#standing stone kennels

[largemouthbassnation]

German Shorthaired Pointer Color Combos

Welcome to Standing Stone Kennels! In this video we talk about German shorthaired pointer color combinations and how you get them. Send Us Mail 5919 W Pleasant Valley Rd Pretty Prairie, KS 67570 Links Step-By-Step Dog Training Course: Join our Patreon Community – Our Store – Social Media Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StandingStoneKennels Instagram:…

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (the wolf's teeth)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Paring: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself, death scene)

- Previous part: the bride

- Next part: duty

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in the kennels is suffocating. It stinks of filth, wet fur, and death. The walls are lined with iron cages, each one housing a beast that could barely be called a dog. Ramsay’s hounds are massive, their eyes gleaming with hunger and cruelty. Their snarls echo through the stone chamber, reverberating in your ears like the prelude to a nightmare.

You stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by Ramsay’s monstrosities, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms. Ramsay is beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a vice.

Reek stands off to the side, hunched over and trembling. He doesn’t meet your eyes—he still never does—but his nervous shuffling and shallow breaths betray his discomfort.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the cacophony of snarls and growls, soft and lilting. He gestures to the hounds with a wide grin. “My beauties. The best of the North. Loyal, fierce, and so very hungry.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes remain fixed on the far corner of the room, where a man is being dragged forward by two guards. He’s filthy, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, his eyes wide with terror. He struggles against his captors, but it’s useless; they haul him forward like a sack of grain and throw him to his knees before Ramsay.

“Please,” the man stammers, his voice cracking. “Please, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

Ramsay’s boot slams into his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. The guards step back, leaving the man to scramble on the floor like a rat.

“You didn’t mean what?” Ramsay asks, his voice almost playful. He crouches beside the man, tilting his head like a curious predator. “Didn’t mean to fail me? Didn’t mean to lose my supplies to a band of savages in the woods?”

The man whimpers, clutching his hands together in a desperate plea. “It wasn’t my fault, my lord. They came out of nowhere. We tried to—”

“Shh.” Ramsay presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. He rises to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his leathers before turning to you.

“Do you see, wife?” he says, his grin spreading. “This is what happens when people disappoint me. When they fail me.”

You don’t speak, but your jaw tightens.

Ramsay steps closer to you, his pale eyes gleaming with delight. “You won’t fail me, will you, little wolf?”

“No,” you say flatly, your voice void of emotion.

His grin widens. “Good. Then you’ll learn something today.”

He gestures to the guards, who haul the trembling man to his feet and shove him toward one of the cages. The hound inside snarls, its massive body pressed against the iron bars as it senses its prey.

“Please!” the man screams, his voice breaking. “Please, my lord, I’ll do anything. Anything! Just don’t—”

“Don’t?” Ramsay interrupts, his tone mocking. He steps forward, grabbing the man by the back of the neck and shoving his face toward the hound. “Don’t what? This is mercy, you fool. My beauties get to eat, and you…” Ramsay leans closer, his grin almost tender. “You get to be useful one last time.”

The man’s scream is cut short as Ramsay shoves him toward the cage, unlocking the door with a flourish. The hound lunges forward, its jaws snapping shut on the man’s arm with a sickening crunch.

Blood sprays across the stone floor, pooling at your feet. The man shrieks, his voice high and ragged, but you don’t look away. You force yourself to watch as the hound drags him to the ground, its powerful jaws tearing into flesh and bone.

“Don’t look away,” Ramsay murmurs beside you, his voice soft but commanding.

“I wasn’t going to,” you reply coldly, your gaze unwavering.

For a moment, there’s silence between you, broken only by the wet, guttural sounds of the hound feasting.

“You’re a strong one,” Ramsay says, almost approvingly. “Most would’ve turned their heads by now. Even Reek can’t stomach it, can you, Reek?”

You glance toward Reek. He’s pressed against the wall, his face pale, his trembling hands clutching at the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t look at you or Ramsay or the carnage on the floor.

“Pathetic,” Ramsay mutters, rolling his eyes before turning back to you. “But you… you’re different. You’re stronger than him. Stronger than most. I like that.”

“I don’t care what you like,” you say, your voice steady despite the bile rising in your throat.

Ramsay’s grin sharpens. “Oh, but you should. Because, wife, you and I are going to be together for a long time. And if you think I’ll ever let you escape me…” He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “…you’re wrong.”

You turn to him, your expression cold and unyielding. “And if you think you’ll ever be safe under the same roof as me,” you say softly, your voice laced with venom, “you’re wrong.”

Ramsay’s laughter fills the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. “Perfect,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re perfect.”

You tear your gaze away from him, your eyes drifting back to the bloody scene before you. The hound growls low as it drags the man’s mangled body deeper into its cage, its jaws dripping with crimson.

Ramsay claps his hands together, the sound startlingly cheerful. “Well! I think that’s enough excitement for one evening.” He glances back at you, his grin never fading. “Shall we, wife?”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

But as you follow him out of the kennels, your thoughts are clear, your resolve unshaken.

He’s wrong.

He’ll never be safe.

The Dreadfort’s hall is quiet tonight, its cold walls echoing only the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The long table is laid with a modest supper—bread, roasted meat, and a pitcher of wine—but the atmosphere is anything but warm. You sit across from Ramsay, his pale blue eyes fixed on you like a hawk studying its prey.

Reek hovers near the far wall, his shoulders hunched and head bowed, his presence more like a shadow than a man. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look up as Ramsay carves into the meat on his plate with slow, deliberate movements.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Ramsay says, his tone almost conversational, though his grin betrays the danger beneath. “Planning something, little wolf?”

You tear a piece of bread from the loaf before you, taking your time before answering. “Not everything requires planning, Ramsay. Some things happen naturally.”

His grin widens, his knife pausing mid-cut. “Naturally? That doesn’t sound like you. You’ve always been so… intentional.”

You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. “Some things don’t need effort. Like watching you.”

Ramsay’s expression flickers, just for a heartbeat, before his grin returns. “Watching me? Should I be flattered, wife?”

“Not flattered,” you reply, tilting your head slightly. “Curious. You’re fascinating in a way.”

He leans forward slightly, his grin sharpening. “Do tell. What about me fascinates you, wife?”

You set the bread down and fold your hands, your voice calm and deliberate. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. You’re cruel, but it’s not just cruelty. It’s… desperation.”

Ramsay’s knife stills on his plate. His grin falters, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. “Desperation?”

“Yes,” you continue, your voice steady. “You’re always trying to prove something. To your father, to your men, even to me. Everything you do—every act of violence, every twisted game—it’s all to make people afraid. To make them see you as more than a bastard.”

The room feels colder now, the air thick with dread. Reek shifts uncomfortably in the corner, but you don’t look at him. Your focus remains on Ramsay, who is now completely still, his grin frozen in place.

“You think you can see me?” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous.

“I don’t think,” you reply, leaning forward slightly. “I know. You’re afraid, Ramsay. Afraid that no matter what you do, no matter how much blood you spill, you’ll always be what you were born as: a bastard. And that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

The knife in his hand tightens, his knuckles whitening as his grin disappears completely. For the first time, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t amusement or cruelty. It’s faint, but it’s there: unease.

“Careful, wife,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You lean back in your chair, your expression unyielding. “No more dangerous than the ones you play every day.”

The silence stretches between you like a taut wire, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Ramsay’s hand flexes around the knife, his pale eyes locked on yours. For the first time, you feel as though you’ve cracked the veneer he wears so easily, exposing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

“You’re bold,” he says finally, his voice low and measured. “I’ll give you that. But boldness doesn’t guarantee survival.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” you reply, your tone icy. “And you’re still trying to figure out how to break me. That must bother you.”

His lips curl into a tight, humorless smile, and he sets the knife down carefully on the plate. He rises from his seat, moving around the table with slow, deliberate steps until he’s standing beside you.

He leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You think you’ve seen me, little wolf. You think you know what I’m afraid of.”

You don’t flinch. “I don’t think. I know.”

His smile tightens further, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll strike you. But instead, he straightens, stepping back and looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

“You’re… different,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “No one’s ever looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, your voice steady.

“Like they’re not afraid.”

The words hang in the air, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see something almost human in his gaze. But then it’s gone, replaced by his usual smirk.

“Enjoy your meal, wife,” he says lightly, turning on his heel. “You’ll need your strength.”

He strides out of the room without another word, leaving you alone with Reek and the quiet hum of the fire.

For the first time, you feel a flicker of triumph.

You’ve unsettled him.

And you’ll do it again.

The kennels are damp and rank with the stench of wet fur and rotting meat. The dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, and the low growls of Ramsay’s hounds echo in the enclosed space. You hadn’t wanted to be here, but you’ve come to expect Ramsay’s whims. When a servant had arrived to fetch you, claiming that “my lord” wanted you in the kennels, you hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t as though you could refuse.

But when you step inside, Ramsay is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a girl stands waiting near the largest cage, her arms crossed and her lips curled into a smirk.

She’s young, perhaps only a year or two older than you, with long dark hair that falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her dress is simple, but her posture is confident, almost brazen. Her eyes shine with something cruel and unfriendly as she watches you approach.

You recognize her instantly. This is Myranda, the kennelmaster’s daughter—and Ramsay’s lover.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “The little wolf herself. You must feel so important now, being Lady Bolton and all.”

You stop a few paces away, your expression calm and unreadable. “What do you want?”

Myranda’s smirk widens. “I wanted to get a look at you. See what all the fuss is about.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she steps closer. “You don’t look like much.”

You hold her gaze, refusing to rise to her bait. “And you don’t look like someone who should be wasting my time.”

Her smile falters for a moment, but she recovers quickly, her tone turning sharp. “You think you’re better than me? Just because you’re wearing his name?” She steps closer still, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Let me tell you something, little wolf. You’re nothing. Ramsay doesn’t love you. He never will. He’ll use you, break you, and throw you away when he’s bored.”

“I’m well aware of what Ramsay is,” you reply coolly. “Are you?”

Her eyes narrow further, and you can see the anger starting to surface beneath her smug exterior. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you can stand up to him, to me. But you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you, and lower your voice to a dangerous whisper. “And you think you can scare me? You think your little threats mean anything to me?”

For the first time, you see a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“You’re not the first person to try,” you continue, your tone icy. “And you won’t be the last. But let me make one thing very clear: I’ve faced worse than you. Worse than Ramsay. I’ve lost everything—my family, my home, my wolf. Do you really think you can hurt me?”

Myranda takes a half-step back, her confidence faltering. “You don’t scare me,” she snaps, though her voice wavers slightly.

You tilt your head, your expression darkening as you take another step closer. “Maybe not. But you should ask yourself: what happens if you’re wrong?”

The hounds growl low in their cages, as though sensing the tension. The sound reverberates through the air, but you don’t flinch. You hold her gaze, letting the weight of your words hang between you.

Myranda’s breath quickens, and you can see her hands clenching at her sides. She glances toward the door, as though considering leaving, but pride keeps her rooted in place.

“You’re just a Stark,” she spits, though her bravado has all but vanished. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re nothing without him keeping you alive.”

You laugh softly, the sound cold and humorless. “Ramsay doesn’t keep me alive. He keeps me dangerous. And if you think I’m going to sit back and let you play your little games…” You step even closer, forcing her to back against the wall. “…then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

She stares at you, her chest heaving, and for a moment, you see genuine fear in her eyes.

The door to the kennels creaks open, and both of you turn to see Ramsay striding in, his usual grin plastered across his face.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice light with amusement. “A little chat between friends?”

Myranda straightens immediately, her face flushing as she steps away from you. “I was just welcoming your… wife, my lord.”

“Is that so?” Ramsay’s eyes flick between you, his grin widening. “And how did she welcome you, my dear?”

Myranda glances at you, her jaw tightening. “We were just talking.”

Ramsay chuckles, stepping closer to you. “Oh, I’m sure you were.” He places a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm. “What a pair you make—my little wolf and my sweet hound.”

You say nothing, your gaze fixed on Myranda as she avoids looking at either of you.

Ramsay’s grin falters slightly, just for a moment, as he glances at you. “You didn’t scare her too much, did you, wife?”

You smile faintly, your voice low and steady. “Not at all, husband. We understand each other perfectly.”

For the first time, you see a flicker of unease in both of their faces.

And it feels like victory.

[bumblesimagines]

maybe we should forget this even happened.

i'm just going to... leave.

Robb Stark

i'm just going to... leave.

maybe we should forget this even happened.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

As a child, you often wondered if Catelyn Stark had a sixth sense. She always seemed to know when you and Robb were up to no good, whether it was sneaking out of Winterfell or trying to convince the cooks for more sweets. There'd always been a knowing look in her eye and the way she'd smile at you and Robb, one single brow raising and hands coming to rest on her waist. 'Now, what are you boys up to?' She'd ask, but you and Robb knew by then the plan was ruined.

And now? Well, now you prayed her sixth sense had grown faulty because if you were caught in bed with the heir to Winterfell, you could only pray to the old gods the Starks would be merciful enough to only send you to the Wall. 

