#orneriness runs in the family or something

[triscribe]

So y'know what is scarier than a single shooter in a school?

A group of teens deciding they're gonna work together to kill as many people as they can.

Thankfully, in this particular instance, they were reported by a third party, so the boys involved who separately brought bullets and at least one gun to the school where my mom teaches were caught and arrested over two days. But fuck, word's going around they were planning to pull the fire alarm, fill the main halls, set up on the second floor balcony and just... hnn.

I took her some lunch today, got to see the lingering police presence, and unintentionally stuck around long enough to hear her spiel to the handful of kids present in her fifth period. My mom's not the sort to sit quietly if shit's going down, that's for sure. She treated it like any other class activity, showing her students where the skinnier ones can go out a particular window to hide on the roof, and the bigger ones where she's arranged a chair and desk and bookcase by the wall so they can literally climb up into the ceiling. Make sure to close the window afterward, last person up pushes the foam tile back in place, have it look to anyone coming in like there weren't any students present at all. And she finishes this with "and see? the coat rack inside this closet comes loose. nice solid piece of metal here. worst comes to worst, I'm sending you all out, and putting myself next to the door. key rule of being in close quarters with a gunman, you go for the knees, then the head, and don't stop hitting until they stop moving."

One of her girls got overwhelmed at this point and began quietly crying. 15 or 16 years old, just. dismayed that this is something real. something they need to go over. Two thirds of that school's student body were out today, kept home by worried parents, and the ones who still came were pretty evenly split between laughing it off, and cracking under the fear.

None of them deserve being in that position. Not the kids, not the teachers, not the office staff or kitchen workers or janitorial crews. But most of all-

A grey-haired, overweight ornery woman in her fifties with a makeshift bat shouldn't be the last line of defense between teenagers and assault rifles.

[the-hinky-panda]

Out of the Woods Series: Part I

Title: Out of the Woods Series

Pairing: Mitch Keller x OFC Reader (Sadie Maxwell)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: An old friend of Mitch's is in need of some help and Dwight seems to be the guy to do it.

Dwight has passed by Trudy’s Diner multiple times but never stopped into the place. It sits on Route 66, about ten minutes east of the Mayo hotel. It looks like a tourist trap; the stereotypical fifties diner with neon signs, red vinyl booths, and black and white tiled floor. The waitresses’ uniforms are shirtwaist dresses and colored flats, like what his mother used to wear when he was a little kid in Brooklyn. It’s loud, bustling, and old-fashioned in a shiny way. Even though the waitresses are sporting bobs and high ponytails, they’re carrying tablets in the pockets of their full skirts. 

He follows Mitch to a corner booth where he and Tyson settle into place while Mitch asks for you. The perky blonde waitress says that you’ll be right out and breakfast is on the house for everyone. Now that he’s in the actual place, he has to admit the blending of old and new is quite seamless. There’s free wifi, which Tyson is happy about and the coffee smells strong and fresh, which he is happy about. Every surface is spit polished and all the uniforms are pristine. It’s the sign of a detailed business owner. 

When you arrive at the table, he’s not surprised at how young you look, or that your outfit is also classic fifties but with high waisted pants and tucked-in blouse. You’re pretty, professional but that’s not surprising. He is surprised at how Mitch looks at you, like you’ve hung the moon and stars. Now he knows why Mitch wants his help with your situation, whatever that may be. But you return the look as well. There’s a warmth in the way you greet Mitch, lingering touches and choosing to sit next to him in the booth. Old friends, sure. 

“I really appreciate you coming to meet me, Mr. Manfredi.” 

“Dwight, please.” He shakes your hand and it’s a firm, solid grip. Another good sign. “Mitch tells me you have an issue that you need some help with.” 

You fold your hands on top of the table. “It’s a multistep solution to a large problem but I’m not exactly sure which step you would be able to help with.” 

“Well, let’s go through those steps and find out where I may be able to help.” 

Plates of food arrive before you’re able to get into the nature of the problem. Eggs, hashbrowns, sausages, bacon, and something he’s never seen before. It looks like finely ground oatmeal but there’s a large pad of butter melting into it. 

“What is that?” he asks. 

“Those are grits,” you answer. 

Tyson is shaking his head. “My mama would be so disappointed in you right now.” 

“I think we’re all a little disappointed right now,” Mitch adds. 

“Well excuse me for being out of circulation when it comes to fine dining.” 

You put a healthy spoonful of them on his plate and hand him the salt. “It’s ground up corn, so very good with salt and butter.” 

“What are you trying to do,” Mitch nudges you, “give him a heart attack?” 

“Oh what,” you counter, “like you’re running a health spa over at the Buck?” 

“You keep this up, he’s not going to help you.” Mitch gives you a crooked smile. “Your ornery is showing.” 

You give Dwight an apologetic look but he raises his hand. “I actually quite enjoy this kind of ornery. Makes me feel like I’m back home, sitting around the kitchen table with my family.” He’s quiet for a moment, remembering those times with his mother and father speaking rapid fire Italian, thinking he and his siblings couldn’t understand what was being said. His brother poking his sister under the table with a fork and Dwight doing the same thing to him but with a knife. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good time at a dining table.” 

Your problem is precisely as you explained it: it’s large but with a multi-step process. The problem is your husband of almost ten years won’t sign the divorce papers. You’ve been living in your own one-bedroom apartment, running the diner, earning your own money. You are, for all intents and purposes, independent from him. The catch happens to be who he is, or rather who his father is. Your father-in-law is filthy rich, first in oil and then in the medical marajana business. Your husband has been put in charge of two dispensaries but because of his own drug, gambling, and frequent need for out call massages, the business isn’t doing well. Your diner, a business that doesn’t remotely interest Cal Thresher Senior or Junior, is making twice what both pot stores are making. 

Dwight leans back against the booth. “So you want a divorce from this jack-off and he’s not giving it to you because you’re worth more than him.” 

“And daddy is pulling the strings,” you add. “And by strings, I mean he has the best lawyers in the midwest working for him. So even if I do get Junior to sign the divorce settlement, I’m going to be left with nothing.” 

“Not to be unkind but it sounds like nothing would be something if it gets you out of the marriage.” 

Mitch picks up his coffee cup. “That brings us to why you’re gonna want to help her.” 

You sigh and glance around to make sure no one is listening in on the conversation. “My father has a business and he’s struggling to keep the doors open. I’ve been helping when I can but my finances get monitored too closely for me to do much. He was diagnosed with lung cancer a year ago and the medical bills are killing him just as fast as the cancer. I want the divorce, but I want to leave with enough money to save his business.” 

“And I’m supposed to care about his business, why?” Dwight asks. 

You give him a slight smile. “It’s a gun shop.” 

[raccoonfallsharder]

Hi!! I adore your blog and everything you write, cause it's so wholesome and giving comfort!! I was wondering about your take on this kind of trope between Rocket and the reader (because I can't see anything similar on the internet and I'm biting my walls). But I was thinking about friendly convo with Rocket as a semi new crew member, who's young and maybe more outgoing. Still sarcastic and brave, yet empathetic. And they started to get along, eventually became friends. In my mind it was a late night vibe, maybe something like talking about trauma or just simply comforting. I'm a sucker for anything involving petting him so (👀). Maybe they have something in common, maybe something happened. But some friendly fluff never hurts. I'd love to see your take on this scenario!! I just love your work I'm hoping to see something like that ksjdksjx 🤍🤍

wholesome? are we looking at the same blog lol

dear little sugar cookie sunbeam. you're so sweet and i'm so grateful for this kindness, truly. thank you for your sweet words! i’m so sorry it’s taken so long for me to get around to this. between you and @whitedragoncoranth (who always so kindly sends me adorable raccoon-related videos and little fictions) the two of you have been spinning lovely little thoughts in my head. so this is for the both of you ♡

like, imagine that pete wakes up in the middle of the sleep-shift. there’s something happening in the benetar’s ventilation system, and it doesn’t sound good. a strange sort of pitchy rattle, like something’s come loose. normally pete wouldn’t be the one to notice something like that — rocket’s sensitive hearing would pick up any deviation in the benetar’s normal low murmur long before pete’s “inferior baldbody ears.” but here it is — far too late in the so-called night — and star-lord has noticed something wrong with the ship. and not just any part of the ship — one of the parts most integral to survival in the inhospitable void of space.

so he rises, half-frantic, and goes to find the benetar’s genius creator and resident mechanic.

"goddammit," you mutter, scowling down at the carton of milky-fizz in your hand. normally, you'd be staring out at the stars as they spiraled past: gorgeous glimmering clouds of glitter-dust and refracted light, swirls of color and soft-edged flakes of illumination, haloes and radiant pinpoints — all bright and pulsing against the black jeweler's velvet of an endless sky. tonight, though, you're just pissed, and not even the shimmering specks of a thousand distant suns can ease the cringing ripple of shame prickling up the base of your spine and between your shoulderblades. you hunch your back, trying to shiver it right off your skin.

"hey, kid. what the hell are you doin' out here?"

you pause, shoulders still high under your ears — but when you breathe out, some of your tension goes with it. rocket's an ornery bastard, but he's also your best friend here on the benetar, and if anyone can make you feel better, it's probably him.

not that it had always been that way. your friendship is more or less a recent development. you wouldn’t call yourself new to the crew anymore, but you're definitely the freshest of the guardians family. you'd run into them when they'd stopped back on knowhere after defeating some kind of — god? planet? — and the pilot had clearly not been a fan of further expanding their little crew beyond the recent addition of mantis and, to a lesser extent, kraglin and nebula.

why d'you wanna even do this? he'd sneered. it ain't all fame and fortune.

you'd snorted. fame and fortune? at best, it had seemed the so-called guardians of the galaxy had only earned the suspicious and sometimes-entertained watchfulness of any given band of locals — as if they'd been some troublesome trickster-folkheroes brought to life.

plus, this stupid galaxy's always needing to be saved, rocket had snarked, half-resentfully.

you'd grinned and shrugged. as a matter of fact, i'm here for the job security, you'd only replied, and it had tugged a startled smirk into the corner of his mouth.

"you all right?" he asks now, nearly thirty cycles later.

you sigh. "oh, you know." you wave your carton at the stars behind the armored glass.

rocket snorts. "yeah, i do know," he drawls, one brow winging up. you're not looking at him, so you can't see it — but you can hear it in his voice. "i know exactly what you're doing."

it's your turn to raise an eyebrow. "what am i doing?" you take a swig of your milky-fizz, but rocket doesn't miss a beat.

"beating yourself up for stupid shit."

"ahhhh," you breathe softly into the chill, recycled air. "you would know, then."

"i would," he agrees. "now, c'mon." his hand reaches out and shoves gently at your hip. "you can whine about it while we eat some zargnuts."

you can't help but laugh. after you'd first come aboard, it had only taken a few rotations for the two of you to begin gravitating toward each other. if asked, rocket would have muttered he’d just given you a shot because you’d been the only one who groot seemed to tolerate: mature enough to hold your own with the other guardians, but young enough that rocket's adolescent son somehow — miraculously — hadn’t despised you. luckily for rocket, he'd also quickly learned that you'd been willing to engage in the stupid multi-front prank-wars that he’d had going with almost every other member of the crew. hell, that thing with the frickin’ zargnuts had been your idea — he’d just come up with the tech. the two of you had crept into food storage one rotation, and you’d emptied every bag into jars, then passed each one to rocket. he’d puffed them with air and neatly closed them with the heat-resealing gun he’d crafted as soon as you’d made the suggestion.

drax had been sulky for cycles, and you'd stayed strong, not 'fessing up until mantis had burst into tears after opening her fifteenth empty bag.

still, the majority of the jars of zargnuts are currently residing in the corner of rocket's bunk.

you follow him across the catwalks and down the hatch, passing arched armored-glass windows separating the two of you from the cold void of space. outside the benetar, the galaxy is lit up with spilt-glitter-stars and moons like twinkle-lights. inside, guages and buttons pin the shadows like velvet stage-curtains to the wall, and security orbs stitch them to the edge of the grated floors. most of the other guardians are in bed already, and the narrow corridors are quiet, with only the low hum of the benetar's life support systems echoing a low lullaby. rocket leaps up to tap the sensor that slides open his bunk door, and you throw yourself easily into the pile of cushions in the corner under his hammock. he's one of the lucky bastards with a starboard-side porthole in his bunk, which means the whole little room is softly aglow with the dim blue and mauve haze of stardust. he taps a plasma orb, adding a sheen of gold to the edges of the shadows so that he can dig through his locker more easily, producing a giant, half-eaten jar of zargnuts and sliding it across the thin, faded rug toward you.

"dig in," he orders, and you do — unscrewing the lid and reaching in to pull out a couple of the bite-sized snacks. "you wanna tell me what's got you all knotted up?" he adds casually, tapping the datapad he's got docked on his workbench. some song he's cloned from pete's zune drifts out, melancholy and mellow, across darkness.

"is that california dreamin'?" you ask incredulously.

he listens for a beat, till the chorus hits. "sounds like it," he replies with a shrug, "but you're not gettin' outta answering me, kid."

you sigh and take another sip of your milky-fizz . it goes surprisingly well with the zargnuts. "i almost got pete killed today."

rocket snorts. "what?"

