#whirlpool call center

[curioscurio]

So once every month during the full moon you're cursed to transform into Markiplier. Every once in a while, you steal some funds, bite random people, and post your best approximation of something called a "youtube video" to the internet.

One night, when you're livestreaming, you perform a bit that involves an accordian and suddenly realize that you're an untapped fountain of unrealized accordian talent.

It's insane. No one can shred it like you on the accordian, and you really just had no idea. You were supposed to be an animator. You went to community college for that, but the whole time, you were actually the world's next accordian based prodigy.

You get noticed by a talent agent that has never heard of Five Nights At Freddy's and your first concert premieres next month at the Doctor Phillips Center.

The night is young, and the crowd is warmed up. Women are passing out from your rizz, and you haven't even thought about Mark for months. Where you once would get drunk alone, wearing a strangers face and talking to yourself for clicks, stands a strong, happy, and passionate accordian professional.

The curtain is about to rise, and the full moon shines through the opera's stained glass skylight as you take a deep breath and start to play.

A pain in your gut. A pain in your gut.

Without warning, your knees collapse from under you, and you can feel your bones stretching against your will. Your face feels like it's filled with ants that can't sit still, and your very DNA shifts like crystal sand in a whirlpool.

Not now. Not now.

You never believed in a God, but it feels like someone theologically important just abandoned you.

Right before your first concert as the Accordian Wizard, you transformed into Markiplier. Theres no time. The curtain rises. The whole world is watching.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Weather

Bombogenesis and bomb cyclone - A bombogenesis is “the process that occurs during a 24-hour period when the atmospheric pressure of an extratropical cyclone drops with enough intensity to produce explosive cyclogenesis.” The central barometric pressure drops quickly, producing hurricane-force winds and heavy snow or rainfall—like 77 inches worth of snow in one day. Nor’easters often undergo bombogenesis as cold winds from the north mix with warmer ocean water from the south, creating a big temperature range. These “weather bombs” or bomb cyclones can become blizzards when the conditions are just right. These bombs happen mostly in the fall and winter, but they aren’t unheard of during other times of the year.

Crepuscular ray - A twilight ray of sunlight shining through breaks in high clouds and illuminating dust particles in the air.

Derecho - A widespread and severe windstorm that moves rapidly along a fairly straight path, and it is associated with bands of rapidly moving thunderstorms. In some instances, the media will refer to derechos as "inland hurricanes".

Frazil - “Ice crystals formed in turbulent water, as in swift streams or rough seas.” However, frazil can also form in lakes and oceans; it is the start of sea ice. Frazil usually forms on very clear nights with very low temperatures.

Gloriole - “A halo, nimbus, or aureole.” When ice crystals are suspended in the atmosphere, light catches them causing a bright halo or even a rainbow around the sun or moon. The gloriole forms 22 degrees away from the center of the object, but this phenomenon can often be confused with coronas that form due to water droplets.

Graupel - A type of precipitation that is formed when really cold water droplets collect, freeze, and fall on snowflakes. This creates what is known as a ball of rime, which is “an opaque coating of tiny, white, granular ice particles.”

Haboob - “A thick dust storm or sandstorm that blows in the deserts of North Africa and Arabia or on the plains of India.” Haboob’s dust-storm cousin also hits the United States—just ask anyone who lives in Phoenix. These dust storms usually occur during or as a result of a thunderstorm.

Hunch weather - This term dates back to the 1700s; drizzle or winds that are strong enough to make you hunch over when you walk.

Monkey's wedding - Sunshine and rain at the same time; also known to be called sun showers. However, in South Africa, a “sun shower” is also known as a monkey’s wedding.

Moonbroch - A large halo around the moon; it is a sign of an approaching storm. A broch is an old term for a Scottish circular stone tower.

Petrichor - The distinct scent of rain in the air. More precisely, it’s the name of an oil that’s released from the earth into the air before rain begins to fall.

Polar vortex - A massive whirlpool of cold air that hovers above Earth’s North and South poles. During the warm months, the vortex shrinks toward the poles and generally stays out of our hair, which is nice. During the winter though, the vortex’s boundary—a narrow band of fast air called the polar front jet stream—expands, dipping toward the equator and dumping frigid weather onto any unsuspecting towns (or commuters) in its path.

Sastruga - (Sastrugi in the plural form) means “ridges of snow formed on a snowfield by the action of the wind.”

Smuir - “A thick atmosphere, a dense enveloping cloud or swirl of smoke, snow, rain, or mist.” Alternatively, a blind smuir is merely a snowdrift.

Snow - The partially frozen water vapor which falls in flakes.

Snow eater - When there’s snow everywhere. But, all of a sudden, a nice warm breeze blows over the snow and melts it all away. This usually happens in the Rockies.

Snow flurries - Light, intermittent snowfall without significant accumulation; tend to come from stratiform clouds.

Snow showers - A short period of light-to-moderate snowfall, also characterized by a sudden beginning and ending. There is some accumulation with snow showers, and they fall from convective or cumuliform clouds.

Snow squall - A heavy snow shower with strong winds.

Sugar weather - In Canada, when they have nice warm days but chilly nights, that’s known as sugar weather. That type of weather is just right for getting the maple syrup running in the maple trees.

Swullocking - Hot, sticky, humid weather during the summer; humid weather.

Thundersnow - When snow is the primary form of precipitation in a thunderstorm (instead of rain).

Virga - The virga phenomenon is when you can see that it is raining, but it evaporates on the way to the ground and ends up changing back to water vapor before you can feel it. When it rains and the rain actually makes it to the ground, there’s a meteorological word for that, too: praecipitatio.

Williwaw - A violent squall that blows in near-polar latitudes, as in the Strait of Magellan, Alaska, and the Aleutian Islands.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: On Weather ⚜ Calm & Stormy ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[rel124c41]

PSILOCYBIN AND HONEYCOMB. jade leech

There is something terribly wrong with the queen bee. Gentle and kind. Out of her mind. inspired by @merakiui dabbles and @pathosprit asks about god!floyd/cultist!reader

tags: alternative universe - cults, implied/referenced drug use, old gods, falling in love, blood and gore, beekeeping, fluff and smut, unhealthy relationships, thought projection, gentleness, inspired by psilocybin and honeycomb by harley poe, murder

word count: 11,895

When you are ten, round-faced and small, you watch the Reverend heat up the branding iron. He twirls it in the fire like it is a marshmallow, making sure the iron is covered evenly with a brilliant scarlet red. Gold dances over the thick, ebony gloves that the Reverend wears and shadows jump across the stone creases of his aged face. You watch the sigil rotate in numerous circles. 

A foreign hand pulls up your dress, exposing your stomach and underwear. You keep watching the circle of iron and fire; as the speed of the Reverend's hands pick up, the two materials blend together in a racing whirlpool of a red and gold comet. Beautiful. 

“It won’t hurt will it, Mom?” Your small voice is full of terror; your wrists tremble in the hold of the two adults pinning you down to the table.

“No sweetie, no it won’t.” Your mother, the unmarried woman who got pregnant, presses a kiss to your forehead.

When the Reverend presses the branding iron down on the skin on your hypogastric skin, right under your belly-button, it is the last time you know fear. 

By the stream, God – The Odd One – calls and beckons and sings.

Hands fall idle in surprise. You were not expecting a summon from Him today. Raising your head from your task, you listen closely. It could have just been the snapping branch under a rabbit’s foot or the breeze blowing too roughful in a bush. You wait patiently for that divine melody to resume itself. 

In the pregnant pause, a white dress rustles through the current of the stream. Its arms wave helpless. Under the water, the fabric mimics a dead gray hue. 

There is no secondary call or beckoning. Holding your breath long enough, you fall back into your task. 

White dress in hand, you scrub it with a mixture of mammal fat and lye. The cleansing agent bubbles and carries down the stream. If the heart of your God resides anywhere on land, it is here, your favorite place; in His heart, you do your laundry, domestic. 

The Reverend would be appalled at that thought. You think with a smile. Water collapses from the dress as you wring it out. But it is an entirely true thought. The deeper you venture in the forest, the more you can hear Him. It is only when you reach for the robin egg blue dress does He come back, voice oscillating through nature. 

A testing call? Dropping the garment, you listen intently, waiting to see where you can jump into the melody. After a beat, you find your place in the song. The construction of the deut sounds like this:

A stream sweeping in a downward incline, splashing in playful, petite waves as it tickles lower. It is bordered by plentiful grass. Like boats caught in a fierce storm, a handful of pine-cones freckled in the water move across the stream. Rocks break apart the smoothness of the water. The song emphasizes that the rocks give it a fresh uniqueness rather than damage the serenity of the stream. 

The chorus is a bumble bee landing on a black dahlia. Silk, ebony petals curl off the center like a hundred thumbnails in a bouquet. In the light of nature, the black of the flower shines a red-violet. Nestled in the middle like an arrow in a bullseye, the bumble bee robs and rapes the center of the black dahlia, stabbing at the nectar with their needle-thin legs. 

Carrying your voice higher, you sing about the breeze. The breeze puppets the leaves to give a graceful, continuous wave to the visitors of the forest. The bridge focuses on an earthworm. It is alone, red with speckles of earth. You take your voice past its limit when you find yourself singing about a forest fire. The ballad continues under two watchful, olive-brown eyes.

Unnoticed, the son of the village’s livestock handler watches you break your vocal limit for God. So devoted to him. Piety works itself over the tendons of your throat, pushing and pressing too hard, like a violin’s bow. As the unknown, dueting voice, Jade watches and listens to your consecrating voice, peeved.

Around you, Jade finds that his inhibition has been escaping. 

He has been alive for numerous generations, witnessing patterns of human speech, human practices, and most importantly human fears. Fear is older than Jade. Older than the sediment on the ground that you sing to. Thus, innate fears often stay with generations – the fear of death, thanatophobia, is a prominent recurrence. 

As the God of nature, Jade knew. He had felt men press their heads into the crust of the earth, begging for the other men chasing him to let him live. Felt people rack up dirt with fingers, feverishly pleading for the resurrection of a sick son or sick daughter. Felt fists pound the trees in frustration for the souls he collected and ate. 

Even still, they worshiped him. Thinking they would be allowed into a paradise, ignorant that the old door death opened was a door made of teeth and tongues. Even with the false promise of paradise, thanatophobia reigned supreme and trumped all other fears in humans. In all humans except you. 

You. How strange you are, altering the rules of humanity, since your tenth birthday. 

You focus on nature; he focuses on you. 

As you two sing together, he feels that familiar retreat of inhibition. All of it dissolves into the color and shape of nature like a technicolor sea, blending together. Everything he thought he knew about humans changes with a tiny paint splosh, ruining the masterpiece he made.

“Oh, look at you. All alone,” a voice breaks the song. 

Rounding around, you glare at the intruder as God falls silent. You look at Jade as if you two were hunters and he had just scared off a deer you had been tracking. God galloping away off on hooves. Vexation like a gleam in your eyes. 

“What do you want, Jade?”

Jade Leech is perhaps the most annoying villager in your town, sticking to you like his surname suggests. He had shown up with his mother and father about three years ago when you were twelve. Usually, outsiders did not join the congregation, but the Reverend spoke positively of them. You trusted your Father’s judgment until the boy proved to hold great interest in you and all the things you did. 

“I was just checking up on my dear friend, (Name).”

He is not even respectable about your status. The village calls you ‘One’ for Chosen One. At ten years old, you lose your name like one loses a sock. Not Jade; he likes to call you by the name your mother picked.

“How kind of you,” sarcasm drips from your throat, sore with singing.

“You’re most welcome. You’ve taken to changing the spot where you wash your clothes.”

“Yes, I was hoping someone wouldn’t find me here.”

“It is very nicely secluded so I am sure that they won’t be able to locate it.” 

I thought so too, your inner thoughts mourn.

“Though it might be a bit dangerous. So far off from the ocean and village. Why, who knows what kind of coyotes or animals could be wandering around in the thicket.”

“I assure you, I’m quite alright in the wilderness.” 

It is a true statement. You were particularly blessed when it came down to manners of the environment and the animals which it housed. Call it divine intervention, call it confidence. Whatever it is named, you are spared a lot of trouble that could potentially come from inhuman footprints. 

“Who knows? That unwanted company might seize the opportunity and attack.” Jade’s olive-brown eyes watch your back. Your shoulders move with the pattern of your scrubbing. Sweat latches tight to the curvatures of your visible skin. “Like right now, going for your jugular.”

“Try it, Jade,” you challenge, smiling – not in a friendly way.

Accepting the challenge, Jade stands back and watches your shoulder fall still. The smile on his face is not shark-toothed but it beams with the animosity of such a creature. You have other teeth to worry over. Fangs full of venom, a water snake has wrapped itself around your arm, sneaking up from its hiding spot under the dress and soap.

A copperhead snake twines itself up your forearm like an orange-brown vine. Immediate, your hand falls comatose, not waiting to disturb it. Here. Here is where the human pattern of thanatophobia should come into play. Jade waits eagerly for a shriek; copperheads are venomous, he is certain you know this.

You do not tremble with your actions. You do not tremble with your voice. Irking Jade further, you reach a finger from your opposing arm over the copperhead’s head. The snake does not acknowledge your stroke, continuing to squeeze, as you move down and grasp the tail.

“Jade.”

“Hm?”

“You should step back. This is dangerous.”

A fire of anger ignities on Jade’s shoulders. Cheek twitching, he glares at the back of you. You were concerned for his safety? There is a venomous snake acting friendly with the veins in your arm, yet you told him to stand back. So caught up in disbelief, he misses you successfully unwrapping the copperhead from yourself.

Which you proceed to throw in a bush, just a foot or two away from Jade is standing. “Bravo,” Jade says, unflinching. He stalks towards you. 

“Told you to move.” You pull your clean dress out of the water, wringing it out.

“I do not see how you can be so composed in the grip of death. It is perplexing.”

“Death is always at our sides.” In the water, Jade’s shadow oscillates like a match’s sparkling flame. A quarter of it folds over your shoulder. “Why would I have any reason to be afraid of it?”

“You are the sacrifice of this village.” Jade puts a hand to his heart, leering expression painting itself on his face. Waits patiently for you to get frustrated with him. “I think it is natural that you would think about it more often.”

You look up at Jade, trying to decipher why the thought causes him qualms. Into your wicker basket, you lay the slightly damp dress. Task finished, you bring the basket to your hip as you stand up from the stream.  

“I have no qualms over it.” Then the conversation dies as you walk off, nobody’s buttercup.

The stream babbles as you walk alongside it. Like a puppy barking at your heels, you two move in sync. Somewhere in the bush, you think you can hear the sound of the copperhead rustling. A person disinclined towards the very thought of death, that is who you are. Embracing it, you jump upon the fallen, precarious log that hovers over the stream. 

You glance at Jade who watches you. Then, wicker basket in hand, you step with a note on your tongue. Walking down the log to the other side, you say with each footfall, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” Your voice goes higher as your steps evolve into stomps. 

You crash onto the other side, leaves crunching, as Jade asks, “What was that?”

“Something I’ve been orchestrating.” You challenge him with a look, separated by running water. “You should try it. You never sing at any of the entheogens.” 

Before the village drinks the holy wine mixed with the holy mushroom of God, the entheogens ceremonies call for everyone to sing. You have never seen Jade’s mouth so much as twitch. Though, surprisingly, no one ever makes a fuss about it. The village turns it back on any of the blasphemous actions of Jade Leech. 

“Unless you sing like a croaking toad … ah, then I suppose it all makes sense. It would be a disgrace to your parents if you sang. Unfortunate.”

Jade’s brows furrow. Got him. As he walks down the log, forgoing the stomping you did, he sings the rising scale, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” He lands by your side, hopping off the behemoth log. There is a golden firecracker of satisfaction in his olive-brown eyes. 

“I did not know you could sing like that.” 

The firecracker sizzles out as Jade’s brows shoot up. He feels a light pink start to tiptoe up to his cheeks.

Your voice is soft like honey, full of awe. Your reticent inhibition around Jade melts at that moment. Like snow on spring ground, you warm up eternally – just a bit! – to the invading pest that is Jade Leech. Someone who has been like a mite in your otherwise well kept paradise. You take him in a different light: cropped black hair, slim face, and olive-brown eyes just a bit less obnoxious. You had only heard such a singing voice from –

“Come. Let us go unless that someone you want to avoid finds this spot.”

The thought disappears. Blinking, you watch Jade stalk off. When you regain yourself, basket in hand, you walk just a bit behind him. Like the stubborn child you are, you bite the inside of your cheek, thinking:

Jade sounds good when he sings. 

You two continue silently back to the village, Jade leading. It is a content walk, not even many rocks or lifted ground to trouble the path. Nature sings around the two in a musique concrete of twigs, leaves, and dirt. It is only when you feel a small tug that you wander off.

Jade watches with knowing, incorrectly colored eyes. 

Your eyes sparkle upon a holy sight. More than a dozen light brown and ivory white jellyfish caps stand up straight in grass off the path. Like toads in mud, they break through the dehydrated grass in poor camouflage. Psilocybin mushrooms. The mushrooms that your congregation holds in high regard; a mushroom on piety par with a cross or a clerical collar. 

Like the winner of an Easter egg hunt, you go to collect the mushrooms. Prizes God had hidden from you so you could search and prove yourself. Carefully, you start to put them in your wicker basket, sprinkles of dirt landing on the top dress. 

Shadow folding over you, Jade inquires, breaking the silent retreat, “How many more days until you die, (Name)?”

No one should ever smile at such an inquiry. Yet, here you do, proud of the psilocybin mushrooms in hand, you answer with a big grin, “1,746 days.”

“Jade Leech, you little thief! Get back here right now!”

You look up upon hearing those words. Four buildings away, you watch as a towel crack on the back of Jade’s spine as he walks out of the bakery. The head chef seems to be the one caterwauling at him, twisted towel weaponized like a claymore. A sly smile is plastered on Jade’s face despite the hit.

Idiot; no one steals from her and leaves without a tussle. She, the head chef, is caterwauling like a soaked cat. A smile still emerges on your face despite your previous trouble. Speaking of those troubles – 

You turn back to your work. There are not many jobs for you to take in the village. As the ritual’s sacrifice, labor is something you do not need to concern yourself with as the Reverend says. Attending prayer services, purifying yourself, and connecting with nature are your top priorities. You stretched out the limitations on the last priority and managed to convince that soft-hearted Reverend to let you start beekeeping with two village elders. 

If our God is in every mushroom, every flower, every faucet of nature, it must be alright for me to care for His holy insects too? : that pathos and ethos argument won you the rights to take up beekeeping. 

