#sunny had to cut little holes for mount

[merginyourface]

Crappy little doodle so I could get this out of my brain.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Strangely Human Rewrite 2: Pretend

[Dew struggles behind closed doors. This one is a bit heavy as a heads up, and deals with the rougher part of Dew's transformation into a ghoul.] Below the cut.

It has been a little over a week since the ghouls decided that they'd had enough of Mountain and Dew's petty little... whatever you wanna call it.

At the very least, Mountain can't ignore Dew anymore, not with a section of their shared wall missing, and, try as he might to cover the hole, Dew lacks the motivation to do anything beyond hang up Mountain's stupid beaded curtain.

Which, admittedly, doesn't look too bad.

Dew's honestly not sure why he's even still mad at Mountain, or if he's just mad in general.

It's hard to distinguish what's genuine anger and just... him being in irritable from feeling sick.

Dew doesn't have the energy these days to unpack his suitcases -still set in the middle of his floor mocking him- let alone pick through his feelings.

Perhaps that has something to do with it.

His lethargy, the perpetual feeling of malaise... it's one thing to deal with it behind closed doors, but now he has Mountain, who isn't in his space per se, but within sight more often than not these days.

Who shifts noticeably in his sleep whenever Dew gets up in the middle of the night or glances through the partition if he lays in bed for too long.

Sometimes, Dew's heart will warm a little when he sees Mountain's face pop into view from around the corner.

He tries not to be obvious with his concern because they're sort of fighting, but kind of not.

But, at times, it's... it's too much to be seen when he's feeling bad, and he knows the guy means well, but Dew needs his alone time, and he hasn't been getting much of that lately, and not just because he and Mounty are roommates now.

None of the ghouls are leaving him be.

Not since Aether discovered the rough patches on his skin had begun to spread.

"I... I don't know what's happening." he admitted, brow creased with worry as he tried and failed to make the scaly skin smooth out again to no avail, "I don't know how to help."

What's worse, is that the patches have started to itch now.

The only thing that seems to soothe the persistent ache is water.

Not lotion or a cooling balm -they tried that and it had burned so bad soaking into his skin that Aether all but threw him into the shower to wash it off of him- just water.

He spends a lot of time in the bath, soaking, leaving the door open so he can talk to Mountain even though they're totally still fighting.

Totally.

Neither of them have really apologized to one another, but Dew can only go so long sitting in silence before he starts to go a little stir crazy, and being sick certainly brings out the worst in him in that regard.

That said, it's nearly impossible to force two unwilling individuals to share a room, especially two grown adults, so, perhaps, the fact that Mountain has not abandoned his room, and Dew hasn't returned to his old accommodations is their own stubborn way of saying sorry.

Who knows.

Any which way, as Dew lets the water run over him like a dehydrated houseplant, Mountain is sat with his back leaning against the edge of the tub, fiddling with one of the bath toys Sunny had happily tossed into Dew's bathroom that morning.

It's a light blue crab with its eyes poorly painted on, made of a soft, hollow rubber that squirts water when squeezed, and although Dew had been a little annoyed being given something clearly for toddlers... he did have to admit it made wasting his days soaking in the tub a lot less boring.

"Hey, Mount?" Dew asks, shoving a small red and yellow octopus beneath the water, releasing it so he can watch it pop above the surface and bobble about.

"Yes?"

"Do you think... Do you think I'm dying?"

The earth giant turns to him, letting his elbow slip over the edge into the water, fingers still worrying the toy and frowns.

"I don't." he says.

"Why not?"

And Mountain pauses then, arm drooping further beneath the soapy water as he breathes.

Green meets amber, and in a voice so painfully small, he says...

"Because I don't want you to."

.

.

.

"It is possible that the last ritual had some delayed side effects." Papa says, wincing as he sees Dew practically clawing at his own neck, scratching at the long, angry looking marks already drawn there.

If he weren't so preoccupied itching, Dew would make some kind of witty remark, but his throat is sore, so he just glares at him, bemused.

"Then does that mean Dew is becoming a ghoul? Or is he... is he cursed somehow?" Aether asks, hopeful that it's the former not the latter.

"We suspect that Dew is undergoing the transition gradually, as opposed to all at once as the ritual was meant to do." Papa explains, "However... it's unclear which..."

He breathes in.

"It's unclear which element his body is shifting into..."

Aether tenses, "Elaborate."

"They tried turning me into water first." Dew says, cutting into the conversation, still dragging his nails down his neck, "Then fire. Twice."

"How come it didn't work the first time?" Aether wonders, grabbing Dew's hand to stop him from tearing at his skin anymore, "How is that even possible?"

"Well..." Papa clears his throat and sighs, "...we don't know. One theory that has been proposed is that Dewdrop already has a demonic attachment, which would explain why the previous rituals did not take... and, perhaps, that entity, the one preventing his transition, is finally tapping into the magic from the ritual."

"How would I..." Dew holds up his hand, "How the fuck could I have already been possessed and not know it?"

"I did not say possessed, I said you might have an attachment. It's not quite the same thing." Papa says, "But that's just one theory. I am more inclined to believe the second one, being that you may have had an ancestor who laid with a demonic entity at some point, meaning you were already technically a demon, and the rituals made it more... pronounced."

"...I personally do not wanna imagine being a monster fucker is a familial trait-"

"I mean that IS how the original ghouls were made..." Papa trails off, "But I digress."

"I don't think it's too much of a digression to imply that rawing demons may have lead to my current predicament... Maybe I caught something from the ghouls?" Dew mumbles, "Some kinda weird demon STD...?"

Aether frowns, "Dude."

"What? We all fuck around. A LOT. I'm just saying-"

Papa coughs into his hand.

"At any rate, we will look into the cause more thoroughly soon enough. Until then, monitor your symptoms and report any notable changes."

Dew pouts the entire way back to the dorms.

"That was completely fucking useless." he complains, scratching at his neck again, leaving the skin raw underneath his nails.

"Dew-" Aether starts, then tenses, "Dew, stop scratching, you'll make yourself bleed at this rate."

"It fucking itches." Dew grouses, then adds in a tired voice, "...It fucking hurts."

Aether furrows his brow, "It's only going to get worse if you keep that up. C'mon, let's get you back in the t-"

"I don't want to get back in the fucking tub, Aeth, I want to be able to actually get shit done, but I can't, because it feels like someone fried me and ran my skin through a cheese grater..." He hisses, itching the dry patches on his arms now, "I can't even fucking sleep-"

"You haven't been sleeping?"

Dew mumbles something under his breath.

"What?"

"I said of course I fucking haven't!" Dew cries, "I'm either shredding myself to pieces or trying not to drown, and any time I DO get the chance to lay down, my spine feels like someone is pulling it out my ass!"

"...You didn't mention the spine part when we had our check-up earlier." Aether says, "I told you to tell me if there was anything new! You-"

"I-" Dew gives a frustrated shout and stomps his feet, "I'M TIRED OF EVERYONE BEING UP IN MY BUSINESS, OKAY?!"

"D-"

"Every fucking day. Every fucking day! Someone is asking me, 'Hey, are you alright?' or 'How are you feeling?' and you know what?! I FEEL LIKE SHIT!" he digs his hands into his hair, "I feel like shit, Aether, and it's not getting any better."

"It's not getting any better..."

"Dew, it will. It will get better, it's just going to take time." Aether tries, reaching out to pull Dew into a hug, but as soon as his fingers brush the other man's sides, Dew flinches.

Hard.

"Fuck!"

Dew curls into himself.

"Dew?!" Aether startles, placing his hands on Dew's shoulders, "What's wrong?!"

"Don't touch me!"

.

.

.

So yeah.

Yeah.

Dew's getting worse.

A lot worse.

Every day seems to drag on and on and on.

And he doesn't sleep.

Just lays awake, too tired to even think of raking his fingers across his skin.

Mountain keeps the others updated, lets Aether in to check on him, but no one else really visits anymore, because every time anyone starts to speak, Dew snaps at them.

Physically.

He's taken to biting anyone who gets too close.

Even poor Rain, who had just been trying to ease his symptoms with a bit of his magic met the painful bite of blunt teeth.

"You should apologize." Swiss tells him late one night, sat beside his bed, he sounds like he's angry, or trying to be.

But more than that, he just sounds worried.

"When you're better, you have to-"

"Swiss..."

"Yes?" the multi ghoul asks, feeling hopeful.

That hope fades quickly as Dew rolls over to face him in the darkness, replaced with grief.

Dew's entire face is flaking like ash, like he's one breath away from being reduced to nothing but dust.

"...I'm sorry."

[delimeful]

(don’t) take this the wrong way (7) (END)

final chapter of dtttww :) i had a lot of fun with this verse so i may take requests set in it in the future, and this might receive some more copy editing later, but for now this is the epilogue!

warnings: mild injury, mild hypnosis, for once no miscommunication :)

-

[Several months later…]

Sunlight trickled down through the water in wavy bands, illuminating the shallows and growing fainter and fainter as the distance from the surface increased.

Virgil didn’t spend much time in the shallows, too wary of being without escape, being made vulnerable to human vessels or poachers. Despite his dark and gloomy aesthetic, he couldn’t go too far into the depths either, simply because his fragile fish bones weren't built for it. His eyes weren’t built for it either, and down there where anything could be lurking, he would need more than speed to avoid danger.

So, on an average, sunny day like this, he could be found miles offshore, in waters that were easily too deep for unsuited humans to reach, but still well-illuminated by the light above.

There were a few old wrecks scattered about the ocean floor here, and though they’d probably been stripped by a pod in the past, he figured he’d go through them and check for anything that was left behind. Things that weren’t useful to a pod could certainly be things that were useful to him, after all.

He’d been poking through the undercarriage of one of the larger ships for an hour or two, relaxed as he ever got. He could take his time. The only creatures around to judge him were the shoals of fish and layers of barnacles built up amidst the metal, wood, and rust.

Actually… Virgil paused in his inspection of an old cutlery set to glance around.

What had happened to the fish?

Through a hole in the ship’s hull, he watched as a broad shadow passed over the ground and ships alike, large enough to belong to a whale.

There hadn’t been a single shred of whalesong above.

Virgil edged further back from the hole, eyeing the outside warily as the shadow receded, leaving behind only wavering sunlight on sand as though it had never been there at all.

There was nothing here that was worth sticking around.

He carefully made his way back to one of the other exits, in the opposite direction of where he’d seen the shadow head, the strokes of his fin cutting through the water with barely a whisper. The porthole was easily wide enough for him, and the ocean stretched out blue and vast before him, a promise of safety if he just moved fast enough.

A moment’s pause, to make sure he didn’t hear or see anything out of place, and then he was out, flitting from rock outcropping to bone reef and scanning the seas above. Not for the first time, he wished his scales were a little less distinctive in the day.

Behind him, an ominous creak.

He froze, and watched with mounting apprehension as a shadow spilled over him, looming closer and darker than before. The silhouette of an arm stretched out, heading towards him…

“Virgil, you must help,” a huge voice pleaded, “I’ve been had.”

He twisted around just in time to see a huge arm flop down onto the floor next to him, kicking up a cloud of sand and panicked burrower fish in the process.

It was wrapped in heavy wire netting from fingertips to forearm, and behind it, a giant mer was pouting at him with the best seal pup eyes he could manage, which, considering who his best friend was, were fairly potent.

Roman was huge, and he was a shark, with teeth and claws designed to shred and tear, and hands that could enclose him entirely-- but his elbows were braced against the ground with delicate balance so he wouldn’t crush anything, and he’d never grabbed for Virgil past that first disastrous encounter, and even now, his brow was furrowing with worry.

“Pufferfish status?” he asked, voice lowered from the dramatic plea of before.

Virgil’s mouth pulled up at the corners without his permission.

Roman was huge, yes, but he was also theatrical and eager and witty, full of sharp return quips for every barb Virgil had to offer.

He could hurt him, but he wouldn’t. Virgil believed that much.

“Prickly for a second, but I’m smooth now,” he answered, shrugging away the last of the tension. “Try not to sneak up on me without a warning click?”

“You have my word,” Roman replied, and if someone had told him months ago that he’d dare to ask anything of a giant mer, he’d have laughed in their faces. Now, Virgil knew that just like all the other requests, Roman would do his best to heed it.

“But really, my fingers are starting to feel numb. Help?” he entreated with a tilt of his head, shifting his net-wrapped hand a little closer.

Virgil rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t go away, though it tilted more towards amused now. He darted forward, twisting in a spiral around Roman’s hand to try and see the extent of the damage.

“How’d you even manage this? At least I had the excuse of being caught up in a storm,” he snarked, picking at a loose section with his claws. Roman’s fingers twitched a little, and he shot him an apologetic glance.

“I was… perhaps… trying to get a glimpse of those sailors that Logan mentioned patrolled the coast?” Roman offered, more than a little sheepish.

Virgil’s gaze turned sharp in a heartbeat. “Did they spot you?”

Logan had warned both Patton and Roman several times that not many humans would take as kindly to their long-term existence near human settlements as Logan himself had.

“No!” Roman assured, “I was very stealthy, truly, I was just… so focused on being stealthy that I missed the other vessel and the nets it had dragging along behind it. It could have happened to anyone!”

“I seriously doubt that,” Virgil replied dryly. He’d snapped a few of the looser wires with his teeth, but already his jaw was beginning to ache with the strain. “Well, you get to explain this to Specs, ‘cause we’re going to need his expertise in detangling for this one.”

Roman groaned in answer, dropping his head to plonk against the ground.

---

Logan carefully set one foot in front of the other, all of his focus on the thin strip of rock below him.

If he switched his gaze to even a few inches to either side, he’d be faced with the sight of a vertigo-inducing drop to the waves below, one that would have all but the most experienced tightrope walkers dizzy with panic.

His gaze didn’t move, though, unerringly focused on the ground beneath him, and on his own body. There was no need to look at anything but the ledge, a soft presence confirmed in the back of his mind, because he wasn’t going to fall.

Another part of him was skeptical, seeing as he wasn’t known for a lack of clumsiness by most. There was just so much to get distracted by, and it was so easy to look away and miss a curb or accidentally trip over his own feet--

But not now. Now, he was focused on just this one task, a gentle voice dragging his attention back whenever it began to stray. He was hyper aware of where each of his limbs were and where he needed to put them to continue forward, step by careful step.

Only a little farther…

“Logan!”

The harsh call snapped him right out of the trance, and he was abruptly made very aware of both the distance he could fall and the effects that sudden instinctual terror had on his sense of balance.

“Newton’s fucking Cradle,” he swore, and then wobbled again, precariously close to falling over.

There was the sound of water crashing against rock, and in the next moment, two giant hands had curled up on either side of him like the shells of an oyster. They provided him some much needed stability to lean his weight against, and he struggled to steady his breathing as relief swept through him.

“It’s okay, Virgil, I won’t let him fall! No cliffs, ands, or buts about it,” Patton’s voice was muffled, but not enough to miss the pun.

Logan sighed loudly, but he also shifted to let his full weight rest against the curl of Patton’s left palm, tapping twice to let him know it was alright for him to move.

His stomach still swooped slightly as Patton slowly shifted his hands away from the thin rock ledge, but there were some things that one had to adapt to when living with two very affectionate, grabby sea giants, and being toted around was one of those things.

Before long, he was level with the flattest segment of rock that made up their meeting place, which could be called an island if one was feeling gracious, but was really more of a collection of rocky spires and bridges that stuck out of the ocean.

Logan was barely able to sit up before Virgil pulled himself up at the edge of Patton’s palm, expression thunderous but his hands gentle as he carefully checked him over for scrapes or injuries.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” he grumbled, a phrase that he used much more frequently around Logan for some reason. Logan had already been reassured that it was an exaggeration and Virgil had no heart problems he knew of, so instead of worrying, he bore his friend’s fussing with good grace. “Did we or did we not agree that you need a spotter if you want to play around with bullshit sirensong magic?”

The mer paused. “No offense, Pat.”

“None taken!” Patton replied from where he had sunk further into the water to put himself closer to eye-level.

“I figured you would be along shortly,” Logan defended, and then perked up at the reminder of his most recent experiment. “Besides, one of the things tested in this trial was if the siren song could overshadow significant fear or even terror, and I wouldn’t have been nearly as afraid if you’d been there with me.”

“Aw,” Roman cooed, curling his tail up and leaning against one of the larger rock outcroppings, his posture slightly off.

Virgil dragged a hand over his face with a sigh, and then flapped a ‘go on’ gesture at Logan, distracting him. “So, what’d you figure out this time?”

Logan needed no further encouragement.

“Even the lightest application of a siren’s song can overwhelm other emotions,” he started, recalling the utter honed focus he had experienced. “While in the past I’ve felt distant or removed from my body while under its effects, this time I had Patton focus on requesting a very specific task, and due to the intense concentration it took, I was very present in the moment while fulfilling that task.”

“You didn’t snap out of it until I called for you,” Virgil interjected, more curious than wary. “Was it harder than normal to use the grounding tactics?”

One of the first things Logan had investigated was what it took for him to resist and even break free from Patton’s song, a task that Virgil had demanded in order to let him run any experiments with the siren’s magic. Back then, Virgil hadn’t expected Patton to agree, and he’d outright sulked for weeks to cover up the nerves he felt whenever the siren thralled Logan.

“It was,” Logan said, his excitement growing as he considered the new information. “Without significant outside stimulus, all of my attention was focused on the task, and so I couldn’t pull away mentally to do my normal grounding techniques!”

“I’ve never heard someone so excited about being hypnotized better,” Roman commented wryly.

“He should get a hypnoprize,” Patton added, and Virgil grinned, because he was a traitor who enabled Patton’s wordplay habits.

“Is there an award for smart people doing dumb things?” Virgil mused teasingly. “Logan could be voted ‘most likely to throw himself into danger in the pursuit of knowledge.’”

“That’s why he has us, Finding Emo,” Roman countered, gesturing extravagantly with one hand. “We would never abandon him to the cruel clutches of his own nerdiness.”

Logan couldn’t help but feel a thrill of pride at the casual way that Virgil ducked beneath one of Roman’s sweeping gestures, no trace of the blatant fear or suspicion that had been present as recently as a month ago.

They’d really come a long way from the misunderstandings of that first encounter, all of them.

A glint of light at the edge of the shark mer’s submerged forearm caught Logan’s eye, and he frowned. “Roman, what’s happened to your arm?”

Roman’s prideful grin dropped into sheepishness immediately. “Well, about that…”

“Princey here was abandoned to the cruel clutches of his own reckless dumbassery,” Virgil informed him, ignoring Roman’s trill of offense to drift back and shove at the hand in question until Roman finally lifted it, displaying the impressive collection of netting that he’d managed to get tangled in.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Patton clucked sympathetically, and Roman soaked in the attention like a very dramatic sponge. Virgil rolled his eyes even as he sawed at a few of the looser wires, and Logan sighed in fond exasperation as he reached for his pocket knife.

Perhaps some things would never change.

[uniasus]

Ice Above The Clouds

It’s day on of Summer of Whump! Today’s prompt is freezing, filled for you with Percy Jackson, Blackjack, and a Nico so ready to tell Percy “I told you so”.

Read here, or on Ao3.

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

“Are you sure about this?”

Percy shot Nico a bland look, making a show of lifting his backpack higher. “Am I sure about surprising my girlfriend for the holidays? Yes.”

“No, that I get-“

“Giving Will a surprise, eh?”

“Shut up, Percy! No, I just mean. You have your license. Why not just…drive?”

“And miss out on the chance to bond with my best bud Blackjack?” Percy gasped.

Blackjack, in the stall behind them, threw back his head and neighed. I’m offended. Does he doubt me?

“Blackjack also resents the fact that you’re implying he can’t take me there,” Percy shared.

