#i wrote the whole thing in two days

[mickimomo]

Moonlight

Attoye-Week Day 1 - First Kiss

AO3 Link

@attoye-week

Peeps who asked to be tagged:

@dillie60 @tranzpurent (It won't let me tag you, but I tried)

[fluentisonus]

working in a factory has you thinking so much about the insane chain of labor & transport that goes into making literally anything

[thedrotter]

Re:Kinder Fun Facts of the day☺️!!! Have you ever wondered who talks the most from the main cast in Re:Kinder?? Well, I did😊. Today I'll be answering this question with some graphs and as a bonus telling you what words each character uses the most! I will warn you, this will be a bit long and I don't know how to be less verbose so, yeah!!!

First, I've made some basic rules as to what I counted regarding how much the characters speak. Not all lines really count as speaking, after all.

Any of the incoherent screaming lines don't count. There's a lot of screaming since the characters die a lot (as expected for a horror RPG game), but I don't really count that as speaking unless they're saying proper words. In that same vein, I didn't really count any of the panting or sniffing and such that are conveyed through words. Again, I don't really see that as a character actively speaking their thoughts!

If I cannot tell who a line belongs to, I will not give it to anyone. This happens for certain lines, so I felt this rule was important.

I won't be counting repetitions of the same line if it's on a variation of the same scene. This may sound a bit strange, but when a character dies, the game goes on to the same next scene it would regardless (unless the scene that follows it is an ending), with variations and new lines here and there to account for the dead character, but a lot will be reused and placed in the exact same beats it normally would have been in originally. So, this rule is here for that. Oh, and also the scenes with bits of Yuuichi's backstory that appear in Shunsuke's head won't be counted twice, because some appear twice line by line.

Of course, the "..." lines won't count. I am so sorry Aya!!!!😞

Now that the ground rules have been set, there's just one thing I want to mention. Though I will count all the total lines for Takumi and Yuuichi like any other character, I just want to mention that first I will have two separate counts for them! Takumi | Takumiel and Yuuichi | Yuuichi's Heart respectively.

Takumiel is separate because I was curious about how much Takumi spoke as an archangel compared to when he was alive. Yuuichi's Heart is because he speaks so much he feels notable enough to be given his own division, even if he and Yuuichi at the end of the day are one person

(I count the silly mind telepathy where Shunsuke is being directly spoken to [and being told things normal Yuu would avoid saying at that point] and the comical theater as Yuuichi's Heart. I clarify in case one assumes he only starts being counted the moment he's directly labelled as Yuuichi's Heart. Any line that can't be distinguished between Yuuichi's Heart and Yuuichi will be given to Yuuichi by default.)

With nothing else to be clarified let's get to the numbers!!!😊😊

First, the line counts with Takumiel and Yuuichi's Heart counted individually!! Here are the rankings:

Shunsuke (With a lead of 535 lines over second place!!)

Yuuichi

Rei

Yuuichi's Heart

Hiroto

Ryou

Sayaka

Aya

Takumi

Takumiel

You may be thinking— woah, does Shunsuke really speak that much?! You could say that, for a good chunk of those lines are from how he describes interactable points around the map and his inner thoughts, so they aren't all exactly said out loud. The benefit of being the protagonist, I suppose ww

Funny enough, Yuuichi's Heart has almost as many lines as Yuuichi does for not having that much time in the game, being on the higher end between the characters that don't get the benefit of being a protagonist (lol)!

Admittedly I had expected for Rei and Hiroto to have a more similar amount of lines given their nearly equal amount of presence, but for what it is Rei surpassed Hiroto by 51 lines! I also had expected for Takumiel to speak a little bit more than Takumi but turns out the opposite is true.

While the lack of lines of Takumi and Takumiel are to be expected due to their short time on the game, what stands out is Aya not even reaching triple digits between her other peers who are in there for most of the game. This is because a good chunk of Aya's lines in game are silence!^^" And thus weren't counted. If ellipses were a word, she surely would have reached triple digits, but unfortunately they're not.

Now the line count with combined sums of Takumi | Takumiel and Yuuichi | Yuuichi's Heart!!!

In here, the ranking isn't affected, with Yuuichi remaining second place and Takumi being last place. But the disparity of everyone's numbers compared to Takumi's feels a bit more clear to see when Takumiel isn't individually counted.

With Yuuichi's line counts combined, Shunsuke remains 318 lines ahead of him, but it also means Yuuichi has a 59% the amount of Shunsuke's lines; and impressive feat for someone who doesn't get the benefit of being the point of view for everything you press... Although he does also have an upper hand over everyone by essentially being the plot of this game ww

But maybe line counts do not suffice to tell how much a character speaks. Yes, Shunsuke has a bunch of lines from everything he interacts with, but is it really reliable to say he speaks all that much in all those lines? A good chunk of those could easily have 3 words each! So with this in mind, let's do a word count.

Even in a word count, Shunsuke has the lead, having a lead of 2,247 words over second place. But we'll see about that when we combine Yuuichi's numbers. Anyway, here's the ranking!

Shunsuke

Yuuichi's Heart

Yuuichi

Rei

Hiroto

Ryou

Sayaka

Aya

Takumi

Takumiel

This time, Yuuichi's Heart is the one at second place!!! It's pretty funny that he speaks more than his physical counterpart ww. I genuinely didnt think he'd out yap himself that way when I chose to count for him individually 😭!!! He has a lead of 63 words over himself, but a lead nonetheless.

In here, Rei and Hiroto are more even than in the line counts, with the difference seeming more minimal when put into words. But it also showcases that despite Rei having more lines than Yuuichi's Heart in the line count, those only get to have a bit over half of the amount of words he talks (To be fair he does get to infodump a lot in his section of the game).

And here's the combined word count!!! Suddenly Shunsuke's lead is only by a mere 55 words! So Yuuichi speaks about as much as he does with 318 less lines.

