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inscrutable-shadow · 9 months

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only then i am human (only then i am clean) - part one

contains: mild horniness, homoerotic blood drinking, minor nausea (no vomiting), swearing, gore, a disgusting amount of gay pining, whumptober 2023 days 11, 20, and 30 (animal trap, "you will regret touching them," bridal carry)

summary: The Culling War is over, and Thanatos is not the same.

Mariano doesn't have a same to go back to.

Bastian just hopes that he won't have to kill Thanatos when the vampire's ravenous hunger finally takes over.

It's been far too long since Thanatos has had a good meal, after all, and he loves getting himself in hot water.

beginning notes: whoo-wee! i started this as a whumptober fill, and it still is that, but it’s also so, so much more than that now. four times the size and now part of a series i hope to continue in the coming months. so many thanks to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump for letting me borrow his characters, fill his dms with screaming and gay shenanigans at all hours, and for betaing! i have so much more planned for our boys after this so stay tuned :)

also available on ao3! even though i've broken the fic into two, this section is 7.3k words so you might enjoy it more there. (plus you get the ending a day early)

Thanatos was rather surprised at how much fun he was having. When Madame Nocta had initially shown him his redistricting papers, he’d had to step out of the room to stop the choking panic from clawing at his insides. The image of his old life, of returning to his job and his apartment and his lover after so long away, had been the only thing keeping him going for so long that the idea of changing that image made him sick. “It’ll be quiet,” she’d assured him. “No one will know what you are. You can relax, recover. It will be good for you.” Thanatos hadn’t believed her, but now, as the damp wind ruffled his hair and sent ripples over the nearby lake, he was forced to admit this world was rather quaint.

He could almost convince himself it was just like home, at least, before the “engine of progress” had compressed every ounce of magic from the land. The countryside was littered with small villages of wood and stone instead of towering metropoles of metal and glass. The air held none of the heavy odour of burning oil; if anything, it crackled and pulsed with magic in the way the ancient forests had when the fae still inhabited them. If it weren’t for the various ruins that evoked to those in the know the aura of an advanced society, he would have believed it was the ninth century again. Wandering from place to place, offering his eyes, his voice, and his stories to anyone who could use him in exchange for a few coins, and flirting with people in taverns, it was quite akin to the way he’d lived before he’d met the Archfey. One could almost call it idyllic.

“Hey, Thanatos! There you are,” a voice called from behind him, and he turned to see Bastian pushing through the market crowd toward him. “Thought I’d lost you for a bit. Crowd too much for you?”

There was one major difference between this world and his own, and here was a prime example of it: one could tell just by looking that Bastian was a dragon. If the prismatic hair and the horns weren’t a dead giveaway, the shimmering scales certainly were. He wasn’t the only one, either. A vampire blended right in among the varying peoples of this world, and Thanatos didn’t even bother to wear the glasses that obscured his eye color and slitted pupils anymore. He still became rather on edge in the market crowds, but even that he was doing much better with than he had a month ago. He’d been able to drift from stall to stall with the crowd for almost an hour before he’d felt claustrophobic.

Thanatos nodded acknowledgement of Bastian’s presence and alighted from the fencepost. “I just needed some air. Find everything you wanted?” If he recalled correctly, they were supposed to be replenishing supplies after an unfortunate encounter with a river (that had not at all been Thanatos’s fault).

Bastian only shrugged. “He’s the one shopping. Weather’s turning. Ought to get back together with Mariano and head out before it gets too bright for you.”

The sun here burned much brighter than Thanatos was used to, and even cloudy days pricked uncomfortably at his skin. The locals had been kind to him, though, and no one had hesitated to offer him shelter or clothing or food that he inevitably had to refuse. The hat that he was wearing and had reinforced with a layer of Shadow had been forced upon him by a kindly old woman who had noticed his discomfort while he was carrying her shopping for her on a not-so-cloudy afternoon. She couldn’t have known that his refusal to put a square millimetre of exposed skin in direct sunlight was an aversion to screaming immolation and subsequent death, but she’d pushed her hat onto his head anyway, and called him a sweet young man who needed to take better care of himself. That sort of behaviour had by far been the norm, and for that, he was grateful.

“That little basket all you’re getting?” Bastian asked, edging a hand under the fabric cover, but pulling it back when Thanatos swatted at it.

“The two of you have been very kind. I thought that perhaps I could repay the favour by taking care of dinner for tonight.” It had been a long while since he’d had to cook anything, but he still remembered some of the things his mother had taught him, oh so long ago, and he felt the need to provide something other than diverting conversation for once.

Bastian walked ahead of him in the crowd, forging a less constricted path for Thanatos to follow as the pair threaded their way back to the meeting point. “You don’t even eat. How’re you gonna know if it’s any good?”

“I’ll just have to have you taste for me.”

“Sure thing.” The dragon grinned in that toothy way of his, and Thanatos allowed himself a small one in return.

He’d come out to the two of them during the second week. Not about his taste for men: the reality of that oozed from his pores and was apparent in every movement. The wistful stares he threw at every young man who looked even a bit like the Archfey left little room for doubt. About his taste for blood. Thanatos had violated Clandestine Accord and clued two mortals in on the fact that he was a vampire. It hadn’t phased them at all. There were very few things that could rattle Mariano, and Bastian was a dragon. A vampire wasn’t a threat, and so he didn’t care. Thanatos had felt silly for even being slightly anxious about it. The way they looked at each other, talked to each other, to him, he just knew. They’d felt safe. Thanatos hadn’t felt safe in decades. Not since the Culling War.

Twenty-five years of paranoia had turned an easygoing, charismatic Thanatos into a nervous wreck of a man who jumped at every shadow. He’d heard Tenebrus and the Council talking about him: the psychological effects of his job had made him nearly useless at it, and they were planning to replace him. The war had ended before they had the chance, but still. He knew he wasn’t the same man his Archfey had fallen in love with. That thought alone made him want to shatter into a thousand porcelain fragments, but living here had started to fill in the jagged gouges the war had left on his soul. The people were kinder, didn’t treat him like a monster even when they couldn’t know he was one. (Not like home. On Earth Four, even the slightest deviation from the norm had put him at risk of discovery.) He wasn’t constantly on the defensive anymore.

The crowd opened up a bit, and he could now see slightly further ahead. Ah, there was Mariano. His dark hair rose up above most of the bobbing heads of the market-goers, and the soft lines of his face were broken slightly by a brow furrowed in concentration. Comparing products, perhaps? He’s rather particular about the supplies. He was still deep in discussion with a shopkeeper, though from the amount he was carrying, it seemed as if he must be nearly done with his shopping. “I’ll be right back, found something I want to pick up,” Bastian leaned down to whisper in his ear, melting into the crowd again before Thanatos could even respond. He felt a bit nervous in the crowd by himself, but he could see Mariano, at least, and the hat would probably make him easy enough to find again. He found a quiet spot between two stalls, where he was offered a seat and an apple by an old woman selling fruit. With a smile, he accepted the former, but of course not the latter.

The market had been set up in the hollow shell of some ancient building, and most of the shops on this side of the square were peddling foodstuffs of some kind, set up on the raised ground on either side of the makeshift thoroughfare created by the terrain. This particular ruin gave Thanatos the nagging sensation that he was late to catch a train. He supposed it’d be a long time before he saw another train, given his reassignment. It would have been strange to go back to his Earth after a quarter-century of war, anyhow, let alone live in the cottage without the Archfey. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to fit himself back into a fast-paced mortal society now that he’d had the fear of other people forcibly drilled into him. There hadn’t been a moment in the last decade or so when he hadn’t been acutely wary of other vampires out to give him a glowing recommendation to the nearest Reaper. Relax, Than. There aren’t any other vampires in this area, he reminded himself. He had a hundred miles of clearance before he encroached on anyone else’s hunting grounds. Anyone who wanted to mess with him would have Mariano to contend with, anyhow. No one had got through him yet.

“Do you like it?”

“Hm?”

The laugh was like birdsong, and it came from a girl, about nineteen, behind the fruit stand, helping the old woman set out more goods. “You were staring, mister. Do you like the hairpin? My mother made it for me.” Like most of the denizens here, her skin was a deep ochre, with matching eyes that held a mischievous smile and an effortless charm.

He had been staring; he realised. The pin was an array of jasmine-like blooms on a fastening of ebony and amethyst. It looked like something the Archfey would have worn, not in the early days of their relationship when they’d been doing the courtship dance of fey prince and vampire, no, this was something ae would have worn to a coffeehouse date or to the cinema, a coy reminder of the power that lurked behind the mortal disguise. Thanatos summoned up a smile and gave a wry chuckle, hoping his expression didn’t seem tortured. “You remind me of someone, that’s all.” Oh. It was easier than he’d expected to become the charming vampire once again. Maybe he really was getting better.

The girl returned his smile. “Someone you like?” She turned away a little, then met his eyes again.

“Someone I love.”

The grief must have shown through in his eyes for a moment, because the girl’s smile turned sad. “What happened to them?”

He hesitated, deciding how much of his pain was worth pouring out to a stranger. “Gone. Said they would return, but, well. I’ve had to move, and I fear we may never be reunited.” His gaze drifted away toward the shifting clouds. Bastian was right. The weather would clear up soon.

“Take it then,” she said, and his brow furrowed as his eyes returned to look at her. She took his hand in hers and pressed the pin into it. “My mother made it as a good-luck charm. Maybe it will bring the two of you back together.”

Why would she give something like that to a stranger? Part of him wondered if it might be some sort of trap, but he pushed the thought away. Humans weren’t like vampires. Every gesture of goodwill wasn’t a secret power play with them. Sometimes they did these things on a whim, or even out of kindness. It was a foolish thing for her to do, though, so he demurred. “Oh, miss, I couldn’t possibly take such a precious heirloom—”

“Surely you won’t refuse a gift,” she countered, and the expression of mischief on her face melted the last of the ice in his heart. Maybe things truly were looking up.

