#lighthouse tablecloth

[jadafitch]

Lighthouses of Maine art is now available on fabrics and wallpaper at three different scales in my SPOONFLOWER SHOP. You can also get the designs on ready made blankets, sheet sets, tea towels and more!

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[morimatea]

I enjoy the peaceful scene.

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 tossing and turning rookanis enjoy 🪶

Lucanis is generally aware when he's dreaming. Around the Lighthouse, at least.

Not because his communion with Spite made him any more adept walking the Fade. And not because that speck of ground with the tree between Harding's and Davrin's rooms is suddenly connected to the rest of the courtyard through an overgrown, paper-lanterned bridge. Not even because beside him, Rook is chucking her beloved friulanes over the edge and into the raw Fade, just so she can wriggle her toes in the sunlight filtered through the leaves.

It's because he's sitting out in the Fade and doesn't have a headache, but the plants around him are still blurred from the raw burn behind his eyes that he doesn't currently feel.

Lucanis.

Rook moves to lie down. Her arm smacks heavy against his diaphragm.

Lucanis!

Effortlessly, she drops her mass of hair over his lap, directly into Spite's ready hands.

LUCANIS! Spite sits before them, calm, focused on wrapping curls around his fingers, but his screetch still grates at Lucanis' ears.

What. Wake up. Rook is awake. Is she alright? Moves more. Than she did all day. Miles and miles she walks. Some people do that. Not our Rook. Our Rook is still. Like a brick wall, but soft. Her heart and breath quiet. Would think she's dead, if not for her dreams. You walk into her dreams?

Spite is quiet for a breath, looks away from Rook's head in Lucanis' lap. A strange thing, to witness his own demon being at least something akin to ashamed.

I protect her dreams. She can see me there. You realize you shouldn't just wander into people's minds when they're trying to rest, right? I leave when she asks.

Spite's fingers get caught in her curls as she shifts, humming softly at the gentle tug on her scalp.

This is your dream, Spite says, growing impatient at Lucanis' refusal to wake. While he's practised and memorized the way his face shows his feelings for months and months when he was young, it still feels odd to see himself doing it, and not through a mirror, but through the demon wearing his face. Rook sleeps here. He drops to a whisper, as if afraid of waking even this figment of their imagination. But OUR Rook moves the bed. She needs to sleep. I imagine she knows that. MAKE HER SLEEP.

Spite drags him away from beneath Rook with claws in his ankle and throws him over the edge.

Lucanis wakes with a start.

"Sorry," his Rook mumbles beside him. She rests on her front, face square in her pillow, turned away from him just enough not to smother herself in the feather-stuffed silk. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." He watches with bleary eyes, as Rook lifts her chest from the mattress and fluffs up her pillow yet again. "Spite threw me off the Courtyard."

NOT LIKE THAT! Spite bounces on the bed so much it jostles all three of them. TELL HER. WOKE YOU TO HELP.

So Lucanis relays the information with a sigh.

"Spite woke you because I'm up?" She struggles to make words around her yawn. So, so tired, but her mind won't let her sleep. Her body, too, perhaps. He knows this well.

Lucanis spreads his arm across her half of the bed, and Rook curls into his side almost immediately. She pulls at her blanket to cover him as well, before sneaking her hand beneath and into his shirt.

"He's worried about you. You shouldn't be up right now when tomorrow's so busy. He's right, you know."

"I know." Rook sniffs, rubs at her eyes. Lifts her hair out of her neck and places it over her pillow, like a shifted tablecloth.

Spite lies down behind her, elbows in the mattress and collapsing into his shoulders, arranging the strands above her, not unlike the Sunshine Crown that King Fulgeno keeps insisting does not actually exist outside of royal portraiture.

"Is there a reason you're still up? Mulling over something? Any aches?"

Her nails prick in the skin of his shoulder, and she pulls him closer toward herself to kiss the bare patch of skin between his beard and his clavicle.

"Not more than any other night." By his shins, the movement of her rubbing her heel into the top of her other foot pushed into his muscles, as well. "Don't worry. I'll fall asleep eventually."

Lucanis decides that, come morning, he will unravel himself from her, sneak out of bed and gather his clothes like they were little more than midnight trysts, and run for groceries by himself.

There's a lot to do tomorrow, true, but nothing that will run away from them if she sleeps in late one morning.

"Come here."

He manages to turn the both of them to their sides, his back toward the center of the room, the door, her facing the wall covered in books and tapestries and plants.

"What are you doing?"

"Being the shield on your back."

"Why?" She pushes against him, anyway. An amused huff in her throat, and she leans back forward, ever so slightly, as if to lean into Spite squeezing himself in the narrow space between her and the wall.

Lucanis doesn't need to see it to know that, under the blanket, under her clothes, her skin dimples from Spite holding on to her.

"My sleep rivals that of Emmrich's charges when I fall asleep with your shield on my back."

She kisses the nailskin on his thumb.

"Good night, Lucanis. Good night, Spite."

"Good night." I'll find you when you sleep. Protect your mind.

Rook stays tucked between Lucanis and Spite until early morning.

🪶

the way this ficlet is the one that finally makes me write crusty fake codex entries lmao.

@chubritza beep beep choo choo

[~rina]

[sunny374940]

May I have this dance?

So I'm finally done with the story about Rook and Emmrich attending a ball. Or not done, because it got way too long, but at least the first part is finished (the second part wil be them jumping each other's bones).

@profoundlyfaded, this is what you made me do (thank you, I'm having a great time).

Cw: sexual harrasment directed at Rook, because nobles are annoying, but nothing terribly graphic.

Part 2 here (smut)

Here on ao3

And here are my other stories.

“Presenting Rook, leader of The Veilguard, and his companion, Emmrich Volkarin of the Mourn Watch,” the master of ceremonies announced (and he was yelling too much, Rook thought).

The rest of their friends had all made their excuses to the Archon as to why they couldn't come (there were suddenly so many pressing matters everywhere, that Rook was surprised the world wasn't ending again), but not him, because the leader of the damn Veilguard had to attend a ball to celebrate the defeat of the Evanuris. It stood to reason, but that didn’t make it any better.

There were assorted claps and oohs and aahs from the starstruck crowd as they made their way down the stairway. Emmrich was holding onto Rook’s arm and he looked so beautiful, almost regal in his finery, clinking gently with his grave gold. One bright spot to this, at least. They finally descended onto the ballroom floor and Rook gently steered Emmrich away from the crowd. 

The ballroom of the Archon's summer “villa” (if the word could be used to describe a network of buildings several times the size of the Lighthouse) was a vast place. The ceiling was glittering with magelight and the stained glass windows were letting in the last of the sun's rays, creating a kaleidoscope of color on the walls. 

“Do we really have to be here?” he whispered through gritted teeth. He did come (almost) willingly, but the amount of people populating the ballroom and the attention they were paying to them were getting to him.

“Darling, the Archon of Tevinter himself is holding a celebration in our - and especially your - honor. So yes, we do have to be here,” Emmrich whispered back to him. He seemed to be enjoying himself, which was the only reason Rook wasn’t already begging him to leave. He knew how much Emmrich liked mingling at parties and there hadn’t been many of those while they were saving the world.

“Ugh.” Rook rolled his eyes. Emmrich had persuaded him to wear formal attire (“Darling, I must insist you wear shoes for once in your life!”) and he was very much not into it, but he would do it for him, if begrudgingly. But the damned shoes were pinching his feet and this was where he was drawing the line, regardless of the fact that it was the very love of his life who had made him wear them. 

“I'll be right back, love,” he said, kissing Emmrich on the cheek, and left under the pretense of going to eat some of the tiny cakes that were set out on the tables bordering the ballroom (though he did actually eat some, seeing as he was already there, and made a note to come back for more later). He toed off the blasted things and slid them under the table with his foot in the hope that the long tablecloth would hide them from sight.

He padded back to Emmrich, who was now engaged in conversation with Dorian and The Iron Bull, and slotted himself against his side.

“And how is being the Archon treating you, Dorian?” Emmrich said as he brought his arm up to sling it across Rook’s shoulders. He relaxed gratefully into the touch.

“Ah, yes, someone needs to lead the masses and all that,” Dorian waved his hand a touch dismissively. “Though I do hope to lead them into a better future.”

“A worthy endeavor, to be certain,” Emmrich nodded.

Dorian turned to Rook, taking in the way he was keeping his eyes down, trying to hide away from the nobles who seemed to be just itching to have a conversation with the leader of the Veilguard.

“I can see you’re suffering,” he said and Rook could only nod miserably.

“And I get him, kadan, I really do,” Bull said, flicking his eyes to Rook’s bare feet. He made no comment, but gave him a grin and a one-eyed blink (was he winking at him?).

“Yes, yes, the horrors of fine wine and noble company,” Dorian retorted with a wry chuckle.

“I could do with more wine and less company. I’ve got better ideas about spending the night than this,” Bull said and then he tilted Dorian's face up with a finger under his chin and kissed him gently, making Dorian’s cheeks turn red. 

“Bull, I am the Archon! I can’t be seen blushing like a- a maiden,” Dorian sputtered.

“You’re not the Archon of the bedroom, though,” Bull said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Bull!” Dorian smacked a hand against Bull’s arm and Rook was laughing, holding onto Emmrich, and finally the party was looking up.

“Darling!” Emmrich chided gently, but there was an amused quirk to his lips.

“Please excuse us, I have something to discuss with my husband.” Dorian bowed to them with an exaggerated flourish and then took hold of Bull’s arm, dragging him away. They heard a faint ‘finally’ from Bull as the pair made their way to the door.

“Hey, since they're leaving, can we-” But Rook wasn't allowed to finish the sentence, as a young nobleman took advantage of the opening.

“May I have a dance, ser?” he asked, voice syrupy sweet and Rook didn't want to dance with him at all.

“No, thanks, I don't dance” he said, hoping to get rid of him quickly.

“But I am sure that you would be very good at it, with a proper partner. One that could keep up with you,” he said with a sideways glance at Emmrich and touched Rook's chest in a gesture that he likely meant to be flirtatious, but it only made Rook's skin crawl. 

Rook took a breath in outrage. He might have been able to deal with him quietly, but after taking a jab at Emmrich? He would let the man know just how much he miscalculated. But as he opened his mouth to speak (and cause a scene), Emmrich placed a hand on the noble’s arm, looking the very picture of calmness.

“My dear ser, I believe you have just been told no,” he said levelly.

“I wasn't asking y-” 

There was the tiniest sound, almost lost in the noise of the ballroom, like a lightning spark earthing itself, and the noble snatched his hand back with a yelp and gave Emmrich a wide-eyed stare, before retreating without another word. Rook turned to Emmrich with a disbelieving grin.

“Emmrich?”

“Yes, darling?” Emmrich said, radiating innocence.

“Did you just zap the guy?”

“Oh, I would never! You wound me!” Emmrich put a hand to his chest in mock outrage, but then their eyes met and they burst out laughing, holding onto each other for support.  

“I believe we have earned a moment of respite, what do you think, Rook?”

“Finally,” he whispered to himself, but Emmrich’s barely audible answering snort (though he would never admit to doing something as unseemly as snorting) told him he’d been heard.

They left the ballroom hand in hand and crept along the silent corridors, giggling like schoolboys, stealing kisses in alcoves, until they found a door leading to the gardens. The moon was hanging high in the sky, casting the jasmine trees in a soft silver light. They stepped onto the grass and it was damp with evening dew, making Rook sigh in contentment at the refreshing feeling of it. He wiggled his toes, closing his eyes for a moment and Emmrich noticed his lack of footwear at last.

“Darling, where are your shoes?” Emmrich was raising an eyebrow and Rook found himself grinning sheepishly.

“They, uh, ran away? They didn't want to be here either, I guess.”

Emmrich sighed in fond exasperation and stroked his fingers against Rook's cheek. He leaned into the touch, enjoying the warmth of Emmrich's hand against his skin.

“Whatever shall I do with you?” Emmrich asked and the music from the ballroom was floating down to them from the open windows and Rook knew exactly what he wanted.

“Dance with me?” 

He held his hand out to Emmrich, who took it, but made no move to start dancing just yet.

“Weren't you saying you don't dance?” Emmrich teased. “I distinctly remember hearing it but a little while ago.”

“It's called lying, love,” Rook grinned. “But you should probably lead, I'm not very good at this,” he added bashfully.

“It would be my honor.” 

And they danced, in fits and starts at first, as Rook was figuring out where to put his feet without treading on Emmrich's, but they were growing more confident with each step. Emmrich was leading him with a sure hand at his waist and Rook surrendered to the motion, loving the way Emmrich's other hand was gently holding his, the way he was looking into his eyes with such soft adoration that it was making Rook's heart melt.

The violins swelled and Emmrich twirled him around and he laughed breathlessly, feeling like a hero of one of Lucanis’ romance novels. As the music was dying down, Emmrich dipped him, making him look up into his face and then he bent down to kiss him and there would have been fireworks if the novel he was in knew what it was doing. As it was, Rook felt his cheeks warm and returned the kiss with wild abandon and no fireworks could ever be as good as this.

“What would you like to do now, Rook?” Emmrich asked after he helped him stand up again.

