#the fore-shadows are peeling right off of the walls

[mumblingsage]

3rd draft and I can no longer tell if the foreshadowing is suffocating or if it just feels that way because I know what's coming.

[wilsonsnest]

everything in between (you wanna marry me?)

I didn’t write this because the sambucky tag on here and ao3 is wildin but it sure sped up the process.

summary: Bucky agrees to go to a charity gala, gets introspective and just barely manages to propose to Sam.

Bucky had known he was in trouble that night when he left the bathroom, freshly showered and saw Sam, half-dressed, buttoning up his crisp white shirt. In that very moment, he had stood there, gaping like an idiot and almost told Sam he wasn’t feeling well enough to go out that night. Then his boyfriend had looked over at him, flashed him that bright smile, eyes crinkling before seeing how not dressed Bucky was and rolling his eyes. Bucky had made short work of getting dressed after that, fumbling over his own pants as Sam non-to-subtly hinted that they were going to be late.

In the end, Sam had to tie Bucky’s tie for him, the knot frustrating him on each turn. And when Sam had left to warm up the car, Bucky slipped the small box he had hidden in his only pair of dress shoes into his pants and prayed to any deity that would listen to an ex-assassin for help.

Once they had arrived to the hotel where the charity gala was being held, Bucky had practically plastered himself against the wall and did his best to disappear into the shadows. He didn’t like these types of things. Too many people, too much talking, too many open windows in a room full of some of the most influential people in the city. Stupid and reckless. Who threw expensive parties to raise money anyway?

This charity function had been one of the more low-key ones Sam had been invited to since taking up the mantel of Captain America. It was interesting watching the difference between how Sam treated the job and what Steve had done. Sam was conscious of his own image and effect, but not in that he felt he needed to be larger than life, but that he needed to be a good man. Sam never wore his field suit for interviews, press conferences or charity appearances (the exception was visiting kids in hospitals, where paparazzi was strictly prohibited). He always did those impeccably dressed in a sensible suit, completely put together, no matter how tired he was from a mission.

Bucky recalled watching him practically half-falling asleep on his feet tying the perfect knot in a dark navy tie looking like he might keel over at any second. Frustrated, he asked Sam why he even bothered. He had done so much, no one would care if he showed up in sweats and a ratty t-shirt.

Sam had just looked at him, the bags under his eyes seeming more pronounced and said “Trust me, they care. “

Sam had responsibilities to people that Bucky would never understand. All he could do was support Sam as much as possible and make sure his boyfriend didn’t get killed being the stubborn, amazing hero that he was.

It was nice to see that on this night, Sam seemed to be relaxed. He looked dashing in his dark maroon suit and was mingling amongst the crowd. He guessed that Sam must have met some of these people at other similar parties because he seemed at ease. This was Bucky’s first, though that was not without effort from Sam. He always asked Bucky if he wanted to come to these parties, and when Bucky said no, would end up taking Maria or Sharon as his date.

Bucky was surprised Sam hadn’t been suspicious when he agreed to this one. He hadn’t even batted an eyelid, just grinned and held up his hand for a high-five like the dork he was. Sam’s reactions to Bucky agreeing to do something with him never ceased to make Bucky’s insides melt.

He sighed, his vibranium arm had been tucked into his pocket the whole night, fiddling with the small ring box in its depths. He had an alternative motive for tonight alright, he just wasn’t sure he was going to convince himself to do it. He had sipped his way through four glasses of champagne already, hoping that he might even feel a twinge of something and regretting he hadn’t put in a request to Valkyrie for some of the strong stuff.

With a sigh, Bucky peeled himself away from the shadowy wall, he was starting to feel a little cagey. He knew if he said something, Sam would tell him it was alright for him to leave, because he was just so nice like that. Instead, he pushed through the glass doors of the dining room and out onto the open rooftop. Lights were strung up around the sides, and there were a few lone tables for setting down drinks. He was one of five people who’d bothered to come out into the chilly fall air and he felt like he could breathe again.

He maybe got ten minutes alone before he herd footsteps approaching and instantly tensed. He had hoped his plain black suit and ponytail had made him anonymous, but….

“You here all alone, buddy?” Sam smooth voice was only betrayed by the laugh he was obviously holding back. “Handsome fella like you?”

Bucky’s shoulders relaxed as he turned rolling his eyes at his boyfriend. Sam sounded absolutely absurd trying to use ‘old man slang’ as he called it.

“The guy I came with ditched me.” Bucky groused but reached out to take the wine glass Sam held out to him. Sam raised his glass towards Bucky and he hesitated for a moment before clinking them together.

Sam took a sip before sighing gently, his eyes half-lidded and looking down at his glass for a moment. He seemed almost wistful, and Bucky moved in closer, concerned.

“Thanks for coming.” Sam finally looked up at him, his brown eyes were warm even in the dim lights. “I know this isn’t your scene. But it means a lot to me.”

Bucky swallowed thickly and nodded, his hand clenching around the box in his pocket. He and Sam hadn’t come out in a press conference or anything, but they didn’t hide their relationship either. They went out on dates, or shopping and if anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. Out of privacy or their desire to believe whatever they wanted, neither Sam nor Bucky cared.

“I know I probably messed up yours and Steve’s gin rummy night.” Sam bumped him companionably, his grin turning into a cheeky smirk. “I know how you old people like your card games and your Wheel of Fortune.”

Bucky snorted loudly. “Steve hates Wheel of Fortunate. I hate Wheel of Fortune.” He took a sip of the wine, it was far too sweet. “Besides, its past his bedtime.”

“Oh, is that his excuse?” Sam was only half-joking at that. Steve enjoyed his anonymity to an almost alarming degree in his old age. Despite his better than average health, he loved using generic grandpa excuses for getting out of things. He hardly ever stayed the night at their house, and would leave before 8:30 if he couldn’t be cajoled into staying longer.

Sam’s guess was kinky 50s and up swingers parties, Bucky was pretty sure it was staying up all night binging foreign soap operas.

“The party’s starting to wind down.” Sam sounded relieved. He placed a hand on Bucky’s elbow and led him over to one of the high tables near the raised wall of the roof. The city was still bright with lights from the surrounding hotels and businesses. Taxis and cars zipping their way down the streets well into the late night.

“Sorry I wasn’t much company.” Bucky said with a shrug, setting down his drink on the table next to Sam’s.

Biting his lip, he slid his arm around Sam’s waist, happy to have his boyfriend’s warmth against him. This wasn’t the type of party that people danced at, but Bucky sorely wanted to. He imagined if it was just him and Sam on this roof, maybe a four piece band in the corner. God, he would dance all night just to have Sam in his arms.

“You were fine.” Sam said, shaking his head. “I know most of them already. They’re alright, for rich people anyway.”

“Right.” Bucky nodded, looking off into the distance. His breath caught as Sam leaned his head on his shoulder. He knew, he could feel it. This moment was perfect, he just needed to pull the thing out and get it over with. The thought that Sam would say no hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was just the presentation. He wanted it to be right. This was the story they were going to have to tell people, the one Sam was going to remember every time he looked at the ring currently burning a hole in Bucky’s pocket.

“Baby, lighten up.” Sam tapped at his hand. Luckily it was his flesh arm that had curled tightly into the fabric of Sam’s suit. “You okay?”

Sam looked so earnest, and honestly concerned. Bucky dropped his arm from around Sam’s waist and took a step away, taking in a deep breath. His boyfriend’s eyebrows knit together, worried creases forming on his forehead and Bucky realized he was staring and waiting for too long.

He grasped the ring box in his hand and pulled it out of his pocket. He wasn’t nearly discreet enough as Sam’s sharp eyes caught the movement. Brown eyes widened, shining almost dark golden from the hanging yellow lights.

“Bucky—“

Bucky made a strained sound and held up a hand. No, he had to do this right and then Sam could call him stupid and foolish and kiss him a hundred times after. He lowered himself down on one knee, his eyes locked on a spot somewhere between Sam’s eyes. If he looked at him dead-on, he just knew he would trip over all his words.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Bucky could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “Sam, my Sweetheart, my fella. Biggest pain in my ass, bravest man in the world.”

He had only skipped about seven words in his rehearsed proposal so far. So Bucky counted it as a win. He held up the ring box and opened it, revealing the shiny silver ring. “Will you marry me?”

