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spookyspaghettisundae · 2 years

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Dead Already

Weak rays of sunlight met lifeless flesh. First flies buzzed about the bodies. The world quaked and thundered. Large wooden wheels churned, crackling, and crunching and squelching as they carried the corpse wagon over sticks and stones, down long, winding roads, and through shallow trenches of mud.

Horses neighed and snorted while their hooves sank into the muck and they fought to pull the wagon up and down every hill, spurred on by the rare crack of the whip and the driver's orders.

Sun rose upon a horizon painted in colors of deep sorrow and simmering rage, where dreary clouds drifted, refusing to fully part in face of the fiery light.

The pile of bodies heaped up on the back of the wagon shook and quivered with each uneven bump in their journey cross countryside. What sad ditch awaited, ready to fill its empty bowels with the dead?

Their lifeless limbs weighed heavily against the sole survivor hidden in their midst. One person, unable to find their voice, lay enfeebled in the heap of heavy corpses. Skin as pale and cold as theirs, deprived of all strength necessary to break free, robbed of all but the ability to open eyelids and gaze upon the misery manifest around them.

Consciousness pooled. Horrid flashes of slaughter rose to the surface. The clash of steel, and the screams of the hurt and the dismembered. The burning pain of a cold blade sinking into the back.

The betrayal at Plaimont Hill.

Finally—

A finger twitched. While the rest of their body refused to respond to Rain's will, a finger twitched. And another. Then the first twitched again.

Finally—

A croaking sound escaped chapped and blood-encrusted lips. A world-weary groan.

With it returned all the pain of injury. Of the festering wound in the back, pulsating with each weakened heartbeat, throbbing, and burning—while blood pumping through veins ran afoul with the poison of rot.

Through the rumbling of the wheels, and the whinnying of the horses, this single, pathetic sound never reached the dulled senses of the tired driver steering the wagon. Another crack of the whip eclipsed it.

Rain.

Rain remembered the name they had chosen. A name given and graciously accepted.

Rain o' Blades.

Rain remembered the mistake that had landed them upon this cart of corpses.

A mistake mired in trust.

Another weary groan escaped, and finally—limbs obeyed beyond a finger's twitching. Tired wrists twisted, turning as Rain struggled to push free from the sea of bodies. Together with the pooling of consciousness, the taste of grit and the stench of death turned palpable, pairing to wash Rain with waves of nausea.

A wheezing groan, drowned out by noise, escaped Rain. The only body alive on the wagon save driver, every muscle burned with agony and strain, pushing against the suffocating weight of all the lifeless ones.

Before emitting another noise to draw any attention, darkening clouds of growing consciousness cautioned Rain from doing any such thing. For whoever transported these bodies to their mass graves would perhaps finish the work that a knife to the back had only started.

Mud splashed Rain's face and squelched the air from a grunt, followed by bubbles popping upon the swampy surface. Fallen from the back of the wagon, unnoticed. Forgotten and presumed dead. The spy writhed in the muck until coming to rest on a side, sputtering out dirt.

Rain drizzled upon them, blanketing the rolling hills and lonesome road.

The horses whinnied and the wagon rumbled, becoming quieter with every of Rain's raspy breaths, as the distance between them grew at languid pace. Rain in the mud by the roadside, rolling onto their back, staring up at bleak, gray sky. Where the clouds gathered to mute the sun, and drizzle slowly turned to downpour.

Rain dragged themself from the ditch, crawling several steps up the hill before collapsing again. Consciousness faded like mist and clouds, drifting in and out of time, lost to the void of oblivion. Ignorant to the beauty of crystals formed in raindrops pearling upon blades of grass.

A frog in the mud stared back at them. A serpent silently snakes it way through the wet foliage nearby.

Blinking to see if they were real, Rain lost sight of the creatures blending into their environment. All of them staring.

Watching.

Like the praying mantis.

It stared back at Rain, hidden with the same dull green as the blades of grass surrounding it.

A grasping, feeble hand, reaching out to the predatory insect—falling limp. Blinking again, consciousness faded quicker than the dark clouds drifting 'cross sky. With the mantis there one moment and gone the next.

In its place the long legs of a man, feet wrapped in cloth, all speckled with mud and dampness. The shadow loomed, then crouched. Strong hands gripped Rain, and stomach twisted as the world spun around, finding only steady balance after more lost time.

A heavy callused hand gripping shoulder, and another arm cupped legs, carrying Rain underneath dreary heavens. Rain's head bobbed with every step taken, glimpsing stubble and a face carved by weather and age, never meeting their gaze, and only ever staring ahead with steadfast aim.

When the spy came to their senses, the warmth of a hearth spoke its greetings with soft crackle and pop from firewood. Water boiled in a black pot and the chamber smelled of herbs and carrots.

Wreathed in a rough and itchy blanket, Rain stirred and sat up from a bed of straw. Immediate regret followed on heels of a searing pain in their back, eliciting another wheezing groan from the spy. They plopped down upon the lumpy bed and sighed.

Sat at a simple table nearby, a man looked up. The same man who had found them by the roadside, who must have carried them all this way.

Staring directly into his eyes, Rain's blood curdled.

Eerie yellow light, sparkling and flashing with unnatural spirit. No human had ever borne such a gaze, though the spy understood little of things such as ghosts and goblyns.

"What do you want from me?" asked the wayward spy in a steady monotone, resigned to horrid fate.

"I think little of king or duke or any fops and shining knights," said the golden-eyed creature. "I will not deliver you to those who want you dead, spymaster."

Dressed as a peasant in tattered tunic and simple cloth, the broad-shouldered figure exuded an imperious air. Against the gleam of fire in the hearth, a dark aura shrouded his presence like a halo of shadow.

Whatever odd comfort his presence instilled upon Rain, other eyes throughout the humble abode imposed the exact opposite.

Eyes stared at them from everywhere. Hidden in strange places, creatures dwelt without sound. A frog sat on the windowsill, colored brown like the wood it perched upon. A rat cowered in the darkest corner of the hut, watching with twitching little claws. And a spider sat on its web across the ceiling, its myriad eyes observing the spy.

Said Rain, "I owe you thanks, for they could only do worse to me. For I am dead already."

The creature wearing the guise of a peasant cocked his head to the side and studied Rain's naked body. The spy's garb hung from an empty chair's back, drying by the fire.

"How would you know you are dead or not?"

Rain struggled to sit up anew, shackled by the debilitating pain in their back, where stiletto's blade had plunged deeply. Bereft of all clothing, the spy only wore bandages, and felt the cooling sensation of herbal ointments lathered upon injured skin.

The spy produced a lopsided smile.

"Perhaps you are right. The constant pain I feel, it grounds me. After all I have lived through, I often dream of release to the Great Beyond, when my true time comes."

The creature folded his hands and veiled the lower half of his face behind them, returning Rain's attention from the smaller creatures in the hut to the unblinking gaze of those golden, shining eyes.

Smoldering like the fire, his voice billowed out like smoke.

"The only constant in our world is infinity itself. Your pain will pass, in due time. The agony of your death is delayed."

Rain offered no response to that. Dared not offend this strange and unexpected host.

Spoke the man again, "I wonder why a friend of late knight Kasavir was betrayed as you were. A friend of a friend you are clearly not to the duke."

Rain sighed and let themself slump back onto the straw, crunching under a shoulder as they avoided resting on injured back. The black widow quietly crawled across the web overhead.

"My mistake was trusting the allies of my—my best friend. I should have known better," answered Rain on a winding trail of wistful whispers.

"The enemy of thine enemy is not thy friend."

"Aye," said Rain, clicking tongue. "Just like the friend of a friend may by thine enemy."

The creature stayed silent.

Chasing another sigh, Rain shifted uncomfortably where they lay, finding the creature's gaze again.

"I'm afraid I have little to offer in return for your… your kindness, though perhaps I can sate your curiosity by shedding light on what it is that… brought me here."

"A talkative spy?" asked the creature with audible, hidden smile.

"I am spy no longer. No longer do I serve any man thus," Rain said with swelling fervor.

"I seek not your candor, though I know of another way you may repay my kindness."

"And here I was hoping to settle the debt with what I know. A coup to eliminate a potential usurper to the king's crown. You see, Duke Allon of Plaimont fancies the throne as befitting of his buttocks and will suffer no rivals on his murderous path."

"I know who you are, spymaster," interrupted the creature.

Rain smirked, masking a searing sting of pain as it surfaced, returning with subtlety to remind them of their sorry condition.

Should they be bereft of their common mask, they would don another.

The small animals all watched. A serpent slithered between the man's legs, crossing grimy floor, beady eyes glistening with reflections of dancing flame as they stared back at Rain.

"I know your first and last names both, assassin. Rain o' Blades, masquerading as court jester, once also known as Gladstone."

The words cut deeper than the tip of the stiletto. Unlike the dagger to the back, these mentions of names sliced with truth and knowing.

They robbed Rain of any reply.

Asked the creature, "Would you be willing to resume your old trade for me? To kill the duke? I shan't be able to offer pay."

Rain narrowed their eyes, meeting that golden gaze with suspicion.

"No need to pay me," they replied. "You may have extended your kindness only to expect recompense, but what I shall do is not for you—or not for you alone. It is a kindness I extend to you and many others, but most importantly, it serves to quench my own thirst."

The creature, disguised as peasant, flashed a smoldering grin, hidden behind folded fists.

Remaining silent.

Said Rain furthermore, "Speaking of thirst, I am parched. May I have something to drink?"

The chair creaked as the golden-eyed creature rose from sitting, moving to the bubbling pot to fetch some tea. The steaming liquid gurgled as he poured it into a wooden mug.

With back turned to Rain, the question arrived, "You fear not any consequence of allying yourself with my ilk?"

"I know not what you are, nor do I care to question."

The stranger latched the pot back over the fire, where bare hands ignored the heat and clicked wrought iron into place.

Still, without turning, he asked Rain, "No fear of creatures not your kin?"

"I fear only failure," Rain said with lips pressing together till they formed a thin white line. "And more, I fear breaking my vow. You could have done me in at any time yet chose not to. I shan't question."

The creature turned and knelt by the assassin's side, holding the steaming mug of tea for them to take.

Stifling a groan, Rain sat up. Cupped hands 'round mug, head bowed in gratitude. They sipped from the bitter drink, savoring its heat as it ran down dry throat. Then they looked up at the creature.

Like a memory, like silk brushing over skin, the image and sensation of that rough hand caressing Rain's slender chin—it came and went, fleeting and mysterious. Real or dreamt?

Rain sipped again, losing thought in the golden glow of those eyes. Shining and intense. Disarming despite the deep-rotted danger they carried. Comforting despite any evil they may harbor, for such evil reserved itself for others now.

Exhaustion soon followed, with all words melting into the spiraling abyss of slumber.

When Rain awoke again, all pain had vanished, though the bandages remained. Removing them, finding all wounds mysteriously healed, and dark clouds outside the hut all gone, the assassin-spy lingered by the window, rapt by wonder.

Real or dreamt?

Naked from all clothes and bandages, thin fingers tracing skin, where all wounds had healed, leaving only faint scars to remind Rain of the pain of humiliation and betrayal, and the sting of their memory far fainter than the blade's damage should have been.

They turned to spot the empty mug on the otherwise barren table's surface. The ashes in the hearth dormant and cold. Clothes fully dried, hanging from the chair's back. And the air in the abode as fresh as autumn breeze outdoor.

From shadows it came, suddenly there when the assassin-spy's attention fell upon it: a praying mantis stood in shadow on floorboards nearby.

In their own reflection upon those tiny, many-faceted eyes, slender assassin lost all thought.

Staring back at one another.

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nykrose · 2 years

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Send 🛒 to shove them into a shopping cart and roll them down a hill

[Meme]

@thegreatstrongbow

Nyk screamed. He lacked the wherewithal to wonder where the cart had come from.

(Found abandoned on the side of the road, probably, that's what he would do.)

He lacked the sense, also, to extricate himself, normally white knuckles ghostly where he gripped the sides. Somehow, the wheels found every bump, rock and tussock, turning Nyk's screech into an uneven vibrato. The axle groaned. His hair streamed.

The cart hit a mudbank at the bottom of the hill, flipping wheels over heels to dump its load into the rain formed pond. It lurched aside with a wooden creak, lilting into a sad slorp as the mud claimed it.

Nyk reappeared a moment later, sputtering, plastered—not in the fun way—and blinking froggily back up the hill where his would-be widower stood.

"Do it again!" He called, pulling his legs free of the muck in a series of sloppy sounds. His clothes were ruined, anyway.

#[meme response]#[v: dark times & fair folk]#thegreatstrongbow

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astarab1aze · 9 days

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🚑 [whichever u feel! 👀]

receiver hiding injuries from sender

Their first instinct was to lie.

"What're ye so worried about? Nothin' happened. I jus don't like a big crowd."

They turned away, wriggling free of Hanma's grasp, and awkwardly flocked across whitestone cobbles to another stall, pulling their cloak around themself as tightly as possible. Ignoring the pain shooting up and down their left arm in favor of focusing their attention on shiny little baubles and offering a single livre in exchange for one or two they hadn't bothered to properly catalogue. They didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to even acknowledge what'd happened when they'd split off in the market earlier, but their arm was throbbing - too many feathers missing, blood smearing into the rest. They'd done their best to clean and dress the wounds left behind, held down, feathers ripped form their skin, razor sharp talons and natural agility their only saving grace.

Their mother had always warned them about the dangers of the world, and they'd seen a few, but they never expected to be plucked off the street by a dirty, ugly Wildling in robes desperate for harpy feathers. They never expected to be brought to harm in a city that was supposed to be safe enough to wander around freely in. And they hated that Hanma, the chaotic devil wrapped in a terror his own, could sense that something had happened despite their best efforts to hide it. Gold burned with emotion they couldn't stand to feel, their heart sinking ever deeper into the pit of their stomach the moment Hanma touched them next. Having their mother fuss over them seemed a more viable option than Hanma knowing, now, that they could be hurt. That they couldn't hold their own in the event something happened to them. Which implied more egregious ineptitudes, revealed in full their inability to use magic or be useful when worse things happened to any of them.

