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metaphorical-goblin · 1 year

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Miles & Pearl + An Act of Kindness

Miles shifted in the stiff hospital seat as the girl sniffled beside him.

Wright had left her, frightened and alone, right there on the bench as he darted into the room to tend to Ms. Fey (she'd just been rescued, after all, and the hospital refused to allow more than one person in while she was still waking up).

All events conspired to leave one antsy Miles Edgeworth accompanying one weeping Pearl Fey.

He wasn't sure how to comfort her. How could he bring comfort to such a young person, who likely had no idea of object permanency and couldn't understand that her cousin was not gone, but simply recovering in the other room?

(It occurred to him that, perhaps, he did not understand children as well as he thought.)

The girl hiccuped again, silent tears trailing down her face, as her clumsy hands tangled in her shoelaces.

His fists automatically tightened their grip on one another as she scrubbed an arm across her face. "Everything alright, Ms. Fey?"

Pearl shivered through another batch of sniffles, still glancing to the side as she mumbled to herself. "M-Mister Nick always… ties my shoes for me."

He really should have asked. Miles couldn't explain what led him to act.

But he slipped to the floor in front of the girl anyway, kneeling on the rubber flooring in his suit pants while lifting her small foot to his thigh, taking her laces in hand. "I suppose he hasn't taught you, either. It's alright," he reassured her, looking up with sincere confidence. "The way shoe-tying is traditionally taught is really not as effective for little fingers."

Quitely, with patient words that his father used to whisper to him, he showed her how to tie her little sneakers, making small loops and twisting them up, double-knotted so they wouldn't fall loose. Then, she replicated his work on the opposite shoe, slowly and carefully working to follow his exact instruction.

When she was done, it was not neat or perfect. It likely wouldn't hold itself together for the hour.

"That's a wonderful job, Ms. Fey," he praised, smiling up at her. "It will take practice, but you won't need any help, soon enough. However, it's always alright to ask."

Miles worried he said something wrong when her lip wobbled, and he scrambled to pull out an apology that would stave off more of her sorrow.

Her tiny arms locked around his neck, and she buried her face into his jacket. "Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth."

-----

Phoenix shuffled out of the room, still agonized by Maya's condition and her lack of progress so far.

She would be alright, he urged himself. Everything would be alright.

His thoughts stalled completely when he caught sight of Pearl, snoring softly with her head resting against Miles' thigh.

He blinked a few times as the prosecutor met his gaze. "Wright! Is…" His voice dropped in volume as he startled awake, shifting his hand to cradle the girl's head for a mere breath. "How is she?"

Phoenix stammered his way through what the doctors shared while Miles nodded in silence. Then, still silent, he leaned forward and lifted a styrofoam cup from the ground.

"I got you… coffee. Well, Ms. Fey and I got you coffee, and I also got her a hot chocolate because she seemed rather… distraught, and I really hope that's alright-"

"Miles." The prosecutor's hand was almost frigid where Phoenix laid his own atop it, his knuckles bony and chilled, but somehow still warm underneath all those layers. "Of course it's alright. That's… It's wonderful. Thank you."

Miles blinked at him, stars shining below his brows, before his worry-tight lips shifted into something akin to a smile.

"Of course," he murmured, casting his eyes down to where their fingers curled together.

#ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #pearl fey #fanfic #short fic #aa2 spoilers #ish #not really but just in case #narumitsu #just a splash #btw pearl has sneakers bc she used to get blisters from walking around in her sandals during investigations and travel in the city #so Phoenix got her a pair of shoes that she could run and play in #(also Phoenix thinks play is very important so that was pretty high up on his list of things to teach Pearl)

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dexaroth · 5 months

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#first ever beetle 🪲 ive seen in my apartment. just chillin there #it was standing in the inbetween of the doggy door and didnt give a shot when they went racing through it #they were very calm n nice. i could feel their little feet hooks beneath the fabric when they were walking on top of my fingers #which i almost freaked out a bit but managed to restrain myself. its a process #had an ant run up my leg the one day in the year i decided to wear shorts and sit down bc i was sure theyd be able to tell i wasnt safe to>#>walk on. yknow. big hot meaty surface. but they did. so i was a bit more wary this time. beetle showed perfect restraint however #after which they flew right into the tube light for a bit and went outside. as one does #dextxt #bugs #beetle #whoa. bugs beetle. could you imagine

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wat-zu · 11 days

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Absolutely love your art. I want to nom it.

