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ten-thousand-paper-wasps · 4 years

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"Falk. What, in all of ashing creation, was that?" Zakurr growled.

He waited until morning to demand an explanation. Last night had been too much, too fast. Everyone needed time to calm down.

Falk shifted from side to side. "You're going to be cross."

Zakurr did not tell them he was cross already. Falk had been in a temper as of late, prone to explosions. He had to present his grievances in a calm, constructive manner. He kept it in. He kept it in.

Zakurr sighed. "Will you tell me what you were feeling when you did it?"

Fury, desperation, and panic all rolled across their face before they settled on an answer. "Was mad," they mumbled sheepishly.

"What made you react the way that you did?"

Falk shifted again before they spoke, clearly uncomfortable. "No one gets to touch Morrin like that. No one. He had to die."

Zakurr did agree, at least, that the Earl had been out of line. Morrin did not easily permit touch of any kind. But Falk still had much to answer for. "Do you think killing him was the only option? Do you think that Nells or I or even Morrin herself would not have been able to stop him with our words?"

That made them pause. They looked down, ashamed. "Was I wrong to kill him?" they asked.

If one were only seeing Falk in a fight, devastatingly powerful and sly as a pack of dragons, it was easy to forget how young they were. It was easy to forget that they didn't have enough life experience to know when or even how to hold back.

"Yes, Falk," he says, "it was wrong. I do not blame you," he reassures, "but it was wrong, and Morrin will be cross."

"Cross?" they sputtered, "Some rat bastard ashing hounds her half the sputtering night and she'll be cross with me for getting rid of him? Smoke on the wind, Zakurr, but that's madness!"

He tried to remind himself that smacking Falk a few dozen times, while tempting, would not teach them sense. He was the oldest one here. It was up to him to make sure Falk didn't die of stupidity.

He resigns himself to teaching. "So, today we're going to talk about autonomy, diplomacy, and consent. And then after that, we're going to look at my map, and we're going to talk about bounties and what it means to be an outlaw."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Morrin sat on the stump and slowly sipped at her tea. The lizardfolk girl was still with them in the morning, and now that they were on the road again, she'd likely be with them for the foreseeable future.

She was very, very pretty, Morrin would give her that. Perhaps Falk had been looking for a bed partner. Or an easy mark on their continued string of utterly distasteful robberies. Or perhaps they simply wanted a girl who wasn't Morrin.

She was not especially fond of that option.

She filled her cup again and looked into the girl's slitted blue eyes. "Tea?" she offered. Whatever the reason for their newest addition, Morrin could at least be polite.

"Oh, please! Thank you," she replied, soft and sweet as morning rain. "I'm Jaanta. We were never formally introduced, last night."

Jaanta was a mottled grey-blue with silky black hair that fell to mid-back. Her eyes were large and her snout was long, and when she smiled she displayed dozens of sharp teeth and a distracting forked tongue. Morrin couldn't keep her eyes off of her. Candlesticks.

"I'm Morrin," she said, instead of Gods you're beautiful. "There's Zakurr, he's the big one. Nells is the fool. You've met Falk, I'm sure," she says dryly. "Owlsby probably won't eat you. Probably."

"Owlsby?" Jaanta looked around, hunting for him. Morrin knew the moment she saw him, because Jaanta gasped and went very, very still. "That's..."

"Big, yes. And a mite smelly. Still, fastest horse you'll ever see, and he eats any bandits. You'll get used to him, if you’re coming with us." Her smile was only a little vicious. One should always be polite, even if one was feeling perhaps a touch jealous.

Then, Jaanta had to go and ruin her victorious mood by bowing to her. "I'm delighted to know you, Morrin. I hope that we can be friends."

Well, she thought, fighting down a blush, perhaps Jaanta wouldn't be so terrible. Perhaps Morrin could be her friend.

And if Falk brought her along for the reasons she suspected...Well, Morrin would deal with it. She's had to deal with Falk's lustful conquests for her entire life. Just because this one was so incredibly lovely was no excuse for poor behavior.

Falk could go and sit on a candle, for all she cared. She was beyond cross with them. It wasn't bad enough, lying to her face about their thefts. No, the blasted pile of ash had to kill an Earl. Did they not trust her to handle things herself? Did they think it was the first time a man had tried to cause trouble with her? Armed or no, one squishy human was never a match for her. She felt sick. Sick, and angry, and insulted that her dearest friend would be so presumptuous.

Humans were easily intimidated. All it would have taken was for her to take his dainty little hand in hers and crush it like so much rotten stone. No fuss, no felony charges, and no ashing arson.

She felt humiliated. And on top of this she was trying to befriend Falk's newest darling, like Jaanta actually cared about her, like she wasn't just going to replace her if Falk liked her enough to keep her.