And maybe that was stupid. Maybe Hanma didn't care at all how capable or incapable Asuka could be, and maybe they were making a mountain out of styxie bones, but they didn't want to first person they'd ever felt something for to view them as lesser. Weaker. Worthless. Burdensome. Maybe their priorities were out of order, too, for they couldn't think of anything but how Hanma would see them, burying the incident in the dirt of their mind.

One thing they'd come to realize is that people couldn't afford to be weak outside of the University tower. Sunjatta was not a safe place, so full of monsters and Wildlings and Myrrdinian soldiers, frenzied beasts and hunters that didn't quite align with Geralt's apparent ideals - he didn't have to outline them with words for Asuka to understand - and there were horrible, cruel, disgusting things people do to each other if only for the sake of it.

Oh, how they stewed in the muck of it, their eyes never quite making contact with Hanma's, all the noise of the people passing, cart wheels rolling over whitestone, chatter, livre clinking against countertops, faint music, flies buzzing, everything everything everything combining into one piercing ring. It was overwhelming. Their palms were sweaty and they told themself it was the heat of the sun, but their heart was beating twice as fast and their talons were scraping into the stone and their breathing had begun to labor and-- What if that man was looking for them now? What if that man would do something worse when he found them? What if they... couldn't get away next time? What if, instead of a fistful of feathers, it was their eyes, their fingers, their organs, their--

"I want to leave," they said with a shake, "I don't want to be here anymore. Want to go back to the inn, find mother and the witcher and leave."

The hand around their arm felt like caustic fire, like rubbing salt in a gaping wound, and they knew that Hanma could feel the absence of their feathers, see the flakes of dried blood shuddering off their talons, smell it soaking through the dressing. They didn't have to look at him to know what expression he was making, his aura was enough, wave upon wave of what Asuka could only describe as crushing washing over them. On an instinctive level, they knew what he was thinking, too.

So they did the only thing they could think of, donning a particular mask, willing their trembles away, and grinned a toothy grin, thinking up a believable enough story on the fly, mind reeling as Hanma pried apart their cloak and pulled their arm free to see for himself the bloody bandages and stains.

"I-It's a little embarrassin'... Got my feathers caught walkin' past the smithy by the baker's, couldn't get free 'thout rippin' 'em out." They forced a chuckle. "The smith wasn't too happy I knocked down one of his displays in the process. Helped me wit treatin' the wounds it caused. There go my feathers though..."

Now I'm even uglier than before. Would he still...want to be with me anyway?

"Can we go now? 'm fine. Nothin's broken, t'was an accident. My fault. Don't go huffin', puffin', an' blowin' anyone's house down like the Big Bad Wolf o' Luvia. Let's jus go back, an' if those two are still out shoppin' for supplies, then maybe we can do somethin' a little more interestin' than frettin' over a few lost feathers," they hummed, continuing in their flurry, cooing emphatically. "'Sides, no guarantee we'll get another chance once we get back to travelin' again..."

#☿ || Asks.#✘ // The Serpent Coiled Around the Crow; Hanma.#♞ // Verse: Of Endless Suffering.#gyofukuki #injury /#/ just kicking an idea around here. doesn't have to be a thing #/ but i thought it would be interesting to sort of dig into asuka's thought process and emotions regarding this #/ i don't think i ever got to really expand on it or write it out in full #/ we talked about how they'd react to getting hurt before but yeah #/ also i know hanma is 0-60 real quick so this whole thing is kind of assuming a lot #/ so like i said just a lil idea

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poetrythreesixfive · 5 months

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Reassessment

Is it really all just apple carts and sidewalks,

shuffling along the avenue from one storefront

to the next juggling handfuls of hatboxes and

packages, groceries and giant dreams too great

for our hatchbacks to handle? Should we really

just accept the unacceptable as sadly inevitable

or cling to swerving insinuations of potentials

unmet that have just managed to elude us time

and again by word and pen resulting in a salary

unfit to buy celery, with constant tension as our

only pension? Or will we see through the muck

of maudlin expectations and crank through the

grey snowy days where cabdrivers and clerks

set the stage block by block, checking the box,

eternally slaves to bills and clocks, that circular

dance of diligence and duty devoid of passion

or romance, just doing it to do it, just wanting

to get through it, until one day, you’re old and

have come to terms that neither you nor I nor the

next guy will ever get through it until we either

die or break down and cry and step off the wheel

that keeps us churning with such zeal, abandon

our post and go in search of something that will

allow us to obtain those childhood goals so that

instead of dying, we make the most of our souls.

-GeorgeFilip

#poem #poetry #poetrythreesixfive #georgefilip #spilledink #poetryportal #poetsandwriters #poetsontumbler #spilledwords #deepthoughts #misanthrope #reality #daily grind

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

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Hue and Cry VI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; abuse of power, chase, unwanted touching, confusing Bucky is confusing, blow job.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You’re journey continues on but not so smoothly.

Note: Getting this out for Monday and back to the grind of the new job so updates might not be as steady but I’ll at least get some more gif requests done.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

The caravan continued until the sun began to descend. Tents were erected for the lords and the retinue of lower nobility and guards. As the servants slept under and in the wagon, or out in the open, you were taken to the painted blue canvas where Lord Barnes' bed had been set up.

He spent much of the day in the carriage with you but for the last hour took to horseback. He welcomed you with kiss on your forehead, his arm already disposed of on the stout stool beside the bed. His sleeves hung loosely but he barely seemed to worry for it as he urged you to the mattress.

He only stripped his coat and tunic, his boots kicked off beside the frame. He helped disassemble your gown, the pieces slung over the single chest unloaded into the tent. You remained in only your shift as he pulled you down beside him after he extinguished the lantern.

He laid on his side, watching you as his hand rested on your stomach. You were exhausted but knew you wouldn't sleep. Still, you closed your eyes and tried to let weight settle over your eyelids.

"Sweeting," Barnes cooed, "did you enjoy our activity today?"

You stiffened and slowly opened your eyes. You looked at him cautiously and dipped your chin, "yes, my lord." You still weren't certain how you felt about what occurred but to let on that confusion to him would do you no favours.

“Mmm,” he nestled closer, bringing his body flush to your side as he took your hand and played with your fingers. You exhaled and urged the strength entirely from your body, “and I did wonder… you did say you were untouched… was your meaning that you’d never been touched in any manner? Even as lightly as how I did this day?”

You bit the inside of your lip and mustered your voice. “Never. Never anything, my lord,” you confessed.

He hummed and brought the back of your hand to his lips. He kissed your flesh cloyingly, leaving a trail up your arm to the edge of your shift. His hand dropped yours and swept up your stomach. He cupped your chest and rested his head just over the swell of your breasts.

His hair smelled of horse and sweat. You let him lay against you and stared at the canvas of the tent through the stifling dark. He brought the blankets higher and held you in his warmth. He nuzzled your breasts but his hand did not descend further.

“It will be some days yet,” he said grimly, “I hate travel, it is so tiring,” he yawned, “but when we are at the castle, we may rest…” his fingers curled into your side as his breath slipped under the top of your shift, “we will have time to know each other better.”

You closed your eyes and a hot tear trickled down your temple and along your scalp. You fought not to heave as you wanted desperately to sob. You just laid there, still but restless, and listened to his breaths. When at last he began to snore, you began to weep.

🏰

The second day rolled by on the carriage wheels and into the dust of the road. The third morning came with a layer of frost and the sun stayed hidden behind pale clouds. You climbed again into the royal vehicle and Barnes joined you again. He did not ride at all on his own as he slumbered on the bench with head in your lap and woke to shove his hand up your skirts.

Again, he stoked the flame inside of you with his touch. You hated how you whined, how your thighs clamped around his hand hungrily, and how the ripples flowed over to powerful tides. On the fourth day, he was joined by another as it began to rain and Lord Rogers sat across from you as Barnes flanked you.

You pulled back the curtain to peer out at the muddy road and listened to the call of the wet riders and the servants who worked to dislodge the carts whenever they were halted by the muck. You knew Rogers was watching you, you felt the tingle of his gaze, and Barnes too. The two men had you caged in and their silence troubled you.

“I see you have a new dress,” Rogers began, “it looks fine on you… lady.”

You looked to him and then to Barnes. “Thank you, my lord,” you clasped your hands and kept your shoulder straight as you stared at the empty space beside Rogers.

“You must have selected the attire,” Rogers spoke to Barnes, “she might look lovely in rose.”

“Mmm, you would know fashion better than me,” Barnes grumbled, “so long as the fabric is untorn and cut well, I am unbothered.”

“Oh, but you see the neckline does frame her face well, it brings out the shape of it,” Rogers tilted his head as he looked you over, “and the hood, she would do well with something shorter to lengthen the neck but it the pearls are well placed.”

“Had I known you were so interested in women’s attire I might have consulted with you before sending to my tailor,” Barnes sighed and fidgeted with the ring on his finger.

“Only in that it makes me wonder at what’s beneath,” Rogers slithered, “I always thought the intrigue of ladies was to peel away the wrapping of their gifts.”

“Do not be crass,” Barnes rebuffed as he gripped his forehead, “the storm does already cloud my head.”

Rogers crossed his arms and huffed. He pushed his legs apart and glared at Barnes. “How much longer am I to wait?”

Barnes dropped his hand and sat up. He glanced at you and back to Rogers. His jaw clenched as he considered his friend and shrugged.

“Oh come on, you would not feel so rotten with a distraction,” Rogers urged, “and I would not be so bored. It is easier astride to bear the road--”

“Quiet,” Barnes snapped and his throat constricted, “you don’t give me time to think.”

Rogers brows rose hopefully as he watched his friend. Barnes ran his hand up and down his thigh then reached to you. He pulled on your arm until you were against him. He whispered in your ear, “recall as you did with your hand,” he said, “you might use your mouth in its stead.”

You pulled back and squinted at him dumbly. He did not flinch as he pointed to the other lord then nudged your elbow. He sighed and sat back heavily.

“Let us have it over with and you will not mention it again,” Barnes flicked his fingers in a final order to you.

You felt as if you were covered in a sheet of ice and yet mortification seared your lungs like smoke. Your eyes threatened to water but you lowered your lashes and slipped away from Barnes before your anger and disgust had you striking him. What he demanded of you was revolting and entirely demeaning. You had little esteem left for the lord but did not expect it to sink lower.

You edge off the bench and stood crookedly in the carriaged. You went to Rogers as he watched you and tried to figure how best to approach him. Your heart clenched at the thought, how easily you did bend to Barnes’ will. Your hands shook and you turned suddenly and grasped at the carriage door.

You were dragged back as an arm looped around your middle and swung you against the bench. Barnes stood over you, hunched beneath the roof of the carriage as he puffed angrily through his nose.

“Are you mad?” he snarled.

You splayed over the bench and panted as he glared down at you. He seized you again and forced you up. He turned you and thrust you towards Rogers as he bent to rasp in your ear. The other lord watched with a smirk as he picked at the laces of his breeches and pushed them open. You closed your eyes as he reached into his undershorts and lifted his pelvis to slip down his bottoms.

“Why must you make this all so difficult?” Barnes sneered and pushed you onto the bench. He grabbed the back of your neck and bent you over Rogers lap, “open your mouth, sweetling.”

You obeyed almost as once as his tone sent shivers through you and his grip made your spine ache. You felt the tip of Rogers member as it filled the ring of your lips and Barnes shoved you down its length harshly. Rogers poked at your throat as Barnes moved to kneel and watched how you struggled to take it all.

You gagged and grasped Rogers' thigh as your whole body tensed. You were pulled back and pushed down again, your spit spreading down his cock as Barnes guided your motion. Soon both men made lurid noises; Rogers groaning in pleasure and Barnes encouraging you to take more.

“Sweeting, you must learn,” Barnes coaxed, “when you do not listen, you must atone.”

“Fuck,” Rogers gasped as his hand circled his base just below your lips and he stroked in time with your motion, “she’s good.”

Rogers stretched his hand over your back as he leaned back against the seat, rocking his hips just a little as he slid past further down your throat. The two men kept you moving as the sloppy noise of your humiliation melded with their voices.

“My word, I’m almost there,” Rogers fingers curled against the back of your dress, “oh, pet…”

A sudden heat flooded your throat and slicked his member as he slowed and twitched. The salty deluge made you choked as Barnes pulled you back and you dropped to your knees as you covered your mouth in disgust.

“Ah, don’t make a mess,” Barnes let you go entirely, “swallow it, sweeting.”

You shuddered as you forced yourself to gulps down the revolting slickness and you heaved as you stayed on the floor of the carriage. You were wrenched off your hands and dragged on your knees to the other bench. Barnes glared at you as he unlaced his breeches impatiently.

“You were wise to suggest the distraction,” Barnes jibed at Rogers as he pulled out his member, “it might help the needle in my head.”

“She is good,” Rogers sighed, “she serves well.”

“You might recall she serves me,” Barnes brought your to his tip and rammed past your lips, “do not amuse yourself with any other ideas.”

“I can admire her even so,” Rogers rose and the carriage creaked as he moved closer. He came up behind you and ran his hands down your sides, “would it not be something if I lifted her ass right now and--”

“Ahh, Steve, enough,” Barnes kept your head bobbing with his hand on your hood, “I have yet to have that pleasure myself.”

“You toy with her,” Rogers squeezed your hips as he bent and nuzzled your hood, “you should fuck her now. I feel how she quivers. You would torture both her and yourself.”

“We are not… far… from the… capital,” Barnes panted as used you, “I would wait and have her on still ground.”

“Mmm, she does need breaking,” Rogers backed away and fell heavy on the other bench, “like any good mare.”

“Mmm, yes,” Barnes moaned, “sweeting, oh, so…”

He trailed off and the carriage went silent but for the noise of your mouth and the lord’s lewd utterances. You kept on if only to have it done with, humiliated and hurt. If only you had been quick enough to toss yourself from the carriage; a horse’s hooves would be much preferable to that torture.

