#the age old time travel question “how can I still ensure that certain people remain in my life no matter what decisions I make”

[br1ghtestlight]

assuming there's nothing I could do about my family and home life situation i think leaving my extremely toxic friend group and switching schools before high school would have been a GREAT idea in terms of not putting my entire future in jerpordy. But idk maybe it was already too late by that point. it's hard to say what decisions couldve actually had a positive impact

[dreamsmp-au-ideas]

Teddy Bear Anon has purposed yet another interesting addition to the Immune AU which gives me plot ideas! In particular, a scene that would really help give past Dream a strong push into his character arc. 

I like to image that immune!Dream’s character arc starts with the death of immune!Puffy. Sure, maybe he’s not sad yet, but he feels something for the woman who declared herself his pseudo mother. It’s what helps to crack the shell enough for the rest of the immune gang to start weedling their way into his heart. Immune!Dream after spending enough time watching the group he, starts to realize that yeah, connections to other people isn’t a weakness. It really is a strength. It’s something that takes time for him to come to terms with because Techno seems like a testament to the fact connections are a weakness. He was unbeatable until his horse got kidnapped. His only connection, his only weakness. But then there’s Tommy who seems to represent the complete opposite. 

Where Dream represents strength from caring too little, Tommy represents strength from caring far too much. Now I’m a sucker for bamf Tommy, and I like to personally imagine that maybe the Immunes hold out for a year or two before they cave and try to make the portal. So Tommy has what really boils down to a two year training arc on top of already being a child veteran (I like to canonize SMP Earth as well because personal preference and it gives me even more room to make Tommy suffer. SMP Earth being canon? God, so much fucking trauma considering how the others treated him, a 15 year old child, like an adult.) Anyway Dream slowly realizes connections with one another are what kept the remaining Immunes alive, and he tries to force his younger self to understand that. Tries, but doesn’t really get far. Up until what everyone else calls The Fight.

Tommy’s always just kind of screwed around in fights as long as there’s only a threat to him. We know he has a tendency to throw if MCC is any indicator. But then they time travel and maybe they spend some time in the past trying to get the situation sorted and the past’s Dream maybe just kinda does something to Tubbo. Doesn’t even have to be big, it just needs to clock as a threat to Immune!Tommy who’s already lost his Tubbo and refuses to let his younger self go through that. So Tommy goes completely ape shit on the younger Dream. Sure, it’s only been two years for this Tommy. He’s probably, like, 18 or 19 at most. Still a child as far as a lot of people are concerned. He shouldn’t be stronger than Dream or Technoblade, and in the few cross group sparing sessions they’ve had he isn’t. He’s stronger than his younger self but no where near these two demi gods of combat. But then Dream suddenly registers as a threat to Tubbo in Immune!Tommy’s eyes and he makes the mistake of mocking Tommy while he’s at it. He knows that immune!Tommy lost his Tubbo and maybe the past Dream is lashing out slightly or trying to get some kind of foothold in Tommy’s psyche. He isn’t doing anything near what immune!Dream has done, but it’s enough to piss Tommy off. So immune!Tommy challenges Dream to a fight and Dream immediately realizes the mistake he’s made when Tommy starts to destroy him. 

Say even Techno’s there for some reason or another and he realizes what’s going down so he tries to calm Tommy down, joining the fight just as Dream is loosing it. The situation quickly turns into the first time Techno’s ever gotten his ass thoroughly kicked by Tommy, leaving everyone spectating baffled (Tommy’s younger self partly included). They’re certain this kid is going on some rampage and none of them can stop him but the moment Dream and Techno are both taken care of (wounded, not killed, the older Tommy is always careful about that. He even throws a splash healing on them with some indifferent kind of disgust that hides the fact he does still care to some extent even hurting as he is.) Tommy immediately just switches focus to outright doting on Tubbo, ignoring any muttered Clingyinnits in favor of ensuring Tubbo is fine. Tubbo is completely find and just as confused, but the point stands and neither Tommy ends up leaving Tubbo’s side for the rest of the day. The younger Tommy, after all, is the only one the older Tommy’s told the full story to regarding the future (even when he couldn’t trust his own family he was always able to trust himself with the secrets that mattered, so he prepares his younger self in case the worst comes to pass.)

The older Dream, immune!Dream, he doesn’t get involved. He sit on the side lines and just kinda laughs, the sound drowned out by Sapnap’s loud encouragements and Sam’s half hearted attempts to get Tommy to stop (he could have stopped Tommy immediately if he’d stepped in. Sam is after all the only person on earth Tommy listens to without hesitation, but Sam lets it happen and pretends he tried.) 

Immune!Dream just kinda smirks at his younger self later that night and mentions something about attachments really making you weak. After all, it’s not like the only time Tommy takes a battle seriously is when someone he cares about is in danger. It’s not like Tommy would turn the world into a seared ball for Tubbo, and Tubbo would do the same in return. It’s not like they’ve watched the people they care about temporarily rebuke the Crimson just to give the Immunes those precious extra seconds needed to survive in a fight. Attachments, they’re just a weakness.

The younger Dream doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s the first time he thinks about his older self maybe being right.

Before I go I wanna leave you with two more ideas for the Immune AU

First up, Wilbur is eight years older than Tommy give or take. Wilbur had Fundy when he was around 16 and Tommy was around 8. Tommy was the best damn uncle he could be and for a while Tommy and Fundy were really stupidly close. They were both apart of the raised by Wilbur club and Wilbur was trying his damn best. Fundy aged/matured (physically and mentally) faster than a regular person for a while. They believed it was because he was a fox hybrid and Wilbur was ready to lose Fundy too soon. When Fundy was equivalent to 18 in human years though his aging process suddenly slowed to a crawl and his tail split into two, at which point the group realized he was actually a kitsune and it was just those first 8 years that passed by quickly (and Wilbur had a lot of questions for the now missing Sally who he’d thought was a salmon hybrid, genuinely, but became exceedingly less sure.) His family knows he’s a kitsune, but Fundy hid it from most of the rest of the server. A good thing considering later events. 

Fundy was part of the Immune group for a while and I like to imagine that he and Tommy had a falling out during the Pogtopia era but after the egg started to take over they started bonding again and acting like, well, family. Unfortunately when it came time for them to activate the portal, Fundy ended up getting separated from the group and getting caught. The eggpire didn’t actually know Fundy was fully immune or a kitsune so he just kinda pretended to get infected, using his illusions to make his fur look crimson. I personally like the idea that Fundy at some point managed to get back to the time machine and being a little code wizard manages to get the thing working and yeets himself in. He shows up a little late but after fixing his appearance manages to catch up with the rest of the group.

Fundy is underrated. Tommy being a good uncle is underrated. Sam would absolutely adopt the traumatized fox baby in Eret’s honor. What’s not to love?

The last concept I wanna bring up that I really like is hybrid Tommy. Tanuki would be good since it’s another reason for the Sam Nook bit. Maybe Sam specifically picked Sam Nook since Tom Nook was Tommy’s favorite character on the grounds he was the only representation Tommy had ever gotten and it made the kiddo happy. However, I also personally really like phoenix Tommy and it would make an interesting plot point. Tommy accidentally losing his third life at some point and realizing he’s an immortal creature of fire would have led to him taking a protector role for his new family. He can’t die, but he can burn anything around him, why not send him out to get supplies when the worst the eggpire could do would be capture him. Even then he just literally cannot hear the egg. Which could lead to both some interesting comedic moments and some really good angst if Sam agonizes over his desire to protect Tommy and let him be a child suddenly being at odds with the fact Tommy is literally the best person for the job so to speak. Not to mention Sapnap, who I headcanon as a Blaze hybrid, would be even more attached the moment he found a new fire proof friend to burn forests with him. Regardless of which hybrid type he is, I could see him hiding it from everyone except for Fundy when he was a child and only ever admitting it later to the other Immunes once they become a found family.

Personally I like the idea of Tommy being part tanuki hybrid and part phoenix hybrid, but is that too mary sue? Is it just a little bit too cheesy to have him be both? I will never not try to incorporate phoenix Tommy into my fics but also tanuki Tommy would be such a mood for this au.

Like image Tommy just builds a den that’s in reality a vault/panic room a la Techno and he hides it under Church Prime since that is The Safe Spot in Tommy’s mind.

~Snapdragon & Firefly

[myfeetkeepdancing]

Lost and Found  |  Arvin Russel x Male!Reader

Request:  I kind of thought about Arvin arrived in new city, without cash (maybe only small amount) and wandering aimlessly. Then he stop at a diner realising he doesn't have a place to stay at night and buy food, decide to leave but stopped by mreader(waiter?owner?) and said that he can eat for free (mreader can't help after watching him so pitiful). Later on mreader said that he know Arvin not from here, and kind of tell him place to stay and also a job if he want to, i mean who can just ignore Arvin.

Warnings: Cursing, smoking.

Words: 4915

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A mere glimpse. Just enough. A man, somewhere around your age. You'd seen him walk past the large window as you cleaned the last plates, halt for a moment before turning inwards. Stepping into your diner. The place wasn't big. But it had style, that look about it. Vibrant colors, yet cozy and warm. Located on the corner of a busy street, always something happening. Always movement. Three booths on either side, each seat sporting a view through the large windows on that bustling street. Opposite the booths stood the bar, it wrapped around the corner and partially hid the kitchen—enough stools to fit a soccer team. A small space was occupied by a door in the left corner; behind lay a staircase leading up. On the far right stood the large jukebox, too large for the place. But what is a diner without it? In all, a small place, but locally renowned for the food. Except for tonight. Tonight was quiet—a boring, dull, dark night.

"How may I help you?" You asked, moving towards him, drying your hands on the towel slung over your shoulder. "Kitchen is still open." At first sight, he struck you as a roadworker. A knapsack slung over his shoulder and worn-torn jeans and jacket. His once white shirt underneath grime with dirt and sweat. With his gray cap on, you couldn't really tell his expression as he was busy with the contents of his wallet. Spreading a small collection of coins across the bar. He cleared his voice before speaking. "Hi...ehm..." His voice was hoarse and dry. "W-What can you get me for this?" Speaking with an accent that wasn't from around. Working in the dinner, you heard and spotted many different ones. Making it a sport to figure out where they came from. But his posture and expression didn't lend towards a nice conversation. He looked reserved and held back.

Wiping your hands clean on your apron, you step closer and lean in, accessing what lay in front of you. It was obvious; he had literally turned his wallet upside down on the counter. Scraping every last coin out of there. The amount in front of you was far off from a meal you served here. But there was something about him as you looked up. You get a glimpse of his eyes underneath the cap. His eyes sat deep in his face. The expression was grave. Staring soullessly into a void. Veering back into life as he felt your eyes connect with his. "Sorry, sir…" He apologized after a lengthy sigh. "Long day." He mumbled, straightening himself upwards. He took off his cap and raked his fingers through his hair before putting it back on. "I know it ain't much, but…"

"Jerry!" You call out over your shoulder, awaiting the familiar deep voice to respond back to you. "One burger with extra fries." And give him a smile. "Seat yourself." Nodding towards the booths behind him. "I'll be right with ya." And start collecting the coins into your hand. You knew it wouldn't cover the cost, far from it. But you'd rather have a customer then wait for this long evening to end. You'll make ends meet. A good deed wasn't misplaced once in a while. And as your father always said, it's better to give than receive. From the corner of your eye, you see the man seat himself. The far most booth in the corner, close to the window and holding his knapsack close. A sense of pity grew for the man as you saw him there. Head hanging low, gaze stuck to the table. Occasionally peering outside. His expression was impossible to read as his cap sat low and firm on his head. Hiding his eyes.

Arvin looked across the booth's plain white table, staring almost, with incomprehension on his face. He felt empty and alone. Traveling all this way without purpose. Only anger and rage. Angry at the world. At everything. His growling stomach was the only thing that kept him sane. At least there was one thing he accomplished. He wanted to be far away from that place he once called home. His thoughts drifted between Lenora and his grandparents. He couldn't let his guard down for a moment and kicked himself back into it. His eyes were almost trained to spot a police car from a mile away. It set him on edge since that day—even the sound of the sirens. A quick glance through the local newspaper revealed no article about the drama in his hometown. It was a momentary relief. But the question was, for how long?

"Here you go, sir." You announced as you approached, putting down a glass of coke in front of him. He looked up at you, staggered, to say the least. "So... where are ya from? Going by your accent, you're not from around here." You check the diner a second time around, ensuring no customer was going unattended before returning to the stranger. You stuff your hand in the pockets of your apron. Patiently awaiting his response.

"I'm not." He said somberly. Taking big swigs from the glass. "I'm from a place called Coal Creek. Somewhere close there."

"Hmmm, that's around Marlinton." You asked. "Somewhere in-between Summersville and Staunton?" You tried to recall the map in your mind as you thought long and hard. "I'm not sure..."

"You're about right…" He nodded, crossing his arms on the table. "You been there?"

"No. No, not me. But I can recall someone going there." You heard the place before, but it probably was a trucker or someone else who mentioned it. "But I'm not sure who it was." You shake your head and continue on. "Anyway, how was the drive?"

"I got a lift."

"Okay, and what brings you to the rural city? Work, family?" You asked. "Love?" Followed by a light chuckle, trying to lift the mood a little. In the background, the jukebox had stopped playing. Only the sound of the grill in the kitchen and the neon letters' sizzle outside took over its role. Even the old coffee machine was quiet now.

"I don't know...." He shrugged off your question. 

The rough and uneasy response brought the ongoing conversation to an abrupt end. You didn't know how to respond to such an absent, short answer. Luckily you were saved by the bell. Jerry shoved the plate through the window towards the front. "Thank you, Jerry. Lookin' good as always." Giving him a thumbs up to show your gratitude as you take the warm plate. "Might as well lock everything up back there, Jerry. I think that's it for tonight." Following his confirmation, you bring the plate up to the table. Before you put the plate down, you take out a moist towel and wipe the table clean. "Look at that." You mumbled while cleaning the last bits of. "Much better." You pass him a knife and fork and follow up by placing the plate in front of him. "Enjoy your meal." 

"Thank you, sir." He said, and began to eat immediately. With an eye on closing time, you begin to clean the bar and surrounding booths. Jerry had cleaned the kitchen and said his goodbyes before heading home. All the tables and benches needed a thorough cleaning, and if you managed now, you'd have spare time for other things tomorrow morning. 

"You planning on going back to Coal Creek?" You asked while you cleaned the second last booth in front of him. From your position, you could only see the top part of his cap. He sure must have heard the question, as there was total silence across the diner. But the response took some time. 

"No." He said resolutely, with a whiff of distraught emotion in his voice. "Never." You gaze up, finding yourself lost in the dark eyes peering from underneath his cap. The pupils functioned like little keyholes, allowing a small glimpse at the ferocity and anger boiling within him. A fire raging within him that you wouldn't want to know how to quench. "I ain't going back to place."

"Right... Well, that's clear." Something had happened in that town where this stranger came from. And he wasn't intent on sharing that with you. Not in this state. "There's plenty of work in the city." And continue on to the next booth while you try to keep him talking. In the past, you sure had more talkative guests at the end of the evening. "Just make sure you walk in the right people."

"What does that mean?"

"Well…You see-" With a sigh, you raise yourself up again from cleaning the booth. You've always tried to warn the newcomers around—especially the ones who were low on cash. "Certain neighborhoods here… have a wrong crowd. Tend to lure people in, you know, pray on the poor and lonely... with false promises and such. Ending up… bad."

"I don't fall for that." He scoffed and continued to eat his burger. "Don't you worry." 

"Oh, I don't." You said, slightly sarcastic. "But it's easier said than done." And turn back behind the bar. Wiping the top of the bar down. Restock the last things. Making sure all the lights in the back were off. "Sometimes it makes you wonder if there's more bad than good on this planet.

"I know there is…" He muttered while he watched the world go by his window. "If there really was a God out there…" He spat, shaking his head. The man seemed distracted as if something was on his mind. The quiet was eerie, just to the two of you. He captured you in a way you couldn't describe, nor felt before. The headlight of passing cars illuminated his face. And you couldn't help but stare sometimes. Yet, the man didn't scare you. He remained unmoved in his spot while you worked your way around the place. Even when you turned the jukebox on again, trying to break the uneasy silence. You said your goodbyes to Jerry the cook again as he returned for his keys, and watched the streets go quietly darker and darker into the night.

"I understand you're closing." He said out of the blue, leaving his seat. Taking his jacket and knapsack with him. Halting in front of the bar where you were working. At least pretending to be working.

"A bit earlier than usual, yes." Wiping the bar down again, as he stood there. Watching you. "I got some pie leftover if you want." You offered, pointing at the stool. "Take a seat."

"No, I'm good." He replied with a grumble.

"Okay… Well, suit yourself." Drinking the last bit out your glass and continue your work on the cash register. "Have a good night, sir. And, please make sure the door is shut properly behind you."

But the man stood there, watching you work. And as you glanced back, he turned his eyes to the street. As if he searched deeply for a reason to stay inside. Not wanting to go outside. You know it didn't rain. You could see that. Yet, he remained in the same spot. Unmoved.

"I can wait." He offered, which took you by surprise. He didn't unsettle you in any way. But it was this kind of gesture you didn't expect. "Don't want you to be robbed by that… wrong crowd lurking the street." He looked over his shoulder, scanning the dimly lit streets while leaning against a table. "If... that's... alright with you?"

"Yeah…" You say and turn to confirm, catching each other's gaze. It's normal in any conversation. But this felt different. You felt drawn in by those brown eyes. Almost hypnotized. The moment of eye contact was longer than probably necessary. A smile slowly forming on your lips. "Of course." You nod and slowly return to your work. To your shock, you see your hands trembling ever so slightly as they hover over the numbers on your cash register. Not from the cold. That for sure. Because your hands feel clammy.

  -

"Was that all your money?" You asked while you shut the door behind you. With the keys in your other hand, you lock the place up. Turning on your heel, standing there a few feet apart from each other. The streets weren't exactly busy at this hour. But there was always some movement. But the man stayed silent nonetheless. Perhaps hoping you would drop it. "By not answering, you're admitting it is."

"Yes..." He grumbled, annoyed. "Yes, it was." Avoiding your gaze as he stepped aside for a passerby.

"There are some cheap rooms, two blocks down that way." You pointed down the road. "Big motel. Can't miss it." Pulling out a couple dollars from your wallet.

"That's far more than I paid for the food." He said, too stubborn to take the money.

"That's not the point." You noted. "I don't want you to sleep in a cardboard box under a bridge. There's no need to." Holding the money up to him. "It's cheap, but at least you got a roof over your head, a warm bed, and a way to freshen up."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know." You nod. "Now take it." Reaching the money out to him again. "Or are you intend to find out who's the most stubborn of the two of us."

"I can just walk away." He chuckled. "You know that, right?"

"Promise me one thing." Taking another step closer to him.

"What is that?" He says, watching you with a challenging glint in his eyes.

"Tomorrow morning, be here at seven." Jabbing a finger over your shoulder. "Backdoor. I'll fix you breakfast." Forcing the money in his hand. "Got it?" 

The man nodded as he stashed the bills away in his pocket. "And to who do I owe this promise?" 

"(Y/N)." 

If there was something to lie about, it could be his name. That's what coursed through Arvin's brain right now. After all this, should he be honest? Hadn't he already been up until now? A small inner conflict silenced him for a moment. But inside of him, the gears were turning. The name sat right with the person standing in front of him. And it made him feel… things…. 

For the first time, you caught a glimpse of what you thought to be a smile on the stranger's face. Short and sweet. It was a kind one. A genuine one. A smile that pleasantly cracked his stern features. So unexpected, yet so satisfying to witness. It suited him well.

But only seconds. As he bowed his head down, strolling his eyes across the pavement while fishing for a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. The cap hiding the expression. As if he was embarrassed to show his smile.

"I'm Arvin." He looked up, flashing his smile with confidence, stepping closer towards you. "I haven't thanked you (Y/N)." Offering you one of his last cigarettes. "The meal. And… this." Patting the bills in his pocket. "That's real kind of you." The smile said more than enough. Despite the stubbles across his face, the unshaven look, the long locks of brown hair protruding from underneath his cap, he had a certain charm. And it felt infectious. That ferocity from earlier had subsided. Making way for a heartwarming smile. "Thank you (Y/N)."

"No problem, Arvin." Pulling the collars up against the wind, but kindly refusing the cigarette. "I only drink." And return him a smile. "See you tomorrow morning."  

He nodded as you saw the fire catch his cigarette. The orange glow shining across his features. There was this tensioned moment of eye contact before you exchanged a "Goodnight". Arvin watched you go as he ran his hand over his curled dark hair, smoothing it into place before putting the cap back on. A shuddered breath left his parted lips. He didn't understand what his body was experiencing. This feeling. He wanted to say something as he saw you walking away. But he couldn't. Nailed to the spot. Yet his legs were like jelly. So each went their own way. But not without their troubled minds.

  - NEXT MORNING - 

 Still early in the morning, the cool breeze nipping at your skin, you tighten your coat around you. The streets were reasonably quiet. With your hands safely stowed away in your pockets, sheltered from the wind, you make your way down the street. The unmistakable form of the kiosk was one of the few places open so early. You pick up the newspaper while you exchange a few words with the older man behind the counter. It wasn't the smoothest of conversations. Undeniably, Arvin had been on your mind. Something about him made you look forward to seeing him again. With the newspaper under your arm, you continue. Therefore sleep didn't come easily last night. Twisting and turning in the sheets. What bothered you, you couldn't pinpoint exactly. But it had something to do with Arvin, you figured as much. The night was short as you woke up way before your alarm clock did go off—a terrible start to the day.

You turn into the alley leading to the backdoor. Not much movement this early in the morning. Your heart skips a beat as you are frozen on the spot. Seeing a figure hunched together beside the backdoor of the diner. The denim jacket and cap immediately gave away who it was. "Arvin?" You asked the obvious, slowly approaching. "Is...Is that you?"

A pair of tired eyes paired with furrowed brows shot up at you while you fish the keys from your pocket. His handsome face was lined, and eyes set deep into its sockets, riddled with sleep—a frustrated but tired gaze connected with yours. You can't help but notice the trembles shaking his frame as you come close. "Hey." He grumbled as the simple greeting came from his shuddering lips. The cold and fatigue certainly got a good grip on him. 

"You're... early?" You said somewhat sarcastically. "Something happened?" 

"R-Ran into some problems." He groaned, followed by a coughing fit that almost knocked his lungs out. "So I…eh slept here." 

"Damn… Do I wanna know what happened?" Arvin's condescending stare said more than enough. The way he communicated through that stare—the eye contact. You knew enough. You shook your head in disbelief. "Well, c'mon." Extending him a hand to help him on his feet. "I'll get you started with something warm." A firm grasp takes your hand, but his fingers were cold through and through, followed by a gaze of threatening eyes. You caught it in a glimpse. It was more than enough. Just what you thought. The red of his knuckles, skin rough and stained with dried blood. Arvin had been in a fight of some sort. 

"What?" He snorted in derision. Pulling back his hand from yours as he got onto his legs. His anger, sudden, and ferocious. There was a moment of thoughtful silence as he inched closer beside you. He was aware of what you saw. But wasn't going to admit it, nor tell you. 

"Nothin…" You replied. Careful not to show your disappointment. "Let's head inside."

Arvin took a seat at the bar, with your jacket wrapped around him. Just to give some extra warmth. Eyes small and dim, an expression of defeat and a glare that had tiresome written all over it. His shoulders hung low, and his posture sat like a wreck on the stool. 

"Did you even sleep?" Placing a big pot of tea beside him. He only answered by shaking his head, wrapping his hands around the mug. Life slowly returning to his pale-looking fingers. You let him sit in silence as you sip your morning coffee. Arvin's gaze stuck somewhere beyond the passing traffic. A thousand-yard stare. It sure was his trademark—so absent-minded, sulking on his own. Jaw locked and sucking on his teeth. You weren't a morning person either, but this was something else.

"Tidy up." You said while putting a warm moist cloth beside his hands. "You'll scare the customers."

"I don't follow." Came the grunted reply. Sipping on his steaming hot cup of tea. His reply almost sounded like a challenge, rather than this usual angry tone you got used to. 

"The blood-" You nod to his knuckles. Looking all sore and red. "On your hands. You... need a bandage or...?" The response was none. He just looked at you. Sometimes a car caught his attention before looking back at you. You think to notice a small curvature on the corner of his lips. Making you a little unsure of what to do. "You okay, Arvin?"

"You'd like to know...?" He asked with a growing smirk, slowly tilting the cup to his lips. The smile now more prominent than before. "Wouldn't you…"

"Arvin…" You sighed and rolled your eyes. "It's more-"

"Goodmorning!" A voice called out in the back. Interrupting you mid-sentence. Making you jump a little. You hop over to Arvin and pull the jacket away from him, just in time as your father turned the corner. "Well, good morning to you too." He flashed a smile towards Arvin. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Before Arvin had said a word, you already interjected; rather smoothly, you had to admit. "This is Arvin." You introduced. "And we were just talking about the job…"

"Oh! Nice meeting you." Extending his hand towards Arvin. "I'm (YOUR DADS NAME)." Shaking his hand. "So you're here for the kitchen? That's good! Jerry will be delighted to hear that." Arvin watched you with big eyes as you continued to talk in on your dad. Desperate not to let Arvin ruin the hold thing. But for one, Arvin didn't follow at all. His mind was too hazy to process this much so early in the morning. After a few minutes of conversation, your dad turns to Arvin. "All sounds good. You got experience?"

"Well... ehm." He stammered somewhat inaudible. Nervously shielding his bruised knuckles with his other hand. "I…"

" You... mentioned… your gran-" Trying to put the words in his mouth, mimicking the words with your lips. But Arvin clearly wasn't following. A confused expression crawled on his face as you exchanged glances. "Grand--... M-

"-Grandmother… Yes." He said, finally catching on. "I… learned from my grandmother."

