#i just love the imagery of gale turning around like ??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dragonagitator · 7 months

Text

Smutty BG3 fanfic prompt / scene / ficlet:

I wrote this scene with my own "Modern Girl in Faerun" author self-insert WIP in mind, but who knows when or if that fic will ever actually see the light of day. So if someone who can actually write smut wants to use this scene as a prompt for a lengthier fic, please do, and please also feel free to make any changes necessary to make it fit your own story or just generally improve the writing.

Summary: Post-game, Dom!Gale/sub!OFC, established relationship (but one that's about to change in a big way), discussion of consensual mind control, touches on bondage, breeding kink, and worship kink, implied impending fellatio. Features the aforementioned Book of Erotic Fantasy and teases the side of Gale revealed in his origin playthrough line about how he "always liked the idea of being worshipped. Adored. Obeyed..."

I apologize in advance for it not being very good and for cutting off right before the actual smut should begin. I'm not putting this out there because I'm proud of it, I'm putting this out there because I sincerely hope that writers who are actually good at this sort of thing might find it, take it away from me, and do it better.

If you're still interested then there's about 1,800 words of unhinged brainrot below the cut. Criticism welcome!

We’d been home in Waterdeep for less than a week when I found Gale sitting on the balcony loveseat, frowning at a book that sat closed in his lap.

“Did the book do something to offend you?” I teased as I bent over for a kiss.

“Ah, no,” he replied, “it’s just I find myself with a bit of an ethical dilemma.”

‘An ethical dilemma?’ I wondered, raising my eyebrow and taking a closer look at the book.

It was a rather thick book, with a velvet cover and tied closed with a silk ribbon. The cover imagery was extremely suggestive.

“The Book of Erotic Fantasy,” I sounded out carefully. “And exactly what sort of ‘ethical dilemmas’ does a smutty book provoke?”

“It’s not just erotic literature,” Gale explained, “It’s more of a manual.”

“A Faerun sex manual? This I gotta see,” I said and made grabby hands at him. He hesitated for a moment, then somewhat reluctantly handed it over. I sat beside him and snuggled into him as he put his arm around me, positioning us so that we could look at its pages together.

I untied the ribbon and opened the book, and laughed when the book itself moaned in my hands. Reading anything written in the Thorass alphabet was still a challenge for me so I flipped through the pages simply looking at the illustrations. There were a LOT of illustrations depicting various sexual positions and techniques. It appeared to be something like an illustrated Karma Sutra.

“Whenever did you have the time to go buy this?” I asked him with delight. “Are these things you’d like to try with me? Because that–” I pointed at a particularly intriguing illustration of a woman in bondage in some sort of complicated contraption I’d never seen before “–looks like it could be fun, if you know a good smith we could commission it from.”

“No, I, uh, that is, this volume has been in my library for some time,” Gale stammered and I smirked. I’d always loved how he could somehow still be so bashful sometimes despite being such a freak in the sheets.

“And it’s more than just a manual of… activities,” he continued. “The book is magical in nature–”

“Yeah, I got that part when it moaned,” I interjected.

“Yes, and when studied at length it can confer certain… abilities and… enhancements to the person who reads it,” he continued.

“Oooh, tell me more about these ‘abilities’ and ‘enhancements,’” I purred, setting the book aside so I could turn and straddle him, throwing my arms around his neck. He blushed so prettily.

“Well, studying the book makes one more charming and increases their endurance,” he began listing the effects while lazily stroking my sides. “And it ensures that one’s partners are never left… wanting.”

“Oh, so that’s your secret,” I teased, thinking back to all the mind-blowing nights we’d shared since he’d finally gotten over his hangups about bedding me.

“Ah, no, while I’d studied the book once years ago, the effects wear off after a tenday of celibacy. So after the year of isolation in my tower, I had only my… native talent… to rely upon,” he confessed.

His “native talent” had been more than enough, but now my curiosity was piqued.

“So you’re saying this book could make you an even better lover than you already are?” I started to grind against him lightly and his hands settled on my hips. “While I’ve been perfectly satisfied so far, I have to admit that I’m intrigued… although if you got any better, I might not walk quite right ever again.”

“It also conveys mastery over one’s own reproductive system, and that of one’s partner,” he continued. “It acts as a perfect contraceptive. Or, if one so desires, it can… guarantee that conception takes place.” He looked me directly in the eyes as he said that last part, seemed to search my face for clues as to how I felt about that.

Just the idea of it sent a jolt of desire straight to my core.

“Are you saying,” I responded, my mouth suddenly dry as the urge to spread my legs even wider for him overwhelmed me, “that this book would allow you to breed me whenever you want?”

He tightened his grip on my hips and shuttered slightly, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before he looked back up at me with determination. His pupils were blown so wide that I could barely see the brown of his irises anymore. It felt like he was looking directly into my soul.

“Yes,” he confirmed firmly.

‘So, my fiance has a breeding kink too,’ I mused. ‘That’s convenient.’

I was so aroused from our conversation that my hips took on a mind of their own, and I found myself grinding in his lap against the rapidly hardening bulge in his breeches that revealed just how much he enjoyed the idea of using his magic book to impregnate me at will.

“So,” I said breathily, continuing to grind – we were basically dry-humping at this point, and I was so aroused at this point that I suspected that I might be able to get off just from this, “what’s the ethical dilemma?”

“The book does have one minor detrimental property,” he explained, “in that satisfying one’s partner then places that partner under the effects of a Charm Person spell. Of course I’d never do that to someone without their consent,” he said hurriedly, “and with Mystra it was never a concern because as a Goddess, she’s immune to Charm spells,” I scowled at the mention of her name, “but with you, my love…” his right hand left my hip to gently stroke my face, soothing away my frown, “...you have no such immunity.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, is THAT what you’re worried about? I don’t think I could be any more ‘Charmed’ than I already have been by just your – what did you call them? – ‘native talents.’ And it’s not like a Charm Person spell can make someone do something that they’re completely unwilling to do.”

“That’s actually the problem,” he said, tone turning serious. “I’ve heard rumor that when the book’s gifts are used on a partner who is already as enamored as you so inexplicably are with me, it can have… other effects. Change them.”

“Change them how?” I prodded him.

“You could find yourself consumed by desperation to please me. The book could make you more pliant, much more… submissive,” he continued, his voice low with a hint of darkness creeping in as he gently thumbed my lower lip.

My brain short-circuited and I heard myself blurt, “I want you to read the book.”

“Oh, darling, you have no idea what you’re saying,” he sighed and leaned his forehead against mine. “It would be far beyond the games we’ve played. You’d still have your safeword, but the book could strip you of your desire to ever use it.”

“I want you to read the book,” I repeated, gently cupping his face in my hands, my entire body on fire at the idea of giving up that much control to him. It was terrifying, and thrilling, and deeply erotic.

“It doesn’t wear off as fast as a regular Charm Person spell,” he warned me, “The effects last for a year and a day,” my core pulsed with need at the thought of being under his spell for so long, “and that hourglass would reset every time I brought you to ecstasy. You could fall deeper and deeper under my control until you could no longer dream of wanting to escape it.” I trembled at the idea that it could effectively become permanent.

“I want you to read the book,” I said again, and kissed him deeply.

As I pulled back from the kiss, I could tell that he was as affected by the idea of it as I was. His skin was flushed, his pupils blown wide, he trembled slightly, there was a slight hitch in his breath, I could feel his heart hammering where our chests had pressed together, and he now had an erection so hard that I could feel every inch of it through the layers of our clothing.

“I don’t understand,” he protested half-heartedly, sounding almost broken with desire and longing. “How could you want something like that? Why would you give yourself so completely to someone like me?”

“Gale,” I said firmly, and began punctuating my statements with more kisses. “I love you.” Kiss. “I trust you completely.” Kiss. “I love submitting to you.” Kiss. “And I’ve wished for a while now that it could be more than just a game we play in bed.” Kiss. “I know how hard it was for you to give up the Crown of Karsus, because you’ve ‘always liked the idea of being worshiped. Adored. Obeyed,’” I quoted. He looked away in slight embarrassment, but didn’t deny it.

“If you think you could be content with a single worshiper,” I continued, giving his face one last gentle caress as I slid off his lap and onto the balcony floor, “then I would love to spend the rest of my life getting on my knees for you.”

I posed myself carefully before him. Knees spread, hands clasp behind my back, back slightly arched to thrust my tits forward, head bowed submissively. I silently trembled with desire and anticipation as I waited for his answer.

“I will read the book,” he declared as he stood up. “But it will require weeks of study to acquire its powers.” I could hear him unfastening the ties on his breeches. “You will use that time to prove to me just how much you want this, and if I’m not convinced by the time I reach the final page then I will not complete it,” he warned.

My mind began whirling with all the delightfully degrading things I could do for him to prove my devotion. Through the lashes of my downcast gaze I could see his pants falling to his ankles, confirming that we were of like minds of what sort of “proof” he had in mind.

He gripped my jaw firmly and titled my head upward, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

“Do you understand?” he demanded.

I’d never seen such an expression on his face before – perhaps I’d caught glimpses of something like it on the battlefield, or seen a ghost of it flicker across his face the first time I’d asked him to dominate me in bed – but nothing like this. He radiated power, desire, command, and more than just a hint of darkness.

“Yes, sir,” I agreed enthusiastically.

“Good girl,” he said approvingly.

His praise washed over me like a blessing as he guided my mouth to the weeping head of his erect cock.

62 notes · View notes

aroaceascension · 2 years

Text

You are God, This is my Fist (We Are At Applebees)

@entropicthymes

Thank you for giving me this gift, that is: You Are God, This Is My Fist (We Are At Applebees)

I will be talking a lot and will highlight a lot of my favorite parts!

Very long post for the person who beautifully created this

The law pulled his hat over his eyes, a familiar gesture from a time when the dust could have hurt them. He’d moved on from such things now.

First of all, brilliant! A very strong fucking start of how Jimmy has gotten used to the land and maybe something more.

The law looked upon it sternly, upon the chaos it could cause. He was the law of the land, and the land obeyed him, the bush staying firmly rooted. He was the land, and its law, and no false god would hold jurisdiction over his home, not if he could help it.

JIMMY IS STRAHD, I FUCKING LOVE YOU FOR IT EXCEPT STRAHD IS A BITCH BUT JIMMY IS THE BEST FUCKER THERE IS! And let's go, Jimmy is about to destroy a false god.

For a moment, Jimmy felt something in him cave, in fear of what both men had become. For a moment, he was a bird in the dark, a poppy caught by the breeze, a shattered spyglass, a burning ranch, a lonely swamp, and a million other things.

Jimmy and all his past lives, omfg, I love that so much for him, because Jimmy has been through so much, and has been so many things, has been everything at once at some point.

Then, he took a breath, and the gales over the plateaus breathed with him. He was the law. He was the Law.

OH fuck, he's about to kill god, let's go, let's fucking go. And also the difference of law, then to Law. Because he is a embodiment, he's a construct, and he is breathing with the Mesa, I love that so much!

The buttons on his face fell away, revealing eyes that shone with the light of a thousand sunsets over the cusp of the fishbowl. He turned to face Joel, the fury of the mesa incarnate. His teeth were the great pillars, his hands were one with those that had carved the mineshafts, his eyes were leaking the gold from the veins in the ground and the veins below his skin. Bushes burst from the wracked earth and died within seconds in rings around his feet, driving Joel back, driving Joel away.

He's the mesa, and just the overwhelming power of the mesa making Joel step back, and just the detail of the people who came before him too. Love that, I just, really love the things of even though you're now here, doesn't meant you weren't always here, and that's so fucking beautiful. That even though now given a physical form, Jimmy was always there

“That’s not my name,” the mesa roared in reply. “I am the sheriff,” stitching pulled from arms to become flesh, “I am the Law,” boots were no longer bound to feet as the ground welcomed their steps, “And I am not a toy.” “Timmy, this isn’t—” “The mesa commands you to leave!”

Oh shit, the mesa is speaking through fucking Jimmy, because he is the mesa. Oh my god, I love that, and everything is speaking through him, everything that the mesa is is speaking through the construct that protects it.

The wind picked up again, swirling and flurrying in funnels with claws of sand that scratched at eyes. The land cracked beneath Joel and, with one last look behind him, he fled.

Just the imagery of the mesa just doing everything to make Joel leave and it did. Especially the land cracking, because Joel is like Zeus adjacent and then fucking Jimmy and the Mesa are cracking the ground

Jimmy felt it in his heart as Joel crossed over the threshold of his domain, and only then did he let his guard down. The winds died down, only serving to carry the tumbleweeds away from Jimmy’s feet and away from Tumble Town. The fire in his eyes concealed itself, leaving them a simple neutral brown. Jimmy wiped his golden tears from his face, and turned to go down the path to his home.

ALSO, YO, Jimmy feeling it in his heart that Joel leaving without having to see. Also love that detail of the Mesa caring so much about Tumble Town. Also I love that Jimmy's and how being a construct is, because it's always changing, and love the mention of golden tears, because the mesa is where the gold is found most!

“Does it have something to do with how the mesa came to life?”

“It—what?” “I felt the gold under the mountains. It was beating and flowing, like there was a heart pumping it.” “Yeah, you could say what went down had something to do with that.” “Give me the good news first,” FWhip sighed. “Well, he’s not a toy anymore!” “And… the bad news?” “He’s not gonna let me anywhere near him. He’s become… one with the mesa, if that makes sense.” “Makes as much sense as you being a god or me being a goblin.”

Also I love how FWhip is like sorta casual about it, just, yeah, I felt the gold under the mountains like it was a heart pumping. Along with Joel is like, giving both the good news and "bad news" too!

Joel looked out over the mesa. It looked back, with anger and contempt and maybe, somewhere, deep down, a hint of brotherhood. In a moment of weakness, Joel spoke. “I’m worried about him, you know?” “I didn’t. Go on.” “I just… I feel like if, you know, things had been different, we could’ve been friends. Brothers, even.” “Brothers-in-law, maybe.” The doubt in FWhip’s voice was palpable. “Maybe,” Joel looked back out over the mesa, a tinge of wistfulness to his voice, “Maybe.”

And Joel is remembering of another life, that they could have been closer but now, that seems so unlikely, ooooh, the sadness of that person is familiar and you could have been the best of friends or brothers in law

If you stand in the middle of any biome and listen, you can hear its heart beating. In the jungle, this takes the form of vines growing and parrots crying. In the tundra, this takes the form of gently falling snow and a polar bear’s love for its cubs. In the sickly lands of fungus, this takes the form of water rushing through mycelium, up into the hooves of the mooshrooms that walk its surface.

I love that you expand on it, that it's not just the mesa that is like this, it's every biome, it all has a heart and it's all shown differently!

If you listen hard enough, with an ear trained by those who know the ways of listening, you can even welcome that heartbeat into your own. Vines can burst from your skin, ice can flow from your hands, and mushrooms can grow in your mind. Eventually, the biome may even start listening back, if you, in turn, know how to teach it.

Just, that, anyone, even a player can be part of the biome, became part of the heartbeat, and just how Jimmy can teach the land back

The mesa’s heart pumps through veins of gold and windswept plateaus and the hope of those that wish to make it a home. It’s quite good at listening, if given the prompt. It’s quite good at giving back, too. Meaning, of course, that if a man with a good ear for the world can find a place to hang his hat and call his own, it will gladly embrace him, gladly become him, and welcome him as its Law.

I love how the Mesa's heart is just, so beautifully done, and how the Mesa can listen so well and just how it embraces Jimmy, to help him giving him a place in the world

The sun set behind the plateaus, the first evening stars opening their watchful eyes. The mesa regarded it, then turned inwards, to where its Law drifted away into the realm of sleep, listening to him listening to it, and loving how he loved it. Jimmy breathed the night air, letting it nestle in his lungs, his chest rising and falling with the heartbeat of his home until, slowly, his eyes drifted shut.

And just the Mesa loving Jimmy just as much as how Jimmy loves the mesa, and it's all so beautiful, of how Jimmy will always be protected at his land.

As Jimmy hovered in that half-asleep space, just barely teetering into the realm of unconsciousness, a single, very dangerous, thought crossed his mind. It didn’t truly come from him or the mesa, but rather something in between, something that was both and neither of them. If my power comes from the mesa, then…What if the mesa was everywhere?

Then the sinister of something whispering to both of them, that is like from the thing back in Empires S1 despite me not watching it, I can still feel the dread and I love your fucking gift, please, appreciate me making comments about making the best thing in existence

#fanfic #thank you so fucking much #I love my gift #thank you I will forever have it my bookmarks #empires jimmy #Jimmy will be now killing god #Entropic made Jimmy be the heart of the mesa

5 notes · View notes

shembl · 1 year

Text

Moby Dick FNP Chapter 3 - In the Inn

Hello again, it’s time for what turned out to be a really long chapter compared to the last few eh? this took us two or three sittings on stream to get through on stream a year or so ago. Anyway, for those new; this is where My friend Andy (A proper writer!) and I (A fool) read through Moby Dick very slowly and attempt to make it a bit easier to read while probably massively misinterpreting things. This Chapter’s TL;DR is

-Ishmael stares at a painting and gets really annoyed about it -Everything around the painting is a nightmare hellbutcher dungeon kind of aesthetic -The guy who runs the place is a manic prankster called Peter Coffin -The best character in the book turns up, he’s called Bulkington and everyone loves him. He is also probably a ghost and I think he dies offscreen later on? -Ishmael’s room gets double-booked and he spends about 15 minutes hiding in the bed staring at his bedmate who doesn’t know he’s there, and then acts like it was his bedmate who was the problem. -Ishmael’s bedmate is Queequeg, who is the best actual character in the book even if there’s some weird racists shit surrounding him.

Anyway, enjoy or don’t, your call.

Chapter 3: In the Inn

So, you walk into this inn, right, and it looks like shit, like an old fucked up boat they dragged onto land and forced into being a house. And at the other end of it there’s this painting. No matter which way you look at it, it’s shit, incomprehensible, nightmarish, like something from the Age of Hags, a gross splat of bad imagery in a frame. You look at it from every angle, stand all over the place, ask the people nearby, they don’t know what’s up either, but maybe, you more you look at it and calm down a bit and you think ‘nah it’s not that bad actually’ and then your senses come back and you’re like ‘no it is bad.’

That’s my review of the painting.

It was shit, but there’s a lot of things you can say about shit. To me it looks like a lot of things, heaths, elemental conflicts, midnight gales, some awful time-smashing cataclysm, seas; which you know I’m a big fan of, but mostly I think it looked like a massive fish.

Maybe it’s just that I had fish on my mind, but my mind was telling me there was a fish on that painting.

That’s how art is sometimes I guess.

Then it clicked though, it was actually a ship all fucked up and crashed with a whale doing a sweet jump over it, but sweet turned to sour for this aquatic lad, as he’s only gone and speared himself on all of three of the ship’s masts.

Total lunacy.

I wouldn’t paint it.

What kind of mad bastard would hang a painting like that?

Probably the same kind of mad bastard who would hang up a load of monster-mode clubs and other weapons. You’ve got your clubs with teeth in them, you’ve got clubs with hair in them, you’ve got spears and harpoons and lances and every other form of pointed stick that’s ever been used to cause harm.

There was even a sickle which had a shape to it which I can only describe as being like a long-armed lawn mower. Make of that what you will, for I dare not to dwell on it.

There was also this absolutely legendary harpoon that was all jacked up by the ravages of time, sea and whale, so that it now looked more like a corkscrew. People said it had once been used by a really cool and handsome whale slayer, he chucked it so hard at a whale's arse that even though the whale got away it came out through the whale's head years later.

Moving further in, you begin to figure out what this place is about. It’s a theme bar, and the theme is death. Death and whales.

It’s all covered in dusty, cracked and fucked up bottles and other glasswares, and at one end there’s a massive whale jaw so big you could use it as the foundation for a 6-person tent if you were a serial killer.

But this was no tent, not right now any way, this was a nest for a tiny man, dangerous eyes in his face, and a look about him that suggested he wanted to either get you drunk or kill you.

I could tell from looking at him, this was the kind of barkeeper who was a prick about measures. Always ripping you off and under serving like a villain.

I walked past some sailors who were having a nice time looking at some fish bones and went on up to the landlord and asked about a room. He looked me up and down, and said

“We ain’t got no rooms, but I reckon you’re a whale guy, so go share a bed with another whale guy. It’s just what whale guys do. You ARE a whale guy, ain’t ye?”

I said back to him, “It’s not so much about whether he’s a whale guy or not, I’ll share a bed with anyone, well, not just anyone, it really depends on the person, rather than their occupation, you know? Besides, it’s cold outside.”

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I took a seat on one of those picnic table type tables and took a look around, one guy sat near me was fumbling around between his legs, his eyes were crossed and his tongue was poking out... I looked away after a while.

We went in for dinner, into the coldest room you could imagine, colder than Iceland I would say.

“A fire would be a good idea here.” I said.

“A fire’s too expensive.” said the landlord.