Right now, you are troubled by your job. Hairy white sections are on the lower burr comb and cells. It festers on a block of the hive where the queen is. A sign of another pest within the hive. However, none of the other signs were present upon last inspection. Of course, the sign of incursion would be near the queen – the most sensitive and paramount part of the hive.

The queen bee eludes your gaze right now, worker bees swarming around. You go to see if you can get a few to walk on your hand when something breaks your line of sight. Your hand stills. Held out to you is a half-ripped piece of bread. 

Not taking it, you look up at the smiling face of Jade. Far away, surprisingly not giving chase, the head chef shouts: “Little devil child! You pest!” The grin on Jade’s face widens, teeth flashing at you. 

“If only she knew the half of it. Here.” Jade holds up the bread, trying to appear generous in his motives. “Freshly baked.”

“Freshly stolen,” you correct. You take it either way. Stealing is frowned upon by the congregation but you have no fear left to worry about consequences. A tiny bite leaves you pleasantly surprised. Sourdough. You go back in for a bigger bite.

Jade sits down beside you, eating his own share and looking into the broods. Glancing up from your piece, you say, “You did that on purpose.” 

“Stealing is often a motivated task.”

“No. You got caught on purpose; you’re slippery enough to steal and not get noticed.”

“I assure you that I was trying my hardest to not get caught.”

“Ah I see,” you say, wholly unconvinced. 

“Your mind is not at ease. Usually you smile more when attending to your bees.” 

Like a chipmunk, you stuff your cheeks with sourdough to avoid answering. “It is unlike a person of your standing,” Jade continues. Your standing: your life’s merit as a sacrifice. The reason that everyone calls you One instead of (Name). The Chosen One connected to the Odd One through nature and, thus, nature’s creatures.

“Sumtin’ s ‘rong wit the quee.”

“Pardon?”

You swallow, “Something’s wrong with the queen.” You spear a crescent into the bread’s crust with your nail. Despondent, you explain, “There are signs of an infestation near her section. I also noticed the capped cells were full of holes and overall seemed frail. That’s a sign of Varroa but I haven’t seen a single mite or deformed wings.” 

“Always the queen isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand why I can never raise a healthy queen. The cell caps of hers always appear healthy, but halfway through, she suffers from signs of unknown invasion.” Quarantining your bees is the most viable option but you would rather solve this matter before taking a drastic measure. If only you could locate her –

You jump when Jade presses his hand close to the honeycomb structures. “Hey, be careful! You need gloves!”

“You do not wear gloves.”

“That’s different!”

“Hush.”

At that word, you happily wait for him to get strung. With his inexperience, it should only take a short amount of time. Sourdough in hand, you sit back to watch the show. Bees crawl like pouring vinegar over his pallid hand, curious, and you huff at his gentleness. Any moment now. Any moment comes but it comes with Jade pulling hand away with the queen bee on his forefinger.

“How did you –”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“I hate you.”

Jade smiles wide at that. The queen on his finger flicks her wings as he moves his hand to hover between you two. She seems fairly healthy despite all the disturbance around her. “Trying to steal my job, Jade,” you ask when he passes her to you. 

“Do not even entertain the thought. I do not particularly enjoy insects. They may be entertaining for an hour or so, but I am content with the thought of their entire colony going up in flames one day.”

“Monster.”

Jade smiles in his you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it way. 

Jade stares up at the statue of himself, contemplative. 

For five out of thousands of years, Jade has passed time wearing fake human skin. Fake pallid hands find themselves stroking his neck for gills no longer there. Those hands hesitate over touching his ears, feeling thick muscle and bone instead of a thin membrane of skin. His trepidation around looking-glasses has eroded over the half decade. But, Jade still finds himself not entirely accepting parts of the body he puppets.

Walking around in the wrong skin is like wearing clothes too small. It squeezes over him like latex, tightening when he moves a certain way and constricting when he looks at it too long. 

His hands especially are wrong, lacking webbed structure and the correct hues. How his fingernails flush purple and his fingers red when it is cold … it disgusts him. How his veins are blue under sand toned skin … it is a sickening sight. The human body wrapped around his working brain and working heart, it is the most grotesque part of this trail. Sometimes, he wants nothing more to shed it off an amphibian. 

Jade takes his vexed gaze off his hands and returns to staring at the monument. Cleaners are put on rotation to polish and scrub down the entirety of him, forbidding moss or dirt to lay upon him. They are quite meticulous about it too. Meticulous like how a mother bathes her child. They scrub behind his ears, over the ridges of his dorsal fin, under the extended points of his claws. He has seen real, palpable joy on the faces of those given the job.

The sculptor … died about 2,050 years ago if Jade’s memory is right. 

Withstanding the test of time, here the effigy of his true form lies, propped up on a block of marble chiseled to look like a sweeping wave. His face is sculpted in a polite mien with the slightest hint of malice. Smiling with teeth yet not with all his teeth. Just the top row. In stone, his tail dips in backwards J and is hooked upward like the frozen neck of a screaming horse on a carousel. 

If asked, Jade thinks he misses his tail most right alongside his hands. The only change that he does not mind is his hair. Living on a warm island with long hair would have been bothersome, especially on his neck. The cropped style is nice; his real hair would have made him sweat. 

Then, staring down the effigy of himself, Jade realizes he made a mistake earlier. He knows he misses swimming the most. His tails and hands: they are mere tools to propel him when in the sea, so deep in his plunge that it feels like he is moving universe to universe with each wide stroke. 

Only less than three years remain until your death. 819 days if his memory serves correct. And this time it does; he is as certain as stone is hard. But such a long time in fake skin feels like the lifespan of a human, dragging day by day. Each inhale of the sun and exhale of the moon feeds the bugs crawling on his skin, uncomfortable in this fake skin.

Jade wonders, scratching his forearm, if he should speed this sacrificial ritual as he watches you race across the field towards him. He glances down at your nude human feet. Quadriceps, sinew tendons, and bone propelling you forward until you skid to a stop in front of him – with a jar in your hands? 

“Look what I have!” There is a big, prideful grin on your face. With a flourish, you raise up said jar. And Jade responses –

“Wow. A jar. How marvelous.”

Your expression flattens at that. As if retreating, you pull the jar to your ribcage, protective arms around it. “It’s not just any jar. It’s my – Itchy? I think we have some medicine in –” 

Jade pauses his scratching to interrupt. “No, I’m quite alright.” The marks running up his skin are angry and red, yet miraculously not bleeding. “So,” leaning in, he grins with all his teeth and says, “what’s in the jar? Must be revolutionary with how fast you ran over here.”

“It is!” Pride relights your body. You unscrew the jar with flying fingers. Then, you hold out the open mouth of the jar towards Jade, waiting for praise.

“Ah, honey.”

“Not just any honey; it is the last flow of honey.”

“I see. There is no more honey after that. So we will eat pancakes without honey soon, correct?”

“You’re not getting it, are you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Hmph.” You bring the jar back to your chest as Jade ponders on why humans are so sensitive. “The best months to harvest honey are from July to mid-September, right? And it is mid-September, right?” Jade nods at both your inane questions. Still not getting it. “Honey is the sweetest and best when you collect the last honey flow. The nectar flow from this is the one they make in the summer! It is going to taste Godly!” 

“Careful what words you use, (Name).”

You two glance up at the company you keep. Though his gray left eye and yellow right eye are the same hue of stone, they seem to shine. Something fierce and glowing breaking through inert expression. You smile mischievously. “I’ll make it up to him when I’m dead. Now. Taste this.”

With a roll of olive-brown eyes, Jade leans in to observe the jar which you are once more offering him. Inside, the yellow honey tilts like a slow avalanche with the degree you hold it at. Gold gleams like the surface of the ocean under sunlight, almost sparkling. I almost miss home, Jade thinks as he dips his index finger in. 

Oh.

Finger in mouth, Jade does not want to admit it but you are right. This is perhaps the best honey he has sampled before. The nectar slides down his tongue, touches his throat, and slugs down to his stomach. It is almost an addictive taste. 

It is an uncleaned sweetness that melts down his throat. Like blasphemous scripture. 

Jade really should not show you his enthusiasm for it; your pride will only increase knowing he enjoys it and you will grow more annoying. Yet, as if pulled by strings, he sticks his finger back into the jar. Before tasting, he asks, “What did you say the difference with this flow is?”

“It is the last flow of the season. With the bees hibernating soon, you can maximize the honey you are collecting by being patient. But there’s really an entire system to it, making sure you don’t strike too early or late.”

“Would it not be the sweetest during summer when the bees are most active?”

“Nope. Patience is the key; beekeeping is a waiting game.” 

A waiting game? He watches you stick your own finger in, feasting on the rewards of your patience. The later harvest yields a richer taste. How splendid of his sacrifice to say just the words he needs to hear to understand himself and motives. 

Eventually, almost telepathically as if both of you know what your companion is thinking, you and Jade stare up at the statue. Your saliva-coated finger and dry fingers place the cap back on the jar, leaving it unscrewed yet lidded. Jade waits until you are enraptured with the sculpture before he turns his attention to you. 

You stare, contemplative. The sun is three hours off from its peak. Thus piscine shadows of the statue fall onto awaiting blades of grass. The silhouette of his dorsal fin like a knife and the silhouette of his hunched shoulders, leaning in like he is going to burst to life any moment. He has this hardly contained enmity is his expression, upturned eyes too sharp and smile too tiny. 

“Can’t you just see me and him, together in paradise?”

“You two will make a lovely couple.”

“Heh, that’s what they all say.”

Jade studies your profile. There is just a tiny droplet of animosity in your worshiping eyes that he is desperate to uncover the truth about. You are bitter about something. However, whenever Jade tries to peek into that hate circuit rivering itself through your cortex, he gets nothing. 

He supposed he could ask; if he is going to bid his time in other realms, he has more time to analyze the ecosystem of your brain. You startle when he speaks. “(Name). If you were not the chosen one, what would you do with the rest of your life?”

The expression you give Jade is easy to read: confusion. “If I wasn’t the – why, I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.”

“But try to. Try to imagine your twenty-first birthday.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Jade.”

“I am as serious as death.”

You shake your head furiously. “There is no other choice to make, but I am using my choice and have chosen to be there. As the chosen one.”

Jade, with all his immortal life wisdom goes huh? at your verbal affirmation. 

“Such a boy,” you mourn, frowning up at his statue. You shuffle your bare toes on the ground, feeling the dirt cling onto them and tune into the radio of nature for a bit. After a contemplative moment, you say, “I am nobody’s buttercup. But I must do something so I will do that.”

“I see.” 

Taking your words as a challenge, Jade leans in. Your nose scrunches, thinking he is going to do something odious and ruin this perfect, honey-coated day. If you were built in the image of your God, you would want his teeth so you could snap at Jade’s nose. The sentiment grows when Jade flicks the lid off the jar — it frisbees through the air — and scoops up a handful of honey. Some of it doesn’t even make it into his mouth!

“Hey! No stealing from the chosen one!”

“You never said there was a time limit on the honey you offered.”

“Well, there is one now! We have to make this last until next September! I have only two Septembers left!”

Jade laughs, licking the honey off his wrist. He makes another grab at the jar as you rush away from him, trying to retrieve the lid. “Back! Back, you heathen!” And the smile Jade makes as he chases you around the field is a perfect copy of the expression that is carved into stone. 

Time passes like it always does. Life is a constant stream that connects in the ocean of death, making itself the estuary of mortality. 

Those two Septembers pass and twice more you successfully harvest the perfect honey flow. Even when Jade jokes all sinister that you should enjoy these last moments of good food, dipping sourdough into honey, you never even shake. At the apiary, all the jars are empty, trails of gold stubbornly clinging onto the glassware. You and Jade make the effort to scrub all the ones you used clean until they shine. 

“You’re not afraid at all,” Jade asks, watching you scrub the remains of your presence from the world. All you are: congealing honey on a rag which you will dip into the nearby stream, which will carry you away to a water funeral. 

“Not at all.” It must be true. Because under the winter’s sun, your hands are steady and determined. Because when Jade asks how many days are left, you respond with an unshakable voice. Because Jade thinks with some sort of thrill unlike any he has known, you have been waiting as patiently as he has. 

It is only when the number of days decrease and shrink down to the number seven does Jade’s patience break. 

There is no sunshine shining down on you but you are still as bright as ever. Under the silver moonlight, you twirl and run and even cartwheel in the open field. You have been forgoing any sort of sleep, utilizing all the hours in a twenty-four hour day until you pass out from exhaustion, nature as your mattress. No one in the village disapproves of it, seeing it as you embracing your God. Jade wishes someone would though. He has unfortunately been dragged out for the past seven nights by you, wanting his company.

And I still have seven more to go, Jade thinks, leaning against his statue. He never thought he would grow tired but even a human body has limits. Sleep addles Jade’s brain as his neck bends as if he is caught in prayer. 

He snaps back up when you shout. “Jade! Jade look!”

Seeing that you have his attention, you launch right into it. You take a running start, hands up in the air. Cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, ending with a front flip. Supernaturally energetic, you raise your arms up in your success, dress billowing around you, ready to accept the claps. 

Jade manages a few light ones and says, “Well done, (Name).”

You smile happily. “Praise me more; this is the last week I’ll be alive to hear any sort of praise.” You twirl and watch the white of your summer dress puff up in a jellyfish shell. “Make sure they do not neglect to make mention of how good I was at cartwheels in the legends and stories.”

“I won’t, (Name).”

You fall back into it. Among the tall grass, you do a wide variety of different exercises and a variety of different dances. You move with the ease of an autumn leaf, trusting the wind. To the unheard and unsung song of nature and God, you gyrate around. Like God’s personal instrument, you bend yourself to the symphony that no one in your village has ever heard. 

I’ll miss dirt, you think just as you blindly twirl into a patch of fireflies. 

Fireflies explode around you like a firework. Wide-eyed and gasping, you pause with your hands raised up. Buzzing and rapid, the tiny comets of gold lift up from the flora and paint the night with tinier stars. Gripping the train of your dress, you rotate yourself to make room for the fireflies launching up to the west, laughing all the while. 

Eventually, they dissolve into the sky, leaving your eyes chasing after them. They dissolve in dying breaths and dying heartbeats. You watch the last of them flicker out, finding a new patch to lie on or traveling too far for you to see them. 

Oddly, an invisible bruise on your chest starts to ache. 

Dirt encrusted feet carry your body before you comprehend what you are doing. Wildly, like something monstrous is at your heels, you run into the nearby thicket of trees, determined to reach the deepest part of the forest which surrounds the village.

“(Name)?” Jade squints at your fast-retreating form. “(Name)!” He picks himself off the statue as you rush into the forest, almost like you are in a panic. 

“Catch me!” 

The chase prematurely begins. 

Jade dives into the forest after you. Pushing branches out of his way and jumping over protruding vegetation. Hundred elements of nature flicker across his vision as he runs and runs. Shadows elongate and distort under the occluding moon. He elbows his weight on a tree so it pushes him faster. Blanketed under nebulous black, the world beats with a thousand different songs. 

All the while you are hollering and screaming. Screams evolve into frantic giggles and hollering matures into singing. Do Re Me Fa Sol La Ti Do, your feet race down the cliff slide in the pattern of the musical scale. 

Your body is an instrument, Jade. Listen to it and you will be closer to God. Narcotic words you once said, deranged out of your mind. Narcotic words that you said while certain that patches of grass were growing from the planes of your skin. Narcotic words he had not paid much mind to. Closer to God, hm?

The crunch of leaves as you two run are like lyrics, right? Yet, the soles of his feet are like the percussion too? Guitar strings tendons pull with different frets and notes. Piano key fingers reach out and crush the branches in his way. His most powerful instrument is acting strangely though. His voice. That particular instrument is doing something it has never done before: laughing. 

Is this what being human is, always running? He thinks this might be the faintest sniff of what it means to be a human: always running away from time. The epiphany is not about being human through sweet acceptance or love. His first taste of humanity is in the sweat of running and running while chasing. 

Closer to God. Closer to humans. 

At times, your aptitude is unreadable to Jade … that aptitude that guides you to never fear death. He wonders why there is such a wide gap between you and others when it comes to the terms of death. Closing in, he thinks: This Is The One. His fingers reach out, A0 from C8 scale running across phalanges. He could push you. With the momentum doubled with the rocks –

Still running, you turn to laugh at Jade. The pure joy on your face is blinding, hands up your shoulders and dress swaying. Your smiling face brightens at the sight of him (one close-eyed, titanic grin directed at him) before it winks away, flickering behind a tree. Jade watches as he loses you as you gather speed and sprint harder. Miraculously, you disappear from his sight, breaking the distance Jade had attempted to close.

God and human, you two run frantically through the forest. You throw out insults about his speed and he throws out his laughter in your duet. When the ground starts to decline, Jade finally figures out where you are heading to. He pumps his legs faster as the thickness of nature decreases gradually. 

He breaks into the clearing by the stream, hoping to beat you, only to be confronted with the sight of you crouched by the water, twirling something between your fingers. 

“Th-The forest is teething. I can feel it.” You pant like a dog. Jade watches the process of deflate and inflate; with each behemoth breath you take, exhausted and spent, your shoulder and ribs move with the hard work of your lungs. “It –” You choke around the salvia in your mouth, breathless. “It is the start of something here.”

“Teething?”

“Yes. Like babies do.”

I’m teething, Jade contemplates, unsure of what that word really entails. He knows little of human babies. It is only until you show Jade what is in your hand that he thinks he gets it. 

“Look at this.” 

From your hand, you present a black dahlia flower with a bright sunny center to him. The sunny center squeezes into a tiny circle then widens out in the average size. It is like a nostril, flickering and changing shape with each inhale and exhale. It is trying to breathe but as a flower it does not understand how to do that with a lineage of photosynthesis written in its body.

That flickering feeling of the beginning is so thick in the air. The start of something is here. It permeates in your bones. All through your skin, it permeates.

“It is certainly …” Jade trails off, not really used to seeing this side of himself. 

“Beautiful,” you supply. There is a warmth in the space as Jade sits down besides you. The space between you is bright despite the midnight. “Can I tell you something? And you must keep it a secret.”

“Go ahead. I am as quiet as a church mouse.”

“I had this vision during the last entheogen.” 

You still remember it. Swallowing the wine and, from within, bringing out the divine. Psilocybin on your tongue, you laid in a technicolor sea, holding up the receiver of your brain and waiting for that connection with God. You had a vision about the sacrament that is less than a week away. You look up to the sky as you speak. The moon is past the peak of midnight noon.

