#realistically the shadow is several times larger but listen. listen

[mumbleberry]

🐋 Mercy upon ourselves (he/him)

[boop-le-snoot]

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Two chapters over the weekend because I was ✨ inspired ✨ and my neighbors can't stop fucking (noisily!) and I'm,,, envious.

Strange adventures in Hell. There are descriptions of desperation and doom, lots of magic and - hear me out - forced/reluctant hand holding 😌 Oh my God, they held hands!!!

"What. Were. You. Thinking?!" Strange was seething, his enormous figure and broader height towered over me, the blood-red of his cape vibrating, the only spleck of colour in the grey and dusty dark world.

"I had no choice in the matter," I replied as calmly as I managed, gritting my teeth, memories of our past stand-off fresh in my mind. We could have bickered until the end, until one of the beasts flying overhead spotted us and decorated the bleary grounds of this forsaken planet with the crimsons of our life blood. "I think it's best if we get to safety first, argue later. I have no desire to become somebody's lunch."

That much was true: I had taken a good look at our surroundings as soon as I recovered from the vacuum-like sensation of being pulled into a magical gateway; the visibility was terrible, the planet's natural light very scarce. Several suns were hardly visible in the sky, their rays barely penetrating the mists and the ashes freely floating in the air.

There was oxygen even if breathing in a full lungful seemed impossible; I tried not to think about the contents of the air, or the possibility of radiation poisoning, as the multiple amulets and charms seared into my skin where they rested under my clothes. I had four bottles of water, some bandages and salves and a sacrifice for a single ritual to my name and absolutely no conviction that Mother Earth would be able to hear the call of an earthling gone so astray.

But it was hope, so I held on.

"Fine," Stephen sighed, suddenly looking tired and weary, glancing around with furrowed brows. "Let's see if I can open a portal," his hands did that complicated set of gestures that I'd grown to associate with a golden circle and sparks on the ground. The thing flickered, once, twice, before disappearing, as if the Sorcerer's magic had run out of batteries. "Yeah, I thought so," he whispered to himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"The bad news first, please," I interpreted his hesitation with a realistic outlook on our predicament.

"I can't open a portal just anywhere on this planet. We need to find a... Rift, of sorts," the man was anxiously looking around. "And those things, they'll smell us... Right about now," his eyes shot up at a winged, rapidly approaching shadow. "No good news, I'm afraid."

I allowed myself a small sigh of disappointment, keeping a tight leash on the panic slowly creeping up my body. The feeling of determination, the power of Gaia within me was still present, laying in a cozy dormant ball slightly south of my solar plexus. "Give me your hand, please," I reached out to Stephen only for him to promptly recoil.

"You should've thought about the consequences of your actions, I'm not going to hold your hand because you're scared shitless," his words were sharp but they lacked the venom. He wouldn't, or couldn't, meet my eyes.

"I know you have scarred hands. I'm a healer and you don't have to feel embarrassed or ashamed I, I've seen worse," I stated in my best 'mutant nurse' voice as Stephen's eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened. "Those things can't sense me. And I know they won't be able to sense you too if we have skin-to-skin contact. So unless you want me to get under your... Robes," I gestured to the layers upon layers of clothing he had wrapped himself in. I considered the possibility of his whole body being covered in scars, too, and couldn't help the pang of sympathy. "Take one glove off and give me your damn hand before this trip to Jurassic Park goes full pterodactyl massacre!"

I saw the thing in the sky open it's mouth - but no sound came out, the clouds reducing it's outline to a vaguely triangular shadow. There was something very unusual about this planet's atmosphere.

With a couple of jerky movements, Stephen slid off the glove from his left hand, looking away as his large, dry, warm palm encompassed mine in a gentle, trembling grip. It made no sense to interlace our fingers, so I help onto him like a child holds onto their parent; the size difference of our hands and his imposing aura surely made me feel like one.

We stood a foot apart, watching the shadow in the sky begin to circle the place we stood in, it's gaping maw opening again and again, before it zigzagged across the sky with a strong dash of confusion, it's graceful glide becoming a series of rapid turns and twists. With a final inaudible shriek, it flew off into the dusty greys of the horizon, becoming a dark spot far away in mere seconds.

The silence was so loud in this world. Like the eerie stillness of my, undoubtedly haunted, apartment, I was eager to dissipate it with something beyond our combined heavy breathing. "Please don't tell Tony," I timidly gave our touching hands a sway. "He'll never leave it alone."

A chuffing noise coming from above had me whip my head up to see Stephen holding in a puff of nervous laughter; his shoulders dropped slightly as he eyed me in turn. "What makes you think I won't tease you about it?"

"You wouldn't dare," I took mock offense, rising my leaking nose to the skies.

The grumble and the eyeroll I expected, the smirk that faded into a ghost of a smile I did not. "We should go. Usually there is a rift within a few miles of every location everywhere," he tried to keep the content expression as he spoke but the storm in his eyes betrayed his concern. They were so blue, I felt like I was drowning.

I let myself to be tugged in a direction - everything seemed exactly the same, a never-ending ashen wasteland with the occasional dark grey rock that crumbled to dust as soon as the heel of my shoe touched it. My light blue sweater quickly became the colour of rotten wood, a sickly, dull monotone between brown and gray.

The complete lack of any kind of natural noise brought out the desolation of this wretched place; if we gripped each other's hands tighter, neither of us chose to acknowledge it. It was too easy to get lost in your own mind when the surroundings were dead set on rebuking anything that was in any shape or form alive.

I caught myself thinking that this must be what people think Hell should look like.

Strange walked briskly for the most part, periodically clearing his throat and eyeing me when I struggled to keep up with his long strides. It could have been an hour, or maybe two, of aimless wandering and rapidly imploding portals accompanied by Stephen's increasingly overcast face before I made the man stop and offered him a water bottle, which he insisted we split between us two.

It didn't take me a tarot reading to figure out our chances were grim. Needless, I gave him the same look I give to injured, scared mutant children when they come to the bodega for the first time; a look of quiet temperance.

And then we walked, and walked again, as Stephen grew moodier and moodier, marching on with the force of a seasoned soldier, only taking breaks when I forced him to stand still and breathe with me. As cautious and closed-off as he was, I pressed onto the fact of me being a healer of sorts, and he relented if briefly, always reluctant, always seasoned by a great dose of bewilderment.

"Do you feel that?" Stephen's stride halted, both feet firmly planted on the ground.

The ground had tremors had coming from deep within, small shocks that could have been easily missed if not for the complete lack of sound on this world. My nod was mute, I didn't trust my voice not to break when I clearly knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, endless fields of nothing all around us.

"Hold onto me," promptly, I was grabbed and pushed into his chest, his long arms easily picking me up, encouraging me to wrap my legs around his waist. "Hold tight, I might need my hands," my face grew hot as I wound my arms around Stephen's neck, clinging to him like a monkey, a palm resting on the soft fine hairs if his nape. It felt too intimate somehow, in the wake of imminent danger.

The Cape that previously swayed behind him in rhythm with his steps billowed, the red fabric of it tough as it levitated us a few feet above the ground. I felt Stephen tense with each tremor; within moments, the surface shook and stuttered more and more, cracks appearing in between the dust, turning the plains into a marble-patterned patch of darkness.

We rose above it, high enough that I could see the veins resulting from the quake stretch far out into the wasteland, jagged, abrupt lines of even more concentrated darkness. And as quickly as the quake started, it was over, leaving little evidence as the ground settled.

Stephen floated us to a larger patch of the ground, criss-crossed with thinner, less prominent lines, poking the ground with his foot before allowing it to fully bear our weight. He was shaken, there was no doubt. "That was... Something," he stated lowly.

"Mhm," I hummed, fighting the urge to frantically look around, forcing my hand from clutching at his palm like a lifeline. I had decided on a plan while I was busy playing baby koala - not that there were many other options except to wander these god forsaken bare badlands until our painful demise. "Listen, Strange, I'm aware you don't hold my people in particularly high regard but you're going to have to trust me on this," my words came out derisive as I placed his palm on the back of my neck and kneeled, forcing him to do the same behind me.

The contents of my bag greeted me grimly with out last bottle of water and the couple knick-knacks that gathered the black dust on them. I hastily poured the water into a bowl, dipping my fingers in it, and added the crushed bones to the mixture.

The time that was required to make a paste-like mixture, I used to address a bewildered Stephen. "This is a last resort. I don't know if it will work, we're not on Earth," I briefly breathed my distress. "I don't even know how far we are from home. But I refuse to die here, in this grotesque Hell, without putting up a fight and Gaia has always looked out for her flock. I might get very, very sick if this is successful."

The warning had him attempt to object before he cast a long look around us, shoulders sagging, as motioned for me to continue, those piercing blue eyes boring into my face. "Tell me what do I need to do," his voice quietly attempted to soothe my very obvious fear.

I was terrified, both of dying, nameless, faceles in this world full of Nothing; the prospect of withering away after depleting all my resources was, perhaps, equally unappealing, but dying on my home planet sounded better than dying here. "Have faith," I replied curtly, beginning to chant softly under my breath as soon as Stephen's expression hardened.

My eyelids grew heavy, limbs filling with lead and molten lava as I summoned the forces of Mother itself; my body was aching, exhausted by answering her call as it was. The warm ball in my chest that previously comforted me grew, spreading its smelten power through every vein, every vessel. No part of my body was left cold. A sense of purpose filled me, pushing me forward, driving me to move, to run, to leap.

"This way," even to my own ears, my voice sounded pained. It felt as if I was walking through swamp waters, full of clay and debris, each step taking my barely coherent form through an individual bog full of pins and needles. The force of Mother Nature burned inside of me, enraged at the state of her surroundings.

Stephen spoke to me but all I could hear was mumbling, thousands of voices, low and shrill, unintelligible to the human mind. I could feel the sorcerer's pain; the itch and burn in his throat, the constant, dull throb in his scarred, broken hands. His hand in mine only intensified the situation and I fought with his injuries like I fought with the black dots in my eyes, I forced down the unpleasant sensations, setting fire to them, letting the reigns of control on the raging inferno within me slip just the smallest, tiniest bit.

The steps of his long feet stuttered as I felt the discomfort lessen yet I simply towed him along. Time leaked through the cracks in my eyes, which were mostly unseeing anyways. The useless things grew blind at some point, not that I noticed it on the greys and blacks of the surrounding scenery. It was harder to walk, my breathing grew laboured with the extertion as we finally reached the place that felt right.

"Here," I rasped, voice so quiet it could have been mistaken for a breeze. I craved to feel it; the soft puffs of wind, the sound of running water. I had called for Earth and she demanded its child back.

