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zaedtalost-writes · 7 months

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Echoes

Chapter Three

—-Series Rated : T for Teen

❗———-Implied child death

He awoke at noon, to the banging of his front door. Or rather, to someone banging on his front door. His head swam as he made an effort to uproot himself from his nest of soft blankets, his feet sliding heavily over the floor as he made his way to check who had knocked through the small porthole window that overlooked the driveway and short walk that approached the front door. At first, it seemed as though the driveway and yard had been empty; perhaps someone had ding-dong-ditched, or perhaps he had hallucinated the entire thing, being exhausted out of his mind. Maybe, he thought, it had been a lucid dream that stirred him into thinking the knocking was real.

But then, he saw it: The source of the knocking was a lone man in a suit, dark hair slicked back to touch no part of his face as it waterfalled down to his shoulders and turned up slightly at the ends. A brilliantly dressed peacock, Orion thought to himself, but likely not someone he would want to spend much time talking to. However, the real misfortune came when he realized that the black van parked by his drive had discreet markings of some investigatory entity on the door, as if someone had peeled off the sticker, or otherwise attempted to make the vehicle as low-profile as possible without it being undercover.

This was, he thought, perhaps one of the worst things to deal with immediately after losing his son: this was either a media who had learned the art of disguise and intimidation, or it really was a government agent who had come to interrogate him about the disaster on his boat, and the potential whereabouts of his son Charlie, as well as why Orion himself had been the only survivor. It was going to be a losing game, either way, Orion thought to himself, and he’d just as soon not speak to the man at all. However, some force in the universe seemed to have other plans.

Compelled to go to the door, perhaps out of the desire to simply get it over with, Orion sluggishly changed into some clothes that had not been riddled with salt from the water, and headed downstairs, grabbing some questionable prepackaged food to stuff in his mouth on his way to answering the door.

When he opened the door, he was shocked to be met not with the cold expression of a persecutor, but the sympathetic doe eyes of someone who had come to find out if Orion himself would be alright. Or at least, that’s what he hoped was the correct read of this man’s soft brown eyes. After a few seconds of eternity, he finally managed to ask the question of what the man had come for.

“Well, for a start, I’ve come to see if you’re okay,” the man began, and Orion felt a wash of relief over him, “and I’ve come to find out what happened last night. Word travels fast, you see, and I’d like to get a real first-hand account from the survivor on record before anyone else shows up and attempts to distort it.”

“And you would be?” Orion puzzled aloud, rubbing at the side of his face as if he were attempting to scrape his sinuses from the outside.

“Agent Karlton.”

“And who are you with, exactly?”

“The United States government.”

“Really? Which organization?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Orion’s heart skipped a beat — surely he was mishearing things — no one ever said it didn’t matter what government agency they were from. NO ONE. And that only made his fear worse.

“I’m both here on official business and not here, if that makes sense to you. A lot of the more famous organizations don’t know we exist, and we like to keep it that way. In a sense, if you’re a fan of comic books, and the Bat Family poster suggests you are, you could consider us the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. We’re not, of course, but that’s certainly a fitting light in which to view us.”

Orion paused for a moment. Surely this man was joking. “The BRPD, huh? And you, what, wanna accuse me of having made contact with a nonhuman entity?”

“Not accuse. Only confirm one way or the other. If you did have contact with a nonhuman entity — cryptid, alien, ghost, something we just haven’t discovered yet, or even a demon — we’d like to know about it, and we’d like to provide you, uh…. Counseling, I believe, is the word to use now. As well as a debriefing and a gentle plea that you don’t tell anyone else about the creature, as it could cause more damage than necessary.”

“More damage than necessary? And I’m supposed to believe that telling you about something wouldn’t cause damage?”

“Only if the entity is an active threat,” Agent Karlton replied with a wave of his hand, “if the entity is not a threat, much like Nessie, we’d like to help keep it under wraps so the general public does not harass it, endanger it, or make it into an otherwise jeopardized or potential hostile entity. In short, we don’t want the public to know if you met a ghost or a mermaid that pulled you out of harm’s way, because the general public is a bunch of self-centered, materialistic, opportunistic assholes, and they can’t be trusted not to damage these creatures in new and unforeseen ways.”

“So you’re nature conservationists, is that right?” Orion said with a thick sarcasm in his tone.

“You could say that, yes. For the things that most people don’t know they should appreciate. Take Mothman, for example. I’ve met him and his cousin Owlman, quite a nice pair of lads, but the general public would cause them so much trouble if we just gave them their geolocation. It’s bad enough they’ve made a Mothman Festival, but at least that’s a positive reception. The poor Fresno Nightcrawlers? They’re having it rough right now.”

“Surely you understand how full of shit you sound right now.”

“I do. And that’s why I’m able to say it with confidence. I know I sound like a lunatic, and that’s not what bothers me.”

“You know what? Fine. Come inside and take a seat. I’ll tell you about last night. Because you know damn well that if you tell anyone else about this, we’ll both sound insane. And the doorbell camera’s caught this whole discussion on tape. So if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“Yeah, fair enough. Anyhow, should we get to it? If what’s happened to you is what I’ve suspected, then this is both a wonderful discovery and a horrifying event, and not for the same reasons.”

“You know,” Orion sighed, “I do not like the sound of that at all.”

“No one ever does.” Agent Karlton replied with a shrug. “But at least you know that it’s only half bad news, right?”

“What’s the good half of the news, exactly?”

“Something saved your life last night. It didn’t have to, but it did, and that proves that this one entity is entirely benevolent to you!”

“And the bad part, aside from losing my son?”

“That thing that saved you isn’t the biggest or the only intelligent fish in the sea. And that means that, whatever it was that attacked your boat, it might do it again, and it might have a specific set of reasons for it, or it might just be doing it for fun at random. Personally, though my personal opinion doesn’t count for much here, I think that the creature that saved your ass might be able to give us some insight into whatever it was that attacked your boat. It might be a stretch, but I definitely believe that it’s possible!”

“You know what, before last night, I’d have said you were fucking insane. But now? Now, I think you just might be right. But even if it does have an idea as to what attacked my boat, how the hell do we make contact with it again?” Orion then realized he was blocking the door, and moved aside so that the agent he had invited in could actually come and sit.

“Thank you. First, I’m going to need you to tell me about what happened.”

“Alright. We’d gone out to watch the stars and the meteor shower that was supposed to happen last night, and we were on the boat alone, just the pair of us, waiting for the right time for the shower to start. We were in the middle of watching through the telescope and something hit the boat. Something big hit the boat. We didn’t know what it was, but it kept hitting the boat, and I tried to get Charlie off the deck because the impacts had ruptured the fuel tanks, and the boat was due to blow at any minute, and then whatever the hell it was, it hit the boat again, one last time, and hit hit quite hard… Something blew, probably the gas tanks, all of them, and I was thrown overboard while trying to carry Charlie. I thought I was gonna drown, but something grabbed me and slung me to the surface. I looked around a bit, yelled a bit, but no sign of Charlie… And then I passed out!”

“Breathe.”

“When I came to, I was on the beach. This man-like creature was standing over me. I asked who it was and it said: Doriemere…?”

“Doriemere, huh?”

“Yeah… You know it?”

“Can’t say that I do, which makes this a little worrisome, given that now we’ve just confirmed we’re dealing with a complete unknown. I wouldn’t worry too much. As you said, this creature saved you, so clearly it’s not that interested in causing you harm. Still, we have to find out what it is. You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?” Karlton flicked out a card with a phone number and a name written in silver foil.

“Yeah… Try to at least.”

#Echoes (original fic)#Chapter 3 #Mystery #original story #original characters #original content

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zaedtalost-writes · 1 year

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Echoes

Chapter Two

—-Series Rated : T for Teen

❗———-Implied child death

Attempting to sit himself upright, Orion was greeted by several of the sailors, who asked him what had happened, how he managed to find himself on the beach… Everything one would expect. The questions, however, were neatly explained away, even a neat little “I don’t know, maybe the tide” to explain his present resting place. Just as they had come in to check if he was alright, they filtered out, leaving him on the dock with a blanket and some food, knowing he would do the same, were their positions reversed, and left him to wait for the inevitable arrival of the coast guard.

