#quarantine bookshelf

[dreaming-marchling]

Congrats on finishing MiT5! I hope it marinates well in quarantine and you are pleased with it when you look at it again.

I look forward to it greatly!

But, important question:

At what chapter in MiT 5 will you hit 1 million words for Marked in Trust?

:D

ONE MILLION WORDS!

That genuinely fucks with my head, I can't even tell you. Like that is a lot of words, lmao. I look on my bookshelf at the longest book I've ever read (IT by Stephen King) and that is, according to google, about 450,000 words. A fuckton of words! Yet I'm DOUBLING THAT? For my random little series about Fast and the Furious??? A total mindfuck, if I may use that term lol.

To answer your question, at roughly the two-thirds mark (I started capitalizing that out of habit, lol) the series will hit a million.

Insanity.

Thank you for reading all 900k of my daydreams as we prepare to overtake the million word line.

Damn.

[golden-venture-dolls]

This was supposed to be a simple low-stress quarantine project that I started literally at the beginning of lockdown in 2020, but then she sat unfinished on my bookshelf for the next 3 years. I finally got over myself today and finished it

She doesn't have arms because it took 5 attempts and as many hours of cussing like a sailor to remember how to make an origami nautilus shell, and by then I was so over this project that I decided she didn't need arms 😤

[bumpkinspice0]

Recovery Time: Chapter 3

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

No use of y/n

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 4938

Summary: He says his name is Joel. You want to make him feel safe, so you share more of your home with him

Warnings: Eh, not really any in this one.

Series Masterlist

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AO3

_______________

Chapter 3: The Grand Tour

It’s been 3 days and you think he’s said maybe a total of 10 words to you— most of which were a quick thank you whenever it’s mealtime or a bandage change. At least he had manners. You don’t want to press or hover over him so you just let it be. He needs to recover anyway. Without anything to seemingly leave for anymore, he’s finally settled into the situation.

This morning was the first time he’d hobbled around anywhere other than to the bathroom across the hall. You’d been sleeping on the couch and woke up to him looking over the bookshelf next to you. Gus, of course, still sat at your side watching his every movement. 

He grabs the collection of Henry David Thoreau works and turns to face you, arms heavy over his crutches, “Alright if I sit on the porch?”

You nod. He places the book in his teeth and awkwardly shuffles through the front door. 

“Think he’ll run?” you ask Gus. He raises his eyebrows and huffs through his nose. The tell-tell sign he’s deeply annoyed. You can’t blame him, “Oh, you always say that.”

You fry up some eggs over the wood stove and debate bringing your breakfast out to eat with him but ultimately decide against it. You hadn’t eaten a meal together yet. Hell, you’d barely had a conversation.

Space. Give the poor guy some space.

He’s taken a seat on the bench swing, propping his bad leg up next to him. He seems startled when you bring out the plate of eggs and a cup of coffee.

“That coffee?” he asks, almost in amazement. 

“The freshest around,” You place his breakfast on the side table next to him along with a few Tylenol. It was unfortunately the best you had to manage the pain, “I’m gonna… be working around the property. Holler if you need anything.”

“I—” he looks down at the plate like he’s wondering if today’s going to be the day you poison him. “Thank you, I will.” He nods and returns to his book.

You take a few steps off the porch when you hear him speak again.

“Joel.”

You pause and turn back to face him, “What?”

“Joel Miller.”

Did he just…oh. 

You smile, “Nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”

_______

He’s southern, you can tell at least that much from his accent. The drawl on certain words. He’s called you ma’am a few times and that felt weird given the obvious age difference. He’s in his late forties if you’d have to guess from the gray in his hair and set lines on his face. You could always just ask him all this, of course, but instead your canning okra across the yard in the produce shed. He doesn’t strike you as someone who would be receptive to a round of 20 questions anyway.

Still, you can’t stop your mind from wandering to him. You hadn’t had anything new to think about in a while. 

He’s from the QZ. Anyone who leaves the quarantine zones is killed… at least if they're caught. He came all the way out here for a trade deal, that’s what he claims anyway. If he was trying to get back inside he probably wasn’t Fedra. Good. A Firefly— maybe. Or just a smuggler. 

For all you knew there weren’t Fireflies or Fedra anymore. All the info you had on them was at least 5 years old, and you only ever got it from passers-by. The Firefly resistants just blossomed in the last year or two when you were still out in the world. You’d traded with them a few times. They came to your settlement seeking medical aid. Just people unhappy with the status quo, that’s what they said anyway. 

You hadn’t been to the city since the outbreak, and that was just fine with you. 

You liked it out here. You belonged out here. Whatever small community your little settlement found all those years ago seemed leagues better than whatever was in the QZ. It seemed so long ago— everything you lost. What they took from you. 

“Jesus Christ!” you hear a now familiar gruff voice exclaim from across the yard, followed by a bark from Gus. You run out of the shed and around to the front of the house. You round the porch to see a familiar orange and white cat rubbing up on Joel’s leg. You sigh, a little annoyed you rushed over here so fast for this. 

“That’s Lilly,” You tell him, “She comes and goes as she pleases.”

“Damn thing snuck up on me,” He scratches his fingers along the cat’s back. Gus responds to the interaction with a growl. “I didn’t do anything,” Joel rolls his eyes at the dog. 

Boys. They always fight, no matter what species. 

“Gus, let’s be nice to our guest,” You reprimand him, coming to kneel in front of Joel. Lilly strolls over to you. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” He says curtly, almost annoyed, “Look… is there anything I can help with? Around the place, I mean.”

Oh, you weren’t expecting that.

“I don’t think you’re capable of too much.”

“I can hold my own,” He says in the same irritated tone. 

“Ya know, most people these days would be happy to have a few days off.”  You pick up the cat and sit back cross-legged. “Or at least let their bodies heal.” 

“Not me.”

“Clearly.” 

This wasn’t about healing. He didn’t want to sit around, you could tell. A man who’s always on the move, just like everyone else in the world. You sit too long and the anxiety sets in. The gravity of it all comes crashing down under the weight of your own thoughts— and he’d been alone in that bedroom for days now. If you’re moving, using your hands… you’re not thinking. 

You really get it. 

There isn’t any work you think he should be doing, but maybe instead of berating this already traumatized man, you could share a little something of yourself with him. Make him feel comfortable. Make him feel safe. 

You sigh, setting the cat aside, “Tell you what, how about a tour? Get to know you’re unwilling prison and explore a little bit. If you're feeling up to it, of course. Get that blood pumping… whatever you have left of it anyway.” 

“Ha.” He says flatly, expression not moving an inch. 

“So is that a yes I’d love to, or…?”

He pauses, probably physically willing his eyes not to roll. 

“Okay,” He grabs his crutches.  

You hop off the porch, trailed by a hobbling broad man, an overly friendly cat, and an anxious border collie. Where do you start? You hadn’t shown anyone the property in… ever. It was always a secret. Art liked it that way. That’s what made it so safe. It was so different now from what he’d built— so you start with something you built. 

