#trying to figure out how to draw imogens scars

[themboification]

morning at Zhudanna's

[bjarkanart]

I'm kinda nervous about this but here we go. I've been trying to write a fanfic for a while now and it might be one of the weirdest crossovers out there but I hope you'll bear with me here. This would be a crossover between Critical Role and Death Stranding.

Now, I know Death Stranding isn't everyone's cup of tea but I really like the environment, the story and the overall vibe of the game really. And I thought what if Imogen was a porter, mostly so she could get away from everyone's thoughts back in the city? Explore the world as a porter and she'd meet Laudna and the rest of Bell's Hells along the way? And you know, just see where it goes?

But yeah, I thought I'd share the intro here cause I feel like I can't trust my own judgment on this anymore since I've spent so long rereading and rewriting parts over and over again and I know it's not a good thing. I think I'm approaching writing like I approach drawing but where I'd kind of skip the draft part of writing and jump right to the details like some people, myself included, would sometimes skip the sketch part where it can be real messy and it doesn't have to be perfect on the first try but you just go straight for the details and make your life harder in the process.

Anyway, here's the intro, I hope it's not as bad as I think. Let me know what you think!

Also, the lyrics are from the ost if you're not familiar with the game.

________________________

'See the sunset

The day is ending

Let that yawn out

There’s no pretending…’

Is someone's singin'?

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the voice sounded so distant, and the words were so hard to make out at first, the voice might as well be humming. It was like shouting in the main hall of a distribution centre, but Imogen recognised the melody. The notes echoed through her mind like a bullet ricocheting off the walls of an empty hangar as her brain tried to make sense of the jumble of words.

Imogen couldn't tell where she was. The room she was in was silent, save for the melody she could hear from time to time in her rare bouts of consciousness.

The voice was comforting in its rasp. It had a warmth to it that both made her want to drift off to sleep again and wake up to properly listen to it and praise the person looking after her. It sounded so sweet; Imogen could swear she tasted the slightest hint of honey on her tongue for a second…

Being a porter, Imogen’s had her fair share of accidents on the job. They were inevitable but nothing she couldn't handle as she would usually sleep it off and be on her way the following day, like nothing happened. 

She could tell this one must have been… something, if her current state was any indicator. 

And while waking up with no recollection of what happened to her was unnerving and confusing at first, she was taken aback by the lack of nightmares and felt a small form of relief at not waking up with a start for once.

As reality hit her, she couldn't remember ever feeling this awful in her life.

Her legs and feet ached in a way that made it nearly impossible to move them, her back was unbearably stiff, and she could feel pins and needles in her fingers where her red and purple lightning-like scars started and extended past her elbows, the marks prickling under her skin. Her face started to feel warm, uncomfortably so.

Imogen felt a presence next to her, a cold hand resting gently on her forehead and a thumb brushing softly over her brow, cooling her skin and calming her down.

Shh… You’re okay darling. Go back to sleep, you’re safe.

It was that voice again. Almost a whisper in her mind. Like the softest breeze through her hair or a soothing balm on a bruise.  Like a soft melody lulling her to sleep.

Curiously, as though the voice held all the answers in the world, as though it was the voice of reason, Imogen felt compelled to listen to it.

She felt... safe.

So, after trying for a while to figure out what happened to her and how she got here, wherever that was, realising she was indeed still too tired to even think about trying to move, Imogen surrendered to exhaustion, falling into another dreamless slumber.

***

Imogen could faintly hear the commotion going on around her as the dust settled around her after collapsing to the ground. She heard rushed footsteps coming towards her and someone calling her name. One voice quickly turned into multiple panicked voices shouting, giving directions and telling her to stay awake, all at the same time. She couldn’t make sense of it all and the young porter was exhausted, the world was spinning around her. She was shaking and could barely feel her legs and her arms seemed too heavy for her to lift. 

She didn’t even know if she was cold or hot and if her heart was racing or beating a lot slower than it should. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Everything was a blur. Everything hurt. 

She couldn’t comprehend any of the words coming out of those people’s mouths anymore. 

She was adrift. Lost in a sea of sounds her brain just wouldn’t register as she tried in vain to collect herself.

She'd had enough voices in her head when she was still stuck in the city. Why couldn't she ever get some peace and quiet?

Her body was begging for some well-deserved rest, a searing pain settling above her left eye, throbbing and making her nauseous as the overcast sky above her burned her eyes when she tried to open them, and the world kept spinning and spinning endlessly.

Voices kept calling to her, still telling her to stay awake. 

Make it stop… she heard herself whine faintly.

So, against better judgement, not caring what she was told, she closed her eyes, shutting out the blurry figures hurrying about, the hands shaking her shoulders and lightly tapping her cheeks to keep her alert. The shouting, the urgency, the pleading... 

Then everything went quiet. 

Then darkness. 

'I will hold you

And protect you

So, let love warm you

Till the morning… ‘

________________________

And there you go!

Again, please let me know what you think, I'd be happy to have some feedback even if it's only the introduction. I have more written for it but I'm still figuring out if I want this to be a one-shot or a few chapters long, it'll depend on how much I write if I get enough motivation for it, I guess.

Oh and if I ever post this, I named myself Snappy-Twig on Ao3, I just love that codename so much, I coulnd't not use it 😂

[masterqwertster]

12. “Did something happen to you that I don’t know about?” and 20. “Would you feel more comfortable talking about it if I turned around?” for Ashton and whoever you want?