Rook knew that if he asked to leave, Emmrich would oblige him, even if he would have preferred to stay himself. But he wasn't going to be that selfish, not when Emmrich was doing everything in his power to make him feel comfortable.

“I guess I could manage going back inside, if you'd like. I know you were enjoying yourself before.”

“You want an excuse to eat more dessert, don't you, darling?” Emmrich laughed softly. And it wasn't completely untrue, if Rook was being honest. 

“You know me so well. But seriously, I want you to have a good time tonight.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. And I must admit that I noticed a colleague earlier who I haven't seen in quite some time. She has made incredible advances in the preservation of the dead and I would love to discuss her findings with her.”

“Let's go then. But the shoes are staying off.”

“I wouldn't dare suggest otherwise, dearest. I have learned my lesson.”

Emmrich offered him an arm and they made their way back to the ballroom. They managed to get in through a side door, rather than the main entrance, and that thankfully meant much less attention this time. They took a moment to walk around, poking fun at the decor (“Hey, Emmrich, that candle holder looks like a pair of boobs.” “It most certainly does n- Oh.”) and then Emmrich spotted his colleague and went to greet her, but not before repeatedly assuring himself that Rook truly was okay with being left alone. And Rook really preferred not to join them, as there was only so much talk of embalming methods he could stomach before having to excuse himself.

Rook was leaning back against the dessert table, snacking on some kind of round, brightly colored pastry. It tasted faintly of almonds and he had no idea what it was, but it tasted really good, so he grabbed a few more for later. He saw that Emmrich was caught up in an animated discussion and was gesturing wildly with his hands, likely trying to get a point across and Rook smiled to himself, glad they came back in.

He was finishing his third colorful snack while watching couples twirl around on the dancefloor, lost in thought, when a large hand clapped him on the shoulder and stayed there, gripping him uncomfortably. And why the fuck did everyone think they were welcome to touch him today? Just what the fuck was wrong with them? Rook looked up, eyebrows drawn together in annoyance. A large man, a good head taller than Rook was standing next to him, giving him the worst excuse for a seductive smile he’d ever had the misfortune of seeing.

“So, you finally ditched that old windbag, eh? But a pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be left all alone-”

A thing. That was all he was to this kind of person and he definitely didn’t feel obligated to engage him more than necessary, or even let him finish speaking, so he went straight to the point.

“Fuck off,” he spat and tried to shrug off the offending hand, but the hold on him was strong and the man's other hand came to clutch at the front of Rook’s shirt, dragging him closer, until his face was inches from Rook's. 

“I could fuck the fight right out of you,” he whispered, and the smell of alcohol in his breath made Rook want to retch.

Rook glanced over to where he last spotted Emmrich and saw him still deep in conversation. Good. Emmrich would probably be a little mad at him if he knew what he was about to do, so he might as well do it while he wasn't looking. He leaned away as much as the hold on him allowed, then he brought his head forward full-force and struck his forehead against the man's nose with a resounding crack, hard enough to send him falling onto his ass.

“Ow.” 

Rook rubbed at his forehead. This would definitely bruise, but it was very much worth it. The man was holding onto his bleeding nose, trying to scramble back onto his feet and yelling at him.

“You filthy knife-ear, I’ll show you-”

He got no further than that, as he was suddenly being hoisted up by the scruff of his neck by The Iron Bull, who was grinning at Rook. He must have seen what happened and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

“Hey, kadan, we almost missed the fun!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“You shouldn't have taken so long, then.” Dorian was sauntering towards them, straightening the collar of his robes and Rook thought he could see a faint hickey on the side of his neck, before it was quickly concealed.

“I didn't hear you complaining when I was doing it.”

“Shut up, amatus,” Dorian hissed in Bull’s direction. Then he turned to the guards who were posted at the doors closest to them to order them to take the man away, but Rook wasn't paying attention anymore, because Emmrich arrived at his side. He was looking him over with a worried expression, and his eyes widened as he took in the bruise on Rook's forehead.

“Darling, are you alright? What happened?”

“I'm fine, just a headache,” Rook grinned. “He wanted to get a piece of me. So he got it.”

This vague description was met with a singular raised eyebrow. Fine, he would tell him if he wanted to know so badly.

“He wanted to fuck me and I disagreed, so he got mad, I guess.”

“He what?” Emmrich almost shouted, outraged. “I shall have some words with him.”

Rook suspected there would be less words and more violence, if the way Emmrich's hands were shaking with barely contained anger was anything to go by.

“No need, my dear professor,” Dorian interjected. “He will get what is coming to him soon enough.”

“Very well. I trust your judgment,” Emmrich said, a tad reluctantly, but didn't press the matter.

“And you lot can go back to whatever you were doing, nothing to see here,” Dorian added, shooing away the many guests who stopped close by to pretend they weren't staring. The musicians began a new piece, prompting Bull to offer his hand to Dorian with a bow and they left for the dancefloor. 

Rook hissed at a new pang of pain from his forehead. Did he manage to give himself a concussion? Emmrich turned back to him at the sound and the pain was gone in an instant with a quick healing spell.

“Thanks, love.”

“You are welcome, my dear. Do you need to leave?” 

“I'm good. I don't think that there's anyone around who wants to try getting close to me after this. But I wouldn't mind letting them know who I belong to anyway.”

And it was just like Emmrich to completely misunderstand, worried as he was about Rook's wellbeing right now.

“Rook, I would never presume to claim ownership of you. You are your own person first and foremost,” he said sincerely.

“I know, love,” Rook chuckled. “But I like being yours,” he purred into Emmrich's ear and heard a sharp intake of breath as realization dawned. 

“Is that so, dearest?”

Rook nodded, eyes glinting with mischief, and raised himself up on his toes to kiss Emmrich passionately, heedless of the whispers he caused among the nobles who still insisted on pretending they weren't watching them. They finally parted and Emmrich’s eyes were dark with desire, making Rook’s breath hitch. 

“May I have this dance?” Emmrich asked, taking hold of his hand and kissing his knuckles. 

Rook nodded eagerly and they joined the other couples on the dancefloor. Emmrich took the lead again and Rook noticed with some satisfaction that the hand on his waist was holding onto him tighter than before, and despite all of Emmrich's protests to the contrary, he had a feeling that he did actually like showing others that Rook was his. They were swaying together to the music and Rook was doing his best to stay as close to Emmrich as possible, their bodies touching, though he did enjoy the few times Emmrich made him twirl around just for the fun of it. The music then quieted down, but they stayed pressed together, breathing heavily, though not just with the exertion of dancing.

“Rook, you have no idea what you do to me,” Emmrich said, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. Rook liked the sight a lot.

“Oh? Wanna show me?”

“Is that a challenge, my dear?”

“And what if it is?”

Emmrich drew closer, his breath warm against Rook's lips, but he didn't kiss him just yet.

“Then I will make you mine tonight,” Emmrich whispered and Rook took him by the hand and dragged him out of the ballroom.

[tieflingkisser]

another favorite Tash and Lucanis Lighthouse banter

transcript:

Lucanis: So, Taash, are you nervous around me?

Taash: What? No.

Lucanis: But what about all the frightening stories your mother told you?

Taash: She stopped telling me those stories after she found me up on our roof.

Taash: I had a butter knife in each hand and the tablecloth tied around my neck.

Lucanis: (Laughs) You wanted to be a Crow, after all your mother did to make them sound terrifying?

Taash: The Crows sounded amazing. Also you had capes.

Lucanis: This explains so much about you.

[knownangels]

lighthouse

When he tells his mum, her knife clatters against the side of her plate and takes a chunk clear off the ceramic. Even if it weren’t cheap, it’s secondhand. Ugly, she calls those plates. I’ll buy us a nice set when we have the spare to spend. 

Guilty eyes track the shard as it spirals a dance across the moth-chewed tablecloth. They follow the floral pattern (not really ugly, just a little) as it spins on its curved edge to become a swirl of color. Green leaves, pastel blue and pink blossoms, blue, pink, blue — purple. 

He’s scared to lift them. It’s been just them so long they’ve grown accustomed to even patterns of breathing. Her air is angry. 

“Maran.” She clips his name out between clenched teeth. The broken shard stops spinning. He slides it back across the table, finger pressed to the smooth lip and obscuring those daintily painted flowers. 

“What?”

“Maran.” She says again, sounding like absolutely not. She won’t let those words slip. She rarely does. She gives and gives and gives.

His turn. Only fair. 

“I already signed it.” He forms his words into a laugh, hoping the rest that follow won’t become a fight. “Binding, isn’t it. Take me to court.”

When he glances up at his mum, sat across the kitchen table, her fist is tight around the knife. The grip is so tight he can see flushed blood beneath umber skin that wraps her knuckles.

“That is a long time —”

“It’s a lot of pay.” 

“Fuck of a lot for —” He tells her the exact amount, enunciating each zero.

Her mouth snaps shut. 

The kitchen falls silent. 

Maran watches something play across her face that he doesn’t feel at all equipped to interpret. The pull of her brow looks like it does when he’s caught her sniffling, but her mouth is fixed in that you did what snarl. And something else rests behind her dark eyes; it isn’t Saturday morning mirthful laziness, or the glitter of her grudge-holding snuck in while speaking to their stubbornly rude neighbor. 

There are two pairs of guilty eyes at the table. 

*

She sends him off with six jumpers, three pairs of hardy trousers, maybe a dozen pairs of socks, a sock darner that had been his summer whittling project, and a cloth bag of lavender sprigs that are meant for laundry. It clinks suspiciously when she tucks it into a pocket, so Maran sneaks up behind her to snatch it away.

“Little bastard!” She howls, snatching at the back of his shirt — too slow. He slips away and stumbles across the room, peering into the little bag. Tucked amongst the dried stems are a couple of rocks. Shiny as obsidian, silver flecks smooth under his thumb. 

“Don’t make fun of me.” She warns, crossing to prod at his stomach until he snaps his elbows tight to ward away the tickling.

“Did I open my mouth!” 

“No. Because you’re a smart one.” She teases. Her palm slows into a soft pet over the back of his hand. “And you be smart, okay? Ah, fuck’s sake. This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” 

He grins at her while she shakes his whole arm, her grip as tight in his sleeve as it was on the knife. He’s gone on jobs before — none so far or for as long away as this, sure. But he’s grown and he’s gone off alone. He’s come back every time. 

They both manage to hold it together until the moment he steps across the threshold. She drags him down for one last hug, one more pinch to a cheek she freckled herself. Maran squeezes her back just as tight; her soft, worried heaving make his eyes sting. 

Into each of his jumpers, at the nape of the neck, she’s sewn a simplified outline of their little house in thick yarn. Coral pink for him. Navy blue for her. He smoothes his thumb over the raised edge of it through her sweater, tracing the edge of the roof he’d once climbed and the gutter that hangs from a rusted screw that had once torn a red line down his calf and the corner of the eastern wall, which sports a hairline fracture from its settling foundation.

“Where you carry it.” Maran mumbles into her shoulder. Home’s where you carry it. It’s their code. Has been for as long as he remembered — at some point, he’d been little and unwilling to leave her arms to go to a neighbor’s or stay the night at a friend’s or be apart. Clingy, the both of them — I miss you, I’ll miss you was too much. Made them into congested full-on snotty, sniveling tears. And of course when one of them went off, the other was inevitable. 

“Shut up.” She groans, shaking him by dancing foot-to-foot. He laughs to be jostled. “Oh my days, Maran, would you shut your mouth? Really? I’d just stopped.”

But she says it back as he loads his meager packing over a shoulder. Really, really leaving. She says it a bunch of times, muddled between words of a prayer meant to shelter and guard and protect. One that, technically, asks him to be guided through a peaceful night into a safe return the next morning. Maran has never heard her pray aloud before.

And Maran won’t return the next morning. 

He won’t return for many, many more mornings.

*

He falls asleep on the bench at the docks, arms locked tight around the packed-full bag in his lap. He falls asleep on the ferry. He is the only passenger this late in the season, but his arms stay locked tight, fingers digging into the over-stuffed bag. He falls asleep, and because he sleeps so soundly to the crash of the waves against the boat, he would have no sense of time passing except for the mark of the sun in the sky. It warms his face. It warms his dreams; in them, he’s still sleeping, except now it’s a gentle summer morning beneath a willow

By its position, he wakes in late afternoon. He stumbles sleepily towards the cabin and knocks on the door. Privately, as it swings open, he imagines a dusty tomb’s crypt slab sliding free: the ferryman is up there in age. He’d been the only one to know the coordinates of their destination and how to navigate the waters — beyond the sound, the water became unpredictably shallow in places. The wrong captain would gut his ship trying to coast without experience. 

The old man looks as though he’s fallen asleep on the trip, as well. Maran isn’t sure if that’s a good sign, that he can make such a trip at ease, or a poor one. And, is it worse than the laugh he’d let out when Maran requested the lighthouse? Worse than the humored oh, there? he’d volleyed back?

*

The boat stops a distance away. Maran stands on the upper deck, fists tight to then rail. Like the boat can hold him there, in place. Like the inlet stretching before them is magnetic, like it wants to pull him, like if he lets go, he might as well be yanked across the remaining distance. 

Rest of the way on foot, the ferryman tells him. Maran doesn’t want to fucking move. He doesn’t want to look, either, but he can’t stop. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d gone into this blind, knowing it was good money for a reason. Not knowing — this. 

