#we who

[frostgears]

We Who Will Not Bow

It had been a difficult night.

"You're not an Academy mage. You're her," the injured guard said, defiant. "Bree the Bodiless. Bree the Banished. Bree the Bloody… go on, then. Kill me. Get it over with."

"And what purpose," she said, frustrated, "would that serve? Gods, they've been telling tales about me in my absence, I see. Hold still, I think I can fix this."

She opened a module drawer on her left arm, pulled out a silvery metal module marked with a quincunx of green jade inlay, snapped it into the socket on her left palm. Thin tentacles ventured out from an aperture, tasting the air, dripping with orange ooze. The guard shrank back against the side of the checkpoint tower.

"What are you going to do to me? What is that— aaaahh!"

Bree clasped her hand over the bolt wound on the injured guard's arm. Tentacles sank into flesh, writhing between her jointed porcelain fingers, probing under skin.

"Don't squirm, that's a burrowing bolt head, we don't want it burrowing any deeper. And these are preserved regeneration glands from a nesting bog kraken. They guard their eggs, did you know that? For up to two months. But the Great Bog is a miserable environment. There's parasites, and fungi, and necrotic plague, and so the damn things evolved these organs to channel mana into their eggs and young, almost like healing spells, to give them a fighting chance. Not against me, though. I killed this one and took its regeneration glands and doomed its clutch, just to get back one more thing I used to be able to do before that fucking archon took everything away from me… okay, wiggle your fingers…"

The guard's fingers moved. Bree took her hand away, satisfied. The tentacles retracted into her palm. She held an evil-looking bit of spiraled and fluted black metal between thumb and forefinger, rotated her wrist with a series of clicks, turning it around to inspect.

"Got it. All of it. Regrowth forced it out."

Her chest plate slid open. A lurid orange glow splashed across the burrowing bolt head, the hand holding it, and the face of the guard. She squeezed the bolt head, and it crumbled, not bending as mundane metal might, but falling to dust. The glow flared brighter.

"Gotta feed the furnace. Saved your arm, paid the cost; let's go, sweetheart, I need all the help I can get. Pick up your crossbow and follow me."

Her chest plate clacked shut.

"I'm not following you anywhere, traitor!"

Bree shrugged, then held out a hand. Her other one. No disembodied organs in the right hand, although anyone who'd actually seen what she could do with the thing built into its palm would no doubt prefer to hold the left.

"The bastards who killed your mates were Crimson Vanguard, the Crimson Pact's commandos. Real dickheads even by Pact standards. Drink to your squad's memory tomorrow that you all gave nearly as good as you got, because they don't normally leave any survivors. Plus, the Vanguard always sends a backup team. So, way I see it, either you come with me, and you might live, or you run and you probably don't, and really, which one of us is the traitor then, right?"

The guard glared at her through narrowed eyes, but took her hand. Bree hauled her to her feet. And then the guard ran for it.

"It's you! You're the traitor!" Bree yelled at the guard's rapidly receding back. "In case it wasn't clear from context!"

Her voice in this body was beautifully clear and melodic, but not particularly loud; it hadn't been built for yelling, and it didn't satisfy. Not that it would stop her from trying.

Something twanged behind her. A projectile of some kind bounced off her back.

"Nice try," she said, spinning around and folding her right hand down to reveal a hand-length metal spike nestled in a cavity in the mechanism of her arm, "my turn now." An internal spring released. The spike shot out, and did what it might be expected to do to a human skull.

She wiped fresh blood off her faceplate, afterward; tasted the crimson spatter with the tip of an intricately jointed porcelain tongue. It didn't taste like anything. It never did. Nothing did.

"You didn't have to come here," she said to the headless Vanguard commando at her feet. "Any other town. Or better yet, stay home, and don't murder anyone, and I could return the favor. But you came here armed, and it lives here, and I have this little compulsion to take care of it, yeah? 'HER TASK FOR THE TIME BEING SHALL BE TO SAFEGUARD AND PROTECT HER MOST RECENT VICTIM, UNTIL AND UNLESS SAID VICTIM MAY RELEASE HER FROM SERVICE, SATISFIED'," she said, in a low, mocking tone. "Lyric's horrified to even look at me, so I doubt satisfaction and release are on the table any time soon, right?"

