#riverwater

[swan2swan]

Absolutely exquisite that Chaos Theory ended with Brooklynn being forced to choose between her five smelly friends who had to bum a ride halfway to the airport and wanted her to take care of a baby, or a wealthy woman with a private jet and a job offer.

[bonefall]

OHHH OK now im curious. bc of this ask: https://www.tumblr.com/bonefall/729548700508160000/could-be-like-my-cousin-shes-100-percent-deaf-in?source=share about dovewing being deaf. do cats in the BB AU have a signed form of clanmew? or is it basic gestures/just the written form of clanmew for deaf/HOH cats?

signed,

someone who really loves languages (hoping to god i spelled everything right/actually used the right words. ive been rewatching 3 hour psych lectures sine 6am...)

They have a rudimentary writing system! Clan glyphs be upon ye

It's not phonetic Clanmew, it's glyphs. Snowkit, before his tragic death saving Tawnykit, was actually OBSESSED with these. If he'd survived, he would have built these out into something he could use to communicate with. He was actually a really interesting kid.

But, unfortunately... that passion went with him. Whitewing is the next cat born with a hearing problem, and she's really uninterested in them. She isn't the same creative person that he was, and struggled with the fact that her family seemed to imply she had to "live the life he couldn't."

(note: in BB, dovewing is lionblaze's adopted daughter and bio-niece.)

I think there's going to be a big of a tragedy at play, here. Whitewing has figured out her own methods of communication. It's not a full language, but she's able to communicate basic intent with "rudimentary signs" she's created on her own.

She was only ONE degree of separation away from Dovewing (as Birchfall's, Dove's mentor, mate), but...everyone was forcing Dovewing into what THEY felt she needed. More hunting practice, more glyph practice, more lip-reading. Dovewing wasn't allowed to set her own pace or learn in her own way.

And her response was to bolt, taking all the possibility with her.

IT was the right choice for Dovewing, I think. She thinks that too. But, it wasn't the ONLY choice, you know? There's always things left unsaid and things you'll never be able to try when you make such a big decision. Who knows what could have been?

Maybe Dove and White would have ended up creating the start of a brand new dialect of Clanmew Sign Language, or changed the glyph system in a way that fit them better. Maybe that's not what matters; maybe they would have just been able to make each other feel less alone.

But as it is...

Every deaf, HOH, and mute cat in BB is currently disconnected from each other. They can't pool their skills except at Gatherings.

So Fallowfern, Dovewing, Whitewing, and Stoneclaw all have their own unique way of communicating.

There are tail signs which are used for battle, and glyphs which are used for writing.

Info: Those who go deaf later in life are still usually able to speak. Those who were born deaf often have a harder time. (Clarifying because this is apparently not common knowledge?)

OH! Bonus! Here's how each of those four tend to communicate!

Dovewing

She's REALLY frustrated by everyone forcing solutions on her. I think part of her actually really likes that she can say whatever and then not hear the response. It's like, "Deal with it. Show me you care with your actions if it's so important."

ZERO patience for people who just try to talk over her. She will immediately respect you if you listen to her carefully; only then will she give you the time of day to try and talk back. She kinda treats it like a privilege to talk to her, and she WILL revoke it without remorse.

People who have earned this privilege;

Heartstar. Naturally. And all of their children.

All of the Guardian cats, especially Antfur who is her best friend.

Violetshine, weirdly enough. She visits ShadowClan now and then and Dovewing is very fond of her and her wife and husband.

Strikestone and her new family

Squirrelflight

Briarlight

Alderheart and Sparkpelt

Twigbranch

Fernsong (BUT HE IS ON THIN. ICE. As Ivypool's husband.)

Her preferred method of being talked to is glyph writing. Heartstar is really creative with them, and it's super endearing. She improvises signs a lot and draws full pictures, making whole "doodle pages", even writing little "love letters" in the dirt before Dove wakes up. Literally peak romance, Dovewing loves her wife so muchhh

Whitewing

Also has low patience, but in a more "quick" way. She doesn't like people who take a lot of her time trying to phrase something simple and act awkwardly around her. Time is prey to Whitewing-- cut to the chase and communicate what you need her to do.

Interestingly, this leads to her really disliking Bramblestar as a leader. He's very inattentive to her needs when he organizes patrols on his own. She has very strong opinions and bad synergy with some of her Clanmates, and if she's forced on a patrol with them it ruins her day.

(She's really relieved when Squilf is reinstated post-BOTTE, Squilf knows about this quirk and accounts for it.)

Her love with Birchfall was actually a long time in the making. He really sees her, and something about the way they communicate just clicks. It's easy. They were friends, then partners, and then eventually mates and have been close their whole lives. Their body language just makes sense to each other.

She's been deaf her whole life and only knows a few very important words, but won't "speak" words if she doesn't have to. She does have a habit of making noises when she's happy though, beeping, meowing, and meeping when she's surprised and "not in work mode."

Whitewing is the kind of deaf cat in those videos who sees their human is home and goes "MEEEEEEEEEA." She would walk into a bathroom and wail so she could feel the vibrations on her paws. Vocalizing feels good. She is NOT a quiet person unless she's hunting.

Her preferred method of communication is mostly modified tail signs, but ThunderClan broadly uses glyphs, but she doesn't want to correct them on it. She feels bad telling them it's frustrating that they take so long to draw.

