#wonder what this would do to undyed black wool

[evilasiangenius]

“I found a bucket,” Crowley said glumly as he stood in the doorway, rain-sopped despite having wrapped a fold of his black toga over his head and his black pallium over that, which gave the effect of appearing as if the demon were in in mourning, half-blinded by the water dripping down his dark glasses, and holding up what looked almost more like a large sad wooden cup with pretensions as he stepped inside. “But it’s small, and it leaks miserably. Would probably take half an eternity to draw up enough water to fill just this bucket much less a tub. Damned, how is this place so poor in things?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know, things. Things. Human things. Buckets. Baskets. Buttons. Cloth. Even rope. It’s like everything that wasn’t nailed down was carried off and hardly anyone is selling much of anything. And while things are falling apart enough to maybe take some materials from crumbling buildings, they’re certainly not good enough to use. Couldn’t find a pole longer than my arm, and the river’s at least ten cubits down even when the tide is high. Do you think I could maybe tie a few poles together? Damn, that would only work if I could find enough rope…”

“I’m afraid this city is slowly coming apart at the seams,” Aziraphale explained. “I suppose that’s what happens when the neglect from the central authority has spread. Not that there is a central authority anymore.

“Which of course tells us just how important it is to have a powerful, controlling hand at the wheel, keeping everyone in order, putting everything and everyone in their place. Without absolute control, without leaders like the Metatron and the Archangels, it’s all chaos and misery. I can’t wait for all of this to be properly destroyed, it’ll all be quite lovely then,” Aziraphale smiled politely, even though something in his eyes looked distressed. “But…but in the meantime, please come in and dry off!” In the angel’s hands was a towel, something plain but clean and when Crowley unpinned his soggy pallium, willing it away and put the towel over his head, the linen smelled like lavender.

“Oh…” Crowley sighed, as Aziraphale led him to the makeshift hearth, which he now realized was part of the old furnace, though with many narrow bricks taken away from the inside wall to make a makeshift fireplace, where the outer furnace opening had been blocked off with the cracks of said bricks mortared together with daub.

The fire burnt merrily, and he sighed as he was guided to a cushion made of creamy undyed wool that was not here last time. Another similar cushion leaned against the wall against a leg of Aziraphale’s desk. Like the bed, it was stuffed with fresh straw, generously, and he wondered when Aziraphale had made these. Perhaps during any number of his naps? He sat down on the cushion which was heated through from the floor and was just perfectly, perfectly warm.

Now that he was sitting here, he noticed that some of the floor tiles near the hearth had the traces of a cat’s footprints in them, the fired clay retaining indelibly the memory of scampering paws from some distant summer’s day.

He wondered if the tough black cat was related to this cat from generations past.

Crowley felt the damp steaming off his clothes. For a moment he wondered if he should miracle himself dry and then he realized that Aziraphale had spent an entire miracle upon him when he had first arrived, when the angel was not even using any to live and certainly even living was not living comfortably.

“Thank you, Aziraphale. You didn’t have to do all this for me–”

“No, the opposite is true. Thank you for taking this trouble for me,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley thought that the angel’s words sounded rehearsed. “But you needn’t go through all this difficulty on my behalf, slogging about the city in the rain trying to find materiel.”

“Why not?” Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale, as he wiped the dark gemstones of his glasses with the clean towel.

Aziraphale seemed to shrink in upon himself as if a flower shriveling, wilting under the blazing heat of the desert in those golden eyes, and Crowley waited for him to respond.

“D-don’t be silly. It’s not necessary. Why should anything be done for me? Much less by you. When I’m obviously here to serve and not be served. Besides, it’s not as if you owe me anything. Which you don’t,” Aziraphale said sternly.

more

[brooklynislandgirl]

“The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality…”

Tennyson’s words continue, telling the tale of a man gifted unending life and cursed with endless aging. Unlike Tithonus, Mikhail’s hair stays black. He more closely claims peerage among the portraits they stroll through, a Tudor-era collection on loan from some British gallery, all of them faces frozen from a lost time.

The Toreador primogen has arranged the night-time access. Art, so important, and while he must attend for political reasons, there is at least Beth’s company as reward. “Perhaps arrogant of me to think there is no better partner for you than myself, dear sprite.”

The poem ends and his thoughts begin, spun from an invisible tangent. “I can keep your mind fed and your body sated. I know all that you are and aren’t, and would raze this city to ashes before any could harm you. While I cannot join you in the sunlight, this is true, I do not claim to be a perfect being. Only that I am as ideal for you as any undying creature can be.”

A Million Reasons || Accepting

Tawny fingers slither around his bicep with the wool beneath doing little damage to her as she's temporarily altered her own body to compensate for the allergy. She leans her head closer to him. The slender column of her throat exposes itself for a single flirtatious moment of throbbing pulse before her hair hides it again. In so many ways it is a microcosm of what Mischa's voice does to her, wrapping her up in the silk of its measure,and warms her throughout as so little else in the world does.

She listens closely. Navigating intent and art to find the truths that he wishes to share. More often than not, Beth aches for him. Even if she extended her own life beyond any conceivable measure, she too, will have to leave him. That is the point of a life measured against the Tapestry. But that's not what she wants to think about, not when everything around them already whispers of death and time. She slows their measured tread as they pass one particular painting, and for a moment she half wonders if he'd not sat for it, though this one does surpass even his formerly human years in age. A relative perhaps. A doppelganger. Some Sidhe who dreamed Mikhail into existence across centuries. "Arrogance is the exaggeration of one's own importance and ability or skill, Kuluaumoe. When you speak as you do...is called truth." She enunciates carefully so that her meaning isn't swallowed up by the cracks in her native pidgin. "I would like to think, for so long as you wish to keep me, that I can feed your body and quiet your mind. I know what you are and I stand not afraid. And I know that if...if you were to be taken from me, that the world would drown in blood until I raised you back up, or else I would be content to twine my roots in your earth. I don't need the sun, when I have you."

He is perfect to her just as he is, and even he can't dissuade her from that. She gives his arm the slightest squeeze and stares up into his midnight gaze. "Why I love thee? Ask why the seawind wanders, Why the shore is aflush with the tide, Why the moon through heaven meanders; Like seafaring ships that ride On a sullen, motionless deep; Why the seabirds are fluttering the strand Where the waves sing themselves to sleep And starshine lives in the curves of the sand".

[redorich]

For the canyon au, what would happen if one of the hermits got hurt during a scout? Like, if etho is out scouting, something happens, and he’s unable to message the hermits or get help. Would he be willing to be seen? Would any smpers besides Puffy help him?

Zedaph didn't mean to leave the canyon, honest! He was just looking for a sheep of his own for a completely ethical experiment involving pistons and a perfectly reasonable quantity of peanut butter, thank you very much. He wasn’t about to steal a sheep from someone else’s farm, and for some reason sheep don’t tend to spawn at bedrock level. So really, he had no choice!

Zedaph is rethinking a lot of his decisions. He’s also wondering if he left the jump-powered stove on. Then he remembers that it’s jump-powered, and as he is not currently jumping on it, it is most likely unpowered. Unfortunately, it seems as though Zedaph is going to be eating a lot of cold food for a while if he makes it out of this alive, because he’s not going to be jumping on anything with a broken leg.

Despite his punishment for trying to take a cross-section of something that he now knows is probably sentient (oops), he can’t help but want to go back, to learn more. What is the rate of growth of those red vines? Are they all from the same plant? Are they actually sentient, or is the crimson kudzu in possession of an automatic response to attempted harm? Did the vine know it was hitting him off a ledge which would break his leg, or did it just know “whack human away from vine”? Would the vines taste good in soup? Are they flammable? Could Zedaph theoretically knit a fashionable sweater out of them, and if so would the sweater be capable of independent movement?

He is torn from his musings of a wriggly evil sweater by another thrum of pain. He hisses. There’s... more blood than is advisable. Outside of his leg, that is. Inside his leg is likely less than the advisable amount of blood, and come to think of it, his head’s probably a bit empty as well, seeing as how he’s having so much trouble thinking straight-- well, straight for him. His jumps in logic are incomprehensible to most on a good day, but right now even he can’t follow his own thought process. What was he thinking about again?

Ah yes. The overwhelming pain from being yeeted off a ledge. Come to think of it, the ledge he fell off-- the one he’s sitting leaned against-- is shaped awfully unusually. It must be manmade. Whoever made this is not a good terraformer. Zedaph should bake Scar some cookies. Is Scar allergic to peanuts? Ow. Ow. Ow. Zedaph will need to borrow Impulse’s oven-- or he could set up his own oven with an armor stand that jumps for him?

“Hey there, who are you?” says a female voice. Zedaph looks up. He doesn’t have to look very far up.

Standing in front of him is a woman with a cool pirate-looking coat (red, of course; all self-respecting pirates wear red), with long fluffy hair like white wool and rainbow fringe! Oh, and she’s, like, half sheep or something. That’s cool too.

Wait. There’s something about sheep he’s forgetting... How could he have been so stupid?! He came to the surface in the first place in search of a sheep, and now he’s (kind of) found one!

The cool pirate lady says something, but Zedaph-- well, he does hear it, but it doesn’t process. Words are just mouth-sounds. He is in pain.

“Found a sheep,” he mumbles, “Come back to the canyon?”

“You’re hurt, man,” the sheep-pirate-lady says. She has pretty rainbow hair, and the white parts look like clouds.

She laughs. “Thanks.”

Clearly, this woman is a mind-reader! As well as a sheep. Really, two for the price of one. Zedaph isn’t quite sure what to do with a mind-reader, but his head will be much clearer and therefore able to dream up wacky hypotheses once he respawns--

He gasps, jerking forward and choking on his own breath when he remembers the cold truth. Xisuma won’t be able to respawn him, not for several days. Zedaph doesn’t want to spend that long in the void.

“Woah!” the woman exclaims, rushing to steady him. “You look pretty bad, dude. Let’s get you home or something. Where do you live?”

“Canyon,” Zedaph rasps. “I’m not supposed to tell you that, I don’t think. Can’t remember why.”

The nice woman goes very still. “Hey. My name’s Puffy. I’m gonna take you to the canyon. Do you think you can stand if I help you?”

“Puffy..?” Zedaph squints off into the middle distance, trying to remember something. “She’s the person who keeps coming back to that barrel, isn’t she?”

Puffy pulls Zedaph’s arm over her shoulder and gently pulls him up to his feet. “She is,” Puffy says softly.

“I hope she liked the enchanted diamond shears,” he mumbles.

“She did,” Puffy says softly. “She didn’t even know diamond shears were a thing.”

“I was going to make an emerald flint and steel,” Zedaph rambles, “but it turns out that items made of flint and steel aren’t conducive to being made of not-flint and not-steel."

"Who would have thought?" Puffy laughs, then trips over a vine. Zedaph makes a pained noise at the jostle to his leg, which is dragging a bit on the ground because Puffy is so much shorter than him. She notices this, and rethinks her strategy.

"At this rate, we'll never get back to the canyon," she gripes. "Climb on my back instead, I'll carry you."

Zedaph obliges, but warns, "Tango says I'm heavy.”

“I’m stronger than Tango, I’ll bet.”

The Hermit is actually a bit heavy, but this is a matter of pride now. And also, quite possibly a matter of urgency. The Hermit isn’t responding anymore. He’s still holding on, so he isn’t dead or completely unconscious; still, he’s not in a good state.

As soon as the elevator down to the bottom of the canyon comes into view, Puffy books it. Surely, in the canyon base, the Hermit will have healing potions? He (They? Multiple Hermits?) gave her a whole beacon, so obviously he/they are late-game enough to have plenty of potions.