So she was deeply, deeply confused when Falk took a seat in front of her, Zakurr holding her wayward love in place. Nells took a seat beside her and took her hand. He squeezed once, Are you okay? She squeezed back three times. Yes. I think. He pressed his whole body up against her side, soothing and firm. She breathed.

"Morrin," Zakurr huffed, "Falk has something they would like to tell you." He gave them a cold look. "Go ahead, dearheart. Tell her what you told me."

"I'm sorry I stabbed the Earl," they grunted mutinously.

Zakurr took one of their wrists in his giant hand and squeezed. "You can do better."

Falk's face tightened in pain. "I'm sorry," they tried again. "I'm sorry that he touched you, and that he was a bastard." They glared at Zakurr. "Are you ashing happy now?"

His grip tightened and Morrin heard the tiny bones creak in protest. He'd break them, if he wasn't careful. "Remember, dearheart. A proper apology must acknowledge your wrongs and offer reparations. Don't say words you don't mean."

"Falk," she started, "do you know why I'm upset with you?" Nells squeezed her hand again, once. Are you okay? Should I intervene?

She squeezes back gently and leans into him briefly. I'm okay. Thank you for being here.

She tears into them. "You didn’t even ask if I was alright. Or if I wanted help. You didn’t say a word, no attempt to shoo him off or anything. You just spent the evening stealing from people, and then you stabbed a man for no reason other than because you wanted to and you could. You burned down Duke Enerwaeir's ashing house. What in hearth is wrong with you?"

She's crying, her eyes are hot and Falk is staring at her in shock. She's never sworn in front of them before, much less at them.

For a time, no one says anything.

"Morrin, I...I..." Falk tries, before the words fall away and they can't do anything more than cry. "I..."

Jaanta takes her other hand and Morrin is so preoccupied with emotion that she almost forgets to blush over it.

"I'm sorry," Falk manages. "I'm sorry that I lied to you about what we were doing. I'm sorry that I didn't trust you to take care of yourself, and so dishonored you. I'm sorry that I stabbed him without even trying anything else first. I hurt you, and I'm sorry for it, and I won't ever do it again."

Zakurr lets Falk go, a nasty bruise already beginning to form. Morrin gives a brittle smile. "I love you, Falk, more than anything. I always have, and I always will. Thank you for apologizing."

And then she gets up, and she walks away, calling behind her, "I'm going to the river. See you later." If she is very lucky, none of them will follow her. She could really, really use some time alone.

#the wasp writes #my writing #the beastmaster series #Nells #Zakurr #Falk #Morrin #Owlsby #Jaanta #I guess there's gonna be a part three later #because apparently I don't know how to wrap things up neatly #Morrin is feeling a whole lot of feelings right now and she needs some time away from her favorite idiots #Falk had a terrible morning. they learned a lot of unhappy lessons because Zakurr was dead set on teaching them to be accountable #Zakurr comes from a culture where the elders all collectively teach the children and since he's the oldest one here that means it's his job #all of them are adults but Falk is an idiot so they must be taught #it was just like teaching his daughter to eat vegetables: stubborn and with a body count #Falk is feeling pretty bitter #They had to be told what they did wrong and they had to admit it in front of the Morrin Defense Squad #she's so precious and I am going to hurt her so much #but later #right now I have a fanfic to write because SOMEBODY keeps giving me ideas MOON

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champagneandparacosm-archive · 3 years

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Ares, for the most part, enjoyed humans. Them being allowed at his school was at first irritating but he soon learned that terrorizing them was quite the fun activity. Of course that often resulted in after school detention, most of which being some ‘terroristic magic torment brought on by the board of magical education’. Why couldn’t they allow the supernatural kids to have simple detention? Ares stood in the corner of the hallway, the last school bell of the day sounded and the young man waited until he absolutely had to head to his punishment. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Ms. Owlsby, the old crone absolutely a dictator. Pulling his empty bag from his locker he only used to hold books, never moving them to and from school, the god of war held disgust on his features as he trudge the path to his doom.

// @welcometothesins-roleplay

#character: ares

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ten-thousand-paper-wasps · 4 years

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They were going to rob Duke Enerwaeir blind.

Or, at least, he and Falk were. Morrin was becoming increasingly suspicious of their absences and subsequent newfound wealth, and she couldn't keep a secret, so of course Nells wasn't going to tell her. They all had their roles to play in this gambit. She just happened to be at her most convincing when she wasn't aware she needed to lie.

It was a dress ball, so there was plenty of money to be had, if their hands were quick enough. Naturally, that meant spending an evening looking absolutely delicious.

His immensely gorgeous hunk of Husband was completely slaying it. Zakurr's lustrous, glossy braids were now adorned with tiny, delicate chains. Each of his four horns was buffed to perfection. The length of fur about his waist was shining and soft and it smelled like apples, sweet and spiced.

That wasn’t all, though. Zakurr had put on the boots Nells was ever so fond of. They went all the way up his legs, ending nearly at the top of his thighs. Nells was almost drooling, just thinking about him. Why did he have to go and be all scrumptious?

