#moment of silence for the barrows

[lilyharvord]

Once again I am screaming and crawling up the walls like Evil Dead over the fact that all the electricons grabbed onto Mare in Harbor Bay when she saw Cal’s body and the healer trying to resuscitate him.

Like everyone around her (except for her) knew her dumb ass was so in love with him that if he died she was going to go off like a fucking bomb and kill all of them and to avoid that they literally were fully prepared to either knock her out with their own ability or contain hers as much as possible.

Which just leads me to believe that if he had died, like if the healer had failed and he had died on the sand Mare would have turned immediately to Iris’s war ship and we would have gotten the duel of the fucking century. Because Iris would have been fighting to just survive and Mare would have been blindly fighting to kill at all costs in as painful of a manner as possible. And she would have taken so many lakelanders and nortian soldiers with her. So tbh, if Dane/the Scarlet Guard was smart, they would have let Cal die in that moment and they could have ended the whole thing in Harbor Bay.

[muzaktomyears]

The first time Yoko spoke out at full volume during a recording session it was to convey some relatively trivial word of advice to John about whatever he was singing at the moment. The other Beatles looked around, straight-faced, startled, stunned. There was a moment's dead silence that was broken by Paul: "Fuck me! Did somebody speak? Who the fuck was that?" Of course he knew full well who had spoken. The others joined in: "Did you say something, George? Your lips didn't move!" "Have we got a new producer in?"

John, Paul, George, Ringo & Me: The Real Beatles Story, Tony Barrow (2005)

[angelswing236]

"Let's try this."

Fictober 24 challenge

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Fanfiction

‘Nanny Archer, you said there’s a problem with Master George,’ Thomas said, trying to keep his worry under control. The maid the nanny had sent to find him hadn’t been able to fill in any of the blanks.

‘Oh, Mr Barrow, thank goodness. I didn’t want to send for Lady Mary or Mr Branson. Not without trying everything first. You were the only person I could think of who might be able to help,’ the nanny said, clearly more exasperated than worried.

‘Help with what?’ Thomas scanned the room anxiously seeing no sign of the boy. ‘Where is Master George?’

‘He’s under his bed.’

Thomas did a double take, not quite sure he’d heard her right. ‘Under his bed?’

‘The little scamp won’t come out,’ Nanny Archer said, irritably. ‘I’ve tried everything I can think of, but he simply refuses to budge. He hasn’t even come out for his lunch.’

‘Do you know why he’s under there?’ Thomas asked, pursing his lips.

‘I've no idea.’

‘Right. Let’s try this,’ Thomas said, swiping the apple sitting on the table with Master George’s untouched lunch.

Wandering over to the child’s bed, he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He pulled his penknife from his pocket and began to peel the apple.

‘Hello, Master George. It’s Barrow,’ he said, concentrating on peeling the skin in one long, curly strip.

There was silence for a moment and then a small voice replied, ‘Hello, Barrow.’

‘How are things? Nanny says you’ve been under that bed for a while. Are you quite comfy there?’

‘No. It’s made me sneeze a bit.’

‘Dusty, is it? I’ll have to tell Mrs Hughes to tell the maids to give it a good, old clean. A man can’t have a dusty den, can he?’

There was silence again, so Thomas finished peeling the apple, coiling the long strip onto the floor beside him.

‘You’ve missed lunch. You must be hungry. Would you like to share my apple?’

‘Yes, please.’

Thomas sliced off a piece of apple and held it out towards the bed. A little hand snaked out from underneath it and took the slice, disappearing back into the dark.

Slicing another piece, Thomas popped it into his mouth. ‘Oh, that’s a nice apple, isn’t it? Nice and juicy. I like them like that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like another slice?’

‘Yes, please.’

Thomas held out a second slice, pleased to see the little hand flash out and take it again.

‘Now, I’m all for a man having his own private space where he can think about things, Master George, but if you don’t mind me asking, what made you retreat to your den?’

For a moment, the boy said nothing, and Thomas began to wonder if he’d overplayed his hand. Resisting the urge to fill the silence, he cut another piece of apple and held it out.

George took the slice and then said in a quiet voice, ‘Donk said Isis has gone to heaven, so I won’t ever see her again.’

Thomas pressed his lips together. Now they were getting to the heart of it. ‘Yes, that’s right. She has gone to heaven.’

‘Why? Why couldn’t she stay here?’

‘She was very poorly, Master George. I expect she didn’t want to leave you, but sometimes it can’t be helped.’

Silence reigned again and Thomas held out another slice of apple. George took it and munched it before speaking again.

‘Mummy says Daddy is in heaven.’

Thomas paused for a moment in slicing the apple, his heart going out to the boy. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘And Sybbie’s mummy is in heaven, too.’

Sorrow twisted in Thomas’ gut for a moment. ‘Yes, Lady Sybil is there, too.’

‘So, they’re all there together?’

‘Yes. I expect your daddy and your Auntie Sybil are taking Isis for a good, long walk, just the kind she likes.’

‘But if they’re all there together, can’t we go and visit them?’ the child asked, plaintively. ‘Like we go and visit Granny Isobel?’

Thomas thought for a moment, slowly cutting another slice of apple and handing it over.

‘You can’t visit them, Master George. Heaven is a lovely place, but you can only go there once and then when you get there, you can’t come back.’

‘Why not? Aren’t there any cars in heaven?’

‘No, there aren’t.’

‘That’s why I’ve never met my daddy? Because I wouldn’t be able to come back home?’

‘Yes,’ Thomas said, gently.

‘I don’t think I’d like not being able to come home.’

‘No.’

‘Is anybody else going to go to heaven, Barrow?’

‘We’ll all go at some point, Master George, but not for a long while, I hope,’ Thomas replied, hoping that would be enough for the boy.

‘Hmm.’

All was quiet as George considered that.

‘May I have another slice of apple, please, Barrow?’

‘Of course, you can. Although, between us, Mrs Patmore has an apple cake downstairs that’s even tastier. That’s if you’re ready to come out of your den.’

‘Apple cake?’

‘It looks delicious.’

George scrambled out from underneath the bed, blinking in the light. ‘Do you think she’ll let me have a slice?’

‘I think if I have a word with her, she will.’

The child grinned as Thomas stood up.

‘Master George and I are going to the kitchen on important business, Nanny,’ Thomas announced, the boy’s hand tucked in his.

[steam-beasts]

E2 Escapades - A short TAB rewrite

It was February 9th, 1924 on the Northwestern Railway, on the Island of Sodor; a little island just off of Barrow where railways thrived.

Down at Knapford, the railway's director, Richard Topham Hatt stood at the shunting yards. He had been standing there for about 35 minutes, occasionally checking his pocket watch. He let out a sigh, tapping his foot as his patience began to wear thin, but he tried not to show it. He looked at his pocket watch again – it was nearly 8 o'clock. They said on the phone that it would be here by now.

He then heard a whistle and looked around, only to be slightly disappointed when he saw Edward puffing along the track, shunting a particularly cheeky truck. "Teapot! Teapot!" It chanted before Edward gave it a biff "That's enough" he replied firmly, eliciting a yelp from the truck, which ceased the cheeky backtalk.

As Edward was about to see to the next truck, he noticed the Fat Director standing near the track. Curious, he took a moment to reverse and switch on to the track closest to the man.

"Good morning, Sir!" Edward whistled cheerfully. The Fat Director gazed up at him with a small smile "Ah, good morning to you too, Edward. Keeping the trucks in line as usual, I see" he replied observantly. The Larger Seagull chuckled "Yes, Sir. All the usual..."

A moment of silence passed before Edward spoke up again "Erm... pardon me for seeming intrusive here, Sir. But why are you standing here in the yard?" He asked. The director let out a sigh "No, no... it's quite alright, Edward. I'm simply just waiting for the new engine to arrive" he said. Edward's eyes widened at the words "new engine".

"The new engine, Sir?" Edward repeated, raising his eyebrow "Are you referring to the one that...well...was supposed to be here last year in November?"

"Indeed...Edward, you're a hardworking engine, and I appreciate you taking time out your schedule to shunt the coaches and trucks. But i have to acquire a new shunter at some point, you know" the stout gentleman said. Edward hummed in acknowledgement "I know, Sir. It hasn't been easy around here... especially since...Glynn went missing" he said, his tone more solemn.

The Fat Director grimaced at the mention of his first engine. Glynn was an engine the Fat Director made with his own bare hands back when he was a boy. Glynn was the original No.1 of the NWR, but just after No.5 was bought, he went missing one morning. They searched and searched, but eventually had to move on. The Fat Director soon had to begin a search for a new shunter, much to Edward's disappointment.

The stout man sighed sadly "I...I know, Edward. But it's been months and we must move on. I can't always have you or James being the temporary station pilot"

"Of course, Sir, I–"

"Did you call me, Sir?" A new voice suddenly called. Just then, up along the track beside Edward came a rebuilt L&YR Class 28 tender engine

He had an extended running board, a pony truck and was painted in a sleek black with red stripes. As the tender engine came to a screeching halt beside Edward, sparks flew from his wheels causing him and the Fat Director to wince.

"Honestly, James! Stop braking so harshly!" Edward hissed, still wincing a little. James rolled his eyes "Nonsense, Edward. My brakes are as fit as a fiddle!" He proclaimed smugly.

"Edward is right, James. Your brakes may be fine, but your brake blocks are not"

James stammered "But Sir! It's not MY fault that me and my brothers were made with wooden brake blocks!" The Fat Director groaned at James's excuse. Was James wrong? No. But the director did want to make a point on replacing those wooden brake blocks with metal ones. The screeching they made was awful.

"Anyway, when will the new engine be here? I'm getting tired of shunting those coaches!" James asked, quickly changing the topic.

The Fat Director lightened up "Well, from what I've been told, the engine is on its way. That is why I am standing here, after all"

Another thought flew into Edward's funnel "What type of engine is it, Sir? You never said what is was"

The Fat Director proudly smiled "Well, I decided that this railway needs a tank engine for a change! So that's why I've ordered an E2" he explained. He once again checked his pocket watch and coughed "Ahem! I'll be back, my boys. I'm just going off to check if the E2 in question is on his way" and with that, he turned heel and walked off. It was just Edward and James now.

"Huh...an E2. Never heard of it, what about you?" Grunted James. Edward hummed thoughtfully "Hmm, I have heard of them, but I've never seen one myself. They're very big tank engines from what I've been told. A bit bigger than a Gresley locomotive"

James guffawed "Wha- bigger than Gordon?!"

"Again, from what I've been told, yes"

Edward's fireman chimed in "Don't know if getting an E2 is a good idea though. I've been at the L.B.S.C.R and E2s are pretty bad at braking and struggle at getting around corners and bends..." He said with uncertainty.

James groaned at this "Great! As if we need another engine as useless as Henry!"

Edward scowled "James, Henry's not..."

Edward quickly fell silent as a sudden shrill whistle echoed in the air. It was a whistle neither engines recognised. If Edward had a physical heart, it would've skipped a beat. Just then, around the corner came an engine that neither engines had seen before. It HAD to be the new engine.

"Hello! Is this Knapford?" The engine called. The engine was about a mile away, but the K2 couldn't help but notice how fairly young the engine sounded. The young engine was puffing towards them at a fast pace, a little too fast for his liking.

"Is that supposed to be the Fat Director's new tank engine? He's quite small if you ask me" James remarked. The tank engine was getting close, and didn't seem to be stopping. Edward's driver was observant of this "He's getting pretty close, shouldn't his driver be putting on the brakes?" He murmured. It was only when the tank engine was just metres away when panic began to arise.

"Woah, wait– why isn't he stopping?! Stop! STOP!!" James cried. Is it a good time to mention that the engine was on James's track?

"STOP!!" James yelled out, frantically trying to reverse. The tank engine finally noticed what was happening and yelped "Ah! Wait! Driver, help!" He cried to the driver, looking frantic. At this point, even Edward was backing up. The engine looked frantic, seeming to forget how his own body worked.