Also, Hollow Heads Siblings my beloveds,,,

Theyre the doomed siblings ever its not even funny

#Oouugh i have thoughts abt the hollowhead siblings. How theyre so intricately tied to eachother since their birth but they'd be #Eachother'd downfall. Esp when it's Dark and his relationship with the others #Dark would never understand what chosen went through. Mainly bc i think chosen is used to fighting his internal battles on his own #While he was in captive as an ad blocker. He loves Dark. He's grateful for Dark bc without him he wouldn't be free #But Dark isnt exactly someone reliable enough for Chosen to get the necessary healing he wants and needs #But that won't stop Dark from trying to fix him. Creates the virus for revenge. As chosen watches his brother spiral and spiral #As he watches him drift further away. Unable to get him back without a shouting match. As he watches with his heart heavy and cracked at-#Their stiffed interactions and strained relationship. He can't remember a time where they shared geniune laughs.#Then tsc coming came and changed everything.#Because this is someone who went through Chosen's pain albeit a lil differently. Someone who knows. Someone who /understands/. And this-#Someone is so much more younger than them and had to go through that pain in such a short amount of time since their birth #He sees himself in them. And he's rather walk up to alan demanding to get his hands cuffed than let tsc fester in that pain.#So tsc became chosen's priority. Healed eachother in many ways than one and are at echother's beck and call if need be.#As for Dark. I think he'd manipulate tsc into using him for his revenge. After stalking out his code and finding out about his potential #And TSC cant help but fall for his manipulations. Since this person is very very important to Chosen and they want so badly to impress-#Them both. They agreed and overtime grew to love eachother. And overtime Dark shifted his goals just a tad bit. Getting TSC more and more-#Involved. Since hey if Chosen doesn't like touching alan with a 10 ft pole why not let this kid do. And TCS agrees to this thinking that-#This is it. This is can finally heal them completely. Finally out of sight and out of mind. Finally can't live without the pain lingering #And chosen watches them with a sense of deja vu. At loss at what to do and so so afraid to lose two of his lil siblings #Then shit hits the brick UBSJDBSJSN #They make me so ill im not even kidding when i said theyre so so very very doomed!!!!!!!!!#This is abt the au btw BAHHAHAHABHA

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aeoris4lovers · 1 year

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(click here to read on ao3)

When all is said and done, when Trent is locked away and their stories are told and there is nothing left of their old lives that must be turned over to the world and Caleb and Astrid are finally settling into the newer pockets of their lives, Eadwulf runs.

He leaves Astrid in the misty grey hours of early morning as she sleeps soundly, her face settled into a content kind of faint smile that so rarely graces it at any other time. There are no goodbyes on that morning, no confession of where he might be going or plans for when to meet again. There is only the ghost of a kiss on a temple, so soft it can hardly be called a true touch at all, and an apology deep in his bones that he can’t risk saying aloud.

Before he goes, he makes breakfast for her. He covers the table in a spread of fruits and eggs and toast, leaves fresh coffee in a pot, all of it magically kept warm until she wakes and finds it. There are only so many comforts he can deny her at once.

He writes a note for her, too, and props against the coffee pot. It’s short — just enough to reassure her of his safety — and carefully avoids using any of the code words that would alert her to some sort of danger.

The first step out the door is an amputation, rough and gorey and in the absence of any fire that might cauterize it, and he stumbles out onto the street in that familiar haze which accompanies, as always, the bearing of some unbearable pain. There can be no way forward for him with things as they are, grafted as he has been for so long to her stronger trunk and left to grow only as she does, but the necessity of the action leaves him no less an open wound.

Lost in that fog clouding his mind, hardly present at all in his own skin, he finds himself not long after at the outskirts of a familiar graveyard. He doesn’t remember deciding to go there, doesn’t remember wanting to, certainly doesn’t remember the process of casting a spell to close the distance — but there he is nonetheless, and as he takes stock of his surroundings, he hears the unmistakable croak of a raven ring out from a nearby tree.

There should be no warmth for him in this place, really; nothing but barred doors and shuttered windows to greet him after what they had done to it. It’s still being rebuilt, still not yet a true temple again. What reason would these people have to welcome him?

But somehow, impossibly, they do.