Stepping into the elevator, Puffy presses the button, then puts her hand on the Hermit’s neck. It’s a bit of an awkward position, since his chin is hanging over her shoulder, but it makes her feel better to have a hand on his pulse. He makes a pitiful noise as the elevator descends.

“Easy there,” Puffy says, “you’re almost home.”

The moment the doors open, she ventures out into the village. The only safe place she knows is the barrel where she leaves her items for the Hermit(s), so she takes him there. Now that she’s looking, she spots shadows, eyes, movements, throughout the supposedly empty village. One such person comes out of the woodwork, sprinting.

“Zedaph!” exclaims a tall, musclebound man. His face is twisted in naked worry as he meets Puffy at the barrel, which she sets Zedaph down on.

The large man, who wears a black shirt with a creeper face on it (does that mean something, Puffy wonders?) scrutinizes the blond man on the barrel for a moment before springing into action, splashing potions and bits of lapis and-- holy shit, is that a Totem of Undying?! When the blond man, Zedaph, seems to come back to himself enough that he could reasonably eat a golden carrot with minimal choking hazard, the new man hands him one. Finally, he turns to Puffy.

“Thank you,” he says. The relief in his voice is tangible.

Puffy shifts awkwardly. “I was just doing the right thing. I noticed, uh, his bracelet.”

They both look to Zedaph’s wrist. It’s got a woven bracelet on it. The textile isn’t astounding, but the pattern on it is intricate. Puffy would know, she made it herself as a gift for the Hermit. As Puffy and the other Hermit look at each other, she realizes that he is also wearing something she made: a pair of fingerless gloves which are now stained with redstone dust.

He catches her staring. “We all have one-- oh, uh, my name’s Impulse, and this is Zedaph--”

“Impulse,” a new blond man hisses from behind the two. Puffy jumps. She didn’t hear him coming.

“Tango!” Impulse greets, suddenly nervous. Why a man as big as Impulse would be nervous when facing anyone, let alone a normal-looking guy like Tango, is beyond Puffy. Maybe Tango’s red eyes have some sort of significance?

“Impulse,” Tango repeats, looking around for anyone that isn’t a Hermit. “You’re not invisible.”

Impulse’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “I had to see Zedaph.”

“Yeahhh,” Zedaph slurs.

“Besides, if we can trust any of the natives, it’s Puffy,” Impulse insists. He crosses his arms in what should be an intimidating display, but truthfully looks more like a pout.

“You know what Xisuma said,” Tango says. “I’m grateful to have Zedaph back, but...”

“Xisuma would agree with me,” Impulse says stubbornly.

Tango sighs explosively, full of nerves. “Alright, fine, can we at least get out of sight? Anyone could come wandering across the surface and spot us.”

“How many of you are there?” Puffy breathes. Everyone’s eyes snap to her.

“Twenty-four,” Zedaph says happily.

“Zedaph!” Tango admonishes.

Rolling his eyes, Impulse scoops Zedaph up off the barrel like he weighs nothing. He carries the dazed blond man down the path and into a cottage-style house. As Tango goes to follow, he catches Puffy’s eye.

“Sorry,” he says, “nothing personal. Just trying to avoid being explodificated, which means not being seen by the people who live on this server. You get it, yeah?”

He jogs off to catch up with Impulse, and Puffy hurriedly follows. Tango’s got a bracelet like Zedaph’s, but it’s one of the ones Puffy made out of different shades of red. She wonders if all the Hermits wear something she made.

The inside of the house is a bit cramped, but it’ll do. It’s got a bed, at least, so Zedaph’s got somewhere to keep his leg off the ground. This all feels surreal.

“So, uh...” Puffy says into the stuffy silence of the room. “How about that, uh, bedrock?”

Nobody has anything to say to that. Fuck.

Out of nowhere, yet another Hermit shows up. There’s a trapdoor in the wall that, now that she looks at it, Puffy realizes that Tango was hiding intentionally. That’s all gone to shit, though, because a man with white hair and a mask over his face peeks his head out from the hole in the wall.

“Hey guys, what--” The man takes a look around, spots Puffy, and freezes. “...On second thought, I’ll come back later.”

“Wait!” Impulse says to the man. “Get Xisuma, or at least tell him Puffy’s here if he can’t make the trip right now.”

“Karl thinks you’re Mothman,” Puffy blurts out to the white-haired man.

The man looks very self-satisfied for someone who’s only showing a quarter of his face. “Oh? Where does he live? For absolutely no reason, of course.”

“Etho...” Tango groans.

“Oh, alright, I’ll go get X.”

The man leaves. Oh boy, thinks Puffy, this is going to be interesting.

[iturbide]

if you're still looking for prompts? maybe 25 for byleth and sothis. i feel like here are several things she would miss about having a physical body, even the very small things.

I’m going to be open for prompts for a long time no worries there

25. Wearing clothes in their favorite color.

“Must you always wear that old thing?”

Byleth paused, smoothing the charcoal grey tunic and searching for any obvious signs of wear.  They hadn’t been in anywhere near as many battles of late, with this new teaching appointment, and it had been practically new when they came to the aid of those students, it couldn’t be in that bad of shape yet…

“Don’t make that face!  You know what I mean.  You always wear the same thing, every day, morning to nightfall.  It’s so boring!”

They glanced over their shoulder at the figure only they could see.  Sothis watched them from where she floated by the windows, arms folded over her chest and ankles crossed.  they signed, shrugging helplessly.

“Do you never tire of wearing that?  If I had a body, I would wear something different every day,” she sighed, ruffling her skirt.  “Things in cream and aquamarine, indigo and silver, violet and gold…beautiful things, wonderful things…”

Byleth looked down again at their simple clothes: black boots, grey trousers and tunic with faded red accents…they had yet to don their cloak and armor, but even that was only black wool and steel.  Functional, but plain.  All their clothes had been like that, as far back as they could remember: simple, unadorned…utilitarian was the word Manuela had used.

Kneeling down by the simple dresser, Byleth began to pick through their limited belongings.  A few more shirts, tunics, and pants, all dark or undyed, barely enough to fill even one drawer.  Closing it, they moved to the wardrobe, pulling open the doors and sighing as they tugged the cloak aside…

They paused, tilting their head as they reached for an unfamiliar garment.  Had it always been there?  Something left behind by the last occupant of their room, or perhaps something that the Archbishop had left for more formal occasions (though Byleth wasn’t much good with those).  The cut and color both reminded him of the Knights of Seiros, something Alois or Catherine might wear, but accented with dark blue and gold in place of the Knights’ red and bronze, and lacking any trace of the Seiros crest.

“Hm?  What’s that?”

Byleth shrugged, removing their usual garments and donning the unfamiliar clothes.  The fit wasn’t quite right, but it still felt comfortable enough, moving easily with them when they stretched…and as they turned to Sothis, spreading their arms in silent question, she moved closer, floating around them with an expression somewhere between appraising and wondering. 

“How lovely…”

She was smiling as she drifted back into their view, her folded hands pressed to her chin.  “Why have you never worn this one?”

Byleth signed back.

“You should wear more things like it,” she mused, floating around them a second time.  “Perhaps spend some of those funds you get on more to wear.”

Byleth protested. 

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” she agreed.  “Could I pick something out?”

They grinned as she draped over their shoulder.  they nodded – and her beaming smile made the unfamiliar clothes feel like a perfect fit.

50 Wordless Ways to Say ‘I Love You’

[woodelf68]

Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out

My long-promised homage to @worryinglyinnocent‘s Playtime ‘verse, because she managed to write fifty installments without doing hippies, and I had to rectify that. Also my contribution to @rumbelleishope. Rated E. 

***

The large cardboard box bearing items from the estate sale was like a time capsule from the late 1960s. Gold sorts through the items, fond memories of his early childhood stirred by such things as the beaded curtain and concert posters and the heavy stack of albums, their cardboard covers worn along the edges but still bright with the distinctive graphics of the era. The Who, Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and the Fish, Iron Butterfly. Donovan, too, Glasgow-born like himself. He can hear them in his head, like a soundtrack to the Summer of Love, and he wonders if Belle will like any of them. He’s fairly certain that she’ll like the clothes, and holds up a loose, flowing smock with wide sleeves and delicate flowers embroidered around the neckline and hem.  It’s a pretty thing, and he can easily see Belle wearing it, hopes that she’ll want to.

Methodically he sorts through the contents of the box, dividing everything into three piles. One to be priced and sold – the two posters were what had drawn him to bid on this lot in the first place, and he knows that he can sell them for a pretty penny – one of things he thinks Belle might be interested in, and one of a few items of clothing that he looks at doubtfully, unsure if he wants them to fit or not. But he thinks of Belle in the short dress, thinks of surprising her with a scenario they haven’t played out yet, knows he won’t regret any temporary feelings of silliness at wearing what are, after all, fairly normal clothes compared to some of the things he’s put on for her. Making up his mind, he goes into the shop’s small bathroom and locks the door.

Several minutes later he’s studying his reflection, and surprisingly not feeling too ridiculous. although he would die of embarrassment if anyone other than Belle were to see him wearing a suede leather vest adorned with long fringes. But the undyed linen shirt with the open neck and band collar is soft and comfortable, and if it’s a little too big, it’s not overly so, and he can roll up the sleeves. Same with the trousers, he’s sure that the flare-legged rust denim was originally meant to fit a bit more tightly than they do on his frame, but although he knows that Belle would no doubt appreciate that, he’s gotten used to more freedom of movement. With a belt and the cuffs turned up if he doesn’t want them to drag on the ground, the jeans fit well enough. The clothes remind him of his childhood, those years after he had been taken in by his aunts, where he had learned the feeling of security, and being wanted, and what it was like to be praised and encouraged instead of constantly belittled. Whether it’s the warm memories associated with the era, or simply the fact that he knows his ten year old self would have loved to have had a fringed leather vest, he’s satisfied with his image.  Now all he has to do is suggest a scene. He thinks about it as he changes back into his suit and tucks the vintage garments into a bag. The shop is small, and would be easily decorated, but far too public for more than a quickie. The large Victorian house filled with fine antiques is not right at all. That leaves the cabin, he decides.

Saturday morning, he drops Belle off at the library and hands her a box tied with string that he’d stashed in the back seat of the Cadillac. “Don’t open it until lunchtime,” he says, knowing the pleasure of an anticipated surprise. “I won’t be in the shop today; I’ve got some other business to take care of.”

“All right; see you later.” Belle watches him drive off, mystified by the package in her hands. By the time lunchtime rolls around, she’s more than ready to tear off the box lid and find out what’s in it. A piece of paper sits on top of some tissue paper-covered contents, with the heading “Playtime?” She forces herself to read the rest before folding back the tissue paper and seeing what awaits her. “It’s 1968. Fibre artist and co-founder of Storybrooke’s new “Enchanted Forest” commune “Rumpelstiltskin” Gold has agreed to an interview with the hip young reporter from the local newspaper.  Please confirm interview at 6 pm Saturday.”  Intrigued, she folds back the tissue paper and nearly squeals with delight, instantly picking up the beaded, white leather headband that lays on top of the other items and tying it around her head. She gets out her compact mirror to admire how it looks for a moment before texting Rum back.

“Interview confirmed. Looking forward to it.”

He must have been waiting for her reply; his return message is swift. “Dove will have the car there for you at five; I’ll see you later.”

