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lo-55 · 3 years

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Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 4

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Night has fallen on Chaldeas. Though the globe still casts its red glow across the room, the doom of humanity, it’s too late and Ichigo has been awake for too long for the grief to wash across him like so many waves right now.

He’s summoned another servant today, with the help of technology and Saint Quartz and Cu Chulainn, of course. It was maybe his fault that he now had two celtic servants. One a caster with vicious loyalty but a habit of hitting on girls, and another that avoided women like the plague and followed Ichigo like the most desperate of puppies.

So now he has four servants to keep up with, and so he’s tired .

They go off to the next singularity soon. Somewhere in England, in the late nineteenth century. He should really be resting. Getting ready for the next fight. Letting Olga Marie try an fail to teach him even the simple but powerful magecraft that she and Cu specialize in.

Instead, Ichigo finds himself standing in the doorway to the Chaldeas observation room, looking not at the ominous depiction of their future, but the man standing in front of it.

Romani Archiman. Dr. Roman. His shoulders are tense and drawn and his hair is out of its usual pony tail. He looks as tired out as Ichigo feels. When no one’s watching, right now, his green eyes are dull and his humor has faded. When had he last slept? When had any of them?

Mash kept reminding him how important it was to get proper sleep, and maybe it was easier for demi-servants than it is for humans. He doesn’t know. He never thought to ask.

Ichigo comes to a stop beside him.

It is a testament to his exhaustion that Roman doesn’t even notice Ichigo enough to react until he’s been standing there for nearly a full minute. When he does he jumps, startling and in the space between breaths Roman’s demeanor shifts. His eyes crinkle with a smile and he turns to Ichigo, a dozen times more cheerful than he’d been mere seconds before. It’s a startling contrast. From one face to another in less time than it took Ichigo to even realize he’d seen him looking so serious.

Roman was not a serious man. He had a tendency to jump around and get overly excited over seemingly nothing at all. Like cake, and slacking off and a blog he’s obsessed with that is, somehow, still posting online even though the world outside is nothing more than ash and fading memory. Ichigo personally suspects that it’s a prank put together by Da Vinci.

That artist is something of nuisance.

“Ichigo!” Roman’s smile is hard to spot as a fake, when Ichigo doesn’t know to look for it. Now that it is, it’s still hard but he can see the slant to his eyes, the tiny purse of his mouth. Ichigo is no genius, but he likes to think Roman is his friend. And so he does his best to learn to read him.

“Did you need something?” Roman asks, peering curiously at him. Something under Ichigo’s skin hums and crawls. The hiding sets his teeth on edge. Maybe it's because Ichigo himself is such a straight forward person, but he doesn’t much chair for people who hide like this.

And maybe it’s hypocritical, but at the moment he, frankly, doesn’t give a shit.

“You need to sleep,” Ichigo says, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

“Oh! Ah, I just have a little more work to do here before I can do that. See, Sonya wasn’t feeling well earlier and-”

“Roman,” Ichigo grabs his elbow and watches the man jump, like he’s been shocked. He acts like no one’s ever laid a hand on him before in his life. “Go to sleep. We’re not going to a singularity tomorrow. You can afford rest.”

Still, Roman’s smile turns, tilts, like he’s confused, and this close Ichigo realizes that he’s thrumming with anxiety.

No wonder he can’t sleep.

Ichigo is not a genius. And he’s not the best at offering comfort, especially not at times like this. This is a time when they have to step up, when there is no other choice for them than to stand together, and he can’t say he’s entirely sympathetic with the doctor.

But he pulls him, by the elbow, not giving him time to argue as he manhandles him towards the hallway that leads to the dorm rooms. Most of them are empty now, their occupants frozen in cryogenic coffins. Anyone who isn't working is frozen, in fact. All of the staff that had died during the initial explosion had been dragged out, sometimes in pieces, and laid in the snow and ice outside the facility. It would preserve them for the time being. And with Ichigo around, so too were the ghosts.

It had started with Marie, but by now most of the dead staff have started to drink in his reitsu, to supplement themselves. If they take enough, they can even interact with the world around them, though it leaves Ichigo exhausted if too many do it at once. It’s like vampires, but they're eating his soul instead of drinking his blood. And in any case, it keeps the chains in the chest from eating their way up.

Marie had explained, very vaguely because her family specialized in astronomy not ghosts, that if those chains vanished entirely they would have less ghosts and more ghouls. Which was bad.

They pass twelve of them on the way to their destination.

“Ichigo, please,” Roman tries to tug his arm out of Ichigo’s hand, but out of the two of them it’s no contest who the stronger one is. “I have work-”

“You’re no good if you work yourself to death!” Ichigo snaps. He closes the door behind them with a tap to the pad on the wall and tosses Roman bodily onto the bed.

Roman scrambles to sit, blinking at their surroundings in confusion.

It’s almost the same as the last time they’d been there, during their first meeting ever. The only difference is that there’s a pair of jeans in the corner and a picture of his sisters and his mom on the desk under the window now.

“This is…”

“My room,” Ichigo finishes for him. He runs his fingers through his hair, his customary scowl in place. This was probably stupid but-

“You said you come here to relax, right? To goof off and slack on your duties. Well, relax. Marie’s still around so it’s not like you’re the acting director anymore.”

Roman gapes at him like a fish.

“But- But-”

“Shut up,” Ichigo orders tersely. He’s already second guessing his initial reaction but he wasn’t gonna leave Roman there to stare at their doom and he doesn’t have the damn poetry of words to convince him that they’ll rise above their challenges. “And go to sleep. Chaldea will be here in the morning, and so will the past.”

Roman slowly gathered his limbs together underneath him. He looks at Ichigo, confusion written across his face and it’s all Ichigo can do not to snap at him. Roman is a doctor and grown ass man. He should know better than to neglect himself.

To be fair, Goat Face is also and doctor and grown ass man, and Ichigo doesn’t trust him to so much as feed himself.

“O-kay,” Roman says at last, drawing the words out and his face finally softens, with fondness and truth. Some of the lie slips away. “Okay. But what about you, Ichigo? You need to sleep too. You’re supporting multiple servants and multiple ghosts, now.”

Ichigo hadn’t even thought about that.

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I dunno. I can just sleep in a chair or something.”

“No!” Roman shakes his head. “No, that’s not acceptable. As your doctor I have to advise against it.”

“ ‘as your doctor’? What the hell kinda crap are you going on about?” Ichigo scowls deeper.

“You need to sleep, in a real bed. Honestly. We can just share.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like a sleep over in a movie!”

“... You were homeschooled, weren’t you?”

“Eh?!”

“Fine, whatever,” Ichigo was too tired to deal with this. In the morning he’ll kick himself, and maybe Roman, but for now all he can think of is turning the lights off and getting some sleep, at last.

And if it’s easier to sleep when the living are next to him and not when he’s haunted only by figurative ghosts instead of literal ones, no one will even be the wiser.

It’s not so much a house as it is a room where he can simply exist.

It’s small, single story and a basement that still smells faintly like lightning and copper and a strange magecraft. One that he can’t quite place, one that he’s never encountered before.

Ichigo doesn’t ask about the old owners and Waver Velvet, who gets pissed every time Ichigo doesn’t call him something stupid like Lord Elmeloi the fifth or whatever, hadn’t volunteered any information.

Ichigo spends a few minutes looking around. There’s a fold out couch in the living room and the kitchen is stocked with none perishables and frozen meats. The bedroom has runes carved above the door and the window, offering Ichigo a modicum of protection from what might be out there. There’s a bed big enough for his whole family and then some, and the closet has a few changes of clothes. Three suits, of all things, and a familiar mystic code.

White and black, it’s a body suit he’d been given early on. His Chaldea combat uniform.

The material feels like silk but Ichigo knows better than to think it is. It’s tough enough to hold up to arrows and fire and more than he wants to think of. He’d only taken blunt force trauma when he’d worn it. There were three spells woven into the fabric, and Ichigo wonders what it will be like to wear it again before he dismisses the idea.

Ichigo wonders just what Waver had thought Ichigo was going to be doing here, that he needed this.

He goes to the basement.

It’s bigger than he would have expected, and there are weapons lined on the walls. Spears, swords, and bows, and a range setup with dummies stuffed with straw.

There are no windows, to hide him from curious eyes. Any non-mags who finds out about magic is sentenced to death, and that is part of why Ichigo hasn’t told his family about his escapades. His wars.

Kon walks past him at the foot of the stairs. Along another wall is a shelf built into the stone foundations, filled with texts and materials that Ichigo can recognize instantly.

He’d never been good at spell work on his own, but he can use the magic equivalent of chemistry just fine. And, on top of that, after Babylonia a certain goddess had magnanimously taken time out of her ever so busy schedule to teach him the graceful art of gem magic.

Or rather, a stuck up deity who Ichigo had bribed to be his friend had taught him how to shove magic energy into rocks he could throw at people to blow them the fuck up.

Combined with the runes that Cu had spent years drilling into his head, Ichigo could survive a regular mage battle fine on his own, if he had time to prepare. And war has made him paranoid, so he starts taking stock of everything that he’d been given.

Evil bones, dragon scales, eternal gears, crystals of several types and a mystic gunpowder. A few feathers, and a jar of scarabs. Chalk, too, and strong thread that’s more like fishing line.

There’s also, definitely for the best, a fire extinguisher in the corner.

“What kinda place is this, Ichigo?” Kon finally asks. He pokes at a jar of red liquid on top of the thick desk that Ichigo has been given. It’s all and all not very personalized, but for Ichigo’s purposes it’s more than enough. Especially given that Ichigo’s purpose was to sit somewhere where his dad wasn’t. Where he didn’t have to think about the spirits or the hollows or the shinigami, however briefly that might be.

“It’s just a house, Kon. A… friend of mine owns it. Think of it as our secret hide out,” Ichigo waves his hand around, idly.

“A secret hide out huh… I get it!” Kon bounced towards him, his soft paws scuffing lightly on the concrete floor. “This is a place to bring girls!”

Ichigo snorts and punts the plushie towards the stairs. “What girl is gonna hand around a creapy basement with you, huh? What are you a serial killer?”

“More like a lady killer! Or I could be, if I just had a body to call my own. Hey, you said I could borrow yours, remember!”

“I didn’t forget. Sorry, we’ve been busy,” Ichigo steps over him and climbs back up to the totally normal looking house above, with Kon on his heels. He lets out a soft breath. It feels too warm above ground, but Ichigo opens the windows and lets the sunlight pour inside upon his skin, lets the wind pull at his hair and dance through the drapes. “I’ll let you have it tonight, okay?”

“But nothing in this town ever happens at night!” Kon whines. When Ichigo sits on the couch he climbs up to flop across his lap, pouting.

“Just try to stretch your legs, and you can have some time on the weekend, deal?”

Kon considers him suspiciously before he nods, once.

“Deal.”

They sit together in the sunlight, in the foreign house, with the spring air cooling them until his phone goes off. Rukia, of course, because work doesn’t give him much of a break.

It’s alright. Sometimes a few minutes to breath is enough.

* *

Rukia Kuchiki is not the first Shinigami that Ichigo has ever encountered.

There was another, a man who had taken to following their group around North America.

They met in 1783. He was… strange. And admittedly, it was a strange situation that they had found each other in. He’s pretty sure Shinigami don’t normally hang around Alcatraz, but what does he know? The island is infested with all sorts of monsters and guarded by one of the oldest heroes of written legend.

Beowulf. Powerful and vicious, battle hungry but not necessarily cruel. He’d even let them pass into the fortress after just a ‘test’ fight against a dragon.

They, or rather Ichigo, find the Shinigami with Sita, sitting next to her in the deepest prison of Alcatraz. Florence Nightingale is somewhere above them, charging headlong after him with Rama strapped to her back. He’s in bad shape, his curse slowly consuming his body, and Sita is their only chance to save him. Even without Beowulf the prison is crawling with dangerous creatures of all types.

Ichigo finds Sita first.

But she is not unguarded and Ichigo curses himself for leaving his servants upstairs to handle the chaos there.

Ichigo is more than capable of handling celtic soldiers, who fall beneath his vicious attacks and his steadily strengthening magic. The more he uses it the stronger it gets, and his body is adapting quickly to the strain it puts upon him. It’s only been a year or so and he can already go toe to toe with most average mages. A simple soldier with a spear is well within his abilities.

This man, Ichigo can tell with a second of inspection, is not.

He doesn’t have the same energy as a servant. And he’s dressed in clothes that aren’t celtic or american. He’s dressed like he’s from japan.

A black kosado and hakama. All black, with curly brown hair that’s nearly past his shoulders and brown eyes that almost fool Ichigo into thinking that he’s harmless.

But people are more themselves when they aren’t being watched, and this man, older than Ichigo and, he realizes, most certainly dead, has no idea he’s been seen.

He looks at Sita like she’s some kind of puzzle, like some game that he doesn’t know all the rules to. Ichigo stays a moment, and watches him watch her until Sita realizes that she has a visitor.

“Oh!”

She leans forwards on the bed, and right through the stranger, who half turns to look at Ichigo over his shoulder. He’s not interested in him though, not really. He can see it.

Roman is hiding something.

Something important, and he doesn’t know what but he does know now how to recognize when someone is hiding something. Even if it wasn’t for Roman, it’s not only heroes he’s summoned. There is an assassin class, and his heroes have their flaws. Their secrets. Each singularity is it’s own mystery and they are full of liars and tricksters and more than ever before Ichigo has a bone deep appreciation for people who are plain and true.

Ichigo crosses his arms over his chest and stares right at the ghost.

“You’re Sita, right? Rama’s wife?”

“My Lord Rama? Is he here?” she rushes to her feet, all red hair and fire the flutters like an ember on the wind. Not like Rama, who burns anything in his path if he must.

Ichigo nods, once. He lets the stranger inspect him too. There’s the smallest amount of stubble around his chin, like he hasn’t shaved in a while. And he’s armed. Saber class.

“Yes. But he’s injured. We need your help to heal him.”

Ichigo finally breaks eye contact with the ghost. He steps backwards and points his fist at the lock on the door. Sita hurries to brace herself and he shoots it off with a vicious Gandr. When he uses them on living things, he’s lucky to stun them. On inanimate objects, they blow up. He doesn’t get it, but that’s his life. Becuase fuck him, obviously.

“Yes!” Sita agrees eagerly. Her smile is equal parts soft and fierce. “If I can be of use to him, then I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Okay,” Ichigo stands away from the prison door. “Stand back,” he orders, and she steps back into the cell, against the door. The ghosts watches him raise his hand, holding up his fist at the door. The mystic code hums across his skin and he feeds his own mana into it. There’s a flash of pale blue and red and the lock explodes in shards of steel, just as they’re joined by others.

Rama comes stumbling around the corner, his fine clothes stained with blood and his body frayed at the edges. He looks bad. The hold in his chest is starting to gape and glow gold at the edges.

Ichigo hears the ghost suck in a sharp breath and he takes a step towards Rama before Ichigo cuts him off, blocking him from his friends. Sita rushes to him.

“Sita!” Rama reaches out around him and Ichigo can’t understand how he’s even on his feet. How deep does his love for his wife run? “Damn it, my vision is blurry. I can’t see anything…”

“I’m here!” Sita falls to his side as Rama collapses, finally succumbing to his festering wound. Ichigo watches, his hands clenched at his sides as Mash explains about Cu Chulainn Alter, and his Gae Bolg.

Ichigo stands back, with his Cu at his side. The caster leans on his staff, watching Sita gently stroke her husbands hair. They will never meet, and it drives pain into Ichigo’s chest on their behalf.

“Well. Fuck.” Cu says bluntly.

Ichigo snorted. “Yeah. That sums it all up pretty well.”

The ghost tries to take another step, but Ichigo catches his hand.

He spins, his brown eyes wide. “You- You can see me.”

“Well yeah. No shit,” Ichigo says aloud. Caster peers at him curiously, but Ichigo just taps the corner of his eye. A ghost, and Cu nods and leans back again. Even amongst his heroic spirits he’s an oddity. Not all of them can see ghosts. Only the ones that attack them, and more than once has Ichigo had to forcibly guide them into striking true.

Cu is a bit better. He hasn’t told him explicitly but Ichigo suspects that Scathach is somehow related to the afterlife. The land of shadows sounds like it should be full of ghosts.

Ichigo let’s go when the ghost pulls at his hand, peering at Ichigo. It’s funny, watching someone pull a metaphorical mask onto their face. This one is a kind person, someone who’s harmless, but Ichigo can still see them. He is armed and his eyes betray him, as eyes so often do.

Sharp and intelligent. Like a cat watching him.

“I suppose you do have some reitsu. But to be able to see me, is still not an easy feat.”

Ichigo frowns. “I do? It feels like all of it’s being sucked out by everyone at Chaldea…”

“Excuse me?” he blinks at Ichigo a couple of times.

“Nevermind. There’s just some people who are sucking up my reitsu so they don’t disappear, you know?”

And now even the ghost was looking at him like he’s crazy. Great. Awesome.

The glittering glow of Sita’s body dissolving interrupts them, and Ichigo turns to face his servants with a hard clench of his jaw. Rama slowly sits up, sorrow over taking his features. Even in a holy grail war, he will never meet his wife again.

“We should go,” Ichigo says quietly. “We still have to go east. We have to finish what we started. Rama, are you ready?” Ichigo goes to him, and offers him his hand. Rama takes it and stands.

“Yes. My body does not falter. I renew my vows now, Master of Chaldea. I, Rama, King of Kosala, will fight at your side. I shall not be defeated again. This I swear!” He bows his head to Ichigo, this proud, powerful king.

“Yes,” Liz steps up, a noble countess with her chin lifted and her eyes defiant. “We will win, for you our master!”

“We will rip out the root of the infection,” Nightingale agrees, smacking her hands together. Her red eyes burn with a ferocity that would make lesser men tremble.

Mash nods, shortly and firmly. “I will put my faith in Master, and follow his lead.”

“You already know that I will strike down your enemies,” Medusa adds, her long hair swaying with the promise of poisons.

“Lead the way, Master,” Cu claps his shoulder and Ichigo looks each of the mover in turn. Finally, he speaks.

“I swear I told you to use my damn name. You’re all so dramatic.”

Cu laughs at him, and Ichigo starts the long walk. From Alcatraz to Washington.

Only now they have a tag along. The ghost insists on following them along, because apparently Ichigo and the singularity is dangerous enough to warrant his attention. Which is great .

“What do I call you then,” Ichigo asks, side-eying his newest companion.

He tilts his head, sending brown waves spilling across his shoulders.

“Mmmm. Kyo,” he says after a minute.

“...That is not a real name.”

* * *

“So, your friend, the Lord, how do you know him?”

Ichigo looks up at Rukia. She’s standing over his bed that night. Chad is asleep in the corner, passed out after a study session run long.

“Who, Waver? We met a while ago.”

Ichigo scoots back on the bed, until his back is to the wall and he can sit, criss cross, looking at her. Waver had come to town earlier, on business as much as to see Ichigo. They’d talked, briefly, in front of the school earlier until Ichigo had had to rush off. Not before Waver had extracted a promise to meet up with him a few days in the future. Apparently there was some weird shit going on in town that had nothing to do with Ichigo and his friends, but was now his problem because he was a mage.

A two bit one, but still.

“How?” Rukia asks, narrowing her eyes at him if only slightly.

Ichigo considers telling her everything, but it’s a bit too much to believe.

‘I time travelled for three years trying to stop the incineration of humanity and I met him as a demi servant and his old servant because he fought for a holy grail and oh yeah did I mention i punched god?’

Yeah, no. Even shinigami didn’t go time travelling. He’d checked. It didn’t help that most shinigami were so out of touch with the living world that even three hundred years ago they didn’t know much about human magics or the goings on. Before the fall of the age of gods humans and spirits had been closer, had almost lived together. Ereshkigal had told him some of how it worked, four thousand years ago, but he��s certain things have changed. For one, she is clearly not in charge of the afterlife anymore. Which begs the question of just where she had gone.

To the reverse side of the world? Or somewhere else entirely?

“After Chaldea,” he says instead, picking over his words with as much care as he can, “After the explosion of Chaldea, their patrons, the Clock Tower in London, sent someone to see what was happening. And to take stock in the situation. Waver was the one that they sent.

“Apparently he gets the ‘problem children’ a lot.” And that was what they were, really. He and Mash, they were just teenagers. Even now. Eighteen….

Eighteen is not enough years for what he’s seen, what he’s done. For the choices he’s had to make.

“No wonder they sent him for you,” Rukia snorts at him, but there’s a smile at the corner of her mouth and Ichigo fights not to return it. Instead he scowls, as he usually does.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively at her. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you wanna come with?”

“No,” she shakes her head and he stands and leaves her in his bedroom. His dad is in the clinic. He’s been avoiding Ichigo for weeks, ever since that day in the cemetery and Ichigo is fine with that. He’s still angry.

Yuzu and Karin are up in their own room, and the lower half of the house is quiet. Ichigo pours himself some water and takes a few minutes to calm himself. Waver has him on edge, and more than that…

Something is coming. He doesn’t know what, yet, but his instincts are hissing in the back of his mind, louder and louder ever since he took Rukia’s power as his own. Something is something. Something dangerous. Something deadly. Some change he has no idea how to see or stop.

His cup is covered in a thin layer of frost.

Ichigo stares down at it.

The cold spreads across the surface, white eating over the glass. Elegant swirls of frozen leaves spread out from his finger tips.

He pours out the water and puts the cup away, trying not to think about it.

Because even with Ichigo, even with magic and ghosts and all the other shit in his life, he’s never frozen anything. He isn’t fucking Jack Frost.

He goes back upstairs, trying not to think about it, and helps Rukia rouse Chad to send him on his way home. There’s work to be done. A smarter man would ask about the ice. Would mention it to Rukia. Would wonder if the two aren’t connected.

And Ichigo is not stupid, but he’s maybe a little too used to strange things happening and learning the why at a later date.

* * * *

The acrid smell of burning flesh sears into his mind. Into his soul. Choking him, smoke curled into his lung like an ash made cat that tears claws into the soft tissue.

It’s red. Red, red, red everywhere. Fire singes along the edges of reality. The earth hovers, red and burning and doomed from the start. Doomed from babylonia, doomed from the present and the now.

Mash lays in front of him. Crushed, broken. No shield, no armor, just a dead little girl, reaching for his hand.

Yuzu and Karin are sprawled apart from eachother and they never should be, never should be, because they are twins, they were born together nothing should ever tear them apart-

Isshin. Isshin and his mother, they lie beside a river that runs with fire instead of water. Bloody, broken, staring at Ichigo.

The air shifts and the glittering shine of gold spins around him with a scream. His servants, his friends, cut down and torn apart and left only as glitter that roars their betrayal at him. At his failure. He is the master, the center of power, but he cannot fight on his own. He is powerless in the face of the hulking monster that drags itself out of the rubble to kill him.

He takes a step back, fear clogging his throat. Lahmu crawl across the broken rubble of Fuyuli, of Uruk, of Rome and London and Camelot. His foot hits something. He doesn’t look down, he doesn’t need to. Orange and green and white. White and gold and black. Romani, laid to waste.

He is helpless. Powerless. His command spells are gone and he has failed. Lost.

Fire roars at his throat and-

He’s punched in the face by the smell of perfume.

Ichigo looks up at the sky. Pale blue, a few whisps of cloud floating across it.

He drinks in air. Air that tastes like flowers instead of ashes and death.

Something soft touches his shoulder and it’s only familiarity that keeps him from lashing out.

Lavender eyes peer down at him. It’s his hand on his shoulder. His Caster.

His Merlin.

“Wha- I’m in a dream?” Ichigo sits, slowly, and Merlin helps him up. A warm hand on his shoulder and guilt in his eyes.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Merlin shakes his head, mournfully. “I normally call you here before they can set in, but I was distracted this time…”

“Distracted,” Ichigo repeats dumbly. “Wait. So every time you’ve brought me here, it’s because I was going to have a nightmare?”

“I did tell you, once. Incubi are made of dreams. And I, as half of one, gain my sustenance out of them as well. Bad dreams are sour, so I don’t want yours to-”

“Cut the crap,” Ichigo elbows him lightly in the side. “Just tell me the truth. We’re friends and you don’t want to see me suffering.”

Merlin can only stare at him for a second. “... I always forget how brazen you are, Ichigo. You never have minced your words. You really consider me a friend, do you?”

“Of course I do! And don’t try to give me any shit about we can’t be friends because I’m human. I’m not anymore, remember. I’m a shinigami.”

“Yes, yes. And isn’t that ironic? I, unable to die, and you a creature made of death.”

“You make a bad philosopher. Stick to being a dreamer, Merlin.”

Merlin merely laughs at him, a softness in the wind, and Ichigo sits with him until the sun comes up outside his bedroom window.

* * * * *

What was with people and coming in through his window?

Ichigo stares at the man, Urahara, that is sitting on his window sill. Kon is having a minor panic attack in his arms, flailing around. Rukia has left. Vanished with only a note to tell them not to look for her and if she thinks Ichigo will listen to it, she doesn’t know him very well at all. Ichigo has never been one to abandon his friends, even if they don’t explain what’s happening or why they’re in trouble.

Ichigo will go after her, but first he needs to figure out how to turn into a shinigami again. Kon is no help, he’s too busy running around for Ichigo to dig his pill form out of his plush body. And this man…

His timing is too good. Is he some kind of clairvoyant, like Gilgamesh? Or just a man with far too many cards in his hand to play?

Whatever the case, Ichigo is strangely glad that he’s here. Without Rukia’s glove and with Kon losing his mind, Ichigo needs help to get out of his body.

“So you’ll pop me out of my body,” Ichigo says, eying his cane, “Just because Rukia is a regular customer. Is your shop really that slow?” He definitely has too much time on his hands.

“That’s right!” the man practically sings and Ichigo could swear for an instant his eyes were lavender instead of grey. He’s like a strange mix of Merlin and Da Vinci.

And isn’t that a scary thought?

“...Yeah, okay. I’d appreciate the help.”

Kisuke pushes his cane through Ichigo’s chest and he pops out the other side like a weasel.

Ichigo carefully lays his body in bed and covers it up. It’s almost two in the morning and normal humans are asleep, including his family. He picks a few small rocks out of his school bag, simple stones with straight lines carved onto them. He eyes Kisuke, still sitting in the window.

“When I get back from this, I’ve got a couple of questions for you,” he says, marching up to Kisuke, who flicks his fan out over his mouth. Only his eyes are visible and those are still hidden in shadow.

“Oh? I can’t imagine what you’d ask a simple shop keeper like me…”

“Plenty,” Ichigo says plainly. He plants his hand next to Kisuke’s head and leans over him. “But for now. Get out of my room.”

He pushes him straight out the window, and onto the lawn beneath. Ichigo figures that he’s probably tough enough to take a little tumble. He trusts Kisuke to be fine before he jumps out the window after him. He needs to get to Rukia. He can feel it. Something is happening.

His instincts hiss that he needs to move .

He follows the feeling of coolness and wind and snowflakes that he can almost see. It’s joined by another feeling, something clean and pale and just a little bit angry, thin threads that wrap together to be stronger.. Uryuu.

He needs to hurry.

Ichigo sprints across the city, pouring on his speed. Faster and faster until he swears he’s running on the wind.

He turns the corner.

Uryu on the ground, Rukia not far. Two Shinigami. Red hair and black. The red head with his sword lifted above Uryu’s head, ready to strike.

Ichigo swings his sword off his back and the streets cracks and erupts beneath the sudden force of his power. It throws the shinigami, Renji Abarai, off of his feet.

“Huh? Who are you? Who’s orders are you here on?” he barks.

Ichigo ignores him. He touches Uryu’s shoulder, making sure he’s still in one piece, and pours Mana into his human body. It should be enough to jump start his own healing process. Mana transference is about all Ichigo is good for anyhow.

“What did you…?” Uryu looks up at him, bewildered.

“Later,” Ichigo says. He blocks the blow that comes from behind, bracing himself against the ground.

