#sloped wal

[whatsernameanyways]

Master Bedroom

Large mountain style master carpeted and beige floor bedroom photo with beige walls and no fireplace

[shiftingbikeculture]

Master Bedroom Large mountain style master carpeted and beige floor bedroom photo with beige walls and no fireplace

[leaksinbathroom]

How to Prevent Bathroom Leaks During Renovations in Perth

Bathroom renovations are an excellent way to enhance the value and functionality of your home, but without proper precautions, leaks can become a costly aftermath. Ensuring leak prevention during renovations requires a focus on quality installations, advanced waterproofing techniques, and durable material selection.

1. Prioritise Professional Water Leak Detection Before Renovations

Before starting any renovation, it’s essential to identify and address existing leaks. Professional services specialising in water leak detection in Perth can pinpoint hidden issues, such as faulty pipes or damaged seals, that could worsen with renovation work. This proactive approach helps prevent problems from compounding during or after the project.

2. Invest in High-Quality Waterproofing

Waterproofing is a critical element in leak prevention, especially in areas like showers, bathtubs, and around sinks. Ensure your contractor uses high-quality waterproofing membranes, sealants, and tapes to protect vulnerable areas. Proper waterproofing ensures water doesn’t seep into subfloors or walls, significantly reducing the risk of leaks.

Apply waterproofing layers to walls and floors.

Seal corners, joints, and edges with silicone or specialised sealants.

Use a reputable waterproofing system designed to meet Australian standards.

3. Select Durable Materials

Choosing the right materials can make or break your bathroom’s long-term integrity. Invest in products that are water-resistant and durable:

Tiles & Grout: Use non-porous tiles and epoxy grout to prevent water absorption and cracking.

Pipes & Fixtures: Opt for corrosion-resistant plumbing materials like copper or high-quality plastic pipes.

Flooring: Waterproof vinyl or ceramic tiles are ideal for long-term performance in wet areas.

Proper installation of these materials is equally crucial to avoid gaps or weak points where water can escape. For peace of mind, you can engage a service specialising in water leak detection in Perth to assess the integrity of newly installed systems.

4. Ensure Proper Drainage Installation

Efficient drainage is fundamental in avoiding standing water, which can lead to leaks over time and even structural damage. During the planning phase of your renovation, consider the following:

Drain Positioning: Place drains at the lowest points in the bathroom to facilitate natural water flow. This is particularly important in showers and wet rooms where water is more likely to pool.

Slope Gradients: Australian standards recommend a slope gradient of at least 1:80 for bathroom floors to ensure water drains effectively without creating trip hazards.

High-Quality Drainage Systems: Opt for durable, rust-proof materials for drains and grates. Linear drains are an increasingly popular choice for their modern look and efficiency in directing water flow.

Ventilation Integration: Ensure proper ventilation around the drainage system to prevent odours and pressure build-up that could compromise the seals.

Waterproof Barriers Around Drains: Apply waterproofing membranes tightly around all drainage outlets to prevent seepage.

A licensed plumber will help ensure all these elements are correctly installed and compliant with local building codes. If you’re unsure about the drainage system’s efficiency, consult professionals specialising in water leak detection in Perth to assess potential vulnerabilities.

5. Test the Waterproofing

Testing the waterproofing is a non-negotiable step that confirms the integrity of the water barrier and prevents costly issues down the line. Expand on the process with these additional steps:

Flood Test: Fill the area, especially around shower bases and bathtub surrounds, with water to a specified level and leave it for at least 24 hours. Observe for leaks or changes in water levels that could indicate seepage.

Infrared Moisture Scanning: Advanced professionals can use infrared imaging to detect moisture behind walls or under floors, offering an accurate assessment of waterproofing success.

Multiple Test Points: Test all critical areas, including corners, edges, and around pipe penetrations, as these are the most common spots for leaks.

Corrective Action: If leaks are detected during the test, address them immediately. This may involve reapplying membranes, resealing joints, or replacing faulty materials.

For the most reliable results, enlisting experts in water leak detection in Perth ensures thorough testing and peace of mind before moving forward with tiling and finishes.

6. Use Skilled Professionals for Installation

Hiring experienced tradespeople is one of the best ways to avoid future problems. Skilled professionals bring industry knowledge, technical expertise, and compliance awareness to ensure the project is done right the first time. Here’s why they are indispensable:

Plumbers: A qualified plumber ensures all pipes are securely connected, with no loose fittings or improper alignments that could lead to leaks. They can also advise on water pressure settings to reduce strain on pipes.

Tilers: Proper tile installation involves aligning tiles perfectly and applying grout without leaving gaps that could allow water penetration. Professionals also ensure edges and corners are sealed to a high standard.

Waterproofing Experts: These specialists understand which membranes and sealants work best in different areas of the bathroom. They also know how to handle complex designs, such as niches and curved walls, to prevent weak points.

Project Coordination: Skilled tradespeople often work as a team, ensuring that plumbing, waterproofing, and tiling are seamlessly integrated without overlaps or missed steps.

7. Monitor for Post-Renovation Leaks

Vigilance after renovation can save you from significant repair costs. Here’s how to conduct effective monitoring:

Early Warning Signs: Keep an eye out for bubbling paint, cracked tiles, damp odours, or persistent puddles, as these are early indicators of leaks.

Periodic Moisture Checks: Use a moisture meter to test walls and floors in the bathroom, particularly around high-risk areas like showers, basins, and toilets.

Regular Maintenance: Check seals and grouts every six months to ensure they remain intact. Over time, these materials can degrade, leading to water ingress.

Engage Professionals for Inspections: After renovations, it’s wise to schedule periodic checks with specialists in water leak detection in Perth. Their expertise can identify issues invisible to the naked eye, such as slow leaks behind walls or under flooring.

Final Thoughts

Preventing bathroom leaks during renovations requires meticulous planning, quality materials, and expert craftsmanship. By addressing pre-existing issues, using durable products, and implementing robust waterproofing measures, you can enjoy a functional and leak-free bathroom for years to come.

[jdspaving10]

Expert Tips for Building a Durable and Aesthetic Retaining Wall in Saskatoon

Retaining walls are a crucial element in landscaping, particularly for properties with sloped terrain. They provide essential support, prevent soil erosion, and create extra usable space in your yard. In Saskatoon, many talented landscapers specialize in designing and building retaining walls that not only serve functional purposes but also elevate the visual appeal of your home. In this blog, we’ll explore the numerous benefits of retaining walls Landscapers Saskatoon, the different types available, and introduce some of the top landscapers in Saskatoon who can help bring your landscaping vision to life.

The Importance of Retaining Walls

1. Erosion Control 

One of the main purposes of a retaining wall is to hold back soil and prevent erosion, which is especially important in areas like Saskatoon, where heavy rainfall can cause significant soil runoff. A properly built retaining wall helps stabilize slopes and protects your property from potential damage.

2. Increased Usable Space

Retaining walls can turn sloped areas into flat, usable spaces, making it easier for homeowners to create gardens, patios, or play areas that would be challenging to build on a slope. By leveling your yard, you can make the most of your outdoor living space.

3. Aesthetic Appeal

Retaining walls come in a variety of materials, such as natural stone, brick, and concrete, giving homeowners the flexibility to choose a style that matches their home’s architecture. A well-designed retaining wall can become a striking focal point in your yard, adding to the overall beauty and appeal of your property.

4. Property Value Increase

According to industry experts, investing in a high-quality retaining wall can boost your property value by 10-15%. Potential buyers are often drawn to well-maintained landscapes with features like retaining walls, making your home more appealing and market-ready.

Types of Retaining Walls

It's critical to understand the various kinds of retaining walls that are offered when thinking about installing one for your property:

Concrete Retaining Walls: Concrete retaining walls are known for their durability and strength, making them perfect for areas with heavy traffic or load-bearing requirements. They can also be customized in a variety of colors and designs, allowing you to match the style of your home while ensuring long-lasting performance.

Timber Retaining Walls: Timber walls are a budget-friendly choice that provide a charming, rustic appearance. However, they might need more upkeep over time, as they can be susceptible to rot and insect infestations.

Gabion Retaining Walls: Gabion walls are constructed using wire mesh baskets filled with rocks or gravel. They are ideal for areas with high water levels and offer a distinctive, natural look.

Block Retaining Walls: These walls are made from interlocking blocks, making them quick and simple to install. They are designed to endure harsh weather conditions and offer a range of customization options.

Stone Retaining Walls: Stone walls have a timeless appeal and can be arranged in a variety of patterns. Known for their durability, they also enhance the character of any landscape.

Design Ideas for Your Retaining Wall

To maximize the impact of your retaining wall project, consider these design ideas:

Integrated Seating Areas: Turn part of your retaining wall into a seating area by adding built-in benches or ledges, providing a cozy spot for family and friends to gather.

Tiered Designs: Design tiered levels with multiple retaining walls to effectively manage steep slopes, while also creating extra space for plants or patios.

Water Features: Add water features like small fountains or ponds at the base of your retaining wall to enhance the tranquility and beauty of your landscape.

Maintenance Tips for Retaining Walls

To ensure the longevity of your retaining wall:

Regular Inspections: Regularly inspect your retaining wall for any signs of damage or shifting materials so you can address potential issues before they become bigger problems.

Proper Drainage: Make sure there is proper drainage behind the wall to avoid water accumulation, which can cause erosion or damage to the structure.

Weed Control: Keep the area around your retaining wall free of weeds to preserve its appearance and prevent potential root damage.

Conclusion

Investing in a professionally built retaining wall is a great way to improve both the functionality and visual appeal of your property in Saskatoon. With many talented landscapers to choose from, homeowners have ample options to create beautiful outdoor spaces that add value to their homes. Whether you prefer a durable concrete wall or a timeless stone design, partnering with experts like Saskatoon Excavating, PLC Plus Construction, or JD Paving Stones ensures high-quality craftsmanship that meets your needs. You can transform your living space into a long-lasting and welcoming haven by understanding the benefits of retaining walls and choosing the best professionals for the job.

[jaybe11]

What the fuck happened to music?

This shit needs to stop. If more parents introduced their kids to the kind of music that came out of the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s – we’d have a lot less shitty pop music today. When I was growing up in the 90’s – my mom came to the realization that rock music was heading down a slippery slope (in her opinion it was Nirvana that ruined rock music), so she decided to introduce her child (me) to The Beatles, Queen, and AC/DC.

This led me down the “long and winding road” towards musical excellence. At age 10 I got my first guitar, and it was all downhill from there. 12 years later I’m still playing, and still finding new (old) bands that I haven’t heard before. My absolute favorite thing in the world is finding albums that are absolutely stunning from front to back – and there’s a lot of them out there… you just gotta know where to look!

Music truly is the most diverse form of artist creativity. With so many genres, sub-genres, and intertwining cultures related to it all, its a wonder anybody can relate to anybody else’s musical taste. But when it comes to modern pop music – almost any sane and rational person can agree – it’s cheap, over-produced garbage.

The way I see it, today’s mainstream music is similar to all the other products available in Target or Wal-Mart… made-in-China dollar store crap assembled by kids who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Sure, CEO’s and executives get larger profits, but the average Joe ends up using it, over-using it, breaking it, and then it’s on to the next piece of shit.

I challenge my generation to learn an instrument. It’s not that hard, and you’ll get a lot more gratification from a guitar track you spent hours trying to get right than you would on a EDM track you threw together in 10 minutes. Computers are great, they’re lots of fun and a great tool to have when you’re learning the ins-and-outs of music, but no musical mind should be taking shortcuts. This results in boring and repetitive bullshit. Just take a look at MTV.

[theostrophywife]

“bad idea darling I don’t think I’ll be able to take my hands off of you.” with Eris, please!!

wildfire.

author's note: oh how i've missed eris. here's my snarky little fox boy. warning: smut under the cut.

You knew that teasing your mate was a profoundly terrible idea.

But the High Lord's meeting proved to be utterly dull and you couldn't help that your attention kept gravitating to the handsome male seated beside you. Eris was dressed in his finest clothes, the velvet green doublet and dark riding pants hugging his toned, muscled form. A golden circlet adorned the crown of his head and his long, luscious red hair was tied into intricate braids at the nape of his neck.

