#may have to just swallow my pride and scale back my original thoughts into something shorter to have any chance at finishing it. but.

[threadneedle]

.

[mypoisonedvine]

You know what, my request is a second part to that heiress Zemo request because I need to know what happens. 😤

(Please and thank you, I am just very much on the edge of my sit, ma’am. 🥺💕)

alright... I can take a hint lmaooo (first part here!)

“De mama?” Addy asked in that sweet little voice of hers, tilting her head as she looked up at him.  Her Sokovian was coming along well, though not quite as fast as her English since that was all her mother ever spoke to her.  And of course, that’s who she was asking about now, and even though it was adorable, it was a bit heartbreaking, too.  Is this what it will be like when the contract expires? he was forced to wonder.  Will she ask where she is every day, until someday she forgets she ever had a mother?  What kind of father would I be if I let her live like that?

“Vona na prohulyantsi, skoro povernetʹsya,” he answered with a shrug.  She’s on a walk, she’ll be back soon.  How would he ever find the heart to tell her the truth someday, if he didn’t fix this soon?  She’s gone forever, I cast her away because I chose my pride over my love and your happiness.

No wonder he was so relieved when you got home, and he couldn’t help but smile as Addy reached up for you and you scooped her up into your arms with a smile.  “Oh, you’re getting big,” you cooed at her.  “How’d you get so big so fast, huh?”

Now was his chance to ever so casually bring up the contract and see how you reacted.  Part of him was hoping that if he just never mentioned it, you’d just forget about it and things could stay this way forever.  Unfortunately, that was nearly impossible, and it didn’t even really solve his problem fully because if things stayed this way forever then it meant he would never be with you again as he so longed to be; if things stayed this way forever, he would keep being a man desperately in love with his wife and powerless to do anything about it.  

He wanted to touch you again, so much he couldn’t stand it.  These days the only time you really spent together was when it was the three of you.  It was so painfully obvious that the only love for him you had was the love you had for your child, extended to him as the father.  You were only accessible when Addy was involved, you barely even looked at him when he wasn’t holding her.

It was actually rather cruel.  Especially at times like this, when Addy wanted to be read a story and it ended up with her on your lap and you between his legs on the floor, forcing him to reach around all of you to hold the book open as he read.

You were right there... but a million miles away.  If he had any courage he would just turn his head and kiss your cheek or bury his face in the crook of your neck.  Instead he was paralyzed, and he could smell your hair from here which was adding insulting to injury at this point.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, who lived in a tower,” he read aloud, watching his daughter’s tiny fingers trace over the illustration of the princess on the page.

“Pryntsesa,” Addy mumbled to herself as she looked at it, and he felt pride warm his chest to hear her speaking Sokovian to herself.

“You’ve been teaching her without me,” you realized as you turned back to look at him with a smirk.  God, your face was so close now that it was almost more work to not kiss you, especially when his eyes couldn’t help but dart down to your lips for a moment.

“She’s going to learn Sokovian whether you like it or not,” he reminded you.

“I’m not saying I don’t like it, I’m just saying I wanna be there for it,” you explained.  “We can teach her together.”

Another co-parenting activity, another way you could get close to him only under the pretense of being with Addy.  He needed to find a way to get you alone because this was going to drive him crazy.

“What happen?” Addy frowned, and both of you seemed to realize at once that he’d totally forgotten to keep reading.

“Oh, um,” he stammered, turning the page as you faced forward again.  “A brave knight wanted to scale the tower to see the princess, but he didn’t know how.”

~

When he entered the bedroom, he wasn’t expecting to find you there, changing into your pyjamas.  His first instinct was to look away and step back, pulling the door partially shut again with a mumbled apology.

“Helmut, you can come in,” you laughed.  “I don’t mind if you see me changing, you’ve certainly seen much worse than this.”

He cleared his throat and stepped back in, gaze sweeping up over your exposed back.  “I, uh, wanted to ask you something before we go to bed.”

“Yeah?” you prompted, pulling your nightgown over your head and walking to the bathroom where he followed you as you applied some sort of night cream to your face.  He stood behind you, meeting your eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

“You mentioned teaching Addy together,” he remembered.  

“If you just want that to be just a dad-daughter thing that’s fine,” you shrugged.

“No, it’s fine, I like the idea,” he nodded, “I just thought... well, I wondered...”

I wondered if you would go on a date with me.  Why was it so hard to get it out, to his own wife, to the woman carrying his last name and wearing his ring?

Of course, it was hard to get out because when he thought about you with his name and his ring, all he could think was for how much longer?

You waited patiently with raised eyebrows, and he sighed.

“Nevermind.”

“Wait, what is it?” you chuckled, following him when he turned away and sat on the bed.  “Now I’m curious.”

He glanced down at the bed he was sitting on, running his fingers over the quilt.  “Why do we even share this bed?” he mumbled to himself.

“What?” you whispered.

“I mean, does it even matter?  Are we just trying to look like something we’re not-- a normal couple?”

His eyes darted back up to your face when he heard your voice waver.  “Are you asking me to sleep downstairs?”

“No,” he corrected instantly, standing up and stepping closer to you even as you tried to hide the way your eyes were watering.  “No, darling, I just-- I don’t want you to feel like you have to share a bed with me.  I may not be the best bed partner.”

“Oh, you’re quite the bed partner, if memory serves,” you blurted out, and his eyebrow raised suddenly.  You seemed to regret it right away, turning to go back to the bathroom and examine yourself in the mirror.

“Hey, wait,” he followed you, turning you with a hand on your arm.  “Let’s not let go of that topic so quickly.”

“It’s nothing.  That’s over now.”

“What’s over?” he pressed.

“The part of this where we... did that,” you explained.  “It was just a necessary process, to get pregnant in the first place.  And then it happened a couple of times after I got pregnant, but that was just... I don’t know, you were so high on finally getting what you wanted and now--”

“What I wanted?” he repeated.  “Explain to me what it is I want.”

“An heir!” you answered immediately.  “Duh!  That’s what this is all for.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he shot back sternly.  “I want a family.  I want this family.  I want...” he took in a slow breath, afraid to say it aloud, “I want to hold you again.  I want to call you my wife not because we both signed a contract but because we’re both in love.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet, and he tried to stay calm as he continued.

“Most of all, if that’s not what you want, then what I really want is for you to... pretend, please, just for a day.  An hour, even.  Pretend it’s real.  Pretend it’s not just a show for our child, pretend you could really love me back.  And then you can go.  I don’t know how either of us will live without you, but, if you don’t want to be together then I don’t think I can take much more of this.  I need to have you or I need to let you go because... because I’m too selfish to let Addy keep her mother while I lose my wife, I’m too weak-- and I can’t fucking do this anymore!”

He didn’t raise his voice often.  Honestly, this was probably the first time since he met you.  And it wasn’t quite yelling, but he was still terrified that it would scare you.

You didn’t look scared, though.  You looked... peaceful, you even looked almost happy as you reached up and placed your hand onto the back of his neck and pulled him closer until your foreheads were pressed together.

He could smell your hair from here, and he took a deep breath in case it was the last time.

“Tell me what you want, darling,” he requested softly.

Your eyes fell shut before you took a deep, shaky breath.  “I want you,” you whispered, making his heart stop.

He swallowed quickly.  “Is that all?”

“I want another baby,” you added.

Carefully, he pulled you closer as he nodded, pressing his lips to yours.  All this time he had spent convincing himself that kissing you wasn’t as good as he remembered... and he’d been a liar all along.  It was just as perfect as he’d been imagining.

“I can give you both, right now,” he whispered against your lips, and when he felt you nod he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him, carrying you to bed.

He did his best to make up for lost time that night, though it would take a lot more than one night to overcome years of running from his love for you.  Thankfully, you had the rest of your lives to try.  

Although one of the great accomplishments of it all was finally being husband and wife, rather than just parents, you were both ecstatic when you were due to become parents again.  No contracts required, no need for an heir, just a new addition to the Zemo family that would hopefully love being a part of it as the rest of you did.  And the soon-to-be big sister got to help pick out a name:

Abigail | feminine

origin: Hebrew

meaning: My father’s joy

[whereismymindnow]

Shark (Troy Otto x OC)

I’ve really enjoyed rewatching FTWD lately, particularly S3 since Troy was such an interesting character that had so many complicated layers and I thought his relationship with Nick could have been explored so much more.

Anyway, this may not go anywhere, but here’s a one-shot or chapter one of a short fic for anyone that may be interested. I've not posted any fanfiction on Tumblr before so I'm fully prepared for it to flop haha! I do post on AO3 under the name Mikki19. :)

Song inspiration for the story: Plastic Heart by Ciscandra Nostalghia

This fic (if I expand on it on here) will have many dark elements due to Troy's mindset. Consider that your warning.

---

This wasn’t how it was meant to happen.

All of this trouble over some half-rotten fucking apples.

She’d been minding her own business, her hunger leading her to not take full account of her surroundings as she came across the nearly dead fruit tree. Flies buzzed around the apples that had dropped to the floor long ago, but she noticed 3 overly ripened orbs clinging for life on one of the higher branches. Given how she’d been unable to forage much lately, she was willing to try and take whatever bits of the apples were left.

Her nearly empty bag dropped to the ground as she carefully put one foot in a groove of the tree and hoisted herself up. Her vision was blurry and her head ached, but getting the browning fruits above remained her goal. With shaky limbs she scaled the tree until she could stretch up and touch the apples with her fingertips. She let out a groan of pain as she gave one last stretch and grabbed the branch that held her prize; a small shake had the little round globes dropping to the ground with a squelch making her grimace. Beggars can’t be choosers, she reminded herself.

She hadn’t been expecting to hear the rumble of an engine or the large soldiers that slowly sauntered out of the truck. She’d frozen like a cat being caught climbing something they shouldn’t have as one stepped forward. His brown curls and bright eyes gave the impression of innocence, but the shadow of calculation overcoming his face made her realise how fucked she was.

Harper unsteadily slid down the tree and noticed how her bag – that had very little inside it apart from an empty bottle, a Swiss Army knife, a torn and distressed picture of her brother, and the collar of her dog that had defended her until the end – was closer to the man than to her. With a sharklike smile he picked up the bag and threw it behind him for one of his friends to rifle through and cocked his head to the side in wonder as to what her next move would be.

She heard him laugh as she dived behind the tree and ran as fast as she could to the building nearby. A loud scream left her as a corpse immediately launched itself at her as she burst through the door; its teeth were so close to her that she could feel a few strands of hair be ripped from her scalp as it snapped its jaws. She kept an arm pushing across its chest as she frantically ripped her pocketknife from her boot, flipped it open and sent the blade through the walker’s skull. The body dropped to the filthy floor, sending a cloud of grey dust into the air that made her choke. Harper turned her head and saw the soldier slowly making his way to the building she’d just entered.

So, here she was. Trapped like a mouse as the cat prowled around looking for its next meal. She slowed her breathing as much as she could and huddled under the abandoned desk; her hand held a strong grip on the knife but she could already feel her body shaking in exhaustion. She hadn’t eaten properly or slept more than a few hours for days since her camp got overrun by a hoard of the dead. She wasn’t ready for a fight. She knew that this was only going to go one way judging by the firepower that these men had and how clean and well-fed they looked. With any luck she could lose or injure the guy in the building and run out through a back exit.

“You know, I don’t want to hurt you. People always look at me like a monster, but I’m not. If you come out, there doesn’t have to be a struggle.” Harper could hear him in the corridor outside of the abandoned office she’d dived into. The way he sounded so chilled, almost bored or uninterested, made her want to deliver a swift kick to his smug face.

She’d always been a fighter. When the kid in 9th grade pushed her to the floor and laughed, she’d got up just as quick and head-butted him without a thought. When Sophia had looked at her brown curls with a sneer, she’d quickly pulled on the blonde locks until the girl begged for mercy. Of course, her spitfire nature came with consequences. She’d found that out pretty quick when her father started to use a firmer, more brutal hand in order to get her to comply, and her mother had pulled her out of school and begun to slip light sedatives in her food. They were afraid of her, she knew that. They were afraid she’d inherited that rage that had sent her grandmother into a mental hospital at the age of 39 until she died in a medication induced coma at 46. It wasn’t until her brother died when she was 18 that things began to change. Her fire had been reduced to nothing and she walked around the house like one of the dead even before they’d started to rise. Malachi had been her rock. He’d been the only one to believe in her and used that anger that burned within her belly to train her how to wrestle. She soon grew hungry for the sport and had aspired to join the independent wrestling scene as soon as she could break away from her parents. Malachi’s death had changed all of that though. The once bright-eyed girl had been reduced to a withered husk. The fire within had been extinguished and the thought of fighting made her feel nauseous. Her parents had been quite relieved; they’d have rather have her broken than be the monster they were sure she’d have turned into. From then on she’d been a shadow of her former self; she spent most of her days sleeping or pretending to listen to her mother prattle on about one thing or another whilst her father went to work.

She could feel that familiar ache in her chest. She wanted to get up and fight, but her legs felt like jelly and her head was about ready to explode. So, she waited. Her eyes clenched shut as the door to the office slowly closed. She heard the thud of a gun being put on the table near the door and the heavy footsteps of army boots make their way across the room.

“I know you’re under there.” A squeak left her mouth as two large hands slammed down on top of the desk. “Won’t you come out? You don’t even know what I have to offer to you. Those apples you were so desperately reaching for? I can give you a whole basket full… if you just come out.” He made it sound so goddamn easy and simple. “I said: come out!” The sudden anger in his voice made her gulp and slowly stand. Her green eyes met his; despite the anger that had been in his voice, his face was blank as he drank the sight of her in.

Her cropped top was torn and covered in blood, her shorts were dirty and her boots were worn. She was clinging to life by a thread and they both knew it. Her 5’7” stature was dwarfed by his large 6’1” body. He could tell she had been quite fit and muscular before all of this, but poor nutrition had left her looking withered and underdeveloped. He could easily see her ribs and hipbones from where she stood. She was completely filthy and he noted bruises and scratches on her legs from where she had been running wild for who knows how long. It was her eyes that got him the most; he’d seen those eyes before, he saw that same determination and anger every time he looked at his own reflection. She didn’t want to give up, but she was so tired. Her body wobbled in place and she sucked her chapped bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to keep the sob that was building at bay.

“Come here.” When she made no effort to move Troy quickly reached forwards, grabbed her by the neck and lifted her over the desk so that she was in front of him. He laughed as his free hand quickly caught her wrist as she sluggishly tried to get him with her knife. “Drop it.” Troy murmured softly.

“No.” Her voice cracked from lack of use. “No.” A heavy sigh left his mouth before he tightened his grip until he could feel her ligaments and bones creak under his grasp. “Agh!” Her other hand came to claw at his fingers desperately as she felt like her wrist would break.

“Drop. It.” He hissed with no intention of loosening his hold until she complied like a good girl. The knife fell with a clatter as she swallowed down her pride and submitted. Immediately his once vicelike grip turned into a soft hold and he allowed his thumb to carefully rub the already bruising skin. “Do you see what you made me do?” He spoke like he was talking to a child. “I’m not a bad person. You just need to listen to me.” Troy watched as her face crumpled and she stared at her feet. He was so used to looking at people like an experiment that he was shocked to find his mind wasn’t trying to work out how long it would take this weakened girl to turn. He looked at her in wonder instead. He could tell that she was broken inside. It was easy to see as the swell of defiance was in her gaze but it was overpowered by the lost look. She needed someone to lead her. She needed direction… purpose… He’d give it to her. He could see her at the ranch with him. She’d be in the living area waiting for him to return from a hunt with a smile on her face and no shoes on her feet. She wouldn’t need shoes; shoes were only necessary for people going outside. He was all she would need. She would be his.

Harper carefully looked up at the soldier and blinked as she saw the concentration in them. “Who are you?”

“My name is Troy. Yours?”

“H-Harper.”

“Where are you from?”

“England… originally. We moved to the States after my brother died… too many memories at home.”

“How’d your brother die? Was he sick?” His head snapped to the side as her hand came up and connected with his cheek. Harper was breathless from the exertion but the carelessness in which he talked about her brother made her blood boil. Malachi was a subject not meant to be touched. “Hm… wrong move.” Troy’s grip tightened once again on her wrist as he spun her around, pushed her front onto the desk and pulled her limb until an aching pain grew in her shoulder from the angle. He used his own body to hover over her so that she couldn’t straighten up. “Apologise.” He wedged his legs between hers as she started to flail and kick out in order to avoid the low blow that she was aiming to deliver; his hips stayed firm against the back of her thighs despite the movements she was making. A deep groan left his mouth as her actions awakened the primal urge within him that told him to claim her. Harper suddenly stilled as she felt a heavy, hard length begin to grow against her ass. “Apologise.” He simply repeated, suddenly breathless as his body buzzed from the stimulation. He wasn’t used to this reaction. Sure, he could see pretty girls from those that would probably be a last pick, but he’d never felt this need to claim before. He’d had sex before, meaningless and ultimately disappointing sex with girls that had wanted to get closer to his perfect brother or had wanted a better standing within the ranch and chosen the somewhat vulnerable youngest Otto to try and make that happen, but this felt like more than just an urge to find his way into the warmth between her legs. This felt like something he needed; like the blood in his veins and the air that he breathed. She felt like a piece of the puzzle that would fit perfectly into place and make him feel that little bit more whole.

Harper could feel his hot breath shakily release against the back of her head and shuddered. “I- I am sorry.” She whispered gently in an attempt to appease the unpredictable man behind her. She felt him slowly release her wrist but he made no motion to move away from her. Her back tensed as his hands slowly went to her sides and gripped her hips. He stayed still for a moment, almost as though he was using his hold on her body to ground himself, before stepping back with a low chuckle.

“Good girl. You’re learning already.” Troy leant down and grabbed her knife, a knowing look in his eye as he pocketed it for himself before pulling something else out of his jacket. A thin strip of plastic was in his grasp. “Put your wrists out and together.” Harper exhaled as she looked at the cable tie. Exhaustion was defeating her and he’d taken what little energy she had left. Her body was propped up by the table behind her and she knew if she stepped away then her legs were likely to collapse.

“Where are you going to take me?” She asked softly understanding that she had no way out of this in her current state.

“Back to base. It’s safe there.” Troy stated proudly as though he was saving her and not taking her against her will. “Do you understand? I’m going to keep you safe. I’ll feed you and get you clean so I can see exactly what is under all of this filth.” Harper’s mouth watered at the thought of food and a shower. Her basic human needs screamed at her to obey as she shakily held out her hands to him. He carefully looped the plastic around her wrists and tightened it until she winced; only stopping when her eyes looked into his pleading for some form of mercy. “Are you thankful?” Harper gave a shaky nod under his intense stare that seemed to strip her naked and glare into her soul. “Use your words.”

Harper swallowed down her bile as he raised his brow expectantly. “Yes… thank you, Troy.” His grin was the last thing she saw before her body finally gave up and she dropped to the cold ground unconscious.

---

You look for me Inside the dark I am the ocean You are the shark You hunt me like Your last goodbye Oh fallen angel Of the night

---Plastic Heart by Ciscandra Nostalghia---

[eternalstrigoii]

Bittersweet

“It’s just gonna be a nice little fluff fic,” I say as I start this last night. I am. So sorry.

Platonic!Desert Warrior Dark Fey Reader + Diaval; Maleficent x Diaval; Borra x Desert Warrior Dark Fey Reader

                As with all proper bonded pairs, there were times when you were not with Borra.

In the nest, those times used to be spent honing your skills, chasing captive deer through the tall, dry grass along the rocky outcroppings; scaling from the caverns to the plains using nothing but your wits, your talons, and your knees. You sparred with others, you sat with Ini in the rocky outcroppings of the nest outside, watching the cold and violent sea, and, from time to time, you entertained your kinsmen’s children with your strange ability to recall and emulate the sounds of the birds you heard on the moors.

These days, you spent an increasing amount of your free time with Diaval.

It wasn’t that you miraculously spent none of it with your kinsmen – you did, but Ini was always the curious sort, and the moors offered her a great deal of new stimulation, and Shrike had Percival. Udo always had his fledglings, and you loved him for it, but when Borra convened with Maleficent, it was in your best interest – and often also in Diaval’s – for the both of you to find something else to occupy your time.

For the moment, the days of war and battle plans were over.

So you wandered.

Whether he was a bird or a man didn’t matter, Diaval was good company. Sometimes he saved you shiny things that he’d thought you would like, and you did like them. Sometimes you lay together in the sun and you ran your talons through his feathers until he shivered (which was more amusing to watch when he was a man, and your smirk never failed to rile him).

And, sometimes, he took you to the kingdoms.

Perceforest was not a welcoming place. It better resembled a dumping ground when compared to Ulstead; the buildings were weathered and the stone streets uneven. Even its people seemed burdened by invisible forces. For a land that knew communal, council-based living (or some form of it), they still suffered. You didn’t like to go there because you knew if you went frequently enough, you would feel motivated to do something about it, and that would inevitably work its way back to Maleficent, and you would have to hatch some sort of plan.

You quite liked your free time, so you contented yourself with perching high in their trees and drawing shapes in the air until their crops flourished. Despite their farmers’ toil, it brought them some measure of relief, and there was almost always some left over for you and the raven to share.