“I get it,” Renji pushes down hard, his eyes wild. He feels like fire and venom and bone. “You’re the one that stole Rukia’s powers! Because of you, she’s going to be executed!”

Ichigo’s blood runs cold. Rukia. Executed? For helping him? For giving him the power to protect his friends, his family?

No. He will not allow it.

“That’s bullshit!” Ichigo throws him back, power surging through him. His own anger and the energy that Rukia has given him. Cold coursing through his veins. “Rukia was just helping, she saved us! Isn’t that what your job is?!”

“She broke the rules is what she did. What’s a few human lives to a shinigami? She should have never done that.”

A few human-

Ichigo throws himself at Renji with vicious abandon. Renji is fast but Ichigo is strong, Rukia is strong, and it’s her power that lets him swing his sword with utmost surety.

Still, it’s hard to keep up when Renji won’t shut up. Something about menos and children and then he asks Ichigo’s swords name.

He frowns and racks his brain. That feels like something he should know. On the tip of his tongue. His sword. Rukia’s sword. Does it have a name?

Renji takes his silence for ignorance and he’s not wrong.

He puts his sword in front of him and it glows faintly red. The taste of fire and bone is stronger.

“A shinigami’s zanpakuto is the true form of their soul, it’s their true power. And this is mine! Now Roar, Zabimaru!”

Ichigo watches the sword change, grow fangs and cracks. A Noble Fantasm? No, it’s much weaker. He looks at Renji, looks harder at his power. He’s strong, probably stronger than Ichigo but is he stronger than Ichigo and Rukia together? This will have to be a battle where he can’t rely on brute strength.

The sword swings and the cracks pull apart until it’s a glorified whip with teeth and Ichigo jumps back to dodge it. The stones weigh heavy in his pocket and his mind whirls. No longer a saber, no longer capable of simply attacking and slashing until he’s won.

“Give up already! You’re 2000 years too young to beat me!”

And maybe Renji would be right. Maybe he would be too much for Ichigo to handle, in another life. Maybe if he really was just a fifteen year old kid, shihakusho more green than black, he would leave him laying in a puddle of blood without breaking a sweat.

But Ichigo is not fifteen. He is eighteen and he has fought eight wars. He has ended extinction and walked the land of the dead, and demons, and stood amongst stars. He has fought and bled and killed and died, and he has done it all for his family, his friends.

And now.

Now these two are trying to take another friend. They are trying to steal Rukia, to punish her for saving him and giving him strength enough to fight.

And he will not allow it.

His temper howls, blood rushing into his ears and battle fury washes over his skin.

Beneath it, beneath that hot fire that has driven him for so much of his life there’s something else. Something cold and foreign, frost on a window pane in summertime, snow floating around a campfire.

He lunges for Renji.

Renji is forced to release his noble phantasm, his zanpakuto. It lashes out, a segmented whip that bites the pavement with terrible teeth. Ichigo takes it in stride, catches it’s glinting teeth in his own too-long blade and twirls it like spaghetti around a knife. The teeth catch and hold, Renji’s eyes go wide and Ichigo yanks him forward with his zanpakuto.

He takes one hand off his own sword and drives it into Renji’s jaw. His teeth click and blood spurts between his lips before he drops like a lead balloon.

With Renji at his feet Ichigo turns to face Rukia and the man in the white cloak. He tilts his long blade, letting Renji’s zanpakuto slide off. On the ground it glows faintly red and returns to its original form.

“Are you next then?” Ichigo asks, his voice careful and calm even as the wrold inside him rages. Plans pick up and he reads this mans strengths. He’s leagues ahead of Ichigo but even still…

Ichigo is not the type to run. He is not the type to give up. No matter that Rukia is screaming at him to. He won’t-

He twists and blocks the blow he had barely ever seen, his sword moving faster than his mind.

Surprise registers on the man’s face, muted and little more than a twist of his mouth and a twitch of his eyes. Ichigo shoves him away, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Blood seeps out of his back. The cut it shallow, it won’t slow him down but the fact remains. He got hit.

Faster, whispers a voice in the back of his head. A memory, a premonition. He blocks the next attack but only just and under the force of the drawn sword, his own begins to crack. No. No, he will not lose, not like this.

He shoves the man back and flings one of the stones at him, shooting a burst of Mana through it. The man in white has to move fast to avoid the fire that erupts in front of him.

“Ichigo?” Rukia stares at him, her mouth open. “What was that?!”

“I’m not that great at magic,” Ichigo admits, tossing another stone up and down in his hand. He never takes his eyes off of his enemy. “In fact, I wouldn’t even call myself a real mage. I’m pretty second rate at this stuff. But this much… This much I can do.”

He shoots another stone at the shinigami in front of him, who’s name he never did get, and grins when he’s forced to release his own zanpakuto. He’s glad about it, but Rukia is screaming at him.

The air fills with glittering flower petals and Ichigo tastes steel, feels the weight of ‘Duty’ and ‘Honor’ and the scent of sakura blossoms wash across his skin.

They surge at him, a tidal wave of power, danger. Each one is a blade and Ichigo cannot dodge of block them all. Even still, he will not run. He will-

Protect Rukia!

Fine.

Cold chases through his body, Rukia’s power surges. Ichigo gives his strength over to it, pours his reitsu into the sword as he once did his saber’s and the sound of bells echoes around him.

A ribbon flutters graceful in front of his face and he swings, running on instinct alone.

The wave of flower petals is stopped in its tracks. Frozen in a circle of ice that reaches towards the sky.

Ichigo is aware, from the shock on the faces of the people around him, that he’s just done something impossible. Again.

Oh well.

He turns again to the Shinigami, bringing his blade in front of him. Not his, Rukia’s. He was going to save her-

“Rikujōkōrō.”

Ichigo shouted when light, six straight rectangles of it, slammed into his stomach. He froze, unable to move. The ice shattered and the blades inside of it floated back to their master, reforming into a single sword. This time, Ichigo couldn’t block. He could do nothing as the blade pierced him twice, and the light faded.

He tried. He did. He would crawl if he had to but-

“Stay alive, for just a little longer, Ichigo. And if you follow me, I will never forgive you.”

He can recognize what she’s doing. She’s drawing the man, Byakuya, and the newly awakened Renji away from him. She is protecting him, and the helplessness is acid on his tongue.

He was left, bleeding, dying, on the streets of Karakura.

* * * * * *

#Ichigo Kurosaki #BAMF!Ichigo Kurosaki #Ichigo Kurosaki is Ritsuka Fujimaru #well sorta #romani archaman #renji abarai #byakuya kuchiki #rukia kuchiki #kyo (SCoF)#bleach #bleach fanfiction #bleach/fate grand order #Kon bleach #Merlin Fate/Grand Order

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asoftervirge · 4 years

Text

Of “Love” & Murder (7/13)

CHAPTER TITLE: Logan Oxford: Esteemed Novelist

RATING: PG PAIRINGS: P. Sanders/V. Sanders (main/one-sided); R. Sanders/V. Sanders (former); V. Sanders/L. Sanders (former); V. Sanders/D. Sanders (former); Remy/E. Picani (side); T. Sanders/OMC (mentioned)

CHAPTER WARNINGS/KINKS: mentions of Anxiety, Logan being A Nerd, Philosophy Jargon, mentions of a previous Murder, mentions of Poisoning CHAPTER SUMMARY: Logan tell Patton how he met Virgil.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: And we’re introduced to Logan! :D This chapter is shorter than the Roman introduction, but it should still bring excitement for people to want to learn how xe died. That’s a weird sentence. lol And yes, xe not he. Logan has had a number of changes with this update and I’m very pleased with them, so I hope everyone else is too. Also, this chapter is PG, so that’s good! Have fun reading everyone! xx Virge

INSPIRATION: This post by @phantomofthesanderssides

AO3 || Buy Me a Ko-Fi!

Patton squeaked and stood up straighter. For some reason, this person gave off a cold and aloof aura. Much different from the warmth and passion that radiated from Roman.

“You— You must be the second of Virgil’s husbands?”

“Spouses,” the second ghost immediately corrected. His lips curled into a slight scowl. It was pretty intimidating to say the least, especially with how tall he seemed to be. “While I do not completely mind being considered his…’husband,’ I would prefer to be called his spouse. Also my pronouns call be he/him, but I would prefer xe/xyr.”

“O-Oh!” Patton blushed, feeling bad he accidentally misgendered another person. “I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t mean—”

“Since this is our first encounter and it was merely an accident, I’ll let it slide.” xe told the confectioner while marching toward him, maintaining a good distance. “However, should we encounter each other again multiple times after this, and you still continue to misuse my pronouns, I can guarantee I will not be so friendly.”

Patton gulped. “Got it.”

Xe held out a hand for him. “Logan Oxford. Esteemed novelist and self-admitted astrophile.”

The confectioner didn’t know what half of those words meant. “U-Uhm,” he shakes Logan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mx. Oxford.”

“Logan, please. No need for formalities.”

He nodded. Now that he thinks about it, Patton has heard the name Logan Oxford before. His cousin Emile brought xem up a couple of times when he talked about therapy (while still keeping patient confidentiality, obviously). He mentioned how xyr essays were really good, but they seemed a little too…stuffy, for his personal tastes (like most scientists/doctors/philosophers/etc).

Now meeting xem for the first time, he can understand why Emile said that.

While Roman had on very bold, fancy colors: reds and whites and golds, Logan was a stark contrast to that. Similar to his own palette but not quite. Xe had on a dark blue dress coat with a white button-up underneath it, along with black suit pants and dark brown dress shoes. A little bit of gold was on his buttons and cuff links, but other than that, the colors xe wore were predominantly dark.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of differences between he and Logan. The novelist had dark eyes while he had baby blue. Logan had straight, gelled black hair while he had strawberry blonde curls. A medium build with a good amount of muscle as opposed to a soft curvy build with a bit of chub. A sharp face as opposed to a rounded one. Square glasses as opposed to rounded lenses.

Regardless, xe were a very clean-looking individual. Perhaps even handsome in xyr own right, much like Virgil was.

“I suppose you’re wanting to warn me about Virgil too?” he asks.

“Is that not why you’re here?” Logan responds. “Or were you just wanting to put your nose into the affairs of a relatively wealthy man?”

Patton pouted. He didn’t have to be rude about it!

“But yes,” the novelist says immediately after. “I am here to also warn you about the dangers of Mr. Virgil Nyx of 613 Rue Morgue.”

“Well take your time. I’m not here to rush you.”

“I appreciate your concerns, but my past before Mr. Nyx is easy to discuss,” Logan tells him.

The confectioner nods, listening to him attentively.

“Growing up as a child, my father was a firm believer of knowledge,” Xe began. “He always believed that it was an incomparably valuable, multipurpose tool, instrumental in identifying and solving any of the world’s problems.” Dark blue eyes casted themselves over to the books. “One of the things he used to tell me was, “If you are ever worried about getting hurt, then seek knowledge. It is our greatest weapon, and our greatest defense.” And so, with that, my ever-growing thirst began.”

Xe went on, “I scoured for any form of knowledge, be that books or even educative television, wherever I could find it, I absorbed it entirely. I read every book from both my father and Ye Ye, every book from the libraries— primary school, the public one, university— etcetera. All of it was not enough for me. I eventually received my Master’s in Philosophy and a Doctorate in Physics, wishing to expand my love of all things intellect and share it with the world.” He turns back to Patton. “Before my graduation, I had published a few theses that were eventually used at other prestigious universities; and afterward, I had written a book or two, which resulted in my rise to celebrity.”

Patton nodded. Then he asked, “Had you known about Virgil before you met him?”

“I was aware of him, yes.” the novelist’s lips thinned into a firm line. “I had heard about the…supposed suicide of Roman Scarlet, famed Broadway actor and beloved performer of the Storytime lounge. I had also heard of his brother’s desire to take Virgil to court without any proof of murderous intent, I believe he was even in contact with a lawyer despite this.”

The confectioner looked at xem in surprise. “Even when he didn’t have evidence, his brother had contact with a lawyer about wanting to see if Virgil could be charged with murder?”

“Indeed.” Logan nodded. “At first, I read it off as some silly story for revenge, not exactly understanding how that was actually the truth.”

Patton nodded. “So…Did you meet him at a book signing or…?”

Logan didn’t say anything of the longest time. When xe did, it was very vague-sounding. “When I met Virgil…well, let’s just say it was…a strange sense of irony.”

…

If he could, Virgil would have openly spat about how much he did not want to be here. When he became as wealthy as he is, he swore up and down that he would never return to this place, return to the old life he lived before he knew what it was like to have money.

And yet, here he was, walking into a familiar-looking bookstore. The name re-entering his mind like he hadn’t shoved it out oh so many years ago.

Catching his eye was the small clump of beings standing outside its old, paint-chipped door; maybe the line won’t be as long as he thought. However, he quickly (and unfortunately) realized that the clump of people outside stood at the end of a line that snaked through the entire store.

Everyone and their mother apparently wanted to meet Logan Oxford today of all days.

He should’ve expected this, and yet, he didn’t. Idiot.

Actual anxiety slowly began to seize his being as he continued to approach. Everyone seemed to have a book clutched in their hands. Most were the newest release that came just before the holidays, while some seemed to be personally chosen titles by the older audience, and then there were even books of essays that were held and gossiped about by students (or who Virgil assumed to be university students).

By the time the line actually started moving, Virgil felt sweat starting to coat his palms. He let out a noise of annoyance and shoved them into his pockets.

He was not going to let his stupid anxiety ruin this chance for him. He wasn’t!

Walking in, the little jingle of the bell above sounded like the heavy dong of a church one.

Virgil forced himself to look around. This cozy little hellhole remained the same even after almost a decade. (He even forced himself to wonder if the old owner was still here. Probably not. Maybe retired. Or dead.)

The lighting was still bad, but it gave the small interior of the store its warm glow; the carpeting was still old fashioned and had that untraceable smell to it; the chairs scattered about the store were all patchy and worn-down; the wooden tables had scratch marks and random-ass messages that people carved in with pencil; and there were still crazy knickknacks and antiques hanging from the walls or seen from the shelves.

For the widower, this place was a walk-in nightmare, like walking into someone’s grandmother’s house. But for the many customers who come and go daily, it was a little spot of comfort.

Silver-grey eyes eventually found the prize he was looking for.

Logan Oxford sat at a small table with a pen in xyr hand. The writer smiled very thinly up at an admirer as xe handed back their book from across the table.

A thousand little details flooded Virgil’s mind all at once. A full mouth that could be expressive if it wasn’t so clearly behind a reserved wall. A face that was as sharp as Roman’s but it was much more angular. Rich, dark eyes that almost seemed black: dark and mysterious, they looked like they were pulled from the night sky. Slicked back hair that would still be considered neat without all that damn hair gel.

Xe were more than attractive than the widower realized. Perfect for being his next target.

Just before it was his turn, he saw a stand full of Logan’s books, all new and old alike. Making sure no one was looking, he snagged a copy before making his way towards the novelist.

The novelist took the book without even saying anything, not even so much as a polite hello. Xe flipped it open to the first page and started to scribble on the first page with blue ink.

Virgil looked down at the book he grabbed and an idea sparked in his mind. He cleared his throat, but not loud enough to cause a scene. “Mx. Oxford?” he pretended to sound eager. “I know you’ve probably heard this before, but your philosophy essays are so fascinating.”

“You are correct, I have heard it before.” xe said. Dark eyes flashed up at him, a brow quirked and his expression monotone. “Do you have a particular question you’d like to ask me?”

He nodded. “Actually, I do…Do you believe that your field of study has been hindered by the teachings of Aristotle, or are you one of those science-y people who just nod and continuously say he’s right without any substantial proof?”

At that, Logan’s head shot up. “…beg pardon?” Xe were a little stunned by the question being asked of him.

“Do you agree with Aristotle’s teachings, yes or no?” Virgil asked again, a tiny bit amused as he made the novelist react in such a way.

Xe cleared xyr throat, trying to regain some composure. “W-Well,” he stammered. “In the case of Aristotle…the man was usually wrong. A lot. Most of his descriptions of the natural world are some variety of incorrect,” xe tell him. “Looking past his blatant sexism, his understanding of motion and forces is wrong, is astronomy is wrong, a good portion of his biology is busted, and science has in fact suffered for it. For almost 2,000 years to be specific.”

The widower hummed. (Truth be told, he hated philosophy. It was basically a bunch of old guys trying to preach certain ethics and ideologies that would eventually become outdated and criticized.) Nevertheless, he wanted to know what Logan thought about it.

“However,” Logan continued, a glimmer of something sparkling in his eyes. “It wasn’t until the 1800s when the atom was officially declared A Thing, that people began to believe his contemporary, Democritus, as opposed to himself.” Xe snort. “Not to mention, according to Cicero, his prose was apparently a flowing river of gold…when it actually was not. And it was because of him that we not only lost science but also a catastrophic amount of classical literature.”

“So in actuality, his works are basically glorified lecture-notes from his students?” Virgil smirks faintly. “I guess you know now why we should’ve listened to Gorgias instead.”

“Gorgias?” Xe ask, looking at him incredulously. “The man was, excuse my Greek, a pathological pain the ass. He didn’t care for objective truth and stated that everything was a matter of opinion, which was always bendable.”

“Exactly!” Virgil smirks more. “Everything is a construct, therefore we tried and failed. So now all we need to do is to hide under the covers until the sun goes away.” With that, the widower takes his autographed book and begins to leave the store.

“Falsehood!” A screech came from behind him, making him jump. He turns around to see the novelist get up and stride over to him, a sharp look in his eyes. The widower immediately stood straighter. Damn…that glare reminds him of a certain someone that he does not wish to remember right now. “Just because Gorgias was able to obliterate Stephanos of Thebes with straw-man arguments and casual fallacies, does not mean you can, Diogenes the Cynic.”

Virgil blinked. “…Diogenes the Cynic?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Logan says. “A philosopher who believed that all Sophists were liars, the Philosophers were too pretentious, therefore taking immense pleasure in poking fun at their logic.”

The widower pondered thoughtfully. “…yep. That sounds like us just now.” A glint of wicked humor shone in his eyes as Logan just looked done with him. “But in all seriousness, Mx. Oxford. You have to realize that philosophy can be a bit asinine, right?”

Logan stayed silent for a moment before breathing out. “I suppose so,” xe states. “All of the big, complex ideas simply come from those who are fallible and prone to…ridiculousness. For every Plato’s Republic, there is a Diogenes urinating at a banquet table.”

“There you go,” Virgil laughs. “I hope you really didn’t get offended by what I said. I like presenting counterarguments just to see how people react.”

“No harm done. Although I must admit, while I don’t particularly enjoy socializing with others all that much,” Hard same. “I would like to talk to you more. Maybe about science-based media— or whatever it is you’re a fan of?”

Virgil nodded, smirking internally. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I would like to challenge your claims on what you call cognitive distortions. As someone who has generalized anxiety, I wanna know what your psychology thinks about my over-reactionary mind.”

Logan hummed in interest. “Oh? I look forward to it then, Mr…?”

“Nyx. Virgil Nyx.”

“Mr. Nyx.” Named after the Roman Goddess of the Night, the novelist mused. Xe liked it. Xe scribbled something onto the back of a bookmark, handing it to Virgil. “Again, thank you very much for coming and I hope to communicate with you again soon.”

“See ya.”

With a finger salute, Virgil left the bookstore with a sigh of relief. He was quite glad that his anxiety didn’t make him look the a fool and that he was out of that atrocious place. He opened the book and saw the fancy penmanship of the novelist.

On the bookmark, was his phone number.

He smirked. Maybe he did succeed after all…

…

Patton listed as Logan finished telling him about xyr first meeting with Virgil. He had to admit, it was rather nice to not listen to any…graphic details about things he didn’t want to know, even if Roman told him in a vague manner.

“So how did you stay close with Virgil?” he asked, remembering the questions he presented Roman. “You gave him your number; did you call each other on the phone? Or did you both kept meeting at the bookstore.”

Logan shook xyrs head. “No. However, I would invite him out for some coffee if I was in the area. And every time we did so, we would always have little discussions that would turn into…not-so-little discussions after a period of time…”

Patton raised an eyebrow, smiling knowingly.

The novelist scowled. “We did not argue, if that is what you’re thinking! We…debated, that’s much more civil.” The confectioner giggled but allowed him to continue. “And, while I’m not a traditionally…emotional person…it was quite nice to have someone debate on certain subjects with me, even if they tended to hiss at me from time to time.”

Despite this slowly becoming a sad tale, Patton giggled again. He won’t lie, Virgil did act like a cat every once in a while. It was actually kinda cute (you know…despite the fact he murdered three people…).

“I would also take him to any conferences or panels that I would be invited to attend or speak at,” xe told him. “He would act as my plus one, if you will. I must admit, even if I could manage them on my own, it was…almost beneficial for me to have him around during those events.” Xe chuckled. “I say this despite the fact that he detested such things, as they tended to prompt his anxiety and cause him to rudely hiss whenever someone— and I quote— “reached his limits with stupid questions.” Not only that, he was not primarily invested in the actual subjects of said discussions and was more interested in the catering they served.”

That caused Patton to actually laugh. That also seems like something that Virgil would do, though he doesn’t blame him at all. In fact, if he were in his shoes, he would be a bit more curious in the food too.

Logan couldn’t help xyr lips from twitching upwards. “I shall confess, there were times where I myself have agreed with his sentiments.”

Unfortunately, the smiles and laughter had to end at some point.

“But what happened afterward?” Patton eventually asked. “What caused everything to go downhill?”

The little twitch of a smile instantly when back to a frown. The confectioner sees xem turn to grab a book that was suddenly on the table (when did that get there anyhow?). It was a very beautiful looking book: dark indigo in color with a title that he couldn’t quite make out, but he could see Logan’s name at the very top. Xe opened the book, flipping it to the very last pages before handing it to Patton.

‘ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS’ Baby blue eyes skimmed through the short paragraphs of text. Logan gave simple but kind words as xe thanked the people who helped xem achieve such a feat, such as his parents and former professors.

Then he followed to where the novelist had pointed a finger at.

“Lastly, I would like to give acknowledgments to my husband, Virgil Nyx.

While we have not known each other long, and have newly become married, but having your support throughout this journey was momentous for someone like me to complete this project. Your harsh and honest (almost too honest) criticisms of my work were what kept me going to make and achieve better than my means. And while I am not an emotional person, nor do I express my emotions often, I quiet enjoyed having your company while I wrote and rewrote my rough and final drafts… And I must thank you for bring me my favorite green teas and jellied biscuits whenever I hadn’t eaten or drank anything for hours on end.

This is the most I have genuinely praised someone so highly (and also a first), but it cannot be helped. I truly hope you see the appreciation and respect I fester for you.”

Patton couldn’t help but tear up. To Logan, they may appear simple, but they were also so beautiful.

“As you’ve read, by the time I had written my last book, Virgil had become my spouse.” Logan says. “We were married in a simple ceremony. Something that was vastly different from Roman’s grandiose nuptials.”

Patton giggled. It was amusing with how Logan was poking fun at Roman from beyond the grave. (In an almost magical way, he could almost hear an indignant noise in his ear).

“But,” Logan’s face grew sad, almost angry. “That did not last long, unfortunately. I had quickly fallen for Virgil’s rouses like the one before me. And, like him, I was met with an unfortunate end.” A deep, almost tired sigh. “To think, someone like him could have been two steps ahead of me in a metaphorical game of chess…I must say, it was truly a checkmate on his end.”

“Him murdering you, you mean?” Patton asked, fearing the answer Logan will give him. Silence. A very familiar silence.

Then, Logan nodded. “Yes. Although, poisoning is the correct terminology this time around.”

#Sanders Sides #Patton Sanders #Logan Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Analogical #Of Love & Murder

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sad-sweet-cowboah · 4 years

Text

It Started With A Skeleton

The final commission! @writingandsins asked for Arthur beginning to fall for an archaeologist!reader. I wrote it in a way to seem like a random encounter like in the game. Thank you for being patient with me and enjoy!

The bright sun beamed down in between the thick green leaves, brightening up spots of the forest floor. Smoothing out the rolled paper upon the rock in front of you. The familiar shape of New Hanover was the only thing you recognized as you tried to make heads or tail of this map. It seemed hastily drawn, ink spots scattered here and there. Were they marking specific locations, or was it just the carelessness of the maker?

You sighed in frustration, standing up straight to closer observe your surroundings. You’d just come from Annesburg, your pockets three dollars lighter for having to purchase the map from some smooth talker outside of the gunsmith. He’d mentioned an ancient burial site nearby, and offered to share the location. Excitement overtaking you, you’d quickly agreed and paid the man. After handing you the map and pointing you west, you mounted your horse and began to head out into the forest. An hour had passed, and with vague instructions and no knowledge of the pathways, you’d stopped to try and regain your bearings.

Though now, it seemed as if he was just making a fool of you.

You groaned, swearing out loud and stomping over to your horse, who stopped grazing to look at you with interest. “Sorry boy, gotta head back.”

“You alright, miss?” a voice called from behind you.

A jolt of surprise shot through you, quickly erasing the assumption of you being alone out here. You hadn’t heard anyone coming by. Turning around, a man on horseback appeared in your view. He was standing just a few yards away, stopped in the middle of the path. The sun caught the barrel of a rifle along his back, glinting brightly. Underneath the worn black hat, his face showed slight concern.

“I’m fine,” you answered, albeit somewhat warily. “Just a little lost is all.”

“Where are ya tryin’ to go?” he asked, his drawl strong unlike the folks from around here.

“I…” you hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea to share this information, lest he decided to find it before you and plunder to his heart’s content. However, this forest proved larger and more complex than you expected, and you weren’t even sure how to find your way back to civilization. “Yes, actually! There’s supposedly an ancient burial around ‘round here somewhere. Some silver-tongued fool gave me this map for three dollars and told me to head out here. But I’m beginning to think he led me on a wild goose chase.”

The man approached closer, twitching his fingers toward you. You passed him the map, and he studied it for mere seconds before scoffing, passing it back to you. “Yeah, he fooled ya alright. Looks like he drew it in five minutes. Ain’t even worth a cent.”

“Perfect.” you sighed heavily.

“I might know the place you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” the man continued. “It’s a little ways north of here.”

Excitement immediately replaced the disappointment. “You know where it is?” you gasped. “Can you take me?”

He gave a small shrug. “Sure, ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”

Smiling widely, you turned back toward your horse and mounted quickly. He began to walk forward, and you slipped in behind him. He urged his horse into a slow lope and you did the same, moving at a good pace down the path.

“You don’t know how much I appreciate this, Mister,” you spoke out to him. “I would have been wandering this forest forever if you hadn’t come along.”

“I’m sure you woulda found it sooner or later,” he responded. “Why’re you lookin’ for it in the first place?”

“I’m an archaeologist, I study artifacts and sites from ancient civilizations,” you explained. “That burial site from what I hear is remnants of Viking inhabitants.”

“Vikings, huh?” he slowed to be in pace with you, your horses cantering side to side. “Out here?”

You nodded with enthusiasm. “May sound strange, but there’s tons of evidence that they came here hundreds years ago! I’ve found helmets and tools here and there, but this is the first lead I’ve gotten about a tomb.”

The man gave a soft hum. “Ya know, y’oughta be careful out here in these woods,” he said, gazing out into the distance. “Some of the folk out here ain’t too friendly. Snatch ya up if you ain’t careful.”

You gave him a strange look. “I hope you don’t mean yourself.”

He gave a humorless laugh in response. “Nah, I ain’t the type. The ones I’m talkin’ about, they’re called Murfrees. They ain’t right in the head, act more like feral animals than people. Not the smartest, but they’re sneaky.”

Your eyes widened. “And you’d know from experience?”

“’Course, had to fight ‘em off out here on more than one occasion. And I’d hate to see ‘em come up on some poor unsuspectin’ fools out here.”