Not without their hesitations, of course. No one in the family has forgotten their last meeting, least of all the familiar cleric who opens the door to answer Eadwulf’s clumsy knock. Immediately, the darkening of Caduceus’ face betrays his intention to shut the door again, but then he looks at Eadwulf with a gaze that seems to burn straight through his flesh and pierce his skull. Whatever Caduceus finds inside, it must be to his satisfaction because only a moment later, he opens the door wider and asks with a smile if Eadwulf would like a cup of tea.

And with Caduceus’ blessing, the rest of the family accepts him easily enough. They are clearly unsure of him at first, but he helps in the kitchen and volunteers to take on much of the heavy lifting for the repairs and doesn’t complain when the youngest Clay practically climbs him or excitedly shows him the strangest insect she found that day, and soon enough, his presence there almost starts to feel natural.

So, he stays a while. He helps where he can but does his best not to intrude on the family otherwise, quietly haunting the further reaches of the Grove and idly tending to the plants there until needed (or just invited) elsewhere. He leaves for a couple of days every once in a while, to be on his own and give them some space, but inevitably comes back when his business elsewhere is taken care of, usually with some small gifts for the Clays in hand. He stays for what must amount to quite a few months, judging by how his hair grows long enough to curl again and then even longer still, until it nearly brushes his shoulders. He loses track of the time easily in the secluded beauty of the Grove, though, and the changing of the seasons only rarely reminds him of its passing enough to worry that he might overstay his welcome.

Constance and Cornelius insist on making a place for him to sleep inside the house, but most nights he prefers to sleep under the stars, taking in the ever-present air of nature and divinity and gentle decay. When the nights grow colder and he conjures a dome for himself to keep warm, Clarabelle likes to follow him out and join him underneath it. Sometimes she approaches with blankets dragged behind her, to throw over the top of the dome and turn it into a magical blanket fort. Other times, if the sky is clear, she lays down next to him and they look up together, him occasionally pointing out a constellation to her and her connecting the stars into constellations of her own design.

One night, just as she steps out to join him, Colton emerges behind her and takes her arm, bending to whisper something in her ear. She stops for a moment, nodding slowly as she listens, but then brushes him off as though his words were utter nonsense and makes her way over, undeterred. Later that night, as the two of them lay beneath the stars, she props herself up on her elbow to face Eadwulf and says with a cheerful smile and a mischievous glint in her eye, “Colton says you’re dangerous, you know.”

The implications of the statement only momentarily take him aback. Of course Colton — and the others, no doubt — would still be wary of him, especially with Clarabelle getting so close without them around. Propping himself up to look her in the eye, he replies with a small nod and an affirmative hum, and she only smiles wider.

“Cool.” Then, she shrugs. “You seem nice to me, though.”

Hardly a second later, she’s leaping up and out of the dome to catch a passing firefly, and the matter doesn’t come up again.

As irresistible as Clarabelle’s strange kind of charm is, his greatest fascination is — and has been, ever since that dinner — with Caduceus. Caduceus, who looked Ikithon in the eye and spoke so ruthlessly and yet without a hint of venom in his voice, who got under the archmage’s skin in a way Eadwulf isn’t sure anyone had before and lived to tell the tale, who could be at once so fiercely protective of his friends and so unflinchingly at ease in the face of the one who hurt them. Countless times, Eadwulf asks him for advice on which tea to try or which flowers are okay to pick from or some other simple request, just as an excuse to strike up conversation and pick his brain about nearly anything. Caduceus’ advice and words of wisdom are the farthest things from a disappointment and his way of looking at life is so unfamiliar yet so full of steady conviction that it borders on intoxicating, but it’s his humor — sometimes intentional, oftentimes not — that Eadwulf finds himself seeking out the most.

Every so often, the tiefling comes to visit the Grove and have tea with Caduceus; the purple one, Kingsley. He always comes with an abundance of stories about his life on the high seas, and Eadwulf can’t help but be mesmerized by the theatrics of his retellings. One afternoon, Kingsley comes with a story about a battle against a demigod with the whole of the Mighty Nein there — with Caleb there — and for the first time, he listens unabashedly, not bothering to hide how he hangs onto every word of their adventures. The two of them share a tendency to steal away to the outskirts of the Grove when they need a moment to breathe, and they often find themselves crossing paths in those stretches of the gardens. On multiple occasions, during their talks out among the headstones, Kingsley takes note of Eadwulf’s interest in his tales and extends an offer to join his crew. On almost as many occasions, Eadwulf surprises himself with how seriously he considers accepting.

