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tofixtheshadows · 19 days

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Id love to hear ur interpretation and analysis on falin! She’s one of my favorite characters and and I was wondering what ur thoughts on her are

Man, I struggle to think of anything I could say about Falin that others have not already said. But she's one of my favorite things about Dungeon Meshi too.

So much of the story revolves around Falin, and she's not even there. Tumblr loves to talk about haunting the narrative, but Falin might be one of the best examples of it ever put to page. She's dead. She's alive. She's dead. She's alive. She's alive but she's missing, she's alive but she isn't herself. She's dead but she might wake. She's dead but she's frozen in ice. She's alive but she's sleepwalking. They chase her ghost and they chase her body all through the story.

I think what Kui does with her is fascinating. Not just as character with a personality we can analyze, but as an object in a narrative- that's why I say she's one of my favorite things about the story, because I also mean it in a mechanical sense. As a writer, Kui's really good at misdirection- that is, setting you up to believe or expect something about a character or a plot, and then turning that on its head. It's most apparent with Kabru, but it works really well with Falin too.

Because the precious little sister is a very well known character archetype, right? So is the gentle healer. The heart of the party. The white mage girl. The damsel in distress. The martyr.

And this isn't a Laura Palmer situation, where we find out that beneath her wholesome surface there's something dark and troubled. No, Falin truly is a kind and gentle person. That isn't where the misdirection leads (and that, too, I think, is another misdirection- it's not "Plot twist, she isn't as nice as you thought!", which would almost be too easy).

The misdirection here is more about structure than about character (but also, yeah- a little about character).

What I mean is, with these archetypes firmly in mind, along with a whole other host of fantasy genre expectations, I think anyone who goes into Dungeon Meshi un-spoiled probably expects Falin's rescue to be an endgame event; at least on a subconscious level, where you're not really thinking about it but in the back of your head you're already stretching out the story to place Falin firmly in the distance. Fire breathing dragon at the bottom of the dungeon is perfect final boss material, right? Slay the dragon. Rescue the princess.

And Falin is the perfect prize in the traditional old school fantasy that the concept of the titular dungeon is a send-up to. Blonde (white), soft-spoken, sweet-natured, beloved by everyone. An angelic figure.

Maybe that's why Ryoko Kui gave her white wings.

It is sort of jarring when chapter 23 rolls around and it's already time to fight the red dragon. And it takes a few chapters, but they succeed. And then Falin's impossible resurrection succeeds. But by then you guess that this is not going to be the story you expected it to be.

I want to point out that Falin spends a lot of time getting, well, babied, post-resurrection. Marcille washes her in the bath, despite Falin stating that she's capable of washing herself. Marcille schools her about her mana use despite Falin demonstrating that she is not hurting for mana, and brushes aside Falin's explanations. Both Marcille and Laios refuse to actually tell her what happened. Laios scruffs up her hair like she's a little kid and scolds her for something she can't remember doing. Marcille explicitly calls her a little kid when Falin tries to talk about how much she's grown.

Of course I'm not saying that Laios was wrong to act like a big brother, or that Marcille shouldn't be worried about taking care of her shell-shocked friend in the bath. But the framing of it clearly shows a Falin who is struggling to be heard.

If you'd like to address the big gay elephant in the room while we're here, I want to state for the record that- whether you read her as gay or not -I think Marcille is completely oblivious during this. Because Falin is her little friend from school. Her best friend, yes, but also the young tallman student she, in her infinite elven wisdom, had to mentor and look after. Marcille has not yet accepted that Falin is an adult now, nor has she accepted that she, herself, is only barely past teenagerhood developmentally and is not nearly as mature as she believes. Of course she'd scrub Falin in the bath and fuss over her.

Falin, meanwhile, seems more than aware of her own adult body and the inappropriate way Marcille is treating it.

The mana-sharing scene is, I think, Falin trying to get a little of her own back. How do you like it, Marcille?

And she tries again in bed.

Maybe she's wondering if their relationship will change now that they're grown ups. If Marcille prefers her as a little girl, or at least as a woman who lets herself be guided like one; if Marcille will react badly if Falin keeps trying to assert herself. She also might be subtly trying to signal to Marcille that bed sharing, like bathing, carries a different weight to it when you do it as adults rather than as children.

With all this in mind, the decision to turn Falin from the precious prize they rescued into to the vicious dragon they have to slay, hits a lot harder.

Falin with a powerful, monstrous, destructive body. Falin, who couldn't even stand to cause people pain from using healing spells, slaughtering half a dozen people in brutal ways. And that's not her, she's being mind-controlled, but as an object in the story she has completely flipped. From damsel to threat.

And I love that she carries a little bit of that with her when she's resurrected again.

Because she's no longer the girl who's going to let herself be stifled by her brother's and her best friend's co-dependency, no matter how much she loves them. She's different now: stronger, eyes open, forging her own path instead of following in their wake. Falin is still going to come back to them again, but this time it won't be because they chased her. It'll be because they let her go.

#Dungeon Meshi #Falin Touden #hiiii anon I hope you're still around #I'm sorry I didn't get to this last week but it was a bad brain time and I had to keep coming back to this #can I also apologize for the amount of tangents I nearly went off on here?#musings with Dea #dungeonposting #Dungeon Meshi spoilers #I had to rein myself in a lot because I could have taken like five other points here to expand on #Dea answers #Dea's anonymous friends

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calisources · 3 months

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𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒

All sentences has been taken from different media and soruces about life in the royal court, involving the introgue of succession, war, marriage, kings and queens and tournaments. Most of this are acceptable for all audience except one with some foul language. Chance names, pronouns, locations as you see fit.

Ten years of shadows, but no longer. Light up the darkness, Majesty.

You don't know a woman until you've met her in court.

A queen keeps a court that is spoken about. A goddess keeps a court that is never forgotten.

And you, lady? Are you a woman of conscience or of ambition?

That's a question rarely asked here at court.

Court games aren't fair. They don't judge men by their worth, and they aren't about what's just.

We know all men are not created equal in the sense some people would make us believe .

Either you break the law, or the law breaks you.

There is no playacting in this court. If you stay your hand, they will cut it off.

Power does not pardon, power punishes.

Listen! The court jester's cap and bells. The King is coming!

He was a man with a vision- and an extraordinary vision it was.

The cat who lived in the Palace had been awarded the head-dress of nobility and was called Lady Myobu.

In every reign there comes one night of greatest blackness, when a King must send away his court of flatterers and servants, and sit alone in the dark with the beast called truth.

It is important to refuse to be intimidated.

They all come innocent in court.

Is that how you get propositioned at the court? 'Mylady, would you be so kind as to allow me to put my manhood in your vagina'?

They used to say that, in a battle between the lion and the tiger, the winner was the monkey, who watched from a distance.

Men love those creatures that need to be taken care of.

If you want to tame a lioness you need to become a lion, not a goat.

A doe is easier to keep.

The woman did not care for empty compliments; to get such a woman, one needed to put forth effort.

