#young gully

[thorinsbeard]

A movie for every year since I was born: Fern Gully (1992)

[gr3y-plays-ttrpgs]

help. category ten sad about my own character event

[lonnieontherun]

Christian Slater

[wwprice1]

Upcoming Battle Chasers variants by Chris Bachalo and Skottie Young!

[goji-pilled]

oh yeah fun development: my sarco is almost fullly grown! how cool!

...though i dont know what part of the map ill turn into my hunting ground yet since id prefer it to have a) fish (preferably trouts or rays and not just blue gills) and b) a homecave not too far from the shore since im basically fucked in a fight on land and c) the water should be deep enough to conceal me completely while charging crushing bite

seagrass bay is a great spot but like. no one walks along the beach there and if they do theyre usually on the way to the homecave and i dont want to kill those people that just feels scummy so. hmm.

[blackgully]

‘One finally getting a good grip on the front of his head.

It pulled back and clocked his head against the machines glass.

Rattling Chris’s brain inside his skull.

Chris growled and screamed thrashing about but it continued to bash his head down into the glass.

Once more and and he was dizzy,

Two more and he was disoriented,

Three and he passed out, hearing police finally make their way inside.’

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Anne Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

*

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

*

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many��or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

[beardedmrbean]

It's day 3 and the competition is still fierce.

Today's first matchup features 2 champions, 909 Jr. and last years queen of chonk 128 Grazer.

In the 2nd matchup we have 2 time champion the Jumbo Jet himself Bear 747 who is facing off against the young upstart 903 Gully who's diverse eating habits have helped him to bulk up for winter.

Who will move on to the next round

VOTE HERE

and may the fattest bear win

[katmaibearfan]

200 followers!! woah!!!

I really never expected the love that y'all have shown me & this little special interest blog of mine. I love it when I check tumblr and I have 30+ notifications from one person spam-liking or spam-reblogging my posts, I love it when I check the tags and y'all are yelling about your favorite bears, I love that I get to introduce so many of y'all to so many of the bears at Katmai that have never made it into a Fat Bear Week bracket! I love that I get to show you pictures and tell you stories of all kinds about bears of all personalities -- from silly young boars like 164 Bucky and 903 Gully to incredible mother sows like 128 Grazer and 132, to subadults finding their place in the world like 428 Studious and 429 Social, to large dominant boars like 32 Chunk and 151 Walker, to aging bears like 856 and 482 Brett. I can't wait to see what these next bear cam seasons hold, and I cant wait to experience it with you folks by my side.

thank you, thank you, thank you!!

[bettergeology]

Colorful Clays of the Painted Hills area

The Painted Hills are one of the most popular and well-known of Oregon's scenic treasures. The towering ridges of yellow, red, and black clays reveal part of the complex geologic story of Oregon when the area was a tropical rainforest, or a hardwood temperate forest, or a volcanic hellscape at different times. The different bands and layers are folded, warped, and faulted by complex plate tectonics. Here though, at Painted Cove just behind the main Painted Hills viewpoint, the story is just a little different.

Painted Cove is a couple of shallow gullies linked in a loop by a boardwalk and trail. In here, you pass through areas of bold red and yellow clays before reaching a gully flanked with a light purple rock. The light purple is of a completely different origin than the clays, which are effectively fossilized soil layers.

This is a weathered outcrop of rhyolite lava, a lava composition that is mostly quartz by mass. This area grades from purple to brown to red. This is an actual preserved soil horizon. If you dig a hole, you go through different soil horizons - or chemical and physical conditions - before you reach bedrock. Commonly these are O (for organic-rich), A, B, and C. B and C are closest to bedrock and include chunks of weathered, eroded source rock. Here, the purple is that C horizon, then the brown layer is B, and the red is an A horizon mantling the rhyolite lava flow. This whole stack of soil is somewhere around 25 million years old!

This is one of my favorite rock outcrops in all of Oregon because of how elegantly and simply it displays soil development processes from more than 25 million years ago!

(A note for other geologists: my soil horizon analogy isn't completely accurate since these paleosols have different classifications than regular young soils do, and I'm not very well-versed in those at all)

If you're in to photography, these are (with the exception of the 2nd to last shot) shot on Fuji Color 400 with my Nikon FM2.

[treason-and-plot]

Meanwhile, across town...

....Roy has little motivation to do any work after the emotional and physical excesses of the weekend, and is instead daydreaming at his desk after telling Celine to hold all his calls. His mind drifts to his favourite fantasy, the one where his hunky caveman alter-ego Rorg rescues sexy cavewoman Anya from a rotating menu of apex predators, none of whom stand a chance against Rorg's Herculean muscle-power and awe-inspiring courage.