I'm feeling 20 "Would you feel more comfortable talking about it if I turned around?" with the second character being Prism. Prism is just a curious little girl, and Ashton's got some very unique scars that just speak to the prompt of explaining (possibly) without being seen. Prompt

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Prism nervously asks. "I mean, I don't even have to look. I can turn around and you can just talk about it. You don't have to show me-"

"Hey, you offered to do research into similar shit. Isn't it going to be easier to tell if what you've found matters if you've had a good look?" Ashton counters, continuing to undo the buckles of their vest.

"I- Well, probably. But I don't..."

It takes a moment for Ashton to parse out the unspoken problem, but once they do, they laugh.

Body shy isn't something Ashton's been in a long, long time. Getting raised in an orphanage in the desert where water for washing is a limited commodity does that to a person. It was either let the teasing get to him, or ignore it to spite them, and spiting his detractors was just so much more satisfying. That or punching them.

And fuck, Ashton looks good, in their own opinion. They've got the muscle from their work on display, the beer gut they're coming into isn't more than padding on their stomach yet (and it's not like they'd have the smut novel six-pack anyways. They're not Orym, working out every fucking day), and despite the pain they cause, the gold looks beautiful against their jade skin. They've got a figure worth showing off.

"Oh. I didn't realize it was quite so... extensive," Prism comments once Ashton has removed his vest.

Ashton looks down at the gold that spiderwebs from the impact points on his head, shoulder, and hip. The clear radial lines from those points. How the cracks stretch across his collarbone, his waist, almost making complete loops in a couple places.

He shrugs, watching the light glitter across the shifting gold, "I hit the ground pretty fucking hard."

"...Um, may I?" Prism gently asks, a long-fingered hand outstretched towards his arm.

"...Sure," Ashton agrees after a moment's consideration. They absolutely fucking hate being touched by strangers, but Prism's scooched her way out of that category pretty quickly. And like they said, she'll have an easier time sorting out the good stuff from her research the more she knows about what she's looking for.

Prism's touch is light, and he's not sure if that's because she's a wimpy wizard who can't put a lot of force behind anything that's not magic, or if it's because she's trying to be gentle. Still, she traces the lines branching out from his shoulder with the same dedication with which she'd copied down the Judicator's tattoos.

"I don't think I sense anything magical about the gold. At least, not anything that isn't your general elemental-ness," Prism declares, gesturing to their whole rocky self as she takes a step back to give Ashton space.

Ashton nods. That's about what he expected. Though he still holds some hope she might come up with some information about other earth genasi being patched up in a similar way or something.

"And can I-?" Prism pops up on her toes and cranes her neck a little bit.

"Yup. Just... don't poke it too hard with magic? Imogen and Grass nearly got stuck in there or some shit last time, so, y'know, be fucking careful," Ashton warns as they crouch a bit to allow the shorter elf a clear view.

He does his best to keep an eye on Prism as she investigates the glass, but it's kind of fucking hard when he can't turn his head and his left eye is pretty shitty. He thinks he sees a hand reach up, but if Prism is touching the glass, she's using a fucking light touch that doesn't even give him any pressure feedback.

"Oh wow," Prism whispers after a while, drawing back once more. "That's definitely some powerful magic. Not that I didn't know that before, having seen you use it in all those fights and all. But wow. I've never felt anything like it."

"Yeah. That kind of seems to be the running theme with anyone I ask about it," Ashton agrees, standing up and stretching a bit. "You also might try looking for 'dunamis.' Didn't get much of an explanation about it, but it sure as fuck sounded like the sort of shit I do because of this."

"Okay. Dun-a-mis," Prism sounds out, taking a note. "You wouldn't happen to know how it's spelled?"

Ashton shakes their head.

"Alright. Guess I'll just keep an eye out for different spellings. And if I find anything, I'll definitely let you know."

"Thanks. And be careful, okay? Crime is fun, but only so long as you don't get caught."

[sociallyawkwardfoxwriter]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Major Character Death Category: M/M Fandoms: Critical Role (Web Series),Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse) Relationships: Orym/Dorian Storm, Leon S. Kennedy/Chris Redfield Characters: Orym (Critical Role), Dorian Storm, Leon S. Kennedy, Chris Redfield, Rebecca Chambers, Imogen Temult, Ashton Greymoore, Cyrus Wyvernwind, Piers Nivans, Laudna (Critical Role), Fearne Calloway Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Nightmares, Burns, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Orym’s Dead Spouse (Critical Role), Sobbing, Human Experimentation, Stitches, drugged, Hospitals, Injury Recovery, Chronic Pain, Scars, Strangulation, Panic, Mind Control, Dissociation, Depression

Day Twenty-Eight. Presumed Dead

He felt numb. He had felt numb for weeks now. The kind of numbness that left him overly aware of it, while simultaneously being unable to do anything about it. It invaded every inch of him to the point that he didn't know how to try weeding it out. The last time he felt that way he hoped it would never happen again. It took years to feel like himself again.

“Hi, Orym. I thought I'd come sit with you. Is that okay?” Without looking up at Fearne, Orym motioned for her to take the empty spot next to him by the fire. “It's a little chilly out tonight. Don't you think?”

“Yeah.”

“You know we miss him, too. I miss him. It's so quiet without him. I'm still not used to the music being gone, but I know it hurt you the most. It's hard to see you wilting like this.”

“I'm trying.”

“I know. You don't have to do it alone. We want to help.”

“I don't know how you can. It was hard enough the first time. Why does this keep happening?”