Nells himself wore a long dress, all dazzling greens and blues. The material shimmered as he moved, with a slit up the side to expose his long, shapely legs. His hair was painstakingly combed out and pinned in place, an elegant waterfall of soft mahogany. He even put on heels.

Falk looked nearly as delectable as Nells did. They wore a tightly fitted top that bared the entirety of their midriff. The center of the chest was cut out, as well, showing off their shape. They also had a pair of expensive burgundy pants that were loose about the hips and tight below the knees. Falk had chosen to keep their regular boots, seeing no reason to forego sensible footwear, opting instead for heavy gold jewelry.

And Morrin! Oh, his beautiful Morrin. She'd granted him a boon, permitted him to fuss over her for an evening. Her fiery, red-gold mane billowed about her like a cloud, sparkling with tiny jewels. Her hands, wide and rough and ravishing, fluttered uncertainly at the hem of her vest, a stately forest green piece of silk and silver. She was dazzling, a diamond in her own right, but ill at ease amongst the upper echelons of nobility.

It made a certain amount of sense, he supposed. Masonaile, where she'd lived all her life, hadn't had much in the way of wealth. Of course she felt out of place here. But, he was pleased to note, she was handling it admirably.

Morrin was shaking hands and trying to dance and blushing up a storm whenever she was complimented. There were pretty people all around her, giving her their attention. He spies Falk moving among them, hands quick and dainty and pockets charmed to be impossibly deep.

Zakurr looks on, using his immense height to keep watch. People buzz around him like mayflies. Two men knock into him on purpose, but one look sends them scrambling.

Then, Falk waltzes, moving from dancer to dancer, to Nells, flushed and panicked. "It's Morrin," they pant. "She's with some ashing young Earl, he's trying to get her alone."

It takes him a moment to process why this is horrible. Ordinarily, Morrin was devastatingly capable. She would have killed him and been done with it. But they were at a ball, and she'd been thoroughly disarmed, spending nearly half an hour pulling out weapon after weapon. There was an entire table just for her things.

She had nothing on her person with which to kill the Earl. Additionally, she was under the impression she mustn't, for reasons of diplomacy. So, he supposed, it was up to their little family to rescue her.

First, Zakurr had to be told.

"Honeybear," Nells commanded. "Get ready crush some skulls. Morrin's got a boy problem."

Smoke on the wind, but she'd let him, too. She would let the Earl do whatever he wanted. Why had they told her they wanted to win favor from the Duke? "Just don’t cause a scene and it'll be fine." She would be terrified of letting them down. She would call it duty.

Harkenship had been a bitter lesson. He could not let her be hurt like that again.

Falk moved the quickest, palming a knife from a serving tray and plunging it into the Earl's kidney, soft and silent. The Earl let out a low gasp and dropped. Morrin's face was a mix of relief and horror.

It was chaos after that. Morrin stomped on the Earl's neck, killing him. His friends moved to kill her, but Nells was faster. His long legs were wrapped around the neck of the biggest one, choking him, while Morrin threw punches hard enough to crack stone and Falk smashed kneecaps with impunity.

The other guests were screaming in terror and outrage, crowding eachother like a swarm of rats. Zakurr took one step toward the fight and they parted before him like a desperate tide.

When he got there, he kicked a Baron to the floor and Falk leapt up for a kiss, drawing Zakurr's strength into themselves and pressing their bag to his bare chest. "Grab our things. I love you."

And Zakurr was off, charging to the low tables to retrieve their weapons. Falk's bag never filled, no matter what he put in it, so he emptied every table in the room before moving on to the Duke's personal valuables. With everyone distracted by the fight, he had plenty of time.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"Grab our things," Falk told him, already feeling Zakurr's power roiling in their chest. "I love you."

They slammed a palm to the floor and the ground quaked beneath them. Stone erupted through the floor in angry spikes. How dare he. How dare a mortal Earl try to dishonor Falk's oldest friend? For Morrin, Falk would do anything.

Right now, it meant killing a dozen people they'd only intended to steal from for doing her the supreme insult of defending the Earl. He earned his death. He earned it the second he laid eyes on her and made his move.

Falk was angry, and Nells had a feral smile, and Morrin was going to go home after only bloodying her perfect knuckles. She was too precious to them to be hurt.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Owlsby was disguised as an unfortunately deformed carriage horse. He was getting to be too big to hide, so it only made sense to find new ways to take him into town. The extra legs were hidden under a blanket and tucked up out of sight. Nells convinced him to allow Zakurr to hitch him to a stolen cart. In the right lighting, like now, under the half moon, it was very nearly convincing.

Zakurr tossed Falk's bag in the back and hopped into the seat, letting out a sharp whistle. Owlsby roused himself from his nap as Nells came sprinting out of the building, Morrin tucked under one arm and protesting. As soon as they were safely at his side, Zakurr whistled again, louder and sharper. The building caught fire.

