#she knows what’s in a ship from its design and smell

[paper-enigma]

First meetings!

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@potatoeofwisdom I didn’t plan this one out so the panels aren’t that funky but I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!!

Imma ramble about it in the tags

[delulujuls]

the other one | jacaerys velaryon

hi, here comes the 2.7k of i don't know what, really. its for sure intense, so fasten up your saddle and enjoy the ride. i enjoyed making aegon such a cutiepie in my two last shots, but this man is designed to be a menace to humanity so yeah, i believe im gonna lose it in the next shots. prepare for chaos.

summary: heart want what it wants, and y/n's heart belong to young prince from dragonstone, not to the future cruel king of westeros.

warnings: targaryen brothers being mean to velaryon boys AGAIN, aegon is such a meanie oh god, fighting, arguing, threatening with a sword, last scene is smelling a bit like a rap3, so feel free to skip it. your comfort is the most important

pairing: sister!targaryen reader x jacaerys velaryon (ft. jealous, possesive and dark!aegon targaryen)

Two young princes stood at the gates of the castle, awaiting guests. For several minutes they kept glancing at the sky, looking out for dragons. However, only the sound of wind and waves crashing against the rocks could be heard, with no indication that any winged beasts would soon appear before their eyes.

“Do you think they’ll come at all?” Lucerys asked his older brother, glancing at him. The cold wind chilled him to the bone, and the youngest of the Velaryons longed to return inside and sit by the fireplace.

Jacaerys did not get a chance to answer because shortly after, a muffled roar reached their ears, and something flickered in the low-hanging storm clouds. The heavy sky was pierced by the massive body of Vhagar, who was the first to emerge from the clouds and flew towards the beach. Close behind were Vermithor and Sunfyre, who looked dainty in comparison to those two giant dragons. Aemond, Y/N, and Aegon had arrived at Dragonstone.

Soon after, all four appeared at the castle gates. Helaena was flying with her older sister on Vermithor, choosing not to sail by ship with their mother, father, and grandfather. The youngest of the siblings still couldn't bring herself to travel alone on the back of her Dreamfyre, but felt confident with Y/N, now walking hand-in-hand with her sister towards the castle.

Lucerys took a step back, seeing Aemond and Aegon confidently striding towards them. The youngest Velaryon swallowed hard.

“I hope they don’t sit close to us,” he whispered, prompting his brother to discreetly nudge his arm.

Jacaerys smiled at the sight of the siblings. “Welcome, it’s good to see you here,” he said.

Aemond, leading the way, wore his characteristic grimace, nothing like the smile the young prince offered him. The last thing he felt like doing was feigning politeness. In silence, he merely glanced at them, bypassing them and pushing the heavy gate doors.

“My favorite, strong nephews,” Aegon said sarcastically, with a mocking smile. Passing by, he nudged Lucerys in the shoulder, who was about to turn and say something when his aunt’s voice reached his ears. Y/N smiled joyfully at the sight of Rhaenyra’s sons.

“Luke, Jace,” she extended her arms, hugging them both at once. Hearing the girl's joyful voice, Aegon glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. He thought his sisters were too lenient with those bastards.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Jacaerys smiled, embracing her and catching the smell of her lavender-scented hair. While he sincerely disliked Aemond and Aegon, he was very fond of their sisters. Helaena was shy and harmless, often speaking little and nodding more. Y/N, on the other hand, often reminded him of his mother, unafraid to speak up or defend her position. She was also wise and very pretty, and he was genuinely pleased to spend a few days in her presence.

“Are you coming, or are we going to freeze out here like a bunch of idiots?” Aegon asked sharply, seeing Y/N hold onto older Velaryon a bit too long. The young princess gave him an amused look, tousled Lucerys’ hair, and linked arms with Helaena. The four of them briskly walked towards the castle.

Rhaenyra was celebrating her thirty-second name day, so the entire family from King’s Landing had come to Dragonstone. Viserys wanted his daughter to celebrate her birthday in the capital, but she wished to spend the day her way. The ailing king, still battling illness, had no intention of arguing with his daughter, lacking the strength and health to do so. Even to the Targaryen seat, he chose to sail by ship rather than ride on the back of one of the dragons. After Balerion’s death, he had given up flying and now didn’t think about it at all.

During the evening feast, the dining hall filled with people. Despite it being Rhaenyra’s day, Viserys sat at the head of the table. To his left was his eldest daughter, beside her Daemon, Joffrey, Lucerys, Jacaerys, Rhaena, and Baela. On the king’s right sat his wife, next to her the Hand of the King, then Aemond, Aegon, Y/N, Helaena, and Rhaenys Targaryen, next to whom, at the other end of the table, sat Corlys Velaryon.

The feast went on in a calm and surprisingly pleasant atmosphere. Previous feasts often ended in arguments before they even really began. The main instigators of all disputes, Aemond and Aegon, sat quietly, not speaking much. Many might have thought someone stuffed hay into the dragons’ bellies to prevent them from breathing fire.

Aegon, however, increasingly clenched his hand around the wine goblet from time to time, hearing Y/N happily talking with Jacaerys across the table. His blood boiled hearing her so delighted with the conversation with him. He felt like slapping that fucking son of a bitch.

Helaena was also having a good time, shedding her shyness piece by piece with each sip of wine. She chatted lively with Rhaena and Baela, who were already slightly tipsy themselves. Rhaenys sent an amused look to her husband, who tightened his grip on the wine jug and pulled it closer. The Sea Snake had to be vigilant to prevent his granddaughters and the young Targaryen from getting too drunk. Helaena, however, had more to celebrate than just her half-sister’s birthday.

Since Viserys and Alicent’s daughters reached reproductive age, the Hand of the King and the Queen Mother began looking for potential suitors for them. While there was no trouble finding suitors for Y/N, who, besides her wealth and possessions, had a strong character and good disposition, finding a husband for Helaena was problematic.

From birth, the princess showed signs of abnormal development. Though she grew as a girl should, her mind seemed not to keep up, still trapping her in a world of childish dreams. Helaena was quiet, read a lot, and spent all her time in the garden, not burdened with unnecessary duties.

The Hand decided that when the time came, that is, when Aegon was to take the throne from the ailing king, he would marry Helaena, and Y/N would marry Forrest Frey. The plans were made at a Small Council meeting, which neither Helaena nor Y/N attended. Probably neither would have known about the plans to marry them off if Y/N hadn’t accidentally overheard their conversation when one of the doors unguarded by sentries was ajar.

“I don’t agree!” she said firmly, pushing the heavy doors and entering.

“Y/N, you can’t be here-,” Alicent stood up, wanting to calm her daughter, but she sharply pointed her finger upwards. “And you can’t do this to Helaena! I don’t agree!”

Aegon, who was one of the people at the table, also didn’t support the Council’s idea. However, he was too drunk to make any objections. Only his sister’s intrusion somewhat sobered him up. If he had to choose, he could marry Y/N since she wanted to fight so hard for Helaena’s better fate. Frankly, he didn’t care either way.

The guards first wanted to remove the young princess, but she began presenting her arguments. The Council didn’t think an eighteen-year-old’s arguments could make any sense, but many underestimated Y/N’s negotiation skills. In the castle, by Aegon’s side, she could be more useful than in the Riverlands beside Forrest Frey.

The Council decided that Helaena would marry Frey when the time came, and Y/N would marry Aegon. The young princess didn’t want Helaena to spend her life in the castle, locked in chambers and bearing children. She wanted her to break free from King’s Landing and experience a life different from the one she had lived so far. Y/N knew that unlike her sister, she could handle an incestuous marriage and an unwanted husband, who Aegon was to become in the future. Helaena might have been driven to suicide.

But for now, these were just tomorrow's problems, or who knows, maybe even further. Helaena, in a sudden burst of joy, stood up and climbed onto a chair, much to Alicent’s horror.

“To my beloved sister Y/N,” she said, swaying. Rhaenys held the chair to prevent her from falling. “And to my sister Rhaenyra, who celebrates her birthday today. I love you!”

Alicent, Otto, Aemond, and Aegon looked at her indulgently, raising their goblets. All the other guests eagerly toasted, applauding the young princess’s words. Rhaenyra stood up from the table and hugged her sister; Y/N also rose to do the same.

“Helaena needs rest,” Alicent whispered, gripping her daughter’s shoulder before she stood up. “Escort her to bed.”

Y/N shook off her hand and got up, embracing her sisters. However, when she felt Helaena’s heavy body in her arms, she held her close around the waist.

As soon as the sisters left the dining hall, Jacaerys, sent by his mother, joined them. Young prince apologized to Y/N and with a single, confident motion, picked up Helaena, who laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek, admitting that she would let such a handsome man whisk her away without hesitation.

Jacaerys only let go of Helaena when he placed her on the bed in her bedroom.

"Will you stay with her until morning?" he asked as Y/N began removing the rings from her sister's fingers.

"Helaena usually sleeps like a mouse under a haystack, but after wine, she sleeps like a rock," Y/N replied, smiling slightly at the sight of her sister's flushed face. "Wait outside, I'll change her for bed and join you."

The young prince nodded obediently and left the chamber. He stood outside the door, straight as a string, feeling like a guard. Shortly after, the princess joined him, quietly closing the door behind her.

"She'll sleep like a baby until morning," she assured, laughing softly.

"It's nice to see her with a smile on her face," Jacerys admitted as they slowly began walking down the corridor. He quietly offered his arm to Y/N, which she gladly accepted.

"I've noticed she smiles much more when she's here. I feel like the capital is suffocating her."

Jacaerys lowered his gaze. He had recently learned about the marriage plans for the young sisters.

"I heard she'll leave King's Landing sooner or later," he said, glancing at her. He didn't know how delicate ground he was entering.

The young princess sighed and nodded. She spent the whole way telling Jacaerys about everything that had happened in the past weeks. In the company of the boy, Y/N didn't feel like his aunt, as their relationship would suggest, but like a friend. After all, they were only a year apart in age. They had always had a good relationship and, unlike her hostile brothers, Y/N really liked Jacaerys. She cherished every opportunity she could spend with him. This was one of those moments.

The pair didn't return to the feast; instead, they went to one of the terraces. They sat on one of the benches, and Y/N involuntarily rested her head on the boy's shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist, hugging her close.

"You deserve more, Y/N," he said quietly. "Both you and Helaena deserve more."

"I know I'll manage, I'm strong," she said, watching the remnants of the day dance on the horizon. "But I'm so scared for Helaena. She deserves the whole world, not what's waiting for her in King's Landing."

The young princess wasn't sad; at this moment, she could even say she felt a lightness in her heart. Jacaerys' body warmed her pleasantly, and the cool, salty air chased away the heat caused by the wine from her cheeks.

"You're the bravest dragon I've ever known," he said with a smile, looking at her face. The girl smiled at his words. "I don't know stronger people than Targaryen women."

"Do you really think so?" she asked quietly, looking into his eyes. She didn't know if his cheeks were flushed from the wine or the cold wind. Nevertheless, his dark eyes looked at her so gently that the young princess never wanted to look into any other eyes again.

Jacaerys smiled and nodded. He cautiously lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He touched her cheek and gently stroked it with his thumb.

"I would take better care of you than they would, you know?" he said after a moment, his whisper lost in the whistle of the wind. Y/N heard his words clearly, just as she clearly heard the snort of disdain that came from somewhere to the side.

"I don't know which of you is more pathetic," Aegon said, looking at them with drunken eyes. He could barely stand, but his fists were clenched. Aemond remained silent, standing in the entrance and blocking it with his body. Unlike his brother, he didn't look drunk.

"What is your problem?" Y/N asked angrily, standing up. Unintentionally, she shielded Jacaerys with her body, who also rose from the bench.

"That you act like a complete whore," he spat through his teeth, causing Jacaerys to step around the girl to stand in her defense. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back when Aemond drew a dagger and stepped forward, defending his brother.

"Watch your words," Jacaerys said angrily. He didn't care that he was addressing the future king. In his eyes, Aegon wasn't worth anything, and he certainly didn't deserve to be Y/N's husband.

"Or what, bastard?" Aemond asked calmly, looking at him intently.

"We haven't done anything wrong," the young princess said sharply, though her voice trembled. She knew that her brothers were unlikely to hurt her, but she wasn't capable of protecting Jacaerys from both of them. She had only her hands, feet, and teeth at her disposal. "Get out of the way."

"Oh, really?" Aegon smiled. His drunken eyes were shiny from alcohol and dark-circled, his skin ashen. Even despite the fire of hatred burning in him, he didn't have a bit of a blush on his face. "I see a fucking dog clinging to my future wife."

"You wish she were your wife," Jacaerys said without thinking much about the words that left his mouth. Aegon lunged at him with his fists, to which the young Velaryon responded in kind. Aemond sheathed his dagger and grabbed Jacaerys by the shoulders, holding him and exposing him to Aegon's blows. In the commotion, the young princess managed to draw her brother's dagger and without hesitation, grabbed Aegon by the hair, pulling him back. With tears on her cheeks, she pressed the sword to his neck.

The four of them froze in place.

Aemond still held Jacaerys tightly, blood was trickling from his lip. Aegon's heart was pounding, not from fear but from adrenaline and, at that moment, also from excitement. His sister's small hand was firmly gripping his hair, forcing him to tilt his head back. Blood flowed from his broken nose, running down to his grinning lips.

"She's a dragon, see?" Aegon said, addressing Jacaerys. "You couldn't handle her, fool."

Y/N pushed her brother to the ground, releasing the dagger from her hands as well. She grabbed Jacaerys' hand and pulled him from Aemond's grasp, who would have lied if he said his sister's behavior didn't leave him speechless. In shock, he wasn't even able to oppose her.

"I'm so sorry," she began tearfully, pulling him away as far as possible from that place. "I should have killed them when I had the sword in my hand."

Jacaerys pulled her by the hand, causing her to turn around suddenly and fall into his arms. Without a word, he kissed her, feeling her salty tears mix with the blood from his split lip. Y/N returned the kiss but looked at him in shock. Jacaerys smiled warmly at her.

"Don't apologize to me," he whispered, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "You are a dragon, so be a dragon."

The pair didn't return to the feast. Instead, Y/N went with the young prince to his chambers. Jacaerys initially protested when she said she would help dress his wounds. Eventually, he agreed to her proposal, lying on the bed in just his trousers. The girl carefully cleaned his cuts, placing a cold compress on his abdomen. She sat beside him, looking at him tenderly.

"I'm so sorry, Jace," she whispered, squeezing his hand. The boy, however, seemed to be in a good mood.

"If every fight with them means I get to spend time with you, I'm ready to fight them every day."

The young princess smiled and shook her head at his words. She felt her heart swell when she was with him.

Their eager lips exchanged a few more kisses before Y/N quietly left his chamber, returning to her own. Helaena was still sleeping soundly, snoring softly. She lay on her side on her half of the bed, not even stirring when her sister began preparing for sleep. Dressed in a nightgown, she let her hair down and carefully combed it. She put the brush away and blew out the nearby candles, lying down on the bed.

As soon as she covered herself with the quilt, she felt someone sit on her, pressing her into the mattress, and a cold hand covered her mouth. The girl wanted to scream but felt a blade against her neck. The attacker leaned over her, his hair tickling her face. The young princess smelled alcohol.

"Every time you raise your hand against me," Aegon whispered, tightening his grip on the dagger's hilt, "I'll have one of your fingers cut off, understood?"

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. For the first time in her life, Aegon truly frightened her. She felt her heart leap into her throat.

"And that fucking Velaryon dog," he moved his hand from her mouth to her hair, gripping it tightly. "I never want to see him near you again."

"Aegon-" she whispered with difficulty, clutching his wrist to push him away. She felt herself running out of breath, and the cold blade pressed deeper into her skin.

"Is that clear?" he growled, pressing her harder into the pillows.

"Yes," she said tearfully.

A moment later, she felt her brother's alcohol-tainted lips forcefully and brutally kissing hers. Aegon stood up shortly after and left the sisters' chamber, closing the door behind him. In the darkness, the young princess found her sister's body and hugged her from behind, trying to suppress her tears. She was terrified.

How much she wished she could hide in Jacaerys's arms at that moment.

[coffeeghoulie]

PLEASE GIVE US DRAG TALK CONTENT

I’m going to post the ten pictures tumblr will allow and then go on a huge ramble under a read more bc goddamn i think this was the best weekend of my life.

Also, fuck tumblr bc I had this whole thing written out (on my phone, nonetheless) and it went poof up in smoke gone. Motherfucker.