Dove arrives with the keys to the Cadillac before she closes the library at five, and as soon as she locks the front door, she retires to the restroom to change into her outfit. It’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and she drives out to the cabin as instructed, deciding what she’s going to say when she gets there.  Parking, she starts to head for the door of the cabin when she hears music coming from around the side of it and alters her course.  Gold is there, sitting on top of the picnic table, his spindle hanging down and twirling as he spins a smooth yarn from the basket of wool roving in the basket beside him. He is dressed – well, he is dressed to match her, obviously, and it suits him. It suits him incredibly well.  He looks softer, younger, his dark hair set off by the off-white linen shirt, feathering out over the band collar, the open neckline displaying the line of this throat and a string of love beads, mostly black with a few white and sky blue ones mixed in at regular intervals.  The rust-coloured denim of his jeans sits low on his hips and flares out below the knees and the fringed vest…she’d like to see him move with it on, see the fringes flare out. She kind of wants to borrow it herself, and thinks about what it would feel like to wear it with nothing on underneath.  Preferably while she was riding him in bed, rocking back and forth, the open edges of the leather rubbing back and forth against her bare skin… She swallows hard, and pushes that image back to take out and play with again later. Gold looks both snuggly, and sexy, and she wants nothing more than to go over to him and slide her fingers into his hair to hold him still while she kisses him breathless, but she has a part to play first.

”Mr. Gold?” she asks, approaching. “I’m Belle French, with the Storybrooke Mirror. You agreed to an interview.” She holds out her hand and he lets go of the dangling yarn forming between his fingers to reach out and shake it.

“Call me Rum, please.” He goes back to smoothing the spinning fiber into a smooth, even yarn, and Belle can’t help but watch his hands.

“That’s a nickname, right?” She takes out a pen and notebook from her purse, ostensibly jotting it down. “For Rumpelstiltskin, because of the spinning.”

“It is. I quite like it.”

“How did you get into spinning?”

“My aunts taught me. We had a wee croft, a few sheep, chickens, that sort of thing. Turned out that I was quite good at it. I like the rhythm of it, and there’s a lot of satisfaction in taking a bit of dirty, rough wool and combing it clean and spinning it into a strong, even twist of yarn that can be made into things.”

“Do you use the yarn yourself? Make it into things?”

“Aye, we do a fair bit of that here, at the commune. Granny’s our champion knitter, ponchos and scarves and mittens, they always sell really well at the Miner’s Day Festival. And my son and his girlfriend like to make dreamcatchers with the wool; they’re another popular item. And of course we make things for ourselves as well.”

“So is that part of your goal here? To be as self-sufficient as possible?” Belle drops her bag on the grass and sits down beside it, cross-legged, resting her notebook on her thigh and glancing back up after scribbling a few things down in it.  It’s a lazy sort of day, and for once she isn’t in a hurry to rush to the sex, instead interested in the unusually detailed background story he’s made up about himself, and hinted at in the letter he’d written. She wouldn’t mind being a journalist if she wasn’t a librarian, she thinks, and wonders if the Mirror might be interested in her starting a weekly column about books.

“Aye, I suppose. It’s cheaper to make your own bread than to buy it, for example, and better for you. You’ll have to talk to Anton, our crops expert, if you want to know more about that side of thing. He’ll talk your ear off about beans if you show even the slightest bit of interest.”

Belle grins, thinking of the gentle giant who ran the local health food store, and knowing it was actually true. “You mentioned your son; tell me about him.”

Gold smiles fondly. “He’s an artist. Does portraits when he can get a commission, freelance political cartoons, sign painting, anything really.”

Neal is indeed a good artist, she knows, even if he has chosen the steady paycheck that came with a job at the hardware store over any artistic dreams, preferring to keep it a hobby. “You sound very proud of him .”

“I am.”

“What about those other people you mentioned? His girlfriend, and Granny. Do they live here, too?”

“Aye, Emma and her parents are fairly new here. Her mother’s our respectable member of society – she’s a teacher at the school – and her father can do just about everything around here. Good with the animals, construction work, anything that needs doing. And I can’t even be jealous of him because he’s so nice, too.”

Belle laughs; it really is a good summation of David.

“And Granny, well, she’s been here since the beginning.”

Belle makes a note, and looks back up to watch the whirling spindle, his fingers never still as he forms the yarn between his fingers. “Tell me about the beginning. What made you decide to start a commune?”

“Well, we didn’t, not really, certainly not at first. When my son was young – “ he hesitates, and then continues. “His mother left us, and there I was, needing to go to work and having a wee boy to take care of at the same time. We didn’t have any family, or friends. But I knew the woman in the flat across from ours had taken in her granddaughter recently and was raising her on her own – there’d been some scandal with the mother, from what Milah had gathered. But the lass looked hearty enough, so I figured that the woman knew how to take care of a bairn and I was desperate. I went knocking on her door, thinking she might be willing to look after Neal for what little money I could offer her, since it would be in the convenience of her own home. And he was a sweet, well-behaved boy, no trouble at all.”

Belle looks up at him uncertainly, knowing that he was talking about his own real life here; at least as far as Neal’s mother leaving them went, and wonders about it. He normally never talks about that period of his life, maybe this was one way he could do so?  She isn’t sure about the Granny part; they don’t seem to have that sort of relationship. She stops herself from asking if Granny had really watched Neal, though, not wanting to break character yet. Rum has gone through a lot of trouble putting together a backstory for this particular scenario, and she doesn’t want to break the mood. She realises that she knows even less about Granny’s past, or Ruby’s parents, and makes a note on her pad to ask later. She squints against the sun, positioned behind his head and outlining the locks of hair falling forward into his face, and tries to think what would be the next question that a journalist would ask.

“Were you working as a spinner then?”

“Lord, no, an accountant. It’s only been in the last few years that people have begun appreciating handcrafted items again, enough to pay a little more for them than mass-produced factory goods. It was when the last of my aunts died that I took it up again. They’d left me their cottage, and everything in it, including their wheels and a good stash of both raw wool and spun yarn. I would have moved back to Scotland and lived there, but Neal had his friends and his life here, and wanted to stay, so I sold the place and brought as many of their things home with us as possible, things that I remembered from my childhood, even though I had to place most of it in storage. But I made Neal a scarf for Christmas from the yarn, and his friend Emma then asked if I could make her a hat, and paid for it with her allowance money, and then Granny’s Ruby wanted one, and pretty soon the boutique in town contacted me about selling some of my stuff there. I took a leap of faith and quit my job, but if I was going to spend all day at home spinning and weaving, then I wasn’t going to do it in my tiny apartment. This cabin was for sale, needed a lot of fixing up, but Neal was old enough to help by then and enlisted a bunch of his friends from woodshop at school as well. We had it fixed up and livable in quite a short amount of time, and well, that was the start of things.”

Belle mentally sorts out the facts from fabrication. His aunts had been real, she knows, but the cabin has never been more than a weekend getaway place. She is saved having to think of another question by the music in the background coming to a stop and Gold putting aside his spindle and going over to the record player to flip over the disc. A new song begins playing, with what she thinks is a bass line, a deep, thumping riff that gets under her skin and makes her want to move. She stands up, leaving her notepad and pen lying on her bag in the grass, and goes to meet Gold. “I like this song,” she says, beginning to sway in place as he turns back around to face her.

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.” She takes his hands, trying to get him to dance with her. “In-a-gadda-da-vida, honey, don’t you know that I love you,” she sings, and nearly laughs at the way his eyebrows go up in surprise, biting back the remark that Storybrooke does have an oldies radio station, and it’s kind of hard to forget a song that seems to go on forever. “In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby, don’t you know that I’ll always be true?” She lifts his arms up, spinning beneath him, and smiling; he helps twirl her,  her lightweight skirt flaring out around her.

“Oh, won’t you come with me,” she sings, and her mind completely derails in a sexual direction. “Won’t you take my hand?” With a filthy smirk on her face she tugs at his hands, backing away, and he follows, entranced, helpless to do otherwise. “Oh, won’t you come with me and walk this land? Please, take my hand.” She stops as they reach the picnic table, putting her hands on his shoulders, swaying to the music, forcing him to move as well, his feet staying planted but hips and shoulders moving to the beat.

“That’s it,” she encourages, and he smiles, drawing her close with his hands on her hips, pulling her flush against his body. She loops her arms around his neck, playing with his hair, her gaze drawn to the open collar of his shirt. “You look good,” she says.

“Do I?’ He tilts his head, grazes his lips against hers.

“Mm-hm. You should wear light colours more often.” She dips her head, pressing a kiss against his collarbone, mouthing against the warm skin.

“Have we moved into the second portion of the programming?” he asks, amused, leaning in to run his tongue around her earlobe.

“New questions. Like, do you believe in free love?” She runs her hand up his back, feeling each bump in his spine through the soft shirt, and then back down again, slipping up underneath the sun-warmed fabric.

“Oh, most definitely,” he assures her, his breath ghosting over hers as the music throbs in the background, a primal beat that makes him want to move against her, inside her. He debates the practicalities of just lifting her up onto the top of the picnic table and taking her right there.

“And is there a reason for that picnic blanket that you spread out so thoughtfully in the shade of the tree over there?”

“There are twigs and bugs in the grass,” he says, and Belle snorts. “And I thought, if any visitors should wish to recline in comfort…”

“Well, then,” she says, and takes his hand, leading him behind her towards the blanket. She sinks down upon it and he sits down beside her, facing her,  and she can’t think of anything else to say, because all she wants to do is touch him. She slides her hand beneath his hair at the nape of his neck and draws him closer and he tilts his head and then they’re kissing languorously, need slowly building between them. Belle slips her hands up under the hem of his shirt, then back out again, tugging at the hem. “Off,” she instructs.

Gold breaks away from the path he’d been nuzzling along her neck to grin at her. “Run out of questions, have you?”

“The only thing I want to know is what you’re going to look like spread out naked before me,” she says, her voice gone a bit husky.

Gold sheds his vest first and then reaches back and yanks his shirt off over his head, his eyes darkening. The light breeze rustling the leaves above them feels good on his heated skin as he shakes his hair out of his eyes, reaching out to splay his hands over Belle’s ribs before she can touch him herself, very much aware that she isn’t wearing a bra and grazing his thumbs over her nipples. Her breathing quickens and her head falls back as he rubs them, back and forth and back and forth, feeling them tighten and swell until she moans and reaches down to grab the hem of her own shirt. Gold obligingly drops his arms so that she can pull it off and cast it aside, the motion lifting her breasts and stretching out her taut belly. She kicks off her sandals and Gold takes the opportunity to remove his own low cut boots and socks, shifting more comfortably now onto his knees, and drawing Belle forward to straddle one of his thighs before kissing her again, more urgently than before.

Belle begins moving, riding his hard thigh, rubbing herself against him. His belt buckle digs into her stomach, and she reaches down, tugging it open and free impatiently, and then going for the snap and zipper of his jeans, wanting only warm skin against her, feeling Gold slide his hands up under her skirt, his palms smoothing along her legs. She slips her hand inside his jeans, palms his growing hardness, and Gold makes a desperate sort of noise, pressing up against her and then pulling back, scrambling to his feet to shove down his jeans and underwear together, while Belle makes quick work of removing the rest of her clothes and tossing them to the side,  where she spots his discarded vest and, with a small smile, pulls it on over her bare chest.  It feels as good as she had imagined, the suede soft but with just enough of a roughness to its texture to make her very aware of it as it shifts over her breasts, the edges grazing her nipples. Gazing up at Gold, she thinks it’s a good angle, his cock already half hard and lifting away from his body, and she thinks about rising back onto her knees and taking him into her mouth,  but as she shifts onto her knees and curls a hand around his ankle, he braces his hands on her shoulders and lowers himself back down to the blanket, stretching out above her, one hand supporting her lower back, and she lets him ease her down, enjoying the weight of his hips pressing her down against the ground. They kiss, long and slow, and then he begins working his way down her body, touching and tasting, fingers and lips and tongue as her head falls back and her body arches into him.