“I was at the ceremony. The sky was completely cloudless so you could feel the warmth of the sun. I was walking down to the slab bed. Dressed and ready.

“But when the Reverend told me to say my final prayers, I couldn’t.”

The black dahlia gives a sneezing breath at that. “Why couldn’t you?”

“My mouth was full of bees. I opened my mouth.” You look at Jade and decide to demonstrate. A fist moves up to your face before stretching fingers out like you are cupping a ball. “And blaaah, a hundred or so bees flew from my mouth.”

“The singer’s last ballad.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it is your mind rationalizing with the fear of your impending death.” 

“Do not make me laugh.” 

You are smiling, secondary to laughter. Returning attention to the black dahlia, you see the breaths have dwindled down to delicate stutters. It only stops breathing when you set it into the stream, watching it float and spin once. A dance in water, the revelation makes you grin softer. Your little theater show is only interrupted by Jade. 

“What are your opinions on the ceremony? Now that it is so close, realer almost.”

You contemplate for a moment on the navel of the world, or as others call it ceremony. “I’m quite content with it.”

A picture paints itself: the stone rock, the slab bed, the omphalos alone in a field of psilocybin mushrooms, devoid of life beyond yourself. It is a bed you will eventually rest down upon and let the Father of your religion cut out the heart in your chest. 

“I’m not going to die,” you whisper. Rejuvenate with that fact, you shuffle your body until your knees are tilted towards Jade. You lean in with flame eyes, a whirlpool of heat in them. Your next words cause the black dahlia in the stream to go breathless in surprise. “I’m going to find out if I’m really alive.” 

“Th –” Jades breathes out a tiny laugh. “That is quite contradictory, (Name). Such an event would not inspire such a thought.”

“Well, it’s true so you have to deal with it.”

“I will burden myself with knowing it and trying to understand it.” He puts a hand to his heart in promise.

“Good. Agonize over it.”

You take to putting your feet in the stream as you reposition yourself. Spreading out your legs, you draw up your dress to your thighs. Dirt floats up and follows the path the black dahlia is being pushed away to as water cleanses your soles. The percussion of your heart beats through your toes as you wiggle them, trying to gather warmth under cold water. 

You look like a high renaissance painting: ideal and perfect in Jade’s eyes. You blink your own eyes when your body is slowly moved. “I waited.” Before you question Jade’s harsh words, his hand on your chin, the start of something new blossoms and the forest sings. 

You pull away from the kiss first. Eyelashes butterflying open, you gaze upon Jade with a fondness he has never seen. “How do I taste?”

If Jade will be your only kiss, he thinks it makes sense that you want to know what you taste like. He will not allow you to kiss another in the next six days. Considering it, his focus narrows to his mouth. Your bacterial corpse rests on his taste-buds, measuring and remembering the taste of you. Floral notes are encrusted with a sort of raw grime. 

“Earthy and sweet.”

Giggling, you dive back in for another kiss. 

You think this has been a long time coming which is why you can fall into it so easily. Your amygdala – once a ripe grape – is dried up like a sun-kissed raisin. 

Cupping Jade’s face, you feel no indication that is the wrong course of action. Grass and dirt tickles your flesh, teasingly happy. Nature reaches slippery hands into your brain, infecting you with dopamine. This all feels so unnaturally right. 

It takes about seven kisses in total before Jade’s hand starts to run itself up and down your thigh. Across a field of goosebumps, he draws his hand from the ankle freckled with water to the midpoint of your upper thigh. It is only when he moves up to the barricade of where you placed your dress that you grab his wrist. Partially in his lap, you squeeze the bones of his wrist. 

“You’re not here for too long so what could go wrong,” Jade, eyes closed, asks the question towards your hesitation. 

“Only two things are required of me in six days,” you kiss Jade to appease and because you want to. “That I die in six days on my twentieth birthday and that I remain a virgin.” 

“Surely we can negate one of these constricting restrictions. I say that God is being a bit selfish.” Jade seethers inside, hiding it well with his returning saccharine kiss. Hoping to persuade and because he wants to. There is no possible way that his own rules are going to leave him with a painful stiff, is there? 

“I think the man can handle one lapse of judgment from His prized singer. He knows you well. Say ‘oh dear God’” He vocalizes a facade of your frightful feminine voice, nipping at your ear. You giggle at the foreign sensation. “‘There is this awful, stealing, odious man down there and I. Fell. From. Grace.” Jade punctuates each word with a kiss. He moves down the musician’s scale of your throat, returning to his own deep timbre. 

You shiver and, against better judgment, relax the hold on his wrist. “I do not fear the wrath of any man or God.”

The tune of acceptance, Jade thinks as he kisses down to your breasts. When he cultivated from the ceremony, it was only the human hearts he ate. This meal will be a new experience for both you and him. “Good. If you started being frightened, I would find you weak.”

“Is that so? I thought you were always veering for me to be more,” you gasp, toes frozen in the stream, as Jade cups over your sex. He lies his hand over it but does nothing more. “-- Veering for me to fear death?”

“Is this your death?”

“It could certainly be close to that.”

“Well, let this be the sweetest death you could ever know.”

With skillful fingers, he unties the back of your dress with only one hand. Though it comes undone quite quickly as if he has taken scissors to it. Strange. You do not focus on it long as tiny knives fall over your shoulder, removing the sleeves of your summer dress. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. Jade sucks hard on your right breast. 

The sensation sends a ripple of goosebumps along your arms. It feels sweetly blasphemous, all the attentive kisses pepper to your breasts. A taste of something new and at its peak. You twitch when you feel Jade’s blunt nails move from cupping your sex to trailing a finger over the space where hip and thigh meet. 

“Wait,” you stop Jade. His mouth falls away, teeth sharpening a bit with annoyance. He looks up at you, big olive- brown eyes gleaming. “I’m – Well –” You glance down at his hand that is swallowed under your dress. “It’s not a pretty scar,” you whisper. 

“I’m sure it’s beautiful like the rest of you.” Before you can protest, the rest of your dress is pulled over your head. He leaves you in only your panties, sitting in the dirt by the stream. Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” Jade grabs the hand that goes to block his sigil. It has never looked so appetizing on a sacrifice until you. He licks his lips. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s still a scar.”

“Not to me,” Jade says, pressing his body against you so you lay down. 

Delirious, like you are floating off a substance, you go to unbutton his long sleeve, wrestling your hand from him. Your skull is cushioned by your dress, bundled into a ball. The sharp point of sticks hit your skin. Wet sediment, a mixture of sand and dirt, clings onto you. 

Under the ground, a foreign heartbeat drums. It hammers in a rhythm over your spine, bottom, shoulders, and soles. It is a mimic of the heart resting in your chest, syncing with nature in some incomprehensible way just like black dahlia managed to breathe. Chary thoughts dissolve from your head when Jade moves down to press a kiss to the sigil. 

You manage to wrestle the shirt off Jade, using it as a rope to pull him, meeting in a kiss of tongue and teeth. Let go of your inhibitions, the forest beckons. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. You float with the floating pine-cones as Jade presses himself against you. 

“God,” you moan, breaking away from the kiss.

“Come now, you know my name.” Jade teases. He works himself out of his pants, patient in his motions. “Can’t you say it?” The head of his penis kisses the wet spot of your panties. His grin is so familiar like you've seen it somewhere else before .

“Jade.”

That is all it takes, panties torn by claws. A dozen frenzied thoughts crash into your mind when he pushes himself into you. You cling feebly to him like a caterpillar to a leaf. He thrusts in, starting slow and then fortissimo-ing the act. The sound increases, skin on skin, along with the speed, inch by deeper inch. It feels like your insides are being ripped out of you. I think I’m dying is your most prominent thought. Then, you cum, singing in moans. 

It is, in all senses of sensations, la petite mort. 

“Aaah — mmmmph my God aah!”

You push your hands against the trunk of a tree. On trembling, fawn legs, you stand with arms outstretched in a tight caress of the pine. Behind you, down the long arch of your spine, Jade presses kiss to each golf-ball indent of bone. Heat spreads like a virus to your shoulders, smoldering, as you feel his length lightly trace down the curvature of your bottom. 

Butterflying eyelashes glance up at pine. Your head feels heavy like a whirlpool heat courses through it, scarlet and yellow. Salvia holds itself heavy in your mouth; stimulation – if pushed any further – will have you drooling from your blissed out state. Even disoriented, you recognize nature and the creatures it keeps. 

Jade stills when he sees you moving your right hand off the tree. There is something on the tip of your finger. “Keep your hands there. You will need to keep yourself balanced.” He kisses your last vertebrae, eyes glowing, as you ignore his words. 

“Cen-Centipede,” you manage to say, breathing heavily. 

You hold out your finger to him. On your index, the orange legs of the arthropod flow like oil down your knuckles. With deep fondness, you watch it move. The same fondness is found in Jade’s eyes. He stills you look strangely beautiful: two leaves threaded in your hair, the streaks of dirt that birthed themselves on you when Jade plowed into you, and admiring a centipede in the middle of your third sex position change. 

“Yes. I see.” 

Jade says, resting his chin on your shoulder. Leaning over you, his length makes a pointed reminder of existing when the warmed blood of it hits and throbs on the center of your ass. “Pretty thing, isn’t it?” You nod before moving your arm down, letting it crawl off into the ground. Over your shoulder, you drag Jade back into another kiss. “Earthy and sweet,” he says, feasting on a taste he will have the pleasure of knowing for eternity. 

Around you, the forest sings happily. Surrendering to that wonderful melody of nature, you put your hands back to the pine, using them to keep yourself upright. A slug of drool falls off your bottom lip as a soundless gasp exits you. You and Jade met; he presses himself into your cunt, two harvests of cum soaping and sucking him in easily.

The taste of you is entirely sweet like a honeycomb. The sensation of him is hallucinogenic like psilocybin. Earthy and sweet. 

“S-Ssso deep.”

Your left leg twitches when Jade starts to move, experimenting with his speed. He was insatiable the first two rounds; he thinks he will test that beekeeping patience of yours. Yet, at only the first thrusts, Jade finds it a futile effort. 

Your hand twitches on the pine at a foreign sensation. Where Jade’s hands rest on your hips, there is a difference in texture. There is silk between his fingers like some type of webbing. You startle at the odd sensation. Going to look behind you, you ask breathless, “Jade?”

“Cl – ugh – Close your eyes. Listen to … fuck … Listen to the forest.”

The thought of that strange texture of his hands is punched out when he finds a finger to your clit, rubbing in circles.

Fucked dumbed and drolling, you manage a “Fuck Jade!” before all your vocabulary burns itself from your brain.

“You have kept me up for the past week … (Na-Name) – uuk! –” Skin slaps in a thundering clap. Subconsciously, you tighten and moan. Summoning his breath, Jade leans in towards your ears, “I hope you can judge my next words fairly: I won’t stop until dawn. It will be a sleepless night for us.” 

The night fills itself with the song of your moans. 

“Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Like a bisque doll, you are washed by the village nuns. Two flank you on each side, one designated for your arm and the other for your leg. Assiduous, they move soapy towels down the length of your spidery limbs. Bisque dolls are beings without autonomy. You certainly do feel quite similar, disjointly watching a foreign hand lift your arm, twisting and rubbing soap on each finger with care. 

Joints and skin do not belong to you anymore. A sterile hand lifts your left leg higher. Heart, not your possession. 

Split into fourths like a filet, you try to remember who said those words: “Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.” As you are being stewed and cooked into a gallimaufry, you find that the past is not what you think about.

You are thinking about the cloudless skies outside. You are thinking about what it will be like under real warmth, not the warmth of bath water. You are thinking about whether tomorrow it will rain or remain sunny. 

“Is something wrong, One?”

The image of skies dissolves in your mind. You blink in surprise. Head off in the cloud, you do not know which of the four nuns spoke. Between all the pallid moon faces cloaked in black, you choose to look at the one cleansing your left arm. You two met curious eyes.

“Your face was scrunching up. I was wondering if you were feeling any discomfort, One.” Your right arm talks to you. 

“I’m quite alright. Thank you.”

Your left leg chimes in, soapy brine slathered on it. “If you feel any sort of stress, please let us know.”

Now that silence has been broken, your right leg says, “I cannot imagine being stressed on such a wonderful day. Ah, I’m so terribly envious.”

“I am quite at peace on this holy day,” you smile as to appease the fear all your limbs display. Moon faces hum their agreement, tranquility only broken when you say softly, “but –”.  You gaze at the bathhouse’s windows, glass blocking off where nature carols. “How much longer? I long to be outside.”

You glare at the shoes on your feet. 

Flanking both your sides, the congregation sits in the village’s woodsmith-made chairs. Beyond you, the stone slab lies; behind you, the statue of your God. Yet, what is most vexingly is in front of you: the sight of shoes on your feet.

Each birthday, you were dressed in the ceremony clothes and made to practice. Each birthday, you gave no fuss over the attire. Letting them dress the bisque doll, you resigned to putting on the empire dress with the square cut to display your iron branding on your stomach. Down to the fiber of your being, now, you wish you could take off the blasted shoes. 

Your pointless glaring only stops when a voice approaches, asking, “Did I ever tell you about your grandfather?” You turn to the Reverend with a smile. The ceremony is commencing. 

With a soft voice, you answer. “Not often enough.”

The Reverend always walks the sacrifice down the aisle. You suppose this might be a bit more sentimental, considering who you are to him, which is why he talks to you. Gently, you two find yourself joined at the bend of your elbow. 

“He was a religious man. Devoted in a way the others around him were not.

“He would go out in forests people were too scared to venture into. The villagers would find him, sketching things they could not see in nature. It frightened and delighted them too, his sketches. He would polish that very statue like each day it would bring him luck. Each day before he went out in the forests, that was his routine. 

“When he died … he died saying it was all for vain.” Your lips press together tightly. “A man so devoted and so close to God, shaming it. It was perhaps the worst day of his sons and daughters lives. On his deathbed, he brought upon such … shame to his family. Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.” 

Ah, that is where you heard it. You remember finally, you had heard it in the future which is now the present. That was why you could not remember the speaker because he had not spoken those words yet. You did not think you would find the future in the entheogens; how curious. 

You two start towards the stone slab. As nobody's buttercup, you keep your eyes straight and refuse to yield towards distractions. Devote unlike your grandfather. Devote unlike your unsourced father who knocked up your mother exactly twenty years and nine months ago.

“I tell you this because I am incredibly proud of you. I have witnessed such growth from you. Piety flows in your bones as if God has smiled upon you Himself. My child –”

You look towards the Reverend, curious. 

“You have been good.”

Nature stirs. At least, this time, the queen bee in my honeycombs is healthy. I leave behind something good.

When you reach the sacrificial table, you part like droplets rolling off a leaf in opposite directions. You press your hands on the omphalos, kneeling down and bowing your head. Eyes closed, you listen to the words you have heard since your tenth birthday. 

You cannot help it – your mind wanders back to the past. Not searching for the merit of life, simply remembering how you became the Chosen One. A decade ago … such a long yet short time, such a juxtaposition. 

The ritual involves the ocean. The ocean in which that faithful stream bleeds into. Every twenty or so years, just after the sacrifice predating them dies, everyone below the age of ten is made to stay underwater. The one who remains the longest is regarded as the Chosen One. Time slipped from your fingers like sand, underwater. A minute is an hour, an hour is a minute. 

When you walked out of the ocean, your mother ran to embrace and to collapse to the ground crying. You had been underwater for a full twenty-four. The villagers thought you got swept up a riptide and died like some three year olds and two year olds of the past. Blue-lipped and shivering, you told them you thought you were the first one out. 

There is no way you should have survived and felt as fine as you did. 

Since then, nature talks to you like a baby conversing with an adult. You can make some syllables, understand the babbles that make up baba mean dada, and read the unconcealed emotions clearly. Now, it sings along with the Reverend, soft and gentle … somniferous almost.

You know you shouldn’t but –

You glance, barely moving your head, at Jade. He is staring right at you. His eyes are different, tiger eyes of flaming black and flaming gold. Somniferous eyes stare at your soul. Promptly, you pass out.

You wake up. 

Your feet are encrusted with dirt. A multitude of trees enter your eyesight and the sound of a running stream worms into your ears. You are standing by the river where you washed clothes as a young teenager; the place where you and Jade had sex seven days ago; the place where you broke God’s trust. 

Yet, no fear is present. Chest unusually light, you stare at the familiar pattern of trees dotted across the opposing side of the river. To your limited knowledge, this is you facing divine judgment. Retribution must be collected for your only sin. 

You can accept that. 

Curious eyes fall across the wilderness as your vision clears. You can not really tell what song nature is singing; there is a disconnect between you and the world. Blocked from the majority besides a single instrument: buzzing. You hear the harmony of humble bees buzzing, which you search for the source of. When you find it, a gasp breaks apart your lips.

Spread across the planes of your two arms are a thousand octagonal holes. Skin drenched in a mixture of golden honey and scarlet blood, the only breakage is pitch black, tiny honeycomb structures dug in your flesh. The concave pits freckle the entirety of both arms. 

From the inner elbow and wrist of your left arm, two bees emerge from two separate holes. From the radius of your right arm, another bee. The rest of the colony is inside your skin, tickling your nausea. 

That is not all that summons that high-pitched gasp. Clenched in the Swiss cheese flesh of your hands is a knife covered in blood. 

You watch as the once cement knife starts to vibrate back and forth the longer you stare at it. Whole body shivers rape your bones and the shining red knife trembles with the movement.

For reasons unknown, your parted lips spill out one last rhythmic note, “J-Jade?” The world goes black.

You wake up. 

Black, directionless water swallows you. There is no end or no beginning, so you float in the abdomen of the universal ocean, body tilted and head heavy. No calamity stirs your buoyant bones. Quite peaceful, you exist like a free-roaming satellite, untethered and left to bounce alone in directionless galaxies. No light, pitch black.

This is what you have always wanted from death. No God paradise, just a nebulous space to drift. This is the ideal death. Body propelled and caressed by unsourced waves that rock you peacefully to infinite sleep. No stars, pitch black.

It stops being peaceful when you need to take a breath. Water instead of air travels in. You have no mouth or nose. Body manipulated, water goes in the waiting nostrils of the seven pairs of holes in your abdomen and the three pairs of holes in your thorax. And, suddenly, that tranquil black gains a blinding hue of pain. 

Depressing, the water does not float around you but pushes onto you. It clings like you are a magnet. The tiny caves in your thorax and abdomen flicker with agony, gathering more water. It clings to you like spandex. You throw an arm and leg into the atmosphere, and the absence of everything (beginning and end) is no longer a comfort. It clings like a leech, suctioning itself to you and filling the spiracles. 