“The gardens,” you enter between a row of onions, turning to face him while you walk backward, “Twelve rows of all of your dietary needs and wants with only a 4 to 6-month waiting period on the product.”

You’re putting on the dumbest commercial announcement voice you can manage. You think you see the ghost of a smile tug at his lips… just barely. You count it as a small victory.

“Looks dead.” He comments, probably noticing over half of the rows are bare. Mostly the greens section. 

“If you wanted to see it in its full glory you should have gotten beat up at least a month earlier.” You turn, leaving the garden and heading for the first shed.

You think you catch the corner of his mouth tick up, just slightly, before you continue on your way.

_______

There’s chickens scurrying through the whole garden. You greet them all by specific names as he follows behind you. They don’t even move out of the way when he approaches, completely desensitized to human presence. He’s a little annoyed that he has to make the extra effort to avoid them while on crutches. At least he knows where the eggs came from now. 

You’re standing in front of a shed on the other end of the garden. The dog behind him might as well be nipping at his heels to get him to move faster. He’s not used to these damn things. God, he already feels a little worn down just limping a few yards away from the house. Pathetic. 

He tries to hide catching his breath when he finally makes it to your side at the shed. 

“You good?” You ask him. 

“Fine.” He brushes you off a little more harshly than he intended to. He looks at the overgrown faded red shed. A rotting plaque hangs above the large doorway. He reads it, “The Buck Shack?” 

“Unfortunately, the name came with the place,” You scoff, pushing the barn door out of the way. “This is the more boring of the sheds. Not that sheds can be that exciting but...” you trailed off. He noticed you did that a lot.

He’s only noticed two other structures on the property. If the name and the smell of this one were anything to indicate, this was the game processing shed. Inside there were maybe 2 pheasants and a rabbit hanging on the wall. Tw empty hooks hang from the rafters, likely for hanging a deer. Concrete floor with a drain in the center, the floor long since stained with the blood of past kills.

 A small smokehouse sat in the space with a rack lined sparsely with what he guessed was venison. He looks over at the large counter and sees an open drawer of cutting knives and immediately thinks how stupid you are for showing him this. Of course, he wouldn’t do anything to you, but he’s still a stranger at the end of the day. You don’t know anything about him and you’re showing him where all your sharp things are. Either you're threatening him a little or you're just that dumb. He can’t tell. 

Rows of antlered skulls lined the perimeter of the inside. Trophies of hunts long past. “The Buck Shack.” He says again. 

“Aptly named, though none of them are mine,” You smile and move over to the neighboring shed. This one is blue with no name apparently. The chicken coop rests in between the two.

He’ll admit, he’s a little more impressed with this one. There are full crates of vegetables on one side and shelves of stacked canned ones on the other. There are literal full garbage cans of apples and potatoes sitting in the corner. The things people would do to get their hands on a place like this.  No wonder you’ve been doing so well out here.

“And here’s the rest of the garden.” You smile proudly. 

Bill would like you, he decides. 

“Damn,” is all he says, limping into the space. “You grew all these? No trading?”

“Traded to get some of the original seeds,” you say, pushing a few more full bags of carrots and beets out of the way, “But that was a long time ago.”

He hobbles back outside and notices the rain barrels placed at the corners of each shed and a hose coiled up next to them. So you used rainwater for the plants but what about the house?

He follows you around the overgrown cabin and gets his answer. You had your own damn water reservoir. A massive corrugated steel tank just up the hill from the house. He’d helped install something like it in some ranch fields back when the world was still whole. It held maybe 5,000 gallons if he had to guess. It sat on the hill just high enough for any pipes to get flow from it. That’s how your plumbing worked out here with no power— You had yourself a little water tower. Gravity did the work for you. 

“How long did that take to set up?” He asks, gesturing his head towards the holding tank. 

You smile, likely a little proud of yourself, “About a year to get it figured out. The tank was already up there when I got here so that made it easy. Getting the pipes though, was rough. But I had more help back then.”

“And filling it?”

“A manual pump another few more yards up the hill. Go up there for about an hour each week.” You kick one of the half-full barrels at the corner of the house. “It’s a workout. Maybe you can do it in a few weeks and see.”

“Maybe.” Joel scoffs. A hand-pumped well. Was there anything here that you didn’t have to do manually? He turns and notices two cellar doors on the edge of the house. “What about down there?” He nods towards them.

“Oh, this is where I keep the bodies,” You answer just a little too quickly, tapping your foot over the rickety wooden doors. He knows it's a joke, a bad one, but he doesn’t laugh. You roll your eyes and swing the doors open, “Come on, I’ll show you.”

You quickly walk down the steps and he slowly follows, taking each step cautiously. He really hates crutches. 

Daylight streams in from above just enough to dimly light the little space. It’s dry storage, just like he suspected. Beans, rice, and some dwindling cans of some grocery store items he recognizes. And a few other fun treats of yours that look to be homemade.

“Wine?” He raises a brow, looking at the shelf of deep red bottles lining the far corner. 

“Chokecherry wine.” You confirm, “Had some spare time in the summer a few years ago. Found a bush and a recipe in an old cookbook and decided what the hell.”

“Any good?”

“Absolutely terrible, but it’ll get ya drunk,” You turn and gesture to the other mismatched bottles and jugs that fill the space. “We have maple syrup, some vinegar still, salt, whiskey, acorn flour—”

“Why are you showing me all this?” It comes out harsher than he wanted. He feels cornered, suddenly overwhelmed with it all. Is this all really here? Were you? The realization hits him like a freight train— This place was a fantasy. This couldn’t be real. 

A look of pain lightly marks your features. He’s immediately regretful, thinking he’s offended you in some way. 

“I just wanted you to…” You trail off softly, crossing your arms and looking away. “This isn’t a prison, Joel. It’s not a death camp either. It’s a home. It’s… safe here.”

The second realization washes over him like a soft wave, warm and assuring. You were showing him your home and in doing so, showing him he was safe. That everything was okay. That you could take care of him… easily. You genuinely wanted to put him at ease with it all. His chest tightens at the thought. 

“I’m sorry, I just—” He groaned, looking away as well. “You’ve done somethin’ special here, and it’s amazin’ but it’s… just a lot.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—” 

“No,” He cuts you off, “Don’t apologize. I’m grateful, I am, but–” he feels like an absolute ass. He’s been an ass to you, even after everything you’d done. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s okay Joel,” You smile sweetly, somehow forgetting how cold he’s been. He follows you out of the cellar silently like an embarrassed child.

You’re almost wholly self-sustained here. A marvel in every way. Christ, you even had a freaking wine cellar. 

Yeah, Bill would really like you. 

The thought of it makes Joel realize the one thing he hasn’t seen on this little tour. One very crucial thing. 

“Where’s your fence?”

You raise a brow, “What, for livestock? I don’t think I—”

“No, for people,” Joel is suddenly on edge about this little paradise, “For keepin’ people out.”

You pause, a small wave of… something passing over your face. Realization maybe? Pain? “I don’t need to keep people out.”

“What?” His hands tense on the crutches. 