She buries her fingers in his hair and gazes up into the branches of the tree as he suckles at her breasts. Something glints there, catches the sun and magnifies it. She closes her eyes briefly against it, becomes more aware of the pulse of the music in the background, the pulse of her blood in her veins. She opens her eyes again as his mouth leaves her and he moves further down, leaving her nipples wet and swollen and aching. She looks down at her body as she lifts her hands to cup her own breasts, to tug and pinch at the nipples and sees small rainbows dancing over her chest, her skin dappled in light and shade from the sun filtering through the leaves. She looks up in puzzlement, and then smiles in delight and reaches up as if she could reach the crystals she spots hanging from the branches of the tree, their prisms catching the light and breaking it up into the bands of colour that paint her skin and increase the dreamlike quality of the moment. She knows at once where they’re from, thinking of the box in the shop’s back room full of dismantled chandelier parts, but the knowledge doesn’t lessen their magic.  She traces one along her skin, then takes one of the vest’s long fringes and shifts it back and forth over her nipple, sucking in a breath as it catches briefly before rolling over. Gold runs a hand along her thigh and she lets her legs fall apart and half closes her eyes as his fingers slip inside her, drawing out her moisture and using it to draw slow circles over her clit.

He watches her rolling the fringe back and forth over her nipple, the flesh visibly puckering around the hardening nub,  and his own cock hardens in response. He longs to take her into his mouth, but cannot look away.

“You would fit right in at Woodstock,” he says huskily. “Imagine us there, listening to the music, and I’m standing right behind you, and we’re swaying to the music. You’re wearing nothing but your skirt and that vest, and it’s open, and I’m cupping your breasts in my hands, and playing with your nipples.“

Belle’s hips jerk, as the image goes straight to her core.

Gold dips his fingers into her again, and feels the effect his words are having on her. There’s plenty of slick now, for his thumb to glide easily over her flesh, that light, grazing touch that causes her clit to swell and harden in response. His voice drops in pitch, his Scottish accent strengthening without him being quite aware of it. “There’s people all around us, but it doesn't matter, no one does more than glance our way.” He searches his memory for images from the documentary of the famous concert. “It’d been pouring rain earlier, and your shirt had gone drenched and transparent in minutes. Other people were stripping off their wet things, and you’d boldly done the same; there’s no shame here, no constraints. Bodies are natural, they’re beautiful, there’s no need to hide them.  There’s people with body paint, offering their services. Perhaps we’ll ask one to decorate your breasts; would you like that?”

Belle can’t keep from squirming, her eyes wide as they rake over his smooth, lightly tanned chest and lower, his cock blatantly erect for her.

“If we could paint you, too.  What about you? Is your shirt off?”

“Oh aye, my chest is bare against your back, and my jeans are clinging to me like a second skin, and my cock is straining against the zipper; anyone who looks at me would know how much I want you. I want to take you away from the crowd and find a place to lay you out on the ground and rut into you like a wild beast, but I need you to come first, come on my hands, come for everyone to see  – “ He slid his free hand up her chest, pushing the suede leather of the vest aside, completely baring her front, and cupped her breast in his warm hand, his hips shifting and pressing down against her pubis as he leans over her, thumb being replaced by middle finger, changing the angle, rubbing relentlessly. “Come on, sweetheart,” he urges, kneading her breast, his touch rougher here where she prefers lighter down below. 

The music pulses in time with her blood and Gold’s hair falls forward to hang in his face. He blocks out the sun, he is haloed by it, sun and shade and the scent of grass and incense and she is here and she is there at the same time and his cock is heavy and stiff against her thigh and the hard knot of pleasure bursts within her and she comes with all her muscles clenching tight and her fingers digging into his skin where she’d reached for him. His finger stills against her, knowing not to move again until she relaxes, the tension sagging out of her body, and she feels good but it’s not enough, there’s an aching emptiness inside her that needs to be filled. She sits up abruptly, tumbling him onto his back, and straddles his hips, taking hold of his cock and stroking it firmly. 

“We’ve gone away from the crowd now,” she tells him. “Found a place by the lake, behind some bushes. They offer us some privacy, but we can hear people nearby, going down to the lake, to bathe, to swim. Someone could easily come upon us, if they came in just the right direction.”  She rubs her thumb over his slit, coaxing out a bead of moisture, and he lets out a nearly inaudible whine. “I don’t care, though. I want you, and I don’t want to wait. Are you willing to risk it? Willing to risk someone seeing me riding you into the ground?” 

“Hell, yes.” He can’t wait, either. “Let them see. Let them see a beautiful woman like you wants someone like me.”

“You say “someone like me” as if I’m not dripping wet for you, as if I don’t want to have you buried inside me more than anything in the world,” she says, and rises up, positioning him at her entrance so he can feel the truth of her words. “You have to be quiet,” she warns, mischievously, and sinks down. 

Gold swallows down the noise that wants to escape his throat as she engulfs him. “I don’t know if I can promise that.” He splays his hands out on her waist, just under the edge of the vest, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Hanging open as it is, the vest only half covers them, baring a lovely wide strip of pale flesh right down the center of her body, adorned only by the love beads she still wore around her neck. As she shifts above him, the edges of the vest fall back, just revealing her nipples, and his cock throbs in response. He bucks up, everything feeling tight, and hot, and urgent. “That vest is a good look on you; we should keep it.”

Belle grins. “I’m glad you think so; I quite like it myself.” She leans forward over him, resting her weight on her hands, and begins to ride him, deliberately shifting continuously in a way that keeps the edges of the vest moving and rubbing against her breasts, her nipples staying hard and sensitive from the teasing friction. She undulates; rising and falling and pleasuring herself on his shaft, the long fringes falling forward as she lowers herself above his body. 

Gold arches up as the leather fringes trail over his belly and swing forward to drag over his nipples, driving himself deeper inside her as he seeks more of the teasing sensation. He cups his hands over her breasts, rolling her nipples between forefinger and thumb, and Belle moans. He grins. “I thought we had to be quiet.”

"I never said I would be." She lifts herself up until just the head of his shaft remains within her, glancing down to see the hard column of his flesh joining their bodies. She tightens her muscles around him, squeezing as hard as she can. 

Gold's whole body jerks as he cries out, his balls tightening and drawing up. He drags her back down upon him and rolls them over, pulling back out just enough to slam forward into her, rocking her backwards. He thrusts into her again, all control gone, feeling his climax rapidly approaching. 

"That's it." Belle braces herself with drawn up knees and urges him on. "Come on, Rum, give it to me." He is all lean, wiry muscle, and dark hair falling forward and shielding his eyes from her view. She arches up into his next thrust, digging her fingers into his lean buttocks and feeling him long and thick and solid inside her. "That's it, so good, come on, come for me."

He snaps his hips forward, driving deep again and again until his body seizes with pleasure and he stills, braced on his forearms with his hips sealed against hers while the hot flood of his release spills inside her. After a few seconds his muscles unclench and he lowers himself to lay atop her, panting and letting his eyes fall shut as he savours the fading rush of ecstasy, his cock twitching a few times in aftershock as he softens inside her. He feels her fingers run through his hair and turns his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and the smell of crushed grass beneath the blanket, the air moving lightly over his sweaty back. A bird chatters above them, and he realises that the record had stopped playing at some point, unnoticed. He takes in a deep breath and rolls off to the side, blinking up at leaf-dappled sunlight and rainbows dancing in the air. He turns his head to the side and the corner of his mouth quirks up as Belle does the same and meets his eyes. She looks as debauched as he feels. 

"So, Rumpelstiltskin," she says, reaching out to twine her fingers with his. She feels thoroughly well-used and it is about all she has the energy for at the moment. "Do you have any final words for the readers of our paper?"

Gold's smile widens into a grin. "Yeah. Turn on," He draws their joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles.  "Tune in, and drop out." He lifts his free hand and flashes her a peace sign, feeling utterly sated and stupidly happy. He thinks of the box from the estate sale. 

Best buy ever. 

[destinywaitingapproval]

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up. 

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in. 

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.” 

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up. 

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.” 

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?” 

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.” 

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.” 

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.” 

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.” 

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together. 

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.” 

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed. 

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?” 

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.” 

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.” 

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god. 

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War. 

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him. 

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!” 

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?” 

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke. 

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile. 

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.” 

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.” 

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god. 

  Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them. 

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation. 

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.” 

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.” 

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

  Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. _The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, _he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

[mydigitallworld]

Buy a Beni Ourain Carpet without going to Morocco

Boucherouite tapijten are undyed natural wool carpets are mainly made by women from the Beni Ourain tribes that inhabit the Moroccan Atlas Mountains, they are characterized by their long, silky touch, and a network of diamonds formed by relatively thin black or brown lines.   On a white background, they are your hallmark. The light background makes them look good in any corner and especially that they are more timeless. The most coveted Beni Ourain tapijt are vintage, there are even 40 years that are in perfect condition, we believe there is no greater guarantee of quality.   Luckily for us Morocco is here to the side so if taking advantage of a break you can bring something more than a nice souvenir for little more than what a carpet in Ikea would cost you.   Characteristics of Vintage Marokkaanse tapijten:   Beni Ourain Marokkaanse tapijten are made by women from the Atlas of Morocco. The particular process of creation begins with obtaining wool.   For this, the sheep of the Moroccan mountains are sheared, from which the natural raw material is obtained. Then proceed to wash the wool and scrub well, it contains natural oils that have to be removed before starting to weave. It is a sublime process. The work and effort behind each Berber carpet are tremendous and practically indescribable.   Making one of the Marokkaanse tapijten carpets requires countless days of work by several weavers. The process of spinning and weaving extends over several weeks, but the end result is a carpet that is worth it for its quality, beauty and high demand.   It is a legacy developed over generations: it is necessary to have a great mastery to make a handmade Beni Ouarain rug by hand. The traditional technique passes from mothers to daughters for generations.   The decorative elements of each Marokkaanse Berber-tapijten are wonderful. Many tell a personal story, reflecting the life of the weaver. Yes, you can order them personalized: you can choose the size and, very soon, we will have many more designs and colors. Do not miss to visit our site beniouarainoutlet.com for the best and authentic collection of Marokkaanse wollen tapijten.   If you are looking to buy an authentic Marokkaanse tapijten te koop, visit our site beniouarainoutlet.com. We have an extensive range of Beni Ourain Marokkaanse tapijten with various designs and color. Buy now at the best rate only from our site.

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BLOG TOUR - The Vampire Knitting Club

The Vampire Knitting Club

by Nancy Warren

on Tour October 15 – November 16, 2018

Welcome to

SHANNON MUIR’S THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to SHANNON MUIR’S THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Synopsis:

At a crossroads between a cringe-worthy past (Todd the Toad) and an uncertain future (she’s not exactly homeless, but it’s close), Lucy Swift travels to Oxford to visit her grandmother. With Gran’s undying love to count on and Cardinal Woolsey’s, Gran’s knitting shop, to keep her busy, Lucy can catch her breath and figure out what she’s going to do.

Except it turns out that Gran is the undying. Or at least, the undead. But there’s a death certificate. And a will, leaving the knitting shop to Lucy. And a lot of people going in and out who never use the door—including Gran, who is just as loving as ever, and prone to knitting sweaters at warp speed, late at night. What exactly is going on?

When Lucy discovers that Gran did not die peacefully in her sleep, but was murdered, she has to bring the killer to justice without tipping off the law that there’s no body in the grave. Between a hot 800-year-old vampire and a dishy detective inspector, both of whom always seem to be there for her, Lucy finds her life getting more complicated than a triple cable cardigan. The only one who seems to know what’s going on is her cat … or is it … her familiar?

First in a new series of paranormal cozy mysteries!

  Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Cozy Mystery Published by: Ambleside Publishing Publication Date: September 2018 Number of Pages: 250 ISBN:13 9781981498970 ASIN: B07HDBQ7BB Series: The Vampire Knitting Club #1 Purchase Links: Amazon Goodreads

  Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Cardinal Woolsey’s knitting shop has appeared on postcards celebrating the quaint views of Oxford, of which there are many. But when a visitor has tired of writing ‘wish you were here’ on the back of pictures of the various colleges, the dreaming spires, and the dome of the Radcliffe Camera, a cozy little shop painted blue, brimming with baskets of wool and hand-knit goods, can be so much more inviting.