Mouthless, your heart throws out an unheard scream. The world goes blinding gold. 

You wake up. 

The first texture you feel is the cold granite on your cheek. It is a welcome balm until the granite grinds painfully on your pelvic bone and the skin of your breasts. Disorientate, you push yourself away from the surface. The granite rumbles under your hands … no, the granite is soundless but there is a rumbling. Still sitting on the ceremony’s sacrificial slab, you open your eyes. 

The village is on fire. There is no building left intact. Flames rumble and tremble, fueling their physical form with all that a house has to offer. Red and gold climb upon the outer walls and black climbs out from the pumpkin innards of each house. 

Snip-snap-woosh-woosh. The conflagration’s volume drowns out any and all sounds of nature. Beyond the roar of fire, you hear absolutely nothing. 

Irrational, you turn your head in the direction of where you know the bee colonies are. You cannot see them through the thick plumes of smoke, separated from you by several burning buildings. You knew you would not be able to see them; why even look in their direction? Regardless, you squint even more to try to catch a glimpse. 

If the queen moves, they would too. Survival instinct would make them take flight, right?

On the verge of tears, you start to squirm on the slab, taking your hand behind yourself and moving it by your thighs, angling your body so you can lean closer and squint at the flaming barricade, one of your legs slides off the slab, perhaps there is time –

“(Name).”

You look behind and down at Jade Leech. He rests with his arms folded on the slab, knees in the dirt. On his index is the queen bee, walking around and around in circles on his nail. 

Your heart falls in despair. “She’s sick … She has a parasite.” Even when vocalizing the issue, you do not want to accept your own words.

“She does; she has had it for a while.”

“Is there anything I can do for her?”

“I’m afraid not. Soon the egg in her stomach will hatch. And the pupae will break out of her throat and head. It is truly odd. Usually, when bees have parasites like these, the bees throw them out of the hive. They kept her though. Even when there was something glaringly wrong with her.”

“Because she’s the queen.”

“Precisely.”

You and Jade watch on in a moment of silence. The queen rotates on twitching legs. Zombie-like, her tiny legs will give out momentarily and she tilts on the perch of Jade’s finger before getting back up again relentlessly. Circle turning into an octagon as she stutters in her steps. 

Your hand drags across your face, flustered. The single, heavy as an anvil tear spreads thinly on your cheek. You blink the rest away.

Jade glances up from the parasite-raped bee. “Are you afraid?”

“No … I’m sad.”

Jade considers that. Mourning is a human process when death happens; mourning is like kintsugi to the heart, repairing it layer by layer. In the face of death, one sheds a predictable tear. The queen bee twitches, losing her strength. Jade mourns that he might never see true fright on your face, like missing a piece in a chocolate heart-shaped box. 

He falls out of his pondering when you gently press your finger to him. Under the light of dozens of suns, gold and red flickering over, you are ethereal. His eyes fall helplessly to his sigil. He allows you to move him at your heavenly will. 

“What happened to the ceremony,” you ask, taking the queen from him. You cup her like she is the tiniest pearl or the fragilest shard of sea glass. “Do we still have time to complete it?”

You do not receive a verbal answer. Instead, Jade gently pinches your chin in his hand, pulling your focus away from the insect. A warm smile settles on his face, olive-brown eyes soft with admiration. Then, grip steady on your mandible, he turns your focus to the open field, on the opposing side of the burning buildings. 

When his hand falls away, your mouth falls open with the loss of stability. 

The attending nuns and villagers are dead. A deep cavern is cut like a mouth across their throats, blooming a million liquid roses that stain their white garments. In their chairs, their heads are tilted back to display the rings of muscles in their body. Dead eyes face up the heavens, ignorant of their God who is venturing on land and swimming in the oceans of Earth. 

The Reverend though – he lies in the middle of the walkway. He is headless, body supine and incomplete at the shoulders. All that remains of an indication he had a head is red splattered upon the grass. This butchery is inevitable. A priest of your religion is not allowed to impregnate women, under your God’s vow of celibacy. 

“Oh.”

Is this punishment? Life snuffed out from your devoted village, leaving you and Jade who had broken the rules. You look down at your dying companion; she is halfway through a rotation, legs trembling on a trembling hand. Nature feels disconnected from you and yet, simultaneously, you feel like nature nestles herself in you. 

“Oh, look at you. All alone.” Jade purrs, almost singing. 

“I – I’m assuming you did this. Or God did this.”

“You are correct on both parts.”

“Do not toy with your words, Jade.”

“I'm as serious as death. Here, let me show you.”

Raising his hands, Jade presses palms to mouth. As he tilts his head back as far as possible, he follows along with his hands, running them up and over. Upturned olive-brown eyes quell with the pressure. Cropped black hair trembles with the motion. And when his hands finally return to the granite slab, Jade stares at you with a new right eye that shines a honey gold. His hair is considerably different.

Different, not unfamiliar. Far from unfamiliar. You have seen that style of teal hair with a single black strand since birth. In paintings on your mother’s nightstand, in books shelved away in the school, and carved into a towering stone effigy.

You think you have always known, looking so intently into nature thus looking so intently into Jade as well.

The queen bee on your finger grinds to a halt and dies. Crushing down in enclosing fists, the ceremony narrows; all the world is lost to you besides God’s/Jade’s voice. Nature beckons. He beckons. The fists you make are a comforting caress. 

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Never.”

“Prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Sing for me.”

Swallowing thick saliva, your chest puffs with air peppered with ash. You two stare at each other. Then … you sing. 

Tongue volatile, you sing. It is not a melody that follows along with the rhythm of a river or the instrumental of an insect. You sing out your heart, sending it out on delicate honey bee wings. 

[carionto]

Accurate Reenactments Based On Facts

Most cultures across the Galaxy do their utmost to preserve and remember their history, both the great achievements, and the terrible mistakes. Humans go a few dozen steps further.

They introduced us to a concept called "Historical reenactments" - accurate recreations of the situations and conditions of ancient events, usually battles, played out with prop equipment by real people. They also said they sometimes do these just for fun and don't care about being 100% accurate.

This particular reenactment was of a battle called Thermopylae. Using numerous historical records, they recreated the location, printed slightly lighter versions of the armor (well, helmets only for some) they wore, and dull weapons with embedded stun shockers that would create a kinetic "bump" upon contact to prevent actual injury by pushing the person back instead.

Once everyone was geared up the atmosphere changed, both visually as the holographic projectors did their thing, and from the Humans themselves - their demeanor became that of... wilderness. Ferocity. Deadly focus. It was quite fear inducing even from afar.

Then the defenders in red, the "Spartans", created a sort of spiky dome with their shields and spears. Then the attackers in blue, the "Persians" unleashed a terrifying volley of arrows, the sky hologram went darker, then a bright beam of light shone upon the defenders as they swept off arrows stuck to their shields in dramatic fashion before proceeding to charge towards their assaulting foes.

We noticed the "Spartans" were all much larger than the "Persians", and actually were equipped with subtle and very modern exoskeletons. Perplexed by this we asked if these Spartans had a very particular technological advantage for their time:

"Well, not as far as we can tell, but based on the materials we have, Spartans were, like, really buff and super strong compared to the average person of the time. Plus, according to the feats of strength they supposedly displayed, we suspect they became an extinct branch of Humanity at some point, so the exoskeletons are there to mimic what we think they were like. Anyway, look, this is the coolest part."

As they spoke, the artificial gravity was lowered slightly and there was a spike in the power output from the exoskeleton equipped Spartans. Now they were flinging the approaching Persians dozens of feet into the air, a single bare-chested man kicked three of them at once backwards at a whole group, knocking the wind out of them.

This sort of extreme violence continued for several minutes.

Suddenly, an incredibly large Persian man on a throne was carried to what was effectively the center stage. Him and a heavily bearded Spartan exchanged a dramatic dialogue, the Spartan threw his spear at the Persian, who dodged it with a single turn of his head, then proceeded to summon a massive horde of small Persians who quickly began to overrun the Spartans.

There were bodies and shields and spears and pieces of armor flying everywhere, but gradually all the red became engulfed by the blue, and only one remaining Spartan managed to wriggle his way out of the carnage and make a run for it back to their city in the distance.

Seemingly satisfied after plucking out the bearded Spartan from the pile, the giant Persian roared in triumph and this is when the reenactment ended and everyone gathered for a feast.

So this is how ancient Human Battles went, huh.

"Well, not all of them. Usually it's between more equal forces in large open fields, or prolonged sieges, which can be a bit boring to recreate.

You should come back next month, we'll be doing an old naval battle between the British Empire and Independent Pirates Lords. It ends with a really sweet whirlpool showdown. Man, what are the odds of that happening, eh?"

[m3-kk]

Sharing my TCF notes because sharing is caring 😬 ⬇️. (All of them… so far)

Ch. 086- sad time for Raon :(. REVENGE HAHAHA LETSGOOOO

Ch. 335- Eruhaben protect Roan & Cale from ugly WS 😆

Ch. 352- Cale’s greatest fear���😭

Ch. 378- Choi’s uncle (DS) left info book written in KOREAN?!?! 😵

Ch. 394- Letter from Death & shiz show😬

Ch. 395- CALE IS AFRAID?!?! 😱

Ch. 401- “Plavin was laughing on the outside but crying on the inside.”😌

Ch. 404- “And Miss Cage, please cuss out the God of Death for me.” -Cale 😇

Ch. 411- They were talking about the Lion King (person) and I thought they were talking about the movie 😭

Ch. 414- Choi Han woke up crying “Kim Rook Soo” 😰

Ch. 415- “What am I supposed to call the friend of my nephew once removed?” -Choi Han 😳

Ch. 423- “Oh, by the way, the original owner of your body is living well too. He said he is happy.” -Lee Soo Hyuk ☺️

Ch. 423- CALE CRIES! BABY NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! 😰

“It's a new record! You were unconscious for 20 days, 1 hour, 32 minutes, and 19 seconds!”- Roan Miru🤠

Ch. 431-

“You son of a bitch!” -Bear King

"Why am I your son? Such an idiot.”

-Whale Archie🫡

Ch. 434- Which Henituse sibling wants to become what?🥱👑⚔️

Ch. 435- Sworn brothers 🤞

Ch. 455- Ron says he has a cute young master (Cale) who he doesn’t want to disappoint.🥹

Also that Roan is cuter than Cale 😂

Ch. 457- “This is nice.” Beacrox commented before swinging his greatsword horizontally.🙂

Ch. 461- Cale’s merchant name is Bob XD

Ch. 465- The Sound of the Wind was a top underneath a boulder surrounded by whirlpools.

The Indestructible Shield was a pit under the tree.

The Scary Giant Cobblestone was a stone in the Super Rock villa.

The Fire of Destruction was a sculpture at the center of the magma.

The Vitality of the Heart was a stone pillar at the center of a whirlwind.

The Sky Eating Water was a chained spear.

Ch. 476- More Dragon Family Drama wtf

Ch. 481- To the Fake World Tree

Ch. 501- Illusion of Other World..RAMEN!

Ch. 504- Stick from World Tree (Cale’s blood is special?!)

Ch. 515- Vampire Duke Fredo (seems nice)

Ch. 516- Demonic Race, Rosalyn, White Star after cookie prince?! NOOO

Ch. 520- WEAKLING. Alberu is a mage swordsman badass dark elf

Ch. 526- These brothers are so cute OMEGALUL

Ch.555- Sealed god test, wtf this is so sad I’m crying I’ve never been so genuinely sad

Ch. 559- CHOI HAN OUR LOVE THANKS🙏

Ch. 581- AWW BESTIEEE

Ch. 584- Cale saying he could beat 3 strong peeps

Ch. 589- Alberu goes to Blood Boulder

Ch. 601- AHH CALE BDAY AHHH

Ch. 612- THEY GAVE ALBERU A GUN!!

Ch. 618- Cale explains to LeeSooHyuk the truth

Ch. 622- HOMEEEEEEEE AYYAYAAY

Ch. 627- @Capital w/ Dad y Alberu YAY

Ch. 628- BUBBLEGUM PINK DRAGON

Ch. 629- We are a big family!

Ch. 631- 5 FUCKIN DRAGONS AHHH-

[THE AUTHOR STARTS SAYING SHIT LIKE “IN THE FUTURE.. “ LIKE F U MAKIN ME ALL SAPPY N STUFF WTH UGHHH!!!]

Ch. 640- 2 Cats are Molan house’s future 🥹.. They can’t go berserk?..

Ch. 645- Roan & Cale Solo Fight letsgo!!

Ch. 646- Cale uses ‘instant’ to destroy 2 unranked monsters.. I’m crying actually..

Ch. 647- wtf I’m crying, goosebumps fr

Ch. 649- Roan has grown so much 🥹

Ch. 652- COM. WITH EARTH 2 AHHHH—

Ch. 655- Cale is healing❤️ OG Cale!KRS

Ch. 656- SOO much info from OG Cale!!

Ch. 658- CALE IS AWAKEEE YAYA

Ch. 662- OMG Cale’s BioMom was cooking

Ch. 663- WE KNOW HOW TO KILL HIM HA

Ch. 670- World Tree-nim

Ch. 677- Explaining ALOT lore dump!!

CB. 681- WOW the end of that chap tho

Ch. 682- I stan Cale’s hatred for the White Star. We love the PJs! Alberu is moon that’s so *legs in air kicking*

Ch. 683- So are we gonna kill WS or whatt?

Ch. 684- HAHAH OMG CALE’S BDR POWER IS SO SCARY EVERYONE THINKS ITS THE WS!! HAHAH ITS CALE’S THOOO

Ch. 685- omg.. DANGGG!! Our Cale is truly terrifying! New Pokémon acquired! White star!! 😏 wait we have a tiny WS in our pocket how cute! 🥰

Ch. 686- HAHA BOOM BOOM 💥

Ch. 688- Rashell says he wouldn’t be able to sleep if many humans died 🥰

Ch. 689- ROCK SHEILD LETSGOOO

Ch. 694- DEAFEATED! Alberu faints and thinks he’s like Cale now 😭

Ch. 695- NAHH WE LOVEEE

Ch. 699- ENTERED THE TEMPLE! We can’t leave…? CALE IS GHOST AND WATCHING OTHERS TESTS HUHHH?!! (DespairTest2)

Ch. 700- This chapter is just amazing, these people are so smart ughhh I’m screaming! In a happy way tho

Ch. 701- OK we have Choi Han, Clopeh, Rosalyn and Cale so far.. MARYYY

Ch. 702- +1(Roan) Cale can use the cintamani to contact other world. PEOPLE CAN SEE HIM YAY!

Ch. 705- Talking with Cale & others through the Cintamani :>

Ch. 706- Tonka! And Dark elf Tasha&Alberu

Ch. 707- My heart, Alberu was so sad and lonely back then…

Ch. 709- Eruhaben! WS is badddd

Ch. 710- Whyyyy I’m actually feeling despair it’s so complicated ugh and no ones receiving correct info ughhhhh

Ch. 713- Mary is #GIRLBOSS for not being tricked! ❤️❤️

Ch. 717- So glad that was settled 😮‍💨

Ch. 718- So the test Cale was in wasn’t the original one so now we are doing the actual sadness test ok 👍

Ch. 719- WOW NOT CALE ALREADY FINISHING BLUE TEST.. also someone else?

Ch. 721- Toonka left the test, Cale met Choi Jung Gun, I’m I’m scared 😶

Ch. 722- Rosalyn finally put the tests goals into words! She’s so smart. I love herrr

Ch. 726- Cale confronts CJG and he’s being used as bait bc a hunter is here oh no. Cale is going to cause chaos ialrk

Ch. 727- WOWW Cale was about to be isekaied lol. Good thing we have ancient powers! 2 Hunters?! 🫣

Ch. 730- Cale actually skipped a level bfr

Ch. 731- Cale has to observe past Roan (during the night) and Alberu (during the day)

Ch. 732- FLIPPING OVER THE FIRST PRINCES PALACE HAHAHAHAGA

Ch. 735- Freeing Roan! Again Again?

Ch. 739- Still loving how Choi’s test is taking care of tiny KRS. Alberu test completed!!

Ch. 740- I’m loving Clopeh during this test so far. He knows his goals and he sticks to them. He’s crazy!

Ch. 744- Damn Dodam Miru. I think DM’s world is not an illusion. Cale “tricking” the Wrath test is crazy I love that sly bastard!

Ch. 745- Cale hates when the children hate their side dishes ahah! The Wrath test is actually really difficult it surprised me frfr! Clopeh & Cale are angy

Ch. 749- How dare this low-life Dorph ever consider sacrificing the great and mighty Roan Miru. I pour all of my hatred and anger toward him. He needs to die. 😡

Ch. 750- Finally! Flipping every over heh!

[pandiongames]

Substratum Protocol, the Solo+ Apocalyptic Mystery TTRPG by Pandion Games

The Substratum Protocol campaign is nearing its end! There are less than 24 hours left to join over 600 scientists on the expedition to save the planet!

If you haven’t yet, check out the campaign before it’s too late!

There have been some fun updates since launch, including additional artwork by Galen Pejeau, new rules for environmental hazards, and a big story update!

If you want to see what the game is about, we also have a free preview PDF for you on the campaign page.

An Anomaly

During our interview with Rascal News, we realized we had made a fundamental mistake in writing an open-ended mystery: We said what was at the core of the planet, an interdimensional portal. The portal being is now just one possibility. We spent last weekend updating all the writing to now be an anomaly. The otherworldly abilities you get from taking stress are now Anomaly Influences, rather than Portal Influences, for instance. The Expedition can still decide it's a portal, but calling it an anomaly opens up a huge range of possibilities. What is the anomaly that's splitting the earth open?

Is it a massive cosmic egg hatching a world eater as part of a natural lifecycle? 

Did an advance interstellar ship accidentally exit hyperspace at the center of the planet due to a miscalculation, and its damaged engines are holding open a hyperspace bubble? 

Is there a cult of advanced species calling forth eldritch gods with a powerful ritual that consumes planets to power it?

Substratum Protocol is about letting the clues and your answers determine what is really happening, and we think this update opens the floodgates for it.

Depth Sector Deep Dives

In our campaign updates, we have been talking about the different sectors players can visit and their inspiration. These are all available publicly on the campaign - but we wanted to share the Fracture Opening sector with you here.