His gaze know locked with Sam’s, watching as the realization dawned in those beautiful brown eyes. For a moment Sam just stood there, eyes wide with shock before he reached fore-ward and gently placed his hands on Bucky’s forearms to urge him up.

Sam’s hands were trembling, clutching the fabric of Bucky’s black suit jacket. “Are you serious? You wanna marry me?”

Bucky blinked owlishly. Sam didn’t seem unhappy, just completely shocked. Hadn’t they talked about it? He could have sworn that… Oh, right. He smiled, and gently took one of Sam’s hands and kissed the back of it gently. “Remember when I asked you not to jump out of the jet when we were still waiting for intel on the massive underground bomb manufacturing plant?”

“You told me it was really annoying having to sneak into hospitals and fight with the nurses to see me every time I got myself half-way blown up running into things without back-up.” Sam’s eyes were wet and he sniffled a little. “Then I jumped out of the jet anyway.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky smiled and squeezed Sam’s hand encouragingly.

“I didn’t know that you were talking about marriage!” Sam laughed, using his free hand to wipe at the tears forming in his eyes. “Stupid, I thought you were talking about changing my contact information.”

“I mean, I had plenty of time to bring it up after that.” Bucky leaned forward and kissed Sam’s forehead. “What do you say, Sam? Marry me so I can say ‘Mr. Wilson-Barnes here to see Mr. Wilson-Barnes’ from now on?”

“We’ll work on that.” Sam replied indulgently. He gingerly took the ring from its box and held it up closer. It was was a silver band, but as he peered closer he could see thin strips of gold, almost like the plates on Bucky’s new arm. “Something old, something new.”

“I thought an exact replica of my arm would be sort of weird.” Bucky admitted sheepishly. “T’Challa agreed.”

“Is this?” Sam asked, a renewed awe in his voice.

“Yeah. I figured it was sort of a long shot, but..” Bucky ducked his head a little. His continued friendship with the King of Wakanda and his family still humbled him. “I got lucky.” He whispered, catching Sam’s eyes again.

“Can I?” Bucky asked, indicating the ring.

“Oh damn, I didn’t even say yes.” Sam shook his head at his own fumble and handed the ring back to his boyfriend - fiancé. “Yes, please.”

His hands didn’t tremble as he slid the ring onto Sam’s finger, but his heart sure nearly leapt in his throat. Now he was the one with tears stinging the corners of his eyes and he couldn’t take his eyes off the ring on Sam’s fingers. It was official, they were getting married. Sam was his fiancé and they were going to get married.

“You wanna marry me?” Bucky whispered, repeating Sam’s earlier words back to him.

“Oh God, let’s not start this.” Sam’s smile was watery and before Bucky could say anything else, he pulled his fiancé down and drew him into a long sweet kiss. Behind them, the sounds of the party and city faded away until it was just the two of them and everything in-between.

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part Two: Elven Steel]

“Let’s have these off you, Murky-me-lad!!” says a doughty guard removing the irons: he was back in the Walnut Cellar, his details finally processed. The dwarf gestures rightward to a blind-ended hallway, short and dark stained: “Second door down, get yourself washed; there’s nowhere to run, I’ve got the key… I’ll knock on when we‘re ready for you!”  

So-named ‘Murky’ finds himself in a curiously hot and dim booth with a curtain in front, the waxy tanned fabric feels strangely moist to his fingertips as he pulls it back. Immediately a wall of hot air encompasses him about and bright light blasts through. Beyond this lies a steam-filled bathing area; the sudden illumination shows no sign of any other present therein and at his right-hand side there is revealed a wooden chest nestled in the cubicle. He guesses rightly that the curtain and box are employed to save any clothing from excessive damp; therefore he disrobes and enters in, drawing the screen behind. Having passed through a swirling cloud of hot steam he fully discerns a sunken bath; a chunky square column stands to the left, atop which and set flush rests a wide silver font, almost filled with a brown substance like clotted mud. The mixture looks disgusting but the scent of it intrigues him; almost like the grasslands nigh to the Elven-gate of Greenwood in the days of his infancy. He dips in the tip of his left hand for a closer whiff as memories of his mother sat peaceably in a meadow light his mind’s eye. He undertakes to rub off the sticky matter on the back of his right hand but finds that it thins with friction and the more he wipes the further it spreads up his arm. Reaching toward the bath water to wash it away the immense heat almost scorches him ere he plunges in his arm, he swiftly withdraws. Something happens then that he does not expect… a thing remarkable: the mud balm reacts to the heat and hardens, moreover wherever it makes contact with his skin it feels cool. He forms a fist with his right hand and the brown surface cracks into dusty fissures as his arm muscles and tendons contract. The residue is easily brushed aside and the soft flesh underneath gleams new; but most noteworthy, the reddening and soreness about the top part of his wrist is gone. He hurriedly revisits the clothes chest to retrieve thongs to tie up his long hair and proceeds to coat himself from top to toe in the earthy salve.

Before long Legolas gingerly submerges into the searing pool: the ‘Mad Matted Mudman!’ of fable; and so, he enjoys the most invigorating bath he has taken in a long time, if indeed ever. Alas, it was over all too soon: knock—knock—knock! The bather reluctantly removes from the water to find a rubbery second skin has formed about him. He manages to peel away the coating almost in one piece without any pinching or resistance against his blonde mane, nor even fine body hair; moreover, the gashes on his shin and head have inexplicably healed. He is instantly dry and feeling good as new. knock—knock—knock: “I needs be clad” he shouts in reply.

At the sound of laughter beyond the door, Legolas finds that his garments have been confiscated and replaced by a scratchy dun sack with hastily cut-out holes to fit his arms and head. His annoyance is heightened as he wonders how he did not hear the dwarves engaging in the swap; but there is much about dwarf keys that the elves do not know. Thus, he has no choice but to tie the sack around his waist with the tatty rope provided and meet the captors bedecked as a beggar; whence he is led barefoot to reconvene upstairs at the Hall of Hearing. Upon mounting the first tread he hears tumult above, and by which time they reach the top Legolas witnesses the leading out of hapless Dimroc and Gimroc. The dense hall-door slams behind them, causing the elf to detect a feature he had not before noticed: sunken in the wall on either side of the door frame there are mounted two enormous horns with gilded flutes ever poised to announce themselves.

In-going: the disparity versus wood and stone registers immediately beneath his exposed sole, whereat Legolas motions to revisit his former place of standing. The cubic chamber is disproportionately large, being designed no doubt to daunt any unfortunate respondent summoned there. This room offers scant lighting (unlike other regions in the vast subterranean development) save at the fore where the Heads wait; all seated in a preformed and hastily assembled semicircular bench, behind which is an usher’s pulpit with a granite hoarding beyond concealing the high seat of the absent Lord Dain. At the centre of the wooden crescent sits a round dais of bare brick, hooped at its kerb, serving as a dock. The heavy door stands directly opposite the bench, and dim-lit public galleries fill the side walls. Hence the walk from the stairs to the bench seems rather excessive; especially so when countless sets of accusing eyes monitor every footfall from the shadows. At length he ascends the stony disc as his four escorts surround him at ordinal points marked on the floor. Each dwarf faces the front and dares not crane his neck upward; Legolas however stands at a height where his eyes meets those of his prosecutors. And then… nothing: no pronouncement, no whispers nor grunts, nothing but silence! Legolas wonders greatly at this since his former appointment had been met with much derisive clamour and expectant chatter. Moreover, a draft of cold air concentrates all at once about him; and not knowing prior that of old the Dwarven engineers had contrived adjustable ducts leading to the outside world, he finally guesses at the reason for his abrasive burlap garb.

Another minute passes by in chilly silence. Presently, four bell peels mark the time of day and Legolas realises that one hour exactly has passed since he last stood here.  A deep low chant blends seamlessly with the dying reverb of the final bell; the Heads rise from their seats being closely followed by the sounds of shifting and shuffling as the meeting stands to its feet. The intensity and volume of the chant grows into discernable words uttered in ancient Dwarvish. The unseen cantor stops abruptly and those assembled answer him reverentially; this process continues for two more call-reply cycles, concluding with one last solo intonation. Throughout all this the scholarly prince discerns the words ‘Mahal’ and ‘Durin’; this in itself is remarkable since no outsiders are learned in Dwarric-wisdom. Therefore, having no way of knowing what this means he supposes that the ’fourth of noon’ must be a sacred hour among them, or that this date and time holds some significance on their calendar.