My grandmother Agnes Bartlett owned the knitting shop and I was on my way to visit after spending a very hot month at a dig site in Egypt visiting my archeologist parents.

Gran was always ready to wrap her warm arms around me and tell me everything was going to be all right. I needed comforting after discovering my boyfriend of two years Todd had stuck his salami in someone else’s sandwich. I referred to him now as my ex-boyfriend The Toad. I was thinking about Gran’s wisdom, her hugs and her home made gingersnaps, when I started to feel as though cold, wet fingers were walking down the back of my neck.

My wheeled suitcase clanked and rattled behind me along the cobblestones of Harrington Street as I looked around, wondering what had caused the heebie-jeebies.

The October day was chilly and crisp and, in the mid-afternoon, the street was busy with shoppers, tourists and students. Church bells chimed three o’clock. When I glanced ahead, I saw my beloved Gran. She wore a black skirt, sensible shoes and one of her hand-knit cardigans, this one in orange and blue. She was walking with a glamorous woman in her sixties whom I didn’t recognize. I thought Gran looked confused and my hackles immediately rose. The glamor puss was holding an umbrella over Gran’s head, even though the day was dry and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

I waved and called, “Gran!” moving faster so my suitcase began to bounce.

I was sure they saw me, but as I sped toward them, they veered down a side street. What on earth? I lifted my case and began to run; though my case was so heavy it was more of a grunting stagger.

“Gran!” I yelled again. I stopped at the bottom of the road where I’d last seen them. There was no one there. A dry, shriveled leaf tumbled toward me and from a window ledge a small, black cat regarded me with what looked like pity. Otherwise, the street was empty.

“Agnes Bartlett!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

I stood, panting. The side street was lined with a mixture of half-timbered cottages and Victorian row houses, all clearly residential. Gran hadn’t popped into a shop and would soon emerge. She was visiting in one of those homes, presumably. I wondered if it belonged to her friend.

Well, there was no point standing there. I’d go to Cardinal Woolsey’s and wait for Gran there. Her assistant, Rosemary, would be running the shop and I could let myself into the upstairs flat and unpack while I waited for my grandmother to return.

I retraced my steps, but when I reached the entrance to the quaint shop and tried the door, it didn’t open. I tried again, pushing harder, before my other senses kicked in and I realized that no lights were on inside.

A printed sign hung on the windowed front door. It said, “Cardinal Woolsey’s is closed until further notice.” At the bottom was a phone number.

Closed until further notice?

Gran never closed the shop outside her regular closing days. And if she had, where was her assistant?

I stood on the sidewalk that feeling came again, like cold fingers on the nape of my neck.

***

Excerpt from The Vampire Knitting Club by Nancy Warren. Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Warren. Reproduced with permission from Nancy Warren. All rights reserved.

  Author Bio:

Nancy Warren is the USA Today bestselling author of more than 60 novels including the Toni Diamond cozy mystery series.

She shares her time between Victoria, British Columbia, and Bath in the UK.

Catch Up With Nancy Warren On: nancywarren.net, Goodreads, Twitter, & Facebook!

  Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

  Enter To Win:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Nancy Warren. There will be one (1) winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on October 15, 2018 and runs through November 17, 2018. Void where prohibited.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

  Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

BLOG TOUR – The Vampire Knitting Club was originally published on the Wordpress version of Shannon Muir's The Pulp and Mystery Shelf

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

10 best places where your mom can buy you quality socks and underwear

Nothing says love like a fresh pair of socks and underwear from mom. 

But, as with any gift, sometimes the gifter might not get it exactly right. Maybe you'll get a really ugly pair of socks that would put Justin Trudeau to shame, or maybe you'll get boxers when you prefer briefs. 

SEE ALSO: Jumper Threads claims their peppermint underwear will keep you fresh all day

Listen here — you're an adult — and that means you should be relatively OK with telling your mother that underwear from Wet Seal is not ideal. A gentle nudge in the right direction could do the trick, but if your mother still isn't getting it, perhaps a little more guidance is needed.

To avoid dealing with any of these awful possibilities, we've come up with a lovely list of stores that sell high quality socks and undies. Most of these stores are online, and they have an exceptional list of options that you can easily link to so your mom so she doesn't make any mistakes.

1. Hot Sox

Image: Hotsox / Mashable Composite

You'll be the envy of all of your friends and coworkers with a pair of snazzy socks from Hot Sox. The Men's Optical Strip Crew Sock is a pretty solid pattern that you can wear in and out of the office, and you can't go wrong with the Women's Large Polka Dot Crew Sock. 

If you're not a fan of these options, Hot Sox has plenty of more socks and patterns that will make a solid gift. If you're trying to look professional, just make sure to tell mom to avoid any of the weird husky or narwhal prints — unless you're into that, of course.

Price: $12.00 for Men's Optical Stripe Crew Sock and  $6.00 for Women’s Large Polka Dot Crew Socks

2. Intimissimi

Image: Intimissimi / Mashable Composite

Underwear can be tricky to navigate with mom, especially if you're into some more risqué options. But if we're being practical here, the Ultra-Lightweight Microfiber and Tulle Triangle Bra and Tie Print Stretch-Cotton Boxers from Intimissimi are good places to start.

Aside from bras and boxers, Intimissimi offers a wide variety of underwear and that might work better for you. Just make sure to tell mom what size you are because no one likes uncomfortable underwear.

Price: $49.00 for Ultra-Lightweight Microfiber and Tulle Triangle Bra and $22.00 for Tie Print Stretch-Cotton Boxers

3. Happy Socks

Image: Happy Socks / Mashable Composite

Happy is exactly how you're going to feel when you get these socks. The Men's Twisted Smile Sock and Women's Cactus Socks from Happy Socks are just two examples of the dozens of amazing patterns this store offers.

With so many cute and fun patterns to choose from, mom will have a blast trying to find the perfect match for you. 

Price: $12.00 for Men's Twisted Smile Socks and $12.00 for Women's Cactus Socks

4. MeUndies

Image: Me undies / Mashable composite

I'm here for cute underwear, always, and you should be too! The Men's Jellies Briefs and Women's Life's A Peach Bikini underwear from MeUndies look absolutely comfortable, stylish, and adorable.

While you might wonder if it's weird for mom to get you a pair of kitschy underwear, she will probably be too stunned by how delightful the underwear looks. Just be sure to let her know that if she wants to explore different options, she should click on "Classic," Bold," or "Adventurous" tabs next to the style of underwear to get to the fun stuff. Otherwise she'll be looking at plain, black underwear, which, hey, might be your thing. 

Price: $24.00 for Men's Jellies Briefs and $18.00 for Women's Life's A Peach Bikini 

5. Sock it to Me

Image: sock it to me / mashable composite

Sock it to Me can literally hit me in the face and stuff my mouth with the Men's Burger Crew Socks because they're just great. But the Women's Tour de Neighborhood Knee Socks are also pretty cute too, so I'm torn. 

If you're feeling this way, or want more styles and patterns to choose from, definitely take a look before sending this site to mom. She might get lost on here just looking at the zillions of choices.

Price: $11.50 for Men's Burger Crew Socks and $12.00 for Women's Tour de Neighborhood Knee Socks

6. Calvin Klein

Image: Calvin Klein / Mashable Composite

Remember when the Biebs promoted Calvin Klein? God, that was a mess wasn't it? Well, thankfully the underwear available at this well-known brand is top quality, and makes for a perfect gift to yourself, from mom.

There are a ton of underwear to choose from in Calvin Klein's online store, so the Men's Commodore Blue Evolution Micro Boxer Brief, and the Women's Lyria Blue Seductive Comfort Lace Lift Demi Bra are just the tip of the iceberg. 

Price: $30.00 for Men's Commodore Blue Evolution Micro Boxer Brief and $48.00 for Women's Lyria Blue Seductive Comfort Lace Lift Demi Bra 

7. Socks by Stance

Image: socks by stance / mashable composite

Socks by Stance is a fancy sock place. Not fancy in the sense that you won't be able to afford it, but just look at the Men's Shade Socks and the Women's Just Dandy Everyday Socks. 

From Star Wars, to Hello Kitty, you and your mother will absolutely have a hard time deciding which brands, style, and patterns of socks are meant for you.  

Price: $14.00 for Men's Shade Socks and $14.00 for Women's Just Dandy Everyday Socks

8. TomboyX

Image: Tomboyx / mashable composite

Being one the very few gender-neutral underwear brands, TomboyX is out here to make boxers, briefs, bikinis, trunks, and all the other styles of undergarments available for all body types, regardless of gender.

For those who identify as gender neutral, exploring your identity, or want to try something new, the Island Blue Iconic Briefs or the Next Gen Magenta Trunks are a great place to start. But, like with any brand, there are always plenty of options. Any piece of underwear from this store also makes for a nice gift from mom.

Price: $18.00 for Island Blue Iconic Briefs and $25.00 for Next Gen Magenta Trunks

9. Bombas

Image: Bombas / mashable composite

The name of this brand apparently derives from the Latin word for "bumblebee," and like these precious creatures, they're here to make the world a better place. For every pair of socks you purchase, the brand donates a pair to a homeless shelter.

The Men's Evergreen Navy Merino Wool Socks and the Women's Aster Purple Lightweight Crew Socks make for a comfy and practical pair socks that go with most outfits. 

Price: $18.00 for Men's Evergreen Navy Merino Wool Socks and $14.00 for Women's Aster Purple Lightweight Crew Sock

10. H&M

Image: H&M / Mashable Composite

H&M is another major clothing brand that actually carries some pretty solid underwear. While some of the options might not be high fashion, a pack of three Men's Green/Patterned Boxer Shorts or a Women's Light Beige Microfiber T-Shirt Bra are a good investment.

H&M offers such a huge variety of underwear styles, and the cost is relatively cheap compared to other places. So if you're looking to get a lot bang for your buck, definitely tell mom to take a look at some of the many options that are available online.  

Price: $17.99 for Men's Green/Patterned Boxer Shorts and $17.99 for Women's Light Beige Microfiber T-Shirt Bra

WATCH: Control your smart home assistant with these underwear

[the-odd-one-in-space]

AnotherTale #8 pt 1

Warning!!!! This blog contains spoilers to the game UnderTale!

Nightmares, that term doesn’t even begin to describe the torment i went though in those next few months. Nightmare’s of Wing Ding , Chara & Asriel, The human children, The human in yellow. These things haunted me in my sleep, and even in real life. Outta the corner of my eye I kept seeing them and hearing their voices in whispers around me. I couldn’t get the thoughts of them outta my head. Normally i don’t have a problem with these hard memories but after I carefully placed my scythe into the back of that human, my mind was a wreck. I tried to find something to be happy about, anything, but nothing was helping. I spent my days alone looking for any reason to smile but whenever i thought i could, I heard it in my head “Remember me,friend?” Over and over again i heard that line, making my already dead heart sink lower like a never ending black hole of madness and suffering.

I at some point found out about the new royal scientist Asgore hired, one of Wing Ding’s old assistants who hadn’t been at the core…... I knew Asgore had no idea who Wing Ding was ,thanks to me, so it didn’t bug me too much that he put me in charge of overseeing her projects on trying to look into the power of human souls. I was promised I was chosen at random and i wasn’t going to be studied at all, which held true with my time with the little dino girl. She was an interesting thing. She like LOVED these human cartoons called anime. I normally never watched tv, even monster shows but AL got me so into watching some of these literal garbage shows. She was also really nice about helping me with my loose stitches , she even gave me something to help with my dead body smell. She ended up being a good person to be friends with. Still didn’t help my madness.