The portal appeared without a stutter even though Stephen's hands shook; I saw the uneven channels, the energies traveling through them at an uneven pace. As soon as I pushed through the wormhole, coming to my senses in an unfamiliar, light room, I fell to my knees.

Stephen's pained moaning told me he was probably experiencing the same stinging, burning sensation on his skin; my eyes, they were the worst - my eyeballs felt like they were melting, leaking out of my sockets into thick, gelatinous tears streaming down my face. I blindly groped for the sorcerer's hand, directing the forces within me to soothe his hurts much like I had done in the wastelands.

"Strange?!" A masculine, shocked voice exclaimed before footsteps crashed into my sensitive ears with the force of an elephant herd. "Oh my God, they're here! Tony, come!"

"Stop fucking screaming," Stephen gasped out as I felt him curl into himself.

"Friday, scan them," I recognised Tony's voice, the tiredness and desperation standing out in it more than it did in the rest of the whispers in the room.

"They appear to be experiencing a sensory overload. I would recommend to engage Peter's Cooldown mode," the mechanical voice replied, barely audible. The noise still grated on my ears after spending... How long were we gone?

"Do it, Fri," Tony's soft footsteps reached us; I smelled the spices of his cologne next to my and Stephen's prone forms. "You gave us a scare there," the tone was admonishing but gentle.

"We were scared shitless ourselves," I attempted to speak, only now noticing how grating my voice sounded. "We were in Hell," I mumbled to myself, slowly removing my hand from Stephen.

"That," he coughed up the word, breathing through his nose before speaking again, his voice sounding much better than mine. "That place was as close as possible to biblical pits I have ever seen," there was shuffling and gentle murmurs as the two men ensured each other of their presence and well-being.

The burning sensations receded back to my core, the embers of the fires dying out, leaving me feeling like deflated beach ball, all shell and no filling. With a groan, I rolled over onto my back right in the middle of the pristine carpet on the floor, forcing my eyes open and breathing through the pain until I could somewhat see the champagne coloured ceiling without black dots obstructing my vision.

Shuffling noises reached my ears as a familiar round face with light red hair came into my line of sight, Wanda's gentle features concerned. "Star, do you need to go to medical?" She eyed me almost suspiciously but the question was earnest.

The idea of a doctor fixing a magical burnout was bizarre to me, as if it ever was that easy; I chortled sardonically. "No, Wanda, there's nothing wrong with me that a doctor would be able to fix," I replied honestly. "I should call Odette."

"I've called, she said to notify her when you return," Sam's voice was gentle as he approached. I could feel him glaring daggers at a rapidly reddening Wanda. "She was the one who said you'll definitely come back," he offered me his hand.

I had to choke down a moan of relief as I grabbed it. The warmth, the life of another human being, the precious gift of a beating pulse under my fingertips was divine. "You should listen to her. She knows her stuff." It was easy, talking to Sam as if he was an old friend. He had one of the most pleasant auras I've seen on a human being.

"I'm a doctor," Stephen suddenly perched up, sounding almost bashful. "And I can aid the healing process," he stated over Tony's disgruntled mumbling. "If you can explain to me how the hell you managed to hold a... an entire sun's worth of energy!" The more he spoke the more bewildered he became, tone growing in pitch, ending the sentence with an exclamation.

"I don't know," I replied with a sigh. The whole indignation in this man, I was not prepared to face. "When I took this up," I gestured vaguely to the burned, bent metal adornments I began to remove off my body. "I thought I was going to get an increase in tips and a better outlook on life. Help my friend with her asthma as much so she wouldn't have to use her inhaler every time she gets suprised or scared," my jewelry hit the floor with a dull clank, piling up into bent silver I wouldn't even be able to cleanse and repurpose.

Sam whistled lowly, poking at a necklace that had twisted on itself, a grotesque spiral of dull ashen grey.

"I certainly didn't think that a bleeding mutant accepting his fate as cannon fodder will call for the Earth itself," my tone grew vicious. Exhaustion was nesting in my bones. "And that Mother Nature would take over my body, pour lava into my veins and bleed recklessness into my thoughts. But here I am, freshly out of Hell and alive and kicking."

A stunned silence was interrupted by Tony's frantic whispering. "You are not leaving my penthouse for the foreseeable future," as the weight of the incident set on him. The knuckles of his hand clutching Stephen's dirty tunic turned white.

"I am," Stephen eyed me with a strange look in his eye, as if he was seeing me for the first time. His eyes then turned to Tony, who'd began rambling, arguing with Stephen. The sorcerer stopped the word vomit with a grim confession. "I'd be dead if not for Starlight. I'd be meat and bone, splattered across a barren, radioactive land in the deepest, darkest pits of the universe."

I felt my face droop in slow-motion. My throat flexed, swallowing a thick lump of filthy mucus, I coughed up, "Ra-radioctive?" As soon as I could work my voice without it squeaking.

Taglist: @couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins2 @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox

[katehuntington]

Title: Three Days Ago Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester (Sam Winchester & Castiel mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Summary: Dean and Y/N finally decide to settle down. But before they do, they take on one more case, which will turn out to be their last. Warnings: ANGST with a capital ‘A’! Canon typical violence, description of blood and injury, panic, major character death, grief. Seriously, do not read in public if you don’t like crying in a crowd. Word Count: 3514 words Author’s note: Grab your tissues, hurdle up in a burrito of sadness, because this is gonna be sad. @kittenofdoomage said: “Well, that was rude,” @wingedcatninja: “HOW. DARE. YOU.” and @winchest09 asked: “Why? Why do you do this to me?” So on that note, I hope you all enjoy!

     Three days ago, you and Dean had the talk. About quitting the job, about getting your own place, maybe even start a family. It has been occasionally discussed before over the years, but always jokingly, always the sarcastic ‘as if’. Dean and you are both realists. You know you will most likely die in armor. There is no happy ending in the cards. Every time the hunters took out an enemy, new ones would arise. The war never seemed to end, you were always covered in blood and bruises, always neck deep in trouble, fighting some impossible greater power that was way above your pay grade. And so you both laughed at the idea, like neither of you could picture it, while deep down both longed for that kind of peace. 

     One time, while driving through the night with Sam fast asleep in the back seat, the two of you fantasized about living a normal life. How it would be to have a home that isn’t a bunker, with windows that would allow sunlight to peek through the curtains. A house where the floors creak and the roof tiles tick when autumn rain pelts down. Maybe a house with a porch or a deck, with a view over a lake, so that Dean could spend his retirement fishing. A house like the cute cabin in Grand Mesa, Colorado, that you spotted on a real estate website. Dean doesn’t know, but you’ve been keeping an eye on the property, feeling a hint of relief every time you went online and found it to still be for sale. Even though the chances of ever living there are slimmer than winning the lottery, you couldn’t help yourself. 

     That is, until the final big bad was defeated. All there is left now are the little cases. The little cases that other hunters would have no problem with, the little cases that aren’t worth dying for. After decades of fighting a battle against what hides in the shadows and threatens mankind, you and Dean have decided the time has come to lay down the weapons. Your hunting days will soon be over, you were finally going to settle down with the man you love. So when Dean came across a suspicious news article and convinced you to work the case, you promised yourself: one last job. 

     Three days ago, the two of you went on that final hunt, having no idea that this case would end so much more.

      “Dean!”

     The damage is done before you can blink, let alone prevent it from happening. With a gun trapped and steady between both hands, you hurry around the corner and enter a dark alley in one of the neglected neighborhoods of Chicago. The hunter you care so much for comes into view, pushed against the brick wall by the shapeshifter that’s wearing your skin. Making a split second decision, you fire two silver bullets. Both hit the shifter in the chest, one piercing its heart. When the creature turns to you, horrified, the light coming from the lamppost on the corner of the street hits its eyes, igniting them to flash abnormally bright one last time. Then the spitting image of yourself crumbles to the ground, a fist clasped around the handle of the knife, pulling the weapon from Dean’s chest. 

     Every detail is clear, your senses heightened by the adrenaline. It all happens so fast, yet you are very much aware of every detail of what’s playing out in front of you. The fresh crimson on the blade, the gasp that escapes from Dean’s lungs as the knife is roughly drawn from his flesh, your racing heartbeat drumming in your ears, triggering a crippling state of inner panic. You lower the gun, big eyes watching him in shock as he turns his head to meet your gaze. A desperate, hopeless shade of emerald green, begging you silently to catch him before he collapses.

     You start to run towards him, but his legs give out. Unable to stay on his feet Dean slides down against the brick wall, but before he tumbles over to the side, you grab him and keep him vertical. 

     “I got you. I got you now. Hey hey hey…”       You force him to look into your eyes, your hand firmly on the back of his neck, holding him upright. Damn, he took a good punch. Two nasty gashes on his brow and cheekbone allow blood to drip down his face, but the red substance that is pooling on his bottom lip and starts to drip down his nose is not just a result from the beat down. It’s coming from deep within, filling his lungs, creeping up his throat. 

     You hastily shrug off your flannel shirt, first one arm, then the other, so that you can keep him steady. After folding it into a ball, you move his denim jacket aside to witness the stabwound between his ribs. For a short second you just stare at the stain that evens out the colors of his plaid shirt in one dark tone of red, growing larger with each passing moment. The image translates in your mind, setting it in overdrive. 

     “Cas!!!” you yell up to the sky.      You know he can’t hear you, you know Castiel doesn’t have the power to heal Dean either, not at this moment anyway. Still, you hope for a miracle, looking up at the tainted clouds above, painted in a hue of purple from the city lights. You call out for the angel again, but nothing happens, and so you return your teary eyes back to the hunter. The look he returns petrifies you to a degree that it can be felt in your deepest core, because besides the mixture of fear and pain, you notice something else. Sympathy for having to leave you for good this time. Acceptance of the inevitable fate that lies before him. Then you know. Dean is going to die tonight.

     You could give up. Now that you realize all hope is lost, you could stop fighting. But you can’t. You can’t give up on him. Not now, not ever. The small voice that tells you to stop your attempt to save the man you love, causes your hands to tremble and your heart to race, but you are calmed by the strong minded will that wants to keep him alive.       “This is going to hurt a little,” you warn, before you press the bundled fabric against the injury, doing your best to stop the severe bleeding.       Dean groans in agony when you apply pressure, grinding his teeth in the process as he does is very best to keep pulling in breaths.      “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Shhh…” you hush him, pulling out your phone and dialing 9-1-1.      “Y/N… don’t bother,” he says.      “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that,” you return, stern yet broken. “We’ll do this the old fashioned way, alright? All we gotta do is get you to a hospital and they will fix this. You’re gonna be fine. You're gonna be just fine.”

