#two raven posts in the same day? this is practically unheard of

[benjaminrydersnest]

It was broken. It had been broken for quite a few days now. The worst part was not the pain. Sure, he had soon come to regret it when its shards embedded themselves in his knuckles. The hospital visit later had been as embarrassing as it had been painful. Later, though, he had realized how necessary it was… Much like the action itself.  When he lived with the other children in The Yard, he never had the luxury of his own room. The few times he was alone, it was in a solitary room, shut off from everything else. Every other waking hour, including bathroom time, was monitored by The Wardens, as the children called them. Those rooms… Those secluded and hidden safety chambers, they were never his. To have his own room, his own home, was a gift he never imagined he’d have. So when the mirror arrived… for the first time in his entire life, he saw reflected something he had never seen before. It was a small boy, with worn mayflower yellow eyes, a thicket of hair covering his forehead.  A certain feeling sparked, in the corner of his eye, burning and painful, yet, much like the hospital visit, necessary. What he saw reflected now… was a bit different. He saw a little boy, pale and green, with the same eyes, thicker hair, but… a boy that was damaged. A boy that was scarred, a boy that was, at the moment, softly sobbing. The very same little boy that, all that time ago, had never, ever been able to stand up to the rest of the kids in The Yard.  A small inhale, barely enough to steady him. It had felt wrong, ultimately. He understood, really, why the other “little boy” was that way… Innocence, weakness… happiness. He wasn’t yet forged by something that, really, no one should have to be subject to. More and more, as he saw him getting bullied, verbally and physically, he felt a strong desire to protect that little boy. Because that little boy was him, ultimately. What he had been, anyway. And he would never, ever let anyone else be hurt- not in the way he was hurt. “The Bully Code-” an arbitrary set of rules, imposed for no reason, unfair to everyone not in a position of power. Ironically, though, it often worked against them, because, to have power… was to be one of the weakest in The Yard, though he would only realize that much, much later.  The little boy he saw in the fragments gave him a horribly, horribly familiar feeling. The kind of feeling that called him… called him to fix that little boy. To put him back together, and to make sure he did not suffer- not again, anyway. It was, ultimately, a matter of selfishness. He had been molded by The Yard, but the person those children made him, it wasn’t him. The boy reflected now… and the boy he wanted to protect… They really weren’t so different. In the end, the boy reflected in this broken mirror was more him than he’d ever been in his sixteen years of life. So, really, it made sense that the carpet below was progressively getting wetter as his entire frame shook. It made sense, on that day, why that “little boy” had meant so much in that moment. An exhale follows a sob, carrying an air of finality. He looks away from the mirror, turning around. He didn’t care anymore if he was “weak…” all that mattered- all that mattered, at this point, was doing what his mother had told him, all that time ago:  “Follow your heart… one step at a time.”  When again Darren glances back at his reflection, his eyes flash a bright blue, just for a moment. 

[venusofthehardsells]

No Rest for the Wicked [Dea ex Machina part one]

John ConstantinexAngel!Reader Summary: You travel to a remote island to put a murderous spirit to rest, but things get complicated when you run into one John Constantine. Warnings: swearing, mentions of mental illness, blood, smoking, ghosts, pining, is slowburn a warning? A/N: My first Constantine fic on tumblr, yay! This was originally written for a challenge aaages ago, but it got away from me and I couldn’t meet the deadline. I had so much fun with this though, Constantine is a great character to write for! There will definitely be more stories about him and this particular angelic reader in the future ♥

I’ve mixed elements from both the Vertigo comics and the NBC TV series, as well as from the general DC Universe, so don’t expect accuracy when it comes to canon. A special thanks to @nellblazer​​ for support and linguistic aid, you’re the best! ♥ Let me know what you think and if you want to be tagged ~

Contrary to common belief, there had never actually been any ravens on Raven’s Rock. The tiny, windswept fleck of land in the North Sea had been named a few hundred years ago by a fool of a sailor, who hadn’t been able to tell a raven from a severely lost and consequently very confused Scandinavian pigeon. Said sailor had regrettably also been of some importance in his homeland at the time, meaning no one had bothered to correct the unfortunate mistake for fear of losing a head. Even though everyone who since came upon the island only ever managed to find gulls and puffins and various other seabirds, it had still kept its misleading English name.

The Celts, who by rights had been on the island long before the British, had chosen to play it safe and completely forego the bird names (although it had been suggested several times in later centuries to change it to the Gaelic word for seagull, or even pigeon, as a taunt). Instead, they had most likely looked to the ancient ruins that specked the island, jutting up from the rocks like broken teeth and, all things considered, had endured well beyond memory and history and legend. Or perhaps they had still been reeling from the mad determination that had brought them and their wooden ships so far from home. Whichever the case, they had called the stubborn, little rock Innis Seasmhach, “the steadfast island”.

That was its official name to this day, though most people, especially those who didn’t speak Gaelic (which in all fairness are not very many), still referred to it as Raven’s Rock.

The locals shrugged and simply called it “the island”.

There was only one village on the entire island, whose population on a good day might reach a hundred and thirty people. That usually only happened a few times during summer when the ferries from Stavanger and Aberdeen docked at the same time. The tourists came to see the ruins, buy a souvenir fridge magnet of a raven or a puffin, complain about the frightfully bleak weather and leave again on one of the ferries that departed before evenfall, secretly happy they didn’t have to spend any more time on the island.

On the day you arrived, the population on the isle of Raven’s Rock, was an astounding one hundred and forty four, which was quite unheard of in the middle of October.

What was even more unheard of, however, was the reason for all these untimely appearances.

A night ago, a pair of fishermen had discovered the body of a man in a small, secluded cove on the north side of the island. The body was placed so that it could only be seen from sea, unless one were to venture down a rocky and extremely narrow trail into the cove itself. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone slipping and ending up on the stony beach below. That kind of unfortunate death was of course tragic, but it hardly warranted the wide array of policemen and journalists the death had attracted. No, the reason for the sudden interest was the gruesome way the body had been displayed.

The dead man had been stripped bare and splayed out on the rocks like a cross with his arms stretched away from his torso. His skin was almost completely covered in symbols and writing no one could make sense of, though one expert, when consulted by the mystified and slightly desperate police, vaguely suggested it was possibly a rare pre-Arthurian dialect.

The more macabre specifics had so far been kept out of the press.

One was that the writings on the body had been done in blood, the corpse’s own, and another was that it came from where the head had been crudely severed from the rest of the flesh and spiked close by on a piece of driftwood.

Even hypnotised, the young sergeant who had told you, had looked slightly green when he related the information. You had padded him sympathetically on the shoulder before moving on. He wouldn’t remember revealing the details to you, but the information itself was seared into his mind forever.

His, along with the rest of the islanders’, you mused as you continued from the harbour and on into the village.

The locals called it “town”, but in truth it wasn’t really big enough to warrant that title.

It had one store that sold a little bit of everything depending on the weather, a church, a pub, a repair shop (it wasn’t specified what exactly you could get repaired there) and a public building, functioning as city hall, police station, post office, library and school in one. All the police reinforcements from Aberdeen had been moved into the city hall, seeing as the only two policemen permanently stationed on the island had never handled a murder case before. Meanwhile, the reporters and TV crews covering the case were taking up the pub’s five tiny bedrooms, both B&Bs and every single rental cottage Raven’s Rock could boast (nine in total if you counted the back room in the garage of the repair shop). Because you had left for the airport in a hurry and jumped onto the first plane to Norway, you hadn’t had time to secure a place to sleep on the island. You had pondered it on the ferry, but when it came down to it, you didn’t want to stick around longer than a day. If you worked fast, you could probably be on your way back to the mainland in the morning and wouldn’t need to worry about finding a bed. You had spotted a bench down by the harbour; it would have to do.

Besides, you didn’t have any time to waste as long as the murder case was unsolved. You could still hear Madame Xanadu’s words in your head like some annoying ominous echo.

A restless darkness will carry its evil across the water to be unleashed upon the twice-named rocks. The steadfast land will drink the blood of the laughing magician.

Fate was a menace when you had to deal with it like this, grounded and fumbling through the world with nothing but scraps to guide you. Not like in the old days when you had all of Heaven at your disposal… Being a proper angel had really had its advantages. You scoffed and walked faster. At least this prophecy had been pretty straightforward, which was far from what you were usually given to work with, you thought sourly, folding your arms around yourself against the wind.

A malevolent spirit that should have passed on, but hadn’t was easy enough to figure out; it happened all the time and you could deal with that. The location of the spirit had also been a walk in the park with so many hints to go on.

What really worried you was the second part of Madame Xanadu’s little mystic insight.

The steadfast land will drink the blood of the laughing magician.

Blood drinking was never a good omen in prophecies. It hardly ever meant vampires, usually just death. And the laughing magician, well, that one was always the same. The reason Madame Xanadu had called upon you to restore the balance in this place.