A shiver coursed through your body, horrified to even think of such a thing to happen to you. Over the years you’d come across some questionable people, though always managed to get through the day unharmed. “Well, then I’m glad to have run into you, Mister…”

“Arthur Morgan.” He answered your unasked question.

---

The two of you chatted nonchalantly for the next ten minutes, although it had been mostly you speaking more about the Vikings, and other ancient artifacts you’d found. Arthur was mostly silent, only commenting every once in a while on your explorations.

Eventually he slowed his horse down to a walk. You had followed suit, your eyes in search for the prize.

“Here,” he motioned directly ahead, pointing to an in-ground structure that had a few open trenches branching out. “I believe that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

Hastily you hopped off your horse, hurrying forward to get a better view. You halted at the foot of much worn stone steps, leading down into the center of the site. Even from here, you could spot the unmistakable alabaster color of old bones. You slowly stepped down into the trench, taking care of where you put your feet. Some of it was overgrown, roots had snaked their way through the cracks.

As you grew closer, it was apparent that there were more than one set of bones here. In the center of everything was a stone slab with a full skeleton lay across it, in remarkably good condition despite being exposed to hundreds of years’ worth of weather, elements, and possible animal tampering. Meanwhile others were placed around the base of the slab, femurs, detached torsos, skulls stacked neatly. You had to wonder why.

Objectively, it appeared to be a burial site for multiple people. However, there could be more to the story depending on what else lurked here. You dug into your satchel, producing a worn journal to record your findings. You could call yourself a decent artist, if rough sketches could be considered as such. Regardless, without a camera, it was the easiest way to keep track of your discoveries.

“Wonder who they were.” Arthur’s voice startled you, in your excitement you’d nearly forgotten about his presence.

You turned around to face him, he was standing just a few feet away. “From what I see here, it might have been a mass grave.” You answered.

He didn’t answer, although stepped forward to observe. He walked around the slab, studying the remains. He paused and bent down as if to retrieve something.

“Wait, don’t disturb anything!” you warned him.

He stood up straight, holding what looked like a hatchet in his hand. “Thought you’d like to look at this.” He held it out.

You blinked in surprise. How long had this sat here and went unnoticed by this area’s inhabitants? You reached out for it and grasped it carefully. It was surprisingly heavy and sturdy. “Amazing this is still in good condition,” you remarked. “And that nobody took it yet.”

“Guess it’s here for you to find.” Arthur noted with a small smile.

You smiled back at him. “Maybe so.” You put it down to sketch it out.

You took a few more minutes to explore this little find, discovering that it had five branching trenches shaped somewhat like a star. Some of them were closed off with a ceiling, natural and carved out from the earth. You made sure to sketch every angle, noting every piece of information that you could.

Meanwhile, Arthur stood just a few feet away. You were surprised he hadn’t left yet, perhaps he was keeping watch in case one of the Murfree people he mentioned might be lurking around somewhere. Either way, you were too drawn in to really notice the surroundings.

You even caught him staring at your journal as you drew, probably intrigued by it.

Some more time had passed and you finished your last sketch. You stood above the structure, marveling its ancient beauty. Satisfied with your recordings, you placed your journal back into your satchel. You were thankful you were able to find this place, even after being swindled and losing money for it.

Arthur’s footsteps alerted you, and you turned to smile at him as he sidled up next to you. “Y’ get everything?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” you expressed with delight. “This is the most comprehensive find I’ve had in a while! The others in New York won’t believe this!”

“New York?” he repeated with bewilderment. “And you came out here?”

“My work takes me many places, Arthur,” you said proudly. “Though my colleagues would rather have me serving them beer and biscuits. I work three times as hard as them, you know. No respect for the women in this field.”

He made a soft noise, shaking his head as if to agree with you. “Can’t say many men are smart, then.”

Your smile widened at his comment. “Arthur, thank you again for taking me here, and watching over me. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” he said nonchalantly, turning his gaze downward. It only occurred to you then he was fidgeting with something in his hands. As you opened your mouth to ask, he held it up. “By the way, I found this down there. Thought you should have it.”

It was a comb, off white in color and carved with an intricate design. It too was obviously of Viking origin, given the designs of the animals that wrapped around the handle, looping to form holes for holding. It was beautiful.

It left you breathless. “Arthur-” you began. “That’s …”

“I know, I shouldn’t have taken it,” he said with a slightly sheepish tone. “Jus’ seemed to be a shame to leave it down there, for no one to admire.”

You reached out and gingerly took it, holding it flat in your hand. It was an unorthodox gesture, especially from someone you’d just met earlier that day. “Well…thank you.”

A full smile appeared on his lips then, the first you’d seen today. “You’re welcome.”

---

It’d been three days since coming upon the burial site.

Since then, you’d left Annesburg to travel further west, arriving in a little town called Valentine. You settled into a hotel room, copying over your original notes onto paper, as well as refining your sketches to appear clean. You’d soon sent them into the mail, hoping your colleagues would take you more seriously.

You were also on a limited amount of time, having just a few more days before traveling back home.

You adventure didn’t stop there, however. Originally coming here to collect more leads on possible sites, which ended up to be drier than a summer well, you focused on other means. Mulling around this town has proved to be fruitful, as you’d took the time to acquire an odd job here and there to replenish the money you’d spent in the past few days.

The comb you had carefully bundled up into a rag and placed in a small pocket of your satchel, although you admittedly taken it out more than once to appreciate its beauty. You’d sketched it out with everything else, along with the man who gave it to you.

That one, you kept to yourself.

He’d crossed your mind more than once. He’d been the first to not give you an odd look when expressing your interests, or make an offhand comment on how you would make a better housewife. A man like that was certainly a rarity, and you hoped you’d cross paths once more before returning home.

Tonight, you decided to have some relaxation and wandered into the more popular saloon in town. It was expectedly busy; the smell of tobacco and alcohol nearly burned your nostrils as you found a place to sit off to the side.

Despite the rowdiness of the crowd, you were thankful to have gone unnoticed. You sat quietly, sipping a beer whilst observing the drunken tomfoolery that took place around you. People watching entertained you sometimes.

Out of the corner of your eye, the doors swung open to reveal another patron stepping in. Paying little attention to it, your vision wandering to a young harlot pulling a stumbling man up the stairs.

“Miss Y/N?”

You turned your head in surprise, knowing you did not give your name to anyone in here. This however wasn’t some stranger, instead you were looking into the blue eyes of Arthur Morgan.

“Arthur!” you greeted with slight confusion. It were as if the heavens above had heard your prior thoughts. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Likewise,” he replied, pulling back an empty chair to sit at your table. “Ain’t you supposed to be out, lookin’ for more, eh, Viking burial grounds?”

You smiled at him. “Archaeology doesn’t take every facet of my life, you know. I like to take breaks too.”

He chuckled at your response. “Weren’t implyin’ that it was,” he shifted in his chair. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into ya.”

Cheeks burning, you took a swig of beer to hide your surprise. “You are? Why is that?”

“Just wonderin’ ‘bout what else you’ve found. I’d like to see, ‘less it’s private.” He responded.

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. This had to be the first time that anyone was interested in your work, even your fellow colleagues. “You really want to see?” You asked, a tight feeling of disbelief looming in your stomach.

He nodded. “Ya seem so passionate ‘bout it, got me curious is all.”

You couldn’t help but to beam at him, your chest swelling with excitement. Thankfully, you had your journal with you. Digging it out of your satchel, you lay it across the table and flipped open to the first page, containing sketches of various Indian arrow heads you’d found in your home state. “This was just a little after the beginning of my career…” you began, dragging your fingers lightly across the sketch lines, recalling vividly your amazement when you’d unearthed them.

Time wore on and you’d gone through the pages, you’d noticed a slight glimmer in Arthur’s eyes as he studied your drawings. Every once in a while, you could have sworn he was staring at you, yet every time your eyes turned to meet his, he’d swiftly turn his gaze back down to the journal.

You’d eventually reached the most recent section, closing the journal back up as you know he’d already seen that. Placing it back into your bag, you gave Arthur a sweet smile. “What did you think?”

Arthur leaned back, a slight look of awe on his face when he looked at you. “You got quite the collection, Miss Y/N. I’ve been ‘round and ain’t seen half the stuff you have.”

A small giggle escaped your lips. “You just have to know where to look.”

“Guess so,” he groaned as he stretched out. “You stayin’ here?”

You nodded. “Just for the next few days. I’m hoping to find one more site before I get back to New York.”

“Well, I dunno ‘bout other places, ‘sides the one we just went to.” Arthur responded.

“That’s okay, Arthur,” you reached over to pat his arm. “Your help the other day was more than enough. Can’t expect you to escort me to another, if there is one around.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t mind.” he shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You tucked your head down in hopes to hide the blush that flared on your cheeks. “Well, aren’t you generous, Mr. Morgan?” you said with a lighthearted tone. “Would you mind escorting me to the hotel, then?” you asked, peering back up to him.

Another shrug rolled his shoulders. “Sure.” He replied, his smile turning soft.

Gathering your belongings, you’d marched out of the saloon with Arthur behind you, leaving the drunken chatter behind to a quiet night. It was certainly late; the moon high in the sky and nearly no one outside. The lights from the adjacent buildings have long been extinguished. The distant chirping of crickets and a faint train whistle set a lovely ambience.

Even though the hotel was just down the way, Arthur kept by your side, walking to avoid treading through mud and horse manure. He was certainly a gentleman, uniquely apart from anyone else you’d met out here. It’d only taken a moment of walking before reaching the front steps of the hotel, the orange light flickering as a greeting.

Stepping onto the wooden steps, you turned to face Arthur once again. “Thank you, Arthur.”

He tilted his head in a small nod. “You’re welcome, Miss Y/N.”

As your gazes met, a pang of emotion hit you as you realized you barely even knew this man. He’d been so kind to you and interested in your work, yet he’d never shared a single mention of his personal life. He didn’t have to, given the circumstances in which you two met. However, you would be boarding a train back to New York in a few days’ time, and you highly doubt he’d come up that far.

Regardless, you still wanted to keep in contact.

Reaching for your journal once again, you tore out a page and hastily scribbled an address onto the paper. You held it out to him, noting his look of confusion. “Write to me, please,” you murmured to him. “If you find another site.” You quickly added.

Arthur took the paper slowly, holding it out to read it for a moment before folding it neatly and tucking it into his own satchel. “I’ll be sure to do so.” He responded, giving you the same smile as before.

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x reader #$10 writing commission

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dragons-bones · 4 years

Text

The White Vault Season Three Roundup

Posting this as the tenth and final episode of the season is now in public release!

So I listened to the early release of the season finale on Saturday, screamed a lot, and immediately sat down and re-listened to the whole season. The following post is being put behind a read more for both length and season-wide (finale included) spoilers and includes discussion and theorizing for season four, which Travis confirmed is the penultimate season. (IS IT OCTOBER YET.) Please DO NOT READ until you listen to the finale!

First and foremost, I was originally a little concerned that season three would end up hitting all of the same story beats as the first two seasons without anything new, particularly on the matter of the mystery: lots of puzzle pieces that still don't quite fit together. Arguably we still don't have any clear answers...but we have a lot more pieces that I think we're seeing the overall shape. There is definitely some sort of centuries-and-continents-spanning conspiracy, one dedicated to keeping the shadow monster(s) and totem monsters fed, or appeased, or something, along with the people and civilization that revolves around these creatures. We don't know the why, we don't know the how, but I am personally surprisingly at ease with not having anything answered at this point--honestly I am having an incredible amount of fun speculating in my own mind and reading other fans' takes on tumblr and reddit. Travis and Katie confirming we have a fourth and fifth season to finish telling the story gives me a lot of confidence, particularly since season four is going to take a vastly different tack than the first three seasons.

The Documentarian confirms in the opening of episode one that she had come into possession of the information she presents to whom we knew as of episode five to be Graham "Fuck You I Have A Shotgun" Casner just a few days ago. Episode ten confirms that the events of season three literally occurred within the last few weeks and Dr. Zhou "Fuck You I Have A Frying Pan" Liu, Dr. Josepha Guerrero, and Simon "Fuck You I Am Getting Off This Mountain If I Have To Tobogan Down It" Hall may still be alive up in the caves. I am practically frothing at the mouth with excitement because this really raises the stakes for next season, and while I'm more than certain the entire cast isn't making it out alive...enough might. And in this situation: the dangers are known by both the rescue party and the scientists; and the scientists are the kind who might be able to begin putting our puzzle pieces together, along with whatever the Documentarian acquires elsewhere.

I want to give an especial shoutout to Peter Lewis as Graham Casner. I remember when I first listened to The White Vault, I was a bit uncertain about his voicework: he has a very deliberate, almost stilted-sounding delivery as Graham. His performance really clicked for me when we got the segue ways of him narrating Russian journal entries into an English translation: his Russian, to my ear, sounds very smooth with no hesitation. My thought is, English isn't Graham's first language, and his measured way of speaking is how he ensures he organizes his thoughts properly to be understood. And just--his performance this season was SO GOOD. Especially in the finale, he sounded so raw and angry and just a little bit broken over the discovery that the body Dr. Liu and Dr. Guerrero found truly wasn't Dr. Ureta (I thought, in episode nine, that they're comment of "that's not Dr. Ureta" was more a metaphoric "that's not her anymore" based on what they knew of Simon's experience so far), but Rosa. Like. Holy shit. 10/10 Peter Lewis, godDAMN.

(Aside: props to all the voice actors this season. We really heard them come into their stride as the season progressed, but special props to: Danilo Battistini as Lucas, who showcased Lucas’s descent into (religious fervor inspired?) madness; Eric Nelsen as Simon, who got saddled with a lot of the technical archaeological talk and made it sound natural (really evident when you listen to the bloopers); and Diane Casanova as Eva, who did a fantastic job showing her dealing with the stress of the situation while still remaining snarky and defiant.)

And now to Rosa--who was, unquestionably, my favorite member of the Fristed expedition, so I was, in fact, yelling like a mad thing while my heart went icy and broken when the body was identified as hers. So, I remember reading in a post-episode speculation thread on reddit earlier in the season that maybe the tunnels between Svalbard and Patagonia were connected and this was the same shadow monster as the Fristed team encountered. I thought this was particularly far-fetched bullshit, but, uh apparently not? Good job, fellow speculator! You called it! Perhaps they're not physically connected (that stretches my suspension of disbelief beyond the breaking point, considering Svalbard and Patagonia are on literal opposite ends of the planet), but maybe it's a space-time distortion, and the deep caves between Svalbard and Patagonia (and Heilongjiang Province in northeastern China, and wherever else this strange civilization has pockets of activity) are linked via supernatural means. And a space-time distortion would explain why to Graham, it didn't seem too much time had passed for him in the tunnels before he found a way out, even though it was weeks if not months before he was located.

(Brief side note: definitely the Svalbard totem monster that got him, that strange walrus-like entity with the super-elongated phalanges. Also features in Artifact. That totem monster scares me and scares me deeply.)

So does this mean the shadow monster at Fristed and Piedra are the same, able to travel between locations depending on which ones have people near them? (SPOILER FOR ARTIFACT: it's implied there's more than one and they can "travel" via the totem animal artifacts END SPOILER) Does this mean we might see "Jonas" again? Oooooh, two shadow monsters, das bad, das really bad.

(Another brief side note, since I didn't do an episode nine roundup: the dark part of my mind that loves the creepy horror elements of this podcast was overjoyed at being slam-dunked right into the fucked-up-edness of the return of the still-beating heart and teeth in a stone box. Just. Good shit, lots of nightmares, jumping at shadows that night, S U P E R B.

...Wait, Rosa's is the first body actually found, even though we know the shadow monster killed her. Karina's, Walter's, and Carito's bodies never showed up, and we know their hearts and teeth ended up in the stone boxes. Does that mean Rosa's didn't? Is there specific significance to this?)

The sites do seem to be very different: China was a mountain village, most of the village open air with their private ritual rooms carved into the mountainside; Svalbard's might be under a glacier, and is an entire underground village, with its ritual sites buried beneath it; and Patagonia is less a proper village and more a winding system of living quarters and open public/ritual spaces. Svalbard is also currently the only one (that we know of, we have no information about the interior of the China site) using teeth to pave its stairs so, uh, take that as you will.

Teeth appear a lot. I have a thing about teeth, and yet The White Vault doesn't ping it? It's rather strange.

RAIMY. RAIMY YOU GO GET YOUR MAN. PROUD OF YOU, PLEASE DON'T DIE. (Honestly, though, I get the feeling if the shadow monster breathes anywhere in the general vicinity of Raimy, Simon will go batshit and beat the thing to death himself. He is injured but he is pissed.)

I continue to have low expectations about Eva's survival. That she got off the mountain is a surprise--stalked by the shadow monster, perhaps hoping she lures more people to the caves?--and that her 'infection' (excuse me as I continue to have flashbacks to Jane Prentiss in TMA Season One and cry uncontrollably because oh my gooooooooood) hasn't, y'know, gotten properly ugly yet. But goddamn I love her spirit, I love that she's so determined to get the rest of the team out. I WANT her to survive, but all the clues are pointing at REALLY BAD SHIT happening to her.

I remain deeply curious about whether or not Dr. Ureta’s previous trip to the Patagonia site is what primed her to be the first victim of the Piedra team. This might very well be something we don’t ever receive a proper answer to--sometimes some mysteries remain so, after all--but I do find it telling that we have very little of her personal thoughts, unlike the other members of the team (aside, of course, from Lucas).

Dr. Guerrero remains the loose end for me: Simon and Dr. Liu have both shown an utter lack of fucks to give about not letting this monster have them, but Dr. Guerrero was so tunnel-visioned on the science of the find that we notes and thoughts we have her don’t give us a conclusive enough picture about what to expect going forward. But we might end up surprised.

I’m very interested to see what Maheer and Dragana bring to the table: Maheer is obviously the Documentarian’s man because of a very nice paycheck, and Graham’s grumbling about Dragana’s prodding for details has me on alert mostly because Graham is my guy and he deserves a fucking nap and a vacation for all the shit he’s had to deal with.

The White Vault: Iluka is coming up this month on Patreon; I’m willing to bet this is what the Documentarian is preoccupied with while Graham and the rescue team head into the mountains. I’m really curious to see whether or not this might have anything to do with the events of the short Acquisition? I feel we’re due for that to come into play...

There is just. So much. So damn much.

IS IT OCTOBER YEEEEEEET.

#the white vault #spoilers #white vault spoilers #white vault episode 3.10

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discopiratetanis · 4 years

Text

In a Earth where magic exists, an immortal lineage of noble wardens is responsible for protecting magical creatures from humans.

Jaskier, the young grandson of Queen Calanthe, Poland's ancestral guardian, arrives at the small town of Blaviken, a refuge for magical beings who do not wish to have contact with humans, to complete his training as a warden.

There, in that haven of peace and safety, he'll meet strange but good people who will help him to learn and understand the true importance of his heritage and what really means to be a warden.

magical town!Geraskier AU. Sets in a not historically accurate Poland during the eighties, specifically 1984. So there will be a little bit of socialism (but decent socialism) here and a few references to WWII in a good way.

This is solely for my pure personal pleasure, so it will have an erratic update dates, sorry. But I hope you like it! Likes, reblogs and comments are very appreciate and encourage me to continue, thank you! ❤

Rating: M (for the moment)

Words: 6888

Chapter: 1/of many

Characters who show up in this chapter: Jaskier (of course, is his POV), the pack of wolves, Filavandrel as a humbled lumberjack, Yennefer, Renfri and Regis. Honorable mentions to Queen Calanthe, the Seven Dwarfs, a sleepy greyhound and a happy old woman on her rocking chair.

N/A: There will be Valdo Marx X Jaskier during the course of the story, but obviously Geraskier is the endgame pair!

You can also read the chapter on AO3!

If you want to support me I have a ko-fi!

It was raining when Jaskier got off the bus, a silent drizzle, a faint curtain of mist that you couldn't see if you didn't pay attention. But the air was wet.

Very wet.

Surprise, Jaskier, water wets! the boy thought, moving away from the road so that the bus would not soak him when it marched over the puddles in the ditch. He stepped on the mud beyond the asphalt. The bus stop was a simple wooden post, marked with a blue metal rectangle on which the number fifty-eight had been painted white. The road had two narrow lanes, one southbound, the other northbound. And everything else around was wilderness. Green, silent, lonely, deep woods. Jaskier grunted, hung better his duffel bag over his shoulder, and pulled a small piece of paper and a compass out of the front pocket of it.

"Alright," he said aloud, before reading what it had written on the paper, already getting wet because of the rain.

From the sixth stop of bus number fifty-eight, walk west until you find a big gray oak tree. Once you have arrived, pass underneath and continue straight ahead, Blaviken will appear before you.

If you encounter the wolves don't be afraid, they'll smell your magic and probably leave you alone.

The directions were simple but not much revealing. He knew it was for safety but. Jaskier clicked his tongue, crumpled the note into a ball, put it back in the pocket and opened the compass. Tiny dips blurred the glass, but the needle pointing north indicated the direction the bus had gone, so he looked on both sides of the road, crossed to the other side, and walked straight ahead, into the trees. Soon his silhouette was lost in the mist as if he had never been there.

The leaves crunched under his feet with an eerie noise at every step he took. The rain seemed to drown out the sounds of the woods, but Jaskier could still hear the peep of the boldest and bravest birds not scared by a little water. The wind was weak but sharp against the boy’s wet skin, who tried in vain to dry his cheeks and forehead every few moments with his also wet sleeve. It had been stupid not to grab an umbrella, despite his grandma's advice before he had parted his way, but it had been hellishly sunny in Warsaw for being September so he had felt rebellious and had dressed up with cotton trousers and a linen shirt with a lightweight wool jacket. Now he was starting to think that he was an idiot. The weather could be part of Blaviken's protection, yes. No traveler would want to get lost in those woodlands, in the middle of nowhere near mountains full of wolves and bears. But he also could be just a silly boy who had not taken an umbrella because he thought it would be sunny all over the country at the same time. At least he had his mountain boots.

It didn't take long for Jaskier to reach the tree that said the note, a huge gray oak in the middle of the forest. The boy stopped in front of it, noticing immediately that the rain was no longer drenching him. He checked the compass one last time before closing it and putting it in the bag. Then he took a deep breath. Yes, the tree was enormous. His trunk was so broad that Jaskier would need the help of ten more people to encircle it with his arms completely. It was covered with moss and tiny mushrooms everywhere and its branches stretched in all directions high in the sky, coating all the smaller trees within meters with their leafage. And then there was the hollow, the passage. It looked like an enchanted path, like those described in fairy tales.

Jaskier stepped into the entrance and looked up, tightening the strap of his bag. The way under the oak was not very long so he could see the other side of the tunnel perfectly. He walked slowly through that natural corridor of wet bark and lichen, fascinated, still looking up and around, amazed with all the magical static in the atmosphere. When he reached the end of the tunnel and came out into the open air again, the sun was shining and a cool, pleasant breeze shook his hair, playfully, and dried his clothes. A huge knee-high grassy clearing, sprinkled with yellow and white flowers, opened up before him. He reached the clearing with renewed energy, making his way through the grass and flowers under the sun, suddenly feeling that he was breathing much better, that his lungs were filling up with clear, clean air. There the birds sang louder, stronger, more beautifully.

Jaskier smiled.

He was in the middle of the meadow when he heard the rustling of a branch, the brushing of bushes and leaves on his back. Jaskier turned around, feeling his heart racing.

His throat went dry.

There, by the entrance to the oak tree, stood an enormous grey wolf. The animal was easily two heads taller than Jaskier himself, who was about five feet and nine inches tall. Its fur was streaked with darker flecks, and their dark green eyes glared the boy with interest. Jaskier didn't make any move and repressed a whimper, as if he feared the animal would jump on him with the slightest hint of activity. Then a new crackle made him look, this time to his left, and see another wolf, only one head taller than Jaskier. This one had murky brown fur and its right ear torn and ripped, probably by another wolf or a bear. It was wagging its tail quickly, staring at the boy. Jaskier blinked, feeling an awful and cold sense running up his back. A third wolf equally tall as the second one, with light hazel fur, appeared near the dark brown one. Both had intense green eyes.

Then, Jaskier remembered the note.

And it hit him.

It was weird. Even having been born and raised in the court of one of the great queens of the wardens, among magic and elements of all kinds, even though he had to know that these wolves were not merely wolves, Jaskier felt that he was an intruder.

The third wolf growled, low.

Jaskier swallowed.

“Uh, okay, alright,” he said, not sure if for himself or for the wolfs. “Uh, I… !” he tightened the strap of his backpack again as if that could calm him. “My name is–" he hesitated only for a second. "Jaskier! I came to Blaviken to train as a warden, Queen Calanthe told me to come here!” he paused again, looking at all the wolfs successively as he stood still, anxious, knowing that probably the animals were smelling his nervousness. He licked his lips, feeling his throat cracked and tight and, of course, still dry. “I’m… I’m sorry if I have bothered you stepping into your territory?!

The animals did not react to his words, except for the arrival of a fourth wolf, which emerged slowly among the bushes and foliage next to the big one and the oak tree. Its fur was white as freshly fallen snow, the cleanest, purest, most beautiful white that Jaskier had ever seen. It was slightly bigger than the smaller wolves, but not as large as the one in front of the tunnel. Its eyes were golden and gleamed bright and luminous, like the sun, like an endless field of mature wheat. Jaskier held his breath, looking directly at the white wolf, feeling dazzled and astounded.

It was as if time had stopped.

But then the grey wolf let out a hoarse bark, making Jaskier feel a chill, and the other three left immediately, disappearing just as they had appeared: from nowhere and in silence.

Jaskier exhaled all the air he was holding back, without taking his eyes off the animal. The wolf wagged his tail once, turned around and went into the trees next to the oak. The sound of paws scratching the ground, rustling leaves and twigs echoed for two seconds in the sudden silence of the clearing. Then that silence was broken by the joyful chirping of the birds and the breath of the wind.

Jaskier blinked, confused, still a little scared. He turned around as well, facing west, and ran. He did not look back even once.

* * * *

Blaviken was a little town located next to a lake nestled in a small valley between two arms of the mountain range. Jaskier discovered that because he not only had to go through the forest that hid it from the west, but he also had to go up the slope of the mountain to the entrance of the valley, where the river that drained the lake emerged from the ground a ran down the woods and the steep hills. By the time the boy reached the entrance of the canyon, the sun had already passed its zenith and was approaching the first hour of the afternoon. He stopped to rest near the road, a path full of grass that must have been carved by the wild animals.

Or the wolves.

Jaskier took a canteen out of his bag and took a sip of water. From there he could see the lake, so long that he almost couldn't discern its birth at the west; the mountains still with snow on their peaks, and the town itself. Jaskier had seen Blaviken's engravings and photographs. It was a picturesque, bucolic village, which did not seem to have changed much in centuries. It had the look of a medieval town, with a main street that was connecting the goat path and the entrance of the valley with the first houses, and was leading through the village to a central square where there was a fountain with a statue. Its houses, made of wood and stone, had two floors with smoking chimneys, orchards surrounded by small wooden fences, small sheds, barns... The more distant shacks were surrounded by larger fields of crops and fruit trees. A few horses and cows were grazing in the pastures that surrounded the village.

Jaskier took another sip of water and inhaled deeply. The air smelled and felt pure, fresh and lighter, healthier, than in Warsaw. In the distance, he could hear the squealing of the pigs and the rumor and echo of Blaviken's life. It seemed very peaceful... Jaskier bit his lips, put the canteen in the bag and stood up to continue the march. He knew that even though the village seemed to be close because of the slopes, the nooks and crannies, in reality it could be at least another hour's walk downhill.

He wasn't wrong, it took him an hour and a half to get to Blaviken.

There weren't many people at the entrance to the town. The first houses looked more like huts and storage sheds than real houses. A man with long blond hair tied in a ponytail and dressed with thick work pants and flannel shirt, was cutting wood near the main street road, next to one of the shacks. A pile of perfectly cut logs was piled against the wall of the shed, along with other smaller pieces made into more manageable firewood. A few hens with their chicks were pecking at the ground, paying no attention to any passers-by. A black dog, a greyhound, with a collar made of a leather band was lying, merrily asleep, not far from the log cabin. Jaskier took a deep breath and approached the man, being careful enough not to do it from behind.