I’m a terrible prince. I should put my kingdom first and everything else second, but your first. I want you by my side every second . . .

Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia.

She calls herself the Queen of Narnia thought she has no right to be queen at all.

Plenty of people have told me you are not my father.

It is necessary for a prince to have the people friendly.”

Royalty is not a right, Captain. The willingness of the people to follow a ruler is what gives her power.

Here, in this place, by this people, I have been chosen.

These men are tired of being told whom to follow. Now they have a choice, and they use that choice to call me Princess.

I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics.

A prince ought also to show himself a patron of ability, and to honour the proficient in every art.

You should never have been only a little girl, you should have always been a crown princess.

You knew you would be sending me away?

A born king is a very rare being.

The world will need to know that I’m the last royal left. Their queen.

There’s royalty in me, but stronger than that there is adventure.

My life is the Crown and yours is politics, and I will not trade one prison for another.

Dignity is trained into royal children before they can toddle.

The first year of marriage is not always easy, especially within the Royal Family.

The real intelligence in the royal family comes through my parents .

The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.

The royal road to a man's heart is to talk to him about the things he treasures most.

The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.

The winner will marry the prince.

You want to marry my daughter? Prove yourself worthy.

That is acceptable. A king is a martyr to their ideals.

f I rule the nation as king, I cannot ask to live as a person.

A wise king never seeks out war, but... he must always be ready for it.

All men need something greater than themselves to look up to and worship. They must be able to touch the divine here on earth

I am the First Imperial Princess of the Misurugi Empire!

You can tell she's a princess, she doesn't need a crown.

You, sir, are the most uncharming prince I have ever met! In fact, the only thing royal about you is that you are a royal pain.

No one ever told her "no."

In no time at flat, she'll get herself established as his official mistress, with her own rooms at the palace.

These men are my bodyguards, their lives forfeit to the guarantee of my physical safety. Of their loyalty to me, there shall be no question nor doubt.

Some balls are held for charity And some for fancy dress, But when they're held for pleasure They're the balls that I like best.

Be careful of what women with gowns plan, specially in a ballroom.

The art of husband seeking is something every woman has been trained since birth.

Many wives and consorts, of course.

Who is to rule when I am gone? You are a princess. I have no son.

Men would sooner put the realm to the torch than see a woman ascend the Iron Throne.

Did I not mention there was another?

A king must always have an heir and a spare.

He was born to be a king... He rules men just by breathing. When he walks into a room, he commands it. People love him.

Two knights off to rescue a princess. Sounds like a great song.

As the king's brother, you should've been first in line!

I was first in line. Until the little hairball was born.

That "hairball" is my son, and your future king.

My parents were... rather traditional. They wanted the heir and the spare, and I was left in the cold.

It cannot be easy being the youngest prince. To have others expect nothing from you, yet still shake their heads in disapproval.

If my uncle attacks King's Landing I'll ride out to meet him.

You are in need of serious princess lessons.

You're the new ruler of Mechanicsburg. You need to act like it.

Every princess needs a battle axe. Here. Use this one until we find you something more impressive.

You know what they used to write on cannons? The last argument of kings. I guess you could say magic is the last argument of queens.

A tournament has been arranged in your name, so you must attend and make yourself presentable.

They hope to find me a husband here. They said I am already a woman bled.

#roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. )#rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt #royal scheme #royal concept #royal court

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marvelmusing · 4 months

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Keep Your Judgement

Chapter Seventeen

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader

Summary: As Aleksander recovers from the impact of merzost on his body, you search for a way to fix the unexpected side effects and together you make plans for your lives going forward.

Warnings: mentions of sexual content and canon level violence.

My Masterlist • Series Masterlist

The royal bedroom is in darkness as you enter. The shadows don’t scare you, despite how they hinder your vision as you manoeuvre around the pieces of furniture.

“Aleksander?” you call out gently. “My love, can you lift the shadows for me?”

“No,” he says quietly from the corner of the room. “I can’t.” At the sound of his voice, you manage to find him crouched down behind an armchair. There’s a hollowness in his eyes that makes your heart ache as you settle down onto your knees in front of him as he admits, “It isn’t just my amplification that’s gone. It’s my power too.”

“Maybe it’s just a power block. You’ve been through so much. Perhaps you simply need some rest.”

He nods, though he doesn’t seem too convinced. His gaze slowly regains its focus, and he tilts his head aside slightly as he seems to notice something on your face. He reaches out, cupping your cheek in his hand as his eyes examine you.

“You haven’t aged a day.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fox was immortal.” You nod. The fox’s memories stretch to the very beginning of Ravka. “Now, you and the fox are one.”

“Aleksander, it’s been less than a year. There’s no way of noticing something like that.”

“Trust me, I would know. You haven’t aged.”

There’s an unspoken concern in his words – that, with his power gone, Aleksander is now mortal while you, with the power of the fox, are immortal. Your roles have been reversed. Tracing your hand over his arm, you entwine your fingers with his, providing his digits with a soft squeeze as you remove his hand from your face.

“I will get you your power back. I give you my word.”

»»---------------------►

Aleksander is standing in front of his desk by the window when you manage to find him. The sun is setting over the horizon, and it casts a soft orange glow over the bedroom. He places his hand over yours as you wrap your arms around his body, pressing the side of your face against his shoulder so that you can peer around to see his expression.

“How are you feeling today?” you ask.

He sighs.

“Tired of tonics.”

A sympathetic hum slips from the back of your throat.

“I know, my love. But relying on merzost has left your body deficient of nutrients.”

“You’ve been talking to the healers,” he remarks wryly, the corner of his mouth quirking as he glances down at you. A fond smile is what you give him in response.

“Of course.” Your smile falters. “You haven’t told them about the wasting sickness.”

“My power might return before the sickness worsens.”

The small sound of acknowledgement you make is distant as you think intently over his words. He is much frailer than he appears, the corecloth of his kefta creating an illusion of fullness, and you know Genya has been tailoring his face to feign an improvement in his health.

He steps out of your arms, which pulls you away from your thoughts. He circles around you before moving backwards to lean against the foot of the bed.

“I believe you made me a promise,” he remarks playfully. His smile is boyish despite how pale and drawn his face is from the strain of today. “That once you found a cure, we would spend the entire day in bed.”

“Sasha…” you whisper sadly.

“Come over here.”

You shake your head.

“No, Aleksander.”

His brows draw together, tilting his head as hurt sparks in his eyes.

“No?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And if I don’t care?”

Irritation prickles over your skin.

“Stop being such a martyr.”

His frown deepens as he argues,

“You had no issue sleeping with me in the midst of my condition.”

“Just because you aren’t in danger of imminent death anymore doesn’t mean you’re strong enough.” He begins to shake his head, dismissing your concerns. “Every time I touch you, I can feel how brittle your bones are.”

“I can be careful.”

“This isn’t something we can compromise on. I won’t risk hurting you.”

Not wanting to argue with him, you turn back towards the window. Almost all of the sunlight has gone, a cool indigo staining the sky as night draws closer. Aleksander walks across the room, sock-clad feet padding softly over the polished hardwood and thick rug.