The open-air markets of Ulstead were also a draw, with their ready-made sweets and shiny baubles, and you had yet to bother with the Midlands.

You stayed with him near Perceforest most often.

The farmer that nearly killed him twenty years ago was dead, and his daughter now owned the land. She was a pretty thing, round-hipped under her shift. Very clean. She kept house almost obsessively, and at first Diaval agreed with the thought that it was to keep nature from entering, but then she did something neither of you planned on.

She left pastries sitting on the window. In plain sight. Of you and anything else that just so happened to be looking.

You looked to your raven companion, who was, at the time, literally a raven.

He awk’d, partly flapping as his best approximation of a shrug. Do what you will, it won’t be my idea to start something.

“They smell good,” you replied. “We can share.”

He fluffed his feathers at you. No, I will not do your dirty work.

You pursed your lips so they quirked at the corner and thought for a moment. You could take one with your vines, or you could respect peace and not touch them at all, or you could find a third option that would please you both without having to cope with either extreme.

You resolved to do the latter, hopping down and quirking your fingers so that her squash vines continued to flourish while you strode up to the window.

You plucked one from the platter and made a mad dash back, going even higher into the branches than you were originally perched. Diaval laughed at you, and you swept your wing so he had to fly or be shoved off the branch by its wind.

Awk! You said something about sharing?

“You did nothing to help.” You took quite the bite only to pause and look down at it strangely. You weren’t sure what you tasted or if you liked it, so you surrendered the other portion to him.

He picked at it, and after several swallows, quirked his head back to you. Awk! Not much of a baker.

“It’s terrible,” you agreed.

Another few mouthfuls. Awk! No sugar?

You ate it, though it wasn’t as pleasant as you thought. Not pleasant like the molasses cake at the palace, or the stall-vendor with fresh raisin buns. You had no use for currency, and Diaval saw no problem with pocketing some for you from time to time.

“It’s just grain,” you said after a moment, nearly in disbelief. “Who eats just grain?”

Awk! Bread. It’s bread. Surely you must have had bread.

“That is not bread. That is…” Small and lumpy and wrong. Not much of a baker at all. “A rock.”

He quirked his head to the other side and made a low chitter of disapproval.

“What in skies do you want me to do about it? You never help.”

You swore before your ancestors if he tried to levy peace against you as an excuse, you’d smack him from the branches. Instead, he hopped onto your leg and scaled your side until he was perched upon your shoulder. And he nuzzled you, the conniving bastard.

“I will not be goaded into acts of kindness,” you hissed.

He chattered at you gently, and you could hear the honey in his tone. Oh, come on. She’s just a girl. No better than Aurora.

You scowled. Severely.

More chattering; if you help her, we can steal sweet buns.

“I should throw you in her window and see how well you manage.”

He gave you the full force of his beady, black little eyes, and you set your teeth and growled at him.

But he was Maleficent’s mate, and the scheming little brat knew you would do nothing of the sort.

“Where in skies does one find sugar?”

Awk! Awk! Don’t act like I’d make you farm it. Come on. We’ve got plenty of work to do.

He took off from the trees, and you did your best to quietly follow. You left the bread for the squirrels, though you figured if she had the guts to leave her concoctions unattended, she knew how palatable they were.

       You came back several days after dropping off the sack of sugar with a note in Diaval’s marginally neater hand. From one neighbor to another, may sweetness always be shared.

You thought he was being too obvious. He thought it was a brilliant plan.

There was no bread that time, but something was certainly roasting over fire. You breathed in the smell and your wings nearly sagged against the thick limb of your perch.

“What is it?” Diaval, the man, asked.

You had to think of it. You ran your tongue across your teeth and tried to conjure up the memory of what it might be, though it failed you. “I don’t know. It smells good.”

He fluffed with pride, and pretended to wait patiently beside you.

But it took so long. You swore hours passed, and you began to ache with hunger as though you hadn’t eaten just that morning.

She put something on the ledge before you had to run off – narrowly before you had to run off, and, this time, Diaval had no hesitation about sneaking up to the window and grabbing one of them for each of you.

You waited until you were nearly halfway back to indulge yourselves. You found a nice spot in one of the sunny meadows full of flower sprites, and toasted one another to your success with the still-hot pastries in both your grasp.

You bit into it deeply, and promptly spit it back out.

Diaval actually choked.

“How hard is it to cook sweet bread?!” you yelled so loudly it startled the willow sprites napping in their tree. “Sugar, flour, leavening – sweet cream and berries!” It smelled so good, and you wanted to enjoy it, but it was half-baked at best and the gooey center was clumped with poorly mixed batter. You yelled in frustration, threw it halfway across the field, and promptly flopped backward into the grass.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day?” Diaval offered.

“I don’t know where Rome is,” you lamented. “Structural planning and baking are two entirely separate things.”

He patted the leather strap over your shoulder. “We can go to Ulstead next time?”

You were being stubborn. You didn’t want to go to Ulstead, and you didn’t want Perceforest to be a miserable little town. You looked up at the treetops, and the sky, and the vastness of it all to avoid looking at him, because then you would have to acknowledge what the horrible little bird wanted you to do, and you would rather eat handfuls of grass than be of assistance.

“Rome is a very famous city,” Diaval began, and you reached up to put your hand over his face before he could continue.

Skies. Awful, horrible, persistent little bird.

“Speak a word of this, and you’ll be missing a wing when I return you.”

He smiled at you, the beast, like he took pleasure in your kindness. “Oh no, wouldn’t dream of it. Suren of the Cavernous Dark, helping a human. So soon after peace. What would your husband say?”

“My mate would tell you to shut your horrible little mouth and keep it that way.” You got up slowly, brushing the grass and its creatures out of your hair, and turned abruptly on your heel to go back to the little farm near Perceforest.

“I don’t think he would.” There was a note of laughter in his voice as he got up to follow.

“He would,” you pressed. “Only without so many words.”

         Are you a fool? was the introduction you’d settled on. It doesn’t take an army to bake a batch of sweet bread. You planned on the inherent sharpness of your tone to convey your displeasure.

But she was out in the fields when you got there, and you stopped short at the edge of the trees.

She was crying.

You turned around to leave, but Diaval was right behind you. You gave him a wide-eyed, furious look that implied he had better leave your path immediately or else he would never get the opportunity to be his beautiful bird self again, but he looked at you with the same manner of even-natured patience as he gave Maleficent.

You could’ve slapped the plumage right off of him.

You jerked your head quickly back toward the field. No. No! I am not dealing with this! This is the exact opposite of what I stuck around to do!

He sighed and leveled his gaze.

You could’ve beat your wings at him. Pushed him, smacked him, hurried him off. Instead, you flared and you quirked your head with a set jaw.

“Will it batter you so much to be nice?”

“Yes!” you whispered, much too fiercely. “Or did you forget that her father nearly killed you!”

He waited.

The things you enjoyed the most about Diaval’s company were also the things that infuriated you. He was lovely, intelligent, wholly without judgment and often also without reserve. He was a peaceful, good-natured bird, and there was even a part of you that would’ve admitted that you loved him the same as the rest of your kinsmen if he asked you directly.

But he could be a real bastard when he wanted to. Making you do things you didn’t want to. Having the audacity to ask. To propose you extend your kindness to a human. Skies. Disgusting. It spit on your fallen ancestors.

And yet, you turned back to her. Lowered your wings so you could actually see her. See her the way you’d seen Aurora on the battlefield, a child-queen with more heart than strength (though she grew into the latter). She was no more than a sniveling child, hardly much older than the girl you’d grown so fond of.

Beloved by all who meet her, you reminded yourself. Bitterly. Intentionally bitterly.

You waited until you were several paces away from Diaval to breathe out your fury. The warmth of summer left your body and made the lovely little flower grove perk with life anew, and the crying child looked up only to startle in fear.

“Your sweet bread tastes terrible,” you said by way of greeting.

She stared up at you with her mouth open like a fish plucked freshly from the river. You set your teeth to avoid laughing, and then you forced yourself to look away.

“You are very bad at baking, and I would like to understand why. It’s not a difficult task. Anyone can do it with the right resources.”

You heard Diaval sigh, and you beat your wing at him. Shut up. I’m being as nice as I am.

“…no one taught me.” She was crying again, for skies’ sake, and you really, truly, genuinely could’ve wrung Diaval’s neck like you meant to eat him for dinner.

Surely someone can, you meant to say. You meant to say it, but she went on before you could stop her.

“I’m trying. I really am trying. It’s just been so hard. I’m all on my own out here… the whole farm is mine to run and mine alone. And it just keeps growing.” She was…flush with her tears. She dabbed lightly at her wet face. “Now the cow’s calving and my goat’s getting old and I can’t harvest all of this by myself.”

“Have you no family?”

She gestured at the place where she left her terrible sweet bread, a plot of untilled yarrow and blooming sorrel. “I’m on my own.”

“No neighbors?” you offered. “No kin at all?”

“My neighbors don’t count for family.”

How strange humans were. How utterly, pitifully alone. Each and every last one of them made themselves into an island, as though the individual and the collective could not coexist.

“Your cow is calving?” You were more deliberate with your words. “Then they will soon have milk?”

“She already does.” She wiped her face again.

“Then you will also have milk for yourself. One calf won’t drink it all. Add it to your mixture before you bake. And stir it until it’s smooth. Whatever sugar you add that you feel is enough, add twice as much. And berries.”

She looked at you strangely, and you sighed so forcefully it made your wings move.

“I will help you harvest if you make edible sweet bread. Do we have a deal?”

“Why would you help me? You’re moor-folk. You have everything you need.”

You ignored the note of resentment you heard in favor of leveling your gaze upon her as Diaval had you. “Everything but sweet bread, which you will give to me in exchange for my help. That is how a bargain works.”

She was silent for a moment, studying you. You were no pixie-witted fairy godmother, nor was she some helpless child in need of your defense.

But she was alone, and your kind didn’t do that.

So you were pleased when she nodded, if only for the food.

“Then try your hand again. We’ll be evenly matched; everything I do for you is repaid in return.”

She nodded. “But…if I’m not good--?”

“You will improve.” It came out as much of a threat as you meant it.

        “He’s gotten very attached to you.”

You nearly startled out of your skin at Maleficent’s voice, though, to your credit, your wings didn’t fold in defense.

“Who? The little bog-thing I shooed off?” Even you had to scrub your leather from time to time, and you put effort into the task. You washed it, dried it, re-sealed it with waxes and mended all the broken spots. “It kept throwing mud at me.”

She raised her chin, and the humanness of her expression gave you pause. You huffed back a lock of your hair from your face and tilted your head oddly.

“Diaval,” she replied. Her voice betrayed nothing.

You stared at her for much too long before you shifted back onto your haunches. “Romantically?” Your feelings on the subject were much too clear in the way you said the word – you were too fond of him to be disgusted, but that wasn’t by much.

She quirked her head at you in return.

“Skies, Maleficent, talk to me. He’s your mate.”

“And Borra is yours.” The cool evenness of her tone was so familiar and yet so frustratingly difficult to constantly have to decipher. “It would be a shame to tell him—”

“To tell him what?” No sooner had you asked than you realized the implication, and you laughed out loud at its mortality. “Do you think he would be jealous?”

She stared at you. You saw the swirl of power in her eyes.

“Are you jealous, Maleficent? You? Protector of the moors, Queen Mother to all kingdoms? Great skies.” You nearly threw your leather down on the riverbank. “Diaval is my friend, and we’ve been bothering a girl on a farm outside Perceforest for sweet bread for several weeks. She’s a terrible baker, and promised to try to do better.”

“You spoke to her?” Something told you she didn’t believe an ounce of what you said.

“I did. She’s the daughter of the human farmer who nearly killed your mate when he was just a bird. The man’s dead now. She’s by herself. No kinsmen to help her.” You left out the part where you were, though you imagined she’d be able to connect the mutually beneficial dots. “I’ll take you out there, if you like. You can endure her cooking with me.” And then, without thinking, you added, “And then you can tell me why the kingdom of Perceforest is in such disrepair.”

“It’s had more corrupt leaders than it’s had good ones.” She hid nothing from you in that respect, at least. “We’re working on resolving that.”

“We as in you and your daughter, or we as in you?”

You knew how easy it would’ve been for her to throw you headfirst into the river, and yet you still talked to her like your equal.

“You’re not one of them. You know that, don’t you? You can ask for help. We’re your people, Maleficent, your family whether or not we’re blood to you.” You picked up your leather and your leather-cloth and settled back on the shore. “Conall didn’t pluck you from the sea because of your great power, he did it because you’re you. Your place with us isn’t a matter of evening out a bargain or repaying a debt. You were one of us whether or not you fought at our side.”

There was a crease forming in your side that you’d have to reinforce before it split. You’d almost forgotten what you were getting at, only to have your head snap back up so you could reply with much too much vehemence, “And ravens mate in pairs. You’re the one he wants. That won’t change because he steals sweets with me.”

She was silent for so long that you’d almost thought she left without acknowledging you. But she hadn’t, and so you sat up without thinking to pluck the bird skull at her forehead and pull her leather wrappings off.

She let you.

“I never tell Borra that I love him as a reminder. I wish I didn’t have to say the same for you.” You closed her hands around the wrapping and brushed back a lock of her hair.

Whether or not she believed you, you thought she might’ve understood. Even when she took wing much too quietly, some part of you knew that she would eventually. She had just been on her own for far too long.

           You grew nothing for the girl, but harvested much.

She spent most of her time helping you. She spent most of her time toiling still; you only came on occasion, and you had enough of a physical advantage over her to accomplish much in significantly shorter a time.

The next sweet breads she made for you were not terrible. They were not very good, but they were edible. You left half a plate for Diaval and pretended to be upset when he bounced along on raven-toes with a whole one in his mouth, just taunting you with it.

You did not help her clear the field after the second set. They were not very good, and you left the one you hadn’t finished. The squash you harvested you took with you, and it was roasted with herbs over your bonfire that night.

That was the first night Maleficent joined you.

She said nothing of your encounter at the riverbank, nor did you. She wore her hair down and Diaval the man was at her side, where he belonged.

You kept your smile to yourself for their sake.

         “Try these.”

You gave a well-warranted pause. It looked like the girl – whose name you pretended not to remember, but secretly knew – had grown bold about how elaborate she could be. The bitterness of the last batch was still fresh in your mind, and you looked at her skeptically.

“Oh!” she huffed and felt around in her apron until she had their recipe in hand. “I got it from the baker. I told him that I was trying to refine my skills,” an understatement if you ever heard one, “and he offered me this. It’s very simple, and I think you’ll like it. It’s not a bread, it’s a cake. It takes much less time.”

“You didn’t forget about it?” you clarified.

Her cheeks reddened. “No, not this time. I sat there and did my mending while I waited.”

You took one of the small cakes from her plate and looked it over for scorch marks. The bottom was brown and firm, a little flaky, and the rest was a nice, spongy lump. You took a bite in front of her, and, for once, weren’t immediately repelled.

“It’s good,” you admitted.

“It’s good?” she repeated, much happier about it than she should’ve been.

You nodded. So, you could leave her be after harvest or pawn her off on the other moor-folk. You weren’t the only one in pursuit of a coveted sweet, and you imagined, lonely as she was, she’d enjoy the company of their many over just you.

“Oh, I’m glad! I’ll have to keep one and let him know how it turned out. Tell me if there’s anything special you want, will you?”

Molasses cake, you thought with renewed enthusiasm. But you shook your head fondly and watched her rush the plate back to the windowsill as though Diaval’s approval was as necessary as yours.

He wasn’t as rare of a help as you’d thought he’d be. So, perhaps, he deserved equal share.

        The calf bleated, shoving his head into your hands.

“I know.” You rubbed the velveteen fur along the back of his neck. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You’d stolen the girl’s leather-brush to help the little creature itch the velvet fuzz from his horn nubs. Like any child, he was consumed with the thing that bothered him, and you took a surprising amount of pleasure in knowing how to help.

Surprising, considering you’d been dancing around the raw place in your heart that still burned like an iron wound. The raw place flared up again when you thought about your people’s own fledglings and the balms and tonics used to soothe their growing horns.

Harvest was coming. Your people had yet to decide whether you should stay in the moors or return to the nest for the winter. A great many of you believed the moors would stay unsullied; that you couldn’t just survive, but thrive if you stayed. The others worried about the change in seasons upon your elders and your fledglings, and called to make the journey before the headwinds changed and the sea became violent.

There were several reasons why you did not choose a side.

They were the same reasons why you refused to enter Ulstead even though Aurora���s young husband sent along casks of spiced cider and mulled wine. They were early, some of the first made, and the boy could’ve talked about the orchards near the sea where they were harvested all night, if you’d listened. You refused to acknowledge them, lest the raw place begin to bleed again.

“Are you alright?”

She stopped with her wash-basket on her hip, and you heaved a sigh that moved your wings. “Can you manage the work by yourself, now?”

There was a part of you, however small, that hoped she’d say no.

Instead, she beamed like Aurora as she rested her basket on the fence and leaned over it like a child. “Actually,” there was an edge of false shyness to her voice that made you bristle, “I won’t be alone for much longer.”

The ancestors enjoyed your torment, then.

“The baker’s name is John. He’s a very good man, and we’ve gotten very close. I told him of how well the farm has done, and he’d like to join me here rather than live in the village. I agreed.”

The calf rubbed his head into your palm, and the raw spot in your heart wept.

“I planned on telling you when the molasses cake was done, but I suppose now is as good of a time as any? You can still come for sweets, but I don’t suppose you’ll need to help me when I have a husband around.”

Diaval was your blessing, then more than ever. He flew down from his perch in the barn – he’d been mousing, the loaf – and plucked a garment from the basket to take to the line. She exclaimed with laughter and ran after him, uttering some gentle variation of silly bird, and you put the leather brush down.

You did not wait for the cakes. And you did not plan on going back.

         “I’m not good company today,” you said as soon as the twig-nest rustled against folded wings.

Your warning didn’t faze Borra in the slightest. He joined you in your bed, folding a wing around your middle and using it as an excuse to pull you close. You tucked your chilly feet between his, since you’d already been laying there for a while, and got his face pressed into your hair for your trouble.

“Where do you run off to?” he murmured after a moment, certainly smelling the human in your hair.

“A girl in the valley makes sweets.” You told yourself that you kept your tone even, but you could hear yourself lamenting.

He waited, patiently, for the rest.

“Now she’s getting married.”

She was getting married and Maleficent checked in on her daughter at least a dozen times a day. Why she didn’t just leave to live in the castle, you’d ruefully considered asking. That lonely little thing would forge a life, Diaval would be a grandfather, and you…

You awoke with the dawn every morning and made your way down to the half-naked field of glowing blooms. A cemetery desecrated, countless lives robbed of their honor, innumerable families robbed of their memories generations-deep. Your little bloom finally opened during the summer. It was slow to grow, and very small, and you tended the rock-circle you made around it obsessively. Plucked the stray grass that dared attempt to bloom between them; replaced your shed pinfeathers when the ones sticking up out of the ground started to look weathered. Little Thing should’ve been inside you, growing. Warm and loved in the cradle of your body. Big or small, warrior or pacifist, whatever they would’ve been, you would’ve loved them so fiercely. You ached for them, and you would continue to ache for them even when the ache was, once more, an open wound.

You had done your share of crying. But the time for battle strategy was over, and you had no other outlet for your pain.

He pulled you close until you were so flush you could feel how he moved with every breath. Neither of you spoke for a long time; you trusted that he knew why you phrased it as you did, and he did, and so you lay there and navigated each painful reminder with the same inopportune dodging that you’d given the queen’s iron bombs.

“We can try again,” was how he broke that silence.

Your lips quirked half-heartedly.

When you didn’t respond, he propped himself up on his elbow and guided your chin until you were looking at him. You pressed your lips to his thumb when it brushed over them.

“If you want to.” He searched your face, and you thought it was entirely unfair for him to be so beautiful. You brushed your fingers over your favorite little decorative crack on his nose, breaking the respite of your misery to revere him. “If you’re ready.”

           She left you alone for about a week. Then a paper-wrapped parcel appeared at the edge of the moors with your name on it, and it was full of sweet, sticky spiced rolls.

I’m hope I didn’t offend you, the note in her hand replied. I very much liked your company, and Diaval’s. You’re always welcome to come back. Sweetness is meant to be shared, after all.

The moor-folk bothered you for portions, and you ended up stealing three rolls and leaving them the rest. Four, you decided after a moment, before the hoard descended.

One for you, one for him, and one for the people you both loved.

           Baker-John of Perceforest brought with him a cart well-stocked. He would not abandon his duties in the village, so he would simply have to go back and forth between the village and the farm. You watched them unpack said cart, your little human carrying big, stone dishes and sacks nearly half as big as she was. Her intended, not much older, brought heavier.

“And who is she?” Maleficent asked of Diaval, who told her all about Baker-John of Perceforest, who was apparently a kind and gentle, patient and loving man who your human was dearly, truly, madly in love with.