His full, sensual lips curved into a cruel smile as he chastised Tamlin. You were too busy admiring Eris—your gaze darting to the light smattering of freckles that kissed his fair skin down to the perfect slope of his nose and onto the expensive golden rings adorning his slender fingers. It made you think about all the times that the cold metal kissed your skin while Eris wrapped his hand around your throat, dragging those rings over your spine and cupping your ass as he took you from behind. It was enough to make you all hot and bothered.

Eris shifted in his seat, discretely inclining his head towards you. He noticed the little sigh that escaped from your mouth and offered your knee a comforting squeeze, conveying that the long and arduous meeting would be done soon enough.

The cold metal brushed against your skin and a naughty thought took form in your mind. You rested your fingers on top of your mate's hand and guided him higher up your thigh. Eris stilled beside you, his amber eyes flashing you a warning that you willfully ignored. You smiled to yourself as you continued dragging his hand over your leg, bringing him up to your clothed sex. Eris hissed when his fingers made contact with your wetness, nearly toppling over in his chair as he struggled to get a hold of himself.

"Is something the matter, Eris?" Tamlin barked.

Your mate recovered gracefully, shooting the Spring Court lord a venomous smile. "As a matter of fact, yes. I think we can all agree that your presence has been entirely tiresome and dreary. I propose a break to cleanse us of such staleness."

The other lords muttered in agreement and it was all Eris needed to drag you out of the room and into your assigned suite upstairs. Your mate locked the door behind him before stalking towards you. He picked you up bridal style before tossing you onto the mattress. You yelped as he yanked you by the ankles, hovering above you with a smirk as he bunched up the fabric of your dress above your waist.

"Wicked little fox." Eris tutted as he unbuttoned his trousers. You scrambled to touch him, but your mate held both of your wrists in one hand and held them over your head.

You pouted in response. "I want to touch you."

"You should've thought of that before teasing the hell out of me," he grunted, slipping out of his trousers in one swift move. "Bad idea, darling. I don't think I'll be able to take my hands off of you."

Fire snakes through your arms, holding you in place as Eris spreads your legs open. He tears off your lace panties in a haste haste before hooking your ankles behind his shoulders and placing a gentle kiss on the inside of your knee.

"My little wildfire," Eris says fondly. "I'm about to fuck you so well that this entire palace will know what a little slut you are for me."

"Please—please, Eris."

Eris laughs and the sound sends goosebumps skittering over your skin. "Look at you, practically begging for my cock. Do you want daddy to fuck you dumb, little fox?"

"Yes," you breathe. "Gods, yes."

"Then hang on tight, darling."

That was the only warning Eris gave you before he drives his cock inside of you. Your head falls back onto the mattress, moaning in pleasure as his hips snap against yours at a punishing pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room and if anyone were to walk down the hallway, they'd hear exactly how needy and desperate Eris made you.

And that was precisely what your mate wanted.

"Come on, darling. You can do better than that." Eris taunts as his lips latch onto your neck. "I want you to moan as loudly as you can. I want everyone to know what a good little whore you are." He slammed his hips against yours, holding you in place so you can feel his cock driving deep within your walls.

"That's it, my love. You love taking daddy's cock, don't you? Go on, then. Scream until you're hoarse. Let this whole palace know what an absolute mess I make of you."

[amyrlin-of-starlight]

Rain was beautiful. Rain was fast. Rain was gone. Rain was never coming back.

If you asked someone- anyone, really, maybe even a random person you caught a glimpse of in Kohl’s with Christmas tree ornaments at half the price or a cable-knit sweater with a V-neck that you could tell was meant to show off the crevice of a cleavage, and grabbed them by the arm, asked them the question you always hoped that they would answer differently- about Rain Wood, a look would wash over their face. The gaze that their eyes emanated would soften, melt with sympathy, and their lips would part without a word for a moment, and then they would say Rain was... Rain was a nice girl. Rain was a pretty girl. Rain was a missing girl. And then maybe they would notice the slope of my nose, the color of my eyes, the shape of my lips, and realize that Rain Wood was not just a missing girl to me, not just a nice girl, not just a pretty girl. That she was a girl who left something-someone-behind with the slope of her nose, the color of her eyes, and the shape of her lips to always remind her of someone who was never coming home. Her Christmas stocking, red and white, was getting dusty and smelled like old wood from so many years trapped in the attic, and there were unopened gifts hidden in the closet underneath the hems of winter coats and tucked behind the worn boots my father wore to trudge through the snow or the mittens tossed aside, flung from frozen fingers, and her favorite cereal was still in the cupboard, having expired three years ago, but my mother would have never let anyone eat it anyway.

That cereal was Rain’s.

Rain was a girl with fiery red hair that she twisted into messily done braids with wisps of her tresses curling around her ears that seemed to be caught on fire underneath the gleam of the sun, and Rain was a girl with bright, green eyes that resembled the leaves of a walnut tree in the summer. I had those bright, green, walnut tree-esque eyes too but they never looked as good on me as they did Rain. Rain had eyes that twinkled, that glimmered, and that sparkled. Maybe my eyes did that too but then Rain was gone and my eyes became dull, unpolished, and murky. Rain was a girl with a boisterous laugh, one that giggled, one that made you laugh too. Rain was a girl who sang country songs in the passenger seat of our mother’s car, her bare feet propped up on the dashboard, her chipped, baby blue nail polish seeming to look beautiful on her delicate toenails, and her voice had a southern drawl to it when she sang that my mother never understood, the origin unknown and a mystery.

Rain was perfect.

And Rain was gone.

Rain was.

The word “is” just never accompanied her name anymore.

Because.

Rain was gone.

.

It was Christmas Eve when she disappeared, when she went from Rain Is to Rain Was, and she was with me, her fingers clad with gloves wrapped around the laces of her ice skates with blades that glinted underneath the rays of the sun and clinked together as she walked, her footsteps crunching in the white, glittering snow, and she was smiling at me, telling me how beautiful everything looked in winter. She was oblivious. I was smiling, agreeing with her. I was oblivious.

I had my own pair of ice skates and I was holding them by the heels, rubbing the leathery material in between my cold fingers, and sticking out my tongue to feel the cool droplet of a snowflake falling on my tongue. I dropped my ice skates onto the snow, flurries emanating from around the blades and the sides of the shoe, and the tip of one of the laces had buried into the snow, as if it were hiding, as if it knew. I was peeling off my boots, tossing them in random directions, and I heard the humph of a man grunting behind me as my boot whacked against his shin. I heard Rain apologizing to him, I heard Rain telling him that I was just excited, I heard Rain wishing him a Merry Christmas.

I heard him ask her if she knew which direction our local Wal-Mart was.

I heard him ask her if she would mind showing him on his map in his car.

I heard her say yes.

I never heard Rain say anything after that.

I waited for her to come back, my ice skates tied tightly around my feet, and the tips of my fingers beginning to develop what felt like frostbite, and I even stepped out onto the ice alone, a small little pond with snowflakes collecting on the glass-like surface, scratched with the treads of past ice skates, and I waited. I waited for her to show him which way the local Wal-Mart was on his map in his car. I waited for her to come running back, smiling and laughing, joking about out-of-towners, and then for her to yank down the zipper of her boots that almost reached her knee and lace her ice skates.

I waited for the blades of her ice skates to graze the ice of the pond with mine. And then, after the sun had begun to dip behind the forest of pine trees behind me, I got off of the solid pond and walked on the blades of my ice skates to the parking lot of the park, wobbling and grabbing onto bird baths and light-posts when I could, and I searched for a car with a man and Rain hunched over a map, her finger tracing the roads and gliding over the rivers, and his furrowed brow, confused. He had to be really confused if he still did not know the way. But there was no car, there was no map, there was no confused, out-of-towner with a furrowed brow.

And there was no Rain.

I nearly tripped on the pavement of the parking lot as I searched for her, stepping in brown slush with the blades of my ice skates, and I called out her name. There was no Rain. I asked a woman with her children who wore matching knit hats if she saw a teenage girl with an older man, and she said no. She asked me if I was lost, and I said no. My sister, Rain, was lost, I told her. I told her about the man who wanted directions to the local Wal-Mart and how my sister was going to help him. She had just gotten her learner’s permit that year. The woman’s faced drained and wrinkled with something that looked a lot like fear as she asked if I knew the man, if he was a friend. She told me to play with her children with the matching knit hats when I told her no. He was a stranger.

And Rain was gone.

Red and blue lights flickered and gleamed off of the dark pavement of the park parking lot after the woman brought her cell phone out of her purse and pressed her thumb down on three numbers. She said that there was a missing minor, and I remembered thinking that I didn’t know what that meant. Rain, not minor, was missing, and she was just lost. She was trying to help an out-of-towner find our local Wal-Mart. I remembered a man dressed in navy blue with badges decorating his chest and a walkie-talkie strapped to his shoulder crouching down in front of me, asking me about Rain, about the man she was trying to help. He held out a pair of ice skates he found in the parking lot. He asked me if they were hers. I said yes. I said that she was going to be upset that she lost her ice skates. He smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes and took out a notepad with a leather cover and a pen, clicking the top, and asked me if I knew my parents’ phone number. I did. I told him. He told him that they would try really hard to find Rain, my sister, and I just nodded.

I was oblivious.

I was in the dark.

I was unaware of the Amber Alert. I was unaware of the search parties composed of neighbors, of church-goers, of people I never met, that combed the forests. I was unaware of the reason for my mother’s hysterical tears. I was unaware of what the term foul play meant. I was unaware when they asked for my sister’s hairbrush, placing it in a plastic bag that zipped. I thought they were going to brush her hair. I was unaware that my sister’s face was on the news. I was unaware that people were already buying candles for the vigil. I was unaware of the missing posters that were being plastered over my hometown.

And I was unaware that somewhere, my sister, Rain was gone.

I always thought she would come back.

Until I heard a man who said he was an FBI agent in a blazer with a stripped red and green tie telling my mom that Rain was presumed dead, and how loudly my mother sobbed in the living room as she tried to take down the Christmas tree ornaments. Foul play, presumed dead, predators, they all felt like they were words too big for our living room to handle. My mother said that Rain was alive. My father said my mother’s name. My mother shouted and I heard something crashing. It was the Christmas tree. And then she ran for her computer and brought the document for Rain’s missing person’s poster and kept clicking the PRINT button over and over again, her breath coming out in gasps and her eyes trickling teardrops onto the keyboard.

I asked the FBI agent as he left if Rain was coming home.

His face softened.

His head tilted.

And his lips said the words, no. Rain probably would not come home.

.

When I was thirteen, just after May and the flowers began to grow in the flower beds that were pushed against the exterior bricks of houses in the Cul-De-Sac neighborhoods, and Rain has been gone for four years and her black and white pictures that store owners let my mother tape to their windows had been torn down and crumpled, tossed thoughtlessly into trashcans because she was gone- totally gone, completely gone, utterly gone, with nothing even to bury because she was totally, completely, and utterly gone- the police called us and told us that they had a man in custody. His name was Jerrod F. Norris and he had mean eyes that were murky blue and perfectly straight teeth and dark stubble adorning his cheeks in his mug shot photograph. He looked normal and terrifying at once. I thought about my sister seeing those mean, murky blue eyes, staring into them before she slipped away, and I thought about her heart fluttering. She said your heart flutters, jumps, when you look at a certain boy. I thought about her heart fluttering and jumping as he took away. I tried to turn off of the television as his face illuminated the pixels and my fingers were fumbling, unable to press the buttons of the remote control, and then I just threw it against the screen. It cracked and went black. My parents weren’t even mad. My mother actually thanked me as she choked on her tears. My father curled his fingers around the edge of the couch cushions.

They say he admitted to taking her, to seeing her that Christmas Eve in front of the frozen pond with the laces of her ice skates pressing into the folds of her fingers, and to lying about the directions of our local Wal-Mart. He lived only five miles away. He had receipt for duct tape and a curling iron from our Wal-Mart an hour before he said he took Rain away from me. I didn’t want to know why he had bought a curling iron but they said he was single and he had short hair. He said he took her away, covered her mouth, and taped her hands and feet together and drove. He took her to the woods, he said.

He molested her, he said. He murdered her, he said. He left her there, he said.

And when they asked for him to draw a map to find her, he said he could not.

Because he did not leave her in just one spot.