I wore jutty’s own shirt to the first night bc I thought I was being funny. He walked past me and a few of my friends after the show, one of whom, Celine, runs the dt discord, and had gift bags for everyone in the band with trinkets from people who made things, myself included. She caught his attention and gave him the bags to distribute, and I was just shaking bc holy shit he just brushed past me in a crowded lounge and my hands were starting to shake (I was surprisingly okay during the show) I got his attention and gave him the bracelet I made for him that said "jutty taylor cyber bully" and he lit up when he I gave it to him and he smiled so fucking big when he noticed what shirt I was wearing.

He told me that he was happy the shirts were "getting new lives" but it still pained him to part with them lmao. I thanked him and explained that it was a "birthday gift" for myself; he did the fundraiser on my actual birthday. As soon as I said that, he pulled me into a side hug and I hit Celine with the biggest "deer in headlights about to be run over please send help" panicked expression lmao. He then proceeded to use my shoulder as an arm rest while he talked with Celine. I normally have an issue with people doing that to me, but I've said "anything for you, mr taylor" and I fucking mean it

I got a picture with him later and bc we were out of the cramped, loud bar, I was able to apologize about rambling in his twitter dms about losing my contact lenses and freaking out over the shirt potentially being lost. I did also get to tell him my name (he knows my legal name for shipping purposes) and told him that I didn't tell him that it was Dot earlier bc my parents and I share a po box and they don't know who Dot is. He turned to me and looked me in the eye and told me that he was very glad the shirt got to me.

When we took the picture, I swear to god, I could feel his stubble against my forehead where he leaned his head against mine and part of me will be on that street corner forever tbh. It's my phone lockscreen and I usually don't like looking at myself but holy fuck its proof it happened

I watched him smoke after the show both nights and ohhhhhhhhhh my god. It is now proven that I can in fact Behave In Public. It was an Ordeal. (you can't blame me, he threw his head back to blow smoke and furrowed his brow in concentration when he lit up. YOU CANT BLAME ME)

I did some touristy shit before the second show and impulsively bought jutty a novelty gift shop shirt to give to him afterwards. I watched him unfold it and just laugh when he saw the design. He thanked me up and down bc he actually needed a shirt and immediately left the group of people waiting to talk to him to put it somewhere he wouldn't lose it.

I am being dead fucking serious rn. I'm pretty much only on tumblr and discord. If a picture of jutty in a dark blue shirt with dinosaur skeletons on it surfaces somewhere online. DO NOT FUCKING TELL OR SHOW ME. I WILL ACTUALLY PHYSICALLY PASS AWAY. I GENUINELY MEAN IT.

Jutty was so nice and gave me a real hug after the second show when my uber was pulling up and I asked kind of quietly for one. He thanked me for coming pretty much in my ear and I just as politely and quickly as I could shoved my face into his collar and took a deep fucking breath and thanked him for everything. (i was also a lil distraught it was over and genuinely needed the hug tbh. i cried in the uber bc i was upset and also bc I was afraid I was being pushy again but I think I was just exhausted, if he didn't want to give me a hug he wouldn't have)

I cannot. CANNOT. even begin to explain how good jutty smells. He smells so fucking good. I think the dt twitter has said what cologne he uses, but once I assess the damage I just did to my bank account with this trip, I will be buying it.

I was able to give Hayden his bracelet after the first show, and he was super sweet and super animated when he talks and he got a little closer to my level (I am v short and it was very loud in that bar). I gave him a condensed version of my airport hell and that this one show had been worth it all, never mind tomorrow's; he seemed surprised people would fly out somewhere they've never been just to see the band. (He was reminded by a friend of mine that Australians flew out for the LA show lmao) But Hayden was super nice and so smiley, I wish I could have watched him play more at the second show but the stage was so small that Ross and the bassist who filled in for Eliot (whose name I'm drawing a blank on rn sorry 😭) stood right in front of him. He put his bracelet on the moment I gave it to him and I stood there shaking like "he likes itttttttt." WAIT SHIT I FORGOT TO SEE IF HE PLAYED WITH SHOES ON OR NOT. FUCK.

The band hung out at a sports bar after the first show, so me and a couple people hung out with Neil and he's super nice and so funny and showed us a peek at the yeti taylor merch that just dropped. He also stuck his head into the Vietnamese place next to the second venue and went "oops wrong door" lol

I didn't get much of a chance to talk to Ross or Matty, but Matty helped me get merch and Ross gave me a high five at the second show. Next time, mark my words, I will have a conversation or two with them, they were both so sweet.

I'm really glad I got to meet everyone who came, too. I got to meet a bunch of people I'd been talking to for months online and we were fucking troopers in line, dealing with the fuckass weather. Worth every second spent in soaked shoes imo. But it was so much fun and I still have to unpack but I am cherishing every little trinket I got.

I was incredibly nervous about being in a city I'd never been to alone, but I would do this trip again in a fucking HEARTBEAT. (i also said something along the lines of "pspspsps mr taylor could you please consider Chicago for next time mayhaps??? 👀👀👀 So Dot doesn't have to deal with flight cancelations and layovers and delays and midnight arrival times????" and he threw his head back and laughed and told me that Chicago is his kind of city so 🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞)

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Thirty-Eight

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Little Bit of Angst.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~3.6k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

You’re hungover and in misery as Perona excitedly chatters about wedding dresses, hair styles, and flowers.

Your head throbs with the remnants of last night’s indulgence, each pulse a reminder of the fun and chaos that followed. You drag yourself to the small dining table, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the porthole. The smell of coffee promises salvation, but it does little to dull the ache in your skull.

Perona, vibrant and energetic despite the early hour, prances around the room. Her voice is a high-pitched melody that grates on your sensitive ears this morning. “So, I was thinking about wedding dresses! Have you ever considered a mermaid style? It would look stunning on you.”

You mumble something noncommittal and sip your coffee. The bitter liquid scalds your tongue, but at least it distracts you from the pounding in your head. Perona continues unabated, flitting from one idea to another with boundless enthusiasm.

“And flowers! Oh, we must have roses. Red roses would match Shanks’ hair perfectly! Don’t you think? And maybe some lilies for contrast. Oh I know! White lilacs!”

You force a smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace. You won’t ever be caught, not even dead, with roses. “Sure, Perona. Whatever you think is best.”

She claps her hands together, her excitement growing with every word. “And hairstyles! You could wear your hair up with some delicate braids woven in. Or down with loose curls cascading over your shoulders.”

Your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise as she describes intricate hairstyles that sound more like torture devices than beauty enhancements.

You take another sip of coffee, feeling a slight sense of clarity return. Perona's enthusiasm, while overwhelming, is endearing in its own way. You take a deep breath and decide it's time to share your thoughts on the wedding dress.

"Perona," you say, trying to catch her attention amid her flurry of ideas. "I appreciate all your suggestions, but there's something specific I want for my dress."

She stops mid-twirl, her big black eyes locking onto yours with curiosity. "Oh? What do you have in mind?"

"I want the dress to be flowing," you begin, choosing your words carefully. "Not heavy and definitely not form-fitting."

Perona's face lights up with understanding. "Flowing! Like a gentle breeze on the sea, right? Something that moves with you?"

You nod, relieved she seems to understand. "Exactly. I want it to feel light and free, not like I'm being weighed down or restricted. I've already had one wedding dress I absolutely hated cage me, I am not doing that again."

She taps her chin thoughtfully, then snaps her fingers as if an idea just struck her. "I know just the thing! We can use layers of soft chiffon or silk. They’ll give you that flowing effect without adding any weight."

"That sounds perfect," you say, feeling a bit of the morning's tension ease away.

"And for the bodice," she continues, clearly on a roll now, "we can make it simple and elegant, maybe with some delicate lace details but nothing too tight or constricting."

You smile genuinely this time. "That’s exactly what I was hoping for."

Perona beams at you, her excitement contagious but no longer overwhelming. "I can't wait to start designing it! We’ll make sure it’s everything you dreamed of."

Your heart swells with gratitude for her enthusiasm and understanding. "Thank you, Perona. It means a lot to me."

"Of course!" she says brightly. "This is your special day. It should be perfect in every way."

You finish your coffee and feel a sense of relief wash over you as the headache subsides a bit more. The thought of a light, flowing dress feels like freedom compared to the heavy burdensome wedding dress your mother had ordered.

Perona claps her hands with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Alright, let’s get started on that dress!"

Before you can ask what she means, a chill fills the room. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch ghostly figures materialize out of thin air. Translucent and eerie, they hover around Perona, their eyes glowing faintly.

You step back, your heart pounding. "What... what are those?"

Perona laughs lightly, clearly amused by your reaction. "Oh, don’t worry! These are my little helpers."

The ghosts begin to move with purpose, gathering materials from seemingly nowhere. Bolts of chiffon and silk float through the air as if carried by an invisible breeze. You watch in awe and slight terror as the spectral beings work seamlessly together.

"How... how is this possible?" you stammer, unable to tear your eyes away from the surreal scene.

Perona tilts her head with a proud smile. "It’s my Devil Fruit power. I ate the Horo Horo no Mi, which allows me to create and control ghosts."

You blink, trying to process what she just said. The concept of Devil Fruits isn’t foreign to you—being on a pirate ship has exposed you to many strange abilities—but seeing it in action is something else entirely.

"Devil Fruit power," you repeat slowly, still watching the ghosts as they cut and sew with otherworldly precision.

"Yes!" Perona says enthusiastically. "They’re super handy for all sorts of things. And today, they’re going to help make your perfect wedding dress so you can be ready for tomorrow!"

One of the ghosts floats closer to you, holding up a piece of delicate lace for your approval. You swallow hard and nod, still feeling a bit overwhelmed but beginning to see the magic in it all.

"This is... unexpected but appreciated,” you admit softly.

Perona beams at you, clearly pleased with your reaction. "I knew you'd come around! Just wait until you see the final product."

The room buzzes with ethereal energy as the ghosts continue their work. You watch in fascination as layers of chiffon and silk come together, forming the beginnings of a dress that seems to float like a gentle sea breeze.

Despite the initial shock, you start to feel a sense of excitement build within you. The ghosts move gracefully around Perona's guiding hands, stitching together not just fabric but also a piece of your new life—one filled with freedom and adventure.

As you sit there, witnessing this ghostly ballet unfold before your eyes, a smile tugs at your lips. You had been wondering how your wedding dress was supposed to be magically finished by tomorrow. Your previous one had taken months. You turn your mind back to the ghost, they now seem busy with different bolts of cloth.

The delicate lace and soft chiffon seem to float together, forming a dress that embodies the freedom you crave. The odd beings dart in and out, their translucent forms creating a swirl of shifting colors.

Perona stands nearby, directing the spectral seamstresses with a confident wave of her hand. “Make sure the hem is even,” she instructs, her voice carrying a note of authority. The ghosts respond immediately, adjusting the fabric with care.

Your eyes trace the intricate patterns taking shape. Each stitch appears perfect, guided by an unseen hand. The dress begins to resemble a dream made tangible—a flowing creation that seems to capture the essence of your newfound freedom.

“I am never going to look that these ghosts the same,” you murmur, unable to look away.

Perona turns to you with a bright smile. “I told you they were useful! Just wait until it’s finished.”

The ghosts continue their work, adding delicate touches here and there—a subtle lace trim, a gentle pleat in the fabric. You can hardly believe your eyes as the dress takes form before you, each detail more exquisitely simple than the last.

One ghost hovers near you, holding up a piece of ribbon for your approval. You reach out tentatively, your fingers brushing against its cool, intangible form. The sensation sends a shiver through your body, but you nod in agreement.

“That’s perfect,” you say softly.

The ghost seems to understand and swiftly integrates the ribbon into the dress design. Perona watches with satisfaction, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You’re going to look absolutely stunning,” she declares with certainty.

As the final touches are added, you feel a swell of emotion rise within you. This dress isn’t just fabric and thread—it’s a symbol of your journey, your escape from a life of confinement into one of adventure and possibility.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to Perona. “This means more to me than I can put into words. I never thought I’d find myself willingly put on a wedding dress again.”

Perona waves off your gratitude with a dismissive flick of her hand but smiles warmly. “Just wait until Shanks sees you in it.”

The mention of Shanks sends a flutter through your heart. You imagine his reaction when he sees you walking towards him in this dress—free and unburdened by the past. It was a difficult thought because he had already seen you in a wedding dress and a picture of perfection. This time would be different. No desperation. No panic.

The ghosts finish their work with a final flourish, and Perona steps back to admire their creation. “There,” she says proudly. “All done.”

You gaze at the dress in wonder, unable to believe how quickly it came together yet how perfect it is in every way. It’s everything you hoped for—a reflection of your newfound freedom and the life you're building for yourself on the open sea.

Perona claps her hands together, breaking through your reverie. “Alright! Time for a fitting!” Your head throbs and you sink into your seat, wishing you could disappear into the furniture just from the scheming look in her eyes.

Your hangover had disappeared but you were decidedly finished with standing front of Perona while her ghosts fluttered and fussed around you. You wedding dress just had to look nice, not be perfect. The first chance you had you had darted out of the room and disappeared from her sights.

You'd spent the better part of the afternoon hiding from Perona and the ghosts she sent to find you, mostly successful in your endeavor. You finally find a moment of peace in the atrium, the tranquility of the flowers and foliage calming your frazzled nerves. Just as you’re about to lose yourself in the serenity, a ghostly figure materializes before you. Its eyes glow faintly, and it hovers with an almost impatient air.

“Dinner is ready,” it intones, its voice echoing softly. “Neg-a-tive!”

You sigh, knowing there's no escaping Perona's ethereal messengers. “Alright, I’m coming.”

You follow the ghost back to the dining room where the crew has already gathered. The table is laden with an assortment of dishes, and the lively chatter fills the space with warmth. You take your seat next to Shanks, who gives you a knowing smirk.

“Managed to escape Perona’s clutches, did you?” he teases, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Barely,” you reply with a wry smile. “She’s relentless.”

Dinner passes in a blur of laughter and several tales of how Shanks and Mihawk used to butt heads and clash swords. The food is delicious, you expected nothing less with Roux in the kitchen, and for a while you forget your earlier stress.

When dinner wraps up, you retreat to your bedroom, grateful for some solitude. You change into your nightgown and settle onto your bed with a book. Alone for Shanks has been banished to the bachelors suite by your crew. Benn and Hongo had seemed all too eager to drag Shanks away from you. The soft glow of the lantern casts gentle shadows on the walls as you lose yourself in the pages, your mind struggling to calm itself from the lack of sea and ship noises. Too quiet.

A creak at the door pulls you from your reading. You glance up to see Shanks slipping into the room, his movements surprisingly stealthy for someone so tall and broad-shouldered.

“Shanks,” you hiss in a whisper. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He closes the door quietly behind him and leans against it with a roguish grin. “Since when do I follow rules?”

You can’t help but giggle at his audacity and place the book to the side. “And what if someone sees you?”

“They won’t,” he assures you, crossing the room and extending his hand to you. “Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words and the endearing smile on his face, and you reach to take his hand. As he pulls you from the bed and twirls you against his body, you raise your eyebrow.

“I thought we agreed on no sneaking around,” you say softly, though there's no real reprimand in your tone. You expect nothing less than him sneaking into your room.

Shanks leans his forehead down to yours and brushes his nose against your own. “And I thought we agreed that I’d do anything to make sure you're happy.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh.

“And yet,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “here I am.”

Your lips morph into a gentle smile and you slide your hand from his grasp to wrap your arms around his neck. Shanks jumps at the opportunity to then wrap his arm around your back and pull you against his chest.

Your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, threading through the red strands as you savor the moment. It’s intimate and charged with unspoken emotions, a silent exchange that speaks volumes more than words ever could. Foreheads pressing together, you bask in his embrace for a few more seconds before opening your eyes.

“Shanks,” you whisper, your voice barely audible above the soft rustle of fabric.

“Hm?” His eyes meet yours, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire. Oh he wants to have all of you, he would if you'd let him.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself.  “You need to go.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “Go? But treasure—”

You place a finger against his lips, silencing him gently. “We agreed no sneaking around. You’re not supposed to see me until I meet you at the altar.”

A playful pout forms on his lips, making him look almost boyish despite his rugged features. “That’s not fair.”

You can’t help but giggle softly at his expression and pat his cheek. “Fair or not, it’s tradition. And I want to do this how I want.”

He sighs dramatically but relents, loosening his grip on you. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave.”

But just as he begins to pull away, he steals one last kiss from you—soft and lingering, filled with all the promises of what’s to come. Your heart flutters in response, making it even harder to let him go.

“Shanks,” you warn against his lips.

“I know,” he whispers back, finally stepping away. The warmth of his body leaves an almost tangible void in the space between you. "You're just too irresistible, treasure."