“What, no! Blackjack, you’re a very strong flier. It’s just, have you seen the weather? It’s gonna be a cold flight.”

Percy pointed to his wool hat, double-wrapped scarf, and poofy jacket. “Also got warmers in my shoes and look! Gloves!” He wiggled his fingers. “I’m sweating right now, but I’ll be great in the air.”

Nico still looked unsure.

“It’s always cold when you fly,” Percy continued. “Winter or not. And I did look at the weather – it’ll be sunny. No storms between here and California.”

“Fine,” Nico huffed. “But if you lose a finger to frost bite-“

“You can tell me ‘I told you so’”. Percy unlatched the stall door. “Ready, Blackjack?”

You bet, boss. I’m eager to stretch my wings. The pegasus stretched out his black wings, then shook his body before trotting outside. California, here we come!

Nico watched him mount up. “Tell Annabeth hi. And IM when you get there.”

“Yes, mom.” Percy rolled his eyes and mounted Blackjack. With a whinny, the pegasus took three running steps before lifting into the air. Percy whooped with joy.

###

Percy wasn’t stupid. He had checked the weather and put on all the layers he thought he’d needed. It’s not like he’d be up in the air long – Blackjack was fast and estimated one long day of flying to get to San Francisco. Percy had had long days before. And honestly, after the events of the Giant War and all that quest encompassed, he preferred the cold to heat anyway.

That said, he might have underestimated how cold the trip would be. They’d left camp at dawn to maximize the light, and on-the-ground temperatures had been 35F. Cold, but not too cold. Especially with the right gear. Things would get warmer as they traveled west.

Unfortunately, he had underestimated the drop in temperature at the heights Blackjack flew. The pegasus had gone slightly higher than normal to start, avoiding a slew of small planes flying over New York state, and stayed there. Faster winds up here, boss. We could get there faster, maybe.

“Let’s do it!” Percy could barely hear his own shout over the wind, but Blackjack’s more sensitive hearing had picked it up. Still, at that height, with the winds sending cold air down his throat, Percy couldn’t talk much. Instead, he listened to Blackjack ramble in his head and responded with leg and arms taps. It was a system they’d worked out before.

Percy had brought along sunglasses, the sun might be rising behind them but it was still bright in the sky, but he was wishing he brought other things too. A pair of stretch gloves, to wear under his current ones. Extra toe warmers to put all over his body, like each shoulder. He wished he had a balaclava to protect his face – the wind they flew into was harsh. He kept his eyes closed for stretches at a time to prevent them from drying out.

He wondered how cold it was, ignoring Blackjack’s declaration of a personal quest to sample the grass from every San Francisco park. Below freezing, that’s for sure. What about the windchill? Had they hit negative numbers?

-35F was when they closed schools for fear of kids getting frostbite while waiting for the bus in Minnesota, he heard. Certainly it couldn’t be that cold. He could move all his fingers. He clutched at Blackjack’s mane tighter, trying to focus on his friend’s chatter. He didn’t want to think about the pull of the wind on his coat and backpack, the increasingly numb parts of his skin where the wind found gaps in his clothes, his scarf stiff with his frozen breath and the ice cube on his nose. The wind was loud, his eyelids heavy. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, the sharp peppermint bit of the icy wind with each inhale keeping him awake. But really, it would be so much better if he could just fall asleep. Sleep through the cold and wake up when Blackjack flew at lower heights into the warmer west…

An impact against his sternum jerked him away. He felt groggy, slow, and uncertain of his limbs.

Boss! Boss!  

“ ’ackjack?”

Are you okay? You fell! Why didn’t you tell me you needed a break?

Percy might have made a noise. He wasn’t sure. His lips felt too numb to move right. Gods, he was cold. He wanted to sleep, to bury himself in a blanket and bake in a bed oven. He tried to grab something, but only succeeded at swinging his dead weight of an arm through air. The warmth against his stomach slipped, someone shouted Boss! but he didn’t care who.

The wind in his ears sounded like a lullaby.

###

Percy woke, shivering and hungry and cocooned in a black hole that he slowly identified as a tight pocket created by Blackjack’s body. The pegasus was curled as tight as he could be around Percy, wing extended to surround Percy. As Percy shifted against Blackjack’s side, the pegasus woke up.

Boss?

“Blackjack?” A shudder ran through Percy’s body and he huddled deeper into his coat. “What happened?”

Blackjack lipped at Percy’s knees, head halfway into the wing-cavern. You fell asleep and fell off. Twice. I caught you.

Percy rubbed his chest. No wonder it hurt, if he slammed into Blackjack’s back at the speed of gravity. Probably not worth nibbling on the emergency ambrosia he always carried though. “I’m getting you a whole box of donuts when we get there. Where are we?”

Not sure. But we haven’t hit the Rockies yet.

Iowa or Nebraska then. Unless the cold had gotten to him really early and they landed in rural Illinois.

“Nico’s gonna tell me ‘told you so’.”

Why didn’t you tell me you were cold? I could have flown lower.

“Didn’t think we’d be up that higher. Or that it would be that cold.” Percy stroked the part of Blackjack’s neck he could reach. “Don’t think I was thinking right for awhile. How long have we been here?”

An hour?

“I don’t have the supplies to stay here. I didn’t pack food. We’ll need to get going again.”

Once you stop shivering.

“I can handle a little cold.”

Blackjack shifted his wing so Percy could feel the full force of his stink eye. It wasn’t the best stink eye Percy had ever seen, but with the removal of the wing came full exposure to the outside air. They were in an empty field, didn’t help pinpoint where they were sadly, and the wind that cut across the ground had Percy instinctively pull back into Blackjack’s warmth.

Blackjack replaced his wing.

“It’s winter, I won’t not be cold,” Percy pouted.

Once you stop shivering under my wing, we’ll go.

Percy sighed, but he knew Blackjack was right. He nestled into Blackjack’s side, bringing his knees up close. Part of the reason for the trip was guy time anyway. “Do you think the grass at Land’s End will tasty salty?”

I hope so!

Smiling, Percy dived into a conversation way too deeply about a food he would never eat. He’d get to surprise Annabeth eventually.

[nuttyjellyfishlover]

One Piece Anime Wano Arc Episodes 890

One Piece Anime: Wano Arc, Episodes 890 This honestly is less going to be a review and more of a commentary as I watch through the anime's rendition of the Wano arc. I've honestly never really watched too much of the One Pieceanime, mostly just looking up the highlights of the arcs I read in the manga. I did watch the filler episodes and most of the movies, as I've talked about at length recently. And everyone tells me that the anime has some rather terrible pacing, particularly around the time of Dressrossa, which is apparently pretty padded out. But then I heard the absolute opposite for Wano, where the anime has received a new art-style and one hell of a fancy makeover. And I thought... hey, I'm on a One Piece kick this year, clearly, so yeah, I think I'm going to give this a shot.

The Wano arc, I think, is one that works a lot better because it has the reverse problem of a lot of One Piece arcs -- there are a lot of moments in Act One of the manga's version of the story that the writer clearly purposefully threw in a couple of off-screened moments that the anime could expand into full action scenes. I already know that Sanji versus Page One is fully animated in the anime, and scenes like Big Mom vs. Kaido or Zoro vs. Basil Hawkins are extended a lot more than the couple of panels we had in the manga. And Wano's got a lot of supporting characters, some of which actually get swept under the rug when I first read through the manga chapters weekly. So yeah, having bright colours and voices and music is going to make this a much more fun experience!

Anyway, here goes my collection of random notes and commentary. Be aware that there will be MANGA SPOILERS, as I will point out a couple of things here and there about stuff I notice that's foreshadowing or whatever:

* Marco's blue-and-yellow phoenix form looks so, so much more vibrant and pops out compared to anything else in the series in colour, huh? I think out of any other character, Marco is extra-memorable in animated format. * That said, basically half this episode is just a recap of the Paramount War. I mean, I haven't seen the Paramount War in full animated format, so it's nice to hear Whitebeard and Ace and Marco speak some of their more famous lines there. But on the other hand, it's also it's kind of one of the more-criticized parts of the One Piece anime that any time they could pad out an episode with scenes from a previously-produced episode, they will. * We actually get to see the Grudge/Payback War in the anime! I think this is less of a showcase of events that actually happened and more of a symbolic one, but hey, we get to see Blackbeard doing some sky-quakes and black holes and Marco turning phoenix. It just shows the Whitebeard division commanders getting sucked into a giant Dragon-Ball-esque spirit bomb Black Hole. Actually pretty neat! * Jozu has both arms in that vision. Whether it's an error or a spoiler or if he has a prosthetic a la Akainu in Film: Z, we'll see eventually.

* This episode also has a bit of a recap of the revelations about Wano from the Zou arc, but it's a lot shorter and feels a lot more relevant to the upcoming arc. * Brook actually expresses some interest on Vivi, apparently having heard of her from the others. I've always liked this from the filler episodes, of the newer Straw Hats slowly learning about prior adventures. Brook being Brook, of course, a panty joke was tossed in. * The Japanese-art style water waves look so pretty when animated! * The random octopus that makes Japanese kabuki theater (?) sounds is another thing that works so much better in the anime. I've always thought it felt a bit forced and random in the manga version. * The high-tempo music when the Sunny sails into the koi waves is very, very fun! * Ah, yes, the very first chapter of Wano in the manga shows off a bunch of carps jumping up a waterfall. You know, considering the whole legend that a carp that jumps over the waterfall transforms into a dragon... i.e., a fish that is also a dragon...

* The first one that's properly and almost fully drawn in the new Wano art style! And it looks gorgeous. * Also a new theme song! I've never paid that much attention to theme songs in anime, but I definitely like "One Dream One Wish" more than "We're the Super Powers". Shame that, as with most anime, the opening sort of spoils, like, half of the things that happens in the arc. * Speaking of great background music... the tempo of that opening instrumental that Komurasaki plays on shamisen is pretty catchy, especially with that octopus going iyooo~ in the background. It also makes for very fun background music for Zoro's rampage at the end of the episode. * Anime Wano is so freaking colourful. The rooftops, the kimonos, the hair... I think I remembered reading that Oda made it a point to subvert the fact that everyone in feudal Japan had black hair by explicitly doing the opposite -- black hair is the exception rather than the norm in Wano. Fun! * The frog on Usopp's hat is a real frog! I always thought it was just a hat! It's adorable! The wiki tells me it's called Gama Pyonnosuke. It's an adorable friend! Forget Carrot or Kin'emon or Yamato, Gama Pyonnosuke for next Straw Hat! * The biggest expansion here is that we actually follow Zoro around as he wanders around the city until he gets arrested by the corrupt magistrate. And Zoro actually bumps into the man-slayer and corrupt magistrate, actually explaining why he recognizes the specific scent of blood during the whole seppuku court. * And then we get around a minute of Zoro fighting the magistrate guards with the seppuku knife and good ol' fisticuffs, something that I didn't think I needed, but is certainly very fun to watch! * This new animation studio loves the angled zoom-in into eyes, and I highly approve. I think we had that like at least three times when Zoro decides to get dangerous.

* I never quite realized that if Luffy hadn't been interrupted by the octopus and washed up next to the Thousand Sunny, the poor ship would be literally left to its own devices. You'd think after losing Merry, the Straw Hats would be more careful with their ships... * Zoro gets to slash the magistrates up even more! It's a single Tatsu Maki, but god damn what a pretty Tatsu Maki. The shot of his feet kicking and breaking the wooden floor, the black aura around his blades, the way that the dragon aura appears behind him, the demonic red eyes as Zoro slams down from the sky, and the shots of the surrounding terrain being cut up into cubes... pretty awesome! * Luffy dodging the bullet from the random Beast Pirate goon with Observation Haki and the gomu-gomu-long-range-bitchslap has always been cool in the manga, and this episode makes it even cooler. Those glowing eyes! This is going to be the whole commentary, isn't it? Just me commenting on the scenes I find to be really cool? * Luffy's Conqueror Haki against the giant baboon is another very cool one. From the expression to the delivery of the line to the sound effect... Luffy's expression is actually pretty cool and borderline scary as he beats up the second goon. No wonder Tama went straight into "This is the I surrender pose!" * Also added in the anime is a vignette of Franky, Robin and Usopp seeing the news of Zorojuro becoming a wanted criminal. Again, not entirely necessary to know the story, but actually scenes that I don't mind being shown to us. Particularly that scene of Usopp utterly bullshitting an officer. * Luffy pets Komachiyo with his rubber arms. Komachiyo is a good boy. This is the most important scene.

* Did the manga show Luffy hiding the Sunny and letting it anchor in a cave? I don't remember it. I know that before the flashback and the raid we see the Sunny there, but it's nice to actually show Luffy not being so callous with the Sunny. * They got a pretty good voice actress for Tama that really makes her pretty adorable! So many times these kid guest star characters end up being annoying if they don't get a good voice, but between the voice-acting and the expressions, she's pretty fun! * Also, I think this is going to be something I repeat a couple of times, but both Tama and Tenguyama are so much more visually interesting with their full colour palettes. * Oh, right, Drake was the one that ransacked Tama's village. Wonder if that'll actually come up later on in the story... * Okay, thanks to the anime, it's really going to drill to me that it's pronounced 'Diez Drake' and not 'Eks Drake'. * I'm pretty sure everyone noticed it, but Ace learned to weave hats in Wano! That's how he became buddies with Oars Junior! I didn't notice it until just now!

* (Episode is the Cidre Guild filler arc that ties in to Stampede.) * What is Tenguyama waiting for? It's probably Oden or his retainers, but I don't think he's part of the samurai that was recruited by Kin'emon's group. Maybe he just missed the big recruitment drive, but that's weird. I wonder what role he's going to play in the arc... * There is a random metal guitar riff when Luffy sees the Nidai Kitetsu. And a glow of Observation Haki on Luffy's eyes. That's a small detail, but very cool! He also uses Observation when Hawkins arrives later on. I love the little trail of glowing red that streams out of his pupils when he activates it. * Tenguyama's sword has a very cool leaf-based handguard! Never noticed that. * Speaking of cool Observation Haki effects, Zoro's apparently activates when he senses sake. Appropriate! * I know it's me repeating this over and over, and we'll get so many cooler scenes later on, but Zoro casually launching that Phoenix Cannon to blow up the two random raptor-riders when he saves Tsuru? Such a simple scene but still so cool. Also very cool is the very brief slo-mo as Zoro re-angles the pathway of his slice when cutting down the second random goon. * Unlike most of the other things, I've always noticed that Basil Hawkins has a very cool Koma-deer mount. It looks even cooler in motion!

* This is perhaps one of the more extended scenes, since it features... fight scenes! In the manga, I think this lasted... maybe half a chapter? Less? A couple of page spreads? It's not just the Hawkins fight, either, Luffy's 'swordfighting' with Nidai Kitetsu also gets extended. Luffy's a bit more successful in using the sword to block and parry here. * Luffy's voice actor really makes the 'de gozaru' sound really funny. * I 100% missed Tsuru the first time I read through this chapter since we only see part of her in a single panel before her full-body debut after the Hawkins fight, and it's a lot less likely that you'll make that mistake in the anime. * Some 'elite' goons show up here, including a guy that uses his ponytail as a whip against Zoro, and a dude that makes fissures with a hammer that fights Luffy. Probably feels a bit more filler-y compared to the rest of the action scenes, but that's honestly nitpicking. * Zoro launching a Phoenix Cannon that slashes Hawkins's face is very cool. * Hawkins' little straw dolls gets an extended scene of it crawling out of his arm. It's so creepy, I love it. * Hawkins' giant straw demon StandBankaigets an very cool summoning animation and it's so creepy. The skies darkens and everything. Most importantly, it makes noises! Again, I love it.

* Luffy and Zoro vs. Hawkins! It's extended beyond just the simple 'dodge, then one-shot-slash' that it was in the manga. I really like Hawkins and his creepy-ass Straw Stand, so I am a huge fan of this. We get a couple of nice juxtaposition shots of Hawkins and the straw monster. Also Zoro goes shirtless in the fight. That's an important detail! * I really, really love how Zoro is having a gritted-teeth expression as he fights the giant straw demon; the straw demon is going gakakakakakakaka like a lunatic... then we cut to Hawkins who has a deadpan, bored expression as he swings his sword in the distance. * The animators really like to let the straw monster use the nails entwined to the tips of its fingers. That's fun! Zoro backhand-blocking the nails from hitting Luffy and Tama? That's cool! * Zoro does Ichi-Gorilla-Ni-Gorilla at one point, and totally slices and 'kills' Hawkins a bunch of times. * Also, speaking of pretty, glowing-eyes motion shots, Zoro using Nigiri: Toro Samon? Yeah. The cut itself is cool, but the zoom-in on Zoro's eyes as he does so? I'm sorry, I have a weakness for that kind of shot, it appears. * To extend the fight so that it's not just a single exchange of blows, Komachiyo gets knocked to the ground so that Zoro and the straw demon can actually fight for a bit. * Also shots I have a weakness to? DBZ-style 'aftermath of a powerful move'. This one isn't too over-the-top, but the slash extending into the sky and the shockwave rippling out from where Zoro slices the strawman thing is cool. * We actually see the scene of Okiku being harassed by Urashima in chronological order, and Urashima scares off a customer. Also, the implied scene of Zoro scaring off Urashima is actually shown here.

* This episode kind of extends the scenes in Tsuru's shop a bit more. Not the most exciting thing, but it does really help to build up Tama, Tsuru and Kiku. * ...wait, Tsuru's shop just displays the Kozuki crest very, very evidently on its door awning. If simply speaking the Kozuki name alone is a punishable crime, how did they get away with that? * Zoro trying to get Luffy to adopt a Wano-ized name is extra-funny in the anime! * Speaking of extended fight scenes, Batman gets to shoot alotmore arrows at Luffy and Zoro. It's kind of over-the-top on Batman's part, if we're being honest, even if Zoro and Luffy very easily dispatches of them.

* The anime does give Batman the ability to control his arrows via sonic waves or something, but he lasted for a much, much longer time than he really should have. * Batman fucking blocks Luffy's Busoshoku-empowered punch! He most definitely doesn't do it in the manga, and sure, knocking Luffy down with sonic waves? I buy that. Blocking Luffy and causing a small explosion in the air? ...I'm pretty sure just some random Gifter isn't supposed to be able to do that. Unless they're thinking of the other Batman? * They make the initial shot of Holdem answering the phone with the lion face pretty intimidating! * Holdem's lion beating their shared balls is still one of the weirdest jokes in the manga. * Some really nice face shots in this one, from Tama to Holdem to the lion to Luffy's group.

* A pretty obvious extended filler is Urashima bullying other sumo wrestlers. Urashima is kind of a dipshit, so it's not a particularly enjoyable filler for me. * Zoro gets to sumo-wrestle with one of Urashima's goons! This one, on the other hand, is pretty fun. We also get a little added bit where Zoro smirks after remembering Kiku's earlier insistence that she's a samurai, so it's less of a 'he doesn't give a shit' and more 'he wants to see what Kiku's skill is' or something.

* Luffy vs. Urashima is prolonged a bit in here, obviously. Not as entertaining as fighting Hawkins or even Batman, but okay, sure. Lots of grunting and growling in this one. Urashima cheats a bit more, Luffy has to use Armament Haki at one point... really don't think Urashima's someone that you should bother using hardening on, Luffy. * The kabuki-style delivery of "I'm going to be the king of pirates" is very well done. * Poor Tama! Holdem's a jackass. * We actually get to see Urashima crashing into Holdem's house, in yet another obvious 'hey, anime team, this is something for you to animate' scene from the manga. * Law gets an extended scene with seeing the sick Bepo, including a Room/Scan showcase and Bepo looking cute and Law being unable to keep being angry at him.

