#the silver thing on my belt is manacles

[wolpatinga]

v2 of the cosplay is done. still havent figured out how you're supposed to take photos of these + don't have a photographer but i do have halloween plans which means i'll get to actually wear this :3

bonus pics of me and my bear

[missamyrisa2]

Taming Alex~

(this is a little differently toned than my usual stuff butttt I was just sooo inspired by my lovelyyyy friend K todayyy~<33)

Alex growled into the dark surrounding the frame to which his bent over wriggling naked body was affixed. "You don't scare me!" The glow of the overhead lights strategically blinded him to everything outside of the circle. His toes pressed to the cold floor, trying to find any sort of traction. "Hnnnngghh!! You're gonna regret this! I'm gonna wreck this place and you too!" With all his strength he angled his feet and pushed. Though his hair flew forward wildly, the padded frame wouldn't budge an inch. "It's okay to be scared of this beauty this beautiful strength this hammerrrrr!!" Thinking he was making headway, Alex bared his overconfidence and grunted deeply summoning all the strength to his biceps. The kick was a longshot but he was certain his arms were lock, that was where he trained the most, where he sensed the least restraint on the frame.

And yet~ the manacles on his wrists barely moved. His arms had been locked in such a way that all his strength accounted for nothing. "Eff...." He murmured, acknowledging for the first time he might be in trouble. Just as he looked up from his bent over position and realized his silver gray briefs hung tauntingly on a hook above, the sensations started~ "Wh~ what the fuck was thatt?!" He scowled and snarled out, legs trembling and exposed tush clenching. Again the gentle wispy touch breezed across his legs, from the back of his left thigh down to behind his right knee. Alex shook the frame, stifling a particular sound in his throat with a grunting grasp. "Stop it!! Stop that right now! You're dead you hear me!" The puffy soft sensation moved upward and began brushing back and forth up his quivering back thighs, as if saying oh yeahh? to his words. His prince part, poking out and gently padded on all sides through a hole in the frame responded with a little bounce.

The touch drifted down and lingered behind his knees, teasing incessantly, waiting out Alex's defiance. "Get off that!! You're just embarrassing yourself! I'm gonna break this fucking thing and burn up whatever the hell that is! GHhahaharghhh!!" Growling squeaks escaped his quickly panicking face. He tried to fight the sensation of his blushing cheeks and neck, feeling the hot bloom of humiliation as he was made to make such silly noises. The teasing touch moved up again and split, gliding along the circles of his bouncing tight tush. Alex tried in vain to bounce it away, pushing back and pulling forward, trying every bit of movement he was afforded in this highly exposed position. "Don't touch my aaaahhhssss!! That's my assssettt! This all you got? You got nothing! This is cake! You're a cake face haha!"

And just as more sounds began, his eyes focused on a figure in the shadows. Maybe his eyes were adjusting, maybe they had moved closer while he spat out his retorts. He could dimly make out the feminine curve of their figure, an animal print pattern in the shadows. "A girl." His lips curved into a smile, though very visibly forced as he tried to bolster his confidence. "You're just a silly girl aren't you. Went and caught yourself a beast! You're enamored by my body huh? Well don't worry sugartop, just let me down and we'll figure this out. I won't even hold it against you. I know you like what you see." He tried his charm, nodding below to the semi-hardon he'd been sporting since he caught a glimpse of her figure.

The deafening silence made the tough guy feel a lot less tough. Her face was obscured both by the intentional shadow and what appeared to be an elegant mask. But he could swear by her body language, a hand resting on her thick waist belt, she was smirking in his face. "Just... okay. Look, you're in over your head. It happens to the best of us. This capturing um, torturing thing? It's not your bag. Look, I've been here for what a half hour? You've got nothing from me. Me, I would have you singing like a bird. You look like a pretty thing so let me show you how it works."

Gaining no momentum with his new angle, Alex tried his strength again. He tried it more as a sound broke the otherwise silent room. "Whatt! What the fuck is thatttt!" He struggled, trying to look behind as the sound of machinery started up with a whine, and an approaching hum. His leg muscles flex and fought, trying to pull away as the sound grew closer. The shadowed feminine figure in front watched intently. "Nooo. No!! No oh please no!" Alex snarled in frantic hysterics, hearing a second sound start, the unmistakable buzz of ~ vibration~

"Don't come any closer! Keeep it away! Oh my god not thatttt!" His plight and pleading going unheeded by the merciless machinery and its equally unwavering operator. The swishy soft sensations returned at his tush, taunting his wiggling rear as the buzzing nubbin drew closer and closer. "Fuuuuckk youuu! I'm nottt gonna unnnhhhh!!" Alex lost his growling protest as the shiny oiled up vibrating toy nestled itself between his protesting tush cheeks and kept going on its mission for his honeyspot. The snarls interspersed with squeaks from the soft touches were met with reluctant moans.

The frame shook as his body was wracked with sensation. The girlish figure in the shadows didn't budge. "Turn it offff!! I'm gonna kill you you biiiiitch! Plehehaunnnhhh pleauuuhehe pleauaseee no more!" The vibrating tool buzzed in, carefully touching on his hidden button making him thrash and moan out trying to clench and fight the sensation. That slightly swollen prince part had become a raging throbbing king very quickly. He could tell this was what she wanted. Her figure wavered slightly in excitement. Now he could see she was holding a remote. "Don't push itttt!! Pleeeasee don't I'm begging you!"

She deliberately moved with slowness, showing a scrunching finger as it carefully moved down towards a button. "Just just justttt okayyy! I'll tell you anything just please dontttt unnghhhhh fuckk youuu!! nnnhh unnhhhh ghhhahahahddd!" His pivoting from begging to protests melted to a submission of whimpers when she pressed the button and the toy began sliding in and out of his tush, pausing occasionally and going right back in to mercilessly vibrate his hidden honeyspot~ and all the while the puffy sensations ~ care of pink tools which he couldn't see but certainly suspected were such a color ~ twirled and glided along his trembling thighs and kneepits and booty~

Just as the toy started spinning and humming at a high speed on his button, and his prince part throbbed madly right at the brink of release ~ the machines leveled off, the vibrations stopped and the toy retracted with a clunk. The swishy sensations barely moved, just wisping on his overloaded skin. "Unnnhhh~!! Noo noooo don't leave meee like thissss! That's unnnhhhhh~~" He whined and carried on, hands grasping at the air for attention. She watched on silently as his royal rod tingled and ached and begged for more in its little soft cradle. He tried to thrust, tried bouncing, tried everything to get back to the edge. "FFF come onnnnnnn~!!" But it was no use. He was gradually gliding off and being led backwards~ and sealing the sensation was the sudden feeling of hands goosing his rear playfully.

"UNNGHHHFffFf NHHH unnhhhghhh!" The sounds of frustration grew, and gave way to a pure wantingness which he couldn't deny. Her beautiful form right there, the machine which had been stimulating him. He wanted that attention. He was so agitated and worked up. But he wanted it, wanted it so badly. "Just make me cum pleaseeee!" He finally begged out.

"Bad boys don't get to cum~"

she finally responded, her voice both irritating him for its content but alluring his body with that matter of fact tone. He thrashed and screamed out as she mashed a button in front of his face, sending the vibrating tool full speed back to his honeyspot, that most hidden sensation he kept secret. His pleading begs were mostly nonsense through his rush of gasping whimpering moans. The teasing tools twirled and spun and taunted his backside, following every motion to keep his moans interrupted with squeaking giggles. She held the remote right by his screwed up face, showing as she'd raise and lower the vibrating intensity and speed, keeping him guessing, keeping him completely at her whim.

Another edge down, he pulled weakly at his bonds, toes curled and skin pink from overstimulation. His prince part ached and throbbed once more, pushed right to the brink and left to suffer the tingles. "PleeFFFFFFFAA" he barely got a beg out before she hit the button again sending the vibrator back in for a moment just to make him scream. "I juuaHAHA!" and again sending the puffy tools to tease at his inner thighs for a tickle when he tried to form words again.

After more rounds of the edging teasing treatment, he was lost for words, merely whimpering a mewling sound as she stood in her position remote in hand. She set her remote aside and picked up a feather taking it to his royal part, still throbbing from the last edge. The melted begging pleading was nothing but squeaks and weak moaning gasps as she tormented his swollen rod with that mean feather, carefully tickling under the tip mercilessly~

It felt like an eternity, her teasing torment on his part. He could only lay there and take everything she gave. And he couldn't help but wannnnnt everything too~ dimly aware he'd been moved, Alex glanced up in the dark room, the surface beneath him soft and silky. He sensed her nearness, and began mewling for her desperately. She nudged his upper body back and pinned his leg. He weakly fought, trying to get away, trying to push her off. Her hands moved his back and that was the end of it. With a needy sound, his back arched as he began slowly stroking his manhood ~ and once again working him to the edge before leveling off. He dizzily tried to rise up and was pushed back down, tried to reach for his aching part and was blocked. He could only lay as she watched him tingle ~ before starting her teasing bullying again~

[macgyverbooks]

Chapter Nineteen - Bala

Summary: When Bala flees her home after a terrible attack she never thought she'd find help among the elusive Orc Clans hidden deep in the mountains.

Word Count: 3000

Warnings: None

Read on AO3 here

Read on Inkitt here

Previous Chapter here

Next Chapter here

Master list here

-

Iron touched. That’s what the fey had said. That human blood runs in my veins. I stared at my hands, studying my long fingers with knotted knuckles that stuck out awkwardly and ended in blunt, chewed nails. Flipping them over I looked at my pale palms crisscrossed with lines and callouses, my silver bangles jangling with the movement. I could discern no human there, though I’d never seen a human's hands. Glancing up I gazed into the mirror that hung on the wall in Ada’s room. Turning slowly I contemplated my form. Gone was the skinny child that had raced the stone halls of the abbey, in her place stood a woman with full hips and ample chest, long legs and a pleasing face, emphasised by the gaudy ceremonial dress I wore.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d put on my body. Replacing the warm and practical attire I’d been gifted was a silken, hand-painted masterpiece that cinched me in at the waist and cut low across my chest. Painted to resemble a green luna moth's wings, the wrap dress floated on the breeze, swishing in the most delightful way as I moved. I had initially objected when Gartha had shown it to me, eyeing the neckline with distaste. But upon Gartha’s gentle insistence and Ada’s scoffing remarks I’d tried it. The only thing that dampened the look was the manacles that still wrapped my ankles.

“Come, let me do your hair.” Gartha urged, spinning her finger in the air for me to turn.

“Why am I getting dressed up?” I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from the mirror.

“It’s our custom for the Day of Last Sun. We dress in our finest to see the year out and welcome in the new. It’s our chance to show off our finery and craftsmanship that’s been handed down to us for generations. Everybody will expect you to look presentable. It would bring shame to Ada if you weren’t.”

“Presentable,” I chuffed, eyeing the slit in the skirt that ran all the way to my hip.

“Hush girl,” Ada snapped. “This is a great honour Gartha is giving you. Be grateful.”

“I am!” I snapped back before turning to look at Gartha over my shoulder with a gentler expression. “I am. Thank you.” 

“It’s a pleasure, Bala,” Gartha smiled, the crow's feet around her eyes crinkling up kindly. “I’ve spent many years helping my Evhran dress for this same festival but now she doesn’t need her mother, it’s a joy to do it again.’

“Are you not going?”

“Oh, I’ll be there. It’s just this festival is more for the youngins.” 

With practiced hands Gartha swept my hip length hair up, pinning and platting it into an elaborate half up half down bun.As a final touch, she slotted in a silver pin forged to look like trailing oak leaves. 

“Let’s paint your face,” she grinned. I just nodded, happy to feel mothered after so long. Gartha moved about the room with an air of calm commotion, drawing kohl around my eyes and darkening my lips with a honey-sweet balm. Finally, she opened a small chest she’d brought and hung a delicate silver belt with purple jewels around my waist and slid simple silver rings on nearly every finger.

With a spin, she presented me in front of the mirror. I looked… beautiful, I thought tentatively. Like the fine Ladies that had come to our abbey except instead of the refined grace they’d shown I looked almost feral, like something pulled straight from the fey wilds. Beautiful yet untamed. My hair, braided and teased into locks that fell down my back in white silken ropes, framed my tan face, the kohl around my eyes underlining their size making my deep purple irises uncannily striking. 

I must have been quiet for too long as Gartha’s concerned face appeared over my shoulder.

“Do you like it?” She asked

“I-I love it,” I murmured to her through the mirror. She smiled broadly and gathered her things.

“Do you need me, Ada?” Gartha asked though she was already heading for the door.

“No, get yourself gone.” 

With that, Gartha left with a smile and a wink. Soon as the door clicked shut Ada started.

“Right, quit gawking at yourself and get going to the bailey. You’ll be serving at the celebration, so get moving.”

“But I’ve never done that before,” I protested, surely they didn’t expect me to barmaid in this outfit?

“Not my problem girl, now get out!” Ada hissed and all but threw me out the door.

Smoothing down my dress I snarled at the door as it slammed closed but did what I was told, my manacles clattering across the floor as I moved down the empty hall, all the elders already at the celebration no doubt; even Agbar had gone, dressed in what I dreaded to think. Making my way carefully down the spiral stair I could feel the vibration of the music and the thumping of many feet through my own. Stepping down into the cavernous space of the main bailey I was nearly swept away in an instant. The whole tribe was in attendance, dancing to the thumping music, laughing and shouting uproariously as they swept around the room. To my utter surprise, I realised I was entirely underdressed. The space was a cacophony of vibrant colour, glittering jewels and elaborate updos. Feathers, finely crafted metal, carved wood, engraved bone, shining gems, it was all on full display, the beauty and prestige taking my breath away.

Gathering my skirts I waded in, fighting the roving tide of bodies to get to the centre where a massive elk was being spit roast on an open fire and tables upon tables of food and drink were laid out. Gasping for breath in the heat I waved my arms to an older woman who served beer, her lined face mirthful and painted with a swirling design made to resemble peacock feathers. Turning her dark eyes to mine, her face pinched into cruel lines as she looked me up and down.

“I’m here to help,” I shouted over the clamour and motioned at the beer.

“You’re late.” She snapped and thrust a platter of ornate beer flagons at me. “Go fill those and get to work!” She all but roared over the noise before turning and smiling flirtatiously at a man over my head. 

Arms shaking under that weight of just the empty flagons I heaved the platter over to the monstrous keg that had been mounted on its side up on long legs. Bouncing between other elaborately dressed servers I placed the plater on the ground and put a flagon up to the spout and pulled the sticky handle. Beer, smelling bready with a tang of sweet fruit, frothed into the mug, glancing around I snuck a sip and gasped. It was ice cold and pleasantly sharp with a hop aftertaste I enjoyed. I patted the keg, I’m coming back for you later, I thought.

With only a few flagons on my silver tray, I waded back into the crowd, moving with the masses albeit with a limp. Keeping a smile plastered on my face I served beer to eager hands while also watching the Orcs dance in fascination. While the Orcs produced nothing as clipped and refined as the fey waltzes or as delicate yet complicated as the elven long dances their style was no doubt resplendent. They danced in couples, swapping partners on a whim in great spinning movements, the new partner catching them with insane shows of strength and grace. With gyrating almost hypnotic movements the partners clung together moving as one as they blazed across the floor in a flurry of colour and flashing metal.   

The fire roared higher, braziers flickering as children ran in and out of legs, dogs barked, drunkards sang and friends chattered. Moving through the crowd I spied the occasional shadow or flicker in my vision as fey encroached on the ceremony, flying in through the open windows and gates as dainty lightning bugs or creeping beasts that teased the dogs. Occasionally an overly long and delicate hand would seize a mug from my tray and quick as a whip retreat into the heave of bodies, only for the mug to magically reappear either empty or with a simple gift of flowers or a four-leaf clover laid at the bottom. I even saw the one that could lie, but only for a moment, as he hung from a candelabra in one second and vanished the next. I kept my eyes peeled after that, I had questions for that one.

All was well until I tripped. My manacles had been nothing but a nuisance the whole evening, I was constantly kicking them out from under my feet and having them stepped on bringing me to a jerking halt. But after serving toward the edges of the crowd I had spun out the way of a child only to catch my feet on the chain and land in the lap of the worst possible person. Dannik grinned down at me, his long body sprawled out on some plush cushions and rugs. Gathering my wits I shot to my feet and snatched up my tray, nodding a babbled apology and spun to leave only to feel a hand land heavily on my shoulder. My heart staccatoed into a panicked thumping rhythm that matched the drums of the music as I was slowly and forcefully turned around. 

Throughout much of the night, I had received little nods of appraisal from both the men and women, smiles and appreciative looks that had made me giddy. But the way Dannik stared, like I was meat on a hook, made my skin crawl. I held the platter in front of me and smiled shakily up at the massive man. Gods I wish I were bigger, taller, stronger, anything to not feel so outmatched by this monster of an Orc. Maybe if my magic was fully back I could hold my head higher but nonetheless, I shrank under his hunting gaze.

“You look… different,” he grunted. Reaching down he played with the edge of my skirt, a knuckle scraping my thigh as he went. Bolts of fear shot down my legs, begging me to run but I stayed, rooted to the spot like a deer in the torchlight. Stepping closer, swamping me with his sweaty body Dannik leaned down to sniff my hair.

“I like different,” he grinned, all teeth and gums. 

“O-okay, that’s nice. I’m real busy though so-,” I stuttered, taking an unsteady step back only for Dannik to shoot out an arm and grab the back of my neck.

“I think you should stay,” Dannik stated, licking his lips. 

“I think you should fuck off,” came a voice like thunder.

Glancing up Dannik eyed the newcomer, sizing them up with a sneer. Straining my neck under Dannik’s ferocious grip I spied my saviour out the corner of my eye. Standing resplendent in a bone headdress and a bright red and blue dress that showed off her powerful shoulders and thick thighs Evhran, spearholder of the clan and the one who’d stolen my people's precious objects, glared at Dannik with a look that promised bloody murder. Choking out a relieved laugh I pulled away from Dannik only for him to seize my hair instead, always the hair with this guy, and snarled at Evhran. 

“You have no business here, the Elf is a guest no longer.”

“You have a point,” Evhran sighed looking like she was backing down and Dannik relaxed at the same time my panic rose. Out of nowhere a grey, taloned fist connected with his nose, spraying blood and snapping his head back with an audible crack. He sank to his knees with a wail, clutching his face as bright red gore seeped between his fingers. A hand took mine and I was led quickly away.

“Thank you!” I yelled over the noise but Evhran didn’t stop, threading through the crowds, people making way for her despite the constrained space. We made our way past the central fire pit, where the elk was now being served to mobs of hungry Orcs, to the steps that led up to a pair of impressive iron-bound doors. It was much quieter up here, above the blaring noise of the party, already I felt my shoulders relax as my ears rang. A few Orcs lounged about drinking and laughing, some hailing Evhran as she halted. Letting go of me to relax into a plush pile of pillows, she threw her arms out and gestured for me to sit. I knelt by her feet, not feeling comfortable enough to touch the highly decorated and tasselled cushions in case I needed to make a quick escape.

Evhran laughed loud and proud throwing her head back, beads clacking as she did. 

“I’ve wanted to punch that bastard for years,” she grinned broadly at me, “thank you for giving me the chance little Elf.” I blushed and fiddled with a lock of hair, not sure how to respond. Evhran reached out, an ivory drinking horn in her hand.

“Here, feels like you need it.” 

I took the horn gratefully and drank deeply, it wasn’t beer but some sort of warming spirit that heated my veins. Coughing and wiping my mouth I handed it back, Evhran making an impressed noise in her throat. Settling back into her seat she eyed me curiously, swirling her own drinking horn.

“We haven’t officially met have we, I’m Thrall’ka An Evhran Darr Vesha. But you can call me Evhran.”  

“I’m Bala, pleasure.” I squeaked and held out an awkward hand which she shook with a wry smile. 

“So tell me, do you have anything like this with your family?”

Evhran was beautiful I realised as she spoke. She had an angular face with a proud straight nose and strong jawline, softened by her full shapely lips and feminine brow. Freckles speckled across her nose, she'd picked out a few specific ones in kohl to create star constellations across her cheeks. Her amber eyes were warm but calculating as she gazed steadily at me, like a lion studying a lamb. 

“Um no, not really. I have no family to speak of and the abbeys celebrations were nothing like this. Much quieter, more praying, a few lectures that sort of thing”

“Oh, that sounds... lovely?”

“You don’t have to be polite,” I laughed lightly with a wave. “We all thought it was boring it’s just how things are done. Were done.”

“Well If you didn’t enjoy it why didn’t you leave,” Evhran asked, looking out over the celebration like what she said was some small thing. 

“I was gifted to the abbey by my mother. I owed them my service till I was of age or deemed ready,” I stared at her tattoos as I spoke, looking at the way they swirled like shadowed smoke up her toned arms and down her exposed thigh. I want a tattoo, I thought longingly. If getting a tattoo gave me a pinch of Evhran’s easy predatory air I’d take it. I was fed up with being a target, I wanted to be dangerous, someone with teeth who you thought twice about messing with.

“Gifted?” Evhran asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise. I nodded distractedly, already bored by the story I’d told a million times.

“It’s not common but it happens. I was born at the abbey and my mother left me there to be raised by the Sisters of Issilah, to become one of them. I never knew my mother.” I trailed off lost in memories.