He walks to the door reluctantly, pausing for a moment as if contemplating one last act of rebellion. But then he turns back to you with a resigned smile. “See you at the altar?”

“See you at the alter," you promise, holding your hand against your chest while you lips yearn for the return of his. With that, Shanks disappears, the door clicking softly behind him. You let out a sigh and reach up to brush your fingers over your lips.

You return to bed after Shanks leaves, the warmth of his kiss lingering on your lips. Sleep comes surprisingly easily, the day's excitement and anticipation finally giving way to exhaustion. Hours pass in peaceful slumber until a gentle but firm hand shakes you awake.

"Linaria," a deep voice murmurs in the darkness.

You blink, groggy and disoriented. "Mihawk?" you whisper, recognizing the silhouette of his lean frame against the dim light filtering through the window.

He nods, his hawk-like eyes glinting. "I'm here to complete the bride kidnapping ceremony, should you be inclined," he states matter-of-factly.

A giggling snort escapes your lips before you can stop it. “A third time, huh? Why not?" you say, amused by the absurdity of it all.

Without further ado, Mihawk scoops you up effortlessly, hauling you over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing. Your laughter bubbles up again, echoing through the quiet room as he strides out into the hallway.

As you hang upside down and your lavender hair swaying with each step Mihawk takes, you can't help but find the situation hilariously surreal and continue to laugh.

Suddenly, a voice pierces the night. "Mihawk! What do you think you're doing with my bride?"

You lift your head to see Shanks emerging from another hallway, his eyes wide with alarm and fury. When Mihawk increases his speed you burst out laughing yet again when Shanks' eyes bulge. Before he can reach you, Benn and Lucky Roux appear out of nowhere and tackle him to the ground.

"Let her go!" Shanks roars from beneath the weight of his friends.

Benn's laughter mingles with Lucky Roux's hearty chuckle as they pin Shanks down. "It's tradition, Captain," Benn says, barely able to contain his amusement.

"Tradition or not," Shanks grumbles, struggling against their hold, "that's my bride he's carrying off!"

Mihawk doesn't break stride or even glance back at the commotion behind him. You wave playfully at Shanks over Mihawk's shoulder, your giggles infectious even to those watching from afar.

"See you at the altar!" you call out cheerfully as Mihawk carries you away into the night.

As it turns out, Mihawk had prepared his coffin ship with a special bottle of your favorite wine and simply planned on sailing off the coast until morning. So you sit in the ship, dressed in your night gown with a glass of wine in your hand as Kuraigana Island sits off in the distance.

You take a sip of the wine, enjoying its rich flavor as the gentle rocking of Mihawk's coffin ship lulls you into a sense of peace. The moonlight casts a silver glow on the water, and for a moment, everything feels surreal.

Mihawk sits across from you, his eyes observing you with a quiet intensity. The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the shared understanding of what tonight represents.

He breaks the silence first. “How did you meet Shanks?"

You smile, recalling the day that changed your life. "I met him at the port. I was fleeing an arranged marriage, dressed in my wedding gown and desperate for escape."

Mihawk's eyebrows raise slightly, intrigued. "And he just took you in?"

You nod, setting your glass down. "Yes, he saw I was in distress and decided to help me despite knowing it would bring trouble."

Mihawk leans back, considering your words. "Shanks always had a soft spot for damsels in distress," he muses.

Your smile widens at that. "He may be a pirate, but he has a good heart. He took care of me when no one else would."

Mihawk's gaze softens just a fraction. "And now you're to be his bride."

The weight of those words settles over you, bringing with it a mixture of emotions—joy, anticipation, and a hint of nervousness. "Yes," you say softly. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. We didn't get here without argument or difficulty, we've had plenty of arguments and tiffs. Also silent treatments, he—doesn’t care for those.”

Mihawk's gaze remains steady on you, his hawk-like eyes filled with a rare softness. "Linaria," he begins, his voice low and respectful, "you are not a fool for wanting to marry Shanks."

You blink in surprise, the words unexpected but deeply reassuring. "Really?" you ask, searching his face for any hint of insincerity. "Because you wouldn't be the first person to have told me that."

He nods slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It takes great strength and confidence to choose your own path, especially when it goes against everything you've been taught."

"You really believe that?" you ask, your voice soft in the night air.

Mihawk nods, his eyes unwavering. "Yes. And I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

You let his words sink in, feeling a newfound sense of validation. The moonlight dances on the water's surface, casting shimmering reflections that seem to mirror your own turbulent thoughts. You take another sip of wine, your fingers playing around with the stem.

"Thank you," you say again, more firmly this time. "For everything, and your hospitality."

Mihawk simply nods, his gaze shifting to the horizon where Kuraigana Island sits in the distance. "You should get some sleep, the night will not last forever."

You take Mihawk's advice to heart and decide to try to get some rest. You finish your wine, setting the glass down gently on the small table in the center of the ship. As you rise from your seat, Mihawk stands as well, his movements fluid and almost predatory in their grace.

"Thank you for this," you say, offering him a grateful smile. "I needed a moment away from everything."

Mihawk nods, his expression unreadable but not unkind. "Rest well, Linaria."

You head below deck to the small but comfortable cabin Mihawk had prepared for you. You slip under the covers and relax from the familiar sensations of being on a ship. Your thoughts drift back to Shanks and the life you've built together over the past year and a half. You’ve fought tooth and nail to get here, but is panic going to surface when you put your wedding dress on?

Date Published: 8/23/24

Last Edit: 8/23/24

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[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Kara gets roped into the RenFaire scene one summer as a face painter because a) she's an art major, and b) she's an art major who needs money. Her friend Nia has worked concessions there since she was old enough to get her workers permit, and swears to Kara that its a great place to work if she doesn't mind the occasional heat wave.

Which, to Nia's credit, is true. Except what Nia forgets to mention is that the resident RenFaire fiddler will make Kara feel like she's living in a permanent heat wave.

The fiddler's name is Lena, and she's gorgeous. Long raven locks and skin like ivory, wearing frocks of green leaves and shimmering wings, she looks like something out of a fairytale.

There's an invisible threshold between the summerbounders and those who have made the Faire their home, marked only by how naturally they fit in their medieval, fantastical roles. Summerbounders, like Kara, throw themselves into it with all the good-hearted cheesey pomp they can muster. The others, well-- they simply are their roles.

Lena is of the latter group. She was raised in the Faire, after all, spending her summers flitting between booths while her mother sold charms to enchanted patrons. But even when her mother passed, Lena didn't want for love. The Faire is her family too.

For her part, Lena immediately takes a shine to Kara, quickly noting her kindness towards children while she paints whimsical designs on cheeks and foreheads. But when Kara seems to clam up and shut down any time Lena comes anywhere close, Lena learns to keep a relative distance. Kara isn't about to approach Lena herself, so they fall into a pattern of mutual admiration from afar.

Until Nia asks Kara how she likes Lena (bc Nia lowkey shipped them when she suggested the job to Kara), and is surprised to learn they have yet to have a single meaningful conversation.

All right. That's it.

Nia invites Kara to a sleepover at the faire grounds overnight, for those who camp there-- among which is Lena. Surely, with the glitter wiped away and the lack of wings Kara will be less blinded and more... personable.

Except that after getting some mead in her system, Kara is even more entranced by Lena. How could she not be, with a speck of overlooked glitter on Lena's neck, glinting merrily in the firelight, and her long dark hair let loose around her shoulders.

But now, mellowed by said mead, Kara can't bring herself to look away when Lena catches her staring. Their eyes lock, and Lena's surprise soon gives way to a blush, then a smile as warm as the fire between them.

Lena doesn't play her fiddle this night-- everyone is pleasantly tired, and content to lounge on their logs and stumps. But someone does pull out a lyre, and Kara does notice that Lena softly sings along to the tune most everyone seems to know.

When Nia and another of the folks seated next to Kara rises to fetch a refill of their tankards, Kara blinks to find a new figure filling their empty seats.

"Hi," Lena greets, her voice low in her throat. The sound is heady, buzzing deep in Kara's core.

"Hey," Kara returns. Thankfully, the drink has smoothed her tongue, eliminating the stammer that previously caught in her throat had Lena approached her at the face painting station.

"You've been avoiding me," she's told.

Kara grimaces. "Kinda... I'm sorry."

"Well, so long as it's not because I smell bad...."

Though of course now Kara breathes in, and her lungs fill with the scent of woodsmoke and pine, and something floral. The floral, she surmises, is Lena.

To be sure, Kara leans in and inhales once again, this time with her nose just brushing the side of Lena's neck. The floral is in fact Lena. Kara notes the jumping pulse point in before her eyes and the catch in Lena's breath.

"Nope," she pulls back languidly, letting a goofy grin spread across her features. "You don't stink."

They're still perilously close, and Kara watches how Lena's gaze jumps from her eyes to her lips and back again. How has she missed this, Kara marvels at herself. To have missed Lena's interest in her is... a travesty.

Lena's head is turned towards her like the rest of the group has fallen away, and perhaps they have-- Kara takes little note of them.

"You're very smooth for someone who's been scared to be within ten feet of me."

"What can I say?" Kara shrugs. "I know to be wary of the fair folk."

"Fair or faire?" Lena teases.

Kara smirks. "I'm sure both are equally dangerous."

"Then you're doomed, considering I already have your name."

Suddenly Kara's brain shortcircuits as Lena leans in, eyes slipping shut as their lips come near enough to brush as Lena speaks.

"Kara."

[petermorwood]

Crisps / Chips again

Associated with this post, here's an artefact, two anecdotes and an opinion.

The artefact is a slightly dented but still remarkably airtight "Charles Chips" tin.

It was bought, full, many years ago from the Vermont Country Store, from whom we subsequently bought reflll packs - given their size, "sacks" would be more accurate - which were shipped to Ireland in sturdy cardboard boxes.

VCS no longer carry Charles Chips in either tin or refill. I know. I checked. BUT...

The Charles Chips company, which per Wikipedia was doing just fine in 1990 then got sold and went bankrupt twice in less than three years (gosh!) is Back In Business, and note has been taken, with considerable interest - oh, you bet - that they do international shipping...

*****

Anecdote No. 1 is from when @dduane lived in Bala Cynwyd near Philadelphia, in what was known as "The House of Dangerously Single Women" (ahem). She tells me that the household used to get Charles Chips delivered to the door about twice a week, by the company's own vans.

Speaking as a long-time crisp fan, I found that both very neat and a source of mild envy. :->

Anecdote No. 2 is from 30-ish years ago, when we were in New York for something or other and, being rather jetlagged with our internal food clocks out of whack, did our usual thing and went out for a walk.

Curiously enough, this involved visiting several food stores and supermarkets where we bought a lot of Interesting Foreign or Much Missed (i.e. American, in both instances) junk food for grazing on back in our hotel room.

In one of them DD was about to lay claim to a huge bag of Wise potato chips (its bag would have been the design in the middle)...

...while nattering to one of the shop staff how much she missed them. He told her that a new delivery was expected in about 20 minutes and if she wanted to wait, she'd get much fresher chips.

And So It Came To Pass.

Well done, that guy!

*****

Finally, while Saratoga Springs may have been where potato crisps / chips were popularised, standardised, commercialised or whatever, it's definitely not where they were invented.

Even the oft-repeated "creation myth" frequently has its hard-to-please celebrity demanding to have his potatoes sliced and fried really thin "The Way I Had Them In France" - which kinda sorta suggests they were, um, being made there just like that well before the Saratoga thing happened.

Myths are okay, even marketing myths - so long as they're recognised as myths and not shilled as true by places with reputations like the Smithsonian.

*****

It's a bit like the still-current nonsense about spices being used in medieval kitchens to disguise bad meat. As far as I've been able to find out, this originated with a historian called J. C. Drummond in the late 1930s - yup, just before World War Two - simply because he didn't know his period terminology.

"Green" meant fresh - even nowadays, an inexperienced or immature person is "green" - so green cheese was newly made, and green meat was newly slaughtered, unaged and consequently tough and flavourless.

Just ask any steak fan the difference between a fresh steak and a 30-day dry aged one.

Drummond, in his overspecialised-scholarship wisdom, assumed that "green venison" meant meat which had gone off, and that a recipe to improve it with spices was to cover the bad smell and taste.

In fact it was somewhere between a marinade and a rub, meant to improve the tenderness and flavour of fresh meat as if it had aged for a while, thus shortening the waiting time between killing a beast and getting it to the table of a hungry court.

As I've said before, it's always easier for no-proofs-given pop history to dismiss medieval people as (insert derogatory observation here) than take the time needed to explain why and how they in their time were not that different to us in ours.

*****

PS: when looking for that previously posted stuff about green meat I found a post where, with even less evidence than Saratoga Springs inventing crisps, a Brit poster claimed Brits invented curry.

Snrk.

Among other more or less pertinent observations, I mentioned that what Brits invented was BRITISH curry, and anyone who has read "Nanny Ogg's Cookbook" will know what I meant by that... :->

[kon4ka]

Challenge: Drawing D&D classes - Topic 9 - Inventor

⚙ Inventor Artilleryman - Reese ⚙

Race: Human Origin: Aristocrat (Noble)

If anyone guessed where I mentioned it before, give yourself 5+ for intuition.

📒Background: Yes, she is the same “daughter of the duke”, at whose request Kenku the Squall Priest was ransomed from the pirates. All her life she grew up in prosperity, but she was restless and poked her nose everywhere. Her father is a Duke, who rules a small port city and especially its shadow and illegal world. He doted on his daughter and spoiled her very much. When Reese was a teenager, her father was framed by his rival, who entered into an agreement with one of the devils. Reese's father was executed, and she herself was saved because Kenku, who understood much earlier, that smells like something fried, forcefully dragged her onto a pirate ship and they left the city before they were captured. For a very long time, Reese was angry with the whole world, especially with Kenka, because he did not let her stay and beat up the killer on the first day. Moreover, she was suddenly thrown out of her luxurious life and found herself in the company of illiterate pirates… For a long time, For a very long time she was withdrawn and very suspicious; she was distrustful even of Kenku, whom she had known since childhood. But after a while, she perked up and decided to work with what she had, gather strength and return to get even with her father’s killer once and for all and reclaim the city.

Her skills were very useful to both pirates and ordinary sailors, she was an excellent map drawer, and as a result, she and Kenku, who became the priest of Valkur, traveled around the world in search of unique treasures and accumulated strength for the uprising. She also sold several of her inventions, and the harbor in which they established a base began to look like a tawdry monster, where the genius of the design coexisted with the inept implementation. Kenku helped her to the best of his ability and seemed to enjoy bringing her ideas to life with the help of “stealed” skills of copying and imitation. She created a windsurf that can fold down to a very small size and does not always require wind to sail.

✒ Personality: Cheerful, a real “lighter” who is for any boiling and drinking, fearless in a sense. Literally obsessed with drawings and maps, constantly striving to optimize everything. Can draw almost anything, from a map and the structure of a distillation apparatus, to a ship and a tower. Does not like and cannot sit still, constantly forgets about that not all people are “cute and fluffy”, and still believes in people. She is a little selfish, not used to caring about others or herself (in everyday matters at least). She is artistic and loves to show off, for which she would get a punch in the nose if Kenku weren’t around. Her kindness, bordering on naivety, often wins others over, but in disputes he does not give concessions and can even get into a fight for his ideas.

🪢 Skills: Very flexible, knows how to windsurf and feel the wind. He is able to draw and draw, showing the internal structure of almost all things in the world, and even those that he does not know very well from the inside. Since she was an aristocrat, she learned manners from childhood, etiquette, playing instruments and other such things. She sews well.

Features: Wears blueprints of things that might be useful under her skirt. Almost all of her drawings, especially those that she made only when she ended up with the pirates, were burned or carved into the skin, because paper drawings were not the best material at sea and did not last long. Dressed in old clothes A dress altered twenty times, in which she once ran away. A pince-nez with a sight, in a bun in the hair there is a broken powerful artifact that looks like a hairpin (these are local references).

RU

⚙ Изобретатель Артиллерист - Риз ⚙

Раса: Человек Происхождение: Аристократ (Благородный)

Если кто-то догадался, где я раньше её упоминала - поставьте себе 5+ за интуицию.