* The fight against the pirates and samurai in Bakura Town gets extended a fair bit in this episode. Luffy throws Nidai Kitetsu's scabbard around again, repeating the thing he did before. * This episode noticeably has a bunch of brief flashbacks to previous episodes. Anime episodes do this all the time to easily eat up like, ten or fifteen seconds of runtime. But I felt this one was particularly noticeable since it's to the previous episode which we already had a recap segment of before the episode begun. * Ball-de-boo!

* We get an adorable crayon drawing memory when Luffy remembers Zunisha one-shotting Jack's fleet. * Luffy and Zoro's synchronized neck-crick is pretty fun. Also fun is their super-speed when they simultaneously rescue Tama and steal the food barge. The question is, where is this super-speed when they were bamboozled by Batman and Gazelleman? * Unlike the anime, Holdem is able to turn his sword into a flaming segmented sword. It's like Zabimaru from Bleach, but on fire! * We get an extra scene of a random goon holding Kiku hostage and Zoro locking eyes with her and saying "I'm not going to help you", knowing full well she's pretending to be a damsel in distress. * Speed also gets to do something here! She gets to shoot Armament Haki'd arrows at Zoro and Kiku! In the manga she doesn't do anything while this is happening. * REDDO HAAAAAWK! * God damn that's a very satisfying Red Hawk. Such a pretty-looking one! This was the scene that a friend showed me that got me excited to sit down and watch the Wano arc in anime format. From Holdem shooting a lion's fire (how does that work?) and engulfing Luffy, to Tama's yelling, to the zoom-in to Luffy's angry eyes, to the orb of flame dissipating, the zoom-in to Luffy's angry face, the impact, the music... it's just Luffy beating up Holdem, who means jack-all in the grand scheme of things, but what a badass Red Hawk.

And I think that's a neat place to stop off, with the initial Hawkins-Urashima-Holdem opening prologue to Wano done with. I'm not sure how often I'll update this little watch-along series, but I certainly am enjoying myself!

[thehoneybuzz]

Chasing Baker

My Nana was my greatest adversary.

In an otherwise charmed life, Nana was an immovable force and the only legitimate challenger to my willpower. Not without the warmth one would expect from a grandmother, Nana could be sharp - like a sun-warmed pane of glass. Lesser hearts might have bent to me when I requested accommodation - but not Nana. Nana set a firm bedtime, insisted on efficient tooth brushing, and rather than negotiate with hair tangles, made short work of them in single, swift wrenches when brushing your hair. No nonsense. When you stayed with her - in one of two twin beds in a room made precisely for grandchildren - you often found yourself in bed with the lights out, with no real memory of having gotten there, swept away in the tide of your sheets. Nana was uncompromising, and no arena was more suited to our mutual stubbornness as the dinner table.

I grew up a notoriously picky eater. After a weekend at my Uncle Jerry's, my mom received a hardcover copy of "The Strong-Willed Child" from him as a gift. He had spanked me for not eating chicken nuggets. As evident by its title, the book was meant to coach my mother on parenting strategies for mitigating my innate obstinance. This would not be the only copy of the book my mother received. Though, I think she could have written one by the time I turned 4. I simply refused to eat the things I didn't like, and that was a long list.

A relative once applauded - clapped his hands together in joy- upon learning that I had graduated from having the crusts cut off my bread to full-blown sandwich eating. The peanut butter and honey sandwich was my signature dish and an absolute staple. I'd like to say I've grown out of it - and I've certainly grown having tried llama steak in Peru, lamb heart at the table of a Lebanese family, and Greenland shark in an Icelandic cafe - but it took me a long time to let go of my habits and permit myself to try, and it took some coaxing. My preferences ran deep.

My diet from ages six through eleven included Eggo waffles, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, an assortment of cereals, a handful of specific fruits and vegetables, and the occasional steak when mom thought my iron was low. My mom - on the advice of a pediatrician who told her that if she force-fed me, I'd develop an eating disorder - catered to this preference. Nana did not. They must have been seeing different pediatricians.

Nana took the clear your plate approach - The approach driven by reward and consequence. Finish your plate, cookies delivered. Fail to try, become hungry and hungrier still as dessert passes you by. I took to swallowing food whole, and my mom took to sending me with granola bars on visitations. She'd line the interior of my suitcase like we were smuggling drugs. I'll admit it was an unusual form of contraband, but the measure seemed necessary in a divorced child's duplicitous world. What my mom saw as nourishment, my Dad might see as undermined parenting strategy even under the best of circumstances - which they often weren't. I was hungry, so decided it best to keep things a secret and wrappers out of the trash.

Despite Nana's apparent best efforts, I avoided the eating disorder. Thanks to my mom, I avoided most foods until my early 20s. I don't know who was right. What I know for certain is that I was loved.

When I sat down with Nana after my trip to Mt. Baker, she clutched her heart as she said. "Ally - to think about you as this little girl - and that you would only eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches - to think of you climbing mountains…" she shakes her head, "… well I just can't believe it."

I started to laugh and asked her, "Want to know the best part?"

She nodded, smile in her eyes, full of that sunny warmth - playful and kaleidoscopic.

"I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches up and down the side of that mountain, Nana," I told her, laughing, and then we laughed together. Growing up is fun, I thought, especially in moments like this.

Laughing with your grandmother is a gift you receive in exchange for time, and it is a beautiful gift indeed. Here is a woman who bathed you, clothed you, fed you - and by the time you're old enough to understand the magnitude of the life she held before all that, she is often gone. I'm lucky to have this time. Nana is 90 years old now, and my mother's mother passed at 74. I never got to have the conversations I wanted to have with my grandmother, who died. To ask her questions like, 'Who were you?' 'What lifetimes made up the love you gave so effortlessly away?'

There is something about mountain climbing that makes you consider those kinds of questions in real-time. There is something about mountain climbing that makes you feel as if you are in the process of 'becoming.' So when, at the parking lot of Grandy Creek Grocery, I met my fellow climbers and our guides - there was a feeling of anticipation and nervousness about who I'd be sharing that story with. Dropping me off, my mom described it like the first day of kindergarten. The first person I met was Sharon.

I had been worried about Sharon. Weeks before, on the pre-trip Zoom call, she stood out from the digital crowd as the most visibly senior person there. Sharon did not look old - she looked undoubtedly the oldest. I think this is an important distinction - particularly to Sharon. I remember thinking - "I hope she is not on my trip because I'm worried she will show me down." A very judgmental thought and the universe saw to its reckoning. Sharon surprised the hell out of me.

She paced the parking lot, and I jumped out of my rig to greet her. We quickly began commiserating. Baker would be her first mountain. I had Mount St. Helens under my belt, but it's not much in the way of experience. We talked about our training plan, recounting long drives to taller places. Sharon was from Wisconsin, and she had to drive 45 minutes to get to peaks at 3,000 - the same as me in Eastern Washington. We had a lot in common. Where I ran, she had been hiking with weight and jogging. Sharon wasn't afraid of hard work. On our drive to the trailhead, I learned that she had just lost 75 pounds last year. I learned later that when Sharon signed up for this climb, she hadn't told anyone in her family she was doing it. She was 62 years old and had never once traveled alone. What on earth possessed her to climb a mountain? I'd be afraid of that question, too.

Sharon eventually fessed up to her family and made the trip official. That's how we found ourselves on the side of a mountain together. I'm embarrassed to have been so fundamentally wrong - but my confession is not without meaning, and I learned an important lesson. Never underestimate a Sharon.

When Melissa, our guide, described Mt. Baker for the first time, she called it by its indigenous name, Komo Kulshan. She then gave us its epithet - "The Great White Watcher." Having now met Kulshan face to face, I can tell you that's precisely how he feels. The summit looms as you navigate through the trees. Stoic in the face of the wilderness that surrounds him. Ice cold, he waits. In the Lummi language, he's called 'white sentinel.' He is persistent, vigilant, and watching.

I focused my nervous energy on preparing to meet this mountain by learning what I could about him. I learned that Mt. Baker is 10,781 feet tall, an active volcano, and the second most glaciated mountain in the continental united states (Rainier's got it beat, and you don't count Alaska). It's a formidable mountain, known - as nearly all alpine environments are - for its quickly changing conditions and the perils of its geology. This all, somehow, frightened me less than the thought of meeting Melissa Arnot-Reid. Her legend loomed not in the Cascades - where only a single peak resides above the threshold of 14,000 feet by which the Rockies measure their formidable "fourteeners." Melissa's legend loomed as large as Everest, on who's summit she has been six times - the only American woman to summit without the use of supplemental oxygen and survive. 29,032 feet. Melissa was someone I wanted to learn from, and I was scared shitless of her by reputation.

Suffering a bit of social awkwardness around celebrities, I prepared to meet Melissa by seeking to learn nothing about her at all. The antithesis of my mountain strategy - I told myself our experience would be what it was when we met on the mountain. My job was to learn - to ask my questions courageously - and be vulnerable and bold in seeking truth. I spent a fair bit of time wondering if she might be an ass hole, too. The age-old adage, "don't meet your heroes," drifted in and out of my mind.

In the last 15 minutes of our drive to Grandy's, my mom started reading Melissa's Wikipedia page aloud to me as I navigated the road, undoing months of my concerted preparation. I let her continue, greedy for information. "It says she trains by depriving herself of things - that she'll go without food and water."

"Probably a good idea if you're ever going to be stuck on the side of a mountain without it," I told her. I braced myself for a response. In the past few months, my mother had a growing sensitivity around topics that might suggest I could die on the side of a mountain. Admitting, so blatantly, that mountain climbing was a dangerous sport left me vulnerable to excessive mothering accompanied by exclamations of "Don't you dare!" Instead, my mom sort of nodded and continued, "I'm surprised her baby came out healthy."

My brow furrowed. I hated my mother for saying it. I had avoided a lecture from the mother of the mountaineer but failed to account for the mother of the daughter aged-almost-thirty. My uterus is a topic of conversation around my mother's table. Apparently, so was Melissas. Not wanting to discuss either, I let my mother's comment go unchecked as she continued to list accomplishments. "This article says she's focused on business, not emotions. That she is an incredible problem-solver." Now her reports felt more like cheating - it felt like an unfair advantage to meet someone armed with publicly available information about them. When you Google "Allyson Tanzer," you won't find much about my disposition under pressure. I told my mom it was time to focus and turned up the music.

When we parked, and I went to introduce myself to Melissa, three things happened. As I introduced myself, she first quickly let me know that she would not be giving out hugs due to the pandemic. Then, taking my hand in a firm grip, Melissa detailed that she and our other guide, Adrienne, had critical guide business to discuss and would be with us in a moment. She reported being thrilled to be meeting us as she quickly dropped my hand. Within thirty seconds, I was apologizing profusely and backing my way into the grocery. What can I say - first time formally climbing mountains, and I wasn't sure of the protocol. I fiddled with a bag of Cheetohs and continued to hope that she wasn't just an ass hole.

I went to the bathroom for something to do and remembered what my mother said. Task-oriented. I figured Melissa probably didn't hate me, after all. Despite my earlier misgivings, I was grateful to know a bit about her character, regardless of how 'honestly' that information was obtained. Thanks, Mom.

Our climb began. We left Grandy's in a caravan and parked near 3000' at the winter routes trailhead. On the first day, you ascend to 6000' and establish camp. You carry about 40 pounds, walking 1 mile and about 1000 vertical feet per hour, stopping for 15-minute breaks in those intervals. Conditions are warm, which means you're doing something the mountaineers call "post-holing" - ramming deep holes (as if for a fence post) into the ground as you step through snow that's washed out underneath. It's slow-going and rigorous. An hour and a half in, Melissa reports that we're standing in the location where she usually takes the first break. Unseasonably warm weather with a heavy snow accumulation has made for an exciting start.

You walk along a canyon ridge formed by a retreating glacier. You realize that time here is not measured in the same cadence that it's known to you. Mountains measure time in millennium, not decades. The formations of rock are carved by years, not minutes. The ground holds a history you can't conceive of - an ancient history of rock and ice. You are constantly struck by feeling small both physically and in your very chronology. I spent the first day happily in awe.

At camp, you maintain - guides (and playfully designated junior guides), boil snow, establish a base, dig a toilet. You assess whether or not you need to poop in a bag and carry it down the mountain with you as you try - for the first time - a rehydrated meal claiming to be chili Mac and cheese. Melissa teaches us how to walk on rope over a glacier. I try to mimic her knots. She redefines your concept of efficiency - breathlessly describing a packing order that accounts for calorie intake, warmth requirements and weight distribution - Every contingency considered. When I win the Ice Ax Rodeo by landing my thrown ax in a particular configuration - all is right in the world. Melissa is a drill sergeant giving instruction. She outlines the next minute - next five minutes - next hour - next day.

Her matter-of-fact nature reminds me of something. When I gave my parents a ride in an airplane for the first time with me as the pilot in command, I provided them near the same briefing as we were parked on the ramp. It ended dramatically with, "And if anything should happen, you have to exit the aircraft first in the following fashion." At which point I launched myself from the plane. I wanted them to be prepared to fight their instincts to protect me. I’m the only pilot on board - and my job is to protect my passengers, no exceptions. They both described a sense of foreboding and peace at the demonstration. It’s precisely how I felt when Melissa explained how she would be rescuing herself from a crevasse. “If you fall, I get you out. If I fall, I get myself out, but I need your help as an anchor to do so.” She took the approach of coaching us in only what we needed for the next challenge. We would learn crevasse rescue on a need to know basis. At Grandy’s, she told us to expect 48 hours of endurance. At camp, we’re at hour 9. She painted a picture of the following day.

"We'll begin between 11, and 2 am. Expect switchbacks up the glacier, a series of flats, and gains over the next hour. In 3.5 miles, we'll gain an additional 2000 feet - meandering a path through the glacier's crevasses, and it will gradually become steeper over time. About 1.5 miles to the summit, we'll hit the Easton glacier culminating in the Roman Wall. Then, because God has a sense of humor, you have a long flat walk to the summit after the steepest portion. All said it will take us between 5-7 hours to the top."

Frankly, it was just about as simple as that.

My eyes opened at 11:50 pm to the sound of movement outside the tent. Melissa had coached us here, too. "You may not be sleeping," she told us as we readied for 'lights out.' Days from the summer solstice, the sun burned brightly above us at 7 pm. "Remember that you don't need sleep; you need rest. That's what you're getting here at camp. You're horizontal; your feet are out of your boots. Close your eyes, and know you're getting what you need." Felt like a lie, but sure enough, with two hours of sleep, I couldn't describe myself as tired.

I did, however, feel cold. Chilly night temperatures had crept into our tent, and dressing for the day was arduous. I knew to keep my clothes in my sleeping bag. It was a trick I learned from a friend made trekking in the Andes for dressing in the cold. I knew to shorten my trekking poles while climbing, thanks to my guide on that same trek. I'd be leaving my trekking poles behind today, though. Ice axes only. We divide into rope teams. The race begins, but there's no starting pistol - only wind.

Fifteen minutes into our climb and we're struggling to find the rhythm. I'm still shaking the bleariness of the cold. The rope between climbers takes on an interesting dynamic. While it connects you to your fellow climber, it also isolates you from them. You have to maintain a certain distance away from one another while maintaining the same pace. It's a dance with crampons on in glacial ice - a delicate dance indeed - and it's where climbing feels like a team sport. You're all in it together.

Voices rang out in sequence like a game of telephone - one of our team would need to climb down. We said short goodbyes and waited as Adrienne (guide) descended with climber to camp. We were lucky - we hadn’t been climbing long which meant Adrienne could climb down and back to rejoin her rope. Guide redundancy is a safety net when groups of climbers work together.

Darkness continued. We continued. As you persist, darkness seems to persist along with you. In the first hour, it grows heavy. Your world begins and ends at the light of your headlamp, and that's where you find it—your rhythm. Crampons crunching, breath steady, and the gentle swish of your layers create a sort of timpani, a medley of percussion sounds. Clink, brush, crunch, and clink, brush, crunch, as ax bites ice, the movement of your clothes, and the toe of your boot kicks crampon into snow propelling you forward. There isn't much to think about in this grinding meditation. You're grounded in tugs from ahead or behind you as you march, slowly up. You can count steps, miles, feet of elevation - whatever keeps you moving. Whatever keeps you going up.

Moments before sunrise, we would lose another on our team. I listened to Melissa coach her. "What we're headed to is going to be harder than what we've just done. If how you are feeling is taking away from your ability to focus on your next step - I can only tell you that it's not going to get easier from here." That's when I saw the decision on her face. Another round of goodbyes - this one a bit more somber. She had worked so hard.

The decision to descend is a difficult one, but it’s one of the most important you can make. There are steep consequences to being in over your head in a place so remote. The summit is a siren, beware. Melissa - aware of the remaining teams intention to summit - advised us to plug our ears as she told the descending climber the Sherpa belief that a mountain won't let you summit for the first time if it likes you. Mountains bring you back. Further, she coached, the decision to go down can lift an entire team's chance of success if you feel you're a liability. Recognizing yourself and your limitations truthfully is a mountain in itself. That's the summit this person made in her decision to descend.

Like a good Agatha Christie novel, our list of characters dwindled. We added layers and continued - five of the original eight. Melissa was right, again. After we lost the second climber, our ascent became a proper climb. From that point forward, if anyone decided to turn around - we would all have to. There was only one remaining guide, and she had to protect all her climbers, no exceptions - me in the cockpit all over again.

She didn't show it, but 62-year-old Sharon was genuinely frightened. She had realized the same thing I did. If she didn't make it - no one would. Sharon kept climbing. Remember when I was worried she would slow me down?

When the sun starts to rise, everything begins to feel possible again. I don't mean to say that things were hopeless, just that with the sun comes energy and a sense of renewal. Color returns to the landscape, and you can begin to be able to measure your progress concretely. The mountain casts a shadow across the earth, stretching miles. You can't believe that you are contained within that shadow, on the face of such a giant who stands so impossibly tall. Melissa stood there, and I took her picture.

She had turned out to be not an ass hole at all. Where I sought to be her student, she aspired to teach - at once brilliant and kind. Her stride - her sport - a work of art. The precise art of what she calls slow, uphill walking. Her shadow and the shadow of the mountain impressed upon me the power of legends.

As the Roman Wall came into view - I knew we had it. We short rope in and make one last push. If Mt. Baker is a joke from God, the ending of the Roman Wall is its punchline.

Atop the incline awaits a long, easy walk to a haystack peak some few hundred yards in the distance. I was bubbling with emotion as my heart rate settled and the view became clear. There wasn't much difference between where we stood and where we were going. We dropped our packs, unroped, and ran up the summit. I was in tears.

Melissa broke her no-hugs-in-the-pandemic rule and celebrated us each in turn. I snapped countless photos and spent each frozen moment smiling. I pulled Melissa and Sharon in close. I had felt something on my heart and only needed a moment's bravery to share it.

I started awkwardly.

"I'd like to say something to you and Sharon," I muttered, barely audible over the wind, as I tugged on Melissa's sleeve. I grabbed Sharon's arm and pulled her in too. I don't remember the exact thing I said or the exact way in which I said it. I remember pausing to make sure I got it right and wondering for a long time if I managed to do so.

I told them that I had come to the mountain expecting to be impressed by one person. Melissa promised an impressive education - on which she delivered. She is of that rare quality - the kind who’s presence improves you. I came to Baker with that expectation, I confessed, I expected Melissa. I paused before telling Sharon, her gloved hand in mine, “You?” I laughed nervously. “I wasn’t expecting. A 62-year-old woman….” I nodded back to Melissa, “And you, the mother of a 3-year-old…” I didn’t want to get this wrong. “You are two people who our society labels and confines. Yet, here you are - on top of a mountain. I have to tell you….” I was choked up in earnest here and struggled to continue.

