#Smoldering Trees comic

[ceaseless-enemy]

Smoldering Trees

#Smoldering Trees #ST webcomic #Smoldering Trees comic #twf #the walten files #men! #Jack Walten #Felix Kranken

[createacamillahect]

Camilla Hect climbing out of the smoldering wreckage of her mech after a mission straddling the line between success and catastrophe

(inspired by https://archiveofourown.org/works/51800974)

me: oh, like voltr- *a comically large cane yanks me off the stage*

Her forearm muscles flex as she pulls herself up out of the mech. She stands on the peak of the broken machinery to survey the damage. She's all right, but her bottom lip is bloody from the crash. The wind tosses her short hair into her eyes so she cards a hand through it, holding it a top of her head. The earth is a ruin, but the Icarus lies destroyed at the end of the large 100 yard crater leading up to it. The vegetation has been ripped from the earth in the impact, leaving only dirt in its wake. Some of the surrounding trees are on fire. It's dry season on the planet, and it needs to be stopped fast.

Thankfully, she can spot her team coming down to hose down the fire before it spreads further. Palamedes lands next to her to check on her. She begins her descent from the mech and he successfully pulls her into his when she hears the muffled boom of the fire finding her mech's fuel source. The insulation on Palamedes' ship keeps it fire resistant, but she is still sad to hear hers firey death. She looks out the window at its flames as Palamedes navigates to assist with damage control. "Go loud," she whispers to it.

#tlt #camilla hect #cam #ask #anon #anonymous #i have not read this fic i will add it to my list! #pal #palamedes sextus #campal #if they are in the sa.e room to me it is campal #sa.e with griddlehark tbh #same*

[heavenlymorals]

WIP Progress

There were no clouds in the sky and as far the eye could see, there was only blue. A pretty, light blue. Arthur wondered if it ever ended, if there was an edge and beyond that edge, you can see something different, something better. Maybe heaven. He was an outlaw’s son though and the apple didn't fall far from the tree, it seemed. God or his angels maybe would just slam the gates in his face. He’d wait there until he’d get bored and then just walk down to Hell. He wasn’t a preacher's kid or a teacher’s kid or a doctor’s kid. He was an outlaw’s kid and that outlaw is dead, has been dead for a while now.

He still remembered it. He still remembers the breeze carding through his hair, greasy and dirty, playing with the fabric of his hems, making them flutter like the gentle flaps of a butterfly’s wing. He remembered how the dust stung his eyes, how the birds chirped in the foliage, unaware of everything. He remembered practically skipping on the stones of the sidewalk for the simple reason that they were hot. His boots were long past functional. The soles had holes in them, as did the seams. Where his skin would show, he would stuff those holes with old newspapers. He wondered what they said. He could only make out the pictures. He liked the pictures. Sometimes they were strange looking dogs, non-so-strange looking horses, women with comically large plumes, and men with comically tall hats. 

Problem with the newspapers, though, was that they took up space. His feet were always jammed in there, the toes curled, just to make some room. It hurts to walk sometimes. It hurt even more to skip but the sidewalk was like walking on smoldering coals, it was so, so hot. Whatever water he had left in his flask, he gave it to a mangy dog that he saw wailing and whimpering in the street. It lapped at it like it was the first time it has had water in its entire life. He poured what was left on the dog’s paws. That probably didn’t do anything, since the water was hot too, but he felt bad for the mutt.

He was also an idiot. Did stupid things before thinking about them. He would need water too and this was a dry town. He didn’t know where they got their water, if it was from a well, or a pump, or a pond, or a stream. He just followed the lawmen that took his daddy, cringing as the man screamed and cursed and banged on the metal bars. He was weak, he couldn’t break the bars. No one could break the bars. He had no idea how long it took till Lyle just tired himself out and Arthur calmed down too. He just kept following them, out of sight and out of mind, till they made it to a town that the young boy had never seen before. They wanted to hang his daddy as quickly as possible. 

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #maybe if i post the wip ill get it done finally #anyways #arthur morgan makes me sad

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

24, 65, 87?

Thanks for sending!

24: Do you have a collection of anything?

Oh gosh, I have... SO many collections of things! Most of it is hyperfixations. - Physical CDs from my very favorite bands, sometimes autographed! - Evanescence merch (including stuff from the 4 years they had an official fan club and I was, of course, a member!) - Many kinds of crow/raven/dove decorations - bird feathers, eggshells, and bones (My collection is compliant with the MBTA. ...mostly. The vast majority are from my own birds.) - All sorts of Misdreavus+Mismagius Pokemon things - stones and crystals (I have way more rocks than I have display space, so most of them are in boxes) - jewelry (mostly necklaces), but most of it is a sub-category of The Rocks Collection because most of my jewelry has stones involved. - Teen Titans franchise stuff, including but not limited to the 80's comics, Scholastic books, McDonald's toys, a tumblr glass, and any and every Raven thing I can get my hands on. - Books! I've never counted how many I have, but I've already filled up my largest bookcase and I'm not even 1/4 of the way done unpacking my books. --> Sub-categories of my book collection include: linguistics, travel, biology, spirituality, Neal Shusterman (since he's my favorite author), and of course TLT.

65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr

H e c k . How do I even decide that? I have friends, RP partners, fandom speculations, hyperfixation fodder... But probably my closest friends. Mags and Siren are on here (not sure if they'd be comfortable with me blasting their blog URLs or not ^^';), probably Caleb and Robyn for being both longtime friends and RP partners, and lately I've been having a lot of fun in the Pokemon IRL rp community, of which my favorite blog is probably uncle-dusknoir (but I'm not @'ing it because how do I explain who my FAVORITE is and why???) Pix would be on this list too, but she's hardly active, and Rowan would too, but they're locked out of their account. <lD;;

87: What is your current desktop picture?

It's been the same for 7 years now: a screenshot of Raven meditating from Justice League vs. Teen Titans! I really like the colors, that movie instantly became my comfort movie, and meditation is something I do myself that has always been a comfort and respite. So it's just Nice to log in and see that picture. It makes me smile.

(I really need to clean up my desktop, heh.) You can't see it very well, but behind the 2nd/3rd row of icons, she has incense smoldering, and she's surrounded by trees and bushes. I think it's a very serene picture.

#rhs answered an ask #monstrousgourmandizingcats

[burning-memory-ask]

Hey, I’ve got a question for y’all:

how would you like a discord for this AU?

 Not just Smoldering Trees as a comic, but also Burning-Memory-Ask (which is absolutely still going by the way, just a little slower probably.)

I’m considering starting a discord server, for funsies.

#twf #the walten files #AU #bla bla yadda yadda

[homoeroticsubplot]

HEY BESTIE if you are able I would love to see some more of the winter fic! If you can't share though without spoilers, you could just talk about something you like about it or talk about room on fire that is also okay, take care bye mwah

Hey bestie!

Honestly, it's already this open secret and everyone can tell, so I'll just say that it's an Old Guard au. We're currently sitting on about 20k words and we're not done yet, but I'm still planning on posting it as a one shot. The story itself is centered around Rose, leading to Ronnett, but I'm still honing in the emotional center of the story. Generally speaking, I'm not super sure what to give you or what would pique y'all's interest, so I'll just give you the very beginning of the story:

Connacht, 138 AD

As hard as she tries, she can’t remember her mother’s face in the firelight.

There are sounds like music and the kind of chanting that only comes from people that consider themselves a family. She knows the woods are an alive thing of their own, and she loves all of it - the running, the climbing, the hills and the bogs, the wind chill and the little fires beckoning her back home. 