📒 Предыстория: Да, она та самая "дочка герцога", по просьбе которой Кенку Жреца Шквала выкупили у пиратов. Всю жизнь росла в достатке но была неугомонна и везде совала свой нос. Её отец герцог, управляющий небольшим портовым городом а особенно его теневым и нелегальным миром. Души не чаял в дочери и очень баловал её. Когда Риз была подростком, её отца подставил его конкурент, заключивший соглашение с кем-то из дьяволов. Отца Риз казнили, а сама она спаслась потому, что Кенку, который гораздо раньше понял, что пахнет жаренным, силой затащил её на пиратский корабль и они покинули город раньше, чем их схватили. Очень долго Риз была зла на весь свет, особенно на Кенку, что он не дал ей остаться и накостылять убийце по первое число. К тому же её вдруг выкинули из роскошной жизни и она оказалась в обществе неграмотных пиратов… Долго, очень долго она была замкнута в себе и очень подозрительна, она относилась с недоверием даже к Кенку, которого знала с детства. Но через некоторое время она воспряла духом и решила работать с тем, что есть собрать силы и вернуться, чтобы раз и навсегда поквитаться с убийцей её отца и вернуть себе город. Её навыки очень пригодились и пиратам и простым морякам, она превосходно чертила карты, в итоге она и Кенку, ставший жрецом Валкура путешествовали по свету в поисках уникальных сокровищ и копили силы для восстания. Она так же продавала несколько своих изобретений, а гавань, в которой они обосновали базу стала походить на аляпистое чудовище, где гениальность конструкции соседствовала с неумелым воплощением. Кенку помогал ей в меру сил и кажется получал удовольствие, воплощая её идеи в жизнь при помощи "сворованных" навыков копирования и подражания. Создала виндсёрф, который может сложиться до совсем небольших размеров и чтобы плыть на котором не всегда нужен ветер.

✒ Характер: Весёлая, настоящая "зажигалка", которая за любой кипишь и пьянку, бесстрашная в каком-то смысле. Буквально одержима чертежами и картами, все время стремиться всё оптимизировать. Может начертить почти что угодно, от карты и устройства перегонного аппарата, до корабля и башни. Не любит и не может сидеть на месте, постоянно заб��вает о том, что не все люди "милые и пушистые", и всё ещё верит в людей. Немного эгоистична, не привыкла заботится ни о других, ни о себе (в бытовых вопросах по крайней мере). Артистична и любит выпендриваться, за что получала бы по носу, если бы рядом не было Кенку. Её доброта, граничащая с наивностью часто располагает к себе других, но в спорах не даёт поблажек и за свои идеи может и в драку полезть.

🪢 Навыки: Очень гибкая, умеет плавать на виндсёрфе и чувствовать ветер. В состоянии нарисовать и расчертить, показывая внутреннее устройство почти всех вещей на свете, и даже тех, которые не очень хорошо знает изнутри. Поскольку была аристократкой, с детства училась манерам, этикету, игре на инструментах и прочим подобным вещам. Недурно шьёт.

✨ Особенности: Носит под юбкой чертежи того, что может пригодиться. Почти все её чертежи особенно те, что она делала только оказавшись у пиратов были выжжены или вырезаны на коже, потому как бумажные чертежи не лучший материал в море и не жили долго. Одета в старое, двадцать раз перешитое платье, в котором когда-то сбежала. Пенсне с прицелом, в пучке в волосах сломанный сильнейший артефакт, выглядящий как заколка (это локальные отсылки).

[mydetheturk]

Title: In A Circle 'Round the Kitchen Table Author: mydetheturk Rating: T Word Count: 1,653 Warnings: None really; Vash is sad about Knives and Wolfwood's more high-strung than usual, but its just soft times at Home

Summary: It's Vash's fault they're here at Home, where everything has Nicholas on edge. Making him food is the least Vash can do, then, to make Nicholas feel better.

~~

Author's Note: Just some soft stuff for day 4 of @mashwoodweek; I chose the prompt "comfort food" and I just really wanted to make Vash cook for people. It's also a direct sequel to Hell, I'm Dead Already, which will provide some context as well. Enjoy <3

(You can read on AO3 here)

Title from Big Houses by Squalloscope

~~

Vash convinces the others to go Home, to Ship Three. He hasn't been since Meryl and Wolfwood dragged him there after Wolfwood found him again. Wolfwood is still breathing odd to Vash's too sensitive ears and it worries Vash. Wolfwood's cranky about being here, on strict “No you're not allowed to smoke, not even if you're outside, we're trying to heal you, you idiot,” orders.

(Wolfwood won't talk about it, but Vash knows he's on edge because of the doctors checking up on him as well. There's an edge to his nightmares and he's barely sleeping deep enough for REM cycles.

Wolfwood doesn't talk about the Eye of Michael, only speaks around what happened to him. What was done to him.)

Wolfwood is dozing in Vash's bedroom and Meryl is out in one of the biomes with Luida.

Vash is in the kitchen making stir fried rice for someone else for the first time in a hundred and fifty-two years. He doesn't think about the exact number of months and days, nor who the rice was for. He's made it for himself countless times over the years, quiet and alone, but hasn't shared this with anyone else.

The motions are rote, Vash going through them via muscle memory as his mind drifts. Chopping vegetables, waiting for the rice to cook, all of it brings back a nearly-forgotten laugh and a hint of the geraniums Rem loved so much.

Vash is just pulling out the oil and heating the wok when the door for the kitchen opens.

“Oh!” Meryl is on the other side of the door frame, surprised to find Vash here. “I smelled rice,” she says sheepishly. “Are… are you cooking?”

“Yeah,” Vash says. “Want to go wake Nicholas? By the time you get him and get back I should be closer to done.”

“Sure! What if he's actually asleep asleep, though?” Meryl hovers at the door, staring at Vash, who doesn't stop his movements.

“I… don't think he's slept well, Meryl,” Vash admits. It's why he's making this. He can't do much else, really, except be here for Nicholas when he wants to open up.

“You mean he's being worse than you and you don't think he's slept at all, got it. One cranky undertaker, coming up.” The door closes behind Meryl as she heads to Vash's room. He trusts she'll get there and back with fewer problems than Nicholas by himself.

The rice is finished and Vash is starting in on the eggs when Meryl brings Wolfwood through the door. He looks worse than he did when Vash left him alone in his room a couple of hours ago. Like he hasn't actually slept and instead tossed and turned the whole time.

Vash pauses in whisking and steps lightly over to the door and looks at Nicholas for a moment, head tilted in a question.

Nicholas sighs, leans forward, and settles his head on Vash's shoulder. Vash tips his head onto Nicholas's and chirrups, reaching out the way he would one of his sisters. He only leaves a slight impression from his Plant markings when he pulls back, a hint of shimmer in Nicholas's hair.

“When're we gettin' out of here, blondie?” Nicholas asks. It's not desperation in his voice; it's resignation.

“I could ask my sisters, see what they think?” Vash says. Nicholas grunts. Vash kisses Nicholas's cheek, and between him and Meryl they make Nicholas sit at the tiny kitchen table. It's not a space designed to be eaten in by more than one person, but it's alright. It’s a tight squeeze, but they’ve had tighter ones. Meryl grabs plates and silverware when Vash directs her, setting the table as he continues cooking.

“What're you making?” Wolfwood finally asks. Vash glances at him over his shoulder, taking in his partner. Bruises instead of circles under his eyes, several days of beard growth, his nails bitten to the quick, and a small hint of blood in Nicholas's cuticles from it – Nicholas is in agony here.

Vash turns back to the rice, tossing it in with the vegetables. “It's a recipe my – my mother taught me,” Vash finds himself saying. Nicholas sits up straight and Meryl nearly drops the plates in her hands. “The last time I made this for someone other than myself, we found the remains of our sister two weeks later.” Not long after that, Nai orchestrated the Great Fall.

“Vash,” Meryl breathes.

“Damn, blondie.”

“She'd been experimented on. We were lucky we hadn't been.” He doesn't – doesn't know why he's saying these things. He needs to close his mouth, shut himself up, make himself small so he can't burden them with the fact that he cares about them enough to make Rem's rice, the rice she taught Vash and Nai how to make together.

Vash flicks the wok. The eggs go in slowly, coating the rice.

“Your mom taught you how?” Meryl says, breaking the silence.

Vash is grateful she didn't ask after Tesla. He knows she will at some point. He knows Nicholas had – has – had the means to find out.

“Yeah. Me and Nai.” Vash stirs the rice, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Brothers are fucking difficult,” Nicholas says. Says like he has experience, and Vash knows he does. The name ‘Livio’ in a broken, rattled tone is one that still rocks around Vash's mind when he dreams.

“Don't have any brothers,” Meryl says.

“Would not recommend having any, either,” Nicholas says immediately. Vash privately agrees, though he supposes his own history with his brother is more... homicidal, than most. “They're a pain, they always want to stick around you, they get you into trouble, and you're stuck with them. They go missing, and you can't stop wondering if it's your fault.” There's a sound like the rattle of metal on metal, but Vash knows the difference between gunmetal and Home's silverware and Meryl's chair getting shoved back faster than the chair would like.

Behind Vash, Nicholas's breathing catches. He's trying to not cry over his little brother Livio again. Nicholas has been on edge and paranoid the entire time they've been Home, and it's Vash's fault. He was the one who suggested here, convinced Nicholas to let the few doctors Vash trusts look at him; this is Vash's fault.

The handle creaks under Vash's grip. He relaxes his hand, purposefully does not think of his own brother any longer.

“I'm fine,” Nicholas says.

“You're such a fucking liar,” Meryl hisses. “It might, actually, kill you to tell us what's eating you, wouldn't it?”

Vash wouldn't go that far, but he agrees.

Oh. Rice is done.

Vash flicks it once more, inspecting the food. It looks the same as usual. There's nothing different about it.

It feels different, to make this for someone else again.

“Dinner's ready,” Vash says. He clicks the burner off. Turning to face his partners, who are in each other's faces with matching irritated expressions once more, Vash relaxes. “No more talk about brothers tonight. What's everyone been doing?”

Meryl sits down with a pointed thump. “Luida's been showing me the biomes. They're beautiful,” she says.

Nicholas sighs, sitting back and closing his eyes against the lights. “Brad says the docs should be able to synthesize something to heal some of the damage. Might have to convince the Plants, though, is what one of the grumpier docs said, apparently.”

Nicholas is not the washed out, ashen shade of when he'd downed too many ampules in Vash and Meryl's defense, overworking his body and almost killing him. He hasn't been sleeping since Home picked them up, and he's been stewing in a cocktail of nicotine withdrawal and anxiety the entire time.

Vash can still see how the serum cracked him, can smell the bile that forced its way out of Nicholas's lungs and stomach. Can hear the way his heart has to work that littlest bit harder now.

Vash wants, so very badly, to know what his brother did to Nicholas.

Vash does not think he will ever get to know, not from Nicholas, and absolutely not from Knives.

“So we talk to the Plants!” Meryl says. “They'll listen, right?”

Vash scoops a large spoonful of rice into Meryl's plate. “They'll listen.” His sisters are very good at listening. Vash has to focus, but he can always feel them, just beyond his senses.

Another scoop, slightly larger, ends up in Nicholas's plate. Nicholas narrows his eyes at Vash, but picks up his fork and pokes at it. A third scoop onto Vash's plate and Vash sits in the remaining chair.

“Eat,” Vash says.

Meryl doesn't need prompting twice, but she gives Nicholas a kick in the shin to get him to do more than poke at his rice. Vash takes a bite of his own and swallows it before Nicholas starts to eat his. Paranoia, then, as well, from the lack of sleep and his nerves. Vash will have to lay on him tonight, keep him warm and safe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vash notes Nicholas's hackles slowly relax further than they have since arriving Home. Vash'll suggest they make a swing past Hopeland when they're done here. Vash will beg his sisters for their help if he has to. He doesn't want to lose Wolfwood, not to this.

“It's really good!” Meryl says, breaking Vash out of his reverie.

Nicholas nods. “Yeah. Thanks, Vash.”

He really means it. Vash smiles.

“We should talk to my sisters tonight,” Vash says. “While the others are asleep.” He hasn't shown them his favorite spots in the Plant room, though Vash thinks the only one of them who might fit into a couple of them now is Meryl.

Nicholas and Meryl start chatting, Meryl holding most of the conversation while Vash watches. They're too good for him, really.

He's glad they chose him anyway. Given the choice, he'd choose them again too.

[witchofthesouls]

This was a weird crossover thought, but hey, it’s a rare pair:

Grandmama Frump has no idea how, what, when, and where the ancient grimoire had dumped her, nor the spellwork that pushed her into a metal body, but the entrails did say she will be on quite a transformative journey. Meets up with the DJD by intercepting on their List. Not her fault if the mechs were stupid enough to bother her and joins them after admiring their skills. Grandmama Frump and Vos would get along like fire on a gasoline-soaked body.

She can fully appreciate a being that can fully transform into a sniper rifle. Granny Frump prefers to go down and bloody close to the target, so she tries to convince him to get a bayonet attachment.

Nothing says romance than a personal stab, together.

Just as nothing says “I love you” so much to an Addams than causing chaos, mayhem, and murder with a partner, especially if they could literally use their partner. How intimate…

Vos and Grandmama would croon sweet nothings full of murderous intentions to each other. Unfortunately, they do all the time, especially during meals.

No one understands what the hell they’re saying since they’re speaking in the respective dead language of Primal Vernacular and Ancient French. Except for Tarn… and he’s dying from the horniness.

The leader of the DJD feels beyond uncomfortable, but Tarn can’t turn away when Granny climbs into Vos’ lap, face to face as she steadies herself with his shoulders. The romantic locked deep in his untouched spark practically swoons as Granny tenderly cradles Vos’ mask and simultaneously recoils from what Vos purrs back.

There are some things a mech is not meant to know. Please stop playing with the ruffles and seams of her armor.

Actually, everyone is dying from the horniness. They may not understand, but even the blind mech could feel that raw tension.

There’s many strange sounds in Vos' habsuite. It’s screaming. A lot of screaming. Not of terror. Sometimes agony, but it’s mixed with pleasure. With laughter. High and demented that leaves scratches over a brain module, like rusted nails shoved deep into a helm.

Once it stops, the door opens to dreamy Frump swaying to invisible music as she heads to the shower rack.

The way she moves is reminiscent to the artistic bodily freedom of the Golden Age music underground and the famed courtesans of the High Towers and Primal Palace: strangely sensual and oddly provocative in its fluid grace of free-form steps and twirls. The armor she uses doesn’t help, it sways to her movement.

Vos, in berth and completely enraptured, watches on, smoking a cygar.

Tarn and Kaon gives him hell for it since the ship has designated smoking areas and the communication officer hates the smell leaking to his hab.

Grandmama had commandeered the kitchen and refuses to let anyone else into it. Not even if it causes the fire alarms and toxicity sensors to blare. She has it well in hand, sonny! There are at least three cauldrons always on the flames from a sweet simmer to furiously frothing to the point the lid will become a deadly projectile. The smell can be absolutely delightful or completely atrocious -far, far worse than Tesarus not properly deep-cleaning his most inward blades.

Tarn has no idea if Granny Frump is trying to kill them by an obvious poisoning attempt since whatever she heaved over to the shared table is... ghastly vibrant with a sludge-like consistency. And possibly in its dying throes as she smacks the cauldron insides with a spiked ladle. And he’s absolutely not imagining that muted shriek-

Between Nickel’s medical programs, Tesarus’ ununtrium-coated tank, and Helex’s ability to heat his own internals to a deadly scorch to kill everything, they can take on whatever malice she wields.

Luckily, there’s the usual Energon dispenser in the mess hall, but Tarn can only watch in mute horror as everyone else eats it, even the Pet enjoys it.

Helex and Tesarus wolf down over half the cauldron with large doses of aluminum flakes and cobalt swirls. Kaon eventually switches to the dispenser, but only because the smell overrides the lovely taste. Vos eats his extra blended portion with a straw. Even Nickel is in on it: sipping on her bowl with a side of boron biscuits.

He is not the weird one. He is not-

[operat0r]

The Tenno holds no memory of who or what suggested he pay Cetus a visit. Were he the sort to gamble, he may have begrudgingly placed his credits upon the Lotus, who remains ever eager to tug his strings one way or another across the stars. The particulars of this memory escape him, as so many others do, and it is only when he is attending to his weapons in orbit of Venus does the thought of passing nearby Earth even occur to him.

Conferring with Ordis confirms that his docket, nebulous as it has been these past days, could certainly allow him a detour from wherever it is duty takes him next. The Tenno considers it while he oils the barrel of the Vectis he's taken to lately. Slowly, slowly, his ship crosses into Venusian night.

New Loka can wait. The thought of dealing with the Perrin Sequence agitates him more than he thinks he can bear. Of the Red Veil, he remains uncertain and uneager for rendezvous, overdue as it may be. So, the matter is settled.

"Set a course," the Tenno says aloud in a ship near silent as a grave, and he prepares himself for planetfall.

-------

The very last thing he takes note of is the smell of it all.