Alerted by piercing screams, the fearless hunter Rorg charges through the forest, his long and girthy manhood slapping rhythmically against his muscled inner thighs as he gracefully leaps across rocks and gullies towards the source of the commotion. He is soon confronted by a harrowing sight!

A beautiful young woman cowers next to a giant boulder, her perfectly formed breasts heaving with terror, erect nipples straining against the flimsy fabric of her tunic. Rorg follows her gaze, his taut torso surging with adrenaline; towering above them is the monstrous, drooling head of a ravenous T-Rex, its razor-sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight, drool dripping from its fearsome jaws.

In a death-defying display of bravery and athleticism Rorg scales the boulder closest to the terrifying beast and without a second thought for his own safety heroically launches himself at its head, his granite-like fist connecting squarely with its snout. The T- Rex shrieks with pain and immediately turns and retreats into the forest, knowing instinctively that he is no match for Rorg’s superior strength and agility. The young woman throws herself at Rorg in wordless gratitude, wrapping her lithe limbs around him and pressing her quivering bosom to his broad, sculpted chest. Rorg draws her close to him, feeling her heart beating next to his, her pouting red lips trembling with emotion. 

“You saved my life! However can I thank you?” she breathes. “I don’t require thanks. Knowing that you are safe is reward enough,” grunts Rorg. “Such noble words from such a strong, handsome hero,” she whispers. She presses herself tighter to him... 

You can read more on my Blogger! (Over 18s only).

[one-of-many-journeys]

Day 30

The Embrace

Waking up here was strange. It was almost like any other day, for a moment. Then the smell of rot, the weight of new armour, Carja paint itching under my eyes. And no Rost, of course.

I spoke to his grave, removing my Focus first to stop Sylens from listening in. He can’t be listening all the time, surely. I guess it doesn't matter; he can access this too.

I told him about Elisabet Sobeck—that she isn’t my mother, but the doors of the old world see me as her, just as Hades did. I told him about the weapon I’m hoping to find at the Grave Hoard, a place where the war chiefs of the Old Ones gathered, it seems. I told him about the Eclipse as well, and how I helped the Nora track them into Devil’s Grief and pay them back for all the lives they took, with Varl and Sona at my side. I think he’d have been proud of that. 

Back to the cliff side; dawn over the valley. Always, I stared at the Metal Devils to the south and wondered what their great battle against All Mother had been like. Now I can name them: Horus, creations of the Old Ones, of Faro. Maybe…maybe this is where Elisabet used her weapon in a climactic battle. 

Down the zip line and up to Mother’s Heart. I hadn’t been back there since the morning of the proving, when I and the other aspirants walked out to tired celebration from the Nora, drowned in the drink and frenzy of the night before. All those people were overwhelming, but now the village is empty. Seems that most are still holed up in Mother’s Watch, the gates sealed as the tribe prays and heals with the Matriarchs. 

I visited Grata at her camp. She had no words for me, not even veiled through communion with All Mother. I hope someone’s been looking out for her now that Rost is gone. 

I rode around the southern face of the mountain to the gully where Rost used to train me when I was young, taking the old trails. I found one of those metal flowers there, along with another snatch of poetry. Every time I read them, the surrounding symbols seem more like machine logs—like those of the Tallnecks and Cauldron cores. Were they written by a machine? 

I dallied too long here, I know. I rode back across the valley past Mother’s Cradle to quickly drop in on Karst, told him a little of my travels. Then I left the old place behind. 

Riding back up through Devil’s Thirst, I spotted Banuk rock paintings and flags on the mountain face near one of the Eclipse’s excavation sites. I followed it up, and sure enough there was another carved wooden figurine waiting for me, along with another piece of the wanderer’s story. 

By the Devil’s Thirst camp, where the Nora outcasts are still staying together, I found another vantage projection showing a grand, white building where the bandits chose to make their filthy nest. 

In the low light, I rode a little further north to Mother’s Crown, hoping that Varl had made his return, but no luck. According to Sona, the hunts have been dragging out longer and taking Braves farther afield. The corruption disrupted the normal patterns of the machines, routine hunting sites going empty as they attempt to avoid the scorched, maddening lands. Still the tribe is driven further into chaos. 

Early to bed in the village. 

[bramble-clan-clangen]

BrambleClan's Journey!