"Ah! Okay. Well, we don't serve that kind of food here." Your father bellowed in laughter. "But experience is best shown via practice. When you're ready, hop on in the kitchen and serve us some breakfast." Your dad says, pulling off his jacket. "Give us a call when you're ready." And turns to you. "I'll be upstairs, do some paperwork. How was yesterday?" 

"Good, good. Nothing special. But listen…" Pushing him along towards the staircase in the back. Out of earreach of Arvin. "Arvin needs some living space. If he's good, which I think he really is, maybe he can sleep upstairs? One of the older rooms." 

"I thought you were thinking about-"

"No, no, no… That can wait. I can wait. But what do you think?"

"Yeah, of course. We can make that work. If you think he's good. Go for it. But he better make us a good breakfast." He laughs and pats you on your shoulder, starting to scale the flight of stairs. "Call me when it's done." You let out a sigh of relief as you close the door behind you. A good start so far. 

But dark clouds were gathering near the bar. You could see it in his eyes. Arvin's kind and smiling expression he faked in front of your dad. Those expressions had vanished, replaced by something of an animal's howl of outrage. "What did you just do?!" Arvin jumped off his stool, aggressively barged towards you. "You-"

"If you mean to ruin this for yourself-..." You cut him off. "-speak... louder."

"I didn't ask for any of this!" He hissed with his teeth clenched, like a wolf snarling at his prey. But surprisingly, in a lowered tone. Confronting you close up. His balled up fists threatening what came next. 

"Then why are you whispering-...?" You grinned. "-Arvin?"

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into!" His breath ragged with the passion of his anger and fuelled rage, big brown eyes peered into yours. For a moment, you were afraid that he might do something to you. "Do you?!" 

"No, but neither do you." You fired back at him. "Don't be mad at me. I'm merely giving you a chance."

"If I wanted that, I'd ask for it!" He snarled up close, the spittle almost flying across your face. "For ev-"

"Stay angry all you want." You said without letting him finish. "You can walk right out of the door if you want, or… you step into that kitchen and make something of it." You let the words sink in. Stepping past him, you turn around and pat his shoulder. "Think about it. It's a chance to start anew."

"I…" He sighed without finishing his sentence before even starting it. "You don't even know me."

"What's your point?"

"Why would you help me?!" He held his pose as he spoke, the dark brown intensity of his eyes never leaving yours. "Out of all the people that walk in here, why me?"

"It's simple." You toss the pen aside. Feeling the frustration of his misplaced mistrust starting to annoy you. "I just want to help you, Arvin. That's all." Your breath quickened for a moment as you stood there facing each other. Locked in one and other's gaze. "I… I felt…" But shake the thoughts from your mind. "I felt sorry for you."

"You shouldn't..." He mumbled, gazing into the distance. Locking his jaw as he mulled over your words. Trying to look tough. "I don't need someone else's pity." Throwing his knapsack over his shoulder. And starts heading for the door. "I'm a lost cause."

"Then what do you have left to lose? Nothing. Right?"

"I'm free to go wherever the fuck I want." He sneered, jabbing an angry finger against your chest. "Because you did something nice doesn't mean I have to repay you."

"That's not…" You sighed deeply, frustrated at his stubbornness. Seeing him walk away again. "Arvin… don't go."

"Oh shut up." He snarled, waving a dismissive hand.

"I'm sorry." You apologized. Ashamed of your comment earlier. "I shouldn't have said that. And, I… didn't mean it that way. It's… I haven't slept well and..." 

"You and me both." He said. Leaving you a little bit surprised. A moment of silence filled the room. Upstairs you could hear your dad walking. For a moment, youre afraid he might have heard something. "I'm sorry too." He hung his head low. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you. You didn't deserve that."

"Will you at least think about, Arvin. I want you to know, my father has agreed on lending you a room upstairs." You said while averting your gaze, back to your work. "You can stay there for a while." And head towards the ledger spread out before on the counter. Arvin stood there, frozen on the spot. Hand on the door. Ready to leave. "Think about it, Arvin."

His eyes widened, the aggression in his expression sank away, replaced by guilt. "Are you… Are you serious?" He turned to you. "(Y/N)?"

"Yes, I believe in you. You just… need a little bit of help." You said. "Worst case, my dad laughs about it, and he'll teach you himself. He can't see the bad in people. He only wants to bring the best out of them."

"Runs in the family." He says with a small smile growing. You only catch it in a glimpse as you watch him turn around, walking towards one of the hanging aprons behind the bar. You watch him from the corner of your eye and can't help but smile. Fiddling with the apron and cleaning his hands. He seemed like a good lad. And you were happy he at least was giving it a shot. "Arvin." You called just before he entered the kitchen, mentioning him to come over. "Make the bacon extra crispy for my dad. You'll score extra points."

"I will." He smiled and nodded. "I will." And watch him enter the kitchen. 

"And don't forget yourself." You add on while you try to focus on the numbers in front of you. But they didn't hold any interest to you. Opening hour was just around the corner, but this day had already gotten so much better. Your smile was hard to suppress. But why would you? A smile of happiness. Now it's up to him.

"(Y/N)" Arvin's voice came from behind you. Waking you from your derailed train of thought. As you turned around, you see him leaning on his forearms through the little serving counter. "When this turns out-" 

"It will, Arvin." You immediately said with confidence, followed with a smile. "Trust me. It will." 

"Okay." He chuckled softly. "Well...Do you… eh maybe want to get a drink sometime?" Asking with a slight nervousness to his voice. "No cigarettes." He added, a tender smile curving his lips. "I… also... still owe you for last night, so..." 

"Now I have to make this work." You chuckle, rubbing the nape of your neck. Feeling a rush of heat shoot across your cheeks. "Sounds good, Arvin."

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Chasing Providence {Dimitrescu/OC} Pt 1

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Pairings: TBA, at minimum platonic House Dimitrescu/OC, with some wlw side characters (also original, but not the focus of the story) Rating: T for mild violence and possibly triggering content Warnings: A character briefly threatens suicide as a means of prolonging a conversation (i.e. saying "if you don't listen, I'll ___") Additionally, this contains spoilers for Resident Evil 8. Summary: Months after being infected with a mysterious virus, investigative journalist Avaskian Caldwell is left with no choice: Xe has to get help, one way or another, from whatever remains of the Umbrella Corporation could be trusted. Or, perhaps, from the very person who started it all... Along the way xe'll have to get along with vampires, fight off would be hunters, befriend a hoard of cultists, all while performing the duties of an everyday servant. There's nothing xe won't try as xe's forced to chase providence. Notes: While this chapter features a somewhat talkative Ava, xe's normally selectively mute, and will be for the entire rest of the story.

1: Blood Runs Thick

“This can’t be it. No fucking way, bruv, are you sure you got the address right?” The journalist asked, eyes narrowed as xe stared out into the distant hills. One hand held a phone, currently without any signal, while the other kept a tentative grip on the van’s door handle. To their side was the driver, a middle-aged man with relatively little patience. When he replied, it was in a language the journalist didn’t speak, but could clearly understand as a swirl of profanity. “Alright, alright, I get it. Not like I could afford to pay you to take me back, anyway… I’ll just, uh, be going then. Try to have a nice day, eh, you old chap?” With that said xe opened the door, hopping out rather eagerly. After tucking xer phone into xer pocket, xe quickly gathered xer bags from the trunk, half expecting the man to drive off before xe had a chance.

Surprisingly, he stayed all the way until the journalist gave two hard pats to the van’s side. Then he practically slammed the gas pedal, speeding off in a whirling cloud of dust and kicked up rocks, promptly sending xer into a coughing fit. Curse these feeble lungs, xe thought, scowling. Absent-mindedly xe put a hand to xer throat, silently checking if xer, ahem, ‘wounds’ were still covered. Once satisfied, xe turned to the long, winding path into the village. Was this truly where the ever-elusive “Miranda” could be found? What in the blazes of hell was a scientist like herself doing here, in a mostly empty stretch of Romania? The thought sent a rush of anxiety to the journalist’s chest, as xe wondered if this “Miranda” would even consider helping xer. Xe hoped that, at the least, xer unique case would get her attention.

In the end, it took xer twice as long as expected to reach the village proper. There were no signs along the path, nor signs of life, other than countless dead birds, hung like falling leaves from every tree. Once, a display this gnarly would have made bile rise up in xer throat. But these days? After everything xe had researched? This was no hell, not when compared to the bombed ruin that was Raccoon City. Yet xe still cut xer hand when hopping the barbed wire fence, as if once again a rookie, too desperate for the truth to see the proper world. Fresh blood dropped onto the snow, but xe allowed xerself no wince nor complaint, instead focused on the figures moving in the distance. Strangers. Nay, sources. Someone would know something about the mysterious Miranda, even if they didn’t realize it.

So the journalist made haste, approaching as casually as xe could, considering the heavy traveler’s bag on xer shoulders, and the sturdy cane xe walked with. It was the latter that caught people’s attention first, as it click click clicked against the stone path. Before long there were several pairs of eyes on the journalist, some of them bearing thinly veiled hostility, others filled with nervousness.

“Who are you?” A man growls, stepping in front of a woman (his daughter, based on similar features, age difference) as he does. One of his fingers jabs into xer chest, daring them to take another move, carrying an unspoken threat within it. For a few seconds xe simply smiles at the man. Somewhat amused, xe hoped that xer natural charm would win the day, despite a quick glance telling them that most of these strangers were armed.

“I’m a journalist-” xe started to say, until the others moved their hands towards their holsters- “or at least I was, once. But I come asking for assistance, kindness from my fellow humans,” xe said, gesturing widely with xer arms. This made the others present pause, though the journalist wasn’t immediately sure that xe hadn’t just misspoken. Romanian was not xer first language. Or xer second, come to think of it. Oddly enough, however, it had clicked rather quickly in xer brain, as if xe had always been meant to speak it. “You may call me Avaskian Caldwell. Or just Ava, or just Kian, or just Vas, depending on your mood. Ah, but that hardly matters. I am here… to find a woman. Someone I have heard much about, a, how do you say… ‘marvel’ of science? They tell me she is called ‘Miranda’. Have I come to the-” xe do not get to finish that sentence. Before xe can understand what’s happening, someone has grabbed xer by the throat, attempting to life xer into the air.

For once in xer life, xe’s glad for the ‘extra insulation’.

“Fuck you, outsider, you don’t deserve to taint her name with your foul tongue!” The man shouts, squeezing xer throat, urged on by the jeering crowd. A smarter person would have been rather concerned at that point. But the journalist- Ava, as xe said- was not known for xer cleverness. That did not, however, stop xer from exhibiting cleverness. Taking advantage of xer ridiculous arm joints (which may or may not be doubled, possibly merely weird as fuck), xe reached into xer bag, ignoring the crowd’s scared reaction, retrieving an evidence bag. Inside of it: several broken vials, each marked with a symbol of terror. This is not a place of honor the symbol screamed. To the villagers, it meant something else, something older. To Ava? It meant the prophet of death, it meant Umbrella.

“I come bearing the sign of your village. I come bearing the scars of your Goddess,” Ava proclaims, raising the bag into the air. As soon as xe does, xe is released, the man scrambling backwards. Others turn away, some leaving, a handful gathering to pray. ‘Twas an odd display, but one that Ava preferred over a public execution. Only one person dares to approach: A woman, likely mid thirties, with dark eyes and darker hair. There’s a clear caution in her movements, as if it was taking all of her courage to not flee. “Do you perhaps know how I may reach Miranda? I am in dire need of her knowledge.” At this, the woman flinches, though her gaze lingers on Ava’s throat. It’s then that the journalist realizes xer collar was undone, exposing xer strange, ever-bleeding wound. The stranger does not speak until xe has covered the deformity.

“One does not simply reach Mother Miranda. But there are ways to get her attention, to ask for a, hmm, blessing,” she explains. With a sigh of relief, Ava starts to celebrate, eager to find a cure for what ailed xer. But the woman wasn’t done speaking, and her next words cut a thick line through xer hope. “It may take a few weeks, maybe less, but we can ensure your prayers are heard. Mother Miranda always rewards the faithful. Even those who start out as outsiders. In the end, all are welcome here, if they keep the faith in our Mother.”

“No, no, that won’t do!” Ava snaps, far harsher than intended. The woman flinches again, and xe starts to pace back and forth, trying to release xer pent up energy. “There has to be another way. Faster, more direct. I don’t-... I might not have time to wait. Please, please, anything you can do to help, even if it’s just pointing me in the right direction…” A gulp, eyes shining with unshed tears, a quiver of the lower lip. Falsehoods alike, directed for an honest purpose. Miranda was xer only hope for information- and, perhaps, for salvation. But the latter had never been Ava’s true priority.

“There might be one way, but it is dangerous. You’d be more likely to die on the path than reach your goal, if I am honest. Yet… if there is anyone in all the village who can grant you the audience you seek, it would be one of the four lords. If you are certain-” the woman could only watch as Ava nodded furiously, silently begging- “so be it. Follow me, but do not say I did not warn you. I do not want your spirit coming to haunt me for my act of pity.”

—————————

“An unexpected guest? How… delightful. Do tell me why you even bothered to drag this miscreant before me, Cynthia?” Lady Alcina Dimitrescu asked, with a scowl, staring down at the fragile human in question. Of all the things she had expected to find, once her head servant called her, this was not one of them. An intruder would have been more likely. Perhaps even more fun, if Alcina felt like letting her daughters join in the resulting feast. But this ‘thing’ was hardly worth her time. They were short, although admittedly somewhat plump, with a scent that implied illness. For once, she could not pinpoint the exact disease by smell alone. Not that she cared, really. ‘Twas simply… interesting.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. You may call me Avaskian Caldwell, and I come with an… offer. With mutual benefits, I assure you, Lady Dimitrescu,” the journalist answered, giving a deep bow. Despite xer manners, Alcina seemed unimpressed, even irritated by the display. Still, she gestured with her right hand, encouraging xer to get on with it. “I am in need of a meeting, specifically one with the much beloved, dearly respected Mother Miranda. In exchange, I offer two things: The sweat of my brow, and the blood in my veins.” Much to xer displeasure, Alcina replied with loud laughter before fixing xer with a hard stare.

“Pray tell, little thing, what makes you think I won’t simply take your blood now, hmm?” She muses, cackling again, ignoring the way her servant flinched at the sound. But Ava did not waiver, instead simply reaching into xer sleeve. Slowly xe pulled out something metallic, speaking firmly as xe did.

“For one, Mother Miranda would certainly dislike losing out on this opportunity,” xe started to say, unable to stop xerself from smirking. Then the knife fully exited xer sleeve, dancing in the light, before pressing against xer own throat. It was certainly a unique threat. Instantly Alcina rises to her feet, only pausing when she realizes that she wasn’t the one in danger. “Secondly, my blood is worth more if I am alive. You see, I have a wretched ‘condition’, which does a handful of lovely, lovely, life-threatening things to this poor vessel of mine. But someone as intelligent as yourself could find plenty of use for my so-called ‘illness’. If you give me a chance to explain, that is.” Though she does not sit back down, or even nod, it quickly becomes clear that Alcina did not intend to interrupt. Yet. “Grand, grand! I do appreciate it, my Lady. Now, let me just grab the research I brought with me…”

Never once lowering the knife from xer throat, Ava digs into xer bag, forced to briefly clip xer cane to xer belt. Then xe retrieves a closed manilla folder, carefully handing it to the giantess in front of xer. Wordlessly Alcina accepts the item, opening it to peruse its contents, only pausing to put on a pair of reading glasses. A minute of quiet passes before Ava continues xer explanation.

“I heal faster than anyone else on your staff, guaranteed. Hell, I cut my hand down in the village, on some damned wire, and the wound has already closed back up, good as new. That means, of course, that if someone were to let’s say… remove some of my blood, well, it wouldn’t take too long for me to get more, now would it? Obviously there has to be some biological counter, some form of payment for my ability. The rule of equivalent exchange, and all that, yes? As it stands… I eat an extra slice of bread a day. That’s it. Nothing bad enough to cancel out the boon of my blood. My… extensive reservoir of blood. Interesting, yes?” Ava says, still as charming as ever, despite the indescribable terror in xer chest. If there was one thing that xe had learned as a journalist, it was how to hide xer fear. Which was plenty useful, in the current situation, especially when Alcina flips a page to reveal the one downside to xer condition.

“Don’t tell me you came all this way to try and deceive me. Here I was, beginning to think something of you, and you hand me a sheet that says it clear as candlelight: Your blood is dirty. Infected. I won’t be drinking it anytime soon, nor would I even consider allowing it to be used for my family’s wine!” Alcina is essentially yelling at this point. But Ava only takes a step forward, smile present but trembling, and gestures for her to turn the page. With narrowed eyes she does, quickly reading through the notes. Once, then a pause, then once more. Finally she closes the folder, setting it down upon her desk. “Fascinating. You are indeed a… unique case. I cannot guarantee you a meeting with Mother Miranda, and even if I do, it will be because of your condition. She will use you, as is her divine right to do, likely without ever once considering attempting to cure you. But if you are determined to meet her, well,” Alcina leans in with her own grin, sending chills down Ava’s spine, “I will not stop you. Here’s hoping you manage to give me plenty of blood before you ‘expire’. Cynthia, show her to the servants’ quarters. I expect her to be working by tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”

Although Ava could not help but twitch at the Lady’s choice of pronouns, xe had expected this. Eventually xe would explain the indefinite nature of xer gender. Or perhaps xe was doomed to die a horrific, tragic death long before xe ever had the opportunity. Either way, xe could not help but feel a small sense of elation, pleased to have made some progress towards xer goal. Three steps forward and two steps back was still, cumulatively, a step forward. In time, xe would likely come to regret this series of choices. But who among us could say they held no regrets at all? And if, in the end, this storyteller came away with one hell of a story… wouldn’t that outweigh the regret? Even if Ava did not know it, xe would one day learn a valuable lesson from the strange family xe now worked for: Blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb. Oh, and what a lovely covenant it would be.

[bigmeatymudcrabchitins]

A not-so-brief overview of my Skyrim Dova OCs bc i need to scream to the digital void about my ideas

Freyora Lind, more commonly known by her strange alias “Bjorne Icepick”

A Nord-eventually-turned-werewolf who orphaned during the Great War and taken in by a Dunmeri mercenary whose residence was in Windhelm’s Gray Quarter. Grew up in a cramped boarding house setting among desperate mercenaries of varying backgrounds. Many of them would all come and go, but there was always some sort of a familial bond between them all.

From a young age she got in a lot of fights against people who insulted her for living in the Gray Quarter among the dark elves. Eventually she took a fight too far and was jailed for murder around 14, but was broken out shortly after by a band of masked vampires. Turns out some of her mercenary comrades unwittingly caught vampirism during a contract to clear out a vampire den and had to skip town, but not before ensuring one of their own wasn’t left to rot.

Lived in Cyrodil for about 15 years, but returned to Skyrim pursuing rumors surrounding a cure to vampirism, as her adoptive father would be nearing the end of his elven lifespan and had wished to die a normal death.

Seeing as she was literally a fugitive, and her long-belated parents were somewhat renowned for their battlefield prowess, she took on a false identity. AND an act to match it.

She’ll eat raw meat, chase prey with swords instead of using a bow like a normal person, harp about irrational conspiracy theories, and more. Everyone’s foul reactions to her outlandish act are plainly hilarious to her and only encourage her to act even stranger.

The alias “Bjorne Icepick” was simply the most ridiculous name she could think of.

Not the most morally outstanding. Besides drunken brawling, she’ll steal from anyone who angers her, even if it’s things she literally won’t ever need such as all the goblets in a household. It’s the pettiness that counts. “Try drinking your damn high-end wine now, jackass.”

Calls Dwarven Automatons “Gundams.” Including she herself, no one knows what that means.

Joins the Companions out of homesickness and a desire to fill in a gap that leaving home left.

Hasn’t bothered curing herself of lycanthropy because her whole schtick is being incredibly resourceful, and that includes using any means of power necessary. Still doesn’t fancy Hircine’s Hunting Grounds as her desired afterlife, though.

As her journey goes on, however, her lightheartedly eccentric face starts to fall off as a number of events push her to begin to question the legitimacy of her actions up until that point.

Some of which include the eventual death of her adoptive father (and how she was indirectly responsible for it even if it was what he wanted), Delphine’s ultimatum, the civil war as a collective, learning the tragic history behind the Falmer and the original Companions’ role in it, and killing of Vyrthur (no matter how much he genuinely deserved it).

She grows disgusted by herself down to the core. She takes to skooma to cope, and starts to be plagued by serious skooma-induced side effects. She ends up shutting herself away from all her responsibilities and distancing herself from her friends.

Does she get better? Maybe. I haven’t thought up anything past this point lol

Moureneris Alta

A very, VERY ancient vampiric snow elf, (though it’s notable she was born a considerable amount of time after the razing of Sarthaal)

Survived many atrocities. Stayed in isolation with a band of vampires for countless years out of sheer disgust for the nature of the sapient races. (I’ll explain her full story some other time. It’s pretty complicated)

She was abducted from her isolated lifestyle by a certain person i’ll talk about later. She managed to free herself south of Skyrim, and uh, walks right into that Imperial ambush. The rest is history.

Super ignorant to modern society as a result of centuries of isolation. Exploited for comedic relief. (“What in the name of Oblivion is a Cyrodilic Empire? Are you messing with me? And please, how does levitation magic simply get outlawed by this hypothetical Empire? What are you to do when you fall down a crevice? Just... let yourself perish? How degrading.)

She reintegrated herself into society with vengeance in mind under the belief that all humans are savage bloodlusting murderers who had to answer for their treachery. (And she was royally angry there was no Dwemer left to spite, but partially satisfied at the same time). But she grows conflicted after being shown genuine kindness, even as early as being freed from her binds in Helgen.

Subsequently has a very muddled redemption arc. Queue Dragonborn hero stuff

She has impaired vision, but she cultivated detect life magic to aid her in daily life and combat (think Hyakkimaru from Dororo ‘19 and his soul detection or Toph Beifong from ATLA and her seismic sense). At her peak, she can detect life from about a kilometer away.

She can just barely read, but only if she holds the text incredibly close to her face, not to mention her Cyrodilic lessons were left unfinished after her abduction, making reading a very taxing process. Weary travelers are often spooked at the sight of a floating, ghastly looking elven woman with her nose pressed up against crossroad signs, and it has become somewhat of an urban legend.

Isn’t as nearly as skilled with detecting the dead and tenses up in burial crypts or around other vampires for that reason. Unfortunately, being the Dragonborn and all, she finds herself in a lot of crypts...

When questioned about her background due to her unique appearance: “Oh, yeah. My mother was one of those mer from the east. You know the ones. Dark elves, I think? And my father was one of those er, tall elv- no, sorry, HIGH elves. Yeah. They both died in a big fire or something though. It was horrible. I can’t get the noxious smell or the deafening screams out of my head. Good talk, but never ask me about that again.”

Queue sheltered old immortal antics: “Wow, you’re THAT old? Enlighten me on how it felt witnessing the fall of the Dwemer. Or perhaps the rise of Tiber Septim’s Empire. The Gates of Ob-“ “Oblivion if I know. I lived in someone’s basement for thousands of years. And I still don’t know what everyone means by Empire. You all are messing with me, aren’t you? That really annoys me.”

She ultimately returns to faith in Auri-El and makes it her life’s purpose to help the Betrayed find peace, as well as to seek out any remaining snow elf groups. Probably good friends with Gelebor or something.

Had a crush on Serana. We all know how THAT went. Damned temples.

Was originally gonna spiral into a much darker corruption arc (another ATLA comparison being Jet or Hama) but I just felt bad for her. Moureneris can have a little found peace. As a treat.

That’s her preliminary design made. I’ll need a mod to properly play her, because that right there was made by choosing Dunmer as her race. But I can’t do that. I’m on console, and while I got the Steam port a month ago, my PC’s stone age specs can’t handle Skyrim yet and I’ll need to wait until I can afford a better graphics card (thanks economic inflation)

Alexandre Armasi, jokingly nicknamed Alexandre the Curious

A complete and unapologetic export of my character from a dead and unfinished DND campaign. Except there are no Aasimar in Skyrim, so he’s half Altmer half Bosmer. And his initial last name was Armas but I thought Armasi suited his Skyrim counterpart more, as subtle a change it is.

He’s mainly Bosmer in appearance and constitution, save for his hair and eyes, which are more similar to that of his Altmeri father’s.

I can’t really export his original backstory though because the campaign wouldn’t translate well into TES lore at all.

He’s a writer who came wandering into Skyrim in search of inspiration. While he mainly writes dramatic fables, he wanted to divert his focus to crafting his own bestiary and herbal compendium surrounding Skyrim’s fauna and flora. The ones at home are simply too vague to him!

He’s very altruistic, wishing to spread cheer wherever he goes, through the art of song (even though he was a cleric in DND and not a bard. My bad.) However, many of his verses are just blatant self promotions of his published fables.

But he’s too naive for his own good. Dangerously so. In fact, he says what’s on his mind with little forethought, with little grasp on the consequences of his actions, which lands him in lots of trouble. “I don’t favor him myself, but you guys kill people over Talos worship? That’s not very cool. A bit scary, if you ask me.” or “A Stormcloak rebel? Didn’t your leader kill a bunch of Reachmen rebels years back, or so I’ve heard. By the divines that’s not a man I’d make a symbol of nonconformity.”

He’s also insatiably curious. The type to ACTUALLY shove alchemic ingredients in his mouth with no knowledge of their properties, experiment with dangerous rune spells, throw rocks at pressure plates, and more. Needless to say he’s very accident prone.

Doesn’t know common curse words. People exploit this for laughs. Think that episode of Spongebob.