John Constantine.

Whenever one of her foresights indicated that the blonde warlock was walking into something he couldn’t handle himself, she sent you after him or, in this case, ahead to clear his path for him. Most times, he didn’t even know you had been there and you preferred it that way.

Like now.

The last you had heard of John was that he was in the States. Sufficiently far away, you thought. Even if someone had alerted him to the murder on Raven’s Rock, it would be at least another day before he could reach the windswept little island and by then you hoped to be long gone. It was best if you two didn’t meet at all.

You chewed on your lip as you thought of him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him, it was just… easier if you didn’t. The things you did, the jobs you took were simply too dangerous if your focus wasn’t a hundred per cent on the task in front of you. And with John around, your newly mortal heart had a tendency to make your better judgement evaporate.

You passed a phonebox on the main (and only) street that looked as though it had seen better days and a small tourist information office/part time bakery with its doors and windows shut for the night, before you reached the seemingly only building in town with light and, admittedly subdued, noise streaming out of it: the pub. Apart from the city hall, you reckoned it must be the oldest building around, but also by far the one in best repair. The wooden sign above the heavy green door was, unsurprisingly, in the shape of a very sinister looking gull and it swayed in the wind with an ominous creak that made a shiver run down your spine, as if trying to dissuade you from entering.

Well, it wasn’t very likely that you would get any information elsewhere. With determination in your steps, you walked the last few cobbled steps to the door and went inside.

Your eyes quickly scanned the room, the patrons, the energies... and you froze on the threshold.

On a stool by the bar sat the very man you had hoped to avoid. He had taken off his signature trench coat and his back was towards you, but it didn't matter; you would recognise him blindfolded. He was so thoroughly cloaked and shrouded in magical protections of all sorts that the space he occupied was practically a vacuum. It was damn near impossible to locate him by magic, you knew. If one weren't looking directly at him, like you were now, no sixth sense or intricate spell would reveal his whereabouts. But his was a vacuum you had come to know very well. So well in fact, that by now you could pin him down by his apparent lack of magic, rather than by his well-hidden magical signature, and yet, there he was, sitting only half a room away from you with a drink in one hand and one of his ghastly Silk Cuts resting between the fingers of the other. And you hadn't noticed. You hadn't even done a quick scan to see if there were other magical presences on the island when you arrived. Worse, you hadn't cloaked yourself as thoroughly as you normally would have done and your own signature reached him before you could even think to try and prevent it.

From the way he straightened his back and immediately snuffed out the cigarette in an ashtray as if someone had shouted at him to show some care, you could tell he knew you were there. He shifted ever so slightly as if making room for you and you sighed. There was no getting out of this one.

Getting rid of your raincoat, you went over and crawled onto the empty stool next to him.

You were met with that wicked smirk of his that made your heart stutter and stumble in your chest.

"Now, there's a pleasant surprise to brighten this hellhole," he greeted, raising his glass at you. "Must confess, I never guessed I'd be running into you on this godforsaken rock, luv."

"Hello John." You did with a nod, trying to keep your voice even. "Can't say I expected this to be your sort of retreat either."

The warm light in the pub shone in John Constantine's dark eyes and his smirk grew into a grin.

"It's good to see you, luv. I've missed that disapproving pout o' yours. The fact that I never know when I'll see it again makes it so much sweeter."

You rolled your eyes at him, but didn't attempt to hide your burning cheeks. The bastard couldn’t possibly know exactly how brightly your torch for him was burning, but he always acted accordingly.

"So, what are you doing here then? Odd place for playing tourist, innit?"

He leaned on the counter, his hand moving closer to where yours was resting and there was that little, dark gleam of hope in his eyes that always appeared when he looked at you. As if there was somehow some other reasonable purpose you could have to be in a place like this, at a time like this.

You shrugged, biting down a smile.

"I find the climate rather agreeable."

John threw his head back and laughed at that. Even the barkeep, who had overheard your words, snorted. You caught his gaze before he turned back around and ordered a sparkling water.

"Right. And I just happened by to see the sights, eh?"

"Well, what do you think of them then?"

You raised an eyebrow at him and took a sip of the fizzy water the barkeep placed in front of you. John grinned and gave you an obvious once-over. Your dirty boots and high-neck jumper didn't seem to put him off.

"Much improved since this morning. At this rate, I can't wait to see how they'll look in the night."

"Oh, I ought to slap that smirk off your smug face, wizard," you sighed, feeling how your stomach was practically fluttering at his suggestive tone.

"Is that a promise, luv?"

"You're insufferable."

"Aye, that I am, luv, but you keep coming back for more. Must be doing something right, eh?"

You bit your lip and looked down; he suddenly felt too close. And the general level of noise inside the pub from people chattering wasn't as high as you had hoped. It would be easy for others to overhear anything you said. Given the island-wide unrest over the murder, you were sure ears were perked more than usual and you didn't want to draw any attention to yourself, or John. You would have to gather more information some other way.

"I missed you, too," you confessed, staring at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar as if they were all of a sudden exceedingly interesting. "But I... I thought you were helping out a certain green vigilante overseas these days."

John visibly tensed up.

"Who told you that?"

You shrugged, still not looking directly at him. The truth was that he couldn't really hide from you, not even in your current state. If he found out though, you didn't doubt for a second that his heated flirting would be switched for a literal knife in the back before you could even think the word "portal". Well, perhaps not literal, but you had no doubt the outcome would be fatal for you anyway.

"Who told you to come here?," you countered, raising an eyebrow and John scoffed.

"If you must know, I got a call from an old friend. Looks like she's been scrying on her own and this little spit of land kept drawing all her energy. Didn't seem like something I could ignore."

"You should've," you mumbled, taking a large slurp of your water and doing your best to ignore the persistent little spark of envy starting to gnaw away at you at his choice of words. What old friend? It had to be someone he had slept with, it always was with him. Why couldn't you just not care? "Take my advice, John, leave. Go home and lay low. I'll handle this island."

"Is that concern for old Johnny I hear, luv?," he asked with mock-surprise.

"Maybe. Don't let it get to your head, your ego won't be able to fit into that coat of yours."

He chuckled, but the tension was still there and you didn't know how to break it without giving him the truth, or at least something close.

"Your turn, pretty bird. I don't believe in coincidences like this, so tell me. How'd you know to come here?"

Lying to John Constantine was out of the question. As was being honest with him.

You chewed on your lip a bit, weighing your options. It wasn't like him to accept any kind of help unless he was downright desperate and that was still a long way off. If you challenged him though, he was most likely to flee, that much you knew. But you didn't want to get on his bad side unless you had absolutely no other choice.

"Leave," you repeated. "This one's out of your league, John. Let me take care of it, please."

The way your eyes were pleading with him made him frown and you realised you might have shown too much of your hand.

"I'm not going anywhere, luv." His hand was on top of yours on the bar before you could move it. To anyone looking, it seemed like an affectionate gesture, but he was effectively pinning you in place. "Not until you give me a bloody good reason not to give you the same treatment as whatever beast it is we're dealing with on this island."

"Let go of me."

Your voice wasn't very loud, but you knew he could hear you. He answered by pressing down harder on your hand and you winced.

"Why is it so hard for you to believe I just want to keep you safe?," you all but hissed at him, emptying your drink with a sour expression.

"Oh, I trust you just about as far as I can throw you, luv. Every time I see your pretty little face it means there's trouble brewing just around the corner."

"I saved your life in Tennessee. And in Derry," you tried, but his hold didn't loosen. If anything, John was now gripping your hand so hard no blood could possibly flow to your fingers. "I am trying to do your stubborn Scouse arse a bloody favour, why can't you just for once in your damn life listen to me?"

"Tell me your name then and maybe I will."

Fuck. Somehow it always came down to that.

"Xanadu," you snapped through gritted teeth, eyeing John with what you hoped was an appropriate amount of ire. "Xanadu contacted me and told me about this place. Happy? Obviously, she wasn't going to tell you now, was she?"

John withdrew his hand from you as though you'd burned him. It felt about as pleasant as a punch to the teeth, but you tried not to let it show on your face.

"I suppose you're right...," he admitted. "What did she tell you then? Her usual cryptic nonsense I reckon?"

"For someone in your line of work, you're not at all keen on prophecy reading, are you?," you sighed, forcing a bit of humour into your words.

There was no love lost between John Constantine and Madame Xanadu, that much had been clear to you from the beginning. But even though she couldn't stand the sight of him, she believed John was instrumental in keeping the world safe and had begrudgingly agreed to help you protect him when she could.

"Not really my style. I prefer things more tangible, to the point. Besides, I don't need to worry about divination when I have you."

"You rarely do."

"Not by my choice, luv."

Your eyes flickered back to the empty glass in front of you and you had to take a very slow breath to try and steady yourself. His effect on you was too strong for you to be safe around him. Your job required a clear head - for both your sakes.