The drow, Essek, stops by from time to time as well. Their first meetings are more complicated; Essek is familiar on more than a few levels with the tendencies of the man Eadwulf once served, and was present to witness under no uncertain terms how Eadwulf had done his bidding. Eadwulf, in turn, knows precisely what roles Essek played, the subterfuge that served as the basis of his career and the betrayal he was capable of. They circle each other for some time, keeping their distance but making no secret of how closely they watch each other. His curiosity eventually gets the better of him, though, and he can’t help but take the opportunity to ask a few questions about the magic Essek wields. As it turns out, one of the quickest ways to Essek’s heart is through his mind, and he can’t seem to resist the temptation of a conversation about the technicalities of his craft.

The three of them turn out to be better and more comfortable companions than Eadwulf ever could have expected. They each understand, in their own way, the hectic confusion of being pulled so suddenly into a new life by the whirlwind that is the Mighty Nein, and Eadwulf soon realizes how desperately he needed someone to be able to tell him he isn’t just losing his mind in the midst of that chaos. Even aside from that, the trio is good company, each with their own kind of intelligence and wit and arsenal of ridiculous stories to share. Though he finds himself inexplicably nervous to admit it, they begin to feel more and more like true friends with each shared conversation. They are a strange group — the ex-assassin, the grave keeper, the pirate, and the fugitive — but the strangeness is far easier to let himself settle into than his attempts at normalcy ever had been. The best days are those when all four of them are there at once, each of them growing increasingly familiar with and invested in the lives of the others, and he comes to anticipate those rare occasions with an almost childlike excitement.

(Later on, after Eadwulf’s time living at the Blooming Grove comes to an end, Caleb will frequently and openly express his absolute bewilderment at how his ex-boyfriend, current boyfriend, crush, and friend became such close companions. They seem to all outside eyes to be an unlikely match, but if you ask Eadwulf, the Grove just has a way of bringing people together like that.)

And every day, without fail, a sending from Astrid prickles the back of his mind. He always answers, of course. He reassures her with each new morning of his safety, promises her that his absence is of his own free will and that he will be returning. The idea that he might ignore her for even a day is beyond unfathomable.

Even so, the ease with which he puts her messages out of his mind after responding catches him off guard. He thinks of her near constantly, as always, but the calm beauty of the Grove and the ease of the companionship found within it makes it strangely difficult to regret the separation. Even the deepest wounds, he supposes, must begin to clot. He only hopes hers has done the same.

In the many months he spends there, he never quite apologizes for what he did to the home the Clays are now so bafflingly willing to welcome him into. Not in so many words, at least. He only lends a hand where he can and tries as well as he knows how to bring, if anything, a bit more light to their home. And in truth, it feels as though the words are unnecessary. His words are too often clumsy when they hold that much weight; they would only cheapen the remorse.

Eventually, he does take his leave from the Blooming Grove. He leaves each of the Clays with a hug, a token of his gratitude made by hand, and a promise to come back and visit. It’s Clarabelle who hugs him the longest but Constance comes close, sending him off with all of the pleas to stay safe and other such fanfare that one might expect a mother to give her son.

(The question of why will never leave his mind, no matter how often or how long he turns it over in his mind. To allow him into their home was one thing, incomprehensible in itself, but to find any true care for him was another entirely. It must be like living in a different world, he thinks, to be nurtured by a place like that for your entire life. It must change you, make you different, make you kinder. He can find no other satisfactory explanation for how such people could come to exist at all.)

When he finally returns to Astrid’s house, he braces himself for the earful he knows is waiting for him there, but Astrid only throws her arms around him the moment she lays her eyes on him. For the rest of the night, she keeps him captive as she tells him everything that went on in his absence and demands the same from him, refusing to let him leave her sight for anything longer than a bathroom break. The next day, of course, she has far angrier words for him, and he takes them without a fight — he knows he deserves them, with the way he left her.

Later that month, when he receives the expected sending from Essek on Caleb’s behalf, he accepts the invitation and agrees to attend the Nein’s monthly get-together for the first time, as ready as he could ever be to face them all again. Astrid still declines the offer and he nearly changes his mind, lest he do any further damage by leaving her again even for a night, but to his surprise she all but pushes him out the door.