Helloooo! Welcome to my first ever Clan-Gen blog, I've been reading so many I finally decided to plant myself down and make one... Over the course of months... Before finally drawing anything. I've gone through multiple game files and they all went haywire, too drastic and not enough grit in a story-sense. This one, however, has stuck! I am Robot Possum, or just Robot, I go by she/her and I am trying to get my confidence up about putting my art out there. Have mercy on me- I'm not a frequent poster and I'm still trying to find a style of drawing that is easy, quick, and looks good lol. I will try to post once a week, but don't hold me to that as my life outside this is a little hectic. Which is why I'll try and make them in bulk. Start Here : Moon 0

BrambleClan Founders: Leader: Batstar - Female (adult) Deputy: Logbriar - Male (adult) Medicine: Fringeshadow - Male (young adult)

BrambleClan's Origin: The original BrambleClan was long lost over many generations, it simply became a large group of cats with a different system to live by. A leader, the council, enforcers, and all others. Fringe, born with the ability to speak to ghosts, was given a warning that a great danger was coming, and they had to leave to ensure "true BrambleClan cats" will survive. Bat, Fringe, and Log eventually planned to leave, to create a new home for everyone who wanted to escape. Many cats were lost on the journey, but the last 3 eventually found their new home sheltered in a gully carved from an ancient creek that still has a small stream flowing.

Fun-fact: Bat and Fringe are siblings! Bat is the older sister who was the first litter, Fringe was the second litter. Log is just a loyal friend to the two and that's why he's here, never going to let them down.

[links-in-time]

Wild Visions - Chapter 3

Wild failes to distinguish fried from foe and everyone generally has a bad time!

Also, I hope the perspectives are clear enough. Whenever I use Link I'm talking about Wild from his perspective. And whenever Zelda is mentioned it's Hyrule.

���️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️

Link followed the gully down to where he remembered there was a cabin at the head of the Rospro pass. He hoped if he and Zelda had been separated in the mountains, that she would find somewhere safe and away from the weather to wait for him. The Princess could sometimes be a pain in the neck, but at least she was smart. She would know to find somewhere to hide and wait for Link to find her.

Dropping down the rocks to the bottom of the gorge, Link strode up to the front door of the hut and knocked. When he received no answer, he opened the door and stepped inside. The hearth was cold and dust had begun to form on the bed and the shelves. Clearly no one had been inside for a while. Yet he remembered this spot being an important stop for traders coming to the Rito lands. Perhaps talk of the coming Calamity had put people off venturing this far into the countryside.

“I’m sure I saw his tunic!”

A voice shouted from outside, echoing off the canyon walls around the hut. Link drew his sword and pressed himself against the wall beside the open door. Another voice joined the first and he could hear footsteps approaching his position. He was going to have to make a choice, wait for the strangers to pass by, or reveal his position and confront them. They may have seen the Princess wandering the hills, in that case, it was his duty to investigate.

“Are you sure?” A second voice asked, much closer this time. “We’ve been searching for ages. Who’s to say he even came this way?”

Link chanced a glance around the doorframe, making sure to keep himself hidden as much as possible. What he saw almost made his heart stop. Princess Zelda walked towards the hut along the mountain path, surrounded on three sides by Yiga footsoldiers. He slammed his head into the wall at his back. The sting of it brought tears to his eyes. The thing he had feared most had happened. His purpose as Zelda’s bodyguard was to keep her from the enemy and he had failed. Hyrule’s most persistent enemy had managed to capture her while he was wandering around in the wilds. Link gritted his teeth and internally reprimanded himself.

The tiny vial rattling around in his pouch came to mind.

No, he hadn’t failed yet. Zelda was still alive and appeared to be unharmed. All he had to do was kill the Yiga traitors and free her quickly. Once that was done, he could take her to the castle and everything would be right again. Link’s raging mind calmed at that thought. Yes, get Zelda to the castle and she would be safe, they would both be safe.

“Let’s check that hut,” one of the Yiga suggested.

The Yiga in question normally answered to the name Sky. He and his three brothers, Legend, Hyrule, and Wind, walked up the mountain path together searching for their lost Champion. Sky’s eyes widened in surprise when the very person they had been looking for, stepped out of the hut ahead.

“Wild!” / “Hero!” The Yiga-Sky exclaimed.

Wild ignored Sky’s greeting, instead he began charging down the path towards them. Sword raised, ready for attack.

“What the heck?!” Wind screeched.

The young sailor drew his sword in a flash, ready to defend himself. The others were a little slower to react. Sky in particular thought Wild must be playing some game. That at any moment he would stop, put away his blade and run to hug them instead.

But he didn’t. Seeing that only one of the Yiga had drawn a weapon, he pivoted and aimed for one of the others instead. Link fainted an attack to the left then swerved right, catching the Yiga by surprise.

Legend was so surprised in fact that he failed to draw a weapon in time. He barely managed to dodge Wild’s attack, rolling to the right and grazing his chin as his face hit the ground.

