even less. I don’t like being told what to do. Especially by a knight. Even if I said the same thing to him when he worked too hard. Damien…

Anyway… I say that only to make the point that that night, Damien was right. So. Tell him that for me. I guess.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: (SNORTS AWAKE) A– a handle. If it’s applied with a brush, he’ll never touch it! And he won’t know it’s just paint. (YAWNS) Saints, I hope the lizard has a coffee plant somewhere in here.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Research log, entry Rilla’s-goin’-home! I have the cure prepared, put together a nice container and brush to make it look official, and I am ready to hand this over to this monster and get out of here – just as soon as he wakes up.

ARUM: (SNORING)

RILLA: I found him like this a few minutes ago. Totally out cold. Would be a good time to gather some data on a deeply, magically complex sentient creature, but… I want to go home, and ending his little nappy sounds more satisfying.

Materials for this experiment: a big stick and a week’s worth of malice. Testing… now.

ARUM: (HISSES AWAKE)

RILLA: (SCREAMS)

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —and that is why you must never touch me while I am sleeping, tktktktktktktktk.

RILLA: Okay!

ARUM: And you! I told you not to sing… that!

KEEP: (DISAPPOINTED SINGING)

ARUM: I don’t care how tired I looked! You cannot just lullaby me like some hatchling anymore! It’s… inappropriate!

KEEP: (MORE DISAPPOINTED SINGING)

ARUM: Don’t do it again. (GROWLS) Well, Amaryllis. I thank you for the wake-up call, but I have business to attend to.

RILLA: No you don’t.

ARUM: Excuse me?

RILLA: What were you going to do? Build more creations to help your Keep? You don’t have to anymore. I found the cure.

ARUM: You– what?

RILLA: I have it, and a sample of the infected tissue right here. I’ll show you how it works.

SOUND: CLINKING.

It’s simple, really. You just—

ARUM: I know how a brush works, yes.

RILLA: Alright.

SOUND: BRUSH PAINTING.

You have to give it a second to take hold, and be careful not to touch it until it’s done. It… it only works on plants. It would burn our hands. Definitely.

ARUM: I see. Hand it here.

RILLA: Hang on, hang on…

SOUND: SIZZLING.

And… done.

And the best part is that it’s preventative, too, so you don’t need me to make any more of it. Just spread this around a little and the Keep will take care of itself.

ARUM: Well. I have to say that I’m impressed, Amaryllis. You did this… much more quickly than I’d imagined.

You may go now.

RILLA: Really? Just like that?

ARUM: I would rather the silence, yes. You look tired. Go find a soft patch and… hibernate. Or… pupate, or whatever it is humans do.

RILLA: I’d really rather pupate at home, Arum.

ARUM: Well, I can’t just let you go that quickly, can I? I have rigorous checks I’ll have to perform. I’ll have to ask the Keep what it thinks.

RILLA: You don’t care what the Keep thinks.

ARUM: There are many steps involved, Amaryllis. You’ll have to wait.

RILLA: To wait? You want me to wait? My cure works, doesn’t it?

ARUM: It appears to—

RILLA: Prove it doesn’t. Try it on all the disease you want, this treats it, and what did you say I got if I found a treatment?

ARUM: You know fully well—

RILLA: I want to hear you say it. What was our deal, Arum?

ARUM: (GROWLS)

RILLA: You aren’t going to let me leave. You were never going to let me go, were you?

ARUM: Oh, and did you really expect me to? Did you really think I could, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: It’s pretty easy, Arum! You just open the door and— (GASPS)

SOUND: HISS, STRIKE.

ARUM: And what, Amaryllis? What? Let you go back to your hive and tell all the humans what the monster is up to? Where to find him, how to kill him, how many pieces to cut him into?

RILLA: I wouldn’t… I-I don’t want to—!

ARUM: A war is on. What we want stopped being relevant the moment the first stone was thrown, no matter who threw it.

RILLA: But… that’s…

Not fair!

ARUM: It is how things work. Fair and unfair are fables. Myths. They can exist only if there are stable rules that govern all action, all things, but there are no rules here. Only survival by any means necessary.

I must protect myself and my Keep. If you were in my position I would expect you to do the same. I will allow you to live here, in my greenhouse, as thanks… but I can give nothing else.

SOUND: PUNCH.

RILLA: You lied to me. All those little favors, those talks we had… you tricked me! We had a deal.

ARUM: What would you have me do, then?

RILLA: Let me go!

ARUM: And then what? (CHUCKLES) You humans… so naïve, aren’t you? The sun itself could descend upon your bald little bodies, and until the end you’d be standing in its rays searching for a way to change its course. Running calculations until it cremated you to the last.

RILLA: And you wouldn’t?

ARUM: Die for nothing? Of course not. I would survive in the shade until every man and monster was ash, and then I would finally have peace.

Farewell, human. I’ll be sure to test your cure right away. Tktktktktktktktk.

SOUND: SLITHERING.

RILLA: (SHOUTING) No! You don’t get to take that if I don’t get to… (GROWLS) Get back here, you… you monster!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): I was so angry with him that, it took me a while to remember that the cure I’d given him? Was bogus. And that meant, I didn’t have the time to wallow. By the next morning, Arum would know I’d tricked him. So, by the next morning, I’d probably be dead. And if I was ever going to escape… that night was my only chance to do it.

I started by reviewing my notes.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —when Serrated Palms feel threatened they become sharp enough to cut through solid rock—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —comotion is an afterthought for the Walking Bonsai. Excellent reflexes, tktktktk—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

ARUM: —ly skittish, Macrachnids. They need only to know that you mean them no harm. But once you get them galloping, up walls, across the ceiling—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA (NARRATOR): And then… there was the hermit, and the creatures it made.

So I had my method. My means. My theory. I didn’t have any time to test it, but… that didn’t matter. I’d only get one shot at this anyway. So when night fell, and on the ceiling high above, the Keep’s solar bioluminescents faded, I gathered my supplies and began my escape.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MACRACHNID CLICKS & SNORTS.