“Sarah,” you replied. John and Sarah, Sarah and John. The humans. Didn’t have the same ring to it as Maleficent and Diaval, Diaval and Maleficent or Borra and Suren, Suren and Borra, but it would do.

“They know about you?” Borra asked.

“She does,” Diaval replied.

She’d learned from you, you saw while you studied the little farm from afar. From both of you. Gone was the scarecrow, for the crows ate the pests more than the food; there was a little pile of what could not be used some ways away from everything, left to return to the soil where it could be used in the spring. The leather brush had been nailed to the fence and the calf, still shedding velvet, mooed in pleasure while he worked his head back and forth over it.

You were glad for her. Really, you were.

When she kissed him, it was warm and sweet and bright like the sun – brief, gentle, and almost always followed by delighted laughter. He brought firewood to the barn in droves, and as she gathered another satchel, she paused. Her hair fell in her face and she swept it back only to stop when she saw you. All of you.

You crooked your wing around Borra and canted your head toward Diaval and Maleficent. I’m not offended. You were the one all on your own.

She was not Aurora. She was human – just a plain, ordinary little person living a plain, ordinary little life. But when she smiled at you, at all of you…

Well, you had to stop yourself from smiling in return. Diaval would’ve never let you hear the end of it.

             “Easy.” You patted the strong neck of the no-longer-calf that ran to greet you in his spring pasture. The fields were newly tilled, and your little human wore her hair up while she planted on bent knee.

Her eyes lifted, and you weren’t surprised at all by how eagerly she got to her feet. “It’s you!”

“The winter was kind to you.” She looked happy. Better fed.

Her feet sunk into the pliant earth when she ran to you, and you let her throw her arms around you like you were an old friend. Your wings even folded partially around her.

“I’m so glad you’re here. Diaval’s been coming for cakes, but he never tells me if you like them.”

“That’s because he didn’t tell me he was,” you admitted, though you could hardly be upset with him. Awful little creature, positively doting on his mate.

She laughed and hid her smile behind her hand. “Oh no.”

“I’ll deal with him later,” you joked. “That isn’t why I’ve come.”

She straightened, taking your unexpected presence seriously. Smart girl.

“With your permission, I would like to tell the moor-folk of you. They will help you with your fields in exchange for sweets just as readily.”

She glanced at the ground with her false shyness, her bright eyes glinting just like your child-queen’s. “Actually, I’d love the help. You know my husband travels back and forth, and it doesn’t give me the help I’d planned on.”

You nodded, all business. “Then I will. They are troublesome at times, but they understand gentle discouraging.”

“Of course.” She went to one of the buckets beside the well and washed the dirt from her hands. She knew nothing of your time rebuking poachers on the moors, and you didn’t feel the need to offer that information now.

“I feel I will be of little use to you this year. I also have business in Ulstead. The queen’s had twins, and I am to be their godmother.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Congratulations! Do you know her well, then? Aurora, isn’t it?” She was so pleasant, so calm. You could’ve told her that you’d taken fond to a seven-headed sea dragon and you doubted she would’ve been concerned.

“I do. She loves your village, and she’s doing everything in her power to extend the benefits of annexation across the kingdom.”

“Well, that will be lovely. I’d like to thank her myself when she visits.” She was gentle and kind, your little human, but she also wasn’t entirely foolish. She paused when you offered nothing else, and you let your smile betray you.

“Aurora’s fledglings will not be the only ones soon to discover the moors.”

You’d come all this way to tell someone you barely knew and shouldn’t have trusted, and yet the way she threw her kerchief in the air made you laugh out loud. She ran to you, pulled you close against her, and hugged you like you were kin.

She withdrew with an excited gasp, taking one of your taloned hands. “The man you were with was your husband, then?”

You quirked your head. In so many words. Your people didn’t rely on institution for a crutch the way they did.

“You – you stay right here.”

You laughed at her retreat, quietly for once. You were warm with joy and hadn’t come alone, not that Diaval could be pried away from his daughter or his grandchildren even if you’d asked him to.

Your no-longer-calf butted you in the arm, and you butted him back with your wing. “No.” Let the fledglings play with the farm animals.

Sarah waddled out of the house with a stack of nesting cloth nearly half as big as she was, as though she’d never felt the warmth of your skin and failed to notice that you could forage for your own materials.

“Here, feel free to keep or give away whatever you like.” She gave them all to you, and you had to push them down in order to see over them.

“Why are you giving me a gift?”

“Because you’ve given me one! Well, several, but if it hadn’t been for you,” and how terribly you’d confronted her about her lack of practical skills, “I never would’ve met John. They say true love is what woke Aurora, and you gave true love to me. You and Diaval.” She put her hands on the blanket-stack to help you squish them down. “I hope you both know true love in all its forms – with the people you love, and with the families you make.”

“Thank you,” you said before you could stop yourself. Aurora would get her peace yet. “I will see you again, Sarah of Perceforest.”

“I’d hope so. I wanna meet them. And your husband, when the time’s right.” You pretended not to notice that she pointedly did not glance over your shoulder, and you squished the stack of blankets against your side.

“And I, yours.”

Sarah beamed.

It was not a straightforward thing, happiness. Much the same way that peace was dependent upon the presence of war, you would ache over Little Thing for the remainder of your life – but, even though Borra didn’t say anything out loud, he still gave you a sidelong glance with just a bit too much of a quirk to his lips when you retreated into the woods with that stack of nesting-cloth under your arm.

You took one of the quilts out of the pile and flung it at him. “He goaded me into being nice.”

He caught it, folded it into a more compact form, and carried it under his arm. “As has Maleficent, I see. Aurora didn’t learn it from the air.”

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[apictureisapoemwithoutwords]

Be Careful That Which You Request.

“Eat the damn food!” Ӓr’kān’s growl is low, tone gravelly. 

Ears and connecting fins pull back in her impatience, as he thrusts the plate with a fish across the bar top. At the hungry, stubborn moron sitting beside them. 

“Bought it ‘so you’d fuckin’ eat an’ quit gawkin’ at my supper.” 

Ӓr’kān speaks, before going on to chow down on their own Giant Redlina, about almost done. As she observes Śhadō who is quiet again. 

This time peering at the extra plate. Like the dead aquatic, grew two more head’s. Right before those beautiful shiny black faded dark emerald green and peach-pink eyes.

It’s taken Ӓr’kān a moment to figure out the differences in their species’ ways of expressing things. More so than it was even close to hard trying to understand the Lepíspterón language, with no working translation between their species. 

Again, just another of the million reasons to love being an Aquatic, Ӓkˈtäˈpəd. It took their species little to learn unfamiliar languages, and almost all of them were pronounceable through their speech.

The Lepíspterón Tribe, Pectō Victima, or at least this single-member named Śhadō wasn’t doing half bad himself. He still stumbled on Ӓkˈtäˈpə words that had no equivalent translation in his dialect or any dialect or primary language known to their species; as far as either was aware of...

Śhadō’s antennae pulled up in alert, then drew backwards towards their false feather scale pony. Before he pulled them closer to his head, in mock anger; antennae almost now hidden in the feathers.

The period of silence broke between them as he spoke up in his native dialect. “Śhadō will take no such-”

… Making it even more fun for this Aquatic when their Insectoid attempted to mimic whatever Ӓr’kān attempted to say. And what she’d said was uncivilized. Something about the Lepíspterón or his thieving Moth subgroup or even his war made siblings and Śhadō; even as  stuck up and nasty hearted as he’d described his culture as did not have in their native tongue. 

“- fuck’ing actions!” and finished in Ӓkˈtäˈpə, with his upper lip stretched up over sharp, serrated black teeth; to bear his annoyance, rather than any genuine anger directed at Ӓr’kān. 

Which reminded him of the species Se​la​kē; whose Kiŋdəm had been to the right of her own. A best friend in honourment of their species they’ve not seen since forced to flee their home and all those she loved.

Looking as the Pectō Victima’s stunned silence in the wake of being thrown off by the show of affection and hospitality’s had warned off. Ӓr’kān prepared for the shit storm he will throw in its wake. 

Affection had been something shocking to learn Śhadō nor any of his species held a previous history. It was just everything Ӓr’kān grew up on had been about devotion, tenderness and the respect between family and for your people. She had felt as if he had been the only one of their species to have an ugly and dark side.

Even with her Octopade parents not being as prevalent within his life. They’d always had her older Octopade sibling to love him, and then she got to love a wonderful little codling sibling. When everything Ӓr’kān had ever held, gone. It was the Ratz who had taken that job of comfort and affection. Before that dark hole devoured everything, creating this being, this them they called, Bounty Hunter Ӓr’kān.  

Although, after having learned about what Lepíspterón’s siblings were like, what one had done to him and with all the stories forced fed into making Pectō Victima who he is today. On top of Śhadō's personality, engraving betrayal, from his own family. It was no wonder the chaotic, nasty, fluffy gremlin did not understand what it was like to have anybody genuinely care about them. Or to sprinkle you with pleasant things without needing that suspicion of ulterior motives connected to keep you alive.

Though, in all the time that this Ӓkˈtäˈpəd had known them. Never stopped Śhadō from being someone with an abundance of love to give. And for somebody who’d never known it existed or experienced it. The crazy bastard’s reverence and care for his insect pets were some of the deepest of ties. 

Ties, Ӓr’kān has only ever seen between Ӓkˈtäˈpəd Ŕȯiəl siblings. It went beyond the willingness to die or live to protect and love them and to think this overgrown moth did it all for these tiny squishy unintelligent creatures.

It is too bad for everybody else. - Notably, those Śhadō defined as Humanoid, which was everything and anybody. Something Ӓr’kān is slowly trying to fix, as they had no idea what that species is. Outside, the fairy tales told in space of a horrible cryptic race that as far as anybody knows doesn’t even exist. - Were not worthy of that love, them being included it seemed for some universal awful reason.

So it is a splendid thing Ӓr’kān, thought, she defied all common logic and universal truths and could be just as stupidly obstinate as he ~ or just plain stupid, depends on whoever you asked. That he knew the two of them would work. If nothing else, she’d become the only friend this grumpy killer thief has ever or may ever have to trust.

Snarling back at Śhadō; which is not a normal sound for a Ӓkˈtäˈpəd, and had been something she’d picked up aboard Ratz. Ӓr’kān spoke up, “Fine, starve, I’ll eat yo’r food too,” and turned away to do just that. As he bluntly ignored the most adorable sound Ӓr’kān’s ever heard. 

An offended high pitched squeaking or squeaking for any reason should be illegal. They should have the right to arrest, detain and devour Śhadō in -

Thoughts of unholiness screeched to a halt. As a large, warm, looming body shoved Ӓr’kān aside. Forcing her to grip the other side of the bar top, to keep from falling off the stool. 

“HaA’A~” 

Their voice pitching high, choked off mid surprise, as three cool metal digits from the thief’s prosthetic arm wrapped around their wrist, moving her hand away from Ӓr’kān’s mouth. 

All eight of their eyes attempted to see what the other was doing. But Śhadō’s magnificent form blocked their view. He could only sense a heavy rhythmic heat ghosting over her hand for a split moment, before. …

The noise of flesh and tendons being torn, bone being crushed covered the atmospheric sounds of the shady Bounty bar they were in.   

Alerting not only the other living things, but Ӓr’kān. Before the sickening splosh of blood pouring over-the-counter cuts off the rest of the room, daring to continue on with what they’re doing. 

At first, the Aquatics whole being is in shock with the actions of Śhadō. The pain hasn’t really caught up to him, and then it does, and the scream sticks to the rear of Ӓr’kān’s throat. Along with the failure of words, at having a piece of themselves stolen, with the fish she’d been holding.

It’s not until Śhadō’s noisily devouring his meal filters in. That Ӓr’kān’s wide eyes dart up from the missing extremity to glance at their companion. Whose lightly furred black cheeks bulge with his fresh mouthful. Lips, chin and parts of the omnivorous moth’s cheeks stained in the purple essence of a Ӓkˈtäˈpəd’s bodily existence, that she snaps out of their stunned silence.

“THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” The screech of vocals a decibel close enough to shatter glass.

Śhadō jumps, large four wings spreading out slightly as their chest puffs out to make them look larger, as their eyes widen in shock, antennae now laying across their head and tucked away in their plumes in aggression. Looking close to jumping right through, Ӓrˈ’kān; who craves nothing more at this moment than beat the other into a gory pulp, before revising that plan.

She brought this upon himself challenging a being as twisted up inside like this.  

Instead, they concentrate on the original issue. 

Vocals low and gravely again, yet still yelled in anger. “GIVE THAT BACK!” All thoughts to why the Bounty Hunter would not wish the piece back far from their thoughts.

The six-foot beast towering over their barley 5’11 height, even standing a stool away, is back to chewing contentedly. Looking so very proud of himself at the moment. That has Ӓrˈkān rendered speechless, again. Before reeling back, repulsed. As Śhadō takes the fish and their extra webbed finger bits. Wrapped in his long tubular tongue and rolls it out to reveal to all those who are observing.

“Y’r’an animal.” The words are, however, tainted with affection rather than any anger or disgust that should rightfully be there. But . . .

Ӓrˈkān understands. Not only is this like some adorable display of pride, that knows no term of interpretation for, but it’s also a display of glory to this war created creature. 

Of course, there’s no reaction to her words. As they place the meal back where it belongs and promptly swallowed; as earlier demanded of Śhadō.

It’s twisted, they know, to consider Lepíspterón’s display as a form of love. Expressing that now Ӓr’kān belongs to Śhadō, as well.

Putting information down here again, to keep above clean. 

We are not even going to pretend we are going to make the prompts for Halloween, anymore. Just no time. 

So, today’s pretend prompt is Fights, Food, Shady Business, Moths and Octopus. ;)

There are my IZ created OC’s for my Au’s. They both have detailed species bios. More so for my Moth child.

Meet X Prinˈses Ӓr’kānia, known now as Bounty Hunter Ӓr’kān - Of the species Ӓkˈtäˈpəd from an Aquatic planet called, Süər. Using She/Him/Them pronouns. Affiliated with The Resisty, The Resistance & The Bounty Association.  

And their trusty Moth menace Śhadō, of the insectoid species Lepíspterón, born within the War Bred Tribe Pectō Victima. Off their homeworld forest, Hālünä on a rainforest planet called Tsəlaveh. Refers to self as Male. Affiliated with nobody except Bounty Hunter Ӓr’kān and Folk Healer Green Witch X-invader Kravis. Occupation Thief and Murder.

Thinking of adding a short character bio for them here, and a summary of their species.

[jadeender]

Switching Sides

It had been nearly two months Maverick and Curse had been traversing the dark world together. In that time they hadn't come across another dark, not ones like them at least. Being the dark world constantly was mentally draining, the monsters of the land haunted and he had become all to familiar with the feeling of Curse pulling him down into the shadows to hide as a dragon, demon, or some other distorted creature flew over head.

They had only fought a few time, Maverick took advantage of those moments and began to get more comfortable with the dragon’s fang, the sword had been made for him literally and metaphorically as he took to the blade instantly, though he had a suspicion it had to do with retaining muscle memory from Four.

All those times hiding in the shadows had been a good teacher, Curse thought him how to pull himself into the shadows in just a way that they were neither in the dark world or the Light world. Now Maverick was fully capable of doing it himself and even pulling Curse in with him without the other dark helping him at all.

Despite that early exhaustion and worry he was rejuvenated, the dark world was ultimately where he had come from and something felt, right, about the way it strengthened him the longer he stayed.

Over the months he and Curse had investigated the few towns they had come across. The twins were situated where they would have been in the light world but they were few and far between, because the dark and light world's aren't exact replicas. There was a space beyond and a space between where no influence from the light world could be seen.

But in the town's the few shadowlings who knew anything had all told them the same thing, go west. They didn't know what lay west but it had all the shadowlings worried, and the only thing that speaks in the dark world is power, whoever or whatever was causing the thing to the west is powerful.

As Maverick and Curse journeyed the kept to no seen path and often didn't speak.

"When we get to whatever the shadowlings are worried about what are you going to do?" Curse asked. "This is your mission after all."

"I'm going to check it out, anything this big has to be related to a true dark and if it is Callous I can tell the lights what to be ready for." Maverick confirmed. He came on the mission not just to help them but to prove himself, he was done hiding. If the true darks wanted to test him he'd be ready to fight back.

"What about the mirror? That was our original goal after all." Curse questioned. "Or have you forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten at all, we haven't gotten anything from the town's. And we know nothing about what Callous cares about and where he'd hide it. He may even still be wearing it! He's too prideful to think it could be stolen easily. If we find him and see the mirror we'll know, if not we'll come up with a new plan." Maverick said rubbing one of the dragon like scales in his shoulder, a thinking habit he'd picked up, really he'd always fiddled with something while he thought.

With that matter settled they walked along in silence as they continued west, after a little while however Maverick began to feel something, almost like a little buzzing at the edge of his senses. Something was nearby, and something powerful. Powerful enough to leave a trace.

He looked up slightly at Curse who met him with a similar look, whatever was causing this was strong enough for them to affected then it had to be whatever they were looking for. They began to move faster on the verge of a full sprint, subtly Maverick shifted the shadows below feet so they propelled him forward allowing him to pass Curse and go forward.

From a distance he saw the area where the shriveled forest they had been traveling through for the months stopped so he quickly slowed down and stopped at the edge. Below was a valley filled with a silver lake, and at the edge of the lake was a massive construction project. In size it rivaled any of the finest castles in Hyrule but it was not sleek and beautiful white marble. It had been built out of a jagged black stone. It was more like a fortress, but it wasn’t even finished. Hundreds possibly thousands of shadowlings bustled around carrying in materials and working on construction.

“I… I didn’t know shadowlings were capable of this.” Curse said his usual confidence faltering.

“Minions are capable of anything when they have a good master.” Maverick answered. A vision of the armies of monsters he had once lead popped into his head. Though incompetent they always served a purpose when given the correct… persuasion. “And I’m sure we both know who that master is.”

“This could be conqueror’s doing, he’s prideful enough to want an entire empire in his own image.” Curse considered as they stared down at the fortress. “But I doubt he’s competent enough to coordinate so many shadowlings.”

“I’m going to scout it out. Come if you want or stay here.” Maverick said as he prepared to shadow travel across the lake. 

“How are you going to get in there? They’ll know you’re different the minute you step foot over there.” Curse questioned.

“Not when I’m disguised as one of them.” 

____________________________________________________________________________

A short demonstration and convincing later Curse and Maverick entered the castle disguised as shadowlings. While he couldn’t shape shift Maverick had learned how to spin shadows around himself in such a way that he could appear as someone else. He had used it to impersonate Four before. Doing the same for Curse was somewhat draining but we knew he could last long enough to let them scout the fortress.

As they entered the fortress the front foyer was obviously the throne room but it had a sense of force to it, large gothic arches formed the ceiling and from them jutted razor sharp crystal chandeliers. Banners with the symbols of two crossed knives fell from the ceiling, confirming this was in fact Callous’s fortress. The walls were dark and daunted, and the walls were lined with armed shadowlings, each of them bearing a spear and shield. The sentinels stood still and focused.

“How is he controlling so many of them?” Maverick wondered allowed to Curse as they shuffled across the cold black floor following the flow of the construction.

“I don't know, I’ve never seen Callous use his powers, and have never been able to find any record of what they could be.” Curse whispered back as they crossed into the next room, this one an armory. Weapons of all types and origins hung there, enough to outfit an army or two. 

They continued to move beyond in and up through the castle passing room after room, rooms full of monster sized cages, more weapons, and even several lavish lounges likely for Callous himself. 

“He’s planning something big that's for sure.” Maverick whispered. “He has enough here to launch an invasion of the light world and dark world, and win. I don't even want to think about what monsters he intends to catch for those cages.”

“You could always ask me.” Mavericks eyes rose to find Callous coming down the hall. The true darks red eyes glinted as though they were glowing from within, his normal outfit had been switched for one of slightly higher quality, without rips or tears. “That disguise is quite ingenious, anyone weaker than me would have been completely fooled, but alas a true darks eyes will always see through this kind of illusion.”

Callous put out a hand and the shadows creating the illusion ripped themselves of Maverick and Curse, immediately he drew Dragon’s Fang as Curse reached for his sword.

“Ah so its two little erembour come to find out what I’m up to. Being the light’s lap dogs. And even little Shadow.” Callous sauntered forward and eyed Maverick slowly taking in his new outfit. 

“It’s not Shadow anymore, I’m Maverick now.” He refuted standing his ground though a cruel smile grew on Callous’s face.

“Maverick huh? You even took on the name I gave you. You’re remarkable for an erembour, none of the others would have thought to disguise themselves to sneak into my fortress. I see a cunning side in you, and a remarkable control of the shadows. You could do great things if only you had a full darks powers.” Callous remarked walking slowly away. “But you’ll never get the chance, I’ll have my shadowlings escort you out.”

Callous turned back waving a hand. Maverick thought quickly, he hadn’t seen Callous’s mirror on him so most likely it was hidden, and it was probably hidden here. He had to do something, and in the back of his mind and image arose of a tactic he could use. It was time to pull a Vio.