"A restless darkness will carry its evil across the water to be unleashed upon the twice-named rocks," you recited, steeling your voice as you averted his unspoken question the way you always did. "It wasn't that cryptic at all for once."

He didn't need to hear the other part. You could feel his eyes roaming your face, trying to figure you out, looking for something without fully knowing what. It was at times like these you missed your wings. Keeping secrets in a human body full of emotions and urges and reactions beyond your immediate control was frustrating at best. It was another reason you were better off keeping your distance.

After a while of searching your features, John sighed and gave up.

"Alright. So it's probably some kind of malevolent spirit then, wreaking havoc. Don't see why you're so worried luv, sounds like any other Tuesday to me."

The barkeep was close enough for you to signal for a refill to you both. He grunted something unintelligible, obviously not too keen on all the Brits suddenly hanging out in his pub. You made sure to send him a grateful smile as he filled your glasses, yours with sparkling water, John's with whisky.

"My weeks are all Mondays," you said and raised the glass to your lips; just as you had hoped, John did the same. "Did you get here in time to see the body?"

"Only after they moved it. Wasn't pretty..." He took another swig while staring at the wall with a distant glaze clouding his eyes that told you he wasn't seeing the wall at all. "Pathologist told me the man had been alive when 'is head was severed. The, er... the inscriptions..." John looked just as sickly green as the constable had done and very gently you put your hand on his shoulder. A small gesture of reassurance. "I'm tired," he whispered suddenly. He turned his head to look at you and your heart ached when you realised how glassy his eyes had become. "I am just so bloody tired. Demons, vampires, curses, spirits, the lot. No matter where I go, there're always more and people die, it never stops. Innocent people, good people... I just want a fucking break, but if I don't stop the darkness from spreading, who will?"

His voice was thin and on the verge of breaking entirely. You wanted nothing more than to lean forwards on the stool and put your arms around him, somehow make him know he wasn't alone, but the risk was too great. You were in too deep already.

"Sometimes I wonder whether it's all worth it..."

"Of course it's worth it, John," you said quietly, clenching his shoulder. "We do what we have to so they...," you gestured discreetly towards the patrons, ”they can go on living their lives and not... not know and see the things we do..."

"I know, luv, I know. I just... I want..." The gloom that was always lurking just below the surface of his existence was spilling into his eyes. He was weary to the bone, deep into his very soul. For a moment, you thought he was going to let the tears burst. "I risk my life every day and it's never bloody enough, is it? A man got his head carved off by some wretched spirit who should have been resting in peace. Fuckin’ Hell..."

He rubbed his eyes hard and you decided then what to do. You didn't like it one bit, but seeing John this worn down, well, you liked that even less. It meant you had been sleeping on the job.

As subtly as you could, you put your hand in your pocket and found the tiny zip-bag with a pinch of purple powder in it. It wasn't something you used often and it had never been meant for John, but you couldn't in good conscience let him go after a rogue spirit in his current state. While he emptied his glass again, you drizzled the powder into your hand and braced yourself.

"John, look at me. It's going to be alright. You are John Constantine and without you this world would have ended twelve times in the last decade, maybe more. And right now you are going to save this island, because that is what you do. So get off your sulking arse and stop feeling sorry for yourself. We have a job here. You're going to find that spirit and put it out of its misery before it hurts someone else, got it?"

He huffed, but even so raised his head and managed a small grateful smile at the reprimand.

"Yes. You're right. Thank you, luv. You always know what to say..." His eyes darted to your lips and for half a heartbeat, you did nothing, just sat there and waited for him to lean in the rest of the way and kiss you. It was far from the first time it had happened, but you still felt at war with yourself. There wasn't a single atom left in you anymore that didn't crave his affection. He was drunk and emotional and between the way he looked at you and the way there suddenly seemed to be less and less space separating your bodies, there was no doubt about his intention. It would be so easy just to finally give in and let it happen.

"Don't thank me."

Before he could lean back or ask you what you meant, you blew the purple powder straight into his face.

His eyes widened in shock, but his body immediately began to turn relaxed and pliant.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me...," he mumbled, but his gaze was already unfocused.

"I'm so sorry, John," you whispered, gently guiding his torso onto the bar.

He tried to say something more, but his words were slurred and within a few seconds, he was gone.

You had gotten the sleeping powder from a dealer in New Orleans, who had told you the effects would last at least four hours. They always oversold their stuff, but hopefully John would be out long enough for you to deal with the entire affair if you hurried up and took a few shortcuts. It was a messy solution, but then again, you hadn't planned on him being here. Desperate times and all that.

"He gonna be lying there all night?," the barkeep grumbled with a raised eyebrow at John when you hopped down from your stool. You put on the best smile you could manage under the circumstances and slid 50 quid across the counter.

"He'll come ‘round soon enough. If not, I'll be back for him in a few."

You practically fled the pub before he could ask you any more questions.

The road outside was deserted and you hoped no one was watching as you marched to the lonely phone box you had spotted earlier. It didn't look like anyone had used it in several years, but when you picked up the receiver the dial tone was there alright.

You took out a stained, battered playing card from the depths of one of your pockets (the seven of diamonds) and slid it into the credit card slot. You didn't own a mobile phone and neither did most of your acquaintances, but still you had memorised the few numbers you occasionally needed.

"Hey Chas, it's me," you said when the answering machine finally picked up. "I'm at the island with John and I haven't got much time. I don’t want to get John involved in this so I need to work fast. There's no need to worry, really, I've got it under control, but... just in case something unforeseen happens, uhm... if I don't call back in let's say ten hours, will you let John know where to find my body? He can't track me in his usual ways, so he'll need your help."

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. What you were about to do was risky, maybe even reckless.

"I'm going to the beach where they found the dead man and work my way from there. If... if I don't succeed..." It was as if your throat was suddenly full of gravel. "Chas, please, just make sure John isn't the one to take on that spirit. He is not ready for that." Too late, you held the receiver away from your face while you tried to suppress a sniffle. So much for convincing Chas Chandler that you had things under control. Forcing your voice to even out, you continued. "I have to go. Just help him if I can’t, okay? And don’t worry too much. I’ll probably see you in a couple of days.”

Before you could say anything even more stupid, you hung up and slid your helpful seven of diamonds back into your coat. Handy little thing to have on you.

You left the phone box in the last light of day and made your way down to the beach. It took you twenty minutes to reach the cove and less than one to sneak under the police tape unseen. There were just two constables standing guard at the scene and they only looked when you wanted them to. For an active crime scene, the site was unusually quiet, but you attributed your luck to the dusk that made searching for clues almost impossible.

Of course, that went for you as well, you thought sourly as you carefully stepped around the little plastic numbers the police forensics had put up all over the little stretch of beach. You could make out the bloody piece of driftwood and the large dark spatter running down the stones where the corpse had lain, but nothing smaller than those. Even if the place was rather secluded, you didn’t dare light a torch with the uniforms standing idly guard so close by.

Sighing, you closed your eyes and concentrated.

The place was tingling with dark energy and it became clearer the more you felt around, using your own magic.

A spirit, just like you had anticipated. A lost soul preying on the living for… revenge? Yes, the bloody traces sang with the mad desire for vengeance that so often kept the dead from their rest. 

Bloodshed, the thirst temporarily quenched. Then what?

The movements of the spirit became blurry after that no matter how hard you tried to focus. The leftover energy had been disturbed and mixed with the signatures of all the people who had been to the crime scene since the discovery of the body and it was impossible to make out without assistance, even for someone as experienced as you.

If you couldn’t locate the soul, you couldn’t send it packing. 

Luring it via séance required more people and it was too risky for everyone involved anyway. Without its name, summoning it was out of the question as well.

You groaned when you realised what you had to do.

Making sure for the last time you couldn’t be seen from the line of police tape above you, you took off your backpack and dark raincoat and shoved both of them under the nearest rock. Next, you loosened your boots and sat them next to the backpack, then your thick scarf and woollen jumper. With short, angry movements, you rolled your trousers down and folded them hastily, ripped off your socks and wriggled out of your top.

“You’re so bloody lucky I love you, John,” you mumbled through clenched teeth that were starting to rattle in your skull. With fingers already numb from the cold, you unclasped your bra and slid down your underwear before you could change your mind, and with a deep breath, you stepped into the waves.

Even before you went into the sea, your body had been covered in goosebumps from the chilly October air, but the surfs rising around your legs now made you heave for breath with every step forward. The rocks under your feet were dull compared to the sharpness of the water. When it reached you mid-thigh you had to stop and wait for the pain to subside enough so that you could get further out. You were too close to the beach and the water was still too shallow for your purpose.

A tangle of seaweed drifted past your ankle, or at least you hoped it was just seaweed. It was hard to tell for sure in the dark.