“Legend!” Hyrule screamed, arming himself with sword and shield and running to his predecessors’ defence.

“What’s wrong with him?” Wind yelled to the others, while he considered how to fight his brother without hurting him.

“Not a clue,” Legend grumbled.

Wild kept his attention focused on the veteran, stabbing down into the ground an instant after Legend had rolled away again.

“Maybe it isn’t him,” Sky suggested, pulling his shield off his back and sliding it onto his arm. “Maybe it’s a Yiga in disguise. Wild told us they could do that!”

Sky considered drawing his sword too, but there were several problems with that. First off, Sky wasn’t too comfortable with killing Hylians, even if they were devoted to the Demon King. Second, if it was Wild, he didn’t want to hurt his brother. And third, if it was Wild then there was every chance that Fi would punish Sky for taking up arms against another one of the Goddesses chosen heroes.

Link was growing impatient with the Yiga rolling around on the ground. He struck out with his foot, connecting with the traitor’s shoulder. He heard a crack and the body on the ground let out a guttural scream.

“Hey!” Zelda cried out.

When Link turned to face her, she looked stricken and afraid. Zelda shied away from his gaze and almost seemed to turn towards the Yiga for protection. Her reaction sent a bolt of anger through Link’s soul. What had they done to her? How long had they been separated?

Link swung out behind him and felt the tip of his blade make contact with a body.

Wind gritted his teeth and fought to remain standing. Wild’s blade had left a shallow slash across his stomach, but it didn’t feel too bad. He was more concerned about the cursing he was going to give Wild when this fight was over.

“You okay sailor?” Hyrule asked, hanging back to keep out of range of Wild’s sword.

“Fine,” Wind spat, “I don’t think he knows it’s us. Might be under a spell or something. We have to stop him. Sky! Are you going to help?”

Wind’s calls for help finally helped Sky make his decision. With a heavy heart, he drew the Master Sword from his back and held her aloft. With sword and shield in hand, Sky advanced towards his beloved brother.

“I don’t want to hurt you Wild, and I promise you this will hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.”

Link couldn’t hear Sky’s words. However, he could see his sword gleaming in the afternoon light, in the hands of a Yiga traitor. How? How had the Yiga taken his sword from him? It didn’t make sense. What he did know however, was that he was going to pry it out of the traitor’s cold dead hands.

Wild levelled a thunderous gaze in Sky’s direction, lifting his sword in a direct challenge to the other knight. Sky gulped hard. He and Wild had spared many times, though his own skills were undeniable, Wild had his own fighting techniques. His military training was rusty at best, but he compensated with unpredictability and an uncanny ability to predict his opponents attacks and dodge them with unparalleled speed. Sky would have to try and counter Wild’s attacks while also trying to maintain his grip on the Master Sword.

Already he could feel the royal purple hilt growing warm in his hands. Sky was glad of his gloves, providing a slight bit of protection. Without them, he was sure the korok leaf cord binding the handle would leave diamond shaped burns on his hands. He had little time to register the sensation however, before Wild was on him.

By the goddess he moved like a loftwing at full speed. In terms of stamina the two men were fairly equally matched, but Wild had always been able to move faster.

Link aimed a strike at the Yiga’s shoulder, but the soldier managed to block him with apparent ease. Usually the Yiga footsoldiers weren’t so skilled with blades other than sickles and cleavers, but this one had clearly trained harder than the rest. With Zelda’s safety and the retrieval of the Master Sword in mind, Link doubled his efforts and attacked with everything he had.

“Easy Sky, try not to hurt him if you can,” Hyrule warned, ringing his hands together as his fear for his brother's safety mounted.

“He’s not giving me much choice Rulie,” Sky huffed, bringing his sword up to block another strike.

Though Wild hadn’t said a word, his emotions were clear as day to Sky. He radiated anger and his eyes showed only the determination to end his opponent. If Sky were to let this fight play out to its ultimate end, he knew where it would lead. One of them would be dead, and if he fought to defend himself as hard as Wild was trying to kill him, Sky wasn’t sure which one of them was going to walk away.

Hands burning, heart about to tear itself apart, Sky made a split second decision. He lowered his defence just enough to allow Wild to push himself inside Sky’s guard. Wild’s next strike sent Sky’s shield flying. He tried to rebalance himself, but Wild kept him on the back foot. Before Wild could land another hit, Sky fell backwards, purposefully landing on his arse. The impact made him drop his sword, which he was almost grateful to relinquish at that point.

Wild stood over Sky, staring daggers down at him as he held the tip of his sword beneath his chin. Sky couldn't help but let out a soft whimper. Was this really how he was going to die? Murdered by his own brother in arms.