Thanatos bowed. “Then I shall graciously accept. However,” he added, setting his basket down for a moment, “allow me to return the favour. A charm for a charm. My partner gave this to me a long time ago. It, too, is good luck. May it bring you winds of fortune.” He removed the earring from his right ear, a dangle shaped vaguely like a wreath. In truth, it was a ritual sigil, one of the Archfey’s smallest and subtlest protection blessings. Woven directly from aer magic into metal, he’d worn it for almost two hundred years, and he credited his continued existence a significant amount to the Archfey’s protection rather than any qualities he himself possessed. For a moment, he questioned why he would give away something so precious on a whim, but the girl’s gift had struck a chord with him, made him feel as if the dark days might be over. That was worth the loss of the charm.

The young woman accepted the earring and worked into her own ear, and the two of them shared a smile, and a laugh, and a blush. One couldn’t fault Thanatos for finding comfort in the sweet moment, but of course, the universe saw fit to punish him for allowing himself to relax. “The fuck you think you’re doing, dipshit?” a gruff voice called from behind him. And here we go.

He went for his usual disarming smile. “Ah, you must be the boyfriend.”

“Fiancé,” the young lady corrected mildly. Of course he was.

The fiancé in question wasted no time in invading Thanatos’s personal space. “You gotta be stupid to chat up another man’s girl like that.” He folded his arms, probably trying to look intimidating. It was sort of working.

Thanatos’s eyebrows raised. “If that’s what you think flirting looks like, my condolences to your lady-love. I was nothing more than cordial. Aren’t you just the strapping young man though,” he purred. “I cannot fault the lady’s taste.” Now that was flirting. The tried-and-true Thanatos method of getting out of this sort of tight spot was to play up his flamboyance until their discomfort outweighed their indignation. “Baffle them with his bullshit,” as it were. It usually worked long enough for him to work out some method of escape.

“Leave it, Javier. He’s not bothering me. We were just talking,” the girl said, annoyed.

Javier was not dissuaded. “I don’t want random guys feeling like they can talk to you, Violetta. And that didn’t look like talking.”

Thanatos saw this as a chance to cut back in. “I assure you, I have no interest in absconding with your sweetheart. My intentions with her were purely platonic, for my tastes lie elsewhere, if you take my meaning.”

From the way Javier picked him up by his collar, Thanatos got the idea that he might not have understood some of those words. “Are you saying you don’t think she’s pretty? Take it back right now!”

Oh, by the celestial river… Annoyance ignited in Thanatos’s chest, and he was firing back before he could think about it. “I didn’t say she wasn’t pretty, you oaf. I said I was fucking gay! By the Divines, humans grow ever more stupid. I’m married too, if it matters—”

“Is there a problem here?” Oh, thank fuck. Mariano, his knight in shining armour once again. Part of him orchestrated these scenarios intentionally just to have a chance to see the mage work. Bastian was hanging back, presumably to watch the show. He gave Thanatos a little wave and a grin and appeared to have found himself some sort of drink. Typical Bastian.

Javier looked Mariano up and down. Tall and broad, the dark-skinned mage certainly carried his share of scars, from the clearly deliberate burns on his arms to the blade-mark under his jawline. Thanatos thought it added charm to the soft lines of Mariano’s face, especially when he smiled, which was often if Thanatos had anything to do with it. He was not smiling now. Mariano’s default expression was blank, unreadable, which combined with the silver-white pact rings around his dark irises and his subtle but not-insignificant musculature lent him quite the imposing air. Even behind the dark-rimmed glasses, it was clear that Mariano was not a man to be trifled with.

Undeterred, likely due to a lack of basic survival instinct, Javier pressed on. “Sure is. Your friend here’s about to eat shit for fucking with my girl. Unless you’d like to eat it for him?” Now, that was borderline suicidal. If he hadn’t known Mariano as well as he did, Thanatos would have expected a bloodbath.

Mariano looked up at Thanatos, still dangling in the air with an expression that read “I’m sorry, please save me again.” He didn’t speak, just removed his casting dagger from his belt, held it up, and ignited the blade, his war mage’s magic shooting up through the hilt and heating the metal until it glowed. A single eyebrow shifted, challenging Javier to try him.

“You really don’t want to fight him,” Thanatos supplied, helpfully.

Javier looked as if he might try it anyway, but Violetta read the situation correctly. Smart girl. “Let’s just go, Javier. I’m fine, it’s not worth it!” she implored, pulling on his arm.

A moment’s hesitation, then the brute relented. “Whatever,” he spat, and threw Thanatos down. The vampire sat down hard in the dirt, hat askew, but that was better than having his neck wrung on what had otherwise been a fairly pleasant afternoon. His basket was down here too, fortunately undamaged. “Let’s go, Violetta.” Javier stalked off, pushing through the crowd.

Thanatos let out a heavy sigh of relief. He took the hand Mariano stretched down toward him and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. “You okay?” Mariano asked, observing his slanted hat and open collar. Thanatos felt the heat rising in his face.

He cleared his throat. “Quite all right, thanks to you, once again. Just in time, too.” He had to stop doing this. As entertaining as it was to be rescued time and time again, the risk to his person was too high. Mariano might save him, but not necessarily before he was seriously damaged.

“You have to stop doing this, I’m not always going to show up right when you need me, you know.” Mariano picked up the basket from the ground and handed it to Thanatos, who suddenly thought he might repeat the whole procedure again tomorrow.

“Oh, but you do it so well! The spectacle, the cinema! You play quite the dashing hero,” he enthused, attempting to distract from how hot he suddenly felt under his silk shirt.

Mariano looked away, probably looking for his dragon in the crowd. It was difficult to tell with Mariano, but Thanatos got the idea he might have said something wrong. Fortunately for him, Bastian returned, amused as usual. “Thought you were going to teach him a lesson. Too bad you let him get away.”

“Wasn’t worth it.” Mariano shrugged. “He was just a blowhard, and I’m sure Than started it, anyway.” He accepted his bag back from Bastian and instinctively sorted through it, as was his habit.

“I’m sure I resent that remark!” Thanatos spluttered, but before he could really get going with his retort, Violetta pushed her way back through the crowd toward them.

“I’m sorry about him. You didn’t deserve that. I should go, but here, take this. For your friend with the pretty eyes.” She pressed a meat bun into his hand and vanished again.

Thanatos blinked in momentary confusion, then held the pastry out to Mariano, who also seemed confused. “Me?”

“I think it’s relatively clear she didn’t mean Bastian. No offense meant, of course.”

Bastian grinned. “None taken. Eat it, Mariano, looks good. If you won’t, I will.”

“But your eyes-” Mariano began, meaning Thanatos’s crimson ones rather than Bastian’s white-silver.

“Oh? Taken your fancy, have they?” It came out more flirtatious than he’d intended, he was having trouble shaking off the performance. “Alluring as they may be, I already have a gift from the lady, and I can’t eat it anyhow. Take the bread and the compliment, mortal mage.” One would have to be blind to fail to acknowledge that Mariano was attractive, in Thanatos’s opinion, but Mariano didn’t seem to process it the same way.

“I- okay.” He didn’t seem convinced, but he always looked like that.

Better to just distract him, then. “Good show, Mariano. Another innocent man rescued, another reward earned. Let’s move on before I am reduced to ash, eh?” That was something he was actually worried about, not just a diversionary tactic. The clouds were moving uncomfortably quickly, hurried on by the wind.

“Wouldn’t want to have to scoop him up off of the ground. That’d take ages,” Bastian joked. Mariano laughed, and all was right with the world again.

As Bastian had predicted, the sky was nearly clear when the sun finally slipped below the horizon. The particular corner of the glade where they had built the fire was sufficiently shaded for Thanatos not to have to focus on protecting himself from the light. Not that he had much else to do than leaf through his well-worn copy of Theogonia, which had managed to survive the war tucked into a corner of his briefcase. He didn’t need to read the pages anymore, so many times had he been over these same words in the two thousand years since this particular edition had been published, but turning the leaves and skimming the familiar passages was of comfort to him, a habit he’d developed to unwind after a long day. The woods were quiet except for the soft chirping of insects and the scrape of Mariano’s knife against the whetstone.

“Is it done yet?” This was the fourth time Bastian had asked in the last hour. Thanatos didn’t blame him. The tantalising aroma of slow-cooked meat rising from the stew pot filled the air and stimulated the appetite. His sense of smell had shifted since becoming a vampire, but if one thing had remained the same, the scent still took him back to his childhood, helping his mother by the stove.

“Not quite.” Thanatos gave the pot a stir and tested the meat with the spoon. “About ten more minutes.”

Bastian groaned. “That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

“No, ten minutes ago I said twenty minutes.”

“Fifteen,” said Mariano, inspecting the blade’s edge in the firelight.

“Hm?” It was the first time Mariano had spoken in an hour or so. Thanatos hadn’t even known he was listening.

The scraping resumed. “You said fifteen minutes. Ten minutes ago.”

“Did I?” Thanatos couldn’t recall, but if Mariano thought so, it must be true.

“Yeah.” There was a beat of silence, and then the rustle of a page and the scrape of the whetstone.

The pot simmered happily despite Bastian’s impatient scrutiny. “Can’t we just eat it now?”

Mariano laughed. “I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait, Bastian. We can’t all eat raw meat, you know. Though maybe next time pick something that doesn’t take as long, Than.”

Thanatos gave a snort of mock-indignation. “Genius cannot be rushed, mortal mage. This is an heirloom recipe passed down to me by my mother.” They’d had servants to cook for them, of course. A magistrate’s wife would never have been expected to do that sort of thing, but Thanatos’s mother had loved every part of the process from selecting ingredients to serving. She’d taught him to cut vegetables and to know when meat was tender. It was incredibly rare for him to need to use those skills, but his hands knew what to do. In a way, it was as if his mother was still alive.

True to his estimate, the stew was ready in about ten minutes. Bastian would have been happy to eat the meat before it was cooked, and if Thanatos was careful, he could sip at the tomato base without making himself ill, but it was Mariano’s opinion that mattered.