So we sat, shivered, buttoned up our monkey coats, which were just a name for a type of coat, and not actually made out of monkeys, and burnt our lips with hot tea, which we held with half-frozen fingers, which really is pretty confusing if you think about it. What temperature am I supposed to be right now, you know?

The food was nice though, you’ve not just got meat, and not just potatoes, you’ve got both! And not just both! Dumplings as well! Good heavens! dumplings for supper!

One guy was going absolutely bananas over these dumplings (not me)

The landlord said “Me lad, you keep crammin’ down dumplings in such a manner, ye’re likely to have dumpling related nightmares!”

“Landord,” I whispered. “That’s not the guy I’m sharing a bed with is it?”

I was concerned that I might be sharing a bed with someone having nightmares in such a place with so many instruments of cruelty up on the walls as this.

The landlord laughed darkly, in that way people do when they are holding back some info in a way that is very funny from a certain perspective. “Oooooooh no me lad, your bunk-chum don’t bother with no dumplings, he only eats meat.” He laughed again. “Rare meat, the rarest of meats, ye might say.”

“Holy shit.” I said, not picking up on the giggles or anything. “Where is he then?”

“Oh he’ll be here soon.” The innkeeper smirked, laughed, waggled his eyebrows and then refused to make eye contact.

Something in my bones told me that there was something up with this other whale guy, and that if we were going to share a bed, I’d make sure to inspect his naked body before I got in with him. Safety first and all that.

Anyway, food was over and we trickled back to the bar. I didn’t have anything to do so I just kind of sat around looking at people.

All of a sudden there was a massive loud noise, sounded like a riot. Barely had the noise reached my ears when the landlord leapt up onto the table. “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

He must have really liked news from the Feegees.

They all came in, they were a rowdy bunch, especially for a bunch of sailors who looked like shit. Frozen beards and bad patch jobs on all their clothes. They swarmed the bar and started complaining about headaches to the innkeeper, who gave them booze.

Once they were drunk, they got more noisy, so the headache cure (booze) must have worked.

Rowdy as they were, there was one among them who was not so rowdy. He was huge, jacked, handsome, chest broader than a dam and he had nice twinkly eyes that seemed sad, and nice twinkly teeth that would look nice in a smile if only he weren’t so clearly struggling with some inner demons. He tried to hide to hide it though so he didn’t throw off the vibe his pals were enjoying. After a while he left and that’s when I first heard his name. “BULKINGTON!” shouted all of the sailors as they scuttled about the place as one unit, like a man-berg, looking for him. “BULKINGTOOOOON!” It was a great name for such a big lad. I hoped I was sharing a bed with Ol’ bulky. My future shipmate, if not in an actual ship, then perhaps in a little ship called a bed.

Anyway, everyone had gone. It was about 9pm and I had a good plan in my head, a plan that was in my head before all these sailors turned up actually.

Kinda weird that the innkeeper wants me to share a bed with a guy, especially the part about sailors sharing beds, I’ve been on boats and let me tell you, you don’t share a hammock, how can you? They’re all droopy. No, you get your own bed with your own blanket and your own skin to keep all your wet bits in.

Nobody likes to share a bed, it’s a private time. As the innkeeper continued to drill holes in the back of my head with his eyes, I began to have suspicions.

The more I thought about it, the worse this deal was looking, and besides, I was getting tired and wanted to sleep. But if I go to bed in another guy’s bed, which would probably have shitty linens on it because whale guys are gross, then what if I’m asleep and he comes back and he’s like “Who’s this guy in my bed?” that’d be pretty weird for him, but what if he gets the wrong idea and he’s drunk or a serial killer or something and then he just gets naked and gets into bed with me, who knows what he’d do. I didn’t like it.

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

I slapped the bench and winced at all the new splinters that had entered my hand.

The innkeeper looked sad for a moment before some manic energy overtook his face “Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a very uncomfortable bench!”

He hopped over the bar, lathe in hand.

“But wait! Me little Skrimshander, I’ve a lathe, and I’ll have ye snug enough shortly.”

He scuttled over and wiped down the bench with his handkerchief, and then went to town on the bench with his lathe. I thought about moving out of the way, but was paralysed by the ferocity in the man’s approach. He wasn’t looking down at his work, his eyes were fixed on mine and he was grinning like an ape. Over and over the lathe bounced off some indestructible knot in the wood. He was sweating, his arms were shaking and after a while, the strength left his wrists so that he was just sort of daubing away at the wood. His breathing was ragged.

“For god’s sake man!” I plead over and over again. “Stop! It was fine enough before, you don’t need to do this!” and yet still, huffing and puffing he scraped away at his own furniture.

After some time had passed, and I can’t tell you how much time, because I didn’t have a clock, he stopped, winked at me, and scooped up all the shavings, which took a few minutes.

Then he winked again scuttled over to the fire, and threw in all the shavings, a thrifty approach to the fuel crisis he had previously complained about.

Meanwhile, I was covered in sawdust. I was itchy.

I had a test-lay on the bench and it was too short for me, being big and tall, but I also had a big brain, so I figured I could fix that by popping a chair at the end to rest my legs on. The bigger problem was that the bench was a foot too narrow for my big muscly back, being what benches are, and the innkeeper had gone so mental with the lathe that my bed-bench was four inches lower than the other benches, and I didn’t want to ask the guy to lathe this one up because he would probably die, looking at him.

Also it was drafty.

This fucking harpoon guy! What a fucking disaster he was causing for me, the prick. I thought about heading up to his room, stealing his bed and locking the door, force him to knock me awake, that sort of thing, but then what if that pissed him off? He’d probably just punch me. I reconsidered.

I had another look around at this shitty sleeping arrangement I had made for myself and thought, maybe this harpooner isn’t so bad. Maybe sharing a bed with him could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Optimistic I know, but that’s just the kind of guy I am.

Other sailors came in, laughing, being friends and all that, going up to share beds and have a good time, but my harpoon guy, he was nowhere to be seen, and it was already midnight. I’d been waiting for three hours since the last time I looked at the clock. Who knows how long the innkeeper had spent of this time staring me in the face and planing the bench beneath me.

“Landlord!” I said, “what sort of a chap is this guy? Is he always back this late?” I was sleepy, but also annoyed.

“Uhuuhuuhuuhuu” chuckled the innkeeper, darkly, as if he had just heard some mean joke about me. “generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes, he’s the bird what catches all the worms. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

I had no idea why he said the word ‘early’ like that, but this guy clearly had more pressing problems, and so did I.

“What do you mean ‘Can’t sell his head?” I made air-quotes to show that this was an insane thing to say to a guy. I was fucking pissed, livid. “Are you trying to tell me that this guy is out there on a saturday night, or now technically a sunday morning since it’s so fucking late, trying to sell his head around town”

“That’s precisely it,” said the innkeeper, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.” He waggled his eyebrows.

I was getting really, really angry about all of this, I needed to get on a boat. “With what?” I shouted.

The innkeeper grabbed his own head by the ears. “With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“Stop fucking about, Innkeeper. What are you going on about?” I’d calmed down a little bit. “Calm down with this weird chat, I’m not green.” Green is what you call people in Sailor language when they’re a bit new or daft.

“May be not,” He took out a stick, and in an instant, whittled it into a toothpick with his lathe. “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ‘ere harpooneer hears you a’slanderin’ his head.”

I lost my shit. “I’ll break his fucking head then if that’s what it comes to!” Really needed to get on a boat.

“It’s broke a’ready,” The Innkeeper said

“Broke?” I said “how do you mean, broke?”

“It’s broke! and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as a big mountain in a snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, you keep going on and telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories which frankly, invoke upon me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connection, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree.”

I had once or twice in the past dabbled with the legal profession, and thought that this might have been a good opportunity to scare an old man with courtroom talk.

“I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to retract that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no intention of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

I folded my arms and snorted in that way I always assumed lawyers would do after making a good case.

“Wheeeeeeell,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

My case was lost, the landlord was making total sense. He wasn’t trying to trick me into anything, all that weird laughter must have just been his normal laugh, and he was thinking of something funny, like clowns or a puppet show he might have seen earlier on.

Still, a literal head salesman sounded like a pretty sketchy prospect to me, and I wasn’t super keen on sharing a bed with a guy who does weird cannibal shit.

“This guy sounds fucking nuts” I said. “You’d better be careful around guys like that, Innkeeper.”

“He pays reg’lar,” The Innkeeper said “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed; Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lit a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

He was really keen on me coming, and that seemed reasonable enough since he was taking me to my bed, so I followed him, all good.

We got to the room and the bed was massive. Enormous, you could fit four harpooneers in it, even if they were massive like that Bulkington guy. A four Bulkington bed, what a thought!

“There,” said the innkeeper, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table, thrifty!; “there, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” after a while I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

I took a closer look at the bed, it wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t too bad, and it was still enormous. Besides the crazy chest there wasn’t much else in terms of furniture, just a few shelves and a big drawing of a guy hitting a while and a bunch of harpooneer paraphernalia including a big harpoon and a hammock.

Hammocks, famously, are for sleeping on. I thought it seemed insane that we had come to this; planing down a bench, sharing a bed with a head salesman, and yet no fucking mention had ever been made that there was a spare hammock going. Insanity. There even loads of hooks just strung about the place, it wouldn’t be hard to set up.

There was an object on the chest, being naturally inquisitive, I grabbed it, sniffed it, licked it, looked at it, sniffed it again, held it far away and looked at it again. It looked like a doormat, but it had holes in it like clothes.

What kind of monster human would wear something so deranged?

I put it on out of interest, it was itchy and damp. I imagined this harpooneer must have been using it like some kind of raincoat.

I found a big shard of glass and looked at my reflection in it.

It looked like shit. I ripped it off my body so furiously and hastily that I pulled a muscle in my neck.

I thought about this Harpooneer and his doormat, and slowly started to undress. First my coat, what’s the deal with selling heads? Guy must be crazy. Then my smaller coat that I wear underneath the other one. Who wears a doormat? I sat there thinking a bit longer, figuring out how naked I could get without tempting fate and having this maniac burst into my room to punch me.

I made a calculated decision, got naked, and bunkered down under the sheets.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about for ages, couldn’t get to sleep. At last I slid off into a light doze, and was nearly there into a proper sleep, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

I held my breath as he entered the room, his little candle didn’t reach me as I shivered under the covers. He put the candle down in the corner and started going through his bag. I couldn’t see his face, until he turned around and then I could. His face was a monster mash hodgepodge of all sorts of colours and shapes. Oh bloody hell he’s been out fighting and his face is covered in cuts and bruises and plasters, I thought, He’d be a horrible guy to share a bed with! But then I remembered hearing stories about people going to New Zealand and getting face tattoos, maybe that’s what had happened to this guy.

He pulled out some weird items from his bag, including an axe and a hairy wallet, then he crammed this weird shrunken head down into the bottom of the bag and then the weirdest part came. He took off his hat and he was mostly bald except for a weird topknot thing on his forehead, awful! Let me tell you, I nearly fucking legged it, faster than I’d have ever eaten a dumpling.

I know it was my ignorance stoking my fear of this guy, but I’d never seen a guy like this before, and my fear, brought on as it was by ignorance was enough to stop me asking what his deal was, so it was like a little vicious cycle with just me in the middle of it, being afraid and thinking about jumping out of the window, but I’d come up a lot of steps to get here, and I didn’t fancy skipping them down to street level. Not naked anyway.

Speaking of naked, he was getting his clothes off now. His chest and arms were covered in the same sort of tattoos as his face. It looked like he’d been in a war for thirty years or so, and now wore the customary thirty-year war checkered plaster shirt. Maybe he was just really into chess, I didn’t know and I didn’t ask.

Then came the naked legs, these pins were tattooed as well, with frog footprints. I assume they were tattoos, it could be that he’d just been climbed on by some sort of exotic lizard which does tattoos as it goes. It’s a big world out there, you can’t ever say you know everything about it. Either way, this guy was a lunatic and I was pretty sure that these heads of his were the heads of his murder victims who were probably his own brothers, because look at him, what a monster! I only hoped that he hated my head so he wouldn’t think to take it with him later on. Heavens! Look at that tomahawk!

He still hadn’t seen me though, fixed as he was on the bag. He fished out some little black figurine, which he seemed to be very reverent about. He popped it in the fireplace and I was confused but thought it looked kinda cool in a way.

The fireplace placement started to make sense when the fella pulled out a bunch of wood shavings (what is it with this town and woodshavings???) and put them around the figure, before lighting them on fire and throwing a ship’s biscuit (or normal biscuit, to sailors like me) on top of it.

He then started making weird noises and then burned his hands quite badly trying to get the biscuit out of the fire. He offered it to the little figure, but it wasn’t interested, so he ate it.

Then he stuffed the figure back into his bag with all the un-ceremony of my shopkeeper bagging my bread.

I couldn’t think of much else he could be getting up to before getting into bed, and frankly, even if there was something I probably didn’t want to see it, so I thought it was about time to make myself known, or else he’d probably find me with his hands shortly.

But the moment I spent deliberating what to say was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he squinted at it, holding it up to the light, stuck his mouth on the handle, and puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke (wow!). The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I yelped, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

I windmilled my entire body away from him, slamming up against the wall, I babbled various apologies and fumbled to get a candle or lantern going so I could explain why I’d been in his bed for so long, just watching him in the darkness without saying anything. I think he got the wrong impression.

“WHO ARE YOU? I’LL KILL YE!” He shouted at me, swishing that flaming pipe-axe around at me, scattering hot ashes around so that they nearly set the bedsheets on fire.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” I shouted, bravely. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak! Tell me who ye be, or damn me, I’ll kill ye!” He continued to spin the axe around.

The innkeeper arrived with a light and a grin, I ran over and clutched at his shirt.

“Don’t be afraid now,” he said, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop grinning!” I squealed, assertively. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a bloody cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here—you sabbee me, I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”

I did not sabbee, I had not idea what this meant.

“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed. Instantly calm.

“Come, Get yerself abed, stranger.” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

#moby dick #ishmael #queequeg #whale weekly #peter coffin #pranks

4 notes · View notes

lethesomething · 4 years

Text

The Ghost and the Witch, part 2

This is a continuation of The Ghost and the Witch (which you can read here), a small Ghost of Tsushima fic that I wrote to Deal With Things, but that needed extra fluff. So have that, I guess. There is also technically (?) smut, in the victorian sense where anything that happens is badly hidden in subtext and obvious symbolic imagery.

“You’re new.”

Jin startles at the voice that seems to come out of the air itself. It has been six days since his uncle brought him to Castle Shimura, and it’s the first time he’s ventured this far out into the garden by himself. The grounds are vast and meticulously kept, but this area feels different, a low corner near the outer wall, mostly obscured by a large cherry tree. The small plot of land is utterly covered in white and pink petals, but it looks like someone is also growing a kitchen garden here.

“Are you the Boy?”

The voice calls out again and this time he spots its owner: a young girl up in the tree. She looks about his age, with two braids coming down her shoulders and dressed in a hakama of some quality. She looks out of place, in as much as anyone looks wrong stuck in a tree.

“What are you doing there?” he asks.

The girl looks down at where she’s perched on a wide branch. “Sitting,” she says.

“Well. Yes, I can see that,” he concedes.

“The view is nice, you should try it sometimes,” she says with a half mocking smile. Then she starts clambering down. “They say lord Shimura has taken in a ward,” she goes on, as Jin takes a few steps forward, unsure of whether he should try to catch her. The girl ignores his panic and hops down in three calculated movements. “So that’s you, yeah?” she says when she drops to the ground.

“Yes,” Jin says, composing himself. “I am Jin.. Lord Sakai.”

The girl does another one of her half-smiles and then finally treats him to a proper bow. “Pleased to meet you, Jin Sakai. I’m ___. My father is the head of the guard.” She points to the nearby tower. “He can see halfway across the island from there.”

“Well it is an important strategic location,” Jin says, parroting his homework from the past few weeks. “Whoever controls the castle, controls the island.”

You tilt your head at him. “Sure,” you say. “It sounds like you’ll fit right in.”

He drifts into your house in the woods like leaves on an autumn wind, a quick slide of the door and suddenly he’s there, a presence that darkens the shadows cast by a late evening.

“Jin?” You look up from your work. “Are you alright?”

He says nothing, and that is answer enough. There’s something wrong with his posture, a slump, a wobble, and you rush up to meet him and pull him into the light of the fire.

“Show me.”

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” he mumbles, while you quickly remove his helmet and place it on the ground, antlers glistening a rusty red.

“What happened?”

“Mongols,” he says, his voice hoarse, “Perhaps a few more than I had anticipated.”

“Were you followed?”

“They’re dead.”

“Alright.” You loosen the straps of his gloves and take them off, before setting to work on his pauldron. The leather is wet, the bands caked in something slick that combines with the shaking of your fingers and makes them difficult to dislodge.

His hands, rough, scarred but surprisingly stable, fold over yours. “Let me.”

“Right,” you say and you hurry to fill a bowl with warm water by the fire. You open a box by the fire and rifle through it, fingers scurrying over boxes and pouches and pots until you find the clearing salts, which you dump in the bowl. When you turn back, Jin has taken off his pauldrons and untied his armor.

You point to a mat by the fire. “Sit.”

“It’s really not that bad, “ he says when you help him out of his chestpiece.

“If you have come here for my help, it’s bad enough.”

He does not argue. He sits quietly while you wipe away the blood and assess his wounds. The gash on his arm is shallow if jagged. But there’s a cut in his side that looks deep. The edges of it are laced with a grey, ashy dust that smells of poison and rot.

You clean it off as best as you can. “We’ll have to hope it is not infected,” you say.

He hums, a low sound that is more of a tremor than a response. You glance up to see his eyes are not looking at you, but through you, glass beads staring into nothingness. You put a palm to his forehead. Fever.

“Stay awake a little longer, Jin,” you find yourself saying, “I need you to hold this.” You smear ointment on his skin and place a piece of silk over it. Then you move his hand there. “Try to push down while I bandage this up.”

He nods absently and you set to work, moving as quickly as you can, trying to ignore the dangerous sway in his form, a mighty tree falling in slow motion. By the time you have bandaged his abdomen and his arm, he has mostly collapsed, barely staying on his knees, his head leaning against your shoulder to remain upright. His eyelids have fallen shut, although you can see his eyes twitch underneath. Perspiration beads on his forehead. “This will have to do,” you whisper.

With effort, you lay him down on the mat and cover him in blankets. His breath is ragged, shallow. You clear away your previous work and prepare a fresh bowl of water and a cloth, which you set by his side.

Outside, the wind howls an angry, desperate roar. You stoke the fire and brew a pot of tea. It will be a long night.

-----

Jin closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of early autumn. The salt in the air mixes with the earthy scent of leaves and wood fires. After his time away at training camp, it feels comforting to return to his uncle’s castle. He stalks the grounds like a cat, reacquainting himself with its many nooks and crannies, taking stock of the small changes in plants and people. The sound of running feet wakes him from his investigation and he turns, smiling to see you racing towards him.

You’re improperly fast, bounding down the path like a wild foal that has just discovered the joy of speed. “Jin!”

You abruptly stop just short of him, then take a breath and bow. “Welcome back, milord,” you say, and Jin has to bite back a laugh at the sudden politeness.

“Thank you,” he manages instead. “What made you so excited?”

You look up with a sparkle in your eye. “The camellia’s started blooming! Come see?”

You turn around and dash off again, your figure a fluttering, billowing sheet tugged off the clothesline by a strong gale, free to whirl and spiral down the path.

Jin shakes his head briefly and follows, measuring his pace while he watches you dance up the steps, until you stop and wait for him.

“You’re slow,” you say when he catches up.

“I’m Deliberate,” he argues.

“Why?”

“A samurai does not rush into things.”

You nod thoughtfully and slow down to match his step. “Did you learn that at camp?”

“I have been learning that for a while,” he says.

“Mmm,” you say, letting your fingers glide through the grass framing the path as you walk beside him.

“What else did you learn?”

He thinks on it a while, and then something resembling a smirk forms on his lips. “I’ve been learning about women,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Ryuzo says I should be careful with them. That some of them are out for my titles and money.”

You do not look convinced. “Who’s Ryuzo?” you ask.

“My friend.”

“Well he sounds like an idiot,” you say, shrugging.

“He’s not,” Jin starts saying, but when he looks toward you, your face is darkened. “Besides,” he says “I’m sure he didn’t mean, uh, you.”

“What I’m ‘women’,” you say in a mock guffaw.

“Depends on the definition,” he huffs.

“Oi!”

Jin chuckles and sets off running toward the cherry tree, now chased by a girl calling him mean.

When he reaches your small garden, the sight stops him in his tracks. The bushes, once a dull green, have sprouted dozens of small, perfectly formed pink and red flowers. They dot the garden like jewels glistening in the sun.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” you say, coming up behind him.

“They are,” he nods.

He reaches out to touch one, fingers brushing over the small, soft petals.

“My mother used to love these,” you say, wistfully running your hands over the leaves. “She’d wear them in her hair. She was so pretty.”

“I can imagine that,” Jin says quietly.

“Huh?”

He turns his attention back to the flowers.

“Why don’t you try one?” he says.