“Joel, you’re the first person that’s made it this far in years.” There’s an emphasis in your statement but it doesn’t ebb any of his newfound worries. “Do you know how deep we are into the woods?”

He thinks, trying desperately to remember which direction he started walking once he was done with the smugglers, all banged up and battered with even more death on his conscience and blood on his hands. He thinks it was north but he can’t be sure anymore. It’s all a blur now. He has no idea how far he walked, how many days it was— nothing.

“No.” He simply says. 

“We’re safe, I promise,” you attempt to assure him. You smile and gesture to something further over to the edge of the property. He follows you, stopping right next to a massive flowering bush.

“Lilac?” He says, recognizing the pale purple flowers. They’re fading and spotting in brown, but still smell like summer. A sweet scent he doesn’t think he’s smelled in years. It lifts his spirits, just for a moment. 

“Planted them and a few other things all along the border.” You gently cradle one of the bundles of flowers, “These are my wall. You can barely see the house from a distance, what with all the overgrowth on the walls and roof. We’re safe.”

He wants to believe you. He desperately does but he can’t bring himself to. While what you did here was truly something, you were being incredibly naïve thinking these were enough. Flowers to protect you from the world out there? Completely foolish.

Then he thinks about what you said earlier. He’s the first person that has come here in years. Years?

“Who else you got out here?” he asks, cautiously. He’s seen no proof of anyone else but this can’t all just be you running this place like a well-oiled machine. 

“You’re looking at the full crew here,” you scratch the dog's ears next to you. 

“Traders come over?”

“Nope.”

“Just you?”

“And Gus. Well, you met Lily earlier. She counts too.”

“How long have you been up here? Alone?”

You pause as if trying actually to recall the number. Time loses so much meaning these days.  Or maybe you're embarrassed to say. You eventually answer. 

“Five years.”

______

The day slowly rolls into the evening and neither of you has interacted much since the tour. He was clearly exhausted from limping around the property by the end, so you insisted he lay down for a nap. After some heavy convincing, he eventually relented. A stubborn man, but not a completely dumb one. 

You admittedly feel a little embarrassed from earlier. Strolling him around like a child showing off a school project. You wanted him to feel secure and form a little more trust— but you think you just ended up making him uncomfortable in the end. 

Have you really been here 5 years? It was probably so obvious to everyone but you— Your unwanted social isolation. It was this or scrounging for scraps and being worked like a dog in the QZ, at least that���s what people told you. Being cooped up and monitored like animals. You know what choice you’d make ten times out of ten. 

Still, your predicament was a weird one. You saw the shock in his face when you revealed it. Or maybe it was disgust? Or pity? Maybe all three. Either way, it all ended there and you went back to canning and he retreated to the house.

The sun was setting now, signaling it was time to head in for the evening but you didn’t want to. You don’t want to face him or the potential of a million questions about your strange little life here all by yourself. Now you know how he probably feels. You were so eager earlier, but now… now you just feel like an idiot. 

Eventually, you of course work up the courage to walk back into your house, Gus sitting lazily by the door waiting for you. It was the first time you hadn’t seen him watching Joel’s every movement like a hawk. You guess you all made some progress today. 

The bedroom door is closed when you enter the house, with Joel nowhere in sight. 

You brought in a pheasant for dinner. Stoking the wood stove, you start to chop up any vegetables you’re afraid will go bad— A head of broccoli and some wilting spinach. You place the prepared pheasant in a broiler pot and feed its leftover bits to Gus, as usual. 

“Gizzards and guts. Your favorite,” You scratch the dog's ear. Upon hearing Gus’s obnoxious slobbering, Lilly comes strolling down the hall. You hadn’t seen her since this afternoon, “Decided to stay for the evening, princess? Or you just want a free meal?”

You grab a small chunk of meat from Gus’s bowl and toss it her way. This was your usual night. Alone at the kitchen counter with your strange little family— your whole world. 

You hear the bedroom door creak open and uneven footsteps clomp down the hall. 

Joel takes a seat at the small bar counter opposite you and you instantly feel put on the spot. Like you’re an insect being observed. 

What’s the strange hermit woman doing now?

“How’d you rest?” you passively start the conversation as you place the broccoli into its own roasting pan.

“Fine.” He answers bluntly, staring down at his fingers as he picks his nails. You wonder if he feels like he has to interact with you now. If he’s doing this out of pity or obligation. “Your place is… really nice.”

Mmm, enthralling conversation. 

“Thank you.” You say, mindlessly stirring the vegetables around. 

A pause. 

“Did you find it or a family thing or—”

“Family friend.” You answer, “Well… friend-ish.”

His brows knit together, “Friend-ish?”

Does he really want to know? You tell him anyway. You hadn’t just talked to someone in so long.

“His name was Art. Most crotchety mean old man you’d ever meet.” You smile, remembering his wrinkled face, “My dad was his only friend. He tolerated me. They were the town doctors.”

“What town?” His interest is peaked.

“West Lake. Used to be about 7 miles north from here.” You point in the general direction, “Used to be a town of probably no more than a thousand people. Quiet place.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“I used to be.” You confirm. 

Then more bloated silence. You’ve shared so much of yourself with him now and he’s said nothing. You only just learned his name today. He opened up on his terms, and that was fine. It just felt so strange when you were an open book.

You don’t like this. You don’t like your every move being watched or like you’re stepping on pins and needles in your own home. Is this how it used to be? No, surely not. Something about him though. It sets you on edge.

“I’m sorry.” He finally says. Oh? You turn around to face him. “About earlier. How I’ve been actin’. I’m not… used to this. To bein’ taken care of. It’s usually the other way around.”

“I can tell.” You fucking idiot.

“You made something special here,” He continues as if you’d said nothing, “I just… I don’t know what to do with myself. I wanna be useful.” 

Right on cue, Lilly jumps on the counter and rubs against his forearm. He reciprocates with a passive head scratch and an irritated sigh.

“You are useful,” You smile, “You’re keeping Lilly company.” 

“Damn thing wouldn’t leave me alone.” He looks at the cat with endearment in his eyes, but his overall expression remains sullen. He seemed to always look that way.

“Well at least one of them likes you,” You both turn to Gus sitting idly next to the counter, eyes once again glued to Joel.

“I don’t blame him,” Joel returns Gus’s pointed look. 

You feel a fraction of the tension melt off. Just a little. He was getting comfortable here. Good. If he was comfortable then so were you.

Dinner passes in relative silence, as to be expected for your first official meal together. This wasn’t a first date or anything. Just a meal between two temporary housemates. He didn’t need to share his whole life story with you and you didn’t need to share any more of yours.

You take his empty plate and stack it on yours.

“So, I have to change your bandages again.” You say it almost like a question. Like you’re asking permission. 

He looks at you with a slightly puzzled expression, “Alright.” He simply says with a nod. 

You drop the dishes in the kitchen and return with some new gauze and a bowl of hot water. He takes the hint and removes his shirt before you can even ask. His movements are slow and pained, not that you mind watching him for just a little longer. 