"It matters.” I said. “What you do matters. It matters to have an example of what is possible. Both of you have provided that example to me and women like me. Thank you." I sobbed. "I am so grateful for it and grateful for you." Melissa smothered me in her jacket as she embraced me, once again, in a hug. Pandemic be damned. My tears froze. While I expected a "There's no crying in mountaineering" a la Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own (it was a climb of mostly women, after all) the admonishment never came.

Sharon grabbed hold of me next and we shared the alpine view. Before I knew it, we were the last two on the summit. The wind howled a steady cheer. Celebrations concluded, it was time to leave. I stayed for just a moment longer, watching Sharon as she left. They don't make anything more beautiful than a mountain, and it's a view worth savoring. I descended, joyfully, to my team.

I didn't bury Jake up there. In Ashes to Ashes, I told the story of taking my old farm dog's remains to the top of my first volcano. He's not so much a good luck charm as he is an omen of protection. I don't need luck as much as I need safety, and he serves his duty well. Jake stayed with me through our descent to camp. I needed a little protection coming down off the Roman Wall, I thought. I wanted him close until we were off the glacier. He lays now at the foot of my tent—a very good place for a very good dog.

There's a natural mindfulness to climbing. I often find myself living in the present step - not thinking about the route that lies below. You forget in moments that the trip up is accompanied by an equally long and perilous journey down. From the summit, your journey is far from over. Yet, time flies by even as you stop to admire the steam vents. The rainbow that surrounds the sun refracts joy and color the same.

You reach camp, celebrate, pack up. Miles and thousands of feet remain even from there. That's when you realize it's ending and when I realized I didn't want it to end.

We spent the next few miles getting to know each other in earnest, savoring time and mountain views, chatting in the way of long-form hikers - about the nature of things and through storytelling. Melissa regaled us with vulnerable truths and comedic parables. We laughed. I kept sipping at the wells of knowledge around me, drinking in the moments. Laughter distracted from hunger, from wet feet, and from the dull and dim realization that all good things must come to an end. We made our way to the bottom of the mountain. Just like that - we say goodbye.

Sharon drove me back to Grandy's. We chitter like school girls - adrenaline and nostalgia collide in our post-climb delirium. We talk about the future. I realize that we are good friends. I am humbled by just how wrong a person can be to believe something about someone for no good reason.

Mom picks me up, and with her embrace my adventure is over. I’ve come full circle - safe and sound, parked in the lot of Grandy Creek Grocery.

Melissa found us there and knocked on our window.

"Your daughter is really special. The MOST special,” my hero and friend told my mom. Mom beamed with a special pride reserved exclusively for mothers of strong-willed daughters. I had been misreading things - the adventure had only just begun.

There are eight years between Melissa and I. I’m not sure I’ll be chasing Everest in that time, but I know I won’t be finished. I’ve got thirty-three years to catch Sharon at 62. In the mountain blink of sixty-one years, I’ll be as old as my Nana and I hope at least half as wise. Good thing there are so many years - for there is so much left to climb.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 21 August 1838

4

9 10

slept very fairly – had had our little cup each of chocolate over at 4 ½ - we waited for Charles and Charles for us – some sort of dawdling .:. not off from Bouchero till 5 ¼ - followed the Gave thro’ the magnificent winding, wooded narrow rock-gorge of Ordēēssa –in about 10 minutes at the rude wood bridge where our poor landlady’s husband was drowned a year ago – fishing for trout – in the deep hole just below the bridge – in about ¾ hour or 50 minutes at the Pas des ours one straight narrow steep line of descent thro’ the wood from about 2/3 height of the mountain down to the Gave – ‘tis here and at one other place at the head of this valley that all the bear-hunters come – the trackers (traqueurs) driving the animals towards these places where the gentlemen shooters are posted ready – Charles on the look-out gave notice of the game – a large grey bear with a cub about 1/3 as big as herself were at the top of the Pas – our guides shouted – the bear and her cub betook themselves diagonally up the rock climbing like goats – we could trace them for some minutes till a thick clump of wood hid them – at that distance the old bear looked a large sheep with a big lamp after her, so nimbly did they go along the ledgy rock – said Charles the prince de la Moscawa spent 500fr. and could see nothing – we for nothing see all he wanted! – at 6 ½ a little hut in the wood, close (left) to the path - one of those roof-frames covered with boards and sods, set upon the ground – 20 or 30 yards before this hut we had passed the remains of a fire near the path-side – path, or road – a very good mule-road for Spain – much built up, and widened, and repaired of late – all the Spanish flocks (troupeaux) on the mountains hereabouts, and on those rented of France in the 2 valleys of Cannau de Lourdes and Place à combe, must travel by this road – It is in this fine woods of gorge d’Ordeessa, too, that the bouquetins are found – great deal of sapin (Spence fir) and beech, and some ash and broad leaved elm along the road – sapin beech the principal wood – spruce firs, fine, straight, thick boles 20 or 30 yards high never saw such fine ones before – at 6 40 (about 1 ½ hour from starting) at the end of Gorge d’Ordeessa, and turn right and enter the Sibilliŏna – the vale de Sibilliona, that is the mountain of that name a very large mountain the whole of the mountain on our right and forming the whole of this right side of the valley and up to the port being called Sibilliŏna – immediately on turning into this valley the cirque of the Vignemale came in sight – at 7 20 opposite Spanish cabane but far below us – in the bottom of the valley (left) – always under a large mass of rock forming the roof, and built up to where required, so as to be very little perceptible at a distance – 3 or 4 Spanish bergers and 2 dogs just outside the cabane and watching us as we alighted for ¼ hour to walk along the narrow track partly a [cornice] cut out of the dark bare calcareous rock tremendously precipitous on our left below, and above us – Remounted at

SH:7/ML/E/21/0173

at 7 35 and on coming within sight of the Spanish cabane that I had named Gollis on passing close by it to the Vignemale on the 7th, we left it at some distance (on our left) and turned to our right – direct up the hill towards the port de Pla d’aow – we had not gone more than 5 or 6 minutes up, when A- and I alighted at 8 10 and I would have Pierre go to the cabane for a Spanish berger for guide – Charles having only been this way once, and Pierre never – I wanted to pass the cabane as we had done on the 7th and thought we were now going out of our way – they said the horses could not go the way we had gone – I left A- and Charles sitting on the hill-side, and climbed up the rock that formed a high ridge on the hill-side and shut us out from the part of the valley below where the cabane – Pierre and the Spanish berger were with us in 10 minutes (at 8 20) – Pierre came to help me on the rock and the berger went to A- and Charles and the horses and led them up by the little scarcely visible zigzag track up the mountain towards Pierre and me who met them well on towards to the plateau near the top of the port where I remounted at 9 5 – our berger was apparently still in his teens – he had a dark-brown stocking in his hand in progress of knitting – I just took hold of it to look at the goodness of the knitting and wished him to go up to A- to let her see it – he declined this – Pierre thinking he did not understand me, just took him gently by the shoulder to turn him towards A- the poor lad took fright, and would go no further tho’ he had agree to go to the top of the port and a little way on the other side for 2/. – Luckily we could now fend for ourselves – Charles was for giving him only ./50 – however I gave him a fr. for the 50 minutes he had been with us (from 8 20 to 9 10) and we set off again – at 10 5 at the place where we breakfasted on the 7th – at 10 8 at the summit of the Port de Pla d’Aow looking down into the Canau de Lourdes – it is the round-topped white rocky end of the mountain at the bottom end of this canau (left) that is called the rocher de Lourdes – the mountain (as we look down) forming the right of the Canau de Lourdes separates it from the Plāne à combe and rises into a high mass at the crête forming there the separating between the port de Pla d’ Aow and the port du lac de la Bernatoire – this excursion had furnished no good sufficient view of the Spanish side of the Vignemale – the best was on entering the valley of the Sibilliŏna at 6 40 or a minute or 2 after this – when the cirque or great part of it was in sight, and the upper part of the snow by which we mounted to the crête along which we climbed to the 1st and lower pic – but the higher pic was not seen – we could see, too, in part the high plateau or bandeau as it were, along which we went to the 1st climbing place but the projection of these 3 pinnacle-like rocks high the large circular [?] or amphitheatre of debris and shingle into which we descended and by which we approached the snow – For a sufficient view of the Spanish side of V- nothing to be done but pass the Port de Pla d’aow and ascend the mountains on the opposite side the valley towards Penticouse I cannot quite understand our route back on the 7th – how after the 1st snow (they called it the glacier) we got so immediately to all the snow we had gone along in the ascent – never ascend any high mountain again with a compass and telescope – very cold at the top of the port today – so came down a little wagon the French side (leaving all sight of the fine Spanish valleys and magnificent hoary Penticouse mountains) and sat down just beneath the wind – a little sun made us comfortable and we sat 20 minutes – turning our backs to the port, and looking towards Mt. Perdu (rather on our right) Pic de Sêcris en face, and behind it, and to the right, les tours du Marboré and chain of Marboré to the pic d’Astazou, Mt. P- peeping over this chain, like a little hay-cock (snow on the north side – seemed on about ½ the little cone) about 1/3 of the distance from the 1st tour behind the pic de Sêcris – (i.e. dividing the whole line seen of Marboré into 3, Mt. P- appeared to beat o) to the left of the Pic de Sêcris the 1st point is Mt. Ferrant de l’Estaubé and the port vieux jusqu’au sommet de la Cêde – then starts up in front Piméné – then to the left of this les Aiguillons and the cirque de Héas – the chateau as I call it very fine is the Pic de Aiguillons – worth going again to the port de Pla d’Aow to see again this view of the Pie des Aiguillons – it brought to my mind the tower of Babel – Le pic Long and under it Stibé mâlé (Steeba māhlăh) and the [Bugaredde] closes the distant range to the left – opposite to us (looking direct north into the vale d’Ossōnne) is the big. round-faced, green-plateau topped Pic Blanc of our vale d’Ossōnne – Began the descent at 10 35 and at the cabane de Saoussa[t]s-Dabats at 12 10 – 2 or 3 of the bergers saw us coming and came to us – very fine sunny clean day – cold as it was on the top of the port, hot in the valley – A- had a little cold milk and a couple of St. Sauveur biscuits, but I wanted and had boiled milk and a couple of biscuits – having immediately on our arrival gone down to the gave to a big rock for shelter and had a large motion I have wanted to alight as we left the valley d’Ordeessa but A- bade me not give away to it but ride one – the guides had pâte – A- and I lay down – she at 1st just outside the cabin then at a greater distance – I remained leaning against the little calf-fold gate and slumbering till off from the cabane at 1 ¾ - at 2 40 passed the little wood bridge leading to Gavarnie and we went forwards to Gèdre – at 3 10 cross the wood bridge of Barillas (pronounced Barillyas) leaving close left the little neat hamlet of this name, and alighted at Gèdre chez Palasset at 3 ¾ - the horses had oats, and the guides a little wine – A- and I sat talking to Palasset in his little cabinet de minéralogie and shop – he very civil – but would not be caution for any other étranger – had lost 36fr. by being caution for a lady – on going to the douane the Receveur not at home – the other 2 men would willingly have let me keep the acquit à caution for another time but Palasset came and said they ought to take it now we were returned – he was in a fright for his caution (bond) he and Charles bound for 1200/. and wanted to rid of it – eh! bien – I merely said il avait raison – and determined to trouble him no more – did not happen to observe the hour – home at 6 40 in 20 minutes as A- said from the Pont de Sia - A- took her bath, and dined in bed – I dined at 7 10 to about 8 ¼ - then 10 minutes with A- very fine day – F70° at 8 50 pm

[thebadgerclan]

The Fourth Champion-Chapter 6

Pairing” Cedric Diggory x reader x Harry Potter

Chapter Summary: The First Task...

A/N: This chapter has the plot twist, muahaha XD

The morning of the first task dawned, warm and sunny, not a cloud in the sky.  You entered the Great Hall, wearing Cedric’s quidditch jersey and Harry’s Gryffindor scarf.  Cedric was at the Hufflepuff table eating breakfast, as if he were only heading to Transfiguration next.  You sat next to him, putting an arm around him.  “Good morning, love,” he said, kissing your cheek.  “How’s Harry?”  “He’s alright, nervous, but alright. I had an elf bring him some toast.”  “Good.”  “Ced, I’m nervous for you two.”  “I know you are, love, but we’ll be fine.  They won’t let us be too badly harmed.”

“Mister Diggory!” Professor Sprout approached the table.  “You’re to fetch Harry and head down to the stadium!”  “I will, thank you professor.”  He took your hand and walked to Gryffindor Tower, giving the Fat Lady the password.   It had taken some time for Harry to convince her to let you and Cedric in, but she’d finally relented.  “Cub?  It’s time to go.”  Harry was pacing the room, muttering under his breath.  “Huh?  Oh, okay.”  You pulled him into your arms, kissing him softly.  “You've got this, love.”

The three of you walked down the grass in silence, squeezing each other’s hands occasionally.  When you arrived at the tent, you paused.  “Look at me, both of you.”  Cedric and Harry did so, their attention wholly on you.  “You can do this.  I know you can.  Cedric, you were born for this, my love, Harry, I know you’re scared, but you are ready.  I love you both so much.”  You pulled them into yours arms.  “Be safe.”  You kissed Cedric, then Harry, and found a seat in the stands.  Hermione soon joined you, followed by Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny.  “They ready?” she asked, adjusting her hat.

“Seem to be.  Harry’s really nervous, but then again, who wouldn’t be.”  Ron was staring at the rocks before him.  “Look at me, Ron.”  The tone of your voice made him obey, and the look in your eyes was angry and vengeful.  “I don’t know what the hell you think, and frankly, I don’t care.  But Harry did not put his name in that goblet, and let me tell you, the fact that his best friend didn’t believe him tore him apart.  He has me and Ced, but he needs his best friend too.”  Before he could respond, Dumbledore entered the tent reserved for teachers and Ministry officials.

“Our champions will soon emerge to face the First Task!  Now, each of them has chosen a model of a dragon which they will have to get past to obtain their golden egg, without which, they cannot proceed.  At the sound of the canon, Cedric Diggory, representing Hogwarts, will face his dragon, followed by  Fleur  Delacour, representing Beauxbatons, Viktor Krum, representing Durmstrang, and finally, Harry Potter, also representing Hogwarts!”

A loud boom sounded, and Cedric emerged from a hole in the rocks.  There wasn’t time for you to cheer, as the Swedish Short-Snout flew into the enclosure, as if lured there.  Cedric removed his wand from his pocket, calmly pointing it at a nearby rock.  It changed into a bounding labrador and the dragon set its sights on the dog.  Now distracted, Cedric sprinted for the egg, but the dragon had seen him.  It shot a jet of fire at him, and his scream could be heard from where you sat.  

“Cedric!” you screamed before you could think.  One hand cupping his cheek, Cedric grabbed the egg with the other, holding it up in triumph.  Madame Pomfrey appeared and led him out, and Charlie Weasley along with three other men lured the dragon away.  “Cedric Diggory has retrieved his egg!  Taking into consideration the swiftness of completion, skills demonstrated, and damage sustained to the other eggs, the judges have awarded Mister Diggory 38 points!”  You cheered loudly, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

Fleur and Krum got past their dragons quickly, Fleur scoring only 20 points due to the simplicity of the charm used, and Krum scored 40.  Finally, Harry emerged, shaking slightly.  The Hungarian Horntail roared, shooting fire at him.  Harry dove behind a rock, panic on his face.  “Your wand, Harry!” you cried.  “Your wand!”  He drew his wand and cast, “Accio Firebolt!”  As he hid from the dragon, you could only hope and pray that this would work.  Then, Harry’s broom soared into the arena and Harry mounted it.  It was plain that he was using diversional quidditch tactics, and he scooped up the egg in minutes.

“Harry Potter has earned 40 points!”  You stood and ran to the tent, needing to see your boys.  When you entered, Cedric was holding a cloth to his face, Fleur’s skirt was singed, and Harry was bleeding.  “Y/N!”  You ran to Cedric, pressing a kiss to his lips.”  “I’m so proud of you!”  He smiled and pulled you onto his lap.  Madame Pomfrey was tending to Harry, Moody hobbling in.  “Let me see you, sonny,” he grunted, pushing past Madame Pomfrey.

“Professor!” she exclaimed.  “I am attending to this boy!”  “You can do that in a second!  Hmm, nasty cut ya got here, let me see.”  Harry yelped as something cold was pressed to his wounded skin.  “Nothing’ too serious, I reckon you’ll be fine.”  He hobbled out, Madame Pomfrey sighing.  “Well, then, ferula.  There we are.  Now you stay here for a bit, I’ll be back soon.”   Cedric stood, walking over and sitting next to Harry.  “I am so proud of you, Cub,” he said, kissing him.  “I knew you could do it, love,” you sat on his other side.  “Think there’ll be a party in the common room?”  “Definitely.”  You smiled.  “I’ll have to divide my time between the two of you!”  You kissed Harry, feeling him slacken in your arms.  “So, so proud of you, Hary.”

***

Meanwhile, Mad-Eye Moody walked to the edge of the grounds before Apparating.  He landed in Little Hangleton and entered the big house on the hill.  He ascended the stairs, entering the small room off the landing.  Bowing low before the chair, fear filled him.  “Well?” said a cold, high voice.  “My Lord,” Moody replied, presenting a vial containing a few drops of crimson fluid.  “I have it.”

[jeonsduck]

Messy

Incubus!San

Genre: Smut

Warnings: 18+ only, no minors. Dirty talk, oral sex, semi-public sex, cursing 

In your defense, it wasn't like San looked like a demon. Though you were quickly learning demons didn't look that different from humans anyway. Other than the forked tongue, horns, and cat-like tail, there was very little that marked San as 'demonic' physically. He didn't act much like a demon either, more like a very large child. He told you it was just a facade to attract prey (such as yourself). However, you suspected that his sunny disposition was just the default for him. But maybe the two week long barrage of intense wet dreams starring only San should have tipped you off. Especially considering, at the time you'd never even met San in person. But you put it down to it having been way to long since you last touched another human being in a romantic way, and decided to change that by going out. And maybe when the literal subject of your wet dreams appeared at the first bar you decided to hit up, that probably should have set off some warning bells. And maybe it did, but you ignored it becuase San was attractive and interested and well, San. And maybe there were other red flags, like the sharpness of his teeth, or the red glint in his eyes. (Or the sigil burned into the floor of his apartment, but it was dark and you were distracted, okay?) Whatever warnings you did or didn't miss didn't matter, because you still woke up in his bed the next day with his sigil carved into your hip. From that morning forward, your soul belonged to San. But not in a fire and brimstone kind of way, more like love bites and blowjobs. Anytime San got hungry (which was often), the sigil would glow red, and you'd start to feel his hunger. And it would keep building and building until he fed. In the beginning of your relationship, you'd been so freaked out you tried everything keep him at bay. But nothing worked. Not crosses, not exorcisms, not holy water, or even your threats to join seminary. "That would be kinky, but it wouldn't keep me away. I'm not that kind of demon." Theoretically, if you had ignored the pull long enough, the urges would have kept mounting leaving you completely insatiable and eventually insane. Ah, the old 'fuck or die', a true classic. So with no more ideas on how to get rid of San and a nearly constant need to get railed, you gave up and tried to make the best of your new position in life. "Look at it this way." San explained after he'd popped in for a 'snack' one afternoon. "It could be worse. If I was a vampire you wouldn't be having nearly as much fun." Which was true. You liked having sex with San, becuase he was fucking good at fucking you. (He liked to boast that no mere human could compare to one of his kind, but whatever.) What you didn't enjoy so much, was San's timing. He didn't quite understand arbitrary human things like responsibilites, and prior engagements, and public decency.  Like today, when he decided he was absolutely starving in the middle of your history lecture. You felt the sigil heat up and gasped. Seriously? Right now? You sneakily slipped your phone out of your bag and shot him a text. (Whay a demon had a phone, you didn't know, but at least it was convenient for you.)

