#steam trap survey

[dullgecko]

As a archdevil fig should be able to make deals or pacts. However I highly doubt knowing how to is something that is just imparted to her.

So I wouldn’t be surprised if she accidentally devil dealed her friends and family over shit like promising to go to get ice cream later.

Fig awoke with a start, slapping her crystal alarm off quickly before she accidentally roused any of her party. They'd been out in the Red Wastes for days, searching the area for ruins that were supposed to contain an item Ayda needed for a ritual. The few clues they'd found so far seemed to be hinting they were headed in the right direction so hopefully they'd be home by the end of the week. Sleeping in shifts inside the hangvan was starting to get old.

As it stood it was Figs turn to keep watch. They hadn't been attacked by anything yet but the wastes were packed with creatures that would want to make an opportunistic meal out of them so they still had to be careful. She scrambled out of the van quietly, frowning when she noticed Kristen was asleep and not on watch like she was supposed to be. The archdevil silently closing the van door behind her as she stepped out into the freezing cold air outside.

As she expected their rogue was crouched near the dying embers of their fire. Ears perked up and pupils wide as he surveyed their surroundings for any incoming threats in the dark. He didn't acknowledge Fig until she was basically standing beside him, flapping a hand a her and gesturing back towards the van.

"Go back to bed, I'm not tired yet so I can keep watch longer." He shifted on the balls of his feet, wrapping his tail closer around his ankles to shield it from the cold. He was bundled up in one of his thick winter jackets but she could still see him shivering occasionally. Fig didn't feel the cold very much these days but judging from the steam escaping her lips with every breath it must be freezing.

"Nope. It's my turn to keep watch. I should be taking over from Kristen not you anyway." She plopped down on the opposite side of their dying fire to him, tossing a few of the dry twigs they'd scavenged into the embers and coaxing up a small flame. The extra light making Riz wince when it took a while for his vision to adjust.

"She had to use a lot of spells today so I told her to go sleep." The goblin explained, holding a had upto block the light of the fire while he waited for his pupils to contract. It always took a lot longer when he'd gone a while without sleep, which Fig clocked immediately.

"You were on watch yesterday.... and the night before. You need to sleep some time too." Fig tutted when he shook his head at her "Go to bed Riz."

"I'm good. I've gone longer without sleep and my perception is better than everyone's. It makes sense for me to be on watch."

"I gave you a chance dude, you can't be mad at me for this later." Fig flexed her hand, gathering the magic there before firing the sleep spell at their rogue. She'd been just a second too slow though, Riz dodging out of the way at the last second with an annoyed hiss and ducking behind a boulder to get out of her line of sight. "Go to BED Riz or I'll force you, three nights without sleep is too long."

"What the FUCK Fig. Stop!"

Fig crept towards the rock Riz was hiding behind, the rogue scrambling for another spot to stay hidden when she got close and ended up diving under the van.

"Nope. We've warned you before. Either go to bed yourself or it's magic nap time." The archdevil crouched to look under the van, noticing the wheels creak and the body dip because Riz was climbing the far side.

"It's fucking freezing Fig. IM freezing. You're likely to trigger hibernation with that godsdamned spell if you hit me then you'll have no rogue for a week in a PROBABLY trapped ruin."

"I'm willing to risk it. You are absoloutly whiffing your stealth right now so trap disarming will be a disaster." She stood on her tiptoes to peer onto the roof of the van, Riz hissing and baring his teeth at her as he backed further away. He was trapped up there though, so Fig threw another spell now that she could see him. The goblin scrabbling and sliding on the smooth metal as he dodged again.

"Fuck! Stop! You're just wasting spells at this point." Riz tried not to dig his claws into the van roof as he slid, tail whipping from side to side to keep his balance as his friend lined up for another shot. He didnt have the grip to dodge again so he held his hands up in surrender. "Okay FINE I'll go sleep just... stop."

Fig let the magic fizzle out on her fingertips, watching Riz clamber down off the roof of the van before landing in a cloud of dust in front of her.

"Look, I promise I won't try to sleep spell you again tonight if you actually sleep. No sitting in the van and pretending okay?"

Riz just let out a defeated sigh, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses and nodding. "Yeah. Okay. I'll sleep just... no more sleep spells."

"NO more sleep spells tonight. And a full eight hours." Fig clarified, holding her hand out for Riz to shake, the goblin rolling his eyes and taking the offered hand in his own.

"Yeah okay it's a deal."

The pair of them jumped and swore as an infernal sigil suddenly flared bright beneath their feet. The pattern burning itself into the ground before fading away with the smell of smoke and brimstone.

It all happened so quickly that Fig wasn't able to react and slow his fall, Riz hitting the ground with a thump as if he was a puppet with cut strings as sleep suddenly overtook him.

The rest of his party were awoken by Figs panicked yelling, the bard having NO idea what just happened and assuming they were under attack. None of them, save for Riz, got any sleep the rest of that night. The goblin only waking exactly eight hours later. Groggy, confused and to a group of incredibly relieved team-mates who had been trying to rouse him for hours.

[urcursebreaker]

burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)

warnings for this chapter: 18+ content, graphic violence/gore/blood and animal death.

chapter 1: blood-soaked beauty

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

The floorboard creaks under your featherlight footing. You drag yourself to a fluid halt, cautiously analyzing the drab sunroom.

The crooked, off-kilter shelf; a ratty, blood-crusted sheet draped over it. A murky puddle of rain water reflecting the forlorn, dim winter sun, plumes of old motor oil dancing in an iridescent swirl. A lopsided, rusty tricycle. A pile of chipped cement bricks.

Nothing of use; and no one to hear your misstep.

You exhale shakily, resuming your calculated strides. You shuck the grimy, makeshift curtain away from the shelf, deftly pocketing a stray razor blade and half-used roll of duct tape.

After surveying the room and gathering what you need, you shove through the dry-rotted back door, the frigid breeze cascading through your unbound hair.

"Shit," your teeth clatter over the curse; the cold, penetrative rain aiming spears of ice straight through your bones.

You tighten the soiled fur-lined coat you had stolen from your brother around your frame, adjusting the shotgun slung over your shoulder. The rain soaks through the corduroy and saps your hair to your face.

You shield your eyes from the ferocious patter of rain and give the collapsing back porch a brisk once over, before making a run for the darkening tree line.

Mel had informed you of a vacant trailer park they'd encountered on their last sweep, just through the thick of the dense forestry. They'd killed the lingering infected on their way through, a few runners feeding on the steaming carcass of a horse.

She assured you there were no live cordyceps in the area, so they'd deemed it safe enough for you to loot it alone, as long as you returned to base before night descended and followed the precautions they established after Nora's death.

This was the final step of your initiation into the WLF; endure a loot run, alone, and with minimal supplies. Then you were officially one of them.

You and your brother had arrived in Seattle a month and a half ago, where you were grudgingly taken in by the Wolves after incidentally stumbling into one of their self-made traps.

After confirming you weren't a Seraphite, they'd permitted you shelter in exchange for your faithful camaraderie and proof of your usefulness. Which, even after all this time, you were still laboriously proving. You had to double your efforts to solidify your value in order to compensate for your brother.

He had his own beneficial qualities, but his blindness limited him to organizing and rationing stock, refurbishing broken supplies, and cleaning everyone's weaponry. Nobody wanted to risk sending him on a mission when there was a highly probable chance he wouldn't make it back.

So you had to act as two people when exploring the outside world.

The canopy of leaves give you decent coverage from the relentless rain as you move swiftly through the heavy greenery. The sun would set in precisely two hours, granting you sparsely half an hour to get to and search the sight.

The thought itself sends you into greater motion. You break into a sprint, hopping over fallen, mold-shrouded logs and winding around the towering, western pines, until the rain mutes to a dull sprinkle.

The trees eventually open up to unveil an expansive clearing. About a dozen overgrown, warped mobile homes dot the field, shadowed by swaying tall grass and curling canary.

You stop idly to catch your breath and do a cautionary visual sweep of your surroundings. It's all nearly peaceful; the distant span of rolling mountains. Silence, but the water dripping gently off the leaves, the bristle of the dew speckled grass. Wet vines billowing with the wind.

You rummage through the first few without difficulty; they were filthy and crumbling, but free of any infected or evidence of death. The trailer park was likely abandoned in the wake of the outbreak.

You collect an impressive variety of canned foods; beans, corn and even a dented can of mandarin oranges, alongside a few rolls of toilet paper and a box of unopened bandaids. You even found a collapsed bookshelf and salvaged a few books, snagging one for yourself to indulge in during your watch shift. You only allow yourself the selfish luxury as a celebration for you upcoming place among the WLF, once you return with the goods.

You begin to search the fourth to last trailer, this one partially seeping into the sunken, mossy earth and caving at the roof. Half of it was obstructed by the collapsed ceiling, but in the reachable area you find a toolbox under the sink, dump the miscellaneous screws and bolts into your backpack, and hook the baby hammer you find to the belt loop of your worn, bootcut Levi's.

You slip out of the trailer once you gather the necessities. A mockingbird chirps, it's tweet eerily reminiscent of a human whistle, it's wings beating overhead as it soars across the field and into the encompassing trees. You wipe your dusty, damp palms on your pants uncomfortably, glancing around before regaining your footing and making your way toward the neighboring trailer.

You're vigilant as you scan the interior, the birds song unsettling you deeply. It rung as if it were warning you; as if it were fleeing. You make sure to take the apple-cutting knife you spot on the counter.

You were sidling out of the derailed door when you heard it, plainly and resolutely; a sharp whistle from your left.

You freeze. Your hand subconsciously jerking to your holster.

Silence.

The pines creak. The grass wisps faintly.

Another whistle, this one long, melodic, and from your right; closer.

You duck into the brush, your heart hammering wildly against your chest. You withdraw your gun, fishing the stray bullets out of your pocket, loading it with trembling fingers.

The grass rustles forcefully from both sides, followed by a series of coded whistles, all nearing by the second. Your breaths heave from your lips in panicked spurts, as you crawl under the latticed underbelly of the trailer, mud plastering to your elbows, your brothers coat.

Seraphites. Fucking Seraphites.

You'd rather it be a herd of infected.

Especially when you hear a dog's frantic, frothing string of furious barks.

"She was just over here. She can't be far," a male voice boom's authoritatively, too close for comfort. "She's close."

The mud must be deflecting the dogs of your scent, as you can make out their nearby blood-thirsty sniffing. You quietly lather it on your face, smearing it all over your exposed skin, suppressing your labored breathing.

Two Seraphites enter the trailer you're tucked beneath. The floor screeches precariously under their footing, inching closer to where you lay. You shimmy toward the small gap on the opposing side of the crawlspace, accidentally slicing your cheek on a stranded, dangling pipe in your attempt to avoid them.

You grimace, stifling the whimper rising in your throat, the split searing your cheek, hot blood leaking down your face.

It's only a few seconds later when the previously sedated, off-course dogs begin to bark ravenously, harmonizing as they bound for you in a frenzy.

They must've smelled the blood.

You curse openly now, clambering for the small opening, shredding it open with your adrenaline-piqued strength, stumbling to your feet and dashing down the hill.

"There she is!" Someone hollers, followed by a stampede of Seraphites hurdling behind you, gunshots renting the evening air.

Bullets whistle by in whirs as you stagger zig-zaggedly away from them, the dogs barking intensifying as they speed through the slick grass.

"Fuck," you seethe, tearing through the terrain, toppling down the hill, nearly losing your balance. You manage to shoot over your shoulder without falling, clipping a Seraphite on her waist, sending her plummeting to the ground.

More resounding gunshots. Exchanged shouts. One of the dog emits a loud, wounded whimper.

You run far and fast enough that you lose the dogs for a couple of minutes. You press yourself against a wide berthed tree and breathe raggedly, painfully, rubbing a heap of mud onto your gash, blanketing the blood in it.

You barely have time to catch your breath when a twig snaps to your left.

And you barely have time to react before a body is pummeling into you, knocking you to the rain-sullen floor, eliciting a grunt out of you.

You blindly wrestle the man off of you, stabbing him directly in the gut with the knife you'd thieved. He gets a powerful punch in despite the wound you'd inflicted, your head reeling back, slamming into rock.

The world spins around you, blood coats your tongue, but you stab him again, twisting it up and penetrating an organ, a guttural scream tearing through his throat. It weakens him enough that you manage to shove his body weight off of you, and he rolls onto the wet moss with a thud.

He reaches weakly for your ankle, and you flip the knife, bringing it down on his skull with a deafening, sickening crunch, as it spears through scalp and drills through bone.

You don't bother beholding the gruesome scene or dislodging your new weapon from his head; you turn away from the act you'd committed and hobble away, vision distorted and mind fogged from the impact of his attack.

You slip the fully loaded shotgun off your shoulder and cock it, creeping back toward where you had fled. If you didn't kill them all now, they'd track you back to the base.

There were five that chased and fired at you; two of which were accompanied by a hellhound. One of the dogs was seemingly injured in the crossfire, leaving one dog, and four Seraphites, if you exclude the woman you'd momentarily impaired. The man you killed must've been stationed in the woods, meaning there had to be more located somewhere.

You do all the calculations mentally, your shoulders strung high in alert, eyes feverishly darting around, assessing the vicinity. The sun was setting, darkness eclipsing the trees.

Another cycle of distant gunshots ricochet through the forest, from where you had run. No dogs barked. Everything around you remained unmoving. Your fear had taken you far.

Eventually, you arrive back to the yawning field. The trailers were pierced with steaming bullet holes, blood spattering the rusted metallic sidings. Three Seraphites stand back to back in the opening, including the pixie-cutted woman you'd shot, muttering apprehensively amongst themselves.

You crouch behind a bush, aiming at the cluster of people. One of the dogs lay unmoving and rigid, face-up in the grass, a puddle of blood accumulating around its body. Your brow pinches in bewilderment as you notice a Seraphite girl sprawled lifelessly beside it.

And another one, by the feet of one of the living soldiers, his gun clutched tautly to his chest. He flickers his gaze around dubiously, frightfully, mimicking yours and the others confusion.

You take advantage of their preoccupation with their uncounted for enemy and lock in on the befuddled man, zeroing in on his head. You steady your hold, let it linger on him, before pulling the trigger.

It blasts through him, brains and blood exploding through the air, birds flocking from the trees with high-pitched guffaws. You'd already vacated your spot when the other two began listlessly shooting in that direction.

You seek new lodging behind an abandoned CRV, studying them from a new angle. You zone in on one of the women, finger hovering over the trigger, when two gunshots erupt. Seamlessly killing each of them.

You hesitate for a brief second, before deigning to head back the way you had come, not wanting to cross paths with the dangerous, exceptional force that had swept in and took each of them down one by one.

The past gunshots ring perilously, hazily in your ears. You lethargically flick the drying mud off of your face, trudging through the forest, still wary of any potential threat, as the person who'd been capable of single-handedly decimating that entire group of Seraphites was still wandering through these woods somewhere with the knowledge you were alive.

You're nearing the old farmhouse you were scavenging earlier when a soft, hesitant, questioning whistle sends you halting in place. You tuck yourself behind a tree, scouting for the source of the noise. They repeat the whistle, more insistently.