“I sincerely doubt it would suit me, Jin.”

He shakes his head and chooses a perfect red bloom, carefully picking it off the branch. “Here.”

He hands it to you but you just hold it in your palm, staring at it, and then at him.

“What?” he says. “Just try it. It will be like honoring your mother.”

“Right,” you mutter, and slide it into your braid.

“There,” he says. “That looks very nice. I bet your mother’s spirit looks down on you with pride.”

You gently touch the bloom, a soft smile on your face as you look around the garden, resplendent in sunlight. “Maybe,” you say.

----

Jin’s body feels heavy, as if he’s dropping to the bottom of a bog, weighed down with stones and pricked with a thousand knives. His skin burns and his veins are filled with lead.

He’s vaguely aware of movement next to him, of cool cloth soothing his forehead before his spirit sinks down into the muck again.

When he next wakes up, it is to the sound of wind rustling outside. He opens his eyes slowly, and tries to focus on the rafters high above him, laden with drying herbs. The smell of burnt wood hangs in the air and he becomes aware of a dying fire glowing to his side. He turns his head, and the movement feels like hammers pounding on an anvil.

On the ground next to him is a bowl, a pile of bloodied bandages and, a little further on, you, curled up against a stool. Your hair is tousled, your skirts gathered around you and your face buried in your arms in a way that looks uncomfortable.

The light of a winter’s morning seeps through a high window, casting long, stark shadows that stretch stalks into trees and bottles into towering columns. In the midst of it all your sleeping form stands out as an island of light, a sprinkle of silver dust in a sea of shadows.

Jin closes his eyes again and lays back. He’s weary, and the pain sears through his veins, but he no longer feels like he’s drowning. The sack of boulders that sat on his chest has lifted. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Again.”

---

Jin hurries down the steps to the cherry tree and finds you exactly where he expected, sitting amongst the fallen camellia’s. “Hey,” he says when he enters the space.

You do not move, don’t even shiver against the cold of a winter’s evening. “Hey,” you say.

The voice only barely sounds like you. A sound that he remembers being clear and melodious as birdsong is now nothing more than a scraping whisper, a tarnished bell filled with ash and sand.

He approaches carefully. “I came to find you,” he says. “People are worried.”

You shrug.

“I’m sorry,” he adds. “About your father.”

When he hears no response or protest, he takes his scabbard and slowly lays it before him, kneeling on the ground next to you. The two of you sit there, surrounded by the overly sweet, sickly smell of faded flowers.

“He died a warrior's death,” Jin says. “He was protecting this place. Protecting you.”

You say nothing, but he can hear you breathe. A series of choppy inhales, followed by long drawn out sighs.

“I understand,” he says. “How hard it can be. How difficult it is to face that loss. If there’s anything i can do-”

You shake your head. “Just sit with me for a bit?”

Jin nods and folds his hands into his lap. He closes his eyes and focuses on the quiet, on the shadows of the trees looming before him like stone monuments, on the cold sea wind carrying crystals of salt and ice to fill the sky above you.

----

“There’s a good horse.” Jin moves his arm to pat Kage’s mane but stops halfway, wincing at the stabbing pain in his side. “Looks like you’ll be resting here for a bit longer,” he says.

The horse nuzzles his shoulder, whinnying softly. Raindrops drizzle through the trees, cascading on an elaborate journey from branch to branch, only to fall to the moss beneath his feet with a dull, muffled plop.

Moisture fills the air in this small clearing, droplets so thick he can taste them on his tongue. It deepens the shadows and further obscures this place, the house already veiled by layers of green and black like a widow mourning the passing of the summer sun.

Jin carefully unties the bridle and takes it off. The horse immediately shakes out its head. “Feels nice, huh?” Jin says, and he moves to take off the saddle as well. “I’ll brush you down tomorrow, so enjoy the rain on your back while it lasts.”

His movements are slow and deliberate. The horse stomps its hoof.

“Alright, alright,” Jin says when he finally loosens the saddle. “Off you go.” The horse takes a few steps, and the saddle slides off, dropping to the rain scattered ground. “This needs cleaning anyway,” Jin sighs.

He watches as Kage wanders over to a basket of straw he put down and starts munching. Then he takes a deep breath and bends over to pick up the saddle, grimacing at the feeling of being sliced open once more. He straightens and blows out a breath. Kage eyes him from a distance. “Don’t you start,” Jin says.

When he enters the house, the scent that greets him is earthy, the herbs and wood he’s gotten used to now laced with something deep and gamey that makes his mouth water. He sniffs. “Hare?”

“It was in one of my traps,” you say, stirring a pot bubbling over the fire. “I figured you could use the strength.”

With that, you get up and take the saddle and bridle from him. “How are you feeling?”

“About the same as the last time you asked,” he says. “I’m… fine.” He walks over to the fire to sit down, and tries his very best not to flinch. He fails.

You give him a weary look.

“But I could probably use the strength,” he adds.

You nod and prop up the horse tack to dry. “How is he,” you ask.

“Stubborn.”

Another weary look.

“You don’t have to worry about Kage,” Jin says. “He’s not wounded, and he’s fine wandering around the forest for a bit.”

With a nod, you return to your cooking.You throw some chopped burdock root in the pot, and millet to thicken it. The feeling of being watched makes you look up.

Jin sits, watching you make stew with a soft grin on his face.

“What?” you say.

“Nothing,” he chuckles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“But?” you ask, returning to your work.

“There was a time when I would wonder what it could be like,” he says. “If you were to make something like this for me. Lord Shimura’s cook said you were quite talented, though I don’t think she approved of the random plants you’d bring in.”

You laugh. “One of the teas I brewed for her did end up giving everyone strange dreams,” you say.

He blinks at you.

“It was an accident,” you add.

“Of course,” he says. “Either way, I used to imagine scenarios like this, embarrassing as that may be.”

“Were you half-dead in those daydreams, Jin?”

“No,” he says. “I was quite healthy, and content, and we were living in Omi.”

You nod, as if you can see the images yourself. “That would have been nice.”

He watches in silence for a while, matching the pictures from his teenage dreams to the vision in front of him. The girl, the woman, the fire and the smell of game. The knicks on your hand and the frayed edges on your garment. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You smile and shake your head. “Life rarely goes how we imagine it as children.” Then you sit back. “Do you regret it?” you ask softly. “Looking back on everything now?”

You’re not the first to ask, and the answer is no different now. “The actions I chose,” he says, voice only slightly hoarse this time. “I would do them all again.”

You nod. “That’s alright then.” And with that you pick up a small bowl and scoop it full of stew, before handing it over. “It’s not the most glorious meal you’ve ever had, but it will do.”

The two of you eat in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of crackling fire and the occasional huff outside, from Kage plodding around in the clearing in front of the house.

“This is good,” he says.

You nod. “Of course it is.”

“I should have known you’d be confident,” he snorts. “You never did hold back to try and seem more proper.”

“I held back plenty,” you say, and put down your chopsticks. “But also, you barely ate in days. This stew would have to be pretty bad for you not to enjoy it.” You put the bowl to your lips and tip it back, savouring the spiced sauce.

“Still, it is pretty good,” Jin nods, munching happily.

“I’m glad I got to taste your cooking after all. It’s close to how I imagined.”

You smile softly. “Good,” you say.

----

The salted air stings your face as you survey the world from the guard tower. You can see halfway across the island from here. Your eyes follow the coastline north to the snowy covered flanks of the mountains, and south all the way to the swamps, with Kaneda Castle rising above them.

Below your feet, waterfalls pour down into the sea, an endless gurgling that was always so familiar to you, but now feels distant and annoying.

“There you are.” Tetsuo, who used to be one of your father’s men, comes climbing up the ladder. He’s a friendly sort. Broad shouldered and scruffy. “I was sent to find you. The cart is ready.”

“Alright.”

The man watches you for a moment, while you take in the views one last time. He fidgets when your eyes come to rest on the main tower of the castle, its highest floors home to the lord and his nephew. “Do you, uh, need a moment?” he says carefully.

The tower feels oddly imposing in the light of early morning, its height looming over the grounds and the people below, a stone monument against a lead sky.

There’s no fires there at this time. There’s barely any movement. Just still halls and the shuffling of servant feet as they try to remain invisible and unheard, mice in their own home.

You shake your head and turn to Tetsuo. “I’m fine,” you say. “Let’s go.”

---

The muffled tones of a flute come floating out of your house when you return from the forest with a belt of wood and some mushrooms you found.

The melody is soft and a little nostalgic, a sound both melodious and weary at the same time.

Jin concentrates on his breathing, a steady, stable pace to produce the right notes, but then you drift into the house like a fluttering bird, carrying the winter wind on its wings. He can smell the promise of snow on the air as you flit by in a whirl of fabric and drop a few logs next to the fire.

“Oof,” you say, and you rub your hands in the soft glow of the hearth.

Jin puts down his flute. “Are you cold?”

“It’s freezing out,” you reply, shrugging off your coat and shawl.

“I made tea,” he says. “Why don’t you sit for a minute.” He leans forward and pours two cups from a small pot. The wound in his side stabs in protest, but it no longer makes him flinch.

You hang up your coat and kneel beside him, taking the cup in both hands and breathing in the fragrant steam.

Your eyes flutter closed and Jin watches as your face, flushed from the cold, relaxes into a smile. He carefully takes the blanket that’s draped over his shoulders and extends it to cover yours.

Then he leaves his hand there, a gentle weight at your back. He can feel you tense for a moment, before you relax again and take a sip.

“I made room for Kage in the shed,” you say. “Put some animal skins on him too. He should be alright for tonight.”

“Thank you,” Jin whispers.

“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you.” You hold the cup to your chest, staring at the fire.

“My wound is better,” he says. “And I still need to liberate this island.”

“And then?” The words hang in the air like a puff of smoke, drifting ever upwards but refusing to dissipate.

Jin quietly sips his tea, the warmth of it welcoming but edged with a hint of bitterness from the burnt leaves. “I don’t know,” he says.

He moves his hand further to your side and finds that you lean into his warmth. “I care for you,” he finally says. “Always have. But you already knew that.”

You nod mutely.

“I don’t know what could have happened, or what would…”

“We are very different people now,” you say, and your voice sounds oddly far, a faint whisper beneath the crackling of fire.

“True,” Jin says. “But we’re here now.”

You look up at him and your wide eyes hold a sky’s worth of stars. That same spark he saw so long ago, buried but ever burning beneath it all. He gently kisses your forehead.

And when you don’t pull back, he kisses your temple, and the top of your cheek, right beneath your eye. “Do you want this?” he asks.

You hesitate for a moment, eyes searching the lines in his face, the scars on his brow. Then you put down the cup and let your fingers smooth back his hair, trace the line of his jaw. “I do,” you say, and you lean in to touch his lips to yours.

Flames lick at the logs in the hearth, a slow, burning heat that consumes everything in its path. It spreads an orange glow that lights up the inside of the hut, growing shadows from teacups and lining the two bodies moving there in a copper gleam.

The fire simmers slowly, steadily throughout a cold winter’s night. It sparks and sizzles, breathing warmth and life into the darkness.

And it burns, and burns, through that night, until all that’s left in the cold light of morning is a faint glow drawn from spent wood, and soft breaths under layers of blankets.

#jin sakai x reader #ghost of tsushima #fanfic #fluff #technically smut?#comfort fic

204 notes · View notes

gottagobuycheese · 3 years

Note

4, 5, 7 for the writing meme. Thanks!

(Writing meme)

Thank YOU for indulging me with these questions, and sorry for taking so long to answer! What is possibly my final finals season just about wrapped up, and I couldn’t think about anything else until it did (so fingers crossed it really has wrapped up lmao). So without further ado, here are some unnecessarily long answers!

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Ideas as in “I am actively working on this/making notes about it” or ideas as in “I have daydreamed about it at least once”? Because there’s…definitely way more of the second than the first lol.

But if we’re talking the former, then the thing that’s currently gripping my mind is a (hopefully) short post-true ending Undertale fic in which Undyne and Asgore catch up over tea and somehow get around to talking about the nature of human souls and what it what it takes to actually collect one (i.e. what it took to really, truly perma-kill a human). The problem is I don’t remember how much each character actually knows about the subject, so I’m rewatching a pacifist playthrough as “research” — and also falling back headfirst into the vast plethora of content that exists for the source material, predictably. It’s been a good few years since I was this fixated on it, which is great news for me because there is SO MUCH stuff to catch up on! (Tangentially, I guess it was kind of predictable, since I always seem to fall back into some kind of comfort video game around finals season, but usually it’s Ace Attorney, so this is new.)

In terms of the second, an idea that has been pretty solidly in daydream territory for a while is some kind of Stranger x Nobody Knows crossover fic in which (Senior) Inspector Han and (possibly former) Detective Cha cross paths for some reason. I have no idea what I’d want from it plot/content-wise, so I doubt it’ll ever be much more than a vaguely entertaining impression in my head, but I just think it’d be cool to see those two interact XD

Sadly neither of these things are the things I’m ACTUALLY supposed to be working on, so they probably (hopefully) won’t be done for a while.

5. Share one of your strengths.

 Ah, one of my least favorite interview questions. Uh, I guess I have fun writing dialogue, and it definitely tends to come easier than other aspects of writing (like DESCRIPTION, blegh). Plus I have been told that it makes people laugh sometimes, which is usually my goal — or makes them feel Painful Feelings, which is my other goal that unfortunately rarely makes it to the publishing phase — so I will count that as a success! And therefore a strength of some sort.

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it. 

Oof, this is a hard one, haha. There is a subtle yet important difference between saying why you like something versus saying why you’re proud of something, but I shall try to veer more toward the latter since that’s the actual question.

As it turns out, being more comfortable with dialogue means that most of my stories end up being pretty dialogue-heavy, which I just discovered when flicking through fics to borrow a snippet from, but if we’re going with strictly prose, then this bit from a long-ish comedic Good Omens fic I still haven’t figured out all the plot points to was fun to write:  

In literature, funerals are often held in the pouring rain. This is because, in literature, authors can carefully describe how grief-stricken the attendees are, how their water-logged clothes, heavy and cold, cannot begin to compare to the weight of the sorrow that drags them down, how it pulls at their body, hangs from their shoulders and backs and legs and soul, begging them to join their loved ones in the ground. They can describe how the heavens themselves weep for the dead, that the earth, for once, pauses in its frantic flurry of activity, takes a moment to mourn what it has lost, and grieve for those who are left behind.

Of course, grief is complicated. Authors understand this. Sometimes the attendees are angry, and so the funerals are sunny, and the attendees are angry because the world dares to keep spinning on its axis even when theirs has ground to a halt. They are angry because the heavens won’t hide their tears for them, won’t admit they did something wrong, taking away someone who was so loved, so cherished, so good. They are angry because their heartache isn’t enough, doesn’t nearly encompass the gaping void torn in their reality, doesn’t do the dead justice. The earth and the skies and the seas ought to be mad with grief as well. Thunderstorms, gale-force winds, surging tides and shaking stone. How dare the world imply it’s no great loss?

Or maybe the funerals are held in the snow, because grief is cold and numbing and relentless, and no amount of warm soup or thick blankets or knitted mittens will make it better, fill the hollow misery the way one can fill a grave with soil and ice crystals. No one really wants to be there, socks soaked through and half-asleep from the chill, but sometimes you need to slog your way through those waist-deep banks of grief anyway, that frigid, dull, powder-white pain, focus only on how your teeth chatter and your fingertips turn blue and put all the rest of it aside for later, when it’s warm again. If it will ever be warm again.

Or perhaps the author just likes snow.

I get to ramble about some of my favorite kinds of weather for three paragraphs?? Count me IN

Anyways, I think it did a good job of keeping with the vaguely whimsical tone of the rest of the story, despite this being the opening to a (fake) funeral scene. And yeah, maybe it’s a bit excessive and heavy-handed, but it fits the context well enough and has some actual Imagery™, not to mention that it actually segues somewhat neatly into the next bit, so I think it did its job — which is all I can really ask for, so I’ll be proud of that! It’s a bit of a narrative reprieve from the dialogue-and-emotions heavy previous scene and the comedic shenanigans of the subsequent scene. Which would probably also be quite dialogue heavy, except for the part where I haven’t written it yet sjkdhfskf

#ask #Cheese talks #I tried to type this out twice and accidentally tabbed out of the page and had to start over #so I kept putting off actually starting again #but THIS TIME I made sure to copy and paste as I went #and also just type out everything on a separate note and then just copy/paste it here #thank you again for this!#it was fun to look through old writing #but gosh I sure would like to finish some of those some day #lots of ideas but very few actual Stories #and now that I have all the time I could possibly want I don't want to do anything #writing ask meme #my brain is still very much in drawing mode and not writing mode #but hopefully it'll shift into more writing mode soon #because there's a lot of stuff I need to finish writing before getting back into Obligations #ANYWAYS FEEL FREE TO ASK MORE #SO I CAN START THINKING IN WORDS AGAIN INSTEAD OF JUST PICTURES #drivingsideways

9 notes · View notes

roc-thoughtblog · 3 years

Text

Sense and Sensibility Readthrough Part 6

Chapter 9, Pages 34-39

Previously, I spent a whole hour on Chapter 8 because Marianne has a most amusing inability to understand anybody with the barest smidgen of emotional reserve, or anybody older than 27 in general.

In the end I spent my whole hour on chapter 9 too; this time it was "animating gales" that set me off on a tangent. I have no regrets though, I feel like I understand Austen's writing style just a bit better out of that.

I am starting to think my reading pace for Idoru just doesn’t translate to S&S though. Asides from tangents, maybe also for the relative density of the language in S&S, so maybe 5page/hour is just my Austen rate. We’ll see.

I did used to also spend 2 or more, uncounted hours, but part of this blog is that I also want to learn to pace myself and be aware of my time, so I’ll be sticking to one hour reading sessions and optionally an extra hour on something else.

Readthrough below.

Chapter 9 Dashwoods getting used to their new home; especially being able to be themselves again without worrying about Fanny, I bet. Relatable. Apparently they're consistently busy with hobbies at home (apparently Sir Middleton has none at home). And they're enjoying long, lushly described walks around the local area. Declined to do as much socialising as Sir M, but really who does as much socialising as Sir M?

GASP! Margaret still exists! :D

She's gone out to the hill to play with Marianne! I forgot that they're both kids, tween and teenager. They have that rare opportunity to simply be carefree.

when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, [...] they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face.

Haha, hubris! This section gives me pause to make a few observations though:

Firstly, this entire section is perhaps the most vivid and alive I can remember Austen describing anything: "exquisite enjoyment of air on the summits, "partial sunshine of a showery sky", "animating gales", and more. She can seriously paint a picture when she feels the narrative need; very rapid-fire showers of imagery, some of it even in-motion! The whole animating gales lines I really love, it has so much cool and vivid energy that I can really feel. Ah! I suppose that tactile element of the wind really lends it that extra, beautifully immersive dimension too. Note to self: settings do not have to be still, and even though it's often said, it bears reminding that it really pays to complement visuals with other senses. Oh! The animating gales line is also very Gibson-esque; it artfully combines all of the movement, tactile and emotional qualities of a refreshing wind to the face into a single wholistic, elegant feeling.

Secondly, I feel like this line illustrates really well one technique that Austen uses a lot, that gives part of the cheeky and sardonic feel of her narration. The one where she sets up or builds an expectation that might be positive, and then very abruptly and dryly (with no fanfare) subverts it and lets it completely bottom out without warning, turning all the positives upside-down. I've observed her previously using it to "compliment" her own characters, and I referred to it as "backhanded", but here with the scenery I'm starting to pick up the actual mechanism behind it. Is there a name for this? I'm going to call it an Austenism, for something to refer to it as, until I find out if it has a proper name. Either way I'm going to be more conscious of it from here on out.

Lastly, will Margaret ever talk? Poor girl finally had a chance to speak and all she got was "Margaret agreed." :'D

Anyway they try to run back home, because driving rains. Aww yess, running down a grassy hill in a heavy rain, I genuinely love that feeling. Marianne trips and twists her ankle. Oops, thats always a risk, I admit.

A rainswept stranger with a gun and two dogs stops to princess-carry her all the way down the hill home and into a comfy seat. Wow, she might love that. HAHA Elinor and Mama Dashwood both secretly think he's attractive. Does he leave without a word? Not as such, but the scene has no dialogue, so we are left quite deliberately to admire an "uncommonly handsome" and charming stranger in full air of mystery. Might also be because this chapter has so far been from Marianne's perspective, and being picked up by a romantic stranger out of the rain has probably destroyed her ability to remain situationally aware.

Mama Dashwood is so pleased. This guy's name is Willoughby apparently, he's too polite to stay and sit his rainy butt down on a fancy couch, and he's going to come again tomorrow to check that Marianne is okay.

and then he departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of an heavy rain.

HAHA- Austen knows what she's doing here. I wonder how commonly she read such tropes in her time, to skewer them so much right now? "His manly beauty" HAHAHA it keeps going.

