#what's a handcart

[littledragonkana]

Local girl takes a walk and gets harassed by three 13 year olds who then get told off by 5 slightly drunk adult men and a very friendly dog.

Karma does exist ✌️

[reasonsforhope]

"According to National Coalition for the Homeless, 40% of the country’s homeless youth population is comprised of LGTBQ+ teens. 

When New York native Austin Rivers took up knitting during the COVID-19 pandemic, it was this staggering figure that drove him towards action. 

“I don’t have the capacity to build a shelter, the network or the connections to help in that way, but what I can do is knit,” Rivers told NBC News. 

“And I know that New York City is cold, so I decided I would start knitting and create this nonprofit.”

That’s when he founded Knit the Rainbow, an organization that distributes free handmade garments to those in need. 

And nearly five years after it was first created, Rivers’ knitting collective isn’t just serving the queer community in New York City.

Their nationwide network links local yarn stores and local nonprofits with over 550 volunteers from 45 states. 

As of 2024, they have collected and distributed over 25,000 winter garments — including sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves, and socks — throughout homeless communities in New Jersey, Chicago, Detroit, and beyond. 

Once clothing items are shipped to Rivers’ apartment, he works with volunteers to unpack boxes, tag and sort donations, and pack and deliver them to local shelters that provide housing to LGBTQ+ and HIV+ homeless youth. 

Although the organization’s impact is wider, and the piles of mail have grown higher, Rivers still has a hand in day-to-day deliveries. 

“We’re going to do it whether it’s rain, or snow, or shine,” Rivers said in his NBC News interview, pulling a handcart topped with boxes. 

Those clothes could be the difference between frostbite and hospitalization, especially in cities that often drop below freezing in the wintertime. 

But Rivers also noted that every handmade item — knitted, crocheted, or stitched — has a dual impact, because every piece of clothing is made with love. 

“A lot of the times, the reason that they’re unhoused is because they were kicked out by their families,” Rivers said. 

“We’re not just providing warmth, but we’re also providing that love and that compassion that they so often don’t have.” 

To the members of the community Knit The Rainbow served, he had a clear message.

“There are thousands of people out here that are constantly thinking of you and using their hands to make things for you,” Rivers emphasized. “So don’t give up. Keep going.”

To download free knitting [and crochet] patterns, donate a garment, or sign up to volunteer, you can visit the organization's website to get started." 

‍-via GoodGoodGood, December 23, 2024

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Hank

I'm eating a bag of mormon gorp that tastes like gasoline while watching the rain run down the mountain. The taste doesn't even bother me anymore - all homemade gorp tastes like this. It's just a natural consequence of everyone keeping their prepper shit in their garages. 

My dad's out in the clearing, wandering around with his GPS. He's got some pieces of wire out on top of it to try and make the effective antennae bigger, but it just makes it look like he's dowsing. Another mormon tradition. I ask him if he's close to find water yet, and he looks up at me, little rivers flowing off him, and says yeah - he can feel it. 

I'm sure he can. I settle under my tree and watch the droplets roll down the needles. Awaiting the final judgement of Judge GPS. 

A few minutes later, it provides: 

Turns out my dad forgot to record the location of the car this morning. The GPS remembers where we parked yesterday, but by luck my dad knows how to get from there to our car. Downside is that it's a nine mile walk just to get to yesterday's position, then another five miles to backtrack. That's fourteen miles total. 

I'm only thirteen. 

Think you can make it? my dad asks. And it's a kindness that he's worried, but it's not like there's an alternative. What else would I do, sit down in the murk and cross my fingers he finds me again? Ask him to carry me 14 miles? 

I'll be pretty jelly legged, I say. But yeah. I'll make it. 

Attaboy, he says. He fishes a bag of poptarts out and offers me one as - I think - a peace offering. A, sorry you're gonna have to walk 14 miles in the rain because I goofed kind of gift. 

I take a bite and, despite being individually wrapped, it still manages to taste like diesel fumes. We start hiking our incredibly long distance in terrible weather for foolish reasons, and I joke to my dad that the only way to make this day any more mormon would be by pushing handcarts. 

He laughs. Neither of us laugh again until 11 pm, when we stumble like drunkards into camp. My grandpa has stayed up late to make sure we weren’t lost, but he only stays up long enough to see us arrive. We try to eat a dinner of sweet potato stew, but after falling asleep in the middle twice, we agree to just go to bed. 

I sleep in well past nine and wake up to nobody in camp but my grandpa. My dad left with my sister to keep hunting around 5 am. I know that everyone assumes that their dad is invincible when they're 13, but I'm 28 now and part of me still thinks he's gonna live forever. That God made exactly one perpetual motion machine, and it raised me in the desert. 

---

Around noon my grandpa suggests hunting again. If it was my dad, I'd probably tune him out, but I like my grandpa's style of hunting. My dad hikes and hikes and hikes until the elk get tired and just let him shoot them. My grandpa finds the sleepiest, sunniest, coziest field and takes a nap there, figuring if the elk have any decent taste they'll come there at some point.

Man's got a knack for knowing what elk like - he's right more often than not. I think he might've been an elk in a previous life. 

I go with him, and much as I hate to admit it, the hike is good for me. I start off walking like a pirate on two peg legs, so stiff I might as well not have knees, but by the end of the mile and a half walk I'm almost normal. We make it to the edge of the clearing, and my grandpa finds a patch of grass taller and softer than the beds inside the trailer, and he curls up to sleep there. I look across the grass and I watch the comings and goings of critters through the field. Sometimes I use the scope to get a magnified view, but I never do so with my hand on the trigger. The thought of accidentally looking a person through that glass is something that sends a chill up my spine. 

Some deer wander through the glen, but it'd take a fool to mistake one of them for an elk. A few hours later, my grandpa wakes up and asks if I want to wander around a little. It's a lovely day. Rain comes in bursts in Arizona, and the day after is almost always clear as can be. And for a short while, all the desert browns turn green and lush. Hard mosses turn squishy and cacti swell up like fresh baked muffins and for a while you can get why people settled in these god forsaken wastes. 

So I go with him, and we walk on, me with my gun, him just taking in the forest. He looks so peaceful that I get a little jealous, but it's not until my grandpa stops and looks at me that I even notice it myself. Takes a mirror, sometimes, to know yourself.

Being near my grandpa is always a strange thing for me. He's quiet, and he doesn't talk much, and I don't ever get the feeling that he's particularly emotionally intelligent - but it's like he's interacting with a reality more raw and real than mine. Like I'm watching symbols on a screen and he's counting atoms. And sometimes, just being near him gives me access to that raw matter. Just something about how he is breaks the illusions of the world.

He looks at the gun like a foreign object, like he doesn't recognize it, then he looks at me. He speaks and he doesn't mince words. 

What would you do if an elk came across the path and you shot it right now? he asks. 

Well, I'd start cleaning it, I say, and he waves the words away like cobwebs in his face. 

But would you celebrate? he presses.

And I look at him, and I don't actually see any judgement staring back. He knows the answer, and he's at peace with it. He’s asking so I can see it too. He’s being a mirror so I can see my own face.

I think I might actually cry, I admit. And he nods along in agreement before reaching forward to take the gun off my shoulder. 

Lets just walk today, he says. No chance of killing anything. No worrying about that. 

Right, I say. 

He pops the chamber open and tosses me back my bullet. I catch it, and the relief I feel is palpable. 

Can I change my mind? I ask, and he shrugs.

Whenever you want. Hunt or don’t. It’s not the hunting that I’m worried about. It’s seeing you ignore your conscience.

And for a moment, I'm there in the real world with him, and my gloves are off, and reality is a metal cube in my hand: Sharp and cold and heavy.

Or maybe that’s just the bullet.

---

We make it back to camp a bit later than my dad. We get there and he’s waiting for us. If he's tired, he doesn't show it. 

How'd it go? he asks. My grandpa looks at me, and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to explain it, and I am scared. 

Great, he replies. It's a shame Babs only has a doe tag. We saw a five-point out there. Close enough to hit with a football. 

No, my dad says. If his grin was a half inch wider, both ends of his mouth would meet in the back of his head and everything above his tongue would slide off.

Tell him Babs, grandpa says. And, not for the first time, and especially not the last, I try my hand at spinning a yarn. 

It's pretty good. But at 13, I still have a lot to learn.

[one-flower-one-sword]

Hello I have a question everyone is going on about Hua Cheng hating Feng Xin despite being loyal to Xie Lian. What do you think of the reason Hua Cheng hatred towards Feng Xin?

Hey Anon! thank you for your question, I'll do my best to answer it :)

First of all, I think it's important to keep in mind that Hua Cheng has reasons to hate Feng Xin outside of his treatment of Xie Lian. Though out of the two, Mu Qing treated Hong Hong-er the worst - arguing that a visibly starved and abused child was lying about having no one caring for him and then later kicking him out of the army out of jealousy - Feng Xin really wasn't much better:

The young child shook his head, but Mu Qing said, “There must be. If he doesn't go back, his family will surely be worried sick looking for him.”