Asgore also put me in charge of helping monsters who lost family because of the 6th human. One was a little girl with more spirit and pride then any kid I’ve ever met in years. She had her head held high at her parents funeral service. She was the strongest kid I’d ever seen and she only about 20 something back then. She even did the darndest thing I’d seen in years. Shehad tried to beat up Asgore as a kid. She failed but Asgore offered her training and she took it in a heartbeat. She was and still is a crazy insane girl who always puts me in awesome positions. I was still miserable after meeting her.

AL’s little box robot had become quite famous around the underground, they were bringing a lot of joy to the underground and I even had the honour of being put as his bodyguard for most of his met and gerats. Even his fabulous attitude couldn’t make me smile.

There was this spider monster in hotland that had a little shop. I passed by and she asked I’d like a sample of her one of her foods. I had no reason to say no, so of course I said yes. She then said I owed her 9999 gold as a huge freaking cupcake monster showed up behind her. I then told her I didn’t have any money and even emptied my pockets. She then asked how much my scythe was, I lost my sense of fear as I look her dead in all 8 of her eyes and told her no. She could see I was too attached to make that kind of trade so she made me one little offer “There is One little thing you could do ahuhu”, and so I started bringing little spiders from the ruins to hotland. I did it once a year every time I went to see Chara. Even doing really nice things for those cute little spiders, didn���t make me feel any better.

One day though, a lot of things changed in the best way possible. I found this old little picture of myself in chara’s old room, I went there because it was the 86th year she’d been gone. It was the first picture of myself that chara spent a year saving up for it to give it to me while we were in the underground. Seeing it didn’t help me at all with my problems so I did the one thing I always did to forget my issues. Go to Grillby’s and get hammered. I got a little too drunk and only remember walking around for a while in snowdin not really paying any attention to where I was walking. I took notice of the fact that the snow was coming down really hard all of a sudden. I then look down from the roof of the cave, to my surroundings and noticed I’ve never been in this area of snowdin. I looked around some more and saw a girl. A human girl.

I would’ve acted more surprised in the moment if I had been a little more sober. The girl then proceed to walk up to walk up to me asking if I was ok. I was able to see her more clearly. She had chocolate brown hair, one green eye, one red, and had semi dark skin. She was wearing a sorta dark green jacket, bright jeans and snow boots. Then me being drunk and dumb, i fell over onto the girl as I almost blacked out. I felt myself wake up a bit as the vodka started to already wear off(That’s my favorite drink by the way). I got up first and helped the girl, after which she grabbed my arm and dragged me to a house I’d never seen.”Here come on, I can’t leave you out here to freeze to death” She lead me inside  to the couch and I fell face down into the cushions. I heard her go up the stairs saying she was gonna grab me clothes.

While she was gone I shook my head, feeling the vodka completely losing it’s effect on me. Looking at my arm I saw my left sleeve was torn, most likely from my dumb a&$ walking into trees. That’s probably why she went upstairs to grab me clothes. I looked around and saw how the house was mostly light with candles and a fireplace. Whoever this girl was she wasn’t worrying about any light bills. The whole place was wood too, which made me slightly worried. I then began  to wonder how the hell another human was here and seemed to be living here peacefully. I was put a little at ease as I guessed that if this person was as dangerous as the last one she would've just let me outside to freeze to death. Then again the last one thought I was human and didn’t try to shoot me till I prove otherwise. After a bit I heard the wood creak from the stairs and saw the girl carrying down a pile of clothes.

“Need help?”

“I thought you were drunk? And I’m fine” she said placing the clothes down next to me. “Heh yeah… My body gets rid of the effects of alcohol pretty quickly”, Yeah that’s unfortunately  true. That is totally not why I have a bit of an alcohol problem. I looked around a bit, feeling a little awkward. “Nice place you got here, what’s your name?” Me and her eyes met.”Scar. What’s yours?” “Mas. Um…. sorry for being such a bother. I can go home now if you want” She looked outside through the window seeing how dark it was and how much snow was coming down.

“Not in this storm.Wouldn’t want to freeze to death would we?” She said smiling to me. “No, I guess not.” …… Had I met this girl? Something felt familiar to me.. And I wouldn’t really freeze to death either.My body would at worst get a little frozen but it wouldn’t kill me. “Here” She held out the clothes for me to grab. “I told you my friends left them here. I assure you I’m a female. My friends bought jeans from the wrong side of the store, guess she can’t shop.” I guess I missed her say that first part but I wasn’t agsnist the idea of wearing some new clothes.

“Huh… well then. Thanks. Where’s the bathroom?” She pointed me to a hall “There it is. You may wanna turn on the heater. It gets a little cold in there.” I nodded, making my way into the bathroom and closed the door gently. I got changed but when I looked into the mirror , I noticed something familiar was written on the shirt Scar had given me. It was all black, made of wool, but there was a odd font on the front saying “Cool dude”. “So whoever this girl is… she knows papy,sans’s brother, And maybe undying. She’s the only one I know who wouldn’t be able see guy’s clothes apart from girl’s. Huh… maybe she’s been here for a while.. She’s also kinda-”

“She’s what Mas?” I wheeled around to see something dark move just out of my sight. More of those god damn hunting shadows…this one sounded like...Chara. I flipped on the heater which thankfully made a good deal of noise. I looked into the mirror, turned on the sink, and began to splash water in my face. After a minute or two I regained my composer, put on a straight face and walked out of the bathroom. I heard Scar chuckled at me when she saw me wearing the shirt. I felt a bit of heat on my face which I assumed was the magic in my body forcing me to blush. I guess I forgot I was wearing this shirt. Scar giggled more as she saw me blush. Why did I find her laugh really….. Cute?

Scar composed herself and walked up to me talking the clothes outta my hands. She then motioned for me to sit again so I did. She walked out of the room coming back a little bit later with a sewing needle and string. She sat down next to me and just started fixing up my flannel. While she spent a few minutes sewing I noticed her left hand had an odd shape to it, only three long fingers. I didn’t want to pry but after a few more minutes of nothing but flame crackling and the sound of wind hitting the windows I grew aninoix. “So Scar… What kind of monster are you? You look like a normal human girl..” I decided it be better not to mention the odd hand. She almost looked like she wanted to jump when I spoke. Guess she got pretty into her sewing.

“Oh… you know the tales of the phoenix?”

“Oh yeah!” I let my hours and hours(more like years and years) of reading old books in the underground out for the first time in a while. “Wasn’t it this huge bird monster that was super dangerous?” I finished nerding out waiting for her response. “.... We aren’t THAT bad..” I felt guilt slide up my back. “What?”

Her eyes widened as if she didn’t know what she just said. “Well… I guess I might as well tell you.” She put down my clothes onto the coffee table in front of me.

“I was a normal human girl, and I fought in the human-monster war. I’d always been feared as a brave and strong warrior, until a phoenix bite me in battle.”

The phoenix was sain and we won the war soon after. I survived but A phoenix can only exist at once, and the next is decided on by shared DNA.”

“The DNA is always shared on another monster, whether it  be an accident or not. The monster will turn into a Phoenix over the course of the next few years.” Scar’s hands were starting to shake. “5 years, which for you would had been the second human falling into the underground, the changes that had occur were obviously there.”

I’d tried to hide my… problems, but I couldn’t keep it hidden forever. I was soon beaten and abused because of my appearance. People thought I would kill everyone , though they knew I wouldn’t. Everyday I went to the top of Ebbot and considered jumping, ending it all. I never did, thinking- hoping things would change.” I was about to say she didn’t have to go on, but before I could i saw she was crying. She wiped her tears and slammed her fist on the table, letting out a choked sob.

“But it never did! They found me one day standing at the edge one day, and I had one way to go. I didn’t care if I died, if I was forgotten… But I lived.” I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. “Tori and asgore had found me and accepted me. After the 4th human fell, tori left. I never heard anymore stories about their kids, their childhoods.” Right, troiel was gone. She left asgore disappearing from the underground. She’s been hiding in the old ruins behind snowdin but no one but me and some ghost knew about it.

I was getting a little pissed at this point of her story. So after all this damn time Asgore knew about another human and never told me. I settled down my anger as Scar continued. “They both said in some ways I reminded them of the human child, Chara.” I felt my already dead heart drop. “I never got to ask what I had in similarity to them though…” I could see it. They both had that feeling around them. The feeling that this person who although has been thought so much, would love whoever loved them. I got a little closer to her placing my hand on her back. She wiped more tears off her face and looked at me.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to have that outburst. My emotions have always been somewhat unstable.” I wasn’t going to let her blame that on herself. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t had asked. I’m the one who should be saying sorry. Not you” I said to her keeping my eyes locked with her’s.

She looked at me surprised. “It’s fine,really! I don’t know why that happened….”

We broke our gaze at each other and sat in silence a little longer. I figured…. she told me her life story. Might as well share. “You know, I started out human too.”

She looked up at me smiling. “I never would have guessed!”. We both laughed a little before I continued. “I fell in with that human, chara. They were my… friend. I tried to follow them when they jumped down here but the chain I was using to climb down with wrapped around my neck. Yeah…. I  died. My body was found by Dr. Wing Dings Gaster”

Flashes of him falling into core went through my head. I stuttered a little and took a deep  breath. “He brought me back with magic and.. some other things I can’t talk about. He took me apart while experimenting on me. That’s why I have all these stitches.” I held up my right arm and pointed to my face. “I originally had blackish brown hair and green eyes. As you can tell…. that’s changed.” I put my hands in my pockets and my head down.

I don’t think i’ve ever talked to someone about that. Huh… guess I trusted this girl for some reason. Don’t know why I mentioned Gaster , not like she would know who that is anyway. Even if she could had met him before he fell into the core, she wouldn’t be able to remember him. She looked at me and put her hand on my back. “Wow.... I’m sorry. I-I um.. I didn’t want to bring up something that would upset you. I decided to end that topic and waved  my hand keeping things quite a bit longer. While in the silence she finished fixing up my clothes. Even fixed a few of the other poorly fix holes I had tried to fix myself. At this point I was getting bored and a little ansty. Before I could mention it, scar beat me to it. “looks like the storm isn’t going to clear up for awhile. What do you wanna do?” I looked at her shrugging.

Then I had a idea. A dumb one, but I was willing to take anything. “You wouldn’t happen to have somewhere to train… would you?” She smiled. “Why would you wanna know?” I stood up, held my hand out in front of me and my scythe appeared in my hands. I’d after all these years have gotten quite used to summoning my scythe with magic instead of having to carry it around with me. “Nice. A scythe I’m assuming?” I grinned and noded. “I’ve had it for a long time. Thankfully I can just summon it at will.” Scar held up her hand. “That seems pretty useful. My fire magic just lives within me.” Scar Seemed to zone out for a second but before I could ask what was wrong she stood up and had me follow her down a hallway which went from being made of light brown wood to dark grey stone. At the end there was a large stone brick door. I could barely see anything. I was about to make my eyes glow but scar’s hand seemed to light on fire, lighting up most of the hallway before opening the door with another. She then reached inside the room, put her hands on the walls and touches lite up one by one before the whole room was lighten up.

I’d seen fire magic before, most of it being thrown at my face, but seeing that still made my face go into awestruck. Then I asked a dumb question. “Why not just use electricity? Wouldn’t that be easier?”. She laughed a little, “And get a bill for something I provide for myself? No thanks. I prefer to make my own light.” Then I asked another dumb question. “Well can’t your house set on fire?”