Fondness for Earth is more instinct than anything. It is the home he cannot fully recall, the mother he knows only through hearsay and missives and histories available to him only by other accounts. Its atmosphere is bruised with toxins yet to heal, ugly whorls that, he is told, once existed only in cautionary tales well before planetary invasion was ever a possibility. That the planet is now infested by Grineer boils something deep within the Tenno, hateful without truly knowing why. This, too, is an instinct so deep it may as well be primal, and as the orbiter peels beneath atmosphere and crosses before the face of a singular, tremendous tower of suspiciously Orokin design, he prepares himself for the worst.

He hears the ocean before he disembarks. He hears other things, too: the barking of people from across the settlement, the shriek and laughter unmistakably belonging to children no older than he himself once was before the Void cracked he and so many others open. The Saryn he commands this day, jet black and indomitable in combat, barely makes it off the landing pier before he is rushed by young faces - young human faces, who babble excitedly at him in a language he does not recognize. And when they are chased off, herded by an older woman built like a barrel, thick in the middle with arms that look as though they could bend steel, the Tenno can only stare. Dark smears of blue enshroud bright, steely eyes, as well as a brow the Tenno only belatedly realized is arched, unimpressed.

She lifts a meaty, beckoning hand, and then she is gone, swallowed by the course of natives and travelers both that pour into Cetus.

Outside his consciousness, the Tenno hears Ordis chirp, "Oh, doesn't this seem like fun?"

-------

The sight of other Tenno has long since ceased to fill him with wonder. Not that it really ever did after the first few encounters: the novelty of their misfortune and the realization that it is shared lost its luster quickly enough, and when he crosses them in the field or upon the relays, he himself tends to keep his distance.

Here, they are impossible to avoid. It is a far cry from the clinical cleanliness of the relays, with their broad bulkheads and pristine corridors. Here, the ocean itself is drowned out by more chatter than the Tenno can remember hearing in his life; here, the narrow passages between tables and stalls and craftsmen hunkered down on small, rough-spun rugs are teeming with Warframes and people alike. Someone cries out about knives and dashes of viridian, cerulean, the colors to make the eyes of a lover shine bright and brilliant. Another hoists a sliver of some sort of flesh for the Tenno to presumably appreciate, though the color of it is immediately off putting. People in bloodied aprons cry over people with sharp blades, and then the people with pottery and stoneware and small jeweled keepsakes join in the cacophony, loud as seabirds, louder than the sea itself.

It is alive in a way the Tenno cannot immediately parse. This small settlement persists at the very edge of a world that, for all the galaxy knows, no longer welcomes them. Yet still they smile and laugh and raise their hands to greet the metal-and-curse beings that mill amongst them, weapons of war with weapons of war strapped to their spines. Yet still they live.

It is unlike anything he can remember. It is too noisy and too wet and there is a smell, he realizes, of salt and animal blood and sweat and strange fruits and hearth-fire, a bouquet so strong compared to the sanitized and recycled nothing of his vessel that he genuinely fears it will imprint upon and stain his senses permanently, that anything and everything forever more shall be overpowered by the smell of Cetus.

Another Tenno, cloaked in the form of a Rhino, gently buffets him aside. He tracks their form to a narrow stall near the center of the thickest part of the markets, where a young human is masked in the crude but unmistakable affectation of a Trinity. Behind them, rows of other masks are loosely hung upon a rack, where the Tenno can recognize Volts and Mags and something else, bulbous about the brow like some deep sea fish. The Rhino gestures, says something the Tenno cannot hear, something that makes the young stall-keeper laugh bright and loud and shameless.

There are worse smells, the Tenno decides then, watching small, delicate things pass between hands both living and false. The Rhino holds a Volt mask with care, as though it were still a living thing and not just carved from formerly living things. There are worse smells, the Tenno decides, than salt and sea and life.

[nimble-stuff]

Dehumanization || Hamato Brothers - Pale Room, Part I Splinter has instilled a fear of humans in them since they were kids. The brothers find out why.

FANDOM: ROTTMNT

@badthingshappenbingo​

<< PREVIOUS || NEXT >>

They all reacted differently. Leo wanted to crawl inside his brothers’ minds, to pull apart their psychologies, to see how they were wrapping their heads around the current problem. It was the least he could do to understand them. To fix things. To ease tensions. Especially when he’d been the first to go down.

When he’d felt the tranquilizer dart pinch his neck, he knew they were in for a bad time. Raph took charge the moment Leo’s legs went wobbly, but he’d had a feeling even as his face hit rough concrete that it the control Raph exerted was a figurehead in an uncontrollable situation. Leo woke up later to a grimy ceiling and his brothers around him, no weapons, and four walls in a dank room no larger than a shipping container. The walls were smeared with grime and age, too small to accommodate all four of them, a heavy metal door separating them from the outside. Little lighting, no windows. A foul smell. The distant sounds of screams and struggling, too indistinct to place. Nothing except the tinny echo of their voices.

Leo settled his arm against the door, glaring at the metal and hoping that his silent rage would put off whatever monster-of-the-week had locked them in the cell. There really was no other term for it other than cell, but for now he avoided saying it out loud. Donnie didn’t have any of his gear, not even his Battle Shell, so that limited their options, however he kept busy probing the walls for weak points and hidden cameras. He found two in the first ten minutes.

For the rest of them, there was little they could do except pace around and hope Donnie came up with an escape plan. Brute force hadn’t worked. Raph had pounded on the door for close to an hour before he gave up, and it hadn’t even dented. Whoever was keeping them here had either built the room specifically to hold them, or it was designed to hold something much, much stronger than they were. Neither option bode well.

“How’s it going, Donnie?” Leo asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Donnie pried a small black object out from between two panels in the wall. “Camera number three.”

“Any idea who’s behind this?” Raph asked.

“It’s human technology,” said Donnie, rolling the camera between his fingers. It was only the size of his fingertip, and snapped when he applied enough force. “So I’m guessing humans.”

“Great, that’s great, really makes me feel better,” said Leo.

“Don’t be down, that means they have human weaknesses,” said Mikey. “Remember what Dad always says: a human’s greatest weakness is…”

“Their stupidity?” Donnie offered.

“Poor muscle mass!” said Raph.

“Daytime television?” said Leo.

“No, no, no.” Mikey shook his head. “A human’s greatest weakness is their stomach. We win them through food.”

“Oh, Mikey wants to play fetch with a human, brilliant plan,” Donnie drawled.

“It’s gonna work this time. Mikey came prepared!”

Mikey pulled out a bag of chips from his shell, a knock-off brand that tasted more potato than chip. The bag matched the expectations, crinkled like an old man’s flabby skin.

“I have a reward system all planned out,” said Mikey. “Once we make friends with them and teach them a few tricks, we make a break for it.”

“Mikey, that’s never going to work,” said Donnie.

“Didn’t you try that on April when we first met her?” Raph asked.

“Yeah, actually, that does ring a bell,” said Leo. “As I recall, April had you playing fetch and shaking hands within the hour, Mikey.”

“She had gummy worms,” said Mikey. “I didn’t even know worms could be gummy, I thought they only came in slimy flavour.”

“Excuse me, this is a bit of a wild idea, but perhaps could we focus on escaping?!” Donnie shouted. “Being imprisoned lost its novelty a long time ago! There isn’t even a bathroom in here!”

“I went before we left,” Mikey said with pride.

“Okay, nobody think about waterfalls,” said Raph.

“Or water parks,” said Leo.

“Or hoses,” said Mikey.

“Or rainstorms,” said Raph.

“Fire hydrants.”

“Sewer water.”

“I want out!” Donnie yelled.

In the end, Leo would could able tell what got the door to open, unsure if it was them annoying the hell out of their captors or Donnie’s insistence that he wanted out or if it was just a regular, scheduled visit. Either way, the door swung open so fast that he leapt back to avoid getting flattened against the wall. Armed soldiers swarmed inside, dressed in black, their entire bodies obscured except for the lower halves of their faces.

“Oh, hey, finally!” said Leo. “Hey, we think we took a wrong turn somewhere, would one of you mind telling us where—wow, that is a big gun. Could you point it somewhere else?”

No answer. The soldiers were movie caricatures caricatures rather than living, breathing humans in front of him. Leo saw the disdain in their scowls. Circling the exit, Leo realized it wouldn’t be as simple as overpowering them, yet he searched for the opening anyway.

Once the soldiers felt secure, a woman with steely eyes stepped into the cell. She wore a lab coat, flanked by a young intern who openly gawked at the turtles.

“Okay, cool, you look like you’re an authority figure,” said Leo. “Could you let us out? We’re getting bored.”

The woman scribbled something on a clipboard. “We’ll start with blood and tissue samples. We can save everything else until after they’re finished processing A-12.”

“So cold. Hey, lady, I’m talking to you.”

The woman didn’t look at Leo, like he hadn’t spoken at all. Leo only knew that he was making words people could hear because the intern kept flinching with the rise and fall of his voice.

“Hey, fetch!” Mikey called out. He tossed a few chips at her.

That got the woman’s attention, gaze sliding over the chip fragments on the floor. With a nod to one soldier, the armed guard step forward and snatched the bag out of Mikey’s hand.

“Aw, no fair,” Mikey whined.

The woman scribbled on her clipboard, while the intern wheeled in medical equipment on a cart.

“Since you four possess language skills, you should know that this room is designed to flood with a paralyzing agent in the event of an escape attempt,” said the woman. “All personnel are armed and authorized to use lethal force. For your own safety and the safety of our staff, you will comply.”

“That’s pretty extreme,” said Leo. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

She sighed. “I’m Doctor Gabrielle Paccioretti. You’re currently in protective custody in a facility run by the Earth Protection Force.”

Behind him, Donnie let out a few low swears.

“‘Protective custody?’ We’re in a prison cell, and it smells weird in here. Where’s our lawyer? I plead the fifth!”

“The American government backs the EPF, but even if it didn’t…” She snapped on some rubber gloves. “The law doesn’t apply to nonhumans.”

Paccioretti nodded to the intern, who picked up the largest syringe Leo had ever seen. Maybe his internal panic was exaggerating the size.

The moment the intern took even a fraction of a step towards Mikey, Leo’s vision blurred with intense and overwhelming rage. He punched him in the face. Teeth and jawbone shattered under his fist.

Leo should have been relieved that he wasn’t shot dead right away. Movement and shouts and activity exploded all around him. He glimpsed his brothers rising to his defense, then swearing and the loud clicks of the safety coming off of guns. Strange hands seized his limbs. Leo fought the whole way down to the ground, clawing, biting, swearing, struggling. It felt like a long way to the floor. A whole ass group of soldiers pinned him, his jaw bouncing off of hard concrete.

“If any one of you makes another move, we shoot this one dead,” Paccioretti announced. Somehow, her voice rose above the loud outbreak of noise.

Raph, Mikey, and Donnie froze. Raph had a hand wrapped fully around the neck of a soldier, Mikey had another in a headlock, Donnie was wrestling another for his gun. No movement, all quiet. The cold metal of a gun barrel wedged against the back of Leo’s head and the fight in his brothers bled away.

“This is your only warning,” said Paccioretti. She nodded at the soldiers. “Continue.”

Raph released the soldier in his hand and raised his arms up in surrender, and Mikey’s hands were wrestled behind his back. Donnie bolted up and backed into the corner of the cell, closed in on three sides. From his position on the ground, Leo could only see Donnie’s feet skirting left and right. He saw the anxiety in every step, the heightening tension in his voice.

“Don’t you dare,” Donnie warned them.

Leo never heard what the threat was before the soldiers jumped and Donnie let out a piercing scream.

It sounded like he was being murdered. Full-body terror sliced its way through Leo, bisecting him in half. Donnie’s feet scraped against the concrete, Leo saw thin hairline cuts appear in the raw flesh, shouted his name although it was lost under the undercurrent of the full-body howl that went and went and went.

“Ignore it, it’s just trying to get attention,” Paccioretti told the soldiers. She knelt by Leo’s side, fully extended his arm, and sliced off the wrappings.

A second shriek accompanied Donnie’s. “FUCK, IT BIT ME!”

“Then break its jaw,” one soldier said.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Paccioeretti shouted. “I will not have the dental exam compromised by impulsive, stupid decisions. If you can’t handle one screaming mutant, find another job!”

Donnie’s scream was so physically painful that Leo wasn’t even aware of the ache in his arm until Paccioeretti withdrew and there was a fat, ugly mark where she’d taken a chunk of flesh out of his arm. The soldiers pulled back and Leo scrambled up, prepared to take a swing and damn the risks. The soldiers had him covered, held him at gunpoint as she gave Mikey the same treatment. Paccioeretti possessed the cold composure of a seasoned scientist, immune to flinches and gasps of pain as she first took a blood sample, then used an intimidating device to slice a coin-shaped chunk from Mikey’s arm. When she was done, Mikey hurried to Leo’s side, crushing his hand.

Leo knew the look of Raph keeping a close eye on each of his brothers, but he couldn’t keep the fear out when their gazes locked. The soldiers didn’t have to force Raph to extend his arm. He did it for them, accepting the treatment, more worried about the rest of them than he was about himself. The only moment Raph flinched was when Donnie’s scream reached a particularly high note Leo was sure he hadn’t heard him reach since they were kids.

Paccioeretti moved to Donnie last. It took four soldiers to hold him down while he struggled. Leo struggled to see around the wide expanse of their shoulders.

Donnie suddenly went quiet.

A moment ago, Leo had been praying for Donnie to stop shouting so he could hear his thoughts, and now he wanted it back. The only part of Leo that he could see past the mass of humans surrounding him was his rigid leg. It didn’t move again until Paccioeretti stepped back and stared down Leo as she left. He saw nothing to indicate humanity.

The soldiers waited until the last minute to let Donnie go, like a turtle paralyzed with fear was the biggest threat in the room. The intern wheeled out the cart, then the soldiers backed out of the cell one-by-one.

“Hey, there’s no washroom in here!” Leo called after them.

The reply came in the form of a metal bucket thrown inside. Leo ducked to avoid it, and it rung a hollow tune as it rolled around on the floor in a circle, and the last Leo saw of the outside was the disgusted glower of a soldier slamming the door shut and locking it with a thick clunk.

The adrenaline tasted salty in the air. They were all panting, holding the fresh wounds on their arms, staring into nothing. Donnie jumped up from the floor and stood with his back flat against the wall. The pressure Mikey put on Leo’s hand was intense.

“…Donnie?” Mikey said. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t,” Donnie barked. “Just don’t.”

Mikey left Leo’s side and reached for Donnie. “But are you okay?”

“I…I need to keep checking for cameras. I need to check for cameras, don’t distract me.”

Donnie shifted away when Mikey approached. Whatever Mikey was thinking, he seemed to think better of it and pulled back.

Raph sat back on the ground, his face in his hands, more confused and worried than hurt. Mikey curled up beside him, and Raph set an arm on his shoulder. His and Leo’s eyes caught. Since they were kids, Raph had always been the strong one between them, yet he could see the small vulnerable fractures in his irises, see Raph gather his strength with the rise of his shoulders.

“Wow, that was awful!” Raph finally said, like he was talking about a movie.

“Yeah, they were kind of cranky, weren’t they?” said Leo.

He picked up the bucket and held it in his hands. It smelt strange.

“Psh, they didn’t even provide reading material,” said Leo. “I can’t go unless I got the comics section.”

He looked around for a smile and found none. Tough crowd.

Leo set the bucket upside down and sat on it. “Hey, at least we got furniture now!…Until someone needs to use it. So, who wants to play a game to pass the time? And no, Donnie, ‘Find the Cameras’ doesn’t count.”

Donnie didn’t even look over his shoulder. He didn’t even appear to be inspecting the paneling anymore. He knelt with his back to them, rubbing his arm.

“How about Word Association?” Raph suggested.

“Oh, I’m gonna nail this one,” said Leo.

“You can’t make words up this time.”

“Fine, but I get to keep sitting on the bucket.”

“Deal. Mikey, want to go first?”

Mikey picked out dirt from under his fingernails, not quite rising his head.

Finally, he said, “Pillow.”

“Sleep,” Leo offered.

“Dream,” said Raph.

“Flying,” said Mikey.

“Birds.” Leo.

“Big Bird.” Raph.

“Sesame Street!” Mikey added with a fist pump and a more familiar smile.

It went on like that, a simple distraction. In the corner, Donnie tilted his head towards their voices, hands running steady over the wall. The distant screams and struggling Leo had heard before from beyond the cell had gone quiet.