You shift to step out from behind the tree when a calloused hand clasps over your mouth, steering you into a lithe, toned body. You struggle against the firm, strapping grasp, hot breath fanning your ear.

"Quiet." A soft, raspy female voice murmurs lowly. Arm secured around your waist, anchoring you to her blood-soaked front. Her words tickle your cheek as she whispers, "We're not alone."

You reluctantly concede, only lightly squirming in her oppressive hold. Fearing that if you refuse to comply, she'll aim her wrath at you next. Loathing that she can feel the trepidation emanating through you, the rapid thundering of your heart against her arm.

Boots rifle through the damp leaves, the hushed footing sloshing through mud. Your wheezy breathing escalates as your unknown captor leisurely maneuvers around the tree, grasp on you unyielding as she expertly avoids the prying Seraphite.

"Shh. Easy now." The woman mutters with lethal, calm calculation. The soft, fatal edge filtering her tone sending an unexpected, quavering shudder through your icy body.

You nod stiffly under her sweaty palm, and she marginally appeases her bone-crushing grip on you. She slowly, deliberately removes her hand from your mouth, absentmindedly dragging it down your chin, her rough fingers ghosting your jaw.

You anxiously glance down to find your heels on top of her scuffed boots and stumble off of her in alarm. Her hand catches your waist, grave-cold digits inching up your jacket, clawing at bare skin, as she yanks you back behind the tree.

You make to glance at her in a conjunction of gratitude and terror, but she had dissipated seamlessly, whirring by like a vengeful phantom in the night as she stations herself behind an adjacent tree, back plastered to the moss-cushioned, sappy trunk. Elaborately designed switchblade in hand.

She eyes her target, deadpan, excluding the twitch of her bruised under eye. She presses a trembling finger to her chapped lips, slicing a cautionary glare at you.

You sardonically hold your breath, emphatically puffing your cheeks, and you swear you discern an amused lilt to her lips. Or perhaps it was just the waning, dimming sun light, glazing over her slim figure, quelling dancing shadows across her battered face.

Whatever it was vacuumed out of her face, overcome by a grim, stoic solidity, when the Seraphite inched hesitantly in her direction. She creeps around the base of the tree as he rounds it, leisurely prowling up to him.

It happens briskly, lightening-quick— you blink and she was fisting his unruly hair and hauling him back, baring his throat to her— which she drills through efficiently and relentlessly, blood spraying in jagged spurts, sprinkling her wrath-warped face.

Another whistle cuts distantly through the humid air.

She's already slipping through the night-shrouded greenery before he even falls, his gurgled, floundering whimpers following him down as he thuds to the ground, blood still sputtering out of him, large frame twitching.

She disappears through the vast darkness of impending nightfall, her bloodied knife glinting faintly, distantly in the minute moonlight, as she takes determined strides toward the source of the second whistle.

Horror clutches your heart and squeezes unabashedly as you linger, the man's lifeless body still pulsating with the remnants of life it harbored.

You cast a suspecting glance around, the brush tranquilly silent, death idling in the dampened air.

And then you throttle back the way you were originally headed, wanting to put as much space between you and the ominous woman as tangibly possible, in case she returned, regretting keeping you alive.

You don't make it very far.

An arrow soars through the air and strikes the back of your thigh, puncturing flesh, narrowly missing the bone. Searing, white-hot pain bursts through your body as you slam to the ground with a sharp cry— your scream ricocheting through the trees.

You clamber for purchase, using your arms to crawl through the dense mud, dragging your injured leg dejectedly. The pain scathing, shooting up your body in fissures of agony, as you seethe through your teeth, the full arrow protruding from your skin.

You hear the whistle of a second arrow and duck. It spears through the earth inches from your head. You speed up, using your unwounded knee to push you forward, colorful dots edging your vision.

Twigs snap all around; muffled shouts resounding through the forest, an electric current of danger thrumming through your numbing body, as you drag yourself weakly, futilely.

You halt under a curling, dripping fern, fumbling for the arrow gauging your thigh. You take a few deep, alleviating breaths, before ripping it from your leg, stifling a scream at the scathing pain. Crimson saturates your pants, blooming in a dark pool.

Seraphites are storming by urgently, mud flicking off their boots. You remain unnoticed by a quad of them that hurdle by.

For a couple minutes it's silent. You don't move, afraid that if you shift even slightly, you won't be able to suppress the noise that would leave you at the blistering, twinging agony.

You think you're remotely safe, shielded from searching eyes, superficial wound already sealing.

That is before your head is unexpectedly cracked against something colossal, and your wisked away into a world of unfathomable darkness.

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

Drip.

Your finger twitches, pulse thumping in the pads.

Drip.

Your heartbeat thunders through your skull, the drumming nearly muffling the faint noise. Your face spasms; the mobility slowly begins creeping in, though your mind has been reduced to a vacant chamber of incoherence.

Drip.

The hairs on the back of your neck stiffen. A keen awareness begins to slither back into your numbed body; you're not alone. Your mind may be buzzing, it's cognition still restoring by the second, but your body tingles under watchful eyes. You remain frozen.

Until a boisterous crackle sends you lunging up, triggering a sharp intake of breath. You gasp for air, shaking violently, your vision still murky from earlier's collision.

Through your fragmented sight and a stream of dense smoke, you decipher a red figure. They hover just across from you, the small, roaring fire the only barrier dividing you from the eerily, predatorily still stranger.

You blink rapidly, disorient. "Who are you?" you bleat, voice hoarse with misuse. You attempt to lift your hands as a last resort of protection, to find them bound in front of you. You wriggle them senselessly, panic bubbling in your chest, the thick, tethered rope rubbing your skin raw.

The figure's head tilts inquisitively. "Who are you." A husky, feminine voice drawls.

That voice...

You gulp, saliva syrupy like molasses. It's the girl; you knew from the way her voice alone sent a bolt of hot, electrifying shivers up your spine. "You," you breathe softly, licking your teeth, the taste of your own blood relinquishing on your tongue. "You're the girl. You helped me."

The figure straightens, rigid, arm dangling off her thigh as she crouches before the fire. Though you can't directly see her eyes through the haze, you can feel her gaze penetrating through you, prying you apart piece by piece.

She's silent for a moment, before picking up a stick and delicately prodding the flames, the smoke lightly defusing, the embers flickering. "I was going to kill them all anyway." She informs blithely, shrugging with one bandaged shoulder.

You could see her clearer than before, now; she was doused head to toe in crimson. Blood billowed down her sharp face, dripping to the floor in slow but ferocious spatters. The blood accentuated the verdant-blue of her crystalline eyes, dull and piercing yours. "I could tell you weren't one of them. And I don't kill just for the fuck's of it."

You sit in uneasy silence, studying her outline apprehensively. She withdraws her switchblade from her pocket and continues, "Which raises the question; if you aren't one of them, who are you?" She asks conspicuously, as if to herself, as she begins sharpening the blade.

You hesitate, your mouth dry as you reluctantly offer her your name. You know better than to share anything beyond that; the WLF had everyone under lockdown. Abby believes Nora's murder was a targeted, vengeful attack, and had warned all of you not to disclose your ties, in case you stumble upon someone who knows the killer.

"Do you move alone?" The woman interrogated unabashedly, peering down at the knife as she ran a dirty rag across its shiny surface.

"No," you admit, swallowing harshly, shaking your head. "It's me and my brother. He's blind, so I go out and get supplies, he protects our stuff."

Half truths are the most believable lies.

"Where did you two come from?"

"Ohio," you respond baldly. "We left with our family, but. It's just us now."

She pauses to assess you for a moment. "I lost someone too." She mutters, haunt dwindling in her eyes.

It's your turn to analyze her. Even caked in grime and unapologetically coated in her victims blood, she was beautiful. Her mussed auburn hair was partially tied back out of her angular face, her features neatly carved like a statues, emphatic and naturally alluring. Her eyes were a brewery, swirling with color and indistinguishable emotion, framed by expressive eyebrows, one of them slitted.

Maybe it's wrong to look at her— the woman who'd shamelessly, brutally wiped out dozens of people before your eyes— and notice these things.

But you've always been an optimist.

You can tell by the wariness glinting in her eyes that she doesn't share that sentiment.

"I'm sorry to hear that," you whisper sincerely, sorrowfully, gulping down the lump of emotion cementing in your throat.

She glances away, her jaw clenching. A muscle spasms in her blood-spattered neck. "Yeah," she whispers tightly, the word emitting from her lips in an unintentional seethe. "Yeah, I'm sorry too."

There's an awkward duration of silence.

"So..." you snort, and she startles at the noise, glancing up at you in bewilderment. Her swampy blue gaze roving over your slick face. "Can you maybe untie me now?" You lift your bound wrists in emphasis, arching a brow, trying to appear undeterred by her astute stare.

Her eyes brighten vaguely. "Why? You don't like it?" She teases monotonously, a frail smirk tugging at her cracked lips. Your cheeks tingle with warmth at the insinuation, and you shift, coyly angling your face away from the blood-soaked beauty.

"Not when it's against my will, no," you respond, half-quipping.

"But when it's not?" She raises a challenging brow, that sort-of smirk still pulling at her lips.

Against your better judgement, a conclave of butterflies erupt in your stomach, fluttering around. It's evident that she's just joking, which, in contrast to her rumpled, grizzly appearance, is funny in itself. The fear you felt around her from before seems to have dissipated and been replaced by a morbid curiosity.

"Untie me and try again. We'll find out."

"Huh," she coughs out a sheepish laugh, sliding her thumb across her lip, ridding the blood that had dripped there. She's silent for a moment, before pointedly clearing her throat. "That wound was pretty gnarly." Her voice comes out in a ragged breath.

You smile to yourself at her sudden timidity, glancing down at your thigh. Crimson blossomed through the bandage enveloping your wound— she must've dressed it herself, when you were unconscious. Which means she must've also...

"Did you carry me here?" You question in disbelief. She must be insurmountably strong if she was able to move your dead weight...

"Yeah," she clears her throat again, eyes uncertainly darting between you and her blemished green backpack. She grazes a finger over a tiny spaceship pin clipped to the front contemplatively. "It wasn't very far from where you dropped."

"Ah," you chirp airily, nodding slowly, watching her unzip the front pouch and unveil a sack of cashews. "Well... thanks."

She hums noncommittally, tossing the sack of nuts to you. You eye her warily, awaiting her curt nod of confirmation, before ripping it open and gratefully popping a couple in your mouth. She watches you eat mutely, blankly.

A gentle stream of dewy morning sunlight begins to beam through the torn netting of the rusted window, softly illuminating your previously shadowed surroundings. It's the garage of the farmhouse you were looting before.

The loot.

Your chewing slows, and you cast your gaze around frantically in search of your bag. And your guns. They're no where to be found.

"I left all your stuff there," the girl states knowingly, shrugging at the look of pure panic on your face. "It was too heavy for me to carry both you and you're stuff. We'll go back for it once the sun rises."

The implication she'd be accompanying you made a part of you uneasy; but on the other hand, you were thankful you wouldn't have to relocate your things all alone.

"Okay..." you reply dubiously, flexing your bound wrists, the muscles beginning to ache. "When am I getting these off? It's not like I can hurt you. I'm unarmed."

She shoves off the concrete and to her feet with a soft grunt, absentmindedly rubbing her side, wincing at her own touch. She shoulders her bag, smiling down at you wolfishly. The orange glare of the dimming fire reflects off her blood-stained face. "Not yet."

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

You examine your reflection in the rippling water. A cracking layer of mud mutates your face, greases your hair. You cup a handful of oil-contaminated water and splash it into your face, rubbing vigorously, the now wet rope heavy against your wrists.

Sunlight gleams through the overhead awning of leaves, ricocheting off the water. The morning birds chime in benign song; the rest of the encompassing world silent, save for the gurgling of the stream. Fog creeps in from the distant forestry; dew speckles the frost-tipped grass.

You pat the dampness from your eyes with your sleeve and glance at the woman. She's half-submerged in the pond, plumes of blood roiling off of her, tainting the water a murky crimson. She scrubs her blood-crusted arms vehemently, grimacing, pointedly disregarding you.

You waltz over to the large, upturned rock where she'd draped her coat, moving slowly and methodically as to not disengage her from her trance. You toss your coat down beside it and unlace your boots, setting them aside, eyes trained on her carefully, still afraid that one wrong move could send her lurching.

On the trek here, she'd been passive and silent, her face ghoulish and tense. It was as if with the rise of dawn came the fall of her peace; there was tension in her jaw, and determination in her strides. Though she'd been the one to suggest accompanying you, she seemed suddenly inconvenienced by it, like she was in a haste to finally be rid of you.

Which, gladly. You didn't want to be tied up and leashed around any more than she wanted you trailing her and nosing her plans.

She may have helped you, nursed you back to health, but you didn't forget what she was capable of; the mass destruction at her singular hands.

You wanted to remain on her good side, or whatever side emboldened her to save you, for as long as you could; at least until you were released from her clutches.

You peel off your socks and keep the rest of your clothes on— a soiled green camisole and blood-stained Levi's— and hesitantly breach the shore of the cold water, creeping toward her unsurely. You gasp quietly when the icy water rises to your midriff, raising your goose-pimpled arms over the surface, teeth clattering.

"How are you not freezing!?" You yelp as you dive into a breaststroke, swimming past her, shivers wracking your body. You spin around and float on your back, exhaling obnoxiously. It's hard to move without using your arms, but you manage to keep yourself afloat with just your legs.

She glances at you furtively, her eyes flickering between your face and your chest, before chagrinly dropping back to her arm. "It's not bad," she mumbles mundanely, her skin raw and blistering from her violent scrubbing.

You notice a bold tattoo curling over the length of her forearm. Curiously, you inch nearer to her, taking in the ink. It's a detailed moth atop

a long, winding fern.

"Cool tat," you chirp, absentmindedly extending a finger and lightly caressing the thick line of ink. She stiffens but doesn't recoil, her lowered eyes meeting yours uncertainly.

"Thanks," she says gruffly, simply, retracting her hand, eyeing you for a prolonged second before returning to her scrubbing. This time she soaks a cloth she must've cut from her shirt. She half-heartedly sweeps her hair off her neck and runs it down her back, blood beading off in loud droplets.

You take a step back and fully duck yourself into the water; despite its nearly debilitating chill, it was refreshing— the mud and blood flaking off and floating in particles around you. You aggressively massage the water into your hair, digging out the caked-up grime to the best of your ability with your bound wrists partially disabling you.

You break the surface with a gentle gasp for air and find the woman staring at you. Except this time, instead of sheepishly breaking your gaze, her stare remains resolute. Her eyes leisurely rove over your face, where water drips languidly from your lashes and scars brand your skin, and down your chest, where your nipples are peaked from the cold.

You feel them harden further at her gaze, as it seems to indulgently trace the shape of them. You swear you detect a hitch in her otherwise steady breathing before her eyes wander, slowly, back up to your face, darkening when they meet yours.

She doesn't say anything, her now mainly bloodless face masterfully blank. You tentatively take a couple steps closer, the ground rough and littered beneath your feet, until she's practically peering down at you. Freckles form a vast constellation on her cheeks and nose, a light smattering dusting her face. A nearly microscopic scar mars her lip.