Fortunately, the mage’s first spoonful earned a smile. “It’s good!”

Thanatos sighed with relief. “I’m glad you find it so. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve had the occasion to cook, you understand.”

“It doesn’t show. It’s just too bad you can’t taste it,” Mariano said, attacking another spoonful. That dispelled the last of Thanatos’s worries that he was just saying it to be nice. Even if that would have been out of character for someone so straightforward, the apprehension was habitual.

“Oh, I remember it well enough. Enjoy it in my stead.”

“Doesn’t it make you hungry, watching other people eat?” Bastian mused, though most of his attention was caught up in finding more bits of tender meat to fish out of the stew, which Thanatos took as a victory.

He shrugged. “Mortal food is, at best, unappetizing to me at this point. My senses of taste and smell are so altered that it doesn’t register to my mind as consumable.” He was hungry, though, he realised. It had been three days since he’d eaten last: though he’d gone out yesterday and the day before, he’d been unlucky and had found no one else wandering the wilds.

House Iuventae contracts rarely came with non-sapient sustenance clauses. The Shadow could tell the difference, and if Thanatos tried to cheat, it would punish him for it with days of nausea and cramps. It was for that reason that he preferred to eat every other day if he could. A human could survive a litre of blood loss much more easily than two or three. It looked as if he’d actually have to kill today if he didn’t want to lose control of himself later, though. He’d made peace with the concept millennia ago — or so he told himself, but drinking only prepared blood during the war had brought back a vague discomfort. Prudence told him to avoid specific details when discussing it with the others, regardless. He didn’t want to know what they’d truly think of him.

Oblivious to Thanatos’s introspection, Bastian had come up with a theory of his own. “But if you dried it out or whatever, made it into flour, couldn’t you make, say, blood bread or some shit like that?”

“Well, yes, actually. House Nocta does extensive research on alternative ways to prepare blood. Whether it’s edible depends on one’s specific contract. I have a special provision that allows me to consume most liquids, but anything solid makes me ill, blood-based or otherwise.” He didn’t regret it. He was happy to never taste cake again in exchange for still being able to drink wine. The stew he was sipping at was still rather flavourless, though.

“It’s so interesting that your people have found different ways to work with your condition,” said Mariano.

Was it? Thanatos had never thought so. “Necessity is the mother of invention. But enough about vampires. Shall I read you out a story tonight?”

This got Bastian’s attention. “Do the one with the king and the wild man. I like that one.”

“Ah, yes, the epic of Gilgamesh.” He didn’t have a copy of that one in his carpetbag, but he could do the first hour or so from memory, and pick up the book from the Archfey’s later if he needed it. (If he could bear it. The sight of the empty house had made him feel hollow the last time he’d been.) He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and when next he opened them, his voice had changed to that of the orator. “This is one of the oldest stories in the world, about two thousand years older than me, even. Translated from the tablets of an ancient civilization, large segments of the story are missing, but what we do have tells the story of a mighty king and his quest to discover the secret of immortality. Let me tell you of a man who had seen everything, whom the god Anu had granted all knowledge, who had seen secrets and hidden things, even from the time before the Flood.”

As usual, his audience was rapt, caught up by his words and taken to a time five millennia in the past, when giants walked the earth. He’d go hunting later in the evening, once the magic of ancient fable faded to that of the sandman’s sleep.

Thanatos leaned against a tree and tied his hair up into a low ponytail. He’d left his travelling jacket back at the camp as well, leaving him in just his silk shirt, tie, and trousers. The less restricted his movement was, the better, and it had the benefit of making him look younger and less careworn. He hated this, really. When he talked and laughed with Mariano and Bastian, he could pretend that he was perfectly ordinary, still fully human, but when he hunted, it was clear that he was anything but. He wasn’t even an ambush predator like Tenebrus or most other hunting vampires, the sharpening of his senses and the way his night vision flattened everything into shades of grey save for outlines of delicious scarlet around everything with a heartbeat was of little use to him. All it did was remind him how little humanity was left in him.

In his element, Thanatos was a honey trap, an attractive, confident, charismatic man whom others would gladly follow into a dark alley for a tryst — with perhaps a little hypnotic encouragement. It fit his personality quite well, and he’d been able to carve a niche out for himself in both vampiric society and back on Earth Four. He was the very picture of a Iuventus, a man of words taken with alcohol and sex and other pleasures of the flesh. Or at least he had been. Before everything. He wanted very badly to return to feeling like that man. (If he thought about it too hard, he’d realise that luring people into the night to be devoured was also rather monstrous, so he didn’t.)

Right now, his priority was to return to the village and civilization. He was still getting back into the rhythm of pursuing prey, hunting instead of being hunted. It felt good to be out at night instead of having to worry about the sun surprising him. He decided to just try to enjoy the sense of freedom. Moving at a vampire’s speed, the wind singing through his hair, the moonlight lightly caressing his skin. All the horrors of the war: the daily grind of waking up, infiltrating a location, and running away that made him feel as if the dust and grime of the road soaked into his soul. That was all behind him now. He was an ordinary vampire now, without obligations or debts, free to eat and sleep and do whatever else his heart desired.

He really should have learned his lesson from earlier in the day. Stay on your toes, don’t stop to enjoy things. Don’t dare believe you’re out of the woods. You developed that paranoia for a reason. It was his own fault he was now lying on his back on the forest floor, his ankle held fast by a metal cord. One moment, he’d been darting through the trees trying to cover distance, and the next his head had hit a tree root and sent stars exploding behind his eyes. How long had he been unconscious? Ten seconds or ten minutes?

The impact alone might have killed a mortal, but Thanatos was merely concussed. Confusedly, he tried to pull his ankle free, and only succeeded in tightening the cable around the unfortunate limb. He would leave this part out whenever he told the story afterward, but in truth, he panicked. The idea of being trapped again, being captured again, was too much for him. His nails scrabbled for purchase in the soft loam, fighting to take him somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here. His vision tinted red, his own too-loud heartbeat overwhelming his heightened senses. It felt as if it were another person who was thrashing and kicking, desperately trying to get away and only tightening the wire until it cut down to the bone.

He flinched at the snap of a branch, close, too close. “Well, well. Look what I got here. You ain’t a cougar, are you, buddy?” The voice was rough and belonged to a banjo-string sort of man now crouching three metres away.

This should have been his salvation. If Thanatos had been in his right mind, he would have turned on the charm and begged this man for help. But no. He’d been hungry too long; his Shadow was too close to the surface, converting his stress response from fawn to flight. He didn’t even know what small indication he must have picked up on, or perhaps he truly was the animal for which the trap had been originally purposed — but before he knew it, he’d drawn back toward the tree, hissing and baring his fangs.

The man only grinned. “Who-wee, ain’t you a feisty one? Hold on, red eyes, dark hair… You’re the fucker Javier was tellin’ us about, tryin’ to muscle up on his girl. Oh, he’s gonna love this. What kind of freak are you, anyway, with teeth like that?” Oh, fucking fantastic. They’d set him up on a world where people didn’t believe in vampires, and here he was screwing it up. “Eh, doesn’t matter. Wait ’til I get Javier and the guys. It’s gonna be a riot! Not like you have much of a choice but to sit, though, huh?” The man laughed cruelly and wandered off.

Alone again. Thanatos was used to how this sort of thing went by now. The hunter would come back with a group of men, and they would kick Thanatos around until they were tired of him, and then they would probably “kill” him and dump his body somewhere. He’d wait until they left and drag himself off to lick his wounds. It would be tolerable. He would just have to endure.

Mariano was pacing again. Bastian watched him for a few minutes, hoping he would come back to bed, but eventually gave up. “Something on your mind?”

“Than’s not back yet.” Bastian had to admit that was strange. Thanatos had never been gone for over four hours before. He’d usually slip away an hour or two after dusk and return just after midnight, blood-drunk and stifling hiccups. He should have been back three hours ago.

“You want to go after him?” Mariano nodded. Bastian had already got to his feet. He knew Mariano well enough by now to know he couldn’t just stand by. “It’s a lot of ground to cover. What if we don’t find him?”

“He probably went back to the village. We can start that way and fan out if we need to. It’s all well and good if he comes back on his own, but if he’s in trouble…” Mariano trailed off, his pensive gaze wandering toward the forest and taking his feet with it.

Bastian doused the fire and moved to catch up. “I’m sure he just fell asleep somewhere,” he commented, but knew as soon as the words were spoken that they were false. Than didn’t sleep anywhere he didn’t feel safe, and definitely not by accident. When they’d first met, the two of them had spent three days in a stalemate waiting for the other to fall asleep first. It had become clear by then that Thanatos wasn’t even slightly a threat, but Bastian had had to be the one to give up on the whole thing. Than hadn’t seemed like he could, even if he’d wanted to. Even utter exhaustion couldn’t convince his body to rest if it wasn’t safe.

No, it was much more likely that he’d managed to get himself into a situation he couldn’t get himself out of. At this point, it happened so often that Bastian wondered if Thanatos did it on purpose just to enjoy the privilege of having Mariano rescue him. Not that he could blame him. Mariano took on the “knight in shining armour” role quite handsomely, all shining blade and “put him down” and “let him go.” If the mage didn’t have such a tendency to hurt himself while taking care of others, it might have been worth trying himself, but he’d seen what lengths Mariano would push himself to in order to save him. If the idiot got himself killed, it’d be much less fun.

Tracking Thanatos wasn’t difficult. The vampire didn’t have any particular abilities that lent themselves to obscure a trail. He’d been moving quickly, but not particularly quietly. They heard the commotion up ahead before they saw it: a group of about ten people, talking and yelling and throwing spears, rocks, and crossbow bolts, all centred on a tree at the edge of the clearing. The place looked like a war zone. Broken branches littered the forest floor, some splashed with dark red. Black liquid pooled in some places and flowed in others, streaming down from holes in the surrounding trees that looked like they’d been punctured with incredible force. A mass of dark hair and torn fabric, stained with blood, lay at the foot of the central tree. The same black liquid guttered weakly into a half-dome in an attempt to stop more projectiles, but couldn’t hold its shape and joined the rest of the dark splatters on the ground. Surely that wasn’t…?