You: You've gotta be kidding. Right now?

San replied almost immediately, like he'd been waiting for you message.

Demon Boy: Yes, right now! I'm hungry! :(((

You sighed and rested your head against your desk, trying not to scream. Was it getting hot in here already?

You: You fed on Monday. Anyway, I'm in class right now, can't you wait, like, 45 minutes?

Demon Boy: No, I can't, and it's not like you'll fail if you miss one class. -_-

You groan as silently as you can. San never had been one for delayed gratification.

You: Not this class! The professor will skin me alive if I'm not here for roll call and the attendance question at the end.

San takes a few minutes to reply this time, typing and retyping his response. The need you're feeling doesn't let up though and you end up squeezing your thighs together for some kind of relief.

Demon Boy: Oh it's THAT class. >:[ Demon Boy:.... You just need to be there for roll call and a question???

You squint at your phone. You don't like that, sounding like San is planning something. Never a good sign.

You: ....yeah? Why?

Demon Boy: I have an idea ;p

You: What do you mean? You: San, what are you talking about?! You: San, answer me! You: CHOI SAN

The second your last text goes through there's a soft 'pop!' and a puff of black smoke and San is suddenly reclining in the seat next to you. Thank God, you sit at the back of the class where no one can see your demon boyfriend spontaneously generate.

"What are you doing here?!" You hiss as San looks around the lecture hall. "So this is college. Gross. I can't understand why humans put themselves through stuff like this. As if Hell isn't a real place. Shouldn't you at least be happy while you're on Earth?" he drawls.

"Can I help you or did you just come to sit in on my lecture? I thought you were hungry." You snap and San's eyes flash red.

"Oh I am. Starving honestly. You never feed me on time." San pouts, playing with the drawstring on your hoodie.

"No, you're utterly insatiable, so there's no such thing as on schedule." You reply and San giggles.

"You're right about that. Now, this professor... where's his office?" San asks, looking up from under his lashes at you.

"The history building, second floor. Room 234, but why-" your question is cut off by the feeling of being sucked through a tube and spun around a G-Force simulator. "Jesus Christ San, I thought I told you to warn me becore you do that." You griped, stumbling into him.

"Sorry. Is this the right office?" He asked, holding out an arm to steady  you. You looked up to see that San had transport the both of you into your shitty professor's office.

"San what exactly are you planning to do?" You ask, suddenly nervous. "You." When San answers you can see he's let the illusion that hides his demonic appearance slip. Red eyes, stubby horns, sharp teeth, and his tail lashing behind him.

"No, I mean in here." You venture, even as San hoists you into his arms. He carries you around the desk, setting you down on the professor's side. He kisses you before he answers, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, making you gasp. He takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth a little before pulling back to answer you. "We are going to make a mess. All over your professor's desk." He says, trailing kisses down your neck. You arch into them and simultaneously try to push him away becuase oh hell no, you are NOT failing this class because of San. "Nope, no no no. You wanna eat? Fine, fuck me in the quad for all I care, but not in this office." you say, finally succeeding in removing San from where he'd been sucking a mark onto you collar bone.

San looked up at you, red eyes nearly glowing. He scoffs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

"I promise, we won't get caught. You won't fail because of this. Anyway, you don't want to show up that asshole? You don't want to get back at him for degrading you and calling you an idiot in this office?" San reasoned, but he sounded pissed.

"San, are you... mad at my professor?" You ask, coking your head to the side.

San pouts, but hides his face in the crook of your neck before you can properly see it. He wraps his arm around your waist and huffs. You loop your hands around his neck to return the hug. "You're perfect. Who the fuck does he think he is, insulting you?" He mumbles into your neck and you can't help but chuckle at him.

"Aww, you care about me." You tease but San pulls back and looks you in the eyes.

"Of course I care about you. I chose you in the first place. Now, do you want to keep being sappy or can I eat now?" He says, eyeing you up like a buffet.

You laugh, pulling him back into your arms.

"Let's make a mess."

As always, San started off gentle. He kisses his way down your sternum, slowly removing your shirt and then unbuttoning your jeans. You lift your hips to help him slip the pants off of your legs. At the same time, he placed a kiss above you bellybutton, glancing up to catch your eyes. Whenever San fucked you because he was hungry, he wasn't much for foreplay. It wasn't necessary because you've spent the last fiteen or so minutes just as desperate as he is. He held your eyes as he peeled off your underwear, chuckling as you lifted your hips up for him again. He put one of your legs over his shoulder and placed a kiss on your knee. The other thigh he splayed his fingers across, pinning it to the desk and leaving finger shaped bruises behind. He held you legs apart as he pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, slowly trailing closer and closer to where you really wanted him. San tended to enjoy overwhelming you, making you come again and again until he was tired of seeing your face contorted in pleasure. This often meant that he took his 'feeding' quite literally. You whined when he first licked over your hole, hands flying to your mouth to keep yourself quiet, lest any of the faculty come to see what's going on. San chuckled, licking another long stripe over you. "Always so sensitive." He hummed before continuing to eat you out like a starving man. Even with your hands covering your mouth, a good portion of your whimpers and moans made it out, filling to room with muffled desperate noises. San quickly became bored with just making you squirm and writhe with his tongue. He wanted you to cum. He moved the hand that was holding your thigh down to slip a finger into you alongside his tongue. You squealed at the sudden intrusion, clenching in surprise and San finally came up for air. "You would think after  a while maybe you wouldn't be so tight, but you never cease to amaze, do you babe?" You nodded absently, your head thunking back against the desk. San,continued to lick around his finger before adding another and crooking them both up, looking for that spot that woild make you see stars. Either becuase he was a sex demon or becuase you'd done this so many times he hit it straight on, making your back arch up off of the desk. "Does that feel good baby? Hmm? Do you like that?" He asked, smirking as you struggled to answer him. "Yes! Nng, fuck yes that feels good Sannie."  You moaned in response. "That's good baby. Are you gonna cum for me?" He asked, now pumping his fingers into you at a rapid pace. You nodded again, not trusting your voice as you barreled towards your orgasm. San chuckled, reaching with his other hand to tweak at your nipple. The sigil on your hip was pulsating almost in time with San's fingers as he worked to get you off. "Gonna-, gonna cum!" You managed to squeak out before your orgasm hit you. San fingered you through it, right up until you grabbed his arm to make him stop. He inhaled deeply, absorbing the sexual energy your orgasm gave off. He wasn't sure what it was about you, but you made feeding so much more delicious. After one orgasm technically you could have stopped. In fact, San cumming didn't give him any more energy at all. However, being full didn't mean he was finished with you. He peppered kisses over your chest and torso as you recovered from your first orgasm, leaning up at the end to catch you lips with his. His kisses worked to relax and distract you, and you didn't even know  he'd taken his pants off until you feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. You looked up at him with a quirked eyebrow but he jsut kissed your chin and said, "We agreed on making a mess." You snorted and slid your legs farther apart to give San better access. He slid into you in one slow thrust, his face scrunched up in pleasure as you sighed beneath him. He wraps his fingers around your waist, his thumb rubbing over the sigil as it started to glow again. "You know what?" He said, pulling back slowly and thrusting shallowly so you could adjust. "Hmm?" You wondered absently. "I don't think I could ever get tired of this. You feel so good, wet and tight on my dick.... perfect." He mused, finally giving you a thrust with some actual force behind it. You gasped, smiling. You weren't sure you'd ever get tired of San fuckimg you either. He setna moderate but rough pace, punching breathy little 'ah, ah, ah's' out of your mouth on every stroke. You clawed at his back, trying to find something to hold onto as he fucked you up the desk. "My baby makes such pretty noises when we fuck." San hummed, lazily rolling his hips into you just so he could hear you beg him to go faster. "Faster? Like this?" He asked pushing your knees back and pounding into you like a... well like a demon. "Yes! Ah, yes, just like that! Don't stop!" You cried, no longer worried about someone walking in on you. "That's silly, why would I stop when my baby feels so good?" San mused, leaning down to lick over your nipple. You were getting close again, and warned San of your approaching orgasm. "Mm, go ahead if you want to, but I'm not going to stop just because you cum. I want to get off too." He simpers and you're so jealous of his ability to speak coherently while fucking you into next week. But San is getting close too unable to keep the even rythym he set up at the beggining, jackhammering into you in order to chase his own orgasm. You cum first, bak arching off of the desk and your head rolling back with your mouth open in an 'o' shape. San isn't to far behind you, your cleching hole pulling his orgasm out of him.  You get to take all of three seconds to catch your breathe before the door to the office starts to open. "What the fuck is going on in here?" your professor asks, but by the time he's got the door fully open and enters the room, you and San have disappeared in a puff of black smoke. You do leave behind a stack of test papers and lecture notes covered in sweat and cum.

"You.promise he didn't see us?" You ask, for the fifth time. San sighs, rolling his eyes at you. "I promise. Don't worry about him anymore, okay?"

As it turns out, San was right. You didn't have to worry about that professor ever again. When the university cancelled your class the next week, some snooping revealed that your teacher had been fired from his position, after supposedly becoming a nymphomaniac overnight, getting arrested for public indecency over the weekend, and then being admitted for treatment for his sudden and acute sex addiction. The multiple cum soaked test papers in his office didn't help his case.

Demon Boy: Want to grab a snack?

[davidehutchcraft]

Increased Garden Beds for Easy Upkeep

Elevated garden beds add brand-new steps to the experience of horticulture. Garden beds that we elevate above the ground offer the garden enthusiast with just a balcony a place to grow flowers or a veggie garden. They are perfect for the handicapped gardener, those struggling with arthritis, as well as the elderly as they can be elevated to a suitable level to make sure that bending over and kneeling will certainly not be necessary. Urban gardening is currently very popular these days as a result of food safety understanding, our monetary economic situation, as well as since we wish to be environmentally friendly. Just because you just have a garden location that is really tiny does not imply you can not use some tiny raised garden beds on a patio area, deck, or back veranda for some herbs, vegetables, blossoms, or decorative plants to delight in. Elevated garden beds are a good remedy for plant water drainage and also compacting of the dirt; plants will certainly expand much better as a result of these facts. Increased beds will certainly warm up quicker in the springtime and remain to remain warm longer in the loss which suggests you can have a longer growing season. Since these beds are sitting above the ground it allows the air to flow around the containers and also enables the sun to warm them up quicker. This will allot for earlier growing and quicker germination particularly in the colder climate areas. Some of the various other advantages of increased beds are: obtainable - much less flexing and also extending gives the gardener easy accessibility and makes maintaining as well as harvesting less of a task to execute; drain - since the soil is above the ground it will not end up being compacted during hefty rainfalls and will drain correctly in protecting against water-soaked dirt; soil material - the soil that is generally used is primarily manure, garden compost and dirt mixes rather than ground soil; look - raised beds typically make extremely decorative yards due to the fact that the gardener delights in keeping them. When horticulture in these beds just means you are growing your blossoms as well as veggies above the ground. You can create your own by constructing a wood structure with water drainage holes in all-time low and also fill it with your favorite organic dirt blend. Concrete blocks, blocks, or just about any kind of product strong enough to hold the yard bed as well as elevate it in the air can be used. Your restrictions will go as far as your imagination takes you as well as the location of area you need to work the garden. There are increased yard bed sets offered for purchase at some nurseries, house and yard facilities, or online. Friend growing is something to take into consideration when growing in your increased vegetable garden beds. Friend herbs and companion vegetables help in the control of insects and also will boost the health and wellness of the garden. For example some buddy plants for your tomatoes are onions, carrots, and also parsley while cabbage and also cauliflower require to be maintained away. Be sure to rotate your vegetables each year, if you planted tomatoes in the eco-friendly bed last year plant them into the red bed this year. This sort of growing will discourage pests and details vegetable pathogens that can stay in the dirt over wintertime as well as planting that exact same plant in that bed will certainly infect the plant. You will have fewer troubles with bugs gardening in raised yard beds. If you have had previous troubles with burrowing rodents, a cellular lining of chicken cable in all-time low of each will certainly remove them. Weed control is a lot easier deal with since you can walk around an increased bed without needing to flex over to take out, if you have any kind of weeds at all. These beds do not require the typical range between each row due to the fact that you are not mosting likely to walk in the bed to cultivate or gather. Vegetables can be spaced much sufficient apart to be able to prevent crowding but be close enough to color out any type of weeds. As soon as you have collaborated with increased garden beds for any of your horticulture whether it is a flower garden, herb garden, or veggie garden, you may not intend to have an in-ground yard once more because of exactly how very easy they are for reducing, maintaining, and harvesting. Your whole family members will delight in having some yard beds that are elevated above the ground including your kids. Actually, YOU appreciate an eco lawn if you do not wish to be a player in worldwide warming. Did you understand that running your mower for one hour releases the same discharges of running 40 cars and trucks for that same hour. Lawn mowers are in charge of 5% of destructive greenhouse gases in our environment. In addition, 13 million gallons of gas are splashed when people load their mowers. To place this right into point of view, this is a lot more oil than the Exxon Valdez spill. Since is scary. So what options do you have in order to attain an eco-friendly lawn? Male Power Your initial eco lawn choice is to utilize physical labor (or your partner's physical labor) and use a press reel mower. These mowers are the ones that have no engine but rather reduced lawn with a number of horizontal blades mounted on wheels. Your first idea may be that these mowers are really hard to make use of efficiently. The fact is they can be very lightweight as well as simple to take care of. They are peaceful too which is a huge plus when it comes to early morning mowers or when you have sleeping kids. I remember intending to shoot my next-door neighbors when they would certainly discharge up their mowers just as I had actually gotten my children down for a nap. Being reasonable though, these mowers are slower so it will certainly take you more time to mow your lawn. Mowing "experts" (that recognized there were such individuals) suggest that you make use of these mowers for lawns that are no larger than 6,500 square feet. You likewise require to mow a lot more often since reel mowers are bad with reducing high turfs as well as weeds. They are also not good if you have a lot of rocks and embeds your lawn. Sun Power An additional eco lawn option is to harness the power of the sun. These eco mowers expense regarding $700. You will certainly save 100% of your gas expenses which is a nice method to off-set the cost of the mower. It takes three days to charge the solar panel totally. By making the panel removable, you can store it in a sunny area and constantly prepare to go. If the panel is not billed, you can utilize electrical power to charge the mower battery. Free Power Equipment offers a solar powered lawn mower. Electric Mowers I am not really convinced that an electrical mower is extra environment-friendly than a gas mower however it is an alternative. If your electrical energy originates from a wind or solar resource after that I could think about an electric mower an eco mower. There are two kinds of electric mowers - corded and also cordless. If you are mosting likely to utilize a corded mower, after that your lawn must have to do with the dimension of a shipping stamp. Otherwise, a cordless mower is more appropriate. Mind Power An eco lawn is likewise possible by using ordinary old sound judgment. First off, mow much less regularly. Allow your lawn grow a little longer in between mowings. It is better for the health and wellness of your lawn and also the ecological benefits. Also, make use of lawn trimmings as compost to renew your lawn as well as avoid disintegration. You can put cuttings in a compost heap or around base of trees and also allow the nutrients to soak right into the dirt. Do not make use of a lawn sprinkler whatsoever however if you do, turn it off throughout wet durations. I can not tell you exactly how upset I obtain when I see sprinklers going off in the pouring rainfall. What a waste! Lastly, if you are going to grow a brand-new lawn, plant sluggish expanding turf. There is a household of grasses called fescue yards which expand slowly as well as are really sturdy. They expand lengthy origins that assists them reach much deeper water resources. This grass kind can handle complete sun to complete shade so they don't require fertilizer or extra watering to stay healthy.

[masterofthelivingforce]

Toss a coin to your Griffin

starter for @songbard​

Spring had always been Qui-Gon’s favourite season - late spring in particular, when summer was only just a whisper in your ear. The fields on both sides of the road were lush and fruitful, the wheat stalks swaying gently in the breeze, looking like a sea of green waves. 

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty, oh...” It wasn’t often that Qui-Gon would spontaneously sing, but the day was warm and sunny, causing the Witcher to be in a very good mood - and more importantly, there was no one on the road to judge him, so where was the harm?

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, a friend of humanity!”

The song was catchy as hell, and even if it had been written for another Witcher, Qui-Gon liked to sing it in the hope it’d bring him coin, too. He might be the Black Griffin, not the White Wolf, but he was still a friend of humanity, wasn’t he?

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty, oh…” Plow had long since accepted that warbling was just one of the many weird quirks of his rider, so the black gelding didn’t so much as twitch and ear at the (probably off-key) song. 

The horse did, however, twitch an ear when a much shriller sound covered the Witcher’s singing - a panicked, human scream coming somewhere from their left, that lasted barely a second before it abruptly cut off. 

(So much for a calm, relaxing day of riding.)

Qui-Gon immediately spurred Plow in the direction of the cry, urging him into a gallow through the green fields, hoping his horse wouldn’t trip into a rabbit hole and break a leg: there was a grove of trees up ahead, perfect spot for an ambush in the otherwise empty plains, and he was willing to bet that’s where trouble was.

(The Witcher couldn't in good conscience keep on as if nothing had happened. Maybe it was monster problems, maybe it was human problems, maybe it was something totally innocuous, a false alarm - but he couldn’t just leave. Friend of humanity, and all that.)

It was not a false alarm, it turned out.

Plow and Qui-Gon thundered into the grove of trees with no regard to stealth, the Witcher bringing his horse to a halt when he spotted four armed men surrounding a fifth. Judging by their clothes, the four were little more than a ragtag band of bandits, likely thriving on the loose presence of guards in the region - and the fifth, judging by his fine clothes and the lute on his back, was a very unlucky travelling bard.

The Witcher’s hand rose above his right shoulder, wrapping around the hilt of his steel sword. “Leave,” he ordered in his no-nonsense voice, frowning at the ruffians. He was aware of the picture a huge black horse and a huge armed Witcher cut, and he was not against using it to his advantage if it saved him the bother to fight.

Four poor-armoured highwaymen against a mounted Witcher? Surely they too recognized that their chances were null.

[chicagocryptid]

Would you be willing to do #88: I Dropped My Watch In An Open Grave, because that is a vivid image.

88.  I dropped my watch in an open grave, jumped in to get it, and while you were visiting your dead grandmother, you saw me climbing out of the grave

GraveDigger // Sal x Ash (WC:2219)

(omg a different pairing? on my blog??)

Warnings: None!!!

Even though Diane was buried in Jersey, and Henry wouldn't hear of moving her plot with them, Sal still made a point to visit the graveyard every few weeks. It was quiet there, and even though he wasn't actually near her grave, he still felt closer to her underneath the weeping willows and shady pines than he did at home. Sometimes he talked to her, about school and his dad and things she'd been missing. Usually though, he settled against the trunk of a tree, between the gnarled roots, and did homework, or read a book.

It was a sunny afternoon, but cold, which was Sal's favorite time to go. Every so often he crossed paths with a funeral, but for the most part, the cemetery was empty. Today was one of the more unlucky days, but he managed to skirt around the crowd without drawing any attention to himself, and settled under his favorite tree, an old and weathered looking willow, with branches so long they brushed the ground. From behind the tendrils, he watched the funeral for a while, and then lost himself in his copy of The Great Gatsby, a summer reading book he'd ended up harboring an affection for.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

He was unsure how long he'd been there, in the shelter of the tree, but when he looked up again, the procession was over, and the grave hands were shoveling dirt back into the hole. He stood, lazily and cursing his popping joints, and decided to take the long way back to the gate. The longer path would take him around the other side of the church, and if he timed it right, he could catch the sun dipping below the horizon. It was the only time he didn't hate Nockfell, when it was bathed in that purple-yellow light.