The wait would be a long one, though he could just see the last of the fire of his boat on the horizon and the many searchlights of the guard’s boats floating around the area, scanning and assessing damage, searching for survivors. The usual. It would take a long time before these ghostly lights made their way to the docks, a long time, Orion hoped, that would mean they’d found Charlie and were resuscitating him. But somehow, somewhere, deep down, he knew… That was not likely true.

And so, he watched, with tired eyes fixed upon the horizon, the nearly spectral lights of the rescue boats hoping for signs of life in their intricate ballet around the wreckage site. In the back of his mind, pushing aside the doubts about his son, were concerns for his son, and sitting beside those concerns like a church lady in a very loud dress, was the brimming curiosity of what on earth he had just encountered that night that had managed to so politely save his life and then flee just as more help arrived… Like something from a novel, but somehow infinitely more exciting and terrifying to behold.

Slowly, one by one, the rescue boats abandoned their search for any survivors and made their way toward the docks where Orion had sat and watched their morbid ballet take place upon the crystal sea. One by one, the boats found their rest in the shallows, their occupants disembarking to interrogate Orion in their polite yet forceful manner, and one by one, the men got back on their boats and left, satisfied in the story they were told, which may have been a half-truth, but one told to keep the existence of the strange creature a safe secret.

The walk home seemed longer than it should have been. Plagued by visions of the creature that saved his life, each memory recalled more horrifying detail than the last until Orion was absolutely certain that whatever had saved him was so far removed from human life that it was by sheer coincidence that it shared a skeletal plan as a human. Stopping some thousand yards down the long road from his home, he stood, staring at the front door, wondering how on earth he could ever tell her. How could he tell Carina about Charlie? How could he tell the mother of their only child that their son was dead and he was, somehow, miraculously alive? And that this was all thanks to some unknown species of interloper that crawled out of the ocean? It was madness. He knew it was. That was exactly what she would think, and she was right. But he had to try.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Carina’s words of shock rang through his ears, spoken just briefly before some other statement that Orion honestly could not recall solely out of grief at the moment, moments before the front door of their home had slammed behind her.

That had been nearly an hour ago. For nearly an hour, Orion had been sitting in the same place he was when he’d tried to tell his wife about the strange happenings and the death of their son. Trying to piece it together; to figure out why on earth it had happened. He knew she didn’t believe him, he never expected her to believe him, but there had to have been something else that had been eating away at the marriage for a while. Something he missed.

Realizing that the reflection upon his now-ruined marriage was quite fruitless at 3AM, Orion shook the scrutiny from his mind, his thoughts lingering on the other, more important events of the night. As if in a trance, he rose from his seat, collected a pencil and some paper, sat down at the desk in the bedroom he and his wife had once shared, and began to scribble.

At first, mere nonsense filled the page; jagged lines and wild scribbles that did nothing to intersect swarmed onto the paper like a million angry ants preparing for a prom that had been delayed twice already. It was not until the sun began to break the horizon that this mess of scribbles had begun to take form: Doriemere, the creature who had saved his life, the creature he hoped to find again soon.

Noticing the golden rays creeping upon his wall, Orion sighed and made to resign himself to bed. With a good sleep, he thought, he would at least be able to go search for the creature and his son more efficiently. His hopes that this was all a terrible dream faded with his consciousness as he curled into the thick, heavy blankets to hide his face from the intensifying sun.

#Echoes (original fic)#Chapter 2 #Mystery #original story #original characters #original content

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zaedtalost-writes · 1 year

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Fic directory

Echoes

Seas of Glass

Fallout NV: Dead Man's Hand (AO3)

Ace Combat: Brave Arms (AO3)

#fic directory #pinned post #this post will be updated as more fics are introduced!!!

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zaedtalost-writes · 1 year

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Echoes

Chapter One

----Series Rated : T for Teen

❗----------Implied child death

It knew man—at the very least, it feared man—but why did it fear man? And how did it know that these men would likely harm it if they were to encounter it face to face? Orion did not know. And if it meant asking these rough looking sailors, he’d rather not know. Their appearance, having topped the dune, was enough to set the message in his skull quite clear: There must have been a reason they were feared.

The night was black, and few stars shone behind the clouds and the bright white glow of the full moon overhead; a bright reflector of light that, with the help of the vast ocean below, made the brightness near that of day on land, albeit far more stunning to behold. A gentle wind rocked the surface of the saltwater and, in turn, gently rocked the fishing boat upon it as if it were a hammock, its occupants sitting near a freshly cleaned window, admiring the scene above.

In the distance, some few birds still glided weightlessly upon the air, some seemingly hovering, taking advantage of the cool night to do their fishing. It felt as though they were trapped inside of a painting to Charles and Orion Gillian, a most magnificent form of awe to experience, especially for a young man of age ten such as Charles.

The boat, from below, held much the same shape as a great fish dead in the water. Something that drew the interest of much of the marine life, the fish swarming around in curiosity, wondering if they would be able to take part in devouring this creature, or if it was really even a creature at all.

With little thought to it, Orion and his son left the shelter of the boat’s cabin and stood on the deck, admiring the scenery with a few less faded fingerprints and happy faces of Charles’ design. The light, still almost blinding, was hidden behind a few wisps of clouds, making the stars just that much more visible that it felt as though they were standing in a dream.

A dream that was to turn into a nightmare.

With a sudden jolt from below, the boat rocked, tossing its two occupants to the deck with no warning. Regathering his wits from the deck of his fishing boat, Orion’s eyes shifted toward their beds, where it seemed a small leak of water had sprung in the cabin, a soft stream of water trickling across the floor that, unfortunately, was a bit too much to have been from their drinking glasses. A wash of panic overcame him, and he made to lift his son from the deck and carry him to safety—where, he did not know—away from this brewing catastrophe. But as he lifted the boy and got to his feet, a second jolt came, sending Orion flying to the deck once more, this time with the notice that the water leak was not water but was, in fact, petrol.

Now, more fear in his heart than he had ever felt before, Orion lifted himself to his feet, his son unconscious in his arms, and made for the small lifeboat that was kept at the back of the ship. Each step weighing as though it were the weight of the earth itself he was trying to move, he trudged forward until a final shake rocked the boat hard enough to send Orion flying from the deck. As he hit the water, a bright flash was visible above the surface, and shreds of wood flew down through the water around him at speeds higher than they should have moved.

A scream tried to flee his lips as he reached out for his son, but no avail; the deep swallowed all she set her eyes upon, including Orion. As his vision failed and he sank into the depths of the increasingly cold waters, he felt a hand on his upper arm. A hallucination? And then blackness took him.

A time that felt like eons passed. He was floating freely, only semi-conscious, in a space that could only be described as a dream world. He could see Charles in front of him, laughing. He’d no idea what he’d said, but the boy found it hilarious, and above them hung a billion stars, equally as bright as the lovely moon herself.

And then the realization came upon him.

His boat had exploded, his son was now likely dead, though there seemed to be precisely no sign of him anywhere, and he was… On the shore, three miles away now from the wreckage of his ship… He could not have swam that distance, even in his wildest of dreams with the most extreme cocktail of drugs and adrenaline.

His hair and clothes were soaked, and he lay on the sand. His limbs felt heavy, but they were there, and he could move them. His eyes, too, felt heavy, but they were still there, unharmed and seeing. His lungs had not filled with water, which was strange, but not unheard of. As he came to his senses, he groaned, eyes slowly sliding open to confront the looming blackness of the night sky and its bright lunar disc whose presence hushed out many distant stars in the night. He felt as though he was still going to die, but he knew that he had no choice but to find a way to go back. He had to find his son. He had to find Charles. Even if it was only Charles’ remains that he was able to find, he had to return him home.

A hand, he realized, had been gently touching his face, and the realization hit that he was not alone. Straining every muscle in his torso, he shifted to see who it was that had come to his aid, and found himself staring into a pair of deep blue, catlike eyes framed by sopping wet long hair and set deeply in a frame of alabaster skin. Even against the moonlight behind, this person was pale, otherworldly, and certainly not human with its pointed features and lack of many mammalian features.

“W—What are you…?” Orion asked, his voice a scratchy whisper, a strained shell of what beauty it had been, which he hoped would eventually heal and return to its normal state.