Everyone is a little baffled that HE of all people is the prophesied Dragonborn of legend. This agonizingly imbecilic writer who has absentmindedly wandered into burial crypts, troll dens, bandit forts, and more, too busy juggling his manuscripts to pay attention to his surroundings.

His past doesn’t exactly reflect his outlook on life. His mother and father fought in the Great War aligned with the Imperials despite their elven background. Both managed to live to see the war’s conclusion, but his father vanished without a trace shortly after, and it seems his mother knows something she won’t tell him.

With plenty of exposure to bad influences, his innocence is slowly lost throughout the course of his journey, and his altruism begins to grow twisted. But nevertheless, he maintains his jovial, social persona, except this time with much darker undertones. Kinda like a creepy dentist or something.

Whoops. He winds up becoming a feared Dark Brotherhood assassin. (Haha get it “Innocence Lost”???) He somehow deluded himself into thinking that the life of an assassin was the right thing to do. But he’s a funky little guy so he gets a pass for his heinous crimes against society

[ladynightmare913]

Red Rose, Blood Moon

Greetings and welcome to Chapter 13! I apologize for the long wait but, reality got in the way of my story weaving. I have been doing much self-reflecting and I wasn't content with how it portrayed me. But after much deliberation, I decided to change the appearance of my blog until it showed what I felt is my reflection and made me happy. But do not worry, I have returned and links have been updated on the Masterlist.

This is an original story inspired by the tale of Red Riding Hood. As always, I would like to a special thank you to my best friend Olivia (@asunshinepuff ) for joining me in writing this world onto paper.

CW: This chapter contains a brief mention of gore, gruesome descriptions, creatures, fire, and things you can imagine in your nightmares! You have your warning!

This story contains only original characters created by Olivia and myself. For those who want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask to me or Olivia on her blog. If you have any questions, theories, or curiosities about any of our characters or how the story will progress, send them to the ask box!

Now without further Adieu!

Chapter 13: A Burning Night

The group gathered their belongings and traveled to the port of the river. The ferry they managed to secure passage from was not the most pleasant looking. The lumber was mellow and dull. It was fairly large, able to carry a hefty number of passengers, including a few horses.

Felis grumbled as they boarded the boat. Making comments here and there, saying his ship was far superior and making the occasional snarky remark. He would not allow the comparison of his “child” to this wreck of a boat, thank you very much. Who on top of it all, most probably had an inadequate captain. Cassandra simply rolled her eyes each time with a shake of her head, agreeing occasionally with Felis in order to finally get him to stop grumbling.

Rosabella walked behind the bickering couple, ensuring that neither Felis nor Cassandra was lost in the crowd. She would occasionally look behind her, not trusting Red to fade away into the crowd the moment she got distracted. She looked ahead, it made her uneasy, the way he would lag behind, and every time she turned to look at him, he would be looking right back. As if he was rather unimpressed that her consistent need to check on him was an offense.

Still, she supposed, Red still hadn’t made any mention of what occurred in the springs, to which was eternally grateful, she doubted she could live with the embarrassment. She would be mortified if anyone knew. Reluctantly, Rosabella hasn’t omitted to acknowledge that he has been acting like a gentleman about it. Now Rosabella prayed that it would remain that way.

Once they boarded the ship, along with their horses, there were few cabins so Cassandra and Rosabella would share one. Felis and Red would loiter about on deck. The ferry took sail just before the sun began to rise. Felis took to friendly conversation with fellow passengers, trying to get more intel about the missing persons and if anyone else had seen strange creatures. Red took to watching from afar. After getting a few hours of sleep, Cassandra and Rosabella joined the men when meals were offered.

The meal was noisy, but none of the lot weren’t used to it. Picking up a few choice words from the fellow passengers about mysterious figures walking in the woods at night. They would never respond to anyone’s calls.

“The strangest thing about them, I swear is their eyes. Glowing red they were.” One traveler revealed, “Twisted looking things, I bet it be another form of those thirsty bloodsuckers.”

“Do you mean the Night Stalkers?” Rosabella offered. She knew many creatures that feasted on human blood.

“I mean Vampires.” The man corrected gruffly. Unease when she spoke to him with ease. “You don’t suppose they moved into France do you?” he asked the other men.

“Oh, they’re already here.” One man commented. Some men choked on their food. Rosabella thought it best to not say anything. Felis and Cassandra’s silence was answer enough. Red scoffed. Sapphire eyes followed him as he rose from his seat before he left. After the meal, Rosabella searched for Red. She found him leaning against the wall, staring out to the water. She didn’t bother to announce her presence, she knew he would have heard her approaching long before he saw her.

“Will you not sleep?” She asks softly, stepping closer.

“Not if I can help it.” Only his eyes moved to look at her. “I don’t trust others, so I don’t sleep.”

“Surely you don’t doubt that we could keep watch while you slept?” She inquired.

His head tightly towards her, his eyes were scrutinizing her. “Is there something you needed?”

Rosabella did her best not to feel affronted at his shift in tone. She sighed deeply, she extended her arm, his cloak in her hands. “I simply wanted to return this to you.” Though she doubted he needed it, she could feel the heat burning off of him from where she stood.

His gaze relaxed, wordlessly accepting his cloak, and put it on before he carried on looking out to the river.

“And to thank you, for not saying anything about what happened.” She said sincerely, he didn’t say anything in response.

Rosabella placed her hands behind her as she leaned back to the wall. She was a respectable distance away from him. Looking out to the river, they stayed there in silence, and snow began to fall.

“Have you encountered vampires before?” Rosabella spoke gently.

“Yes.” He shifted, crossing a leg over the other.

“When?” She asked.

“Not that many years ago. Contrary to what people believe, vampires are not an old race. They’re new.”

“Really?” Her eyes blinked in bewilderment. “How do you know?”

“I’ve traveled far, I’ve met creatures older than myself. Vampires are young compared to the rest of us.”

She frowned at that. “Most people say they are terrifying, creatures of seduction and immense power.”

“I know of more powerful and terrifying creatures, Vampires are just overgrown mosquitoes. Vampires are entitled children, who play with their food. Get offended when their food supply fights back. ” He chuckled dryly.

“Do they fight you?”

“No, they didn’t stick around long enough to find out. They usually avoid us.” He looked to Rosabella.

“Us?” She leaned forward, her head faced towards him.

“The other old creatures and I. The oldest vampire would only be roughly three hundred years old.”

“I heard of wolves and vampires fighting each other. Is that true?”

“Yes. The vampires have no qualms about fighting any wolf that isn’t me.”

“Sounds like you don’t like them,” Rosabella nodded slowly, looking back to the water, “the other wolves.”

“To be frank, I don’t like anyone. Why would I make them the exception?” He eyed her skeptically.

“Because they are your kin?” She offered with sincere eyes.

“They are not my kin. I want nothing to do with them.” He replied coldly.

Disconcerted, she paused. “I would give anything to have kin,” she leaned back to the wall, her eyes solemn, “It’s the only thing I have ever wanted more than anything in my whole life. To not be alone.”

Red frowned, “What about your grandmother?”

“She adopted me.”

Red said nothing, only gazing down at her with an assessing gaze. “What about your friend Cassandra? She-”

“Will marry Felis. They will have a family. They will want to live their lives, and I will not interfere. Cassandra wouldn’t let me, but it wouldn't be right if I did.” She interrupted, her head turned to look at Red. “And I will be left to my own devices, they would never mean to leave me, but it is to be expected.”

“You sound like you’ve resigned yourself from finding your own pair.” He assessed. “Which is strange for women your age. You seem certain of it.”

“I am. I am something that men would find improper of a wife, and when they learn the truth,” she paused, looking back to the river, “I don't even know what I am. No one knows. I suppose that is why I have been searching for my kin for years, hoping that they would have answers.”

Rosabella looked down. They stayed silent for a long moment, staring out at the river. Red’s lips parted to speak before Rosabella interrupted.

“Goodnight Red.” She stepped away from the wall, walking to her cabin. Nox looked back to Red from his perch on her shoulders, ears perked up. Red stared out to the river. Rosabella went to bed, Nox curled beside her.

A monstrous roar resonated in the chill of the air. A scream. A struggle, and the sound of glass shattering to the ground. Flames spread across the ferry. Rosabella woke to the smell of smoke. Her sapphire eyes wide at the state of their cabin. Cassandra was already out of bed and standing, Lumi clung tightly to Cassandra’s arm as she hurriedly gathered what she could.

Rosabella was quick to her feet, Nox curled tightly on her shoulders, chirping as the women escaped their burning room and froze at the sight of the ship, Rosabella recoiled at the stench of burning flesh and the agonized screams of the ferrymen as they fell into the water. Stricken at the sight of the men, the women pushed themselves to flee. They came across Felis, whose eyes locked onto Cassandra. The pirate rushed spotting them over the sea of panicked passengers and rushed towards them.

“Cassandra!” His frantic eyes, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “Are you alright?”

Cassandra gives a meek smile, eyes softening briefly at the frantic look in his eyes, raising her hand to his on her cheek. “I’m alright. There’s no need to fuss, but we need to go.” Grasping the pirate’s hand, she pulled him along to find a way off this burning ferry.

“Where’s Red?” Rosabella called out as followed the couple.

“I don’t know, I ran to look for you when I saw the flames,” Felis responded.

Rosabella glared at Felis’ head. “You left him alone?!”

“Well excuse me for coming to your aid and leaving a grown man alone for a minute!” Felis replied as he turned a corner.

“And you didn’t think for one moment that leaving the Father of Werewolves to his own devices was a bad idea?!”

“To his own devices?! This wreck of a boat is in flames! I doubt he could do anything in this chaos!” The pirate retorted.

“When this is over, remind me to slap him, Cassandra,” Rosabella said.

Cassandra grinned. “Will do.”

The group turned at the final corner, stopping when their path was blocked by the creatures from back at the hot springs in Mirstone, in flames. Rosabella blanched.

“What are those things?!” Felis sneered at the smell of burning flesh. “They smell like fish vomit.”

“Fish vomit?” Cassandra asked in confusion. Looking back and forth at the burning creatures and the pirate.

“How did they even get on the ferry?” Rosabella muttered to herself.

“Don’t know,” Cassandra grimaced. “I hate that they're on fire, and they reek of dark magic!”

“We should probably abandon ship now,” Red spoke from behind the group. Catching the three off guard.

Rosabella sighed in relief. “Where were you?” She asked as Red walked toward them.

“Helping passengers and horses off.”

“By helping, do you mean throwing them overboard,” Felis interjected.

“Do you recommend they stay on the ferry and burn?” Red glance at the pirate.

“Alright, right now is not the time for this!” Cassandra yelled as she leaned over the railing, frowning. “They took all the lifeboats!”

“Oh great, now what are we going to do?” Felis exclaimed with a slight roll of his eyes.

Red looked at Rosabella. “I really hope you know how to swim.”

“What?” Her brows creased in confusion.

Red moves his arm under Rosabella’s legs and the other supporting her back, then lifts her with ease. Her eyes widened in shock. Red turns quickly and tosses her overboard. Rosabella let out a small yelp as she fell into the freezing water.

Red turned to look at the pirate and sorceress. Cassandra immediately backed away from the wolf.

“Don’t you dare. I’ll throw myself off, thank you.” Cassandra glared as she climbed over the railing, and jumped into the river.

Felis turned to Red. “After you.”

“Ladies first.” Red smirked as he pushed Felis off, Red climbing over just as the creatures reached where they stood.

The group swam until they reached shore, and watched as the ferry sunk below the freezing river.

“It’s f-freezing.” Felis stuttered out as he shivered as he stomped out of the water, his arms crossed as he sat on a log.

“It’s the m-middle of winter, w-what were you e-expecting?!” Cassandra retorted, rubbing her arms as she walked towards the shivering pirate. Lumi swimming close behind her, and shaking off his fur once he reached dry land.

“Cassandra, p-please light a fire.” Rosabella looked at her sister while she soothed the horses that reached the shoreline before they did. Nox curled tightly on her shoulders for warmth.

The sorceress nodded before walking to the log Felis sat on. “Felis, I need your seat.”

“Find your own log.”

“Do you want to warm up or not?” She gave a pointed look.

Felis grumbled as he rose from his seat and watched as Cassandra crouched down, placing her hand above the wood, after a few brief seconds it ignited into bright purple flames.

Red walked out from the river and didn’t stop until he reached the trees.

“Where’s he going?” Rosabella asked her comrades.

“Probably to get away from the horses. They smell.” Felis answered

Gypsy gave an offended nicker. Felis stuck his tongue out.

“Leave him be for now. Handling one man-child is enough.” Cassandra teased, pulling her hand away from the fire as she stood up.

Rosabella sighed, taking a seat next to the burning log, warming her hands and petting Nox’s head. Cassandra sat close to the pirate. Lumi began snarling at Felis, who in turn hissed right back at the little ermine. Rolling her eyes, Cassandra scolds the two, prompting them to behave.

“Are you my fiancé or my child?” Cassandra inquired.

“At this current moment, probably your child.”

They sat in silence for a long while, finally warm and dry. Red still had not returned. The silence ended at the sound of grumbling. Cassandra, Rosabella, and a few horses all turned to look at the pirate.

“... What? I’m hungry. Swimming works up an appetite.” Felis admitted.

“Definitely a child.” Cassandra sighed as she rubbed her temple.

Rosabella smiled softly as she rose to her feet. “While I’ll go find us something to eat, I’ll look for Red.”

“Can we have venison?” Felis asked, Cassandra elbowed him.

Rosabella laughed softly as she walked into the woods. Nox happily trotting behind her. Both woman and sable walked for a long while, finding a few berries and mushrooms that weren’t poisonous. But no deer. Rosabella hummed in thought, she looked down to Nox.

“Well it looks like I’ll have to hunt as a wolf now won’t I?”

Nox gave a chirp, Rosabella accepted it as affirmation. With nothing much left to pick from bushes, Rosabella shifted into a wolf. She was far larger than any of the horses back at the campfire. Nox quickly climbed onto the wolf’s back, and off they went in search of food.

It didn’t take long for the she-wolf to find a wandering stag. Nor did it take long for her to claim her prize. Carrying the dead stag in her jaws, she trotted back to camp. Nox chirping happily on her head.

Nearing the clearing of the forest, Rosabella turned back to her human form but froze when caught Red’s scent. Her eyes darted to the blonde man, who stood beside a large oak tree. There he stood, eyes wide.

“You’re a wolf?”

Tag List: Let me know if you wish to be added!

@waltzintherain @spookypotato @purple-amaranthe

[alitotechelamine]

Hide and Seek

Archive of Our Own

The Chief Cultivator is missing.

Hanguang-jun is missing.

The story went that the revered Lan Wangji and his husband, the former Yiling Patriarch, had been seen attending a small night hunt. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary about them, they’d appeared happy to anyone observing (and perhaps a little too intimate a few might have complained). The Luó sect, the gracious hosts of the night hunt, hadn’t even realized the two were in attendance as the two arrived late and kept to themselves. If witnesses hadn’t recognized them after the fact, the Lan disciples dispatched to investigate may never have traced the two of them this far.

Past the night hunt, the trail had gone cold. People speculated the two had possibly come across a particularly powerful enemy, but a lack of bodies kept anyone from declaring that the truth. A thorough search of the area by the hosting sect meant there was no place they could have found themselves trapped and stranded. No one in the surrounding farms or villages had seen them pass through. They’d simply slipped into the ether.

The Gusu Lan sect were panicking, their second most powerful disciple having gone missing alongside his infamous husband.

The cultivation world at large was panicking, because the Chief Cultivator was missing just as new sects were flourishing and the Lanling Jin sect was finally stabilizing. If he remained missing for too long, there was no telling what kind of attempts there would be to seize power in his absence, or where that could lead for the Cultivation world as a whole.

There were rumors that the Yiling Patriarch was less of a victim in their disappearance than he might seem. He is, afterall, the Yiling Patriarch , and no matter how far the stories of the late Lianfang-zun traveled, there would always be suspicion and doubt when it came to the founder of Demonic Cultivation.

No, the world mostly mourned the vanished Lan Wangji. A beacon of morality and bravery, his loss considered a tragedy to the very art of cultivation.

His brother, with deep bruises still under his eyes and a listless demeanor, was forced from pennant seclusion to step back into his position of leadership to ensure the search for Lan Wangji remained the top priority. Whether that be the search for a wayward brother, or a body however was a touchy subject whispered well out of the man’s range of hearing. Later it isn’t mentioned at all inside the walls of the Cloud Recesses, not when any gaggle of juniors could include Hanguang-jun’s foster son or the boy’s friends. While nothing more than a flash of embarrassment or pain would come from Lan Sizhui, it was quickly made known Lan Jingyi would not stand for any idle chatter on Lan Wangji’s fate or the possible hand the Yiling Patriarch could have had in it.

The fact that the Ghost General always seemed to be nearby in these uncertain times, as if waiting for a reason to defend the testy juniors, helped in making Jingyi’s point stick. Not to mention the cutting reminders from the Grandmaster himself that gossip was prohibited within the Cloud Recesses.

It wasn’t long after a particularly heated argument between Lan Jingyi and a rather pragmatic Elder that the three were sent out to assist with search efforts. Zewu-jun was heard tiredly mentioning their energies were better spent proving their beliefs than arguing in the middle of the dining hall.

Outside the walls of the Cloud Recesses, it was reported that the Yunmeng Jiang Sect Leader had purportedly thrown his tea across the room when he was informed. He’d sent his own search parties out, but they’d made even less progress than the Lans.

The Lanling Jin Sect Leader was said to have remained stoic in face but rigid in posture. There had been loud, alarming sobs heard from his rooms later that night but he’d vehemently deny it if asked.

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian were missing, and the Cultivation world had noticed.

☁⛰☁

There isn’t anything remarkable about them.

An elderly couple stand huddled together before him, small tremors shaking their limbs no matter how hard they try to hold still. Jiang Cheng idly wonders if its because they’re cold or afraid as he regards them from the nine-petal lotus throne. Their clothes are old, on the cusp of being considered ragged, and their skin is aged from hard work. The woman holds something wrapped in a threadbare, dirty cloth and she’s clutching it to her chest like a lifeline.

The old man is the first to speak when prompted. He steps forward, slightly in front of his wife and bows as deeply as he can manage. Jiang Cheng decides the tiny tremors wracking up and down his body are probably from age.

“Jiang-zongzhu, my wife and I appreciate your willingness to see us,” He says, keeping his gaze below Jiang Cheng’s line of sight.

“You came requesting help, yet you live much closer to the Luó sect,” Jiang Cheng said, “Why not go to them for assistance?”

The old woman tightens her grip on the bundle. Its a minute gesture, but it allows Jiang Cheng to notice the way her face sours at the mention of the newly prominent sect. Jiang Cheng doesn’t know much about them, other than they’re a sect just recently founded yet already dripping with notability. Their disciples continue to swell in numbers, and the areas under their territory have grown in prominence with them. It’s considered a rather prosperous region, which begs the question of why these two would travel outside its jurisdiction.

“I’m afraid my wife and I have grown to distrust the Luó sect,” The old man says, and his face darkens as he considers his next words, “We have reason to believe the Luó sect is responsible for the murder of our son.”

Jiang Cheng raises an intrigued eyebrow, waving a hand for the man to continue.

“Our son is not a cultivator,” The man says, “We come from a simple line of farmers, and I had always believed simple farmers are what we would produce. Our son, our boy, he was a hard worker and an honest man. We take pride in the fact that we raised him to be a kind and thoughtful man; so when he failed to come home last year we were certain something was wrong.”

“Your son had been missing for a year?” Jiang Cheng frowned.

The old man nodded, his wrinkled face twisting in pain.

“We searched everywhere for our boy. We spent every cent we had trying to find him and nothing. Our poor Mao Ai simply vanished. Even the rogue cultivator we asked to search the area could find nothing. He would not simply leave us like this, it’s not in his character. Before long we were forced to accept that something nefarious had probably taken him.

“But then, two nights ago, we were on our way back from the market,” The man said, the darkness in his expression twisting back into pain, “And there was a body laying in the road.”

His wife’s breath becomes short, a glance reveals her eyes have gone misty.

“He was dressed in Luó sect robes, but they were torn and bloody. He’d been run through with swords every which way. His mask was already about to fall off, and when I touched it, it fell away to reveal our boy!” The old man loses his composure and his face crumples, a sharp wail coming from him. He dips dangerously, and for a split second Jiang Cheng is worried the man might collapse from grief and hit his head; but then the structure returns to his frame and he works to compose himself again. His wife behind him however has resigned herself to sobbing quietly as she clutches at her bundle.

Jiang Cheng nods slowly, considering, before leaning slightly forward.

“To accuse anyone of murder, much less an entire sect, is quite the accusation,” He says eventually, “Is there any way to prove what you say?”

For a moment, he expects the couple to dissolve into hysterics or to start shouting, enraged that he might possibly not believe them. The way the old woman’s eyebrows pull leads him to think she might be prompted to speak out of turn, but she just thrusts the bundle into her husband’s waiting arms.

The old man in turn holds the bundle out for one of Jiang Cheng’s attendants to take.

“After we were finally able to put our son to rest, we were sure to bring these with us.” The old man says, and there’s some iron in his expression now. Its not outright, but it almost feels like he’s challenging Jiang Cheng to dismiss his words. It leads Jiang Cheng to wonder what this old man’s past interactions with the cultivation world might have been like.

He takes the bundle from the attendant and settles it on his lap. Its a set of torn and bloody robes. They’re wrapped around a smooth face mask, completely blank except for a small indentation over the mouth like an owl’s beak.

Luó sect robes and their trademark owl mask. Every disciple, no matter their rank, was apparently required to wear this exact mask at all times. Much like the Lan sect and their forehead ribbons, only instead of serving as a reminder for restraint, the Luó sect disciples were made to look exactly the same from person to person. It was an effective tactic to disguising their numbers and creating the illusion of unity among disciples, but one had to wonder just how cumbersome an entire face mask carved from jade could be, especially in a fight where such a thing would probably obstruct one’s vision.

Nevertheless, on the few occasions he had seen them, Jiang Cheng had never seen a disciple without his face mask. They kept their faces covered in rain or shine, day or night, no matter what the circumstances. He’d heard stories of people attempting to look beneath the masks and losing fingers or entire hands for their impudence.

It would have been almost impossible for a couple of penniless farmers to get their hands on such a thing. Not unless…

Not unless they really did pull it from a dead body left lying in the road.

Jiang Cheng sits back slightly in the lotus throne, letting his fingers dance across the smooth jade mask.

The Luó sect had risen to prominence within the last year and a half, and only being truly recognized as a sect worth taking seriously a few months ago. Their rise to success had been rapid, almost suspiciously rapid. There were many who regarded the sect like they would a seedy merchant’s stories - far too amazing to be the truth. They’d simply appeared overnight it seemed, with enough money and manpower to essentially buy themselves enough recognition to be listened to.

Jiang Cheng had never heard of their leader, Luó Guiren, let alone realized he owned enough property to establish an entire damn palace to house his sect. A small palace, not nearly as opulent as, say, the Jin sect and their Koi Tower, but big enough to be called a palace. The Bee Palace, in fact.

Add to that the eerie nature inherent in keeping your disciples concealed and interchangeable, and Jiang Cheng felt certain there was something worth at least speculating about.

And come to think of it, this couple came from the same region within Luó territory where Wei Wuxian had disappeared.

Jiang Cheng swallowed and got to his feet, handing the bloody robes and creepy mask back to the attendant. The old couple watched him apprehensively, and he takes a moment to make sure his expression is placating but not patronizing.

“Mao Chen,” He says, voice firm, “ Your evidence is compelling enough to warrant a further consideration, I will look into your claims.”

The old man’s face lights up with hope, his wife’s relief making her back begin to bend.

“If what you say is true, I doubt your son is the only one to fall victim to such a fate,” Jiang Cheng continues.

“Thank you Jiang-zongzhu,” The old man says, bowing again, “My family will forever remain in your debt.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jiang Cheng said, “There still remains the possibility something or someone else is behind your son’s murder, bloody robes and a Luó sect mask won’t be enough to convince most. Until I find indisputable proof that the Luó sect had a hand in things, I cannot openly accuse them of wrongdoing. Therefore, I ask you to keep what you’ve brought to me secret for the time being.”

“Anything,” The old man says, “Just find justice for our son.”

Something always twists at Jiang Cheng whenever he sees a father who acts out of love for his son. It’s not something he allows himself to dwell on without a bottle of liquor in hand and two more within arms reach, but it always manages to steal his breath and burn his eyes when he sees it. He feels it do so now, and he can only allow himself a tight smile as he motions for the couple to be seen out of Sword’s Hall. He then orders the bloody evidence taken to his office and settles himself back on the lotus throne to see whoever else has come to visit today.

All the while, the only thing he can think about is the fact that Wei Wuxian has gone and tangled himself up in something strange and vaguely ominous once again.

Chapter 2

[autobuttonsanddeceptistitches]

Viper’s Vengeance Chapter 3: Peril Among the Stars

Chapter 1

So, its been almost six months since I updated this story. Primus it feels like so long ago. I had so much going on in my life, I’m happy this is over, now I can start working on the next chapter!

~

Ten years since the incident. Program updating, systems operational, protocols online, activation, begin. The eternal darkness ended for the longest time. A figure stood there, bearing a skull for a face. Scanners indicating an unrecognizable soldier. Not of any origin. The prototype stared, a life hidden behind black glass, leaving worry in the samurai. Bludgeon stepped back, pointing a katana's tip at the symbol on the failure's chest.

“State your designation.” The mech ordered, leaving confusion on the Rattler.

No reply, instead, the machine pushed the sword away and walked towards the exit. The skeleton sneered, noticing the warnings going off all around them. “Alert, unknown enemy detected, alert.” Said in such calmness that didn't seem to care.