RILLA: Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. It’s just a plant. It’s not going to hurt you. It’s… not going to hurt you.

(CLEARS THROAT) Research log four-two-nine-five. I have my supplies. I am entering the hermit… now.

SOUND: GRUNT, LEAF RIPPING. MACRACHNID SCREECH.

Shh, shh. Come on.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

(GASPS) It can’t… no way.

I… would like to correct my previous assumption. The big flower bulb is not the hermit. This is.

SOUND: CHIMES JINGLING.

The Moonlit Hermit.

MUSIC: STARTS.

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH, SNORTS.

Shhh. Petals: five, each around three inches long, translucent, a soft glow like… like stars through mist. That’s how Dad’s notes described it. It has no leaves, no roots, even. Just its stem, which Vogel’s called ‘a single strand the color and thickness of spider’s silk.’ The bloom is huge comparatively, way too heavy for the stem, but it’s holding itself up. When the lizard said hermit I hoped, but… I’ve hoped for this a million times before. It’s just a legend. But it’s here.

MUSIC: ENDS.

I knew it! I knew it, I knew it, I—

KEEP: (SINGING, DISTANT)

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH.

RILLA: Okay. Escape first, gloat over the find of the century later. I don’t see anything else in here, so does that mean… the Moonlit Hermit can just bring things to life? (SIGHS) I need to check some of my recorder’s notes. End of log.

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE.

RILLA: Alright, notes reviewed. I had… a lot of them. Quick summary: the Moonlit Hermit, a flower with no ability to reproduce, feed, drink, nothing – and yet it lives. Supposed to grow in the shadows of deep caves, and supposed to be magical in composition – a monster, technically. That’s the fairy tale, anyway. Vogel’s First Citadel Panaceas obviously suggests it was sought by early kings as some kind of solution to death. But, I forgot that Reynard’s Specimens of the Northern Wilds mentions it, too: “A glowing pointe upon the clyffe / her tears shall plant the fae-bloom’s gift.” That, of course, being a reference to a contemporary misconception of hallucinations, or fae’s gifts, first cited in—

It doesn’t matter. Whatever weird things it made happened below it. When it was… crying.

No nectar. Then how—

KEEP: (SINGING)

RILLA: Was that… hissing? Did you hear hissing?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH.

Alright. Time to go.

SOUND: RUSTLING.

Place the serrated frond here… the bonsai root here… and tie them together… there. Now… cry!

Cry!

KEEP: (SINGING)

RILLA: Okay. Got to think like the impossible singing castle. Make you cry. How do I make you cry?

ARUM: (DISTANT) What is all that racket, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: Oookay, sad story! Uh, once upon a time, there was a, uh, little girl, and she had these two parents who were doctors, and they helped people a lot, only one day it turned out the doctors weren’t doctors so much as witches, and magic was super-mega-illegal in the Citadel and so they were exiled, which wasn’t great, and the girl had to live with her friends’ parents, only she didn’t think it was fair, so she kept going over her parents’ old notes to try and prove that they weren’t magic, or at least that magic was really just super complicated medicine, only I got caught, and they exiled me too, so I built a cool hut right outside the Citadel and I’ve been waiting for them ever since, but they still haven’t come back even though the new Queen lifted our exiles and I don’t know if they’re even alive, the end, cry!

Oh, come on, seriously? Nothing?

SOUND: SAD MACRACHNID SQUEALS.

Good. Great. Now the spider’s dripping.

Dripping. Dripping! Agh, Rilla, you idiot, the crying’s just a metaphor! Take out my canteen—

SOUND: DROPS OF LIQUID.

—a few drops to the Hermit, then the components, and…

MUSIC: STARTS.

SOUND: RUMBLING, GROWING.

It’s working. The frond and the bonsai are growing together, fusing, reacting! Just like I planned. A living saw. A serrated palm blade, sharp enough to cut through the Keep, a walking bonsai handle, with reflexes fast enough to protect me. And it’s… alive.

ARUM: (DISTANT) Amaryllis! The Macrachnids are a mess! Where are you?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SQUEAL.

RILLA: No, you don’t! You’re my ride out of here!

SOUND: MACRACHNID SQUEALS.

Ugh! Hold still! I just have to grab my saw and—

Where’d the saw go?

SOUND: THUMPS.

What’s that sound?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SQUEALS, WHIMPERS.

Shh, shh!

That’s… that can’t be…

SOUND: BLADE SWISH. LONG MACRACHNID SQUEAL.

(YELPS)

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. MACRACHNID WHIMPERS, THUMPS.

RILLA (NARRATOR): (WHISPERING) Research log, entry… who cares. The saw, it’s not a saw. It’s… how the hell do I describe it? Like… a huge inchworm, maybe? Its head is a freaking leaf-sword, and its tail is a tree with a hell of a kick and then it– it…

It got the Macrachnid. The poor thing still sounds alive, but… it just took its body. The thing’s using it like a big eight-fingered hand, grabbing and climbing and—

SOUND: WHIMPERS, THUMPS STOP.

Where’d it go?

SOUND: SAWING.

Wh… what…?

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREAM.

Saints—

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

RILLA: (PANTING) Alright. Okay. I think I’m— (YELLS)

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

RILLA: (DISTANT) No, no, no… listen to me. Can you listen? This is the, ehm, Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, where there is a Lord called Arum, and—

SOUND: BLADE SCHING. DULL THUD.

(GASPING) Stop it! I made you! I made— (YELPS)

ARUM: (DISTANT) You made a mess. Now step aside.

RILLA: (DISTANT) Arum!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

ARUM: (CLOSER) Don’t you order me, you insolent—

SOUND: MACRACHNID SCREECH. BLADES CLANGING.

Yah!

RILLA: (CLOSER) Arum, watch out!

SOUND: RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN. MACRACHNID SQUEAL, BLADE SCHING. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE. A MOMENT OF SILENCE. RECORDER TRACK CHANGE AGAIN.

