#then turn to another person and speak dialect with them instead

[airenyah]

Me reading your post with my German and English like.... Okay keep your secrets. It took me a hot sec to recognise even the German. What dialect is that even? (Said with love)

hahahahaha this message is delightful, ngl :D

i grew up in northern austria! dialect is used pretty much everywhere and in any situation in that region

which is funny, because my parents actually raised me with standard german (as in i was actually told off for speaking dialect at home by my mom) and then in unterstufe (middle school) my classmates would keep asking why i only ever spoke standard german and i got so fed up with it that at age 12 i slowly made the switch to dialect outside of home

anyway, earlier i really needed to vent about something and so when that's the case i always go with the strongest dialect i can muster when i need to let off steam but don't want to start any unnecessary discussions or arguments (vague-posting works great when you know that people can't understand your language and even google translate won't do much good 👌)

[moreespressoformydepresso]

Been sitting on this AU for a while and a discord conversation brought it back to my attention (thanks @felixravinstills) so here I am, typing it out on my one free day instead of writing like I should be doing.

The Capitol speaks in Panem's version of "standard" English, while the districts all have dialects that are so different from standard that they may as well be different languages entirely. Now, the districts can understand one another's dialect due to similarities and influences left over from the rebellion days, as well as due to inter-district trading and stories passed down through generations. However, the Capitol views these dialects and the accents they cause when a district citizen speaks standard English as a sign of being "lesser" so they stay as far away from it as possible, so they don't understand a word of it.

Come the 10th games where the mentors are forced to interact with the tributes, this seemingly random factoid about Panem turns into the thing that stops the games for good and brings Gaul's life to ruination. At first, the mentors are very snooty and classist about the tributes' accents, but when they start to care about their tributes it becomes an endearing thing to them. Slightly infantilizing but it's better than dehumanizing so the tributes that notice decide to take it. Now, I could go the depressing route and tell you the mentors try to learn their respective tribute's dialect post-games because it's the only thing they have of their tribute that isn't stained by the games. The stories they shared are nothing but memories, any item they have is sent back to their families. Anything they may have made for them was created with stuff from the zoo where the tributes were forced to stay and humiliated daily in the leadup to their brutal death. But their dialects? That's something the mentors can learn, and it's the only concrete thing they can have of the child that died on their watch that's from before they were forced into these horrifying circumstances. However, I'm gonna make this a fix-it instead :)

Now, this whole situation happens because none of the mentors die during the bombing, which means the Capitol is far less up in a tizzy about rebel activity. It doesn't mean much, but it leaves them just the tiniest bit more open to hearing positive things about the districts. While in the zoo, the tributes talk to each other in dialect because they can understand one another and it feels more like being at home that way. They won't let the Capitol force them into speaking standard when they don't have to and nobody cares if those Capitol pricks can't understand what they're saying. It's a positive, if anything. Some mentors are visiting and when one (probably Arachne because I'm ignoring the stabbing bit) gets prickly about them not speaking "proper" English with a comment about it being "a sign of lesser beings," Brandy responds by snippily asking her which one of them can understand the other either way. "If only one of us can speak both, who's the stupid one again?" Arachne is affronted (though her ego gets out of the way the next day and she realizes Brandy has a point, causing her to try to start over with her tribute by being a little nicer) but the other people present stop immediately to think about that. Especially those who know a lot about language. That whole dialect thing means the tributes know more vocabulary, more grammar than the Capitol citizens. And they have to seperate them too so they're not mixing languages! Clearly they're not that stupid then, so even if they are still lesser beings... Maybe it's worth being a little more nuanced?

Of course it never stays at just a little, in fact it starts spiralling quite uncontrollably. If the district kids are smart enough to essentially speak two languages... What else are they smart enough for? And with the extra scrutiny on the tributes their individual personalities and interests, and even more so their interpersonal dynamics and relationships, become utterly unavoidable. Coral's care for Mizzen despite how game-faced she is in every other facet of the games, Reaper's concern for Dill despite appearing to be the most dangerous amongst the tributes, Bobbin's anger that only seems to be gone entirely when it comes to Wovey, Treech and Lamina's complicated road of trying to figure out where they stand with each other when they clearly both know they'll have to leave one another eventually and the way it so obviously eats at them both, Marcus and Sejanus and whatever it is that's going on between the two of them. As all of this starts gaining traction in the Capitol, it becomes harder and harder for Gaul to keep up her narrative of "undressing humanity" and the districts deserving this. Especially when her biggest supporter, the president himself, ends up paying a visit to the zoo at Felix's insistence and sees first-hand the way these kids interact with one another as well as the visitors in the zoo. Their obvious disdain for their situation and those who came to oggle at them while they're literally being treated like animals, but also their small soft spots for the kids who don't know any better. The way they can't quite bring themselves to be mean to small children, even when those children see them as dumb animals put there for their entertainment.

President Maximinius Ravinstill is not a kind man. Nor is he a gentle, merciful one. He's cold and he's vicious. President Maximinius Ravinstill is a cruel man. But at the end of the day, he's just that. A man. One who has a son himself, though he's not been the best father he could have been. And while at first he'd thought he'd stay for five minutes to satisfy Felix and go back to his life again unaffected... Maximinius stays for hours, noticed only by those from the Capitol. Entirely unnoticed by the kids, though they watch him with curiosity at first due to the reactions of everyone outside the cage upon his initial arrival. Most of them don't even know who he is, and not a single one of them cares. That's how little they've been allowed to know of the outside world, and that's how little they care for the Capitol. All any of them are to these kids is the cause of their misery, and President Ravinstill may be a cold dictator, but Maximinius is a father who can only see his young son, hurt and bleeding and starving, in the faces of these young children. Especially in young Mizzen, whose face lacks the youthful chub it should have due to lack of nutrition the same way his son's had all those years ago. In Otto and Treech, who are of similar age and share just enough features with Felix to be discomforting, despite the district characteristics that had let Maximinius and everybody else in the Capitol write them off as "other" for a decade now. Long before that too, if he's honest with himself.

And President Ravinstill shouldn't care, but Maximinius can't help himself. For so long he's allowed differing physical appearances and a lack of education he himself reinforced to let him believe these kids were somehow lesser, but now that he's seen the parallels and the similarities he can't unsee them. And Maximinius is just a man, with the emotions of one and a heart that beats no matter how cold he's allowed it to become over the years. Part of him wants to go back to delusion, to ignorance and cruelty, but his heart won't let him. It aches and screams for him to do something because he knows he can. If anyone can it's him, and he'll never go back to the way he used to be before this realization. Since he already knows what Gaul will tell him, he talks to Dean Highbottom, the creator of the games, in hopes of solving this dilemma. It becomes the final straw that pushes him to accept the truth: he'll never truly live again if he allows this to continue, so he doesn't. He puts a stop to Gaul's machinations and ends the games right them and there.

Naturally, the situation in the districts also improves due to this shift in perspective, though it's a far slower and less sudden change. The tributes are finally given medical care, which saves Otto, Ginnee, Panlo and Sheaf from death. They all have to stay in hospital or under close supervision for about a month due to the drastic impact staying in a zoo enclosure, with no protection from nature while not being properly fed, has had on their health. When they're let out of hospital but deemed too unstable to travel they get to stay with their mentors. Of course, once they're finally deemed healthy enough to go home they're positively ecstatic but sad enough about leaving their mentors that they find ways to stay in contact and offer to show them around their home district at some point in the future, which the mentors of course happily agree to.

[docholligay]

When you hear an accent/dialect/we're not going to get into that debate here that sounds 'odd' to your ear, think about that! Not even in a "Wow, I hate that" way, or a "I need to examine my classism/racism/etc way I am a bad person way, but in a secret third way called, "curiosity and openness to experience"

I was EXTREMELY EXTREMELY FORTUNATE to have a required class in college called "History of the English Language" which was one of the 'weeder classes' for the English majors at my school. It was very very difficult, but the man who taught it had an INSANE passion for English. He LOVED IT, he would talk about it all goddamn day, and it taught me so much about how and why things get changed and said the way they do, and it made me so CURIOUS about why something is unusual or fun for my brain to listen to.

So now, anytime I hear someone pronounce something or verbalize something in a way I think of as "odd" I get so excited and curious*. What is it I haven't heard before? Sometimes my tongue will move around my mouth trying to figure out how they make that sound (I am REAL bad at this. Accents are in no no no way my forte, which is annoying because I'm very good at HEARING them and hearing the differences between them, I just can't DO it) because it is so interesting and cool all the different ways one fucking language has been DONE over so many years.

Anyway I so far off track I am no longer a train, but looking at dialects as you might look at an interesting bug instead of like a pop song on the radio or a sign font is a really good way to start opening your mind to language as something other than a value marker. And that doesn't HAVE to be another way of whipping yourself for being a piece of shit--I assume you have plenty of reasons--but a way of going, "Oh, something unexpected!"

*Also not to attempt to introduce nuance on the 'no nuance we die like men' website, but I think there is a big difference between loving teasing and mockery/cruelty. I don't actually mind if friends, especially ones with VASTLY different ways of speaking, imitate my accent I think it's fuckin funny as hell! Jetty has the WORST rural western accent on the planet, and I love to make fun of whatever the fuck she's got going on there, but it is FUN and there is a sense of LOVE that comes with it. And it's not even a "well yeah, Holligay, when you've known someone for a long time" No no, I once sat in a shitty pub on the east end, now closed (rip) and me and my mom ending up striking up a conversation with two old-school cockney guys, and as soon as he tried to say "Montana" the way I did, the race was ON, and it was FUNNY, and we all laughed and had a good time, it is about attitude.

And I know I'm gonna get something about "well how do you KNOW and that is why i turned off reblogs but come on y'all, 9 times out of 10 you can tell when something is done with deep affection or camaraderie or because even just something feels cool in your mouth it's fun to try. I can't do 87% of the linguistic features I think FUCK SEVERELY (intrusive R, the way a word that genuinely does not start with the letter h has a different sound than a word when the h is uptaken (this has a fucking word and I cannot find it it's making me nuts)) but I LOVE them.

Quick quiz to help though: Are you affecting this accent to in some way sound stupid/ridiculous? We can go back and forth about that a little: one of my buddies says "well shiiiiit" exactly the way I do, for funsies, but it just...feels neat. What I'm saying is you have to use some discernment here and I know we are all allergic to that but give it a shot/go/whatever the hell Australians say for this.

Post script: All of this reminds me also about how I studied the phonemes and linguistics of English with intense fervor in college, and got REAL COCKY, and then in the Orkneys had my very first ever, in life, "We are both speaking English but damn" moment. Normally I am The One for this. I am unruffled. My wife gets confused by the word takeaway (she is smart I swear) but I'm rock-solid. Until. Hubris.

This guy is rollin on up in his van, which is the 'bus system' on Rapness, and it's cute as hell as a system, but I ask him something stupid about the timetable, and he answers me in what I can only describe as a Nordic-flavored Scottish accent. It is actually really remarkable and I went on a weird deep dive of the Orkneys afterward because I had never heard anything like it but I digress. I DID NOT GET A FUCKING WORD. And so, because I panic, I do what I always do when I feel flustered or emotional or angry: I sound like Yosemite fucking Sam. So now he can't understand what I am asking him!

Good news is, we both give a little bit of a laugh, I go, 'Let's try that again" and I do manage to exchange that this van picks up outside of the Pierowall hotel in time for the ferry.

[oleworm]

I'm going back to blogging from the computer because, as convenient as smartphones are, typing on a screen is uncomfortable and leads to summarising. I find it more pleasant to read what I've written from my keyboard because it reads more conversational, more present, more personal and less like a Telegram.

I wanted to make a list of what I've discovered works for me personally. I've written most of it on paper, but I wanted to put it here where I can see it and maybe encourage others to do the same for themselves, though I think this is something most of us do when we are more in control of our own decisions.

The only moisturiser that doesn't make me itchy or break out with acne is one formulated for eczema. Washing my face almost every day + using this made my skin less irritated, so I was less prone to touching it with dirty hands, which I believe was causing most of my acne. I don't think a product will fix most people's situation, I think it is a combination of different things. Frequent handwashing, vacuuming, washing bedsheets and pillowcases were important as well, basically not rubbing dirt and grease into patches of skin that were already irritated.

Making a list of tasks every day helps to complete them, I get a feeling of satisfaction whenever I tick one of them in my planner.

Speaking of planners, I found that using smaller ones with daily pages helps me to remember to use them. Last year I had a big and heavy one, it was A4 with a fake leather cover, which looked OK but I couldn't be bothered to put it back on my desktop to write in it after I had put it away. I mostly used it to keep track of expenses, not proper task lists.

Since I started using fountain pens again, I've written more than I did in the past several years. Like with the planner it helps to have something you like to use. The problem is to stay focused enough when it comes to digitising and editing. It requires a different kind of focus as it is an act of translation from my own internal dialect to an explanation that others would understand. Some phrases and images serve as shorthand for others, if anyone tried to type anything for me I would still have to rewrite it because there would be many things that haven't been included or expanded on yet. But it is so easy to get distracted on the computer. In fact I have almost finished with one but for whatever reason decided to write this instead.

I have discovered that the reason I get so tired and sleepy is that I haven't been eating enough. I assumed it would be part of it, but I had been eating 1300 calories or thereabouts, it turns out, which couldn't have been good for my brain. I've been using a food tracker in the past few days aiming to get about 2000, and if I'm lazy or don't like anything I have at home I can get cereal or milk and Nesquik until I can make a proper meal.

Making my bed every day--I won't say it's mandatory for anyone, but it bothers me to see that it's messy. I always make my bed and open my curtains to create a marker for the start of the day. This way I tell myself I can start doing things, and not just sit around reading nonsense on my phone.

I've made the decision not to miss anything I willingly signed up for. If I stayed up too late the night before I still do my best to wake up with the alarm, and if I'm still sleepy after that I can take a nap later. I know that I won't be happy with myself if I miss an activity I enjoy just because I made the choice not to plan ahead properly.

Speaking of choice. Every day I'm grateful that I have my health, but because of that, if I don't do something that I wanted to do, and later I feel disappointed, it is a mistake on my part that can be improved upon. I ask myself, What happened? Why did I, or didn't I, act this way or another? Would I like to do a similar thing in the future? If not, how to prevent it? How to prepare for it? I don't speak poorly of myself, only set down rules, at least I try to, and prepare strategies for the occasion. There are circumstances that make me angry, but it is not helpful for me to focus on others when there are so many aspects of my life that I can control.