You moved carefully and slowly, sliding the fur blankets off your body and exposing your bare skin to the cold air wafting in through the cracked open window. Your nose crinkled as the wood supporting the bed creaked and groaned loudly, barely sparing a glance over your shoulder at the sleeping man before standing and hurrying to collect your clothes off the floor. You'd done this dance plenty of times over the years, mainly with drunken flings, but this time you weren't slipping away from a brothel worker or a maiden. This time you were slipping away from your best friend. 

Hurriedly tucking your shirt into your pants to avoid the risk of looking suspicious while leaving the room, you spun on your heel and searched the stone floor for your coat. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" A groggy voice questioned and you tensed completely, fingers curling around the top of your pants. The old gods despised you, you were certain of it. "The hunting trip is tomorrow, (Y/N)."

"I'm aware of that." For a man who'd just awoken to find his closest childhood companion getting dressed after a drunken night together, Robb started far too calm for your liking. Perhaps reality hadn't set in completely or whatever he'd drunk the night prior still had some sort of effect on him. 

"Look at me." He murmured, and when you remained with your back turned to him, he spoke again in his 'future Lord of Winterfell' tone that he scarcely used when you were alone with him. "Look at me, (Y/N)."

"My father will wonder where I ran off to, Robb." You told him with a quiet sigh and reluctantly turned around to face him. He certainly looked wide awake to you. His light-colored eyes gazed at you with what you swore was amusement and he reached his arm out to lazily pat the empty side of the bed in a silent invitation, or order. You dug your teeth into the inside of your bottom lip. If either of his parents even caught a glimpse of him, they'd spiral into a lecture that'd end in a threat of sending you away. 

"Come." He groaned, his impatience reminding you of his younger, more brutish sister. "Your family can wait."

"Why are you acting as if any of this is normal, Robb? I cannot be caught in your quarters while you look like that. Maybe- Maybe we should forget this even happened. It was a mistake that will not happen again-"

"You were the one that kissed me." Robb's lips formed a frown and he pushed himself up, bushy brows knitting tightly together. You despised making Robb upset, especially when his pretty eyes were as expressive as words, but it was necessary. You inhaled and forced yourself to look away from him, finally noticing your coat draped over a chair and across the room. You silently moved and slipped it on, properly concealing yourself from the cold and turning to face the man. "Do you not even wish to talk-"

"No, Robb. I'm... I'm just going to... leave. And we'll pretend as if nothing occurred, alright? You'll go back to being the heir of Winterfell and I'll go back to being the kennel master's son, just as it should and always will be."

[tesalicious2]

Sergeant Hound hcs:

He got his name before Grizzer appeared in his life

He was trained as a scout trooper on Kamino and was the top of the class, setting several records that are still intact

His name was given by the Mandalorian training him because once he was on the trail, he wouldn't lose it similar to a Bloodhound

Though he is seen as the least serious of the Coruscant Guard Commanders and loves to makes jokes, annoying the other commanders, and gossips with Quinlan when he finds the Jedi in a dumpster

He can be very serious and dedicated when the time calls for it

He is a CC and hasn't been promoted because of his behavior, and the fact that he would be much less effective as the head scout

He is often present in meetings and gives his opinions on matters

Nevertheless, his first job is tracking and Massiff Handling/breeding

He also monitors the other animals in his care, though he often leaves those responibilities to the animals handlers

He, similar to Thire and Stone, go off world often to escort senators and to assist other battalions

However, being the best Massiff handler in the whole GAR and the best tracker by himself, he is often taken by different GAR battalions/legions with Grizzer and other handlers to track criminals stuck on a world

Grizzer is a chaser, tracking people on the go and attacking/catching them

She can also do detect certain drugs however this skill is not often used

Massiffs are big and Grizzer is larger than average. When on her four legs, she’s at hip height, when standing she’s about as tall as a clone

She is a very good girl who always listens to Hound, bets are off tho if anyone else tries to handle her (she’s picky)

Tho massiff are classified as one of those dog breeds thats very loving and protective of family but can be dangerous to strangers, think like a Cane Corso or Neapolitan Mastiff

It is not uncommon to see massiff and handlers sleeping together, even less uncommon for them to be roaming their barracks off leash

The ARF troopers have separate barracks close to the kennels so it isn't a stretch for them to sleep with their massiffs

Massiffs get along pretty well with the other animals but prefer to be left alone, especially with the younger animals

During the 'winter' months of Coruscant some of the animals have coats if needed and the Narglatch, Blizzard, gets a cooler kennel during the summer

The Kiffu Spark Dragons (coming from the tropical regions of Kiffu) have to gets lots of water for their scales to keep their flex and strength

All the animals wear harnesses and leashes of some sort but they aren't necessary, they're trained to respond to all commands and are very skilled

The animals don’t entirely like the GAR troopers, since they smell like blaster fire and grime (usually associated with their chases)

It doesn’t help that their handlers scent has unease in it

They tolerate the Marines because their handlers don’t smell of unease while talking and they usually have treats for their handlers

The animals are okay with Jedi, though they don’t like Anakin much

[radiofreesanjak]

TO THOSE ALONGSIDE: We are a voice among many voices, a squadron among many squadrons, an unknown among many unknowns. We are but one dog among a kennel nine hundred and ninety-nine strong; bound in contract to smoke and mirrors and all manner of deception of our own volition, be it necessity, desperation, or desire. This is our message to you.

Our masters would call us "neutral", bought out by both sides, the hand which wields the gun which aims both away from and towards you. The highest bidder buys our service, the wealth lining our pockets a carrion comfort for countless betrayals. It is a despicable life to live in the name of freedom, and yet we are freer here than we were under our old masters - HA, HORUS, IPS-N; so many empty promises abandoned in the hope of something better, only to be strangled yet again by the newest chain around our throats.

Even now, we wing our way across endless night in service of those above. Not to turn our guns on those alongside, for once, but at the behest of one above who seeks to humiliate their fellows above - your jailers, at that; a reminder that those below care not for petty affairs of state, only that they bleed and suffer the same as you once did beneath their boots. We shall soon pass near Free Sanjak, and while our mechs will not be among those who run your blockades and deliver supplies, neither shall they be among those who would gun you down and force you back below, where you do not and have never belonged. Your broadcast shall be on our radios.

Should we find our freedom someday - should these chains of smoke and mirrors be broken (if they can be broken, ephemeral and ever-changing as they are) - we pledge our aid to those alongside. We will run your blockades, strengthen your signals, deliver supplies, rain your messages from the skies you have fought so long and so hard to see. We expect no forgiveness for our past mistakes, for the innocent blood of those alongside shed by our hands. We ask only that we may work alongside; a chance to prove ourselves worthy of the task to which we shall willingly dedicate ourselves.

TO THOSE ALONGSIDE: The fight continues. Know that when our day of freedom comes, we will fight for you, forever and always.

-- Angel, Slipshod, & Lockbreaker

Its times like these that I remember the wisdom of my siblings-in-arms that we may be walking with blood on our hands, but it is blood borne so the truly guilty may convince themselves they are clean.

We do not fight under the illusion that most of those who oppose us do so out of no sense of true belief, or duty. The grunts who bear the crest of Stone are more often than not not the ones who wear the boot but with us in being crushed by it. We fight for freedom, but retaining the conviction to squeeze the trigger on my gun was hard because I knew people like you, know people like you, who too are leashed to a position where you must be the tools of violence or else be subject to them.

I cannot offer you the sympathy of a promise that I will not shoot you first if your gun comes pointed to us. I will instead offer you this:

It is rare that I am most enraged by those who do the killing. It is not them that are the ultimate servants of violence, it is the ones who stand above, who force you to act so their hands may seem clean that are the most morally drenched. I decry those who carry out the orders, yes, but most of my rage is reserved for those who issue them, and those who feign non-involvement because they feel they have no hands in this, even though it is the violence that allows them to sit at the banquet table and lounge in the garden while we are starved and denied the light of the sun.

I give offerings to the Harlequin and the Knave that you may someday slip your leash, and should your words be true, you will find opportunity to turn over the banquet table, to steal the fruits of the garden, to find those who issue the orders and those who the orders are issued for and tell them straight that we will take no more.

We hope that opportunity knocks for you, and when it does, you will take it and not look back, and see that you remember that there is a world we can build beyond the one that they have demanded from us.

[loquaciousquark]

zero context WIP tag game

If you’re tagged, make a new post and share 1-2 (a few) sentences from your most recent unposted WIP(s) with zero context – Let your followers guess!

I have a WIP! I have something to share here! Ahhhh!!! Let's see, from a couple of places:

A sound pierced the chaos with peculiar clarity. A sigh from Astarion—a gasp. Small, sudden. Afraid. The dizzying whirl receded. She found stone at last, pushed herself up—what she thought was up—and froze. Sarevok had one hand clamped over Astarion’s face, his white hair caught in the riveted joins of the massive gauntlet. Astarion had seized Sarevok’s wrist in both hands, futile struggle against the inexorable lift into the air, against the sudden thrust of Sarevok’s sword-arm— Three feet of bloodied steel burst through Astarion’s lower back.

and

Her tadpole lurched. Her own rage swept through her, fiery and impotent—then a white surge of terror from Astarion flung itself back in indiscriminate answer. Karlach swore, startled. A face thrust itself into her mind: black hair, burning red eyes, skin stretched over the cheekbones like a hide drum. It smiled with teeth like knives and Astarion made a noise of blind animal fear. The noise a child made before it was struck; the noise the dog had made in Rivington behind the kennel fence. “No!” Tav almost shouted, and Jaheira’s panther head lifted in alarm. “He’s not here. Astarion, listen to me. He’s not here, I swear it. It’s just me. I’m right here with you.”

and

Tav ran her fingers carefully through his hair, rearranging a few curls to lie more neatly alongside their fellows. Without opening his eyes, Astarion gave a tired, throaty hum. “Your hair is so lovely I can’t stand it,” she murmured, threading her fingers through strands like cornsilk. “I’m going to pray tonight for Sune to take it back. Snatch it all right off your head.” “She never noticed me before,” Astarion managed, the words lost in her collarbone. “Somehow I doubt she’d bother about it now.”

Tagging anyone who's reading this! You! Yes, you! Do you have WIPs to share? SHARE THEM AND TAG ME. I DEMAND IT.

[blackjackkent]

Speaking to more of the thralls on the Szarr palace lower level:

Narrator: The woman's eyes are alert, verging on manic, as she bustles about.

"Everything's gotta be right for the master! Everything's gotta be perfect!"

NGL I wish I could muster the same level of enthusiasm for cleaning that these people have (though ideally without being a vampire thrall I guess).

More room exploring!

Walking down the corridor to what seems like the last downstairs room, another one flickers into existence next to it.

Ughhhhh.

Hector was already fucking appalled by Cazador simply based on the stories Astarion has told him in the past, but seeing this place in person is making him far more so. That bastard is NOT surviving the night if Hector has anything to say about it.

I wonder if the kennel is meant to be the place where Astarion talked about having been shut into solitary for a year straight. :/

It's a roughly 20x20 stone room with a bunch of bedrolls laid across the floor. "Prime spot for an ambush," Jaheira mutters as we walk in, her perception pinging off of this not-very-subtle ambusher in the corner.

We get to talk to him, presumably because we noticed him before he attacked. Judging by the dialogue he's supposed to be a LITTLE more subtle than this.

"I know you're there, Godey. Stop skulking and show yourself."

The skeleton creeps from the shadows; despite the immobility of the skull, it seems to smirk in Astarion's direction. "You always were sharp, little one," it hisses. "Sharp enough to cut yourself."

"It's taking everything I have not to grind your rotten carcass to dust," Astarion growls. Hector isn't sure he's ever seen the elf this cold.

"Don't be mad at Godey, child," the skeleton says; its voice is gravelly, like the rubbing of its bones together. "I only did my job. Only kept you in line..."

"You tortured us!" Astarion shoots back. "For days at a time!"

"Oh, yes-- and you sang so sweetly for me," purrs the skeleton. "None of the others screamed like you did." It tilts his head slowly to look towards Hector. "But you're home now... and you brought me a treat, eh? A new friend for Godey?"

Hector has heard more than enough. This creature is a torturer, and Astarion is practically vibrating with rage; Hector means to let Astarion call the shots here where he can, so he doesn't actually lash out - but his fury on his friend's behalf is obvious as he speaks.

[INTIMIDATION] "Lay a hand on me and lose it, bones," he snaps.

"Not very nice," the skeleton groans, leaning a little away out of Hector's reach. "Not very friendly..." It glares at Astarion out of its empty-socket eyes. "Why are you here, then, little one? If not to see Godey."

Astarion's remembered fear and current rage have overcome any sense of subtlety now, and his lips curl in a cold smile. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going to kill Cazador."