He leans over the table while you scoot a chair over and begin your work. He flinches as you remove his crusted-over old bandages. The area around the wound was tender and red, but no signs of infection. Good.

You start to gently clean it.

“What were you… before it all?” You start the small talk up again. Something easy. 

“General contractor,” he answers, “You?”

“Nurse.”

“I never would have guessed.”

You pause… was that a joke? Well, at least he’s loosening up.

You smile to yourself. “Only worked in the hospital for about a year before it hit. Ended up getting more medical practice after the world ended.”

“Ain’t that a bitch.” You swear you can hear an amused smile in his voice. He was getting comfortable around you. Just the simple thought of it warms your heart— just a little.

“You still building stuff in the QZ?”

He lets the question linger but eventually answers. “Not really.”

There was something there. You shouldn’t pry more but you go on anyway, “Are you a firefly, or—”

“No.” He answers curtly, “A smuggler but at the end of the day I’m… not really anything.”

Not really anything, huh? That didn’t seem true from what little you know about him. Still, you don’t push it anymore. Maybe he’ll tell you all about it in due time. When he’s ready.

This time he asks the question first. 

“What’s that?” He nods his head toward the corner— toward Art’s old guitar. 

“A decoration, mostly.” You answer, wiping the area around his wound dry. 

“You don’t play?”

“God no,” you snort, “I’ve plucked around on it a few times but it’s not my thing. Missing a few strings now anyway.”

“You can do plenty with a few strings.” He stares at it, almost mesmerized. A guitar was a rare thing now, you suppose.

“There’s a few changes of strings in the drawer next to it,” You inform him, “Art kept backups for everything. I never knew how to change them myself so I just left it be. Just thought I’d break it.”

He doesn’t say anything else but you can see the gears in his head turning. So he plays. He’s found something here he can actually do. Something he can hopefully enjoy. Good. 

You finish taping his bandages down and give him a pat on the knee, “Okay, you’re good to go.”

He grunts what you can only assume to be a thank you and rolls his shirt back on. You made progress today. Gaining trust and giving some in return. Learning a little bit more about one another. You didn’t need a life story but feeling more comfortable around each other would be nice. At least if he was going to stay here for a while.

A selfish part of you hopes he does. That he stays as long as he can. Then you could finally have someone. Not even in a romantic sense but just… someone. Anyone. And the other, more logical part of you, knows he’ll probably be gone the second he can bear to put any weight on that foot. 

He had a life he had to get back to. People who probably needed him. What’s that name he called you? Tess. He could be a husband and father for all you knew. But then again, you feel like he would have mentioned that by now. You’re sure you’ll find out one way or another. You’ll learn who Joel Miller is, eventually. For now, though, you’ll keep doing what you’ve always been doing.

Taking it one day at a time.

You get up to walk to your place on the couch, an old fantasy book waiting on the coffee table for you. 

“There isn’t another bedroom in here, is there?” He asks.

“Just the one.” You answer, fluffing out the quilt over the couch. 

“Okay,” he limps towards you, “I’ll sleep out here.”

“Joel, it’s fine you don’t have to—“

He gently grabs your wrist and you instantly feel every hair on your body stand up.

“You give too much. I won’t take your bed too. It’s your house. Sleep in your bed.”

Not wanting to argue, and admittedly wanting to sleep on a mattress again, you silently retreat back to your bedroom. The sheets smell like him. You don’t entirely mind. If anything just because it was something different. Something new. 

This was all going to be new. 

______

You wake up the next morning and find Art’s guitar re-strung and tuned to perfection— Joel fast asleep next to it. 

[swordfright]

I want to hear more about Amnesia Island :) what does Dream think Sam is to him? Does he go poking around places he shouldn't? How does their relationship change as Dream starts to remember?

Dream is…puzzled about the nature of their relationship, to say the least. They aren’t married, but they live together and sleep together. So what are they? He asked Sam directly once, which resulted in Sam getting upset and talking in circles for a while; they spent the rest of the day in stony, strained silence. Sam calls himself Dream’s “warden.” That should be enough. Dream doesn’t want to rock the boat; he senses that would be a bad idea. The spell might break.

Because they can’t talk about it, Dream has no choice but to define their relationship in terms of what they do for each other: namely, that Sam keeps him safe and keeps other people safe from him. That last bit is crucial. Sam has repeatedly stressed the importance of keeping people safe from Dream. Sam says that before he lost his memories, Dream was a wicked man — a criminal, in fact! He tells him that Dream is still wicked, that this is the reason for Dream’s unending quarantine. Dream’s afraid to ask what specific evil deeds he wrought upon the world, but judging by the way Sam talks about those days, it must have been ugly. Really ugly. (Sometimes, Dream gets flashes: Black, orange, red. Obsidian, lava, blood. He killed somebody. He knows that, at least.)

The memories don’t come back all at once. First, they come in the form of nightmares. Then, disparate shards of memory that cut through Dream’s daily life (images, smells, sounds) and vanish again before he has a chance to process them. Dream handles this by doing what he always does: he keeps going. He brushes it off for as long as possible. He ignores it until it can no longer be ignored. During this period, Dream’s instinct is to dig his heels in and cling to Sam as tightly as he can. He’s afraid he’s losing his mind, afraid that he’s going to do something bad, something evil, just like his warden warned him about. He defers to Sam in all things, he follows every rule, even the ones he doesn’t understand, the rules he used to push back against in small ways. He needs Sam to know he’ll be good. He’ll do whatever it takes.

When Dream starts to remember in earnest, it does change their dynamic. Before his memories return, Sam’s presence is a source of comfort to him. He trusts Sam with his frail body and his anxious mind and whatever evil impulse lies dormant inside him waiting to hurt people. He trusts Sam completely, even when Sam treats him harshly or, less frequently, with open contempt. During this period, Sam is a reassurance above all else. But once Dream’s memories begin to come back in bulk, Sam’s presence becomes a source of fear and confusion. 

Does Dream go poking around places he shouldn’t? Oh boy does he ever! In fact, the point where Dream begins to suspect something is seriously wrong is when he discovers the Tool Room :) i.e. the storage chamber beneath the island house, only accessible via the secret door and ladder behind the bookshelf as shown in the first 15 minutes of this stream. Dream’s doing some light reading, or maybe a chore (dusting, perhaps?) and accidentally uncovers the hatchway that leads to a long dark tunnel. He enters, climbs down, and discovers a small room that’s mostly empty, save for the item frames on the wall. A suit of armor stands in the corner; Dream feels like it’s watching him as he slowly moves down the row of tools. Each weapon is labeled in Sam’s neat, legible handwriting: Warden’s Will, Warden’s Mercy. The list goes on. Dream doesn’t exactly recognize these items, but suddenly he doesn’t feel so safe anymore. Suddenly his brain is telling him to run, hide. Get out now.

[eastern-lights]

Ok so what I gathered that the usual headcanon is that Gale is a Skinny Academic, with physique somewhere along the lines of Milo Thatch from Atlantis, which does make more sense than what he actually looks like in-game (he did spend a considerable amount of time isolated in his tower after all)

But consider this alternative interpretation of events:

Gale is that one friend who got shredded during quarantine.