While I had disliked the stringent rules and protocols of the abbey, especially as a child, I enjoyed learning my craft and appreciated the sense of purpose it gave me. My life had been set before me, perfectly planned. I would finish my schooling becoming a true priestess of the church and go on my pilgrimage through the mountains. After, I would’ve journeyed on, going to whatever city or settlement that needed me. From there I could have moved up the ranks and specialised in whatever intrigued me most, from healing, or political involvement in the various courts or even research for the more magic-focused monasteries. Freedom had been there at my fingertips. Now, with it all swept away, I floundered, drowning under a tirade of worries and questions. What did I truly want now everything was gone?

Clearing her throat Evhran sat forward, putting her elbows on her knees so she was closer to my level.

“Is it just Bala? No family name or title?” I shook my head.

“Just Bala,” I smiled, “I haven’t even received my real name yet. Bala is just a place holder. Only a graduated priestess may obtain her birth name and inheritance to keep her from distractions.” I recited without thinking.

Evhran sat back with a grunt.

“That’s pretty bullshit, don’t you think? Without a name or a title how do you know who you are? You cannot have a future unless you know your past.” Blinking up at her, I was surprised at her vehemence. Opening my mouth to respond I paused when a great horn blast hushed the entire assembly.

Glancing around I saw that everyone’s eyes had swung to us on the steps. I sputtered, thinking I’d made some grave mistake when the doors behind us swung wide open on massive hinges. A slow drum beat started as from out of the shadows of the doorway came a great horned figure. I baulked as the shadow stepped into the light on bare feet. He was tall and immensely broad, draped in a shaggy white buck skin that covered his shoulders and hung down his back like a cape. An engraved deer skull covered his face. Two great elk horns stood out from his head, polished to a wicked sharpness, the tines triple of what you would see on a regular elk. The horns spread low and wide, draped with ribbon, holly leaves and berries. About his toned waist was a layered loin cloth with mystic symbols stitched into the fabric. Hammered gold bands sat his wrists, ankles and just below the knee and shoulder joint while white paint whorled about his body and lower half of his face in pleasing eye-catching patterns. I stared unable to tear my eyes away, until I spied a pair of pale eyes staring back at me from under the deer skull. 

Turning his head, the great horns swinging, Dejah rose his arms to the crowd, the drumbeat at a crescendo.

“To the Last Sun!” Dejah roared and the crowd roared back.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Hi love!

Can I please beg for Tangled Geraskier?

Rapunzel Jask. You know I’m a sucker for angst so including the scene where he cuts her hair would slay me 💖💖💖💖💖

TYILYYYYY

Hello, Stina dear! Sorry this took me actual months to write, but it broke me out of my writer’s block and for that I am eternally grateful.

I chose several pieces of the Tangled narrative to write Geralt and Jaskier into... enjoy! 

2k-ish words (please leave me comments I’m so tired my dudes)

tw: blood, injury, major character (near) death, if you’ve seen Tangled you’ve seen this

---

“So,” Jaskier smiles playfully up at the thief sitting beside him. “Roger Eric, huh?”

Geralt rolls his eyes but Jaskier catches the flush that settles high on his companion’s cheekbones. “It was… It’s a long and boring story about a lot of sad little children that I’m sure you don’t want to hear on such a lovely evening.”

Jaskier scoots closer, until the sides of their arms are pressed too tightly together for even a slip of paper to slide between, and leans his weight against the thief. He bats his thick eyelashes and pouts his lip in a way that always seems to work with his Father. “C’mon, Geralt, please won’t you tell me? Just one little story? I told you about my magical hair, after all.”

“Hmm,” the thief glares dawn at the doe-eyed blonde for a moment before nervously clearing his throat. “Fine. I… I got the name Geralt of Rivia from a collection of short stories that I used to read the other boys at the orphanage in Kaedwen; they were all about this knight who was loyal and brave and courageous despite his hideous appearance. He was rejected by princesses and noble women but was beloved by the people. Having been born with white hair… well, a lot of the folks that came looking for children thought I was under a spell or curse so…. I wasn’t their first choice for adoption.”

“You and Geralt were a lot alike, then. Different. Special… Kind.”

“I wouldn’t say I was spe-”

Jaskier’s hand darts forward and his long, slender musician’s fingers grasp Geralt by the wrist. The fledgling bard clings onto his escort tightly, his large blue eyes suddenly brimming up with tears. “Don’t you dare say you aren’t special, Geralt Roger Eric whatever your surname really is. I’ll never forgive you if you spew such nonsense where my delicate ears can hear it.”

Geralt swallows thickly and glances away. Jaskier always looks so sweet and sincere; the features on his boyish face flicker in and out of focus as patterns of light thrown by their small campfire play across his pale skin. His gaze is intense, focused on Geralt and Geralt alone. The thief panics and asks: “What is it, Jaskier? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You saved me, you know. You saved me from those men back there at the inn, you saved me from being trapped in the tower all my life, you saved me from getting lost in the forest, you… you’re a good person, Geralt. Don’t let the world or the Captain of the Guard or anyone else change your mind, do you understand me? You are-” Jaskier’s hands scrabble frantically to grasp Geralt’s, as if the white-haired man might disappear entirely if Jaskier so much as loosens his grip “- you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me since I’ve been locked in that foul, awful tower!”

“Well I…” Geralt clears his throat again. He stands slowly, disentangling his hangs from Jaskier’s as he takes a slow step back. And then another. “I should go get more firewood.”

Despite the uneasiness in their parting, Jaskier smiles after him. 

The momentary spell cast by their closeness is only broken when Jaskier hears a familiar voice from just behind him: “Well, I thought he’d never leave!”

The blonde jumps up from his seat and spins on his heel to face the black-cloaked wizard. “Father? How… How did you find me?”

Stregobor wraps his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and squeezes so tightly that it feels more like a threat than an embrace. “It was easy, I simply followed the sound of absolute betrayal.”

Jaskier flinches and tries to pull away but cannot yet escape. 

“I just brought you this,” his Father continues. He finally releases Jaskier and hands his son the worn leather satchel he’d found hidden in his tower. “If this Geralt creature really is the man you think him to be -and don’t deny it, little flower, I can read your thoughts- give this back to him and see how long he stays.”

“Father, I-”

“Goodbye, my child. See you soon, I’m sure. Just remember that Father knows best!”

And in a swirl of black smoke and confusion, Stregobor disappears.

---

“Why do you look so scared?” Geralt asks. He slows the small gondola he’s rented to a stop, turning it slightly more to the side so that they have a better vantage point to see the lanterns spread over the harbor from the city. Jaskier sighs deeply and shakes a stray flower petal away from his eyes, the enormous golden braid shifting ever-so-slightly against his shoulders.

“I’ve been looking out a window for eighteen years,” he says softly. Nervously. “What if… What if it’s not what I expected? I’m terrified to see what it all looks like up close because what if it doesn’t meet my expectations? What if it’s not everything I dreamed it would be?”

“It will be,” Geralt replies without thinking. 

“And what if it is?” Jaskier queries, voice growing frantic. “What if it’s even more spectacular than I could have ever hoped? Then my dream will have been fulfilled and I’ll just… go back to the tower again.”

“You’ll just have to find a new dream, I guess,” Geralt offers. When Jaskier settles down into the boat a bit more comfortably and smiles shyly back at him, the thief knows he’s hit the right mark for once. Behind Geralt, the first lantern lights up the sky. Jaskier gasps and points, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement; Geralt is utterly enchanted by his easy beauty. The thief digs two paper lanterns out from beneath his seat and offers one to Jaskier, giddy when he grins even more excitedly than before. “I got this for you… I hope you like it.”

“Oh, I love it! And I have something for you, too.” Jaskier turns and pulls something from behind him. The bardling hands Geralt his very own satchel, which the thief briefly accepts and then drops to the floor without a second thought. The anxious blonde musician beams over at him more gloriously than the midday sun and then turns away, blushing a sweet shade of pink. “I should have given it to you earlier, but I was so scared… and now I’m not! I’m not scared anymore!”

“Good,” Geralt smiles back. He’s elated. It feels as if his heart is glowing twice as brightly as any of the lanterns floating past and around them. “That’s very good.”

I know what my dream is now, Jaskier. Now that you’re here by my side I never want to see you frown again. You don’t deserve to be hidden away in a tower where your art is stifled… even if you don’t want to love me back in that way, I’ll still protect you. I want to see how you see the world, Jaskier. I lo-

“Geralt! Look! That one has runes painted on it, what does it say!?”

---

Geralt pulls his daggers from his belt but before he can stab them into the craigy stone wall and begin his ascent, the familiar tresses of Jaskier’s long golden hair topple down to reach him. Thank fuck, he’s still alive. 

“Jaskier! I thought I’d never see you again!” he calls as he grabs hold of the thick blonde strands. 

The thief climbs quickly, his arms and legs nearly cramping with the effort to hurry back to Jaskier. As he hauls himself through the large window and into the tower proper, however, he’s met with a confusing and unsettling sight: Jaskier stands across the room, a cloth gag pulled tightly between his teeth, his hands manacled together behind him. A short length of spare chain attached to the manacles keeps the frightened, struggling blonde tethered against one of the building’s thick support beams. Someone had knocked down a mirror or vase during the previous fighting; shards of pottery and silver lie scattered across the floor, working as a weak barrier to keep Geralt away from the bound man. Jaskier screams out in warning as their eyes meet: “Ghmphh!”

If Jaskier is being held captive then who let his hair do-

Before Geralt can finish fully forming his question, a bright flash of pain arcs out from his side and sends him toppling to his knees. A wet, sticky heat begins to spread from a spot beneath his ribs and when he presses his hand against his shirt it comes way red. 

Oh. Oh, no...

He hears Stregobor’s voice addressing the sobbing blonde, “Now look what you’ve done, Jaskier.”

Geralt collapses to his knees and then falls to his side, curling up in the fetal position and clutching at the wound as if that will be any help at all. He knows he’s doomed, but there must be some way for him to help Jaskier… to save his… his love. 

“Don’t worry, little flower, our secret will die with your little thief, here, and then we’ll be safe again. Just the two of us.”

Jaskier keens loudly and the sharp, desperate sound of it makes something deep in Geralt’s heart ache. The younger man pulls and yanks against the chains that hold him in place, his bare feet slipping against the polished floor as he tries and fails to reach the wounded Geralt. 

Stregobor yanks at the lead, pulling Jaskier back harshly by the arms. The young musician’s shoulders burn with the strain of it but Jaskier pulls forward anyway, uncaring. He must save Geralt, he must. The wizard tugs him back again, more roughly, and the jarring movement loosens his gag. He spits it from his mouth and cries out: “Stregobor! Strego- Father, listen to me!”

The wizard pauses, his interest piqued by Jaskier’s use of the word Father given the circumstances. “Yes, child?”

“Father,” Jaskier pants, turning to look at the man who’d held him captive for eighteen years. The man who kidnapped him from his cradle and forced him to grow up without the love of his real parents. The man who had, mere moments ago, stabbed the love of Jaskier’s life with the full intention of killing him. “I want you to know that I won’t stop fighting you. Every moment of every day for the rest of my life will be spent trying to get away from you. I will scream and kick and struggle and yell and you will have to keep me caged away as a bird or a mouse to make me stay by your side unless-” Jaskier pauses to take a breath, his shoulders sagging as his gaze drops submissively to the floor between them “-unless you let me save this man. Let me save Geralt’s life and I will follow you all around the Continent without a single word of complaint. I will never attempt to run away or hide from you, not once. Everything will go back to being exactly like it was before, Father, I swear on his life.”

Stregobor considers for a moment. 

He nods. 

“Alright, then. Let’s be quick about it, little flower.”

He removes the shackles from Jaskier and clamps them tightly around Geralt’s wrists instead, securing him to the bannister at the foot of the stairs. To keep him from following us, he remarks offhandedly. 

Jaskier pads his way across the floor as quickly as he can in his bare feet and falls to the ground at Geralt’s side. He pulls the wounded thief against his side to steady him and gathers two heavy handfuls of his own long hair. “I’m so sorry! Everything is going to be okay now, Geralt, I swear it.”

Geralt shoves his hands away weakly, “No, Jaskier.”

“You have to trust me, Geralt, I-”

“I c-can’t let you d-do this,” Geralt grunts, teeth gritted against the pain. 

Jaskier stares down at him, tears already gathering at the corners of his sky-blue eyes. His voice trembles when he whispers, “And I can’t let you die. I won’t let you die.”

“But if you do th-this then you-” Geralt coughs and Jaskier wipes a trickle of blood away from the corner of the thief’s mouth “-you will die.”

“Shh,” Jaskier quiets him, dropping one fistfull of blonde tresses to cup Geralt’s face instead. “Everything will be alright.”

Geralt smiles sadly up at Jaskier, his decision already having been made. He lets the back of his knuckles ghost across the musician’s peach-soft cheek. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and then open again, curious. “Jaskier, I…”

The thief uses the last of his strength to push up into a sitting position. The hand on Jaskier’s face slides back and gathers his hair at the back of his neck. Geralt’s other hand comes up, a shard of glass gripped tightly in his fist, and slices through the long blonde strands. He watches as Jaskier’s hair turns from radiant gold to chestnut brown. Geralt falls back with a short, sharp sound of agony, his vision already fading around the edges. The shard of mirror, dagger-sharp around the edges, clatters to the ground beside Jaskier. 

“No!” Stregobor screams, gathering up an armful of Jaskier’s still-blonde hair. The golden hue is already fading, shifting to match the short brown hair still fluffed around his head. The lost prince watches with wide, horrified eyes as the wizard trips over a loose floorboard and goes careening out the open window. 

More worrying than his kidnapper’s death, however, is the man lying in his arms, breathing shallowly. Jaskier gathers Geralt close, tucking the thief’s head against his neck and wrapping his arms around the older man’s broad shoulders. “No, no, no, no, Geralt. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me, right here.”

He grabbed at Geralt’s hand, holding it against the top of his head as he sang desperately. “Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine, make the clock reverse, bring back was once was mi-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt says, pulling his hand down to cup the prince’s face. He can feel his limbs growing cold and numb, distant from him and out of his control. “You… You were my new dream.”

Jaskier sobs, clinging to Geralt with all he’s worth. “And you were mine.”

Geralt manages to smile up into those beautiful blue eyes one last time. And then the world goes dark and his hand falls to the floor, limp.

---

Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and screams. He throws back his head and howls like a wounded animal, his heart shattering to pieces within the confines of his chest cavity. Then he quiets himself down, adjusts Geralt’s body on his lap, and finishes the song the way he’s been taught to do: “Heal what has been hurt, change the Fates’ design, save what has been lost… bring back what once was mine.”

A single tear falls from his eye and lands on Geralt’s cheek. A cheek that will never blush again, never turn up in a smile, never-

A faint yellow glow catches Jaskier’s vision, just from the corner of his eye. He turns his head to look at Geralt’s wound and gasps: the outline of a golden flower covers his abdomen, glowing so brightly that Jaskier must hide his eyes and turn away to keep from being blinded. When the glow fades enough that can safely look back again, Geralt’s wound is gone and the blood that was once staining his jerkin has disappeared. 

He leans over the white-haired thief with bated breath, waiting for a movement or a breath or something… anything. 

After a long moment, two honey-hazel eyes blink open. Geralt inhales quietly and then asks, with the sweetest smile Jaskier has ever seen in all his eighteen years of life, “Did I ever tell you I had a thing for brunettes?”

Jaskier squeals with glee and throws himself into Geralt’s waiting arms, pressing their eager mouths together for the first kiss of their Happily Ever After. 

[theoutcastrogue]

Locks in Dungeons and Dragons

[article by Joseph Mohr]

“My recent article on Thieves’ Tools was widely popular and this led me to think outside the box a bit about what might else might interest people that are building dungeons for their players. A few of the comments were from people with far more expertise about locks and lock picking than I have. But I did some research into Medieval locks and this article will discuss these locks in the context that Dungeons and Dragons locks would likely be similar.

A warded lock example

What did people use locks for in medieval times?

Locks were used for a lot of purpose. Dungeons, of course, were one of them. A medieval dungeon and a fantasy dungeon are, of course, different things. A medieval dungeon was used for housing prisoners (criminals, political prisoners, enemies of the state, etc). And fantasy dungeons tend to house monsters and villains and, yes, sometimes criminals too.

Some known uses for locks in the medieval world are:

Dungeons (of course!)

Manacles

Houses

Shops

Chastity belts

Balls and chains

Treasure chests

Cages

Torture devices (iron maidens, etc)

Cell doors

City gates

Coffins (You won’t want the dead leaving their grave)

And probably dozens of things that I have never really considered

What is left of a medieval lock

How long have locks been around?

Locks were mentioned in the Old Testament. They have been around at least that long. The book of Nehemiah mentions that the gates of Jerusalem were locked at barred. The Romans were also known to have used locks. They made padlocks of iron.  But even those locks may not have been the first.  The Khorsabad palace in Nineveh was found to have a wooden lock. This lock is believed to be nearly 4000 years old. But even that lock may not be the first. It is believed that the ancient Egyptians were creating wooden locks as early as early as 6000 years ago.

Middle age door lock

Types of locks used in medieval times

There were a few types of locks that were widely used during the middle ages. Some of these locks include:

Warded locks – This type of lock uses a series of “Wards” or obstructions to prevent the lock from opening until the correct key is inserted. The correct key will have notches or slots that correspond to these wards and allow the key to turn in the lock. These types of locks were used widely in monasteries during the middle ages. The weakness of this type of lock is that a well designed skeleton key can bypass many of these wards and still turn.  This type of lock has been around since ancient China and the Roman Empire.

Level Tumbler Locks – This type of lock was not available during the middle ages but was designed to improve upon the design and to make skeleton keys unable to open them. These locks  use a set of levers to prevent the bolt from moving in the lock.  They were not available until 1778 but I mention them here to show the evolution in lock design.

Padlocks – are portable locks that have a shackle that can be placed through an opening in order to prevent access to it. These locks have been around since as early as the Roman era. It is believed that they date back to between 500 BC and 300 AD.

Dead bolts – Norman castle doors in the middle ages were known to have this type of lock. This type of lock required the key  to be turned a full turn as the key was directly sliding the bolt.

Custom locks – By the late medieval years locks became more sophisticated. Locks were cleverly hidden as were the keyholes. The owner of the lock would know where to press in order to reveal the keyhole. A spring would slide a piece of metal away to reveal the keyhole. Sometimes carvings or painting would also conceal the keyhole. These locks would come with only one key that could open it.  Sometimes they even placed fake keyholes to confuse lock pickers.

A medieval padlock with keys

What were locks made out of?

Different materials were used over the years to make locks. Obviously the need for security had a lot to do with the development of different metals used in them. Some of these materials used to make locks included:

Brass

Bronze

Silver

Wood

Iron

Even as early as Roman times iron was being used for some locks. Often they had bronze keys. At first Blacksmiths were the usual maker of locks. Later specialized locksmiths began plying their trade.

A castle door with deadbolt

So how does all of this relate to Dungeons and Dragons?

There are many places in a Dungeons and Dragons campaign where locks are likely to be employed. Most likely the Dungeon Master would want to use iron for the lock to make it the most difficult material to break. Places where such locks would be found might include:

If you are going to use a device like this on your prisoners you do not want them getting out easily

Treasure chests – of course this is the number one place. Some chests might be found open or unlocked but most people who own treasure are going to want to keep it safe. Chests are heavy. Sometimes they are banded to protect from cutting into the chest. By the middle ages locks were often stronger than the chests or doors that they protected.

Doors – most average people could not have afforded to have a lock put in. Nobles and wealthy people could have and probably would have put locks in. Anyone who owns treasure is likely to lock more than just the chest it is in. They are going to lock the room where it is found. And they are likely to lock the front door to the castle or home.

City gates – gates were often locked at night or after curfew. They were opened in the morning. They often contained postings of announcements about new taxes, toll schedules, new laws, etc.

Shackles – dungeons often have prisoners. Sometimes they are allowed to roam free in their cells and other times they are chained to a wall or to each other. Or they might be chained to a heavy iron ball to prevent them from moving quickly but allowing them some ability to move.

Spell books – why let others pry into your spells? And if the mage is killed…no need for anyone else to be able to read it.

Traps – if you want to set a trap or temporarily disarm it a lock is an easy way to do it quickly.

Dungeon cells – locks would be used to keep prisoners in their cells or cages.

Wanna really piss off the prisoners in your dungeon? Lock their heads in these. Apparently the man in the iron mask was not the only guy to get his head locked up

Lock use in Dungeons and Dragons have nearly infinite applications

But the types of locks themselves are pretty limited. There could be, of course, magical locks created for your campaign. Or perhaps some king might commission someone to create a new one. Placing locks is intended to prevent, or slow down, would be thieves and protect valuables or to keep access (or freedom) restricted.”

A medieval chastity belt. A number of authorities claim that chastity belts were just a myth but some actual examples of the device are still known to exist. [N.B. Gah, no. All the extant examples are 19th century or later curiosities (at best) or deliberate shams (at worst). Either way, they came out of a fascination with the Middle Ages, and an eagerness to imagine it as much more exciting and brutal than it actual was. Neither chastity belts nor iron maidens were really a thing.]