"Excuse me?" he said.

The man, who had just finished splintering the log he was busy with, stopped, stood up with his axe in his hand and looked at the boy. Then Jaskier saw his pointy ears and noticed his strangely beautiful features, halfway between roughness and delicacy, and his so intense raven eyes. Jaskier blinked. The man, the elf, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes a little.

"You're the kid, aren't you?"

His voice was melodious, like thick honey sliding down a wooden spoon. Jaskier cleared his throat.

"Uh... yes, I suppose?" he frowned, confused. "Could you tell me where Renfri lives?

The elf nodded and turned a bit towards the main street.

"Go straight on to the square, the house with the red roof is hers, you can't miss it," he said.

Jaskier peeked out a little. The road, even though it was the main artery of the village, was not very wide. From there you could see the fountain with the statue, but not much more.

"Thank you, uh..."

The elf smiled warmly.

"Filavandrel,"

Jaskier looked and smiled back at him.

"Jaskier,"

Filavandrel nodded again. He was watching Jaskier a bit curious, inquisitive. Jaskier parted his lips, feeling as the elf knew something he didn't quite understand. He was about to ask if there was something wrong when Filavandrel turned around to clean the supporting trunk of the pieces he had cut off and put a new log on top. He picked up the axe and cut it cleanly in half. Jaskier made a tired sound and headed for the square.

"Thank you again,"

Behind his back, Filavandrel continued with his task and responded:

"See you around!"

Jaskier advanced step by step down the street, trying not to look around too much as if it were the first time he had set foot there. It didn't matter anyway because every person who crossed his path gave him an odd look, except for a few groups of random kids who were more interested in his current games than in a stranger. The village was tiny, Jaskier knew that one glance was enough for everyone to know that he was the new face.

The new toy

The toy

Jaskier flinched and made a grimace at the thought.

The square was wide and long as four houses together, surely buildings for more important things than storing wood or food. The central fountain was an oval structure, made of very old stone eaten away by the years. Several springs of water flowed from the pipes rooted in the pedestal of the sculpture that adorned the fountain. Jaskier stopped for a moment to admire it. It was made of bronze, already rusty with green, and depicted eight figures, five women and three men. Seven of the statues were smaller than the eighth, located in the center of the pedestal, and they held up both rifles and swords with a defensive, dignified, and heroic attitude. They wore clothes that were at least forty years old. Jaskier held his breath for a second. The eighth figure was a young woman whose impressively realistic expression denoted loneliness and sadness. She also wore old-fashioned clothing from decades ago, on which she had a hooded cloak clasped with a fancy brooch. She carried a spear and a gun in a defeated stance. Jaskier looked down and saw a plaque, made of degraded bronze too, which read:

In memory of the brave men and women

who protected Blaviken from the nazis

The boy blinked. And then his eyes started to sting. He contemplated the memorial for a long time, in silence, unaware of the people, both those who were passing by and those who were quietly at the doors of their houses chatting with their neighbors or simply resting, that were staring at him more and more curiously.

"Hello,"

A soft, gentle voice drove Jaskier from his thoughts. As he looked at, Jaskier saw a deformed hunchback girl with black, wavy hair, pale skin, and absurdly beautiful lilac-colored eyes. She was wearing a brown woolen dress and a blue apron with a pocket from which hung a bouquet of flowers and several colored rags, and carrying a large earthenware jar in her arms which she started to fill it under one of the pipes.

"Oh, uh, hello," Jaskier replied. Then the girl looked away from him to see how much she was filling the container. Jaskier contemplated her with genuine interest as if her task was the most interesting thing in the world. "So it's potable, the water, right?" he said a little awkward.

She giggled, still not looking at him, attentive to her chore.

"Yes, it's from the mountain, "

"Ah,"

"The pedestal also has a purifier,"

"Oh," Jaskier glance at the pipes. "Oh, yeah, right,"

The boy was silent then, not exactly uncomfortable, and certainly not quite sure if the girl wanted something from him or she just had greeted him because in little towns everyone greeted everyone whether they knew them or not. Jaskier wondered what kind of creature she was. It was, and it would be, very rude to ask that to someone you had just met, and Jaskier didn't have enough experience or expertise to guess the nature of a creature by sight alone yet. His grandmother could do that even with her eyes closed, only by analyzing the magical pulse and the auras around someone.

"So... can I ask your name?" Jaskier said, watching the water pouring into the jar, again as if it was terribly interesting.

He knew he only had to walk away with a 'see you later' to go and find Renfri, but he was going to live there all year round, so it was all right to have a little chat with the rest of the locals if he has the chance. And she had been kind enough to address him without pointing out that he was new around even if it was something so obvious.

"Yes, of course," she looked up, with those stunningly beautiful purple eyes that were smiling even if she wasn't. A warm feeling ran down his back and he felt much better, less nervous and more relaxed. "I’m Yennefer, but you can call me Yen if you want, is what my friends call me,”

“Oh,” Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “That’s… Are you sure? You have just met me, I'm not exactly your friend,”

"Right, but you're going to be our warden, so..."

"Well, technically I'm an apprentice–wait, how do you know?" Jasper arched his eyebrows.

"Oh, I just know," she smiled and raised the jar to the thick edge of the fountain. Then she embraced it and lifted it with some effort.

"H-Hey, do you want me to help you?" Jaskier took two steps towards her, almost extending his hands to help her hold her load.

Yennefer shook his head without being bothered by the weight at all.

"Don't worry, I can handle it myself,” she said, cheerfully and definitely not annoyed, and starting to walk away. "See you later, Jaskier"

Jaskier blinked without answering and watcher her until she disappeared around the corner from the southbound street.

What the hell has just happened?

When he looked to one of the nearby houses, he saw an old woman sitting in a rocking chair, who chose that exact moment to wave jovially at him. Jaskier blinked again and waved back, perplex. Then he shook his head and headed for the red-roofed building.

It was like every other house in the village, made of stone and wood with two floors. Its windows were half-open, with curtains of floral motifs full of patches. Jaskier looked up in case he saw anything through the windows, but the curtains were flapping with the breeze and blocking the view, so he went to the door and raised his hand to knock. He stopped at the sight of the heavy, corroded iron knocker shaped like a sun half-hidden by a moon. He touched it, lost, feeling that the shape was familiar somehow. But he didn't think much more about it and knocked three times with blows that sounded hard and cavernous.

He waited.

And waited.

And when it was clear that nobody was home, Jaskier pouted for himself and turned around.

"If you are looking for Renfri she is in the tavern right now!" The old woman on the rocking chair exclaimed without stopping its swing.

Jaskier looked at her, feeling dumb.

"Oh, oh, thanks!" he said and asked immediately after. "Errrr, sorry… where's the tavern?"

He saw the smile spreading on her wrinkly lips.

"Across the square, that building with the little cute drawing of a tankard hanging over the door!" she replied.

Jaskier nodded, trying then to appear confident, and bowed too much pompous and grandiloquent.

"Thanks, nice old lady!" he said.

"You're welcome, young man!"

Jaskier snorted, hung better his bag, and walked towards the aforementioned edifice. It was another house almost indistinguishable from the others except for that sign hanging over the door like in the soap opera stories about Robin Hood. He could hear voices coming from inside. Jaskier took a deep breath and walked in as if he were putting his hand into the mouth of a bear.

The interior of the bar was exactly like the taverns that could be seen in the few films that the polish government agreed to show in cinemas: a long wooden counter that looked old and worn but was actually very well cared for, long tables for several people, round tables for smaller groups, barrels and bottles behind the counter. The tiny modern touches that broke the illusion consisted of an old TV placed on a shelf full of glass bottles next to the most visible wall of the establishment, the beer dispensers, the radio on the shelves behind the counter, and some photographs, both in black and white and in color, of the town and the surrounding area. On the TV there was what appeared to be a match with the polish national football team, and it seemed to have the few customers engrossed with it. Jaskier took a quick glance at the screen and slowly approached the counter. Behind it was an older-looking man with short gray hair, very pale skin and dark eyes. His features were sharp, hard, as if he were rock polished by time. He was dressed soberly but elegantly, with clothes that did not quite fit in a place like that. When the man looked at him, serious and severe, Jaskier felt a huge, dense weight on his shoulders, as if someone suddenly sat on him and would not let him breathe. But that feeling immediately faded as the barman, who was drying a line of glasses, raised his eyebrows weakly and blinked.

Jaskier swallowed, thinking that those eyes looked terribly deep and old. And that they knew everything.

"You are the boy," the man said.

The clients hissed in frustration and disgust, still oblivious to Jaskier's arrival.

"Uhm...yes?" Jaskier said, feeling he was repeating himself. "I was looking for Renfri, someone told me she was here," he said, glancing around.

He didn't need to be told who Renfri was. Jaskier immediately located the woman, sitting at one of the small round tables farthest from the door and the television cabinet. She was half lying on the table, with a metal cup in her outstretched hand and her face resting on the other arm, as if she were...

"Is she... drunk?" Jaskier asked.

The man sighed, resigned.

"Luckily not, no, not yet," he replied.

"Not yet," Jaskier repeated.

The barman made a sad grimace but didn’t add anything more about it. Instead, he said:

"Sit with her, you must be tired from the journey,"

Jaskier let out a deep exhausted, and only a little dramatic, sigh.

"A little, yes, this place hasn't exactly been easy to find,"

The man smiled.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

Jaskier put one arm on the counter, glancing at the barrels behind it, searching.

"Do you have Tyskie?" he inquired.

Then he noticed the smell. He knew it was coming from the owner of the bar. It was a heavy, not entirely unpleasant smell, a mixture of thick, wet earth and lavender, a curiously unique perfume for a man. Jaskier swallowed. The bartender grimaced and picked up a clean tankard from under the counter. He went to the dispensers and placed it at a certain angle under one of them.

"I assume you're legal, right?" he said.

"Well, technically I'm forty-eight, if that doesn't make me legal..." Jaskier shrugged, trying to inhale not too hard.

The man pulled the lever on the dispenser, shaking his head with a snort.

"In human terms, yes, but if we calculate your real age you would be about... what, eighteen, nineteen years old? You almost didn't pass,"

"What can I say?"

The man poured the beer, a fresh pint with a crown of white foam. Jaskier grabbed the tankard with both hands and started to head for Renfri's table, from where she hadn't moved an inch. A wave of whispers and hisses indicated that a play in the match had not gone well.

"Thank you, sir,"

"No, no formalities. You're going to be spending a lot of time here, you call me Regis, "

Well, that's...

"Sure, thanks, Regis,"

Jaskier sat quietly at Renfri's table, leaving his tankard in the gap that she did not occupy with her body and arm. As soon as he touched the table surface, Renfri raised her head like a cat caught by surprise. Jaskier stared at her, taking a sip of his beer as she narrowed her eyes, slowly, and wrinkled her nose, finally rising to rest her back on the chair. She looked exactly the same as in the fountain sculpture, with slightly longer hair, a more wavy mane. But his eyes were just as sad.

Terribly sad.

The two watched each other silently for minutes, Jaskier sipping from his tankard, and Renfri holding her metal cup, making no attempt to drink from it, if there was any drink left. From the corner of his eye, Jaskier saw Regis and various of the clients who had been watching the game up until then, were very attentive to them. Jaskier licked his lips and clicked his tongue, not taking his eyes off the woman who had to train him in the ancient arts of the wardens from that day forward. He thought his grandmother had a slightly strange sense of humor, sending him to a little town like that, and to a warden with alcohol problems.

He couldn’t blame her, though, if he had the statue in mind.

But still...

“So…” he said, realizing that she wasn't going to be the one to break the ice first. He also noticed that she was looking at him in a very cautious way, scrutinizing him as if she was taking note of each and every one of his features, the color of his eyes, the shape of his face, the arch of his nose, the curve of his lips, or was estimating the number of moles he could have, or looking for the exact words to describe the color of his hair. “I’m here…”

Jaskier counted five seconds. When he was about to open his mouth again, the woman spoke and her voice sounded also tired and exhausted, though definitely sober thanks to God.

“Yeah, you are here,” she scoffed, blinked slowly and made a weak grimace. Then she drank from her cup and whipped the remained drops off her lips with the back of her hand “Let's make this easy, okay?”

“Okay?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows.

“There's not much to do in this place really, but since the queen is so interested in you finishing your training here, I'll do my best to fulfill her wish,"

Jaskier noticed the clear, perfect tone of sarcasm in her voice as if she was deeply annoyed that Calanthe had sent him there and didn't like the idea at all. He felt a bitter, awful sensation in the pit of his stomach and swallowed hard. It hurt him as if he had a stone stuck in his throat.

“Okay,” he said, lower.

She huffed.

"Today it's late and I've finished all the tasks, but tomorrow morning I'll start teaching you. I usually get up at sunrise, so I expect you to do the same,"

“Okay,”

Then she smiled leaned a little over the table, resting her arms on it.

"So... everything’s okay?"

Jaskier blinked, baffled.

"Uh… yes?"

"Has anyone said anything to you?"

"Uh... No?"

Renfri glanced at the rest of the bar. Jaskier followed her gaze. The clients turned around on their seats immediately, except for Regis, who slowly looked down with a sigh. More and more Jaskier had the feeling that something was going on or people knew something he didn't understand. And it was starting to get a little bit annoying for him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Renfri looked at him with a flat and apparently disinterested expression.

"Nothing," she replied. "As I was saying, rules. Luckily for both of us, I have two bathrooms at home, yours is upstairs. Take a bath before you go to sleep, you won't have time in the morning. We have access to hot water but don't waste it or I'll kill you, do you understand?"

"Yes,"

"Good," Renfri took another sip from her cup, pensive. Jaskier did the same, staring at her intently. "We'll have breakfast here at the bar, then we'll start with the routine duties. At noon we’ll eat here again and continue until we finish whatever needs to be done. There are days when you finish early, but others..." she grimaced.

"Yeah, sure, I understand,"

"Don't worry, kid, you'll do fine. As I said, there's not much to do really, it's a small town,"

Jaskier nodded and took the last drink, then reached into the pockets of the bag, looking for the purse. Renfri snorted.

"Don't bother, we barely use money here," she said.

"But–"

"You'll pay him with your wardenship, it works that way,"

Jaskier arched an eyebrow.

"Let me guess, everyone lets you pay by doing your job,"

For the first time since he had sat at Renfri's table, Jaskier saw the outline of a faint, small smile on her lips.

"You'll understand," she mumbled. Then she handed him her cup and waved him up. "Go on, be a good boy and get me more drink, and ask Regis to make us dinner,"

Jaskier pursed his lips, took his tankard and Renfri’s cup and went to the counter, where Regis was still drying glasses as if seconds before he hadn't been watching them.

"She wants–" Jaskier started to say.

"I know, I heard her, don't worry," Regis put down the rag and the glass in his hands, took Jaskier's cup and tankard and brought new ones. When Jaskier looked at him he saw his old, tired eyes and felt a wave, like a vibration in the air, of concern that sent a chill down his back. Regis sighed again. "You'll have to be patient with her, it's the first time–" The man hesitated for a second, as if he was looking for the right words. "It's the first time she has an apprentice,"

Jaskier blinked, suppressing the urge to look at her. A little further down the line, at the end of the counter, the spectators at the game were cheering their team on to score. Jaskier clicked his tongue.

"I see..." he whispered.

Was that it? Am I the first student she has?

"Do you like leek soup?" Regis asked then, leaving the new drinks in front of the boy.

Jaskier blinked, and thought about how little he had eaten soup in his life just because his grandmother didn't let the cooks prepare lower class meals in the palace.

"Sure," he said, nodding enthusiastically.

He took the cup and the tankard and brought them to Renfri's table, which was waiting impatiently for his return. The woman took her drink with energy and gave a sip. Jaskier sighed.

They drank in relative silence, Renfri more and more concentrated in her cup and Jaskier feeling more and more tired, both from the trip and from the alcohol. By the time Regis brought each of them a bowl of soup, both were lost in their own thoughts. The man gave them a silent glance before giving them the spoons and returning to the counter. The bar had been left empty, with the game about to end and the few remaining customers marching home for dinner.

Jaskier tasted a spoonful of soup after blowing on it a little and found a myriad of flavors so strong and delicious that he thought it was probably the best soup in the world. Not only did he notice the leek, but there was also potato, carrot, onion, he even rosemary and pepper, all perfectly mixed together. The soup wasn't quite broth, it was thick enough to melt in your mouth. After a whole trip based on cold meat sandwiches, that first hot meal in Blaviken would be forever his favorite.

Jaskier might have cried for joy if he hadn't had Renfri watching him over her own bowl with a strange expression. Jaskier swallowed the soup and looked at her.

"What?" he inquired.

Renfri instantly looked down, at his own food. She did not answer. The boy pressed his lips and stirred the soup with the spoon, watching the potato and leek lumps go around. He ate one, thinking. As he swallowed, he looked up again.

"Renfri?" he said.

"Hm?" She made no attempt to pay more attention to him.

"Can I ask you something?"

She shrugged.

"What's up?"

Jaskier licked his lips, feeling the taste of the soup. He took a deep breath.

"On my way here, after crossing the tree passage... I came across four giant wolves. They were... Are they from here, from Blaviken?"

Renfri took a quick and… a curious look at him.

"Yes, of course they're from here. You noticed they weren't normal, right?"

"Well, yes," Jaskier stirred in his seat. "So they're werewolves?"

She nodded.

"Vesemir and his pups, they help me to patrol Blaviken's territory. It's pretty huge and it would take me weeks by myself. If you saw them at the tree entrance they'll be back in two or three days,"

"Ah,"

"I'll introduce you to them when they get back, although... they probably know you better than you know them by now,"

"Oh, yeah? How?" He sounded more interested than concerned.

"The smell. There's no one in all of Blaviken with a better sense of smell. Vesemir could track you back to Warsaw if he wanted to. And in the rain. If you've seen them, they'll have smelled you enough to know your trouser size,”

Jaskier whimpered and took another spoonful. So he had made a bit of a fool of himself in that clearing. Renfri snorted.

"Don't worry, they're wolves, the most harmless and friendly creatures in town,"

"Really?"

"Really,"

"Regis doesn't look dangerous," Jaskier said, pointing his head at the bartender.

Renfri snorted again and leaned over the table a little and lower her voice.

"Regis could break you in half, though before that he'd sink his fangs into your neck and drink all your blood in one gulp,"

Jaskier opened his eyes wide and arched his eyebrows, suddenly feeling his throat dry. Of course, the smell of earth...

"I wouldn't do that, don't be absurd," Regis said from the counter. Jaskier looked at him. Although the man had the same calm expression as before, the boy noticed the irritation in his tone of voice. "Don't put such old-fashioned ideas into the kid, please,"

"But is it true?" Jaskier held his breath, turning in his seat to look at the man.

Then Renfri burst into a clean, heartfelt laugh that somehow that made Jaskier's heart skip a beat.

"What?" Regis asked.

"Could you break a person in half? Or drink their blood in one gulp?"

Regis looked at him in complete and utter disbelief, and resignation. Renfri's laughter slowly faded. He gave Renfri an annoying look for instigating such questions and then grunted.

"I could. Split someone in half I mean. Drink five liters of blood in one sitting? No, ancestors no. And I wouldn't sink my teeth into your neck either, there's too much muscle to go through. If I wanted to drink someone else's blood, I would first ask them nicely and then, if they said yes, I would drink from their wrist, or forearm,"

"What a gentleman," Renfri mocked, eating his soup.

"Oh, shut up, Renfri,"

She laughed again, much shorter and lower than before. Jaskier felt excited.

A pack of werewolves

A vampire

An elf

And whatever Yennefer was.

He had known from the beginning that this town was a refuge for magical creatures, but he had imagined goblins, elves, yes, okay, maybe some trolls, but werewolves, vampires? All he knew about them was from reading books that not even his tutors wanted him to read.

"Hey, don't look so excited and finish eating that, you'll want to go to bed early tonight," Renfri said, pointing him with her spoon.

Jaskier bit his lips, thinking fast and concentrated on eating what was left of the soup and drinking the beer. Renfri grunted approvingly and ended up with his own dinner.

By the time they left the tavern, it was already dark and there was no one left on the street. The sound of the animals in the village had turned into a silence broken only by the singing of the crickets and the sound of the families finishing their own dinners. There was little light, no lamppost. When Jaskier looked up, he could see the dark blue and purple sky dotted with millions of twinkling stars. He did not need to make an effort to discern the trail of the Milky Way over the lake.

He had never seen it before.

It was beautiful.

"Hey,"

Renfri got his attention. Jaskier swallowed, stopped gawking at the sky, and walked faster to follow in his master's footsteps. Once in the square and in front of the red-roofed house, Renfri took a rather large and quirky key out of his pocket. He opened the door with it.

Inside, the house looked like a ghost hostel.

Jaskier didn't have time to explore much, Renfri made him climb the stairs, made of crisp, dry wood, up to the second floor. There, in addition to the aforementioned second bathroom, there was a corridor with seven little rooms where, with luck, a bed would fit. In some of them there were small closets. Jaskier chose one of the rooms with a wardrobe, which had one of the windows with flower curtains overlooking the square.

"Remember, at dawn," Renfri said, before he went down the stairs back to the bottom floor.

Inside his new tiny room, Jaskier heard the sound of a door closing. When he was sure Renfri would not return, he sighed deeply, left his bag on the bed, a mattress with no sheets or blankets ready, and closed the window. He also drew the curtains. The window faced north, so it wouldn't get much light during the day, but.

He didn't think he'd be spending much time in that room anyway.

He took the bag off the bed and opened the closet. He found several bed sets, so he picked the first one in the pile and he laid out the sheets, the pillow, and the quilt. Then he opened his bag and took out what little clothing he had brought with him. Only clothes, no personal belongings that were not strictly necessary. He found his toothbrush and toothpaste at the bottom of the bag, along with the hairbrush. Jaskier brushed his teeth while filling the bathtub. He was grateful to find soap in the bathroom cabinet. He also took note of the first aid supplies he had. He assumed Renfri didn't spend much time in the house either, judging by how poorly conditioned it was. It didn't matter. Jaskier took a towel and his pajamas into the bathroom.

It took him a lot less time than it used to at home to take a bath, and not because he was sleepy.

When he came out of the bathroom, with his pajamas on and the towel over his shoulders, he walked down the hall and past the empty rooms quickly to his own. He closed the door and breathed a long sigh. Even if he did not smell closed or old, or a house that had not been used in a long time, Jaskier sensed an energetic tension in there.

He couldn't explain what it was.

Bit it was… nasty.

He turned off the light and got into bed looking at the door. There was silence, a tight silence. Jaskier gripped the sheets with his fingers. With all his senses alert, he only heard that silence. Not the crickets outside, not Renfri at the bottom floor. He held his breath.

But he was tired, so he soon closed his eyes, and his mind wandered into forests full of crisp leaves, vampires serving beer, and golden-eyed white wolves. It was fast.

That night Jaskier did not dream, exhausted, and slept soundly.

So soundly that he did not notice that, after midnight, the door of his room opened slowly with a faint squeak and stayed open all night.

#geraskier #the witcher #the witcher au #wardens of magic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #dandelion #gerlion

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writingsilly · 4 years

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Underwater (ch. V)

Description: Your bad behaviour led you to stay the whole summer in your town of birth with your grandfather. The very first day, you went for a walk to the beach and had an encounter with a stranger that would change your whole life.

Pairing: Reader x Merman!Taehyung.

Genre: Angst, suspense, sci-fi.

Trigger warnings (!!!): Blood, swearing, angst.

Click here to read in AO3!

V: Information

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“You’re gonna accept what I just said just like that?” He asked.

That was a good question, actually. Taehyung had done nothing but show you how decisive and dangerous he was, but was he worth your trust? It did not matter how much time you thought about it, though. He had made a request and you had to follow it.

So you did not say anything. Your throat was still burning, even swallowing was unbearably painful.

Taehyung sighed and stretched his arm, displaying a golden bracelet right in front of your face. You would not have thought much about it if a little pendant had not shone in the moonlight. It was a little larger than a coin with a small wave carved in it.

“This may seem like a cheap piece of rubbish,” he said, “but it’s actually a family relic. It has been worn by several kings, and a queen, within generations. Now, it’s my turn to wear it.”

You leaned over, ready to touch the pendant to examine it, but Taehyung was fast to pull back his arm.

“This,” he spoke again, his tone severe, warning, “I’m doing it because it’s the only way for you to believe me. I need you to believe me, not to ask questions. Got it?”

With that being said, he took off the bracelet and grabbed your wrist, pulling it so that you would show your opened palm. He let the cold chain in your hand. You heard the clicking of the metal and wondered if that was real gold or some kind of painted metal.

But now that you had this, what were you supposed to do with it? It could be a useless accessory, for all you knew.

“This town holds more information on mermaids than you might think. You just need to know where to look. Not everything you might find is true, but, I have to admit, some humans have got close to us,” he let out the last part with some kind of sadness.

If you asked any questions, you knew that Taehyung would not answer them clearly. Even when he tried so hard to hide, be mysterious, you noticed certain things. You knew better not to test him or push your luck. Whatever he gave, you would have to work with it. So moments like these, where he would give information in exchange for nothing, were special and rare.

You looked at him, hoping for him to tell you more. His naked chest expanded while he turned his gaze to the night sky. He looked so lost in thought, maybe even memories. With his profile, unbelievably well-proportioned, being highlighted by the moon, you felt your eyes glued to his image. There was always something interesting to watch, to discover, being his tanned skin or the mole hidden between his inferior eyelashes. You could not lie and say that Taehyung was not a fair creature, but that was not a surprise. You may not be an expert, but if there was something you knew about mermaids it was that their beauty was undeniable, mermen were not the exception to that fact, you confirmed it after meeting Taehyung. The air around him seemed to buzz with the most elegant harmony you had ever heard and, even in the dark, he radiated a golden light. He was luminescent, all the time. A vibrating light followed his figure with every move. Such lively energy for a being so despicable.

Maybe you could learn a thing or two from him. The first one being; looks are deceiving.

“Look for information,” he simply added. “You might stop flinching every time I look at you if you know what you’re dealing with. You might also know the seriousness of my threats, too.”

You closed your hand around the bracelet. It was the only thing you could do if you thought about it. This pendant held more than what the eye could see, and if you wanted to get out of this alive, and save your grandfather in the process, you had to do whatever it took.

You could go home once Taehyung indicated you what he wanted you to do and told you, yet again, what would happen if you did not obey. According to him, he “did not want to be more time than necessary between impure humans, no offence.” Of course, you replied with a dry “not taken” because even when you were not sure what he and his people thought to know about humans, you could easily name a few things about your kind that fell on the category of vile.

Taehyung knew exactly what he wanted to learn, he did not hesitate to tell you point by point, which were simply three; friendship, family and love. If something came up in the middle of your lessons, he would ask, he informed you. You were just begging that it would not happen. The less you had to teach him, the faster he would go back to the depths of the sea to rule his underwater reign or whatever. You did not know him, at all, but something told you that Taehyung would be a cold-blooded king. He did not hesitate to make his point with you, you doubted it would be different somewhere else. And you did not know why, but you wondered if that was a good quality of him if you talked about being king.

Once in bed, you could not help but wonder about his world. How different it might be from yours, how humans affected it, because, surely, all those talks about global warming were not to be taken as a simple joke. Your world influenced theirs directly. But you also thought about his people. If Taehyung thought of you as such evil creatures, did the rest of them believe the same? Or were they just scared of the information they were given about humans?

That was when it hit you; they knew nothing about you, just as you knew nothing about them. When talking about knowledge of one another, it was like a dog chasing its own tail; someone had to step in, put an end to it, and Taehyung was doing just that, you guessed.

“Are you planning something for today?”