Bro spent his free time doing handstand pushups against a bookshelf to take his mind off things, and no-one can convince me otherwise.

[libraryinthecountry]

★ Which edges are your favorite? Just showing off the edges of @illumicrate’s January through May books! (Swipe to see the dustjacket spines, too!) I think my favorite is Some Desperate Glory but I am partial to Godkiller as well! 😘 Of course, they’re all lovely, too. Hope everyone has a fabulous weekend! It’s going to be 100F+ here for the next couple of weeks (107F this weekend!) and I’m attending a conference Monday and Tuesday, but otherwise nothing major happening on my end. Oh! We did get a few new (gorgeoussss) koi today. They arrived from Florida this afternoon. 🥹 They’re settling into the quarantine pond now, where they’ll live for a bit before being moved into the big pond. Anything new happening for you, or upcoming plans? ★ HASHTAGS //⠀ #illumicrate #illumicratemay2023 #shelfie #bookshelf #fantasybooks #homelibrary #readerlife #stencilededges #bookcart #bookedges #bookaddict #bibliophile #booklover #booksofig #booksofinstagram #bookpics #booknerd #goodreads #bookstagrammer #booksofinsta — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/5WplDKT

[hotforharrison]

My ex-husband and I each had our own rooms for our computers and our other things, like offices sort of.

My room is currently 10'x12' and gets easily into the low to mid-80s in the summer because it's Texas and hot as hell this time of year.

His former room is 12'x12' and has a window AC unit.

He's already moved 90% of his things out of that room, and the other 10% will be out soon. (That's been super hard to watch his things trickle away.)

It occurred to me today that I can move my stuff into the better room, since it's going to be empty.

His former room is currently painted a dark midnight blue, which isn't my favorite color, and it also wouldn't be great if we ended up selling the house for some reason, which neither one of us wants to do.

He intends to use this house as a rental unit long term, and I'm hopefully going to meet someone new to love who loves me who I might end up living here with because of the cost of renting an apartment.

Anyway, my ex-husband and I used to share his room when we had a roommate in what became my room, and at one point while we shared his room, I used the wall to push myself backward while I was getting up from my computer, and I made a decent sized hole in it.

That was completely forgotten about until today when we were moving his stuff and found the hole behind a bookshelf.

In addition to that, he's also going to have to patch the wall where he has a pegboard he's taking down.

Those areas will need to be repainted, and instead of getting some more of the midnight blue, I'm going to paint that room a nice neutral tone called Creamy Mushroom.

I've also plotted out the layout of the room with a wonderful website that let me enter the exact measurements of furniture in inches.

"Cubes" is a storage cube unit that holds 6 of those square fabric storage bins that will double as storage and a nightstand, "BS" is a bookshelf, and I have a 75g and 45g aquarium that are labeled "Fish."

Moving everything will be a HUGE undertaking, especially the aquariums, but I wanted to change the substrate in the 75g regardless.

I have a dirted tank capped with sand that has started releasing concentrated ammonia bubbles into the water. I removed a fuckton of a plant called jungle val, and the bubbles started coming up after that, which is a thousand percent not ideal.

I'm not sure what I'm going to use as a substrate next.

You can get black diamond blasting sand cheaply, and it does the same thing as black aquarium sand at a fraction of the cost.

I used white pool filter sand for the 45g, which I'm going to just remove part of and put back in there after it's removed and moved into my new room.

I fortunately have the 45g to temporarily move the fish from the 75g into while I get the 75g set back up.

I don't overstock my tanks, so everyone should be fine in there for a little while.

The 45g currently contains 4 Hercules snails, 1 mystery snail, and an albino bristlenose pleco.

I plan on moving my betta, Benedict, from a 5.5g "quarantine" tank into the 45g eventually, with his cherry shrimp, amano shrimp, mini rabbit snail, and pagoda snail "friends." (They are not his friends.)

[little-green-moss]

New Tally of tanks (2023)

5g light blue shrimp tank

~30 juvenile light blue shrimps

+ 1 nerite snail

3g bookshelf red shrimp/catfish tank

~15 red shrimps (bloody mary & fire reds)

+ 3 dwarf anchor catfish (Hara jerdoni) (Veikko, Vibeke, and Varg)

+ 1 assassin snail (Assassin Steve)

10g quarantine / orange rili shrimp tank

Work in progress

Currently holds 8 pygmy cories (Kitties), skittles shrimp, and ~4 orange rili shrimps

[lumiereandcogsworth]

tagged by @thavron thank you my dear :)

1. are you named after anyone? yes! my great-grandma lydia. we share a birthday AND she died on her birthday exactly one year before i was born. a very fun and slightly spooky anecdote

2. when was the last time you cried? last night, i got a very angsty fic idea and as usual i somehow manage to put myself into the character’s shoes so easily and i was crying a character’s tears. last time i cried my own tears was the night before i think, or something like that. idk, i cry a lot lmao.

3. do you have kids? no but my build-a-bear stitch IS my son

4. what sports do you play / have you played? i played basketball from ages 6-17 and it was basically my entire personality. haven’t done any sports since then and probably won’t, though i’m trying to find some kind of exercise that could actually be fun :/ i loved rock climbing in college but there’s no wall near where i live. but anyway i’ll figure it out

5. do you use sarcasm? noOooOoo i would Neverrrrrrrr

6. what’s the first thing you notice about people? i genuinely have no idea, i don’t really look at people. maybe their voice/the way they speak? or their shoes cuz that’s where i be looking lmao

7. what’s your eye color? i don’t knoowww. blue green grey. depends on what i’m wearing, sometimes the blue really pops. but sometimes it doesn’t look like my eyes are blue at all so. i think they’re mostly grey.

8. scary movies or happy endings? once again this question makes no sense because a lot of scary movies (most?? nearly all????) HAVE happy endings. but anyway to quote the fairy fauna from sleeping beauty, i just LOVE happy endings :”)

9. any talents? well i like to think i’m an alright writer! i actually Know i’m a good writer at least when it comes to school essays because that was always where i got the most praise. but i think my fics are pretty good too!! writing’s just always come naturally to me. other than that idk, i’m pretty good at memorizing stuff when i want to.