– article by Joseph Mohr, in Old School Role Playing (Jan 2020)

[wingedquill]

sing me something i need

@geraltwhumpweek

TITLE: sing me something i need

SHIP: Geralt/Jaskier

PROMPT DAY: Day 3: Cursed

MEDIUM: Netflix

WARNINGS: Torture, murder (of a massive dickhead)

SUMMARY: When Geralt is a young witcher, he loves to sing. Love songs and ballads and ridiculous little ditties, it doesn't matter. He delights in using his voice, in making beautiful music. But then he's given the "gift" of jewels falling from his mouth whenever he speaks. A gift that kings would kill for. Would certainly hurt a lowly mutant for. He doesn't much like to sing, after that.

WORD COUNT: 4,962

AUTHOR’S NOTES: You can also find this on AO3!

“You know what I’m curious about, jewel?”

The king is here. Geralt shrinks back into the corner of his cell, wrapping his arms around his knees, because things are never good when the king is here. The last time he was curious, it was to see what kind of gems fell from Geralt’s mouth when he screamed.

Obsidian. Pretty and shiny but ultimately not as valuable as gold and jewels. And thank the gods for that.

“I wonder,” the king murmurs, tapping his jewel-coated scepter against the ground, “if you can sing.”

His heart drops into his stomach.

He loves to sing. He always has. In a world of blood and monster guts, he thinks sometimes that his voice is the only beautiful thing about him. He adores the wild freedom of belting out his sorrows and joys to the world, the way that his brothers grin fondly at him as he start

s up a jaunty drinking tune, the way he can weave a tragedy into something low and somber and perfect for murmuring around a campfire.

And he hoped—he hoped he could keep that love. That the king, with all his demands for his words and his whispers and his screams of agony, wouldn’t think to take this too.

But of course he did.

Geralt lifts his head and glares at him and wishes, not for the first time, that the fae who did this to him had given him the power to kill with a word. Or the power to fly, to soar far, far away from here.

“Don’t be shy.” The king steps forward into the cell, looming above Geralt. “I’m sure you sound lovely.”

“I—I can’t—”

His voice sounds like the rasp of sand sliding together. Two tiny pearls clatter to the floor, rolling across the rough stone. The king bats them aside with his scepter. He doesn’t have the patience for small offerings anymore.

“Sure you can,” he says. He lifts up the scepter and spins it around in his hand so that the bottom is facing Geralt. Its point gleams in the low light of the cell. Dull, but still sharp enough to pierce skin with the right amount of force. Geralt’s shoulder throbs at the reminder.

“Sing, my jewel.”

Geralt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Pretends that he’s not here, that he’s back within the walls of Kaer Morhen, safe and whole. That his throat isn’t as tattered as a white flag fluttering in the air over a battlefield. That his voice doesn’t betray him with every word he speaks.

And then he starts to sing. A lullaby he remembers Vesemir humming to him on the road to Kaer Morhen, when he was a child still afraid of the dark. A song that he’s come back to, time and time again, whenever he feels like that scared little kid.

His throat cracks and burns around the words, and he practically chokes halfway through the first line. Something knocks against the back of his teeth, and when he opens his mouth to sing the next word, a massive ruby falls from his lips.

It’s bigger than any jewel he’s ever spoken, and the king’s eyes light up as he waves at Geralt to keep singing. He bends down and plucks the ruby from the cold stone floor, even as a sapphire clatters down to take its place. He twirls the gem back and forth in his fingers, examining its facets, far more precise and numerous than any jeweler could hope to obtain. Even in the low light of the cell, it sparkles like it’s full of trapped fire.

It’s beautiful. Far more beautiful than his speech, his whispers, his screams.

Oh gods, no. No no no.

“I think we’ve found your greatest talent, my jewel,” the king says, even as Geralt coughs up the next gem, his throat heaving with the effort. Emerald.

“Hurts—” he croaks. A sapphire the size of his thumbnail clicks against the ground. The king rolls his eyes.

“When have I ever cared about that?” he says, sounding almost bored. “We’ve done this dance before, treasure. The beauty outweighs the cost.”

You don’t have to bear the cost.

He keeps those words to himself. His back still stings from the king’s last punishment for “mouthing off.”

The king presses the point of his scepter into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Keep singing.”

He keeps singing.

Gem after gem falls to the flagstones, and each one rubs his throat just a bit rawer, tears at his tongue and his lips and the roof of his mouth. He tries to sing softer, make the jewels a bit smaller, but the king digs the scepter in whenever the results are unsatisfactory.

The song drags on and on and on and not for the first time he wonders if he’ll ever burn through this curse, if the magic the fae had breathed into him would ever be depleted.

When it’s over, there are enough jewels on the ground to keep a man for several lifetimes. The king smiles as he gathers them in his hands, staring down at Geralt’s song like he’s picturing what he can make of it. A crown, perhaps. A throne. Another scepter, grander and richer and sharper.

“Again,” he says. “Higher this time. I want to see if range affects it.”

A sob tears itself from Geralt’s throat. He’s going to die like this. Suffocated by the thing he used to love, by the beauty of his own voice, his songs crushing him from the inside out.

“You can cry later, little songbird,” the king growls. “Don’t waste my time now.”

Songbird. The same teasing nickname that Eskel had given him, all those years ago. It doesn’t belong in this bastard’s mouth, no more than Geralt’s words belong in his hands, but he can’t take any of it back.

He gathers himself. He’s still a witcher, despite everything this man has done to him. He’s still a wolf, still a protector, a warrior, a strong and shining thing. The king can’t take that away from him.

He starts to sing a love song, a fluttery high thing that he used to tease the older witchers with when they started talking about their beloveds. It’s sweeping and triumphant, playful and joyous, but in his shattered throat, it sounds more appropriate for a funeral.

The jewels that pour from his mouth glitter like broken glass, and the king makes an almost disappointed sound as he reaches down to examine them. Then he pauses. Picks up one of the gems with a look of awe. They’re not as big as the rubies and sapphires, but they’re brilliantly cut and polished, and as clear as the cleanest water.

He holds it up to one of the rubies with a shaking hand, and scratches it across the other jewel’s surface.

“Diamond,” he whispered. “The most perfect diamond I’ve ever seen.”

He looks at Geralt, and his face doesn’t look like a human’s anymore. It’s twisted and sharp and glinting with malice, and if Geralt had his swords, he’d raise the silver one against this man.

“Keep singing,” the man orders. “Don’t stop until your voice gives out.”

By the time Geralt is allowed to stop, the diamonds that fall from his mouth are painted red with blood.

***

The king calls him songbirdlike he’s a harmless thing, a pretty, fragile creature trapped in a cage, nice to listen to but with nothing important to say.

“You really ought to look as valuable as you are,” he says one day, when Geralt is past the point of bleeding, emeralds spilled across the floor, his whole body twitching with pain. “Next time, treasure.” Another one of his favorites. Songbird. Treasure. Jewel. Pretty, desirable things. Nothing with agency.

A few days later, he has his servants bring in golden jewelry dripping with Geralt’s words, switching out the heavy iron manacles for diamond-studded ones, pressing a collar dripping with rubies around Geralt’s throat. He holds up a dangling sapphire earring with a wicked grin, and Geralt doesn’t even have a chance to protest before he’s shoving it through his earlobe. He yelps from the sudden shock of it, and a chunk of obsidian falls from his mouth. The king kicks it aside.

“Don’t waste your voice,” he says sternly, picking up the second earring. “Don’t scream unless I want you to. You know the rules, songbird.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut as the king pokes a hole in his other earlobe, as he pushes more and more earrings into his skin and cartilage, following the delicate shells of his ears. Anywhere but here, he thinks, as stubby fingers grab at his nose. I’m anywhere but here.

There’s a burst of pain in his septum and his breath stutters in his throat. The king laughs softly, and moves away. Something cool and metallic touches his neck, winds up his arms, slithers smoothly against his ankles. Jewelry or chains or both, his doesn’t know and his doesn’t think it matters. His fingers are forced out of their fists and rings are slid over them. They skip his left ring finger. No need to look like he’s anything so important as someone’s husband.

“Perfect,” the king says when he’s done. “So perfect. Let me show you just how much.”

Geralt opens his eyes and the servants hold up a mirror.

A terrified young man looks back at him. His eyes are wide, red with unshed tears. His face is thin from starvation, his arms and legs bare of muscle. His clothes are practically rags, and were clearly meant for a far larger frame, hanging off his shoulders and slipping off his waist. Their poor condition is a sharp contrast to the fine golden chains draped over his collarbone, the delicate piercings forced into his ears and nose, the jewel studded manacles locked to the heavy wall chains with gold padlocks. The collar pressed flush against his throat makes it clear how the king sees him. An exotic pet.

I’m a witcher, Geralt tells himself, as the king preens over his creation. I’m a witcher. I’m not meant for this.

But as the king blusters away, leaving Geralt shivering in his cell, ears throbbing and collar exacerbating the pain in his throat, he finds it difficult to believe that. Difficult to believe that he’ll ever be able to get out of here.

That’s dangerous thinking. That’s deadly thinking, that’s the kind of thinking that will leave him trapped here for years, missing possible escape attempt after possible escape attempt.

I’m a witcher. I’m a witcher. I’m made for something more.

***

He doesn’t know how long he’s trapped in that tower, singing and bleeding and singing and bleeding, over and over again. He does know there’s a point that he can’t sing the love song anymore, no matter how hard the king presses the scepter into his shoulder. His voice just doesn’t go that high anymore.

It never will again.

Something’s broken in his throat.

The king glares down at him with pursed lips, and fear curls in Geralt’s chest. That’s the look of someone looking down at a disappointing, disposable thing. He doesn’t know what will happen if the king decides he isn’t worth the jewels he speaks. If the novelty of having a broken bird wears off.

***

He starts speaking when the king isn’t there. It’s difficult. Bloody. Awful. His words rasp together like broken bits of rock, and he can feel himself grinding his throat into useless dust. But this is his only chance, and if a broken voice is the price he must pay for freedom, he will gladly make that trade.

***

Whispering makes glass.

Whispering makes glass.

The shard in his hand is as dull as if it had spent years in the sea, but he can work with this.

***

He toys with his whispers, changing the words, the tone, the pitch and volume and feeling. Slowly, he makes his words sharper and sharper, settling on a high, thin, furious whisper. The inside of his mouth is bleeding badly by the time he gets a satisfactory result, a knife-sharp shard as long as his finger. He tucks it into his sleeve, positions himself as close to the door as possible, and waits.

***

It’s simple to pounce when the king steps into the room, simple to jam the glass into his carotid artery, simple to extract little golden key from his robes as he chokes to death on his own blood. There’s betrayal in his eyes, when he looks at Geralt, and Geralt laughs, thin and broken, sending amethyst scattering over the king’s twitching body. The isn’t betrayal. The king doesn’t deserve betrayal. That would imply he was treating Geralt with kindness in the first place. It isn’t even revenge, not really. It’s self-defense, a desperate animal clawing its way to freedom.

Geralt never wanted to think of himself as an animal, as the wolf he used to wear around his neck, before he was brought here. He wanted to be a hero, a knight, something out of a fairytale. Something good and strong and pure.

But he isn’t that.

He’s a bird with sharp talons and tattered wings, and he won’t sing for this man ever again.

***

The guards don’t even try to stop him. He must look a fright, with bloody lips and bloodier hands, holding the kings sharp scepter like a sword, jaw set and eyes burning with furious desperation.

Or maybe they just can’t be bothered to capture him. It’s not like the king ever gave them any of his jewels. It’s not like they stand to gain anything by keeping him here.

Either way, he walks out of the castle that he’s spent the past—two years? He thinks?—of his life in on trembling legs, and he doesn’t look back.

***

Word will spread soon that the witcher with a gilded tongue is back in the wild, free for the taking. He needs to kill this curse before that happens.

He makes his way to the nearest town, half delirious with hunger and exhaustion and the stabbing pain in his throat, scrounging for berries as he goes. They taste like summer on his  torn tongue, sun-warmed and juicy, washing away the taste of glass and blood. A reminder that he’s free, at least for now.

There’s a mage living in an elegant cottage at the edge of the town, and he stumbles through her door to a yelp of surprise. She puts her hand on his shoulder and leads him inside, her wide purple eyes taking in the thinness of his face, his bloody hands, the collar still glinting around his throat.

“The white-haired witcher,” she breathes in awe. “You’re the jewel-speaker.”

His legs tense, ready to run.

“I thought, when I heard of you, that it was a cruel curse,” she says, brow furrowing. “I can see I was right.”

“Was supposed to be a gift,” he rasps. Three tiny opals clatter to the ground. “Saved a fae.”

“The fae know shit all about gifts,” she says. She reaches up, hands glowing with magic, and pulls the collar off his throat. He swallows reflexively, relishing in the feeling of unconstrained skin.

“Thank you.” An emerald joins the opals.

“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see if we can return this gift, hmm?”

She rests her hand against his throat and closes her eyes.

“It’s powerful,” she says, her forehead twitching. “I can’t—I can’t get rid of it completely.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. So this is his life forever then? Hiding out in the woods, desperately trying to avoid soldiers sent to hunt him down for his voice. Being forced to sing, and speak, and scream until his voice vanishes for good, until there’s nothing left the world can take from him.

“But,” she continues, pulling him out of his spiral of panic. “I should be able to contain it. It’s—from the shape of the curse, it seems to be most powerful when you sing, right?”

He nods.

“Okay. I should be able to lock it away so that it only triggers when you sing. Is that okay?”

It’s not.

It’s really, really not.

But it’s his only option.

“Yes,” he says. A ruby falls into his hand. It’s the last jewel he’ll ever speak.

***

He doesn’t like to use his gift.

It reminds him too much of a cold stone cell, of bloody diamonds and whips and learning to hone his words sharper, sharper, sharper, until he was carefully coughing up knives. It reminds him of pain and hunger and the cold feeling of golden jewelry against his throat, wrists, ears, as the king gilded him in his own stolen words.

And, listening to his rough, growly voice, unable to reach the same soaring heights that it used to—it reminds him that he’ll never be able to sing without pain again, that this thing he loved for so long has been taken from him, dashed to the ground like a cascade of shattered obsidian.

So he doesn’t sing often, even when he’s alone. He only does it when the pain in his chest gets too much to hold silently, or express with words alone. When that happens, he sings to Roach, low and soft, sad, ancient ballads that tug at his soul in the way only music can.

He takes the jewels and tucks them away in Roach’s saddlebag until they reach the next river, and then he throws his songs into the depths and feels a weight peel off his shoulders.

He doesn’t exist for anyone, anymore. He isn’t a source of riches. He’s just a witcher that likes—no, needs—to sing sometimes.

***

Years pass. His brothers grieve with him, when he finally makes it back to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir gives him a hug that lasts at least an hour. They ask him if he wants to sing, but back off when he shakes his head frantically.

The keep feels a lot quieter, these days.

His life feels a lot quieter, these days.

***

Jaskier reminds him a bit too much of himself. Or himself as he used to be, anyway.

He’s bright and cheery and always, always singing. There’s a song for every occasion, somber ones, delightful ones, inappropriately horny ones. Even idle moments, while he’s gathering berries for their dinner or arranging their campfire or polishing his lute, he’s coming up with little ditties to describe what he’s doing. It’s endearing. It’s sweet.

It’s painful.

He remembers when he did the same, humming to his swords as he cleaned them, idly improvising an ode to a dear carcass, coming up with tunes to remember the ingredients for each of his potions (he still sings those in his head, even now, when he’s been making them for decades. Old habits die hard).

There are long stretches, over the first few years of their friendship, where he aches to send Jaskier away. Get him out of his life. Get rid of the reminder of what it was like to sing, painless and clear-voiced and free.

But, for every way Jaskier is like his younger self, there are so many ways that he is different. His compositions are complex, way more complex than anything Geralt ever came up with, and his skill with a lute leaves Geralt breathless every time he hears it. More than that, he is brash and reckless and demanding, where Geralt has always made himself accept what he is given.  Jaskier wants everything from the world, expects everything from the world, greats humanity with a fierce grin and a set jaw and a stubbornness that Geralt finds shocking and awe-inspiring in turn.

After five years with Jaskier, five years of watching him swear at people that treat him and Geralt like they are lesser, five years of letting him talk Geralt into hot, sweet-smelling baths and comfortable sheets and warm clothes, five years of watching him dive headfirst into whatever life throws at him, Geralt thinks he might be in love with him.

Just a little bit.

Maybe a lot.

He really wishes he could still sing that love song.

***

Over the years, the decades, since Geralt’s imprisonment, the story of the jewel-speaker has faded from fact to legend. The story has shifted too, over the years. The protagonist is no longer a witcher, beaten and broken and locked in a tower. Instead, she’s a sweet peasant girl, rewarded for her kindness with the ability to speak flowers and jewels alike, no pain or cruelty mentioned at all. She also has a cruel sister who coughs up snails and frogs. Lambert likes to joke that that’s supposed to be him.

There are quite a few ballads about her, this pretty, happy version of Geralt. They’re jaunty, cheerful tunes, made for entertaining children mostly, and Geralt’s chest aches whenever he hears them. His story, twisted so badly that the jewel-speaker was thankfulfor her gift, helped by it. Never mind the fact that his throat still aches whenever he speaks too much, never mind the fact that he misses singing so badly, never mind the fear that prickles up his spine whenever he sees a shop owner hawking golden jewelry.

The ballads are pretty popular, right up there with the tales of the sleeping princess, and the mermaid princess, and the princess who danced on glass shoes until midnight came. He wonders if any of these heroines are people like him, if any of their stories actually got happy endings. Regardless, they’re well-liked and well-received, so it’s no surprise that Geralt eventually hears Jaskier singing one.

They’ve stopped to camp for the night, and Jaskier is fiddling around with his lute while Geralt sorts out Roach. Jaskier starts plucking out a few opening chords that sends goosebumps prickling over Geralt’s neck, and Geralt fists his hand in Roach’s mane.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not personal. Jaskier doesn’t know what this song means to Geralt, because Geralt hasn’t fucking toldhim, even after all these years. Because he’s a thrice-damned coward.

But it still feels like he’s been stabbed, like a piece of glass has gotten caught halfway up his throat and lodged itself there, slicing him to death from the inside.

Jaskier pauses, right after the first chorus. Geralt can feel his eyes burning into the back of his skull.

“Geralt?” he asks. “You okay?”

“Can you play something else?” Geralt says, and hates how weak he sounds.

“Okay,” Jaskier says. “Alright. No problem.”

He starts plucking out Fishmonger’s Daughter and Geralt lets himself relax, lets himself laugh at Jaskier’s exaggerated bleating. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’d asked Jaskier to back off, and he had. Simple as that.

Not for the first time, he finds himself wondering what he did to deserve a friend like Jaskier.

***

The secret comes out eventually. Of course it does. Geralt is a dreadful liar. All it takes is a few songs to Roach, and a saddlebag full of rubies that have not yet been dumped in the river. All it takes is Jaskier coming across them at exactly the wrong time, chattering away about his latest exploits as he walks around Roach’s side with a small bundle of spare clothes.

“So, since Marx obviouslycheated at that competition, I couldn’t let his victory slide, and—”

As engrossed as Geralt is in Jaskier’s ridiculous story, it takes him too long to realize in which bag Jaskier is aiming to deposit his bundle, too long to protest.

“Wait—”

“—so I snuck a live chicken into….his….”

Jaskier trails off, staring into the saddlebag with a dropped jaw.

“Um. Geralt?”

Geralt closes his eyes.

“What are you doing with a royal treasury’s worth of rubies?”

He considers lying. Considers saying it was a contract payment from a very grateful, very rich king. Jaskier’s trade is spreading stories after all, and if this particular one gets around, Geralt’s life will be ruined. Forever. He’ll spend the rest of his days in chains, singing around a shattered throat.

But this is Jaskier. And Geralt knows that, if there’s one thing Jaskier values more than his fame and fortune, it’s his friendships. His friendship with Geralt especially, hard-won and strong as it is. There aren’t many people Geralt could trust with his life. With his freedom. Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert. Yennefer, the one to set him free of this thing in the first place.

And Jaskier.

“I’m throwing them in the nearest river,” he says, truthfully, taking Jaskier’s clothes to put in a different saddlebag.

Jaskier blinks rapidly.

“Why?”

Geralt sighs, and walks back over to his nearly-packed-up campsite. He was just planning on heading out when Jaskier found him.

“Sit down,” he says, settling himself onto a log. Jaskier follows, steps hesitant. “It’s gonna be a long story.”

***

It feels like setting some part of himself free. Some part of himself he never realized was still caged.

***

When the story is over, when Geralt has given up the gift that became a curse, the tower that became a prison, the king that became a corpse, they’re both crying. Sobs hitch from Jaskier’s chest as he reaches for Geralt, his hands trembling.

“Fuck,” he gasps as he tugs Geralt into a hug. “Just…fuck,Geralt, people are the fucking worst.”

“I know,” Geralt laughs weakly.

“I can’t even imagine how hard it was to tell me about that,” Jaskier says. Geralt blinks.

“Wasn’t hard,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s doublet. “I trust you.”

Jaskier tenses in his grip. Geralt feels tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt. He holds Jaskier tighter, closer, letting him shudder and shake against him. Despite himself, a warmth whispers through his chest, a feeling of safety, friendship, love. Jaskier cares about him enough to weep for his long-ago pain.