No answer was forthcoming.

"Well, fuck you too, buddy. Time to go find your friends."

She sped along the main road, each step a leap, her torn and patched Academy cape flapping behind her. Everyone trying to get into the town had fled when the first Vanguard team set fire to the checkpoint, with their wagons if they could, on foot if they had to. She passed several wagons that stood abandoned, stopped briefly at another to shatter a yoke with her fist and free two terrified oxen.

Then she saw what she was looking for: you'd have to be an idiot to keep driving your wagon towards a burning guard tower, unless you were the rest of the second Vanguard team, with a wagon full of bad news.

Bree knelt in a ditch by the side of the road, screened from view by a thicket, and swapped out the regeneration gland module with another set of pickled arcane beast parts in a can, which did another thing she'd been able to do on her own before her body had been taken away.

The wagon was almost to her, close enough that her upgraded senses could clearly see the outline of a crossbow beneath the driver's plain black cloak. She tickled the stolen sun-serpent pyrosis organ with an internal actuator, and flame bloomed in the night again.

They came scrambling out, firing back, the snap of bows audible over the screaming of the horses. Disciplined, she had to give them that. Bolts hit her in the face and chest.

Not to much effect, of course. She'd once been Lyric's twin, an almost peerless servant automaton frame, built by her old business partner to last, but fundamentally also built to serve tea and look good in a maid outfit. It wasn't enough. It wasn't her. She'd made Coda upgrade her again and again, until Coda's own restorative compulsion had hit its limits, and the artificer told her there was nothing more she knew how to do. By then, she was strong. From there, she'd upgraded herself.

Three of them rushed her with swords. Close enough, Bree thought; she raised her right hand, opening the palm shutter, and whispered, "Nis zerat volut, ghran."

Her soulcatcher, the glowing point of twisted light in her right palm, was, in some sense, the reason she was here, stuck in this patchwork body with its almost nil astral presence. It was an instrument of more subtlety than power and it still worked for her when the rest of her magic had died. She'd upgraded it too. Now it didn't need a soul to be loosened from its mortal shell first.

Ghostly purple light streamed over them, and a moment later, they were down. She fed their torn-off souls to her furnace. Apparent time slowed to a crawl, the high ticking of her main escapement dropping to a steady thud, thud, thud. She snapped blades, broke bones, ripped through the remaining commandos with accelerated fury. The details were messy and irrelevant, forgotten as quickly as they came. The last two Vanguard were carrying a box. She took it from them and opened the lid.

The shock broke her concentration; her time sped up again. "Titan voidwasp larvae," she said, almost reverently. They'd been covered at the Academy, briefly, not something anyone was expected to encounter. The shiny purple-black grubs were from somewhere far, far away, and their eventual monstrous metamorphosis drank souls, just like she did now, but on a colossal scale. They were city killers.

"Here's the thing, little guys, even I don't trust myself with shit like you. Sorry. Protect and safeguard, you know how it is."

She fired her spike, retracted its cable, fired again, into each one in turn, until nothing was left but ichor and chitin splinters. Then she teased a last fractional burst out of her pyrosis module, playing a jet of flame across the mess, just in case.

That was it. There didn't seem to be much else to do. She checked for Vanguard survivors. One of them wasn't quite gone.

"Who… what… the fuck… are you?"

"Just somebody's discarded doll," Bree told him. "When the Pact interrogates your ghost, tell them Bree said not to come back." She dispatched him, as cleanly as she could.

For an indefinite time, there was no motion on the bloodied road, except for the dying flames, and the wind teasing her cape and her hair.

Silver radiance kindled beside her.

"Oh no, not you, don't you fucking start with me—"

"JUSTICE."