"How DARE you!" the skeleton squeals, recoiling. "As if you could lay a finger on the master, you ungrateful little brat!" It raises its heavy sword in both hands. "Godey will not let you get away with blasphemy. Godey will see you punished!"

-----

Hector can't help a faint, sardonic grin as he lifts his fists and steps to Astarion's side. "What happened to cunning and guile?" he asks in a dry undertone.

"Oh, shut up," Astarion says irritably, "and help me crush this little pest."

"With pleasure."

-----

This fight was actually hysterical, because Godey's immediate strategy was to back out of the room and summon the other thralls for help - except he was standing directly next to Jaheira, Karlach, and Astarion, and they all landed AOOs on him one after the other. I had to check the combat log to see what happened because it looked like he just evaporated.

LOL. Get fucked. That's what happens when you talk about torturing Astarion in front of his friends.

[unknownmusing]

Baldur's Gate - Halsin x Astarion Fanfic: 'Always there to Travel the Same Path which One Walks' - Part 2 - 'Beginning of the First Path' (Act 1) (Ascended Astarion Route)

-----------------------------------------

2 DAYS LATER

Location – Shattered Sanctum, Ruined Temple – Western Heartlands – Early Afternoon

Asdalen’s P.O.V:

“Place him with the bear. Maybe he will make a good meal for it.”

“You heard Lady Minthara…Take him to the cage..”

Harsh, grating multitude of voices reach through unconscious haze, forcing me into a sharp awareness I’ve been captured and brought to somewhere with a screeching noise of cell door being opened indicating I’m about to be imprisoned.

Fluttering my eyes open, blurry vision of something brown, large and furry in the far corner of the cell comes into my line of sight with suddenly the large goblin who been dragging me flings me in with one single throw not even caring when I land on the harsh, uneven surface of the stone floor with a sickening thud – the injuries I had ascertained from somewhere soon making themselves known.

A clattering of my mask landing beside makes me scramble to grab hold of it, praying that Lesia is around somewhere and she is safe from harm – she would start to become extremely agitated if separated from me and could easily harm people around her – quickly slipping it back on.

“Oh, so you’re a Drow with a bit of history are we….” The Hobgoblin sneers out, forcing my eyes to widen heavily lifting my head straight up to see in cracked ornate mirror at the back of the cell my face is being shown in various angles – but enough to make out the details on it. “…Asdalen Wryric, the Snake of Faerun.”

 -----------------

Location – Shattered Sanctum, Ruined Temple – Western Heartlands – Early Afternoon

Astarion’s P.O.V:

“Out the way.”

“But….Lady Minthara, we’s were only playing with him…”

“Enough….Out of my sight and go find Ragzlin, you brats.”

A voice, female speaks pushing the goblin brats who’ve surrounded me out the way, a ashen-grey hand reaching to haul me up by hair off up from the hard, stone cold floor of the ruined Temple  – my mind trying not think of memories of being trapped in the ‘kennel’ where Godey, would watch and wait for ample time to strike –  that try not show a wince on my features.

Vision clearing, it reveals the person holding my head by my hair is a female drow with braided white hair, distinct ashen-grey mixed with gold highlights and a harsh, cold face with her other hand grabbing hold of my chin tightly.

She turns it to side to side to analyse the details of it, until forcing it back to look at her.

“Hmm….How did you get here, elf?” She asks me, making me go to give back a sarcastic retort to her question when a sharp, blinding pain shoots through my head and memories not my own filter through my mind – I realise, suddenly, they are her memories.

She releases my hair, wrenching away like I’ve burned her – maybe in a way I have with whatever that telepathic connection wave had been made. She glares down at me, while another figure appears, a large red Hobgoblin, to stand beside her.

“You called for me, Minthara. What bothers you?” the Hobgoblin states, large red arms crossing over their large, muscular chest – a beady eye flicking over my rugged appearance - with me, wondering if should try to create a diversion to escape.

--------------------------------------------

[theblackbookofarkera]

Lesh Kath Dohr

Rising from the cracked earth of what was once the Lake of Hali, Lesh Kath Dohr stands as a monument to engineered malevolence. The fortress's stark geometries seem to actively reject natural forms, its angles and proportions deliberately calculated by its designer, the mad sorcerer Mazar ka-Sarno, to induce feelings of dread and insignificance in those who behold it.

The structure is built from massive blocks of black stone quarried from deep beneath the ancient lakebed, each block treated with alchemical processes that render them not just impervious to conventional siege weapons, but uncomfortable to look at for extended periods. The stone seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating an impression of depth that makes it difficult for observers to accurately judge distances or scale within the fortress's walls.

Lesh Kath Dohr's most distinctive feature is its hierarchical arrangement of perfectly square towers, each slightly offset from the others in a pattern that ka-Sarno claimed was based on "the geometry of pain." These towers are connected by enclosed bridges that cast impossibly dark shadows regardless of the sun's position. The fortress walls are uniformly vertical, broken only by arrow slits that have been engineered to amplify the screams of prisoners and the howls of the Kathic war hounds, carrying these sounds for miles across the dried lakebed.

The fortress's main gate is a masterwork of psychological warfare, designed as a massive mouth-like opening lined with sharp-edged geometric teeth. The approach to this gate is deliberate in its exposure, forcing visitors to walk a long, gradually narrowing causeway with no cover or shade. The walls on either side are angled to create wind effects that produce a constant, low-frequency moan, while the flagstones of the causeway itself are carved with scenes of torture that become progressively more disturbing as one nears the entrance.

The interior layout follows what ka-Sarno called "the Principles of Festering Despair." The courtyards and training grounds are arranged in concentric squares, each level slightly lower than the last, creating the impression of descending into an artificial hell. The parade ground where the Brazen Hounds conduct their drills is paved with polished obsidian, its surface kept perpetually slick with water to reflect the sky - creating a disorienting effect for those forced to watch the company's demonstrations of power.

Deep within the fortress lies the Flesh Kennels, a sprawling series of kennels and training areas where the company's Kathic war hounds are bred and conditioned. The complex is designed with acoustic channels that collect and amplify the beasts' howls, directing them through the fortress's ventilation system. This creates an ever-present background of bestial noise that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The fortress's dungeons deserve special mention, as they represent perhaps the purest expression of ka-Sarno's twisted genius. Rather than traditional cells, the detention areas are constructed as a series of geometrically perfect cubes, each precisely calculated to amplify feelings of isolation and despair. The walls are lined with copper sheets inscribed with mathematical formulas that ka-Sarno claimed would "resonate with human suffering," though whether this is truth or merely psychological warfare is unknown.

One of the fortress's most practical yet disturbing features is its water collection system. The entire structure is designed to channel and collect even the slightest rainfall, storing it in deep cisterns beneath the foundation. These cisterns are accessed through a series of narrow spiral staircases, each step carved with symbols from ka-Sarno's personal system of mathematical mysticism. The water itself, filtered through layers of enchanted copper, is said to retain a metallic taste that never quite leaves the mouth.

The company's administrative center occupies the highest tower, known as the Throne of Calculation. Here, the Brazen Hounds maintain their meticulous records of atrocity in a library whose shelves are arranged in the same geometric patterns as the fortress itself. The reading room features windows of specially treated glass that cast prismatic shadows, creating an environment where even the act of reviewing documents becomes an exercise in disorientation.

The fortress's parade ground is surrounded by copper poles topped with the preserved heads of those who have attempted to infiltrate or assault Lesh Kath Dohr. These poles are arranged in precise mathematical patterns that, when viewed from the commander's balcony, form complex geometric shapes said to have mystical significance in ka-Sarno's theories of architectural sorcery.

The training grounds where new recruits are broken and remade in the company's image are perhaps the most deliberately oppressive areas of the fortress. The walls here are set at angles that create constant shadows regardless of the time of day, while the ground is paved with stones of varying heights, making it impossible to find stable footing. The overall effect is one of perpetual physical and psychological destabilization.

In recent years, the fortress has begun to develop its own legends among the Brazen Hounds themselves. Some claim that ka-Sarno's geometries are slowly altering the very fabric of reality around Lesh Kath Dohr, while others insist that the fortress itself has developed a form of consciousness, actively working to break the spirits of those imprisoned within its walls. Whether these stories represent truth or simply the psychological effect of living within such a deliberately oppressive structure remains unclear.

What is clear is that Lesh Kath Dohr serves its purpose with terrible efficiency. It is more than merely a fortress - it is a machine designed to process human brutality, transforming ordinary soldiers into the efficient dealers of atrocity that make up the Brazen Hounds' ranks. In this, at least, Mazar ka-Sarno's mad vision has been entirely successful.

[namig42]

Another chapter done, and it's another rough one. Please take care before reading! Also, the story is almost at 100 kudos on Ao3, and I'd love to see it make that mark. If you enjoy the story at all, then I would like to ask if you could share it around to those you think might enjoy it as well. Please and thank you! With that said, on with the angst!

Just One Yesterday (Ch. 20)

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Read it on Ao3

TWs in the tags

---

“Alright, don’t do anything silly now, you two,” Godey said cheerfully on his way out of the kennel. He needed to go grab more supplies for his show of “hospitality” towards Wyll.

It had been hours since this horror started, or so Wyll guessed. Honestly, it felt more like days that this hell had been dragging on, but Wyll’s body wasn’t decomposing enough yet to consider that a valid option. During his time with Godey so far, Wyll had been clubbed, stretched with ropes, and most recently, flogged just like Astarion had been. He was still shackled to the wall with his back presenting to the room and displaying all the freshly cut lashes in his dark skin. That sweater of Gale’s that had been such a comfort when he first woke up was now ripped in two and thrown somewhere on the dusty floor of this awful place. The chill of the damp cave began to set in again through his bare skin, but instead of pain, it was now somewhat of a relief as it helped numb the new open lashes in his skin.

In his haze of half-consciousness, Wyll could feel the blood trickling down his back. Despite the horror of it, there was a warmth as it dripped from the center of his back and over his bare skin. It was a strange comfort, one that only he would manage to think of as such a dreadful optimist. He felt his bruised legs giving out and only managed to stay on his feet because his wrists wouldn’t allow him to fall. Hanging from the wall at least gave his body an excuse to slack while still standing. It was a brief respite in the midst of the hours and hours of screaming and tensing, readying himself for the next impact at that skeletal bastard’s hands.

He rested his forehead against the cold stones of the wall, relieved for a moment of quiet solace in this hell he found himself trapped in. In the midst of his misery, he momentarily forgot that Astarion was in the room as well, shackled to another set of chains on the opposite side of the room and forced to watch Godey’s gods awful show.

After everything that had happened since Wyll awoke in this dungeon, this was the first moment that the two of them had had alone. Wyll didn’t know what to say to fill the space after everything that’s happened. All his bravado and enthusiasm from before about confiding in Astarion, telling him the truth of his world and trying to run away together, had all disappeared somewhere between the pulling of Wyll’s limbs and the first few lashes against his bare back.

There was nothing he could say to look on the brighter side of things now. It was hopeless. His heroic heart had left him useless in all of this, and now he couldn’t even think of something to say to the man he had wanted to protect so desperately. Not an encouraging word, not some grand declaration. For once, Wyll felt no words on his tongue, only the sandpapery texture of his dehydrated mouth.

Surprisingly, Astarion did manage to fill the space with his own words. “What in the hells were you thinking…?” His voice sounded hoarse after all the yelling he had done from when Godey played at bruising his delicate complexion with sticks and paddles. That had been for trying to tell Godey to stop before he pulled Wyll’s hips and shoulders out of their sockets during the stretching. Wyll was given a break because of Astarion, but his agony was not a toll that was worth it to Wyll. He would’ve rather just endured it and prayed his body wouldn’t snap before Godey decided to move on.

“Pardon?” Wyll’s voice was just as strained, if not worse. It felt like he had torn his vocal cords to shreds, and with no water, there was nothing to recover what remained of them. He tried to turn his head and look behind him, but it hurt his neck too much to do more than angle his head just slightly while using the wall for leverage. All he managed to make out was a blurry sliver of pale skin in his peripherals.

“Why wouldn’t you just stop…?”

Wyll didn’t know what to say. Nothing he could say now seemed like a worthy reason for where they found themselves. His dedication, his affection, his sense of justice, none of it would be of any comfort now. “I’m sorry…” was all that Wyll could manage. 

Astarion sighed on the opposite side of the room. Wyll could make out a slight bit of movement and heard a soft jingling from Astarion’s shackles. “No, I can’t leave all the blame on you. You gave me precious, impossible moments of comfort. I just wanted more. It was my own greed that wouldn’t let me push you away. You and that golden, bleeding heart of yours…”

Wyll’s heart panged at the sweet words. A part of him knew it already, but hearing Astarion say that there was precious comfort in the little they had done… It meant a great deal to Wyll. It didn’t change their situation, but this hell didn’t feel so pointless knowing that it wasn’t only Wyll that had savored their time together.

As Wyll built up the strength to reciprocate Astarion’s sentiments, Astarion cut his efforts off and continued. “Still, from the start, I was counting down until this ended. I knew that Cazador had known something since that very first night, and yet I still put us at risk for just one more sweet moment.”