The Head on the far left begins, “Are you ready to furnish this hearing with your true name, Elf?”

“I have given it!”

“Very well,” he sighs, “If we are to continue in this pretence, have the Arraigned registered as ‘Prince Murky’ and be done with it!” The gallery erupts with laughter but the speaker remains unimpressed, “Since you come to us with such an implausible account, ‘Your Highness,’ we must view this question most seriously, the Dispensation charges you with spying and trespass: what say you?”

Legolas answers disbelieving: “Spying, on what grounds?”

“Face the front!” demands the dwarf: The so-called ‘Arraigned’ slowly complies, having already noted the radial iron petals set around his feet. The questioner continues, “I note you do not contest the charge of trespass!”

“On what grounds?” repeats the elf.

“I’d worry more about the penalty than the grounds if I were you, Murky!”

“Please enlighten me!”

“For spying, death by hanging!” he gloats “...and for trespass...” but soon falters as one caught out “Der-death by hard labour!”  

The room gasps: “Since you mean to kill me either way; I am as well to take the harder charge and the swiftest course.” reasons the elf.

“We mean to hear you!” another interjects sternly, “Now, lest we gravely lose our patience, reveal yourself and your purpose!”

“Murky of Mirkwood, trespasser and spy, or Legolas Greenleaf, traveller of what used to be called the ‘Free-lands’: what difference does it make here?”

“We could wring the answers from you!” puts in a third.

“I am sure the dutiful Dimroc and Gimroc would oblige you.”

“How do you know their names?” demands the first.

“I asked them: does that equate to spying in these lands?”

The same dwarf sniffs in retort: “You’re awful sure of yourself… for such a one in your shoes…”

Impassive, Legolas glances down at his bare feet with a slight tilt of the head. The flushed inquisitor barks out unformulated words whilst the others splutter and cough; all of them save one, himself of the two panellists who directly faces Legolas, being sat to the right from the elf‘s viewpoint. He is an immutable and permanent looking fellow, not unlike the plain granite behind him: inscrutable yes, but lucid.

As the muttering subsides, Legolas addresses this one directly: “May I speak?”

“You may!”  

“Sirs, I hold it decorous to compliment your inspired dwelling; especially the bathing facilities, of which I can truly say I have never before benefited from the like. However, it is plain to all that I do not find myself stood before you now clothed as I was one hour prior. Is it reasonable to assume that the joint-board has possession of my garments and belongings; and that they have been duly inspected?”

“It is!”  

“There is much at hand in those effects to substantiate my words and to confirm to you all that you have indeed (to be blunt) bagged a prince.  Would it be adequate then to say that in terms of my answering thus far, in relation to who I am, I have not attempted any deceit?”

“It would:” the dwarf then addresses the reporter, “Revise the name on the register to that formerly specified by the Bidden!”

“Not the Arraigned?” considers Legolas to himself.

“How very clever of you,” sneers the first Head, “You have talked yourself into becoming a hostage of war: Haha, and apt for hard labour after all!”

Legolas answers steadily, “I am not aware that our peoples are at war!”

“Oh really,” he snarls, “Our Warrior Lord and his finest soldiery departed these lands not much more than thrice-a-day’s hence: now, Wood Prince, why was that?”

“Ultimately to succeed Thorin Oakenshield as King under the Mountain, it would seem.”

“Ah yes, our beloved Thorin and the elves…”

The centrally sat dwarf stays him, “Ffodor: enough for now, my friend!” who then fixes his gaze on Legolas: “Why are you so eager to prove who you are; when (war or no) my co-auditor rightly points out your value as a hostage?”

“I am not a liar!” replies Legolas.

“And that is your only reason?”

“Is that not enough?”

“Do not misapprehend the licence of this Dispensation, Prince, nor its willingness to act!” calls out the other Head facing Legolas; who then acknowledges his neighbour already addressing the newly renamed Bidden: “Wãelyn, you know elves are dishonest, never tolerate them the slipper‘s twist!”

“Thank you, Karnaech, I need not remind you that the ‘Branch of Juris’ falls to my family this season; however, I will reassure the Mete again that every measure stands upon the sounding and hearing of all occupants at this form!”

Silence falls momentarily until Wãelyn speaks again to Legolas: “So, you are not a liar, I am sure your mother would be most plea…”

“My mother is dead!”  

“Do not over-speak me!” blasts Wãelyn, “If it pleases the Branch, whom I am, we could set a holder’s-bit about you and proceed in your hearing only…”

Legolas stalls…

“As amusing as we find your florid obsequiousness, the Dispensation is not satisfied with your scrubby responses to direct questions, hence I reiterate: Why the fervour to prove your credentials against the merit of your being our hostage?”

“And speak plainly!!!” demands a heckler from the gallery.

Wãelyn makes to stand up, whereupon no other onlooker dares to coo or jeer in agreement with the last comment. At considered length he resettles: “Indeed, be plain!”  

“I am not accustomed to Dwarric Law and do not understand the intricacies of standing before you as the Bidden or the Arraigned: I could cite myself as the Ambushed, the Assaulted, the Abducted or the Tortured…”

Seven faces snarl at him: but Wãelyn, although calloused to these opening words, remains attentive.  He considers the state of mind of the one stood before him, pondering how given the situation he could remain so at ease.  He thinks to himself, “Does he not realise that I could have him hanged right now without issue or repercussion?” The elf continues…

“However, I stand before you as Legolas, called Greenleaf by his mother after her people, Son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm in Greenwood! And in the absence of King Dáin, I concede to the authority of his Dispensation.”

“How very kind of you, Highness!” gloats Karnaech; some others harrumph at this but neither Legolas nor Wãelyn react to the interruption.

“You found me recently departed from Erebor where, after the slaying of Smaug by one of the Lake-towners, a battle had ensued…”

“Aye, no doubt prompted by your king!” adds Ffodor.

“Enough!” demands Wãelyn: Legolas resumes…

“For my part I embarked upon a scouting mission to Gundabad and there witnessed the marshalling of the second host set against Erebor; it being led by one Bolg, son of Azog, whom I later slew in single combat. It was here that the fatal contest took place between Thorin and the Defiler, Azog himself; the king fought val…”

“Wait now,” interjects Wãelyn, “you witnessed this but did not intervene?”  

“I was engaged with Bolg at lower quarters and did not witness their fight; however I aided him with a sword!”

“Can you produce witness to this effect?”

“I am not sure: my comrade and a Halfling traveller were close by but I do not know what they saw.”  

Ffodor laughs, “Haha, you provide a little truth to bear out a big lie! You don’t know what your comrade saw: What then: did you and he have a falling out, are you not talking anymore?”

“She... was immobile at Bolg’s hand and about to be slain ere I befell him.”

“Oh it just gets better,” he sneers, “elf-maids trading their silks for armour.”

“Believe what you will,” answers Legolas.

Wãelyn asks, “What of this Halfling?”

“I know that he was a companion of Gandalf and known to Thorin’s company; I heard him referred to as Mr. Baggins but did not catch his first name!”

“Our people trade with the Shire-folk,” says another, “they’re not fighters nor wizard‘s apprentices,” he sniffs: “Huh, shopkeepers more like!”

“Wait now… Baggins, Baggins… I have heard that name before: Haha, Old ‘Third time pays for all’ Bungo the Broker!” Wãelyn smiles for the first time: “He worked for the Took family as I recall, many years ago, he must be ancient by now; a decent fellow, but I’m inclined to agree: not warrior class!”  

“Even so, Mr. Baggins was there; but not so old I would guess,” says Legolas.

“And yet, there is something more,” adds Wãelyn.

“I cannot add much more about him, save that he attended to Thorin as he died of his wounds: this I saw at Ravenhill some way off!”  

“I notice that throughout you are skirting the issue of your father, the King!”

“What would you know?”