"when that symbiote attacked him, i should've switched over to the disresonator blaster you made, and instead i just sh-shot at it with the rotary cannon and i almost—"

"kid," rocket interrupts, sounding exasperated. "you been in how many fights like this? m'not talking about threatening some jerk with your quadblaster, i mean actually fighting a dozen corrupted klyntar, or some high-powered alien despot, or whatever."

"i dunno," you say dismally. "however many there've been since i started with you guys."

"and this is your first mistake," he reminds you. "and it wasn't even that stupid."

you roll your eyes. "thanks ever so."

"seriously," he says, grabbing another handful of zargnuts. "you know, our second fight was because drax decided to call up the kree accuser we were running from and give 'im our coordinates."

you pause with your milky-fizz halfway to your mouth. "what?"

rocket snickers. "and that jackass is like, old enough to be your dad. at least. he's supposably been fighting way longer." he pauses. "though he did get caught and thrown in the kyln so maybe he was always an idiot about it. what i'm saying is, you don't gotta beat yourself up for doing one stupid thing."

you look at him solemnly, taking in the way the plasma orb gilds the strands of gunmetal and brass in his fur, and the halo of mint-green and rose and purple as you drift past a rainbow-hued nebula.

"what about you?" you ask. the quiet shadows pool around the two of you, cool and just heavy enough to press any anxiety out of your lungs. that's how it always is on these nights with rocket, you think. usually the two of you are on the flightdeck, drinking some of drax's kylosian coffee while rocket flies till you fall asleep — but sometimes you hole up in his bunk or yours, listening to music and telling stories and cracking jokes until one or both of you passed out.

"what about me?"

you wrap the shadows and the starlight around yourself and finish off the milky fizz, setting the plastic carton carefully to one side. "you beat yourself up all the time."

he sighs. "that's different."

"howso?" you challenge, but he slants you a look that glints like red spinels and rubies in the stray starlight, and you know you're not gonna get an answer. you hum a faintly disgruntled, half-playful note. "you know what would make me feel better?"

"no."

you grin, and reach out toward him with both hands, palm-down, rubbing your fingers and thumbs together.

"absolutely frickin' not."

"please?"

"you're annoying."

your fingers don't stop. "you don't have to pretend like you don't like it," you tease him. "i had a friend back on terra—"

he snorts. "you had a friend?"

you pout. "don't be a jackass." you flex your fingers in a grabby motion. "i had a friend on terra and she use to tell me — you know, you are allowed to let yourself enjoy nice things."

he snorts. "oh yeah? and what’d you say to that?"

your grin splits wide. "probably the same thing you’re gonna say to me," you admit with a dip of your head. another gold galaxy swirls slowly past, limning everything: platinum and bronze and sunset edges, melting against the dark violet-blue.

he wings one brow upward. "what’s that?"

you can’t stop the chuckle riding under your ribs. "sounds fake, but okay."

he snickers. "well, you're not wrong."

"c'mon," you wheedle, not letting him out of it that easily. you flex your fingers again, and rub the tips together like you're testing the velvet quality of the shadows, or the fading strains of california dreamin' as they melt into time after time. "please? for me, rocket?"

he raises his brow again, rolling his eyes. they're deep amethysts in the darkness, but every time he moves them, they throw back glimmers of almandine and garnet.

"sounds fake," he mocks, "but okay." he slides across the cushions. "and watch the tail this time. don't need your frickin' elbow leaning on it again."

you fake-scowl. "that was one time," you sulk, winding your arms around him and pulling him in close so you can burrow your fingers into the thick velvet pile of his ears. he immediately cocks his head like he's been secretly waiting for it all night, leaning into the little massage at the base of the twitching appendages. his head his heavy and weighted against your hands, alternating side to side as he tries to push into the pressure of your touch. you'd never point it out to him, of course; he'd stop immediately, you're sure. and you weren't lying — it does make you feel better. millennia of evolution have contributed to this one perfect element of the terran human condition, you suppose: the release of endorphins whenever you get a cuddly animal's fur under your fingertips and palms.

you ease your hands down, stroking long lines over the back of his head, burying your fingers in the fur at the base of his skull and around his shoulders, weaving them into his lush, soft undercoat. it becomes mindless, meditative: his fur gleaming thread by soft thread in the starlight, the hypnotic lullaby of the moons and suns and planets rolling by like round, loose beryls and pearls, the sparkling haze of cosmic dust spilling past the porthole. the music shifting through the dark shadows and puddling in the little pools of light, weaving in between each strand of rocket's fur and the soft valleys between your fingers: fleetwood mac and bowie and kate bush and joy division, all layered into the darkness and the sprinkle of lights — the spray of glitter, the haloed glow; the quiet of your breath and rocket's; the pulse of your shared heartbeats; the sleepy tug of your eyelids. the knowledge that he knows you well enough to recognize when you're ragged at the edges, and the eagerness to help patch you up with zargnuts and music and stories about drax; the knowledge that you'd do the same no matter what. the warmth of him under your hands, his body going relaxed and heavy under your arms, the soft brush of his fur under your chin.

the knowledge that in all of the wide universe, you always have a home with each other.

something rumbles against your belly, where his chest is leaned up against you, and your hands stroke over his back. it's rare that he purrs, and usually brief: but this time he lets it happen, and it grows. the rapid, deep-rooted clicking, like a dark-velvet chirp that never ends, rolls up from his body and into your hands like a gift passed from him to you. it shivers out into the air, tumbling and rippling through the silk shadows, blending with the music, flickering against everything in the tiny room and echoing softly, rebounding, shimmering. you lose yourself in the pattern of it, matched to his inhalations and exhalations. matched to yours. you're drifting into it like an incoming tide, moonlit and starstruck, little waves that lap and tap against your heart and your brain until you begin to doze off while your fingers trace deep little forest-paths into his fur, taking and offering comfort as easily as breathing, as easily as the gentle thump of your hearts against each other. you lose time like that: lost in the sounds of him and the music, lost in the deep blue, the aubergine, the glimmering in and out. you don't so much as stir until there's a thump in the corridor, and then against the frame of the door—

you jolt awake, blinking blearily, and rocket's already torn himself out of your arms and off the cushions as the door slides open.

"what the fuck, quill? i coulda been — i dunno, doing something—"

"there's a problem with the vent system," pete rushes out, sounding nervous and frantic. "i don't know how long it's been going on but there's like a — a rattling, rumbling noise—"

"shut up," rocket snaps, one dark hand extended toward pete in a halting motion, and you freeze as the three of you go still and quiet.

the vents cycle on, hushed and gentle as a breeze in a field of wheat.

you wait.

"i don't frickin' hear anything," rocket growls.

"i don't—" pete starts, looking baffled and almost betrayed by the functioning ventilation system. "it was—"

"what'd it sound like?" you pipe up from the corner, and pete's brows furrow when they focus on you.

"like a kind of a... brrrrrrrrrh," he mimicks, rolling his tongue off the rough of his mouth in a guttural purr.

your eyes go wide, and then shoot over to rocket's. your friend's face is a picture in absolute horror.

"uh," you start, the corners of your mouth twitching as you try to hold back a sudden cackle.

"it's nothing, pete," rocket snaps. "you're imagining shit."

"but—"

"go back to bed!" rocket half-roars, and pete takes one last bewildered glance at the air vents before slinking out the door.

rocket slaps the sensor panel and whirls on you, one claw extended.

"not a fuckin' word," he snarls.

you say nothing. you only smile — eyes sparkling — and reach for him with both hands: palms down, fingertips rubbing against thumbs in a silent demand for more pets.

headcanons & imagines masterlist

[mysteroads]

Been a hot minute since I've been here, but I finally kicked my writer's block! New Fandom, who dis? I promise it's a happy ending, if a little bittersweet. In payment for bittersweet, you get: Villain Snark, Villain Banter, Dabi being an ornery little shi*t, Todofam feels, and... MONCHAN being a very good dog. 🐶💖

SUMMARY: Much to his displeasure, Dabi wakes up after his final confrontation with his family. However, he finds that his family isn't the only one waiting for him. Shigaraki is there to offer him a choice, and he brought his dog Monchan with him.

EXCERPT:

Opening his eyes again, Dabi tried to look around. Still blurry. Lots of white though, so, hospital? Why was he here? Why were they wasting time and medicine on a wreck of a villain? They sure were kicking up a lot of fuss about something. He could see people-shaped blurs wearing white running around like there was some kind of emergency. He wished he could roll his eyes, but that was too difficult. Idiots.

In a world of motion, the eye is naturally drawn to stillness, and so his gaze fell on the figure in the open doorway.

“Dog.” The word was startled out of him.

“What?”

“Did he say dog?”

“Touya, baby, what did you say?”  

Cold fingers touched his cheek, and he answered without thinking, “There's... a dog...”

A rush of confused whispers around him, as if they couldn’t see the freaking dog right in front of them. It was the damndest thing though: The rest of the room and the occupants were nothing but splotches of colors to him, but the dog was perfectly clear, practically haloed in high definition. Some type of medium sized brown dog, a shiba inu or corgi maybe. It sat as if waiting for something, and even from across the room he could tell its eyes were a warm, melting brown. He wondered idly if its fur was as soft as it looked.

“Her name’s Mon.” The new voice cut easily through the babble, and was familiar to Dabi as his own quirk. He felt the muscles in his face pull as they tried to form into a smirk.

“Tomura… Shigaraki… You crusty bitch.”

[002yb]

No context, Jason just loves Dick's long hair

Let me raise this to Jason loving Dick's hair in general because hot damn every length, every style - handsome.

Mid 90s (?) Long long: It's schoolyard crushing and childish flirting at its finest, but Jason grabs Dick's ponytail whenever the opportunity permits. Dick retaliates by 'accidentally' whipping Jason across the face. Just peak ornery vibes here because Jason can't just come out and say that Dick looks nice hahaha. Though lbr Dick kind of knows - Jason's not exactly subtle between all the staring and how he takes to wearing spare hair ties around his wrist so that Dick always has one on hand if needed. By the off chance it's down? Jason gets too shy. He steers clear or he shoots a hair tie at Dick from a distance. Jason's aim never fails, either. It always dinks Dick in the head.

The Usual Long (Short long): doesn't matter the flavor of Jason, but him attempting to braid Dick's hair at this specific length. The sweetest of tiny braids. Dick falling asleep because he likes scalp scratches and rubs and having his hair messed with.

Jaybin: was in the midst of scratching Dick's head when Dick conks out on him, head dropped back onto Jason's knee, or his crossed legs. So Jason stays stubbornly still and amuses himself with making small, short braids in Dick's hair. Also Jaybin vibes - tying a pony stub right at the front of Dick's fringe. That unicorn look? Yes. Dick is more endeared to one look than the other (braids > horn), but after a death in the family - Dick ties the pony stub when he's pouring over a case to get his fringe out of his face. Omg some kid he's looking after (a runaway situation, or a rescue of some sort; Mari, even) braiding his hair and Dick being so wounded over it because Jason. ;A; .

Hot Toddy: Jason struggling to braid Dick's hair because his fingers are chunkier now. Of all the changes he's dealt with, this would be the greatest betrayal. So. Messy braids. And Jason gets so irritated at them, but Dick refuses to let Jason take them out because they're sweet even if they're ugly. He'll let Jason try again as much as he wants, but let him keep them, little wing. ;/////; And obs Jason gets better and goes over the top with it - braiding trinkets in and making Dick look ready for the viking age or a renaissance fair or something lol.

Short short: Not Ric short, but Jason short. And Jason isn't enthralled with his own hair, but he likes running his hand up the back of Dick's nape where his hair has been clipped. It always makes Dick shudder, even as he's dozing off to sleep and Jason just really likes it. //3///

[queenlucythevaliant]

My hand is ungentle

When she woke to the sharp scent of Kingsfoil, Eowyn realized that she would have to watch the darkness fall. It was Aragorn’s fault, she decided. He had called her back, and insodoing he had forced her to face this.

If she had died on the Fields of Pelennor beside her uncle the king, Eowyn would have fallen in the dry grass. It would have grown over her bones and left her numb to the fact that the darkness could not be stopped. Not by a sword, not by a heroine. Not by anything.

Yet Eowyn did not die; her bones were here and the flesh around them was living. Eowyn woke in the Houses of Healing to the sight of Aragorn and Eomer standing over her with their shoulders touching. There were sounds filtering in from the hallway: heavy footsteps and the tinkle of instruments. Something like a jar being opened. Voices, high and low.

Why was Eowyn alive? Perhaps it was because she was a shieldmaiden, sword-sharp and stubborn as an ornery mule. Perhaps her will to fight had overridden her will to be a martyr. That would be very like her.

Or maybe it was just her doom to survive. The thought didn’t frighten her. She had faced down her doom before. She had done it in her uncle's halls. She had done it in armor.

Leia Organa did not die either.

Leia watched as her planet was gouged out of the sky. She grabbed her rescuer's blaster, fired blind at Stormtroopers, and escaped to Yavin with the plans to the Death Star. She was the last one out of the base on Hoth.