He thinks it looks like the half-finished grave of a monster, too ferocious to be properly buried. The craggy rocks and sea-sodden dirt pile unevenly around each spire where they rise from the earth. Every jutting piece of metal has been spaced evenly from the last; they form a gaping maw of time-tarnished teeth threatening to break through the mantle. At the center is the towering lighthouse, its white gold eye blinking shut, rotating, blinding, repeating.

The pattern is hypnotizing. He’d gotten in trouble for tearing a page from an oceanography picture book: an anglerfish and its beautiful lure, even on paper, had scared him that bad. 

As he stares upwards at the light, chin tilted towards the gentle patter of rain, Maran can only think of that crumpled page. 

“Cut it too close.”

Maran jumps. 

The ferryman extends the meager canvas bag. His frail arm isn’t so frail after all, even frozen there while Maran waits for his brain to catch back up to the moment. They stand at the edge of a rocky piece of land, jutting through the sea and extending towards the lighthouse in a narrow strip. 

“Sorry?”

As he slings the bag over his shoulder, Maran follows the old man’s gesture towards the monster — the lighthouse — in the distance. 

“Said, nearly cut it too close. Bridge’ll be gone by morning, if not sooner. That big hill it sits on?” He laughs. “Hope you’re ready to do some sland living for the next season.” 

Maran’s expression must betray his churning stomach, because the laugh tapers off. It isn’t followed by a noise of pity or comfort, which he sort of expects and would really like to hear.  “Um, that — well. That wasn’t really mentioned.”

The ferryman brays another laugh and claps him so hard on the shoulder that the stumbles forward. A wave laps at the toe of his shoe. He dances back from the shoreline, back into the vicinity of the old bloke, whose sea-spied smell Maran can no longer differentiate from the rest of the salt in the air. 

“Well of course it fuckin’ weren’t. Dumb enough fuckers, th’lot of the green ones like you. No offense. And even then, y’think they’d be stupid enough to take the job, fixed with all its details?” He snorts. “No chance.”

Maran stares.

“Like I said. No offense, lad. Look, stop givin’ me that. You’ll be right as, nice and cozy and cushy. Waited on hand n’foot, fresh fruit, meals cooked to your specifications…”

“You’re being a prick—”

“I’m providing levity to the situation at hand.” The man lifts his cap with a dramatically flourished bow that is cut short by a wince, hand to the small of his back. Maran fights a smile. “Ooh. Ow. You’ll need it, with the real prick about.”

Maran glances towards the rolling waves for a split second, which is as much as his stomach can bare before he gulps and has to look away. “Did they fail to mention the sea monster too, then?”

Another chortle. “Aye, there y’are. Levity. And naw, no monster — far as we know, right? Just company. ‘Least with that you can give yourself over to somethin’ other than the looming threat of isolation madness.” The ferryman wiggles his fingers. 

He wrinkles his nose and slings the bag tighter to his body. If he makes it to the lighthouse quick enough, the whipping ocean air might yet have spared its smell of home. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Naw.” He agrees, winking and tapping his nose. “More.” 

They part with no fanfare. Maran heeds his warning about the upcoming season and its weather and surrenders a fistful of candy in exchange for the promise of a note sent home, which he scrawls quickly against the ferryman’s curved spine. 

Mum - Arrived. Incredibly creepy. View’s okay, otherwise. Sweater’s warm, thanks for patching that bit under the arm. Doing well! Will continue to do well! Will see you soon, doing fuckin’ well! -Maran

“Fuck’s sake,” the man crows, flapping a hand behind him. “Y’said one. A note, not a novel.” 

*

It’s a fifteen minute walk towards the far shore. It is the longest fifteen minutes of his life. The lighthouse seems to not move any closer — and yet, at the same time, his eyes tell him it grows on the horizon. Closer and larger and closer and larger, until he walks into the shadow of one of its guarding spires. The one nearest him looks blackened at the top, and he realizes then that they must be lightning rods. The lighthouse itself is metal, or the exterior at least.

Algae slips beneath his shoes. The path is well worn. He keeps his eyes forward as he walks, too scared they’ll wander to the side and into the depths of the sea and he’ll find something looking back. But even still, his gaze is drawn down every few paces. He has to keep an eye on it or else he’ll fall, and being in the water with whatever lurks beneath the waves is worse than simply seeing it, right? 

Like the path, the base of each spire —and the lighthouse itself — is dottingly adorned with barnacles, weathered a mottled gray in spots by salt, bleached in others by sun. But whatever metal composes them is dark. It doesn’t turn a pretty teal like aged copper, and yet he has a sense by looking at it the alloy is old. Maybe ancient.

At the thought, Maran shivers. He clutches his coat tighter to his body as he ascends the stairs up the hill, closer and closer to the rising pillar. Childishly, he’s relieved to find the lighthouse doesn’t hide the sun. He hates that in stories — when something blots out the sun. Fucking awful omen, if ever there was one. Instead, as he gazes up, he finds that it sits slightly to the left. He stands there, shielding his eyes and watching the yolk-yellow light drip as the horizon beckons it below, and breathes a sigh. 

It’ll be fine. Home for awhile — not forever. Proper fucking scary, sure, but only awhile. Lid on the dramatics’ll make it easier. 

Maran shuts his eyes and takes another deep lungful of air; it smells close enough to that his heart quiets a bit. The return of its steady beat gives him enough courage to take the stairs two at a time — stupid, because they’re slippery as the walk down. But it makes the trip more enjoyable. Makes it seem more fun and less like he’s walking himself towards…well. He isn’t sure. 

An experience decidedly not fun. 

*

He’s winded by the time he reaches the front door. It’s thick, weathered dark wood with a massive brass knocker. He contemplates it for a moment, finds he hasn’t the energy to lift the contraption, and instead braces himself on the frame. He surveys the rest of the inlet. Although the sky is clear, not yet hazed by the approaching night, he can barely make out the mainland’s sleek mirage. The ferry is also a further distance away than he thought — almost as if the old man had hurried to leave. 

He shivers again, sick of omens. Sick of superstition. With a wet dog shake, he catalogues the rest of the tiny grounds. The lighthouse and its maw, which he tries hard not to think about as surrounding him too; a study oak two-story attaché that bulges from the side of the lighthouse obelisk like a tumor, dotted with narrow windows and an old chimney, where he presumes he’ll be boarding; a rainwater cistern and well with pumps that seem, from one glance, to be at least attached. Beyond, towards the far edge of the hill near the shore, is a storage shed and a chicken coop. 

Maran brightens a bit at the idea of more company, other than a faceless nameless second keeper. He had no idea if the coop was occupied but his mum had always loved feeding birds. Every haircut, she’d make Maran gather his curls in a towel and toss them out the window. 

Good nesting material. 

When he goes to knock at the door, Maran’s rubbing a thoughtful hand over the crown of his head. He needs a cut. 

The door swings open, and Maran thinks: well, at least I’m not the only one.

*

They sit at the tiny kitchen table. It’s a smaller room than even the one back home. At the thought of it, Maran shuffles. He fingers thread tighter together, knee bouncing. 

He wouldn’t describe his company as unkempt. Haphazard, maybe. He needs a haircut, same as Maran: light strands spread out from his knit hat, stick to his cheeks from the damp sea breeze. He needs a new pair of boots, too. Maran knows how that goes. 

Neither of them have taken off their coats yet; the other man sits back in his chair with a lazy recline, one arm tossed behind, his coat open and hanging off his shoulders. Maran looks everywhere but that penetrating, unblinking stare. He feels himself being sized-up, judged, found wanting. 

Whatever expectations he’s had, Maran falls short. 

“You’ve n-never done this before.” 

It’s the first thing either one of them has said since Maran was ushered inside.

“Um.” He glances around the tiny room, making note of everything (stoveiceboxstoragebootscoatrackstairswindow) besides the other man and that stare. He laughs nervously. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” The chair opposite creaks. Maran still doesn’t look up. “You scared of the ocean, or something?” 

Maran thinks about that long, long fifteen minutes. He thinks about the waves lapping at either side of the rocky bridge. Thinks about his worn flat-soled shoes across slippery algae. Thinks about losing his footing. Thinks about falling in. Thinks about —

“Yes.” He laughs again. “Yeah, like. Very. Kinda daft, takin’ a job like this. I mean. Considering?”

“K-Kinda? Very.” 

When he looks up, the stare has shifted towards the tight thread of his fingers. Maran feels the weight of it, the judgment, and squeezes tighter. 

*

They don’t get on. Maran tries not to let it bother him. But the first thing he’s asked to do is fix a leak in the cistern collection pipe. He hasn’t a moment to set his things down, or find a good place to tuck the square of fabric he stows beneath his pillow, or clear his head of this new situation and its anxieties. 

The order is lobbied, a bit coldly, in his general direction. Maran lets his hand drop to his side, smile faltering. 

“I—Well, fuck. Thought we might as well be on a name basis, since we’ll be stuck together a bit.”

“If you last the night, s-sure.” He’s met not with an introduction but a cruel, smarter-than-you sneer. “Last five guys apparently tossed themselves from the top, and those were hardy s-seamen.” The other man snorts. “Seamen.” 

*

He wishes he could speak to Benji. Just for a moment — just that quick burst of frustration to let out. Uncork. The excitement, the homesickness, the frustration, the fear. Instead, he settles for cursing under his breath the entire twenty minutes it takes to make the repair, the entire thirty seconds to round the lighthouse. The barrage of four-letter words only pauses when he finds the front door.

Bolted into the thicker metal is a panel. It’s about five hands tall and three across, with whirls and divots scattered across the surface. In some places, like each of the four corners, the metal has been worn smooth. 

He realizes the barely visible markings must be all that remains of engraved letters. It looks as though the plaque is commemorative of the lighthouse’s birthdate, or maybe who its named after, or a historical tidbit. Whatever the details, they’ve been lost to time.

Passing through the entry gives Maran another missed detail. A sudden gust of wind sends him lurching in quite a bit faster than he intended. His shoulder connects painfully with the doorframe, and something digs in to the swell of his bicep. 

The other keeper is nowhere to be seen, so he doesn’t feel so bad about the startled yelp he lets out. Pouting, Maran rubs at the sore spot and looks for the culprit — only to discover that it’s a thick chunk bolted to the interior frame. The shape is familiar, a rectangle about as long as his finger and domed slightly. He smiles a little, thumbnail tracing the marking barely visible beneath layers of paint: a mezuzah. 

They don’t have any in the entryways  of their home, but his mum had told him about her childhood. And this far, it was a good reminder of that connection. 

He had been hoping it would curb some of the lingering fear.

*

It doesn’t. The fear twists in him until he falls asleep, and then without his consciousness to stifle, it springs forth.  Maran dreams. 

He steps up to the door and presses his hand on the plaque and is snatched into the sky. By the wind, or a hand in the back of his shirt, or the earth falling slipping beneath his feet. He hovers far above the inlet, a proper island now that the sea has eaten the path. No return. No hope going back home. 

When Maran reaches up to check that the embroidery still nestles against his neck, the ground rushes to meet him. He falls and falls and falls, plummeting towards the ground. He thinks briefly to look up, at the sky and sun, maybe have his tragic final moment be nice at least. But his skull is locked forward like there are icy fingers holding him still. Forcing him to watch as the grey rock and coarse sand rushes to meet him. He’ll be broken against the rocks, or flatten to the waves, or worse — 

He doesn’t feel the landing. But when he tries to sit up and assess the damage, hand behind him to touch the ground, it isn’t there. Looking to either side, he realizes he’s hovering slightly — but not caught by divine machination or mysterious mercy. 

Instead, one of the spires has made an impaled home in his gut. There’s no blood, no tear in his jumper, no pain. When Maran reaches up to touch the metal, a soft oh leaves his lips. 

*

It’s a scream when he wakes, though. He has the sensation of falling as he shoots upright, and it takes a moment to gather himself. He’s sweating, a hand clutched to his shirt. 

On the other side of the shared living space, Maran’s unnamed companion also sits awake. His legs are pale, dangling over the edge of his cot — well, Maran has the cot. He has the bed. First come, first serve. 

“N-nightmare?” 

Maran nods. His breathing wavers. He doesn’t want to cry in front of a stranger.  

“Yep.” He lies back down abruptly, turning his back too Maran. “Figured. Don’t go s-swimming. There’s an algae bloom. You’ll get fl-flesh eating bacteria and die. Slowly.”

Maran takes as deep a breath as he can manage. His hand, flattening over his stomach, doesn’t find a raised scar or wet wound or evidence at all of his dream. The relief feels childish. “Okay.” 

There’s a stretch of silence, where Maran thinks the other man might have fallen asleep, then: 

“Benson.”

*

The first week, Maran chips away at the mezuzah’s paint. He doesn’t recognize the letter carved into the wood, but he knows it’s oak — like the rest of the house. He finds another bolted to the beam that supports the spiral stairs leading up to the top of the lighthouse. There’s no door, no entryway, and he’s baffled as to why it’s there of all places when none sit in the frames of the living space of bathroom or storage shed. He stares up at the dizzying spiral, the flash-blink-flash of the mysterious light above, and decides not to dwell.