Wãelyn summons the usher to bring him a thin stack of documents: “Perhaps it is time that you should hear what we know!”  He straightens the bottom edges of the papers against the board and clears his throat: “I have here a number of drafts of the ‘Ravens’ sent to our Lord Dáin by the hand of Thorin himself…”  He hands the notes back to the usher, “Wylenhin, read these aloud for the benefit of the Mete!”

Wylenhin takes up his position on a high rostrum directly behind Wãelyn and Karnaech, proceeding to read in a loud and clear deep-brown voice:

Lord Dáin,

Allow me to be the first to inform the Seven Families through you, Esteemed Cousin, that despite your shared reticence I am finally to come into my own. The key to the hidden door of Erebor has come down to me from my father; and now on this our day, Durin’s Day, the King’s Stone shall return to its rightful owner.

 Thorin Oakenshield.

Lord Dáin,

At long last our people are avenged: the worm is evicted and Erebor is ours. Come and see it, Dáin; see the blanket of gold in which we smothered Smaug the Terrible ere he met his end. Bring with you your bards and minstrels and let us compose a new song: ‘The Ballad of the Toy-makers and the Merchants!’

Thorin ii, son of Thráin.

Lord Dáin,

So it begins, the birds descend: the Lake-town lackwits insist on remuneration, I might have aided them had they not so soon enlisted an army of wood-elves to press their claim. The starlight grubbers are upon my doorstep but these I will not entertain; lest of course it is in like manner to which King Prig and his heir forcibly and unjustly entertained my company and I not long since prior: behind bars!

The King under the Mountain.

“Hang him! Axe him! Make him suffer!” demand several onlookers.

“What say you to this!” says Wãelyn to Legolas.

“To which: the hanging, the axing or the suffering?” he answers amid much uproar and general incredulity.

“The Frequentery will hold its peace…” insists Wãelyn; “The Bidden will curb all glibness and I will have his answer!”

“You refer to the letters just read aloud?” clarifies the elf.

“I do!”

“I have naught in those sheets save for a thinly veiled insult…”

“Read between the lines: tell us of your encounters with Thorin!”

“Very well…” begins Legolas. “Thorin and his company had become ensnared in a giant-spider nest and were fighting their way out, when my division first came upon them. They must have strayed from all known pathways to become thus straightened. However, our greater forces purged that colony of monstrous pests which had been…”

Wãelyn interjects, “You say ‘my division’ meaning that you were in command?”

“Correct!”

“Hmm… so this was not a rescue of dwarves but rather a vermin-control exercise where by some strange chance your company and Thorin’s momentarily fought a common foe?”

“Correct!” repeats the elf.

“So the bugs were squashed: Continue!”

Legolas takes pause to consider his response…

Ffodor speaks gravely, “We come to the truth at last, the Bidden is lost for words; no quick witted retort in light of facts that now lead to the inevitable end. We know Thorin and his company were detained with prejudice by the Woodlanders, we have the evidence of the letters; there is also the testimony of he whom it was that gave the very command to…”

“I believe it was upon me to continue…” puts in the elf.

He is overridden, “HE whom it was that gave the very command to seize our beloved king…”

Legolas defies him again, “So this is what is meant by the inevitable end!?”

“OUR BELOVED KING:” insists the dwarf, “Whom it was His Father that had turned his back upon our kin in the gravest hour of need!”

“I am standing trial for my father too?”

Rising suddenly, Wãelyn slaps down on the board with a mighty thud: “You are the one stood before us, and the only other apt to represent his house. You may continue if you wish…”  

“It is true, I apprehended this party of dwarves! In my military capacity I did everything necessary to ensure that  my father’s orders were carried out.”

“And his orders were?”

“To imprison them!”

“And release them when?”

“No such command was given: they escaped!”

“How was that?”  

“They secreted themselves in barrels and floated downriver to Lake-town,” explains Legolas; “With hindsight I surmise that Mr. Baggins assisted in this endeavour since we knew not then of his part in this…”

“The resourceful Mr. Baggins!”

“Quite so…”

Wãelyn sinks back into his chair, blank faced with his hands loosely cradling their opposing elbows: “Hmm… The Mete has not heard any reasons for your prolonged encampment on the borders of these lands: indeed upon this rests the validity of the charges against you! How do you respond?”  

Presently, a brassy note reverbs mightily through the hall by way of the horns beside the entrance. The door creaks slowly open revealing two figures, notable in their differences; the taller clad in grey advances with the aid of a staff, allowing his tiny companion to keep pace as they take the long walk of the accusing eyes.

At length Wãelyn speaks, “Not casually do the Horns of Juris sound during session, Gandalf the Grey; the Branch and this form will hear the cause of it!”

“Indeed, no casual matter at all!” says the wizard who mounts the platform to stand beside Legolas, the hobbit refrains and waits behind: “Much has occurred these last days since the battle; I carry a document of importance, a North-east Accord, if you like...”

“What is that to this hearing?” inquires Wãelyn, gesturing to have it: Wylenhin accommodates him as Gandalf waits.   

“It matters much, Sirs!” says the wizard at length, “Erebor and the Woodland Realm have pacted together with the Lake Town Men to rebuild Dale and renovate the waterways of Esgaroth. This means employment of all kinds for all kindreds; surely wine and ale will flow freely once more…”

The gallery combusts with applause; not even Wãelyn’s glower can stop it, but he remains patient holding up a forefinger to stay his colleagues until the clapping abates: “I tire of speeches in place of answers and I say again, what is that to this hearing?”

“I am sure by now you have verified the seal of the King under the Mountain and noted the signatories in front of you…”

“I have!”

“As you can see this declaration is to be sent to all regional authorities of peoples concerned. Perhaps an adjournment is in order whilst you peruse the document...” suggests the wizard.

“Agreed!” says Wãelyn.

“Perhaps too, my friend here might have his effects returned to him as you deliberate!” adds Gandalf.

The Branch of Juris assents to this amid his fellows’ habitual snippy discontent: “We shall have the truth in this!” he tells them; and to the wizard he says, “I should also like to speak with you separately, that goes for your little friend malingering behind your cloak tails too!”

“Of course!” says Gandalf with a courteous nod.

“But tell me, Gandalf,” asks Wãelyn ere they retire to chambers, “How is it that you came thither in person and did not send a herald, or nary a raven?”

“Some birds fly higher than ravens and can see much more clearly!”

[katayamoon-writes]

Birthday Hunt

This is my first Slbp fan fic for my favorite lord , Shingen, It’s a late birthday present for the amazing @miss-ferrew. Enjoy Tigress 2, it after all your day with him. ;-)

  She had spent half the day looking for him. Her ire reaching it’s peak. Shingen had left the castle before she had woken up. It wasn’t just an ordinary day it was her birthday and she had hoped to spend time with him. Tying her long blond hair into a ponytail, she set out to find him. She had searched everywhere in the castle for him. She was getting annoyed when she thought of a certain shadow that was always there by his side, KANSUKE!

 “Kansuke! I need to talk to you.” She felt a slight breeze and turned around. There standing before her was the man himself. His face was the ever present mask. “ I know you know where he is, now tell me you cock..” He leveled a glare at her. His brows knit together at what she was about to say. He sighed at her, knowing that when she wants to find his lordship no one could stop her. “Lady Jenny He’s at the waterfall.” She bowed quickly before taking off in the necessary direction.

 There he was standing under the waterfall with his back to her, he looked astonishing, his aura imposing as ever. His muscles glistened as the water rolled down his skin. She started to forget why she was angry or why she was even looking for him. He then turned towards her, feeling eyes on him. His laughter low and a gentle rumble. Her face flushed at being caught gawking at him then she glowered at him remembering why she had been searching for him. “How dare you disappear on today! I have half a mind to….” She didn’t get the chance to finish her sentence before he had pulled her flushed against him capturing her lips. She hadn’t realized when he waded towards her. All arguments died in her throat and she purred for him. His lips curled into a smile as he knew just the effects he had over her. “Happy birthday tigress. You thought I forgot?” she looked away from him to hide the hint of a blush in her cheeks. She mumbled her words upset that she was found out so easily. “NO… fine, yes.”