“No wait.” Maverick called out. “I didn’t come here to spy for the lights. I couldn’t be happier to be gone from them. I’m done hiding behind Four I want to learn how to use my powers to grow stronger.”

Swallowing a fair amount of pride he knelt down. “I came because I want you to teach me.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Curse looked back and forth completely stunned, in the time he and Maverick had traveled together he’d never seen Maverick act like this. As far as anyone knew Maverick and Four where closer than any of them, possibly even than himself and Ravio.

Mavericks plea caught Callous’s interest as he turned around and walked up to the kneeling dark. 

“Groveling is a good start, but why would I ever teach you? I’m under no delusions that you’ve completely given up your light loving ways and truly want to assist me.” Callous questioned Maverick standing directly over him. But Maverick was unmoved and spoke again.

“Of course you require proof of my loyalty.” Maverick stood forcing Callous back slightly and turned to look at Curse. “This one volunteered to be my guide when I ‘agreed’ to spy for the lights. And I think I’ll send him back with a very important message, though it’ll take him awhile to get there as dust.”

As Curse processed Mavericks words he attempted to doge Maverick’s strike but a sword coated in shadow sliced directly through his heart.

“Tell the lights I’m done. I’m just joining the winning side.” The look on Maverick’s face was truly cruel. “I learned it best from my own light after all.”

With that Maverick pulled the sword up and out of his body and Curse faded into black dust.

[rageagainstthemarine]

Do Not Reach Beyond the Sky (5/?)

Warnings: None Tags: Canon-typical violence, Freeform, Retelling, Original Characters, Additional Tags Pairing: None yet Characters: All of them

Fahleon Lavellan is several things, a Dalish elf, a deserter Warden, but Herald of Andraste is not of them. The Creators have played a cruel trick if anyone is to believe he played some part of the Conclave even if the evidence is a rift-sealing mark on his hand. Where he does fit, he doesn’t know and isn’t fond of finding out.

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The demons did come, faster and harder than Fahleon was prepared for. They tore their way through the men battling them to claw at his head and slash at his mind. They mocked his weaknesses and prided themselves on his useless powers while whispering of the kind he'd need to defeat them. They promised he could attain it. They described the true horror he had yet to face and leaked hints to just how he could protect himself. He only needed to give up, to give in, they encouraged. Fahleon turned out their sharp-toothed likes and looked past their spittle slick lips. He could do no more, not when the mark in his hand took every part of his attention just to push away the Fade and stop the Breach. He'd bear their laughter and their taunts but he wouldn't move from his spot unless it killed him.

From the way the air burned and popped and hissed with every pulse, he thought it very well may have.

"Run," the Divine yelled, from somewhere, muted by time and space. Fahleon felt the memory as a quiver in his calves and squashed down on the impulse to flee. If sealing the Breach could kill him, turning back now absolutely would. The Veil twisted and turned in violent attempts to wrench itself free from its grasp and would snap back at him given the chance. He tightened his told on the magic coursing through him even as it slipped between his fingers. The effort of it made him dizzy and nauseous and he grit his teeth against the overwhelming tide.

At the rate he was going, the demons would force their way through the elgar'vian, and Fahleon wasn't sure he could fight off both the Fade and the demons that lived within in.

"Kill him," a rough voice roared above the cacophony of whispers, crackling of the Fade, and the battle cries of those around him, and Fahelon found himself waking with a snarl ripped from this throat.

The crash of steel against scales and snap of heated air was replaced by his raspy cry. Fahleon clutched at his throat and swallowed to ease the roughness if it. He could feel his pulse jump like a frightened rabbit beneath his fingers, and he drew in a handful of slow breaths until he felt it calm. There was no foe to fight here, no enemy to stare down or push back against - wherever he was.

A cabin. A small one and much more intact than the temple of Sacred Ashes. Yet, just as unused.

Dust turned the pelts that adorned the walls gray and insects had eaten at the woven tapestries that hung above the doors and stretched along the windows like curtains until their patterns were one, dull, color. A thick rug coated the floor and collected rat pellets. Unsteady light streamed through the branches of a tree outside to cast shifting shadows from a golden afternoon sun without any trace of a greenish glow. Charming was the least of the place's qualities, but Fahleon cared only for its quiet and distance from demons.

Fahleon let out a breath and the panic leeched out of his limbs until he was tired and empty. He should have learned more about his surroundings or his whereabouts at the least, but it meant rising from the bed he laid on in search of answers. He'd have to ask someone, and it was the knowledge that it would be Cassandra he'd have to ask that kept him all the more firmly planted against the pillows.

They were damp with his sweat and he wrinkled his nose. There was less of an issue if it came to finding someone to change the sheets. Fahleon threw them off and gave the bandages wrapped tight around his middle a brief look until the sharp sound of a plate shattering to the floor drew his attention. Dread wolf take him for letting his guard down. He curled his lip at the girl who stood, hunched and curled in on herself as if her arms and elbows could protect her from the shards. They wouldn't protect her from him if she tried to move any closer than the low table she pressed against. He should have known the shems would try something the moment his usefulness outlived himself. It was a wonder his hands were free even now, and not clapped in irons again - once more the guilty party he'd first been. More surprising, still, was that they hadn't simply skip over the show of slowly dragging him across town, belting out his crimes, and kill him on the spot. Yet, that was. Worse, still, was that he was still alive for another purpose. To be leashed and trained like a docile servant for the humans that ruled above. There was still time to fit in another disappointment.

He bared his teeth and hoped he looked as intimidating as he hoped despite injured, confused, and without any weapons. Even Ada was gone.

The girl flinched nonetheless and the pitcher she held in her other hand joined the plate on the floor. She yelped and jumped away as water splashed up her legs.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know when you'd wake up. I'll go - I have to, I have to tell the Seeker -"

"Wait," Fahleon snarled. He'd tear himself in half if he had to see that woman again. She halted so abruptly that only her hands shook as the rest of her stilled mid-step, one leg still bent and ready to take her back to the door. "Tell me where I am."

She wobbled on her one leg and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "I-I'm supposed to tell the Seeker-"

He glared at her. He'd tear her in half first, and then himself, if it meant he wouldn't have to see Cassandra. He would not cowed like an animal for the slaughter. "You won't tell her anything. Answer me," he continued and there was a sudden and heady rush of power at the vigorous nod she gave him. It knocked the white braids wrapped around her head to show the slight point to her ears, and he blew out a breath. He pitched his voice lower. "What happened. After the..." What had they called it? Fahleon turned his eyes up towards the window to look for the elgar'vian again.

"The Breach, messer?" She finally returned her foot to the ground and straightened the apron hung loose over dress before folding her empty hands in front of her. Her eyes slowly moved from the broken silverware to stop and stare at his hand, and Fahleon felt his fingers twitch under her wide-eyed look. "You closed it. The demon came pouring through the tear until you showed up. They've been calling you the Herald."

He curled his fingers over the wound that still stretched across his palm to hide it from her sight. He felt his skin buzz with the power still leaking from it, but it was a faint tingle compared to the burn it had been before he'd shoved it at the Breach like he had any thought as to what was supposed to happen. He'd only wished to end it all, the climb to the mountains, the judging eyes always weighted heavy on his back, the overwhelming threat of demons, and then that burn had been directed at the rift itself.

He had the power to control the Fade and fight the demons that pushed against it. He had the power to inspire a misplaced hope in some hearts, and fear in others. Himself as well, and Fahleon didn't know if which one of those he was. He wasn't a mage with the knowledge to understand the magics he held and fought against. He wasn't a warrior to stand strong and resolute against the tides of war. He was a hunter, a drawn out but one time chase that ended in bloodshed. He was an elf, and one that liked only his own company. His concerns stretched as far as the boundaries set by his forests, his battles fought only against the hunger of his clan. Fahleon was no hero, no savior, no Herald.

He looked up to demand of her again and caught the girl sneaking towards the still open door. She squeaked when she was spotted and she stuttered on a hasty apology. "I have to tell the Seeker."

Fahleon cursed under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed, bandaged wounds or not. She worried his lip, bitting down harder with every second it took for him to find his footing, and he ignored her offer to help as he crossed the room. He refused her offered arm, too, and she hesitated to go for the items she'd dropped as he stood over them.

"What were you doing?" Was she sent to spy on him after all? Or was this all a clever ruse, meant to get him to talk while played as a simple interaction. He couldn't trust any of them as far as he could throw them.

"I...I was bringing it. I was tasked with taking the food and drink to you. And to go to the Chantry the moment you awoke to tell the Seeker.”

Fahleon's brow twitched as he stood over the spilled meal. The ground rolled up to meet him when he bent to pick up the cracked plate and he once again smacked her outstretched arm away with a growl. He snatched up one of the rolls that had oncebeen piled on it, brushing off an insect with a sweep of his thumb. The bread was hard and dry and difficult to eat, but his empty stomach welcomed it. "I'll find the Seeker. Not you."

“Y-yes, ser. My name is Raya, if it pleases," she said. He hadn't asked and he wasn't pleased.

"Disgusting,” he told her, even as he bit into it again.

She blinked, a frown forming on her face as she held the platter out to accept it. Fahleon turned away from it and watched a pair of guardsman pass by. Several more were hidden around the perimeter of the house, identified by the sharp glares of sunlight on armor. When he passed by them to find Cassandra, they hesitated for only a moment of shock before slapping a fist against their breastplate. A man across the path dropped the box of supplies in his haste to copy them. His ears twitched at the hush that settled around him. It followed him up the hill to the Chantry, a silent ghost on his back.

Dread wolf take him, indeed. If Cassandra didn't kill him before someone else did.

Like Chancellor Roderick - or whoever the weasel employed to do it for him. What strength his convictions held was found only in his voice and nowhere near his arms. At least, not enough to do the beheading himself. If he even needed to. Fahleon would cut his own head off if it relieved the headache pounding behind his eyes just from the sound of it as it echoed through the Chantry's interior. One more demand to ship him away to another cell in another city had him turning from the elaborate door it came from to find an axe behind a smaller and much less detailed one. He half-heartedly hoped he'd find something sharp within.

Sharp eyes and sharp tongues made him groan.

The squeak of hold hinges and his muttered curse interrupted a heated argument discussing a topic he hated even more than the ones about himself - politics. Fancy names and all the times their owners thought it earned them.

"You cannot prove the Inquisition was founded on Justinia's orders," a man snapped. Fahleon mistook him for a woman for all the whining he did. A real mustached twitched under a fake one when he frowned with what part of his dry lips showed under the mask. Fahleon curled his lip when the man spat at him.

"More of the faithful flock to Haven every day, Marquis," a real woman soothed from the shadowed corner of the room. A candle lit atop some sort of tablet illuminated her face and put a spark in her eye that unnerved him more than the eerie mask. He growled and the woman waved off his anger like the smoke from her flame. The power of her dissimial was its own sort of magic that the Fade wound couldn't feel. "Let me introduce you to the brave soul that allowed this happen by risking his life to slow the magic of the Breach. Ser Lavellan," she said, with another and entirely different gesture of her hand. Fahleon flinched but only a brush of air hit his cheeks. "May I present the Marquis DuRebllion - one of Divine Justinia's greatest supporters."

"And rightful owner of Haven," he added, too quick for Fahleon to even draw in a breath to deny his pleasure. "House DuRellion lent Justinia these lands for pilgrimage, not as a beneficiary to this 'Inquisition'." Fahleon's fingers twitched at his sides and it was the only the thought that Cassandra would, somehow, find out that kept them from reaching out to strangle the man just to make his voice stop. "I will not stand by and let some upstart order remain on her holy grounds," he added, with much less resolution, and Fahleon crossed his arms with a raise of his brows.

"So sit," he growled.

The woman let out a choked noise and she covered it up with a polite cough. "You will have to do neither. If you do not take Seeker Pentaghast at her word, she may challenge you to a duel." The Marquis's strangled noise was the first one he bothered to listen to out of his mouth. "It is a matter of honor among Nevarra. Shall I arrange it for tonight?"

"No, no," he said with a wave of his arms. "That won't be necessary. I...admit I may have been hasty with my reaction to the Inquisiton's presence."

"That would have been the best part of my wook," Fahleon said as he watched the door swing shut behind the noble. Or not noble. Did he have to claim land to keep his title? He rubbed at his temples and wondered why he cared.

"The DuRellions are Orlesian," she explained, though he hadn't asked and certainly wouldn't for any clarification. "Any claim they held to Fereldan would have to first go through Celene to negotiate with Anora on the matter. But these are trying times, Herald. Her current concerns are a bit larger than land disputes; he is not in so strong a position as he believes. Unfortunately, he is not the only disgruntled...dignitary we will have to contend with."

The Chancellor's voice resounded louder as he made another claim on his head, and Fahleon let out a sigh. Any other distraction that took him from the Chantry would only make his sentence worse for him. He might as well head in while the fight was still good.

"If anyone calls you," she started, and Fahleon gave her what very little patience he had left for her to voice her thought. She tapped the feathered end of her quill against her lips and cleared her throat. "If anyone would dare you call you something you dislike, bring it to me. I will have it dealt with at once."

The...warning still stung whether he expected it or not. He thanked her for her...courtesy with as little of a scowl as he could manage with anger and shame tugging hard at the corners of his mouth. He hoped, for everyone's sake, that the Chancellor stood out of the way of the door.

Whether it was Fahleon's luck or Roderick's, he was on the opposite side of the room when Fahleon slammed it open.

"I will not stand-" Roderick had started, and Fahleon's hand dragged down the grain of the door, nails scratching deep into the wood. It was a constant loop with these shems and time magic was not another sort he needed on top of whatever leaked from his hand.

Cassandra's eyes slid from the door back to the Chancellor's. Her voice was tight and rough between clenched teeth. "The Breach is stable, but it still a threat."

"You want me help with that," he said - not asked. Fahleon entered the room proper and gripped the table with both hands to lean his weight against it. He hoped it cracked. Papers were rough under his palms. Maps, they looked like, with all their twisted lines and filled circles. Some had more scribbles on them than just the names of rivers and towns, perhaps soldier movements or rifts but neither held his attention much. It was the feeling of eyes on him that kept his thoughts in place. The Breach wouldn't kill him, not anymore. Demons wouldn't fall from the sky in the rate they had been. Something had caused this other than just a not so happy coincidence and Cassandra was more than happy to cow him into a servant to find out.

Help indeed.

"I want you in chains!" Roderick, again. Fahleon rose to his full height - still two heads shorter than the man - but he didn't need to be taller than the chantry brother. He needed to have stronger convictions, and Fahleon was convinced the man needed to be silenced, forever, more than the Chancellor thought he needed to be imprisoned.

He felt someone at his back and snarled when Leliana placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave," she said. "They could have died with the others. Or have allies that yet still live." Fahleon hadn't looked at her, but he watched Roderick's eyes widen and wondered what she was doing. With the han still on his shoulder, it wasn't much of a mystery.

"Are you suggesting me?" The surprise in Roderick's voice sounded better than any crush of bones under his fist. "I'm a suspect but not the prisoner?'

"Among others," she agreed.

"The Divine did call out to him for help," Cassandra added, quickly, and with an enthusiasm Fahleon didn't think she had anywhere in her frozen, solid core. "We heard her voice in the temple. The Maker...he must have sent you to use in our darkest hour."

Fahleon reeled. Not even Cassandra's physical punches had knocked him off center as hard as that had. "You just wanted me dead. Now I'm your divine savior?"

"Perhaps I was wrong. About many things." Cassandra's nose wrinkled and Fahleon hoped the apology tasted bad on her tongue. "I still could be. But I will not pretend that you were exactly what we needed exactly when we needed it."

"I was dragged from the mountain in chains, not wrapped up like some gift."

"Yet the mark on your hand is the only hope we have to seal the Breach."

"You don't get to decide that!" Roderick demand ended on a high note as Cassandra tossed a thick book on the table in front of him. It scattered the parchment near it and he jumped from the fluttering pages. He glared at the book like it held worse news than that he was already privy too.

"The Divine does - with this writ. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn," she announced, with more conviction than Fahleon and much more than Roderick. "We will close the Breach, we will find those who are responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval."

Maybe Roderick was right, as much as it pained Fahleon to admit, and from the ringing in his ears it was very painful. This was much worse news. "If I refuse?"

"You are free to go," Leliana answered as she moved out from behind him and left the door great. "We cannot hold you here, but let it be known that all of Thedas may collapse without you."

"Fantastic."

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, EMILY!

You have been accepted for the role of NEYSA RAI. Admin Bree: Stunning, every word. Emily, you wowed me from start to finish—there’s really no other way to put it. It’s not often that an applicant seems to understand a character even more intimately than the person who created that character, but this is one of those rare instances; I may have written her story, but you brought it to life. This application was absolutely beautiful from start to finish, and I feel honored to see what you do with our heartrender with a heart of gold. You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Emily

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/her

AGE: Twenty-one

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT. On a scale from 1-10, I’d put my activity at a fair 6/7. I will be looking for a job/working (hopefully) which will occupy quite a bit of my time, but when I’m not working I’ll probably be online since I moved back home and it’s dull as hell and there really isn’t anything to do other than replies! Also – just to let you know that I’m away from the 19th-25th so I won’t be on at all then!

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: You can find samples of my writing here, here and here.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Neysa Pollux Rai

NEYSA: The name Neysa is a Greek baby name. In Greek the meaning of the name Neysa is: Pure. Pure, like the first flurry of mountain snows. Pure, like sunlight as winter turns to spring. Pure, like the hearts and minds of her people, the Suli who had been wild in the best way possible. Pure, a meaning that time has tarnished, that she drifts from with every soul claimed by her hands, in every moment that she becomes a temporary God, given the power to snatch life away. ‘Pure’, she whispers, staring down at bodies with twisted hearts, ‘that is a cruel joke. It belongs to a girl from a lifetime ago’. It’s a strange thing, to associate your name, the one true constant in life, with a stream of memories, with a family who fade day by day, with who you could have been rather than who you are. But Neysa, for all she clings to her name and the connection with the past it provides, fears that all the purity inside of her was drained the day she was captured by slavers and that in turn, her name became little more than an empty shell. Yet, despite that, her name is incredibly important to the way she conceives herself. Neysa is a reminder of the girl without chains, the girl who ran wild and who knew what happiness meant. Neysa connects her to the parents and people lost to time, drifting in an unknown place on the continent. Neysa was something earned – something she won in conquering her own personal war. Stripped away after she was sold as a slave, crudely referred to as bloodletter instead, Neysa did not claim full ownership of her name until well out to sea, shouting it loudly into the wind. She had thought her shackles were gone then - and she was wrong - but at least the Second Army allowed her to keep her name. And yet, hope prevails. It is both her biggest fear and her biggest dream that one day her name will mean what it once did – tender, carefree, pure.

POLLUX: Roman form of Greek Πολυδευκης (Polydeukes) meaning “very sweet”, from Greek πολυς (polys) “much” and δευκης (deukes) “sweet”. In mythology he was the twin brother of Castor and a son of Zeus. The constellation Gemini, which represents the two brothers, contains a star by this name. Given their close connection with nature, the stars and the moon, it is natural among the Suli people, to bequeath a child with a name that draws from those fundamental elements. Although not a formalised or legal name, Pollux has always been a term of endearment among Neysa’s band of people, whispered in the moments before she fell asleep, or the first time she learned to trace the stars with the tip of her finger. Pollux marks Neysa as one of a pair, bestowing upon her an eternal and unbreakable connection to her brother. An unconventional choice – given its traditional use as a male name and its origins under a pair of twin brothers in the legend – the pieces fell into place the moment Neysa’s parents unexpectedly gave birth to two children, coddling both close in their arms under the summer sky, with nothing but the stars and the moon watching them. It was then that their father found Gemini, the twinned constellation and knew it was right to bless his children with two of its stars – Castor and Pollux.

Note: Obviously I don’t want to god-mod anything on behalf of the Aarvas applicant/player, but when I was considering potential middle-names, it was the idea of twin-meaning middle names that stuck out most to me and it was this pair of twins who fit Aarvas and Neysa the best. Therefore, I felt compelled to include it within my application. Hope that’s okay!

RAI: The lone remaining tie to her parents and the life they had shared – whittled down from thousands, eroded by time – her surname is the only thing that tethers her to the memory of them, of who they were, the lessons they imparted and the gifts that they gave them. It is through that name – and through the blood that runs through their children’s veins – that they remain in the present, instead of becoming a neglected ghost that only comes out to haunt. For as long as all four share that name, they continue to be bound to one and other, albeit faintly. It isn’t much. But to someone who has lived with nearly nothing at all, it is the true embodiment of hope. She can remember being four years old, learning to read on her mother’s knee, watching her trace those three letters in the dirt. ‘This is who we are. This is who we always will be’. At five, veins illuminated with traces of impossibility and magic, the term Grisha imposed upon her, she had run to her mother, afraid this meant they weren’t a Rai anymore. ‘I saw what happened in the other village – they took the children away – and their names didn’t matter. I want mine to matter’. Cupping her cheeks, her mother had smiled. ‘I will never let them have you. We will always be together. And we will always be a family’. Now, the memory feels bittersweet, darkened by irony. And whilst their parents failed to protect them forever (now, they protect one and other, Neysa clinging to her brother as the last soul who truly knows her) they do remain a family. A dreamer might wish for all four to come back together, but staring at her reflection in the mirror, Neysa wonders if her parents would even recognise their children. Perhaps it is better to be a family – but one that lives worlds apart. After all, her parent’s hearts are the only ones she refuses to break.