When I read something annoying I want to let it pass over me. I do not like the person I become when I become focused on what some stranger said online, someone who means nothing to me and who might not be a real person, or who might have been influenced or hired to promote certain ideas. If it is that important I will write my own post but not sicken my liver over it.

If I am annoyed and it's not because I'm hungry it's most likely because it's time to use my eye drops. If you have dry eyes please don't forget to use your artificial tears!

[qqueenofhades]

Writing question: How do you usually end up determining which scenes need to be from which character's perspective. If it doesn't really matter either way based on character's thoughts/opinions/information they know, how do you choose? How do you determine when to switch and if it's like a midchapter switch, how do you do it smoothly?

Also, how do you manage to keep character's perspectives straight in your head and write them each so distinctly with every person and looking at what's happening specifically from their point of view and keeping it unique?

Like with one of my current fics it's supposed to swap back and forth between the two main characters who I both adore writing, but I find I'll get stuck in one of their voices and go back to read through what I've written and 90% of it is from theirs even though I want to add in the other character as well and I just get so stuck.

Thank you so much, and as ever, I adore your stories and your writing advice!!

As usual, this is the sort of question where I (probably unhelpfully) advise you that this is another of those skills that comes with just writing a lot and feeling out how things work. I personally don't do strict planning in regard to POVs, and there are some fics/projects where one POV tends to predominate, i.e. AITWW, where it tended to make the most sense to write from Hob's perspective in regard to telling the story and filling in new information around the TV-canon framework. We got more Dream POV as the story went on and moved past canon, and of course the fic was about both of them, but it was generally more useful for it to be Hob narrating the story.

My current project (EOB) is told from the perspective of five or six characters, who switch off narrating in relation to where the story is going, which plot thread is being highlighted, or to emphasize dramatic tension. Some authors like to make characters' voices or narration especially distinct in regard to grammar, usage, dialect, etc; I personally find that a little of that goes a long way. For example, in scenes in EOB where two characters who don't speak each other's native language are instead speaking in a third language that one of them half knows and the other half understands, I omit the actual word-for-word of what they're saying and just write what they're communicating, if that makes sense. So while they're not actually saying the words in the precise order they're presented on the page, and are probably having a lot more workarounds and shortcuts and misunderstandings, I just summarize it in my authorial privilege and make it easier for the reader to follow. When people are speaking in a foreign language in a book/fic written in English, their dialogue is still usually written in English and tagged as being "in Spanish" or "in Sindarin" or whatever. So there is some amount of automatic translation inherent in what you're putting down, and using excessive dialect or slang or attempts to be scrupulously faithful to the literal word-for-word of what the characters are saying can be off-putting. So you don't have to worry TOO much, at least imho, about being "distinct" in terms of vocabulary or usage for each POV, as long as you're consistent about what the characters are thinking and feeling both to themselves and to other people.

Likewise, there can be certain scenes or moments that you want to be originally narrated from Character A's perspective, and then you go back and revisit that in later narration from Character B (especially useful if it turns out that these two perceptions don't match up). As for which one that will be, it depends on the dynamics of the story and how you want to compare the characters' experiences. It can also help for identifying problems in the overall structure of the story. For example, if you want to write a fic (such as you are doing now) that is split 50-50 between two main characters' POVs and are finding it's more like 90-10, is there possibly an issue with the plot, the pacing, the flow, or other structural layout that is making it more difficult to write the action from Character B's perspective, even if you want to give them equal time? Are they sidelined, or learning about things second- or third-hand, or only reacting to previously established information, so it makes more sense to be in Character A's POV to learn about what's going on in the first instance? It may be that you need to give Character B a more active role in the story, or develop a distinct plotline for them that is not just related to their connection to/ship with Character A. These are all questions you can think about if you keep meaning to write from their perspective and then find that it doesn't make sense and/or is more difficult to do so and keep the story going. Or maybe you just vibe more with Character A in this situation, and that is also fine. It doesn't need to be a strict science.

If you do switch POVs between characters in the middle of the same chapter, make sure that it's clearly marked: i.e. a dividing line, paragraph break, or other significant pause-and-restart, and not just occurring suddenly in the middle of sentences (unless you're writing omniscient third-person where you float among characters' heads interchangeably, but it sounds like you're not doing that and are writing close-third). If you're open to the idea, a beta reader can also help you identify these moments, any accidental slippages, and other good places to park the camera in one character's head as opposed to another. But as ever, this is not a requirement. As I said, this is all something that comes with practice, so don't stress out about it unduly.

Good luck! Writing is hard.

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

WIP Wednesday

Saw a post celebrating leather daddies (as we SHOULD) and immediately got reminded of my little hint at NMJ and MY being into the leather scene in my 3zun extra for my 70’s AU so. Anyway I definitely 100% needed another new wip, I was running low 💀

—//—

Lan Xichen arrives home from work to his phone ringing. He contemplates not answering — there’s a big case most of the firm has been assigned to work on, and many of his colleagues Lan Xichen has not yet had the…pleasure of working with don’t seem to have much respect for personal time like his usual team does.

The ringing stops as he’s untying his shoes, and starts again just as he’s sliding his feet into his house slippers. A little spike of worry wriggles its way under his ribs. Of course it isn’t only people from the office who have his phone number, and if it’s his family calling then to do so this late (and so insistently) would mean an emergency.

He hurries into the kitchen to answer it, the cool, heavy plastic creaking a little in his grip as he lifts it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Er-ge,” Meng Yao practically purrs on the other end and every bit of nebulous anxiety abruptly fizzles out to be replaced by something much sweeter.

“A-Yao,” Xichen replies with a tender little curl of a smile. He switches to Mandarin to continue, “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until tomorrow, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Were you working late again, gege?”

“I was. You may scold me as much as you like.”

“So forward!” A-Yao laughs, catching the innuendo just as Xichen had intended. “You want to come out tonight? We could do something about that scolding if you want, though I actually had more of a special treat in mind.”

Xichen closes his eyes and doesn’t even try to stop smiling like a fool. He knows what he should say — it’s late, it’s only Wednesday and he has work in the morning.

“What’s my treat?” he asks instead, because anything but seeing his boyfriends a day earlier than anticipated seems like unnecessary torment, and he’s trying not to punish himself either intentionally or not anymore, as per said boyfriends’ request.

“The bar’s understaffed tonight, literally no one available to cover the first shift, so Da-ge has caved to the inevitable and agreed to do it. He’s a sight to see, I promise it’ll be worth the trip.”

“You and Mingjue-ge are always worth the trip,” Xichen argues. He smiles wider to hear A-Yao laugh and turn his head to call out what he’d said to Mingjue, barely muffled by, Xichen assumes, his hand over the receiver.

There’s a bit of a scuffle and a waspish, “Go pick it up in our room, you animal!” that Xichen stifles a laugh at, easily imagining Mingjue using his bulk and much longer reach to manhandle the phone away from A-Yao.

“You suck-up,” Mingjue grumbles in his ear, the words clumsy but tinged with his amusement. (His Mandarin isn’t quite as fluid as A-Yao’s, but they all agreed it was the best way to keep Xichen’s lily-white neighbors from overhearing something dangerous should they pick up and catch them saying something private on the neighborhood party line.)

“I only speak the truth! You’re always worth seeing, gege.”

Mingjue grumbles some more under his breath, some mixture of English and the dialect that Xichen has only ever heard Mingjue and his brother use (and barely understands even when spoken clearly), before he sighs and says, “Come to the bar, A-Huan. You’ll have fun, we want to see you.”

“Alright, you’ve twisted my arm,” Xichen laughs. “I’ll be there, ge, don’t worry.”

“Good.”

Xichen’s heart stutters in his chest at the sound of a click, someone new connecting in.

“It’s just me, I picked up the other line,” A-Yao soothes, anticipating his fear with his usual ease. “So you’re coming, yes?”

Xichen exhales the fresh tension with a hum. “Mn, I’d love to. I’ll have to leave early in the morning though.”

A-Yao tuts softly, the sort of gentle disapproval that can send both Xichen and Mingjue to their knees to apologize in a heartbeat. “That still leaves us plenty of time tonight. Just get here soon.”

“Quick as I can,” Xichen promises them both, painfully earnest in a way he knows they know to expect from him now.

[battleofthegroundeddungeon]

Training the Gauntlet (Part 3)

Part 2

Egil: Egil could sense the heart behind Stonegit's actions. And much was appreciable. He couldn't get behind all of Stonegit's thoughts, though, so while he paused and listened to Stonegit, he did also belatedly take one - one - step back.

"Not sure everything that can come out of us should," he said regretfully. "Or. Or, like, at least, we don't need to think about it as 'good' character development. It'd development, neutral. A person could go one way, or another, equally valid. Just because someone could - could hypothetically - become great at chess, or dragon riding, or sword fighting, or war, or writing - it - it doesn't mean that's what should come out. They can do none of those things, and their life will be as fine for it."

Maybe I don't need this 'development.' Maybe I don't want it to come out one way or another.

Stonegit: Stonegit could sense he had lost Egil, but only by the single step he had taken away. The new King had misunderstood his meaning.

In Port Krum, the phrase Stonegit had said essentially meant that if people did not speak of their problems then, like the cut upon his cheek, violence and rage were likely to arise instead, as opposed to any great character development.

It had taken Stonegit one too many years to realize that his dialect and cultural idioms often mixed poorly with the refined speech and academics of those in a royal line.

He took a step forward, not to chase, but to show that he too was finding the right way to walk through this situation he and Egil had found themselves in.

"I don't ask for words to push you on some path, stress a responsibility, or develop you...I just...I..."

He stopped to take a breath, and he was ashamed to realize that a part of him still feared moments like this. Perhaps it was time for a moment of silence again.

Egil: "You're reaching out with the goodwill of your heart," Egil said. He fiddled with his training sword. "Stonegit, look. You know what I'm bitter about. And it's not that you don't have a point. And it's not like I should have been talking about myself just now." Stonegit's latest response had reminded him of that.

"But."

He paused to spin the sword several times.

"We're here to fight."

There was an indication in those words, not unkind.

I came to spar to help you.

It's your need we're taking care of right now.

"Or," he said, more successfully reaching into his earlier humor, "get your ass back in shape."

It wasn't a request to end the current conversation. It wasn't an invitation to fight again. It was neutral in those regards. But while Egil wouldn't have been able to voice it with such nuance himself, it was a reminder that Egil had been trying, at the start, to make this about Stonegit.

Stonegit: Silence fell.

One that was tense, but not due to anger or any kind of ill will. More that Egil's words had threatened to crack something open within Stonegit.

I did...come to him...didn't I? Stonegit's gaze drifted to the side in thought. I'm so used to trying to help them...did I really just come here to train my craft...or was there always something more?

He then recalled the words of his old instructor, Grunkstomp, as the man recited the words of the god Tyr - "men like us fight to help our minds think, while our bodies are occupied."

Stonegit slowly turned away from Egil as he gripped his training sword in both hands, one on the handle, and the other on the blade.

"Yes...we should fight." He said, as if finding his own way of saying that he agreed with Egil's implication that this matter should be about him. "But like your father, there was never a skill I possessed with any blade that could truly challenge you." His teeth ground as he prepared himself, and wondered if Egil could be prepared as well. "If you want to get my ass in shape...you'll have to fight a bit with what even Gareth seldom faced head on."

He calmly turned back to raise up his blade again. The invitation open once more to sparr. "My words..."

And Egil could see it. The fire so often kept behind the bodyguard's demur, and often tired demeanor. The boy of unbridled passion still alive somewhere within the older man.

Egil: Egil felt it. The fire, throbbing subtly, flames licking about them. He tried to feed it, to make it grow. He lunged, ready to spar once more. As he leaped, he felt Stonegit rise to meet his strike.

Stonegit: With a crack the wood of the meeting blades snapped and echoed across the room. Despite the purpose of the weapon and the damage to Stonegit's arm, the bodyguard nevertheless put more brute force behind his parrys, as if he needed to separate himself from his old ways in smaller steps.

Egil had responded to his shift in temperament and spirit, and so Stonegit had to work extra hard to keep himself from taking another blow. But at the same time, Egil, perhaps for the first time, now sparred Stonegit apart from the man's usual calm, and teaching oriented self.

Now it was all that old passion, and ferocity, only this time instead the damaging rage, there was more clearly what had always been...vulnerability.

The two blades slammed into each other and threatened to splinter as Stonegit's other hand shot out, and balled up into Egil's shirt. His flaring eyes met the King's as his teeth barred from between his grizzled beard.

"You jumped in mighty quick for someone who's heart just skipped a beat." He said in bitter challenge, but again, no malice. Then with a grunt, he used a move taught to him that he hadn't originally planed to refine today, and stepped in to hurl Egil over his shoulder.

An extra safety bump upward of his back, and Egil's generally keen dexterity, saw the King land on his feet, but it was still a disorienting spin.

Egil: "Damn!" he hissed, breathless for seconds. It genuinely surprised him. He took the challenge, embraced the rising heat. He held wood but the hilt burned like smelted iron.

Smoke, flames, spark. Lunge, parry, riposte. Each man moved a different way, Stonegit with his smoldering ferocity, Egil with the elegant but deadly strike of a viper. The fangs and tongue of the serpent rose to meet the tongue of fire.

It was time to get creative - not his strongest suit, but one he'd learned over years of fighting Stonegit. He ducked into a gutsy passata sotto, extending outward toward Stonegit's left ribs. Either he'd be knocked on the head, or he'd manage a 'killing' strike.

Stonegit: The training blade jammed into Stonegit, and pain flashed over the man's face. As if the physical blow had permitted the pain within to manifest. His fingers wrapped around the blade to acknowledge the scoring hit, his mouth paritally open.

Haddock's death. His immediate betrayel of everything he had tried to fix within himself as a result. Facing his old assailant. Breaking his body against Vidar's jaw. Nearly losing the Warden, twice. Endangering her during a scrambling back peddle. A family he adored, that he was nevertheless always scared to fully open up to because of past cpmmunication misfortunes. His old wounds. A marriage and partnership with people he loved but had hurt beyond words more than anyone else.

It all felt like a raging forest fire. Where could the first bucket even be splashed? Would it matter? Would it make any kind of difference?