They do this every year, gathering oak as they head south to the hills, towards the stones to honor their dead, pushing each other into creekbeds and still kicking in the direction of shins after their mother tells them to settle. They’re a big family. There is always someone wanting to play, someone wanting to sleep, someone willing to take you in their arms and say they love you. 

Someday she will call this solstice, celtic, pagan, ritual, but those words mean nothing to her now. Her sisters are barely taller than her and the food is warm as she eats it, and she belongs. 

A twinkling sky. A fire to keep back the cold. The voice of a woman she loves dearly telling her to rest, to feel safe and to be warm, and the overwhelming desire to believe her. 

(Her body washes ashore and she spends an hour on her hands and knees pathetically streaking the beach’s rocks with the red still dripping from her body. She has been to the water a thousand times, and her feet know how to take her home even when her mind cannot keep up. She emerges from the trees to step ankle deep in ash. What used to be her home is now nothing. Smolders, her brother and mother and father and sisters gone, the smoke rising in its final moments of life, her own flesh cracked and bleeding and blue from a kind of horror that she has no words to describe. A gaping wound from the slave trader’s sword still carved into her chest. She sits on a stone and listens to the deafening quiet of what used to be her home, and her body tries to make itself whole again. The little fires flicker out and what is left collapses in on itself in pathetic clatters. She doesn’t know how long she stays there, not crying, not able to think about what has happened, before she gets up, and starts walking.) 

I'm going a little canon divergent from the comics/movie, so if you have any specific questions about the au or anything in particular you'd like to see, feel free to ask! I'm excited to get it out to you soon. Take care 🤠

(In the meantime, if you want to read some Ronnett with absolutely insane world building, I HIGHLY recommend unbecomings ‘s fic All We Are (Is Time That’s Counting Down) because it literally got me through a terrible holiday season.) 

#fic: every winter the same #asks

[glapplebloom]

Who will be defending Equestria? (I'm most likely going to stick with no images since I don't have the Knights in pixels and I doubt I will))

It was nighttime and the students were asleep in their dorm rooms. Silverstream was dreaming about being a Wonderbolt. Ocellus was dreaming about graduating. Nice dreams like that. But then things got worse. Yona was falling from the sky. Gallus was going to be trapped forever. Smolder had witnesses. They figured out it was a nightmare after seeing Sandbar having a difficult time choosing cupcakes.

That is when the Spirit of the Tree talked to them. They had a premonition that the Treehouse of Harmony was in danger. They would need to find help to defend against these unknown attackers or else the Tree House of Harmony may be no more. They awoke after that and met up with each other, to confirm that they all had the same dream and that they needed to find a way to protect the Treehouse. The next day, they split up to look for help.

Yona and Sandbar went to the Apple Farm. They figured if anyone can help the Treehouse of Harmony from being in danger, it would be the Green Lantern. They instead found her elder sister. She informed them that her little sister is offworld on official Green Lantern business alongside Buttercup. While Sandbar and Yona are sad, Applejack cheers them up. After all, Apple Bloom prepared for instances like this.

AJ gave the call for the others and the Super Friends finally gathered together once more. In a short time, the Legendary Rockhoof, the mysterious Zecora and the dedicated Tianhuo arrived to hear the issue. They are in agreement with each other and head with the two kids to the Treehouse of Harmony. While these are four impressive ponies, they’re not sure if this is enough. Yona and Sandbar hope that the others are getting more help.

Gallus and Silverstream went to the Thundibles HQ, which was just a random house in Ponyville. Gallus informs Gilda of what is happening and Gilda thinks this is a good idea to help them. She informs Filthy Lucre who is in agreement. Sadly for them, they will be down a member because Starlight Glimmer has been rather busy at the School of Friendship. It honestly wouldn’t surprise her that she would resign one day.

But still, the Thundibles still have impressive numbers. The Red Lantern Gilda. The Teleporting Lightning Dust. The Changeling Axilla. And the dynamic duo of Rolling Thunder and Shortfuse. Filthy Lucre wished them luck and also evidence as being able to say they saved an important landmark would be good for their business. They followed the Students to the Treehouse to prepare, so that leaves Ocellus and Smolder to find help.

After their trip to the Comic Convention, they figured Big Spike would know where to get good help. He and Twilight Sparkle volunteered because she still has that connection to work with. Also coming along is the Space Pirate Kilo. He feels that they could use someone not as harmonic to do actions they would need. Twilight wonders if anyone else should come, but Kilo believes that it is best to not use the others.

So when the group gathered together, they started to try to figure out some strategies for what to do. Sadly, the majority believe in the “at the moment” strategy since they really don’t know what to expect. While Twilight sighs and thinks they should at least plan with the knowledge that they do know, that’s when they felt the earth shake. The Knights of Harmony are here.

-----------------------------

It’ll be battle time soon enough.

#green lantern apple bloom #story #Knights of Order: GLAB Edition

[theviruseye]

Emily Moroni

ECL Comics and History

Undraped Avatars

Last week on Wednesday, there was a lecture held in Storm Hall West with speaker

D. S. Waldman titled “Exercise in Ekphrasis: Ways of Seeing and Responding to Art through Writing.” Ekphrasis when defined by D. S. Waldman, is described as “The use of vivid language to describe works of art.” At the start of his presentation, placed on the projectors in front of everyone’s eyes was an art piece with no title nor information about who the artist who drew up the piece was. D. S. Waldman asked us to develop our own sense of what the art piece depicted. I saw within the complex piece, a microphone, a globe, and broken pieces of a guitar. As we reflected on the piece, Waldman then asked us to choose one item and recall a memory associated with that item. Of my three items, I chose the microphone and recalled a memory I shared with my grandmother in her living room when I was little, singing along in my microphone a song from one of my favorite movies. After we were done recalling our memory, he asked us to think of an instance in recent times where we saw this item again and what thoughts and feelings came to mind now when associating this same item with that memory. How have things changed? Where are you now? What have you learned since then? After being asked about our personal experiences with the piece, D. S. Waldman then revealed the true title behind the work. It was called “Violin and Candlestick” by Georges Braque (1910). The painting depicted a candlestick and a broken violin, with its pieces scattered everywhere about the canvas.

After reflecting on the painting for a few minutes, Waldman then proceeded to tell us a story that he related to the work of art. He lost all feeling of his right hand and had to relearn how to do everything he did without a thought, now with vivid concentration as he developed the skills with his left hand. He was the broken violin, putting himself back together again in a completely different way. After recalling his story, Waldman moved onto his next topic of discussion. It was an untitled work from Mark Rothko, Waldman recalled, resonating with the work as it represented for him, a smoldering of himself. After looking at the work by Mark Rothko, we then moved on to a discussion on how art is perceived by everyone through a different lense. I agree. As an example of that exact thought had happened at the beginning of the talk when Waldman asked the whole room what they saw in this painting displayed on the projector with no title, just our imagination. I can’t confidently say that all of our answers were completely different but what I can say is that they were unique to our own views/perspectives. I think that is a way I like to look at the art work done by Christian Robinson in the children’s book “Milo Imagines the World”. As Milo is the artist in his story, he draws things in his notebook for what he sees them as, with no background to what is actually happening in a person's life.