"You never told me your name," you say pointedly, raising a brow, projecting an illusion of confidence. Her eyes dart to the roguish smile splaying on your lips, and you lick them subconsciously, the rancid tang of dirty water dissolving on your tongue. "You know mine. Doesn't seem fair."

She contemplates you for a second, craning her chin up, donning a faint smirk of her own. "Ellie."

You sink deeper into the water, shielding the entire upper half of your body, peaking up at her. "Well, Ellie," you taste her name on your tongue, drawling it out deliberately, precisely, as you attempt to swim backwards. "It's not very easy to swim with no hands."

"Then stop swimming." She states matter-of-factly, and you roll your eyes, gliding towards the shore nonetheless.

But on the way up, your knee grazes something sharp, and you hiss a curse, wincing internally. You dip your fingers into the water and fumble for the object, forcefully yanking it out of the mud where it's lodged.

It's a thick shard of glass.

You glance over your shoulder at Ellie, blissfully unaware and dragging the cloth down her reddened face, before pocketing it covertly and marching up the shore.

You linger for a moment, water dripping out of your hair and off your seeping body, before wringing out as much as you could and calling, "Gonna go piss, be right back!"

Ellie doesn't respond. You take that as your cue to go, hurrying through the dense tree line and crouching behind a hefty bush. You strain your neck to peak at her through the branches, assuring yourself she's still preoccupied, before pulling out the shard and sawing into the rope.

You saw and saw and saw, slowly but surely cutting through the rope, its grip loosening by the second.

A twig snaps behind you.

You swivel around swiftly, freezing in horror as Ellie stares down at you, her switchblade unsheathed. You hadn't heard her wading through the water; she'd moved silently and stealthily.

Her face is blank, that expertly devoid expression she'd tailored when hunting down those Seraphites plastered on.

She reers the knife back, the only sign of life the twitch of her upper lip. You close your eyes and brace for the impact; this was it. You should've played the long game, gained her trust, earned your freedom. Now she was going to slaughter you like the rest.

You flinch at the grunt that tears through her lips as she brings the blade down.

Only instead of agony, blade breaking flesh, your hands snap to the ground, free of unbearable tension.

You fearfully squint down at your wrists; the rope now split in half, cuffing your wrists but no longer knotted before you. You stretch them apart, rolling your shoulders, looking up at her with pure, undiluted trepidation, gulping.

She meets your gaze unapologetically and throws your coat down at you. "Let's go," she says dispassionately, cooly, already turning away and marching up the hill. "Your stuff isn't far."

. . .

[dreamsandcozygames]

My Favorite Time Loop Games

I've been playing a lot of games involving time loops lately, so I thought I'd recommend some of my favorites!

(The descriptions are from Steam.)

I Was A Teenage Exocolonist:

Spend your teenage years on an alien planet in this narrative RPG with card-based battles. Explore, grow up, and fall in love. The choices you make and skills you master over ten years will determine the course of your life and the survival of your colony.

The Choices You Make, Make You

Growing up in humanity’s first extrasolar space colony means navigating a new world full of wonder, danger, and beauty. Explore the wilderness, study, fall in love, discover strange creatures, and deal with the consequences of your actions. Your choices will directly affect the lives of your friends and the fate of the colony. What kind of world will you help make? Will you survive to enjoy it? Why do you remember doing this before?

Growing Up on an Alien Planet

You have your whole life ahead of you. Will you spend it studying in school, or diving into the intriguing flora and fauna of this new world? Will you introduce space-age technology, or live in harmony with nature? Will you battle massive beasts, or nurture future generations? Realized in brilliant watercolor, the world of Vertumna is yours to explore.

Your Pasts and Your Futures Matter

Everything you learn and experience will make you and your colony stronger. You will thrive and you will make mistakes. These formative moments - your memories, decisions, and friendships - become collectible cards you carry with you. Each season brings new obstacles on Vertumna. The battle cards you earn from your experiences give you new options for overcoming these challenges, whether that is navigating relationships, learning new skills, exploring the planet, or staying alive. Every decision counts, during this life and the next.

How Many Lives Will YOU Live?

The cosmos is full of incredible mysteries, and your ability to remember your past lives is one of them. There are dozens of different endings to your story. How many lives will it take to save both your colony and the planet? Are you ready to wake up again?

Features:

Use memories of past lives to explore 800+ story events.

Discover more than 250 battle cards as you grow up on an alien planet.

Play your best hand in challenge encounters to ace your math test or escape from a wild snapbladder.

Make friends, fight with your parents, go on dates, fall in love, and save the colony.

29 wildly different endings based on the choices you make each month.

Pick from 25 colony jobs, like goofing off as a depot clerk, or surveying the valley.

Grow into 15 skills, including bravery, toughness, organization, and empathy.

Get to know 10 dateable characters, including dog-boys, aliens, hot politicians and stone cold killers.

In Stars and Time:

Live with the ever-present burden of being trapped in a time loop only you can know about in this turn-based RPG. Create a better future for you and your friends. Find hope where there is none left. Pray to the stars and free yourself from time.

What would you do if you were forced to relive your failures over and over again?

In Stars and Time tells the story of Siffrin and their adventurer friends—a found family bound together by fate in order to end the tyrannical reign of an evil king. But as victory is just within the party’s grasp, a tragedy occurs, the clock resets, and they have to do it all again.

As Siffrin’s the only one who notices this loop, each new start wears away at his cheerful veneer, yet he keeps going in hopes he can end this temporal tragedy once and for all.

In Stars and Time is a time-looping RPG adventure. With each loop, Siffrin gains a new perspective on the world around them, opening up new solutions to puzzles and allowing them to make better choices in conversation. Equip memories as armor, pray to the Change God to improve your team’s capabilities each loop, and challenge deadly foes to Rock, Paper, Scissors as Siffrin seeks the truth.

Our Adventurers:

Siffrin (he/they): Stressed, depressed, and under duress. (Don’t worry about it. They’re doing fine.) The punmaster protagonist of our neverending tale.

Mirabelle (she/her): A caring and nervous housemaiden mysteriously blessed by the god she so ardently follows.

Isabeau (he/him): Defender with a heart of gold. Cares dearly for his people and his friends.

Odile (she/her): The mature and nonsensical researcher studying…something. (No, she will not tell you what it is.)

Bonnie (they/them): Wait a minute, who brought this kid along???

Features:

Save the world through the power of Rock, Paper, Scissors in strategic turn-based RPG combat encounters.

Ignore the limits of time and space to fix your past mistakes by repeating the same two days over and over again.

Equip the memories you have of your friends to make your party stronger in combat.

Watch the fate of this world unfold as you escape the twists and turns of this endless(???) loop.

Eat samossas with your friends!

Get heckled by a cheeky ethereal being of infinite starlight.

Pray to a god for good luck in your travels. You’re gonna need it.

Slay the Princess:

You're on a path in the woods, and at the end of that path is a cabin. And in the basement of that cabin is a Princess.

You're here to slay her. If you don't, it will be the end of the world.

She will do everything in her power to stop you. She'll charm, and she'll lie, and she'll promise you the world, and if you let her, she'll kill you a dozen times over. You can't let that happen. Don't forget, the fate of the world rests on your shoulders.

You're not going to listen to him, are you? We're supposed to save princesses, not slay them...

Features:

Fully voice-acted by the impeccable Jonathan Sims and Nichole Goodnight.

Hand-penciled art - every background and sprite is drawn traditionally with pencil and paper by Ignatz-winning graphic novelist Abby Howard.

A princess. She's very bad and you have to get rid of her for all our sakes.

No, the Princess isn't a “cosmic horror,” whatever that is supposed to mean. She's just an ordinary human Princess, and you can definitely slay her as long as you put your mind to it.

Don't even think about trying to romance her. It won't end well for you.

Hopefully you won't die. But if you do, you'll die a lot. Be careful and stay focused on the task at hand!

A branching narrative where what you say and what you believe determines both who you are and how the story unfolds. Though I wouldn’t recommend taking any paths outside of the one I lay before you.

A new roleplaying experience from the creators of Scarlet Hollow.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

From the 3-word prompt list, “fuck - you’re bleeding” with Vex and Scanlan, if it's okay and inspiration strikes?

108. “fuck- you’re bleeding.” setting this in tlovm

Scanlan is riding high. His friend love his magical chateau, because he's a genius with impeccable taste. He's strolling through the halls, surveying his realm; Keyleth is already tending to her plants, and Grog and Vax are sparring in the training room. Pike's fallen asleep on a lounger beside the pool, and Vex and Percy...

Well. They all know what Vex and Percy are up to.

Scanlan doesn't mind. Mostly he's just hurt that he wasn't invited, but he's aware that not everyone is as open-minded as he is. But if they're going to be humping all over the chateau, he'd appreciate them not hogging the sauna, because he could go for a steam.

He pokes his head into the training room again—Grog has Vax in a headlock, and Vax's face is turning a questionable shade of purple. Scanlan shrugs; not his problem. He turns down the next hall just in time to see the sauna door open in an explosion of steam. It's Vex's head that pokes out, conspicuously looking around as she clutches a fluffy towel around her chest. She steps out cautiously, and fuck it, he's bored. "Oh hey Vex."

Vex jumps and slams the sauna door closed. "Scanlan!" Her eyes are wild, like an animal's when its been caught in a trap. "What—what are you doing here?"

"Oh, I thought I'd have myself a nice steam." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Wanna join me?"

Vex's eyes dart nervously to the sauna door. "Um. No."

He sighs dramatically. "Fine, your loss." He reaches toward the doorknob.

"NO!" Vex's hand flies out to slap his down, but that leads to her towel starting to drop, so she whips her hand back up, hitting Scanlan's face in the process.

"Oh fuck!" Scanlan claps a hand over his cheek, which is stinging like a bitch.

"Shit, Scanlan, sorry, I—fuck—you're bleeding."

He scurries over to an ornate gilded mirror on the wall and examines his cheek. Sure enough, there's a small cut there, likely from Vex's nails, and a small amount of blood is seeping from the wound. He sighs again; he supposed he deserves this, fucking with his friends and trapping Percy in the sauna for this long. "Don't worry about it," he says, turning back to Vex. "I hope you enjoyed your steam."

And as he turns to head back the way he came, he's satisfied to see Vex's face go bright red with embarrassment. Oh yeah, definitely worth a little blood.

[mariacallous]

As an ex-Soviet myself, I am baffled by the renewed global fascination with autocracy. According to Freedom House, 8 out of 10 people now live in a partly free or not free country. In the United States, surveys show that a substantial number of people would support authoritarian rule and do not consider the decline of democratic institutions a mortal threat. In China, Russia, and elsewhere, the winds of change seem to be blowing in the wrong direction.

Given this shift, HBO’s miniseries The Regime, whose finale aired on April 7, could not have been timelier. With Emmy Award-winning Kate Winslet and Succession’s Will Tracy at the helm, along with all the trappings of prestige television, The Regime was poised to explore some of the 21st century’s heftiest political questions: the allure of demagogues, the slide into unfreedom and tribalism, and the mechanisms a society can employ to reverse this slide.

Instead, The Regime provides only vague winks to the tendencies of the world’s strongmen that fail to rise to the level of serious critique or analysis, deployed with a naivete that feels distinctly American.

Winslet stars as Elena Vernham, a middle-aged chancellor of an unnamed fictitious country in Central Europe who is obsessed with the black mold she believes is invading her palace. To fight it, she summons Herbert Zubak (Matthias Schoenaerts), a hunky army corporal from a province that grows sugar beets. Prior to his arrival at the palace, Herbert was thrust into the national limelight for his role in gunning down 12 protesters at one of the country’s cobalt mines, earning him a gruesome nickname: “The Butcher.”

Elena and Herbert quickly develop a Beauty and the Beast kind of attraction (postmodern, of course, with no clarity about who is the beast—capricious and delusional Elena or self-loathing, bullied-turned-bully Herbert). After a brief falling out, resolved by Herbert saving Elena from an assassin, the two begin to rule the palace through a Rasputin-style combination of hysterics and nativism.

For the next five episodes, we follow Herbert’s zigzagging ascent through Elena’s wobbling realm, from a walking humidity monitor to a trusted political advisor and lover. Herbert witnesses, engages in, or directs various antics that, according to the show’s description, depict a “modern authoritarian regime as it unravels.” Scenes include cabinet meetings that Elena conducts from an ice-filled tub and bizarre conversations with her dead father, preserved in a glass coffin in the palace’s basement. Herbert, a man of rural origins, caters to Elena’s paranoia by cleansing the palace’s supposedly poisonous air with the steam from boiled potatoes (a folk remedy popular in my Soviet childhood).

Of course, no leader can outrun geopolitics. The country’s rich cobalt reserves attract international interest, and after chasing out a deal that would have given the United States mining rights on the cheap, Elena cozies up to China, promising it a free trade deal and a cut of the mining profits. Together, Elena and Herbert then navigate their way through the illegal annexation of a sovereign neighbor, a half-baked flirtation with nationalization and land reform, and the sting of Western economic sanctions.

All this chaotic politicking unfolds against Elena’s droning on about love, which she constantly either bestows on or demands from her people. Ever the shrewd economist, Elena proclaims, “The American beast and its client states try to strangle us, but petty sanctions will always fail because our love cannot be sanctioned.” Having shipped her subservient, poetry-loving French husband, Nicky (Guillaume Gallienne), to Swiss exile, Elena, who has regained her sex drive, passionately makes up for lost time with Herbert—and fails to notice the unrest growing among her populace over the country’s economic downturn and crude handling of protests.

By the final episode—spoilers ahead—it seems that Elena’s ruling model is no match for revolution. She is chased out of the palace and must run for her life through a land it’s clear she knows nothing about, despite the “special connection” she often claims to have with its people. For once, someone in this world other than Herbert has managed to outmaneuver her delusions. But soon enough, Elena bends the knee to the very oligarchs she once vilified. A would-be coup is undone with the snap of a U.S.-backed finger.

“What was that all about?” Nicky asks his wife at the end of the show. He is offered no conclusive answer—and neither is the audience.

Tracy, who created the show, has compared The Regime to a dark fairy tale, which may explain Elena’s look—a cross between an aging Sleeping Beauty and Madonna’s Evita—and the glass coffin. One could also see it as a love story, in which two broken individuals find a semblance of happiness by tormenting each other in their own make-believe reality. It may even be a dark comedy, as HBO describes it, if one can have comedy without a single funny joke. (Her cabinet member’s quip, “His profits are fucked like a spring donkey,” is certainly rude, but rudeness isn’t necessarily funny.)

One thing the show isn’t is satire. For that to be true, it would actually have to satirize something. Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels derided the rigid mores of 18th-century England. Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin poked fun at the brutality and hypocrisy of Joseph Stalin’s flunkies in the postwar Soviet Union. Making Elena’s regime a pastiche of autocracies was a fatal choice because those regimes are products of their unique, often brutal environments. Because the show nods to a little bit of everything, it takes aim at nothing.

Instead of real people, The Regime offers us walking cliches: a delusional woman with hot flashes and daddy issues; cowering and corrupt ministers; greedy Americans pining for other nations’ resources; the dull, kerchiefed masses who look like props recycled from last century’s movie sets. It’s not that we can’t care for bad people. We did for the Roys in Succession because they were nuanced characters, at once tragic and funny, with clear agendas that drove the plot. But The Regime’s characters feel generic, simply dropped into the set, stirring no feelings from the viewer, sympathetic or otherwise. The only character with an identifiable interest is the U.S. senator, Judith Holt (Martha Plimpton), who just wants the country’s cobalt. The rest merely float through the episodes, as though searching for a good scene to act out but coming up blank.