Stoneclaw

She has selective mutism. Her vigil was the night of the WindClan Massacre, and while sitting outside the camp with her temporary silence, ShadowClan attacked and killed her sister Thrushwing in front of her.

At first, WindClan thought it was nobility, that she'd "carried out her vigil to the bitter end." But it never healed. It's not a choice, it's trauma. She can speak when she's extremely relaxed but it's a really rare circumstance.

But, the legacy is to her benefit. She's the granddaughter of Tallstar (through Flylight, his adopted son), has an honorable story, and is a strong and confident warrior... in the daytime. She never hunts at night, when the sun sets, so does she.

(Clan cats are crepuscular, working in the morning and in the evening, but Stoneclaw only takes daylight shifts.)

Glyphs serve her fine, but she really dislikes using tail signs to communicate... brings up really bad memories.

She would REALLY benefit from someone making an effort to "legitimize" some sort of CSL, it would be like a support club to her. SO if it ever happened, Stoneclaw would jump at the chance to join. She's probably friends with Fallowfern though, once SkyClan arrives. Stoneclaw lives to become a very old girl.

Fallowfern

Mom of the Road Safety Man, guy who knows a million words for vehicles, Rabbitleap, and best friend and co-parent with Hawkwing, Plumwillow, Fallowfern is an old cat who ends up losing her hearing later in life like Dovewing!

I'm actually not entirely decided on her personality, but I'm feeling that she'd make a really good "glue" to hold everyone together. Like some kind of organizer-type person, someone who's very good at networking. She's really upset to be losing her hearing, it signifies a lot of really negative things to her.

She suddenly can't talk with a lot of people... even the ones who are reaching out to her are doing exactly that. Reaching out to her.

She likes being the reacher-outerer. It feels like being old and washed up.

SkyClan is a very good, connected Clan, with bonds notoriously VERY strong in comparison to the other Forest Four because of shared persecution... but

She's got this awful feeling that everyone's just coddling her, being nice to her, sending her to the elder's den like a trinket on a shelf.

"Does this mean... does this mean I'm going to lose music? Will anyone dance with me ever again? Do my babies want me to join them, or... or are they just tolerating stinky old mama <:( ?"

They're NOT, btw. Of course not. She's Fallowfern and she means a lot to them.

So I think at the VERY least, she finds a fondness for Stoneclaw at Gatherings. Elder friends, girlies who bond over making little grandma bracelets, but I'm not sure if it's HIT them yet that they can do something very cool together.

In fact it would be kind of funny if they weren't even aware of each other's disabilities at first, like they just started hanging out quietly. Fallowfern assumed that Stoneclaw just doesn't have anything to say and Stoneclaw figured Fallowfern was respecting her silence.

Like something just gravitated them to each other in the most natural, orbital way.

And then Snapstorm, Stoneclaw's wife, bumbles up like "Hey babe who's your friend :) ?" And Stoneclaw smiles, nods at Fallowfern to introduce herself, and then Fallow's like... "Oh I can't hear you, honey."

Stone: !!! (Taps self and makes a crossing motion over her throat)

Fallow: O_O "Ohhhh"

BUT, anyway,

Her preferred form of communication is unequivocally glyphs. I imagine SkyClan might have more written characters than other Clans, simply because they used them a LOT during their time apart under Spiderstar's Plan. Plus, they used to see a lot of road signs which they may have just adopted as glyphs.

Hmm... yeah, seems very cute that The Road Family's traffic theme continues, lmao

[upmala]

time to take a nap in the lake. drown the ticks, feed the leeches

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

Omg I’m so excited someone is taking Harry Potter requests in 2023!! Definitely gonna be obsessing about your blog for the next few days❤️ if you would like, could I please request a Fred Weasley x fem gryffindor reader where the 2 of them sneak out at night to go to a bar in hogsmeade and Fred defends her from some shady men? Would love some fun tipsy shenanigans as well🩷 either way I’m so excited to see what you end up writing!!!

The fic is now posted!!!

I really love this idea omg <3

Also I am so happy to be accepting requests for Harry Potter and writing for HP again, because like I said - it was my first ever fandom back when I started writing fanfiction on Quizilla and I am so excited to get back into it again

I really love this idea and I am gonna have so much fun working on it

Harry Potter Requests - Open

[judassamara]

location: chri’s place with: @chris-elkar​

“Can you meet me? At my place? I gotta take a shower or something… Yeah, I’m- I’m physically ok. Some crazy elf just attacked me… No I didn’t do anything… Can we just talk in person?”

It wasn’t what he expected to hear when he picked up Chris’s call. He’d been attacked?! Judas was filled with a wave of fear, worry and anger. How did Chris manage to get himself into these problems? They didn’t waste any time, not even bothering to put on a clean shirt, the one he was wearing splattered with paint. It wasn’t long before he was pushing his way through the door, not bothering to wait for him to answer the door. 

“Chris?” they called into the apartment, looking around for him a little frantically.

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Nostalgia Doesn’t Flow Away Like Riverwater

By Irma Pineda.