10. where were you born? pacific northwest babey!!!! (northwestern united states)

11. what are your hobbies? writing and day dreaming are like, my two staples. i’m striving to make 2024 the year i start being more crafty though. i have a couple projects brewing and i have a batb 2017 coloring book that i just bought some markers for to start coloring more. in the future i’d like to try crochet and embroidery but i don’t wanna overwhelm myself. one step at a time

12. do you have any pets? no :( i’m just an auntie to a lot of pets. the one i see most often is my brother’s shiba inu, mishka. he’s my little baby nephew and i wanna eat his face off. but anyway i’d like a cat or two some day! probably whenever i move out of my parents’ house. (which i’m not in a big rush to do, i like it here :3)

13. how tall are you? somewhere between 5’5 and 5’6. but with shoes definitely 5’6

14. favorite subject in school? elementary to high school it was probably english/creative writing, since i’ve always had a knack for it. in college it was my two majors, comparative ethnic studies and history. my favorite CES classes were “race and racism in pop culture” and “blackness in film.” my favorite history classes were “history of the late middle ages” (shout out to my girl joan of arc!) and “history of ancient greece” which was my absolute favorite course in all four years of university. it was actually one i happened to take in the quarantine year (my junior year of college) but it still slapped even despite being over zoom. that professor was awesome and i was so obsessed with the material, i kept most of the books and even asked him for more recommendations. (haven’t read them all yet, but i like seeing them on my bookshelf lol)

15. dream job? whatever ends up supporting my desires in life, and brings me at least some semblance of joy. the job i have right now is actually really awesome. it has a couple downsides but overall i’m extremely happy with my job and it feels great :)

tagging: @gayassbenaffleck @freakwiththeknifecollection @gavotteangel @roberrtphilip @ariiiloves @autumnrose11 @ginnyweatherby @enchanted-keys @romeoandjulietyouwish @japhan2024 @splendiferous-bitch + anyone else can say i tagged them :))

[roomycd50]

There were 5 friends and I walking in the sewer to help their 6th at the end. Red, Green, Blue, Purple, and Yellow on their way to meet Pink. Each was dressed in a rubber quarantine suit, covered in their color, with a correspondingly colored smiley face mask.

We were briskly walking to catch up to Pink at the end, but didn’t want to tire ourselves, as that would end up slowing us in the long term. After crossing a final bend, we encountered a very large and wide concrete platform, with Pink lying in the center.

They had a knife lodged in their throat. Pink had killed themselves and was lying in a pool of their blood. Yellow went up to Pink and collapsed onto their knees, taking out the knife and hugging Pink’s corpse. As their looked down at their orange hands now covered by Pink’s blood. Yellow picked up the knife and whispered in a small voice everyone heard. “Please run” “I don’t want to hurt you” “please” “Stop me”, over and over, and over, and over.

Blue and Purple stepped towards Yellow, but Yellow took that instance to stab Blue in the heart. Purple horrified by Blue’s death, but worried for Yellow, sneaked backwards and asked “are you still there?” and “are you ok?”. Yellow’s shoulders untensed, letting their arms hang and staring at their sleeves, now more Orange than ever.

Yellow lunged at purple, stabbing them deep in the side of their throat before pulling back, cutting the rest and letting blood spry all over themselves. Red caught purple as they had fallen staring in wonder at their seemingly new-founded reflectiveness. However, it was short lived as Orange took the moment to kill Red by stabbing down, right behind the collarbone.

Green had been frozen, in shock and wondering “Why”. But Orange turning to look at green shook them from their stupor as they chose to run. But Green was too slow with their decision making and got stabbed in the back after only one step.

I had also been frozen in fear with Green, but was able to run away as Orange had been wondering why their friends hadn’t turned orange too. I had barely passed the first bend before I heard the *pat* *pat* *pat* of footsteps running behind me. I was thankful we walked and possibly let Pink die to the unknown causes and hated myself for it.

Caught in my terror, I took a wrong turn as I had always been poor with directions and came across a dead end. I had pulled ahead and created a lead but that no longer mattered, as I heard Orange’s footsteps get louder and louder, I knew I only had 5 seconds left. So I did all I could and curled into a fetal position, kneed to chest, eyes closed, and hands covering the back of my of my neck. And as I instinctively felt Orange finally arrive right next to me, I woke up.

I woke curled in the same terrified fetal position I thought I died in lying on a beanbag chair. With the back of my neck feeling the tingle of anticipation for a knife, I went to go lie properly on my bed. I was too tired to move, too exhausted, and could only wait in fear, listening for *pat* *pat* *pat*. As I managed to stand up, by back felt cold and exposed each moment as I attempted my way to bed, the moment I had lay down onto my bed, I saw Orange, or not as my bookshelf felt a little mischievous that moment. The growing relief as nothing broke through my door or my closet was incredible. 6/10 experience.

[chadlesbianjasontodd]

my bookshelf where i keep my sax rohmer collection quarantined between detective novels so the racism can't leak out into my other books

[deeppearldiver]

6.24.24

It's been a long time since I posted on this blog; I know no ones looking but this stands as another commitment I made to myself shattered. Since I've last posted I've enrolled in early college, missed the last 3 weeks of school, and found out my mother was bipolar. More has happened, but I can't seem to remember much else.

I'm excited for early college, though I'm nervous for the workload. As for the other 2 major events, my mother had an episode(?) in which she felt like she was going to be killed. She walked into my room on a Sunday morning and told me someone was trying to kill her and we were leaving. The night before she lied to me, saying she was going out to get Afghan food, she asked if I wanted to come. I said no. She was gone for a couple hours, I got a bit worried and checked her location. She was at the airport, I, like an idiot, gave her the benefit of the doubt, assuming that there was a restaurant in the airport. I got a bit suspicious when they didn't bring any leftovers, and my siblings all rummaged through the fridge looking for something to eat. But again, benefit of the doubt. Maybe the portions were small, or the food was expensive, or they didn't like it. Then I woke up the next morning. I cried, begged, and screamed; she didn't care. She took my phone, saying that it was being tracked. I begged her to give it back, she said she would after I packed, so I did, then she said it was on the bookshelf, I couldn't find it, then she said she'd bring it to the airport. I swore would never trust her again if she didn't, and that's something I'm sticking too. When we got to the airport, all of the sudden, she mentioned she forgot, I didn't think that I could manage to be mad while I felt so helpless, yet I'd never been angrier. It was the phone, but also the fact that she kept lying, she didn't care about me, how I would feel, how it would affect me. She told the lady at the service desk I was mad because she forgot my phone, which was only a part of it, she took me out of the country and out of my school because of her feelings, not thinking about mine, or my siblings. The old ady looked at me and told me to forgive her, I didn't say anything, I should've, maybe if I told her what was going on she could've saved me. I'll never know, because I stood there. I cried in the airport, and the whole ride there, I was so helpless, she didn't care. Then we touch down in London, and she embarrased me in front of my family, she made it harder than it already was, just to stick it to me. My family asks if she'd been taking her medication, I didn't even know she was sick. I spent my whole life feeling like my mom and I's horrible relationship was my fault, that I was wrong or bad, and my family supported that narrative. Then all of a sudden, she's at their doorstep, and they get to know what it's like to be me for a second, and now she's sick? She wasn't sick when she stalked me on the playground, or beat me, or invaded my privacy, or made fun of me in front of everyone, or forced me to stay behind while my famiiy went out and had fun when I was just a kid, or kicked me out, or laughed at me when I said I felt suicidal and told my brothers so she could seem like the victim or made me feel hated and unloved and horrible. but she yells at them for 2 seconds and shes sick. Maybe I'm making this about me, maybe I'm being childish or immature, and not been sensitive to her illness. But I don't care, I spent my whole life caring, and it did nothing for me, because thought I always loved her, and cared about her, she's never cared about me, or loved me, not in the way she should've, not in the way I needed her too. I never told her, because I didn't want to hurt her. but when I was depressed and suicidal, it wasn't because of quarantine, it was because of her. I tried to kill myself after a fight with her, because I knew then things would never be better. I was right.

this is only half of the story but I'm crying and tired,

goodnight diary.