“No, no way! There's nobody!” that young child cried, sounding like he was afraid to be sent back, and he opened his arms reaching for Xie Lian. He was still covered with mud and blood, and Feng Xin couldn't stand it anymore.

“What're ya doin’, kid? Things were urgent earlier, so whatever, but shouldn't you know better by now? This is the crown prince. His Highness the Crown Prince. Do you understand?”

That young child's arms immediately shrank back, but he was still gazing at Xie Lian.

Vol 2, page 362

We see this treatment of Hua Cheng continue all the way to the reveal in Mount Tonglu's caves: because of what Hua Cheng is - a beggar child, a ghost king - he shouldn't be near Xie Lian - a crown prince, a god - and his adoration for Xie Lian and desire to be near him is openly treated by Feng Xin as inappropriate and disgusting, as something Xie Lian needs to be “protected” from at all cost - if Xie Lian wants to or not.

After walking for a while, Feng Xin spoke up. “No. I still don't think Your Highness should hold a strange child for everyone to see.”

“What's the problem?” Xie Lian asked.

“You're the crown prince!” Feng Xin exclaimed. While he spoke, he saw a worn-down handcart further up the alley and said, “Put the kid in the cart and pull it.”

Mu Qing immediately voiced, “Just so we're clear, I will not pull that thing up the mountain.”

”No one's asking you to,” Feng Xin said. He reached out and yanked the child from Xie Lian's arms, and the child started struggling again.

Vol 2, page 364

Because Xie Lian is nobility, in Feng Xin's eyes he shouldn't be seen carrying a child of the lowest class. Keep in mind that it was Xie Lian's own decision to carry Hong Hong-er himself and that the child had repeatedly made clear it didn't want to be carried by anyone else. But Feng Xin still takes Hong Hong-er away from Xie Lian, the only person that the child feels safe with and is being treated well by. Not to mention that he's yanking a child around that he knows has recently been brutally beaten, with no apparent care for its injuries.

Once Mei Nianqing divines Hong-er's fate, Feng Xin treats him like everyone else does except for Xie Lian - as if he's not a human being but some kind of dangerous monster that Xie Lian shouldn't even touch:

The Deputy State Preceptors blocked Hong Hong-er, and the State Preceptor backed away, yelling, “Make him leave the mountain, hurry! Don't touch him, I mean it! That fortune is too toxic; don't touch him!” The Deputy State Preceptors hurriedly moved aside, and Mu Qing and Feng Xin didn't know whether to act.

Seeing that everyone was avoiding him like he was poisonous vermin, the child was shaken and started thrashing even harder, biting and screaming with all his might. “I'm not! I'm not!! I'M NOT!!!”

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, encircling his small form. A voice came from above his head. “You're not. I know you're not. Don't cry, now. I know you're not.”

[...] A while later, the State Preceptor said, “I mean it. It's best if you let go.”

Feng Xin finally came to his senses and exclaimed, “Your Highness! Let go! Be careful of…”

Vol 2 page 380+ 382

So what we've established is that Feng Xin treated Hong Hong-er at best like a nuisance that Xie Lian shouldn't be seen caring for because of the class differences, and some kind of dangerous inhuman thing at worst. Now, since that was the way everyone but Xie Lian was treating him back then, I actually don't think it would stand out to Hua Cheng that much - but what would stand out to him was that Feng Xin, just like Mu Qing, repeatedly tried to separate him from Xie Lian, both through words and through actions, and that he went against Xie Lian's wishes in doing so.

Now we can tackle the other part of your question, Hua Cheng hating Feng Xin despite his being loyal to Xie Lian. And I think to answer it fully, we must first ask ourselves - was he loyal?

It's true that Feng Xin stayed with Xie Lian longer than Mu Qing did after the banishment, but his choices during that time tell their own story:

“Actually, it's… Your Highness, do you still have any money on you? Or something that can be pawned?”

Xie Lian was perplexed that he'd ask such a foolish question at a time like this. “Huh? Why do you ask?”

Feng Xin was sweating, but he replied boldly, “It's nothing… Just… If you happen to have some, can you… lend it to me?”

Xie Lian laughed bitterly. “Do you really think I have anything?”

Feng Xin sighed. “I didn't think so.”

After giving it some thought, Xie Lian asked, “Didn't I give you that golden belt?”

“That's not enough,” Feng Xin mumbled. “Far from it…”

Xie Lian was shocked. “Feng Xin? What exactly did you do? How could a golden belt not be enough to cover what you need? Did you beat someone up and need to pay them off? Tell me?”

Feng Xin came back to himself and quickly said, “Oh no! Don't take this to heart. I was only asking!”

Xie Lian pressed him over and over, but Feng Xin still swore everything was fine. Finally, Xie Lian said with worry, “Well, if there's anything, you must tell me. We can think of a solution together.”

“Don't worry about me,” Feng Xin said. “There's no way a solution will just fall from the sky. Your Highness, you just focus on solving your own problems.”

Vol 6, page 219

While superficially this might look like Feng Xin is trying not to burden Xie Lian with his problems, when we look at the actual context we realize that that's not why he is lying about what's going on. This is set during the time where they're barely managing to scrape enough food together not to starve, and are struggling to make enough money to buy medicine for Xie Lian's sick father. And Feng Xin knows this, knows that anything of value should go towards their continued survival - that's why he rejects Xie Lian's repeated offers of help and lies to him about there being no particular reason he's asking for money. Is that loyalty?

Soon after, he heard the Queen sigh. “If this keeps up, how will my son ever get better?”

Xie Lian could feel something amiss with those words, and Feng Xin replied in a quiet voice. “He's only like this because he's exhausted. Too much has happened lately. Will Your Majesties also keep a close eye on him? Please let me know as soon as possible if there's anything not right with His Highness, but don't tell him you did. Also avoid saying anything that might provoke him-”

Vol 6, page 220-221

Feng Xin told Xie Lian he believed him when he said that Bai WuXiang was back and was stalking him, but behind his back, it's a different story. Not only does he doubt Xie Lian’s grip on reality and his own mind, he urges Xie Lian's parents to also keep up the pretense and then report to Feng Xin behind Xie Lian's back. Is that loyalty?

And we need to keep in mind that this isn't a one time deal but a pattern of behavior that keeps repeating. Feng Xin keeps treating Xie Lian as too naive to be trusted to make his own choices, hence his trying to keep Xie Lian from caring for Hong Hong-er, trying to “manage” Xie Lian like an unruly child, and then all the way to conspiring with Mu Qing to kidnap Xie Lian away from Hua Cheng no matter what Xie Lian wants because they think they know better.

Xie Lian knelt by the stream and puked his guts out for over an hour, heaving until blood came up. After descending the mountain, he walked through the city for a long time, aimlessly wandering the main streets without a destination in mind. Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him into an alley. Xie Lian looked around and saw an incoming fist before he even glimpsed the other's face.

“Where did you run off to for so long?!” Behind the fist was Feng Xin's furious expression, but by the time Xie Lian saw, he'd already been knocked to the ground by the punch. Feng Xin hadn't expected to knock him down so easily. Confused, he looked at his own fist, then at Xie Lian on the ground. Before he could think to help him up, Xie Lian had already crawled back up by himself.

Feng Xin's face changed, but in the end, his temper was still flaring. “You've got such an attitude! Dropping only a word before running away and disappearing for two months! Do you know how worried Their Majesties have been?!”

Vol 6, page 263

This is after Xie Lian ran away when he found out Feng Xin didn't believe him and was then lured to the abandoned temple by Bai WuXiang and severely tortured and violated. He was obviously not alright when he left and just from the fact that he disappeared for that long it should be obvious that something is seriously wrong - yet Feng Xin doesn't care about finding out, he's so angry at the way Xie Lian is “failing” to be the perfect image he's made up in his head that the moment he sees him again, he punches him in the face. Is that loyalty?

“Why are you being like this? When did you become this way?” Feng Xin mumbled. “I… I really don't know… I'm… Why did I follow you all this time - ?”

“Then stop following,” Xie Lian said.

Feng Xin couldn't wrap his head around that. “What?”

“I said, don't follow me anymore,” Xie Lian repeated. Then he slammed the door.

Four hours later, there was finally some rustling outside the room and low voices speaking. It seemed Feng Xin was bidding farewell to Xie Lian's mother and father. Feng Xin's voice was extremely low, the queen's voice was choked with sobs, and the king didn't say much, but there was a lot of coughing. The door opened a moment later, then closed. Feng Xin's voice vanished, and the sound of his footsteps grew more and more distant. Feng Xin had left.