“Stop! Link please stop!” Hyrule pleaded.

Cautiously the young traveller approached Wild, hands raised in a peaceful manner.

Link regarded Zelda as she drew closer. He was still afraid one of the wounded Yiga might still get up and attack, but none of them seemed to have much fight left.

“It's okay Link, there's no danger here,” she insisted.

As she stepped towards Link, Zelda held out her hand and caught his gaze with her dazzling green eyes. For a brief moment Link forgot about the enemies at his feet. Zelda was alive and safe, he hadn't failed her.

“I need to get you back to the castle, your highness,” Link explained, sword still pointing at the Yiga’s throat.

“Alright, if that's what you wish, then we'll go to the castle,” Hyrule replied, nodding slowly in agreement.

He didn't have a clue what Wild was talking about, but clearly the Champion wasn't in his right mind. He also didn't seem to see Hyrule as a threat, unlike the others. Which gave him a significant advantage in trying to get Wild to see reason.

“What about these traitors, your highness?” Link asked, indicating the Yiga sprawled around him

“Leave them be, they're not going to hurt us, Link,” Zelda insisted. She waved her hand in a nonchalant manner, as though Link had asked what she might like for dinner.

Normally Link wouldn't like to leave traitors running free. His captains had been clear on how to deal with Yiga if he ever came across them. But he was also a person, and they were people too.

“I'll restrain them at least, so they can't follow and they can't report back to their superiors.”

And so Hyrule helped Wild to tie Sky, Wind and Legend's hands, leaving them sitting in a circle in the middle of the road.

“What are you playing at Rule?” Legend hissed through clenched teeth.

He was fairly sure Wild had dislocated his shoulder and the way his arm was now pulling on the joint was nothing short of agonising.

“He seems to think I'm Zelda,” Hyrule whispered in reply. “I think if I play along I can find out what's happened to him. Twilight shouldn't be too far away, if he's tracking Wild I'm sure he'll find you guys soon. At least you know where he and I are headed. You can follow us at a distance and maybe come up with a plan?”

“Why do you think he wants to take you, I mean, take Zelda to the castle?” Asked Sky, wincing against the fresh burns on his fingers.

He watched as Wild finished binding Wind's hands, ignoring the Sailor’s curses and protests. When he was satisfied, Wild turned and began searching the ground nearby. Sky had a feeling he knew what Wild was looking for. He let out a dejected sigh when Wild stooped down to pick up the Master Sword.

Link looked over the blade for a moment, searching for damage or signs of ill treatment, but she looked as magnificent as the day he had found her in the lost woods. He holstered the blade on his back and returned his old one to the slate. Since neither he or Zelda were injured he saw no reason to delay another moment.

“Come your highness, we'll have to walk around the lake to get to Orni Stable. From there it's about a day and a half's ride to the castle.”

“Alright, I'll follow your lead Link,” Hyrule replied.

Wild nodded but it looked much more like a quick bow to Hyrule. As Wild turned and began walking away down the path, Hyrule quickly turned back to the others. He pulled a small knife from his pouch and placed it carefully in Wind's hands.

“Get yourselves free and find the others. I'm sorry I don't have time to heal you guys. I'll see you all soon.”

Hyrule quickly rushed to catch up with Wild, but if the other hero seemed suspicious he didn't show it. Glancing over his shoulder at his brothers sat in the middle of the dirt track, Hyrule tried not to panic. Wild had attacked three of them without reason or provocation. He was under some kind of illusion that made him think Hyrule was his Princess Zelda, and for some unknown reason they were headed for Hyrule Castle. A place famously abandoned in this era and presumably crawling with monsters.

< Part 2 : Part 4 >

[project-ozdark]

ENTRY 001 - AVILIGH

The most secluded continent across Teralm, Aviligh is the most central landmass within the realm, with smaller land masses surrounding it. The land mass has little to no major mountainous regions, and is considerably flat with soft and rich soil that allowed great sustainability for major ecosystems.

Three major biomes define Aviligh, large open savannahs are found across the northeast and southwest, with large oak trees being hubs for many animals in the fields. The savannahs are also populated with a species of grass that grow bladed leaves that grow several feet in length, allowing many animals to graze several hours on a single leaf, or for predators to efficiently hide from it’s prey.

Wetlands are the second most common ecosystem to be found, located within the northern lagoon called “Okreig”, a shallow body of water that allows giant mangrove forests to shelter young oceanic wildlife while sustaining it’s own specialised creatures. Wetlands can also be found mostly across the southern islands as well, however being exposed to a different oceanic ecosystem caused most of the inhabitants to diversify differently, with reptiles being most dominant in these wetlands compared to Okreig.