Falk appears in his lap with a soft pop, makeup smeared, with a very unsettled lizardfolk in their arms. Her dress was lovely, if shredded and burnt.

"Falk," he warns, "Did you kidnap her? You know we can't take her with us if she doesn't want to come."

The lizardfolk in question blushes and mumbles that she'd love to come, anywhere in the world as long as it isn't here. Zakurr resolves to ignore it for now and question her in the morning, if she's still around. He slaps the reigns gently and Owlsby takes off for the inn. They can pay the fee and collect their packs, but it isn't wise to stay in town. Not after that.

It would be nice, he muses, really nice, if this could just stop happening. Theft was all well and dandy if it kept them fed, and it did, so Zakurr wasn't about to complain. But he would love it if he didn't have to strike entire towns off of their map when Falk and that idiot elf got a little too greedy.

There was no need to rob every noble at the ball. No reason. And then one little human man gets too handsy when Falk can see him, and now he's dead for it.

True, the Earl had definitely been in the wrong, and sure, he could believe Morrin was glad of his death. But it was something that could easily have been resolved without any blood, had Zakurr been the one to reach him first, and Falk's increasing bloodlust as of late concerned him.

That amulet stank of evil and death, but they refused to take it off for any length of time. Zakurr was willing to bet his fifth kidney that it was to blame. Power was a lure Falk had never been able to resist.

He only prayed his dearest Nells did not become so foolish.

#the wasp writes #my writing #the beastmaster series #Nells #Zakurr #Morrin #Falk #Owlsby #this one doesn't really feel done but there's a length limit so the next bit is going to have to be a separate post #this is when the demon in the amulet starts to hold more and more sway over Falk #and it really rockets downhill from here #I should probably write something soft to balance out all this dark shit

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ten-thousand-paper-wasps · 4 years

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It wasn't the sex, not exactly. Sex for Nells was entirely casual, it hardly meant anything, harmless fun. It was easy.

Morrin wasn't easy, in any sense of the word. She was caustic, irritable and derisive and she made sure he knew exactly how much he displeased her.

He loved her, the way one might love a particularly ruinous cat, or an especially difficult grandmother. She was his darling, furious counterpart.

She carried him home in her arms. He trusted her with his back in a fight, with his life. There were no secrets he would hide from her.

But evidently, the feeling wasn't mutual.

"Make it good for me, pet," she commanded, like a god to its acolytes.

And Nells, in her thrall, fell to worship.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

On the third day, he came awake to the sound of muffled sobbing. Zakurr loomed over him, eyes screwed shut, kneeling in a desperate prayer. Falk sat at his side, their hand on Nells' heart and eyes glowing with power.

The crying had to be Morrin, then.

He reached for their hands. He was okay. He was home.

He was also exceptionally tender, which was absolutely not improved by being crushed by an anxious orc and his massive, beautiful biceps. Oh, how he's missed Zakurr.

When Falk ends the spell and their eyes return to normal, Nells sits up. "Where's Morrin?"

"She went to bed," Falk tells him. "Been a long couple of days, needed some time to herself. You know how she gets."

"Was up all night again, too," Zakurr added. "She's been in a right state since she brought you back."

Falk shoots a glare at Zakurr. "She just needs space," they said. "Nothing wrong with a girl taking time to sort her feelings. Was both of you covered in blood when you got in, of course she's been worried."

"But so have we, dearest," Zakurr rumbles. Worried for both of you, we were. I thought...Nells, I thought I was going to lose you. You wouldn't wake up."

"I'm okay, really," he reassures them. "What about--"

"She told us what happened. It's far from my place to say, mind, but I suspect she's feeling a bit conflicted."

Falk glares at Zakurr again, and Nells resolves to talk to Morrin immediately.

His stomach gurgles. Immediately after breakfast.

"I made soup," says his beautiful, magnificent orc. Nells thinks, for the thirtieth time in a week, that he's in love.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Once they're on the road again, Nells asks her. "Morrin, can we talk?"

"I don't especially want to talk with you, Nells, pleased though I am that you're alive."

"See, I weren't really asking, dearest, I do very much need to speak with you." Owlsby chose that moment to skitter up his body to perch on his shoulder, clicking his mandibles together.

"Seems to be a theme for you," she spits, "asking without asking."

He's taken aback by the accusation behind the words. He'd asked her, absolutely. Made damn sure of it, he had. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't beg, my pretty pet, not when your mouth can be better put to use. You can call it a duty, if you like."

Falk, just ahead, whipped around. "Morrin, that was uncalled for."

"Perhaps we can all discuss this more constructively?" Zakurr suggested. "If we’re to be together for as long as we will, I'd like no resentment among us."

"Morrin?" he tries again, "Did I dishonor you?" He almost fears the answer.