"—can piss up a rope!"

She ramped up her speed again and tried to strike the figure of a burning haloed skeleton with fire and the soulcatcher, both at once, but hit nothing but empty air. The archon was only as tangible as it wanted to be. She'd find a way to get at it someday, but it seemed today wasn't going to be that day.

"CEASE THIS."

"Get fucked."

"IT MAY INTEREST YOU TO KNOW THAT THE SUMMONING OF THE CHOSEN HERO HAS YET AGAIN FAILED."

"Not my fault the archmages can't get it up."

"THE HERO IS SUMMONED TO SAFEGUARD THE KINGDOM. THAT IS THE PURPOSE OF THE RITUAL. THE INVOCATIONS BESEECH THE DIVINE TO FILL A NEED AND PROVIDE A PROTECTOR IN THE TIME OF CRISIS."

"Okay, I don't care."

"IF A PROTECTOR IS ALREADY INCARNATE, THE DIVINE FEEL THEIR DUTY IS DONE. EVEN IF THE HERO IS UNAWARE OF THEIR ROLE."

"I jacked the Chosen Hero's soul and sold it to Coda and put it in a doll, right, I was there. So what, you're saying they can't do it again because Lyric's already here, even if it's a doll maid and not a hero? Tough shit, I guess. You met it, you know it isn't exactly hero material."

"YOUR ASSESSMENT IS CRUDE BUT CORRECT. IT IS NOT, AND IT WILL NOT BE. IT IS CONTENT TO SERVE AND TO ENJOY ITS NEW FORM. AND YET A HERO EXISTS. SOMEONE PROTECTS THE KINGDOM ALREADY, ALTHOUGH THEY DO NOT THINK OF IT IN SUCH TERMS. THEY DID SO AGAIN, THIS NIGHT."

"Wait."

"YOUR ACTIONS PRODUCED A HERO."

"Oh gods no."

"THE GODS WATCH. THE SKEIN OF DESTINY IS RE-COILED, A TANGLE REMOVED."

"I can't be—"

"JUSTICE MAY YET BE DONE. GOOD LUCK TO YOU."

Bree roundly cursed the archon in her annoyingly pleasant and musical voice, until it disappeared, and then another fifteen minutes for good measure, in case it felt like coming back. When it didn't, she started walking.

She looked back, once, to see the lights of the town. Somewhere back there, Coda and Lyric lived in their little shop. Lyric didn't sleep any more than Bree did. Maybe her once-twin was leaning out the window, one of its cute dresses ruffled by the night breeze. Maybe it was even looking this way.

"Well, let's face it, Bree," she said to herself, resigned. "You wouldn't have been a very good maid." □

---

prev: We Who Serve

next: We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 1: Bree 1

[lrndvs]

compliments from girls go hard

[cartoonsinthemorning]

Since you guys liked Marcille as Kermit that much, it seems fitting to thank you for my 12k milestone with MORE Kercille. And this time, Miss Falin is also here.

Thank you so much again everybody! MWAH 💗

[sadclowncentral]

my family is fucking addicted to macgyvering and it's becoming a problem. every time something in this house breaks, instead of doing the sensible thing of replacing it or calling someone qualified to fix it, we all group around the offending object with a manic look in our eyes and everyone gets a try at fixing it while being cheered on or ridiculed by the rest.

it's a beautiful bonding activity, but the "creative" fixes have turned our house into a quasihaunted escape room like contraption where everything works, but only in the wonkiest of ways. you need a huge block of iron to turn on the stove. the oven only works if a specific clock is plugged in. the bread machine has a huge wood block just stapled to it that has become foundational to its function. sometimes when you use the toaster the doorbell rings. and that's just the kitchen.

it's all fun and games until you have guests over and you have to lay out the rules of the house like it's a fucking board game. welcome to the beautiful guest room. don't pull out the couch yourself you need a screwdriver for that, and that metal rod makes the lamp work so don't move it. it also made me a terrifying roommate in college, because it makes me think i can fix anything with enough hubris and a drill. you want to call the landlord about a leaky faucet? as if. one time my dad made me install a new power socket because we ran our of extension cords

[sillyguy-supreme]

white americans when you tell them that the idea of climate change as an impending disaster is a reductive first world perspective because it’s a tangible reality for many in the global south already:

[ered]

Here’s my take on the whole audio books vs. reading:

Oral tradition of storytelling predates written ones by millennias, and honestly, which one you like is just a personal preference.