Your submerged muscles were screaming as you forced yourself out until the water reached your ribs. If only that wretched spirit hadn’t chosen the middle of the bleeding autumn to throw its tantrum.

“Sacred Nanuet, your humble servant speaks to you,” you intoned through gritted teeth and held out your hands on either side of you so the gentle waves touched the palms of your hands. “She beseeches you; allow her the honour of sharing in your wisdom. Blessed goddess, lend her your sight and expand her understanding, your humble servant begs of you, great Nanuet…”

The ancient language you muttered your request in felt strange on your tongue as always, but your flattery worked. You could feel the magic start to sing under your hands and so you took a deep breath and lowered yourself completely into the sea.

The stranglehold of the freezing water somehow got pushed into the background of your conscience and within a beat of your heart your mind was alight with images. Through the water, you could see most of the world, but you focused on Raven’s Rock and the little beach behind you. The water had seen it all. From the depths of the ocean, it rolled onto the sand and sneaked its way under the island’s rocks, seeped into the soil and was drunk by the hungry roots of The Green, stretching into the light above ground…

It wasn’t long before you managed to zero in on the exact event you needed. The Sight of Nanuet allowed your mind to access the memory of the watery abyss, which included as good as all water on Earth and not a lot of people mastered navigating it anymore. You had been forced to use a lot of wordly magic since you lost your wings and so had learned to find what you needed relatively easy.

Through the Sight, you saw the murder of the man on the beach, how the spirit severed his head and lapped at the blood before turning away from the scene. It lost some of its shape then, but through the dewy grass above the cove and the moist air, you managed to follow it away from the beach and across the land.

The spirit held its physical form, or at least the overall contours of it, and it made it easier to trail. From what you could tell, it definitely had been human when it had been alive. Poor thing. If only it hadn’t gone and murdered someone, maybe you could have sent it to rest. 

But would you even be there if it hadn’t?

When the spirit finally settled, you had followed it to an old, abandoned stone house with no windows and a door rotting away on the hinges. The place must have been a farm. There were several small outhouses scattered around the main building and indents in the earth marking former animal pens. The roof had been a thatched one, but now it was more moss than straw and what still remained beneath the heavy green patches had long since turned mouldy and dark. A few shards of glass jutted from some of the window frames like crude, predatory teeth waiting to chew up whoever was unfortunate or foolish enough to get close.

You went after the spirit through the remnants of the front door.

A voice in the back of your head told you it was enough, you should get out of the house and the Sight and the water. You had what you needed for now.

But the way the spirit slumped through the dark rooms and up a ramshackle staircase, as if it had done it a hundred times before, as if it belonged there in that house, intrigued you. It didn't match your original theory, the reason you didn't want John involved.

Curiosity piqued, you followed the lonely ghost up the stairs, where it turned left and went into a room with what had been two alcoves in the wall but were now mostly caved in. The room didn't have any windows and it was hard to make out the details, but the flimsy shape of the spirit trudged towards one of the beds and with motions as if the bedding had still been intact, it lay down and pulled the memory of a blanket over itself.

You slowly got closer, unsure of what to do. The visible shape of the ghost was gone now that it was no longer in motion and the general gloom of the empty house made it near impossible for you to see anything clearly. But the person the ghost had been once seemed so at home here. You couldn't feel any hostility from it at all, not even a trace. Only peace, comfort. Quiet.

This had been its home once when it had lived, you were almost certain of it.

But the desolate little stone house, out of the way even for the island's standard, must have stood abandoned for several decades, maybe even a century or two. If the ghost had lived here it was much older than you had initially thought.

Which meant you might have knocked John out for nothing.

Fuck.

You had to find out more and fast, but it was unlikely the memory of the house before your closed eyes would yield anything further. Even if it was dark and late in the evening, you would have to go there physically. The chances of finding something would be higher, and besides, you couldn't stay in the water forever. You were almost human, after all.

The thought had barely crossed your mind before the reflex to breathe kicked in and you could feel the freezing seawater rush down your throat. One inhale was all it took for your lungs to feel heavy as a pair of burning bricks. A fleeting realisation, that drowning was one of the most unpleasant sensations you’d had the misfortune of experiencing since losing your wings, faintly made it to the front of your perception before the back of your head hit the sand on the ocean floor. Then the only thing you could focus on was the pressure of the water and the way your body grew ever more numb…

The room still flickered before your eyes, slowly losing definition as you lost consciousness. Strange, you mused with your last bit of coherence, that an angel from Heaven should die looking up at it from so far below, in the cold embrace of the sea. It wasn't even painful anymore, the water, but oddly comforting, lulling you to rest, holding you tight.

The only regret you had was leaving John…

The last thing you saw before your eyes fell shut was his face above yours and a faint smile moved your lips. How very considerate of your mind to conjure up his image as the last thing you would ever see.

You could feel his arms around you even, fingers digging into your skin, his body pressed down against your own…

“Bloody fucking Hell, let her go!” The words didn’t make sense to you and they sounded so awfully far away. “She isn’t yours, you stupid paegan relic, let go of her! Let go!”

But you were, you were letting go, there was nothing more you could do.

“Christ, luv, which heathen tosspot did you enlist to drown you?! Yam, Ægir? Tiamat? Nanuet? Nanuet, isn’t it?” At the invocation of her name, you could feel the ancient goddess slacken her hold on you, as if in surprise, and you vaguely realised that the embrace you felt didn’t belong to her or the water, but to John. “Oh, you always were a fickle tart. Let go of this servant or so help me God, I, John Constantine, will destroy you and every last shrine still bearing your blasted name! Let her go!”

With a cry you weren’t sure was even coming from you, your face broke the surface of the waves. You violently coughed up seawater and if it weren’t for John’s arms, you would have fallen right back down into the deep. Your head was spinning. The numbness gave way to a cold so freezing you might as well have been rolling in needles. Everything hurt. Your legs felt unsteady, no, your entire body felt as if someone had replaced your bones with straw and your muscles with jelly.

“J-John…,” you coughed, but he shushed you, keeping you close to him in the water.

“I know, luv, it’s a bloody miracle you aren’t dead, you’re welcome for that. Now let’s get you out of the water, yeah?”

He was really there, drenched in the North Sea in the middle of October at what might as well have been the edge of the Earth, just to save you from drowning. His white shirt and black trousers clung to his frame like film and from what you could make out in the light from the moon, he was shuddering from the cold, too. You had never wanted to kiss him so badly before.

“I c-can’t m-m-move,” you got out through teeth rattling painfully in your skull, suddenly all too aware of your proximity and your own state of undress. As much as you wanted to cling to him for warmth, for closeness, the logical part of your muddled brain was screaming at you to keep your distance. That was what you did, wasn’t it?

“‘Course you can’t. How long were you under for, anyway? Completely off your rocker summoning a paegan goddess alone at night in the middle of the bloody ocean! What were you thinking?”

“I-I saw the g-ghost,” you weakly tried stammering through your clattering teeth. “Saw h-how it killed-ungh!”

You let out a groan as John swiftly picked you up and started carrying you towards shore. Your severely tested heart felt as though it might give out entirely. Never had you been reckless enough to let him touch you like this before, to let him hold you, as if you were a lover who would readily indulge in such intimacy. If it weren’t for the fact that you were very likely about to freeze to death, your cheeks would have been on fire. Every inch of your skin would have been scorching.

As it were, you were too cold and too exhausted for your body to produce that kind of heat. Surrendering to the fatigue in your bones, you allowed your head to rest against him and closed your eyes. He could carry you to shore or to Hell on his hands. You weren’t going to argue. For the first time in all your human life, you completely let your guard down.

[paulbenedictblog]

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Fox news Myles Garrett, Nick Bosa among NFL's top 10 disruptors of 2019 - NFL.com

Fox news

Desire a second to think the predominant names in soccer and the positions they play.

The predominant acknowledge is easy: Quarterback. A team goes as its quarterback goes.

The second acknowledge, though, would possibly perchance perchance also merely be various looking out on who you query. Some would possibly perchance perchance also jabber huge receiver, and others would possibly perchance perchance also lean in direction of cornerback or left kind out.

But one set apart community has taken on elevated significance within the closing half decade or so, which most attention-grabbing makes sense when enthusiastic about the upward thrust of the passing sport. The set apart must opponents invest their resources? In those that hunt the quarterback.

Now we discover seen these avid gamers -- defensive ends and out of doors linebackers, looking out on the defensive contrivance -- in actuality evolve into their very contain classification: edge rushers. They're accountable for wreaking havoc and sending future Hall of Famers residence empty handed within the game's biggest contests. Judge back to the 2015 marketing campaign, when Von Miller and DeMarcus Ware knocked Tom Brady out of kinds within the AFC Championship Sport. Or deem closing season, when the Patriots had Sam Darnold seeing ghosts.