Marianne's completely flushed and totally overwhelmed by everything. He comes straight out of Marianne's favourite romance novels! She's definitely about to be completely infatuated if she's anything like some of my friends were back then. Yep, she's already decided that his shooting jacket is the most attractive jacket.

I have a feeling he's so perfect for Marianne in a such a completely cliched way that he's probably gonna get hella subverted before the end.

They find out from Sir Middleton the social butterfly that Willoughby comes down every year and is generally a nice bloke. HAHA Marianne wants to know everything about him in full infatuation mode, and Sir M is just like, "What? Iunno girl, but hey did you see his really awesome dog? What a good pupper."

Elinor asks better questions, as Elinor do. Reminds me of D&D when only one player remembers to ask the DM actual plot questions (usually me... ;>.>). Willoughby's related to that old lady nearby with the big estate and due to inherit it. Well, that sure is conventionally eligible.

Sir Middleton still seems convinced that Marianne and Colonel Brandon have an attraction and that Marianne is setting about on a new "conquest." Rude. Marianne (”warmly”) gives him a real piece of her mind about that. I would too. Sadly it's all wasted on Sir M's somewhat limited comprehension.

Only a few pages again today before I ran overtime. I'm starting to suspect I'm just not going to pick up any pace until I get familiar enough with Austen's writing that I'm not encountering something new to ruminate on the middle of every chapter.

#scraping into 1200 words #yeah i guess i had some Thoughts #Jane Austen #Sense and Sensibility #readthrough #novels

1 note · View note

insomniac-dot-ink · 6 years

Text

The Maiden and the Bog Hag

Genre: fantasy, mythology, wlw

Words: 7k

Summary: A maiden betrothed to the crown prince frequents a bridge that a bog hag lives under

they begin to chat

WordPress ⭐Ko-Fi ⭐Patreon

warning: for injury and some disturbing imagery

I was a little over 400 years when she arrived. Young for the ages, old for what I used to be.

I felt the vibrations before I saw her: dainty feet, an uneven tilt to her steps, sloppy, like pancakes hitting the hot skillet and scattering. I bet my last five teeth that she was a late-walker, late to crawl, late to lumber across my path.

My lips curl back and I grin wildly, not like something like that would matter after this.

She takes five steps across the wooden planks, barefoot, like she was tempting me with a prayer, then stops. I wait for another minute for those prime pale ankles to come within my reach, but she just stands there.

I peak quietly out of the hole and scowl when I saw a head sticking down over the edge of the railing. Rivers of lank blonde hair cascade toward the water, a small face, frowning slightly, nose wrinkled and eyes sharp- like needle points or homing beacons.

They were pale green eyes under expressive eyebrows, thick and rounded for her small face.

Her mouth quirked to the side and her nose was too big for her small features, I snort loudly. She was wickedly beautiful, I would eat her now if she wasn’t looking at me with the directness only arrogance can summon.

I present my darkened teeth to her, spreading my long thin fingers out and leaning into the dim light, the muddy water parts around me.

“Well, well, well,” I flex my fingers and make the ripples dance, “they really do serve themselves up on a platter these days.” I lick my lips rapaciously.

The young woman just makes her hair flutter as she tilts her head, still observing me upside down. “I don’t think so.” She finally says and then flashes me her fine fingers, chubby and small to match her figure. One golden rose ring shines from her pointer finger, I hiss.

“Royal brat.” She shrugs and finally stands up to peer down at me, “come out.” I scowl, “you may have immunity, but I don’t take orders. You are all temporary,” I squat down into the sludge and pout, “I am the trees and wind. You will pass, I will not.” “Yeah, yeah,” she flicks her wrist, “I just wanna see.” I slit my eyes, “what the inside of my belly looks like? I’d be happy to accomodate.” She could only be around 18, young, blithe, angry about something I couldn’t guess at.

She cushions her chin on her folded arms and blinks down, “I wish I looked like you.” I make a face, more of one than usual, “The little girl wants the devil under her skin. How special.” The girl rolls her eyes in a magnificent circle, “I’m not little.” She says loudly, “and you know what I mean.” I am overtaken with a strange puzzlement with the girl, “what’s your name little bird?” She scowls, “Not. Little.” She repeats, “I’m almost 20 and I’m not dumb enough to give my name to a witch.” I shrug, “it seemed like you were.” “Ugh,” she leans over the railing, “I wish all I had to do was sit under a bridge and tease strangers. And my mom says I’m the ungrateful one.” “Tease and then eat them,” I say in a exasperated tone, “you’re leaving out the most important part. The fun one.”

She hums lowly, “what do people taste like?” I smack my lips together, “like juicy juicy pig meat, but more tender.” She laughs with a rich tin sound, “liar.” I frown at her, “don’t you have places to be? You are a royal.” She scrunches her face up and pushes her loose blonde hair back, “Why do you think I’m here? I’m trying not to have things to do.” I look her up and down, “I don’t remember being invited to the birth of such a brat. Is that Hessia family spurning me again?” She sighs loudly, “Nah.” The girl reaches into her pocket and shines another ring in my direction, “I’m not from here.” “Ah,” I mull that over for a second, “it’s good thing they already extended their immunity to you. Just remember to invite me to the wedding or I’ll-” “Or you’ll unleash the gale force winds and raise the water and curse our children. I’ve heard.”

My eyebrows buckle inward into a grimace, “do they not have manners where you’re from,” I ask mildly, “or are you simply in the mood to push your luck?” I wander further out of my tunnel, feeling the pale sun bathe my earthy hair, covered in twigs and dirt and the wiggling life of one bird pecking for earthworms.

I can feel the girl stiffen as she examines me, taking in the puffy green skin and wrecked knuckles, parched mouth, the hunch of my back and long mud-caked gown. I smile so wide I think I might crack my face in half.

She places her chin on her arms again, “I’m not here to have manners.” She says in a small voice, “you don’t have any, as I can tell. Why should I?” She sighs, “what’s this bargain with the devil again?” I shake my head, “too high a price.” I’m not sure if I say that part aloud or not. I turn my chin upward, eyes glowing ember yellow and long nose catching the light. I am now fully exposed in the swampy waters, “Are you sure you still want to look like me then lovely bird?” She raises her eyebrows, “Oh yes,” she says simply, “who wouldn’t?” She turns around, “Prince Jace will probably send out the dogs if I am gone any longer, but,” she pushes her hair aside and looks over her shoulder, “I’m Tuck.” “Tuck,” I roll the name around my tongue and try to consume the vowels and suck the life out of the rolling sound. I frown.

“Not my real name, obviously,” she says with a smirk, “but everyone calls me that. Or used to.” She shrugs again.

I’m still gnashing on something I can’t quit chew, “fascinating. Of course,” I give her a flat look, “Tuck.” She waves, “they told me there was a powerful Bog Hag in these parts,” she examines me, “it was nice to meet you.”

Now she has manners.

The strange girl turns around and starts walking. I grin after her and imagine sinking my teeth around her pale throat, letting the red droplets spill out and color my muddy brown waters. I blink a couple times and then grumble about the royals. They could always do more to me, apparently including being nuisances.

Tuck’s unsteady footsteps disappear without a trace and I close my eyes to sink into the warm earth again.

I was around 400 at the time, young for the steady trees and arching rivers, old for what I used to be.

-------------------------

“On a scale of one to ten, how clever do you actually find fairies?” Tuck was sitting on the edge of the water, skirt tucked under her and feet narrowly close to the lapping pond in front of her.

I want to sigh in exasperation, “go home little birdie,” I wave my hand in the air, “your presence isn’t requested here.” She hums loudly and glances up, “that isn’t even a proper answer. Are centaurs truly as health-obsessed as they say? My uncle met one and he said all the poor fellow could talk about is his kneecaps and the next plague. A right hypochondriac.” My left eyebrow twitches, “why don’t you go ask one?” Tuck leans her head up and looks up toward the dappled sunlight, “does it looks like I know many mythics?” She says loudly, “I’m asking you.”

I glower over at her, “you must have books.” I sneer, “rooms full of them I hear, houses full.” Tuck crosses her arms over her chest and frowns slightly, “and what would the court say? That’s what Matilda would remind me. The future queen burying herself in otherworldly material.” Tuck sighs noisily, “I would never get away with it.” “But you get away with conversing with a bog hag?” I remind her pointedly, mostly so I could return to my hunting. “How progressive.” She cracks an almost-smile, “oh yes, they call it a glorious new diplomatic mission.” She lifts her chin up, “for only the foreign queen of course. Taking up friendship with the local terrors.”

I hum loudly, “I take it they think you’re out riding.” She doesn’t look back at me, “they think I’m out weeping.” She takes a deep breath in and glances over at me, “a Kiliok tradition before a wedding.”

“Kiliok,” I roll that word around in my mouth, “A northern Queen, very well.” She doesn’t so much as nod as keep staring, “do you know of us?” I shrug, destabilizing clumps of dirt that roll down my shoulder tops, “I know of many things.” That same smile ghosts over her lips again, “cool.” I shake my head and my eyes pour of the warm waters, “you know, perhaps you are safe from me eating you, but there are other scarier things in this forest.” I hit her with a hard look, “it’s old. And the earth here is not as kind as me.” She looks nonplussed, “scarier than you?” She grins boldly, “I highly doubt it.” I huff shortly, “perhaps you should act like it.” I say hotly, “and leave. That’s what you do when you’re scared if you’d like to know.” “So touchy!” Tuck says boisterously, “it almost sounds like you like to be alone.” She winks and I feel for the nearest large fish.

“How did you guess?” I say in a flat tone and she laughs.

“Go on,” she says cheerily, “catch something.” My lips curl back again, “you’re already here.” “Oh come now, we already had this out.” She curls her legs up into her chest, reminding me of a child or a cat. “I want to be you and you want to eat me, neither of us can have what we want.” I give her one last placid look before plunging my hand into the water, my long nails pierce the fish before it can even twitch. It was larger, the largest one I had in months, I smile greedily.

I wrench the catfish from the waters and holding it’s flopping body in my hands, “watch carefully young queen,” my eyes gleam, “you may learn something.” I dig my teeth into it’s moist flesh and wait for it to stop squirming, tearing at it’s soft meat.

“Cool,” is the last soft word I hear before I dig in, I would be rolling my eyes all over again if I wasn’t preoccupied.

Tuck is still there when I finish, and asks me how I find Roc’s- were they slightly above dog intelligence or was it true you could hold a conversation with one? I try to fade back into the muddy waters and we bicker about which weather God’s were the most superior.

-------------------------

“I don’t suppose you ever leave this place.” I come to expect her weekly visit, I don’t turn around this time when she approaches.

“Not like you do princess,” I say soberly as I ooze my way back towards the mid-day sun, she always comes at mid-day.

“Ha, right.” She says with a slight grunt as she takes her usual seat by my waters. “You could go wherever you please though.” I raise my eyebrows, a stick falls down and bumps my cheek before making a silent ploop into the water. I trace patterns in the algae in front of me, “And where would I go?” Tuck makes a soft sound, “I dunno, another swamp? Triste? The coasts? You must have hobbies.” I fix her with an even look, “Between you and the fisherman I’m afraid I have no time for hobbies.” I say lightly and she lets out her little snorting laugh.

“I’m serious.” I shake my head, “I’m as bound to this swamp as you are bound to the land instead of sky.” I say slowly, “it’s how it is.” She just nods a little sardonically, “finally, straight answers.” I sigh loudly, “have you come to quiz me again about dwarven bathing habits?” She just smiles with a little shrug, “that and, unfortunately, it seems Jace will have me do all the work for him.” “The Hessia’s usually do,” I peer down at my long nails, “what is it?” Her large green eyes hold me for a second, “Are you free next friday?” I have the decency to grin widely, “let me check my calendar.”

Tuck returns the wicked smile, “I was told it was best to invite the local powerful mythics,” she winks, “wouldn’t want to snub anyone.” “After all the other visits?” I grumble, “I wouldn’t mind being snubbed at this point.” “Come now,” she says lightly, “Scare a few nobles, get a free meal, remind the world that’s it’s mortal and weak and easily eaten by strange green ladies. You must like being invited to these things for a reason.”

“It’s a matter of honor,” I say with pointed enunciation, “respect.”

She examines you again, “I see.” “No you don’t.” I snap back and she laughs once more.

“Always so prickly!” She tuts, “you’re lucky I like you or I wouldn’t invite you to my wedding.” “You just like oddities,” I say in a nasally voice, “bored nobles like yourself so easily lose their common sense,” I eye her, “but I’ll come.” I smile widely, “I do like to see the children’s faces when I arrive.” “That’s the spirit,” she beams. “Now,” she settles down, “do you think the God’s of night are better lovers than those of the sun? I’ve heard rumors going both ways.” “Of course the moon ones are better,” I say as I settle down deep into the silt of the pond bed, my head exposed, “the sun God’s are more self-centered than a Nymph discovering her complexion…” I wished so desperately for Tuck to leave, but I never was good at giving into myself either.

-----------------------

The day came, a sunny Friday in spring when all the flowers were in bloom, there were very few flowers by my bridge but I felt them. On the air, rejoicing in the soil, pecked by the distant din of birds that feared the dark woods.

I dragged myself up and ate, spending two days gorging and fuelling myself for the journey, casting protective circles around my limbs and throat. I even cake more mud into my hair and fashion branches into crooked wings off my hunched shoulders.

A bog hag had to play her part after all, show them what eternity looks like.

The actual exit is long and unnerving, the familiar suck of my life force, the shuddering of every nerve in my body. I heft myself slowly out of the water, groaning slightly like an oak tree against a typhoon.

The last push is always the hardest.

Solid ground is a cold kick to the teeth and I am very glad no one wanders the edges of my bog for any particular reason. I take several deep wincing breaths and straighten myself out.

“Alright,” I say calmly, “yes.” I summon my strength back to me with several dark heaving breaths and the color returns to my cheeks, it would be easy after that. I do not walk the streets, that would in many ways ruin the effect.

I arrive at the palace gates as a shadow and summon the northern winds to blow open the doors. The first set of people jerk toward me at the banging of the wood and whoosh of the breeze.

I spread my arms out wide and raise myself up high, “good morning.”

I take in the children’s face first, oh yes, their little bewildered stares, that is the cream to the cat’s tongue. Their mouths agape and eyes as wide as moons, I can only grin at the hisses and hushed whispers of the adults as I am witnessed.

I stride forward and watch their breathes seize up and noses turn toward the ceiling. I walk.

The halls are blood red, sheathed in gold trim and marble steps, I don’t bother to soften my steps or hold my dirt clumps to me. I let them fall to the castle floors and the earthworms to wiggle in my wake.

I make a beeline for the throne room, finding a tall graying man with steel grey eyes outside of it, waiting, I lift my chin up.

“Kind as ever to invite me King Gregory,” I says huskily as I reach near the throne room, I don’t have to look up to feel the king noticing me.

I feel every muscle in his body tighten, “it is an honor to host you Miss Lam.” Lam is the name of the bog I inhabit, they don’t know my real name, but that is how it’s supposed to be.

I turn my sharp chin up further, “a witch always remembers loyalties sire.” I remind him that witches both give and take, the diplomacy of the sword and bread as they call it.

They were offering me the bread so I won’t brandish my sword, I nod at their wisdom and exchange a tablet of blood with the king. I would never harm his bloodline as long as he honors me.

“If you’ll excuse me miss Lam.” He leaves as soon as the process is over, I turn back to the great hall. The crowds parts for me with enough room for a parade of horses between us. I grin, oh yes, this part I liked.

I show a nearby girl all five of my bare busted teeth, she makes a small simpering sound before hiding in her mother’s skirts. I cackle and turn back to the main room, the king is whispering to an advisor but makes no move to approach me again.

A smart man.

The Queen of the fairies arrives shortly after and is greeted in a similar fashion, Hessia is a large kingdom and I know quite a few powerful mythics could attend if they wanted to- but only a few will. I will admit that normally I might have foregone the trip, but I was still a little perplexed by the future queen.

I had been meeting her weekly after all.

I am unsurprised to read a different name on the parchment hung at the entrance of the church. The locals watch me carefully as I pass easily through the church doors with not so much as a twitch.

Like the devil works like that so easily little fools.

I shake my head and glance back at the welcoming sign. “To the Wedding of Prince Jace to his betrothed Princess Nadina.” I didn’t know what to make of ‘Nadina’ but perhaps we all come up with names for ourselves that are wildly different than ones we are given.

I sit on the closed off balcony and wait.

It reminds me of every other human wedding I’ve attended: stiff, formal, uncomfortable shoes and frivolous hats. There is a small boy who keeps unlacing his smock and throwing it off only to have mother tie it up all over again.

I almost want to give him a smile, a real one that wouldn’t haunt his dreams to come. But it was a fleeting thought.

The music begins and I almost regret attending, Queen Jinn of the fairies looks similarly bored but she holds her mouth in a taut line, dark skin glowing softly. Prince Jace arrives with his back straight and mouth an even straighter line.

He looks like every other young man this family had in line and I don’t bother to memorize his face, framed by licorice black locks and cool blue eyes. I don’t see any Tuck in him at all, but I’m not sure what I expected.

The music starts again with a silver jingle and I pause, stilling myself for the next familiar clumsy, uneven footsteps. She was wearing heels this time, white and pristine and high as the heavens.

Her gown trailed several people behind her and she had flowers braided into her shimmering blonde hair. Her dress was white and the jewels around her throat are blood red, it seemed to wear her more than she wore it.

“They caught her at the edges of the 13 Kingdoms,” Jinn was murmuring and they both glance at each other, “the Kingdom of Kiliok is not known for strength,” Jinn smiles with all of her teeth, “the Prince would bargain for beauty over the brawn of a nation it seems.” I frown slightly, of course, Jace’s family would choose someone from Kiliok. The country couldn’t leverage for her back or request much from them.

Tuck walks steadily down the aisle and I examine the pearls embroidered into the bodice of her dress and the curve of a fitted waist. She sets a steady pace up the steps and I forget to count the minutes.

She reaches the altar just as the minister begins his monologue outlying duty and country, heirs and gold.

“Are you going to curse them?” Jinn asks mildly as we watch on.

I shake my head, “they’ve paid their dues.” I say without blinking, “I have nothing to gain from it.” I look at her, “you?”

She shrugs, dark wings fluttering, “I considered a blessing even.” I glance at her, “oh?” Her eyes dart down, “Or a curse. I still haven’t decided, I’ll have to see my mood.” I give a rumbling chuckle and turn away, “do as you will.” “... and do you Nadina Josephine Tulip…” I wonder which name is actually hers as they wind down to the actual kiss. It doesn’t really matter of course, their lips meet in the end and the crowd erupts in applause.

A new Queen has just been welcomed into the family, however foreign she might be.

Tuck only pauses to give me a very curious look as she passes, arm and arm with Prince Jace, I give her a short nod and she smiles. I let it all pass and consider leaving then.

“Oh,” I look up as Jinn speaks.

I blink, “yes?” I prompt her and watch her crafted delicate features shift, her lips pull down and pale eyes expand. “Did you make up your mind?” I finally ask as she blinks.

Jinn flashes a look at me, she shrugs, “Humans make their own curses.” My mouth twitches, “ruins our business, doesn’t it?” She doesn’t laugh and I don’t like the feel of this. The wedding of Nadina of Kiliok and Jace of Hessia passes without note for that night.

I watch the first dance and eat my fill of chicken and all the little lambs in the kingdom, I only stop to tell one tale to the locals of blood eating giants and the ghosts of lost maidens in my bog. The maidens in white are banshees at the end of course, but the locals eyes always get so wide when I get to that part. It was worth it.

Tuck doesn’t spare me another glance.

-----------------------------

I return, exhausted, to my bog and wait for the next week. It comes, she does not. I wait for the next one, but not horse hooves or little clumsy feet approach my bridge.

I try to let go of the strange Tuck girl and her brief fascination with oddities.

She was just another bored noble afterall.

The sun sets and raises and the days pass on.

-----------------------------

I was older by then, still around 400, young for the ages, old for myself.

Her footsteps come on the night of the rains, heavy this time, mixed with rain fall and a steady pace. The vibrations on the bridge are lumbering, the lightness of her step forgone for a thumping sturdy gait.

I raise my eyebrows, but it’s still her.

The water washes against the top of my bridge and I curiously stick my head out, feeling the pelting of the raindrops as someone stands directly above me. She hadn’t bothered to stay carefully in the neutral zone this time.

I observe a stout figure drooping slightly on the railing, like her limbs might fall apart at the seams at any moment, heavy, fit together with bolts and screws instead of feathers. I look up and feel the thunder crash in the distance.

I frown, “This isn’t really the time or place little bird.” I try to make her out, I notice the shape of her dress has changed, no, her body has changed. I try to remember how many years it had been, but out of the dark night I make out a distinct slope of her dress, outward, a belly extending down.

I draw myself up, “there is a storm. You should know-” “Help me.” My eyes finally drag up to her face and I see it, the swollen cheeks and hollow eyes, complexion pale as the blurry moon behind her. Some life was drained out of her.

I should turn her away, threaten her back into the castle.