Even just this simple example shows how one person may depict what they see versus what someone else might see. This unique perspective with art even just shows the variation from person to person, or even within yourself at a second glance. D. S. Waldman then continued on to talk about the next topic. A big inspiration behind all of his works, John Ashbery. We reflected on one titled, Some Trees. I am not great at reading secret meanings behind literary works all the time, but through the explanation by Waldman, I felt I was able to better understand that the tree’s in the poem stand for a connection to speech. This is another perspective on how everyone can see things through different lenses, how some may see lyrical expressions and some may see a speech. It just depends on the eye of the artist. Throughout the entirety of the speech, Waldman's expression was very bleak, he had no enthusiasm as he read along to the poems, no change in volume or tone. I think that this was one way that he wanted us to have a unique interpretation on the work we were taking in. The overall experience I had when attending D. S. Waldman’s lecture was a great experience for me, I was able to hear about other people’s perspectives on the same work of art and how it changes through the lenses of each individual. I think that is the beauty of Ekphrasis. That between each individual is a unique outlook on what was thought to be a simple piece of art work, is really a complex interpretation based on personal experience.

#VIRUSeye #submissionVIRUSeye

[chanfictions]

The idea of Thor and his hammer inspired an idea in me: So what if reader has the same ability except instead of a hammer, the reader summons a scythe? I don’t know… I have a fixation for scythes these days lol. Could I have headcanons regarding how yanderes Deidra, Pein, Konan and Itachi (Separate) would react? Thank you :)

I'm only doing three characters per yandere scenario now, so I chose to drop Konan. I also live under a rock and know nothing of the mechanisms surrounding the whole Thor/hammer thing (assuming you're talking about some comic flavor of Thor). This kinda went in an interesting direction.

Please note that yandere requests are still closed - this has just been on the backlog for a while.

Little Reaper

Characters featured: Itachi, Pein, Deidara

Warnings: Slight yandere themes, implied abduction

.6k

Itachi

From the cover of a shadowed tree, cold, crimson eyes narrowed upon a surge of chakra that lit up the surrounding forest with a chilly, cobalt flash.

Curious, he thought to himself, focusing on the source in the palm of your outstretched hand. Itachi had allowed you a slightly longer leash this week due to your increasing degree of cooperation with him as of late. Exhibiting an unusual level of calm compared to your previous brash displays of discontent regarding your captivity, you had evidently misled him to gain that bit of slack to practice an old magic trick under the quiet protection of the silent night. Itachi's brows knotted together with annoyance, having no doubt that you planned to use this little talent of yours against him at some point to orchestrate an escape.

Silently emerging from his concealment, Itachi approached where you rehearsed calculated motions with the conjured weapon, watching you twirl it about and slash invisible enemies as you moved through a series of practiced stances.

"That's quite an interesting little toy."

You froze mid-swing, only shifting your eyes to the source of the sound. Itachi. Tightening your knuckles around the staff portion of your scythe, your chakra slowly trickled through the carved wood, setting the runes etched into the gleaming metal ablaze with a whisper leaving your sneering lips.

"Hello, darling."

Pein

You had grown more secretive as of late, often vanishing for hours into your locked room to meditate, as you so coldly explained to him. Pein entertained your unspoken wish for occasional privacy, allowing you to engage in the folly of your choosing so long as it didn't interfere with the rest of his work. It wasn't until his chakra rods were affected and one was subsequently cracked by a great burst of chaotic energy emanating from your little cave that he felt the need to intrude on your precious alone time.

Wrenching the doors to your nook of solitude open, Pein's hypnotic eyes fell upon quite a sight. There, at the center of the room, you stood. Looking like the personification of Death with a large, mystical scythe in hand, you pulsed with radiations of energy so powerful that the crackling ripples cycloning around your body rustled papers and sent your curtains aflutter. Faint, blue light shimmered in a flowing ring around your feet like dancing flames. Runes carefully etched into the blade smoldered to life, charging and sharpening the weapon with every ounce of chakra they drank from your body.

"Magnificent," he murmured. In that moment, under his cold, calculating gaze, you were no longer his sweet darling, but a newly minted tool -- a weapon. A reaper.

Your eyes narrowed, fixating on the disturbance in your doorway. A soft, maleficent smile curled upon your face as a curse -- a promise of death -- left your lips on a gentle breath. You were, in fact, something of a reaper, poised with a vicious killing intent masked by an icy stare.

His reaper.

Deidara

Weapon summoning wasn't a particularly unusual skill in the ninja world, though most typically performed such a feat with the aid of a storage scroll. The first time he saw you conjure your ornate, bladed staff from thin air with neither roll of parchment nor flash of blood in sight, Deidara was surprisingly impressed. Questions of where it came from and what it could do fell from his lips as a bright, cerulean eye studied the work of art grasped in your hand.

With a soft flick of your wrist and a calculated twirl of the length of delicately carved wood, you smiled eerily, offering to show him exactly what it could do.

#akatsuki x reader #itachi x reader #pein x reader #deidara x reader #the akatsuki #naruto x reader #naruto imagines #yandere pein #yandere akatsuki #yandere itachi #yandere deidara #yandere imagines #chanfictions #chanswers

[dw-writes]

The Invasion...One Shot

Summary: Mad Sweeney could not recall the last true believer he had. Sure, he’d been brought over as one of the Fair Folk, but it was different. A sliver of the truth, a dim shadow of what he was really owed. The belief of someone who followed traditions, not him.

That changed when he arrived in Cairo.

That changed when he laid eyes on you and he found that one didn’t have to believe in the myth to believe in the man.

A/N: Hello! You know? I wasn’t expecting to do this, but it kinda just....came to me? I’m really happy with it, too. Not really a Thanksgiving one, but....kinda. I hope you guys enjoy this little in between chapter! Let me know what you think!

Chapters: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four  || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Chapter Twelve || Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fourteen || Chapter Fourteen-ish || Chapter Fifteen || Chapter Sixteen || Chapter Seventeen || Chapter Eighteen || Chapter Nineteen || Chapter Twenty || Chapter Twenty-One || Chapter Twenty-Two Requests: Mad Sweeney and The Holidays || The Invasion and the Stressful Blows One Shots: The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday || The Invasion and the Weight of Change || Eyes On You

The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday

“So,” you drawled, hiking your backpack further up your shoulders. Sweeney grunted, a sound that asked you to continue, “What are you thankful for?”

“The fuck are you on about now?” he muttered. He chewed on his smoldering cigarette.

You huffed. “Okay, new question,” you grumbled, “What crawled up your ass?”

“What crawled up yours?” he shot back.

“I asked you first,” you argued, fumbling with the buttons on your shirt. It was colder than you’d thought it’d be, especially as the early night crept closer. You thought about stopping and pulling your sweatshirt out of your bag.

“I asked you second,” he groaned.

You stopped on the side of the road and dropped your bag on your feet, yanking on the zippers to grab your sweatshirt. The poor sleeves – their cuffs were so ratty and stretched out. You pulled it over your head and trapped the sleeves of your stolen button up – who were you kidding, it wasn’t Sweeney’s anymore, it was yours, you had no intention of ever giving it back – and shoved your arms down into the sweatshirt. Sweeney stopped a few feet from you and flicked his cigarette into the dying grass.

“Shitty few nights of fuckin’ sleep,” he replied to your second question, “How are you so chipper, huh? It’s been shite campin’ out here.” He lit another cigarette.

You sighed and hauled your bag back onto your shoulders, looking around at the harvested fields and the bare trees and the empty county road you walked along. “It’s nice,” you replied, “Quiet.”

He didn’t say anything. That was weird. His face was scrunched up in a confused semi-glare. It was almost comical. You tried not to smile. “Are you fuckin’ high?” His voice cracked with outrage and it sent you over the edge and into a bought of breathless laughter. “It’s fuckin’ shite out here! Colder thana witch’s tit and ‘bouta quarter of the fun!” You wheezed, crouching down when the giggles made it too hard to stand. “Keep laughin’ and I’ll fuckin’ leave ya here,” he griped.