Arms wrapped around his body to draw him into the all-encompassing warmth of Fearne's side in a tight hug. Even though he wanted to cry-to scream out all the pain festering in him, they refused to come. Instead, he fisted his hands in the fabric of Fearne's dress to draw himself as close to her as possible. He clung to her like a lifeline that he couldn't let go for fear of finally plummeting deeper into the pain and the sorrow and the numbness.

His world narrowed down to the sound of their breathing and wind blowing stronger, then the sharp snap of a branch breaking underfoot. On instinct, he found himself on his feet with his sword and shield prepared for a fight from an unknown attacker. His eyes strained to see into the darkness of the forest beyond where their campfire illuminated. He listened closely for the sound of footsteps that would give them away again.

At the first outline of a shadowy figure, his fingers gripped his sword tighter, and he set his feet in preparation for an attack. The figure continued to slowly draw closer-their body moving jerkily with an obvious limp that had them favoring their left side. All the tension in his body at their approach turned to pure rigidity when they finally became visible in the light from the campfire.

There was no way what he saw could be anything more than an illusion or a disguise someone put on to trick them. Blood caked the side of his face and parts of his hair, dark bags under his eyes, his normally pristine clothes covered in mud and blood. He looked like Dorian after a tough battle or a long day spent trekking through dangerous locations, but he could be Dorian.

Dorian went over the edge. He fell where they couldn't go. They couldn't even hear the sound of something they dropped landing when they tested whether it would be safe to try. That thing sent him falling to his death, so it couldn't be him. It wasn't possible. He couldn't have survived the fall. They didn't leave him behind.

“Orym?” The exhaustion and roughness of the voice sounded exactly like he remembered, but it wasn't him. “Please tell me I'm not hallucinating. Please tell me this is real. I finally found you.”

Shaking knees buckled between one step and the next, sending them to the ground with a pained grunt. After a few struggling breathes, bright blue eyes looked up at Orym-pain and hurt shining in them. Part of Orym wanted nothing more than to and run from the ghost before him, but he stayed rooted to the spot. Sword and shield still raised for a fight.

“Orym, I could use some help. Please.”

“You died.”

“No.” Eyes flicked down to stare at the ground, like they were looking at a memory that only they could see. “No, I didn't.”

“You fell. There wasn't-You couldn't have lived.”

“It's me. Orym, I promise, it's me.”

“Fearne, wake Imogen.”

The dampened clomp of Fearne's hooves against the grass sounded behind him as she moved to wake the sleeping sorcerer. A mumbled conversation followed by rapid movement that would certainly wake the others preceded Imogen joining his side. Her hand squeezed his shoulder to draw away his attention just long enough for him to see her teary smile and nod.

Sword and shield slipped free from his hands in his hurry to reach Dorian as quickly as his legs could carry him. Dried leaves kicked up around him when he slid to a stop in front of Dorian with his hands already reaching out to take his face. His eyes closed at the first touch, and he leaned into Orym, so Dorian no longer held up his upper body's weight. He gladly bore the weight that had grown so familiar to him.

“You're alive.”

“Yes. It was close. Lucky I had these boots.” His eyes opened once again, and a small smile lightened his face. “Sorry it took so long to find you. Holes are the worst.”

“We should have stayed. We should have tried to go after you.”

“No, it would have been worse if more of us were down there. I'm so relieved to be back. I missed you.”

“So did I. We should get you taken care of. You're a mess and you're hurt.”

“It can wait a little longer.”

Dorian slump forward to pull Orym into a hug-head tucked against Orym's neck and hands fisting the back of his shirt. Even though he knew he should insist, considering the severity of his limp and the blood on his face, Orym gave into his desire to hold him tight. For the first time in months, he threaded his fingers through silky hair and pulled Dorian close. He fought back tears as he pressed a kiss to the top of Dorian's head, soaking in the moment with everything he had.

“As sweet as this is,” Imogen laid a comforting hand on his back that broke through the bubble. “we should get Dorian healed before you both get some sleep. Letters still has a little left. Let's get you to them, then some rest.”

“Thank you, Imogen.”

“You're welcome. We're all glad you're back.”

“Me too.”

[benmiff]

A Polite Conversation

This one comes in a couple of years after The Wedding.

The Thorned Lady

Keeley had been a good friend to me over the last couple of years, even if our friendship had started as a matter of professional respect for one another before it grew into something more significant. She was a fellow specialist at night work, and we had met when it had been deemed that a particular act of sabotage would need both our talents; there had been a theft of one of House Borado’s many secrets and we were chosen to go and destroy their copies before the thief could successfully make use of the arts they had pilfered. The job required my arcane knowledge to distort the stolen spells so they looked plausible so we could bring ruin to the thief when they tried to use them and Keeley’s mechanical talents to get into the Clockwork Vault where they had been safely locked away; the Vault was one of House Kalis’ newest architectural wonders at the time and until our raid believed to be impossible to subvert, but our superiors believed that she was their best chance at getting past the many defensive mechanisms. She didn’t know me as the Ivory Mask, of course – we kept that identity strictly separate from my night work and I had developed a persona around a mask of animate thorny tendrils that continued to hide my face while also serving as a weapon should things become problematic and violence become necessary. As the Thorned Lady, we had recognised each other’s talents and artfully complemented each other when the Clockwork Vault proved as perilous as had previously been claimed; the traps were bad enough, articulated arms conveyed by springs and gears to slice through the air and take off a limb, but once we had delved deep enough we soon had to evade several clockwork golems far smarter than any spell should have made that were able to work in tandem to try to corner us before taking us down. We pulled each other clear of what seemed to be certain death several times that night, and such life and death moments do not pass without a bond being formed. Such events did not go unrecognised when we reported back on the details of our little night raid either, and we were paired up somewhat frequently from then on as and when House Borado’s needs demanded; in time, our friendship grew to the point that we would meet for evening drinks and talks, sharing what we knew about recent events and generally catching up with each other, enjoying each other’s company whenever we met as some of the few people in House Borado who truly understood what our roles were like while indulging in the luxury or the view of whatever place we had commandeered for the evening.