The third and most unique is “Fairy cities”, large chain of gorges and gullies that spread far across the north and west. Fairy city cliff sides actually expose the soft clay and soil, allowing many creatures to feed off roots or subterranean animals. Most of these cities are actually important to most local wildlife, with many creatures relying on it as migratory road ways, or flood banks that prevent dangerous conditions during flood seasons.

Above is example of a Savannah, showing an empire oak (naturally grows from 50 to 75 metres in height).

[limerental]

here, have a half-finished witcher americana retelling I've been sitting on for years now. I didn't quite have the gusto to go everywhere I wanted with it but here she is. I got in my yenralt & ciri feelings mostly :')

It did not go like this:

Yennefer was born the unfortunate eldest daughter of a local farmer of dairy goats and hogs, the sort of farm built into a gully that boiled up with mud and shit when it rained. Born all twisted up in the womb, her spine curved in a permanent hunch. 

Some devil got to her mama, her daddy always said, leaning on a fencepost, hard-eyed and jeering as he spit tobacco into the dust.

Some devil had likely looked a lot like the young man her mama fancied just a few months before she was married quick to her daddy.

The devil long vanished off to the city. 

Yennefer was no good for farm work, but she could do well enough bussing tables at the diner off the main road. She worked there more hours than not for less than scraps, but she did her work and ducked her head and kept mostly quiet about it. If she was just patient enough and careful, she could find her way out of there in time.

Yennefer kept a secret. 

She'd been born with witchcraft hidden in her crooked body, the sort that ran in rich veins through the land itself. The kind that sang in the creek-carved ravines and thrummed through the gnarled roots and swaying branches of the forest. 

She could call the animals to her and find anything lost and drive out the snakes from the chicken coop with a word, and she'd heard stories about things like that all her life so wasn't surprised by the possibility at all. Except for the fact that no one had ever taught her those things, and nobody knew she could do it.

In only a few short months she'd come into the full depth of her magic and the Witch would come for her and changed her life for good.

Before that, she met Geralt.

Yennefer'd long given up fantasies of being spirited away, thinking about strangers' lives with the kind of detached daydreaming of a girl who did dull work for ceaseless hours. 

She wondered who this man was, old enough to have seen the war but younger than her daddy, who had been exempt from the draft on grounds of being a farmer. Which was good fortune, because he would have made a bloodthirsty soldier.

Geralt was a simple man who worked in travelling pest control. His beat up company van coughed over the miles, tools of the trade rattling in the back, big cartoon rat grinning evilly painted across the side. 

Geralt kept a secret.

He knew every trick and gimmick to eliminate a rodent problem, could give his usual spiel about baiting and trapping to any fellow who asked, but had never employed anything that mundane even once. The pests he controlled and catalogued tended to be bigger and meaner and not as pretty splashed over the panels of a van.

Monsters were real, and he knew them by name. Kept tabs on the quiet ones and put down the loud and messy ones.

 Always respectfully, that is.

 Most of them weren't evil, just creatures as old as the land or older, the growing civilizations on this Continent encroaching more and more on the wild places they had once owned.

The war was many years over, and they said the future was bright. The future was now. Geralt didn't know by what metric they measured those things, because to him the world looked the same as always. 

He'd done pest control enlisted in the war too, chasing the sort of monsters that paled in their wretched cruelty in comparison to men. Most of the things he sought out were just trying to survive with shrinking odds in a world rapidly forgetting them.

Geralt got that. 

Got it in ways rural poor America did, living the same rusted out life they always had, going on in the usual quaint and tragic ways.

Yennefer didn't quite get it yet, but she was going to.

She poured burnt coffee for the grey-haired  stranger in the far booth, a typical dusty midday silence settled over the diner. The slanted cartoon eyes of the rat on his sepia-toned van stared at her from where it was parked beside the pumps. 

Places in towns this small wore many faces, general store, filling station, and diner in one. The main road was a common route north, and Yennefer liked to wonder where passersby were going, what lives they led. Imagine what faces they hid from the world, same as her. 

Geralt had a job out this way with a few hours left to drive, hoping the company van didn't shit the bed again before he made it there, and he watched the waitress' hands shake as she poured him his coffee. Crooked through the shoulders, she limped when she walked and seemed to have trouble with the weight of the full carafe. Geralt smiled at her, an ugly, little smile on a face unused to such gestures, but the girl smiled back. He hoped they paid her fair. She had nice eyes, sharp and a cool violet.