The already gooey cereal stared back at you until you decided you were done with it and pushed it away from you. The thought of you browsing books of mermaids and fairy tales, all under the gaze of these overly curious inhabitants of this town… Yeah, that seemed like a good way to spend your way if you did not want to die.

“I’m going to the bookstore,” you replied with a smile. And your throat still hurt. A lot. But you had you ignore it if you did not want questions you could not answer.

Your grandfather seemed excited by the idea, as his eyes lighted up and his lazy posture changed suddenly, as he leaned slightly over the table like he was about to tell you the juiciest secret ever.

“The best store in town is the one you went to yesterday,” he informed you with a wink, “Miss Kim has the rarest books, the ones that you can’t find on the internet, all for a good price. Tell her I sent you and she might lend them to you.”

Not that you were disappointed by the first thing he said, but when he mentioned Miss Kim, your eyes widened.

“You know her?” You asked, a little bit hesitant, to which he only replied with a shrug and a smile that annoyed you because of the lack of verbal confirmation.

You were under the impression that your grandfather never left his house unless he wanted to take a walk or to buy groceries, or something he needed with urgency, but with this new information, you were left in the dark. You had never thought of him as someone mysterious, but now you had to? Not that you blamed him. You were hiding things from him as well.

“That’s all I’m gonna get?” You asked again. “Fine. I’ll have to ask her, then.”

Another thing to look into, you would add it to the list.

The unforgiving sun was punishing you with all its force. Your cap seemed useless at this point. It just encapsulated the heat, and after a few minutes walking over the hot road, you started to wonder if your head could sweat this much, or if it could even sweat. Today, you had chosen to wear sneakers, not sandals, as you had gained a brand new appreciation for your feet over these three days. Once you thought you might lose one over a demon under a dock, there was no turning back from that, was there?

With your eyes literally on your feet, because you did not want to lose your sight by looking at the sky, you made your way to the book store. With Taehyung’s bracelet burning your skin from the back pocket of your shorts, just to make itself go noticed, you sighed. Luckily for you, you remembered the way well. Your life depended on it, so no biggie, right?

It was strange to walk around town and not to hear cars or people talking on their phones. You had grown used to the sounds and lights of the city. You could not quite decide if you liked it better or not. In the city, even when you had never thought of it as home like this town was, you never felt completely alone. Even when you tried to get away from everything and everyone, there was always the distant lights of the buildings, the cars, the busy streets to keep you company. Here, however, the only thing you received were dirty looks from silent people. In a town this small, everyone knew everyone, their story, some of their secrets, because they always get discovered one way or another. The story of the little girl who went to the city and came back years after. That must have been quite a piece of gossip when you left. So, you were sure they knew you were that girl. You were sure that they were wondering why you came back, and why your father was not with you.

It was weird to be in the middle of people who knew about you, but you knew nothing about.

“You came back?”

You turned around and found Namjoon, all dimples and baggy clothes that made you question his sanity and if his body felt how damn hot it was today. He walked towards you while he put his phone in his pocket. The height difference would have made you laugh if circumstances were different.

You nodded with your eyes on his. His smile grew only bigger, and you appreciated it.

“Glad to see you again, then. My grandmother is out, so…”

You already knew what was coming. He was going to say that you should come back another day, but the thing was, you did not have another day. You were meant to meet Taehyung tonight and give him his bracelet back. You could not let Namjoon say it.

“Is–” your voice cracked, and you noticed how Namjoon was taken back by your sudden interruption. You coughed to cover that up. “Is there any way that you could let me in? I wouldn’t ask, but I’m desperate.”

You could not stop to care about how pathetic you might have looked in Namjoon’s eyes, but it was not necessary because he let out a chuckle, his smile meeting his eyes, and reached his back pocket. The sound of metal clicking together had never felt so relieving.

“I was going to let you in, but hearing you beg is so much fun. Now, add a “please” and a “thank you” and I might open the door.”

“You’re enjoying my suffering, aren’t you?”

He hummed.

“Every part of it,” he confirmed. You glared at him and crossed your arms. Namjoon laughed. “Fine. Only ‘cause you came back.”

The moment you entered the store, the characteristic smell of old books hit you with full force. You had not noticed it before, but now you could see why your grandfather told you that this was the best bookstore in town (if there were more). Besides the numerous shelves full of books, they were also scattered all over the dusty floor, like they did not matter, forgotten.

“What were you looking for?” Namjoon asked while he closed the door behind him.

Hell, if you only knew...

The number of books was intimidating and you had not started yet.

The problem with Miss Kim’s book store was that it was a mess. There were books, of course, scented candles (some of them used), unlabelled boxes which awakened your curiosity. Without any help, you could be years looking for a trustful source of information. Something had told you that the internet was not going to be useful, so you chose to come here, but looking at this disaster, you were reconsidering reading that article on sea creatures you had found in liveyourfantasy.com.

No, books were more reliable.

“How many books do you have here?”

Namjoon frowned, surely asking himself why on earth would you be interested in that, but then shrugged.

“Grandma is always getting new books. The boxes are full of them.”

So that was what they contained. Now you were sure that there was no way you could find any book related to mermaids if you did it by yourself.

“Do you have anything about mermaids?”

Come to think of it, sea creatures were kind of one of the few attractions this little town had. Of course they were only a simple trick to lure tourists here, but you could not be the only one who had ever come here and asked for a book related to it. Although you were confident that Namjoon would not ask any questions, he allowed himself to look at you with a puzzled expression. And you could not exactly blame him. You had come here, desperate, and all for a book about mermaids? It seemed strange. You would have reacted the same way.

But anything Namjoon was thinking to ask, he shut it up, as he walked behind the desk and typed on the ancient computer covered in dust. It took some time, loaded with awkward coughs (mostly from you). While you waited, you stared at him. You noticed the eye bags, deep, that described an endless night. His messy hair confirmed it.

“Rough night?”

You did not know what came over you. Namjoon seemed like a nice guy, someone who you would like to be friends with if your situation was not so complicated. And maybe that was why you could not help but feel interested in him, in what he had done last night that kept him awake.

“I was actually with Yoongi and Jimin,” he answered with a smile, looking at you for just a second before returning his gaze to the computer screen.

“Your friends?”

“Yes. I asked them about that Kim Taehyung you told me about.”

You had completely forgotten about that little detail. Not that it mattered. Now you knew that his friends had never heard of Taehyung because he did not exist on the surface. All you had on him was his name… And the fact that he was a merman.

“Oh, well. Whatever they know...” you chuckled. Dismissing the subject, trying to make Namjoon forget all about it, that was what you wanted to do. “I gave up. I don’t think he’d like to meet me again, so–”

“What makes you say that?”

He sounded so surprised. He led all his attention to you. The atmosphere between shifted so quickly, it almost left you without air or words to say. One of the most sincere looks you had seen in a long time was Namjoon’s. Under it, you found yourself almost babbling as if you had done something wrong. He was waiting for your answer, though, so you pushed it out of your throat.

“No reason. Just a feeling,” you mumbled.

Once again, whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. That only made you even more interested in what his mind held. You could tell, there were a lot of things unsaid in that head of his and you wondered if he would ever speak them out, if he would feel relieved or regret it if someone hears them.

“Oh!” He exclaimed out of the blue. “We have some books about them, actually. Thought we had sold them all. Are you looking for tales...”

“Informative works, if that makes any sense?”

A few days ago, it would not have made any sense to you. Things could change so quickly around here, it was scary.

“Well, information…” he hummed, and with a few clicks of the mouse, he smiled. “The book is quite old, but we have it in pretty good conditions, considering.”

He walked to a random shelf and ran his finger through the spines of the books displayed until he found the one he was looking for. It was almost at the end, waiting to be held and given a look. An ancient, worn-out book, all black, it was the kind of book that could have gone unnoticed easily.

As he checked it out to confirm it was, in fact, the book he was looking for, you read the spine of it. In golden, cursive letters, it read “Mysteries of the Sea”. Before handing it to you, Namjoon gave you a secretive look.

“This one is one of the oldest books we own. The author is unknown, but–”

“Unknown?”

You did not let him give it to you as a normal person would do, you just snatched it from his hands. It was heavy, and when you opened it, you realised that your first impressions were correct; the pages were yellow and a little crumpled. There were no chapters, just words and words with no division apart from paragraphs. It did not seem that it had an actual end.

As he had stated, there was no name of the author, which seemed strange. You had always thought that the best part of achieving something, like writing a book or directing a movie, was to put your name on it and make everyone remember it.

“I assume it was a woman the one who wrote it?” Namjoon suggested. “Some books were written by women, but their names are nowhere to be seen, it’s not uncommon.”

“Why?”

“With books this old, you can imagine, right? A woman writing and publishing her own work at that time? It would’ve brought embarrassment to her family.”

It sounded stupid, but the book felt much heavier after hearing that. There was no way you could confirm that story, but if it was true; if that woman truly wanted it published despite what her family might have thought, it had to be significant, something she had thought it may help others, not only her. In your mind, going against your family was not something you chose to do just because. There had to be something worth that courage.

With new determination, maybe even renewed hope, you clutched it against your chest.

“How much?”

Namjoon let out a long sigh, but smiled, and shrugged. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“But–”

“But, only if you promise to come back,” he finished your sentence.

“You mean to the bookstore or this town?”

“Let’s start with the bookstore,” he replied, “for now.”

The thing about Namjoon, he was sincere, he seemed sincere. He was the kind of person that made you trust. But not satisfied with that, the universe also gave him another quality; everything he said seemed like a promise. How many days had passed since you first met him? One. Nevertheless, he managed to make you feel like he had known you since forever.

And you could not say no to him. He had helped you a lot, and you actually enjoyed his company. Why would you say no? Because you did not want anyone involved with you until you could get rid of a certain someone.

The sound of the bell right above the door made you turn around. Two guys of the same height walked in with the same expression of confusion that you probably had. One of them, carrying a big paper bag, wet at the bottom, spotted dazzling blue hair and an oversized black shirt with ripped jeans and sandals of the same colour. The other one, three cups of soda in hand, looked straight out of a fairy tale, with pale pink hair and simpler clothes; a white t-shirt and black shorts and sandals.

“Who’s she?” One guy asked as he set the bag on the desk.

“Another grandchild,” Namjoon smiled. You belonged somewhere, even after you had left years ago, he made sure you knew that.

The answer seemed to be enough for him, because he looked at you, acknowledging your presence, and dropped all his weight on the chair. Unbothered, he proceeded to take out food from the bag; three complete burgers. When he noticed your stare, he lifted one close to your face.

“Want some?” A teasing tone that reminded you of Taehyung was not quite what you were expecting from a boy this short. It caught you off guard when a freezing shiver went down your spine.

Now, everyone in the room was looking at you. As much as you wanted to talk, your throat was shut, aching, itching. The pain made you simply shake your head.

“Yoongi, you’re making her uncomfortable,” Namjoon warned.

So he was Yoongi. Despite feeling like someone had punched your stomach, you gave him another look. He did not budge under your scrutiny. It was not hard to tell that he was a tough guy. Namjoon had come off like that too when you first met him, but he was fast to vanish that idea of him out of your head. Yoongi seemed like he was not going to do that any time soon. He even raised his eyebrows when he noticed that you were not redirecting your gaze elsewhere but his face.

“Whatever,” he finally said and broke eye contact with you.

“Well,” the other one, Jimin, you assumed, broke the tension, “if you’re another grandchild, join us!”

The bubbly personality of Jimin, which you were fast to notice, was so welcoming. You truly wanted to sit down, relax for a second, feel like Hoseok and Jungkook were with you again, but could you really do that when you felt Taehyung breathing down your neck?

“You can tell us more about that Kim Taehyung?” Namjoon suggested.

“Oh, so she’s the one you talked to us about?” Jimin exclaimed. He glanced between you and Namjoon. “Now, I see it.”

Namjoon cleared his throat and left the table saying something along the lines of “I’ll get you chairs.”

He was gone, and you could already feel Yoongi and Jimin’s curiosity drown the room. They wanted to ask about Taehyung, you knew that. Whatever they asked, though, you were sure you would never be able to answer. You were also looking for answers and the book that Namjoon had just given you might hold some, you hoped.

As you sat down on the chair Namjoon provided, you tried to avoid Yoongi and Jimin’s gaze. It was not like you did not understand why they were so curious about you. You were kind of expecting Namjoon so ask more questions, but you were grateful that he had not crossed that line yet. And even he did, there was nothing you could do, actually. You felt like running away as far as your legs would take you, but the thought of Taehyung being somewhere in the shadows, waiting for you to be alone was enough to clear your head from those runaway ideas. You were in that funny position where you did not feel safe anywhere.

“What you got there?” Yoongi asked, still chewing his burger, as he pointed at the book you were still pressing against your chest.

“She’s actually interested in mermaids and all that jazz,” Namjoon answered before you could.

Yoongi raised his eyebrows, still looking at you and you felt how your cheeks turned red and warm under those dark eyes.

“You sure you’re from here? Only tourists are interested in that crap.”

“Yoongi!” Jimin butted in.

“What? That’s the only reason people ever come here!”

You wished you could be like Yoongi, so clueless. The way he said things, like there were not a big deal, was something you envied. He walked around, no worries on his mind, not looking over his shoulder every time he heard something suspicious in the bushes. That was a luxury you could not afford anymore. Thinking it through just confirmed it; you could not bring new people to your life. It did not matter how nice they seemed, or how safe they made you feel. You could not include them in your mess.

“Leave her alone, Yoongi,” Namjoon chuckled. “She’s one of us now.”

But it was too late for that.

“It hurts to see her. When the sea is so calm, silent and transparent, it hurts to see her rise to the surface because I know she will have to go back in an hour or two, if I am lucky enough.

Her kind is mysterious. I know it because she doesn’t like to talk about her world underwater. I accept it because I choose to believe that with time, she will warm up to me and tell me all about her, her life, her dreams. Everything my heart desires is to know more about her. It was not only about her people anymore. It was just about her. All my life, I’ve been wondering why are people so interested in mermaids. It took about five minutes with her for me to finally understand the fuzz over these beings. I noticed that every once in awhile, she would accidentally slip up some detail about herself. I try to remember them all, but they are so simple that it only makes me want to cry whenever I try to put them on paper and fail miserably due to my poor memory. I can’t bring my dairy to out meetings in the dock. If she ever found out that I’m writing about her, she would be so furious. I’m scared that she won’t want to see me ever again if she finds out. Nevertheless, I choose to write about her. My life is boring, as you might have assumed. She is the only thing that keeps me from falling on a monotonous spiral of useless and meaningless tasks like going grocery shopping or helping with the bookstore. Sometimes I wonder if I’m as special to her as she is to me. Maybe I’m what she needs to scape her world. In the mornings, I often think about the reasons why she would ignore the dangers and come back to me. My world is not ready for her kind. I’m still getting used to her, how she looks, how different it feels to have her around. The mere thought of someone finding out about her existence is enough to keep these words to myself, under my bed. She often tells me that the ocean can be even crueller than the surface. She warns me that if I get too close to them, it might be dangerous. I don’t care, that’s what I always tell her. We always find a spot, a limit where both of our worlds meet so we can see each other. But I’m scared that the more I see her, the closer I get to touch her, the needier I’ll be…”

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keybladeswar · 5 years

Text

Midnight Waltz (Xaldin x Reader)

Words: 2220

Warnings: None

Summary: You’re not a princess and he’s not a prince, but you share a dance anyway.

Author’s Note: Okay I’m not even a Xaldin stan but like... I’m proud of this. As always, please like and reblog if you enjoyed this, and find my other works here.

You leaned against the brick wall, twirling one of the strings of your coat around your fingers. Day 5 of this mission and you’d yet to see anything out of the ordinary.

Well, that’s not exactly true. Until coming to this world, you’d never seen a talking clock or candlestick. But as for anything that might jeopardize the mission, there was nothing. You’d much rather have Xaldin’s job, you thought. He basically had to be the devil on the Beast’s shoulder, convince him to give into doubt and his dark thoughts. Based on the amount of roaring and crashing you’d heard from the West Wing and from the girl, Belle’s, lack of appearances these days, you assumed things were going according to plan. Not that Xaldin would actually tell you. The strong and silent type, he’d hardly spoken two words to you the entire time you’d been a part of the Organization, and both of those words had happened on this mission.

You missed having missions with Larxene or even Axel. You and Larxene would always trash talk the other members, and Axel could take your sarcasm and throw it right back. With Xaldin, there was no point even trying. The first night, you’d tried to crack a joke, only to have him glare at you in silence. Didn’t he know how to have fun? These missions could get so repetitive; you needed some way to keep it interesting.

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight and you pushed off the wall and tucked your hands in your pockets. Time to swap guard points. You jogged up the cobblestone steps and entered the foyer of the castle. You greatly preferred this castle than the one the Organization lived in; even though it was dark and dreary, it felt much more lived in than your own. You admired the plush carpet, the ornate ceilings, and the delicately carved gargoyles. Your favorite room, though, was the least dark — the ballroom. Though you were meant to stay in the foyer for an hour, you couldn’t resist the urge. You headed up the stairs and entered the ballroom.

You’d never admit it to anyone, but as a little girl, back when you were a Somebody, you’d daydreamed of being a princess, of dancing with a handsome prince in a ballroom much like this one. You could still picture the perfect dress too — a deep red with a skirt that flared out when you twirled.

You sighed. As far-fetched as that dream was then, it was even less likely now. Some dreams, you supposed, were meant to stay that way.

You slowly walked to the middle of the room, your shoes echoing loudly. Though you knew you were alone, you scanned the room and then, so quick that you could pretend it didn’t happen, you twirled. And then you did it again. And then you were dancing, waltzing around the room the way you used to do in your childhood bedroom, your arms out as if draped over an imaginary prince. You couldn’t help but laugh. You knew you looked ridiculous, but it’s not like anyone would ever find out.

Or so you thought.

You were so wrapped up in your fantasy that you didn’t notice the dark corridor open in front of you. When you spun, you crashed right into Xaldin. You stumbled back a few steps, and once you realized what happened, you felt the blood drain from your face.

You had a reputation to uphold; you were sarcastic, sure. You liked to joke around, but when it came to actually revealing anything about yourself, you were cold-hearted (figuratively of course). You were the type to roll your eyes when one of the other members showed some semblance of their previous emotions. You never showed fear or concern, no matter the circumstances. You slashed through enemies like you were cutting cake. When Larxene never returned from Castle Oblivion, you simply shrugged and went on with your day. If anyone found out that you were dancing around a ballroom like some lovestruck girl, you’d never live it down.

“How much of that did you see?” You asked in a quiet voice. God, I’m an idiot. Why did I do that?

“You weren’t at your post,” Xaldin said, ignoring your question. “I thought something had happened.”

“No, everything’s fine. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about... this.” You gestured to your surroundings vaguely. Xaldin simply stared at you, again giving you no response. You clapped your hands together. “Right, then. I’ll be going then.” You turned away, trying to keep your usual pace as you walked away, though you wanted to escape as quickly as possible.

“I didn’t know you liked to dance.” His voice was low and gruff, and if it weren’t for the echo you probably wouldn’t have heard it. But as it was, you paused.

“I don’t,” you said immediately. “I was just messing around.” Your tone was harsher than it needed to be, and you knew it, so you slipped into your typical persona as you turned around. With a smirk, you said, “I mean, what’s a girl to do in a big ole place like this? I’m bored. You might be having fun whispering sweet nothings into the Beast’s ear, but if you haven’t noticed, the only thing I have to talk to around here is the flatware. And I’m not too keen on the fact that they can talk back.”

Xaldin didn’t answer.

Maybe it was your embarrassment and frustration from getting caught, but this time it pushed you over the edge. “Why don’t you ever talk? I’ve tried to talk to you so many times on this mission and you’ve hardly said two words. I think tonight’s the first time you’ve spoken a full sentence. And, what, it was just to reprimand me for not being at my post? And then mock me for something I thought I was doing in private?”

“I wasn’t mocking you.”

“Then what were you doing? Because considering how embarrassed I was that you saw me, it sure seemed like you were.” You crossed your arms and glared at him. After a moment’s silence, you rolled your eyes. “And you’re not going to answer. Typical. I’m going to my post now. I can’t wait till this hell of a mission is over.” Not wanting to spent a second longer in the room, you opened a dark corridor and stepped through.

As you returned to your post, you took several deep breaths to try to calm down. You were acting ridiculous and you didn’t understand why. You always kept your cool. Even as you were yelling you didn’t know why you were doing it. Why did it matter if Xaldin wouldn’t talk to you? Why did it matter if he did mock you? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

You couldn’t continue to dwell on it though, as you heard a large crash on the other side of the door leading to the courtyard. You drew your weapon and headed outside.

The circle of gargoyles that you’d admired earlier had apparently come to life — but unlike the forks and dishes, these didn’t look too friendly. “Heartless,” you muttered. You dashed toward the nearest one, bringing your weapon down on its head. A small crack appeared, but it didn’t seem to slow it down. The heartless raised its ax and you dove out of the way just in time.

You needed to assess the situation but you didn’t have time. You’d never encountered heartless like these before; you didn’t know the best way to take them out.

Not knowing what else to do, you leapt at the heartless again, slicing and chopping at them. You leapt and ducked, avoiding the most fatal swings as they surrounded you. You managed to bury your weapon in one’s chest, and it disappeared. Before you could turn to the next one, though, a harsh blow to the back sent you flying to the ground. You groaned and rolled over, managing to kick the attacker away long enough to get to your feet. You had yet to regain your balance when another heartless lunged at you, and you stumbled backwards.

“Shit,” you hissed as you realized you’d been backed into a corner. You summoned a streak of lightning, taking out a couple more, but you were still surrounded.

Then, they were gone. Just like that.

Wide-eyed and panting, you looked up to find Xaldin where the heartless had just been.

Wordlessly, he held out a potion. You took it and gulped it down, wincing at the bitter taste. Within seconds, the aches and pains that had been plaguing your body were gone.

“I could’ve handled it,” you said. You handed the empty bottle back to his awaiting hand and brushed past him, heading back toward the castle’s entrance.

“I’m aware.”

“Then why jump in?” You asked. “I’m not a princess, okay. I’m not some damsel in distress that needs saving.” You found that looking at him was just fueling your anger again, so you turned away, instead looking up at the stars shining overhead. You heard him move behind you but kept your head tilted upward.

His next words surprised you. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. This time you did look at him. He’d moved closer and was standing beside you, his gaze also lifted to the sky. “What?” You were confused.

“It seems I keep offending you, no matter what I do.”

“I’m not—“ you began to argue but drifted off. He was right. You sighed. “It’s not your fault. I’m not myself tonight. So I’m... the one who’s sorry.” The words felt strange on your tongue. When was the last time you’d apologized for something?

A silence fell over you again and you felt the need to fill it. Before you could think too much about it, you began talking about what happened in the ballroom. “I was embarrassed. I don’t do things like that. I don’t have time for silly fantasies. But standing in there reminded me of a when I was a kid. I wanted to be a princess. Complete with the dress and the prince and the happily ever after. It’s so stupid saying it out loud. And then to have you see me acting that way... I panicked.” You couldn’t believe you were saying these things aloud. To Xaldin of all people. Or maybe that’s why you were saying them. Xaldin was quiet. He minded his own business. You never knew what was going on in his head, what kind of secrets he held. Maybe if he kept all his locked away, he wouldn’t share yours either.

Standing there with him, the night sounds surrounding you, you felt... comforted. Your anger had washed away, replaced with a peacefulness you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I wasn’t mocking you,” Xaldin said. “About the dancing. I was trying to start a conversation.”

“You were?”

He nodded. “What you said about me not talking... I realized it, too. And when I saw you weren’t at your post, I wasn’t angry. I was worried that something had happened to you. Once I knew that you were safe, that you were still here, I wanted to try.”

You weren’t expecting that confession. He was worried about you? Why? “You wanted to try what?” You asked.

“Getting to know you,” Xaldin replied. “You see, Y/n, I’ve always been intrigued by you.”

A shiver went through you as he said your name. You didn’t think he’d ever said it before. But you liked it.

What was happening tonight? To hide these strange feelings, you laughed. “What’s so intriguing about me?”

You made eye contact. “Everything.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t know what to say. All the ghosts of your emotions came fluttering back, and it had been so long that you’d forgotten what to do with them.

“Y/n, would you like to dance with me?” Xaldin held his gloved hand out, never releasing your gaze.

Your stomach twisted. Every instinct told you to laugh it off, to smack his hand away, to accuse him of mocking you. But something deep in your chest was only pulling you closer.

You took his hand.

He led you to the middle of the courtyard, the full moon illuminating you. He placed his other hand on your hip, and took a step forward. You followed his lead and the two of you began moving. It was awkward at first as you learned each other’s movement, but you soon got the hang of it, and the two of you glided across the cobblestones as if your feet weren’t even touching the ground. And then your feet really weren’t touching the ground, as Xaldin used his wind powers to lift you slightly into the air. You began to laugh as you drifted higher and higher, looking down at the world below you in amazement.

When you looked back up, you found Xaldin gazing intently at you. His eyes flickered to your lips and then back up. And then, silently as ever, his lips were on yours.

You were no princess. And he was certainly no prince. But maybe your dream had come true anyway.

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts 2 #kingdom hearts 3 #organization xiii #xaldin #xaldin x reader #reader insert #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kingdom hearts imagines #kingdom hearts headcanon #fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #imagines #headcanon #headcanons #kh #xaldin/dilan

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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

Text

The Last All-Clear (4)

Notes from Mod Bonnie

This story is a series of vignettes following the premise: “Imagine if Jamie travelled through the stones, but instead of finding Claire in Boston he found himself having arrived years too early, when the War was still happening and Claire had yet to meet him… What would he do?”

Formatting note: Bolding in Jamie’s letters = underlining

Previously:

(Part 1) September 17, 1942: A Rusty Nail

(Part 2) December 3, 1942: Comb and Glove

(Part 3) 1943: Blood and Whisky

1943-1944: Gifts and Ends

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

1 September

Another long night in surgery by the end of which I wanted nothing more than to scream.

But, as always, Danton was there waiting for me at the shed with whisky and an open ear. I don’t know how he always knows when I’m in most need of company, but it means the world to know I’ve got a friend, not just friendly people with whom I work, but a friend. He’s always there to listen, drink with me, say a word of encouragement, and get me laughing by the time I leave to go to sleep. Still a tough nut to crack, all things considered, but I’ve rarely encountered someone so intuitive and incisive. He’s quiet, but when he speaks, it’s with such intention.

Add another tidbit to the Danton file: his mother’s name was Hélène and she had red hair. It makes him sad to talk about her, but he loved her very much.

9 3 2

Will ye have you noticed, reading this, years hence, that I’m a different person these last several months than in the ones before? That I go days—weeks, even— without writing single word? That when I do, it’s brief pleasantries: what I ate, the tasks I undertook?

It isna because my days are less full than before; quite the contrary. Only, if I dinna force myself to recount the way I’ve let myself act around you, the way I order my day so that I can see you, the way I encourage your attentions, chaste and merely friendly as they are....If I allow myself to simply go to sleep with the sound of your voice still fresh in my ear, I’m better able to live with myself for it. ‘Tis infinitely easier to let myself live my days in an unexamined happiness, however fleeting, however much I feel the shame of it in my bones, deep down. Writing of it, having to face it, makes my weaknesses so abundantly and painfully clear. Denial, I have found, is its own sweet comfort.

Will you understand this, Sassenach? Will you understand the depth of loneliness that can drive a person to be so pitifully less than he ought?

Still, with every day that passes, each day torn between restraint and joy in your companionship, I find the voice of better judgement murmuring more and more determinedly in the back of my mind, the same questions that have been there from the beginning of this nightmare: What is it that I actually accomplish on your behalf? Is it only my pride that keeps me here? Would it be better for you, be less risky, if I were to simply leave, go to Scotland and bide my time until you should return? Am I doing you any good at all by staying?

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

25 December

A working Christmas, but a merry one. Wrote a long letter to Frank with all my love.