"It was a duty," she eventually says. "When you have a duty, there is no want or fear, only that it must be done."

"Morrin," he whispers, horrified, "have I sinned against you?"

"It was a duty," she repeats. "I would have done it regardless. It matters not if one wants it, one simply does it."

"I'm not asking about your thrice-damned duty, you stubborn, half-spent candlestick, I'm asking--"

"You did me no dishonor, Nells, but by the flames, I wasn't ready! I needed tenderness! You fucked me, you sputtering ball of wax, you fucked me and I loved it! I loved every minute, even though it meant nothing! It meant nothing, Nells, and that is your dishonor, not that you did it in the first place!"

Morrin had tears in her eyes again, but so did he. Merciful fires of birthing, ash on the hearth, smoke on the wind. He was stupid. He was so, so stupid.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in uneasy silence.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

After dinner, which is a stew made with the rabbits Falk caught earlier in the day, Nells feels ready to try again. He did wrong by her, and he must apologize.

"Morrin? May I speak with you?"

It's another long pause before she answers. "Aye."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I pushed you, I'm sorry that I didn't consider your feelings. I'm sorry for hurting you the way I did."

She takes a ragged breath, refusing to look at him. Falk's eyes are on them, watchful and wary.

"I'm not upset that you fucked me," she said. "I'm upset with myself. It was just something I had to do, you know? A duty. I can put my feelings away for duty. It doesn't count, not if it's duty. I could do it again, if I had to."

"Look, if we fuck, we fuck. If we don't, we don't. I don't want that from you, not if you don't want it. I don't want it if it's duty."

"Nells, the plan was--"

"Ash on the hearth, damn the plan! I can't do that to you again! Next time, you overinflated gust of wind, we just fight our way out."

Morrin snorted, and he thought he saw the ghost of a smile. "A castle that big? Maybe if you brought your newest husband with you. I'm not sure I have the strength to do it, myself."

"Come now," he laughs, "Zakurr couldn't pull off that level of deception, you've seen how huge he is."

"If he were much bigger, he'd break you in half," she says, a genuine grin on her face.

They were going to be okay. Coals on the sands, they were going to be okay.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

They don't touch anymore after that.

They love eachother the way they always have, but the easiness is gone, a brittle anxiety in its place. If they lean together, they jump apart. They stop hugging. Cuddling. Even sparring together has become too much touch to tolerate.

Zakurr was worried. Falk was agitated. Morrin was skittish. Nells was just lonely and a little lost, yearning for the touch of his vicious paladin. All the molten magma of creation, what he'd give to only hold her hand again!

After three weeks of forced distance, he broke. "Morrin, I can't do this any longer."

She only looked at him, quiet as she's always been, lately.

"This has to stop," Nells insists. "I hurt you, I did harm to your person. You are within your rights to be cross with me. But this, Morrin, this silence, this distance between us, it cannot go on! Carve your price from my back if you will, only be at my side again. Be my shield, my sensibility."

"Are you truly so lost, Nells?" Her voice is rough with disuse.

"Morrin, please, let us end this--"

"Spar with me."

"You want to spar?" he asks, hopeful.

"Dearest," says Zakurr, "are you quite sure this is wise?"

"It's what he needs," she grinds out. She draws her monstrous greataxe and steps toward him, and Nells mirrors her pose with a staff.

"Then you can do it elsewhere, away from my cooking," Zakurr commands. "I'll not have you knocking over dinner in a fit, either of you."

Falk says nothing, absorbed in his stew.

Her first strike is fast and brutal, and it's all he can do to keep out of her reach. Her beast of an axe is heavy, sharp, and unforgiving. If this is what she carries every day, it is little wonder she's so strong.

He snaps out of his thoughts as the branch he's perched on snaps in two, crushed by the metal of her weapon. He jumps up, up, out of her reach and she rages on the ground below him.

Morrin is too upset to spar safely. She's out to carve her price from his back, as he'd well offered. Sputtering candlesticks.

He comes in low, moving just slowly enough to get her close, then speeds back up to make her chase him. If she lands a blow like this, he may not survive the night.

He doesn't want to think about the idea that she's planning for it.

His staff strikes her behind the knees, on the shoulder, on the wrist, and she cries out but she does not drop her weapon. She swings again and catches his thigh with the flat of the blade.

Nells grunts in pain and drops. She didn't cut him, but that was going to leave a hell of a bruise later. He leaps back up as she swings the axe again, wincing.

The fight goes on, and on, and on. Nells and Morrin roll, twist, dance around eachother, remembering the shape of their bodies against one another.

After nearly two hours of constant, vicious combat, they stop, too tired to continue. They sit and rest, back to back, and Nells tries to burn the feeling into his memory, the weight of skin on skin.

"I'm sorry," she says, surprising him. "I went too hard." If you were any slower, I might have killed you, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway.

"I probably had it coming," he tells her, rather than admit his panic. "Are we okay?"