You coughed into your collar and stuttered, “Isn’t it colder in Ireland?”

His face, already pink from the cold breeze, turned pinker with rage and you howled with another round of laughter. “Last time I been to Ireland was some fuckin’ three-hundred-years ago! Been just as long since I been anywhere near fuckin’ snow, this is—” He huffed and threw his arms around. “Stop laughin’!”

“I’m sorry!” you wheezed, very far from sorry.

“The fuck you are!” he yelled. You didn’t miss the amused lilt in his voice as the frustration gave way to your contagious laughs. Soon, he coughed into his fist, and after, hid his mouth behind his hand as he snickered.

You sighed and stretched and smiled up at your leprechaun when you both finally calmed down. He offered you his arm. You ducked under it, pressing close to his side, and slid your arm under his coat. He hissed. “Fuck, you’re colder than the Dead Wife.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled. He wiggled his fingers into the collar of your sweatshirt, pressing the cold digits into the bare skin of your shoulder hidden beneath all the layers. “Rude!” you gasped.

He only grinned. “Why we goin’ all the way out here anyway?” he finally asked.

You kicked at a rock. Your walking pace had slowed by half, and you could have sworn it was slowing down even more as Sweeney squeezed you tighter against him. “Mama-ji invited me,” you answered, “And I wasn’t about to leave you by yourself.”

“Invited you to what?” he scoffed over your last words.

You rolled your eyes. The cold must’ve really been getting to him if his clipped words had returned. “The diners are doing these Thanksgiving Dinners at a steep discount, and she offered some for me. So, I thought it’d be nice if we both went.”

“That’s what the thankful bullshit was,” he drawled. He snorted, “Surprised Mama-ji’s doin’ that.” You shrugged, making a comment about it being free food for you and him, and a lucrative income for her, but he didn’t hear you. He was staring off somewhere, no longer with you but somewhere else, some time else. You nudged him. “I heard about it,” he murmured, “Everyone heard about it.”

“About what?” you asked.

“It,” he repeated, “Them. Their recokonin’. Their penance for killin’ all them innocent native folk who did nothin’ but help ‘em out when they asked.” His eyes took on a darkness that chilled your blood and faltered your step. “Gods don’t really like it when their people are killed like that, you know,” he murmured, but it wasn’t Sweeney’s voice, it was another’s voice, an older voice, and then Sweeney returned when his eyes cut to you and he said, “Their crops rotted right in the ground and the weather went all sour like the whole fuckin’ earth turned on them.”

“Oh,” you whispered. What more could you say? He was right, of course, but the way he said it was absolutely terrifying.

He sniffed as the two of you fell into an awkward and tense silence. You leaned into him more. The air was thick with cloves and smoke. You relaxed into it, resting your head on his chest. He cleared his throat. You tilted your head up to look at him.

“Heard this whole place used to be fuckin’ magnificent I hear,” he mumbled, face pink from the wind, or embarrassment, or both. He chewed on his cigarette and scratched his chin. “Nothin’ like those pretty little books you used to covet all the fuckin’ time.”

You elbowed him.

He grunted, hiding a grin behind his hand as he puffed. “I know a few good places we could go. Not the best, a little beat up now, but you’d get the idea of how it was.”

“You’d take me?” you asked.

He squeezed you close, dropping his spent cigarette in the dirt. “Course,” he snorted, “What kinda question is that? Come this far with ya, might as well fuckin’ take ya somewhere worth it.” Sweeney shoved his free hand in his pocket and grumbled, too soft to be meant for you, “Not a complete fuckin’ ass.”

You smiled and squeezed him back. “Hey, you never answered my question,” you pointed out.

“What question?” he grumbled.

“What are you thankful for?” you asked.

He tilted his head. “Cats, I think.”

“Funny. I was gonna say the same thing,” you replied.

~*~*~Thanks for Reading~*~*~ ~*~Tag List~*~ @the-bluest-hour @hopplessdreamer  @guiltgoldglory @teller258316  @jinxy-toast @selenaofthemoon @hiddlebatchedloki @superflannel @karmabites2313 @hstott @lakeli @nemophilistvampyr @massivecolorspygiant @teller258316 @fear-less-write-more @madamecoyote @divadinag @omnisexualvampire @hannon-say @ceyruh @animatenebrae​

#american gods #mad sweeney #Pablo Schreiber #the invasion #the invasion series #mad sweeney/reader #mad sweeney x reader

[crazybunchwriting]

Ember & Ash Excerpt

“Hey.”

Ember looks up, but just barely, before turning back to the smoldering fire.

“Hi.” She sniffs. She’s been crying again.

“Can I sit?” I ask, gesturing to the ground next to her.

She shrugs, taking a swig from the bottle clutched in her right hand.

I lower myself down beside her, venturing another glance her way.

“Wan’ some?” she slurs, holding out the bottle of Jack Daniels to me.

“I’m okay,” I say, waving it away. If I wasn’t positive she would punch me if I tried, I might make a grab at the bottle to take it away from her.

After a moment of silence, I ask, “Are you okay?”

Ember takes another hearty swig of whiskey before answering. “’M fine,” she says. She punctuates this with a shake of her bottle. She sniffs again, her hand coming up to wipe her face.

“You’re crying,” I realize. Ember turns away from me.

“The fucking fire’s dying,” she says, as if that’s the reason she’s crying.

I get up, grabbing a couple loose sticks and poking the coals until I see flames. When I’m satisfied with the little fire I’ve cultivated, I sit back down.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ember considers my question for a moment before saying, “Not really.”

“Hey,” I say, lightly touching her arm with a smile.

She turns to look at me and I almost choke on air.

“What happened to you?” I gawk at the bruise discoloring her cheekbone, blooming all the way up to her right eye.

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, turning away again.

“Did Blaze do this to you?”

Ember ignores me, lifting the bottle to her lips before lowering it in disappointment.

“Empty,” she says dejectedly, turning it upside down to demonstrate.

I grab the bottle and toss it away with impatience.

“Did he do this to you?” I demand.

“Hey!” She makes a grab for the bottle, the alcohol in her system making her comically slow. She lands in my lap.

I put my hands on her shoulders and hoist her up into a sitting position.

“Ember. Em…Hey.”

Her eyes eventually manage to focus on my face. The fire reflects in her eyes even though they’re drowning in tears.

“What happened?” I whisper, brushing away an escaped tear from her uninjured cheek.

“Does it matter?” she asks, pulling away from me. She flops down on her back in the sand.

“I mean, yeah,” I say, leaning back on my elbows. “Yeah. If he hit you, it matters. Like. A lot.”

“God I’m so pathetic,” Ember moans, covering her face with both arms.

“No, you’re not,” I say, laying down next to her.

“I’m so fucking drunk,” she sobs.

“Hey. C’mere.” I hold out my arms, beckoning for a hug.

Ember surveys me for a moment before rolling onto her side, laying her head on my shoulder.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice muffled by my shirt.

“Don’t be,” I say, laying a hand on her back and staring up at the sky.

“You’re sweet,” she says, turning her head to gaze at me.

I look down at her big, brown eyes brimming with tears.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice gravelly. I clear my throat, looking away again.

Ember circles her arms around my neck, giving me a soft squeeze. I put my arm around her and pull her closer. She nuzzles into me, her nose coming to rest against my neck.