REBE: Although not a given name, it was once as common as Neysa, whispered by her people as she closed her eyes to sleep, tossed across the campfire as they cooked, a mark of respect as they stowed away their precious jewels, protecting them from the forces that sought to steal them away. Unique to her and her people, Neysa has nearly forgotten the name now, for it is nothing but a memory. And those, as we know, are unreliable.No one has called her Rebe for quite some time. Not in reality, anyway. But the world inside of her head that comes to life each night? That’s a different matter. In both nightmares and dreams, she hears the word repeated over and over, sometimes by teary Aunts and Uncles (among the Suli, they were all one extended family) who beg her to return to them, other times by the same people, whose faces become twisted with anger as they deny her the privilege of such a name. ‘Rebe? Saint? Blessed miracle? How were we so wrong? All you are is a monster.’ Those nights, as she wakes up covered in sweat, she believes them, disgusted with who she has become. The girl who earned the title of Rebe, who wore it as a badge of pride, would scarcely recognise the woman she has grown up to be – recoiling in fear of the deeds she doesn’t bother to protest anymore. Sometimes, she wonders, had they never been captured by slavers, had they found their way back home…would she still hold a claim to that title? Or like all good and precious things, would time have eroded it?

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? 

Ah, Neysa – my sorrowful swallow, my fallen dreamer, my heartrender with a golden soul. It’s impossible not to adore her, to feel for her and to want to explore her. With roleplays, my biggest struggle is usually indecisiveness. There are hundreds of compelling characters, each with their distinct tale to tell, split across the personality spectrum. But with RAR, I found it remarkably easy to settle upon my first choice – because she just spoke to me immediately. Usually, I try and wait right up until the last biography is released, not wanting to be drawn into an application only to abandon it halfway through. But as soon as Neysa was released – somewhere near the beginning – I knew that was it, that I had found the one. I began her application immediately and never looked back.

Having engulfed the trilogy as soon as this roleplay was announced (I think I read all three books over three days, abandoning my essays to do so), I knew I definitely wanted to portray a Grisha. Nothing against humans – but I found the dynamics within the orders, the possibility of writing out abilities and the politics of their position the most compelling stories. In the books, it wasn’t the characters I loved so much as the world they operated within – and my favourite thing about RAR is the characters you’ve inserted into the environment. So, I won’t lie, when looking at teasers and biographies, I mainly focused on the Grisha. Being Grisha is so fundamental to Neysa, to her experiences, to how she experiences the world – and to how she sees the world. Her abilities have defined who she is thus far – they are the reason she was stolen away from her parents, the reason she was sold into slavery, the reason why she has become a soldier. And, more specifically, Neysa’s status as a heartrender is central to everything she is. It is her ability to manipulate tissue and flesh that spurs the world to make a weapon out of her, the reason why she is forced to murder – and why she has always been so afraid. You can’t understand Neysa without understanding that. And so, given that her abilities are so vital to Neysa, they take a place at the forefront of her story, plot progression and development. Given that’s what excited me so much about this roleplay in the first place, it’s a compelling factor as to why I was so drawn towards her.

The second – and main – factor that drew me in was her story. It’s a tale of being free and being bound, of fighting for freedom, of the difference between living and being alive. There is a definitive sadness and tragedy to Neysa that is apparent throughout her biography, echoed throughout every piece of her life. Like an angel, she has tumbled from the heavens, haunted by those she has left behind. Primary among this is herself – or at least, the girl she once was, so full of hope and happiness. That girl slips away day by day – and it becomes harder to clutch onto the mere memory of her. I really want to explore every nook and cranny of this – how she copes with past and present, how she struggles with her status in the Second Army and the nature they seek to impose upon her. They seek to make a soldier out of a pacifist, a monster out of a saint. In the grey, you will find Neysa. At the core of her is an identity crisis. There’s a gap between who she used to be and who she is becoming. It’s the difference between Grisha and human, good and evil, power and personality, girl and weapon. All of these struggles are bound up inside of her – for she is the living embodiment of them all. Currently undergoing something of an identity crisis, Neysa is torn in two polarising directions, fearful of becoming one over the other, of losing who she is in a bid to survive. Survival is certainly a key theme radiating throughout Neysa’s biography. She is Ravka’s phoenix – rising from the ashes. She may not look the way her childhood self imagined she might – but breathing is the most important thing. She can worry about appearances later, when the war is over – should she survive it without murdering herself in the process. An incredibly strong and resilient character – who has managed to resist the overpowering urge to give in. It’s this, pulsing like a heart, that makes me fall in love with her.

Overall, it’s Neysa herself – her story, her potential, her direction – rather than her dynamics or position in the roleplay that has drawn me towards her. I’ve fallen head over heels for her as a character – and I hope I’m lucky enough to develop and take her further within the roleplay.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND? 

BREAK THE CHAINS: Essentially, everything below can be grouped under this larger heading and under what I believe is Neysa’s larger arc. Central to her story is her struggles with freedom, servitude and being bound – both literally and metaphorically. Despite escaping slavery, she continues to be chained up, hitched to the army and the King’s wishes, forced to commit atrocities in their name. This, in turn, is changing her, restricting her and denying her from the life she deserves to live, separating her from the life she envisioned for herself and the person she used to – and wants – to be. Over the course of this roleplay, I would like to see Neysa break out from that shell, to find a way to reconcile her reality with her hopes and work within the system. Essentially, I want to see this girl happy. I think it will take a long time to get there – and will involve some fundamental changes and interesting dynamics, but ultimately, that is my end goal with her.

MAN-MADE MONSTER: Fundamental to understanding Neysa is answering one question – Am I a girl or am I a weapon? Years ago, that answer would have been an easy one – a girl, who feared becoming a weapon. Now, when Neysa stares at her reflection, she sees traces of the very thing she once feared, hands that have turned into guns, fingers into knives. Each day, she loses more of who she used to – and who she wants to be – and with every fallen soul, every kill at her hands, she finds herself becoming more who she doesn’t want to be. Even now, she doesn’t want to be that person. She is strong enough not to fall off the edge completely, tough enough to keep her humanity and wits about her. She refuses to give in to what war wants her to be – and it drains her. But this question goes far beyond simply how she acts of perceives the world – it cuts across who she is. Neysa’s identity is constructed by this question, of being a girl or a monster. Currently unable to reconcile the pair, she fights to keep the two apart, believing them to be separate, polarising, identities. This plot arc essentially questions that assumption. It is possible to both be a monster and a girl – and Neysa is hurting herself by refusing to let the two reconcile, tearing herself apart to retain a semblance of the past. She doesn’t realise that it is impossible for her to be free in the same way once again – and that no matter what happens – her experiences have changed her beyond belief. But more than that, she shouldn’t look back – but forward. In helping to reconcile these two halves, I’d love to test the bounds of Neysa. I’d love her to commit an atrocity she doesn’t feel she can come back from, to see her – much like Valerian – turn towards the darkness as a coping mechanism. However, for me, this would be temporary – and in the end, I’d love for Neysa to find a way back to herself, to string together who she wants to be and who she has been forced to become. I feel that until she does, until she realises it is possible to save yourself from abandoning your heart for steel, she can’t be at peace. She needs to fall so that she can rise.

BATTLE-WEARY WOMAN: Given that the fear of becoming a weapon is such a central part to Neysa and her struggles with her identity, both as a Grisha and a person, war is bound to be a central part to her story too. For it is in war when she is forced to snatch lives, where she watches bodies fall to the ground, hatred of the evil she must look like reflected in their eyes. In order to fully explore Neysa, it is necessary to see her outside of the Little Palace, to see her march into battle, obey the orders of her commanders and pretend as if using her power doesn’t strengthen her (or cause a rush of adrenaline to throb through her body). Here, I would definitely like to explore how Neysa interacts on a battle-field, whether she secretly enjoys it, how she feels directly after a battle and explore her relationships with her fellow soldiers – all of whom will have different attitudes towards war. Neysa would like to claim to be a peacemaker, to run far far away from battle and all its crimes, but that’s impossible. War has become her constant – and in a sense, she is wrong to deny it. As long as she exists, she will be at war – for nothing and no one will release her from her servitude. She has to learn to balance the demands of war and of her ability with her conceptions of who she is, to find a way to be happy and find freedom within these constraints. Having always been a little wary of her ability (oh how she would have loved to be anything but a murderer) I would really like to see her finally come to terms with it, to embrace it as part of who she is. In this transformation, she has to address one key question – is it possible to be a murderer and someone who isn’t a monster? I would argue yes – but at the moment, Neysa would say no.

THE OTHER HALF: Neysa came into the world as half of a pair and by god – they will be leaving together too. Circumstances, whether it be their close-knit community at childhood or their forced enslavement and then recruitment into the second army, have kept them close, strengthening the bonds between them. For a long time, they have been the only one she can depend upon, the one she would die to protect, the one she would tear her own heart out to save. Now, however, with their life in the Little Palace and separate roles in the army, their lives are beginning to converge. They are no longer alone – and she’s afraid it’s going to rip them apart at the seams. Despite the love they have for each other, she’s beginning to wonder if she cannot understand Aarvas – and is deathly afraid that one day, he will be a puzzle she cannot unravel. His turn towards religion as a coping mechanism – and its imposition upon her – is something that is causing immense conflict between the pair, threatening to become a sticking point. Neysa denounces it – they embrace it – and for the life of her, she cannot understand why – which is where so much turmoil comes from. At this point, it appears their futures might be diverging – and she cannot, will not, cope with that. As well as the growing turmoil between the pair, I’d love to see Neysa’s protective instincts called upon. Her brother is the only one she will willingly kill for. Her brother is the only one she can ever truly fight for – and despite being the younger one, it is she who is most vocal about defending them. But how do you defend your brother from himself? As well as that, I think it would be really interesting for them to try and find their people/parents – and see how that changes/shifts the dynamics and where they perceive their futures.

LIGHT IN THE DARK: Given the lives she and Aarvas have led, Neysa has met relatively few Grisha compared to those taken from their families and inducted into the lifestyle at an early age. But the Grisha she has met have all been the same – a little twisted, consumed by sorrows or anger, hardly recognisable as a person at all. But Stasya forces her to question those assumptions. Stasya shows her than an alternate path is possible – that you can remain a harbinger of peace and kindness, all the while being a soldier. Stasya shows Neysa a path that she herself would like to tread – and I believe that their relationship will be fundamental to helping Neysa find a peace in herself, as well as giving her the companionship and support that she craves and needs. The moment they met was like a fresh breath of air for Neysa, or the first rays of sun after a long winter has passed. It brought her back to life. Having felt so isolated and alone after joining the second army, a new face among strangers, an oddity among those who have grown up together and a flower among thorns, Stasya was a welcome solace – someone who was brought into Neysa’s life for a purpose. And Neysa knows this. Amongst the violence and chaos, Stasya is a welcome respite, an anchor of sorts, someone she can run to when the day has been too hard or she feels too dark to be sane. They peer into each other’s souls – and don’t run from what they find. Between these two, I’d like to deepen and explore the dynamic between the pair, to watch it transform with time. I truly believe that Stasya is exactly the sort of person that Neysa needs in her life, perhaps the only one who can see her honestly and refuse to run away. They slot together perfectly, both similar and different in many complex ways. But, at the end of the day, their souls are made of the same materials – and that is what counts. I truly believe that Stasya has the potential to become someone truly special within Neysa’s life – possibly permanently – and that their connection will help bring peace to Neysa – and maybe even happiness.

EVER-CREEPING SHADOWS: He is her cautionary tale, a flashing warning, a sign that tells her to run in the opposite direction – and to run fast. He represents the darkest aspects of war, what happens when a battle goes and turns a man into a monster. Looking at him, she can see the parallels between the pair – for they have both fought and they have both lost. They began in the same place – but she will be damned if they end up side by side. It is parallel, the effect that he has on her, strengthening her resolve not to become like him, whilst tempting her to do something she doesn’t want to do exactly at the same time. He appears to want to make her like him, to go beyond redemption, to see the darkness as a single comfort, like an old friend. From the beginning, he has been cutting and cruel, exposing her weaknesses and digging in wherever he might find one. So far, she’s managed to evade his desires, to shake him off and bat him away, but he’s growing ever more persistent – and she feels herself beginning to be tempted, to just give him the destruction that he craves. There is a voice, whispering at the back of her mind, that just says – do it. For me, the dynamic between Valerian and Neysa is one of the most compelling ones – and definitely one I’m excited to explore. I just think that the connection between the pair of them is so rich – because they truly represent two sides of the same coin, two people who look more alike than Neysa would ever want them to. And yet, despite that, she isn’t his saviour – wise enough not to drown along with him. What that does is place their relationship in between kindred souls and enemies. Where Stasya is connected to one part of her (the hopeful girl with the smile like a breeze), Valerian is connected to the other part (the weapon, all molten steel).  I also think it would be interesting to see what would happen if Neysa did lose control, if she squeezed her fists a little hard, if she made him bleed. I truly think an event like that would send her over the edge a little, force her to question everything – including their likeness.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Having seen first-hand in Diverona how character deaths tie into overarching plots and play a significant role in stakes and development of the roleplay and other characters, I’d definitely say yes. However, if possible, I’d like to be given some warning about what’s going to happen and when it’ll happen to give me some time to wrap up threads/prepare and probably apply for a different character! In terms of potential circumstances around Neysa’s death, I would definitely say that Aarvas could play a large factor. Simply put, he is the only person in this world that she would lay down her life for – not necessarily a self-sacrificing person otherwise. But he is the exception – and that could be such an interesting dynamic to watch play out. Otherwise, I could definitely see war/battle playing a large potential factor in her death. There’s such a tragedy to Neysa, what she’s endured and who she has become as a consequence – and having her die would truly cement that arc.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S): 

Memory is a fickle mistress, a cunning witch to which homage must be paid. But where she was once kind, she is now cruel, taking pleasure in torturing her host. She dangles freedom in front Neysa’s eyes, a bitter aftertaste of how sweet it once felt. Remembering pales in comparison to experiencing – but beggars can’t be choosers – and Neysa will always pick ghosts over demons. One will break your heart, the other will break your soul. Perhaps the most unfortunate must suffer through both, leaving behind only a hollow, empty, being, a shell where life once bloomed. No. Her rebellion is a piercing protest echoing throughout her skull, strong in the face of adversity and tragedy in equal halves. She did not break her chains to find herself bound by ropes, she did not sail across the true sea to find she had left her true self a million lifetimes away, long ago. They need your permission to make you a monster. There is a choice to be had. Even now, she can detect the sharp irony behind her words. For there are no decisions to be made. Not since she was a little girl, dancing barefoot in the grass, ducking behind wagon wheels anxiously folding herself into invisibility, has she been blessed with such luxuries. They tore that from her the moment she and her twin were gagged and bound. Now, she’s been playing catch up ever since.

Brown eyes open and the world begins to flood in. On her left, lies the First Army infantry, guns raised, eyes bloodthirsty. To her right, the Grisha, greedily licking their lips, anxious to begin the advance. She belongs to neither side. She forsook her humanity, the last of it, the moment bones cracked and hearts bled at the mere twitch of her hand. But she can’t truly claim to be one of her own either – with their acceptance of war and vengeance. The middle-path is the one lesser trodden – and she walks it alone. But there’s an end in sight – left or right? Inhaling heavily, she ignores the ash heavy in the air, erasing flickering fire and overwhelming destruction and the laughter of Valerian from her mind. Instead, she turns her eyes skyward. Even among the grey, there are patches of blue and a sun, as cold as it may appear. Her eyes trace the outlines of forests, trees she might have once climbed, racing Aarvas to the top. Catch me if you can! She would have shouted, the vast canopy beckoning her into its clutches. High above the world, the band across her chest would have loosened. No soldiers can find me here. There is no one to take me away. I am safe. A child’s mind will believe such things, even in the face of impending doom. But it was easy – it was all so easy when you sleep coiled with your brother, shielded by your parents, protected by your entire people, seen as someone to be revered. Once, she had been worshipped. Now, the girl who had been taught to roam and run and smile was lost. Somewhere out there lies the life she left behind – cold fresh glacial rivers, meadows with golden flowers, clear skies where the stars shine. Somewhere, there are her people, pulling wagons as their age-old tradition demands. Her father will read dreams and her mother will dance. Perhaps, by now, her people have found someone else to call Rebe. For surely, she is not deserving. Normality continues, even when she is a world away. Somewhere, there is peace to be found.

But it sure as hell isn’t here.

The battle beckons – and somehow, she finds herself among its ranks. The girl tucked up inside the wagon (who lies inside of her, somewhere, hiding) blinks in shock and horror, begging her to leave – to run. The girl who became the woman, who buried her past deep inside of her chest, knows better than that. She knows her only choice is to face up, to twist when they tell her to and try and forget the faces screaming in horror. Later, they will plague her dreams. But at least she will still be alive. Ready to live another day. The horn sounds and creatures find themselves ready to pounce. Instinct forces her to raise her hands, to narrow her focus, ready to march towards chaos. When did my body betray my mind? But even Ares himself cannot stop her heart. To her far-right, Neysa meets her brother’s eyes, familiar, home etched across them. Even in chaos, even in despair – she has always been able to find a light inside of them, a whisper that says you are not alone. Be safe. She urges, a thought that needs no verbal manifest. They have marched into war time and time before, at each other’s side – and apart. Some conflicts don’t have two distinct sides. Some are just us against the world. Once, the only wars she had ever fought were upon their behalf – a fist raised in protection, a sharp voice ready to tear a figure to shreds. ‘Leave them alone’. Anger is ugly, but for them, she would become Medusa herself. They will find each other after the battle, soothe each other’s aches. Aarvas will press their lips to a cross – and she will pretend not to wince. Fight, the way we always have – and one day, we might be free. Do not fall, death cannot claim us, not today.

After all, she is beginning to become death.

The cry goes up – and forward they march, their enemy, the Shu, in their sights. The cage her family desperately (with all their wit and cunning) tried to protect her from bursts open. But this bird cannot fly free. Instead, she is anchored towards the earth, forced to march forward. The songbird is becoming a raven – and she is powerless to stop the transformation. A soldier, an enemy marked by his colours, comes towards her, sword raised. He can see his condemnation in his eyes, the vulgar hatred in which he charges. He despises me. Perhaps he is right to. They call Grisha abominations, a demon plague upon the earth. Given what she is about to do, she can hardly deny that charge. I do not do this willingly. But would that even matter? And, more importantly, is it even true? For as much as every atom of her body screams that this is wrong, immoral and a betrayal, there is another that collides, that whispers how strong she will feel and that perhaps, in the end, this was inevitable anyway. Neysa is the figure trapped in the space in-between, tearing herself to shreds. A black cuffed kefta (appropriate, she always thought, for their sentencing) arm raises and her fist closes. He hesitates in his stride, choking. Inside, his heart begins to crumble, its circulation cut off. In a minute he will be dead, a light snuffed out in this world. We shall see each other again – in the dead of night, when you return to remind me of my sins. She does not wish this fate upon him – but swings the sword anyway. When does a survivor become traitor? She wonders, searching for answers deep within herself. (She’s afraid of what the shadows might whisper back). It is perhaps a question she does not want answered. She hesitates, wondering if she should speak, but brushes the notion aside. There would be too many words, not enough time.

He lies motionless at her feet, the life snuffed out from inside of him. But she can’t hesitate for long, nor can she force herself to remember every intimate detail as a penance for her sins. For every soldier that charges forward, there is another to take his place. The line is long – and it is a fate without ending. “Screw you bloodletter.” A voice to her right carries the hiss of an otkazat’sya, his eyes filled with a mixture of hatred and fear. You should be afraid, she thinks, hanging her head in a sort of grief. I, too, am afraid of what I might become. What I have become. But the name sparks something else inside of her – a dark sadness twisting at her own heart. That was what the masters called her, the moment they stripped her of Neysa, her identity as the spirited free child who could run as fast as the wind. They replaced it instead with a commodity, a weapon to be bought and traded, a lethal gun taken intimately into their homes. It was a name she thought she had left behind, long ago, as a ship cut through the waves and she entangled her arms with that of her twins, praying that they were finally safe. You are nothing but a possession – the slavers had whispered. She never believed them. But here and now, facing down a green-boy still wet behind the ears, she begins to. Her fists clench and she chokes the air from his lungs. He drops to his knees – and then collapses, nothing more than a memory in someone’s mind.

In his steel, discarded in mud, she catches her reflection. A face, dirtied by combat, twisted in anger and sorrow. It wears the mask of a girl, but underneath, something ugly begins to emerge. She’s afraid that one day, it will be in reverse – and that the monster will replace the girl. Looking down, she begins to wonder, am I even human anymore? Was I ever human in the first place? Or are the lines so finely cut? She can feel her bones cracking, changing, morphing into monstrosities. Where she once had wings, a falcon to roam the skies, she now has the claws of a wolf – good for only one thing. The hunted has become the hunter – and given time, even prey can become the very thing that was stalking it long into the night. “I didn’t want this.” Neysa whispers, her words heard only by the wind. But it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Destiny has a tendency to cut you to shreds, then watch as you are forced to rebuild the pieces. Nothing ever looks the same. But she never expected it to look this brutal. It’s a betrayal. And truly, is there one any stronger than stabbing oneself in the back?