The actual difference is

when listening, you have no idea how to write characters’ names

when reading, you have no idea how to pronounce characters’ names

hope this helps!

[nothazellevesque]

a man self immolated in front of the israeli embassy in washington dc yesterday. not just any man. an active member of the us air force. he live streamed his death, and said that he refused to be complicit in a genocide any longer. he said that compared to what palestinians were facing every day, setting himself alight was nothing.

let me reiterate. an active duty air force member burned himself alive because he was so disgusted by what the us government was openly supporting. he live-streamed his own suicide, so the whole world could bear witness as a man in his military uniform set himself on fire to protest his government’s complicity in the horrors that we have all been forced to watch happen in real time. he became a new horror. footage of the immolation blurs him out the moment the fire catches, but you can hear him. it is over in seconds, really, but you can hear him screaming. he shouts “free palestine” until his body physically cannot make any sounds other than guttural screams of agony. and then he falls silent. a police officer arrives and points a gun at his still burning body, shouting at him to get down on the ground. and it is over.

his name was Aaron Bushnell. he was twenty five years old. and he isn’t here anymore because the political ruling class has decided that genocide is perfectly fine as long as it preserves imperialism. in the coming days, people will try to discredit him. to say that he was mentally unstable. they will try to bury his actions to save face and defend israel’s propaganda. do not let them. aaron knew what he was doing. he knew what he was doing when he put on his military uniform, set up his twitch stream, and made his final walk up to the embassy. he knew what would happen to him when he flicked that lighter. do not let them forget. aaron’s blood is on the hands of the political ruling class.

[gayvampyr]

asking people to be mindful of others when sharing a communal space (especially one you cannot just up and leave from) is not selfish or misanthropic. come on now

[lazylittledragon]

can't believe we're all adults being forced into the club penguin level of censorship in 2024

[newlevant]

Preview of Sam Long’s story, drawn by the amazing Cynthia Yuan Cheng! (@cynthiaycheng, cynthiaycheng.com)

Becoming Who We Are Kickstarter ends Dec 14! Preorder now to help us fund the book!

bit.ly/becomingkickstarter

[frostgears]

We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 1: Bree 1

"You should come away from the railing, miss. We're doing thirty knots, easy, with the wind in our favor like this, and the water's absolutely frigid. We lose anyone overboard, they're in trouble. Plus, I heard, the uh, the second mate, she said, uh…"

The catboy's tail swung nervously behind him, side to side.

"Spit it out, Henley," she said without turning away from the churning ocean.

"She said dolls don't swim so well."

"Yeah, all right," she grudgingly admitted, stepping well back from the wooden rail between her and the icy brine. And then, "Aren't you cold?"

"Nah. Cold-weather breed, me. Triple coat. And I swim just fine." he said proudly. "Proud nautical family, mine. Still, not looking to take a dip today. Aren't you cold, miss?"

"Can't feel cold any more."

"Huh."

"Captain awake yet?"

"Yes, miss. Captain's just finishing breakfast."

---

"Heard you were roaming around and scaring the crew," the captain said, spreading a piece of toast with jam.

"Hardly. Henley doesn't seem to mind me."

"Henley's blessed with the daftness of youth and an untrained eye for magic. The ship's witch refuses to come out of the crow's nest; they're sleeping up there now, even in this chill."

"My compliments to the ship's witch on our speed, captain," the doll said, dipping a precise curtsy. She'd meant it to be a halfassed curtsy, but even after years of upgrades, there were reflexes built into this body that were too strong to shrug off.