“There you are.”

I jump at the sound of a voice, practically throwing Ember off of me in my haste to stand up.

“Calm down,” the voice says. A tall figure comes into view. “It’s just me.”

“Denim!” Ember says, sitting up. “What’re you doin’ here?” she asks, brushing her hair back from her face.

“I was looking for you,” Denim says, squatting down in front of her. I awkwardly stand nearby, toeing the empty bottle of whiskey lying on the ground.

“I’m right here,” Ember says, holding her arms out like a child asking to be picked up.

Denim chuckles, saying, “You’re drunk.”

“Am not,” Ember retorts, devolving into a fit of giggles.

Ignoring her, Denim turns to me. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks, gesturing to a tree a few yards away.

Oh, shit, I think. “Uh…sure,” I say out loud.

Once we’re out of Ember’s hearing, Denim lays a hand on my shoulder and stares at me, fully serious.

“I-I…She was like this when I found her. I swear, I didn’t—”

Denim holds up a hand to stop me.

“Relax, bro,” he says. “Ember’s drunk because Ember wanted to get drunk. Ain’t nothing you or I coulda done to stop her, and Ember doesn’t take orders from nobody—” here Denim hesitates, tilting his head to the side in a sort of half-shrug. “Except…maybe Blaze.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved he’s not about to beat me to a pulp.

“And that’s what I gotta talk to you about,” he continues. “Something happened between her and Blaze tonight. I don’t know what happened, but—”

“He hit her,” I interrupt.

Denim stares at me, mouth slightly parted—the words he was about to say dying before they reach his lips. He looks over his shoulder at Ember, who is still seated beside the dying fire, before turning back to me. His face is a battlefield of warring emotions; anger and despair both vying for the top.

Struggling to get himself under control, he grabs my shoulder again—roughly this time.

“Look, I’ll deal with Blaze. But right now, the depot is a bad place for her. Blaze is on a rampage and we’re edging closer and closer to an all-out war within the club.”

Denim lets go of me to put his hands on his hips. He watches Ember for a moment before turning away with a muttered curse.

“Look,” he says again, “I’ll try to get things calmed down back there. But the depot’s a bad place for Em right now.”

“What do you need me to do?” I ask, eager to help.

“Keep her away from there,” he says. “I’m not fucking around. This is serious.”

“I got it,” I respond, thinking of Ember’s discolored cheek and swollen eye.

“Don’t let her call anyone,” Denim continues. “Especially not Blaze. In fact—” He suddenly spins on his heel and stalks back to Ember.

I don’t hear what he says, but Ember very loudly whines, “Why?”

Denim repeats whatever he said, holding out his hand.

Walking back to me, he holds up Ember’s phone.

“There. That should take care of that. Here,” he says, digging around in his back pocket. Producing another, larger phone, he hands it to me.

“I already have a phone?”

Denim rolls his eyes. “No, you idiot. That’s my phone. Put your number in it.”

“Why?” I ask, already typing in the digits.

“So I can get ahold of you if anything happens.”

“What could happen?” I ask, wary.

Denim waves my question away like it’s a waste of his time.

“Just. Stay with her tonight. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

I hand his phone back, confused. “What…like, bring her back to my place?”

“Your place, a friend’s place, your grandmother’s nursing home—I don’t care! Just, whatever you do, don’t let her go back there until I give you the all-clear. Got it?”

“G-Got it,” I stutter, unable to resist being a little intimidated.

Denim turns back to Ember, calling, “Hey, Em?” Ember lifts her face from her hands to look at him. “You’re gonna go home with Ocean Water tonight, okay?”

I huff at the ridiculous nickname, but a look from the denim-clad biker guy silences me.

“Okay,” Ember says, surprising me by not putting up a fight. She stands up, somewhat unsteady on her feet, and begins walking toward us.

After she assents, Denim turns back to me and drops his voice to a whisper.

“A majority of the gang back Blaze,” he says. “But there are still plenty of lawless men and women over there that won’t hesitate to make you permanently disappear if you do anything to hurt that girl more than she already has been. Get me?”

I gulp. “Yup. I got you. Loud and clear.”

“Good.” Denim smiles, clapping me on the back and making me wince.

“My head hurts,” Ember says once she reaches us.

“Ash’ll get you some water, Denim tells her.

Her brows knit together. “Where’re you goin’?” she asks.

“You know me. I got shit to do,” he says, purposefully vague.

His grin drops when he sees how sad she is.

“Bring it in,” he says, holding his arms out.

Ember walks into his embrace, a little smile touching her lips. Denim pats her back before stepping back to look her in the face. I see him attempt to swallow back his anger at the sight of her bruised face. He’s not entirely successful.

“Countin’ on you,” Denim says to me, backing away.

I wave in answer and Denim turns and walks off the beach. A moment later, I hear the engine of his motorcycle start up and roar away into the night.

“Let’s get you some water,” I say, guiding Ember back to my car.

I stop on the way to kick sand over the last dredges of the fire and to pick up the discarded bottle of Jack.

#ember&ash #e&a #wip excerpt #wip #my wip #e&a excerpt #my writing #writeblr #writing #tw abuse #tw domestic abuse

[ceaseless-enemy]

Two Minutes~!

#the walten files #twf #Smoldering Trees #Smoldering Trees Comic #ST Webcomic #TWF Smoldering Trees #Sophie Walten

[mybeingthere]

Ralph Slatton is professor and printmaker at East Tennessee State University. Prof. Slatton's work can be seen in university and museum collections throughout the world. He currently works with the intaglio media, exploring imagery that relates to animals that represent the psyche of humanity.

Read a long wonderful story from "Professor Slatton's Strange Universe":

"Ralph was 10 years old and the year was 1962; he enjoyed bb guns, firecrackers, comic books, but most of all, he enjoyed his pet rabbits, Mopsy and Topsy.  Ralph’s world was made for autumn, a time of harvests, carnivals, and backyard clubhouses. It was a time to shed summer’s oppressive heat, in exchange for the cool whiffs that hung in the long autumn shadows.

The cotton fields of Trumann, Arkansas were now bare. Only remnants of snowy white specks littered the brown furrows. During this time of year, the twilights were exotically scented with a hint of DDT and smoldering leaves.  Mournful wails of distant trains rang across the night’s sky.

Ralph lived about midway on a dead end, gravel road, that separated two small cotton farms. His home was originally built to shelter two families.  One chimney was shared between them.  The house had no plumbing and very few electrical outlets.  Each room had one central light bulb, switched with pull string. The only source of water was a hand-primed pump located in the back yard.  Its water always tasted of kerosene.

When Ralph wasn’t doing chores, he would enjoy taking long hikes in the fields that surrounded his house. These usually led to his favourite spot, a railroad trestle  shaded by Birch and Sassafras trees. He enjoyed climbing its quarztite dumps and perching against the oil-soaked timbers. The tracks smelled of creosote and tar covered limestone. Whenever Ralph walked down its rails, he was always reminded of uncle Harry.Uncle Harry was not normal. He had no wife or children; he had no debts to pay; he had no steady job or permanent home. About twice a year, he would arrive in Trumann, courtesy of the local freight trains. You see, Harry was one of the last surviving tramps, probably left over from the great depression. He travelled by rail and slept in his Goodwill suit, always wearing his brownish grey, fedora hat, marked by a band of perspiration around its brim." 

Continue https://ralphslatton.wordpress.com/

[innocentbi-stander]

Y'all asked so…. 

Jaskier and his wonderfully destructive lightning powers  part 2

Tagging some of you guys who were interested, you inspired me to write more!