[...] Before Feng Xin had left, Xie Lian had been afraid. Now that Feng Xin was gone, he wasn't scared anymore. But even though he no longer felt fear, he felt a deeper agony. Xie Lian had initially held a one-in-a-million bit of hope at the bottom of his heart. He'd hoped that Feng Xin would still stay even if Xie Lian admitted he had done things he shouldn't have, even if he became the worst version of himself. After all, the two had never left each other's side since he turned fourteen and Feng Xin was selected to be his personal attendant. They were master and servant, but more than that, they were friends. And Feng Xin had no one to care for aside from the crown prince either - or, at most, him, and the king and queen. But Feng Xin had really left.

Vol 6, page 273-274

And finally, as Xie Lian begins to crack under the weight of his trauma, Feng Xin leaves. Is that loyalty? Or, more precisely, we have to ask ourselves - who was it that Feng Xin used to be loyal to? Because from what we've seen, it was less Xie Lian the person and more the perfect image of a crown prince and a god Feng Xin wanted and repeatedly tried to force Xie Lian to be - a crown prince who doesn't behave inappropriately by carrying beggar children, who doesn't go against the orders of his Shifu, a perfect god who never falters and doesn't show mental or physical strain no matter what he goes through.

Xie Lian stopped eating and said gently, “But I can sort of understand… your feelings.” After a pause, he continued, “There was a period in my own life that wasn't easy. Back then, I'd always think about how wonderful it would be if someone could still love me for who I was, even if they saw me rolling in the dirt and couldn't get up. Though I don't know if there's anyone out there like that. And I'm scared of showing that part of myself too. But if it's someone San Lang yearns for… I think that even if they saw you at your worst, they wouldn't say something like, ‘ah, you're not so great after all'”.

His face grew solemn. “To me, the one basking in infinite glory is you; the one fallen from grace is also you. What matters is you, not the state of you. [...]”

Vol 4, page 182

This is why ‘what matters is you, not the state of you” is the foundation of Xie Lian and Hua Cheng’s love - they love each other for who the other is, not who they could be or should be by any given standard.

Now, someone might say this is all well and good but Hua Cheng wasn't present for the above scenes with Feng Xin and Xie Lian, so those can't be reasons for him to hate Feng Xin. To which I would say, 1. the above examination was about questioning whether Feng Xin really was as loyal to Xie Lian as that discourse seems to insist by looking at what the text actually tells us. And 2., Hua Cheng did encounter Xie Lian several times during his first banishment. And every single time, Xie Lian was alone, in increasingly bad mental and physical states, with no one helping or caring for him.

The first time they meet again, after Mu Qing has just left Xie Lian and Hua Cheng is a ghost fire:

“I won't forget. Your Highness, I am forever your most devoted believer.”

Xie Lian forced down a sob. “...I've already lost all my believers. Believing in me won't do you any good; it might even bring disaster. Did you know? Even my friend has left me.”

The nameless ghost declared as if swearing an oath, “I won't.”

“You will,” Xie Lian said.

The ghost was insistent. “Believe me, Your Highness.”

“I don't,” Xie Lian said. He no longer believed in anyone, especially himself.

Vol 6, page 136-137

After the failed robbery attempt, when Xie Lian gets drunk and falls into a grave:

“God fucking dammit!” He slapped the ground and yelled, “Is anyone there? Is there anyone who can help pull me out?!”

Of course there wasn't anyone. There was only a small ball of haunting ghost fire, blazing unceasingly as it flitted about. After Xie Lian fell into the pit, the ball of ghost fire rushed over, seeming to want to pull him up - but it would never be able to touch him.

Vol 6, page 175

When the group of heavenly officials and Mu Qing drive Xie Lian off the blessed land and Hua Cheng can't help him because he's still a ghost fire:

Xie Lian lay sprawled face-down on the ground in a state of disbelief, his eyes bulging. One of the heavenly officials had shoved him while he was standing there at a loss and made him take that hideous fall in front of so many eyes. It was too humiliating. There were voices all around Xie Lian, high and low, filling the air and invading Xie Lian's ears. He stared with eyes that couldn't be wider at the blackened ground in front of his nose, then he slowly raised his head.

Mu Qing was standing not too far away from him - standing among those heavenly officials, his head turned away, not looking at Xie Lian. Just like the rest of them, he had no intention of lending Xie Lian a hand to help him up. And thus, Xie Lian understood. No one would lend him a hand to help him up.

Vol 6, page 196

When Xie Lian is brutally tortured and violated by being stabbed over and over:

Unwilling to consider this any further, Xie Lian couldn't help but cry out. “Hel-”

Before the phrase “Help me” could leave his throat, the same icy black belt was thrust into his body once again. Xie Lian's eyes widened in horror. The razor-sharp sword was stabbed in, then pulled out. The next person followed without wasting a second, and the next stab was shoved into practically the same spot. The sound locked in Xie Lian's throat finally broke free, and a long, painful scream tore through his entire body.

Vol 6, page 255

And it doesn't stop there - Feng Xin and Mu Qing both ascend again while Xie Lian is lost in the mortal realm, and Hua Cheng is the only one looking for him. That Feng Xin spent so much time in the mortal realm because he was searching for Xie Lian appears to be entirely fanon, as I cannot recall a single instance where the text actually suggests this. And then when Xie Lian ascends for a third time, Feng Xin and Mu Qing are too cowardly to face him, and only seek him out in disguise. And again, they repeatedly try to separate Hua Cheng from Xie Lian:

After a moment, Feng Xin turned to Xie Lian. “If there's nothing else, you’d better hurry back to the Heavenly Court. Many of the heavenly officials have no idea what happened in that ruckus, and they're still waiting for news above. Jun Wu should have been informed by now. You need to report back and give them a proper account.”

Hua Cheng laughed out loud at his words.

“What're you laughing at?” Feng Xin demanded.

“And here I was marveling at how straightforward you are, but it turns out you like beating around the bush too,” Hua Cheng said. “You just don't want His Highness to associate with the likes of demons and ghosts like me, so why not say so openly? Think it's not your place?”

Xie Lian cleared his throat softly. “San Lang…”

“As long as you're aware that he shouldn't be associating with the likes of demons and ghosts,” Feng Xin said coldly.

Vol 2, page 261-262

So, to sum up, when we look at all this from Hua Cheng's perspective - why wouldn't he hate Feng Xin? He's had zero positive interactions with the man, repeatedly witnessed him going against Xie Lian's wishes, and had Feng Xin try and separate him from Xie Lian over and over again. From Hua Cheng's perspective, Feng Xin abandoned Xie Lian to his suffering and forgot about him, while Hua Cheng never wavered in his faith, and didn't give up on looking for Xie Lian even after hundreds of years.

Throughout the entire novel, Hua Cheng is the only one who consistently respects Xie Lian's autonomy - the only times he ever intervenes is when Xie Lian is about to do something that threatens his own physical and/or mental wellbeing. Many other characters, Feng Xin included, repeatedly ignore or even violate Xie Lian's autonomy and the novel makes quite clear how important and profound the distinction is between how Hua Cheng treats Xie Lian and how everyone else does:

Feng Xin glanced at him and couldn't help but say, “...I'm a little surprised.”

“What?” Hua Cheng replied, not turning or showing a single trace of curiosity.

Feng Xin scratched his head. “Since you're so biased against Mu Qing, I assumed you'd think he wasn't worth saving and wouldn't want His Highness rescuing him. I thought you'd prevent him from going.”

Only then did Hua Cheng spare him a glance. “Half-wrong, half-right.”

“Huh?”

“The first part isn't wrong - I certainly don't think he's worth saving,” Hua Cheng said. “I don't care if he lives or dies.”

“Isn't that a little too blunt?!” Seeing that apathetic expression made Feng Xin start to sweat; when he realized that this man definitely held the same attitude toward him, he sweat even harder!

Hua Cheng snorted, then after a pause, he added, “But only His Highness can decide what he wants to do. I will never oppose his decisions.”

“...” Feng Xin had never heard anyone say something like that before - not a man to a woman, and most definitely not one man to another. But he was quite sure that Xie Lian would only get all worked up and flustered again if he'd been here to hear it. “Ah… I see,” Feng Xin said, not knowing what face to make.

Vol 8, page 44-45

And just to make this clear - this is not me hating on Feng Xin. We also could probably all have lengthy but ultimately futile discussions on what loyalty personally means to each and every one of us, which is why when it comes to discourse like this I think we have to focus on what the text says. And I think through this examination it's become quite clear where the limits of Feng Xin's loyalty lay in relation to how it was tied less to Xie Lian the person and more to who he thought Xie Lian should be, and how even beyond Feng Xin's ultimate lack of loyalty Hua Cheng has many legitimate reasons to hate him in regards to how both he himself and Xie Lian were treated by Feng Xin.

Hope this answered your question!

[marlinspirkhall]

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

[animalceramics]

I updated my Dubai-era 'Daniel Molloy is a mean bitch' fic.