This is a shame because the show has no lack of talent. Winslet does her best with the material she is given, but there isn’t much she can do with lines such as, “I like a bit of spice. Spice is nice,” in reference to Herbert’s “spicy” dreams. She has no real antagonists, no articulated desires, and no emotions. Viewers are left to blink at the screen, admiring her outfits and waiting for something substantive to happen.

Schoenaerts, who plays Herbert, is more plausible, if cliched: a tortured warrior prepared to kill—and die—for love. Andrea Riseborough, playing Agnes, the palace manager, is less lucky. Having shined as Stalin’s daughter in The Death of Stalin, here she is reduced to a brittle, peacoat-wearing loyalist who has an unexplained co-parenting arrangement with Elena and yields her maternal rights the moment Elena demands it. Her epileptic son doesn’t seem to mind, as long as he gets new toys. Hugh Grant as Edward Keplinger, the country’s imprisoned opposition leader, is charming, but his cameo feels like a checkmark on the celebrity cast list. With his carpeted cell, steady supply of sausages, and access to the prison’s keys, Grant’s performance lacks the gravitas that the suffering of real imprisoned political figures, including the late Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny, deserves.

And then there is Mr. Laskin (Danny Webb), the head of Elena’s security service. In real dictatorships, the requirements of this job are gruesome and attract rather monstrous personalities—think Lavrentiy Beria of the Soviet Union or Heinrich Himmler of Nazi Germany, both of whom orchestrated horrendous mass murders. Yet in The Regime, Laskin speaks politely about his duty to his country and that he “believes in a principle, the legal transition of power.” Unlike in a real dictatorial regime, we see no blood on his hands. There’s a difference between a temporary suspension of disbelief, which viewers will happily grant, and constantly being asked to accept improbable things.

Herein lies The Regime’s fundamental problem: It fumbles what seems to be the primary point of the show—the portrayal of autocracy. The issue with autocrats is not that they’re narcissists who force others to listen to their off-key singing, as Elena does at seemingly every banquet and celebration she can, but that they are ready to sacrifice millions of people to their delusions. Their subjects, including their inner circle, live in constant fear because the autocrat’s government and law enforcement apparatuses are weaponized and can be turned against them at any moment.

But there is no fear in Elena’s kingdom. Her out-of-grace oligarch is not dispossessed and jailed but simply ordered to clean up chairs at a press conference. Her ministers plot for her downfall in a downstairs bar before mockingly denying her a seat on the rescue helicopter. The rebels take the palace in a span of an episode. (If only real dictators were toppled that easily!) The Regime makes Elena look stupid and pathetic. We do not flee from her in terror; we shrug her off.

Despite her European aesthetics, the portrayal of Elena as a ruler reflects an undeniably American attitude toward autocracy. Even after four years of a Donald Trump presidency, many Americans still don’t take his threats seriously, unable to believe that his cartoonish personality and ineptitude could translate into a real assault on their democratic rights and liberties. With the memory of World War II fading away, others may simply underestimate the difference between living in a free society and living under tyranny.

At some level, plenty of Americans may even hanker for a strongman because he offers simple solutions to complex problems, blind to the fact that—like Elena—he is animated not by public service but by his own vanity, enrichment, and survival and occasionally those of his cronies.

As a creative project, The Regime is free to be whatever it wants to be—a fairy tale, a dark comedy, a saga of human vices. But any serious work of art must be about something, some pressing aspect of human existence, and should be evaluated on those terms. What, then, is The Regime’s message? That love is an exchange of perversions? That the United States is a colonizer propping up authoritarian regimes because it wants their assets? That nothing ever changes and we should resign ourselves to endless inevitable iterations of the narcissist-in-chief?

Cynicism doesn’t win battles—or make for very good television. Perhaps HBO’s next meditation on authoritarianism will give us substance on the topic rather than winks.

[the-redhead-haddock]

Chapter 4: When Dragons Fall, Warriors Break

Rating: Mature

Fandoms: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon)How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)

Relationships: Viggo Grimborn/Original Female Character(s) Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III/Astrid Hofferson

Additional Tags: Dragons: Race to the Edge, Slow RomanceDrama & Romance, Fluff and Smut, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers

Summary:

Being a big sister to Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III is not something for the faint hearted... Especially when your little brother drags you into his gang of dragon riders and enlists you for an adventure. New dragons, old and new enemies, new emotions, it can all be overwhelming, unless you're a healer and your family is Haddock, then it's your everyday life. However, there is room for something completely new in all of this. After all, everyone deserves to be loved. Right?

Chapter 4: When Dragons Fall, Warriors Break

Being buried under a pile of rocks, ice, and snow was not something Eira had planned for that day. Firewing slowly unfurled her wings, wrapping them protectively around her rider. With her vision restored, Eira took a moment to survey the cave. "It's a bit dark in here, Firewing, can you help?" she asked. The dragon ignited immediately, though her flames were not as bright as usual. Eira watched her dragon, a feeling of unease gnawing at her. There was no time to dwell on it now.

"Is everyone okay?" Her voice echoed against the icy walls. The light revealed that the entire group was alive, with dragons shielding their riders with their wings.

"Define 'okay,'" Astrid groaned, stretching her aching body. Eira detached her medical bag from the saddle and went to each member, ensuring they were truly unharmed. Meanwhile, Hookfang ignited, adding more light and warmth to the cave. This caught Eira’s attention, and the unsettling feeling in her stomach tightened. In comparison to Hookfang, Firewing's flames were barely a flicker, as if it was exhausting her.

"Why would Ryker seal himself off from the key?" Hiccup looked at his sister, brushing snow from his hair. Eira sighed, her breath forming a cloud of steam.

"I'll tell you why. That bastard locked us in here to deal with the dragon. He'll let us wear ourselves out, then swoop in on our remains," she said bitterly, frustration evident in her voice.

Snotlout made an 'o' of understanding. "Oh, awesome. But we’re not going to do that, right?"

She scoffed, "If Ryker thinks I'm going to let him get his hands on Snow Wraith, he's sorely mistaken."

"Eira's right, gang. If Ryker gets that tooth, it's all over. All they need is the dragon eye," Hiccup said.

Eira stood defiantly. "The plan hasn't changed. We grab the Snow Wraith and get it away from Ryker."

Finding the cave where the dragons hibernated had not been easy. The cave branched into many corridors and passages, but they finally found the right path. It was a large cavern, light filtering in from above where the ice was thinner. They just had to avoid screwing up and waking the dragons. Eira allowed herself a moment of hope that everything would go smoothly this time. It did not, not even a little. The dragons escaped through the tunnels, and they were not fast enough.

By the time they reached the surface, it was too late. There was no sign of the dragons, only broken arrows scattered around, arrows she recognized all too well. Frustrated, she kicked a small block of ice. "Damn him," she hissed, leaning her forehead against the snow, exhausted. "He led us into a trap. He knew the Snow Wraiths could burrow and used that against us."

They followed the tracks of dragged cages through the snow until they spotted a group of hunters with dragons in cages, moving through a narrow passage beside an ice wall. Eira tugged Firewing to a halt in the air. They needed a plan. Her attention was caught by the ice wall, and the gang noticed, especially the twins, who began wriggling in their saddles with excitement.

"Please say avalanche, please say avalanche, please say avalanche," they begged.

Eira sighed but a small smile appeared on her face as she looked at the twins. "I might regret this later but... Ruffnut, Tuffnut, have fun."

Surprisingly, the avalanche worked. The dragons were freed and immediately fled, while the hunters dug themselves out of the snow and retreated to their ships. Ryker and Heather escaped as well. Despite their success, her brother looked furious. Eira shot Astrid a questioning glance, and Astrid only lowered her head, already knowing a fight was inevitable. They returned to base in silence, her brother never once looking at her.

"You knew. You both knew, and you didn't tell anyone. We're a team, we can't lie to each other," he said, eyeing them both with a mix of disappointment and anger.

She hated it when her little brother looked at her like that, especially when he had a reason. "Hiccup, we didn't lie. If you knew, you would have wanted to pull her out immediately."

Hiccup looked at her, knowing she was right, but it didn't make him any less angry at his sister and Astrid. "That still doesn't explain why Astrid wouldn't let me take Ryker down. We could have captured the head of the Dragon Hunters.

Silence fell over the club as Eira glanced meaningfully at Astrid. She herself pulled out a small but sharp dagger, usually hidden in her boot, and began to spin it in her hand, a habit when she was irritated.

"Hiccup, Ryker isn't the head of the Dragon Hunters," Astrid leaned against the table, trying to decide how to relay what she had learned from Heather. The gang seemed as surprised as Hiccup, who suddenly calmed down, now looking at her and his sister with concern. Astrid took a breath and continued. "According to Heather, their real leader is someone named Viggo Grimborn."

"Awesome name. Scary, but awesome," the twins began imagining Viggo enthusiastically, but they were interrupted by Eira throwing a dagger at the map. The blade hit the island where the hunters had their last base.

"It doesn't matter what his name is. He lives in the shadows. Everyone is afraid of him, even Ryker himself. Imagine what a monster this Viggo must be if Ryker is afraid of him," she said quietly. "Afraid of his own brother."

Over the next few days, Eira couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with her dragon, Firewing. Despite her age, Firewing had always been full of life, her fiery spirit reflected in the literal flames she could conjure. But now, there was a weariness about her, a heaviness that Eira couldn’t ignore. The others—Hiccup, Astrid, and the rest of the gang—noticed it too, though no one dared to voice their concerns aloud. Instead, they quietly took over Eira’s evening patrols, giving her and Firewing some much-needed rest. Yet, as the days passed, Firewing’s condition only worsened, until the day came when she no longer had the strength to leave the stables.

Eira spent her days tending to Firewing, her heart sinking deeper with each passing hour. The gang watched her from a distance, exchanging meaningful glances as the truth they all feared began to settle in. No one had the courage to say it, but they all knew what was happening.

Then, early one morning, Eira walked to the stables, a bucket of water in hand. As she approached, an unsettling feeling gnawed at her, a sense that something was terribly wrong. She hurried past the other dragons’ stalls, not caring that the water was sloshing out of the bucket. When she reached Firewing’s stall, she froze. The sight before her stole the breath from her lungs, and the bucket fell from her hands, the water spilling across the wooden floor. Firewing barely stirred at her presence, her once vibrant red and black scales now tinged with gray, patches of them scattered across the stable floor.

Eira’s chest tightened, and she sucked in a sharp breath, the reality of the situation crashing down on her. She had seen this before, knew exactly what it meant, but she refused to accept it. There had to be another explanation—something she could cure, something that could be fixed. She had to believe that.

Without thinking, she turned and ran, her footsteps frantic as she bolted towards the clubhouse where the rest of the gang was finishing breakfast. She burst through the door, gasping for breath, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. The desperate hope she clung to, the tiny spark that someone would tell her she was wrong, was snuffed out the moment she saw the looks on her friends’ faces. One glance, filled with pain and sympathy, was all it took. They knew.

Fishlegs, his face full of sorrow, confirmed what she already feared. “The skin of a Monstrous Nightmare produces flammable mucus. If Firewing can’t do that anymore, then…” His voice trailed off, and he looked down, unable to finish the sentence.

No one else spoke. No one could bring themselves to meet her eyes, from which tears now flowed freely. They didn’t need to say it—she knew. Firewing was dying, and it was from something no one could cure. Eira took a shuddering breath, a sob catching in her throat as she struggled to keep control. She turned and fled back to the stables. When she reached Firewing, the dragon weakly lifted her head and rested it in Eira’s lap. That was all it took for the dam to break. Eira crumbled, her body shaking with sobs she could no longer hold back

The gang, slowly making their way towards the stables, heard her muffled cries first, then the sound of her heart-wrenching sobs, and finally, a scream of pure anguish that tore through the morning air. They exchanged somber glances, and only Hiccup found the strength to enter the stables. But the sight of his older sister, crumpled and weeping, brought him to a halt. He wanted to say something, to do something—anything—but all he could do was stand there, helpless. Eira had always been there for him, always strong, always… but now, when she needed him most, he couldn’t find the words. Silently, he backed out of the stables, his heart heavy as he rejoined the others.

Inside the stables, Eira struggled to speak through her tears. “Hey, Firewing, do you remember when we first met?” Her voice trembled as she recalled the memory, her fingers gently stroking the dragon’s scales. Firewing’s intelligent eyes, too bright to be anything but real, locked onto hers. The dragon exhaled softly, the breath warm against Eira’s skin, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. “You weren’t exactly thrilled to see me, but you let me help you. Everyone was so surprised when we returned to the village together. Our first flight… I’ll never forget how terrified I was. But when I opened my eyes… you let me touch the sky, Firewing. You gave me so much, and I…” Her voice broke, and she sobbed openly. “I’m so sorry I can’t help you now.”

Firewing let out a low, rumbling sound, her tongue flicking out to brush away Eira’s tears. “I know I should be strong,” Eira whispered, her voice cracking with emotion, “but I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.” Firewing’s head rested in her lap, her once powerful body now frail and trembling.

Eira wept for hours, her tears soaking into Firewing’s scales as she clung to the dragon’s steadily weakening form. The only comfort she found was in the slow rise and fall of Firewing’s breathing, each breath a painful reminder that the end was near.

It wasn’t until her father, Stoick, and Gobber arrived that she moved. “Hello, lass,” Stoick murmured, his voice gruff yet filled with a father’s love. “Hiccup sent us.” Eira didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on Firewing’s flickering gaze.

Stoick approached her, placing a rough but gentle hand on her shoulder. “Every warrior must rest eventually. Firewing was a brave dragon, Eira. I can’t count the times she saved both my daughter and my son. Now it’s time for her to rest.” His voice wavered slightly as he spoke the last words. He gently ruffled Eira’s hair before stepping back to leave with Gobber.

The next day, as the sun began to rise, Firewing lifted her head one last time to look into Eira’s eyes. Eira managed a small, bittersweet smile, her hand resting gently on the dragon’s snout. “It’s okay, girl. You can rest now,” she whispered, her voice soft and soothing. Firewing let out a final, contented hum, nuzzling close to her rider before lying down, her body growing still, never to move again. Outside the stables, the gang froze when they heard the sound of Eira’s quiet weeping, which gradually grew louder, more anguished, until it shattered the morning calm with a scream of despair that echoed across the island.

The morning sun filtered through the small windows of the clubhouse, casting a soft, golden light over the wooden table where the gang had gathered for breakfast. The usual chatter was absent, replaced by a quiet tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud. Hiccup, seated at the head of the table, pushed his food around his plate, his mind clearly elsewhere. Astrid watched him with a mixture of concern and frustration, while Fishlegs and the twins exchanged uneasy glances. Snotlout, for once, was silent, his usual bravado muted by the palpable worry they all shared.

It had been over a month since Firewing’s death, and in that time, the vibrant, strong-willed Eira they all knew had all but disappeared. She rarely left her hut, and when she did, it was only to gather supplies or check on the dragons with an air of quiet detachment. Her laughter, once a staple of their mornings, had vanished, leaving behind a hollow silence that no one seemed able to fill.