“You remember to swallow… sweeti--” he spasmed and again a hot river flowed through you. You gagged but gulped down his cum as he slid from your mouth. His cock glistened as he cradled his sack and groaned, “good,” he lifted his hand and ran his thumb over your wet lips, “such a sweet little pet.”

You drew away and hung your head as you held in a cough. You wiped your mouth with your sleeve but stayed on the floor. You were too frightened to move, frightened that it would inspire another violation. Barnes reached down and pulled you up and angled you onto the seat next to him, his member hidden but his breeches still open.

He fixed your mussed hood and marveled at your puffy lips. He pulled you against him, his gentleness off putting as he caressed your sleeve and let you rock against him with the motion of the carriage. You peeked over at Rogers as you felt him watching and he licked his lips crudely.

“Hmmm, yes, she will be the perfect little prize for the tournament,” Rogers remarked.

“You will have to win your own,” Barnes countered, “our debt is settled, you will not approach her again.”

Rogers rolled his eyes and shrugged, “as you wish,” he said dryly.

“Don’t be a child,” Barnes scoffed, “the capital is ripe with maids eager to serve a duke and you’ve never been so finicky about them.”

“Perhaps but I think you’ve helped me refine my tastes,” Rogers met your shy gaze and bit his lip, “such a sweet little thing.”

“Let us keep the sparring to the tourney,” Barnes warned, “friend.”

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ask-tay-relic · 2 years

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-Helper at the Road- [askthetrojanvirus RP]

@askthetrojanvirus

It was always in the middle of the rainy seasons that the crops found themselves to scream ‘pick me! Sell me!’ - a time that a large workhorse such as Astheny found to be little more than more mud and muck beneath his hooves, nothing out of the ordinary, and less so anything to warrant any introspection.

Though, this particular season brought a few new hosts of problems to Acher’s Forest - a few new species of wasps that Frae had to go ask Fluttershy’s help with, a rot beneath the boughs that claimed more than a few of his orchard, to name the most prevalent.

But none of that mattered while the stallion was on the road, no it was only the sound of the wind, and the good heavy weight of the cart’s tassels around his chest as he pulled it vicariously through the deep trenches of softened soil from the last rainfall.

A horse of his size had little trouble with such a contest of strength, so it was like any leisurely walk from home to deliveries…

Though as he and his load turned the corner, he blinked a few times at the sight of another trough of bags and barrels in the middle of the road, and for a moment looked back to his own before continuing around the corner.

Just from a cursory glance, he could tell that the wheels were busted out of the axel, something that would be hard enough to fix if the bed of the cart wasn’t filled with items.

Stopping a few feet away to unhook the latch from his harness he called out a greeting before approaching;

“Hey Lass! Yer needin’ help with that ya?”

#(Goat Girl - Hannah) - [askthetrojanvirus]#[[First Post; To be Continued @ Relic Replies]]

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castlevania-afterdark-imagines · 4 years

Note

A series of events leading to sleeping naked with Trevor under his cloak. Or with Dracula under his. Please?

Doing this kind of like they’re in the early stages of being in a relationship. Venturing into physical but not fully confident in the nude yet. Namely because if this was far into said relationship sleeping naked under his cloak is just a translation for “bedtime ritual”. (Also I cannot really see many situations where you are going to get the Lord of Darkness, Master of the Night, Vlad Dracula Tepes to sleep naked under only a cloak. The guy has a whole fuckin castle to make use of afterall, you know he has some royal standard bedding available.

The dangers of the road were usually pretty standard when traveling with Trevor.

Bandits? Yup. Monsters? Easy. Terrible weather? Ha, as if he hasn’t slept completely soaking wet a thousand times due to a sudden storm.

The wheel axle snapping and promptly tossing the two of you from the front seat into a pile of questionably smelling road muck? That was new.

After fixing the axle well enough to reach the next town, the two of you didn’t have to do much but give each other a strained look of “I love you but you reek” to prompt directing your cart off the road towards a nearby river.

Even Trevor has limits on how much grime he can handle. He bails on any pretense of being “gentlemanly” and strips before you can negotiate who should turn their gaze away first.

Not that you get much time to observe before he’s fully submerged and scrubbing the filth off his skin. To be honest, you were also preoccupied trying to do the same.

After a solid hour of washing clothes and equipment there’s a bit of an awkward dance trying to set up a camp and lay out clothing to dry around the fire without too much obvious peaking.

Trevor, lucky bastard, at least still has his cloak to hide away under. It had been warm enough that day that he hadn’t been wearing it during *the incident*. That also meant he was the one setting up for dinner while you took shelter in the cart.

You both find relative comfort resting by the fire on a spare blanket but after he sees you start to shiver once the sun dips behind the trees he errs on the side of practicality and offers for you to come join him under it. God knows it’s big enough for two.

There’s not really many ways of fitting two sitting people under a cloak comfortably, so much to a blushing Trevor’s chagrin, you just have to sit your bare naked ass on his bare ass naked lap.

He tries very hard (heh) to keep from getting excited about the position, thinking of monster guts and errant kicks to the nuts during past tavern brawls but well... he’s a simple man and his very attractive partner is sitting in his lap.

Once you notice and give a cheeky wiggle of your hips (to be sure you weren’t “sitting on a log or something”) Trevor chokes out a rough “We should get some rest” and carefully dumps you out of his lap so he can move to put out the fire, leaving you covered by the cloak draped over your head.

He waits for you to get into the cart before extinguishing the last of the embers, praying the cold night air helps his raging hardon be less... evident.

When he finds his way into the wagon he finds you spread out on the blanket with the cloak draped over you. He reaches around to try and find another but you roughly grab his arm and just pull him to lie down with you.

At that point he lets you lead, arranging him to how you feel comfortable. That ends with you resting your head on his chest, hand delicately running over the scars running down his sternum.

He of course is desperately trying to figure out if he should be taking this as some sort of sexual lead or if he’s just the best source of heat within your reach. He chooses caution this time and tries to remain still, letting himself relax to the sound of your breathing.

After a few rinse and repeat attempts of trying to sleep and then waking up to the temptation of your warm skin brushing against his, he relents and lets himself cuddle into you, turning onto his side so he can get his other arm around you and pull you to his chest.

Survival, of course... and comfort.

#trevor belmont #gender neutral reader #mod soviet #Castlevania #imagines

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rockettwheels · 1 year

Link

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#Mississippi metal fabricators #Custom metal fabrication #Kiln car wheel #Forged steel wheel #Flanged rail wheels #flanged steel wheels #muck cart wheels #mine cart wheels

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yamithediaperdork · 3 years

Text

Eternal Baby of the family (Twilight)

Being treated like a baby by your parents would be hard enough to tolerate for one or two years when you were 17, but for one poor vampire who had been turned at the age of 17 103 ago it had been his daily life for 20 of those years.

Of course after 20 long years of being diapered and dressed like a toddler you'd of thought that Edward Cullen would of adapted to what was his life and learned to stop fighting but Edward wasn't the type to give up the struggle regardless of how many spankings and mouth washing and all that it earned him.

He thought that as long as he proved he didn't want the baby treatment, hated the baby treatment and tried to be a big boy his daddy Carlilse would see the truth and finally let him at least act like a 17 year old.

It never ONE dawned on him that all Carlilse wanted was him to be a good little boy for one whole year and the diapers and baby treatment would go away, like it had for Edwards other siblings in the vampire house hold.

Thus the day started liked any other, with Edward waking up in his crib in his animal print nursery and in a light red sleeper that puffed out at the hips from the many layers of diapers Carlilse and Esme insisted that he wear at all times.

Though despite the thickness of the diapers that forced him to waddle he was greeted to anther morning routine, having to inhale the stench from the massive load he made in them because of all the high fiber meals he was given.

with his vampire body he couldn't put on too much weight so his 'loving' parent made sure he ate lots and lots so he'd be able to make TON'S of presents all throughout the day and night. Combine that with all the fluids he had to drink and was it any wonder he was going though entire packs of diapers a day?!

kicking his Paw patrol blanket off Edward managed to sit up despite the bulk and filth around his hips and groaned, there was a LARGE wet spot on his crib, though they had rubber sheets on the mattress. his groan wasn't born out of shame of his diapers leaky or hating his sleep would have to be cleaned, but rather whenever his pampers leaked it was 'proof' to mommy and daddy dearest that he needed MORE layering and he was already up to 6 diapers at a time!

"great..gonna be bumped up to lucky number 7.." the big baby pouted.

Some of you might be wondering why, If Edward was a vampire that he stayed here and let them treat him like this and well, the fact of the matter was Carlilse and Esme were just too much for him to try and take on and even if he escaped what then?

He had no money, nothing to his name and would of ended up coming back on his own anyways. Till he could get out of diapers and start a part time job he was trapped.

Carlilse hummed softly as he made his way towards the nursery, Esme had taken the other kids out job hunting, feeling they were mature enough now to hold down a job but for the oldest of their vampire kids (and the stinkiest) it would be nothing but anther day of diapers.

After babying Edward for so long Carlilse had come to love it, and while Esme was always hopeful that Edward would figure out good behavior for a year would mean freedom, Carlilse liked to go out of his way to keep his little man grumpy and trapped in baby land.

He could smell Edward's morning glory so to speak before he even opened up the door and smirked, getting ready to ham it up.

"Phew yew! I could smell you from the front lawn! SOMEBODY made daddy a super stinky and super big present huh?" Carlilse asked, holding his nose and waving a hand as Edward glared at him and pouted. "oh I see a certain somebody who's diapies sprung a leak! You know what that means little man."

in truth Edwards diapers SHOULD of held up despite his heavy wetting, but a certain daddy dom MAY of poked holes in all of the diapers with a thumb tact to ensure flooding and leaks would happen.

"I know daddy." Edward sulked and looked away, a blush coming to his face.

"Aww, it's ok buddy, I know you can't help it." Carlilse coo'ed, walking over and tickling Edward under the chin. :Who's ready to a morning bath and then some num num's?" Carlilse asked.

"C-Can I wear more then just my diapers at breakfast? Emmett and the others are soo mean!" Edward whined.

"heh, don't worry about them, they already ate and are looking for summer jobs like big boys and girls." Carlilse said and smirked as a super huffy look crossed over Edwards face. "Awww don't be jealous! you have a job too. Making lots of stinky presents! and instead of a silly pay check you get MORE diapers!" Carlilse coo'ed.

Somehow, this didn't improve Edwards mood.

after getting out of his destroyed diapers and a quick bath, Edward was feeling better even if he was being taped into 7 of his puffy diapers now.

Since he could of been forced to try and eat his breakfast of bloody oatmeal (He was still a vampire after all) in his messy diapers he decided not to push his luck too much.

In his customed highchair and wearing a cookie monster bib he was at least allowed to feed himself though he was expected to get at least SOME of it on his face. It was a unspoken rule,but one he'd figured out when every time he kept his face clean while feeding himself he'd have five days of being fed.

sitting on the tray was a ba-ba of milk that he was expected to finish as well, if there was any milk left when he finished his bowl he'd get get anther bowl of the mostly bland save for the blood sludge.

in the end Edward ended up with two bowls of the high fiber oatmeal in his guts, and his bladder was already crying out in distress as Carlilse wiped the oatmeal from his face while scolding him on being such a messy eater.

with the baby fed, Carlilse led Edward back to his nursery, holding his hand and trying not to snicker at the waddling the massive diapers where making Edward do.

"So I know you likely just wanted to hang around the house today, or maybe go and play in your sandbox but sadly we have to go out first. daddies little muck butt has been making SO many presents we have to go and stock up on diapies!" Carlilse coo'ed and wasn't shocked when Edward froze.

The last time Edward had been out in public had been when he was in triple diapers and even then he'd been teased so much he'd ended up having a fit, there was no way in hell he could hide -7- diapers!

"I know, going out in public is scary to you little, you wanna just stay home where you feel safe but well your wearing the last of the diapers." Carlilse lied, then went on. "So unless you wanna sit in your own poopie and pee pee and risk leaking till mommy and your brothers and sisters get home.."

"I..I could stay here by myself!" Edward whimpered and whined, blushing and just thinking about how horrible going to the mall like THIS was gonna be.

"Stay here by yourself.. what kinda of irresponsible parent do you think I am little man?! Leaving a baby home alone, not gonna happen!" Carlilse tsk'ed and shook his head. "Don't worry buddy, if any bullies make you cry daddy will protect you!"

Somehow this statement DIDN'T reassure Edward and he started to bawl.

the hardest part of getting Edward dressed for his day out (Aside from his fussing and whining of course) was trying to find something to go over the boys massive diaper butt.

A lesser daddy would of given up and just had the diapers on display but Carlilse was no normal daddy, he was a super one!

Originally he was going to take his darling baby boy out in a onesie but the crotch snap's kept popping open. none of his overalls would go quite all the way up and pants were just hopeless.

in the end a old pair of light yellow short with the waist band wore out managed to get mostly over the diaper, the top of the padding was sticking out and Carlilse just used one of Edward's longer shirts to mostly cover up the showing diapers.

of course if Edward reached up for something the diapers were going to show and the shorts could hide his giga diaper ass anyways but at least Carlilse was trying and he almost melted when a blushing and huffy Edward gave him a small hug and thanked him for the effort.

"Awww, your VERY welcome buddy. though i think we better get you some new clothes too. looks like we've got a full day ahead of us!" Carlilse coo'ed then paused. "Speaking of full.."

and he leaned down and sniffed Edward butt, a act that despite how embarrassing it was made Edward giggle like the big baby he was dressed up as.

"Nope! still nice and clean! don't worry buddy, we'll get your diapies first."

Carlilse was quickly realizing he was a victim of his own success as he hadn't counted on just how much one more of the bulky diapers he put Edward in could change things.

Case and point, Edward was having a hard time getting into his car seat, and he was actually trying, not like when he'd have a fit about just going on a drive thought the country side.

"Ummm Daddy, maybe I should lose a few diapers." Edward said, rubbing the back of his head but grinning like a fool.

'oh you think you've won this round huh little man?' Carlilse thought.

never one to give in, Carlilse push and squished Edward till his pamper butt was seated, and then with even more effort got him buckled in.