Danton seemed absolutely shocked when I handed him his gift, and he tried to scold me for it, but everyone can use a new scarf, I insisted! It brings out the blue in his eyes. He grumbled about it even then, but honestly I think he was just embarrassed he didn’t have anything for me in return. Told him it was the least I could do to pay him back for drinking all of his good whisky, month after month. Then I told him the truth: that his friendship has been a tremendously dear gift to me this year. I swear to God, the man actually blushed.

9 9 1

A new year, today, mo nighean donn. Ye pushed a paper cup of champagne into my hand at the gathering in the mess hall and kissed my cheek before running off to dance with your friends. It was a lively song first, but followed by that bittersweet one that brings tears to my eyes every time, even if I canna discern the tune:

....how happy, my darling, we’ll be,

when they turn up the lights,

and the dark, lonely nights

are only a memory.

You sat off to the side, during that one, looking as lonely and sorrowful as I myself must have appeared.

Nineteen hundred and forty-four. Another year closer to when I can take your face in both my hands and kiss you without end, at the stroke of midnight or no.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

13 January

Saw Danton wearing his blue muffler again. Teased him about it and he immediately grinned and pulled a little cloth-wrapped bundle out of his pocket. The bastard intentionally baited me!

My Christmas gift turned out to be a little carved-wood oval, polished and sleek as a pebble, with an intricate interlace pattern that, at the center, knits inward to form a dragonfly. It’s small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, and I honestly can’t stop staring at it. The time it must have taken him, and the precision needed for working on so tiny a canvas! He demurred, of course, when I raved about the craftsmanship, but I know he was pleased I liked it.

1 0 0 9

You stitched up a wee French laddie today, no more than four years of age. He was hurt in the course of fleeing with his family, and it was clear that he was terrified of soldiers and of being in camp. Ye spoke to him softly in his own language as ye worked, though, soothing and comforting him as though he were your own. Ye sang to him, too. Being so sadly precluded from music myself, these last years, it didna occur to me before that ye might have such a lovely voice.

I’ve passed these last few hours in such beautiful peace, mo ghraidh: imagining the day when ye might take my head in your lap and sing to me as you stroke my hair; a day when a song drifts through our rooms, our home, and I peek through a doorway to see you cradling our child, singing them to sleep.

1 0 1 3

You didna tell me he was coming to camp.

Should it reassure me, an indication that I’m insignificant enough that it didna even cross your mind to mention it? Or is it the worst of signs: that ye didna want to speak of your husband, of all people, to me?

There he stood, there at the quiet edge of camp by the pond, behind the barracks. Franklin Wolverton Randall, patiently waiting for his wife to go on leave. He truly does look like the bastard. I nearly reached for my knife when I saw him standing there, unannounced, unexpected. Then to see you, out of uniform, hair long and loose as ye ran for him, flew into his arms with that same abandon as you used to enter mine? See him kiss you, touch you like that—

I watched for far too long, mo chridhe. I confess as much to you, here. It was wrong of me, but I simply couldna look away. Even after the two of ye had left, hand-in-hand, your face alight and beaming....I sat under that tree for hours—trying not to think of where and how and for how long he was bedding you, tasting you. Would ye be making those same small sounds for him, reaching for him with that wild, lovely abandon? Would ye be crying out his name, moaning for him as

Forgive me.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

24 January

Lord, it’s positively wretched trying to undertake an intimate visit in a mobile camp with no friendly town or inn nearby. A spare tent and two mattresses pushed together on the ground hardly can qualify as a love nest. Still, throw enough cozy blankets on top and a cozy husband within for good measure, and not a bad way to spend a day or two off.

It’s been over a year since we last saw each other. Always a little strange trying to get back into things, but it’s so good to have him here, to have even a short time to reconnect. It’s easy to get caught up in work, day after day and month after month; easy to forget, amidst it all, that I’ve a marriage to maintain.

Danton’s taken ill, apparently; asked for today and tomorrow off. Hoping he’s alright.

1 0 1 5

I wanted him to be cruel. I wanted him to be the worst kind of scum.

But when I was so startled seeing his face again unexpectedly today that I dropped a hammer on my foot, he came over at once to see if he could help. He was kind and considerate, and had a warmth to his eyes, even toward a complete stranger such as me. He has nothing of the cruelty of his putative ancestor, not to me, and more importantly, not toward you. I could see the tenderness he has for ye, the evident care and the love as the two of ye made your farewells.

It only serves as yet another proof. You’re safe while you’re in camp. You’re safe when you’re with Frank. You dinna need me watching over you. You never did. The only one that needed it was me.

Today, Claire. It ends today. I promise you this.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

9 February

Danton is angry with me, I think. Every time I try to approach him to talk or just say hello, he’s turning tail and making for the other side of camp. He’s never in the wards anymore, nor do I see him taking his meals at the usual times. I made excuses for him for the first several days, but it’s clear, now, that he’s actively avoiding me.

It shouldn’t bother me as much as it has, but damn it all, I miss him; that calm support he’s been to me this year.

Jesus, looking at that on the page, I want to scratch it out. I have no right to be so entitled or territorial or whatever you wish to call it. The man’s never even told me his first name, for god’s sake, and he hardly knows a thing about me, either. Still, there’s a hollow feeling in my chest every time I feel that dragonfly carving in my pocket. I miss him, and I don’t know what I did.

How bloody dare he.

1 0 6 5

I ache for you, mo nighean donn.

April 1, 1944

I rounded the corner so quickly, neither of us had time to avoid the other. We both just stood there in the narrow passage between tents, teetering mid-step. I smiled and opened my mouth to speak. He nodded once, put his head down, and walked around me.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I snapped, turning to follow him with my glare, “honestly? Danton, I’m not going to bite you.”

He stopped, but did not turn. “I know, madame.” Quiet. lifeless.

“Will you at least tell me what it is I’ve done to offend you so grievously?”

I didn’t think it was possible, but his shoulders tensed further. “You ‘ave done nothing, madame.”

“Well, something clearly changed.” All my pent-up bewilderment was barreling out of me in a fury. “You’ve avoided me completely for weeks. You won’t even look at me any more, like the past year was just— erased overnight! I mean, Jesus H. Christ, we used to be friends, didn’t we?”

A momentary flash of blue over his shoulder before the hair and the hat obscured him. “In truth, we do not know one another, madame. We ‘ave been friendly acquaintances.”

“Ac...Acquaintances.” My blood boiled and hot tears prickled in my eyes. “That’s it? That’s.... bloody it?” My voice came out shrill and small.

His was like a dead man’s. “What more did you think it was, madame?”

I couldn’t even speak for a few moments, so great was the shock and hurt.

He made to walk away, but then I found my voice, low, teeth gritted. “Perhaps I don’t know you in the sense of having all the details of your life’s story. Why? Because you deign to divulge such things only once in a blue moon and I’ve respected that.” I rallied, trying to maintain control of the lump in my throat and my rage. “But you meant a hell of a lot more to me than I apparently meant to you.”

He was still for moment longer, then he turned and faced me squarely, looking me in the eye with a hostility I had never before seen there. “I am no longer interested in being your charity case, madame. And it is time you learned to carry on without needing a man to constantly congratulate you.”

He may as well have sliced me open.

“Fuck you, too, then.”

I threw the dragonfly on the ground and walked away without a glance backward.

1 0 8 2

It was the only way I knew to complete the break.

I am so very sorry, mo nighean donn.

I shall be leaving as soon as I have enough wages to get home. I waited all my life for you. I can wait four years more alone.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

4 May

So many battles. So many wounded. German incursions and raids have locked down the camp until further notice.

God, just let this vile war end.

1 1 3 4

You willna even speak to me, now. I hardly can blame you for it, as that was the intended result. Still, now it’s me keeping my eyes wide and searching for you at every turning, for you’ve been avoiding the usual sick bays, the places we used to encounter one another.

You’ve taken to teaching classes to the soldiers. It’s a credit to you, Claire. I’ve stood outside the tents and listened to you give your lessons on several occasions. You truly are grand at it, this world of healing and instructing. You have so much in you, Sassenach, so much to give.

I dinna wish to leave you.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

7 June

God be praised, the Americans stormed the Normandy beaches yesterday. Let this be the breakthrough that changes things, at last.

1 1 5 6

Tomorrow. I’ve been given leave to depart tomorrow.

I’ve thought long and hard about it, Claire. Even if you dinna wish to see me, even if it is only a word and a moment, I shall say farewell face-to-face.

The sack felt leaden on his shoulders, though he had hardly any possessions to his name. His old sporran. A change of clothing. His book of letters to Claire.

This is not the end, he reminded himself over and over. This is naught but the end of a chapter that should not have been opened to begin with. This is not the end.

The walk across camp felt an eternity, made still worse by the fact that she wasn’t even in the barracks, where she would normally be found at 7:00 of an evening. She wasn’t in the instructional tent. He went to the mess-hall—not there either.

“Jesus, Claire,” he muttered under his breath after a full quarter hour of searching, “where in God’s name have ye gone?

At last, he spotted a familiar face and he all but ran to catch up with her, panting a little as he said, “Excuse me, Miss Nancy?”

Nancy jumped as though he had grabbed her, and it took all his control not to roll his eyes at the flighty wee thing. She never had gotten over that initial fear and loathing for his manner and look. More’s the pity that it hadn’t worked half so well on Claire.

He recovered and gave a cordial bow. “I am most sorry to ‘ave startled you. Would you tell me, please, where I might find Nurse Randall?”

“Whew, um,” Nancy put a dramatic hand on her heaving heart as she blinked and thought. “Oh! Yes, well, she’s not here, of course.”

“Not here?” In his shock, he nearly forgot to put on the French accent. “Where ‘as she gone?”

“She was part of the escort that set out to take those American chaps back.”

“...Ameri—” Then the world was shifting, tumbling, fragments of memory from another war suddenly sparking into horrific clarity.

“Surely you heard about it? The two Airborne lads that came to us because they got separated from their men after Normandy? They’ve been here for the last week, I can’t believe you haven’t—”

But Jamie wasn’t listening. He was running.

Of all the things Claire had told him, how could he have failed to recollect THIS? For today was the day Claire nearly got herself killed by German fire.....the day when Claire could get herself killed by German fire.

#;mod bonnie #The Last All-Clear

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044-eu · 4 years

Text

Trip to Jaipur the capital of Rajasthan, the land of the Maharajas

This was a stop on my trip to India, a very important stage both for what I saw, and for what I experienced in those few days. I would say that it was 1997, so today it will most likely be easier to move between two cities, in that period to do 200 kilometers it took several hours. The streets were poorly cared for, narrow and full of animals as ever, especially camels that were most likely used for freight transport from one country to another. So we left rather early in the morning, from New Delhi with a basket containing lunch of the day because we didn't count on arriving in Jaipur until the afternoon. The street usually offers many things to see. Small villages that seem lost in time, people working in the fields, some big factory in the distance but this was the only note of modernity we saw. Cars were very few, many bicycles, and many carts. And a lot of animals. Towards the middle of the day, we had only done half the way, stopped in a meadow near the road to eat what we had brought and then left. We stopped a short time later because we punctured a wheel. So we changed it and went in search of a place to accommodate that punctured, also seeing that, for the bad conditions of the road it was very easy to drill again. At one point we see a sign with an arrow that also pointed to a rubber is a rubber is, so we entered a kind of huge courtyard, with a wooden shack at the bottom and other smaller shacks around. Pigs were circling around, and they came right near us. They had no fear of humans. Our guest explained that this was also a hotel. In fact we saw at the bottom of the shack bigger than in front, apart from a long counter, it was completely open, a row of heamaches. The dirt reigned supreme in that place and there were people who came in and drank beer at the counter and looked at us curiously. It took about an hour to get the tyre repaired and in that time I always had a bit of a fear for that desolate place. Luckily they ignored us and we were able to leave safely. A couple of hours before sunset we arrived near Jaipur but since there was still enough light we decided to make a stop before going into town. We went to see Amber's fortress. We did not see the interior of the fortress because it was already closed, we still saw the large square, full of stalls where they sold spices and all kinds of fruit both fresh and dried. There are some wonderful gardens in Amber, located on an island in a lake that I think is artificial. Seen from the top of the fortress are something wonderful. Another feature that impressed me were the monkeys. Many on all sides, which were circling over the walls, between the streets and also in the market. There were also other gardens nearby where we took refuge to escape the heat, and walking barefoot on the fresh grass felt immediately better. There were many people in those gardens, I think tourists although most were Indian. At one point they stopped a group of guys who saw my son's sunglasses and asked if they could try them. One of the boys had a camera and took turns inforking his glasses, the very common Ray-Ban, they photographed each other. They were very happy to have that experience, but it seemed strange to us. They may have seen some publicity that had affected them, but they wouldn't have the opportunity to have them. As soon as we arrived in the city, even this noisy and chaotic as the capital, overflowing with humanity and animals, where the continuous sounds of horns filled the air, we had a nice surprise; the hotel that our guest had booked us. It was just on the outskirts of the city, but what immediately struck us was the silence once we entered the lobby after a very long drive through a gigantic garden. The hotel was wonderful. It was built as the residence of the Maharajas of Jaipur and perfectly retains its elaborate splendor, with beautiful hand-carved decorations in marble and sandstone domes and balustrades. And inside is the best restaurant in the city, located in the French-style ballroom with huge crystal chandeliers. Its gardens are wonderful with peacocks that roam freely and other birds. We were enchanted by everything we saw. From our room, which was immense and gave on a portico with armchairs and wicker tables from which we descended directly into the garden, to the room where we made breakfast, to the two very different bars, to the pool. I mean, everything was perfect. The next evening we dined in that wonderful dining room, where thanks also to an Italian chef we ate really great Italian food. And the evening after dinner stroll in front of the hotel lobby or sit on one of the many cushion-covered sofas placed outside enjoying the coolness of the evening, in the light of torches and candles. In the city of Jaipur we only made tourists going to see everything that was indicated in the tour guides, then the palace of the winds that had been built for the women of Maharaja, who could not leave the palace and who looked at the streets adjacent with the tiny windows that adorned the 5-story facade and inside a whole series of stairs and small niches from which you could see outside comfortably seated. We saw the Royal Palace with a guide who was learning Italian and then struggled to explain everything to us in our language, and shopped in the crowded bazaars. But to return to the evening after the hot, chaotic and deafening day in that oase of peace was priceless. We stayed another day in Jaipur, then left to return to New Delhi but made a detour on the street to go and see the tiger park. Before the park we stopped at a large lake where we could take a boat ride and where I who stayed ashore I fed peanuts to monkeys that were in the surroundings, staying to observe the larger monkeys that removed the peanuts to the pi I was trying to send them away so I could feed those puppies without success. I also had a close encounter with a monkey, always the day we got back we stopped in a small town, to visit the old part that had remained like a century ago and after making some purchases to a kind of bazaar getting back in the car , a monkey grabs the plastic bag I had in my hand and at my refusal to leave it almost slaps me, always trying to rip off my bag. She would have won it if someone hadn't come and kicked her out. But on second thought after my argument with a monkey was a lot of fun, even though it scared me a little bit. Monkeys in India are really from everything. Our guest, who also lives in the capital, tells us that they had to lock both the refrigerator and the pantry, because if they manage to get into the house they can open both and then they take away all the eatable. But they are endured by the people who also feed them and indeed there is also a temple dedicated to monkeys located in Alta, near Jaipur and here the monkeys are considered sacred and are fed and pampered by tourists who buy peanuts especially for them c they are sold at the entrance to the temple. The tour we did inside the tiger park unfortunately was not very successful. We haven't seen one of tigers, but it's normal to think that at that time of year it's very hot and they prefer to lie in the shade in the cool. However, we have seen many other types of animals, which have partly paid off for us. These are areas that do not see tourism anyway and where it is interesting to see small towns, rural life, wells, small shops and life as it takes place away from the big cities. I was left with a memory. We stopped for lunch in one of these small towns and at some sort of inn we asked for food. However, we realized that we had almost no more Indian currency but only dollars, so we asked to be able to pay with these. But they did not accept, so to eat we rummaged through every pocket, every wallet to be able to find some rupee and in the end with what we managed to scrape us 4 or 5 omelettes that we divided among ourselves that we were in 9. On the day of the return to New Delhi we made quite late and so in the dark we were not yet in sight of the city. The traffic gradually went down until it was completely over and every 4 or 5 kilometers we found a patrol of soldiers who always told us the same thing, to get back into the city soon. Our guest explained to us that at night no one travels because it is dangerous. There's a lot of crime especially outside the inner circle. However we were able to return safely and since it was late and at lunch we had eaten only a piece of omelette, our host invited us to eat at a restaurant, one of the best in the city, which made international cuisine. The place was almost all full, but not of families, generally they were couples or groups of men. Very few women. What amazed me was when we went out and headed to where we had parked the car. The road was completely deserted. That street where up to two or three hours before there were huge rickshaws, bicycles, camels and elephants along with a flood of noisy people and continuous sounds of horns. there was just nothing. In fact, in the evening the Indians stay at home, they rarely go out to a restaurant or a movie theater. By the way I have not seen a cinema and very few restaurants and bars. In the evening sit back home after dinner, we might take a walk in the park in front of the house to cool off or play cards after putting the kids to bed. And after a while if I woke up at night I could hear a strange sound almost a verse of a bird. I asked what it was and our guest told us that it is the guardians of the neighborhood who at night go around all areas and exchange that signal to indicate that everything is fine. The neighborhood where we lived was surrounded by a very high wall and the gates that were two were closed in the evening and at night armed guards were turning for the tranquility of the inhabitants. In the neighborhood there was also an emergency room, various shops, hairdressers and a bazaar, but what seemed strange was the pharmacy. Think of a small garage with a metal door. Inside a counter and many small shelves. If you need medication, the doctor marks the amount on the prescription and the pharmacist takes the package and gives you the exact number of pills, putting away what advances. On my trip,I was lucky enough to be in New Delhi on a Friday 17th. Here it is a date that brings bad, in India and the day indicated for weddings. And that night in the city we celebrated a lot of them. We then went out to see the processions of the groom, who pass through the streets and accompany the groom to the chosen place for the ceremony, where the bride is waiting. These processions are very picturesque, they have lights and songs and to get them they carry with them huge batteries. The groom is lavishly dressed and everyone sings and dances walking. We have seen several of these processions, more or less long, more or less rich and following one of these we have arrived at a place where pavilions are mounted that at night resemble castles and temples real with spires and towers that are all fake and where the day after, there is no trace of it. We approached one of these that seemed the most beautiful and next to the entrance we saw an elderly person welcoming guests. We were there to see the procession of the groom, who by the way arrived on horseback. When the Indian gentleman saw us he came towards us and asked if we were tourists. We told him we were Italian and this invited us in. Inside there were tables set up, fountains of all colors and lots of people. At the bottom, covered with golden curtains there were armchairs for the newlyweds where the ceremony would be held. They offered us a drink and a food and when it came time for the ceremony the elderly gentleman took us and took us under the tent and made us sit in the front row. They then told me that for Indians to have foreign guests at the wedding brings good luck. So we were the guests of honor of that wedding that left us speechless in terms of pageantry, both of the clothes of the newlyweds and of the jewels of the bride and the women of the family. And the setting and refreshments were also opulent. The wedding was simple and very beautiful. The exchange of a wreath of flowers, and at the end rose petals that came down from the sky. We passed the next day where the night before there were many pavilions and there was nothing left, not even the garbage, it was a barren, dry area, without a tree, really ugly, but that for one evening turned into many castles from a thousand and one night. One day I'd like to go back to India. Read the full article

#English #holiday #india #jaipur #maharaja #rajasthan #travelers #travels

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cursewoodrecap · 4 years

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Session 2: Academics and Debates

Due to DnD being scheduling hell, Clem the fighter is Definitely Standing Just Offscreen this session. Meanwhile, the DM introduces two mechanics he has been dying to try out: Corruption, and the Deck.

There will be a full post about Corruption later (when DM tells us how the rest of it works, lol) but the point is this: the longer you stay in the cursed forest, the deeper you go, the more you experience there - the more cursed you become. It corrupts you. You can earn corruptions in various ways - cosmetic (looking more monstrous and less humanoid); psychological (e.g. feeling a compulsion for bloodlust or gaining a terrible phobia); or others I have forgotten about right now, at 9:50pm, while eating lasagna.

Certain things that happen when in the woods give you points toward a score called Taint. (Heh heh heh.) We, uh, lost our Taint virginity this session. (No, DM, we will not stop. You brought this upon yourself.)

The Deck is a deck of cards used to determine encounters. Again, full post later, but it has such cards as “The Hunt,” “The Crown,” “The Wanderer,” etc. Each one can symbolize multiple things. For example, “The Crown” represents authority and government, so it could mean help from Duke Shieldeater’s forces - or it could mean a dangerous clash with enemy soldiers.

ANYWAY, STUFF HAPPENED:

We woke in the Temple of Rack in the village of Ovruch, early in the grey dawn hours. There was brief scramblin’ around as the players did math to figure out how much starting wealth we all had and how much spare change those bandits had left lying around for us. Valeria spent some of the money overnight to make some Holy Water.

We scooted on out of the town without really saying much to anyone - the few people awake and the guards on patrol were definitely giving us Looks, but we didn’t really stop to chat.

Shoshana leads the way towards the ravine she had directed Sir Balderich to. Even in the 8 months since she’s been out in this direction, the woods have gotten darker and more foreboding, alarmingly tangled and twisted. A decent Survival check does right by us, and DM directs Shoshana, as the one rolling it, to draw a card from the Deck. She draws The Crown.

The Crown: Authority, government. A bit of good luck (and perhaps DM guilt?) leads us to a fortuitous find: an abandoned cart bearing the seal of the Royal House of Valdia, smashed and overgrown. There’s a strongbox off to the side, nestled in a hard-to-see place, miraculously untouched by bandits. Gral examines it, wondering if he might be able to coax open the lock...when the pommel of a shining sword just slams down and smashes the lock mechanism to smithereens. Thanks for the crit, Valeria.

We find: 100gp, 4 jewelry items of 25gp value each (1 mirror, 1 bracelet, and 2 rings), a silver dagger (given to Gral), and a bladeless sword hilt carved in runes. Gral and Shoshana determine that the sword hilt is not evil and probably magic, but hell if we know what it does.

We travel onward, and Valeria draws the next card: The Wanderer. The DM cannot suppress his glee, because he has an NPC he really really likes and it’s time to use him!

We hear shouting in a strange language - Draco-Aquilian, which only Valeria knows. Also generally crashing mayhem noises. We hustle on closer, and Valeria understands that the person is shouting “OH GOD! LIGHTNING DOESN’T WORK! LIGHTNING DOESN’T WOOOORK!”

There is a cart, drawn by two lizardlike beasts of burden. There is a Shambling Mound trying to engulf the cart and its inhabitants. Two Goliaths, a male and a female, are all tangled up in the thing, and there is a skinny, fancily-dressed blue Dragonborn generally panicking atop the cart. Being PCs, we attempt to kick butt. It eats Valeria (a helpful Goliath pulls her out), Shoshana sprays it with weedkiller, and we all go “???!?! WE ARE LEVEL 2″ but we don’t die. Valeria uses a Smite of some sort that looks like glowing vines snake through its plant form and burst into roses!!! It’s very Sailor Moon. Valeria gains 3 Taint for dropping to 0 HP while in a Cursed area.

The fancy Dragonborn hops down from the damaged cart and addresses Valeria in Draco-Aquilian, which nobody else speaks. “Greetings! I certainly must say, I did not expect to be rescued by a Knight of the Rose! I am Lucinius Galvan, Professor of Archaeology of the University of Aurentium!” He and Valeria chat a moment - “Argent? Oh I’m sure I’ve heard that name-” “Daughter of Renata and Bastion of the Silver Steppes.” “Oh, of course! The princess who became a knight! I’m merely an Earl myself-”

a) Yes, I wrote down your lore, feel free to correct my spelling; b) They’re speaking Fancy Dragon Words so the other characters don’t know any of this.

We also meet his Goliath bodyguards, Bjorn and Ingborg, who speak...not that much Valdian. They are Vangarians - part of a highly professional force of mercenaries rented out by the Draco-Aquilian Emperor. Extremely practical in the face of nonsense. Lucinius, meanwhile, requests them to bring out Tea! and Fancy Teacups! and Breakfast! and little stools to sit on! Bjorn complies, long-sufferingly. Shoshana is Awkward Turtle about fancy rich people things, and Gral is pretty suspicious but definitely has some jam and toast.

“I say! Are you local to this area, madam?” he inquires. Turns out he’s searching for some Aquilian ruins in the area, and Shoshana is able to give him decent directions to the spot she used to play in as a child. He describes his research - there’s a presentation, with visual aids. Bjorn tries to save us from having to sit through it, but academia cannot be stopped. Why did the Aquilian Empire never conquer the Greatwood? We must DO ARCHAEOLOGY about it!!!

Also, he identifies the mysterious sword hilt as, functionally, a scroll of Flame Blade. Neat! Due to a conversational mix up between etymology and entomology, he gives us a magic beetle that acts as a floating lamp. We love our Rune Beetle. (He pulls it out of “one of his many pockets,” and is immediately declared to be wearing the world’s fanciest Tacky Fisherman Vest.)

He’s ready to cheerfully forge on into the forest! Gral and Shoshana quietly pull Bjorn aside and warn him that the Cursewood is, like, super cursed? Did you guys not notice??? Bjorn and Ingborg thank us for the information, and continue on their way, almost certainly figuring out how to put a child leash on the adorable fancylizard.

Gral draws the third and final card of the night: The Outlaw. We come across a small camp: the bandits who attacked Ovruch the night before. Gral overhears them - their leader, the largest and most imposing, is threatening the others into compliance. They are uneasy - the wolves ran away last night after the werewolf was killed; can they trust the freaks in the ravine not to betray them? Doesn’t matter! The freaks in the ravine will eat them if they don’t cooperate, and they’ll get better loot by working with ‘em.

Shoshana is like “welp,” and rolls up her sleeves, but Valeria very nobly goes “NO, there must be Another Way.”

“Uh, you do realize those are the guys who KILLED INNOCENT PEOPLE yesterday, right?”

“And we just heard they’re being coerced! We don’t have to just kill them.”

Valeria strides into the bandit camp in a Nonthreatening Pose, weapons down. The bandits all jump to alertness, because Large Dragonperson In Armor, Oh No. She begins to offer them another option - we don’t know if she’s thought of one yet, but dang does she roll well on her Persuasion check to get them to listen. The bandits are going “...hmm, IS there another way?” but their leader, the madness of the Curse in his eyes, orders them to attack.

We kick their butts; Valeria deliberately nonlethals the bandit leader into unconsciousness. Gral offers the other bandits a harsh but fair option out: “Travel south, to where Duke Shieldeater’s forces are clear-cutting forest in order to hold back the Curse. Volunteer yourself for manual labor there. You will be treated fairly, if you work. In your spare time you will learn Orcish, for we have need of translators.”

The bandits, who have all gained Brooklyn accents, say, “Okay, deal, but...your friend there ain’t gonna kill us as we leave, is she?”

Because as they spoke, Shoshana had definitively Chill Touched their leader to death.

She agrees she’s not going to kill the bandits, but they better get the fuck out of here.

We also grill the bandits for information on The Hunt, which is what the “freaks in the ravine” call themselves. We learn that they sleep with wolves around them, and those that disagree with them are hunted for sport. There are traps set up around the perimeter of their territory - that’s how they captured the knight, who they are now keeping in some kind of cage. The bandits are unsure of the identity of the main leader - there was Lupo, the werewolf we killed last night, but they mostly listen to this Weird Guy In A Hood. Also, there is a huntress-woman, an archer girl. Shoshana freezes, and carefully asks who the huntress is, and what she looks like. They say she’s spooky; the shadows cling to her.