“Have I ever told you how marvellous you look when you’re determined?”

He sits down in his chair, by your side as you continue to stare out of the window.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Until my dying day.”

“You are not going to die,” you insist. “I won’t let you.” He presses his forehead against your spine. His hands lift the hem of your shirt up, fingers spreading eagerly over the bare skin at the small of your back. His attempts at wrangling you into bed bring a smile to your face as you turn your head back to look down at him. “You will only die, when I kill you for being so stubborn.”

He smiles, breathing out a soft laugh as he presses a kiss to the base of your spine.

“Aleksander…” you whisper. “I can’t.”

“I know.”

He remains silent for a long moment, and you begin to fear you’ve upset him. Then he speaks up in a low voice that wavers slightly with emotion.

“In past relationships, I’ve often felt pressured to make things physical, in order to keep the other person interested. It’s an old habit, which I seem to have failed to shake.” He frowns slightly, as if his own actions have surprised and puzzled him.

His explanation makes your heart ache for him.

“Aleksander… I fell for you at a time when you could barely walk a few paces before growing short of breath. I might find you attractive, but I don’t want you solely for your body.”

He nods, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

“That is hard for me to understand at times.”

A soft smile lifts the corner of your lips.

“Well, I don’t mind reminding you.”

“I want you by my side for the coronation.”

The shift in conversation confuses you, but you nod.

“Of course.”

“I don’t want you as my advisor or even as the Royal Consort,” he admits. “I want you to be my equal, my Queen.” There’s a brief pause as his eyes bounce between yours, flickering down to your lips for a moment before he adds, “My wife.”

My wife. The words make your stomach flip and give you the courage to say,

“I’ve made something for you.”

A small crease appears between his brows.

“For me?”

You nod.

Moving over towards one of the cabinets beside Aleksander’s desk, you open a cupboard, allowing the door to swing as you reach inside to remove the false back. The weight of Aleksander’s eyes on your hands is palpable and you fidget nervously with his gift.

Glancing down, you adjust some of the threads and ribbons that make up the piece of rope. Shimmering silver with purple and black – both of your colours.

“It’s… It’s for our wedding.” Embarrassment heats at your cheeks as you fumble to explain your creation. Though it seems Aleksander requires no explanation.

“Hand-fasting?”

Bashfully, you duck your head.

“I know it is quite an old tradition, but I’ve always liked the idea of tying myself to the person I want to spend my life with.”

He smiles softly.

“Is this a proposal?”

“Well, I wouldn’t object to you getting down on one knee with a ring as well,” you jest before your expression softens. “I just thought I would let you know.”

He frowns.

“Let me know what?”

“That I’ll say yes. Whenever you ask me, I’ll say yes.”

Later, the two of you are lying face to face in bed, legs entangled as you draw delicate shapes over his bare chest with your fingertips, when something crosses your mind.

“I have an idea,” you say in a low murmur. “I know you want to secure our position on the throne as soon as possible, but I’m certain you will want to do this before being crowned.”

“Do what?”

“Claim an amplifier.” He goes still and the pillow beneath his head crinkles as he straightens himself to meet your gaze directly. “From what the fox has shown me in my dreams, I think she would be well suited to you.”

“She?”

You nod.

“There’s a wolf – the stories call her koroleva volkov – which lives to the north in the forest near the permafrost.”

“The Queen of the Wolves,” he translates in a low murmur, his brows furrowed as he seems to consider your suggestion. His eyes flicker back to yours. “The fox knows her?”

You nod again.

“He picked her out for you.”

Aleksander’s expression softens and you continue to trace your fingers over his skin, mapping out the veins now blue beneath his skin instead of the black you had become accustomed to.

“I think we should journey north and find the wolf. Allow the two of you to bond in some way, like I did with the fox. Once you’ve claimed her power, I think your shadows will come back.”

“You’re certain?”

“No,” you admit with a soft sigh. “But your power isn’t gone, Aleksander. If it was, you wouldn’t be ill with the wasting sickness.”

He nods slowly.

“When do we leave?”

»»---------------------►

“We can’t survive on a dinner of mouse,” Aleksander remarks, tucking you into his side of the two of you trek through the freshly laid snow.

“I know,” you concede. “I just want to try catching one. I’ve never done it before.”

He sighs, smiling at your enthusiasm.

“Alright then. Go on.”

A smile spreads over your face before you scamper away in fox form, listening for the sound of a mouse pattering away beneath the snow. It isn’t long until you’re following the tiny scratches of paws against hard dirt. The sound of your own paws in the snow crunch lightly. For a moment, you stand still, tilting your ears aside as you listen.

Then you pounce.

The snow is hard against your snout and paws as you meet the ground, knocking you off your hunting rhythm. The momentum you’ve put into the jump is too much, sending your lower half flailing up into the air and you wiggle your tail wildly in an attempt at maintaining your balance. Ultimately, you’re unsuccessful.

Aleksander laughs loudly. Shifting back into your human form, you scrunch your face with a pout, disgruntled as you rub at the tender skin of your forehead.

“You aren’t being very supportive,” you protest from your place on the cold, snowy ground.

“My apologies, darling. You truly are a fearsome predator.”

The only response you give him is a rude gesture that makes him laugh harder. He crouches down in front of you, hooking a hand beneath your chin to examine the potential damage. When he finds none, he leans forward to kiss your forehead and nose, bringing a smile to your face.

“Give it another try.”

Tilting your head aside, you blink up at him and consider his expression.

“You think I was close?”

He kisses your temple.

“Undoubtably.”

Once again in fox form, you resume your search for a mouse. A cool breeze rustles against your fur, but you hardly feel the chill. It takes a little longer this time for you to pick up on the sound of a mouse skittering about beneath the snow.

When you do, you pause, shifting your weight onto each of your front paws. Eyes locked on the spot where you want to land, you leap upwards, keeping each of your limbs firm for impact.

When you realise you actually have a mouse in your mouth, you almost drop it as you wriggle about in the snow. Once you’re standing upright on all four paws, you drop the mouse from between your teeth and change form quickly to catch the creature in your hands. Smiling widely in triumph, you stand unsteadily and move towards Aleksander.

“Sasha! I did it.”

He grins at the sight of your excitement.

“Well done.”

He peers down at the mouse through a crack between your fingers.

“Sorry for the scare, little one,” you murmur apologetically. “I’ll let you go now.”

As you loosen your hold on the small creature, lowering it to the ground, the mouse scampers away. Lifting your head up to watch it, you notice another creature that makes you freeze in place. Aleksander doesn’t notice initially.

“Now,” he begins. “Perhaps we could move our efforts onto something more substantial for dinner? I was thinking of rabbit.”

Grasping onto his forearm, you tug on his sleeve lightly, whispering,

“Sasha.”

He turns to look at you first, studying your expression before he follows your gaze, eyes scouring over the woodland in front of you. The moment he sees it, he places his hand over yours, squeezing it with barely suppressed excitement. He steps slowly towards the wolf and apprehension settles in your chest.