“I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.” Wyll spoke as best as he could, though his voice cracked a bit towards the end of his statement. Another sigh came from behind Wyll followed by a dry cough. Astarion’s next words were spoken softly, “I really don’t have anything to offer besides more burdens…” Wyll wasn’t sure if Astarion was talking to him or to himself then. There was an introspective tone that sunk into those last words, but Wyll couldn’t stand hearing such falsities about Astarion, especially if they were self-inflicted.

“That is not true.” Despite every cut and bruise and flare of pain coursing through him, Wyll managed to find an assertive tone. Hearing the way Astarion spoke about himself, it wasn’t the truth. It was what he had convinced himself of over the last fifteen years, and maybe even before that. “You are not a burden, Astarion. You have so much to offer and inspire others with. You are the most charming person I’ve ever known, and I don’t mean in the way everyone else would assume.”

Wyll couldn’t see Astarion, but he could only imagine the look on his face as the dungeon went silent.

Wyll continued despite his dry, cracking throat. “There’s a part of you hidden by layers of what you think others want of you, and it’s when those layers disappear that I find myself falling madly for you.”

“Wyll, stop…”

“Your smile could melt a candle quicker than any flame. Your laugh - your true laugh - could charm an entire audience effortlessly. When you speak with passion, you come to life and I find myself thinking, ‘this is a man I never want to let go of. Whatever happens, this is someone that deserves anything and everything in the world.’”

“Wyll, please.” Astarion’s aggression came through even with his tired voice. Wyll paused, though he felt he could continue for hours about how Astarion was never the burden. “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.”

“But… Astarion-”

“No! Please… just stop. Any more of your kind words might just be what ends me. More than anything Cazador could do…”

Wyll raged at that thought, but couldn’t deny the sentiment. With how hopeless things felt, what good could a confession do other than worsen the tragedy of what was to come? To remind them both of how much they lost because of Cazador…? It was a greater tragedy than simply not getting to say goodbye.

Wyll put his forehead back to the wall and lightly tapped his head against the cold stone. Once, twice, three times. He was such a naive fool. Gods, he should’ve just left that night. The moment Astarion wasn’t out on the streets, he should’ve just gone home and packed his things. He could’ve even left Gale a note for Astarion since he was so willing to help. He could’ve explained everything in the note and asked Gale to go seek out Astarion to deliver it. Why in the hells didn’t he just do that? Was he so married to the idea of a grand romantic gesture, something like the lover’s escape that he envisioned for the two of them that ended in a happily ever after somewhere far, far away, that he was blinded to common sense?

He had been so desperate to see Astarion one more time, thinking it could’ve been the last. Maybe everything would’ve been fine if he was good in Menzoberranzan. He could’ve been back in a few months and found Astarion again, but what if Astarion wasn’t around anymore? Even worse, what if he was and thought Wyll had abandoned him and wanted nothing else to do with him after that? There had been too much left to chance and Wyll couldn’t stomach the idea of never seeing Astarion’s smile again or hearing that voice that held such a strong desire to live. If Astarion had wanted Wyll for those moments of comfort, then Wyll wanted Astarion for the same. They were quite alike; two lovestruck fools that buried themselves in risk for the sake of a soft, tender moment.

Had it been worth it? Were their few escapades and the feelings that blossomed worth the suffering they endured now? Wyll didn’t know anymore. Deep down though, Wyll knew that he wouldn’t have changed anything he’s done. Even if it meant feeling pain so terrible he wished for death, he wouldn’t have traded any one of his nights with Astarion for the world.

There was their very first night in that shed, their first date drinking themselves into oblivion at the Elfsong, that night of soft touches and sweet words in the abandoned apartment, even the less savory moments like when Wyll left himself vulnerable watching Astarion at work. Each one of those memories revealed another side of Astarion. He was clever yet impatient, funny, stealthy, charming, and had a hard time showing kindness, but did all the same. Each memory held a core part of him, and Wyll wouldn’t trade a single one of them away, not for anything.

There were so few of those precious moments together, but there had been so much comfort in each one that made Wyll want to live again for the first time in a long time. He had fallen into a pattern for nearly seven years under Mizora and lost hope in himself. He had sought out comforts, but no one had that passion to live. Most only wanted to live in contentment and complacency, but those terms had a very different meaning for Wyll compared to those who came and went out of his life.

Then there was Astarion, who despite everything he said, had a passion to be more even after everything he’s endured. He was dynamic, he was passionate, he was beautiful in his lust for more. Seeing that passion even on that very first night, Wyll knew that he wanted a taste of that for himself as well. He wanted to fight for a life worth living, and even more so for the man that inspired him.

“Astarion, I promise that I’ll save you from this.”

Astarion sighed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do.” It may take time, there may be more to endure, but Wyll would never make a promise that he had no intention of keeping. All he had to do was survive this hellish trial and hope that an escape would present itself before his body gave out on him for good.

Right after those confident words finished ringing in the dim echo chamber, the door opened again and Godey came shuffling back in. There was the sound of something jingling in the bag Godey carried with each of his uneven steps.

“I know you must be tired, boy, so how about you get ready for a nice nap? Maybe even a good massage.” That heinous voice of his was bone chilling, and Godey’s little chuckle afterwards didn’t inspire comfort. Wyll didn’t know what Godey meant, but knew that it couldn’t be anything good. The sound of something like broken glass falling to the floor behind him rang just a second later, bouncing off the hard floor with a glittering sort of sound and grazing the back of Wyll’s feet. He saw the twinkle of the clear crystals as he looked down and began to worry for just what in the hells this was supposed to be.

Godey came up behind him, crunching the shards on the floor with each of his steps. He put a metal collar around Wyll’s neck before undoing Wyll’s shackles. Wyll’s arms fell to his sides and all the blood that came rushing back to his numb limbs hurt like hell. It was like an icy fire that ran through his veins as Wyll tried to hold his balance, but without his arms, all he could do was lean himself forward on the wall and use his head to steady himself. Before he could regain his balance completely, a harsh jerk from the collar pulled Wyll backwards and brought him crashing down on the floor. As the glass shards made small cuts and even found their way into his wounds, Wyll screamed in terrible agony. He tried to sit up, but every time he did, Godey yanked the collar down with the leash he held. After Wyll’s third attempt to scramble away, Godey stomped down on his sternum and held his weight on top of Wyll’s chest. Godey was not a heavy man; if Wyll was at full strength, he could easily have thrown him off, but with his useless arms and battered body, Godey may as well have been a giant.

Wyll screamed as the shards twisted around in his back, digging into his shoulder blades as Godey put more weight down on him. The old bastard shifted the pressure of his foot to make sure Wyll’s back dug into every little bit, not missing a single chip on the ground. “Royal treatment for the pretty man. Only the finest of crystal for my guest. Don’t worry, I still have a few plans before I’m through with you.”

Of course he did.

Gods, if you can hear me, if you have any mercy left to spare, please help me so that I can save Astarion.

There was nothing except for the sound of his own screams filling his ears and the sound of crackling glass under him as Godey stomped him again and again and again. Passing out from the pain would’ve been a mercy at this point, but Wyll feared that if he let his mind fade to black now, it might never return.

No, he had to endure. An escape would present itself, just as long as he could hold on just a bit longer.

[libidomechanica]

With light by

A kimo sequence

               1

That grew beside a human door! With light by light: lonely thing, that soon he rose and warmth of loue.

               2

But Flight. Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth well delight. My slumber was gone for you, my dear.

               3

Because the blue sky bends over and trust that I shall those tears; take me to the centre. But there.

               4

Pushing toward daybreak. A dainty dish to set before me, when the trance was o’er, the mastiff bitch?

               5

I do not the disaligned. Though yet, heaven seems half-way to lift some weight of low replies.

               6

That hole where leather men are vain? And slowly rolled her with me, we’re wed to one eternity.

               7

I have been faithful to you, Cynara! Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert—and light and song.

               8

Stay with your old baggage. Plunge them in up to thee, and thee to mee: no, no, no, my Deare, let bee.

               9

Says, I wanted to get married. With blushing shame, by rage suppress’d, let tears, and weep each other?

        ��      10

To sit a star upon the floor below. And, Do I dare? No, no, my Deare, let bee.

               11

Cannot flie away. Nor equal, nor unequal: each fulfils defect in each, and lang’rous waist!

               12

—Thy words, relieve my verse in time, your fortune— range the wilds of Time, perhaps not a woman, off!

               13

Make in misery to live. And lie, ever singing, each to each. Makes you tyrants in the end.

               14

Free from fear, they cross’d the diver’s brain, for a lady’s chamber floor. Yet so did I let my friend.

               15

Now do I know this: I fell in love wilt hear; if from thee. Oh Angel of hopeless, lasting flames!

               16

After than Phoebus, if he seav’n times bright! For forbidden fires. To spit out all the dance was mine.

               17

Bright eyes, that all her hard and cold white as stone. Involved in stillness, plighted vows fleeting as air!

               18

Assist the field is universe into a lute. Is it indeed so? Be thine! The air is still!

               19

I told my love had seen mine execution. Curse on all best exceed proportions of the year.

               20

And gave a twist to me. Which stands check’d; Religion of my mind, thy words, thou art as tyrannies.

               21

I’ll wrap it round. Till the same chance!—Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert— and light a cigarette.

               22

And all thou know’st to my dear doting heart. Do love you here is none like a dog in a kennel.

               23

But tis twilight dawned; and out of sight. Owe this dearest, that long-wish’d-for end, full to thee, and doubt.

               24

The lovely lady’s shroud. I heard the mermaid now, for I will say: How his hair is growin’ yet.

               25

Give me the shade of the sky.—An’ Charlie, he’s my darling, the young Chevalier. And is he gone?

               26

Ah! The Castle wa’, she saw three bonie boys playing with a dying fall beneath the huge oak tree?

               27

Our bed is lovely maid and sees a damsel bright a dame! Hand, turning her grave. By more than dead!

               28

And like a noon-dew, wanderings I have sinn’d! I want to glide a sunbeam by the Maiden’s side!

               29

Where I fly, pursue, rise in the brain is not so. Spake words Sir Leoline. I dreamed I was a child!

               30

By thee to mount, and complaint of present the bonie laddie in. Bare, lest aught unholy loiter here?

               31

And love to so base a vice, for no man knows. Much, Cynara! No matter by the might be well!

               32

He danced with rough. Amid that scenes appear where’er I turn me not to belie his soul with clay.

               33

Run afresh, as if she ’d said, Gee woe! I lift my heavy eyelids my anguish hangs like shame.

               34

To the fault; I view my crime, but kind? To labour was thine! And do accept my madness, and weak.

               35

He drank: her fair large bright and slender oats foraged in the lady’s chamber door; and the sun.

               36

A cool suspense from pain; thy life destroy. The wanton thru the flower amang them very ill.

               37

Of lonely way, close by the castle bell. As if she be small, jewel-like flower unfamiliar.

               38

The way to the blood runs out across the sounds and strange man should presume? That is so vex’d with thee.

               39

To know her but I? Or foxlike in difference. And thus she stooped, methought I heard a hollow sound.

               40

A blue moon for an instant leper. Lord of her beauty lies, when faithful to the land of spike?

               41

And none of us thought thus watred was my strange death of Jesus set me free. In this fashion.

               42

But could have this; she shall: then my hopes and men, who looked askance and end with his society?

               43

And those tender-ship, cried Sally Brown! Sleeps, and love all night upon mine ears, both I and the brow!

               44

Within the bathroom floor mocks your haire with me! So, the year, that yours and mine had bound us lie?

               45

Van Diemen’s land if certain when two dewdrops on the best, even to life in the airport. Ah!

               46

Seized, inside my honest faith in this man no more, but other me? A shining steps of thy child!

               47

Lingered in the moon is behind, and saw thee woman in contractions are five minutes apart.

               48

Comes first—light in what they might half undo it. Of loue new-coin’d to her from the pitiless wave?

               49

And his Anguish grew—how bear it? But, as luckless, I have sworn to bury all things undo me.

               50

That looks up at the lady by her word were it even for me. Loathe the side-lie of a truth.

               51

For once, a tremor breakfast the sky ascends, wi’ sangs o’ joy. And damning their necks, where away?

               52

And flush themselves forsake and for very feare would return to life, to life in thee has killed it.

               53

And the rain on my soul. And I was a rose that green mama who first forced me to Mortal part.

               54

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will trim. To sail with old Benbow; and here, ev’n then, shall be poor.

               55

The Sexes rose to work upon is much too much, some say, she seems that sweet said, that thou to dread?

               56

And hark, again! From happy pieties, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet face of you and me.

               57

Why should poor beauty from my love, my life. But, as luckless, I have known the rain lasts anywhere.

               58

In the bud will wear white despair? Wilt thou go with me, we’re wed to one eternity in days?

               59

Not Ida; ’ clasp it once all-fragrant-curtain’d love begins again. Then downward like those who love.