"Look like we're getting a new car seat for you today too.Somebodies getting all his birthday presents early!" the teasing daddy chuckled.

"W-what!? But I don't want my birthday presents used up on this stuff!" Edward whined and huff.

"Well you should of thought about that before becoming such a helpless giga butt diaper baby." Carlilse said and tapped a finger on Edward nose.

Before the big baby could form a retort Carlilse was gone, the door shut and then behind the wheel.

"No fits little man. if your a good little boy and behave I'll let you walk around with daddy, any fits and you go in the shopping cart." He called back.

Edward huffed, opened his mouth to argue, and then just sighed and nodded.

"Yes daddy."

Adorably Edward conked out in his car seat on the way to the mall, the car ride affecting him like it would most babies and he had to be gently woken up when they reached the mall's parking lot.

wiping the drool from the big babies chin he gently shook him awake.

"Edddddy...eddddddy~ time to get up~" Carlilse coo'ed softly.

"Nggggh.. five more minutes.." Edward whined, more asleep then awake.

"Sorry buddy but we're here. come on, open those big beautiful eyes for dada." Carlilse coo'ed.

Edward yawned and slowly opened his eyes, confusion going across his face for a second as he looked around the car and the parking lot, before his memory kicked in.

"Oh man..I totally zonked out there.." He said blushing.

"Heh, it's perfectly natural." Carlilse said, working on getting the seat belt undo and then Helping Edward out of the car. "Now Hold daddies hand till we're inside, I don't want you running off and getting hurt by a car."

of course any car that ran into Edward, diapered or not, would be the one to be wreaked, but it just helped with the cute image of Edward being a helpless big baby.

Getting into the mall Edward had the naive hope that he'd be able to let go of Carlilse's hand and not look like a total 'daddies little man' but atlas, it wasn't meant to be.

"The mall's a big place Eddy, Hold daddies hand so you don't wander off and get lost. it's that or we go back to using the baby leash." Carlilse said.

Edward, who hated having to hold hands shuddered as he recalled the dreaded harness and leash. it was bad enough he was being treated like a helpless baby, without making him feel like a dog on a leash!

"I'll be good." Edward grumbled as they pasted a group of middle schoolers who burst out laughing and pointing at Edward as they waddled by, one of them making a video.

"Bwhahaha look at the big baby!"

"his diapers are MASSIVE!"

"what a dork!"

"oh look Eddy, you made new friends!" Carlilse said, smirking and tugged Edward over towards the kids. "Say hi to everyone Eddy." Carlilse encouraged, and Edward knew what was expected of him and in a effort to get out of it hammed up some baby behavior.

Turn back and hiding his face in Carlilse's shirt he whimpered out a soft "nooo..scared.." and whimpered every so cutely.

Carlilse knew what he was doing and decided to roll with it, but what Edward didn't know was while he was hiding his face in daddies chest, the back of his shirt was lifted to show off the top of his diapers.

"Shhh shh, It's ok little man. Sorry, he's just super shy. maybe next time." Carlilse said to the cackling teens.

Pulling back from Carlilse Edward went to lisp out a thank you but then his tummy gurgled and a massive poot came out, and while the thickness of the diapers muted it somewhat, there was a good chance the whole mall would of heard it if he hadn't of been padded.

"Gee, such a nice way to thank daddy stinker." Carlilse teased and ruffled Edward's hair as the teens were laughing harder, at least till the smell hit them.

As they walked away Edward could hear them gagging and coughing, one of them claiming his eyes were burning and couldn't help but giggle evilly.

"You enjoyed that a little too much." Carlilse chuckled, though considering how semi evil he could be, he was having a 'i'm so proud of you' moment with Edward.

their destination was twice upon a childhood, a niche shop that catered to little and the like and was third biggest of all the shops in the mall.

Edward had only been there once and still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that some people wanted to be treated like he was when it was a ongoing living hell for him.

He'd actually been told by anther little when he was there how lucky he was and how jealous he was of Edward, who had dryly remarked he'd of swapped with him any day of the week.

As the shop drew close Edward was getting tummy craps and whined a little holding his tummy.

"Um..Daddy. I have go potty." Edward said, trying to use his little guy voice in a effort to butter Carlilse up.

"And?" Carlilse asked, grinning with amusement, and seeing right though the little guys efforts.

"Well, it's gonna be a uh-oh." Edward explained.

"I repeat, And?" Carlilse said, speeding their walk up knowing it would only make Edward lose control even faster.

"C-Come on daddy! I can't..you know.." and Edward blew a raspberry. "In public! L-Let's go back to the car!"

"How would that help? we need to get you more diapers before you can get a bum change."

"I..I could stay in the car and wa-"

"Leave a baby in a car alone?! Never! now stop fusing mister man or your going in a cart seat when we get in there!" Carlilse said in a tone that made it clear that was final.

Edward however wasn't listening and stomped a foot, yank his hand away.

"NO! I wanna go back to the car! Now! NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!" He huffed and jumped up and down making a scene and worse, steering up breakfast and ruining any chance he had of making it back to the car.

"Little man, that is enough!" Carlilse said and started towards Edward who suddenly paled and hunched over, a massive series of wet farts escaping and despite himself he hunched down, one hand on the floor and anther one holding his tummy as he shamefully loaded his diapers.

"-sigh- And you wonder why your still in diapers." Carlilse said, then turned to the crowd. "I'm sorry for little Edward making a scene." he started and then as a horrid stench started to fill the area he added. "And I know he's sorry about the smell. "

Edward who felt like he was pushing out his skeleton as he unloaded grunted and groaned, the occasional cry of "POOPIE" was the only thing anyone could understand as seconds turned into minutes.

the Short's turned they're best but they had already been at their limit before the massive mass of baby fudge pushed out the back and to the surprise of no one but Edward they ripped apart and basically hung around his waist like a loin cloth of sorts.

with his pampers filled to the brim, both front and back, any and all fight was out of Edward who whimpered and slowly stood up, legs forced apart even more and held out his arm's.

"D-Daddy!" he whined and Carlilse came over and picked him up, the big babies legs wrapping around him and arms holding tight as Carlilse got a arm under the boys smelly rear and patted his back.

"Shhh, shh..It's alright. your just a baby Eddy. it's all right. Come on, let's go get you some clean diapers and new outfit. if you're a good boy we'll get you some stuffies too. hows that sound?"

Edward nodded dumbly, and it would be till later in the day when he'd realized with that last display, the last of Edward's big boy mind had ended up in the seat of the diaper that had been tossed out, and that Edward would never be able to be anything more then a helpless big baby.

The end

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aeterno-if · 3 years

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wip meme

~ tagged by the talented @crimsiswrites, & i’ll tag @salty-stories, @vapolis, & @darkofnightgame (if y’all are interested! no worries)

Nothing spoilery, just a very rough go at the first scene with MC.

Sweat drips from the end of your nose and several beads roll down your back. In the weeks you’ve been traveling, nothing has quite prepared you for the swathes of mud Spring brings to the midland roads.

So here you stand, one shoulder heaved against a wooden cart, up to your ankles in mud with two companions you’d only met a week ago.

“That’s it! That’s it!” The old man calls, coaxing the horses to pull forward. “Just one more shove!”

“One more and I think we’ll sink straight to the pit of earth,” Rozun jokes. The fae has their arms braced to push, their feet deep in the muck. For once, they’re almost eye to eye with you, which is a feat considering how they tower over everyone whose path you’ve crossed.

“If we do, then at least we can rest,” you say.

The cart begins to budge and you throw your weight into it. The front wheel slips free and back onto the road, giving the horses more leverage. As they pull the cart begins to slip away from you. The back wheel loosens before you can take a step and the wagon finally yanks away. Feet caught, all you can do is fall, face first into the mud.

Rozun laughs, full and hearty. Within seconds they’ve traipsed to your side and easily pull you to a stand.

“Are you okay?” They don’t even hide their smile, and only barely suppress further laughter.

Your face is covered in an unpleasant wetness; the stench even worse. You wipe your mouth with the back of your arm, spitting away the mud.

“Guess I’m saving on the next meal.”

#aeterno game #wip meme

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

Text

Chapter 9 - A Broken Contract

Well, Geralt is not having a good time in this one! But I promise you, it's in a fun way, not in a whumpy way :) Have fun reading!

As always, my chapters are betaed by the amazing @persony-pepper, thanks so much for that!

Summary: Geralt is away on his contract - the first one since he and Ciri arrived in Lettenhove. It is not going great. In fact, it is going very shitty.

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 9 | Part 11

Geralt of Rivia was feeling miserable. He was tired, soaked to the bone, and freezing. But of fucking course destiny wasn't done with him despite all that he had been through in the last four days. Why would She be? He grunted annoyed. This whole fucking contract was a bloody mess.

"Ho!" he said and lunged for the ripped reins that dangled from not-Roach's bridle. Lightning lit up the darkness and thunder roared above their heads. The wet leather slipped through his hands when the horse reared up, whinnying in blind panic.

"Fuck," he cursed and swiped his drenched hair out of his eyes just in time to see her wheel around in an attempt to flee. "Oh no, you don’t," he grunted and moved his pinkie and ring finger downwards. "Stay," he commanded and she did.

He sighed in relief and walked over to her, stroking her muzzle to calm her further. He always preferred to talk to the animals instead of using the signs. But sometimes there just wasn’t another way. "A whole pack of ghouls won't faze you," he murmured disapprovingly, "but a bit of lightning and I have to Axii you?"

He picked up the reins and inspected the damage. They were torn and the leather was frayed where she had ripped herself loose from the tree, he had tied her to. The missing piece was still flapping in the wind. 'Shit,' he thought. Normally he wouldn't have thought much about it, just stitched it up again. Roach’s reins had been torn in more than one place. But he reckoned Jaskier would have quite a lot to say about that.

'Jaskier'll have quite a lot to say about everything,' he mused as he saddled not-Roach. Somehow, he wished he was here now. It felt wrong to weather such miserable days without the bard’s constant complaining. ‘Fuck,’ he thought and tried to push the feeling away.

Dawn had finally come, not that he could see it with the unrelenting downpour. It was the fifth day since he had left Lettenhove, and he was still half a day's ride away from Saltwall - in the wrong fucking direction. "Fuck," he told not-Roach gently, "Jaskier will have my head for this."

The mare snuffled and nudged at his shoulder.

"You're completely right," he grumbled, "Ciri'll gladly serve him my heart on a platter." He groaned internally. Shit, Jaskier had rubbed off on him with the dramatics.

There wasn't much he could do about it, though. So, Geralt miserably began his day, leading not-Roach while he himself waded through the mud. He could only hope that the muck was the washed out remains of the dirt track that would lead him back to Saltwall and not another path entirely.

His hope was growing slimmer with every passing minute, though. Even after a whole day of walking he still hadn't reached the small brook he remembered as a landmark. He was pretty fucking sure he'd lost his way somewhere. And it was still raining.

It was getting darker, though, so he stopped for the night. He freed not-Roach from her saddle but didn't even attempt to rub her dry. There wasn't anything dry to dry her with left. He cursed as he discovered that even the loaf of bread had gotten drenched. So, it was mouldy bread from now on if he couldn't hunt anything. Sulkily he tossed the bread back into a bag without the decaying ghouls' heads. The rain didn't make them smell any sweeter either.

He tried lighting a fire with Igni and was even halfway successful: there were flames, at least. For half an hour. With a stream of filthy curses that made even not-Roach move further away from him, he settled down against a tree and tried to sleep. When that failed, he managed to meditate for a few hours.

At least the pouring had reduced itself to a drizzle when they set out again in the morning. A small mercy, he thought.

Two hours passed and he nearly missed the brook. 'Miss' wasn't quite right. Rather, he nearly turned around again. Because what had been a gentle rivulet trickling merrily through the countryside three days ago was now a raging torrent.

"Fuck!" he cursed loudly when he picked up a splintered plank of what must've belonged to the wooden bridge he had crossed. It had been old, creaking with each of his steps, so it wasn't like he was surprised. Still. "Fuck," he repeated for good measure.

Childishly he kicked the plank into the stream. He knew that it was no use but he didn't care. "Of fucking course," he roared and not-Roach reared her head in agreement. He decided then and there that he despised Redania.

"I'm never taking a contract here again," he grumbled grouchily and tugged on not-Roach's reins turning upstream in the hopes of finding a passage there. "I better hope the pay's good at least."

In any other case he might've considered walking into the opposite direction, payment and reputation be damned. He always could find another contract elsewhere. But that just wasn't an option. Unlike any other time, there were people waiting for him to return. They were waiting for him to return before sunset, to be precise.

He knew that it was impossible. He'd known it from the moment it had started raining. Still, it was frustrating to spend the better part of one day trying to find another ford and then the rest of it to try and get back to the direction he was actually headed. Geralt cursed every higher being in this world for his terrible luck.

At least it had stopped raining.

The next morning it was raining again. It had begun in the crack of dawn with a mean drizzle that prickled like needles and had varied between light rain and full on downpours for the better part of the afternoon. And the ghouls' heads were reeking. By now Geralt was seriously considering throwing them away, skipping the pay, and just returning to Lettenhove straight away.

He was just contemplating this again when a young distressed voice distracted him: "'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, mister! Please don' go walkin' on!"

"What?" Geralt growled and turned to see a small child running towards him, almost as drenched as he was. "What do you want, boy?"

"I'm no boy!" the girl answered. "An' I need your help! My Pa's wagon slipped off the road, straight into the ditch, y'know, an' we can't get it out again."

"Hmm," Geralt made.

"Please, mister, we've been here for hours! My Ma'll be so cross at us, she'll shout an' everythin' if we're not home at sundown."

He scowled as angrily as he could. He had no time for backwater farmers whose wagons broke. He needed to get home himself and he knew he could count himself lucky if there was only one shouting person waiting for him. But instead of backing off the girl drew closer and tugged on his hand. "Please, mister," she said again.

'Fuck,' he thought. "Where?" he asked.