ARUM: Yah!

SOUND: BLADE SLASH. MACRACHNID SQUEAL. CRACKING, THWUMP.

RILLA: (AFTER A PAUSE) Is it… dead?

ARUM: (PANTING) It appears to be.

SOUND: RUSTLING.

What do you think you’re doing?

RILLA: I just… wanted to get a closer look.

ARUM: And that recording device, then. That’s supposed to help with your look?

RILLA: There might be some useful data—

ARUM: Data. Answers. Your mindless hunt for those things nearly killed us tonight, do you understand that?

SOUND: QUIET THUMPS.

RILLA: No, actually, I’m pretty sure what nearly killed us was when you wouldn’t let me go home.

ARUM: This again—

RILLA: What else was I supposed to do?

ARUM: Not toying with forces beyond your comprehension seems like a good place to start!

RILLA: Oh, like you understand how the Hermit works perfectly?

ARUM: Perhaps not. But I do know better than to grant the desire to live to something that could kill me.

SOUND: SAWING.

RILLA: Arum—

ARUM: No! You’ve talked entirely enough. You’re lucky that you’re such a useful doctor, little primate, or your throat—

RILLA: Arum! Move! (GRUNTS)

ARUM: Yoh!

SOUND: THUD. WET SLASH.

(PAINED YOWL)

RILLA: It’s getting ready to attack again. We have to move!

ARUM: (PAINED) My side… the blade… (PAINED GASP)

SOUND: SAWING GROWS LOUDER.

RILLA: Oh, Saints.

Oh Saints, protect us.

KEEP: (SINGING, BUILDING UP TO A CRESCENDO)

SOUND: HUGE RUMBLING, CREAKING. SILENCE.

RILLA: (AFTER A PAUSE, PANTING) What… what the…?

ARUM: (IN PAIN) It’s about time, Keep.

KEEP: (EXHAUSTED SINGING)

RILLA: Your house can… just do that? Grow a vine as thick as a tree trunk and just… punch someone with it?

ARUM: It isn’t that impressive. Help me up.

RILLA: Not that impressive? It blew up the Hermit’s cage! It shot that abomination straight through the wall!

KEEP: (EXHAUSTED SINGING)

ARUM: I told you that it is my duty to protect it. That duty goes in more than one direction. Now help me…

SOUND: CRACKING, CRUMBLING.

RILLA: Uh-oh.

SOUND: CRUMBLING ACCELERATES, THEN STOPS. SLITHERING.

ARUM: It’s… petrified. Again.

RILLA: It’s not… I didn’t…

ARUM: Tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch. Tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch-tsch.

RILLA: Arum…

ARUM: You told me you’d found the cure. You told me once I applied it this would end.

RILLA: I—

ARUM: So what was it, then? Stupidity? Or a lie, tktktktktktktktk?

RILLA: You told me I could go home. You said—

ARUM: I would like you to turn that thing off.

RILLA: What?

ARUM: Your recorder. I asked you to turn it off.

RILLA: But my notes…! If you think you can order me around after everything you’ve done—

ARUM: It is not an order. It is a request. I saved your life twice tonight. How many more times do I have to do it, before you’ll turn. That. Thing. Off?!

SOUND: RECORDING CUTS OUT.

***

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING, MUSIC.

CONDUCTOR: If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider donating to The Penumbra on Patreon. Our artists work tirelessly to bring you these stories, and if you have the means, we hope you will support our efforts. Every dollar helps. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast. If you support us on Patreon at the $10 level or higher, you’ll receive access to commentary tracks like this one, from actor Noah Simes and co-creators Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert:

SOUND: TRAIN STOPS, DOOR SLIDES OPEN, RAIN.

NOAH: …that it has nothing to do with Damien or their fight!

SOPHIE & KEVIN: (IN UNISON) Right.

NOAH: He has no idea—

SOPHIE: Right.

NOAH: —it seems, what their connection even is, that it’s just… I-I-I love that he– and, and, it ha– did have to do with those grubs, and then… even that—

SOPHIE: (LAUGHS) Right, was immaterial.

NOAH: —ended up being, like, a dead end. Both, in his investigation and plot-wise.

ALL: (LAUGH)

SOPHIE: Yeah, that was funny for us.

But yeah, it’s been, how long has it been? Like, when…

SOUND: DOOR SLIDES SHUT.

CONDUCTOR: You can also support The Penumbra by liking us on Facebook, following us on Twitter @thepenumbrapod, following us on Tumblr @thepenumbrapodcast, telling your friends about us, telling your friends to tell their friends about us, and especially by rating and reviewing our podcast on iTunes. Every rating, comment, and kind word spreads our stories further and inspires us to keep creating more and better tales to come.

We would like to give special thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Camille Blanton, Fiona Parker, Ota Arcana, Juno Yanto, Regan, Ko, KC, Kim Zeugen, Atha Lang, Vron, Charlie Spiegel, Minchowski, and Jaimie Gunter for their incredibly generous contributions per episode. Thank you.

Did you know that The Penumbra has merchandise for sale? It’s true! The Penumbra has partnered with DFTBA to bring you the posters, shirts, and pins your heart desires. Just go to dftba.com and search for The Penumbra Podcast.

This tale, the Moonlit Hermit, was told by the following people: Melissa Ennulat as Rilla, Noah Simes as Lord Arum, Kate Jones and Kat Buckingham as the Keep, and Matthew Zahnzinger as Sir Damien.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert. If you wish to know more about our ever-expanding, infinitely-creative team of artists, musicians, editors, designers, and managers, you can read about them in the show notes of this episode.