The knight is caged in the ravine, the part where it gets supernaturally dark. Most of the camp is outside The Darkness, but there’s a cave down there where the Huntress and the Weird Hooded Guy and Lupo lived. They bring the bandit leaders down there sometimes, to show them who’s in charge.

Also there’s this war-boar running around, with a dead Demish knight still strapped to its back?

We let the bandits (whose accents have swapped to Southern) escape, and then Valeria and Shoshana have what some folks call a “spirited ethical debate,” which in layman’s terms means they are PISSED at each other.

Valeria is shocked and appalled that Shoshana would kill an unconscious man. Especially when the bandits were surrendering and cooperating! Monstrous and brutal behavior. How could you?

Shoshana angrily stands by her decision. “How many people did those men kill last night?” she asks. “People I grew up with. And you think letting these bandits go free is worth letting them do that to innocent people again? Their leader was already Curse-mad. Too far gone.” (To be fair, she is too pissed off in the moment, and her player too awkward, to articulate her position this eloquently.)

Valeria erases 3 Taint for doing something so noble and heroic against the will of the Curse. Shoshana gains 3 Taint for acting in a way encouraged by the Curse.

With nothing to do but simmer at each other, and Gral diplomatically not choosing a side out loud, there is nothing to do but move on.

DM agrees that we could take a long rest now and reach the ravine by 4 or 5 pm. We jump at the chance to get our spell slots back, but each take 3 Taint for spending so long out here in the cursed lands.

All characters are now level 3.

#session recap #shoshana bat chaya #gral omokk'duu #valeria argent #ovruch #the ravine #the hunt

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salt-is-a-terrible-currency · 7 years

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Keeping promises 6

Link to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivartheboneme/works

Chapter 1: https://ivartheboneme.tumblr.com/post/156118762399/keeping-promises

Chapter 2: https://ivartheboneme.tumblr.com/post/156225089779/keeping-promises-chapter-2

Chapter 3: https://ivartheboneme.tumblr.com/post/156323954704/keeping-promises-3

Chapter 4: https://ivartheboneme.tumblr.com/post/156418605064/keeping-promises-4

Chapter 5: https://ivartheboneme.tumblr.com/post/156508797474/keeping-promises-5

Warnings: rape mention, abuse mention. Torture scene. Will get more explicit in later chapters.

Author’s note: the timeline is a bit different from the show. Here, Ivar was born long before before Ragnar made the deal with King Ecbert about starting a settlement. I’d say he was about 5 years old when the settlement was established. Also, the timejump in the middle of season 4 lasted long enough for the relevant characters to reach whatever the age of consent is in your country. Where I live it’s 15, I don’t know about other countries. Sorry in advance for any spelling/grammatical errors, English isn’t my native language.

Chapter 6

Four days had passed since Sigurd’s outburst. Ylva had stayed as far away as possible from all the Ragnarssons, avoiding them like her life depended on it. Whenever one of them came by to talk to Floki or Helga, Ylva simply looked the other way or pretended she couldn’t see them. She ate, slept and practiced using her crutches. She learned how to make the ointment herself, and Helga eagerly taught her how to create other remedies. On the night it had happened, Floki came into the tent saying that Ivar was sitting outside and that he wanted to talk to Ylva. She refused to let him in. He hadn’t tried contacting her again, but she sometimes saw him around the camp. He would watch her in silence. There was something wild about his look, the predatory features she had seen flashes of earlier appeared to be growing stronger. She could’ve sworn his blue eyes burned away parts of her skin.

On the fourth night after Sigurd’s outburst, Ylva attempted to replicate a new remedy created by Floki. She handed it over to her teachers for inspection. Floki sniffed at it. Helga held the small flask close to a candle, carefully inspecting its content. Finally, she nodded approvingly.

“This will do.” In the last two days, a handful of the people in the camp had come down with high fever. The Ragnarssons insisted that all who fell sick would receive treatment immediately, so that the disease wouldn’t spread and immobilize the army. Helga, Floki and Ylva worked tirelessly to find working treatments.

“We’ll take this and distribute it among the sick ones. You girls should go to bed, it’s been a long day.” Ylva agreed, she longed to rest her aching body. She had spent the last few days moving around on her crutches, looking for plants that they could use. And then in the evenings she joined Helga in helping the sick. The red marks in her hands had grown into blisters and every part of her body felt sore. It was hard work, but it kept her from thinking about Ivar. The girls crawled into their beds. Tanaruz fell asleep almost instantly. Ylva tossed and turned, still afraid of falling asleep and facing her nightmares. She often woke up at night, Helga or Floki standing over her. Her screams robbed them of their sleep and she could see dark circles growing under their eyes. Floki had carved runes into small pieces of painted wood and given them to her. They were supposed to protect her and chase away nightmares, but so far they hadn’t done their job. Ylva clutched the runes tightly in her hand and tried to stay still so she wouldn’t disturb Tanaruz.

She was nearly asleep when she heard something and sat up. Something moved at the tent’s opening. Ylva’s eyes darted to the small knife she used when collecting plants. She picked it up and laid down on the bed again, her back to the opening. She hid the knife in her hand and pretended to sleep. She could hear the noise more clearly now, someone was coming inside. It couldn’t be Floki or Helga, they knew better than to startle her and would always announce themselves before entering. Ylva’s heart hammered against her chest. Tanaruz was still asleep. The person was inside the tent now. She could hear him breathing as he closed in on her bed. She could hear him sit down on the ground. As he leaned in towards her, Ylva turned rapidly, aiming the knife at where she guessed his face was. A strong hand closed around her wrist, stopping her from doing any harm. It was Ivar.

“Trying to kill me, are you?” He whispered. He let go of her wrist and she lowered her arm again. Ylva was shaking.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed through gritted teeth.

“I want to talk to you. Outside, so we don’t wake the girl. I don’t feel like explaining to Helga why her little girl is panicking.”

“Talking? According to your brother you just want to fuck me, because I’m the only one who’s broken enough to let you do whatever you want to me. I’m just like that slave, right?” Ylva regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. She had heard rumours about Ivar and an unfortunate encounter with a slave girl. Judging by his reaction, there was some truth to the rumours: her words clearly hit a nerve. Ivar flinched, speechless for a second. She almost reached out to touch his cheek and apologize. Then his jaw tightened and he pushed himself up, his face only an inch away from hers.

“If you choose to believe what Sigurd says, then fine. Be that stupid. But if you actually want to do something more than sit around poking at flowers all day, I suggest you come outside with me.” He growled. Ylva took a deep breath. Her cheeks turned red as she met his gaze.

“I’ll come.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They found a place at the outskirt of the camp. Everyone in the area had retreated to their tents and so they were completely alone. Ylva was exhausted. She fell onto the ground, panting heavily. Ivar slithered up next to her.

“Here” He handed her a waterskin. She took a big gulp of water, barely noticing that it ran down her chin. She handed the waterskin back to Ivar.

“Thank you.” Most of the fires around them had died out and she couldn’t see him properly in the dark.

“I heard what Sigurd said to you. I should’ve stayed.” Ylva shook her head.

“That wouldn’t have made any difference. If anything, he would’ve been even more provoked.” Ivar bared his teeth.

“I can think of one big difference; my knife lodged in his eye.” Ylva knew that she should find this statement disturbing, who in their right mind spoke so lightly about killing a family member? Instead she took it as a good sign that Ivar would actually keep his promise. She leaned back, resting her head on the temporary fence surrounding the camp. The pain hadn’t abated at all, it actually felt worse.

“Where did you go that night?” She asked. He moved a bit closer to her, his entire face lighting up.

“I talked to someone who had valuable information. A wanderer.” Ylva furrowed her brow.

“A wanderer?”

“Yes. He happened upon our camp that morning.” Ivar moved even closer as he spoke “He has travelled around England and he has met some of the men that hurt you.” He paused and lifted his hand to touch one of her braids. His legs lightly brushed against hers as he leaned in against her. A warm feeling spread throughout Ylva’s body. She didn’t dare to move, so she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked so relaxed, she’d never seen him like this before.

“I want to cut your hair.”

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“Your hair. It must’ve been long since you cut it.” He undid the braid he was holding on to, and moved on to the next one. She stopped him. Helga had already tried to convince Ylva to let her cut the unkempt hair but she refused.

“I like my hair long.” She said, staring at her feet.

“I’m not going to make you bald. Why are you so protective of your hair?”

“I’m not protective, I just like it long.” She repeated, but her voice trembled. He cupped her chin, making her look at him.

“No, that’s not it. I think you keep it this way because you feel like you don’t deserve better, like you’re broken and filthy and should look the part.” He picked up where he left off, undoing the rest of her braids. When he was done, he pulled a pair of shears out of his pocket.

“Show me that you trust me. After all, I let your comment about the slave girl slip, did I not?” He whispered, his lips so close that she could feel them brush against her ear. She took a deep breath and made up her mind. With every muscle in her body aching, she turned her back to him and swept all hair backwards.

“Do it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was long after midnight before they returned. As they made their way back to the tent, they ran into Floki and Ubbe.

“Where have you been, hm? Helga is worried sick.” Floki chided them.

“I wanted to talk to her, Floki, without waking up Tanaruz.”

“We didn’t mean to be gone so long.” Ylva added in. Floki noticed her new haircut, thinking to himself that Helga wasn’t going to like this. He sighed.

“Come on now, let’s get back to the tent. Ubbe, could you please go find Helga and tell her that we found them?” Ubbe hurried away. When Ivar motioned to follow Ylva and Floki, Floki raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think you are quick enough to get out of there before Helga comes back? If not, I suggest you go back to your own tent now.” Ivar started to protest, but Ylva interrupted.

“I’ll be fine. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He reluctantly accepted and left them. A few minutes later, Ylva stood next to her bed again. As she tried to lie down, she suddenly felt lightheaded. She dropped to her knees, letting out a whimper as they hit the ground. Floki rushed to her side.

“What happened?” She waved her hand in a dismissing gesture.

“Nothing. I’m just tired.” He grabbed her under her arms, and lifted her carefully on to the bed. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. A few hours later, Ylva woke up. Her body felt strange, like it was on fire but still she shivered. She could see Helga’s blurred face floating above her. The lips moved but she didn’t understand the words. The fever had taken hold of her.

#vikings #vikings fanfic #keeping promises #keeping promises 6 #ivar the boneless #original female character

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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Humor [HM] Fantasy [FN] Cadorna Keep Chapter 1 - A Dnd GameLit

“The lords will see you in just a few moments now,” the stuffy shirted gnome told them. He stood perhaps three and a half feet tall but somehow held a halberd. The axe shaft was twice as long as he was and it wavered awkwardly.

The party didn’t really notice though, absorbed as they were with the anxiety of the moment. The adventurers had been pacing for a good half an hour, well aware that if they messed up this interview they might as well pull up camp from Gennopolis and head off elsewhere. Yenrab’s stomach burbled with the stress of bottled up gas and his face was taut with displeasure.

Tracy looked over her friend with sympathy.

“Maybe, friend Yenrab, you should take a trip to the latrines?”

Yenrab looked back at her with a pained expression.

“Ya know I would if you all didn’t make me the party captain. I’ll take off to the crapper then they’ll call us in and I’ll be the sour snout that messed it all up for us all. They’ll be like, oh, hey, where’s your captain? And you’ll all say that I’m in the crapper. Then they’ll do some stuff with the papers and huff and haw and we’ll lose to the job to Some Other Guys.”

“Some Other Guys are a pretty decent group, mates,” Bern Sandros cut in, his midnight blue cloaks and leather quite the fashion statement now that he’d had the cash to have it tailored. “Enough so that people were telling me that SOG is almost certainly going to get this job instead of us.”

“Nonsense brosephs,” Wex added, his featureless mask fully in place, his mailed body edgy with anticipation. “We’re the heroes of Rising Action and Torus Strade. We’re a shoe in, right?”

“Yeah?” Bern questioned.

“Yeah bro,” Wex answered. “No doubt about it.”

Strings plucked in the corner.

“They came they saw they slew them all - hoorah hoorah - they are the Exterminators of Things that Hurt Us and Are Really Bad - hoorah hoorah - EoTtHUaARB came to save the day, everyone got hurt and there wasn’t much day but it all ended purposeful for the Exterminators of Things that Hurt Us and Are Really Bad . . .” Carric Smith sang, fading out at the end. He was dressed up in fancy and colorful clothing, not quite his style but today he had to dress to impress. And these fancy duds came from home with his name tagged to every article. At his side he carried his scabbard with the words ‘Momma’s Little Dumpling’ woven into its edges and upon his back was hooked his exceptionally manufactured hand crossbow whose name, ‘Lil Sunshine’, stood carved into its outward arc.

“What was that?” Bern Sandros asked the half-elf, his pointed ears and thin build a stark reminder of his mixed parentage.

“Shuddup. I’m working on it.”

“I’ve heard better cat squalls,” Wex opined. “And what’s with the duds? You look so not you?”

Carric simply scowled. “The lords will see you now,” the stuffy shirt yawned, somehow still hanging on to that danged halberd.

***

The hall they entered resembled a courtroom more than anything else. The lords of the ruling council sat tall behind gavelled podiums of a deep brown oak, well finished and well furbished. The rest of the large council room was absent except for them, the wooden panels that composed it playing back their every sound as it echoed through the room.

A light squeal sounded from Yenrab’s end. Carric shifted and coughed to cover it up, though Yenrab’s very guilty face, and the sudden smell of dirty rear let the rest of the party know that this interview had to go fast.

The three lords stood from their high places. Each was dressed regally, but in glitzy and ceremonial garb as best befit their titles. On the left stood the Lord over Civil Affairs, elected, as they all were, for a single ten year term. He wore golden silks in the form favored by sages, and ceremonial eyeglasses clung to his face, though they were not necessary. Next, in the middle of them, stood a broad shouldered man with a scarred face. He was the General over Military Affairs, and his golden chestplate gleamed as only a soldier with a spit rag can make it. Last was the Diplomat over International Ties and Diplomacy. It was a long title given to a man who looked crooked and calculated, with eyes that were filled with wild intelligence. His garb was that of some majestic godlike courier and frankly it looked ridiculous.

“You have audience with the Lords Regent of the Republic, party, Ea-ot-the-ah-arb,” the diplomat spoke. To every person within these halls of the law, he was simply the diplomat because the law had no name. Or so the law exposited. The party proceeded to line up as the formal words were spoken. Yenrab stepped forward to start this encounter.

“EoTtHUaARB, your, uh, graces,” Yenrab corrected them in a tone that, to those who knew them, indicated a bit of distress. Carric coughed again to cover a couple of creeping noises and Wex sneezed as the acrid stench reached his nose.

Hot air rises. We’d better finish this interview in a hurry, he thought to himself.

“What do you need?” Tracy stepped up beside him. The rest of the party scowled but the lord laughed and then, with a motion at his fellows, they were all seated.

“Party EoTtHUaARB,” the lord pronounced correctly, speaking it exactly as it is spelled, “we are here to beseech an adventuring party, the best one I suppose, to do a mission of a military matter.”

The general stood back up, his armor gleaming as the rays of the afternoon sun poured in through the windows of the Assembly’s dome. The building was quite majestic and, were one to write about it, surely they would give it a tremendous amount of description due to its powerful and statuesque beauty.

“We’re talking about Cadorna Keep,” he growled out. There was something about grizzled combat veterans that turned them half-feral. They always growled.

“Our Freeholder’s Republic is holding strong, but since we lost that keep during the Revolutionary War, it's been hard as the Elemental Plane of Earth to keep it free of pirates. And we’ve been getting goblin and orc tribes marching through our borders and dragging long boats in.”

“Someone needs to build a wall, A huge wall. A tremendous wall!” the Diplomat exclaimed fervently.

“We’ve been over this,” sighed the lord. “Who’s going pay for it?”

“I told you,” the Diplomat exclaimed again, standing up. “They will!”

“Fleer of Villages!” the general cursed. Yenrab started. When the heck did my folk hero titles start becoming curses, he wondered.

“Look, enough partisan bickering. Let’s just focus on the task at hand. Adventurers, what we need is a group to land on the island. We will have transport ships take you there and they will come back to pick you up the next day. We need you to map the place out and tell us what is where and where is what. The island has been under some sort of curse and we will send a military to occupy it whilst clerics of good cast this bad magic out. For your services we will give you the princely sum of,” the general looked uncomfortable, “Five-hundred gold pieces.”

Why is it always gold pieces or silver pieces, one of The Gamers griped. Do they just march around with jagged chunks of unstamped metal in their pockets? How much is that anyways? Like five dollars? Five-hundred dollars? Why not something cool, like pieces of eight?

Oh, look at that, an even more powerful figure observed. The weather outside has turned rather rough. It’d be a damn shame if a stray lightning bolt came blasting through that window.

The voices of The Gamers faded away.

“Bloody hells we will,” Bern Sandros broke in. “You want us to stay twenty-four hours on a haunted island for the cost of a good set of mail? No thanks, mate. Pass.”

“Bern, bro,” Wex the wood-elf cut in, his mask removed to show off his dark skin and even darker eyes. “Mask has granted me the power to scare the undead. It’s right.”

Bern soaked that in, and then nodded. Yenrab motioned with his hand, using a broken bit of Thieves Cant that Bern had told him meant hurry up (but actually meant I am a giant talking turd with a lot of money. Please rob me.)

Tracy, though, twirling in strange ballerina-like pivots and slides behind them, all at once stopped.

“One-thousand gold pieces,” she stated in a coquettish lilt. “And a few magic items.”

Then she raised her fist and winked at Bern.

“Power to the People.”

“Yeah!” Bern agreed. “Power to the People!”

Carric fiddled a bit with his lute and stepped forward to take over negotiations.

“That’s one-thousand gold dollars -” the faraway Lord of the Gamers sighed - “and a few magic items. Take it or leave it.”

The Diplomat looked as if he were about to start to argue, his finger raised to make a point, and the lord looked as if he were already ready to oppose the Diplomat, no matter what it was that he actually said, but the general spoke loudly and in a commanding voice that shut both up rather quickly.

“One-thousand gold pieces, er, dollars and a few magic items, but you guys lift the damnable curse then,” he growled.

“Deal,” Carric smiled. Yenrab took the opportunity to run away from the room in a strange waddle, his thick orcish legs bouncing him back and forth like a toddler learning to walk. But Bern and Wex slapped hands and Tracy cheered, making jazz fingers at the moon goddess, whatever that meant.

“Say,” Carric asked out of the blue. “Why did we get the job and not the party SOG?”

It was the general’s turn to smile, his eyes stony and satisfied at a deal well done. “Oh, Some Other Guys? They got the job first. There was just nothing left of them when we came back to pick them up.”

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tibritha · 5 years

Text

魂兵之戈/Jiang Chao Ge and The Spirit Weapon Chapter 3 part 1

One after another strange experiences gave Jiang Chao Ge’s brain more than what it can process. He couldn't manage to feel surprised and only said, “Get, Get on the horse.”

The two got on the horse. Jiang Chao Ge took out his own leather belt and used it to tie the hands of the third prince behind his back. Then he urged the horse to run towards the outside of the city.

Thankfully his horsemanship wasn't bad. Originally it was only regarded as a leisure activity, yet now it has become a technical skill. He simply urged the horse this way, and ran many Li in one breathe, gradually drawing away from the sovereign capital. Yet those imperial bodyguards, due to their concern for the third prince, did not catch up at all.

The third prince said calmly on the horse, “Where do you want to take me?”

Jiang Chao Ge said irritably, “How am I supposed to know.” There was still a ball of confusion in his head. Anyone who's encountered what he has would only be more frightened out of their wits.

“There's a village if you run towards the west for three kilometres. You can release me there.”

“Impossible.” Who knew if there were their people in that village.

“Then you…”

Just as they were talking, a brown coloured horse suddenly burst out from the side road on the avenue ahead. On the horse sat an old man with old fashioned clothes. That horse walked very slowly, the old man even held a pot of wine and walked while drinking.

Jiang Chao Ge's horse was in the process of speeding by. If he didn't dodge, he would definitely run into him head on. He shouted at him from afar, “Hey! Get out of the way!”

The old man gave him a glance and after leisurely drinking a mouthful, suddenly turned his head and concentrated his attention on them. There was also no knowing if he was looking at the people or the horse.

“Get out of the way!” Jiang Chao Ge yelled violently. This avenue originally wasn't wide and this spirit tool was still not quite the same as a normal horse. It didn't listen to his commands and continuously ran blindly. Maybe they will really run into each other.

The old man stared at them fixedly, motionless.

Jiang Chao Ge gritted his teeth and fiercely pulled at the reins. Yet that horse didn't give a bit of response, until the third prince opened his mouth and said, “Stop.”

The white horse was just like a bolt of electricity. It used all its strength and suddenly halted in its steps, raising its front hooves, almost throwing the two off the horse.

The old man urged the horse and ambled over.

Jiang Chao Ge was full of hostility towards everyone in this world. He said coldly, “Are you deliberately blocking the way?”

The old man looked at them for a while and then suddenly grinned from ear to ear, “Hahahaha, too interesting.” The third prince narrowed his eyes.

Jiang Chao Ge gave a push to the third prince, “Let your horse go around.”

The old man said to Jiang Chao Ge, “Person from the other world, there will not be a good ending if you follow him. Come with me. I can deliver you safely out of Tian Ao City.”

The eyes of the third prince became cold, and the hands that were tied behind his back secretly clenched into fists.

Jiang Chao Ge said, “You know who he is?”

“Of course I know.” The old man laughed strangely two times. “Quick come with me. The more time that passes, the more dangerous it is.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I am also someone from the other world. I come from Chong Ming City.”

Jiang Chao Ge was startled. It was indeed the name of a city in his real world.

Just as he was hesitating, he felt something below his body grow relaxed. When did that white horse unknowingly disappear! His body fell towards the ground. At the same time, the third prince jumped high into the air, the hands that were tied together was suddenly pried apart. He fished out a bone carving from his pocket, and flung it into the air. A short dagger appeared in his hands. His body seemed to defy gravity, turning in midair.

~~~~~~~

Jiang Chao Ge looked incredulously at the third prince’s nimble movements. He immediately understood that kidnapping him all the way here was no more than a trap. Just based on this kind of strength, he absolutely wasn't someone he could control.

The old man also sprang up from the horse, pulling out the sword at his waist with a swish. The sounds of swords crossing on a battlefield pierced the tranquility of the afternoon.

The third prince missed on the single attack and jumped to the ground.

The old man smiled, “Your Highness, you didn't bring a spirit weapon. You can't win against me relying on this thing.”

The third prince turned the dagger in his hands, “There's no harm in trying.” He drifted towards the old man using ghostly footwork. Yet because his speed was too fast, he simply appeared as if he was flying. In that fluctuating figure, only his head of silvery hair was especially clear.

Jiang Chao Ge finally knew how the third prince appeared on the 6 metre high sacrificial altar. This type of footwork seemed as if it could leap onto roofs and vault over walls. He only underestimated the enemy in such a way because he'd been shocked stupid by everything that'd happened today. If this old man didn't appear, the third prince would've found an opportunity to subdue him sooner or later. Perhaps he drew him out of the sovereign capital just for the sake of monopolising this antique sword.

The old man was also a force to be reckoned with. That aged body was unexpectedly agile in such a way. The sword in his hand gave out sword sparks as he attacked the third prince. The two crossed a dozen times in a short period of time, neither giving way to the other. Suddenly, the old man fished out a few bone sculptures from his pocket and threw it towards the third prince. Those two bone sculptures turned into two black leopards in midair, pouncing and biting like lightning towards the third prince. The third prince was only relying on a short dagger in his hand, and in addition did not have the skills to attack the old man.

The old man pulled Jiang Chao Ge onto his own horse with one handful, urging the horse to run with a whip.

Jiang Chao Ge looked back and saw that the third prince was still tangled in a fight with the black leopards. That shining head of silvery hair was still clearly engraved within his memory many years later.

The old man brought him along, and started to run wildly. As soon as Jiang Chao Ge opened his mouth, it was filled with a big mouthful of wind. He shouted, “Who are you? Why did you save me?”

The old man said, “Shut up, now is not the time to talk.”

Jiang Chao Ge also didn't know whether or not to believe this old man. At least being together with the third prince was dangerous, but what the old man said about being from Chong Ming city may not necessarily be true. In short, these people frequently threw out a bunch of things. At present, he didn't have the ability to defend himself, he could only take a step and look around before taking the next.

The two ran till dark in one breath. The old man took him into a small village, found a peasant household and after shoving a few copper coins, settled in.

As soon as he entered the house, Jiang Chao Ge just thought to throw the sword onto the table, right away the old man gave a shout, “Don't move!”

Jiang Chao Ge jumped. This sword was too heavy, even his arm was trembling.

The old man said, “Slowly, softly put it on the floor.”

Jiang Chao Ge gently and cautiously put the sword on the floor. The floor of the peasant household was laid with baked earth. Just as the sword touched the floor, the floor was forcibly split into crack under the pressure sword. His eyes widened and didn't react for a long time.

The old man took off his baggage, “I'm going to get something to eat.”

After the old man left the house, Jiang Chao Ge sat paralysed in a chair, clutching his head between his hands. He did not lift it up at all for a long time.

What he experienced in half a day was still more that what he experienced in half a lifetime. Even until now, he is still unable to accept the world he was in. In addition, he was isolated and cut off from help, confused and ignorant. He couldn't find a sense of security from inside or out. This sort of immense terror and powerlessness was unable to be described with words.

~~~~~~

The sound of the door opening and closing could be heard. Jiang Chao Ge could smell a faint fragrance. He'd been hungry for an entire day and lifted his head towards the smell.

The old man placed a bowl of panada cooked flour paste in front of him, sat to the side and started eating his own, smacking his lips while eating. It looked as if it was very fragrant.

Jiang Chao Ge gave it a taste with hesitation. The taste was plain, too bland, but he'd long been hungry and soon began to swallow in big mouthfuls.

After clearing the bowl, Jiang Chao Ge wiped his mouth, “Speak, tell me everything you want to tell me.

The old man finished eating the panama cooked flour paste, joyously drank a mouthful of alcohol, and squinted his eyes, “I've seen the mother of that little prince, so beautiful ah…”

Jiang Chao Ge banged the table.

The old man gave a soft cough, “Where'd you come from. What's your name?”

“Dong Ping City, Jiang Chao Ge.”

The old man sighed, “I've been to Dong Ping before when I was young. I'm called Meng Sheng.”

“Mister…. Meng, how did you come here? Have you never gone back?”

Meng Sheng gave a strange smile, “Go back? It's impossible.”

“Why? The third prince said that the Great Master knows how to go back.”

Meng Sheng’s eyes grew cold, “The Great Master….. yes, perhaps he knows how to go back, but he will never send you back. Based on your status, you can't get close to him at all. Regardless, you should temporarily give up on this thread of hope. It will make you feel a bit better.”

Jiang Chao Ge said, “I won't give up. I will definitely go back.”

Meng Sheng laughed, “Every person who comes from the other world have thought about this when they arrived, but nobody has ever successfully returned.”

“I'm not them.” Jiang Chao Ge said firmly: “I must return.”

Meng Sheng looked at the persistence in his eyes, slightly shocked, as if it evoked some memory from long ago and was silent for a while.

Jiang Chao Ge asked, “How many Other World People are actually here?”

“Not many but also not few. Many are all hidden.”

“Why are they full of hostility towards the Other World People?”

Meng Sheng said: “Even if I tell you the reason now, you won't understand. You had better understand this world first.”

Jiang Chao Ge drank a gulp of water, and calmed down his beating heart, “What type of world is this?”

“This is a…” he seemed unable to find a suitable word to describe it, “This is a world where everything is driven by spirit tools.”

“What exactly is a spirit tool?”

“A spirit tool is made from part of the body of a dead beast. This tool seals the beasts’ soul. It can be a weapon, it can be a defensive tool. It can also be a means of transportation, articles for daily use, medicines and chemical reagents etc. Spirit tools exist in all the areas you can imagine. Our horse is a spirit tool made from a bone taken from a horse. Those two black leopards are summoned pets. Damn it! They were valuable and all wasted on you……”

Jiang Chao Ge became dumbfounded as he listened.