Instead, in the first week, he assesses the coop: full of fed and happy hens and one unhappy. He sterilizes and fashions an empty barrel in the shed to hold water in case of emergency, which gets a an approving nod from — Benson is a mouthful, but Maran hasn’t called him Ben anywhere but his own head. As starved as he is for companionship and guidance in this new place, the other keeper seems more interested in keeping to himself than listening to Maran ramble. 

The first week, Maran carries home on his back and tries to make the best. He flings himself into chores, preparing with all the (admittedly meager) knowledge he has of surviving a long season. And he avoids the spires. He avoids looking at them. He doesn’t touch them. He gives them, as best as the small expanse of land will allow, as respectful a distance as possible. 

For what it’s worth, the dream doesn’t repeat.

*

The second week, the third, the fourth: they pass. He hasn’t nearly enough to fill the hours, but there’s work enough to be done that he manages. There is a bookshelf full of dusty paperbacks and a few hardcovers that he largely ignores. Nothing calls to him (reading never has), and his fingers would feel gruesome touching page corners previously flipped by the dead. 

Bens— Ben has no trouble devouring their contents. He finishes a book a day. Maybe more. Even the thick academic tomes eventually get placed in his finished pile. Over time, Maran urges a summary from each. Mysteries, thrillers (an ear-reddening romance that seems more wank-accessory than literature), and even an ancient almanac. 

“The weather patterns and harvests and b-b-biodiver —” Ben pauses, his brow furrowing. “The environment completely changed. It’s fascinating.” 

Maran listens to all this with a fist tucked under his chin, attention rapt. Just because he doesn’t want to read doesn’t mean he lacks interest. Ben, as it turns out, is the perfect teacher. And for good reason; Maran finds out, as the time stretches, that he’s a scientist. While the money called, the opportunity for research seemed more attractive to Ben. 

“It’s just a little lighthouse.” Maran laughs. “What’s so interesting about ten paces of grass and some chickens?”

“It’s w-weird.” Ben asserts, leaning across the rickety table to make a serious face. Maran laughs. The smile that’s been pulling at the corner of Ben’s mouth comes out full force. For the first time. “Nobody’s studied it. Little isolated place, all this sea around it? S-Something’s here.” 

He launches into theories, then. Barometric pressure readings and tidal temperatures and nitrogen levels in stagnant pools and evolutionary patterns of fauna — 

Maran is kept by no invisible force; simply sits there, hands around his mug of tea, blinks occasionally. Mostly, listens.

*

 He tries to keep track of the time, after that. Things become…strange. The weather milds, then worsens. It snows early, and then he finds a raspberry bush behind the coop that boasts new buds. Maran finds his hair needs to be cut. Without a mirror, he has no choice but to go to Ben. 

“What’s the best way to go about this, you reckon?” Maran laughs haltingly, empty bin for clipping clutched to his chest. 

Benny glances around, then back at Maran, the slight difference in their heights with his boots and Maran’s trainers, the kitchen table. Then he drags the chair over (with an awful screech that makes Maran wince) and hops onto the table. It sways but doesn’t break. When he tugs the chair and gestures towards it, Maran hesitates. 

“C’mon. You want it b-buzzed. It’s that hard. I’m not gonna d-do you dirty.” Ben laughs. It’s become a more common sound over the past month. Still, he stays where he is. Ben rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Maran.” 

He goes. He goes immediately. Maran stumbles on the leg of the chair and is caught at the shoulder by a firm hand, but eventually he plants himself in the wooden seat. 

He isn’t sure he breathes the entire length of the haircut. But that can’t be right — it takes too long. Ben is meticulous. Ben is careful. He makes small talk about his latest experiment, something about nematodes and red algae. Maran watches curls float softly to the bottom of the bin and wonders if he’s getting sick. His head’s pounding with his pulse, and his brain’s foggy. He touches a finger under his nose at one point; he’d been prone to nosebleeds as a kid. His fingerprint comes back dry. 

Ben lays a hand across his shoulder. “All done.” 

Maran doesn’t move for a moment. His eyes lift, and he glances across the room, out the thin window that sits just above the utility sink.

There are storm clouds on the horizon. 

He must say as much, because Ben leaps to his feet. “Fuck, those stupid fucking birds are out.”The table rattles. So does the bin, when Maran drops it. He scoops up the hair that flutters out, feeling tears prick at his eyes when a tuft slips out the open door on the wind. The gulls have cleared out already — there’s no birds who will use it for their nest. He watches as the clouds creep closer, and is inexplicably filled with dread.

*

The next morning, Ben sits at the table with his head folded in his hands. 

“We lose something?” Maran asks tiredly, rubbing a fist into his sleep-sore eye. “Cistern looked fine when I checked but if there’s a repair —”

“Supply was supposed to be yesterday.”

Maran blinks a few times. He glances at the door. “Oh. The storm.” 

Ben’s eyes are red-ringed when he lifts his head. 

* 

Maran does it. He makes the excuse for more firewood from the pile, but Ben’s smart. Ben’s the scientist. He must know. He chooses the oldest girl and kisses an apology to the top of her head before it’s lobbed off, clean and kind. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to say, if he’s meant to say anything, so he just repeats the snippets he heard from his mum. Shelter, guard, peace over night and safety the next morning. 

*

Rationing isn’t hard. They only have to do it for a little, anyway. And Maran is used to lean months — he knows how to make rice last, chicken can keep on ice for six months on a stretch, and there’s plenty of canned things to pick through if it comes to that.

It’s not the chickens that starts to do Ben in. It’s the inconsistent weather, the nights that feel shorter than eight hours, and sometimes, the water near the south edge of the inlet reads boiling. 

Maran isn’t sure if that’s algae. He doesn’t think so — but he’s not the scientist.

The scientist insists there’s something there. The scientist starts having nightmares. Maran wants to ask if they’re the same as his, because they touch his mind some nights, too. He’s scared of the answer. He’s scared that it’s only been three months, and the isolation has gotten to them both.

“Is it electric?” Maran asks one evening as he’s bundling up at the base of the stairs, chin tipped up towards the flash-blink-flash. A panel has come loose near the top, and someone needs to fix it. Ben hadn’t needed to ask for Maran to know it would need to be his job.

He looks at Ben when his inquiry his met by silence. They rarely are. Ben looks even paler than usual, washed in the patterned churn of darkness and light, dark and light. His eyes reflect the light; Maran thinks it might be more hypnotic against that blue than the dark blanket of sky. He doesn’t say as much, and when the moment passes, he wishes he had.

“I don’t know.” Ben gestures around them. No wires, he doesn’t say but Maran gathers. No generator. But it goes and goes, a continual spin, continual light. There are no traces of burnt soot or wick or lantern oil to pretend it’s light is sourced by fire. The original analog. It must be electric. *

It hurts to think about, so he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t make Ben think about it either. That night, they do nothing but swap embarrassing stories like a couple of kids, cross-legged on the floor with a split two-thumbs of the last flask of rum and an unfinished card deck. Ben wins, but only (Maran insists) because most of the hearts are missing. 

When Maran lands on his cot, the left leg that creaks and keeps him up when he turns splinters, shatters, drops him to the floor. 

Ben laughs, but it’s not the usual pleasantly high lilt. It sounds a little manic. Maran feels manic. He splays arms and legs out, a starfish on dry land, and stares up at the weathered ceiling.

“I don’t want to jinx it—”

“D-Don’t, oh hah — oh, don’t fucking say anything you b-b-b—”

Maran raps his knuckles against the floor. “It cannot get fucking worse than this, mate. Swear!”

Ben tosses himself back against the mattress, and the creak that resounds in the quiet air makes them both pause — anticipating the comedic timing— but remains upright. They catch each others eye, and the laughter doubles. Maran’s stomach hurts with the force of it. When he splays his hand across his tensing gut, he hopes he thinks of this moment instead of his nightmare. 

Ben catches his breath. And then he leans across the space, one hand braced on the floor, to tug at Maran’s jumper. There’s another pause, another quiet swell of silence, another extended moment where they lock eyes. 

Ben doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer. But he shuffles back, shoulders to the wall, and makes room. 

Maran fills it. 

That night, there’s another storm.

*

There’s another storm. Or earthquake. Or other tectonic shift. Something that shakes the inlet, shakes the attached house and spills pans and belongings and rations, knocks a shelf from the wall, rattles the furniture, forces the lighthouse to creak and groan like a metallic beast. 

Something. Maran isn’t the scientist, but the waves beat as high as the window and the coop is washed away by morning and the cistern is flooded with salt, has to be pumped, and —

And it’s something. And the light is red.

The light has gone red. Flash-red-blink-flash-red. Red.

*

Ben joins him at the base of the stairs. Neither of them climb up to investigate. Neither of them externally share the internal fear that it might be a one-way trip.

They go about their day without speaking. There’s no acknowledgement of the light, or how it spreads in a sick tinge across the waves, or how it doesn’t breach the surrounding fog nearly as well as the bright golden yellow. Maran doesn’t ask him to read the aviary guide’s entry on canaries, and Ben doesn’t offer — he makes space, and Maran fills it. 

Maran has a nightmare. He dreams of climbing the stains and sitting on the floor in front of the light. He dreams of watching it turn (slowslowslowly). He understands, in that distant dreamlike way, that when it touches him that will be It. And when it does, red light spilling over the patch in his jeans at the knee, it burns through denim and skin and bone and all that’s left of him, at the top of that staircase, is the flash of red over dust. 

He wakes, but not violently. Arms around his waist keep him in place; he can only jerk forward, as if throwing himself away from the heat, and cry out. There’s a knowing, similar to his dream, that if he opens his eyes all he’ll see is that reflected wash of crimson. 

He doesn’t say anything. Ben, face buried in his shoulder, only shushes quietly. He turns until Maran has no choice but to do so as well, until their positions are switched. Maran draws air as they slot together, moves back a bit — he starts to apologize, because it was nightmare but — 

Ben pats behind him for Maran’s hip. His hand fits snugly there, grips with a strength and insistent that spills heat into Maran’s face. Then he yanks Maran forward until they press together, chest to back and hip to hip, legs warmly tangled.

“Sorry.” 

Ben hums sleepily. “For?” 

Maran can’t verbalize it. Too embarrassing, too heavy the shame. His lips part but stutter over the explanation. And he can’t move to explain, because — well — 

“Um. You know.” He sighs when there’s silence. “Ben, mate. C’mon.”

The body tucked against him shudders with a laugh, which does absolutely nothing to fix the situation at hand. 

“S’fine. I’m fucking with you, Maran. H-Happens.” When Maran takes his turn with silence, he isn’t permitted to get away with it. Ben nudges himself back (purposefully, the bastard, it has to be) and makes Maran gasp. “Regularly, here’s hoping.”

“Fuck you.” Maran grumbles, but the heat is probably lost when he rubs his cheek into a sharp shoulder blade and falls immediately back to sleep. 

*

The next morning, just as Ben leans in with hands cupping Maran’s cheeks, a foghorn sounds. 

Ben squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his tongue — which Maran cannot help but stare at — against his canine, head falling with a thump-thump-thump against the pillow they shared.

“If this is a hallucination I’m going to be actually so fuckin’ pissed.” 

Maran shifts, untangling their limbs from the almost-kiss embrace. It would have been nice. He wants it. More than he realized, he thinks, until they were exactly here. But —

“That’s the ferry.” 

They stare at each other. Then they nearly trip over one another bolting for the stairs.

*

It is. It’s not a hallucination. It is the fucking ferry.

Both of them, barefoot and in nothing but thermal underclothes, rush out the front door and steps towards the edge of the water. It’s still too shallow for the vessel, so Maran takes the dinghy out to bring the old familiar face to the inlet. 

“Light’s gone wonky, then?” 

“Have you ever seen it do that?” Maran asks, putting a plate of ration-gruel in front of the man. “Sorry. All we got.”

The old ferryman makes a face. It isn’t a pleasant one at all. “Rough month, lads?”

*

When he’s gone, and the sack of supplies rests against the front door like a sandbag meant to keep something out, Maran watches Ben pace the floor. 

“A month.” 

“It can’t have been.” Maran insists quietly, hands tucked between his knees. “It can’t have been just a month. I was counting days. We ate three of supplies — we nearly ran out.” He stares up at Ben, eyes not just wet but brimming, spilling over. “Are we losing it? Are we?” 

“No.” Ben’s turn to insist. He takes Maran’s chin in his palm and shakes him gently. The other flattens over the top of his scalp. “Your hair grew, Mar. It grew. That’s n-n-not a month’s fuckin’ worth of hair I cut.”

But they have no explanation, do they? Other than isolation. A mistracking of days, no matter how precise Ben is, how clean and careful his records. How consistent his notes. Wrong? And the sun in the sky, the passage of time; if he counts the minutes of boredom, that can’t wrong. Seconds, minutes, hours: real. Tides: real. Moon phases: real. That can’t be wrong. Ben can’t be. There has to be another explanation. There has to be another way —

Maran’s brow furrows. 

“I think.” He glances up at Ben, whose hand falls away to rest over the back of his neck. Maran hasn’t told him about the embroidered house at his nape, but a pale thumb rubs its comforting circle there, anyway. “I think you were right.” 

“What? Your hair?” 

“No.” Maran glances over his shoulder towards the door that separates them from the interior of the lighthouse. He thinks of the mezuzah on the beam. “No, Ben. That there’s something here. I think it’s underneath.”