"I suspect they just want you delivered and off this ship."

"The winds have been good, so I'm not fussed as to whatever they think of me. Whatever gets me there fastest."

"And you will consider our debt settled then, I hope," the captain said, in a much-put-upon voice.

"Captain! I thought we were friends enjoying a sea voyage together. I had no idea you were such a mercenary."

She raised an eyebrow, a feat that had been beyond her until fairly recently, due to her previous set of eyebrows having been painted on.

"Yes, of course we're done, old man. I'm not an unreasonable person."

"You're not a person at all," he grouched.

"So I can't be an unreasonable one," she said happily, having scored a point in the long-running game that she played against the rest of the world.

---

"There we go, miss. That's the last of your things."

"Thank you, Henley." She slid an intricately jointed hand into the long-unused pockets of her old Academy greatcoat, found what she knew would be there. "Here. Little something for you."

"A pocketknife, miss? Thank you. This will come in handy under way."

"An Academy pocketknife. Take two steps back and open the big blade."

The catboy put a thumb over the tab for the big blade. She made a sharp noise.

"Ah-ah, Henley. Two steps back."

"Yes, miss."

The knife unfolded, an aurora-blade of ghostly light three feet long. Henley's fur stood on end.

"I… I can't take this, miss."

"You can take it, and you can use it, so you should. Most people can't even open one. Maybe your ship's witch…" She tilted her head, crystal eyes scanning nothing visible, and added, "I have to admit that it's not just out of the goodness of my heart. We're about to get jumped."

"You hear them too, miss?"

"Not hear, but… yes. I make three."

Two figures in crimson cloaks rappelled down from the roof of the building to the right. Another from the left.

"Four. Behind us."

She turned. A fourth cast aside their dull grey overcloak and tray of eel pies.

"Good ears on a good boy. They're Crimson Fist, Pact executioners. They're far from home, but so am I: no one's going to help us here."

The not-person in the Academy greatcoat adjusted a crystal cylinder in the open metal webwork of her left arm. Within it, something hissed; chill blue-grey fog streamed from vents, pooled at her feet, and began drifting in all directions.

"You don't have the stomach for a fight? Run now, quickly, back to the ship as fast as you can. But I think you'll be better off if you hold that blade and stand with me. And Henley?"

"Yes, Miss?"

Two of the three in front drew blades: jagged, showy things. The Fist was here to leave a mess and send a message. They'd leave witnesses. But Henley had helped her. Henley had carried her baggage. They probably wouldn't leave Henley.

"You said you were a cold-weather breed."

"Yes, Miss!"

"Still. Ware the ice."

She stepped forward.

"Hey. Hey," she shouted, as loud as she could; it had taken months of tuning to get it this way, and her voice still wasn't that loud, but it carried well enough. "Pact puppets. Future corpses. You know who I am?"

The center cloak unrolled a scroll. The Fist loved their drama. The scroll-carrier intoned, "The failed mage of the Splinter Territories known commonly as 'Bree the Blessed' has been convicted of high crimes against the people and order of the Crimson Pact—"

"Yeah, that's me… wait, 'the Blessed'?"

"–for which the sentence is death. Judgement will be rendered here forthwith—"

"You probably won't take it, but: one chance. Just walk away."

They never walked away. Except that one time they actually did. She felt a little better, given that one time. But so far it had just been the one.

"—so let all who have eyes take heed."

The one behind them incanted something she couldn't quite pick up. The two holding swords rushed her and Henley.

Right into the fog.

They never learned. Except that one time. This didn't seem like it was going to be like that one time. You had to stay alive to learn.

Bree snapped her fingers; the fog erupted into jagged blue-black ice; the two sword-wielders staggered, impaled by lances of horrible cold. She snapped again and they shattered.

Quick, at least, and limited. She'd used fire often enough that she'd come to appreciate alternatives. This one wouldn't spread past the targets of her wrath and burn the town.