I’m afraid this is the end of the line for today, dear Traveler. We hope you will ride with The Penumbra again soon.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Locust Borer Beetle - Megacyllene robiniae  

It was so exciting to find this specie of Beetle in the wilds in my area. A few years ago they used to be seen throughout the neighborhood, crawling around on goldenrod flowers, but over the last few years goldenrod has been steadily removed from the area and these Beetles seemingly with them. How fortunate it is that there is plenty of fresh goldenrod in the wilds and these Beetles have found them. Naturally, if you like these Beetles too you can attract them to your yard by planting goldenrods. Exercise caution however as they can spread very quickly through a garden. A pollination gardener might not mind, but a garden for showcase might need some protection. Nevertheless, goldenrod will not only attract these Beetles, but only a myriad of other insects including Small Flower Beetles (several pictured), Potter Wasps, Bees, Ladybugs, Goldenrod Beetles and those tricky Jagged Ambush Bugs (look carefully for one in Picture 9). Quite a little ecosystem supported by these flowers, but of course there is a catch to this, and it’s all in the name of this insect.

The Locust Borer wasn’t named because it resembles a Locust (which is a type of Grasshopper) but rather was named after the plant is uses to host its young. Though the adults love goldenrod for its tasty pollen, they host on a different plant. In a similar story to that of the Locust Sawfly, this Beetle uses black locust trees as nesting sites for its larva, boring holes into the tree and laying eggs inside the tree. When the grubs hatch, they will begin to munch on the tree and that can be very problematic as the damage can severely weaken or even kill the tree! It’s not the most destructive Longhorn Beetle Ontario has to deal with at the moment, but it is one whose numbers should be well monitored. Young trees need to be well observed to prevent infestations along with fungal . All this in mind, I still really like this Beetle, but I understand why it needs to be carefully managed least we lose black locust trees. Maybe predators could slow it down in the larval stage because the way I see it, adults are well armored and greatly resemble Wasps thanks to their robust legs, striped pattern and even the shape of their eyes! To all the gardeners out there, don’t mix black locust trees and goldenrod and if you have one of them in your yard, carefully manage it as both can spread quickly. Better to search for these Beetles in the wild than the home.

Pictures were taken on August 27, 2020 with a Google Pixel 4.

[sapphyrelily]

mutualism

Based on The Tengu Wall from the Guild Wars 2 OST

The morning light filters through the branches, warming the earth slowly, casting speckles of white and yellow over the leaf litter. It hovers slowly, gliding by and touching leaf and branch, waking the inhabitants from their sleep.

A little bird hops out of the hollow of a tree, trilling his morning song. It echoes down the glades, ringing across the forest. Seconds tick by, and more and more voices join his – his fellows, awoken by the stroke of sunlight over their feathers, now rising to join the melody.

The wren hops off his branch, diving to the forest floor, searching for breakfast. As the sun wakes the birds, so it too, will wake his meal – insects, of all shapes and sizes.

A beetle crawls off a notch in a tree, an ant marches up a trunk, a spider hangs in its web, waiting for its own meal to pass by.

Swoop, swoop, swoop– He is relentless in his search and capture, and it is not long before he is full, flying lazily back to his tree.

The branches tilt towards him as he approaches, the leaves parting a tunnel for him. He dives in, banking sharply to land on the branch, chirruping his greeting.

“Morning.” The dryad straddles the branch, extending a hand to the wren. It hops closer, tilting its head, and he chuckles, twisting his hand to stroke its head. “Demanding.”

He thinks he sees it open an eye to glare at him, but pays it no mind. This bird he knows – and he knows it is easily placated with pats and the little grubs that always take root in his trunk.

“Northeast side, three metres off the ground,” he tells it. “A few hatched last night.”

This time, the bird chirps almost in offence, butting his fingers with its head. He laughs, recognising the gesture. “Right, right. Save them till they’re fatter.”

The wren chirps again, hopping onto his hand and allowing him to bring it close to his chest. He cradles the tiny bird carefully, letting it snuggle into the folds of his shirt. “You have feathers, shouldn’t you be warm enough?”

The nip to his finger doesn’t faze him, but it does make a chuckle slip out. “If you’re so bothered by the cold, then migrate like the rest of your flock.”

He wheezes as​ a heavier weight crashes into his lap, and then there are appendages wrapping around him, a head tucked under his chin. The newly appeared spirit mumbles sulkily, “You’re warmer than my flock,” and he has to laugh.

“You always say that,” he says fondly, stroking the silky strands of his hair, plucking a down feather or two loose. “But you’ve only spent one winter with them.”

“One winter is enough to know that you can suffocate under the weight of too many feathers.” The arms around him tighten, and he sucks in a breath as he feels the cold touch of a nose even through his shirt. “You’re a better alternative.”

“I suppose I should be glad that you’re so​ attached to me,” he says drily. The bird spirit huffs and tilts his head, regarding him with sharp eyes.

“Who else is going to eat the grubs that like nesting in your trunk?”

“Who else is so stupid to eat grubs off a poisonous yew?” He shoots back, but the other only narrows his eyes.

“The one who is somehow immune to the poison.”

He only has a moment to brace himself before there are lips on his, hard and sharp and oddly bitter – and he doesn’t care that the taste might be insect juice, because he’s kissing him back, hard enough to bruise.

The bird spirit pulls away first, but his hands remain where they are – one cupping his head, one wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes are bright, like those of his animal form, his head tilted just so.

Then he smiles.

“See. Still immune.”

He cracks a grin at that, diving in to kiss him once, twice, thrice more.

It doesn’t matter that he will never taste the softness of his lips – birds don’t have soft beaks, after all – or that one day he will age and die and leave him alone again.

He is the only one immune to the toxins in each of his cells, and he will gladly accept his affections.

-----

They spend every day like that – wrapped up in each other, talking, joking, sometimes going for walks in the forest, frost and leaves crunching under bare feet.

Where one goes, the other soon follows, their quiet laughter echoing through glades.

They are the talk of the forest – of every forest. Every tree and every animal across Japan knows who they are – the yew and his wren, bitter poison dipping in their veins. They talk about how they are an anomaly, how they are, perhaps, a new breed of coexistence.

They hear these things, and they do not care.

They have their worries, their misgivings, but they will never leave each other.