I jut my chin to the nearest bog tree instead. “Curl up there,” I murmur, “close your eyes.” I cast the protection spell before I even know what I’m doing, I shouldn’t, I don’t want to. But the spot is soon dry and glossy as the water veers away from it and a young girl curls up underneath the branches.

The hours slip by as I watch Tuck fall into a troubled deep sleep in my wake.

I don’t let the rain touch her.

----------------------

When she awakes the next morning I am peering down at her mid-drift.

“You’re with child,” I say dryly as lick my lips, “the heir.” I point easily downward and try to put together my next question. Tuck eyes go flickery and panicked, “it wasn’t a dream.” She looks in both directions and clutches her loose shawl around herself.

“Sshhh,” I hover closer, “you’ve simply had a bad night little bird.” She glances over at me and her eyes are as wide as sunken valleys and craters on the moon. “You,” she says breathlessly, “Lam.” I nod slowly, “among other names.” I watch carefully as Tuck’s eyes filled with a wet moisture and start to overflow, she curls up on herself and cradles her swollen belly, “I thought I dreamt you too.” I shake my head, “Tuck,” I say calmly and she looks up immediately, responding to what must be an old name. “You carry the heir. Someone must be looking for you by now.” And I don’t fancy being swamped by an angry mob right now.

She shivers from head to toe and I observe her thin wrists and inflamed joints. Something was wrong.

She looks up at me with a wobbly chin, “it doesn’t matter,” she says in a hiccuping voice, “let them look.” I frown deeply, “what is it?” I ask sharply, dragging my eyes over her sickly pale skin. “What is all this?”

She looks down at her lap, eyes burning, “Lam, this child feels as if it might kill me.” She says it faintly, with a bow to her head. I wait for a moment, accessing the waters, the vibrations, the steel in her eyes. I take a deep unhappy breath, “it is never easy.” She shakes her head and the tears keep overflowing, “he keeps moving. He’s… it’s not going right, it’s all wrong.” I just nod and hum deeply, “I can see the sickness on you.” She lets out a little sob, “did you do this?” Her eyes crinkle, “I don’t think you cursed me, but…” I just shake my head, “I am not the person you think I am.”

She looks down at her lap again and blinks a couple times, “I know.” She says in a small voice, “I told Jace it was me and not you.”

She sighs deeply and I hover ever closer, I only pause when her puffy red eyes drag themselves up. “Please,” she says in a voice I never heard her use, “can you help me?” I just nod, I don’t want to. I know I shouldn’t. Don’t let them in.

“Reed root,” I say simply, “Mandrake placed in warm milk,” I continue, “honey mixed with temple rot, not the mold kind, the roots.” Her brow was rumpled upward, “the doctors have been working around the clock, do you think, do you know,” she grasps at something and searches my face.

I slowly raise my thin gnarled hands from the water, “And one last thing.” She blinks a couple times, “yes?” “My blessing,” I whisper and suck the light dry from the air around me, “don’t tell anyone.” The light hovers, brave and new, twinkling in the air around us like stars, I hadn’t given one out in ages, not since I was fresh, young. The light scatters in all directions, sucked into her skin and pores, I say the words under my breath, welding them to her.

“Light, protection, breath,” I murmur, “light, protection, breath.” I weld her life line together so thick and golden that I think she might live forever after this.

I take a deep breath and open my eyes I hadn’t realized I closed, “that child is not going to kill you your majesty.” Tuck was still weeping, she was older somehow, so much older. “Thank you,” she says breathlessly, “Gods, thank you.” I take her hand and repeat, “mandrake soaked in warm milk, honey mixed with temple rot, reed root.” We share a look that I can’t describe and I want to shatter that too, gnash it up between my teeth and forget.

Her shoulders are thick and heavy looking, sloping down, she lets them relax. “They wouldn’t let me see you after we started trying for him.” She holds her belly again, I just nod.

“It’s for the best.” I respond tartly. She just shakes her head, “I don’t suppose bog hags have to give their lives for Duty and Country?” I give a sad smile, “go back little bird.” I say and close my eyes, “the grass is not greener in pastures you know not of.” She raises her eyebrows, “I always read bog witches were full of riddles, you’ve been holding out on me.” I give a soft chuckle, the old Tuck I remember shines through this new mature woman.

I reach, I know I shouldn’t either, but it’s too late now. I take her soft milky hands and I squeeze them, hard, not hard enough to hurt. But she needed to know.

“This child will not kill you your majesty,” I whisper with a hiss, “you have my blessing. Use it.” She cradles her belly protectively, “will he have it too?” I glance down and frown slightly, “you shouldn’t tell anyone.” She looks down and coos softly, “you hear that little one?” She gives a smile that glows at the edges, “you will be imbued with bog witch.” I shake my head, “you always were more daring than a box of feral cats.” She looks up, sadly this time, “thank you.” She says, face still swollen and eyes sunken, “I won’t forget this.” I start to shoo her, “go,” I say quickly, something stirring within me, “before I change my mind.” She rolls her eyes but manages to lumber to her feet, “this won’t be the last of me Lam.” She says softly, “not this time.” My eyes crease and watch her back, “it’s Clemency,” I say after her, “Lam is the name of the bog.” She was gone already and I have nothing but a sudden pain left in my gut. I close my eyes and extend the blessing once more.

----------------------

Tuck returns twice, once to tell me that the mandrake screamed at her and to curse me for it, another time to laugh so hard she almost fell into the waters with me. Jace almost passed out when he saw her eating temple rot apparently.

She got better.

I heard from afar that the next prince was born, just as the old king Gregory died. Tuck really was a queen now.

It was a closed birth, a hard pregnancy and a hard birth. No one was invited to it.

I feel her footsteps far and distant from me, sometimes they come to the edge of the bog once more, but they don’t enter this time. I wait, I don’t dwell, I sleep as two winters pass.

I left once, into the city streets, disguised as a beggar woman, I hear that the new prince is strong, rambunctious, he has his father’s charcoal black hair and mother’s smile. I try not to catch his name, I do anyway.

Clement.

I don’t dwell on it.

-------------------

I am steeped in the roots of a tree when I hear it again, something I thought I wouldn’t hear again.

“I can’t,” she speaks rapidly, quickly, “I tried to. But I can’t, not again.” I turn around slowly, easily, I straighten up and ooze down the roots and back toward my bridge, I raise my eyebrows, “And here I thought you were a smart girl and were done with me.” Tuck just shakes her head, dressed in an olive green gown and looking bright and full of life this time. “Never.” She says softly and I don’t know what to do with that.

“Huh,” I turn away again.

She takes a deep breath, “I tried to take him to meet you.” She says steadily, “again and again. But they watch him more carefully than a hawk on a field mouse.” I glance up and sink into the muddy waters, “as they should.” She frowns deeply, “they don’t trust me.” I nod again, “A foreign queen stays foreign for a land like Hessia,” I say grimly, “I know well of these people’s superstitions.” She gives a tight smile down at the ground, “I started reading all those books you told me about.” She says in a small voice, “they keep me sane.” “Did you ever figure out if fairies are actually clever or not?” Tuck looks up, “I did,” she says slowly, “they are. But not as clever as they think.” I give out a hearty laugh, a real one, “smart girl.” Tuck tightens her hands, “No,” she looks away, “I was foolish.” I shrug, “You were young.” I tilt my head, “Different, strange, and not sorry about it.” She grins, “still am.” She sighs, “but I made so many mistakes.” She rubs her knuckles together, “I never earned their trust.” I tilt my head to the side, “why are you telling me this?” My jaw tightens.

“I don’t know,” she sighs heavily, “I wanted one last confession, or maybe perhaps I thought it might change something. To go where it all began.” “What began?” She shrugs, “it doesn’t matter.” She says bitterly, “they want me to do it again.” I raise my eyebrows, “do what?” My lips quirk up, “wander into bogs again and bother ancient powerful beings?” She laughs, “I wish!” She takes a deep heaving breath, “they need more than just Clement. Hessia demands multiple heirs just in case the first one dies.” “Oh,” I should nod at that, I should affirm the truth I already knew, “don’t they know?” Don’t they know the first one was a hair away from killing Tuck.

She just frowns at her feet, “they don’t listen.” I nod again, “I can…” I take a deep breath, “I can do it again.” I should add ‘for a price,’ but I don’t.

She just shakes her head, “I don’t I have it in me. Not a second time.” She looks weary, eyes tired and hands still and open at her sides, “even with a powerful witches blessing.” I put my hand out, “you don’t know what I’m capable of.” I give an almost-smile, “you never did.” She hesitates, looking at my hand for a long second, my fingers tingle and I should pull back, but I don’t.

She takes it. Our skin touches and tingles like a wildfire, it wasn’t like the first time, like when I was trying to convey everything to her.

She holds the dust and the grime and my long gnarled fingertips, she brings them up to her lips. “Tell me,” she whispers, “how does a river nymph descend into a bog?”

I don’t meet her eye but I tighten my grip firmly, “with a bit of luck.” I say loosely and she chuckles.

“Of course.” She searches my face with her prickly green eyes, “what kind of luck?” I tilt my head to the side, “it goes like all stories go. Life gives and takes. Power and hunger mixed with men who want with a want that carves out your flesh and digs out spirit and soul. Then I was given a blessing.” I curl back my lips. “You already knew that secret though.” She nods and fingers reach up and ghost across my cracked skin, “I wanted it so badly.” Her eyes shimmer and meet mine, holding my gaze and passing something unnamable between us, I lean forward but don’t press anywhere closer.

We hold our breaths and wait for something that isn’t coming, wrapped in something we don’t understand.

I clutch her hand so tightly I know it hurts.

Tuck turns before I do and we say a soundless goodbye. I throw my blessing at her one last time.

--------------------

Men, men are cruel. They fight and ruin each other, arguing and crying out and falling in love only to do it all over again. Men are cruel. So are the waves and the snow and biting wind and unforgiving earth, the earth is also cruel.

Though men can be bargained with, the earth on the other hand will eat you all without question. Perhaps that’s what I liked about it.

Her footsteps came heavy this time, fast and pounding the water bottom, feet sucking into the mud and struggling with each step. She was breathing hard and dashing forward with lurching hurried movement.

I wake with a start, dogs bray in the distance. She hadn’t been subtle, or perhaps the King had more eyes on her side then she knew of. Either way I can feel the pounding of men’s feet and the calling of distant voices.

I surge to my feet and move as fast as a roaring river.

“Tuck!” I call with the voice of a rumbling, mountain, “Tuck!”

I can feel someone else, cradled in her arms and squirming. “Mama,” I hear it now, clear as day. He is young and strong, as I knew he would be.

His eyes glow yellow in the dark as I whoosh forward, approaching quickly just as the soldiers do- also in pursuit of the mother and child.

I gnash my teeth as I turn on the soldiers, “I will grind your bones to dust and use your shin bones as my garden gate.” I roar and the men falter, but only for a moment.

“A witch!”

“I knew it! I knew the gregij Queen had allies on the Other Side.” My nostrils flare and I lift my hand, but so do the men, one young soldier raises a crossbow.

“Don’t hit the child!” The captain cries, the young soldier is jostled and it all happens in slow motion.

“Clemency!” Tuck’s voice rings out just as I reach for her, just as the arrow does too.

Her son’s eyes are huge and glowing yellow, shaking and frightened as the arrow pierces his mother’s back like a sapling pierces the soft earth as it grows. I see a silent gasp spread across her face and a shock of pain.

Red blossoms across the dark waters.

I give out an earthly scream as she falls, every inch of me tingling as I know these soldiers are dead. And eaten and discarded into the scraps of time and earth.

I scream and scream, but I’m not the only one listening, before the bog cats come bristling out of the waters, before the roaches come crawling out of the trees, before I summon hell. The earth is listening, the earth does not bargain, but it gives and it takes.

Much like a witch.

I feel it encompassing her before I see it, the vines and leaves and waters swishing around her, covering her, my eyes go wide. I needed to rip out the throats of these men, but I pick up her son instead.

He is weeping and wiping at his brilliant eyes, tearing at his dark hair, whimpering softly in an emotion I couldn’t fathom from one so young.

“Shhh,” I gather him to me, “it’s beginning.” The leaves twist and the waters ripples and the forest becomes so deathly quiet I’m afraid it might break. They call it the devil, but I don’t think I’ve seen the devil breath life back into someone as quickly as he takes it.

I see her skin fasten into a steady bark, her hair twist into streams of golden light, her face mix into something otherwordly and unknowable, rough and hard in all directions. Tuck raises once more and I am left breathless. She stands, bark and light and forest now, all forest.

She raises her head and smiles, smiles something brilliant and wicked, “I knew it,” she says softly and looks down at her hands. The soldiers had scattered by then, run for their lives to tell the King of the betrayal, terror would follow after horror. But that could wait, it all could wait, I shift young prince Clement in my arms and reach out on last time.

She takes my hand, “tell me,” she says lightly, “can a bog witch fall in love? I read they can’t.” I smile widely, “let’s find out.” We turn towards the deepest parts of the forest and start walking, creeping deep into unknown depths of a soft and distant world. The first kiss shifts everything inside me, and then the second one breaks it.

Very few new footsteps arrive after that, for who would face the two most powerful bog witches in their home? Two witches and the next and future King.

FIN

#wlw #original story #writeblr #sapphic #lbgt fairy tale #lbtq fiction #wlw romance #original writing #original short story #my work #f/f #fantasy

703 notes · View notes

deetvar-moved · 6 years

Note

Claude/Ferry, Holy: Confessions in Church

A juicy prompt! Also my apologies for taking SO long to finish this. Title: Imagine

The Silesian breeze was particularly cold, and yet this did little to discourage the devoted who easily walked into the halls of the Church of Sailane. Vicars and curates prepared for the mass influx of people, as today marked the Vernal Equinox. Fury recalled halls similar to these in the capital of Silesse, as if it were the day of her appointment to be an Angelic Knight of Silesia.

Having been gone so long, Fury took a stroll in the church’s halls once most of the people had left today’s service. A glass stained wall showed in vivid detail the Crusader Sety kneeling before Forseti. Other details stood out to her, but the one that most caught her attention was a blond man. She recognized him from somewhere, but his name eluded her.

“Sightseeing? If you’d like, I can accompany you through Sailane.” Fury said to the man as he looked to the statues of past Silesian rulers.

He looked to Fury with a smile. “Thank you, but I believe I’m quite fine here right now.” He stared intently at the statue, noticing its details. “If I may ask, and I mean no offense, but I don’t see much mention of other Crusaders— why is that?”

She could hear the sincerity in his voice and responded, “The other Crusaders are mentioned in passing but it was Forseti, Guider and Judge Of Men, who proclaimed this land as ours. He guided our First King, and cleansed the Silesian snow of ash and blood.”

“Fascinating. I’ve always been curious to the practices of Silesians but never had firsthand accounts until now.” His smile gleamed through with curiosity. “Would it be rude of me to ask the Archbishop if she has any texts I could study?”

Fury’s brow widened at the suggestion. “I’ve never encountered anyone so inquisitive to know our ways. First thing most travelers do is marvel at the snow and stillness of our lands.” Having realized that she still did not know this man, she spoke again. “My apologies, I’m afraid I’ve been neglectful and rude to you. I’m Fury. Angelic Knight of Silesia.”

He bowed down to her. “Claude, Priest of Edda. A pleasure to meet you, General.”

“As he spoke the lord of gales, Forseti, struck his champion’s tendons with his scepter, and filled his heart with valor and righteousness. In a light gleam of radiance, Sety could brisk across the plains as if a hyena pouncing for scraps. ‘Sety, swiftest and noblest of the Crusaders, raise your palm and unleash a typhoon upon these wicked souls of Loptyr. Accept no ransom nor mercy, strike down all those who aid them in their escape.”

Claude clenched the text tightly in his hands, as if he were a child given a gift. Fury chuckled at this beady expression. “It’s seems you quite like this tale.”

“I do. The imagery is quite impressive and I love the poetic styling of this tale. Thank you for gifting this, General Fury. But I still must ask, are you sure want to give me your copy?”

Fury nodded. “Yes, it’s quite alright. I don’t have much need for it.”

Claude’s brow raised. “What do you mean?”

Fury turned her head in a bit of shame. “I’m afraid I don’t pray as much as I used to. Since Prince Levin left all those years ago, I haven’t felt much need of it. My comrades have become distant to me and my Queen has been grief stricken. I really should begin my daily prayers as I used to; I’ve shown poor faith. ”

Slowly patting to her shoulder he nodded. “I don’t see why that’s a problem. You act in good works and love for others. That is enough, and the rest will naturally follow. Pray as you feel it necessary,

“Truly?”

“A few years ago, there was an priest who had taken to missionary work in the Northern Thracia. He was a great scholar who understood the struggles of the Thracian Peninsula, I had such high hopes for him. However he was excommunicated from the Order, his practices….were…abhorrent to say the least.” His expression once pleasant was now pained, even Claude’s voice cracked upon reflecting on the mention of these practices. “What matters, General, is this: one’s faith can be contorted to do ill. I have no doubt the priest I spoke of believed in the same gods as I do. But the ultimate purpose of the Blagi Church is different, not to preach our gods to others. The goal of the Blagi Church to tend life, not to harm it.”

Fury was moved by Claude’s words, and fell into tears. “It is said that Crusader Sety instructed his disciples to combat the evil within themselves first, before we combat the evil in the world.”

“What good counsel. I would agree.” Claude reached to his pocket, offering a handkerchief to Fury.

Reaching for it, she cleaned her face of her tears. “Perhaps our faiths are far more similar than we thought.”

“Indeed, so much can be learned from other’s view.”

Fury turned to Claude, unaware of the light blush on her face. “Perhaps if you are still in doubt owning my text, would be open to an exchange?”

Claude smiled. “I’d love to.”

Reaching Thove would not be easy, and yet the army persisted forward. Sylvia had attached herself solely to Levin, hugging his arm as they marched. Fury watched as they argued to each other.

“Sylvia, give a rest? I got to talk to Sigurd about the enemy commander.” He said as he tried to wrestle the dancer off his right arm.

“Fine!” Sylvia pouted away from the Prince.

Levin pressed his fingers between his eyes. “Look, I just need to talk to Sigurd is all. We can talk another time, sound good?”

“A-okay!” Sylvia lifted her arms and skirted around Levin in a dance.

Fury approached Sylvia, her lance in hand. “I’m sorry, he can be a bit…rude.”

“I know! I once asked him to dance with me and he went off to run ‘errands.’” Sylvia sighed as she pressed her foot onto the frozen soil. “Has he always been like this?”

“Since I��ve first met him.”

“Do you like him?” Sylvia asked, her eyes beaming with curious intent.

Flustered, Fury darted her eyes off Sylvia. “I-well he’s a good friend, and I’ve known him since we were young- well he’s just the Prince of Silesia and-”

“Ah, I see. You wouldn’t mind if I go after him?”

Sylvia was by no means a terrible person, and she did make Levin happy. “No…I don’t mind-”

Placing her arms on her shoulder, she pouted. “You sure? You ain’t just pretending to not like him?”

“Why would I need to pretend?” Fury’s blood began to boil. Memories of her and Levin flashed in her mind, all those moments dear to her. Her mind wandered to the day he left and how everything fell apart, the nobles arguing over the line of succession. Should they have bothered to retrieve Levin? Maybe if she said her piece all those years ago, none of this would have happened.

“I dunno. Well, I’m going after him.”

Fury turned away from Sylvia, her back facing Sylvia. “Well, I’d like to think the next Queen of Silesia would have a bit more dignity and grace.”

Sylvia raced forward and tugged Fury to face her. “What are you saying? I’m no good? Who are you to decide what Levin’s Queen ought to be like?” Her teeth bared as her hands formed into fists

“Wait-no I meant-” Fury held her arms chest high as if to surrender.

“I don’t want to hear it!” Sylvia yelled. She ran toward the front of the army, looking for Levin.

Fury looked toward the side of the road at a small block of ice across the river water. Her reflection was shown in the ice, her eyes shot with blood as tears dripped down. She leaned toward her reflection. “Fight the evil inside you…” She reached to bring the ice block toward her, but instead it fractured upon her touch.

Fury found Claude within the Thove archives, a pile of manuscripts and books on his left side. Surely Claude has most of the day here, if not then multiple days. Fury stood next to him, waiting for him to recognize his presence as to not disturb his reading.

“Hello, General.” Claude moves his book to the side to address Fury. “How may I help you?”

Twindling her thumbs, Fury hesitates. Her heart feels heavy, burdened by the weight of her remorse. Claude made no change to his expression, he waited for her response.

Fury inhaled a deep breath. She buried the doubts in heard and spoke. “As a priest of Edda, is it common practice in your faith for a confession?”

“It is.” Seeing Fury distressed brought worries to Claude, fearful for her well being. “Is there something the matter?”

“I’d like to make a confession.” Fury pressed, her eyes brimming with determination.

Claude understood, he had washed his hands and instructed Fury to do as well. Afterward they made their way to a detached corner of the Church Of Thove. Claude prepared the rites and had instructed Fury how to perform a proper confession.

“Have you committed a wrong?”

“Yes.”