I must admit that I genuinely did not expect it to be that close. When I chose to count the lines for when you interact with things for Shunsuke, I thought he was granted to speak an absurd amount more than anyone else. But turns out that Yuuichi speaks about the same amount out loud when most of Shunsuke's are his own thoughts ww. But it does make sense! He is still the plot of this game.

So, after all those charts, here's the average/middle point of lines and words for characters to have, because why not, it's fun.

Average Line Count (YH and Takumiel counted individually): 197 lines

Average Line Count (When combined): 247 lines

Average Word Count (YH and Takumiel counted individually): 1,333 words

Average Word Count (When combined): 1,666 words

So there it is. That's how much the characters in Re:Kinder speak!

But wait!!! I am not done. I will share with you an additional fun fact... Did you ever want to know what word each of these characters said the most?! This one will be quicker, I do promise.

When it came to counting these words I did not count stop words, that being common words that are used all the time by everyone in English. "I, you, me, the, to, a, my, your, yes, no"... Words like that! Otherwise everyone would have one of those as their most said word and it'd be rather boring to look at. With that said, here are the words these characters say the most!

Shunsuke: Yuuichi - said 40 times! (this genuinely confused me so much im sorry he uses interjections so much I had expected it to be something like "huh" or "um" but no i dont know how this passed by me as i was rounding up all the lines he says or proofreading or writing all of those lines WHAT?!?! its been two days and it still takes me out)

Ryou: Shunsuke - Said 14 times

Sayaka: Murderer - Said 7 times (All in one sentence!)

Takumi | Takumiel (counted in one for how little he speaks.): Takumiel - Said 3 times (That name is so important, he said it thrice.)

Aya: Sorry - Said 5 times

Rei: Hell, gonna, look, Yuuchi - said 8 times (Most of the repeated words she says are stop words for she doesn't tend to speak about the same things repeatedly.)

Hiroto: Shunsuke - Said 17 times

Yuuichi (separate from YH): Problem - Said 17 times

Yuuichi's Heart: Mama - Said 24 times

Yuuichi (Overall): Mama - Said 31 times

So that is finally it. That is the fun fact of today.😊😊 Use this to woe your friends at parties!!!

I am aware Mami speaks about enough to be counted in, but this is pretty time consuming to do and I'm not sure anyone is invested on her enough to count her in. But if there's enough curiosity regarding that, I'll try counting her in. But for now this suffices.☺️ Thanks for reading!

[innytoes]

Dark fantasy AU?

-In hindsight, as he's being chased through the forest, hunted by mythical creatures is not where Reggie thought he'd end up when his folks told him they were moving to Los Angeles. Honestly, considering how he used to roam the woods and fields near his Meemaw's farm, the fact that he'd stumbled into a fairy circle near the beach was almost insulting.

-It's not even that he manages to outrun them. It's that one night (he thinks it's night, though time moves differently here and light and dark are all tangled up and is the purple haze of the sky supposed to be dusk or dawn or just a dark stop of the forest?) he'd decided to just... give up.

He couldn't remember how long he'd been running, running from the pounding of hooves and the yapping of dogs that did not look anything like what a dog should look like. He couldn't remember a time where he wasn't hungry, or thirsty, or tired, but something inside of him just kept making him run and run and run

-But he'd had enough. So he just sat down, with his back towards the noise, and hoped they'll kill him quickly. And to comfort himself, he sang the lullaby his Meemaw used to sing when he was scared of the thunder.

-That's what saved him. One of the fae, Caleb, was so charmed by the song that instead of doing whatever it is they did with their prey, he bundled Reggie up and took him to his... castle. Dwelling. Domain.

-He was dressed in finery and made to sing as Caleb and the other fae danced and ate and did things that Reggie very much had not wanted to see, thank you very much. But eventually, they slept, and Reggie met... the other humans who were trapped here.

-Luke, a young boy who had run away from home to become a musician in 1875. He was distraught to hear Reggie tell him it was the nineties now. Even more distraught when Reggie clarified it was the 1990s.

-There was Alex, who had been cast out of his village for reasons he did not want to share, but that Reggie figured out pretty quickly when he saw the way he looked at Willie. He'd fallen asleep near a fairy circle, and the promises he'd been made had been so tempting, he'd said yes before he fully understood the deal.

-And then there was Willie. The boy who had been stolen from his parents, a changeling left in his place. Who had grown up here, a part of this world yet not really. Who did not know what the other boys meant when they talked about years, or America, or really the whole concept of 'family'.

-Luke's the one who tells them of their escape plan. Alex is worried they can't trust Reggie not to rat him out to Caleb, and Reggie is like: um excuse me I was just hunted for sport for who knows how long you think I wanna help that guy?

-But before he can Willie just tilts his head and says: his heart is pure.

-Which is very sweet but also a little creepy.

-Anyway, they do manage to escape Caleb's clutches somehow, and end up back in the human world.

-Being yeeted out of a little ring of mushrooms in the soil of a plant Ray overwatered in the big plant wall of the Molina studio was not particularly pleasant, okay. Considering a real human should not be able to fit through that. But Willie explained that as soon as a fairy portal grew, it was only a manner of time that the fairies would notice it and stake it out to see what they could lure to their realm.

-Somehow, Luke and Alex get thrown clear across the room, Luke slamming against the door, Alex dropping onto the concrete floor.

-Reggie's not sure if him crashing against a pretty wooden piano is better or worse. The sound it made was definitely worse.

-Somehow, Willie ends up sitting crosslegged on the little piano bench, and he turns and quickly crushes up the mushrooms to destroy the portal.

-Julie, of course, is screaming, Alex and Luke and Reggie are screaming. Willie is trying to explain to Julie she over-watered her fern and pouts when she runs away.

-No they're not ghosts but they are changed and they all have weird powers. Luke nearly cries with joy that he can still summon his guitar. Alex is really not okay with this whole 'walking through walls' thing. Reggie is sad he cannot summon a puppy or a pizza.