She looked at me with a mischievous smile on her face as fire appeared  in her hand. “Wait you don’t have to demon-” She threw the fire at my chest but it didn’t stick to me or even burn me. For the first time in years I felt heat in my chest as the fire went through my chest, not leaving any burn mark, and hit the wall behind me.” -Strate… How?!” I screamed then went on a little bit of a spanish cursing spire, mean while Scar was laughing so hard she almost fell to the floor. After we both calmed down Scar held a big proud smirk on her face.

“One of the few perks of my condition. I can choose whether or not my fire has any effect on any objects it touches. I nodded, still a little freaked up by that. “That’s pretty neat… I don’t really have that many tricks.” I lifted my scythe for an example. “I have one other ability, but it’s kind of messed up…” Out of the ground one by one little bits of light formed. Each bit of light turned into a link of a chain until the chain was connected from the floor to ceiling. Scar seemed to get what I meant. “So.. You can summon the chain that-” “That killed me? Yeah…”. I pulled on the chain and it broke into little metal pieces, falling to the ground then disappearing. After some more awkward time not looking at each other I finally suggested something then regretted it . “How about some dodge pratice?”

“WHY DID I ASKED THAT?!” I screamed within my thoughts. I was awful at dodging. For some little facts about me, monsters can’t do that much damage to me, on account of my HP(Health points) being 130. My Def (Defense against attacks) against most monsters tend to be something like 13, humans tend to be 130. Highest my attack can be is 1300 against monsters but for humans it’s highest can be 13. I don’t know why it’s different for humans and monsters but I know for sure that I’m the wrost at dodging. I can dodge unlike most monsters I know but it’s hard to do for me. I freeze up whenever I try and almost always end up getting hit. If my HP is close to zero it’s easier to push through to do it but it’s still not easy. I’ve had a lot of close calls, I was probably about to have a few more.

Scar didn’t seem opposed to the idea and approached me. The room turned black and white and in my vision I saw a white box with my soul in it. After much practice, and by that I mean running for my life, I learn what that little box does. It’s show’s me in sinyce  with my own movements and the attacks of my opponents. It comes in handy but not enough to improve my dodging skills. I see Scar standing on the other side of the box as her left hand lights up with white flames. She throws a few balls of white hot flames that  passed by me on my left with me even moving. “Alright…. she’s doing things easy first.”

I think to myself. My turn.

I see four yellow text boxes in front of me under the white box saying “scar is waiting for your move.”. These boxes said Fight, Act, Item, and Mercy. I picked the Fight option and another set of options is presented to me. Swing, chains, change. These are the options on which attacks I use. Swing being how much power I want to put into using my scythe, chains which I use mostly to whip people or to chain them up, and charge being how much power and magic I want to use with Chas, my Blaster. I choose to go easy at first as well and pick swing.

 I don’t swing with my full force but just enough to almost crack the ground where scar was standing before she dodged the strike. I’m given the chance to make another swing at Scar but don’t and let her have her turn.

We go on like this for a while, probably an hour before scar seems to be outta breath and I’m acting as though I’m tired as well. I was about suggest a mercy but before I could scar started her turn and threw a larger ball of fire at me then she had the whole fight. I was about to avoid it by going left but it seemed to be locked onto me hit me full force on my right. It burned through the jeans and shirt Scar gave me and sent me slamming against the wall and knocking my glasses off and my scythe fell outta my hand as I fell to the ground.

I looked back at scar who was breathing even heavier, her left eye was glowing a deep dark orange and was staring at me with such anger. I stood back up grabbing scythe and standing in a better battle stance. We were still in the battle and it was my turn. My HP had gone down by 15 points, 115 was left. I was about to hit the fight button without thinking about but stopped my hand. “She hit you. Hit. Her. Back.”, I heard the voices say. So many of them demanding me to take action. I wouldn’t do it, I couldn’t.

I don’t know why, but something about this girl told me she wasn’t her. Her face wasn’t the same, she didn’t have the same kind face as before. I pressed the ACT button and choose the option to talk. “Scar? Are you there? It’s me mas. The guy you just met.”, I said to her in the most calming voice I could do. It was her turn, her lite up with large balls of fire and her face was wild with anger and rage. She was about to throw them both at me ,but stop.

Her face changed from that of rage and malice to that of fear and guilt. Her left went back to “normal” and she fell back. Her hands were shaking as she hugged herself. White text in front of Scar said she’s showing me mercy. I did the same and world returned to colors of the grey walls and orange lights. I walked up to Scar, making my scythe disappear as I stood in front of her. She started crying as I could hear mumbling something.

“I-I’m so sorry….. I’m so sorry.”,she through her tears. I sat down next to her. “It’s ok, it’s ok.” I understood what happened. The “phoenix” within her may had done something to take her over. I knew what that was like. She hugged me while she was still crying and sobbing. I got shocked for a second but instead of letting myself get flustered I hugged her back. We just stayed like that for a while, me hugging her while she was shaking.

After what could had been hours, Scar looked at my right arm and leg. “ Oh my god, Mas your- your..”, she let go of me and I did the same. She got up grabbed my arm pulling me up as well and taking me back to the living room. She went into a closet next to the fire place and took out a small medkit and went back to me in a panic. She started to clean my wounds not looking at me and afterwards wrapped my burns. She looked at me as she tied the bandage  around my burns.

“Sorry…..” , She loosened the bandage on my arm. “Oh… No it’s fine. Didn’t feel a thing”, Which is actually true. She looked at me, her face filled with surprize and nodded. “I see….”, she looked back down and started putting her medkit back up and got up to put it back in the closest. I couldn’t let things stay this awkward and quiet. “It wasn’t your fault, you know that right?”, she stopped. “I get what having something in your head that makes you do things that… you regret. The important thing is you make sure to make up for the things you regret by fixing them… so don’t worry.”

She looked back at me, her eyes sad. “.... thank you…”, she went to the closest and put her mid kit away and stayed there, standing looking at the wall. “That hasn’t happened in a long time… I’m so sorry.”, she said her voice sounding shaky. “I don’t know why that just starts happening…” she starts shaking along with her voice. “Maybe those people were right to say I was just a freak…I’m just a fre-.” I ran up behind her and sat my hand on her shoulder. She froze.

“Stop it. You’re not a freak, you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. EVER. You brought some drunk guy inside because a snowstorm was coming in. You then fixed my clothes after giving me some to change into, then let me talk about something I haven’t talked about in YEARS. And ya know what else? I honestly haven’t had this much fun with another human in like, 80 years. So before you wanna call yourself a freak.”, I let go of scar and she faces me ,her eyes hidden by her hair. “I’m a 93 year old guy who has been alone and depressed for 80 years and has been called a creep, a mistake, a let down.”, I felt my eyes water, “a disappointment, unreliable, weak, inhuman…… and that was before I became a monster”, I’m crying at this point and scar is looking up at me with her eyes widen.

“....guess we’re not that different huh?”,she puts her hand on my shoulder, looking at me with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. I wipe my eyes and smile back, “haha…. yep….”.

[readbookywooks]

Daenerys

On the walls of Qarth, men beat gongs to herald her coming, while others blew curious horns that encircled their bodies like great bronze snakes. A column of camelry emerged from the city as her honor guards. The riders wore scaled copper armor and snouted helms with copper tusks and long black silk plumes, and sat high on saddles inlaid with rubies and garnets. Their camels were dressed in blankets of a hundred different hues.

"Qarth is the greatest city that ever was or ever will be," Pyat Pree had told her, back amongst the bones of Vaes Tolorro. "It is the center of the world, the gate between north and south, the bridge between east and west, ancient beyond memory of man and so magnificent that Saathos the Wise put out his eyes after gazing upon Qarth for the first time, because he knew that all he saw thereafter should look squalid and ugly by comparison."

Dany took the warlock's words well salted, but the magnificence of the great city was not to be denied. Three thick walls encircled Qarth, elaborately carved. The outer was red sandstone, thirty feet high and decorated with animals: snakes slithering, kites flying, fish swimming, intermingled with wolves of the red waste and striped zorses and monstrous elephants. The middle wall, forty feet high, was grey granite alive with scenes of war: the clash of sword and shield and spear, arrows in flight, heroes at battle and babes being butchered, pyres of the dead. The innermost wall was fifty feet of black marble, with carvings that made Dany blush until she told herself that she was being a fool. She was no maid; if she could look on the grey wall's scenes of slaughter, why should she avert her eyes from the sight of men and women giving pleasure to one another?

The outer gates were banded with copper, the middle with iron; the innermost were studded with golden eyes. All opened at Dany's approach. As she rode her silver into the city, small children rushed out to scatter flowers in her path. They wore golden sandals and bright paint, no more.

All the colors that had been missing from Vaes Tolorro had found their way to Qarth; buildings crowded about her fantastical as a fever dream in shades of rose, violet, and umber. She passed under a bronze arch fashioned in the likeness of two snakes mating, their scales delicate flakes of jade, obsidian, and lapis lazuli. Slim towers stood taller than any Dany had ever seen, and elaborate fountains filled every square, wrought in the shapes of griffins and dragons and manticores.

The Qartheen lined the streets and watched from delicate balconies that looked too frail to support their weight. They were tall pale folk in linen and samite and tiger fur, every one a lord or lady to her eyes. The women wore gowns that left one breast bare, while the men favored beaded silk skirts. Dany felt shabby and barbaric as she rode past them in her lionskin robe with black Drogon on one shoulder. Her Dothraki called the Qartheen "Milk Men" for their paleness, and Khal Drogo had dreamed of the day when he might sack the great cities of the east. She glanced at her bloodriders, their dark almond-shaped eyes giving no hint of their thoughts. Is it only the plunder they see? she wondered. How savage we must seem to these Qartheen.

Pyrat Pree conducted her little khalasar down the center of a great arcade where the city's ancient heroes stood thrice life-size on columns of white and green marble. They passed through a bazaar in a cavernous building whose latticework ceiling was home to a thousand gaily colored birds. Trees and flowers bloomed on the terraced walls above the stalls, while below it seemed as if everything the gods had put into the world was for sale.

Her silver shied as the merchant prince Xaro Xhoan Daxos rode up to her; the horses could not abide the close presence of camels, she had found. "If you see here anything that you would desire, O most beautiful of women, you have only to speak and it is yours," Xaro called down from his ornate horned saddle.

"Qarth itself is hers, she has no need of baubles," blue-lipped Pyat Pree sang out from her other side. "It shall be as I promised, Khaleesi. Come with me to the House of the Undying, and you shall drink of truth and wisdom."

"Why should she need your Palace of Dust, when I can give her sunlight and sweet water and silks to sleep in?" Xaro said to the warlock. "The Thirteen shall set a crown of black jade and fire opals upon her lovely head."

"The only palace I desire is the red castle at King's Landing, my lord Pyat." Dany was wary of the warlock; the maegi Mirri Maz Duur had soured her on those who played at sorcery. "And if the great of Qarth would give me gifts, Xaro, let them give me ships and swords to win back what is rightfully mine."

Pyat's blue lips curled upward in a gracious smile. "it shall be as you command, Khaleesi." He moved away, swaying with his camel's motion, his long beaded robes trailing behind.

"The young queen is wise beyond her years," Xaro Xhoan Daxos murmured down at her from his high saddle. "There is a saying in Qarth. A warlock's house is built of bones and lies."

"Then why do men lower their voices when they speak of the warlocks of Qarth? All across the east, their power and wisdom are revered."

"Once they were mighty," Xaro agreed, "but now they are as ludicrous as those feeble old soldiers who boast of their prowess long after strength and skill have left them. They read their crumbling scrolls, drink shade-of-the-evening until their lips turn blue, and hint of dread powers, but they are hollow husks compared to those who went before. Pyat Pree's gifts will turn to dust in your hands, I warn you." He gave his camel a lick of his whip and sped away.