I remembered how my mother screamed, wept, when the detectives told her about the interview, about his confession, about what he said he had done to her little girl. She was on the ground, clutching a pillow to her chest, and her face was red and wet. The detective looked uncomfortable, distraught, and a little alarmed. I was too. I thought women only shouted in the movies but my mother was shouting, not even words but sounds, and my father was crying too, and kept saying, “Oh, my little girl. Oh, my little girl.” The detective tried to say that there wasn’t a body, or body parts, yet, but it didn’t matter.

Someone had said that they took our Rain away from us, kept her silent, hurt her, slayed her, and tore her apart, left her in the woods all alone on Christmas Eve, with her little sister waiting for her, teetering on the silver blades of her ice skates in the parking lot as she looked for her, calling out her name.

Rain was gone.

Rain was nowhere.

Rain was everywhere.

.

The day I met Franklin was Christmas Eve, but December 24th stopped feeling like Christmas Eve nine years ago when Rain went from “is” to “was” in that single moment in front of the frozen pond, the blades of her ice skates clinking together and her footsteps coinciding with his crunching on the thick snow. I was there, in front of the pond that was crisscrossed with the scratches and grazes of the blades of ice skates and dusted with a light layer of snowflakes. It looked like that day nine years ago; when I last saw her, Rain, when I last saw her smile. I brought my ice skates but they were too small now, fit for a nine year girl with a sister who was alive- gloriously alive and so in love with life, not an eighteen year old girl without a sister who was dead. I didn’t want to skate until she was found. Eventually, I just thought that I would never skate again.

But now I was back- because a couple of hunters stumbled upon a bone in the woods during the hunting season, and the DNA tests proved that it belonged to Rain, that it was Rain’s bone. It was a leg, they said. It looked broken, they said, maybe before she died or after. They thought she was dead when it happened, when her leg stopped being a part of her, but I was not sure if they were just trying to spare us the awful thoughts we were already thinking.

And now I was going to skate again.

But my skates were too small.

And Rain was gone.

“You will need bigger ice skates than that.” I heard his voice before I saw him and I flinched as I heard his playful, light voice bouncing against the barren trees and the glimmering snow-topped grounds as he walked, his large footsteps crunching and breaking the smooth, pristine assemblage of snowflakes on the ground. My footprints were barely visible- I had been standing there so long. He wore a thick, black parka that swished as he walked and held a black pair of hockey skates underneath his arm and the tips of his ears and nose were red from the cold. His breath came out in clouds as he grinned at me. I thought about Jerrod F. Norris and his grin I am sure he showed my sister before he took her away.

I backed away from him without even realizing as he stepped toward the pond-crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch-and he looked at me for a moment, as if he were puzzled, and titled his head to the side.

He dropped his ice skates onto the snow, the little flurries of white snowflakes drifting through the air as they plopped reminding me of my own ice skates and how I just dropped them that day.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice sounding that kind of breathless that came from the cold, and he still smiled at me. “I was not meaning to insult your foot size or anything. They just look kind of small.”

He shrugged and then lifted a gloved hand to wave at me, friendly, as if I were standing feet away from him. “I am Franklin, by the way. I practice here on Wednesdays. I am going to try out for the hockey team next semester but I doubt it will happen because I suck, horribly. I accidentally did a split a few weeks ago. Only time will tell if I am still able to have children.”

You talk a lot, I thought to myself as I stared at him, almost in bewilderment, as if somewhere during his rushed, awkward words. I wondered if Jerrod F. Norris spoke a lot, if on the way to his car that he chewed her ear about his job, about the imaginary family he pretended he was visiting, about whether or not he thought his hockey abilities were proficient or not.

“I was just leaving,” I told him, gripping the laces of my ice skates tightly.

They were too small.

And Rain was gone.

“You don’t have to. I mean, the pond is pretty big. And I promise I would not intentionally injure you and if I do, I will apologize profusely.”

“That is quite alright.” I wanted to leave. I felt suffocated by his words that felt as if they should have been friendly; but to me, they felt double edged, they felt like a façade.

They felt as if they were concealing twisted and malevolent objectives that took place underneath the shelter of the pine trees in the snowy woods.

He stared at me for a moment. “Um, okay, then. Merry Christmas.”

I felt something strange in that moment as I heard him say that. I felt a twinge of something that pinched the nerves in my chests and in my eyes, and I felt my lips beginning to quiver. It barely felt like Christmas, not the Merry Christmas he was wishing me. He was wishing me something that was wrapped with golden paper and a dark, green bow and curled ribbon and peppermint candy canes hooked around the pine-scented branches of a Christmas tree. He wasn’t wishing me the Christmas I had of remembering the posters plastered on the storefront windows and the news talking about my sister so distantly and the fading image of her smile beaming at me.

“I do not really celebrate Christmas… er, Franklin.”

“Oh, you are Jewish? Sorry. Happy belated Hanukah, then.”

I shook my head. “I am not Jewish.” I felt my finger along the sharp blade of my ice skates, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the rectangular blade. I looked horrible. I looked broken.

“I am just... I really miss someone. She, uh… she is dead. Or at least, that is what they say, but I do not know even though they found her- or a piece of her- in the woods but I just…” I felt a burning tear glide down my frozen cheek. “I just do not really celebrate Christmas anymore.”

He blinked. He looked sad. His grin was gone. “You are Aer Wood.”

I nodded. “I am.” My voice was choked.

“I am really, really sorry.”

“Thanks, but that does not really matter. People think it does matter but it does not. The one person I want to be sorry is the one person who took her away. But he is not sorry. He says he is but he is not because a month after he stole Rain from me, he stole someone else and then he stole someone else. They caught him because he was trying to hide her. A little fragment of her, anyway. A hunter saw him, saw what he had. He actually shot him in the knee.”

“I heard.”

I swallowed, pressing my index finger deeper into the blade of my right ice skate. “He said he wanted to stop him because he has three daughters at home. He said good men do not bury pieces of little girls so he shot him.”

I looked up at the sky. It was gray and bleak, as if it were mourning too. “She was fourteen. Rain was older than that. She was seventeen. People acted as if it was worse that a fourteen year was murdered than a seventeen year old. It is horrible no matter. It does not matter how old you are.” I choked on my words. “She was supposed to rest in peace, not in pieces.”

“I am sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I feel like I need to say it again.” He cleared his throat, and then unstrapped the Velcro from his gloves and ripped them off, dropped them onto the ground beside his large and bulky hockey skates, and tore off his beanie hat. He ran a hand through his black hair that matched his olive, Hispanic skin tone. “What was she like? Rain, I mean.”

I turned to look at him, away from the gray and bleak sky that felt so ominous, so looming, and so sad that I felt my heartstrings beginning to burst just looking at it. I almost felt glad that it was a bright and sunny day that she was taken. That when she was pressed on the ground that she had a warm, blue sky to look toward. “Rain was beautiful. Rain was fast.”

Rain was.

“Did she like the color blue?”

“No. She thought it was too generic. Everyone’s favorite is blue, she said. She loved purple.”

“The color of royalty.”

“That’s what she said.” I almost felt like smiling. I think Franklin noticed.

“Did she eat apples?”

“She loved apples, especially the green ones.”

“Granny Smiths.”

“They’re so sour, she loved it.” Then I did smile. Then he definitely did notice. “She liked the faces a really, really sour one made her make, how it would purse her lips and wrinkle her nose. But I think she just exaggerated it to make me laugh.”

“Did she read books?”

“She loved reading, sometimes she would read me to sleep.”

“Did she put marshmallows in her hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, but never the ones from those packages with the ones already in them. She hated those. They weren’t real marshmallows she said. Dehydrated memories of a marshmallow, she called them.”

He kept asking me questions like that, about her, about Rain. Which Muppet was her favorite, if she liked spicy food, if she wore socks when she slept, if she was an early bird or a night owl. I never would have admitted it to him as he asked various enquiries about the kind of person Rain was, asking me to imitate her laugh, and if her smile was kind of crooked like mine, but it felt almost okay to talk about her. My mother never could without crying, without swallowing back tears she had cried so many times before, and my father got angry when she was mentioned. I think if he remembered her then he remembered him and his mean, murky blue eyes so he tried never to think about her.

It felt almost okay to talk about Rain and not about the fact that she was gone, not that she was not whole, not that she was alone and afraid on Christmas Eve but that she liked Granny Smith apples, that her favorite Muppet was Beaker, that she slept barefoot. That Rain was not just a name on a list of short lives that were stolen by a man with mean, murky blue eyes. That Rain had more than just her last moments.

“I could come back tomorrow,” Franklin offered as the sun slipped away into the pine trees of the distant woods my sister supposedly was buried in and he picked up the hockey skates he never touched. He dusted the snowflakes from them. “I could ask you if she liked extra butter on her popcorn or diet drinks instead of regular ones.”

“No and no,” I replied.

I thought his face fell for a moment. I was confused. I replayed my last sentence in my mind. And then I felt my eyes instinctively widen and my mouth drop, my head shaking from side to side. “No, that is not what I meant! I meant that she, um, did not like extra butter on her popcorn or diet drinks. Not that you should not come back tomorrow but it is Christmas tomorrow so you will probably be busy and I might be too. My mother does try to pretend that Christmas is a normal holiday. She is not very good at it, but she tries.”

He smiled at me. “I could come here to practice around noon tomorrow. And if you are here then ... well, you will be here. We will probably exchange a word or two or something and ... ”

“I thought you only practiced on Wednesdays.”

“Well, I do suck so maybe adding Thursday practices to my day planner would be a good idea.”

I smiled down at the glimmering snowflakes beneath me. They looked like sparkling, fragile pieces of crystal accumulating on the ground. “Yeah,” I murmured, softly. “Maybe it would be.”

He grinned at me.

I felt the flutter my sister told me I would feel when I looked at a certain boy.

Rain was gone.

Rain was not whole.

Rain was not coming back.

But I think Rain was proud.

I think Rain is proud.

@fluffybunsss @thegreatsaiyaman3 @keenu-loves-to-talk-talkytalky @thelastdream @the-living-typo @quoted-text @nerdyfuntheorist @obsessedwithparkjimin @user-with-a-name @carmen-riddle @tookoool @kritiwritesss

[mahvaladara]

Wytia the Monk for @lazysunjade‘s Chosen of the Sun

Name: Wal Ityan "Witya"

Race: Half Dragonkin-Half Human (not by birth)

CLASS: Monk

ABILITY: Martial Arts and Quarterstaff proficiency

ORIGINS: Monastery of Auriel - West River Candra

Strengths: Calm and collected | Curious | Altruistic

Weakness: Ambitious | Envious and Jealous | Self-deprecating

“You’re so envious of others and so ashamed of what you are, you willingly subject yourself to pain to be like everyone else, while trying to excel them. You need to find balance, you need to find yourself, Witya, or you’ll lose yourself to your shame."

Human born, Witya is not human anymore. You can hear it in his chest or smell it in his blood, the shame he tries to hide. Dragon blood runs on his veins and a dragon’s heart keeps him alive.

It was not Witya who commited this crime but he holds himself responsible for it. His existenc caused a good man to kill a good dragonkin to steal his heart. And this is a shame with which Witya must live forever. He is beneath others and he must achieve greatness, for only then will he be worthy of his heart. But he is beneath them, so he’s not worthy to hold the traits of the dragonkin.

Because of this, his master has sent him away to find himself and find his balance, to find his worth. And that is Witya’s greatest desire, to be worthy, to not be ashamed of what he is.

Backstory:

In the town of the Auriel Monastery, where the Monks of Auriel, under the guidance of the dragon Auriel train for centuries, Witya was born in the town that served the Monastery. Right by the river, where the town is carved on the slopes of the mountain and the trees of the forest to escape the seasonal floods.

He was the only son of knight of the same name, a former monk who was part of the town watch protecting the town and Monastery. A very honourable and valorous knight, eager to be a father. But fate wouldn’t have it.

Witya was born premature, with a malformed heart ad it took the power of the healers to even keep the newborn alive. The child would die, once the Healers released their hold on that small, weakly heart, on those small weakly lungs, Wytia would die and no magic could stop it.. 

Desperate, Witya’s father sought for an answer. He found an old-wives-tale about a dragon sharing his heart to save a prince. Being a former monk of Auriel, he hoped the dragon could help save his son. But Auriel refused, saying it was better not to interfere with fate. Enraged, Witya’s father came up with a ploy to catch the dragon alone and steal his heart. Alongside his wife, they decieved the dragon and killed him, using the powers of the healers to keep the heart alive long enough to transfer it to the newborn.