[roughghosts]

Even the birds have gone away: Nostalgia Doesn’t Flow Away Like Riverwater by Irma Pineda

A drop of salt on paper is silence killing us Where have your footsteps taken you? In what corner of the world do they hear your laughter? What shard of earth drinks your tears? – from “A drop of salt on paper” **** I traveled the path from the south my feet blistered with memories so tired from dragging all my people’s dreams – from “I travelled the path from the south” The migration…

[comicaurora]

do you have any tips on writing soft magic systems? I only ever see them talked about when people are comparing it to hard magic systems or criticising it, which is a shame because I love systems where magic is just in the background being unimportant, with implied rules that will never be explained

god I wrote up like eight paragraphs of explanation and I was really working out some cool stuff there and then the app glitched and destroyed it all and I'm so upset

Unfortunately this reduces to a previous problem, which is "figure out how Tolkien did it and then do that."

Middle Earth is laden with magic. Hobbits being good at hiding is magic. There's a random throne in the ruins at the end of Fellowship that lets whoever sits in it see literally the entire world, and that's hella magic. Aragorn radiates One True King magic and occasionally heals people with a touch. Galadriel's mirror lets people see any point in time, past or future. Gandalf knows several spells, but most of the time he's doing less granular stuff by making lights or small fires or going all Servant Of The Secret Fire Wielder Of The Flame Of Anor etc etc. Elves are inherently so magical that the words of their language are never forgotten by anyone who hears them, the laws of physics don't apply to them, their havens are magically pleasant and beautiful, and the planet itself is magical for them - flat for the elves, round for everybody else.

The benefit of a soft magic system is that it produces a feeling in the characters and audience that the world is vast, wonderful and unknowable. It's at its best when it can answer why, but not how.

Why did the old empire of men have a throne that let you see the entire world? That makes sense! It's hugely tactically advantageous! HOW did they get the damn thing? No idea, doesn't matter, they clearly made it work somehow because the throne's right there. Why does Galadriel's mirror give you limited, randomized omniscience? Because while it's a useful tool if you can use it, seeing the future is a dicey and weird game, and the future can change if someone knows it's coming. HOW does riverwater in a birdbath do that? No idea.

Soft magic systems start running into difficulties when the writer needs to decide how it can or can't solve a given situation, which is a very common issue in storytelling, a format almost entirely centered on problems and solutions. For hard magic systems with clear parameters on what is and isn't possible, this is comparatively quite easy. The wizard can't magic this problem away because-

They're out of spell slots :(

They don't know a specific spell that can do that specific thing

There's another caster nearby stopping them

The object that lets them do magic isn't working

They need to speak words/do gestures/use materials to cast, and they can't for whatever reason

There's something "antimagic" around stopping them

Etc etc. The possibilities are easy to run through, because the "how" is clearly defined, and can be negated into a "how NOT." If magic uses spell slots, stop the characters using it by taking those slots away. If magic needs a material focus, break or destroy it. This prevents magic from feeling like an unsatisfying "a wizard did it" fix for all difficulties because the wizards can only do specific things under specific circumstances.

Soft magic systems can contrive answers to this too, but it can be a bit tricky to justify, and if it's Too Convenient it can feel like the magic system really just does what the writer needs it to do. When asked "why can't magic solve this problem?" soft magic systems can answer in several ways:

Too tired, sorry :( magic is Taxing and stuff so the caster can tip over whenever's convenient

They're in a Bad Vibes zone that's hindering their ability to cast because soft magic can be impeded by soft problems like "somebody was very mean here once"

That specific magic is tied to a specific location, like a magical elf forest, and doesn't work outside of it because it's intrinsic to the place and can't be replicated

There's another magical being around and their kung-fu is more powerful

These explanations work, but that's conditional on the story not making the audience think the magic SHOULD work in this situation, and this is entirely based on what's been established in the story thus far. If the wizard has been able to fly up until now, parking the gang at the bottom of the cliff and saying "sorry, fly machine broke" feels contrived. But if we've only ever seen other, intrinsically magical beings fly, the audience is unlikely to expect that the party's humble wizard will suddenly bust out a set of feathery wings as a gift from baby jesus himself. On the writing side, it's really a matter of feeling it out and making sure nothing feels too jarring - if the character who's previously displayed a certain specific space of abilities suddenly does something completely unrelated (like going from clairvoyance to slinging fireballs, or from a healing touch to earthbending) that feels inconsistent AND it teaches the audience that this soft magic system is softer than they realized, and can then make it much harder for the writer to then convince them that this caster CAN'T spontaneously manifest a power or gimmick that'll save them. But if the magical characters or objects operate within a specific space - one character that specializes in fire, one object that specializes in remote viewing, one artifact that lets its holder control the winds - then the audience will expect and accept things that fit in those broad, soft categories without speculating too much on the underlying "how" of their mechanics.

But the temptation to explain "how" is very strong for writers, and soft magic systems especially have trouble with this, because soft magic systems start calcifying into fragmentary hard systems when they're forced to explain "how". It locks in a hard-defined axiom that can be logically extrapolated. Because a soft system is not DESIGNED for that kind of internal logic, doing that will usually cause axiomatic collisions as they contradict one another. If a hard system is a crisp, geometric crystalline structure where any tangent line drawn through it will intersect cleanly with other lines in very predictable ways, adding "how"s to a soft magic system is like drawing tangent lines through a bowl of pudding - you're gonna get a lot of intersections in awkward places.