Stonegit shoved the blade back as he paced a few steps to 'reset the match,'and then leveled a hand at Egil, the fingertips radiating true heat as if to match the temperment of the room. "He is GONE!"

The words ripped from him as a ugly, all too often unspoken, truth to himself.

"And every moment of mourning I have had, that I have tried felt empty. Meaningless! I had mourned so deeply as a child the first time that I allowed myself to be lost to everything I was...and now..." The extended hand balled into an impossibility tight fist. "It's just like he disappeared...like he wasn't somehow part of all of this even to my own mind!"

Egil: Egil's eyes opened wide at the outburst. He instinctively took a step back, just as he instinctively raised his weapon for defense. A jolt of electricity shot up him, mixing with his own fire. His own senses of loss and pain flared up again.

He managed to say, "W-what?"

Stonegit: Stonegit's fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword the way a man having his arm cut off would clamp down on a bite.

He wasn't sure whether Egil's question was literal, given that he had been a child during the time he was referencing, or rhetorical, given the rawness of the confession. He answered nonetheless.

"I...I have spoken of this...to Blunt, to some friends..." He recalled his first attempt to mourn, out facing the sea as he spoke to his King and declared his resolve to do the right thing by his life...not that he could be heard across Midgards mortal plain. "To Gareth too..." His gaze lowered, and then Stonegit gave a little shake of his head. "But none it felt...true..."

Egil: As much as Egil was someone capable of frequent outbursts, he wasn't as adept receiving raw emotion. His tongue usually got tied around something in the process, or he said something that made a person worse. Trying his best, trying to mirror Stonegit, he prompted, "And, eh. Mm. What could make it feel true?"

Stonegit: A million thoughts flew through Stonegit's mind. From his young adulthood to that very moment. A raggid exhale escaped him as a moment of surprised relief took his shoulders before they gnarled once more under the strain of this encounter. So he answered.

"You..."

Egil: Egil tried not to show a reaction, but his face went through five or nine distinct expressions when he heard Stonegit's words. He didn't know what to do. They were honorable, but... "You're gonna find disappointment there," said Egil, throat dry.

Stonegit: "Why?" Stonegit challenged in a quiet voice.

Egil: Egil looked him in the eye with a combination of hardness, skepticism, uncertainty, and... gratefulness, maybe.

"You're not that blind."

Stonegit: "Try me." Stonegit returned.

Egil: Egil stayed silent but his crook-eyebrowed stare didn't alter.

Stonegit: Stonegit remained in the silence with him for a moment, and then closed his eyes. "You do make it true for me Egil...because I think you are also like me." He returned Egil's dry swallow. "You and I...we've always had so, much, to say. But something always kept it check."

His eyes became focused. Very, very focused at an insignificant spot on the ground. "Yes some of it was learning the wisdom of silence, and thought. But there are also few who actually can...or even want to hear us..."

Egil: "Well then you'd be the first," Egil barked with a derisive laugh. Maybe Stonegit had learned something over the years. Egil sure hadn't.

Stonegit: Pain came to Stonegit's expression again. But not the same grief from before. Rather a pain for Egil's sake. A pain that came from knowing a shared experience. A voice unwilling to be heard. Help that would not come...

God in Helhiem...did I fail him? Did I let him suffer the same fate as a young adult that I did?

The thought hurt him more than anything his shattered arm and injured heart could have caused.

"I'm sorry..."

Egil: Egil shook his head. "Don't be," he said wryly. "Like. I'm the one who's managed to piss people off and never take up the mantle expected."

He paused though, and shrugged. "Maybe we are alike," he said. "I don't think it's been easy for us. And I'm not blind either - I can tell you get dissatisfied with yourself sometimes." Like today, despite the fact it would have been impossible for Stonegit, at this point, to be flawless training something new.

Stonegit: "I do...have regrets..." Stonegit related carefully, the grip on his blade a little looser now. "I should have been brave enough to speak with you more candidly..."

Egil: "To chase me off faster?"

Egil's response sounded like a jest on the surface, and he probably meant it only as that, but it was a valid point. As avoidant as Egil was, directness might not have worked. Thus it eased off on the idea of regrets.

Stonegit: "Eegh...good point." Stonegit related as he briefly gripped the back of his neck in thought.

"My point remains. Nothing felt right...but this, with you, did. And I am grateful. You not only invited my words, but you did not balk at them. To some that might seem trvial...but it means a great deal to me."

Egil: "Well," Egil smiled just a little, and gave a slight, respectful nod, "ah. Welcome."

Stonegit: Stonegit nodded in turn. His gratitude in Egil neither dismissing nor over complicating his openness couldn't be overstated.

But there were still some unturned stones to this conversation he ventured to address.

"Understand I hold your judgement in high regard when it comes to your own choices...given this...that mantle of which you speak. Is it anything you can come to me with?"

Egil: "I don't know where I'd even start," Egil said, staring into the middle distance.

Stonegit: "This can be all the start needed if you wish." Stonegit said, as if to open an optional, proverbial escape to the topic.

"The ears willing to hear my voice...I discovered through good fortune-"

He recalled his possession under the Warden and cleared his throat.

"Through fate-"

He recalled mutually poor choices that had resulted in...leas than desirable outcomes.

"Hm..." Stonegit rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Through...circumstances. Nevertheless, I would prefer you not have to seek so far or low to find such a thing." His gaze became contemplative. "It can make a great difference..."

Egil: "Let's just, ah, keep this as the start," Egil hastily interjected. He wasn't unappreciative, but this was going beyond a depth he thought he could even understand.

He was a retreater. Where his father charged, Egil retreated.

Stonegit: Stonegit gave a slow, careful nod. His posture neither accommodating Egil's quick choice to balk, nor fighting against it. The man had taken a good step forward today. More than that, he had gone out of his way to try and help him without Stonegit having to ask for it first.

"Let's get something to eat." He invited.

Egil: Egil nodded in agreement. "I'm game."

It looked like some of Egil's good mood returned.

Well, it was a different emotion, wasn't it? There was less conflict than when Stonegit had invited Egil to spar, less tension than when they had sparred with sword and word. Maybe it wasn't exactly relief. But it was, as Stonegit had called it, a start.

[thesaltofcarthage]

#i am also from new york and we do NOT say 'on line'

you may not have heard it, but being "on line" is an extremely New York usage.

A: It’s an accepted idiom in New York City to stand “on line,” though it sounds odd to people from other parts of the country.

Somebody from Atlanta or Chicago or Omaha or Phoenix gets “in line” and then stands “in line”; somebody from New York gets “on line” and then stands “on line.” (Same idiom whether you’re getting in/on line or standing in/on it.) Similarly, New York shopkeepers and such will always say “next on line!” instead of “next in line!”

This is a good example of a regionalism. In Des Moines, where Pat comes from, you get black coffee when you ask for “regular” coffee. In New York, “regular” coffee means coffee with milk. It’s a big country.

Interestingly, New Yorkers aren’t the only folks to stand on line. The Dialect Survey, which maps North American speech patterns, found that the idiom was most prevalent in the New York metropolitan area, but that it occurred in pockets around the country, especially in the East.

Our old employer, the New York Times, frowns on the usage. Here’s what the Times stylebook has to say on the subject: “Few besides New Yorkers stand or wait on line. In most of the English-speaking world, people stand in line. Use that wording.”

Well, is “on line” proper English? When you’re in New York, it is (unless you work for the Times). Just relax and “enjoy” (another New Yorkism!).

The line in question is one that we define as “an arrangement or placement of persons or objects of one kind in an orderly series,” and it really matters not at all whether you stand in it or on it. For much of the last several decades (since at least 1962, when Margaret Bryant covered the topic in Modern American Usage) on line has been viewed as peculiar to New York City (and the Hudson Valley).

Some people find it easy to tell if someone is from New York or New Jersey the moment they meet them—all they have to do is start chatting! And if the New Yorker’s accent isn’t an immediate giveaway, the phrase on line usually is.

In many states across the country, it’s all the same: people stand in line at the grocery store, wait in line at the pharmacy, and get in line for school drop-off. But certain East Coasters don’t do any of these things in line and instead only wait on lines.

Which of these different prepositions is correct in this phrase? Well, both phrases are regionalisms … but let’s take a closer look.

What does line mean?

As a noun, the word line has many meanings, including “a mark or stroke long in proportion that’s drawn on a surface,” as well as “a row or series” of something. In mathematics, it can also be defined as “a continuous extent of length, straight or curved, without breadth or thickness; the trace of a moving point.”

Line can refer to a range of things, from “wrinkles” and “a property border” to the “verse in a poem or words for an actor to memorize.” Line also means “a number of persons standing one behind the other and waiting their turns at or for something; queue,” which is the definition most relevant to this debate.

As a verb, line can refer to taking a position in a line, like lining up. In baseball it can mean to hit a line drive or to line out.

Line was first recorded before 1000 and develops from the Middle English word line or ligne, meaning “cord, rope, stroke, series, guiding rule.” Via French, line is ultimately derived from the Latin word līneus, which means “flaxen” and originally applied to string.

Is there a difference between on and in?

On and in in this case are both prepositions or words used before the noun line to express a spatial relationship. On as a preposition is defined as “to be or remain supported by or suspended from” or “to be attached to or unified with.” For example: I put the box on the table and hung the sign on the door.

In on the other hand as a preposition is used “to indicate inclusion within a space, a place, or limits.” Or, it can also be used “to indicate inclusion within something more abstract “or “during a certain time.” For example: she goes skiing in the winter or he works in pharmaceutical sales. In can also be used to indicate purpose (in honor of the event), motion or direction (she walked in the house), and  transition from one state to the other (break in half).

Both in line and on line may sound correct to us because both on and in form unique words when combined with line. Online can be used when something is operating from or connected to a computer or is done through a computer, like online shopping. Then there’s in-line skate, which is a roller skate that typically has four wheels in a straight line similar to an ice-skate’s blade.

But when it comes down to waiting on line versus in line, the distinction is regional. According to Google Ngram, in line is used considerably more often than on line. In the 2003, the Harvard Dialect Survey reported 88 percent of respondents nationwide use in line. In New York, on line and “both sound equally good” were popular responses as well (24 percent and 18 percent, respectively), and in line dipped to 57 percent.

Just like people from different regions debate their preferences for tennis shoes or sneakers, pop or soda, y’all or you guys, garbage can or trash can, we have regionalisms to thank for on line and in line. Neither one is correct or incorrect.

tag where you're from if you answer and reblog

[modernenglishbhopal]

Language Hacks - Improve Your Spoken English Today!

Are you looking to improve your spoken English skills? You’re not alone. Many people struggle with their ability to speak the language fluently and confidently. Fortunately, there are a few simple “language hacks” that can help you quickly improve your spoken English today!

The first tip is to practice speaking out loud as much as possible. This may sound obvious, but it's important for improving both pronunciation and confidence when speaking in public or conversing with native speakers of the language. Try reading aloud from a book or article every day; this will help familiarize you with proper grammar and sentence structure while also giving you an opportunity to practice pronouncing words correctly in order for them to be understood by others.

 Another great way of improving your spoken English is by watching movies or TV shows that are entirely in the target language (English). While watching these programs, make sure that subtitles are turned off so that all dialogues must be heard rather than read - this will force listeners into actively engaging their ears instead of relying on visual cues from written text which can often lead one away from properly understanding how words should sound when being said out loud correctly!

Additionally, enrolling yourself in Spoken English Classes in Bhopal could prove beneficial too! These classes offer structured learning environments where students can learn new vocabulary and grammar rules while practicing conversation skills under guidance from experienced instructors who understand what it takes for someone unfamiliar with certain aspects of communication within another culture such as ours here in India – they have been specially trained just so they know exactly how best we need our lessons tailored towards us locals here specifically!

Finally, try listening regularly to podcasts related to topics like current events or popular culture-related topics which interest you personally; doing this helps build up familiarity not only with specific expressions used but also allows learners to get acquainted more easily with different accents/dialects associated across various regions around India itself & beyond – thus helping them gain better comprehension overall over time if done consistently enough throughout regular intervals each week even if it's just 10 minutes per session at least thrice weekly then eventually those results start showing soon after some weeks depending upon individual progress rate naturally...

[writingwithcolor]

How to Write Non-Fluent ESL English

@interneet​ asked:

Hey, I’m reading a story at the moment where immigrant characters speak in incredibly broken English. It’s really jarring. Is there a way to respectfully write characters speaking in broken/non-fluent English without it coming across unrealistic and racist or would you advise just leaving that out of your writing altogether?

This is going to turn into a bit of a guide…I’ll try not to get too carried away with linguistics stuff :)

A Note on Terminology

I’d definitely go with “non-fluent” over “broken,” as the term “broken” has quite a negative connotation that also tends to be used in describing stigmatized languages, language varieties, and dialects that are, in fact, used properly according to their own internal rules (AAVE and many Global Englishes, to name a few). 

Another term you should know for this guide is ESL and L1/L2. I’ll use L1 to refer to first language, L2 for second language, and so on—you can keep adding numbers. ESL is “English Second Language,” which is pretty self-explanatory, but there is a crucial distinction between that and dominant language. I myself am technically ESL, as I started learning English at around age 3. However, since I live in the US where English is the dominant language, I quickly gained in English proficiency and lost Japanese proficiency. While I still have around middle schooler proficiency in Japanese, English is my dominant language now. An immigrant character may be ESL but completely fluent in English.

Should You Write It?

It depends on whether or not the character’s English proficiency is plot relevant. Keep in mind that with writing non-fluent english, you don’t want to overload speech with mistakes, or make it incomprehensible. The most you should do is use it to establish character (say a character has just moved overseas, and in the story their English improves over time) or to further plot (maybe there is important info that needs to be communicated and there’s a barrier). If it’s not relevant, and it’s just in order to establish that they’re a foreigner, don’t do it. It’s Othering, and there are other ways to establish culture and culture shock. As I said before, not all immigrants have a poor command of their destination country’s dominant language. 