The Larger Seagull knew enough was enough "Oh for Lady's sake, PUT ON YOUR BRAKES, BOY!!" He shouted sharply. The young tank engine quickly did as told and the sounds of his brakes screeching pierced the air. His brakes only slowed him down by a bit, he was still going at a fast pace "I can't stop!" The engine groaned.

That was it. In that moment, Edward decided to take matters into his own wheels. Coming up behind him were switch points. He looked over at the signalman and whistled "POINTS!"

The points were swiftly changed, which resulted in Edward reversing on to the same track as James and the engine.

Edward stopped, then began going forward, towards the engine. Within moments, he and the tank engine's buffers collided. At the same time, Edward put on his brakes, and that definitely seemed like a good move. In minutes, he managed to slow the new engine to a stop.

The tank engine and Edward took a moment to gather their breath, just gazing at each other. Their respective crews climbed out their cabs to catch their own breathes, giving Edward a moment to exams the new engine's appearance.

the tank engine was unexpectedly smaller than Edward thought he'd be, even smaller than him. The tank engine had six small wheels, a short, stumpy funnel, a short, stumpy boiler and a short, stumpy dome. He was painted in a dark teal livery, with white lining and his railway's initials on his side tank, along with his number on his bunker. The tank engine gave Edward a nervous smile "Um...hello!" he said sheepishly. Edward gave him a kind smile in return "Well...hullo' to you too"

The tank engine kept his nervous smile as he backed up a little to give him space "Sorry about that, i–"

"What was THAT about? You could've crashed into me!" James suddenly yelled, switching on to the next track. The engine was taken back, guilt in his eyes "I-I'm sorry! It's just that my brakes don't work well when I go fast, and–"

"Ahem!" Someone coughed. Everyone snapped their gazes and froze when they saw the Fat Director approaching them with his two assistants "What was all the noise about? I couldn't hear the stationmaster over all the screeching!" He boomed. The three gulped anxiously. But when the Fat Director's turned his attention to the new tank engine, he immediately forgot what he was mad about "Ah, my new tank engine! I see you've finally arrived!" He said, walking over to the tank engine.

The teal tank engine put on a smile "Hello...um...Sir" he greeted the director as he looked him up and down. However, the Fat Director's happy look soon turned into a confused one "Hmm..."

James raised an eyebrow "What's happening?"

"I don't know...something must be wrong" Edward whispered, glancing at the director's puzzled look. The tank engine became worried "Is something wrong, Sir?"

"To put it bluntly, yes... i ordered an L.B.S.C.R E2 tank engine. I didn't order any modified Jintys" he said, scratching his chin. The tank engine's eyes widened "What..? But I am an E2" The engine proclaimed, becoming confused.

"Well, I can't exactly agree with you until I know that there wasn't a mix up" The Fat Director then approached the crew "Now, you two. Is he lying?"

The driver shook his head "No, Sir. He's being truthful" the Fat Director's eyes narrowed as he glanced back at the supposed E2. He still wasn't fully convinced "Does he have his blueprints with him?"

"Yes, Sir. They're in the cab"

"Go get them"

The fireman nodded and dashed towards the engine's cab. A few minutes later, he climbed back down from the cab and handed the blueprints to the director. As soon as the Fat Director got to look at the blueprints, an awkward silence fell over them all. The director's eyes narrowed, then slowly widened.

"Well, I'll be damned. You ARE the E2 I ordered..." He said incredulously "You were designed by Lawson Billinton, correct?"

"Yes, Sir! Though, I've never seen him myself" the E2 replied earnestly

Edward and James gasped softly "Oh dear...i think Sir might've been tricked again.." the K2 thought dreadfully. Edward's fireman soon jogged over to get a look himself.

"Do you mind if I take a look, Sir?" The stout gentleman grunted and gave him the paper. After a moment of looking, the fireman looked as confused as the Fat Director "That can't be right... I've seen an E2 before, this blueprint design isn't even accurate... it all looks rushed"

The Fat Director hummed thoughtfully and glanced at the E2's driver "Pardon me, but who gave you these blueprints?"

"One of the workers. They were one of the guys who built him" he replied "He was completed not too long ago. Only a few months" the driver explained. Edward and James were shocked "Goodness, he's incredibly young" Edward muttered.

"I see..." the director hummed. After a moment of thought, the Fat Director looked back up at the tank engine and smiled "I apologise for the misunderstanding, um....?" He gestured for the engine's name.

"No problem, Sir. I'm Thomas" Thomas smiled, trying to ignore what just happened. The Fat Director chuckled "Alright then, Thomas. My name is Richard Topham Hatt, but you, as you know already, are to address me as 'Sir'. Understood?" He said.

"Yes, Sir. I will"

"Very good, now...how well do you fare at shunting, Thomas?" The stout gentleman asked. Thomas beamed "I'm getting good at it, Sir"

"Alright then, sounds splendid! Now, i must get back to my office. I am a busy man, you know. I'll let Edward show you around" said the Fat Director as he wandered up to Edward "Edward, can you also teach him while you're showing him around? I think Thomas needs a bit more experience... especially around Gordon" he whispered. Edward quietly agreed "I will do my best, Sir"

Thomas watched quietly as the railway director finally disappeared from view before looking back at Edward and James, who were staring at him. He raised an eyebrow "What? Do I have soot on my face or something? Why are you two staring?"

Edward's face flushed with embarrassment as he averted his gaze "Oh, um– pardon me, Thomas. It's just that you're...well...not as big as we thought you'd be. You're small, smaller than any of us"

Thomas took offense to this and wheeshed "Puh! Sorry for not reaching your expectations. But believe it or not, I was big enough to do my job at Brighton!" He replied snarkily. He wasn't expecting to meet more arrogant big engines so soon. He switched to another track and puffed away, huffing.

Edward's eyes widened "No, wait! That's not what I meant!" Edward said as he reversed to catch up with Thomas "I just meant you're not as big as we were told you'd be. It's alright if you're small! Look at me, I'm the smallest tender engine on this railway!"

Thomas's expression softened "Well, I may be small, but I'm very hardworking!"

Edward smiled softly "I'm sure you are. My name's Edward, by the way. But the director already mentioned that, didn't he?" he chuckled. Thomas chuckled "Nice to meet you, Edward. You're a lot kinder than all the other tender engines I've met. They just boss me around as soon as they see me!"

"...and I'm James!" Greeted the other tender engine.

“It’s nice to meet you both…I was told that I was going to be a station pilot here?”

Those words made Edward recall the director’s words “Ah, yes. Thomas, come with me. I’ll show you around the yards and the station. I’ll even show you our roundhouse shed up at Tidmouth, I’m sure that’s where you’ll be sleeping” he promised. Thomas whistled eagerly to that and followed Edward as he went to get himself turned around. James watched as they did so.

From that day on, Thomas showed everyone that even the littlest engines can be Really Useful.

[loonatic260]

So often, I think about how Thomas's relationship with Edward (the blind soldier in season 2) would have gone if Edward was permitted to stay and recover at the hospital. I mean, really, there's so many different scenarios of how things *could* have gone for Thomas if his love interests loved him back (and stuck around long enough to make it work).

During the confrontation in the courtyard (S2E2)... Corporal Barrow to his left, Nurse Crawley to his right, and a badgering doctor in front of him, Edward speaks his mind about wanting to stay. "Please— don't send me away. Not yet," the soldier states, contorlling his emotions. And instead of Thomas being cut off this time, he continues to speak, "Sir, surely we... can still take care of him, until the time comes that he is fully recovered." Thomas looks over to Edward, for the response in his gaze that supports and appreciates his efforts, but is quickly reminded that a look of condolence is hard to get out of a blind man. "Corporal Barrow, you will not speak out of turn—" his tone shifts, "every one of our beds is needed for the injurred and dying. Lieutenant, you will make your recovery at Farley. Corporal, I will see you in my office." The doctor pats Edward's shoulder and turns away, leaving the three in silence. Sybil looks to Thomas, then to Edward, "We are fully capable of keeping you here to treat you until you are better. Thomas, I'm sure we can find a way to change the doctor's mind." Thomas takes a long moment to think of what could be said, but Edward breaks his thought by looking up towards him. Thomas knows those bright eyes can't see him, but Edward's longing for an answer, and longing for some way to stay, are clearly conveyed by that deep stare. Thomas distracts himself from the way the light shown across his face and illuminated his scars. "I don't want to leave, Corporal, not right yet. I don't feel fully recovered yet— a convalescent home won't help me." Thomas looks to Sybil. They both know Edward's outlook on his own life; it isn't good, and if they can get him to stay under their care, they'd know he'd be a healthier man of it.

"Please, one man staying here to recover- or convalesce, as you put it- is not getting in the way of us taking care of other injurred soldiers." Thomas stands opposite of the doctor, only a desk between them but many dense layers of invisible emotions as well. "We have the equipment and time to continue to tend to Edward while caring for others' just as well," Sybil enters the office eagerly to back him up. "I am taken aback by both of your confidence. Nurse Crawley, you may be used to having the social upper-hand, but not here. My decision is final in keeping Ed—" The clicking heels of an adamant, old woman can be heard stomping nearer, alerting Clarkson of his likely misjudgment. "Doctor Clarkson, I do beg your pardon, but have you tended to Lieutenant Courtenay as closely as Corporal Barrow or Nurse Crawley?" Her distinct tone sends exaughst from every hole of the doctor's body. "I do recall Thomas talking with the Lieutenant, reading him his letters, and offering condolences, therefore giving him an accurate assessment of Lieutenant Courtenay's mental health." Sybil looks to Thomas from behind, looking to see even the slightest smile peaking through his cheeks, but Corporal Barrow stays straight-faced. Sybil knows they've won this argument now. "And Nurse Crawley has tended to his physical needs and growth in his condition, so she should be more than qualified- in this circumstance- to claim whether or not Lieutenant Courtenay should continue to be seen here, so if she claims he is still of our assistance, then we shall grant him that." Without much more word from Doctor Clarkson— at least not much anything that Thomas had to listen to due to smirking and showing Sybil his slight excitement— Corporal Barrow met Lieutenant Courtenay at his cot.

"Are you happy to be out of your bandages, Lieutenant Courtenay?" Thomas smiled towards Edward, finding himself repeating natural mannerisms from his service at Downton when it wasn't always necessary, especially right now. "Please, don't call me 'Lieutenant.' I've lost that privilege of title the moment I wasn't able to perform my duties properly anymore." Slouching halfway out from under his sheets, he turned away from the sound of Thomas's voice, imagining the disappointment. "You can call me 'Edward'," the soldier finished. Thomas furrowed his brows, "I told you not to be so hard on yourself. I won't lie to you, and I won't tell you that you'll be able to perform your duties properly again, but I can say that you will- and do- have the opportunity to live a good life." Thomas laid his palms on Edward's knuckles, carefully centered on the soldier's knee as if to plead. "I already told you: don't let other's drag you down. It doesn't matter what they think of ya, or do to ya, so you'll resolve things with your brother and mother—" Thomas saw the muscles in Edward's face start to quiver, "Or else I'll have to go knock some sense into them, and they don't want that!" A chuckle was pulled out of Edward as a tear strolled down his cheek, and Thomas gave a laugh of relief to be able to make Edward smile. "We'll take care of you as long as we can, Edward. We'll make things work. Despite what Clarkson thinks is best for someone he doesn't know."

Sybil smiled from the doorway, watching their interaction, and glad of their soldier's brightened spirits. She'd never seen Thomas so emotional before, but it was an effective way of getting through to Edward. Surprisingly, the doctor listened to Isobel once again; it seems that only Isobel can truly get through to Doctor Clarkson.

[hazel-of-sodor]

Day 16-Too Late

Traintober 2023

Other Stories

Day 16-Purpose

Too Late

James was the one to find him. Thomas was hidden among the disused wagons behind Tidmouth. It didn't surprise James that none of the others had found him. Most tended to forget this part of the yard existed. James only knew because this was one of the spots he went to when everything became too much. As it had become for Caomhnóir.