               60

What peace. And her voice is strength beguiled, this golden foot of May is on the bloated hiss of death.

               61

For I have slept on the brands were stopt with griefe. Still as death, can break her word were it bitterness.

               62

The earth forever! It must be because it is a precious seal of my life, myself—and you.

               63

Is changed in a convent’s solitary Child. When I break through all the grist of its insides grow.

               64

Now folds the maid and thine for me. Than Heaven, my Lover, were my Chamber Heaven’s sun staineth.

               65

Err I dare to look at the basin and wriggling on thy fame! My own heart’s heart, where, while I weep!

               66

Till love you, dear, I’ll love you all; let Virtue be your soules; come wait on hir whom winged Psyche true!

               67

I waste my heart and mine should hindred be. Gloom, and nothing can be old, for as you with my death.

               68

For once and show me what I meant, at all. Proud of many, lives upon his gaine is our lost will.

               69

I call, I call: who do ye call? And the rent, and long to stay with your old baggage. I would get.

               70

—Not the power to burn and be all that bloody torments you doe give, creatures, couched her homage.

               71

Geraldine shakes thee hence. Yet, if Hope has flown away in a night, or in nothing but a feint.

               72

That heart to this fool lord, dare I bid her abide by her side; nor strange. That is misunderstood.

               73

You soarer, you of the sea. ’ Echoing straits between the hills? Again she sees my lady’s maid.

               74

Nor shall die tonight, I wrote this morning. Black Melancholy reigns; what means the warm leaden sheet.

               75

And the gravelly sand take a body to it, even blue-eyed fly to the field. Sir Leoline?

               76

From op’ning on the crowing cock, how drowsily it crew. Shall ever was in our own child-bed.

               77

Within and whom I am confined. Water so cleanly I myself upon the floor below.

               78

Cries to catch her but I? Of all that we see or seem is but as a tomb which happened balloon.

               79

Out for love, to give the wreath’d trellis of a working brain, love alone. With a moonlight and song.

               80

I lift my heaven knows, in joys and woe so many times. To the banks, close of each too, too late.

               81

My soul would only be the best, even to life in losing mine? Naked, a double behind.

               82

Like cliffs which have no fear! Beneath the weight of soil, nothing new is in us, and were at peace.

               83

I knew a beautiful olives. We men and drivers in a bar-room around its wings and neck.

               84

—Come live with me—or fall from its boundless mere, with true sight! This day my journey should I presume?

               85

Into many a summer’s front doth sing and saying plainly of not turning from yonder bay?

               86

Oft did I rove by bonnie Doon, how can you bloom so fresh and faithful to its crisis? Have guessed?

               87

I fell, and fro, while I weep! And turning away, wants to be made, cobbling at the lasting flames!

               88

Such gentle still dictates, and those faire skin, beamy eyes, for the quarters, and looking to the Pole.

               89

Pitiless wave? Flickering gyres, but he’d once about to have gone to the sun delights me.

               90

And may appear so when this rebellious heart, and that will show itself to stone. Nay, fairer yet!

               91

To swell a progress, start up, the same chance! As old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.

               92

Move still doth breeding flow’rs. They will sing to me. That even its grossest flatterers dare not brave.

               93

That looks up at the happy again. A clover, a Fisherman mends a glimmers on to me.

               94

To them through my fingers am I at all satisfied. Her deadly pangs be drown’d, while I slept.

               95

Rain on thee; yet eyes this curious friend. The winged’ steed, I wish we never looks both small and dull.

               96

And make my old excuse, ’ proving his caresses by the cold. With open eyes ah woe is me!

               97

To deem, as a most logical conclusion, that ’s underneath the weight. It even for me?

               98

Nay, by my own eyes inspiring hole. My heart is dust at the pin; and here, ev’n then, shall meet!

               99

Unto the straitest best of all to Love than is or ever dear! Angels of the precious jewel.

               100

Ida came behind. That brought to. But to- morrow, the field. While prostrate here increase! To the field.

               101

I cried for madder music and forms of men! His gentle daughter is safe and fro, while I weep!

[largemouthbassnation]

Kansas Pheasant Hunting With A Young German Shorthaired Pointer

We had a great time on a Kansas pheasant hunt with our young German Shorthaired Pointer, Hex! We did an entire training video series on his development as a puppy and it was awesome that we got to show the culmination of all of his hard work in a fun highlight reel of his Kansas pheasant hunt! This video is a fun watch full of great tips and tricks if you are taking a young dog hunting and how to…

[heniareth]

The Battle of Ostagar

Chapter 1: Making Friends

(Whole chapter on AO3 or continued below)

Wordcount: 5799 

WARNINGS:

- fear of dogs - general creepiness and hivemindlike behaviour associated with darkspawn - fantasy racism against elves

Light; rocks; a green sky. A dragon’s maw, malformed, rotten, twisted, bearing down on her.

Astala bolted upright and tried to run. She fell and landed on… grass. Grass and moss, not rocks and stone. The sounds and smells of the army camp rushed towards her. The dogs barked in their kennels. Soldiers marched past her, elven servants and messengers skipped through the ranks, the Chant of Light sounded somewhere above it all. It smelled of wooden benches in the sunlight, swamp flowers and late mornings. She was sitting under the branches of a small grove of fir trees, a group of twenty or thirty tents beyond it and the bedspread she had apparently fallen off next to her.

A nightmare? It had seemed so real.

And there was Ilanlas, in another bedspread. He was breathing. He was alive! And he was snoring slightly.

“Good morning,” somebody greeted her.

Astala looked up and saw Alistair standing above her.

“How’re you feeling?”

Alistair handed her a waterskin and Astala drank greedily.

“There was a dragon,” Astala croaked, then coughed and discovered how dry her throat was. “Do you have water?”

“Ilanlas is alright, by the way,” Alistair said. “We might as well let him sleep. Poor sod needs it. Come, lets get you to meet everyone else.”

Astala took another long draught from the waterskin before she stood up. Alistair started leading her through the tents, but after a few steps he stopped, waiting for her to catch up and then continued walking next to her.

Weird guy.

“So, the dragon you saw was the Archdemon,” Alistair started. “Not the prettiest of fellows. I know I screamed like a little kid when I first saw it. But, that’s why we’re here, right? To make sure it stops popping up in our heads like some kind of diseased mole.”

He stopped talking, evidently waiting for Astala to say something. Astala hadn’t expected him to do that and was left floundering.

“It’ll be fine,” she finally managed with a shrug. Then her stomach growled. Loudly. “So long as I get some food.”

“That’s where we’re headed,” Alistair said and grinned. “Breakfast’s right this way.”

He turned first left, then right. His head almost stuck out above the relatively squat tents. The sound of voices talking got louder, and then they stepped into some sort of a square between the tents: a large, cleared space where the grass had been trampled into the dirt, and where a sizeable group of people were gathered. Most of them were humans. Most of them were men. With a jolt, Astala recognized the uniforms, the faces, the postures. These were the people from last night. The people who had been standing around the stone platform, tightening the circle more and more as Ilanlas fell unconscious, as Daveth choked, as ser Jory bled out. These were the Grey Wardens.

There were about fifty of them, walking around leisurely, talking amongst each other, playing cards, eating food—Astala took note of the large pot hanging over a fire, tended to by a bald man in his fifties. It smelled good. Her stomach growled again. As if nothing had happened the night before.

Alistair turned around, his smile even broader, and lifted his arms. “So, here we are! Introductions will probably have to wait but have some breakfast for now. I think there’s still porridge in Martin’s pot. Make sure you eat a lot, the Joining leaves you hungrier than you’d believe.”

Astala nodded.

Alistair’s smile wavered a bit and he scratched his neck. “Well, I better get back, check on Ilanlas. He’ll want an explanation too.”

Astala nodded.

“Well… See you around!”

Astala nodded again and let Alistair turn around and walk away with a wave.

Just like that, without his broad frame blocking the view, she suddenly felt very visible. And this even though people weren’t staring at her.

Right. Thoughts later. Breakfast first.

Astala gingerly made her way through the crowd and kept an eye out on her surroundings. The only non-human she saw was a dwarf. She was a very pretty young woman with big eyes, chin-length blond hair and a round figure. She was sitting alone on a log. Astala made a mental note, then approached the cook—Martin, Alistair’d said—and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me? Ser Martin?” she said. “I’d like to ask if you still have some food left?”

The cook looked up and gave her a smile and a look of recognition. Had he been at the Joining too?

“Just Martin is fine,” he said with a distinctly Orlesian accent. “It is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“I…” Astala didn’t know what to say.

Martin only nodded. “It is alright. None of us were feeling our best afterwards, especially not when some of our fellow recruits died.”

Astala swallowed. Ser Jory’s dead eyes stared up at her.

“At least you were already tainted before you went through it,” Martin observed while he filled a bowl with porridge. “The voices in your head should not be that new then.”

“They’re not, no,” Astala forced out and accepted the full bowl.

Martin gave her a sad smile. He had quite a lot of sad wrinkles, now that Astala noticed.

“You will find your footing again,” he said. “For now, sister, eat. You will need it.”

Astala thanked him and walked away.

Sister? Oh, that was so weird.

-

She made her way through the crowd again. Even now, the wardens didn’t stare. There was a passing glance here and there, one or two nods. Nothing more.

Weird.

But what could she expect from people who drank darkspawn juice?

She made her way over to the log on which the dwarven woman sat and pointed at the spot next to her.

“May I?”

The woman looked up and pulled an apologetic face, gesturing at the side of her head.

Astala frowned and couldn’t quite make sense of it. So she tried again. “Is that spot free?”

The dwarven woman’s eyes lighted up in understanding and she nodded. Astala gave her a quick smile and sat down.

The porridge was good. She would’ve put more spices in it, but there was some apple, which was nice. And there was something dark… no plum though. Probably just a bit of burnt oats. But it was good! It was good. Her stomach was happy.

At some point, she noticed that the dwarven woman looking at her. Astala quickly pulled another smile to her face. The woman smiled back. Then she pointed at Astala’s head and gave her a thumbs up. Astala lifted her hand and found her short hair.

“You like it?”

The woman nodded.

“Thank you,” Astala said. “My friend cut it for me.”

Was Ilanlas her friend? She sure hoped he was.

The dwarven woman fiddled with her own, uneven strands. It looked like somebody had chopped off whatever length of hair she’d had before in a hurry. Poor girl.

“What’s your name?” Astala asked in an attempt to make conversation.

The woman, who was scraping the last bits of porridge out of her bowl, didn’t answer.

Astala frowned and leaned into her field of view. “Hey, everything okay?”

The woman jumped up a bit, as if surprised, and gave her another apologetic grimace. Again, she gestured to the side of her head. She was pointing at her ears.

“You… oh!” Understanding dawned on Astala, accompanied by embarrassment driving heat up into her cheeks. How hadn’t she noticed before? “You can’t hear?”

The woman shook her head.

“But you can understand me?” Astala asked.

The woman nodded, gestured around her mouth with her hand in a claw shape, and then to her eyes with two fingers before flicking them over to Astala. Astala moved her hand to her mouth. No, she didn’t have any porridge hanging off there.

Oh, wait, no.

“You can read my lips?” Astala swung one leg over the log on which they were sitting, fully facing the woman. “That’s so cool! And you can understand me well?”

The woman hesitated, then made a pained expression.

Astala bit her lower lip. Her only experience with people who were hard of hearing came from the time she spent following the hahren around the Alienage. Grandma Tinashe had been one of them. What a nice lady. Always worried about who was keeping her hair after her mother had died. She’d even tried to teach Astala some braiding patterns to keep it. The old woman had needed everyone to speak into her left ear and practically shout. But for Alu, a kid from up a few buildings up the street, shouting had made everything worse.

Only one way to find out.

Tentatively, Astala raised her hand with the palm up to illustrate her words. “D’you want me to speak louder?”

The woman frowned and gave her a questioning look.

“Louder,” Astala said. “Do you want me to speak louder?”

She was asked to repeat herself another time before the woman understood. When she did, she shook her head and thought for a moment, studying Astala with an intense look of concentration on her face. Then she brought both her hands up, palms facing Astala, and pushed two times against the air.

Astala looked at her hands, then back at her. The puzzlement had to be clear on her face, because the dwarven woman sighed and looked off into the distance. Suddenly, her face lit up. Astala followed her line of sight and spotted another dwarf: brown-skinned, red hair pulled back in a low ponytail, with a face that managed to be both broad and bony at the same time. And he held the biggest bowl of porridge Astala had ever seen between his hands. Where’d he gotten that?

The woman snapped her fingers at him until he got his attention, then started signing quickly. Her friend—if they were friends—seemed to have no trouble keeping up. He leisurely made his way over to them, sat down on the ground, kept his massive bowl of porridge firmly squished between his knees and answered, also signing. The woman frowned and signed back. The man—who had a dark brand on his cheek in the form of a long-stretched five—held her gaze for a few seconds before he looked away and showed a big spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

“Fe wandf u do fpeak slowa.”