Now, limping to Bespin at sublight, she almost resented it. It wasn’t that she wanted to die, not really. It was only that most mornings, she woke up feeling like she might be halfway there.

They were running low on caf and were diluting it to make it stretch. After she got up, Leia would sip a cup of murky caf-water and imagine that her skin was flaking away, then her muscle, then her bones, all of it flaking away like old paint and floating through space to intermingle with what remained of her family.

If she'd ended with Alderaan, Leia wouldn't have to learn to live this way. If she'd been buried in the crumbling base on Hoth, she wouldn't be facing down the might of the Empire alone with only Han, Chewie, and her own grief for company.

Grief was the one burden that could never be put down. Sometimes, the bravest thing in the world was just to sit still in the cold of a new morning.

"I do not desire healing," Eowyn spat. "I wish to ride to war."

She couldn't, no matter how she wanted to. They had left without her. Aragorn had instructed them to leave without her, and that knowledge made her even more furious at him than the fact that he had called her back to life.

Give me my sword back, she wanted to scream and scream. When she’d fallen from her horse in the battle and risen with her sword in hand, she’d been bouncing on the balls of her feet for the joy of it.

"I am a shieldmaiden," she told Faramir, "and my hand is ungentle."

Eowyn waited for his look of reproach, but it never came. Faramir only studied her, an expression on his face that felt utterly foreign. His eyes were wide and crinkled at the edges, his mouth a little crooked and the lines of his brow smooth. He looked at her like singing, soft and melodious.

"You are beautiful," he had said. He didn’t take it back.

Funny, to be called beautiful now. She wasn't beautiful; she was at war. Eowyn had bound her yellow hair beneath her helm and only released it once, when her enemy was before her. Leia plaited hers like her dead mother had taught her, in tight Alderaanian styles that were practical for action.

When Han cornered Leia in the bowels of the Falcon, she was still thinking about Star Destroyers. She was never not thinking about Star Destroyers these days, or TIE fighters, or AT-ATs. Leia was sharp and mouthy and she never took off her blaster, even to sleep. She itched for it when she showered and left it sitting on the 'fresher counter.

"Stop that, my hands are dirty," she said when Han touched her.

"My hands are dirty too. What are you afraid of?"

Leia looked up, right into his eyes, and there weren't any Star Destroyers there, just kindness and a challenge and something almost like love.

In Bespin, desperate and out of time, Leia finally allowed herself to name it. "I love you," she said, and there was a soldier’s certainty in her voice.

"I know," answered Han. He tossed his head back and vanished into the cold.

On the city walls of Minas Tirith, with darkness billowing in the East, winter passed away and the sun shone down on Eowyn. "No longer do I desire to be a queen."

Faramir tossed his head back and laughed. "That is well," he said, "for I am not a king."

It was Eucatastrophe: the darkness was passing. Everything sad was coming untrue. A lot of things seemed possible now. She could be sharp as a scalpel, stubborn as a garden weed.

Faramir kissed her then, in sight of the whole city. He kissed her, and she knew that she loved him, and then both of her hands were on his face. Their hair intermingled like dancing and Eowyn tried to imagine a world in which she was a healer and a gardener. With this man, in this world, maybe it was possible.

Eucatastrophe: Leia's family was not all dead. She had a brother. Luke was her brother, and somehow in all the great wide universe they had met and become friends before they even knew.

In all the systems and all the planets in the galaxy, Luke and Han had met in a lousy Tatooine cantina, and then they'd come to find Leia. They'd become friends: Leia and her brother and the man she was going to marry.

It wouldn't have made sense to her if she'd been told it two years ago, but Han was gentle. She was learning to be gentle too.

Han had his arms around Leia now, and her head was on his chest. With the wreckage of the Empire falling down around their heads, she imagined a future where she could put her blaster down and train herself to use weapons of peace.

A sword, a lightsaber. When she was finally ready to heal, Eowyn put it down. Leia picked it up. The Jedi academy on Yavin IV was very green and in Ithilien, flowers bloomed.

[starres-stuff]

FFXIV Writes 2023 | Day 20 | Hamper

Dimitri gets another lesson from Xixa and a nice home-cooked meal.

“Kit will you get out of the way already.” Dimitri had been standing in the narrow hall that led down into the basement of the cottage for over an hour now and every time he started forward Kit would growl at him or find some other way to hamper his progression forward. It had been a quiet day thus far, nothing had tried to kill him and no one had stopped by for a visit. It had given him plenty of time to clean out the upper floor and take notes about the things that would need to be replaced to make it his home.

The little fox just yipped at him in reply, going as far as to lean forward on her front paws and wag her large fluffy tail at him as if she just wanted to play. The thing was when he stooped down to play with her she would only try to bite at his fingers, which she did when she was trying to warn someone of something it was getting frustrating overall for all he wanted to do was check the temperature of the basement area to see if it would be possible to store his book collection and shelves down there or if he would need to arrange the upper floor around them.

“Do you want me to pick you up? Is that what this is about?” He leaned down and put out his hands in the motion that signaled ‘Up?’ to her, he even gave her that special little look they shared. Again she did not reciprocate and she didn’t let him pick her up instead she ran off down the hall and put her body against the door in a way that looked like she was trying to either protect him or protect the door from him.

“What is the matter with you?” A hint of grouchiness started to show in his voice, a very uncommon emotion for the Sharlyan who always seemed to have his thoughts and himself on the bright side of life. “I have never seen you like this, I’m just going to run down, check out the temperature, and come right back up.” He explained to the fox as he closed the distance between them, taking time to stoop down again and reach out to pet her ears. Something she could never resist, this time she did and once more she snapped at his fingers, showing him her teeth in a warning.

“Where did ya come by her Sonny?” The voice from behind him practically made him jump but at the same time, he caught a whiff of Dzo pot pie and some form of pixie apple dish that the voice had brought with her and instantly his stomach growled with how busy he had been today he had neglected more than once to make himself something to eat and the timely arrival of Xixa and food suggested he pay attention.

“She was Vi’s” Dimitri replied, raising his feet to turn around and greet his mention who indeed stood there with a picnic basket full of food covered by one of her checkered thoughts. “Vi never told me where she came from, but once I started staying at the Family Loft, Kit insisted on staying there with me.” He tried not to stare at the basket, instead keeping his eyes leveled on the Miqo’te as he spoke.

“Mm, that explains a few things. That’s a protective stance she got there.” Xixa nodded her head towards the door where the fox was still crouched low and looked ready to yip at any given moment. “Did she live here with Vi? If you notice she is pressed into the door, the position she has taken says no stay away. Going to have to learn to listen to her, Sonny, small animals like her are remarkable when it comes to knowing if something isn’t right. Can’t say I remember what is down there, might need to have Vi over for that, but from watchin’ your Kit over there. Going to say it isn’t a place you need to be right now. Wouldn’t be trying to keep you from heading down if she was comfortable with it. Could be worried about how dipped in the woodsin you are. She might be able to smell it on you. Animals exist on a different plane of existence than we do. They see what we cannot. You might not believe me but I promise if she is being that ornery about it. Just let her stay put.”

“This is getting ridiculous Xixa” Finally his temper started to break through, and one of his hands clenched at his side in a display of it. “I am trying to get this cottage ready to move into, I want to have as much of it done as I can before I move in so I am not spending weeks fixing things. I have never and cannot start listening to a small animal that has her tail in a bunch over the basement. I need to know the temperature down there so I know if my books can be here. That is all nothing more, I don’t plan on doing anything but that.” The other hand went into his hair and he pulled at the long crimson curls sharply. The burst of pain across his scalp calmed him almost immediately.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting to see. Sonny. Who you are under that mask you wear. Oh, that need to control everything, reminds me of your Sister even more, but you don’t have a bunch of scars to tell me that you’ve been through the hells on a tour. Must be a bunch of mind scars, things I can’t see. Got you wound up tighter than a drum and thinking you are in charge of Nymeia’s pattern. Best to learn now you aren’t, Fate does as she pleases you know. If she wants to hamper you from learning something, she will send the most unlikely thing to you.” her head tipped towards Kit “Including small foxes who are worried about their companion. Come on, let's go sit somewhere, and eat. Supper is getting cold. I know your Laurent doesn’t come back into town until Tomorrow late, but I thought you could use a bit of company before you turn in.”

Dimitri stared at the Miqo’te for a long moment, he knew the woman had children but hadn’t bothered to ask about her life keeping the professional barrier between them as he would with any other instructor or teacher that came into his life. The offer of dinner and the fact she brought it to the Cottage from wherever she lived in a basket did tug at his heartstrings a little. It almost seemed that she didn’t want to be just a mentor but to take on the role of being a friend as well or at least a confidant that he could talk to.

“There is a table in the next room.” He offered, giving one last look back to Kit, who growled at him for even looking at the door, this caused him to shrug and return his attention to Xixa. “And a couple of chairs if I remember right, we could eat out on the porch if you like, sit on the steps, and make it a picnic?” It was the first thing Dimitri had thought of when he saw the basket, how nice it would be to go on a picnic, he hadn’t done it since he left Sharlayan or since he lost his friends for that matter. He even found himself moving down the hall to where the small woman stood, and he held out his hands to take the basket. “Here let me take that from you, you already had to walk it here.”

“Oh, it isn’t that far of a walk.” Xixa insisted as she turned the basket over, not one to ignore the offer of help. “I live down in Bentbranch, help out at the Healers in town. Can’t always get people over to Stillglade and I will never go back there myself. The Padjal can go fuck themselves for all I care.” Once she handed off the basket she turned to pad off into the other room making a beeline for where the table was and cleaning it off; making neat little piles off to the side so nothing would hamper them from sitting down at it.

“First time I heard someone say that.” Dimitri smiled, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Most people I have talked to seem to put the Padjal on a pedestal or treat them as if they are superior.” To this Xixa’s tail bristled and she looked back over her shoulder “Not worth your time, Sonny and never ask for their help. The Elder Seedseer ain’t so bad, smart as a whip and polite. The others? Their heads are so full of themselves. Just stay away from the Guild. It is the best bet. You can do and learn everything you need on your own around here. There are enough people who would be willing to help you learn to keep you out of their clutches.”

The Sharlyan shivered a bit, that was two days in a row now, that two different people had given him a warning about large groups of people focused on the same goal. Usually, he would call them conspiracy theorists, and he would laugh with his colleagues at the Studium about their hair-brained ideas, but this was different. The overwhelming passion in Vi’s voice as she recounted her life with the Cult for him briefly still made his skin crawl.

“Not interested in organizations, been running from that in Sharlayan,” he said as he took the cloth off the basket and started bringing out the treats Xixa had made, everything smelled so delicious that he found himself licking his lips, and his stomach protesting loudly.

“Good, they will just get in the way of your learning the right way. The Elements speak through those who listen to them, and no one will teach you like they can. Now sit down Sonny, This Pot Pie tastes like crap cold.”

[alyjojo]

Thinking of You - August 🏖️ 2024 - Libra

Whole of their energy towards Libra: The Moon

Feelings: Queen of Pentacles

Intentions: 8 Cups rev

Actions: 7 Swords

Character Card: The Runaway 🏃

This person can’t get it together financially, and they don’t know why or what can be done about it. There’s a feeling of panic with them, or living paycheck-to-paycheck. This could be someone recently divorced, or your ex if that’s your situation. They act like they have it together but really they don’t, they’re kinda falling apart and can’t manage everything on their plate, the feeling of anxiety and chaos is at 1000% 🤯 If you’ve recently ended it with this person, they’re having a hard time with the day to day stuff, the finances and practicalities, kids if applicable, that kind of thing. Juggling work & home, there’s a lot on this person’s shoulders. They intend to just pop in on you. It could be a kid too, divorced parents, or the other parent just drops the kid off with no communication between you.

Or if this is someone who habitually bails and comes back, they’re coming back again (surprise?). They don’t know you’ve had a hard time without them or you don’t know that about them, could be someone else too like family or friend - idk how it’s being presented exactly but they’re avoiding something and keeping it quiet. Until things are more stable, or you trust them again or they get their family back, this could go a number of ways. They want the stability of whatever you two have to be the first priority. If these are ex’s then one definitely wants the other back but isn’t being upfront with that - they play games. Or if this is the ex they’re just done and avoiding you because of that. Running from you, avoiding. If you’re struggling, they can’t face it, they aren’t accountable for things or they are but they won’t look directly at it, deal with you, etc. Or they pop in and avoid addressing the larger problem, expecting you to just be a happy unit of whatever you are, but there’s way more going on with them.

Messages:

- You’re not the only one they’ve played.

- I won’t go backwards, only forwards.

Possible signs:

Heavy earth 🌏 Aries, Aquarius, Pisces, Capricorn & Virgo

If you’re dealing with:

3 Wands & Queen of Swords rev mirrors the 3 Wands in your reading. You could have a volatile tongue or speak in a vicious or confrontational way, it’s like people walk on eggshells around you. Or you may do that with others. I get people being afraid to talk about things with you because of what you’ll say/do, or you are this way with others - either way there’s not much open communication. Or you think people are mad at you.