The tank engine's fire had long gone out, his soot covering slowly washing away under the rain. Tear tracks covered his cheeks, but he was utterly unmoving. He had never looked so small to James as he did right then. Thomas had an energy that swelled past his frames, always moving, never still for longer than a second at a time. When he was upset it was easy to forget he wasn't as big as the main line engines. As Caomhnóir...there was a reason the likes of Flying Scotsman listened when he spoke. But right now? James just saw a little engine, bending under the weight placed on his frames.

James silently rolled to a stop in front of the tank engine, his crew walking away, leaving the two engines alone. For a long time, they remained in silence, James just letting him cry.

"I was too late." Caomhnóir finally whispered, his voice rough from crying. "She was already gone when we arrived."

James had no idea who he was talking about, but he could certainly guess at their fate.

"You can't save everyone." He reminded gently.

Caomhnóir's laugh was bitter and broken, "Everyone? Right now I'm failing to save anyone."

Well, that was enough of that.

"So you did dump that goods train on me last week for no reason."

Thomas looked up, confused, "No, I was..."

"And you had Henry sabotage the kipper the week before that for nothing."

"Of course not! I..."

"And Gordon derailed at Barrow completely by accident last month."

Thomas fell silent.

James raised an eyebrow, "Well? Did you or did you not need cover for engines sneaking in three times in a month?"

Thomas sighed, "I did...but it was not enough."

"No its not..and it never will be." James sighed, allowing his own grief to slip through. "But we can either accept that and help you save who we can, or let them take our kin unopposed."

"There's just so many." Caomhnóir sounded lost. "When I realized she was gone I grabbed who I could but..."

He was quiet for a long moment, " I moved as fast as I could but...." He looked helplessly up at James, "How do I tell Gordon Pretty Polly''s gone."

Oh. Well, that explained it.

"You don't," James said. "I will."

Thomas looked up to protest but James pressed their buffers together. "You have enough on your frames without this."

Thomas shook, "she wasn't supposed to be withdrawn yet. We had a plan, but suddenly they withdrew her, and by the time I got there..."

James took a deep breathe to steady himself, "it's still not your fault." He pushed on before the little engine could protest. "By all accounts, you made a sudden mad dash across the entire country undetected to try to save her. If you failed, then it was because there was no way to succeed, not because you failed in any way."

"I ran out of coal on the way back." Thomas admitted, "The midnight goods had to sneak me in."

Well, that explained why his fire was out.

"That only proves you did everything you could."

***

11 years later.

Thomas was resting at Tidmouth when he heard Gordon's whistle, joined by his siblings. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Gordon, Northern, and Scotsman.

Instead, a fourth engine was in front of him, the three expected Gresley's smirking on either side of her.

She, somehow was an A3 Pacific in BR Express Passenger Blue with the number 60061 on her buffer beam.

"I never got to thank you for trying to save me."

"POLLY?!?!?"

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2023: Day 29 - Out of Service

Oliver Wasn't the Only Engine in that Siding:

Oliver the Great Western Engine is thankful for the second chance that Sodor has given him. Every day, he wakes up and says ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you’ to Douglas before starting his day’s duties. Douglas never really understood the custom.

“Ye dinnae need tae thank me ilka day,” Douglas said one morning. “I do though,” Oliver replied quietly. “It’s important to me… to everyone. You saved us when we had no one to turn to, and it’s because of you that I’m here today. That alone is worthy of my eternal gratitude.”

Douglas left it at that, and puffed away to start his day.

Once Douglas had rounded the bend out of sight, Oliver released a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding in. The Caledonian couldn’t possibly know.

There are two days that Oliver will never forget: the first is the day that Douglas rescued him from the Other Railway, but the second…

The second is the day he arrived in that scrapyard; two months prior. He’d been out of coal, unable to find even a single lump of the black fuel source. He’d been captured by a smirking diesel, who’d dragged him up to the Barrow Scrapyard and left him in a cold, damp siding with his coach Isabel and his brakevan Toad. The trio thought they were alone, until an old, scratchy voice broke the silence.

“Welcome to the ‘out of use’ siding,” wheezed the voice. Oliver looked back. Behind him was a row of old, rusty engines. They were not Great Westerns like him – they were ex-LMS stock. The one who had spoken was a grimy Fowler 4F, who was missing both his tender and his dome. He stood right behind Oliver, but ahead of six other engines. Two were Jinty tank engines, one was a Black 5, one was a Stanier 8F, one was an Ivatt 2MT tank engine – and the last was Pettigrew D5, from the Furness Railway.

The other engines didn’t say anything. They just sat there – silent hulks leaving growing shadows on the ground.

“Hello, little runaway,” smirked an oily diesel. Oliver looked up to see a large, grease-smeared Class 28 rumble up alongside him. “We caught you at last.” Oliver glared defiantly. The Great Western engine refused to give the diesel the pleasure of a reply.

“Heh, not a talker?” sneered the diesel. “No matter. We’ve got a little treat in store for you. You’re last on our siding, so I hope you enjoy what comes next.”

And with that, men left the works coach the Class 28 was pulling, and made their way over to the first of the Jintys.

Oliver couldn’t bear to look – but he was forced to listen. Listen to the hiss of the blowtorch, to the screech of 1000 degrees slicing through metal, to the screams of the engine as it was slowly; agonisingly carved up and turned into a pile of parts.

The Class 28 shunted the parts into the smelter’s shed.

Oliver wanted to cry, but the look on the diesel’s kept his eyes dry. The glee – the sheer, unadulterated glee – in that engine’s eyes was sickening. Oliver wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his sick, twisted game was getting to the Western engine.

The scrapper’s had waited a week before returning, with that same smarmy diesel. This time, Oliver got to read the engine’s number off its cab.

D5701.

Oliver noticed that the other Class 28s avoided this one. They looked at this diesel as if he was a monster. Oliver agreed with them. This diesel seemed to take enjoyment from the screams of his victims, listening in for the moment the screams dissolved into whimpers.

The torch worked its way through the engines in the siding. The Staniers and the other Jinty were gone by the end of the month, leaving Oliver with the D5, the Ivatt 2MT and the Fowler 4F. All four rarely spoke – especially not with the other diesels growling and sneering at them. All except the other Class 28s. The rest of that class seemed horrified at their siblings’ actions – and they were the only ones that came near them without bringing death.

D5703 rumbled up beside Oliver one evening, looking around fugitively. “Tonight, the Midnight Goods comes across from Sodor,” she hissed quietly. “We’re going to try and redirect their engine this way – but you need to grab their attention.” Oliver couldn’t find the steam to reply.

“We’ll try,” croaked the Fowler from behind Oliver. “Thank you.”

The night wore on, and the four engines, Isabel, and Toad all waited for signs of a Sodor engine puffing past. Instead, D5701 growled past, dragging D5703 behind as she hissed and hurled insults at her unfeeling sibling.

“Try and help those relics, huh?” he snarled. “Try and derail to bring those disgusting Nor-Westers this way? It’s such a shame that the company wants you gone, little sister.” Oliver watched with wide eyes as D5701 dragged their own sister into the smelting shed. There was the distinct hiss of smelting torches being fired up – and then a single, ear-piercing scream. D5701 growled out of the smelting shed, lip curled up in a snarl.

“And let that be a lesson!” he roared. “There is no escape!” The four steam engines said nothing, didn’t give the furious diesel the satisfaction of a victory.

The next day, the men came for the Ivatt, slicing the young engine up extra slowly.

That was when a second young Class 28 began to visit the trio. D5714 was an unassuming young girl - she wasn’t the youngest of her class, nor the oldest. She just was. She pulled her trains when her Crossley motor allowed her to, and she got her driver to play the radio for her when she couldn’t.

“What is the West like?” she asked Oliver one evening. “Well, it’s wonderful,” grinned Oliver. “Beautiful scenery – and all our coaches were painted chocolate and cream. But… the managers didn’t care about steam. Said we were too inefficient. They were… they were proud to claim their region was the first to… to… to abolish steam.” D5714 gasped. “That’s horrible! The same is happening to my class… they say we’re too expensive to keep running. We aren’t ‘revolutionary’ like the other diesels. Big brother 5702 said our best chance of survival was to learn from the steam engines, and use their wisdom to do better at work. Big brother 5701 wants us all to get into the… the scrapping business. He thinks if we do, we’ll survive on the scrap-merchant’s money. Big sister 5700 was scrapped though… and so was big sister 5703! I saw 5701 drag her off.” Oliver paused, realisation hitting him like a runaway freight train.

The Class 28s weren’t even ten yet. They’d been built in the late 50s! The young girl in front of her couldn’t have been older than eight years old. And here they were, being forced to debate the best way to survive. It was sickening – and it was all British Rail’s fault.

The D5 was the next to go. The poor old engine had been sat in that siding for ten years and had accepted his fate long ago. When the cutters came for him, he simply smiled at them. His voice had been lost during the last downpour, and the rust was creeping up his smokebox. He didn’t scream like the other engines – and Oliver could tell how much that infuriated D5701.

“Why was he so quiet? Are the torches not hot enough?” he demanded. The scrappers all shot the diesel dirty looks. “That engine was meant to have been cut up years ago,” one of them snapped. “You’ve kept him on this siding for nearly a decade, and that’s all you have to say?” Oliver felt sick to his boiler. That old engine had been sat out in the wind and snow and driving rain and baking sun for an entire decade. Longer than most of his replacements had even been alive.

And he could tell that D5714 thought her brother’s words were horrible too. “Don’t mind him,” muttered the Fowler softly. Oliver jumped. The 4F had been silent ever since D5703 had been scrapped. “I… beg your pardon?” “Don’t mind that bully,” the 4F said. “His type has always existed, and they always will. But you can’t let them win.” “How do you know?” asked Oliver. The 4F didn’t reply. Oliver had a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know.

“The Midnight Goods is due in two weeks,” hummed D5714 the next evening. “I wonder if it’ll be that Scot again?” “Scot?” asked Oliver. “Yes – the last one was pulled by some engine with a Scottish accent. He spent a good few minutes hissing insults at 5701.” Oliver noticed that the young engine was no longer referring to her classmate as ‘big brother’.

That evening, D5701 came for the Fowler 4F. Unlike the others, he was dragged out of the siding.

“Well, old timer?” sneered D5701. “It’s your turn. How does it feel to be scrapped by the very people you once worked for?” “Like a cruel irony,” came the blunt reply. “And one I feel you too will come to know.” D5701 laughed – but his laugh was like shards of glass falling, the laugh of a maniac.

“Me?! Ever be shunted off into a siding like you? You outlived your usefulness as a scrapper’s engine, Fowl one, though that’s to be expected from such a relic.” “And what of you? Even as we speak, they are cutting up your class in the sidings of Carlisle. Five gone, and a sixth being withdrawn tomorrow. I do not envy you, if that is what you want me to say. I do not wish to be you, and I will not argue, or beg, or plead, or scream. There is no satisfaction in that. Not anymore.”

D5701’s engine roared at this, backfiring with a massive Bang! A fireball shot up, and he surged forwards, bumping the Fowler hard enough that the old engine went sailing into the smelting shed, joints creaking and groaning before suddenly giving way. The Fowler 4F’s axles shattered beneath him, and he toppled cab over wheels to one side, parts snapping off and smashing down all around the husk of an engine. D5701 smirked.

“You’ll be next, Western,” he said. With that, he rumbled off to deal with scrapping the remains of the Fowler 4F. D5714 sidled up next to Oliver.

“I have a plan,” she said quietly. “But I need you to have at least a little steam. Can your crew build a fire?” Oliver blinked. His crew was somewhere in Barrow – probably trying to find a way to speak to the Fat Controller across the bridge – but he hadn’t heard from them in well over a month. “If you can get them to me, we can probably get something started with all the overgrown weeds…” Oliver replied. D5714 smiled. “Good. When the steam engine arrives, I need you to get their attention, no matter what. Oh! Or if it’s D5702. He’s also a Sodor engine. If you can do that, I can distract everyone else.”

Oliver felt a smile slowly grow on his face. “Thank you,” he whispered. D5714 smiled. “It’s the right thing to do,” she replied. And then she was speeding away before her psychopathic brother could reappear.