Ben’s hands sting when they clap to his cheeks, but the kiss makes the pain worth it. Or, Maran thinks privately, maybe sweeter.

[nauticalhomedecors]

Discover the Charm of Italian Handcrafted Nautical-Themed Table Accessories

Are you seeking to bring a touch of coastal elegance to your dining space? Imagine a table set with exquisite nautical-themed accessories, each piece crafted with meticulous attention to detail by skilled Italian artisans. But what makes these handcrafted items so special, and how can they enhance your dining experience? Let's dive into the captivating world of Italian handcrafted nautical-themed table accessories.

What Defines Nautical-Themed Table Accessories?

Nautical-themed table accessories are inspired by the sea, evoking the charm and tranquility of coastal life. These items often feature motifs like anchors, ships, lighthouses, seashells, and marine life. The color palette typically includes shades of blue, white, and beige, reminiscent of the ocean and sandy beaches.

Key Elements of Nautical Design

1. Marine Motifs: Common designs include anchors, ship wheels, starfish, and seahorses.

2. Color Scheme: Dominated by navy blue, crisp white, and sandy beige, often accented with red or gold.

3. Materials: Natural materials such as wood, rope, and canvas are frequently used, along with metal and glass for a touch of elegance.

Why Choose Italian Handcrafted Accessories?

Italian craftsmanship is renowned for its attention to detail, quality, and tradition. When you opt for Italian handcrafted nautical-themed table accessories, you are not just buying decor; you are investing in pieces that tell a story of heritage and artistry.

The Art of Italian Craftsmanship

1. Heritage and Tradition: Italy has a long-standing tradition of artisanal craftsmanship, passed down through generations.

2. Quality and Durability: Handcrafted items are made with superior materials and techniques, ensuring longevity and durability.

3. Unique Designs: Each piece is unique, reflecting the artisan's creativity and dedication to their craft.

How Do These Accessories Transform Your Dining Space?

The addition of nautical-themed table accessories can completely transform the ambiance of your dining area, making it feel like a serene seaside retreat.

Creating an Inviting Atmosphere

1. Theme Coherence: Coordinating accessories like tablecloths, napkins, placemats, and centerpieces can create a cohesive nautical theme.

2. Aesthetic Appeal: The calming colors and intricate designs bring a touch of elegance and tranquility.

3. Conversation Starters: Unique pieces can spark conversations and admiration from guests.

Practical Uses

1. Tablecloths and Runners: These set the stage for your theme, with nautical prints or embroidery.

2. Napkin Rings and Holders: Often featuring small marine motifs, they add a charming detail.

3. Centerpieces: Items like model ships, lanterns, and seashell arrangements serve as focal points.

4. Serving Ware: Platters, bowls, and utensils with nautical designs enhance the dining experience.

What Are Some Popular Italian Nautical-Themed Table Accessories?

Italy offers a plethora of beautiful nautical-themed table accessories, each uniquely crafted to embody the spirit of the sea.

Must-Have Items

1. Ceramic Plates and Bowls: Hand-painted with marine scenes or motifs, these are both functional and decorative.

2. Glassware: Etched or painted with nautical designs, perfect for serving drinks.

3. Cutlery: Often featuring handles with anchor or seashell designs.

4. Table Linens: High-quality fabrics with embroidered or printed nautical themes.

Unique Finds

1. Handcrafted Wooden Serving Trays: Featuring intricate carvings of sea creatures or ships.

2. Decorative Bottle Stoppers: Shaped like lighthouses or seahorses, adding a fun touch to wine bottles.

3. Lanterns and Candle Holders: Designed to look like mini lighthouses, providing a warm, coastal glow.

How to Care for Your Handcrafted Accessories?

Proper care ensures that your Italian handcrafted nautical-themed table accessories remain beautiful and functional for years.

Maintenance Tips

1. Cleaning: Use mild soap and water for ceramics and glassware; avoid harsh chemicals. For wood and metal, use appropriate cleaners to prevent damage.

2. Storage: Store items in a dry place to avoid moisture damage. Use protective covers for delicate items.

3. Handling: Handle with care to avoid chips and scratches, especially for hand-painted and delicate pieces.

Where Can You Find Authentic Italian Handcrafted Nautical Accessories?

Finding authentic Italian nautical-themed table accessories involves seeking out reputable artisans and suppliers.

Shopping Tips

1. Artisan Markets and Shops: Visit local markets and specialty shops in Italy for unique finds.

2. Online Retailers: Look for reputable sites like www.amalfi-outfitters.com, that offer genuine Italian handcrafted items.

3. Certifications and Reviews: Check for authenticity certifications and customer reviews to ensure quality and authenticity.

Conclusion

Italian handcrafted nautical-themed table accessories offer a delightful way to bring the essence of the sea into your home. From the meticulous craftsmanship to the unique designs, these accessories not only enhance the aesthetic appeal of your dining space but also create a serene and inviting atmosphere. Whether you're hosting a dinner party or enjoying a quiet meal with family, these beautiful pieces are sure to impress and inspire. So, why not embark on this nautical journey and discover the charm of Italian handcrafted table accessories for yourself?

[lizzisimss]

Light Academia Apartment

CC used (list below) 1312 21 Chic Street apartment in San Myshuno 1 bed, 1 bath $69,825

Aira – https://www.patreon.com/airacc

Bubble candle

Luxury runner

Mini calendar

Mini easel

Notebooks with stickers

Vanilla dish rack

Vanilla recipe book

ATS4 - https://sims4.aroundthesims3.com/

Canisters basic

Canisters square

Kitchenrack

Brazenlotus – https://www.brazenlotus.com/

SecondChance

charly pancakes - https://www.patreon.com/charlypancakes

The Lighthouse Collection merged

Chalk merged

Lavish merged

Miscellanea merged

Modish merged

Smol merged

Soak merged

Felixandre – https://www.patreon.com/felixandre

Fayun Part 2

Shop the look season 1 merged

house of harlix - https://www.houseofharlix.com

Orjanic Merged

Bafroom

Baysic Bathroom Merged

Baysic Merged

Jardane Merged

Livin’Rum Merged

harrie - https://www.patreon.com/heyharrie

Brownstone Collection merged

DU Windows Updated

Octave part 2 merged

Octave part 4 merged

Shop The Look

KKB – https://www.patreon.com/user?u=15789815

Citrus Room

leaf motif - https://leaf-motif.tumblr.com

2202 Magnolia Bathroom

Botanic Boudoir

Little Ceramics

Starlight Crystals

Sunny Corner

Vintage Crockery

Patron gift 1

Patron gift 2

Patron gift 5

Patron gift 7

Lilis-palace – https://www.patreon.com/lilis_palace

Folklore Set Off the Grid Living

Intarsia Biedermeier Set

Intarsia Wainscot Wonderland

Landscape Paintings

Littlecakes – https://litttlecakes.tumblr.com/downloadspage

Twinkly lights LC

littledica - https://www.patreon.com/littledica

Rise & Grind Café merged

Madlen – https://www.patreon.com/madlen

Nuri Rug

max 20 - https://www.patreon.com/Max20

Master bedroom pack

Child dream kit

Mechtasims - https://www.patreon.com/mechtasims

Aphrodite Set Book

Mlys – https://mlyssimblr.tumblr.com/cc-catalog

Pufferhead

Deco Deskop Glove

my cup of cc -https://www.patreon.com/mycupofcc

ColourTalk Kitchen Merged

myshunosun - https://www.patreon.com/myshunosun

Serene Bathroom

Arrie office

Daria Bedroom

Dawn Living

Dawn Storage

Gale Dining

Simmify instant camera

Herbalist Kitchen

Vanity Nook

MXIMS – https://mxims.tumblr.com/

IKEA Barso Wall Grid B

ND – https://www.thesimsresource.com/artists/NynaeveDesign/

Lyne Half Blinds V2

Networksims - https://www.thesimsresource.com/members/networksims/

Doubt Wooden Floor

Novvvas – http://ts4novvvas.blogspot.com/

Vintage floor

oni - https://www.patreon.com/oni28

Cottage Kitchen

Vintage living room

peacemaker - https://peacemaker-ic.tumblr.com/TS4O...

BakerSeating

CretaKitchen

HamptonsRetreat

HinterlandsBedroom

HudsonBathroom

KingstonDining

KitayamaDining

Bowed Arched Lamp

pierisim - https://www.patreon.com/pierisim

Previous Promises

MCM

Oak House

The Office mini kit

Tidying up

Auntie Vera Bathroom

Domaine Du Clos

Winter Garden

Puffersuffer - https://www.patreon.com/puffersuffer

3pack tablecloth

RVSN – https://ravasheen.com/downloads/

SmartsContent School Posters

simplisticsims - http://simplisticsims4.com

RHckbreadbox

RHshadeA

Roundrug

Vintagecountryartllb

sixiamcc - https://imfromsixam.tumblr.com/

Artz

BirkerLine

Hotel Bedroom

LuxBath

SurelySims

KoT Appliance RangeHood

FalloutBaby Glow Stars

SYB – https://www.patreon.com/Syboubou

Bonbon

Galileo

Nathalie

Ohmygoth

TaurusDesign –

Cassandra Bathroom

Dina Dining Room

Eliza Bedroom

Eliza WalkInCloset

Elsa KidsRoom

Nina Living Room

Clutter Cat - https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/thec...

222

Cat milk no 1 reloaded

Cat milk no 2 reloaded

Japan juice

Mellow Mini

Mellow Moods

Xfest22

Busy bee

Busy bee 2

TUDS -https://www.patreon.com/TudTuds

Beam Parte 2 V01 Merged

Beam Kitchen Complete Set Merged

Wave merged

Awingedllama – https://www.patreon.com/awingedllama

Apartment therapy inspired stuff v2 merged

[anothersimlishtragedy]

The Old Lighthouse, Brindleton Bay, 1800s, The Golden Hour

House by @simlicy

Lighting overhaul @softerhaze

Hair @buzzardly28

Dress @historicalsimslife

Tablecloth/table @lilis-palace

Bread/cheese platter @littlbowbub

Rug @anachrosims

Hat, teacup, cutlery @kerriganhouse

[littlepatchalchemist]

Our Flag Means Death patches. Arrr.

[image description: The first image shows a patch of Jim and Oluwande from Our Flag Means death. The patch rests on three oranges which rest on a grey tablecloth. In the patch Jim (a Latino person in a brown jacket and large brimmed hat) and Oluwande (a Black man in a greyish brown shirt and orange cap) stand together under an orange tree.

The second image has a patch of Steve Bonnet (a white man in a green vest and white shirt) and Blackbeard (a Brown man in a black shirt with a grey beard) facing away from each other. Between them is a lighthouse, and under them is waves. The patch is on a red book on a grey tablecloth. There are two shark and one dragon earrings placed around the patch.

The third image is of a patch that reads ‘go suck eggs in hell’ written in light purple on a flame background. The patch sits on a dark brown table surrounded by some red and yellow string.

The fourth patch is of Buttons (a white man with long blond hair) with a seagull on his head. The patch rests on a small notebook with blue, green, and grey swirled drawn on it. The notebook rests on a white carpet.]

[southslates]

like an angry god

@kanejweek day four: darkness (corrupted ambition) / kanej / canon divergence - soulmates - one-shot - rated T / read on ao3! / 2007 words

Inej Ghafa comes to Ketterdam as part of a traveling circus. She doesn’t mean to enjoy the city, with its sharp architecture and cold edges, with its people who pray to kruge, but she does. There is something haunting in its corridors, something which whispers to her in its alleys. Inej is a gravity-defying girl, she is an acrobat and nothing more, but these late-night Kerch streets set fire to her bones. It is as if Ghezen has come alive to speak to her and tell her she could be more.

It's strange because she thinks she has everything. She also feels like she is missing something—not something that needs to be there, but some defining feature of her. She feels like she is spinning a wheel with a loose axel.

Ironically, she stumbles upon the Crow Club when Malik takes her in, wanting to try his hand at Makker’s Wheel. She indulges her cousin and lets him drag her into the lively business in the darkest hours of the night, knowing that they’re on break tomorrow. The Suli do not forbid fun, and they drink, Inej has drunk, but she does not want to in this strange city.

She ends up drinking anyway. She is caught up in the moment, caught up in the lights above the table, the large, large gambling hall, and almost in Salim, the friend Malik had brought with him to the club. Inej likes him, has always liked him, and the sight of him loosens her inhibitions. They loosen her inhibitions so far that she forgets him.

Inej wanders off across the hall, stopping to see the sheer variety of people who habit it: a white splatter of the upper-middle class of the Kerch, lazing away a Saturday; a collection of young children from Novyi Zem, laughing away in the corner; even a splashing of Fjerdans, staying away from alcohol and looking distrustfully at the numbers in front of them. It’s an experience, she can admit even halfway down her glass, eyes shining.

At some point she wanders over to a setting of Kerch men and women playing a game she doesn’t quite understand; they’re holding chips and laughing, cards dancing in front of their eyes. Inej has always been a quick study with these gambling games, though she detests playing; it’s something else the city has whispered into her mind, perhaps. It is the Ketterdam in her blood, though she’s certain she has never been here before. She has never been here before.