     You’re not just trying to convince him as you keep repeating the mantra in your head, but who are you fooling? Certainly not Dean, who watches you with empathy as you press the cellphone between your shoulder and your ear. The operator asks what your emergency is.       “I need an ambulance! M-my boyfriend just got stabbed in the chest and he’s - he’s losing a lot of blood. You’ve gotta send someone quick,” you tell the woman on the other end of the line, trying your best to get the message across best as you can.      “Okay, m’am. Help is on the way. What’s your location?”      You quickly glance at the corner of the street, trying to find a street sign. There isn't one, but years of experience in hunting and tracking pay off. You only need a fraction of a second to determine where you are, going on observations and memory of your chase that led you in this dark and empty street.       “I'm in a back alley of N. Morgan Street, right next to the ‘L’,” you explain, returning your focus to Dean.      “I’m dispatching units to your location right now. Is your boyfriend responsive?”      “Yes. Yes, he is,” you reply. “He's conscious.”

     You observe the oldest Winchester, witnessing how the flare in his eyes slowly starts to die down. He has a calm over him that seems foreign, at terms with the inevitable. Dean, who never backs out of a fight, who keeps throwing punches no matter what, has accepted his fate. The sight causes tears to fill your eyes again, desperately clinging to your lashes. You can't let them fall. If the tears fall, you will acknowledge it. If the tears fall, you will admit that you are about to lose him.      “What’s your name?”      You snap your attention back to the operator, who tries to gain more information. For a second your mind rushes through your aliases, deciding which one to give the woman on the phone, but then Dean’s head slowly dips in your hand as his eyelids become heavy.      “Dean? No no no no. Stay with me now,” you respond panicky, quickly dropping the phone to the concrete in order to hold him up.      “Look at me. Look at me. Dean?!”      Frantically you cup his face, trying to get him to focus on you again. Your thumb rubs his scruffy cheek lovingly as you pray for him to hang on. Someone seems to listen to the request, though, because his eyes flutter open again, able to take you in once more. 

     “They’re on their way, Dean. You just have to hold on a little bit longer, alright?” you say, emotion thick on your voice. “Tell me something.”      “Tell you what?” he asks, weakly.      You shrug, because honestly, all you want is to hear his voice.      “Anything. A stupid joke, a funny story. Just keep talking to me.”      A small smile appears on his lips while thoughts form in his head. Something in his warm eyes changes as he seems to figure out what to say to you. You can tell it’s a message he needs to get across, last requests and pleas for promises.      “W - will you do me a favor? Sammy, he's gonna be devastated--”      “- Dean,” you object, knowing where this is going.      “Y/N, please let me say this,” he whispers, weakening by the second. “I'm not sure how much time I've got here.”

     You want to interrupt him, yell at him to stop talking like he is going to die. Because you still want to believe that he isn't. You still want to believe that the two of you will have your happy ending. But you let him continue, as the tears finally fall. Reluctantly admitting, acknowledging, the last spark of naivety slipping away.       The hand that is clenching the piece of clothing against the wound, hesitatingly loosens grip on the fabric. Eventually you let go completely, allowing the dam to break. Dean sighs relieved when the painful pressure is taken away from his chest and then looks into your glistening eyes. Despite his deteriorating condition his hand now reaches for yours, rubbing his thumb over your bloody skin comfortingly, then gripping it tight.

     “Promise me--” He inhales sharply, trying to get enough air in to deliver his message. “- that you will look after my little brother. Make sure he doesn't do anything suicidal... And let him look after you too. Don't go through this alone, okay?”      A burn ignites in your chest, the hurting flames firing up your throat as you lower your gaze, unable to hold yourself up. Actual physical pain, caused by heartbreak. Nonetheless, you promise with a nod.       “One other thing. Now this… this is important.”       His voice gains a little strength, drawing your eyes back to his. His pupils are dilated slightly, the darkness of the alley surrounding them this dreadful evening, but the beautiful shade of jade that has always captivated you is still noticeable. You take him in, trying to look past the blood, past the bruising.      “Promise me you'll quit hunting.” Dean pleads.

     Your jaw lowers a little as you stare at him. Not nearly confident enough to take a leap that substantial, especially now that you are going to have to make it on your own, you shake your head frantically, and look down again.       “Dean, I can't,” you resist.      “Yeah, you can,” he pauses, trying to catch his breath.      You watch him struggle, blood coloring his teeth red as it gathers in his mouth. Despite that the shadows are closing in on him, he clears his throat.      “You’re talented, Y/N. You’re capable of so much more,” he says, smiling lovingly as he watches you. “Go get that degree you’ve always wanted, buy that little house by the lake that you’ve been checking on for months now. But don't dwell on revenge, okay? Leave this life behind.”      “How the hell am I supposed to do that without you, huh?” you reply, whimpering.       “It’s gonna be easier to move on from being a hunter now that I won't be there to slow you down.”

     As he swallows apprehensively, he glances down at his hand on yours. The message shocks you at first, but quickly transforms into compassion when the true meaning of his words settles in. Moved, you run your fingers through his hair as you support his head, trying to get through to him.       “You picked me up when I was at my worst, you took me for the mess I was and you made me into a better person. So don't you dare think that there has ever been a moment in my life that you were a burden, you hear me?” you say, the words coming out strong, contradicting the tears that stream down your face.      For the first time you witness a glazed fog in his eyes, not caused by the pain he is suffering from, but surfaced by your moving words. You know he needed to hear that, because he would never be able to convince himself of that fact. The guilt doesn't leave his weary mind completely, though.

     “I - I’ve done many stupid things in my life, but you know what I regret most?” Dean continues.      You shake your head, waiting in suspense as he coughs violently. He settles, though, and you wipe the blood away that drips from the corner of his mouth.      “Not settling down with you,” he continues. “Not taking the chance that was right in front of me. I waited too long, and I - I was too damn scared to let my guard down, that I drove right by the exit…”      You hush him, trying to ease the man who carries so much on his shoulders still.      “Hey hey… It’s alright,” you say, softly. “You know why? You didn't have to take that exit. I was right there on that highway trying to hitch a ride. Look who stopped and let me in, huh?”      You smile through the hurt and Dean mirrors your expression as he blinks slowly.      “It's been one hell of a ride,” he whispers, his flooding lungs making it difficult to speak.      “It sure has,” you chuckle, trying to mask a sniffle. “And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

     Fingertips try to break the trail of blood that has come down his handsome face when he closes his eyes again, pulling in a shallow breath with difficulty, trying to cope with the pain. It kills you to see him like this, to watch him stall, trying desperately to stay with you for a little while longer. He’s living on borrowed time.

     “You need to know something, too,” you start, steadying him with both hands now, cupping his face.       His eyelids part again, but he can barely focus. He is beginning to weigh heavily on you and it is petrifying to see how the strength oozes from his body. As his heartbeat slows to a worrying low pace, yours speeds up. Tears have now carved shimmering lines in your cheeks as you tremble, not ready for the moment that is about to come.      “I love you, Dean. You know that, right?” you say, falling apart.      Going on fumes, he looks up into your eyes, as the corner of his mouth twitches. There is no actual answer to your insecure question, but the line parting his lips growing further into a small smile says it all. Pupils bouncing over your features, trying to imprint this image in his mind, so that he can take the memory with him to wherever he will go in the afterlife. It’s the last thing he is going to see.       “Kiss me,” he breathes, barely audible.

     You lovingly stroke his cheek with your thumb as more tears spill from your eyes. Willingly, you come closer until you’ve closed the gap between the two of you completely, pressing a gentle kiss on his mouth. You are the one who he wants to feel in his final seconds. You are his last wish.      As his lips move over yours, dwelling in the moment, you understand that this is his way of saying ‘I love you, too’. His taste that is so familiar to you, has mixed with the metallic flavor of blood, but you try not to think of that matter. Memories of all your epic moments with him flash through your mind, and God, how beautiful those memories are. 

     4th of July on an empty desert road on the hood of the Impala, beer instead of champagne, shooting stars instead of fireworks. Driving across the country for a Bob Seger concert and ending up right in front of the stage, you dancing freely and him singing along every word. The first time he took your hand in his while riding down the 101 in California, finally allowing himself to fall for you. The first time you kissed him under the traffic lights, stretching the moment until the lights turned green and the cars behind you started honking, but neither of you cared. All you want is to make more of these memories, for those intimate moments to carry on. But they will not. This is going to be the final moment you will share. So you put all the love you carry for him in this last kiss, just like you did in the first.

     You feel his last breath on your lips without realizing it. It’s only when he fails to respond to your touch, that you freeze. Paralyzed, you wait as fear of your worst nightmare coming true begins to crawl up your throat, closing it off. You slowly remove your lips from his, not ready to look at his motionless face that you still hold in your hands.       “Dean?”      His eyes are closed, like he’s sleeping and could wake up at any second, but the silence is horrifying. Frightened by what is right in front of you, your fingers slip down to his neck, desperately trying to find a pulse. You relocate your fingertips on his artery in denial, looking for a heartbeat, a breath, any sign of life.       “No no no no…” you speak again, repeating his name more forceful. “Dean!”

     Unable to accept what has in fact become reality, you shake your head as you keep holding Dean up, unable to bare feeling him slip from your hands. Desperately, you try to force him to feel your touch once more, running your fingers through his hair, caressing his clammy skin, as you whisper to yourself in order to keep calm. This is not happening. This can't be happening. This must be a very, very twisted dream. This is not real, this is not real, this is not real.

     But it is. It is real. And just like that, your light is gone.

     Your breath hitches in your throat and the confirmation hits you like a freight train. You let his lifeless body slip against your chest as you fold your arms around him, letting his head rest on your shoulder. A heart wrenching cry reverberates through the back alley. Unable to breathe you struggle to let the cool air fill your lungs, so unsettled by the loss of the man that you love, that you can’t imagine yourself ever getting up again. As sirens approach in the distance and echo between the concrete of Chicago, you hold Dean close, your tears mixing with his blood, your wailing breaking the silence.

     Three days ago, you were faced with a choice and made the wrong one.      Three days ago, you could have decided to spend the rest of your lives in peace, but you promised yourself, one last job.       Three days ago, it wasn't Dean who drove past the exit. It was you.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

This work is written by me, Kate Huntington, and it is under no circumstances allowed to copy my work.

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[ajbrooks-writes]

WIP Re-Intro: For The Crown

Book One of the Blood Ties trilogy

Heyo! Exactly what it says on the tin. A new and improved For The Crown with special edition features and up-to-date info! Also now with an official trilogy title: Blood Ties. Incredibly accurate.

Book One: For The Crown

Two young shapeshifters uncover generations of blood crimes as they attempt to change their own destiny. Masquerading amidst power plays and fickle allys, the prince and the pretender learn the meaning of family in a tale of love, loss, and the cost of challenging the stars.