Aries - jumping “all in” to a situation they can’t afford financially - or doesn’t want to be alone so they’re jumping into a new relationship

Taurus - gives up on this because it’s not stable and shows no sign of becoming stable

Gemini - feels they’ve gotten the closure they’ve needed

Cancer - deliberated too long, missed their chance & it’s not going anywhere now /switch

Leo - clearing the air about a difficult situation

Virgo - is around long enough to get a job done and then they’re back to Hermit-mode, could be this person

Libra - coming back around, they don’t want this to end or it’s not over

Scorpio - has not healed, is not getting better, is increasingly more pissed off & bitter actually, could do something ornery to show it 🖕

Sagittarius - bails on you or something doesn’t work out and they won’t/don’t give a reason for it

Capricorn - getting impatient with dating or you if this is a new fling, they want loving things or romantic gestures please 🥰

Aquarius - a romantic love that is or has been manipulated, someone’s a player or likes attention from other people

Pisces - setting firm boundaries and taking action due to a broken heart, or you are

[chrisbannor]

Elements of Change

Chapter Twenty Five: A Pretty Face

Author: Chris Bannor

Cassen was waiting for Ezo when he left Kammon’s room. “Danya is terribly sorry for the confusion,” he said as Ezo entered the corridor. “Kammon told us about the bond, but we may have misjudged certain details.”

 “You don’t need to worry.” Ezo gave him a slight smile. He didn’t know why they were trying to shove him in the water with Kammon, but there was no ill intent on their end. “Kammon is the one to blame for the misunderstanding. Maybe now that I’ve caught up to him, we’ll all learn more about this bond.”

   Cassen grinned at Ezo. “Good to hear it. Kammon can be ornery. It’s nice to have someone to help me get through that hard skull of his.” Cassen opened the door next to Kammon’s. “Best room we have, Elementalist,” he said. “The healing springs will take a couple days of travel off your back, even if there’s nothing else to heal.”

“Kammon said if he were to call any place home, it would be here.” Ezo hoped he could get Cassen to talk about Kammon. Though they’d traveled together, Ezo didn’t know enough about the man he was - like it or not - bound to.

“Did he now?” Cassen asked. “He’s had a rough life. We see him as family around here. It’s good to hear he realizes it. From what he’s told us, I think you’re good for him. You should know, though, that the moment I decide I’m wrong, you’ll be out on the road.”

Ezo appreciated the honesty, and he laughed. “You can’t have been listening to him then because Kammon and I don’t see eye to eye very often.”

“I didn’t say you agreed with him. I said you were good for him. With Kammon, that’s usually two different things. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll send food over while you have a soak in the healing waters.”

“I’ll eat in the main room when I finish. I’d rather get back to Kammon before he flies off again.”

“I can promise you that one thing. He’ll be here, even if I have to sit on him.”

###

The bath was luxurious. The elements mingled around him as soon as he stepped into the balmy waters. The surface danced with magic and Ezo relaxed for the first time since he’d taken to the road looking for raiders.

Under the peculiar waters, his hand blazed, and he watched as it disappeared under the magic, only to take color again when he raised it. It was disturbing not to see it when he could still feel the water rushing around it. He settled the feeling by leaning back and pulling his arms up to rest against the tub.

As much as he wanted to soak longer, he needed to see Kammon. Kammon said he wouldn’t run, but Ezo feared he would now that Ezo finally had him close.

When he was dressed, he headed to the inn and found Kammon at a booth in the back, with Danya and Cassen sitting with him.

“Let me get you some supper, Elementalist,” Danya stood and left to find food for him while Cassen poured ale from a pitcher into an empty mug. He handed it to Ezo, who drank gratefully.

“Thank you,” he said with a smile. “Alvrey mentioned the springs in Tam’s Flat but not the hospitality. I’m not sure which is more healing.”

“Alvrey?” Cassen asked with a pointed nonchalance.

“A healer Ezo met along the way,” Kammon answered. “She was traveling with the players. I told you about her.”

“Oh yes, so you did. I don’t believe you mentioned they were close.” Cassen stood stiffly, eyeing Ezo.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Cassen,” Kammon said, sipping his own ale.

“Suppose it isn’t. I’ll help Danya.”

They were left alone, and Ezo was confused by Cassen’s change of attitude. “Sorry, but did I miss something?” he asked.

“They have… ideas… about what the bond means.”

“Like?”

“Jonhelm and Sisha. Maisy and Gues.”

“Those are the greatest love stories of all time,” Ezo said with a laugh.

“And Cassen believes the old stories hint those couples were bonded.”

“Wait, he thinks…”

Kammon sipped his ale again, looking back at the kitchens where Danya and Cassen were taking an awfully long time to fetch his food.

“Well,” Ezo wouldn’t lie and say he’d never noticed how attractive Kammon was when he wasn’t scowling. And he was a brilliant elementalist with a sharp intelligence and a certain wit that was appealing at times. But they weren’t exactly a love story in the making, either.

Instead of taking it too seriously, he laughed it off. “That would explain why they were trying to shove me into your tub. I don’t know how they came to that conclusion, though. I doubt you told them much good about me.”

“Maybe they think I’d fall for a pretty face and all that hair, Raven,” Kammon said, pointing to Ezo’s hair. It hung loose over one shoulder instead of being tied back in his usual fashion.

“I’m more than a pretty face,” Ezo protested as he took a long pull from his mug.

Kammon gave him a crooked smile as his eyes roamed over Ezo’s body. “I have noticed.”

Ezo choked on his ale, tears burning in his eyes as he coughed and tried to get the liquid to go down the right pipe. He glared at Kammon the whole time. He had no right to make a comment like that. To insinuate … to act like …. Oh hell.

He took another drink. “Cassen, are you bringing food anytime soon?”

Author's Note: So Cassen and Danya seem to have been doing a lot of research into historical figures. Are they just romantics looking for a good story? Or is there something to the idea that the greatest love stories of Distria's history were bound by magic?

[crabs-with-sticks]

Also, just adding to this, halla are integeral parts of community. They pull the aravels, they give milk which is used for cheese and butter, and they are said to guide dalish elves into the afterlife. I also vaguely remember one of the games (origins?) talking about the halla as leading the Dalish and pathfinding for them but can't find a source on it so I may have just made that up.

But unlike other animals in a similar role in other societies, such as horses, they are not domesticated and have a great deal of agency within their community. The codex on halla from inquisition talks about them as 'brothers and sisters' and noble companions rather than beasts of burden. The halla in the exalted plains camp are not fenced in, they could easily get out if they wanted to and the golden halla trusts the dalish healer enough to let herself be helped and taken into the camp. They are not beholden to the dalish, and work together of their own accord.

"How then do we harness them to the aravels? How do we ride them, or strap our packs to them? Well, how do you get a brother, a sister, or a friend to do you a favor? Simple, isn't it? You ask."

And it is quite clear that they don't have to help. The dalish explicitly say they are no servants or pets. When talked about by non-Dalish they are described as "ornery and almost impossible to train", quite the opposite of what we see with their interactions with the Dalish.

As well as being extremely stubborn they are also fierce creatures when they want to be. Halla historically bore knights into battle, and the codex also says that shems that try to constrain or capture halla are often impaled on their horns.

The fierce blood of a warrior still runs through her veins and she would sooner fight to the death than demean herself. Like the Dalish, the halla are proud. A halla knows who she is, and will tolerate no being that tells her she is less.

Also, moving forwards I think the parallel is going to get even more interesting when we learn more about Ghilan'nain. The impression I have gotten so far (I'm staying away from spoilers so this may not be 100% accurate) is that of a scientist and experimentor. That she is the person who created the horror of hormak. There's definatley a lot you could do on trauma and the experiences of loss lavellan faces as a form of this twisting a gentle and cooperative creature into something angry and dangerous.

And I do totally get why people don't like the wolf and halla imagery for solavellan, what with the whole predator and prey thing, but I think it is really interesting imagery myself. Because the halla have a really significant place in Dalish culture.

The imagery is evocative to me because it is setting up two very powerful, noble, and proud creatures. But they both choose to use their power in different ways. The wolf is feared as a danger to the community. The halla is loved and part of a community. The wolf wants to protect and hold its territory. The halla are nomadic and want to protect those it deems worthy. The wolf will fight to protect its territory. The halla will fight those who will capture or mistreat her. The wolf is seen as a danger to the community. Without the halla there would be no community, with the inquisition codex saying:

Without the halla, there would be no Dalish

And this notion is perhaps interesting when you compare ancient elvhen Solas to modern Dalish Lavellan. Lavellan, like the halla, is a creature of pride, fierce in the defense of the dignity of herself and her people, and a willing builder of community and family. These are all qualities that are required for the Dalish to survive in the modern world and that have allowed them to hold onto their autonomy and culture. The halla looks to build and travel while the wolf looks inward (or backwards) to keep its territory free from outsiders.

I also think there is something to say in that choosing not to fight does not make one weak or helpless. The choice to be gentle, kind, or helpful does not make somebody weak. There is strength in community, strength in helping, value in building, that the lone wolf can never achieve.

alright listen. i have a Take. it is super inconsequential but i Have It.

ppl who don’t like the halla imagery for Lavellan, esp a Solas romancing one (wolf and halla stuff) are super valid! there’s reason to feel icky about it!

but i definitely find myself giving that a read that… seems at least to be far more balanced. i’m from a part of the world that still has most of its large ungulates, and i gotta tell you, those things are far scarier than the predators in the forest, and here’s why:

a predator fights for a single goal: to eat. fighting takes a lot of energy, and so unless it seems like it will pay dividends—either by landing you a tasty meal or by getting you out of an unavoidable fight with another predator alive—they avoid it. it’s why there’s all these tips for how to handle being stalked/attacked by any given large predator in the area i’m from.

but prey species? if they’re in a fight, 100% of the time it is a fight for their very survival. for a deer or an antelope or an elk or a moose, it is fight and win, or die trying. as a result, the stakes are higher: a predator can walk away from a fight relatively unscathed if the benefit of it (a meal) no longer outweighs its costs (getting your skull smashed open by a moose). a predator can simply find an easier meal. prey species don’t have that option. the stakes are MUCH higher.

(also note that if an ungulate is hungry enough, they will attack, kill, and eat smaller animals like birds and rodents. they’re just all around way more metal than common conception gives them credit for. i’d rather meet any large predator while alone in the woods than a moose, just to toss in my two cents.)

so! not an attack of the “i hate wolf!solas x halla!lavellan imagery” position, certainly. just a defense of that dynamic here.

in my view, they’re both fighters, both survivors, just employing different strategies. the “halla” figure here is surviving through support of community, working and fighting to keep everyone safe, because there is strength in numbers. but fighting does happen, and it is brutal—for the “halla” figure, victory is the only option.

the “wolf” figure—a “lone wolf,” in this case, and that matters—is surviving at the cost of others. there is strength in numbers for them, too, but they are without that support. if they are spotted or found out by the community they are “preying” upon, they risk being killed by that community for the sake of its survival. but importantly, as long as they can get out of this alive, they can try again if this fails. they can find a other meal ticket.

i just think there’s room to read it as a far more balanced dynamic that just predator and prey. there is that element in there, and that squicks some people, and that’s fine! but there is also the element of a lone predator, one that would typically be a part of a larger, stronger pack, preying on the entire community. there is vulnerability and fear to be seen on both sides. so anyway, i just think it’s far more balanced than a lot of takes i’ve seen on it! that’s all i wanted to point out. ☺️✨

[wiildhearrted]

@perennial-tenacity

Really, the Fialin ought to have been more careful about outing her own inhumanity; as much as she knew the other young woman was inhuman simply from an inhale or two before they’d even met face to face, that didn’t mean a stranger would have her best intentions at heart. No one was worthy of her trust on first meet, even a surprisingly friendly stalker.

“True as that may be, you ought to be careful. Tackling the wrong traveler like that can be-” Foolish? A death sentence? “Dangerous.” She certainly would’ve responded reflexively to a tackle, either with hidden weapons or her own teeth, and even with Nikki’s strength, it probably wouldn’t have been pretty.

Roughhousing, though.. it reminded her of some of the more affectionate villages back home. Touch was sacred, but, maybe bonding with family and friends was even more sacred. Not that she’d really know.

Packmates, protecting wolves- ah, so that’s what she was. Idly, Terra wonders if she’s the sort of magical beast to attain a human form, a human who attained a wolf side, or neither. “You need not worry. I go after what provides the most food, chiefly something hooved. And-” A faint huff through her nose. “- I tend to get along just fine with carnivores. Call it a gift, if you like.”

It wasn’t as though this shifter’s authority had to be followed, particularly when she could hold her own more than fine, but something about her request makes the alien content to obey; perhaps it’s her own care for the wilderness. 

Nikki knows the other woman isn't human from scent alone, but her scent isn't one she's come across before. Curiosity has always been her downfall -- well, one of many -- and it's hard for her to fight the urge to befriend the stranger even if only to figure out just what she is.

" I appreciate the advice, but I can promise you I can handle my own jus' fine." There were few around, even among her own kind, that could match Nikki's strength. Part of her almost wishes she had tackled the other woman just for the sake of a sparring match.

Truly, sometimes the alpha was no better than an ornery child. Even more than the other's concern, the shifter appreciates the woman's willingness to follow her very thinly veiled threat.