They're effective. They topic. And they're no longer merely on the threshold of defenses (hi there, Aaron Donald).

So, who were the greatest disruptors of 2019?

Love we did in our earlier (and debate-challenging) pieces from this series, we're focusing on one Subsequent Gen Stat that offers us the acceptable indication of how effective a defender is on a per-scurry-speeding-down basis. The stat: Disruption Charge, which is the whole number of disruptions (the blended total of hurries, pressures or sacks, with most attention-grabbing one counting per play) divided by the whole number of scurry-hotfoot snaps.

In present to procure a tight steal of effectiveness over a substantial volume of scurry rushes, we quandary the baseline at 250 scurry hotfoot snaps. Of us who did no longer hotfoot the passer no longer lower than 250 cases in 2019 did no longer make the slash.

These are the greater of those that did.

Myles Garrett

Cleveland Browns · DE

Disruption rate: 18.5%. Sack rate: 3.5%. Total disruptions: 53. Sacks: 10.

Garrett performed in merely 10 games, as the indefinite suspension that resulted from his actions one day of Cleveland's Thursday night affair with Pittsburgh introduced his season to an conclude, however he had been performing to the level of a frail No. 1 total take dangle of until that point. Cleveland's scurry hotfoot suffered a drastic dropoff in effectiveness after his departure. The Browns had a 32.9 percent stress rate with Garrett on the field in 2019; with out him, that resolve dropped to 21.5 percent.

Garrett's disruption rate used to be the acceptable within the NFL. He registered a stress on 17.1 percent of dropbacks in 2019, which used to be the supreme share posted by a participant for the reason that 2016 season. He additionally changed into one of merely three avid gamers to publish a stress rate of 12 percent or bigger in every of the closing three seasons. The different two: Aaron Donald and Von Miller. With every Browns contest, there used to be a second or two in which a quarterback would hit the turf and there'd be most attention-grabbing one phrase to articulate in response: Myles.

Za'Darius Smith

Green Bay Packers · OLB

Disruption rate: 17.5%. Sack rate: 2.8%. Total disruptions: 84. Sacks: 13.5.

Smith's disruption total is bigger because, in half, he performed a beefy season, however his efficiency is practically on par with that of Garrett. Smith used to be the face of a turnaround for the Packers protection, offering instant returns on the profitable free-agent deal he inked closing offseason. He used to be a menace, pressuring the QB on 19.4 percent of scurry rushes when aligned on the inner. That rate used to be the supreme amongst all defenders speeding from the inner (minimum 100 inner scurry rushes), main second-set apart finisher Stephon Tuitt (14.1 percent) by bigger than 5 share aspects. Smith used to be second in total stress share at 14.8 percent, trailing most attention-grabbing Garrett. He and Packers DT Kenny Clark blended for 120 QB pressures closing season, doubtlessly the most by any teammate duo within the NFL.

Smith is formally within the class of the elite, and happily for him, he's being paid as such.

Robert Quinn

Dallas Cowboys · DE

Disruption rate: 17.2%. Sack rate: 3.3%. Total disruptions: 60. Sacks: 11.5.

Robert Quinn used to be smartly price the price Dallas paid to create him closing offseason, even when it used to be most attention-grabbing as a one-three hundred and sixty five days condo, and he's quandary to make the cash he deserves after signing a five-three hundred and sixty five days deal with the Chicago Bears in March. Quinn loved worthy success with the Cowboys while working opposite DeMarcus Lawrence, pressuring the QB on 14 percent of scurry rushes, the third-most attention-grabbing rate within the NFL (minimum 250 scurry rushes) in 2019. His ability to bend while affirming high-tail and energy around the threshold can be a nightmare for opposing tackles, and he'll doubtless abilities identical success as half of 1 other amazing tandem in Chicago in 2020. Quinn registered 49 QB pressures in 2019, which is the the same number his new Bears teammate Khalil Mack posted, however Quinn did it on 116 fewer scurry rushes. Peep out for that duo.

Gash Bosa

San Francisco 49ers · DE

Disruption rate: 16.4%. Sack rate: 2.1%. Total disruptions: 71. Sacks: 9.

By now, this chronicle. Bosa used to be the final share for a defensive line loaded with first-round abilities, which helped the 49ers reach the Unheard of Bowl. The Pro Bowl selectee and 2019 Defensive Rookie of the Year earned his accolades, racking up the fourth-most QB pressures within the NFL (60) while ending with a stress share of 13.9, which used to be additionally merely for fourth-most attention-grabbing within the league. Bosa is merely getting started, and boy, what a approach to launch a pro profession.

Josh Allen

Jacksonville Jaguars · LB

Disruption rate: 16.2%. Sack rate: 3.1%. Total disruptions: 54. Sacks: 10.5.

Oh, look! It be one other youngster! It be unrealistic to articulate Allen did no longer help from playing on a protection that additionally integrated Calais Campbell and Yannick Ngakoue, so 2020 figures to be a more difficult test for him, with Campbell now a Raven and Ngakoue, who has yet to set apart his franchise designate as of this writing, looking out out of town. Allen had rather a debut, though. Becoming a member of Bosa as a rookie Pro Bowl selectee, Allen feeble his athleticism and size to his help in 2019. His 10.5 sacks on 54 total disruptions areas him amongst a pair of of the acceptable rushers within the NFL, nonetheless it additionally sets him as a lot as receive extra consideration from offenses in 2020. We are going to ogle if he can help the the same high-tail.

Aaron Donald

Los Angeles Rams · DT

Disruption rate: 15.7%. Sack rate: 2.5%. Total disruptions: 90. Sacks: 12.5.

Sixth?! Aaron Donald is sixth on this checklist?! I'm in a position to hear it now and I understand your effort, so spare my Twitter mentions. Donald performed extra total snaps (882) than someone else on this checklist, so it is inevitable that his disruption rate is going to be somewhat decrease. We're ranking these avid gamers with disruption rate taking priority over everything else, in relate that's why he ranks within the bottom half. But it absolutely used to be additionally a shock to me when I started to pore over these stats following the conclusion of the customary season to ogle yet every other particular person (Za'Darius Smith) had in actuality registered extra disruptions than Donald, who most incessantly dominates that class on an annual basis. Donald is unruffled supremely effective, and his 267 QB pressures since 2016 are doubtlessly the most within the NFL in that span. His 69 QB pressures were second most within the NFL in 2019, and his stress share (13.5%) used to be the supreme amongst inner linemen with no longer lower than 300 scurry rushes (a key difference in baseline than that of Smith, who performed on the inner less usually than Donald). The five-time All-Pro is unruffled nice and an absolute nightmare to halt. Don't desire his ranking right here as me saying the rest less.

Shaquil Barrett

Tampa Bay Buccaneers · LB

Disruption rate: 15.4%. Sack rate: 3.8%. Total disruptions: 78. Sacks: 19.5.

Ah, sure, allow us to roll out the crimson (and pewter) carpet for the NFL's 2019 sack king. Barrett's ascension from afterthought in Denver to premier hunter of quarterbacks used to be amazing -- I indicate, he had 5.5 extra sacks in 16 games closing three hundred and sixty five days than he did in 61 games with the Broncos. His 78 total disruptions paint an image of a defender who used to be constantly inflicting complications for opposing offenses, and he capitalized on such opportunities extra most incessantly than someone else on this checklist, as evidenced by his sack total and sack rate. No shock Bruce Arians most incessantly assured the Buccaneers would get a approach to help him.

Love Donald, Barrett additionally performed a ton of snaps (836, including 508 scurry rushes), bringing his total disruption rate down a tad. That is a bunch it is probably going you'll perchance perchance study in two various systems, though -- a bigger sample size is virtually repeatedly going to bring a participant's success rate down, however conversely, extra scurry rushes skill extra opportunities. Appropriate a bit of food for thought before you procure to typing.

Dont'a Hightower

Fresh England Patriots · OLB

Disruption rate: 15%. Sack rate: 2.2%. Total disruptions: 38. Sacks: 5.5.

This is the purpose within the ranking the set apart we quietly shock whether or no longer the baseline would possibly perchance perchance also merely be a bit of too low (Hightower merely barely crosses the threshold with 253 scurry rushes), however most attention-grabbing because the Patriots linebacker is no longer most incessantly one of many predominant names that merely about mind when mulling scurry rushers. He's a disruptor, though, and a key share of a Fresh England protection that used to be traditionally effective within the predominant half of the 2019 season. Hightower leads your entire avid gamers on this checklist in tackles, with 71, and is fourth in stops (tackles that consequence in a successful play for the protection in conserving with yards to scurry by down), with 33, while additionally recording five hustle stops (defensive stops the set apart the participant covers 20-plus yards of in-play distance from snap to kind out). His scurry-speeding stats don't appear to be the gaudiest, however they're rather impressive when enthusiastic about his conventional starting up point on the field before every snap.