Oliver’s crew were back the next day, tugging weeds out of the ground and laying them out in Oliver’s firebox to dry out. They took a floorboard or two from Toad as well. Even so, it was dangerous work. D5701 kept rumbling over to gloat, counting down the days with a manic grin that split his face in two, revealing a row of pearly white teeth. On any other engine, that smile would have been natural, reassuring – D5714 smiled like that sometimes, when Oliver told her about all his adventures back on his branchline – but on D5701, it just seemed sinister.

But he was nowhere to be found the day before the Midnight Goods was due to arrive, in spite of it being the day before he planned to scrap Oliver. D5714 was smirking when she pulled in.

“We’re in luck,” she said. “5701 is stuck at Carnforth due to some faulty points. It gives us an even better chance.” And with that, her driver pulled a sack out of the diesel’s cab and tossed it to Oliver’s driver. The driver opened the bag and gasped.

“Coal!” “It was the last in the bunkers on the branch,” D5714 said. “So use it wisely.” Oliver beamed. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said earnestly. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?” D5714 thought for a moment, then smiled shyly. “I would like… a name.”

Oliver stopped dead, stunned. “You don’t have a name?” “Not many diesels do,” D5714 replied quietly. “British Rail says it encourages deviant behaviour – but I heard that all steam engines have names!” “We do,” said Oliver proudly. “I’m Oliver… and you… what do you think of Eleanor?” “Like that American woman?” asked D5714. “The one who helped found the United Nations?” “Yes,” Oliver replied. “Eleanor Roosevelt. I met her when she came to Britian during the war. One of the most amazing people I’d ever spoken to. She wanted to help everyone… a lot like you.” “I… I like it.” “Then pleased to finally meet you, Eleanor.” Eleanor blushed, and was about to leave when the pair heard a disturbingly familiar horn echo through the yards.

“Quick! He’s coming back!” hissed Oliver. Eleanor sped away, and vanished just before D5701 finally returned. Oliver’s crew hid in Isabel, daring not to make a sound. “One night left, steam kettle,” sneered D5701. “I’m going to enjoy tomorrow.”

With that, he rumbled away.

Night fell. Oliver’s crew began building a small fire in Oliver’s firebox, having first checked his tanks had water. They were in luck. All was still in the yards.

Then, suddenly, the fire alarm rang out, just as a sharp, deep, Caledonian Railway whistle boomed in the distance. Oliver could see in the distance that the main sheds were on fire – and D5714’s plan was suddenly in motion.

Oliver could only hope that his crew had built enough of a fire to make steam.

Back to Master Post

[thevoiceofthebard]

Chapter 4 - Hadvar II: Before The Storm

Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 Early Afternoon

Hadvar

Fresh air hits me in the face; a welcome relief after an hour of stale cave air. But no time to relish it yet. I keep low to the ground, dashing to a nearby rock for cover. Waiting. Listening.

There, the beat of heavy wings. A monstrous roar passes above me, but thankfully I seem to have gone unnoticed. I hope. The dragon flies swiftly to the south, passing over a nearby ridge and out of sight.

I wait another moment before I signal the all-clear behind me. Were anyone watching at the time, they'd probably have been surprised to see the ragtag group of both Imperials and Stormcloaks escaping the cave. To be frank, I know I still was. To see a Stormcloak helping out an Imperial with a broken leg. I could say it was solely the fear of the dragon forcing enemies together, rivalries forgotten in the face of survival, but in reality...

I see Talao in the middle of the group, telling a joke, bringing laughter in what was essentially the aftermath of a warzone. The man's charisma is astounding. He convinced every single soldier we met within Helgen into joining the escape effort. He pulled citizens from rubble with us, and even once physically stopping a soldier trying to stab another in the back. Then berated him so soundly, the man willingly threw away his weapon in remorse. Quite a sight.

The soldiers and townspeople laugh and whoop as they leave the cave, breathing in the midday air. Smiles surround me. But for the sight of smoke in the distance behind us, there is no sign of the hell we went through here, and it is invigorating. Cheerful goodbyes are exchanged, then the groups head out; Imperials to the west, Stormcloaks to the east. Ralof, Talao, and I, however, head north to Riverwood; my hometown, and Ralof's too. The dragon had gratefully passed it by, its bloodlust seemingly satisfied. But it was unlikely anyone had understood exactly what it was, if they had seen it at all. We needed to spread the word, and quickly. We would spend the night in Riverwood, then Talao would set off for Whiterun, the nearest city, and and trading capital of Skyrim, while Ralof and I would warn Riften and Markarth, respectively. The other holds would be passed through by returning soldiers, but for Dawnstar and Winterhold, more easily reached by boat couriers. The holds may be shored up for war, but dragons... That's beyond what anyone could have prepared for in this day and age.

In the meantime, however, the walk to Riverwood is subdued. True, Talao does ask a few questions about the area, and I am glad to point our a few of the sights, such as the infamous Bleak Falls Barrow - nasty place, that, and source of no few nightmares in my youth. Draugr sneaking in during the night, and all that. But for the most part, an icy silence lingers between Ralof and myself. He studiously ignores me, but I can't help wondering what goes through his mid.

We grew up together in Riverwood. Small town that it is, we became swift friends and rivals, bumping heads, but sharing a stolen mug of mead at the end of the night. He was always the impulsive one. Not to say I was smarter, simply more level-headed. Even at a young age, he and his family were utterly devoted in their worship of Talos. When the Empire's war with the Aldmeri Dominion came, we were too young to join the fight. Ralof's father died in the war, and his mother drank herself to an early grave, leaving him in the care of his sister. My father was a Legionnaire, and his before him, but both had died long before that war. So I couldn't relate to the anguish he felt during that time.

Then the terms of the White-Gold Concordat became known. At first, few in Skyrim paid much attention, as much from disbelief as disgust. How could you tell a people who they were allowed to worship? And how would you enforce their thoughts? But when word of Aldmeri Enforcers executing entire families for open worship of Talos started circulating, even Ralof took his faith behind closed doors. Until his cousin was spirited away one night. It wasn't hard to put two and two together then. I never saw a man run so fast as when word of Ulfric's rebellion reached Riverwood.

Knowing all this... Could I truly despise the man for joining the Stormcloaks?

The silence was getting to me, and the quiet swell of the river wasn't helping at all. "Hey, Talao." The Breton seems caught up in the scenery around him, and I have to call him again to catch his attention. Wish I could be so carefree. "What exactly were you doing at Darkwater Crossing when you stumbled in that ambush?"

"Nothing terribly extraordinary." Out of danger, I notice now how soothing the man's voice is; leagues separate from the usual harsh voices I am accustomed to hearing in Skyrim. "My companion and I were merely travelling, searching for excitement."

"You're an adventurer?" Ralof asks, somewhat skeptical. I can't help but agree with him in my mind; the man is much too wiry and... Well, of course, his injury.

"Though I might sometimes wish it, no. I ply my trade as a bard. I hire or follow adventurers around, hoping to capture some new story to tell. Randolph, the man I was travelling with, had told me he was planning something grand, so I followed to see what would occur." Talao's face showed a strange combination of disappointment and glee. "Though I doubt a man idiotic enough to charge a line of Legionnaires would have amounted to more than a pitiable laugh. Ah well, at least some good came of it."

This puzzles me. "For the life of me, I can't see any bright side to your story."

He answers with an incredulous look. "Honestly? You don't see anything fantastical about the sighting of the first dragon since the Second Era? The appearance of a long-extinct race? Something world-changing is afoot, and I intend to be there to witness it!"

"Incredible indeed," Ralof replies offhandedly. "Quite the series of events that lead you to that chopping block with us. Maybe that dragon came just for you, eh?"

...I feel like I'm missing out on something important. I almost miss the slight fall of Talao's smile, as he responds, "I highly doubt that. I'm not nearly important enough for such theatrics. Lucky happenstance to be audience, that's all." Ralof seems to be scrutinizing Talao. Again, I wonder what on Nirn is going on in his head.

For better or worse, the swiftly approaching town of Riverwood interrupts our conversation. Still standing; thank the Eight the dragon passed it by. It was jarring, passing through the gate into the sleepy town. We've only just escaped the jaws of a gods-honest dragon scant hours ago, and yet here life goes on the same as always. As if nothing happened. Which, I suppose, would be true if no one had been looking up recently. That's life, I guess. Though if that dragon is a herald for more, I doubt even Riverwood will remain so lax. Our destination reached, we split; Ralof and I to our families, and Talao to the inn. Supposedly to gather information and supplies before heading to Whiterun.

Hopefully he'll get there before any dragons do.

Chapter 3 - Hadvar I: Unbound x Chapter 5 - Sven I: Before The Storm

[putuponpercy]

Hi I haven't written a fic for this fandom in over a year but I saw the first couple paragraphs in my drafts last night and went in a trance at 1am finishing it anyways here's a little snippet from The Early Days section of my They're Just People AU enjoy

-

Thomas glared at the small flock of seagulls a short distance away, fighting over the small scraps of food Edward threw in their direction. "You shouldn't feed them.”

His colleague merely shrugged. "A little won't do too much harm," he said, chucking another scrap towards the hungry birds.

"Nasty things," grumbled Thomas, shaking his head. "Lost many a decent meal to them back when I was on the streets.”

"Well you needn't have to worry about that now. You're plenty fed.”

A tut and an eye roll was Thomas' only response.

Come to think of it, the young’un had been in a particularly sour mood for the majority of the day. More so than usual. Reaching into his lunchbox, Edward pulled out half a sandwich then held it out to his companion. “Sarnie for your thoughts?”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. “Ain't tuna is it?”

“Chicken and sweetcorn.”

Satisfied Thomas plucked the sandwich from Edward’s grasp, wasting no time in scarfing it down while Edward waited patiently for his colleague to spill the beans. He didn't pressure Thomas, even after the young lad had finished eating and opted for fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater in silence. He knew Thomas would speak up in his own time. For whatever reason, ever since that fateful night the pair crossed paths at Barrow Central Thomas had chosen to put his full unwavering trust in Edward, although Edward wasn't exactly sure why. All he did was offer the lad a hot meal in exchange for getting him and his engine across the bridge.

“Reggie and Bart returned to the Main Land this morning.”

Speaking of.

Edward's brow raised in surprise. “Have they? Huh… that's the first I've heard of it.”

“And Alfie and Raymond are leaving this evening,” continued Thomas. “Isaac and Harry too.”

Humming, Edward grabbed the flask sitting next to his lunchbox. He unscrewed the cap and took a small sip of his tea. “Seems more and more are heading back by the day.” After another sip he gave a reassuring smile. “Worry not, I'm sure it'll be us soon.”

“And then what? What happens after we leave here?”

“Well… I suppose it's back to passenger trains and goods runs across the Furness line. Shame really. Not that I'm complaining, no. But Sodor’s been a breath of fresh air I suppose. Nice to feel useful after…” Edward trailed off, trying to shake off the memories of how his coworkers back on the Main Land often spoke down or belittled him. “Still, the Furness Railway is my home.”

The two lapsed into silence, though it wasn't comfortable, the air still felt as if something was left unsaid. Taking a quick peek at his pocket watch, Edward wasted no more time in packing up his lunchbox. “Right, come along you. Sir Topham Hatt wanted to see us before our goods train this afternoon.”

“Is’at right? What could the Fat Controller want to see us for?”

Edward tsked. “I do wish you wouldn't entertain the other's idea of such a demeaning nickname.”

Thomas waved him off. “Shove off will ya, it's not like we call him that to his face.”

“I dare wonder if that makes it even worse.” Shaking his head, Edward continued, “Regardless, we should make haste. Who knows, perhaps he'll tell us our loan period is up ‘an all. That this time tomorrow we'll be the ones crossing that bridge back to the Main Land!”

“Back to Furness Railway, you mean?” Thomas asked quietly, expression unreadable.

“Precisely.” Tilting his head to one side, Edward frowned. “Hadn't we just gone over that?”