“I trust you,” he repeats. “There’s no one else I’d rather share this with.”

“Gods,” Jaskier says. “Gods. Thank you, then. Just…thank you.”

Geralt isn’t quite sure what he’s being thanked for.

“You’re welcome,” he says anyway. They cling to each other until Jaskier’s sobs quiet, and then Jaskier pulls back with a watery grin.

“Well,” he says. “There’s monsters to fight and rubies to send to their watery grave. Shall we?”

He doesn’t ask to keep the gems. He doesn’t point out that Geralt could give up the path forever if he wanted, that he’d never need to go hungry again. He doesn’t try to insist that Geralt’s curse is a gift.

The warmth doubles in Geralt’s chest.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “We shall.”

***

Two weeks later, they’re sitting around yet another campfire, under yet another grove of trees. Geralt loves nights like this, under the stars, far away from the noise and smells of civilization. Just the two of them.

Jaskier is plucking idly at his lute, but he isn’t singing. His eyes are half-lidded, sleepy. Content.

Geralt thinks of the love song, thinks of how impossibly high it is. Mentally shifts it lower. Lower. Down an octave. He opens his mouth.

For the first time in seventy years, he sings in front of another person.

Jaskier’s fingers stutter on the lute, but he quickly picks his tune back up again, shifting the chords to match Geralt’s voice. His eyes are no longer drooping, but wide open, staring at Geralt with unabashed wonder.

At Geralt. Not at the gems collecting at his feet. He’s watching Geralt. Listening to Geralt’s voice, cracked and raw as it is. A smile spreads across his face, soft and awed, like he’s watching a particularly beautiful sunset.

The last note of the song leaves Geralt’s lips along with a ruby, and Jaskier trails his fingers over the last chord, plucking out the notes one by one, leaving them to shiver in the air. He sets the lute aside and gets to his feet.

“Your voice is beautiful,” he says. “So fucking gorgeous Geralt, I—that was wonderful.”

“It’s not,” Geralt mutters. “It’s all rough and broken and—”

“Warm,” Jaskier says, stepping forward. He kicks aside a sapphire and jumps, looking down in surprise.

“Huh. Forgot that was there.”

A laugh curls in Geralt’s throat. Only Jaskier would forget a priceless treasure beneath his feet to compliment Geralt’s ruined voice.

“Don’t laugh!” Jaskier says, his indignation betrayed by his grin. “It’s easy to forget silly things like that when listening to you sing, it’s all—it’s warm and crackly and rich, like a campfire. Like…like home. It’s beautiful.”

He hesitates, eyes darting back and forth over Geralt’s face.

“You’re beautiful,” he says at last.

Hope whispers through Geralt’s heart. Does he mean….does he want….?

“I love you,” Geralt says, before he can lose his nerve. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat.

“I love you too,” he says, voice cracking almost as badly as Geralt’s. “Gods above, I’ve loved you for years.”

He puts his hand on Geralt’s cheek.

“Can I—”

“Yeah,” Geralt says, before he can even finish the question.

And then Jaskier’s lips are on his, gentle, slow, savoring him. Savoring Geralt as a person. Not as a treasure, a jewel, a thing to own.

Geralt closes his eyes and kisses him back.

His voice will never work quite right. There will always be bad days, days where his throat burns and burns and nothing he does can stop it. He’ll never be able to sing like he had before, high and clear and unimpeded.

But Jaskier loves him anyway.

Jaskier grabs a handful of Geralt’s shirt and pulls him backward, towards Jaskier’s bedroll. Geralt goes with him gladly.

They leave the jewels in the dirt.

[whumping-every-day]

Vampire Whump 7

After two whole weeks, here is part seven! It feels a bit filler-esque to me, but I di d my best. 

Tagging the wonderful people who have supported me and asked for more! @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius  @learningtowhump  @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump  @what-huh-imconfused  @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic  @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em @umniyah-s @adventuresofacreesty  @to-hurt-and-comfort

Ash’s FC,  Callum’s FC

Masterlist

--

When morning comes, the scorching heat comes with it, and for a moment everything is familiar. The creature wakes itself up screaming.

The vampire is used to burning, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. Its mouth is free, and the sounds of agony and panic are so much louder in the absence of the muzzle. The pain crawls up its leg, slow and hot. The creature can’t remember where it is, and it doesn’t even try to wonder. The sensation is so horrible familiar, so known, that the vampire sinks back into mindless agony without missing a beat.

Callum is awake and on his feet in the same motion, and he’s got his knife out before he knows where the screaming’s coming from. The abrupt change from slumber to hyper-alertness is dizzying. It takes him a long moment to figure out what’s happening. There are no attackers, there is no threat. But somehow, Callum has forgotten about the sun.

“Shit. Shit.”

The vampire is thrashing against the chain, and its whole body is straining to escape the thin finger of sunlight.

The creature’s skin is bubbling and peeling, and it can’t seem to calm down enough to stop thrashing and minimize the damage. Its motions are frantic, eyes rolling and wide with animal frenzy, and it’s with a cold realization that Callum remembers he had chosen not to muzzle it. It’s panicking, and he can see the creature’s fangs.

Callum is spitting a constant string of curses, but he lunges for his discarded blanket, and then gets in as close as he dares. Any hunter knows that a terrified, wounded animal is the most dangerous kind, especially when it’s trapped. He doesn’t even bother trying to talk to it, not with the way the vampire is yowling and clawing at its own skin.

Callum drags in a slow breath, trying to center himself, and then he lunges and tackles the creature with the blanket. The vampire cowers and bucks, somehow both struggling and sobbing in terror. “Stop it!” Callum hisses, even as he twists and shoves, forcing the vampire onto its stomach. “Still, hold still, I’m trying to help - stop fighting me!” As soon as it’s down, Callum pins it by the back of the neck, preventing any potential biting. The blanket is halfway on top of it, but there’s still the sound of sizzling from somewhere, a patch of skin that isn’t covered yet.

The vampire is crying in Callum’s grip, but as soon as it’s down it stops struggling. Callum’s heart is pounding, and he yanks the blanket over the vampire properly with his free hand. The creature squirms weakly and then goes limp with a whimper, and Callum can hear the way it’s heaving and gasping. But it hasn’t tried to twist around and bite him, it hasn’t even tried to claw at Callum’s wrist.

Callum takes the sudden lack of struggling to mean that it’s calmed down, when in fact, the creature has simply gone distant in its own head. The combination of the burning sun and being manhandled has sent the vampire’s mind spinning and grasping for escape. The hunter is still pinning it to the floor, and Callum shifts so he’s not pressing as hard, wincing. The creature was already so badly injured, and in its panic it could have hurt itself more... and in subduing it, Callum could have hurt it more.  

“Still, buddy. That’s it.” Callum feels a bit like he’s talking to a wall. There is no response, nothing beyond a minute trembling. The vampire isn’t struggling. Callum hesitates, and he cautiously loosens his grip at the nape of the vampire’s neck. It’s fully covered by the blanket, now, but Callum can still smell burned flesh, and it makes his stomach turn. After a few moments, Callum pulls back just enough to assess the situation. The creature’s ankle is still bound in the manacle, and the bit of exposed skin is beyond the sun’s reach. It’s no longer burning, but it’s still injured.

Callum lets out a gusty breath and releases the creature.

“Well that’s a shit way to start the day,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

In the end, Callum has to bind the creature in the burlap fabric and rope again. He seriously considers muzzling it, if only for his own safety. In the panicked frenzy earlier, it would have been so easy to bite him, even by accident. But the creature is breathing in short, frenetic bursts, and it’s totally unresponsive when Callum moves it. Its legs are still grotesquely broken; they’d never healed to begin with, not with the amount of blood Callum had been able to spare. It isn’t trying to bite him, or to do much of anything. In the end, he leaves it alone, and the vampire stares dully at nothing while he lashes the rope around its ankles, knees, waist and elbows. Callum is extra careful when he covers the head.

The whole thing feels like he’s missed a step.

When all is said and done, the vampire hadn’t burned for that long. The progression of it waking up screaming to Callum covering it back up had taken less than a minute. But the consequences linger.

They linger as Callum packs up camp, and the creature lies still on its side, unmoving and completely silent behind the fabric. They linger as Callum picks it up again, and the vampire gives a quiet, punched-out sob. They linger as Callum puts out the last embers of the fire and swings up onto the horse.

“I’m sorry,” Callum says to it when they are finally on their way.

The bundle of fabric doesn’t respond, and this time when Callum rests a hand on its back, it doesn’t stop shaking.  

-

The next hours of travel fall into a pattern. They ride during the day, and it is hot and sweaty and grimy. At night, the vampire is chained by the ankle to the base of a tree, and Callum makes sure it is in the shadows this time, protected from the rising sun. He also retrieves the same blanket from the night before.

“Hey. This is yours.” The horse is nibbling at a patch of dry grass, and Callum is holding out the blanket to the vampire. “I mean, it can be yours, now. Uh.” Callum coughs. Why is he trying to talk to it, anyway? “Here.” He drops the blanket over the creature’s dirty, curled-up body, and there’s a minute flinch, but no other change. But Callum sees the thin fingers that wind hesitantly in the fabric as he walks away.

It’s been a long day, and Callum knows that the vampire is still hurting. But he can offer no more blood on the road than he already has, and they are nearly home, to Callum’s equipment and supplies. With them, he can help. He is almost afraid to look at the creature too closely, for fear of the injuries he’d find. The vampire’s body is gnarled and warped, twisted in some places and concave in others, and Callum has a horrible feeling that there will be things that need re-breaking before they will mend.

He can’t do such things on the road.

“Try and get some sleep,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow’s our last day of travel. Then we can rest.” 

The vampire is watching him, Callum realized belatedly. It’s got brown eyes like a doe’s eyes, and for just a second, it feels like the breath’s been punched right out of him. Its gaze is captivating, and it’s the first time it’s seemed like the creature is fully present. Then the vampire realizes that Callum has seen it staring, and it flinches again and hides its face in the blanket.

“Yeah. Goodnight to you too.” Callum doesn’t frighten the creature any further by trying to engage. Instead, he makes sure that the horse has access to grass and water and checks her feet for stones and swelling. When he makes his way to sleep, the stake stays on his belt, and the knife goes under his pack, which he is using as a pillow.

Oddly enough, Callum thinks, it’s not the vampire across from him that he’s guarding against. Callum hesitates to call the creature a monster, even though he’s never had a problem with the word before. But this particular vampire looks less like a beast, and more like a boy. And it’s getting more difficult to tell the difference.  

It’s an odd sense of deja-vu as he lays down to sleep, and he can only see the vampire’s brown curls peeking over the edge of the blanket. Its hair is really quite a mess, Callum thinks as the exhaustion of travel starts to catch up with him. He’ll have to clean the creature up when they get home… and he’ll have to find it more blood.

A lot more blood.

Then it will be time to research how to set a dislocated joint, because now that he’s had the thought, Callum can’t help but see it. The vampire always curls up on its right side, and the left is visibly misshapen, even under the blanket.

“Fuck,” Callum mutters, just once more.

-

Morning comes gently, this time, with the slow stirring of forest wildlife and the chirping of summer birds. Callum is awake before the sun crests the horizon, and he spends a few minutes tending to the horse, combing over her coat and feeding her bits of dried apple, working at the leather of her saddle.

The vampire wakes to the feeling of being outside, and horror trickles in. It has been here before, outside in the morning light, strung up in the village square while the people waited for the sun to come up – so many mornings started this way, so many watching eyes --

“Hey! Whoa, hey, easy there.” Callum has no idea what the creature is seeing, but it’s keening pitifully and rocking back and forth, its eyes wild and distant. It’s not thrashing this time, but it’s doubled over at the waist, curling its right arm (its good arm, Callum thinks grimly) around its waist.

The creature doesn’t seem present, but it’s still making that keening sound, high and strained as if it can’t get enough air to scream louder. The sound of it raises the hair on Callum’s neck.

The blanket has fallen off its bare shoulder, and this time, Callum barely hesitates before ducking into range. The creature could bite him, twist around and savage him, but Callum doesn’t think it will. He doesn’t think this thing will be attacking anyone, ever again.

The blanket goes up and over the vampire’s head, and Callum can feel the way the creature convulses in terror under his touch. He wraps the blanket more firmly around it and then sits back, within arms reach but not touching.

“Listen to me, kid.” The vampire bleats in terror at the sound of his voice, but Callum just gentles his tone and tries again. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Listen. Focus on my voice. You’re not in the sun. You’re not going to burn. Remember where you are.” That sense of déjà vu is back, Callum thinks bitterly. They’ve been here before. How many times has this vampire been hurt like this?

The vampire can’t see much past the fabric, but its heart is beating wildly in its chest. It remembers where it is in increments – it’s the second day, now, since the golden-haired hunter had taken it away. Two days since its world had tilted on its axis. But also… two days since it had last been hoisted up in the air and left to burn. Two days since it has last been beaten.

“Hey.” The hunter’s voice is startling, and much closer than the creature expects. It flinches with a little whimper, but it quickly tucks its head back down and goes back to its tightly curled ball. It can’t remember any commands being given, so it can only be small and still and quiet. It’s trying to behave, the creature thinks desperately, it’s trying to be good, so there’s no need to pull the blanket off and listen to it scream, no need…

“Can you just-” The hunter breaks off with a groan, and then there’s motion.

Callum is pushing back to his feet, shaking his head as he goes. He’d almost asked the creature if it could understand him, as if that wasn’t an idiotic question. Even if the vampire had enough humanity left to comprehend his speech… it probably wouldn’t last long. The creature has calmed, it wasn’t disoriented and panicked anymore, and that was all he’d wanted to accomplish.

He doesn’t talk to it, this time, when he returns to wrap it in the burlap fabric and rope. It moves like a doll in his hands, and Callum almost wonders if it would have been better, somehow, if the vampire had struggled. It would feel less like transporting a hollow shell, or a giant child’s discarded toy.

The last day of travel is the worst, as it always is. Callum is tired and sore, and he knows the vampire is doubly so. The sun beats heavy on his back, and even the horse seems tired, dragging her feet as she plods onwards.

The lights of his town greet them just as the sun begins to fade. Electricity is a possibility, but most of the light comes from oil lamps, strung up from the gates to guide weary travelers. It’s a shallow valley surrounded by rolling hills, and the vegetation slowly starts to turn greener as they grow closer.

It looks welcoming enough, but Callum avoids the official roads as they make their way inwards. His lab is on the outskirts, between the stables and the brewery. The stable keeper welcomes him back and doesn’t ask any questions, and Callum is grateful for that. People are not fond of vampires, and often they are not fond of hunters either – so Callum pays the man and gives his horse one last pat, before slinging the vampire over his shoulder again.

The creature doesn’t make a sound as it is picked up, despite how the pain sears through it. It is dizzy from exhaustion and pain, and it feels flayed and cracked open inside, as if it simply can’t feel any more terror. Yet, somehow, it is rediscovering fear as they walk. This is it, the creature knows; this is its final reckoning. This is when it discovers what the hunter wants it for. Will it be cast into another stone room and bound with iron shackles to the wall, or perhaps hung from the ceiling? Or maybe this hunter has a cage, simple but effective.

The vampire is trembling as it is carried. The man has been lenient with it, the creature knows this. And it has tried to be good, it has tried to show that it will not resist, that it doesn’t need to be put down to know its place. But that was while they were on the road.

Now they are in the hunter’s lair.

A door unlocks, and the sound of it fills the vampire with icy, irrational dread. It echoes in the new space, and the hunter sets his lantern down and strides further into the building.

The vampire cannot see, but it can imagine.

“You sleep here.” There’s clanking and a groaning of metal, and the vampire knows that sound – that is the sound of a cell opening. The hunter’s weight shifts forward, and the vampire flinches and braces itself; it is fully expecting to be thrown, or dropped. This, at least, is familiar, and the vampire wonders if it will be allowed to huddle in a corner and lick its wounds for the night, or if the torment will start immediately. But instead of being tossed carelessly inside, the hunter carefully lowers it onto the stone floor.

Or – not the floor. The creature gasps and shivers, feeling the slight give of whatever the surface was. It was thin, and smelled faintly musty, but it was soft… a cot? Was the creature lying on a cot?

“We’re going to take care of your injuries tomorrow. When I can see straight again. For now, rest.” Callum’s fingers brush over its hair, ever so slightly, and the vampire can’t help a plaintive little whine. It smells very strange, like chemicals and metal, and the creature still does not understand why it was brought here. But it does understand that this man is its whole world now, the only constant. This hunter is the only one who can dish out judgment or relief.

“Easy, kid.” The creature squeezes its eyes shut and lets its head fall again. It knows the hunter is lying, faking, when he speaks so softly to it. But it’s a tone without disgust or rage, and the vampire trembles under it, from both need and fear.

The ropes that bind it are cut, this time, instead of untied. The creature is perfectly still while the hunter works; it’s almost familiar, now, to have those large, calloused hands peeling the fabric away from its skin. If it does not resist, it will not be hurt. That is what the vampire has learned, and it clings to that, prays for it.

“There we go.” The vampire has forgotten the man’s name. But his presence presses down on the creature with a mighty weight, and the vampire gives a quiet, beseeching little whimper. They’re in the hunter’s home, now, and the vampire is so afraid that things will change… or that they won’t. “Shhh, I know. Time to rest.” If it is stillness and silence that has earned it this mercy, the creature thinks absently, then it will be still and silent forever.

The fabric is taken away and bundled up, and the vampire remembers that it is naked. Being covered up and carried around during their travel had almost felt like being clothed. But the time for such dignities is over, now.

Something settles over its skin, and the vampire draws in a sharp breath.

“I believe that’s yours.”

It’s the same blanket. The one the hunter had given it on the road. The creature’s breath comes out shaky, and in a fit of bravery the vampire lurches up and then flattens itself to the ground at the hunter’s feet. It can’t speak properly, not after the muzzle, but it makes an attempt. “Th-th-nngh. Th-tha-“ The moment it starts to sound like actual words, the vampire clamps a hand over its mouth with a whimper. No. Things did not speak. But it has to express its gratitude somehow. Thin, crooked fingers reach out to just barely brush the hunter’s boot, and the motion is thankful and awed in equal measure. Its hands are fragile and vulnerable, so close to the man’s spurs, but the hunter is quickly stepping out of range.

“Fucking shit. Just - just rest, would you?”

The words are like ice down the creature’s spine, and it whimpers a pitiful apology – but then the door is clanging shut again, and there’s a loud, decisive click.

Footsteps move away, and it realizes with a jolt that it is alone, abrupt and final.

The vampire lies in the darkness for a few long minutes, trying and failing to process what has happened. This man, this human… he is a strange one. That makes him unpredictable. But the cell the creature finds itself in isn’t cold, and there is something to lie on and cushion its battered body… and suddenly, that luxury is so unexpected that it is frightening.

Despite all the vampire’s aches and pains, the cot abruptly feels too soft. It’s too malleable, too much give, it won’t bruise and graze the creature’s skin like it deserves.

It’s further to the ground than the vampire expects, and it falls with a quiet thump. It’s left gasping for air as stars explode in its vision. The motion reminds it of every injury that hasn’t healed, the old ones deep inside and the new ones both.

There’s a space underneath the cot, narrow and dark, and the vampire clumsily presses back into it. There is no true safety, the creature knows that. But it feels the smallest bit more secure when it curls up in the darkest corner with walls on two sides.

The vampire hesitates, before a pale hand timidly snakes out and grabs the blanket. It can’t sleep in the cot, it’s not allowed. But the hunter gave it the blanket. The blanket came with them on the road, the creature can’t make it any dirtier. So maybe it’s okay.

It is not chained down, not muzzled or bound or restrained, and within the confines of the cell, clutching at the blanket, the vampire finally breathes a sigh of relief. There are terrible things waiting for it in its dreams, and there will be terrible things waiting for it in the morning. But if it is always allowed to rest like this, in a dark, quiet nook with something soft to hold on to… then the vampire will count itself lucky.

No matter what the hunter does to it.  

--

[END]

Previous   Next 

[mayaparker]

Not My Spirit;

Maya “Chaotic Dumbass” Parker, @scarlettxruby and @rydenbolt find themselves inside a Victorian asylum 

When Ruby woke up, it was dark. Nothing strange really, other than her room was never this black. There was always light from the windows streaming in, both day and night. And while darkness didn’t bother her since even then she could usually see, something about this darkness was... wrong. Ruby sat up. The sheets beneath her hands were wrong too. They were thin and scratchy, not at all like her own soft ones. The smells were... Ruby wrinkled her nose. Antiseptic and something else... Her heart beat just a bit faster. No way. No fucking way. She knew that smell. It was something she'd never forget. Just when she was about to stand, a slash of light split the darkness. "Oi... wakey wakey little lady," an oily voice said from the square of light set into what had to be the door to the room. Something hard tapped against something metallic. "No funny business like yesterday, or you'll go back in the chair. Got it?" Ruby was so shell-shocked that she could only nod as the door opened and a man in dirty white coveralls - flanked by three others dressed just the same - stomped towards her. By the time he had the manacles around her neck and wrists - at least partly silver, since they burned the moment they touched her skin - Ruby was just beginning to realize what was going on. This had to be another pocket verse. She was led out - barefoot and in nothing but a shift (a /shift?/ what year was this supposed to be?) - and down the hallway. Hands reached out of the small openings in the doors lining the hall, and here and there people sat along the wall, some dressed properly, others not so much. But the clothing was... "What year is it?" Ruby asked as she was marched along. The man ahead of her snorted. "Losing track of time now too, love? Aren't you just a peach." He spat into the corner. "It's 1899. Least 'til the morning. Then it's a new century. Gonna be one helluva row tonight amongst your lot I s'pose. Warden says we gotta take extra care of the ones what causes trouble." He glanced back at her. "See the new year in right proper. If you catch my meanin'." The yellow-toothed grin he shot at her did nothing to alleviate Ruby's fears.