After a period of silence that felt like ages, his rescuer blinked and opened its mouth full of sharp teeth to speak, uttering a single word with a strange, almost strangled and garbled voice: “Doriemere”. With which, it offered a smile that, were they to have been in a film, Orion was sure would have been the trigger for some synthesized scream to lead in the eerie music meant to denote this horror of the deep, and Orion felt his blood run cold.

“Are… Are you the one that saved me?” Orion asked, praying that this creature that had pulled him from the depths could understand more than just a few simple phrases in English. “Where’s Charles…? Where is… Where is my son?”

But the creature, Doriemere, had no answer and simply shook its head.

For a moment, the man felt a pang of guilt and grief tear away at the mask that concealed his emotions from this creature of the unknown, then he reasoned it was quite foolish to expect something so blatantly nonhuman to understand any of what he had said. Charles must’ve been alive. Charles had to be alive, and Orion had to find him. Whatever the cost, he would gladly pay it if it meant he would be able to hold Charles once again, to see him grow to be an adult, to apologize for failing him. To apologize for everything.

Before he could stop himself, before he realized that his hand was even moving, Orion found himself with his own hand resting on the face of this creature who had, no doubt, saved him from the wreckage. This strange picture of innocence, this force of ultimately good will, the thing that neither understood what he was saying, nor who he was, nor likely even why he had been on the water in such a contraption in the first place, yet made the choice to rescue him from a terrible fate… It reminded him of his son, and for a moment, he wondered if he had hallucinated this strange aquatic humanoid, and if it was really Charles standing above him, hoping that he was going to snap out of it soon.

When the creature, this Doriemere, returned the gesture, however, it was quite plain that it was not a hallucination. The fingers were soft, gentle against Orion’s flesh, but the long nails that rested lightly upon his face nearly an inch or more away from the careful touch of the fingers’ pads. This was not Charlie. This had never been Charlie. The cold, blood chilling realization that Orion was now face-to-face with a creature humanity had likely never encountered before struck him immediately, and suddenly, he pushed past his waterlogged daze into complete sobriety. Staring up at this creature, partially obscured by moonlight, he still managed to find a strange sense of calm while staring into its kind, curious eyes.

Be it guilt or grieving acceptance, something eased him into a state of relaxation, and he felt he understood all at once the stories sailors of olde had passed down through the generations of mermaids and strange sea creatures. The attraction to the unknown, the benevolence and undoubted situational malevolence of something that had never touched mankind before, the innocence and curiosity that could lead to friendship or an unfortunate fate that bred malice where there once was none. This creature staring back at him had no more idea what Orion was than Orion had of its identity. “Doriemere” was all it said, were it a name or a species, he did not know, but how would an ant understand, were it to inquire of something’s origins and receive “human” or “mouse” in return?

All of these wonders and perceived revelations swam behind Orion’s tired eyes, and suddenly, the sobering sound of the shouts of men was heard just over the dunes. In fear, or perhaps more caution, the creature looked to the source of the sounds and backed away, lifting its hands slightly and backing toward the waves, standing only for the briefest moment that it required to sprint—no, leap—toward the water and dive into the sea, doubtlessly heading straight down once it reached the drop-off.

#Echoes (original fic)#Chapter 1 #Mystery #original story #original characters #original content #Pink Floyd inspired

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zaedtalost-writes · 2 years

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Seas of Glass

Chapter Three --- The End of the Beginning

----Series Rated T for Teen ❗------------Language ❗------------Violence ❗------------Mild Gore ❗------------Implied (but not written out) Abuse

The trip had not been one Keithane—now called Keef—had minded too terribly much. They had worked as hard as, if not harder than, some of the other young men who had been newly recruited into this ship’s service, and done so with nary a complaint. This, of course, earned them favor with the captain and his immediate underlings; a sailor who didn’t whine was doubtlessly going places, though those places might not be where the sailor would wish them to be.

Even as the ship rocked and swayed on rougher seas caused by storms far ahead or long passed, Keef neither panicked nor became ill, nor did they utter any protest aloud as to the conditions through which they were sailing. They were quiet to a degree that even the captain often forgot that they were there, nearly assigning their duties to someone else several times until that someone complained that the duties were already being tended to. It was not until the night a storm came upon them directly that Keef’s presence was noticed—warning the captain and crew that this storm would be a vile one, and offering up the suggestion that everything be tied down as neatly as possible to prevent damage and injury—and then, when the storm was over, their presence was soon a permanent staple on that ship, albeit as a ghost and a memorial lingering.

Amidst the storm’s tossing and turning of the ship, someone had seen to it that it would be more beneficial to knock the young sailor overboard and cut the lifeline that kept them tethered to the ship so securely, for what reason, none would ever know. Not until so many years later that it did not matter any longer. A vigil was held, so much of one as could be held on a ship, for a brief time, and then all was nearly forgotten as the workload was redistributed.

However, for Keef da Blade, all was not lost. Drifting for a number of days unknown to them, they were finally fished—unconscious—from the sea…

“Captain!” A man had cried pointing over the edge of the gleaming burgundy English galleon, “There! There's a boy in the water!”

The captain, a large man with long, dark auburn hair and garnets for eyes, wasted no time in checking his crewman's claims, and even less time in beginning his rescue.

Taking no more time than it took to give orders to be on watch for any more bodies, or worse, ships, the captain stripped himself to nothing and jumped into the water, swimming with more haste than any normal man could make toward the young sailor, yet lifting the teen from the water with a delicate grace equally unheard of from most sailing men. As quickly as he could determine that the teen was still alive, a member of his crew called out to him, announcing the arrival of an English naval ship, and advising him to hurry aboard. With the added concern of the barely-living young sailor in his arms, however, the captain hurried to the side of the ship as quick as he could, and rested the young sailor in a dinghy lowered from the side so that they may be pulled aboard, and the captain himself crawled into a lower deck through a porthole to dry himself before meeting with the Royal Navy.

After he was certain he was dry enough to confront the naval sailors, the captain ascended from the bowels of his ship, bare as the day he was born, and extended a somewhat more than typically welcoming hand for the senior officer to shake.

“Laserian MacLeanan.” The officer, eyeing the captain, reluctantly shook the offered hand. “Why is it that whenever I see you, you are missing some important article of clothing?”

“Well, Lieutenant, today we’ve had a rescue, so if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me into the cabin, I’ll dress and we can discuss your business.” The captain said, holding out his arm to receive the clothing he had discarded on the deck. “I believe you gentlemen know the way?”

Without so much as another glance, Captain MacLeanan turned and headed inward to his cabin, where he had been informed in-route that the young sailor they had rescued had been taken to rest, with the two naval officers following closely behind him. After entering his cabin, Captain MacLeanan perched himself on an unoccupied chair of mahogany and velvet to redress himself. The navy men noted that this chair that currently held the bare-bummed sea rat matched the quality of finery all throughout the cabin, but the Lieutenant noticed something even more strange just as MacLeanan stood: A pair of silk divans that had been pushed together to form what looked to be a makeshift crib or an open-topped coffin.

“What’s that, then?” One of them asked, pointing.

Laserian, giving no short answer, wandered over to look into the makeshift crib and confirmed his suspicion. “Our rescue.”

“Lone survivor?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Said anything yet?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Must’ve got thrown over in that storm.”

“That would be our guess. Just pulled him aboard when you lot showed up.”

“So you weren’t doing anything we’d consider misbehaving, then?” The lieutenant’s eyebrow cocked, looking from the youth in the bed to the captain leaning over him.

“Heavens no. We’ve been looking for survivors of the storm. Saw quite the nasty wreck to our tail, but we’ve not the resources to help and look for survivors. Lucky you arrived, maybe you can help them, we’ve got a shipment to deliver soon, and no more room for people. Only reason we took this one on was… He’s so young.”

“You’ve always had a soft spot for children, Laserian. We’ll be seeing you again at some point. But for now, we’ve got to check ‘pon that wreck.”

After the naval sailors left, Laserian’s first mate, a slim man with large glasses, wildly curly dark hair, and the countenance of a future serial killer, entered his cabin with their doctor, a significantly less-frightening, albeit equally shaggy looking man. Without so much as a word, Laserian and his officer went to sit at his desk as the doctor checked over their ship’s newest resident.