"The crow calls the raven black," muttered Ser Jorah in the Common Tongue of Westeros. The exile knight rode at her right hand, as ever. For their entrance into Qarth, he had put away his Dothraki garb and donned again the plate and mail and wool of the Seven Kingdoms half a world away. "You would do well to avoid both those men, Your Grace."

"Those men will help me to my crown," she said. "Xaro has vast wealth, and Pyat Pree—"

"—pretends to power," the knight said brusquely. On his dark green surcoat, the bear of House Mormont stood on its hind legs, black and fierce. Jorah looked no less ferocious as he scowled at the crowd that filled the bazaar. "I would not linger here long, my queen. I mislike the very smell of this place."

Dany smiled. "Perhaps it's the camels you're smelling. The Qartheen themselves seem sweet enough to my nose."

"Sweet smells are sometimes used to cover foul ones."

My great bear, Dany thought. I am his queen, but I will always be his cub as well, and he will always guard me. It made her feel safe, but sad as well. She wished she could love him better than she did.

Xaro Xhoan Daxos had offered Dany the hospitality of his home while she was in the city. She had expected something grand. She had not expected a palace larger than many a market town. It makes Magister Illyrio's manse in Pentos look like a swineherd's hovel, she thought. Xaro swore that his home could comfortably house all of her people and their horses besides; indeed, it swallowed them. An entire wing was given over to her. She would have her own gardens, a marble bathing pool, a scrying tower and warlock's maze. Slaves would tend her every need. In her private chambers, the floors were green marble, the walls draped with colorful silk hangings that shimmered with every breath of air. "You are too generous," she told Xaro Xhoan Daxos.

"For the Mother of Dragons, no gift is too great." Xaro was a languid, elegant man with a bald head and a great beak of a nose crusted with rubies, opals, and flakes of jade. "On the morrow, you shall feast upon peacock and lark's tongue, and hear music worthy of the most beautiful of women. The Thirteen will come to do you homage, and all the great of Qarth."

All the great of Qarth will come to see my dragons, Dany thought, yet she thanked Xaro for his kindness before she sent him on his way. Pyat Pree took his leave as well, vowing to petition the Undying Ones for an audience. "A honor rare as summer snows." Before he left he kissed her bare feet with his pale blue lips and pressed on her a gift, a jar of ointment that he swore would let her see the spirits of the air. Last of the three seekers to depart was Quaithe the shadowbinder. From her Dany received only a warning. "Beware," the woman in the red lacquer mask said.

"Of whom?"

"Of all. They shall come day and night to see the wonder that has been born again into the world, and when they see they shall lust. For dragons are fire made flesh, and fire is power."

When Quaithe too was gone, Ser Jorah said, "She speaks truly, my queen . . . though I like her no more than the others."

"I do not understand her." Pyat and Xaro had showered Dany with promises from the moment they first glimpsed her dragons, declaring themselves her loyal servants in all things, but from Quaithe she had gotten only the rare cryptic word. And it disturbed her that she had never seen the woman's face. Remember Mirri Maz Duur, she told herself. Remember treachery. She turned to her bloodriders. "We will keep our own watch so long as we are here. See that no one enters this wing of the palace without my leave, and take care that the dragons are always well guarded."

"It shall be done, Khaleesi," Aggo said.

"We have seen only the parts of Qarth that Pyat Pree wished us to see," she went on. "Rakharo, go forth and look on the rest, and tell me what you find. Take good men with you—and women, to go places where men are forbidden."

"As you say, I do, blood of my blood," said Rakharo.

"Ser Jorah, find the docks and see what manner of ships lay at anchor. It has been half a year since I last heard tidings from the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps the gods will have blown some good captain here from Westeros with a ship to carry us home."

The knight frowned. "That would be no kindness. The Usurper will kill you, sure as sunrise." Mormont hooked his thumbs through his swordbelt. "My place is here at your side."

"Jhogo can guard me as well. You have more languages than my bloodriders, and the Dothraki mistrust the sea and those who sail her. Only you can serve me in this. Go among the ships and speak to the crews, learn where they are from and where they are bound and what manner of men command them."

Reluctantly, the exile nodded. "As you say, my queen."

When all the men had gone, her handmaids stripped off the travel-stained silks she wore, and Dany padded out to where the marble pool sat in the shade of a portico. The water was deliciously cool, and the pool was stocked with tiny golden fish that nibbled curiously at her skin and made her giggle. It felt good to close her eyes and float, knowing she could rest as long as she liked. She wondered whether Aegon's Red Keep had a pool like this, and fragrant gardens full of lavender and mint. It must, surely. Viserys always said the Seven Kingdoms were more beautiful than any other place in the world.

The thought of home disquieted her. If her sun-and-stars had lived, he would have led his khalasar across the poison water and swept away her enemies, but his strength had left the world. Her bloodriders remained, sworn to her for life and skilled in slaughter, but only in the ways of the horselords. The Dothraki sacked cities and plundered kingdoms, they did not rule them. Dany had no wish to reduce King's Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father.

But before she could do that she must conquer.

The Usurper will kill you, sure as sunrise, Mormont had said. Robert had slain her gallant brother Rhaegar, and one of his creatures had crossed the Dothraki sea to poison her and her unborn son. They said Robert Baratheon was strong as a bull and fearless in battle, a man who loved nothing better than war. And with him stood the great lords her brother had named the Usurper's dogs, cold-eyed Eddard Stark with his frozen heart, and the golden Lannisters, father and son, so rich, so powerful, so treacherous.

How could she hope to overthrow such men? When Khal Drogo had lived, men trembled and made him gifts to stay his wrath. If they did not, he took their cities, wealth and wives and all. But his khalasar had been vast, while hers was meager. Her people had followed her across the red waste as she chased her comet, and would follow her across the poison water too, but they would not be enough. Even her dragons might not be enough. Viserys had believed that the realm would rise for its rightful king . . . but Viserys had been a fool, and fools believe in foolish things.

Her doubts made her shiver. Suddenly the water felt cold to her, and the little fish prickling at her skin annoying. Dany stood and climbed from the pool. "Irri," she called, "Jhiqui."

As the handmaids toweled her dry and wrapped her in a sandsilk robe, Dany's thoughts went to the three who had sought her out in the City of Bones. The Bleeding Star led me to Qarth for a purpose. Here I will find what I need, if I have the strength to take what is offered, and the wisdom to avoid the traps and snares. If the gods mean for me to conquer, they will provide, they will send me a sign, and if not . . . if not . . .

It was near evenfall and Dany was feeding her dragons when Irri stepped through the silken curtains to tell her that Ser Jorah had returned from the docks . . . and not alone. "Send him in, with whomever he has brought," she said, curious.

When they entered, she was seated on a mound of cushions, her dragons all about her. The man he brought with him wore a cloak of green and yellow feathers and had skin as black as polished jet. "Your Grace," the knight said, "I bring you Quhuru Mo, captain of the Cinnamon Wind out of Tall Trees Town."

The black man knelt. "I am greatly honored, my queen," he said; not in the tongue of the Summer Isles, which Dany did not know, but in the liquid Valyrian of the Nine Free Cities.

"The honor is mine, Quhuru Mo," said Dany in the same language. "Have you come from the Summer Isles?"

"This is so, Your Grace, but before, not half a year past, we called at Oldtown. From there I bring you a wondrous gift."

"A gift?"

"A gift of news. Dragonmother, Stormborn, I tell you true, Robert Baratheon is dead."

Outside her walls, dusk was settling over Qarth, but a sun had risen in Dany's heart. "Dead?" she repeated. In her lap, black Drogon hissed, and pale smoke rose before her face like a veil. "You are certain? The Usurper is dead?"

"So it is said in Oldtown, and Dorne, and Lys, and all the other ports where we have called."

He sent me poisoned wine, yet I live and he is gone. "What was the manner of his death?" On her shoulder, pale Viserion flapped wings the color of cream, stirring the air.

"Torn by a monstrous boar whilst hunting in his kingswood, or so I heard in Oldtown. Others say his queen betrayed him, or his brother, or Lord Stark who was his Hand. Yet all the tales agree in this: King Robert is dead and in his grave."

Dany had never looked upon the Usurper's face, yet seldom a day had passed when she had not thought of him. His great shadow had lain across her since the hour of her birth, when she came forth amidst blood and storm into a world where she no longer had a place. And now this ebony stranger had lifted that shadow.

"The boy sits the Iron Throne now," Ser Jorah said.

"King Joffrey reigns," Quhuru Mo agreed, "but the Lannisters rule. Robert's brothers have fled King's Landing. The talk is, they mean to claim the crown. And the Hand has fallen, Lord Stark who was King Robert's friend. He has been seized for treason."

"Ned Stark a traitor?" Ser Jorah snorted. "Not bloody likely. The Long Summer will come again before that one would besmirch his precious honor."

"What honor could he have?" Dany said. "He was a traitor to his true king, as were these Lannisters." It pleased her to hear that the Usurper's dogs were fighting amongst themselves, though she was unsurprised. The same thing happened when her Drogo died, and his great khalasar tore itself to pieces. "My brother is dead as well, Viserys who was the true king," she told the Summer Islander. "Khal Drogo my lord husband killed him with a crown of molten gold." Would her brother have been any wiser, had he known that the vengeance he had prayed for was so close at hand?

"Then I grieve for you, Dragonmother, and for bleeding Westeros, bereft of its rightful king."

Beneath Dany's gentle fingers, green Rhaegal stared at the stranger with eyes of molten gold. When his mouth opened, his teeth gleamed like black needles. "When does your ship return to Westeros, Captain?"

"Not for a year or more, I fear. From here the Cinnamon Wind sails east, to make the trader's circle round the Jade Sea."

"I see," said Dany, disappointed. "I wish you fair winds and good trading, then. You have brought me a precious gift."

"I have been amply repaid, great queen."

She puzzled at that. "How so?"

His eyes gleamed. "I have seen dragons."

Dany laughed. "And will see more of them one day, I hope. Come to me in King's Landing when I am on my father's throne, and you shall have a great reward."

The Summer Islander promised he would do so, and kissed her lightly on the fingers as he took his leave. Jhiqui showed him out, while Ser Jorah Mormont remained.

"Khaleesi," the knight said when they were alone, "I should not speak so freely of your plans, if I were you. This man will spread the tale wherever he goes now."

"Let him," she said. "Let the whole world know my purpose. The Usurper is dead, what does it matter?"

"Not every sailor's tale is true," Ser Jorah cautioned, "and even if Robert be truly dead, his son rules in his place. This changes nothing, truly."

"This changes everything." Dany rose abruptly. Screeching, her dragons uncoiled and spread their wings. Drogon flapped and clawed up to the lintel over the archway. The others skittered across the floor, wingtips scrabbling on the marble. "Before, the Seven Kingdoms were like my Drogo's khalasar, a hundred thousand made as one by his strength. Now they fly to pieces, even as the khalasar did after my khal lay dead."

"The high lords have always fought. Tell me who's won and I'll tell you what it means. Khaleesi, the Seven Kingdoms are not going to fall into your hands like so many ripe peaches. You will need a fleet, gold, armies, alliances—"

"All this I know." She took his hands in hers and looked up into his dark suspicious eyes. Sometimes he thinks of me as a child he must protect, and sometimes as a woman he would like to bed, but does he ever truly see me as his queen? "I am not the frightened girl you met in Pentos. I have counted only fifteen name days, true . . . but I am as old as the crones in the dosh khaleen and as young as my dragons, Jorah. I have borne a child, burned a khal, and crossed the red waste and the Dothraki sea. Mine is the blood of the dragon."

"As was your brother's," he said stubbornly.

"I am not Viserys."

"No," he admitted. "There is more of Rhaegar in you, I think, but even Rhaegar could be slain. Robert proved that on the Trident, with no more than a warhammer. Even dragons can die."

"Dragons die." She stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on an unshaven cheek. "But so do dragonslayers."