We were due for another such meeting, having agreed to use the long abandoned bell chamber at the top of the old Champion’s Bell Tower on the Vasari estate; the tower had slowly passed into ruin when the families’ fortunes fell and they had to limit which holdings they bothered to maintain, focusing on the central estate with not a penny to spare for such a grandiose celebration of long past glories. It was my turn to bring the wine (red as always), and Telesforo kept a good cellar and had no objection to my taking a few of the decade or so aged bottles for such evenings. Scaling the bell tower was not too difficult, with the walls shaped into great reliefs of past Vasari greats that had won plaudits for their cultivation and discovery of great artists; time had taken its toll and the tower’s walls were now ruined and decaying with cracked stone and fallen bricks providing more than enough handholds to easily pick ones way up. The vines of my mask reached out and anchored themselves into deep crevices and around protruding stones to pull me up, and soon I had found a suitable path and climbed up to the top room. The old bell still hung in the ceiling above, heavy bronze cracked by the great hammer that hung within never to ring out again without some expensive repairs that the Vasari family would never likely be able to afford; old furniture in the best styles of several decades ago cast from brass and softened with now decaying cushions sat around the room on old dusty laminate flooring that was once lovingly oiled and maintained but now had grown old and even rotten in a couple of places. I tossed the cushions aside, perfectly content with a hard seat, and arrayed the glasses and bottles I had brought for the evening upon the small table on one of the balconies ready for Keeley’s arrival. From here, the view of Pelhure was spectacular, looking down upon the lamp lit harbour one way and up to the forested mountains and other private estates in the other, all lit by the silvery light from the night’s full moon, and as I watched I saw little vignettes occurring in the streets, arguing couples or someone sneaking through back alleys believing themselves unseen; little narratives sprung into my mind to amuse me, with the squabbling pair arguing about the husband’s infidelity as the sneak-thief who was his secret love slunk away, and it was in this way I passed the time as I waited.

I did not have to wait all that long, perhaps a quarter of an hour, perhaps a little more; the quiet sound of a metal jointed apparatus clicking as the ratchets tightened and released their gearwheels repeatedly came from behind me, and as I turned I saw Keeley throw herself over the railing of the balcony at the other side of the room and onto solid footing. She was quite thin despite her half orc heritage, favouring speed and wit and intelligence rather than the usual brawn typical of her kind, but her most distinctive feature was the mechanical gauntlet over her dominant hand that was a device of her own making, aiding her grip and providing any tools she might need for lock picking or other such tinkering; it was hardly needed for a friendly conversation, though, and as she approached she folded it away until it was little more than a thick bracer around the wrist, all the little tools and mechanical parts hidden away under a golden covering plate.

“I do hope you haven’t been waiting too long, dear,” she said, taking a seat by the table and tutting as she realised she had folded away all her tools without realising she still needed the corkscrew to open one of the bottles. Fortunately, it was one of the easier ones to get to, and she unfolded a little arm with the tight metal spiral at the end to open up a bottle before pouring a pair of generously full glasses.

“Not too long at all. Well, where shall we start? Salacious rumours?” A telling smile broke onto my face as I talked, or at least the half that could smile, the other side of my mouth frozen from ruined muscles under old scars. The thorny tendrils of my mask had receded to show my lower face so I could drink and talk more freely, and I had heard rumours of my own, some pleasant and some most certainly not; there was one topic in particular I was not looking forward to bringing up, but we could talk over pleasant subjects first and get what enjoyment we could from the evening before bringing an unsavoury end to things.

Keeley smiled back and waved a hand in the air, taking a sip from the wine glass to wet her lips before she spoke. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of those. I think the best one is the Duncombe’s, though; you know Imogen, their youngest? Seems she’s got quite the appetite since she’s come of age, leading on Tomlan of the Rawnsleys and Jacob of the Thorburns and Marcellin of the Loffners; can’t see what she sees in Jacob, mind, but the other two? They’re decent enough young men, but when they figure out what’s going on, well, things are going to turn spectacularly ugly. How about you, Thorn – anything good your side?”

I had to consider carefully what I was going to tell her; Keeley was an incorrigible gossip, and anything I said would no doubt be spread across half of Pelhure by the end of the week, no doubt distorted and embellished in fanciful ways as such things always were but with the core truth still running through all the versions for those who were inclined to look. That was useful sometimes and I had planted lies before to draw targets into the open, but I had no such need for that at the present time; everyone I was working on did not yet know I was coming and were still dangerously (for them) in public. That left me with rumours about those a little closer to home, and I had no real desire to slander most of them; while I knew things that if revealed would hurt them, they were better left unharmed if there was no real benefit to it. Still, I knew of a particularly insidious rumour floating around in hushed corners regarding someone distant enough from me that indulging Keeley’s joy in muckraking was worth more to me than their comfort, and I was sure that Keeley would not have heard about it yet; the rumour was part of the reason I had picked the Bell Tower for our meeting spot, knowing I could use it to further illustrate the story. “You know the Vasari’s, right? You found their tower without any trouble, so I would imagine so. Well, if you look over there,” I said, motioning at another tower across the estate that was ironclad and in much better condition than ours, “you’ll see the Vasari’s old prison tower. No-one’s seen Varek in a long time, right? It’s unusual for a patriarch to be missing for so long, no? Well, that’s because he’s locked away in those cells. Went mad, apparently, starting shouting in some unknown tongue at the moon and had to be sealed away for everyone’s good. Such a shame, really; the Vasari’s just don’t have the luck.”