Hiccup sighed heavily, setting his fork down. “I’m worried about her,” he admitted, his voice laced with guilt and helplessness. “She’s barely eating, she hardly speaks… I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ve all tried talking to her, Hiccup,” Astrid said gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his arm. “She just… needs time.”

“Time?” Snotlout interjected, his frustration breaking through. “It’s been over a month, Astrid! We’ve given her space, we’ve tried to help, but she’s shutting us out! That’s not like Eira. She’s always been the strong one.”

“She’s grieving, Snotlout,” Fishlegs said quietly, his eyes sad. “Losing a dragon isn’t something you just… get over. Especially not someone like Firewing.”

“Fishlegs is right,” Ruffnut added, her usual sarcasm absent. “Eira was really close to Firewing. They had something special.”

“Yeah,” Tuffnut chimed in, his voice unusually somber. “Like, even we’re not that close.”

A heavy silence fell over the table, the weight of their collective worry settling in. Hiccup opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, the door creaked open.

Every head turned as Eira stepped into the room. The sight of her standing there, framed by the morning light, was almost surreal. For a moment, no one moved, unsure if she was real or just a figment of their desperate hopes.

But it was Eira, in the flesh.

She looked… different. There was a quiet resolve in her eyes, a strength that had been buried under layers of grief but was now resurfacing. Her movements were still a bit slower, more measured, but there was a subtle determination in the way she carried herself. As she walked toward the table, the gang noticed something that made them do a double take.

On her right forearm, instead of her usual dark leather carvass, the one she wore from the top was carefully covered with black and red scales, neatly arranged one next to the other. They shimmered slightly in the light, catching the eye with their vibrant colors. The pattern was unmistakable: it was a tribute to Firewing.

“Eira…” Hiccup began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.

She offered a small, bittersweet smile as she slid into her usual seat. “Morning,” she said softly, her voice steady but carrying a depth of emotion that hadn’t been there before.

For a moment, no one spoke. The gang exchanged looks, uncertain how to proceed. Finally, Astrid broke the silence, her tone gentle but probing. “Eira… the scales on your arm…”

Eira glanced down at the carvings, running her fingers over them with a kind of reverence. “I started working on them the day after she passed,” she admitted, her voice calm but with an underlying sadness. “I thought… maybe it would help. Maybe if I could create something beautiful to remember her by, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“That’s… that’s incredible,” Fishlegs said, awe evident in his voice as he leaned in to get a closer look at the scales.

Eira nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to make sure I got it right. I wanted her to be with me… in some way.”

Hiccup reached out, placing a hand over hers. “Eira, we’ve all been so worried about you,” he said softly, his green eyes filled with concern. “You haven’t been yourself since… since Firewing…”

“I know,” she interrupted gently, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “And I’m sorry I pushed you all away. I just… I needed time to come to terms with it. Losing Firewing… it felt like losing a part of myself. I thought I was prepared, but when it actually happened…” She paused, her voice faltering slightly as she took a deep breath. “It was harder than I ever imagined.”

“We understand,” Astrid said, her voice thick with empathy. “You needed space. We just… we wanted to help.”

Eira looked around the table, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “I know. And I appreciate that more than you all realize. But this was something I had to go through on my own. I’ve come to terms with it now. It still hurts, and I think it always will… but I’m ready to move forward.”

Snotlout cleared his throat, trying to mask the emotion in his voice. “So… what now? Are you back for good?”

She smiled, a genuine warmth in her expression that they hadn’t seen in weeks. “Yeah. I’m back. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief in the room was palpable. Tuffnut let out a loud whoop of joy, while Ruffnut elbowed him in the ribs, though she was grinning too. Fishlegs beamed, and even Snotlout managed a smirk. Hiccup, his hand still over hers, squeezed it one last time before letting go.

“We missed you, Eira,” he said, his voice sincere and filled with brotherly love.

“I missed you all too,” she replied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “More than I can say.”

As they settled back into breakfast, the atmosphere in the clubhouse was lighter than it had been in weeks. The laughter that had been absent for so long returned, tentative at first but soon growing stronger. Eira joined in the conversation, her voice soft but steady, and the gang felt a sense of normalcy beginning to return.

But even as they laughed and talked, their eyes would occasionally flicker to the black and red scales on Eira’s arm—a reminder of the dragon she had lost, and the strength she had found to carry on.

The sun continued to rise, its light growing brighter as it filled the room with warmth. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the future didn’t seem so daunting. They were together again, and they were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead—just as they always had, and just as they always would.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows over Dragon’s Edge as the day drew to a close. Eira stood atop the newly built sentry tower, her gaze sweeping across the ocean, scanning for any sign of approaching danger. The cool breeze whipped through her fiery red hair, but the air was thick with tension, heavy with the weight of her thoughts. The distant sound of crashing waves was the only noise accompanying her as she stood guard, alone.

She sighed, her breath visible in the crisp evening air. It had been a few weeks since she had rejoined the gang after Firewing’s death, and while things had settled somewhat, the absence of her dragon still weighed heavily on her. But now, with Hiccup, Snotlout, and Fishlegs gone to help Johann, she knew she had to push those feelings aside. They were vulnerable—more vulnerable than she liked to admit—especially with the Dragon Hunters lurking somewhere out there.

Eira turned her gaze back to the island, where the familiar outlines of the huts and stables were just barely visible in the fading light. Astrid was down there, trying—probably unsuccessfully—to corral the twins. Ruffnut and Tuffnut had been particularly difficult lately, avoiding their sentry duties at every opportunity and testing everyone’s patience, especially Astrid’s.

He’d pulled her aside before they left, his eyes serious as he explained why she, Astrid, and the twins needed to stay behind.

“They’re going to push back,” he’d said, his voice low. “But I trust you, Eira. If anyone can keep them in line, it’s you.”

She’d nodded, understanding the responsibility he was placing on her shoulders. The twins had always been wild, unpredictable, but they also had a deep respect for her, one she’d earned over years of shared battles and close calls. Hiccup had told her, with a hint of a grin, that she was probably the only person besides their father who could make the twins listen unconditionally.

But now, standing alone on the watchtower, she wasn’t so sure.

The evening had started with hope, Eira promising Astrid that she would help keep the twins in check. But that hope had quickly unraveled. The twins had bailed on their sentry duties—again—leaving Eira and Astrid to manage on their own. Astrid, already frustrated, had tried to confront them, but it had only led to a heated argument. Words were exchanged, tempers flared, and before Eira could intervene, the twins had stormed off in opposite directions, leaving Astrid fuming and Eira feeling like the ground was slipping out from under her.

She had tried to reason with Astrid, tried to calm her down, but it was no use. Astrid was too angry, too frustrated with the twins’ constant shirking of responsibilities. In the end, Astrid had marched off toward the cliffs, muttering about needing some air. Now, Eira was left alone, with nothing but her thoughts and the growing sense of unease that gnawed at her.

What if the Dragon Hunters attacked now? The thought was a constant undercurrent in her mind. With the twins scattered, Astrid furious, and the rest of the gang gone, they were more vulnerable than ever.

She glanced down at her forearm, at the scales she had in memory of Firewing. The black and red scales caught the fading light, a stark reminder of the strength she’d drawn from her dragon, and the strength she’d have to find within herself now.

The bushes rustled, barely noticeable against the backdrop of the forest, but Eira’s instincts were sharp. Her muscles tensed as she squinted, focusing on the suspicious movement. Without thinking, she bolted down the wooden stairs of the sentry tower, her boots thudding softly on the earth as she approached the treeline, her heart pounding. Something was off. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach.

But before she could react, a thick, rough bag was thrown over her head. Panic flared for an instant. She struggled, twisting to free herself, but strong hands gripped her tightly, and the rough fibers of rope bit into her wrists as they tied her hands behind her back.

“Let me go!” she spat, kicking out, but her vision was dark, and her movements were restricted.

Whoever had grabbed her wasn’t interested in conversation. She was shoved forward, nearly tripping over her own feet as they marched her to some unknown destination. She counted her steps, her mind racing, trying to stay calm, to focus on escape—but the firm grip of her captors told her that this was no ordinary ambush.

Suddenly, the bag was yanked from her head, and her eyes, blinking against the sudden rush of light, met the one face she really didn’t want to see.

Ryker.

His satisfied grin sent a wave of disgust rolling through her. He stood tall, his scarred face framed by the cold, flickering light of nearby torches. Behind him stood Heather and Dagur—both of them looking far too pleased with themselves.

“Well, well, well,” Ryker drawled, folding his arms as he gazed down at her, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Looks like the dragon riders are a little short-handed tonight.”

Eira’s heart sank. It hit her like a punch to the gut. The letter from Johann had been a ruse. Hiccup, Snotlout, and Fishlegs had been lured away from Dragon’s Edge on a fake distress call. Of course it was a trap, she thought bitterly. She should have suspected it. But she didn’t have time for regret.

"We'll just have to deal with all of them instead," Ryker continued, pacing slowly in front of her. His voice dripped with arrogance.

Eira glared up at him, refusing to let the fear that clawed at her insides show on her face. “Listen, if you all want to go on a suicide mission, that’s your problem, Ryker. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She forced her voice to remain steady, though her mind was racing, searching for an escape.

One of Ryker’s men shoved her roughly from behind, causing her to stumble forward.

“The only person who should be worried right now is you, doll.” Ryker stepped forward, his cold, calculating eyes fixed on her. “I think it’s time we went for a little ride.” He grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the lifeboat tied to the side of the beach. His grip was rough, his presence suffocating, but Eira kept her head high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

They pushed her into the boat, and Ryker climbed in after her, his men following suit. As the boat creaked and swayed on the water, Eira’s mind raced with thoughts of escape—of somehow getting word back to the others—but every movement she made was monitored closely by Ryker’s guards.

Once they reached the main ship, she was dragged up the gangplank and hauled below deck. The sharp stench of damp wood and saltwater assaulted her senses. The ship groaned beneath her feet as they led her to a small, cramped cell. They untied her hands, but before she could think to fight back, she was shoved hard onto the floor, landing painfully on her side. Laughter echoed around her as the cell door slammed shut, the heavy clang of metal bars sealing her fate.

"Now, be more careful," Ryker said as he approached the bars, his tone dark and mocking. “You know what Viggo does for damage to his goods.”

Eira pushed herself to a sitting position, her hands curling into fists. She glared at him through the bars, her eyes narrowing. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice laced with defiance.

Ryker’s grin widened. He leaned against the bars, his gaze predatory. “From your friends? The Dragon Eye, of course. From you? Well…” His eyes raked over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “I just need to deliver you in one piece to my brother. But who knows? If he’s pleased with my little gift, maybe he’ll even share.”

Eira’s stomach churned with revulsion, but she didn’t look away. “You’re disgusting,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom.

Ryker chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, full of cruel amusement. “Keep telling yourself that you’re so brave,” he said, leaning in closer, his breath hot and foul. “I promise you, it won’t take long. You’ll break just like all the others.”

Eira’s heart hammered in her chest, but she refused to show weakness. “You’re a coward,” she shot back, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You can’t face us in a fair fight, so you hide behind your brother. You know he’s better than you.”

For a moment, Ryker’s smile faltered, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. But then, just as quickly, his grin returned. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy breaking that spirit of yours, doll.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her in the cold, dim cell. Eira clenched her teeth, refusing to let the fear take over. She had to stay focused. There had to be a way out of this.

The night dragged on, the ship swaying gently with the waves. She sat with her back against the damp wooden wall, staring out at the flickering torchlight from the corridor. Her mind kept drifting to Astrid, and the twins. They were still on Dragon’s Edge, unaware of the danger they were in. If Hiccup and the others didn’t make it back in time…

She shook her head, refusing to dwell on that thought. She couldn’t afford to lose hope.

But sleep was elusive, and the hours passed in agonizing silence, her mind never quieting. She was just beginning to doze off when the door to her cell creaked open, snapping her back to alertness. Two of Ryker’s guards entered, their expressions unreadable. One tied her hands behind her back once more, while the other hauled her to her feet and dragged her out of the cell.

The cold night air hit her like a wave as they pulled her onto the deck. Ryker stood there, waiting for her, with Dagur and Heather by his side. Her heart twisted painfully at the sight of Heather, but she pushed the emotion down, focusing on the task at hand—survival.

She was forced to stand between Ryker and Dagur, her eyes scanning the horizon. In the distance, she could make out the familiar shape of Dragon’s Edge, the cliffs and huts barely visible in the moonlight. A cold wind whipped across the deck, carrying the scent of salt and sea, and Ryker breathed in deeply, his eyes half-closed as if savoring the moment.

“You feel that?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at her with a twisted smile. “That’s fear. Soon… it’ll be death.”

Eira’s jaw clenched, her mind racing. She had to think of a way out—had to warn the others. But as she stared out at Dragon’s Edge, fear gnawed at her. She wasn’t afraid for herself. She was afraid for them. And she knew Ryker wouldn’t stop until everything she loved was destroyed.

[lordgrimwing]

Friends and Family #02

Thranduil yawned and leaned back against a fallen tree trunk. Yellowing leaves shivered around him, covering the lightly forested hill with a golden glow. Hithundil, nestled comfortably in his lap, leaned against him. She nuzzled her nose into his neck.

“We should do this more often,” She murmured, her lips tickling his skin.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “What?” He chuckled. “Hike three miles and eat peanut butter sandwiches?”

She snorted. “Get out into nature. Everything’s so busy in the city, even the parks, but out here it’s so calm. Just us and the wide world for miles and miles. I can’t believe we stopped doing this in the first place.”  

“Yeah,” he whispered into her hair. “No one around. We could get up to anything.” He shifted suggestively and slipped a hand under her t-shirt.

“We could,” She murmured back, nibbling his ear.

Before they got any further, a child’s shriek filled the air. Nine-year-old Legolas ran out from behind the pile of boulders he went to investigate after losing interest in his lunch. He sprinted between the trees and over to his parents, another bird feather sticking out of one of his braids. The adults untangled themselves and hastily packed away the remnants of the meal, tidying up the spot so they could head out now that the child was ready to go.

“Mommy, Daddy!” He called, his hands a flurry of motion and his little backpack bouncing around his shoulders. “I met a princess!”

“A princess!” Thranduil repeated with clear shock as he pulled the shoulder straps tight on his pack. “What was she doing all the way out here?”

Legolas slid to a stop, chest heaving with excitement. “The evil king captured the prince she loves and we have to save him and defeat the king, then the princess can rule and everyone will be happy!”

“A quest,” Hithundil laughed, pointing down the path. “Lead on!”

They walked along, taking in the scenery as Legolas described what the magical landscape truly looked like—with occasional suggestions from his parents. Around them, the slender aspens transformed into ancient spruces covered in moss. Beetles became little fairies that guarded all growing things and butterflies their counterparts that were captured and transformed by the evil king, who now possessed magical powers and stood nearly fifty feet tall (taller than the actual aspens they still walked through). His dad offered him a piece of his leftover sandwich every time the meandering path that only he could see brought him back to his parents.

They reached a wide meadow, dotted with autumn flowers and busy bees. Hesitating at the edge, the child surveyed the land, warning his parents that this was just the kind of place for a trap. Couldn’t they see the boiling, steaming hot springs that released a sulfuric haze too? Those were very obvious. 