Her face lit up and she tugged on his hand again. "Over there! Come, mister, I'll show ya!"

He hesitated for a moment, calculating his chances that there was a band of robbers waiting around the bend. 'Fuck it,' he decided. His life was miserable enough already, he might actually enjoy killing someone if they tried to mug him.

To his surprise, they did not. When he followed the girl, there actually was a man struggling with a cart. "Pa!" the girl shouted and let go of his hand. "Pa, the mister says he's gonna help us!"

The man tugging at the bridle of the farm horse let go and wiped sweat and rain from his brow. "Well done, Mara. Now, see here, mis- oh."

His gaze flickered over the medallion resting against his chest to the two swords on his back. "Hm," Geralt made and steeled himself for the vinegar sour stench of fear that would surely come. "You want my help or not?"

"I heard a witcher lifts twice as heavy as a normal man," the farmer said.

"You heard right."

"Jolly good! Then we'll have the cart out in no time!"

Geralt quirked a sceptical eyebrow at the odd behaviour of the man and his daughter but didn't say a thing as he tied not-Roach to a tree. "Stay," he ordered and jumped down into the gutter.

"How's it look down there?" the farmer asked.

"Well enough," Geralt answered. He knew little of carts but as far as he could tell neither the wheels nor the axle were broken. The wagon was just stuck in the mud and the horse couldn't pull it out by itself. "I'll lift it, then you should be able to get it out."

"On three," the farmer agreed. "One." Geralt jammed his shoulder underneath the cart. "Two." He pressed his feet into the mud. "Three." With a groan he lifted it.

He couldn't tell what the farmer was doing but there were some very angry words, a horrified gasp from Mara, and then the cart was gone and Geralt fell face first into the mud.

"Fuck!" He shouted loudly as he got up.

"My Ma says-" Mara began but her father put his hand on her shoulder.

"No, sweetie," he interrupted her gently, "today’s the day for cuss words."

“Really?” she asked with wide eyes. “Can I say one, too?” When her father nodded, she shouted as loud as she could: “Bollocks!”

Geralt wiped the mud from his face with his equally muddy shirt and growled in frustration. "Guess your load is ruined," he said as he looked at the goods strewn around him.

"Pity that," the farmer said and offered him a hand to climb out of the gutter again, "but at least we didn't lose the cart. And not everything fell off. My name's Anton, by the way."

"Geralt," he answered.

"Geralt," Anton repeated. "Thank you. And sorry for the-" he gestured at all of him.

"You look worse than Sam! And smell jus' as bad," Mara helpfully offered. "That's our pig," she added at his confused look. "Sam the Ham."

"Hm," Geralt hummed.

"Pa says I shouldn' name him, cos we've to eat him. But I did it anyway! I named our chickens, too, and-"

"Mara," Anton said softly and, thankfully, she shut up. To Geralt, he said: "Stay with us for the night? In exchange for your troubles."

Geralt blinked stupidly. "I'm a witcher," he informed him.

Anton snorted. "I know. That make you waterproof?"

He scowled in confusion. "No."

"Then stay. Can't offer you a bed but a barn for you and your horse, a hot meal, and a fire to dry your clothes."

"Hmm," he sounded, contemplating it. He probably shouldn't, he'd lost enough time already. If he hurried, he'd still get paid today. "How far from here to Saltwall?"

"Three hours if you're lucky. But not with this weather." He crossed his arms. "You got a room there?"

"No."

"Then it's settled." Anton went to sit on the cart. "Come here, Mara."

Mara didn't move. "Can I ride on your horse?" she asked with wide eyes. "I've never ridden a horse before. Only Sam the Ham and he’s a terrible horse, y’know?"

"Don't be impolite, Mara," Anton said the same moment that Geralt answered: "Not mine."

"Still. Can I ride it?"

"Her," he answered as he untied not-Roach's reins. He glanced at her father, who nodded slowly. "Come here," he told her and she ran over eagerly. She squealed as he grabbed her around the waist and deposited her in not-Roach's saddle. "Hold onto the horn," he ordered her and shortened the stirrups. "Don't squeeze your thighs. Don't move your legs at all." She wanted to grab the reins and he quickly pulled them back. "No."

Mara pouted but didn't say a thing as they made their way down the washed-out road.

"A mighty fine horse you got there," Anton remarked.

"Hmm. It was a loan."

"Has she got a name?" Mara asked eagerly.

"Not from me."

Her face fell and her father quickly carried on: "And what sort of friend you got to give you that kinda loan?"

"The Viscount de Lettenhove." He hesitated for a moment. "Not a friend, though."

"Master Julian?” Anton asked eagerly. “Is he well?"

"He is. You know him?"

"Ran away as a lad once. We found him after two days o' walkin'. Famished, poor boy's never gone hungry before. Our kitchen table's as far has he got before his Lordship's men found him."

Geralt frowned. "So, I'm back on Lettenhove soil?"

Anton laughed heartily. "Barely."

"Hmm," Geralt made but the farmer kept on talking: "Just over the border, we are. It's a nice place, though, innit? Y'should see it in spring. That's how we found the lad, that is. He was sittin' here with his lute, singin' away. Head in the clouds, that one, more luck than common sense. He was 'admirin' the wonders of nature and turnin' them into songs' or somethin'. Always was weird like that, the lad, he was. Ne'er quite at home up in the Hall."

"Hmm." Geralt wasn't about to dispute that.

"You've known him for long?"

"Sixteen years."

"Cor..." Mara said. "That's a lot o' years."

"He ever found that home he was lookin' for?" Anton inquired.

Geralt shrugged. "Suppose not. He's back, isn't he?"

"Still composing? Still wishin' to be a bard?"

'No,' he wanted to answer. 'He doesn't need to wish for what he already has. Half a dozen gross of ballads he’s written about me, and I repaid him with scorn.' Instead he said: "Rarely."

"Pity. He wasn't half bad. What were you even doin' out there?"

"Killed the ghouls in the woods. On the other side of the river."

"Really?" Mara leaned down eagerly and he quickly caught her by the shoulder to keep her from falling. "You can do that?"

He shrugged. "It's my job."

"Cor... How'd you do that?"

"With my sword."

"All on your own? How much were there?"

"How many," Geralt corrected without thinking. All three of them gaped for a moment when they realised what he had just said. Not-Roach snickered.

"Well, how many were there?" Mara crossed her arms defiantly.

Geralt sighed in defeat and began telling the story. 'No use trying to resist.' He had plenty of experience with impertinent brats after all. This one wasn’t a noble one at least.

The sun set when Anton finally interrupted the never-ending stream of questions from his daughter. "Ho!" He pulled on the horse's reins and pointed at a pitiable house. "Well, this is us. Ida!" He jumped from the cart as Geralt helped Mara from not-Roach's saddle. "Ida, come outside."

A portly woman stepped outside who promptly began fussing over Geralt. She quickly herded him inside and made him accept a dry set of clothes from Anton that almost fit. She made a pouting Mara scrub the dirt from his shirt while he himself scrubbed himself clean with a bar of crude soap.

In the end he was glad that he accepted the invitation. Ida was not what he would call a great cook, but he preferred any hot meal with ale to mouldy bread and rain water. He slept in the barn with not-Roach, the horse, and Sam the Ham. But, the hay was soft and the spare quilt Ida had forced on him was warm and dry. He couldn't complain. He shouldn’t complain, truly. But still, curled up in the hay, he found himself wishing for Ciri to be there. ‘Or better yet,’ his mind supplied, ‘Jaskier.’

He surely would have him smiling by now with his exaggerations and his songs and his japes. ‘He also would keep me awake,’ he thought grumpily. And, somehow, he missed that, too.

The next morning, his clothes were still warm from drying over the fire the whole night. Despite his protests, he was sent on his way with breakfast and a fresh loaf of bread.

"Nonsense!" Anton insisted. "I won't hear no complaints about our hospitality from no-one."

"Especially not Master Julian," Ida added. "Say hello to him from us, will you?"

"Tell him he can come visit!" Mara pleaded. "He can sing about our trees again."

"Hmm," Geralt made. "I will. Thanks." He wanted to turn and climb into the saddle when the little girl leaped forward and hugged him impulsively. He patted her head awkwardly until she let go.

"Goodbye, Geralt-Witcher!" Mara called after him as he rode away. "An' thanks!"

He reached the miserable hamlet that barely deserved the denomination town at midday — still dry by some miracle.

He stopped the first person that walked past him and brusquely asked: "The alderman?"

The quivering man pointed him in the general direction of the biggest house in the town. Geralt didn't bother with knocking and just followed the scent of fresh food. He found the alderman at lunch, the table groaning beneath the heavy platters.

He grunted in disgust and tossed the bag with the ghouls' heads straight onto his plate. "I'll have my pay now."

"Witcher!" the alderman yelped and leapt to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'll have my pay now," he repeated. "And then I'll be out of this shitty town."

"You can't-"

Geralt growled and the alderman quickly took some steps backwards.

"R-right," he stammered, fumbling with the coin purse on his belt. "Here!" He threw it onto the table.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Geralt growled and stared down at it. "That's all?" He didn't need to count it to know that it was nowhere near the agreed payment.

"It's all we have to spare," that lying, cheating bastard of an alderman said, standing before his table that was almost breaking beneath its heavy load. "It was only a couple of necrophages. Besides, you're late, witcher."

"It wasn't only a couple of necrophages, it was a whole fucking nest of ghouls I cleaned out for you."

The alderman crossed his arms defiantly. "Be on time next time, and you get your full pay."

Geralt was half of a mind to tell him that there wouldn’t be a next time. That no witcher of the school of the wolf would ever come to sort out his problems again. But he couldn't risk aggravating Jaskier's neighbours against the viscount. That was no way to thank his host. "I wouldn't have been late if the rain hadn't washed your decayed bridge away."

"Now don't get cocky with me, witcher," the alderman bristled. "I'm not scared of you."

"Hmm," Geralt made and stepped closer.

The man shrunk back a bit. "It's almost winter. You can't rob a man in winter."

With an annoyed grunt he snatched the purse up and left the house again. "Come on, not-Roach," he grumbled and tugged on her reins, "back to Lettenhove." He had gotten paid less for more, so he really shouldn't complain. It wasn't like he needed that money at the moment anyways. 'Still would have been nice to not set out dirt poor in spring.'

The ride back to Lettenhove went better than expected, all things considered. Well, at least better than the rest of his journey. The road was slowly drying up again, so they made better time. Still, he hadn't even reached the main road before the darkness forced him to make camp.

Come morning there were finally no storm clouds looming overhead anymore. Geralt rode at an almost leisurely pace and found himself enjoying the last warm sun rays of the year.

He had no illusions of reaching Lettenhove before the next day. One and a half days, it had taken him to get to Saltwall — with good weather. He knew he might make it if he pushed not-Roach and himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond. But he was already late. A few hours would make no difference, he figured.

When he woke on the tenth day there was a thick layer of frost covering the floor. The cold seeped through his bedroll and he had no qualms about getting up and moving.

He hadn't gotten far when the rapid sounds of hooves alerted him. There was another rider coming his way, bent low over his horse’s neck and pushing the poor animal to a breakneck speed. 'Poor thing,' he thought.

He tried to pull not-Roach out of the way but to his surprise the rider slowed his horse right in front of him. "Geralt!" he exclaimed.

Geralt blinked. "Jaskier?" he asked dumbfounded. Then, relief washed over him. If he hadn’t been in not-Roach’s saddle, he would have hugged him. Instead he smiled at him.

"What are you doing here?" they asked at the same time.

The viscount regained his voice first: "What the fuck, Geralt? You were due to arrive back home almost a week ago!" Anger was plain on his face, yet the vinegar stench of fear overpowered any spicy rage. Geralt’s face fell as he remembered that the Jaskier he had longed for was gone. "Where were you? What kept you? Shit, Ciri is worried out of her mind for you! I-"

"It wasn't my fault!" Geralt interrupted him sharply. "I can't control the damn weather, can I?"

"Ten days, Geralt! Ten fucking days! You said four, five at most! It was necrophages you're fighting, not a griffin or something. You can kill those in your sleep!"

"Had wrong information," he grumbled.

"You- I- what?! From whom?"

"The alderman. He said two or three ghouls. Got a dozen of them."

"Fuck," Jaskier muttered.

"Hm," Geralt agreed.

The viscount sighed and ran a trembling hand across his face. The stench of fear grew fainter. "Well, let's head back, shall we?"

Geralt said nothing in response but simply nudged not-Roach forward in the direction Jaskier had come from. He knew the questions would come soon enough. They always did.

After half an hour of silence he discovered that the questions did not come. After an hour he decided that the quiet was just as maddening. "The rain started on the fourth day," he informed him unbidden. "Was awful. Took the whole fucking road with it. Next day I nearly missed the river because the bridge was gone too. Took me one whole day to walk around. Then, I found a farmer with a cart stuck in the mud. Told me to greet you. Anton, his name was. And he had a wife. Ida."

Jaskier nodded. "I remember. They were kind to me."

"That's about it," he concluded.

"Sounds like quite the journey." Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, expecting to see the same wistful look in his eyes that he always had when Geralt spoke of his adventures without him. Instead, he was stone faced.

He didn't understand why that hurt so much. "It was."

"Well," Jaskier sighed, "Janina will be glad that you returned Dancer safe and sound to her."

Geralt frowned in confusion. "Who's Dancer?"

That got a reaction from him: "Who- I- the horse!" Jaskier stammered. "The horse you took without consulting me first, you moron!"

"Hmm," he made and tugged on not-Roach's reins to catch her attention. "Could've told me," he said to her. To Jaskier he said: "You said to take any I want."

"Yes, of course, but- wait, what have you been calling her if not Dancer?"

"Not-Roach," he replied. To him that was obvious.

Jaskier gaped. "Unbelievable," he muttered and laughter bubbled from his lips before he bit down hard on his lip. Geralt smelt blood.

“My lord,” he said slowly, “I am sorry.”

“For being late?” He scoffed. “You better be.”