Another rock bounced off of the figure’s shoulder, leaving behind a line of red that spilled down the pale skin exposed by his ruined sleeve. He shifted and some of the hair fell to the side, revealing a single scarlet eye, darting from side to side, searching for an escape. The leader of the pack, recognizable as the brute from earlier in the day, hurled another stone that struck the wounded creature across the temple. A yelp of pain rang out, but then the shape was silent.

“I think I finally got him!” Javier exclaimed. “How much do you think they’ll pay for his head?”

Mariano had already come to his conclusion. “Leave him.” Despite the lack of exclamation point, his voice was clear and cold and had an impressive volume that carried it well enough to make the rabble stop what they were doing.

Javier turned to see who had spoken. “You again? Seems like you really want trouble. Why do you care so much about this monster, anyway? All it wanted was the steal our people away in the night. I did this town a favour by exterminating it.”

“You’ll regret laying hands on him.” A statement of fact, not a threat. Mariano never threatened.

Javier snorted. “I don’t think so. Maybe I should take care of you, too, for protecting that thing. Boys!” At his command, the scattered hunters left off taking potshots at Thanatos and aimed their weapons at the new threat.

Bastian loved watching this part. Mariano fought like a wild thing, with a magic that was hungry, ruthlessly efficient and utterly without mercy. In some ways, one could say he fought like a dragon. Bastian couldn’t afford to be distracted watching his mage work, though. Rescuing Thanatos was more important, and so he refocused, his new objective heavily discouraging any of Javier’s goons from running to his aid.

Mariano let out a deep breath and put his magic away. The smell of charred flesh rose over the scent of the forest at night — more of which was Bastian’s work than his, if he was honest. “We’re all clear now, Than. Are you all right?” The figure by the tree made no sound, and Bastian threw Mariano an inquisitive glance. He elected to approach, wanting to see if that last rock had knocked the vampire unconscious.

Unconscious he was not, and the speed at which he withdrew toward the perceived safety of the tree surprised even Mariano. The curtain of his hair obscured his face, and it was a bit unsettling the way the glowing red eyes watched Mariano through the tangle, pupils narrowed into slits with none of the good humour or charm he was used to seeing in them. If the vampire weren’t wearing Thanatos’s clothes — or, rather, what was left of them — he’d almost believe it wasn’t Than he was watching at all. Thanatos’s eyes showed no recognition, only wary apprehension, as if he were waiting for Mariano to reveal threatening intent. Was he too far gone to realize who they were?

Mariano continued to approach, slowly, giving Thanatos time to track his movements. “You’re safe now,” he murmured. “It’s just me. It’s Mariano, you know me. Bastian’s here too. Let him see you, Bastian.” Bastian approached as he was told, but Thanatos backed away, which pulled taut a thin wire around his ankle. The metal had cut into his flesh to the point that white bone was visible amidst the mess of pink and red. “That hurts a lot, doesn’t it? Let us help you. We’ll get that off of you and get you somewhere we can treat it, okay?” He could only hope that their potions would work on a vampire. It didn’t look at all treatable otherwise.

Thanatos remained silent. That was the weirdest thing about it. The Thanatos Mariano knew rarely stopped talking: his presence was a constant stream of words about everything and nothing, almost as if he were afraid to stop. Right about now, he would usually apologise profusely for needing to be rescued at all and be on the verge of composing an epic ballad about their combat prowess, maybe a little worse for wear but trying hard not to show it. As Mariano approached, all he could hear were the harsh exhales forcing themselves through the vampire’s nose. That it wasn’t broken was a miracle, considering the state of the rest of his face. Thanatos did a good job of not looking like a corpse most days, but the bruising mottling his cheeks and over his eyes appeared distinctly post-mortem. Tear tracks, long dried, were visible under the blood and dirt. And yet, through it all, he looked not fearful exactly, but… vigilant. Distrustful. He hadn’t given up at all. He was just waiting to see what else he would have to endure.

Mariano tried again. “Thanatos? Bastian’s gonna get that cord off of you, okay? And then you can just come to me. We’ll take you somewhere safe.” Thanatos still didn’t seem to hear, but Bastian’s approach certainly got his attention, eliciting a growl from deep within the vampire’s chest.

“Doesn’t seem like he wants our help,” Bastian murmured, slowing, but not stopping.

“He’s just afraid.” This was a sound like a cornered animal, not like a predator, ready to fight if he had to, but wanting to avoid it. “We can’t just leave him like this. He’ll understand once the wire’s gone.” At least, he probably would. “It’s okay, Than. Come to me, you’ll be safe. You trust me, right?” Mariano could only hope Thanatos did. It certainly seemed like it, given how quickly he’d started to account for the mage in his plans. Would that trust be able to cut through whatever was going on with him?

The growl became louder as the distance between Bastian and Thanatos closed, and escalated into a hiss when he got close enough to touch the wire. It was Mariano’s turn to fill the air with words, anything to distract Thanatos long enough for Bastian to do his thing. If Than tried to run again, he’d probably make everything worse. “Eyes on me, Than, that’s it. I know you’re scared. He won’t hurt you. We’re friends. You know that. You remember us. We’re going to get you out of here, and then we’ll make your leg stop hurting.” Mariano extended a hand toward his injured friend, proving that he held no weapon and no ill intent. It was up to Thanatos to believe him, if he even could right now.

Everything happened at once. A rush of dragon fire, the twang of metal parting from metal. Thanatos lunged toward Mariano at lightning speed, covering the distance between them before Bastian could even shout a warning. White-hot pain, a burst of warm blood, wet, lips, tongue, breath, a dull thud, blackness.

part 2 up tomorrow!

taglist: @athenswrites, @albatris, @thethistlegirlwrites

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inthememetime · 2 years

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Friend, you inspired a whole entire Ghost Riders in the Sky themed fic.

She was flying low over the plains of Texas when she heard them- hoofbeats. Her ghost sense flared up just before she caught the sound of low whistling, the lowing of cattle, and oddly metallic hoofbeats.

A dull red glow began to brighten in the west- the wrong time and direction for sunrise. Her first thought was 'wildfire', but the wind didn't bring smoke or heat.

Well, she wouldn't be Dani Phantom if she didn't at least check it out! She darted up until she started to see the makings of a glowing red herd of cattle galloping northwest, chased by faintly glowing figures on horseback.

She turned to chase them down and found they were going almost too fast for her- she wouldn't be able to keep this up for long.

"Hi!" She shouted.

The ghost nearest to her, a skeleton in tattered cowboy clothes with a dull orange glow on the back of a horse made of bones and shadows, looked at her briefly. "Where's your horse, rider?"

"I don't have one! Why are you chasing the cows? Won't humans see?"

It grunted but made no other attempt to reply. After a few unsuccessful attempts to speak, she flew straight up to take a quick break, then darted forward to speak to the next rider, this one on a horse made of burning coals with a bright yellow glow.

"Hi! What are you doing?"

"We ride to catch the herd, little lady," it rasped, "been a century at least, but we ain't caught 'em yet."

"Can I help?"

It laughed- but not meanly, she thought. It was hard to tell when it didn't have a face. "Yer pretty quick, little lady. Get ya a horse, 'n maybe. Don't count on it though- these cows ain't meant to be caught."

"So why do you chase them?" She pushed past the sensation of breathlessness- she didn't need to breathe, after all.

"We swore solemn oaths, and broke them," shouted another skeleton, clad in a ladies' riding frock and legging astride a horse of steel. "Any of us who catches one of the devil's herd will be granted a wish- rest, freedom, or anything else."

That was interesting, but- wait. That gave her an idea. "Do you know if catching one of the cows lets you wish to be independent of a ghost parent before aging out?"

"Yes, it certainly do!" The skeleton on the coal horse agreed. "Anything you want. Gonna be a rider?"

Might as well- it would at least be a little fun. "Know where I can get a ghost horse?"

"Ask the whistling wind!"

As the sun rose, the riders and herd faded out of view, then sound. Huh. The whistling wind.

After a few days of mindless wandering, she'd realized the cowboys (cow people? There was a girl, maybe) were having a laugh at her expense. "Ask the whistling wind," she grumbled, "I've just been talking to myself like a moron."

She kicked a rock only to find it was more solidly placed than she thought and winced. "Stupid cool-looking cowboys on stupid cool horses."

"Having boy troubles?"

Dani jumped and spun. Somehow, perhaps due to the sharp sounds of the storm brewing through long grass or the traffic from the highway a few hundred feet away, she hadn't noticed the woman sitting on the brown fencepost of the barbed wire fence.

The seemingly normal woman set off her ghost sense- in a big way. The way only Clockwork or Pandora did. Danielle took a step back. "Something like that. Sorry to disturb you, I'm just going to go."

She tilted her head, and Dani saw her eyes were bright red. The noise from the highway disappeared.

"But you've looked so hard for me," the ghost began gently, "I've heard you speak to me in every breeze for three nights. It was only now that you thought to address me during the day."

"But ghosts only come out during the night," Dani asked, "At least, outside of places with a ton of ecto. Right?"

The woman smiled, showing no teeth. "Indeed, dear girl- but I am the spirit of the Whistling Wind. I ride with those who charge the open plains, who sing to me in day and night. I am a spirit of the Wild Hunt- I don't follow all of your rules."

Wild Hunt. She racked her mind and swallowed when she realized she'd invoked one of the fae. Their rules were almost, but not exactly, the same as a ghost's. "Um. Whistling Wind of the Wild Hunt, I greet you," she said politely. Manners were everything with the fae.

"And I, you," she said. "What is your name?"

"Dani-" she began, only to cut herself off. At least that was only a nickname. "Everyone calls me Dani."

"Dani," she said, "a novel name for a girl. I'll take that from you if you make a deal with me," she warned.

"It's only a nickname, not my real one," she said in confusion. Didn't fae always want the real one?