“Be careful,” you warn him, gripping his sleeve again. “If it comes to a fight, I have a feeling she will take a piece of you with her.”

“A fair exchange, in my opinion,” he remarks quietly.

“Sasha.”

“I will be careful, my love,” he concedes, though you don’t quite believe him.

Her eyes are a cool silver that slide calmly between you and Aleksander. She places a paw forwards, as if to move to meet Aleksander. Then she turns tail and runs into the woods. When he moves to chase her down, you tighten your hold on him.

“Aleksander. Give her time. We’ll find her again.”

»»---------------------►

The next afternoon, you’re trekking over a fallen tree in your fox form when you see the wolf again. She surveys you from a distance, standing still like a statue. She seems to know that you aren’t an ordinary fox, but you still aren’t sure how she will react if you try to interact.

Heart hammering, you tilt your head at her, stepping closer cautiously. Her eyes lower to watch you slink over the forest floor. She still doesn’t move as you approach her.

Slowly, you begin to nudge your nose against her body. When she doesn’t react, you step even closer, nuzzling your face into the soft fur at her chest. She makes a small snuffling sound before she raises a paw to nudge at you. The two of you raise your paws, initiating a playful back and forth.

A low sound rumbles in the back of her throat and you back off instantly, fearing you might have pushed her too far. She continues to growl, her snout crinkling as she sniffs at you suspiciously and you begin to fear for your safety.

Even if you shifted back into human form, you wouldn’t be able to fight a wolf. If it comes down to a chase, you might be able to scamper up a tree before she sinks her teeth into you, but you aren’t overly optimistic about your odds.

She nudges her nose against your side, far too close to your underbelly for your liking, and you let out a small yelp of warning, curling away from her before you growl back. The wolf keeps her eyes on you, tilting her head as if pleased by your response. Her expression softens into something more amicable. She makes a small snuffing sound, almost like a dog, before settling down on her front.

Both of you keep your mouthes open, as you nip and bite at one another. While you know, from the fox’s memories, that this is how animals like him and the wolf would play together, it’s still scary to feel her teeth snap at your fur.

She nibbles gently at your ears, tugging on them lightly when she gets them between her teeth. Coiling away from her, you nudge her chest with your front paws, and she rolls onto her back easily. She bats her paws at you, which you bite playfully, slowly getting the hang of this play-fighting.

When the sun begins to lower itself towards the treetops, you give her neck a fond nuzzle before you set off to rejoin Aleksander at your camp for the evening. It isn’t long before you realise, she’s following you.

Several times you pause, turning back to look at her, giving her the opportunity to leave. She doesn’t. She stays with you until the terrain changes, opening out into the clearing where you can see Aleksander sitting by a small campfire.

At the sight of him, you set off running through the frost covered grass. He lifts his head at the sound of you approaching, a smile tugging at his lips as you hurry into his lap.

“Hello, milaya,” he says softly, scratching the space behind your ears affectionately. “Have you made some friends?”

When you shift back into human form, your head is in his lap, face turned up towards him and his smile widens when your eyes lock on his.

“One or two,” you remark with a soft laugh. Then you turn your head to look at the wolf as she paces slowly through the grass, following the path carved by you.

She seems wary at your change in appearance, but you extend your hand amicably to offer her your scent. She steps forwards cautiously, eyes flickering between you and Aleksander. Your voice is a gentle whisper as you encourage her,

“It’s alright.”

She sniffs at your wrist, nose nudging against your sleeve before she moves upwards towards you and Aleksander until she’s close enough for him to touch. He breathes out an astonished laugh as he places his hand down on her head. For a moment, he strokes her fur, his eyes flickering over every each of the marvellous creature in front of you. Then he looks back at you.

“I love you,” he says in an awe filled whisper. “You’re remarkable. I hope you know that.”

The wolf straightens herself, looking directly at Aleksander. She tilts her head, licking his fingers momentarily before she turns and moves back into the woods. The two of you remain silent as you watch her go. Once she’s out of sight, Aleksander looks back down at you.

“Why did you pick the wolf for me?”

There’s a pause as you consider his question, and you sit up as you speak.

“Wolves are strong and loyal,” you reason. Glancing down at your hand, fingers entwined with Aleksander’s, you add, “She’s been alone for so long. I thought you would understand each other.”

He cups your face between his hands, leaning forwards to kiss you soundly.

»»---------------------►

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S&B Tag List: @motheroffae @daddymaster21

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224 @seronsalk

KYJ Tag List: @tartiflvtte @weepingwitchofthewest @poemfreak306 @writerloversjm @prochnost513 @meg-the-second-greatest @allinestarr @bwormie @aoi-targaryen @wonderland2425

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters @idohknow @vaguekayla

#keep your judgement au #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling au #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone au

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insomniac-dot-ink · 11 days

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The City of the Dead

The city of the dead have no mouths to speak with. No minds to form reason. Memories and memories and memories that do not order themselves. In the ruins in the barrens on the edge of the world, skeletons began to walk. No one could answer why the dead rose in one small pocket of the world and forgot to sleep again.

Holy men, alchemists, kings, and living martyrs all traveled to the great ruins of Makan and watched the walking. Bones that carried broken stones from one edge to the other. Kneeling figures that clapped their hands to an unknown rhythm. Spirits burst from wells and poltergeists flung rotted wood at strangers. Yet, the dead did not speak. They were asked of their names, their families, what led them back from the beyond. What necromancer would do this.

They did not wage war. Nor do they pick up swords. The dead were not peaceful perhaps but neither were they purposeful. Makan was an old city, ancient beyond memory, and deserted once the nearest river was dammed and diverted. They were ruins that hung off a cliffside and turned brilliant red against the rising sun. A place of scholarship and history–until it became something more.

Bodies rattling, teeth clattering, voices of faded spirits like the wind through craigs and singing through tree branches. Some pilgrims swear the dead call their name when they aren’t looking. Others claim they are watching, judging, deciding who will be pure enough to deserve salvation. Still others say they are empty vessels simply caught on repeat–the same routine daily, weekly, yearly for eternity. A meaningless display turned sensational.

They were famous after all. A skeleton which pushed a baby carrier down the center road from dawn to dusk named the Mother. The well witch who cackled and splashes anyone that passed. The tower Stranger with one arm and one leg who watched anyone who entered, skull swiveling in place. A ghost that rang the church bells–one that people rumor calls your name if you pass too close. Others say it is not your name, but the name of the person you should marry.

The theories were limitless. A place of unimaginable power and limitless looping. And no one to take credit, rally the armies, or put them to rest. Pilgrims came and went. Queens and princes and priests blessed and cursed the place, tried to burn or drown the inhabitants, claimed ordinance or forbade their citizens to make the trek to the ruins in the barrens on the edge of the world.