How the Depth Sectors Work

Substratum Protocol is a collaborative mystery game. The text gives hints and whispers of possibilities, but strays away from definite answers. What you discover and imagine at your table becomes canon to the story and the setting. Each sector shows its location in the Fracture, includes in-universe handwritten notes from an unknown scientist, relevant art, and a table of events - each giving a glimpse into what the sector contains. Scientists can spend as much or as little time in a Sector as they want. When they're ready to venture deeper, whoever leads the way rolls for the Travel Action.

The Fracture Opening

This is the first sector of the expedition experiences. At 1,300 kilometers long, it covers the distance between New York City to Miami, Florida. London, England to Naples, Italy. Melbourne, Australia to Alice Springs. Buenos Aires, Argentina to São Paulo, Brazil. It is massive. Where did the fracture open in your game? What exists teetering at its cliff walls? The world at the surface is a hellscape of the apocalypse, and much of the Fracture Opening is littered with crumbling buildings, detritus, and ancillary debris of civilization. Oceans spilling over the edge seem small in scale. Sitting suspended over it, is the Fracture Observatory. The Fracture Observatory, the home of Mission Control.

Furthest from the anomaly, this sector is rooted most in the reality of the surface. Here, players may find groups of survivors from the cities that tumbled into the great fracture, steam vents, cave ins, and earthquakes make finding solid footing and a reliable path difficult, and even here, strange subterranean creatures may make an appearance. Old research stations, part of the Substratum Protocol's monitoring efforts may still be intact here, and dangerous fast flowing waters threaten to whisk away scientists into massive whirlpools to further below. When we were first designing Substratum Protocol, the thought was that players would start in the action of the expedition and wouldn't really spend time on the Fracture Observatory or on the surface. The Fracture Opening was our way of showing what the surface was going through while still being en route. It is meant to showcase the incredible destruction happening, and give the players a sense of urgency to stop it from getting worse. How do the scientists descend into the fracture before being left to their own power? Lowered on a cable lift? Paraglide down? Or perhaps they are more like hell jumpers, free-falling through the gargantuan opening (or Link entering the depths in Tears of the Kingdom!)?

The title screen fades to klaxon alarms and screams of the world above, slowly giving way to a deafening silence of rushing wind as the expedition descends past the cliff walls into the abyssal black depths of the Fracture Opening...

Join the Expedition!

[minimomoe]

Where Your Heart Lies

Summary: You thought if you let the past behind you can finally move on. Of course, nothing is ever that easy. wct: 4.2k

Song inspo: Moth to a Flame- Swedish Mafia House, The Weeknd

MDNI: 19+, warnings: rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, pet names (pretty, baby), degradation, cheating, a bit of edging, angst, no happy ending rahhh