The How-To

There are two components that I’ll address: 

The types of errors to include, and

Writing accents (or not)

First, grammatical features are better to use than phonetic ones. We’ll get to why when we talk about accents, but for now, note that it’s more respectful to use for ESL errors than pronunciation. Here are some examples of grammatical features: 

Word order

Inflections (eg. the attachment of affixes like -s, -ed, etc. to indicate tense, person, number, etc. of a noun or verb)

The presence or absence of certain morphological constructs that appear in some languages but not others (eg. Japanese has topic markers like wa, and English doesn’t; English has definite/indefinite articles like the but Japanese doesn’t)

If you’re writing an ESL character, ask beta readers & mods on this blog who speak the character’s L1 to see if the grammatical features of your character’s ESL speech are consistent with typical English fluency errors. Here’s an ask I answered on Japanese, and Mod Rune gives a good example on Korean here: 

A Korean is more likely to try and put someone’s title behind their last name (e.g. Obama President rather than President Obama, Lestrade Inspector instead of Inspector Lestrade)

Second, we want to avoid in-dialogue portrayals of phonetic differences, which is also called “eye dialect.” Here are some examples from a piece of media many of us are probably familiar with, but I don’t think deserves a citation: 

“Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?”

“Eh? No, don' go! I've — I've never met another one before”

“Anuzzer what, precisely?”

“Another half-giant, o' course.”

Both speakers have an accent that is shown within the writing through misspellings of the words they’re speaking (one is French, one is West Country English). This is a stereotypical (and often hard-to-read) portrayal of accents that Others the speaker and unfairly puts either their dialect differences or their perceived proficiency in English at the forefront of their dialogue. And this is with European characters! Imagine how this would look on people from other parts of the globe. 

Another major reason why we want to avoid eye dialect is because of the racist history of (pejoratively) writing accents in literature. In early American writing, Black characters were written according to minstrel stereotypes, and with it, a stereotypical way of speaking that was emphasized through eye dialect. Here’s a thesis that explains the history of eye dialect in American literature to supplement that idea, if you want to learn more. In addition, unless you’re a linguist or dialect coach who is trained in the phonetic inventory of the L1 & speaker tendencies, you tend to perpetuate media stereotypes that may not be reflective of actual speech. This can be very harmful. 

Here’s a link on how to describe accents instead, and here are some good perspectives on being a 1st generation immigrant and struggling with accents (how that affects them when they’re teased for it, and also strategies they have taken to overcome a knowledge gap). 

In Conclusion

Before writing an ESL speaker’s English in a different way from the rest of the cast, consider whether or not this is really needed in your story.

If you do decide to write their speech differently, look at the grammatical features of their L1 and talk to real speakers of that L1 to get a realistic idea.

AVOID EYE DIALECT! 

Thanks for stickin’ with me, folks. 

~Mod Rina

[xehanortsreport]

For @khoc-week 2021, Day 1: Reference Sheet - reintroducing Spica!

They’ve changed quite a bit since the last round! So here’s the basics.

Spica Species: Dream Eater Home World: Twilit Bayou (Original World) Age: ~Late 20s Occupation: Deposed Princex, Summoner Relationships:      - Vindemiatrix (Demia): Younger sibling, rival      - Ansem, Seeker of Darkness: Partner, rescuer      - Xigbar (Luxu): Partner, mentor in Dream Eater research      - ???: A mysterious figure often crossed in Sleeping Hearts. Kind, and gentle. A friend, or perhaps an enemy? Weapon: Slumber’s Call (staff) Gender: Unassigned by tradition, goes by any pronouns

More on their backstory and personality below!

Twilit Bayou

Spica's world is set in a permanently foggy, misty, twilit bayou (hah). Constantly lit by gas lamps and settled by a society of disciplined, spiritual people, and ruled by Spica’s equally disciplined family, the mood is somber. The people are constantly in conflict with beasts warped and turned violent by the world’s natural “wild magic” that bubbles up from faults outside of the settled landscape. As such, a militia headed by the noble family is permanently employed to manage the beasts and are held in high esteem.

Similarly, another esteemed class are the summoners that run exclusively in Spica’s bloodline. Every ruler is expected to also be a master summoner--and for good reason. Dream Eaters, pulled forth from the Sleeping Realms by the summoners, are sent to help calm the wild magic afflicted beasts and make them easier to tame, or else be dealt with by the militia.The people of Twilit Bayou see the Dream Eaters as important godlike spirits, and in particular worship a special, very powerful Dream Eater that they summon during their Winter Solstice to purge their people of nightmares and put the beasts to sleep for an entire season.

Spica, at the time 15, the next in line for the throne and accomplished summoner with many lesser Dream Eaters, is one day called to prove their worth and summon the Dream Eater deity and prove themself worthy to ascend to the throne when it is their time.

Except...they don’t succeed.

Backstory

For a reason still unknown to them or those present, they mess up the summon, unable to bring it forth at all. Instead, Nightmares are brought forth, afflicting the people with sleep issues and the beasts unsettled and allowed to charge forth. The price paid by Spica was a worldwide shunning; shooed away in shame by their strict parents and seen as a portent of disaster by the townsfolk, they were kept in shameful solitude and privacy out of the public eye. Only a few servants, one a particularly funny entertainer for tired troops who taught them how to cope with humor, and Demia, Spica’s sibling, dared treat them with dignity and kindness.

Demia, though only 11 at the time, decided to cram their summoner studies into one feverish month, and then at the apex of the Bayou’s suffering, burst forth and summoned the legendary Dream Eater at an unheard of age, settling the beasts and bringing sweet dreams back to their denizens. Demia was miraculous. A genius.

Honorable, unlike Spica.

Spica was eventually sent to a boarding school, locked away as punishment and forced to restudy every lesson on summoning they had touched. Spiteful and envious, Spica used this time to work diligently to find a way to become a better summoner than Demia. They're able to summon many Dream Eater Spirits and Nightmares, and eventually traverse the realm of sleep itself.

Eventually, years pass, and during one of the winter solstice summonings, Spica manages to muscle their way to the front and snatch the summoning from Demia by summoning the Dream Eater deirt and merging with it in a never before seen ritual. It’s glorious, miraculous. Genius.

Blasphemous.

Unlike Demia, they are not praised for their innovation. Instead, they are once again persecuted, the kingdom prepared to get rid of Spica entirely. Demia, thinking in terms of sheer practicality and a mixture of wanting to save their sibling and not wanting to be shunned like Spica, made the split decision at the time of summoning to dismiss the Dream Eater with Spica still merged with it.

Floating scared and with seemingly no exit, they spent an unknown amount of time in the repeating dreams of lost worlds. This being pre-KH1, the lost worlds are not the same as those seen in DDD, but are a different set of worlds, some belonging to the Age of Fairy Tales that had been lost when that age had come to an end. To ease their loneliness and pain, they spent a long time among these worlds, learning snippets of what they have to offer.

They were able to briefly exit the realm by diving into the dreams of others, but this only lead them to live instead inside of the sealed world of another person’s dreams until that person’s sleep ends. It was disorienting, and uncomfortably personal at times, but a welcome distraction from the otherwise neverending repetition of the Sleeping Worlds.

Their grudge against Demia deepens while trapped, their bitterness expanding with no outlet. The weight of their anger and displeasure strengthened their power as a Nightmare, and thus disturbed the dreams of the humans they visit in their sleep. (One person, however, seemed resistant to these nightmares. Blond, blue eyed...a kind soul. Spica couldn’t help but be intimidated by their purity.)

Eventually, however, a rift they do not expect to see opens. It is as though another World has slipped, however briefly, into the Sleeping Realm, and a surge pulses  through the cracks. A man within a brown cloak emerged from a whirl of Darkness, seemingly confused but enthusiastic with the discovery...and then they lock eyes...or rather Spica’s eyes locked with the endless shadows underneath the hood.

Curiosity with curiosity.

After a few words of exchange, accusatory and then slowly, surely, excited, Spica introduces themself to Ansem, the Seeker of Darkness, and their savior from the Sleeping Realm. Spica at first merely accompanies Ansem out of a feeling of obligation, exiting with him into the Hollow Bastion of KH1, and merely works as a hand to help him in his plot. During their conversations, however, unusual information reached Spica’s ears: someone searching for the very keybearer Ansem was working against. Someone seeking the legendary power of Kingdom Hearts, or perhaps the good will of a keybearer, to aid their kingdom.

A certain Vindemiatrix.

Having fallen in love with the mysterious cloaked being and swearing their life to both revenge and the pursuit of the greatest power a mage could posses, Spica formally aligned with Ansem, and then later the Organization, to keep Demia from helping the Keybearers, denying her and Twilit Bayou aid.

Instead, Spica, promised a portion of the power of Kingdom Hearts by Xigbar, another beau and co-conspirator down the line, their goal becomes the need to lock Twilit Bayou in an eternal cycle of sleep as "an apology" ...and as a sort of twisted protective measure and to prove that they have mastered their sleep magic once and for all. 

Personality Notes

     - They are highly intuitive, and quick to get defensive.

     - They speak in a Valley Girl-esque dialect.

     - Flippant and easy-going, the way a lot of “lazy geniuses” are. When they don’t know something, they immediately get defensive and swear up and down that they know. (They don’t.)

     - They get a lot of joy out of being the most knowledgeable person in a group and will often feel lost or aimless if they are unable to contribute in some way to a discussion.

    - They have a hard time accepting genuine displays of affection because of family issues. Still, they're intensely loyal to Ansem and Xigbar, particularly Ansem as he's the one who pulled them out of the sleeping realm. Ironically the “inability” of Nobodies to have “emotions” makes them trust the words that come out of Xigbar’s mouth that much more. Time will tell if that is a mistake.

     - Sometimes thinks they’re still sleeping; grounding techniques are needed.

     - Despite everything, their weakness is an honest heart. They can't help but lower their defenses when no one is interested in metaphorical dick measuring and instead just genuinely wants the best for others. They’ve wandered around the sleeping Princesses of Hearts' dreams before, as well as Sora and the Soras.

     - The self-reflection said encounters hit him with are often uncomfortable and they emotionally shut down before they can think about it too long.

[dulcidyne]

Honestly, weird little gripe I have, but the aliens in Mass effect have translates right? But the animations sync up with English, so I'm hella curious as to what they actually sound like and look like when speaking tbh. Personally I think krogan bellow like frogs buts just me

Ugh, translators, OP you are so right, the more you think about them the less sense they make for canon and the in-game experience. I definitely understand the need to just simplify things and not commit to an alien language that is then subtitled for the player just to maintain the illusion that not everyone is just walking around speaking English. But I personally appreciate when media goes out of its way to demonstrate linguistic multiculturalism--it makes the world feel so much bigger and any game featuring aliens would benefit from that kind of world-building. In the books and the updated Bring Down the Sky codex update, there's mention of a simplified galactic trade tongue. I don't think this is what all the squadmates are using though, because I'd think it would be a bit limited for the breadth of communication used in the game. It's considered 'broad-minded and practical' to be able to speak without machine aid' so while Earth is linguistically divided, I do think that quite a few squadmates are good polyglot candidates. Liara, for one. Despite being anti-social, I see her studying all sorts of languages and probably picking up major Earth languages in her spare time just for the novelty and fun of it. I headcanon that for asari at least, the appearance of a bunch of new Earth languages spurred a whole trend of Earthophilia--everyone rushing to compare their proficiency in the various common languages. Samara (for the same reason), Mordin, Wrex (he's an experienced merc and he's ancient, I could totally see him teaming up and learning languages from humans just to know more unique insults to hurl at turians and salarians). Despite the 'translator glitch' comment from Shepard--even Thane for the same business practical reasons as Wrex? I have to think having an amazing memory would make picking up languages really easy. I think, despite his anatomical incompatibility with labial sounds, Garrus would be another polyglot--although probably less proficient than Liara. For one, turians had a military incentive to learn major Alliance languages during the First Contact War and they probably pioneered the initial translation effort. For another, he lives on the Citadel and his father works at C-Sec. I see the Citadel education system, whatever it is, highly emphasizing alien language development. It would be hugely advantageous for him to speak without translator aid to suspects and witnesses when he works at C-Sec. I also like to headcanon that Garrus is such a nuisance to Pallin, that by way of punishment and to sandbag his hothead tendencies, Pallin shoves him with every single human rookie to join the force and so Garrus has managed to pick up more human languages, turns of phrase, and gestures/facial expressions than most--even using them himself. So, it could be that Garrus is speaking an approximate variant of Shepard's native tongue and her translator is smoothing out all the missing m's p's and b's. Or maybe having the double syrinx (birds have syrinxes so that's what I think of instead of larynx) can 'fake' it pretty well. Either way, looking visually indistinct. I do like the headcanons I've seen where turian language meaning is highly pitch based with the subvocalizations conveying a lot of meaning, unbeknownst to the human ear. In the books, Omega is described as not employing any of the common trade tongue and being full of a ton of different untranslatable dialects that sound like a cacophony of squawks and grunts so the alien languages are definitely alien--we just sadly never get to hear them :( EVEN on Omega, how dare they. I love the idea that krogans bellow--they absolutely should! I also love most of the native turian language headcanons I've come across, the fandom has some really creative concepts out there! So in short, I think there is a headcanon that can fit with the game's animations--it's fun to me to think of Liara and Wrex busting out Mandarin every so often. But let's hope the next game gives us more linguistic diversity!

[twistedmusings]

Vil Schoenheit: After RSA’S Performance

The first time he had been left speechless was because of you.

You who always knew what to say, you who always had an answer to the problem at hand.

Where were you?

A/N: What is formatting. I don’t even know.

But listen though. When did Vil get hot? I mean he has always been hot but is it now because he is sad boy? A rude boy turned sad boy? Is that why I am attracted to him now and was compelled to write this?

I don’t know but I’m in love so I’m going to run with it.

This is how Vil would react if MC looked like they were enjoying RSA’s performance.

Part 2, here!

What Vil felt couldn’t really be put into words.

His grades would say that he was one of the highest ranking students in the Language Arts for Night Raven College. Not just in regular human speech but also in fairy-dialect, animal dialect and any sort of dialect that Professor Trein would demand. Vil also excelled in prose, poetry and abstract writing.

Being left speechless was not something that was supposed to happen, not twice in a row.

The tightening of his throat would speak otherwise, as well as the sudden feeling of vertigo.

Vil could barely hear Kalim through the jovial sound of Neige’s voice, the one thing that had kept him awake for these past few weeks--no these past few years. When was the last time that he had felt so helpless? Was it when he had first met him? Neige, with his bright smile and lovable personality that made people overlook his mistakes, his very obvious mistakes. The way he wouldn’t go when it was his cue, or how Neige would forget almost every other line only to finally have the script memorized by the time it was opening night.