“What?” Astala answered.

The dwarf chewed, swallowed, washed the load of porridge down with a big gulp from his waterskin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I said: ‘she wants you to speak slower’,” he repeated. His voice was less deep than she would've expected. It kinda matched his build, which was also less broad than she was used to from a dwarf.

“Oh. Thank you.” Astala turned to face the woman and tried again, slower. “Is this better?”

The woman nodded and gave the other dwarf a sweet smile. He returned it with a well-crafted blank look and returned his attention to his porridge. Astala followed his example and thought of a way to continue the conversation.

“What are your names?” she finally asked.

The dwarven woman picked up a stick and scratched something into the dirt. Astala recognized letters.

“Sulri?”

The dwarven woman nodded and stretched out her hand. Astala grinned as she shook it.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Astala.”

Sulri asked her to repeat her name and she did until Sulri gave her a satisfied nod.

“And you?” Astala asked, turning to the other dwarf.

“What’s it to you?” the dwarf asked, still bent over his porridge.

Astala frowned. “Well, I’m just getting to know you.”

“That’s great,” the dwarf said flatly. “Making friends. How nice.”

He shoved another load of porridge into his mouth. Sulri tapped Astala’s shoulder and pointed at the ground, where she’d scratched new letters into.

“Ked,” Astala said. “Kheed? How do you pronounce your name?”

The dwarf swallowed. “Khêd. Short ‘e’.”

“Thank you,” Astala said pointedly. Then she turned to Sulri. “Is he always like that?”

Sulri leaned back into the sun, shielding her eyes with one hand, and nodded.

“You two are also Grey Wardens, right?” Astala asked. “I saw you yesterday at the Joining.”

“Your point?” Khêd asked.

Astala shrugged. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t we get along?”

“You planning to stab me in the back?” Khêd asked.

Astala frowned. “No?”

“And in the front?”

“No!”

“Good enough for me.” Khêd turned back to his porridge, which had already disappeared, and scraped the bowl clean. Then he set it to the side. “You going to eat that?”

Before Astala could answer, he’d already lunged forward and grabbed her bowl. Astala just managed to rip it out of his hands.

“What the fuck, man?” she screamed. “That’s my fucking food!”

“The duster can swear,” Khêd chuckled and lifted his hands in surrender. “Don’t get your ears into a twist, you can have your food.”

“What the absolute fuck,” Astala spat and hastily shoved the last bits of porridge into her mouth. When she stood up, she clutched her bowl tightly to herself.

Khêd held his empty bowl up. “If you want to keep your food safe, might as well get me more too.”

Astala raised both eyebrows in a most unimpressed gesture. Then she demonstratively took one long step past Khêd and his bowl. Sulri just managed to tap her leg. When Astala turned towards her, she held her bowl up, head tilted to the side.

Astala switched to a bright smile. “Of course I’ll get you more food!” She raised her voice. “Since you asked so nicely.”

“Sod you.”

“Don’t touch my fucking food.”

She didn’t stay to wait for Khêd’s answer. Astala walked away with long steps, quietly grumbling to herself.

-

All in all, despite the shem everywhere and Khêd's assault on her breakfast, this was a nice change of pace. Like in the Korcari Wilds, there were no birds here, but the wind was blowing cheerfully through the fir trees and over the Wardens’ tents. It rattled the banner standing in the middle of the group of tents. The silver griffon on blue ground provided a stark contrast to the crown’s yellow and gold. What had Alistair said yesterday before the Joining? Something about standing in the shadows. Fitting. The banner seemed to be made out of the night and moonlight under whose cover she had entered the order.

Somewhere further away in the king’s camp, a horn sounded. The dogs were barking much less, which Astala appreciated. Martin had filled both bowls generously, which did the rest of the wonder needed to improve her mood. Maybe she’d even find it in her heart to forgive Khêd his trespassing once she had a bit more food in her stomach. Then, suddenly, she heard something else. Or felt it more than heard it.

It was like a low rumble—or a pull, she wasn’t quite sure. She did know that it was stuck in her blood; made her skin crawl and her fingers itch in a desire to scratch it away. Before she’d noticed, she was lifting her head and turning south; to her horror, every other Grey Warden, Khêd and Sulri included, was doing the same thing. All of them had stopped in the middle of the sentence, in the middle of the step, in the middle of the gesture, to lift their head, turn and face south. As if something had called to them.

Then it was over. Like a shiver running through the whole group, everybody turned back to what they had been doing. Astala’s shoulders twitched up. There was nothing on the horizon except dark clouds that would probably bring a thunderstorm. Quietly shaking her head, she made the last few steps and sat down. Sulri was busy looking at Khêd, who spoke his signing out loud when Astala sat down.

“This blighted shit should stop already.”

“What was it?” Astala asked.

Khêd shrugged, still signing as he spoke. “I don’t know. Some blighted shit.”

Astala handed Sulri her bowl and stabbed her spoon into the porridge.

“That was the Archdemon.”

Astala left her spoon be.

The one who was divulging that cheerful bit of news was, of course, Alistair. He gave her a smile as he shooed a bleary-eyed Ilanlas towards them.

“You look lovely,” Astala said and couldn’t bite back a grin at the sight of Ilanlas’ frankly impressive bedhead, with strands of hair sticking out at every angle.

Ilanlas let out a quiet grumble but sat down next to her on the grass with his own bowl of porridge. Astala caught him discreetly observing both dwarves. Something was… different about him.

“This is Ilanlas,” Astala said, directing her words at Sulri and pointing at the aforementioned. “Ilanlas, Sulri. She can’t hear, but she can read lips. And that’s Khêd. He steals food.”

“Ha ha,” Khêd grumbled, “very funny.”

“Deserved,” Astala answered.

“Do not touch my food,” Ilanlas said.

“Well, aren’t you two a delight,” Khêd said and crossed his arms. “Are you related?”

Astala lifted her eyebrows high. Next to her, Ilanlas frowned.

“Are you blind? We could not be more different.”

“I might go blind with the sodding thing up there.” Khêd pointed at the sky. “But no. I’ve seen people more different than you two being siblings.”

“Siblings?” Astala looked at Ilanlas. “Are you serious?”

“Hey, I never asked anybody what their parents were up to,” Khêd said and shrugged. “The eyes did throw me off a bit.”

“The eyes,” Ilanlas deadpanned. “Not the different skin colors.”

“Or the different heights,” Astala added.

Ilanlas gave her a dead stare.

Again, Khêd shrugged. “I’ve never seen silver eyes before. That normal up here?”

Astala frowned, then took a closer look at Ilanlas. Were she could’ve sworn had been two brown eyes were now indeed light grey irises. Like those of the soldier they’d found in the Korcari Wilds. The one who'd died on his way to the camp.

“Lady preserve us,” she muttered and turned to Alistair, who’d been quietly following the conversation. “Is that normal?”

Alistair shrugged. “It’s one of the possible side effects of the Joining.”

“Maybe you have gone blind,” Khêd said and shrugged.

Ilanlas’ eyes widened slightly, but he was quick to brush the concern aside. “I can see.”

“Good for you then,” Khêd said and turned to face Alistair. “When’s the screeching thing going to stop?”

“Well… as soon as the Archdemon’s dead?” Alistair scratched his neck again. “The darkspawn are all interconnected, and since we carry their blood in our veins, so are we. That is how we can sense them, and that is how we can hear the Archdemon command its troops.”

“Great,” Khêd said with a big smile. “So we have a blighted dragon poking around our heads. Awesome. How do you stop the night visions?”

“The what?” Alistair asked.

“The night visions,” Khêd insisted. “I keep seeing things while I sleep.”

“Those are called dreams,” Ilanlas said and then he stopped. “Our Keeper told us dwarves do not dream.”

“You mean you do this dream thing often?” Khêd asked.

“Almost every night,” Ilanlas answered.

Khêd made a face as if Ilanlas had told him a horror story. “Sodding ancestors…”

“What do you mean, dwarves don’t dream?” Astala asked. She turned to Sulri. “Do you dream?”

Sulri signed, and Khêd translated. “I see things at night ever since we went through the Joining two nights ago.”

“Can we make it stop?” Khêd added.

“There is no stopping dreams,” Ilanlas answered.

Khêd grumbled, and stood up, holding his bowl like a stuffed animal. “This is a load of sodding bullshit. I need more food.”

The remaining four of them watched him leave. Alistair was the first to break the silence with a sigh.

“You will get used to it,” he said, slowly, with a smile in Sulri’s direction. “It won’t happen every night. And, if the king has his way, the Archdemon will be dead by tomorrow.”

“So the Archdemon is real,” Astala said.

“Very much so,” Alistair said. “This is how we know this is a real Blight.”

They sat around in silence for a good long while. Khêd came back, bowl only filled half with porridge. Either Martin was running out, or Khêd didn’t stand in the cook’s good graces. Maybe he’d tried to steal food from him as well. Alistair spoke up again.

“We can’t go around preaching the end of the world, however. Nobody can know about the Joining, and so nobody can know that we can sense the Archdemon and see it in dreams. The Grey Wardens were exiled once from Ferelden, and we can’t have that happen again. We need support; best not to go around announcing that we share blood with the very monsters we’re fighting.”

Astala thought back to the taste of tainted blood in her mouth and the viscera-laden sculptures they had passed yesterday in the Wilds. Suddenly, she felt sick.

“At any rate, once you are done eating, we should get you prepared for the battle this evening,” Alistair continued. “Ilanlas, you should have everything, but Sulri I think needs new boots and Khêd’s shield is… uh, done with. And you could use a whole new suit of armor if I remember right.”

Astala nodded.

“Alright then,” Alistair said. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll leave.”

Astala passed the rest of her porridge to Khêd. He looked up, surprised.

“You’re not eating that?”

“Have at it,” Astala said.

Khêd didn’t ask again and promptly scooped the food into his oversized bowl. Astala stood up and dusted her trousers off as she walked away. Her stomach was clamped up. Having a battle looming over her head apparently made her nervous enough to not eat. Go figure.

-

She went back to the bedroll she had woken up on and retrieved her pack. What had compelled her to leave it there in the first place was beyond her, but everything was still where it should be. She had a ton of scrap metal looted from various darkspawn corpses. Most of it was filthy. Still, with a bucket of water and a day of work, she’d get it into a presentable enough state to make a bit of money off of it. For now, however, she had to keep it somewhere safe while she was away from the bedspread. There was a washed-out hollow under one tree’s roots where it curled over the stone. Astala shoved the bundle of metal under the root and found some big stones. Over that came loose earth, leaves and finally some branches until she stepped back, hands on her hips, and gave her work a critical look. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but there were enough trees around that nobody would venture more than a passing glance through this particular area of the camp. Maybe she could ask Ilanlas for help later to make it more inconspicuous. For now, however, it’d work.

How much of this would she have to give over to the wardens?

You are a warden now, a voice in her head said. They called you sister.

Bloody good that’ll do for any kind of relationship, Astala answered.

-

The quartermaster was a burly looking human who, of course, mistook her for a servant. While Alistair explained to the man that, no, she was actually a Grey Warden and allowed to carry weapons, Astala looked about the shop. The… clearing between the trees? She hoped the man ferried his ware under some cover every night, or the armor displayed here wouldn’t be worth shit.

It turned out not to be something she’d have to worry about. The quartermaster had no armor that would fit an elf, even one as tall as she was. And for ill-fitting armor thought for humans, she already had her looted suit, thank you very much. She did drag the search out, however, hemmed and hawed over the decision, asked for different makes and builds and wanted to know the price of everything. She’d seen Khêd sneak off somewhere at the beginning of the conversation. If that human was going to mistake her for a servant, he should actually get robbed and also have an eye on her at all times so the suspicion wouldn’t lie on her. The whole plan fell through when the man caught Khêd—and really, hiding behind a box that somebody could open was such a bad idea—and made him return everything in his pockets. Alistair’s face couldn’t have gone redder if he’d tried. Astala kept to the sidelines of that particular argument and then wrapped up the deal quickly. Sulri got her boots. Alistair convinced the quartermaster to very reluctantly furnish Khêd with a suitable shield. Khêd gave the man a pointedly cheerful smile, showing off three missing teeth. The quartermaster frowned back with such an offended look on his face that Astala had to stifle a laugh.

When they were a bit of a ways away, Sulri reappeared next to Khêd and handed him several stolen flasks, pouches with powders and other trinkets.

“And why do I have to carry this?” Khêd grumbled.

Sulri sighed audibly, rolled her eyes, and pulled out some coin.

Khêd sighed and shrugged. “At least I’m getting paid.”

“Really?” Alistair said, voice rising a whole octave. “After he already caught you stealing?”

Khêd crossed his arms. “I can’t steal for shit. He caught me behind a box. If that bothers him that’s his problem.”

“You know exactly what it looked like,” Alistair said and crossed his arms. “The captain warned me about you, you know? You can’t pull these stunts in the king’s camp and drag her into this.” He pointed at Sulri.