Adrian Clayborn

Atlanta Falcons · DE

Disruption rate: 14.5%. Sack rate: 1.4%. Total disruptions: 41. Sacks: 4.

Clayborn, who signed with the Browns this offseason, had extra sacks in one sport in 2017 than he had in all of 2019, however that most attention-grabbing illustrates how incomplete sacks are as a stat. Clayborn used to be an effective participant for the Falcons' protection closing three hundred and sixty five days by making the many of the scurry-speeding snaps he used to be afforded, recording 35 QB pressures on merely 282 scurry rushes. These pressures, plus his 24 hurries, comprise the backbone of his bigger disruption rate.

Seek, carry out I in actuality feel worthy about Clayborn making this checklist over guys love Chandler Jones, Joey Bosa or Cameron Heyward (to call a pair of)? Fully no longer. But his disruption rate wasn't some distance off from Myles Garrett's with a identical number of scurry rushes. The numbers say the chronicle right here. I'm merely the messenger.

Von Miller

Denver Broncos · OLB

Disruption rate: 14.4%. Sack rate: 1.9%. Total disruptions: 60. Sacks: 8.

Drastically surprised? We are too, a bit of. Miller posted his first single-digit sack season since 2013 and most attention-grabbing recorded 46 tackles. While no longer as dominant as he's been for noteworthy of his profession, Miller unruffled made an influence over the stretch of his 791 total defensive snaps in 2019. His 52 QB pressures were 29 bigger than the next closest Bronco (Derek Wolfe), proving the three-time All-Pro used to be unruffled the particular person in Denver. And it is an achievement for Miller, who turned 31 in March, to remain one of many league's most surroundings pleasant disruptors, posting a bigger rate than the likes of Joey Bosa (14.0%), DeMarcus Lawrence (13.9%), Yannick Ngakoue (13.8%) and T.J. Watt (13.4%). A closing show on Miller's success over the closing four seasons: His 235 QB pressures since 2016 lead all edge defenders and are second within the NFL most attention-grabbing to Aaron Donald. His QB stress rate one day of that identical span (14%) ranks No. 1 across the league (min. 1,000 scurry rushes).

[hex-and-fable]

Of Matter: Purpose. Pt: 1

[A guild Wars 2 Rp:] A:  Fractals of dust danced within the thick beams of light which stretched from the open panes of the tall floor to ceiling windows lining the West Wing of the Cress Estate. From where he sat---at a desk centered within the middle of the room surrounded by furniture which served mostly pragmatic purpose as opposed to decorative---he heard the daily prattle of the estates bustle. The room wasn’t entirely considered a study for a rather large table mapping out Kessex Hills implied it was more so used for strategic caravanning and overall meetings.  A glimmer caught the ember liquid left to breathe within a glass decanter as Argrin hoisted it from its post to pour himself another heavy cup. It was his third but by the plethora of paper littering his desk it was a testament to just how hard he’d been working throughout the day. Set to the edge of the massive oak desk was an untouched tray of fresh fruit and peppered jerky. Breathing  a sigh he wet his mouth with a quaff only to settle the heavy cup aside in order to massage his thickly fingers between his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if reading the same sentence caused him a hangover he could feel in his teeth. Gently a breeze swept in from the window causing the thin gossamer curtains to flutter in the wake of its uplifting dance. Curiously, the man pushed his chair back with a loud scrape of the chairs feet against the wood only meander toward the large window. With the back of his hand he nudged the curtain back only to peer down below where a collection of greenhorn soldiers were in the midst of their training. From where he stood the fervent clatter of sword to training doll clamored. There he stood lost deep within the throes of wistful memories of a time when the weight and soreness of a day in armor was a welcomed pain. S:  The pale guard captain was absent, having only attended the drills earlier on in the wee hours before dismissing herself for the rest of the day to tend to other, more pressing duties. She needn’t tend to her daughter as often now that she was old enough to attend her studies, but dutiful was her nature, Sigrid oft stopped by to see how she has progressed. Balancing home life and work had never come easy to her, but as she aged, she was starting to grow weary and much to her chagrin. It was not unheard of, particularly by the Head of the House, that she would slip her leash occasionally.  At her core, she was a wild child and still retained that inquisitive nature ranging from innocent to fatally persistent. She was a woman of action, but her body was outpacing her tumultuous spirit.Today she followed a different routine. Scarce as she may be, when it comes to transitioning positions, the two managed to gravitate to one another even if only briefly. It was difficult to pretend that everything was normal, but they tried.

 The door swung open incrementally, the hinges eliciting complaint before the padlock dropped with a click when it closed once more. Her footfalls were measured, but far from subtle. He could see it – after all, she was a creature of habit – how she paused at the corner of his desk to gently place the stopper in the decanter. In the past, she might have chided, even if light-heartedly, but now it was an expectation; for good or for ill was hard to discern.  He could feel her presence behind him now, peering past him down to the training grounds. However, what she fixated upon was not the same as he. “How about you relax a moment. I can handle the rest for today…” She offered, the Ascalonian diction bubbling within the hearth of her throat.