Thranduil looked at Hithundil, grinned, and then walked out into the meadow. Just as the other two began to follow, he whirled around dramatically and said, “I am a servant of the Dark King! I see your intentions and shall not let you pass these feil wastelands.”

Legolas gasped and grabbed his mother’s hand. “Daddy! No!” He cried.

Thranduil chuckled and stepped forward. “I’m coming to get you.”

Both elves whose wills were not suddenly bound to the Dark Lord turned and ran back into the trees. The thrall, as Legolas now referred to his father with mock tears, shook his fist at them but dared not leave the meadow.

“We have to save Daddy,” The child said bravely, hiding behind a tree. 

His mother nodded seriously. She did not want to lose her husband today. “I have an idea.”

His face lit up and he bounced with excitement. “What?”

She looked him up and down. “Are you ready to face danger like you’ve never imagined?”

“Yes!”

“It might not work and we’ll all be captured and imprisoned by the king,” She cautioned. 

“We can’t leave Daddy here,” He insisted. 

“Alright,” She said, glancing around her own tree. Thranduil was now sitting in the wildflowers, idly picking apart a blade of switchgrass. “I can free him from the spell if you go out there and distract him.”

Legolas nodded and dropped his backpack. It landed noisily on the soft ground because of all the rocks he’d picked up along the way. 

“Are you ready?”

He nodded more vigorously this time, his hands joining in too. 

“Go!”

He sprinted out of the tree cover. He ran past, just out of reach as Thranduil scrambled to his feet, hot on his tail. Legolas dodged twice more before an arm slipped around his chest and swung him up into the air. The boy screamed in delight as he was thrown up and over his father’s shoulder.

“No!” He cried, suddenly remembering that this was no longer the elf he knew but a servant of Evil.

“Ha ha!” Thranduil chuckled, untying one of the little shoes so he could tickle Legolas’s foot and make him squirm. “I shall take you to my master as soon as I finish questioning you and find your companion.”

He was, for all intents and purposes—that is, for the imaginary game they played—completely oblivious to Hithundil creeping up behind him. She held a finger over her mouth to remind the laughing child to not say anything. He was, at present, too distracted by the tickling to say anything intelligible. 

“Tell me your secrets,” Thranduil demanded gently as he pulled off the other shoe.

“Aha!” Hithundil cried, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. She pulled him down to meet her.

Legolas laughed; Thranduil gasped, frozen in place; and Hithundil planted a kiss on her husband’s open mouth, holding his face between her hands to make sure couldn’t escape.

When they pulled apart, he exhaled and said, “Why, what a strange dream.” Then, looking at his son, “Oh! Legs, what are you doing on my shoulder?”

“You were captured by the King but Mommy saved you,” He explained, wiggling down.

“Well, thank you both for getting me back. I wouldn’t want to be tied to that horrible wizard for all eternity!”

It was Hithundil’s turn to laugh at them. She handed Legolas his backpack, which she’d thoughtfully brought from their hiding spot so it couldn’t get lost. It was his favorite backpack after all, with cartoon drawings of a little blond elf in a green tunic. He slipped his arms through the straps eagerly, ready to continue their journey. 

“Let’s go!”

“Wait,” Hithundil said before he could dash off. She pointed at the discarded shoes. “You need to put those on first.”

He looked down at his sock-covered toes and gave them a little wiggle. “Do I have to?” He asked.

She looked over at Thranduil and raised her eyebrows in a question. 

He shrugged and said, “You can’t go running around in your socks. That’ll put holes in them. So, you can put your shoes on, or you can take your socks off.”

Legolas thought about it for a moment, then plopped himself down to pull off the socks. He offered them up to his father, who took them and stuffed them into a pocket. Hithundil picked up the red shoes. She unzipped the main pocket of Thranduil’s pack and dropped them in.

“Ready?” The child asked, barefoot and nearly dancing with excitement.

His parents looked at each other, mildly baffled by how much energy he had still. “Let’s go!” They said together.

[rjzimmerman]

Imaginations Fly Over North Carolina’s “Fairy Circles” of Hydrogen. (Sierra Club)

Excerpt from this story from Sierra Club:

Many people are drawn to eastern North Carolina by the aroma of its legendary vinegar-based barbecue. Geoffrey Ellis admits that pulled pork was a big perk of his February trip to the region. But officially, the research geologist with the US Geological Survey had traveled south of Fayetteville in pursuit of a target with no smell at all: hydrogen gas.

While hydrogen is the most common element in the universe, it’s also 14 times lighter than air and easily escapes into space. That makes it extremely rare in Earth’s atmosphere, present at an average of just .5 parts per million. Nearly all the hydrogen used for fuel and industrial processes is made artificially, either by reacting methane gas with steam or breaking down water through electrolysis.

Yet Ellis knew that in 2012, an international research team led by the geochemist Viacheslav Zgonnik had visited North Carolina and found much higher levels of hydrogen, hundreds or thousands of parts per million, around the unusual geological features known locally as Carolina bays. These shallow, oval, often swampy depressions, the largest up to five miles across, have long intrigued geologists and the general public alike. In the US, they stretch in a sporadic band along the East Coast from the Florida-Georgia border up to New Jersey. Similar features are present all over the world, including Russia, Brazil, and Australia.

Scientists aren’t entirely sure how the bays form, Ellis says. Hypotheses include the warming of permafrost after the last ice age, the action of strong winds over many centuries, and the melting of icy fragments from exploded comets. Popular names for the features, like “fairy circles” and “witch rings,” often ascribe more supernatural origins. The elevated hydrogen readings added to the mystery, and Ellis wanted to see if North Carolina’s bays still harbored the gas a decade after Zgonnik’s measurements.

The concentrations Ellis detected were the same or even higher than before—the first evidence of long-term, naturally occurring hydrogen seepage in the United States. “The trends were very consistent,” Ellis says. “I was surprised; I expected that we would see more variability over time. To be honest, I don’t really know what that means.”

Zgonnik is less cautious in his interpretation. He sees the bays as markers of potentially massive resources trapped below the surface, just waiting to transform the world’s energy economy.  

“We’re dealing with a long-lasting flow of hydrogen,” Zgonnik asserts. “If it is long lasting, it means that we can, by installing the right system, capture this flow, harvest this hydrogen, and open the pathway for a new source of energy.”

Even a decade ago, the idea that Earth held commercially meaningful quantities of hydrogen was considered scientifically dubious at best. Those who touted hydrogen as a clean fuel—it produces only water when burned—regarded it as a secondary energy source that would have to be produced using renewable or nuclear power to avoid carbon emissions. 

But proof of concept for harvesting the gas has existed since 2012, when a village in Mali began tapping a hydrogen well to power its electricity generation. Subsequent findings in North Carolina and elsewhere have stirred a new wave of excitement about what’s now called geologic, “white,” or “gold” hydrogen. The Denver-based company Koloma recently raised $245 million in venture capital to search for geologic hydrogen, while the US Department of Energy awarded $20 million in grants toward research on the topic in February.

The technology used to extract hydrogen looks similar to that used for fossil fuels like methane gas and oil, says Zgonnik, whose company Natural Hydrogen Energy LLC drilled America’s first exploratory well in Nebraska. Unlike the limited deposits of those resources, however, he believes that geologic hydrogen represents a continuous flow. “Solar energy is the flux of photons from the sun. Wind energy is the flux of the air,” he says. “In our case, we are dealing with the flux of hydrogen from the depths, which I believe will be a significant contributor to the renewable energy mix.”

[pontevoix]

dear @mindsafe : [ LISTEN ]     in a bid to get the receiver to pay attention to them, the sender brings them close and presses their forehead against theirs ( bert && annie : // )

the  hanging  man  loved  his  children.  bertolt  remembers  staring  too  long  at  the  greying  at  the  man's  temple  &  the  unevenness  of  his  shave. the  hanging  man  did  not  love  his  children  enough.  that's  what  he  said.  that's  what  he  (  refugee  )  explained  to  the  warrior  children  (  posing  as  refugees  ).  they  were  vaguely  the  same  age  as  his  own  children  —  before  love  was  not  enough  &  he  left  his  children  to  be  fodder  for  titans,  before  he  decided  that  fear  was  a  greater  feeling  than  love.  the  hanging  man  had  loved  his  children.  no  one  else  cared  that  his  children  were  dead.

then  the  hanging  man  took  his  life.

bertolt  cut  down  the  body.  he  likes  climbing  trees.  he  has  always  liked  climbing  trees.  he  remembers  being  young  (before  he  shook  hands  with  colossus,  something  ancient).  he  kept  coming  home  with  scrapes  against  his  palms,  &  he  never  noticed  that  they  were  there  until  he  washed  for  dinner.  the  water  made  his  the  skin  sting  -  it  always  surprised  him.  he's  good  at  climbing  trees.  tree  bark  is  just  rough.  it  cuts  him  no  matter  how  good  he  is  at  climbing  trees.

the  hanging  man  took  his  life.

bertolt  cut  down  the  body.  the  process  scratched  his  palms;  he  got  a  bit  of  a  friction  burn  from  where  he  held  the  rope  while  he  cut.  steam  formed  at  his  palms,  &  he  healed.  the  injuries  didn't  really  matter.

the  hanging  man  fell  to  the  ground.  the  sound  was  ugly.  the  sound  thudded  against  the  earth.  it  echoed  in  bertolt's  ears  like  a  pulse.  bertolt  also  drops  to  the  ground;  he  lands  on  the  balls  of  his  feet  &  makes  no  sound.  it's  funny  how  these  things  work.

the  hanging  man  loved  his  children.  it's  hard  to  tell  what  good  came  of  his  love  or  his  life.  it’s  hard  to  tell  what  good  can  come  from  the  story  that  he  told  three  refugee  children.  bertolt  starts  losing  sleep  over  it,  &  it  makes  it  even  harder  to  tell  what  it's  good  for.

he's  fine  without  sleep.  for  days  usually,  he  can  manage.  children  are  supposed  to  need  their  sleep,  but  he's  fine  without  sleep  for  a  few  days.  that’s  something  trained  into  him.  fatigue  starts  to  chew  bags  beneath  his  eyes,  but  that  doesn’t  matter  either.  he  looks  the  part  -  he  &  reiner  &  annie  look  like  anyone  else  trying  to  survive.

he  starts  sleeping  again  eventually.  he's  always  been  a  heavy  sleeper  so  it's  inevitable.  he  just  doesn't  sleep  well.

so  maybe  that's  why  he's  been  losing  focus.  years  later,  maybe  that's  why  he's  still  losing  focus.  reiner  is  playing  solider  &  losing  pieces  of  himself  &  still  learning  how  to  lead  (  he's  doing  well  ).  annie  is  trapped  somewhere  in  the  belly  of  the  military  policy,  &  bertolt  has  been  useless  trying  to  find  information  where  he  can,  trying  to  play  messenger.

it  makes  him  tired.  it  makes  him  a  little  sad.

either  way,  bertolt  leaves  reiner  to  play  soldier  or  the  day.  the  survey  corps  had  needed  footmen  for  errands  in  the  city,&  bertolt  had  volunteered.  he  claimed  his  day  off  there,  too,  saying  that  he  wanted  to  shop  &  meet  with  an  old  friend  &  do  whatever  normal  devils  do  in  their  leisure  time.  he  had  felt  a  little  nervous  when  he  sent  annie  notice  that  they  could  meet;  it  was  the  first  time  since  he  &  reiner  had  enlisted  with  the  scouts  that  he’s  been  able  to  meet  with  annie  in  person.

but  here  they  are  -  too  young,  too  frayed,  &  trying  to  share  information  while  they  weave  between  stalls  at  the  farmer’s  market.  bertolt  has  nothing  to  share  much.  he's  not  high  up  enough  in  the  survey  corps  to  hear  anything  detailed,  though  sometimes  he  steels  himself  enough  to  eavesdrop  outside  the  commander'  s   window.

but  here  they  are.  bertolt  loses  focus.  he  keeps  wondering  if  he  should  apologize  for  the  direction  he  has  taken.  he  keeps  wondering  if  maybe  he  should  have  slept  more,  slept  better.  bertolt  loses  focus.  he  feels  his  eyes  water  a  little;  nothing  comes  of  it,  but  there’s  the  threat.  he  cries  too  easily.  over  nothing.  he  never  means  it  when  he  cries,  but  fuck  he  cries  too  easily.

maybe  annie  says  his  name.  if  she  does,  he  doesn't  hear  it.  he  only  really  finds  himself  snapped  back  into  attention  when  she  allows  him  something  that  could  be  a  headbutt  or  could  be  something  gentle.

it's  hard  to  tell  with  annie.  regardless,  she’s  effective.

he  blinks  &  shakes  his  head  until  he  can  focus.  the  tips  of  his  ears  run  a  little  red,  but  he  reorients  himself.  '  yeah.  they're  planning  an  expedition  out  of  the  walls  soon.  the  fifty-fourth  expedition.  we  figure  that  might  be  a  good  chance  to  try  &  reclaim  the  coordinate.  '

if  it's  an  expedition.  then  bertolt  has  to  be  accounted  for.  &  reiner  has  to  be  accounted  for.

that  leaves  annie  to  do  the  dirty  work.

bertolt  grimaces.  he  distracts  himself  by  angling  towards  a  booth  &  paying  for  two  apples.  he  feels  his  appetite  dwindling  &  offers  annie  one  of  the  apples.  he  hopes  for  something. 

[silentdoves]

I Paid To Make You Mine, You See

Inspired by Hostel, Spencer Charnas needs to blow off some steam. Coincidentally, you wake up in an unfamiliar place.

18 + MINORS DNI

word count: 2908

hostel! spencer x gn reader || rape, torture || first person pov

content warnings: rape, abuse, blood and gore, kidnapping, torture, fingernail trauma, wound fucking implied

aka i am painfully attracted to the live performance of wurst vacation it's becoming a problem

also on ao3

I came to in pitch darkness.

There was something on my head, something blocking my vision. A bag, or blindfold maybe. My head was spinning. A headache was staring to form. Thoughts weren’t coming to me, I couldn’t begin to think back to how I got here or even begin to imagine where I could be. The air around me felt cold, and through the brain fog I came to realize I had been stripped down to my underwear. I felt cold metal around my wrists and ankles. I was handcuffed to the chair I was in. The rattling of metal filled the air as I pulled at the restraints. I knew I couldn’t get out of them, but I still tried. I shook my head around, trying to throw off whatever covered my eyes. The room around me was still, but I was unaware if there was another person in here with me or not. I began to yell, to scream and shout for someone to help me. I cried out until my throat began to hurt, and then I cried out more. I didn’t get a response. After what felt like hours of screaming, I heard the creaking of a door opening. The first sense to hit was smell. The smell of death. of decaying flesh and bodies. It hung heavy in the air and attacked my nose. I gagged. Tears had begun streaming down my face, soaking into the fabric covering my eyes. The door shut again and the smell began to fade. Now, there were sounds outside the room. talking, laughing, shouting. People. multiple sets of footsteps approached the door. I heard the door open again, and the sounds became louder. The conversation was in a different language, one I couldn’t understand. A voice stuck out to me, a familiar one. However, as hard as I tried I couldn’t place who it was. I let out a whine and began to pull at my restraints again. The new people in the room ignored me for awhile. They walked around me and continued to chat. Then I felt a hand on my face. It gripped my chin and moved my head slowly. The bag was torn from my head, and I had to squint against the sudden light. The hand on my chin stayed, and my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room as they looked me over.