“No.” He hesitated. “Well, for that, too. I’m sorry for what I said before I left. You- you were right. It was dangerous. I should’ve taken better care of Ciri.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Huh,” he said surprised, “Never thought I’d see the day… Well, anyways," he sucked the blood from his lower lip. "I trust that you were justly compensated for your inconvenience?"

"Eighty crowns." He had counted them after all.

Jaskier tugged sharply on his reins. Not-not-Roach snickered in protest but stood still regardless. "Excuse me?"

He brought not-Roach to a halt, too. "Got eighty crowns from that bastard."

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now that just won't do."

Geralt snorted quietly. "Don't trouble yourself, my lord. It's not worth it."

Defiance gleamed in Jaskier's eyes. "Oh no, witcher," he said icily, "you don't get to order me around anymore." The bitterness in his voice made Geralt flinch. "Sixteen years I held my tongue when you were denied pay, bed, and board alike. Do not think that that was easy."

He couldn't restrain himself: "Held your tongue? I seem to remember quite a lot of first fights and tavern brawls with your involvement, my lord," Geralt said and ducked his head to hide his smirk.

"Don't flatter yourself, witcher, they were hardly about you."

He scoffed. They both knew that was a lie. "What are you even going to do?"

Jaskier clicked his tongue and began to ride again. "I suppose that entirely depends on how he chooses to answer my first letter."

A smile danced around Geralt's lips. "My lord?" he called after him.

He turned in the saddle. "My witcher?"

"Please don't kill him."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose as if the simple request were a terribly foul meal. "I'll consider it," he said and spurred his horse into a trot. "Don't get your hopes up, though."

#My writing #OWBABH #of witchers bards and broken hearts #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #Jaskier

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therealmadblonde · 4 years

Text

October 23

Up in the morning, out on the job. I hassled the Things, then checked around outside. A black feather lay near our front door. Could be one of Nightwind’s. Could be openers on a nasty spell. Could just be a stray feather. I carried it across the road to the field and pissed on it.

Graymalk wasn’t about, so I walked over to Larry’s place. He let me in and I told him everything that had happened since I’d last seen him.

“We ought to check that hillside,” he said. “Could be there’d been a chapel there in the old days.”

“True. Want to walk over now?”

“Let’s.”

I studied his plants while he went for a jacket. There were certainly some exotic ones. I hadn’t told him yet about Linda Enderby, perhaps because he’d revealed in passing that all they’d spoken of was botany. Perhaps the Great Detective really was interested in plants.

He returned with his jacket and we went out. It was somewhat blustery when we reached the open fields. At one point we came across a trail of huge misshapen footprints leading off in the direction of the Good Doctor’s farmhouse of the perpetual storm. I sniffed at them: Death.

“The big man’s been out again,” I remarked.

“I haven’t been over that way to say hello,” Larry said. “I’m beginning to wonder now whether he isn’t a rather famous man I’ve already met, seeking to further his work.”

He did not elaborate, as we came upon a crossbow bolt about then, stuck in the bole of a tree.

“What about Vicar Roberts?” I said.

“Ambitious man. I wouldn’t be surprised if his aim is to be the only one left standing at the end, sole beneficiary of the opening.”

“What about Lynette? This doesn’t require a human sacrifice, you know. It just sort of greases the wheels.”

“I’ve been thinking about her,” he said. “Perhaps, on the way back, we could go by the vicarage and you could show me which room is hers.”

“I don’t know that myself. But I’ll get Graymalk to show me. Then I’ll show you.” “Do that.”

We walked on, coming at last to the slopes of the small hill I had determined to be the center.

“So this is the place?” he remarked.

“More or less. Give or take a little, every which way. I don’t usually work with maps the way most do.”

We wandered a bit then.

“Just your average hillside,” he finally said. “Nothing special about it, unless those trees are the remains of a sacred grove.”

“But they’re saplings. They look like new growth to me.”

“Yes. Me, too. I’ve a funny feeling you’re still missing something in the equation. I’m in this version?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve discussed this before. If you take me out of it, where does that move it to?”

“The other side of the hill and farther south and east. Roughly the same distance as from your place to a point across the road from Owen’s.”

“Let’s take a look.”

We climbed the hill and climbed back down the other side. Then we walked southeastward.

Finally, we came to a marshy area, where I halted.

“Over that way,” I said. “Maybe fifty or sixty paces. I don’t see any point in mucking around in it when we can see it from here. It all looks the same.”

“Yes. Unpromising.” He scanned the area for a time. “Either way, then,” he finally said, “you must still be leaving something out.”

“A mystery player?” I asked. “Someone who’s been lying low all this time?”

“It seems as if there must be. Hasn’t it ever happened before?”

I thought hard, recalling Games gone by.

“It’s been tried,” I said then. “But the others always found him out.”

“Why?”

“Things like this,” I said. “Pieces that don’t fit any other way.”

“Well?”

“This is fairly late in the game. It’s never gone this long. Everyone’s always known everyone else by this time — with only about a week to go.”

“In those situations where someone was hiding out, how did you go about discovering him?”

“We usually all know by the Death of the Moon. If something seems wrong afterward that can only be accounted for by the presence of another player, the power is then present to do a divinatory operation to determine the person’s identity or location.”

“Don’t you think it might be worth giving it a try?”

“Yes. You’re right. Of course, it’s not really my specialty. Even though I know something about all of the operations, I’m a watcher and I’m a calculator. I’ll get someone else to give it a try, though.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to find out who’s good at it, and then suggest it formally, so that I get to share the results. I’ll share them with you then, of course.”

“What if it’s someone you can’t stand?”

“Doesn’t matter. There are rules, even if you’re trying to kill each other. If you don’t follow them, you don’t last long. I may have something that that person will want — like the ability to do an odd calculation, say, for something other than the center.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, the place where a body will be found. The place where a certain herb can be located. The store that carries a particular ingredient.”

“Really? I never knew about those secondary calculations. How hard are they to perform?”

“Some are very hard. Some are easy.” We turned and began walking back.

“How hard’s the body-finding one?” he asked as we climbed the hill.

“They’re fairly easy, actually.”

“What if you tried it for the police officer we put in the river?”

“Now that could be tricky, since there are a lot of extra variables involved. If you just misplaced a body, though — or knew that someone had died but didn’t know where — that wouldn’t be too hard.”

“That does sound like a kind of divination,” he said.

“When you talk about being an ‘anticipator,’ of having a pretty good idea of when something’s going to happen — or how, or who will be there — isn’t that a kind of divination?”

“No. I think it’s more a kind of subconscious knack for dealing with statistics, against a fairly well-known field of actions.”

“Well, some of my calculations would probably be a lot closer to doing overtly what you seem to do subconsciously. You may well be an intuitive calculator.”

“That business about finding the body, though. That smacks of divination.”

“It only seems that way to an outsider. Besides, you’ve just seen what can happen to my calculations if I’m missing some key factor. That’s hardly divinatory.”

“Supposing I told you that I’ve had a strong feeling all morning that one of the players has died?”

“That’s a little beyond me, I’m afraid. I’d need to know who it was, and some of the circumstances. I really deal more with facts and probabilities than things like that. Are you serious about your feeling?”

“Yes, it’s a real anticipation.”

“Did you feel it when the Count got staked?”

“No, I didn’t. But then, I don’t believe he’d technically have been considered living, to begin with.”

“Quibble, quibble,” I said, and he caught the smile and smiled back. It takes one to know one, I guess.

“You want to show me Dog’s Nest? You’ve gotten me curious.”

“Come on,” I said, and we went and climbed up to it.

At the top, we walked around a bit, and I showed him the stone we had been sucked through. Its inscription had become barely noticeable scratchings again. He couldn’t make them out either.

“Nice view from here, though,” he said, turning and studying the land about us. “Oh, there’s the manse. I wonder whether Mrs. Enderby’s cuttings are taking?”

There was my opening. I could have seized it right then, I suppose, and told him the whole story, from Soho to here. But, at least, I realized then what was holding me back. He reminded me of someone I once knew: Rocco. Rocco was a big, floppy-eared hound, always happy — bouncing about and slavering over life with such high spirits that some found it annoying — and he was very single-minded. I called to him one day on the street and he just dashed across, not even paying puppy-attention to his surroundings.

Got run over by a cart. I rushed to his side, and damned if he still didn’t seem happy to see me in those final minutes. If I’d kept my muzzle shut he could have stayed happy a lot longer. Now Well, Larry wasn’t stupid like Rocco, but he had a similar capacity for enthusiasm — long frustrated by a big problem, in his case. He seemed on the way to working out some means for dealing with the problem now, and the Great Detective in the guise he had assumed was cheering him up a good deal. Since I didn’t really see him as giving much away, I thought of Rocco and said the hell with it. Later.

We climbed down then and headed back, and I let him tell me about tropical plants and temperate plants and arctic plants and diurnal-nocturnal plant cycles and herbal medicines from many cultures. When we neared Rastov’s place, I saw at first what appeared a piece of rope hanging from a tree limb, blowing in the wind. A moment later I realized it to be Quicklime, signaling for my attention.

I veered to the left hand side of the road, quickening my pace.

“Snuff! I was looking for you!” he called. “He’s done it! He’s done it!”

“What?” I asked him.

“Did himself in. I found him hanging when I returned from my foraging. I knew he was depressed. I told you — ”

“How long ago was this?”

“About an hour ago,” he said. “Then I went to look for you.”

“When did you go out?”

“Before dawn.”

“He was all right then?”

“Yes. He was sleeping. He’d been drinking last night.”

“Are you sure he did it to himself?”

“There was a bottle on a table nearby.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, the way he’d been drinking.”

Larry had halted when he’d seen I was engaged in a conversation. I excused myself from Quicklime to bring him up to date.

“Sounds as if your anticipation was right,” I said. “But I couldn’t have calculated this one.”

Then a thought occurred.

“The icon,” I said. “Is it still there?”

“It wasn’t anywhere in sight,” Quicklime replied. “But it usually isn’t, unless he takes it out for some reason.”

“Did you check where he normally keeps it?”

“I can’t. That would take hands. There’s a loose board under his bed. It lies flush and looks normal, but comes up easily for someone with fingers. There’s a hollow space beneath it. He keeps it there, wrapped in a red silk bandana.”

“I’ll get Larry to lift the board,” I said. “Is there an unlocked door?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to try them. Usually, he keeps them locked. If they are, my window is opened a crack, as usual. You can raise it up and get in that way.”

We headed for the house. Quicklime slithered down and followed us.

The front door was unlocked. We entered and waited till Quicklime was beside us. “Which way?” I asked him.

“Straight ahead, through the door,” he said.

We did that, entering a room I had viewed from outside on an earlier inspection. And Rastov hung there, from a rope tied to a rafter, wild black hair and beard framing his pale face, dark eyes bugged, a trickle of blood having run from the left corner of his mouth into his beard, dried now into a dark, scarlike ridge. His face was purple and swollen. A light chair lay on its side nearby.

We studied his remains for only a moment, and I found myself recalling the old cat’s remarks from yesterday. Was this the blood he had referred to?

“Where’s the bedroom?” I asked.

“Through the door to the rear,” Quicklime replied.

“Come on, Larry,” I said. “We need you to raise a board.”

The bedroom was a mess, with heaps of empty bottles all about. And the bed was disheveled, its linen smelling of stale human sweat.

“There’s a loose board under the bed,” I said to Larry. To Quicklime, then, “Which board is it?”

Quicklime slipped beneath and halted atop the third one in. “This one,” he said.

“The one Quicklime’s showing us,” I told Larry. “Raise it, please.”

Larry knelt and reached, catching an edge with his fingernails. He found purchase almost immediately and drew it gently upward.

Quicklime looked in. I looked in. Larry looked in. The red bandana was still there, but no three-by-nine-inch piece of wood with an eerie painting on it.

“Gone,” Quicklime commented. “It must be somewhere back in the room, with him. We must have missed it.”

Larry replaced the board and we returned to the room where Rastov hung. We searched thoroughly, but it did not seem to be present.

“I don’t think he killed himself,” I said finally. “Somebody overpowered him while he was drunk or hung over, then did that to him. They wanted it to look as if he did it to himself.”

“He was pretty strong,” Quicklime responded. “But if he’d started in drinking again this morning, he might not have been able to defend himself well.”

I relayed our conjectures to Larry, who nodded.

“And the place is so messy you can’t really tell whether there was a struggle,” he said. “Though, for that matter, the killer could have straightened some furniture afterwards. I’ll have to go to the constable. I’ll tell him I dropped by, found the door open and walked in. At least, I’d visited here before. It’s not as if we’d never met. He won’t know we weren’t that well acquainted.”

“I guess that’s best,” I told him. Returning my gaze to the corpse, I said, “Can’t tell from his clothes either. Looks as if he’d slept in them, more than once.”

We moved back to the front room.

“What are you going to do now, Quicklime?” I asked. “You want to move in with Jack and me? That might be simplest, us closers sticking together.”

“I think not,” he hissed. “I think I’m done with the Game. He was a good man. He took good care of me. He cared about people, about the whole world. What’s that human notion — compassion. He had a lot of that. It’s one of the reasons he drank a lot, I think. He felt everybody else’s pain too much. No. I’m done with the Game. I’ll slip back to the woods now. I still know a few burrows, a few places where the mice make their runs. Leave me alone here for a while now. I’ll see you around, Snuff.”

“Whatever you think is best, Quicklime,” I said. “And if the winter gets too rough, you know where we live.”

“I do. Good-bye.”

“Good luck.”

Larry let me out and we walked back to the road. “I’ll be going this way, then,” he said, turning right.

“And I’ll be going this way.”

I turned left.

“See you soon for the follow-up on this,” he said.

“Yes.”

I headed home. “And you will lose a friend“ — the old cat had said that, too. It had slipped my mind till now.

Jack was not in, and I did the rounds quickly, leaving everything in good order. Stepping outside then, I located his spoor and tracked him to Crazy Jill’s.

Graymalk watched me from atop the wall. “Hello, Snuff,” she said.

“Hello, Gray. Jack is here?”

“Yes, he is in having a meal with the mistress. He ran low on supplies and she decided to feed him before their trip.”