They are a dance, a melody trilled through the forest. They are a soft ballet, a gentle orchestra, a display of adoration that makes many envy to see.

They are the oddest kind of love between a tree and a bird, but they are never far from each other, a symphony and a duet.

They are the legends of the forest, and everyone admires them, but keeps their distance.

(Because no matter how beautiful their relationship, the yew is poisonous, and the wren that eats his grubs can only be, too.)

-----

They are sitting on a high branch, peering at the moon through the branches, the bird spirit nestled snugly against the dryad. Their fingers are lightly intertwined, thumbs stroking skin, but always feeling the truth beneath the glamour.

(Hard, rough bark. Silky, smooth feathers.)

(Wildly different. Worlds apart.)

(Different, different, different.)

“Do you think,” the bird spirit begins, “About what’s beyond the forest?”

The dryad hums a little. “I have wondered. But what’s the point? I couldn’t travel elsewhere.”

The wren squeezes his fingers, and the head resting on his collarbone shifts, breath fanning across his cheek. “I could.”

“Would you?” His voice is thick, the words suddenly tripping over themselves, unable to get out.

There is no answer, only the slide of hair across his chest.

Then, “I could… I would come back, and tell you what it’s like.”

He feels like he can breathe again. “Do you want to go?”

A low hum, then silence. He wonders if he has fallen asleep, and if he should return him to his nest.

“I do.”

A soft admission, a sleepy peep, and he twists in his arms to bury his face in the crook of his neck. “The city would be interesting, don’t you think?”

He cradles him gently, kissing the crown of his head, picking him up and descending. “It might be. Let me know if there are any trees there.”

“Hmm.” The bird spirit twists a little, and his concentration fades away, leaving him with a handful of sleepy wren.

He smiles and places the bird in his nest.

When morning comes, they can discuss it again.

-----

The sun is not too high in the sky, and a little wren soars above the canopy, circling, circling, before it sets off, away from the trees. A dryad stands on the topmost branches, watching until its tiny form is out of sight.

He fingers the tiny buds on some of the branches, smiling wryly.

Spring is coming, and the other birds would be coming back.

How odd then, that his favourite bird would be the one to leave.

-----

Flying is a wonderful thing. Soaring is even better.

He flaps his wings, gliding on an updraft, watching tall, grey things come into view, shiny sides on some of them. There are small suns all around, rising from the ground on thin trees, some of them changing from red to yellow and green.

And people. There are so many people.

He knows what it looks like to be human – he has a human form, after all – but it seems so very odd to be moving around in that form all the time, without concentrating to maintain it.

He alights on a thin tree with a sun-fruit, tilting his head and watching the people. They are brightly or dully coloured, with the most interesting assortment of feathers he has ever seen. Some of them are small, and some are larger; some have long feathers dripping from their heads, while some have theirs short.

He sets off again, looking for other interesting things.

There are big metallic-smelling things moving on the ground, fast, maybe faster than the panthers he has seen in other countries' forests. But they are bigger than the cats, and leave a trail of smoke as they run, and he decides that they are very odd indeed.

There are nice smells and weird smells, and noise, so much more noise than he has ever heard before. Who knew humans were so noisy?

He catches a light scent and follows it, the refreshing smell reminiscent of the forest. With every beat of his wings a speck of green grows larger, until he sees trees spread all around, a small forest in the middle of the city.

He picks a shrub to land on, pecking at a bug skittering away from him. It’s a nice snack after his long flight, and he chirps to himself, hopping along the branch to find more.

There are a few birds that pass him and the tall shrub by, but he pays them no mind. They can always approach him first, if they want to talk.

“There’s a small nest of those near my roots, if you want more.”

He startles a little, peeping angrily at the dryad peering through the leaves. The dryad shrugs and seats himself, patting the ground next to him. “You’re new around here. I wondered why you’d pick me to perch on.”

He hops closer, curious but cautious of the nice dryad. The dryad seems to smile. “You have no idea what I am, do you?”

He chirps, flying down next to him, tilting his head.

The dryad picks a fallen, half-decayed leaf from the ground, wiggling its limp body at him. “Nandina? Sacred bamboo? Poisonous plant?”

The bird is silent, its stiffening body showing its belated realisation. The dryad smiles, a little sadly. “That’s alright. Go find some non-poisonous tree to perch on. I don’t blame you.”

The bird chirps angrily, fluffing up, and then the dryad finds himself face-to-face with an annoyed spirit.

“You’re nice enough. I’m not leaving unless I want to.”

The dryad raises his brows, coughing a short laugh. “Which part of ‘poisonous' didn’t you get?”

“The part that I might get poisoned, I guess.” The bird spirit shrugs, grabbing the leaf from his hand and rolling it between his fingers.

He drops the crushed body, extending his hand. “Voilà. I’m unharmed.”

The dryad stares at him for a long, long moment, before something like shock pops his mouth open. “You’re the poison wren.”

It’s a weird name, and he isn’t sure what to think of it, but it’s almost close enough to let pass. “Poison-resistant, you mean.”

“Of course,” the dryad murmurs, eyes soft, lips tilted up. “Why are you so far from your tree?”

(Even in the city, they know who they are. The wren and the yew, always intertwined, always together.)

“I’m exploring for us.” It’s an easy reply, and he remembers their conversation, shaded by the haze of sleep and lit with the glow of moonlight. “My tree can’t come with me, but he wants to see the city too.”

The dryad bobs his head in understanding, a low gleam in his eye. “You know dryads can visit each other as long as one of them has a living tree, right?”

“No.”

(He is a young bird; his knowledge is sparse. And in the forest, no one speaks to him.)

(How could he have known?)

“Now you know.” The dryad reaches behind him, plucks a young leaf from his tree. “Take this to your tree. If he wants, he can visit me, and we can explore the forest and a bit of the city.”

The wren eyes the leaf warily. “Why are you being so nice to someone you just met?”