A children’s song.

“What even is this song! The chorus just won’t leave my head!”

He wasn’t even ready during dress rehearsal, Neige would wait until fucking opening night.

Was it dramatic to say that the whole event had haunted him? As well as the domino effect of undeserved fame that Neige had gotten afterwards?

No, to Vil, being overshadowed by this person despite all the effort that he put into each and everyone of his performances was something akin to being shot by a gun.

Over and over and over.

He had been beaten by a children’s song.

Every single commercial, every music video, every promotion and every product placement that Neige did was like a dagger carving him up from the inside out.

So when the VDC presented itself, he jumped at the chance to not just shape himself into the perfect being to defeat Neige, but to shape others to show that not only could he surpass himself but he could help others break through their own ‘ugly’ exteriors to discover their own personal beauty. And by all means he had done it, he had taken five rough and ugly rocks and turned them into polished jewels.

Polished jewels that framed the diamond he had worked so hard to turn himself into.

His grip on the audience seat loosens when something flashes through his mind.

The practices had been rather arduous, not only having to make sure that he was flawless but trying to deal with Epel’s stupid gender based ideas, Ace and Deuce’s lack of grace and even Kalim’s really really terrible singing voice. Yet something had made it even a little bit worth it.

Someone, he needed to correct himself, someone had made it a bit worth it.

The sixth potato that he had hoped to start shaping after this whole thing was over.

What could he say about you? At first glance you were truly nothing special. An uneventful, magicless person from an equally uneventful place that hadn’t even been accepted into this school but was instead made a student because of the monster next to you. You weren’t even a student, more like a glorified problem solver for the Headmaster. Ideally, Vil should have also hated your guts since you were essentially getting the same education that he had been getting when he was a first year but without any effort but there was something different about you that he had not expected.

I think you’re probably the fairest out of everyone in the school.

A small glimmer of something beautiful.

But in the end your opinion is the one that will matter to you.

You were honest. That is something that Rook had mentioned about you once he did his recon of the new manager for the VDC team. How the Ramshackle prefect really didn’t have anything to offer but that the quality that stood out the most to the hunter was your refreshing honesty.

He had modeled for crowds of adoring fans and yet he found himself pulling out his pocket mirror and fixing non-existent imperfections before talking to you. Yet even when he tried to make himself look presentable to you, you always seemed to catch him when all of his walls were down.

“You should have seen the information that I got from Riddle, Leona, and Azul. They have really gotten a reputation behind them, the Ramshackle prefect. I wonder what will happen if we keep them close~”

Vil wouldn’t admit it to anyone but there had been a brief moment that his heart skipped a beat when the news about how the VDC team would be rooming in Ramshackle. He figured it had skipped out of beat due to the horrific news that he would have to room in a dorm that had not been used for who knows how long but when he had come inside and been greeted by your smile, it was almost surreal how he had come to terms with this feeling of nervousness.

The night before the VDC had found Vil in the Ramshackle lounge, a cup of tea in his hand as he watched a video of that day’s performance. There were still minor imperfections here and there but those would be easily covered up by his own singing and movements. Epel had also improved exponentially which highly increased the probability of a successful performance and with Jami’s hypnotizing movements and Rook’s aura there was no doubt that he had this competition under his heel.

But nerves like these didn’t leave overnight.

A creak on the stairs brought him back to the present, taking a sip of his tea as he continued to look at the video.

“If you’re here to ask me about why I am awake at this hour, Rook, I would like to remind you that you insisted we review the performance in the morning which already did nothing to calm my nerves--”

"Vil-senpai?"

His head snapped up to look at you , the light of the moon masking him in shadows while illuminating you as you made your way down the staircase. He clicked his tongue and turned off his phone.

"Was I interrupting something?"

Vil shook his head, “Last minute detail check. Everything has to be perfect by tomorrow.”

You nod and walk towards him, standing next to the couch before pointing to it. Vil looked at you before looking at the seat next to him. What were you--oh. He nodded and you sat down on the other side of the love seat, both of you farther apart that he would have liked.

“Does the manager have anything they want to say to me?”

“It just gets me thinking. You have been doing this performance perfectly in my eyes. Over and over again that it makes me wonder just what you think is lacking.”

You bring your feet up to the seat, hugging your knees together as you look down at the floor, “Maybe your definition of perfect and my definition of perfect are so different.”

The Pomefiore dorm leader rolls his eyes, “Did your Heartslabyul friends put you up to this?”

“Ace and Deuce? Great Sevens no. If they did I would have rightfully ignored them and gone to bed. I’m just your manager, I’m not here to negotiate.”

“Just a manager.” Vil frowns and looks at you, “You understand that you are currently housing the Vil Schoenheit as well as six other people who happen to be under my temporary tutelage. If you and your dorm weren’t around I would have had to keep those two Heartslabyul potatoes in the Pomefiore dorm and I don’t think I could stand letting them sleep in one of our beds. Our dorm has standards, luckily yours is the most neutral place I can stand being around those two without losing sleep.”

He blinks at the snort you let out, staring as you wave your hands and apologize while trying to prevent another one from surfacing.

“That is the only straightforward compliment my dorm has received. Neutral.” you laugh again before wiping a fake tear from your eyes, “Am I allowed to take it as a compliment?”

Vil is glad for the darkness, it hid the sudden flush in his cheeks.

“Take it as you will.”

You nod and stand up, stretching and letting out a satisfied sigh when your back made a small cracking noise that had Vil clutching at his cup. Anybody else and he would have walked out of whatever conversation he was having, so why did he find that tolerable with you?

“Then let me pay it back.” you hold out your hand and for a brief moment Vil wants to take it. Clearly that was an invitation for something and it alarmed him that he didn’t mind the mystery behind it. Yet your finger pointed at the cup, Vil looking down and seeing it was empty.

Oh.

He hands it to you, doing his best to make it so that your fingers would brush in the most accidental way possible.

“In my own opinion, as well as the opinion of others, I think you are the fairest out of everyone in the school.”

The air in Vil’s lungs gets caught in his throat.

“No joke. The way you carry yourself, the effort you put into everything you are a part of. Even the potato comments are almost...endearing? Potato plants produce rather pretty flowers, right? Maybe you are just trying to get the flowers inside of us to bloom as well?”

He is staring.

He is staring and not saying anything. You had left him without speech.

“But in the end your opinion will be the one that matters most to you. I just hope that it will always be positive.” you scratch the back of your head and yawn, “I’m going to grab a glass of water and head back to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Your eyes are still meeting his as a small flush adorned your cheeks, probably embarrassed by what you had just said. Or he would like to think you would be embarrassed, if this was any regular love story he would stand up and grab your wrist and keep you from running away from him before cupping your face and leaning in--

“Good night, Vil-senpai.”

"Goodnight."

You who always knew what to say, you who always had an answer to the problem at hand.

Where were you?

His eyes start looking around for your figure, hands itching and brain running slower than it ever had before. Maybe you would make it better? No, you would make it better. You would go over to him and smile before saying that the competition hadn’t even started and just because that song seemed to be moving everyone under a stupid nostalgia spell, Vil’s hardwork would shine through. Neige hadn’t taken everything from him, not just yet.

Vil feels the weight on his shoulders lessen when he looks at you only for it to double when he sees your face.

You were smiling, humming along to the silly melody as your head bobbed up and down.

Even in practice your gaze remained fixed on them, yet with Neige you seemed to feel that infectious, annoying melody and enjoying it?

“What’s wrong? You look pale.”

Had he lost you as well?

“Vil...Vil?”

The first time he had been left speechless was because of you.

“...Nothing. Don’t worry.” he turns his back to Rook, “It’s not worth seeing their performance. I will be in the waiting room.”

Vil walks away, so many thoughts clouding his head as he replays the words you had said to him.

Who the hell cared about his opinion when yours was just as important?

[strawberrysoup]

Down with the Ship || Chapter 1

You never could’ve expected a celebration to go so, so wrong. The land was foreign, too warm compared to the Cold Lands, and filled with horrible people. Horrible people that planned to sell you to the highest bidder — who, as you’d come to learn, was the ruler of the stupid seaside city. She was a beautiful empress, the high priestess and war general her consorts and evidently, your new masters. Human beings shouldn’t be given as gifts, much less called ‘pets’, and you found the ship that was your life sinking so much faster than you ever could’ve expected.

rating: M | 18+ chapters: at least 7, not sure chapter: 1/? relationship: dark!carol danvers x dark!natasha romanoff x dark!valkyrie x reader warnings: noncon&dubdon, pet play, degradation&humiliation, kidnapping, slavery, detailed warnings to be included per chapter; read more and CTRL+F to search ‘content warnings’ to skip to the more detailed tags at the bottom of the chapter. 

note: hey guys, this story was inspired by @scarlettwlw​ who helped me come up with the idea! if you enjoy this story, please consider donating to my ko-fi or buying me a birthday present from my wishlist! 

The night sky through the bars of your cage was beautiful, bright stars and a glowing moon casting a vibrant glow over the plaza, a gaudy waste if you’d ever seen one. There were stones laid in the ground to aid the turn of wheels, as if the dips and grooves didn’t cause wagons to stutter and bounce hopelessly. At least dirt roads could be cared for with regular maintenance to prevent damage, like the welts crisscrossing your entire back side down to the soles of your feet where the bars of the cage had dug more and more painfully into your flesh the longer you were forced to rest your weight on them.

It might’ve been the cage’s fault you hated the stone road—the bumps made it impossible for your bare feet to find purchase on the bars and you fell, constantly, if you tried to stand while the horses hauled you and two others earlier in the day. One memorable event had seen to your feet slipping through the bars, your left leg bashing against a rock so hard you felt something crack. Screaming had been a mistake though. The man steering the horses had nearly caved your face in for causing damages. The damages that could’ve been prevented with carefully pressed dirt roads. You never would’ve caused damages if you hadn’t been in the stupid fucking cage to begin with.  

You couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. Your village had been celebrating the winter solstice beneath the auroras. It marked your 18th winter, in fact, which meant you’d been drinking vodka like water most of the day. There was music and dancing and the food had smelled wonderful, but then the scent of smoke had grown more intrusive than the bonfire should’ve caused.

The screaming came after that. There had been blood and fire and so much screaming but you could barely remember what happened—your head still pounded with the after effects of the alcohol and extreme dehydration, but you had no idea how long it had been since that night. You’d been attacked and woke up in the bowels of a ship, vomiting profusely from both the vodka and the blow to the head you’d taken. The fucking cage had come an indeterminate amount of time later, when the boat finally docked.  

It wasn’t nearly as cold as it should’ve been. There was no snow and the brisk night air made you shiver but certainly wasn’t unbearable like it would’ve been at home. Your clothes and the furs you’d cherished most of your life had been taken from you, the black pelt your father gifted you in your 13th winter devastatingly gone leaving you naked in the cage. The weather reinforced how far from home you were, the unrecognizable language further emphasizing the distance—you we’re good with different dialects, you made a point of being able to speak to those who lived outside your village, but you’d never heard a language like the ones the slavers spoke.  

That’s what they were, of course. Aside from kidnapping and beating you they had treated you like furniture (and not even a precious piece at that). Not once had they spoken to you, with the exception of the one who’d screamed at you while decimating your face with his fists. The other prisoners had been spared similar fates thanks to the fact their cages had wooden slats across the bottom to provide stability—well, except the woman. She’d screamed at the slaver beating you until he’d deviated his attention to her, leaving you bleeding on the ground while yanking her from her cage. Luckily he'd expended most of his energy nearly killing you and didn’t spend much time on her, mostly just screaming and pulling her long black hair.

You didn’t know her name or where they’d stolen her from, but you’d carefully waved a small thank you to her once you were both returned to your cages. The look on her face betrayed how badly the man hurt you and she’d reached through the bars towards you with tears in her big, dark eyes. Now she was asleep in her cage, leaning against the bars closest to you while you held her hand. She’d attempted to give you some of the slats from the bottom of her cage but you’d refused—she was older than you by at least forty years and you worried; you were young and fully able-bodied, you would be sold regardless of your physical state. You didn’t know what would happen to her if the bars caused even half the damage they’d caused you, she already moved so stiffly. You couldn’t say for sure, but you assumed the life of an unmarketable slave was short.  

The other prisoner was a man, several years older than yourself. He’d kept quiet through the entire journey, a blank look in his eyes. You wondered how long he'd been under the thumb of the slavers, to be so dejected and nigh on soulless. You hadn’t so much as made eye contact with him, even as you both sat awake through the night. The stars shifted above you, the moon taking its path across the sky until the sun began to rise behind you. Hours passed like days, stretching infinitely until people began shuffling around the plaza. The slavers you recognized returned, yawning and speaking in soft voices to each other. They barely paid the three of you any attention until the sun was fully up—then they went to the man’s cage.

He complied with whatever they were saying, dutifully and with his eyes cast down. They dumped a bucket of water over his head and threw handfuls of dense white powder all over him, the grains sticking to his wet skin. He wasn’t given clothes, much to your disdain considering it meant you’d also not be given clothing, but they wrapped some sort of belt around his waist before shackling his hands to it. The other woman was next, also doused with water and powder and shackled. Instead of shuffling her immediately back into the cage like they had the man, dark paint was smeared over her tan shoulders and they forced her to the ground outside of the cage before attaching her belt to the bars.  

The slavers walked towards your cage with irritated expressions, the younger man gesturing angrily about your person while they conversed. The damage to your body, you leg and face especially, was evidently extensive. Everything hurt, but your leg was the worst. You assumed something was broken, at the very least deeply, deeply bruised and you could barely rest any weight on it—not that you’d tried in hours.

When the cage door was yanked open you tried not to startle, but a cry escaped your lips when the younger man dug a hand into your hair and yanked you out onto the stone ground of the plaza. Your ankle radiated pain up towards your shin and you collapsed, forced to crawl forward when he didn’t stop pulling on your hair.  

They were still muttering angrily when frigid water spilled over you, leaving you shivering on the stone. Another bucket followed and you found yourself being tossed around while they thoroughly drenched your skin. The powder caked onto your flesh like a layer of clay, itchy and tight as it quickly began to dry. It had a strong odor you didn’t recognize, overwhelming and unpleasant and you found yourself sputtering and spitting where a small amount had gotten past your lips.