“Perfect.” A male voice, the familiar one, hummed as they finally let go of my face. Finally able to see, I surveyed the room. Three people stood in here with me. One that had held my face and two seemed to be guards. Rubbery gloves came between my face and the one’s bare hands. A blue surgical mask covered their nose and mouth, though I could still pick out familiar aspects to them. An old, stained apron was draped over the front of them. His blue eyes stared me down, studying me like I wasn’t human. Without looking away, he dismissed the guards. The door shut behind them, trapping me in here with him. Finally he turned away from me. I took a quick glimpse around the room, seeing if there was any way of escape. My eyes fell on the table of weapons to my right. The one my captor was currently approaching. “There’s so many options, I don’t quite know what I want to do with you yet.”

It was on the tip of my tongue, where did I know this guy?

“What the fuck is this?” I managed to squeak out. I sounded scared despite every attempt not to. I whined as they picked up a weapon. “What are you doing-”

“Oh hush, begging won’t do anything but urge me on.” He hummed. His voice was higher pitched, yet still shot fear through my body. His mask shifted, telling me he was grinning behind it. His hand clutched a knife, and he brought it up to my face. I felt the blade brush my skin. The sharp metal left teasing touches, threatening to break skin. I tried to pull away, but his hand was in my hair before I could get very far. He laughed, a sick, high-pitched laugh that shot shivers up my back.

The familiarity clicked, and my eyes went wide. I gasped softly, “Spencer?”

“Oh, would you look at that. They were nice enough to get me a fan to play with,” He chuckled. Spencer Charnas, front man of Ice Nine Kills. I whined softly as I shook my head. This can’t be happening, how was this happening? Spencer saw my distress and his mask shifted with his smile. “Actually, you can keep begging. I like your voice.”

I didn’t say a word. I watched his eyes slowly narrow. The knife was pulled away from my face. I watched it as it moved down my body, the tip now rested against my stomach. The hand holding it twisted, and I felt it enter my skin. Breath hissed through my teeth, my eyes squeezing shut from the sharp pain. He laughed again.

“Come on baby.” He cooed. Shaking my head, I felt the knife sink in deeper. Blood trickled from the small wound, at which point he retracted. I peeked an eye open. Spencer looked down at me, a blood thirsty glint in his eye. “Beg for your life and maybe I’ll treat you better.”

Once again I shook my head. My body was shaking. Small waves of pain echoed through my body, radiating from the one puncture in my stomach. Spencer’s free hand came out to hold my face. The touch of his gloved fingers was gentle, a drastic difference from the pain in my stomach. Another whine slipped from my throat. He cackled. I shuttered, my body shaking from the fear. The hand on my face got tighter and tighter, their fingers digging further into my skin. Trying to pull away was unsuccessful.

“Oh keep making noises. If you listen I’ll be gentle.” I knew he was lying. His grip on the knife tightened. In a flash, I watched as Spencer dragged the knife across my stomach. The cut was shallow, but a sting still shot through my body. I fought back every noise, the urge to scream and cry out dying in my throat. Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed together, his eyes boring holes through me. “I said make noises for me. You’re at my will, and I will do whatever I can to make you listen to me.”

His hand moved from my face as he took a small step back. I pressed my lips together. I stared at him with hatred and fear. He walked away, returning to the weapon table. I watched him pick up the bag that had previously covered my head. Unable to move away, the bag was slipped back over my head. Darkness engulfed me again. My heart beat faster. Spencer walked with silent footsteps around the room. I didn’t know where he was. Not until I heard the snap of scissors next to my ear. I yelped and jerked my head away as much as I could. I heard a laugh and then another snip, this time on the opposite side. Once again I jerked away. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it was going to stop. My breathing was speeding up as he repeated this again and again. The time between snips shortened and shortened. At points his laugh overpowered the scissors, which was even worse to hear. I took breath in with short gulps, and cracked sobs slid out of my throat. Finally it stopped, it all stopped. Silence surrounded me once again, and my breathing slowed further and further before returning to normal. I still felt the man’s presence around me, I could feel him watching me. He was circling me, like a predator with its prey.

“That wasn’t that hard, was it?” He taunted, his voice coming from right in front of me now. I pressed myself against the back of the chair, hoping this was all a bad dream. Though, the dull pain in my stomach reminded me just how real this all was. The bag was ripped off my head once more, but the sight in front of me was different this time. He had removed his blue mask as well as the cap. Spencer’s familiar face stared back at me. He was neatly shaven, hell he looked like he made himself look nice just for this. He still wore the bloody apron and gloves. A twang of attraction shot through as I stared at him. I’d always been attracted to him, and even like this he was undeniably hot. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and watched as he picked up a pair of pliers. “You’re staring, dear.”

I ripped my eyes away. My heart pounded in my chest as he cackled. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, so vulgar,” He hummed. The pliers grew closer to my hand, and as much as I tried to pull away I couldn’t. He held my hand in place as the pliers clamped onto my nail. I cried out in protest, but that didn’t stop him. A soft tug shot a dull pain up my arm and through my body. I tried to squirm, I tried to pull away. But his grip on my hand was too intense. His movements were slow, making sure he prolonged the pain as long as he could. He hummed as he worked, like this was the most casual thing in the world. Maybe it was to him. I closed my eyes, and only felt as he ripped my finger nail out. I screamed, crying out until my voice cracked and broke. Tears streamed down my face as my finger throbbed. And he just laughed. His grip on my hand readjusted, the pliers tightening around another finger nail. I caved.

“Fine! Please, please stop.” I cried, and when I opening my eyes again I saw him grinning down at me. Fuck, that grin. It dripped poison. He looked more animal than human. He looked terrifying. I sniffled, tears still running down my cheeks. “What do you want from me?”

“Oh, doll, I just want to have some fun. To blow off some steam. That’s all.” His voice was soft, mocking. He was teasing me. And that damn smile never left his face. He took my face in his hands. His thumbs wiped away the tears on my cheeks. In any other situation I would be comforted and comfortable. But right now, there was none of that. But I still didn’t find myself pulling away from his hands. I found myself crying again, from all the emotions of the moment. His smile faltered. “Oh don’t cry, I’ll take good care of you.”

“No you won’t. You… You’re gonna…” I couldn’t get the words out between sobs. I sniffled, finally managing to pull myself out of his hold. My gaze slid down to the floor. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Oh maybe I am.” My eyes shot back up to his. Spencer grinned, that darkness back behind his smile. “Maybe I’ll just bleed you out, let your life slip through my fingers. Your fate is in my hands, darling.”

I felt myself shaking. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his. I was terrified, though also, in a fucked up way, turned on. He didn’t seem to notice my fear as he pulled himself away from me back to the weapon table. I pulled at the restraints once more and finally, after realizing how trapped I was, gave in. A heavy sigh slipped out of my mouth, one that drew his attention. He turned back to me curiously. I just shook my head and dropped my gaze. He laughed again. It was a harsh sound, like the cut of a knife or the sting of cold air. He came back over to me, I saw his shadow at my feet. I heard the rustle of clothes, and looked up to see him slipping his apron off. The heavy fabric hit the ground with a thud. I hoped this meant he was done with me, however the dark smirk on his face told me otherwise. His eyes didn’t leave me as his hands fumbled with his belt. The room was deathly silent aside from the noise of his belt sliding off.

“Please don’t,” I mumbled, but I knew I was stuck. I was trapped. He was going to do whatever he wanted to me, and I couldn’t stop him. He unzipped his pants, and I was forced to watch as he pulled his cock out. My underwear was yanked down to my ankles. The cool air on my sensitive area caused shiver up my spine. I squeezed my eyes closed as he stepped closer. His dick poked at my hole before harshly being shoved in. I cried out, but quickly felt his gloved hand over my mouth. Pulling back slowly, the man thrust harshly forward again. My cries and sobs were muffled behind his hand. He repeated his motions. A loud groan came from his throat, and the hand on my face began to dig into my skin. The thrusting sped up, and pleasure started to overcome the fear in my veins. A couple soft moans slipped from my lips. I peeked my eyes open to see him grinning.

“You fucking whore, you’re enjoying this?” He cackled, and I felt my face heat up. “Well then come on, moan for me some more. Show me how much you’re enjoying me raping you.”

I tried to shake my head, but couldn’t move under his hand. As his thrusts got harder, I bit back another unwanted moan. He didn’t seem to mind. Degrading words kept slipping through his lips, making it harder and harder for me to keep quiet. His free hand snaked up my body and wrapped around my neck. His thrusts got sloppier, and as I felt like I was reaching my breaking point, he came. I felt his hot cum inside of me, his cock twitching as he pumped me full. His cock was completely inside of me, stretching me completely. I whined softly, squirming from the feeling. Finally he pulled out, and I felt his cum spill out of me. Warm, dripping down my nude body. His cock was still hard, though he didn’t do any more. There was still a dark hunger in his eyes. I started to cry again, though he didn’t seem to care this time as he turned his back to me.

“Please let me go!”

“No can do, darling.” He grinned as he walked back to the weapon table. I watched him. His hand floated over each weapon, before finally picking up an ordinary knife. I kept my eyes on him, not knowing where else to look. He returned to me, his cock back in his pants, but the bulge was still visible. I felt the tip of the knife press into my arm. His hand under my chin made me look up at his eyes. He had a content look on his face. He looked pleased. I felt the knife dig deeper into my skin, piercing slowly through each layer. I squirmed from the pain. His hand trailed from my chin to my arm, gripping it tightly to make it stay still. The knife dug in deeper. It pierced the muscle. I looked over and saw the blade deep in my arm. The man pulled the knife out. The blade was covered in blood. Blood poured out of my arm, coating my skin and dripping to the floor. silent tears rolled down my face. I heard the knife clatter to the ground. His fingers dug into the gash. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, all I could do was watch and stare as his fingertips disappeared under my skin. A blinding pain shot through my body. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I could barely feel his fingers past the pain. Wide eyed, I watched as his finger gripped onto something. He pulled muscle and veins out of my arms, a large mass that dripped blood into the growing puddle on the floor. A single vein ran from the mass back into my arm, still connected to my body. Spencer easily ripped it. A strangled whine came from my throat, the only noise I was able to make as pain pulsed through my body. He laughed again, watching as blood sprayed from the wound. It pumped with the beating of my heart. I stared at the blood, my head beginning to spin from the blood loss. The sound of his zipper came again, and I managed to see him once again pulling his dick out. My eyes started to feel heavy, my head spinning more. I tried to focus on staying awake, but I just couldn’t. His bloodied hand gripped my face again. I watched a knife come into my view before getting placed against my neck. It felt far away, but I knew it was there. The blade dug into my skin. Droplets of blood rolled down my neck.

“Just a couple more rounds, dear. But, this time, I fuck all your holes.” A searing pain spread from my neck, and I saw blood splash on his face before my eyelids came crashing down for the last time.

[awritingcaitlin]

🌿Find the Words Tag Game🌿

I was tagged by @saphoblin with the words: Helpless, Idiot, Coward, Fate and Triangle 👀

I'll turn around and tag: @juls-writes, @mr-writes, @carrotblr, @bebewrites, and @muddshadow for the words: growl, steam, cuff, trap, and nerve.

Snippets are from: Siege of Berthingtonn under the cut!

(somehow i do not have helpless or triangle?)

💢IDIOT💢

“—and who the fuck is this?” the Vice Commissioner was growling as Rinnie came into the office proper. It was exactly as obnoxiously decorated as she had surmised from her view earlier. Awards and placards adorned every inch of space on the walls and the furniture was of a size and quality that could only be explained by abject corruption or misappropriated budgetary line items.

“I’m the guy who’s here to unfuck the mess you idiots have made of this city’s defense,” Killian said, smoothly introducing himself.

“Mess?” Gissing roared, building up steam.

“Mess is putting it mildly, sir,” Fjord cut in, loading the honorific with as much disdain as it could hold. “I’ve been in communication with every district that would respond and every one of them has heard something different from this office.”

.

🔥COWARD🔥

“Stay where you are!” Adler commanded. He looked at the sergeant, whose eyes were wide with fear as the fire from the cuffs licked at his clothes. He didn’t appear to be able to do anything and Niles, despite being down the hall, had him covered. Adler turned his attention back to the constable.

“What are you doing? Adler asked.

“Well, uh, I was following orders. But I honestly just wanna be out of this madness…”

“So either you’re a coward, or you’re lying,” Adler mused.

“Coward all the way!” he replied, raising both arms.

.

🌿FATE🌿

She surveyed the terrarium and the traps laid within. It was as ready as it was going to be. She'd participated in hundreds of battles both large and small and knew that at this point there was nothing more she could do. Yet as always, her nerves would not settle. She went over the plan again.

She had her soldiers move the planters around to provide cover and channel the eilgard and his men into the bottom of the amphitheater where students must have once watched teachers show off various plants. Her two best riflemen and her three mages were spread out to her right and left in front of the north wall, which also held the only other exit from this room. Spread out along the east wall were the bulk of her men.

They had been instructed to use their submachineguns instead of their rifles to reduce the chance of ricochets, and to not fire until McCormack had taken the bait and led his men into either the center of the room or along the west wall. They were behind cover of their own, made of wood and soil planters with various plants growing from them.

Which left the west wall, consisting of eight sections of plate glass windows set into steel frames. The only cover left there were the massive concrete planters set with actual grown trees that had simply been too heavy to move in such a short time. Nothing for it though. She had mitigated that cover with a well-placed mage to her right, where he had a good view of the approach.

She sighed and looked at the door McCormack would soon be coming through. She had covered everything that was in her power to control. The rest would be up to fate. She shook her head. Fate didn’t get a vote in this.

[quiet-compassion]

OFMD Fluffvember Day 12: Pets

(Imma level with you guys, I went a bit rogue with this one! It's a bit of a somber topic for a fluffvember entry but what can you do?

Also, the "pets" in question are of the hair play variety. Which I mention only so that you don't spend the whole fic waiting for a surprise kitten or bunny to show up.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51707608

There’s a certain color to the sky when he wakes up. An electric quality to the air that’s there before any big storm, but this feels familiar. Specific. Reminiscent.

Ed’s been through a lot of storms in his lifetime. One squall tends to be like any other, just a reality of the sea. He’s never been frightened of thunder; he’s used to the feeling of rain beating down on him. Make sure the things that need tying down are secured; don’t go overboard. Other than that a downpour is just business as usual.

But the clouds looming today remind him of one particular storm.

He’d awoken from the twinging in his knee heralding coming rain and decided to get started on tea to have ready when Stede wakes. Standing at the window now, he waits for the water to boil and watches the sky. As the raindrops begin to fall he swears he can feel ocean spray drenching him to the bone. He hears a distant echo of his own maniacal nihilistic laughter, can almost smell the smoke of a recently fired cannon. Someone is screaming. 

“Ed?” Stede appears at his side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ed snaps his head to look at him, bringing himself instantly back to the present moment. The screaming, he realizes, is the kettle whistling and steaming. 