Maya walked up to Ruby's house with an increasing sense of dread. The pocket universes were popping up all over town, each one seemingly more dangerous than the last. She approached the front door and tried to call Ruby again. It went to voicemail. Again. With a deep breath, she tried the front door and found it unlocked. She stepped inside and the room spun. When it came back into focus, she found herself in a dirty stone building. "Well, that explains that," she muttered to herself. She treaded carefully down the hallway, looking for Ruby or whatever monsters might be lurking here. As she walked, she realized it was some kind of asylum. From a table she picked up a large syringe. Dangerous thing to leave lying about. She turned a corner to see four men leading Ruby down the hallway. "Yeah, I'm going to have to insist that one gets discharged. Effective immediately."

Once Ruby saw where they were, she tried to backpedal. "Let go..." she said, struggling a bit in the orderly's hold. The old stone walls and the smell of antiseptic and unwashed bodies hit her full on as they entered the corridor. "Let me go!" She pulled hard, breaking the grasp of the man holding the chains. "Oi! I said no trouble!" he snapped. Something hit Ruby hard in the back, sending a jot of pain through her limbs. She staggered, nearly falling to her knees. "There now, see? That's better..." The orderly gestured to bring her along, and they dragged her down the corridor, stopping only when another figure stepped into view. "Get outta the way, girl." The first orderly gestured with his billy club. "Go back to your room."

"Um, no?" Maya replied. She was doing some quick calculations in her head, but she needed more information. She tried to see past the orderlies to determine how much help Ruby might be able to offer. It might not be as much as usual considering her history with asylums. But if Maya could at least distract a couple of them. A shout from behind her drew her attention for a second, but she wasn't sure if it was from a patient or an orderly. All Maya could do was try to solve the situation in front of her. "Like I said, you're going to be letting her go now," she repeated.

"Wha'??" The orderly stopped, looking at Maya as if she'd grown a second head. "Are you deaf, girl? I said, back to your room. Or I'll smash those pretty teeth in and send you back meself." He took a step towards her. He was a large, bulky man, lots of poundage that might've once been muscle, but still much larger than Maya. Ruby had come around a bit, though her entire body ached from the jolt in her back. This wasn't the same as when she'd been a patient, she told herself. Or tried to. Her head was foggy. This was some reject movie set. Some Victorian nightmare that didn't really exist. And she wasn't a helpless human this time. But she needed to get the silver chains off before she could be any help. "Maya..." Ruby called. "Belt..." The key to her shackles was on the orderly's belt.

"That's very rude," Maya replied. This was an old trick for her. If she could just distract the man long enough for Ruby to get away or for someone else to intervene, it would be fine. Winning the fight was not priority. Anyway, the man walking toward her was much bigger than she was, but she was certain that she was smarter. Maya didn't look at Ruby when she mentioned the belt. She only nodded, almost imperceptibly. She waited, posed for a fight. When he finally lunged for her, Maya ducked and used his own weight against him. He went sprawling to the floor. She used that moment to yank the keys from his belt. More shouting echoed down the hallways. Maya turned to look at Ruby again, keys in hand.

Asylums in that day and age were full of dark, creepy secrets - mostly the kind respectable families wanted to put away but some... Some were circus show material. Stuff horror movies were made of. And they always got shoved down a basement, locked up and key thrown away. St Agnes asylum had its own beast in a cage, chained up and forgotten until the single daily mealtime it was entitled to just to keep it alive. Him, it was a him, though most of the staff had forgotten. That was the number one mistake they've made - you should never lock up and just forget about the thing that needed a cage to contain it. At some point, he'd be rattling that cage hard enough for a screw or two to come loose. And then it was only a matter of when utter chaos would be unleashed. The shouts down the hallway belonging to the wards of the asylum soon turned into screams. Something got out, something that didn't belong even among the craziest of nutheads, rapists and murderers that plead insanity to get off the gallows.

Ruby waited as patiently as she could, trying to be still and compliant so the other guards would focus on Maya and the man in front of them instead of her. The man wasn't all that smart, and he certainly wasn't fast. So when Maya finally slipped by him and snagged the keys to her shackles, and she felt the attention of the two men shift to Maya, Ruby finally reacted. She'd been slowly wrapping the chains around her arm. It burned, but she would heal. So when she spun and swung at the first man's head - the man with the cattle prod - she connected with a solid 'thud.' He went sprawling, dropping the prod that went skittering across the stone floor. The second man lunged for Ruby, but she ducked him, leaping on his back and wrapped the chain around his neck. She pulled hard, cutting off the man's air. "Prod!" she yelled at Maya as the fourth man went for it. The screams that found their way up the hall drew Ruby's attention as the man struggled in her grasp. They were different sorts of screams. The kind that you ran away from, not towards. "Maya..." Ruby said again, still shaking the fog from her head.

Maya felt a yank as the man tried to trip her. She responded by kicking down hard. He groaned and let go. Starting towards Ruby, she watched as her friend sent one of the men to the floor. A second Ruby seemed to have pretty well under control. Her shout didn't meant much to Maya though. In her second of confusion, the fourth man grabbed the prod and shoved it into Maya's ribs. She shouted as the electricity crumpled her to the ground. The shouting grew louder. Maya pulled herself to her feet. "I think we're going to have company," she said in a hoarse whisper with a nod to Ruby. The man who had just electrocuted her seemed to have the same idea as he turned his attention to the end of the hallway.

Ruby wasn't keen on killing, but in this case - especially since these fucks weren't real - she would make an exception. As Maya got tazed, and the shouts from down the way grew louder and closer, Ruby gave a quick yank on the chain. There was a wet, snapping sound as the guard jerked once and grew still. Ruby let him fall to the floor before turning to Maya and the other guard. He was pale as a sheet, and when something ran towards them - something covered in blood and torn clothing, fleeing for its life - the guard forgot about Maya and Ruby, dropped the prod, and fled back down the hall. Ruby wasted no time uncuffing herself with the key Maya had, and then helped her friend to her feet. "Yeup. We should go..." Snagging the prod from the floor, just in case, Ruby backpedaled a bit, searching for a way out.

His progress was slow down the hallway, because at every step, there was something that bravely but foolishly tried to charge at him only to end up smashed into the wall. They were mostly people, people the beast didn't give two shits about. After all, he wasn't one of them, didn't think of himself as one of their kind. They were meat and bones to chew on. And being locked up for so long made him hungry. So very, very hungry... The man in front of the best faltered, a prod half raised in a poor attempt to strike but he had second thoughts halfway through. What stood in front of him would make anyone second-guess their life choices. Neither man nor animal, part wolf and part human, jaw full of bloodied teeth and claws sticking out of fingertips. The ward let out a sound, squealing like a pig before the beast jumped him and tore into his big fat belly, muzzle digging in deep. They slid down the corridor for a few feet, propelled by the speed with which the beast collided with the man and when they came to a stop, that's when Maya and Ruby would see it - a big, black wolf-man, neither here nor there in his transformation, feeding on the still twitching soon-to be corpse of one of the orderly of the asylum.

Maya was all for getting the hell out of there. Clearly whatever was coming was worse than the orderlies and she did not want to meet it. Slowly, she backed down the hallway, looking for a weapon or an exit. But she wasn't about to turn her back on whatever this was. She froze when it came into view at the end of the hallway. It looked like...But it couldn't be... "Ruby," she whispered, "I think that's Ryden." She only had a glimmer of recognition because he'd semi-shifted for her once before, in the abandoned cabin over a year ago. But this was different. Whatever he was now was not what he had been then.

Maya was right. This was not the Ryden they both knew. Nor the wolf who was the member of Ruby's pack. This was The Beast - the embodiment of the demonic ritual Ryden was exposed to on the day he'd been bitten. It was the thing the horror movies tried to portray, the thing that gothic literature attempted to describe - poorly in comparison to what was feeding in front of them. When it hollowed out the man's stomach cavity, he stood back on his hind legs to a height so impressive he made ceiling look closer to the floor. He dwarfed everything around him. Curled fingers were more paws than hands, long claws painted crimson. His slobbering snout was dripping with blood. He let out a terrible howl that shook the corridor and all its adjacent rooms. And then his attention turned to the next thing that was moving.

Ruby knew it was Ryden. Even as twisted and horrible as the creature was, she could smell her friend beneath it. Barely there, and without any consciousness of the man he really was, but there. This was the thing she'd never seen. The Dark she smelled in him at times. "It is," she told Maya. "But it's not him either. It's..." She shook her head, keeping hold of Maya's arm and backing slowly away. You never ran from creatures like this, as it only drew their attention. The gore and the horror didn't bother Ruby. It was the not rightness of the creature that bothered her. No wonder Ryden felt the way he did about it. And what better place for it to come out than this?? The howl shook the walls, and the wolf inside Ruby stood up, lowering her ears and growling. But it would be no match for the beast down the way. Better than either Ruby or Maya, but still a much weaker creature. "Do not run... find a doorway... something... before he-" It was too late. The Beast saw them.

Maya nodded, eyes never leaving the creature that used to be their friend. She didn't move as Ruby tugged at her arm. But it wasn't fear that froze her in place. Not at first. She couldn't just walk away. They couldn't leave Ryden in this place. Fear replaced her concern though as it howled. She swallowed. "Fuck," she whispered. Ruby, in her wolf form, might have a hope of outrunning it. Maya human as she was had no chance. As her mind raced to come up with an alternative way of not being ripped apart, she remembered her experiments with Faye. "I have one very bad idea," she whispered to Ruby.

The beast lowered himself to all fours, to creep better towards them, stalking with his grey, glowing eyes pinned on his next two targets. He seemed to be grinning, but it was just a snarl giving way to too many sharp, deadly teeth. He lowered himself all the way down to the floor, ready to pounce, because their heartbeats were enough to set him off. A low growl announced a deadly leap in their direction.

Yes, they could just walk away. Ryden wouldn’t be left here. He’d be spit out along with them once they did whatever it was they were here to do. But if he got spit out like this... “If it involves trying to talk him down, it won’t work. Ryden’s not in there.” She didn’t want to leave him either, but the wolf in her screamed retreat. She was brave, but not foolish. Ruby tugged harder on her friends arm. “Maya...” Ruby would shift if it came to it, and do what she could. At least she had a chance of maybe slowing the creature down, drawing its attention. Maya was just a soft morsel, unless she had something up her sleeve.

Maya looked away from the creature to give Ruby a look. She might be stupid sometimes, but she wasn't /that/ stupid. She turned quickly back to face the wolf man though, knowing better than to take her eyes off it for long. She took an involuntary step back as the wolf shifted onto four legs. "More like using my magic touch," she added. It was fully fear now that had her frozen to the spot. She needed to move. Part of her brain was screaming at her to move. As for her idea of a plan, it had sounded crazy in her head, but it sounded even more so when she said it out loud.

The beast leaped and a quick swipe of his massive arm had Maya pushed out of the way like she was nothing but a rag doll to him to throw around. Maybe he had sensed a shadow of a threat in the wolf lurking within Ruby and she was the first one he went for, circling her as if to challenge her. Then his first strike fell, slamming straight into her to bring her down to the floor, aiming to bite into her neck. That was how the wolves hunter prey smaller than themselves - they went straight for the neck, for the kill. The supernatural strength in her arms was the only thing that kept him at bay, jaws snapping mere inches away from her face. She was screaming for Maya to get away, to run.

Ruby shoved both hands hard against the beasts neck, holding him back with every ounce of strength she possessed. The muscles in her arms strained, and hot slobber dripped onto her face. “Run!!” She screamed at Maya, growling at the beast above her. She couldn’t shift like this. She’d be ripped apart the moment she was vulnerable. But Maya didn’t run. Instead, she did the opposite, throwing herself at the creature. She was no match for him strength wise. Ruby kicked at the beast with her legs, but she was pinned. “Put him out!” She yelled at Maya, knowing some of what her friends magic might do. She would shift if she could get away, but she needed space.

Maya found herself suddenly on the floor again. Pain blossomed in her ribs. She shut her eyes against the tears that sprang to them. It was enough though to break her out of the fear that had grabbed hold of her. "Ruby!" she shouted as she saw what Not Ryden was about to do. Despite having just argued that she wasn't that stupid, she leapt forward and wrapped her arms around the creature, trying to pull him away. She felt, among many other things, the electric shock that accompanied her accidental use of magic. It was a begging for calm and peace that she felt from the bottom of her heart. It was instinct without fully understanding what she was doing. Her conscious focus was on trying to drag him off of Ruby.

Maya was just a flea attaching itself to the massive, fur-covered bulk of Ryden's back and for a second, it seemed unlikely that she'd be able to do more than a flea would. If they were lucky, she wouldn't annoy him enough to shake her off with a kick. But the deadly jaws stopped snapping at Ruby as she fought her best to push him back, her trembling arms ready to give in any second against the sheer weight and power of the beast. Ruby could now see the dilated pupils in the silver of Ryden's eyes shrink as he blinked, confused by the electric shock of magic Maya sent through his body. It was making him feel things other than endless rage the beast fed and thrived on. With a huff alike to a massive sneeze, the beast scuttled off Ruby, hunching and whining as if hit by some unseen force strong enough to kick him away. Ears flattened, he curled up in a corner, ducking his face under a paw as if to hide it.

Something happened then, and Ruby saw something in Ryden’s eyes shift. She felt the residual of whatever Maya had done as it fizzled over her too. The beast moved off, whining in a way that tugged at something inside her

Maya slipped to the floor as the wolf man let go of Ruby. She tried to breathe past the pain in her ribs. Her gaze quickly sought out the creature again, trying to see if it was going to attack. What she saw instead stole her breath. She looked down at her hands, realizing slowly what she had done. She swallowed. Without getting up, she picked her way carefully over to the creature. Maya was careful to make no sudden movements. "It's okay," she spoke softly, "We can help you. Did they hurt you?" It was a tone she would use with any injured animal. She trusted Ruby to recover, even shift if she needed to. First in Maya's mind though was making sure that the creature wouldn't attack again the minute their backs were turned.

She pushed to her feet, looking between the shivering beast that was her friend, and the witch that was also her friend. “Be careful,” Ruby told Maya. “I’m gonna change, just in case.” There was the span of less than a minute where Ruby changed into her lupine counterpart. She shook herself, breath steaming in the cold air, but stayed where she was. She lowered her head, ears forward towards the other creature, and whined. ~Hurt you?~ she echoed Maya, stepping close to the witch. ~Bad people.~

The beast whined, lowering himself all the way down against the wall. What would be soft cries coming from any other animal, they resonated loudly out of him in an unnatural, guttural way. Long tongue licked at his wrist where he was bound before, all those long long years in a dark basement, as any animal would when injured, in pain or distress. You could almost think that it was an animal like any other, abused, misunderstood and just wanting to live. Maya sent out calm, and calm he was, but only for a moment. Very very brief moment. A snarl bubbled up from within him again and angry, murderous eyes focused on Maya. Whatever they thought they saw, it was gone or wasn't in there to begin with.

Maya noticed the marks on the creature's wrists as it licked them. "We can get you out of here. Get you somewhere no one will hurt you anymore," she continued. She clamped her mouth shut to keep from swearing as it brought its gaze back up to her. Whatever moment of calm was gone. Again she needed to run, but knew that sudden movements would only make things worse. She stopped. "Okay, never mind," she said in the same calm tone before reversing direction.

The wolf gave a warning growl as the beast seeped back in. She took one step between him and Maya. ~No.~

Whatever this beast was, it said nothing in response to Ruby. Ryden's true wolf, although not a wolf of many words, was open to communication, to feelings. It was vibrant with emotions, as any living creature is. This thing was a black hole for anything but wrath. Nothing went through to him, not a friend, not an enemy, not a fucking baseball bat. It didn't feel fear, regret or sorrow. He was rage incarnate, one of the seven deadly sins in its true form. And he went at Ruby full force again, claws into her snow white fur, teeth bared for her neck.

Maya couldn't help, but scream again as the creature lunged for Ruby. Any emotional confusion about wanting to help her friend evaporated. There was nothing left of Ryden in this thing. The only way to actually help him would be to get the hell out of this pocket universe. Without killing Ruby of course. Maya pulled herself to her feet. She wasn't sure it would work twice, but she had to try. They just needed to space to get out of this place. She took a deep breath, focusing this time. Hoping that it was too much focused on Ruby to pay much attention to her, Maya took a step forward and attempted to lay a hand on the creature.

Ruby felt the impact like a runaway train, claws and teeth piercing flesh that had already started to heal. The wolf ducked to the side, using her smaller form to sidestep a bit. But he still grabbed her and held on. She clamped her teeth over the side of his head, one ear and one eye obscured by her massive jaws. She tried to shake him, to toss him aside so they could run, but it was like trying to throw a mountain. Claws dug into her flesh, and Ruby yelped shrilly as something snapped. But she didn’t let go.

Ruby had another disadvantage - she wasn't shifted halfway through, had no opposable thumbs and if she stood up on hind legs, she could only do a trick dog lovers would aww at. Ryden was a human form with all the advantageous features of a werewolf. Ruby had everything going against her but her brave, strong heart and an urgency to protect a friend. A friend Ryden didn't mistakenly ignore this time. Maya did receive a kick this time, right into her stomach, shooting her to the opposite wall like a ball from a cannon. Ryden's hand found Ruby's sensitive underside, claws digging into the sensitive spot under her ribs. Just another push and he'd break flesh, reaching for her intestines. She fought back though, witch such fierceness despite the pain that Ryden couldn't keep a very good hold of her. Her slick fur was constantly slipping from his grasp, taking advantage of her smaller frame. So he caught ahold of her back leg and tossed her away like a dog-shaped toy. He didn't even wait for her to properly land before he rushed after her to fetch her in his open maw.

All the breath left Maya's lungs as the creature formerly known as Ryden landed a kick in her stomach. She skidded to a stop. Tears sprang to her eyes again. "Fuck," she wheezed. They had to get out. One of them had to get out. Maya had to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her to look for any exit. A few feet to her right was an half open window. She dragged herself to her feet. Every movement hurt. She climbed onto the sill. One last time she looked back at the two wolves fighting. "I fucking hope this works," she whispered. "See you on the other side," she shouted, hoping to buy Ruby a distraction. Maya then turned and leapt from the window. It was only the second story. Not good by any means, but could be worse. A moment later she landed on soft grass and quickly tipped into a somersault. She ended up laying flat on her back, staring up at the cloudless sky outside Ruby's house.

It was pushing past the limits of dangerous. Ruby’s tender belly scraped raw from the claws that tried to eviscerate her even as she struggled and fought and tried to keep the beasts attention away from Maya. But the beast was part man, and Ruby wasn’t. He had advantages. All the advantages. And when she was tossed like a rag doll, dazed and ears ringing, she almost couldn’t get back up. She barely registered Maya’s form moving out of site, but the teeth and claws coming at her drew her attention. Blood ran from Ruby’s wounds, flecked the foam on her muzzle as she breathed heavily, but she pushed to her feet, teeth bared and limbs shaking, ready to meet him head on, if it would mean Maya’s escape, and hopefully both of theirs too. And then she was steaming and panting on the lawn.

The moment Maya had jumped out of the window, time in the pocket world seem to slow down, leaving Ryden in mid-leap after Ruby. What tumbled past Ruby wasn't the beast, but a limp, naked form of nothing but a man, unconscious to even brace himself for the fall. He rolled over the grass on Ruby's front lawn, the earth cushioning his fall and stayed down, sprawled on his side.

Maya heard with relief Ruby and Ryden on the lawn beside her. Turning her head to check on them, she found they were both naked. She should probably help with that. But she needed a second. Her ribs were screaming, but not quite loud enough to drown out the pain from her legs. "Alright, anybody dead?" she asked in a breathless almost laugh. They were out. The asylum was gone. There was going to be some fallout to deal with, but it could've been much much worse.

Ryden was unresponsive, lying sideways on the ground with his back turned to them. But the way he lay there didn't seem unnatural, like a dead body would sprawl. He was very much alive, just knocked out.

Ruby groaned, holding her own side and coughing wetly. There were long, bleeding gashes across her shoulders and belly, and she was barely holding on to consciousness.

"Okay, I'm taking that as a yes," Maya said as she pushed herself off the ground. She had to downplay it a little. After all the horror of it all was almost too much. She looked between Ruby and Ryden. He was unconscious, but at least seemed relatively uninjured. Ruby needed immediate medical attention. But Maya would need help for that. She could stop the bleeding if she could just get Ruby into the house. Using the last stores of her magic, she pressed a hand to Ryden's back, sending a shock of adrenaline through him. Hopefully it would be enough to wake him up. Immediately though she got out of the way, just in case. Moving over Ruby, Maya tore off her shirt to use as a makeshift and very temporary bandage.