A yelp escaped you when a hand immediately gripped your hair again, shaking you roughly and shouting. It stopped when the older slaver yelled at the younger one, slapping him away and gesturing at you angrily. They continued to argue while you laid on the ground, feeling like your lungs wouldn’t inflate. The woman shackled to her cage behind you shouted angrily at the pair, beckoning you towards her urgently.  

Your body didn’t hesitate even when your head did, crawling slowly across the stone. She grabbed you the second you were within reach, tugging you into her chest and shuffling to the side to try and block you from their sight. Her shackles rattled quietly, one hand running gently through your hair while the other gently roamed over the welts across your back. You could hear her speaking, another dialect you didn’t recognize, quietly with her lips almost pressed to the top of your head.

It sounded like a prayer and you wondered if the goosebumps that ran across your skin was a result of being touched gently for the first time in so long or if whoever she invoked was now watching you. There was no telling how her Gods worked, maybe they were willing to look over someone who didn’t worship them. The Gods of your village were rarely so kind, especially in the absence of a sacrifice.  

It was easy to tell when the slaver's attention returned to you; she immediately began spitting what you were very, very sure was a curse. The slavers hesitated, evidently able to understand what she was saying—or at least what she was implying with her furious words. It didn’t stop the younger man for long, he stomped over and grabbed a fist full of your hair once again and used it to throw you several feet away. The woman continued to spit a furious string of words, to which the slaver seemed to grow increasingly angry about. He turned towards her, arm raising swiftly.  

“Don’t you touch her!” Your voice was hoarse, you’d barely spoken since being kidnapped but the man’s head snapped in your direction immediately. “I’m right here you son of a bitch, me! Don’t touch her, beat me, asshole!”  

They didn’t understand your language, you’d learned that early on when they mocked your words with gibberish, but he certainly understood your tone if the vibrant red of his cheeks was anything to go by. His hand fell to the whip rolled up at his waist while he stomped towards you, lips curled in a snarl as he let the end fall to the ground with a startling crack. A wash of fear went down your back; you’d never been whipped in your life. You had a particularly high pain tolerance, but what was a broken arm to a whipping?

The other woman was shouting at him again and you steeled yourself—you’d either live or you wouldn’t, but you could at least keep his disgusting hands off of her until she could be sold. She looked as kind as she acted, beautiful and sharp, and next to the slavers her skin tone and eyes were exotic. Someone would purchase her to clean or cook, as long as she was able bodied. Even if your wounds were left to fester until you passed from fever, you would survive the initial whipping and still be fit for the auction block almost immediately. She didn’t have that luxury.

Your eyes widened when he raised his arm and you scrambled to cover your head, tucking your chin against your sternum and drawing your knees in; you desperately wanted to avoid learning what sort of pain a lash to the face would illicit while he seemed so keen on teaching you. She was still screaming and the older slaver was yelling and the crack of the whip was potentially the loudest thing you’d ever heard.

When it landed a line of fire erupted on your skin, stretching from that first point of contact on the crest of your shoulder down to your hip. If you hadn’t moved that line would’ve been in the dead center of your face and with the force used, bleeding profusely. The only reason you didn’t scream was because you bit down on your lip so hard you were unable to, purposefully falling to maintain your curled position down on the stones while you writhed—you wouldn’t give him the chance to aim for your face again.

The second strike ran diagonally from the same shoulder, across your back, and to the opposite hip. The third was directly on your spine and your body spasmed violently in response, a scream finally torn from your throat when you physically couldn’t keep your mouth shut any longer. There would’ve been more, you were sure, had the voice of another woman interrupted the man. He spoke in return with stuttered, nervous reverence and while you didn’t move from your curled position you believed his face likely reflected his tone with fear.

You couldn’t understand anything that was being said. The woman was shouting, one word more and more desperately and you assumed it must’ve been something she assigned to you in her head. Your brain fogged and you found yourself having to fight your muscles from going limp every time you exhaled. You wondered what she was calling you, what she referred you to as in her language. Your mother had always called you her baby, your father called you sweetheart.

Pulling yourself up wasn’t a matter of wanting to or not; it came down to the fact you were unable. Otherwise you would’ve dragged yourself across the stone once again to find a place in the older woman’s arms, to keep her from drawing attention to herself with her shouting, but you didn’t have the energy, the will, or the ability. There was no way your arms would hold your weight, your left ankle was entirely out of commission and the right was just as useless considering the circumstances.

You would’ve laid there until you died had it not been for a pair of soft hands taking hold of your upper arms. A wail died in your throat, lips clamping shut—you had to keep it together, if it was the very last thing you did. It was bad enough for these people to see you bleed, you wouldn’t let them hear you cry. Your father was one of the greatest warriors in the Cold Lands, you wouldn’t disrespect him by showing such weakness to the enemy.

A woman’s voice spoke close to your ear, a crooning coo that set your teeth on edge even more than the pain. She propped you up on your hip, laying your upper body carefully against her side where she sat on the stone and resting your weak head against her shoulder. Your eyes caught dark red hair, falling in loose waves to a pale, pointed chin. Before you could examine her more closely, your attention was drawn to the sound of a loud smack.

There was another woman, this one blonde and wearing what looked like miles of folded pale gold silk, had evidently just backhanded the younger slaver so hard the man lost balance and hit the ground. You marveled, just a tiny bit, at the sight. Her hair fell in windswept blonde waves to her exposed collar bones and she looked like she’d just been wrecked in the bedroom. Absently you wondered if the woman whose hand was cupping your ribcage had anything to do with that.

The blonde proceeded to speak to the older slaver for several long minutes, gesturing lazily every once in a while with jewel laden fingers. You’d been able to realize that the redhead holding you was also incredibly richly dressed, even in comparison to the well-dressed merchants making their way into the plaza to set up for the day. The slavers also deferred to the blonde; she was evidently someone of incredibly high stature—especially considering the redhead, who you assumed was her wife or consort, was practically dripping with gold.

Your attention shot to the woman holding you when she spoke, shrinking back when she pressed her cheek to the top of your head. It sounded like she was pouting, using a cutesy tone that made the blonde smile affectionately and respond with a long-suffering sigh before turning back to the slaver.

It was obvious that there was a transaction occurring and based on the fingers walking their way down your rib cage towards your legs, you could only assume you were the merchandise in question. It was easy to tell when the sale was complete, the blonde looking pleased and the old slaver looking nothing short of relieved.

“Oh, fuck this,” you murmured quietly to yourself, eyes squeezing shut as frustrated tears tried to well.

Hearing your own language spoken back to you after so long was so shocking you almost didn’t process the redhead’s words. “Don’t be like that, pet. It’s our girl’s birthday and she’s always wanted a cute little kitten.”

content warnings: human trafficking/slavery, public humiliation 

[starksvixen]

Don’t Belong Here (kenobidaughter!reader)

Masterlist

Summary: After being saved by a group of Mandalorians similar to Din, you begin to realize that your a puzzle piece that doesn’t seem to fit...

Warnings: Incredible amount of angst, lil’ bit of fluff, tension left unresolved

The soft babbling from the floating bassinet that follows you is like water against the fire that burns at your nerves. Looking down at the Child, you send a soft smile towards his wide eyes. How much does he understand of what is happening around him, you wonder. If he is fifty years old, he must realize the tension between you and his adoptive father. Of the situation at hand. 

You told Din that this whole deal didn’t seem right. Meeting a seedy character at the docks felt like a trap. But in typical Mandalorian fashion, he bulls ahead, not caring for your opinion.

“You’re a Jedi, you’re always suspicious,” he had said. 

Those words had unexpectedly wounded you deep, forcing you into silence. Instead of the pain, you focus on the subtle tug of your saber trying to break it’s bonds to your leg. The forceful tug of the holster digging into skin as you jump onto the ship, keeping your cloak close to your body. 

The seamen kept eyeing you, one even trying to pull your cloak away from your body which earned them a harsh glare. Apparently that was their breaking point. 

In a matter of seconds, you had been shoved into the pool of water you were standing beside. A glint of beskar is the last thing you see before water swallows you whole. 

Your lungs expand to their maximum as you hold what air you have left deep within them. Pulling out your lightsaber, you quickly ignited it, coming face to face to a beast with no face. With what strength you had left over, you swing, slashing it’s face almost in two. But the force you used in the swing caused what little breath you had left to escape into the depths. On instinct, you breathe in, water crashing into your lungs.

Suddenly two hands grab onto your shoulders and lift you out of the water. As you are tossed to the ground, your lightsaber flies from your hand. But the hit of landing on the ground helps you to cough out the burning liquid, your entire body vibrating from adrenaline. 

All you can focus on is the heaving of your chest, the fresh release of oxygen replacing water, and a rough hand on your back trying to bring you back to reality. 

Swiftly, you are pulled into the arms of the Mandalorian as he slowly rubs your back in secret to calm your heaves. Looking up, you see three other Mandalorians stand before you, one helmet standing out from all of them. You remembered it in photos your father had showed you during his time in the Clone Wars.

With the smooth caress of the Force flowing through your fingertips, you call the saber into your hands, extinguishing it.

“Interesting, your lightsaber didn’t short out,” the familiar helmet speaks. 

“My father showed me how to make it so, Bo - Katan,” you say sharply.

The armored warrior stiffens before pulling off her helmet, revealing the person who used to be the main character to your bedtime stories. Shakily you stand, putting the saber in it’s rightful place. 

“You must be a Obi - Wan’s daughter. Makes sense you would be raised as a Jedi.” 

“I’m no Jedi...” 

“Then why do you wield their saber?”  

“How about you keep your nose out of business that isn’t yours?” 

“Enough,” Din steps in between both of you. “Whatever family quarr-”

“We aren’t family,” you both say in unison. 

“Her father killed my sister,” Bo - Katan reminds. 

“And you’re the reason why Mom left her Mandalorian claim behind,” you growl. 

Din silently looks between the two of you, unsure of what to say at this point. He eventually turns to Bo - Katan, questioning why she had willingly taken her helmet off and the Creed. 

You force yourself to take a few steps away, picking up the Child and smirking down at him.

“Had enough excitement for one day?”

He yawns and nods softly. It forces a chuckle out of your chest as you wrap him up in what was left of your cloak that lay on the ground below you. Suddenly, you feel an arm wrap around your waist and blast off the boat, leaving what had happened behind. 

“What did they say to you back there, Din?” you whisper softly, still holding the Child close. 

You follow close to him as you walk through the docks at a late hour. His shoulders tense even more then usual, the soft cracking of leather bending to his tightened fists. 

“They said I’m a part of a cult, a Child of the Watch.”

You nod softly. 

“So what? What if you have different thoughts then them? You are a Mandalorian, you will obey your Creed. Just like I’m a Gray Jedi and I listen to my own code that is different then that of the Jedi Council.”

“It’s not like that...” he sighs. “You couldn’t understand.” 

Another deep wound etches its way into your heart, following the same pattern as the one before. With a sharp glare at the tin head, you hand him the Child. 

“What are you-”

“I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing, Din.” 

“Not so fast...” another voice enters. 

“Dank farrik...” you mumble, slowly reaching down to grab your lightsaber. 

Someone steps up right beside you, red tentacles decorating his chin as he glares at you and Mando. 

“You killed me brother,”

“Let us pass,” Din warns. 

Your fingers wrap around your lightsaber tightly, your thumb inching it’s way towards the activation button. Deep down, you knew this would end up with some dead bodies. And you didn’t seem to care. 

“I don’t think you understand...you killed my brother. Now, I’ll kill your pet.”

When the Kid whimpers from behind you, you snap. Activating your lightsaber, you slice the tentacled freak in front of you in half without hesitation. With each incoming shot from his lackies, you block them with the twirl of your saber. 

The sound of thrusters ends from behind you and a rain of gunfire soon follows. Once it all dies down, the only tentacled freak left standing is the ringleader. 

“He didn’t kill your brother, I did,” Bo - Katan says from behind you before shooting him down. 

With a sharp sigh, you return your saber to it’s holster, turning to look at the gaggle of Mandalorians before you. 

“You fight like he did,” Bo - Katan says, the first nice thing she has said to you yet. 

You nod in response, gently taking the Child Din had extended towards you. 

“At least let us buy you a drink?” 

You let them lead you towards a bar, Child in hand, as they talk about God knows what. All you can focus on is how stuck out you seem. The group of warriors ahead of you seemed, for all intents and purposes, normal. You were the person with a lightsaber strapped to their thigh. The one with only clothes guarding their body, not armor. Once you had entered the crowded building, it all became so simple. 

You don’t belong here.

From your seat beside Din, you handed the Kid off to him and collected empty glasses. Walking to the bar, you get them refilled and send them back towards the group after tipping one of the waitresses. After that, you walk towards the front doors, not forgetting to look back at your Beskar clad lover before leaving completely. 

You wander around the streets alone, making sure to keep quiet so nobody targets you. The docks were easy to find after your last adventure, and paying for transport even easier. Many of them were looking for anything to spare for their families. 

As you count out what little credits you had on hand, the soft clank of armor echoes behind you. With a sigh, you hand over the credits to the transport captain, saying a soft thank you in his dialect, before turning around. And there he was, Din without his Kid, his hand on one hip as he stood perfectly still. 

“Don’t make this harder then it needs to be, Mando,” you say.

“You know that’s not my name,” 

“And if I say it, I won’t be able to go,”

“Then don’t,” 

“What was it that you said back there? Oh, that’s right, that I don’t understand. Well here you go Mando, now you don’t understand,” 

“Then make me,” 

“This is not a one way street! You don’t get to do that...”

A horn atop the ship you are taking blows, alerting its passengers to it’s five minute take off warning. With a harsh sigh, you turn around to grab your small bag that you had strapped across you.

The strap proves as a disadvantage, making it easier for Mando to grab onto you and pull you closer to him. Your walls come tumbling down and you know if you don’t pull away now you won’t be able too at all. 

“I don’t belong here...” you mumble, trying to pull away from his grasp. “You have your clan here, I don’t belong.”

“You’re wrong,” Mando says so quiet his transcoder couldn’t translate. Instead you’re met with the muffled version. 

“Din...” you say softly. 

“You belong with me,” 

His words force your gaze upwards, surprise fully etched on your face. Before you can respond, he does:

“Go protect the Kid, I have to complete this mission and then we’re getting out of here,” 

His hands leave your biceps as he tells you the Kid’s location. Then he disappears into crowd, leaving you confused but hopeful. 