Yennefer brought him a slice of apple pie and wondered where the stranger'd got his scars. He had a number of them on his face and hands alone, pink puckers and angry mauve ridges and was sure to have more hidden by his dark coveralls. Probably the war. If it had been the other waitress working, the chatty one, she would have asked, mister, did you get those in the war, must have gotten half blown to hell, but Yennefer didn't ask.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her starched apron and got back to work filling salt shakers, and neither spoke a word to the other.

Geralt didn't make much of a living on the road, but he lived simple and didn't need much anyhow. The pie was an extravagance, tart and sweet. The girl had working hands, calloused. He thought of saying something to her, making conversation, but he didn't. There was the sound of flies humming against the dust-streaked glass, the occasional rumble of traffic on the road, the quiet noise of his fork on chipped china.

He didn't stick around to watch his dollar tip fluster Yennefer's cheeks red. Didn't look back at all. If he had, he would have seen her pause in the screen door to watch him drive off, wondering about what sort of work he did in a strange vehicle like that, what sort of man he was. 

The van's ignition choked and then caught. He had some miles to go.

*

Neither left a lasting impression on the other at that first unremarkable meeting, but when Yennefer next saw him two decades on, she knew him at once in the way that witches always know those sorts of things. 

How fascinating it was to see that the stranger looked exactly the same despite the years. Same greyed hair, same dour expression, probably same pale orange van parked at the edge of the festival grounds. Witchers didn't age the same as men, after all, and that's the sort of thing she saw he was. Perilously slow heartbeat, calculating look in his newspaper yellow eyes, scars curved by talon and tooth and not shrapnel.

Geralt had known what she was by her description, whispered low and reverant like something holy, that this woman was no ordinary medic. Knew before he parted the canvas flap of a shabby tent in some muddy, over-trodden field and stepped into an opulent throne room, the stone walls hung with erotic tapestries, the high ceiling shimmering with a cloud of stars. 

The witch herself sprawled perfectly naked on a high-backed throne with a seat of red velvet. Alone, she looked on in detached interest, still as a statue, a haughty and omnipotent sentinel. Geralt thought her ethereal, beautiful, enthralling. 

Trouble.

In truth, Yennefer was wretchedly hungover after a riotous orgy the night before and could avoid the throbbing of her temples if only she kept perfectly still.

It was by her eyes, shrewd and violet, that, with a jolt of surprise up his spine, Geralt recognized her as the crooked waitress from the diner many years past.

There'd always been witches hidden behind any great power, old world or new. King Arthur ruled by the guiding hand of the wizard Merlin and JFK by a blonde starlet in a snow white dress, though none would ever have taken the latter for a sorceress.

How tiresome it was, thought Yennefer, how empty, how thankless.

Geralt sighed and adjusted his hold on the unconscious Dandelion's thighs, hitching his friend higher across his back as he wheezed into Geralt's ear. Would have rather gone elsewhere. Would have rather the idiot had not offended the ancient, moth-winged creature Geralt had come to reason with into making less noise.

But there was no talking sense into Dandelion. Damn lucky the creature the locals here called Mothman hadn't thought to curse him with something more severe than whatever ailed him. 

It didn't take kindly to flirting.

Dandelion was a poet and a philanderer and a starchild and a balladeer and a free spirit and a scholar and a conscientious objecter and a right pain in Geralt's ass, except that he was also good to talk to and steadfastly humorous even all these years on and the sort of friend who remembered little details like your brand of cigarettes or your favorite candy, who Geralt liked even for his numerous flaws because Geralt liked most people truly and was a good man and loved deeply and loved consistently with his whole damn too-big heart.

"A friend?" asked Yennefer and Geralt shrugged.

What happened next happened the way it always did in every version of the story.

Two broken, fragile-hearted people and something close to tenderness.

*

It didn't happen like this:

Somebody had a pest problem, a wealthy widow with a pretty young daughter. Somebody'd cursed a poor son of a bitch into beastly form. Said he roamed the hills howling by night and walked the streets a man by day. 

The curse broke in the usual way, just as Geralt said. The daughter's kiss on a full moon. True love and all. Happily ever after.

Except a new war broke and in time, it widowed the daughter too and her poor heart couldn't take the grief, and then the market turned sour and the wealthy widow lost her fortune and hung herself in the pantry. Geralt got a letter naming him next of kin by some questionably legitimate legal twist of fate and then, he sighed deep and resigned and drove north to pick up the girl.

It wasn't so unusual in his line of work, strange orphans scattered all over like grisly flotsam. But he didn't usually see to raising them. He'd never had a father besides the old man, and he'd never thought much of having his own children. 

He couldn't know the true dark web of conspiracy around her and would never know the whole of it. The sort of man her daddy was to bear a curse like that in the first place. The old and intricate magicks, bound up in blood and circumstance. The sort of woman young Ciri would be.