She takes his hand. "I think we're okay," she says, and then she looks at him with such focus, like he's the most captivating thing she's ever seen. "Nells, back in the castle, you--"

"Upon my honor, darling Morrin, I shall never besmirch you in such a way again--"

"When you kissed me, there was, I don't know, it was a feeling, and maybe I'm being sentimental, but--"

"Morrin, I swear it, you're safe with me, let me hold you." And he pulls her to him in a soft, but solid embrace, burying his face in her mane of hair.

When he finally pulls back, she's still looking at him with those beautiful brown eyes. "Nells, it is terribly improper of me to ask this of you, but I need you to kiss me again."

Candlesticks, he really wasn't expecting that. "Er, what?"

"I've been feeling a lot of things, and I need to figure them out. This is the easiest way to do it. Kiss me, please."

"Morrin, are you feeling alright? Do you have a fever? I can fetch Zakurr, just a moment--"

"Please," she whispered. "If only once, but you must, I beg of you."

This was officially the most confusing day of his life. "Alright, dearest," he said, and he kissed her.

It was long and slow and gentle, the most tender he knew how to give. He ran a hand up her back, feeling the way their mouths fit together. Her eyes were closed. He held her more closely to him, the hand on her back pressing in, and then,

She grips his shirt in a fist and opens her mouth to him, tongues pressing together, fighting, dancing. She's taking control, forcefully, and he's letting her.

When they finally break apart, she's blushing like mad. "Did you figure things out?" he asks.

"I did," she sputters. "I figured out that you're a damnably good kisser, but I'm not in love with you, and as enjoyable as it was, I don't think I want to fuck you again." She pauses a moment. "Are we okay?"

"Yeah," Nells chuckles. "We're okay.

#my writing #the wasp writes #the beastmaster series #nells #zakurr #falk #morrin #owlsby #i'm still not sure where i'm going with this #but i think i'm starting to like it #the gang is just a bunch of highly physical queers and their idiocy and their giant spider #zakurr is actually nells' second husband #the first one is still in his hometown which he got thrown out of #they're still very married and nells is still over the moon for him #but elves are poly in this series so it's fine #and zakurr doesn't care who or what nells sleeps with as long as he comes home safe #zakurr is team mom #falk is the broody teenager #i'm starting to remember why i fell in love with these idiots

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ten-thousand-paper-wasps · 4 years

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Meeting that elf in Entrogten may possibly have been the worst decision of Zakurr's life. Sure, all elves were flighty and a mite too springy. Plenty of them were sexual, too. But Nells? Nells had something that set him apart from every other elf on the continent.

Nells was ashing stupid. The most senseless, inept, bafflingly foolish nincompoop Zakurr had ever had the misfortune to meet.

He deeply regretted telling him where he was headed, because of course Nells just happened to be going the same way, of course it was perfectly sensible to travel together. Zakurr was a fool. A fool.

He could see what the idiot was thinking, so he had to intervene. "We ought to avoid that mountain if we want to live."

"Absolutely not!" Zakurr was going to kill him. "Big guy like you, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Nells," he says, trying to remember how to be patient with idiots, "that mountain is filled with goblins. If we go there, by ourselves, they will eat us. And then we'll never get where we're going."

Nells pouted and huffed and whined. But Zakurr was resolutely not budging. Not that mountain. Zakurr wanted to live long enough to see his family again. He was not dying on some half-rotted mountain in winter because some fool of an elf wanted to pretend at bravery.

Bravery was more than fighting. Zakurr hoped he could live long enough to at least teach him that.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

A few weeks into their travels, and something is skittering around their camp. Great. It's not enough to travel with the most annoyingly clingy elf in existence, but now there's a weasel or a fox or an owlbear looking for an easy meal. Wonderful.

It turns out to be a spider. Probably young, if he had to guess? But it was already the size of his entire head, so he wasn't tolerating it in their camp. No sir. Not chancing it.

"How darling!" exclaimed the increasingly stupid elf, "Honeybear, can we keep it? Please?"

"No."

"Come now, it could be a little pet! We could teach it tricks! I've always wanted to have a pet on the road, it'll be such fun!"

He was not dealing with this. He was not dealing with this. Sure! Keep the blasted thing! It'll only kill them in their sleep or bring a whole ashing horde of spiders on them. Great idea, Nells!

"Darling?" Nells called. "Darling, I was the beastmaster in my hometown. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Really?" Zakurr snapped back. "You really want to raise an ashing spider, which will only get bigger, and hungrier, and probably try to kill us."

"Zakurr, it won't be all that hard, you just teach it to respect you and then to trust you, and then to obey."

Then, the bastard little beast bit him. He swatted it with one hand and broke three of its legs. It didn't try again.

He was going to regret this, he just knew it. "Keep it, then. But if it bites, I'll not refrain from killing it. Do you understand that, you daft plume of smoke?"