She sits at the table and picks up another glass. She will be fine; Malik and Salim are truly not that far away, she can see them from here. A women smiles at her with shark-teeth, daring her to down the cup in accented Kerch. Something in Inej does it, and then when she’s slid another one, she downs it again. Her eyes are uncharacteristically bright at the table, her head muddy.

It's only a moment later she’s in someone’s lap, between two people. It is the Kerch woman and another man, fitting her in the space between them. The woman’s hair is a rusty gold and the man has black hair and a gold tooth.

Inej may have drank too much, but she isn’t stupid. She blinks and sees that Malik and Salim are gone from her line of sight—then she promptly sits up, a bit more aware of her surroundings. This is not a situation she is new to; she’s almost been taken by slavers as a child. They had ransacked her family’s caravan near the Ravkan shore and would have stolen her away from her family had she not woken up early. She has learned to be suspicious of people, and she let her guard down. It’s this saints-forsaken city, she thinks briefly. It is affecting some part of me.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the man whispers with whiskey breath, and Inej pulls herself into the space between the bodies she is caged in, ready to pull one of her acrobatic feats—twist her body, do the unimaginable. But before she does and the woman’s vodka-laced breath rushes across her face, something hard clangs down on the table in front of her.

Inej is only human, so the sound makes her lurch. The tablecloth moves forward, and something shatters and then leaks onto her on the bench. She groans, because alcohol will not go well with the cottons she’d donned for a night out.

“Peter,” a voice says crisply. “Lotte. You are not welcome here. Did I not make that clear enough last time?”

The bodies next to Inej scramble away from her, and she looks up in her disorientation to see a man who can’t be much older than her, a cane in his hand bisecting the table and separating her from Lotte on her left. On her right, Peter has shifted away from her and is now standing up, raising his hands above him. “We didn’t mean nothin’, I promise—”

“I don’t give second chances,” the man says, and his voice is cold, so cold it almost crawls into Inej’s spine and then leaves her body, but icy enough that it wants to make a place there. His voice is the city’s whispers in her ears, the biddings of greed. She is buzzed, but she still looks at his sharp suit and glaring eyes and thinks: Who are you?

Or perhaps she voiced that thought out loud. No matter; the man ignores her, watching as Peter and Lotte stand up and try to leave the premises. Inej lets the whiskey on the table, cold as it is, leak into her shirt as she watches two large men grab the two vermin by their collars and drag them away to some corner.

“Wow,” she says out loud at the brief spectacle—some patrons have turned to see the two get carted off, but more seem unsurprised. “I was fine.”

“Who said anything about you?” the man bites. “There are no games here. There is no place for cheats.”

Inej is straightforward, and her filters are off as she wrings out her shirt. “You could at least pretend to be chivalrous.”

The man glares at her, his gaze dark and intense and dangerous—but for whatever reason, Inej doesn’t feel like it will cut through her. Maybe that is just the stupidity of being drunk. The longer he stares at her, the more she wants to laugh. “You cannot kill me by looking at me, you know.”

He says nothing, just takes his cane off the table and begins to limp away from her. Inej bites her lip and stares at his receding back—that moment had felt strangely powerful.

“Yer brave,” the girl next to her says after he has disappeared from sight, into a door at the club’s side. “To talk to Kaz Brekker like that.”

“Who?” Inej asks, and the boy next to her, keeping his distance after what had happened to the woman in his previous position, looks almost affronted.

“He is Kaz Brekker, Ja. They say he has played cards with the devil and won,” he says, like he is speaking of a myth, and not the twenty-year-old man with a ridiculous glare Inej had faced just moments ago. “He used to be better, ja, growing up on the streets. But he culled his boss right las’ week, he did. Hung his body from the lighthouse by First Harbor. They say he will commit any sin, without a price. Bloodthirsty.”

Inej leans in close to him, feels something lock into place, the gears of her heart. “Really?” she asks. “He just seems like a man.”

“He is no man, he is a demon. A quick thief, too,” the girl nods to her, and Inej grasps at her pockets. Her coinpurse is missing.

“An immature demon,” she says, stepping up, her head spinning just a bit. “Cheap tricks, for shevrati.”

Inej Ghafa leaves them there and takes the path that the man with the cane had followed; he couldn’t have gotten too far from her, with his disability. Ostensibly, she knows she should not be trying to pick a fight in the middle of the night with a man who just hung another in a public display, but the city is speaking to her; the club is, as though it has a heart. Inej believes in saints, and they are leading her a certain way, giving her the want to get her coinpurse back. It had a sizeable amount of kruge, and she refuses to be made a fool of.

The hallway is dark and she follows its walls to a set of stairs, and then walks up them. At the end there is a door, and to its side, when she moves her hand a certain way, another small alley; a trick alley. She follows that aisle to another door, wooden and locked and in the pitch dark. She shoves her body weight against it.

She doesn’t know what she is planning on doing. Do demons give you back your money if you ask them nicely? What is inserting this drive into her veins?

“What?” a voice roars from inside the room, and then a moment later, as Inej pushes herself against it, it opens. She almost trips onto a cold metal floor, but she doesn’t—she is an acrobat, even sheets to the wind. So she rights herself and turns to the man with the cane—Kaz Brekker.

“You,” he says, distaste coating his mouth. There is no good intent hidden in that word, nor in the hard lines of his face. Whoever this man is, he is not good.

“Me,” Inej agrees, then holds out her hand. “My coinpurse, please.”

“Your . . . coinpurse,” the man says, her face twitching. He is wearing a hat and a suit perfectly tailored to all his edges, a glass man. Inej wonders if she could break him. “Why would I have such a thing?”

“You do,” Inej insists. Of this, she is certain. She’s had it until he was just a foot behind her. “Give it back.”

“You’re very demanding,” he says. Inej wonders if he can feel a pull towards her, like she does for him. His face is surely not giving anything away. “You must be new.”

“I’m visiting,” Inej says, some sort of fear starting to creep into her voice. Perhaps the liquid courage has left her soul in a flush—perhaps the city is no longer with her. She can feel it drifting around her bones, maybe leaving. It is as though it has filled the strange place in her soul with something, not left her empty.

He leans into her—he doesn’t leer, not in a way that is lewd, but in a way that is certainly dangerous. “Well, then, my dear visitor,” he says the word like a curse, “you would do well to leave now, before I break your legs for coming to my office without permission.” His eyes scan her, perfunctorily, and Inej can only dream she sees something below the surface. “You need your legs. Or perhaps you can walk a rope with your hands,” he sneers.

Then he slams the door in Inej’s face. The city escapes her, returns back for its sins, disturbs her edges. I have shown you a story, she can feel it whisper, from the wrong end, wrong beginning.

She slides out of the secret corridor and down into the busy club. The Crow Club, it’s called. The largest building in the Stave. She wonders if the foundation was built on a demon’s work. She wonders why she feels like she should know, why there is a haunting space in her mind.

Inej wonders who Kaz Brekker is. She wonders why her saints guided her towards a demon, what they were trying to tell her.

She wonders how he knows she performs on the rope.

[21burritoseavey]

Slow Down - Chapter 8

a/n: k i literally hate this but i hope you enjoy it a little lol. let me know what you think!

Summary: Daniel and Y/n are best friends, but like every clique love story lol, Daniel fell for Y/n, though he’s never admitted his feelings because Y/n has a boyfriend. After their exams, the group of friends decide to go on a “California-cation” (see what I did there haha) but Y/n’s boyfriend also tags along. It gets a little interesting and I guess you’ll just have to see how things go…

Daniel could barely sleep the night before. His feelings about Y/n only fuelled his anxiety, fogging his brain with a thick haze of memories and thoughts that he couldn’t shake. After hours of tossing and turning, he finally drifted into a faint slumber, rousing from his sleep - after what felt like mere seconds later - by a soft hand on his shoulder.

 “Daniel...” Y/n whispered, biting back a smile at his slight pout and steady breaths. She tried again, “Daniii, wake up.” 

 Daniel shifted in his sleeping bag, stretching his legs and arms out messily with a small groan. The sound of gentle birdsong and aroma of breakfast filtered through the small gaps of his tent had him lifting himself up sleepily. “Uhm...-” he cleared his throat. “Good morning,” he said in a quiet, raspy voice. 

 “Morning.” Y/n replied with a small smile. She got up onto her feet and out of the tent. Daniel followed quickly behind her. “What time is it?” He asked gently. 

 “About eleven thirty or so.” Y/n answered casually as she took a seat on the wooden bench beside Corbyn. She grabbed the box of cereal to pour into a plastic bowl. 

 Daniel’s gaze narrowed into a squint as he peered through the morning sunlight to the array of breakfasts displayed on the table, a blue chequered tablecloth underneath. “Did you guys wake up late too?” He asked, taking a seat next to Jonah. 

 Corbyn glanced at him with a small chuckle, “eleven o’clock is late?” 

 “Well yea, I really want to go on that trail.” He smiled shyly. “You know the one you talked about before?” He glanced at Y/n. 

 “Yeaa!” Her eyes lit up instantly at the vivid memory.  

 Her sudden excitement sent a wide grin to Daniel’s face. “Yeah, I-I planned it for you” he said bashfully, eyes flashing at Corbyn with a smirk. He received a teasing glare in return and Jonah hid his giggle behind a sip of his coffee. 

 “I’m sure we’ll have time. But I actually planned for us to go canoeing today...” Jonah revealed, offering a simple smile in response to his friends’ open mouthed, shocked stares. “I’ve decided to conquer my fear of the ocean...Well, we’re not going in the ocean. Just the river a little way away. But that’s still conquering my fear, right?” He looked to the others for reassurance. 

 “Right.” Corbyn said with a light chuckle. 

 “Whatever you say.” Daniel shrugged, a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him. “Thanks for breakfast by the way” he said, shovelling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. 

 “That’s okay, I figured I’d volunteer since I’m the mom of the group.” He said plainly, earning light chuckles from the others sitting around the table. 

 A calm aura swallowed the atmosphere as the group of friends ate their breakfast, lavishing upon fresh memories from the past few days. The two other bandmates woke up not long after. They dragged their feet through the squidgy grass tiredly. “Morning…” Jack breathed. The others simultaneously replied with gentle waves and ‘morning’s. Zach shuffled his feet over to the mini, portable coffee machine and poured himself a soothing cup of rich coffee before squishing right next to Corbyn on the picnic table. 

 “Where’s Grayson, he up yet?” Zach asked, peeking a brow as he filled his plate. 

“Nope.” Y/n sighed, dropping her gaze as she haphazardly stirred her bowl of cereal. “I don’t think he’d like canoeing anyway...” She said honestly. Daniel’s smile faltered as he listened to Y/n’s words, and he exchanged identical looks with the guys. 

 “Maybe I can convince him?” Corbyn volunteered, shooting a comforting look at Daniel. He received a grateful nod in return, and they shared tight smiles. 

 -----

The gang were finally ready at around 2pm. They had played almost every board game they brought with them and had grown irritated by hearing the constant chirping of birds and rustling of trees around the campsite. 

 The fresh morning glow of the sky had subsided. The sun scorched down on the cluster of friends as they were ushered - by Jonah - to the sparkling river only a five-minute walk away. A rich tapestry of blue spread across the gentle velvet waters of the river. Jonah nearly sprinted to the wooden rack of canoes. To him, an inviting new adventure was just waiting to be experienced and he was oblivious to his friends’ teasing remarks. 

 “Ten bucks says he’ll absolutely hate it.” Daniel turned to Corbyn, a Nike swoosh of a smirk plastered on his face. 

 Corbyn chuckled, “I think he’ll tolerate it.” He replied truthfully. With a vigorous shake of hands, their bet was official. The guys lifted their canoes from the rack and placed them on the rocky shore. “Hey, Grayson? Can you help me with this?” Y/n asked tiredly as she tried to lift the canoe. She looked around for her boyfriend, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Grayson?”

 “Here.” Daniel giggled, a few paces away. “I can help.” An easy grin played on his face as he shifted the canoe from her arms to his. He passed her a life jacket and calmly watched her slip it on. 

 “Thanks” Y/n said, her cheeks a little more pink than usual. 

“s'ok” Daniel uttered lovingly. 

 Meanwhile, Jonah had been struggling with his own rickety canoe. It was so noisy that the wood creaked every time they moved. Jonah turned back to Daniel hesitantly, “Is this safe to use?” He asked, jerking down the brim of his lopsided baseball cap. Daniel looked up from his spot in the river. His knees were deep in the calm water and his forehead was already dampened with a layer of sweat from pushing the weighty canoe. 

 Daniel laughed lightly. “It'll be fine.” He reassured with a toothy smile. 

 Jonah tried his best to pull a grin in response and he turned back to the front, watching the water ripple and sparkle gracefully. A shaky deep breath left his lips as they finally plunged into the water past the shore. The three other bandmates drifted past, paddling recklessly through the water without a care in the world. “Oh my gosh” Daniel chuckled as he glanced at them. 

 “They're gonna fall in for sure.” Jonah said quietly.

 “I don’t think they’re gonna fall in...” Daniel joked. 

 He couldn’t help but steal a glance at Y/n and Grayson behind them. Y/n’s smile shone as bright as lighthouse beams and the corners of his mouth pulled upwards, spreading light to every inch of him as well. The natural dew on her skin fostered a gentle glow to her face. The serene reverie he slipped into was broken by the familiar voice of Y/n’s boyfriend. 