Abruptly, Thomas stood, balling his fists at his sides. “But Edward- I don't work for Furness Railway, remember? You picked me up off the streets because you didn't have a fireman. What's going to happen to me once we go back? They'll kick me out the moment they realise I'm not one of them! I can't go back to living on the streets, Edward - I can't go - I don't want to go back there! I-”

Two warm hands gently clasped Thomas’ own that had found their way up to gripping his hair somewhere amidst his panic. “Thomas, I need you to breathe for me. Deep breaths now, in - and out. Good lad, and again.”

Thomas followed suit, taking a few shaky breaths. When had his breathing gotten out of control? When did he start crying for Christ's sake? His hands slowly lowered from his head, feeling Edward give them one last reassuring squeeze before pulling away. “...sorry,” he said pathetically.

“Don't be daft, you've got nothing to be sorry for,” Edward replied without a beat. His gaze softened. “I should apologise. I had no idea how distraught you had been feeling about all this. I just wished you had brought it up sooner rather than letting it build up like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said again. “It's just that, coming here - to Sodor - has been the best thing to ever happen to me, least from what I remember. I have a roof over me head, I don't have to worry about when my next meal will be, I have a job, and you- Edward you've been ever such a good friend to me.” He paused, batting a hand across his damp cheek. “I'm terrified to lose it all.”

Edward swallowed a lump in his throat at being called ‘friend’. He never had quite gotten along with his coworkers back home, so in a sense, Thomas was his first real friend since joining the railway. He placed a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “I wouldn't be such a good friend if I allowed you to go back to living on the streets, would I?”

Confused, Thomas asked, “But where else would I go?”

Edward shrugged. “Well, while my flat isn’t exactly grand in size I'm sure there's some room to squeeze you in.”

Blue eyes widened. “What? You're saying I can come live with you?”

“I mean- only if you'd like to-”

“Of course!” Thomas cried, leaping over to squeeze the other in a hug. “Thank Edward, thank you! I won't cause no bother I swear!”

Edward grinned. “No bother? That doesn't sound quite like you,” he teased, giving the other lad a pat on the back.

Pulling away, Thomas matched him with a cheeky smile of his own. “Well- within reason, of course.”

“Of course. And I'm sure we can try and get you work on their railway, although the chances are it won't be as my fireman, there are still plenty of opportunities. Even if it's something as giving Old Coppernob’s engine a good polish.”

“As long as it's nothing to do with stinky fish I'm up for anything!”

Chuckling at his enthusiasm, Edward took another glance at his pocket watch and almost gawked at the time. “Right, come along you, we're running late! Don't want to keep the Fat - I mean - Sir Topham Hatt waiting.”

Renewed with energy and anticipation for the future the pair climbed aboard their engine together ready to tackle the rest of the day ahead, unbeknownst to them that the Fat Controller was about to drop the bombshell that Furness Railway had expressed that they now had zero interest in having Edward, nor his engine, return home to them.

[aneurinallday]

The Tragedy of James Steerforth

Chapter X: Blood and Broth

Steerforth was woken, as always, by the need to clear his lungs. He awoke coughing, opening his eyes to find himself in a sunlit bedroom. He was lying in a clean and spacious bed, between crisp sheets that smelled freshly laundered. Plump pillows propped him into a sitting position, and his rags had been removed and replaced with a white night-shirt.

David Copperfield was sitting at the foot of the bed, his elbow leaning against the wooden frame, his head resting in his hand. He looked tired. His eyes were closed.

“...Daisy,” Steerforth whispered. “Daisy…”

David quickly opened his eyes and straightened up.

“James.” He clasped Steerforth’s lower leg through the quilt. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“...Throat hurts.”

“There’s some beef tea on the boil.”

Steerforth’s bleary eyes drifted about the room, lingering on the curtains, the cluttered writing desk, one of Agnes’ shawls draped forgotten over the back of a chair - the trappings of a comfortable and well-loved home. Something he hadn’t experienced since the day he’d left London for Yarmouth.

“Where are we?” he mumbled.

“At my home.”

“How did I get here?”

“We brought you here from the East End.”

“Why?”

“So we can take care of you. You’re going to stay here until you’re feeling better.”

“But why would you do that?”

“What else could I do? You were my friend for much of my life. That isn’t so easily forgotten.”

“I forgot it,” said Steerforth quietly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did any of those things. I just - ”

“Let’s not talk about it right now. You need to concentrate on getting well again. We’ll have plenty of time to talk once you’re well again.”

“Is it morning?”

“Yes. It’s about nine o’clock. I’ve sent for a physician to come and have a look at you. His name is Dr Barrow and apparently he’s very skilled. He’ll be here in the afternoon. I was hoping he could come sooner, but his schedule was busy…In the meantime, I’ll write a letter to Mrs Steerforth, to let her know you’re here.”

“No!” Steerforth quickly protested, ”No, don’t. Don’t tell her. I can’t…I can’t let her see me like this.”

“But she loves you, James. She’s your mother, for God’s sake. She’ll want to see you, to hold you, to look after you.”

“No,” Steerfooth shook his head, “Please, don’t. Don’t tell her I’m here. I can’t face her.”

He was breathing too fast - short, sharp gasps, trying to compensate for the fact that he couldn’t take a deep breath. His lungs were filled with viscid mucus, leaving little room for air.

“Alright,” David reluctantly gave up. Steerforth was growing agitated, and stress would only cause his weakened body to deteriorate further. “I won’t tell her. Once you’re better, you can write to her yourself, alright?”

Steerforth began to speak again, but coughed instead. The infection had plagued him for a fortnight now, but had drastically worsened in the week since his eviction. He’d started coughing up thick, discoloured globs which took minutes of coaxing to eject, and which were instantly replenished. After each expulsion, he would breathe a little easier, but the blessed relief only lasted for a few moments until the catarrh returned. No matter what position he lay, sat, or stood in, he simply couldn’t find any respite. The heavy rain had been the final nail in the coffin.

His coughing subsided, and he wiped his mouth on the white sleeve of his night-shirt. David watched him with worry.

“Wait here,” he said, as if Steerforth could go anywhere. “The tea should be done by now. I’ll go and check.”

David hurried out of the room, leaving Steerforth alone, wheezing in the silence - wet, rattling wheezes from deep within his chest.

He looked towards the sash window. The elegant curtains were only half-drawn, revealing a blue sky outside, and he could hear the familiar sounds of Central London - the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of coach wheels, the soft chatter of voices. People going about their daily business, unaware that in one of the nearby houses, just a few feet away, a man was dying.

Soon David returned, carrying in one hand a tea-cup on a saucer, and in the other hand a small plate with a bread roll. He put the plate down on Steerforth’s lap, and carefully placed the tea-cup and saucer in Steerforth’s grasp.

“Here. It’s beef tea. Try to drink.”

The savoury smell of boiled beef drifted up to Steerforth’s nose. Trembling, he took a sip. His feeble hands threatened to spill the hot liquid on himself. David cupped his own hands around Steerforth’s, steadying the cup so that he could continue.

“Have as much as you can.”

Steerforth did his best, but only managed a few more sips. The rich smell was getting to him, making him nauseous. Sensing that he was pushing Steerforth too far, David quickly set the unfinished cup aside.

“There we go. Well done. Now try to eat something.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Just a little. It’ll help you, I promise.”

Steerforth looked down at the bread in his lap. He was both hungry and not hungry; his belly was empty yet his appetite was curiously absent. Pulling the roll in half, he tore the soft white crumb out of the crust and ate it. The mere act of chewing felt like a Herculean endeavour. He washed the mouthful down with another sip of beef tea, but that was all he could handle.

“I can’t eat it,” he said.

“What about a soft-boiled egg?” David suggested, “Or maybe some mashed potatoes?”

“No. I feel sick.”

“Alright. We’ll try again later.”

Steerforth lay back, trying to suppress the unease in his belly. The hot liquid had thinned his phlegm, and he was able to breathe more easily. As he lay there, he heard distant voices from downstairs - Agnes and Ham.

“Is Ham Peggotty here?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s been staying here while taking a break from Yarmouth. He helped search for you, and he helped bring you here.”

“Is he still angry?” an edge of panic entered Steerforth’s voice.

David hesitated, but it wasn’t in his nature to lie.

“Yes,” he admitted, “But don’t worry. He won’t harm you. He’s a good man.”

“Don’t let him near me, Daisy, please.”

“Shh,” David shushed him, ”Listen to me. Ham’s a good man. Remember that night on the boat - he swam out and rescued you. Remember? He rescued you!”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Steerforth calmed. Stifling a cough, he closed his eyes and tried to rest.

He heard David walk to the other side of the room, settle down in a chair, and start rustling through papers. Soon he heard the scratching of David’s quill-pen against the page, which lulled Steerforth into a deep stupor, the closest he could come to true sleep. He didn’t realise time had passed until he felt someone shaking his shoulder.

“James.” David roused him gently. “James, wake up. The doctor is here.”

Groggy, Steerforth opened his eyes.

“The doctor?” he croaked.

“Yes, the one I summoned. Agnes is showing him in now.”

“...Ah.” Steerforth tried weakly to sit up. In the cold light of day, his face was haggard and grey. “Is it afternoon already?”

“Yes, it is. For supper, I was thinking we could - ”

Before David could finish his sentence, the door opened and an elderly gentleman entered, carrying a large leather kit. He looked Steerforth up and down.

“Good day, Mr…?”

“Steerforth,” the patient introduced himself. “James Steerforth.”

“Mr Steerforth. I say, that name sounds familiar. Was there a book about you? My granddaughter likes to read these silly things, and she spoke of a James Steerforth who lived in London - ”

“Please, Dr Barrow,” David interrupted, “Is there anything you can do to help him?”

“You say he has consumption?”

“That’s what we suspect.”

The physician placed his kit down with a thump and began to rummage through it. David and Steerforth were both disturbed to hear the metal tools rattling inside. Barrow donned his stethoscope.

“Hold still for me, Mr Steerforth.”

He held the resonator to Steerforth’s chest and listened for a minute, then sighed and pulled out the earpieces.

“There’s no doubt about it,” he said, “It’s as you feared.”

“What can be done?” David asked nervously.

“Nothing that has been proven to work. I recommend food, rest, and exercise.”

“But sir, he can’t eat, he can’t sleep, and he can’t walk.”

“Well then, he must apply himself with more determination.”

“Is there really nothing else you can do? Medicine or...”

“Well, I could try to let out the bad blood.”

“Isn’t that a little old-fashioned?”

“Mr Copperfield, don’t be so quick to discredit old remedies. They have been relied upon for centuries for a reason.”

“Then please do it. Anything that might help him.”

“Very well.”

Barrow pulled out a set of scalpels, a bowl, and a short iron rod. Rather roughly, he pushed Steerforth’s left sleeve up as far as it would go, and placed the rod in Steerforth’s left hand.

“Grip this tight.”

Steerforth obeyed. His arm went rigid as he squeezed, the veins and sinews standing out starkly. Barrow took advantage by quickly nicking the inside of Steerforth’s elbow with a small knife. Steerforth winced as the incision was made, letting out a whimper at the pain. His right hand clutched at the quilt for comfort.

“Don’t move, Mr Steerforth,” Barrow commanded, placing the bowl underneath Steerforth’s elbow to catch the drops. “The contaminated blood needs time to drain.”

Steerforth tried to take a breath, steeling himself against the sharp sting in his elbow, but the inhalation triggered a cough.

“Be careful,” said Barrow, “You’ll knock the bowl over.”

Steerforth did his best to keep still, but his discomfort was plain. He’d gotten in plenty of fights at school, but the amount of blood accumulating in the bowl was making his head spin. He turned his face away from the sight, but couldn’t block out the sound it made. The steady drip-drip-drip of liquid seemed unnaturally loud.

“Daisy, do I really have to do this? I don’t like it.”

“I’m sure it’s for the best, James. Dr Barrow knows what he’s doing. Just try to relax.”