Preview: “It’s like you’re trying to eat me alive, pretty,” Toji groaned when you decided to sink your teeth in his shoulder. It’s true, that’s all you wanted to do when you were around him, but he was acting as though his fingers weren’t petting the wetness that soaked your panties....

~~~

“The number you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time. Please leave a messa—”

You groaned into your phone. For once you tried to come home early and make a nice dinner for your boyfriend, no, your fiancé, but since it was a surprise he was still working. Supposedly. Hopefully.

You hung up then sighed. You felt pathetic. Staring down at the stupid plates you set out, the stupid expensive wine that you got at your engagement party, the stupid, cheesy candles you lit, it was like it was all a big charade and they would all come to life and start laughing at you. Your phone lets out a low vibration on the table and you lunge to pick it up, only for it to be an unknown number calling you. You stared at the string of numbers in confusion. You didn’t save it so it must’ve been a wrong caller, and you watched it ring through until you were staring at your reflection in the dark screen. 

You sighed and picked up the empty wine glasses to place them back in the cabinet, but went back to pour yourself a drink because you deserved it. You swirled the drink around in the cup, watching the whirlpool form in the center of your cup before your phone started to buzz again. You looked down at it curiously, and it was the same unknown number that had called you earlier. In fact, the longer that you looked at it, you remembered that this number has called you multiple times before over the month. You didn’t have it memorized, but the last four did look familiar. 

You stared at your phone ringing and picked it up on the final ring, slowly bringing it up to your ear. 

“Hello?”

“I thought you would never pick up,” drawled a voice. His voice was itching a part of your brain but the tunnel of time was shrouding its familiarity.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t say you forgot me already, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl. There was only one person who ever called you that, and the floodgates in your mind unlocked and the memories started pouring in. Years ago when you were a totally different person who held little to no morals. You worked hard to forget that part of your life, to completely change your image, but the devil himself couldn’t seem to let you go. Your grip on the wine glass stem tightened as your voice strained. 

“How did you get my number, Toji?”

He scoffed on the other line. “It wasn’t that hard. You seemed to forget everything you learned once you left the group. How’d you manage to do that anyways?”

“Why? You finally got tired of them?”

“No, but I miss my partner.”

“What do you want?” You cut straight to the point, not wanting to play around with him anymore. Your phone buzzed again and it was a text from none other than your fiancé, telling you that he went out with his friends. You remembered when your friends told you how perfect he was for you but the text only made you frown. 

“You see, I need a place to sleep tonight. I—“

“Toji.”

“Don’t be like that. It’ll be just like old times.”

“We used to sleep together in old times.”

“I can keep my hands to myself,” he said, but you could hear him smiling. “And you can’t really say no. I’m at the front door.”

In the same moment you heard a succinct knock at the foyer. You looked back at the phone but he already hung up, leaving you no other choice but to meet him there. 

You approached the door cautiously, peeking through the looking hole and gasping once you saw that his frame was really there. The pale moonlight couldn’t soften the sharp lines of his body, a body that you knew all too well. 

You opened the door but left the glass storm door closed to see all of Toji without letting him inside. 

“Hey pretty, got anything to eat?” He grinned at you, the scar on his lip stretching wide. “Gonna let me in?”

“How did you find out where I live?”

“You might have forgotten the group but they keep tabs on everyone. Even ex-members,” he said tiredly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It brought goosebumps to your skin knowing that you were never really free. You just found a larger cage. 

“It’s kinda cold out here,” he said and shook your door handle. Against your better judgment you unlocked it to let him in. His heavy boots echoed on the tile floor, his frame filled the door before fully stepping inside. He whistled once he was shelled from the nipping wind outside. “Nice place,” he picked up a porcelain pumpkin that you had sitting on a decorative table you had. He carefully put it back down and gave you a wolfish smile. “I’m starving.” 

“I might have something,” you mumbled and pushed past him to the dining area. He followed close behind and you were suddenly aware of how many times you were blinking. When you reached the table Toji saw the food that was still left out there and cocked his head to the side. 

“All this for me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Do you want to eat or not?”

“Seems like you were waiting for somebody else. Was it that boyfriend of yours?”

You felt your heart quicken in your chest. You were standing on the other side of the table, gripping the chair so hard you knuckles were devoid of color. 

“You know about him?”

“I know that you could do better,” he opened the covered plate that was meant for your fiance and picked at a potato wedge. “This is good. He’s really missing out.”

“Would that better be you?” You dared a glance at him and Toji stopped chewing. You saw his neck move as he swallowed the food in his mouth as he slowly made his way towards you. Your feet were cemented into the floor, blood rushing in your ears. 

“Do you think I’m better? I know that I can fuck you just how you like it,” Toji smirked. He pulled you closer to his body by your waist and you saw his face up close. He looked the same after all this time, even though it has only been five years since you decided to up and leave. Your eyes carefully traced his features. The deep eyes, his thick eyebrows, his full lips. They were forever etched into your mind.

Toji brushed a stray hair strand out of your face and frowned. “What happened to the curls? You swore that you would never straighten your hair.”

“I wanted to try something new,” you murmured. You tried to push his hand away but he just held your chin instead, forcing you to look up at him. You held his gaze but couldn’t name what emotion swam in his eyes. His hands were like hot brands searing through your clothes and you weren’t sure how much more of it you could take.

“Why’d you leave?”

It was the question that has plagued him for years. You left him, and he was so sure that it would be the other way around. He felt blindsided by your disappearance, and it bothered him more than he thought it would.

“I found someone,” you started, looking everywhere but Toji. “He made me feel good. Normal. Like I could start over,” you said quietly. The only other sound that could be heard were the ticks of your clock deep inside the house. 

“Is that so?” He murmured. You gave a slight nod but still avoided his eyes. “Is this the house you two share?”

“Yes...”

“But he’s not here. Where is he, baby?”

That was the million dollar question wasn’t it. You had no idea where your fiancé was, and he could walk in at any moment, but you couldn’t push Toji away. 

“I’ve seen the both of you together, you know? He looks like he’s got a stick up his ass, but any dumbass with eyes can tell that he cares for you, which only makes me fucking sick.” 

He leaned into your face, the hold on your chin growing tighter, and you forced yourself to look at his eyebrows instead of his intense eyes.

“Did you really move on from me that quickly? After everything we’ve been through?”

You thought about how you called Toji’s number hundreds of times during the first year. You all used burner phones in the group, and you knew the rotation. You knew that it would be a deadline but it was one of the few things you still had of his, and you clung to it for as long as you could. 

“I needed to. You should leave. We- We can’t do this,” you whispered. 

“Do you even mean that?” 

Toji held your waist tight and leaned down to kiss you. Your body froze up as he pressed his lips against yours, but he didn’t push it any further. He rested them on top of yours, waiting for you to push him away but you never did. Like a moth to a flame his soft touch only drew you in closer. You clutched the fabric on his chest like a lifeline and returned the kiss, gingerly wiping your tongue into his mouth.

You realized in that moment that the time spent away was fruitless. His lips were never forgotten and you moaned into his mouth. Toji took it as a good sign, tipping your head back to deepen the kiss. His large hand rested on the base of your neck, wrapping his fingers around your throat and slowly inching up until your heart was rapidly pulsing against his palm. You grabbed his shirt in your fist. If you were a better person you would push him away. You would push him away and tell him that you weren’t going to do this to your fiance, because you loved him very much, because you were going to get married in a few weeks, and you would tell him to leave.

That was the plan in your head, but Toji’s tongue explored your mouth and  everything in your head melted. You felt drunk off the kiss, sliding your other hand into the back of his head and kissing him harder. Then it was Toji’s turn to moan, pushing you back until you hit the dining table. Your hand shot out behind you to catch yourself, breaking the kiss for only a second, but he used that time to attack your neck. Heavy gasps left your lips while he sucked on the junction of your neck, and he eased you to sit on the table, spreading your legs so that they would wrap around his waist. You busied your hands with the task of pushing off his jacket, then warmed your fingers over his chest, searching for an opening to take off his clothes. You felt feral, an aching hunger for this man that you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try. 

“It’s like you’re trying to eat me alive, pretty,” Toji groaned when you decided to sink your teeth in his shoulder. It’s true, that’s all you wanted to do when you were around him, but he was acting as though his fingers weren’t petting the wetness that soaked your panties. He was teasing you, applying pressure to everywhere except where it mattered, and you looked up at him with watery eyes. He loved that look on you, so needy. On the verge of tears. He took your lips again, shoving your dress up at your waist and slipping your underwear off in one fluid movement that made you gasp. He pocketed the undergarment instead of throwing it across the room. You mumbled something on his lips to scold him but it was lost as soon as his fingers plunged inside of you, singeing all coherent thoughts in your mind up in smoke. 

Toji’s mouth never left your skin. If they weren’t on your lips, he was nibbled at your ear, or sucked on your collarbone, or kissed your shoulder, all while keeping a steady pace of fucking you with his hand. With only two fingers in your pussy he was on the fast track to making you come on his fingers. Labored breaths heaved out of your mouth as he continued to scissor his fingers in your sex and circle your clit with his thumb. He crooned into your ear, saying words that you have been dying to hear because you were too embarrassed to tell your fiancé what you really wanted, making your first orgasm sugary sweet despite his filthy words. 

“You’re gonna make a mess all over the table,” he chuckled, pulling his hand out for a moment to see your essence webbing in between your fingers. He brought it up to his mouth, salaciously licking his hand clean all while keeping eye contact with you. “I’m not saying your cooking isn’t good but nothing’s beating this.” 

You shifted uncomfortably on the table, your sex missing his fingers as it clenched around nothing. He stuffed the fingers he just cleaned into your mouth, surprising you for a moment but you knew what to do. You could still taste yourself on his skin. Sucking his fingers made you want more, and you moaned as he slightly thrusted them deeper into your mouth. 

“You’ve been needing me this bad? Looks like I don’t even have to fuck you,” he smirked. “Are you going to get off from a couple of fingers in your mouth?” You wished that you had some pride left in you, but you didn’t, not when it came to Toji, so you nodded and groaned just like he expected you to. Heat bloomed from your core and you grind your hips on the table. He pulled his fingers out of your mouth with a pop, then grabbed your throat and smashed his lips against yours. Blindly following suit, you held him as tight as you possibly could, your head getting lightheaded from the lack of air. With his hand still on your neck he slid you off of the table to stand up straight. It was almost too hard of a task for you to do. Your sex ached almost painfully, just hoping that he would give you anything. When he parted from your mouth, you stared at his spit covered lips and felt hazy. 

“On your knees, pretty,” he whispered, and like there were magnets on the floor you dropped down to the cool tile. Toji’s bulge was eye level, and you carefully tugged on his zipper to try to free him. When you pulled his length out of his pants, the tip was a raging pink with a bead of precome sitting on top. You pumped your hand around him, looking up with reverent eyes as his eyelashes fluttered from your touch. There was no preamble with your mouth as you took him in as far back as you could. Unlike Toji, you weren’t one for teasing. Not in this state. You filled your mouth with him, not stopping until your nose was tickeled by the hair on his pelvis. Toji watched you in awe as you gagged on his cock. Your hands tightened around his thighs, clenching him tighter when you were having a hard time breathing. 

Toji couldn’t resist himself when he took his hand and pushed you down his length. He was so overwhelmed with the feeling of your tongue on the underside of his cock and how you were still gently massaging his balls that he got a little angry. Angry at the fact that you’ve probably done the same thing with your so-called fiancé. He got to see your tear stained face at this angle too and it pissed Toji off the more he thought about it. 

“I could fuck any hole of yours and you’d be happy with that,” he sneered when he held you flush against his pelvis. Your nails dug into his skin but you didn’t tap him, letting him know that he’s going too far. He watched your eyes blow wide and pulled your mouth off of his cock. Only enough to let you breathe, a line of spit still attached to the tip, before sliding you right back down. He did that over and over again until your lips were swollen and drool ran down your chin. Toji felt himself on the precipice of an orgasm and dragged you off and up to his face again, wanting to come somewhere much better than your mouth. Who knows, if you let him stay the night he would give you a pearl necklace for all of your troubles. His hand found your neck again when he melded his lips to yours. From the waist down you were making an embarrassing mess between your legs, one that grew more and more apparent when Toji petted through your drenched folds. 

“Toji, if you’re going to fuck me do it now,” you nearly growled. He roughly turned your around to suck on the junction of your neck. You reached back to hold him close to your body, panting when his hand roamed over the fabric of your dress and kneaded your breast. The heat of his cock seared your lower back and you slipped back into incomprehensible, amorous need for him. You wanted to spread your legs wide for him, but he bent you over the table and bracketed his legs around yours. 

“I need you to understand…” he started, rubbing his length between your ass. You hissed at the movement but tears started to gather in your eyes. The tablecloth bunched tightly in your hands from frustration. You needed him to just ram inside but he wanted to fuck with your first. “…that you were never his. This pretty little pussy was always mine, right?” 

The reason why Toji didn’t let you open your legs just yet was to fuck the inside of your thighs. The tip of his cock rubbed against your aching clit when he slid between you. Your cunt covered him with slick, making it easy for him to slip in between, but the more he thrusted the more of your dignity began to chip away. 

“I bet you still have the pictures we took together. How many times have I fucked you dumb till you cried, baby?” 

“So many times, Toji,” you whined, wiggling your hips to match his hips. “I missed you so much just do something.”

A sharp sting surprised you from behind. Toji smacked your ass hard, then pulled the crown of your scalp to deepen the arch in your back. The table clattered beneath you, and you whimpered at his voice now deep in your ear. 

“Does he know how much of a slut you can be? Begging for another man to fuck you in the home you share together.”

“You haven’t fucked me yet so maybe I’m not that bad,” you spat out. A deep chuckle escaped Toji’s mouth, one that ran down your spine and settled in your tiptoes. You attempted to look back to him but he shoved his cock deep inside of your walls and you froze. It was familiar and new, too much but not enough, all at the same time. Your head dropped and you once again tugged at the table cloth to try to steady yourself but it was futile. Toji barely gave you anytime to adjust from his size before pulling out and slamming back into you. He was longer and thicker than your fiancé, and your future husband never fucked you with such vigor. 

Toji’s hand bruises your hips with his hands, driving his cock deeper than anything that has been inside of you since you’ve been with him last. Staccato sobs rise from your throat and echo around the house. Toji fucks you with reckless abandon, barely holding on since you had used your mouth on him first. He missed this view of you. The curve of your back that had dimples for his thumbs made it impossible for him to control himself. Watching your pussy swallow him was a beautiful sight. He would make sure that you would never forget this night, or dare try to forget about him ever again. 

“Did he ever fuck you, pretty? You’re about to snap my dick in half.”

“D-don’t talk about h-him right now,” you struggled to speak when Toji was churning your insides. 

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter what he did because I did it first and I’m doing it better,” he laughed. Toji was laughing while you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to focus on your breathing. As if he wasn’t reaching the end of you well enough, he lifted one of your legs to rest on the table and crowded over you. His palms stretched out on the table near yours, caging you in and filling your senses with him. Toji was encompassing your whole being and you failed at holding yourself up when he rubbed the spot deep inside of you just right. A violent orgasm threatened to rip through you and Toji could tell. He knew your body so well that he snaked his hand down to you with your clit once again. Stars burst in your vision and you hunched over. 

“I’m about to come,” you rushed out, like that meant anything to him. It was scary how well your body took him, but it was going to end as quickly as it started because Toji needed you to come first. Your swollen clit was going to be the death of you since he focused on it so intently while you begged nonsensical things from him. It all fell on deaf ears because the rhythmic sound of his hips slappingyour ass fueled him to go harder. 

“I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll feel be for days,” he grunted, nearing the end himself. He felt a tightness in his lower back that couldn’t be ignored. He slowed his strokes to focus on precision, aiming to curve right against your g spot and felt triumphant when your legs quivered even harder. 

“Toji fuck fuck fuck—“ You begged for him to slow down but he wouldn’t do that, not when he was so close to a mind blowing orgasm himself. You were shaking and sucking him in when your orgasm took you that he wildly fucked you with all he had left and then some until his legs felt sore. His hips pistoled into yours, emptying his come deep inside and he stood over you for a moment. Toji’s cock filling you up nearly sent you over again. Nothing he could do would ever be enough, but when your breathing and his slowed down the weight of what you did came down on you with a suffocating gravity. 

Toji carefully pulled out of you and stared at the mess he made. Your ass and thighs had a slight red undertone, your sex dripping from both of your orgasms. He wanted to take a picture of it, something that he has done before, but from the way you got off the table he knew that you were putting your walls back up. He tucked himself back in his pants and tried to take your arm to help you steadily sit in a chair but you swatted his help away. 

“Get out,” you said quietly. He thought he misheard you since your face was covered by your hair but you repeated yourself louder. 

“You’re kicking me out?” He asked incredulously. 

“God, Toji don’t you understand? I left you for a reason. I can’t— we can never do that again.” You adjusted your dress on the chair and tried to ignore the way you could feel his come making the fabric wet. 

“Are you mad that we did it or are you mad that you liked it?” Toji stood in front of you with sharp eyes. You couldn’t look at him because he would drag the truth out of you, and the answer was both. You couldn’t believe you gave in so easy and you were mad at how good it felt to be with him again. How pathetically you gave into his whims. You still had an unreasonably soft spot for him despite all of your efforts and you hated it. 

“If you know what’s best for you you’d leave,” you said dully. Toji ran his hand through his hair and paced shortly in front of you. You weren’t budging on your stance. You stared through him, past him like he wasn’t even there anymore. He scoffed, heading towards the door behind you and grabbing the handle. Before he left, you heard him say one last thing to you. 

“We will always take you back. The organization needs someone like you.”

“They have you.”

“I need you.” Those three words nearly broke your resolve. You almost turned around and left with him, leaving everything here behind. But you didn’t. You stayed at the dining table until you heard the front door open and shut. After sitting in silence for what seemed like ages you cleaned up the mess you made feverishly. A gnawing guilt started to eat you from the inside and you called your fiancé one last time. 

“The number you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

“I did something that you should never forgive me for , so the wedding’s off. I’ll put the ring on the dresser. I’m leaving. I’m sorry.” 

[therosehost]

ShuririWeek: D1

Fluff + "Don't Go"

cw: allusions to nsfw content

Shuri doesn't hear the humming at first. She's too frustrated.

She isn't Queen, nor is she the heir anymore, but the Elders hold her hostage in meetings and at inane ceremonies for hours as if she still were. It grinds at her skin like sandpaper.

Especially because Shuri knows why they do it. They care. They've watched Shuri grow from a glimmer in her mother's eye to a white-draped shadow by her casket. The elders care for her, Shuri knows this. But that doesn't make the overbearing attitudes any less irritating.

Today's latest antics had involved them - particularly Elder M'Kathu - insisting that every member of the council attend the Prayer of the Hymned Beetle. Shuri had wanted to throw her chair out the window with herself inside.

That biannual prayer had started in the river tribe as a joke ceremony. It was just an excuse for people to be off from work and drink themselves to incompetence.

It had never been taken seriously, that is, until Elder M'Kathu got it into his head that Shuri singing the Hymned Beetle's lament would somehow make her happier.

HA!

By the time Shuri escapes (just barely) and returns home, she's still wallowing in incredulous anger. She doesn't hear the humming, but when she yanks the bedroom door open she definitely sees the dancing.

Riri, as usual, is beautiful. And she's even more so as the golden silks she currently wears make her glitter in the setting sun.

Positioned in the center of the small garden's inner courtyard, Riri's prayer forms are uncertain. Sometimes her knees don't bend all the way they're supposed to. And at one point her arm doesn't extend to the full ninety degree angle the instructions scrolls describe.

But that doesn't matter because of why her beautiful talented dedicated genius girlfriend is praying. Or rather, to whom.

Shuri knows the prayer that slips low and careful from Riri's lips. She knows every note and syllable. It is her mother's funeral hymn. The Honor of Ramonda's is a celebration of her mother's birth and life, and a bitter bemoan of her death. There's a promise there at the end, humming with a grief that Shuri knows in her heart will last all her life.

She had poured her soul into creating a prayer dedicated to her mother. When Riri sings it, Shuri almost wants to cry.

It's beautiful. Her girlfriend is beautiful. Her girlfriend singing the prayer is beautiful.

Shuri moves forward, past the door where she's stopped in her tracks, and stops only a foot away. Riri's robes swirl around her, a red whirlpool of gauze that stops short when Shuri comes into sight.

Riri watches Shuri with wide eyes, lips parted to express her surprise.

"Your form is all wrong," Shuri says and then wants to shove a fist in her mouth. Damnit.

Riri puts her hands on her hips and laughs, her blouse rising up at the movement. "How are you this awkward?" The skin of Riri's stomach peaks out. Shuri stares. The blessed oils make the skin glisten. Shuri bets if she steps closer she could smell the spiced lotuses.

"I'm not being awkward." It's a distracted mumble instead of the annoyed tut she intended but Shuri can't bring herself to care. She wants to lick Riri.

Riri narrows her eyes, crosses her arms under her breasts, and gives a fox like grin when Shuri licks her lips. "Oh, you not?'" she laughs again. "Then what would you call it?"

Shuri pouts. "Giving constructive criticism, of course".

"Criticism." Riri says the word slowly as if tasting the letters. "I think I've heard of that before but I'm not real familiar. Why don't you stop hovering over there and come show me."

It sounds like an invitation to fight or fuck. Shuri is willing to do either or both of it means she can touch her girlfriend. But-

Shuri shakes her head and moves back towards the threshold. "I want to let you finish though."

"I thought my form was shit?" Riri raises an eyebrow.

"It was, but that doesn't mean I don't want to see you pray." Shuri's words are a lovesick trill.

Riri snorts but presses a hand against her own cheek like she does when she's trying to stop blushing "Nah, see, now my feelings hurt. It was supposed to be a surprise but I don't even want to do it anymore."

"Ok, I apologize. I take it back. Finish the prayer."

Riri hums, rocks back and forth from heel to toe, and then reaches for the towel on the stone bench behind her. Shuri flails.

"You have completely mesmerized me and I want to watch you dance forever," She almost gets on her knees. "Please please please finish."

Riri clucks her tongue, watching Shuri with a sly smile as she backs away. "Naaaah, I lost the motivation. Maybe I'll go hire an instructor instead."

Shuri huffs, rushes forward, and catches Riri around the waist. It startles a laugh out of Riri and Shuri huffs again. "Don't go. I'll help you. We'll pray to my mother together. Just, please, dance for me." She makes her voice as soft as her heart feels.

Riri cups Shuri's cheeks, rubbing a thumb under her eye and kissing her. It's a light brush against the lips really, but it's enough to send Shuri's heart into a frenzy in her chest.

"If you're so desperate," Riri says, her voice is sultry, smile teasing, "then I guess I'll entertain you a bit."

"Yes. I am very desperate." Shuri nods firmly.

Riri wiggles out of her hold with a groan. "Don't do that. I feel guilty for being mean when you get all earnest and shit."

"I like to when you're mean to me though."

Riri groans again and throws the towel she'd dropped at Shuri's head. "Shut up and help me already." Her plush lips form a pout around the words.