“What did they want?”

“Same thing they always want,” Laserian said as he stretched out in his chair, “but I’m not giving it to them today, they can wait.”

“Blighters.”

“Aye. If it’s not ambition, it’s lust. Frankly, with those gits, I’ve lost the ability to tell the difference anymore.”

“Gentlemen.” The doctor interrupted, “I’m going to be honest… It’s a wonder that child survived at all.”

“What do you mean?” Laserian asked, sitting upright once more.

“If we hadn’t come along when we did, they’d have drowned. Other than that, don’t ask me any questions, I don’t know what they are.”

“What do you mean, William?”

“I mean that, beyond being something vaguely human, I don’t know if your new friend is a young man, a young woman, or something new that just looks human. I’m not that kind of doctor. I’m not that good of a doctor.”

“That’s alright, Bill,” Laserian said with a smile, “we’ll let the kid tell us what the kid wants to tell us. There’s no crisis. Anything else? If not, I think our dear John was looking for you.”

Bill nodded, collected his few things, and headed out once more.

“I’ve got a terrible feeling about this part of the trip, Bob.” Laserian said the moment he was certain Bill was out of earshot. “Something big is going to happen, and I have the worst feeling that this happening shall be a horrid one.”

“I know. Something’s giving me that feeling, too.”

“So… What, then? We can’t turn around.”

“Brace. Brace for everything we can as the feeling grows, and be prepared when this terrible event climaxes.”

“When will that be?”

“You’ll know. You always do.”

With a nod, Robert left Laserian’s cabin. Laserian himself did not sleep well at all that night, constantly waking and feeling the need to check on the exhausted child who had been placed so very near his bed. They hadn’t made much sound nor moved much, but something within him, parental instinct, perhaps, pulled him toward checking on this helpless little creature despite the personal costs.

Robert would know, he reminded himself, that he would be tired from checking on this child, and Robert would compensate as best he could in order to keep proficiency. Robert was good at that. He was a good sailor, a good man if a bit petty, and a good friend when the time called.

That morning, the poor child’s condition had not yet changed. Laserian had not expected it to, yet still, he grew worried. As he returned to his duties without sign of a fuss, the ship’s doctor once more went to check on the child; an easement to his worried mind. The following day would carry with it a new set of surprises, some of which Laserian was not yet ready for, on the way to the islands of the Americas.

#SeasOfGlassFic #Chapter 3 #Pirates #original story #original characters #original content

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zaedtalost-writes · 2 years

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Seas of Glass

Chapter Two --- Consequences of Courage

----Series Rated T for Teen ❗------------Language ❗------------Violence ❗------------Mild Gore ❗------------Implied (but not written out) Abuse

As the weekly schedule ran, today was the day that all the other, proper things were to be gathered from the market. Keithane would do the retrieving, and her mother and father would come by and pay the agreed price—be it in goods, coin, or other services—as was how things were always done.

It was the morning after the huge fight—the social fire that Keithane had set ablaze herself—and Keithane was none too pleased to be exposed to the world after such a fight over such delicate nonsense. Still, feelings must be placed beneath the surface to do what must be done in these parts. Or, at least, that’s what people kept telling her. She clearly did not give one single iota of a shit about this foolish philosophy, and such was made incredibly evident through her actions.

Dressing herself finally, having sat and watched the new day arrive in silence and deep thought, Keithane slipped from her room in relative silence, collected the bag and list from by the door, and headed out. The brilliant ambers from the sun still shone in the clouds as she walked the lonely path to the marketplace, making the walk far more serene than had been expected on this brisk autumn morning. As expected, in the middle of her walk, Alice finally caught up to her, and Keithane relayed the story of how her adventures the night before went… Which was nothing short of dreadfully, in all honesty, even Alice had to admit that.

Their routine had gone swimmingly, with the pair meeting up again once half of their work had been done. Once reunited, walking together to collect whatever was needed, the talking resumed, and this time, the conversation shifted toward the sea. Talk of pirates and mermaids filled the conversation, which Keithane seemed to dominate in part, telling stories she’d heard of creatures more beautiful than any had seen, who were just as quick to kill a man or save him should he fall overboard. Such fanciful tales almost always captured Alice’s imagination, and as such, Keithane took great care to tell them properly.

Just before it came time for the pair to head home, Keithane noticed something strange brewing across the square; something strange that seemed quite targeted at the pair of them. Alice seemed the most worried, as she knew that her friend had just angered a relatively liked family by calling out their son for his atrocious behavior. After some time, her concerns were shared by Keithane, who subtly handed Alice her bag of things and gave her explicit instructions to run home and tell both their parents if anything were to happen. That would, she hoped, at least increase the chances of her body being discovered if she were to be murdered.

Surely enough, the men who had been watching them walked over. Tensing a moment, Keithane could almost feel the short life she’d lived scuttling past her and preparing to fly away from what would surely be her freshly made corpse. But no, these men came not to harm her, but to congratulate her on properly shaming the Costigan fellow.

It was a short conversation, but when they left, she heaved a sigh of relief and nearly lost all nerve. Perhaps it would be a lovely day after all.

Or, perhaps, not.

Some short minutes after the men had departed, the girls were approached by men dressed in constables’ uniforms. Thinking nothing of it at first, the girls waited to speak to them, and after confirming Keithane’s identity, they grabbed her by the arms and drug her, kicking and screaming, away from Alice, who promptly ran home to inform her parents and Keithane’s of what she’d just witnessed.

Being that it were men in constables’ uniforms that were dragging her, most people paid little mind, making a point to look away or to pretend they did not see the poor girl begging for help and fighting every step of the way. Keithane even managed to get in a few lucky shots before ultimately being knocked senseless.

Coming to her senses, Keithane had been drug to the docks; with a rather large navy ship as their apparent destination. Before she could parse what was happening, she found herself tied to the ship’s mizzenmast. A roaring in her ear began, and though she couldn’t quite make it out, it was certain that it was Arther Costigan’s voice droning along. The sense of dread and boredom she felt was nearly lethal itself, but when hearing the sudden loud crack behind her, she thought for sure that she had died.

Within a moment, a rushing sensation of pain fled to her back, and more than tears began to stain her porcelain skin. But it did not stop then; the whip cracked repeatedly, with the sailors looking on in confusion, unsure what to do with their captain away now that they were confronted with a man of some status. Minutes what seemed like hours went on before this spectacle was finally stopped, by which time, Keithane was collapsed against the mast, being held up only by the tight grip on her shackles.

Alice had been intercepted accidentally by the captain of this ship on her way to fetch help, and in her haste, she had told him of the men who had taken her friend away and why; it was he that had stopped the spectacle and, as was reported to Keithane later by Alice and her father, it was that captain who stopped the attempt of something even more heinous from brewing from Costigan’s doings. The captain, after the crimes of Arther Costigan had been dealt with thoroughly, tended the wounds of the young girl who’d fallen to misfortune on his ship and instructed her father on how to properly care for her wounds as she recovered. She was, he’d remarked, an exceptionally strong girl whom he hoped would recover well and find her calling away from such a scoundrel.

If only he’d known that he’d been gifted with the sight of such much later on.

For nearly three months, Keithane lay injured, tended most often by her friend, her mother caring little for the task or the child. Her body healed quite quickly, but her mind lay battered and bruised by the encounter. Alice, during the day, was her only comfort, giving way to nights spent sobbing in her father's arms.

On the first morning of the fourth month, when Keithane seemed fit enough to answer without troubles, Alice asked her what on earth could have possibly transpired between herself and the Costigan creature that would spur him to reveal such hideousness beneath his skin. Much to the contrary of Alice’s expectations, Keithane obliged her the answer.

“He touched me,” she said, sitting up in her bed and pulling her blankets further around her, “and he didn’t like what he felt.”

“What, he couldn’t tell you’re flat as a plank just by looking? And that’s no reason to do what he did to you!” Alice puffed, but Keithane shook her head. “What, then? What happened?”

“He felt something under my skirt when he grabbed me, before I hit him… He didn’t like whatever it was he felt down there—he said I wasn’t really a woman, and that that’s why he did what he did. I don’t understand it. He kept saying I was a man on that ship… But I’m not. Am I?” She sat up straighter, gripping the blanket tightly. “You’d tell me if I was, wouldn’t you? Alice?”