Minutes passed, then a half-hour, then an hour. He watched as the blood slowly drained from Steerforth, taking with it what vestiges of vitality he still had. Any semblance of colour left his face, leaving him as white as the bed-sheets.

“Is it enough yet?” he asked faintly.

“Not quite. Soon,” David assured him.

Blood continued to drip into the bowl, and Steerforth’s strength continued to fade. David tried to take his mind off the bleeding with conversation, but Steerforth became less and less responsive. He lay motionless on the bed, propped up on pillows, too weak to move. His pale and sickly form, dressed in a white night-shirt, seemed to disappear into the sheets. He began to mutter meaningless noises.

“Dr Barrow, how long do we have to do this for?” David asked uneasily.

“Until the bowl is full,” the physician answered.

For a while, Steerforth lay gazing at the ceiling. He seemed to have achieved a state of serenity, or at least of resignation. But then he looked down at his arm, and remembered that he was bleeding, and a panic came over him. He sat bolt upright with a jerk, struggling away from the blood, almost knocking the bowl over.

“What are you doing?” he cried out. He grabbed the edge of the quilt and pressed it to his arm to stem the bleeding. “What are you doing to me?”

“Calm yourself, Mr Steerforth,” said Barrow sternly. “Hold still or you’ll make a mess of the bed.”

“It hurts. Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“But it hurts! Please stop.”

“Enough of that nonsense. Hold still or I’ll have to tie you down. You don’t want that, do you?”

David grasped Steerforth’s shoulders, trying to soothe him.

“My friend, please be calm. We’re trying to help you.”

“Make him stop, Daisy. Make him stop.”

David looked up at the doctor.

“Are you sure this is for the best?” he demanded.

“Mr Copperfield, from the lack of a ‘doctor’ before your name, I assume you’re not in the medical profession.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then don’t seek to tell me how to treat my patients.”

“But surely this agitation can’t be good for him?”

Steerforth swayed.

“Daisy, I don’t - I don’t feel - ”

His eyes abruptly rolled back, and he blacked out, collapsing onto the pillows.

“Right, that’s enough,” David snapped, “Put a bandage on that arm, or - or a tourniquet or something.”

“Abandoning a course of treatment halfway rarely results in recovery, Mr Copperfield. I recommend that you continue with the bleeding.” The doctor was already packing his things.

“You can’t be leaving already?” David exclaimed.

“I have many other patients to see today. And Mr Steerforth seems determined to be uncooperative.”

“Fine. My wife has the payment ready for you - ask her for it.”

“I certainly shall.” Barrow left.

David fetched clean clothes and began to clean and dress Steerforth’s arm. Steerforth regained consciousness just as David was bandaging his elbow.

“Daisy?” he mumbled, “Did it work?”

“I think so - I mean, I’m sure it did.” A dark red stain slowly formed on the white cloth. David pulled down Steerforth’s sleeve to hide it. “There. All better. Do you want something to eat?”

But Steerforth was already gone again, his eyes wandering behind closed eyelids.

Chapter XI: Sickbed

[partystoragechest]

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

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this epilogue, the Baroness searches for hope.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Giles' Epilogue. Erridge's Epilogue. End. Words: 2,014. Rating: all audiences, apart from one swear.)

Epilogue: The Baroness

History often wrote of hope being found amongst the desolation of battlefields. But as her carriage neared Val Misrenne, the Baroness Touledy believed this to be little more than poetry.

The farmland she knew had been scorched beyond recognition. Trees were slaughtered where they stood. Homes, burnt to blackened timber. Homes she knew the occupants of.

Touledy warned herself to expect the same of the town. Worse, even. The gates approached, and all she could imagine waiting beyond them was nothing but emptiness, silence, and death.

The last thing she expected was to hear a child’s laughter.

Yet, by those very gates, a gaggle of children played. They recognised her carriage, and hurried to follow—singing, cheering, giggling. As children ought.

The streets beyond were no less vibrant. A washer-woman hung the day’s laundry. Masons scraped up fresh mortar. A hunter carried a brace of game. A bookseller swept out his porch. Precious vignettes of life.

Perhaps history was a poet, after all.

The Baroness’ little parade saw her escorted to the centre of town, and the grand Orlesian manor that stood there—tall and defiant as ever. Her home. Her hall. The heart of Val Misrenne.

Its gates were quite useless, for they were always open—and today was no different. Her carriage trundled through, halting only for those who criss-crossed the gravel road ahead. And there were many. The gardens of the hall had not seen such a hive of activity since the last fete!

The entire town was at work, it seemed. Logs were chopped, wicker woven, blankets mended. Any skill that could be afforded was given in service of the community.

And now the Baroness would give hers.

She alighted her carriage before the horses even came to a stop. Her call went out, to the first able-bodied workers she saw:

“You there, help unload these supplies! The flour is for the bakeries, and the food is to be distributed amongst those who need it most. Feed the sick, the elderly, and the young!”

Magnetised by her command, plenty complied. The many sacks she’d stuffed her carriage with were hauled up and out, passed along chains, loaded onto barrows for delivery. Fresh, shining apples were already within the hands of the children who’d welcomed her home.

Within her chest, the lingering pain of impotence began to alleviate its hold. So many had called her ‘Baroness’ during her absence, but it was not until this moment that she felt she truly worthy of the title. And yet, it seemed she was not the only deserving one. Someone had to be responsible for all this hubbub—and Touledy quite suspected she already knew who this other might be.

“Clarisse!”

Thallia.

She struck Touledy like an arrow, in a heart-piercing embrace. It took the full support of Touledy’s cane to save them from a fall.

“Thallia,” she breathed, “are you all right?”

“I’m alive,” muttered Thallia. She made a limp gesture at her continued existence. “That is the best I can say.”

“Then that is enough.”

Truly, to see her without wound or mar was all Touledy required. Thallia had a face too fresh and sweet to see war. Her blemished brown skin, noticeably short stature, and pouf of unruly curls all made her look remarkably adolescent.

(Especially to Touledy, who could not bear to admit that her dear little sister would ever age.)

But that appearance was deceptive, for Thallia possessed the wisdom and sense of a woman thrice her years—something that Val Misrenne had much reason to be grateful for. The life and activity that filled these gardens would not have manifested without it.

Though the Baroness could not help but note that, though plentiful, the crowds were not complete. “A memorial should be held, for the lost,” she muttered.

“Oh! There is, tomorrow,” Thallia told her. “We’re having it here, on the lawn. Nothing extravagant, though Lommy’s gathered us candles, and Aislee sewed a banner of the Inquisition, to raise in honour of what they did for us.”

The grass was a little overgrown for such usage, but it would have to do. “I should be glad to attend,” Touledy said.

“Yes. It’s fortunate you were able to return in time to do so.”

Not truly. Fortunate would have been returning in time to prevent the requirement for a memorial in the first place.

“What of those in need?” Touledy asked, an attempt to refocus herself. “Are there any without homes?”

“There are,” Thallia confessed. “Some have been taken in by family or neighbours.”

“Then I shall invite those who have not been provided for to stay within the hall until we find them permanent residence.”

There would be no part of her that she would not give to restore her people. Anything to repay the debt of what they had laid down in her absence.

“Oh,” said Thallia, “I already did.”

Touledy stopped, and stared.

“Sorry—we couldn’t wait for your permission,” Thallia explained. “I simply did what I thought you would do.”

“Oh.”

A child ran up. They held out a cup of lukewarm tea, complaining of the temperature. Thallia smiled, and laughed, and waved her hand over the cup with far more flourish than such a spell truthfully demanded. The drink was warm once more, and the grateful child skipped away.

Touledy chuckled. To say that Thallia had acted as she would was nothing more than flattery. For as much credit as Thallia would give her influence, Touledy knew better. Thallia possessed such great compassion and intelligence well before her arrival in Val Misrenne. Had she not, she never would have come.

In all of this, Thallia had not merely acted as she would. Thallia had acted as the Baroness of Val Misrenne would.

That difference mattered.

***

The words to describe the emotion she felt upon seeing Val Misrenne still standing were difficult to find—but Touledy had to find them. She would leave no detail of her relief out of her letter to Trevelyan.

She wrote this letter at her desk, in her personal study. The room was characterised by ceiling-high bookshelves, a small fireplace, and a large portrait of the Touledy family above it. All this might have made it stuffy, rather than cosy, if not for the tall, ornate windows that bestowed great light, and permitted such precious views of the town below.

But, being as her attention was caught upon these windows and the view they beheld, the Baroness did not quite notice the presence creeping up behind her.

“Who are you writing to?” asked Thallia.

Touledy startled. She shifted her hand, as if to aid herself in turning to face Thallia—and yet, her palm just so happened to conceal the name of the addressee.

“The Inquisition,” Touledy said, “to let them know that all is well—at least for now.”

Thallia hummed. “Didn’t you bring back a bird for that?”

“I did, but that is for emergencies. Besides, I should like the additional words, to be able to adequately express my gratitude for their intervention. Val Misrenne would not stand so tall were it not for their efforts.”

Thallia seemed to accept this answer well enough, and Touledy took to writing again. She renewed her quill with ink, and continued scribing a sentence from exactly where she’d left off.

“Who is the Arcanist Trevelyan?” Thallia asked.

With her hand departed to write, the name was laid bare—and Thallia had taken full opportunity to glimpse it. Cheeky thing! Touledy affectionately rolled her eyes.

“A friend within the Inquisition,” she answered.

“Oh?” The raise of her eyebrows could be heard in Thallia’s voice. “A ‘friend’?”

Touledy glanced up, to shoot her a look—but saw that Thallia had come to rest by the mantle, beneath the portrait of the Touledy family. The Baroness found her eyes lingering upon it.

“I wonder if you should not like to join the Inquisition yourself?” she muttered, returning to her writing. “A mage of your ability would have a bright future there, I am certain.”

“What?”

“The Arcanist herself is a formidable mage, and I am certain would accept you as an apprentice should I ask. You could achieve great things there.”

Thallia paused before responding: “Having seen what their Inquisitor is capable of, I am sure. But—why?”

Touledy downed her quill. “What do you mean?”

“Well—do you wish us to go?” wondered Thallia. “The mages, I mean. I would understand. I am sure we would be safer in the Inquisition, and Val Misrenne safer without us. If that is what you wish.”

“No, no—that is not at all what I meant. I simply wish that you be sure Val Misrenne is your future. The world is great and wide, and has remarkable opportunities for someone like you. I would not want you to stay out of service to anyone—living or dead.”

Her eyes could not help but trail to the portrait once more. To her father, regal and tall. Her mother, soft and wise. Her young self, sweet and bright. And her brother.

Ouen, frozen at the age he left. Perfectly preserved was the mismatch of his round face and fragile body. Those optimistic eyes shone through the paint, wide for the world they sought to change. But, if anything, the artist had truly captured his smile. Big and wonky. When she was a toddler, all he would have to do was smile, and she’d laugh.

Touledy hadn’t seen that smile since he departed.

“I understand,” muttered Thallia, her eyes also on the painting, her eyes also glistening. “But I like Val Misrenne. It’s my home. I wouldn’t have fought so hard for it if it weren’t.” She offered Touledy a smile. “Perhaps I could do great things in the Inquisition—but perhaps I could do great things here, too. I hope I do.”

“So do I,” said Touledy. She gripped her cane, and stood her full height. “Which… is why I wish to name you my heir.”

“What?”

Val Misrenne’s future had seemed so certain, in that family portrait. The Touledys were strong. And now, Clarisse Touledy was the only one left. That made them vulnerable.

Val Misrenne needed another.

“I am not invincible. These last months have proven that much. Should I fall, Val Misrenne requires one who will stand. And given I have no spouse and no children, it is only right that I name an heir. You have proven yourself a capable leader; I can think of none more suitable.”

“But—I’m a mage!” Thallia protested. “The Council of Heralds won’t like that.”

“The Council of Heralds can go fuck themselves.”

Her head shook. “I’m—not sure I could do it.”

“You already have.” Touledy gestured towards the window. Beyond the panes, the gardens bustled with the life that Thallia commanded. “These are the actions of a Baroness of Val Misrenne. You said so yourself.”