-Willie can teleport short distances and is shocked to learn humans can't just do that? You have to walk everywhere? Or ride a horse. What's a car? What's roller skates? He needs to see one of these skateboad things immediately, let's summon the human girl back to ask for one. What can they trade for a skateboard?

-They're kind of freaked out at the whole 2020 thing, but hey, Reggie's like: at least it hasn't been a hundred years like when I told Luke about the 90s.

-Queue canon but it's even worse and more chaotic.

[brutal-nemesis]

Goretober III: Hematemesis (Written By Nemesis)

This one funny to me haha Castys so miserable he super loves the @coyotehusk goretober

←Previous - Castys Masterlist - Goretober Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: chocolate, emeto (blood!), poison, gore, noncon touching that is a little bit more intimate than normal but still unsexy

Today’s restraint of choice was a metal collar around his neck that was chained to the floor, and Castys wasn’t really a fan. Sure, it gave him more freedom of movement than the table or dangling on a hook, but it didn’t really matter when Kuro could pin all of his limbs down and still have her hands free, which was super unfair. And the chain attached to his collar was long enough to allow him to sit up, but he couldn’t stand at all, which he supposed was better than being forced to stand and not able to sit, but still. 

Right now, though, Kuro was sitting across from him, holding out what appeared to be a piece of chocolate. “Here, Castys. You deserve a little treat for being a good boy so far.”

“You know I’m, like, way older than you, right?”

“You’d be surprised,” she laughed. And hey, maybe she was pretty old, too, considering that he didn’t even know what exactly she even was.

He kind of wanted to refuse the chocolate on principle, but he was also not one to turn down a little treat, especially if it was candy. Warily, he took it, watching Kuro as he put it in his mouth, but she just watched him right back, unreadable as ever. The chocolate was good, and it’d been a long time since he’d had something sweet, or any food at all, really, so he tried to savor it, but the longer he kept it in his mouth, the more he started to taste something…odd.

He was a fucking idiot this wasn’t just chocolate of course it was laced with something-But as soon as he tried to spit it out, Kuro pounced on him, pinning his wrists next to his head, her hand covering his mouth. “Swallow, Castys. You deserve it, remember?” Castys tried to squirm free and spit what was left of the chocolate in her face, but Kuro didn’t budge, so he was forced to chew the rest of the chocolate and swallow, since it would just melt in his mouth if he kept it there. “There you go,” Kuro said, stroking his face and causing him to flinch, which of course just made her laugh. It was always so funny to everyone how much Castys hated being touched!

Finally, she got off of him, allowing Castys to sit up and scoot as far away from her as his short chain would allow. “What the fuck was in that?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Castys sighed in annoyance and crossed his arms, waiting for whatever stupid drug or poison she’d fed him to take effect. He felt fine at the moment, maybe a little chest pain, but…okay, it was starting to get worse. As time went on, the pain only got sharper, and he started to get nauseous, which wasn’t really unexpected but still not fun. 

Soon enough he really, really had to puke, but Kuro was still sitting there, just staring at him, and he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. However, his stomach didn’t give a shit about Kuro, forcing him to lurch forward on his hands and knees and vomit. It sounded more…solid than he was expecting, like there were little bits of something in it, but it was hard to tell by looking at the dark puddle between his hands.

Having a Suspicion, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and…yep, that was blood. “What’d you do to me?” he groaned, feeling even worse now that he’d thrown up, like the worst heartburn ever combined with an awful stomachache.

“It’s a special poison that sort of…destroys your stomach lining,” Kuro said lightly. “So your stomach acid is digesting you from the inside right now. I want to see if it’ll get fixed when you die.”

“It won’t.” Castys gave up and laid down on the cold stone floor, already feeling nauseous again. Well, this sucked ass. The acid was gonna eat through him no matter how many times he died until it…ran out? Did acid run out? Probably. Didn’t matter right now, he was gonna puke again, and he was barely able to get upright before even more blood spewed out of his mouth, splattering all over his arms and hands. 

Kuro laughed and picked up a little red chunk of something. “Ooh, I think this is part of your stomach. Looks like little pieces of you are coming up now instead of just blood clots.” Castys didn’t have the energy to reply, just lying curled up on his side as he coughed blood out of his nose and mouth, waiting for the next delivery of corroded bits from inside himself as the world spun out of focus.

He could hardly tell when he’d died or come back to life, the pain never really went away despite him having a stomach lining again since the rogue acid was no longer in his stomach. At some point Kuro tackled him so she could wrench his shirt up and look at the fun shade of purple his stomach area had turned, poking at it with interest. He’d stopped puking now and was just stuck lying there and groaning as his insides turned into soup.

It would stop eventually.

Right?

Next→

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @blackrosesandwhump​ @fanmanga1357-blog​​ @thehopelessopus​ @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi​ @hearse-song​ @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen​​ @galaxywhump​ @starnight-whump​ @his-unspoken-words​ @misspelledwitch​ @suspicious-whumping-egg​ @pumpkin-spice-whump​ @painsandconfusion​ @i-can-even-burn-salad​​ @befuddled-calico-whump​ @whumpinggrounds​ @whump-queen​ @whumpedydump​

[fairy-ganj-mother]

yesterday at 29.5 years old I watched as many videos as I could find from my high school marching band, choir, and theater run crew days and realized I barely have any memories of my junior year of high school (13-14 years ago btw) other than feeling bad™️

[reflectionsofgalaxies]

coping with things so well today so i’m bragging about it ✨

[guujikaroko]

Wow, okay, I gotta chill. I'm at a really low point right now. I should stop before I do something I regret.

Anyway, keep it up against Hoyoverse and stay tuned for the opinions of people from the cultures Natlan is based of. Don't worry about little old me here, I'll be back in a second.

[seventh-district]

several days and 15 thousand words later, i am relieved to report that the suffocating urge to Write Something has been sated and no longer has me in a chokehold

[sirspazingtonthefourth]

Skylight: Chapter 1

2.4k words. Hawks and an OC (Not Romantic!)Fluff with some angst, Found family sort of. Content Warnings: Cursing, isolation, mentions of abuse, blood-letting, let me know if I missed any

Summary: Hawks crashes through a random roof during a fight with a villain, only to find that there's something in there that definitely shouldn't be.