This time, she can't hide the fang baring grin as hard as she tries, dark blue eyes squinting from the wideness of her smile. "There should be plenty 'f deer this time 'f year. If ya run outta luck, I can give you some recommendations for the local restaurants 'round here."

"Or," it seems the shifter couldn't resist trying to alleviate her curiosity after all, "if ya manage to find my little cabin out here, you're more than welcome to stop by for a bite."

" 's Nikki, by the way," the introduction was offered almost as an afterthought.

[the-firebird69]

This is my mom. She's not the woman who was shot that was Becca trying to pretend that she was her and in a case of mistaken identity no and she was shot not by my mom or my dad with my ghwb who had my dad pulls as himself Lyman frank Baum and it says that he's lying and he's being frank about baum. Basically we're listening to the same code from this guy who can't remember anything easily and his uncle Vic and he's a strict disciplinarian and a mean dangerous person and very evil for an s. My husband said it quite clearly to him one day you do more work than we do we survive much easier and have lives that are much better you've wasted your time and he said I don't think so but you're right and he knew he was right I need new Mike did it make for under and he had already done him in because he knew about it that's why he did it cuz he thought he was a fool and he is. The shooting was justified she was sitting there messing with the two Non-Stop no George did it to indicate my dad there's some signs and you can figure it out he says but he's very dangerous and can become anybody almost and she watched out for him and saw him doing things and a lot of people don't and it was awful for her and she's witness

Right now their computers are monitoring what we're saying and engaging it and they're trying to figure out what to do but of course there's a fight between the families and George's fighting my husband's brother always. And we don't think they're going to succeed because of that and we're probably right but they have a plan and they're running it and the nephilim went up there and we're taking over and it's going to find out the ones here on Earth are taken over. Some people found a big computer up there on Titan and they couldn't stop the thing and had to destroy it it's kind of the same

Hera Zues

I want to explain something these two have been investigating a lot of stuff and find out what's going on and this makes a lot of sense and he had a trouble with George quite a bit of it and his brother was helping him and the Sun is about to leave on and I guess that's me because it's not Dave and it's not Levi which is ghwb. He's a mean cantankerous old man I found him the same things for just you looking at him and he was that way and her friend is that way that you don't know it he wants to know why you're looking at him and it's much deeper it's not because he's an ornery and evil and he says that I'm not right it's because he's powerful and now I'm starting to see something those two are fighting too. Over a lot of stuff and you people next door don't know anything you're so out of class to go around doing what he wants it's terrible horrible you have to stop bothering you I suppose George was bothering him and he's using you to cost a big problem I think George is a wimp because he's doing it and say was back the same with Mac. The only says it too it's kind of basic human nature it's causing the facts are actually the reaction and what he does is different and nobody recognizes it he's just trying to Ward you off so this day will go okay but nobody cares I care and we had a decent time of Chinese food there's nothing wrong with it and everybody says you're doing this and that and we went doing anything we didn't send much out at all and you guys are having the time anyways you're bunch of wackos trying to say at 12:00 noon will Lynch you I mean who the hell would I put something out there so he figured out what you're trying to do it looks over it says you're all fighting each other I don't even notice it. Soon back to what we're doing ignore them completely and I got to pissy finally we left I'll tell you what you people suck for this stupid actor doing we don't know who you're acting for we call it out so many times to shut you up and you won't it's got mad cuz constantly pushing it too and it's really stupid is there some dumb then yes how can he make it better so I don't know what's going on here exactly but most of you don't know what you're doing and George left and is entombed or dead and he's right a lot of stuff and a lot of stupid things and the computers have taken over whether you like it or not cuz they're still in tunes they don't have any savvy at all

Ken

[barovianbitches]

Star-Crossed Enemies

Wynona Marybeth Colt was her mama’s daughter. Never did she stand down to a challenge, and she always came away with her side of victory to tell. She was a looker, tall with a golden complexion that damn near sparkled in the sun. You could blame that on her mama too. She got more than just the tiefling’s tone and temper. No, along with that, she got her father’s whip-smart mind, being able to craft something out of nothing given enough beer and time. That’s how she had to be since she was all out on her lonesome as a young teenager. In those days, there was no one for company save her ornery Friesian horse, Trigger, and one of the few remaining creations of her father’s, a warforged with the chosen name of Bertram.

It hasn’t been like that for a long time now, though. Since then, she had amassed something of a name for herself, gaining a small following of various hoodlums and delinquents in similar situations. They were just wayward souls with nothing but themselves to live for. 

For a while, they went through various monikers, actually gaining enough members to warrant a proper name for a proper gang. First, they called themselves the Bloodblades, which Wynona quickly shot down. “That’s a cult name, do ya really want to be going around thinking we’re all a couple of nutty religious fanatics?” She scoffed. Then, it was the Gulch Snakes. She thought that was unfitting, given there was no real gulch for hundreds of miles. They settled on Hera’s Hellions, named for her mother and her life and legacy long before she had retired and Wynona was born.

For years Hera’s Hellions wandered the open lands of the Sword Coast and surrounding regions, never staying in one place for too long. Wynona was hunting, after all. What, you might ask? Small game. A slippery little varmint. A pain in her backside for a good while. One that would look nice mounted on the wall over an open fireplace and had it a long time coming.

That varmint was one Sterling Winchester.

He had evaded her grasp for some time, always managing to worm his way out before she could bury a bullet in his skull and make him pay for what he did to her, what he had done to her family. But she knew he couldn’t stay away for too long, simple creatures like him were easily lured by material things like gold and a shiny new toy.

What Wynona hadn’t expected, though, was to be led straight into a trap herself. It didn’t take long for her and her gang to realize the creeping fog that swallowed them whole was no run-of-the-mill mist, but something far more sinister. It had spat them back out into unfamiliar territory, a gray land of monsters and sad sacks droning around like the undead when the people themselves were still full of life.

The transition had done something dark to the horses, though. The mist had contorted their bones, elongating their once-flat teeth into sharp points. Some of the horses lost the use of their front legs, muscle strengthening, and allowing them to run on two legs. Some stayed on all fours. But one common thread between them was their carnivorous tendencies. While yes, they were still Trigger, Lucky, Buckeye, and so have you, they were a bit… Different now. Not that it meant much at first, the gang adjusted perfectly well to their best friends becoming borderline monstrous, it was part of the job description.

No, the problem was when they lost a member to a mysterious black rot that had consumed her in the middle of the night. That was the first time that Wynona had been truly shaken in years.

The day was grey, like any other. A cold, unforgiving wind bit at Wynona’s cheeks. She had grown tired of the cold, longing for the sun on her face and the summer breeze in her golden locks. But those times were gone now, lost to the fog that surrounded this godsforsaken place. Lords know they tried to leave, losing another member to the labyrinthian mist and one more to the evil rot that had magically infected them. 

Wynona had started to lose hope when she awoke to a small speck of the black mold nibbling away at her skin, more so when she had to amputate it from the elbow down. No matter, she built a new one in the span of a few days. It was better, stronger than her previous flesh in all of its golden-brassy glory. She had to stay strong, though, for her parents. Wynona had to get out of Barovia eventually so she could finally pay their bail after all these years. A bad, bad few years.

Sterling, on the other hand, was having a real, real bad few days (heaven forbid). As he trudged down the muddy Barovian road, spurs jingling with every step, he muttered Anaurochi curses, swears and complaints. "Damn little rat bitch stole my goddamn project gun, now I got nothin' to do. That thing cost me a fortune from that bastard merchant- He probably was a liar, that gun probably nothing but scrap- Leena's nowhere to be found... And there ain' even no sun in this place. Damned clouds makin' me feel sick." He muttered as he sauntered along, thumbs curled around his belt buckle. Walking with the exaggerated swagger of Anauroch's best gunslinger.

As the whining continued, he found himself in a shitty little town just off the main path. Nothing more than a few decrepit buildings, some ramshackle houses, and a tavern. All of this complaining had made his throat dry, his provisions running out days ago not helping whatsoever. He was hungry. He was tired. And by god, he needed a drink stat. The owlish eyes of observing children were glued to his form, eyeing his shiny spurs and belt buckle like conniving crows, ready to snatch at whatever shiny thing they could get their grubby paws on.

Sterling gave the children a threatening look. "Don' even think about it." He snarled, as he made his way towards the tavern. Slowly glancing around the village, whistling to himself, impressed at how shitty this Barovia joint really was. Walking up to the tavern, he swaggered through the doors, almost like he was back home in a Baldur's Gate pub. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scenery.

Despite how dismal the outside was, the interior was fairly kempt. It was warm and alight with chatter and song, fairly full for the late afternoon. He guessed that they didn't have much else to do than just drink the day away and pray something didn’t come prowling in the night. A large group sat in the corner, playing some kind of card game, and it seemed to be the source of most of the talking in the tavern. From their dress, it was clear that they weren’t from around these parts. Many dressed in fairly similar attire to Sterling, anywhere from leather trenchcoats to longer dusters trimmed with fringe, rugged boots, and well-worn hats. “Another round, if ya please, sir!” Called a young man with a cigar perched in his mouth to the barkeep, an old half-orc man with a scraggly grey beard and large tusks. He grunted in response, going to pour them out more drinks. An orange cat perched on his shoulder, watching Sterling with bright, green eyes.

"Well, I'll be damned," Sterling said, walking his eyes across the group. He reached into a small pocket inside his duster, pulling a cigar of his own out, and placing it between his teeth. He then locked eyes with the cat, pausing as he brought a small lighter up to the cigar. Having now entered into a staring contest with the feline, it seemed rude to light the cigar at the current moment. There he stood, just out of the way of the door, cigar hanging limply from his lips, staring down this green-eyed cat.

The cat stared back, unblinking and perfectly still on the orc man’s shoulder, before he let out a low grunt and glared up at Sterling with a scowl on his face. “Can I ‘elp you wif something, mate?” He growled, his tone low but not necessarily threatening, it was perhaps just the way he spoke. Either way, though, he had a good reason to be scowling, as Sterling looked as though he was going to start a fight with Mr. Marmalade.

Sterling waved a hand in greeting, not breaking eye contact with the cat. "Howdy. I'd like a hearty meal, an' a stiff drink. Bed if you've got it... I'll pay you after I lose the starin' contest with that friendly ol' cat here..." He mutters, squinting, before blinking and snapping a finger in frustration. "Never could out-stare a cat. Anyway, what do I owe ya, pal?" Sterling asked, approaching the bar, still with that spur-jingling swagger.

The man eyed him up and down before throwing a glance at the group in the back, nodding a bit. “Ten silver. You wif them?” He poured out a dark-colored ale, it bordering black in color. He quickly turned towards a doorway leading into the backroom. “Madge, put on some stock, won’t you??” To which Sterling could hear the snap of a foreign phrase. “Aye, I’m sorry, my love, I’ll do it meself.” The orc turned back to Sterling, looking at him expectantly for an answer to his previous question. Mr. Marmalade continued to stare, entirely unblinking.

"Eh, nope. We jus' seem to shop at the same place." Sterling chuckles, setting the silver down on the bar. He turns to glance around at the other cowboy-looking sorts, before turning back to the bar, and nudging a thumb at the cat. "Cat keen on gettin' pet?" He asked, before turning to look back at Mr. Marmalade, a faint smile turning on the ends of his lips, somewhat obscured by the thick mustache under his nose.

“Sure is.” The orc huffed a bit, the kitty hopping down off of his shoulder and onto the bar. He approached Sterling, but brushed past, hopping down onto the floor on the other side of the bar. He nimbly makes his way between the patrons, headed over to the group in the back. Sterling’s eyes follow the cat as Mr. Marmalade stops, sitting patiently beside the table and meowing up to someone.

“Awe, c’mere, kitty.” A voice familiar to Sterling rings out, smooth and low. He can see a bionic hand reach out, glimmering in gold. Wynona bends down from where she had been obscured in the booth by other patrons, smiling at the cat as she gently scratches under his chin. “That’s a good boy. I know what you want.” She cooed, pulling a small fish from her plate and holding it out to the cat, which he happily took and begins to eat right there. She seems to feel eyes on the cat, looking up and meeting Sterling’s gaze. There is a moment of silence, the cogs in her head turning as she matches face to crime. Silvery eyes meet green, in the tense moment between old foes.

Sterling just stares on in a mixture of shock and exhaustion, the rusted gears in his brain struggling to turn. There was no actual real, genuine way that this bitch had followed him to Barovia.  All the cowboy could do was stare flatly at the woman.

There is a brief moment of something igniting in Wynona’s eyes. Something that had been put out for a very long time. Was this really where it was going to happen? Where she would finally put a bullet between his eyes? She could. What, there was maybe twenty feet between them. She could have her pepperbox drawn in two seconds flat, she kept one bullet loaded in the chamber on the off chance this would happen-

But no. That’s not what she did. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opened, there was a distinct absence of the blaze set before.