The dryad shrugs, the leaf twirling from limp fingers, an almost wistful look on his face. “From one poisonous being to another? It gets lonely, being isolated because you’re toxic. And besides, I’m a plant; I’ll outlive you. It’ll be nice to have a friend until someone decides to cut me down.”

He thinks about it – he knows that smile, those drooping shoulders, the wistfulness in every vein. He knows what it’s like to be looked upon from afar, never to be approached.

The nandina's not wrong. He knows he will die someday, and his yew will be as lonely as he was before he came along.

“I’ll take your leaf when I return to the forest.”

The dryad nods, graciously accepting, an arm sweeping out to the rest of the mini-forest. “Have fun exploring. I’ve got some bugs if you want to come back.”

They share a smile and the wren takes off, off to find new things, a promise at his back.

-----

He doesn’t know how long he stays – but the city is exciting and foreign, and he can’t get enough of it.

Some days he wanders in the crowd, pressed up against the other humans, eyes taking in the bright colours, tasting something new on every breath. Some days the nandina dryad wanders with him, teaching him the names of human things, showing him hidden sights and sounds.

It’s beautiful and terrifying, but he falls more and more in love with it, though the greasy smells of exhaust and takoyaki stick to his feathers for far too long.

At night he roosts within a thick-growing clump of the nandina’s leaves, their changing colours the only indication that time is passing.

The city is always bustling. It never sleeps, with its lights and loud karaoke and food stalls that close too late. He could watch it forever, this pulsing entity that is at once in its own bubble, suspended in time, yet also speeding along, changing minutely and exponentially.

But some nights, he looks up at the sky, at the moon hanging in infinite space, and he feels a tug in his heart, a deep yearning to go home.

(There are no stars in the city – too much light pollution, the nandina said – and he misses them fiercely.)

(But more than that, he misses the warmth at his back, the puff of breath over the top of his head, the whispers and teasing and jostling.)

(He misses his yew, so much that sometimes, he can’t breathe.)

He keeps wondering, when will I finally be heartsick enough to go home?

He doesn’t know.

(But maybe he does.)

He’s wandering in Harajuku again when it happens, eyes picking out the bright colours and fun outfits, listening to the sounds of people hurrying along, and the occasional human couple bustling by.

He doesn’t know what does it, but he’d stopped in a quieter street just off the main one, hiding in the cool of a shop – and suddenly he can’t breathe, he’s holding his breath, he’s frozen and in suspended animation.

He flees the shop before he can take another breath, and in an abandoned alley sheds his glamour and takes to the skies, washing away the scent.

(The scent, the scent, the scent.)

(Sprigs of yew, cut and dried and leaving a pleasant smell in the air.)

(He knows.)

(It’s time to go home.)

He’s back by the nandina before long, but he’s too agitated, too nervous, too jittery. His song is stilted and broken and so, so sorrowful, and it takes the dryad physically grabbing him before he shuts up.

“Stop panicking and tell me what is the problem.”

He struggles, oh he does, the thrumming of his heart too rapid and his song desperate.

I want to go home, I need to go home, it’s time, it’s time, I need to be home–

The dryad forces a ripe berry into his beak to gag him, sighing when he is finally silenced. “I know you don’t eat berries, so shut up and tell me calmly what the matter is.”

He tries to breathe around the berry, but it’s not easy. But he does, calms himself enough to take on his human form, spitting the berry out and blurting, “I want to go home.”

The dryad raises his eyebrows, unfazed. “So go. But maybe after you’ve eaten, you look terrible.”

“I don’t look bad, I just feel terrible. And I really, really want to go home–”

“Shut up,” the dryad sighs. “Have a beetle for the flight. And stop panicking, it’s a weird look on you.”

He pauses his panicking to snap at him, but accepts the proffered beetle and the family of grubs and a few spiders, apprehension thrumming faintly under his skin.

I need to go home.

-----

He hears the call before he sees the bird – a long trill, a shrieked song – panic and joy rolled into a terrifying screech.

He laughs giddily, disbelievingly, and parts the leaves for it.

The wren dives for the branch, banking sharply and shifting midway in its land-run sequence. They almost fall off the tree when he crashes into him, but he has branches ready to catch them – not that it matters.

He’s holding fast, braced against the trunk, arms encircling the one he had been missing for almost three seasons.

He’s back.

He buries his face in the silkiness of the other’s hair, smells the weird tinge of smoke and city smells and – another plant?

But he’s back, he’s back, and nothing else matters.

The bird spirit still has his face buried in his shirt, arms wrapped tightly around him, and he can feel the shudders going through his smaller frame.

He doesn’t pry but strokes his hair, kisses his head, feels and memorises the shape of him once again.

I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you, and I’m so glad you’re back.

It feels like forever, yet barely a second, before the wren looks up, a wobbly smile on his face, eyes watery. “I’m home.”

He thinks his face may split with the force of his smile, and leans in to brush their noses together.

“Welcome home.”

[linssikeittomies]

VR Chapter 2 - 5 hours

Have fun trying to pronounce each name! Later chapters will have the correct spellings, though I haven’t worked in a scene where the pronunciation is elaborated. Until then, pronounce everything however you like. Masterpost <- Chapter 1 Chapter 3 ->

--

After a short nap in a guest room upstairs I felt a lot better. That unreasonable freaking out in the street embarrassed me now, lemme tell ya. I was basically dreading the second I had to see another person again, knowing how hysterical I had looked. Look, I’m borderline famous for my cool, I’m like a teenage Jeevesette, that’s how cool I am.

So now that you know how extraordinarily rare it is for me not stay in control, we can move onto more important things. After my breakdown, the girl and the woman showed me upstairs to the third floor. That floor looked a bit more like an actual living space instead of a display of wealth, with a semicircle of comfortable couches and reading lamps in the centre of the very large room, two giant bookshelves against a wall, a grand piano looking thing and string instruments against the opposite wall, and paintings of varying skill level all over the place.