  A:  The pinion of his gaze flicked aside once the heavy weight of the door heralded her presence. His attention followed her gait till she was no longer visible to his peripheral but her company wasn’t an ailment. Normally he’d present himself the epitome of a Lord---no, something far more demanding. A head of House required diction and poise for the attire that most commonly adorned him was that of fitted suits and cufflinks. That blazing afternoon he opted for simpler attire in the form of a white dress shirt unbuttoned thrice at the chest with his sleeves rolled to the comforts of his elbows. The trousers he wore were akin to that of common folk, loose in all the right places for optimal luxury. A silver chain hung from the pocket something most definitely attached to that of a pocket watch. His knuckles were still decorated with the weathered ink of his tattoos, some of which were practically illegible on account of the hair collected there. “Just for a moment?” His rejoinder followed him as he turned around to face her, the beaming sun haloing about his raven haired crown pulling out the faint tinge of mahogany laced within it. At his temples his hair was peppered with grey the same managing its way within his facial hair. A habitual smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a gesture she was all too familiar with. Perhaps at some point in the beginning it was enough to make her heart flutter, perhaps that differed now but he still crooked a finger her direction in a ‘come hither’ motion. “We’ve had another caravan robbed at the Peaks. Centaurs are causing us more grief than they have in the past and it looks as if the agreement we’ve made with them is no longer in effect.” Another sigh eased through his nose. “They sent someone back alive to relay the message though the poor lad is left without an arm. Business as usual.” S:  No matter how many seasons passed, no matter how grey he became, the way the corner of his lips tugged upward along the corner always warranted a throaty chuckle from her. That, or an eye roll, depending on the day, but he never failed to coax a smile from the stoic, weathered femme. While his temerity had been humbled under the weight of his unwitting mantle, his tongue remained sharp and his addendums facetious. Humoring one of her wan smiles, she brought a hand to perch upon the cusp of his broad shoulder, sweeping the profile of her thumb over the ivory weave of his dress shirt. She had never been one for tactile gestures of affection, but with every touch, chaste or skating, correlated an unspoken word or sentiment. She leaned in to rest partially against his arm, adorn in modest attire as well – then again, all her shirts looked the same. Her hair had since grown long, braided back with the colors of the Cress house hold to keep it from tumbling down past her shoulder blades. In the right light, she still had her youthful repose, akin to the termagant shepherdess whom walked barefoot amongst the tall grass all those years ago. Telltale crow’s feet now persisted and the stress lines upon her brow had become more accentuated, but despite her scars and other physical nuances, it only seemed to make her appear increasingly regal. Once in a blue moon, she donned a gown, though oft her mood did sour, but she was not a woman without her poise or patience. In fact, she never raised her voice, ‘lest it was to acknowledge the guardsmen in the field or to call from across the room. Her presence commanded attentiveness and her tone of voice carried with it a firm and directive locution. The sheer disappointment within the vernacular was enough to make any stout man ashamed of his behavior.(edited)The tine of her incisor dimpled her lower tier as her brow knit, the news of the latest disruption meriting a tired sigh from her esophagus.  “I see. I think tomorrow I will see to him before I make my rounds. If he is of a mind, mayhap I can encourage him to speak more of what happened.” The familiar somber note bled into her diction. Her own history with the centaur nomads was a bitter one at that, perhaps more so than what she shared with the Charr. However, the Charr had some concept of reasoning, unlike the equine harriers. Some. While she was a woman of action, decisive, she was not without her sympathy. It was common for her to visit the sickly and injured or even work in the very fields alongside their farmers. She saw it as comradery, but perhaps others saw it as more. “What was the message they sent him away with?” A:  Without preamble Argrin further slipped his arm about the pinch of her waste and pinned his hand to rest at the swell of her hip. Idly, perhaps in tandem with the motion of her own, his thumb smoothed along it akin to some wordless sentiment. “With the way you frequent the infirmary it’s no a wonder people of this House look up to you in the manner that they do.” His breath kissed at the slope of her forehead as he leaned in to press his lips to it. There he lingered, eyes easing up to regard something unimportant across the way as his keyed into her phrasings. When she finished his free hand came to rise and rest at the shape of her chin, hoisting it up incrementally as to afford himself an easier vantage of her visage given the stark contrast in height between the two. “He was the message, mo grá. In addition, if we continue to take the paths we have been through Kessex we’ll see more and more of our men slaughtered. From what I was told, second hand given the foot soldiers who found him were the informants, they nailed the rest of our men to the walls of their villages. Most likely to ward any continual usage of the pathways.” Argrin’s jaw jerked with a twinge, “I think the best course of action would be to send an example of our own and burn that particular village to the ground and then change our route from land to water. It’ll cost a bit more by month to do so but in the long run it’ll save us having to find more men.” S: "It will save more lives." She agreed, coolly. However, she afforded a pause, reflective as she searched his features. Hooking her arm, she elevated a hand to gently wrap her fingers about his wrist and move up along the slope of his calloused hand until she held it with the heel of his palm upturned and her thumb pressed within the center. Averting her amber hues, she encouraged his digits to fan. “I know their tactics, their formations. While they are not above guerilla warfare, they are particularly conventional. I trust Thomas to carry out the orders flawlessly, but some of our men do not know the centaurs like I do.” She began. He knew what she was leading into, what she would ask and perhaps she already knew his answer. All the same, she spoke those words: “With your permission, you can send me out there and I can send that message  temporarily secure our roads. And when we begin to make port out of Lion’s Reach (I think that’s what it is called, can’t remember), we can promptly withdraw.” ----Her molten orbs swept upward. He knew that look; soft, but as resolute as her proposal. He knew her more than anyone ever did within those walls. She had been more than just a soldier. She did not like war, but she was good at it. She did not like brutality, but in the extreme it was necessary. “It would minimalize further retaliation. And our allies would greatly appreciate the assistance – I am certain we are not the only ones that have attributed damages, or accumulated victims.” A:   By the command of her encouraging fingers his splayed comforted by the warmth hers had to offer against his. Indeed he knew the exact trail she was looking to trek and just as obvious as she was so was he. The thickness of his brows pinched at their corners as he stared down to her with a measured look mapping every corner and slope of her mien. It was a look she was all too familiar with. “If I were a lesser man I’d command you to stay but I know better than that.” That half smirk found its way to his mouth once more coupled by the slow furling of his massive fingers over hers. The soft sound of his rough skin caressing against her fingers filled the space between them before he continued, all the while drawing her closer by furthering the grip of his hand at the small of her back. “No, you’re not wrong in the latter. How many men do you presume you’ll take with you or is this something you intend on executing by yourself?” Truth be told he truly did enjoy the image of her burning an entire Centaur village of her own accord. Unhinged and without restraint---she may not have enjoyed brutality but she was a herald of it in her own manner. S: She brought the opposing hand up to rest along the contour of his shoulder. His words elicited a charmingly wry smile, albeit short-lived. Sigrid had an odd definition for romance, but it made their dynamic nigh seamless, though they still had their moments and hiccups. They were both flawed individuals, but that was what made them so beautiful - at least in her mind. “Not many. With the right positioning, we could appear to be a larger force than we are. We may taint their water supply… ‘twould make it difficult to clean their wounds while the area burns. I only need archers and a handful of footmen – primarily Thomas’ specialists. We will maintain defenses and set up barricades along the roads trafficked heavily until the last have made it through and then we can dismantle and abandon them.” She surmised, concise.(edited)She need not justify anything to her better half, but she knew he preferred details and numbers; absolutes. It had been what had made them such an effective team, all things considered. She gave his hand a squeeze before the other ascended, cupping his grizzled jawline. She feigned to confess, but those twin emeralds always haunted her. They had seen much, eluding that he held far more knowledge than one might assume. “And I will return. As I always do. And I will bring them all back with me. You have my word.” A:  Settling a minute bit of weight within her cupped palm Argrin’s attention anchored to her embers, holding there for a long drawn moment before wordlessly lifting his hand from its placement at her spine. There he set his hand just behind her ear while his fingers laced about the fashion of her skull. Without preamble he leaned forward to close the space between them, pressing his lips to hers voraciously.   It was as if it was a caress laden  with the implication it would be their last despite her encouraging words. He held her close so much so that he turned her body into his; coiling her against him like a snake in a hold which signaled the mounting affection he sought to offer her.  Their lips lingered in connection for as long as she willed it and if and when their lips parted he offered rejoinder. “I know you’ll come back but that doesn’t lessen the concern I have whenever it is you leave. You are the most capable for this job.” A faint chuckle pressed from the back of his throat. “And one with the head for it. Take all the men you need, Thomas included. I will ensure you won’t hear complaint.” S:  The twin embers churned akin to warmed tree sap, threatening to encapsulate and imprison his reflection with in those intense orbs. There had always been something supernatural about them, how they scrutinized and seem to peer through. That was what placed Argrin above the rest – she could not see through him. He was transparent and bore himself wholly to her. It was why they had shared such a deeply rooted kinship. She moved fluidly in tandem, familiar as a waltz. Her calloused digits meandered to crest his crown, combing them through the raven locks and tangling them within her fist. Her lids waned to crescent. When first they had met, she was hard-pressed to even so much as sleep with her eyes closed. Then again, she had rarely found restful slumber. She had become comfortable in his presence – in fact, some parts of her nag that she was letting her guard down, but it was a voice oft stifled these days. A voice from another life time ago, another life style. He had shown her it was alright to be human, to be more than just a tool for country and faith. In fact, he had presented her with the most challenging feat in her life: Their daughter. He could feel her lips tighten into one of her trademark, frail smiles during their passionate exchange. She did not seem keen to pull away and eventually, when she did, it was only scantly. “I know. And you have every right to be worried. No amount of assurance will stop you from fretting and nor will I try to stop you. Fortunately… the excursion will not take long.” She afforded a pause, glancing down to his lips once more. The other hand had since travelled to pinch the fabric of his dress shit within its grasp and gradually it tightened.  “This will not be like Maguuma or the Crystal Desert. If plans go awry, we will adapt, or I will have our men fall back and pull out.” There was a timbre in her voice shy of a tremble, but it was only for a moment."Besides..." Her nose crinkled, accentuating the telltale laugh lines. "...'twould be a very bad time for me to die. There is too much work to do." A: “One would wonder what exactly it is you’d find yourself doing if there were no more work to be done.” He continued to hold her close, knowing full well her mind was well within the throes of readying a ‘to-do’ list. She was always the eager sort to start something straight away. “I dare say rest is a word that so rarely graces that tongue of yours. I wonder, does your back know the sensation as well? Or is that too a long forgotten memory?” Jest laced his words like a plague, a mannerism she was all too familiar with but one so rarely heard of these days given the tremendous efforts of running a House. In some respects he abhorred Othello for leaving him with this charge but as akin to his paramour and her proclivities with  upholding her duty so was he. Their daughter most of all needed a home in these trying times and they were fortunate enough that the Cress vaults were still stacked from floor to ceiling with cold and prospects---all of which would eventually fall unto her should she desire it. Despite anything else she was a Cress. “Will you leave by morning?” S:  Her gaze narrowed as the corners of her lips twitched, the smile threatening to broaden, but she feigned. She expressed faux offense, the blade of her tongue clicking along the roof of her mouth when following a deliberate hiss. “I sleep in… occasionally. Besides, what was it that you once told me?” She rejoined coolly, gently giving his bearded chin a playful tug.

 “Do as I say and not as I do? Hypocrites DO make the best teachers…” Her back did ache. She was not terribly old, but her bones begged to differ, particularly her spine. It was once rumored that they only thing holding the femme together was her armor. They both toiled ever so tirelessly, but when given the chance, they would not have it any other way. Her truncated tines brushed a few unruly tresses back securely behind his ear, the pallor mien softening.“Aye. The sooner ‘tis done, the cleaner. I will brief the men tonight … and speak to the wee rowan.” 

She rasped as she sighed through her nostrils. Maevis was mature for her age, but her mother’s absence previously had taken a toll on her as a toddler. While they were close, the girl had attributed similar characteristics as her mother when it came to distancing herself from others emotionally, even if she was eager to interact with them, akin to her father. Sigrid had been doing her best to remedy this folly, but it was difficult to undo what damage there had been done, if any had been rendered.

 Their work kept her busy, but at least in one spot now. It was a blessing and a curse. Fortunately, Argrin’s presence in her life has been the former, giving the rapidly growing child more structure. “The instructor has told me she is progressing nicely, but she has become increasingly flighty. She fears Maevis may falter in her studies eventually. She is… very intelligent. Mayhap she is becoming bored, but I fear she may not be sleeping well again.” 