@jaskier-cult @random-shit-writing @jaciespoonlovesdrwho @viwy @whereskansas @artemisthehuntress @justabitofwhump @thegreattodd @anythinggoesfandoms @innocentcinnamonpun

(I know I didn’t get everyone and I apologize!)

After Jaskier spent an evening explaining to geralt exactly what the hell had happened to him in their time apart, and even more time assuring him that he was not in fact cursed, they continued on the road

Jaskier then had to spend an even greater amount of time convincing geralt that tying him to roach’s saddle would not in fact, be the perfect “keep jaskier out of trouble and potential harm” strategy the witcher was going for

Jaskier tried to hide it, but even as relieved and happy as he was to be reunited with geralt, he was still a little bit scared of the powers he’s acquired

He doesn’t even know everything that he can do or how to control it for that matter, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his dear witcher

Geralt’s “jaskier is spiraling” senses must have been tingling because he swung down from his spot on roach and wasted no time in taking jaskier into his arms

He looked him in the eyes, a calloused hand on the bard’s cheek and reassured him that they were going to figure it out, “together” the witcher rumbled, and that sounded pretty good to jaskier

Discovering jaskier’s powers was a series of trials and error that seemed comical in the grand scheme of things

The bard knew he was capable of conjuring flame, but as he was soon to find out, fire was an ability that took way more concentration than simple electricity

The poor rabbits geralt had caught paid the consequences, smoldering in the grass, charred from the lightning bolt that had zapped them to inedible pieces

When geralt traipsed back into camp there was the smell of ozone in the air and jaskier was cooking a pot of vegetable stew with a suspicious pile of ash beside him and a guilty look on his face

They also discover, after a careless remark on geralt’s behalf, that jaskier’s temper often comes hand in hand with violent thunderstorms (there’s also an incident with a grove of trees being burnt to nothing but they don’t speak about that)

Apparently jaskier doesn’t just summon lightning, but it exists in the very essence of his being and altered his physiology 

Geralt and jaskier find this out when during a monster hunt jaskier shoots across a clearing so fast he’s just a blur to even geralt’s potion enhanced eyes

He leaves behind a blackened streak of ground and jaskier is so shocked by this development that he doesn’t even bemoan the fact that his boots have just fallen to shreds off his feet

It isn’t until jaskier accidently melts half of geralt’s sword in a fit of extreme emotion that the two of them concede that maybe some more expert help might be required in discovering exactly what jaskier’s powers entail, and getting them under control

Which can only mean one thing

It’s time to track down yennefer

Hope you enjoyed part 2!  compelling enough for part 3?

#the witcher #Witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher yennefer #the witcher geralt #the witcher jaskier #witcher geralt #witcher jaskier #witcher yennefer #yennefer #Yennefer of Vengerberg #geraskier #Geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier fanfiction #Jaskier #bamf jaskier #feral jaskier #immortal jaskier #non human jaskier #powerful jaskier #hes got lightning powers #its oretty great #if only he could control them #gotta consult the witch

[tristikovart]

A Magical Time of Year (Part 1)

This is a bit of a writing exercise for me, as despite writing many, many pages for my Avania comic, those were all in script format, so this is the first proper short story I've written intended to be enjoyed as writing.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy a relaxed experience exploring young Fontania Eraclare's family life over the holidays and what it is like to grow up learning to use magic! This story is part of the same universe as the Avania comic, but takes place years before the events depicted in it, so no prior information is really needed other than knowing this a world of anthropomorphic horses.

So without further ado, the story begins below the fold!

A Magical Time of Year - Part 1 - By Tristikov

* * *

“Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” The joyful cries of the young child echoed through the high halls of the house.

A rapid cadence of clip-clops preceded the small white-grey equine’s kinetic arrival in the well-furnished living room. Nearly stumbling as her tiny hooves crossed from polished hardwood to thickly woven rug, the little girl raced to her father and bounced energetically. “Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” she exclaimed again, the hem of her frock undulating, and her long, platinum blonde locks swinging to-and-fro behind her.

Seated in his favorite armchair, Faustus Eraclare glanced up from the day’s newspaper. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not yet the morn of Winter’s Solstice… So what has you this excited, Fontania?”

“Pa-pa! Look, Pa-pa!” In the girl’s outstretched hand were two ordinary-looking sticks from the yard.

Faustus folded his newspaper and withdrew his hooves from the ottoman so he could lean forward for a better look. The shorter of the two sticks appeared crudely snapped off at one end, while the other appeared to be freshly fallen from one of the trees dotting the estate.

“Hmm, those look to be rather sticky,” he said, thoughtfully twisting the end of his dark moustache.

“Pa-pa!” scolded Fontania. She gestured with the sticks as if he was missing the obvious, before shuffling them in her hands and holding up the stick with the blunt, frayed end for him to appreciate.

“I’m afraid the point is lost on me, my dear,” the dapple grey stallion admitted.

The girl sighed melodramatically and then stepped back from the chair. “Watch this, Pa-pa!”

Standing in the center of the spacious rug, Fontania switched the unbroken stick to her right hand and held it out in front of herself as if wielding a mighty sword. After glancing back to confirm her father was paying attention, she stared intently at the stick.

Faustus rested his hands on his knees and watched his daughter with curiosity and some amusement. Moments passed. The little girl continued to stand motionless, seemingly about to burn a hole in the stick with the sheer intensity of her gaze. The old grandfather clock ticked quietly on the other side of the living room. Nothing appeared to be happening.

The older equine opened his mouth to speak but paused when he noticed a faint light surrounding the stick held firmly in his daughter’s grasp. His eyes widened, and a soft gasp of astonishment escaped his velvety muzzle. He leaned forward in anticipation. The stick began to glow, then to smolder. Fontania’s expression hardened. A moment more and there was a hiss before the stick suddenly flashed as bright as a struck match.

BANG! The outer end of the stick exploded as if struck by lightning.

Faustus flinched at the sound, but as sawdust wafted down to the rug, his charcoal lips drew back into a broad smile. “You can channel—You’re using magic, Fontania!”

The little girl stood still, momentarily stunned by her own destructive demonstration. Gradually, a grin spread across her muzzle, and she turned, beaming, toward her father.

“Did you see, Pa-pa? Did you see!?”

Faustus stood up, skirting the ottoman and throwing his arms wide as he nodded enthusiastically to his daughter. “Yes, yes, I saw!”

The young equine whinnied and bounded across the rug to throw her arms around him. With a laugh he leaned down and lifted the girl from the rug so that their faces were level. She giggled and held the two sticks up for him to see, both now sharing their distressed truncation.

“Shall we show your mother?” asked the stallion. Fontania nodded confidently.

Faustus set his daughter down on her feet again and she rocketed out of the room, her fine, fair tail streaming out behind her. He straightened his silk smoking jacket and followed her at a stroll, knowing the folly of trying to match her reckless abandon.

The clatter of small hooves again filled the long hallway, and it was with little difficulty that the senior Eraclare located his exuberant offspring. Entering his wife’s sunlit study, he spied the lady of the house speaking with one of the black-clad servants—A bay mare of rich red-brown fur, and Fontania’s nanny. Fontania herself was enthusiastically tugging at the side of her mother’s elegant gown.

“Freya, darling, do you know what our dear daughter has discovered?” inquired Faustus.

“I have felt it,” replied the tall, white-grey mare. “Roberta has told me they were practicing out in the yard this very morning.”

“I can channel now, Ma-ma! I can channel!” said the little girl, bouncing up and down.