“That does explain some things going around, actually,” Keeley replied, absorbing the information. I pressured her to explain what she meant, and she revealed there were whispers that the Vasari’s were pressing for marriages and generally trying to polish the reputation of some of their lesser sons and daughters, pushing to secure themselves before they were forced to announce the patriarch’s unfortunate retirement. We continued talking in this manner for a good couple of hours, trading tales and secrets, and soon enough four of the bottles were empty and we were uncorking the last bottle, a sign I could no longer avoid bringing up the subject I was trying to delay having to discuss; Keeley finished regaling me of the stolen treasures she had seen behind the glass of her last job in the Urviche’s private halls, and as the story came to an end I leant forward to speak with a lower and quieter voice, both for the threat in what we were about to discuss and from an instinctive feeling I should as though there might be a spy who could overhear or that our words might get carried to an enemy on the wind.

“I’ve heard a rumour about you, actually. Not a good one, either,” I said, and concern crossed Keeley’s face as I spoke. “Heard House Kalis had reached out to you, wanted you to shift allegiance.”

“You know I wouldn’t, right?” Keeley responded, hand on the table betraying her as the tension caused her to grip the edge tightly; clearly she knew I wouldn’t bring such things up unless I knew something more, something to give the rumours credibility and substance, and she didn’t want to give anything away until she knew the full extent of what I had found out.

“Not what I heard, Keeley. I understand, I do… love, right? Someone in House Kalis you’ve fallen for?” I asked; love was the most common reason for such foolishness, after all, even if Keeley didn’t seem the sort to be blinded by a nice rump or pretty eyes. “You have to know it won’t work. They’ll kill you, and they’ll kill whoever it is you’ve fallen for, and that’s if they’re feeling kind. There’s worse they can do. I know you haven’t done any of those kinds of job, which is fine, but I have, so trust me here. If you really do love them, you’d stay away from them.”

“No, that’s not it,” was all I got back, not a denial she was thinking of leaving, only that the reason was wrong. I had hoped that it was a false rumour, hoped that someone was merely trying to damage her reputation and that she’d deny it all outright and be able to explain it all away, but no such luck.

“So, it isn’t love. What, then? What could possibly be so important that it means risking all of this? Do you want to lose everything?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m handling it – you don’t need to get involved, Thorn,” she replied. Too late for me to stay out of things now, though; I knew and several others had enough suspicions that they were beginning to get involved, and so I needed to do something before they did. After all, even in the worst case scenario, I could be sure that my way would kinder than anything they had planned.

“Look, Keeley. I know something’s up – if you don’t tell me, then I can’t help you. And I’ll have to tell them; they probably know already, just waiting to see if I’m compromised too. I don’t really have a choice here.”

Keeley sighed deep and long, caught between two equally terrible options, the rock and the whirlpool. I saw her glancing at the open expenses of Pelhure off to the side of the table, probably thinking about whether she’d make it she just ran now, but she had to know I’d just hunt her down, and I like to think our history meant she thought she could trust me with whatever was going on.

“This doesn’t go any further than us, not even if it means they come for me, Thorn. You need to promise me that.”

“Of course. No further,” I lied; if I needed to, I wouldn’t keep it secret, and it wouldn’t be the first such broken promise either. Such things were the nature of night work, and Keeley should have known that, but she’d been compromised and wasn’t thinking straight.

Keeley took another deep breath in. “I’ve got a child. Had him before I got into this line of work – he’s eight now. He’s with the father – it’s safer for him there, and while the dad’s not much as things go he loves the kid. Well, House Kalis found out somehow, gave the father a job, paid way better than he deserves, and now they’re threatening an “accident” unless I go over to them. You know what House Borado is like – they’ll just kill the kid, remove the complication the easiest way they know how – so I can’t go to them, so I’m stuck. At least if I go over only I’m in danger, right?”

So, there it was. An idiot of a father, not realising the trap he’d dragged everyone into. “You have to know it won’t work out that way. Who’s the kid, anyway?”

“Meiran. Good kid, more of a brawler than me though. Takes after his father that way.”

“And where is Meiran now?”

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, now, Thorn, are you?”

“Of course not,” I lied, once more. There was only one way out of this I could see, but Keeley wasn’t going to be able to do it herself. She was too deep, too invested, and couldn’t do what needed to be done. “You know I can find him myself, anyway, if I need to. It’s better if you just tell me, though – less risk of collateral damage that way and all.”

I’d left her no choice, and she even though she was still scared and worried she relented. “They’re in the Marleton estate, but...”