In the second dawn of the God-Priest Amix III, a final pilgrimage was made. A Holy Child had been once more chosen from the masses of orphans found in the priestly empire. Dark-eyed and solemn, they were hand-picked for their docile nature. A toddler given a steady diet of jelly the color of stars and flavor of chilled mint. In other countries, they call it Prophecy Meats and treat it as a rare delicacy and dangerous altering substance. The Holy Child, chosen for endurance or perhaps very little at all, is given this steady diet of Stars until they can see the past and present all at once.

The Holy Child of this generation, a girl no more than eight, had survived her first years of seeing the wars and joys and horrors to come. She was dying, of course, and the attendant-nun had become attached. Sister Grehn was warned against such things. Told to keep her distance and remember their purpose, great and beautiful. Sister Grehn begged and pleaded and said, why not take her to the sea? The mountains? Any place that might help her lungs. Take her to healers of other lands.

She got the city of the dead. Sister Grehn carried the Holy Child, too small for her age and eyes as big as black holes, close. “Would you like to see the well, little one?” The nun whispered. “The funny skeleton pushing the baby carriage?”

The Holy Child, who privately kept her birth name, looked up. Nima, a peasant name, a rabbit name, felt the press against her eye sockets. She gave a long exhale. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. They are like me.”

Sister Grehn held her tightly to her chest, mouth turning into a battle line. No, not here, she thought. Please.

The Holy Child closed her eyes and whispered, “They are tired.”

Even eternity has an end and the Holy Child spoke the last words of the city of the dead to her first friend and one she privately called something else. “Mom, the river is not gone. The river is all.”

There are many types of spirits, life beyond life, and memories that do not forget how to rush down the land and twist across stone. The wizards that diverted the mighty river centuries before had used magic, darker stuff to do a simple job, cut corners to avoid the wrath of a king or priest or any other towering sovereign who are all the same. The water moved. The soul went elsewhere. The spirit of the river burst through the ruins of Manak. And tried with all its might to live again.

FIN

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#flash fiction #spilled ink #fantasy fiction #short story #original work #flash fic #epic fantasy

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the-punforgiven · 5 months

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I think it'd be cool to explore how magical healing feels depending on the healer tbh

A strong and zealous paladin healing you I feel would be relatively painless, but kicks your adrenaline in gear HARD. Your wounds close and you feel strong. Angry. What little pain you do still feel serves to focus your newfound wrath. You feel a burning holy rage within you, a righteous desire to avenge yourself. Your body, once more, is up to the task

A mysterious robed warlock healing your wounds could be just... Visceral. It is far from painless, time almost slows as every agonizing second as your flesh warps itself back together, the whole time you are plagued by phantom sensations of otherworldly tendrils wrapping around you, though you see nothing. You are healed now, but for the rest of your days, you'll never shake the feeling that you're being watched, or that you've betrayed a deep secret to someone you should not have told

The rotten, withered martyr heals you. It is numbing. You feel no pain, no stress, no agony. Your soul feels tranquil, like still water. You feel calm and at peace despite your healer's breathing becoming erratic and the newfound scars forming on his rotten, long-bloodless body. Once he is finished, you feel... almost sick, as if some inky black ichor were now coursing through your veins, settling in the pit of your stomach. The undead martyr prattles on about how his suffering is ordained by divinity itself, but you can only wonder how wise it was to accept healing from someone so close to death

Or yknow, like, something to that effect lol

#pun's text posts #I'll admit it you spend any time at all on my blog you know who inspired these probably lmao #still! I think it'd be neat to explore!

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team7-headquarter · 7 months

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Shout out to the medic nins in the Naruto world who keep trying to piece things back together in a world made of violence and destruction.

Shout out to Lady Chiyo, who created a jutsu to give her life force to bring a puppet to life because she knew Sasori missed his parents. Later, Chiyo used that technique to save a girl who took a sword to a vital point to protect her and told her to use the last of the antidote for poison. Later, Chiyo used it to save Gaara after he was long gone, hoping it'd make the world a better place. It was her love that defeated Sasori, what brought him down in the end.

Shout out to Tsunade, who saw the corpse of her little brother after an ambush. She fought so that every team could have a healer having their back and fell in love with the man that supported her. The same man who died with Tsunade's hands covered in his blood, the other man she couldn't save. Shout out for her for saving so many nins, for overcoming her trauma, for becoming hokage and draining herself again and again and again to save others. Shout out to the woman who got cut in half and fought her way back and kept healing and lived to see the world she promised Nawaki and Dan, the world they'd have wanted to create.

Shout to Karin, who was used and abused and who got treated like trash, whose mom died of giving things she didn't want to give, who got bitten in far too private places since she was nothing but a kid. And yet she used her skills to save others. And yet she fought.

Shout out to Shizune, who never left Tsunade's side, who followed the step of her uncle and the woman that should had been his wife. Tsunade, who lost too much in one war and then led the medic corps on the next, the woman who stepped as counselor and assistant for both Tsunade and Kakashi, who cared for the wellbeing of the village more than in just the physical aspect.

Shout out to Kabuto, found his way back from the darkness and devoted his life to atone and heal and do as much good as he could.

Shout out to Rin, who saw one of her teammates get crushed by a rock and had to perform field surgery to remove his eye and give it to her other teammate. The girl who fought and loved and who preferred to die by a friend's hand than to be used as a weapon against the people she loved.

Shout out to Sakura, who saw two of the most realities develop in her teammates lives, so she promised she would become the absolute best and find a way to be strong enough to deal with the aftermath. The girl who used herself as a human shield to protect older people and kids and teammates and enemies. She healed Karin, she offered to be Chiyo's puppet and she held her in death and she led Konoha's hospital and saw it get totally destroyed by Pain, fallen to her knees. She was beaten and mocked and insulted and pushed aside, never enough, but when the medic nins couldn't reach the battlefield, she unlocked in record time and ability only the best medic nin possessed to heal them, so she could fight. In a world of powers and gods, she kept Naruto's heart beating with her hand, breathing for him.

Shout out to every medic nin who got targeted and killed and who risked their lives to save the lives of others. Shout out to the strength it takes to never break, even when death is something you face every day, not only in the battlefield. Shout out to their saviour complexes and the ones who become martyrs and the ones who forget to take care of themselves because they are as valuable.

Medic mins will forever be one of my favorite parts of the Naruto universe.

#naruto #naruto shippuden #naturo classic #medic nins #medical ninjutsu #tsunade senju #lady chiyo #chiyo #sasori #shizune kato #karin uzumaki #kabuto yakushi #rin nohara #sakura haruno

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marigoldenblooms · 2 months

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Unica Semper Avis - Chapter 2

Pairing: Cleric!Wanda x Fem!AvianShifter!Reader x MonsterHunter!Natasha

Prompt: Ever since you’ve come of age, you’ve never been able to stop yourself from transforming into a monster. Whenever the sky would dim with a New Moon, you’d ravage the world with a fury unknown by many. Such is the bane existence of your species. This time, however - something was different. Now, you need help. On the feeble doorstep of the so-called ‘Spirit Healer,’ you found yourself both at the mercy of a cleric, and of a monster hunter’s blade. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

MINORS DNI - 18+

TW/General Tags: No mention of Y/N, slow burn, stranger to lovers (Wanda), enemies to lovers (Natasha), eventual smut (lord have mercy), Swearing, Fantasy violence, occasional descriptions of light body horror during transformation, slight self harm, slight restraint, angst, fluff, will add tags as they appear!