Elthian and Ryvaeryn are from very different worlds, tied together by a bloody past. They are each given a single chance to attain their goals, but to do so must navigate a court full of lies, a country full of secrets, and a foe determined to keep both in the past.

Basics

Stage: Complete Structural Overhaul Review

Estimated Length: 135k

Genre: New Adult high fantasy

Themes: found family, adventure, self-discovery, romance, challenging status quo, challenging destiny.

More info

Orphaned as an infant and raised by humans on the continent, Ryn has never known another shapeshifter. A bookbinder by trade, she masquerades as a scholar and runs to the island country of Mantha, where she meets our team, and her resolve is tested when she is discovered and has a choice: go home to safety or join the court and risk it all.

Growing up in the castle with his father, brother and best friend, Elthian has known he would be king since he was a child. A planner by passion, Elthian’s progressive ideas clash with his father’s traditional values, placing them increasingly at odds. When his father threatens to change his successor, Elthian must choose between sacrificing the crown for his values and work, or sacrificing his values for the crown and power.

Ryvaeryn and Elthian’s journeys intertwine as they work towards their goals. Among the trials of their individual paths, they realise their growing friendship might be more than that. Now they must weigh their loyalties and, when discovered, understand that one false step could tear them apart forever.

Read on to learn about some of the characters and the next two books! Also cool graphics.

Welcome to part two!

Characters

Protagonist. Age 29, lion shapeshifter. Idealistic, compassionate, creative, naive. Elthian has a rocky past, but has landed on his feet with a father he idolises, an older half-brother he loves unconditionally, and a best friend he could not do without. His brother’s protection has left him naive to their father’s nature, but kept him from losing that idealism and compassion their father is so blatantly missing. Elthian’s biggest struggle is his own self-doubt, but his brother’s line “There are some things in this world you just can’t change.” kickstarts his determination to do exactly that. I love my son, but not make it easy.

Protagonist. Age 26, tiger shapeshifter. Impulsive, defensive, determined, kind. Safe in seclusion with her long term girlfriend, Ryn gives it up to journey to Mantha and find others like her. She is quick to defend herself and slow to reason, and so desperately wants to know who she is and where she came from that she will risk everything to find answers. This is made difficult when she becomes to target of assassination. See her right eye pictures above? That may or may not emerge intact . I love her, and I forge her fortitude in fire.

Secondary. Age 30, wolf shapeshifter. Quiet, perceptive, loyal. Joal spent half his childhood as a crown ward, becoming Elthian’s best and most loyal friend. His official role is Royal Historian and Heritage Law Consultant, and he lives at the castle. He is the first to realise Ryn isn’t a scholar. Joal isn’t ‘in touch��� with his emotions, which quickly creates a rift between him and Ryn. Joal has the largest role in Blood Ties after Ryn and Elthian.

Secondary. Age 32, human. Optimistic, intuitive, honourable. Kalen is the ultimate best friend. He is a great hugger, great listener, and gentle soul. He left the army  to pursue music, specifically the flute. Kalen is aro-ace, and his and Skye’s QPR is the most precious and pure dynamic I have ever seen. He becomes close friends with Ryn, we call him K, and I would die for him.

Tertiary. Age 35, lion shapeshifter. Discerning, protective, adventurous. Orrian paints himself as rebellious and unreliable, allowing him to pursue his interests in peace, and as a bonus giving his father frequent headaches. Orrian runs a shelter for homeless or orphaned boys and young men, mostly shapeshifters, and basically has a dozen adopted sons. He is also investigating his father, whom he loathes. Orrian has a much larger role in the next two books.

Tertiary. Age 21, crane shapeshifter. Shy, observant, attentive. Skye is very close with Kalen, and Ryn first meets her in a courtyard where Skye is playing violin. She struggles with anxiety and  PTSD, and attempts to create a support network in this book, which unfortunately backfires. Skye’s role will change a lot over the trilogy as she develops and grows and discovers her strength.

Tertiary. Age 24. human. Sarcastic, charming, realist. Corri meets Ryn early in town, and they become friends quickly. She loves to have a good time, and encourages Ryn to do the same. If the cellars are stocked, right? Corri has a brief, secret fling with Joal in this book. She also frequently makes time to spend with the children at the castle - much better company than nobles.

Tertiary. Age 64, lion shapeshifter. Assertive, determined, commanding. Parthian rules with iron, currently with his third wife. He pushed Orrian to abdicate, and has spent the last decades grooming Elthian to be a more worthy successor. Parthian is struggling under the weight of (subjectively) poor past choices. His sons take more from him than they’d like.

Side. Age 34, human. Calming, authentic, passionate. Lowe and Ryn were together for three years, and lived together for most of that. She knows Ryn’s aspirations, fears and hopes and supports her move to Mantha. Lowe will have a larger role in the next two books, but will crop up a few times in this one, too.

Side. Age 9, shapeshifter. Shy, curious, adventurous. Pab is an orphan, and has lived at the castle her entire life. She is friends with Corri, and becomes a loyal friend of Ryn’s after a vandalism mishap. Pab will climb literally anything. She scales two storeys of old stone to break into Ryn’s room. Ryn and Pab’s bond strengthens over the trilogy, and we learn more about her family later on.

--

The World:

For The Crown takes place primarily in Mantha, an island country about the size of France. It has several smaller ilsands scattered around it., and across a strait is a mainland spanning an area close to that of Russia, which is where Ryn is from. Skye and Joal are from the North and South islands around Mantha respectively..During this book, the court travels around the country to various estates, under the guise of a ‘royal tour’, in which Parthian speaks to the leaders and the people and try to assure them that the monarchy has their best interest’s at heart. It gives Elthian the opportunity to find the progressive among them, and Ryn the opprtunity to explore different libraries and estates, including a ruined city, searching for answers.

Mantha is a feudal society originally settled by shapeshifters, which Parthian encourages, because they are easier to control. The continent, all humans, is meanwhile approaching an early industrial age; they have a direct democracy, with all the people having a voice. Mantha works with alchemy, whereas the continent works with technology. They have minimal overlap, but for trade and transport, things like air travel crosses their cultures.

This means I can have steampunk airships flying over my feudal farmland. The dream.

If you would like to know anything else about their culture, feel free to shoot an ask my way!

Rest of the trilogy:

For The King

After the bittersweet end to For The Crown, Ryn and Elthian try to recover the trust of the Manthan people as Elthian begins a shaky rule. But when the new king is kidnapped, it’s up to Ryn, Orrian, Kalen and Joal to race across the continent to save him, finding help from old friends along the way. Meanwhile, in a deep underground prison, Elthian meets new allies and foes as his captors attempt to break him, and he plans a daring escape or three. For The King is significantly darker, and ready to be drafted. You can read this wip intro here.

For The Country

Following a narrow escape, Ryn, Elthian, their new allies and remaining friends journey back to Mantha only to discover it has been overrun! With Elthian’s confidence shattered and Ryn struggling to stay afloat, For The Country has them and their team racing to rally their people against an approaching enemy while they battle fire, uprising, discord and disease. In the conclusion of this epic fantasy, everyone comes together for the battle that will decide Mantha’s future.

Final comments:

Can’t believe I managed, finally, to finish this intro.

I’m going to try and participate more in wip and OC related things, and post more about my story when life allows. I hope you enjoyed it, congrats on getting to the end, and have a great day!

--

For The Crown tag list:

 @trigwrites @jessicacaseyauthor @mfackenthal @mushwrites @b-works-074  @gardeningourmet @apocalyvse @jcckwrites @writingisdivinetorture  @purpleshadows1989 @thatwritergirlsblog @betwixtofficial @pen-in-hand @whynotwriting @bookish-actor @sunlight-and-starskies @jcckwrites @half-explored @watermelons-writings @purpleshadows1989 @crazycoffeemermaid​ @summerflowers

Blood Ties taglist:

@whisperswritings @stand-inthe-rain @fantasy-shadows @halrose @romanticatheart-posts @hopefulmoonobject @angelolytle @albarnesauthor @fantasy-penman @ofinscriptions @jynecca @venomouspen @k-nazario​ @raenawrites @s-n-o-w-p-i-e-r-c-e-r​ @the-starlight-chills​ @crazycoffeemermaid​ @ardawyn​ @bookish-actor​ @waterfallofinkandpages​ @the-writister​ @thewriteblrarchives​

(if you would like to be added or removed from the Blood Ties tag list, please let me know. Also if I’ve missed anyone I’m really sorry, could you let me know please thank youx)

[cupofcowboys]

Can I request that while charles is out hunting, he encounters witch/reader who is very lonely and looking for something to live for in life so he takes her back to the gang?

I really loved this concept so much, and I had a ton of fun writing it! I apologise that it took me a long time. I’m a slow writer at the best of times and I had a busy week. I hope it was worth the wait!

I went for a ‘realistic’ rendition of a witch, rather than fantastical. It’s my first time writing this so I’m kinda nervous lol. Enjoy!

TAGS: Minor Spoilers (Ch3), Femme Witch!Reader, SFW, Friendship, Romantic Friendship, Slight Angst, Witchcraft

TW: Depressive thoughts 

2,278 Words

-♥-

Wild rumours ran rampant throughout small towns. Yet Charles had never encountered a rumour quite so prolific as the “cursed woods”. Any traveller shuddered at the mere mention of its name, too afraid to recount the supposed horrors it held. From the little he could gather it was believed a terrible creature roamed the woods, slaughtering anyone who dared tread in its territory.

Pure superstition, he believed. If anything, it would turn out to be a particularly beastly bear or a cougar. Even so, he couldn’t deny that something felt off about these woods.

The air itself seemed to hum with energy. Whether benign or dangerous, he couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it set him on edge. Constantly checking behind his back, half-convinced something was following him, lurking just out of sight. He shook off the feeling. Pure placebo stemming from campfire horror stories.

He had been tracking a small herd of deer for some time now. One of them had a beautiful pelt, but a mutilated leg. Putting it out of its misery would earn him a few dollars and fill bellies at camp. Crouching low, he stalked, pausing only to check if he was still on track. He hardly noticed the deathly silence pressing in around him.

That was until he felt a tug and snap on his navel. Glancing down, he half expected to see a tripwire. Yet there was nothing but air. He hesitated, the skin on his neck crawling as minute hairs stood on end. A distinct feeling of being caught in a trap crept upon him. Just as he considered turning tail and running, an uncharacteristic desire, his attention was diverted again. A door creaked open just beyond a clump of bushes ahead of him. Swallowing, he shifted behind a thick trunk to his left, concealing himself from view.