A:  “And what better teacher is there within this world than I?” Argrin’s vibrato hummed down toward her sarcastically. He knew more than most that his teachings, whatever they were, were of the unconventional kind. At the mention of their kin the tense of his jaw drew amplified by a faint twitch---none of vexed connotation but one of mild concern.

 “Maevis is beyond her years. I fear that perhaps having her within the walls so commonly is having its effects on her.” He need no bring up Sigrid’s absence for it’d prove little to his point and he was well aware that she knew exactly of her absents effects. “With Balthazar dead the war efforts have dwindled but there’s still tension all about Kryta.” He settled her with another lingering stare, holding it for several passing moments as if plucking ideas from the ether before finally speaking.

 “Do you think she’d be happier within Divinities Reach? There’s a plethora of schools that may pique her interest. That and having a change of scenery may do her a world of good.” S:  Her gaze gradually averted, her features darkening. She seemed pensive, but his words held merit. “The temple host a myriad of teachings… and it would do her some good to be around children gifted similarly.” Maevis’ “gift” was not lost on either of them, though it did warrant some concern. Grenth had blessed her, as the priesthood would chirp much to the ire of the mother; a devout of Kormir. Grenth had his place amongst the pantheon as death had its’ role in the cycle. In fact, she would be hardpressed to say that perhaps she and the morose God had been a traveling companion for some time, never too far from her. It was a bittersweet acquiescence.

 “And… “ She exhaled a breath. “…she would have the chance to sample other cultures, learn more about the nations we share alliances with.” She spoke deliberately, as if to convince herself aloud that it was a sound ideal, but a part of her was hesitant, that much was discernable. Her brow then furrowed, humoring a thought. “Though, mayhap we should speak to her and ask her what ‘tis she would like before we ultimately decide to send her away anon. Tonight would be as good as any.” A:   As a man of Grenth there was hidden pride the moment Maevia was blessed with his holy word perhaps at the demise of his paramour. Nonetheless, Sigird wasn’t spared from an all knowing look offered down to her. One she would most definitely feel seeping beneath her armor and sinew. 

 “She is afforded the luxury of such a prospect.” He rumbled lowly, “And it’s one I wholly encourage given the state of most women of this House and bloodline. I’d abhor the idea that she would blame either of us for stunting whatever gifts she wishes to pursue.  I don’t desire her to stay here for an extended period of time for if I may speak candidly I feel as if that time has already come into effect.” He peered over Sigrid’s shoulder as if chasing a thought as another telltale implication on the matter was that of the subtle twinge his jaw made whenever he clenched it. 

 “Tonight.” The man parroted. “And if I may be so bold---“ That steely gaze settled back to her. “Perhaps I may hold your company tonight as well after our affairs have been conducted?” S: She elicited another soft sigh, this time in admonishment. Her own jaw became set as her lids waned to a close, bringing her brow to rest along his collar’s cynosure. Her arms had dropped to wrap about his midsection. Silence descended between the two, humored only momentarily, until she spoke with a rasp. “I know.” She confessed airily.

 Her breath flushed his breast. “You are right, mo stór, and that my fretting is for naught. We both know what she will say, but I want her to be a part of this decision. She cannot stay here, but I still worry. She has, unfortunately, inherited my inquisitive nature. At least she has a good head on her shoulders to keep her out of trouble.”Turning her head, her temple now braced the weave, peering once more out the window and out over the expanse beyond the edified walls. Once, they had been a prison. She did not want their daughter to experience the same demure, but it seemed each day the sun rose a tad brighter to kiss the aged mortar. It was a contrast to her earlier demeanor, but at least on the battlefield you knew your enemies wanted you dead. 

In Divinity’s Reach, wolves wore the skin of sheep. Upon his latter request, that frail smile crested once more. It was the same, familiar smile she gave to him all those years ago when first they had met – though it was oft followed by a rather incredulous rebuke or look. The amber hues swept askance before she rescinded incrementally to meet his gaze. “You needn’t ask, mo bhéar.” The Ascalonian vernacular was honeyed with a bubbling lilt.(edited) A:  Argrin found his gaze pinning to the crackling hearth across the way as his mind bubbled with a myriad of additional thought. With a manner of reluctance he pulled free from her only to set his hands at her waist and stare down to her in a manner she was all too accustomed to.

 “Where is she now?” At first he assumed she was within the libraries but that was an ideal long lost. Another was that she was already within her chambers but given her nature that too was wistful thinking. If anything her proclivity for going unnoticed was astounding for she could hide among the halls and go unnoticed. The ‘Little lady’ was but a trickster in her own merit for if she desired solace she truly was one to find it. “I wonder if we should coming baring an offering.” He teased. “Or five for that matter.” S:  A solitary brow arched, oft as it was prone to. Her termagant hues narrowed as she elicited a faux hiss betwixt the tiers of her teeth. “ONE is more than enough, ‘lest we ruin her appetite. By the by, with any luck, she is already down in the kitchen -” She mused dryly, hooking an arm to proffer a playful tug to his beard. It was true; their progeny was a tad difficult to account for had she the inclination to ‘spelunk’ down the disused corridors of the manor.

 She was not wont for company, but when she desired to be alone, she never truly seemed to be. When first her gift manifested, Sigrid had been frightened for the girl. No one seemed to know what illness had befallen little Maevis when she made a habit of wandering at night or screaming when she suffered a supposed night terror. It had been the primary drive to teach her to articulate better, be that through physical or verbal gesticulation. Now such incidents were rare, were they to happen at all.

When the raven-haired lass stopped to turn about and address an invisible visitor, not many questioned it, either. Rather than shun her sixth sense, the Grenth-touched prodigy had adapted it as a way of life. She could see things, individuals, that no one else could, but to her they were just fellow residents and staff within her home.However, the girl had started taken her ability to ‘disappear’ a bit too much for granted lately. 

Recently, they had caught her eavesdropping indiscreetly with her only response being: “I didn’t wanna open the door if you two were KISSING! That is GROSS!” Inhaling gradually, the knightly femme scantly canted her head indicatively toward the door, her octave rising. “-and NOT outside our DOOR because if she is, she will not be given ANY offerings!” Glancing askance over the cusp of her shoulder, she stared expectantly toward the yawn of the doorway. There was no answer, let alone the sound of shuffling feet. As the blade of her tongue clicked along the roof of her mouth, she hummed curiously. “In the kitchens she is, then.” A:  It wasn’t against Argrin’s nature to laugh but when Sigird turned her attention to the doorway a rather loving chortle petered from the back of his throat. If anything it caused a rather admiring look to befall the woman as she clicked that tongue along the roof of her mouth. In the moments which proceeded them Argrin made point in coiling his arms around her waist only to draw her close, leaning down he brushed the tip of his nose at her cheek to call her attention back to him.

 Once acquired he pressed their foreheads together---certainly not a gesture his daughter would have expected them to see if she were to happen upon them. No, there were no sensual gestures of theirs mouths molding together hotly. Instead, he allowed their spiritual minds to connect, a warm smile albeit succinct in nature had graced his mouth before finally releasing her from his grip. “What do you surmise this offering to be, hm? Something pragmatic or something not?” 

The heavy breach of his footfalls muffled against the carpet heralded his meander toward the door which was opened by another strained series of groaning hinges as he opened it, being polite enough to step aside as to allow her to exit first. He was, despite his nature, still a gentleman. “Perhaps a new horse? Do little ladies adore horses still?” S: As he leaned in, the sunlight kissed the top of his head to crest a halo. Their foreheads met, and her lids waned, though the prudent smile broadened gradually. A hand once more elevated to compliment the shallow dip of his cheek bone. They were connected by more than just oaths and companionate affiliation. They were a singular entity, entwined for this life time and perhaps others to come – were one to have such a belief. For, at least, Sigrid, they had just this one and it made their time on this earth more precious. Perhaps she should have more faith in her subordinates to carry out the mission, but she knew she would not rest easy. 

Those men and women were just as much as family and she wanted to ensure they came home, even if it meant she had to spend some time away. Mayhap… it will be the last time she would have to. They stood together in silence with only their breathing audible; a biological metronome. Until Argrin rescinded. Recollecting her poise, righting her posture, she humored the enquiry as she watched him near the door.

 Soon, she followed suit.Of course, pragmaticism was a virtue; she would rather gift books or clothes. Something utilitarian… though there might be some protest. If the Little Lady’s attentiveness was slipping, maybe something indulgent was called for considering her successful studies preceding. Something to keep her invested, encouraged, but not to create a habit. A horse might seem a bit much, but Maevis was of age to learn how to ride and it was a necessity, true. And yet… As she passed, she brushed her hand along the profile of his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze before stepping over the threshold. A chuckle bubbling within the hearth of her throat. “How about we start with dinner and go from there.” She mused.