 She finally felt the kimono clinging to her skin, “SSShingen!!” She pressed her hands against his shoulders attempting to push him away. His grip tightened around her waist. No matter how much she tried to push she couldn’t get away. He kept walking backwards until the waterfall was on his shoulders splashing her. She puffed out her cheeks, red with anger. Her brows knitted together. “ This was a new kimono mister!” He moved his right hand to her chin. “I’ll buy you another one.” He kept walking backwards until they disappeared behind the waterfall. A cave unknown to anyone but himself was there. A package neatly wrapped with a ribbon sat near the opening. Her eyes gleamed with happiness. Just as she started to reach for it he stood in front of it blocking the gift from view. “Why worry about an unopened present when you have one standing before you ready?” She tilted her head confused until she saw it. Protruding proudly from his body. “oh, o-oh. That gift! Well you should give it to me.” He smirked at her his amber eyes dancing with desire. His large hands peeled away her drenched kimono tossing it to the side. Her nipples were perky from the cool air. He palmed her gently, massage her skin. His eyes watched as hers began to close. Her fingers threading together around his neck. She pulled her lower lip inside her mouth to stop the moans for spilling out. He chuckled at her futile attempts, moving his thumb across her lips. She opened her eyes to see the desire exuding from his pores. Her own desire growing the more she held his gaze. He lifted her up in his arms as he walked further into the cave. Holding her against the wall of the cave he leaned down to kiss her neck. His kisses turned feral as he began to bite her skin. She whimpered with need. A need only he can fulfill. His hands roamed up her thigh brushing against her sex but never fulling touching it. She was growing frustrated, “Please!” Her voice echoed in the cave. He only smirked at her, his length throbbing against her stomach. He lifted her higher pressing his cock at her entrance. She felt pressure only for a moment before she felt full. She sighed in content as he moved roughly inside her tunnel. She pressed her lips to his hungrily, moaning into his mouth. Her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing against him. The rock wall pushing into her skin each time he rocked into her. Her fingers threaded in his hair tugging on the strands. She felt closer to her release. Her walls gripped his length tighter signaling to him she was ready to explode. “Cum with me!” He growled out against her shoulder be fore biting down. His seed spurt forth warming her through her core. Her head hit against the rocks as she came with him. He continued to thrust his hips into her as she rode out the waves of her orgasm. He was still hard when her body slumped forward. His large hand went to her hair pawing at her gently. “Was your present to your liking tigress?” She smiled at him weakly before answering. “I don’t know maybe you should give it to me again before I can give you my honest opinion.” His smiled was just as wide as hers when he met her gaze.

[keire-ke]

The Road to Safety or Ruin - epilogue

So I know I promised a few of you something of an epilogue - as you can see this is mainly more worldbuilding and more characters and generally no ending. Still, it is fairly adorable, if I say so myself. :F

[this follows The Road to Safety or Ruin, which is quite possibly the most contentious thing I have ever written, as it ended rather abruptly and with hints rather than a resolution]

The grain of wood seems like spun gold, precious and delicate. Erik’s head feels heavy when he tries to move it side to side. He allows it to fall, eventually, so that he is staring at fine cotton, though not so fine it belongs in a palace. No, the sheets feel sturdy and utilitarian, rather than fine. They are well-kept and shine with whiteness when the light hits them.

The light forms a circle on the sheets. Erik sits up sharply, mindless of his heavy head. There’s no window here. The wooden ceiling tapers smoothly into a – he scrapes for a word – a porthole, reinforced with metal. There’s nothing to see through it but the sky.

“Good afternoon."

Erik turns and nearly collapses back onto the bed, as the sudden movement throws his whole body into an undulating nightmare of nausea.

“Eat this," says the same voice, a child’s voice. It’s that child, Erik thinks as he takes the dry biscuit from his hand and chews on it, the boy with bright blue eyes and dark hair, the boy who can only been Charles’ son. “Hank says the nausea will pass, it’s a side-effect of the poison. Were you poisoned?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

Erik raises a brow. “You were there."

“My father told me I was bringing you a sleeping draught."

“I have been sleeping. He hasn’t been wrong."

The boy narrows his eyes. “I should go tell him you’re awake."

“Am I to stay here for the duration?"

“Don’t be ridiculous," the boys says. “It’s stupid to stay in the cabin the whole time, unless you’re really sick. The air will do you good."

Erik accepts the wisdom of the words and slowly raises his limbs from the warm bunk. It’s strange, now that he thinks about it – much wider than what he would expect bunks to be – it takes over a half of the space in the cabin. Another third is taken up by a desk, on which there are papers and what looks like metallic shells of a cracked egg, if eggs grew to the size of a human head. The walls are covered with books. When he stands, Erik’s head is less than a palm’s length away from the ceiling and he is gazing down at another bunk, protruding from the wall like a shelf. The sheets there are rumpled and in the corner there is a toy – a creature of some sort, sewn together from felt.

“Is this your room?" Erik asks.

“No, it’s dad’s. I share a cabin with Kurt on the stern side."

“Is the doll your dad’s, then?" Erik reaches for the toy and holds its head between his fore and middle finger, making it nod in tune with his voice.

The boy laughs. “It was mine, but I’m too old for it now. I don’t know why it’s still here."

Erik smiles and returns the toy to its bed. Charles’ bed. “Would you show me the way?"

“Sure. Let’s try the kitchen, first, Hank said you will want something to drink."

His mouth feels dry and sandy, a fact which Erik only now begins to notice. “Hank was right."

Charles’ son opens the door and takes him down a couple of stairs and through a narrow corridor, with doors on either side, until they reach a mess hall. There are a few men and women there, and each of them turns to look at them. One springs to his feet with an expression which seems torn between lunging at Erik and shaking his hand. Summers, Erik’s mind supplies. Alex Summers.

“I see you managed to keep yourself out of jail this time," Erik says and vainly searches for pockets he could stuff his hands in.

There’s a dark-skinned man about his age sitting next to him, and Erik is fairly certain his arm is the only thing which saves his face from a punch. “Easy there," the man says, and stands. “How are you feeling?"

“Parched," Erik replies honestly. The man nods.

“Logan is out smoking, but we’ve some black tea leftover. It should help with the nausea."

“Logan is the cook," Charles’ son supplies for no apparent reason, as the man moves into the caboose and grabs the kettle. “Are there any cookies left?"

“There’s should be some in the tin. Here." He hands Erik a chipped mug full of liquid Erik would take to be a coffee on sight and tar on taste. It’s barely warm, but Erik downs the whole thing in a matter of seconds, anyway. “Let me pour you another."

“Thank you," Erik says.

“Not at all. We look after our own."

Summers snorts.

“Havoc will be happy to accept words of gratitude any minute now," the man shakes his head, indicating Summers. “He did most of the digging to get you out of the ground. Don’t expect him to stop complaining anytime soon."

“Hey!" Summers protests, and the man laughs at him.

“All true. The name’s Darwin."

“Erik Lehnsherr."

“Welcome aboard. The captain will want to see you."

“Let’s hope she means to throw him overboard," Summers mutters, with no ill-will whatsoever.

“It would be a shame," Erik says, after he drains his mug. “All that digging for nothing."

Summers turns red and the rest of them howl with laughter. Erik waits until they stop and for Summers to open his mouth to begin cursing, before he speaks. “Thank you. I’m in your debt."

Summers sputters. Erik grins and follows Charles’ son outside, into the golden afternoon. They climb a set of steep stairs so that for a moment Erik’s eyes are level with the boy’s back and the strange beacon-like device, attached to leather straps which circle his chest and shoulders.

“What is that?" he asks when they step out of the shadows.

“The harness? Dad makes me wear it if I’m outside. I suppose it’s fine, Raven makes Kurt wear one too. It’s so I don’t fall overboard." He tugs on the straps and scowls. “I’m not a child, honestly."

“So you’re the new stray," says a new voice directly behind Erik. He turns to find a young woman there – well, a woman for certain. He’s not sure of her age, her skin is weathered to brown and there are scale-like tattoos framing her honey-brown eyes, hiding most wrinkles. Similar tattoos spiral up her arms and legs. She is barefoot and wears only a leather brassiere and knee-length leather trousers. “Awake at long last. I’m Captain Raven Darkholme. You are aboard my ship, the Mystique."

“I’m—“

“I know who you are," she interrupts. Her eyes dart about the deck, as though she is looking for someone. “Good, he’s busy. Listen up, Mister Judge. I don’t like the thought of you waltzing about my ship. I don’t trust you. I will throw you overboard if you so much as sneeze at my crew, that clear to you?"