To pull an example out of absolutely nowhere, if a soft system without clear rules establishes something like "this spell can be used to summon an object towards the caster, but it DOES NOT WORK on living things", there are a number of questions that can become relevant:

Who made that spell to have those limitations?

Why can't WE make spells that DON'T have that limitation?

How is the spell defining "living things"? Would it work on a plant or a skeleton or a piercing in someone's body?

Why did you let this character use it on a living thing anyway, joanne?

In a lot of soft systems that try to lock in hard spell parameters, "who made these spells" and "why can't WE make spells" become the first and most obvious axiomatic clash. If magic can be created to do what the caster wants, why and how does that work, and why can't WE do it? This forces the writer to come up with an explanation to solve the clash without letting the protagonists make up whatever spells they want, therefore solving all plot problems forever - sometimes something like "the inventors of spells were intrinsically magical beings, like elves or dragons or whatever, and thus we ordinary scrub mortals can't make new ones." That's a functional explanation, but it reduces to a previous problem again - that this hard-ish magic system was created by someone with access to an unstructured soft system.

In a soft magic system, the only answer to the question "how does this magical thing work" is "because magic." If any other explanation is needed, things rapidly collapse into hard lines and axioms and covering for edge cases. How can elves run on powder snow, shoot targets in the dark and see for hundreds of miles? They're magical. Does that mean they can fly like a balrog or sling fire like gandalf or control weather like saruman maybe can? No, of course not, that's not their kind of magic and we have no reason to expect it from them. They're just magic. Magic means a lot of different things, and in a soft system the audience has to operate based on vibes rather than rules.

This can be difficult to balance. For instance, Star Wars has a soft system in The Force, and if you squint, every single movie and show uses it differently. It's not super disruptive to the audience's immersion because it's never framed like a Hard System with Hard Rules and it almost never pulls something out of COMPLETELY nowhere, but if you look at what it does from movie to movie and then show to show, it expands from "influence the wills of the weak-minded", "seeing the future a little bit" and "force choking" to "general telekinesis" and "limited telepathy" to "FUCKING LIGHTNING FROM THE HANDS MAN" which is a hell of a twist the first time you see it, to some even more buckwild stuff in the two different animated Clone Wars (like Mace Windu fighting an entire droid army Samurai Jack style and using the force to pull every bolt out of one of them at once, or the planet with the living incarnations of the Light and Dark Side) and the explanation never goes further than "The Force is magic, it's in everything, people who are good at The Force can use it to do a buncha stuff." It's not consistent, it doesn't have rules, but the audience accepts that Force users can just kind of do stuff that fits the Vibes of the stuff it's already been shown it can do. And as SOON as they tried to say "The Force is strong in people who have LOTS OF MIDICHLORIANS" everybody hated it, because it gave us a "how" answer to a question nobody wanted to ask and it made this pervasive, wonderous, soft magic system that Surrounds And Binds Us Luminous Beings Are We into "we are space wizards because we contain an above-average number of bugs."

As a chronic worldbuilder myself, I absolutely understand the impulse to explain and overexplain and lock in the Hows and the Whys, but as far as I can figure it, soft magic systems live and die on the writer's ability to restrain themselves from saying "how." The answer is "magic." The rest is just writing the story in such a way that "magic" doesn't become plot-breaking.

[tonythepizzaguy]

sunlight and riverwater - a crooked touch

nsfw version in the server

happy valentine's day everyone!

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Locked Out - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco goes a step too far.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Tip Jar

"Silco?"

"Hm?"

"Have you considered—" She stops, "—what Vi's death will do to Jinx?"

"I have."

"And? If you can't control her emotions, you won't be able to control the consequences."

"Jinx is resilient." Silco threads a cufflink through one sleeve, then the other. "She'll survive."

"And forgive you?"

"I'm all she has." 

Unspoken: All she'll ever have.

Sevika takes the glass of vodka, and slugs it back. Then she sets it down with a hard clink. Her expression flattens itself. He knows that look too. It's the look that says she's about to bare her throat to him, and she'll take his head off if he dares to go for it. He's struck by the threads of silver that've begun to glint in her pitch-black hair, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Numberless days of combat, closeness, counsel, sewn together in a single thread: one that binds him to the past, and keeps the future in his crosshairs.

And yet she has not changed. Not at the core. Thirteen years of loyalty, heaps of bodies, and a steady acceptance of every fatality in between.

This time, he understands, the acceptance may not be as steadfast. 

"If Nandi showed up again," Sevika says. "Right now, right here, alive as the day she died, I'd have two reactions. One: I'd be so goddamn happy I'd break down crying. And two: I'd gut anyone who tried to put a hand on her again. I'd do it for her. I'd do it for me. Because it's taken me this long to get over it. It's taken me this long to even imagine a future without her in it."

Silco's scarred features are etched in the neon-striped gloom. The rest is shadow. Preternaturally still.

"I know you," Sevika goes on. "I know you'll never forget what Vander did to you. What it cost you. I know that, after all these years, you've built up a rage like nothing I've ever seen.  But what if he came back?  Would you still go through with it? Would you still want him dead?"

Silco says nothing.