[pageadaytale]

BOOK REVIEW - Bringing Back the Beaver by Derek Gow

I first heard about efforts to rewild Britain's waterways with beavers on the podcast Let's Learn Everything (episode 9 - it's still one of my favourites!), in what turned out to be a humerous and in many ways heartwarming story. Two sets of beavers were trialled in Scotland in the late 2000's to 2015 - those in Knapdale and those in Tayside. The twist? The Tayside beavers were unplanned, unlicensed, and escaped from a local enclosure to make their home downriver. Following much campaigning by various groups, the issuance of licenses to shoot beavers which mayyybe shouldn't have been issued, and some bad publicity following the death of a beaver brought into captivity, they were allowed to stay. They became a second study group, as scientists tracked their habits and learned how beavers' natural inclination to fell trees, strip bark, and build dams altered the British wetland environments downstream.

It sounded like a heartwarming tale, for the most part. But what the science from LLE leaves out is the international collaboration, many previous attempts at reintroduction, and the shadowy, unseen politics of beaver reintroduction.

Enter Derek Gow.

Derek is someone for whom native species reintroduction has become a lifelong calling. A farmer and conservationist, he has spent his life enthralled by nature - his mention of Gerald Durrell's influence on his life brought back vivid memories of my own childhood, lying on the floor reading My Family and other Animals that I'd borrowed from my mother's bookshelf - and he's turned that passion into a concerted effort to help reintroduce many species into Britain that have been lost for hundreds of years.

Where my podcast habits focus on the science, Gow tends to focus more on the politics. He describes the many ways beavers can revitalise British landscapes, it's true, but the primary thrust of the book is the struggles to uphold or even begin trial reintroductions. The many times he's spoken with politicians who've been all for bringing back the beaver, only to change their mind once the Angling Trust or DEFRA's bureaucrats got in the way and insisted that no, the public did not want beavers in their rivers - often to a background of the public saying that actually yes, they would quite like beavers back in their rivers, thank you very much.

It comes across as absurd - stories of grumpy beavers going for Derek's ankles when they're released into quarantine; the many obstructive tactics of DEFRA, up to and including calling the police on beaver reintroduction ceremonies; and one memorable incident where an ecologist showed a group of fundraisers how to sex a beaver - but there's the constant undercurrent of love for this animal.

And frustration. The difficulties include finding suitable locations to trial reintroductions, which must meet the approval of a triumvirate of groups with opposing goals - the politicians, who want people's votes next election; the Angling Trust, who don't want them anywhere near their rivers; and the beavers themselves, who need good trees, insects, and some water for them to dam up so they don't die. There are the government groups, who really shouldn't be getting involved but end up doing so anyway. And then there are the individuals in power, who often don't want beavers back for reasons which have nothing to do with the beavers themselves. The kind of people who go out to the countryside of a weekend to go grouse shooting or fox hunting, and don't want beavers because... there might be less countryside for them to hunt in? In many cases, the hoops Gow and other conservationists must jump through are ludicrous at best, and maliciously obstructive at worst.

But that's not to say there isn't hope. As with all my nature books this year, Bringing Back the Beaver ends on a high note. It finishes with the Knapdale and Tayside introductions, alongside some wild beavers which were spotted in Devon. Amidst outcry, the proposal for Tayside and Devon was almost identical, two years removed - the beavers must go. It took protests, direct action, and years of work before the government relented, and the beavers, by popular decree, were allowed to stay.

But they remained. The tide of public opinion has shifted in the last two decades, from one of fear and anger, to one of joy and love. People want beavers back. Bringing Back the Beaver demonstrates that we can return extinct species back into their niches as keystones of ecological activity, if only we put in the work. The biggest hurdle is bureaucracy, and once the effort is started, the wheel soon turns.

Once again, it's a book about love. And hope. But mainly, politics. Oh, and beavers. Beavers and politics.

[xandercainxxx]

"I struggled for a long time with survivin', and no matter what, you keep finding something to fight for."

―Joel[3]

Joel was a survivor in post-apocalyptic America that had been ravaged by the Cordyceps brain infection.[5] After losing his only daughter Sarah in the early stages of the outbreak,[6] Joel became a ruthless and cynical smuggler eventually tasked with smuggling and protecting Ellie Williams, a young girl who was the key to mankind's survival.[7] Joel eventually formed a strong bond with her.[8]

A brutal survivor with few moral lines left to cross. Joel, now in his late 40s,[fn 2] has been hardened by the ravages of the fungal pandemic that has devastated civilization as we know it. He’s lost friends, family, and everything he valued in life. Living in one of few remaining military-controlled quarantine zones, he operates as a black market smuggler, dealing in contraband, taking numerous de-humanizing jobs over the years to survive in this new post-pandemic world. Joel’s conscience slowly dwindles away as he shuts down his emotions to cope to his new life.

―Official description[9]

Joel was born on September 26,[10] 1981, in Arlington, Texas,[1] and grew up in the state alongside his younger brother Tommy.[11]

As a child, Joel developed a passion for music, learning to play acoustic guitar and once even aspired to become a singer. Joel had a daughter named Sarah, and was married to her mother for a short period of time. Saddled early in life with the responsibilities of parenthood at a young age, he never had the opportunity to attend college.[12]

Regarding his ex-wife, whatever occurred between them is painful for Joel to talk about.[12] Shortly after Sarah was born, Joel's wife left him.[13] As a result, he raised their only daughter as a single father for the majority of his life.[12] The two lived together in a two-story single-family home somewhere in or around Austin, Texas, located in Travis County through Texas State Highway 71.[5]

As an adult, Joel worked as a carpenter, alongside Tommy. He kept a revolver locked in a safe box in his office and owned a pick-up truck outside his house. Building plans laid on his bedside table along with several copies of a book called Construction Regionalism on top of his bookshelf. He had ambitions of starting his own business, with a copy of Everything You Need to Know About Creating a Startup also on a table next to his bed. His job kept him fit, and he owned a treadmill in his bedroom. He mentioned in a phone call that he was struggling to keep his job with a contractor.[5]

Despite his long, hard-working hours, he still managed to spend quality time with Sarah, as seen in photographs displayed throughout their home showing the two on a cruise, at a carnival with Tommy, and one of Sarah's soccer matches. Additionally, the two often went on several hikes together.[14] Sarah also made him take her to every museum in Texas.[8]

On his 32nd birthday—just hours leading up to the outbreak—Sarah gave him a new watch as a gift to replace the one he had broken months before.[15] This became a cherished memento he manages to keep in the turbulent years ahead.[6]