“You’d have to teach me everything you know.”

Touledy smiled. “Of course. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. I shall have to occupy the time somehow.”

“And who knows,” Thallia joked, “you may produce a natural heir yet! Though this Commander didn’t turn out so well, there are more to be had. You speak well of that Arcanist, after all… is there not something there?”

Touledy’s eyes dipped away. Small wonder that, of all people, Thallia was the one to notice.

“She is a friend, and cannot be anything more,” murmured Touledy. “Should you wonder who the Commander chose...”

“Oh, dear. Then why not save her from that dullard?”

“Because she is happy, and deserves to be so.”

Thallia frowned. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Hardly.” Touledy snatched up her cane, and marched back to her desk. “Besides, I am not so down on my luck.” She took her seat, and slid across another leaf of vellum, quill poised to write. “Once all is settled here, I intend to visit Val Royeaux. There is an ex-fiance I wish to visit.”

Thallia raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“Oh, no.” Touledy laughed. “Someone else’s.”

[angelswing236]

"Well, that worked out great."

Fictober 24 challenge

Fandom: Downton Abbey

Fanfiction

Seething with impotent rage, Tom kicked the small pile of spare tyres stacked at the back of the garage, almost welcoming the bone-shaking jolt that reverberated through his body.

‘Well, that worked out great,’ a familiar Mancunian voice drawled and he turned to see the tall figure of Thomas Barrow at the garage door, a cigarette clamped between his fingers.

‘What do you know about it?’ Tom growled, in no mood to deal with Thomas’s smartarse remarks.

‘Your big plan to humiliate the general? I know that you cocked it up royally and that it was a stupid plan in the first place.’

‘Why? It would have made a point, wouldn’t it?’

‘What point?’

‘That he and people like him can’t just waltz around ordering people about and expecting them to just do what they say,’ Branson spat.

Thomas laughed, amused by the naivety of Branson’s statement. ‘Of course, he can. That’s exactly what people like him and his lordship have been doing all their lives.’

‘It would have humiliated the British Army!’

‘You think the British Army cares about one mad Irishman throwing oil, ink, cow pat and – what else was it?’

‘Sour milk,’ Branson muttered, mutinously.

‘Ugh. Bet that stank,’ Thomas said, wrinkling his nose.

‘It was supposed to stink.’

‘Did you really think it would make a difference? The British Army has bigger fish to fry than you, Branson. I tell you what would have happened, shall I? They’d have charged you with aggravated bodily harm or something and slung you in prison. All you’d have achieved was to piss off a few people, including the poor sods who would have had to clean his uniform, the tablecloth, the carpet and the chairs. And for what? Nothing.’

‘At least it would have made the papers!’ Branson argued, hotly.

‘Made the papers? You’re off your head if you think your antics would have made the papers. You’d have been whisked away and banged up without so much as a peep of it getting into the papers. Bad for morale, you see. Same as telling people here just how awful it is out there is. Can’t have the truth about it all getting out, can we? Can’t be spoiling the great British public’s rose-tinted view of how bloody glorious it is to sit in inches of mud and water, your bowels turning to liquid when the guns start, wondering if this is the day you finally cop it.’

Branson stared at Thomas, thrown off balance by this sudden, unexpected glimpse into the last two years of his life.

‘Do you…’

‘What?’  Thomas snapped, embarrassed that he’d shared more than he’d intended.

‘Want to talk about it?’ Branson offered, awkwardly.

‘With you?’ Thomas sneered, looking down his nose at the chauffeur. ‘What would you know about any of it? Sitting pretty here on your arse in the sticks, safe as houses. No, I don’t want to talk about it.’

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, neither man knowing quite what to say.

‘Why did you want to throw slop over him anyway? What’s he ever done to you?’ Thomas eventually asked, sucking on his fag again.

‘He’s a symbol,’ Branson said, hesitating before adding, ‘The British Army killed my cousin. In the Rising in Dublin.’

Thomas cocked his head. ‘Hmmph. Well, they’ve killed a lot of people in this war. I scraped what felt like half of them up onto my stretcher for long enough.’

‘I wish I’d done it.’

‘Then you’re a silly bugger. You should have had a much better plan. I mean, for a start, why did you write a letter saying you were going to do something? That’s just stupid.’

‘I didn’t know Anna was going to read it, did I?’ Branson said, indignantly.

‘She couldn’t have read it if you hadn’t written it, though, could she?’ Thomas pointed out. ‘And why were you writing a letter to Lady Sybil anyway? Why do you think she’d care if you got carted off to prison?’

‘I didn’t want her to think badly of me,’ Branson said, flushing pink.

‘Sweet on her, are you?’

‘None of your bloody business!’

‘No, and she’s none of yours if you know what’s good for you. Carson will give you the old heave-ho if he thinks you’re fawning over one of the young ladies.’

‘I’m not fawning over her,’ Branson said, somewhat sulkily.

‘So, just out of interest, did you think this plan of yours up in two seconds flat while you were sitting on the lavvy?’ Thomas asked, curious to know how Branson came up with such a spectacularly stupid plan to humiliate the general.

‘No. I was polishing headlamps.’

‘Christ, I hope that’s not a euphemism,’ Thomas said with feeling.

‘I suppose you would have come up with something better, would you?’ Branson said, tetchily.

‘Too right, I would have. I would definitely have come up with something that didn’t immediately end up with me losing my job and getting banged up.’

‘What would you have done?’

‘Well, off the top of my head, given him something to give him the trots. Nobody respects a man who shits his britches in their dining room,’ Thomas replied, taking another drag on his cigarette. 'So, you’re not sacked, then?’

‘No. Mr Carson doesn’t want a fuss.’

‘Course, he doesn’t. A fuss is the worst thing Mr Carson can imagine. But you’ve had to promise not to play at silly buggers again, have you?’

‘Yes. And I’m not to let on to his lordship.’

Thomas snorted. ‘No, let’s not disturb his lordship’s peace. Heaven forbid. What about Lady Sybil?’

‘What about her?’ Branson asked, suspiciously.

‘Has he asked you why you chose to confess your dastardly deeds to her?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he still might, so make sure you have a reason that won’t set him frothing at the mouth.’

‘I will. Don’t worry about that.’

‘Hmmm. She’s all right, is Lady Sybil. Don’t you go causing trouble for her.’

‘I wouldn’t!’

‘Make sure you don’t. Or it won’t just be Mr Carson you have to worry about.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning keep your mitts and your lustful thoughts to yourself, Branson. She’s one of my nurses now, so stay away.’

Tom bristled, kicking himself for writing that note to Sybil. If he’d jeopardised their fledgling relationship, he’d never forgive himself.

Thomas took a final drag of his cigarette before crushing it beneath his boot heel. ‘Right. I’m off. Try not to do anything stupid between now and breakfast.’

‘Get lost, Thomas,’ Tom said, irritably.

Thomas smirked and headed back to his small kingdom.

[stuffymcstuffsworld]

Acceptance

"I can't." You said plainly. Trying not to make a big deal out of what you said. "Oh, if you're busy, we can go some other -" you quickly waved them off. "No, I mean, I can't ever I can't fly." The room fell silent at your statement.

"Oh! You mean you have small wings like your son, yis? It's not fit for flying." Suzy-San asked, trying to keep calm. You sighed. You knew you'd have to show them at some point.

Standing up and facing your back towards them slowly without a word peeled off your top. Inch by inch, it revealed scars from your old life as a human. You heard several gasps, and you think you heard glass shattered. Finally, your full back was exposed.

You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to watch for any signs of betrayal. You didn't want to watch as they tried to sink their teeth into you. You were surprised, though, by the angry growl that ripped through the room. It caused you to glance over your shoulder to see Kalego-San crushed glass in hand staring at your back with fury.

Slowly, you faced him and made your way over. Gently, you unclenched his hand and removed the glass shards without a word. The room remained silent, and it was almost chilling how that silence made you feel.

It's not as though you outright lied to them. You just never confirmed or denied anything. Carefully, you cradled the broken glass in one hand.

You still didn't look them in the eye as you disposed of it and rummaged through your first aid kit for bandages. Being the parent of the misfit class, it was almost a requirement that you carried it around at all times.

Just before you could start disinfecting the wound, kalego had quickly grasped your wrist. "Iruma doesn't actually have wings, does he?" He asked. The silent demand for an answer was clear. You offered no response as you stood there before him.

His grip tightened for a moment before loosening as if he wasn't sure how to treat you anymore. "Iruma is a special child." You told him calmly. "And I think at this point he has proven with or without wings he can soar. Look at how far he's come already and how much he has accomplished."

"Why now? Why not keep it a secret?" You heard Furcas-San ask curiosity seemed to grow. "I would rather be the one to show you the truth instead of have you believe a lie." You eyes still remained on kalegos' hand.

"Kinda reckless, but I'm happy you can trust us." Dali-San says as he comes up behind you and squeezed your shoulder. "We will protect you as much as we do the students." He promises.

"That's not right, Dali-senpai. They're still the same after all. Nothing changes, and they can take care of themselves. You saw for yourself how fast they are, and did you see those killer instincts?? It's so cool! They are definitely one of us and can hold their own!" Robin-San babbled proudly as he lifted you up and away from the two older demons.

You were in shock. This wasn't the reaction you had expected, but... you probably had proven yourself enough times to be trusted. "That must be why you always smell so good. And hear I was hoping you would share your perfume recipe with me." Raim-san whined as she came up to your other side. Pressing her chest into your back.

"Wait a minute! Is that why you stole my sweater!" You demanded trying to squirm out of Robin's bear hug. "It's not stolen if you gave it to me♡" "To barrow, not hide it away for 3 months!"

As you fought against the laughing pair, you didn't notice Dali and kalego speaking with Balam. "They look so happy!" Balam said cheerfully, glad his human was accepted.

"They are constantly reckless. How are we going to deal with this now that we are aware?" Kalego huffed in irritation. Dali just smirked. "Awe lighten up, babyls can manage a human or two. It deals with hundreds of adolescent demons, after all."

"YES!!!" They turned as you stood victoriously on top of a dog pile of demons arms raised in the air. Kalego gave Dali-San a withered look as Balam quickly rushed over. You threw yourself into his arms with a gleeful laugh.

Kalego glanced down at his cut palm and then looked back up at you. You who was smiling brightly in a room full of demons capable of tearing the flesh off your bones. You who were willing to place everything on the line time after time. Certainly, you were worth a scratch or two.

No... you were worth more than that. You had won the hearts and respect of many demons. You had pushed past barriers and broken down walls, literally ready to tear the throat out of anyone that harmed one of babyls beloved students.

You were a part of babyls. The embodiment of what it stood for and who it protected. And he could accept that. After all, it would be even worse teaching those demonic brats without you around.

[adventurous-adventures]

10 November 2024

It has been decided that the title of this session is: Autism

We've leveled up to level 6!

Zain makes a powermove, giving Raven 1 level in Barbarian.

"Yep Alex keep slurping it up" - Zain (not a sex joke)

"There was so much cream in there." - Alex (definitely a sex joke)

"Twas not." - Alex. "That's what she said." - Zain

"Silence in the crunch" - Georgie

*points to Zain* "Autism." - Mick

Lara: *puts a rock on the table. Mick: "Sex"

Georgie wore their dice tray as a hat.

After the successful quest at Axholm, Raven and co. Go to Harbin Wester's house for the payment.

Tweed rips open Harbin's door. (Georgie rolls a slutty 20)

The party has earned 250 gold pieces. They go to the Blue Lions' weaponry to retrieve the silvered weapons.

There are still 2 side quests left: the dragon barrow sword and the brainwashed orcs quest. There is also the side quest to go back to the mountain and kill the wererats.

The party head to the stonehill inn to meet Don John.

Lara makes a suggestive hand gesture to Georgie (Georgie was shaking their dice tray full of dice.)

Her mouth was full of water. Zain tells them to swallow. Lara gets banished to the kitchen.

Don John is spotted at a table. Raven approaches him alone. He didn't need much persuasion as Don agrees to help Raven and the party with killing the wererats.