Henley screeched and came swinging wildly for the one with the scroll. They caught the catboy's stroke easily on an armored wrist.

Too bad for them. An aurora-blade touching skin could burn. An aurora-blade reacting with a metal gauntlet sent fat sparks crawling over the Fist assassin's body and dropped them. The catboy might have a little more magic than she had thought.

So far, so good. She took a half-step back, turned, and opened her hand, willing the fog to condense for her into a keen-edged rapier, glinting icy blue light from its blade and freezing a trail of frost in the air.

The trip to the utter north had been worth it just to see what lay pooled there, where the world touched the cold void beyond, and on top of that, she'd been able to take some for herself. So far, it obeyed her, and she loved it for that.

The last Fist assassin, the false seller of eel pies, lunged at her, their own blade glimmering lucent gold with some invocation she didn't recognize.

She iced the ground beneath them just barely enough to trip them up. When they stumbled, she thrust, her rapier accompanied by a half-dozen reflections of itself, a hexagonal column of frozen death.

A hexagonal column of frozen death tore seven long slashes through a crimson jacket and skidded off the material underneath. She barely kept her balance. The Fist stood up, apparently unhurt, shrugging off their ruined uniform.

Bree stared, crystal eyes scanning again and again over what was clearly no armor. Her opponent bore articulations in metal and ceramic in a way that admitted no human occupant.

The Crimson Pact was human, by and large, except for the ruling minority that famously was not. The demons suffered no power that threatened theirs, and especially no permanent interference with the flow of souls.

"So you're making dolls now?" she said aloud.

The Pact assassin ran her free hand through her hair, fanning golden tresses behind her. Shreds of crimson trailed her in the slight wind. Crystal eyes met hers. They looked just like hers — or Lyric's — if rendered in pitiless ruby.

"Only," the Pact doll said, "in the service of unmaking other dolls."

The Fist really did love their drama. But she had to admit that the other doll was a work of art, a sculpture of martial glory.

"That's a hell of a compliment," Bree said. "Good luck with that."

She moved to interpose her armored frame between the Pact doll and Henley, and then let go of her mind's grip on the frozen rapier and the surrounding fog, all at once.

In the chaos of the ensuing cryonic explosion, she picked up the catboy, threw him over her shoulder, and ran. This wasn't his fight. She'd dump him somewhere safe, and then…

Her mind already churned with plans and stratagems and half-formed invocations. Another doll… Had she become threat enough to actually rattle the Crimson Pact? What could that other doll do? And were people really calling her Bree the Blessed?

She thought that, just for a moment in her flight, she saw the flicker of a certain silver radiance, but told herself it was just sunlight off the harbor. Had to be. It wouldn't dare get in her way.

---

prev: We Who Will Not Bow next: We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 2: Lyric 1

[dogiechik]

So who is ready to crash a streaming site through sheer numbers this october 18 watching The Edge of Sleep? WE ARE.

[ingravinoveritas]

"We've all got to be fighting that fight every day."

Happy Pride, everyone...

[noperopesaredope]

I wish we had more female characters like Eleanor Shellstrop. One of the most unlikable people you've ever met. Read a Buzzfeed article on most rude things you can do on a daily basis and decided to use that as a list of goals. Makes everyone's day worse just by being there. Dropped a margarita mix on the ground and tried to pick it up, only to get hit by a row of shopping carts which pushed her into the road where she was hit by a boner pill delivery truck, killing her instantly. Cannot keep a romantic partner despite being bisexual. Had a terrible childhood but will die before she gets therapy. Best employee at a scam company. Just the worst but also can't help but root for her to improve.

Absolute loser. Girl-failure. Bad at almost everything. Literally perfect female character.

[mickedy]

Since it's pride month I'm going to say. Can we stop making fun of adults who don't have sex. Not even particularly asexuals, just general people who don't like sex personally or don't want to have it for whatever reason. It's just not great to portray people who don't have sex as weird losers or naive little kids or whatever, even as a joke