“Should I confine myself to the cabin, then?"

“Gods no. I’ve enough lazy bums on board as it is. You will be put to work, understand, and you will earn your keep. What you can’t do, you will learn, and if you won’t learn, well, the crew could use a cabin boy. You make yourself useful and maybe I’ll decide to keep you until we hit the nearest port."

“Dad says Mr Erik is staying with us," Charles’ boy volunteered and the captain grimaced and slapped a palm over her face.

“I don’t know why I allow him free reign, I really don’t. I ought to have Logan tail him. That would curb the stray-gathering. Every goddamned port, I swear to gods, every port a new stray," she says in exasperation. “Francis!"

There is a moment of silence and then a breathless “coming!" and then footsteps and Charles is walking towards them, barefoot, with loose linen trousers and white bandages around his naked torso. His hips are framed by a harness similar to what the boy is wearing, with a blinking device affixed to the front, where the belt-straps meet.

“Erik!" he says with a joyous grin. “Did you sleep well?"

“Like the dead," Erik answers truthfully, feeling warmth seep into his whole being at the sight of Charles before him, alive and – still battered, judging by the bandages and bruises – but smiling and happy.

“I see you met the Captain."

“The Captain met me, I fear."

“You mustn’t let her scare you."

“I am the captain here, I can and will throw you overboard," the Captain threatens, but Charles only laughs and takes her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you, darling," he says. “I am forever in your debt."

She shakes her head and walks away, smiling. “You just make sure he’s ready for the first night watch, he’s slept enough. His eyes seem in working order, to begin with."

“Will do!"

Charles turns back to him and smiles. The bruises on his face are green and yellow. They should be gone in a matter of days, Erik thinks. The bandages must cover the whip marks, which would take longer. There are, even now, red streaks among the white. Charles moves unhindered though, when he pulls him to the side, so that they can perch on the barrels against the side.

“I see you’ve met David," Charles says softly.

Erik turns to look at the boy, who grins. “We haven’t been introduced."

“For shame." Charles frowns. “Manners, dearest. You must always introduce yourself to people you hope to befriend, and I hope you and Erik will be friends."

“There was no time," the boy whines, but straightens up when prompted and holds out his hand in a thoroughly royal gesture. “My name is David Xavier Haller. I am the thirtieth duke of Westchester."

“Erik Lehnsherr," Erik says and shakes the little hand as solemnly as he would that of the king. It’s a relief not to have to append a title as heavy as “judge" to his name, all the same.

Then something else occurs to him. “Haller? As in, Captain Gabrielle Haller?"

“Ah," Charles says and bites his lip. “You’ve heard of Gabrielle."

“Everyone’s heard of Captain Haller. She singlehandedly sank more vessels than the Genoshan fleet."

“David, weren’t you supposed to peel the potatoes with Kurt?"

David makes a face, but trudges off obediently. It takes him a few steps to hop onto the railing and climb the ropes with the ease of a monkey, up to the crow’s nest from where another childish face peers at them.

“I served under Captain Haller for a time. We had – well, Gabrielle didn’t much care for being pregnant, or saddled with a child, so here we are, David and I."

“Should I fear the vengeance of a fearsome sky-pirate captain, for touching what’s hers?" Erik asks.

Charles flushes. “You can rest easy, my friend. Gabrielle and I haven’t seen each other in years. I believe she prefers to haunt the southern seas."

What little Erik knows about Captain Haller is that she hails from the south, though how far south he isn’t sure. It would explain David’s colouring, his black curls and golden skin, far different from Charles’ brown and cream. How did she come to bed a Genoshan aristocrat sounds like a tale for a long, alcohol-filled evening.

“Darling," Charles says a few minutes later, turning to face the afternoon sun. He swings his legs over the edge of the railing and hoists himself up, until he is sitting on the edge, with his bare feet dangling three hundred feet over the ocean. “You better stay inside – I’ll fetch a harness for you in a moment. They’re very clever, you’d need to haul yourself further than twenty feet away from the ship, quite an impossible feat when you’re on board, and when you’re up in the rigging, there’s time aplenty for the harness to catch you.

“Oh, I digress. Well, I should inform you now that you should by no means feel imprisoned here. You have earned the gratitude of myself and Emma, and although I shouldn’t say so, Raven, too. She’s my sister, you see, though we have only met when I was fifteen and she twelve. We agreed that if you choose to, we will deliver you to a port of your choosing and provide you with means to ensure you live a comfortable life."

“If I choose?"

Charles turns his head to face Erik. “The choice I was hoping you would make is to stay with us. We have a small crew and we hire none if we can help it. As you can imagine we are usually pressed for hands."

“I know next to nothing about sailing."

“Ah, no trouble at all."

“The captain did mention there an open position of a cabin boy, though."

He elicits a laugh. “Naturally, though you would grow bored. The work on board is gruelling, but it isn’t hard – you will learn most things within the month, and everything else as the occasion arises."

Erik stares at the wooden boards of the deck. He says nothing at all, until there is a sharp cry from the crow’s nest and the ship tilts. Charles’ hand shoots out to grasp Erik’s forearm, even as he throws his legs back inside the ship and hops onto the deck, balancing on the slanted surface with ease. Erik remains where he is, clutching the railing, with the edges of the barrels digging into his buttocks. He isn’t afraid. He’s not even worried. All that floods him is a faint sense of adventure, the very same felling which causes him to take the Beast out for his nightly excursions.

The captain appears on deck again, moving like a snake. She reaches the side and peers over the edge, towards the horizon. “Polar whales," she says, and Erik follows her gaze. A dozen heavy, glistening shapes soar through the air half a mile away. The captain turns and waves her hand, and at the signal a bell starts ringing. Charles hands her a beacon-like device, tethered to a shelf near the cabin door, and steps back, while the ship gently rights herself.

“Whoever is not doing anything crucial hits the hammocks. We are scaling tonight, and I want everyone up and shining on the deck, one hour past sunset." She drops the device back into Charles’ hands, looks up and yells, “That goes for you too! Kurt, David, get some sleep now, if you want to help later."

“Logan wants them working on potatoes," Charles says mildly, which the captain takes in stride.

“… right after you are done with potatoes, you little sneaks!" She turns to Charles and props her hands on her hips. “You’re still on bed rest, so make sure everything is running smoothly now. I’m going down for a nap."

“Yes, ma’am," Charles says, saluting smartly. The captain nods at him and leaves, not before yelling at the two boys one more time.

“Scaling?" Erik asks when they are alone.

“Catching the aurora. We haul it in in the form of shiny, ovoid pieces; they look very much like fish scales." Charles tangles his fingers together. “You know, which reminds me. You’re an accomplished flier, are you not?"

“I do have a beast, but other than that…"

Charles waves his hand and strides towards what Erik strongly suspects is the cargo hold. He winces as he pulls up the hatch and descends the ladder into the twilight. Erik follows without hesitation. Inside, the pale laps flicker to life and Erik sees more or less what he expected a cargo hold on a sky-pirates’ ship to look like: there are crates immobilised by ropes and straps, but by the far wall there is an elongated shape, covered with tarp. The material gives way after the first tug and when it crumbles to the floor Erik is staring at a beast. At the Beast. His Beast, in fact, he notes dispassionately, when the pattern on the flank fully registers. He had the craftsmen carve the waves into the smooth steel – he knows the design as he knows the back of his own hand.

“I believe I had it stored in a supervised hangar by the sea," he says, pressing a palm against the etchings.

“I’m a pirate, luv." Charles smiles down at him and tugs at the tarp some more. “I’m truly sorry about this, but Raven wouldn’t let me keep it unless it was useful, so I fitted it with solar wings. I hope you don’t mind."

Erik doesn’t feel competent enough to comment on the additions, which look like two semi-transparent, folded fans, almost as long as the Beast itself. “What are they for?" he asks.

“Many things. Solar power, for one: you won’t need much fuel to operate her, as long as you fly in the sun a couple times a week. They ought to help with scaling, too, but that’s more complicated. There’s a theory that they stabilise the flight, but that is of course dependent on the flight and the direction of the wind; not the easiest of additions, this particular shape, but I thought…"

Charles trails off, eventually, while Erik looks at him with amusement. “I don’t mind," he says simply.