“You'd better prove yourself whatever your name is. I don't want to return to base with a defect for spare parts!” That seemed to trigger something in the dark blue mech's systems, and off he ran...

“Viper?” Her voice broke the processor's glitch. Viper blinked a few times, turning to face her. “Are you sure you're okay here? I do remember that your processor acts up in certain locations.” She reminded, glancing at the lights bringing the place back up into operation.

“This is where Cobra sealed me after my malfunction. Ten years after that, Luca revealed this location to Megatron. He grew impatient of the human's failures, so the human spat out this. Bludgeon found me right as an Autobot got too close to the area. Took care of Sideswipe, which was all that bone face needed to prove that I was worth the time.” Viper walked past the femme and towards a large machine. “Here, this is where my new life began.” The mech gave a swift kick, then tearing apart the rest of the stasis pod.

The femme ninja listened to the denting metal and shattering glass. Standing still as this continued for a bit. Yellow optics took notice of the interior, finding old forgotten machinery. No wonder Cobra dumped their failed prototype here. What was the first mission she took on in the Earth Wars? Ah yes, when she had to face Arcee who hid secret codes. Far simpler times, before the Prime Cores, Demigods, Deathsarus, GI Joe, and Cobra. Such insanity in a few short years. That voice in her helm kept repeating that confession, yet, she couldn't say. Why is it so difficult to talk?

She waited until Viper finished crushing the stasis machine apart. His wings flared, back hunched over. The snake got up, turning to face her. “I'm better now, sorry about that, there are some things I never want to see active again.” Viper trailed off, heading over to a big computer. “In this, it houses the answers I am seeking. From what I can know, this system has a lot of Cobra plans and projects. Bludgeon insisted that we leave this place soon so I could meet Megatron. I couldn't uncover its secrets at that moment. I want to know why Cobra created me, it's impossible for someone to come up with an insane idea. A whole organization going along with it. A robot soldier wearing the shell of a Rattler.” His bulky digits pressed on the small keyboard, being careful to ensure not to break the source of his past.

Words scrolled by which showed so many forgotten ideas. Nightbird listened to the swearing before tugging him aside. Then she typed it out herself. “I'll handle this, I'm used to tiny keys.” The Japanese fembot interjected, finding it to be easier for her to do this. Odd, nothing on Viper, yet the name Rattler and Transformer did appear a few times.

After a bit of digging around, a file appeared with top secret reports. The two read through them, both taking it all in. How could the American government know so much about Cybertronian technology? Its documentation came thirty years before the Autobots and Decepticons arrived to Earth. It didn't make any sense, nor the live specimen documented. The identity lost, making it difficult to guess who would give up their body for them to research.

Viper took a while to say anything, left in silence over all the materials they read. “Those documents, they must've been the blueprints Cobra used to create me... Nightbird, can you find anything about who wrote this?” He whispered, optics glued to the screen as they found a picture file.

A bunch of humans, all posed by a piece of machinery that appeared advanced for the time based on their clothes. Some men and women, all in Triple-I: Intelligence and Information Institute. Nightbird typed around a few files, noticing how their names appeared.

“I recognize some of them from my collected memories, and all their names are in the files. They're the ones behind how Cobra created you.” She trailed off, yellow optics glanced at the dark blue mech. He stared at the humans in their thirty year old days.

“Do you know where they are now?” Viper came up to the screen, taking in the details.

“A quick search on the internet gave me everything I needed, oh how clumsy they are to use this 'social media'. I assume this was a long forgotten program, happened in North Dakota, August 16th, 1986. No one knows of this as they retired from the military. All this time, America had access to those of the stars. Why do you ask?”

“I may have killed my creators, but knowing this, I cannot let more of me be born by their hands. I'm not yet done with my thirst for revenge. Nightbird, I'd suggest you go back with the others. There's a high risk that I will die once this task is complete. All hiding in America and other parts, they forget, not knowing that their pasts will haunt them once again.” The mech copied the data, making the best route based on where the humans live. They'll all pay for their foolishness. Their thirst for eternal knowledge will destroy them.

Nightbird held his shoulder, her optics narrowed. “Its not easy to complete a task solo. I'll come along, you've already shown me your second birthplace. Before you complain about how I can't because of the water, I'll find my ways. Where are you heading first?”

“Los Palmos Observatory, located in Texas close to Mexico. Two of the scientists at the Triple I worked at North Dakota. They wrote a bit about Cybertronians ability to travel through the stars. Nothing too major, but its a start. Think your tires can handle that? Its farther than from here back to base at Arizona.” He chuckled, wings twitching and ready to leave this trash heap.

“Sounds good, will meet you there when I can. Take care Viper, we're going to be dancing with death soon.” She flipped her body, transforming and driving out of the hidden base.

Why is she so intent on helping him? All the dark blue jet knew is that he's the only Cybertronian created by humans. Viper waited till she's far away to dim the computer's screen. He turned to stare at the scar embedded into his helmet and face. Primus he felt tired, unsure what to think knowing how right she is. Its a suicide mission to enrage the American government and the Autobots, but this has to happen. Taking a few deep vents, the mech connected a few cables to his helmet and lied down. Gotta leave one last present to those who documented the creation...

Data, so many pieces swirled around the unconscious mind. Downloading into his helm, awakening those old memories that most forgot. Humanity stole the gift of those from the stars. Living aliens, mastering the ability to change shape. Documenting entire histories far before the first man sharpened a rock. Yet, as Viper continued this, strange images began to form. Among them, the complete blueprints of the Rattler Transforming Soldier. Bright blue optics widened, noticing something wrong. It has no face underneath the visor and mouthplate... The Decepticon stared, before touching his own mouthplate and broken visor. The dates don't add up, these can't be the complete ones! He stared before deleting the information once its registered into his helm.

After a while going through the tediousness, its over now. Viper forced his processor out of this self inflicted slumber. Now no one can look up those old documents anymore. No human deserves to know the existence of Cybertronian life, not if they gave birth to imitations. Those who are fakes, that shamed upon. Yet, that empty face remained etched into his optics. More questions came than answers, leaving the mech in silence. As the snake got out of his forced slumber, he noticed an acid gun lying by his side. The same weapon left behind after Cobra's demise. Fingers touched the aged metal, knowing how good it is to wield this old weapon once more. Must've been a gift from Nightbird, who seemed to get it all fixed up. “Canary, I'll figure out why you hide so much from me.” Came a chuckle, before he got out of the old place once again.

Back in the harsh sunlight, why is the western coast so darn hot? No wonder there isn't that much greenery around here. Why couldn't the Decepticons set up a base somewhere nice? Rather than the remains of human activity. Still, the images he saw made his tanks clench. How could those blueprints show no face? Processor in a daze, forgetting Nightbird as she drove beneath him. They traveled across the shadows of the canyons once leaving civilization. So many lives passing by, children at a school, people buying at stores, watching movies. Oh the movies; such strange concepts that Cybertronians never got into until the war. Easiest way to document any traitors or secret plans. That's from what he recalled listening to the others when they got overcharged off their afts.

Oh what fun times to hear the cheery voices that everyone gave out after a successful raid. Also when a new bot comes over from wherever. Moon, Earth, any planet, depends on if they're liked among the others to care. Why is Earth such a gathering place for these guys? There are other planets too, yet they stay on what they called the 'dirtball'. Viper never felt right to call his home the dirtball. This planet is where his creators got the materials to create him. The mech exhaled, noticing how the Sun began to set. The yellow sphere that rotates around this planet. Cybertron didn't have any light up above, nor any oxygen. Three moons which the Autobots claimed as their own. The Rattler remembered how happy he felt to be on the metal moon, that its the home far away from home. Due to their technology, both could move across the deserts further than a regular car on a road trip. The suburban family riding out to somewhere like Palm Springs or Las Vegas.

It took a long time to travel from California to Texas. Baking in the hot sun never helped his mood as music kept playing from his radio. A lot of Spanish songs, getting closer to the border. What a strange choice for an advanced observatory's location, but no matter what. They'll be the first to pay for their crimes. Down below, a stylish black and white car drove on the road. Nightbird is quite durable, but that makes sense for everyone. Cybertronians are able to handle the heat. Viper’s quite lucky that he won’t have to endure any pain in the Summer warmth. Still nothing back from Megatron or the rest of his soldiers. Its good, no reason to worry as he must’ve taken the request for a break for granted. Never easy to obliterate an entire army by oneself. The rest of the flight is a blank, with the dust devils coming and going. Once the mission is over, he’ll try to visit Tijuana to eat some barbecued iguana. Whatever that may taste like.

The misery ended in the night sky’s greeting. A lone observatory lay still, lens continuing to observe what may be out there. Los Palmos has seen better days, forgotten to the world beyond the science community. Hiding a sin, that desire to find life beyond the Earth. Two life forms detected in the scanners, the files state for them to be Jack and Sue Richards. Two astronomers who’ve spent long lives exploring across the world. To the most exotic places for the greatest lens to observe the distant nebulae. Before their journeys, they accepted being members of the Triple I, which meant a piece of his birth. Los Palmos is their home, far up in the mountains that could show much more of the desert had the sun blessed them.

Viper landed on the rocky top, bright blue optics stared for a long time. His turbines slowed down to reduce the heavy noises. Acid gun clenched in a firm hold. So, this is how revenge grows, to slaughter them, their work is the reason he grew in the Cobra’s nest. To awaken as an abomination, there is nothing left they can give to the Earth that will matter. Time’s left them old and weak. No matter how old or young, its time to never return from the path he once stepped on. Their intense craving will be their undoing, thirty years later.

Sue finished another cup of coffee, heavy bags underneath those brown eyes. Weary eyes glanced up to the old photographs of so many places she once been to. Jack is nearby, back to work on their favorite machinery. A telescope meant their lives, the reason Triple I came to them with their suggestions. To work with them for extra payment and free vacations, oh how perfect it seemed to be. Until that one day… Sue waited for the drink to kick in, an influence rushing through weakened veins. No longer a thought about what may come next, unless it’d be an old family member or friend. Their nephew, an old photo showed said child gripping a diploma while enveloped in blues. “Its been a good life, hasn’t it Jack?”

A man stepped away from the large telescope, coming down to her. “Are you thinking about the Grim Reaper again?”

“Why would I dream of a snake bearing those dark ominous robes?”

“Sue, you should cut the caffeine out, the doc did say it’ll influence your medication.”

“But, we still need to record a few more sights. Los Palmos is our home. I miss those days, and I wished we never got involved with Triple I. To know that aliens exist, to hide that from everyone.” The woman trailed off, taking a large gulp. A nearby candle burned among the heavy lights above which gave light to this dark dome. Silence, a gentle breeze brushing the exterior as always, a hope to bury away the past.

Nightbird transformed, finding Viper standing still. “Once I begin, I cannot go back. Think of your choice Nightbird, I know the consequences of my actions.” He came closer to the observatory as the ninja watched, remaining still.

The Cobra prototype slammed his body against the large building, causing it to shake. He rammed into it a few more times, breaking away the concrete and storming into the building. Something shattered, it must be where they are! Viper prowled into the hallway, kneeling down to ensure he wouldn’t damage his wings.

Sue and Jack ran, a broken mug lay on the floor as the alarms blared. A large shadow emerged from a hallway, causing them to hide in a spare room. Lying on the walls were a few guns, a pitiful attempt to save themselves, but what else could they rely on? Faraway help? They waited in the darkness, holding onto each other and weapons as their ears rang. Hearts racing faster once seeing blue staring back at them.

“Sue and Jack Richards, Triple I, you've chosen a grave mistake for both Cybertronians, and me. The atonement is death.”

Sue fired a few shots at the mech's face, each bullet bouncing off of the mouthplate. The gun slipped from shaking hands, as Jack tried firing back, but with no effect. “Please, don’t do this! We have a nephew who always visits us!” Sue gripped her husband’s jacket, tears coming down the wrinkled face.

“Then he’ll understand.” He aimed the gun, shooting the two with a powerful blast of acid. Emotion drained from blue optics as they screamed. Bodies melting down into puddles of decaying flesh. A rush of energy came to the mech once hearing nothing but alarms. Without warning, he tore through more of the observatory. Acid gun put to use getting rid of everything. “What do you think Cobra Commander!? Do you believe me to be a failure now!?” His roar echoed through the bleak sky.

Nightbird remained still, staring as the building melted into concrete and steel puddles. Yellow noticed the mech walking up to her. She stared up at his optics, finding nothing but a blank blue. “We need to leave before the humans get here.” The femme transformed, driving across the mountain range.

Viper glanced back before running over to the edge of the cliffside and transforming. Soaring through the darkened canyon, dark blue blending in with the darkened oranges. That’s it, no way back once the candle burned bright. A flame that will never die. The flier followed yellow headlights as she swerved across the mountain's paths. In the distance, bright red and blue lights glowed through a known road. ::We’ll need to find a place to hide, I can see the humans coming this way!:: He messaged her.

::I’ll find my way down, we can’t hide here! Go get to somewhere safe and message me when you do!:: She kept driving, never speaking as the Rattler vanished in the night sky.

The ninja femme touched the ground, sprinting away before the vehicles could find her. On the enhanced tires, she didn’t strain under the pressure. A rush of wind graced her back, must've been the human vehicles driving by. So they were going that way too. Nightbird stared at the large puffs of smoke from what remained of the building. Viper did this, but its for a greater good, was it?

After roaming through the darkness, she’d soon slip into a hidden cave. She took a few minutes to relax, then noticed a small fire in the larger part. Nightbird crawled in, finding Viper illuminated by the reds and oranges. Blue optics staring up at an opening in the ceiling.

“I got worried the humans found you.” Not a sign of damage on him, so strange since he’d went through a mess earlier. A bit dusty, but nothing wrong with that. She sat down on the other side, tossing him a cube.

“They’re not meant for speed, they're for emergencies. I’m amazed at how fast they were to arrive, we need to find the best time to get out of here.” The femme leaned back, exhaling a deep vent. “We’ll need to wait until the event dies down before we can head over to our next destination. Do you know where we will go?”

“I’m thinking about it, since the other targets are in further parts of America.” He brushed off the dust, blue optics glimmered alongside the fire burning bright. “You’d better get some rest, you’ve been driving everywhere to tag along with me. I’ll make sure nothing happens.” Viper waited, putting his gun down.

“What about you? Weren't you the one who destroyed the observatory in one swoop? I'm sure none of them will find us, they're too concerned about the two who died. How many more do we need to hunt down?”

“A few more, they kept it a secret. The document states how eight made contact with the Cybertronian on that fateful day. Two are dead, leaving the rest still hiding in their regular lives. Most are in America, yet two aren't. We'll find them, but must keep secret, because the Autobots will find out.”

“But once its over, we'll return to the others, won't we?”

“Depends on if I can survive long enough. But, if I do die, then I will be okay with that once their dead. I do wonder though, will I go to the Allspark? I am human made, wouldn't Primus consider me to not be one of his? It makes me wonder if there is an afterlife for me.” He opened his chest, showing the lack of a Spark.

“I'm sure there is, don't you remember what Starscream said? He saw something after death, and is alive with us now to tell us.”

“He wouldn't stop talking about it, after the death of Unicron.” Viper looked up, hearing the sirens get louder. “Looks like its time to rest.” The mech grabbed a clump of dirt, dropping it over the flames and letting them die down. “We leave as soon as the morning comes.” He lay down, dimming the lights on his armor and entering into a soft recharge, closing the chest.

Nightbird stared before following his orders. She kept to the shadows as the investigation began further away from them. “Six more, you're quite risky to do this.” Came a soft chuckle before joining him in the rest.

Darkness, that's how life begins, doesn't it? Something strange is happening. Whirling machinery, a rush of Energon, dripping, praying, is this where life comes from? Its quiet, what is this? A dream? But, I can't have dreams, I'm not real...

Someone's calling for a name? What is this name? Who's name is it? Why can I hear it? I don't remember it...

My optics opened up, I don't remember this. I'm not at the Cobra base? Its some sort of lab, but not one I recognize. I sat up, taking in my surroundings. Its all Cybertronian, no sign of humanity's work. What's going on? My helm moved down to my body, no. Its not mine! I got off the table, shaking before finding other mechs staring at me. All seemed to be joyous at the sight of my movements. Some came closer to me, speaking about their troubles and what they hope my awakening will mean. If I can concentrate enough, I should be able to move, or speak. Why can't I do this? My controls are gone, I'm lost in this mech's body. Why aren't I scared? This is a dream, I'll wake up when my processor decides to. But, pure Cybertronians can dream, I'm a fake, I can't dream.

A mech came up to me, bearing blue and white armor, a grand smile on his face. He seemed to be talking, but under deaf audio receptors.

Everything flashed white, I now faced an open door to Cybertron? Its golden, much like the mysterious cities of gold on Earth. Cybertronians walked in the streets, speaking among themselves. None bore any symbols, speaking of their lives. I watched this dream run far from the door, exploring this new world. Life, I felt alive, that this was me. No, what I saw wasn't who I am. I will wake up, then forget. Yet, I wished I lived in this Cybertron before the war. Everyone's in union, its so different compared to the one I stepped upon. Gold glimmered alongside the orange lights. If I was human, I would've shed tears upon sight of this marvelous wonder.

Another flash, taking me away from the rushing views, I'm staring up at the stars in some sort of crystal garden? Its so beautiful, much like the sky when I first awoke. They glimmered among the stars, leading me to wondering why I'm here. Then, someone came into view. She stared at me, or this body I'm residing within. A rush of something came back, I couldn't recall why I felt this way, yet, I wanted it to last forever. The femme spoke to me, yet I couldn't hear what the words meant. I wanted to know what this meant, it hurt so much. She's... pretty, I like how she looks in those soft colors. She smiled, cupping this body's cheek, meaning no visor or mouthplate. But, it faded away to white... Wait, don't go! I want to know who you are, who this body belongs too. I'm not real, I'm an imitation... Please, stay...

Blue lights came back online, finding himself in the cave. Nightbird is still asleep, a dream. Yet, what was it about? What body did he see himself in? He lowered his helm, noticing the sounds of sirens are gone. They must've chose to wait for the morning to inspect for the damage. Optics inspected the opening of the cave above, finding glimpses of morning. Its' time to go. He crawled over to the femme, holding her shoulder.

“Wake up Canary, we've got to go before they find us.” He muttered, causing her to stir.

“Ah, so they're gone?”

“Yep, we don't have to worry about them for a while. Gotta get going now before they come back. Our next stop is over in Florida, so I hope you brought your sunscreen.” Viper chuckled, earning a glare from the femme.

“Don't make me report you in for that.” Said with a playful gesture before leaping up onto the ground above.

Viper jumped up as well, soon the two were off again on their long journey. Yet, in this morning light, it brought back the sight of Cybertron when it bore gold. At first, it wasn't good to dwell on strange dreams, yet, now, he wanted it more. How he craved to step into that other mech's life, how he wished it was his. But, life proved to be cold and cruel, leaving him to lash at those who lost trust. Yet, Nightbird so far, she seemed nice, but no one can tell if a ninja has other motives until revealed later. For now, its best to keep his guard up, and prepare himself for the next target of his past.

[asilverjackal]

ok, ya’ll wanted it.

–1982, BEDFORD-STUYVESANT.

She puts on diamond earrings. Salvatore likes her to dress up, after all. Now, Delores’ maternal-stand ins had not only been the occasional aunt who believed in what was essentially conservative wear, but these figures were primarily women such as Bertha Jones, Lorna Howard. Two who a very young Delores knew, on a practical instinctive level, that she had to not aspire to be, but become if she desired to be a woman worthy of respect. Salvatore, however, has a particular taste in which prevents Delores from fully following the image the old women laid out in her youth. What he finds alluring is a shade of red on full lips, a hue so strong that she would have once considered it whorish. For rich perfumes that maintained their fragrance in full strength after the first hour. And for a dress that clung to her figure in the right places, also exposing the right amount of cleavage. While wearing such a thing, it was expected that Delores would appear respectable. The black furred caplet draped over her slim shoulders truly brings forth that sort of look. “Mrs. Lombardi.” Upon the sight of the adult descending from the stairway, Roxanne the babysitter stops her pursuit in making Isabelle squawk and coo. Bashful yet bold, that Southern accent her step-mother scolds her for is laced in her starstruck observation: “y’look like a movie star.” Much to Roxanne’s dismay, ‘Mrs. Lombardi’s’ face does not light up. To an unworldly sixteen-year-old, she looks indifferent responding, “thank you.” This was Salvatore’s taste.   He is no slob, but Delores believes age is doing him well all the same. Despite his upbringing, he holds fondness towards what she deems ‘high art’: stories from foreign cultures, statues where men and women bare it all with no shame have a place in their home, she believes he wants to learn another language, too. Whether he will achieve it or not, she does not know. But all and all, he was looking to life beyond Brooklyn - and yet, he was not truly refined in Delores’ mind. For not only was he ‘the most talkative man she knew,’ but he failed to observe social rules in ways he ought to have. Instead, he approached all matters as though he was a King who ran the entire borough, businesses and all. This is why he would sweep his dark locks back, don a three-piece suit and shamelessly lay his whole palm against the horn. Ignoring Cassie’s pleas to tell Daddy ‘hi,’ Delores bids Roxanne goodbye. Entering the dark evening with one eyebrow higher than the other. “What is your problem?” The question slides off her tongue remarkably smooth. He lifts his hand, gesturing to nothing with a little smile on his lips. As though he didn’t just wake many sleeping babies. “I wanted to make sure you were ready!” “Have I ever been late?” She sits beside him. In a moment of thought, lips pull to the side in a moment of thought. Soon he’s nodding. “I can recall three times!” Love. It’s why this sort of conversation is meaningless in the long term of things. In moments to come, lips will lock, a teasing question will be uttered: “did you miss me?” As if his absence has occurred over hours and days.

“How could I when I knew I was going to see you?” And though her answer is one of blunt honesty, tenderness is attached to each word.  

Sal believes Delores holds obligation to Cassandra and Isabelle, the house has to be cared for in a similar sense as well. And between this and that, nights like these were very essential to him. Delores acknowledges that the areas he enjoys taking her to have changed with age, as well. In the very beginning, there was a focus on fun. But now, Donna Summer’s voice could only be heard on record as more silent settings were traveled to.

In this restaurant, she gathers lettuce and tomato on her fork. Meanwhile, he savors the taste of soft ice cream, his dinner plates have been long-gone. Delores lifts her gaze, sights traveling to her left. As expected, those blue eyes were still on her. “That woman has been looking at me the entire night.” Too good to return a long-term glance, to above it all, she focuses on her business and the remains of the salad before her.

Surely, the young woman is wondering how these two could sit at a booth without the company of four. They dressed although they came from a background with money, yet there had been something so ‘shady’ of such a couple.

Salvatore has no problem making prolonged eye contact with the culprit. A blonde twenty-something, maybe thirty. Her hair has a lot of volume, a lot of body. Shoulder-pads protrude in her own suit. Her own partner is a man, suited and young. Yuppies, he concludes. It’s not enough to witness her surprise at the sight of him gazing her way, Sal is shameless enough to raise his hand in greeting.

And for that Delores hisses low and sharp, “Salvatore!”  

“What?” He knows he’s done wrong, and yet he looks to her with curious eyes. Almost childish, “she’s wondering if you’re real!” What he receives is a hum of disapproval, his innocent demeanor dissolves. “Hey. Look at me.” She’s focused on the leafy greens, “Dolly, look at me.” There’s still no meeting of the eyes, but he goes on to speak carefree, “the service was respectable, the food was good, what else could we want?”

Delores looks at him, but it is a cold gaze he receives. “I want people to mind their own business.”

He smiles, “Forget about them. Get closer to me – c’mere Dolly.” Fork down, she obliges. Scooting close, allowing his arm to fall over her, allowing herself to inhale his cologne. Of course, the twenty-something couple fully in her view range now. They dare not look now even as the interracial pair grows more intimate. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”  

“Like what?”

“Well.” There comes a grunt as he grows more comfortable in his seat, “I’m going over some old ground, that’s all. I told you, what I think I would like-“ think, not certain. “-is a big family.”

“I remember.” Even with a nod, she is also perplexed at the concept. Cassandra was an unexpected pregnancy, Sal wanted Isabelle. And Delores could understand why: she has no fond memories of being an only child. Child birth was unpleasant, though delivering both girls was a smooth process. Yet, from what Delores knows, her own mother passed on through giving birth to her. So even after Cassie, after Belle, succumbing to a similar fate stays in her mind.

“So, if we have more kids.” A pause, he begins to think of a good number, “ten, thirty…”

“Thirty?” She knew he couldn’t have been serious.

“I said big!” He laughs, “But, really Dolly, in the long term of things I don’t want any of our – future girls, or current girls, to wonder why we have different last names.” No breaking eye contact, she feels drawn in – yet intimidated all the same. Her breasts rise, they fall as she watches him fish in his back pocket. Butterflies even come, fluttering in her abdomen. Before she knows it, a box is presented to her. A small silver band inside, “I want you to marry me.”

She stayed in the moment longer than she should have. 

“You hesitated.” “I told you yes.” And this is how their night ends. Sal’s hands on the wheel, looking forward into the night. Delores’ hands in her lap, finger without a ring. The box has returned to Sal’s pocket, and Delores supposes she will never see it again as he said this was all okay. He would get his money back, get something she wanted.