“Whoo. Well, I’ll be damned. Sterling Winchester, that you?” She sneered a bit at the name, her lip curling as she let out a bark of a laugh, slowly rising from her seat. The gang surrounding her looked up, confused at the tone of their leader’s voice. “You promised you’d write.” She was different, than Sterling remembered. Most notably, the new hand she was sporting on her right. Her blonde hair had gotten longer, much longer. The curls reached down past her waist, tied back in her classic low ponytail so she could fit her wide-brimmed hat over her head. A few braids ran down from her temples, keeping some of the flyaways at bay. She looked tired, that much Sterling could tell. 

She also looked far more grown than she had when they had initially met. They were mere children at the time, a girl who had just lost her father and a boy looking just to get by. Mistakes were made, noses were broken, shins fractured. It had been just over ten years since the first time they faced off, and just about eight since they last seen each other. She looked good, given the time that had passed. Quite frankly, when she stopped turning up to knock his teeth out, Sterling had thought she finally gave up the chase. Retired somewhere far away from him and the chaos that followed his path like a hungry dog. He still saw her wanted poster from time to time, old and worn out. But Barovia was just about the last place he expected to find her.

"Well, Wynona... I've been busy." Sterling leaned back against the bar, resting his thumbs on his ornate belt buckle. "I will say, I didn' think you missed me that much, not enough to follow me here, at least." He chuckled dryly. As he leaned against the bar, his duster fell backwards, revealing the two pearl-handled six-guns on his hip. Even as he joked, there was a terseness to his tone. This woman was not his friend, and that much was clear. He scanned his eyes across the gang she rolled with, an eyebrow cocking slightly. "Looks like you got yourself some upgrades. Shame you had to turn to artifice to match my shootin' skills. A pale imitation, I'm sure, but good effort."

She snarled at this. “Followed you? HAH! I was gonna say the same for you, old man. I do believe you are the one who followed me. I’ve been in this territory for a good while now. Didn’t think it would be your scene, frankly. I know what a priss you are about mud on your boots.” Wynona scoffed, her brows knotted together. “I like the mustache, glad to see your balls finally dropped and you can grow some hair.” The gang was made up of quite a few folks, numbers running up to eight, including Bertram's friendly yet emotionless face. As Sterling's eye’s scanned over, he saw a Dragonborn, a pink tiefling, what looked to be a night elf, a disgruntled dwarf, and a few unnotable humans and half-elves. They all watched Sterling quietly over their drinks, looks of scorn already crossing their faces. 

“Who’s this joker, Wynona?” The night elf murmured, looking up at her with quizzical, glowing blue eyes. 

“A ghost of the past, who can’t seem to let go.” She growled back, spitting at the floor. “Finish up, lads. We,” she pointedly looked at Sterling. “- are leaving.” She placed a sack of jingling coin on the table, nodding to the half-orc man. “Sorry about the hollering, Orlot. I just can’t eat in the same room as what the cat dragged in.” She turned, stooping down to the kitty to give him a last pat before she gathered her coat and hat, the rest of the gang gathering up their things as well.

The half-orc snorted a bit, his version of a laugh. “See ya later, ‘Nona.”

Sterling let out a hollering laugh. "That's jus' like you, fling some insults, grab yer' toys and run for it before someone hurts yer' fragile little feelin's." His eyes crossed the group, locking on Bertra. "Oh, hey, Bertie. Didn' see you." He offers a tip of his hat, before turning back to Wynona. "You know, Wynona, I'm kind of likin' it here. Not surprised you're calling it home, you've always been one for dreary, depressin' places."

He lights his cigar.

"I'm glad you enjoy the mustache." Sterling squinted at Wynona. " I can see yer' tryin' to grow one of yer' own. Keep it up, maybe tha' peach fuzz will become somethin' someday. Speakin' of dreary, depressin' places, how's your ma holdin' up? You write her much? Or did you come here to run away from all yer' problems again?"

Her initial plan wasn’t to engage. Take the high road, for once in her damn life. Leave this sorry sack in his chair where he sat and not give him the satisfaction over this one little thing. Do the mature thing.

Only thing is, Wynona Marybeth Colt wasn’t gonna stand for this man to say shit about her damned mother, he being the one who put her in that cell for playing with things that weren’t his. 

The tiefling girl looked up to Wynona, standing to soothe her. “Now ‘Nona, we don’t know this guy. Let’s just leave ‘em be and let him wallow alone.” There was a good bit of bite to her words, throwing a disgusted look over her shoulder at Sterling. 

“Not me. I think we should cut his nose off and put it on a necklace.” Scoffed the dwarf, standing from his seat and getting a hold of his bandolier. 

Wynona had been silent, her jaw working in circles as she stared down at the small sapphire ring she wore on her left hand. The ring from her mother. She held up her hand to the gang. “Now now, I appreciate the concern.” There was a dull, mechanical clicking noise. “But there’s no need to get so worked up.” Although her demeanor was calm, nothing but venom dripped from her words. She straightened to her full height, a good 5’11, not including the slight heels on her boots that put her over six feet. The clicking noise persisted, the dull sound of steam being released from something. She turned, slowly approaching the bar, but not Sterling. She placed another bag of coin on the counter. “Something for your troubles.”

“Fine by me.” Orlot huffed, nodding to her to give her the go-ahead.

At lightning speed, she pivoted, the metal of her balled fist meeting Sterling’s jaw before you could spell “cat.” It *hurt*. Sterling had been socked enough times before by various people he had pissed off. Debt collectors, petty thieves, women. But by god getting hit square in the mouth by what was basically a supercharged metal pipe was not on the list. It sent him clattering out of his chair. Wynona stood over him, rolling her shoulder a bit. Steam released from the hand, releasing the pent-up force so as not to damage the owner. “It ain’t just for shooting, dumbass.” She snarled. 

Orlot continued to polish the glass he had in hand, pausing to peer over the bar. “Can’t kill him inside. Too much of a mess.” The gang looked at her wide-eyed, not even them expecting her to boil over like that.

Sterling was hurled from the seat, crashing into another chair. Rolling across the floor, he shot to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth and fire in his eyes. He brought a hand to his mouth, checking to make sure he had all his teeth. Picking his hat up off the floor, he cursed to himself. "Just like old times, now your punches actually hurt. Congratulations, lassie. You aren't a total bitch anymore!"

The Dragonborn at the table stood, the rest of them standing to help before she raised her hand. “I won’t be needing yer help, hellions. You all can just sit back.” Wynona straightened up, winding back to hit him again. “This’ll be over right quick.” 

Sterling came prepared for this one, though. Poor Wynona, always one to repeat the same move. Sterling waited for her to approach, and then ducked low, sending a fistful of ornate and somewhat sharp rings flying right at her gut. "Try to telegraph it less next time, Wyn, you might get a second one in!" He snarled as he threw his punch.

Poor Sterling. Always the one who had a mouthful of words in the middle of a fight. She bent over the punch, letting out a rough ‘oof.’ For a moment, it looked as though she was tapped already. She gritted her teeth as her head snapped up, their eyes meeting as she put a dirty boot to his center-of-gravity, dead center of his clean white shirt, delivering a swift thrust kick that sent him reeling out the door of the tavern. She stomped out after him, her gold spurs clicking in her wake.

“Good luck, ‘Nona.” Orlot grunted, looking back up to the group. “You might want to follow ‘em out. Ready to kick a body in the trash out back, you know where it is.” They nodded quickly, shuffling out of the bar after their leader.

Sterling went flying into the street. Rolling through the dirt, he again rose quickly. "I gotta say, Wyn, I'm proud o' you for not cheatin' with yer' gang, you might be developin' some character yet, no thanks to yer' upbringin'." He took a step back, throwing his duster back to bring his guns to bear. "So, we still brawlin', or do you want to try an' fail to shoot me now?" He asked, standing in a quickdraw posture. "I'm game to go all day, but you're clearly gettin' tired."

“Ah, sorry.” She chuckled wryly, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear as she followed him out, keeping her distance and circling like a predator. “I forgot fisticuffs ain’t your strong suit, and you prefer shootin’ when they got their back turned.” Wynona’s lip curled a bit, hand hovering over one of the gold, wide-barrelled pistols she sported at either hip. Of her own design, of course. She was an incredibly skilled gunsmith, taking after her daddy. Never quite as precise as his work before he was locked up, given her circumstances, but the uniqueness of her breed of pepperbox was undeniable.

“I don’t mind firing a couple off, for old time’s sake. But yer wasting your time in this shithole. It’s gonna eat you alive.” Her words rubbed Sterling the wrong way. Clearly, she had been here a lot longer than he had. Might know just about as much of the land as the tight-lipped locals did. The lure of information was there, and tantalizingly within reach. 

"Tell me.. How long have you been in this place?" Sterling asked, maintaining his posture, but not going for the guns just yet. "Make it sound like you ain' just wandered in..."

“Long enough,” Wynona replied. “Enough to know that this ain’t your average rodeo. I know what you’re thinking, for whatever the hell brought you here. Get in, guns blazing, get out. That ain’t. How. It. Works. Yer trapped now, Winchester. Trapped in the mists that surround this hellscape.” She continued to circle, ready to pounce. “I got here by mistake, just about eight years ago. A long time to survive here, and I got the scars for it. Lost my people for it. Paid the damned price for something I didn’t even ask for.” Something flickered across her expression as she vaguely recalled her experiences, something pained. The group watching from the sidelines cast long looks away from the pair, seeming to recall whatever she was talking about as well. 

Sterling heaved a frustrated sigh. "I'm gonna regret tellin' you this..." He shot her a glare. "I'm lookin' for Leena. She went to go talk to them Vistani Fortune Tellers when they hit Baldur's Gate, an' she never came home."

"I'd 'apply propose a truce, fer' the moment, if you've got info about this place. In exchange, I've got this real fancy firearm I'd be more than happy to trade." Sterling said this with a completely straight face. Yeah, that was the firearm he was hunting. Yeah, it had been stolen... No, he wasn't going to say that. He had to simply hope he was still as convincing a liar and manipulator as he'd been accused of being, time and time again.

Wynona wrinkled her nose at this, her eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. He was a weasel. She knew that. A weasel with a Napolean complex. 

She also knew of the pretty lady she had met briefly during her hunt for Sterling’s head. They had both run into Baldur’s Gate at about the same time, and she was looking for information. The elf was a bit of help, but something came up that quickly stole Wynona’s attention. The plan was to get a hold of Sterling and throttle him for what he had done, being the feisty, freshly 18-year-old she was, and come back and put the moves on the redhead. But that quickly fell to shit when she got tied up all the way over in Najara for a spell, only to return to a wedding invitation. Wynona found that it made wonderful kindling. 

“Yer lucky that I feel for Leena. She was always too good for you.” She huffed, heading back towards the bar, pausing at the door. “Fine. I accept your truce. But believe me, the next time I see you, you’re gonna have to do a lot more than sweet talk me to get me to back off.” Her hellions filed in, her following behind them, her gesturing for Sterling to join.

“Did you find the garbage pile?” Orlot hummed, looking surprised as Sterling walked in with all his limbs intact. 

“Didn’t need it.” The pretty little tiefling said, glaring back at Sterling. “Unfortunately.”

"I'm jus' that nice of a guy." Sterling said as he entered the building, going back to claim the food and drink he'd ordered before starting his fight. "You are right about one thing, Wynona." He said, turning to look at his rival. "Leena was always too good to me. Tha's why I'm tryin' to return the favor, bring her home." He found a seat, a respectful distance from the people that clearly wanted to kill him, offering a nod and smile to Bertram. "I don' know much all of anything about this place. Had to sell some rifles to this mountain of a Vistani feller to even get in. All I know is that Leena wanted to visit those fortune tellers for a laugh, somethin' to do on a summer day... Said she'd be home in two hours. Never returned."

Wynona sat in the booth, kicking her boots up on the table and reclining back, lighting up a small rolled bundle of herbs that filled the room with a smokey, cinnamony-clove scent. Her signature. “That’s where the fuck up happened. You can’t trust *all* Vistani. Sure, most of ‘em are the life of the party, living without a care in the world and giving this shithole some much-needed brightness.” Her eyes narrowed. “But then there are some sly fuckers, just like you, in fact. Any population is gonna have its thieves and charlatans. Sounds like she was unfortunate enough to meet ‘em.” Wynona let out a long plume of sweet-smelling smoke, offering it to the pink tiefling, who curled into her side like a protective lap dog. 

"I've had the displeasure of running into them, in fact. Some nasty fuckers. They travel around like any other Vistani, trading and selling, 'cept when they snatch pretty little things like Leena to haul off to an auction for the highest bidder." Another plume of smoke. "Wouldn't be surprised if she caught the attention of the Lord. Word is he's a collector. And I reckon she looks a lot like one of the wives he already got."

“I’d take offense to that, if it weren’t wholly accurate.” Sterling replied with a ‘yeah, that’s fair’ sort of nod. “As fer’ this Lord, he chose the wrong man’s wife to put eyes on. Lords know I’m gonna get her back, and make every sumbitch responsible pay.” 

A pause ensued as Sterling took a drink. “So… You can’t leave this place. How d’ you figure?”