The guest room I had been given was incredibly bare bones compared to the rest of the manor. A queen sized bed with a plain headboard, a small bookshelf with only three books in it, a medium-sized dresser, an L-shaped desk pushed into a corner, and only one painting. It was a family portrait. Of the strict blonde woman, a foppish black-haired man, a toddler with sandy brown hair, and a baby with large green eyes and bright blonde hair. So yeah, I’m guessing it was the mirror-image girl (pretty clearly the strict woman was her mum now that my brain was functioning properly, they looked too much alike to be anything but close relatives) with the dad and a sibling. I thought it was a little weird to have a family portrait in a guest room, but it was a pretty painting. I love me some details, and the amount of tiny details fit into the clothing of the family was simply astounding. It wasn’t a big painting, but it still must have taken years to complete, what with all the folds of the clothing and the vast amount of embroidery and shimmering gems. No one’s skin was an even tone, the natural coloration and the lighting was taken into consideration, jeez, you could almost see the pores! And the flower the older sibling was holding even had a minuscule beetle hanging out on it, how cute was that?

But enough fawning over a painting, it was dinner time. I decided to bear my shame for the sake of my despairing stomach, opened the door, and saw a young man clad in a grey-blue bathrobe-looking thing. He bowed deep to me, his long ponytail falling over his shoulder. When he righted himself, he beamed at me, he was ecstatic to have me here. What a weirdo. And the blonde girl was also there, backed by a young woman with a blunt bob cut that suited her terribly, wearing the same bath-robe dress as the male servant. The blonde girl’s clothes were just as folk dress -inspired: a cream tunic and harem pants with bright red patterns and embroidery. Her wavy hair was gathered on a poofy ponytail on the side of her head. Her face was still eerie to look at, it really was like a photograph of mine from a few years back. Well, her eyes were a bit rounder and wider, and overall her face was a bit plumper, but you get the idea.

She said something to the servants, and they left to mind their own business. Then the blonde girl waved at me to follow her, all the way down back to the ground floor dining room, where the huge table was set. I hadn’t paid much attention to it the last time, but it was covered with several tablecloths – but not in any semblance of order. Just every imaginable colour and a lot of different sizes, some of them plain, some striped, some embroidered, just thrown on it. And okay, they had smoothed out any wrinkles, but not straightened anything. It was a mess of a dining table.

The strict woman and the foppish man were already sat, at the end as one might have imagined. The blonde girl drew out a chair for me from the side closest to them, and herself settled down next to me. Scullery maids, or whatever they’re called these days, started bringing out plates and cutlery, and I was glad to see that at least these people ate with forks and knives, I wasn’t that good with chopsticks and never even knew about other types of utensils. I was examining the lacy border of the porcelain plates when a young boy burst in out of breath, apologizing for being late or something, I would imagine, and sat down next to his sister.

Sitting in the middle of a family felt so wrong, why was my seat set here? I mean, it would be rude to change seats now but I wouldn’t have minded being sat somewhere else from the start.

There was some small talk, and valiant but truly useless attempts to include me. The younger brother looked at me warily from behind his sister, and was the only quiet one. He said a few words every now and then, and most of them were “Oona”, which seemed to be the girl’s name. The oldest sibling was nowhere to be seen, possibly a rebellious teen or out of town for now? Probably wouldn’t be too far-fetched to assume she’d been sent to a boarding school, rich families like doing that.

The grub arrived on splendid silver trays, and interestingly enough comprised mostly of greens. Like 90% vegetables. There was some bread thrown  in there, and a cute little dessert pie, but only one roasted bird of some sort, too small to be chicken. Not sparrow-sized either. I followed the family’s example and piled on the greens, and only took a few slices of the bird. My watch said it was only four thirty, where were the filet mignons? I would have understood a light meal on the evening, but it wasn’t even getting dark yet. I think. The dining room seemed to be in the middle of the manor, all the windows were outside in the hallway, and my seat didn’t give me a view of one. Maybe my watch was broken.

Dinner was a noisier deal than the pre-dinner, oddly enough, but quickly finished. As the servants started collecting the dishes, the mum led everyone else to a study on the other side of the manor. The design of the place was pretty odd – the rooms were in the middle of the building, with the corridor running around them, so the study the family and I ended up in had no windows. There was one tall but thin bookshelf, and a large table surrounded by plush chairs. An old woman and a middle-aged man were sitting at the table with a small pile of books set to the side. They got up to bow to the family. The dad started talking with them quietly, while the mum finally decided it was time for introductions. Why those couldn’t be done at the dinner table was beyond me, but whatever. At least I could finally call them by name instead of position.

The mum was Alehleh. Easy enough name, kinda pretty, if a bit child-like. The dad was Soonee, you’d think also easy, but then he looked ready to cry when he heard me try it out. I really sucked at pronunciation, it seemed. The girl was Ritideea, not Oona, and her name was pretty difficult to say, but unlike her dad, she wasn’t bothered by the butchering of her name. The R rolled, and the stressing seemed to change every time she said it. But she recognized her name when I said it, so good enough. And finally the son, Keenahty. He was super shy, around ten years old, and looked as much like his father as Ritideea looked like her mother.

When I introduced myself as Mimi, they all smiled patiently but also shook their heads, and Soonee corrected me with “Rititeea”. I didn’t get what that was about, and had no theories. Soonee was crestfallen. Alehleh, apparently the head of the family, ceased the nonsense by calling the two strangers to action.

First went the old woman – she introduced herself as Kaorahtsil, and proceeded to speak. I didn’t understand a word, predictably. I wasn’t exactly on Earth anymore. But she changed languages two more times, expecting something, and I couldn’t explain she wouldn’t find a language I spoke a mere few light years away. So I just said “Hi, my name is Mimi, Earth is probably in another section of the universe.” Then she admitted to the family that mine was a language she didn’t speak.