He thinks of Vander as he'd seen him last: a hulk of spoiling meat. He thinks of Vander before the drowning: a blurred silhouette in red riverwater. He thinks of Vander on the Day of Ash: a behemoth in a backdrop of flames. He summons the memories up with tenderness and no hatred, even as he knows that if Vander were to resurrect now, try to threaten Jinx, he'd stab him ten times over. Wouldn't stop until the man was a corpse.

Again.

That's what the rage says. But the residue of man says: No, and no. It's a truth buried deep. Too deep to be excavated. So he leaves it alone, beneath the layers of sediment. Beneath the body of a dead man, and the promise of a better world

One Silco will carve out with his own bloodstained hands.

Crossing the room, Silco pauses at the door. The knob is bracingly cold against his palm. 

"Dead is dead," he states. "It's the living who incur the cost." 

And he'll make sure Vi pays hers.

Stock, lock, and barrel.

In the background, Sevika's stare burns into his skull. But her mouth stays shut. He leaves her like that: the woman who'd watched the dark swallow him whole, and chosen to stay beside him as the shadows lengthened. So long as it meant a city shining bright. So long as it meant home.

Now she's paying her own price: an empty flat, an empty bed, a dead man's silhouette. And a monster who'll never, ever fill any of them.

Huskily, she says. "Watch yourself."

"You know me," Silco answers.

"I do."

The words pass with a grim intensity, like a vow.

Or a renunciation.

Shutting the door behind him, Silco hears a moment's silence. Then hollow click of the deadbolt sliding home.

And he wonders, with a sudden twinge like a blade between the ribs, if Sevika has locked herself in.

Or locked him out for good.

[alphacrone]

what you say: i want to run away to the woods and live as a hermit and drink riverwater and eats berries under the full moon

what you mean: i want to be able to afford fruit at the grocery store and also a place to live where i can't hear everytime my neighbor blinks

[kiraman]

Her hands are rough. She always marvels a little over that, when they’re lying together amid the rich silks and linens of her bed. Her hands are rough—calloused where a sword would sit in her palm, scarred from old burns and older fights. She wears it around her eyes too, a short life lived hard, with all its ghosts and old blood. She looks older than she ought to, cut out of stone: cold; hard; stolid; like shards of glass—like a blade, sharpened, the last thing men see before darkness falls— but when she presses her mouth — slick and soft, sweet with lipstick— to her neck, Mizu warms under her touch, becomes liquid; she flows, grasps at her waist softly, delicately, as though afraid she'll somehow break her.

I am not made of glass, Mizu she says, a little abashed, the first time she kisses her, gathers her face into her hands and sinks her teeth into the curve of her lower lip, hungry, desperate for her mouth her hands her smell, her her her — god, she wants her — and Mizu gasps, a sharp, low sound torn from her throat, and draws back, touches her as though she's never touched something this fragile before; unmarred by death. Clean. Pure. Hers.

I shall not break.

She traces the cross mark, the little black dot inked into the inside of her arm,  feels the heat of her body seeping through the silks of her dress, her pulse throbbing beneath her skin.

She does not understand Mizu when she murmurs in that detached, cool voice, like riverwater, flowing darkly through her, I can't - I can't... when her hands rise to caress her neck anyway, despite her protestations, her thumb, rough, made hard from all the blood they've spilled, rubbing against her throat, with such gentleness, it makes her ache.

Hidden away, sheltered from a world brimming with death, Mizu does not crack for her - she cannot let the walls around her be torn down in the name of desire, lust, want want want - this is weakness; she tells herself, fighting against the fire that swells in her blood; this is wrong, but she does not pull away when she looks at her through the thicket of her lashes, long and dark as soot; does not shrug her off when she sits near her, presses her shoulder against hers, hungered for her attentions. She would give anything to be seen, to be known, as she is: violent; furious; hungered and empty and aching- to be wanted, in spite of it all... To be... To be. She is warm under her, around her, and that same humanity, that fragile, small thing that growls its agony inside of her, that thing that makes her, when the hour grows late and she too deep in the darkness, the softness that claws at her heart that she always taught herself to despise in her, is what draws her to this strange creature she does not deserve but has somehow made her way into her life.

She laughs; Mizu, too, does not understand her when she says Come here; let me look at you, when she laughs at her aloof detachment, her cool, stony face, how she looks away when she smirks, how her hand twitches at her side.

(Every time Mizu is gone longer than she said she would be, she panics—what if she does not come back? She is beautiful and strong, brown from the sun and scarred, flaming, why would she come back to her?)

Her hands are rough from touching a world she has never known, and she carries the smell of strange forests in her hair. She presses herself into the warmth of her body (scarred and lithe, slim yet hard with muscle) as they lay amidst the silks of her bed. You’re the only real thing I have, Mizu breathes.

She does not say anything; she does not understand her; only looks at her, as though afraid something will take her from her if she blinks. Her response is to kiss her, over-eager, warm and willing and imprecise, desiring, and, if only for tonight, that suits them both.

[upmala]

i miss nature so much. i want to be mud

[lorienfae]

Page after page flipped, searching for familiar words or simply a soft feathery whisper, an echo of a kindred mind

sky moans its thunder-lit pleasure in sunset glow

and the newly shaped silence

regales.

Matter morphs, metamorphosing into quiet riverwater dusk-glazed and still, moon pupating into midnight bloom, spreading its opalescent wings

dream, selenophile

and we remain kin.