“To whom have you wronged?”

Pursing her lips, she thought what precisely. “To Sylvia, for my anger against her choices on how to conduct herself. To…Prince Levin, for presuming to understand him better than he himself.”

“Do you resolve under blessed gods to conduct yourself to cease and correct wrongs in the future?”

“Yes.” Fury would make peace with herself and be there to support her prince and whoever was to be Queen.

“Then rise.” With that Claude, dipped a jar of water over Fury’s head. As the water dripped toward her face, Fury could feel at ease. There was one last thing to do.

“Lady Sylvia, if you would please?” Claude asked of Sylvia, hesitant of approaching in light of Fury’s presence.

“Why should I?” Sylvia pouted as she held her arms crossed.

Claude spoke in a earnest clarity. “Fury would like to mend this wound.”

Sylvia made a skeptical stare but nonetheless uncrossed her arms and came forward. “Alright, I’ll listen.”

Fury looked intently in Sylvia’s eyes. “I’m sorry; it was wrong of me to interfere with your affairs. I didn’t mean to speak ill of you, and I wish you luck in whatever you endeavor. I do not expect you to forgive me but at the very least I do not wish for us to be adversarial to one another.”

Sylvia sighed, her eyes unable to look forward. “Well…it wasn’t the best thought of mine to bring up the question? I pressed you into a place you didn’t want to talk about.” Sylvia rubbed her left arm, and looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Claude moved between them. “Now that both of you have reconciled your differences, would you please move toward another.” Fury and Sylvia did as he was told, facing another but both struggling to make eye contact. “Do you promise to not repeat this again?”

At an instant both raised their voices. “Yes!”

Claude nodded as he saw the bright sunbeams gaze over them all.

Notes: I took the verse Claude was reading from a scene of the Iliad where Poseidon speaks to Ajax and retrofitted it. I thought it fitting to emulate a piece of classic Greek mythology since the current localization has favored more Greek names for the Silesians. I.E Femina -> Hermina, Fury being more Greek in Erinys. Claude’s response to Fury was inspired by Psalms 10:16. Yes, Claude is talking about August when he mentions the priest in Northern Thracia.

This prompt does take place in the Mishaverse if you squint.

#deet'var writing requests #damoselcastel #claude #fury #jugdral week 2018 #/long post

5 notes · View notes

uncheckedtomfoolery · 6 years

Text

Some youkai for your consideration

I’ve often thought it’s a bit of a shame that the legions of Touhou OCs out there seem to limit themselves to shrine maidens, outsiders, the occasional god and ‘actually Remilia has another sister’, when there’s such an enormous wealth of as yet unused legends to pick from. While it’s somewhat off-brand for me, I’ve decided to actually try and change this rather than just sit and complain.

Below the cut, you’ll find a bunch of youkai with a mix of descriptions and suggestions plus, where possible, a link to Wiki or another resource. Anyone who doesn’t care for Touhou might still find some interesting/bizarre folklore (but I repeat myself).

Gashadokuro: Starting strong with a gigantic skeleton. Or, depending on the legend, a swarm and/or gestalt of skeletons. The latter is more accurate, but a popular painting depicted on the wiki page has more or less overwritten the popular perception. The Gashadokuro is said to be invulnerable and invisible, though you can hear it (a ringing sound, surprisingly, and not its footsteps); you can probably also tell it’s around if you’re not completely blind. Being formed from the unburied bodies of those either starved or killed in war, it’s mostly grumpy and hungry, and stalks around biting heads off random people to drink the blood, like a really gory and inefficient vampire. You can probably do some kind of ribcage-coat-and-skull-hat deal if you don’t want to outright go with a skeleton, series aesthetic being what it is. A bamboo eyepatch might be a fun nod to the myth often conflated with it, too (as noted on the Wiki page).

Namahage: Approximately Japanese Krampus with a ridiculously strong northern Japanese accent. They go from house to house brandishing buckets (why? Not a clue) and giant knives or outright machetes, yelling at kids and generally scaring them into behaving. At the request of parents (who give them gifts of mochi), they might throw in a special lesson as well. Then they stomp off to wherever they came from. Originally this was a ‘be good, or...’ kind of myth where the community played into it, but hey, youkai potential. Probably playing the exact same role, which could be funny.

Azukitogi: An old favourite just for being profoundly weird and irrelevant. The Azukitogi is an old man (according to some sources; I’ve always heard the stories casting it as an old woman) who washes their azuki in a river, musing on whether they should keep at it or go eat someone. The latter, to my knowledge, never actually happens, so it’s just a morbid youkai talking to themselves. If you get close, depending on the telling, you will drop into the river. That’s it. It’s just an ugly humanoid youkai sitting around washing beans in the middle of the night, muttering. I feel like it captures the ‘some of them are just kind of there’ spirit of youkai perfectly.

Heikegani: Reaching into animal youkai here, sort of; some do theorise that it’s a kind of haunting. You see, Heikegani have shells that look a bit like scowling samurai masks, and as such, were believed to be the reincarnated souls of Heike clan warriors who died at sea in the sea battle of Dan-no-Ura. Combine that with the whole animal youkai thing and you can easily wrangle up... oh, an extraordinarily (if misleadingly) grumpy-looking, 24/7 armour-wearing crab youkai who has way too many swords. Optionally a ghost. ...What, you don’t think they really look like that? Here you go, then.

Chochin-Obake: Okay, I won’t pretend this is especially innovative. It’s low-hanging fruit, and it’s simple: The archetypical lantern tsukumogami. As such it’s kind of astonishing that I haven’t seen this done more, though?

Todomeki: Literally the ‘demon with hundreds of eyes’, the Todomeki is a towering humanoid woman with countless bird eyes covering her ridiculously long arms. The eyes are, according to several brands of moon logic living in happy coexistence, a symbolic punishment for stealing. No theft occurs in the stories of the Todomeki, and she has a lot of weird powers from somewhere, so this is... weird. Her stories feature her scaring people in a horse graveyard (I did not know this was a thing) for no apparent reason, spouting fire and breathing poison gas, then coming back a long time later to collect the blood and poison gas that she lost so she can recover. I want to further note there was a 400 year delay in between the horse graveyard fight and ‘oh yeah I should go back for my blood and nerve gas’. Possibly for Touhou this gets toned down to a suspicious mess of stolen goods, and eye patterns all over the sleeves of her dress.

Nurikabe: Another in the ‘some Youkai just exist’ brand, the Nurikabe is a living wall of indeterminate origin (depictions make it look kind of dog-like for some reason?) that extends forever. If you knock on it politely, it disappears. Theories on how the myth came about, on the other hand, tend to be either explaining lost travelers... or dietary changes in the lower classes during the Edo period, which led to an outbreak of fatigue and night-blindness. You’d stagger home in the evening, hit a wall you can barely see, and feel like it goes on forever because you’re so tired. Of note, also, is the popular (in Japan, anyhow) Gegege no Kitaro adaptation. Imagine someone buying a figure of this. I don’t understand. To wrap up, the Nurikabe’s motivation is purely to mess with people, as far as anyone can tell. Some theories attribute it to tanuki instead. Oh, and a mountain variety growing out of the mountainside, the Nuribo, also exists.

Ittan-Momen (or here, but there’s not much to be found anywhere): This one provides an interesting counterpoint as an entirely hostile tsukumogami. It’s a roll of cotton that flies on the wind, native to Kagoshima, and either sneaks into houses or bears down on travelers in the middle of the night, wrapping around their face and suffocating them out of sheer spite. It is quite possibly the world’s most hostile blanket, or the ultimate evolution of the sheet ghost.

Inugami (WARNING: Gross and terrible things happen to dogs in the wiki text; do not click if this will upset you greatly): As much a brand of ritual as a creature, the Inugami is the result of one of multiple processes in southern Japan’s distant past that would result in the creation of a vaguely canine spirit. The spirit (described as variations on the theme of a tiny black and white floating thing with a dog’s head) will possess your enemies, bring them to ruin, bring you prosperity, or whatever depending on the telling. It will also haunt your family for generations, so this is kind of a Faustian deal. On the other hand, it has reasons for being angry.

Oboroguruma: A literal monster truck An oxcart, translucent and ghostly, with a giant face on the front. It rattles up to your doorway and makes squeaking noises until you step out and see the cart there, whereupon it appears to do nothing in particular. Youkai. It’s some pretty striking imagery though, which is no surprise since, as the link elaborates, the art came before a story. According to the after-the-fact backstory, it uh, feeds on the petty grumbling of spoiled aristocrats, which seems fairly harmless? Ghost taxi.

Kamaitachi: Another high-profile, if minor youkai. This one has... a thousand origin stories and variations depending on where you go in Japan. I’ll let you hit the link yourself. The core of it is an etymological corruption turned pun. A weasel with sickles for arms, taking the form of a dust devil, whirlwind or just a gale, with the weasel either at the heart of it or invisible outright. The wind cuts people; thus the term Kamaitachi is actually used to this day to refer to any sort of strong wind that feels like it’s cutting/biting into you. I’m going to toss in an excellent drawing by @moominpappa also. Here it is.

Basan: A giant chicken that lives in forests and breathes fire, which as a combination strikes me as a non-survival trait, but what do I know? It... makes bird noises outside but disappears when humans look at it, which strikes me as extremely convenient. I mention it solely because- I mean, click the link. It looks utterly ridiculous. I love it.

Kodama: Alternatively Kotodama, literally ‘tree soul’ or ‘tree spirit’. They’re the spirit of any sacred or spiritually significant tree, a Shinto god of the small-g variety (that is to say, welcome to animism, where everything is a god but not necessarily a high-profile one). You know those little black and white guys from Princess Mononoke? Yeah, those are the ones. They’re basically minor guardian spirits for their tree, and the reason you’ll see trees ringed with braided rope and paper tassels all around Japan. When it’s depicted as anything other than the actual tree, Kodama tend to be pretty small. They’re benevolent unless, of course, you try to cut the tree down, at which point you will pay dearly (but more in the ‘curse your house for seven generations’ sense than ‘whoops, tree ate you’).

Jinmenju (or Ninmenju): The Jinmenju is possibly an extremely displaced Arabic legend about the Waqwaq Tree. It apparently serves no real purpose except to really creep people out, and even that, only by accident. The Jinmenju has fruit shaped like human heads complete with a face (ditto the seeds within), which smiles constantly. If you laugh at it, it will laugh back at you, but laughing too hard will make the fruit fall off. You can eat them, and the tree will not object, nor the fruit. It’s said to be sweet and sour, which carries the horrible implication that someone thought this was a good idea. According to Mizuki Shigeru, there are stories of people who (for some godforsaken reason) planted orchards of these things. They’re mostly found in the south, which probably deserves it for the whole inugami business. Design-wise, you might tone this down by giving the character a green or brown robe with smiling faces drawn all over it (or cut out, Hata no Kokoro-style), and a wooden mask over their actual face (if one exists). Optionally, combine it with the previous youkai so there’s a kodama perched on her shoulder.

That’s about it for now, but I do want to point out that if you want to look further, Yokai.com is a pretty good resource and frequently a more comprehensive one than Wikipedia. Have fun making incredibly weird youkai.

#Touhou #Folklore #Writing #Kind of? It's a resource of sorts

33 notes · View notes

hillbillyhippiemusicreview · 4 years

Text

Post #49–Dalton Mills, self-titled release

Kentucky, I need you to listen up. If you haven’t familiarized yourself with the remarkable talent blooming right up under your nose...I’m going to need you to stop and smell the lyrical roses STAT! What talent do I speak of? Middlesboro, Kentucky singer-songwriter Dalton Mills, to be exact. He released his self-titled debut record on June 5th, and its time that his home state and the rest of the world gets acquainted with his sound. Although he hasn’t been writing and playing long compared to some HHMR review alums, Mills has a true penchant for his folky, singer-songwriter style of music and is quite the stellar storyteller, which you can hear all throughout this fabulous record. It’s easily one of my top picks for 2020, and I don’t say that lightly. So, sit a spell with me a spell and hear me out:

The first song off the record will hit you like a storm. Quite literally, it will take you aback once he starts singing. Titled “Tornadoes,” the song possesses an upbeat melody juxtaposed with a forlorn subject matter. The narrator is down on his luck from losing his job and just knows his love is going to leave him, but he’s afraid to tell her so he just picks up “30 of [his] best friends” and drinks while ruminating on his life. He’d leave it behind, but it’s his fear of tornadoes that keeps him rowing down the same river of struggle. While the title is a bit unexpected and difficult to discern the meaning of at the beginning on the song, by the last chord it makes sense—the narrator’s life is already full of storms, so why would he move where he fears much more dangerous ones? Here, Mills reflects on how easy it is to get stuck in the ruts of life—and our minds.

Speaking of being stuck in ruts, “John on the Run” is a little ditty about a fella we surely have all crossed paths with—the guy with the misguided path laid with wrongdoings amidst a huge heart full of good intentions. Mills sings in the chorus “but before you start pointing your finger, what if it was your daughter or son” living a life like John, out on the run, as a reminder to pause and remember that everyone has a story and deserves a bit more grace than judgement. After all, it could be any of us or one we love to fall victim to circumstance and wind up in John’s troublesome shoes. Perhaps if he had someone show him kindness and a better path somewhere along the way, rather than being eternally written off by society, his story would have been different. Think about that. Love and grace are often the answer and if they are the precedent to difficult roads, lives could be changed.

The themes of big storms in life and being the run translate directly into track number three, “Run Dorothy Gale.” It is quite possibly my favorite off the record, and one of the best lyrical masterpieces I’ve heard all year long. The storyline here parallels the storyline of “The Wizard of Oz” but features Dorothy in an alternate life unseen in the classic movie. In this song, it seems we find out where the wind blew her to after all these years. The dichotomy here between the ruby red slippers Dorothy that we all know and love and the ruby red boots Dorothy that we’re all simply one bad decision from is spectacular. Writer Jason Sinkhorn wrote a fabulous song and Mills’ distinctly melancholy vocals add the perfect touch to weave the tale. One of my favorite lines out of the song is “don’t let them drop a house on your dreams.” Sometimes it feels as in the universe or people in our worlds will do anything to stifle our passions, but even if we have to run like Dorothy Gale, we must not let it happen. By the end of the song, despite the bad roads she took along the way, it appears Dorothy found her peace, which is all one could ever hope for.

Speaking of dreams, in “Verse, Chorus, Verse,” written with HHMR alum and duet partner Lance Rogers, Mills’ laments on the struggles of being a traveling musician. When he sings “I traded everything I love for a verse, chorus, verse,” you can almost feel the tension in his voice felt between the choice of following dreams or setting the guitar down to be a 24/7 family man. It’s a simplistic, yet profound look at the hardships of the lifestyle music brings—and anyone in any profession in the industry can certainly relate. The road can often be long and lonely, but it’s those we leave at home that keep our wheels rolling on. There’s a literal rhyme to the reason behind what we do, and Mills and Roger deliver a passionate portrayal of what this life brings for people to hear the songs they sing.

As I listened to Mills’ debut release, I couldn’t help but mull over how honest his work is. One fine example of that is “Sometimes Love.” This song proverbially punched me in the gut and sent flashbacks flying through my mind. It hurt so good, in that way that lets you know a song is destined for big things. The song highlights a story we’ve all been a character in, as the narrator even laments the man “never knew he played a character in one of the oldest stories ever told.” The man is blindsided by his partner leaving, and correctly claims that “sometimes love will blindside you and bust a hole right through your heart.” So honest with words so painful that you can put yourself in the character’s shoes—it’s perfect. The woman in the song is momentarily not feeling any remorse, whilst wondering if she jumped the gun a bit with her leaving. It’s the quintessential tale of intense love gone wrong, and it works so well. I admire an artist who can make me feel the words, and Mills’ almost monotone, morose vocals lend to that here, as in every song on the record.

Along the same, albeit different, lines of love, “As Long as You Want Me To” is a beautiful song about finally finding that heart to call a home that humans endeavor to find. A story as classic as time itself, the character here pleads with his savior to “tell me all about your sorrows, tell me all about your truths, please don’t turn me away tomorrow, I can stay as long as you want me to.” Rather than engaging in a parasitic type of symbiotic relationship, he longs for a mutually beneficial one. Admittedly, with the words and imagery used in the writing of this song, I was a bit unclear as to what it was about in the beginning. Perhaps it’s about romantic love? Or perhaps it’s about rescuing a cold, lonely animal off the street, or simply lending an ear and hand to someone in need? Either way, I believe it’s a metaphor for the type of love we all seek and long to give to another. It’s an innate human need to belong and that need is beautifully described in this tune.

Mills ends a rather sad record on the saddest note with a song aptly titled “Last Goodbye.” It’s so depressing it will have you tear up by the end of the first verse—guaranteed—but it’s for good purpose. “Last Goodbye” is the story of a man dying from terminal cancer who is beyond ready to leave this world. The feeling of having had enough at times is a universal feeling, yet here it’s quite extreme and heartbreaking. The loneliness, pain, and desperation this man feels is enough to bring you to your knees and make you reflect on your own life, not to mention your feelings concerning death. The man’s only companions are the birds, as his family will not come around until he’s six feet in the ground, and the thief of a caretaker he considers confronting simply so that he will put him out of his misery. Dark, painful thoughts, yet an intriguing look into the brain at the end, and certainly a fine example of the quality of Mills’ work. This song is one you must play several times to fully grasp the words that are being sung and the sentiment behind every one. At first glance, or listen, it seems clear, but there is a deeper gut-wrenching meaning behind it.

In this review, I have barely touched the surface of several of my favorite pieces; however, every song on the record deserves a thoughtful, and introspective, ear lent to it. “Mountain Call,” “Outta Tune,” and “Too Many Dreams” are as lyrically strong as the rest of the songs mentioned above. Get acquainted with Dalton Mills and his unique, impeccable talent on this self-titled debut release of his. I have a rather strong feeling this will not be the last we hear out of him—and that’s a good thing!

As always—peace, love, and music. I’ll see y’all down the road, and hopefully at a Dalton Mills show, soon.

—Lyssa

———————————

*This is an independent review. The Hillbilly Hippie Music Review was not compensated for this review.

*The opinions expressed are solely that of the author(s).

*These images are not ours, not do we claim them in any way. They are copyrighted by Dalton Mills.

0 notes

everlarkficexchange · 7 years

Text

In the Waiting Dark (The Red Moon Rises)

Written by: @katnissdoesnotfollowback

Prompt: #5 Everlark fairytale au of Little Red Riding Hood, preferably similar in tone to the film “The Company of Wolves.” [submitted by Anonymous]

Rating: T for this chapter

Warnings: Mentions of blood, fantasy and horror thematic elements

A/N: This is the first chapter of what will be a multi-chapter story. Overall rating will be M for the following reasons - Blood, fantasy and horror thematic elements, violence, mentions of non-consensual, mentions of child abuse, disturbing imagery, and sexual content. There may be more as I am still working out a few details. Inspiration for this story was pulled from several different versions of the Red Riding Hood tale, to include the film mentioned in the prompt. I’ve been wanting to write this AU for a long time, so I truly hope you all enjoy what I’ve come up with, especially you, Anonymous! Feel free to stop by and tell me your thoughts, I have Anon turned on in case you wish to remain so. <3 KDNFB

CHAPTER 1

“Did you tell your mother ‘goodnight’?” He kisses first one forehead and then the second, once more laying the back of his hand flat on the fevered surface before patting his child’s cheek with a cool cloth. Their mother has already administered medicines. There is not much else they can do. So far, it’s only the oldest twin showing the signs, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

“Yes, Papa. Can we have a bedtime story?”

“Just one,” he promises with a smile and settles at the foot of one of the narrow beds. “Let’s see…”

“Once upon a time,” the youngest twin says and giggles when both father and the oldest twin scowl slightly.

“Papa’s telling the story.”

The youngest twin sticks out a pink tongue and the oldest huffs, so he continues the story before a fight can break out in earnest.

“Long ago–”

“See, you got it wrong anyways.”

“–not far from here, there was a village, caught in the early days of spring. It was much like any other village, with small fields to grow crops, pastures where the villagers let their livestock graze, a blacksmith to do metal work, a grocers, a butcher, a baker–”

“Was there a candlestick maker, too?”

“Hush! I wanna hear the story!”

“And a candlestick maker, too,” he says with a soft smile, ignoring the muffled laughter from the doorway behind him. Already enthralled with the story, the children don’t even notice their audience. “There was also a healer, a woman who knew all the tricks to soothe pain and terrible illness. And the healer’s daughter was engaged to marry the baker’s son, but see, often in this village, it was a tradition for marriages to be chosen not for love, but for convenience. This was an old custom, started many years ago, and like many old customs, the reasons behind them faded with each generation until no one really understood why those customs were still around. The marriage contract was written and all but signed, but the healer’s daughter–”

“What was her name?”

“Shhhhh!”

“We’ll call her Flower for now,” the father says, not losing his stride with the tale. “Flower didn’t want to marry the baker’s son, because she was in love with someone else.”

“Who, Papa?” both children gasp.

“She was in love with a hunter.”

“No.”