Here is an excerpt from the latest chapter:

“You know, you might have been born in the sixteenth century or whatever, but you died relatively soon after – still a kid – and it shows Armand. It shows. Yeah, my life has been messy, down in the shit with the rest of the cattle, but it was real and I’m still breathing, yeah? I’ve got 70 years of humanity under my belt, you remember that, huh? Humanity? Something you’ll never touch again, so far in the rear view you can’t even remember the shape of it, however much you play-act.”

Armand flinches, his jaw clenching. “Humanity is a plague upon the earth,” he spits, lip curling.

“Couldn’t agree more pal. Humanity is fucked and hurtling to hell in a handcart even faster than me. So here’s a thought for you.. it ever cross your mind to do something about that? What with all that freaky supernatural power you’re packing? Fuck me Armand, you can read minds! You’re a self-styled master of manipulation. Ever think about using that to steer the course of things? Prevent a genocide or two, distract Oppenheimer with tits, or how about using some of that infinite wealth and time to help those in need?”

Here is a link to the story if you want to read it:

[frostgears]

dream of where it came from

My suit motion sensor lit up. I checked my weapons: I didn't have any. Just fists. Size was consistent with one of the other side's light infantry fighters. IFF was hostile red. It cleared the corner. And kept going. A vertical handcart/gurney, rolling along on its own, its passenger me, dead and desiccated. It kept rolling past, turned another corner, vanished.

I looked around. The girders of the station were melted and shattered, severed sections floating next to those they shattered from. There were rents ripped straight into space I could see stars through. I pushed against the ground, testing. This was not zero G. Not the station's modest spin gravity. At a guess, a full one G. My suit sensors told me there was oxygen outside. I kept the helmet on.

Flickering lighting beckoned me towards the steady glow coming from what I knew was the entrance to the program psych office. Someone bade me come in and sit. I came in; I didn't sit. He kept talking.

There were a handful of pins and patches on several table, stacked next to a bunch of old phones and PDAs. They looked familiar, like they might be mine, but the logos on the pins didn't make sense. I'd pull data off the phones later, if I could. I told my suit assistant to record. I kept putting them into my suit pockets. A minute later, I'd pat my pockets, find them empty. This happened several times. No response from my suit assistant. No indication of suit compromise.

He told me to sit again. I came to his desk to tell him I'd stand. He was gone. His laptop was still there, turned towards the patient side of the desk; an older model with a fast e-ink screen, backlight not working, screen cracked. I held it up to the light, trying to make out the screen. It was some sort of release form. It was signed in my own handwriting, but not as the patient: as the releasing official. The names of both were illegible.

I walked through the doorway past his desk and back into the hallway. I woke up. □

[r0-boat]

What if, Reader was the queen of a dying hive and two humans (Ingo and Emmet) wander into her hive?

Imagine the smut possibilities

This is actually a very interesting thought! I thought about it a lot and here's what I have to say:

Here's some head cannons my friend

Beegearstation reversed Au headcannons

(bee royal reader x human twins

Sfw/nsfw

Cw: breeding, slight Emmet bullying, but we still love him in this house, switch reader,switch twins

Sfw

You were a kind and gentle ruler to your hive, being the Survivor out of a hive that wanted to kill you so you couldn't rival their Royal. You didn't like the same for your drones. Your hive was a safe haven for drones that got abandoned or kicked out of their hive.

Because of this, your drones love you and are very protective of you. You know that in the long term, your hive would be in danger; however, you try not to think about it. You try not to let it bother you because as long as you're drones have a place to call home, that's all that matters to you. However, the drones are aware of how much the idea of the future of the hive scares you. They wish they could do something to help, but their bodies were not built to give you suitable young.

On one faithful day, the Drones scrambled around the hive; seems like the Royal had taken another one of their walks alone. That's when they found a human well, the human found them, striking silver eyes, gray hair with sharp sideburns, and a smile on his face; he gazed at you from the vegetation, his eyes widened, having never seen someone of your kind before. His eyes sparkled with curiosity. He wasn't fearful of you like most humans were. In fact, his first words to you were, and you'll never forget, "D-do you come here often?" Your future king was never one for small talk. He was constantly stumbling over his words when he had to be the one to start a conversation. Every time you bring up the fond memory, his face goes red with embarrassment—that cute smile of his twitching while his eyebrows furrowed.

you remember how frightened when you were when you saw him, because of your past, you find it very hard to trust new people, but he seemed friendly enough. You don't know why you got along with him so well maybe it's because he was always truthful with his words no matter how blunt which you appreciate from time to time. (Looking back, you wondered why Emmet liked you so much; there were plenty of humans that could suit his fancy; his older brother only huffed and replied, "That's exactly why!" ...you're not sure what he means by that)

You enjoyed Emmet's company meeting in the same spot at least once a week. You wanted the stories about his human life, your eyes lighting up with wonder when he talked about a vehicle humans use that travels super fast, making the ground Rumble in its path as it roars Its mighty call.

Ingo was introduced to you by Emmet, who was slightly sweeter and a little more upbeat, which was contrasted with his scary face.

Over time, these two became your friends, maybe, even more; you did think of them as suitable mates and Royals for your hive, but you could never spring such a responsibility on them, and... they were human.

When you showed up late, they began to worry... Do you seem weaker? Constantly out of breath, occasionally even stumbling. Swallowing down their fear of breaking your trust, they followed you back to your hive. They overheard everything, the Colony has no future, and you are overworking yourself sick!

They care about you so much, that they beg you to please let them help. They'll do anything they can!

The Kings may be human, but the drones respect them as hard workers and members of The Hive.

When the twins realized that your hive was built in an old ruined Grand Station, they flipped their lid in excitement; they even hit the jackpot, finding a rusty old handcart!

Your Depot drones start picking up on the train speak; your dear human Kings have. You find it rather cute.

Nsfw below

You are a bee hybrid Royal so you are naturally taller than your humans(if that's not what you want you can stay small) it is your choice whether you dominate them or they dominate you~.

Emmet is obsessed with the fluffier parts of your bee body. When he's on top of you he loves snuggling into the fluff while he grinds his fat cock inside you.

To your surprise, your mates, despite being human, react to the royal jelly well. There were no physical changes to their body, but they became very receptive to your pheromones. The reactions are almost animalistic since they are still sensitive to these new feelings.

They can sense how much you need them, and they'll either break down in a sobbing mess begging for you to touch or use them. Or demand and overpower you like an animal in a rut.

As you lay there begging for him to breed you. Telling him that he'll make a strong brood. Ingo is slowly turning to the monster fucker dark side, and Emmet is there to accept his brother with open arms.

The twins Wonder if the pollen works on their drones; they wonder if the same pollen will work on you. Spoiler alert, it does. You practically pounce on them, riding/milking them until they're on the verge of passing out. They see white as they shoot blanks, but it's not enough for you.

Meanwhile, the bee smoke makes you so cute, and Dopey, your little Giggles as you rub against them like a kitten, your head delicately bonking against their shoulder begging for attention. Your eyes roll back, drool dripping down your chin, letting out cute little whines because you can't take their big cocks while your mind is clouded with smoke.

You're sweet honey-coated saliva makes them so sensitive to the touch Emmet begs for his majesty to touch him. You purr a 'No' liking the sight before you; Emmet tied to the bed cock aching for your touch, his legs quivering and shaking, trying not to hump the air in Desperation for any kind of relief.

[bytedykes]

looking through my bookmarks in the airplane extras and oughh. oughhhh

[ID: Quotes from the Scum Villain airplane extras. All of them have parts (or the entire thing) highlighted.

But Luo Binghe was unreservedly immersed in Shang Qinghua’s account. “I’m still not clingy enough?” he muttered. “Still?”

What would happen if he really returned home and Mobei-Jun suddenly wanted to find someone to beat up, but Shang Qinghua was nowhere to be found? When he thought about that happenstance, he felt a pang of sorrow, like the melancholy of an actor leaving after a play was complete, all the props in place but the people long gone.

Alas. Fantasy was so abundant, but reality was so wanting. After a while, the handcart wheels slowly began to turn again. Mobei-Jun, in front, said without turning back, “I’ll make them.”

It’s just… It’s just. …It was just that he really, very much liked this story he’d written. /end ID]

[morri-draws]

Gwaine x Reader - 'The Threads That Bind Us' - Chapter 2

Story Summary:

You, a humble dressmaker from Camelot’s lower town, are commissioned to make a new gown for Queen Guinevere. Impressed by your skills, she offers you the position of Royal Clothier. During your time in the castle, you catch the eye of one of the knights of King Arthur’s inner circle, Sir Gwaine. What starts as a sweet courtship is turned upside down when misfortune strikes and you must deal with the aftermath, as well as an unwelcome visit from Gwaine’s unpleasant sister.

Rating: Mature

Tags: Female Reader/Gwaine, set between seasons 4 and 5, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 4,757

Read Chapter 1

Read on Ao3

Loading up the last of your belongings in a small, borrowed handcart, you begin the difficult ascent from your small shop in the lower town to Camelot’s citadel. The journey is prolonged somewhat by the need for regular stops to rest, but eventually you make it across the bridge and into the castle’s large courtyard.