The soft patter of bare feet on grass grew louder as someone approached. Charles drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking it and tracing the feathers absently as he focused.

A shadow of a figure hit the forest floor beside him, and he leaped out from behind his hiding spot. Aiming straight at the figure, ready to release at a moment’s notice. He almost released the arrow from shock.

A woman unlike any other jumped in surprise at his appearance, clasping a hand to her chest. Her hair was loose and unkempt, her dress several years out of fashion and patched with a myriad of mismatched fabrics.

“Oh my, sir!” She breathed hard, chuckling good-naturedly. “You didn’t half give me a fright, jumpin’ out like that!”

It took Charles a moment to lower his bow slightly, still unnerved by this unusual person.

“You frightened me, too.” He explained, eyeballing her nervously.

“Well, it happens. Not many folks in these parts.”

You gazed at the curious stranger who had disturbed your wards. Many a year it had been since anyone came to visit. You had almost forgotten what other people looked like. Witches were rarely accepted into society. The last time a stranger found you, they had run away in terror at the sight of your powers. Isolation was a natural part of the cards fate had drawn for you. Now that the opportunity presented itself, you weren’t about to reject a guest. Especially not such a handsome one.

“Why don’t you put that away.” You suggested, gesturing to the bow in his grip. “I just brewed a pot of tea and there’s enough for two. I’m (full name), by the way.”

“Charles Smith.”

“A pleasure, Mister Smith.”

With a short incline of your head, you turned heel and made your way to your cabin. After a brief pause, the sound of heavy boots told you he had complied.

The cabin you called home was small. Barely larger than a single room in a normal house, it was easy to miss in the trees. Mostyour domicile was outdoors. An expansive garden was your pride and joy. Full of herbs, vegetables, and flowers. Each one held a use and more value than any could fathom. Your carefully placed wards were a preventative measure on the wildlife, who loved to snack on your hard work. But they were handy for alerting you to intruders too. Pushing the door open, you stepped into the cluttered mess you lived in. A prickling of embarrassment rushed to your face. Years of not expecting company enabled bad habits.

Aside from the roaring fireplace, all had was a single bed, dining table, a few chairs and a kitchen. Most of it was lost under tomes, handmade charms, unfinished projects, and trinkets. Humble and messy, but home.

“Sorry for the mess. You’re my first guest in… years!” You laughed, busying yourself with your aged teapot.

When he did not respond, you glanced over to find his eyes sliding over your domicile. You could practically hear him piecing together what you were. While you made a show of pouring tea into old, chipped cups, you were on the alert. If he turned into a threat, you were ready.

It was only at the sound of your chair scraping that he snapped out of it. Turning around, he stared at your unassuming frame, gesturing at the cup balanced on a book about birds. He reached forward and took it, but did not move to sit. His dark eyes followed your every movement like a bird of prey. Bringing the tea to your lips, you took a small sip and watched as he mirrored it. However, he sniffed the liquid suspiciously.

“It’s chamomile.” You smiled. “I usually add honey but I ran out.”

He took a small sip of the liquid and withdrew his hand. His eyes bored into yours, half-suspicious and half-curious. All you could do was smile back benignly.

“You live out here alone?” He questioned.

“Just me and the wilderness.”

“I see.”

“Are you a dangerous man, Mr Smith?”

“Maybe.”

Together you stared at each other, gauging and judging. A silent game of chess. But you were a better judge. Honing into the aura he possessed; light and darkness danced together, a haze of grey smoke from a burning fire. Hatred turned him into a fighter. Battles fought only when necessary.

“I don’t think so.” You shook your head, smiling. “You’re just the same as I am. Good people hated for what we can’t change.”

His eyes widened at your words, darting across your features in search of lies or malice. All he found was a genuine desire for connection. His shoulders relaxed, and he tugged the vacant chair towards him, dropping into it and lounging backwards.

“I guess so.”

Swirling the tea leaves in the bottom of your cup before taking a hearty gulp, you grinned. Now the tension was gone, you marvelled at the opportunity. How long had it been since you made a friend?

“So, what brings you to my little patch of woods?”

–-

Hours of conversation pass by without alerting either of you. Charles turned out to be a man of few but well-placed and educated words. Admittedly, the conversation consisted primarily of your ramblings and gushing. Years of pent up news, opinions and ideas rushed out with minimal prompting from your guest. At first, you felt nervous of irritating him, but he proved to be a thoughtful and inquisitive listener. Your openness and honesty provided him the courage to open up in turn. So, by the time your tummies began to rumble, you knew each other quite well.

After polishing off several helpings of your stew, Charles rose from his seat. You had forgotten just how tall he was.

“I have to go…” He began to explain, giving you a look that plainly told you he wished he didn’t.

“Of course! It’s nearly nightfall.”

“Thank you for the food and conversation.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Smith.”

You stood and extended your hand out for him to shake. Taking it in his, he shook it gently and exchanged warm smiles. There was a single moment of hesitation before his hand left yours. He moved to the door and was pushing it open when you gasped.

He turned to you curiously, but you were busy rifling through the clutter. Scrabbling through years of untidiness, you finally found what you were looking for. Grinning, you hurried over to the man.

“Here.” You held a closed hand out to him. “Take this. For protection.”

Charles reached forward slowly, and you dropped a small trinket into his hands. A protective charm you’d made some months ago. He looked down at the object, thumbing it around curiously. Then, looking up at you with a smile that sent butterflies to your stomach, he spoke;

“Thank you. I will treasure it.”

You were still staring after him in embarrassed bewilderment when he whistled for his horse. Standing in the door as he mounted, you watched as he cantered off into the trees, a salute in your direction his final goodbye.

Wandering back into your home, you spotted Charles’ empty cup. Smiling, you picked it up. Gazing down into the scattered leaves, you began to read the shapes within. Hints to the future filled your heart with warmth you’d never dared feel or hope for.

–-

The coming months brought return visits from Charles, always staying longer than he intended. More than once he pitched a tent outside and stayed overnight, much to your delight. Loneliness, once an intimate friend, became a foreign entity. A relationship of trust grew as you revealed more of yourselves to each other. He knew the truth of your identity and you knew his. You were unsurprised to hear about his gang. The life of an outlaw had its tells, even to you. Yet if he had a choice, you knew he would never choose it. Just as you wouldn’t have chosen a life of isolation. This simple understanding was the foundation of your friendship. Never judging, always kind.

And yet… there was more. A spark that kindled into a flame. A quiet, subtle sort of shift. In his absences, you spent many hours mulling it over. Before Charles, your life had been empty. Void of any light and purpose. It sounds ridiculous to your own ears. The idea that men gave women purpose angered and frustrated you, it wasn’t an ideology you welcomed or embraced. But if Charles were a woman, it would be the same. Years without human interaction took its toll. Nights spent wondering if it would even matter if you were gone.

There was no one to mourn you. No one to notice. Just the forest. If it wasn’t for your will to live, you may have given up.

So when Charles failed to visit for almost a month, you began to lose hope again. The only person you had to share your life with was absent. Not a word came. Not since he’d promised to “see you again soon” and vanished. Part of you knew that he was prevented from visiting, but there was a darker part. A part that wanted to convince you he just didn’t like you. Or he was dead. You couldn’t decide which was worse.

As time slipped by, each day the same as the last, you found yourself devoid of light. Hope dwindled away and distractions proved ineffective. Too many hours spent staring off into space, wondering at the fate of your friend.

That was where you found yourself now. Sprawled on your back, staring up at the vast blue sky, listening to the sounds of the forest. A book lay by your head, forgotten. Slowly, your eyes began to droop. The summer heat and idleness a blanket pressing down upon you. Darkness fell and you knew no more.

“(Y/N)?”

“Mm?”

“Are you okay?”

You opened your eyes. A pair of dark, muddy boots were inches from your face. With a cry, you recoiled and looked up in shock. There he was. The man you had been dreaming of. Staring down at you with mild concern was Charles. Jumping to your feet, you hugged him tightly.

“Oh, Charles!” You exclaimed, pulling away to beam at him. “I thought you had forgotten about me!”

“Never.” He affirmed, taking your hand in his.

“Wh-Where did you go?”

“We had to move. I was afraid to bring you trouble, so I stayed away.”

“I appreciate it but… I missed you so much. It’s… lonely out here. I never noticed it before, but now… it’s unbearable! I can’t stand it!!” You detached yourself from him. “All this time I’ve been trying to hide it but… I… I just wait for you to visit. It’s the only thing that makes me happy. I’m sorry… I shouldn’t tell you all this.”

You turned away. Shame and embarrassment throbbed in your heart. It was one thing to think it all privately and another to dump it on his shoulders. He had no responsibility to keep your happy. No responsibility even to visit. But as you turned to apologise, he took your hand again.

Pulling you closer to him, he looked into your eyes. Matching his gaze, you could tell he was considering something.

“Come with me.” He muttered.

“What?”

“I said, come with me. It’s not an easy life but… if you joined the gang you would be safer.”

“Y-You mean become an outlaw… like you?”

“No. Not an outlaw… there are women. They help in other ways.”

You stared. Out of all the suggestions you had expected, none of them were this. But now you thought about it, why shouldn’t you join?

After all, the world already hated you.

“I think… I’d like that, Charles.”

-♥-

My Masterlist

AO3

[rpgsandbox]

Welcome, Heroes!

This Kickstarter will fund the release of Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition, the second edition of our superhero roleplaying game, and the companion volume Pinnacle City’s Most Wanted, a compendium of villains and information about Pinnacle City.

We also hope to fund two supplements: Modern Gods, an epic modern-day superhero sandbox setting by Sean Patrick Fannon, and Blood & Justice: Shadows of Nocturne, a gritty and mysterious "Iron Age" superhero setting by Bill Keyes.

If things go really well, we have a few surprises in store, as well.

Originally released in 2013, Prowlers & Paragons proved to be a sleeper hit that developed a loyal fan base and made its way onto a few “Best Of” lists, despite its cult status.

After five years of playing, expanding, revising, and updating the original game and listening to your feedback, Mastermind Len Pimentel called in "Henchman #1" Sean Patrick Fannon to help him create Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition.

The spirit of the game remains the same, but the rules have been taken apart, refined, and carefully put back together. The new and improved rules have more depth than the original game engine, but they make for a faster, easier, and more exciting experience.

GAME MECHANICS

Want a preview of the game? Download the free Quickstart Rules here!

Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition is designed to let you play any kind of superhero game you can imagine. Because we aren’t tied to a specific world, setting, or property, we made sure you can play characters of any power level, from street-level vigilantes to iconic mega-heroes who deal with intergalactic threats. Whether you're dodging bullets or battleships, we've spent the last five years finding the perfect balance of abstraction and crunch to make sure the game is just as fun either way.