“Trip?” I asked. “What trip?”

“A shopping trip, into town.”

“He did say something about being low on necessaries, and needing to visit the market soon…”

“Yes. So he’s sent for a coach. It should be here in an hour or so. It will be exciting to see the town again.”

“You’re going, too?”

“We’re all going. The mistress also needs some things.”

“Shouldn’t we stay behind to guard the places?”

“The mistress has a very good daylong warding spell, which she will share. It will also capture likenesses of attempted trespassers. I understand that a part of the reason we are going this way is to see whether anyone tries such a thing. Everyone will see our coach go by. On our return, we may learn who are our most important enemies.”

“This was decided recently, I take it?”

“Just this morning, while you were out.”

“This may be a good time for it,” I acknowledged, “with the big event only a week from tomorrow — and in light of the way things have been going.”

“Oh?” She rose, stretched, and jumped down from the wall. “There are new developments?”

“Walk with me,” I said.

“Where?”

“To the vicarage. You said we have an hour.”

“All right.” We left the yard, headed south.

“Yes,” I told her as we went, “we’ve lost the mad monk,” and I recounted the morning’s events.

“And you think the vicar did it?” she asked.

“Probably. He seems our most militant player. But that’s not why I wanted to visit his focus. I just wanted to learn the location of the room where he keeps Lynette a prisoner.”

“Of course,” she said. “If he has the Count’s ring and the Alhazred Icon as well as the pentacle bowl, he could do some pretty nasty things between now and next week. You said they mainly increased his technical prowess, and I thought you meant for the ceremony. But he could hurt people with them right now. I asked the mistress.”

“Well, that’s technical.”

“But you acted as if it weren’t important.”

“I still don’t think it is. He’d be a fool to use the actual tools that way, when he should be relying on his own abilities. The tools have a way of producing repercussive effects when they’re used extracurricularly. He could wind up hurting himself badly unless he’s a real master, and I don’t think he is.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I doubt a master would run around with a crossbow, shooting at bats, or plan a human sacrifice when it’s not absolutely necessary — just to be safe. He’s insecure in his power. A master aims at economy of operations, not proliferation.”

“That sounds right, Snuff. But if he’s too insecure mightn’t he be tempted to try an operation with the tools against the rest of us, anyway — just to narrow the field and make things easier for himself later on?”

“If he’s that foolish, the results are on his own head.”

“And the person he directs the power against, don’t forget that. It could be you.”

“I understand you’re safe if your heart is pure.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

When we reached the vicarage she led me around to the rear.

“Up there,” she said, looking at a window directly overhead. “That’s her room.”

“I’ve never seen her about,” I said.

“I gather from Tekela that she’s been locked up for several weeks.”

“I wonder how securely?”

“Well, she hasn’t come out, to my knowledge. And I told you I saw a chain around her ankle.”

“How thick?”

“That’s hard to say. You want me to climb up and take another look?”

“Maybe. I wonder whether the vicar is in?”

“We could check the stable, see whether his horse is there.”

“Let’s do that.”

So we headed to the small stable in the rear and entered there. There were two stalls, and both were empty.

“Off on a call,” she said.

“What do you want?” came a voice from the rafters. Looking up, I beheld the albino raven.

“Hello, Tekela,” Graymalk said. “We were just passing by, and wanted to see whether you’d heard the news about Rastov.”

There followed a moment’s silence, then, “What about Rastov?”

“He’s dead,” Graymalk said. “Hanged.”

“And what of the snake?”

“Gone back to the woods.”

“Good. I never liked snakes. They raid nests, eat eggs.”

“Have you any news?”

“Only that the big man has been about again. There was an argument at the farmhouse and he went out to the barn for a time and crouched in a corner. The Good Doctor went after him and there was more argument. He ran off into the night then. Went back later, though.”

“That’s interesting. I wonder what it was about.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ll be going now. Good-bye.”

“Yes.”

We departed and returned to the vicarage. Graymalk looked back.

“She can’t see us from that rafter,” she said. “Do you want me to climb up?”

“Wait,” I said. “I want to try a trick I learned from Larry.”

I approached the back door and I checked the stable again. I could see no flash of white.

Rising onto my hind legs, I put a paw against the door for balance, held it a moment, then dropped it to join the other in pressing on the knob toward its center. I turned my body as I made the effort. I had to try three times, adjusting my grip. The third time it went far enough to make a clicking sound and my weight caused the door to swing inward. I dropped into a normal position and entered.

“That’s quite a trick,” she said, following me. “Do you feel any wards?”

“No.”

I pushed the door almost shut with my shoulder. It had to be paw-openable, quickly, on our return.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Let’s find the stairway. I’d like to see how the girl is secured.”

We stopped in the study on the way and she showed me the bowl and its skull. The bowl was indeed the real thing. I’d seen it many times before. Neither the icon nor the ring lay in such plain sight, however, and I hadn’t the time to try my skills on drawers. We returned to our search for a stair.

It was located along the west wall. We mounted it, and Graymalk led me to Lynette’s room. The door was closed, but it did not seem necessary that it be locked, with her chained up.

I tried the door trick again and it worked the first time. I’d have to see whether Larry had any other good ones…

As we entered, Lynette’s eyes widened, and she said, “Oh.”

“I’ll go rub up against her and let her pet me,” Graymalk said. “That makes people happy. You can be looking at the chain while I do that.”

It was actually the locks in which I was most interested. But even as I advanced to do that I heard the distant clopping of a horse’s hoofs, approaching at a very rapid pace.

“Uh-oh,” Graymalk said amid purrings, as the girl stroked her and told her how pretty she was. “Tekela must have seen us come in, flew off and given alarm.”

I went through with my inspection. The chain was heavy enough to do its job, and the lock that secured it to the bed frame was impressively heavy. The one which fastened it to Lynette’s ankle was smaller, but still hardly a thing to be dealt with in a moment.

“I know enough,” I said, as the hoofbeats came up beside the house, turned the corner, and I heard a horse blowing heavily.

“Race you home!” Graymalk said, leaping to the floor and running for the stair.

The rider was dismounting as we bounded to the first floor. A second or two later I heard the back door open, then slam.

“Bad,” Graymalk said. Then, “I can occupy the vicar.”

“The hell with him! I’m going to take out the study window!”

I reached the corner just as the nasty little man came around the other corner, a riding crop in his hand. I had to slow to turn into the room and he brought it down across my back. Before he could strike a second time, though, Graymalk had leaped into his face, all of her claws extended.

I bounded across the room, a scream rising at my back, and leaped at the window, closing my eyes as I hit. I took the thing with me, mullions and all. Turning then, I sought Graymalk.

She was nowhere in sight but I heard her yowl from within. Two bounds and a leap brought me back into the room. He was holding her high by her hind legs and swinging the crop. When it connected she screamed and he let her fall, for he had not expected me to return, let alone be coming at him low off the floor with my ears flat and a roar in my throat straight from my recent refresher with Growler.

He swung the crop but I came in beneath it. If Graymalk were dead, I was going to kill him. But I heard her call out, “I’m leaving!” as I struck against his chest, knocking him over backward.

My jaws were open and his throat had been my target. But I heard her going out the window, and I turned my head and bit hard, hearing cartilage crunch as I drew my teeth along through his right ear. Then I was off of him, across the room, and following Graymalk outside to the sounds of his screams.

“Want to ride on my back?” I called to her.

“No! Just keep going!”

We ran all the way home.

As we lay there in the front yard, me panting and her licking herself, I said, “Sorry I got you into that, Gray.”

“I knew what I was doing,” she said. “What did you do to him there at the end?”

“I guess I mangled his ear.”

“Why?”

“He hurt you.”

“I’ve been hurt worse than that.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Now you have a first-class enemy.”

“Fools have no class.”

“A fool might try the tools against you. Or something else.”

I interrupted my panting to sigh. Just then a bird-shaped shadow slid across us. Looking up, I was not surprised to see Tekela go by.

After lunch and a quick running of my rounds the coach came by, and we all entered and embarked for town. It had room for me to sit beside a window while Graymalk curled up on the seat across from me. Master and mistress faced each other to my right, chatting, beside a window of their own. I’d received only a few minor cuts from the glass, but Graymalk had a nasty welt along her right side. My heart did not feel pure when I thought of the vicar.

I watched the sky. Before we’d gone a mile I caught sight of Tekela again. She circled above the coach, then swooped low for a look inside. Then she was gone. I did not awaken Graymalk to remark upon it.

The sky was cloudy, and a wind occasionally buffeted the coach. When we passed the Gipsies’ camp there was small activity within and no music. I listened to the horses clop along, muttering about the ruts and the driver’s propensity to lay on the lash at the end of a long day. I was glad I wasn’t a horse.

After a long while we came to the bridge and crossed over. I looked out across the dirty waters and wondered where the officer had gotten to. I wondered whether he had a family.

As we moved along Fleet Street to the Strand and then down Whitehall, I caught occasional glimpses of an albino raven, variously perched, watching. We made several stops for purchases along the way, and finally, when we disembarked in Westminster, site of many a midnight stroll, Jack said to me, “Let’s meet back here in about an hour and a half. We’ve a few esoteric purchases to make.” This was fine with me, as I enjoy wandering city streets. Graymalk took me to see the mews where she’d once hung out.

We spent the better part of an hour strolling, sorting through collected smells, watching the passersby.

Then, in an alley we’d chosen for a shortcut, I had a distinct feeling halfway down its length, that something was wrong. This came but moments before the compact figure of the vicar emerged from a recessed doorway, a bulging bandage upon his ear, lesser dressings covering his cheeks. Tekela rode upon his shoulder, her white merging with that of the bandages, giving to his head a grotesque, lopsided appearance. She must have been giving him directions as to our movements. I showed them my teeth and kept moving. Then I heard a footfall behind me. Two men with clubs had sprung from another doorway and were already upon me, swinging them. I tried to turn upon them, but it was too late. I heard the vicar laugh right before one of the bludgeons fell upon my head. My last sight was of Graymalk, streaking back up the alley.

I awoke inside a dirty cage, a sickening smell in my nose, my throat, my lungs. I realized that I had been given chloroform. My head hurt, my back hurt. I drew and expelled several deep breaths to clear my breathing apparatus. I could hear whimpers, growls, a pathetic mewing, and faint, sharp barks of pain from many directions. When my sense of smell began to work again, all manner of doggy and catty airs came to me. I raised my head and looked about and wished I hadn’t.

Mutilated animals occupied cages both near and far — dogs and cats without tails or the proper number of legs, a blind puppy whose ears had been cut off, a cat missing large patches of her skin, raw flesh showing at which she licked, mewing constantly the while. What mad place was this? I checked myself over quickly, to make certain I was intact.

At the room’s center was an operating table, a large tray of instruments beside it. On hooks next to the door across the way hung a number of once-white laboratory coats with suspicious-looking stains upon them.

As my head cleared my memory returned to me, and I realized what had happened. The vicar had delivered me into the hands of a vivisectionist. At least Graymalk had escaped. That was something.

I inspected the door to my cage. It was a simple enough latch that held it shut, but the mesh was too fine for me to reach through and manipulate it. And the mesh was too tough to be readily breached by tooth or claw. What would Growler counsel? Things were a lot simpler in the primeval wood.

The most obvious plan was to fake lassitude when they came for me, then to spring to attack as soon as the cage door was opened. I’d a feeling, though, that I wasn’t the first ever to think of such a ploy, and where were the others now? Still, I couldn’t just lie there and contribute to medical understanding. So unless something better came along I resolved to give this plan a try when they came for me.

When they did, of course, they were ready. They’d a lot of expertise with fangs and knew just how to go about it. There were three of them, and two had on elbow-length padded gloves. When I pulled the awake, lunge, and bite maneuver I got a padded forearm forced back between my jaws, and my legs were seized and held while someone twisted an ear painfully. They were very efficient, and they had me strapped to the table in less than a minute. I wondered just how long I had been unconscious.

I listened to their conversation as they began their preparations:

“Strange, ’im payin’ us so well to do a job on this ’un,” said the one who had twisted my ear.

“Well, it is a strange job, and it does involve some extra work,” said the one who was arranging the instruments into neat little rows. “Bring over some clean parts buckets. He was very specific that when we render him down, a piece at a time, for candles, there be no foreign blood or other materials mixed in.”

“’Ows ’e to know?”

“For what he’s paying he can have it his way.”

“I’ll ’ave to scrub ’em out.”

“Do it.”

A brief reprieve, to the sound of running water, followed, drowning out some of the whimpers and cries which were beginning to get to me.

“And where’s the cask for his head?”

“I left it in t’other room.”

“Get it. I want everything to hand. Nice doggy.” He patted my head as we waited. The muzzle they’d gotten onto me prevented my expressing my opinion.

“He was a strange one,” said the third man— a thin, blond fellow with very bad teeth— who had been silent till then. “What’s special about doggy candles?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” said the one who had patted me — a large, beefy man with very blue eyes — and he returned his attention to his instruments. “We give a customer what he pays for.”

The other returned then — a short man with wide shoulders, large hands, and a tic at the corner of his mouth. He bore what looked like an odd-sized lunch pail. “I have it now,” he said.

“Good. Then gather round for a lesson.”

Then I heard it — Dzzp! — a high-pitched whine descending to a low throb in about three seconds each cycle. It is above the range of the human ear, and it accompanies the main curse, circling at a range of about a hundred fifty yards initially.

Dzzp!

“First, I will remove the left rear leg,” began the beefy man as he reached for a scalpel. The others drew near, reaching after other instruments and holding them ready for him. Dzzp! The circle might well be smaller by now, of course.

There came a loud pounding upon an outer door. “The devil!” said the beefy man.

“Shall I see who ’tis?” asked the smaller man.

“No. We’re operating. He can come back if it’s important.”

Dzzp!

It came again, more heavily; this time it was obviously the sound of someone kicking upon the door.

“Inconsiderate lout!”

“Ruffian!”

“Churl!”

Dzzp!

The third time that the knocking occurred it seemed as if each blow were performed by a strong man striking his shoulder against the door, attempting to break it down.