A/N: I am nothing if not a sucker for mistreated people finding that there are good people in the world. I've also been on the Hawks brainrot for a hot minute and finally managed to write this out. I don't know how many chapters it's going to be, but that's purely because I haven't split it up into chapters yet. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

It had been days since the giant villain attacked Fukuoka. Hawks had managed to get all the paperwork done, arranging to stop by the house to collect the remainder of his feathers and speak to the homeowner about their roof. He had the forms they would need to sign to allow him to hire construction and technically “alter” their home, as well as an extra pen in case they wanted an autograph. He’d gone without one exactly once, and it was the one time the person he needed to talk to had been a massive, raging fan that also didn’t own a single pen in their house.

He tried to remember where the villain was, how far he’d been flung. It gave him the neighborhood to look in, at least, and he took off for patrol about twenty minutes early just to be sure he could get the insurance taken care of. The flight there was peaceful, quiet. He waved to the few people who looked up and spotted him, texted a few fellow heroes, and enjoyed the feeling of late autumn wind in his feathers. He was already close enough that he could start pulling them to him.

Four or five shot through the sky towards him, and he homed in on the area they’d come from. One was missing though, encountering resistance as it tried to return to him. He tried a little harder, and the resistance only grew. He focused on the feather, feeling through it. He didn’t get much. Something warm and skin-like, and what sounded like breathing. Probably some critter in the attic that liked the color.

He landed in front of the door, double checked his paperwork and pen, and knocked on the door.

No answer.

He waited a minute more and knocked again. Again, there was no response. He tried the doorbell, and the breathing he felt through his feather stopped. Whatever was pinning the feather became damp, and it felt like the delicate thing was being squeezed. It was too strong a grip to be a small pest like a squirrel. Something felt wrong about the whole situation, and he took off again, landing on the roof and glancing into the hole he’d accidentally made days prior.

The shadows were too dark to see into, and the hero carefully slipped through the hole, avoiding the rafters that he was astonished he’d missed when he got thrown. He touched down, boards creaking under his feet. Whatever had his feather squeezed tighter still, and he could start to feel a racing heartbeat. This thing, whatever it was, could see him.

He pulled a small flashlight from one of his jacket pockets, thankful he’d been about to go on patrol. The small circle of blueish light contrasted sharply, almost unnaturally, with the warm light of the sun streaming from the roof. His footsteps thumped quietly against the wood boards as he swept the light around the attic. There were a few boxes stacked around, covered in uneven layers of dust, but they were mostly pushed to the walls. Most of the attic was open to wander. He stepped out of the circle of light, sweeping his flashlight around as it glinted off something and passed over boxes.

He slowly brought the light back until it caused the same thing to glint again. Two somethings, actually. Low to the ground and connected to some darker shape in the shadows. The shape was at once too big and too small, a gangly outline that lent the thing the air of a starving predator. It was crouched awkwardly, as if covering something, and it had begun growling at him. It was a quiet thing, one that he felt through his feather too.

He brought the light to shine directly on the creature, hoping to startle it back enough for him to let him retreat out of the attic. He had no idea if this thing had been here when he’d first fallen, why it was in an attic of all places, but he wanted nothing to do with whatever this thing turned out to be.

But it wasn’t a thing that his flashlight found. It was a person. Worse, it was a child. Thin and pale as if they had never seen the sun, crouched on all fours like a wild animal. They were quick to squint their eyes, refusing to close them entirely. Their teeth were bared, but dull and human as they were they wouldn’t likely be able to do too much damage.

The kid did rear back, letting Hawks get a good look at the tattered clothes they were dressed in and the dust built up on their skin. He saw the dirty bandages wrapped up and down the kid’s arms, beginning to fray and tatter but still somehow tied. He could see his feather, clutched tight in their left hand and fluttering to get back to him. And he could see a small sparrow underneath their chest.

He pulled the light away, both so he wouldn’t blind the kid and so he didn’t have to look at the mutilated bird anymore. Its wings had been snapped the wrong way at the joints, its beak had been broken, and it had been nailed to the floor with three nails. One through each wing, and one through the chest. Had the kid done that? He didn’t doubt it with how they were glaring at him now, murder in their eyes as they bared their teeth.

“Sorry about that,” he said, as calmly as he could. He didn’t want this kid to get aggressive with him, he needed them to be calm so he could escape and get the proper authorities. He tried to step backwards, only for the kid to snarl and swipe at him. Their nails were surprisingly long and sharp, and his foot landed further back than he intended at first. The kid withdrew, crouching over their mutilated sparrow.

“Alright, I get it. I’ll stay still.” He brought his other foot back, only for it to crunch on glass. He peered closer at his feet, seeing wires and glass. It looked, at first glance, like the smashed remains of a camera. But the only reason to have a camera in a closed attic that no one lived in was to keep an eye on something.

Or someone.

The kid was still glaring at him, though they had stopped baring their teeth. He gestured at the feather gripped in their hand.

“I need that back, alright? I can get you out of here, but I need my feather. Can I have it?” He held out his hand for the feather, gently pulling to him again. The kid crouched lower to the dead bird, hissing at him and splaying sparrow wings that he hadn’t seen earlier.

“I’m not trying to take your… your friend. I just need my feather back. See?” A few feathers drifted from his wings and hovered around his hands, dancing in the shadows. The kid froze, watching the display. Their eyes widened, tracking one feather, then the next, as their grip slowly loosened on the stolen feather. He started to slip it from their hand, only for them to snatch it back with a distressed, almost feline chirp, and pull it back close to the bird. They almost tucked it under the body, staring at him in fear and not a little anger.