You wheel the cart about halfway across the square when a young man with short, dark hair and a red neckerchief approaches.

“Are you (Y/N)?” He asks.

“Yes, that’s me,”

“I’m Merlin, King Arthur’s manservant,” He introduces himself with a bright smile. “He asked me to assist you with moving your belongings into your new chambers,”

“Oh, that was thoughtful of him,” You set the cart down and shake the ache from your arms. “We might have to do a few trips,”

Merlin peers into the cart. “I think we can make it in one,”

You raise your brows in disbelief.

“I’m really good at carrying things,” He assures.

Merlin grips the cart’s handles and wheels it across the remaining length of the courtyard, positioning it beside the main entrance stairs, then begins removing your belongings from the cart, placing them over his shoulders and under his arms. You join him, taking your bag of clothing and the wicker basket, which is filled with sewing implements and kitchen supplies. Glancing at Merlin, you see he’s loaded himself up like a pack horse.

“I admit, I might have to come back for those,” He inclines his head to the remaining bolts of fabric in the bottom of the cart.

“A splendid effort, nonetheless. Are you sure you can carry all that up the stairs?”

“I’m sure,” He grins. “Shall we head up?”

As Merlin leads you through the castle, you try to memorise each staircase, corridor and corner to your new home, until Merlin stops in front of a door in a quiet passage.

“Here we are,” He says, reaching into his jacket pocket with some difficulty.

He pulls out a key and inserts it into the door’s keyhole. With a turn and a click, the door swings open, emitting a brief creak. You step into a large, rectangular room which is indeed well-lit, with several small windows along the right wall. To the far-left is a fireplace, with two chairs placed in front with a small round table between them. In the middle-left of the room is a dining table with a long bench on either side. On the right of the room, against the windows, are two large worktables, perfect for spreading and cutting fabric. Next to those is a full-length mirror, a wooden dressing screen and a large shelving unit. A few well-placed rugs already give the place a homey feel. You can’t wait to arrange your belongings in here.

In the centre of the far wall is another door. You stride across the room and open it to reveal a smaller chamber. Sunlight floods the room from a window on the left wall, under which is a bed, about double the width of the one in your old home. On the right side of the room is a wardrobe, a trunk and a modest bookshelf. Against the wall closest (the one which the door is positioned) is a washbasin with a small mirror, and a bathtub.

“This place is amazing!” You say as you step back into the main room.

“I’m glad you think so,” Merlin smiles as he places your belongings down on the dining table. “I’ll just go and fetch the rest of your things,”

“Let me help,” You rush forward to go with him.

Merlin holds out his hands to stop you. “It’s alright, I’m good at carrying things, remember?”

“If you’re sure?”

“I am. You can start making yourself at home,” He shoots you a toothy grin and heads out, closing the door behind him.

You only manage to put your clothing away in the wardrobe and trunk in the bedroom by the time Merlin returns. He places the last bolts of fabric on the table next to your other belongings.

“Before I go, Arthur wanted me to tell you that some of the knights will be stopping by tomorrow. Something about gambesons, I think,”

“Alright, thank you for letting me know, and for all your help today. I highly appreciate it, Merlin,”

 “You’re welcome. It’s nice to be appreciated.” Merlin smiles. “Anyway, I’d better get back to Arthur. Bye!”

He rushes out the door before you can respond.

~

The next morning, you find a place for your remaining belongings, making sure everything is neat and presentable. The shelves in the main chamber are now filled with fabrics, and atop one of the large tables, your sewing journal, quill and ink are ready for the day’s work.

A knock at your door startles you, but you take a deep breath, ready to greet your first client. You open the door to find not a knight, but the queen.

“My lady,” You greet her with surprise.

“Gwen,” She corrects you with a smile.

“Of course. Please come in, Gwen,” You step aside and gesture for her to enter.

She steps inside and looks around. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Oh yes, I am more than satisfied. This will do very nicely indeed,”

“I am glad,” Gwen smiles. “Arthur informed me this morning that he’s planning to send some of the knights to you today. I thought he may have been a bit hasty, so if you need more time to prepare, I can put them off,”

“No, that’s quite alright, thank you. I am ready to get to work,”

“Very well, I should leave you to it. The first of the knights shouldn’t be too far off. Good luck on your first day,”

“Thank you my lad– Gwen,”

She nods with a smile and leaves your chambers.

About twenty minutes later, there are three firm knocks upon your chamber door. You rush to answer, and are greeted by a knight, one you believe you saw riding through the lower town a few days ago. He is tall and slim, with curly, dark blonde hair and a short beard.

“Welcome, sir?” You say, beckoning him inside.

“Leon,” He says, stepping into your chambers.

“Sir Leon, how may I be of assistance?”

“I’m in need of a new gambeson,”

“Alright, if you could just strip down to your tunic and trousers, I can take some measurements,”

The knight stiffens, brow furrowed in confusion. “Shouldn’t we wait until the clothier arrives?”

“I am the new clothier,” You state.

Sir Leon’s cheeks redden. “I’m sorry, I meant no offence. Just… is it really appropriate for a woman to fit a man’s clothes?”

“Since I haven’t asked you to strip down to just your unmentionables, I think we’ll be alright,” You smirk.

You swear you see the knight’s cheeks deepen further, as he nods and begins to unbuckle his cloak. You step closer and take his cloak when he’s removed it, standing by to do the same for his chainmail shirt and gambeson. You take the clothing to one of the worktables and place them down neatly, grabbing your tape measure.

“Lift your arms please,” You say as you approach him.

He does so, and you slip the measuring tape around his chest, bringing it together at centre front. You mutter the number to yourself, and step over to the table to mark it down in your journal. You do the same for his waist, then measure the length of his arms, before standing behind him to measure the width of his shoulders and the length of his torso.

Once all the figures are written down, you take his old gambeson from the pile of clothes and spread it out on the table. It’s clearly been well-used, the fabric worn through in some places, as well as rips and slashes in other areas. Grease stains cover the garment, made by the armour worn over it.

“And the new gambeson is to be in the same style and colour as this one?” You ask.

“Yes, thank you,”

You flip to a new page in your journal and take a quick sketch of the design.

“Very well, Sir Leon, I should have your new gambeson made up in a few days,”

You grab his pile of clothes and take them to him. He hastily gets dressed and clears his throat.

“Thank you,” Hey says, heading for the door. “Sorry about before,”

“That’s quite alright. Until next we meet,”

You close the door behind him once he’s stepped out, and exhale. You hope not all the other knights will be the same. You’re sure you’ll get sick of having to explain over again that you are in fact the woman for the job, not just an assistant.

You hardly have time to relax before there’s another person at the door. You answer to find Sir Gwaine.

“Sir Gwaine, please come in,”

He steps inside, looking about the room. “Nice place you’ve got,” He spins around to look at you. “I just saw Sir Leon on my way here. He looked flustered. What did you do to him?” He gives a lopsided grin.

“I didn’t do anything,” You defend yourself. “He was perhaps embarrassed that he basically said it should be a man in my role,”

Gwaine shakes his head playfully. “Ah, that’s Leon for you. You’ve got to cut him some slack. He’s been around since Uther’s time, so I suppose you could say he has a bit more of a… traditional outlook on some things,” He smiles. “Then again, he may have just been flustered from being alone in the presence of a beautiful woman,”

You scoff. “I don’t think so,”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it. Leon is the nervous type. He’s not so skilled at talking to ladies,”

“Whereas I suppose you are, and are very confident in yourself,”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Gwaine shrugs.

“Anyway, I have a job to do. Stand here please,” You gesture for him to stand by the worktable. “What is it you need today?”

“A new cloak,” He grabs the sides of his cloak and spreads it out like scarlet wings, revealing several rips.

“What did you do, get dragged behind a horse?”

He laughs. “Something like that,”

“Well, remove the cloak please,”

He undoes the buckle at his throat and does as you say, passing the bundled cloak to you. You place it on the table and grab the tape measure. You stand behind Gwaine, measuring his shoulder width, marking it down in your journal before returning to your spot behind him, placing one end of the tape measure at the nape of his neck.

“Hold this here please,”

Gwaine reaches his hand behind his head and glides his fingers down until they brush against yours and over the tape measure.

“That’s it, now keep it still,”

He does as you say, and you extend the tape measure down, lowering into a crouch until the tape meets the floor. You mutter the measurement to yourself and stand.

“Thank you,” You retrieve the tape end from under Gwaine’s finger and he drops his arm down.

Back at the table, you mark down the number in your journal and unfold the cloak partially, to reveal the embroidered insignia. Flipping to a new page, you begin to sketch the design of the golden dragon for you to use as reference later. Sir Gwaine comes into your peripheral, leaning against the edge of the table next to yours. You feel his eyes on you and glance up.