The Whistling Wind grinned wolfishly. "I know. Someone related to you has upset another member of the Hunt. But if you give me that name and take a new one, you'll be off the hook and I'll have won that bet with Loptr."

She couldn't help but grin back, but steadied her face. "Um, are you sure it'll be a fair deal? I'm asking for a ghost horse, and to be one of the riders with the same wish if I catch a cow," she said, then quickly added, "but I don't want to be trapped like them, of course."

The ghost nodded solemnly. "Making you a Ghost Rider- that's easy enough. But with your freedom is the tricky part," she said. "What would you wish for, if you won?"

"Um. So do you know how ghosts have ghost parents until they're a few centuries old?"

"Yes," she confirmed, "Though it's been a very long time ago for me."

"Well, mine is kind of horrible and evil, so I want to be free of him. But I don't want to trade him for someone just as manipulative, which is hard because he doesn't fight fair."

"Ah," said the spirit. "A desire for freedom I can respect. Very well. Give me the name of Dani, which you'll never be able to use to refer to yourself again, and your service for the yearly Wild Hunt for 10 years. Do this, be bound by it, and I shall give you a fitting horse and make you a Rider without their curse, and allow you to make a wish should you succeed,"

"Our agreement cannot be broken or adjusted. Are we of an accord?"

Dani thought carefully. "Yes," she eventually agreed, "I, D-"

She couldn't say her name, and she didn't want to risk saying her full name. Dani just wouldn't come out, for some reason. "I, Phantom, agree."

"Then walk on your own legs due East until the sun rises- in either form. There, you will find your horse and your fellow riders. Good luck, Phantom."

She nodded, remembering at the last moment not to thank her. "Hopefully, I'll see you soon!"

Filled with hope, she started at a quick walk (it was best to be literal with the fae) east.

The hope lasted about two hours. The curiosity remained, however, as she trudged on at a steady pace. It was a good thing she was experienced with stealing Vlad's cash or food and filling up her large hiking bag and the pockets of her cargo pants; it meant she had plenty of easy-to-eat snacks and plenty of clean water and other drinks.

After four hours, she shifted into her ghost form to cool down- even in October, the heat was no joke. The sun set, and she yawned, exhausted.

"Pretty sky," she said to herself and, despite her pained legs, kept on.

At sunrise, she'd never been so tired- not even when she'd been destabilizing. Finally, she stopped and let herself sit, easing her cramped legs. Ellie dumped the remains of her water over her head and leaned back against a tree.

An hour or so later- it was hard to tell, as she'd been dozing- she was woken by her ghost sense, a sharp chill up her backbone. She opened one eye and saw, to her muted delight, a skeletal horse clad in what looked like medieval heavy armor. Its' eyes burned bright green, just like her own.

"Hey, big guy. Or girl. What's your name?"

She didn't expect an answer, and so was doubly surprised by the sudden influx of images and sounds that invaded her mind.

Charging onto a battlefield. Screams of horses and men alike. Arrows caught on armor plates, lance in the side. Shieldbreaker. Wraith of the battlefield, pestilence, venom of a snake, infected wound.

She gagged a little. "So that's a little bit long. How about just...Shieldbreaker? That's pretty cool, right?"

It huffed and nodded with the clanking of metal and harnesses. "Well, I'm-"

She thought for a moment. "You know, Phantom technically belongs to someone else, and I just sold my nickname. How about I be Wraith for now?"

It nodded again and patiently gnawed on some grass nearby.

Shieldbrraker sent her more mental images. Rest. War begins tonight. Campfire. The chase. Breaking of shields and battle lines.

"Sounds good. Wake me up at dark, please?"

The ghost horse flicked its bony tail in response, and she dozed off once more.

Her deal with Whistling Wind didn't include being automatically able to ride, she discovered the third time she fell from Shieldbreaker's back. Still, she climbed back on, and they chased after the so-called Devil's Herd, their steel hooves ringing loudly whenever they hit asphalt or stone.

The ride, she discovered, began at sunset and ended at dawn. Once the sun rose, the cattle were gone, and she and the other riders appeared in some sort of liminal space.

Her phone still showed October 28, 3 PM. It hadn't lost any charge, but it had lost all service. Over the next few days, she learned about her companions; some, like her, made deals to chase the herd. Others were oathbreakers or made deals with evil beings.

Slim- the talkative cowboy from the other night- introduced himself as hailing from the territory of Kansas, while Horace was from the nation of Texas. Highnoon- the woman in the riding dress- said she was from the California territory.

They hadn't been kidding when they said some of them were centuries old! The three ghosts gave her lessons in exchange for stories about what the world was like now.

Slim wanted to know about new guns, mostly, while Highnoon, who'd forgotten her name, wanted to know about everything from women's rights to the Temperance movement. Horace asked only for myths, tales, and legends- he was still as quiet as the first day, but like many of the Riders, wasn't hostile.

Most of them didn't care who she was or what she did- they wanted to catch the Devil's Herd, and as long as she didn't get in the way, they were fine with her.

It was impossible to tell how many days, weeks, or even months she'd spent away; sometimes the sun moved West to East instead, or there were two moons, and again- she had no way to communicate. She couldn't even judge by the state of her supplies, as she never became hungry or thirsty, even in human form.

Every night at sunset, they'd howl and scream as they charged after the herd, and every sunrise, nothing would happen in their dim world with eternally rolling storm bands.

Ellie talked to her new friends and Shieldbreaker, chased the herd, practiced, and chased the herd over and over. She thought many times about using the escape clause Whistling Wind had given her, but knew that would lead to breaking their deal.

And, likely, gaining the full curse of the riders.

So she rode every night, slowly growing a little faster, riding a little longer. And rode. And rode. And rode again.

Until one night, roughly a year or so after she came- it was hard to tell, as the little marks on Shieldbreaker's saddle didn't always stay there. At least a year and a half. Maybe longer.

It had been chance, pure and simple, or maybe fate, that caused the bull to trip- but trip it did, and she took the opportunity by the horns. Immediately, before she could shout a goodbye, or maybe a question, she was in the middle of a dry valley, a black horn still in her hand. To her relief, Shieldbreaker was under her as usual, though the warhorse was clearly confused.

And then it happened- a buzz on her phone. Just one vibration, then a flood as the device searched for data and updated.

She pulled it out- October 28th, same year, same time. But she was in Montana now. "What happened? Where are the others?"

"Chasing the herd," a voice she'd heard once said. She urged Shieldbreaker around and found herself face-to-face with Whistling Wind. "They'll remember you, and perhaps when they catch one, will find you as a friend. Or not. It depends on the wish."

"I almost forgot the wish," she said.

The spirit smiled. "I did not. Be free from your old ties," she said, and the part of her core attached inextricably to Vlad's broke off, becoming wholly her own. "Remember your promise, Rider of the eternal plains, and I will see you next year for the Wild Hunt."

Ellie laughed brightly. "I feel it! It's gone!"

"Ride like the wind, then, wherever you go. May the breeze always favor you, once-Dani."

"I will! It's Wraith, now, I think."

"I'll see you soon- or late. Time is such a tricky thing."

And she was gone, leaving Ellie with Shieldbreaker- now a large black horse- and an eternity being her own master in front of her.

(Image sources: here, here, here, from the Same Energy site)

#danny phantom #inthememetime #danny phantom au #cowgirl dani phantom #fae #deals with the fae #wild hunt references #ghost riders in the sky #ask game #ask answered #dani decides to be free of Vlad #and the Whistling Wind needs to win a bet #coincidence? i think not

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autumn-oceanopromises · 9 months

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(996) no-one cares, no-one's looking

no-one cares the world doesn't owe me anything i don't owe the world anything that is enough

spilling out onto the sidewalk under the fading glow of street-lights in light-polluted night the steady hum of apartment lights and a thousand families in interconnected stories in a tiny town-burb in a tiny city passing cars and i never felt so disconnected feeling all twelve of my years and still learning how to ride a bike, toppling over and dirtying my clothing with mud. succeed the first time or never try again. so deathly afraid of doing anything shameful, it's already shameful i don't know how to ride a bike at twelve. at twelve people are already looking forward to driving, making vroom vroom noises with their mouths and imagining the wind blowing through their long hair. in an open convertible and an endless straight road. my father says no-one cares, no-one's looking just get on the bicycle. it's easy. can't you do it. stop caring so much about what other people think. but he cared and he never stopped caring and he was the one shaming he was looking and so was i - i was the one looking at myself. and i was ashamed of myself. twelve and i couldn't ride a bike. i owe it to the world to be normal. to be acceptable. i owe and i owe and i owe. so the world owes me. got it? because if i owe so much can't there be some reciprocity. i didn't do anything to you, world. why do you have it out for me. but i know i'm fortunate and i'm spoiled and i'm twelve, world. and i'm lucky to have so much and need for so little. i keep wanting to be normal and not held back from learning how to ride a bike because my sister ripped her leg open and had gashes in the shape of eighteen metal fenceposts from her ankle to her hip eight years ago. i keep being owed bike rides with my father and i'll never get those back. i should be ashamed instead of not doing anything with my life.

i still don't drive. the world doesn't owe me anything. i'm an adult now. i survived the shame of living in mediocrity. i don't owe the world anything. i don't owe the world a single iota of shame. i survived. i made it. i'm here. no-one cares. but i'm still looking. and i care. and that's enough.

#spilled ink #poetry #staygolden #writerscreed #no-one cares no-one's looking #996

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oh-he-grows · 8 months

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After two weeks of stressing and planning and screwing around in chief architect, I came to the obvious conclusion that I should just make raised beds out of basic-ass pine boards. Here's all the research I did so you don't have to agonize over your potential project. All prices are from Lowes. Below is a cost analysis of my project, which would be for 512' long of raised beds (for a growing area of 1,000 sq ft). I had in-ground beds last year but a massive influx of bunny rabbits ate everything that they could, so I'm looking to lift my plants off the ground a bit.