Tag ListL (leave a comment on the Masterlist to be added) 

toribentleyva  mikariell95 edgy-wedgy-poo  tillytheslytherin  irishfaulk97 supergingerlocks  aeryn--sun  nedxwynert  forbidden-darkness

[poptod]

The Breeding Kings, pt. 8, (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Search and creation. In a desperate bid to protect his identity, he convinces you you're not safe in the cities of Egypt, thus assuring you further that your place in life is far away from Egypt––where he was trying to keep you in the first place.

Notes: okay i try to stay as true as i can when it comes to the egyptian language and how hieroglyphs are pronounced but theres so little information on the indus valley. we still dont know how to decode their language but we know the closest language is a form of a modern indian dialect so thats what ive been using hope thats alright WC: 6k

+

Pounding like a hammer on his cranium brought him back to the land of the living in a dizzy, sickeningly fast whirl. He returned to his body and at once felt the aching of his joints, his throat bereft of water, and the headache reaching from his temple to the base of his spine.

As he blearily opened his eyes, the dryness of them making it rather hard, the pounding of warhammers on his ears continued in clearer and clearer beats. It was then, his hand already covering his eyes from the sun, that he recognized the inside of a bell swinging above him, the massive metal gong sending vibrations throughout his whole body.

"Oh dear Gods," he moaned, the awful sound thrumming everywhere he could feel.

Hazy memories of the night before returned slowly to him, injured only by the continued swaying of the bell above him. After finally filling your stomachs, you drowned yourselves in beer, going from storeroom to storeroom to take whatever they would be willing to give.

"Yogi?" He said in a rough voice.

You let out a long, low whine.

"No talking," you mumbled.

"Oh, you can't stand my talking but you're fine with the bell?"

"Aganu, I can not stand anything right now," you said in the most helpless, exasperated voice that Ahk couldn't help but laugh, even with his head hanging off the edge of the belltower.

His laugh faded away the longer blood was allowed to rush to his head, till he had enough of the pressure and turned onto his stomach. In the very least the bell was not rocking as much as it previously was, swaying instead of swinging back and forth. Below, however, the people had gathered at the foot of white limestone steps that gleamed in the morning sun, their eyes directed to a speaker standing upon those stairs.

Ahkmen squinted, attempting to make out the person's identity.

"-and the decree of the Pharaoh is thusly," they said, their voice faded from the height Ahk sat at.

The moment the words were spoken, Ahk's eyes bulged, his expression dropping from casual humor to dead horror.

"My soldiers have seen my son leave me," they said as they read from the papyrus in their hands.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, but he relaxed when he saw you, if only for a moment before he was once more petrified by the fear of you discovering him.

"He has gone towards the mouth of Hapi. See my son––the Prince Ahkmen––is not with you. See my son, if he is with you, to me."

"Ahkmen?" You said with a small frown. "Who is Ahkmen?"

"Just some stuck-up Prince," Ahk said quickly.

"Ah, so like you," you said, grinning as you nudged him with your elbow.

"That is... so rude," he said as he only half paid attention, his eyes focused on the crowd below. In a straight voice he continued his teasing with, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to abandon you now."

"You will not make that, you are too full of old beer. You need my potion," you said.

"Maybe so," he grumbled, all too aware of his headache. He looked down, attempting to gauge the tower for an escape. "How.. the hell did we get up here? We must be fifty spans in the air."

"Have you rope?"

"No, I –"

You raise your hand, revealing the rope in it.

"It is on the side, where you forgot it," you chuckled, handing him the long rope. He glared playfully as he took it.

The descent down the perfectly polished walls was, needless to say, interesting, and made less difficult by the removal of your sandals. Ahkmen went first, followed by you, and he immediately took off the moment you landed on the ground. He looked over his shoulder as he turned the corner, spotting one last flash of the scribe calling the name of the missing Prince.

Murmurs of conversations that surrounded him spoke of the same thing––a lost prince, oh how strange!––behind the veils of widows and children who heard the words of the Pharaoh. The ache in his neck worsened as he turned rapidly back and forth, constantly scanning his environment for any surprised faces. Your own, shorter legs barely kept up with his pace, sometimes barely landing back on the ground before you were pulled continuously by Ahk's grasp on your hand.

The edge of the city must've been 5 iteru away––longer than either of them could run in their state. Realizing this, Ahkmen pulled off into alleyways as he had the day before, and hid within the tall, vacant walls.

He panted heavily as the two of you slowed, skidding on the sandy ground before you both fell down in exhaustion. Your chest heaved like his, eyes concentrated on a purely blue sky, as his remained centered on the single exit from the dead end; the only direction you could be approached from.

"Who do we run from?" You finally asked, irritation lacing the knot in your brow.

"Soldiers," he answered instinctively. You had a fear of them––it might subdue your curiosity. "And the town officials. We're a little young to be on our own and I don't want them to falsely accuse us of anything, or put us in any situation where we have to talk to them."

"Uh..." you scanned his composure thoroughly, "okay. I see your fear, but we must think, not run."

"You're right," he said, just barely rising to his feet enough to stumble over to you, kneeling at your side. "You're right. We need to get out of here, but not like this."

"I have one – one potion, of all my potions, in my bag," you said as you looked around, trying to find the packs you'd entered the city with. "The one for the, the – the getting drunk sick, thing in the morning."

"Hangover," he said.

"Etuvaka. Where is my bag?"

"Your what––oh, shit," he went quiet with his last words, grimacing as the blistered memories of last night returned to him in one-scene flashes.

"What?" You whipped round to look at him, a dead panic in your eyes. When he didn't answer, you scooted closer and cried, "what??!"

"We found a loose brick in the street," he said, closing his eyes and leaning back with deep regret in the breath he drew, "and to hide our stuff while we went drinking... we put our bags underneath it."

"Oh shit."

"Verily," he breathed out with a nod.

Several minutes of astonished silence passed before he croaked out, "I had most of our wares in there."

"And my potions," you said, similarly collapsed as he was. "Do you know any else?"

"No, I'm surprised I can remember that we hid our bags at all," he said, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

"And my cat!" You cried.

"Your cat came with us?"

"Yes!! All from Memphis!"

"No, I mean, she came into the city? When did she leave? Or do you even remember?" He said, assaulting you with an onslaught of questions.

"Young, by the wall for the city," you said in almost a whine, leaning against the alley wall.

"Maybe she can help us," Ahk suggested, shifting to sit up straighter with the idea in his head.

"She can not speak Egyptian, dumb head!" You scolded.

"But she doesn't have any eyes," Ahk said, and you opened your mouth to explain that isn't exactly pertinent when he continued with, "so her nose might be much stronger. I hear that when you lose one of your senses, the others grow stronger."

You seemed, at best, dubious of his claims, but spoke after a moment of contemplative silence.

"Okay. But we must to find her, then the bags," you said slowly.

"Absolutely, of course," he said with a nod. "Does she answer to her name?"

You looked to him with a flat expression.

"Does any cat?" You asked.

"Fair point."

"We must have a - a.. a pot, and I will make her food. I need.. fish," you began to count the ingredients on your fingers, "fish head, oil, skin of the goose, and milk."

"That sounds disgusting," Ahk admitted honestly.

"It is. And it is good we will not eaten it."

The most difficult part of your plan ended up being the very first step––finding a place in which to mix all these horrid smelling ingredients. Neither of you owned anything in the city, and staying out of the public eye led Ahk to sacrifice several different ideas, landing you with a final resort.

It was already midday by the time you stood outside one of the city's temple's baking kitchens, the heat of the sun blocked by tarps of orange and yellow swinging from rooftop to rooftop. Already the scent of searing meat and baking pastries filled the air, wandering through little chains of markets all throughout the city, and leading you to one of the biggest kitchens you'd seen. They would not remark upon the absence of one pot, would they?

"There's a way in, back there," Ahk whispered to you, the both of you peering over empty crates. "It's just a tent so we can flip it and get inside."

"And who will we get?"

"Whichever one is closest, I presume," he said, offering no more advice before he ducked out of the hiding spot, heading discreetly across the street.

You followed in a stumble, taken surprise by his sudden movements. When you caught up with him, you knelt to hide behind the same abandoned cart, once more checking the positions of cooks and cleaners occupying the bakery. Most people were sitting at the side of a tall fountain, enjoying the midday break for food.

He left, this time signalling for you to follow him. Without pause you did, crouching down to sneak beneath the tent flaps and into the kitchen, where you were faced with a cauldron half your height. Before either of you could exchange words, you were both grasping the handles, hauling it off the small fire and out towards the space behind the tent. Another makeshift alleyway.

"Do we have to heat it?" Ahk asked, peering into the heavy bowl.

"No, it is not a good for the nose. Borrow the fish, in there." You pointed to the tent. "I will get milk."

The wretched scent stewing below you bathed your face in its' fumes, but remained nothing more than a hint of your actions to anyone further from the pot. Ahkmen had been holding his nose manually the entire time, his voice nasally, which didn't help when you laughed and drew in breaths that tasted of fish milk.

"We're going to have to pour this in the street, aren't we," Ahk said, one hand pinching his nose and the other on his hip.

"Yes, and we can not... soldiers, can not see us," you said, glancing between him and the pot.

"Right. Drop and dip."

"... okay."

Oil was eventually hard enough to find that you forwent the ingredient, leaving you with milk, goose skin, and fish head mixed up till it all softened. The look of it alone made Ahk queasy, and if he ever attempted to breathe too deeply, he lurched with sickness, clutching his stomach. You just laughed.

"Not good, is it?" You said with a toothy grin.

"How many times have you made this shit?" He asked, his face pale as he leaned against the nearest solid wall.

"I make it... not much, and it is smaller many times, so... I am.. dear God, this smells," you grumbled.

"Just get this over with."

The two of you lugged the heavy cauldron out of the alley, shuffling past the temple to dump the product of your work. Your head pounded as you strained, dry and hungry, till you managed to toss the pot out into the crowded streets.

The reaction was instant. Questions and groans rippled through the people who split as the white mixture flooded down the road. More shouts and exclamations followed when the scent truly set in, wafting from the milk already baking in the hot sun. Ahk turned to you to find you laughing, stumbling back as you hid your grinning mouth.

"What's so funny?" He asked, but he was already chuckling with you.

"You rich people," you said as you pointed to a couple fleeing hand in hand, their silken white robes lined with rotten milk. "It is funny to see you run, and scream."

"Alright, you've gotten your kicks. Where's your cat?"

"Quiet. She comes soon."

From the many different streets coalescing into the center outside the temple, cats came, some hairless like yours and others furry and large. They gathered at the spill, sniffing curiously at the strange mixture before ultimately licking away at it.

"You know, I didn't actually expect them to like it," Ahk said above you, both of you peering out from behind the kitchen tent.

"You do not trust me?"

"It's not that," he said with a frown that disappeared at your chuckling. "I just.. it's astounding anything can stand that close to it."

"We did."

"Shut up, Yogi."

It took a little while, but by the time soldiers discovered the debacle, you and Ahk were chasing Sephys down another, smaller street. Her missing eyes were of no consequence as she darted between boxes and legs, jumping over a small mouse who cowered near the wall. Ahkmen's heart was already racing from the proximity to royal guards, doubled by his chasing feet, following after you following a blind cat.

Sephys' luck ended as she ran into a man's legs, bonking her head and fluttering back with an unsteady tail. You knelt, swooping her up to coo and pet her head, cradling her like a baby in your arms.

"Uh, sorry," Ahk apologized quickly to the man Sephys had run into. He glared but said nothing, continuing to lug crates of vegetables out of a nearby doorway.

Ahkmen jogged back over to you, looking over your shoulder at the cat.

"Do you think she'll be able to find it?" He asked.

"What?" You looked up at him, flinching away when you found how close he was to you.

"Our bags."

"Oh! Yes, yes. Sephys," you held her at eye level, her gangly limbs stuck straight down, "we must to find my potions. My bag."

She looked blankly to the side of your face. Her nose twitched.

"Good," you said before dropping her.

She trotted off with hunched shoulders, her thin body jumbling her steps. You ran after her, motioning Ahk along when he didn't immediately follow you. He sighed but obeyed, winding back through the streets to the spill, where Ahk attempted his best at hiding his face as he ran by. Fortunately you were only there for a split second before you running off down another street, following the light-footed Sephys.

When she stopped, she pawed at the ground, sniffing the dust that had blown over. You slowed to a halt, kneeling down beside her.

"Atu inke irukirata, Sephys?" You asked as you caught your breath.

"Did we find it?"

"I think, yes," you said, gently pushing Sephys aside and digging your short nails into the loose brick of the street. Ahk knelt at your side and aided you in moving the rock.

Soon, the brick was raised enough for you to pull it out the rest of the way, revealing a pocket within the earth containing leather and fabrics reminiscent of both yours and Ahk's packs. Both of you exclaimed, looking to one another with big grins that devolved into laughter.

"We did it!" He said, pulling the bags out of the tiny hole. He handed you yours.

"We are smart, we know," you said with a sly wink, tapping your temple. "And cat knows."

"Right," he chuckled as he moved to his feet. "Shall we?"

"What we?"

"Uh... never-mind. We should go soon. The guards are nearby."

"I know."

Sephys was the first to jump into the stranded boat, followed by you and then your collective bags. Ahkmen stayed on solid ground to push the canoe back into the water, jumping in as it floated away, and grabbing the oar to resume your travels.

Without the canals of streets that trapped sunlight in alleys and beneath tarps, the cool wind could distract you from the burning sun. Your fingertips returned to grace the water in shallow strokes, breathing slower, and basking in the stillness that could not exist within cities. While you relaxed in the boat's bottom, Ahk remained on his feet and rowed you onwards.

"We have bread, magic, and good friends," you said, a long sigh leaving you as your head tilted back. "We are cakes."

"We're what?"

"You know. He is the... the head, of Egypt," you said.

"Ohh, you mean Kings."

"Etuvaka." Your head fell back down onto the floor of the canoe.

You set off in the afternoon, leaving you little time to travel before the nighttime would set you away. Much deserved sleep was collapsed into, your blankets splayed across the nearest flat, dry surface. The boat was just barely pulled onto the shore, but the thought never crossed his mind as his eyes fluttered open to see you facing him. Already you were dozing, anywhere from a second to a minute from deep sleep.