“Marleton. Alright. You know, you should have told me earlier, but so be it. One last thing, though,” I replied, and the animate I had been carefully moving down to the floor without Keeley noticing during the whole conversation clicked into motion as I tapped it with a foot to activate it. It was a silvery metal thing, all sharp bladed legs around a small body, and up until now I did not know whether I was just going to hurt her or whether I would be forced to kill her. I was glad it was the first option, and that the situation was not so unrecoverable that the only solution was to kill anyone connected to it. I doubt she’d be pleased with either option, but messages had to be sent and it was only thanks to our friendship that I had been asked to resolve this particular matter personally rather than immediately resorting to more unsavoury means. The animate leapt into action, scuttling under the table and ripping into Keeley’s right foot, and she screamed as it tore into the tendons at the back of her heel; her mechanical bracer opened up as she moved to destroy the source of harm, forming the punching dagger she usually wielded on our missions and stabbing through the animate before throwing it off the tower. It was destroyed in a single strike, returned to little more than crushed metal even before it went over the tower’s edge, but it had done what I needed it to now her foot was a shredded bloody ruin.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry, Keeley, but they already knew. It’s only our friendship that saved you – they let me take care of things rather than go full bore. Your foot will mend, eventually, but until then, well – this stops you entertaining any ideas about fleeing. As to Meiran… well, that does need to be taken care of. I’ll get him, bring him back, but the father, well, he’ll have to die. He sounds pretty worthless anyway. I’ve seen you get back from a mission before now with worse injuries, and I don’t think it would be good for me to get too close to you until I’ve got Meiran in tow and you’ve had a chance to realize how lucky you are this is all I have to do to you. Goodbye – I do hope you’re not going to hold this against me, but I’ll understand if you do.” With that, I got up and looked over Pelhure again, spotting the Marleton estate off in the distance and releasing the animate bird from my ruined eye socket to scout ahead. I’d have the kid soon, and then we’d go from there.

“Thorn! Thorn,” I heard as I got ready to climb back down the tower, the bird flying off ahead. Keeley was leaning against one of the Bell Tower pillars, keeping the weight off her ruined foot, teeth gritted against the pain and trying not to show it. “Just… just make it quick for him, okay. And don’t let Meiran see – I don’t want him tangled up in any of this.”

“He won’t see a thing,” I replied, and headed out, a busy night’s work now stretching out in front of me. I just had to hope that getting the kid wasn’t going to be too difficult – I hoped that I could keep that promise.

[galatur]

trans ask game: 1, 7, 15, 20, 25, 27, 30, 34 & 44!

1. How did you choose your name?

The name I’m using right now is a variant of my old name. It’s also a nickname that my friends and partners have always used for me. I like that because part of transition for me has been nurturing the more tender parts of myself, and it’s nice to be known publicly by a name that I associate with loving/being loved. (It’s also surprisingly convenient to keep the same initials.)

I’m not 100% sure I’ll keep this name. I got my parents to tell me some girl names that they had thought of for me and they’re actually pretty good. But right now I’m thinking that if I ever do name change paperwork, I might take one of those as a middle name.

7. What is your favorite part of being transgender?

There’s a lot that’s great tbh. Living as both genders, seeing how different interactions with people can be (and how they change as you change) feels like getting to lift the cover on a lot of secrets about society. Also, at least for me the process of transition required a lot of self introspection and honesty. I am definitely a much more self-aware and emotionally available person now than I was before. (Not to mention way happier lol)

Also, I don’t know if this is what the question is supposed to mean, but I also think a lot about how being trans has made my experience of womanhood different from a lot of others. By transitioning a little later in life I missed a lot of the direct forms of misogyny that teenage girls endure. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I am just about the only woman my age I know who is not on antidepressants, suffering from PTSD, or having a fucked up relationship to food. It sucks that that is the case, obviously. But just realistically I think I would bear some of those scars if I had come to where I am today as a cis woman.

15. What labels have you used before you’ve settled on your current set?

None, really. Maybe it’s because I repressed things for a long time but when I was ready to face them it was pretty clear to me who I wanted to be. But I’m also pretty skeptical of labels in general. Even “trans” as a label or identity - I’m fine with it because we don’t have a better way to talk about that. But I think a lot about how it can conceal more than it reveals about lived experiences and identities. “Woman” is a label that I’m happy with even though I’m not sure gender identity is real ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

20. What do you wish you could have shared with your younger self about being trans?

1) these feelings won’t go away 2) informed consent is a thing 3) modern HRT is super easy and really successful for most people.

Could have saved so much time and anguish if I had known all of that sooner.

25. What do you wish cis people understood?

My utopian program (totally a joke btw unless someone wants to help me build a revolutionary organization with this goal in which case send me a message): I think everyone in society should spend at least one year on each set of sex hormones and presenting as the corresponding gender. Not only would we discover that way more people than currently would prefer to stick with the hormones other than what their body naturally produces, but it would also help everyone understand how much of what they take for granted about human nature, gender, social roles, etc. is actually very contingent and changeable. I think we would be a much healthier society after that.

But really I guess I’m pessimistic because I think as things stand now, cis people are never going to understand us very well. 

27. What do you do to validate yourself?

Tumblr has so thoroughly fucked up this word for me, I have no idea what this even means tbh. I guess I feel pretty solid already about my right to exist as myself in the world. But I’m also probably lucky that I can “pass” pretty easily when I make an effort to do so, so maybe this doesn’t hit me as hard as it does some other people. Also “passing” is a fucked up goal anyway so…

30. Who is the transgender person who has influenced you the most?

Definitely my friends and my most recent ex. Just seeing them live their lives, during and after transition, and also talking about stuff with them was very helpful for me to envision my own transition and what my life could be like after.

Among public figures, the people I have connected with the most or learned the most from are trans women who have helped show how that identity can exist in a way that is not defined by or always associated with feminine performance. Seeing concretely how trans femininity does not have to be pink and frilly all the time (while also appreciating that as a great way to be for women who like it) has been really important for me. So in different ways I’d say Julia Serano, Imogen Binnie and Laura Jane Grace. (Also one of my goals for this year is to learn more about the experiences of Black trans women and other trans women of color, so ask me again in six months.)