The kid curled around over top of the bird and feather, as if keeping them safe from him. But the kid didn’t have a good grip, and he was able to slip the feather away from them. He felt bad, they looked ready to cry. But they didn’t make another sound, just stared after the feather as it and the rest attached themselves to Hawks’ wings.

He could hear the front door opening, and he watched as the kid went from tearful to terrified, freezing, staring at nothing. But as the door closed they bared their teeth again and snarled at him, advancing as he stood to retreat. The snarls were much louder than earlier, loud enough to be heard at least a floor down.

“Oi, brat! What’s with the fuckin’ noise?” a man’s voice shouted from the ground floor. He was stomping up the stairs ever closer, each step causing the kid to flinch as they backed Hawks towards the light. He stepped on a creaky floorboard, and heard the kid stifle a whimper as the man below him cursed. He took off through the hole in the roof, leaving a feather or two behind while he crouched on a nearby roof.

“What’s with the damn ruckus?” His feathers picked up on the man’s footsteps and the low crooning from the kid. He felt the man pick one up, hands softer than the kids had felt. Then he chuckled.

“Scaring off more birds, eh? Hm. Good brat. Catching that last one was damn annoying. Good to see you learned your lesson about keeping pets. Now stay. I’m sleeping here tonight, and I don’t want you to ruin my night by making a damn peep.”

The man’s footsteps retreated, down a set of stairs Hawks hadn’t seen, and closed a door behind him. He pulled his feathers from the attic, seething as he stared over the roofs in the neighborhood. He hadn’t tracked down who owned the house, but he would make a point to now.

He remembered the kid clinging to his feather and sent one of his secondaries back to them. He felt them snatch it from the air and gently place it on something soft. The sparrow, he thought. He said something about pets, that has to be why they were so protective of it. They’re trying to make a grave as best they can.

He pulled out his phone as he took off for patrol. He had to get an investigation going into whoever that man was, whoever the kid in the attic was. And he had to make a stop before he came back tonight.

It took him a while in the craft shop, partially because one of the late-night staff was a fan and partly because he needed to be certain he had the right materials. The moon was dull, its light filtered through clouds and only just providing enough light to see. He was thankful for the feather he’d left, leading him to the hole in the roof that he dropped through. Even with the clouds, there was still a halo of light where he stood compared to the rest of the attic.

The growling started up immediately this time, and he shone his flashlight near where he heard it. The kid was still crouched over the bird, his feather carefully laid across the small body.

“Hey, it’s just me.” It didn’t seem to reassure the kid, and he tried to take a slow step forward. The kid swiped at him again, but not close enough to actually strike him. A calculated feint. His foot landed on the floorboard, and the creak it let out seemed to hit the kid like a blow. They let out a quiet yelp and shrunk back from him, turning their head away for half a second, before snapping it back and quietly snarling at him.

“Sorry. I’ll try to keep it down,” he muttered, slowly kneeling down an inch from where his foot had been. They kept growling at him until he’d been sitting still for three minutes. They kept glaring at him as he slowly reached for the bag he’d brought with him, cursing that he hadn’t just carried his supplies in his pockets.

The rustle of the plastic bag startled them, but he was able to slowly withdraw the wooden box and the glue he’d bought. It was a simple, plain wooden box with a flip lock, the kind people would buy to let their kids paint, but it was big enough to fit the sparrow’s body in, he hoped.

“It’s for your friend,” he explained, but the kid just kept glaring at him and the box. “I know you can’t properly bury them, but they can at least have a coffin, right?” They didn’t move. “I’m gonna put them in here, okay? I promise I’ll be gentle.” He reached towards the kid and their bird only to be met with more quiet growling.

“I’m just trying to help. Please don’t-” the kid lunged for his hand, placing their hand wide. It put them slightly off balance, which was the only thing that let him pull his hand away from their snapping teeth. Human they may be, but he’d still rather not find out what kind of damage their teeth could do.

He sighed, letting some feathers fall from his wings to dance around them again. It had worked before, maybe it would work again.

The kid watched them dance, eyes going wide again as they followed the twirling red feathers. He carefully sent a few down feathers towards the nails in the bird when the kid raised a hand to softly swipe at the feathers dancing above their head. Just one hand, but it was enough to slip them through.

The nails were carefully laid on the ground to avoid making noise, and the bird was in his hand before the kid noticed. They curled in on themself, whining as they watched him handling the dead bird. It jostled some, and they looked like they wanted to lunge at him, but some invisible force held them back. Fear did that to people; he’d seen it before.

He carefully placed the bird into the box and closed it. He flipped the flimsy, ill-fitting latch, and pulled one of his feathers from his wing and used the glue to stick it to the box. His work done, he carefully slid the box across the floor. The gentle scraping seemed to grate on the kid’s ears, and they snatched the box from him and scuttled further into the darkness. He waited for them to return, but they didn’t come back.

He stood slowly, testing each footstep as he walked the few feet to the light. The last thing he wanted was to scare the poor kid worse or wake the man sleeping here. He flew up and out of the hole before poking his head back down.

“Night, kid. I’ll see you soon.”

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan tries to find Dagna's delivery.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,457. Rating: all audiences, except for a swear.)

Chapter 12: Unloading Baggage

Trevelyan cascaded through the bowels of Skyhold, sent with special purpose by Dagna. There was a delivery arriving this afternoon, and by the Ancestors, her order had better be there!

Trevelyan had optimistically come this way because she thought—incorrectly—that it might be quicker. Absolutely not. Beneath the main hall, Skyhold wound itself in circles, a grand labyrinth of servants’ quarters, kitchens, larders, and washrooms.

A kind laundress pointed her out of one such room, along a better-suited corridor. It was down this route that Trevelyan finally found her way into the particular kitchen that she had been promised had an external door.

She had hoped to confirm this with the staff working there—but when she wandered into the room, it was remarkably empty. All except for one elven woman, hunched over two jars.

“Excuse me,” Trevelyan said, pointing to the door across the room, “is that the way out?”

The woman looked up. She had funnily-chopped blond hair, incorrectly-laced clothes that did not look like a worker’s wear, and a grin that could only be described as wicked.