Caleb greets him at the tower’s entrance, looking him up and down and saying with a soft smile, “You look good.” It’s strange, hearing his own words reflected back at him. More than anything, it strikes him that he knows full well what sentiment underlies them:

You look healthy. You look cared for. You look like yourself. You look happy.

#this was Supposed to be an exploration of wulf and astrids very complicated relationship #and what happens when they’re apart for a long time for the first time like. ever #and it was going to be angsty™️#but then wulf decided to go to the grove and make some friends instead and who am i to say no to that?#sometimes the healing insists on happening i guess. good for him #my mind just cant stop rotating the way he zeroed in on cad and was like You. I Like You #you cant tell me that was a short lived fascination. i just know he was thinking about that dinner and cad in particular for A While #and then realizing That was the home they were burning down to get at caleb???#no way in hell he just walked away and forgot about it. no fucking way #cr fic #eadwulf grieve #astrid becke #caleb widogast #caduceus clay #kingsley tealeaf #essek thelyss #the clay family #blumenduo #blumendrei #the mighty nein #critical role #critical role fic

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qwuilty · 11 months

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Also cause i was curious and wanted to do something to keep my brain occupied, heres a general line of how the postal 1 maps should connect, i used postal redux spawn locations and level leave locations cause i figured those make more sense, notably in redux the carnival is between city and central park, in which its basically just a loop around before heading back to the park

#postal #postal dude #postal 1 #tw blood #kinda?? theyre pretty low resolution but theyre there #i seperated the line by the times given from the base game journals #taking place over just about a week #one of these days id like to try and map out some potential times based on stuff like lighting and all but thats a lot of guesstimates #which im not too fond of. i want specifics damn it >:T #i mean for some of these in general i presume theres some with long walks and some are very short like the bridge to mines to junkyard link

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orbdotexe · 5 months

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A new Lightbearer breathes his first panicked breaths, throwing the blanket off his resting place, and finds himself in a world that instead takes pity on him—Much to his displeasure. But he’s been having strange dreams, and everyone warns him away from some strange… person? As more time goes on, and the warnings compound—he’s less and less sure of that notion, or if they even exist.

The brainworms said "what about Crow pre-Vanguard?? he was never in Spider's 'employ' in TFE!" and so here's some Salty Crow and the start of him being determined to figure out who killed him!

Mind: the divide is a time skip, to when Crow is out of the Dreaming City-- and this is the armor I use for the YW, since I don't give much detail. Anyway, Crow's Rez, "Bury Me Shallow":

— — —

“Who was buried up there?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean- No offense. Just… he seemed important.”

“...You don’t know?” The Corsair eyes him, wary.

“Know what?”

She takes a moment to study his face, though it’s shadowed by his hood and the sharp light behind him. It feels like she’s trying to flip through torn out pages and looks like she cut her fingers open on the shreds— He resists drawing any further in on himself.

“...Nevermind.” She scans his disheveled outfit, “You’re a Guardian?”

“Not sure what it means, but that seems to be the consensus,” he replies, mentally bristling at the judgmental tone. How can someone tell by just the clothing? Why would he be buried in this if it was that bad?

…Oh. Right. He was buried in it.

Well, maybe buried wasn’t the right word—There was just a blanket thrown over him, laying on some stone slab.

Not much of a burial. Could just be how the dead are treated, though.

“You haven’t spoken to any of your… lot, yet, either?” The corsair asks, some disdain in her words. He’s been hearing that tone a lot on the subject of Guardians, though not at him. If he’s one of them, shouldn’t she be disgusted by him, as well?

“Ah… no. I’ve seen some around, but haven’t gotten to speak to any. They seem awfully busy.” It’s not exactly a lie, but he hasn’t exactly tried to speak to them at all.

The thought of approaching one makes him nervous.

She snorts, “Busy is one way to put it.” There’s that resentment again.

He doesn’t think he will ever understand why. It seems the Guardians are trying to help, so why does almost everyone he talks to seem to hate them? Well, there have been a few Corsairs that seemed more thankful for the help, but… Most aren’t.

In the ensuing awkward silence, the Corsair seems to get a call in her helmet, turning away from him and murmuring into nothing. He can’t pick any of it up, though it sounds urgent, and she shoulders her rifle.

He can’t help but sigh quietly, knowing that meant no real conversations for another week or so.