There is no time to ponder. There is no time to think. There is only what you can and what you must do. Unnervingly steady, she steps across his fallen body into the heat of battle. The girl inside shrinks – and the monster flexes itself muscles. Once, she would have asked who they were. Now, she’s wiser than that. It’s me. It is I. We are one and the same, sharing this body. But there isn’t room for us both.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS: 

THE ORDER OF THE LIVING AND THE DEAD: Corporalki, heartrender, healer – these were all foreign words to Neysa’s ears as she matured. To her, there was only the power that flowed from her fingertips, which defied definition and classification. There was only what she could achieve – stealing a man’s vitality, twisting an enemies organs, patching up a wound – and only what she was afraid to do, which, namely, was all of it. Kept hidden, made ignorant by her lack of education away from the Little Palace, Neysa never learnt the divisions within the corpoalki, or that once upon a time, she might have chosen mender over murderer – to heal instead of slay. It was her first captor who sold her as a bloodletter, for a firearmsold better (she would only learn the official name from a fellow grisha captive later, who filled in the missing blanks that word of mouth had failed to provide). It was he who sentenced Neysa to a lifetime of savage murder. From that moment on, her natural inclination towards manipulation of internal organs for purposes of conflict was amplified – and she ceased to be, or even have the potential to be, anything else. In the years that have followed, with her fingertips growing ever more stained, her heart weary at the cost of war, she’s developed an envious attitude towards the healers, those with gifts that mirror her own, but are called up to repair the atrocities of war, not create more chaos. She perceives them to be the lucky ones, those spared from darkness. Neysa longs to trace her footsteps back, to fight for the right to rebuild the human body instead of destroy it. It’s not healthy, to dwell on what could have been – but she can’t help herself all the same.

THE WAKING DEAD: It is at the height of the witching hour that Neysa pays the price for her sins. Weary limbs, savaged by war might call for the bliss of sleep, but even the furthest crevices of her mind knows that rest has its own toll to pay. For it is when she is at her most vulnerable, when her guard is down, that the demons rooted in her soul come out to torment her. Black orbs become her victims, death carved out across their faces. This is your fault – they scream, unforgiving in their terror. And then, a little softer – why did you do this to me? If she’s lucky, she will wake up then – covered in a layer of cold sweat, fingers reaching for the comfort of an individual who is two rooms away. Most of the time, she isn’t so fortunate. Most of the time, she’s swarmed, nails scratching at her skin, torn in a thousand directions, pulled apart – stitch by stitch. They gag and bind her – hands secured in chains. You deserve this, they hiss, dragging her to the man she once calledMaster. Monsters must have their cages. She screams for forgiveness, she begs for their mercy – but there is none to be had. It is only then, on the cusp of desperation, that she wakes up – heart panicked, breaking from her chest. Night by night, her torment continues, Neysa too ashamed, too proud and too scared to ask for aid. Deep down, she wonders if these nightmares are her penance for all her sins, the agony she must bear in repayment for her deeds. Perhaps they are – and perhaps she should endure them. With time have come coping mechanisms. Now, Neysa sleeps closest to the door, pads out into seclusion most nights, only to sneak in before dawn roll-call.

WATER-DANCER: You wouldn’t think it, to lay your eyes upon the girl with imposed stiffness, more mechanics than flesh, whose smile seems too heavy to fly, but once, Neysa was a dancer. She didn’t dance in the same way that human courtiers might, with stiff backs and strict choreography, with pink ruffled tutus and point slippers. No, when Neysa danced, she took nature as her partner – the elements of earth flowing through her bones. Being a member of the Suli meant induction into the life of a carnival, of entertainment instead of agriculture, a talent rather than a trade. Some turned to innocent tricks, others to tea leaves that could trace the future. Her father walked among dreams, making meaning from their chaos – and inducted his daughter in the same traditions. But even whilst under his tuition, from the moment she could walk, Neysa found herself pulled towards the example of her mother – in learning to dance. Afraid of the power that pulsed beneath the surface, she strayed away from the supernatural – towards simplistic beauty. If there was a choice to be made between conscription in the second army or light-padded footsteps for an eternity, then there was truly no choice to be made. Dancing was the only time she ever felt truly free, in tandem with her mother, in a union with the steady drum beats. After her capture, she stopped dancing. Her captors did not deserve that pleasure. And truly, how could you dance if you were not free? It would have felt false. It would have been a lie. And Neysa had been raised to be honest. Even now, although her hands are technically unchained and her footsteps are free, she cannot bring herself to embrace that part of her life, those memories that continue to haunt her, or the ghost of her mother at her side. One day, perhaps, she will dance again – but that day is not today.

TIGHTENED CHAINS: There is perhaps no greater tragedy than losing oneself. It’s an affliction that Neysa knows well – but one that predates her induction into the Second Army. She can trace its origins – all the way back to the day she and Aarvas were captured, two children quickly forced to see the world as adults do – and to adjust accordingly. To go from freedom to servitude, happiness to sorrow, hope to loss – it’s a trial that weighs heavily upon anyone’s shoulders, let alone those so young. From the very beginning, the first time Neysa felt the spark of power and knew she was different, she has been afraid of what she was – and slavery taught her that her judgement was justified. The things they made her do were unspeakable, the tales of her treatment dying on her lips each time she tries to express them, a grief that cannot be spoken. Sold to the leader of a local gang, his eyes wide with greed, she was forced to wear the mask of a demon. Under her master, her abilities were exploited to their fullest potential – becoming little more than a living gun in the name of greed. But the worst of it came the day her master’s son – her future owner - lay still on the ground – and she, in combination with a squaller in their service, was forced to resurrect him, to give back life to her oppressor. Out of all the memories – out of insults and jeers, out of spit thrown in her direction, out of years of oppression - that is the one that haunts her most, in knowing that even death wouldn’t be enough to free her. And whilst she always obeyed their orders, it was never enough to stop the crack of a whip on her back – or worse, Aarvas’s – ribbons of red streaking their skin. She had arrived in Ketterdam with her head held high, determined to embody iron, but when she left, she felt little more than porcelain. Having seen the worst of the world, how as a Grisha, home was rarely found, she did what she swore she would never do – and enrolled in the service of the Second Army, believing that it couldn’t be any worse than what she had already endured, that perhaps a small slice of freedom could be found. She was wrong. Years might have passed, but Neysa still feels like the small girl surrendered like cattle at an auction, something to be owned. Her hands might be unbound, but there is little freedom to be found – and the scars of slavery do not fade so easily. It’s a bitter pill to swallow – but this is not medicine that was designed to heal.

BLASPHEMOUS SAINT: There was once a young girl who turned her cheek towards the stars and whispered their prayers. That same girl had believed that you could find the saints in the stars and that as they twinkled, they were watching down on you. She had implored upon the saints to protect her family, to shield a pair of twins from being found and that the song she sang would never bring the downfall of another. Keep us safe, that is all I ask. Saint-like in herself, Neysa had believed reverently in her words, acutely aware of the religious society she had been born within. That girl had her devotion shattered the moment she was stolen away, when she became something to be owned. Hope, however, is a tricky bastard. In the early days of her captivity, Neysa had continued to invoke the power of the saints, to beg them for an escape, a way for freedom. The saints had abandoned that girl – and thus, in return, she abandoned religion. By the time the girl became a woman grown, Neysa had learnt that Saints were little more than folk stories – both works of fiction. She would never place her faith in them again. Thus, whilst one half turned away from religion, swore herself off it and declared it to be false, the other half turned towards it, embracing the benevolent power of the saints as an anchor. Neysa can only shake her head at Aarvas and their sheer blindness. She tried placing her faith in saints once before – and was rewarded with only one gift. That she herself had to be the pinnacle of change. That only she could save herself. And that there was no point praying – for no one was listening.

UNREFINED POTENTIAL: For many, power is a subjective thing, defying definition. And yet, the one thing that everyone can agree upon, is that it radiates and courses through Neysa’s veins. Despite a lack of formal education and instruction, despite Neysa only having the vaguest idea of what thissness and thatness was, there was something untapped inside of her – potential waiting to be drawn out. It is for that reason that the Second Army sent her straight to the small palace, instead of keeping her among the ranks, down on the frontline. They wanted her stronger, well-formed, lethal. And, despite their obvious intentions, Neysa has never been more grateful for anything in her life, seeking the temporary respite and peace that Os Atla would provide. Away from the stench and mark of death, Neysa hopes to find an understanding – happily delving into books and language classes, fingers tracing the knowledge that always escaped her within its pages. Fluent in Suli and Kerch, she’s added Shu and Fjerdan to her list, finding a temporary respite in those classes, where it’s easy to simply imagine yourself at an ordinary school. The one thing she despises about the Little Palace’s education doctrine is that it is moulding her into a soldier. Strategy is at the forefront of everything they do – and in that aspect, war is never far away. They intend to shape her beyond her mould, to tear her away from the child she once was. More than anything else, she dreads the combat classes. Her abilities already mark her as a weapon, but now they intend to force her to fight with her fists too. A peacemaker at the corner of her soul, she was not born for combat. Her heart is never in her performance – and she often finds herself as the weakest of the pack, a shadow compared to those bloodthirsty Grisha who wish for nothing more than the pounding of flesh. And yet, each day she returns, hoping that she will revile the prospect the same way she did before – praying that they will never impose permanent change upon her psyche.

EXTRAS: 

Mockblog: X

Personality Analysis: X

ANYTHING ELSE? My favourite book is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. Also, I just wanted to add that Neysa is my first choice and Katya is my second!

[ecotone99]

[FN] The Dreamstime - A lore-crafting essay

Hello all. This is less a short story and more an essay. It started as a note to myself where I establish the mythos of the fictional universe in which my stories will take place. Something I can refer back to when in doubt and to make the stories feel a bit more connected. Subsequently it also has a writing style that might seem strange, but the idea is to have it feel like a story that a grandmother, or "ouma" (ou - old : ma - mother), as in the story, tells children around a fire. Basically a legend or knowledge passed on from generation to generation. I took, for this story, a lot of inspiration from cultural and religious ideas attributed to the Aboriginal peoples of Australia as well as Khoi and San peoples of Africa. Keep in mind that the mythos is only loosely inspired by some of the concepts that I have read over the years and has very little to do with what these cultures actually believed or thought, as much of their histories and cultures, especially in the case of the San people, are lost to us if I understand correctly. The story is also not to be interpreted literally, especially in the case of the animals mentioned, many of the characters are open to interpretation based on the culture of the person who tells the story, meaning a hare or rabbit could be a fox or a fairy or even a cunning human, depending on the narrator. That being said, here's the story. I hope you enjoy.

Before the Dreamstime

On some nights, when the spine of the moon had no more flesh upon it and the night was dark, if the children behaved and their ouma’s belly bulged with the fat they roasted for her, ouma might just, with smoke from her pipe billowing from her nostrils, begin to remember stories from the Dreamstime. On some nights she may even remember the Allmaker, the primordial thing and the time the world was made by the stillborn sun.

In this time before time, before even the Dreamstime, there was nothing in the universe. Ouma would say, loading her pipe with fresh leaves, that there wasn’t even nothing because nothing didn’t exist yet. But there was the Allsource, an ancient mind, a primordial thing that existed before existence. Where it came from is not known by mortals and whether it has simply always been or perhaps is a remnant of an earlier time may only be guessed at by wisened, half blind and dream drunk oumas.

Then, at some point in untime, the most ancient Mind fractured itself and, with a mighty explosion, split itself into an infinitude of lesser minds. These children of the Allsource became the first people of which some would later be revered as gods. Not all fragments of the Allsource were born equal, though, and some received a larger portion of the most ancient Mind than others. The most powerful of these first people was the Stilborn Sun.

The Stilborn received perhaps the largest portion of knowledge from the Allsource but could not contain it within its own unstable mind, knowing radiated outward from it in an inferno of light and fire, pushing back the void, until it could no longer sustain itself and, like its creator, it shattered. The echoes of that unfathomable explosion still ring around the universe today as it continues to expand against the void. From that inferno the first particles of stuff were forged that would make the ground beneath our feet and the stars above our heads. Though it was stillborn, an Allsource fragment does not die and those sensitive few can still hear the whispers of the Stillborn Sun as it shapes the physical plane to its own whims. While the first elements were still being molded in the universe that was then but a pinprick of light in the void, the children of the Allsource would, for lack of a better word, float around the void and whisper to each other their inherited knowings.

When the first of the children finally took note of the infant universe most of its foundations had already been laid and it was filled with the elemental dust that would later come together in clouds and be forged into planets and stars.

This one, who would be the first of the universal masters, would, like a curious child, poke and prod experimentally at the alien bubble and find that, even though itself was not physical or composed of any definable stuff, the universe and its dust would respond to its presence and it could, by its will, exercise some influence over the newly forged matter. This bubble of matter was something unknown to the children of the Allsource, a knowing not contained among those that have yet been whispered into the void or even among those selfishly kept, at least by those who took note of it. With experimentation and practice this one would become better at manipulation of matter and its influence thereover would grow. In time, more siblings took note of the new thing and began to test it with their wills and sharing what they learned with each other. They eventually found that they could enter the universe unhindered and that it was infinitely larger when seen from inside. Their absence of a physical presence limited the scale of the influence that they could exercise upon matter until one learned that it could forge for itself a being of sorts. With this rudimentary body one could more easily and physically manipulate matter. For a very long time these ones were content to experiment on the stuff around them with the help of their new vessels which they would mold and shape to suit their present task.

But as they discovered more and more knowledge they began to take pride, each in its own achievements and disagreements arose over which one discovered what thing. At first they began to hoard their knowledge for themselves and later they would selfishly guard each their own rare and precious elements, fusing them into their vessels where possible to secret them away. So the bodies of the siblings changed over time from mere tools of curious exploration to weapons and displays of power and achievement and they grew apart, every one protecting its own knowledge and wealth for itself, and set boundaries and domains for themselves that they guarded from each other. And they fought each other for resources and for knowledge and for rare elements and for fighting. And victors would claim for themselves what elements they could scavenge from the domain and vessel of the defeated and would grow in power while the defeated, its physical form no longer its own, will have to begin again by building, atom by atom, its form to try and reclaim what it lost.

The Dreamstime begins

For eons the universal masters warred with each other over knowledge and territory and resources and nothing. Eventually the wars became skirmishes and then quarrels and then quiet hostility. Finally these ones became complacent having seen all they could see and created all they could create and finding it all ultimately pointless. So they drifted around the expanding universe, searching for something new. Occasionally they would leave back to the void to commune with their kin. Even in this, though, they could not find the peace they once had. Existing outside the void and depending so long on a physical form had changed them, their minds had become weird and alien to their void-dwelling kin.

By now the spheres of the heavens had begun to form, colossal balls of fiery gas and spherical monstrosities of metal and rock and ice blasted through space, crashing into each other and being obliterated or swallowed or merged into even larger spheres. In the midst of it all the estranged ones floated and watched and saw nothing new. Then one happened upon a young planet that had started to cool from the processes of its making, it was, as with the others, birthed from great chaos and fire but has since fallen into a more stable orbit and its larger solar siblings shielded it from the onslaught from the stars by absorbing most of the universe's rage before it would reach it.

A stray missile had evaded this protection once, however, and from this impact was flung a piece of this planet and set to orbit its former host. On this little sibling of the young planet did one of the estranged minds settle to witness another new thing. In the steaming mud upon the planet surface there writhed and wriggled a billion simple minds and the estranged one reached out to them but they could not sense it, so it waited and watched as they struggled in the mud, following no purpose and having no thought but to exist. So it was for a long time.

This one watched as the billions of little minds grew in complexity of both form and mind and it discovered yet another new thing, sympathy. Its fascination with the mud-eating worms grew to be more than curiosity and it found itself willing them to succeed, to grow and survive. It sent forth the invisible tendrils of its thought to prod their little minds but found them every time too simple for a thought other than to be. Then, when the little minds have much diversified in form and many had left the primordial soup of their origin to scuttle, wriggle, slither or otherwise drag themselves about the dirt with new and clumsy limbs, there was one, a shaggy thing with large, curious eyes and long, twitchy ears, who looked up to the white bulb in the velvet firmament and wondered what it was.

To the moon-dwelling extradimensional mind this thought shone like a beacon. This one looked to the thing that had the first thought and saw that it was wretched and wanted to save it. It went to the thing and, calming its mind, fashioned from the klei of the world for it body parts to make it run faster, jump higher, see further and wider and hear clearer. Through its proximity to the ancient one its mind grew also and the ancient taught it the language of thought and gave it the name of Beesum and bade it to carry upon its new form the gift of thought to its siblings where they still writhed and scuttled and twitched. Beesum, before it went bounding away to its task, used its gift of language to name its savior and it named it Khagen.

So began the Dreamstime. In this time the forms of the worlds and those that lived upon them were fluid. Beesum took the gift of thought to its siblings and, one by one, the children born from the klei became aware of the things beyond their immediate needs. With thought came also the ability to perceive Khagen and Khagen shared with them of its ancient knowledge more and more as their minds grew. As with Beesum, Khagen made for them all augmentations to their forms and they named it Khagen the Maker and it became to them like a god.

But the siblings of Khagen saw from the stars what new things it was making and they sought to do the same. So they came to the infant world disguised in strange forms. Most sought only to be worshipped as Khagen was and presented themselves as gods. Some of the children of klei followed them and there rose cults among the children each with its own deity or deities and ever expanding rituals. Others, however, were more interested still in the workings of these living things and the knowledge to be gained from studying them. One such was to become known as the Plague Child and it brought great suffering to the children of klei by its experiments which it would inflict upon them. Yet some still formed a cult to worship it though, if it noticed, it did not seem interested in being a god. Most notable amongst the gods was N'thocha who would be the father of hyenas. This one was known for its hunger for flesh and became so mad through worship from its cult, which would grow to rival Khagen's followers in numbers, that its mind devolved to the point that it became forever N'thocha the Hungerer.

Also in this time the children of klei had learned from Khagen how to manipulate their own klei and they changed and morphed and shifted their beings to compete and impress and entertain.

With the rise of cults came war also to the new world and its children and Khagen looked to those that it lifted from the slime and saw how they abandoned itself and it withdrew from all except a few including its loyal messenger, Beesum. And from then few things would ever interact with or see or hear from Khagen except Beesum who had chosen never to stray from the form given to it by its master. Now Khagen, who made for the children of klei new limbs and hoisted them from the mud and came to love them as its own, felt betrayed and abandoned. And, though it felt still compassion for even those that were first to stray to the new gods, resolved not to meddle again in their affairs. So it came that the only contact that the children of klei would have with Khagen would be such thoughts as carried to them by Beesum, its messenger, who, with mighty hind legs as sculpted by its master, would leap to the moon to commune with Khagen who dwelt there. During its self imposed exile, Khagen who was known as the maker, sought to make its own creatures, living things that were not born from the chance mixing of certain chemicals in eon boiling cauldrons of primordial soup but made by conscious thought and design.

And Khagen made many things that crawled and slithered and twitched and flew and gave to each a role to fulfill in a cycle of their combined existence and loved them all. And they lived upon the infant earth, among the children of klei but not among them, the two groups were separated from each other as if by a thin film so that, though they could sometimes perceive each other, their stuff could not interact and they were beyond reach. And they mostly ignored then each the existence of the other. Two creatures, however, Khagen loved most. The first was the Eland which it sculpted with clay from the most ancient riverbed and dried it in the cold night wind and painted then the lines upon its back with paint mixed from crushed bones and chalk. The second was the primate men and Khagen made these men by forming a frame out of twigs and grass and applying a mortar mixed from mud and the primordial dust from ancient space that sped still endlessly through the universe to form the next generation of stars and worlds. This mortar Khagen mixed with water from the same most ancient river whose banks gave the Elands’ clay. The final form Khagen baked in the heat of the sun and so was men made.

Beesum’s Defiance

Now the followers of N’thocha would bring to it offerings of flesh in order to gain its favor and each sought to gift it more exotic and rare gifts than the last. Some would steal the flesh of their kin to bring as offerings and others still would tear it from their own flesh hoping that their own suffering would be worth more than that of others. Now there was one called Bilious, a high priest to N’thocha, and it was intrigued by the spectral things that dwelt beyond the film of its plane, the creatures of Khagen. Try as it might and employing every ritual and science that it knew, Bilious could not interact with the things either by going to where they were or bringing them to itself. It became obsessed with the things and its only goal was to be able to reach them and to taste their flesh and make them the most rarest of gifts to its master.

By this time the fighting between the cults and alliances of cults had become wild and there was much destruction. Some of the ancient minds became most desperate to keep the small empires they had made. So there were some who reached out into the void to bargain with their outer kin and they tried to lure them with promises of many things. But the outer kin had no desires or interests within the universe and wanted only to whisper undisturbed in the void.