[evolvingchaoswitch]

Freakshow-Chapter 1 Hanging by a Thread

evolvingchaoswitch

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

F/F

F/M

Other

Fandoms:

Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)

Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy (Video Game 2021)

Five Nights at Freddy's

Relationship:

Rocket Raccoon/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Game Theory Lore

Hurt/Comfort

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Canon-Typical Violence

Body Horror

Implied/Referenced Torture

Mental Health Issues

Implied/Referenced Suicide

Slow Burn

Body Dysphoria

Non-Consensual Body Modification

raw dogged by an anthropomorphic raccoon

Eventual Smut

Summary:

Tinkering with my design, twist and turn my feral mind Play with me 'til you've found another toy Let me be your freak show, I could be your favorite monster Rattle my whole cage, remind me why I can't be fostered Let me be your freak show, I could be your favorite monster Lock me up, don't let me out 'cause you know I can't help myself.

Notes:

This is my first in a few cross over OC's I've created over the years and my favourite to pair with Rocket. The song I reference in my summary is from Sub Urban it is a very good Rocket themed song. I base inspiration for this character from Game Theory's coverage of FNAF. Happy reading looking forward to your thoughts.

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 1: Hanging by a thread

Chapter Text

The ship was in rough shape but hopefully not so fucked that Rocket wouldn’t be able to find some useful materials to repair his own ship that he had hobbled together out of scraps. His enemies had been getting smarter when it came to keeping him locked up, opting to shunt Groot off to a prison further away from him hoping that would be the key ingredient to keeping him caged. Rocket would laugh at the audacity of the thought process if it didn’t cause so many flarkin annoying troubles for him. Once his makeshift ship was patched up a bit better he’d go looking for Groot and most likely a more structurally stable ship along the way, this one’s engine was fucked in a way he couldn’t fix with his current tool set.

Rocket hummed a wordless tune as he went to work stripping the ship of what was valuable as he moved further into its hull. Rocket could hear the faint sound of a dog whining, had Cosmo found himself on this ship? Rocket may have had his issues with the stupid mutt but he wasn’t going to let him be trapped here if it was Cosmo making the noises. So tentatively Rocket made his way towards the sound to see if it was Cosmo or not, and he was right it was a dog just not Cosmo.

In a cage over in one corner of the room was a dog circling around desperate to get to something just beyond his view, something that was hidden in the shadows adjacent to this cage. The dog's fur that appeared to be white was now strained with dried blood and the general grime of the cage, a pair of piercing blue eyes locked with his own cognac coloured ones as the creature looked frightened. Then terrifying as metallic panels opened up all over the animal, showing pieces of exposed internals along with other modifications, Rocket wanted to hurl. Was this a new creature from Him? Was this a new abomination from Halfworld? Either way he couldn’t leave it there whimpering like that, Rocket may be a professional asshole but he did have a bit of a soft spot for his fellow mammals.

“Keep it down I’m getting you out” Rocket got to work opening the cage and he was relieved to see that the action seemed to calm the animal down, maybe it was intelligent not his level but enough to follow orders. The smell in the air was putrid. Something was undoubtedly rotting in the second cage in the room if Rocket was going to make an assumption it was probably the person the dog was so eager to get to. The dog came to sit near the cage door anxiously waiting for it to open. Rocket could see on the purple collar around its neck hung a small silver coin that read Bianca. The dog was a she apparently.

Rocket watched as Bianca bolted over to the other cage before pawing at the door while whining for him to open this one as well which Rocket started on while sighing. Groot in his life was starting to make him go soft, Rocket was hoping once Bianca saw that her owner was dead it would be easier to drop her off somewhere safer. Rocket paid no mind to the body on the floor as the corpse appeared to be one of the former members of this ship and not Bianca’s owner. Rocket didn’t care for paying any respects to the dead crew of this ship, he had looked up some of the shit these people had gotten up to and lets just say he didn’t give much care to traffickers. The door slid open a moment later and Bianca bolted over to the figure that was hanging in restraints in the middle of the cage.

The figure looked to be from Terra, coppery red hair that was cropped short to the head, pasty white skin dotted with an assortment of freckles and an easy to enjoy feminine form. One problem ,Rocket had never seen a Terran with a chest cavity open like theirs and still alive. He could hear the heart still faintly beat from behind the metal that surrounded it, though it was difficult to see the organ, what with the power cord obscuring it from view. Two thoughts that hit Rocket at the same time, this person was still alive and had been used as some form of power source for this ship.

Those sicks fucks.

As soon as Rocket disconnected the power cord and stepped away to lay the cord on the ground Bianca sprung into action placing her muzzle on the exposed powercell that worked in conjunction with the heart. Bianca seemed to let some form of energy pass from her internals to her owners slowly recharging the girl till slowly the chest started to seal up protecting the organics behind. This girl wasn’t like any make of android that he had ever seen before and he certainly wanted to know more about this Afton Robotics place. Rocket might have a few bones to pick with them over their design choices.

Rocket could hear soft cries coming from the newly renewed girl in the corner at first he thought she was just crying over being chained up and used as a power source.Made complete sense to Rocket if that was the case but as Rocket took a second to listen a bit closer he could hear the repeated phrases of.

“I’m so glad you’re safe Bianca” “I’m so sorry” “You’re ok, you’re ok, you’re ok”

Rocket felt an unwelcome tug on his heartstrings before he felt obligated as his current state of employment as a professional asshole to ruin the moment.

“What’s your name?”

“Ѐabha Tinsley and Bianca Del Barko the finest bitch in the land”

The last part was stated as a fact rather than a flippant statement.

“I’m Rocket and something tells me that you didn’t leave Terra willingly, want to hitch a ride back?”

Ѐabha was trying to figure that out right now too much had happened since she had forcibly been put into sleep mode as they drained her for power. Now that she had gotten the first thing out of the way, making sure her beloved Bianca was safe it was now time to reacquaint herself with what was going on in the moment. Now it was time to sort through all the intrusive messages that had popped onto her internal log once she was back online. Most of them as per usual were about update permissions that she made sure to quickly dismiss. The organic within her would forever fight with the inorganic. The scars that her maker had left on her all those years held long lasting effects on her but none so aggravating as her update protocol that wouldn’t be satisfied until she was perfect.

She could already tell that over the miscellaneous time that she was out that her body had moved from sixty-percent organic to fifty-eight percent which didn’t seem like that much of a drop in percentages but to her it was.

Your savior appeared to be some kind of talking raccoon but after everything you had been through over the years it hardly phases you. Hell even the corpse rotting away in the corner of your cage failed to stir up a response from you. At least this one still had all its internals. At least it wasn’t a six foot plus animatronic with dead kids inside. Fuck your life was weird.

The anthropomorphic raccoon appeared to be your savior or at the very least the guy that took pity on you enough to free you. You could live with that easily, though looking at the little bit of metallic that showed on him you got the idea that he had gone through some similar shit. Looking down at Bianca the two of you had a brief vibe check discussion via eye as you typically did before you responded.

“Can she come too, I don’t go anywhere without her” Savior or not like hell you were leaving the only member of your family behind.

“Oh course, though things will get a little cramped when we pick up a friend of mine hopefully we’ll have another ship ready” Rocket took a moment to think out his next question “You any good with striping ships for scrap” Rocket didn’t really expect a yes but if there was one it would make life easier for the next few hours. Rocket watched as you nodded your head before you started to strip some of the room you were in for useful materials, stepping over the corpse as you went to work. Rocket was fairly sure he saw you plop a few scrapes of non-useful materials into your mouth like a snack though that wouldn’t be the strangest thing he had seen in space for a long shot.

They both finished their work within the two hour mark before heading back to Rockets ship to continue on. It wouldn’t take Rocket long to get all his shit together in order to grab Groot. Groot was going to be thrilled that he picked up a couple of strays along the way, the Flora colossus did enjoy meeting new people even if all they understood was I Am Groot.

Rocket could see that his two new passengers had fallen asleep in a small out of the way corner on the ship. Rocket elected to leave both alone as he plotted out the way he was going to get Groot back.

One way or another. @elegant-fleuret @aliasrocket @momahoneypleasesugar @honeypleasesugar

[quietwings-fics]

by accident or design

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Castiel & Hael) Additional Tags: Car Accidents, Blood and Injury, Episode: s09e01 I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Possession (Supernatural), Fear of Death Wordcount: 798 Summary:

Castiel’s plan to crash the car goes horribly wrong.

Notes:

For day 22’s prompt: vehicular accident

The car swerved like Castiel planned for. He couldn’t have expected the sudden lurch in his gut as they ran off the road. He couldn’t have known they were going so fast. Being in a car almost felt like standing still, without even the wind rushing past to orient him. The trees came at the car between one blink and the next, and then metal screamed around him as the car came to a brief and sudden stop. 

The seatbelt yanked on his chest as his body careened forward. Only the air in his lungs escaped.

He had a second to look to his left, but Hael was gone, the windscreen shattered.

And then the car was in motion again, unsatisfied with its first impact. It warped itself around the tree it had first hit and rolled, taking Castiel with it. The world he was only allowed to see through fractured glass tilted, faster and faster as the car picked up speed one last time. Its engine gave a death rattle as it turned him over, throwing him up — or down — before rolling again and slamming him back into his seat.

The seatbelt kept him firmly in place, holding tight despite his bodies protests. He heard something crack, and vivid pain, so much louder, more physical, than anything he’d ever known as an angel, exploded up his body. His chest convulsed, and the pain grew worse as he tried to pull in a breath. Something warm bubbles at the back of his throat, a metallic smell filling his nostrils.

The car gave one last groaning heave before it settled on its back. Castiel hung helplessly in his seatbelt. He kept trying to choke in air, but he couldn’t fill his lungs without it hurting. 

Deliriously, through the pain, he realized that the Winchesters would never know if he died out here. He wasn’t an angel anymore. He wasn’t someone they could pray to, or summon, or track. He would disappear from their lives the way countless others of their friends had, without even a last word, only a promise that he’d find them soon.

And he would never know if Sam was okay. That somehow scared him worse than being forgotten on the side of the road.

He heard a pained cry from beside him. Blood was rushing to his head and dripping down into the roof of his mouth. He rolled his head to look through the shattered window on his side of the car to see Hael, broken, dragging herself to his side.

She couldn’t heal a vessel that was rejecting her anymore than he could fix his own mangled insides. 

She forced herself to look up at him. “You’ll kill us both,” she yelled. “Is that what you want?” He couldn’t tell the difference between blood and furious tears streaking down her face.

“You’ll find another vessel.” He had to spit out blood to say it, and more welled up before he’d done, faster and faster with every passing moment. His vision seemed dim around the edges, but he forced himself to stay for as long as he could. Where did an angel go after death, one with no grace and no soul? Would he cease to exist at all?

“I barely found this one!” He could hear the desperation in her voice. “We don’t have anywhere to return to, Castiel!”

Angels without vessels, losing themselves amid the chaos humanity had created, dead satellites and radio waves and television broadcasts. Angels caught like birds in telephone wires, tangled and strangled. All his fault. Every last death. All his fault.

“I wanted to see it,” Hael whispered, and he believed her. “I made things once. I just wanted to remember.” Castiel didn’t want to die. He did all of this, only to end up hurting them both more, as though he hadn’t learned his lesson yet about fighting the inevitable. His good intentions only ever made things worse. 

“Hael.” He choked, but he had her attention. He only needed to say one word. He could do that before his whole world went dark. If it meant living.

The man who gave him his voice, the body he now bargained with, spoke to him like a ghost, that’s not living. Castiel would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. Jimmy’s sacrifice had been selfless. Castiel was just scared to die. 

“Yes,” he told Hael. She stared at him.

“What is wrong with you?” He spat blood up against the car’s ceiling. He couldn’t get enough air anymore. The world was spinning. His chest was burning, too full, too heavy. 

She pulled herself closer to the car. The last thing Castiel saw was the blinding light of his sister’s true form before it sank under his skin.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[the-sycophant]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Prompt 01 - Envoy

Words| 971 -------------------- The creaking and groaning of the vessel was rhythmic, calming. She could imagine Llymlaen's arms rocking her to sleep. It was a comforting feeling, but an odd one. How gentle the sway was, yet so easily could turn nasty under the right circumstances. She could only imagine what Oschon might have seen in her. Still, it made her eyes heavy. Even more so sitting, sinking into a surprisingly plush cushion of a too elaborate chair. A chair meant to impress guests, surely. Finely carved wood uneven, done by hand, and adorned with gaudy buttons in the tufted ridges of the fabric of the back rest. Scrapes, scratches along the floorboards where the legs had been dragged recently, a bit of extra oil polished on the abrasions. She picked at the little tassels on the arm.

Dominique slapped her hand when their host's back was turned, and she glared at him.

"Tea, for you both?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Milk and sugar, please!"

He gave her a look, and her lips drew down into a pout, pulled her down further into that chair. "I said please..." She grumbled to him. His following expression was a dare, one she didn't take.

Their host was ever so gracious, giving them both teacups also meant for special guests, spoons meant for special guests. She couldn't stop her lip from curling up. It would have pressed less on her nerves if everything in the room had matched. Their host's own seat was used. Worn. Soft leather sunken in from where the Hyur had sat for gods knows how long. Molded to the shape and weight of his ass, the color rubbed raw. Perhaps not even real leather. Regardless, it had stories. Probably even came with the ship.

Marlowe sniffed.

She could smell the smoke clinging to his skin, contrasting to the fresh linen scent of his sleeves. She wondered how nervous he was when he set down those little teacups, her milk and sugar. Wondered how many cigarettes he smoked before they boarded, trying to hide the stink of his anxiety with a change of wardrobe. Marlowe also wondered why he even bothered. Dominique was not a man to be impressed by such things, or annoyed by such things. She wondered how the other man could try to arrange a meeting like this without doing a little bit of research on a potential business partner. Even paying off a maid to know something simple like that Lord Dominique Cartier did not, in fact, enjoy tea, but favoured coffee. That he liked antiques and old furniture, things that were lived in. That he was not like his wife.

Marlowe leaned forward, pinched a sugar cube between her fingers, popped it into her mouth. Their host frowned as she left her tea untouched, dropping one, two, three cubes into the small creamer. Drank from it. That frown turned into a grimace. Marlowe ignored his attempt at judging her tastes, or lack of. 

Dominique was much more graceful, well practiced as a proper lord should be, long fingers taking the handle. Admired the design of it, the craftsmanship. Flattering the man's choices despite them being the wrong ones. Sipped politely, gave an equally polite compliment to the blend.

Marlowe tried not to chortle. It was difficult, and she had to take another swig of sugared milk to stifle herself. He could lie so easily, so charmingly. She was envious of that.

"Why, Miss Morning will be our envoy, of course."

The new business associate looked her over. She did the same to him, too lost in her thoughts to recall what it was they were talking about.

"Miss Morning...?"

She hated the way her name sounded on his tongue, how heavy it dipped in tone in shouldering his disbelief.

"Indeed." Dominique patted her hand absently, adoringly. "Miss Morning is the lucky charm of the Larme d'argent Trading Company. She will watch over your merchandise and see to its delivery. We have not been raided in months with her assistance. Our business has had no loss of product since her arrival, and we would like to extend our good will to your company, as well, as part of our agreement." The spoon tink tink tinked against the side of his cup as he spun the fluid around absently. Still giving the tea his attention though he did not wish to drink it. "The manner in which she works is a trade secret, I'm afraid. My wife would certainly end me were I to spill. You understand, don't you?"

The man did seem to understand, curiously enough. Marlowe perked up at that, wondering what sort of run in he had with the Lady Cartier. No one quite seemed to like her. Not even her Lord.

"Very well." The Hyur huffed. "The girl and one attendant. Should she need another--"

"She will only take the one, I'm afraid." The cup was set down, and then the Elezen was standing. Quickly. One smooth movement as his hand went to the polished wooden buttons on his jacket to redo them about his slender waist. "I'd like to see the blueprints of the vessel she will be on now, if you do not mind. I will be sharing it with her companion. I hope you had copies prepared, as I asked."

Marlowe hummed, legs swinging under the chair that was too tall for her, sinking into the seat. She could sleep like this. She could. Needed to. She had been awake for far too long to accompany Dominique into the afternoon. She was tired of traveling, of being amongst traders. She wanted to go to the city...perhaps buy something new...eat something warm...And she let Llymlaen lull her consciousness down deep, lower and lower as the sound of the conversation of the two was swallowed up.

[heliianth]

omg return of the king (HTTYD FIC!!!!!!!) 🌟🌟

ya!!! i cant promise anything man i dont even know if ill add anything but like . im thinking abt it yanno? anyway. uh. the wip (its long be warned). becuz i luh u <3 <3

When escaping the circle of midnight sun, usually waiting for the melt was the most tedious part. The sky hung grey with slow day, clouds of snow-fog blanketing his ship with frost. Though winter was slowly releasing her grip, this far north still felt her fingers, long and bloodless. Under his boots cracked a thin layer of ice.