The single word is the only thing I can manage to utter, but as I stare at my parents and the sadness, fear, and something else I don’t have time to name on their faces, I find my voice again and say it louder. “No! They can’t–”

“Actually, they can,” my mother says quietly and my father winces with pain.

“It’s a very old law. A remnant of the Dark Days. It was written when the population was stressed from the wars, famine, disease, and the fallout of the cataclysm. They wrote it to encourage…repopulation,” my father explains, lightly resting his hands on my mother’s shoulders to comfort her. They’re distressed. They should be. I can’t believe they would let this happen. Aren’t they supposed to protect us?

“Why bring it back now?”

“It was never really gone, just hasn’t been used in almost a hundred years,” my father says gently.

“It survived in a way through other arranged marriages, like many of the Merchants still hold to.”

“That doesn’t give them the right to force Prim into a marriage she doesn’t want!” I shout, thankful that she’s outside tending to Lady and can’t hear me.

“She’s not the only one. They selected twelve girls and twelve boys at random from the unmarried youth of the District and paired them together,” my mother says as tears form in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill. She should be crying. I still can’t believe that my parents are powerless to stop this. My mind prickles at something she said, but I can’t grasp it and focus on it through my hopeless anger. The room is starting to spin and vomit rises high in my throat, threatening to choke me.

“We think it might have something to do with the pox that hit during the winter,” my mother whispers and I let loose a squeaking snarl. Didn’t we already give enough to that cursed disease? Primrose made it through alive, but Amaryllis…pragmatic and shy Amaryllis, Prim’s twin sister…she was not so lucky. Gone at thirteen years old. They could’ve prevented it, had they listened to my mother’s wisdom, her knowledge of how to prevent the spread of the disease. And now they want to take my only remaining sister, too. When she’s still grieving her twin. It’s wrong. All of this is wrong.

“She’s the youngest!” I protest. “She’s not even fourteen yet!”

“We know, Katniss. But there’s nothing we can do.”

“Katniss–” my father tries to soothe me, but I finish lacing my boots and stand, blinded by rage at their complacency over this. I spit on the floor next to the table with the hated missive and stomp towards the door where I grab my things.

“I have to go meet Gale,” I mutter and slam the door on my way out.

I am deaf to the early morning activities in town as I make my way towards the north gate. Usually, I would enjoy the crispness of the air and the freshening scents that signal the beginning of the end of winter. But the orders from the Capitol, countersigned by our Grand Marshal, have ruined even my appreciation of the vibrant green blades sprouting up through the remaining patches of snow along the edges of town.

The gates are already opened by the time I get there, the decree from the Marshal’s office interrupted my daily routine and delayed me from making it out here before sunrise. Now I’m behind, and will need to move quickly if I am to get caught up on my tasks and be home in time. With a nod to the guard, I proceed out of District 12’s official borders and take my first full breath of the day.

The woods smell wonderfully fragrant with the heavy scent of the soil, a sure sign that it rained last night, a welcome relief from the months of snow. Patches of white remain in shadowed areas, but the forest is slowly coming back to life after the hard winter. The rains will have made the ground soft. Any animals moving about this morning will leave clear tracks, and that is good for me.

I move quickly and undisturbed into the trees as there are only a handful of us who ever venture beyond the fringes of the woods that border District Twelve. Tales of monstrous beasts that roam the forest surrounding us keep many citizens inside, hiding behind barbed wire fences they sometimes electrify and a round-the-clock rotation of guards. There are a few brave souls who venture into the edges of the forest to forage for wild herbs, greens and fruits, but most of our food is grown in the fields and orchards to the south of the District.

Even with all the time I’ve spent in the woods, I’ve never once seen such a monster. Of course I’ve seen predators – foxes, bobcats, wolves, river otters, even the occasional bear – but nothing that would fit the legends of terror passed down through the ages. Sometimes I think the stories were made up just to control us, but that could be Gale in my head.

My mother used to start stories with the phrase, “Once upon a time…” At the utterance of these words, my sisters and I would cease all movement and noise, knowing that we were about to embark on a magnificent journey. Maybe if my mother had told different stories, panic would keep me from the woods. But unlike most of the other mothers in District Twelve, mine never seemed to feel the need to terrify us with the usual repertoire of stories. Tales of the monsters and darkness. Tales that instead began with the phrase, “Once upon a full moon…”

Perhaps my mother thought there was no point in terrorizing her children. Perhaps we behaved well enough for her to never feel the need to use the stories as a deterrent. Or maybe she refused to tell full moon stories for another reason. Whatever the reason, the bedtime stories my parents told helped make me braver, not more fearful.

The further into the trees I get, the more I relax. The sounds of life strengthen the deeper I go – the faint song of birds, the honking of geese as they return north. By the time I reach the brook, my heart is thumping powerfully and I pause for a quick drink from the frigid waters. The banks are already swollen and I check along the muddy shores for faint tracks, finally finding a few deer prints and following them. It is only in the woods, that I am truly able to be myself. Gale says that it’s the only place where I smile.

I move silently in pursuit of the deer, intending to catch up with Gale at our snare lines later, hopefully with a buck in tow. Eventually, I catch my first sight of it, head bent to graze. He’s majestic and proud, and for a second, I regret the need to kill such a beautiful creature. But beauty does not feed my family. So I take the shot.

It’s while I’m cleaning my kill and building a litter for the carcass out of a few fallen branches and a sturdy tarp I carry in my game bag that Gale materializes in front of me, always so silent, and I startle.

“Gotta be more alert with the Mutts roaming these woods,” he says, flipping his hunting knife in the air before catching it and squatting next to me to help. “Nice kill.”

“Not a bad way to start the morning,” I say and frown a little as I remember the actual start to my day. I’d been so lost in the woods that I stopped thinking about it. I’m guessing Gale’s family wasn’t affected by the decrees, or else he’d have already started in on one of his rants about the Capitol, the city hundreds of miles from here that governs our country.

“Snare lines real quick then back into town?” he says and I agree, because with the deer, we’ll need to head in soon. It’s a Sunday, so at least he doesn’t have to go into the mines, but I also need to be back home in time for afternoon tea with the future in-laws.

When he’s not paying attention, I get him back for startling me, sliding my foot out as he squints through the trees at who knows what. He stumbles over my ankle and I smile.

“Trapped the trapper,” I say and flip my braid back over my shoulder while he glares at me. The expression isn’t frightening at all now that I know him. When we first met, it probably would have terrified me, but now I know what supressed laughter looks like on his face.

After we empty the snare lines, we sit on a flat rock near the brook, eating a quick snack of dried fruits, a handful of jerky, and some goat’s cheese Prim left for me this morning. It’s not a feast, but it soothes the edge of the hunger we’ve built up traipsing through the woods and gives us the burst of energy we’ll need to drag my deer back into town.

I cup my hand in the stream and take a few deep drinks then shake the water from my hand and finish drying it on my pants. Feeling eyes on me, I look up and catch Gale staring at me. My cheeks flush as I think that maybe I’ve got blood on my face or in my hair again. “What?”

“Nothing,” Gale says, shaking his head and looking away to scowl at the trees.

He’s been doing that more often, staring at me, and it makes me nervous. I can’t put a reason to why, though. I’ve known Gale since I was twelve, and he was fourteen. His father had just been killed in an accident in the mines and Gale had taken over his father’s responsibilities. My father had to take extra shifts at the mine to cover the shortage of workers after the accident, and I began to venture into the woods to hunt without him. Many thought Gale and I were both too young to be wandering that deep in the woods alone to hunt, but no one stopped us. There aren’t many hunters and trappers in our village. My father taught me well and I was doing okay on my own when I met Gale.

We met on a cold, crisp autumn day. I’d tried my hand at snares, because it’d be foolish not to, but I didn’t have the knack for it. That day, I was late. If I didn’t hurry back into town, I’d be left with my considerable haul and no time to trade it before the market closed for the day. I stumbled across a hare, suspended in a perfect twitch-up snare. I reached out to examine the knots, the setup of the snare when Gale’s voice startled me.

“Stealing is illegal,” he’d said, making me jump and draw my arrow back, aimed at his heart. His eyes had narrowed and he nodded to my bow. “So’s killing an unarmed man.”

“Then what do you call that knife?” I’d asked in a huff, upset that he’d scared me so badly. At that point, I was still getting used to being alone that deep in the trees, far enough that the fences and even the sounds of the mines of District Twelve had long since faded into the nothing. Getting used to only having the quiet and the solitude for companionship.

Glancing down at the knife tucked in his belt, Gale’s scowl had finally melted away into a smile. It completely changed his face from that of a threat to that of a friend. Or at least, someone I thought could be my friend.

I’d been right about that. It took a few months for us to start trusting one another and stop seeing each other as competition. We both worked the woods, true, but the more we worked together, the more we came to realize we both did better when we operated as a team. My father built a bow for Gale and I taught him how to use it. He taught me more about snares, and together, we became a seamless unit.

Once we’ve cleaned up our meal, we shoulder the litter with my buck on it and head back towards the District. Inside the fences, the air hangs thick with tension. I briefly wonder if the pending forced marriages have anything to do with it. Which leads to wondering how much longer my sister will be free. I didn’t bother to ask my parents when the joyful occasion is to take place before I stormed from the house.

“Two days,” Gale says, waving towards the lunar chart prominently displayed in the town square.

Oh right. That’s why everyone is so tense. It’s two days to the next full moon cycle. Gale and I roll our eyes at this. Every full moon, the town places a selection of livestock on four altars, each of them three miles away from the four gates of our District, a Tribute to the monsters that the Capitol claims roam our lands as a result of the weaponry used by our ancestors. Muttations or Mutts for short. The townspeople believe it because after the three days of the full moon, there’s always a pile of carcasses, picked clean and eaten, on the altars. Any predator could do that, though. It’s not a sign that a real monster lives in the woods. It’s all a bunch of superstition the Capitol uses to keep people scared and from venturing too far beyond the fences. I’m not afraid of their monsters, and neither is my father. Neither is Gale. Still, it has most of the people of District Twelve convinced.

We finish our business with Rooba, the butcher, our pockets heavier with coins and our bags with a few freshly wrapped venison cuts. Both of our families will eat well tonight, although I don’t know how I’m going to stomach food knowing what Prim’s future holds.

“We should drop these at home and then head out the east gate to the lake,” Gale suggests. “Might be some good fishing with the brief thaw last week.”

“You go,” I say. “I have some things I need to take care of at home.”

“Alright,” Gales says tightly.

I feel like I should tell him about the trials my family currently faces, but inside the fence is no place to trigger Gale’s anger with the Capitol. So I keep my silence and head home. When I get there, I pack the venison on ice, scowling at my mother muttering to herself as she cleans the house.

“Katniss, I laid out a dress for you. Please go get a bath and dress,” she says once she notices me, not pausing in her sweeping. I hear the scrape of furniture moving in the living room and realize that my father is turning our comfortable sitting area into a parlor worthy of entertaining the Grand Marshal. It makes me sick that they can do this to their own daughter without a fight and I leave my mother without saying a word.

In the entryway, I gaze up the stairs leading to our bedrooms. The one I share with Prim, and used to share with Amaryllis as well, has its door is open, spilling light from the window into the hallway. I can’t believe that she’s going to be gone. Both of them. She may as well be dead if she’s going to be forced into marriage at fourteen. For repopulation. I suppose there’s a chance that she could have been paired with someone who will be kind and patient with her, but I doubt it. There is not that much luck in this world.

In a fit of anger, I snatch the order off the hall table and glare fire at the red and gold embossed eagle seal of the Capitol at the bottom of the page, trailing gold ribbons held in place by the wax. Then our Grand Marshal’s seal. A pair of crossed pick-axes in onyx black, trailing red ribbons. I scan the last paragraph, some nonsense about henceforth and forevermore and not to be undermined and–

Should the aforementioned parties be preceded in age by an eligible sibling, aged twelve to twenty-two, said elder sibling may volunteer to take the place of the younger in the ceremony of matrimony.

An eligible sibling can take her place. I can take Prim’s place!

Purpose fills me, and before I can think it through too much, I fold the command and stuff it in my jacket before racing from the house, my boots echoing against the wood floors.

“Katniss!” my mother yells after me. “Katniss get back here! This is not the time to go running away into the woods!”

My father yells too, but they don’t chase me. Good. My feet carry me swiftly to the council building and I quickly explain what I am there for. The clerk lifts his eyebrows at me, perhaps surprised. I’m guessing that not many older siblings were willing to volunteer to take the place of their younger ones in a forced marriage.

But I can bear so much more than my sweet, delicate sister could. I once took her into the woods to try to teach her a little about hunting, but she cried over our first kill, wanting to bring the rabbit home and try to heal it. I refuse to watch her crushed and slowly die in a loveless marriage, forced into it for the sake of breeding. My mother’s a healer. I’ve seen what happens to girls who bear children before their body is ready. Besides, I have no plans to marry anyone. I guess some people would have expected Gale and I to get married some day, since we’re best friends and almost always together.

Gale.

I freeze and second guess myself as the clerk carefully pens out the changes. But Gale is handsome and desirable. I’ve heard the girls whispering in town and in school, even after he graduated nearly two years ago. They want him. And who could blame them. He’s strong enough to make a decent living in the mines and his hunting skills mean that his family is bound to eat better than half the ones in town. Besides, it’s not like my getting married will hurt him. There’s never been anything romantic between us. We’ll still be able to hunt together. I won’t let my future husband take that away from me, I don’t care who he is.

My future husband.

The thought fills me with cold fear, but I cannot waver. It is better for me to bear this than Prim. This is the thought that keeps my hands from shaking when I accept the marriage order and two copies of the changes.

“Too close to the appointment time. Just give the second copy to the groom’s family when they arrive,” the clerk tells me and then waves me out the door. I’m a little miffed at having to play the messenger, but what does it matter. The louse will still be getting a bride, and maybe he’ll be disappointed that it’s me and not Prim, but I really don’t care about his feelings or desires right now. All I care about is protecting my sister.

I hurry home, and before my mother can start yelling, I shove the paperwork in her face. “I’ll go take that bath now.”

She cries out when I’m halfway to the back closet where we keep the tub, next to the kitchen to make filling it with heated water easier. “Katniss! What have you done?”

“Made sure that Prim has a chance at marrying someone she can actually love.”

I scrub blood from beneath my fingernails, dirt from my hair. I scrub and scrub until I’m raw as I hear my family whispering in the next room and ignore their words. When I’m done, my mother appears with a towel to help me dry and then assists me into a robe. I begin to shiver, missing the warmth of the bath, and perhaps frightened as the realization of what I’ve gotten myself into sets into my heart. This one impulsive choice will affect the rest of my life.

My mother follows me upstairs and it disturbs me a little, but then she carefully guides me to sit in front of the fire in my room, which she’s clearly built up just for me. “Where’s Prim?” I ask as my mother combs through the wet strands of my hair, carefully massaging a cream into it that smells of gardenia and will make it shine with softness.

“Downstairs, helping your father prepare,” she murmurs, her voice soft. I relax beneath her gentle ministrations as she holds strands out to let the warmth from the fireplace dry them. Eventually, her hands move to swiftly braid it, the brief tugs on my scalp lulling me into a state of comfort, helped by her soft humming.

She doesn’t do this very often anymore, but that’s partly my fault. I haven’t let her. Too busy rushing out the door early in the mornings to meet Gale in the woods and hunt before I had to be at school. I realize now that I am going to miss this. My mother’s touch.

When she’s done fixing my hair, she helps me stand and don a lovely blue dress. Simple, but lovely. While she’s tying the sash around my waist, Prim skips into the room, dressed all in white. A heavy sweater and a tulle skirt. The clothes look new and I briefly wonder if my parents took her to town to buy something new in which to greet her fiancé. Who is now my fiancé. She flops onto the bed and watches as my mother adds the final touches to my outfit. A gold hair comb in the shape of a flower that belonged to my grandmother. A creamy knit shawl draped over my shoulders for added warmth.

“There. All done,” my mother says softly, giving my hair one last pat. I turn to face the mirror for the first time today and stare at the face looking back at me. It’s still me, I think, only with sweeping bangs that give my face an almost sultry appearance, my braid more intricate than I’ve ever worn it before, starting at one ear and crossing over the back of my head and curving down the opposite shoulder, the tail of it resting over my heart. I examine the blue dress that used to be my mother’s and is apparently now mine. It’s softer and finer than what I usually wear.

“You look beautiful,” Prim breathes from where she sits on the bed. I manage a smile and twirl so she can see better. As much as I am dying inside, I don’t want her to know how scared I am. How much it’s costing me to do this.

“I look nothing like myself and not nearly as beautiful as you, Little Duck,” I insist and grab her hands to tug her off the bed and into a hug. My mother reminds me about the shoes I am to wear and then heads downstairs to finish preparing for our guests.

“You didn’t have to do this for me, Katniss,” Prim whispers as soon as my mother is out of hearing range.

“Why wouldn’t I? You deserve the chance to choose who you love and who you marry,” I say, leaning back to look at her and tapping one finger on the tip of her nose. She giggles and shrugs. It bothers me that she’s being so nonchalant about her future.

“So do you. And it wouldn’t have been so bad. I could’ve done a lot worse as far as husbands go,” she says and I wrinkle my brow.

“You already knew who it was?”

“Well of course. His name was on the order. Didn’t you read it?” No, I didn’t. At least not all the way through.

I’m not given time to work through this news before voices reach us through the open window and Prim lets me go, a smile on her face as she rushes to peek outside. I’d rather not, so I remain rooted in place. I’m going to have to look at him for the rest of my life, whoever he is. The voices don’t sound too happy, though, and I wonder how they’re going to take the news of the bride swap.

“Are you coming?” Prim asks as she rushes to the door, pausing when she sees me motionless in the middle of the room.

“Yes. I need to put my shoes on and then I’ll be down. You go ahead,” I tell her. With one last cheerful smile, Prim hurries downstairs as our guests knock on the door. The black leather shoes my mother set out for me pinch my toes, so it takes me a moment to adjust them and I’m just reaching my bedroom door when voices reach me from downstairs.

“This is preposterous!”

Oh no. I know that shrewish voice. It belongs to the baker’s witch of a wife.

“Agatha, it’s not a problem. The contract is stamped and approved with the change.”

“That’s beside the point and you know it. He was supposed to be getting a lovely, fresh, young bride who could at least fit in with us, but now–”

Agatha Mellark stops talking when she notices my father and her son watching me. I spare him only a glance before walking sedately down the stairs, not long enough to figure out which one it is, wondering if he’s as disgusted with his Seam bride as his mother is. Instead, I focus on my father, whose lips twitch in a smile, pride glowing in his eyes as I tilt my chin a little higher. He gives me strength to face this ordeal with dignity.

I did not choose this path for my life. It was forced upon me, and I will not be cowed by it. I will not bend to the orders of this witch the way my kind and naive, not yet fourteen year old sister might have done had she been the one forced into this sham of a marriage. Maybe it is this knowledge that makes Mrs. Mellark so furious. The knowledge that I will not be so easily controlled.

When I’m close to the foot of the stairs, I finally face my groom to see which of her sons it is. I think the oldest would be ineligible based on his age, which leaves the middle or—

The youngest. Peeta Mellark.

I meet his blue eyes as I take the last few steps. He’s there waiting for me, dressed handsomely in a red sweater over a white dress shirt, a dark brown tie tucked beneath the sweater, and tan corduroy pants. His ash blonde hair falls in messy waves over his forehead. When I pause on the final stair, he extends his hand, palm upwards. My fingers shake as I place them in his. They curl around mine, enveloping them in steady warmth. He doesn’t look away from me as he bows his head over my hand, lips hovering several inches away from my skin.

“Would you care to join us for tea?” my mother asks nervously.

“We would love to,” Peeta tells her, cutting off his mother and preventing any further insults. As soon as our families head towards the living room, he drops my hand. I flex it at my side and move ahead of him.

They don’t really have much of a choice but to accept anyways. I remember enough of my mother’s stories about her childhood. Arranged marriages – ones orchestrated by the parents of the bride and groom, not by the Capitol – were common enough amongst Merchants when she was a girl. She’s told us enough for me to know that this tea is customary. I even remember the details of what’s expected of me.

Stepping up to the table my father and Prim prepared while my mother helped me dress, I carefully place a piece of tea leaf bark into the strainer of the pot of steaming water, gently swirl twice and set the pot aside. While it steeps, I arrange the cups on saucers. Beside me, Peeta places a basket on the table and removes a wooden cutting board, a serrated knife, and a loaf of bread. It’s thick and dark, the crackle of the breaking crust as he slices it provides the only accompaniment to the faint clattering of fine china as I complete my task.

The dishes, along with the blue dress that I’m wearing, were one of the things my mother brought with her when she left town to marry my father. I glance up at them over the tense table and see that my father holds her hand, rubbing soothing circles into her skin with his thumb. They share a look of love and encouragement, to fortify one another. A pang hits me as I realize that their fate will never be mine. My parents married because they were madly in love. Still are. A rarity between Seam and Merchant. In contrast, Peeta’s parents sit on the edges of their chairs, putting as much space between them as possible. They look directly at no one, but rather aimlessly examine the room – his expression apathetic, hers hostile. Finally, I steal one quick glance at the boy who is to be my husband.