“You’ve inherited your mother’s talents, Fontania. Nothing shall stop you now!” chuckled her father.

“She’ll need proper instruction to make use of them,” said her mother.

Faustus smiled at the graceful woman. “And who more qualified to provide it?”

“You’ll teach me, Ma-ma!?” asked Fontania breathlessly, still holding onto the gown.

Freya smiled and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “In time… For now, you must listen to Roberta; she will help you with the fundamentals.” The little equine’s eyes widened. She turned with a squeal to the Morgan maid. “Let’s gather more sticks, Ms. Roberta!”

When the nanny’s questioning glance was met with a simple affirming nod by the girl’s mother, the young Fontania sprang forth from the study and cavorted through the house towards the back door. After a quick curtsy to her lord and lady, Roberta dutifully followed her charge back out into the yard.

Now alone together in the study, Faustus Eraclare embraced his wife. “Aren’t you proud, darling?” he said, scarcely able to contain his joy. Freya touched her soft velvet nose to his for a moment before speaking. “I will be… Once she develops her skills. A little sorceress running around is not safe for anyone, including herself… But if she concentrates on her studies, she’ll make a master mage.”

Faustus hugged his wife, holding her close to his chest and kissing her on the forelock. “I’m sure she will, darling. I’m sure she will.”

* * *

“I think that shall be more than enough for now, Miss Fontania,” called the girl’s guardian from across the expansive lawn of the Eraclare estate. The cooling autumn weather had brought with it wind, and that wind had provided many fallen sticks for exploding. “Look Ms. Roberta!” cried Fontania, triumphantly waving a larger branch over her head as she galloped across the grass.

“Oh, that one is quite impressive,” remarked Roberta, humoring the child, who had amassed a rather sizable collection of twigs this morning. “Will you be detonating it as well?”

“No, this one is my sword!” replied Fontania, kneeling down in front of her stockpile.

Placing the prized stick aside, the girl selected a small branch and held it out in front of herself, much as she had done nearly a week earlier. This time however, she stared at the stick and within moments it began to hiss. With a confident smirk, Fontania willed the branch to violently rearrange itself into a woody mist of steam and splinters.

After watching her charge claim her umpteenth victim, Roberta lowered herself to the lawn opposite the child and smoothed her black dress neatly by her sides. The little girl cast the stub of her stick to the lawn and reached for the next one.

“Miss Fontania… Now that you’ve become quite adept at that skill, why don’t we try something new?”

The smaller equine looked at the chosen stick in her hand, then up to her nanny. It wasn’t the first time the suggestion had been made, but after a week of obsessive stick-blasting, the idea of expanding her magical repertoire was beginning to have more appeal.

“What are we going to do, Ms. Roberta?”

“Let me show you…” replied the mare as she picked up a small stick of her own and placed it in an open palm before cupping both hands under it. Fontania watched intently as the stick began to glow, then slowly rose from the older equine’s hands as if attempting to reverse the course of the season.

“You’re moving it!” blurted the child. “Like you do with the silver!”

“It’s called telekinetic levitation, Miss Fontania. You may learn how to do it too.”

Having leveled off about a foot above the cupped hands of her teacher, the stick drifted toward the girl.

“Cup your hands.”

Fontania did as she was instructed, and the stick calmly deposited itself in the palms of its new master.

“How do I make it… Levitate?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about the stick just yet; channel the magic as you’ve done before.”

The child’s face tensed with concentration as she glared at the stick.

“You must calm yourself, Miss Fontania. Allow the magic to flow through your hands.”

The little girl frowned at the notion, but then took a deep breath and let her posture settle.

A faint light began to appear from her palms, illuminating the underside of the stick before gradually engulfing it. “Very good! Now keep it flowing” remarked Roberta. Fontania did not look up, instead keeping her gaze on the stick and her breathing steady.

“This method of levitation is natural, like channeling itself, so it is something you feel more than consciously think about… Let the magic rise from your palms like the steam from your supper.”

“Like steam…” whispered Fontania, still focused on the stick.

The intensity of the light grew stronger until the stick itself began to glow. The little girl tensed with excitement, but once again calmed herself. Thin wisps of vapor began to rise from the stick. As the seconds passed the wisps began to rise with greater velocity.

Roberta chuckled apprehensively. “Perhaps I should have chosen a different metaphor…”

By the time a loud hiss was emanating from the unfortunate twig, Fontania’s face had turned to a frown.

“Why isn’t it levitating, Ms. Roberta?”

“I think you’re still channeling directly into the stick, Miss Fontania. But don’t be upset, it takes much practice to precisely control magic, and you are only still beginning...”

“I wish that it would levitate now!” whined the little girl, causing the stick to crackle and pop.

Before a minor disaster could arise, the older equine magically lifted the tortured twig into the air and propelled it several yards away with a flick of her hand. It left a trail of wispy smoke in its wake, popping and sparking in the grass as if pulled from a bonfire. Following in kind, the maid hurriedly rose and stamped the stick out with her hoof.

“Let’s do that again, Ms. Roberta!” said Fontania, trotting over to examine the extinguished embers.

“Perhaps it would be better if young miss tries some exercises which do not provoke a conflagration,” replied the mare, exasperated. “Your hands could have been burned if that stick had remained in them.”

Having brought her prized bough with her, the little girl held it up and looked from it to the maid. “But why, Ms. Roberta? It doesn’t hurt when I make the sticks explode.”

“Your textbooks you will describe such things in greater detail, but it all depends on how the magic is channeled. When you hold the stick like a wand, the energy flows from one end to the other; pour too much in at once, and the far end pops from the sudden heat, but applied more slowly and evenly, it will begin to burn. A fallen stick does not a wand make, after all.”

Fontania frowned at her once-prized stick, apparently less assured of its significance now.

“Heat is just one result of channeling; it can also be manifested as kinetic energy, like with levitation,” Roberta continued.

“How do I choose which one I want?” asked the girl.

“It isn’t something that can simply be instructed; you need to feel the magic and direct it with your will… Some things may come more easily to you than others.”

Roberta smiled. “I know that isn’t the most helpful answer, but for now you just have to keep practicing your channeling. I’ll see if we can fetch you some supplies that won’t be so… Combustible.”

* * *

As autumn progressed, the young Fontania Eraclare found that even without mittens she could warm her hands by simply willing magic through them. Despite her teacher’s warnings, she also found that with practice, she could now reliably ignite sticks and explode them. Though her father continued to be delighted by her demonstrations, she was none-the-less told to only engage in such destructive activities outside in the yard, away from anything flammable.

“Have you seen her with those knitting needles, darling? I could have sworn she produced a tiny bolt of lightning while going through her exercises today! Simply marvelous!” Faustus beamed as he stood by the crackling fireplace, snifter in hand.

“They’re mage’s quills, dear. And yes, she’s developing her channeling most rapidly,” said Freya, not looking up from the living room’s grand piano.

“Ah, quills, I knew that… But with Roberta teaching her, you can’t be sure,” chuckled the stallion.

His wife continued to play a serene melody. “If Fontania keeps up this pace, she may be allowed to enter school early.”

Faustus glanced up from his brandy mid-sip. He swallowed. “Enter school… Early?”

“Yes, -she would benefit from a more focused environment.”

The stallion brushed a drop of alcohol from his ascot, then softly strode across the room. “I’m all too aware of how important one’s early years are for cultivating magic use, darling, but…”

“But what?”

“She is so joyful here… And with Roberta instructing her, it’s not as if she isn’t receiving proper guidance. Let her enjoy her childhood—she’ll attend school in due time.”