Then went the man, Sessan. He didn’t try languages, but maps. That small pile of books was atlases. I leafed through all of them, already knowing England wouldn’t be in any of them, but wanting to please him anyway. Everyone was very surprised by this development. They had never met anyone who came from so far away. They couldn’t wrap their heads around how I got here. Sessan in particular insisted I must have come by ship, over and over, and it was only after I shook my head for the fifth time that I realized… I had zero clue what he was saying, but still knew he meant ships. Wow, wasn’t that weird? Was this that translation spell I vaguely remembered screaming about earlier? Pretty crude, not very effective, but a start!

Hey wow, would you look at that, I had gone from thinking this was a town of larpers to 100 per cent believing in magic. What the hell.

But the spell didn’t work both ways. I could somewhat understand the man, but he couldn’t understand me at all. Oh, he tried, again and again, first asking about ships, then flying(even though it was plain on his face he thought that was a laughable option), then he gave up travel altogether and instead tried to find out something, anything, about my home country. He picked up on the one-way nature his spell, frustrated and confused, but no one could explain it. After this he stopped the spell, leaving me completely out of the loop as the family held council. It took nearly forty minutes for them to come up with a possible solution, and none of them liked it. Ritideea was the one who came up with the idea, but despite that the only one who hated it even more was Soonee. And after a good half hour of arguing, they reached an agreement. And thank God for that, it was exhausting to just sit there as an outsider.

After that, the servant boy from earlier took me to my room, pulled a salty snack pastry out of hammer space and hovered behind me as I ate. What a creep. I had to shoo him out quite forcibly. A little later a tailor who liked grumbling to himself came in(allowing the servant to charge back in) and took more measures of me than I had imagined existed. He made a lot of notes, talked with the servant who smiled goofy the whole time, and grumbled all the way to himself. Then he took every single measurement again before getting the hell out. I didn’t need this crap at quarter past eight.

Ritideea knocked on the door, and wanted to give me a tour of the manor. Why not, it was a bit early to turn in. And the place was quite nice, it never hurts to look at pretty things.

The third floor was mostly bedrooms – a ridiculous amount of bedrooms. Each of the three wings had about five bedrooms, and their shared bathrooms. A few had their own, I supposed those were guest rooms. Starting from the base of the first wing, first there was a guest room, then a study, then from the corner Alehleh and Soonee’s bedroom, which shared its bathroom with Keenahty’s room. Then was my guest room, the bathroom, and Ritideea. After her was a store room, containing a veritable mountain of painting supplies and canvases of several sizes. There were even a few spare easels. Another sparse guest room ended that wall, after which the third wing started. Most of the rooms in the wings seemed to be in use, but none of their occupants were present. Gigantic manor and so few residents. Was it holiday season or something?

We went down the smaller set of stairs by the third wing, and came out to a hallway. This one also contained two nicer guest rooms, and a locked door to the third wing. What was more private than the residents’ bedrooms? Ritideea’d had no problem letting me peek in those. The other two wings had one guest room and one dormitory each. In the main part of the manor, behind the two guest rooms, was a library – my favourite room in the manor so far. Jam-packed full of simple shelves, themselves bursting at the seams from all kinds of books, like a struggling public library. It felt like home. Much better than the ridiculously huge, mostly empty ballroom. It was wood-pannelled of course, for that extra oomph of bragging. The grandest piano I had ever witnessed stood near the outer wall, and the loo was so fancy pooping in one would have felt like defacing an artwork. The living room with a big, round coffee table surrounded by plush pillows was a bit more to my tastes, but the balcony on the front of the manor offered the most boring view ever: a paved courtyard, the steel gate, and the streets and houses behind it. What sucked even more was that the larger balcony at the back of the manor was barely any better. These people just did not understand gardens. There was a pretty cool fountain at the centre of the courtyard, but as you might have expected, it was paved. There were some minor bushes hugging the walls, but nothing beyond that.

This time we used the bigger staircase, which brought us in front of the dining room. The ground floor had the weirdest floor plan ever – the rooms were in the center, while the corridor ran on the outside. The rooms got shitty lighting. Even the most open room, the drawing room at the end and adjacent to the dining room, with its three open archways had to rely on electricity. The kitchen didn’t even have a door to the corridor, the air must’ve gotten stuffy there quick. Ritideea let me take a look from the door in dining room corner, but since there were people working, I didn’t want to disturb them. We continued on, turned the corner, did not go to the third wing, and came to a Roman bath. The water was faintly pink, warm, and smelled of flowers. I might take a dip there sometime, even if it was clearly meant for the important guests. Some night when I couldn’t fall asleep, then.

The rest of the rooms on the main part of the mansion were the same kind of spartan meeting rooms that the interpretor and the mage had interrogated me in. The first wing had four very lavish guest rooms, both with their own ridiculously fancy bathrooms bigger than my bedroom, obviously for the important important guests. The second wing was much the same, except it also had an extensive jewellery display. Several kilos of precious stones and pearls, just sitting there. Hate to think how much money they wasted on the jewellery they did wear.

Come to think of it, the family dressed oddly humbly. Even Alehleh, the most high class and rich-bitch of them all, wore comparatively simple dresses and necklaces. She could have gone for ermine capes and ball gowns, worn fist-sized diamonds on both ears and a whole family of rubies on her neck, but she didn’t.  Sure, she did exude wealth, but you wouldn’t have guessed this much wealth. They were also pretty chummy with the servants, not dismissive and snobbish. Did that mean the actual masters of the manor were away right now? One of the lived-in rooms on the second floor had to her parents’, maybe they were the snobs. Though I didn’t remember any of the bedrooms being especially snobby. But who else but a tried and true snob builds a home like this to their family? Thus, someone had to be a snob, and I suspected Alehleh’s parents.

There was a lot of ground to cover in the manor, so I was sufficiently tuckered out once the tour finished. I couldn’t find a pair of pyjamas in the drawer, but I didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in my underwear in a strange place, so I just took off my bra and left the button-up on. It wasn’t the most comfortable shirt to sleep in, but I still did fall asleep pretty fast.