Chapter Warnings: Non-consensual touching (arms/shoulders), slight transformation description, threatening, mentions of pain (burning), intimidation tactics, arguments, manipulation, angst, canon-level violence, mentions of scarring/burnt skin, restraint, we're finally leaving Belmoor y'all

A/N: Holy crap y'all, thanks for the incredible responses on everything once again! We finally get some trio dialogue going in this chapter ^^ Natasha’s interrogation is based within Latin, while R’s occasional text is built primarily within greek. Russian is also here, as expected. I had nothing for Smut Saturday, so I hope lore will suffice ^^' We will see if the writing block ceases, lol

Equally, we’ve got a Unica tag list coming along! Let me know if you’d like to be added to it!

Word count: 3.9k - Read Length: 14 minutes, 29 seconds. ~~~

You’d never dreamt awake before.

You could feel your mind faintly, cognition ghostly as you’d blink within your own head. Your transformation’s destruction was never something you were aware of until you rose out of it, covered in viscera from your form’s hunt. Was it really your body, after that? As you’d drift hazily in a river of your own thoughts, you couldn’t separate feathers from skin. You and your monster were one in the same.

You’d try to shut your eyes again, fall back into the painless slumber your molt offered. A part of you knew the horror you’d awake to- perhaps your succession had slaughtered them all, friend and foe alike. You would grieve her as you had the others, the fiery healer with her crimson magic. The knight would become a cliff note to your psyche, a tack onto an endless tally-board. You were used to being hunted.

It’d be minutes before you realized you weren’t alone.

Gaze snapping upwards, you’d bare your teeth towards the intruder which marred your thoughts, only to find a translucent figure. You could feel her chill from here, Her feathered speckling like a shawl over her shoulders, the wings behind her blanketing into a beautiful frame. She reached a hand towards you, although her smile was too thin to be kind. She didn’t look much different than she’d appeared days prior within your dreams yet again. The Aegyptius creation deity. Why was she here?

You didn’t shy from her gaze, looking at her with both respect and provocation. She was in your mind, fragmented as it was while your body rampaged elsewhere. If there was anywhere you were dominion of, it was this. “I know who you are now, Matron,” you’d assure, your voice echoing in the dim expanse, rippling along the water of your thoughts. She seemed to catch your words, and her grin grew wider, eyes narrowing. She’d tut, and in a second you could feel her cold, mist-like hands on your shoulders, “I expect something more reverent from my martyr..but you will learn.”

“Martyr?” Your expression grew sour as she wouldn’t elaborate, toying with your frustration as she’d run her palms down your arms. An uncomfortable shiver would brace through your body, and you could feel your form stretch beneath as if her touch spurred your transformation all over again. She was cruel, a pained sigh leaving you as your teeth would clench.

Her grasp on you would tighten, feeling the brittleness of pin feathers beneath flesh, “Your mind may not remember, fledgeling…but all my creations know my whims. And yet you wish to rid yourself of me?” Her laugh would be musical, but the bite in her tone was awash with rage, thinly veiled as the Matron stalked circles around you.

The frustration that had flowed through you prior to your molt was flimsy now, embers against a cold snap. You felt your gut sink, fear bubbling thickly in your throat. You’d stopped looking at her by now, your gaze piercing down into nothingness. All you could manage was a pitiful nod, and you couldn’t tell if her snicker was anger from your lackluster response or joy from how compliant she’d rendered you. They were one in the same with your kind, you supposed.

“You cannot..although I’m certain you’ve already understood that.” She’d pause in front of your face, ghostly touch icy as she’d claw your chin to meet your gaze with hers. Her phrase would come quickly, as if she was excited to utter it, “And for penance…you must kill that witch.”

“What?” They weren’t dead already? Your molt would’ve torn her to shreds by now. What was happening in the waking world? Even within a dream, the thought of murdering another with your conscious mind churned your stomach, especially one that brought you food. Mercy. “Command my body to do it, then-”

“No. You must do this as human,” Her smile was dagger-thin now, and you swear sparks flashed from her maw when she spoke. “Not as bird. Your hunger will be your guide.” Her hands would cradle your face now, the chill of her spectral palms almost forgotten as your mind would rush and lurch. You could feel the knaw of famine in your gut, a terrible feeling, all too real.

“I reject this- she has been kind, I-” The Matron would’ve disappeared immediately, the thawing of your flesh the only reminder. Your plea would be met with silence, hyperventilation coaxing your heart into overdrive. Thudding in your skull, you could almost feel the weight of bone in your jaws, your throat suddenly parched. You’d rasp, drawing your hands close to cradle yourself as the world grew fuzzy and vague, “I don’t want to be a monster..”

“Oh, my martyr..” She’d murmur, her voice suddenly swirling along the shell of your ear, freezing your hunch in place.

“That’s what I made you for.”

Your mind would swim, lucidity and unconsciousness blending into tar which filled your brain. You’d blink, heavier than before..and just before you’d wake, you’d feel her touch on your shoulder again.

“Survivε, mυ μάρτυρας..”

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You’d regain your mind halfway through it all. Your body ached and tore within you, the subtle itch of plumage molting from your skin a feeling you couldn’t soothe. You were in the barn.

Your arms were held back as you’d kneel on the floor, a searing heat plaguing your wrists as you’d fight against its hold- your chains. They’d manage to cage you. If you hadn’t been in so much pain, you would’ve wheezed relief at that. Your tongue was dry, the taste of blood and bone absent on your lips. You hadn’t eaten anyone during your transformation, and yet your body twinged with agony all the more for it. You had no fuel to offer you shifting body, and so it ate you from the inside to power your return to being humanoid. Panting a low whine, spasms would twitch your form as your bones would grow heavier within your flesh, solid all the way through. Even through your strain, a quiet shuffle would draw your eyes immediately- your heightened instincts were always the last things to go. In the recluses of the barn stood your prior attacker, although her attention was focused elsewhere, ghosting over something in the palm of her gloved hand. Thank fuck.

It was only now you could get a good look at her. Her hair was auburn, braided sharply in cascading strands which met the nape of her neck. It had been chilled near its ends, pale and almost wispy, as though something had leached the color from it. Sorcery? Stress? You couldn’t tell at first glance, but the perpetual scoff that seemed to mold into her face signaled the latter.

Blueish gray irises stared into what she held, and it was only when you growled a restrained snarl at the sight did her eyes lock to yours. She was holding one of your shorn feathers, the visage making your hackles raise. You wouldn’t shy from her gaze as you had with Wanda, even raising your chin higher so you looked down at her with pinprick pupils- you were an adversary. A challenger. You didn’t fear her. Your head throbbed, the heavy burn of your engraved chains a constant reminder.

She’d approach you with malice- unsurprising given your circumstances, but the prick of a metal blade against your neck was a little more shocking. This early? Damn. You’d grit your teeth but remain steadfast, even as she’d glower over you.