"Yogasundari?" He asked softly.

"Mm," you breathed out.

"I don't think we should stop at any more Egyptian cities," he said, his voice cracking.

You shifted slowly to your side before you spoke, just barely opening your eyes.

"Why?"

"It was a close call with those soldiers," he said, scanning you for any hint of emotion beyond tired. "I don't want to lose you so soon."

"We have made okay with more.. scary people, and.. more danger. Soldiers are little to me," you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut as you finished.

No, you're little to soldiers, he thought, but said nothing, and relaxed back into the blankets.

"I hope you're right," he said.

Breakfast consisted of bread and what little you could find along this stretch of the Nile. Ahk managed to spear a fish with a sharp stick, but neither of you could manage to eat much after yesterday's snafu. The fish ended up being eaten mostly by Sephys, who purred happily at your discomfort, playing with the bones of her prey. You and Ahk watched in mild disdain.

By midday you were back to burning in the sun, lamenting the lack of shade present in the middle of a kilometer wide river. Despite your discomfort, you continued to wear your longer robes, insisting they helped in keeping the sun off. Ahkmen took a different approach and removed most of his clothes, to your humored surprise.

"Any time you can take off it, you do," you said, laughing as you threw your head back behind loose shoulders. "Bad little boy."

He had to slap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from yelling––well, that or laughing. He couldn't quite tell what was bubbling in his stomach but it seared your name onto his heart. You could make him curl up and die in a single sentence, something Ahk was used to being, not receiving.

The signs of civilization appeared much earlier than they had when arriving in Heliopolis, beginning with trading and passenger ships passing the two of you by. Ahk always looked away. His uneven breathing gave way to anticipation, waiting for the appearance of the city, where his attention would constantly be heightened to perceive every person around him.

It was a cold return to royalty––the state of constant awareness, keeping your posture straight, your gaze steely, your brow firm but not stern. After days spent with you, it was already an alien stature to his body.

He squinted through the bright sun to the distant walls, remarking upon little else besides the pure white of the stone. Tanis was an unremarkable place known only for being a city at the mouth of the Nile river. That made it a trading port, but few people actually lived in Tanis, and much of the population was made up of travellers and traders who never stayed more than a week, or three months at most.

"There it is," he said, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun's glare.

"The next city?" You asked as you moved to your feet.

Wind pushed you about as you moved, nearly rocking you over on the gentle boat. Ahkmen was forced to grasp the oar with both hands, steering you through the choppy, foaming waves.

"Tanis," he said. Technically a safer city to be than Heliopolis, but still ruled prominently by the generals of Egypt. "It's a, um.. a military town. Lots of soldiers and such."

He bit his tongue as though it served as a punishment for his little lies. It was for your benefit, right?

"Oh," you said, drawing your knees to your chest. "Are they mad to me?"

"Not... particularly," he said, hesitating after noting your shrunken posture. "Foreigners aren't treated too badly here, since there's a lot of merchants. It's just... you were taken by the Pharaoh's men. What if they're looking for you? I mean, I don't know that they are, but I'm just worried. Do you understand that?"

"You are so scared of me being hurt –"

"For the night," he interrupted you. "Stay outside the city for tonight. Tomorrow we'll need to get camels... start off into the east. You can come then."

You frowned but curled back into yourself.

"Okay," you said.

Early evening settled itself in the skies around you when you reached the city, stopping off on the opposite side of the shore to ensure your 'safety'. Ahkmen's muscles strained, already aching from the multiple efforts to pull the canoe safely onto shore. This time he only pulled it halfway up, leaving it to help you set up a tent for the evening, hidden in a grove of date trees and vines.

"I won't be gone for long. I promise. I'll bring back some actually good food, um... beer, of course," you grinned at that, and he couldn't stop his own smile, "maybe a tarp."

"A tarp?"

"For shade, when we stop for breaks. I think it'll be good if we're going to be travelling by land, we'll be wanting to stop quite often, I think."

"Okay," you said with a nod. "I will see to find maybe things for my potions."

"Perfect. Do you have a sword? Or, a dagger?"

"Yes," you chuckled.

"Alright. I'll see you soon."

Time passed achingly slow without Ahk, sharing the company of no one but your cat. That had been your life for a time, but things were different now, and you had gotten accustomed to his company.

Sephys followed you as you roamed about the trees and bushes, looking for any plant of specific necessity. The ingredients of your potions ranged anywhere from common fruit to materials so rare many didn't believe in their existence.

What Ahk had yet to find out were the uses of your potions––not so much practical as they were fantastical. The hangover cure was the most useful, but given the right ingredients and the right amount of time, you could also fashion mixtures that allowed you to hear the Gods' and Goddesses' words, or to see the stars and know your direction even in daylight. Considering the sun was still a thing, the latter wasn't one you made often.

Flowers played an integral part in a few of your brews, though the role was usually outshone by other, more exotic ingredients. Roses could be used to enhance your lusting potion, as well as the Commander spell and the To Shadows mix. Blue lotus lillies that grew within the Nile had a magic all their own.

You settled down on the riverbank, pausing in a space between overgrown bushes that led straight to the shore. Mud and sand crawled up from the softly rippling waves, carrying rocks and tiny fish that Sephys batted at, blindly attempting to use her dull claws.

"Stop that," you said, hitting her gently on the head after she splashed you.

Lily pads, their roots and stems towering off the river's floor, slowed the already feeble current passing by your side of the shore. There were few flowers among them, and the moss that surrounded them were a more vibrant green than the pads, but you still traced your fingers over the tops as though you would walk across them. Someday, perhaps; out of all the incredulous things you had encountered in your time, giant lily pads didn't seemed quite a normal thing in comparison.

Reaching for one of the purple flowers, you began to pull, attempting to uproot the vine that grounded it. In the end you twisted the stem till it thinned and broke, allowing you to free the lotus. You spun it round on your fingers, entranced in the symmetry of the petals, till you tucked it aside and reached for another flower.

Altogether you spotted four blue lotus flowers, each boasting vibrant purple and pollen as yellow as the sun. The true properties of the blue lotus were subject to your active imagination, as they appeared to boost one's connection to the divine, as well as intensifying both romantic and lust-filled thoughts that hid in the corners of the drinker's mind. Commonly it was brewed into tea used for Egyptian ceremonies––you made syrup out of it, or boiled it into potions that altogether cancelled out the sugarpea-like taste of blue lotus.

You decided to leave two of the flowers as they were, and left with two of your own. Sephys followed you as you stood from the shore, returning inland into the groves of trees, to where Ahk had originally left you and your bags. There you knelt in the dirt again, setting one flower aside and crushing up the other with a mortar and pestle. Occasionally you dripped a few strands of honey from your glass bottle into the mixture, allowing the petals and the pollen to mix easier, into yellow-ish paste that would last as long as you boiled it and kept it bottled up. With that, you set up the fire, allowing it to bubble before you slowly poured the mixture into an empty bottle, and corking it up once you were satisfied.

"Wonderful. Now I'll never use it," you said to yourself, cheerfully, and in your own native language.

Sephys sniffed the mortar in which you had ground up the flower, licking when she realized there were traces of honey inside. You didn't bother to stop her––if she wanted to get sick, she could, and if she wanted to get high, she could do that as well.

The other flower you set out to dry in the spotted sun shining through palm leaves, and left it alone to return to the river. It was there you remained until evening, watching ships stop and leave on the opposite shore, stopping by the city Ahk found himself lost in. Worry did occur to you, though you had little time to dwell on it before a small canoe was making its' way back across the river.

By then the sun had lowered to a point in the crystal-clear sky that rays of gold and red reflected off the water's surface, bouncing back in shimmering waves. The rowing of an oar within water marked Ahk's return, and you waited patiently at the edge of the river, watching as he made his way back with a grin that lit up the moment he saw you.

He splashed as he jumped out of the boat, hauling it onto shore before wrapping you up in a tight––and very wet––hug.

"Look at you!" He said as he pulled away, his hands on your shoulders and his eyes on yours. "You're still alive!"

"You are mean, Aganu," you said, grinning as you stared up at him with that same starstruck look.

"You're right up there with my mother on that belief. I've gotten what we need, but I also brought something for you," he said, motioning you over to the beached canoe.

You followed him, looking over his shoulder as he rifled through the bags and protective fabrics tossed into the raft's bottom. First he pulled out a clay jug, which he set down gently beside him, before returning to pull out a large, orange tarp.

"Garish, but... only color they had," he said, handing it to you. You took it with mild confusion.

After several cases of food, he drew a lute, handing it to you with great care to notice your reaction. Your mouth fell open part way, eyes widening as you twirled it around in your hands.

"This is... money," you said slowly, your brow furrowing as you traced the thin strings.

"It did cost a little, but I'm sure we'll get plenty of use out of it," he assured you.

"You can.." you motioned strumming it, but were reluctant to touch the strings, "do the, uh... music?"

"No," he said, his face falling into a slight grimace. "No, not really. I mean, I can make it make sound, but whether or not those sounds are good are, well, um.. up to the listener. I was thinking you could play it. It seems like something..." he sucked in a breath, "... you'd like."

"You will do the words," you said, suddenly energized as you took his hand, dragging you over to the little fire you'd made hours ago. "I do the music."

"You want me to sing?" He asked with a soft chuckle.

"Yes!" You nodded ardently.

You pulled him with you as you sat down, your legs stretched out across the blanket you'd set out earlier. He followed, crossing his own legs as he watched you fiddle with the position of the instrument, accustoming your arms to the feel of its' weight.

When you at last plucked a string, a single, high note hummed throughout the grove of trees, silencing the bugs and birds that inhabited the riverside. You looked up, glancing around at the sudden quiet. Your eyes fell to Ahk, who nodded with a smile, gently encouraging you.

A finger on the fret board and the tone changed, growing higher in a pentatonic that appeared to clash without the other notes making up the hymnal. So you slid up further, creating a minor tune that still thrummed in the lute's echo chamber. You breathed in shakily, hoping to calm yourself before you continued.

Ahkmen, sensing your nervousness, decided to stand and gather fallen twigs and branches for the fire to lessen the stress of an audience. His absence allowed your shoulders to release from their tightened state. With that, you stroked all three strings in a swoop of your thumb, discordant but not unpleasant in its' reverb. Different positions on the wooden board brought about different notes, sliding up and down in crescendos that sounded not unlike the instruments of elders played by the side of the road. A single string worked better for you--at least for now--than attempting to use all three, especially at the same time.

A string twanged when you accidentally pulled the string to the side, and you flinched, looking up to Ahk with a worried look. He didn't seem to mind, so you continued.

He began to hum as he returned to your side, tossing in the smaller twigs to restart the embers of the fire. You tried to ignore him until you realized he was singing in harmony, no words in the tune, but twisting around your lute like vines overgrown with roses.

A burst of fire sprouted from the stone circle, reaching up higher than you stood on your feet. Ahkmen jumped back with a yelp, covering his face automatically with his hands, though he landed back with no more injury than a bruise on his bottom. Your mouth fell open and you dropped the lute, rushing over to his side.

"You are good?" You asked in a frantic voice, your shaking hands hovering above him.

He clasped his head, groaning as he sat up.

"I'm alright," he assured you, patting your knelt thigh. He started to chuckle, "I'm just sort of stupid."

"No, no," you said, but could offer little comfort besides that.

That alone made him snort, his head falling back down to the ground as he laughed. You giggled with him, your shoulders shaking as you covered your mouth, hiding your smile from view.

As you both calmed, he asked something that had been on his mind for a good while.

"Why do you cover your smile whenever you laugh?" He asked in a soft voice, one that demanded no answer.

You paused, your lips parting as your posture straightened.

"I... I do not know," you said, looking away. "It is.. something to... I do not want soldiers to see me smile. They think I am.. 'up to something'."

"Why would they think that?" He asked with a frown.

"I think it is my home, my clothes," you said.

"Where you're from," he mumbled, sighing as he shut his eyes. "I've never liked those damn soldiers. The only people who want to be my father's soldiers are the ones who will abuse the power, and those who abuse power are not good people."

"What do you say?" You asked, furrowing your brow.

"You've probably already realized this, but there's quite a lot of nationalism in Egypt. A lot of my people don't like foreigners," he explained. "It's a crude and primitive frame of thought. I'm sorry."

"It is not for you, to say sorry for," you said, meeting his eye as he turned to you, still lying flat on his back.

"I know," he grunted as he sat up. 

But I am the Prince. Can I claim that? 

"Here, though, there is nothing but us," he said.

He scooted closer to you, resting his palms on your knees.

"You don't need to do that anymore," he said. "I want to see you smile."

"I do not -"

His fingers crawled like spiders up your shirt, teasing your sensitive stomach with light brushes that brought you far too easily into cackling. You fell back, your hands subconsciously coming up to cover your mouth, much to his disappointment and amusement. He reached up, pinning your hands above you with one arm while the other continued to tickle up from your waist and onto your chest as you laughed helplessly.

You continued to writhe in his grasp, your smile wide and blushing as he sat on your hips, pinning you further to the ground. Your legs kicked against the floor, sometimes budging against Ahk's back. Ahk continued to grin at your laughing stupor.

"Stop! Stop!" You cried through the laughter, attempting to wriggle out of the hands pinning you down.

Tears blurred into the edges of your eyes and he finally ceased, leaning back with cheeks aching from his smile.

"And I'll do it again if you don't stop covering yourself up like that," he said, ever so slightly leaning in closer, till he hung over you like the sky.

Nothing but silence from you––the words couldn't form in your head or on your tongue, so you simply nodded, eyes flickering across his features. He fell into a similar silence, scanning your near vacant expression. Close enough to feel your breath.

Your gaze drifted upwards. A halo of stars glowing around him. Above you, pinning you down, as he had weeks or months ago––sneaking you across a river turned into sneaking you down a river, painted stars became the heavens, speaking of your laughter rather than the Gods and their stories. But your eyes remained the same, staring into one another, puzzled by your hesitance to part.

"We must sleep," you said softly, making no move to get up.

"Yeah," he said, and he appeared to be just as reluctant to move.

The fire crackled beside you, now burning through larger branches and leaves that emitted smoke high into the starlit sky. Dancing flames illuminated the dips and rises of his face, the long eyelashes surrounding cold, grey irises, and the curls of his growing hair nearly overtaking his eyes.

You dared not breathe.