His steps in the soft dirt were slow and light, and he swung his arms some as he walked. Maybe it was this that caused his book to slip from his fingers and land in the grass, where it bounced a little and then slid into an open grave. Sal swore under his breath, and sidled up to the edge of the ditch, looking at his book, the size of a postcard, seven feet below him. He considered leaving it there - the grounds keepers would retrieve it, and he could ask for it the next time he came. But the idea of letting it sit in the dirt didn't feel right, and with a resolved sigh, he knelt on the edge of the pit, put his legs over the side, and lowered himself in.

The dirt smelled rich and wet, and it immediately overwhelmed him. He didn't want to think about his mother, in her own ditch, smelling of worms and rain. And he certainly didn't want to think of himself that way either. He shivered, the sudden inclination of being buried alive leaving him chilled, and snatched the book from the ground fast, as though someone else might grab it before him.

He would need both hands to climb back to the surface, and at first tried tucking the book in the waistband of his jeans. There were a lot of reasons this didn't work, so he tried instead to toss it onto the grass. He succeeded after the second attempt, and then reached up to dig his fingernails into what little of the grass he could reach. He had been so busy jamming the toes of his shoes into the walls of the grave, and desperately grasping at the grass above him, that he didn't realize someone else had joined him until they screamed. He was only half way out of the hole, and the sound startled him so much that he released the ground and slipped back into the grave, landing hard on his back.

Sal groaned in pain, and it echoed around him. It didn't help the eerie feeling he'd been trying to escape before, and now that his temple was throbbing, he started to feel a little panic. If he had a concussion, there was no way he'd be able to get out of here alone. He reached up to touch his face. At least he would die with his prosthetic in tact.

But there has been another person, right? Feebly, Sal called out. He waited a few seconds, but couldn't hear any Footsteps. So he called again. This time, after a pause, a face appeared at the edge of the grave. Backlit by the sun, in her high neck black lace dress, Sal thought for a moment she was death, finally coming to collect on a life that had escaped her long ago. But then her face twisted, the way someone suppressing a laugh's does, and she lifted her skirt to kneel on the ground beside the hole.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was melodic, a little raspy. Sal groaned again and made an effort to sit up, supporting himself on his palms, the earth around him spinning.

"I think so." He felt something wet on his temple, and pressed his fingers to it. When he pulled them away, they were dark with blood. She had seen, and terror mounted in her voice. When he looked up, the whispers of a smile had vanished.

"Oh my God, you're bleeding." She leaned forward, too far, and Sal jumped to his feet. It made his head throb more, but at least she had leaned back in her heels some. She reached out to him, a slender hand open, waiting for his. "Let me help you."

He hesitated, afraid he would pull her in with him, but took her offer and somehow they both ended up in the grass, a little damp, but otherwise okay. She stood, brushing herself off, and pulled Sal to his feet. Up close, she was even more beautiful. High cheek bones, a turned up mouth, fierce eyes. They were the color of clover and emerald, and he couldn't bear to look at them for more than a few seconds.

She was looking at him hard, taking him in. He didn't like the scrutiny, and instead surveyed the ground for his discarded novel. He could see it a few feet away, dirty but in one piece.

"Sorry I screamed," she said, when she had had her fill of watching. "I heard the book hit the ground and came over to check it out. I wasn't expecting a person to follow. And at first I want even sure if you were one because of the..." She stopped, her eyes flitting to his face, and then cleared her throat. "Anyway. Show me where you're bleeding."

She reached up to pull the mask away, and Sal jumped back, instinctively. Her hand dropped, and her mouth twisted, irritated.

I'm fine, really." A trickle of blood had started its long crawl down his face, warm and sticky. He flinched.

"Let me see it." She took another step forward, and he one back.

"No."

She folded her arms over her chest, her voice wry. "You might really be hurt, let me see."

"No! I'm good."

She lunged at him, surprisingly agile in her heels, and knocked him backwards into the grass. He was pinned beneath her, her knees on either of his biceps, holding him down. In spite of himself, he flushed, hot and uncomfortable.

She reached for the prosthetic again, and he turned his head. "You're going to make it worse!" He protested.

"Then hold still!"

She managed to get some kind of grip on it, and pulled it up a few inches, while Sal, still struggling, shouted "Don't!" He pulled an arm free, and was able to grasp one of her wrists. They both paused, breathing hard.

"Just let me make sure you're okay." Her voice was soft again, gentle. She had rested her free hand in the dirt next to his head, which left her leaning over him. Reluctantly, he let go of her wrist. She must have sensed his submission, because she moved backwards, unpinning his arm and giving him room to sit up.

He did, and reached behind him to unclip the straps holding the prosthetic in place. He's hesitated, and then pulled it away, his eyes closed.

She gasped.

Sal opened his eyes, ready for the look of horror he was sure would great him. But she was only looking at the cut on his head, and her face was full of worry, not disgust. She shifted on his lap, lifting the lace overlay of her dress and exposing the black fabric underneath. She bent low to take the fabric between her teeth, and Sal heard a ripping sound. When she straightened up, she pulled along the tear until she had a long strip, and then tore the strip from the dress. She looped it over her fingers, and pressed it carefully to Sal's temple.

It stung, and he flinched. "Sorry," she said, though she didn't entirely look it. She dabbed at the cut, her gaze intense and focused. He watched her, awestruck. And then he started talking.

"It was an accident."

"I didn't think you'd cut yourself on purpose."

"No, not that. The... Rest." She met his eye, briefly, and then looked away again.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I know." But he did, though he couldn't explain why. So he told her everything. About his mom, and the picnic, and the dog. And why he had been lurking about in the cemetery, climbing out of graves. She listened quietly, and kept dabbing, until the blood had seeped through the fabric, until he had stopped bleeding.

"I saw you come in," she said when she was done, holding the rag in her lap. She had been with the funeral, she explained, and a blue headed boy was harder to miss than he thought he was. "I wasn't ready to leave her here. Nonna. So I thought I'd walk around, check things out. Clear my head." Sal nodded, a bad idea, and pressed his palm to his forehead.

"Careful!" She pulled his hand away from his forehead, scolding. "You'll make yourself bleed again. Lucky for you it's just a small cut."

"A lot of blood for a small cut."

"Headwounds bleed more." She shrugged, and pressed the rag to his forehead one final time.

"You sure I'm gonna make it, Doc?"

She shrugged again, but smiled. "Nope." God, she was so pretty when she smiled. At the same time, they both seemed to remember that she was sitting in his lap. She hurried backwards, into the grass, and got to her feet, blushing. He did the same, picking up the prosthetic and preparing to strap of back on. She stopped him.

"Don't. You should let that breathe." She gestured to the cut. "And anyway, I like you better without it." He lowered the mask, tucking it under his arm, and then stepping around her to pick up his book. He tucked that under his arm too, and shuffled his feet. He didn't want to say goodbye.

"Thanks," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. She smiled wider.

"Anytime."

"See you around?" Sal hoped he didn't sound like he was begging.

"It's a small town," she answered. Coy.

"Be careful getting home." He waved, awkwardly, and turned in the opposite direction, back on the path towards the gate. He listened for her Footsteps behind him, but couldn't hear them. His own dragged in the dirt. He was maybe 40 yards away when he heard her voice calling after him.

"You owe me a new dress!" He turned back to where she been standing- He could still see her there, where he'd left her. The sun had started to lower itself behind the trees, so she was silhouetted against the medley of colors. Of all the sunsets, this one was his favorite.

"Who should I say it's for?!" He called back.

"The girl who saved my life!" He could hear her laugh being carried on the breeze, behind her words.

"Won't fit on the label!"

"Then Ash - Ashley Campbell!"

Ashley. The name dug its way into his brain, nested there. He said it aloud, once, let it sit on his tongue like honey.

He wasn't sure how to respond, to keep the banter going, to keep get engaged just a little while longer. He must have paused too long, because she called across to him again.

"Who will it say it's from?!"

"Sal!" And then, "Fisher!" Her laugh again, and she waved.

"Goodnight, Sal Fisher! I'll be expecting my replacement!"

"Goodnight, Ashley Campbell! I'll make sure you get it soon!" She turned, and so did he, the smile on his face making his cheeks sore. He walked another twenty or thirty feet, and then stopped. He looked over his shoulder, to see if she was still waiting, but she was gone. No longer on the path, so he scanned the tree line, the rows of graves, but there was no trace of her. Maybe she had been a dream. Maybe she had been a ghost, he corrected. But either way, the way she'd said his name carried him all the way home.

[countesspetofi]

I thought I'd like to share with you this little story that my family used to read aloud every Christmas. It's got all the mid-century holiday anxieties: fear of overconsumerism, distrust/dislike of the younger generation, distrust of technology, war toys, "I am a human being: do not fold, spindle, or mutilate," fear of loss of individuality, and a general fondness for complaining. I've tried to preserve all the old-timey formatting choices.

But we always got a lot of laughs out of it, and certain lines have become stock phrases in our family jargon. Plus, it flashes me back to two of my former jobs, assembling furniture and technical writing. Consider it our gift to you this holiday season, and you don't even have to assemble it yourself.

MERRY CHRISTMAS IN TEN PIECES

by Robert Yoder

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he has a home near the North Pole, where it is colder than a bathroom floor. But don't believe that story about his having a lot of little dwarfs who put toys together for him, singing as they hammer. Nobody puts toys together, until Christmas Eve. Toys come in sixteen pieces, with one missing, and are put together by a large band of Involuntary Elves who call ourselves Santa's Press-Gang Helpers. We don't exactly sing, either, although a certain low, ominous murmur can be heard rising from a million homes on Christmas Eve. Put it this way, kid: that ain't no dwarf; that's your old man, beaten down. The luckless peon bought the toys; now he is learning that he has to finish manufacturing them, too, and by one A.M. his mood will make Scrooge seem like Sunny Ebenezer.

The first thing your frightened eye lights on, in the store, is a nice little red wagon, and you think, in your fatuous adult way, that this is just the thing to brighten the young heart. If you weren't partially paralyzed by the fear that you were shopping too late, you would realize that if the kid wants a wagon at all, it isn't this chaste little model. He would want one twice the size, with demountable tires, a ram-jet engine, electric lights, an overdrive and a windshield wiper, at $79.75. The kid next door has had one like that for two years and uses it only to haul his good toys in. Then you see the rocket-firing antiaircraft gun and realize that this is the answer. While it will not do bodily harm, and is therefore a partial bust to start with, it is a realistic-looking little number, and you buy it, at an exceedingly realistic price.

About the hour on Christmas Eve when you are in mild shock for fear the thing won't arrive, the delivery man stumbles in with a large package that can't be anything else. Will you put it under the tree that way? Or will you have it out in the open, so the child may see this splendid sight first thing in the morning? Full of Christmas sentiment, you decide to expose the gun to full, gladsome view. So you tear off the wrapping. Here is a dial, here is a leg, here is a muzzle. You thought it would look like the model in the store, did you? Well, Santa has a little surprise for you. It's in pieces, and you are going to have to put it together. Merry Christmas, in at least ten pieces.

There is a sheet or folder of directions which could not get under your skin worse if they were in Spanish. They are written in the special language of directions, a mechanical gobbledegook achieved by writing the directions first in Ruthenian and then allowing the translation to curdle. A stop sign from the same mumbling pen would take 200 words. In the language of directions, "Close the door" would read like this: "Grasp door-opening device with right knob grasper and exert pressure outward until Panel A fills Aperture B. If scream is heard, other hand may be caught in opening." Along with being as turgid as possible, the directions are printed in a miniature type face known as Myopia Old Style, which is two sizes smaller than pearl and is otherwise used only to print the Declaration of Independence on souvenir pennies. Well, lying there in pieces, the gun looks like nothing at all; it's got to be assembled. The first line you encounter in the directions says: "Using ring grasper from Assembly Kit, grasp collector ring near tube spar tightening guide rod"... but, thank heaven, that goes with some other toy. Your own directions start out more simply: "Connect round opening at end of Feeder Spring A with hooked end of trigger lock restraining bar by placing round opening over hook and pressing." What'd he think you'd do - spot-weld it? (The answer, unfortunately, is that he expects more than that, but not just yet.) Now the guy begins getting esoteric.

"If retaining mechanism fails to admit trigger, horizontal opening of drum impeding stopper should be widened horizontally." He means if the damned trigger won't go into the guard, you got to cut more room, and sure enough, it won't. This is going to be the only gun in the neighborhood with a demountable (falling out) trigger, unless you fix it. If retaining mechanism fails to admit what it's supposed to retain, then it should never have left the factory, but it's too late for that kind of recrimination now. Getting a hammer from the basement, a good paring knife and a screwdriver, you manage to make the trigger go where it should, with one very bad moment when you think you've split the thing.

Well, the barrel, H, slides into place nicely; maybe things are beginning to go your way. The next step is to fit Firing Platform Z on Tripod, the Tripod being made by inserting Metal-tipped Ends of Legs into Sockets, which is child's play. Now all it takes is two bolts, L and M, which you slip into place with great efficiency. They must be firmly in place, the directions say, or gun will not swivel on Platform Z; you might say, it won't swivel on any platform. A neat little bag contained the bolts, and in it you find the nut for bolt L But half an hour later you are still rummaging through wrapping paper in a grim search for the other nut, the crucial nut, the nut without which, as the Latins say, nothing. You may have 128 nuts of assorted sizes in a jar in the basement, but you will not have one that fits Bolt M. That is a freak size used nowhere else in the whole panoply of American industry. It is part of a shipment the toy manufacturer bought up from the Uruguayan War Assets Administration.

it is 11:45 by the time you manage to make the bolt hold with a piece of wire wrapped around it, and if the kid looks at that part, he will feel sure this toy is something the firemen repainted for the poor. Meanwhile the house is grown cold, three of the Christmas-tree lights have winked at you by burning out, and your cigarette has fallen out of the ash tray and burned a six-dollar hole in the carpet. But the gun is starting to look like a weapon, and there can't be much more - only a couple of odd-looking metal pieces are left and a cardboard circle marked "Cosmic Ray Computer Dial."

One of the pieces of metal is easy enough to use. It's the missing plug, for lack of which the barrel has had that tendency to point to the floor like the tail of a whipped hound. The other is the crank with which the young gunner moves the barrel to keep on his target. You tackle the easiest job first - the computer is nothing more than two sections of light cardboard. "Bending tabs A, C, E and G," the directions say, "fit them into Slots B, D, F and H." The cardboard is a special kind which is a stiff as metal for a minute and then relaxes completely as you push, so that in twenty minutes you have four dog-eared tabs holding one crumpled dial marked with a little blood from the finger you cut trying to enlarge the slots.

Now you reach the part of the directions that tell you to fix on the telescopic sight. The diagram shows a handsome metal gadget coming to a square end, fitted into a ring fastened neatly around the end of the barrel. The only piece of metal you have left, outside of the crank, is a cotter pin. Even if you had missing part R, you would have nothing like missing part Q which fits into it. You ransack the wrapping paper again, in what the novelists call cold fury, but with no luck. Finally, with great self-control you smooth the wrinkled directions and read that jargon over again out loud. It is then that you come across Step 2. "In assembling Model A-200 Junior, our second-rate cheaper model for pikers, Step 2 may be disregarded," the directions say. "No sight comes with this model. There is, however, a cotter pin. You can stick it on the barrel with adhesive tape and play like it's a sight. It ain't much, but neither are you."

There is one final step - mounting the crank. "Slip Directional Crank 16 through Arm Y into Slot EE," the directions say. "When in position, give crank one quarter turn counterclockwise. Trigger should then fall sharply back into firing position." This is simplicity itself, and the only trouble is that if the crank goes through Arm Y, it misses Slot EE by a good quarter of an inch. The bitter thoughts that arise on Christmas Eve about the sleepwalker who bored that slot must visibly affect the temperature.

But the direction writer thought about this impasse, forehanded soul that he is. "It may be necessary, for best results - meaning, to make the thing work at all - to enlarge aperture in Arm Y. This can be done quickly and easily by using a 16.3 metal file without tang, a 13-oz. dinging hammer, and some Australian canoe-builders' flux." This is equipment the ordinary household would be just as likely to have as a Javanese blow gun and a guroo bird, and you know, as your thoughts profane the early Christmas air, that the only 16.3 file in the world is one resting in the manufacturers plant 850.3 miles away across the snowy landscape. So you gouge out a new Slot EE four times the proper size, the crank falls into place, wobbling foolishly, and the task is done. If it holds together until Christmas afternoon you will be agreeably surprised, and a glance at the clock tells you that won't be long.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. If there weren't, ugly mobs of maddened parents would rove the streets Christmas Day armed with bolts, pins, wheels and axles, and some toy manufacturer would end up assembled on Movable Rail A wearing Tar B and Feathers C, after a slight going-over with No. 16 emery paper and a common hydraulic half-knurled center punch.

[unofferable-fic]

The Flower & The Serpent (Arthur Morgan x OFC)

Chapter 1 - Orphans from the East

Summary: In the early 1890s, the Van der Linde Gang were truly at their finest. Experts at stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, they've made a name for themselves across the West. Two of their newest recruits, a pair of rebellious Irish siblings with an unknown past, slowly find their footing and settle into their new lives as outlaws. And yet, as they grow older, threats from all sides begin to appear. A strained relationship with Colm O'Driscoll spells disaster for the gang, and no matter how far they roam across America, the world continues to change around them. If they want to survive, difficult choices must be made. No one is as they seem and the impending arrival of law and order threatens to tear the siblings, and everything they hold dear, apart. Is it too late for anyone to find a happy ending?

Originally posted by loga-boga

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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OFC

Warnings: Language, violence.

Word Count: 4,699

Next Chapter

Playlist: “Red Dead Redemption 2 Trailer Theme” — L’Orchestra Cinematique, “Blessed Are The Peacemakers” — Woody Jackson, “Old Dog” — The Scratch

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A/N: Also available on AO3. So I've been obsessing over the Red Dead series since December and decided to finally bite the bullet and write a fic about my favourite cowboys and gals. That being said, this bad boy is the result of smashing heads together with a friend of mine, who is also a writer and contributing just as much to the narrative and characters. So this is essentially a mutual creation of ours and we hope y'all enjoy some western shenanigans with some Irish patriotism sprinkled on top. This is my first attempt at anything Red Dead related, so hopefully it isn't a steaming pile of trash! Any thoughts at all, comments are always welcome.

“What the hell is this?”

Arthur Morgan had found himself in many sticky situations in his short life, but standing with his revolver pointed at a pair of kids was definitely a new one.

Well, they were pointing their own guns right back at him, so it wasn’t exactly a situation that required basic manners.

“Looks like they got to our take first,” Dutch replied in disbelief from his spot between the two parties. Their agitated mounts continuously shuffled on their hooves, neighing restlessly as each rider did their best to focus on the newest threat before them. “Hold on a minute there, son—”

“Who are you lot?” the young boy demanded, with his revolver currently pointed directly at Dutch. Behind him, a girl had just finished shoving the much sought after contents of the stagecoach lockbox into a large bag. In her other hand was a gun pointed directly between Arthur’s eyes.

“You best drop that gun, you little shit!” a very wound up John Marston ordered. “Before I put a bullet in your head!”

The girl swiftly pointed her gun towards John, the threat apparently cutting deep. Despite her slight frame and obvious youth, her voice sounded confident from beneath her bandana. “Try it, greasy! I’ll take great pleasure in riddlin’ your fuck-ugly face!”

Of course, John was never one for staying calm. “You ain’t in charge here, little missy!”

“Marston!” Arthur cut in, seeing things spiralling quickly if they didn’t do something.  His furrowed brow was already covered in sweat beneath his hat. “Shut your damn mouth and take it easy!”