“Ossifraga, dic omnia quae scis.” She’d spit, her words foreign yet familiar in your ears. ‘omia’ was a word you gleamed in an instant - ‘everything’, yet the rest was butchered in her mouth. You’d bare your teeth at her, grin sickeningly raw even as she’d press her knife’s edge to your nape. “Dic mihi omnia Fraga, ne te interficiam sicut columbam-“

Her anger would shatter at the creaking barn door, flinching just as you did. At least one similarity between the two of you. A familiar soothing tone would echo to you, honeyed and thick, albeit strangled from…anger. Anger?

“I leave you for one second, you глупый козел-“ Wanda muttered harshly, her stomping footfalls sharply rattling in your skull. She’d pluck the knight’s hand away from you, grip harsh as she’d try to wrestle away their weapon- futile, as their shock to Wanda’s insult only lasted so long. From your attacker’s reaction, it seemed they shared a language. Interesting. “And here you are, nicking my patient-“

You’d struggle at Wanda’s words, trying to show her your discomfort. Your wrists continued to burn, and you swear their imprint would be branded on your skin if they weren’t taken off soon. And yet, it may be safer if you remain chained. The Matron’s words still throbbed in your ears, a blinding sight locking your gaze onto Wanda before you bit it back down. You’d breathe, ragged, before gasping a sound which seemed to catch her attention. Her nimble fingers would move to start unshackling you, before being caught by Natasha’s rough grip, pulling her immediately back, “What are you doing-!? It’ll kill you-“

“I won’t harm…her..-“ You’d hiss, finding your bearings as your larynx would thrum with your voice again. You’d glare at the hunter, voice steadfast even through your pain, “You’re- a different story, knight..let me go, and maybe I’ll consider.”

You saw her jaw flex at your tone, malice seeping from every beat of her heart. She’d release Wanda with a tight-lipped grumble, your wrists losing their binds seconds later. You’d rub at the tender flesh for a split second, gasping and hiding away as it’d still bubble with scorching heat. You were too late, and soon your wrists would scar over. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad next time, perhaps.

You’d sit up, movements sluggish as you’d sync again with a heavier frame. Your glance would be wary, looking to Wanda as if the knight wasn’t there. You saw annoyance flash across the hunter’s expression, and satisfaction bloomed in yours. Let her be upset. “What happened..? You shackled me, I am thankful for it.”

“And yet your wrists don’t look happy..” Wanda would respond with muffled concern, although you’d retreat from her scarlet magic’s attempt to heal- scars proved you had lived, this one above all. This one showed you could trust the healer to protect you when you couldn’t protect her. The slow rumble of starvation proved you wouldn’t be able to protect her for a long time. She’d sigh, but wouldn’t press further. “You’ve been in the barn for three days, we put you here on the evening of the first-“

Your expression faltering would quiet her words, a shaky inhale slicing into the room’s air. Three days. “I’ve never been..” you’d grip your hair as you spoke, bending to pull more of you closer. You’d stare at your shorn feathers, brilliant white where they lay unheated, almost ghostly in the thin light of Wanda’s shed.

“I’ve never been transformed for that long.”

“And why should we believe you? You could feather again as we speak- kill us all.” The knight would glare at you, though there was a chance she never stopped, boring a hole into your skull which you gladly challenged. You’d bark a laugh, the sound uncomfortable in your raw chest and yet you reveled in how she flinched away. The air grew thick and still, “If you hunt my kind with that attitude, you obviously know nothing of the Aegyptius.”

“Then enlighten me, Fraga-”” She said that like an insult to you, and yet it didn’t register.

“And why the hell should I-?”

“Because we have a common goal, you dolts-“

At Wanda’s interjection, your voice would sliver and slip away, her face red and scrunched with frustration. It was almost adorable how her nostrils flared with her words, yet the rage in her eyes was something that stirred sorrow inside you. Something clicked in the back of your mind, memories from your brood when you were young, and yet nothing registered in the fog of retorting anger. There was curiosity on the hunter’s face, shoulders squared back at Wanda’s tone, and yet your mind still held what the knight had said before.

“What did you call me?” Your words stumbled as you’d shift to stand, legs frail under the weight of yourself. You wouldn’t see the knight’s bewildered expression until much later, too busy keeping your feet underneath you, “Fraga…do you not even know what you are?” “Enlighten me,” you’d taunt, clipped thin between your barred teeth. Wanda would scoff, shaking her head in your peripheral.

“You are Ossifraga. Bone-breaker, the unclean bird..” Your eyes would narrow, but not in the way the hunter wanted, it seems. These names meant nothing to you. “A mistake upon your feathered kind. A blight-'' Her words would build in strength, low as she’d stalk dangerous steps towards you. You looked towards Wanda, her hands slowly raising as scarlet magic grew to weave around her fingers.

“Others of your kind can be minstrels, songbirds or doves- even raptors can experience valor as warriors…but you, Fraga, are the mutated husk of your false god.” She spit her tone with vitriol, acidic. The receding down on the back of your neck rose as your blood ran cold- Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, a lump swelling in your throat, but it wasn’t all fear. There was something else, a chill unfamiliar to your waking form, coaxing your mouth open. You resisted, even your back reached the worn wood of the barn’s walls and the knight’s voice swarmed back into focus.

“A dangerous monster, consuming the bones of innocents and leaving plague in your wake,” A gleaming metal shone near her wrist, and your stomach dropped all too late. The knife was probably sacred, intricately carved with markings you could hardly make out in the blur of motion, her gloved hand grasping your shoulder while the other swung to pierce your stomach.

“You’re the infection I must quell-”

Your maw opened before you could think.

“Αμολάω-!” You’d shriek, your voice hissing with the inflection of many. You heard the clatter of metal on the ground as your tone echoed forth. The knight would barrel backwards, clutching her head as Wanda flinched behind her, the shockwave of your words hitting her fainter the further it went from your mouth.

You kicked away the knight’s dropped blade, another command echoing from you, your tone no longer your own, cold and bitter on your tongue, “Γονατίστε, παράσιτα- Θα σε καταβροχθίσω χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη..”

The hunter sunk to her knees before your sentence had finished. You’d gasp a second later, your lungs filled with air as though they’d never have before. Blinking, you’d feel a tenseness in your body, arms trailing with thin plumage which quickly sunk beneath your skin. You’d watch it leave with a cold numbing shock, jaw slung open with a heavy breath. Your thoughts translated your foreign words after a few moments, ‘Let go. Kneel, vermin. I will devour you without a second thought.’

Your feathers had never grown beyond your molt, confined to the hellish day a month where you were no longer yourself. Your hands tremored, ghosting over the goosebumps that had been left behind. It’s like the feathers had never been there- and yet you could feel your body creak and crunch, as though impatient.