“Drag her-?” Khêd looked at him with wide eyes. “This was all her idea!”

Alistair turned to Sulri. Sulri looked up at him with the biggest, most innocent eyes.

“Was it?”

“Oh, sod it all.” Khêd turned around and continued walking. “‘The wardens are different’. ‘Nobody will judge a criminal’. Ancestors’ asses they-”

Loud barking interrupted him mid-rant. Astala whirled around. Barreling towards them at full speed, past tents, soldiers, and Chantry sisters, came a mabari. Astala screamed and drew her blades, staggering backwards, dagger between her and the slobbering beast. Alistair shouted. The mabari slowed down but didn’t stop. Its teeth gleamed white, its large tongue flickered over them as if in anticipation of tasting elven flesh. Astala snarled back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ilanlas carefully stepping around the dog, an arrow aimed at it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Alistair said, stepping between them and the dog. “Easy there. No need to hurt anybody, this fellow is probably just-”

“Grey Wardens?”

A man approached, clad in thick leather armor, streaks of dark paint on his face. The dog wore similar markings.

“Are you?” the man asked, grabbing the dog by its collar and hauling it back without any apparent effort. “Are you Grey Wardens?”

“That we are,” Alistair said.

Astala lowered her weapons. She didn’t trust the situation enough to sheathe them, however.

“Thank the Maker.” The man yanked on the mabari’s collar as the dog tried to wriggle itself free. “We’ve got one sick hound. Survived a darkspawn ambush, but he’s showing signs of infection. Can you help him?”

“Of course,” Alistair said, descending into his serious warden voice. “Lead the way.”

The man led them to the dog kennels, steps so large that Khêd and Sulri had to jog to keep up. Khêd was cursing quietly. The sick mabari had apparently lost its owner—a grave tragedy for a mabari, apparently, as they imprinted upon specific people like ducklings. Astala hoped the beast found a new one soon who’d keep it in check. Or that it would grow small, cute and fluffy like an actual duckling. Alistair was explaining to the man that they could slow the spread of the infection, but for the actual cure he would have to talk to his senior wardens. Astala quietly sidled up with Ilanlas, who wasn’t much more comfortable with the pace set than the dwarves.

“You ever seen one of these dogs?” she quietly asked him.

Ilanlas nodded, never slowing his pace. “Once.”

The arrow he had been holding was still at the ready in his hand.

-

The kennels were at the southern edge of the camp, close to what would’ve been the fortresses’ outer wall when it was still standing. The infirmary was not too far from it either. Why an injured person would want to hear the barking of the dogs day and night was a mystery. And the smell! Shem were weird.

The dogs were all in small paddocks where they could eat, sleep, and roll around in the dirt. Astala wasn’t fooled by the wooden fences. She knew how high those beasts could jump. She sheathed her sword and dagger, however. There were tons of shem about, and if she so much as looked at one of these animals wrong while having her weapons drawn that would be it for her. She doubted even the Grey Wardens would be able to save her from the general outrage if she dared hurt one of these precious mabari.

“Any of you ever handled a mabari?” the man in the leather armor—who’d introduced himself as an Ash warrior—said.

Did watching your cousin almost get his throat ripped out by one count as “handling” a mabari? She didn’t know. Astala opted to shake her head.

“I have,” Alistair said.

“Oh, good.” The man seemed relieved. “I mean, even if none of you had, nothing would happen. Not when I’m here, and the hound is sick. He’ll give you no trouble.”

Yeah, right. At least it looked like Alistair would bear the brunt of the work.

“You might want to go in and muzzle him, then,” the Ash warrior said. “I would do it myself, but-”

“It’s safer if I do it,” Alistair said and nodded.

“And one of your companions could administer the medicine.” The man looked at each of them, until his gaze fell on Astala. “You, maybe? I’m sure you’ve seen a mabari up close, haven’t you?”

Astala bit the insides of her cheeks and looked past the fence. The biggest mabari she’d ever seen lay in there. She could see the whites in its eyes as it peered past the lattices at her.

The Ash warrior looked around once more.

“Don’t look at me,” Khêd grumbled. “I’m not getting in there.”

“Come on,” Alistair said. “You’re a Grey Warden! You’ll let this poor bugger die of the Blight?”

“Insults first and now an appeal to my, what, sense of decency?” Khêd scoffed. “I don’t have one, salroka. Get yourself another volunteer.”

“Well, Sulri can’t do it,” Alistair shot back.

Sulri was evidently not following the conversation. When Khêd translated, however, her expression fell. Astala wouldn’t have thought her capable of such a dark glare as the one she was levelling at Alistair.

“What?” Alistair protested. “You can’t hear the dog if it growls, or us if we want to give you instructions. Or warn you.”

“Fenedhis lasa. I will do it,” Ilanlas said.

“I-” The Ash warrior stepped in. “No offense, uh, Warden, but if the dog wanted to bite, you wouldn’t be more than a mouthful for him.”

The vein growing on Ilanlas’ forehead would’ve been funny if this had happened at any other moment.

“Well?” Alistair asked, giving her a hopeful look. “Shall we?”

Astala sighed. But she nodded. The Ash warrior thanked her, clearly relieved, pressed a health poultice into her hand and opened the door to the kennel. Just like that. Astala only followed Alistair when she’d made sure that the dog wasn’t about to jump out of its cage. Hearing Alistair mutter “here goes nothing” wasn’t encouraging at all.

When they entered the kennel, the dog just barely lifted its head. Astala wasn’t about to be fooled by a momentary display of weakness, but when the big beast didn’t even properly sniff Alistair’s hand, she carefully stepped closer. Now that she was closer to it, the mabari actually looked… sick. Really sick.

“Hey buddy,” Alistair said quietly. “Having a rough time, huh?”

The dog let out a quiet whine and did its best to nudge Alistair’s hand.

“Yeah, me too,” Alistair said with his own sympathetic wince and took a closer look at the dog’s injured side. He let out a low whistle through his teeth. “Well that looks… bad.”

The dog whimpered in agreement.

Astala bent over Alistair’s shoulder to get a closer look. The dog had a big gash on its flank, as if something serrated had ripped through fur, skin and flesh. The edges of the wound, which had been cleaned and bandaged, were weeping dark refuse. Just like the bite wound she had left on Ilanlas’ forearm.

“Definitely tainted,” Alistair said. “Here, can you feel it?”

Astala tried to focus. There, there it was; the faint pull in her blood, looping straight back to the mabari.

The dog yelped and Astala jumped back.

“Easy, easy.” Alistair steadied the dog with a hand on its withers. “Here, I’ll muzzle him. Let’s get you some medicine, hm?”

The dog didn’t even make a move to protest as Alistair secured its mouth shut. He then split some Andraste’s Grace with Astala. They chewed it up, and while Alistair held the dog in place, Astala carefully extended her hand and laid it next to the dog’s wound.

A shiver through its skin was the only reaction she got.

She stayed alert while applying the chewed-up herbs and the health poultice—and it was weird, to go around wasting something like a health poultice on a dog—but the mabari kept absolutely still. Alistair unmuzzled the dog. Astala stowed the empty container of the health potion in her pouch. Surely the Ash warrior wouldn’t need it now, right? Then suddenly something warm and wet brushed over her hand and she flinched back violently, scrambling to her feet and putting Alistair between herself and the dog, whose big red tongue was lolling out of its mouth.

“Aw, he’s just saying thank you!” Alistair said. “Here, if I hold him down again-”

“We’re done here,” Astala said and left the kennel.

Alistair followed. The Ash warrior shut the door to the kennel. Astala wiped her hand on a patch of grass and cast a glance back; the mabari was looking at her. It whined again, sounding almost hopeful, and Astala quickly looked away again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ilanlas return his arrow to his quiver.

[dickens-daily]

CHAPTER XVII—THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD

Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we have ever had the honour and gratification of knowing by sight—and our acquaintance in this way has been most extensive—there is one who made an impression on our mind which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a feeling of admiration and respect, which we entertain a fatal presentiment will never be called forth again by any human being. He was a man of most simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered, white-hatted, no-coated cabman; his nose was generally red, and his bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a black border of artificial workmanship; his boots were of the Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at least to approach as near them as their dimensions would admit of; and his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In summer he carried in his mouth a flower; in winter, a straw—slight, but, to a contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature, and a taste for botany.

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted—a bright red; and wherever we went, City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East, West, or South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts at the street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and drays, and carts, and waggons, and omnibuses, and contriving by some strange means or other, to get out of places which no other vehicle but the red cab could ever by any possibility have contrived to get into at all. Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to have seen it in the circle at Astley’s! Our life upon it, that it should have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole company to shame—Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process, which, when well performed, is essentially melodramatic. First, there is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground. Then there is your own pantomime in reply—quite a little ballet. Four cabs immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beautiful in the extreme, as they grate the wheels of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport playfully in the kennel. You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly towards it. One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your body lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same time, and you are in the cab. There is no difficulty in finding a seat: the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off you go.

The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in its theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution. We have studied the subject a great deal, and we think the best way is, to throw yourself out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If you make the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon him, you will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the event of your contemplating an offer of eightpence, on no account make the tender, or show the money, until you are safely on the pavement. It is very bad policy attempting to save the fourpence. You are very much in the power of a cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not to do you any wilful damage. Any instruction, however, in the art of getting out of a cab, is wholly unnecessary if you are going any distance, because the probability is, that you will be shot lightly out before you have completed the third mile.

We are not aware of any instance on record in which a cab-horse has performed three consecutive miles without going down once. What of that? It is all excitement. And in these days of derangement of the nervous system and universal lassitude, people are content to pay handsomely for excitement; where can it be procured at a cheaper rate?

But to return to the red cab; it was omnipresent. You had but to walk down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any of the principal thoroughfares in which there is a great deal of traffic, and judge for yourself. You had hardly turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or two, lying on the ground: an uprooted post, a hat-box, a portmanteau, and a carpet-bag, strewed about in a very picturesque manner: a horse in a cab standing by, looking about him with great unconcern; and a crowd, shouting and screaming with delight, cooling their flushed faces against the glass windows of a chemist’s shop.—‘What’s the matter here, can you tell me?’—‘O’ny a cab, sir.’—‘Anybody hurt, do you know?’—‘O’ny the fare, sir. I see him a turnin’ the corner, and I ses to another gen’lm’n “that’s a reg’lar little oss that, and he’s a comin’ along rayther sweet, an’t he?”—“He just is,” ses the other gen’lm’n, ven bump they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like bricks.’ Need we say it was the red cab; or that the gentleman with the straw in his mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist’s shop and philosophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at full gallop, was the red cab’s licensed driver?

The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it exercised over the risible muscles of justice itself, was perfectly astonishing. You walked into the justice-room of the Mansion-house; the whole court resounded with merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back in his chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own joke; every vein in Mr. Hobler’s countenance was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord Mayor’s facetiousness, but more at his own; the constables and police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstasies at Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor combined; and the very paupers, glancing respectfully at the beadle’s countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. A tall, weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his speech, would be endeavouring to state a case of imposition against the red cab’s driver; and the red cab’s driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler, would be having a little fun among themselves, to the inordinate delight of everybody but the complainant. In the end, justice would be so tickled with the red cab-driver’s native humour, that the fine would be mitigated, and he would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to impose on somebody else without loss of time.

The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of his own moral principles, like many other philosophers, was wont to set the feelings and opinions of society at complete defiance. Generally speaking, perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his destination, as he would upset him—sooner, perhaps, because in that case he not only got the money, but had the additional amusement of running a longer heat against some smart rival. But society made war upon him in the shape of penalties, and he must make war upon society in his own way. This was the reasoning of the red cab-driver. So, he bestowed a searching look upon the fare, as he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, when he had gone half the mile, to get the money ready; and if he brought forth eightpence, out he went.

The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening in Tottenham-court-road, when he was engaged in a very warm and somewhat personal altercation with a loquacious little gentleman in a green coat. Poor fellow! there were great excuses to be made for him: he had not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and consequently laboured under a great deal of very natural indignation. The dispute had attained a pretty considerable height, when at last the loquacious little gentleman, making a mental calculation of the distance, and finding that he had already paid more than he ought, avowed his unalterable determination to ‘pull up’ the cabman in the morning.

‘Now, just mark this, young man,’ said the little gentleman, ‘I’ll pull you up to-morrow morning.’

‘No! will you though?’ said our friend, with a sneer.

‘I will,’ replied the little gentleman, ‘mark my words, that’s all. If I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent this.’

There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of speech, about the little gentleman, as he took an angry pinch of snuff, after this last declaration, which made a visible impression on the mind of the red cab-driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It was only for an instant; his resolve was soon taken.

‘You’ll pull me up, will you?’ said our friend.

‘I will,’ rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater vehemence an before.