We also made sure you could tailor the rules to suit your style of play. From lighthearted Saturday morning cartoons, to modern day comic books or superhero movies, to the dark and grittier side of supers, you can do it all in Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition.

Character creation is fast and flexible, using a simple point-buy system that gives you lots of choices and enough detail to make those choices matter. Once you know what you’re doing, you can throw a character together in minutes and create exactly the type of hero you want to play.

Don’t know what you want to play? We’ve all been there. That’s why there’s an optional Random Hero Generator to help you get going. Or you can use one of the 15 fully playable heroes provided in the core rules.

Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition uses ordinary 6-sided dice and a simple yet robust dice pool mechanic that makes action resolution fast and exciting. The rules allow for both narrative and traditional success-or-failure based task resolution, letting you play however you prefer. In fact, you can use both methods at the same table!

Whether narrative or traditional, the rules are designed to keep you in your character’s head. When you play Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition, you aren’t playing an author, narrator, or comic book publisher: you’re playing a hero!

Combat is fast and cinematic, striking a balance between abstraction and simulation that gives players meaningful choices without bogging them down. We’ve even used these rules to run epic battles with hundreds of combatants on the table!

If you're ready for that preview, you can download the free Quickstart Rules here!

READ ALL ABOUT IT: TESTIMONIALS!

We introduced Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition to Bruce Harlick, Steve Peterson, and Ray Greer, three guys who know a thing or two about superhero roleplaying games, and here's what they had to say.

BRUCE HARLICK (Editor, Writer, and Designer for Champions and many other tabletop and electronic games): "P&P is an elegant super heroic system that is loose enough to let people play larger-than-life heroes while still providing enough crunch during conflict resolution to be totally satisfying. It's like a bridge between the crunchy games of the 80s (Champions) and the modern day aesthetic. It plays fast and fun and players' actions are only limited by their character conception -- and their imagination. Two toasts from Foxbat's Secret Lair on this one!”

STEVE PETERSON (Co-Creator, Champions; Original Partner, Hero Games): "P&P is a smashing amount of superheroic fun that I've enjoyed playing. And did I mention fistfuls of dice?  If you like a game that's fast-moving and gives you the feel of your favorite comic-book heroes, P&P delivers.”

RAY GREER (Writer & Designer, Champions; Original Partner, Hero Games): “I really had a fine time with the playtest. It offers a really interesting balance between flexibility and customization for character creation. And it is rich in detail without feeling like a miniatures game for combat. The highest compliment I can pay is that if we were designing Champions today, there are several ideas I’d have liked to steal wholesale.”

THE CORE BOOKS

When our diabolical plan comes to fruition, the two core books we'll be releasing as part of this Kickstarter campaign are the Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition Core Rules and the Pinnacle City's Most Wanted villain sourcebook.

Let's take a look at each!

Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition is a full color book that contains everything you need to roleplay in any kind of superhero setting. It includes …

Streamlined rules designed to help you create exactly the hero you want to play, from street-level prowlers to iconic paragons and everyone in between.

An optional Random Hero Generator for when you just don’t know what kind of hero you feel like playing.

A simple and intuitive system for advancement that lets you decide how quickly the heroes develop and ties advancement to reaching milestones in the story.

A core game engine that allows for either a narrative action resolution or more traditional action resolution system, and in fact lets you use both in the same game.

A fast-moving combat engine that emulates all the action and excitement of comic book combat. Plus optional rules to make your superheroic slugfests as four-color and fantastical or gritty and realistic as you like, letting you set the tone of your game.

A huge list of weapons, armor, gear, and vehicles you can use in your games, plus rules for superheroic gadgets, customizing your gear, and building your own headquarters.

Guidelines for using the game’s narrative ruleset to handle disasters, hazards, hostile environments, and other extreme conditions and situations.

A massive library of animals and extras—some ordinary and others less so—plus 15 fully fleshed out villains and 15 ready-to-play heroes.

Loads of advice, tips, tricks, shortcuts, strategies, and suggestions to help you create nefarious villains, exciting adventures, memorable campaigns, and game sessions that feel like a comic book stories instead of super-powered dungeon crawls.

Designed as a combination rogues gallery, adventure supplement, and setting guide, Pinnacle City’s Most Wanted is intended to help make life as easy as possible for gamemasters. Within its pages you’ll find …

An assortment of opponents and supervillains of varying power level, from street-level criminals to cosmic beings that threaten the entire planet, if not the entire galaxy.

Every villain described in enough detail to let you use them as they are, but with enough room for you to make these characters your own and fit them into your game word.

Every villain's entry also includes a description of an important location in Pinnacle City or in the greater Pinnacle City Universe, plus a number of adventure seeds.

A variety of groups, organizations, and peoples, from assassins’ guilds to ninja clans, organized criminal enterprises to shadowy government agencies, technological overlords to supernatural underworlds, hidden races to alien invaders, and more.

As with villains, every group, organization, or people is described in enough detail to give you a taste of who they are while leaving room to make them your own, and each description includes additional adventure seeds.

To combat all these menaces, the book introduces readers to AEGIS, one governmental organization the heroes might actually consider their ally. Maybe.

Last, because players may one day grow tired of doing the right thing and yearn to take a walk on the wild side, the last Chapter of this sourcebook includes rules and advice for playing the villains and running villainous games.

The main purpose of this Kickstarter is to give these books the treatment they deserve and provide you with the best product out there, one filled with full color artwork by amazing artists. As of the time this Kickstarter went live, the status of each book is as follows:

Prowlers & Paragons Ultimate Edition is already complete, fully written, edited, and ready for layout.

Pinnacle City’s Most Wanted is nearing completion. Should it fund, we expect the book to be fully written and edited and ready for layout within 30 to 60 days after completion of this Kickstarter.

Modern Gods [stretch goal sourcebook] is nearing completion. Should it fund, we expect the book to be fully written and edited and ready for layout within 30 to 60 days after completion of this Kickstarter.

Blood & Justice: Shadows of Nocturne [stretch goal sourcebook] is nearing completion. Should it fund, we expect the book to be fully edited and ready for layout within 30 to 60 days after completion of this Kickstarter.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Mon, April 8 2019 5:00 PM BST

Website: Evil Beagle Games

[thursdays-fallen-angel]

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” For spn ship of your choice.

ghost hunting!au, hs!au, est.; 2.5k

(this turned out to be so much longer than I expected but?? oh my god??? thank you for prompting me to write this??!)

A single beam of moonlight falls across the broken wood floor, illuminating the dust motes in the air. Elsewhere in the house, some part of the foundation cracks and settles, and there’s the unmistakable sound of a small animal scurrying through the walls.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Cas hisses over his shoulder. He’s been in a constant state of disbelief since he was talked into it, and yet, here they are.

Creeping through an actual haunted house. In the middle of the night.

Hunting for ghosts.

Behind him, Dean laughs. It’s almost too loud in the otherwise-silent house, and Cas turns to glare at him, squinting against the light of Dean’s flashlight.

“Can you be quiet?”

Dean keeps his flashlight raised as he comes closer—a necessity for the camcorder he has in his other hand—but when he’s near enough, his face becomes visible beyond it. Unsurprisingly, he looks like he’s having the time of his life.

“Come on, Cas, we have to let the ghosts know we’re here!” He shifts his grip on his camera, but doesn’t once uncenter it from Cas’ scowl. “If we don’t bother them at least a little bit, why would they bother showing up? We’re doing this in the name of science, and that means we can’t hold back.”

“Now you’re talking out of your ass and you know it,” Cas says, which only results in pulling another laugh from his boyfriend. He turns back away (partly to hide the fact that his lips are twitching toward a smile) and shines his own flashlight through the gloom of the condemned house. They had entered across the back porch—a risky endeavor, considering the wood that makes it up is rotted almost beyond recognition, but since the front door is chained closed, the back door was their best option—which means they are now in the cramped remains of a sitting room. The ceiling is low and sagging, the walls are covered in graffiti and god knows what else, and across from them is an opening to another room filled with impenetrable darkness.

Cas hates it.

Damn Dean for convincing him to do this.

No matter how terrible the house is, however, knowing that he is on camera gives Cas an illusion of courage he wouldn’t have otherwise. So long as this is being recorded, he refuses to look like a coward.

He’ll still bitch, though, of course. He thinks he’s earned that right.

He shuffles forward across the uneven floor, careful not to put his weight on any one spot too quickly. Supposedly, the house has an unfinished basement where most of its horrors have been known to take place—and he is far from eager to see it. And judging by the splintered hole in the far back corner of the room, Cas suspects it’s far too easy to accidentally get there.

Dean follows on his heels, following Cas’ path exactly as it is slowly proven to be sturdy enough to support them. It seems like no time at all before they’ve reached the next room. It’s far larger than the first room, which is reflective of the size of the house (it’s practically a mansion), but also more than a little terrifying, considering the beam of Cas’ flashlight doesn’t reach the far wall.

Dean turns his camera into the never-ending darkness and lets out a low whistle. “Well, damn. That looks fun. You ready, babe?”

Cas takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders. “I hate you so much,” is all he says, and then he starts to walk.

Dean says smugly, narrating for the camera, “He loves me.”

Cas raises his free hand up to be level with his head and flips Dean off.

As they pick their way across the room, the darkness doesn’t become any easier to see through. Cas tries to make their path as straight as possible to the other side, but there turns out to be too much broken furniture and other assorted debris for that to be realistic. They go extra slow to compensate, Cas quietly pointing out dead animal carcasses and used syringes and needles as he steps around them.

At what Cas suspects is the halfway point across the expansive space, Dean clears his throat. “So, Cas. Ghost hunter extraordinaire. Hottest guy in school. Why is this house haunted?”

Cas sighs heavily, but decides to humor his boyfriend by recounting the local legend. He isn’t exactly a fan of the whole ‘talking to the camera’ thing, but, well. He knows it will make Dean happy. And since that’s the only reason he’s currently in this haunted house at all…  

“This house,” he begins, louder than his gut instinct tells him he should be for the sake of being heard, “was originally on a plantation owned by one of the city’s founders. He was the first mayor, but only a few years after he was given the position, he and his family were killed in a fire that destroyed nearly half of the house.” He stops to kick a pair of empty beer cans aside, and eyes the camera. Even in the dark, Dean’s grin is blinding, his pride at the effort for dramatic tension clear. “It was suspected that his slaves were responsible for the incident, which means he almost certainly deserved it.”

Dean breaks into a coughing fit to cover a laugh. It’s a poor effort, and Castiel snorts his own amusement. Distracted now, neither of them attempts to continue walking.