“Well, you don’t look nothin’ like any of me brothers, but…”

“But what, Alice? But what?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never actually seen you outside of that dress. You could have a whole horse in your dress, I’d be none the wiser.”

“First of all, if you couldn’t tell I was hiding a horse under my skirt, you’d be more daft than that Costigan wanker. Sec’ndly… Don’t… Don’t tell mum or dad…?” Keithane stood up, wobbling at first and keeping a tight grip on the blanket that covered her. “Please. You have to tell me. If there’s something wrong with me, you have to tell me. They wouldn’t tell me this far. You’re the only one I know who’d be honest.” After taking a deep breath, Keithane then dropped the blanket back onto her bed.

Alice gasped, eyes growing wide before she collected herself. “You don’t look like any woman I’ve ever seen. But… You don’t quite look like a man, either.”

“So… So what am I, then, Alice?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.” Keithane’s voice wilted as they climbed back under their covers and curled up.

“You’re still Keithane to me.” Alice said softly, sitting beside them. “You’ll always be my friend.”

“But, really…. Am I even Keithane? I feel like a stranger in my own life.”

“I can’t imagine what you're going through.” Alice adjusted herself on the side of the bed. “But if you need me to do anything, if you need me for anything at all, I’ll be here for you. I promise. Don’t care who says I shouldn’t be.”

“Thank you, Alice. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I think… I think I’m going to go away for a while. With luck, I’ll be able to convince some poor crew of sailors I’m a strong young lad, and I’ll be able to sail my way to new places.”

“You’re going after that ship’s captain, aren’t you? To thank him for stopping Costigan.”

“I have to.”

“Promise me you’ll be safe.”

“When have you ever known me not to be?”

“Since I’ve known you, Keithane.”

“You make a good point. I’ll write?”

“I do hope so.”

“Alice, could I ask of you one more great favor?”

“Anything.”

“Please… Help me find a way to tell my parents. It’d break their hearts if I just left—well—it would break my father’s heart if I just left. My mother… She couldn’t care less, and believe me, she’s tried many times to find it in her heart to care significantly less about myself and, sometimes, I think, my father, too. Wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve a half brother somewhere just wandering about, been sent home with his father so mine wouldn’t be suspicious about the sudden child in his home.”

“Keithane…”

“What?”

“You are a positively terrible human being. Did you know?”

Keithane laughed and smiled, shaking their head, “I sort of figured.”

“Try and get some rest. It’s best if you leave in the morning after a good sleep. I’ll… Bring you some of my brothers’ old clothes that won’t fit anymore. They should fit you, and they’ll help you… Well, they’ll help.”

“Thank you, Alice. Really.”

The next morning, Alice had brought Keithane some clothes that would suit them well enough to embark on their journey. She had luckily arrived before the dawn, and so, Keithane departed their home, promising Alice once more to write and bring tales of their adventures, in search of the captain who had saved their life and departed before they were able to thank him properly. Though they had no name for this man, they had a perfectly clear picture of his face in their mind, which would make the search all the easier.

As the dawn broke, Keithane approached the docks, searching for a ship with which to sign on; a ship that would be leaving soon, needed hands, and didn’t mind taking on someone so young and inexperienced. Their search was, surprisingly, a short one, as the captain seemed desperate to replace a few sailors he’d lost after making port here and lack of experience was no great problem, as there was no expectation of any troubles along the way. Upon boarding the ship, the ship's quartermaster, a round man of mocha skin who seemed to be somewhat hard of hearing, asked the identity of the young sailors who had just joined their crew.

When the quartermaster got to Keithane, they stuttered out part of their name in a fit of nerves. “What’s that?” He asked, leaning closer to them, “Keef d’Blade? Never heard such a name, but it’ll have to do.”

#SeasOfGlassFic #Chapter 2 #Pirates

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zaedtalost-writes · 2 years

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Seas of Glass

Chapter One --- Tongues of Swords

----Series Rated T for Teen ❗------------Language ❗------------Violence ❗------------Mild Gore ❗------------Implied (but not written out) Abuse

Golden light shone through the windows of the bedroom as dawn broke once more, peeking through the curtains to illuminate the strangely iridescent stone that had stayed tied around the teenager’s neck since it was first gifted them by the sailor some seven years ago. Much had changed since then; her hair had grown longer, far more brown yet still fair, and she had grown just a bit taller. Other things, too, had come into development and begun to change, but those things were not spoken of within their home.

After a few minutes of bathing in the pure light of the newly rising sun, Keithane rose from her seated position at the window, venturing out into the home and being met with the anticipated emptiness that was the absence of mother doing anything worthwhile at this hour. Pity, but by Keithane’s judge, entirely not her problem anymore, and so, she gathered her things and set out to the appointment made for her earlier in order to prepare for a… Courting attempt by one of the local upper class lads. What joy.

Slinking off before anyone could say any different, Keithane met with a friend, a young woman of about the same age as Keithane, who lived close by, and who typically accompanied her on these excursions. The morning’s trip was to pick up a dress that had been ordered specifically to make Keithane more “appealing” for this courtship, as her mother thought her an incredibly homely young woman, flat of chest, narrow of hips, and absent any quantifiable rear. Truthfully, neither Keithane nor her friend were too impressed by the dress, which was a rather dull yellow in color, patterned with small red flowers that were just barely larger than a penny. Her friend, Alice, remarked that it seemed as though Keithane’s mother was trying to sabotage her, to which Keithane replied that, if anything, it was her father trying to save her from having to put up with another dullard for too long.

The conversations, interrupted by the occasional greeting to someone one of the girls knew, continued in much the same fashion as they journeyed home. It was an attempt to make the trip last longer in Keithane’s favor, knowing that whatever awaited her at home was likely to be annoying at best.

“Ah, Keithane!” Her father beamed the minute she walked through the door, “Did you find your present, my dear?”

She nodded and lifted her hand, folded golden cloth in her tightly-closed fist.

“Well? What do you think?”

“I think… It’s very… Yellow.” She replied, her features contorting into an unintentional look of concern and mild confusion. The last thing she wanted to do was to upset him.

“I know. I know it isn’t exactly your favorite color, but I thought it might help you tonight.”

“Yes, Alice and I thought so. Who is it I’m meeting, again?”

“Arther Costigan.”

“Grief, you people cannot pick men to save your lives! Can you?”

“What do you mean ‘you people’, Keithane, this one is entirely on your mother’s head, she’s a friend of his mother’s, so she says.”

“I’ll teach her a thing or twelve about the power of friendship…”

“Keithane.”

“Fine. I will meet with this idiot for your sake. I make no guarantees, however, that I will be pleasant or even remotely likable. If he bothers me, I shall tell him so. If he has a problem with it, I shall instruct him to bite a brick as hard as he possibly can, or hold his breath until these things change.”

“Keithane… At least be polite.”

“That is the least I can and shall do.”

“Thank you. I don’t know that I would be able to tolerate your mother or her friends tonight if you weren’t. Now go change, we are to arrive just before midday.”

Keithane grinned and shook her head, heading to her room to attempt to fit into the dress as properly as humanly possible. Being lacking in several horizontal planes did nothing to help this dress look proper on her, but it thankfully did not look too horrid, given its high chest.

When she reemerged from her bedroom, the pendant the sailor had given her still around her neck and offsetting the yellows of her dress merrily, even her mother could not bring herself to scoff at the appearance of her daughter. Rather, she was left speechless by the sight of the young girl she had come to scorn so fervently appearing as no less than a colorfully dressed painting of an angel. Keithane had, despite all odds, put effort into her appearance for this meeting, if only to use it as a weapon against the young man she so outwardly despised.

The walk to the other family’s home for this appointed mingling was not as long as Keithane wanted it to be, but just long enough for her to become irritable with the entire situation once more. Nearly annoyed enough to say something, Keithane jumped when the door was opened before anyone could knock; something did not seem right about a person who kept a watch out for their child’s potential betrothed in such a fashion. Should they not be trusted? What purpose could a person have to lurk at the window and make such an effort to display this sort of preemptive action?

“Beg your pardon, the paint’s still wet.” The person who opened the door offered. Oh. That made sense for the time being.