Though a crazy plan, it worked out. That powerful heart saved Witya. Placed over his weak and malformed heart, it held the small body alive and healed it. But it also changed the boy, in many aspects.

Witya would have been a rather happy child. He was healthy, strong and light on his feet, adventurous and curious with a thirst for knowledge and adventure, just like the dragonkin. Except, by the age of 6, Witya started growing horns.

Knowing this would lift questions about his father’s crime, the Monks of Auriel certainly hadn’t forgoten about the murder of their former leader and brethren, they decided to hide what they had done. Witya's parents trimmed his horns, a very painful and slow process as they were amputating bone. But the horns would grow back, a mirror of the dragon regeneration. It would take time, but they would always grow back. 

At the age of 10, again they tried to amputate the horns, but this time Witya ran to the monastery, hoping the Monks of Auriel would keep him safe. But the moment the monks saw what his father wanted to hide, they ordered to capture his family.

His father was sentenced by the crime of murder. Witya and his mother were to meet the same fate for their complicity in all, but the monks believed the child innocent and that killing him would make their brethren’s loss to mean nothing. So they master, instead, they took Witya in, making very clear to him what he was and what his father had done.

Seeing the child as a “child of Auriel”, the monks refused to call him after his father, and named him Witya. Witya grew under the discipline and valors of the monastery and learned how to fight with the quarterstaff and unarmed, as well as meditation skills. Rather harsh and self-deprecating, Witya worked hard to excel all his brethren but it was never enough.

He lived many decades on the monastery, maintaining the same youthful appearance and curiosity he always had. Skilled, quick, calm and curious, kind-hearted and altruistic to everyone but himself. Witya was respected and loved by the monks. He was the heir of the dragon whose heart he beared, and for that it hurt them to see what Witya would do to himself.

You see, despite the monks never faulting Witya for all that happened, Witya did not see eye to eye with them. He Witya held himself responsible. If only he had died when he was born. His envy of others, of just being normal and not bearing this guilt and weight on his chest shaped him to be ambitious. He had to achieve greatness to be worthy of the heart on his chest, but the same time he saw himself as beneath everyone for carrying this heart.

Witya believes himself not be worthy of carrying the traits of the dragonkin, for if he does, he is shaming these traits. He is ashamed of bearing this heart, for he believes he caused the death of a dragon and the death of his parents. So he continued to amputate his horns whenever they regrew, despite the horrible pain and even when the monks refused to help, he’d do it on his own. 

The new Master of the Monastery decided Witya needed to leave and find himself. Find peace with his hearts. 

Witya decided to travel Amarillys to partake on the Selenehelion, his desire to find his worth, to come to terms with his heart. To be worthy to carry it.

All sob story aside, Witya is a very calm and focused man, knowing well what he wants and willing to achieve it. He is kind-hearted and altruistic and does follow his upbringing to the heart, always placing the wellbeing of others as a priority despite his ambitions. He does have a sense of humor and tends to be witty about it. When he got to Amarillys an elf told him to “crack a smile” to which he answered “I would, but my face might get stuck like that.”

[darulkhulood]

She wears correct hijaab

The Muslim woman wears correct hijaab when she goes out of her house. Hijaab is the distinctive Islamic dress whose features have been clearly defined by the Qur'an and Sunnah. She does not go out of the house, or appear before non-mahram men, wearing perfume, make-up or other fineries, because she knows that this is haraam according to the Qur'an.

The Muslim woman who has been truly guided by her faith and has received a sound Islamic education does not wear hijaab just because it is a custom or tradition inherited from her mother grandmother, as some (foolish) men and women try to describe it with no evidence or logic whatsoever. The Muslim woman wears hijaab on the basis of her belief that it is a command from Allah revealed to protect the Muslim woman, to make her character distinct, and to keep her away from the slippery slope of immorality and error. So she accepts it willingly and with strong conviction, as the women of the Muhajireen (emigrants) and Ansaar (helpers Madeenites) accepted it on the day when Allah revealed His clear and wise command.

According to a report narrated by Bukhari, 'Aishah رضي الله عنها said: "May Allah have mercy on the Muhajir (emigrants) women. When Allah revealed: ...that they should draw their veils over their bosoms..." (Qur'an 24: 31), they tore their wrappers and covered their heads and faces with them."

According to another report given by Bukhari, 'Aishah رضي الله عنها said: "They took their wrappers and tore them at the edges, then covered their heads and faces with them."

{Fath al-Bari, 8/489, Kitaab at-Tafseer, baab wal yadribna bi khumoorihinna 'ala juyoobihinna}

[fishdavidson]

Dream Journal 2021-07-29: Notes From An Unconscious Road Trip Through The Middle Of Nowhere

Batesville is a tiny town at the very edge of the Yazoo Mississippi Delta. Not technically part of the Delta due to its unfortunate founding on the wrong side of the Yazoo River, but it’s close enough for my purposes. Batesville is the crown jewel of Panola County, an honor that bestows upon it the title of city despite a population of less than 8,000 a location in a forsaken borderland between cotton fields. Dear reader, I’m going to go there, but not in the way you might think.

I have already beheld the vast and unending agricultural expanse that is much of Mississippi with my own two eyes, and have no desire to consciously revisit the experience. And yet, there is a call in the darkness of my slumber. An unraveling hand that pulls upon the threads of my psyche. There is a house that rests alone in a tomb of trees, and I must go there.

What follows is a mostly-true accounting of my journey to Batesville through an ethereal world unburdened by geography and logic, though not a entirely so. The white clapboard spectre of the house in the trees beckons to me through an emailed receipt for an Airbnb rental. My presence is requested at this house with no known address nor expected date of my arrival.

But I know where to go.

A rental car I didn’t explicitly request is waiting outside my house. I can only assume it was sent by the house in the trees for matters of expedience. I am not to go directly to the house; as I must first collect a key from someone to gain access. That is all the knowledge I am allowed to possess during this stage of the journey.

Time compresses and expands simultaneously as the rental car travels down the lonely highways. It is a sign that the keyholder is near. The road plummets downward as though painted on a vertical cliff face as I near the outskirts of Batesville. All four tires cease their hum as they lose contact with the asphalt and the car glides through the air like an Olympian ski jumper descending onto the slope below.

As long as I’m going the speed limit during this fall, the slope at the bottom of the cliff should allow the car to touch down relatively gently, though gently in this case merely means “not exploding on impact.” At the bottom of this roadside ravine sits a scruffy dog. This must be the keyholder, and behind him is a major water park with a giant twisting water slide.

Real Batesville does not have a water park. Nor do the surrounding roads have sudden drops of a hundred meters built into the near flat landscape. But that’s not important; the key is. The dog moves his front paw to reveal a lanyard with an empty keyring resting underneath it. Alas, this dog is not the keyholder; but he knows where the real keyholder is.

I stare into the dog’s eyes and see a scene that is not my own reflection. The scene is of myself approaching the largest slide in the water park. An attendant is standing there at the top of the slide, assisting everyone in the final step of their slide-based journey. I am to present the lanyard to the attendant, who will in turn provide the key to the house. I excuse myself from the dog and leave my mangled silver sedan on the roadside as I enter the park.

Things do not go according to plan at the slide. The man in front of me in the line was a professional dolphin smuggler, and had an adult dolphin underneath his arm like a pool toy. Officers from the Department of Fish and Wildlife were about to apprehend him for possession of an illegal dolphin, so he asked me to hold on to the dolphin “just for a little bit” until he could get down the slide.

Before I could protest, he tosses the dolphin to me and disappears down the slide. When it’s my turn to stare into the curving void of the slide, the attendant notices the lanyard around my neck and clandestinely passes the key to me. I can’t put the key on the keyring without holding up the line or dropping the dolphin, nor can I reach my pockets, so I do the next best thing and hold the key in my mouth while hopping into the slide.

Water sloshes around the dolphin and me as we speed through the bends and spirals of the slide. My grip on the dolphin fails as I hit a bump in the slide. The dolphin flails. I gasp in surprise.

And I accidentally swallow the key.

Having just angered the house with my carelessness, I skid out from the bottom of the slide and try to cough up the key before things get worse. Predictably, the key continues its descent to my stomach, and I can feel every sharp angle on the key as it is drawn deeper into my guts.

This is prime time to seek emergency medical treatment, but I have no car and am not some sort of millionaire who can afford to go to the doctor for things like swallowing the key to a potentially haunted house. So I do the next best thing and walk to Wal-Mart to buy every emetic and laxative I can find in hopes of passing the key one way or another.

I chug two entire bottles of milk of magnesia at the checkout counter and await an explosion in my bowels. Although my clothes are presumably still wet from the water slide, I have no desire to allow a brownout to happen in my pants because these are the only pants I have at the moment. Such an event could strike at any time, so I disrobe at the checkout line and start waddling with great care toward the toilets.

Did you know that Wal-Mart does not allow nudists in their stores? That’s a store policy you can learn about real quick when you are naked in the checkout line. I am asked to leave the store, despite the potential bomb in my bowels.

The house laughs at my plight as though this was the plan all along. It is a purveyor of existential terror that delights in the misfortunes it brings upon those who answer its call. And misfortune arrives in the form of an intestinal blowout in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Specifically the type of misfortune that does not result in the recovery of the key to a rental house.

It is here, dear reader, that I admit defeat and pledge to never visit Batesville again. The houses there are full of schemes and malevolence.

[starkeristheendgame]

Tony is in the middle of meeting and he read a text from peter, stating that he's all alone and aroused.

Ask and thy shall receive 💦 I hope this is what you were looking for! Thank you sm for the prompt ❤ Begins as unestablished.

TW: Slight imbalanced dynamic

The EDITH glasses, as it turns out, were the perfect solution for being accosted into attending Stark Industries' monthly performance meetings. He'd been playing Go Fish for the past half an hour, and nobody (except potentially Pepper, who eyed him suspiciously here and there) seemed any wiser. He had starved the temptation to snoop through their hardware, choosing instead to battle JARVIS at a good old fashioned card game.

He's winning, too, right up until the glasses give a muted flash on the inside lens and a message pops up in the upper corner of his left lens. It's an image that takes him a solid five seconds of staring to fully accept; mostly because it contains the elegant slope of Peter's back, the two arches of his thick asscheeks. It's been taken over his shoulder, the boy leaning forwards and presenting like a bitch in heat. The caption is a simple 'It's a bad time to be left alone.'

In the background, illuminated by the display lights, stands the Mark XIII. The boy is naked. In his workshop. Where Tony had left him not an hour before, decidedly not naked.

"Stark?' Max Kline has always had a high, watery voice, but it irritates him ever more now; drawing his gaze away from the image. "You looked a little startled. Are the figures not what you expected?" The man continued, and Tony forced his face to smooth into a calculated mask.

"No. Your infantile nature towards cash flow forecasts is what startled me. Please, continue. I'll shred you apart after the report," Tony tossed back, serene as he relaxed into his seat. Kline's cheeks glow like coals, but there's only a brief pause before the reports keep coming. Across the table, at her rightful seat as Consulting Director, Pepper arches a plucked brow at him.

Waiting for her gaze to leave him is agonising. If she catches his eyes flicking about, she'll know the glasses aren't just his usual fashion statement. It takes a solid 20 seconds, but eventually her prim stare fixes on some other sorry sap. Tony took a breath, then another, before 'typing'.

The King: I know you said you'd try not to distract me during the meeting, kiddo, but I gotta say. 0/10 for effort.

It's a risk. They've never done this before. He's not even sure if Peter is flirting half the time or if the boy just genuinely... Like that. The burning gazes and lingering touches have boiled into what he perceives as crippling sexual tension, but, hey. It never hurts to second guess yourself. Especially not in relation to a twinky little snack that just sent him a nude.

His fingers begun a slow tempo against the desk, his head turned towards the holograms but none of it sinking in.

Not when the three little dots dance on his screen, then disappear. They do this seven more times before Peter's reply comes through.

Stark In Training: Oh my fucking god. Wrong Tony. I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark. Please don't take away my suit! Or tell Aunt May! Oh my god, please don't-

Tony can't read the rest of it. Not with his eyes lazer-beaming at the words wrong Tony. How could he be the wrong Tony? He's the only Tony!