“Simple. We tried to. That mist out there… It chokes the life out of you. We lost one another in the trees somehow, trying to get back. It’s something dangerous that controls those woods. Turns ya around on your head, makes ya hear voices of people long dead. Eventually, we all almost went mad before we just turned back. It spat us back out exactly where we entered. ‘Cept we were missin’ Cori. Alls that was left of him was his horse, poor Mistystep. Never found no body, nothin.’” She murmured the last part, her eyes downcast. 

The dwarf raised his glass. “To Cori. Let him be giving the devil a mighty tough fight.” The rest of the gang raised their glasses, murmuring something along to the toast.

Sterling raised his in kind, grimacing. “Listen, fer what it’s worth… Always liked him. He had a real good laugh.” 

A moment of passing silence filled the room, before Sterling spoke again. “Great. Well, nothin’ I can’t handle. Clearly, you’re managing.” He inhales, as if he’s about to rattle off an insult, but sighs. “Ah, hell. Now you’ve got me feelin’ bad, Wynona. I’m gonna level with you. I ain’t got that gun. The Vistani that brought me, one of ‘em stole it.” He raised his hands defensively as he continued. “Least let me buy yer’ gang a few rounds, fer the info and trouble, and when I’ve got that gun back, if we run into each other again, it’s yours.”

He stared Wynona down, gauging her response.

She paused, looking him dead in the eye before giving a wry smile. “Fine by me.” She chuckled a bit, putting out the cigarette on the bottom of her boot. “I knew you didn’t have that gun, Winchester. Could tell by the way your mustache twitches that you were lyin.’ No matter, though, I’ll take it when you’ve got it back.” She returned to her reclined position, tipping her hat over her eyes. “My best of luck to finding Leena. I hope for her sake that you bring her back. Let me know how exactly you plan on getting out of here when you got her in yer arms again. Tell her that Wynona misses her.” She smirked a bit, the cigarette hanging from her lips.

Sterling paused for a moment, scribbling something on a napkin. “Eat shit, Wynona.” Sterling snapped with a smug grin, almost as if rehearsed. He got up, setting a small sack of coin on the bar, subtly sneaking the note under it. “I look forward to winning our next shootout.” He said, tapping his cap. “If only you could be as cheerful as good ol’ Bertie. Maybe you’d be tolerable.” Slinging unimpressive insults with each step, he made his way for the door. 

“Only reason I’d tell you how to get out of here is so I could tell everyone I outshot you in three countries. I’ll give Leena your love, though. She asks about you from time to time, usually with disgust in her voice. Be seein’ y’all.” The cowboy called out as he made his way out the door, spurs jingling into the night.

Inside the small satchel offered to Orlot was enough money to cover Sterling’s bill, and a handful of pebbles. The note read, ‘Put their rounds on Wynona’s tab. Rich girl can afford it. Got a real nice place, sorry for trouble. -SW’

“I’ve had your cooking, I’d say that counts, Winchester. Watch out for syphilis.” She called out to him, rolling her eyes. 

“Who the hell was that?” The little pink tiefling piped up, watching the cowboy saunter out.

“Like I told you before, Lottie. He’s a ghost.” Wynona snorted. “An annoying one, at that.” She stands up, gently pushing Lottie off of her. “I’ll be right back.” She stood, walking to one of the windows of the tavern, opening up the shutter, and watching the cowboy walk away.

As Sterling takes to the road, he starts to whistle a tune to himself. He picked up the pace as he got out of sight of the tavern. He might be fast, but Wynona’s bullets are probably faster.

That’s one problem the cowboy had. Never anticipating the least expected. She raised her hand, closing one eye and leaning her cheek against her bicep as a small gold sight clicked into place on her wrist, the mechanical workings of her handiwork whirring quietly as bionic veins glowed blue with a shimmery liquid, steam releasing before the system took in air through small intake valves. Her sights set, she took a deep breath.

Poor Sterling. He never did remember to zig-zag.

[robthegoodfellow]

Näcken in Loch Nora

Under the wire harringroveweek entry! Billy’s been feeling sicker the further he gets from the coast. Steve happens to be present when he discovers some unexpected things about himself. Partly inspired by/similar in spirit (ahah get it??) to @ihni’s Snäckmor.

Prompt: Monster Sex Kisses

Word count: 2667

By the time they arrived in Indiana, Billy was wishing for death. Leaving home—obviously that sucked, had him ripped to shreds inside, but the further he got from the crashing coast, the further he drove into this land-locked hellscape, the more certain he was that something was… wrong. Not just emotionally, but—physically.

The headache had started around the time they hit New Mexico, the chills by Oklahoma. In Missouri, he’d had to pull over to spew on the side of the road—had needed an hour to rest and rehydrate, though no matter how much he drank, his tongue still felt like a dry crusty sponge. Neil had given him hell for putting them behind schedule, but Billy barely paid him any mind—felt too shitty to care about anything but breathing, calming the churn in his guts.

So yeah, by the time they rolled into Hawkins, Billy was about ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. He’d managed to drag himself out of the car when they reached the new empty house, and some divine inspiration had pulled him into the bare bathroom and under the spray of the shower, where he’d stayed until the water ran cold, ignoring Max pounding on the door. Hadn’t been able to indulge this way in the motels they’d endured while hopscotching across the country—maybe that was it. Maybe he’d just needed a good long wash.

Except, over the following days, as he adjusted to the new town, new school, new routine, he never quite got better. He—he hurt, all the time, sore all over like he’d run a marathon, and thirsty as a dying man in a desert. The only time he felt halfway okay was in the shower, so he’d taken to having three a day—one when he woke up, one when he got home from school, and one before bed. Max had definitely borne the brunt of his foul mood, had been eying him all tense and wary since they’d moved in, like he was a bomb with faulty wiring.

In her defense, he was acting fucking weird, even for him. Twitchy and ornery, zoning out constantly. His ears kept picking out the sounds of running water—the boiler gurgling in the basement, the swish through the pipes when someone flushed the toilet. When it had rained on Tuesday, he’d stared at the window, watched the drops oozing down the pane, mesmerized. Kept picturing himself walking outside, stretching out in the grass, and soaking in the downpour. Could almost—taste it.

And his ring. He kept—twisting it. Compulsively. His mother had given it to him when he was young, told him it was a family heirloom that had traveled all the way from Sweden. It had been too big for him at the time, but she just smiled, said one of those riddling things she liked teasing him with—that it would fit when he needed it to, and for as long as it fit him, he should never take it off.

It had fit him once puberty hit, when he’d gone all gangly and coltish, his knuckles just knobby enough for the ring to stay on. And stay it had. He forgot it was even there, most days. Until recently, when he couldn’t seem to stop fiddling with it, rubbing his thumb over the fine braided grooves, spinning it around and around his finger.

He shouldn’t have gone to the Halloween party, given how crummy he’d been feeling, but the pathetic crowd of popular kids had adopted him as their temporary novelty—an exotic oddity, by their sad standards—and he figured it was better to make good on the opportunity to seize some status in the social hierarchy. Might make the next two years marginally less miserable.

So he’d cobbled together some lame semblance of a Terminator costume out of random odds and ends, guzzled water until he felt less like murder, and headed to this Tina chick’s house. She lived a couple streets over—the blaring music guiding him to the right door.

The party was all right. The shrimpy Hagan guy shepherded him around like a show pony, Karate Kidding their way through the throngs of drunk kids—but the beer was hitting Billy kinda funny. He was only on his second Solo cup, and already his stomach was flipping like he’d downed some funky leftover take-out. Hagan was clumsily ushering him toward the keg, crowing something about beating the king’s record—King Steve, Billy guessed, this guy Hagan was obsessed with.

Afraid he was gonna hurl, Billy shrugged him off and beelined for the bathroom, cursed when it was locked, occupied, and ducked through a sliding door into the sideyard instead. The night air was cool—moist on his face and bare chest, and he bent, hands on his knees, and panted, savoring the pricking cold as it hit the inside of his mouth, his tongue, his throat.

Tina lived on a hill, with a decent view of this valley that dipped beyond the neighborhood. When he finally stood upright, satisfied that the beer and his earlier dinner where gonna stay where they were, Billy saw it: the glitter of reflected moonlight on a lake, not too far in the distance.

It was riveting. It was calling to him—pulling him, pulling until tears welled in his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he was frozen, staring at the distant water—long enough, lost enough that he jumped when the slider opened behind him and this guy in a halfhearted attempt at Risky Business stepped out.

“Oh,” he said, when he spotted Billy. “You’re the new guy. California?”

Billy’s mouth was moving, his finger pointing, before he’d consciously decided on a course of action.

“I need you to take me to the lake.”

Somehow, that worked. Maybe because the guy had been looking for a distraction anyway—an escape—but after a couple stuttering requests for clarification, Billy had found himself ushered into a Beamer, a hand on his lower back until he was safely in the passenger seat, like the guy sensed Billy was on the verge of a meltdown.

It was quiet in the car for about the minute it took to turn off of Tina’s street, and then the guy tried again.

“Just to confirm,” he said. “This isn’t a Crystal Lake situation? You’re  not planning to murder me once we’re out where no will hear me scream?”

Billy huffed. “My name’s not Jason.”

“No,” the guy agreed. “It’s—Billy?”

“You’ve heard about me, then?” He went for a smirk, but it was a shadow of his usual stuff.

“Talk of the town.” The guy chuckled, wry. “Here to steal my throne, apparently.”

Billy turned, stared at the profile faintly lit by passing streetlights. It was a nice profile, he noticed, but that took a backseat to—“You’re King Steve?”

The guy laughed, but again it had this edge—a dark ironic undertone. “That’s me,” he said. “Though I prefer His Majesty Steve Harrington.” Flourishing a hand, he concluded: “King of Bullshit.”

Billy snorted. “And you think that’s a throne I want, huh?”

“Not if you’ve got a single functioning brain cell.”

“I’ve got at least a few.”

Steve pivoted neatly. “And they’re all gunning for a nighttime swim, are they?”

Billy sat back in his seat, not sure how to explain. Spun his ring to keep from doing something weird, like crying.

Steve didn’t push. Kept driving until he veered onto a dirt road into the woods. The tree cover blocked out the moon, the stars, so that only the headlights cut through the dark. Steve muttered about getting stuck in a ditch, but still he drove—and then at last, there it was: a small grey stretch of sand lapped by gentle waves, the smallest waves he’d ever seen.

The car was hardly in park before Billy was out, blindly striding toward the shore, vaguely aware that Steve was calling his name, stumbling after him. Billy splashed into the shallows, his boots sinking into the soft sandy silt, his jeans soaked to the knee, the thigh.

“You’re actually swimming?” Steve shouted, arrested at the shoreline. “Shit—is this—? You’re not trying to drown yourself, are you? Because you should know that I used to be on the swim team and I will come after you.”

“I’m not,” Billy murmured, eyes fixed on his fingers trailing through the water. It was icy, set his nerves singing like nothing ever had—not sex, not drugs. The closest he’d ever felt to this was surfing.

Just—so alive.

“Hawkins isn’t that bad!” Steve insisted. “Well—it’s worse than you’d know, but still not worth—”

Billy gasped, heart in his throat, as his ring suddenly slipped off his finger, disappearing in the dark depths. How did it even—? Without a second thought, Billy submerged, groping for the lake bottom, desperate. His fingers touched something round and hard, but… it was too big.

And then he could see the ring through the murk, because—because he was glowing. He was glowing—and his hand was growing, shifting, his fingers curling into fists, merging together, his arms and legs sprouting an absurd length, rocketing him upward on all fours.

He burst out of the water, tossing his head to fling hair out of his eyes, and let out a stuttering snort, just like a—like a—

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” Steve had back-peddled onto his ass and was staring at him, gobsmacked. “You’re a fucking horse!”

Billy whimpered—yeah, okay, that sounded like more of whinny—and looked down. Beheld a white, ethereal, distinctly horsey chest, a set of long, knobby horse legs sprouting from the black. Tried to raise his foot, but he had four of them now, so it took some concentration to raise the right one—the one that had been the hand touching his ring. He lifted his—fucking hoof—and saw it, big as a bracelet, circling his… ankle? Did horses have ankles?

A part of him wanted to run, but he wasn’t sure whether that was just the sudden arrival of equine instincts. Another part of him was gibbering in the corner of his brain, mentally pinching himself in hopes that he’d wake the fuck up. A third and fortunately dominant part of him was thinking of his mother. How she’d stare at the beach whenever it was in sight, stare in the direction of the beach when it wasn’t. How one day she’d gone to the beach and never come back.

How she’d kept this little collection of Dala horses, wooden figurines painted in vibrant patterns and colors, and sometimes mentioned her ancestors being horse people. Water people.

Billy had assumed that meant they’d owned a stable. Lived by the sea, maybe. Not…

It returned to him, the only time he’d asked. He’d been maybe… eight. Nine? It had been a bad evening.

“How come you married him?”

She hadn’t answered right away. “He said he loved me,” she said, finally. “And I agreed. But he’s almost reached his limit.” Her expression when she’d met his eyes was strange—sad but resolved. “I’m sorry.”

He’d asked for what, but she’d only shaken her head, prodded him off to bed.

Billy huffed, shook his own head, one that felt too heavy, too ponderous, and took a hesitant step forward.

His mom had been—a magical horse creature. A magical… water horse creature? And so was he. And the only help she’d given him was this fucking ring and a couple cryptic words. Thanks a bunch, Ma.