She huffs after a few more moments, and sighs. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but the Crows’ feather falls that there’s enemy movement around.” She pauses, mouth pulling into a grimace, before continuing, “Your… abilities, might be… useful.”

“Oh.” She’s asking for his help, isn’t she? Even the Corsairs who didn’t mind Guardians hadn’t asked him to. He… hasn’t done this before—Helped from afar, sure, but not in the thick of it.

She eyes him, with some mix of anxiousness and detesting having asked. “Well, I’m… happy to help.” He smiles, despite the nervous knot in his gut. “Just lead the way.”

He swears there’s a glint of familiarity in her eyes as he says it, and she relaxes some before clearing her throat. “Let’s get going, then.”

— — —

“Sooo… Don’t remember nothin’?” The shadowed figure asks from the thick branch it’s laying on, a deep and modulated voice carrying just loud enough to reach him.

He has to crane his neck to see the ominous red glow of what he assumes is its eyes. “Uhm… no. Didn’t think I was meant to.”

“Yer Ghost tell you nothing, either?” The figure adjusts some, legs now dangling. Seems he’s interesting enough for its full attention.

“Was he supposed to?”

“...Guess not.” It drops down, not a sound leaving them as they right themself, and their face comes into view. Grey metal plates and red dots for eyes greet him. ”Any idea who ya are? Where ya woke up?”

“Looked like…a cathedral, I think.” He takes a half-step back, savouring his personal space, “He must’ve been highly respected. Did you know him?” The apparently metal man—not that he hasn’t heard of Exos (because he has, if only some), but hearing of and seeing are two different things—eyes him for a moment.

“Not personally, but knew of ‘im. An’way, strict Vanguard policy n all, can’t tell ya much.” The exo turns on his heel and starts walking, waving a hand for him to follow.

“...Riight.” He peers around the trees and rocky terrain before deciding to go along with it. “Actually, what’s with that? A few people have told me that already.”

“S’posedly, knowing obscures judgment… or som’thin along those lines. Never bothered to listen ver’ much. Got better things to do than listen to some raving mad Warlock’s lecture.”

“And… I’m supposed to be a… a Hunter?”

“Look it to me. Cape, dirty look,”—Dirty? Now that’s rude—“Things like that. Got that stature, too, and the slouch.”

“Ah. You’re…”—Brutal—“forthcoming.”

“You asked. An’way, got a name for yerself yet? Like to keep track of who I meet.”

A name. His Ghost talked about those; he had seemed excited to pick them.

“...No, not yet.”

“Could give ya some suggestions, if ya like. Though, you’d prob’ly like to do that wit yer Ghost, rather than a stranger.”

“Yeah… he’s been nagging me about it. Seems important to him.”

“Might wanna get on wit it, then! Unhappy Ghost makes a’ unhappy Guardian, y’know. In the meantime, got a preference? Any topics in partic’ you like? Might wanna fly with ‘ose.”

He thinks for a moment, and the black feather on the Hunter’s hood catches his eye. “Well… What’s yours? Might give me some ideas,” he shrugs.

“Rancher!” The other Hunter announces, wholly confident.

“Rancher,” he deadpans back, deciding that whatever he picked would have to be better than that.

“Yuep.” He opts not to question how the Exo popped the P without lips. “M’ Ghost, Iridant, wouldn’t let me jus’ keep Hunter.”

“You were going to name yourself Hunter?”

“Well, it was before I knew ‘bout the Vanguard an’ their classes thing! Iri took ‘er sweet time telling me, an’ I knew I liked huntin’, so…”

The first statement gives him pause.

Are there… are there Guardians outside of the Vanguard? Well, are not all Ghosts with the Vanguard, at least?

“Huh.”

So it’s not just him, then. Maybe Rancher’s Ghost kept him away from the Vanguard for awhile for the same reason his Ghost does… Whatever that reason is, anyway.

As the pair come up on an uphill, littered with stone piles and boulders, Rancher kicks some gravel rocks aside. “Soo, heh, how long ‘ave you been up ‘n about?”

He eyes the patch of gravel for a moment, watching them resettle, “Not too long. Spent some months in the Dreaming City, but only been out here for a few weeks, I think.”