“Is that all?” Dean prompts. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Cas shakes his head. “The house was rebuilt, and several families lived in it over the next hundred or so years. There was always a pattern of bad luck and early deaths, but the next worst thing to happen was Mordechai Murdoch. He was one of the first serial killers in the state. He kept his own daughters chained up in the basement until they died of malnutrition, and is believed to have killed at least fifteen other people, likely in this very house.”

At that exact moment, a gust of wind rushes around and through the house. The entire structure creaks and groans, and something upstairs shrieks.

Cas grits his teeth and tries to pretend that he did not startle in Dean’s direction—although they very much did jump together, as they’re now touching from shoulder to hip—but Dean, meanwhile, swears and swings his camera back and forth across the room. “Jesus Christ, did you hear that?”

Cas forces himself to huff, ignoring the blood that rushes in his ears. “It was just the wind, Dean—”

“No, you dumbass, not the wind!” Dean’s head is on a swivel, and for the first time since they pulled up to this godforsaken house, there’s genuine fear in his eyes. “There was something—”

Something scrapes across the floor behind them, prompting them both to spin. Their flashlights chase the sound, but as Cas can’t say he is surprised to discover, everything looks exactly as it had when they passed by a few moments ago.

Dean says, voice barely above a whisper, “What the fuck.”

Cas bites back a variety of I told you so’s, and puts a hand on Dean’s back. “We should keep going,” he suggests. It’s the absolute last thing he wants to do, but now going back toward their exit seems even worse than getting further in. They’ll see a bit more, let whatever the odd noise was clear out, and then make their escape.

Dean melts back into Cas’ hand and, thankfully, catches his logic. He visibly draws himself up, taking strength from his boyfriend’s touch, and then sets off in the direction they were initially headed.

They make the rest of the walk in a suffocating silence, the only sound being the creaking of the floorboards under their feet. It feels like a miracle when they finally reach the end of the room—and also incredibly relieving, since it means they are no longer out in the open—but unfortunately, what they find is less than reassuring.

Ahead of them are three, clear options.

There is a half-broken staircase leading up to the second floor. To the left is an opening to what seems to have been the kitchen. And then to the right, beneath the stairs, is a crooked door tagged in spray paint as ‘basement’.

For a moment, the two of them are utterly still. And then Dean turns his camera between their three options, then directs it back toward Cas’ face. All of his bravado has returned. “Rock paper scissors, winner picks where we go?”

Cas gives him a flat look. “No.”

Dean smiles, a bit of wicked amusement overtaking his residual fear from before. “Alright, then, so we’re in agreement that we’re going downstairs? The basement is where Old Man Murdoch hid all of the bodies of the people he killed, right? That sounds fun.”

“No,” Cas repeats. “I will not let us be murdered in a basement. And furthermore, I don’t trust any stairs in this place. We will be staying on this floor and not break our legs, thank you very much.”

Dean pouts, but from the way he huddles slightly closer to Cas, Cas can tell that his boyfriend isn’t truly upset with the decision. It’s subtle, but it unifies them enough that Cas feels slightly less horrified of what they’re doing.

Slightly. For the moment.

They advance into the kitchen where, as soon as they’re across the crumbling threshold, the temperature seems to drop significantly. It’s practically frigid in the room, and Cas tugs the zipper on his hoodie up a few more inches to combat it. He takes a few steps further into the room, wary of every shadow, and lets out a long breath as he steels himself.

His exhale fogs up in front of his face, impossible to miss thanks to the perfectly-aimed beam of Dean’s flashlight.

At that moment, the sound of footsteps reverberates through the ceiling above them. Cas’ breath catches, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Dean turn his camera upward, chasing the sound. They keep themselves completely silent as they listen; the footsteps seem to start further toward the front of the house, then pass directly over the kitchen en route to the back.

It feels like an eternity passes before the steps are no longer audible. When it happens, Dean reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Cas’ hoodie and whispers fervently, “Holy shit, there’s someone here! We have to get out of here, right the fuck now.”

Cas could not possibly agree with that statement more. Except—“Dean, I don’t think the next floor is sturdy enough to support anyone. Look at the ceiling, it’s rotten.”

Dean sweeps his flashlight across the ceiling like he needs to see the proof for himself, even though it should be obvious from the way the entire house is sagging and falling apart, then momentarily blinds Cas by turning both the light and the camera directly into his eyes. “But there’s someone up there!” he insists. “Don’t tell me you didn’t fucking hear that, Cas, that floor they were walking on was not rotten!”

Cas waves Dean’s flashlight away and blinks the brightness out of his eyes. “I heard it, Dean, but there’s no way—”

He cuts off with a strangled sound. He hadn’t been able to see it when he was blinded, but now that his eyes are readjusting to the darkness, he can make out a figure, standing over Dean’s shoulder.

As he stares at it, Cas feels the blood drain from his face.

It can’t be a person, it can’t, not in this condemned house where every sound is amplified tenfold and no reasonable human being should want to creep their way through it, anyway, and yet—

But of course, the alternative explanation for what is very clearly a humanoid figure standing right behind them isn’t exactly more reassuring.

“Cas? Babe?” Dean holds the camera on him, but for once, Castiel doesn’t even notice. “Cas, what happened?”

Cas’ jaw works silently, unable to form words. Eventually he settles on pointing, unable to get anything out beyond a choked, “Dean.”

Dean spins around, the beam of his flashlight swinging wide—and then he swears, and drops the camera to the floor. He scrambles to recover it almost immediately, while Cas grabs protectively at his elbow to steady him. The figure still looms, taller than them both and menacingly mysterious, and whatever it is they may be facing, he’ll be damned before they do it while separated.

Dean manages to pick the camera back up. The two of them press together, clutching at one another, and when they raise their flashlights up again, they see a flash of an angry, half-formed face with burning eyes.

And then just as quickly as he appeared, the man is gone.

“Where’d he go?” Dean demands. He starts to step forward, but only stops because Cas keeps a hand locked tight around his elbow. “What the fuck was that? Was that—?”

There are more footsteps upstairs, a rush of them this time, and what sounds like someone banging their fists against a closed door. First it sounds like it could be the chained-up front door, then it sounds like it’s echoing up from the basement, and then in an instant, Cas realizes exactly where it’s coming from, and a cold chill runs down his spine.

“The basement door.”

Dean looks at him, horror in his eyes.

All around them, the house only gets louder. There are footsteps, banging against the door, and thanks to a return to the wind, an inhuman shrieking sound that fills every room. Cas stands rooted in place, utterly terrified, heart in his throat.

Beside him, Dean says, “Fuck it.” He throws down his flashlight, grabs Cas’ free hand with his own, and yanks him along to sprint out of the house, back the way they came. They pay no attention to the hazards they were so careful about on their way in, and pass by everything else that is now happening without a second glance.

When they break free of the house, Cas swears that fresh air has never felt so good in his lungs.

They don’t stop running until they’ve reached Dean’s car, parked a hundred or so yards away from the house. Their hands remain linked while they collapse against the hood and pant for breath, a reassuring point of contact now that they should be safe.

When they’ve recovered, their hands slip apart. Dean still has his camera in his other hand, and though he lifts it back up in an obvious attempt to act like nothing is wrong, there is a haunted look in his eyes, and his had trembles just slightly.

“So, uh. Cas.” Dean clears his throat and glances over his shoulder toward the house, now gone quiet. “I’d say that went… well. Wouldn’t you?”

Cas drops his face into his hands and laments, “Why can’t any of our dates just be normal.”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [476]

Ellana frowns as she ties her hair back, fingers snagging on tangles and knots as she pushes the mass up and towards the back of her head.

The wind is cold but the stone underneath her is slowly starting to warm up. Skyhold mornings are a breathtaking sight to behold and Ellana loves every single one of them and every color they paint the surrounding mountains.

But today her focus is inward, and on figuring out her own mess.

She’s spread out a tarp on the stone in front of her, weighted down entirely on one side by her staff, and on the other two corners the empty, but heavy sachets, bags, and containers for the contents spread in front of her.

It’s been enough time since the last time she’s put everything out in the open to organize and unburden herself of these things that the contents are a little staggering. Ellana has no business carrying around this much in weight. She blames the Chargers for rubbing off on her with their tendencies to collect and hoard.

First Ellana must sort through her potions and poultices, of which she has several. The ones in the paper packets are small, lightweight, and easier to store and carry. Those she can keep. The vials of tinctures, healing potions, and various other chemicals on the other hand are a little harder to parse through. The three precious vials of lyrium she does need to keep. Ellana’s been in enough situations where her mana has run low in a fight where she doesn’t doubt their necessity.

And processed lyrium is incredibly expensive. She isn’t going to look this gift in the mouth, especially not with the Inquisition footing the bill for it.

The various venom and poison tinctures and antidotes she carries may have to go. She’ll have to settle for more general cures. Besides, in most of the places where she’s been recently venomous snakes and insects are the least of her concerns. The likelihood of her or someone she’s with being attacked by one of those is far outweighed by the event of humans, or gods forbid, bears. Ellana’s never fought this many bears in such a condensed amount of time before.

She’s lived out in forests and jungles, traveling between areas heavily populated by carnivores and predators, untouched by the larger towns and trade routes and Ellana cannot remember actively or aggressively hunted by bears in this manner.

So a majority of the antidotes in front of her will go into storage, or she’ll sell them to an Inquisition healer at a very low cost.

That’s something.

Next are her knives. She has…too many. Ellana quickly unfurls the treated leather and cloth that holds them. Most of them are for preparation of ingredients. Does Ellana really need to be bringing her tools with her at all times? Now that the Chargers have a semi-permanent place of residence while signed with the Inquisition Ellana could just leave these here. Realistically, has she been using these out in the field?

The answer is no. Though she should take her knives for skinning and cutting kills.

She can also leave behind some of her empty containers. She hasn’t been restocking as urgently as before and they’re dead weight and space on her person.

Which brings her to one of the hardest parts of this task. Sorting out her ingredients. Following the same line of logic as before she can leave most of these behind because they’re only used for the preparation of poultices and other such consumables that she hasn’t been producing while traveling.

But. She does have several items that she uses for spell components. And several more she uses as sort of tools. Powders that can help mask a smell. Herbs that can be used to create trances when burnt. Liquids that can detect poisons. These are all useful and things she has been using. The question is if she can cut down on any of these. It’s a lot to be carrying when she needs to be light on her feet and not jangling about like a merchant on the road.

And of course, there are the harvested parts that are a touch sensitive that she wouldn’t want to leave behind.

Ellana sighs as she holds the vials in her hands, contemplating what she can take and what she can leave and what she should, really, throw away. For some of these their potency decreases or changes with time. Does she really want to risk it?

A familiar shadow slides over her, creating a very distinct shape on the items in front of her.