Alright, perhaps not the only Tony, but the only one in the kids life that should matter. That should be in his phone contacts.

A small, feral part of him adds; the only one Peter sends nudes to. It's the sheer principle of it, the -10HP to his ego that has him digging his nails against the table, frowning. He types so fast by the time he blinks for SEND he's a little dizzy.

The King: The wrong Tony? Excuse you. I'm the only Tony that matters. Plus, you're in my workshop. Way to hit my heart with a hammer.

It's a little cruel. He's toying with the boy. He can't help it. Pins the image to his lens so he can hungrily stare at the dimples at the small of his back, the lithe muscle definition, the dip between his cheeks that Tony wants to bury his face into.

And then;

The King: Aren't you a little young to be nuding about? Should I Google another talk?

Dots. Dots. Dots. More dots.

Stark In Training: You should pay attention to the meeting. And delete this. And never, ever talk about it.

Stark In Training: Please.

And Tony would. He'd be the responsible adult and ignore the nude from his protegé. Wipe it from technological existence and ignore it entirely when he gets back. Except...

The King: I'm the elder; I get to make the demands. And in any case, I apparently have another Tony to compete for your hero worship with. And he gets nudes. My feelings are mortally wounded and I'll never wear another Versacé suit as long as I live.

Stark In Training: You're ridiculous. He's not - He's just a guy. That I know. Named Tony. Please go back to your meeting. I can't die of embarrassment and type at the same time.

Tony wanted to scoff. Mm, no. But the little slut could bend over and seduce another Tony while typing. Speaking of which...

The King: Show me this Wal-Mart me. If someone is sexting my mini-me then clearly, I must vet him.

It takes a solid ten minutes of creative arguing, before a single picture graces his screen. It's not the best, a little grainy, but authentic. And... Yeah. Holy. Fuck. Peter quite literally found a Wal-Mart version of him.

The guy has dark hair and styled stubble, but his eyes are green and his jaw is boxy, too sharp. His body was tall, broad. A little too steriod-y to match the genuine, years-worked muscle Tony had. A poke at his Instagram shows he makes a living as a lookalike.

The King: That's... Personally offensive, frankly. Kid, I'm disappointed. I thought I taught you better. I thought I taught you to gun for the best of the best.

Stark In Training: I can't have the best...

Before Tony can reply, another image takes over. It's Peter, on his hands and knees of the workshop floor. He's still naked, hair mussed and lips dark.

He's licking the panel of the suit that would lay over Tony's cock. Tony can see the glisten of his tongue, the bliss visible even on the side of his face. And...

Fuck.

Stark In Training: You're not here. You've never spoken to me the way he does. The way I want you to. Never told me the things you'd do to me. Never touched me. The best doesn't want me.

Tony's never stood up so fast in his damned life. The financial secretary nearly punches through her hologram in surprise, and he waved a hand at them. "Workshop emergency. Continue without me; I read the reports while you were all typing them."

He's got a boy to prove wrong.

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck and Weave / 4

7,000+ words! I’m proud of myself for going this far. If you like what I do, consider commissioning me or donating to my ko-fi, which can be found here: https://ko-fi.com/owlespresso Thank you to TenkeyLess, Neila_Nuruodo, WickedWiles and Nidvaller on ao3 for beta reading this chapter! I could not have done this without them.

The fresh, frigid air pulls in and out of your weary lungs, a refreshing change from the stifling coziness of Urianger’s abode.

 Despite not being accustomed to it, you appreciate the way the cold settles against your skin. It’s a better wake up call than any tea could ever be. Haurchefant shields you from the harshest of the chill; the weight of his arm is a welcome warmth, a reassurance that you are not alone. Whilst you traverse the emptying streets, he takes the time to point out various locations and landmarks.

He chatters like a child eager to show their parents an art project.

“And just over there is the Jeweled Crozier—where you can find anything and everything your heart so desires. It’s also home to an array of restaurants should you grow peckish while on a shopping spree. Emmanellain, my younger brother, idles there often, much to my eldest sibling’s, Artoirel, dismay.” The swell of fondness in his voice is heart-warming. You should have expected someone as delightful and devoted as he to cherish his family like this.

“I look forward to meeting them.” If they’re related to Haurchefant, they must be almost as wonderful as he… and even if they aren’t, you owe them a great debt for sheltering you. If they hadn’t extended that kindness, you would have been forced to fend for yourself, left to hide in whatever decrepit crevice you could find. Still, you can’t help but want to know more. All he’s given you thus far are brief summaries, which, to be fair, is likely all you have time for.

Artoirel must be the responsible type, you assume, from both his position as the eldest brother and his apparent dismay over Emmanelain’s troublemaking. Is he as kind as Haurchefant? Or is he colder, more devout to his responsibilities than he is compassionate?

“They will adore you,” Haurchefant insists all the way up the stone stairs. For as much as Ishgard has gone through, the noble district seems untouched by war. “If Emmanellain gets fresh with you, I apologize on his behalf. As the youngest, he is perhaps… a bit spoiled.”

“The kind of person who doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer?” You raise an eyebrow. As close as you are to Haurchefant, you know next to nothing about his family or life prior to meeting you. What shaped the man you knew and treasured? What were his parents like? Had he always aspired to be a knight?

“A bright young man with an unfortunate tendency to philander and act recklessly.” Haurchefant clears his throat and corrects you sheepishly, sparing you a smile. “He means well, I assure you.”

The conversation flows slow and steadily as you walk through the fragile veil of the night. Street lamps shed bright light onto the concrete paths. It’s eerie, almost ethereal in comparison to Ul’dah’s bustling nightlife. No vendors, no street performers, no crowds. Simply sheer silence against a dull grey backdrop.

Eventually, you reach Fortemps Manor. It’s a tall, elegant building much like every other you’ve seen. Two armored guards are posted out front, their steel halberds at the ready. They give a low, courteous nod as you pass, opening the doors to reveal the interior of your new home.

The marble floors are so shiny you can see your reflection. A circular bench rests atop an elegant throw rug in the center of the lobby, the middle of the bench decorated with an immense floral display. Embroidered curtains hug either side of the wide windows. You don’t even want to try and gauge the price of even one set; artisan goods like that sell for thousands of gil a pop, far beyond your price range.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe. A warm flame crackles, nestled in a well-stocked fireplace. It extends its warmth graciously to you, thawing you from the dry cold. This is their living room? They get to return to this luxury at the end of every long day? “I’m kind of envious. Even the Rising Stones wasn’t this nice… and we had a bar out front.” Customers would stumble out drunk or worse, and piss in the nearby street after a night of hard drinking.

“Well, there won’t be a need for you to feel that way a moment longer,” he assures you. When you glance up at him, he’s smiling, gaze unmistakably tender. “This is your home now as much as it is mine.”

He’s so utterly devout that you can’t not believe him.

Your home. A place you can always come back to without fear or betrayal. When you were driven from the rank sewers of Ul’dah, you had given up on calling anywhere home. It seemed impossible, malms away, ripped from your bloodied fingers with no warning.

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks.

“Ser Haurchefant,” a new voice cuts through the air, ripping you from your train of thought. Probably for the better. You’ve cried enough today.

A tall, blond man strides into the living room from one of the branched hallways, clad in gleaming white armor. You’re not sure what grabs your attention the most, the incredible pauldrons which adorn his shoulders or the stripe of pale gold that slopes over his chest plate. Blond hair sweeps to the side, framing his angular face, his stern expression. His vivid white armor’s shape contrasts with the shadows at his back.

“Pardon the intrusion.” He glances from Haurchefant and then to you, recognition brimming in his blue gaze. “Ah. The Warrior of Light. Tis good to see you’ve arrived safe and sound. I am Zephirin de Valhourdin of the Heavens Ward. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His torso dips in a polite bow, sparing you the slightest of smiles before turning his gaze back to Haurchefant. Hurried, hasty. “Archbishop Aymeric has need for us. I was sent to retrieve you.”

“Can this not wait ‘till morning?” Haurchefant’s tone oozes exasperation in a way you’ve never quite heard before. A glance at his expression reveals a foreign neutrality. His lips are set in a firm line, an eyebrow raised in slight inquiry.

“Once more, I apologize,” Zephirin’s breath leaves him in a sigh. “It will take less than a bell, I’m told.”

“If we must. I expect you to treat me to a fresh tankard of ale tomorrow.” Haurchefant’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. His arm drops back to his side. The warmth he’s cocooned you in is torn away with little preamble. Despite the crackling hearth, you immediately feel a new kind of cold settle over you.

“Right.” Zephirin follows Haurchefant from the room and back out into the cold, leaving you alone. Again. You clutch the Fortemps lordling’s jacket tight to yourself and shut your eyes, feeling exhaustion pull at your weary consciousness.

You haven’t done much but sit around all day, yet you still feel fatigue clutch you close, sinking its devilish claws into your aching muscles. It’s agonizing, to be this tired from doing so little.

Had you not risen to acclaim through slaying gods and monsters, perhaps you would be less bitter about your new weakness, about the time you need to recover. Urianger had asked you to take a moon away from strenuous activity, but you don’t know if your sanity will let you.

The injuries that mercilessly litter your body ensure those responsible for the banquet can roam free and unpunished. That thought makes your blood curdle, the very fabric of your being rearing up and howling refrain at your helplessness, at the unkindness of this reality.

“Oh! Good evening.” Yet another new voice rings out across the spacious living room, rich and soft in quality. Your gaze sweeps in its direction, coming to rest on the tall, slender form of another elezen. Adorned with a thick, elegant alpine coat, the new arrival’s hair is as black as coal. It’s long and wavy, swept beautifully above his forehead to crest over the left side of his face. He’s handsome, sharp facial features and intent gaze unlike the soft gentility you’ve come to know and expect from Haurchefant. “I assume you’re the Warrior of Light?”

“Uhm, yes.” The sudden, unexpected social interaction causes the cogs in your brain to very suddenly knock back into place. To tell the truth, you’re not really sure how to respond here. So you tell him your name, do your best to act naturally, act cool despite being a stranger in a strange land.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His heels click against the marble floor as he approaches, thin lips curling into a welcoming smile. He’s the perfect picture of a noble gentleman, right down to the eloquent way in which he bows at the waist. “I must thank you for your service. Had you not led our defenses at the Steps of Faith, we likely would have met crushing defeat. It is truly an honor to have you.”

“It’s no problem. I should be thanking you for letting me stay,” You manage a small smile, cheeks growing warm under his unfiltered praise. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t extended the invitation... speaking of, is Alphinaud here? And Tataru? They came in with me, right?”

“Yes. They arrived with you, in admittedly much better condition. No harm has been done to Alphinaud beyond a few bruises and thoughts fraught with worry. He went to sleep half a bell ago, but I’m sure he will be delighted to see you safe and sound,” the noble replies. “Miss Tataru is completely unscathed, but has opted to head to The Forgotten Knight, a local tavern, to speak with the locals and attempt to gather information on your companions’ whereabouts.”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Had either of them been severely injured or—Hydaelyn forbid—killed, you never would have forgiven yourself. It’s tempting to ask to see Alphinaud now, but you know he needs his rest. Tataru is enough of a grown woman to take care of herself, and you don’t know if you can manage another long walk, so she’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

“Good, thank you again. That’s such a relief. If he had—uh, never mind.” You’re exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but you still have enough good sense to not unload your innermost feelings on a man you’ve just met, on a noble kind enough to shelter you and your allies despite the target painted on your back. “Haurchefant left with, uh—”

“Lord Zephirin? I had assumed so. In the meantime, I can show you to your room. You must be exhausted after the ordeal you’ve been put through,” Artoirel offers, every bit as kind and polite as you expected him to be, given Haurchefant’s unfailing cheerfulness. His expression softens with sympathy. You glance back at the arched double doors leading outside. It feels wrong to head to bed without giving Haurchefant a proper goodnight, but you don’t know when he’ll return. Turning back to Artoirel, you acquiesce to the siren’s call of your fatigue.

Your stomach snarls and immediately you are reminded that Haurchefant whisked you away from Urianger’s humble abode before he had the chance to prepare dinner.

“...Did you miss dinner?” Artoirel inquires and your cheeks flame with warmth.