I was originally planning on using pressure treated 2x8s, but soon got sidetracked into cedar fenceposts and pressure treated landscape timbers, so here's what I eventually found:

Cedar fenceposts are great for a small scale garden. If you need 1 or 2 raised beds, I would recommend cedar fenceposts for cost and longevity purposes. If one piece gets damaged somehow, it's cheap and easy to throw in a replacement. They're incredibly cheap relative to other options, resistant to rot and moisture, beautiful, and can easily fit in almost any vehicle which can't be said for the dimensional lumber. Here's a build video for the most elegant fencepost raised bed I found. Downsides: the fenceposts are very thin, barely half an inch thick-- you can't sit on them or put too much pressure on them. They also require more bracing on the corners and in the middle, as well as a top-strip, as shown below. This is factored into the "Specialty Hardware Cost", and is calculated with pressure treated pine- using cedar for these pieces would look nicer (as below), but are much more expensive and some dimensions are out of stock. They're also a lot of work at scale. For my plan (to look good), I would have to cut off the dogear notch at the top for 280 boards individually, and put four screws each into 280 boards individually, which is an obscene amount of labor and hardware.

Next up are Pressure Treated Landscape Timbers, which I first saw from a Millennial Gardner video where the tagline was "lumber dealers HATE this trick!". Which may be true, but screw manufacturers LOVE this trick. They look really pretty and the wood is extremely cheap, but they're short individually, so you would need to stack 3-4 on top of each other to get the look I'm going for. Most importantly though, these need long screws (50 cents to a dollar each) to connect two boards to each other every 24-48 inches PER layer, and additional rebar if it's being used as a retaining wall, which would be another $4 on every side. The wood is cheap and rot resistant, but the hardware costs creep in.

Cedar boards are too expensive. Flat-out, they cost so much money it's insane. nearly $50 for a single 8' 2"x8" is inordinately expensive for a project like this. For the price of one miniature cedar bed, you could get multiple metal beds that will last decades instead. The final deliberation was between Yellow Pine and Pressure Treated Yellow Pine, and I'm deciding to go with regular untreated pine. The price is an extra 30% - 50% cost, and untreated pine should last (outside of the pacific northwest or florida) for 3-5 years without issues, while pressure-treated could last 10 or more depending on the conditions. Pressure treated boards leaching their chemicals into your food is mostly overstated, as arsenic hasn't been used in the process for 20 years now; although, I understand the reservations about using any chemical so close to food supply. The modern process apparently uses copper-based solutions and various fungicide for copper-resistant strains. I've included two cans of boiled linseed oil in the hardware costs for this to help protect them further, and I might find some kind of plastic or other barrier to protect the wood from direct soil contact to keep them going longer. I think I'm going with the 2x12s as well over the 2x8s, just because I like the idea of a taller bed if I'm just using one board. It's more expensive for sure, and the only thing I'm still deciding on. For the most part it's purely aesthetic, but some plants would prefer a bed larger than 8 inches, so that's why I'm leaning towards 12". It turns out that with the bulk discount that comes with 50 boards, 68 2"x8"s are the same price as 34 2"x12"s, but 4 inches taller. I might have to get some additional 2x4s for corner bracing, but this might be the way. I hope this info helps someone build a raised bed and start gardening, or help their garden become more successful (for cheaper). If I got anything wrong or if there are alternatives let me know, I'd love to hear anybody's thoughts.

#gardenblr #organic gardening #time to grow #raised bed #garden #container gardening #gardening

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draculasstrawhat · 1 year

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I think I’ve worked out my problem with a lot of Covid messaging - and I mean this in a very practical way, in terms of compliance with guidance, rather than just a “well, if you asked me NICELY,” - which is that it focuses pretty much only on the bad, dangerous, frightening stuff, and not on the improvements.

And like, I appreciate a lot of this is because of failures in state-level guidance, provision, and support? But it essentially means that the majority of information is coming from people who - for a variety of reasons - are scared shitless by Covid, and are desperately trying to get people to stop taking risks. Which is both very, very understandable, and utterly useless from a public health perspective.

Like with masks. I can’t help but feel that a, “This new mask offers you 78.6% more protection than a standard surgical mask, and 96.2% more protection than a 2ply cloth mask,” is going to inspire a lot more faith and compliance than, “cloth masks are basically useless. Also, if you wear a blue surgical mask you might as well stab your granny,” messaging - especially given that the new masks are expensive, single use, and not like… provided in GP surgeries, and that people have already invested a lot of time and money in to getting enough blue surgical masks/2ply cloth masks when the guidance was that those were enough.

People like to feel that they’re doing good, that they’re helping. This was something a lot of WWII messaging got right, incidentally- they had huge scrap metal drives that materially benefited absolutely no one, but raised morale, and made people feel like they were helping. I’m not suggesting that, ofc, but what I mean is… earlier in the pandemic a lot of people got a ‘warm glow’ from doing ‘the right thing’, even if that thing wasn’t… the most scientifically accurate thing. That has more or less vanished, because people feel like masking doesn’t help either because you need an unaffordable, ever changing, fancy kind of mask worn in a complicated way for it to make any difference at all, or because they’ve decided the whole thing is bunkum anyway because the guidance keeps changing. Whereas if that guidance were focused on *improvements*, I genuinely think compliance would be better. Not “this mask is worse that that one and will do less,” but “that mask is better than this one and will do even more.”

Basically, if you set the boundary for safety to what feels an unobtainable level, and associate not meeting it with shame… people don’t really step up, they just go “fuck it.” Especially when, in the main, we don’t really control our own exposure to risk. Take me for eg, I’m variously immunocompromised, and wfh. My kids, however, spend all day in a classroom with 30 other kids, inadequate ventilation, and no support for masking.

When the mask mandate in schools and public places was removed, my kids kept masking for a fair while, and I was still social distancing, only doing essential errands, masking indoors, etc. We all got Covid within a fortnight. I was doing everything I could to manage my own risk, but something entirely outside of my control fucked me anyway, and after that it just all felt so *futile*.

And I’m not saying, “So fuck everyone else, I’m going to go and lick fenceposts and cough on handrails,” or whatever… it’s just this pervading sense that no matter what I do, whatever precautions I take, I’m not really protecting anyone - including myself. And the messaging I’m seeing, particularly right now, essentially confirms that. Any mask I can afford to buy is basically useless, LFTs don’t work, the vaccine doesn’t work, and nothing I can do will be good enough, and even if I do my best, there’s no government support, and I’m still going to get Covid anyway - so what’s the point of doing any of it?

And the answer is, ofc, that this hyper negative messaging is actually also bullshit, and that even if flawless behaviour won’t automatically protect you, any masking helps a bit, the vaccine helps a lot, and while nothing I can do will guarantee I don’t get Covid, I can still manage mine and other people’s risk - but I know that because I’m ultimately a very pragmatic person.

And this isn’t me putting it all on the doomsayers, because I absolutely understand why they are so frightened and angry right now - this is, primarily, a failure at an institutional level, leaving us all exposed to a very, very awful disease. But in the vacuum left by that, I’m not sure their message is actually *helping*.

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empty-masks · 2 years

Text

Book Five, Chapter Four

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Honeysett isn’t the largest or most notable town in the world, far from it; if anything it’s something of a nowhere patch of suburb that just happens to exist on everyone’s map, nestled between the politically polarizing Pickman’s Hope and a more financially prolific series of towns that dot the Eternal Autumn up and out of the perpetual season’s territory. It exists, but it doesn’t necessarily exist in the same capacity as a place like Smokestone, Kiln, or Fusillade. It doesn’t have any great or notable exports, and by all means is something that Cherry has very recently started to appreciate— calm and uneventful, save for that lingering memory so long ago.

Its most prominent features are academic and domestic in nature; it has quite the library and a sizable museum, the latter of which in most towns in this day and age would roughly translate to “a great big box full of shiny things people are going to steal,” but nothing really goes missing from the Honeysett Museum for the same reason that Cherry knows it’s safest if they head straight there rather than stop for anything.

It takes a very particular set of characteristics to take up a line of work where your starting equipment, entirely self-funded, tends to be something like how Samson had described it, that being weaponry which was obviously in its second life, having abandoned something kind and clean like acting as a fencepost to take up the dirty, underappreciated but wildly overpaying process of fighting Monsters. Not that every adventurer in the world makes their name by punching up, of course, but that’s usually where they start. Someone, somewhere, has a bad night or a bad day and ends up smashing something creepy or crawly that had intended to eat them and it’s all history from there. In a night they’ve either solidified their need for the normal or a hunger for that dreadful master known as adventure.

Some go the extra mile and sign up with a larger association, such as the guild school, or simply tag along with other freelancers in a party, as Samson did, as Steiner and Baker did. Not all of this work trends toward the humanitarian, as inevitably a burgeoning class of warrior drifters willing to fight for cash tends to lend itself well to clandestine operations, especially in the corporate world and its sister, the criminal underworld, as Lucille and Jules each show. Being good with a gun and willing to use it for whoever pays best, that sort of work has two ways out— early retirement or death.

There aren’t a lot of adventurers who die of natural causes; those that do die in Honeysett, in a specific set of suburbs where those looking to ride out their days coasting on small fortunes from a few hard jobs make their place. Typically these people have a large stash of whatever loot they’ve gathered from trips into dangerous and mysterious climes, often strange and esoteric, beyond that of the normal person’s day-to-day life. Even the very sewers beneath the bustling cities could hold all kinds of creatures, all kinds of treasures, if one is noble, stupid, or desperate enough to pick up a sword and take them.

In Cherry’s neighborhood in Honeysett are the folks who made sure a place like Honeysett can exist, who every night toss themselves into the depths of cave systems like that beneath Pickman’s Hope to take on Cave Shadows and Skitterbears of their own volition, if not to protect others then to earn something to make the world just that much more bearable for those around them— if not to rid the world of something as dangerous and consuming as living, hungering entropy and its kin. Now tired and living out some sense of peace, they were the noble, stupid, and desperate, brave enough to walk into the darkest, most dangerous places in the world with little more to protect them than some sheet metal on their chests, a fencepost in one hand, and some good friends at their back.