Raven remembers the Dwarves at the mine and suggests to head to the miners' exchange.

Don John meets the ghosts for the first time.

Zain remembers the group talking about the claylight (fleshlight made of clay).

Zain keeps playing meme soundboards.

Zain is probably gonna enjoy the sex jokes when he starts running his campaign.

more meme soundboard sounds.

There is a receptionist.

James Charles jumpscare.

Alex has a schizo moment (he has two NPCs interacting with one another.)

Turns out the Dwarves are out at Stormweadow hills which is past Neverwinter wood. Harmonoia suggests undertaking the quest with the woodland manse and Don John agrees with that decision.

Don John decides to go to Barthens to grab a bottle of wine. Harmonoia goes to get it as Don John is too drunk to get there.

Harmonoia grabs a bottle of Merlot wine and hands it to Tweed.

More sex jokes. Featuring Georgie getting their "dick" out of Alex's mouth.

"Well Kid, I hope you can see." - Raven

Dhampnir don't need to breathe.

"Long story short, Alex has no gag reflex." - Mick

"I never said that!" - Alex

Georgie was gonna put a pen...inis mouth.

When the party reaches the hunting lodge, there is a huge fortress nearby.

Harmonoia rings the bell. An old fella pops his head out. Turns out he is one of Falcon's staff.

The party is invited into the lodge.

When the party enters the sleeping barracks, Raven feels a sense of familiarity.

"I prefer my Orcs alive." - Dewdrop

Falcon appears and is quite attractive according to Harmonoia.

Falcon mentions that the Orcs have stick figure creatures travel with them. Harmonoia is able to remember hearing tales of blights and how they are created.

The spellcasters seem to take residence of the stone manse in the woods.

Raven hears the noise of a dragon's wings...

Raven leads the party outside and he spots Cryovain approaching them.

Cryovain vs the party 2...to be continued.

Other exciting news! Zain is planning on running a sequel campaign to this one.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Golden Pince-Nez pt 1

A new story, whose name I don't even recognise, and I can only hope that it goes a little something like this:

But probably not...

...I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin...

Ah, the traditional 'listing of fascinating sounding cases that are not the case we are about to read about'. Has there ever been an adaptation that actually created cases for some of these teasers? The ones that don't have their own story, as I know occasionally they do come up again.

I kind of want to know what the singular contents of the ancient British barrow were. I'm guessing it wasn't dead bodies or ancient artefacts, as that would be rather par for the course.

...I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith...

Excellent names, which lead me to wonder both if there is a Yoxley New Place and an old Willoughby Smith who lives there. Clearly the two must never meet, which is going to be a lot easier now that young Willouoghby Smith is dead. Bad for him, but possibly for the good of the universe.

Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest...

No joke, I just love the word palimpsest. Excellent word use.

It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.

It's another miserable day in London. Is this where everyone got the idea that it never stops raining in Britain from? ACD's atmospheric dreariness and pathetic fallacy?

Watson is having a moment contemplating his insignificance in the face of eternity, very relatable.

I actually love that feeling in relation to nature. Just that weird awe that you feel when you see nature being so vast and powerful and remember you are tiny compared to a cloud or a storm or a mountain. Good feeling. Good words and good feelings. 10/10 evening so far.

“Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said Holmes...

Why do I suspect these to be famous last words?

"Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

And what does that say about you two, my good men? Hmm?

It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical interest.

No animal description yet. Lestrade didn't have one in the last story that I noticed either, but I am inclined to believe that was because ACD could only think of tigers for that entire thing and he thought tiger was too complimentary a comparison to turn upon poor Lestrade.

Or perhaps in the interim between the first stories and the second lot, he forgot about his habit of comparing police officers to animals?

"There's no motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me—I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead—there's no denying that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Either they got the wrong person, or he's secretly The Worst. In Sense & Sensibility Willoughby was definitely secretly the worst. This is probably not the same Willoughby. Probably.

"The Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. [...] This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge."

How very goldilocks of him. Did the first one write too fast and the second one right too slow?

Hmmm, so suspicion points at first to the idea that either the professor or Mr Smith manipulated events so that Mr Smith would end up with the job. We've seen malicious employers enough times in these stories that it's an automatic thought.

We do have indications that Mr Smith is who he claims to be, though.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don't suppose you could find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate."

Not-A-Cult ™

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person who can say anything positive about the matter."

I know he means positive as in definite, but I read it as positive as in happy. So for some reason Susan was feeling good about Mr Smith's untimely demise.

"She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence."

A slamming door is my best guess for something that could shake the whole house. But also, please to be adding a banshee to that list of supernatural Sherlock Holmes stories. Strange and unnatural scream followed by an immediate dead body?

"It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor's own desk."

The fact that the weapon was left behind and an item from the room indicates either crime of passion or some sort of accident (he ran into my sealing wax knife, he ran into it ten times). So we're probably not looking at a premeditated crime here.

‘The Professor,’ he murmured—‘it was she.’

Coming at it from a 21st century perspective, my mind immediately jumps to this being a rival female professor who had broken into the house to steal/sabotage Professor Coram's research. I imagine that is not what we're supposed to be thinking, however, as an Edwardian audience would not expect a professor to be female, and honestly, I kind of doubt ACD would go there, so 'The Professor' is likely to refer to Professor Coram OR another professor whose surname starts with She/sounds like Itwashi (Japanese perhaps?)... OR this is a reference to it being a banshee. It does feel a bit like one of those deathbed speeches that is misunderstood by the person listening to it. Especially with the line 'The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words.'

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track."

Stanley Hopkins here already proving himself head and shoulders above your average Holmesian police officer in that he actually looked at the evidence. Good for him. Unless it turns out that it was one of his fellow officers who walked on the grass in order to stop himself from leaving prints on the path... in which case, thanks for trying.

"What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

In spite of Stan's best efforts, Holmes remains bitchy af, as per usual.

"There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed."

We do only have the Professor's word about this, but I am overly suspicious of everything. For all we know this is a long con and the professor isn't even a disabled old man at all, he's been in disguise this whole time.

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes. “Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible."

He was still alive when he was found, so he might have foolishly pulled the thing out and thrown it aside.

"And, finally, there was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand.”

Stanley also likes a dramatic reveal, it seems.

Is it gonna be some pince-nez? Is it?

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it.

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

The only thing I can think of here is that they just have plain glass in the lenses and Sherlock is amused by the fact that they're part of a disguise. I don't see what else he'd be able to work out from them other than how bad the owner's eyesight is. Unless their eyesight is so bad that they could easily mistake Mr Smith for Prof. Coram... but then they were wearing the pince-nez before the murder, presumably, which would solve that problem. So yeah, only thing I can think is that they're costume glasses with no prescription.

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her.”

OK, fine... apparently it's the opposite. Her eyesight is so bad that she should be easy to trace.

I know a lot of people with very bad eyesight, I really don't think it's as uncommon as Holmes seems to be implying. The majority of people I know have glasses and many of them are practically blind without them. Increased computer usage probably has something to do with increased deterioration of eyesight in current times, but at the same time. London is very big, there must be plenty of women out there who have terrible eyesight, mustn't there?

The rest of it makes sense, though. And honestly, I'm mostly just glad that no one's saying that as her eyes are close together her criminal tendencies are clear. Wonderful to have a description with no physiognomy involved.

"As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects."

"Well, it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire."

Good of you not to put the man out in the middle of a storm at 1 am, Holmes. Still a bit weird for a police officer to be sleeping on your sofa. Is there no guest room? I guess, now that Watson's moved back in in his widower years, he's staying in it again. And it would be cruel to wake Mrs Hudson up at this time of morning.

It seems we must wait until next time to learn the secrets of Professor Coram's household.

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - The Wives of Shor I: Moth to Flame

tagged by @dirty-bosmer tyty❤️ tagging @nientedenada and @tallmatcha

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (entire fic is E) Category: M/M Pairing: Kaidan/Lucien Flavius Genre(s): Romance (bodice-rippers my beloveds), bildungsroman Other main characters: Inigo the Brave, she/her Breton LDB

Summary: A scene from near the beginning of the fic, Kaidan and and Hadvar share a moment of soldier camaraderie the night before they delve into Bleak Falls Barrow. Lucien Flavius is by Joseph Russell, Kaidan is by Liv Templeton, and Inigo the Brave is by SmartBlueCat.

27 Last Seed, 4E 401 The cool night air was bracing; the usual sounds of daily life in Riverwood had given over to the quiet of the evening: the creaking of the water wheel, the rippling of water in the millrace, and a thousand crickets in the forest. High overhead the stars glimmered.

A creak of leather caught Kaidan's attention. Just at the edge of the lantern-light from the sconces at the door of the Sleeping Giant, Hadvar leaned against the roadside fence, looking up at the arches that carved out chunks of the night sky. He turned towards Kaidan as the inn's door clattered shut.

"Peaceful evening," Kaidan remarked, walking over to Hadvar.

"Aye," Hadvar replied, taking a sip from the tankard in his hand. "When I was a lad I thought it was too peaceful, and that living here I would never get my chance at glory and adventure." He laughed bitterly. "Now I'm going to choke on it. Did you want something from me?"

"You looked like you could use the company," said Kaidan, also leaning on the fence and looking up towards the barrow. "I also wanted to apologize." Hadvar looked up at him in surprise. "For not believing you about the attack on Helgen. About the-" even after hearing multiple eye-witness accounts the word felt strange and ridiculous on his lips "-dragon."

"Don't mention it." In the woods an elk's bugle echoed out of the trees. "If the tables were turned, I wouldn't have believed you, either. But you and Inigo helped me and for that you will always have my gratitude. Would have been a fine ending to my tale, perishing of thirst within sight of Whiterun's walls."

"That it would."

They fell into a companionable silence; the muffled sound of a Nord drinking song filtering through the sturdy timbers and into the night. Kaidan hoped it wasn't too bawdy a tune, but he also knew he'd been able to recite at least a dozen ribald limericks by the time he was Pascale's age and he had turned out fine. After a few more moments Kaidan spoke.

"I've been selling my sword long enough to know when a man is dreading the morning."

Hadvar sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not too obvious. I, er, also overheard you talking to Lucien on the road," Kaidan admitted. "About the stories your gran told."

Hadvar groaned. "I've faced down bandits, rebels, anything else the Legion has pointed me at, and I haven't felt this nervous since the night before the first day of training." He suddenly turned to look at Kaidan. "If you're doubting my mettle, don't. My orders are to retrieve the Dragonstone, and get everyone back out safely. No matter how much some old ghost stories have me spooked I've never refused a mission and I don't intend to start now."

"Never doubted you for a second. I can tell you're a man who does what he intends to do." Kaidan turned to look back at the Sleeping Giant, its horn-pane windows glowing golden in the evening gloom. "I'm not too pleased about having tramp through a dusty old cave myself. Those places are always crawling with frostbite spiders."

Hadvar pulled a face. "And you just know that the mages will be wanting to stop to harvest venom and silk every time we kill one. Are you sure we can't leave them here?"

"I tried leaving them in Whiterun, you saw how well that worked!" Kaidan said, while Hadvar chuckled at his indignation. "Digging around in dangerous places is the entire reason Lucien came here, and trying to leave Pascale anywhere out of trouble...you might as well tell a cat to stay put." Hadvar laughed harder.

"I meant to ask you, how did you find yourself with such...an array of traveling companions?" asked Hadvar. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but you strike me as someone who is used to working alone. And...that girl does not look like your kin."

Kaidan could tell Hadvar was looking at him sideways, judging his reaction, and suppressed the annoyance at the question. It was only natural - Brynjar probably fielded it countless times as he dragged Kaidan around from one end of Tamriel to the other.

"She's not kin. She's from High Rock." Kaidan met Hadvar's veiled reproach without apology. "And if you must know, she saved my life."

Hadvar choked on the swig of ale he'd been taking from his tankard.

"Laugh all you want, it's true," Kaidan smiled himself now.

"And you had difficulty believing in a dragon."