“I expect you to take better care of the cloak I will make for you,” You say. “I will be very cross if you return here with it ripped to shreds,”

“Upon my honour, I will treat my new cloak as my most prized possession,”

Finishing your sketch, you pass the cloak back to him. He swings it around his shoulders and starts on the fastening when your stomach rumbles loudly.

“Please excuse me,” You say, embarrassed.

“Have you eaten today?” Gwaine asks.

“I admit I… may have forgotten. I’ve been busy getting ready for my first day,”

“No matter, let’s go to the baker’s and get you something,” He finishes fastening his cloak and heads for the door before looking back at you expectantly.

“I thank you, but there’s no need to trouble yourself,”

You glance over to the kitchen area of your chambers, spotting only a stale end of a loaf of bread to eat.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Gwaine says, following your gaze.

“Alright then, I suppose I should get some things from the market as well while I’m out,”

You cross the room swiftly and pick up your basket before heading for the door.

“Let’s go,”

You walk with Gwaine from the castle to the town’s market street. He leads you to a small and familiar bread shop.

“I enjoy the fruit buns from here,” You say as you cross the shopfront.

“Have you ever tried the ones with custard in them?” Gwaine asks as he holds the door open for you.

“No, I haven’t.” You reply. “Since they cost a bit more,”

“Today’s your lucky day then,” He smiles before approaching the shop counter.

He orders two of the buns and the baker retrieves them from the angled shelves behind him, placing each bun in a small sheet of paper and passing them to Gwaine. The knight drops a few coins in the baker’s hand and steps back outside, where you follow him to a nearby bench to sit and eat. Gwaine waits for you to take a bite first, after which you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Good, isn’t it?” He grins.

You nod enthusiastically while chewing the mouthful.

You both eat the buns, Gwaine finishing his in three large bites. When you’ve finished yours, you wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.

“I really should do my shopping so I can head back and get started,”

Gwaine sighs. “I should head back as well. I hope you enjoyed your late breakfast?”

“I did, thank you Gwaine. I shall have to return the favour one day,”

“Nonsense. Having a fine cloak made by your hands will be repayment enough,” He stands and extends a hand to you.

You take it and stand as well, brushing crumbs off your dress. He lets go of your hand and gives a small bow.

“Good day to you, my lady,”

He smiles and turns around, walking back up the street to the castle.

After doing some shopping at the market, you head back to your chambers and use the rest of the day to start working on Sir Leon’s gambeson and Sir Gwaine’s cloak.

~

The next morning, you remember to eat breakfast, and with no new clients for the day, continue working on Sir Leon’s gambeson. An hour or so into work, a sharp pain swells in your lower abdomen. At first you push through, continuing with your sewing, but the pain intensifies, to the point you’re doubled over, gritting your teeth. You berate yourself for losing track of your cycle. You’re usually on top of it, but with all the changes recently, you’d let it slip your mind.

You rest for a while, waiting for the pain to pass, but every time it seems it’s going to subside, it rears its ugly head again. Irritated that if it continues, you won’t be able to get more work done today, you decide that you need to visit the herbalist in the lower town. You have seen her in the past for when your monthly pains have been particularly bad. You fetch your cloak from your bedroom and head out.

You slowly make your way through the castle, taking careful steps as not to jostle yourself too much. The stairs are particularly difficult and you take them at a snail’s pace. At last you reach the exit and start your descent down the main stairs into the courtyard.

“Hello, how are you settling in?”

The voice startles you, and you look up to find Merlin, giving you a warm smile.

“Oh, hello Merlin,”

Your jaw clenches as a wave of pain rolls over you, causing you to stoop over. Suddenly a hand is on your back.

“(Y/N), you’re unwell. I’ll take you to see Gaius right away,”

You look up at Merlin, his face lined with concern.

“That’s quite alright, Merlin. I’m just going to a herbalist in the town. She has helped me before,”

“You can’t walk all that way in this condition. I’ll take you to Gaius, he’ll be able to help you,”

You groan at another attack of pain, and lower yourself so you’re sitting on the steps, holding your knees against your chest. Merlin kneels on a lower step in front of you.

“I appreciate the offer, Merlin, but what afflicts me is… a women’s issue,” You say, sure it will get the man to leave you alone at last.

But he shows no revulsion, not even the slightest flinch.

“Gaius is a very skilled physician, and knows how to treat all sorts of ailments,”

You sigh, thinking how you would rather not have to walk through the busy streets of the town.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me,”

You reach a hand to Merlin and he stands, pulling you upright. He offers you an arm, which you grip firmly as he guides you up the stairs.

You remain on Merlin’s arm until he stops at a worn wooden door in a part of the castle you haven’t seen yet. He opens the door and guides you inside, an arm around your back. An old man with shoulder-length, silvery-white hair looks up from a book he was perusing, snapping to attention when he sees you.

“This is (Y/N),” Merlin says. “I caught her struggling down the stairs in the courtyard. She has severe menstrual cramps,”

“Bring her to the bed here,” The old man gestures to a simple bed nearby.

Merlin escorts you there and helps you to sit on the edge.

“A pleasure to meet you, (Y/N). I am Gaius, the court physician. Are you taking anything for the pain currently?”

“Not at the moment. I was just on my way to get something from a herbalist woman in the town,” You explain.

“You need not make the journey, you can come straight to me if you have any ailment,” He points at you with his thumb every few syllables, his voice stern but kind. “Do you know when your cycle is due to begin?”

“With the way I feel right now, I’d say tomorrow. I’m usually on top of this, just with the move into my new lodgings and everything, I lost track,”

“That’s quite alright. These things happen,” Gaius steps away to a long wooden workbench.

He sets up some equipment and beckons Merlin over, instructing him on certain ingredients he needs. Merlin swiftly steps across the room to a large bookshelf, packed with small glass bottles filled with various liquids, herbs and other things you don’t recognise. Merlin picks out some of the bottles and brings them to Gaius, who begins using the ingredients immediately.

“I will give you something for the pain now,” He turns his head toward you as he speaks. “But in future, I will be able to give you something to take a few days before your cycle, which should ease the discomfort,”

You hear crunching and scraping as he uses a mortar and pestle, followed by a low bubbling as a plume of steam rises from his workbench. You watch the physician work, until he presents you with a small bottle filled with a translucent green liquid.

“Take this now,” He says, passing you the bottle.

You hold it against your lips and tip the contents into your mouth, tasting an unpleasant bitterness as you swallow it.

“It should take effect in about twenty minutes. I will give you some vials to take with you,”

You hear a clink of glass on glass before Gaius turns around with a small parcel wrapped in hessian cloth.

“You can only take this once every six hours I’m afraid, but it should help. You may rest here until you feel ready to return to your chambers,”

“Thank you, Gaius,” you give the old man a smile, which he returns. “And you too, Merlin,”

After having rested for a time in the physician’s chambers, Merlin takes you back to your rooms and you part ways. Feeling quite worn out, you head to your room to lie down, hands clasped over your belly. Eyelids becoming heavy, you begin to sink into a slumber when a knock at your chamber door startles you. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you get up and head to the door. You open it to find Sir Gwaine looking back at you.

“I saw you in the courtyard earlier with Merlin while I was coming back from training,” He says, brow furrowed. “Is everything alright? You looked unwell,”

You step aside to let Gwaine in and he steps inside, his eyes still locked on you.

“I was unwell, but Merlin took me to see Gaius and I’m feeling much better now,”

A dull throb courses through your lower abdomen, causing you to flinch.

“What is it?” Gwaine asks, rushing to you, an arm on your shoulder.

“It is nothing to be concerned about,”

“I can take you back to Gaius, he ca–”

“If you must know,” You interrupt. “It is women’s monthly issues I am dealing with,”

Understanding washes over Gwaine’s face.

“And you are now the third man today I’ve had to speak to about it, so feel free to leave in disgust,”

“I’m not disgusted and I’m not leaving,” Gwaine stands firm. “Come and sit by the fire,”

He gently leads you across the room and into a chair in front of the fireplace, before beginning to pile kindling and firewood in the grate. After a few moments, he’s started a fire and steps back, taking the other chair beside you.

“I’ve heard the warmth can help,” He says, holding out his palms to feel the heat.

“You’ve heard?”

“Living with my mother and sister had me learn of these things,” He explains.

“I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she here, in Camelot?”

“No,” Gwaine says, reaching for the iron poker and jabbing it into the flames. “And that’s for the best,”

“Why do you say that?” You ask. When you look at him, you see his expression is not a pleasant one. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,”

“No, it’s alright,” He sighs. “I suppose you could say that we don’t see eye to eye,”

You nod in understanding. “Family can be complicated,”

Gwaine hums in agreement, staring into the fire for a moment, before he gets up.

“I’m sorry to leave so soon, but I need to get ready for training,”

You start to stand.

“No, don’t get up, I can find my own way out,” He says. “I hope you feel better soon. I’ll check in tomorrow if it’s not a bother?”

Your automatic response is to tell him not to worry about you, but it has been nice to be looked after.