© Anna S. 2024

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 2

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to safe the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter

Next chapter

Word count: 2768

Disclaimer: This is based on the side quest "Geology for Beginners" so the reader is from the future and aware of some things that happen, but not everything. The reader will also have she/her pronouns and this fanfiction follows the story of RDR2. Also English is not my first language so pls forgive me for any grammatical mistakes!

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well)

It's an early morning for you. A cold morning just like the one before and the one before that. Everyday seems to be the exactly the same. You wake up, sit by the fire most of the time with the others and get work given to you by Miss Grimshaw every now and then.

The tasks are a welcome distraction from the fact that you all are just sitting ducks while slowly dying of starvation, but unfortunately they don't last that long. The others don't seem too happy with this situation either.

Every face you look at has the same miserable frown on it and while you don't have a mirror on you, you're pretty sure you got that expression by now as well.

In the corner of your eye you see a woman with dark hair approach you with a young boy following closely behind her.

"Hey.", she greets you and you offer her a smile. You see her around a lot and her name appears in Arthur's journal every now and then. Abigail.

"I haven't properly thanked you for helping John. He can be a moron sometimes, but...you know..."

As you stand up from the crate you're sitting on, you place your hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

"It's okay. You don't have to thank me for anything."

She returns your smile and before any of you can say another word the front door of the house is being swung open. Miss Grimshaw is standing in the doorway and waves you over to her. Ah, another welcoming distraction.

The moment you take a step out, a wooden bucket is being shoved into your arms and she motions towards the woods.

"We need you to get some water from the river. Arthur and Charles brought home some game so Mr. Pearson needs all the help he can get to prepare dinner."

"Sure thing, Miss Grimshaw.", you yell over your shoulder while fighting your way through the snow towards the river.

It's a clear and sunny day. No snowstorm, no clouds, no wind. Those are your favorite days and picking up water by yourself is one of your favorite jobs. The walk takes a while so you take the opportunity to clear your head a bit.

Sure, you don't mind talking to the others, but it's still tough to be the new person. There is a certain suspicion hanging in the air, but you don't take it too personally. These people have a lot of enemies and you gotta be cautious with folk in this line of work you suppose.

No one has really told you why they're on the run and you only pick up some bits and pieces here and there when you overhear people talking. Some riverboat job that went wrong in a place called Blackwater is the only thing you know so far and that they lost some people.

You try to avoid eavesdropping and snooping around too much to not attract any negative attention this early on. Obviously you can't make everyone in the gang like you, but keeping a neutral reputation shouldn't be that hard.

Some of the freezing riverwater splashes on your hands and arms as you submerge the bucket, but you're almost used to that by now. This life out here is rough. Rougher than you could have imagined.

You have read a few westerns and seen a couple plays that set in the wild west and both of them tend to romanticize this lifestyle. To struggle is something you had expected when Francis sent you away, but you didn't think that every single day was gonna be a fight for survival.

From the distance you spot Arthur's blue coat at Mr. Pearson's makeshift cooking station. He is in the process of hanging up a skinned deer and you pick up your pace, careful not to spill any water.

There hasn't been any good opportunity to have a proper conversation with Arthur the past couple of days. Actually, now that you think of it, the day where they found John and you was the first and last time you have exchanged words with him at all.

It's strange considering he's the whole reason why you're doing all this. With a grunt you place the bucket on a table and hold your hands over the fire.

The watersplashes from earlier have seeped through the material of your gloves and it feels like something is cutting into your hands. Your eyes fall on the second deer that Arthur places on the with blood covered counter.

"I didn't know you were such a skilled hunter, Mr. Morgan.", you comment in an attempt to strike up a conversation.

Showing some appreciation might make him open up a little to you.

"Ah, you should thank Charles. He did all the trackin'. All I did was shoot it."

Grunts fill the air as he cuts open the deer and removes the skin. His hands move with a certain confidence that indicates that he has done this a million times before. You have never witnessed a deer being skinned, but watching Arthur do it is almost fascinating.

A metal pot is being shoved into your hands and you're being ripped out of your thoughts once again. Mr. Pearson takes a swig from the whisky bottle in his hand. Half his mustache is drenched in alcohol and you grimace at the sight.

"Heat up the water.", he commands gruffly and flumps down on one of the crates.

---

Thanks to the game that Charles and Arthur caught you get to sleep with a full stomach for the first time in days. All in all the luck seems to be turning in general.

Dutch took some of the boys to rob an O'Driscoll camp and they had stumbled upon plans to rob a train. Everyone seems pretty psyched about this except for one person.

"I thought we were supposed to lie low, Dutch."

Hosea has his hands on his hips as he looks at the gang leader with furrowed eyebrows.

"And we will once we have some money.", Dutch responds in a matter of fact way.

Your eyes fall on Arthur who is standing a few feet away, leaned against a wall with his back and a cigarette tucked between his lips. You join to stand next to him and watch the two bickering men.

"So after you guys do this train job, we'll leave this mountain?", you ask with your voice laced with curiosity.

"That's the plan.", Arthur answers plainly. It doesn't seem like he's in the mood to talk at the moment, but then again he never seems to be.