 “Can you help please?” Y/n asked after her laughter died down. She raised and lowered the oar steadily through the water, watching it glide graciously upon the surface. “You can’t possibly expect me to do this alone.” She chuckled lightly. 

 “Okay, Y/n.” Grayson picked up the single bladed oar beside him and began paddling. “I didn’t even want to do this anyway.” He murmured quietly to himself, but Y/n heard. 

 “Can you please just do it...for me?” Y/n said, “let’s just try and have fun, okay?” She spoke pleadingly with a tight smile.  

 Daniel sighed after hearing their small conversation but just went back to paddling with Jonah. 

The image of Y/n and Grayson on the canoe froze in his mind, kindling some kind of twisted jealousy or hurt in his gentle heart. The lingering goosebumps on his skin chilled his body to the bone. He let the serenity of silence calm him and the warmth of the sun’s rays heat up his cold body. 

 How are you holding up? You seem a little tense.” He asked Jonah although his eyes wandered elsewhere. Denying his shallow breaths and slightly quivering body, Jonah replied with a confident, “I’m doing great” as they travelled forwards quietly.

 “Oh my gosh. Not these stupid bugs again” Daniel complained, eyes bolting to all directions and arms swinging in weary irritation. “-hate that I didn’t bring bug spray,” he groaned. 

 “Daniel.” Jonah said gingerly. Daniel was so distracted by the hasty bugs that circled him, he didn’t notice the canoe’s persistent wobbling.

 “I swear I’m gonn-” His complaint was cut off by the crashing waves of the river washing over him as the boat completely toppled over. All the two boys could hear was the muffled laughter of their friends - perfectly dry and safe in their canoes. Jonah tried to shoot up to the surface of the river desperately, and with the help of Daniel beside him, he made it to the surface, to shore and then finally a decent length away from the river in good time. 

 “I’m never doing that again! I’m just gonna be scared of the ocean forever!” Jonah yelled breathily. 

 “Okay,” Daniel soothed gently, swallowing back his laughter as he walked past him. Jonah frowned at him before shifting his eyes back to the water. He watched peacefully as a soft breeze rippled the surface of the river. It danced along gracefully before hitting the rocks and pebbles on the shoreside. 

 Among the tall oak and pine trees, a pleasant shade had fallen where Jonah had been sitting, staring morosely at the water. Daniel padded across the grass and plunked himself beside Jonah, offering him a fresh, red towel. Jonah gratefully accepted and slung it over his shoulders, clutching it tightly around his body. “You, okay?” Daniel asked gently, biting back a chuckle. 

 Jonah turned to him, hiding his own laughter behind a supposably serious face. “Yeah.” He pushed his arm across his forehead tiredly. 

 “You’ll be alright.” Daniel assured. Just then, in perfect, comical timing, Corbyn emerged from the shore and tapped Daniel lightly on the shoulder. 

 “I guess I owe you ten bucks now.” He shrugged, unknowing of the conversation the two other boys just had. 

-----

“Okay, what’s next?” Y/n asked eagerly. 

 “The trail.” Daniel said simply. He looked behind his shoulder. “You can stay here if you’re not feeling up to it Jonah.” He assured lightly, a small smile playing on his lips. 

 “Uhh...no.” Jonah shut down quickly. “You just feel bad for earning ten bucks at my expense” He joked, glaring at Daniel teasingly. 

 “Okay then, if you’re all ready to go, let’s do it.” He suggested. 

The friend group were on their second adventure of the day and even though some of the boys were tired, they knew how much Daniel wanted to do this, especially for Y/n. They trekked through the summer heat in clusters as they conversed. Daniel draped his shirt over his shoulder and his hair sat all muddled on his head, flicking hard against his forehead as he walked. 

 Zach’s gaze caught something in the distance. In the dappled sunlight, amid the strong boughs, overgrown cabins scattered the dark areas of woods. The trees grew so tall, they veiled the sun’s light. He turned to Jack, tossing a sweaty arm around him. “You wanna mess with the guys?” He asked mischievously - not that he really needed to. 

 “Of course.” Jack responded with a chuckle. They were a few paces behind everyone else, so they quietly devised a plan. “K, i’ve got this” Jack said, clearing his throat and rolling up his sleeves. 

 “No, I've got this.” Zach corrected blankly. 

 “No. I’ve-” Jack started, before he was suddenly interrupted by Corbyn. 

 “You guys alright?” Corbyn asked gently with a light laugh. 

 Jack shuffled his feet closer to Corbyn a few paces ahead of him so he could hear better. He turned to Zach again. “Yeah, me and Zach were just talking about that cabin over there. Further in the distance” He asked, pointing to a random, bleak cabin. Zach merely sighed and nodded as he glanced at Corbyn. 

 Corbyn replied, “yeah? What about it?” He asked, slight hesitation laced in his voice. 

 “That’s my dad’s cabin. He bought it back in ‘97.” Jack said casually. 

 “Really?” Corbyn asked, matching Jack’s pace as he walked beside him. 

 “Yeah, he got it pretty cheap from the old owner.” 

 Corbyn peered into the distance, the archaic architecture and spoiled timber exterior didn’t go unnoticed, and he simply nodded. “Makes sense.” He chuckled. 

 “The guy caught his brother cheating with his wife…” He uttered eerily. Just then, Daniel and Y/n’s attention was caught by his fake story too. He continued, dropping his gaze to the brittle leaves that crunched beneath his feet. “He chased them out of the cabin and into the dark woods with a...” He paused for a second, searching for more ideas, “a machete and stabbed the dude three times. People say he’s still out there trying to find his wife, a sharp, bloody machete still in his hand.” He looked up to stunned faces looking back at him. “He could still be out here today.” Jack finished casually, continuing his onward stride through the trail. 

 Grayson scoffed, “Yeah right. You can’t tell me you guys really believe this.” He sneered. 

 “Y-yeah guys don’t be silly” Y/n said lightly, even though she was really shaken by it. She cleared her throat nervously before turning back to continue walking. 

 Grayson slowly approached Daniel from behind before uttering a gentle, “hey uhh, there’s not service here?” He questioned, holding up his phone to the sky with an outstretched arm. 

 “Oh yea. Sorry, I must’ve forgotten to mention it.” Daniel replied casually, turning back to the rocky path. 

 “Oh...okay” Grayson hid his slight uneasiness with a feigned grin that tugged at the corners of his lips. 

 The walk was peaceful for the most part, filled with organic, simple conversation. The brown and dry ground had little patches of green peeking through the roots of flowers and low-lying bushes. Y/n broke the momentary silence first with a question.

"Where's my necklace?"

'What?" Grayson asked. 

 “My necklace.” Y/n repeated. “You know the gold one, with the little crescent moon sorta thing?”

 Grayson paused for a moment before replying with a tired “yeah, okay well when was the last time you saw it?”

 “I’ve had it on for the whole trip, until now I guess.” Her face was etched in concern as she looked around. “I can’t lose that Gray, Dani gave it to me” She whimpered. 

 Daniel’s head turned at the familiar sound of his nickname. “What’s going on?”

 “She lost that gold necklace or something.” Grayson said plainly as he continued walking. 

 “Wait-” Daniel gazed at Y/n seriously, “the one I gave you?”

“Yeah.”

 “Okay, uhh. Okay. It’s okay. We’ll find it. Don’t panic.” Daniel reassured, more to himself than her. 

 “Don’t panic? You literally look like you’re panicking right now Daniel.” Y/n teased lightly with a faint giggle. 

 “Uhh, okay guys!” He turned back to his bandmates ahead. “Y/n lost her necklace. We need to go find it.” He announced gravely, resting his hands on his hips. He turned back to Y/n, noticing her panicked look. "Don't worry, we'll find it" Daniel assured her gently. 

 "I hope so" Y/n said, worry written all over her face. 

 Zach fluttered about trying to find the necklace in unusual places. First his eyes roamed the precariously balanced boulders, then Jack’s hoodie that was tied around his waist and finally Jonah’s hat. He grasped Jonah's baseball cap from his head, peering into it solemnly. 

 "It's not in there," Jonah countered, snatching the hat back defiantly. 

 "Great, thanks Jonah" Zach said sarcastically before focusing back on finding Y/n’s gold chain.

 The sun settled around them, gushing warm, dark golden streams through the columns of tall trees. It splashed warmly from their faces to their feet as they tread through the woods back and forth. Daniel weaved in and out through the trees and bushes as seamlessly as a shuffled deck of cards, concentration.

 “Okay, you guys look over there,” Jonah said, pointing into the distance. “And the rest of us will go back down this way.” He suggested, and everyone agreed. 

 “Have you got any idea where it might be?” Grayson asked, glancing at Y/n. 

 “No, not a clue.” Y/n sighed worriedly, “It was around my neck like a minute ago” She dragged a hand over her face in frustration. 

 “Well, it obviously wasn’t if we’re still looking for it.” He muttered quietly. 

 “What?” Y/n asked gently. 

 “Nevermind.” Grayson walked past Y/n in the opposite direction angrily, but Y/n didn’t notice. 

 Grayson's groan of annoyance had Daniel averting his gaze to the boy beside him. “What’s wrong, man?” Daniel tried gently, slowing down to match Grayson’s pace. 

 “I just wanna find this stupid necklace” He huffed irritiatedly.

 “It’s not stupid,” Daniel returned quietly, swallowing back his hurt. “I’m sure we’ll find it soon.” He assured calmly. 

��“We better.” Grayson warned. 

 “And we will...” 

 “Yeah, sure” Grayson returned, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “This forest is so big. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack”.

 “If we all just focus, we should find it pretty easily.” Jack said reassuringly with a grin. Daniel nodded lightly in agreement. 

 “We’re literally just wasting time right now. I’m not even the one who gave it to her so why should I care?” Grayson glared at Daniel out of the corner of his eye. 

 “Because it’s important to Y/n.” Daniel glared at Grayson with utmost distaste. 

 Grayson only scoffed loudly. 

 Daniel stopped his movement and stood up straight. “Look, Y/n really wants to find it. If you were a good boyfriend, you wouldn’t be complaining right now.” He said seriously, storming further into the ever-darkening woods. He didn’t even think about the necklace anymore. It’s not just about the necklace. He thought. 

 “I’ve got more important things to do.” Grayson grumbled. 

 “Really? Cos you’ve sure been spending a lot of time on your phone” Daniel replied shortly. Grayson squirmed under Daniel’s blank gaze. He dropped his head and shuffled his feet nervously to hide his flushed, pink cheeks. Daniel took a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. Grayson's words stirred inside of him, and he felt his arms bend at the elbows and hands close into fists almost uncontrollably. He was so focused on maintaining his supposedly calm facade that he didn’t realise how far they were walking. 

 “Guys. Can we-” Jack huffed. He searched his mind wretchedly to try and stop their argument.

Grayson looked at Daniel, “It’s just work, my brother and I work together so it’s just a lot of back and forth you know,” He chuckled, a hint of a grin on his lips. 

“Like what? calls? Texts?” 

 “Guys.” Jack tried again gently. 

 Grayson paused for a moment before words stumbled out of his lips. “Y-yea. Calls and...stuff”

“I haven’t heard Ethan’s name come out of your mouth once this whole trip so far.”

 “What are you trying to say?” Grayson challenged. His tone was pugnacious, calculating at most. 

 “Guys!” Jack’s loud voice snapped the two other boys out of their argument, and they looked at him expectantly. “I think we’ve gone too far,” he said slowly. 

 “Great.” Grayson groaned. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault? Seriously, don’t start this” Daniel responded tiredly, 

 “If you had just minded your own business then we wouldn’t be lost or whatever.”

 “This is my business. She’s my best friend.” Daniel replied without hesitation. 

 “Wait guys, don’t you fear” Jack said positively, pulling out a crumpled map from his back pocket. “I have a map.” His eyes darted from side to side as he stared at it. 

“It’s upside down.” Grayson said tiredly. 

“Oh. I knew that.” Jack chuckled, turning the map over to the right side before continuing. “Okay…. umm does anyone actually know how to read this?” He asked shyly, a giggle escaping his lips. He glanced back at the two boys beside him. Their deadpan faces and silence had him dropping his gaze to the map again. 

[escherlat]

The Time That Was

The sea breeze swept over the field, bending the grasses as it went. Bev paused as the breeze teased her hair, savoring the scent of water and brine and fish that traveled on the wind. The smell awakened a sense of longing, of mystery and possibility. She exhaled and let the breeze carry that sense from her.

She folded a napkin around the plastic fork, knife, and spoon and laid the bundle next to the plain white plate. She stepped to the left, folding another napkin around the plastic ware to place on the table. The napkins were white and blue. Her finger traced the blue design as she stepped to the next place.

Blue eyes. A smile. Torn t-shirt. A flash of light. Cigarette smoke. The images flashed through her mind, and Bev furrowed her brow. Her fingers rested on the latest paper bundle as she focused. Tucked under the ceramic plate, the breeze wouldn’t be able to blow it away, but that’s not what held her. The sounds and images that flitted through her mind, too fast to grasp, confused her. They were at once familiar and not.

“Beverly, honey,” her mom called, “when you’re done with the table, come help me with the food.”