They made this journey annually, at the peak of Cockoo’s Month. Their ship pioneered past razored ice sheets and an ever-fluctuating landscape of bergs as they were swept south by cold ocean currents. Lantern light reflected against their dark surfaces, waning like so many little moons, a great blanket of manmade stars. This crew was used to plodding around during the forever morning, the sun a constant overhang and daytime an insidious cloak. Lesser men’s heads might ache with pervading sunlight and their cheeks grow feverish with sickness. If the sleep deprivation didn’t rot the mind, it was the calls of unreachable Seashockers and Northern Scauldrons as they fought in pods underneath the ice. And if it wasn’t them, it was the already captured dragons, whose rest cycles were so disrupted that attempted sleep was always accompanied by a cacophony of bellowing. 

By design, their single ship, Skinfaxi, was meant to withstand it all; both the fragile mind and their conditions. A tall, bulky seamaiden with a metal hull and winches anchored to the deck by foot-long nails, she held them over while they trudged around the outskirts of dragon territory. Her three floors, each connected by worn stairs, were dark and humid enough to soften sores in frostbitten nostrils, and her cargo bay was stuffed with mead and exotic seasonings which flavored even the driest jerky. Every vulnerable part was plated with expensive dragonproof metal and while they rarely encountered dragonroot arrows in markets, they used stockpiles wisely. Skinfaxi hadn’t been so much as grazed by a dragon in at least a decade. 

Dragon hunting was a southern trade, down near the floor of the archipelago, where nests teemed with fuckers of all kinds to net and cage. Hunting brigades never travelled into the midnight sun circle—populations tended to die further north than that and the rough waters were too much for the convoys usually employed by contractors. Dragon territory only started up here if you went way past what sane people would consider safe, but Briger had earned him and his men a small fortune offering to net here. When you arrived at that sweet spot, where the sea gave way into an actual continent instead of miles of walkable ice and seal holes, the breeds grew big and the yield became bountiful. 

Despite their competency, Briger and Skinfaxi were used to being looked over. His crew, mostly consisting of family and family’s friends, were from poor fishing villages beset by raids, whose ancestors were no-names and whose yellow, crooked teeth hid behind yellow-frosted beards. They bet on Gris games and bit their nails bloody and smelled like sweat and dirt. At least a few men had replaced limbs, thick, untranslatable accents, and bastards running around somewhere at home. They were not esteemed and shaven like southmen, but they got the job done well enough. 

Briger held pride in his work, his ship, his men. They were a reliable service and got reliable results. Sometimes contractors would specify something outrageous just to be difficult, but their cages housed everything from Snow Wraiths to Stormcutters and all came back in nice enough condition to be marketable. Their reputation was contained but good, and Briger was seeing wealth the likes of which Daddy never could’ve imagined hadn’t he been drunk off his ass before he kicked it. Now, he could even afford to be stingy with who he dealt with. Who would’ve thought? 

Still, Briger knew when to haggle and when to be hired. 

Right before Briger planned to make his annual trek, a bear-furred man with a large, tattooed underbite docked in the Northern Markets. His was a recognizable presence and his convoy was ill with riches; the frequents tittered about his arrival in a way that piqued Briger’s interest. Apparently, the bear man’s hunting business was renowned down south. Briger might’ve invited him to a drink had he not thundered towards him first with a small army in tow. 

Sporting a healthy sense of self-preservation, Briger accepted the rate he was offered like a flogged woman without an ounce of backchat. And when the nutjob uttered his request, face red with sweat and his fingers black with the gnawing linger of ice, Briger knew that he’d done something to make the gods mad. 

He fully expected him and his crew to drown in the northern ice sheets looking for a crazy man’s myth. 

======

The melt took almost a month; dangerously close to moonrise. In northern dragon territory, that was not good, to put it lightly. To be caught out on the snow the minute the midnight sun went down was a death sentence, and Briger’s crew narrowly missed it the minute a wide channel cleared in the ice. By the time the frost on the wood melted, the ship was so noisy with dragon crying that Briger had forgotten the sound of his own thoughts. They quieted right up by the time night came—real night, that would end in at an appropriate time instead of overstaying six months. 

The Northern Markets were a constant landmark; a misty silhouette on the horizon. Briger couldn’t help but observe what they were bringing into port, more self-conscious than he’d been in his life. Their emblazoned sails were hoisted high, oars lined in piles against the deck railing. The dragon cages had been pulled to the side, blanketed in soaked extra sail cloth, to keep their accursed eyes from staring and their fire down. 

The weather these past few days had been abysmal; the air down here wasn’t what could be described as wet, but it was right tropical compared to the ice sheets, and that meant sleet storms pulled through every few days. It had given him a few bloody noses, which he’d rubbed raw enough to hurt in every inhale. But Briger couldn’t mind it. His fingers could already feel the coin. 

“These requirements are gods-damned ‘bleedin us,” Svend groused from beside him. His breath wheezed the tiniest bit, and he pulled down his hood to separate his greasy hair from his forehead. “We’re gonna lose more than we’re getting, boss.”

“Nah.” Briger’s fidgety, itchy hands were worn from cloth-pulling and rope-rubbing, and a few of his callouses bled from pinching. He looked down at Svend’s, the exposed of which was decorated with an angry bite mark. “Little shit got you good, didn’t ‘e?” 

Svend displayed it with a deep scowl. “The sagefruit ain’t work, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A wave rocked the boat, blew salty spray on board and into their mouths. Briger wiped his, stroked his spittled beard and tucked it under his elbows. “On the savage or the dragon?” 

“The fuck you think?” Svend rubbed it with his other gloved hand, making a face that looked like he’d eaten something expired. His crooked pinky stuck out sideways with a pink flush and his teeth were still spotted with tack and his nose flared with indignance. 

“Well, put ‘somethin on it if it’s making you so sour,” Briger told him. 

“We got other problems too, man,” Svend raved with a peculiar petulance. He was usually a casual man, with a habit of gambling and a hobby for pissing self-important knobheads off and getting his face smeared for it. He was an adrenaline seeker and usually lived for scraps. Not with their new catch, apparently. “Thing ‘won drink, ‘won eat. Smart enough to figure it all out after the dragon passed out. Like a mangy dog with twice the fight in ‘et.” 

“The thing’ll starve if it don’t eat,” Briger gestured with a hand, like he was showing off an array of plated food options in front of him. “Et’ll get taken care of in shipping. Eret’s got a contractor, ‘member?” 

“Bo tried knocking ‘em out to treat the tag and came back with his tail between his legs. ‘Yer guy’s gonna get a fucking finger taken off.” Again, Svend showed him the bite. He’d been gotten deep, and it looked like there’d been a struggle. They’d likely thrashed each other and both of them probably regretted that. “I mean it, this was a bad call. We’re mucking around in bad shit.”

Skinfaxi’s sharp bow parted the fog. The Market loomed despite their distance. Already he could taste it—“We’re gonna draw a crowd,” he hummed absentmindedly.

“‘Brig,” Svend insisted, laying his gloved hand on his shoulder. Briger shrugged him off, callous. “C’mon. I know ‘yer smelling gold, but this is my whole life.”

“What, you got a wife and daughter?”

“Don’t say that shit,” Svend sneered. The bite mark he was once nursing like a mother was suddenly unimportant enough for his hands to curl into fists. “You’re just scared of Eret and you’re scared of ‘givin this to ‘em.”

If Briger were more arrogant than he was, he might’ve taken him up on the aggression and knocked another one of Svend’s teeth loose. As it happened, they parted before either of them could get pissy enough to escalate further. They’d have a nice long drink of cheap market wine and this would be forgotten by the morning, Briger thought, then they’d get back to normal once they offhauled. He would never see Eret or his southern business again. 

Briger spent his time at Skinfaxi’s bow, leaning over the whorling ocean with a creased brow, as they approached that island speck. The tip and sway of the water was that of a cradle, his men’s hollering as they made landfall a lullaby. But as the island grew bigger, the colors vivid, idea erupting into true destination, the Market became so much more daunting. If before it loomed, now it threatened. What small vessels usually circled for precious space were absent, and the entire place exuded the same haunt as the ice wastes they’d just escaped. Something was amiss, and not a moment sooner Briger spotted why. 

A dozen or so warships awaited them, much too oversized for the Market’s harbor, which was merchant-crafted and merchant-minded. Each was massive, with armor that reflected what meager sunlight aimed true and gleaming ballistas which faced like spines outwards. Their masts waved high in the air and their sigil was one Briger had never seen before, painted bright red. 

His face paled and he threw himself into preparing to dock, throwing down the anchor furthest away from the sea tanks. Skinfaxi rocked into a halt. Her sails folded, her rigging slack. The captive dragons lowed and screeched, recognizing the place’s smell. 

Briger watched his men dive below deck. He stayed above and searched, skittish for their man. 

Eret met them punctually. He was with his same bearskin and his combed hair that looked far too princely for such a brutish face shape. He was stained with shadow; the man wasn’t big, but he filled his space well enough, and yet he was dwarfed when compared to…

Briger froze. 

When compared to his companion. 

If Eret drew eyes, this man was so immense that he dragged everything around him into a vortex. His hair hung in dreads across his expansive shoulders and his two exposed arms displayed flesh thick with muscle and as wide as tree trunks. He was a brick of a man, armed to the teeth, and Briger recognized him on impact. 

Oh gods, how he wished they’d been stuck in the moonrise back up north. He’d thought he’d won back his life by the skin of his teeth, but dying out there would’ve been quicker and kinder. Even though Briger was not a particularly religious man, he found himself praying as he forced his arms to lower the ramp. The greeting sound of it against the harbor was an explosion that threatened to take off his head. Then, feeling choked, he stumbled down it like a drunkard. 

Usually dragon hauls attracted the attention of the whole market. Northern breeds were exotic and dangerous, and sometimes buyers would take days to arrive, leaving the beasts on display next to the ships where onlookers could gaggle at them and make hunters preen. Auctions were held and often fighting rings swept by to advertise or invest. To say the Northern Market oozed with dragon addicts would be an understatement. But to have it so silent was unheard of. 

He couldn’t tell if the arrival of their cargo or the presence of Eret’s previously anonymous contractor was what shut the seabirds and gossips up. Even the dragons up top were utterly noiseless. 

The top of their cargo became visible, then the whole thing, metallic teal warps standing out against so much wooden brown and neutral steel. The cage’s wheels squealed, rusty from melted frost, and it bumped along the ramp and clattered when it went horizontal. Bo and Ulf pushed it with their backs and shoulders, unwilling to stick their fingers in there for even a moment. 

Though the reek of sagefruit still clung to every inch of it, the Night Fury inside was very much awake. Its wings were spread for balance, making the thing look like it filled out the whole oversized box. Its ears turned, radars picking up nothing, its teeth bared at everything. Half of its delicate tail fin had been torn by the grapple; the combination of sharp metal meant for traction and the thing’s sheer velocity a recipe that led to damage. It was a nasty wound, with leftover gore, though they cauterized and fixed up what they could to make sure it didn’t die on them. And despite the fact that its hurting tail was lashing and making a racket of the bars, its attention remained single-minded, tongue flicking between those razors like it was imagining the taste of flesh. 

And between its legs, spine arched against its belly, was the thing’s little devil-boy. He wore a new bruise on his jaw which was framed by strands of greasy hair that hid a different head wound in piles of shorn clumps. His rapid, terrified breaths clouded in the air, seeped from behind his curled lip, bloody gums exposed. All in all they were an aggressive, unhappy, sorry sight. 

Briger was intimately aware of the drop of sweat carving a path down the nape of his neck. 

With an embarrassing flourish of showmanship, he presented their catch, goosebumps sending burns down his spine where the two demons pressed their hating stares into him. 

Drago Bludvist appraised the merchandise indifferently and sniffed. “You tagged them.”

pretend this is a new chapter woooo yippeee yay ^-^

Hvergelmir gurgled spring water from the depths of the south. From it spilled the eleven rivers Elivagar into the vast nothingness and their venom congealed into slush, hardened by void’s touch. Rimed with sour venomous dribble, layers of ice and hoarfrost created a frozen, biting realm in the Ginnungagap: a great and desolate Niflheim.

Lurgy Island was shaped like a pillbug, low to sea level, and sloped. The east side tapered off into a pebbled beach littered with debris and the west side ended in a dropoff from which an inconsiderate man might fall to death from, body brutalized by the invisible rocks underneath the whitewater. It was guarded by natural barriers made of wind-sharpened stones that threatened to gore passing ships, and small whirlpools formed in the sea shelf that marked the abrupt edge of Lurgy’s shallow coast. It was far enough south that Skadi kept her snow for the winter months, but high enough north to be considered part of the Barbaric Archipelago. 

Lurgy, the hamlet for which the island was named, consisted of just over a hundred living in only a handful of timber longhouses. When a Lurgy man married, his wife’s family would move into his place, so you could be forgiven for thinking the amount of houses entirely inadequate for even such a small number of people. 

Despite their awkward economic position and geographical hazards, the people of Lurgy found the island was inundated with rain-watered soil rich enough to grow crops. They made their living exchanging barley, rye, and oats with the northmen whose islands were rankled by ice and forests. They managed a port twice the size of the village with imported wood and had a proud and longstanding, tight-knit community that valued hard work and occasionally indulged in humble luxury.

It was just over Lurgy’s hundredth winter when Randi Tovesdottir, who’d grown up in the quiet village her whole life, decided staying any longer was utterly unbearable. 

Winters past marrying age, Randi’s disposition drove away the few men her age that might’ve been willing. Any suitors her family tried to cajole into her were already brothers, or knew far too many embarrassing stories for her ego to withstand. Randi was a seamstress’ daughter with a lumberjack’s build who knew her way around an axe and a needle. She handled both with grace yet enjoyed neither, with a plaintive sort of restlessness that beguiled a trapped thing.

To put it simply, she thought she was uncontainable. Her voice was loud and brash, she towered over her childhood friends, and the skills her father introduced her to were sharpened until she believed herself invincible. By age eight she’d explored the whole island with an obsessiveness that only predators hunting down a kill could replicate. Around the age of her first bleed, she began to find the smell of their hearth intolerable, the chatter of her parents incessant, the generous spaces between longhouses confining. Every gentle prod about growing up was a deeply troublesome reminder of something undefinable to everyone but Randi herself. She was claustrophobic in the extreme. For a girl in Lurgy, these things boiled over into tense, sleepless nights after a collage of colorful arguments about her place in life. Truly Lurgy occupied a special place in her heart, the way only homes could, but she had a habit of running eastward and gazing out at the horizon. Her mother, Tove, called her dreams unfathomably big, but Randi believed the world was wide enough to fit all of them. So she kept casting her fishing lines towards the sun. 

And one day she caught something.

Randi was only looking for her daily aloneness she so craved on the eastern cliffs when she spotted a pair of longboats approaching them. She recognized the crest, and her eyes reflected the morning light, and she ran barefooted into Lurgy with a big grin on her face. The ships from Berk were here!

Berk was Lurgy’s biggest trade partner. And unlike many of the other islands in the Archipelago, including Lurgy themselves, they were startlingly isolated.

Randi had seen dragons before, she knew people who’d killed more than they could count on both hands. She’d taken a few herself. Lurgy was no stranger to the Dragon War. But with the Berkian longboats always came the scales and the teeth and the claws. Their village was overrun with dragons of all shapes and colors—so many they had nothing to do with their remains. It scared off any traveling merchant types, blocked trade routes, and recently there had been a rumor of a nautically-spread Berkian disease that attracted dragons to the smell of your piss. 

It was a surety that Lurgy might’ve never taken up business with them had their Chief—if you could call an ornery old man with wispy smatterings of patched blond beard and no family name who governed through age rather than any real lineage Lurgy’s Chief--not had such good relations with Berk’s own Chief. “Battle-brothers,” Aleinn called them, “forged in fiery dragon’s blood and good old tribes meeting mead.” 

The arrangement was for the betterment of both villages. Berk was so infested with dragonfire that any crops they might have tried to grow would burn up if snow didn’t smother every winter. They had enough land to grow yaks, sheep, and chickens, who ate from grass pastures and grass seed, so they were wealthy enough to buy Lurgy’s stock. In return, Lurgy bought dragon scales and teeth in droves, which were as good as coins in the North. Nadder scales were like silver, Nightmare scales like gold. To islands down south, it was an untranslatable worth and every tribe would be considered dirtily poor. Up here flourished an economy built on savage heroism. Randi couldn’t help but marvel at Berk’s collections every time they pulled in.