Her eyes flicked to the door, then back. “Yeah?”

“Thank you, I will—”

Maintaining eye contact, the woman picked up one of the jars—labelled ‘salt’—and poured its entire contents into the other—labelled ‘sugar’. Trevelyan blinked, mouth hanging open.

“Um…”

“You didn’t see nothing, yeah?” the woman said, a mischeivous glint in her eye.

Trevelyan smiled. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

With a cackle, the woman slipped into the shadows. It was this that made Trevelyan realise she’d seen her before—up on the mezzanine, during the gala. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t eaten anything that night.

Regardless, she had her answer for the door. Trevelyan pushed it open, to the welcome sight of gleaming sunlight, shining down on Skyhold’s courtyard.

Specifically, the stable area, which the kitchen connected to via a small flight of stairs. Trevelyan hesitated to journey down them; their height gave a good vantage of the storeroom entrance below—and the caravan of carts encircling it.

The quietness of the kitchens was at once explained. It seemed that all hands were on deck, scurrying to and fro like industrious insects, helping to unload barrels and crates and sacks. Skyhold had many mouths to feed, and large stores to fill. Finding a small shipment for the Arcanist in the midst of this commotion was no easy task.

But Trevelyan endeavoured to find it anyway. She squeezed her way through the crowd, to arrive at the foot of one of the carts.

A human man stood atop it, well-built, no doubt from many years at this craft—for he slung boxes and barrels into waiting hands like it were an art form.

“Serah!” Trevelyan called, to catch his occupied attention. “Do you know if any of these are for the Arcanist, Dagna?”

The man slid a crate toward a servant with pinpoint accuracy, and puffed out air. “Sorry, miss, not seen that name”—he passed off another box—“and you’re not likely to find it here. Better off asking your quartermaster once all this is unloaded.”

“I suspected as much. Thank you, regardless!”

Trevelyan retreated as he prepared another sack, yet noted when she did that no one came to claim it. Though as many of Skyhold’s staff as could be spared were aiding the delivery, there were about a dozen carts, all piled high. Only so much was possible.

“Would you like me to take that?” she asked.

The man shrugged. “You’re not busy?”

“Finding that shipment, yes—and it seems the quickest way to do so is by helping things along!”

The man chuckled, and hefted the sack towards her. “Can always use more willing hands! How much you carry?”

Very little, since leaving the Circle. Trevelyan certainly hoped her old strength would still remain, but acknowledged privately that she might need a little… assistance.

A week ago she’d never have dared to cast anything in such a public setting, but her work with the Arcanist had somewhat relaxed her attitude. And so she snuck a hand behind her back, and traced a rune against her spine. The energy of the Fade found her little opening, and trickled on through.

The old strength returned, and more. Trevelyan clapped her hands around the sack, and with ease, lifted it onto her shoulders.

“Take it to the storerooms,” the man instructed her, “should be someone down there to say where to drop it.”

Simple enough task. The confluence of other servants would guide her where she needed to go. Weaving betwixt them, Trevelyan exchanged a smile with every passing face. Maker, it felt good to shed the tedium of idle nobility!

Except one of those faces, she recognised. Trevelyan dropped her sack, and turned.

“Lady Samient?” she sputtered. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting the Commander?”

Lady Samient smiled. “We just parted. I saw you from afar. Lady Trevelyan, what are you doing here?”

“Oh!” Trevelyan patted her hands against her smock, to wipe off the dust. “Well, there’s a shipment I’m hoping to locate, but it doesn’t get found until the entire delivery is stored and catalogued, it seems. So, I thought I might help.”

She tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Like it was actually common for noblewomen to randomly muck in.

But Lady Samient appeared unfazed: “Do you need help?”

She couldn’t seriously be offering..?

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” Trevelyan tried to say—but Samient was already loosening her cuffs, and rolling up her sleeves. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble,” said Samient, untying a leather strap from her wrist, to pull her hair into some kind of rudimentary ponytail—though cleverly without unveiling her ears. She positioned herself by the sack. “Lift on trois.”

Shaking off her bewilderment, Trevelyan accepted that she was not to win this argument, and thus, on three, did lift.

Truly, she could have carried it alone, but she did not wish to reject Lady Samient’s offer—especially as the Lady turned out to be quite the capable worker. The descent into the stores was made with ease, despite how narrow and dimly-lit the steps were. Endless, too—they journeyed far further down than Trevelyan had even for the Undercroft. How deep into its mountain plateau did Skyhold burrow?

Eventually, they reached the bottom. No sunlight here—it was a large, torch-lit hall, of which Trevelyan could barely see the other side—if not due to the distance, then due to the amount of containers already consuming the place. Skyhold was stocked floor-to-ceiling. Even the stores at the Circle hadn’t been this well-equipped.

Following directions given by waiting pantlers, they found where they were to deposit their load. Job done, they braved the lengthy climb.

“Did you do this sort of thing, at the Circle?” Samient asked, to pass the time. “You said you worked in their storerooms.”

“Not this, per se,” Trevelyan admitted. “Well, sometimes I moved things—but I was more involved with taking stock and keeping ledgers.”

“Like the quartermaster.”

“Like the quartermaster’s assistant.”

Samient chuckled. “You seem to do a trade in being an assistant.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Stick to what you know.”

Emerging onto the surface, she found herself particularly empathetic towards the reluctance of dwarves in Orzammar—what ought to be gentle sunlight burned into her retinas, glaring and harsh. Blinking it back, she turned to Lady Samient:

“Thank you for your help. I won’t intrude upon your time any further,” she said, despite Samient being the one to have offered it in the first place.

Lady Samient glanced at the carts, still plenty full. “I am not so pathetic that one measly sack would put me at rest,” she replied. “Come, allons-y.”

In a feat of industriousness that put Trevelyan to shame, Samient strode up to a cart, and awaited her next assignment. Trevelyan hurried after her.