A very few, however, were convinced by promises of yet unwhispered knowledge and answered the summons. These were trapped in cyclopean and terrible forms and fought on behalf of their summoners. Their fighting was so terrible that it brought great destruction upon the world and its inhabitants. Though the creatures of Khagen seemed untouched beyond their thin film. Then Bilious, having performed many unnamable rituals and spoken with many unspeakables and made pacts with others who held certain knowledge, learned of a way to reach beyond the film. And Bilious did go beyond the film and destroyed many of Khagen’s creatures and brought of their flesh to its master and thereby won its favour. It quickly came to be that N’thocha would accept no other flesh than that of an eland or a human and the cult of N’thocha destroyed many creatures of Khagen in order to please their master so that these creatures became almost extinct. And Khagen, who had, in the process of creating its creatures, began to make and explore certain discoveries about the universe, saw the destruction brought upon the world and the sacred creatures of Khagen and wanted to end the chaos. So Khagen bade Beesum to come and receive a message that would help to end the war. And Beesum obayed with great joy as those that still followed Khagen were greatly saddened by the chaos and destruction.

Khagen laid in the mouth of Beesum the secret of immortality and bade it to speak it to all upon the world but first to the creatures of Khagen as they were weakest and most vulnerable. But all the children of Khagen and even loyal Beesum, were disgusted by the creatures of Khagen and thought them inferior and were jealous of them. So Beesum lept from its master’s side upon the moon and went to hide within the tall grasses and kept Khagens gift sealed within its mouth. And when Khagen looked once more upon its creatures and saw them dying still, the last few suffering from pestilence and fear, it summoned again the loyal Beesum. This time Beesum did not come. Again Khagen called and again Beesum did not come. So, thinking that its most loyal and oldest servant had come to harm and despairing of the thought, Khagen left for the first time its self-imposed exile and came to the world to find its lost messenger. And Khagen found Beesum among the long grass, its ears drawn flat to its back and the secret still in its mouth. Khagen became enraged at this latest and most unexpected betrayal. So enraged was Khagen that it smote Beesum with such anger that Beesum’s upper lip was split and the secret it carried was lost forever. But Khagen restrained itself so as not to destroy Beesum and, leaving its messenger to recover, withdrew back into exile.

The Dreamstime ends

Now Khagen beheld all that transpired upon the earth and knew that it could not stop its siblings and their cults from devouring each other and, eventually, the world. And Khagen saw only one chance to save the world and all upon it. Khagen called to its stillborn sibling whose mind still dwelt somewhere within the essences of the universe. The maker had, during its exile, began to sense the unconscious will that was interlaced with the very foundations of existence and directed its evolution, whether consciously or otherwise. Now it called toward the stillborn’s will, trying to find the thoughts that must still be there, however scattered. And Khagen reached with its mind and will and searched and whispered and called and felt, infinitely faint, the universe reaching back. Grasping, with its mind, at this outstretched thought Khagen sent forth its will blindly and knew not whether it was heard or felt or understood at all. Then the thought fainted away and was gone and Khagen settled back upon its lunar throne and watched as the world sank further into madness.

The most ancient ones were the first to notice the change, a infinitesimal ripple rolling across the ether, though none understood it. Except perhaps Khagen. The first ripple was followed after some time by a second, slightly more powerful one and, after that, more quickly came another, still stronger one.

The third was followed by a fourth and that by a fifth and a sixth. Each one stronger than before and with less time in between. By the time the first children of the earth began to feel them the ripples were already as apparent as crashing waves to the the more sensitive ancients. Soon the ripples came in such quick succession that they blurred into a vibration. The creatures of the earth forgot their wars and quarrels and fell into a blind panic. Then there came a shimmering in the air. A movement of the air similar to a mirage caused when warm air rises from the klei. It was nearly imperceptible at first and most were to preocupied with their panic to notice anything. But, like the ripples, this thing too grew in intensity until most could not help but notice. At first it was like the tiny movements that the wind makes upon the surface of a lake. But as the movement intensified there became perceptible also movement beyond it that grew in clarity as the shimmering grew in intensity. Slowly there came into focus shapes and movements in mid-air that were not previously there and some ceased their panicked squirming to see. First came into view the paralel place where Khagens creatures dwelt. From the perspective of the first children and their ancient masters this place, once only accessible through certain rituals, now hung in the air before them, superimposed over their own world and semi-solid.

For an instant the first people and what was left of the creatures of Khagen looked each at the other almost as if they existed simultaneously in upon the same klei. Then there came, not into view really but more into thought, another space. Most did not notice it but those that did saw it at the back and peripherals of their eyes and, try as they might, could not bring it into view. Insane shapes and movements swam behind the eyes and in the brains of those that noticed it and many went mad with fear and rage and confusion. A few became completely wild and writhed and screamed in the dirt as they clawed out their eyes or tried to open their skulls to reach in and pull out the writhing things. To the ancient ones now it was as a window and what they saw beyond it confused them also, though for different reasons. There, through the tear that went sideways through space, they felt, rather than saw, their siblings and heard their whispers. Thes ones too had noticed and whispered confusedly amongst themselves. The ripples had by now increased in frequency to become a vibration that threatened to disintegrate the very matter of the universe. The universe rang from the vibration like a bell. The sound of it penetrated so deeply into all things that it became all that existed and then all that existed exploded. Or so it felt.

Everything that could feel anything felt that their escenses were blasted outwards from them. Their very fundamental stuff scattered into space and lost among the elements of everything else. For a time existence was for all just blind noise and confusion and then it just fell silent and everything was the same as it was before though it had changed forever. The Dreamstime was over.

When the roar had finally gone silent, after what seemed like eternity, the dwellers of the earth became aware, one after the other, that their essences had become whole again for the most part. Many, however, were lost in the great chaos. The blasted earth was unrecognisable to those who still had a mind to know it and there were many who did not. The first children of the klei had mostly devolved to their animal state, as they were before Khagen blessed them with knowing and memory, and thought only to eat, breed and die. Their bodies, however, kept mostly the shape that they took on before the chaos but that shape remained and they forgot how to change it. Very few there were that kept the blessing of Khagen, so few that even the oldest of oumas could count them on such of their fingers that could still go straight. These ones, seeing the world disemboweled and their kind, squirming stupidly again in the soil, hid their faces in shame and anger and grief for a thousand year.

One such was Beesum, and Beesum carried both the blessing and the curse of Khagen and sought its master once more. It found Khagen upon the moon and resumed, with renewed loyalty, its service. Of those ancients that were lured onto the earth by their kin some escaped back to the void but many were buried beneath the roiling earth or sunk under the deep waters, trapped within their corporeal manifestations, waiting and sleeping and dreaming.

Perhaps the least affected were the creatures of Khagen. Few survived the great war and the cataclysm but a few were just enough. The men, crawling from beneath the dust and ash and debris, found a world unrecognisable. The klei was torn apart and where once had been earth was now oceans and where once had flowed mighty rivers now mountains tore through and towered into the sky. The klei was torn to pieces and drifted slowly apart. And the men, being clever and having still the blessing of Khagen, adapted well to the new earth and became many. And Khagen would sometimes bless them with knowledge through the service of Beesum. But men came to hear of the betrayal of Beesum and they would set traps for it or hunt it with their bows and stones and spears and kill it where they can to eat its flesh.

But men also knew that the living things all had souls and all had knowings once, that is why they would thank the spirit of their prey and ask its blessing and forgiveness before consuming it so as not to make an enemy of its kin and its own reborn self.

The other ancients too were mostly as they were before and men made gods of them in time as the children of the klei did. And of the children that kept their minds there were those that remained loyal to their own masters and made disciples of their cults amongst men. Most notable of the old gods was N'thocha the hungerer. And N'thocha still craved the flesh of men and the other creatures of Khagen. And some men came to see N'thocha as the idol of the hunt and the bringer of death and Khagen as the keeper of prey and the idol of fertility and new rebirth. And men saw this relationship and the cycle of all life displayed in the heavens as N'thocha who shone as the angry, orange sun, hunted Khagen as the moon. And N'thocha the sun would chase the moon across the firmament and devour it until only the white curve of its spine remained. Then Khagen the moon will be reborn anew and will grow fat and bulbous and the cycle will repeat forever.

Thus, too was the lives of men and the lives of all who dwelt upon the new klei. All but those few that kept their knowings. All but the trapped ancients who sat dreaming and whispering to themselves in the dark bowels of the earth and the slimey pits of the oceans.

submitted by /u/DreamstimeStories [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2VL9ymq

[neadaithe]

❖PROLOGUE❖

hiya, howdy, whats up, how’s it goin’

this is the wip prologue of my original story: the book of the damned

such a creative name, i know, right? that’s also a wip...

anyway, if it interests you, read on!

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔪𝔫𝔢𝔡; 𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

Nagini shot up from her luxurious bed, gasping for air and clutching her chest in an attempt to calm her rapidly beating heart. Long locks of white hair slipped from behind her pointed ears and framed her scale-covered cheeks. Throat dry and a layer of cold sweat upon her skin, the fanged woman tossed the thick covers off of her lower half and placed her feet onto the cold floor that laid beneath her bed. Fluttering her eyes shut, she clutched the side of her mattress and focused on slowing her breathing, swallowing thickly to try and rid herself of the raspy feeling in her throat.

“Little Snake,” the honey-smooth voice resounded in Nagini’s head, her immediate response being to stand to her full height and reach for her twin blades, but something stopped her.

Standing just a foot away, Nagini watched as the shadows that flickered against her wall from the dancing light of the flame on her bedside table engulfed the candle along with the weapons that laid perfectly beside it. The scent of smoke invaded her senses once she was left in the dark, yellow eyes, that battled the sun in beauty and vibrancy, struggling to adjust to the shadowy room. She stood still in her place for a couple of heartbeats that felt like hours, breathing no longer ragged and hands curled tightly into fists.

“Goddess Shadow,” came the cold response, “How nice of you to visit,”

The umbrage pulled back from the room, allowing light from the outside to peer through the curtains once more. Gathering in one spot, the shadows created a figure in the center of the room before pulling away to reveal their keeper. With hair as dark as the blackest night sky and eyes that put the oceans beauty to shame, Alexandria stood proudly with a sly smirk playing on her red-painted lips.

“Come now, Little Snake,” Alexandria said with a chuckle, her body relaxed and uncaring, “Is that any way to address your Mommy?”

Nagini stared at the ravenette woman with a blank stare before huffing out a heavy sigh, arms crossing defensively across her chest.

“Mother,” She hissed out, “Would you like a spot of tea?” Tone heavy with venom, much like the venom that flowed in her blood, Nagini stressed each of her syllables to further show her distress of the sudden appearance.

Alexandria laughed sharply and tilted her head back, hand resting gently on the exposed skin of her stomach and eyes shut tightly from the force of her laughter.

“Nagini, I think,” She paused mid-sentence, holding back a giggle, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Nagini rolled her eyes and moved to lean against the wall beside her bedside table, eyes carefully trained on the dangerous woman that stood in her room and mind racing with wonders as to why she decided to appear all of a sudden. Hair still messy and untamed and left standing half-naked in front of the monster that raised her, Nagini couldn’t help but feel slight embarrassment settle in her stomach. She clenched her jaw to keep herself from hissing out anything that could anger Alexandria.

“Well, we both know you’re not here to spend time with your grandson,” Nagini said bluntly, yet it nicer than anything else she thought of. “So why are you really here?”

Alexandria hummed softly and lost her cheerful mood, the sudden change of attitude seeming to make the room a couple of degrees cooler.

“Right. Well,” She muttered, “Remember your dear friend, Mavis Phreignox?”

The name sent a shiver down Nagini’s spine as she held back an audible shudder. ‘Friend’ was far from the term she would use to describe that woman.

“How could I forget?” Nagini questioned rhetorically, “She almost ripped my tongue out for the sole reason of it, ‘looking peculiar’.”

The black haired woman in the room smirked at her daughter’s unfortunate memory and waved her hand out lazily beside her, shadows appearing along the floor and creating a lump before retreating back into their rightful places, leaving an unconscious body laying limply on the floor.

“Eris,” Nagini whispered out, pushing herself off the wall and heading towards her fallen sister.

Alexandria held up an arm to block Nagini from approaching her, yet the fanged wielder of sin smacked it out of the way without a second thought. She lowered herself down to her knees and brushed the black strands of hair from Eris’ pale face. Audibly gulping, she moved to rest her sister’s head in her lap.

“How did this happen?” Nagini said lowly, anger bubbling in her chest, “What did Mavis do to her?”

The mother of the two looked down at them with pity, hands folding delicately behind her.

“Nothing permanent, fortunately,” She said, “But the only way we’ll wake her is with your blood, dear. Since I don’t have literal venom for blood, you were the only one who could save her.”

Nagini looked down at Eris’ hauntingly peaceful face before raising a wrist to her lips, mouth opening and fangs digging sharply into her skin. Blood blacker than Alexandria’s shadows seeped out from the puncture wounds, dripping from her arm and onto the previously spotless floor. She placed her wrist against her sister’s mouth and moved to tilt her head back so that the blood may flow down her throat. After a couple of moments, Nagini retracted her wrist and licked the remainder of the blood off of her wounds.

“How long will it-”

“She’ll be awake within the next sunrise,” Alexandria interjected with a reassuring smile.”

With a shaky sigh, Nagini heaved her sister up in her arms and moved to lay her gently on the unmade bed, her usually cold eyes muddled with worry and concern. After making sure that Eris was laid comfortably on the mattress, the white-haired female hurriedly moved to dress herself. Beginning with her simple blouse and brown-leather bottoms, she then began to strap on the simple pieces of armor to her body.

“And what, might I ask,” Alexandria said suddenly, “Do you think you’re doing?”

Nagini scoffed, slipping her gloves over her hands and up to her elbows, tightening the straps once they were secure.

“What does it look like I’m doing, old woman?” She said with a taunting smirk, “I’m going to go slay myself a dragon.”

Alexandria shook her head and held a hand as a sign to stop her daughter’s motions.

“You can’t go alone, Little Snake,” Alexandria solemnly said, “Eris brought with her two trained Paladins, an Archer, and a powerful Sorcerer. They were taken out swiftly… But not even by Mavis.”

Nagini frowned as she listened to Alexandria speak.

“Mavis had a companion,” The ravenette said with a sigh, “Instead of doing her own dirty work, she got herself an Oracle with amazing abilities to fight her battles.”

“Oracle?” Nagini scoffed, “I’ve taken down bigger and badder than a lowly Oracle.”

Alexandria shook her head, her tone stern and serious.

“This isn’t just any kind of Oracle, Nagini,” She glanced towards Eris, “She can do things that no one thought were possible. Listen, she shattered the bones of the Paladins simply just by looking at them.”

Nagini stood still once she heard just what this girl was capable of, fear flashing through her eyes but disappearing just as quickly as it appeared. Fists shaking at her side, she inhaled sharply before opening up her hands and letting out a long, drawn out sigh. Something she learned to do when she was -cursed- blessed with Alekye. She looked back towards the comatose body of Eris and stared at her emotionless face.

“Then what do you suggest I do, Alexandria?” Nagini said, swallowing back her pride, “Mavis has done enough destruction.”

The ravenette chuckled softly, knowing it took a lot for Nagini to ask for advice, let alone from her.

“Get yourself a team, a strong one. Amazing abilities, strange powers, strong qualities, anything that you think will give you an advantage against that Oracle and against Mavis,” Shadows slowly began to engulf Alexandria as she spoke, “And remember, Little Snake - Your father and I will always come to aid you, you just need to say the word.”

With that, Alexandria winked at her daughter before fully succumbing to the darkness, her figure melting away into the shadows, leaving Nagini there with a small smirk on her face, her cocky aura redeeming itself.

“Well,” She said, looking towards Eris, “Looks like I’ve got some friends to visit.”

[avidbeader]

Voltron fanfic: “Scattered” Chapter 10

Season 2 AU. No ships, K+ to T rating. Begin at the beginning here.

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 As they waited for the Metreans to prepare for departure, the Paladins and Alteans gathered in the kitchens. Hunk brought a selection of fresh fruits and greens that he had discovered while exploring the riverbanks and worked with Coran to supplement the space goo into a more appetizing meal.

 Lance was arguing with Shiro and Allura. “I don’t understand! If we think there’s a real chance of Keith being held by Earth’s military, why aren’t we going straight there? It’s not like we need Voltron to bust him out!”

Allura shook her head. “My hope is to do this through diplomacy, but if it comes to a firefight, I want all our resources to hand. The Green Lion is still the only one outfitted with the cloaking device and we may need that capability.”

 “And Lance, think about it. You’re the one who remembered how they treated me when I returned. What happened next? Four kids and a presumed-dead pilot vanished in an alien ship. What do you think the reaction will be if there are only three kids accounted for? We need Pidge’s presence if we’re going to present a unified front to them.” Shiro restlessly drummed the fingers of his Galra hand on the table next to him, producing a steady clinking noise.

 Lance opened his mouth to argue some more, but couldn’t think of anything to add to his side. He glared at Shiro. “You’re worried, though.”

 “Yes, I am. I’m a lot worried.”

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 Lieutenant General Darzi stood to attention in front of General Benítez’ desk. Perkins was off to the side. The general stacked the recollected papers that held the results of Kogane’s blood tests and pushed them through a slit in the wall to the incinerator. She then turned and planted her hands on her hips. “Explain yourself.”

 Darzi wanted to swallow hard, but resisted. Calm was necessary. “As Perkins was preparing the new round of amotrazephine combined with adrenaline, Kogane began struggling and shouting. I only wanted to prevent him from hurting himself.”

 The general turned steely eyes to Perkins, who shifted his feet as he debated with himself. He looked up. “What I witnessed suggests that Darzi wanted to justify it by claiming he was preventing the boy from crying out or hurting himself, but he intended to incapacitate at the very least. He came damn close to killing him.”

 “And your evidence?”

 “Only my word, ma’am. As I said in the meeting, the signs of suffocation were gone within a few hours. A normal person would have had bloodshot eyes and bruises for days after.”

 Benítez turned back to Darzi. “I am giving you one more chance to explain.”

 At that point, he knew he had lost. He might as well lay everything out. He picked up his tablet from where he had laid it on the desk and pulled up the relevant files. “This is Kogane from when he was a cadet, from a vid of a workout session made for training purposes. Do you see the knife in his hand?”

 Benítez and Perkins looked closely. Benítez picked up her own tablet and searched briefly. “The inventory of his belongings included a knife. It was assumed to be part of that armor, because the lab techies can’t identify the materials in the blade or the stone on the hilt.” She looked up, worry lines creasing her forehead.

 Perkins shook his head. “Anyone could have given it to him at any time.”

 “Maybe,” Darzi replied. “But look at this.” He pulled up another photo, showing the upper half of a humanoid robot. “This was in the ship that brought Takashi Shironage back from wherever he was for a year. Look at the symbol on its chest. Now, look at the symbol on that knife.” He handed the tablet to Perkins so the other two could compare the photos side by side.

 Perkins shook his head again. “Now you’re reaching. Yes, they could be the same alphabet, but they could just as easily be unrelated. You’re determined to make that boy into some kind of alien threat and you don’t have enough reason to.”

 “He won’t answer our questions!”

 “Maybe that’s because you took him prisoner first!”

 “Gentlemen, enough!” Benítez dropped both tablets on her desk. “Darzi, I will grant that Kogane having a knife of theoretically alien origin for years is an issue, but your reaction was still far over the line and made the situation much worse. I am removing you. You have forty-eight hours to clear out and report to Fort Bragg. You will stay there until a hearing is formed to investigate charges of wrongful imprisonment and assault.”

 “General!”

 “Want me to add attempted murder? No? Then dismissed!”

 Darzi’s face darkened, but he grabbed his tablet, saluted, and backed out of the room.

 Benítez turned to Perkins. “This fact about the knife is bad, Sam. I’m trusting you an awful lot.”

 He nodded. “I know you are, Mari. But we can’t get answers from a dead body.”

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 It was getting close to the midday meal in the village. Pidge continued to scan the prisoner files, knowing Sofee would come fetch her when it was actually time to eat. She paused for one moment to scrub her eyes, which were beginning to tire, and resumed.

 Ears, gills, snout, ears again, scales… She zipped through photo files in rapid succession. Horns, four eyes, ears AGAIN, how many times did they go after those people, jeez, mane, Shiro—

 Shiro!

 “Omigosh, omigosh…” Pidge stared at the picture of Shiro, his dark hair falling over his forehead and his terror-filled eyes staring out of an unmarked face.

 With trembling fingers, she copied all the text from Shiro’s file and set it as a search pattern. Her hope was to find cross-references in the Galra text that included either the date of Shiro’s capture, the location, or the ship involved.

 Please, please, please…

 A dozen files popped up. The top two showed her exactly what she had hoped for.

 Pidge stared at the pictures of her father and Matt in disbelief for a moment, then squealed and hugged herself. “I found them! I found them!” She saved the two files to her gauntlet interface, then pulled Shiro’s file up next to them and began studying them intently.

 Green nudged her mind in a way that felt almost like an impatient poke.