“I did, but it’s no trouble,” You try to wave it off. You can wait until tomorrow morning to eat. It won’t be the first time you crawled into bed on an empty stomach. “I can wait, really—”

“Nonsense. We ate only a bell ago and the chefs won’t be leaving for another two. Come,” he gives you no room to argue, a hand gracing the small of your back. You jolt at the touch, wide eyes staring up at his handsome profile as he steers you alone. “You can sit in the kitchen whilst you wait—you there!” he calls to a passing servant woman, listing out a small order before continuing to lead you back across the living room. The extravagant furniture vanishes as the structure siphons into a slender hallway that lies in the back.

“Thank you,” It wouldn’t do to argue with him, and you would be a fool to turn down a fresh, hot meal. “So, you’re Haurchefant’s older brother?”

“That I am,” He sends you another smile, leading you into a wide dining room. An oval-shaped table sits in the middle surrounded by eight, elegant chairs resting around it, all positioned with perfect symmetry. A golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Several crystals affixed to the ends of its curving, twining arms emit a vibrant, illuminating light.

“I am quite fortunate to have him as a brother. He’s been incredibly dependable since our father stepped down.” A solemn smile graces his lips as he speaks, as though recalling better times long past.

“The count stepped down?” You settle into one of the chairs, allowing your weary muscles to relax into the firm frame.

“Yes, it’s quite common for house leaders to step down as they reach their twilight years, often to prevent reckless decisions due to their old age. Our father fortunately isn’t in that position. He was simply ready to retire and pursue other passions… I shall let him disclose those details himself—”

The next half-bell passes in quiet, mild conversation. It’s simple and surface level in a way that puts you at ease. He pointedly avoids any mention of the banquet or your injuries. It makes you feel coddled the longer you speak, but the food arrives before you get truly miffed at being handled with kid gloves. It’s a delicious dinner, a meal that fills and warms you from the inside. The meat is thick and tender, the vegetables expertly cooked and spiced. You barely manage to not scarf it all down like a monster, reminding yourself that the nobleman who’s so generously sheltering you is sitting mere fulms away.

After dinner, he escorts you to your room. From the dining room, you head back across the lobby and in a hall that branches off the left side. Heading further into the house, you walk up a steep case of stairs and down another wide corridor. Artoirel leaves you in front of a polished wooden door, bidding you a polite farewell alongside an offer to show you the city proper tomorrow. If Haurchefant is busy, you may just take him up on that.

You enter the room and let your back thunk against it, eyes shutting as the day’s events wash over you in their entirety. Your eyes fall shut, the wooden surface cool against the back of your head.

It… it would be a good idea to get some sleep.

Yet, a pair of feminine voices reach you through the door.

“Lord Zephirin was… in his chambers…” As they come closer you guess they’re a pair of maid servants. Over your time of bumping elbows with nobility, you have learned that the help are by far the most knowledgeable when it comes to the inner workings of any noble house. They cook the food, personally serve each member of the family, have access to every room on the property.

They most definitely have access to a wealth of knowledge about House Fortemps and all its occupants.

“I could hear them, plain as day! You’d think someone so high ranking would attempt to keep their affairs quieter…”

“Be quiet!” a second voice hisses. “Imagine what they’d do to you if they heard you gossiping so!”

“Well, they should at least keep it down. Imagine how I felt, having to hear them carrying on while cleaning ser Artoirel’s study!” the first voice acquiesces into a quieter grumble.

“I’m sure they don’t really give a damn about our comfort.” You can practically hear the second woman roll her eyes.

“Ser Haurchefant should at least care about his good House’s reputation! Think, if the court heard he was gallivanting around with—”

Their voices lapse into quiet little grousing until you can no longer hear them, which is probably for the best. You already have enough to think about to keep you up at night. It’s likely nothing more than idle gossip, you tell yourself. But then again, what reason would they have to lie?

You sigh, shoving the matter to the furthest reaches of your mind.

You lay Haurchefant’s jacket across a luxurious, cushioned arm chair facing an elegant coffee table. You nearly stumble out of your trousers and rip your shirt in haste, clambering over to the tall wardrobe. It sits proudly next to a dresser-vanity combination.

This is nicer than any room you’ve ever stayed in, you realize, from the lush weave of the throw carpet to the very grain of the wooden furniture.

A decadent robe rests on a silver hanger inside the wardrobe, just as nice as the one Urianger lent you earlier. It chases the cold from your weary muscles as you tumble onto the bed, ignoring the pain that jostles your entire body upon impact. You barely have enough energy to burrow underneath the bundled blankets, much less decipher anything you just heard.

The best thing you can do for yourself is fall asleep and get some rest. So, you toss and turn among the sea of blankets, until you descend into the velvety embrace of sleep.

- - -

Lantern light spreads over the concrete in spaced out lines as the knights traverse the holy steps. They venture towards the apex of the Holy See, yet Haurchefant’s thoughts cannot be further from the man who requires their presence. Archbishop Aymeric is a man he’s spoken with countless times, who he’s gotten to know in a shockingly intimate way. A bond old, yet pale in comparison to what he feels for you.

His thoughts return to you constantly, a grandiose girandole of scenarios in which he gets to know you deeply and intimately. He cannot help but recall how his jacket dwarved your precious form, could only imagine the sweet curves and planes of your body, the sanguine siren call of your raw fragility threatening to drive him from his good senses.

Never had he wished to see you under such duress, yet the helpless gaze you leveled him with whilst caged in Urianger’s abode still sent thrill after thrill down his spine. It haunted him to this very moment.

“I anticipated her to at the very least be an Elezen.” Zephirin’s baleful grousing disguises itself as a genuinely thoughtful statement, his tone shockingly level. His voice interrupts Haurchefant’s musings, ripping through the pristine portrait memory crafted of your image.

Ah, is that… envy in his fellow commander’s voice? How unseemly for someone held in such high regard by the general populace! Haurchefant isn’t sure whether to be flattered or mildly aggravated. so he settles for ignoring the other. He barely spares the other man a glance as they come to stand before Ishgard’s mightiest cathedral, lit tall by ever-burning touches, stone smothered by flamelight.

“I don’t see how species matters in this situation,” He raises an eyebrow steeply, making sure to emphasize his skepticism, for shame is a powerful tool and socking Zephirin in the face would surely cause a stir. “Especially when she seamlessly led our defenses in order to protect the Steps of Faith.”

Zephirin has been a good friend to him, but he will not stand to hear your grand name slandered even the slightest bit. The man at his side has rested upon his silken sheets in nights past, but even that treasured intimacy pales in comparison to his unadulterated passion.

He will not have Zephirin sow seeds of doubt and discontent in regards to you. Not when you are soft with injury and so perfectly pliable to him, not when you are finally within arm’s reach.

“‘Twas not my intent to offend you.” Zephirin makes the wise decision to rein himself in, a stiffness in his voice that speaks to unpreparedness for Haurchefant’s push back. It makes sense. Never has Haurchefant dared to be so stern with any of his fellow Heavens’ Ward. Not when he was so young and green, so recently inducted into its vaunted ranks. “The Warrior of Light has my utmost respect. I think it’s simply… novel that you’ve chosen to fawn over someone so decidedly different than anyone in Ishgard.”

Statues frame either side of the grand hall they enter, heroes memorialized in carefully crafted effigies that watch in silence as they traverse the stairs. The sound of Zephirin’s gleaming platemail clanging echoes up and down the hollowed corridor, somehow making it feel emptier.

“Then again, you have made a habit of walking to the beat of your own drum,” Zephirin continues knowingly, pensive, observant rather than judgmental.

“The Holy See will always have my sword at their service and my undying loyalty, but the people of our fine city have a habit of stubbornly clinging to useless tradition. It would be narrow-minded of me to limit my romantic interests by species.” Haurchefant shrugs as they reach the top of the staircase, continuing down the hallowed halls. The distinct lack of moonlight makes the halls seem older and dingier than usual.

“I apologize if I offended you,” Zephirin says. “I have your best interests at heart when I advise you keep some of your more outlandish beliefs close to your chest. You know how the nobility likes to gossip.”

Hah! Haurchefant barely stops himself from barking a laugh, both from disbelief and genuine amusement. To think, the bastard child of the Fortemps has gained the favor of the Heavens’ Ward’s most vaunted! Distantly, he wonders how his fool of a step-mother would react. To think, both children born in wedlock would be passed up in favor of him, the reminder that her husband had strayed!

“The nobility cannot rob me of the position I have worked endlessly for. Let them gossip.” Haurchefant brushes off the other man’s warning with an unintended note of disdain in his voice, left over from the memory of the witch his father once called a wife.

He blinks a moment later. Ah. Being rude to Zephirin certainly isn’t in his best interests. Best mend any potential rift between them before it even forms.

“My apologies. The hour is late and the day’s fatigue is getting the better of me,” he says, voice softening at the edges like the sweetened edge of an apple pastry. His gaze is honey, his expression tender as he smiles in his fellow’s direction. “I appreciate your concern, ser Zephirin. It is truly an honor to serve at your side.”

“It’s no trouble. However, it would be in your best interests to make sure you don’t allow your tongue to slip in the archbishop’s presence.” His fellow Heavens’ Ward acquiesces, likely deciding the conversation not worth continuing.

“Duly noted.” Haurchefant idly assures him, gaze drawn out one of the steep windows, towards the moonless sky. Silence settles between the both of them, the empty space filled only by the sharp sound of Zephirin’s greaves against the marble tile.

- - -

“Full glad am I to see you in one piece,” is the first thing Alphinaud says to you as you wrap your arms tight around him. You ignore the way your wounds ache and groan in protest, because oh god, you’re so utterly relieved to see him alive and safe—the admittedly bratty child whose tailed you so long, through a seemingly endless cycle of hardships.

Knowing he was more or less alright was comforting; actually seeing him put all your worries at rest.

“Thank the gods you’re alright.” You press your cheek to his temple and give him another loving squeeze. He gasps and jolts under the sudden pressure, noises devolving to a delighted, nervous little giggle. Hesitant fingers curl in the dense fabric of your robe. He’s so warm, so soft and alive. He’s one of the two people you have left in this cold world and you’re not going to let him anywhere near potential danger anytime soon.

“After all that happened, you’re concerned for my well-being?” he inquires incredulously. He shakes his head, but cannot hide his weary, fond smile as he steps back. He looks you up and down, gaze softening with sympathy as he looks you up and down. The smile he adorns turns into a guilt-ridden frown. “I must apologize. What happened with the Crystal Braves was utterly and completely my fault. I should have—”

He cuts himself off as a line of servants flows into the kitchen. The light from the chandelier glints off the extravagant, silver platters they carry.

Fresh steam rolls off the mounds of food as they set each one down, arranging them artfully down the long table’s center.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you reassure him over the sound of silverware and fine porcelain and hushed chattering. “It’s not your fault. You’re too young to be leading any kind of organization and Minfilia should have known that.”

“I should have known that. It’s because of my recklessness that—” His voice cracks with his agony and you once more reach for him, grasping him his hand warm and tight, attempting to convey all the love and passion and forgiveness you can manage with a simple, physical gesture.

Are you disappointed in him? Had such terrible tragedy not stolen your friends from you, perhaps you would have been. But all you can feel right now is overwhelming relief.

“There’s no way you could have known, Alphinaud. Because you’re young and no amount of education could have changed what happened.” Your voice is hurried and rushed and desperate, more of a plea than a statement. “Happened. Because it’s in the past, and we can’t go back and fix it. All we can do is go on and grow from this. It’s not your fault, Alphinaud. Please believe me.”

He’s just a boy. Despite his past arrogance, he didn’t deserve to be humbled like this. He’s not even eighteen and he’s already been exposed to the horrors of war, already had some of his closest friends stolen from him in a single night.

He’s just a boy. A boy with no home, no present parents, and no more political power. Just a boy, but most importantly, he is now your boy.

“I...” he gives a small, sputtering laugh, a hand coming up to wipe away a spare teardrop. “When you insist with such ardent passion, I cannot help but want to believe you. In any case, you’re right. Wallowing in my own self-pity will get us nowhere… and it will not bring anyone back,” he ended with a soft sigh, staring blankly at a plate stacked high with pancakes and fruits. “It wouldn’t do for our new allies to see me in such a crestfallen state.”

“You’re allowed to cry and grieve.” Your expression softens. You press your hand gently to his shoulder. “You just have to know it isn’t your fault.”