She could not help but wonder (for the Baroness had put her in mind) what could be the reason for Lady Samient’s willingness toward such manual labour. Her sheer comfort with such a menial task, and the lack of concern over how it might reflect upon her social image, was all terribly curious.

They were the sort of traits that, perhaps—were the rumours true—might belong to a woman born of a servant; who did not have that haughtiness of high breeding that saw them think themselves better than lifting a barrel. Perhaps that was why, instead of the title that ought to be her birthright—Duchess—she went by the lesser Lady.

But Trevelyan hardly cared from who or what or where Lady Samient originated. Because, regardless of the cause, Trevelyan quite liked this side of her.

“Ey up, you’ve got a recruit!” the deliveryman called, upon their arrival. “Maker’s breath, you ought to be here every week, if you can multiply like that. Here.” He rolled a barrel towards them, and stopped it with his foot. “This do ya?”

“Thank you,” said Samient. She directed Trevelyan to, “take that end.”

Un, deux, trois—up. With scarce strain or struggle, they hauled the barrel to the stores. And the next, and the next. Indeed, they proved quite the formidable pair—a modicum of practice under their metaphorical belts meant that each subsequent task was completed faster than the last.

They were able, even, to loosen their focus, and communicate not about what steps to take or when to drop, but of people and scandal and gossip:

“Is he a mage as well?” Lady Samient asked, upon hearing of Trevelyan’s acquaintance with Dorian.

“Yes, he is,” she confirmed.

Samient hummed. “And where have I heard the name Pavus before?”

“Noble house in Tevinter,” Trevelyan said, “part of the magisterium.”

Samient’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Well, if you’re not quite interested in the Commander, you could do far worse than that.”

“Oh, no,” Trevelyan laughed, “I’m certain he’d be quite flattered, but I’m afraid he doesn’t like women.”

“Oh. How rude!”

“No, no—I mean, he likes men.”

“Oh.” Samient rolled her eyes at herself. “Of course. I see how that would be something of an obstacle.”

Trevelyan quite agreed. “Yes—call me an optimist, but I would prefer my future husband to actually want to marry me.”

Lady Samient did not, as Trevelyan had expected (and hoped), titter at this comment. Instead, her vision trailed across the courtyard, to somewhere behind Trevelyan.

Following it, the curious Trevelyan found a rather disappointing sight. No wonder Samient’s face had soured—there was a group of soldiers loitering near the carts, whispering and laughing about something they apparently found uproariously funny.

That would be innocent enough, if not for the fact their eyes kept flicking in the Ladies’ direction, accompanied by what Trevelyan could only assume were supposed to be subtle points.

“How childish,” Lady Samient scoffed.

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “Pay them no mind—it must be a good sign! Thedas must be saved, if they have the time to be doing this.”

The remark put a smirk back on Samient’s face, and they returned to their cart—which, thanks to their labour and others’, was nearly bare.

“Are those louts even helping?” Lady Samient asked the deliverer, as he skittered a small crate towards her.

He glanced at the soldiers, and clicked his tongue. “No. Here for the show, I s’pose. Heard ‘em laughing about some ‘noble skirts’ playing pretend at being working folk.”

Lack of creativity aside, it struck Trevelyan that only she was in a skirt, and that it was a plain smock—so the insult did not quite apply.

“Don’t see any nobles ‘round here, though,” continued the deliveryman, quite obliviously, “but let ‘em play, if they are. So long as they’re doing the work, who gives a toss?”

The Ladies chuckled, exchanging a look, as the deliverer went in search of something for Trevelyan to carry.

“Go,” she told Samient, “do not be idle on my account.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course—we do not wish to be accused of playing pretend, after all.”

Lady Samient laughed, with devious and wicked joy that Trevelyan quite shared. She dutifully parted, off to the stores once more. Trevelyan turned, to collect the sack the man had dropped for her.

A hand fell upon it. Gloved in black, and sudden enough to startle her. She looked to the arm to which it belonged—and then to the man whom that arm belonged to.

The Commander stared back at her.

(And beside him, a small platoon of sheepish-looking soldiers).

“Forgive me,” he said, releasing his grasp. “I hadn’t realised. Take it.”

There was a growling sort of undercurrent in his speech; a shortness, far more pronounced than even when he had scolded Lady Montilyet. Someone, it seemed, was in trouble.

Trevelyan smiled. “No, no,” she told him, “it’s yours.”

With a nod—again, more curt than usual—the Commander hauled up the sack, and slung it into the waiting arms of a soldier.

“We are all the Inquisition,” he lectured, “and instead of aiding our cause, you mock those who do. Save those barbs for the enemy. We work as one.”

To Trevelyan’s great satisfaction, each soldier was saddled with cargo and sent marching to the stores, with the Commander’s disapproving stare burning into their backs. She could not help but smile.

“I apologise for their conduct,” said the Commander.

Or lack thereof. Trevelyan shook her head. “Quite all right. I do not care for the opinions of those who do not know me.” Like his, for example.

“Very well.” He hesitated, as if mulling over his words. “May I ask, are you… well?”

That imperious air sloughed from him once more, and left only the tenderness of their previous meeting. In that moment, Trevelyan recalled the magic she had cast upon herself, and felt it still, quietly coursing below the surface. Yet, nothing on the Commander’s face suggested he had sensed it.

“I am fine,” she assured him. Again.

The sudden thud of an apple-crate beside them was a welcome distraction, as the deliveryman announced, “That’s the last of it.”

Though Trevelyan reached for it, the Commander took up the handles first. “Allow me,” he said.

Trevelyan would have protested—the soldiers’ mockery had not left her so fragile that she could not lift a box—but she had not the chance. For, out of the corner of her eye, she could approximate the shape of Lady Samient, observing them from afar.

“Twice in one day, Commander,” the Lady purred, strutting closer, “to what do we owe this pleasure?”

She spoke her words like honey, moved her body like silk. It was quite at odds with the plainness and practicality Trevelyan had seen of her during the last half-hour. Perhaps she had not been lying about her time with the Commander, and he responded well to such affectations.