If it doesn’t kill them, if they make it to retirement and have stuck it out, they’re like Samson— wavemakers in their own right, the movers and shakers whose names might cause shudders of starstruck awe or muted terror, depending upon the listener, and Samson’s just one.

Another man like this, another product of the bad day, wandering slayer of Monster and man alike, is unable to move his body. The heat fueling it is dying, along with the glow inside. Blondie is getting cold.

Piper, by this point, has run the corpse over six times, give or take a few where she just parked the car with its tire right on the damned thing’s neck. Still, despite her best efforts, it’s done little but turn the body and twist it, though it has managed to get it to stop moving. It almost looks dead for a solid minute as she gets out and grabs her recently acquired best friend, the Doorman crowbar, before he’s working his jaws trying to gurgle something out between globs of what she assumes must be some kind of life fluid. She’d call it blood, but it’s thicker, like dense bile or magma.

Sundae’s got both Jack and Nancy shoved into the back of the car, and that’s at least a slight improvement. It’s not great to think about, given as Jack’s joints are halfway to melted together where they aren’t just busted to hell and back, but he’s an Android, that can be fixed. Nancy might almost be in a state comparable, but all the same, a Vampire’s a Vampire. A few good cuts from a butcher shop or from some random civilian on the way and Piper’ll have her healing up in no time.

“He’s still not dead?” Sundae asks, walking over to stand side by side with Piper, a knife the length of her forearm in hand. “Nancy handed me this. Said you asked for it?”

Piper snatches the knife from the Elf, then looks down at the still gurgling, faintly glowing body of Blondie. “Still not dead. You’d think such a professional would at least do his replacement the courtesy of vacating the fucking premises,” she snarls, striking him in the neck with the heel of her boot, forcing the heavy form onto its back proper.

Sundae pulls the shotgun out of Blondie’s chest cavity, getting one hand on the gun itself and her boot against the bulk of burned muscle. Once it’s out, for good measure, she pulls out her revolver and pumps a few shots into the head. More glowing fluid oozes from the wounds, but the gurgling and the frothing doesn’t stop.

“I ever tell you what my daddy does for a living?” Piper asks, crouching beside Blondie’s head, eyes fixated on the slow, thick trickle running along his broken maw. Slowly, she runs the hook of her crowbar along the crisp, fractured, bony jaw.

Sundae shrugs. “I didn’t know you had parents. I guess it checks out, you seem about messed up enough…”

“Cute.” Piper rolls her eyes before tapping the top of Blondie’s head, earning a soft thudding sound. “He’s a butcher. He likes hunting and fishing in his personal time, but professionally he’s got a butcher shop. For a while he wanted me to take it over, then he let me get that job at Shepherd Gemstone to get some wanderlust out of my system. Now look at me…”

“Are you monologuing at me or at the dead guy?”

“Not… dead,” coughs and sputters Blondie. Each roll of his jaw and tilt of his head is twisting, wretched, and erratic. He can feel the muscles hardening as the flames go out, as the embers smoulder and the smoke begins to fade. “I’ll kill you. I’ll- kill- you- all.”

Sundae nearly doubles over as she laughs, but her cackling finds its end as a bronze tail slams into the back of her head, sending her to the stone floor in a small heap. When she’s back up, she locks eyes with Piper, whose jaw is tense, shut, and threatening to put a snarling set of fangs out from between her lips any second. “Humorless bitch,” is all she gets out before a hiss sends her straight back to the car, lightly wiping a bloody nose and a split lip.

Once alone, Piper turns to Blondie again, staying crouched, white-knuckling her fists around the handle of the hefty knife, the crowbar clattering to the rocks beneath them both. “You’ve got some nerve,” she says. “In the end, it wasn’t enough. Just die already, just die. I’m not going to let some flaming piece of shit get in the way of what I want. Nobody’s getting in my way, not those idiots in the car, not those miner fucks, and not you. I’m finally doing it, just like you told me back in Smokestone, remember? Take what you want, right?”

His dull, glowing eyes linger on her for a time, jaw still and voice silent, before he says, “Who… are you?”

Piper clenches her teeth and stabs Blondie in the throat, driving as far as she can and pressing on the deer antler handle until it threatens to snap under her lycanthropic power. Once it’s in too deep to handle, she picks up her crowbar and begins smashing the blade even further, like someone trying to split a log with an iron wedge.

Half-hearted and vain attempts to bite her as she did this came, but are all the same ignored as she continues to ram the knife deeper and deeper, only stopping once she hears the awkward scrape of knife point against bone, which tells her it’s about time to get to the good part.

Though she has to reach into the wound, she grips the handle tight in one hand and hooks his head with the crowbar using the opposite. Then, she rips them in opposite directions. The charred hide cracks and gives way, and as she slashes the knife free from its prison, she removes the head from the body, severing the spine.

Without a body to give it the strength of a voice, the werewolf’s jaws work themselves without any noise save for the wet sizzle of glowing, magically infused corpse-fluid on stone and jaw on jaw. She tosses the knife away, the blade ruined from the heat and warped beyond belief, before picking the head up with her gloved hands to look into his eyes.

She can see the glow fading, leaving him. The thing in her hands stopped being Blondie a long time ago, but it’s only just begun to stop moving. “Shepherd’s got a crap taste in officers,” she says with a sigh. “I should get Janet some flowers on the way back.”

Sundae flinches in the passenger seat when Piper finally sits in front of the wheel again, the head of the werewolf getting tossed into her lap during the process. A scowl crosses her elfin features, but not a word is uttered until Piper initiates the conversation, her voice rising with the struggling rev of the engine. “Have one of the others bag it on the way if either of them can use their fingers. We’re going to go pickup my car and then we’re heading for Honeysett— and keep your mouth shut, Sundae, or I’ll break it.”

==============================================================

There’s a moment of silence when Cherry finally parks the truck, dusty and covered in bulletholes, out in front of a quaint, red-sided two-level at the edge of the surrounding forest. Nobody but him gets out of the car (leaving the keys inside the ignition, mostly out of sheer exhaustion but also in case they needed to get going again), and nobody but him approaches the house. The front door is left open, with a screen door helping to keep the bugs out, and the smell of sugary, roasting vegetables wafts into his headspace before he even rings the doorbell.

“You’re always on time, Celica,” a burly voice calls out from inside. “You brought the wine this time, right?”

A large, bearded man sticks his head around the corner of the kitchen, working with something hot on the other side of the wall. His hair, a few weeks post-shaving, looks like it could’ve been a deep, rich crimson earlier in his life— it has since turned lighter, more gray-toned, with his long, well-kept beard reflecting this even more so. It helps to hide the wicked, messy claw scar wrapping up and around his right ear and ending at the edge of his right cheek. The glasses, thick-rimmed and square on his head, are fogged up from the hot kitchen work, and it takes him a couple tries of identifying the face at his door to realize who it is. “Cherry?” he asks, rubbing the condensation from his lenses. “Or am I scrambled from stickin’ my head in the oven all mornin’?”

Though he nearly passes out as he pushes the screen door open, Cherry finds himself grinning like an idiot at the sound of his dad’s voice. “I think it could be a little bit of both.”

The sound of a pan being set down on the table is heard, and his dad comes walking around the corner, apron still messy and standing only a few inches taller than his son, to give him a hug that lifts him clear off the hardwood floors of the foyer.

“My god, it’s so good to see you,” he starts. “You got some time off from the ol’ job? Actually, don’t answer that, I’ve gotta call your father inside. He’ll wanna hear.”

Cherry puts his hands over his ears temporarily, as the threat of losing his eardrums to the sound of “ASH! GET YOUR MUDDY BUTT INSIDE, CHERRY’S HOME!”, alongside the response of “WHAT IN THE HELL IS HE DOIN’ HOME ALREADY?! RED, THIS IS THE THIRD SURPRISE VISIT THIS WEEK, YOU GOTTA WARN ME WHEN YOU’RE DOIN THIS STUFF!” from the back of the house, presumably through an open window nearest the kitchen.

“Hey, dad?” he asks, voice muffled on Red’s shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“I’m not on leave. I quit, actually.”

“What?! Why?” “And I’ve got a couple friends to introduce you to.”

“Don’t tell me you’re—” Red begins, before looking over Cherry’s shoulder and into the front yard. There stands everyone from the truck, unwashed and tired beyond belief, some waving hello to him, some leaning up against one another for various reasons, and some working on adjusting the bandages on the others.

“Yup,” Cherry mumbles, passing out onto the floor of the foyer, leaving his Dad to reckon with the nine strangers that now stand in front of him.

“Uh,” he stammers. “I’ll break out the drinks.”

There’s nothing quite like trying to pack twelve people into a relatively small living room and kitchen combo. Though couples like Azariah and Roxanne are more than willing to sit on one anothers’ laps, there’s still a lack of seating / standing room in a house where two large, old men consistently bump into one another when preparing dinner. Cherry, having been wafted back into consciousness by a mug of tea, sits on the back counter in the kitchen (definitely in the way of his parents, but at the moment they’d feel bad making him get down). Red and Ash, the latter of which dons a mane / beard combo of long, curly, grey hair and who stands a few inches taller than his husband, busy themselves settling everyone in, learning everyone’s names, and making room in the kitchen for the surprise party that’s just now beginning.

A cask of Painted Pumpkin wine is brought up from the cellar, and things begin to smooth themselves out. Azariah, Olive, and Cherry’s Dads get themselves into a conversation about adventuring. Jules, Lucille, and Meat hang back from the rest of the crowd, simply taking in the good vibes (and the third of which having to stand near the stone-lined fireplace, as Ash recognizes what sort of affliction they have and knew what it does to wooden flooring). Brie, Judith, Leon, and Cherry all have themselves a few sips of alcohol to reflect on the happenings of the day, and to unwind a little, seeing as how high tensions have been recently.