It worked like a charm. For all intents and purposes, when Ryden was fully human, he was human all the way, super strength aside. He jolted up, stumbling with a yelp, like someone had just poured ice cold water on him while he slept. "Wha... huh... aah?!?!" He panted, frantically looking about himself. But he was used to it. Waking up someplace he didn't remember he was headed to, butt nekkid and confused was pretty much your every usual Thursday for him now. What was so totally wrong with this picture was Ruby on the ground, bleeding and Maya trying to fix that. "Shit... fuck!" He cussed under his breath, immediately going over to them. "What the fuck happened?"

“Ow...” Ruby murmured as Maya pressed on the wound. Her ribs and insides were mending like normal, but the rest didn’t seem to be improving much.

Maya spared a glance Ryden's direction as he leapt up. "I know," she said softly to Ruby, "I know it hurts." She looked back to Ryden. "I need you to help me get her inside," she half-ordered. But some of the authority was lost by the breathlessness of her voice. She couldn't take a deep breath without her ribs screaming in protest. But she just gritted her teeth against the pain. Ruby's external wounds weren't healing like they should and that took first priority.

Ryden nodded at Maya's instructions, carefully tucking his hands under Ruby to gently lift her up. "Hang in there babe, we'll fix it." He attempted to comfort her but it was secondary to getting her inside as carefully as possible. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and went for upstairs, where Ruby's bedroom was. The last time they were here, he'd stolen a wish he shouldn't have made.

Maya walked behind Ryden into Ruby's house, pain echoing with every step. She swallowed it and tried to keep the wincing to a minimum. While Ryden headed straight for the upstairs bedroom, she stopped in the bathroom for first aid supplies. She then followed them upstairs. Without hesitation, she went to Ruby's side to properly patch up her wounds. Ryden would get whatever he'd come up here for. Now that he was himself again, she could trust that.

Normally, Ruby was more worried about others than herself. But right now she didn’t have much choice. She groaned as Ryden lifted her, head rolling against his shoulder as he carried her inside. Her breathing wasn’t as labored anymore at least.

Putting Ruby down on the bed, Ryden immediately knew what he should be looking for. He rummaged through the same drawer he looked into before, back on that night when Ruby was bitten. As expected, he came up with a couple of blood capsules Ruby had stashed. She snapped one open for her, sitting on the bed to help her drink from the tiny vial.

After bandaging Ruby up, Maya moved on to her next task: clothing. She pulled out some loose fitting clothing and set it on the bed beside Ruby. It could wait until Ryden was done feeding Ruby from the capsules. She did her best as she moved around the room to cover up that she was injured. She dug through a few drawers before finding some jogging pants that might have a hope of fitting Ryden. She tossed them on the bed too. Finally, she sat on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe properly. The room had started to spin a little, but it would pass. She should get water. They could both use water.

The blood capsules were a precaution from when Ruby had been human. But they were still effective. She coughed slightly as Ryden poured the thick substance into her mouth. But she swallowed it down. It started to work almost immediately, though still a bit slower than usual. There would be some scarring, but Ruby could live with that. Finally she groaned again, opening her eyes to see Ryden’s face, his grey eyes. Not the beast or the wolf, but her dear friend. She weakly tipped her forehead to his, sighing wearily but in relief. “There you are...”

"What, have I been away." A smirk tugged on a corner of Ryden's mouth and he ducked down to press his forehead against Ruby's briefly, closing his eyes for a second against the touch. When he parted from her, he looked around to Maya, where she was sitting on the bed. He kept one capsule for her and was handing it over to her. "What's going on?" If she thought he hadn't noticed her injuries, she was mistaken.

Maya turned her head back to give Ruby a soft smile. "You scared me for a second there, Ruby," she said. She took the capsule from Ryden with a quiet thanks. She shook her head, "It was one of those fucking pocket universes. This Victorian era asylum," she explained before cracking open the capsule. She drank it down. Relief seeped through her immediately. It wasn't complete, but it was a hell of a lot better. Maya finally took a full deep breath. "I put some clothes out for you guys, if you want them," she added.

“Sort of,” Ruby said to Ryden, giving him a soft smile. “But you’re back now. And sorry ‘bout that,” she said to Maya. “It was fucked. Felt like... bad memories,” she huffed. “You good?” she asked the witch, seeing the capsule Ryden handed her.

Ryden regarded Maya for a good, long second until she drag the capsule till the last drop. "Thanks..." He mumbled, warm palm resting against Ruby's forearm. "And I'm guessing the reason I don't remember it is cause I wolfed out there." He concluded, all on his own. "Who did this to ya both?" He put he next awkward question out there, up for grabs for anyone willing to answer it.

Maya scooted up the bed to sit next to Ruby. She leaned back against the pillows. The fabric felt cool and soft against her skin. She'd abandoned her shirt to the floor once she'd gotten proper bandages. Eyes closed, she gave Ryden a nod, "You did." She didn't answer his second question though. It wasn't him, not really. "I'm okay," she said. She opened her eyes again. Her limbs felt heavy. She could breathe again, but she still felt sore all over. With her human rate of healing, it would probably be a few days before that fully faded.

Ryden sucked his bottom lip in, teeth biting in a little when Maya confirmed his fears. It wasn't the first time he'd hurt someone without even knowing. It wouldn't be the last either, he knew it. And now these two knew that as well. Good. It was just a matter of time when they'd stop calling and meeting up, having seen him in their nightmares too many times to handle him in reality. Good, good. Hardly any of these thoughts showed on his face as he grabbed the clothes Maya had found for him and started putting the ill-fitting sweats on. Tight as they were, they'd do the job. "Gonna grab ya water and stuff." He announced, going downstairs to the kitchen.

Ruby hummed in agreement that Ryden had indeed wolfed out, but glazed over the second part. “I’ll just be glad when these things go away,” she said of the pocket verses. It didn’t matter what or who had hurt them. It wasn’t him, that’s all that mattered. That and they were all okay now. “Good,” Ruby said to Maya, still leaning slightly against Ryden. She didn’t bother with clothes. She was too tired. But she watched Ryden go with a concerned look, listening to him moving around in her kitchen.

Maya shook her head as Ryden started to leave. "No, bed," she argued weakly. He was already gone though. "Me too," she agreed with Ruby. She then pushed herself off the bed. "I'll be right back," she said, "Get dressed if you want. It'll start to get cold soon." Maya padded downstairs. Her footsteps were louder than usual. She stopped and leaned against the kitchen doorway without a word.

“‘M’good,” Ruby murmured. Though as Maya followed after Ryden, she did reach to slowly pull what maya had laid out. Since she’d gone to all the effort. And apparently would be coming back with Ryden. Sleeping in a warm pile sounded like heaven right now. She could hear Ryden’s voice in the kitchen, and even though she tried not to, she couldn’t help but overhear.

The moment he'd heard Maya's shoulder hit the doorframe with inaudible, dull thud, Ryden turned the tap off, placing a glass of water down on the counter. "Your ribs are bruised. Not broken, but definitely bruised." He informed her, not because he could sniff out but because he knew how a person moved when their ribcage was in terrible pain. He wasn't turning around to look at her.

"You can say that again," Maya agreed. It wasn't the first time she'd bruised her ribs. She did sort of hope it was the last time though. She doubted it, but she hoped anyway.

"And Ruby and that gash she got... Was it a pocket world monster or... was it me?" Ryden asked, in that calm voice that asked for nothing but the truth and he wouldn't ask for it twice.

Maya knew that tone. She'd used that tone. "Trust me, that thing wasn't you, but yeah, technically it was you," she couldn't help but couch it. It wasn't him. After having looked it in its eyes, she had to say as much. "And, um, I did some magic on you. Sorry about that," she added as long as they were laying everything out on the table.

Ryden’s shoulders twitched as he snorted out a weak smile. "That's my girl... Good job." He'd usually very much mind if anyone practiced any magic on him he didn't voluntarily agree to. But in this case, he'd encourage Maya to throw all the fireballs and lighting bolts or whatever at him. Anything to keep him from hurting her and other people, because he couldn't stop make sure he didn't himself. He turned the tap water back on and poured another glass. He emptied it right after then filled it again.

Maya's lips tilted in a crooked smile. "Are you hurt at all?" she asked. She'd already scoped him out earlier, but he might be better at hiding it than she was. She watched his back too, trying to tell how he was doing. Not well, she guessed. But Maya didn't know how to help. Other than staying, she didn't know what she could do.

"Yeaaah. I'm like a cockroach. Indestructible." Ryden picked up two glasses of water, finally turning around. No one would've guessed at what had happened earlier just by his expression. He looked like a veteran to pocket universes, violence and friends in distress whom he'd almost killed. If he was troubled by it at least a little, he didn't let it show. "I guess I gotta pamper you two now, cause I got yer asses whooped. Ya shouldn't move much. It's gonna hurt hell of a lot more f'ya do."

Maya nodded. There wasn't much else to say on the point. She watched him turn, dark eyes soft and full of concern. There was nothing in his expression that suggested Ryden wasn't fine. But she knew what had happened. Maya managed a laugh and then winced. "You think this is my first rodeo?" she asked, "I can handle a couple of bruised ribs." She took one of the glasses from him and sipped. "C'mon," she gestured with a nod of her head towards the stairs, "There's a bed upstairs that's calling our names."

"I think you ride that bull too hard and too often for your own good,” Ryden said softly, letting her take a glass off him. "But yer not the only one t'blame." He followed her back to Ruby's bedroom, putting the glass he carried for Ruby on he nightstand and within reach.

Maya smiled a little brighter, "I'll get up to a minute one of these days." 

Ruby listened to the quiet conversation in her kitchen. She didn't think Maya would outright lie to Ryden - just as Ruby wouldn't - but to hear him ask outright if it was him that had hurt them was heartbreaking. Ruby knew it /wasn't/ him, not really. Just whatever was inside him that was /using/ him against his will. A parasite that needed out. She huffed a small laugh to herself though as Ryden mentioned them getting their asses whooped. It was true. She was gonna have to hit the gym apparently. As if it were that easy, of course. But then he and Maya were both coming back upstairs. Ruby murmured a soft thanks for the water, taking a small sip to get the bad taste out of her mouth before taking a longer one to help her thirst. She sunk back down under the covers afterwards, watching the others sleepily. "Ain't no blame to lay on nobody..." she said, shifting the covers if they were going to lay back down.

"Shut up, badly hurt losers ain't allowed to talk," Ryden spoke too softly for it to be anything but his usual way of showering someone dear with tough loving. Or rather, a convenient cover for the guilt he felt at seeing Ruby hurt but still ready to forgive. Wasn't he supposed to take good care of her too? When her brother got her bit, she was left with no one to guide her through the life-changing transformation she'd gone through. Ryden was there to make up for that. If fate had ever poked him in the eye, telling him that something was his responsibility, it was that time, when he chased Johnny away and took over as something like Ruby's mentor or alfa or whatever wolf crap equivalent would that be. Nice job he'd done there. She told him she was grateful for letting her be independent and find her own way through this. He thought he was being negligent. He couldn't even find her a real pack. He just assumed she didn't need it just like he didn't. He sat down on the bed, lowering himself onto the mattress next to Ruby. He'd heard from other werewolves that their kind had a strange, comforting sort of healing powers when in a pack. Not the kind that would cure cancer or provide an antidote to a poison. But the kind that came with being surrounded by a family and warmth. He scooted carefully closer to Ruby, wrapping an arm around her in a way he wouldn't put any painful pressure on her injury. His warmth against hers, he felt an instantaneous relief himself, some kind of toasty, pulsing feeling inside that could only be described as a healing energy that mostly healed the soul, rather than the body, and maybe took some of the pain away too.

Ruby huffed a small laugh, but kept mostly quiet after that. Truth was, she could've simply run away from The Beast. Snagged Maya and forced her to follow until they found a way out that would save all of them. But it hadn't worked out that way. That wasn't Ryden's fault. If it wasn't for Ryden, Ruby would be dead right now. She would've bled out on the bathroom floor. And that would've been the end of her story. But it was because of Ryden that she was here now. Alive and finding her way through all the things life brought to her door, sometimes quite literally. But it wasn't up to him to find her a pack, no matter what they were to each other. Her pack was here. In Ryden and Maya. And in others that weren't present. And with that, Ruby was happy. So she made room for him when he slid in next to her, groaning in relief as his warmth - and whatever other power their kind had - rolled over her. Her injuries still pained her a bit, but the ache in her chest eased. Like a weight was lifted. She lay her arm over his, fingers stroking his skin in sleepily, idle affection as Maya joined them.

Maya curled up on the other side of Ruby. She hadn't had a proper night's sleep in a long time, but right now was probably her best shot at it. "Okay, wake me up in about five years," she murmured as she closed her eyes. Her ribs still ached dully, but she was exhausted enough not to be bothered by it. "And nobody go feeling guilty over things that aren't their fault."

Ryden pressed himself flush against Ruby's body, so that he could reach over to Maya as well, easily scooping both women into his wide arm-reach. He buried his face into Ruby's hair, warm palm spreading over the side of Maya's ribcage. Whatever Ruby and Ryden shared, it seeped some into Maya too. Sleep wasn't going to come easy to him. But holding them both safe in his arms made him feel a little less like a wolf in sheep's clothing, meant to destroy everything good that despite the evil in him tried to surround him.

Ruby sank into the warm cocoon of blankets and bodies, bolstered by the wolf at her back and the witch at her front. She was already drifting off, too tired from the shift, her injuries, and being cast in and out of reality to stay awake much longer. Ryden's breath was warm in her hair, and she used the rise and fall of his breathing to slow her own. She tucked herself against Maya's front, inhaling the smell of magic and warm, sweet things mixed with Ryden's own comforting familiar scent. Later, there would be things to talk about, but right now this was the best place any of them could be. Ruby hummed softly, voice barely there as sleep pulled her down. "This ain't the threesome I dreamed about... but it'll do..."

[blisserial]

Twelve

We were a circus, yes, but never before had we plied our talents beneath the shelter of a proper tent. Ross claimed he hated tents and that the fabric walls and the disappearance of the sky gave him vertigo. I think he simply didn’t want to split with the coin necessary to procure such an expensive prop.

When we saw the jeweled beauty staked beneath the Capitol's white spire I think we all began to dream of endless, cheering crowds and previously unseen acclaim. I know I drew my shoulders back and lifted my chin. Summer south of the border had taught me that we were more than mud grubbers. Now I think I began to realize that we could be near royalty.

"It's sewn all over with sapphires," Will marveled, tattoos flexing as he stretched to stroke the gleaming fabric.

"I imagine they can be cut free," Maurice replied. He tossed Ross a speculative look.

"No," Ross replied quickly. "Let them be. Don't take anything isn't ours. There's danger in that."

Because I caught Amy's nod and frightened genuflect, I made a rude noise. Ross turned his glare my direction. "I mean it, Bliss. Don't tempt fate." Absently he patted the chrysanthemum pin now stuck through the leather of his belt.

The tent was larger than most of the Southern hotels we'd frequented. Beyond the door flap a footman waited. He bowed so low his chin nearly touched the ground then motioned us to the center of the ring.

We were without our mule and stallion. No hoofed animals were allowed beyond the first circle of the city. Instead, the Seat had gifted us with a pair of lions.

I thought fanged animals were a far road more dangerous than hoofed but Ross appeared calm. He'd worked with large cats in his youth, leopards and striped mountain cats, and we'd been promised that these two shaggy beasts were well trained by the Seat's own personal jester.

"They sit at her feet," the footman reported, reaching past thick wooden bars to ruffle a tawny coat. In his cage the lion began to purr, a deep, rumbling growl. "Or do summersaults while she plays a pipe. Gentle as lambs, these two."

I doubted it, but when the footman released the animals in order to demonstrate their talents, the creatures were indeed better mannered than our one eyed tom. Will soon had their cues down and Ross was fairly bristling with excitement.

"Beloved by the people." The footman nodded and preened subtly as one of the big cats rolled on the ground. "We truly cannot have a performance without them."

"We'll work them in." Maurice nodded. "My troop is nothing if not creative."

Creative assuredly. Our Bearded Lady had deft hands with a tailor's needle and also a pack rat's addiction to odd rags and bits of fine fabrics. She went to work piecing together elaborate, ruffled skirts made of feathers and damask. The skirts had lion sized waistlines and matching paste crowns; an example of the Bearded Lady's odd sense of humor.

The costumed lions were meant to dance with the dogs in the center ring while Ross's tabby queen strummed her guitar and the one eyed tom howled vulgar accompaniment. Amy would preside over them all. In this the dog girl reached the highest pinnacle of her career, I am sure.

It all ran surprisingly well. Our dogs and cats did not, as I expected, turn tail and run the moment the lions were introduced. I suppose Ross's menagerie feared his hand above the lions' hunger.

The elegantly coiffed, perfumed Southern audience roared and clapped at all the appropriate places. The shadowed pavilion at the far end of the tent remained opaque but the Seat's courtiers, arranged at the foot of his throne, nodded and smiled. Ross took their smiles as encouragement. That, and the showers of coin raining at our feet from above.

The adulation must have gone to Amy’s head. I was juggling in the far ring and did not see her leap to the lion's back, but I heard the increasing roar of the crowd. I might have continued on oblivious if the Bearded Lady hadn't screamed.

As it was, I looked over just in time to see the affronted animal turn its shaggy head and casually rip Amy's thigh to clots of meat and gristle.

Maurice quenched colored flame as he jumped to the dog girl's aid. The Bearded Lady continued to scream. Eager, frenzied cries from the audience above rang in my ears. And at the foot of the Seat's pavilion, his courtiers clapped and nodded in genteel approval.

                                                              *****

      The boy was dressed as he had been at Tamner's party, a proper pampered little lord head to toe. The white silk of his stockings had none of the stains one expected in a lad. His velvet doublet was unwrinkled. He stank of Southern perfume. Only the child's ruffled mane was out of order; burnished curls fell over narrowed brown eyes and onto the collar of his tunic.

He held the pistol steady, small hand loose and practiced, while he shook his head.

"A simple question such as I asked demands a simple truth, Sergeant." He spoke in the fluting tones of a lad whose balls had not yet dropped. He pursed his lips in dramatic regret. "But you lied. I thought so then. I know so now."

The silver pistol looked as though it had been fashioned to fit that particular miniscule hand but Maurice did not doubt the delicate thing could put a hole in his chest. He found himself clenching his teeth, and forced his jaw to relax.

"I've no idea what you mean."

"Witchery." The boy pronounced the word as though it tasted sweet on his tongue. He used his free hand to gesture at the blackened walls. "Or do you expect me to believe that conflagration was the result of an oil soaked rag and well timed distraction?"

He laughed as though he found himself terribly amusing. From somewhere behind Maurice the thin priest cackled a nervous echo. That sound, far more than the pistol, made Maurice begin to sweat.

The boy must have seen something on Maurice's face because he wagged his head carefully from side to side. "Don't try it, sir. Burning me won't do you a bit of good and I'll still put a bullet through your heart. Besides," the weapon remained still and steady as the lad crouched at Maurice's shoulder, "surely you've killed enough for one day." He leveled a meaningful past Maurice.

For the first time Maurice noticed the rank, charred stink rising about the room: blackened bone and hair. He knew the taste of ash well.

"I didn't kill them." Because he was sure he hadn't. Most of the priests had been still in the hall and the man closest behind had been hale enough to send Maurice tumbling to the floor.

"No?" The boy's brows quirked. "That isn't supper I smell, nor dinner I see."

Maurice lunged upward. He managed to knock the pistol from the lad's hand, but only, he thought, because the little monster allowed it. He did not quite make it to his knees before the muzzle buried itself again in his rib cage.

"Look your fill," the boy said. "And tell me that isn't murder."

The guards lay where they had fallen, inside the door and beyond, across the bottom of the stairs. The leather of their uniforms had turned brittle. Their boots steamed. Their hands were gone to blackened bone and what remained of their faces made bile rise in the back of Maurice's throat.

Only the elderly priest stood untouched, leaning hard against one blackened wall. His weathered face was set in a rictus of adoration and fright. And it was not, Maurice slowly realized, the fire the old man feared.

"I didn't do that." Maurice said quietly. Because he had always had far more control on the battlefield and he would not think that disuse had eroded his grip. "Who are you?"

The pistol jumped against his flesh as the boy exhaled a thoughtful sigh.

"He," the child said at last, "and his like prefer not to give me name. You.  Well. Often enough, your people call me Fox."

 The boy bound Maurice hand and foot with fine silver linked chain he produced from a small chest on the table and, pistol adamant, sent him to stand against the far wall. Then he made the old priest clear the room of the ruined bodies. It was a grisly, horrifying task to watch, but the man did not complain.

When the priest was finished he bowed, shaking, bloodied hands clutched to his robes, leaving vivid smears.

"Stand outside," the monstrous lad ordered. "Shut the door. I will call you when I want you."

The priest bowed again and shut the door. The soft, faint sounds of temple life above muffled to non existence.

The boy set his pistol on the table and parceled fruit and bread onto a small china plate. This he set on the floor in front of Maurice as one would feed a dog.

"Eat." He said, "I arranged it especially for you. You'll be hungry, I imagine.”