“Shit,” he says, turning from Stede to remove the water from the heat. “Must have spaced out for a second. Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s alright,” Stede says, still over by the window. He surveys Ed with a look of concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Great. Just not fully awake yet, I reckon,” Ed deflects. He looks up to find Stede staring at his hands. They’re shaking as he attempts to finish making the tea. He puts the kettle down forcefully, hands clenching into fists at his sides, and gives a self-deprecating huff of laughter.

“That’s annoying. Can’t even manage to make tea.”

“Not to worry. It is a bit nippy in here and you’re not even wearing your robe. Why don’t you go back to bed, love? I’ll finish the tea and we can drink it under the blankets where it’s nice and warm.” Stede’s voice is exceedingly gentle. Instead of the usual comfort his casual care brings, Ed finds that today it makes him feel worse. Guilty.

He shakes his head, turning back towards the window. “Can’t go back to bed. I’ve got too much to do today. Need to check the fishing traps and take the cart into the village to restock us on some supplies. I should also go check to see that the garden is covered well enough. We don’t want it flooding out.”

There’s a flash of lightning then and Ed staggers back in surprise—almost like someone wrenched the wheel of a ship without warning.

“That can all wait a bit,” Stede insists softly. “Especially in this weather; nobody should be out in this.”

He’s right, nobody should be out in this. Nobody should be forced to endure this kind of storm because of someone else’s recklessness. Ed wants to stay as far away from it as possible. He also feels like he deserves to go out and let it batter him. Mind divided, he doesn’t move at all, frozen at the window, watching the sky continue to darken and waves grow choppy and treacherous.

Not at all deterred by Ed’s hesitation, Stede pivots his approach. “Come on, I’m cold, Ed. Lay down with me awhile longer.” He pauses, giving Ed a significant look. “I don’t want to wait out this storm alone.”

Even though he knows it’s a ploy of sorts, the words hit their mark. When it’s about protecting Stede, staying in bed sounds a lot more reasonable and important.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Just, for a bit.” 

He stays frozen there as Stede finishes with the tea, dutifully scooping the requisite seven sugars into Ed’s mug. Passing it to him, he takes Ed’s other hand and leads him back into their room. He maneuvers Ed down onto the bed, tucking the blankets all around him, and scooting in beside him. They drink their tea in silence, Ed staring out into space, Stede watching Ed.

The flames in the fireplace are casting shadows on the wall. From the corner of his eye, they look to Ed like two friends, two lovers, being forced to fight to the death. He shivers. For a moment, the rain on his skin seems to have brought itself out of his memory and into the real world. But no, he realizes, he’s just crying.

Stede gives a shuddering sigh, taking Ed’s half-drunk tea from him and repositioning them both on the bed. He guides Ed’s head onto his chest and places one arm securely around his waist. The other lands tenderly on his head, petting through his hair.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “I’m here with you.”

“You weren’t there last time.” It’s not an accusation, not really. It’s just, Stede doesn’t understand because he wasn’t there to see how bad it was. How bad he…

“You’re safe.” Stede reiterates. “They’re safe.”

Ed lets out a shuddering breath. Stede continues stroking his hair.

“I went after it last time. I was determined to let the ocean’s wrath take me, and I wanted to bring everyone down to the depths with me,” he confesses.

Stede hums. “That was last time. This time, you aren’t alone, and I won’t let you steer into the hurricane. Storms come—it’s a part of life. You can’t ignore them. You don’t have to succumb to them. You only need to weather them. We’ll still be here tomorrow. So will the garden, and the village, and the island. And any damages that arise…well, we can patch things up together when the clouds pass.”

“The crew,” Ed sniffles.

“The crew are sailing far away from here. Odds are they’re under a clear blue sky. They’ll help each other to weather it when things get rough. Ed, they know you’re sorry; they know you’d do things differently if you could go back. They see you’re doing things differently now and they’re so happy for you.”

The pitching and tossing of the ship in Ed’s mind steadies into an even rock with the soothing rhythm of Stede’s hand brushing through his hair. The bellowing thunder of his thoughts quiets into the calming vibrations of Stede’s voice. The storm outside carries on; the storm inside ebbs away. He stops crying and his heartbeat mellows.

“You know,” Ed whispers after a while, his voice somewhat sleepy, “there really is a lot to be done out there. Like, I’m not trying to be stupid or anything but, we actually do need some shit from the village.”

“There’s no rush. Besides, I’m sure most of the market won’t be open in this weather. Let’s just stay here for today.” Stede suggests, stifling a yawn. 

Ed closes his eyes, snuggling in closer to Stede under all the covers. In the next gust of wind, he hears a murmur of his own words from last time— “All love dies, I’m just hastening the process!” Here in Stede’s arms, he’s never been more glad to be proven wrong.

[charlesholston]

Steam Trap Repair, Testing and Maintenance in New York

Fehlinger repairs larger traps, sells steam trap repair kits and can perform a steam trap survey for your facility. Repairing or replacing malfunctioning traps is often the “lowest hanging fruit” when trying to reduce energy usage.

[legacyoftheogres]

7. The Needle

[Written by my DM, the first time Thalanthe and Izura met, 10 years prior to current date]

It was always so warm down here in the bowels. Warm and dark. She was not comforted by the troupe of maned shock troopers at her side either -- far from it. They laughed and joked loudly as they marched, armor clattering like spilled plates. Perhaps it was alright, to be expected. It was rare to have a guest and they went out of their way to invite her to the various gatherings in the city of Durong.

What a city it was. Far from the coziness she had grown to know in Kuotay, Durong was a loud city. Blaring lights, screaming vendors and drunks and children in the street falling over each other and the crying children above the old lantern shop next door to the den she was staying in. The Segmentary where she stayed back home was far more collected.

Yet there was an allure to this city. The colored lanterns hung above the streets well into the night. Buzzbear honey available into the morn. Painted alleys inviting the eye and the mind and even the spirit. Durong was alive. The Legion of Wounded Leopards welcomed her and her familiarity on this subject. Familiarity at least, with the scattered shreds of Elysium and the secrets within them.

The Needle was unlike the broken crenellations and odd flora that the expeditions returned to her Segment. Those were sometimes almost whimsical, although often marred by some infernal alteration, a twist or skew or untrait that was dissected and recorded in the analects.

This was different. Hands on. The Needle was a complete mystery in the discussions of the Centipede. A broken blade fallen from the stars over five decades ago, piercing through the aging castle-shrine that had long overlooked the river. The rumors about the jet black spike circulated endlessly, calling it a pin in the cosmic thread or pressure-release valve replugged. It was never clear, and the scrollkeepers were tight lipped. In person would be different.

***

The shadow black glass chandelier crashed to the floor with deafening scream as vents began to belch white steam. Some swords were drawn, others drawing rags to block mouths and shelter lungs. The room that had suddenly come alive was a trap for them, a snare sprung and gaping gas and... nothing happened.

"Anyone feel anything different?" Abavantres barked and time was unfrozen. The pridesmen drew blades and dashed to paired up to cover entrances. Thalanthe dropped into formation around the banner captain of the pride and surveyed the room. Wire and adamantine barding harnessed over oddly bubbling walls, a demonstrably horrifying chamber that had the whole troupe on edge. Vaulted ceilings full of stale air that choked cloying and muffled footsteps.

As the seconds turned to a minute, unease began to set in. Thalanthe was the first to notice it. The way out had been sealed. Only a few rooms of the emergent architecture could be explored in a single day's work for fear that this would occur. The rear watch would already be en route to dispatch a search party.

"We're sealed in!" She informed the others. Claustrophobia was immediate. Arguing. Curses and thrown blame. Abavantres hissed. Silence again. She led them all creeping, back to that room. The mass

The smell of rot was an assault. Mulched corpse soil in an urn that had broken and spilled before them. Silver liquor leaking from gouts across the buried towers and causeways that somehow existed in this place and pooling in great silts iridescent with the shine of a light that only they could see, an unlight reflection of the eyes that gave the whole room a shimmer that startled, lunging out from the periphery of vision.

"Search the room." Abavantres was flat, her eyes closed to rely only on sound and her third eye sensibility. They had been selected for their ability to navigate the pitch black environment and she was no different. Thalanthe was moving as a shadow now, ready to pounce at a moment's notice, coiled in communion with her growling allies.

"Hold on, this one's alive." It was Fisher. His eyes were wide and he covered his mouth, blade brandished in a prayer. Thalanthe made to approach but the captain stopped her.

"Careful honored guest, you should keep your distance. This one is like you, or perhaps not. They are from behind the stars." Her eyes widened.

"Extra careful now! This room is stricken with it. Phage." Thalanthe had to stop herself from gasping in the air certain to be laden with Elfplague. She bit into the rag, a gift from Abavantres, dipped in the water of a divine spring to ward off the ossifiying spores, willing herself to stay strong and not succumb to the call of daemon madness

Across the room she saw him lifted for the first time, the live one, held by the ruster with no fear.

[10bucksaroom]

Unleash the Shine: Mastering the Art of House Cleaning Like a Pro

Ah, the satisfaction of a clean and organized home! It's not just about aesthetics; a tidy living space contributes to a healthier and happier lifestyle.

Whether you're a cleaning enthusiast or a novice, our guide will help you navigate the maze of dust bunnies and grime.

Buckle up as we embark on a cleaning adventure that goes beyond the mundane.

From expert tips to personal anecdotes, discover the joy of a sparkling living space. Explore the world of cleaning with a touch of creativity and efficiency.

For those seeking professional assistance, consider exploring cleaning services in New Brunswick.

The Prelude: Crafting a Cleaning Plan

Cleaning, like any grand performance, requires a plan. Before diving into the dust storm, assess your space.

Identify high-traffic areas and trouble spots - the kitchen aftermath, the dust haven on bookshelves, or the mysterious stains on the carpet.

But what about those overwhelmed with tasks or seeking a polished touch? Consider exploring local cleaning services in New Brunswick for professional assistance.

The Symphony of Supplies

No maestro conducts without the right instruments. Similarly, no cleaning session is complete without the right supplies.

Invest in quality cleaning products; they make a world of difference. From all-purpose cleaners to specialized tools, assemble your cleaning orchestra.

Pro Tip: For a green touch, consider eco-friendly alternatives. They not only clean effectively but also contribute to a healthier environment.

The Dance of Dusting

Dust, the eternal nemesis of cleanliness. Start from the top and work your way down. This prevents re-contamination of lower surfaces.

Microfiber cloths are your trusty dance partners, trapping dust without just pushing it around.

Did you know? Regular dusting reduces the presence of allergens, promoting a healthier indoor environment.

The Kitchen Ballet

Ah, the heart of every home - the kitchen. This is where culinary masterpieces and messes coexist.

Tackle one appliance at a time, starting with the refrigerator. Dispose of expired items and wipe down shelves. Move on to the oven, stovetop, and finally, the countertops.

Fun Fact: According to a survey, the kitchen harbors more bacteria than the average toilet seat. Regular cleaning is your best defense against unwanted kitchen guests.

The Enchanting Floors

Floors, the canvas of your living space. Choose the right cleaning method based on your flooring type.

Whether it's hardwood, tile, or carpet, each deserves a tailored approach. Vacuuming, mopping, or steam cleaning - let the floor revel in the attention it deserves.

Pro Insight: Adding a few drops of essential oil to your mop water not only cleans but leaves a delightful fragrance.

The Grand Finale: Declutter and Organize

As we approach the crescendo of our cleaning symphony, it's time to declutter. Evaluate each item's purpose; if it doesn't spark joy or serve a function, consider parting ways. Organization is the final note, ensuring a harmonious and clutter-free space.

Did you know? A cluttered environment can contribute to increased stress levels. A clean and organized space promotes mental well-being.

Conclusion: Reveling in the Results

Cleaning is not just a chore; it's a transformation journey. As you revel in the sparkle of your home, remember that the effort invested pays off in a multitude of ways.

Whether you're a DIY enthusiast or considering cleaning services in New Brunswick, a clean home is a gateway to a brighter, healthier life.

In the grand symphony of cleaning, every effort contributes to the masterpiece that is your home. So, grab your cleaning supplies, put on your favorite music, and let the cleaning magic unfold.

[spacenutspod]

I have lost count of how many times I have given public lectures and explained the temperature differences between Mercury and Venus. How Mercury, surprisingly isn’t the hottest planet in the Solar System and how that badge goes to Venus, thick atmosphere blah blah blah.  Mercury and its complex surface geology does of course get a good chunk of time but a recent paper has rather caught my attention and turned what I thought I knew about Mercury on its head! In short, a team of scientists have announced evidence for salt glaciers on Mercury! Planetary Science Institute (PSI) scientists; Deborah Domingue, Bryan Travis, Jeffrey S Kargel, Oleg Abramov, John Weirich, Nicholas Castle and Frank Chuang are the co-authors of a paper that made the announcement. Their discovery of Mercurian glaciers (which are made of salt rather than the glaciers composed of water ice we are familiar with on Earth) are believed to have formed under the crust in Volatile Rich Layers (VRLs). The glaciers are then exposed by asteroid impacts. Salt glaciers are a rare phenomenon on Earth but have been seen in areas like the Zagros Mountains in Iran. The irregular dark patches are the salt glaciers. Satellite image of the Zagros Mountains in Iran (Credit : U.S. Department of the Interior, U.S. Geological Survey) The team went on to suggest formation processes for these salt glaciers and the chaotic terrain that Mercury is well known for and at mechanisms that can explain the VRL formation? They studied the Borealis Chaos region near Mercury’s north pole, a region rich in chaotic terrain. Asteroid impacts have to all intents almost wiped out the craters in this region, many dating back to the early days of the formation of the planet. Underneath this layer lies ancient cratering that was discovered through analysis of localised gravitational fields.   The placement of the two layers suggest perhaps that the VRLs may have in some way developed on top of an already solid terrain.  The chaotic terrain at the antipode of the Caloris Basin on Mercury (Credit : NASA) Previous theories suggest the different layers formed through mantle differentiation where minerals separate out into layers but now a new theory is emerging. It seems the evidence points to some sort of global event, perhaps even from the collapse of Mercury’s fleeting hot atmosphere shortly after the formation of the planet.  An alternative theory suggests that escaping volcanic gas may temporarily create pools of water or dense, highly salty steam which could have deposited salt. Significant amounts of the water would have swiftly been lost into space while some could have been trapped in minerals leaving behind a clay and salt rich layer.  The discovery of the glaciers on Mercury is in itself fascinating yet what has really captured my imagination is the impact this has on the potential for areas of habitability on Mercury – or any other planet for that matter. On Earth, the existence of certain salt compounds in what would otherwise be inhospitable locations has given life a foot hold. We often talk of the Goldilock Zones around stars, the distance at which liquid water can exist and therefore has the potential for life.  Yet the discovery of subsurface volatiles (which would ordinarily have evaporated out into space) suggests perhaps depth is also a key criteria for a hospitable environment. The surface of Mercury seems inhospitable to life but perhaps, life may get a foot hold underground.  Okay this may seem far fetched but it does add an interesting dimension to the debate around a planets suitability for life.  Source : Unveiling Mercury’s Geological Mysteries: Salt Glaciers, Primordial Atmosphere, and the New Frontiers of Astrobiology The post There Were Glaciers… on Mercury? appeared first on Universe Today.