Source: Joel Miller | The Last of Us Wiki | Fandom

[home-from-hogwarts]

it's shaped like an L- mostly yellow walls, with some wood paneling that was painted white. there's a blue-and-gold rug, white chair, and white covers on the bed along with some quilts that were made by my mom and grandma. the white chair has some extra blankets and ACT prep materials sitting on it. my grandfather's desk is in the corner, and my photo album/school materials are tucked around it. my bookshelf is kind of overflowing, and there's pictures that I painted in quarantine that are taped to the sides of it. there's a few debate-related awards/memorabilia on top of my dresser, along with four of my old stuffed animals.

reply with the way your room's decorated and i'll give you a marauders character

descriptions of your room/pictures are both fine ^^

[wikifido]

Chapter 7 (Mwaxanare)

Mwaxanare had forgone Karoleena’s in-depth tour for the baloonliners cable mooring system, as convenient as the Imperial Princess’s unforeseen interest in mechanical and transportation-related Voidstone technology had been for keeping her quarantined within the provincial residence in Neparāticue Mwaxanare needed time to continue managing Cholitan affairs while away on this romp; and to that end she had isolated herself off in the drawing room’s small office space. 

“Mwaxanare?” Coaxach’s voice murmurs from the floating bloodmist before her. 

“Yes?”

“The diplomatic venture to the Silt Sea after you return, your Uncle was inquiring how many to expect.”

Mwaxanare stitches her fingers together and stares into the mist in thought. Coaxach had placed the venture about a month out on her calendar at her direction. She figured that would give her sufficient time to do what she had to do in the Empire and return home with enough downtime before setting out again. 

“I think myself, yourself, Taentōn, and a contingent of katāim,” Mwaxanare says, waiting for Coaxach’s inevitable question, one he likely knew she didn’t want him to ask but one he would believe would be in her best interest to be asked aloud. 

“Should I anticipate the champion returning with you but remaining behind in Neparāticue?” 

A far more gentle approach to the question than she had expected, this was the second time within a year Duvanith had gone home to the Empire; she had returned the first time with a childhood friend and, albeit unknowing, romantic interest from her past, then withing weeks they were once again headed back at her insistence to their hometown. 

That was her gut reaction, how she felt emotionally about everything that had happened, but rationally, she knew there were layers, layers that complicated both her and Duvanith’s processing of the situation. 

Duvanith had found the Chalice at Mwaxanare’s request. Duvanith had used what she might have believed in her last moments to make sure that Mwaxanare would have been able to find it during the excavation of the Kwtēntāmtāxi palace; as calm as Duvanith had been at the revelation Mwaxanare had sold it to feed the Port knowing her Champion there had been a burning sensation in the back of her head that had made her say ‘we’ll get it back.’ 

A rapping emanating from the wood-veneered metal door

“Queen Mwaxan-” Coaxach’s voice was cut off by Mwaxanare sliding a few pieces of parchment she had been using for notes over the mirror she had used to cast the spell, snuffing it out. 

“Yes?” She asks the door. It cracks open, and Duvanith pokes her head through the crack. 

“We’re here getting reeled in do- Why the Hells is it so dark in here, Mwaxa?” Her Champion opens the door fully and turns the switch to the gas fixtures higher, flooding the office with soft golden light. 

“I don’t mind working in the dark, plus I’ve heard the horror stories of lighter-than-air craft and fire.” Mwaxanare fibs as Duvanith enters the small room and sits on the fourth rung of the ladder featured on the mostly ornamental bookshelf. 

“Karoleena said that fire nonsense was only with pre-Void-” Duvanith cuts herself off as Mwaxanare rolls her eyes. Mwaxanare knew this from records captured from the Wondermakers Temple and her industrial contacts in Tolyarom, though she wasn’t surprised to learn it was new information to Duvanith. Her mind quickly shifts after noticing Duvanith ride from the ladder and her nostrils flaring slightly; she hadn’t cut herself off because of Mwaxanare’s eye roll. 

“You’re doing Blood Magic in here? Mwaxanare, c’mon.” Duvanith says, motioning down to the papers, which only bore the slightest red tinge from the minute amount of blood she had used to hail Coaxach. 

“Do you truly think Imperial customs is that adept, Duvanith?” She shuffles the papers off to the side and picks up the now red-tinged hand mirror. “A hand mirror?”

Duvanith throws her head back and lets out an exasperated groan.

“Maybe Mwaxa, the Castle-the Arbiters have Auraseers. They see the latent magic on everything. I think you’d call them yeycamtzāczēll.”

Mwaxanare lets a small smile break her lips on account of an earnest attempt on Duvanith’s part to use a part of the Cholitan language outside of her station’s usual words. 

“One has yeycamtzāczēll Tuwa; one who has it is a Tayeycamtzāczēll.” 

“Whatever,” She responds in exasperation, “you know what I meant.” 

Mwaxanare did; Tayeycamtzāczēll, or Auraseers as the Imperials called them, were magic users with a special connection to the Vale that allowed them to see, as Duvanith had said, ‘see the latent magic on everything.’ She had never met one personally and didn’t doubt that a nation like the Empire would find and highly covet individuals with the gift most nations would Tēntāmtāxi had before its destruction. 

She had heard stories of their abilities growing up, advising Queens, selecting candidates for positions as Royal Necromancer, and warning about the coming storm of Anghagros. It wasn’t until she had been able to review moldering records pulled from the Kwtēntāmtāxi Palace that she came to understand that the Tayeycamtzāczēll’s abilities to see magic were not all-powerful. Some had easier times detecting certain schools or origins; the more powerful or complex an enchantment, the more difficult a time lesser seers would have detecting it. 

Her hand mirror was made from ancient Kwtēntāmtāxi glass enchanted to behave as a material in Blood Magic only for individuals in the matrilineal line of the Tēntāmtāxi throne. 

In other words, she was the only person in the world who could cast a spell with the mirror; she felt confident if it couldn’t be detected by most seers. 

“Yes, I know what you mean. I think it will be fine. It is very arbitrary magic.” She answers her Champion; before Duvanith could answer, the ballonliner’s metal frame let out a hearty groan of strain followed by a clunking sound that filled the drawing room and it’s annexes for more than a few moments as it echoed off every available surface that would have it. 

“Woo!” Karoleena’s voice shouts from the other room. “We’re here. That was the docking lock.” 

Mwaxanare motions to the office door towards the direction Karoleena was shouting from. 

“And look too late already; the ‘docking lock’ is in place.” She enunciates the technical jargon in a mocking tone while slipping the hand mirror and note-taking parchment into the small bag she had carried aboard.

“So I guess it is.” Duvanith relented, turning herself on her heel and marching back towards the door, obviously allowing her frustration to burn off before stopping at the doorway and looking back at Mwaxanare. “Ready?” 

“Of course, I’m ready, Duvanith; as I said, I did all my thinking about Imperial Customs and their capabilities in advance. I only brought what I ne-” Her Champion cuts her off and clarifies her question, a hint of care and maybe a warning tucked in her voice.

“I mean for all of it.”

That Mwaxanare was less sure about.