“You told me yes after seven seconds!” “You’re going to sit here and act like I don’t love you or something.” “Look,” He gestures to himself, one hand on the wheel. “I get that you love me. I don’t have doubts about that, Dolly. But do you know what you always do?” She looks to him, eyes squinted and a tone so sharp it could cut: “what do I do?” With a nod to himself, he answers, “you pussyfoot around. That’s what you do.” Had they not been on the road - had Delores not desired to return home to her daughters safe and sound: she would have slapped this man across the face. “Don’t say that to me.” “Well!” A rough shrug, “It’s what you do! We wouldn’t be where we are now if it weren’t for me!” Rather than responding, Delores huffs. Head forward, hands folded. “Like when you didn’t want to meet Aunt Penny.” And yet Sal still speaks, determined to make a point. “What?” “I told you, ‘Dolly, I want you to meet my aunt.’ But! Back then you didn’t even hesitate! You bluntly said no to my face!” His recount is not even slightly exaggerated, Delores had done this. Yet, she had done this for personal reasons that she feels far too embarrassed to disclose. “I’m not the person I was then.” But Delores can admit this. “Ah,” He parks at the curb of their home, “we never really outgrow all our traits.” Her lips part as he unfastens himself and steps out the car. Only thinking that if she had not been blessed with the patience of a saint, if she did not care about Roxanne seeing her employers in a state less than ideal, she would have backhanded him now. However, as he unlocks the door, she ensures he hears her low hiss. “Damn you and your masculine pride.” Sal had to blink. “What?” At this point, Delores had no desire to speak to the teenager in their home. It would be rude of her, Delores felt, but at the same time no obligations bounded her. Therefore, she marches up the stairs in her heels, ignoring the fact she was even greeted. The payment and send-off were left to Sal and his smart mouth.  

Diamond earrings were the first to be removed, then the necklace. She was in the process of removing simpler rings when spotting Salvatore’s reflection at her vanity. “So why are you in a bad mood?” He speaks so curious, it’s a wonder she fails to roll her eyes. “Salvatore, I’m not playing into any more of your little games tonight.” “Hey! I’m just letting you know that Roxy was wondering what was wrong with you.” “Roxy can stay in her place.” Hearing such a apathetic sneer is how Salvatore knows he has pissed her off. Delores is not an aggressive woman – Sal deems her to superbly sweet, but her mouth is full of venom when enraged. The critical thoughts in her mind are released, and even if it does not wound someone: such exposed scorn has you bewildered. He has never seen Delores at a limit in which all her rage is unleashed – part of him doubts she could ever be filled with rage. And again, another part of him does not wish to know if such a part exists. And for that, he desires to calm her down. “Hey, Dolly.” Hands rub at slender shoulders, sliding down to her upper arms. “I’m sorry.” Lips are pressed at the top of her head, she shuts her eyes when he kisses the space between eye and ear. “Damn me. Damn me and my masculine, Italian pride!” “Um-hm.” His descend to the floor is a gradual gesture. A position no other woman, or man, would dare find him in for any context. Below her, he takes slender, dainty hands into his own for a caress. “But you gotta understand this wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. I’ve been thinking of this for a very long time.” He raises her palms, lips pressing against brown knuckles. “I expected a nice dinner.” An ordinary dinner, she means.  “Why are you above this?” She gives no reply, but her stare does not wander or weaken. “I wanted you to have the sort of engagement story that – that you could tell our youngest granddaughter when she’s in need of advice.” Delores finds herself shaking her head in disbelief. But contempt is not in this gesture, his silly nature has charm. “I want you to be my wife. I want you to be Delores Lombardi…” she can hear him utter this among other sweet little declarations. “I’m not above any of this.” Delores finally speaks, “I love you.” A pause, “I want to marry you.” “Then why did you hesitate?” “Because.” Because she thought of change. But now, here in the privacy of her home she is thinking of their wedding, where Italian men and their wives sit. Associates of Salvatore, not her own. She wonders what could that publicity mean, even in a small circle? “I’m scared.” “Of what, Dolly?” He’s looking up, “I know you’re not scared of me. We’re basically married right now. I moved you here. We had Belle. The neighbors know us. But when I look at your pretty hands, I don’t see a ring. And that throws me off.” She watches as he pulls into his pocket: performing an action all too familiar. And before her is the silver band that he slides on her digit himself. Delores finds her breath hitch; her whimper is odd, bursting from her mouth without control. A lover of romance, many of the books she read would conclude with a proposal. But she never imagined what a proposal would be like for her in reality. She refused to lay in bed beside Sal at night, thinking, obsessing when he would show her a ring. Perhaps she did believe herself to be above it – if not excluded from such a gesture. Those she desired in her youth, she never spent time with. She was far too quiet for a bad boy’s taste.  Years would pass, and Delores felt her likely spouse would be far older than her. Age would have him understand her, and her own history with elders would cause her to understand him. And though they would be wed, Delores knew it would in ways – be a marriage based upon circumstance and benefits. Again she feels butterflies, looking down to the man knelt before her. A mere three years older, handsome, he makes her scoff, he makes her roll her eyes. He talks too much and yet, she loves him more than she has loved anyone. And the circumstances of this love terrify her. Still, it’s tears of glee, not sorrow, that slide down her cheeks. “Look at you.” He’s teasing, she feels embarrassed. “You’re beautiful.”  Delores can feel his hand gently stroking at her inner thigh, Salvatore has that access from this position. “Lean back.” She complies.

[avengers-nextgen]

We Are On XX

Chaos was the only word that could describe the aftermath of the war. The medical wing- packed with injured and non injured personnel-smelled strongly of blood and sweat.

However, news travelled fast and it was discovered that two had fallen in battle aside from the countless injuries inflicted and received.

Alex sat staring blankly at the floor with the same scene playing over and over again in her mind. The echoing shot and blood bursting across pavement sent her heart dancing. James had fired his weapon just as the sniper was firing too. The intended target-Killian-collapsed in the street sending the bullet plunging into Jame’s shoulder.

He fell like a limp doll unmoving in pools of water that turned pink then red only to be washed into street gutters. From the upper floors of the building it’d been nearly impossible to tell if he’d been killed. Alex recalled the way her heart had skipped a beat, the way her breath froze, how her eyes refused to look away, and the way her world grew fuzzy.

While it wasn’t a fatal wound her heart still ached for James. He’d tried so hard to talk Killian down. Her callous brother wasn’t so callous after all and he’d paid the price for it.

Blinking back tears, Alex raised her head to observe the room around her. Arthur sat in a chair beside the single room labeled ICU with a bowed head and shivering shoulders. Nathaniel sat beside him trying desperately to comfort the younger boy.

Inside the small room, Chloe was on life support. The amount of voltage that hit her system had stressed her heart forcing it to shut down and consequently kill her. The doctors were doing their best to revive her and she’d come around briefly only to fade again. Still, there was hope the doctors assured.

Downstairs, Piper was working with a team of doctors trying to repair Bianca’s mangled form. The metal prosthetics had been torn and demolished leaving carnage in their wake. No one knew the repercussions of such injuries, and Alex feared they would be permanent.

Two beds over from where James rested was Thalia still sedated from surgery. Bloody bandages lay in thick layers over her chest where Kubu’s claws had torn her open. The damage had been severe but the surgeons had done their best to play damage control. The tell tale signs would be the healing process.

Surrounding her bed though, was a supportive family. There was Thor, Loki, Siyanda, Sif, Valkyrie, Enzo, and Sage who bounced back and forth between her cousin and Bianca.

Meanwhile, Bucky paced the hallways in anxious silence unable to find rest for his body or mind. Steve would leave his son’s side on occasion to offer words of comfort to his age old friend, but words only did so much.

Fox sat in an interrogation room with Harper across from her. It felt wrong to question her after all that had happened, but the truth needed to be known. They needed to understand the extent of what went on amongst Killian’s ranks.

Maria stood on the other side of the one way glass watching with a heavy heart.

Not more than three doors down the hall, Drew was floating in a clear glass tank. An oxygen mask ensured her safety while numerous wires monitored her vitals. Screens indicated brain activity and neural images as Tony tried with Stephen to undo the programming.

Orion could only imagine what it was like for Stephen working on a project while his daughter was dying close by. When he asked, when he insisted that Stephen leave, the man refused. It was best for him to focus on something trivial than to dwell on the fluctuating state of his daughter. He couldn’t handle the thought of it for longer than a handful of seconds.

So Orion waited anxiously for a sign of success because he knew that if these two men couldn’t help Drew -no one could. And all he wanted was for her to be happy. For Drax to smile and embrace something he’d once lost. For Drew to have a proper family again. But it seemed impossibly far away. He was starting to doubt happy endings.

And he wasn’t the only one. Max stepped into the building knowing full well what would happen, but still they knelt in surrender and let the agents cuff them. The guilt had worn away any resolve or faith they’d had in Killian.

No matter who was right or wrong, good guy or bad guy, Max had betrayed the moral code they’d once upheld. To be a good person. That’s all Max wanted to be and it had slipped away just like that.

With a rough tug Max was pulled upwards and guided through the halls to a waiting cell. It was small and clean but Max was certain they didn’t even deserve that much. Not after what they’d done.

Swallowing tightly, Max sat on the cot watching as the agents closed the door. Never once in all of the years they’d been alive did it occur to them that they’d be sitting in a cell. Somehow, that made it even crueler. Max was farther from the person they’d wanted to be than ever before. Hockey games seemed like some distorted past now. A past unlikely to become a future.

— — —

“How is it going?” Fury asked, resting a careful hand upon Maria’s shoulder.

At first she gave no reply, but then she remembered who was beside her, “Well. She’s a good agent you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” Fury nodded, retracting his hand. “Top scores in her class, quick witted, intelligent, street smart, and young.”

“You should have seen her,” Maria shook her head, “the way she handled everything. The other agents would have just shot Harper. “

“From the way people describe this girl, she reminds me of someone I know,” Fury smiled thinly.

Silence strung out between the two for some time until Maira broke the silence, “What are we doing to these kids, Nick?”

“The best we can,” Fury sighed, running a hand down his face, “because that’s more than the world offers them.”

“Yeah,” Maria nodded, feeling her throat tighten. She’d watched each of the kids grow up from the moment they were first born to their first steps to their first days of school. Even those who’d recently become members of the family had grown on her. “You get some rest Nick, this is gonna take a while.”

“I guess I should prep for the fallout of this,” He chuckled. Maria gave a tiny smile and let her colleague go. The door eased shut with a soft sigh.

Maria stood there in silence for hours watching the two girls exchange words and the more she watched the more her mind wandered and the more an idea blossomed into something of fruition.

— — —

When the interrogation had ended the building was still and quiet except for Fox and Harper. Silence seemed to be their friend as the two studied one another with tired eyes. At last, Fox drew something from her pocket: a folded piece of paper. She slid it silently across the table for Harper to read.

“Your family can stay there. I was told it’s being remodeled. No expenses need to be paid. It’s not much money and I own my parent’s bar so I make enough to pay the bills. I’m currently setting something up so you can pay for your brother and sister’s funeral service,” Fox explained. “And before you refuse, don’t. My pride always kept me from accepting help. It didn’t do me any good. Don’t make my mistake.”

“Thank you,” Harper sniffled, folding the paper with care and setting it aside. “It’s...it’s strange feeling like I finally have a friend in this big world. I didn’t know I was so...”

“Lonely?” Fox smiled thinly, “that’s the funny thing about it. You spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not lonely, that loneliness becomes your only companion.”

“Can...can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Fox nodded.

“You said someone helped you once. Who was it?” Harper asked.

“Someone you’ve met,” Fox laughed lightly, “and he’s currently in the hospital believe it or not.”

“Then why’re you wasting time here?” Harper’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Because he’s not going anywhere. If there’s one thing I know about him-he’s a pain in the ass and stubborn as hell. He’ll fight death before he leaves this shithole planet behind,” Fox grinned earning a laugh from Harper in return. “Anyways, it’s late. Maria will get you set up in a spare room. If you need anything let me know.”

“I will,” Harper promised, standing slowly and following Fox from the room.

Once she was certain Harper had been taken care of, Fox wandered quietly down the hallway to the medical wing. The lights were on low and only one person remained in the room. Arthur was fast asleep curled awkwardly in a chair.

Letting the boy be, she made her way to sit beside James’ cot. His arm was in a sling with bandages surrounding the shoulder in neat fashion.

“Hey,” James greeted, opening his eyes slowly, “it’s late.”

“It is, and yet you’re awake.”

“I’ve been on drugs. I’ve slept most of the day,” James grinned clearly still on some drugs from the wonky slant of his lips. “It’s also hard to stay awake when your Mom keeps running a hand through your hair.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Fox shrugged. “Usually I just had hair pulling so I’d do chores.”

“Really? Well it’s like this,” James ran a hand through his own hair and then-still with his good arm-did the gesture to Fox. “See? Soothing.”

“I think you gave me a bald spot.”

“Ha Ha.” James rolled his eyes whilst smiling.

“You’re really loopy aren’t you?”

“Sure am!” James laughed.

“Do these sort of drugs have the same effect on your sister?” Fox asked.

“Nah, she’s all super soldiery so it’s not as bad,” James assured. “Anyways, I heard what you did.”

“Really?” Fox couldn’t keep her surprise in check.

“My sister has a habit of bragging so once I came around she spilled all of the beans. Barbecue beans, pinto beans, re-fried beans, and black beans. All on the floor.” James looked down at the tiles as if the ‘beans’ were still present.

“You’re hungry aren’t you?”

“Sure am.”

“I can get you something-“

“No. Shush!” James placed a lazy finger to Fox’s lips which she half wanted to bite and half wanted to brush aside. She went with the less violent option. “I think you did something really cool. I’m proud. Harper’s gonna come out of this okay cause of you. Be proud of that.”

“Uh, thanks.” Fox nodded. “Means a lot.”

“No problem,” James waved his hand slowly through the air as if brushing aside the reply.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something,” Fox sighed, clasping her hands together as if she were praying.

“Go for it,” James encouraged.

“Do you maybe...uh, want to go out sometime? Like, to the movies- or something exciting if you want. It doesn’t matter to me,” Fox shrugged casually but she was holding her breath while waiting for a reply.

“Yeah. That sounds cool. I haven’t gotten to hang out in ages and be normal. Totally a date. But I get all of the popcorn. It’s my favorite,” James smiled once more like the Cheshire Cat.

“Sure thing,” Fox laughed. “I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

“Yep,” James yawned going from spastic to tired in a matter of seconds.

“That boy,” Fox breathed on her way out of the medical wing, “is a piece of work.”

[blindchandelure]

No Rest For The Wicked: A Thiefshipping Oneshot

So, all the way back in winter 2017, I signed up for @sitabethel‘s Thiefshipping Dirty Santa fanfiction-writing event. And then I promptly forgot about the whole thing, until today, when they reminded me about it. -_- I’m dumb as hell. So, it’s months late, but here’s the fic I wrote for the event!

The prompt I was given was “I’ll let you know all my flaws now, so you could love me better or leave me quicker.” 

The flash of white, amongst all the dark hair and skin of the people of Cairo, caught Marik's eye immediately. 

It was strange to be back in Egypt, after all the time he'd spent travelling the world with Rishid as the leader of the Ghouls. Running from the past, he admitted to himself. That was over now - after the tumultous events in Domino City, Japan, he'd resolved his grudge against the Pharoah, and accepted his role as a Tombkeeper. The Pharaoh - and his vessel, Mutou, should be coming to Egypt soon, Marik considered.  Ishizu foretells that the Ceremonial Duel will soon occur. 

After the Pharoah moved on to the afterlife, what would become of the Ishtars? Marik's clan had been waiting to assist the Pharoah in his journey for thousands of years. Once his destiny was fulfilled - then what? Where did that leave them?

It leaves us to lead normal lives, finally, Rishid had said, earlier today. He seemed to be looking forward to it. Marik wasn't so sure. It wasn't easy to spend years despising a man and plotting to kill him, committing acts of thievery and violence at the head of a criminal gang, and then turn around and be....normal. 

Marik was walking through a quaint open air market - the same one he'd stumbled through as a child, on his first day on the surface world. He still remembered how strange but beautiful it had felt, to feel the sun on his face and the sand under his feet, to see and hear so many people, when he was used to only seeing his family, and the darkness of the tomb. Now a grown man, he had seen many sights more splendid than this. But, his eyes still misted when he thought of how Ishizu had snuck him out, that first time. 

She was always a good sister, he thought to himself. And how did I repay her? By running away, and threatening to do her harm if she pursued me. I have much to atone for. 

He had done harm to young Yugi Mutou's friends, as well. He had kidnapped them, and seized control of their minds. They would surely accompany the Pharoah when he came to Egypt to fulfill his destiny. He could not blame them if they looked at him with eyes of hate. 

He was thinking of all he'd done while in Japan....the games he had played, the  people he had hurt, and the one man, that he had loved. And then suddenly he was there.

That long, white hair. The clearly Japanese features of his host, when everyone else in the crowd was Middle Eastern or African. That beaten up black coat that he always wore. 

"Bakura!" Marik cried, and tore off running, after the man. They'd been allies in Battle City, plotting together to defeat the Pharaoh. At first, Bakura had clearly only coveted Marik's Millennium Rod. But as time went on, their relationship had become....more than that. And on the blimp where the tournament finals were held, in the darkness of Marik's room, before the final battle had commenced, they had become lovers. 

A night so passionate.....Marik refused to believe that it had meant nothing to the Spirit of the Ring. But after that, everything had changed. Marik had discovered that the Pharaoh did not kill his father, as Shaadi had led him to believe. His father's blood was instead on his own hands, and he'd created a whole other personality to conceal that truth from himself. The shock of this revelation had sent Marik reeling. He had done his Tombkeeper duty, and shown the Pharaoh the markings on his back. But, after that, he had returned to Egypt with his siblings, deeply uncertain of his future. 

But, one thing he was certain of: he still yearned for Yami Bakura. His co-conspirator, his equal in dueling, the best lay of his life. What was he doing here?

"Bakura, slown down!" Marik cried, catching up to the pale haired man, and seizing him by the wrist. The Spirit turned to him, and smirked.

"Hello, Marik. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Why have you come here?" Marik demanded. 

"I think, deep down, you know," Bakura said, his red eyes staring into Marik's violet ones. 

For a second, Marik thought, to be with me, but he knew that was wishful thinking. "The Pharaoh is coming to Egypt soon," Marik realized. "You've come here to kill him." 

"You may have abandoned your plot against the Pharaoh," Bakura nodded, "but my goals remain the same as they were the day you met me." 

"To get revenge," Marik guessed. "In Battle City, that was what we both wanted. But, you never really explained to me, what it was that you sought vengeance for. What did the Pharaoh do to you?" 

Bakura wrenched his wrist from Marik's grip, and backed away from him. "I have been carrying this grudge for three thousand years," he confessed. "I won't let some teenage boy who suddenly wants  to be a goody two shoes stand in my way." 

"I didn't say that I was going to stop you," Marik muttered. Perhaps they should be discussing this elsewhere, away from prying eyes. 

"Does that mean," Bakura asked, his lip beginning to curl upwards, "that you're going to help me? I thought you'd switched sides." 

"I'm on my own side," Marik insisted. "I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do, because I'm not sure what you're plotting, or what your reasons are. I want to hear your explanation, before I do anything."

Bakura raised an eyebrow.

"Besides," Marik admitted, "if I said I was going to try and stop you, you would probably kill me." 

"I would hate to have to kill you," Bakura chuckled. "I am rather fond of you, after all." Marik blushed, in spite of himself. "Can we go somewhere more quiet, so we can talk this over?" 

"I think I know just the place," Bakura said, and began walking off into the distance, towards the desert. "Follow me." %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%% They wandered past the outskirts of the city, towards the Pyramids, and the tombs where Marik had grown up. They traversed over sandy dunes in umcomfortable silence for what seemed like hours. 

"Where are we going?" Marik asked finally. "Are you sure you're not lost?"

"I was born here, just like you," Bakura reminded. "A very long time ago." 

"In the days when the Pharaoh, and the first owner of my Rod, walked the earth," Marik nodded. 

"He was a right bastard," Bakura huffed.

"Who?" Marik blinked. "Set, the Pharoah's high priest," Bakura explained.

"That was the original Rod wielder's name?" Marik blinked. 

"Didn't your clan teach you the Millennium Items' history?" Bakura questioned.

"I was always a poor student," Marik confessed. He'd rather be running through the torch lit hallways with Rishid, playing games. Father always scolded him for neglecting his studies. 

"What exactly did they tell you, about where the Items came from?" Bakura demanded, a strange look on his face. 

"The Pharaoh and his priests wielded the Millennium Items to protect the kingdom," Marik recalled from his lessons. 

"Protect it from whom?" Bakura questioned. 

"From evildoers," Marik shrugged. "Father always said he would tell me the whole story when I came of age. But he.....met his end when I was still a child." 

"The enemy the Millennium Item holders were fighting against," Bakura confessed, "was me." 

Marik stopped in his tracks, almost slamming into Bakura, who was walking in front of him. It tripped him out, truthfully, that the man who had ridden on the back of his motorcycle, kissed him on an airship, played cutting edge holographic card games with him, was a three thousand year old spirit, who had lived and died while the Pyramids were still being built. 

"I killed them," Bakura continued, his tone cold and unrepentant. "I was responsible for the death of Karim, who wielded the Millennium Scales, and Shada, who wielded the Millennium Key. And, of course, Mahad, the original owner of this Ring." He looked down at the glittering gold of the Millennium Item around his neck. 

"The Tombkeepers watched over the Scales and the Key all my life," Marik recalled. He didn't like to think about his childhood this much. "The Ring....I remember we had it in our possession, when I was young. One day, Father was spitting with rage. He said some treasure hunter - a foreigner - had stolen it." 

"My host's father," Bakura nodded. "Bakura Rokuro." 

Marik was not sure it had truly hit him, until this moment, that the face and body before his eyes, which he had kissed and touched not so long ago, did not really belong to the spirit he was speaking to. His real body must be buried, mummified, under these sands somewhere. 

"Bakura is not even your real name," Marik realized. "But the name of your host."  

"Yes, Bakura Ryou is simply my vessel," the Spirit of the Ring nodded. "When all this is over...he will wake up confused. He won't know where he is, or who you are. Try to ensure that he makes it back to Domino City in one piece." 

"Does that mean that 'when all this is over'....you won't be coming back?" Marik frowned. 

"Once my thirst for revenge has been slaked, at last," Bakura replied, "my spirit will be at peace, and then, I suppose I can rest."

"In the afterlife?" Marik guessed. 

"Where else would a ghost go?" Bakura chuckled. 

"Aren't you worried what will happen when your heart is weighed against the feather of Ma'at?" Marik worried. "Don't you fear judgement for your sins?"

"Do you fear judgement for yours?" Bakura asked. The question pierced Marik like a knife. 

"I can't judge you for your crimes," Marik sighed. "In Battle City....I wouldn't have cared if Katsuya had drowned, or that safe had fallen on Mazaki and crushed her. Or if Pandora's legs had been sliced off by that saw. Or if Hikari no Kamen and Yami no Kamen had fallen off that building to their deaths....."

"Thankfully," Bakura chuckled, "the Pharaoh helped all your foolish pawns escape with their lives." 

"What did the Pharaoh do to you?" Marik asked again. "I've realized...I don't anything about you at all. Bakura isn't even your real name. What did they call you, in your mortal life?" 

"Most knew me as the Thief King," the Spirit of the Ring revealed.

"That's not a name," Marik pointed out. "That's a title." 

"My true name doesn't matter," Bakura shrugged. "I will not exist in this modern world much longer anyway, after my plan is complete."

"What are you planning?" Marik demanded, his voice raising. "Why did you come back to me, just to leave me again?" 

"I want you to know the truth about who I was," Bakura explained. "There is no soul left in this world who remembers the Thief King. The Pharaoh is the only person I once knew who still walk this earth - and he has no memory of who I am, or why I despise him. When he regains his memories, his time on this plane will end. They say you only live as long as people remember you. And you, Marik Ishtar, are perhaps the only person on Earth who will remember me with fondness." 

"I'll miss you," Marik admitted. "I was hoping you and I could be together again." 

"I wish that could be," Bakura said, his voice full of passion as he looked into Marik's eyes. "I wish I could be your lover, like I was before." He leaned in close, and his lips touched Marik's. Desire coursed through the Tombkeeper's body, and soon his hands were in the Spirit's long hair, pulling him closer, desperate.

Reluctantly, Bakura pulled away. "But, this cannot be," he sighed. "I do not belong in the land of the living. My spirit lingers here for one purpose - my vengeance." 

Marik understood this. He had desired vengeance against the Pharaoh for many years, and that  misguided goal had driven all of his actions. Now, he felt adrift, without the mission that had motivated him for so long. 

"You wielded the power of the Millennium Rod, when you sought your vengeance," Bakura recalled. "But, do you know where the power of the Millennium Items comes from?" 

"Dark magic," Marik guessed.

"The darkest kind," Bakura agreed. "The kind that comes from the most evil and heinous of rituals." 

Marik blinked in the bright desert sun, confused. He and his clan had been watching over the Millennium Items for centuries, waiting for the Pharaoh's return. But, in all his studies, he was never taught how the Items had been created. 

"Human sacrifice," Bakura revealed, staring down at the Ring around his neck. "The blood and bones and souls of an entire village were melted down with the gold, imbuing them with cursed power." 

Marik gasped, horrified. He realized then where Bakura had brought him. They were standing on the ruins of an ancient city. Broken columns and shells of buildings, half-buried in the sand, were all that remained of the once-populous village. 

"This is all that's left of Kul Elna," Bakura explained, gesturing at the remnants. They looked like an archeological site. "The village that was massacred by the Pharaoh to create the Millennium Items. My village."

Marik's hand went to his mouth. He had endured horrors in his lifetime - hieroglyphics carved painfully into his unwilling back. An evil alter ego arising from the trauma of patricide. Horrible things - but none quite as horrible as witnessing a genocide. 

"I'm so sorry, Thief King," he said, putting an arm around his lover.

Bakura backed away from his touch. "I don't need your shoulder to cry on," he laughed. "I only need the Pharoah's suffering and death, as retribution for the suffering and death of my family." 