“It won’t be a bother. See you tomorrow,”

~

You plod along the next day, doing bits of sewing here and there, taking rests in between. The day seems to crawl on especially slowly, until at last the sunlight fades and you put your sewing away. Having no motivation to cook anything, you eat a simple dinner before sitting by the fire with a candle beside you, making a start on the dragon embroidery for Sir Gwaine’s new cloak.

You bundle your legs up on the chair as the pain returns, wondering if Gwaine will be visiting after all. Perhaps he is very busy of perhaps he forgot. You try to decide which to be more likely when there’s a soft knock at your chamber door. Placing the embroidery hoop down on the small table beside you, you get up and cross the room.

“Sorry I’m calling late,” Gwaine says as you open the door. “I went to the market straight after training and spent ages trying to find what I wanted, then I had to head back to my chambers and get washed and changed, and – you don’t need to know all this,” He gives an abashed smile.

“What matters most is that you’re here now,” You give him an assuring smile and beckon him inside.

He steps into your chambers when you realise his different appearance. Until now you’ve only ever seen him in his knight’s kit. Now he’s wearing a brown jacket, with leather bodice and quilted fabric sleeves, over a grey tunic, cinched at the hips with a leather belt. His posture suggests he feels more comfortable than when he’s in uniform, and you can’t blame him. You’re sure the chainmail shirt would weigh one down eventually, even a knight.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Better than yesterday,” You lead him to the fireplace, gesturing for him to sit in the chair beside yours. “Although Gaius’ potion is starting to wear off and I can’t take another dose for a few hours yet,”

“Well I did bring something that’ll hopefully help,” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out what appears to be a red cloth bag and passes it to you. The weight and feel of the bag surprises you, and the contents sag as you hold it. It feels as if it’s filled with grain. Upon inspection, you find that the bag is sewn shut on every side.

“What is it?” You ask.

“My mother and sister used them to help with their monthlies. They called it a wheat bag. You heat it by the fire, then place it against the place that’s painful. The heat is said to help ease the pain,”

“Is this what you got from the market?”

Gwaine nods.

“The thing you spent ages trying to find?” You ask.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his head.

“That is very thoughtful of you,” You say, touched by his actions. “You must show me how it is heated, I don’t want to set it aflame my first time using it,” You pass it to him.

He places in on the ground a few feet in front of the fire.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” He asks.

“I had some bread and cheese earlier. I didn’t want to bother with cooking,” You admit.

“Ah, good old bread and cheese, that’s classic late night tavern fare,”

Gwaine grins, reaching into his jacket again, pulling out a paper bundle. He unwraps it to reveal two fruit and custard buns.

“Will you be wanting some dessert?” He raises his brows.

You gasp and take one of the buns. “How could I resist?”

“I almost couldn’t,” Gwaine takes a bite of his bun. “I considered eating mine before I got here,”

“You showed great restraint,” You say between mouthfuls.

After finishing the bun, Gwaine removes the wheat bag from beside the fire and passes it to you. You place it in your lap, against your lower belly, and take up your embroidery again, stitching away while you and Gwaine talk. He shares amusing stories from his times with the other knights and you share anecdotes about particularly rude or misbehaved customers. Not until you get up to retrieve more thread do you realise that your pain has almost completely subsided.

“That worked wonderfully, thank you Gwaine,” You say as you sit down again. “I must repay you in some way,”

“There is no need for that. To spend time in your company is enough for me,”

Your cheeks warm. Gwaine groans as he stands up.

“Speaking of time, I really should turn in. Morning training tomorrow,” He grimaces.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” You say sympathetically.

“It really isn’t. Sometimes I think our king is in love with sweat and pain. Anyway, goodnight my lady,” He bows.

“You realise I’m not a lady,”

“Perhaps not officially, but to me…” He places a palm against his heart.

“Oh hush. Get out of here before you speak any more nonsense,” You hold back a smile.

“As my lady wishes,” He gives a deeper, exaggerated bow and exits your chamber.

[wispstalk]

(@jauffrejam) rain moon coffee pumpkin!

🌧️ rain: share a sad or emotional scene from your wip!

The road is a mire. There isn’t much in the handcart to weigh it down, only a few crates and limp burlap sacks, but the lever isn’t working well. What could be in those sacks? What useless things did they grab before they ran? Family heirlooms, wedding shawls, old letters read and re-read so often they’ve gone furry at the folds. Martin isn’t immune from the sentimental streak: he stood long before a shelf in the chantry's great archive before he was ushered out. There were supplies in the undercroft, sundries for traveling acolytes, even half a crate of oranges. He might have thought to grab those. Instead he has Sister Praxedes’ elaborations on the Divine commands. He hasn’t read it since his novice days but he remembers the gist. The duties of the living to the living, and so forth.

🌙 moon: do any of your OCs have dark backstories or secrets they’re trying to keep?

Martin, Tanis, and Coradri all have some unsavory aspects in their pasts which explain their relative isolation before the story begins, and they don't know each other well enough to feel comfortable talking about it. Since I'm writing characters whose backstories were already revealed in IITT, I can minimize the exposition and explore the emotional commonalities more, which is fun. It was material I came up with while drafting IITT that maybe got lost in favor of the plot, but there are a lot of commonalities between them. ☕ coffee or tea: describe your OC’s favorite place to relax.

The trio spends the whole story on the move, but Tanis is pretty good at making camp. He walks the fastest so he usually has much of the work done before the other two arrive, so even though the hike is overall pretty miserable, they always have a decent place to rest at night. 🎃 pumpkin: do you have any favorite brainstorming techniques? how do you like to gather ideas for your wip?

I like to revisit my outlines a lot-- when I've gotten the plotting part written down I leave any notes about characters, themes and so forth. It's helpful for ensuring the overall cohesion of the piece as I work ahead, and a lot of my ideas come from that! The rest just strike randomly and at inconvenient times, a feeling I'm sure every writer knows

[scotianostra]

Margaret( Russell ) McIver was born in Ayrshire, or Glasgow, depending on what source you read on May 9th 1879 to a French polisher and policeman.

“Maggie” went on to found the famous Barras in Glasgow.

Maggie eventually moved to the Bridgeton area of Glasgow as as a young girl, during the time of the industrial expansion of the city. Mass immigration from the likes of the Scottish Highlands and Ireland created a population of lower working class who needed ways to make a living.

The Bridgegate or Briggait was synonymous with the rag and second-hand clothes trade at that time. The Glaswegian word ‘barras’ describes the handcarts which the traders used to hawk their wares.

By the age of 12, Maggie had her first taste of business looking after a family friend’s fruit barrow in Parkhead, from there, she was inspired to open a small fruit shop in Bridgeton and met her future husband and business partner, James McIver, at the local fruit market.

With the beginning of World War One, there was an increase in the volume of traffic on the city thoroughfares and renewed attempts to discourage street trading. After witnessing barrow traders being booked by police, Maggie decided to provide a place for trading to continue.

The McIvers organised a Saturday market on their land, now known as the Barras, and before long were attracting 300 barrows. Maggie rented out many of her stalls to women. The original market was sheltered in 1926 because Maggie was concerned for the welfare of the hawkers in bad weather.

James McIver died of malaria, which he had contracted during the war, leaving Maggie to raise nine children and run the business on her own at the age of 49.

As legend has it, the businesswoman decided to open the Barrowland Ballroom after the usual venue for her hawkers Christmas dance and meal was fully booked. The ballroom opened on Christmas Eve, 1934, capitalising on the dancing craze of the 1930s and allowing Maggie to provide for her family.

Having come from humble beginnings, Maggie was a multi-millionaire by the time she died in 1958.

The ballroom was burned down in a massive fire shortly after Maggie’s death, but reopened in 1960, with the famous neon signage erected around 1982.

[amethystfairy1]

This is an oddly specific question that may have been answered in-story, but I’m liable to miss details. How much has the Labs/Biotech Director replaced parts of herself with machinery? I remember a metal arm being mentioned, but clearly a lot more of her is inorganic for her to survive getting steamrolled by a fucking forklift.

(Also, just want to say, I love how the story’s expanded beyond the original premise. Yeah, it’s still a HotGuy superhero AU, but it’s also found family, addressing trauma, overcoming adversity, and at least four equally interesting side ships.)

Hello hello!

She survived? Whatever do you mean??? She totally died 25 years ago when she got knocked off the bridge!!!

😱

I’m shook.

But yknow, for the fun of it…if hypothetically we just pretend she survived, let’s see…I think some people are confused, and that might be my fault.

I’ve seen a lot of people saying that she got run over by a forklift…which she wasn’t.

She was hit by a redstone pallet which is basically like a floaty handcart that’s got an engine, it doesn’t have wheels or anything…think like the flying machines you can make with redstone and slime blocks. So she got hit by that thing at a high speed, yeah, but it wasn’t enough to do more than some blunt force damage. The REAL thing that did her in was the fall from the bridge, which the redstone pallet knocked her off…because we know Etho hears her scream on her way down…and no one caught her, so surely a fall from that height would kill her…right?