Or perhaps not. For the Commander did not respond at all to this velvety question, muttering instead, “I should, ah, get this to the storeroom.” Entertaining not even another word from either of them, he fled.

Though Trevelyan was quite amused by this, Samient appeared rather bemused. She fixed Trevelyan with a peculiar stare, that Trevelyan almost interpreted as suspicion, until she realised that his presence, to Samient, remained a mystery.

“Well, since he shall not deign to explain himself, I shall,” Trevelyan told her. “The Commander was here to scold his soldiers. Quite furiously, too.”

Lady Samient’s mouth sank into a smile. “Ah, I see. Good. As they deserve.”

“A shame you missed it.”

“Yes, but unlike them, I was far too busy working.”

Trevelyan chuckled, and rested herself against the cart. Its bed lay bare, as did those of its brethren. For that, she felt they had quite earnt a break, yet the bustle did not cease—she noted plenty of staff still to-ing and fro-ing, fetching more barrels and crates and chests. Except—these came from the kitchens.

“You take things from Skyhold, too?” she asked the deliveryman.

He was perched on the side of the cart, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Aye,” he said. “Sometimes they have deliveries for us, but usually it’s the empty bits we take back, and fill ‘em up again.”

“How often do you come?” Lady Samient wondered.

“Every week, supposedly—but the Maker has other ideas sometimes. Got delayed this week by weather. No problem, though; I hear you’ve got stores enough to last months.”

Sounded about right to Trevelyan. Any defensible castle did, just in case the enemy ever tried to starve you out.

Lady Samient hummed. “All sounds very efficient. Do they not worry about something untoward sneaking in through these deliveries, though? Seems like you could fit a man in one of those barrels.”

She wasn’t wrong. You could certainly fit a man. Or a Trevelyan. If things ever got too dire, she might squeeze herself into one of those things, and be shipped out on the next delivery to… wherever these carts went to.

But the delivery man shrugged. “I s’pose they check’em. You’d have to ask the soldiers.”

Tsk. There went that plan.

And, as if that weren’t enough disappointment, it seemed the mere mention of soldiers summoned movement in her periphery. Their aforementioned tormentors trudged on up, out from the stores, tails between their legs. But without their Commander’s instruction, they seemed quite at a loss for what to do next.

“Such idleness,” whispered Lady Samient, apparently of the same mind as Trevelyan, “more the sort I would expect from those work-shy nobility.”

Trevelyan laughed. “How fortunate we are not—”

She stopped, on noticing nearby a maid, huffing and puffing and red in the face, attempting to roll an empty barrel towards a cart—entirely by herself. All it took was one wordless glance at Lady Samient, and the two were traipsing off in her direction.

“Do you need help?” Trevelyan asked the maid.

“Oh—yes, please! Thank you, miss,” she replied, releasing her quarry into their capable hands. Though grateful, she fixed them with a curious stare. “Sorry, but... you’re the Ladies here to see the Commander, ain’t you?”

Lady Samient raised an eyebrow. “What of it?”

“Nothing, your Ladyship! Well, you’re such an ‘elp, and—you know, there was a lot of sugar in that delivery.” The maid waited to see their faces change, but the Ladies’ expressions spoke only of confusion. “Well, we need a lot in, you see. Because the Commander—he has something of a sweet tooth, is all.”

Perhaps that was where his sudden sweetness had come from. “Good to know,” said Samient, “thank you.”

“’Course, your Ladyships.”

Armed with this newfound knowledge, they prepared to haul the barrel away—but Trevelyan hesitated. She considered herself for a moment, and whether or not she owed loyalty to the little prankster in the kitchen, or the kind woman she’d just met. It wasn’t a hard choice.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, “just before the cook uses any of that sugar—perhaps a little taste test, may be in order. Your kitchen had a rather impish visitor, earlier.”

Though the maid seemed almost bewildered for a moment, and Trevelyan worried she had misspoken, her face soon resolved into recognition, then annoyance. “Oh, that Sera!”

Trevelyan recalled the name—Dagna had mentioned it on a few occasions. From the description she’d been given and what Trevelyan had caught her doing, she safely assumed that they were one and the same.

Leaving the maid to deal with her mischief, Trevelyan seized her side of the barrel. With Lady Samient’s aid, and practised ease, they hefted it up, and paraded it past the loitering group of soldiers. One bravely asked if they needed help.

The answer was no. And a scathing look.

***

Ser Morris delivered—in the literal sense. Hours after she’d left, Trevelyan raced back to the Undercroft, an intricate little chest in her hands.

Dagna was surprised to see her: “I won’t lie, I kind of thought you just quit for the day.”

But Trevelyan was quite able to explain, and Dagna was satisfied that she had used her time with noble purpose. It did help that finally seeing her order put the Arcanist in something of a good mood.

She placed it upon a workbench, and with great reverence, opened the chest. Even Trevelyan recognised what was inside.

“New enchanting tools,” Dagna said, “straight from the finest smiths in Orzammar. With these, I can do things a little more delicately. Which means the time for theory is over—tomorrow, we enchant!”

Trevelyan grimaced.

Tomorrow she was with the Commander.

[incorrectcoldflashblog]

I swear every time I post a fic I thoroughly manage to convince myself it’s the worst thing anyone has ever written and then I go back to re-read it a few weeks later and without fail I’m like, “you know actually this is pretty okay, what was I on about.” Every. time.

[asgardian--angels]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Stede Bonnet & Israel Hands, Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Characters: Israel Hands, Stede Bonnet, Blackbeard | Edward Teach Additional Tags: ghost izzy, Izzy Haunts The Inn - sort of, The Gravy Basket Summary:

Izzy finds himself at a stopover of sorts on his migration.

[neverendingford]

.

[bat-the-misfit]

i just finished it lol

[midwesternfields]

let it be known that I completed my journal today, like I wrote on the last available page for it

holy shit