Marik's eyes widened, unsure of what to say. He, too, had once wished "suffering and death" upon the Pharaoh. But, now he regretted his actions. 

"I am not some victim, who deserves your sympathy," Bakura confessed. "I am a thief, and a stealer of souls. I killed the masters of the Ring, Key, and Scales, and I felt no remorse. I am responsible for the death of Isis, as well, who wielded the Millennium Necklace. Her soul seems to have returned in this century, as your sister. No wonder she despises me." 

"Why are you tellling me this?" Marik asked, feeling uneasy.

"I'm letting you know all my flaws now," Bakura explained, "so you could love me better, or leave me quicker."

"You want my love?" Marik said, confused. "I thought you only wanted your revenge." 

"I want to be with you, one last time, before my soul rests," Bakura said, looking desperately into Marik's eyes. "One more night in your beautiful arms, before I condemn myself to Hell. Is that too much to ask?" 

Marik reddened. He wanted this man, that much was true. He'd yearned for another taste of his touch since he left Domino City. And yet....

"But you're on the side of the angels now," Bakura chuckled. "Or at least, men who think they are angels. They assume that theirs is the just side. You and your family promised to help them, right? The Pharaoh, and his vessel, Yugi Mutou, and his friends." 

"Yes," Marik admitted. "When they come to Egypt, Ishizu and I are supposed to help them restore the Pharaoh's name and memories, and commence the Ceremonial Duel."

"When they come to Egypt," Bakura said plainly, "I am going to play a Shadow Game with the Pharaoh, and I am going to make him pay. I will be doing my best to prevent him from recovering his name - the task you say you plan to help him with. And I do not care whatsoever if the Pharaoh's friends - who now seem to consider you their ally  - are caught in the crossfire." 

"Why reveal your plan to me?" Marik asked. "Why not lie?"

"I want to know if you will leave me, knowing what kind of  man I am," Bakura confided. "I want to know if you will try and stop me. Will you warn young Mutou-san that I'm after his so-called yami? Will you try and protect the Pharaoh, who, as a Tombkeeper, you're sworn to serve?" 

"I don't hate the Pharaoh anymore," Marik said, uncertainly. "But, I do still love you, even knowing your true nature. I cannot stop my heart from loving you, or my body from wanting you, regardless of the flaws you confess to me. I will not 'leave you quicker'. I want to stay with you until the end." 

"You can stay with me all night long," Bakura whispered seductively. "One last, blissful night- but, come morning, the Pharaoh's plane will arrive in Cairo, and I will do what I have waited to do for three millennia."

"I won't stop you," Marik decided. "I will send the Pharoah to the place he is destined to go, fulfilling my role as a Tombkeeper. Once he gets there.....whether he wins your game, or you do....that is up to the Gods." 

"You wielded the power of the Gods once," Bakura recalled.

"Yes," Marik sighed. "But, I have long since surrendered my Winged Dragon of Ra to the Pharaoh."

"He will use it against me in our duel," Bakura predicted. "You have made my coming battle much harder to win." 

"My other self used Ra to defeat you in Battle City," Marik remembered. 

"Well, that's your other self," Bakura shrugged. "I carry a grudge against him, not you." "He's gone now," Marik said seriously. "For good this time." 

"I wanted you to regain control of your body," Bakura confessed. "Not simply because I wanted your Millennium Rod, but because I wanted what was best for you."

"You tried to help me win control of myself back," Marik nodded. "I will always be grateful to you for that, Thief King." 

"I have spent millennia haunting this Ring, waiting for my final faceoff with the Pharaoh," Bakura said thoughtfully. "And tomorrow, I will have it. But, I never expected that I would find someone who I cared for. It is, at last, my time to settle the score, and  leave this plane - but I wish I did not have to leave you, Marik.”

"I won't leave you until I have to," Marik promised. "I'll give you my love, and I'll give you tonight, and I won't regret it." 

"Even though, when morning light comes, I'll set off to kill your king?" 

"I wish you could stay," Marik sighed. "I wish you could be mine forever. But, perhaps, when I die, our souls will be reunited, on the other side of the Du'at."

"Then may Osiris have mercy on our wicked souls," Bakura laughed, and kissed Marik again. For now, his soul still resided in Bakura Ryou's body - and that body would know no sleep tonight.

[kinetic-elaboration]

September 19: 3% (as of 2x07)

I had this sudden bout of need to write done some thoughts on the 3% after watching 2x07 last night and--they felt deeper in my head but anyway here they are.

Basically some attempts to figure out the exact contours of the Offshore/Inland relationship.

*

What we know about the Offshore/Inland relationship:

The central idea of the Offshore is that everyone earns their way in; no one is born into that society. A consequence of this rule is that the Offshore is entirely reliant on the Inland for at least one resource: its population. From the point of the view of the Offfshore, then, the children of the Inland are a potential resource, to be protected and nurtured at least to a degree, and the adults of the Inland are the 'unworthy,' who deserve not just their squalor, but the Offshore's contempt. Their main use--their only canonically confirmed use--is to produce more children. Otherwise, they are derided, and the Offshore has no (obvious) reason to care for them in the way it might care for their children up to the age of 20.

The Offshore residents do sometimes return to the Inland, but only for specific purposes--to serve as soldiers or doctors for particular events. They do not routinely visit or hold regular 9-5 jobs on the Inland. The separation is supposed to be as complete as practically possible.

What we know about the universe:

It's the future, clearly. There have been huge strides in technology, but in recognizable directions from current tech: we see sensitive communication devices, high tech computers, high speed submarine travel, and of course the simple sterilization techniques. So we can guess that this universe once looked like our present day, but that its technological capabilities have greatly expanded with time. We also know that not only have those advances been hoarded by the Offshore, but apparently all tech, even that from our current era, has been stripped from the Inland. They not only lack fancy communication devices in the form of rings and headsets, they lack cell or landline phones, computers, televisions, radios. They have toasters, according to Elisa, and perhaps some other appliances, but little else. It is also notable that there used to be at least 2000's level tech in the Inland: there are old computer screens stacked in the background of one scene, and tech-savvy people like Fernando can salvage parts for a makeshift walkie-talkie.

We also know that animals like lions and zebras have become extinct, as Rafael mentions in 2x07. In fact, except for fish, it's not clear which animals still exist.

We know that just as there used to be technological wealth in the Inland, there was more general wealth as well. The abandoned bank where Michele met the Old Man is architecturally quite beautiful. It's also...abandoned, as are the orphanage, and various other houses and buildings in the Inland.

We know that the Process has been going on for about 100 years and juuuust enough about the Founding 'Couple' to assure me that (either in the last season 2 eps I haven't watched or in future seasons) we'll find out more about them, and, hopefully, the state of the world at the time they founded the Offshore.

The History of the Inland/Offshore

Is the destitution of the Inland and/or its technology gap with the Offshore artificially created along with the Offshore and the Process, or is it the result of some other natural event? The extinction of the animals makes me think that there was already environmental damage being done, either long-term or in one fell swoop, following some sort of disaster. And, we know from the way the actual, real world works that some people are always going to hoard resources, that disasters can occur and poverty can increase while some people remain remarkably rich. So my assumption is that the Founding Couple just exacerbated that gap, hoarding the last of the wealth (in terms of money but also technology, natural resources) in one place, and leaving the Inland to spiral down into an ever worse state of poverty and destitution.

But I'm interested in the timeline: had this society suffered through a disaster, perhaps an environmental disaster tied to a mass extinction, before the Process began? Were the Founders interested only in increased fairness, or did they also have a certain sense of human survival in mind? I'm picturing a scenario in which a resource crunch makes it impossible to share what remains with everyone, prompting the creation of a special paradise where those resources can be enjoyed by some, at least, and from there the creation of the Process, which determines which people are 'worthy' of enjoying those resources. Some characters seem to assume that there are enough resources for everyone, if only the Offshore would stop hoarding--but we don't know that to be true. If there truly is not enough for everyone, not only does 'merit' seem like the most fair way to determine who 'wins' the best of those resources, but it also seems the best way to improve humankind's situation as a whole: the smartest and the hardiest and the most creative get access to the most technology, etc., allowing them the best chance to make discoveries and advances that could solve long-lasting resource-deficiency problems. (Basically the same argument that underpins the existence of selective schools and universities; the smartest people 'deserve' the most help in becoming even smarter, the most support in growing and learning.)

Similarly, I'm curious as to how all of this society's tech ended up concentrated in the Offshore? Was there a mass disabling of the Inland's technology? Suddenly your computers/phones/tvs/radios stop working? That would be an extremely effective way to subjugate a large population.

The relationship between the Inland and Offshore

I have a lot of questions about this aspect of the universe but it basically all comes down to: what is the extent of the Offshore's control over the Inland?

At the very least, the Offshore needs the residents of the Inland to continue having children, to replenish the population of the Offshore. This is more complicated than it sounds: the Offshore needs the right number of people, it needs the right sort of people--healthy, smart, educated, and loyal to the concept of the Offshore/Inland divide and the Process itself. It also needs those children to survive the first twenty years of their life, which means it needs to ensure some level of basic safety on the Inland.

Like any minority elite ruling over a majority population that vastly outnumbers it, the Offshore also needs to keep the Inland powerless, for its own survival: to quash revolts, and to ensure complacency wherever possible.

Keeping all of this in mind, what would the Offshore do to meet these goals?

Precisely what it's shown to be doing, first of all.

Surveillance: We see this more in S1, but the Inland is littered with cameras. Aside from the registrations/ear pieces, the cameras are the only tech around, and it appears that there's fairly little respite to be had from them. Not none, obviously: the Cause members have found plenty of places to meet in S2. Still, my impression of the Inland is very much a surveillance state.

Sewing mistrust between neighbors: at least when necessary, as when Marcela makes a call for information on Cause members linked to Ezequiel's death. She's able to dangle a carrot (help in the Process) rather than threaten a stick, but it comes out the same. People will jump to turn on each other.

Military presence/Violence or the threat of violence: This is a little murky, because, aside from the build-up to the Process, when we know there are Division soldiers in the street, it's not clear how often or how extensively the Inland is patrolled by Offshore agents. However, Marcella does have contacts in 'the militia,' and is possibly even their official or unofficial leader; people like Gerson police the Inland for the Offshore, in an admittedly less...uniformed way, and to their own gain.

Registration: Being counted and officially registered is not dissimilar to being surveilled. The keeping of data on everyone (or nearly everyone, or everyone in theory) is a way of exerting control over a large population. It implies that you can always be found, that you can never escape. This is also the practical structure that underpins the Process itself, as Fernando explains, the organizational structure of their whole society relies on this human data.

Control over communication: It's quite obvious that the tech gap between the two societies isn't accidental; it's too complete, and the presence of dead or outmoded technology in the Inland shows it was not always a wasteland in this way. But in the present, the Inland people have no phones, no email--possibly no mail--no TV or radio news created for and by themselves. They have only the devices in their ears, through which they can hear the Offshore, but the Offshore cannot hear them.

Religion: A fervently believed narrative, imbued with the reverence assigned to religious faith, keeps the majority of the Inlanders from revolting. They accept their poverty as being their own fault, if they failed the Process; believe in a bright future for their children, if the children are under 20; and celebrate the success of the Offshore residents, as their due--and anyone who disagrees with these tenets is amoral, disgusting, a traitor to the ideals of the Founding Couple. (I imagine there is other cultural and quasi-religious propaganda going on too, for example the pre-Process procession, a sort of gift or treat for the people of the Inland, which also reinforces their belief in the power structure that aids the Offshore at their expense.)

Total control of the government: There is a Council, and it appears to make decisions for both the Offshore and Inland--but no Inlanders serve on it, of course. I doubt they have any sort of voting rights either.

Brain Drain: taking the top 3% of each year's children from the Inland not only plays into the "reward" narrative that underlies the whole system, it also ensures that the smartest and most creative people leave the Inland and give their allegiance to the Offshore instead. If you conceive of the relationship between the two as a 'war,' or adversarial in any way (as Marcella at least seems to), then it makes sense to want to poach all the best 'warriors' from the other side. (I don't know if this is a conscious thought on the part of Offshore authorities, but S2 does show how dangerous a 3%-er or two can be if left to rot on the Inland.)

Continuing extreme inequality: I'm not sure what other methods the Offshore uses to ensure that the two areas remain sharply diverged in terms of wealth distribution and resources, or even if, at this point, they have to do anything at all to keep up the status quo, but they do gain political power from this discrepancy in quality of life, especially when combined with the existence of the Process as a possible bridge from one life to the other. The Inlanders won't revolt against the Offshore if they hope to someday join it. And if they are rejected, they can hope that their children will advance, a nearly as powerful incentive. This system will self-perpetuate, but only as long as the Inland is a hellscape and the Offshore is a paradise. If there were a reason to hold allegiance to the Inland, people would take it.

Squashing of dissent: And of course, when pockets of organized dissent do form, like the Cause, the Offshore can gather all of these tools together to defeat them: use surveillance to find them, torture and violence to eliminate their members, and their control over the majority populace to reign in their influence.

(An aside, but, considering this list, it's pretty clear that Fernando's ideas to disrupt the Process are better than Ezequiel's bomb idea. The Offshore has formidable weapons, including propaganda weapons, and probably wouldn't have the hardest time recovering even from the death of a generation of Process applicants. They could spin it into a positive for them, probably incredibly easily by--correctly--blaming the Cause, and then broadcast their narrative to the whole of the Inland. Fernando is striking at their tools of control: those communication networks, their monopoly on information, the registration system that makes the Process possible, etc.)

Overall, we know quite a bit about how the Offshore keeps the Inland from starting a revolution, though fairly little about how it nurtures its primary Inland resource, the children.

What else might the Inland be doing, which we haven't yet seen?

Population control: I doubt we'll actually see this, since the Offshore seems intent on encouraging the Inlanders to have as many kids as possible, but if there is a resource crunch in any way in this universe, or if they ever anticipate one on the Offshore, they'd need to exert some control over the total population's numbers. The Offshore always stays in proportion to the Inland, taking 3% of its population every year, which makes sense if they wish to keep a balance that is apparently working. But that means that a population explosion on the Inland would create a population explosion on the Offshore, and perhaps cause a rationing in their resource among themselves.

Use of the Inland population for labor:

It is incredibly unclear to me what people actually spend their days doing, on either the Offshore or the Inland. I suppose the Offshore people could spend a lot of time in leisure activities--except we don't see any of that, what leisure might mean on the Offshore, and at least some of them DO have jobs: we know that some work for the Process, or serve in the military, or on the Council, or as doctors. Even more strangely, we don't know what people on the Inland do when they're not preparing for the Process. We know Silas is a doctor and Fernando's father a preacher. Money does seem to exist. But what other jobs do people have, or could they have? And how do they become qualified for those jobs? Is it all apprenticeships and informal learning, or are there schools? (I'd guess the first but it wouldn't be a retcon to include a school in a future season.) How do people earn money? What do they use that money for--just food and other essentials? Are there are stores? Is housing free and assigned or do people rent?

Looking at this from the Offshore's point of view, I would say that the people of the Inland should definitely not be idle. A large, idle population living in squalor is a potential boiling pot of rebellion.

I also think that the Offshore would want to prioritize leisure for its citizens as much as possible. The jobs they definitely have not outsourced both cannot be outsourced and are prestigious anyway. But there are always jobs that have to be done and no one wants to do. For example--the manufacture of their tech?

Putting all this together, I'd guess that the Offshore assigns work to the people of the Inland as much as possible and is probably in as much control as possible over the issuance and flow of money--probably in a way that appears to be hands off (they seem to have no money themselves) but nevertheless is near complete in practice.

Control of Inland bodies: I'm a little vague on this (see outstanding question 2), but I noticed that the upcoming Process participants not only have their registrations checked and their photos updated, they also get vaccines. And we already know that 'vaccine' doesn't always mean 'vaccine' in this universe. I'm wondering if the Offshore is doing something to the 20 year olds, and if they also have the habit of taking over Inland residents' medical care in other ways. I'm not even suggesting something nefarious. I'm thinking more along the lines of maybe literal vaccines, antibodies, vitamins, strengthening agents, or other sci-fi innovations, to keep their child population healthy--in other words, to protect the most important Inland resource, the crop from which they'll cull their future members.

Outstanding questions:

The Offshore and Inland children's education: The Offshore would definitely want the Inland children educated, because if they are not educated, they can never be good Offshore citizens. Even more specifically, the Offshore values particular skills and traits. It's not just looking for the general 'best,' but has an idea what 'best' means. So it would probably want a hand in molding the children. (Canonically, it looks they actually rely on failed Process participants to train up-and-coming Process participants, as Fernando does, but it seems...like a risk to put all your faith in failures, imo.) But how does it do so? Outside of running schools, which would require much more day to day involvement of Offshore people in Inland life, I'm not sure how they ensure they get a proper crop of new Process participants each year.

The Offshore and Inland children's health: We know that the Inland has doctors, and that their medicine isn't as good as on the Offshore. And I doubt the Offshore cares much about what happens to adults--provided enough of them are healthy enough to have healthy children and, perhaps, to work. But how do they keep the children safe and healthy? The Process is physically grueling in places. It is not for the weak or the half-starved. How do they draw the line between making the Inland a terrible place to live, a place from which all children would be desperate to escape, and also ensuring not only the most basic health and safety, but a general environment in which children could thrive enough to grow into 'the 3%'? (I doubt we'll get an answer for this, and perhaps we're supposed to assume that the very best of the best will rise to the top no matter what: if a child is naturally sickly, he doesn't 'deserve' the Offshore anyway, for example, or if a child would be smart with the proper training but isn't naturally smart on her own, she's not quite 3% material. Characters like Fernando and Joanna bear out this theory some: he is physically disabled and she came from the lowest of even the Inland low, no family at all, and they still both passed the Process, essentially. I'm not entirely sure I buy this, though... The crowd that gathered at the beginning of 1x01 didn't exactly look like they were malnourished as a whole, so at least some needs must be being met.)

I feel like I had some other thoughts but these are already excessive! So I'm done for now.

[funnydove-blog]

The Goal Standard

Direction can be defined as the path that leads to a desired destination. That destination can include an ideal situation, an educational achievement, a profession, or a financial accomplishment.

You, as a woman, have never had greater freedom than you do today to choose the direction you want to take in life. You know this intellectually, but now is the time to embrace it emotionally and let it become personally true for you. To be truly happy, you want to take full responsibility for your success, to determine which direction you will travel in, and to make the important decisions about your life independently.

As you look at defining a direction in which you want your life to go, it might help to break things down into questions or categories, which you can ask yourself, make a list of the answers, then think about.

What seems like a ‘big decision’ might actually be a series of ‘small choices’. The only caveat in this process is that you be completely honest with yourself as you ask the following:

What do I want to be? i.e., a doctor, a lawyer, a novelist, a master sommelier, chess champion, or physicist;

What do I want to do? i.e., bring healthcare to underprivileged children, reform campaign finance law, set up micro-finance banks in developing countries;

What do I want to accomplish? i.e., be financially independent by the age of 40, open a library in my neighborhood, become a polyglot;

What do I want to experience? i.e., travel, opera, a pilgrimage to India;

What meaning and purpose is my life going to have? i.e., to teach, to employ people, to protect the environment, to make great films; and

What impact will my work have on my loved ones, my community, and my world? i.e., a family trust to ensure the independence of future generations, a scholarship fund for underprivileged children, a city park, a charity perpetually funded by royalties and licensing fees from intellectual properties that I acquire and own.

It is vitally important that, if possible, you do the work in life that you are truly  passionate about, what you feel like you were put on this earth to do. If that’s not possible right now, do the work you have to do—to the best of your ability—as you move toward the work you love to do.

YOUR TOOL KIT

There’s a universe of information on the topics of finding a direction and developing tools to be successful. Psychologists have written books and developed step-by-step exercises and tests to help you determine what you’re good at and what you’re interested in. Look to career counselors in school or in the private sector who can assist you in determining the best career or profession. Take full advantage of these resources if you aren’t certain about the direction you want to take.

Look for information on the internet, but be selective. Motivational speakers and armchair philosophers (feel free to lump me into the latter category) clutter your local bookstore shelves as well as your Amazon and YouTube search results with books, strategies, seminars, and Top Ten Things You Need To Do So You Can…(Whatever). It’s vitally important that you investigate these and learn about goal-setting, visualization, meditation, vision boards, and any practical tools that can help you find your direction and excel.

Remember: these techniques, strategies, and philosophies are tools; they are not ends in themselves. You take them and use them, like a can opener or a hammer, to become the person you want to be and get to the things you want in life. These involve listening, watching, or reading about concepts. These concepts can help you identify things in your personal life that you can change to get better results from life.

The tools that are truly valid always involve work and should not cost a great deal of money to implement. Books and online videos can be very helpful, and they usually don’t cost you more than a pizza or a few minutes of your time. Additional resources are available at many universities’ websites where you’ll find free courses about every subject under the sun.

EFFORT

Once you’ve identified the tools and resources available to help you go in the direction you want to go, the next part of the equation is effort. Effort is defined as the action or work you put in a focused and disciplined manner in order to achieve a certain outcome. Once you decide on your direction, you then make an effort in that direction. You make this effort consistently, even if it means modifying current  behavior (like sleeping late.) Modifying behavior over time is the way to make permanent changes happen. Effort is a muscle. It takes time to build. You must work to sustain it. Do the work. See the results. Remember: the idea of being an ‘overnight success’ is a myth.

The key phrase in the previous paragraph is ‘over time’. This means, most often, that you create new habits and/or change old habits in order to improve your life. This is the unglamorous truth about being a better person and experiencing a higher quality of life.

As an example, I offer this challenge to you: when you wake up and get out of bed each morning, sit cross-legged on the floor, close your eyes, and remain still and silent for ten minutes. You can meditate, or you can vegetate, it matters not. The important thing is that you give yourself ten minutes to simply be aware. Do this simple thing every morning for 30 days, without interruption for weekends, holidays, or days you just don’t feel like it.

Accepting this challenge will make you realize how difficult it can be to form a lifechanging habit, even if it’s as simple as sitting on the floor and being quiet and still for ten minutes. Forming a new habit usually requires 30 consecutive days of repeated behavior. If you can master yourself—and do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, whether you like it or not—you can accomplish almost anything.

It’s best to start small, with a simple, tangible thing like quiet time, and set a goal for 30 days. Address one thing at a time, until that thing becomes a habit. Then move on to the next thing you want to change, the next habit you want to form.

[thedeadflag]

Demon WIP

Remember NaNoWriMo? Here’s part of one of those fics I never got around to finishing. It’s a bit of a mess and totally cracky, but eh. Got to sort of exorcise parts of my old long-buried feels and settle some of them a bit better than they had been, so at least there was that. 

Between the winding oak trees lining the roadside, the crackle of dirt and leaves under her feet, and the petrichor saturating the humid air, Anya wasn't sure which part of her latest destination made her more nostalgic. Georgia was more than a stone's throw away from North Carolina, but the similarities to her childhood home remained as she looked around the area at the particularly isolated backwoods destination. There was a fence along the southern portion of the road, and there was a dilapidated abandoned shed just off the eastern corner, but aside from that, the area was devoid of civilization.

She'd been there for seven hours and there'd only been a single vehicle passing through the rural three way crossroads. Used to be that she could sit out on the porch of her family home and see two, maybe three vehicles pass all day long. It was as if she had a bit of that childhood comfort now, which felt like luck given the circumstances.

It'd been a long year of research and traveling, countless nights spent in shoddy motel rooms and camping out in the back of her aging 1998 Subaru Forester, but she had a good feeling about this place. There was a weight to the air separate from the oppressive humidity; there was a certain sting to it, like the fading burn of embers and resin in her nostrils.

And honestly, she needed it to be right this time. With a hundred and seventy one dollars to her name, she was running out of chances. She'd long passed the threshold for desperation, so Anya went into each possibility fully prepared, knowing she had to make her shots count where she could get them.

Seven times she'd failed in her quest. She hoped her poor fortune would end there. It was the rare Florida Torreya at the western corner that had her thinking this was it, but it was dangerous to get her hopes up too high.

Anya checked her watch and then her notebook, triple checking the right time. There was a new moon overhead, it was well into harvest season in mid-late October, and the sun had set just shy of seven o'clock, setting the stage for her ritual to take place between seven-thirty and nine.

Not having wanted to jump the gun, she'd waited for the sky to darken nearly completely before deciding to start, keeping the area lit with lanterns along the fence posts in preparation, but it seemed appropriate to get things underway now. Anya checked around, making sure she had everything ready, before heading out onto the road with her ingredients in hand.  She didn't have the money to last until another new moon, so she needed to be precise.

Perfect had never been a word anyone used to describe her, but that evening, she had to be. For her sake, she had to be.

With a dagger to carve the lines and symbols into the damp dirt, and the ashes of yew trees to fill them, Anya worked with slow precision, allowing herself the time to ensure everything was positioned properly according to the night sky, that every line was precise, that the trail of ash remained unbroken.

In truth, as much as she needed this to work, she couldn't help but fear who or what would arrive if she was successful. She'd bounced around the past year performing summoning rituals of all kinds to no avail, but with the distinct knowledge that the demons or deities she tried to summon weren't necessarily the peaceful, loving types.

But that night's ritual had been entirely promising in that she'd met someone who claimed to have had luck with it, though the woman had been sworn to silence on who it was that would be summoned. Some of the elements had Anya thinking Enodia, or some other variation of Hecate maybe, but the woman she'd met hadn't seemed all that witchy. In addition, the symbols were entirely wrong, both foreign and new to her despite her vast researching. Some resembled a few Greek symbols, but others were wholly perplexing.