34. What advice would you give to other trans people, or what message would you like to share with them?

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum, we’re going to win. Also, let’s learn how to rely on and support each other. When push comes to shove, we ourselves are the only community that we can really rely on.

44. Free space! Answer any question you want, or make up your own question to answer.

I’d like to write something here about the theoretical vacuum that is really demanding attention, which is analyzing trans lives and identities from a materialist and revolutionary point of view. I think that analysis could draw together some insights from Harry Hay’s materialist analysis and practice of gay identities and insights from gender theory including some ideas from Wittig, Butler and Serano and really explore trans experiences in the context of political economy, particularly production and social reproduction. But now I’m late for work so I’ll just leave it sketched out there at that rough level and maybe try to return to the topic again later. 

Special message to tumblr: FUCK YOU I wrote out replies to all of these and the post just goofed and disappeared when I tried to publish it. So I had to write them all out again. I can’t wait until Yahoo finishes driving this site into the ground.

[viralhottopics]

Exclusive: Bestselling author E. Lockhart to publish a new YA novel

Image: delacorte press

Bestselling author E. Lockhart has a new YA novel hitting shelves this fall.

SEE ALSO: Read an exclusive excerpt of Jeff Zentner’s upcoming ‘Goodbye Days’

Announced today, Lockhart’s Genuine Fraud will be released Sept. 5 by Delacorte Press, and imprint of Random House Children’s Books.

Edgy and inventive, Genuine Fraud is an instantly memorable story of love, betrayal and entangled relationships that are not what they seem. Lockhart introduces readers to the story of Imogen and JuleImogen, a runaway heiress, an orphan, a cook and a cheat; Jule, a fighter, a social chameleon and an athlete. This is a novel about intense friendship, a disappearance, murder, bad romance, a girl who refuses to give people what they want from her and a girl who refuses to be the person she once was. Who is genuine? And who is a fraud? You be the judge.

Lockhart is a staple in the YA world, and she’s perhaps best known for her haunting We Were Liars, a deluxe edition of which will be published this May.

MashReads spoke to Lockhart about Genuine Fraud, her career, and her advice for 2017. Then read on for an exclusive excerpt of her upcoming novel.

When did you first know you wanted to be a writer?

I read Joan Aikens The Wolves of Willoughby Chase in third or fourth grade and immediately began writing novels about Victorian orphanages, windswept landscapes and cool uniforms.

What draws you to writing YA books?

In young adulthood, people separate from the values and embraces of their families of origin and begin to define themselves as individuals. That process of separation and self-reinvention is extremely interesting to me. Genuine Fraud is very much a YA novel, even though it doesnt take place in high school.

Is your writing process different depending on the genre youre writing?

Genuine Fraud is a psychological thriller, and the only other such book I have written is We Were Liars. All my other books are comedies! The thrillers have intricate plots that require more planning.

Genuine Fraud sounds a bit like an oxymoron. Do you have a favorite oxymoron?

Film producer Samuel Goldwyn is often quoted as saying, I never liked you, and I always will. My new novel is in something of the same spirit.

Genuine Fraud is another suspense novel, like your emotional bestseller We Were Liars. Can you give a hint as to the emotions readers are likely to have?

Both books have twisty plots, but with Genuine Fraud youre unlikely to need a tissue. Rather, I recommend Rolaids and seltzeryoull want a strong stomach.

Youre known for writing incredibly strong and complex female characters, particularly Frankie Landau-Banks, who is seen by many as a feminist icon. The women in Genuine Fraud seem to be in a similar vein. Do you feel you have a responsibility as a YA writer?

Thank you. I am a feminist, most certainly, but my responsibility as a novelist is not to provide role models. My responsibility is to try to write something that feels true to me on some emotional and intellectual level. I write to make a piece of narrative art that represents the inside of my head. I hope that if I have done so well enough, people will respond to it.

As its a new year, what is your advice for your readers for 2017, both for life and for aspiring writers?

Raise your voice. Its an everyday practice. As a writer, as an activist, as a friend and colleague, student or teacherraise your voice in protest, in apology, in curiosity, in praise, in self-expression.

What were some of your favorite books of 2016?

I read a lot of travel stories and novels written in the nineteenth century. I read cookbooks and middle-grade fiction and comic essays. But Genuine Fraud is a complicated portrait of an extremely difficult person, and a twisty thriller as welland here are two 2016 books I read while I was revising it that fit that same description and are incredibly juicy: Girls on Fire by Robin Wasserman is an adult novel about young women behaving more than badly, raw and gorgeous. My Sister Rosa by Justine Larbalestier is a YA novel about a boy whose younger sister is a psychopathchilling and thought-provoking.

Image: Delacorte press

It was a bloody great hotel.

The minibar in Jules room stocked potato chips and four different chocolate bars. The bathtub had bubble jets. There was an endless supply of fat towels and liquid gardenia soap. In the lobby, an elderly gentleman played Gershwin on a grand piano at four each afternoon. You could get hot clay skin treatments, if you didnt mind strangers touching you. Jules skin smelled like chlorine all day.

The Playa Grande Resort in Baja had white curtains, white tile, white carpets, and explosions of lush white flowers. The staff members were nurselike in their white cotton garments. Jule had been alone at the hotel for nearly four weeks now. She was eighteen years old.