“No one needs to die here,” Hosea added, his voice surprisingly calm despite their current predicament. “We all need to relax.”

Dutch agreed and tried to take control of the situation as he always did. “My good friend here is right. How about lowerin’ your guns, fellers, and we can talk this out.”

The boy’s eyes flared on his mostly hidden face. “How about you get your monkeys to lower theirs first!”

While the insult barely fazed Arthur, John was a little more sensitive. “Shut your damn mouth!”

Well Jesus, this couldn’t possibly end well…

* * *

8th June, 1890, outside Waukesha, Wisconsin

Today is the day. Dutch wants me and Marston to scout out the road before the stagecoach comes through later this evening. It’ll be the kid’s first real try at a robbery like this, so Dutch thinks getting familiar with the area might help settle his nerves a little… I was against it at first, but he said we need the extra man if we’re going to deal with the Pinkerton escort afterwards.

As long as he keeps a cool head he should be fine, but he’s still not one for taking orders very well, even if he’s been with us for five years. Still young, dumb as shit, and eager to prove himself. I’m hoping he learns to listen though — Lord knows I’d hate to see anything happen to him.

* * *

“Grub’s up, folks! Grub’s up!”

Arthur closed over his journal at Pearson’s call. Glancing up to see the cook placing a steaming pot of stew over the fire, he returned the book to its spot on his bedside table. Morning had swiftly arrived at the camp, and most of the inhabitants were up and about already, attending to the many chores that needed doing. It was a clear and sunny day, with only a few fluffy white clouds littering the blue sky. The heat was somewhat intense despite the early hour and brought a light sheen of sweat to his forehead. This camp had been their home for some weeks now, and Arthur really didn’t mind. He quite liked it out here — he always preferred the open plains to dense cities. The cosy field where they now resided was situated on the bank of a river outside a small city called Waukesha. The surrounding lowlands were flat, open, and easy to traverse, but the gang was safely hidden from the nearest trail by a thick group of green trees. Though the region was home to some of Wisconsin’s largest cities, most of it was made up of farmland, so it was relatively easy for them to remain here without being noticed. He really hoped they could stay in these vast fields for some time. He could get used to travelling across the stretching green pastures atop Boadicea, and the first breath of fresh air he inhaled every morning bought a genuine smile to his face.

Arthur’s eyes flitted over the lightly dancing trees on the camp’s outskirts before looking to what had originally grabbed his attention. Though Pearson’s food was in dire need of some seasoning, his stomach rumbled at the prospects of a hot meal. He got to his feet, wiping some of his unruly hair out of his eyes, and went to get his share.

“Mornin’, Mr Morgan,” Susan greeted him as she grabbed a cup of coffee.

“Miss Grimshaw,” he replied with a nod, helping himself to a large bowl of stew.  “Mornin’.”

She took a seat on one of the nearby tables and urged him to join her.

With a shrug, he took a seat and set his bowl down. “Coffee good?”

“As always,” she said. “As long as it calms my nerves it’ll do.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?” he asked before taking a mouthful of stew and ignoring the mild bland taste.

“I seem to be more concerned with this stagecoach than you are!”

“You concerned about the coach, or the fact Marston will be near the coach?”

“He can be a headstrong little brat at times, but I’d rather not see him with a hole in his head.”

Miss Grimshaw shook her head in exasperation, but the gesture only brought a smirk to Arthur’s lips. She could be quite a harsh woman, especially when people lounged around and didn’t do their part in keeping everything running smoothly. Despite being the current flame of the ever flirtatious Dutch van der Linde, Susan Grimshaw refused to sit idly by and act like the lady of the manor. She was very much involved in ensuring that the camp remained a functioning unit. She was perfect for the role, probably because she could be positively terrifying if you didn’t help out.

“I’ll admit,” Arthur began, swallowing some food. “I wasn’t exactly happy ’bout the idea at first, but Dutch has faith in the little brat. And besides, he’s got me, Dutch, and Hosea lookin’ out for him. He’ll be fine as long as he does what we say.”

Susan eyed him carefully, but nodded, seemingly happy with his words. “As long as you do look out for him, Mr Morgan. You know how he can be — he reminds me a lot of you at that age.”

“Hey now! Don’t go comparin’ me to that fool—”

Miss Grimshaw cut across him with ease. “It is the reason you two get on so well, what with bein’ such like-minded individuals…”

Arthur finished his breakfast while she reeled off the many reasons why he and John were one and the same. Sometimes it as best just to keep his mouth shut, and this seemed like one such moment. His saving grace came when Dutch called him over to his tent.

“Mornin’, Dutch.”

“And a fine morning it is, son,” he replied with gusto and set down the book he had been reading. He offered Arthur a cigarette before taking one for himself. He lit the two, then continued on. “Hosea and Bessie took young John into town to get some supplies for tonight.”

“How’s he seem?” Arthur asked and took a drag.

“John? Seems fine to me. Maybe a little… let’s say, eager, to get goin’.”

“Still got faith in him?”

“O’course,” Dutch said, his voice firm. “We all gotta start somewhere, Arthur, you know that. He’s seventeen now, so it ain’t a bad age to get goin’. Heck, you did it even younger.”

He knew Dutch was right — there was no point letting John fester around camp doing nothing. They definitely didn’t need a second Uncle around the place, and Marston seemed keen to please… Or maybe he was just passionate about shooting something, who knew? It seemed that Dutch did though, and if there was someone whose opinion mattered, it was Dutch.

Arthur kept busy around the camp doing numerous chores while he waited for the trio to return. Chopping firewood and helping Pearson prepare their dinner for later at least meant that time flew by for him. He was playing fetch with Copper when John finally returned with Hosea and Bessie in tow. While the older couple went to check in with Dutch, Arthur and John mounted their horses and, with Copper running along side them, headed out down the road to the spot where they intended to rob the stagecoach.

“Why are we robbin’ it at this spot exactly?” Marston asked, scanning his eyes over the strip of dirt road.

“It’s the best distance outside town where a robbery won’t attract any attention,” Arthur explained, gently patting Boadicea. “The stagecoach is carryin’ bank transfers into Milwaukee, so you can bet that robbin’ it close to town would bring a whole heap of law on us. See that turn there?” He pointed off in the distance, tipping the brim of his hat to keep the shimmering sunlight out of his eyes. “It’s gonna come down that road there and loop this way. We’ll be waitin’ on this here ridge and hidden in some of the trees so that they don’t spot us.”

“What about them?” the younger boy asked. “They got any guns?”

“Four in total, if Hosea’s intel is right. So we should be able to take ’em out with the four of us. They’ll have a backup escort comin’ in from there, though.” He pointed up the road in the opposite direction. “’The bank in Milwaukee will be sendin’ out some of their own guns to meet the stagecoach just a little ways up the road, considerin’ this lil strip is so deserted. So we’re expectin’ maybe four more guns to show, which is why Dutch wants you involved. Once we rob the coach and the extra men arrive, there’ll be enough of us to take ’em out if needs be.”

“Sounds dangerous,” John mused, hanging on his every word.

Arthur let out a chuckle and proceeded to light himself a cigarette. “What, you scared, boy?”

“No! I ain’t scared, just bein’ honest about things.”

“You’ll do just fine,” the older man reassured him and offered him a cigarette. “You just need’a keep a cool head, and do as Dutch says. That’s how we make sure things go smoothly.” He paused to take a drag. “You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about if you do that.”

John nodded and puffed away to calm his nerves. “Thanks. I’m just glad that you’ll have my back, brother.”

“That’s what family is for,” Arthur responded with a small grin. He watched Copper as the dog sniffed along the roadside. “You’ll be fine.”

The two of them remained there for a few moments more as Arthur went over their plan of action in more detail. Though he knew how John could be, he was glad to see that he was eager to get to work. He hoped this wouldn’t make him over excited when the time came, but he thought back on what Dutch had said — he needed to put faith in his brother to do the job right. Thankfully, Marston had yet to give him a reason to doubt him so aggressively.

They returned to camp and waited out the rest of the day going over their plan with Hosea and Dutch. They had everything planned perfectly — it had to be, otherwise they could find themselves in a sticky situation once the Pinkerton escort arrived. Regardless, spirits were high at dinner time when Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, and young John mounted up and headed out to rob the stagecoach. They road through the fields in the late evening sun, avoiding the main road so that they wouldn’t be spotted ahead of time. The familiar buzz that came with performing robberies and the like was already stirring within Arthur’s chest. It was always risky business, but a part of him loved the thrill and feeling of power that came with these takes. Knowing that the money would be given to those who needed it most also gave him a nice sense of self-worth — it was one of the only things in his life that made him feel that way. He wasn’t a good man by any means, but he still tried to do some small bit of good where he could.

“And here we are,” Dutch announced from atop his horse as the group arrived at the waiting spot. He glanced at his pocket watch and nodded. “Right on time. Does everyone remember the plan?”

“O’course,” Arthur confirmed.

“Good. Now, cover your faces; we won’t be waitin’ too long for the stage to swing by.”

Arthur quickly pulled his bandana up to cover his mouth and nose and double-checked that his guns were fully loaded and ready to be used if things took a turn.

“Remember, gentlemen,” Dutch continued on. “No killing unless absolutely necessary.”

“Best of luck, everyone,” Hosea added.

Then the group descended into silence and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Arthur’s fingers flexed on his reigns. He could see John beginning to get anxious. Something definitely wasn’t right.

The only noise they could hear was the light breeze on the leaves above their heads, and the persistent ticking of Dutch’s pocket watch as he checked the time again.

“Somethin’ ain’t right,” Hosea whispered, mimicking Arthur’s own concerns. “They should have come through here by now.”

“Maybe you got the times wrong?” John suggested. “Or the place?”

Arthur shook his head. “That ain’t it. We heard from multiple people and all of them said it would come through this road at this time.”

“So what do we do then?”

“Well,” Dutch sighed, somewhat vexed with the development. He pulled down his bandana and turned to the rest of them. “We can’t stay here and wait for it to possibly arrive. I suggest we head up road and see do we come across it. But we stay out of sight and appear as inconspicuous as we can until I say otherwise.”

Hosea nodded and uncovered his face. “I agree. It’s definitely a better idea than waitin’ here and hopin’ for the best.”

“In that case, follow me, gentlemen.”

Arthur followed as the group made their way through the fields adjacent to the strip of road. They kept an eye out, but met no one along the way, and their anxiety only grew with each passing second. This was some take according to the locals, so missing it would be a great loss to the gang.

“Up ahead!” Dutch suddenly announced in a hushed tone.

Arthur looked up to see a stagecoach in the distance, stationary on the road. “Why’s it stopped?”

“Because,” Dutch growled out. “It’s bein’ robbed.”

“It’s what?”

“Somebody beat us to it! C’mon!”

Right well, this certainly wasn’t an outcome for which the gang was prepared. Arthur  hastily followed Dutch’s lead as their horses galloped up to the precious stage. He strained his eyes to get a look at who had intercepted the take before they even had a chance. The closer he got, the more information became apparent to him — two figures crowded the rear of the coach, one of whom was emptying its contents into a bag. The other stood by guarding her every move. The drivers and guards were nowhere to be found. At first, Arthur just assumed that the figures were small because of their position in the distance, but the closer he got, the more he realised that this was no normal robbery.

“It’s a pair of kids!” John exclaimed, disgust evident in his tone. “We got beaten to it by some damn kids!”

“Kids?” Arthur repeated in disbelief.

With the noise of their arrival, the pair of young thieves looked up from their prize to see four men thundering towards them on horseback. They were clothed in dirty outfits with bandanas hiding their identities. A quick once over told Arthur that it was boy and a girl who had managed to rob an obscene amount of money from the stage. How in the hell had two kids manage that?

Perhaps riding directly to them hadn’t been the best idea, as the pair were quick to point their guns at the gang.

“Hold on there!” Dutch called, grinding his mount to a halt and holding up his hands. The trio behind him followed suit, but Arthur and John instead chose to aim a weapon at each of them just in case.

“What the hell is this?” Arthur asked, completely dumbfounded with the situation they found themselves in.

“Cé hiad na leaids sin?” the girl asked her companion.

“The fuck you say?” John demanded, already losing his temper.

“Who are you lot?” the boy demanded, his eyes very skeptical already and completely unfazed by this strange man’s apparent aggression.

And now here they were — facing off against a pair of kids on a quiet dirt road. Sometimes Arthur really got tired of this shit.

“How about you get your monkeys to lower theirs first!”

“Take it easy, son,” Dutch answered calmly with his hands still raised. “We mean you no harm.”

“Your friends with the guns there don’t give us much comfort,” the girl replied in a thick Irish accent. “Now do as he said and get them to lower their weapons!”

“If you give me your word that you won’t shoot ’em, I will.”

“Is that a good idea?” Arthur asked, not exactly enjoying pointing his gun at a kid, but also not liking the idea of being defenceless.

“Trust me, Arthur. You and John, put the guns away.”

Arthur released a heavy sigh, but listened to his mentor and returned his gun to its holster. “Goddammit…”

John obliged, though he was far more hesitant to listen. A stern look from Hosea got the point across.

“Now,” Dutch announced. “We did as you asked. How about you meet us halfway and lower yours?”

The pair exchanged a knowing look before slowly lowering their revolvers, but not putting them away. The boy called out to them again. “Now, as I was sayin’, who are you lot and what do you want?”

“No harm in bein’ honest. We were the ones plannin’ on gettin’ that coach, but it seems like you beat us to it.”

“Not our problem,” the girl replied. “We got to it first, so you’s aren’t gettin’ any of it.”

Dutch shook his head. “We ain’t gonna steal it from you. You two earned it, fair and square. I don’t quite know how you managed it, but I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t impressed.”

“We’re used to bumping into rival gangs every now and then,” Hosea added with a goodnatured chuckle. “But not so used to seein’ kids out on jobs.”

“Yeah, well,” the girl grumbled. “You gotta get by somehow when you’ve nothin’ else.”

“Of course!” Dutch agreed. “We ain’t here to judge.”

As they spoke, Arthur briefly turned his head as the sound of horses grabbed his attention. He looked back down the road from where they came, and suddenly remembered an important detail of the plan. “Awh, shit. We got company!”

“Wait, what?” the boy asked, looking baffled. “What’s goin’ on?”

“The Pinkertons!” Hosea confirmed just as the escort appeared at the end of the trail. “How many we got, Arthur?”

“I see six comin’ in!” he confirmed, looking through his binoculars at the patrol heading down the road.

“That’s more than expected!” John commented in dismay.

“Pinkertons?” the young girl repeated. “What Pinkertons?”

“An escort sent to meet the stagecoach,” Dutch elaborated. “I assume by your confused expressions that you two didn’t know about that part.”

“Jaysus Christ,” the boy muttered and drew a carbine from his back. “No, we didn’t.”

“Well then I think your best odds are to come with us, or you can stay here and try to fight off six guns.”

The kids shared a look again before the girl spoke first in a language that Arthur didn’t understand. “Cad a dhéanfaimid anois?”

The boy shook his and gave her hand a squeeze. “Níl an dara rogha againn. Let’s get outta here.”

“You got horses?”

“No,” the girl explained. “We came on foot.”

“Well then, you hop up here with me, son, and your partner can jump on with my friend, Mr Morgan, there.”

The boy took Dutch’s outstretched hand and hauled himself on to the back of the horse, while Arthur offered the girl a hand and helped to pull her up behind him. “Hold on tight now, you hear?”

“I’ll be grand,” she replied, though he could hear the hint of fear in her voice. “Just move.”

Just as shouts and some shots rang out from the arriving escort, the gang sped off and through a nearby bunch of trees in an effort to lose their pursuers. Arthur felt the young girl hold on to his shoulders tightly as he pushed Boadicea as hard as she could go. The noise of the horses thundering along and jumping over bushes and fences was one that he knew well, and one that was always accompanied by a small amount of worry and excitement. He could hear John and Hosea urging their mounts forwards, realising how risky it was being out in the open like this. The head start thankfully gave them a decent advantage over the Pinkertons as they spend through the Wisconsin fields. Unfortunately, despite the distance between them and the men chasing them, the Pinkertons persisted and were hard to lose.

“They’re still on us,” the girl shouted from behind him. “You’s need to do somethin’!”

“I know,” Arthur answered, breathing in deep. “Just lemme think.”

“What about those trees?” William called, pointing to the outskirts of a bunch of greenery just in front of them.

Right on queue, bullets whizzed over their heads, some a mile off and others unnervingly close.

Arthur let out a huff and ducked his head down as one very nearly got him. “Keep your head down, girl! We’re sittin’ ducks out in the open like this!”

“We can lose them in there!” Dutch confirmed. “We just need to make it past the tree line.”

Behind them, the rate of gunfire began to increase the closer they got to the safety of the trees. The escort clearly knew that they’d lose them amidst the thick foliage. Thankfully, the trees drew closer and closer and their bullets managed to miss their targets as they shifted side to side to throw them off. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as they breached the tree line and slowed to navigate between the brush. He felt the girl’s grip on his frame ease up a little with their new cover and he gave her a swift glance to see how she was holding up.

Dutch called out orders to once more grab their attention. “Everyone, veer left and follow me!”

They manoeuvred carefully between the tall trees and bushes, keeping a careful eye out behind them incase the escort appeared on their tail once more. Thankfully, as they weaved to and fro between the shrubbery, the Pinkertons weren’t seen again. When they finally broke through the edge of the forest and reappeared in an open field, the sun had just about set on the distance and the threat seemed to have been lost.

The horses were eased to a halt and Arthur placed a loving pat on trusty Boadicea’s neck. “You did good, girl.”

“Everyone alright?” Hosea asked the group. The responses he received were unanimously positive though out of breath.

“That certainly could’ve gone worse,” the boy mused as he jumped from The Count.  Seeing no danger around, he pulled his bandana back down to reveal his youthful face. Arthur was surprised to see just how young he was — he looked to be about the same age as he was when he first joined the gang. Despite this, he looked like he was sleeping rough, with a dirty face and a fresh red scar that ran over his right brow and down his cheek. “But at least nobody got shot.”

Arthur noticed the girl dismounting to join her companion and she too pulled off her mask. She seemed just as young as him and showed signs of dirt and older scars. Immediately she went to the boy’s side and gave him a once over. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile and let out a huff as he got his breath back. “I’m grand. Are you?”

“Yeah. Thankfully these lads are good riders.”

She wiped her brow and reached back to tie her messy brown hair out of her face as Dutch addressed them. “I thought you two did pretty good out there, considerin’ you managed that stage all on your own.”

“Yeah, bar the squad that we weren’t even remotely prepared for showin’ up,” the girl replied with a pained smile. She looked up at Dutch and gave him a thankful nod. “We definitely would’a been captured or worse if it wasn’t for you lot.”

“Outlaws gotta stick together in times like these,” he said calmly. “We’re livin’ in different times, and we’re just tryin’ to survive.”

The boy nodded in agreement and then shared a look with the girl. “We appreciate the help Mister, uh…”

“Van der Linde,” Dutch replied and reached out to shake their hands. “Dutch van der Linde. These are my friends, Hosea Matthews, Arthur Morgan, and young John Marston.”

“I’m Maebh Hennigan,” the girl replied. “And this is my brother, William.”

“A pleasure. Can I ask, is it just the two of you? No parents or family around?”

Maebh flinched slightly at the question. “Uh, yeah. Our parents died a while back and the rest of our family is back in Ireland. We have nothin’, so we have to rob sometimes to get by. But that doesn’t matter, we owe you’s a lot for this. I suppose it's only fair that we give you’s a bit of the money from the stage.”

Dutch grinned at her suggestion and Arthur recognised that look almost immediately. He could already see his leader’s mind coming up with his next plan of action. Based on everything that happened today, he thought he had an idea of what it might be. “That’s a very kind offer, Miss Hennigan, but I actually have an offer for you.”