Olive fangirls out over the fact that Cherry’s parents are somewhat legendary in the area for their adventuring accomplishments, from their Dragon-slaying to their town defending, going so far as to say that they were part of the reason why she took up the axe to begin with. And when Cherry mentions that the whole neighborhood is filled with people just like them, and when Celica Dahlstad, the unkillable robin-hood repossession artist who’s wanted in thirty cities, walks through the front door with a pricey bottle of local bourbon? She looks as though she might explode with excitement.

Meat is eventually approached by Ash, who points them in the direction of a couple only a block away who are similarly undead, but who work with extremely fireproof material, and could, theoretically, get them some proper gear. As the conversation continues, they bond over their experiences on the road, and Ash sympathizes with the feeling of never feeling at peace with the way things are, and always feeling on edge. The only thing that helped him, as he puts it, was falling in love and wanting to keep it that way.

In an awkward, but extensive conversation about the state of Pickman’s Hope started between Brie, Azariah, and Roxanne, Brie asks about when it would be a good time to head back down, since she’d very much like to pick up her car so that she can visit her girlfriend up north, let her know what had happened and that they’re more than likely broke as a joke. Roxanne informs her that if she needs a place to stay, she’s more than welcome down at the old mining town, since there had been talk between her and Azariah about moving there later in the year, since Smokestone is no longer an option (and because they realized that they had missed Samson more than they remembered).

And eventually, things quiet down. Hours turn into days, and those days are spent on recovery, alongside familiarizing themselves with the neighborhood. Many folks drop by to say hello (and almost everyone being recognized by Olive, though she hardly ever mentioned it), each one wanting to talk, meet the new folks, check up on Cherry, or drop off some extra food. It becomes incredibly apparent to the runaways that most folks in this place, regardless of their general demeanor, are willing to help with anything and everything. Everyone grows their own food, everyone helps out with one anothers’ upkeep, everyone looks out for one anothers’ backs. There’s nothing like knowing just how awful the world can be to straighten out one’s sense of community. And there’s nothing like the strength gained from adventuring that turns these sorts of communities into some of the most well-protected on this side of the Dividends.

==============================================================

Damn the calm and the quiet. Every minute since Blondie stopped making noise has been so silent that Piper’s largely left with her own thoughts for company, as even her own underlings have been hesitating to speak unless spoken to— a preferred change over Sundae blurting out whatever she pleases or Nancy giving her a migraine, but the sheer amount of nothing that goes on during information collection and paperwork processing is detestable.

When the three remaining of her squad are patched up, Jack’s joints are all fixed and moving again and Nancy’s up and about, Piper’s found the important stuff. Old admin records of addresses and letters of recommendation, all sent from a nice little suburb in Honeysett. She knew it had to be in Honeysett already, but Pickman’s Hope and Fusillade were each much easier to find anything in. Honeysett has this odd corporate-blackout to it that she doesn’t get, but that’s not as important anymore. If those fucks aren’t hanging around with Cherry’s family, then she can use them as bait.

Nobody’s gone anywhere yet. For all the talk of places to go and work to be done, they’ve spent a lot of time just recovering and discussing their plans without actually acting on them. Cherry’s dads are a fountain of hospitality, and the neighbors are all willing to give their own two cents every once in a while too, especially now that the neighborhood’s nephew, Cherry himself, has returned— even if it means there might be a lot more engine revving in the near future.

When the big, faded luxury vehicle comes to a halt just behind the truck in front of the house, most of the folks, if not all of them, are out on the front porch enjoying something or other. Some are locked in conversation, as Judith and Lucille are, over the tenable nature of a possible flower shop in Pickman’s Hope, with Leon and Jules offering small comments here or there as Lucille runs through some basics of entrepreneurial startups having at one point technically run a small mercenary band during her stint with Shepherd Gemstone. Others are a bit busy enjoying their time with their partners— needless to say Azariah and Roxanne are practically attached at the hip and half-dancing to nonexistent music in the yard, Leon’s practically spent the whole time acting as a glorified lawn chair for Judith (and he wouldn’t have it any other way), and Red and Ash themselves have been exchanging the occasional kiss between shifts handling the grill out front, much to the chagrin of their son Cherry.

Olive and Cherry were each the first to notice the driver, with Brie and Meat being close behind only because the two only just walked around the house to head out front again with arms full of disposable plates, paper cups, and some bottles of drinks both soft and hard.

Piper steps out, grinning near ear to ear, and offers a brief wave before stepping around the car itself to walk onto the lawn. Behind her, the three still living members of the unit exit as well. The general underlying hum of enjoyment halts altogether as the four step onto the grass, and the silence grabs more attention than the throng of life had; neighbors poke their heads out of their windows and stand in their doorways, suspicious looks on their faces, hesitation in their movements only due to a lack of understanding. Were Red and Ash expecting more?

Everyone drops what’s in their hands and puts them up not in surrender but in preparation as Sundae, Nancy, and Piper each draw their weapons.

“Y’all really are stupid, going and hiding here like we wouldn’t have this address on record.” Piper grows taller, meaner looking as her fangs poke out from between her lips and venom drips to the ground, sizzling in the grass as her tail rolls and coils behind her. “At least you’re all in one place. It’ll be hard to fit everybody into the one car, but I’m sure you can handle the luggage stacking, right, Jack?”

A soft, “Yes, ma’am,” exits the bot as he steps forward, raising his fists.

Azariah sighs. “Survived Blondie, got this far, and now…”

“And now nothing.” Red says bluntly, walking out from around the grill, a “Kiss the Cook” apron on and a very, very warm spatula in one heavy hand. “You put your weapons down or you’ll regret it.”

Piper laughs, but Jack complies, immediately setting his hands to his sides and stepping back. This, of course, causes Piper to go from laughing to hissing at him. “What are you doing? It’s an old man, beat the shit out of him.”

Sundae clears her throat and puts her gun away. “Boss, taking on miners is one thing. Care to look around?”

“Why? It’s just some fucking suburb—”

She stops when she actually does glance around, and behind her little group, on the sidewalk and on the street, a throng of neighbors have cropped up.

Cherry’s known just about all of these people his whole life, and a few for a little over half. He knows them as friends of the family, honorary aunts and uncles, but Olive, who’s having a hard time keeping it together beside him, knows them all from newspaper clippings and bar stories passed around in her old traveling merc circles.

In a wide semicircle around the back of the unit stand Cherry’s neighbors, including but not limited to, as Olive hastily describes to Brie, Meat, and anyone else willing to listen as her whispers rise and fall with her enthusiasm, the following: Celica Dahlstad, whose reputation for being nigh unkillable is only really beaten by the near fantastical knife gripped in one of her hands; the Hunter Brothers, a set of middle-aged men with pointed ears, graying slicked back hair, and revolvers that make even Sundae’s seem pale in comparison, with multiple barrels and other odd additions; Mountain Road, a craggled, rocky Golem taller than even Jack with a rifle that actually looks more like somebody put a stock on a medieval cannon, whose appearance is close to a statue of a lumberjack come to life; and of course the couple that Meat had gotten a pair of fireproof shoes from, a tall, strong looking, stern woman with white hair, grey skin, and electric blue eyes. A similar glow creeps up her arms and legs, her pointed ears and icy fangs snaggling slightly out from her cracked, mirthless smile. Beside her is a grinning skeleton in a polo and khaki shorts who only makes it up to her shoulder; they’re Bill and Renee Crawl.

Behind the lot of them is Ash, in whose hands is held something massive, like a log of wood made out of some kind of stone; Cherry knows it as “that damned piece of shit,” from what Red had called it once or twice due to it falling over and wrecking some of their nicer furniture in Cherry’s youth. Olive knows that to be a weapon of literally Dragon slaying proportions, a log of the same stuff Jules’ old stick had been made out of with holes bored into one end for easier gripping. To put it simply, Ash was swinging around about half a tree’s worth of wood strong enough to, even in walking-stick form, force a hard left turn from a careening, out-of-control motor vehicle.

And here he is, eyes blazing with unfiltered rage from under gray eyebrows, stepping from between his neighbors to lean in toward Piper and her cronies to say, “Get off my fucking lawn,” in a voice barely above a whisper.

Every neighbor there is clad in something casual, from jeans to shorts to polos to short sleeve dress shirts, the sort with floral patterns and exotic fruit plastered all over, but everyone is holding something that makes Sundae, Nancy, and Jack stand down. It all makes Piper angry, but more so, she’s deadly jealous of it all. The blatant, casual display of power— everyone here could whoop her ass one-on-one and make it back in time for a beer. It’s equal parts terrifying and maddening, seeing just how much further she has to go before she’s one of them.

She holds eye contact with Ash, having turned around, until behind her head there’s a soft click. She blinks; Brie has placed a semiautomatic pistol to the back of Piper’s head. With a surprising lack of malice, Brie says simply to her, “Leave.”

The set of four make their way back to the car without any pleasantries or goodbyes, tucking themselves inside with their proverbial tails between their legs, save for Piper. She’s marched to the car, personally, by Brie and Ash, the latter of whom has set his Dragon-smashing log down because, as Red shouts from across the yard, “I don’t want to have to pay the town for cleanup, you messy bastard,” with the phrase “messy bastard” somehow coming out very sweetly.

It’s only after getting in the driver’s seat that Piper rolls down the window and eyes Brie, scowling. “This isn’t over,” she hisses.

Brie lifts the gun again, “I would say it is.” The car takes off down the road again as everyone watches.

Ash raises a brow and asks, “I thought you ran out of bullets?”

“I did,” she replies. “But she did not know that.”

A smile presses its way out from beneath Ash’s beard, and as he lifts his club to go stash it away again, he gestures toward the yard. “Alright everyone, stick around! Red’s cooking ribs.”

The neighbors all walk in to mingle too, though most leave after a minute or so to pop back over to their own houses for a moment— it’s rude to not bring at least a side, after all.

Chapter Four End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-cherry #b&tsm-judith #b&tsm-azariah #b&tsm-leon #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-piper #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat #b&tsm-jules #b&tsm-lucille

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