This morning, she was running in the Playa Grande gym. She wore custom sea-green shoes with navy laces. She ran without music. She had been doing intervals for nearly an hour when a woman stepped onto the treadmill next to her.

This woman was younger than thirty. Her black hair was in a tight ponytail, slicked with hair spray. She had big arms and a solid torso, light brown skin, and a dusting of powdery blush on her cheeks. Her shoes were down at the heels and spattered with old mud.

No one else was in the gym.

Jule slowed to a walk, figuring to leave in a minute. She liked privacy, and she was pretty much done, anyway.

You training? the woman asked. She gestured at Jules digital readout. Like, for a marathon or something? The accent was Mexican American. She was probably a New Yorker raised in a Spanish-speaking neighborhood.

I ran track in secondary school. Thats all. Jules own speech was clipped, what the British call BBC English.

The woman gave her a penetrating look. I like your accent, she said. Where you from?

London. St. Johns Wood.

New York. The woman pointed to herself.

Jule stepped off the treadmill to stretch her quads.

Im here alone, the woman confided after a moment. Got in last night. I booked this hotel at the last minute. You been here long?

Its never long enough, said Jule, at a place like this. So what do you recommend? At the Playa Grande? Jule didnt often talk to other hotel guests, but she saw no harm in answering. Go on the snorkel tour, she said. I saw a bloody huge moray eel.

No kidding. An eel?

The guide tempted it with fish guts he had in a plastic milk jug. The eel swam out from the rocks. She must have been eight feet long. Bright green.

The woman shivered. I dont like eels.

You could skip it. If you scare easy.

The woman laughed. Hows the food? I didnt eat yet.

Get the chocolate cake.

For breakfast?

Oh, yeah. Theyll bring it to you special, if you ask.

Good to know. You traveling alone?

Listen, Im gonna jet, said Jule, feeling the conversation had turned personal. Cheerio. She headed for the door.

My dads crazy sick, the woman said, talking to Jules back. Ive been looking after him for a long time. A stab of sympathy. Jule stopped and turned.

Every morning and every night after work, Im with him, the woman went on. Now hes finally stable, and I wanted to get away so badly I didnt think about the price tag. Im blowing a lot of cash here I shouldnt blow.

Whats your father got?

MS, said the woman. Multiple sclerosis? And dementia. He used to be the head of our family. Very macho. Strong in all his opinions. Now hes a twisted body in a bed. He doesnt even know where he is half the time. Hes, like, asking me if Im the waitress.

Damn.

Im scared Im gonna lose him and I hate being with him, both at the same time. And when hes dead and Im an orphan, I know Im going to be sorry I took this trip away from him, dyou know? The woman stopped running and put her feet on either side of the treadmill. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Sorry. Too much information.

Sokay.

You go on. Go shower or whatever. Maybe Ill see you around later.

The woman pushed up the arms of her long-sleeved shirt and turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A scar wound down her right forearm, jagged, like from a knife, not clean like from an operation. There was a story there.

Listen, do you like to play trivia? Jule asked, against her better judgment.

A smile. White but crooked teeth. Im excellent at trivia, actually.

They run it every other night in the lounge downstairs, said Jule. Its pretty much rubbish. You wanna go?

What kind of rubbish?

Good rubbish. Silly and loud.

Okay. Yeah, all right.

Good, said Jule. Well kill it. Youll be glad you took a vacation. Im strong on superheroes, spy movies, YouTubers, fitness, money, makeup, and Victorian writers. What about you?

Victorian writers? Like Dickens?

Yeah, whatever. Jule felt her face flush. It suddenly seemed an odd set of things to be interested in.

I love Dickens.

Get out.

I do. The woman smiled again. Im good on Dickens, cooking, current events, politics… lets see, oh, and cats.

All right, then, said Jule. It starts at eight oclock in that lounge off the main lobby. The bar with sofas.

Eight oclock. Youre on. The woman walked over and extended her hand. Whats your name again? Im Noa.

Jule shook it. I didnt tell you my name, she said. But its Imogen.

Jule West Williams was nice-enough-looking. She hardly ever got labeled ugly, nor was she commonly labeled hot. She was short, only five foot one, and carried herself with an up-tilted chin. Her hair was in a gamine cut, streaked blond in a salon and currently showing dark roots. Green eyes, white skin, light freckles. In most of her clothes, you couldnt see the strength of her frame. Jule had muscles that puffed off her bones in powerful arcslike shed been drawn by a comic book artist, especially in the legs. There was a hard panel of abdominal muscle under a layer of fat in her midsection. She liked to eat meat and salt and chocolate and grease.

Jule believed that the more you sweat in practice, the less you bleed in battle.

She believed that the best way to avoid having your heart broken was to pretend you dont have one.

She believed that the way you speak is often more important than anything you have to say.

She also believed in action movies, weight training, the power of makeup, memorization, equal rights, and the idea that YouTube videos can teach you a million things you wont learn in college.

If she trusted you, Jule would tell you she went to Stanford for a year on a track-and-field scholarship. I got recruited, she explained to people she liked. Stanford is Division One. The school gave me money for tuition, books, all that.

What happened?

Jule might shrug. I wanted to study Victorian literature and sociology, but the head coach was a perv, shed say. Touching all the girls. When he got around to me, I kicked him where it counts and told everybody who would listen. Professors, students, the Stanford Daily. I shouted it to the top of the stupid ivory tower, but you know what happens to athletes who tell tales on their coaches.

Excerpt copyright 2017 by E. Lockhart. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Read more: http://on.mash.to/2jOItND

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