Maebh and William met each others gaze before the latter sceptically asked. “You have an offer for us?”

“As I already said, outlaws have to stick together if we want to get by out here. It’s the best way to ensure that we survive, that we live.”

Dutch was descending into a classic rousing speech with which Arthur and the group were quite familiar. He had heard it many times himself when he needed a bit of self belief in what they were doing. The most notable time he heard it was when he first met Dutch and Hosea as an unruly fifteen year old with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Yes, this was certainly an encounter with which he had some personal experience.

Atop The Count, Dutch stretched out his arms in a welcoming gesture and grinned from ear to ear. “If we want to live like Americans, then we got to have each others backs, no matter how tough or worrisome things may be. You need a family, you need stability, you need to know that you are safe. But I think that today is a sign of what you both could have.” He paused and Maebh and William hung on every word. “My offer to you two, is how’d you like to join my gang?”

[catrectorauthor]

The Goddess of Nothing At All: Chapter One

Author’s Note: I’m doing something daring while I have the guts. I’m releasing the first chapter of the story. I’ve been feeling anxious about it for a long time, but now that I plan on starting from scratch, it doesn’t feel so overwhelming. This chapter most likely won’t survive the rewrites, for various reasons, but then why shouldn’t you have it? Feel free to leave comments and critiques, either here or by PM. I hope you find some pleasure in it.

ONE My father had always been a conversationalist. He was a skald and a story teller. He passed his time recounting his adventures for anyone close enough to listen. The words he used were enthralling. They drew people in, compelled them to sit with him by the hearth and partake. Every story was a performance, flowing through his limbs as if it ached to escape his body. Some stories were told in huts in the dead of winter, in the guise of a wandering beggar. Others were told in great golden halls for the ears of his great armies. And a great many more were told on sunny days from the back of a horse.  

Father was a grey man; he’d seen his share of years. But even saddled on his mount in the snowy heart of Jotunheim, he seemed young, animated, alive. Despite the thick, silver wolf furs that he’d wrapped around his shoulders, covering his grey beard and time worn face, he acted out his lines for his audience with wild gestures. He rode in the middle of us, necessitating a consistent turn of his head from one side to the other. He had only one eye after all, and there was nothing as satisfying to him as the joy on his audience’s faces, and so his gaze bounced back and forth between his companions. Each time he turned away blessed me with a moment to stretch my polite smile. Someone had said something that vaguely reminded him of his heroic act at Mimir’s Well. He’d lost his eye at that well, damnit. Sacrificed it for the greater good, to receive all the wisdom in the nine realms. He’d done it to protect us all against the dark days of Ragnarok that always loomed somewhere in our future. His was a great, terrible sacrifice. Being invited along on an emissary mission was an honour, but it came at the price of keeping father company. I nodded along as he spoke, attempting to look enthusiastic, but too often I found my mind wandering away to more pleasant daydreams of warm beds and reading by candlelight.     “Sigyn, you never hear a word I say, do you?” Odin drew me back from my thoughts. I had no idea how long he’d been staring at me, waiting for a response. I scowled at him. “Of course I do. You said that you gave Mimir your eye, and Yggdrasil shade us, you’d have given the other one if you thought it would’ve helped.” He scratched his beard with his gloved hand. “Have you heard that story before? I know you weren’t listening.” I laughed. “Have I heard it before? Freya, how many times has the Allfather told you about his eye?” Freya’s harsh laugh was telling of her opinion. “Since my first day in Asgard?” She pretended to count on her leather gloved fingers. “Only once a week for the last half century.” A gust of wind blew back her hood, revealing her flowing auburn hair, whipping it this way and that. For some women, the tangle of the wind in their hair might diminish their beauty, but there was no such thing with Freya. Her crystal blue eyes and sharply cut cheeks were the desire of all the realms. No small wind could stop that. Odin laughed, his chuckle hearty and infectious. “You’re horrible, both of you. Shaming an old man like this. I suppose I should know better than to bring the two of you anywhere together. You’ve been causing trouble since you were children.” I tightened my white wolf pelt around my face as a gust of icy wind burned the skin on my cheeks. The cold coaxed tears from my eyes. “That would be my question exactly. Why did you bring me?” I fought to catch my breath, waiting for the wind to cease. “You needed a völva, a warrior, and a strategist, for which you have Freya. You don’t need me here to barter with the Jotun. I’m nothing but a glorified shield.” “You don’t want to be here?” Freya wrapped her arms around herself. “I hate this place. It’s cold and barren and full of frost-skins.” Odin’s single-eyed glare landed on her as soon as the word slipped from her lips. “You’ll stop with that kind of language immediately. If you let that slip out of your mouth in front of the Jotun, they’ll have your head on a pike for it.” Freya said no more, and he turned back to me. “As for the rest, I hope we won’t be needing your skills at all, my dear. If I can convince Frymir to accept a trade pact, we can all go home without blood on our hands.” Odin turned to look at the six einherjar riders behind us, their axes and blades hanging on their hips. I looked ahead. We’d just crossed the border into Jotunheim, where the tundra began, the cold killing off anything truly green. There was no dispute over this place; no Aesir was foolish enough to live that close to the chill and no Jotun would suffer being so close to the Gods. The path ahead started to incline, up toward the snow covered mountains in the distance, jutting from the ground like they were reaching for the clouds. Just ahead, two cliff faces nearly met. The narrow path that had been carved out between them was for travellers such as ourselves, one of the many doors into the frozen home of the giants. I looked back at Odin. “That looks like a trap.” “Come now, what kind of Goddess has so little faith? It could very well be a trap, which is why I have six of my best einherjar at my back. Or it could be a peaceful negotiation, which is why I’ve brought along two capable emissaries. In either case, we’ll soon find out.” Odin spurred his horse forward, racing headlong into the pass. I sighed and rolled my eyes at Freya. She made a playful face and I couldn’t help but snicker. We forced our horses forward to catch up to the Allfather. Odin slowed as he reached the pass, letting his horse come to a trot. We cut our pace to match his. The wind whistled as it rushed through the jagged cliffs above our heads. My stomach churned, uneasy with the prospect of what might come. Asgard had very few allies in Jotunheim. It didn’t seem likely that Frymir was one of them, but we had good reason to try. Frymir had promised us something that no other Jotun household would offer. They had access to herbs that only grew in the frozen wastes, and others that thrived in the hot springs under the mountains. Our völur could use them to create powerful healing agents, and salves to boost the effects of our runes, which was why no Jotun would dare trade with us. Odin was prepared to offer a great deal of wealth, if the offer wasn’t, in fact, a trap. “Did you consult the seers before we left?” I glanced up, checking the tops of the cliffs for trouble. He dismissed the question with a wave. “Of course I did.” Freya huffed. “Not with my seers you didn’t.” “And what did they say?” Odin looked at me, his earlier mirth gone. “They said you need to listen to your father and quiet yourself.” The scolding hit home like a slap to the face. I glared down at the mane of my horse. I was decades old and still being treated like a teen in heat. We rode ahead in silence, listening for anything out of place. The steady clomp of hooves echoed against the cliffs. Pebbles clicked against the stone, falling one by occasional one from the heights above. The passage was neither incredibly long nor incredibly wide. It would take only a few minutes to pass through by horseback and could comfortably fit five horses abreast. I still didn’t like the feel of it, but the closer we came to the exit, the more I allowed myself to breathe. Perhaps the Allfather was right. Perhaps I was no better than worried little child. An explosion sounded from above. Boulders loosened from the cliffs above our heads, crashing toward the ground behind us. They hadn’t been meant to crush us, only to block our retreat. The horses spooked, and I struggled to pull mine back into obedience. “Steady!” Odin cried, drawing his longsword. “Let them come for us! They wish to see the might of Asgard, we’ll oblige them!” Jotun troops poured in from the end of the passageway. I turned at the sound of rocks scrabbling behind us and saw more troops climbing over the barrier they’d made for us. The army was at least thirty Jotun strong. Each of them were dressed in leathers and iron, their pale, snowy Jotun skin peeking out from underneath. Half were built like houses, easily taller than I was on my horse. A couple were twice as tall as that, giants even among their kind. The fact that the rest were no larger than us didn’t matter; we were far outnumbered.   “Damnable frost-skins,” Freya muttered under her breath. “What brings this treachery? What happened to our trade agreement?” Odin bellowed. Frymir stepped forward, approaching Odin’s horse. He stood on the flats of his shoes and yet stood face to face with the God of Gods. The Jotun bore the pale, snowy complexion of his people. He clearly thought himself regal, his leather armour trimmed in furs and gems, though it didn’t distract from his heavily scarred face. “There will be no agreements with filthy Aesir. Surrender now or we’ll feed you to our dogs.” “How unfortunate.” Odin’s fingers moved slightly, giving the signal, and I began to whisper. “The woman!” One of the Jotun cried out. “She’s a völva!” I pushed back my hood and they knew me for who I was. My lips kept moving, the runes sliding off my tongue in well practised precision, a whispered song so powerful that it could bend even the wind to my will. And bend it I did. The spell was ready in seconds and the air in front of us burst, throwing the Jotun army backward. The einherjar stormed forward, their blades drawn and itching for battle. From their saddles they hacked at each Jotun they passed, ripping holes in their armour and flesh. Freya rode with the men, sword already drawn, while Odin and I dismounted and turned to the troops approaching from our backs. Nearly ten Jotun rushed toward us from the fallen rocks, their blades raised high. Any one of them was large enough to run us through with a single swing. I drew a long breath and began again, whispering a new string of runes into the air. I could see by the silent movement of his lips that Odin was doing the same. Before the first Jotun reached us, I threw up my hands. A flash of light burst forth and solidified in front of us. The warrior hit the barrier at full speed. He fell back, his face bloodied as if he’d run straight into the cliffs themselves. The barrier wouldn’t stand up to much abuse, but it wouldn’t need to. Odin had finished his own runes, summoning up a blistering wind tunnel. It whipped the snow in front of us into a frenzy, blinding the Jotun army. They became nothing but writhing shadows in the storm. Their screams echoed in the walls of the pass. Wind, ice and rock tore at their skin and brought them to their knees. A roar rose out above the rest. From the swirling ice came a stampeding warrior, her axe drawn back. The giantess was twice our size and barrelling straight toward us. I held my hands up, chanting the same runes under my breath, praying that the shield would hold. She swung, screaming in pure rage. The axe hit the shield and the sound echoed along the cliffs. A familiar scream drew my attention away, back to the fight behind us. The largest of the Jotun had picked Freya up and was holding her up against him like a shield. Her sword was missing, and her mouth had been covered. She was defenseless without her runes. “Hold!” Odin cried out, pulling my attention back to my own troubles. I tried to hold the shield in place above us, but I couldn’t leave Freya to die. I had to help her. My focus was slipping, and with it, the shield. The second blow sent a splinter down the length of it. I tried to reinforce it, to hold it in place, but the third blow cracked the surface like a spider web. I dug my heels into the ground, pushing up and away, as if my sheer force of will could keep it in place. “It’s coming down!” A shriek pierced the sky. I flinched, nearly taking my hands away from the shield to cover my ears. And then I saw the shadow above us.   A flash of talons and feathers flew down, shrieking once more. It was an enormous hawk. The bird’s wings alone were large enough to blow back the hair from my face with every wing beat. It barrelled down onto the Jotun, knocking her onto her back. We watched in stunned silence as the screaming warrior attempted to knock the bird away, but its talons were already buried deep in her face. When the bird rose, it came away with the Jotun’s white, dripping eyes in its grip. The bird screeched again, dropping the bloody mess onto the warrior’s mangled body, then flew down in front of us. It landed in a flurry of wind and wrapped its wings around its own torso. The feathers dissipated, tossed along the air through Odin’s storm. When they were gone, a man knelt where the bird had been. He panted as he stood, shaking the painful transformation from him with as much grace as he could muster. He was a head taller than I was, small for his kind, but a his snowy skin gave him away as a Jotun. He wasted no time in raising his hands above his head and loosing a torrent of teal-coloured wildfire at the nearest Jotun warrior. “Who in the nine realms is that?” I cast a look back at Odin, who was as pleased as could be. “Our reinforcements it seems!” Odin laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow. My barrier had fallen. The warriors who had lived through Odin’s storm were nearly on us. I cast forth another barrier, smaller this time, enough to shield only the space in front of us. A spear connected with the shimmering wall just as it appeared. The stranger took shelter with us, his emerald eyes lingering on me a moment too long, smirking all the while. His features were sharp and lean, and he had a wildness in his eyes that was foreign to me. He leapt up and lobbed a ball of wildfire toward the Jotun who held Freya captive. It hit the giant in the head, lighting his hair ablaze. The giant dropped Freya and scrambled to put out the sudden conflagration on his head. She landed with a dull thud and scrambled to get away. The einherjar were struggling to keep their lead against Frymir and his army. The stranger pointed to the tallest Jotun among them. “Get me up to his head and I can take care of that one.” “Who are you?” I hissed. He casually brushed his flaming red hair back behind his ear and grinned. “Does it matter?” “By the Norn, do as he asks!” Odin strode toward the fray, sword ready and muttering something about obedience. “Fine.” I stomped toward the other side of the battle, bringing the runes to my lips as I approached. One by one, I managed to summon up a staircase of small barriers to take the smirking newcomer skyward, toward the giant. I turned back to him with a threat on my lips. “I’m watching you.” His grin grew wider. “Oh, please do.” The stranger hopped up onto the first shimmering step, breaking into a nimble run across the air. Each step took him higher above the battle, until he was just above the Jotun’s head. When he leapt from the highest step, he landed square on the Jotun’s neck, blade in hand, and drove it down into the exposed flesh. The short sword was enough to send the Jotun reeling, but the stranger wasn’t finished. He held onto the sword’s hilt and kicked off, dragging the blade down the giant’s spine as if he meant to skin him.   “Yggdrasil above…” I breathed, both in awe and disgust. The Jotun toppled to the ground in a heap, crushing one of our horses and knocking the warriors from their feet. Freya used the opportunity to run back to my side and watched with a gaping mouth, trying to catch her breath. I rushed forward, casting short, simple runes to push back the enemy, to keep them from taking advantage of our einherjar. I could feel the wear of it, the way the energy was coming in spurts instead of waves. The demand was too much in too short a time. The flash of a long sword appeared at the corner of my eye. Father was beside me, cutting down a Jotun before they could ram into us with their wooden shield. A burst of flame rose into the sky like a tower, the smell of burning flesh rising in the wind. I gathered my strength and moved to help a fallen einherjar to his feet.   It didn’t take long for the men to cut down the last of Frymir and his army. Our forces were better trained and there hadn’t been any völur among them. It had barely been a fair fight. Freya immediately gave me a shove. “Did you see that? That frost-skin was using seidr. Transmogrification. Elemental runes. Who taught him that?” Here we go. “You’re overreacting. Be thankful he saved you from having your neck broken.” She patted the snow off her cloak and skirts. “I did not give seidr to the realms so some filthy male Jotun could taint it.” I dropped to the ground, exhausted. I could feel a headache coming, and not only from the exertion. “Freya. Please. Leave it alone.” Freya kicked the snow, covering me in powder before she trudged away. I sighed and looked to the others as they checked the Jotun for signs of life. I took it as leave to rest and laid back, taking in deep breaths of chilled air to calm the racing of my heart.   Crisp footprints walked toward me. I peeked an eye open and saw the stranger coming my way. His thick, forest green cloak was road-worn and tattered at the bottom, nearly dragging across the snow, the front spattered with blood. When he reached me, he let himself fall back into the snow, leaning back on his elbows next to me, catching his breath. “Well fought,” he said between breaths. “And you.” I avoided looking at him and stared up at the sky through the cracks in the cliffs. I felt like I could sleep for days. “Feeling a bit out of your element?” He sounded tired as well, but even so, his voice was deep, silky. I nodded, pressing my fingers into my aching head to numb the throb. “I feel horrible. “You Aesir will always be at a disadvantage in a place like this. It’s hard to draw your energy from the earth when it’s beneath all this ice. Such a pity they don’t teach you that.” He turned his head to look down at me, smug. “I don’t mind sharing some of my own energy, if you need a little help. The air here offers plenty.” “I think I’ll manage on my own, thank you.” I sat up, bristling at his critique. “But you do owe me your name.” He reached out a gloved hand. “Loki Laufeyjarson.” I shook his hand. “Sigyn Odindottir. Why are you here?” Loki sat up as well, leaning on his knees. “I was flying by when I noticed the battle. It looked as if you could use a hand.” I eyed him carefully. “Why turn against your own people?” “They aren’t my people.” His answer was immediate, icy.   “Come now,” Odin bellowed, walking toward us. “We need to get started if we’re going to make it back to Asgard before nightfall. We can walk the horses over the rock fall, it’s not so steep as all that.” I stood, brushing the snow from my cloak. Loki stood as well. “It’s been a pleasure fighting alongside you, Allfather.” Loki said, extending his hand. Odin took it and pulled him in for a hug. He slapped Loki on the back. “You say that as if we’re about to part ways,” he chuckled. Loki squirmed loose and looked Odin in the eye. “We’re headed in very different directions I’m afraid.” Odin put his arm around Loki’s shoulder and turned him back toward the horses the einherjar had managed to rescue. “Not anymore. Consider this an official invitation. Such an act of bravery and loyalty must be rewarded with a feast. Come, we have such stories to tell!”

WIP: The Goddess of Nothing At All: About the Book | Book Tag Tag List: @ashmitrano​ @wilhelminaab @elaynab-writing @angelwriteblr​ @bluewritesbadly​ @verazelinski​ @siarven @thewritingwarrior

[michaelteeuw]

Under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh!

So, it has been a month ago since my last blog post. Reason for this is the birth of my beautiful second baby boy, Luca! But after some quality family time, it's now time to pick up the tinkering, and start making things! Of course we start easy, so this week I'd like to show you the beautiful power of 3D printing and how it helps me to be an awesome dad!

Although The Netherlands isn't very famous for it's sunny days, we still have some bright sun every once in a while. Since, Luca doesn't (yet) really enjoys a burned skin, we needed an umbrella attached to his baby stroller. But since it was over two years since we lasted used it, the official umbrella that came with the stoller was no where to be found. Therefor my wife ordered a cheap 12 euro umbrella.

Unfortunately the umbrella came with an extremely clumsy mount that didn't really fit well to our Joolz stoller. Mounting it wasn't fun. Especially after a night with only 3 hours of sleep (the joy of being a parent!), the umbrella mount had a bigger influence on my mood than I'm prepared to admit.

When I found out there was an easy way to detach the clamp from the umbrella, my life suddenly made much more sense again. This was where I was trained for. Time to fire up the Fusion 360!

Two years ago, I had already printed some additional attachments for our stroller. Because of this, the most difficult part of the design was already done: a perfectly snug snap-on clip for the Joolz Stroller.

Next, I make a simple representation of the mating part of the umbrella. A pair of calipers and a nice cappuccino was all I needed to draw this shape.

After placing the two components in the right position, I extended the original clip design to encapsulate the umbrella's mating part.

Then I used the combine command to substract the umbrella's mating part from the designed clip to cut out the nessecery space. I used some fillets to cleanup the design and added a hole to make room for the detach-button.

Because I'm proud of my designs, and I want them to stand out, I printed the new attachment using bright red ColorFabb XT-CoPolyester. (And maybe also a little bit because I ran out of black filament ...)

The new mount snaps in place perfectly, the umbrella snaps into the mount just as well. It's always a wonderful feeling when your design and tolerances work perfect first try!

And best of all, it seems little Luca enjoys his shade on a sunny day.

I think a 3D Printer should not be underestimated as a parenting tool. You might want to show this to your significant other, if you do not own a 3D printer yet!