She'd been desperate enough to take the woman at her word, having run out of reasonable options before, but she'd had the financial resources for one last attempt, so there she was. In rural Georgia, on her hands and knees carving intricate runes and symbols into the dirt, littering the area with jasmine and lavender, and setting out a meal for her guest smack dab in the middle.

Bizarre didn't begin to describe it, but after a half hour of work, she was satisfied she had it all to code, enough to bring the pre-heated meal off her camping equipment and into the center of the set stage.

Anya knelt at the edge of the design and reached into her bag, pulling out the final ingredients: the blood of the chicken she'd slaughtered for the meal, a vial of the tears of her greatest woe, a collection of dead skin from her body, and her box of matches. None of it really made any sense, but she pushed that aside and began the ritual.

She'd been instructed to have a small line poking out from the main circle encompassing the main ritual design, symbolizing that she was currently outside of her summon's reach, seeking audience, or entrance, or some form of contact. In that small portion, she carefully poured the chicken blood, the liquid spreading further in and saturating the ash she'd used in the main design.

"The fuck...?" She muttered, expecting the liquid to mostly remain where she was pouring it, but it seemed to naturally retreat from the area and into the circle, as if it was drawn, leaving a small puddle in the area it'd been poured. Enough for her to empty her tears and dead skin flecks into.

"Well, here, goes nothing..." She mumbled to herself. In past rituals, there had always been a vocal component, some oral request for aid, or rite of submission, but she'd been instructed that there was none for the entity she'd be seeking out.

Anya wasn't sure if that was good or bad, all things considered.

Instead, she lit a match and dropped it into her sacrifices, focusing as hard as she could on the pain and sorrow that had led her there, on the deep lifelong yearning she'd felt which she'd never been able to quench.

Fire erupted from the circle, sending Anya stumbling backward as blue flames reached up towards the sky. The heat was unbearable, searing at her skin and wrenching a cry from her dry, scorched throat. The air was thick with smoke and ash and try as she might, Anya couldn't breathe, choking on the burning remains of her offerings, vision fading as she collapsed to the ground.

Her yearning for family was the last thing that passed through her mind before her body gave out, Anya falling into the clutches of unconsciousness.

The gumbo was spectacular.

It was so rare to be called to material form, and most times her meals were the blandest, most middling offerings of sustenance she could imagine. Often times, it was raw, and as much as she could appreciate the taste, she preferred that it be a rarity.

As in rare.

No one ever laughed at her jokes, so it was her duty to fill that gap. Puns were the highest form of humour, after all. That some didn't understand that was simply shameful.

But back to the gumbo, it really was something special. There was a gloriously sweet heat to it, and maybe if she was more generous, she would have decided that much was worthy of a gift in response, but some traditions were important to hold up.

Sure, when precious few people were around to uphold those traditions, they didn't matter quite so much in practice, but it was the principle of the matter that had her holding off. At least, until she finished her gumbo.

There wasn't a big enough bowl in the world for her when it come to such a delicious offering, but as she stared down at the empty bowl, she knew it was time to get down to business. Despite the lack of a captive audience, it was unsightly to lick her bowl clean, so she set it aside and perched back atop the fence, snapping her fingers.

In an instant, the blonde on the road jolted upright into a seated position, gasping for air, chest heaving and throat straining. It was all a bit dramatic, but entirely necessary to gauge the intentions and pursuits of those that put in the work to summon her.

While she wasn't exactly a mind reader, she was granted the final visions of the summoner, which tended to help her navigate the following moments. It never was good to get caught off guard, after all. Other such beings failed to include that sort of safeguard and look where they were now.

Dead. Or, well, nearly all dead.

She'd survived as long as she had because of principles and caution, not luck, after all.

It was only polite to wait until the woman on the road stopped hacking and coughing before she decided to make her presence known.

"I bet a fiddle of gold against your soul 'cause I think I'm better than you." She spoke with a twang, feeling a spike of concern at how violently the woman on the road's head turned in her direction. There was a modern word now for it. Whiplash? She was pretty sure it was whiplash. "You rang?"

The woman on the road just gawked at her, leaving her feeling a little concerned that she'd yet again used outdated terminology. As much as she found modern technology and society exciting and intriguing, it sure was difficult to keep up with the language.

"Do people still say that? Humans haven't moved on from phones yet, have they?" She added, thankful at least for the silent shake of the woman's head. "Ah, good, good. That'd be pretty embarrassing. As impolite as it is to ask a woman's age, it's unsightly to reveal you're a few decades or centuries 'out of the loop'. Makes things awkward."

"Are you...?" The woman started, words failing her pretty quickly, but the question was obvious enough.

"You can call me...Clarke." She decided, watching the woman's face twist in bewilderment. It was a decent enough name, and certainly more accessible than the ones humans often found unpronounceable.

The woman slowly got to her feet. "Clarke? I...I performed an elaborate, expensive ritual and nearly died summoning a...a Clarke?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She let out, earning a flat stare from her summoner. It was spunky; she couldn't help but like that sort of gusto. "Look, I could say my true name, but there's a small chance you'll bleed out from your ears, and I'd rather avoid the mess and screaming, all things considered."

The woman seemed to pale a little, which at least let her know she was rational enough. "Clarke it is, then." The woman stated slowly, focus shifting to the empty bowl. "Did you really eat my gumbo? Wasn't it charred?"

Clarke shook her head. "The runes protect the offering. Fantastic, by the way. You should be proud."

Warm brown eyes narrowed at her warily. "I used to cook for a Cajun place down in Baton Rouge. If I couldn't handle a bowl of gumbo, I'd be a little ashamed of myself."

She didn't see the reason for the modesty, knowing she hadn't tasted gumbo that good in decades, but perhaps it was just a character flaw of the woman before her. "So tell me...who is this enchanting, brave woman that summoned me forth? I'm curious."

"You...uh, sorry. I've probably watched too many movies. I thought you'd just know." The woman stammered, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "I'm Anya. Anya Pine."

Clarke grinned at her latest guest and looked her over. "And what is it you're pining for, Anya?"

To her great surprise, the woman let out a loud, sharp laugh before quickly stifling it, trying to compose herself. "Can't believe I laughed at that. Haven't heard that one in years."

"It's a good joke. Nothing wrong with a good pun." Clarke insisted, earning an easy nod from Anya.

"When I was a kid, people made fun of my last name enough for that one to get a little overdone. There are better jokes." Anya countered, making a fair enough point. "Like...a crime was committed in the forest, and the police are stumped. Who did it?"

Clarke laughed at the pun and shrugged, more eager to enjoy the moment than anything. It was rare to find someone who shared her taste in humour. "Who?"

"Yew know who." Anya answered, lips spreading into a wry grin.

"Oh, I like you. Did you know I can cut down a dead tree just by looking at it?" Clarke asked, amusement billowing inside her as Anya's eyes grew wider. "It's true. I saw it with my own eyes!"

Anya rolled her eyes, but the laughter that escaped the woman had Clarke feeling surprisingly happy she'd been summoned. It was a nice change of pace.

"So how does this work, exactly?" Anya probed, stepping closer now, off the road and onto the grass, leaning up against a fence post.

"Well, like I said, you tell me what you're pining for...sorry, I couldn't resist...and we figure something out. That is, if you're looking to barter. Most are, these days. You don't get many who just want to meet me and have a little chat like the old days. The world's changed, though, so I can understand that, I don't take it personally. Faith means something different these days." Clarke explained, keen eyes tracking Anya's expression, feeling a little curious at the confusion there. "What's on your mind, sweetling?'

Anya's head ducked, and even in the dim lantern light, she could see the blush on those high cheekbones as clear as day. "You say faith. It's just...it's an odd word choice given I'm face to face with you."

She'd long since grown tired of that line of questioning over the years, but it was a misconception she did take some enjoyment in clearing up. "The whole Abrahamic god thing's got folks twisted. They're too lazy or scared to actually show up and do anything like the old gods. They point around at things they generally didn't create, get a few people to write some tomes for them, and say 'this is proof of my will, you don't need to see me to know my power'. Whereas for millennia, people had faith in some of us from knowing us, and having faith in our power and guidance. You don't usually get people lined up offering human sacrifices on a whim, to please some invisible deity they've never had any proof of. Either way, it's still faith if you've seen something with your own eyes. Some lazy gods demand people take even their existence on faith. The salt of the earth types that actually get things done just demand faith in our decisions and abilities. That we do what we promise."

Anya stood there for nearly a minute, brow furrowed, clearly processing.  She had a good feeling about this one, so Clarke wasn't surprised when the woman eventually offered a slow nod and met her gaze. "Okay. And if I wanted to barter?"

Clarke pushed off the fence and stepped up to Anya, lifting a hand to the human's cheek, marveling at how soft her skin was for a brief moment before being quite taken with the slight pressure against her palm. If this were a more primitive era, she might have offered a different deal than usual. "There's only one thing I desire."

"Popular lore says it's my soul, but...I don't know if that's right, or what it means." Anya let out, voice much quieter now, not that it inconvenienced Clarke. She could hear the cricket brush up against a blade of grass fifty meters down the road, it wasn't any trouble adjusting to a particularly quiet whisper.

"A soul is simply a vessel, sweetling. A part of your spirit that contains your faith." Clarke explained, knowing it was a fair bit more complicated than that, but Anya didn't need to be bored to death with the philosophy of it all. "It's nothing you'd miss, and it's nothing you'd lose. Contrary to popular belief, selling your soul simply gives control of it. We, who can...touch, and use souls...we can do what we will with it and what's contained within it. That's all."

Anya shook her head and took a half step back. "I apologize, but I'm a little hesitant to just take you at your word on that. Especially after all the research I've done on demons."

Clarke couldn't contain her laughter, having not heard that one for a number of years. "Do I look like a demon to you?"

Anya shrugged. "I don't know. On some shows, demons just look like humans, but with black eyes."

"Like, bruising around their eyes? Or are their eyeballs are literally black?" Clarke asked, feeling a mite curious over their representation.

"The second one. But sometimes they just...are a big black cloud of smoke and they enter people and use them as hosts." Anya clarified, leaving Clarke to leave a mental note to write that particularly laughable idea down.

"Priceless. No innocent human hosts here, just a recreation of my mortal body from way back when. I'd like to think I look good for my age, but after long enough, you kind of stop caring what people think." Clarke was a little surprised that Anya's gaze only drifted down to her lips, rather than scanning the full length of her.

After all, she'd had her fair share of followers once upon a time who thought her the pinnacle of beauty. She didn't let it get to her head, or hadn't for a few centuries, but it was curious. She sensed a deep yearning in the woman, and there was definitely a little lust in those warm brown eyes, but Anya was being rather polite about it all.

Maybe Clarke wasn't sure what to think about that.

"I know the feeling, in a sense." Anya murmured, blinking away whatever haze had fallen over her. "So that's all I have to bargain with? My soul?"

"To your credit, it's a solid bargaining chip." Clarke chirped, shooting Anya a bright grin. With any luck, the woman would live a long, fruitful life, and that boded well for her.

Anya stared off towards the road, at the ritual site. "And you're not a demon?"

Apparently, Anya needed more convincing. Clarke contained her annoyance and took hold of Anya's hand, luring her closer. "It's not that simple. The word was created in reference to nature spirits, which...here I am. According to Christianity, I'm a demon, but so is Zeus. So is Diana. Same with Ganesha, and Papa Legba. All gods, demi-gods, or any sort of divine being that's not Yahweh, Elohim, Allah...whatever people decide to call them...anyone who isn't them and their heavenly retinue? Demons. Absurd is what it is, but every faith has its own internal logic systems. So to faithful Christians and Catholics, and the religions themselves, I am a demon. To me, I'm a former nymph that ascended to take on some of the duties of Enodia and Hecate when they were slain. I don't think it's fair to bundle ones like me in with all the Christian and Catholic-specific demons out there, but hey, I'm apparently a succubus to them."

Despite the stricken expression Anya wore, she could see relief in her eyes, and that was enough for Clarke to feel she got her message across clear enough. "Gods can be killed?"

"Uh, yeah. Why do you think the Abrahamic god has angels and demons and prophets to do its dirty work in keeping that whole system of checks and balances running? Laziness is a big part, but when you're working down at ground level, things can get dicey. It's why most of the major remaining gods pull that 'have faith that we exist' stuff. Can't get killed too easily if you never have to meet anyone in material form." Clarke explained, before giving Anya's hand a squeeze. "I have a good feeling about you, though. Pretty sure you're too desperate to try and kill me, even if you knew how."

Anya shook her head. "I have no interest in killing anyone. I just need help."

"You get one deal, sweetling. One request in exchange for your soul." Clarke noted, bringing her other hand over to Anya's forearm, gently rubbing up and down her smooth skin. "It's in my best interest to make it good for you."

It wasn't even a lie, really. If the barter they struck benefited Anya tremendously, it'd only boost the woman's faith in her, and bolster Anya's soul, granting Clarke more years, and letting her maintain her power for longer. Still, the more complex and intense the request was in terms of altering reality, the more power it'd sap from her, so it was a balancing act.

There was a good reason, after all, why only one deal was ever struck per follower, why each negotiation was always about wringing as much value out of each soul as possible. For someone like herself, who didn't seek out limitless power and an enormous market share, each deal had to be approached with great tact and care.

Anya swallowed hard once, twice, and nodded, gaze dropping to Clarke's hands and the hopefully soothing affection she was offering. "I really want to believe that. I'm past the point where anything that happens here could be a mistake, so...okay. Okay, I think."

All that desperation she'd felt upon being summoned was finally shifting to the foreground in Anya, and Clarke couldn't help but feel a little troubled, hoping she wouldn't have to let the woman down. Anya, after all, had been so composed, so curious, and so generous.

Clarke tugged at Anya's hand and moved to sit on the grass. "Come, sit with me. Tell me what you need."

Anya cautiously followed suit, and didn't flinch when Clarke closed the few inches of distance between them, reaching an arm around to lean Anya into her. "I've worked so hard. I'm proud of everything I've fought for and achieved.  I've...I've been true to myself, and there's strength in that. There is."

Clarke cradled Anya's head on her shoulder and ran her hand through the woman's hair, wanting to still the slight tremor in Anya's voice.

"Of course there is. I felt your strength in the summoning, Anya. Tell me how I can help." She whispered, turning her head toward Anya, pressing a kiss to her crown that had her summoner practically melting against her. "I'll offer you my strength. All you have to do is ask for it."

Anya let out a shuddering breath and planted a hand hard down atop Clarke's thigh. "I'm a woman. And I'm...I've done all I can to get to where I am, and I'm happier now in a lot of ways than I used to be, but I can't get what I need to ease the ache inside me. No doctor can, no medication can. None in the whole world. And where I'm at is enough for most, and I'm no less a woman for it, but I just need...I need to get rid of this pain. I need..." Anya rambled unevenly, more and more agitated by the moment, closer and closer to those ragged breaths crossing the threshold to tearful sorrow.

Truly, she didn't want Anya crying at all. She wanted to take the pain away. Usually, such empathy only extended to those who had created a solid connection to her, but there was something about Anya, something special, she just couldn't put her finger on it.

"Tell me, sweetling." She murmured, pressing another kiss to Anya's crown, managing to sap some of that restless, woeful energy away in Anya's resulting sigh.

"I need to be able to give birth."

Wide-eyed and with her heartbeat reverberating in her skull, Anya waited, waited, breathless and consumed with desperate hope that Clarke, this beautiful demon, would give her what she'd yearned all her life for.

It'd been a life-long struggle, enduring her violently transmisogynistic family and her eventual exile from her childhood home. Enduring schools and homelessness, counselors and teachers alike that offered sympathy and support up until the truth came out. Enduring four and a half years of sex work, two years of routine harassment and groping at her restaurant gig, and another three at her most recent job, a warehouse gig, which had ground her confidence and will to a fine paste.

But above all, she'd endured dysphoria. Throughout it all, it remained. Each attempt to alleviate it would reduce parts of it, sometimes eliminate whole parts, but there was always a deep, intense pit festering inside of her that refused to be quenched by her grieving and cognitive behavioural therapy and hormones.

It was no use. She'd always felt a deep wrongness over not having a vulva and vagina, and she'd always wanted to give birth since she was a young child; those deeply held desires had never left. It'd made her genital dysphoria a hopeless tangled web of suffering, but even if bottom surgery had been accessible, had been affordable, there was no procedure that provided the other missing component. There would still be more than enough dysphoria left to suffer from.

Anya had fought her entire life just to keep her head above water. If nothing else, life owed her this. After all the praying and pleading to every god under the sun, after the countless heartfelt wishes over the years, after the years of torturous laboring just to claw her way to a less dysphoric, more survivable state, she deserved a break. Or, at least an end to it all, if it wasn't possible.

She hoped it was. That hope was harder to hold onto with each passing, aching second.

"Sweetling..." Clarke let out with a level of disappointment  and regret that immediately had Anya's throat clenching shut, tears erupting at her last ditch effort collapsing around her.

It's not fair... Those three words repeated through her mind in a vicious loop as a sob wrenched its way out of her, not understanding why beings that could move heaven and earth couldn't help. It's not right...

Clarke tried to wrap her up, strong arms pulling her in as Anya fought the embrace, but she was too exhausted to resist for long.  "Shhh, I think you misunderstand me, Anya. I'm supposed to be selfish, sweetling, and were you a lesser creature I would have taken your offer in an instant, but you need to ask for more. Please ask me for more than that, because it hardly takes anything to fix up your ovaries or uterus, and I'd be getting so much from you."

What should have been relief had Anya collapsing from a fresh spike of dysphoria, her demon not even recognizing her, not understanding what she was asking for. Because of course not.

"And...and if I don't have ovaries or a uterus?" Anya managed to get out there, the words feeling like shrapnel as she rubbed her face across Clarke's linen top. "And if I'm a trans woman?"

"I don't know what that means." Clarke spoke, sounding entirely bewildered before pulling Anya away enough to look her in the eye. In an instant, Clarke's blue eyes burned as bright as the flames from the ritual, the demon's stare boring into her as the air heated up around them. Amidst the disgust and nausea, among the dull consuming ache across her body and the stabbing anxiety in her chest, there was something new. Like a pin prick at the front of her skull, hot and sharp, a small acute spike that had a headache blooming behind her sinuses, pulling her focus away from everything else. "Don't fight it, sweetling, let me in. Let me see."

Whether it was exhaustion or the sheer defeat she felt over having tried so hard for nothing, Anya closed her eyes and focused on what she yearned for the most. This time, though, that image shifted, memories from her past flitting through her mind in a whirlwind of exhaustion and heartbreak like a highlight reel of her life.

And then her eyes were snapping open, lungs taking in the oxygen from a desperate gasp as she stared back at an awestruck Clarke. It took a moment to realize it, but her anxiety, her nausea, her pain, it was all gone, at least for the moment, but it was hard not to feel a little unnerved at Clarke's stare. "What?"

"I knew there was something about you." Clarke said with a grin, not quite predatory but very toothy and a little intimidating. "Enodia would bring in all she found, those like you, to be nymphs under her guidance. You're making me nostalgic, Anya of the pines."

Anya knew she was gaping, but she couldn't help her reaction. The violent swing from hope to despair and back again had her feeling dizzy and overwhelmed, but if Clarke spoke the truth, then she'd surely be able to help. She had claimed to have, in some sense, taken over for Enodia after the deity's supposed passing.

Clarke wasn't Enodia, or Hecate, but if Clarke could help, then Anya was happy to hitch her wagon onto that proverbial star.

"And she helped them?" Anya asked, knowing her fingers were digging into Clarke's thigh, but she was close. So close. With her whole body tense and on edge, waiting for confirmation, she couldn't help herself.

Clarke didn't even seem to notice it, those soft blue eyes never wincing, not even a little bit. "Of course. Some of them were like you, yearning to give birth, to create. Some didn’t, but felt a great misalignment in some form that Enodia was happy to help with. My predecessors offered that gift, knowing how special creation was, and how painful their lives could often be without aid."

Not that she thought a deity could remotely be a chaser, but Anya couldn't help but fixate on that last bit, even as relief flooded through her at the knowledge. "She thought we were special?"

"She had the ability to help women ascend to become nymphs. But she couldn't create a new divine being unless through one that had already been shaped thoroughly by a deity, and that wasn't a common request from most woman followers. Re-shaping your bodies, at least the ones that requested it, was enough to make it possible. Most of them were women like yourself." Clarke explained, Anya's buzzing mind still managing to put two and two together, leaving her breathless at the implications. "Women like you could give birth to demi-gods or immortals, if you chose to. I had many sisters like you...Raven, Octavia, Emori, Costia...I loved them all so much. And like my mother, and her mother Enodia, I can take care of you. All you need to do is offer yourself up to me."

Anya held Clarke's gaze, knowing this was what she'd yearned for all her life. No price was too high for freedom, and no one was better suited to make it all happen.

She swiftly turned and straddled Clarke's lap, a thrill rushing through her as Clarke's hands immediately went to her hips. "I'll offer you my body and soul if you put a baby inside me."

Apparently, Clarke wasn't on the same page, recoiling slightly at the offer, eyes growing wider at the gesture. "Me? I'll be happy to make you fertile, I'll change your body as you need, but...I'm not sure you know what you're asking for."

In reality, it was simple. "I've wanted to get pregnant all my life. I'm a lesbian...I love women, so that already limited my options before considering I'm trans. But you...you're a...a demon, a succubus, a goddess, something powerful enough. And if by changing me, you make me able to bear your children...then I want that. I want you."

Clarke's focus shifted between her eyes, and finally, finally, the demon's composure seemed to be faltering, blush rising to Clarke's cheeks. "You'd let a demon plant their essence in you?"

Anya lifted a hand to caress Clarke's face, palm gliding down her cheek. "I would let you do much more than that."

Despite the thrumming of her heartbeat in her temples, Anya heard the moan rumbling up Clarke's throat as clear as day. "You don't understand...any hope at a normal life would be gone."

As if such a prospect could ever lure her, not after all she'd known in her life.

"Fuck normal! Do you think I want to fit into this bullshit society that's hated me all my life? I don't care about that! I want a family!" Anya yelled, forcing herself to take a calming breath or two as she slumped forward, nose slowly trailing up and down Clarke's. She was so close, and Clarke could clearly help her. She didn't understand the reluctance when she was putting herself out on a damned silver platter.

"Sweetling..." Clarke let out, voice low in clear warning, but she couldn't heed it. She had to press, lowering her own voice to a whisper.

"I want a family. I want to adopt as many kids as I can, but I want to experience pregnancy, too. I want to give birth, even if just once. I want to be free enough from dysphoria to be able to raise my children well. I don't care about normal. You can help me, and give me what I want, so please." Anya begged, her breath hitching as she brushed her lips across Clarke's. "Please make me a mom."

Clarke had seemed intent on being so controlled, so calm, but as she leaned back enough to get a better glimpse of the demon's face, she saw a very human response. Blown pupils staring hard at her lips.

Anya gave Clarke's cheek one last caress before she gripped the demon's jaw, wresting away her complete attention. "Make me the mother of your children. Take me, fuck me, and make me a mommy. Make..."

"'Mommy'? Isn't that a child's word?" Clarke interjected with a hard laugh, clearly trying to distract from the situation at hand despite the demon's hands gripping hard at Anya's hips. She could see the lust in the demon's eyes, but for some reason Clarke was conflicted.

She was handing over her soul, Anya wasn't sure what there was to be conflicted about. "It'll be your child's word for me, your children's word for me. Or some other word, whatever fits, so long as you put a baby in me!" She stressed, grazing her nose along Clarke's, staring down at the demon with all the determination she could muster. "I'm offering my soul for you to get me pregnant and birth your child. What is there to think about?"

"It's been centuries...I haven't had a family in centuries." Clarke spoke, and though her voice spoke the words calm and clear, she could see the mix of anguish and yearning in the demon's eyes.

Anya wouldn't pretend to understand immortality or godhood or any of that. It was beyond the scope of her existence, so she just didn't want to waste time on it, but she could focus on Clarke's desires. As much as the demon seemed pained at the memory of her family, the grip at her hips was only growing tighter, more painful.

Clarke wanted what she did. Anya just needed to convince her it was worth it.

"Then we'll make a new one. We'll keep it safe. It's not ancient whenever, there aren't roving parties looking to find and hurt you. We can start over...we can both start over." Anya offered, smoothing her hands down Clarke's cheeks, leaving one to tilt the demon's chin up, leaving their lips inches apart. "I'm tired of suffering and just existing to live day after day. Aren't you?"

A fire flashed in Clarke's eyes and then Anya was falling backward, flat on her back in the grass with Clarke looming over her. "Life should be about more than just surviving. We deserve better than that." Clarke purred, crawling over her body until the demon's blonde locks curtained Anya's head. "I'll take your offer, sweetling. But don't get it in your head that this is strictly for you...I'm doing this for my people."

Anya rolled her eyes. "And I am yours, and I want to mother your people, so cut the bullshit and take me already."

Clarke let out a growl, eyes burning bright and hot with that same flaming blue glow to them. As mesmerizing as they were, though, it was hard not to notice how Clarke's canines descended and the rest of her teeth grew sharper, the demon's hair taking on a dark crimson tint that flowed from root to tip faster than Anya's brain could really comprehend it.

It was the feeling of Clarke's hand against her cheek that drew her out of her stupor; or, perhaps more accurately, her talon, five digits having narrowed to three larger ones. "Shall I take you here, or somewhere more modern like that shack over there?" Clarke's voice was, for a lack of a better word, fuller, sounding like it was coming across at a few different octaves.

It was all bizarre, but it couldn't distract her. "The shack's set up with a devil's trap as a precaution if things went wrong. Here's better." Anya let out, leaning up on her elbows to nip at Clarke's lower lip. Having sex on the grass wasn't perfectly ideal, but the ground was soft and there weren't any rocks jutting into her back, so she didn't really have anything to complain about aside from being in full view if anyone drove down the road tonight. "But do something about your claws, I'm not into being cut while getting finger-fucked."