"I love you," the elf said. "His name will be Owlsby."

The confession left a pit in all three of his stomachs. Zakurr had a family. He was going home to them. He couldn't let himself be distracted by the favor of someone like Nells.

Merciful fires of birthing, if his village's elders even suspected that those feelings might be reciprocated, he could be cast out.

He might never see his wife and children again.

"Save your love for your little beast," he spits, and tries to ignore the shame rising up.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Falk laughed in their mad dash across the town. The amulet they'd stolen glowed softly, the soft, tinkling chime just on the edge of their hearing.

This was the little trinket old Doffelmaest was so worked up about? This old thing?

Cursed amulet of power, Falk's entire backside! It probably didn't even do anything. Oh well. At least it was pretty, and stealing it from Doffelmaest's study meant the old sorcerer would focus on it instead of nagging Falk about their studies. Again.

Falk was so distracted by the possibilities of a few weeks without Doffelmaest breathing down their neck, that they ran directly into Morrin, wearing her armor and a soft scowl.

"He's worried sick about you, you know," she sighed.

"How did you even find me?" Falk sputters. "I can't be magically located, this place is warded to the flames and back, I shifted forms four times on the way here, I made seven detours, I did everything right!"

"You really want to know?" she asks, a laugh in her warm, brown eyes. "I've only known you our entire lives, I know where you go when you're hiding. But also," she added, a touch devious, "that amulet has a tracking spell written on the back, and taking it set off, like, six alarms. Doffelmaest is cross with you, my dear."

"Old Doffelmaest can sit on a candle."

"He may yet, for all that you vex him," Morrin laughs. "Are you ready to go home, or do you want to stay here a little longer? I think I've got another half day before I'm expected to have found you."

"Can you stay with me? I just wanted some time out of his ashing tower, I don't care about the his stupid amulet."

So Falk spent the hours curled up with their oldest friend, the scent of her hair lulling them to sleep.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Falk did not appreciate waking up in a cell. Morrin was going to pay for this, they'd make sure of it. They could already imagine the lecture when Doffelmaest got there to collect them.

"You're grounded," the old fart grumbled. "No magic for a month, and no shapeshifting, either."

"That's totally unfair!" Falk whined. "It's just a stupid amulet, you've got thirty more in a drawer!"

"Falk, you know I take no pleasure in punishing you--"

Falk cuts him off with a snarl. "Eat my ashing cinders, you old bat! You just want to keep me in this tower like a wee pretty trophy to show off to all your weird friends! Oh," they mimic, "look at my little shapeshifter, I taught it to read and everything! Go sit on an ashing candle, you dried up--"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Doffelmaest roared. "You've disrespected me, you've disrespected the Guild of Sorcery, I'll not have you be so ill-mannered. If it weren't for me, you'd be on the streets again, do you understand?"

"Oh, sure, you only tell me every other week how ungrateful I am, how every novice in the city would jump at the chance to learn from you. Oh, Falk, you don't know how good you have it! Well you're not my ashing father!"

Falk ran up the stairs to their room, not interested in hearing Doffelmaest lay into them for the next three hours about manners and the importance of respecting one's elders.

The next two weeks pass in near silence, and Falk finds it more maddening every day.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"I've decided what I'm going to do with you," Doffelmaest tells them over breakfast. "An elf stopped by last night."

An elf? In Troggsydier? Didn't they tend to keep to their cities in the north? To find one so far south was nearly unheard of.

"What did the elf want?" Falk asks carefully.

"A spellcaster. His homeland has been cursed, you're going to go with him and fix it."

"I am?"

"You are. You're going to do it, because if you don't, you're out, do you understand?" Doffelmaest levels them with a glare. "You are replaceable, and I think it's time you understood that your flippant disregard for my orders will no longer be tolerated. Now," he orders, "this elf will come this afternoon to collect you. You are to be on your best behavior. You may pack your things."

And Doffelmaest gets up and leaves the table without another word.

Falk packs everything that isn't bolted down. Their bag is treated to the strongest extension charm Falk knows how to cast, and then they fill it with every book on their shelves, their favorite curios, a padded box of bones, several gems, and a deceptively small, yet heavy, purse of gold. They throw in their clothing, a bedroll, four different amulets of protection, and twelve heavy duty mana batteries, to maintain the extension charm and the feather-light spell they plan to cast when they finish packing.

Sneaking into Doffelmaest's private library is a little harder, but Falk manages to slip past his alarms. They take all the books that look interesting. Thick, heavy volumes on more advanced magic, old, yellowed tomes filled with diagrams in red ink, seven translation guides to other common languages. Twelve more for uncommon ones. A bag of candy. A blank book with loose pages and an assortment of pens. Doffelmaest's purse, even heavier than Falk's.