Maurice was not, but he slid down the rough wall until he sat on his heels and freed a grape with manacled hands.

"Northern grapes," he noted. The small purple fruit was cold and firm between thumb and fore fingers. "Fresh."

The boy plucked a grape from the platter on the table and burst it between sharp teeth. "They are my favorite." He scraped juice from red lips with his tongue and then smiled. "You don't believe me."

Maurice rolled the grape between his fingers but did not lift it to his mouth. "I never question a man's tastes, lad."

The boy's delighted laugh rolled and then vanished as quickly as it had come.

"No," he said, suddenly cold. "About the other. You don't believe I'm your Fox."

"My Fox is a god." And a wise man never ate a god's offering. "He runs in a beast's form, when he runs at all." Maurice tilted his chin at the abandoned pistol. "A god has no need of a man's weapons."

"There is ease in the mechanical." The boy sat on the floor a body's length away from Maurice. He pulled his knees up under his chin. Despite the ash in the room, the lad's white stockings were still clean. "And Fox is clever."

Maurice released the grape. It bounced on the china, rolled, and dropped to the floor. He regarded the boy silently, hoping he looked a good bit more indifferent than he felt.

"Do you plan to keep me prisoner?"

The boy appeared to give this idea great thought. "We've enough food to last a day or three. If the grapes do not sour. I abhor soured grapes. But this room gets cold. And we cannot expect Father Geschke to stand out there forever. The man's joints are bad and he's not got but a small family of days left to him."

"It would be," the lad continued, "easier on us all if you just explain."

"Explain?"

"The witchery!" The boy displayed a child's petulance beautifully, even sitting still as he did. "You are right. It doesn't exist, it shouldn't exist, I've mad sure of it. And yet there you were, sir, at Tamner's celebration, displaying your unnatural flame for all to see." His ivory skin grew flushed and mottled. "It does not exist, and yet you have it in spades. Where did it come from? How did you get it? Tell me!"

"You're mad."

The boy chewed his lip and muttered to himself. Then, quick as the child's Jumping Jack Maurice had once seen on display through a toymaker's window, he hopped to standing and spread his arms wide.

"How old am I?" He challenged.

Foolishness, Maurice thought. But: "Ten Summers, no more."

"And how old are you, fire eater?"

"Thirty and seven."

"The day you were born," the lad bent like a hinge at his waist, scowling into Maurice's glower, just out of reach, "your mum slaughtered her best goose and your father caught its arterial blood in a silver cup and left the whole on the cornerstone of my cottagers' church."

Maurice opened his mouth and then closed it again. The boy continued on.

"On the day you turned five your father picked an entire tree's crop of apples and your mother bundled them into a freshly woven basket and left the whole on the cornerstone of my cottagers' church. To bring you luck. Your mother," he straightened up again, seeing something Maurice could not, "had a bit of the rot in her left foot. You stole an apple from the basket. Your mum lost that foot soon after and you've never been particularly rich in luck. You shouldn’t have taken what was mine."

"Enough," Maurice said, despite himself, remembering his mother's gulping cry as the village surgeon cut off her putrid foot. She had not been quite the same after.

"And do you remember," the lad asked, spearing Maurice with a charming smile, "when you turned ten and five?"

Maurice did not, at first, and then, reluctantly, he did. He felt color rise again, this time along his own throat.

"Your mum in her grave and your father not long from his," the boy said. "You convinced the Matron Clark to lie with you, in the scrub alongside my church. And after, you left your offering wet upon my cornerstone, all because young Horace Redding told you, sir, that such a hedonistic ritual would bring you Fox's favor."

Maurice could not speak. The boy took bread from the table and broke it casually into two.

"You've never deserved my favor. And only because of the blood in your mum's silver cup do you have my mercy. So, best speak now." He bit into the bread, sighed easily, and spoke through a full mouth. "The witchery. How did you come by it? Who gave it to you? Speak! Was it that old meddler, that stolid fool, my brother Trout?"

                                                        ********

Moire could not find Maurice. He hadn't been seen in the barracks since sunrise. His cell was all but empty. He'd left his knife behind and the pack that contained his circus tricks.

Sometime since his arrival Maurice had picked up a cake of soldier's hard soap. It sat on the end of his neatly folded bedding along with a battered washing ewer. The man had always been obsessive about cleanliness.

Moire did not feel much compunction searching his quarters, because Maurice had never, in the time she had known him, locked a door. And because she was and always would be his commanding officer, and so had long ago earned the right. And because if Bliss had revealed her troubles to anyone, it would have been Maurice.

But she found nothing of Bliss, nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no sign of a struggle. If the Northern king's soldiers had come for Maurice, they'd not come for him here.

Moire left the cell and stood for a moment in the subterranean corridor, thinking.

She remembered the old bolt hole. A small, possessive part of her heart wanted to throw off her priestly robes and responsibilities and find Bliss again, shake her until secrets spilled out, fix whatever scrape her friends had gotten themselves into.

Once, that would have been her right. But no longer.

Now, she belonged to the gods. And as if those self same gods heard her traitorous heart, they sent her a gentle reminder, in the form of the officious Corporal Aansi.

The man had, lately, somehow become her conscious.

"Major." Aansi appeared wholly relieved. "Thank the highest. I've been looking for you since afternoon bell. They said you were doing your wash."

"I was." Moire folded her hands into the sleeves of her robe. The fabric prickled but she'd grown used to it. "Something came up."

Aansi eyed the door at Moire's back. The corporal could not quite keep his disapproval hidden.

"You're wanted ." He said, with emphasis, "At the temple."

"Of course I am," Moire replied, smothering a sigh.

 Daily obeisance appealed to Moire's warrior self. It was, after all, only another form of patience, not so different from days and nights spent in formation, waiting for the enemy to make his move. The temple floor was nearly as cold as a camp tent in winter and far more uncomfortable than a day spent in the saddle.

During obeisance Moire was never alone. To her right and to her left the other initiates spread in motionless rows, brows pressed to the floor, eyes closed.

Moire could hear her companions breathing, when she was not distracted by the beating of her own heart. Often she became lost in the inhale and exhale until that ocean of life lifted her chest and she grew light and full of certainty. Then every lingering doubt fell away and nothing remained but the companions at her side and the promise of her new future.

But for once Moire could not focus. The rhythmic breath of the men and woman sprawled around her became a distraction, an irritation. Time seemed to inch forward, painstakingly slow. Her forehead grew numb against the stone floor.

She wanted to open her eyes and roll her head and look up at the towering altar. She needed to seek answers to new questions in its glittering, all-seeing eye. She waited for that light, that certainty.

It didn't come.

Outside midday grew into evensong. Soon the bells would ring again and free her from supplication. Moire wondered if Maurice had returned safely to his cell.

A throat cleared, startling against the susurrus of breath. She forgot not to look up.

A young priest looked down at, expression kind. "Initiate," she said. "You are expected in the library."

Surprised, Moire glanced side to side at the motionless, scarce breathing bumps that were her brothers and sisters. The priest shook her head and lifted one finger to her lips.

"Take the main staircase," she said. "They’re waiting.”

[wandering-chronicler-blog]

The Wolf of Farore - Chapter 14

An Ongoing Zelda/Witcher Fusion Fic - Updates Wednesdays/Thursdays

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Summary:

War has come to The Kingdom of Hyrule.  The people cry for a savior as monsters and spirits stalk the once green fields of the provinces.  Famine grips the populace as the Gerudo Tribes and their blin allies strike along the borders.  Hope for peace begins to drown in the blood spilled in No Man’s Land.  But Hyrule doesn’t need another hero.  It needs a professional.

The Story So Far:

A brief respite on Death Mountain has Link and Midna discussing what will happen next as he prepares to head to Snowpeak to try and convince the zoras to not join the war.  Nothing is ever simple though and in the journey, he finds himself adrift and swarmed by skullfish before blacking out...

CHAPTER 14:  A DEAL WITH RALIS

When he was fully conscious, he found he was standing stripped to his shorts and bound in manacles in a wet cell.  A pair of zora guards wearing scale armor and large, mask-like helmets stood outside it, talking quietly.  He still had the wolf around his neck at least.  Link glanced about and listened.

 “Why would Labrynna send a spy anyways?” one of the guards whispered.  It echoed against the stone walls of the dungeon enough that he could hear. Their coral spear clicked against the floor as they moved slightly.

 “I don’t know,” the other said.  “Maybe they’ve heard the rumors.”

 “I hope they’re just that.” They shook their head.  “Do you see all those scars?”

 “I recognized a couple skullfish bites and he was bleeding when they found him washed up.  Recognized a couple more too.  Deku babas on the arms and stomach, couple on his chest. And the scratches on the back…”

 “Those looked like dodongo claws.  And the burns.  What was that one on his collar?”

 “I don’t know, it still looks recently healed.”  They must’ve been referring to the one from the dead hand he reasoned.  Link glanced around as carefully as he could without drawing their attention.  This was definitely one of their cells.  “If he’s not a spy though, he could be one of those berserkers from Holodrum with the sort of equipment he was carrying…  Or a monster slayer.  Maybe specializing in the preternatural?  Why else would he have that strange wolf and the silver crossbow bolts?”

“I don’t think so.  He could be an assassin.”  Link saw one of them lean in a little more to their companion’s ear.  “He had those bottles.  And the one the witch called venomblood.  Said it was a horrible way to go.”  There was a creak of a door opening.  The two guards immediately quieted and stood at attention.  They spoke quieter than before.  He got a glimpse of who they were talking with.  The zora was shorter than the other two, and his coloration was different, more a shade of grey than the blues of the guards.  He was dressed similarly, but lacked the helmet.  Link did spy jewelry around their neck and the two fins that hung to the sides of his face had more as well, including a pair of coral earrings at the end.  He had never met them, but knew instantly it was the young prince Ralis for he had seen him once during a visit with Zelda when he served as an agent of The Crown. It had been years ago though by now. If Link had to take a guess, Ralis was now around the same age he had been when he’d earned the blue and white tunic.                                

 The smaller zora pushed the cell door open.  The guards entered first and kept their spears trained on Link.  He looked the hylian over slowly.  Link didn’t react.  He watched carefully though, looking for an out in the event he needed one.

 “We’ll keep this simple,” Ralis said.  “You tell me your name and what you were doing clinging to the bottom of the Prince of Hyrule’s riverboat.”

 Was he too late?  Had an alliance already been signed?  Honesty though he thought in some areas would work better at least.  He took a deep breath.  “I heard the zoras were going to join the war against Ganondorf,” he said.  “If it was true, it could cause the Storm Sea Zora to get involved as well.  That could drag The Empress and Labrynna into the conflict.  Did not want to be detected by the Hyrulean forces.”

 “Surprisingly well-versed in current events, whatever you are.  And you are not a Labrynnan in spite of the armor you wore.”  He watched Link closely.  “You still didn’t tell me your name.”

 “Link.”

 “Well, Link.  You carry some very interesting equipment as well.”

 “Pays to be prepared.”

 “And what does a man like you need things like venomblood or skulltula venom for?  Or a variety of different bolts for a small crossbow?  Or a subrosian-forged arming sword all the way from Holodrum?”

 He wasn’t going to tell them what he had once done, but the two guards earlier had given him ideas. “I’m a problem-solver.  I solve people’s problems, they pay me.”

 “So you’re an assassin.”

 “No.”

 “You carry plenty of tools to be considered one.”

 “I try not to kill people.” He rolled his head a little. “Only monsters.  Draconids like dodongos and forktails.  Hybrids such as griffins, lynels...   As well as the undead and necrophages like drowners and ghouls. That’s what the venomblood is for.” He looked at one of the guards. “You wanted to know the one on my collar?  Dead hand. The bites on my right calve?  A redead that had been blown in half by a bomb. And you were right.  Those three on my back were from a king dodongo.”                

 Ralis nodded slowly. He looked to one of the guards for a moment and then back to Link.  “Perhaps then we can strike a deal.  Your life for a demonstration of your skills.”

 “Can you remove the manacles then?”

 “Not yet.”  He raised a hand.  “There is a monster at one of our holy sites.  And we would like to see it taken care of.  Can you kill it?”

 He sighed.  “I would need information.  Reports, scouts, past encounters…  Might even need to contact an information broker on what it is.  In which case I’d need funding to pay them for their services.”

 “I thought you said you went after monsters.”

 “I might do that, but I’m not stupid about it.  I’m not like a knight going off at a dragon because his lord asks him to.  I need to know what I’m going after.  Need to know its habits.  Its weaknesses, track it…”

 “I see.”

 “You want it done right, I need information and resources.”  He looked them right in the eye.  “And my equipment back.  All of it.”

 There was a pause as the zora noble looked to the guards.  “Release him.”

 “Your highness, are you sure?” the guard asked.

 “I’m sure.”  He looked back to Link.  “You’ll be unarmed until we leave here though.”

 “Understandable,” Link said. He watched as a zora undid the manacles. He rubbed his wrists for a moment once free.  The feeling had come back quickly.  “Now, what can you tell me about this monster?”

  “It’s unlike anything we’re familiar with,” Ralis said.  He headed for the cell door.  Link followed with the remaining guard behind him.  “When we first encountered it, it was like a chu, drifting in the water. But it had something inside it.”

 “That’s not uncommon. Chus usually engulf prey.  And they can get pretty big.”

 “That something though seemed to move and direct the creature,” the guard said.  “We chased it into the Lakebed Temple, but lost it in there. Eventually it found us though.”

 “How so?”

 “There were six of us. We entered one of the larger chambers and it attacked us.  It had turned the water in the room into a part of itself.  We did manage to wound it.  The core, the object inside it bled.  But it broke a grate and escaped deeper into the temple.”

 Link began to think how it could have done such a thing.  “How long between the initial encounter and this attack?”

 “Took us about a day to find it again?”

 “And how long has it been since then?”

 “A week.”

 “So this thing could be even bigger now.”  He looked to the guard.  “How many survived the attack?”

 “Just me,” he said. He bowed his head a little and then looked at the hylian.  “When it was down to three of us, we drew straws.  One of us would go back and report what we’d found.  I don’t think they’re still alive.”

 “If they are, I’ll find them.”  They came to a guard’s room then.  The other of the two guards had already set out Link’s armor and clothes.  They were still a little damp, but not soaked through like when he’d been in the river.  He picked it up and started to get it back on.  “Can it leave the temple?”

 “No,” Ralis said. “It’s trapped there.  It’s a concern though that it’ll find a way.”

 “Makes things simpler.” He pulled his pants on and then quickly did the boots.  “I will need at least four frost bombs.  Clockwork timers instead of fuses.”

 “Frost bombs?  You realize how dangerous those are.”

 “Yes I do.  I’ve used them before.”  Admittedly though, he had never used them on another living being. However, the circumstances dictated he’d have to.  He just hoped it wasn’t as terrifying to watch as when he’d watched Lana freeze a pack of drowners and proceed to shatter them into scything and bloody chunks with a burst of wind magic.

 “I’ll have a guard get them to you when you enter the temple.  And not a moment before.”

 It was a small relief to him he wouldn’t be carrying the devices until he truly needed them. “Fine by me.”  He pulled a shirt on and tucked it in before slipping a belt on. “I’d assume then we’re close to Lake Hylia.”

 “You are.”

 “Good.”  He pulled the tunic on then over his head.  “I’m going to need to visit the Cardinal Inn before I go to the temple.  Maybe a local has seen the creature or heard something you haven’t.”

The last time Link had been to Lake Hylia had been during The Conjunction with Ravio and Midna. During his time there, they’d slain an archgriffin that had been terrorizing the populace and closed the last portal between Hyrule and Lorule.  On the outside as he walked through the paths between simple huts, it didn’t look like it had changed at all, apart from the fact the inn they’d stayed at had been burned to the ground.  Another one had taken its place not far from its location though.  It had a bright red cardinal weathervane on its grass roof. A similar sign hung over the door. It was a recent addition and the paint was still fresh on the walls.  Link pulled the facemask up over his face to help conceal his identity as he pushed the door to it open.  He could smell something cooking as he entered.  The downstairs was fairly empty apart from a couple locals who were congregated around a table.  One of them glanced over when they saw the new arrival but they were soon back to their tankard.  Link approached the bar.  Behind it was a young man cleaning it.  He looked barely old enough to have facial hair.  There was also a very large fluffy cat lapping up a saucer of cream.

“Do you have any milk?” he asked.

“For thirty.”

Link dug into his wallet while the young man got his drink.  He slipped them a purple rupee and took a long drink.  “Keep the change.”

He grinned at seeing his payment.  “Anything else?”

“I wish to speak with the proprietress as well.”  He glanced at the cat then.  “I’m sure Louise can vouch for me.”

The cat glanced up when he spoke.  Her eyes followed his every move then.  The young man quickly rushed into the back of the tavern.  Link had caught a look of worry on his face at mentioning the cat. He took a drink of his milk and looked at the cat then.  She had started to become alert.  He saw her moving and her hair starting to stand on end, making her look even larger than she already was.  He watched even as the cat’s pupils dilated and her tail swished.

He looked the cat right in the eyes for a moment, but broke contact and went back to his milk.  She followed suit though and returned to lapping at her saucer.  Link however, heard footsteps from behind.  He slowly moved his hand, ready to pull the hidden knife from his bracer if he had to.  “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Can help the lot of us,” one of the locals said.  To his right, Link saw a poster placed on the bar.  A quick glance was all he needed to see his face on it and a bounty of a thousand rupees.  “Just come quietly.”

Link took another drink and turned to face them.  They were dressed simply and it was clear they had no rank.  One did hold a club in their hands, but the other two were unarmed. A quick glance was all he needed to determine the way to take them.  “You are aware of how devalued the Hyrulean Rupee has become because of the war, yes?”

“That can still feed our families!” the one with the club said.  “And no one likes deserters!”

“Do you three really think they’d put out such a high bounty on a single deserter?” a woman said. They looked to their lefts.  Link glanced that way as well.  Telma stood with her arms folded under her chest. Her dark red hair was back in her usual ponytail and the apron she wore was bloodied.  Link also spotted a meat cleaver hanging from the apron.  “If you three think going after someone with that sort of price on his head is smart, you’re cut off for today.”  She looked at Link then.  “I hear you want to speak with me.”

“Somewhere private, please,” Link said.  He looked back at the three men.  “She’s right though too.  The price might be that high because of the danger.”  He grabbed his milk and walked over to her.  She turned then and they headed into the kitchen.  Telma pushed the door open and waited for him to enter. It swung behind them.

 “By Din, Link,” she said, giving him the look of a scolding mother.  “Are you insane?!  There’s posters of you all over from here to the South Seas!  And all I’ve been able to get from the usual suspects is that you’re a traitor!”

“Do you believe them?” he asked.

“You’re not working for Zelda anymore, I know that much.”  She removed the apron and meat cleaver to hang on the wall.  Link spied a slaughtered boar on a table.  Two other people were at work preparing it for a meal. “And if that’s the case, I don’t think I can help you.  You had the Royal Treasury to draw on.”

“Then why even talk to me if you’re so sure?”

“Call it a professional courtesy, hun.”  She folded her arms.  “You made sure you paid in full whenever you came by.  Never ran up a tab either.  And you got a couple of your Chosen buddies to help make sure the rioting didn’t burn down my old bar with me still in it.”

He leaned against the wall then and took another drink of his milk.  “Well, for the moment I have access to a royal treasury, just not Hyrule’s. Which is why I’m here.  Prince Ralis of the Snowpeak Zoras has contracted me to handle the monster in the Lakebed Temple.  Told him I needed a broker to get some extra information.”

“Monster?  In the temple?”  She narrowed her eyes.  “You’d better step into my office then…”  Telma turned and Link followed her into a back room.  It had the curtains drawn and a simple desk in the middle of the room. She sat down behind it.  The cat, Louise, had followed her in and jumped on the table.  “We’d heard rumors from some of the zora guards of something in there, but nothing you could call reliable.”

“And why is that?”

“Because none of my agents have gotten down there to get a look at it.”  She gave Louise a pat.  The fluffy white cat purred.

“As expected…”  Link pulled a chair up and sat down.  He rested his arms on his legs, leaning in. “Now, I’ve also heard rumor that they might be joining the war.  How much of that is true?”

“It’s not a rumor. It’ll be true in a couple weeks I’d expect.  Even Zelda herself has been up there talking with the king and queen.”  She scratched Louise behind the ear.  The cat lay on the desk then, looking quite content.  “A lot of the senate up there though have voiced concerns that the king and queen are thinking with their hearts rather than their minds in regards to this.”

“How so?”

“The king’s daughter from his first marriage, Ruto, has gone missing.  Hyrule is offering to use their information network and a couple Chosen to find and return her.  In exchange, the zoras let them use the large rivers and lakes for their armies.  This includes plans for new irrigation to help prepare more food as it’s looking like this war will continue another year.”

“Terrific…”  He finished his milk and put the glass on the table.  “What about Labrynna?”

“There has been… Vocal protest by the sea zora ambassadors in the court.  Conflicts like this have happened in the past and it always ends in tears for both sides. Worrying that this will affect their trade even more than it already has.  They’re not having any of it.  And…  I could have an agent find out what Empress Ambi’s thoughts are on the entire matter.  It wouldn’t come cheaply though.  And I doubt Ralis would like you spending his money that way.”