The demon cocked her head a bit to the side. "You're peculiar. I don't frighten you?"

"What's supposed to scare me, the jagged teeth? The flaming eyes? The talons? The blood-red hair? Please. I've seen real evil in this world, you don't scare me." Anya pressed a kiss to the slight cleft in Clarke's chin. "It's a little weird, but if this is you, then I want to see all of you."

Anya wasn't sure how Clarke managed it, but the woman loomed over her holding both hands up, one human, one...more beastly. In the blink of an eye, Clarke's clothes vanished. "Then you'll see me. It's been a little while, but I'm not so green that I'm gonna toss this..." Clarke waved her taloned hand. "...into one of your pussies to start with. I'd like to think a few hundred years hasn't made me rusty."

She groaned and nodded, falling softly back onto the grass. "I'll take your word for it." She answered, moving to pull her clothes off before a snap of fingers met her ears and she was suddenly nude. "Okay, could have used some notice, there."

"You're a big girl, and we were going to get naked one way or another." Clarke asserted, lowering herself onto Anya, leaving her wondering how she didn't notice how damn hot Clarke's body ran before. The demon felt like a heated blanket cranked up to max, but Clarke's gaze still managed to be hotter as those burning eyes stared down at her. "My my, you are a lovely one, aren't you? I might actually take my time with you."

Clarke's more human hand grazed down along her side, coming to a halt at Anya's hip. As much as she'd been in it for the deal, having sex with a divine being seemed like an experience she didn't want to rush.  That combined with having gone an uncomfortably long time without being touched, and maybe Anya liked the sound of a more leisurely roll in the hay. "Please do."

"In that case, I've got a long list of things to work out...aside from the obvious, is there anything you need me to cross off that list, sweetling?" A demon with manners. Novel. Anya just shook her head side to side, drawing a broad toothy smile from Clarke. "Then let's light your candle..."

I hadn’t finished the smut section, so I’ll leave this here, but yeah...when the demon au prompt got interest, I got the “deal with the devil” and “crossroads demon” tropes swirling in my head, and well, being that I intended to write trans rep into most if not all of the NaNoWriMo ficlets I was writing at the time, I felt this was a fair direction for things to head into.  

And, like, as I mentioned in the top disclaimer bit, it let me put some of my age-old feels to word, and put them out there. I grieved over that part of my reality alone a number of years ago, for days, alone. It felt good to air them out a little. Not being able to get pregnant and birth children hurt like hell, but it didn’t make me less of a woman. And if I magically gained that ability, it wouldn’t make me any less of a trans woman, obviously. Sometime in the future, trans women will give birth...for now, we have the rare story exploring that notion.

Anywho, I hope y’all enjoyed this snippet, as cracky as it might have been (it’s a demon AU, of course it’ll be a bit OOC)

[jentrevellan]

Believe Again: Chapter 2

Rating: Mature Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Relationships: Cullen Rutherford x Female Trevelyan Tags: slow burn, slow build, slow romance, mage/templar dynamics, family drama, templars, mages, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, lyrium withdrawal, crisis of faith, loss of faith, The Chantry, sexual tension, innuendo MASTERPOST  A/N: Tags to be updated. Chapters posted on the 1st Thursday of the month.

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CHAPTER TWO - Cullen

The journey across the Waking Sea and back to my homeland of Ferelden is one I’m trying to quickly forget. I neglected to even look at this journal as the words on the page had swirled around with the motion of the ship on what I was told, were relatively calm waters. On the little of what I remember about the journey, I quickly came to three key decisions:

No food - nothing - helps with seasickness. Or maybe that’s because there is nothing left inside to throw up.

Staying above deck does help with the nausea somewhat. That is unless a certain Mr Tethras insists on keeping you company just to spite you.

As it’s abundantly clear I will never get my sea legs, I can safely say that I am never, ever going on a ship again. Even if a Blight hits Ferelden. I’ll accept my fate.

- An extract from Commander Cullen Rutherford’s personal journal

2. Cullen

A table. A chair. A trunk. A half-empty goblet of water. The smell of campfires. The melody of the early morning birdsong.  

Cullen woke in his cot inside the small tent on the outskirts of Haven. Once more his dreams had been… uncomfortable, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. Here, in Ferelden. I’m from Ferelden. I haven’t been here for almost ten years, he thought.

It was still very early but he preferred to begin his day when others were still sleeping - less disturbances that way, and there was something invigorating about getting work done when others were still wondering the fade, oblivious that a new day has started. So after a splash of cool water of his face and neck, he put on each piece of his armour - inspecting them in turn, still getting accustomed to his new attire that was not the Templar uniform he had been so familiar with, like an extension of his body; an extra limb, perhaps. Finally he pulled on his fur mantle - his very Ferelden fur mantle - and checked the small looking glass by his bedside. He ran a hand through his hair, ensuring his curls were neatly flattened to a smart wave and nodded to himself. As always, before leaving the tent, he hesitated and stood by the flap, took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. Today was another new day. And he was here, alive.

The early morning sun greeted him pleasantly and he paused for a moment to drink it in as it peered over the mountain tops. Looking around the small camp outside the village, most of his troops were still asleep, with their first drill not for another hour or so. A couple of messengers chatted quietly by the gates, their voices a low hum underneath the birdsong.

With a confident gait, he strode through the gates, fresh snow crunching under his boots. The village would be filling up fast as the last of the travellers arrived today before heading up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for the start of the Conclave. He took the path up to the Chantry, avoiding the inn, and soon found himself in the cool and sparse interior, empty save for a few Chantry sisters sleeping on bedrolls in alcoves. Later that day the Chantry would be completely empty, save for one or two lay sisters. Honestly, he couldn’t wait for the small little village to be as sleepy as it was when he arrived a few weeks ago.

Pushing open the council chamber door, he paused as he spotted the ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet chatting to a dwarf by her office. The dwarf in question had dark skin and a stamp of the Carta on her cheek, along with a strange pair of spectacles on her head. She caught him staring and nodded to the ambassador, taking her leave.

Josephine Montilyet looked after the dwarf before approaching Cullen with a sigh. “I had hoped nobody would see that,” she admitted.

“What are the Carta doing here?” he asked, holding the door open for her.

The Antivan woman sighed again, tapping her quill on her ledger. “It’s… complicated Commander. The Carta and the dwarves in general have shown a great interest in the Conclave, knowing that decisions made could and probably will affect them.”

“And they’re working with the Chantry?”

“Not precisely,” Josephine said, avoiding his gaze. “If things turn sour, we may need a separate source of lyrium for any recruits who may wish to potentially join us.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Even hearing the word ‘lyrium’ sent a small shock through him, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice cold water all over him. He hoped the ambassador did not notice. Instead he cleared his throat.

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

She nodded. “Let us hope.”

They worked in silence until Leliana joined them a little later and shared some reports with them. Cassandra appeared an hour or so after with a book clutched to her chest.

“The Divine is heading up to the Temple now,” she announced. “Although the talks don’t start until this afternoon, she wants to be one of the first there.”

Cullen looked between Cassandra and Leliana. “And you’re to remain here?”

“We’ll go up later today, once most of the mages and Templars have arrived,” Leliana explained.

“Has the Divine already left? I can send some of my recruits with her as an honour guard.”

“No need,” Leliana interjected before Cassandra could reply. “Some of my agents are with her now, but dressed as soldiers.”

Cullen bristled at not being informed but let it slide and simply nodded. Leliana had been used to working solo, using her own initiative and making her own plans without the need of discussion before. He exchanged a look with Josephine who raised a brow, and appeared to be thinking the same thing. In order for them to work together, they couldn't keep each other in the dark, despite their different roles.

Around noon, they took a break for lunch, and with a bunch of reports in his hands, Cullen headed through the village and back towards his tent. He took the longer path back to ensure he avoided the tavern, which would no doubt be overflowing with patrons seeking a bite to eat and drink before heading up to the Temple. He wound his way through the growing crowds and finally saw his tent, but his path was blocked by his second-in-command, Rylen.

“Ah Cullen, been looking for you,” he said, his Starkhaven accent so strong, Cullen had to repeat the sentence over in his mind before he could answer.

“Well I’m here; what is it?” Cullen asked, glancing impatiently at his tent and the solitude it will no doubt offer away from the crowds that swarmed around him.

“Message from Harritt - he says your commission is ready...?”

Instantly his mood lifted and he made his way to the Blacksmithy, where the moustached smith welcomed him.

“Commander!” Harritt greeted. “Come, come…”

He guided Cullen to the workroom where a few assistants were busy finishing weapon requisitions. By Harrit’s desk sat a large shield with the Inquisition insignia.

“Made from silverite and the same spec as Seeker Pentaghast’s,” Harritt explained, handing the shield to him. “Size has been tailored from the Templar shields, but the leather straps on the back make it much lighter and versatile.”

Cullen took the shield in his hands and placed it on his left arm, fiddling with the straps. He held it up, then down, feeling the weight - it was certainly different than his old Templar issue, but it’s not an unwelcome change.

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” he commented.

Harritt shrugged. “That’s the truth. Here, try the sword”

He passed Cullen the long-sword who inspected  it closely. For the first time ever, he would have a sword which was his own, not a standard issue. He held it aloft, feeling the balance and noted the same Inquisition insignia. Where as the shield felt new and heavy, the sword instantly felt right - a true extension of his arm. He could almost feel a rare smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“A fine blade,” Harritt stated and Cullen nodded.

“You’ve outdone yourself.”

The blacksmith waved a hand. “It was nothing. To improve a Templar issue sword wasn’t a difficult challenge - those old swords couldn’t cut butter half the time.”

Cullen stayed and politely chatted with the man for as long as was necessary, even though he was itching to be away from the swelling crowds and find a straw dummy to practice on with his new sword and shield. Finally, another customer arrived to see Harritt, and Cullen excused himself, strapping his shield to his back, noting how light and secure it felt, and sheathed his sword in the new scabbard at his hip and carefully rested his hand on the pommel, satisfied with the security that little nuance gave him.

He lifted his eyes to the training field, hoping to spot Rylen or someone else to perhaps train with until later that afternoon when he would make his way up to the Temple with the remainder of his men and women. But the throngs of people had grown considerably and Cullen was reminded of the bustling market square in Kirkwall's Hightown or-

"Oof!"

Somebody had collided with him but unfortunately for them, they had bounced off his armour and fallen to the ground. Initially angry, it was replaced by a wave of guilt when he saw that the person on the receiving end of his armour's ricochet was a young Chantry Sister.

“Forgive me, Sister,” he apologised, holding out his hand to help her up. “I did not see you.”

“Nor I you,” she replied, brushing her robes down once she stood. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Well, I was trying to but there are so many people here and I can’t find my sister - my real sister that is, not a Chantry Sister…” she trailed off and Cullen noted how young she was, perhaps around the same age as his youngest sister, Rosalie.

“I’m sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” she said, laughing nervously. “My mother always told me to slow down and not chat so much, but… um… yes anyway, sorry again…”

“Wait, Sister…?”

She paused and finally looked up at him. “Cecelia. Sister Cecelia.”

“Sister Cecelia,” he repeated, offering her a small smile. “You said you were looking for someone?”

Cecelia smiled nervously in return and Cullen had to wonder at her hesitance. That was until he saw her looking at his vambrace, where the flaming Templar insignia was engraved.

“Err, yes I was, I mean I am,” she stammered. “My sister, my real sister.”

“Alright, well let me help you find this ‘real sister’ of yours.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh! Oh no, you don’t have to do that, Ser… umm…?”

“Cullen,” he supplied. “And I’m the one that just knocked over a Chantry Sister - the least I can do to apologise for it is to help her,” he said, hoping his attempts to ease her had worked.

“I… Well, thank you. I don’t want to attend the conclave without her, especially as we come all this way together.”

They started walking slowly towards the gates of Haven, going against the flow of people who were now heading out of the village to head to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He peered down at the young woman next to him and noted her buck teeth, her round face etched in apprehension as she scanned each person they passed. Truly, she was remarkably similar to how he imagined his younger sister who he hadn’t seen in…

Maker, how many years? He thought, almost stopping in his tracks to count. But the peeling of the Chantry bells noting the mid-afternoon convinced him otherwise, and that he should probably make haste in helping Cecelia find her sister and then head on up to the conclave himself.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, also looking at the faces they passed, although not knowing the face of the person they were looking for.

Sister Cecelia slumped her shoulders. “No, she’s not where I thought she would be.”

Cullen rubbed his chin and then pointed to the tavern. “Perhaps she went to freshen up, or get some food?”

The Sister looked doubtful but nodded politely. “I suppose she could have…”

They made their way to The Singing Maiden and once inside it was surprisingly quiet, as most people had now made their way up the mountain to the conclave. Cullen pointed to the inn keep Flissa, and suggested Cecelia ask her. As she did, Cullen spotted a small group of recruits grinning and joking over a few tankards of ale.

He glared at them, knowing full well that they were under orders to prepare to depart. Soon, one of the soldier’s sixth sense kicked in and she looked up, her face paling when she saw him staring at them with what he could imagine was a look of utter contempt. He didn’t even need to say anything as the soldier stood abruptly, saluted to him, then hurried out, the other doing the exact same and following in her wake.

Satisfied, Cullen turned to see Cecelia next to him, looking wary. She had obviously seen the whole exchange.

“Any luck?” he asked, deciding to ignore her trepidation.

Another sign. “She may have seen her. She’s usually good with faces, she was telling me, but it’s been so busy that my sister could’ve passed through almost unseen.”

“But she’s not here now. Perhaps the Chantry?” he suggested. “She could very well be looking for you and when I was in the Chantry this morning, it was full of Sisters and Clerics.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cecelia eyed his vambraces again and then back at the empty table where the slacking soldiers had sat moments before. “But I mustn’t take up any more of your time, Ser Cullen. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to,” she said. It was such a polite way of saying she didn’t want his help or company anymore, that Cullen was sure that she must’ve come from some noble family. In his experience, only nobles skirted around the truth in such an ambiguously polite way.

He decided to ignore the slight. “I’m heading up to the Chantry anyway,” he lied, thinking he could perhaps check in with Cassandra whilst he was up there.

Once again, Sister Cecelia’s green eyes refused to meet his own and she nodded meekly. “Oh, sure, of course. You’re very kind, Ser.”

He knew it was insincere, but again she had been polite about it anyway. He was young, so he tried not to take offence.

During the short time they had been in the tavern, the village had emptied considerably. “You don’t suppose your sister might’ve gone with everyone else?” he suggested.

A vicious shake of her head let loose a few strands of auburn hair fall from her hood. “She promised we would go together and my sister always keeps her promises,” he replied in such a voice and tone that warranted no further discussion.

They walked the rest of the way in silence until Cecelia gasped: “There! By the doors! That’s her, my sister!” she pointed.

Cullen followed her pointed finger and saw a tall woman, perhaps only an inch or so shorter than him, leaning against the stone by the Chantry doors. Her arms were folded across her chest and her ankles crossed in a very relaxed fashion. Her clothes were worn, her boots and breeches crusted with mud and slightly damp from what Cullen guessed was from trudging through the snow. Her face was tilted towards the low winter sun, a wry smile on her lips and her olive skin glowing. He wasn’t sure why he found himself studying her so closely, but perhaps with everyone usually rushing around with no time to spare, to see someone look fairly relaxed despite it all was perhaps what he found most and usual, and perhaps it also helped that she was quite pleasing on the eye; what with her chestnut hair shining in the sun, her curiously long neck and -

Her eyes snapped to his - misty grey surrounded by dark, thick lashes. Her frank look almost left him breathless but then he saw the staff slung over her back and her eyes had rested on his Templar vambraces.

“Elsie! Elsie! Over here!” Sister Cecelia called from beside him, obviously unaware that her elder sister had already clocked him. The faint, wry smile that had touched her lips had all but disappeared and the look she was giving him now was so plain and expressionless that Cullen had to wonder if he had imagined it. Finally she looked at Cecelia.

“There you are,” she said in a warm, almost melodic voice.” I thought perhaps you had found Evelyn and gone up without me.”

“Is Evelyn another sister you’re looking for?” Cullen jokes aloud, but his smile faltered under Cecelia’s sister’s steely cool gaze, when she replied: “Yes, actually.”

Cecelia looked between them and coughed. “Elsie, this is Ser Cullen - he was kind enough to help me look for you.”

Cullen held out his hand to shake hers. “It’s Commander Cullen, actually,” he said lightly, trying to ease the strange tension between them. “It’s nice to finally meet you, my lady.”

Elsie looked down at his outstretched hand and then back to his face, making no move to shake it. Finally she said; “I was not aware that ‘commander’ was indeed a rank within the Templars,” she said casually, examining her gloved fingertips. “But then I am merely a mage and not privy to the details of Templar hierarchy.”

Cullen started at her with his mouth open. Not since he’d met a particular Champion of Kirkwall had someone spoken to him in such a… condescending way. He bit back a retort, refusing to take her bait.

“Ordinarily, you would be right,” he ground out as calmly as he could. “But I am not a Templar anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Indeed,” she said. “I may not be part of a Circle anymore, but that doesn’t stop me being a mage now, does it?”

He opened his mouth then quickly shut it, unusually at a loss for words. She has an excellent point, he thought to himself.

She took his silence as confirmation. “As I thought.” Elsie kicked herself off the wall and wrapped an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “Well, as enlightening as this has been, we really ought to be off. We’re going to be late.”

Sister Cecelia nodded and once again glanced between her elder sister and Cullen. “Thank you again for your help, Commander Cullen.”

He inclined his head. “The least I could do,” he replied, earning himself a glare from the mage. Cecelia noticed and decided to avoid another tense conversation, so steered herself out of her sister’s grip and headed down the path, leaving Elsie no choice but to follow, without another word to him.

“A pleasure to meet you too, Lady Elsie,” he said, loud enough for the mage to hear, but not for Sister Cecelia. Elsie paused in her step then continued without sparing him a backward glance - something that Cullen couldn’t help but grin smugly about. He always loved having the last word.

Around two hours later, he and Cassandra rounded up any stragglers and began to make their way up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, bringing up the rear.

And then the sky exploded.

-

It’s funny how one remembers the small details when the world is ending.

The smell of the air on a crisp spring morning. The taste of freshly picked summer strawberries. The sound of silence. The piercing look of those misty grey eyes.

Those very eyes that slid to meet Cullen’s over the next wave of demons that spawned from the rift. He had little time to acknowledge her, as he swung his sword into the limb of a sprouting demon. It screeched in anger so he swung again, successfully decapitating it. After three solid days of fighting the blighted things, he had to bitterly admit that he was becoming well versed in how to kill the demons so once they were down, they stayed down.

Cullen was vaguely aware of Cassandra fighting beside him, her swordsmanship techniques similar to his own, so they made quite a deadly duo when working in unison against their common enemy. They ducked and slashed together and then he felt hot fire obscure his senses.

“Watch out Curly!” Varric Tethras called, and Cullen spun to see a looming terror demon grab his ankle and pull him down to the ground. He fell squarely on his chin, making his jaw jut. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, his grip on his sword still tight despite his fall. He swung it in an arch above him, but the demon dodged, and he barely made a mark on it and only seemed to antagonise it further.

There was a sudden wave of heat, and a roar of an inferno that made him blink and squint at the intensity around him. The fire avoided him, and instead channelled around him, like water around a rock in a river. Instead the intense flames licked up the demon, wrapping it in a blazing embrace. It perished above him and Cullen stared at the now empty space where the demon had leered over him moments ago and saw an outstretched hand. He looked up to see her - the mage from Haven - holding her gloved hand out to him, her eyes darting around to ensure no demons would attack them unaware.

He hesitated only for a moment but then grasped her wrist and let her help him to his feet. And in that moment that they touched, Cullen could feel an electric heat course through his veins. What terrified him was that he knew isn’t wasn’t just because of her magic. There was something more. But he had no time to process the peculiar feeling and sensation.

“You can thank me later,” she muttered before spinning her staff in her other hand and channelling through it to hit another demon with a ball of fire that was approaching Cassandra a few feet away. Without a backwards glance, she cast a ward over him.

He pushed their encounter from his mind as another blasted wave of demons poured through the rift. This time he did not let his guard down and fought with renewed vigour. He realised that he felt stronger, possibly because of a rejuvenating spell she had cast. The irony of it was not lost on him.

-

"The rift is sealed! The conclave rift is sealed!" A soldier ran past, crying the words through the mountains, his face bright with joy, sharing the news with all who he passed. Those who heard him turned to one another and shared hugs and words of encouragement. For the first time since the explosion three days prior, people were starting to smile.

Cullen was crouched by an injured soldier when he finally saw the runner. He stood abruptly, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword out of habit.

"Soldier!" he called out. Reluctantly, the young man skidded to a halt before Cullen and saluted.

"Commander!" he panted, his eyes wide, but still smiling.

"Report," Cullen ordered.

"Yes Ser," the young man replied, composing himself. "It’s true - I've come from the Temple myself - she - that is the mage prisoner - sealed the rift and slew the demon inside - with minimal casualties."

"And where is the prisoner now?"

"She collapsed when the rift was sealed: she used the magic on her hand - I saw it with my own eyes, Ser. It was incredible." He grinned from ear to ear, wanting to be the hero of the moment, to deliver the news to all. Cullen waited a moment, trying not to fall for the infectious joy of the soldier.

"The others who were there - are they injured?" Cullen finally asked, thinking of Cassandra and Varric.

"No Ser. Sister Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast are well and unscathed, and are personally carrying the stretcher of the Herald, who has not awoken."

"Herald?" he repeated, blinking.

"The Herald of Andraste, Ser - she saved us all by closing the rift, thanks to Andraste's blessing."

"Maker preserve us," Cullen mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "Very well, you're dismissed to… spread the news."

The soldier saluted and ran off before Cullen could change his mind.

The Herald who has not woken. Cullen repeated the messenger’s words in his mind. A strange sensation washed over him, which he assumed was simply relief. Relief that this ordeal was over for the moment and that no more lives would be lost. And if she has saved us all, then she will surely become a martyr if she dies.

A pit opened in his gut at the thought of her dying, after all that. He shook his head and blamed his peculiar feelings on the withdrawal of lyrium or perhaps the anxiety of what would come next. Unsure, Cullen looked up - there was still a hole in the sky but the demons were no longer spawning and the Breach seemed stable. The worst was over, for the moment at least.

As Cullen stared into the open void, he quietly hoped that she would survive, this Herald of Andraste… Elsie.

<-PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ->

[thepensiverambler]

“Three lions on his shirt, Jules Remit still gleaming...”

As an English man it's very common for football to be a topic of small talk. It's understandable that when two new people meet that they should attempt to find common ground to lay a foundation on which to build a friendship. When travelling this effect is amplified. I suppose that by being from different countries and cultures one immediately loses a certain amount of common ground and England is famed for the Premier League. This would be great if I cared at all about football but alas i don't. I understand it's appeal, the atmosphere of being in the ground, harassing the other team and always feeling hard done by by the referee. I even understand how important it is, that whether your week is good or bad can depend on the success or failure of your team. What I don't understand is how anyone can remain interested by 22 men kicking a ball around for 90 minutes with the occasional minute of excitement when a goal is scored. Nonetheless as an English man I'm expected to possess a certain degree of knowledge about the sport. ‘What team do you support?’ being the age old question to which I'm never quite sure my answer. I tend to go with Brighton and Hove albion or ‘the seagulls’ as I feel this both subverts the conversation away from football as most foreigners won't know the team and it indicates I have a certain level of proficiency in the subject matter. Whilst in Turkey this question has cropped up once or twice and I've successfully batted it away, but I've experienced something slightly different to my normal time abroad. I am the sole native English speaker in the village. This means I have a significant amount of responsibility, i'm regularly asked easy question by the slightly less skilled English speakers about tenses and simple grammar points. What really gets me unstuck is attempting to explain the difference between spicy and hot when I can't really work it out myself. I'm not in a state of constantly question whether I really know the meaning of words. Try and explain in one sentence the phrase ‘dropping like flies’. The phrase has too many applications for me to explain it properly in such a brief time scale. There is also the times I'm caught out, having your language constantly tried and tested one is bound to make a couple of mistakes. As you may have noticed from reading this blog (which I should proof read more but who has the time to read the tripe!) my grammar isn't perfect. My use of commas is abysmal, the only thing I feel I have going for my writing and everyday dialogue is my wide range of vocabulary. So you can imagine my dismay when I was caught out when I used ‘there is’ instead I should’ve used ‘there are’. I hadn't noticed I'd done it, I can even remember the context I can only remember my grave embarrassment at knowing I'd butchered my own language. I'm also asked to find words for people, I spent a good five minutes of umming and ahhing trying to conjure up the word proverb. Given today I sat down, shattered from my 4th day in a row of mixing concrete and I couldn't remember the name for a shovel I hardly think its surprising that I was struggling with proverb. My weak justification was that I could speak for myself but not for others. That's just the language side of being an English rose amongst so many thorns. There are other, bigger issues I'm asked like my view on the monarchy. Christ. Good question. In theory I'm a Republican through and through get Sinn Fein on the mid sussex ballot paper! The idea that in a supposedly democratic society we should be giving vast sums of money to a family because it's the birth right is indefensible. On the other hand I really like our monarchy, I think that as a whole family they do a great amount for our country. I've recently been really impressed by the mental health awareness campaign that Princes William and Harry participated in. They also bring in large amounts of revenue for the country, i'm always a little confused as to how these stats work as we can't compare what an elected official would do in their place. Regardless, as comrade Corbyn said it's not on anyone's agenda right now to replace the monarchy so I don't have to think to much about where I stand on the issue. On the whole I rather like being the English ambassador to Imece. It's nice to be in such a diverse environment and I'm glad to be the presiding officer ensuring the language is spoken almost correctly.