Keithane paid little mind to the general shufflings inside the house; two things of note were there to be seen, however, and she made damn sure to keep them in mind: The house was gaudily furnished, and the house seemed as though no one had ever truly lived within these walls, as if they were merely visiting for the duration and were careful not to harm or dirty anything within. It was this type of person who made her nervous. One could never be too careful around this sort, and even still, they might snap at a moment’s notice and yell about something you didn’t even do.

Still, persisting, Keithane allowed herself to be herded into the parlor to sit with Arther and his family. All sense of joy had fled, and she found herself deeply dreading the continuation of the night.

Much of the visitation was spent with Keithane avoiding as many questions as possible; she didn’t feel these people were worthy of knowing anything about her, and so, these questions were given as short an answer as possible. So far, it seemed to be working out that she was not being asked much, and they were beginning to relent. Until, that is, Arther decided that he had questions he would like to ask.

“Keithane,” he began, causing her eyes to dart in his direction and her expression to sour completely, “you’ve hardly spoken a word since you first arrived.” When the only response he could gain from her was a huff of disapproval, he continued very unwisely for someone seated directly beside the young banshee of a woman, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like me!”

“That’s what you get when you try to think, dullard.” She hissed, and before he could gather his thoughts to speak, she continued to do so, “I have had to sit here for near three hours and listen to you insinuate that I am unworthy of such a lowly worm as you, and then on top of these things, you have the audacity to insult me by questioning whether or not I am as ‘pure’ as you would hope, and then you have to embody absolute stupidity to ask me if I like you?! Dislike you? I cannot stand you, Arther. Someone, give me a sword, so that I may put us both out of the misery that is this attempted courting affair, I cannot take it anymore!”

As she stood to leave, he placed a hand on her to stop her from standing. Unfortunately for Arther, this hand was placed very low on her body and angled poorly, which sparked a rage only Keithane’s parents had been privy to witnessing before, and she punched him squarely in the jaw without a moment’s hesitation.

“Touch me again, and I’ll tear off your head!” She roared, straightening herself in a way that was admittedly menacing to the whole room.

“You… You’re… You’re a…” Arthur sputtered, trying to worm his way from the floor and parse what exactly he’d been confronted with.

“I’m bloody leaving, that’s what I am! I will take no more of this abuse!” With a whip of her skirt out from under the feet of the young man who was still trying to find his mind, Keithane stepped over his legs and out of the room, the front door audibly closing behind her.

The walk home was longer than she wanted it to be, and when her parents finally arrived home after her, there was no consoling her. In truth, Keithane hadn’t wanted to go through with this terrible idea at all, only relenting for her mother’s sake. Now, she had been insulted and violated, and there was no way that the young man whose mother had just been so over confident about her liking him would be able to apologize—neither he nor his family would ever be able to make up for the absolute injustice he had caused. She was sure of this.

For quite some time, Keithane’s father sat with her, attempting to calm her quiet sobs and return her some semblance of self-perceived honor. Most of his efforts were in vain, it seemed, though she did eventually relax and accept that she was not, in fact, a bad person for what had just happened to her, and that she would not have been herself if she had allowed it to take place without protest.

The night passed without incident, even without comment from her otherwise typically vitriolic mother, and soon gave way to the dawn; beautiful, brilliant, golden dawn.

As dawn broke, it seemed, that all may, indeed still be right in the world. Or, at least, right within Keithane’s world. Rising with the sun, she collected herself, sat up, and stared out the window to watch the sun rise. It helped, it seemed, to wash all those feelings of disgust and sorrow from the previous day away.

#SeasOfGlassFic #Chapter 1 #Pirates

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zaedtalost-writes · 2 years

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Seas of Glass

Prologue --- Small Beginnings

----Series Rated T for Teen ❗------------Language ❗------------Violence ❗------------Mild Gore ❗------------Implied (but not written out) Abuse

“Do you want this?” The sailor said, holding out a silver chain with a carefully sanded and polished stone tied to it with silver wire.

“She’s a woman, isn’t she?” His captain said with a hearty laugh, eyeing the young child who was staring timidly at the sailor from behind stacks of barrels.

The sailor took a step toward her, stretching out his hand to give her the necklace, and she took a step back, ultimately stumbling into a pile of sacks filled with dried goods that were to be loaded onto the next ship out. Both men exchanged a look of sympathy and pity for the child, though the captain noted she did not seem afraid, only cautious.

“What’s your name, little dove?” The captain asked, stepping closer and reaching out to lift her from the pile of calico sacks she’d fallen into.

Shockingly, she allowed it, neither fussing nor squirming to get away. “Keithane” was her reply to the captain’s question, and she seemed quite intent on what he and his companion were doing, the latter still trying to place the necklace around her while she was held still for the moment.

“Keithane, eh? Are you the Blakes’ daughter, then?”

She nodded and shifted in the captain’s arms, leaning back and looking around when the stone necklace was finally placed around her neck. Clearly, she wanted to see who was putting what around her.

“Well, we’ll take you home, then. How’s that? Your home should be right on our way, too, so you needn’t worry about whether or not someone will get upset.” The captain then let out an amused sigh as the girl in his arms simply shrugged and resumed eyeing the sailor beside him. Her apparent distrust of his companion seemed, at the least, amusing to him.

The walk home was, for Keithane, at least, one of the most forgettable evenings one could experience. There was some unreal quality in being carried home down the most familiar path while listening to two strangers discuss their business and, occasionally, asking the opinion of a small child on it. An opinion which Keithane always had, regardless of the situation; it was one of the few things this sack-dress clad child almost certainly never went without. As such, the captain almost pitied her parents, as there was most certainly no way on earth they could prevent this girl from sharing her opinion, despite the delicateness of her stature.

Once arriving at the door of the home, she seemed somewhat surprised that the trip was so short. It could only be attributed to the height the two men possessed that she did not. The shock was, comparatively, short lived, as her parents were alerted to their presence by the captain, who quickly placed her on the doorstep in order to knock on the door. Her parents seemed only vaguely bothered that the captain and his friend had brought their child home to them in such a fashion, and more worried that one of these two sailors was of even lower social status than they themselves, and so what might their child have gotten up to that caused the men to bring her home?

Upon discerning that Keithane had, shockingly, done nothing wrong, and had been the recipient of a gift, all was well again. Until the sailors departed, however. Once the two men had left the home, Keithane’s mother demanded she hand over the trinket, and when the order was refused, she attempted to take it, resulting in a most terrifying banshee-like shriek from the child, and somewhere along the way, a bite to the hand.

All of which, of course, Keithane’s father―or at least, the man who had signed up for the job―found hilarious to the point of rescuing the young child from her severely angered mother and scolding the mother for trying to take such a simple rock away from the child she claimed to love so forcefully.

“It’s time for bed now, anyway, Keithane.” His voice was soft and gentle as he carried the girl, mousy-brown haired and fair skinned, to bed.

“Can I keep it?” She asked, brushing her long, rattily trimmed hair from her blue eyes.

“Of course you can. A young lady should have at least one pretty thing in her life to call her own, you know.”

Keithane grinned and, once placed upon her bed, burrowed into the blankets, hands wrapped tightly around the necklace the sailor had given her. “Thank you.” She said softly, adjusting herself further before beginning to doze. With a smile, her father gently patted her shoulder and left the room.

#SeasOfGlassFic #pirates #Keithane is a bitey little goblin and that will probably be a recurring theme unfortunately #The first full chapter will arrive... sometime.

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zaedtalost-writes · 2 years

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“I would love for you to tell the person with shell shock, who watched their friends die in front of them, some in their arms, some just blown to pieces, to simply get over it. People who've lost a lot more than just property...”

“Ben, that's not what I meant.”

“But it's what you said, en't it? Get over it.”

“Ben, I meant—”

“If you'd meant it, you'd said it, Trish. You said exactly what you meant, or you wouldn't have said it like that. And I'm sorry that, because you think a human life is equivalent to cash or property, you can't comprehend why the dead would linger in the hearts and minds of the living. I'm sorry that you've never loved anyone or been loved enough to know that their absence is more damaging than the rocket that fell on your roof and never went off. I'm sorry you're so self centered you don't understand what loss is.”