To answer your more specific question, the only parts of her that we know of that are augmented is her metal hand with the knife blade in it, but we only ever see her from Doc or Ethos POV, so it’s anybodies guess if she has more augmentations than that hidden beneath that lab coat. 🤷🏽‍♀️

Aw, thank you! I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed seeing the series expand from just a Hot Guy AU into something bigger with all these different themes! I’ve had such fun working on it, and I’m far from done, so I hope you’ll look forward to more! ☺️

Also, I love the little detail questions, they’re a big reason why I opened my asks over here, because I was so curious what others were wondering about to do with the AU, so please keep them coming! Any and all questions, as many as you like, and while I might take a bit to reply sometimes I am always super happy to get the chance to ramble about my AUs! 💖

[palatinewolfsblog]

Random Thoughts on Ascension day.

In Germany also known as Father's Day. When fathers meet up with friends. Go on a hike with handcarts full of drinks and food, forget about their daily work and problems and have a good time. The actual meaning of the day - that Jesus returns to his father - moves into the background. No problem. After all: It's just another ancient story that defies Logic and - Gravity. Right? I see it differently. And start with an even older story of a powerful ruler from the Ancient Orient who staged his personal ascension. His name is Naram Sin of Akkad. Until today we see impressive statues of him in museums and a very special stele too. A giant with a helmet with horns that emphasize his superhuman strength. We see him climbing a stairway - up to the stars. His followers right behind him. Enemies fall or are trampled under his feet. What a scenery. This guy knew how to impress others. He knew a lot about - Progaganda. I have to think of some modern powerful people who are also making their way up - at the price of people being left behind or becoming victims. Elon Musk comes to mind with his dream of reaching the stars. A leader for whom other humans are only means to an end. And then i must think of this Carpenter King from Nazareth. Who wanted to help others. Women and children, outsiders, strangers, the many victims of the powerful few. He had a dream of a better world. He had a vision of peace and social justice. And he gave his life for it. Without fear of the powerful, who tried their very worst to crush and destroy him and his friends. Ascension Day is a reminder to me that this story went on and continues to this day. Ascension Day teaches us to look ahead and up. Take courage even when things get tough. To make this world a better place. Let's try. He show us the way and will help us to succeed. Ascension Day is an reminder: Dreams and Visions can come true. Change often begins with an individual who breaks new ground and inspires others. Helps them to focus on their dreams, goals and ideals and keep moving. Remember: The sky is the limit! ;)

[merinsedai]

For @dreamlingbingo

And here is snippet 2 for The Wizard and the Unicorn:

Square/Prompt: D3: Circus

Title: The Wizard and the Unicorn

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: minor character death

Additional Tags: The Last Unicorn au, unicorn Dream, wizard Hob, magic, quests, castles by the sea, falling in love, learning to regret, magical transformations

Summary: "You can find the others if you are brave. They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints..." Are all the unicorns gone from the world? Is he the last? What happened to the others? To find the answers to his questions, Dream must leave the sanctuary of his forest and face the dangers of the mortal world. Along the way he will encounter friend and foe, witches and wizards, harpies and highwaymen, and a demonic bull guarding the way to a crumbling castle by the sea...

A snippet from Chapter Three:

When Dream awakes it is to cold iron bars and a cage. He can feel the enchantment laid upon him like lead, stripping him of his magic and weighing him down, trapping him fully within his form and within the confines of the cage.  The cage itself is of crude construction and mean proportions. It is wooden box on wheels, barely big enough for him to turn around, fully enclosed on three sides- the fourth containing said iron bars- and with a floor covered in a thin of layer of straw. In one corner there stands a metal pail of water and next to it, a meagre pile of hay. Dream wrinkles his nose in contempt. Hay indeed! Nothing will induce him to touch that. The grass in his forest is fresh and sweet, and he eats it because he wishes to, though he truly has no need of the sustenance. Starvation will not kill him, immortal as he is, though he would feel its effects eventually. Not that that matters: he will not be trapped in this mortal prison long enough for it to matter. 

Dream heaves himself to his feet with none of his usual grace. The spellcaster who has imprisoned him has wielded their magic with blunt force. Dream can sense no finesse to their enchantment, but it is holding strong. He gives his head a shake, trying and failing to rid himself of the sense of malaise that courses through him, and then turns fully to the bars to try and take in his surroundings.  His seems to be one of several identical wooden cages all arranged in a somewhat haphazard circle. Though Dream can hear shifting and grunts coming from within, most of the enclosures have dense drapes drawn half across them, shielding their inhabitants from view. He finds his gaze being drawn to one in particular, where the heavy curtain is drawn fully and the unseen occupant is silent. Despite there being no sign of life, there is something about that cage that makes him uneasy…. It contains something magical, he is sure. Truly magical. And dangerous. Dangerous even to him.

Beyond the circle, Dream can make out a large canvas-covered construction, its pointed top reaching high up into the lightening sky. It is brightly striped in red and blue, green and white, though the colours are yet muted in the pre-dawn light. It is early, but not quiet: there is noise and movement everywhere. Humans busy about tasks that Dream does not understand, though clearly they are readying themselves for the day. A closer noise has Dream’s head snapping round, ears pricking. His eyes find a dark clad figure, short and hunchbacked, pushing a handcart into the circle. He watches closely as the figure shuffles between the cages, scooping something from his cart and tossing it between gaps in the bars. There is the sound of snuffling and crunching. Clearly, it is feeding time. 

The figure approaches him last, avoiding the strange and silent cage that has Dream’s senses on edge. They stop in front of his cage and stare up at him with a look of mild contempt. It is a man, Dream notes, with an eyepatch, a crumpled nose and a mean set to his stubbled jaw. Thick, bristling eyebrows drawn down almost obscuring his remaining dark eye, and he spits through a gap in his yellowing crooked teeth.  Dream’s ear flicks in revulsion, but he makes no other movement or acknowledgement of the mortal before him. 

“Yer awake then?” the man grunts finally. “She said yer would be. G’arn then, eat up.” He reaches into his cart and tosses a shovelful of pellets through the bars at Dream. They roll through the hay in every direction, and Dream lifts a hoof in disgust to avoid touching them.

“Wassa matter?" says the man with a grin. "Too grand for Master Ruhk’s daily special? Well there ain’t nothin’ else, so yer can eat like the rest of ‘em. Pretty little horse like you can’t be wastin’ away. She won’t let yer. Yer a big prize, after all.”

“Who are you?” Dream growls. He would not normally deign to speak to this human but he is impatient for answers. “Where am I?”

“Oh, a talkin’ horse, are yer?” Rukh doesn’t seem particularly impressed. “Did she magic yer a voice as well as a horn?”

Dream’s eyes narrow at that. Magic me a horn? “Answer me, human,” he hisses with an angry swish of his tail.

“Demanding little thing, ain’t yer!” the man-Rukh- guffaws, “Alright, never let it be said that Rukh can’t be charmed by pretty ponies who ask so politely! This,” he sweeps an arm and gestures expansively. “Is Madame Thessaly’s Most Magical Circus and Midnight Sideshow, where ‘creatures of night are brought to light!’ For a modest fee, o’ course. ” he performs a mock bow. “And yer our newest attraction. So, welcome to yer new home, my lord.I hope yer enjoy yer stay”

[daemonduality]

Entry 40 - Karmic Retribution

Well, I'm about to set out, me and my small food handcart/stall. Out into the greater Multiverse and my attempt to find Home.

The Torn Notebook has a new entry from the Writer.

Torn Notebook Entry:

Given what I read earlier, you're outside your universe and will probably be searching for a way back home. I'm hoping this message reaches an appropriate point in your timeline, but it's always tricky messaging cross-timelines.

We've established before that Purple Magic is pretty multi-faceted. Scrying, Binding, and Severing are the primary offensive uses of Purple Magic. Teleportation and Inventory are the more auxiliary uses. There's even a form of invincibility / phasing for people with a constitution suited for it.

But there's another use of Purple Magic - and that's to essentially detonate someone's Karma. It's known as Karmic Retribution. And it's a finicky ability.

Now, we both know that Karma doesn't truly care about good and evil. That being said, Karmic Retribution is one of the rare Karmic abilities that actually cares about "bad Karma." It can only be used against those with incredibly negative karma. It's a strange magic in that sense that it doesn't immediately harm the person directly. It instead accumulates - and when it accumulates enough, it detonates and kills the person. I'm not a practitioner of it, but that's what it seems like. I suspect you already know or will encounter people who have this sort of magic if you go on your journey to look for Home. So I've put this here for reference, little Firefly. I don't think you're the genocidal type though, so you shouldn't have anything to fear from this kind of magic.

I guess according to the Writer I probably already know or will meet people who know how to use Karmic Retribution?

I don't think I've ever heard of anyone on this site using Purple Magic other than me though.