She cut knuckles and sliced calluses digging through the beach for seaglass, which she would painstakingly shape into ornaments worth Berk’s scales. She got herself a neat trade working with tool and thread to create things she was proud enough to sell, but too connected with to let go. Every time she gave up one in an exchange and watched the ships sail out to sea days later, it felt like Berk was taking little bits of her with them. 

This was especially true when she met Knat, the son of the Berkian representative that led their trade ships to Lurgy. 

When he caught her eye, Knat was not so remarkable. Every Berkian subsisted off of a protein-heavy diet which wore down their teeth and made them heavy-bodied. He was a thick, dark-haired, and short boy with a few balls of fuzz on his chin and a dense forest on his upper lip. Unbeknownst to Randi, who saw the best of his demeanor, Knat had a juvenile fascination with competition. His youth was spent one-upping his peers, jeering at stragglers, quarreling with his brother, and idolizing his father. At Randi’s age, he hadn’t shed any of these traits, only buried them underneath a generous coat of rightful humbling. By Berk standards Knat was ordinary in the extreme. His only particularly noteworthy claim to superiority at this time in his life was the fact that he was the second in line to the Hofferson clan. 

But Knat’s jaw was sharp, and his nose was strong, and his eyes were kind whenever he spoke to strangers. He had a voice that carried so far one might think it was stolen by birds, and a countenance that belied expertise handling weapons taller than grown men. These were the only things Randi, who had no idea of his familial status nor how Berk’s clans even worked, needed to fall madly in love. Without speaking to him once, she began to think of him as a representation of escape; the Berkians, with their untamed hair, masses of pelted cloaks, scars, and dragon scales were the definition of wilderness and adventure. Whatever Lurgy was, Berk was more so. And Knat was the pinnacle of it all. 

She became so preoccupied with the rugged ferality of Berk and Knat that her mother began to take notice. When she indicated she knew of Randi’s new fixation, her daughter became paralyzed. So long had she associated her hometown and those native to it with entrapment that she feared she’d be forced into an unhappy marriage and tied down forever. But Tove took the harrowing first step for her and told Knat as he was in the middle of selling boar hooves to her husband, with only the bluntness a crone could manage, “My daughter is obsessed with you.” 

At first, Knat was wary of her advances. Any other boy his age might’ve jumped at the opportunity to get involved with a young, reasonably pretty and certainly skilled girl so interested in him, but Knat was painfully conscious of his father’s acceptance and his brother’s opinion. He was entirely occupied with appearance and his place back home, and though he began to notice Randi’s shy, sneaky stares whenever he happened over at Lurgy, he never did anything about her brewing determination to be seen. Then, two winters later, Knat gave into the preening, tingling part of his mind that told him to take a chance on something wonderful.

He worked for a month learning womanish crafts to make her a bag out of Zippleback bladder and reindeer hide she could use to put her seaglass in so she wouldn’t scrape up her hands. Despite Finn inciting vicious mockery over the image of his mountainous Viking older brother hunched over to make a poor man’s attempt at embroidery, he felt not a smidge of shame. The end result was similarly misshapen, crude, and plain, but it glowed with time and care. Then, Knat got on his knees and begged to be on the next expedition out to Lurgy. 

Their romance was young and swift. Knat indulged wholly in Randi’s ideas by spinning tales of victory in Berk’s Kill Ring and imagery of grand coniferous forests backdropped by glaciers which made mountains lopsided with weight. What she imagined of Berk’s arching landscapes and fields of sea stacks only worsened the pain in her chest. Her staring out onto the horizon became pointed northward, with a chin rested mournfully on her hand and a heaved sigh. Tove described her as a wife waiting for a husband to return from war, and she supposed that with Berk’s dragon problem, one part was true.

The other part became true soon after. Randi’s father, a gruff man with staunch worldviews that often got him into trouble with her mother, had a weak spot for his daughter and found no fault in Knat, who had truthfully approached him last quarter to ask the same thing. That spring, Berk pulled into Lurgy’s docks with a dowry. It wasn’t a surprise; Randi helped work on the small pen for the livestock that she’d be worth—Knat had wanted to pay more, but Lurgy didn’t have that kind of space, and the Hofferson clan didn’t want to spend that kind of wealth on a girl from a little farming village. Nonetheless, all parties were satisfied. 

The first night, the newly betrothed found themselves overwhelmed with their proximity. The cabins were cramped, the bed singular. Actually leaving home wasn’t nearly as weightless as Randi had believed. Instead her stomach rolled and her bones went numb watching Lurgy disappear. Seeking adventure, she pushed Knat down on the bed and they filled the room with sweat. Knat pulled her close, body a furnace and hands quivering. He told her they needed to get married quickly after arrival, just to be safe, because there were no contraceptive herbs on the boat. Randi cried so hard her head pounded, suddenly ill with indecision. 

On the eve of the second day on the boat, Randi caught her first glimpse of Berk. She expected to be invigorated, energized, but she couldn’t move as they swayed towards the arching, spired landscape. The growing dusk didn’t light up the sky in wonderful colors, the newborn stars didn’t shine. There was a thick miasma of storm clouds hanging onto the peak of the giant mountain which stuck out of the water like a monumental shard of ancient stone. Quilts of trees protruded from nearly every slope like hairs, and the village itself sat on a wide shelf overlooking the water, directly bathed in the struggling sunset. It stood out so harshly against the empty, ruthless ocean. It was a grand and daunting sight. After a life devoid of humbling, how could she not stare? 

Twelve days north of hopeless and only a few degrees south of freezing-to-death, floating towards her new home directly along the meridian of misery, something quenched her. Like the freezing air had erased all of her wanderlust with a gentle scrape. Under the descending night, eyes locked with her new home, Randi was now perfectly content standing still. 

======

“How are you doing?” Astrid balanced the supper tray on the nightstand and perched on the edge of the bed. Her body sank.  

Móðir reached a hewn hand toward Astrid, her face grim. “This is humiliating,” she said, and sent herself into a flurry of hoarse, grated coughing. 

“It’s not,” Astrid reached for the mug on the tray and placed it, delicate, into Móðir’s fragile fingers. She strangled it and looked at Astrid with some disbelieving derision. “I’m serious,” Astrid insisted. 

Móðir ignored her attempts to help her sit up so she could drink. The straw-stuffed pillow crunched underneath her weight, fabric crinkling. She eyed the warm milk, something contemplative coming over her, before speaking. “So there’s been luck with the yaks?” 

Knowing what she was attempting, Astrid made a motion that conveyed she’d whack the mug’s bottom and spill it if Móðir didn’t hurry up. “Just drink.” 

Móðir sighed and leaned back, tipping the mug upward. Sweat beaded down the hollow of her neck, her forehead and cheeks and nose grew rosier. The wet sheen to her hairline made her skin metal underneath the candlelight. Despite her exertion, like every convulsion of her throat threatened to strangle her, Móðir refused Astrid’s assistance. 

“I’ve also brought cheese and bread.” Astrid distracted herself by pulling the supper tray onto her lap, which pushed her into the cushioned bed even more. She’d refused to let Móðir lay on the wooden slabs they normally used for sleep, and created a huge mattress out of her own blankets and grass. 

The unfamiliar terrain made her feel ten times as heavy, especially when she looked back at Móðir and saw the way milk ran down her chin in undignified rivulets, then sprayed when she hacked into her elbow. Móðir tried to clean it away with her hands mittoned by the quilt, but Astrid recognized the shake in them.

“This is humiliating,” she repeated. 

“You’re sick,” Astrid told her. Then she held up an ugly chunk of cheese. “What sort of daughter would I be if I let you starve?”

“Oh, everyone’s getting thin nowadays,” Móðir dismissed her with a croak. Even so, she took Astrid’s offer and let the cheese melt on her tongue, bitten nails lingering on her chin as if to manually chew. Her next words were coated with spit: “The next Giving is coming up.” 

At the mention of the Givings, Astrid’s face soured. She manhandled the slices of bread and tore them into bite-sized balls with far too much force. Her jaw, clenched, refused to form words. 

Móðir inspected her. “Astrid.”

“I know,” is all she could provide. Then, to make up for it, she produced a torn slice, which her mother frowned at. “I don’t know what I’m going to put out.” 

“Well,” Móðir rolled the bread into a compact ball, thumb knuckle going white. She braced her temples with two fingers, concentrating. “What did you put out last time?” 

“An axe,” Astrid mumbled, not wanting to look her mother in the eyes, “...my axe.” 

She’d polished it for hours, until she could see her own reflection. The steel wasn’t pure, but Gobber never half-assed workmanship, and it was the best axe she had. It swung like an extension of her own arm, weighted beautiful and dangerous in her palm, the ashwood handle weathered. She won dragon training with it--she’d knocked a tooth out of the huge purple Nightmare with its blunt and killed the thing by driving the head into its neck. 

She fidgeted. Maybe the Dragon Master could smell the blood on her. Maybe that’s why he left it to collect dust outside for three days. 

All of the Hofferson clan’s Givings since she’d killed it at fifteen went unnoticed, and people in the village began to look at her sideways. Truthfully, it enraged her, and she had no desire to leave things out any longer. When the Givings started she thought it ridiculous, and now she believed it even more so, now that she could not conquer it. Rooted into her core was a deep and cantankerous sort of rebellion she’d never experienced before. What was one Giving without an offering if the Dragon Master never accepted anyway? 

“Astrid…” Móðir admonished again. The feeling of skinny, wide-jointed fingers twisted Astrid’s irate expression into exhaustion. Móðir was one such superstitious proponent; a believer in absolute destiny and holy belonging ever since she set foot on Berk. Her mouth opened and closed, partially searching for something to say and partially gasping in air like a fish. 

Astrid ripped another clump of bread from the crust. “I think the Givings are stupid.” She watched Móðir’s shifting face carefully. When she got nothing, she barreled onward. “They don’t work,” her hands clenched, “and not just for us! Not just because of me, Mamma!” She accused, “Did you know a month ago Gothi’s hut got stolen from? Even though her granddaughter’s offering worked the night before?” 

“Astrid,” she echoed, trying to sound stern with her brittle voice.  

“No!” She leapt up. The tray clattered all over the ground, bread and cheese spraying like blood from a wound. “It’s only been here three winters but everyone kowtowed immediately! What, because the merchants fear it? We’ve been dealing with dragons for centuries and now--” she grasped her tunic, sewn and modified to fit a muscular woman’s figure, cinched with the standard masculine belt for its shape. Now it hung off of her in drapes. To emphasize her point, she gestured with both of her arms to Móðir’s condition, barreling on despite her mother’s wince. “We’re thralls in our own village, Mamma! And--!” 

“I’ll make you a new one,” she interrupted. “And your father will help you pick out an offering.”

“There’s no more thread!” She waved her arms around, voice pitching. “This is insane! What happened to Vikings, Mamma?” 

Móðir’s throat bobbed when she swallowed. The mug she held on her lap, still trapping a film of milk, was easier to stare at than her face. 

Astrid turned away, rising indignation strangled by a sudden awareness of her blowsy. She was pierced by something barbed which made her feel like a child. All of that work to restore the Hofferson name after Uncle Finn, and it was useless. She’d sweated, and sacrificed, and whittled her skill into a knife’s point until there was no option left but success. Now someone else would have to work to restore the Hofferson name after her, all because some demon on the back of a Night Fury knew where to hit them the hardest. 

The last one to approach Berk had been shot down almost fifty winters ago by the Chief’s grandfather. Felled by the last dragonroot arrow from an indulgent investment, it had careened into the sea and they retrieved nothing of it. Freed of devilspawn, that summer’s was the best harvest they’d had seen, and their defenses flourished without explosions big enough to bring them down. The last five decades had been some of the most prosperous in Berk’s history, despite the uptick in raids. At least, that’s what the adults said. 

Astrid first heard the whistle when she was fourteen. She’d been on fire patrol. Fear had struck her stupid and she narrowly avoided being crushed by the southern catapult that had exploded into a fiery shower of shrapnel. For days afterwards she’d pick out splinters or discover burns she didn’t remember getting. 

After that, things started going missing. Their hunting traps broke, taken apart and dumped somewhere else, often down cliffs or into lakes, and would keep breaking even if they set new ones. Gobber’s shop, which had once been a go-to for trading items due to how much scrap it’d accumulated over his decades working there, would be ravaged. Tools and leftovers and once even a whole anvil were gone by sunrise. Their bolas were stripped of rope, their fishing boats robbed of nets. 

Astrid won dragon training in trousers so raggedy she could’ve been mistaken for an Outcast. 

One night, devoid of raids, the village woke up to resounding booms coming from the direction of the sea. Standing outside, they realized it came from the Kill Ring. Investigation yielded a chilling scene—all of their captured dragons released, the doors methodically deconstructed and then blasted into useless lumps of metal. In the soot remaining were boot soles and a single, small handprint, walking side by side with unfamiliar dragon paws.

Berk broke into hysteria. 

thats all i got :) thumbsup

[atangledfate]

The White Wolf made her way across the base by phasing her way through wall, after wall. Like a ghost she dashed past security, ignoring them for the most part. As she zipped through in a straight line. While blaze had to look the hard way and figure where her point of exit would be. She easily found her way to the air strip where a small automated chopped was waiting for her. The chopper had no markings, on it and no pilot. It was a simple pick up and delivery drone designed for this sort of mission.

Specter dashed across the run way as fast as she could muster aiming to jump into the Chopper and evac before anyone could track her down.

This was what she was trained for... She was a ghost, and no one would ever know she was ever here.

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Amy jerked her head away at the smelling salts and shoved it away from her nose as she instantly regretted moving. She sunk back down onto the concrete and winced her hand touching the side of her head. She was dizzy, nauseated and confused by what had happened. Her eyes struggled to focus but slowly the belle bot came into view which confused her more for a moment.

She took the ice pack placing it on her head and wincing as she glanced around. She slowly started to remember. She and blaze arrived and split up. she wanted to mobilize Restoration Security forces to repel Clutches ship, and deal with GUN. But then--- she had a huge blank in her memory. She knew she got attacked but the details were fuzzy.

" Save what you can... ugg, i don't think i should move right now..."

she mumbled out

" Be careful... who ever attacked me could still be close by... i just--- don't remember what hit me. But it was fast... its all a blur... i'll be ok. If they wanted me dead i think i'd be dead..."

She didn't know that for sure but those funds were VITAL, more so then her well being. She couldn't tell Belle that though, so she kept her mouth shut.

Luckily for Belle Lanolin came around the corner skidding across the pavement and dropping down Next to Amy looking worried at her. But at least she was awake which was a good thing. but she looked awful, and there was blood. She looked at Belle not knowing what was going on but wanting to get Amy to safety. She barely got to say anything before Blaze split up from her and she had no idea where she was now either. Hopefully she was able to find the assailant.

" Amy, are you alright? "

She had other questions but right now that was the most vital question.

" Belle? is that you? ah, nevermind! i'll get Command Rose to the infirmary... i can't believe anyone would attack her, or better yet take her out... i hope Blaze is ok on her own..."

Blaze was less then pleased to hear that someone attacked Amy, though was confident this individual couldn't have taken her head on. "Then I shall find them and ensure they don't escape and they shall regret attacking one of my friends." The feline may not know her way around the base, though if they were to escape they had to do it above ground so that's where she'd look.

"And if it was GUN behind this then I'll have more than a few choice words for this Commander." Blaze then dashed off, leaving a faint trail of flame as she began running all around the base looking for anyone attempting to leave or out of the ordinary. Though it was certainly bigger than she thought so she stuck to the outer area. Hopefully she'd find the attacker before they managed to escape.

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Belle Bot would walk over to Amy, an compartment opening on it's left arm which it reached into and pulled out some smelling salts. The bot would rub it under the hedgehog's nose to wake her up. "Amy, are you okay?" Belle's voice aske through the robot so it came a robotic tone to it. "You might have a concussion so try not to stand up too quickly." Vitals seemed stable, though she'd certainly have a headache for a few hours.

An error sign then appeared on Belle Bot's eyes. "Oh dear, someone just wiped our servers. Thank goodness I hadn't attached Belle Bot to it yet or it would've fried her systems." The most Belle managed to do is to give access to the bot, though didn't fully sync it with the servers. Another compartment then opened up on the bots right arm which it pulled out an ice pack. "This should help with your head a bit."

Belle Bot then stood back up. "I can try and go save what I can from the server's and copy it to Belle Bot if you want. Not sure what I can, though if I'm fast enough I could save the funds. Do you want me to try?" Belle wasn't sure what Amy wanted her to do, though felt like trying something couldn't hurt. Though she was also worried about the hedgehog as if the attacker was working for Mimic they could double back. Then again they didn't try to kill her, though that only left GUN.