Shuri laughs and catches the towel. "Anything you want, my love."

"Uggggggggh. Please stop!"

a/n: this is rushed as shit and mostly unedited. but, ya know, fuck it. i really wanted to participate in shuririweek at least one day so here it is!

@shuririweek

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x Cadash

Chapter Rating: T

AO3

start at the beginning

Chapter 3 Excerpt: Arlathan

Evening two of three celebratory festivities before the end of week peace talks, and tonight he dons a mask over his eyes. It is of simple make and an opaque teal with rose golden thread rimming the outer edge. It matches his robe of the same color, rose gold accents an artistic representation of sunset reflected on water. For tonight, the theme is tidal.

Combing fingers through his loose auburn strands, Solas weaves his way around the outskirts of the dance floor, exchanging pleasantries and smiles where they are due.

“Ah, Solas!” Anaris calls to him, a wispy vine of a man with a half mask made of broken fish bones. It barely covers his right eye, curving along the angle of his high and sallow cheekbone, making it obvious who he is. He’s always been one to barely comply with the festivity requirements, but never be boring about it. Wine sloshing over the edge of his glass as he lifts it in a purposely clumsy manner, Solas side-steps. With a subtle flash of magic, brief in his eyes, the wine returns to the glass. “I see the years have not dulled your senses. Still so sharp of mind and quick reflexes.”

“And I see that you have carved out some time from your verdant life to join us tonight.” A floating frozen wave passes by them, the cusp lined with perfectly balanced drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Solas helps himself to a flute of champagne. Raising the glass to his lips, he eyes Anaris curiously while sipping.

The grey haired mage spins a glossy spider-silk-like strand around his ashen finger and speaks in his hypnotic rasp of a cadence. “Oh, you know me. I love parties.” He sips from his wine glass, palest blue eyes darting around the ballroom. “The food, the wine, the melodies.” His knicked left ear twitches, making the shark teeth mixed with golden bells on the chains of his earrings faintly clink and chime. The soothing sound is lost in the rising forte of ballroom strings.

Solas quirks a brow and briefly lifts his fluted glass in acknowledgement. “I do know you, and deeds you’ve done. Reveal the real reason you’ve come.”

He clucks his forked tongue, the ball piercings shimmering briefly. “Oh Solas.” His voice dips lower, almost singing the last syllable of his name, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. “Do you not take pride in your cleverness? You can’t expect me to spill my secrets.” He wags a finger at Solas and continues. “For that would spoil all of the fun. And I daresay, it’s hardly begun.”

He downs the remainder of his wine, clacking one of his long lacquered nails against the glass before passing it off to Solas. He circles his mouth with thumb and forefinger, then pulls his pocket square from his black vested robes that swirl in a faint whirlpool pattern. The longer Solas stares into the center, the more he must fight back the feeling of drowning. He averts his gaze and gulps in air. One flick of Anaris’ wrist and the napkin unfurls, twisting and transforming into a crystal cane. He offers a slow and slight bow of his head, a crooked smile plastered on his lips, eyes staring at something across the room.

He waltzes away without another word.

Solas watches as Anaris’ long black sleeves sweep the floor as he retreats, disappearing from view once he slips in amidst the dancers. It is most likely a mistake to let him out of his sight but there are plenty others like him who could prevent Anaris’ mischief from becoming too great a burden. Sighing, he casually leans against the marbled pillar nearest him and sips some more of his champagne. It’s sharp and pops in his mouth like candy he would sometimes indulge in from the stalls in the market square. But it goes down his throat in liquid ice, and leaves an aftertaste like summer rain smells. Strange and saccharinely sublime.

Spying the floating refreshments, he delivers his empty glass and heads up the stairs, desperate for a breath of fresh air from the balcony.

He hides his smile when he catches sight of Lady Cadash. She wears a dress of pastels, the asymmetrical, layered ruffles shifting in the cool night’s breeze. As he studies her, he thinks of coral and her long blue locks are loose and spilling over her shoulders like low tide waves. She is radiant under the moonlight, leaning over the glass railing.

“Good evening, Solas,” she says without turning around.

“How did you know?” He inches closer to her.

“You have a distinctive shadow. Too plain for the other elves.”

“Too plain?”

She gestures offhandedly. “You are gorgeous of course. It isn’t a flaw. I just noticed your attire’s beauty lies in the subtler, simpler details. The others are more—how do I say this—loud. Also, you’re too tall to be a dwarf.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?”

“Do not make me rescind my statement…”

Continue Here

[datvtranscripts]

In Entropy’s Grasp Pt. 2

Journey to the Center of the Forest

Bellara Masterpost

Signs and Portents Masterpost Previous: Bellara Lutare

They continue into the forest.

Bellara: I've been trying to get to the artifact at the center of the bubble, but these magical constructs keep getting in the way.

Harding: We’ve handled our share of demons. A few dozen more shouldn’t be a problem.

Neve: A few dozen demons shouldn’t be a problem.

Bellara: Spirits, not demons. They're animating those suits of armor. The armor's attuned to the artifact. To protect it from threats.

Harding: Threats like us, I’m guessing.

Neve: Ah. And I’m guessing it sees us as threats.

Rook comes across a camp.

Harding: Someone made camp all the way out here?

Neve: Odd to find a camp this far out.

Veil Jumper Rook: Rook: There are Veil Jumper camps all over Arlathan. It's a big forest. And you never know where the magic'll start going wild.

Non-Veil Jumper Rook: Bellara: We've got camps all over Arlathan. The Veil Jumpers do, I mean. Never really know when or where the magic's going to start going wild.

Rook passes by a short waterfall near the edge of the barrier.

Bellara: That’s the edge of the bubble! Can't pass through it. We need to shut down the artifact first.

As the reach the end of the river, a huge amount of water is swirling into the air.

Rook: Is that water just swirling into the air?

Veil Jumper Rook: Rook: I've never seen that kind of magical anomaly here before. Bellara: We call it the "whirlpool." They're not usually this big, though.

Non-Veil Jumper Rook: Bellara: We call that kind the "whirlpool." The anomaly, I mean. Never seen one this size, though.

They continue to climb, but demons appear as they try to cross a bridge.

Bellara: Demons! And right where we need to go.

Rook: Let’s deal with them real quick.

They defeat the demons and continue into an elven temple.

Harding: So, what is this artifact we’re looking for, exactly?

Neve: Any ideas on what the artifact we're looking for might be?

Bellara: I have a couple of theories, but nothing definite. We might find some clues in the ruins, though.

They find a chest near some wolf statues and Fade butterflies.

Veil Jumper Rook: Rook: Nice to find ruins that haven't been picked clean. Bellara: Most people are too afraid to go this deep into Arlathan. Except us Veil Jumpers. Rook: With how wild the magic's been here, I don't blame them.

Non-Veil Jumper Rook: Rook: I don’t usually see elven ruins that haven’t been picked over. Bellara: Not many people come this far into Arlathan. Just Veil Jumpers, mostly. Rook: And people trying to save the world, apparently.

They continue.

Harding: What was this place?

Neve: Do you know what this place was?

Bellara: Could've been a temple. Could've been where they stored food. But judging by the sentinels? It's probably something important.

Bellara: It almost feels like an armory. Or something like that.

Neve: Why would there be an armory this far out?

Harding: What's an armory doing this far out?

Bellara: Warlords. Ancient elves had a lot of them.

Rook opens the doors to a huge temple in the distance.

Harding: Wow. I've never seen anything like this. Neve: Well, isn't this a sight?

Bellara: Wait… is this…? No… it can't be. Not here.

Rook: Can't be what?

Bellara: We have to get over there! The artifact we're looking for must be inside.

They come across a ledge that seems impassable.

Harding: Are we just supposed to jump across?

Neve: No way across. Think we can make the jump?

Bellara: oh! No, we can make a bridge. There should be a power crystal somewhere nearby.

Rook finds the crystal.

Rook: Got it.

Bellara: Bring it over here and slot it in.

Rook places it, and a bridge forms.

Bellara: And there we go! Easy.

Harding: Huh! That’s a great trick!

Neve: Well, isn’t that something?

They come across a some thing of floating artifact.

Bellara: A resonance amplifier. It's drawing magic from the ring temple to this area. I need to shut it down before we can go up the path. But doing that will attract anything nasty that's hanging around.

Rook: We're ready.

Bellara deactivates it, and demons appear. Rook defeats them.

Bellara: That’s the last of the magical energy. Path should be clear ahead.

They continue on.

Party dependent dialogue:

Harding in party [1]

Neve in party [2]

1 - Harding in party Bellara: So that ritual. The big one, where the sky was ripping apart… You say that was Fen'Harel? I mean… the real Fen'Harel? Rook: That's what I've been told. Though right now he goes by Solas. Bellara: And, sorry. The things that got out, the big, scary ones. That was Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan? Harding: Are you okay? You sound a little… flustered. Bellara: Oh, you know. Just finding out that three of my gods are out there. Trying to end the world. Why wouldn't I be okay? [3]

2 - Neve in party Bellara: So you're really Neve Gallus? The detective from Minrathous? Neve: Last time I checked… Bellara: I've read about you. You've gone after some powerful mages before… but Fen'Harel, the real Fen'Harel? Neve: And now, Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, apparently… Bellara: My actual gods are out there trying to end the world and Neve Gallus is on the case. I just… I can't believe it! [3]

3 - Scene continues.

*They make their way uphill, and find some corpses near a cliff.

Harding: I wonder how they died.

Neve: Someone met a bad end here.

Bellara: Even mages have trouble with the artifacts here. They expect them to work like, you know, normal magic. But they're different. The magic's… more alive. Somehow.

The party fights a construct as they go.

Bellara: Damn. Another sentinel construct. We'll have to take it down.

They defeat the sentinel.

Bellara: Okay. Easy enough. But watch out: Whenever you see one, there's more nearby.

They enter the Cliff Wolf Temple.

Bellara: Seeing these kinds of ruins never gets old.

Harding: Can anything here tell us what that artifact is? Neve: Anything here that can help you piece together what exactly that artifact is?

Bellara: I have a theory… but we're miles away from where that artifact should be.

They enter a room full of sentinels that slowly come to life.

Bellara: These constructs! It means I was right!

Rook: Right about what?

Bellara: About where we are! It's an armory! And I think I know what the artifact is!

They defeat the sentinels and leave the temple.

Harding: So what kind of artifact shows up in an armory? A weapon?

Neve: So if this is an armory, what sort of artifact are we finding? A weapon?

Bellara: An archive spirit.

Rook: A what?

Elf Rook: Bellara: A creature of the Fade, bound to a crystal. Our ancestors used them to store knowledge—and to help them dream.

Non-elf Rook Bellara: A creature of the Fade, bound to a crystal. Ancient elves used them to store knowledge—and to help them dream.

Next: Nadas Dirthalen

[deepdisireslonging]

Nautical November Part 8: Retaliation

The Reader witnesses how a pirate raid can go wrong. To help distract her, Sam takes his vengeance for having to listen to her and Dean from the crow’s nest a few days ago. He and the Reader find comfort in each other.

Pairing: First Mate!Sam x Reader

Warnings/Promises: light description of battle, cw blood, reassuring Fluff, SMUT, dom/sub, degradation and name-calling (whore, slut, etc.), oral (female receiving), knife/blood play, aftercare

Word Count: 4321

Note: Omg, this chapter is so long. Then again, you have to take into account which Winchester I focused on. The fic is… proportionate. On that note, reblogs, keyboard smashes, and gif reactions are super appreciated. Happy reading!

Part 7: Against the Mast

A few days after Dean had you pay him back, he led the crew through another raid on a passing merchant ship. The Gazelle was deep into the Caribbean. The merchant ships here were loaded with fine goods headed north to the English colonies and across the ocean to Europe. And they were armed. The Winchesters had mentioned, off-hand, how lucky they were that they hadn’t crossed paths with another pirate vessel. Or the equally dangerous ships of privateers and buccaneers, who raided and attacked on behalf of one country or another. With the thicker pool of dangerous ships around wanting to gain some loot, the ships that just carried goods to and fro took bigger steps to protect their wares.

The shipmate you bought medicine for had recovered enough to participate. Not that you saw him. Or anything. You stayed in the captain’s cabin as you were ordered. You were thankful for its comforting walls. The boom of cannons and the sound of splintering wood nearly sent you cowering under the covers like a child. A few merchant cannons hit the side of the Gazelle. They made the whole ship shudder.

You didn’t feel worthy of God’s forgiveness and protection, especially with how you were paying your way to a future sinful occupation. But you still pleaded with Him not to let the opposite cannons aim too low. If the cannonballs pierced at the waterline, the ship could list and potentially sink. A sinking ship was the most dangerous place someone could be. Rushing water could block the doors and prevent passengers from shoving their way out. Even if they made it to open water, the waters swirling around the sinking ship could create a whirlpool-like effect. And anybody in the water could drown.

So when you heard the pirate crew’s triumphant return, you finally breathed a sigh of relief. You waited until the ship was well underway from the pillaged ship before darting out on deck.

Dean gave a little “umph” when you ran into his arms. Sam made a similar sound when you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Were you worried about us, Sweetheart?”

A shiver ran up your spine. While Sam wrapped his arms around your shoulders, you turned your face out of his chest towards Dean. “The cannons were so loud.”

The Captain cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, cut short against it being whipped into his face by the wind. “Yeah. The gunpowder will do that. You okay?” He startled. “I didn’t see anything hit aft, but did anything hit next to you? Are you okay?”

You nodded. “I’m alright. Nothing came through. I… I was worried about the waterline.”

Both brothers breathed a sigh of relief.

“They didn’t really have those kinds of cannons.” Sam tilted your face up. “The merchant ships out here add extra gunpowder for the sound and to make their cannonballs faster. It makes the impact wholes smaller due to their speed. This ship didn’t have many. They were trying to scare us off, not sink us. If they had, they’d be obligated to rescue the crew.” He hugged you close. “We would be fine. Besides, what kind of pirates do you take us for?”

Dean chuckled, “as if four piddlin’ cannons could sink the Gazelle.”

From the center of the deck, a crewmate called out to Sam. He passed you to Dean after a quick kiss to your forehead. The Captain pressed his lips to your hairline, swaying you to the rhythm of the ship’s cant. He waited until your trembling had ceased before loosening his grip.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Squeezing your hands, Dean glanced over as a couple of crewmates helped a third belowdecks. It was the young man who had been steering the ship while you and Dean had an evening on deck. “Unfortunately, I’m not going to be available for comforting you tonight. Adam caught some shrapnel in his ribs and Benny’s going to be up all night taking it out. So I’m going to have to steer tonight.”

“Oh.” You watched as Adam’s head disappeared; his grimace seared into your memory. Unconscious of your movement, you leaned into Dean’s chest, gripping his shirt in your fingers.

He slid his hands up and down your back. “It’ll be okay. You’ll have Sam.” He tilted your face up and away from the sight of other crewmembers patching their wounds. “You tell me if he doesn’t treat you right. Okay?” He bobbed his head. “He’s a little… miffed about what we did to him the other night. I’ve told him, tonight is not the time to take vengeance on you. Got it?”

Across the deck, Sam watched your conversation with rapt attention. He took notes of what came aboard. But also watched your face as Dean warned you what might be in store while he was away. Sam nodded at crewmates listing off who gathered what and who already had claims to some of the goods. As Crowley slid into your space to gift you a silver bracelet, Sam frowned. His thinly veiled growl sent his shipmates scuttering.

---

That night you slid into Sam’s bed and pulled his covers up nearly over your head. His scent was imprinted into the fabric. It washed over you, reminding you that you were safe. Dean was safe. Sam was safe.

But the young navigator, Adam, wasn’t safe. Sam had left a few minutes ago to check on him. You couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to take out splinters on a rocking ship. Not to mention, the lighting wasn’t great. The glass-encased lamps threw a good amount of light to see your way by, but would it be enough to…

You tugged the sheet over your head before the image of Adam’s bloody side could overwhelm you. Huddled under his covers is how Sam found you when he returned. Gently, he tugged the fabric away. “You alright in there?” He kneeled next to the bunk so he was eye-level with your face. Reaching up, he wiped away a stray tear from your cheek. “Adam’s going to be okay. I promise. They’ve got him knocked out on enough brandy to drink even Lee under the table.”

Shaking your head, you whimpered, “it’s not that. I mean, I’m glad to hear he’s going to be okay. But…”

Sam sighed as you couldn’t continue. Blankets and all, he guided you to sit up so he could squeeze himself into a sitting position in the corner. He sat you on his lap. With your forehead resting on the curve of his neck, you reached under his shirt so you could warm your hands against his skin. Maybe then, you thought, you could keep them from shaking. Instead, it passed on to Sam how unnerved you were. He leaned back. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing. Your body rose and fell with his chest, slowly calming most of your terror.

Just when he thought you had dropped to sleep, your body jolted. And your gasps picked up again. He fought against a hiss as your nails dug into his stomach.

Sam rubbed his large hands up and down your arms, trying to stop their trembling. “Did you forget what kind of ship this was?” He squeezed you close. You leaned into it, willing his strong embrace to calm you. “We’re pirates, little one. This kind of danger is our bread and butter. And we take it in stride.”

Still, you willed your breath to even out. Your lungs fought your command, stuttering your gasps and sniffles.

“What do you need?” His arms tightened around you. “Do you just want to be held?”

You tried to answer. You tried to imagine a night resting in Sam’s arms. Having him there if you woke up from a nightmare. But the nightmare invaded your blinking. You heard the cannons. You heard the ships splintering. The wounds the fight produced layered over your vision until you were forced to open them to the darkness of the cabin.

“Make love to me,” you begged. “I – I can’t… I don’t want to think. All I can see or hear is the fight. Block it out. Make me forget.” You broke off with a sob. “Please. Love me so all I can see or hear is you.”

Sam shuddered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Okay. I’ve got you.” He thought for a moment. “Are you okay with a little danger? That is, if you know I would never hurt you?”

“Yes. Anything, Sam.”

Whispering in your ear, his voice took on a darker edge. “Can I press cold steel to your skin? Mark you as mine?” He waited for your whine of approval. “If it’s ever too much, you tell me. Got it?”

“Yes, Sam. Please. Make me yours.”

He pushed on a plank of the wall, popping it open for just a second. A small dagger slid out into his hand. He twirled it through his fingers. The dull silver blade caught the light, entrancing you as it spun in Sam’s deft fingers. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. You blinked. And it was suddenly pressed against your throat.

“It’s completely safe,” he hummed. In front of you, he slid the edge across his palm. It didn’t break the skin. “I’ve been meaning to sharpen it for ages. Kept it out of the way so I didn’t accidentally grab it for a fight. The only place where it’s sharp is the tip.” He gently took hold of your hand. He pinched your middle finger with one hand. As he pressed the tip of the blade to your finger, a tiny droplet of blood welled up. You gasped, not from the hurt. But from the tiny relief of pressure.

It was if that tiny droplet had released several lungfuls of worry.

He lifted your finger to his lips, lightly sucking on the wound and humming around it. When he returned your hand, the cut had already closed. “Is this okay? This is what you wanted, right? For me to mark you as mine?”

“Yes.” You twisted in his lap. You kissed across the expanse of his face. He was surprised at first. Then he grinned with a cheeky sneer.

His arms wrapped around your waist. Tugging and pushing, he maneuvered you to straddle his hips. He stretched his long legs out till they overhung the bunk, creating a more comfortable seat for you. Sam squeezed you tight. You were trapped against his chest.  He noted that your trembling had stopped, replaced by the subtle rocking of your body into his. Pressing the blade of his knife against your spine, he deepened the arch of your back. Your gasp washed a breeze over his face. His sneer deepened.

“I think you did forget. Did you forget what kind of ship this is? The captain and I have been very good to you. Fucking you deep whenever you asked. Whenever you begged for it. Maybe if you weren’t such a needy whore, we’d have taken what we wanted, whenever we liked. Like monsters in a fairy tale stealing away the princess. This is a pirate ship. Our ship.” He dug the knife deeper, forcing your face closer to his so he could mouth at the underside of your jaw. “And you are our slut. Our prize. For us to use and take as we like.”

The shiver that ran through you pushed you down onto Sam’s bulge trapped in his pants. He groaned as you began to roll your hips, chasing the feel of it against the apex of your clothed thighs.

“Sam,” you sighed. You tried to slide your fingers up into his hair.

But he caught your wrists in one of his large hands. Giving them a tug, your sleeves gathered around your elbows and exposed the red welts from Dean’s shackles. Sam froze. His gaze refused to move from the sight. You shuddered with the way his pupils began to eclipse his irises. He brought your bound hands close to his face until his nose could nuzzle over the welts. Dean had taken care of you well enough. They didn’t hurt anymore. Only time would heal them fully. Sam kissed your skin gently.

“Hmm. He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” His head tilted to one side. And he hummed again as if realizing something. “Maybe he had the right idea.” His hand tightened around your wrists, finally causing a little pain with his grip. Enough to make you whimper. Sam ate it up, kissing you deeply as you tried to pull away. The knife still in your back kept you from going far. “Yes, we’re taking you to Tortuga. And your commission. But what if you arrive… damaged?” He pulled back, pleased with the haziness in your eyes. “What if we get there… and the Headmistress doesn’t want you?”

As he glanced deeper into the cabin, you followed his gaze towards the desk. His words carried the old familiar threat.

“Anything can happen to a little sheet of paper. Water damage. It’s happened here before. Important paperwork lost to saltwater washing away the ink. Or fire. Dean accidentally lost us a map once, holding it too close to a lamp. But we don’t have to resort to such… accidents.”

The cold press of sharp metal across your cheek startled you. Sam pulled the blade away enough not to cut you when you jolted. But once your face was turned towards his again, the knife trailed across the round curve of your cheek. The sides may have been dull, but you remembered the small sting from the tip. Sam lightly traced your face with the sharp point. He breathed deep and slow as the blade travelled to press against your bottom lip. His words seemed less and less for you, and more like he was trying to talk himself out of maiming you.

“The Ambrosia only hires pretty faces. A girl’s smile is like a shoppe window. Promises of pleasures to come. The ones scarred by pox or old lovers end up in the common brothels. Where it doesn’t matter what they look like.” The knife traced a line from your ear to the side of your mouth. His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you’re not pretty when you get there… you’ll end up in a common brothel. Where Dean or I, or any of the crew can visit you whenever we like, paying pence for a good suck.” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “But I like your face the way it is. Carving it up would be a waste.”

You breathed a sigh of relief.

Then the knife trailed against your wrists, barely pressing into the hurt already there. You waited for the moment when the blade would break your skin, but it didn’t come.

“I could cut up your hands. Make it so you have to hide them with long lace sewn into your sleeves. Or with gloves. How long would you be able to hide them from your Mistress? The scars on your palms, the long cuts running the length of your fingers, and the bands around your wrists deepened with knife point.” He pressed the side of the blade harder into the curve of your wrist. You waited for the blood, for the release of pressure. But he flicked it through his fingers, making it disappear from sight. “No. Can’t do that. You’re so good with them.”

With the knife gone, his hand was free to latch around your throat. Your eyes rolled with the sudden loss of oxygen. He bullied you to lay backwards across his bunk. With his body barely hovering over you, and his hand on your throat, your terrified breath had nowhere to go. Sam drank it in. How your eyes flicking between his face and looking for where he hid his knife. He smiled, watching the wheels turn in your head as you tried to figure out what he would do next. With a tiny shove, he used his leverage to push you further into the cot.

“You gonna beg for me, whore?” He chuckled. “Gonna beg for me not to hurt you? You could try begging forgiveness, little thief. We could destroy your commission at anytime and you still stole from us. And then that stunt you and Dean pulled on me.” He growled, pressing his hips into yours. “That was torture. Having to listen to you from a mast up. Having to listen to what my brother was doing to you without being able to see you.” He pressed close. “Should I return the favor? Maybe I should bend you over the back railing over the stern. Where Dean can’t see you. If he’s steering the ship, he can’t stop looking ahead, or he’d take us off course. Which could prolong your voyage. Can you imagine him gritting his teeth, angry as a shark that he can’t do a damn thing. Just like I was up in that crow’s nest.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m sorry. Sam. Please-“

“You will be.”