“Ben, I was talking about the politicians!”

“But you didn't say ‘the politicians’, did you? James was right, you're a spoiled, bitter wench with no concept of anything but what you whim at the time.”

“So you're saying my trauma doesn't matter? Is that it?”

“In the grand scheme of things, and even on the smaller scale, getting knocked off your cycle ten meters by a bus and walking away doesn't even get to sit close to losing your father ten days before he comes home. Much less beside watching a close friend die in your arms with chemical burns and lacerations. I'm not saying your trauma doesn't matter, not even to the divorce, I'm saying you're a narrow minded bitty who can't comprehend that all pain is unequal.”

“Ben, you're being ridiculous. That's not at all what I said, and you know that. And if you were smart, even you'd get over it.”

“Tell me how I'm going to get over it when I'm never going to hear my dad's voice again. Or my uncle's. Or my aunt and my cousin's. It isn't like I flushed a tin ring down the toilet, Trish! They're dead! Can't you understand that? So many people are dead! Just because you've never had real loss in your life doesn't minimize the suffering of others! Your dad's still there! Phonecall away! Mine's got to have a ouija board and a psychic just to yell at me. If anything needs getting over, it's you.”

“Ben, I understand why you're so upset, but you need to understand that this isn't good to hang on to.”

“Is that what they told you? When you found out your rich, parliament bootlicking daddy was getting a divorce and leaving mum with the brats because, well, she just didn't understand? After all, how could she? He was safe in a bunker, and she at home in London with three little babs and planes flying overhead, and the one time she sees her glorious husband in the mix of the war efforts is when he comes home one evening for some stress relief, plants her with the most ungrateful seed, and fucks off back to buggar the cadets while working out which piece of Europe they think they're entitled to fucking up even worse. After all, it's just not good to hang on to the absence of a person you didn't even know. It's not like that person cared and you had a relationship, is it?”

“You are a blackhearted bastard, Ben Lake. I hope you burn in hell.”

“Everyday, luv. I am every day. I'm going home. See to yourself.”

“It’s frustrating that I have to suffer from a war that ended four years before I was born.” She let her foot trail in the water. “It’s gone and over.”

“Not for the people who lived through it.”

“I’ve had a lot of traumas in my life, but I’ve gotten over them. It’s their turn now.”

#writing prompt #story prompt #dialogue prompt #Benny The Bouncer (OC)#Ben Lake (oc)#Trish Carmichael (oc)#Droidpunk (original story)#this isn't the Triton Ben lol #Ben's a bitter little shit

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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while anyone who’s made a request is being considered, please know that i work on an as-motivated basis and...

they keep stacking up... and my motivation keeps going the opposite direction... so it may be a while...

#not writing just a mild complaint #it's not even a complaint directed toward anyone it's mostly @ my own internal issues #drafts

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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“Good.” Rhealgar sighed, straightening the hems of his shirt and finger-combing any loose tangles from his deep red hair.

“You know that you cannot avoid it forever, my son.”

“No?” A red brow rose in response to his mother’s words as garnet-nailed fingers busied themselves with fastening buttons on the front of his coat.. “What makes you so sure?”

“The people will not have an unwed king.” Queen Andesine said softly, not looking up from the needlework in her hands. “You know this.”

“If I marry, it will be for love. I will not treat my hand, my heart, or my bed as a status symbol. When I marry, it will be the one I love---”

“Your father will not allow it.”

“Then the people will have an unwed king, or they will have a problem, because I do not plan to give away my birthright over some fool’s tradition!” A hand slammed onto the dressing table in front of him, crimson eyes filled with anger cutting toward the queen, who seemed entirely uninterested in her son’s outburst.

“You are going to cause my trouble than good, young one. You know this.”

“May The Golden King’s wishes fall through the core of this mountain and grind in the wheels that turn Prehni, I do not care!”

“Rhealgar!” The queen cast aside her work onto her table and stood, strands of rose-tinted hair falling into her face from her neatly tied back bun.

“You accomplice...”

“You go too far, boy.”

“We’ll see. When my time is come, things will be better.”

“You are a dreamer. It will be the same as it ever was.”

“I am a realist. The people hate my father. The Golden King has sewn terror and unease in his own reign, and when I take over, it will be as though a great shadow has lifted from the land, and it will be such because that is exactly what shall happen with his death. We shall all be free. Even you, o’ spineless Queen Mother.”

“You’ve already done it... Haven’t you?” the queen breathed, terror painting her face as her son’s features twisted into a sickly sweet smile.

“The surprise shan’t be spoiled, dear mother. Do know you could have stopped this at any point.”

“Several people have asked me for your hand in marriage already.”

“Did you tell them ‘hell no?’“

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

#Original Characters

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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[10/11/21]

Blog update;

Thanks to [tumblr] removing some code that kept their poorly-held-together-group-chats in place, my notifications for all of my blogs OFFICIALLY barely work. They were working good for a while, but now? I'm getting half the notification count I should be getting, and not for the things I need to be getting. What's worse is that my inbox's notifications fade almost immediately after I get the message, and the ask box notifications either don't show at all or have phantom notifications. This is bullshit and I've about had it with this place, shockingly. If you need to contact me, do so through my main blog, please. I don't often check the notes count here, so there's no way for me to accurately keep up with replies to posts. Sucks, but it is what it is.

All that being said, any further updates will be posted here if they pertain to this blog, but if I don't see something you've said to me and you want my attention, hit up @analog-machine, and I will most likely see that at some point sooner than I might here.

Enjoy the season of spoops, my friends. I'm doing a fallout-themed October marathon (Fallout-ober) on my art blog, so I'm trying to do the same lmao

#Blog Update [Oct 11 21]

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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May I request a Percy & Hermes fanfic centering around their friendship from the Percy Jackson fandom? I don't have an particular plot in mind, maybe Hermes helping Percy out with a quest, or them hanging out on Olympus after a big battle etc.

Well, pal, how long are you wanting this thing to be? "Fanfic" has lengthy implications to me.

Apologies for not getting to you sooner, some stuff happened irl.

#Scream into the abyss and the abyss screams back (ask tag)

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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Hi!! Are you familiar with the Percy Jackson fandom?

Vaguely. I've seen the two films, I know the premise, and I know a bit about the source material? Have yet to read the PJO books, however.

#Ask the writer & the writer answers #still trying to work out the ask tag lmfao

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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What kind of requests can we submit? Art, fic etc? And are there any rules/guidelines like fandoms, rating etc?

This's a bit of a long one, I apologize, but here go:

On this blog, it'd be mostly fic stuff (I have all my art stuff more or less quarantined to @zaedtalostisnotanartist if you wanna request an art, just be warned I'm not great with animate objects). If you send an art request here, I'll just post it on my art blog and then link the post in my answer over here.

As for rules/guidelines, here's some of these that I think might cover it:

Please do not request anything pornographic in nature, I will decline as I am highly uncomfortable with it for multiple reasons, some of which being there are kids on this site

Please understand that I normally write things in third-person, even when prompts say "you", so if you're wanting a first-person perspective on something, you will have to specify if you don't want my default-third-person style

Please understand that I do not normally write the act of causing gore in graphic detail, not because I can't, but because a lot of people are squicked by it (and depending on what kind of gore I may be one of those people) and I also don't really wanna wind up on a watchlist (however describing gore is as graphic as a person may want, especially for goretober); on a similar note, heavy gore descriptions will be tagged as such, and these things will occur under a Read More cut on the post

If you have a fandom-related request please know that I may not be in the fandom and thus things may not be 100% accurate/in character, but I will try my absolute hardest to get things right to the way I feel it, and if I might've missed something key to someone's character (or to the universe in which they are set in), please know you're encouraged to let me know about these things so I can improve, because I'd like to broaden my horizons and all, and you know, constructive criticism can help that

Please know that, while I'm fine with doing Character X Reader, I've a rocky relationship with anything that isn't fictional character x reader, and I might decline the request if it's a real person shipped with the reader

I'm not great at poetry so if you're hoping for someone to write you poetry please don't be hoping for some great poetry.

I'll also be more than happy to run a proof read on anything you might want me to, stuff like that.