When she didn’t respond, her mom added, “Hurry up! Your father will be here soon! Everything must be ready for Lynn’s arrival!”

The mention of her father and sister stirred Bev, and she looked up. Across the field where the table was centered stood her mom. She cradled several bundles in her arms as she carefully walked toward the table. Hurriedly, Bev finished setting the table. Once complete, she straightened and glanced at the ocean in the near distance.

For a moment, she saw a lighthouse towering over the water. The sight faded as quick as it came, leaving the long, straight line of gray-green water featureless. She took a step toward the water, then paused. Behind her, her mother grunted as she dealt with the food, and the sound pulled at her.

“Coming mother,” she rasped. Her voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the sea breeze. Years had passed since she’d spoken above a whisper.

She turned her back on the ocean and walked to her mom’s minivan. The back was open and coolers and bags filled half of the space. Today was a special day for the Marsh family: a celebration of Lynn graduating from college. Bev was thrilled for her youngest sister and had the perfect gift for her. She picked up a cooler and lugged it to the table.

After several trips, mother and daughter had emptied the minivan. They unpacked the containers and arranged the covered dishes down the center of the table. The breeze played with the edges of the red and white checked tablecloth.

While Bev worked, the sea called to her. It pulled at a place in her mind that didn’t exist. More than once she fumbled a lid or container as her mind was drawn to the gray expanse. When all was ready for Lynn and her mom didn’t need more help, Bev slowly walked to the bluff that overlooked the sea. The water was continuously in motion. White-capped waves rolled onto the rocky beach followed by countless others: a never ending parade.

Overhead, sea birds cried. A few bobbed on the water. The sun warmed her and touched a moment frozen inside her. A smile that lit a sea of freckles glowed before her.

Continue reading...

[blacksurvivalnostalgichanges]

immortal soul/eternal return characters as made-up shit to describe a word people forgot

Adela: not breakfast (lunch)

Adriana: fire tower (lighthouse)

Alex: eyelid hair (eyebrows)

Arda: the thing that killed Marie Antoinette (guillotine)

Aya: savory doughnut (bagel)

Barbara: pancake sauce (syrup)

Bernice: jam but not cooked (smoothie)

Camilo: hot air fan (hairdryer)

Cathy: the corpse garden (graveyard)

Chiara:horse whirlwind (carousel)

Chloe: le petit baaa (the little lamb)

Daniel:light faucet (lamp)

Echion:bird leaf (feather)

Eleven: bread, then food, then more bread (sandwich)

Eva:water clothing vortex (washing machine)

Emma:eggs from happy chickens that don’t live in a box (free-range eggs)

Fiora:arm ankles (wrists)

Hart:the very fancy chicken (pheasant)

Hyejin: fire on a stick (torch)

Hyunwoo:water hungry (thirsty)

Isol:the preparty to hell (purgatory)

Jackie: gremlin carrier (stroller)

Jan: sea pancake (manta ray)

Jenny:three color halloween thing (candy corn)

Johann: fruit doing a deadly dance (smoothie)

JP: doing the number alphabet (counting)

Lenox: christmas llamas (reindeer)

Leon: compressed horse (pony)

Li Dailin:homo racist (homophobia)

Luke:”you know tom and jerry? jerry is here” (there’s a rat in my room)

Magnus: black and white fart squirrel (skunk)

Mai:the hot dog sauce that’s like ketchup but tastes good (mustard)

Nadine:bag you sleep in at night (sleeping bag)

Nathapon:breathing box (lungs)

Nicky: a rolling stone in the room (beetle)

Rio:*grabs an egg* where’s the mother? (trying to find chicken)

Rosalio: chomping tree (food chain)

Rozzi: the thing you eat food on (tablecloth)

Shoichi: a box that is not a box (bag)

Silvia:his hair is the color of bread

Sissela: foot mittens (socks)

Sua: snails without homes (slug)

William: old timey technological music box for the car (cassette)

Xiukai:water turner-on-er (faucet handle)

Yuki:cold microwave (fridge)

Zahir: large father (grandfather)

[klea221]

Blood and Gold Part 1

*This is a fic of my own. I have not finished campaign 2 yet but I am being self indulgent and writing because I cannot get enough of Mollymauk. (I refuse to let him be dead!)*

The wind off the river was warm and calming, just like any other day in Marquet.

Merchants bartered and unloaded cargo. Children stopped to gawk at the foreign goods only to be quickly shooed away.

Life here was simple to the untrained eye but for those who knew better, “freedom” came at a cost.

Beginning to climb off the rocks and through the reeds, I realize that my hiding spot is in jeopardy. Stilling, I hope to remain unseen by the guards.

Casting “disguise self”, I make my way to the passenger ship. The price is a steep 300 gold but once I get to the menagerie coast, I can start my new life. Surely, its worth the cost. Hopefully, my sister Yara will keep up the illusion until I’m far enough away…

I limit my time outside the cabin to twice a day to keep up the disguise. The rest of the time I use to plan my next steps. Of course I had never really “worked” before but, I had extensive tutoring and training at the palace which could come in useful. Armed with my bow, a dagger, and my sword, I could become some sort of adventurer! It could be like the stories father used to tell us growing up about the great heroes of the past!

Shrugging it off, I remind myself not to get too carried away. Surely, it would be more reasonable to work in a tavern of some sort…

Suddenly, I am pushed out of my thoughts by my sister’s message,

“(Y/N)! Its me, Yara! I was unable to keep up the act! Father has sent a search party! Be safe”

~~

Even with closed eyes, I can still smell the blood. As quick as the rebellion came and left, the damage was already done. The streets of Ank’Harel were stained red. Noble houses were torn a part and everyone was on edge.

After a week of negotiation, things began to change. Hopefully things would go back to “normal”.

“We will form an alliance! There will be no more bloodshed in this city. We have a duty to the people, Ozai!” commanded the king.

“Yes, of course. There is however, a price for my… compliance” says General Ozai.

“Name it” answered the king, trying to remain prideful.

“Your daughter will marry Omar, He will become the Prince”.

“It will be done”.

I couldn’t breathe.

Omar was just as cruel as his father-if not worse. He was even rumoured to keep many slaves. Surely this man could not ever love let alone be a good husband. I felt sick. As I looked around the room, it spun and no body seemed to care.

~

“I will not hear anymore of this (y/n). My word is final! You will marry Omar! The wedding will be next month and that is that!” yelled the king.

My father almost never yelled, especially not to me. After the rebellion he seemed to be unhinged and there would be no use in arguing. My fate is settled; marry Omar or go far away-and never return…

“I understand” was all I could muster before storming off to my chambers. I grabbed all that I could and made my way to the docks.

~

My eyes shot open as I rose from the hard cot. The ship’s horn bellowed, vibrating the floor and walls of the cabin. Looking over to my window, I could see a huge lighthouse in the shape of the Wild Mother. This is it! This must be Nicodranas! Excited for what this new place has in store, I toss all of my things into my bag and leave the ship for the last time.

~~

I cannot help but feel captivated by the delicate blue hues around me. The air is a beautiful combination of warmth, sea salt, and the smell of cinnamon. Looking over to a bakery, I see freshly made pastries and decide I should indulge myself! Why not?

Before I am able to take my first bite, the heavy presence of guards makes me uneasy. Trying to be stealthy, I make my way into an alley and case “disguise self” for the first time today.

“Hey! I can do that too!” says a cheerful accented voice.

Looking over my shoulder, I see a blue tiefling magically transform into a blond human girl in peasant’s clothing.

“My name is Jester! I’ll keep your secret if you give me your donut!” she says happily eyeing my purchase.

Though she is quite forward, I feel comforted by the tiefling and decide that maybe I shouldn’t be alone anymore.

“Why don’t I just buy us some more then! Oh- and my name is y/n!” I tell her as we walk back to the bakery.

~

Jester can talk nonstop! Normally this would be a little much for me but, having travelled alone for so long, I welcome it. Jester quickly tells me all about the city, her mother, and all the tricks the so called “Traveler” has taught her. Sticking with my plan, I tell her that I am looking for work while in Nicodranas. She happily takes me to her Inn where her mother helps me secure a job. I work hard cleaning up after guests and fetching them any food or drink that they require in exchange for room and board. It is very hard work but, Jester keeps me company most days.

~~

One night as I’m folding tablecloths, I hear a commotion on the stairs. Its Lord Sharpe and he’s livid!

“IF I EVER SEE YOUR DAUGHTER AGAIN I WILL HAVE HER KILLED!”

Oh no! Jester what has she done now!

Trying to stay out of the argument, I look up to see Marion on the staircase with tears streaming down her normally poised face. This was really bad indeed…

~

Making my way up to Jester’s room, I can already hear Marion and Jester.

“But Mama! It was just a joke! Surely he can’t be serious!” whines Jester. She’s completely unaware of the gravity of her actions.

“Lord Sharpe is an extremely powerful man Jester, I don’t think we should take the risk! I think it would be best if you left the city for awhile. Maybe with time things will blow over” says Marion, pushing the hair out of Jester’s face.

Opening the door, I try to aid Marion in convincing Jester to play it safe.

“Jester, your mother is right-I-I’ve seen what men with power can do…” I say cryptically.

Not sensing that Jester is understanding, I take my chances and tell them both my REAL story. I tell them all bout my engagement and how awful the ramifications would have been had I stayed. Who knows, maybe I would’ve been killed one day to give Omar the throne…

“Jester, we can go together, we can keep each other safe from bad guys. I’m sure the Traveler will help us!” I say, trying to persuade her.

“Thank you for telling us this (y/n). You are a true friend. I know you will keep my little sapphire safe!” she says pulling me into a hug.

“It is settled then, we will leave at once!” Jester says.

“Here, this should help you two along” says Marion, placing a rather large coin purse into Jester’s hands. “Be very careful Jester, and try not to play too many tricks!” warns Marion.

~~

Jester had decided that we would search for her long-lost father (whom she had never even met). Not wanting to crush her hopes, I tag along on the mission.

In Port Damali, our “investigation” runs dead. Despite this, we manage to gain a member into our little group. Having noticed our cleric abilities, a half-orc sailor named Fjord offered to travel with us. He tells us that he wishes to enroll at the magic academy in the Dwendalian Empire.

As we lead the coast and travel towards this new Empire, the air become noticeably cooler. The ocean views become obscured by rocky mountain terrain, and I begin to feel anxious for the road ahead.

~

As we arrived at Trostenwald, there was a commotion by the lake. Curiously walking closer, we see a giant water snake and a tiny screaming girl curled in its grasp.

In a matter of seconds, a female monk leaps onto the scene in a flash of blue robes. She begins to pummel the beast with her staff. Seeing as she may need help with killing the snake, the three of us run to help.

Aiming by bow toward the beast, I surprisingly manage to hit it right behind the head. However, before I can get too excited, I realize the beast is far too large for one arrow alone to take it down. The snake angrily strikes at the monk who narrowly dodges the attack.

Fjord runs up to the beast and draws his sword while I prepare another arrow. This time, I aim for the eyes.

Now blinded and confused, the creature is unaware of Fjord’s presence. He quickly begins to cut through the beast’s tough skin, killing it.

As the snake falls to the ground, the crowd erupts with cheers.

Jester runs over to the little girl and quickly casts “cure wounds”. My heart finally slows down knowing that the girl is safe.

“YOU GUYS THAT WAS AWESOME!” yells Jester, waving her hands around.

“Ugh, yeah! That was pretty rad” says the monk. “My name’s Beau by the way”

“Oh! I’m Jester! And this is y/n and Fjord!” says Jester, happily.

“Nice to meet you” I say shyly.

“Are you guys travelling too?” asks Beau.

“Yes, we are making our way north to the Soltryce Academy” says Fjord.

“Ah- the Soltryce Academy you say… No offense but you guys are gonna need some serious coin for that” says the monk, knowingly.

“You don’t say… You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who is hiring, would you?” says the half-orc.

“Well I mean, I was going to do some work for the Baumbach Brewery before this snake thing happened… You’re welcome to tag along if you’d like” offers the monk.

“Hey! That sounds like it could be fun!” says Jester.

~

After living in a palace most of my life, I try not to complain too much about manual labour but this job was BRUTAL. The four of us have done nothing but haul boxes and crates for hours on end. My body was sore and sweaty despite the cool air of Trostenwald.

By the time we got to the Nestled Nook Inn, my body was on autopilot. Not bothering to eat, I head upstairs and crash onto the bed.

~

With an aching body, I finally pull myself out of bed and open the door. I am greeted with the comforting smell of fresh bread and breakfast meats. Sitting down with the rest of the group, I forget my table manners and devour the food placed in front of me.

Not long into breakfast, the little girl’s father from yesterday enters the Inn. Nervously, he makes his way to our table and thanks us graciously. Before leaving, he dumps a hatful of coin onto our table. The coin pile draws much attention so, I rush to divide the pile evenly.

As Jester begins to converse with the table next to us, quick introductions are made. Before I can dwell on the halfling’s odd appearance, two more strange figures make their way noisily through the Inn.

Quickly turning my head in annoyance to the commotion, my heart stops for a moment. Having lived in Marquet all my life, I was used to Tieflings as they were common to see around the city. This lavender one however, was a sight to behold. And Gods was I in trouble…