In a scuffle of fabric, he pulled up your skirts over your head. Tucking the fabric around you, he constricted your limbs with your own dress until you couldn’t get out. His hands smoothed up and down your thighs. He parted your legs slowly. As if watching your slick shine in the lamplight like it was the complete purpose of the night. You felt the cot dip. And you felt his hot breath over your tummy. His lips kissed where they wanted. You couldn’t track where he’d kiss next.

You startled as the blade pressed flat against your inner thigh. Sam’s arm darted out to pin down your hips.

He tsked. “Try not to move too much. I’d hate to hurt you.”

Still, a tremble crept into your limbs. You couldn’t make it stop as the sharp tip traced unknowable patterns over your flushed skin. You cried out as Sam latched his mouth over your sex. Loudly, he lapped and drank up your arousal. His arms wrapped around your thighs to tug you closer. The butt of the knife hilt pressed into your skin.

When he finally broke away for a breath, you couldn’t find your own air.

“I wondered how wet you’d be. You were made to be a pirate’s whore. Can you feel it?” He curled his fingers through your slick. “How wet you got while I threatened your life and your livelihood? Only a true harlot would find pleasure in what I threatened you with.” He sucked his fingers into his mouth, knowing you could picture the sight of him humming around your essence. “Even if you leave this ship and never come back, you will always belong to us.”

Then he was on you again, sucking and flattening his tongue against your sex. You called out his name, muffled by your skirts. He didn’t care how much your torso thrashed as long as he could hold your hips close. You managed to loosen the fabric around your arms. Cool air rushed over your face as you managed to push it all away. You whimpered at the sight of Sam’s face dripping with you. He grinned. Shifting to kneel, he pulled your hips up so you were trapped on your upper back. He continued to eat you out, groaning with the feast of you.

Your release washed over you. Trembling head to toe, you waited for Sam to let you go. But his mouth kept working you over. You cried and begged for him to let you go. To put you down. You promised to suck him off. To use your hands how he liked, but he didn’t relent. Not until your voice was hoarse and spent, and your eyes crossed with the overflow of it all.

He eased your body onto the sheets. So exhausted by the ordeal, you didn’t move when the blade smoothed across your thighs again.

“There she is,” he crooned. “Look at you. All blissed out. And I’m not even done with you yet.”

The tip finally broke through your skin, dragging a tiny line across your tender inner thigh. It didn’t bleed at first. But Sam dug his thumb into the skin around it, and finally tiny drops of blood welled up. He laid across you again, watching the red drops make their appearance. You shuddered as his tongue darted out, gently lapping up the drops before he flattened it wholly over the cut. Your body shook as the side of the blade pressed harder into your other thigh. But Sam made a similar shallow cut, waiting as before for the drops before lapping up your terror and your blood. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. The haze that settled over your mind when he first pressed the blade into your spine was solid by now. You couldn’t think if you wanted to get away, or if you wanted to lean into the pain.

Sam stroked the tip across your skin, thinking aloud for you. “I want to mark you. Make you mine. Maybe carve my initials into your skin. Did we show you? When we took you to the wheel. Dean and I carved our initials into the back of it. We could do the same here. I could carve my initials here,” he flattened the blade against one of your cuts. “And Dean could do the same on the other side.”

Gasping, your chest rose and fell with the force of the threat. With the force of the potential.

“What would your future clients think? When they finally got between your thighs and found our initials there?”

He nicked the tip at your skin. Twice more, each side, he carved away your earlier panic. You arched into the sensation. Softly sobbing, you welcomed the tiny lines of pain. By the time you breathed air back into your lungs, Sam’s cock was out. He speared into you without warning. And he didn’t wait for you to re-catch your breath. He held the knife at your throat; its dull edge held you in place as he thrust. Desperate for his own release, he took what he needed, hissing as your walls gripped his length. You had to reach back to press your palm against the wall to keep him from forcing you back with the force of him. There wasn’t a point trying to roll your hips to meet him. Sam was relentless. You listened to his moans and sighs as they dipped and rose in pitch.

When he finally filled you, spiraling you into your own release, he collapsed on top of you. Gangly limbs and muscle pinned you to the cot. It helped keep your shivering to a minimum. His weight and the warmth of his body over yours, including his slowly evening breath, calmed you. Your trembling ceased. You were able to inhale easily.

And the thoughts came back.

Sam helped you out of your dress and chemise. He cleaned up the small cuts on your thighs. When he looked back up at your face, his soft grin fell.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You shook your head and tried to burrow yourself under the blankets.

But Sam met you there, curling you into his chest. “You know we’d never let anything happen to you, right?”

Despite the reassurance, a few tears traitorously escaped your eyes. “I know.” What was making you so unable to control your emotions? Your body felt wonderful. Relaxed and pliant except for one last knotted bead in the small of your back. There wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that the brothers would drop you off at the Ambrosia. They could threaten your letter all they liked; they were empty threats. But something about Adam’s face as it grimaced… “What about you two? Who keeps you safe?”

Sam rested his chin on the top of your head. His answer was quick, well-practiced. “We watch out for each other. We always have.”

As you closed your eyes, you wondered if he could feel your eyelashes fluttering against his chest. “Why did you choose this? Who could ever choose this?”

“We didn’t exactly choose it. There were… complications to the lives we wanted. Our dad… it doesn’t really matter how we got here, but we’re the best now. No taxes, no mortal laws to obey besides our own. We have code our hearts follow, and that’s all we need. That, and the open sea.” He groaned lightly. “Startin’ to sound like Dean. ‘The open sea.’” He breathed a laugh. Glancing up, you just barely caught him rolling his eyes.

You reached up and cupped his cheek. “And I want you to know: you’re not monsters from a fairy tale. Not to me.”

Sam tried to grin away the reassurance, but the sad way his gaze listed to the side revealed the nerve you touched. Maybe one day they would tell you their story of how they got into the life. And if they ever wanted to leave it, if they could. But right now, Sam’s even breathing finally triumphed over your fear.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me.” You curled your hands to your chest, accepting Sam’s cocooning embrace. “Both of you. You take care of your crew and you’ve taken care of me so well.” He kissed your forehead as your voice drifted off.

“It’s an easy thing to do, with a sweet thing like you. You’re a wonderful woman.” Sam’s voice also began to drift off. But he did his best to pass on as much reassurance as he could before sleep took over. “I’ll be here when you wake up. And Dean’ll be along soon. We’ve got you.”

***

Part 9: Like a Diamond

Masterlist

No Cum November 2023

[azer-abyss]

Just a promo for my fic :3

"Sam heard a call of his name.

A distant whisper that echoed from the center of the universe, stretching out the vast and open space, passing through galaxies as they shone their ancient light.

He looked at the Stars, and the Stars looked right back at him, curious. They blinked and twinkled in a pattern like a flashing neon sign, encouraging. Sam's gaze followed the river of colors that spiraled into a whirlpool of rainbow lights, only to find a sea of stars, nebulas and galaxies in billions, dancing and singing in harmony.

Sam felt an overwhelming feeling of eternity, content, happiness, joy, belonging, warmth, awe, wonder, gratification, pride, admira- pain, aversion, terror, despair, the Stars are screaming!"

[antoninasavi]

A Flower Caught in a Spider's Web. Kiev, Ukraine. 2021

The Buddha said:

"Those who are following the way should behave like a piece of timber which is drifting along a steam. If the log is neither held by banks, nor seized by men, nor obstructed by the gods, nor kept in the whirlpool, nor itself goes to decay, I assure you that this log will finally reach the ocean".

Suddenly, I want to drop so many things.

The fight for better life is lost it's shine the more experience I gain. Experience speaks an unambiguous language.

I have no wish to be in a center of the things. It feels so empty here. Only the ego has a feast here. Have you observed that everything becomes the same at the centre of events. And only somewhere in an insignificant place does something really happen?

I have no desire to possess things. I have a constant urge to get rid of what I own and reduce the availability of items of clothing and jewellery. I don't want to acquire things anymore. For me, all these activities of the modern society can be explained very simply - since people do not have the opportunity to realise something big, we satisfying on something small - be it a cigarette, a shopping spree or a lot of sugar, for me it all the same.

It's hard to explain. But for some reason I began to really appreciate silence. In silence you can recognise reality more without embellishments. Do you know what makes a person hum or talk to himself when he is walking alone in dark streets or in the forest at night? Right, because he is afraid. So it seems to me that all this street noise and what we call self-expression has the same source, namely fear.

And yet I always get caught up in this whole thing with people showing off their egos. For example, when I'm cycling and someone unfriendly decides to overtake me or just breaks the rules. And the next minute I try to overtake him and sometimes I go through the red light headlong, obviously risking to get into an accident. It's so stupid. And I see it and I see my stupid ego and I see how I can't control it. But I keep looking and sometimes I just know that I'm not going to get along with the others. So why should I get in the race?

I believe that one day I will (my ego) surrender.

[magnusbae]

"surprise i have feelings and you just hurt them" is so good

Thank you anon-dearest! 🥰🥰🥰

As I was given free reign, and also was too unreasonable for self control—I didn't only write it way longer than it should have been (250w per prompt LOL) I also fully rewritten in afterwards :')

Obikin || 1,500w || Obi-Wan & Anakin formed a new Force Bond and Obi-Wan has to deal with an increase in Force Migraines poor man

▾▾▾

“Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.” Anakin spits the words out angrily, punctuating each word with a sharp hand gesture.

There’s heat rolling off of him in waves, it’s a tangible thing in the Force to anyone who is even mildly attuned to it. Even small living organisms would try and stir clear from someone so prominent in the force while they’re emitting such waves of emotions. It’s unsettling to all who is untrained, unable to recognize where and why the thing they are sensing is coming from. To someone who had even just begun their training, this would be a deafening roar. As for Obi-Wan, who had happened to share a somewhat-training-but-not-bond with said individual…. It’s destructively overwhelming.

There’s a pulsing migraine building up at Obi-Wan’s temples, swiftly spreading in pulses of pain through his forehead and head, blearing his vision in a way that is usually reserved to extreme battle fatigue. Obi-Wan’s patience is not only thinned out, but fully gone by this point. The pain, and the previously failed mission do not help. Anakin’s need to prove himself had cost them an important battle and speaking of Anakin’s feelings is truly not the thing they should be concerned most with—

“I think it’s hardly a surprise Anakin” he hears himself say more than he actually thinks through the words, he hardly manages to care as much as he probably should given how violate Anakin anyways is. “You are, more than less, hammering them against the minds of anyone unfortunate enough to be within the standard hour distance from us.”

Anakin’s mouth snaps open, there’s blotchy redness across his cheeks, he seems to not find the words to describe precisely how angry Obi-Wan’s word just made him. Silencing Anakin would be a feat to be commended on a normal day, if only that was true for his Force Signature as well. A fresh wave of emotions crush against his battered shields, straining them beyond their capacity.

The moment he feels the first crack run through, is the same moment they collapse completely.

Anger, hurt, betrayal, and…

Obi-Wan’s mind is momentarily blinded by the whirlpool of emotions washing over and sucking his own mind in. There’s too much of it, all at once, all different. The indignant anger, the vulnerable hurt, the deep sense of being abandoned and uncared for, the—

Obi-Wan whimpers silently. It’s a sharp exhale more than anything, yet it’s more than enough to alert Anakin. He might have found it endearing, how quickly Anakin’s attention had shifted from himself to him, if not for the crushing wave of new emotions, even more absolute in their intensity.

Worry, anxiety, fear, anger, confusion, fear, worry—

Obi-Wan feels like he might lose his mind within them.

“Stop,” he snaps at same time as Anakin had reached out for him. The boy pulls his hand away as if hit. Obi-Wan should care for this, care for how he feels more than how he himself feels at the moment….

Hurt, confusion, anger, hurt— anxiety, fear— fear—

Anakin’s emotions spiral into a deeper, more violent vortex of darkness, a never ending cycle, one emotion swallowing the tail of its predecessor, being reborn into the next one, each time bigger, stronger.

Oh Force. Obi-Wan thinks in desperation.This is too much.

“Master?” Anakin’s Force Signature is dripping fear, there’s an urgency to it that centers Obi-Wan enough to realize, with great shame, that his own pain started bleeding through their not-quite-training-bond— or…Force Bond, if he was honest enough. Call a Bantha a Bantha.

“Master, what is wrong, why are you…?” he reaches for him again, stopping quickly and retrieving his hand away. Anakin opening and closing his fist draws Obi-Wan’s attention. He looks like he’s about to blow up, and that, Obi-Wan knows, is something that would certainly echo even louder in the Force.

“Anakin please,” he reaches out to him, despite the inherent risk of touch increasing the intensity of the Bond. He must balance the boy long enough to give himself the opportunity to gather his shields into anything resembling those of a Jedi Master. That, or leave. He is not pained enough to be that cruel. Doesn’t ever plan to be. He braces himself instead.

“Dear One,” his knuckles touch Anakin’s cheek briefly, the word of endearment is strained, forced to some degree. It’s the one that never fails to get a reaction, uncover a meeker, more gentle side of Anakin. “You are deafening me” he gives the Bond a light, barely there nudge.

Anakin jumps at that as if zapped. Eyes wide, his face shifts through a number of complex thoughts, faster than what could register or broadcast emotionally through the Bond.

Suddenly, the storm is gone. What Anakin calls shields and Obi-Wan chides as only a suggestion of such is now a durasteel tight and not leaking anywhere. The silence that follows is deafening in its own right. He has to muffle the groan of relief, not wanting to rile Anakin again

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan smiles, pained. He knows that the migraine will only worsen now that it was set off, he still can appreciate not being radiated by a small sun through it, though.

“Excellent shielding, Padawan.” He sounds sarcastic even to his ears, even though he doesn’t mean to be. Anakin doesn’t react to it, looking more troubled than angry now, a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“I’m…” Anakin bite his lower lip, still fuller than most despite him well and truly out of his teenage years. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things. “I didn’t mean to…” his cheeks are darker now, he looks ashamed. The aftertaste of Anakin’s emotion’s linger in Obi-Wan’s mind. Guilt. The last clear emotion Obi-Wan managed to decipher. Guilt for hurting him.

“I know.” Obi-Wan says curtly, he hopes that not unkindly. “I’d appreciate it if we could discuss the matter when I’m a little less…” he gestures at himself with what he hopes is the appropriate amount of self deprecation. There’s many reasons for Anakin’s lack of control, not all are good, but he still is a knight, still is learning.

There’s not a single good excuse for his own lack of mastery of himself.

“Obi-Wan, the Bond—” Anakin starts, disregarding Obi-Wan’s request in favor of what to his mind, is no bound far more urgent. The Bond. It had taken months for Obi-Wan to notice, the budding start of something new, growing in a different place than the long severed training Bond, developing over the months spent on joint missions on this endless war.

It seems that, as Obi-Wan had suspected, Anakin had managed to miss it out entirely.

“Not now, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice sharpens, he should feel more guilt for the way Anakin’s shoulders jump up and tense.

“Fine, whatever…” Anakin mutters, looking away, glancing back and then away again. “Feel better.” He says with more hesitation than such a simple wish should warrant for. This time, Obi-Wan feels the full extent of guilt. He was too strict with him, those past few months were strained beyond what either one of them had wanted. He needs to speak with him, properly, make amends, properly.

Not now though, not while his head is splitting into two and his Force Signature is shaking after Anakin ground it so relentlessly. Knowing that Anakin didn’t mean to, doesn’t change the reality of things, his Force Signature can be downright oppressive if left unchecked. It’s not so felt when he himself is in the state for proper shields, however the repeated missions, the lack of sleep and the loss of the recent planet… were factors that are hard to ignore.

He needs to rest. He needs to meditate. Then he’ll be fine.

Obi-Wan refuses to acknowledge, even now, that what would bring the most immediate relief would be severing the Bond. Today showcased just how dangerous it is, how out of control it is, how out of Obi-Wan’s control it is. It all makes sense, any one following logic would have done it. A bond developed without their conscious choice in the matter, one that is not appreciate for Jedi to have.

The only thing that makes sense, is to end it. Yet this is the only thing that Obi-Wan will not do, is unwilling to do. He will not severe another Bond with Anakin. The consequences of the first time still too fresh in his own mind. Both for their relationship and…himself.

“Thank you, Anakin.” he says politely, hoping that he looks more collected than what he feels like. He refuses to think of this further for today. Giving Anakin the barest of hand waves, he turns and walks off.

He needs to rest. He needs to meditate. Then, he’ll be fine…

[brunossan]

MORE BRAZILIAN LEGENDS FOR YOU TO ADD IN YOUR HISTORIES

Lets start with Pai do Mato

Pai do Mato, or Wild Father in a rough translation, is a giant entity that protects The nature around The center of Brazil. He has The size of a Hill and a body made of Dirt and Woods, with a blue nose. He is so big that He has a forest around its body. To make friends with him, you must give him Cachaça, or Beer. His piss smells like Vinegar.

BOITATÁ

Also called M'boitatá or just Boitatá, this is a Giant Snake made of fire, with eyes covering its body, who is also a guardian of nature, being against Wildfires in the Woods. Boitatá eyes can shoot fire beams, and looking directly at his eyes can either blind or kill you.

CRAMUNHÃO

Cramunhão, or The Devil in the bottle, is the name given to a demon who made a powerful deal with a human.

The Deal is simple: The Demon will stay inside a bottle and give to the human everything he desires during a certain amount of time. Then when The time is over, The Demon will take The soul of the human straight down to hell. To summon a Cramunhão, you must take care of a Rooster Egg (Yes, you heard me. A ROOSTER egg) under your armpit until it hatches. During this time, you are forbidden to do anything related with God or the Church. Also, dont following these rules can make the Demon attack, curse or even kill you in response. Also, the true appearence of the Devil in The Bottle is a Mistery, as no one except the human who made the deal can see it.

Cobra Norato e Maria Caninana

Cobra Norato and his sister Maria Caninan are 2 demigods from Brazilian Mythology, who are The son and daughter of Boiuna, The Giant Snake. Both of them are very powerful entities, and both are very known in Brazil.

They are both twins, but are also very different themselves. Cobra Norato is described as being Kind, gentle and romantic, also a friend of humanity. As for his sister, Maria Caninana is explosive, violent and does not hesitate in eating or poison humans if she wants to. Both of them have incredible powers, but Cobra Norato have also The Power of turning into a man, but only at night. His sister does not hold The same Power.

According to the legend, both of them had a fight once because Maria Caninana wanted to destroy an entire human City by waking up one of their Half-Brothers, a Church Snake. Cobra Norato stopped her and their fight caused a thunderstorm, wich ended with Maria Caninana being defeated. After that, Cobra Norato became The protector of everyone who would get closer to rivers, and his sister became his enemy, causing Whirlpools to drag People directly into her mouth.

And to finish this list, we have Boiúna

Boiúna, also known as Cobra Grande or The Giant Snake, is an ancient God who have The form of a Giant Snake. His size is unprecise, but he is supposed to be as big as The Amazon River itself in some versions. He is The God of all Water Courses and father of all Snakes and Cobras in Brazil.

Boiúna have a huge amount of Power, being capable of causing floods, Thunderstorms and even Earthquakes, sometimes by accident by just moving his Huge Body. Boiuna created all rivers and water courses just by moving his body around Brazil.

As being the father of all Snakes and Cobras, Boiúna had a bunch of powerful kids, known as Church Snakes. They are as big as their father, and are also very powerful. They are called Church Snakes because of a thing: Because of their size and Might, they spend a lot of time sleeping. Churches were built above their heads and tails, and they cant get up because they feel The presence of God and The Virgin Mary, wich makes them not get in mood to wake up. In Nazaré, a Brazilian City on The North, there is a religious ritual called Círio de Nazaré, where its believed by some natives to not only be a Catholic Party but also a way to prevent The Church Snake who sleeps under The City from Waking up, as they believe Holy Mary herself steps on The snake Head and keeps it asleep. There are registers of at least 10 Church Snakes around The Country, but there may be more.

The legend also says that when all Church Snakes wake up, they will cause an Earthquake so big that The entire country of Brazil will sink in the Ocean. A small Earthquake who happened in Nazaré was blamed by some locals as The Sleeping Church Snake "moving her tail while sleeping.".

I HOPE YOU LIKED. IF YOU WANT MORE BRAZILIAN LEGENDS, COMMENT OR ASK ME. IM HERE.

[leaderpinhead]

Jade - Faerie Circle

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

“It was all just an innocent joke.” 

Was how Jade justified his actions later when confronted by Azul. A spur-of-the-moment prank, if you would. Floyd certainly got a kick out of the revelations, giggling at the tale Jade spun and knowing—by keen observation or pure instinct—his brother was a bold-faced liar. 

At the time of the incident, Jade admitted it was just to get a little giggle at the expense of the prefect. 

He smiled at the prefect. Yuu didn’t look very amused. In her defense, she hadn’t been in a very good mood all morning. That was fine with Jade. He wasn’t the one who made a bet and subsequently lost. He simply reaped the benefits of having a sla—helper for the day. 

Yuu pointed at the colony of mushrooms they had discovered on their morning hike. “You seriously think I’d blindly believe a word you say?” 

Jade hummed a chuckle. His gaze followed her finger to the perfect circle of red capped mushrooms beside them. The circumference of the circle was just large enough for a person to stand in. Say a faerie. Or gullible, magicless human. “I’m admittedly hurt to know you trust me so little.” 

“You tried to get me to pick poisonous mushrooms for you less than five minutes ago.” 

“They’re only poisonous if you ingest them.” Jade paused. His smile widened when her cynical glare remained unwavering. “And they may cause a rash for sensitive skin. Their use in alchemy is quite expansive.” 

Yuu’s eyelids fluttered, refusing to blink from sheer stubbornness. “I’m not stepping in the circle.” 

“You would reject such a valuable staple of fae culture?” 

“I know at least three fae who live on campus. None of them have ever mentioned these so-called faerie circles. Not even Lilia.” 

“Ah, but they’re so commonplace, why would they ever think to bring them up in conversation?” Jade argued. He exerted careful control over his expression, shrinking his grin and widening his eyes in a show of faux innocence. “It would be the equivalent of merfolk explaining whirlpools or humans detailing a doorway.” 

“Merfolk don’t use whirlpools to teleport from one side of the ocean to the other,” Yuu insisted. Her gaze became sharper, likely her eyes desperately crying for the relief of the blink she refused to give them. “Floyd would have mentioned that by now.” 

“Ah, but it would be the equi—.” 

“You step into the circle then.” 

Jade feigned sudden shocked. “Me? And risk potentially disrupting my transformation potion? The fae use powerful magic to power their mushroom circles. Powerful enough that I could lose my human form and return to my true form. Could you imagine the sheer panic of losing the ability to breathe? To slowly suffocate as my gills tremble with exertion to—.” 

“Fine!” Yuu snapped. Jade’s feigned shock faltered, and he had to hide his returning grin behind the tips of his fingers. “If it gets us back to campus before lunch, I’ll step into the stupid circle. But for the record, I want it clearly stated that I absolutely don’t believe a word you sa—.” 

A flash of muted light engulfed the prefect the second she planted both feet in the center of the circle. Jade owlishly blinked at the empty mushroom circle. He searched the isolated meadow as if he would find Yuu hiding somewhere along the edge of the tree line. When his search only verified the missing prefect, his focus returned to the mushroom circle. The red capped mushrooms stood innocently in front of him. 

A giggle escaped him before he could swallow it. He hoisted his hiking bag onto his back and grabbed the small sack of mushrooms Yuu carried for the duration of their hike. “Oh, dear! It would look as if my small prank has gone awry. Our poor prefect has been swept away to lands unknown. Whatever shall I do?” 

Jade paused. He carefully nudged the cap of the nearest mushroom. The stalk bent slightly under pressure but sprung back into place when he pulled away. Jade shrugged and clipped the sack of mushrooms onto his belt. “I suppose this is simply beyond my realm of expertise. Surely there is someone more suitable for the task back on campus. I would be remiss to move forward in this endeavor alone. After all, I could be stuck a mere eel out of water if I do not tread lightly.” 

Later, after gathering a heroic rescue party consisting of Grim, Lilia, Kalim, Trey, and a visiting purple cat from Royal Sword Academy and bravely confronting a small band of gnomes, Jade happily chimed “I told you so.” to the most unamused prefect he had the gleeful opportunity of rescuing.