Aside all of that, I really just ask that you be patient because life tends to happen a lot around here, so I may have duties to tend. Please know I'ven't forgotten you or your request(s), however. I just have responsibilities that have probably come back and bit me in the ass. Again.

Ahhh, the sweet, sweet, sting of being slapped in the face with mounds of work to do... How I absolutely do not miss it.

OH---On the topic of ratings, I just wanna brush over this real quick because it feels important:

If you can't see the images, it's 4 neon labels. One's green and has a spacey kind of font that says "General Audiences"; the next one's yellow and has more of a superhero-like font that says "T for Teen"; the third is a red stencil font that looks as though it's been chipped away at that reads "Rated R/M for Mature"; and the fourth is a red stencil font that reads "CONTENT WARNING"

I use these in conjunction with the tags (as well as tw tags) and a label in the post's header to help readers find a rating that may suit them.

The G, T, and R/M ratings are for the overall fic (if it's a chapter fic, if not it's just for that post), usually, unless it's something that has a prologue attached to it (in which case the prologue will always be G and then the rest of the fic will have its separate rating). The CONTENT WARNING label on the post is applied to chapters individually.

In terms of ratings I'm willing to write, it really doesn't make much matter to me, G through R is fine, I just don't do X-Rated because... Well, genuinely, what the fuck.

I hope I've answered your questions. I feel like I rambled a lot. If you've further questions you are absolutely always welcome to ask them at any time <3

#How to submit requests #what kind of requests can we submit?#StillWaitingForMagic Asked #what are the ratings?#this got long I'm sorry #Ask The Writer & Get An Answer #might change my ask tag smfh

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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Blog Update Post [9/24/2021]

Okay so this is probably going to turn out to be done in rainbows per paragraph. See if I give a shit (lh). But this is important so pay attention, please.

As you all probably know, I'm a writer, part time artist, and shitposter. My name is Ice, and I really do enjoy observer-writer-engagement. That's just one of the things I enjoy, is seeing honest reactions to something I've written or drawn. I encourage this. Please, don't be shy.

Thing is, though, there's absolutely NO engagement on this blog. At all. Ever. Granted, I don't post often, but the two things are tied into this vicious circle, it seems, and it's not helping anybody. I don't know what my audience is, if I have an audience, and I have absolutely no idea what anyone would want to see, so I've come to a conclusion.

I want to try something new.

Terrifying, I know, but what I'm wanting to try is actually not that bad of an idea, I don't think. While I'm keeping my art generally separate (see @zaedtalostisnotanartist), I'm thinking more along the lines of opening up an avenue for input from the lot of you. Obviously, the things I write because I like writing them won't change or go away, but it'd be interesting to see what the lot of you who may be following this blog (who AREN'T porn bots) would like to see in my style of writing.

If you're still unsure of what that means, let me rephrase it in a way that might be a little less roundabout and far less wordy:

I'm opening up my askbox for requests.

Oooooh, spoopy. I'm gonna let y'all send me things on this blog, and you're gonna get the option to send it anonymously too.

While I'm going to just ignore any hatemail sent in, because this blog isn't for that (go to my personal one if you want to be a dick, I'm not junking up my writing blog), but I'll answer questions, fill requests to the best of my ability, and try to interact more, I s'pose, with whatever rats, possums, and raccoons might be out here hopefully reading the stuff I write on this blog.

So I thank you for your patience, and I hope to hear from you. Any of you.

---Much love and appreciation to whoever reads this, from your blog's sorta-friendly management: Ice.

#Blog Update #Asks Open #Requests Open #Anon On

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zaedtalost-writes · 3 years

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The words were uttered through gritted teeth, a broad smile below and barely masking the look of plotted murder in the sapphires that sat sunken in pale flesh above, bordered on three sides by once-blond fluff that had grown to shoulder’s length and browned with grease and lack of sun.

The lawyer that walked to his right side looked at him with concern, grey eyes flickering between the small man he escorted, the tall young man clutching blondie’s left hand, and the senator giving a speech, nearly ready to introduce him to speak “with honors” to the entire crowd. He could only pray that this man would choose the right path---the smart path---the path of least resistance.

For a moment, the short blond turned away from the crowd, addressing his younger brother, the young man of slightly darker hair and complexion, of softer features that held unassuming doe’s eyes that glittered like amber in the bright lights---Billy, the picture of perfect innocence at this point, with his gentle manner, his boyish and round face, soft hair and mannerisms, and the simple curiosity within his eyes---the whispered words were inaudible, and the gnarled, scarred hand resting upon Billy’s cheek obscured the attention away from his elder brother’s lips.

After a moment of doubtlessly simply reassuring away his brother’s stage fright, his left hand readjusted its grip on Billy’s right, and he turned his attention back to the crowd and the politician, whose face had gone ruddy either with the heat or with the copious amount of wind he was spilling against the crowd with this speech.

He readjusted his olive green jacket, which still bore the tape on his breast which bore his and his father’s name. The tags hanging from his neck made a sickeningly flat jingling sound and tapped their chain against the medallion he wore just below his collarbone. He was a stark contrast of having forgotten how to care about the world’s expectations, standing beside the one being in his life who ever tried to gain acceptance---Billy had since grown up a bit, no longer chasing the approval of those who would mistreat him for his different mindset, but his desire to dress appropriately for an occasion never failed.

As he drew a deep breath and readied himself, the politician introduced him---though he introduced him as Peter Dempsey, and that would not do---and taking a brief moment more to wipe the disgust off his face, he stepped to the podium, releasing his brother’s hand, which promptly went to his own jacket pocket, so that he could cross his arms on the podium and lean on it to gain a little extra height as he eased the strain on his still-healing back.

“Well, first of all, I want you to know that my name’s Moone. No one’s called me ‘Peter’ that ain’t met with a terrible end. That name’s cursed, and you should all treat it as such.” His warning seemed to resonate with a few in the crowd, and strike fear into others, especially the man who’d just introduced him to the crowd. But to him, that didn’t matter---contrarily, that seemed to be the idea.

“Second of all,” Moone continued, shifting his weight slightly, catching sight of his brother out of one corner of his eye before pointing at the politician briefly; “everything that guy just told you is a lie.”

The crowd erupted into shocked gasps, and the lawyer that had been sent to tag along with the Dempsey brothers in case someone did something stupid---in case Moone decided to make an ass of himself and assault someone---groaned to himself in a way only audible to Moone. But that wasn’t the half of it. Moone was just getting warmed up.

“I didn’t volunteer out of some demented sense of duty to you fuckers.” He growled, shifting position once again and reaching for Billy, who stepped forward as he continued, “I stole a telegram out of the mail that said you complete and utter morons running this shitshow had decided to rip a boy from his home---a boy, mind you, whose grasp of reality and the world is vague at best, and would never make it out of bootcamp, much less a war---and throw him into the meat grinder under the guise of stopping something that’s already spreading---spreading here---like plague from rats. “Yeah, I lied about who I was and I lied about it up until there wasn’t fuckall you could do about it without causing a national incident---good going, by the way, you still haven’t managed to avoid that and here we are. I protected my brother, because I knew damn well none of you loveless bastards knew a damn thing about what family really is. That’s what I did. “I’m not your Audie Murphy---never wanted to be---I’m just this guy’s big brother.” He gestured to Billy, who smiled softly and gripped Moone’s upper arm.

Moone watched as the crowd began to devolve into curious questions and shouts of disbelief. The few men he’d met while overseas that had come to see this catastrophe simply smiled politely---they knew what would happen if someone put Moone in front of a podium, and they knew it would be great fun to see him humiliate someone who tried to use him as a campaign stunt.

The expression on Moone’s face hadn’t changed; it remained the same, ceaseless eat-shit grin that he had previously possessed, distorting his already square and pronounced features into jagged daggers. “Now,” he broke the silence, “I think my brother---the real Billy Dempsey---would like to say something?”

Hesitantly, Billy stepped forward, leaned as close to the microphone as he could and then, in an uncharacteristically deep voice for his appearance, uttered seven simple words:

“To every person, that which you deserve.”

"You have the entire world watching you. Don't mess it up."

"They watch me because their leaders tell them to. They want to make an example of me."

#original characters #original content #original story #Moone & Billy Dempsey (OCs)#Incense & Peppermints [alt ending]

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