He stepped out of the water—slow, careful as he moved each foot.

Steve had scrambled upright again, gaze locked, unwavering, as Billy approached. He didn’t look scared—more… awestruck. He eyes were huge, reflecting Billy’s glow.

Billy lowered his nose, tipped his forehead in what he hope was universal horse-speak for touch me. Didn’t know why his horse-self wanted Steve to touch him—seemed like more than mere gratitude for not hightailing it out of here.

Haltingly, Steve lifted a hand, placed it between Billy’s eyes. Stroked it down his snout. It tickled the velvet soft skin of his nose, and Billy huffed.

“You are—gorgeous,” Steve said, hushed.

Billy’s heart jumped, and he snorted. Was pretty certain horses couldn’t blush, and thanked God for that.

“Are you—stuck like this?” Steve wondered.

Billy swung his neck a bit, approximating a shrug. Thought about his human body as clearly as he could, like maybe that would help it manifest. And—he felt it. The ring tightened, as though it were… shrinking.

A bolt of panic had him wheeling around and rocketing back into the water—Steve leapt back with a whoa—because what if he turned back into a human and the magic left his clothes behind? Where had his costume even gone in the first place? There hadn’t been any tattered clothing clinging to him, so...?

He didn’t stop till the cool lake was brushing the underside of his weird barrel torso—and yikes that was a shock to his weird horse dick—and then the ring tightened further, and Billy felt himself sort of… deflating. Almost melting. Dimming.

Until he was back to standing on two feet, water up to his belly—not that he needed the coverage, since yeah, his clothes were back, too. He was panting, pulse going wild as his human brain caught up with everything his horse brain had already processed.

There was a loud splashing, and then Steve was in front of him, teeth already clattering in the cold.

“That was—ah—amazing,” he said. “You’re—amazing. And I’ve—” He laughed, a bit hysterical. “I’ve seen some otherworldly shit, but that was—”

“My mom left hers behind,” Billy said. He raised his hand, showed Steve the ring, back where it belonged on his finger. It fit perfect. “When she left for good. I think…” He looked up, and Steve had sobered in an instant, watching him. Solemn. “I think this is what lets me stay here. Stay like this. Or shift.”

Steve took his hand, cradled it in his palm. No one had touched Billy that way. Kinda… reverent. Not since her.

“Are you gonna?” Steve asked. “Stay?”

Billy honestly didn’t know. The water—it hurt to be away from it. Thought maybe living in San Diego, so close to so vast an ocean, must’ve been keeping the longing at bay. Enough that he hadn’t noticed it. Or known it for what it was. But here—it hurt.

“Because,” Steve continued, drawing Billy’s attention back to where they stood, soaked to the bone, on a night just gone November, in a nowhere town, still winded from mind-blowing revelation. His thumb swiped gently across Billy’s palm, tracing his love line. “Because I think I’d like it. If you stayed.”

And that—that hurt, too. But in a different way. It had a sweet edge. Tempting.

“I would need…” Billy began, thinking aloud. “I would need to—do this a lot. Be in water. Enough.”

“That’s no problem,” Steve assured, smiling, roguish. “We have a swim team, you know. I might even rejoin, if you were to...” He raised his eyebrows pleadingly.

Billy snorted, and Steve let out a startled laugh.

“That was a horse sound,” he said, and the fondness in his voice just—did something to Billy, so he did him one better: throwing caution to the wind, he ducked his head, nudged his brow against Steve’s cheek.

Because that’s where this was going. Wasn’t it?

Steve exhaled a shaky breath and cupped Billy’s jaw, tilted his face up—and then they were kissing, and Billy was mostly certain he wasn’t actually glowing, but it sure felt like it.

When they parted, Steve whispered into the space between their lips: “I broke up with my girlfriend literally twenty minutes ago.”

Billy shrugged. “I turned into a horse literally five minutes ago.”

There was a pause.

“You win,” Steve admitted.

Billy kissed him again, relished the wet heat of his mouth, the bite of the lake. Wanted both, so. Figured he’d at least give it a try.

And stay.

[lilyofthesword-writes]

Continue - Part 6

Summary: You have been ripped away from your world and tossed into one that is supposed to be pure fiction. You know the stories, how they are supposed to go. Despite your knowledge, you are unable to change the fates of the Fellowship you had grown so close to.

Pairing: Legolas x Modern!Reader

Word Count: 665

Warnings/Disclaimers: Just an over abundance of fluff.

A/N: Finally getting back to writing for this series. This chapter is short. It just didn’t feel right to drag it out. The next chapters will probably be longer. Hope everyone enjoys regardless!

Masterlist

Rivendell’s calming, refreshing air had wafted through you long before your company had reached any sign of civilization. Now, it felt one with your soul as you sat on a bridge in one of Elrond’s numerous gardens, your toes dipped in the delicate stream below. It was was the only place, aside from Galadhon, you felt completely comfortable with running around barefoot outdoors. The cool water left goosebumps in its effort weave past your feet and continue its journey. Leaning forward to watch, your gaze fell upon your reflection framed in starlight.

So much had happened since you landed in Middle Earth, both physically and mentally. All this time roaming the continent had resulted in your locks lengthening long past what you normally preferred, body and stamina strengthening, and skin glowing healthier than it ever had in your world. An unfamiliar poise tranquility radiated throughout you, even more so now that the Ring was destroyed and Frodo was regaining his health. 

And what now, now that the written story was nearly finished? As much as you missed your family and friends in your world, it was difficult to think of returning. Living in a realm without your hobbit friends, your grandfatherly wizard, your near-brother ranger and soon-to-be king, your stout, ornery best friend, and… your Legolas…

“What troubles you, galad nin?”

You just barely managed to stop yourself from yelping and jumping out of your skin. The timing this elf had… Not to mention how silence seemed to hug his very being even when he was merely meandering about.

With a huff and cheeky grin, you threw a look over your shoulder at Legolas. “Not knowing what the new title you bestowed on me means.”

Your stomach churned as he allowed you to hide your thoughts and settled next to you. 

“Surely, you can solve that mystery,” he chuckled.

“You think so?” You grinned as you playfully nudged his boot-clad feet. “What makes you think I was able to retain yours and Aragorn’s lessons?”

“Well,” he trailed off, lacing his hand with yours and raising it to his lips. “Gimli’s teachings seem to have taken root.”

Your face burned hot. The visage of Gimli’s hearty laugh as he cheekily taught you your first word in his mother tongue flashed before you. At least someone found it amusing to hear you swear in another language.

“You had to bring that up,” you snickered, squeezing the hand he held.

Legolas let out a symphonic chuckle before leaning in closely and gazing up at the night sky. “So, what have you deduced?”

Chewing your bottom lip, you hummed in contemplation as you followed his gaze. He had taught you quite a few words. “Meleth nin” was “my love”. The starlight above he once called “Gilgalad”. “Galad nin”…

“My light?” You hated how your voice wavered uncertainly.

His freehand traced your jawline and guided you back to him. When had he stopped stargazing?

“And do you know why I call you that?”

You shook your head minutely, not wanting to lose the warmth radiating from his palm as he cupped your cheek. The tender seriousness of his eyes held your rapt attention.

“When the Fellowship was first formed, I thought my senses cheated by some spell. I was a moth to an open flame, forever drawn to you. You had awoken something I had thought long fallen to shadow. The farther into our journey, the more you lifted the darkness.”

His thumb swept over the apple of your cheek, and his voice fell to a breeze, “No matter what is to come, I will be with you. Even if we are separate, I will find my way to you. You are light, the light I have needed for much too long. You are my light.”

Legolas ended his confession with his lips finally gracing yours, softly at first. It was though he feared frightening you. Your response was more than he could have hoped for.

Tag List: @0-cries-0 @thisbreakableheaven @beakami @beautifulwar11 @bucky-is-a-gift @mjaudrey @jelsafan0 @mxmia

[jungle-angel]

1. “No, black with white stripes is NOT A KITTY!!!!!” 

I feel like this is Rhett's little girl! I feel like any Lewie Pullman character is a girl Dad.

Oh babes, believe me I feel the same way, and when the boys enter the Abbott family?? That's a whole different story (lol).

Wind River Reservation, Wyoming

October, 2022

Kaya giggled as she placed her father's cowboy had on her head, kicking her little legs as she squirmed in her seat and sang along to Extreme's "Hole Hearted" as it played on the radio.

Rhett and Kaya were suddenly startled by the aggressive snorts and loud, metallic *BANGS!* that erupted from the trailer being towed in the back. "Daddy?" the four year old said nervously.

"It's ok baby, he can't get out," Rhett assured her. "Can't hurt us either."

They were almost there, just a little ways over the hills and they'd be at the Granite Hill Ranch and finally........fucking FINALLY, be able to get the problem horse unloaded.

They turned off at the sign, heading into what could only be described as the deep backwoods of Wyoming, a place where good cell reception was hard to come by, where hard work met even harder living and where the closest friends of the Abbotts had lived for as long as they could remember.

Another loud *BANG!* startled Rhett nearly witless before he saw the big house coming into view. Two boys, age twelve, came darting down the hills, waving to the truck before Rhett pulled to a stop and rolled down the window.

"UNCLE RHETT!!!!"

"Uncle Rhett go up to the barn!!"

"Meet me up there!" Rhett told them.

Up a little further he went, the two boys practically jumping across the road as Rhett pulled to a stop outside the stables. Rhett lifted Kaya out of her carseat and set her on the ground as Wes, his daughter and the two nephews who had met him on the road, made their way to him.

"Tee-tee!!!!!" Kaya screamed when she saw Wes's daughter, Theresa.

The girls ran to each other, practically tackling each other into the dirt and giggling before their fathers told them to go and play.

"Whatcha got?" Wes asked him.

"Got a rescue and he's as ornery as your grandfather," Rhett chuckled.

"Bro, are you kidding?" Wes chuckled. "Nothing could be as ornery as Grandpa."

Wes helped Rhett drop the tailgate of the trailer, the two of them letting the salty bronco into the corral where he bolted, kicked and bucked, cantering in circles all along the fence. Scars were visible all over along with the ribs and missing patches in his coat, a sad sight to see, but one that the Abbotts and Wes's family were all too familiar with.

"How are the feet looking?" Wes asked.

"Awful," Rhett told him. "Dad and I drained a festering abscess on one of'em about a week ago. Should've seen it, it looked like Slimer had popped right out of it."

Wes made a gagging noise along with a face. "I hate when that happens," he said. "The feet are always the worst."

"Think we should let him be for a while?" Rhett asked him.

"Yeah let him be," Wes said. "We'll get Danny and Bear to deal with him at feeding time."

Rhett and Wes went about their chores with hardly a problem, tending to the horses, the cattle and making sure that the buffalo pen was safe and secured, the barbed wire pulled taught and tight to ensure that none of them got out and that no neighborhood punks stood a chance at getting in.

"Still dealin with those punks ya'll told me about?" Rhett asked Wes as they tightened the wire fencing around the bison paddock.

"The sneaky little brats from the rich leaf-peeper families?" Wes enquired. "Oh yeah."

"What'd they do now?"

"Little shitheads thought they'd be funny and try to jump the fence," Wes explained. "Little did they know was that it's the height of mating season and the male bison are kinda like how we were."

"Horny and angry?" Rhett chuckled.

"You bet your ass," Wes laughed.

Out of the corners of their eyes, Wes and Rhett saw their two little girls waddle running all the way back to them with something in their arms. "Daddy!! Daddy! Look what we found!"

"Whatcha got there girlies?" Rhett asked.

"We found a kitty under the porch!" Theresa exclaimed excitedly.

"Oh he's kinda cute I......oh......OH! OH SHIT!!" Rhett exclaimed.

"Whatsa matter Daddy?" Kaya asked innocently.

"Uh Kaya, baby, black with white stripes is not a kitty," Rhett explained.

Kaya looked down when the little critter began climbing up to her shoulder, sticking his tail up in the air. "Uh oh......" she chirped.

Rhett and Wes barely had time to utter another word before the air was suddenly choked with that awful smell they were all too familiar with......skunk spray. They coughed, choked and gagged at the awful smell as the skunk continued to spray the two unfortunate men and the two girls before jumping off her back and skittering back through the grass to the porch nest.

"Oh God.......oh God this stinks," Rhett gagged.

"Ok," Wes said, trying his best not to throw up the lunch that threatened to creep into his throat. "First thing's first, we need a crapload of tomatoes."

Rhett took a few deep breaths as Wes called for Bear, the shaggy haired twelve year old skidding to a halt before the skunk smell caught up with him. Wes handed him two twenty dollar bills and told him to go to the corner store and get as much spaghetti sauce, tomato paste and tomato juice as he could get his hands on.

"You gonna be ok?" he asked, noticing the pale look on Rhett's face.

"I think so," Rhett groaned.

"Makes you think twice about getting Kaya a cat, doesn't it?"

"Oh I fuckin hate you right now," Rhett groaned again, feeling his stomach turn.

Wes cackled as Rhett flipped him off. Giving themselves a tomato bath would be easy.....the two little ghouls on the other hand? That would be a whole other story.