She was right about that. Even though the prince was probably only in his teens, the way he’d handled the interrogation was impressive. “Do you know if they tried finding her themselves?”

“I do.  But no word on if it was successful.”  She removed her hand from Louise, who let out a mew in protest. “I’d expect it failed though.  And that there’s more going on than they’ve told you.”

Link thought on what he’d been told.  If this was all true, he could be looking at more work to rescue the princess.  He’d be willing to do it if it prevented the risk of Labrynna entering the war.  “Do you have any leads on where she could be?  Just yes or no.  Not if you actually know.”

“I can find out.”

“We may have this conversation again then.”  He stood up.

“That all you need, hun?”

“For the zoras, yeah. But I do have something that may require me to start a tab…  Personal interest.”

Her eyebrows rose. Louise even looked up at him. “Never thought I’d see the day. What kind of personal interest?”

He looked back at her. “I need information on polymorphic curses and Majora’s Mask.  Preferably how they’re related and methods of breaking them.”

Telma inspected him carefully then.  He was aware of how insane the request sounded.  “I’m not sure if you’re serious or you hit your head on something. That’s just an old story.”

“But every story has a grain of truth to it.  Even if it’s archeological information, I need it.”  He took a deep breath.  “And I have a friend who is afflicted by such a curse.  I promised to help.  The Mask is the only lead we have.”

She was quiet for a minute, writing down a note on a sheet.  “Must be some friend if you’re willing to chase fairy tales.”  Telma finished and put her pen down. “Alright.  I should have something then soon.  I have an agent or two who could get that for you.”

[lorelylantana]

Chapter 4: Reprieve

I scrambled away as quickly as I could, but I was no match for a mother bear. She ran me against a tree, and I struggled to breath. I could feel her teeth press against the back of my neck, and felt for sure that these were my final moments.

Then I heard the bear lurch away and roar with vengeance. Kyrie had dove down at the last second and ran her talons down the bears face, causing her to draw back, releasing me in the process. The bear swatted at her attacker, but Kyrie swerved and dodged in and out of the bear’s reach. I grabbed my bag from where I dropped under a tree. Then I ran across the clearing and reached skyward with a chain ending in a manacle that closed around one of the higher branches strong enough to hold my weight. Grabbing hold of it and clasping the other manacle around my own wrist I willed the chain to shorten and soared above the bear into the trees.  My heart was pounding, and I heard the terrifying sound of the bear crashing through the woods. I saw her run right at my tree. I struggled to go higher, but in my haste my cloak snagged on a branch. I frantically tried to dislodge it, but before I could the mother bear reared, pulled a devastatingly powerful arm back, and raked her savage claws down my left calf. I screamed in pain, but finally I untangled myself from the branch and painstakingly pulled myself higher.

Once my hand hooked onto the branch next to the cuff I’d formed I dissolved the chain and manacles and swung up onto the tree limb.

I was exhausted but safe for the moment and the branches weren’t strong enough to support such an imposing beast. Kyrie perched on the bough next to me.

“I hate to tell you this, but it’s not safe to walk on the ground with a mother bear patrolling. You have to keep moving through the trees, just like when you crossed the river.” Kyrie looked at me apologetically, and though I dreaded it, I knew she was right.

Luckily, the gaps in between the trees were smaller, so I didn’t have to jump between them. More often than not, the limbs from two different trees were side by side. That said, the gash on my leg made walking of any kind excruciating. I dragged myself from branch to branch, wondering why in all the universe I ever considered climbing trees to be even remotely enjoyable. The cuts burned something awful, and I took frequent breaks so I didn’t over exert myself. Belladonna, miraculously, had remained in my bag during the entire bear fiasco and was unharmed. Kyrie had to encourage me several times to get me to move. Eventually, the mother bear returned to her cub, satisfied we were no longer a threat to her baby.

In the end, an hour’s walk turned into a three hour limp through the trees. The moon had almost reached its peak when Kyrie spoke.

“The entrance to Reenaran is just up ahead. You’ll meet the Gatekeepers in a clearing through those trees.”

“There aren’t any bears around are there?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Today I nearly fell to my watery death, I was just mauled by a bear and have spent the latter part of my day agonizingly gallivanting through trees. It is completely within my right to be ridiculous,” I proclaimed with indignation as I began to make my way down. I wasn’t sure if my leg was strong enough to ensure a safe landing, so I decided to lower the bag down so it was hanging from the branch I was standing on to make sure Belladonna wasn’t accidentally crushed on landing. Which was probably for the best, because as soon as I was getting ready to swing myself down my injured leg slipped off the branch and sent me tumbling to the ground with a painful thud.

I sat up after a few moments of self pity. All I had was a few hundred yards to go and I just had to hurt myself.

“You know Kyrie, I’m starting to really despise trees.” I grumbled, and I got a chuckle in return.

“I can see why, given recent events. All the same you’re almost there, just beyond those trees. I’ll help you get Belladonna.” She did so by sliding the strap off of the branch while I held the bag aloft. As soon as Belladonna was once again strapped to my shoulder I made the final steps of my journey to the Nation of Spade.

I stepped through the trees to see a massive wall guarded by two men. I couldn’t guess why, given that there was no gate in sight and the smooth black wall behind them towered into the sky that discouraged any notion of climbing it. Both carried swords at their belts and they appeared to be eating a meal.The guards wore black pants paired with blue shirts under a black breastplate. They carried greek swords with triangular blades and their shields lay resting against the wall. My stomach rumbled, I hadn’t had anything to eat since the morning. Apparently, my stomach was so obnoxiously loud that the guards both heard and snapped to attention, swords drawn and shields raised up to their eyes. They scanned the area and saw me. The one on the right lowered his shield and opened his mouth a little, as though surprised to see anything come from the forest, much less a teenage girl and a raven. The one on the left was a bit more composed.

“You new?” He asked curtly, and I nodded.

“Yes, I’m a student on the way to the Eagle Bastion.” I spoke as clearly as I could, but my voice wavered a bit as I mentally considered my claim. Both guards remained impassive, the one on the right struggling to suppress a smile. Again it was the left guard who spoke.

“If that’s the case, come and show us your bracer.” Silence passed. It was then the right guard finally said something.

“We don’t mean to insult you; it’s just standard procedure. To be honest we didn’t expect anyone, Halloween is a slow time for incoming Spades.” I nodded and limped toward them. The right guard’s eyes widened, and after I handed the pendant to the left guard to examine, he spoke.

“By the Blades you look like you’ve fallen from a tree.”

I was not amused by this comparison.

“That’s because I have fallen from a tree.”

“That’s why you’re limping?”

“No, I’m limping because a bear took a swat at me.”

“You fell from the tree only to be mauled by a bear? That’s tough.”

“No, the wound the bear gave me caused me to fall from the tree.”

“That . . . actually sounds worse.”

The left guard finished with the compass and interjected before we could get any further.

“That’s enough Charles, she’s been through enough today. Now we have to get her to the inn, they have a healer in residence.”

Charles nodded. “You’re right of course, we have to open the gate. First, do you have any companions you might’ve met in the forest you want to take with you?” I nodded.

“Yes, two.” I answered, and Charles started.

“Impressive. How’d you manage that?” I told him how I came across Kyrie and Belladonna.

“A raven and a wolf pup. You’ve got yourself quite the entourage.”

The left guard nudged his partner, and Charles straightened.

“Right, I digress, my partner Ishmael and I will open the portal that takes you directly into the capital. There will be a supervisor waiting at the portal waiting to give you directions, though with your injury and bracer they should make quick work of getting you settled in. Who knows? Now don’t panic, and try not to vomit upon arrival, that’s always unpleasant for all parties involved.”

With that, both Charles and Ishmael drew their swords and drove their points into the ground by my feet. The next thing I knew I was falling into oblivion.

One moment I was falling and the next I was lying in what appeared to be a massive silk sheet hanging from three of the four corners in a room shaped like a rhombus. It was unlike any room I had been in during my relatively short lifetime. The walls were made of a solid black stone I didn’t recognize.  Across the room were a set of silver double doors that were crafted with the image of mountains rising up from the surface, giving the picture a three dimensional effect. From the ceiling hung a stunning chandelier that appeared to contain a glowing blue substance as a light source. It was too far up for me to see what it was, but it cast a soft but strong light around the room. As I slid off the sheet I could see the floors were made out of marble. There was a massive Spade insignia inlaid in the marble. I was so captivated by the sheer beauty of the room I didn’t hear the door open.

“Now what have we here? A new student?” In the doorway stood a tall slender woman with kind eyes and messy hair in a bun. She had ebony skin that had wrinkled slightly with age, but that only made her sky blue eyes stand out even more. She wore a gown of dark purple with blue vines coiled around the bodice and skirt. She smiled encouragingly.

“My name is Sylphia, I’m the caretaker for this year’s Hatchlings. What might your name be?” Her words had a calming effect, her voice provided safety after three days out in the forest. I felt myself open up to her very quickly.

“My name is Allie Sage, and this is Kyrie and Belladonna.” I walked closer to her, and it was then she noticed my leg. Her eyes widened with concern.

“Normally I would go through orientation first but it’s late and it seems you’ll have to spend the night in the infirmary.” Without another word she called in two people into the chamber. There was a girl with asian features wearing a purple tunic and black pants. Her eyes were a shocking shade of green. Next to her stood a tall boy with bronze skin dressed in a loose black shirt and navy blue pants, with a warm set of deep red eyes. They were both athletically built and around my age. The girl was a few inches taller than me but the boy towered over her. The boy seemed to have some sort of reptile sitting on his shoulder and a cat with light grey fur came and sat next to the girl’s feet.

“Daedalus, Atalanta, would you be so kind as to help Allie and her friends to the infirmary. It seems she was  injured during her Trial.” Sylphia asked gently, and both Daedalus and Atalanta nodded before walking toward me. As soon as Sylphia left the room Atalanta spoke.

“So how did the road to the capital treat you? Apart from your leg I mean.” She inquired, taking my arm and holding it over her shoulders so she could ease the pressure off my bad leg. Daedalus took my bag and carried it as he walked beside us. Together we made our way out the door. The hallway was made of the same stone the room was, except this hallway was lit with a series of orbs filled with what I thought was white sand. What was strange was that it emitted a strong light that illuminated the corridor. We headed right, and on our left was a row of stained glass windows made of blue, black and purple.

“Not well.” I answered. “I don’t think I could have made it without Kyrie to help me.” I shrugged the shoulder Kyrie was on. “She helped me take care of Belladonna too.” I pointed to the bag, and Daedalus peered inside. He grinned when he saw her resting inside, and now that I got a closer look I saw his eyes were very subtly hinted with dark red. I told the story of how I found the wolf pup.

“I guess a cute puppy like that is hard to ignore,” Atalanta chuckled in as we rounded a corner.

“Not only that but you found a companion to help you along. I didn’t meet Luna until a month after I arrived here, she continued, motioning to the cat walking beside her. I heard Daedalus snort.

“Yeah you’re lucky you got a helpful creature to accompany you. All I got was a sassy lizard.” He complained, causing the lizard, who I now saw was mostly black with forest green stripes running down it’s back, to whack Daedalus’ cheek with his tail.

“Hey!” He exclaimed in surprise causing Atalanta and I to laugh. They lead me through the door to the infirmary and set me on the nearest bed.

“So,” Atalanta said, “Which world are you from?”

“Um, Earth?”

Daedalus chuckled, “We all come from an ‘earth’ but the people of Ivaline have different names for them.”

“Well I wouldn’t know it’s name then.” I responded.

“Why don’t you describe it for us?” Atalanta suggested, so I went on describing my hometown, the high schools, and basically life in suburbia.

I was just getting around to explaining the concept of elevators to a very confused Atalanta when Daedalus interjected.

“Yeah but what about stairs-”

“Oh wait! Is your world the one with the weird flying machines and frozen coffee?” He exclaimed, and I nodded.

“That’s Pangaea, I’ve always wanted to go there, but that world is barred from anyone who isn’t a native until they are twenty.

“Why?” I inquired, and this time it was Atalanta who explained.

“Pangaea is the only world where the people can’t access their magic naturally, so none of them know about it. I think Diamond sent emissaries over once, and landed in a place called Europe, but they had to come back because they said that people kept trying to set them on fire.”

I listened intently as they told me about their worlds. Atalanta lived in a world named Arcanonia where you had to take a rather difficult physical and mental exam in order to be chosen to go to Ivaline. There it was a big rite of passage to take your first exam, and if you manage to be one of the twenty chosen that year, it meant that your whole family was celebrated and they got to take a year long paid leave to prepare for the child’s departure the next year, usually the family also got a all expenses paid vacation and a reunion.

“Every world has a limit to how many teenagers they can send, and they have to be fifteen or older, any younger and they’re deemed too impressionable to know what they really want. Fifteen is traditionally seen as the time when you’re supposed to make your own choices and deal with their consequences.”

I quieted as Daedalus started to talk about his world.

In Daedalus’ world, apparently, the venture into Ivaline was a bit more anticlimactic. In his world, Druid, trees were sentient beings who could speak and observe the humans in the area, and they took a vote on which thirty kids to send every year in April when they woke up.

“We have to go, but we’ll see you in training!” Atalanta called, and they left, leaving me to wait for the medic. While I waited I took a look around. The walls were lined with shelves that carried jars filled with dried herbs and various liquids. The sands that lit up the room were tinted a soft yellow to light the room with a warmer glow. I sat on the first of a row of beds, each had a curtain that could be closed to give patients privacy. Towards the back of the room a door opened and out came a man.

I felt calm as I was approached by a man wearing half-moon glasses. He looked to be in his fifties and was dressed in blue. He seemed to have been alerted by the noise of the conversation I had when I arrived with Atalanta and Daedalus.

“And what might your name be?” He inquired as he came to a halt at the bed I was resting on.

“Allie, Allie Sage.” I answered quietly as he regarded my leg thoughtfully before looking up at my face.

“Good evening Allie, my name is Galen and I’m the North Wing's chief healer. Luckily it’s only a superficial cut, so it won’t leave any lasting damage. The main problem is the dirt that has gotten into it. I’m going to need to clean it as soon as possible, which unfortunately  will sting quite a bit. I know it has been a long day for you so I will try to work as quickly and gently as I can.” He went to the shelves on the opposite wall and retrieved a rough cloth and one of the jars filled with liquid. He wet the cloth with it and came over.

“Brace yourself, the less you move the sooner this will be over.” He cautioned. I took in a breath and nodded. He started to clean my wounds.

It was agony. Every inch of each laceration seemed to catch fire as the cloth ran down it. It took every fiber in my being not to lash out and kick Galen, but he kept to his word and was done after a few strokes. I sighed and slouched in relief, and he gave me a sympathetic look before going off once again to rummage through the shelves farther into the room. He came back with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He bade me to drink it as he wrapped my leg. He was done before I had gone through half of the mug in my hands. He straightened.

“You’re leg will be fine, but you haven’t been assigned a room yet so I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the night here in the infirmary. I’ll arrange to have food be brought up to all three of you in the morning, but for now I want you to finish your tea and go to sleep.” He explained, and after a nod from me headed for the door.

“If anything happens during the night, ring the bell.” Inexplicably the lights dimmed, and I felt myself lay back and nod off to sleep.

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[dthoursonpalmer]

RAZE - 053 - A Good Night

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It would be that night. I was certain.

I made my usual inspection before evening shift, then took a few trusted ones aside. The Tash, Hamed, Urnan, and Fahil. These were all Nabani or Opaci, ones like me who had been taken from the southern provinces when the Lonireilans invaded Serehvan. Hamed had started shaving his head after he got a wound on his scalp. Urnan was very pale and had a soft look that the army had not been able to destroy. He was a rich man’s son, and it was said he had joined readily. It was said he killed his own family when they fought back against a Lonireilan tribute-collector who came to their village.

Fahil was Opaci, like the Tash, and seemed to know the Tash from home. He looked like her, with course hair and a deep brown face. He was fearful and obedient, and I had beaten him once for cowardice during training. Since then he always fought hard, delivering the beatings rather than taking them. He was big, almost as big as me, strong and tough but inclined to gentleness that did not suit our company, The Hand of the Knife.

I took them to the storage shed on the outskirts of Yamurik’s compound, and made them wait outside while I retrieved my supplies. The bows went to Hamed and Urnan. I wanted the Tash and Fahil with me, in case things got rough. Urnan asked where I got the new equipment while I distributed the manacles and belt pouches.

“None of your concern. And I need it back.”

He tested the weight of the draw. “Tell me I get to shoot something.”

“Maybe.” Now that we were equipped, I sent the Tash ahead to make sure we wouldn’t be observed on our way out of the compound, back toward the river. She already knew the plan, but the others didn’t, so I explained as we closed up the shed and set off, following her footprints.

The snow fell in small, hard flecks. The wind gusted. It would be a good night for refugees, with poor visibility and distracted, uncomfortable night watchers. Many patrols would shirk their duties and hide out in the eaves of houses or woodpiles. More chances for our glory.

I almost fell in the river as the bank suddenly dropped away at my feet. I stumbled and caught myself. The river was white as the ground, the ice covered over with a thin sheet of snow. How thick was it, and where would they try to cross? I guessed I should have tried to find out before, but I knew where we had found the man in the river, and that seemed good enough to me. I motioned to my followers for quiet and turned along the river. We met the Tash not far from the house where she had sheltered. She gave a sign that the way was clear.

Blinking against the snow, I pointed to two vantage points where the hovels encroached on the river for Urnan and Hamed. “You’re to shoot at my signal. Not early. The goal is to capture the one smuggling people, not kill everyone.”

“I’ll aim for their legs,” Urnan said. “We can take them easily if they can’t run.” In my youth and inexperience, I thought it a reasonable compromise. And what would be the use of bows if we didn’t use them?  He went to a ruined shack upriver of our position. Hamed went atop the lower roof of a house that had a second story. There, he could hide against the dark of the upper floor and keep a good eye out over much of the river. He and I worked out a sound, a whistle, that was to mean someone was coming.

It was my task to patrol the riverfront. A single, young guard would be as much bait as the patroller from before, except I would be ready. The Tash shadowed me at a distance. Fahil hid in the back of a house, within sprinting distance.

My error became clear very soon. With my teeth chattering, the wind gusting, flakes tapping against my hat and high leather collar, I could scarcely hear. Even with my eyes accustomed to dark, the clouds blocked even the silver moon’s light, and I had not brought a lamp or lantern, knowing it would only blind me. Now, I wished I had it. At least then the others might be able to see if the lamp went out.

I stalked up and down the riverbank. My tracks disappeared in the blowing snow, leaving only a long, narrow rut. Sometimes, I strayed from even that. I lost my path and ended up beside a house or stumbling on the riverbank again. The cold bit my face, chilled my nose and my gloved fingertips on the haft of my spear. The only sound was the tap-tapping of the snowflakes and the rustle of my long coat, shifting in the wind.

A shape appeared ahead of me, a dark figure in the snows. I slowed. My breath caught. My heart, hammering, rose higher in my chest, pushed against my throat. I readied my spear and approached, then raised my voice. “Who goes? Name yourself.”

“It’s me.”

I cursed and lowered my weapon. “Lick of shit, Urnan.”

He tromped closer, his pale face gone pink with the cold, hunkered low in his collar. “It’s freezing out here.”

“You’re on patrol. I shitlicking know it’s freezing. You’re supposed to be watching.”

“This is pointless. No one’s going to run from town on a night like this.” I shoved him with a push to the center of his chest. He slipped in the snow and fell, then arose in a rush, snarling. “Hey!”

“Hey?” I shoved him again, and again he fell. “I’m in charge, Urnan. Get back to your post.” So much for being trustworthy.

“We’re not even supposed to be out here.” He glared from where he sat on  his backside on the ground. “Are we?”

This I couldn’t answer. Before I could make up some bluster, he went on.

“I’ll tell Uruverres. Then what?”

“Get back to the barracks.” My mind raced. If he squealed it would be an end to my plan. “Dry off. You’re relieved for the rest of the shift.”

His snarl twisted into a sly grin. “Thank you, sir.” He overemphasized the title.

I watched while he disappeared into the snow and dark, then stomped and lashed out with my spear at the snow. The gash I made in the powdery surface vanished as soon as I’d made it. I spun and tromped back along my path.

I’d have to deal with him. Until something happened, my plan would be in danger of his telling someone. If he told Ecena, she would surely look for a way to challenge my position. Uruverres might even give it to her. The thought crossed my mind that I should have killed Urnan, rather than send him back.

As I neared his old post by the ruined shack, Urnan returned. I saw his shape appear, just as it had before, in the blowing snow. I cursed and moved toward him, then slowed as he drew near.

He was much too large to be Urnan.

“Evening, soldier.” It was a man, with a clean-shaved face and bushy black brows. He wore heavy clothes and, in the wind and snow and dark, I saw a knife in his hand, his body turned to try to hide it from me. “Bad night to be out alone. Cold and snow. Should have kept your friend near.”

My stomach fell. Urnan had gone. His post stood unguarded, and we were surely too far for Fahil or Hamed to see.

Behind the man a family huddled. They watched nervously, holding packs high on their backs. Another man pointed them toward the river, then approached me along with the first.

“Bad night,” the smuggler said again. He took a step toward me. “Really bad.”

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  RAZE – 053 – A Good Night was originally published on D. Thourson Palmer