“Ahh, so yer a new Newlight, then! Yeah. Yeah! I imagine those Awoken’re a bit weird, ey?” A barking, modulated laugh brings his gaze back up, finding Rancher to be stood at the top of some larger boulder at the top of the hill now, “How’s that place, an’way? ‘aven’t had the chance to go quite yet.”

Weird was one way to put the Corsairs. So much disdain for Guardians, and yet they seemed fine with him—among other things. “Well, it’s… It’s pretty, when you aren’t under fire.” He could paint pictures of that sky, but… What were the pale things called? Scorn? “The uh… the ones with crossbows were trouble.”

Rancher laughs, again—now more entertained, rather than antagonistic, “Ooooh, big man too good for Taken? The ozone smell don’t bother you? Might jus’ be a’ Exo thing, that, but I ‘ear it makes some a bit nauseous.”

The memory of spinning around, mid combat, to be met with a Taken Knight towering over him moments before waking up—with a few Corsairs gathered around him—springs to the front of his mind. He opts to hum in agreement rather than debate it, climbing up on another slab across from the other Hunter.

The hill below drops-off into what looks to be a patched together base of sorts, old enough to have a dusting of moss and vines over it, but recently lived in and the vines cut back over computer panels and exits.

He catches Rancher stretching (though, he doubts Exos have any need to do so) out the corner of his eye as the other Hunter sighs, “Ahhh, ‘ere’s my stop.”

“Your… stop?” Despite the lived-in look to the base, he can’t see any proof of the occupants anywhere nearby. Or was Rancher here to reclaim it? He had heard Hunters were largely meant to be scouts. Supposedly.

“Yuep!” The Exo pops the end, again. “Got an op to run out ‘ere. That base down there? ‘posed to hold some pests, an’ I’m on exterminator duty!”

And there goes the scout theory. If he went to the Vanguard, would he be put on these missions, too?

“Ooh,” Rancher stops and turns back, “‘fore I go—Careful if you see a Hunter in red an—ahh, no, that’s… That’s not specific at all. Hm.”

He’s heard this warning before. No one ever tells him why, or what that Hunter did, just to stay far away. Every. Time. Other than the vague warnings, he’s not even sure what he’s looking out for.

And it doesn’t help that “red and black Hunter” is a good seventy percent of Hunters he’s seen.

“Why? What did they do?” He tries to put force into his voice, but Rancher skips over the question.

“Just- ah. Complicated. I’ll send yer Ghost a picture, heh?” Rancher’s Ghost—a foil-textured, pink colored, and green eyed… mini Servitor?—appeared with a series of trills. “You’ll want to avoid–” The Ghost projected an image, “–that one.”

He could barely study the figure before there was a blast followed by the sound of Pikes somewhere nearby, to which both Rancher and his Ghost snapped to attention, projection fading.

“Ah!” Rancher sounded excited as his Ghost dematerialized, “That’s my que! Pleasure t’ meet ya, blueberry, but I gotta run.”

“Wh- Blue–? Hold on, what does that—” but the other Hunter is already plowing through the woods on a still-materializing sparrow, giving him one last wave, “—mean…”

He sighs, but can’t help but stare, dumbfounded, after Rancher, yet—

One thing stuck in his mind; That single, holographic, orange eye.

The same one in his dreams.

What happened to his past life?

#the forsaken exile #destiny 2 #destiny 2 crow #and i need it to be known. outside of the content box. that the title isnt as poetic as you might think #i am entirely poking fun at Uldren's burial. and Crow is so salty about it #also. ''The Crows' feather falls that ___'' is basically saying ''word has it ___'' and is also in reference to the Crows being spies--#(i have. so many little headcanons lmao. we'll see how many i can fit in TFE)#thinking that Rancher will be the Hunter in Impromptu Arsenal Check (egregore) but not sure if i'll do anything with him past it #he was very fun to write though!#anyway-- versus the Drifter chapter/short. i think the pacing and dialogue of this flows so so much better #a few qualms here and there but overall. very happy with it #and i KNOW i was supposed to finish like... the angsty cayde hug. or fluffy crow walk. or the fungi wolf fight. but this took over my brain #it took me over so badly #but also that start/summary format. dont like. i think i just talk too much LMAO the ao3 format works so much better for #my overly talkative ass #got a place for the summary. opening notes. and even CLOSING notes. and i can even hide shit in tags at the START instead??#ough #i have no idea what to tag this with though so i will... add the link to it here when i get that done lmao

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