Meng Sheng’s eyes drifted towards the antique sword, “That sword you grabbed, is a spirit weapon.”

Jiang Chao Ge glanced at the old sword and for a while, was unable to associate it with the high end, foreign, transformed horse and leopards.

Meng Sheng continued: “Those who have spirit tools, are the people that can make and control spirit tools. These people are the ones that have spiritual awareness.”

“Spiritual awareness?”

“Spiritual awareness is inborn, being inherited through blood relations has the highest probability. Only those with spiritual awareness can cultivate spiritual power. Those with spiritual power can make or control spirit tools. In this world, those with spiritual awareness are superior. These types of people only account for one thousandth of the total population.”

~~~~~~~

“So, I also have spiritual awareness?”

“Yes, that's why you were brought here.”

Jiang Chao Ge was suddenly angry, “There are many people in this world that have spiritual awareness, why must they still drag in foreign aid?”

Meng Sheng shook his head, “It's unclear, but some connection definitely exists between these two worlds.”

Jiang Chao Ge looked at his own hands, “Why can't I feel that spiritual awareness you talked about?”

“Because you have never cultivated. In itself spiritual power is very weak. It's only through cultivation and study that it can become strong.”

“Then what about that sword? Again what's it's connection?” Jiang Chao Ge looked at the sword that invited disaster, his mind complicated.

“This sword…..” Meng Sheng walked over and used a finger like a wizened tree branch to stroke the blade gently. Within his turbulent gaze, a flash of brightness shone through. He closed his eyes and seemed to be feeling something. After a while, he opened his eyes, “Of all the spirit tools, the status of a spirit weapon is the highest.”

Jiang Chao Ge raised his eyebrows, “You can imagine.”

“A powerful spirit weapon user coupled with a powerful spirit weapon, can be as if facing ten thousand enemies. Therefore spirit weapons are the most captivating thing in this world but also the most dangerous.”

“This sword, is a very powerful Spirit Weapon?”

“From the scenario you described to have seen it in as well as the attitude of the little prince towards it, this should be a Heaven grade Spirit Weapon.”

“Heaven grade?”

“Spirit weapons are divided into four grades: Heaven, Dark, Earth, Yellow.”

“What does it mean?”

“Yellow grade Spirit Weapons are made from ordinary beasts, mostly tigers, leopards, wolves etc. Its the lowest grade of Spirit Weapon. Ordinary people without spiritual power can also use it. Earth grade spirit weapons are made from special beasts. Many have additional properties, from toxicity and erosion to illusory attributes and cold and heat effects etc. Dark grade spirit weapons are made from rare monsters and spirits. You need superb spiritual power in order to control it and you can also summon the spirit of the beast in order to bring out its powerful strength. Heaven grade spirit weapons are made from over millennium old rare beasts that have intelligence. It can only form a contract with one spirit mage at any one time. The condition of the contract is not how powerful their spiritual power is but rather how compatible their spiritual awareness is. Spiritual power can be cultivated but spiritual awareness is something you are born with. Heaven grade spirit weapons are rare, and the spirit mage that is compatible with it must have extremely strong spiritual power in order to have an effect or else it'll backfire. Spirit mages of Heaven grade spirit weapons can not only summon the spirit of the beast to fight but can also summon the human form of the rare beast. It's the lifelong pursuit of all spirit mages. Before forming a contract with a Spirit Mage, a Heaven grade spirit weapon is as heavy as a thousand Jin. The person that is able to pick it up is the person who's spiritual awareness is compatible with it.”

Jiang Chao Ge broke out in a cold sweat as he listened. If what he grabbed was really a Heaven grade spirit weapon, then it's no wonder those people wanted to seize him. Recalling the scene at the time, they were probably choosing a compatible spirit mage for this sword but the situation was disturbed by him and in addition, he even took away the sword. But so what if he had the sword? He had absolutely no spiritual power to use. However, after hearing how powerful this weapon was, he was still pretty proud of himself. This was simply the arrangement of fate. He just happened to pick up a first class Spirit Weapon that was compatible with his own spiritual awareness as soon as he crossed worlds. This can also be considered a good beginning. At least by having a powerful force, he can have the hope of returning to his own original world. He said excitedly, “This means, I grabbed the world’s most awesome weapon.”

~~~~~~~~

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ageofwrathrpg · 7 years

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Name: Josef Stepanovich Vanko Age: 32 Affiliation: CIVILIAN as a BOOKSTORE OWNER (VANKO’S) Ability: Power Mimicry Faceclaim: Harry Shum Jr Availability: OPEN

THE STORY

Josef was born into a family of conspiracists; every politician had ties to a demonic cult, every itchy rash was the outcome of an alien encounter. Josef’s family of eccentrics were fortunate enough to own Vanko’s Books, a used bookstore wherein they channeled all of their otherworldly anxieties. For five generations, it had stood lopsided and proud; its shelves overstuffed with books, choked with vines, and adorned with gemstones that shimmered dark and seductive. For five generations, it had been passed down from Vanko to Vanko, each member bringing a specific obsession to the store; Ivanna collected quartz, Vadik and Tamara sought after religious texts, Paul made small machines, and Josef’s mother grew plants. As Josef aged, he coveted magic.

Though Josef attended schools, choirs, and even sports teams growing up, he never fit in. He was always the outcast, the wiccan boy. And though he was never liked, he was never teased either. People didn’t know what he was capable of, and that made him all the more frightening. People always fear what they cannot see. He attended primary school and senior school quietly and successfully. Meanwhile behind closed doors, his parents were encouraging his passions. They watched him stain his fingers with ink as he wrote in extraordinary detail which ingredients he needed for potions and altars. For his birthdays, for the many holidays they celebrated, or just because – Josef would return home from school to find corals, shells, anise, etcetera wrapped in silver bows on his pillowcase. After his senior school graduation, Josef didn’t bother attending any pretentious university. He already knew that he wanted to follow in his parents’ footsteps, and the wonderful thing about Vanko’s Books was the job security. Only someone as peculiar as a Vanko could take over, and Josef was made for the job.

At 16 years old, Josef began running the storefront with his parents. Customers became quickly familiar with the young apprentice, who always smelled of a thousand spices and who always greeted them with a toothy grin. He became an exceptional salesperson; it helped that he could navigate the disorganized chaos of the bookstore in the same way that a seaman could tame the black waves of an angry ocean. He would lead customers through the winding bookshelves, palming his lucky opalite like a compass, saying Is this what you’re looking for? Yes I quite like Kafka, too. Perhaps I could interest you in Dostoevsky. In only 5 years, Josef had mastered his parents’ profession. Coincidentally, at this same time, his parents decided to retire early. Josef’s mother always wanted to live in Germany, and so they bought a small apartment in Montabaur. There, Josef’s mother grew orchids and his father sold pens. In Moscow, for the first time, and ever since, Josef was alone.

THE CHARACTER

To an outsider, Josef is strange. Of course he is. He leaves pomegranate seeds on his windowsill and keeps his grimoire in a Leuchtturm1917. But as strange as Josef seems, there’s also the universal feeling of emptiness evident in his tired eyes and petulant gait. Ever since his parents left, Vanko’s Books became Josef’s sole responsibility. Along with being a family heirloom, it is also Josef’s burden to bear. Though it would be incorrect to claim that Josef didn’t like working in the store, it would also be a falsehood to say that he didn’t feel trapped by it. Frankly, it’s boring. In a world so full of wonder, Josef feels that he’s tethered to a life of repetition. He knows all there is to know about Egyptology, Greek Gods, and Wiccan Lore. He’s the walking, talking Creepypasta nobody asked for; Josef should be traveling the world with a wand in his hand and lucky coins in his pocket. Instead, he runs his family’s bookstore with the grumpiness of a bedraggled old circus lion.

CONNECTIONS

Marko Aleksovich Yelchin - Josef is a simple man, and he doesn’t take life for granted. He’s thankful for herblogy, his ancestor’s collections of gemstones, and he’s thankful for Marko. Marko brings Josef joy when nothing else does. He has a smart sense of humor that Josef can’t help but tip his hat to. Though the pair certainly have their individual personalities, when they come together, they’re a single entity; Marko & Josef; Blood Brothers. They’re best when they’re together, which is often. Josef makes Marko feel like a hero, like all of his struggles weren’t for nought. Marko stands by Josef’s side, and he doesn’t flinch.

Nina Fomandrovna Ivanova – Nina’s a relatively new client, and Josef doesn’t like her. He gets the whole ‘the customer is always right’ mentality, but not here, not now, not in this case. Every time she comes into his store, her hands become fists and her lip quirks ever so subtly. He can just feel that his strangeness amuses her, and he’s transported to his school days. Just because he wasn’t teased didn’t mean that he wasn’t an outsider, didn’t mean that being the monster parents warn their kids about didn’t hurt. Nina makes him pouty. That’s all.

Abram Petrovche Sharapov – Because sleep is apparently Josef’s mortal enemy, he’s usually tiptoeing the line between exhaustion and oblivion. Abram’s coffee is Josef’s desideratum, and Abram is Josef’s savior. The first time Josef entered their store, he was running on two hours of sleep, adrenaline, and hope. He plopped a heavy book about satanism on a table and ordered the strongest coffee in the house. Abram reacted in kind, concocting his famous ‘Dieci’ – a coffee of 10 shots of espresso. Josef orders it weekly.

Robertus 'Bob' Yosifovich Smythe – Robertus has come into Josef’s store multiple times, and each time was unable to leave without scoffing at least twice. He’s a know-it-all prick. He’s tacky and Josef hates him. A part of Josef knows he and Robertus would probably get along if either one of them tried – they seem to have enough in common. The lizard part of Josef, though, the petty part, would sooner die than swallow his pride.

Yana Czarevna Grekova - The first (and last) time Yana came into his store, she bought his whole collection of braille books, including exactly two copies of The Brothers Karamazov. When he touched her hand to press the receipt into her palm, the familiar sensation of telepathy buzzed in his skull. He realized with a frown that she was disappointed in his selection. That embarrassed him and he has since made collecting braille books one of his top priorities – out of spite of course. He has six shelves of miscellaneous braille books and has since been impatiently awaiting for her return.

[[ More Connections ]]

ETC

Josef knows that his store is controversial. Either customers love it or hate it. Nevertheless, that doesn’t stop him from being defensive of Vanko’s Books. The place is his family heirloom after all. Insulting Vanko’s Books to a drunken Josef is a recipe for a broken face.

Josef has Insomnia, which doesn’t help with his grumpiness. When he does sleep, it is suddenly and all at once. Loyal customers are familiar with the sight of Josef slumped over his desk or on the floor, surrounded by crumpled papers and with ink stains on his hands and face.

In his spare time, Josef brews potions, makes altars, and constructs spells from stones and herbs. Beneath persian rugs that cover the floors of Vanko’s Books are dozens of hand-carved sigils beckoning good fortune and warding evil spirits.

Though Josef is aware of the Lesya-Rostek feud, he pays little attention to it. His heart sides with the Lesyas, but he’s too cowardly to admit that to anyone. If anyone asks, Josef shrugs and preaches indifference. He still casts spells on the Lesya’s behalf from the privacy of his bedroom.

Religion-wise, Josef doesn’t really know what to believe. As a proud bisexual, he can’t morally align himself with some of the ‘Christian Values’ he’d been taught growing up. Fortunately, his parents taught him a little bit of everything; to the best of his abilities, he picks and chooses which philosophies he likes best. He’s pretty sure he believes in God.

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wellmeaningshutin · 7 years

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Short Story #88: Elegance.

Written: 4/5/2017 Music Week Song Listened to Before Writing: The Knife - Rock Classics

Ever since she was a little girl, Sue and her family had been labeled as “Swamp Trash”, a term she took a long while to understand, since whenever she walked around the swamp it was usually pretty clean, well, for a swamp, and there was more trash in the towns and city than near their trailers on the outskirts. For a while she wandered if trash had different meanings in different areas, and she would often stare out the trailer window, in the humid heat, staring out at the bogs, wandering what the different meaning was in the swamps. At first she thought it may have been the picked over carcasses of animals she sometimes found, but it just made her more confused to think that people would call them animal bones and innards, which was basically as pointless as calling somebody a lampshade or a satellite dish. Eventually she figured (after thinking that they might be talking about the swamp gasses, which sometimes shone at night) that the people were supposed to be the trash, because they didn’t naturally belong in the swamps, and it was like people were telling her that society had basically thrown them away, littered them in the swamp, since they had become boring or broken, and when she told a friend of hers this, her friend replied, “Are you stupid? They mean your family is poor, and you live in the swamp.” Sue liked her interpretation better, but her friend’s words had stuck, and she wanted to find some way to give her family a different label.

However, Sue quickly learned, if there was an easy solution to stop being poor, then there would be a lot less poor people. So, at the age of eight, she decided that it would be easier to settle for the illusion of wealth, so that people wouldn’t know that she was swamp trash, which was the main problem anyways, because it wasn’t hurtful that she was poor, since she had grown up that way and it wasn’t that big of a deal to her, but she couldn’t stand having to constantly get shit for it. Seeking the illusion of wealth, however, began to make her resent her family for their poor lifestyle, and day after day she realized more and more ways that made them look even worse, with her father being a stereotypical drunken dad, her mother’s way of yelling at the kids all the time, and don’t forget their way of mispronouncing words (she realized this in class, while learning grammar, but wasn’t aware of slang or dialects, which her family used, and she had started to believe, if only for a year, that there was only one way to speak, and anything outside of that was just trash-talk), which made her skin crawl. Every so often she thought about running away, but she knew that she was to young to do anything more than living on the streets, and then she would just become a different type of trash. It was just unbearable for her to try to pretend her way out of her situation, until she had her first brush with wealth.

The first encounter wasn’t very exciting, she had only seen a woman, from across the street, step out of a limo wearing a fur coat, but when she saw that coat it seemed like the ultimate status symbol, and she knew that she would have to have it. When researching fur coats, she soon realized that there were wide varieties, consisting of all sorts of strange furs, like chinchilla, and it was hard for her to figure out which type she would want to save up for, but then she realized that if she only wore one coat, then people would just see her as swamp trash in a nice coat, like putting makeup on a pig, because everyone knew that rich people could afford multiple coats, which were probably worth nothing to them since they were able to bathe in champagne, and it was easier for them to get away with crimes. She also saw that there had been controversy around people wearing fur, but she just figured that it was more trash doing the complaining, and if trash hated these coats, then she would seem less trashy if she wore one. That night, she vowed that she would get a fur coat for every animal out there, one for every occasion, so that people would never think to call her trash again.

Of course, some complications arisen when she learned that skin coats, like sealskin, were also a thing. What about all of the animals without fur? And what did that mean for fish and birds, did that mean that she should wear feather boas, and whatever the hell fish are worn as (further research taught her that the answer was, surprisingly, cosmetics, with lipstick being the most common)? How would she get her hands on clothing made of exotic animals, like gorillas or tigers? Stuck in a conundrum, she realized that her plan to have the illusion of wealth actually required wealth, and it made her poverty problem even worse. So, in order to not sit around all day, every day, and just sulk about how her parents didn’t have any money, that she had lost the lottery of birth, she formed a plan to start from the very bottom, to work on collecting the easiest animal based products while slowly working up to the harder to find, the more exotic pieces, and a lot of it she didn’t have to buy anyways, because she could just steal, and learn how to sew.

If somebody would have asked her why she shifted from fur coats to wearing every animal, why it had seemed so luxurious to her, she probably would have told them, “Rich people love to destroy beautiful things. They tear down rain forests, they kill the ocean for oil, they hide away beautiful works of arts in their homes, its just what rich people do. So, if animals are beautiful, wouldn’t people think I was rich from destroying so many of them?” Her father had a habit of blaming the wealthier people in the city for all of his problems, even though they had no idea of who he was. Sometimes, when the sun went down and he was almost out of beer, he would tell his children about how there is a secret society of rich people in the town who plot to keep other people in poverty, just because they knew that they could only be wealthy by making people poor, since wealth was subjective. If somebody has twenty dollars, and another person only has five, then the person with the twenty dollars is wealthier, even if twenty dollars isn’t much. If everyone was a millionaire, then nobody would be rich. He would always let that last point hang in the air for a while, sometimes for dramatic effect (even if the children had heard the speech so often that they mimicked it to each other, just for laughs), sometimes because he was actively trying to repress the poison that he had drank all night, and was trying to exit his stomach through his throat and mouth. This lecture was also where Sue got the idea of the wealthy destroying beautiful things, because her father likened them to swarms of locusts, to a disease on society, while some of the wealthier parents in the city would tell them similar things about the poor people living in the swamps. The father would sometimes claim that rich people had turned him into an alcoholic, and that addiction that was a disease that was released into lower economic communities, as a way to ensure that they wouldn’t be able to get up from the weight of their vices, which was also why you never saw any wealthy addicts (anecdotal and not based on anything solid, except for the fact that he rarely dealt with the upper class), and it was the same reason that the government (his opinion) kept cutting funding for mental health treatment and national health care.

When Sue would have to sit through these stories, she knew that her dad was mostly full of shit, since he made a lot of wild claims whenever he was intoxicated, but it was hard for her to figure out what was and wasn’t real, so she just picked out the parts that seemed right, like the destruction of beauty. Sure, she reasoned, they could have actually been the evil people that her father made them out to be, but it was better, in her eyes, to be rich and evil, than to be poor and righteous (a word her father detested, since it always reminded him of religion, which he believed was only created to make people complacent about being poor, filling their heads that it was somehow alright to get put in an unfair situation). So, no matter how much vitriol her father had for the upper classes, Sue was still consumed with the idea of having an article of clothing for every animal on the planet.

Lipstick was easy to get, since it was easy to cram into her pockets and walk out of stores with, as long as she was fine with cheap versions sold at convenience or grocery stores, because the more upscale stores had security guards that would practically follow her all around the stores, on top of those machines that mad a racket if you walked by with stolen merchandise. The rest had taken a lot more effort, especially since she had to settle with making it from scratch. Crawdads didn’t take too long to find, and they were easy enough to make into earrings that she decided to keep in three layers of sandwich bags after they had started to smell awful. Occasionally she was able to find stray feathers here and there, but it would take forever to build a boa out of them, and she had considered settling for earrings, or putting them in her hair, but she decided that was just the trash in her talking, and people would think of her as some sort of inbred bog witch, instead of the classy woman she wanted to appear as. Rats were easy enough to find, especially in areas of the city, and all she had to do was lay out rat traps in the alleys, and after a couple moths of hard work, she was able to skin enough rats (using a wood carving knife that she borrowed from a neighbor boy, which cost her a kiss every time she wanted to use it), preserve enough furs, to finally be able to sew herself her very first fur coat.

She wore that coat all of the time, unable to take it off, except for sometimes when she took a bath (sometimes she kept it on, or wrapped on top of her head, because she figured classy women were always classy, and couldn’t imagine them bathing naked like she had), which caused it to have a very unpleasant smell when it had gotten wet. She also wore lipstick all of the time, even if it clashed with her outfit, and labeled each tube for the fish she thought it belonged to, just guessing by the color (bright orange was labeled “clown fish”, a yellowish one was labeled “Moray eel”, a dull gray was “shark”, etc). It made her look ridiculous, but it had increased her self esteem significantly, until, after months of constant wear, her coat had started to come apart, which lead her to do the same. It was a sign for her to not have to be complacent with one coat, like she knew in the beginning, and that she had to go out and get more fur, had to have a larger wardrobe to become extra classy.

Since a lot of animals in the swamps made her uneasy, especially the gators, she preferred to prowl around the city instead, looking for classy city animals, which caused her to end up in the suburbs, which seemed to be teeming with the most adorable cats that she had ever seen. There were all sorts of different kinds, they were all very friendly, even if they were a bit cautious, and when, after a long walk, she sat on the sidewalk with a beautiful calico in her lap, she realized that she would have to come back to the area after kissing the neighbor-boy, probably around night time. And, when she finally did return with her brother’s pillow case and the carving knife, its not like she didn’t feel bad about what she did, its not like she had any sense of malice towards the cats, she just had ambition, or at least thats what she told herself, as she got a fat, white furball (which almost made her feint from seeing all of that beautiful fur, which would make a lovely collar for the coat) on her lap and began to stab down on its neck, quickly and repeatedly to make sure it wouldn’t have time to process what was happening, it wouldn’t scream at the horrors of the sudden and approaching void, which would easily bring trouble when people would check to see what upset the cat, only to find a young girl stabbing it to death with a small knife. She didn’t know a whole lot about these middle class people, so she figured that they must be a mix of poor and rich, meaning that they were both addicts and crazy (the two categories he put poor people into, explaining that he was an addict, and their mother was crazy [this was true, since she was severely bipolar, and would either lay around the house, getting her children to keep her company, to try to remind her about the good in life, or was driven by a motor to do some task, which often caused her to disappear on nights on end, sometimes coming back with bruises, or with the news that the family was further in debt]), but also had an intense need to destroy poor people, probably, she believed, because they were at risk of being shoved into poverty, so they had to make sure that the current poor didn’t get any ideas, and stayed down. After the sixth stab, when she was sure the cat was dead, she had to quickly, and awkwardly, make sure to flip it upside down, holding it over the gutter, so that the blood would drain out, and not stain any more of that precious fur than it already had. However, after she bagged that cat, the other ones in the neighborhood avoided her all night, so she went home, dismayed that it would take so long (she figured it would be a quick operation since they were much, much larger than rats, and she would have to kill less to have enough material for a coat that would fit her small frame), and she tried to think of a way to lure them over.

First, she considered using a saucer of milk, like they enjoyed in cartoons, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to carry that all the way into the far off suburbs without spilling it, and after a small amount of research, she learned that it wasn’t good for them anyhow. So, the next night she went off to visit the feline infested neighborhood, not having returned the neighbor-boy’s knife, since she deserved it more than that pervert did anyhow, and on the way she decided to shoplift a couple tins of sardines, figuring that it wasn’t amoral since nobody ate them anyways, and if they did, then her coat was more important than some hungry stranger’s need to eat disgusting food. It was easier to lure them in, and kill them, so she had a very productive night, having tricked and killed six cats, one of which she had to toss into somebody’s backyard, because it noticed the descending knife before it struck, causing it to try and flee, and causing Sue to slice its belly open instead of painlessly severing its spine, which lead to an awkward chase where she had to run after the bleeding cat that was beginning to drag its innards behind it, as it tried, wetly and desperately, to call for help, or to warn other cats that a predator was nearby. When she finally caught up to it, and kicked it into a mailbox with enough force to crack it’s skull, she realized that the fur was too blood soaked to be of any use to her, that the blood trail was already bad, but that if people saw the mutilated cat, she would have to find another neighborhood to hunt in, so she tossed it into the first backyard that she saw with a “Beware of dog” sign, with the hopes that the owners would think the dog had gotten to it, had done what dogs enjoy doing, and they would scold the animal instead of thinking that some eleven year old girl might be killing neighborhood cats. However, the sign was only up to deter trespassers or burglars, and there was no dog in the backyard, but she ended up with enough fur for a coat, making her lucky enough to not have to deal with the now extra-vigilant neighborhood watch.

After she had taken the care to skin the cats, toss their remains in the bogs where she hoped gators would get to it, she got to work on her new coat, in the lamp lit area behind the trailer where she liked to sew, mainly because there was hardly any room in her trailer, and the family would probably be uncomfortable with the effort that she was putting in to elevate herself from poverty, which she was starting to believe they were incapable of doing, since they fell into the mentally ill or addict categories, and she felt, no, knew that she was neither. Usually when she got to work on a coat, she couldn’t stop until it was finished, so she was ready to work all night, but when she was about half way done, the neighbor-boy that she was starting to despise came over, wanting his knife back. “You don’t deserve this knife as much as I do,” said Sue, “this is my ticket out of the swamps. You’re just trash, you’re only wasting it, dulling it out making your stupid wood carvings.”

“Fuck you,” said the neighbor-boy, “If you don’t get that shit right back to me, which is my knife in the first place, I’m going to take it from you.”

Holding the short blade out to him, trying to be threatening, “Look, if you come any closer I’m going to have to cut you good. I would make you into a coat afterwards, but I already got a rat co-”

Before she finished her sentence, he had jabbed at her, right in the nose, which caused her to drop the knife, reeling backwards as she held her bleeding nose, trying to make sure the blood wouldn’t be anywhere near her hard earned furs. Picking up the knife, “You ain’t nothin’ but swamp trash, and wearin’ rats don’t make you any better than me.” Pointing the knife at her, only to gesture, “You’re sick in the head, you know that? There ain’t nothing wrong with wood carvin either.” Walking away, muttering to himself about how dumb he was to fall for a pretty thing whose coat (that the boy really did think was elegant) was actually made out of nothing other than rats, that would threaten to stab him even though he was just came over to flirt.

Sue had to put that coat on hold for the night, as she attended to her busted nose, and when it was later finished, it not only looked nice, but felt great too. Yet, what would stick with her months later, as she tried to expand her wardrobe, wasn’t the feeling of progress, of becoming closer and closer to being something that wasn’t just swamp trash (she was no longer in this for appearances, she was starting to believe that the attire actually made her wealthier, as if it were something outside of how much money you had, like a state of mind, a state of being), she remembered the threat she had told the neighbor-boy. She would think of the threat as she looked for dogs that were tied to chains, that she could lure with purloined bologna, and who couldn’t run when she began to stab them, now with a larger knife, also stolen. She would think of the threat as she cased pet stores, planning to break in later to kill and bag their Guinea pigs, hamsters, birds, snakes, mice, and lizards. She would think of the threat as she saw a bear skin rug in an upscale furniture store, and tried to figure out how she could leave the store with it, without spending any money. Because, with all of these coats she was going out of her way to make, she was slowly coming to terms with the fact that there was one coat she was avoiding, she had to take a break with furs, and start focusing on skins.

The question wasn’t where she was supposed to find it, since this had been the easiest animal for her to find, but it was who she was supposed to get it from. Now, she wasn’t worried about any legal troubles, and as soon as she had come to terms with what she would have to do, it started to seem clear that it was the one article she needed to shoot herself all the way up into the one percent. What screamed “upper class” more than wearing the skin of the poor? However, she, only at the age of thirteen, still wasn’t very large, since being short and small had seemed to run in the family, especially with her mother, who was in her late thirties, but still was carded most of the time that she bought liquor for her husband. So, its not like she could just go after anyone, since the neighbor-boy, who sometimes watched her from a distance, taught her that just having a knife didn’t give her any power.

So, for a few weeks she was lost in thought, trying to figure out who the best choice of prey would be, who she would be able to kill. Children were easy targets, obviously, but she wouldn’t be able to settle for just one, because they were too small to provide enough for just one jacket, while they also had parents who could want to enact revenge against Sue for harming their young. Babies were disqualified for similar reasons, and the elderly were a no go because their skin was practically useless, and would probably make a terrible jacket in the first place. Strung out addicts were also out of the questions, because even though they wouldn’t resist if the were high, they were also covered in scabs, sores, rashes, etc, and could have some sort of disease that she could catch if she dealt with their blood. One night, as she thought this over, sitting on the floor of the main room in the trailer, her father, who was the only one home with her, was lying on the couch, wasted, trying to explain to her how he had a ticket out of the “shit hole of a swamp”, until the rich had decided to hurt him, to weaken him by ruining his chances at a way out. Rambling, between gulps, about how the rich were after him.

Sue almost told him to shut up, as she sat their in her golden retriever coat, since she was trying to solve her problem, she needed some peace and quiet to think. She wanted to tell him that the rich had done nothing to put him in this position, that it was just his fault that he was there, that no high class people were trying to kill him, but she realized something which solved all of her problems. Sue realized that she could be the high society woman to bring about her father’s downfall, and when she got up to get her knife, she had to admit, the man was right.

#Free Write #Short Story #Writing #Writers on Tumblr #Fashion

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