You’re not entirely sure if he believes you, but you aren’t given any time to reassure him further. Artoirel strolls in with two other men, who are introduced to you as former Count Edmont Fortemps and Emmanellain.

To make a good impression, you’re forced to shove your Alphinaud-related worries to the back of your mind. After a pleasant breakfast, Haurchefant at last makes his return, sweeping you into one of the more private lounges whilst Alphinaud opts to head to the study at Artoirel’s side, hoping to learn more about Ishgard’s political climate and resources he can use to locate the Scions.

“Good morning, my lady,” Haurchefant openly fawns, mischief gleaming like flint and steel in his eyes. “I hope you had a good rest, last night? I specifically made sure they gave you the softest mattress we have to offer!”

His shameless affection makes your cheeks grow warm. No matter how much time you spend with him, his unabashed affection never fails to astonish you.

He sits next to you, his side pressed right up against your own.

“I slept fine,” you assure, promptly ignoring the gossip you overheard last night. Even if what the maids said happens to be true, it’s none of your business, despite how curious you are.

Prior to all this recent chaos, you dismissed his affection as mere friendliness, denied the idea that he could be romantically interested in you, someone so constantly occupied with your work.

He merely supports the Scions and their mission statement, you had attempted to reason.

I don’t have time for romance, you convinced yourself. Before you knew it, you had crafted excuse after excuse, each one growing more elaborate in nature.

“You spoil me too much, really. You haven’t eaten breakfast and here you are, asking after me.” You try to sound indignant, despite the way your heart thrums so wildly in your chest.

“I’ll have you know I purchased one fine bowl of stew from a trustworthy vendor on my way home! Though, I am touched by your concern. It’s simply riveting to know you keep me so close in your thoughts.” He sends you an impish grin, the weight of his hand warm on your shoulder. “Forgive me, though.” His voice dips into something genuinely solemn, gaze shifting downcast with sudden guilt. “T’was my intent to dine with you this morning. However, the archbishop required my services and it is not my place to deny His Holiness.”

“Don’t apologize.” You level him with an incredulous stare. Are all Ishgardians prone to such melodrama? With how deeply he pouted, any passerby could easily assume his mother had just passed. “You had work. It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Ahh, how could I forget!” He seems to ignore your reassurances, hanging his head low. “Allow me to make up for this transgression by taking you to the Jeweled Cozier. Surely a veritable sea of gifts, including the realm’s finest garments, would be an acceptable appeasement?” he drawls, his charitable intent near knocking you flat.

“Haurchefant, that’s so sweet, but I couldn’t possibly—”

“You arrived in our fine city with naught but the clothes on your back, correct?” He cuts you off in a way that makes your ears burn hot. Your gaze dives to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes.

He’s not wrong, but did he really have to bring that up?

“Yes, but—”

“And—pardon my well-intentioned assumption—would you say you have not a single possession to your name?” His gloved fingers find your chin and delicately coax your face upwards, the sudden gesture shocking you still. After a moment of attempting to gather your frayed nerves, you swallow and nod.

That quaint, smug smile widens.

“Then allow me to treat you. Please. Hardly ever do I spend my coin, and my pockets are so heavy that they encumber my every move. It would be a delight, nay, a relief to spend some on you.” His dramatics practically fill the room, and you’re suddenly grateful as he releases your chin… only to slide off the couch and onto his knees. He clasps his hands together, fingers intertwining, head dipping to mimic prayer.

“Stop!” You raise your hands to push at his clenched fists, protesting before he can wax any more flowery poetic. “I get it! I get it! We can go shopping together!”

“Ah! There’s that brilliant common sense you are so well-known for!” His smile turns a touch smug as you acquiesce, pushing himself to his feet. “Wonderful, simply wonderful. I’ll go get you a coat. We don’t have many, so you’ll have to settle for one of mine.”

With that, he scurries off, asking you to stay put whilst he retrieves it for you.

It’s plush and fur-lined, multiple sizes too large for you. It buries you, coated in his soft scent, cocoa and faint spice, a familiar comfort in a strange, new city.

The Jeweled Crozier wasn’t a market filled with glitz and glamour as much as a series of shops, restaurants and vendor stalls among the sea of grey stonework. It’s the most you’ve seen of the lower and upper class mingling. It’s elezen as far as you can see, dotted with the occasional hyur. Despite being clothed in Ishgardian garb, you stick out like a sore thumb—and those in the crowd have no problem with making you really feel it.

Countless gazes glue to you, making your ears hot with shame. You’re out of place, away from every home you’ve ever known.

“Pay them no mind.” Haurchefant breaks you from your train of thought, sparing you a kind smile. “Hardly ever do outsiders venture inside the city walls. They’re just curious.”

And ignore them you eventually do, once Haurchefant tugs you inside a spacious store. It becomes impossible to think about the public’s general public opinion of you when you’re face-to-face with racks of fine garments, overwhelming you instantly. Where are you supposed to start? You desperately look over the blouses and skirts and pants and dresses, suddenly losing the mental checklist you had come up with.

“I’ll apologize now for taking too long,” you say with a nervous chortle. “I’m not really sure where to start.”

“Allow me, then. Surely with our powers combined, we can assemble you a new wardrobe—aha! What about this one? The color suits you.” He plucks a fresh blouse from one of the high racks, holding it up next to you.

Much of the next hour passes similarly. You roam the aisles with your devout “helper” in tow. He plucks garment after garment—

“As much as I love it, I don’t think wearing a skirt that short is a good idea—”

—from the aisles—

“Haurchefant, I am not looking for swimwear.”

—And shelves. Some are genuinely helpful, while others…

“I am not shopping for lingerie today!” You finally lose your temper and scold him.

“Ah, so you will one day?” He falls into step next to you, your chosen garments rested across his arms. He refused to let you carry them yourself. “You must let me accompany you when the time comes ‘round. I know the most delightful boutique—”

“Please, just focus on what we’re doing now!” You rub your temples wearily and use it as an excuse to not look at him, taking the moment to try and cool down. Your cheeks are much too hot underneath his unyielding, devoted attention. Aren’t Ishgardians supposed to be rigid and uptight? You’ve long known about Haurchefant’s more… affectionate tendencies, but never can you pretend to be immune to them.

“As my lovely lady wishes.” He heaves out a dramatic sigh and keeps his teasing to a minimum, resigned to his status as a practical coat rack. After grabbing a new bunch of socks, he accompanies you to the counter, stunning you with the absolutely swollen wallet he brings out.

He makes no attempt to be subtle about his wealth as he ferries you from store-to-store, purchasing everything from necessities like new shampoo to frivolous luxury candles and rose petal pastries.

“You really have money to burn, don’t you?” You eye the crepe he’s shoved into your hand incredulously, the pastry wrapping covered in sugar crystals and cinnamon, stacked high with fruits and cream.

“A man of my position and status would never lie about something so important,” he says with humorous firmness.

“I thought you might have been exaggerating.” You lean forward to take a heaping bite of the pastry. It’s just as rich and delicious as you expected.

“Me? Exaggerate? Impossible,” he declares.

The bags nestled in the crook of his arm bump against each other with each long step. It’s somewhat easier to ignore the prodding gazes of nosy passerby whilst locked in conversation with him.

“If you say so,” you shrug with a small smile, not bothering to bring up his tendency for ridiculous dramatics.

You’re barely given another moment to savor another bite of your pastry before your leg suddenly locks, the jostle of the sore muscle forcing a pained little cry from your chapped lips. Fuck, fuck! It was clear one of your wounds doesn’t agree with how much walking you’ve been doing.

“What’s wrong!?” Haurchefant is looming over you in an instant, concern clear as day in his deep, blue eyes. One of his hands finds your shoulder, the other arm wrapping around your back to pull you close, away from the Crozier’s foot traffic. “What’s troubling you, my friend?”

“Just one of the cuts on my leg, I think,” you admit with a small sigh, before shooting him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. Really.” Weak, you realize. You’re still weak. The pain brewing in your body suddenly renews the heavy grief settled in your heart. You’re weak, too weak to even enjoy a shopping trip with one of your best friends.

“Perhaps it’s best we head home for the time being. I think our trip was quite successful!” He lightly shook a few of the bags on his arm as if to emphasize his point.

“I’m fine,” you insist, lips curling in the beginnings of a soft frown. Perhaps it would be best to retire to the manor and get some rest, but… “We can keep shopping. You wanted to pick up some groceries, didn’t you?”

“That can wait, I assure you.” Haurchefant’s expression curls to match your own, mirroring your displeasure with a touch of worry. He doesn’t relinquish his grasp on you, lest you topple over the moment he let go. While you appreciate the concern, you can’t help but feel deep frustration boiling underneath your heated skin. “Urianger prescribed you the best painkillers Ishgard has to offer and extensive bedrest until you’re well on your way to being fully recovered.”

“I’ve been bed-resting for the past day and all this morning. I can last a trip to the grocery store,” you insist, voice growing more fervent. You may be injured, sure, but you’re also an adult who can make your own decisions!

He says your name as an exasperated inhale, a hand perched on his hip.

“My dearest friend, I understand your pain and your frustration, but the more you rest, the faster you’ll recover.” Haurchefant’s voice slows and softens, any potential exasperation brewing on his expression melting away into the tranquil joy you’ve come to associate him with. “Please. Even if you insist that you’ll be fine, come home with me and rest for the sake of my own sanity. It worries me when you push yourself. Long have I been forced to watch you plow onto the battlefield, thrown against opponents no other mortal can face only for you to return injured.”

A sudden gust of wind wails through the area, slipping between the streets and alleyways to reach you. Yet, you hardly feel its effects, shielded by his steep body.

“When you came back from your victory against Shiva, I was so relieved… but also regretful. Regretful that I could not be by your side and help you.” The sudden onslaught of genuine tenderness completely throws you off your train of thought. The rage you feel dissolves in a near instant. A single, gloved hand comes to rest against your cheek, gaze impossibly tender.

He’s right. You know this. The more you rest, the fast you’ll recover. No matter how upset you are now, you can’t be illogical if you want to return to full health as quickly as possible.

“...Okay. Alright.” You shut your eyes and suck in a deep breath, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, attempting to soothe an upcoming headache. “Let’s go back.”

“Let’s go home,” Haurchefant corrects gently. His eyelids dip low, his smile sanguine and delighted at your easy compliance. His hold on you adjusts, an arm steady around your shoulder. By now, it felt natural to be attached at the hip to him, held close to his side. Close enough to feel his body warmth.

It does wonder to soothe your mental and physical aches. He continues to speak in quiet, gentle tones as he escorts you back to the manor, sheltering you from the frosty, curious gazes of the Ishgardian passerby. He smells nice, his clothes interwoven with the rich scent of mocha and freshly cleaned linen. It’s a familiarity you’re able to cling to and bury yourself in, a deep-seated comfort you can’t place a name to until you’re at the manor doors.

He smells like home.

- - -

The veil of night settles over his skin like a soothing balm.

This is the time of day where Estinien feels most at ease. It is the blessed dark that shrouded his draconic features, gave him more cover should the glamor that shielded him from prying eyes begin to falter.

It keeps him tucked away, as he pries open the one window Urianger leaves unlocked for him.

The building’s interior does precious little to shield him from the cold. The small orbs of light that float freely around the room don’t carry any warmth with them.

No matter. He’s long grown used to the cold.

His greaves land heavy on the wooden floor. The boards creak underneath his each step as he makes his way to the door, sliding into the hall. He picks up on the book man’s scent within a mere few seconds, old books and rich spice.

He makes his way down the narrow hallway, retracing a path long grown familiar to him.

It’s a new smell that causes him to pause and divert from his chosen path, grasping one of the doorknobs to tug it open. Blood, he realizes, blood and a familiar, rich scent that is uniquely yours.

The globes of light, when combined with his enhanced vision, allow him to see as if it were day. His gaze falls upon a tousled bathrobe. He knows that bathrobe is too large for you. It is Urianger’s, yet you cling to it, yet—

Ah. He understands now.

He exits and shuts the door, continuing towards his intended destination.

A ray of gentle, warm light slips through a crack in one of the doors. He curls his armored fingers around the door to pull it open.

Urianger is hunched over his humorously large desk, long fingers wrapped around a long quill. He glances up, amber gaze softening at the sight of him.

Estinien doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the sympathy he is so freely afforded by this man. He is not a creature to be pitied.