 “What, girl? What is it?”

 My navigation database.

 “Oh? Oh! Yes!” Pidge scrambled out of the hut and ran for her Lion. Once in the pilot’s seat, she shared the files to Green’s databank. A star map, a miniature of the one from the Castle-ship. appeared and showed three locations.

 The first location was the farthest away.

 Your planet. Where they were found.

 The second location was deep within Galra territory.

 Where they were all taken first.

 Pidge thought a moment. That must be near the Galra’s central command, possibly close to the gladiator rings where Shiro spent far too many months fighting for his life.

 The last location was still deep in Galra territory, but not near any major population centers.

 The last known location of your father and brother.

 The slave camp. She had coordinates to the slave camp where Dad and Matt likely were.

 Not yet. Wait for reinforcements.

 Pidge dropped her shoulders, feeling the powerful pull to just take off and start flying there on her own. But Green was right; she was alone and she had no way to make wormholes or access a Galra hyperdrive to cross the distance (but there’s a thought, having a second option for super-speed travel).

 “So in the meantime, we keep busy. I’ll work on that wrist communicator idea.”

 She felt pride running through the purr that Green sent.

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 Keith swam up from true sleep to awareness of himself, in the now-familiar red-gold aura of his Lion. Before he could try to wake up fully, he heard her voice.

 Wait.

 He obeyed, taking the opportunity to bask in her reassuring presence. Her warmth surrounded and soothed him. He sent back his affection and trust and was rewarded with a thunderous purr.

 Now.

 Keith opened his eyes to see the back of a medtech as he left the room. A noise drew his attention and he looked to see Perkins there. The man was doing something with his armor…

 Keith bit back a gasp when he realized that Perkins was hiding his knife inside one of his gauntlets. He knew that Earthforce had no access to his bayard – Pidge had once tried to describe her theory on the tiny dimensional pockets that the armor seemed to possess, but he had been lost very quickly.

 But his knife…it was one of the few things that had been passed down to him from his parents and he would be damned if they tried to take it from him.

 Perkins turned and saw Keith’s gaze on him. “I tried my best, son. Darzi’s been reassigned, but if I’m going to be a witness against him I have to stay away. But you should be safe. General Benítez is in charge and she won’t let anyone hurt you. But you should be honest with them when they start asking you questions again.”

 Keith’s expression hardened at that. Perkins looked unsurprised. He laid one hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Good luck, son.” He went to the door, paused and checked the hallway, then left.

 Keith tried yet again to get loose, attempting to slide up or down far enough to get one of his arms free enough to undo a strap. Just as he began to make headway, a new medtech entered the room. Without speaking, she set a syringe in her hand down and moved to roll up the sleeve of the arm they hadn’t used yet.

 “No, come on! Just stop it already! I’m not going to hurt anyone! Stop it!”

 Without speaking, the woman picked up the syringe and clinically administered whatever was in it.

 They were clearly learning. The sedative was strong enough to hit him immediately and he fell into blackness once more.

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 After eating, Pidge sat down with the sentry head and finished isolating its communicator. She set it out and began tinkering. She found the tech simple enough and reassembled the thing, mounting it on a clunky bracelet she fashioned from a piece of another sentry’s wrist. She put on her helmet and tried speaking into the comm. “Pidge to Pidge, can you read me?”

 Nothing. But she wasn’t deterred. Pidge had figured that she might need the castle’s resources to finish this invention. Now she wondered if the modification still worked on its original frequency.

 “I need another head…” She looked around at the sorted salvage. “Oh, quiznak.” She popped off the helmet and went outside.

 She spotted Sofee playing with a few other Arusian children in the village square, looking much more normal than even a day ago thanks to the repurposed sentries.

 “Hey, Sofee, if anyone asks, I ran back out to the Galra crash site. I need to find a couple of specific things. I should be back in less than a bleer.”

 Sofee nodded and Pidge jogged to her speeder.

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 Hunk’s face popped up on the comm screen. “And we are set, Princess! The transports are loaded and we just need to get the rest of the Metreans aboard. We’ll be ready to take off on your command in about fifteen derbyshires.”

 “Doboshes,” Coran corrected.

 “Finally!” Allura’s patience was at an end. She pulled up another screen. “Lance, is everyone ready for takeoff? The Metreans are almost ready.”

 Lance’s face appeared on his screen. “We are all set, my lady.” He gave an exaggerated bow and Allura tried to stamp down her now-reflexive impatience with her Blue Paladin’s attitude.

 Shiro took his seat and brought up his own controls. “Shiro to Pidge, do you read me?”

 There was no answer.

 “She’s off without her helmet again.”

 Allura nodded. “At least she’s in safe territory. And we should be there in less than a varga.”

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 Pidge was cresting the ridge of the crash impact site when she realized that she had left both her helmet and the metal detector back in the village in her haste. She wondered if she would have left the rest of her armor if she hadn’t put it on this morning out of habit.

 “Oh, for crying out loud…”

 But she remembered leaving a pile of sentry parts in the northwest quadrant after going through them for hands intact enough for the Galra-glove experiment. She drove the speeder over and hopped off, going to the pile of metal. Hopefully there was a head in good enough condition there.

 She had tossed aside two heads that were too damaged to be of use and was digging for a third when she noticed a strange shadow zipping across the ground. She looked up and felt her heart jump into her mouth.

 A Galra drone was zeroing in on her location.

 She dove into the edges of the wreckage pile. If there were the slightest chance that they were only investigating the crash site, she might get lucky and remain undisco—

 The speeder.

 Quiznak.

 Grabbing the element of surprise while she had it, she brought up her gauntlet and quickly turned on one of her most useful distractions. At the touch of a screen, a hologram Green Paladin raced from the salvage pile toward the speeder.

 The drone reacted and fired on the running figure. The image showed static and winked out of existence.

 Pidge stood and fired her bayard at the drone, sending crackling green energy through it. Its red lights went out and it fell to the surface as she retracted her blade.

 Score!

 She started for the fallen drone, eager to investigate it, when a purple bolt hit the dirt not two feet from her. She ducked back behind the salvage, bringing her shield up as more bolts flew. She peeked carefully through a gap between a couple of legs and saw two more drones coming in. She worked her way to the other side of her barrier and watched the shadows.

 As they honed in on her location, they swooped close together. She tumbled out and sent her bayard forth again, wrapping her grappling rope around one and swinging with all her might. The trapped drone collided with the second one and they exploded in a fireball.

 There were no other drones in sight. Pidge knelt to catch her breath and sent assurance to her Lion, who was suddenly flooding her awareness with concern.

 I’m fine, girl. I took care of them.

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“Commander Prorok! Two more drones are offline!”

Prorok nodded at the shouted report from the soldier monitoring the scouts. “I think that’s confirmation, don’t you, Thace?”

Lieutenant Thace looked impassive. “It would seem so, sir.”

Prorok opened a communication channel. “Commander Gelor, you are ordered to investigate the planet Arus and track down whoever is using Galra technology and taking out our drones. Deadly force is authorized, I repeat, deadly force is authorized.”

Next chapter

[ourlittledinosaur]

Prayer, Perseverance, and the Path to 100% Breast Milk

New Post has been published on http://ourlittledinosaur.azurewebsites.net/prayer-perseverance-and-the-path-to-100-breast-milk/

Prayer, Perseverance, and the Path to 100% Breast Milk

Learning to Breastfeed a Newborn Can Be Difficult

Our son wasn’t born sick…

Our son wasn’t born sick, but the path from thriving baby to struggling baby happened very quickly.

He was born with both a lip and a tongue tie but of course, we didn’t know that. I have to say, of all the tests care providers run when a child is born, I wish they had checked the mouth for these defects as well.

The first time I ever put my son to the breast, he didn’t take to it well. We did everything right to give him a good start. I’d had the natural birth – medication free, and pulled my baby onto my bare chest the moment he was born for instant skin to skin contact. We’d waited to cut the umbilical cord until it stopped pulsing so he would get as much blood and nutrients as he could from this life source.

We stayed at the birth center for quite a while so that the midwives could be sure he would nurse before we left. Finally, after help latching each time someone checked on us, a bloody nipple, the use of a nipple shield, and a lot of effort and focus on my part, he ate for a reasonable period of time. I didn’t come to breastfeeding unprepared. I had read every article I came across on the topic. I also read cover to cover The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding. I was completely sold on the importance of exclusively breastfeeding, to include no introduction of bottles and pacifiers or other artificial nipples of any kind. None whatsoever.

We took my newborn son home about 2 o’clock in the morning. My husband and I were anxious to get home. In hindsight, it might have been good to rest at the birth center a little longer or to have asked for help once we were home, but Mother and Baby were both doing well so we were allowed to leave. That first half night was a blur. My husband and I were both excited, exhausted, and completely taken with this little person God had given us charge over. Our son slept on my husband’s chest for the first several nights of his life. We never wanted to put him down. He was so precious and so cuddly.

I guess the next couple feedings went okay. I don’t remember thinking anything was wrong. When we woke up for the 6am feeding, he wouldn’t take to the breast again. We struggled. Finally at 10 am I called the midwives. I was told to express colostrum onto my finger and let him suck and just keep doing that for a while. Babies don’t eat much at all those first couple days. Their stomachs are very small, so their meals are small, but frequent. The key in the beginning is getting that nutrient-rich colostrum. My son suckled on my finger for a couple feedings and this effort sparked within him a new interest in nursing. He began to love to nurse, even though he wasn’t good at it, and I was thrilled and none the wiser that he was struggling to get anything.

Lip and Tongue Ties

I had never heard of these birth defects before the Lactation Consultant (LC) came out to our home when my son was 3 days old. My milk had come in and I felt like we could be doing better, so my husband and I agreed to use this resource. My left breast was engorged and I just wanted to be sure everything was going as it should.

The LC was wonderful, kind, and knowledgeable. She taught me a few tricks and taught me how to use my pump correctly. (I thought, “Like I would ever use that thing.” Boy, did I! Looking back, I was much more prideful about breastfeeding than I had a right to be. I was so determined that “this was how it’s going to be” that I didn’t make allowances for mistakes or things beyond my control. This made dealing with all the issues much more difficult for me emotionally. It hindered by willingness to accept and admit that there were any problems, which made it difficult to ask for help.) The LC said we were doing great. She briefly mentioned he might have a lip tie, but he and I seemed to be doing well as a breastfeeding couple, so she gave us an A+ and went on her way.

When he was 5 days old, I about had a meltdown. Ok ok, I had a meltdown. My mother had just left to go back home. As I finished a much needed shower, and exited the bathroom, my husband thrust our upset son into my arms for me to nurse him. He was screaming and crying! He was too upset to eat and it was clear this was exactly what he needed to do. All the books and articles and care providers said newborns needed to eat every two hours, but he didn’t keep to this at all. He was showing all the signs of hunger but wouldn’t nurse. He was frustrated, as was I because he wouldn’t nurse. To put it bluntly, we were a hot mess!

This hot mess called my cousin who had sent me a text the day before to say, “If you’re having any trouble breastfeeding, give me a call anytime. No matter what time it is.” At this point, I just needed to talk to someone I didn’t have to pay, so I gave her a call.

So there I was, sobbing, face and chest red-streaked, still naked from my shower, holding my screaming newborn. My hair was wet, unbrushed, and tangled, and she said, “Let’s FaceTime.” There’s something about the progression of pregnancy and then the final act of labor that eventually sucks away all your modesty until you just don’t care anymore. Take heart. It does come back….eventually.

To be honest, she didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t either read or been told previously. However her kindness, loving encouragement, and support were exactly what I needed to get through the night.

Let me take this opportunity to say how important having good support is when it comes to breastfeeding. Breastfeeding may seem like the simplest, most intuitive thing in the world, but complications can arise and when they do, it can be one of the most difficult things in the world. Fatigue, fluctuating hormones, and fear of being a good parent can make it difficult to ask for help. So even if your only support is a Facebook group, or a single friend or care provider, reach out to them. It can, and does, get easier – even with complications.

We went in for his one week appointment and he had lost weight. This is expected in all newborns, but typically their birth weight should be regained by two weeks of age. When we went in for his two week appointment, he had lost even more weight. This started the beginning of supplementing. Remember how I was very anti-artificial nipple? Well, I was (and still am) even more anti-baby-choking-coughing-and-aspirating-while-using-a-dropper. He just didn’t know how to take food from it and my husband and I sat there and wept struggling to feed him, while I pumped to keep him supplied with breast milk.

We went in for weight checks every few days. Eventually, we just borrowed a scale to take home. Each time the routine changed because he wasn’t gaining enough. My supply suffered and we went from 100% breast milk, to using a formula (yes, I was anti-formula too) called NeoSure, a Similac formula for premature babies. It has extra calories per ounce and helps babies put on weight faster. I have since learned that there is also the option of using donated milk. Look up an organization near you to learn more about this option.

My son regained his original birth weight by four weeks of age.

Lactation Consultant

We continued to work with the LC. She was a huge reason I continued to breastfeed as she was so very supportive and encouraging. She was constantly brainstorming on how to make breastfeeding easier and more efficient for us. One of the first things she taught us to help with our new supplementing routine was the paced-bottle technique. See technique here. It was also recommended that we use Dr. Brown’s bottles. They are special bottles that have a piece on the inside to help with the aeration and keep the baby from getting gassy.

We broke our rule on “no pacifiers” too. When you’re worried that your baby is crying away all the calories he needs to grow, you get over yourself and your rules pretty quickly.

My husband and I saw my son successfully gain weight on the formula we were given, but we desired for our son to go back to breastfeeding completely, if that was at all possible. We knew of all the benefits to breastfeeding, and we wanted our son to reap them. Our goal was that one day he would be exclusively breastfed.

SNS

We started to decrease his supplements. I can’t remember exactly what that looked like. Our routine seemed to change every week and so sometimes what transpired was a blur.  I do remember when he was about 6 weeks old we tried to exclusively breastfeed  again. He stopped gaining weight. So we quickly went back to formula again.

The LC carefully recommended I try to use SNS or Supplemental Nursing System. (I say carefully because she did not want me recommending to others. She said that babies have to have a good ability to suck and swallow correctly or they can aspirate so please consult an LC if you are interested in using SNS.)

If you aren’t familiar with SNS, it is a bottle hooked up to small tubes you tape to your breast near the nipple. It’s very contraption-y. The flow to your baby can be controlled by pulling the tubes through notches. For some, giving supplements through SNS can be a great way to transition a baby back to the breast. For others it can be a nightmare.

Conceptionally, SNS is easy to use. In practice it can be tricky. There is an element of trying to hide it from the baby. These young little tykes are smarter than you might think, even at only weeks old! We didn’t want him to see the bottle hanging from my neck, and thus, a visual cue for him to eat. I personally struggled with getting his supplement the right temperature if it had been in the fridge. Most of the time I didn’t time the preparation correctly to get it warm enough before a feeding was required. So obviously there was a noticeable temperature difference when using cold pumped breast milk as a supplement. When using formula, the challenge wasn’t the temperature but the noticeable taste difference.

One comic relief throughout this whole process, was the look on my son’s face when we gave him formula. It was almost like giving a lemon to a baby, but not perhaps, as intense. I used his noticeable preference for the taste of breast milk to fuel my determination to continue to breastfeed.

Let’s face it, up to this point, breastfeeding had been a challenge – and one I didn’t expect. Feedings took twice as long because not only would I nurse him, then give a bottle (Thank God for my wonderful husband), but then I would pump as well. I also realized that all the switching from side to side frustrated my son. All he wanted was to eat. Although, he preferred the breast, (something I was thankful for because many babies turn to preferring the bottle due to the ease of the flow) this did not fill his tummy, so I’d remove him from the breast and switch to the bottle. SNS did help to streamline the supplementing process.

Another challenge, which is comical to write about in hindsight, was that the tubes can easily be pulled to “open the gate” if you will. So a squirming baby, or a move to switch from one side to another, often resulted in a mess. Once the gate is opened, liquid is coming through it until it’s closed again.

I remember one night I tried to use SNS during a feeding and I was so tired. My son was not hungry – he was hANGRY, which was typical for his mid-night feeding. I couldn’t find the cord that allowed the bottle to hang from my neck. I had taken it off to clean. So I carefully propped the bottle on my chest. The struggle was I couldn’t move fast enough. I would get him latched, then try to release the tube, and since he wasn’t getting anything, he’d unlatch himself. Of course, he did this about the same time I released the tube, which caused milk to go everywhere. As you can imagine this became a crazy cycle – one that resulted in my son screaming in frustration, me in tears, and my husband bottle feeding him.

All things considered for my son and me, the SNS was helpful. The flow was there which kept my son interested since he still wasn’t capable of transferring milk effectively. At the same time, the suckling of my little one helped maintain my supply. He wasn’t frustrated and we were on the right path towards exclusively breastfeeding.

I stopped using SNS once my son realized this whole feeding thing would go a lot faster if he just sucked on the tube and he stopped trying to latch. After this, we were on the right track to more breastfeeding. We were down to half the formula we had started with and supplemented with 4 bottle feedings (8-12 oz) a day, each one after time at the breast, after which, I would pump.

Speech Pathologist

The plain and simple truth was my son wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Successful breastfeeding takes two and he wasn’t extracting the milk he needed. He fell asleep on the breast after less than five minutes and never initiated a letdown. He lacked vigor and I had no clue how to teach him that.

The LC recommended a speech pathologist, which upon her suggestion I thought sounded absolutely absurd for an infant. Well, eventually I broke down and scheduled our appointment with the SP. We saw the improvement the exercises she gave us made in our son, I felt guilty for not calling her earlier. He had weak cheeks; a quivering, tired jaw; and a thin tongue. Who knew “weak cheeks” were a thing?! Although his tongue had good range of motion after releasing the tie, he wasn’t using it correctly.

The exercises she assigned us were easy, fast, and worth every penny we didn’t have. My son actually enjoyed the exercises and we saw a little improvement by the following week, which continued thereafter.

Increasing Milk Supply

My milk supply was suffering. My LC said she thought it had reached the glass ceiling. I have to admit I was devastated by her saying this. I wasn’t willing to believe all this hard work was for nothing. After some research, I decided I wanted to help my supply with domperidone, a prescription medication that has a side effect of increased lactation, although this is not its original purpose. Before I got the medication, I realized throughout all the changes in routine and special systems we had used, I had forgotten some of the very basic things that aid breastfeeding efforts.

I cannot emphasize the importance of doing your due diligence and researching on your own. Heeding the advice of others is a good practice, however, in those early weeks especially, my husband and I felt lost. Finally, we agreed, it was time to take back our parenting. What this meant for us was taking all advice with a grain of salt, figuring out what options we truly had, looking at our end goal, and weighing that against the progress and health of our son. We still listened to all the advice given to us, but each piece had its proper place and our own critical thinking was crucial to make it work for our family.

In my research, I read an article on increasing supply. See article here. This was what helped me remember the breastfeeding basics.

Two of these things were increased time at the breast and lots of skin to skin. So when my son was 10 weeks old, I took a nursing staycation and did just that. I relaxed and stopped stressing about my supply (stress is a worst enemy when it comes to increasing milk supply).  I didn’t worry about if he was getting enough and just kept him on the breast as much as possible. If he needed a supplement to top him off, so be it.

Giving it to God

Throughout this process I began to pray much more specifically. I asked God to please bless our breastfeeding effort. I prayed for my son to get enough from the breast. I pleaded, “Lord, you said just as we desire to give our children good gifts, so you desire to give us good gifts. The best food I can offer my son is what you designed my body to give him. My husband and I have done all we know to do and have been advised to do. We thank you for the knowledgeable people you have surrounded us with. We thank you for the growth we have seen in our son. Thank you for our son. I ask you, Father to please let my son get enough at the breast. Please give me an over abundance so we can be certain he’s getting enough. Our desire is to exclusively breastfeed our son but we can’t do it without you. Please give him this good gift.”

I believe giving it up to God and going back to basics were the most helpful things we did. My son had a growth spurt/frequency feeding during this time of our nursing staycation and my body responded well to it. I was thrilled!

We kept reducing the frequency and volume of the supplements we were giving my son. One day, his dependency on them had decreased to the point where I was pumping enough that we were able to stop giving him formula.

By week 12, my son was getting 100% breast milk, with only a morning and an evening bottle. One day we realized he didn’t need them anymore. My son still took a bottle almost every morning for a couple more weeks. (I have never been a morning person. After getting up all through the night with our little boy, my ability to be more human than zombie hangs by a thread.) My loving husband, whom God blessed with morning humanness, got up with my son about 5 or 6 each morning to give him this feeding while Mommy took a nap. Somewhere between 3 and 4 1/2 months, his feedings timed just right to where he didn’t take a bottle at all.

My husband and I give God the glory for this success story. At the end of the day, sometimes you just have to “let go and let God”, which is what I should have been doing in the first place.

Since 3 months, my son exclusively breastfeeds – very well I might add. With a lot of prayer, a lot support, perseverance, and some more prayer, it can be done!

“I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” Philippians 4:13

Read more about breastfeeding here:

6 Tips and Tricks for Efficient Pumping

Oops, I just Pumped and My Baby is Hungry

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