Everything about him, from his appearance to his tone, makes him come off as the most unapproachable man you have ever met. It's a vast contrast to how he sounds in his journal, but you guess it makes sense.

He doesn't strike you as the type to act like best buddies with a stranger like yourself.

"Are you excited?", you ask to keep the conversation going and turn your head to look at him.

His gaze is fixed at something in the distance and he takes a deep breath from his cigarette.

"I guess."

You try to mask the disappointment that is swelling up inside you. These short sentenced answers are surely frustrating.

"Where will we head to next?"

Arthur shoots you a quick side glance before throwing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it.

"Hell if I know. Hosea mentioned somethin' about a town called Valentine I think. Never heard of it though."

"I can't wait to be amongst people again. Maybe even see some friendly faces for a change. No offense of course."

An amused huff escapes out of Arthur's throat and it gives you a sense of victory.

"None taken.", he answers. "We're not really the friendliest bunch out there."

You let out a soft chuckle and trace a pattern into the snow with your foot.

"But I do honestly think that you guys are quite nice. Aside from the whole law breaking stuff that is."

"Law breakin' stuff?", he repeats with yet another amused noise. "That's a mild way of puttin' it, I guess."

Before you can say a response, Dutch is already calling out to Arthur and waving him over. It looks like they're going to head out for the train job now.

"Good luck with your law breaking stuff, Mr. Morgan.", you say with your lips curled up into a smirk.

His expression is blank as he looks at you, but you don't fail to notice the delighted gleam in his eyes.

"Thanks and call me Arthur, will ya?"

With these words, he mounts his horse and follows the others out of the settlement. The short talk with him fills you with a feeling of triumph. Finally you had managed to grow a bit closer to him.

It doesn't feel like you can call each other friends just yet, but at least you're on a first name basis now. A win is a win and you're happy to take it.

The rest of the day goes by painfully slow as everyone awaits the return of the men who headed out to rob the train. You take the opportunity to walk out to the river again since it looks like this might be your last time.

With thoughtful eyes, you take in the white scenery before you with the crystal clear water and the snowy trees. The temperature has picked up a bit this morning so it doesn't quite feel as if your toes could be falling off any minute.

Your hand slides into the hidden pocket inside your thick winter coat and your finger tips come into contact with a smooth, cool surface. It's a cylinder made out of copper with rounded edges.

There is a slit around it that is so narrow, not even a fingernail can be pushed through. You recall Francis' instructions while you fidget the object in your hand.

-

"You have to push the lid down to be able to unscrew it. It's so it doesn't accidentally fall off and you push the button.", Francis explains and hands the small device to you.

It's fascinating how something barely the size of your hand could allow you to travel through time. Everything about it feels so surreal.

"It will send you right back here only ten minutes after your department.", he adds and you secure it inside your winter coat.

"And it's a one way ticket, you said?"

"Yes. This device only works once."

The prospect of losing that thing fills you with worry, but the two of you have come up with a plan B in case that happens. You'll always be able to send Francis a letter and then he'll simply pick you up. It would be a hassle, but not impossible.

"You said you'd return right after you prevent him from talking to this Thomas Downes?"

You nod. A big chunk of that encounter is missing in the journal so you don't know exactly how Arthur got infected. That detail doesn't matter though, as long as you make sure they don't interact at all.

-

The next morning you are being awoken by the sound of horses galloping and joyful cheering. After shaking off the initial disorientation and confusion you finally recognize your surroundings.

It's still Colter and it's still 1899. A deep sigh escapes your lips and you stumble out of the run down cottage, past the other gang members. Dutch and the others are standing in the middle of the settlement and you walk towards them.

"Quite the lively welcoming committee we got here!", the leader exclaims with a loud laugh and you stifle a yawn.

"So it went well, I assume?", Miss Grimshaw asks behind you.

"Well? It went fantastic!"

More and more people step outside to hear the good news.

"It would have gone even better if Bill hadn't messed up the explosion.", Arthur grumbles, earning a venomous glare from the man.

"Enough, gentlemen!", Dutch chimes in before an argument between the two men could break out. "Everyone, pack your things! We are leaving immediately."

Everyone got busy the moment he finished his sentence and you hurry back to your sleeping spot to pack up your own belongings. Your bag has gotten way lighter over the course of the last weeks and it's a strange feeling to own so little.

Unfortunately you're not given much time to reminisce about your home back in your own time.

"What are you doing here, sitting around? Move!" Ah yes, Miss Grimshaw can be quite the tyrant when she wants to and it's terrifying.

Being verbally abused by her is definitely not a rarity, but it is kind of comforting to know that she treats most of the camp that way. Initially you thought she only had a problem with you until you caught her give Karen the scolding of a lifetime.

After throwing your bag over your shoulders, you look around to see who might need help. That's when you spot Sadie Adler on the other side of the cabin, struggling to tie ropes together.

Abigail had told you that Arthur, Dutch and Micah had found her almost right before they found you and John. You feel pity when you think about what the O'Driscolls had done to her and her husband. Pity and disgust.

What kind of animals would do such things? The thought alone turns your stomach upside down and you join Sadie's side.

"Let me do this.", you offer with a soft tone. Her hands are shaking.

"I know how to tie a knot, goddammit.", she immediately protests and you take her trembling hands in yours.

"I know."