“Good evening, my friend. ‘Tis good to see thee.” Urianger rests his quill and stands, looking him over.

“Likewise,” Estinien grunts, more out of obligation than anything.

“I imagine thou hast come with the intention of brevity in mind, as per usual.” Urianger wanders away from his desk and towards the door, towards Estinien.

Estinien steels himself at the approach, smothers the cacophony of singing, screaming voices that claws and rises at the back of his mind. Sparks of pain dance down his spine and he exhales, firm and long. He listens to the sound of Urianger’s footsteps across the floorboards, allows the noise to ground him.

“You had a guest,” he says as the man passes him. He practically feels Urianger stiffen beside him, the tendons and muscles tightening rigidly. The broad set of his shoulders grows stonelike with newfound tension, and Estinien can instantly tell he has hit a nerve.

“I did. The Warrior of Light wast dropped into my waiting lap yestermorn. I was gifted with the pleasure of treating her,” Urianger informs him.

“...Did you do more than treat her?” Estinien inquires. He knows this is not his business, knows he has no place prying into these affairs. But the sight of the astrologian hunched over your bloodied, battered form has been ingrained into the fine corners of his memory. It settles uneasily in his stomach.

“Of course not. My duties laid in administering care and that alone. Art thou casting doubt upon my good intentions?” The astrologian assured and inquired with an arch of his elegant brow.

Ah. There are the melodramatics he’s come to know and expect.

“Of course not,” Estinien parrots, deadpan. “I was simply curious about why her scent clings so deeply to the robe in one of your guest rooms.”

“Thou… wandered into one of my guest quarters?” Urianger looks to him with a vaguely betrayed expression. His eyes have widened, blinking several times as though he cannot believe what Estinien just admitted.

“Her scent saturates the entire house, Urianger.” Estinien shrugs. “It is merely strongest in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“So in an attempt to satisfy thy curiosity, thou intruded—” His voice is getting faster, more agitated. Seldom does Estinien ever see or hear the bookman lose his temper, but he is coming dangerously close.

“Wasn’t it you who assured me that your home is my home? Or are you attempting to retract that claim?” Estinien raises an eyebrow. “Regardless, if it makes you uncomfortable to disclose such information, I shalln’t pry.”

“That would be best. As much as I appreciate thy companionship, I would enjoy it if thou did not pry into my personal affairs.” The tension did not dissipate from Urianger’s posture or his tone, but Estinien could feel him beginning to loosen up. Interesting.

Someone who did not know Urianger as well as he might not even be able to tell how nervous he was. But hardly did anything escape Estinien. Not when his nose was so sharp, not when his ears were so open, not when his carnal instinct was akin to a flail and a mace.

Still, he lays underneath Urianger’s capable hands, receives hundreds of small needles pried into his aching muscles and head. Never would he have discovered how acupuncture benefits the symptoms of his condition without Urianger. For that, he will always be grateful.

He savors the gentle draw of Urianger’s fingertips across his shoulders and back and sides. Small strokes and touches that make stars dance behind his eyelids as he melts.

For an hour, he is not the Azure Dragoon. He is not the foolish child who fell into temptation and stole the Eye for himself. He is a mere elezen, a humble creature allowed through Eden’s gates.

When the treatment is done, he indulges in the way Urianger helps him off the table with a hand. His solitude has made him appreciate even the slightest of contact. He allows himself to drink in the feeling of humanity and compassion for a meager few moments, before his hand falls back to his side.

When he climbs out the window, he is a beast once again, seeing, smelling and hearing what he should never be privy to.

[jaybe11]

What the fuck happened to music?

This shit needs to stop. If more parents introduced their kids to the kind of music that came out of the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s – we’d have a lot less shitty pop music today. When I was growing up in the 90’s – my mom came to the realization that rock music was heading down a slippery slope (in her opinion it was Nirvana that ruined rock music), so she decided to introduce her child (me) to The Beatles, Queen, and AC/DC.

This led me down the “long and winding road” towards musical excellence. At age 10 I got my first guitar, and it was all downhill from there. 12 years later I’m still playing, and still finding new (old) bands that I haven’t heard before. My absolute favorite thing in the world is finding albums that are absolutely stunning from front to back – and there’s a lot of them out there… you just gotta know where to look!

Music truly is the most diverse form of artist creativity. With so many genres, sub-genres, and intertwining cultures related to it all, its a wonder anybody can relate to anybody else’s musical taste. But when it comes to modern pop music – almost any sane and rational person can agree – it’s cheap, over-produced garbage.

The way I see it, today’s mainstream music is similar to all the other products available in Target or Wal-Mart… made-in-China dollar store crap assembled by kids who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Sure, CEO’s and executives get larger profits, but the average Joe ends up using it, over-using it, breaking it, and then it’s on to the next piece of shit.

I challenge my generation to learn an instrument. It’s not that hard, and you’ll get a lot more gratification from a guitar track you spent hours trying to get right than you would on a EDM track you threw together in 10 minutes. Computers are great, they’re lots of fun and a great tool to have when you’re learning the ins-and-outs of music, but no musical mind should be taking shortcuts. This results in boring and repetitive bullshit. Just take a look at MTV.

[whitepolaris]

Octogon House

This strange home has legendary status in Circleville. Also known as the Crites House, presumably for a family who once lived there, it was constructed in the shape of an octagon with eight outside walls. For a long time it sat at the back of a residential area not far from Route 23 and within sight of the famous pumpkin water tower. 

This style of architecture was fairly common in Ohio in the nineteenth century, and was have to admire the ingenuity of its builders. Inside, weird architecture reigns. The rooms surround an open “hallway” in the center with a spiral staircase, and all of the rooms opening onto each other. The closets are shaped like pie wedges with sloped ceilings. By climbing the staircase all the way, you can poke around in a smaller octagon-shaped attic just below the peck of the roof. 

The Octagon House was almost lost when Wal-Mart wanted to build on the site in 2003. But thanks for the efforts of the Roundtown Conservancy, it was pried up from its original foundation and moved via flatbed truck to a location behind the Super Center, safe from development. 

[eugene114]

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in— There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On seek a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu; A-raspin' on the scraper,— All ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. 'you want to see my Pa, I s'pose?' 'Wal…no…I come dasignin''— 'To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.' To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, 'I'd better call agin;' Says she, 'Think likely, Mister;' Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An'… Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, And gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell

Aperture Contemporary

@Aperturecontemporary  · Art Gallery

[burtlederp]

For Elias, could you write something with nature whump? Like, I just want to see Elias stuck outside during a storm or blizzard or something and trying to deal with the situation.

My whumpy little heart, you know EXACTLY what I love best. This is set before Risa takes him, before he’s dumped his girlfriend, and after he’s moved to D.C..

tw: umm? car crash, i suppose. Nothing too terrible.

---

Elias jerked awake with a gasp. His head pounded, like something was inside, slamming its fists against his skull to the beat of his heart. He cursed, trying to open his eyes, aware of pain elsewhere in his body. The light didn’t really help his head, but he could tell something was wrong. He was wearing his seat belt, but it had no give. He felt like he’d been punched in the face, and in the collar bone. There was white in front of him, some kind of strange, orange flicker behind it like looking through frosted glass. 

Slowly, blinking blearily, tasting copper in his mouth, his vision cleared slightly. His heart skipped a beat.

He was in his car, but not as he was supposed to. The airbag, long-since expended and deflated, lay sadly in his lap, the whole front windshield a pattern of shattered tempered glass. A long wooden thing--a tree branch, Elias realized--was plunged through the passenger side, bits of glass scattered everywhere, the branch gone straight through the passenger seat. That flickering orange glow he saw through the glass--fire. Fire.

“Shit. Shit.” He breathed, and he twisted in his seat, trying to reach the seat belt buckle, and immediately stopped, crying out. His collarbone didn’t appreciate that. He paused, squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for the worst of the pain to die down. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, blindly fumbling for the buckle with his hand. A click, and he was free. Well, more or less. His door wouldn’t open, but the window was practically absent from the crash. Out he crawled, cutting himself on the remaining bits of glass, before landing in the deep snow outside. 

It was bitterly cold. The wind was biting, blowing hard, so hard it was difficult to keep his eyes open. Snow beat upon him, piling up quickly against his car, totaled against a tree. He staggered back a few steps, panting, trying to think, trying to recall how this happened. He looked up to the road, but the snow blew too hard. He couldn’t see it, only the faint tracks of his car trailing up the slope to where he could only assume the road was. He shivered, shaking his head. He reached a hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Pressing the small button on the side did nothing except briefly display an empty battery symbol. His phone was totally dead.

He cursed, looking around. There wasn’t any reason to, though, he couldn’t see far enough for anything to be useful. Well, besides the tree. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, lowered his head, and started trudging towards the tree. I should probably see if there’s anything I can get out of my car. He thought distantly as he walked by it. He hesitated, glancing back at it. His head still throbbed. He felt tired, limbs of lead. He shook himself.

“No, no shit! Shit shit shit, fuck!” He cursed, walking on. “I can’t be fucking tired right now!” He hissed to himself. “Why the fuck am I tired already?” Nobody answered him.

He pushed on into the forest. Beneath the trees, the wind wasn’t so fierce, but it was still so bitterly cold. He wasn’t equipped for this weather. His feet in his cheap, $10 tennis shoes from Wal-Mart were already numb, his jeans doing little to shield his legs from the wind. His fingers were buried in his armpits, his thin, casual hoodie not offering much insulation from the cold. He had no hat, no snowshoes, no coat, no nothing. No way to call for help, no way to know which direction to walk, nothing. He was stuck out here.

He swallowed, the realization settling on him like the chill that was quickly crawling into his bones. He was stuck out here and no one would be coming to find him for a while. He needed to find some way to survive this.

“Shelter,” He breathed, squinting through the snow. He’d need shelter, first. Then fire. Gods, I’m so cold. He shivered, and pushed on into the forest, looking, trying to find something he could take shelter under. He stumbled blindly through the blizzard, more feeling his way through it than anything else. His headache was doing anything but relenting. If anything, it was getting worse. He staggered on, breath billowing out from his mouth and being carried away instantly by the wind. Every step was hard, the snow deepening constantly, even through the trees. 

The ground suddenly gave out from underneath him, and he cried out, cursing, as he tumbled headfirst into an unseen dip. The landing wasn’t as cushioned, where he was falling not having as deep a layer of snow as out of the small pit. It was a deep depression in the ground, left behind after a tree that had been in this spot had been uprooted some unknown time in the past. The misplaced root and dirt mass rose up beside the small pit like a wall, a reckonable barrier from the howling winds. Elias sat up, leaning against the side of the pit, head in his hands for a long moment. The fall had set his head on fire again, pain exploding, and he didn’t move for a minute, waiting for the worst of it to past. It never really got back to where it had been before, though. 

The shelter wasn’t perfect, with no roof and one main wall, but sitting down, now, Elias wasn’t sure if he could climb up and out. The pain in his head that came every time he tried to stand, the heaviness of his limbs--he wasn’t going to crawl out. So instead, he burrowed into the layer of snow that rested here already, trying to make himself a tiny, one-person igloo or nest. He would use his magic, except that he knew the only outcomes were either watching the explosive gas blow away on the breeze or blowing himself up. He preferred neither. 

He nestled deeper into the little pit, as best he could. The snow was only so deep, though, and the dirt at the bottom was rock hard. He curled up against the ground, pulling the hood as tight as possible. It was… surprisingly comfortable, like this. The pain in his head was as loud as ever, but like this, not moving, it wasn’t nearly so unbearable. Gods, he was so tired. 

He knew he shouldn’t be staying still. He knew, somewhere in his head, that this was bad. That laying here, feeling a growing sense of warmth within himself, was very, very bad. But he didn’t dare move and let the wind snatch away that warmth. He wanted it, he needed it, and it felt so good. Fatigue was heavier than the lead his limbs were made of, like a blanket laid over top him. 

He’d get up. He would. Just not yet. He was so tired, his head hurt so much, that there was no point to getting up right now. He wouldn’t get anywhere. So he let his eyes close. He’d rest, just for a little while. Just five minutes… He thought, sighing contentedly. Five minutes…. 

---

So, to answer your question: no, Elias isn’t very good at survival. Well, not when he has a concussion. 😛 Let me know if you want a part 2 for this, I’d be happy to write it! Elias ain’t dead, he gets better!