“Good." Charles pats the Beast and covers her with tarp once again. “It’s not done yet, I’m afraid. I need to run a few more diagnostics. Meanwhile, you can help me with the sails."

There are two things that disappoint Erik in the following hour: the first is that when Charles goes down on his knees before him he is merely buckling a harness around his hips. The second is vertigo. As it turns out he is not wholly comfortable with heights, though he can easily lean over the bannister and stare at the waves miles below. It’s a little different when he is climbing the rigging to reach a section of the sail Charles tells him malfunctions on a regular basis, with a bag of tools slung over his shoulder.

They settle into the nook underneath the topgalant, sheltered from the elements by the sail. Charles fiddles with the circuits while Erik tries not to look down and hands him the tools when prompted.

[thehunteternal]

A Question Never Asked | drabble

His every exhale clouded the air in front of his face, the wispy shapes made visible by the silver moonlight pouring through the sparsely clouded night sky. Angling his head back, Fenrir shut his eyes and spread his arms at his sides. He basked in the moon’s glow, soaking in its mystical beams like a lover’s embrace. Fenrir could feel her ascension in his bones.

Energy buzzed along his surface, tingling just under his skin. Power was building by the second. Beastial strength and wild ferocity clawed their way to the fore with gnashing teeth and fanged snarls. His bones ached, impatient. His skin felt tight and uncomfortable. Further the moon rose into the night’s black and her climb had him vibrating with a ravenous need.

Long blades of grass rustled, disturbed not by the frigid wind sweeping across the landscape, but by the bodies that had joined him just outside the treeline. Eyelids parted and a feral smirk carved across his lips. She was moments away from her zenith. It was time.

To the half dozen wolves that stepped out from between the trees, Fenrir growled a low, “No survivors.”

The hard shadows cast by his furrowed brow darkened his eyes as he scowled down at the clutter of houses at the hillacious terrain’s base. There were too few structures for it to be considered a village. It was more like a hamlet, yet smaller than even that.

Soon it wouldn’t matter. Soon every occupant of every structure would all be dead.

He gripped his fur-lined trench coat by the lapel and stripped it from his form just as the moon reached her peak. A seal broke inside of him. The obstruction of his “humanity” ruptured and all of the gathered power came pushing forth like a surge of rushing water. Violently it crashed through his every limb, tearing every muscle and bone in its path. Fenrir gladly relinquished one form for the other, embracing the pain as he had the moonlight that stoked it.

Bones popped as they rearranged, breaking and reforming. It was an agony he loved, an old friend he welcomed. Fenrir howled at the moon, an almost grateful sound as his human cry transitioned into a wolfsong. Soon a chorus called out to the glittering sky, his voice joined by the other werewolves scattered across the hilltop.

Eerie quiet fell over the night once they were silent again, like the world was holding its breath in anticipation of what came next. Fenrir snapped his jaws at the wolves on either side of him, growling deep in his chest. Ears pulled back and heads bowed in a show of submission. They replied with their own quieter growls.

He was as pleased by the fight they had in them as he was by their yielding recoil. Each wolf was his ilk, turned and reared by himself. They were warriors, feral, blood lusting beasts that bowed to none but him; even then it was with fire behind their eyes, indignation outweighed solely by either respect or fear. Which didn’t matter, he didn’t care.

With another howl to the dark skies above, Fenrir led the charge to the hunting grounds. Dirt and grass were kicked up under his claws as he tore down the hillside, gaining speed with the decline. The wolves on either side of him broke away. They fanned out to flank the little hamlet. In a matter of seconds his blurred form sprinted through the main road to the largest building at its end.

Fenrir didn’t slow his breakneck pace. If anything he pushed himself harder, running faster toward the shut door of the house he was stampeding toward. The moment he was in range he launched himself at the wooden panel and the velocity, combined with the force behind his weight, didn’t just make the door break open. It exploded from its hinges and the whole thing crashed inward, skidding to a stop several yards in with him still riding its surface.

A succession of flashing white lights shot his direction. Bolts of energy zipped from the drawing room and followed Fenrir as he evaded each one, running out of sight and down the hall until a wall obscured him from view. Able to guess the home’s design, he made a sharp turn into the kitchen, jumped over the center island, and burst through the swinging door back into the drawing room. The wizard that had originally been waiting for him there had his head peeked out into the hallway, searching for Fenrir in the direction he’d disappeared in.

There wasn’t time for the man to react. One moment he was peering down the dark hallway and the next he was tackled to the ground with claws buried in his back and fangs tearing into his neck. He screamed as Fenrir ripped away at fabric and flesh, splattering blood and ripping loose sinew as he dismembered his prey with feverish abandon.

Blood filled his maw, covered his muzzle, gleamed on his coat. The taste of it drew primal sounds from the base of his throat, savage growls that longed for more. He only realized that the screaming had stopped, that his victim was limp, lifeless on the floor beneath him, when the thuds of rushing footsteps registered in his ears.

Another witch raced halfway down the stairs before she froze in place, a sob cutting through the dark house that was quickly stifled by her clapping her hand over her mouth. Tears were visible in the shadow of night, glittering down her face as moonlight was caught within the liquid. She raised her wand at Fenrir too late, he was already on the move by the time the bolt had left its wooden tip.

Bounding from the wooden floor, claws dug into wood and drywall as he launched himself from the wall onto the staircase, knocking the witch off of her feet as he landed right on top of her. Again she launched a spell at him, but Fenrir swatted her hand so hard that the wand was sent careening into the darkness, lost in the shadow of night.

He gripped her by the throat, nails gliding easily into the giving skin of her neck. Top lip curling back, his bloody teeth shown in the darkness, glistening under the moonlight that flitted through haphazardly drawn curtains. A loud, vicious growl vibrated from the pit of his lungs.

The witch clutched at his fur covered forearm, uselessly fighting to loosen his grip on her neck. With his other hand, Fenrir punched through her chest. A choked scream sounded from the witch, a muffled sound that he felt more than he heard. Bones gave under the force of his fist. Blood, muscle, and internal organs squelched when he pulled back.

Curled claws raked at her torso. Flesh peeled away. Blood poured free like nectar from a peach, coughing from her mouth and trickling down the steps and over onto the wall as the pool stretched wider. Intestines spilled down the stairs as he shoveled her insides onto the outside of her body.

Unseeing eyes stared past him into nothing. Blood smeared her face, on the sides of her mouth and over her cheeks. Splattered droplets were speckled over her features, stains from Fenrir’s excavation of her midsection. Her hand fell away from his arm. Another one dead.

The rest of the house and all of its occupants were met with similar fates. Every room was scoured, turned over, and torn apart. Every life was taken, snuffed out with a savagery he took pride in. Once he was through with the first home, Fenrir moved onto the next.

Blood curdling screams filled the night. Pain and fear rang like an orchestra, accompanied by howls and growls and feral sounds. It was a symphony of sound that filled his chest like a battlesong. Each note stoked the fire in his ribcage, prodded his beast and made him thirst for more. More. Always more.

By the time he reached the last room of the last house the night had fallen quiet, save for the whimpering from the far, shadow blackened corner of the room. An adolescent muggle girl was curled up behind her night stand, folded into a tight ball with her hands covering her ears as she sobbed into her bent knees.

Fenrir’s claws scraped over the hardwood floors as he slowly approached. Each scratch of nail on wood made her flinch, curling deeper into herself as if she’d disappear from existence if she simply kept shrinking. He stopped in front of her, a few feet off, unmoving while he observed her as she sniveled and wept.

After about a minute of nothing happening, she dared an upward glance. At the sight of him looming over her, his dark, menacing frame a goliath silhouette within the room’s lightless black. With a yelp she ducked her head again. Full body trembles made her voice shudder when she spoke into the darkness.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question gave him pause. Fenrir tilted his head to the side. He didn’t think that anyone had ever asked him that question before. Himself included. For a beat he contemplated the answer. It was a simple one, he realized. Top lip curling, a sound rumbled through his chest almost like a chuckle. Why did he do the things that he did?

Because he could.

Death incarnate descended upon the girl. Her shrieks filled his ears and her blood filled his mouth. Fenrir tore her asunder and there wasn’t a person alive that could stop him.