The hunter stood a few seconds later, gait slow as she’d physically wrench herself from your command’s thrall. She’d brush at her scuffed armor, plagued with the barn’s dirt which clung to the metal, “I know what you’re saying. Your pronunciation is weaker, and yet it is still-”

“The language of my kind,” You’d mutter without sympathy, scoffing as the knight seemed to take offense to your interruption. “You’ve stripped it of its history..it's what you spoke before.” You’d never learned your own tongue, and yet half your thoughts spoke in it now. A shiver rolled down your spine, a cascading chill that felt like an awaiting grasp.

“Ah, so it can listen..” She’d sneer, glance harsh as she’d eye her forlorn blade again. Wanda’s interjection would be seen before it was heard, scarlet magic weaving around the hilt before daintily grasping it, pawing it over to her awaiting palm. “And so must you, Romanova..” The way she curved the words had a sense of familiarity, drawing a frustrated huff from the other woman. You’d narrow your eyes, but it wasn’t your turn to speak anymore, “You both listen, or you leave my barn with nothing but a death wish. Am I clear?”

You’d nod slowly, and by Wanda’s sigh, you assumed the knight did the same. “Alright. Let’s go somewhere cozier, shall we?”

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Wanda’s home would’ve been just as comfortable as it had been the prior evening, albeit more cramped. Between three people in the living room, a thin glow of red magic seeping through the slats of wood that boarded the kitchen up, and the deadly eye contact you and the knight shot at each other every second, the air was never thicker.

“And you tore through the kitchen wall,” Wanda’s words were analytical, the gnawing feeling of guilt settling heavy in your gut. You kept your distance from her, a pang of hunger grinding into your thoughts the second you grew closer to the witch. You chewed at the inside of your lip as her palm waved towards the construction her sorcery partook in. Her shrug was too easy, “Not afraid of remodeling, after Romanova mistook my window for a door-”

She’d almost bite towards the hunter, a simmering scoff laced between her accented tone. “Is that your name? ‘Romanova’?” The knight would leer at your question, slinging her arm against the heavy metal of her armor. From Wanda’s scoff, it seems she’d gotten the same reaction while you were out. “You butcher my family title, Fraga-”

“Give me your name and I won’t have to.” You’d raise a brow as her eyes locked to yours, your breath thin and still. You felt the cold in your throat again, creeping like a retch up your windpipe- yet you swallowed it with huskier words, “Since we’re all in the sharing mood. Aren’t we?”

Her sigh was almost palpable, hissing in a low breath, “I am Natasha Alianovna Romanova. Templar of Latrodectus, it’s esteemed widow.” That title meant nothing to you, although your unfitting reaction seemed to knock her down a few pegs. Her reply was less angry than curious, “Did you ever earn a name, Fraga?”

“Earn?” Your snort brought an angry heat to Natasha’s face, perplexed laughter ricocheting through your solid skeleton, “You really do know nothing of my kind. We do not remember names. Unimportant.”

You wouldn’t see Wanda’s furrowed look until she exhaled sharply, looking away from you with crossed arms. Your mind sunk and crackled whenever you looked in her direction, suddenly parched. The flutter in your stomach remained, bringing an uncomfortable nausea rather than burst of curiosity. You kept your eyes on Natasha, expression hollowed, “Why do either of you stay? This..is your house, Wanda, I know-”

“Because we want to help you-” “She does- mhph-” Wanda’s hand would outstretch towards Natasha, blocking her mouth with a wispy scarlet sheen. You looked at Wanda’s shadow, feeling her sigh as your gaze never met hers. Her voice was calmer yet thin, strained between forces, “Do you want to rid yourself of your feathers?”

“Yes,” Your quick response earned an unseen smile from the witch, although your skin grew clammy at the thought. Natasha shuffled, and when you met her eyes you saw hers were raised, almost in shock, her mouth still clasped closed. “Then we have a common interest. This one can find a method beyond violence- and if your transformation is progressing faster, then it is my role to bring you back to normalcy.”

You’d meet her glance now, her smile radiating a warmth into you that culled away some of the chill, satiated you. Your palms felt your own, awkwardly poised as you offered your hold to the witch, her touch filling you with an unfamiliar satisfaction. You shook her hand against yours, ignoring Natasha’s silent indignation burning into your skull. Perhaps you could control yourself- you could protect each other, “Thank you, Wanda.”

“Ah, none of that- you are a medicinal marvel..” She’d tease, your thanks rolling right off of her. You met her grin with your own, her words shushing as she’d lean to you, “Think of what it will do for my prices, to heal an Ossifraga-”

Your laugh was a startling welcome, filling you with mirth as it was returned. “I will pay you then. How many feathers-?” Her hand patted yours before receding, wiping her palm along her clothed side. “...I’ll keep a running tab for you, Птичка.”

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The sun had risen into midday, and you basked in its sunlight. Your shoulders felt tense as you hauled supplies towards the wagon Wanda and Natasha had acquired an hour ago from Belmoor proper. You’d hung back, admiring the hazy scarlet tendrils which packed Wanda’s belongings. The two had found you handing random objects to the sorcerous helpers when they returned, although Natasha was pulled away by the witch before she could crow about the non-essentiality of bringing Wanda’s butter churn.

The mule that was attached to the wagon- Daisy, Doris, something like that- had been chewing on the turf as you’d settled another crate of rations along the wagon’s bed, pushing it into place with a heavy shove. It was a ten days road travel to Arkridge, the capital of this province, as you’d been told. Its libraries held what could be the first of many secrets. The forest never spoke of it, yet its grandeur was palpable even through Natasha’s gruff words. She hadn’t tried to stab you again, although her glare was seething whenever you met it.

You passed each other by as you’d return towards the house, huffing an unimpressed groan as her haul was much smaller than yours. She’d abandoned her armor for now, and you watched as the musculature of her back shifted as she’d set her barrel down. You could take her if you had to, even without your strength- though the scabbard along her back gave you pause, the longsword’s hilt gleaming in the light. It had been engraved, similar to the leather sheath that bound it, and you’d guess it was the same inscription. Runic and familiar, it brought your thought to your chains, their markings similar yet worn. Perhaps you’d find a way to ask about it, if you could have a conversation without insulting each other.

Your side met Wanda’s as you leaned in her vicinity, your gaze locked onto the knight a dozen meters away. The witch’s voice was smoothed and sweet, honey-like as she’d offer her palm to yours again, inspecting the scarring along your skin as you’d accept. “Your name isn’t Margo, is it?”

You shook your head, still in her embrace, “No. I just needed something to give to you. Satisfy..”

Your words petered out into silence, her squeeze of your hand gentle, shying away from the raw flesh of your wrists. “You don’t have to do that, Ласточка. I have countless things to call you that you won’t forget.” Her wink made your face flush, shying away from her gaze as her tone wrapped around your thoughts. Her giggle wasn’t lost on you, a fondness in her expression you couldn’t decipher. “Will you tell me what that means?”

She’d shake her head, just before you heard Natasha’s heavy footfalls towards you. The forested grove retreated behind as you three would set forth a few minutes later, silence thick. Bellmoor would be forgotten, in favor of new memories. Perhaps your first night at camp would be more riveting.

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