They were really robbing the old man blind, but it's not as if Falk planned to come back. They hoped the elf was kind. They hoped he wasn't like the sorcerer.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Falk laid and reinforced the final spells on their traveling pack and all its contents. Expansion, to hold everything they'd stuffed in it, protection, to keep everything safe and stop it from breaking, cushioning, to make it more comfortable to carry, and feather-light, so Falk didn't kill themselves trying to heft it. They thumbed the cursed amulet still in their pocket. Doffelmaest can eat cinders. They filed off the tracking spell.

They walked down the mossy steps of the tower for the last time. The elf would be in the lobby.

The "elf" was a nine-foot tall mass of muscle and meat, with biceps for days and three swords on his belt. The furs around his waist where decorated with the skulls of what were probably kobolds. He had short, pointed horns at his temples and his hair was a mass of braids and tiny chains and feathers.

"Greetings, youngling," boomed the walking wall of beef, "I am called Zakurr, my companion has sent me to pick up the young sorcerer we are to travel with. Might you know where they can be found?"

Doffelmaest appeared at their side, a hand on Falk's shoulder. The hand squeezed painfully, a warning.

"I greet you gladly, sir Zakurr," Falk says in their Proper Voice. "The Grand Sorcerer, Lord Doffelmaest, is my master, and has bid me travel with you. How may I be at your service?"

"My apprentice is very talented," Doffelmaest assures him. "It can perform many acts of magic. I'm certain you and your companion would find it most helpful."

"We are glad to hear such!" Zakurr rumbles, only slightly less loud than thunder itself. He presses a small purse into Doffelmaest's hand. "What are you called, youngling?"

Doffelmaest leaves and Falk can breathe again. "I am called Falk, sir Zakurr. I can shapeshift. I look forward to meeting your needs."

"You need not be so formal with us, dear Falk. I would have you know us in comfort."

"Your pardon, good sir. My master has taught me it is rudeness to be informal with elves, even one so mighty as yourself." Falk can breathe, they're out of the tower at last, they're free, they're free!

Zakurr laughs, a boundless, thunderous sound. "I am an orc, my dear friend! My companion is the elf, and arguably about as formal as a passel of chickens. Be at ease, I beg you!"

Falk gives a small smile and tries to calm their racing heart. "When shall we leave the city, Zakurr?"

"On the morrow," the orc replies. "We must head to the market first, then back to the inn, and we'll leave in the morning."

"May I visit the guard before we go? I'd like to say my goodbyes."

Zakurr sent them off with a mighty chuckle, saying he'd be at the market whenever Falk was ready. Falk was not expecting him to trust them out of his sight so quickly.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"You're leaving?" Morrin gasped. "Falk, you can't, I know Doffelmaest is grating, but it's a home, and--"

"Morrin, he sold me to an orc not two hours ago." Falk told her, deadpan.

"He did what? Where the orc? Is he planning to eat you? You can't be thinking of going with him alone, are you? Ash on the hearth, Falk, I'm not anxious for you enough, you've got to go and--"

"He seemed pretty nice. If nothing else, going with him gets me out of the city and out of the old fart's reach. I'm going to be okay. I just wanted you to know." Falk presses a soft kiss to the side of her head. "I'm going back to the inn with him tonight, we'll leave tomorrow. Be good, I love you."

And Falk vanished, leaving Morrin alone with a grief she couldn't name.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Zakurr opened the door and stepped out of the inn, intent on doing his business, only to find himself boxed in by the most furious dwarf he'd ever seen. "Can I help you?" he asked sheepishly.

"You the orc what's taking my Falk?"

Was she the youngling's wife? Sister? Mother? Admittedly, he was not good at guessing the ages of anything that wasn’t an orc.

"And who are you?" he asked, in the softest voice he knew, still several times the normal speaking volume.

"Morrin. Town guard. You know how many times my Falk's been arrested? How troublesome they are? Taking them'll only bring you problems, I swear it."

The insistant fullness of his bladder was beginning to rear its ugly head just as that damnable elf popped out behind him.

"Who's this?" Nells asked, sleep clinging to his voice.

"Town guard," he replied irritably. "You deal with her, I'm off to piss." And he pushed past her to the shrubs behind the inn.

"The hell kind of candlestick elf travels alone with an orc?" she challenged.

"The sort what's about to punt you across the garden, what's it to you?"

"You've got my Falk, is what, I'd have your guarantee of their safety."

"Oh, please, Zakurr wouldn't hurt a fly. He's big, but underneath that beautiful mountain of meat is a soft, sensitive--"

"I'm coming with you."

"Look, darling, you're lovely, but--"

"This isn't up for debate," she huffs. "Where Falk goes, I go, or they'll never stay out of trouble. Do you know how to grapple someone what can shapeshift at will? Can you talk a guard down from executing them on sight? Can you? You ashing well need me."

Zakurr returns from defiling the bushes. "Did you settle things?"

"You're taking me with you," Morrin demands, before Nells can say a word.

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