Even if he'd known, Geralt would have drove to get her even so. He found the girl buck-toothed and scrawny and lugging a too heavy briefcase down the slumped front stoop of the elderly neighbor who'd been putting her up. Hair the pale color of woodsmoke, eyes like her mama, green as a copper kettle.

And just like her mama, young Ciri had some whisper of something else in her. Something carried over from older lands than this and bolstered by the ancient things here, passed on like the detritus of trauma gained generation to generation. Something tainted and bigger than he had the know-how to suss out.

Geralt sat down and fumblingly wrote a letter.

*

Meanwhile, young Ciri passed an idyllic summer and cold as tits winter on the isolated Morhen ranch in the rural mountains. She'd never worked a farm before and never even seen a farm animal up close, especially not a ranch like that one which was straight out of some pastoral fantasy. 

A painted red barn and swaying, golden fields and a willow tree with a swing beside a white farmhouse on the ridgeline and a little cliche collection of animals. A black and white cow and a billy goat and a pair of checkered chickens and an old, whiskered horse and a little, scrappy dog. 

Keeping up appearances, old Vesemir said and made her go muck out the pen. She wished they'd keep up appearances with mucking too and when she said that, the old man's eyes bugged out his head and Uncle Eskel wheeze-laughed folded over smacking his knees. 

But the others didn't come until later into fall when the harvest needed brought in. For many long, humid, dust mote days of summer, it was just Ciri and her new, mysterious guardian and the old man who trundled on his tractor with a pipe dangling from his lip, mowing grass and cussing when the tires dipped into a whistlepig hole.

Most days, Ciri was expected up early to feed and muck and clean, which she did with a healthy amount of complaining. Her little pink hands sloughed red with oozing blisters, and Geralt held them in his rough palms to apply salve, feeling like he wished he could give this girl something more, something grander, but this was what they had, this was what he knew.

But Ciri liked the idea of it, her hands going rough and calloused and big like his, her body going hard and lean. She wondered about his scars and his lined face and how strong he was when he lifted her up in his arms.

The lightning bugs came out over the fields each night, so numerous that she could cry over it, and Geralt taught her how not to be afraid when catching them cupped in her hands, kneeling before her with the flickering light held out like a solemn offering. 

He prayed it would be enough, the small things he could give her, but Ciri had never known anything bigger. Her daddy sitting on the creaking edge of her bed in the attic to tell her a bedtime story. One with the true monsters and evils smoothed out into a fairytale. 

Geralt told her many stories. Long ago, there were elves and giants and wizards and queens and all of them tangled up together in mysterious and elaborate ways. Ciri reminded him about the knights, and he said, ah yes, the knights, and told her about the quests and the riddles and the labyrinths and the dragons. Ciri liked the dragons best. And the swords that slayed them.

When she asked about his own monsters, he said only that there were things in this land older than all of them.

Sometimes the land itself resisted occupation.

And if she was ever on a dirt road along a field of corn or alfalfa at night, never stray in, no matter what beckoned. And if the screams of the coyotes took on a different pitch, don't go looking. And if the cicadas and the crickets went silent all at once and the woods gathered a hush, run home and run fast and don't glance behind your shoulder.

She brandished a pitchfork out in the animal pen, playing at killing beasts, and Geralt watched from the front porch of the farmhouse wishing he could make it all true for her. Heroes and legends and noble truths.

Instead, he whispered a prayer to the wind rattling through the corn fields and held tight as he could to her little, calloused hand.

*

It all went more or less the same in the end.

*

"And that's it!" says Ciri, waggling her fingers in a dramatic flourish. "Well, it didn't happen like that." She keeps her voice low and steady in the manner of storytelling, perched up on a fence rail,  hands dangling between her legs. "Well, it all did happen. But not like that. Not in those places at that time."

The farm boy she is speaking to looks at her with big eyes, dumb as a newborn lamb. He doesn't know where this America is or half of the words she uses. 

Ciri yawns. She doesn't think she'll tell that version again. Or else be choosier with her audience. The sky has started to go red with fading light, and the bats loose themselves from the eaves of the barn to take wing over the fields.

"Don't you have evening chores to do, boy?" she asks, and the boy startles as though awakening from a dream. "Those sheep won't feed themselves."

Later, when his mama cuffs him over the head for his tardiness, he will not be able to explain the reason for the dawdling. He remembers the dark silhouette of a stranger on the border of the fenceline and a peculiar sort of hollow sadness.

In all the darkest and strangest days of his life afterward, his thoughts will return sometimes to that shape in the cradle of dusk.

 And one night when his own young, sleepless daughter asks to hear a story, he will close his eyes and draw a breath and tell her one.