[flauntpage]

NBA Summer Vacation: Emotion of the Oceans

There is motion in the SVW ocean and by that I mean an awful lot of dudes are way out in the wild blue yonder this week. A few did it really well—I mean really well, like an impending humanitarian award is on the way well—and a couple should stick to spending the rest of their summers on the dry side, lest they wanna become completely washed in the annals of these hallowed, a-little-sticky-from-aloe-vera-sun-balm halls.

Marc Gasol

Marc Gasol, who just a week ago was keeping tabs on the organic garden he planted in his yard last summer vacation, was out in a dingy rescuing migrants stranded in the Mediterranean. There is no joke here. Marc Gasol spent the last week volunteering with the NGO Proactiva Open Arms and much of that was spent out in the open water recovering the bodies of migrants and helping to bring survivors safely to land. The NBA is a progressive league, it gets talked about a lot, but it is occasionally without due credit given to the players who make it that way.

Rating: Just Marc Gasol, absolutely doing the most.

JaVale McGee

A nice transition into our regularly scheduled tittering and trash talk on the way player’s choose to spend their offseason is JaVale McGee pretending to pick up his daughter’s play phone and totally tear a new one to the would-be caller on the other end.

Rating: 9021UH OH!

James Harden

What’s UP James Harden in a trashy, regular ass tank top, flipping the hang loose hand while laser strobe lights illuminate your face?! Turns out all it takes to set James Harden free is setting him loose on the shores of Ibiza with Real Madrid Captain Sergio Ramos and frankly it’s dumb of all of us that it took this long to figure out!

You’ll be happy my sleuthing skills have peeled back another layer in this euro-rave onion, specifically why is Harden wearing that top, because from Ramos’s own documenting of this night we can see they are not just at some regular party, they are at a FOAM PARTY.

Rating: The big buildup that lasts for close to three minutes before the beat drops and every whistle is blasting and the foam cannon is pilin’ up the suds around you like so many cloud castles in heaven.

Steph Curry

We cut live to Steph Curry now, jumping fully clothed off the top of a boat. While we are not here to judge all selfless actions this summer vacation we are certainly going to judge this one. He doesn’t have trunks? He’s got to do this in what appears to be like, athletic technology warm up pants that probably shrink wrap to your legs once you hit the water?

Rating: Oh (splash) brother.

Dwyane Wade

Wade is in China, and we can only hope it’s because he’s hot on the heels of the Mr. Hyde of SVW, China Klay. In any case, he’s paused on his hunt for a quick round of golf and I am not a fan nor knowledgeable of that sport but could they not get him a taller club?

Rating: Fore out of five.

Manu Ginóbili

Aside from being in Vancouver, this looks like a nice trip for Main Manu and the entire Ginóbili family. I like to think that he’s getting familiar with the places DeMar DeRozan once set foot in before coming to Toronto for the main event, so he will have some skin in the conversation when Deebo brings up all the things he misses about Canada.

Rating: I’ll let my famous saying about Vancouver speak for itself—“Once you’ve sea-n one wall, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

Giannis Antetokounmpo

Oh my goooosh, look at our little gladiator ROMEin’ around, checking off all the sights and staying, considerately to his GF and the general public, low to the ground. My only hope is that we get a shot of Giannis high-fiving Christ in The Last Judgement, on the ceiling of the ol’ Sistine. He’d only really have to stretch on tip toes to do it.

Rating: Watch out, Eternal City, there’s a new cooler, younger, taller, Pope in town.

Lou Williams

Paris continues to be big and so does standing or sitting on some type of plinth. The supposed 6th man of the year (Fred VanVleet was robbed) has chosen either onyx or ebony, could also be a big Bose speaker just flipped around, to stand on and do the funny gag. Look how happy he is.

Rating: 6th man to attempt this gag on this particular day, maybe.

Boban Marjanović

Here’s Boban in a quarry of some kind, stalking toward the camera with his socks pulled high. Wouldn’t it be incredible if he gets really into BMX culture this year and is constantly almost caught wheelie-ing the white hot sides of the L.A. River? The LAPD are stumped, who is this giant shadow racing away every time on a tiny bike, leaving wet tire tracks all the way back to the Staple Center?

Rating: They’ll find some fancy pegs in Lonzo Ball’s locker, L.A. Boban rides again.

Jaylen Brown

Jaylen Brown is in Bali doing tarps off and fanny pack on, doing the kind of nervous smile one does on vacation when someone has pushed you into something you aren’t quite comfortable with. Out of frame I am imagining a pack of monkeys glaring at him with their beady eyes, rubbing their little paws together over what kind of gear they are going to nab off this guy.

Rating: An up-to-date rabies vaccine and one long look at the warnings, I hope.

Mirza Teletović

Ah yes, exactly the scene the Turkish folk poet Yunus Emre was attempting to set in his 13th century banger "Mirza at the Grand Bazaar."

Rating: Gives a whole new meaning to telenovela am I right?

Willy Hernangómez

Here we got a great, extremely contoured shot of Willy’s back as he soaks up the sun in the ancient port city of Cádiz, Spain.

Rating: How sweaty are you getting just looking at this? The answer is extremely.

Tim Hardaway Jr.

Double feature for THJ! What I wouldn’t give to get this in a slow-mo video but you gotta take your summer refreshers where you can get ‘em, folks. This is the exact yin to Willy’s yang (get your god damn minds out of the gutters) up there.

Rating: How quenched are you getting just looking at this? The answer is extremely.

Taj Gibson

Somebody wants to be this summer’s solo banana boat boy! Taj is floatin’ in the ocean off the coast of Pesaro, which is way up on the back side of the top of Italy’s boot, on what looks to be a rescue device but is maybe just some kind of Euro pool floatie more streamlined than the traditional mattress. In case there was any doubt that he’s fully in the Eat portion of his Eat, Pray, Love offseason, here he is giggling and having some spaghetti,

Rating: He’ll be sad when it’s time to say goodbye to this trip.

Malcolm Delaney

The Hawks guard has scooted a little farther south for a break in Miami where he’s getting some assistance getting on, or else a chauffeured ride on, this jet-ski. No reason to be out here having fun but not being safe.

Rating: As the SVW rhyme goes—“A ski on land, hold a friend’s hand. A ski on the water, let’s not repeat Sean Kingston’s mistakes.”

Sam Dekker

Double Dekker’s just the latest to be captivated this offseason by the Greek Islands, but this dude’s on ‘em for his honeymoon. One thing’s for sure, I’ve never felt less cool than when I realized Sam Dekker and I have the same style of jumping off things into pristine waters, that is, somehow bunched way the hell up in our bodies and plugging our noses like little loser babies. Congratulations, Sam!

Rating: Enjoy all that water up your nose while Sam and I breathe easily from ours!

Matthew Dellavedova

Here we have my and summer’s natural enemy, Matthew Dellavedova, holding onto a hammerhead shark with his eyes squeezed shut, praying for the photo to get taken so he can put it down. You know what, Delly? Why even pick it up in the first place? How would you like it if someone was hanging onto you by the butt and the back and lofting you high above your home? Come to think of it that must be what dunking feels like, but without the debilitating terror because the ball is not a misunderstood creature. Not that you would know what it feels like to do that.

Rating: I won’t.

Cameron Payne

Wherever Payne is—and he looks as confused about it as I am—he should stay there as long as possible, in that exact same shirt, wearing those exact same steampunk shades, squinting off into the exact same middle distance, because lord knows what’s happening to and for the Bulls this season.

Rating: If thou gaze long into an infinity pool, the infinity pool will also gaze into thee.

Marco Belinelli

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help picturing Bellinelli fluttering out this big, Turkish beach towel for two in a place called “Fliper & Chiller” on the Balearic Islands as the same welcoming gesture he will make to my eternal guy DeMar DeRozan this season back in San Antonio. Belli I’ve never needed you more.

Rating: Sobbing. But this beach looks nice.

John Wall

Like catching someone mid-sneeze, blowing out birthday candles, or the second they start to hurl going down the last huge hill on a roller coaster, the moment this photo was taken it became Summer Vacation For John Wall.

Rating: Extremely end of July.

NBA Summer Vacation: Emotion of the Oceans published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/