Ellana ignores him. The Iron Bull often comes to linger about her. If he has business he’ll tell her. If not he’ll leave. Or perhaps he’ll just wait. For someone of such a clandestine position he’s a very straightforward person. All the more dangerous for when he does slip in a lie or misdirection, she supposes.

Not unlike a certain patron God that she knows, but she’s certain that Fen’Harel would not appreciate the comparison.

“Wolf,” the Iron Bull says. His shadow shifts as he crouches down behind her. She feels his chin brush her shoulder, breath faintly ghosting against the cool skin of her cheek. “I have a favor to ask you.”

Ellana’s hand closes around the glass in her hand as she whisks it away into the folds of her many layers and into a safe pocket.

“Absolutely not.”

Bull makes an incredibly petulant sound that would seem more in place on someone Sera’s age.

“You didn’t even hear me out. That’s cold.”

“I am not giving you the dragon’s blood,” Ellana says firmly. “Evelyn gave this to me for research purposes, not so you could drink it or mix it with your vitaar or use it as an aphrodisiac for your latest rendezvous.”

“Come on,” Bull needles, “I gave you that wolf’s fang that got stuck in my calf that one time.”

“That has nothing to do with me giving you this vial of dragon’s blood,” Ellana replies, smacking Bull’s hand when it starts to drift towards her side. As if he could get into the pocket she’d put the vial in from that angle. He’s tried it before and he knows it won’t work. He’s just being playful and unrealistically optimistic that she’ll find it cute enough to give in.

Unfortunate for him, he’s insufferable enough when he’s fantasizing about dragons. She’s not just going to give him dragon’s blood. Why would she bring that down onto herself?

“I’ll trade you,” Bull says.

Ellana turns her head, careful to avoid accidentally turning her head into his horns.

“A bargain with a wolf?” Ellana raises an eyebrow. “How daring. The answer is still no.”

“Since when did you say no without hearing what’s on the table?” Bull says. She can feel him playing with her hair, gently pulling on the long strands. “Come on. Humor me.”

“Don’t I always?” Ellana replies dryly. “Later. I’m busy right now. And don’t you have troops to terrorize? People to hit with blunt training swords? People to hit you with blunt training swords?”

She raps her knuckles against his forehead, pushing him back.

“Off with you. Do whatever it is you do with those farmers with dreams of knighthood and I’ll consider listening to your bargain later.”

[j-eliasepp]

Reality Leak

By: J. Elias Epp

Illustration By: Atomiiii

(I don’t own any rights to the picture and am only using it for my hobby writing purposes)

            Yapo eyed the formation of soldiers. A ray of the setting sun shone between the skyscrapers and warmed him against the cool wind. His computer relayed a quick count of the soldier’s total into his vision. “Spider Five to Para-Web Ten.”

Cysten’s voice whispered into Yapo’s earpiece. “Para-Web Ten, go ahead Spider Five.” “Today’s toy count is one-hundred forty.”

           “Copy Spider Five. You can go home now.”

           “Copy.” Yapo quietly retreated across the rooftop. Something sticky sucked at his boot. He wrinkled his nose at the sweet stench coming from an overflowing trashcan. He shook his head.

           Update 9.24.2 of Urba-Scape had just launched yesterday. One of its touted features was the improved realism of smells.

           Yapo curled his lip and lightly descended the emergency fire staircase on the outside of the building. “There’s such a thing as too much realism,” he muttered.

           He left the warm ray of the sun’s light and descended into cool shadows. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he surveyed the narrow alley below him. Computer-generated characters walked to and fro between the buildings. A couple of bums warmed themselves next to a trashcan fire. The alley was littered with every kind of refuse some poor artist had worked for hours to make look realistic.

           Yapo’s eyes were elsewhere though. A quick look at the people showed that there wasn’t any other players like himself waiting for him below.

           He climbed down from the staircase and walked out of the alley and into a bustling street. A mini-map showed his location in the corner of his vision, as well as a waypoint marker showing the way back to his clan’s base.

           Yapo’s phone rang and he answered with a snap of his fingers. Cysten’s voice chirped up in Yapo’s ear. “Alright, I’m done gaming for tonight but I can wait for you to get back to the base. Were you able to level up today?”

           Yapo eyed his progress bar. “No,” he said irritably, “their mechanics are totally jacked. I could have leveled up three times in any other game by now.”

           Cysten sighed. “Yeah, I hear they plan on fixing that in the next update. If you don’t like it then don’t play. I only asked you to buy it with me cuz my clan was leaving Twice-Life and needed more people to join.”

           Yapo checked behind him, looking in the crowed for anyone tailing him. Then he checked the rooftops. “You’re fine man, I think its my role in the clan. Being the scout every time just gets boring. I mean seriously, just let me ruin their plans every once in blue moon and allow me to infiltrate a base, or I don’t know, steal something or snipe somebody. I’ve been sinking experience points into the Infiltrator tree since Day One and have barely used any of my skills.”

           Cysten chuckled. “At least they pay you good.”

           Yapo scoffed. “If it didn’t help pay my real-life rent, I’d have left them long ago and become a spy for hire.”

           “Oh come on! There are gamers who would kill to make actual money from gaming!”

           Yapo’s mouth quirked into a smile as he slipped into a sewage drain. “I don’t think they know there’s a difference between gaming for fun and gaming for a job. I bet you anything none of them have even thought about making a base in the sewers, especially with the latest update.”

           Cysten laughed. “Awesome man, awesome. Dude, I hear we ticked off some small clan for enforcing protection money on one of their stores. They were totally gung-ho about taking us on until they made it into the sewers. Turned back right then and there.”

           Yapo chuckled. He made his way along the drain in a crouch, doing his best to avoid dubious lumps in the running water. “I don’t blame them.” He jumped down into a larger drain and stood up. From there it was only a short way to the locked iron grate that shut their temporary listening post off from the rest of the sewers.

           “Be sure to rinse off your boots!” Cysten yelled from the darkness inside the grate.

           Yapo washed his boots off with what he guessed was a hose that was usually used by maintenance crews. Then he unlocked the grate and closed it behind him. The rust clung to him and he brushed it off on his pants.

           “I still don’t see how you managed to get ahold of the keys to this place.” Yapo walked around the pipe’s corner and ducked his head through an open door that was usually sealed. Inside were all sorts of sewage maintenance tools and machines lit by the blue light of Cysten’s monitors.

           “Magic, hey, check this out.” Cysten turned his blonde moppy head for only a moment before looking back at the screen.

           Yapo leaned on the back of Cysten’s chair, by what means he had gotten down into the sewers was beyond Yapo. On one of Cysten’s monitors was a live streaming of a news conference.

           The headline read; Laughing Clown Games CEO Announces Efforts to Combat Perception of Reality in his most Realistic Game.

           Yapo’s mouth quirked into a smile. “What?”

           “Shh, listen.”

           “…have to ask,” a news reporter was saying, “why go to so much effort to make Urba-Scape realistic if you’re just going to ruin that perception?”

           The CEO set his lips in a grim line. “There is a difference between making it easy for players to immerse themselves in a game through realism and causing them to lose their perception of what is real. Our company hopes to implement several policies into our games that will still allow for their enjoyment while ensuring our customers experience a wholesome lifestyle.”

           “What policies will those be?”

           “We are planning to implement two of the policies tomorrow. One will place a hard limit on continuous gameplay to an hour and a half. A player will get a thirty-minute warning to come to a stopping point before they are forcefully logged out of the system. After that, they will have to be out-of-game for thirty minutes before they can rejoin.”

“The second policy will be periodic notifications in-game stating that they are in a virtual world and reminders to take food and water breaks. We believe that it is important to ensure the healthy lifestyle of our customers and…”

Yapo nudged Cysten’s shoulder. “Seriously? They’re going to limit our game time like we’re children?”

Cysten shook his head in disbelief. “Dang it. You know what this means? It probably means our clan is going to move over to something like Dream-Life 6 when it comes out. I hear VT Games won’t implement restrictions on their virtual games like Laughing Clown.”

“Really?! Are you serious?” Yapo threw his hands in the air. “Whatever, they want to be like that then they won’t have me as a customer. Just….whatever, I’m done for the day.”

“See ya.”

“Yep, I’m logging out. I’m done for the day.”

Cysten turned and looked at him, frowning. “Logging out?”

Yapo was already heading around the bend. “Yep! See ya tomorrow!”

Cysten gave a small laugh. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go log out too.” He shook his head. “You’re so funny,” he said to himself.

***

Yapo reached his apartment an hour later after filling up his hunger and thirst bar at a nearby fast food joint. He tried to walk as quietly along the hallway as possible, but his neighbor still cussed him out as the floorboards creaked.

Yapo shook his head and stomped the rest of the way to his door. “Why do I even try?” he mumbled. The carpet of the hallway was nearly worn through in front of his door. He walked in and locked the door behind him. Only then did he relax.

He cleaned himself up, brushed his teeth and took care of a few chores around his apartment.

He turned the TV on to a news channel out of habit and let it run in the background while he did chores around his apartment.

The newscasters talked about the controversy surrounding L.I.F.E. recorders. The topic of the day was a study done by a group of scientists on how Heads Up Displays projected into one’s vision affected a person’s perception of reality. The study showed that those who used the technology to keep track of their eating, drinking and learning status were more likely to lose their grasp of reality.

Hunger and thirst status bars, especially life experience bars were all there to help promote healthy living. However, the scientists disagreed that it helped the mental stability of users.

Yapo didn’t hear a word of it as he plugged his L.I.F.E recorder into its charger and proceeded to begin washing dishes.

It was already late when Yapo turned on his favorite television show and sat on the edge of his bed.

The character he’d made in this world had a robotic arm and leg. While they were useful for his work, they had drawbacks. By rote, as he watched the television he took off his robotic leg, then the harness that cushioned what remained of his thigh. He massaged the muscles and tissue, making sure blood was getting to all parts. Then, he cleaned his leg of all the grime it had collected during the day.

By the time he was done cleaning his arm it was time for bed.

He sat on the edge of his bed looking at the floor for some time. Suddenly, he roused himself and lay back on his bed. He took a slim helmet with a cord attached to it from his nightstand and put it on his head. “Time to log out,” he whispered. He closed his eyes.

A light lit up words upon the helmet.

URBA-SCAPE

 Note from the Author:

This is a writing exercise I’ve been wanting to do for some time. One of the things that I love to do is think of the possible repercussions of future technologies. This story is part of an idea I had for a character and plot line. The idea is about a character who struggles with his perception of the world because of the technology of virtual reality.

I don’t know about any of you guys, but I love and am leery of the idea of virtual reality. It can be used in healthy ways or destructive ways.