He calmly slides slices of bread onto the delicate porcelain plates, adding a basil leaf and small dollops of the goat cheese that my father must have laid out for us. I wonder if Peeta baked the bread himself or if his time is now too occupied by his second profession, the one he was apprenticed into since his oldest brother will eventually inherit the bakery and no doubt staff it with his own wife and children.

While Peeta’s not smiling, he looks neither terrified nor appalled. Just steady as a rock. Calm. How can he be so calm about this? I’m ready to race out the door screaming. But for some reason, his placid demeanor doesn’t frighten me as I think it should. It actually makes it easier to keep going with the ritual.

I pour the tea when it’s ready and Peeta quietly asks everyone how many sugar cubes or if they want cream, pausing to give me time to add the requisite ingredients, handing the appropriate bowl or carafe to me. Throughout the entire ordeal, Mrs. Mellark keeps coughing.

“Katniss, add a spoonful of the honey and black pepper to Agatha’s tea, would you?” my mother suggests. I glance over the jars my mother always puts with the tea tray and pick up the one she wants.

“What’s that for?” Mrs. Mellark asks, clear distrust in her tone.

“For your cough. It will help sooth any irritation in your throat,” my mother says kindly and Peeta’s mother wrinkles her nose.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. What are you people trying to do? Poison me?”

Mr. Mellark whispers to her, his face turning red. “Agatha. Lily is just–”

“Well if they wanted to get their hands on our son’s inheritance faster, all they’d have to do is kill you and me to get it. I’ve heard of these things happening before.”

None of us know what to say. My father’s brow furrows in anger and my mother clenches his fingers in hers to keep him from an outburst. Prim’s gaze darts nervously between the adults. And Peeta…

Peeta carefully takes the jar from my hands and unscrews the lid, dipping a spoon into it for a small amount of the remedy.

“Is this enough?” he asks me quietly and all I can do is nod and watch him stir it into his own tea. He picks it up off the table and locks eyes with his mother before taking a slow sip.

“Peeta!” she scolds, because the bride and groom are supposed to be the last to drink in this little ceremony. He takes another deep sip before placing the cup back on the saucer and setting it aside for him to finish later.

“Any inheritance goes to my brothers if I die before the wedding,” he says simply. “And since no one here seems worried, and I’m still alive, I think it’s safe for you to drink Mrs. Everdeen’s medicines, mother.”

Mrs. Mellark’s mouth gapes comically and Peeta thanks my mother for her consideration before he gives me a shy smile and adds the tonic to his mother’s tea. I stare in wonderment at him, confused by his actions, his swift defense of my parents, the mollification of what could have turned into an explosive disagreement between our families, and the unexpected warmth that flows through me.

We finish serving the tea and finally take our seats. Somehow, my family and Peeta manage to keep a conversation going, despite his own parents’ complete silence. Every so often, Peeta will turn to me and ask a question, almost a whisper. I answer with a word or two, unable to say much more than that. I don’t even remember what he asks me. Or my answers. I feel like I’m living in a fog.

Finally, the guests make their excuses and leave us in relative peace. My mother suggests that I go upstairs and lie down, reassures me that they will clean up from the tea. I do exactly as she asks and only manage to kick off the uncomfortable shoes before falling into my bed. I wait for tears to arrive and instead, fall into a fitful sleep.

“Did she marry the baker’s son?” the oldest twin asks, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. They’re a pretty pair, cozied up in a pile of soft gray and green cashmere blankets and one another’s arms, the younger having climbed into her sister’s bed at some point during the story. Entranced as they are with their father’s recitation, they’ve both been yawning the past few minutes.

“It’s late and you both need your rest. I’ll tell the end of the story tomorrow night.” They try to protest and he smiles, easily lifting the younger and tossing her back onto her own bed. She squeals in laughter, but quickly scurries beneath the covers for warmth. He adds a log to their fire and secures the grate before kissing each of them in turn and dousing the lights.

“Papa, are you sure we can’t finish the story tonight?”

“Not tonight. Get some sleep girls,” he urges, leaving the door slightly ajar before joining his wife, already deep in slumber in their bedroom.

“Mutt. Mutt. Mutt. Mutt.”

The single word is whispered on the winds, following the girl as she walks through the woods, carrying her basket. The scent of sweet meats drawing forth the terrors of the night. She turns her head, looking over her shoulder, fear flashing across her face. Was that rock there a moment ago?

“Mutt. Mutt. Mutt. Mutt.”

She quickens her pace, drawing her creamy knit shawl up over her hair, the moonlight as bright on the snowy fabric as it was on her pale skin and golden hair, a beacon to the wandering hunters of the night. Fear courses through her blood, calling them to her faster and faster as she runs. The rock shifts and follows her as others join, pointed ears tuned to the sounds of her fright, tails swishing eagerly through the night. Branches snare her luminescent tulle skirt, cling to it, slowing her down and drawing the hunters closer.

“Mutt. Mutt. Mutt. Mutt.”

With a cry of pain, she trips and falls, her ankle turning, hands and knees scraped raw on scattered brambles and twigs as her basket spills its contents on the forest floor. She needs to keep moving, but she’s captivated by the porcelain doll she tripped over, it’s white dress stained red, face smudged with red dirt. When she lifts her head, she meets rancid breath and gleaming fangs. Red eyes and a snarl. The trees bow in the wind, blocking out the moonlight, plunging the area into utter darkness as the other hunters form a ring around her, their hackles raised and low growls filling the night.

She releases a soul piercing scream as jaws open wide to consume her.

Author’s Note: If you’re not exactly sure what’s going on but are intrigued, then I have accomplished my goal for this chapter! Real life responsibilities are starting to catch up to me, so I am uncertain when or how often I will be able to publish updates for this story. I apologize for that, but your patience is appreciated!

I have to thank @titaniasfics and @peetabreadgirl for their excellent help in beta reading, editing, and discussing complicated structuring with me. Any remaining mistakes are all my responsibility. Ladies, you are pillars of creativity. Love you both!

#Everlark Fic Exchange #Springtime Edition 2017 #submission #katnissdoesnotfollowback #prompt 5

124 notes · View notes

stageleviathan · 7 years

Text

Ghibli 1: Castle in the Sky

[935 words]

Psychic asylum seeking in dark and troubled times (“dark and troubled times” known as “all the god damn time”) has led to the rare, joyous discovery, the gem laced bounty here and there in craggy twists in deep hell-mouths, the dirty pearls at the bottom of seas frothing in the tumult of wicked waves. It is the rare comfort, the thin splinters of mirth that help form the trees twisting in the gale winds of the these terrible years.

I speak of Studio Ghibli movies. Through some means and ways, I've happened upon what could be a treasure trove of their entire oeuvre, flush to ripped seam of their animated marvels, most of which I, ghastly enough, had not seen; even the few I had witnessed I barely remembered. I had, for quite some time, wanted to rectify this, and now – even amidst a bevy of life's jabs, even with a shifting future at my job, even with invisible monsters gnawing at my ambition and drive, even with the great library of shows I should be watching – is just as good to watch some Ghibli now as any other time.

I decided to go in order. I am currently skipping (though have every intention on going back to) Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, since that was movie had been conjured just prior to Studio Ghibli's founding. Instead, I started off with Castle in the Sky.

Castle in the Sky, like nearly all the stories you were ever told, is about two people, and worlds' more chasing after them. A young girl named Sheeta falls out of the sky like a feather, clutching a glowing blue stone. She is found by a young boy who works in a mine named Pazu. The girl, much like all people and all things, is being harried by sky pirates, the military, and a mysterious man who harbors a deep secrete pertaining to Sheeta and her stone. No one takes any of this lying down, and adventure bears fruit.

In a world where creativity and the fantastical are often pummeled in turn by heavy boots of the bland and the processed, Castle in the Sky finds itself as a beacon to the delight of the imagination, a two hour verse on the scripture of the glorious unreal. It stretches and dares across its every minute of film, and it's a wonder in a land often void of any such thing.

It's a glowing, sappy, gushing assessment of the movie, yes, but I fell in love with the whole of the story nearly instantly, and the adoration never abetted in the two hours since. It's a modern(ish) fairy tale, with all of the nuggets and fountains of delight and amusement striated between vine-thick strands of peril and excitement, Castle in the Sky ranks high and heavy as a masterful synthesis of action and adventure, with touches of romance that refuse to gunk up the gears, with all the magic and splendor you would want from such a story.

And goodness hell, what a story. Once Pazu and Sheeta meet the story races along, pounding dirt like a slapped racehorse. Supposedly, Sheeta and the stone have some connection to a floating island from Gulliver's Travels called Laputa, a place considered utterly mythical, though Pazu claims his late father had seen it and even took a picture. The sky pirates are hunting down the stone for treasure, and the mysterious man wants both the stone and the girl, his aim bolstered by a rocky alliance with the military. Somehow, Sheeta is key to getting to this floating land, if such a place even exists.

(It does.)

The characters are all expertly crafted, with distinct wants and needs, charms and antagonistic designs. Just as imbued with personality are the inanimate objects, from buzzing sky flyers to the cities themselves, made with such artistry that they speak without speaking, just a transmuted form of character. The visuals propel the movie into the strata of legends. Everything, from the animation to the backgrounds, from the brown and grey mine city, to the brilliant pool of colors of the character, to the hollow tones of Laputa itself , exudes an indelible charm, and is surely the sheer product of some imaginative sorcery, a fully formed spell that charms for its length and lingers like a glamor for far, far longer.

You can nearly hear someone telling the story as it progressed, voices altering in shift and pitch to differentiate between characters, hands dancing in the air like a puppet master or a painter casting swaths of imagined watercolors around the room, creating the imagery of the tale. The movie has no narrator, yet you could almost hear one speaking far off in far whispers. Castle in the Sky is that kind of marvel, that kind of beauty, a story so simple yet, at once, riveting. To find a misstep in this movie is searching for a specific grain of sand on a beach; eventually, you give up and bask in the waves and lie in the sun.

Often, some of my favorite movies include worlds I want to live in, and rare is such sentiment more relevant than the world of Castle in the Sky, with all of its wonder and all of its danger intact. If the fabric of the real was as finely made, if more movies dared to have even a third of the scope and creative prowess as Castle in the Sky, it would be a much better world to live in, a much better place to exist.

#2017 #movies

32 notes · View notes

itesfashion · 6 years

Text

How come Complete You will Apparent Powerful Verdict?

Did you ever hear which family members gain knowledge of diversely? Well, it truly is true.

And although lots of people could possibly understand by perusing all the regarding the way to take something, a person master differently—you need true examples.

Just like a protester, political leader, as well as superhero, I am just right here to lead with example. We’ve put together a directory of article finish examples the fact that includes lots of tips as well as composition models to function as stepping-stone for your own personel writing.

Prior to I get within the article ending recommendations, to find out the reasons why coming up with an effective finish is indeed important. Any decision isn’t necessarily an important introduction to so what you’ve by now written.

Authentic, it will be slightly regarding summarizing, but it really really should bring your current article a measure further. Your main result should really reply to any unresolved problems and also conclusion a essay or dissertation along with a smash!

and shorter, an incredible composition summary is usually tremendous fundamental while it rounds your try along with causes it to be truly feel complete.

Today on to the wonderful stuff…

Investigative Composition Summary Recommendations

Area #1: Evaluate your design in concern personally persona around the Hunger Online games series.

The most self-evident methods of concern inside Being hungry Video games may well be Katniss and Peeta, however the smoothness whom personifies pity ideal has been Prim. All through the series, the woman compassion is noted once your lady may keep secrets and techniques with the girl mummy designed for Katniss, whenever your woman rehabs Gale following he becomes whipped, together with throughout earphones conduct yourself involved with her life like this lady pushes to save lots of small children on the Capitol. The lady actually activities Albert Schweitzer’s phrases, “Objective of person’s our life is to help serve, and even to indicate empathy along with the could to aid others.”

Topic #2: So what generated the particular Civic Struggle?

The need for any risk factor for any Usa Municipal Conflict might be discussed, yet what on earth is inescapable fact is always there were various factors which usually brought this Southern region to help secede. Thralldom, says’rights, and also the selection of Abraham Lincoln subsequently with the presidency—though certainly no assert with the Southern region elected for the purpose of him—virtually all led for the war. Even when many experts have roughly 150 numerous years for the reason that Municipal Battle completed, examples of the other part in between North plus To the can still be witnessed in modern day America.

Niche #3: Analyze Facebook’s influence upon Our country’s youth.

Composition final thoughts can be simple once you know the actual framework. A great deal comes all the way down to 3 most important components: a good move as a result of earphones figure passage, a new summary of these thesis survey and principal specifics of this article, and also a closing document this gadgets everything up. Should pretty much all college students was confident this easy supplement, maybe essay creating could well be simplier and easier for the purpose of everyone.

Niche #6: Is there a medical way?

These technological procedure frequently occurs sense. 1st, individuals must have a study thought he expects clarified and also just a little qualifications skills about the subject. Consequently the owner types a good conjecture, or even what exactly this individual says the answer to the research real question is, of which the patient lab tests by having an experiment. Last but not least, the individual might review the data and then attract a good conclusion. Using these services is employed in the not to mention away from methodical nation, assessment many techniques from background that will communal issues.

Subject matter #7: Just what are the reasons homelessness?

Moving by just a dispossessed people is actually normal, specifically in city settings. Homelessness is often caused by several components, which includes task decrease, deficit of family help support, plus the diminishing use of affordable housing. Although it is normally easy for a handful of for you to think homelessness is due to internal difficulties and / or total idleness, there are more elements towards consider. Only if the main style regarding drastically renowned can easily community initiate to think of a comprehensive solution.

Matter #8: What’s the subject matter principal result in of climatic change?

Almost all research workers acknowledge that will wipeout of the earths is due to a swift increase involving techniques fumes as the Business Revolution. And some could possibly conisder that manufacturer farming tend to be the major trigger of around the world and other people will probably articulate it’s always contemporary society’s transportation techniques, the key purpose is clear: mankind.

Plot Dissertation Decision Illustrations

Content #9: Think about what exactly it would be live to be given to the pages of Romeo not to mention Juliet.

Really being launched in the pages of Romeo and also Juliet would are loaded with various customs shock. Gentlemen should be transporting swords and additionally fighting with each other 1 another in your street. Young girls could possibly be having a wedding from 13 many old. Previously had When i the information of an amount turned into within the star-crossed enthusiasts, Appraisal have got informed Romeo who Juliet’s death became a hoaxes not to mention to hang about until your wife woke up. This valuable, keep in mind, will make your take up extremely several, but yet We come to feel going without shoes was in fact the accountability soon after obtaining wasted and so enough time using the characters.

Question #10: A time machines has taken an individual back up in interact with your chosen article author (Edgar Allan Poe from this case). Develop that meeting.

Since Edgar along with That i were discussing the everyday styles in addition to dim imagery from an individual’s is effective, your server cut off us. Simply put i hit with regard to the wine carafe, added myself personally any cup, plus instructed in cases where he would just like some.

“Not any kudos,” he said, joking grimly. “All things considered, it usually is poisoned.”

Field #11: Say to around your proudest moment.

Standing just for your little sibling forced me to be find that the type so,who everyone loves with those after-school sitcoms. When i was able to experience the little one who was simply intimidation our small amount of friend without having to use provocations or maybe bricks-and-mortar force. Finally, telling each of the a great open dialogue helped bring them all finer, as well as while they may do not be close friends, not less than they could esteem every single other.

Subject matter #12: Look at opertation which usually made a person what you are today.

My mistreat did not and does not specify my family, but yet We wouldn’t be the identical specific obtained I just not even used it. This got a little while and then there were being difficulties, and yet I’m a much better, further loving human being due to their terrible activities in which happened. I’m hoping many others never have to examine a similar thing Used to do, but once they will, Lets hope they may learn from your case study and discover assistance they should be alter their own issue for any better.

(Learn on crafting narration essays.)

Gripping Composition Final result Ideas

Theme #13: Need to Hermione possess ended up with Harry rather than Ron on the Ravage Potter series?

Ravage may just be the chief temperament about the Harry Potter line as well as J.K. Rowling often have mentioned most recently which perhaps your lady thinks about Hermione not to mention Ravage needs to have ended up being together with each other, even so the individuals are much too similar. That they tend to be organic frontrunners, that will develop a whole lot of romantic relationship tension. Ron, even so, will be Style N in order to amount Hermione’s Model Your personality. Considering that Harry wound up with Ron’s babe, Ginny, the 3 principal roles are actually engaged to be married directly into a similar family. In which obviously will make family vacation get-togethers alot more entertaining.

Matter #14: Needs to advanced schooling coaching be zero cost?

“College student Fiscal loans Wall membrane St Sign” by Funding Zen, Flickr.com (CC BY 2.0)

The level of education loan arrears is an proof which anything is without a doubt mistaken when using the system. However schools will want a salary to survive, buying a school schooling really should also can be bought from not any guide cost you for the student. Free of cost educational background allows just for a lot more professional country as one, them would depart numerous learners with more a chance to do the job further on his or her research projects compared with his or her’s careers, and also it may well promote universities and colleges to obtain additional creative. In the event additional educational institutions accepted the Pay back Them In advance machine, any Usa Affirms may perhaps come to be the most intelligent cities while in the world.

Area #15: Exactly what is the central thing students ought to be understanding however , might not be?

There’s lots of places where people senior high school learning could quite possibly increase, but yet a very important is definitely financial planning. Even though some could possibly claim meant for more suitable diet regime or possibly physical fitness programs, which information is easily obtainable online and even in commercials—and may in fact be taught commencing during basic school. Tougher budgetary preparing curricula would most likely give higher schoolers tips on how to create consumer credit rating, tips on how to spare with regard to retirement living, and how to budget. All of these really are very important to lifetime in the real world although may be filled up with unclear jargoon in addition to selling schemes. By means of Americans getting additional than $11 trillion with big debts, you need to the younger iteration learn the simplest way not really that they are another statistic.

Niche #16: Ought to children get involvement trophies?

Many Babe Boomers assume that participation trophies function as a sign involving millennials’knowledge with entitlement. The simple truth is, these participation trophy isn’t going to trim sense at all about rivalry or even drive intended for improvement. As soon as there can be performance-based cash incentives together with contribution funds, this magnifying wall mount mirror any real-world whereby average-performing staff nevertheless get payed together with well-performing customers find add-ons, grows, plus promotions.

Argumentative Seek Summary Types

Issue #17: Should atomic weapons wind up being forbidden to all nations?

A result of political trepidation relating to unique nations, it’s not possibly which a worldwide forbidding upon atomic guns might be pursued by almost every earth leader. It is recommended who other nations be prepared to guard theirselves from future disorders together with similarly tough weapons. Even so, even more limitations in tests as well as unveil authorizations ought to be enforced to assure hot-headed frontrunners avoid or perhaps expose most of these unsafe pistols just being indicate with force.

Issue #18: Will be pre-employment medication tests a particular breach for privacy?

However agencies need to have to rent capable, trustworthy sales staff, they must be unable to necessitate everything that their sales staff neutralize comfortableness of their own homes. You can find good ways with determining even if anyone suits a job, such as educational background, earlier business, individual in addition to high quality references, as well as trial run periods.

Issue #19: Will need to criminals need the to suffrage?

Although most people concern the fact that according criminals the right to vote may lead to more enjoyable regulations around specified violations, prisoners are generally a section of the Usa population. A very popular activity may include every one’s sounds, possibly even individuals who have generated mistakes.

Niche #20: Should certainly father and mother end up permitted to spank their kids?

Spanking is actually a particular older in addition to laid back strategy for sticking it to children. Them shows these individuals that may assembly other people’s damaging actions by using wildness can be acceptable. In the event that kids are tall enough to help you realize why they will think you are spanked, these are who are old enough to consider their own harmful behaviour pragmatically plus discover why that it was wrong.

(Learn more details on penning argumentative essays.)

The Previous Concept in Remaining Paragraphs

Since most likely recognized assigned all the different try conclusion recommendations previously, there are a number of the way to absolve a great essay. Often, you’ll encounter any bottom line, nonetheless narrative documents may perhaps take a great exception.

A lot of these works permit you to be a little more extremely creative with the conclusion. You have to nonetheless be sure to terminate these dissertation using feeling of shutdown despite the fact that, since in the example of Area #8, this simply means arriving on your relatively forbidding note.

No matter how you actually understand, it is actually fairly practical to receive effective examples. And then now you undertake, you can find that will completing your essay.

interview essay conclusion examples

The post How come Complete You will Apparent Powerful Verdict? appeared first on Guest Blogging Platform for Jewelry & Fashion.

from Blog – Guest Blogging Platform for Jewelry & Fashion https://ift.tt/2GXL82D via IFTTT from Untitled https://ift.tt/2Hj1pgB via IFTTT from Ladies Fashion https://ift.tt/2Jm41uq via IFTTT

#Ladies Fashion

0 notes