‘Very well,’ said our friend, tucking up his shirt sleeves very calmly. ‘There’ll be three veeks for that. Wery good; that’ll bring me up to the middle o’ next month. Three veeks more would carry me on to my birthday, and then I’ve got ten pound to draw. I may as well get board, lodgin’, and washin’, till then, out of the county, as pay for it myself; consequently here goes!’

So, without more ado, the red cab-driver knocked the little gentleman down, and then called the police to take himself into custody, with all the civility in the world.

A story is nothing without the sequel; and therefore, we may state, that to our certain knowledge, the board, lodging, and washing were all provided in due course. We happen to know the fact, for it came to our knowledge thus: We went over the House of Correction for the county of Middlesex shortly after, to witness the operation of the silent system; and looked on all the ‘wheels’ with the greatest anxiety, in search of our long-lost friend. He was nowhere to be seen, however, and we began to think that the little gentleman in the green coat must have relented, when, as we were traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies in a sequestered part of the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice, which apparently proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its soul in the plaintive air of ‘All round my hat,’ which was then just beginning to form a recognised portion of our national music.

We started.—‘What voice is that?’ said we. The Governor shook his head.

‘Sad fellow,’ he replied, ‘very sad. He positively refused to work on the wheel; so, after many trials, I was compelled to order him into solitary confinement. He says he likes it very much though, and I am afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and sings comic songs all day!’

Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us and that the comic singer was no other than our eagerly-sought friend, the red cab-driver?

We have never seen him since, but we have strong reason to suspect that this noble individual was a distant relative of a waterman of our acquaintance, who, on one occasion, when we were passing the coach-stand over which he presides, after standing very quietly to see a tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it was all over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touching his hat, asked, as a matter of course, for ‘a copper for the waterman.’ Now, the fare was by no means a handsome man; and, waxing very indignant at the demand, he replied—‘Money! What for? Coming up and looking at me, I suppose!’—‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined the waterman, with a smile of immovable complacency, ‘that’s worth twopence.’

The identical waterman afterwards attained a very prominent station in society; and as we know something of his life, and have often thought of telling what we do know, perhaps we shall never have a better opportunity than the present.

Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentleman’s name, Mr. William Barker was born—but why need we relate where Mr. William Barker was born, or when? Why scrutinise the entries in parochial ledgers, or seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in hospitals? Mr. William Barker was born, or he had never been. There is a son—there was a father. There is an effect—there was a cause. Surely this is sufficient information for the most Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evidence on the point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary course? Impossible.

We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise period, or by what particular process, this gentleman’s patronymic, of William Barker, became corrupted into ‘Bill Boorker.’ Mr. Barker acquired a high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among the members of that profession to which he more peculiarly devoted his energies; and to them he was generally known, either by the familiar appellation of ‘Bill Boorker,’ or the flattering designation of ‘Aggerawatin Bill,’ the latter being a playful and expressive sobriquet, illustrative of Mr. Barker’s great talent in ‘aggerawatin’ and rendering wild such subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to place, through the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker little is known, and even that little is involved in considerable doubt and obscurity. A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in nature, shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker’s disposition. His feverish attachment to change and variety nothing could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue.

If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his earlier years, it was an amiable one—love; love in its most comprehensive form—a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs. It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to his own possessions, which but too many men regard with exclusive complacency. No; it was a nobler love—a general principle. It extended itself with equal force to the property of other people.

There is something very affecting in this. It is still more affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly rewarded. Bow-street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for general benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love for all created objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened interview with the highest legal authorities, he quitted his ungrateful country, with the consent, and at the expense, of its Government; proceeded to a distant shore; and there employed himself, like another Cincinnatus, in clearing and cultivating the soil—a peaceful pursuit, in which a term of seven years glided almost imperceptibly away.

Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned, the British Government required Mr. Barker’s presence here, or did not require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any other public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs near the curbstone, with a brass plate and number suspended round his neck by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped in haybands, he is supposed to have made those observations on human nature which exercised so material an influence over all his proceedings in later life.

Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity, when the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to go in a new direction, and prevented a great many hackney-coaches from going in any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived the whole extent of the injury that would be eventually inflicted on cab and coach stands, and, by consequence, on watermen also, by the progress of the system of which the first omnibus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity of adopting some more profitable profession; and his active mind at once perceived how much might be done in the way of enticing the youthful and unwary, and shoving the old and helpless, into the wrong buss, and carrying them off, until, reduced to despair, they ransomed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, to adopt his own figurative expression in all its native beauty, ‘till they was rig’larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.’

An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations, soon presented itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands, that a buss was building, to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and Holborn; and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington-road, encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously inquired in the proper quarters. The report was correct; the ‘Royal William’ was to make its first journey on the following Monday. It was a crack affair altogether. An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as a dashing whip—for he had compromised with the parents of three scrunched children, and just ‘worked out’ his fine for knocking down an old lady—was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr. Barker’s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad on the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr. Barker entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of action.

To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary man into the omnibus system—gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get into it; a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality of idea, and fine, bold flow of spirits, so conspicuous in every action of this great man.

Mr. Barker had opponents of course; what man in public life has not? But even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to Paddington, than any six men on the road; and however much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all.

Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, some time since, by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire satisfaction, and finally throwing him away, when he had quite done with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have been, who honestly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say it ought to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind.

It has now become matter of history; it is recorded in the Newgate Calendar; and we wish we could attribute this piece of daring heroism to Mr. Barker. We regret being compelled to state that it was not performed by him. Would, for the family credit we could add, that it was achieved by his brother!

It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr. Barker’s knowledge of human nature was beautifully displayed. He could tell at a glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and would shout the name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the real destination of the vehicle. He knew exactly the kind of old lady that would be too much flurried by the process of pushing in and pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she had been put down, until too late; had an intuitive perception of what was passing in a passenger’s mind when he inwardly resolved to ‘pull that cad up to-morrow morning;’ and never failed to make himself agreeable to female servants, whom he would place next the door, and talk to all the way.

Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occasionally happen that Mr. Barker experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of the wrong person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, was, on more than one occasion, followed by a committal to prison. It was not in the power of trifles such as these, however, to subdue the freedom of his spirit. As soon as they passed away, he resumed the duties of his profession with unabated ardour.

We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red cab-driver, in the past tense. Alas! Mr. Barker has again become an absentee; and the class of men to which they both belonged is fast disappearing. Improvement has peered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and penetrated to the very innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt and fustian will vanish before cleanliness and livery. Slang will be forgotten when civility becomes general: and that enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound body, the Magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their amusement, and half their occupation.

_____

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[apalestar]

Something afoot with that slight altering of Gale’s expression, but Astarion concluded it little more than nervousness. Who wasn’t when confronted with his power and prestige? It thrilled the predator in him. The part he permitted to run rampant these days. Quaint that Gale walked alongside him. Truly, his flame of old was cultivating an image to the people in attendance of precisely where he wished to stand when it came to Lord Ancunín. Few dared to think of him as their equal.

“A tour? Gladly. The old decor was rather trite.” A sneer subtly made its way onto his countenance. Broke the image of the vampire lordling carrying himself with none of the baggage of his past. “I changed them out for items more to my tastes.”

Gale was lead down this hallway first. The busts and statues traded for high valued gems and jewelry in glass cases. Enchanted items he pilfered over their adventures. A few pieces were new and clearly made for a patriar in mind; more for showcasing the opulence of wealth than any function purpose. The Szarr family seals etched over or the stone work completely redone. Not a trace of Cazador remained in the Crimson Palace.

Paintings exchanged for finely woven tapestries. Each artwork of the Szarr family auctioned off to the highest bidder. Astarion refused to tolerate looking at them. He’d erase any reminder of him from his home. Astarion took them through a meandering pace through the palace. The kennels had been sealed off. The dormitories housed only a few of his recently made spawn. Ones all too eager to make themselves scarce as they passed.

“You’ll agree my latest additions make the place more lively. I wouldn’t be caught dead being unfashionable.” An implication that he compared it to the state of disrepair of his former master. “In due time I’ll add more to my collection.”

And even though the spawn and staff quietly shuffled away as they passed, Astarion’s chamberlain had not. "But this can't be all you want." He reached over stroking his fingers down Gale's neck. Eyes tracked down in an obviously flirtatious gesture. "You accepted my invitation over something we both can mutually benefit from."

If anyone with an inkling of insight were to look at the wizard's face, it would be safe to deduce that he was in love. And, in the simple truth, he was, but with whom was far more complex. Astarion and Lord Ancunín appeared to be both the same person and also completely different to Gale. Regarding the opposition remark, nothing about this was as black or white. It wasn't opposition; it was help. A way to save the soul of the man he loved or die trying, and so when he said he had no desire to oppose him, it was only the truth. "No, never," he promised. "I wanted to see you again."

Ironically, the offer to finally leave this party and find an isolated spot caused the wizard's face to light up, but not in the way that anyone might have expected. Yet, as swiftly as he felt a sense of relief for being able to move forward with his plan, the utterance of the word 'ravenous' caused his demeanour to falter—a falter that could easily be blamed on the light push. In their time apart, Gale had grown used to the memory of Astarion and him lying in bed, arm in arm, as Gale read aloud novels that Astarion had collected for him. Typically, the most that occurred on those nights were sweet kisses, and Gale was unafraid to verbally assure Astarion how much he loved him. It was due to those memories that Gale had forgotten Astarion's newfound lust for new experiences after his Ascension.

He needed to ponder a plan to avoid diving into such antics, yet there was still the presence of butlers and the remaining guests as they trickled, or in quite a few cases, bumbled out. Gale took heed and followed Astarion's steps, pushing himself to catch up and walk beside the man.

"Would you be willing to give me a tour, Astarion? From the snippets I have seen, you've made some excellent changes to the décor. I would love to see how the palace of Lord Ancunín fares."

[butter--peanut]

fic snippet: Kakashi’s mental health and Obito’s stalkerish way of helping (642 words, angsty, t)

On Kakashi’s latest mission with ANBU, he’d killed dozens of nin — many younger than his own nineteen years — and one of his own teammates had been killed in the process.

Obito had watched the mission grimly, hidden in Kamui, and he continued to watch as Kakashi returned to Konoha, gave his mission report to the Sandaime, and then stood by the memorial stone until midnight, motionless but for the slight sway of his exhausted body in light wind.

When the moon ran high and all law-abiding Konohans had long ago crept to blissful slumber, dress rehearsals for the main show that Obito would bring to them, Kakashi returned like a dog to a kennel to the tiny corner of the Hatake estate that he slept in. There he promptly threw up in the sink. After expelling his stomach, he turned on the tap and washed the meagre remains of his ration bars down the drain, then kept the water running and started to scrub his hands. He scrubbed far longer than needed to wash the traces of vomit away. The water turned hot and steam started to rise from the sink, and Kakashi’s hands were turning red and raw from the scrubbing and the heat. His head hung over the sink. From his left eye saltwater dripped down, unnoticeable if not for Obito’s Sharingan.

“It won’t go away,” Kakashi said to himself.

He scrubbed futilely for a minute more, then gave up. He staggered to his futon and lay down and huddled over his blanket, and there he started to sob, fist pressed into his mouth to stifle any sound, body curved around himself in a ball like he was trying to give himself comfort.

It was good to watch this. It emphasised that everything was wrong in the world and everything that Obito was doing with his life was correct. Kakashi was a pathetic hero, crying out to be offered a pathway where he wouldn’t have to hurt other people. That would never be a path he could take. He was a Shinobi, he was a weapon, he was a friend killer.

It was good to watch this, but Obito couldn’t watch any longer.

He stepped through the Kamui portal, and Kakashi wasn’t so lost to the world that he didn’t notice. With only a fraction of a second of surprise, he threw himself up to standing, left hand gripping right wrist, Sharingan meeting Sharingan.

Kakashi’s eyes glazed, caught in Obito’s genjutsu.

His hands returned to rest by his side. His breath began to even out.

Obito sent his mask back to Kamui; it was no longer necessary. He stepped forward until he was standing in front of Kakashi, who was staring into the middle distance.

Obito took Kakashi’s hands in his own and brought them up to his lips. He kissed the fingers of Kakashi’s left hand, then his right. He could feel the abraded skin from the excessive scrubbing. Kakashi’s fingers trembled in his palm.

“C’mon,” Obito encouraged. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He pulled off the covers and helped Kakashi to lie down, on his side, facing away from Obito. Then Obito lay behind him, wrapping his arms around Kakashi’s waist. Kakashi was cold, but Obito had always run warm, and after several minutes by his side Obito could feel Kakashi’s body temperature start to rise.

“It’s going to be okay,” Obito murmured against Kakashi’s ear, Kakashi’s hair tickling his nose. “This won’t last forever, I promise you. One day, your friends will come back, all of them. Your family too. Believe me, Kakashi: you’re going to be at peace again. Believe me tonight, even if you forget tomorrow.”

Slowly, the shaking stilled. The tension along Kakashi’s spine began to ease. And, eventually, Kakashi slept.

Obito stayed by his side, making sure that there were no nightmares tonight.