You lock eyes with her for a split second before she pulls away from your hold and leaves through the front door.

It barely takes an hour until everything is packed up and stored onto the wagons. You have to give it to them. These people know how to be quick and efficient when it comes to leaving as fast as possible. They must be used to that by now, you guess.

Your gaze wanders from one wagon to another as everyone climbs onto them and you're not sure which one you should hop on. Then you see a flash of blue in the corner of your eyes.

"You can ride with us. There is space in the back."

You give Arthur a thankful smile which he only returns with a nod and you heave yourself onto the back of his wagon. Hosea is sitting at the front next to him and greets you with a quick wave of his hand.

The ride off the mountain is bumpy, but at least the snow and freezing temperatures are behind you now.

"Careful now, Arthur. Try to get us out of the stream.", Hosea says as you ride through a river.

You let out a startled noise when the wagon suddenly tips to the side and the wheel comes off. Now you know why the ride has been so painfully bumpy this entire time. This will probably leave a bruise or two on your ass, but nothing too devastating.

"What happened?", someone further ahead yells and Arthur throws up his arms in frustration.

"Ah, I broke the goddamn wheel!"

Soon enough Charles jogs over and the three men get to attaching the wheel back to the wagon. By the looks of it, it doesn't seem like they're in need of your assistance at all so you decide not to get in the way of things.

The rest of the ride goes by rather smoothly. No wheels are falling off, no wild animals are attacking you out of nowhere and most importantly there is now cold wind cutting through your clothes.

While Hosea talks about Valentine and the area, you just lean back with your eyes closed and relish in the warm rays of the sun. You don't even notice that you're dozing off until someone shakes you awake by the shoulder.

A pair of blue eyes stare back at you as you blink your sleep away.

"Get up. We're here.", Arthur says and you stumble off the wagon.

You find yourself standing at a cliff side and the sight is practically knocking the air out of your lungs. Trees and mountains as far as the eye can see. You take off your gloves and brush some hair strands out of your face.

This place isn't too bad.

[plasma-studios]

@sillygoofyqueer @anayzdraw ask and ye shall receive

“What are you doing?” 

Cross’ hand froze over the running riverwater, grip tight on the bloodied blade. Bones broke through the ground a few feet away in the direction of the intruding voice.

“Oh?” The voice had turned cold, edged, but a voice still present meant a witness still alive so Cross turned his eyes on them; the magic in him curled up on itself, himself tensing up, ready to attack, but the intruder caught within the radius of the bone attack was sitting cross-legged, calm. Perhaps even relaxed.

Then his gaze fell to the forest floor: a circle of carmine red mushrooms spotted with eerily pure white, and let out an exhale. It was a Fae. 

The bones broke apart into ash, and Cross dipped his head in apology. 

“Pardon me, Sir. I hadn’t noticed you.” He took care to avoid saying the word sorry, or anything adjacent. The Fae did not look all-together appeased, but Cross was still standing on his two feet, so he hadn’t severely offended them.

“Mhm.” The voice held a note of overt serenity: but Cross wasn’t fooled. He had been predator enough times, he recognised one biding his time when he saw it. “I know. But what are you doing, stranger?”

Cross withdrew his hand and turned fully away from the river. He was conscious of the blood dripping from the blade in his hands, and let it drip into the soil. The fae’s gaze carried lazily down, but even then there was a glint of curiosity, of interest.

He was not dying in this forest today. “Just washing up. Don’t pay me any heed.”

“That is not animal blood.” 

He said it delicately. 

Cross forced himself not to tense. 

“I would not disrespect the Fae in such a way.”

“Hmm. And you would, some other way?” Their eyes twinkled. They were startlingly gold. 

“No. Not in any way.” He let out a breath. How far was the path? No, better not to risk offending the Fae by a swift exit. He did not move an inch, and did not look away from the Fae. “Is there anything else of note?”

The Fae tilted their head slightly. “Hm.” 

They considered him. Cross met their eyes with a calm he did not feel; he could almost feel them examining him, peeling layer by layer past his exterior. 

The Fae finally let out a small, sighing hum and leaned back, elbows sinking into the forest floor. “Many things of note, I imagine. How curious.”

He couldn’t afford to respond. He kept still, blade tucked at his side. Even a nod was too much invitation, and the sooner he could get away, the better. He was not interested in staying back for them to untangle whatever they wanted from the threads of his thoughts. 

The Fae’s mouth curled up in the faintest smile. “But,” They said, voice lilting, “Best not disturb your work, no?”

Then, they rose, uncoiling from the forest floor in one fluid motion. 

“Take care, stranger.” Their eyes were gleaming like light off a knife. “Not all hunters in these woods are as merciful.”

Cross inclined his head, careful to keep his movements controlled. Their eyes flickered over him once more. Glittering with a mirth that told him to run.

Then they were gone in a flurry of light.

Only once the silence returned in full did Cross allow himself to let out a slow, steadying breath. His hand flexed around the knife, fingers stiff, and he glanced down.

Cross was many things. He was a hunter, but he was almost someone with common sense. So he was not going to question how the knife was rusting so quickly, ignore the red dust sticking to his fingers, and made a mental note to wear more iron when he came to wash the blood off in the forest stream in future. 

(But you and I both know that won't stop Dream.)