“What cheek!”

“Per’aps I should ’ave words with ’im.”

“Yes, do.”

The shorter man took a single step toward the entrance when a splintering sound reached us from the next room, followed by a loud crash.

Dzzp!

Heavy footsteps crossed the outer room. Then the door immediately across from me was flung open. Jack stood upon the threshold, staring at the cages, the vivisectionists, myself upon the table. Graymalk peered in from behind him.

“Just who do you think you are, bursting into a private laboratory?” said the beefy man.

“…Interrupting a piece of scientific research?” said the tall man.

“…And damaging our door?” said the short man with the wide shoulders and large hands.

I could see it now, like a black tornado, surrounding Jack, settling inward. If it entered him completely he would no longer be in control of his actions.

“I’ve come for my dog,” he said. “That’s him on your table.” He moved forward.

“No, you don’t, laddie,” said the beefy man. “This is a special job for a special client.”

“I’ll be taking him and leaving now.”

The beefy man raised his scalpel and moved around the table. “This can do amazing things to a man’s face, pretty boy,” he said. The others picked up scalpels, also.

“I’d guess you’ve never met a man as really knows how to cut,” the beefy one said, advancing now.

Dzzp!

It was into him, and that funny light came into his eyes, and his hand came out of his pocket and captured starlight traced the runes on the side of his blade.

“Well-met,” Jack said then, through the teeth of his grin, and he continued to walk straight ahead.

When we left I realized that the old cat had been right about the seas and messes, too. I wondered what sort of light they would gi

#10-23-20 #a night in the lonesome October #roger zelazny #full moon Halloween

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abhailiu · 4 years

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@copiesofme asked: Oblivion. Anne sees Jam arrive to collect the yearly toll, and then notices that he helps an orc woman down, and collects the little bundle into his own arms before coming to introduce them to their Nan. And go.

Had anyone told Anne that she might, one day, become a grandmother, she would have laughed in their faces. It had never been her intent on having children in the first place, but as things so often went, it had happened. Anne wouldn’t trade any of them for the world and all of its riches. The day that James had taken off to fill the shoes of his father, Anne had cried. Not because she hadn’t thought him capable - by the Nine, anything but! He was every bit as vicious as his mother and father combined - but in the fact that she would miss him terrible. It was a peculiar thing to wake with her daughter crawling into bed beside her and Ekganit, but walking out into the communal kitchen table and to not find him sitting there pouring over a book had taken some getting used to. While she hadn’t said it, both were awake for how she longed to be able to call and to hear him respond.

Anne had done that a few time. Called out to the almost-emptiness of the house and expected him to answer. He never did, and that pang of sadness plucked gracelessly at her heart strings. He visits, sometimes. Tells her of his first wife and how much he loves her and it makes her happy that he has settled as chief and has not met with much conflict. His first port of call had been the attempt to convince her that it didn’t need paid, but Anne had insisted that she would do as her own mother had; pay and pay on time whether he liked it or not. It’s her favourite day of the year, really, when her son comes to visit and with the tell-tale creak and groan of wagon wheels on uneven ground, she moves to the front door excitedly.

She recognises his wife by description alone. Tall, hair braided tidily and- what was that? Anne loiters in the doorway of that ever-expanding cottage of theirs, and she knows that nothing could have prepared her for the happiness that waits there. James grins at her as he approaches and she is quick to move to him, her fingers hovering over the little bundle. Any who had known her from her time in the Imperial Arena would not have described her as a happy crier. She’d cried when she was angry. When she was frustrated. When she was sad. She laughed when she was happy in most cases outside of this one.

“Hello mother,” James greets her with a tusky grin. He is as proud as punch and is quick to offer the little bundle to her, “I thought it’d be best to introduce you to your granddaughter in person.”

“She’s lovely-” Anne shoots back, quick to take the bundle from him. "Help yer wife off the cart will y’? She’s only after givin’ you a child ‘n I won’t have any son of mine being rude.” Had her hands not been full and carefully cradling a little one in the crook of her arm, she might’ve waggled a finger at him. “Oh, she’s got our hair.” There’s the little glance around James, who has turned to help his lady from her seat. “And it’s a pleasure to finally meet you’n all! heard nothin’ but good things- come in the both of you- ‘n don’t mind the mess, got a few wee ones myself skippin’ around, leavin’ toys ‘n muck behind ‘em.”

#copiesofme #i’ve barked louder & to men twice as rough. » anne bonny┊prose.#the hard-fighting is easier than being given space to think. » anne bonny┊oblivion.#GOD SHE'S SO FUCKIN CHUFFED #WILL BRAG TO EVERYONE WHO WILL LISTEN: HEY I HAVE A GRANDDAUGHTER AND SHE'S JUST AS GINGER AS ME AND HER DA #THE RED HAIR FLOWS STRONG IN THESE GENES

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ineffable-writer · 4 years

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It’s 2 AM and I typed up 2000 words of Crowley and Aziraphale taking a walk in which Crowley gets scared by a goat.

AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21807757/chapters/52124167#workskin

Whole thing below the break. This is what happens when I spend a weekend with no one’s company but my own. I should sleep now.

The Walk to Cawdor Castle

It was a twenty-seven-minute walk from the cottage they’d rented to Cawdor castle, but Aziraphale was convinced they could get there quicker. There was a path, you see, a clear footpath that Crowley’s device didn’t know about, but you could see it plain as day on the satellite map. It was some sort of walking path through the woods, and wouldn’t that be lovelier than dodging cars along the road?

Crowley was not invested in dodging cars along the road—although he wasn’t invested in walking to the castle in the first place—so they ignored the directions. It was a left in front of the cottage, down a few signs that read very clearly public property, then a path through the woods. The residences here were absolutely beautiful. All gardens and hedges and flowers, although the plants were dry for the winter. But clearly very well-maintained. And at least one of the properties had hedges that would have benefited from some group therapy with Crowley’s plants: they could hear an older gentleman cursing at them in a braw thunder as they passed. The demon threw the quivering foliage a glare as they walked past.

Hard to put the effort in for that, though. He was in a good mood.

“Did you ever get up here?” he asked, fending off the inevitable lecture from the angel with a question. “You know, while he was Thane? Or king?”

“Oh, no. Too busy running around in the damp with you. In that dreadful armor.” Aziraphale shuddered at the thought. Literally. Show-off. “Did you?”

“Nah.” Crowley rolled his shoulders. It was mostly quiet, save for the cursing of the man at the hedges, but they could still hear the roar of the highway from here. “Was up here during Culloden. And… after.”

“Really? I. I didn’t know.”

“On and off. Poked my head in. Appearance’s sake.”

“Explains—”

“Yeah, it gave me the idea. World felt… shaky. People getting’ thrown about with no insurance. Fire and flame. Hit close to home.”

They took a right—there was a brief and breathtaking view of the valley with the mountains beyond—and then there was a left, and there was indeed a path where Aziraphale had insisted there was one. Crowley suddenly remembered how much he loved pavement. He never appreciated a good, solid road until there weren’t any to take.

They shouldn’t have expected anything less than the muddy pit before them, of course. It hadn’t rained too recently, but there was snowmelt, and this was Scotland after all. The path was in all right shape, but it was pocketed with bog, and there wasn’t a good way to cross this muck without getting it on them. Angel and demon both hesitated.

“Miss the car yet?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, hush. Where’s your adventurous spirit?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale tutted, shimmied himself into a pose that said yes, I am very definitely going to walk straight through this mud pit, any minute now, good sir! and promptly hesitated. “Only, well. I really would prefer not to get it all over these shoes.”

The demon sighed. He waved his hand as though letting Aziraphale ahead, a simple after you, and there was a board across the pit. The angel smiled broadly, and the shimmying of his shoulders relaxed into a pleasurable wave as he crossed from the safety of a miraculous bridge. Crowley followed. He didn’t need the dirt either, after all.

“The castle wasn’t here when he was either,” said Aziraphale. “Macbeth was actually hundreds of years before the castle.”

“Where did he stay, then?” South of them, on their left: not old forest, but wild forest, at least, an attempt to come back from the clearing of the land. Red, dry ferns in their winter state, minty-green growth sprawling on the northern faces of the trees. Foliose lichens dangled and scattered around the forest—bunching in branches and climbing the trunks—with paler, crustose lichens that sprawled in rippling circles on the rocks, the logs.

The angel frowned. “You know, I’m not sure. But I’d still like to see it. Do the tourist thing. It did look pretty in the photographs on the World Wide Web.”

“World Wide—no one calls it that anymore, angel. It’s the internet. Not a proper noun.” On their right, a stone wall had fallen into disuse, now pillowy and puffed with vibrant moss. An altogether different forest lay to the north of the path: instead of wild trees and ferns and growths, a grid of towering trees—perhaps conifers? But not evergreens—had been planted, and were now reaching for the sky.

Aziraphale stopped to examine an eggshell that had fallen from somewhere, had nestled between the fallen needles of the trees. He smiled at it. He was downright angelic at it. Crowley could feel the angel’s thoughts radiating from him: something nauseating about the circle of life and the joy of youth. It was disgustingly beautiful. Crowley managed to pull the besotted stare off his face before the angel looked up again.

The path, it was increasingly clear, had been formed by cart wheels and maintained by tires. It tapered off into a staging area for some industrial business that was closed for the week-end, and continued across the lot as a road. They passed through a small herd of unliving machinery—perhaps some sort of logging situation, Aziraphale mused, that would explain the grid of trees—and Crowley miracled up another bridge before they were once again beside the wood, occasionally stepping aside to let cars go past.

Crowley’s hand found the angel’s, again. They did that a lot these days.

Once they were on the proper road, they consulted Google Maps again and tried to figure out the best course to the castle. Crowley insisted it was just through an arch between two buildings—“We can ignore the sign, angel, there’s no one here, we just walked through private property,”—but trespassing again was, for some reason, just too much, so they went a little further down the road to circle around the offending property. They ended up walking past a field full of black goats, framed by the Highlands and the blue sky and the chill wind. The road curved south up ahead, and at the bend they should have been able to get to the castle grounds.

Crowley did not like goats.

They had eyes, was it. Reminded him too much of his boss. The horns, too. All off in weird places. Hooves. Not his thing. Not his scene, goats.

And one was out of the enclosure. A big one. Black as the night and with no discernable method of having gotten out. The fence was secure, the gate was padlocked shut, and all the other goats were inside, where they were supposed to be.

Crowley made the noise.

“Ngk—”

“What? Oh! Oh, hello, you sweet boy, what are you doing out here?” Aziraphale went right to it, of course, and looked quite put out when it darted anxiously away. “I think he’s lost!”

“No he’s not, he knows exactly where he is! The pasture’s right there.”

“How on Earth did you get out, my dear?” Aziraphale turned around, looking for a way to rescue the wayward soul, but no opportunities presented themselves. Crowley was getting increasingly suspicious of the creature, so Aziraphale stepped away. “Nothing to be done, I suppose.”

“It’s fine. They’re clever. Come on.”

“Hm.”

Aziraphale said nothing when they gave the goat a wide berth, and took his demon’s arm as they wandered up the hill toward the marked parking area. It wasn’t far—just behind some houses—but there wasn’t a car in sight. Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped.

“Oh, it’s closed!” The gate into the property was shut and locked, as was the gate to the gardens. Aziraphale sighed and peered through the latter. It was beautiful, like something out of a fairy tale. “I thought you said it was open.”

“The hours listed on the app say it’s open.” Crowley fiddled with his phone. “The website’s different. Looking at it. Says it’s shut for winter repairs.”

Aziraphale didn’t understand what an app was or why it would be different from the World Wide Web, but he assumed it made sense to Crowley. He sighed, dejected. “Well, I suppose that’s that.”

“We could still go in.” There was something indulgent in the way Crowley reacted to the angel’s disappointment, a richness in that empathy that reminded Aziraphale of devil’s food cake and well-aged wine. He wasn’t sure why he felt that so strongly, but he was sure they were both aware of it. Aziraphale didn’t need to look to see the pout.

“No, no, there’s no point if no one’s there. We are tourists, we aren’t straying off the beaten path.”

“Isn’t that literally how we—”

Ba-a-a-a-a.

Crowley jumped a foot in the air when the escaped goat bleated behind him. He bowled into Aziraphale, knocking the angel against the gate to the garden, and somehow the angel found himself in front of his friend, facing the goat like a human shield. He sighed, because if he didn’t sigh he would laugh aloud, and Crowley would sulk about that.

“Let’s at least get him back where he’s supposed to be.”

They managed it somehow. Aziraphale miracled open the padlock and Crowley herded it toward the gate. There were a number of strangled noises—Aziraphale wasn’t sure how much Crowley herded the goat versus how much the goat herded Crowley—but eventually the angel managed to lure the poor thing back into the enclosure, and he slipped out without letting any of the other animals escape. The lock clicked shut and the angel looked immensely pleased with himself.

“See? A little hard work and—”

The goat hopped over the fence.

Crowley and Aziraphale both stared at it. It bleated, turned, and nudged the fence woefully. The other goats finally seemed to realize it was on the wrong side and wandered over, curious. There was a quiet, distressed chorus of bleating.

Crowley burst out laughing. Aziraphale threw up his hands, exasperated, elbows tight at his side. He turned and walked back towards the main road, definitively giving up. There was only so much a person could do.

Crowley followed and caught his arm. “Read a book once,” he said.

“Did you? Once? I’m so proud.”

“Shut up. It was satire, doesn’t count. Great writer, though. Said Christians would have turned out a lot different if Jesus had been a goatherd instead of a shepherd.”

“He was a carpenter,” said Aziraphale.

“Nonono, it was satire. Character was a literal shepherd. Jesus was a metaphorical one.”

“Why didn’t he just make the character a goatherd?”

Crowley decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “Which way are we going back? Main road or your shortcut?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale squeezed his arm. “The path less traveled by, I think.”

“Right,” said Crowley. “Adventurous spirit.”

#Ineffable Husbands #crowley #aziraphale #gnu terry pratchett #crowley and aziraphale #Place Without Plot

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