Freya watched her husband trade his glass of brandy for the violin on wall.

“Fontania will need instruction greater than Roberta can provide… Besides, she’d be around children her own age as well—Mage’s schools aren’t graduated strictly by years, you know.”

As the mare’s fine fingers depressed the ivory keys, Faustus put bow to strings and joined in accompaniment.

“I know you only want the best for her, darling, so when Roberta has taught all that she can, that’s where you’ll step in… A senior professor of the university is certainly more than qualified!”

“You know I can’t teach her full time, Faustus… And my instruction would be far more useful to her when she is older.”

The stallion sighed in tune with the lament of his instrument.

“I understand, darling… But perhaps we can just… Keep playing it by ear.”

The mare paid mind to her keys for a moment more, then frowned.

* * *

The morning sun shown in the large windows of the dining room, bringing with it warmth enough to cast off the late season’s chill. The porcelain plates clinked as breakfast was served.

“What do you say, Fontania?” quizzed Faustus Eraclare from the head of the table.

“Thank you, Ms. Wheatley!” shouted the little girl, seated to her father’s right.

The chestnut-furred maid spread a silk napkin over the girl’s frock. “You’re very welcome, young miss.”

With the table now fully provisioned, Faustus smiled and nodded to the younger mare, who curtseyed in turn before taking her leave.

“Well, dig in!” he said, picking up his utensils.

Fontania didn’t need to be told twice and immediately began shoveling roasted carrots into her mouth. The older equine thoughtfully chewed his food, then dabbed his grey muzzle with a napkin before sipping a steaming cup of tea. “You’ve quite the appetite this morning!” he remarked.

“Ms. Roberta says I must feed my mind!” said the little girl in between mouthfuls.

“I see you’re taking her advice quite literally,” said her father.

“Mmm! When did you learn to cast, Pa-pa?” asked Fontania, with her mouth full of carrot.

Faustus leaned back in his chair. “Well, as a boy, I spent much of my summers on the lake… There were some truly fearsome fishes in those depths, I’ll tell you!”

“Pa-pa!” Fontania groaned. “I mean channeling!”

“If I recall, the channel was already dug many years before…”

The intensity of the child’s glare nearly brought the stallion to laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… To tell the truth, if you asked your mother, I still haven’t learned a thing about magic.”

Fontania tilted her head as she reached for her orange juice. “But you can channel, can’t you Pa-pa?”

Returning to his plate of food, the stallion sighed. “Yes, I have the capacity to, I’m just not very good at casting…” He smiled at his daughter. “Didn’t practice enough when I was young, I’m afraid.”

There was a momentary silence as he chewed, and she drank her juice.

“You have time to practice now, don’t you Pa-pa?”

“I suppose I do, don’t I? But it’s much easier to learn while you’re growing… In fact, if you don’t develop your channeling before you mature, you won’t be able to reach your full potential as an adult.”

The little girl contemplated this before setting down her empty glass.

“Pa-pa… If you didn’t practice channeling when you were little, what did you do?”

Faustus gazed into the distance and twisted the end of his moustache. “Ahh… I suppose I was occupied with boyish pursuits; rough-housing, sailing, sports… Mostly mischief, though I did take to dueling quite well in college.”

Fontania’s small white ears pricked up. “You were sword duelist, Pa-pa?” asked the girl, kneeling in her seat and leaning forward over the pristine white tablecloth. “Can you show me? Can you show me!?”

Her father chuckled and raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “Well, since your mother is busy at the university, I suppose we could save your exercises for the afternoon… But you must promise to do them later.”

“Of course, Pa-pa, that’s easy!”

“Good! Then let’s go to the living room” said Faustus, getting up from the table.

Fontania squealed and jumped off her seat before taking off at a sprint ahead of him.

When the stallion arrived at their destination, he found his daughter bouncing on her hooves next to the fireplace, expectantly eying the pair of crossed sabers mounted above it.

“I want to see these swords, Pa-pa!”

Faustus stopped at the fireplace and gazed at the aged weapons. A smile formed on his lips, and he carefully dismounted one of the sabers. He placed his right hand beneath the hilt, and with a tug he freed the blade from its scabbard and drew it with a soft metallic scrape.

The little girl’s attention was rivetted as her father adopted a hanging guard stance and proceeded to demonstrate a variety of cuts and parries. The blade glinted in the beams of sunlight shining in the windows. He grinned. “What do you say, very dashing, no?”

Fontania merely looked on with eyes wide as the stallion got down on one knee so that she might take a closer look. The sword’s dark patina only made it more mysterious. She reached out for it. “Don’t touch the blade now,” her father cautioned. “The edge is still keen!”

He set the scabbard down on the hearth and held the weapon with just his thumb and index finger around the grip. “Here, hold it with both hands… I daresay this sword is a little large for you!”

Following her father’s instructions, the girl took the saber. Once she had it in hand, he released it. The blade dipped as its weight became her responsibility, but with her two-handed grip she foisted the weapon into a guard position. Its length nearly equaled her height.

Emboldened by the deadly artifact of gleaming steel and ornate brass, Fontania stepped forward and attempted to imitate the motions of her father. The oversized sword wobbled to-and-fro, and the girl’s small arms quickly began to ache under the strain.

When the stallion saw his daughter winding up for a swing, he snatched up the scabbard and shot it out in a flash, arresting the fall of the blade before it could deliver an accidental coup de grâce to the elegant rug.

“Ah ha ha…” Faustus laughed as he hurriedly took the saber back from the girl. “Your mother would have a fit if she saw that!”

“I was being careful, Pa-pa!” protested Fontania, still catching her breath.

“Let me get something a little more manageable,” said Faustus, standing up and sheathing the saber.

With gentle hands he restored the weapon to its home over the fireplace, then walked across the room. On a decorative plaque sat a fan of foils, all much smaller and finer than the stout saber. The stallion returned carrying a pair of them. “Here, one for each of us!” he said with a grin.

* * *

“Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” The joyful cries of the young child echoed through the high halls of the house.

A rapid cadence of clip-clops preceded the small white-grey equine’s kinetic arrival in the well-furnished living room. Nearly stumbling as her tiny hooves crossed from polished hardwood to thickly woven rug, the little girl raced to her father and bounced energetically. “Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” she exclaimed again, the hem of her frock undulating, and her long, platinum blonde locks swinging to-and-fro behind her.

Seated in his favorite armchair, Faustus Eraclare glanced up from the day’s newspaper. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not yet the morn of Winter’s Solstice… So what has you this excited, Fontania?”

“Pa-pa! Look, Pa-pa!” In the girl’s outstretched hand were two ordinary-looking sticks from the yard.

Faustus folded his newspaper and withdrew his hooves from the ottoman so he could lean forward for a better look. The shorter of the two sticks appeared crudely snapped off at one end, while the other appeared to be freshly fallen from one of the trees dotting the estate.

“Hmm, those look to be rather sticky,” he said, thoughtfully twisting the end of his dark moustache.

“Pa-pa!” scolded Fontania. She gestured with the sticks as if he was missing the obvious, before shuffling them in her hands and holding up the stick with the blunt, frayed end for him to appreciate.

“I’m afraid the point is lost on me, my dear,” the dapple grey stallion admitted.

The girl sighed melodramatically and then stepped back from the chair. “Watch this, Pa-pa!”

Standing in the center of the spacious rug, Fontania switched the unbroken stick to her right hand and held it out in front of herself as if wielding a mighty sword. After glancing back to confirm her father was paying attention, she stared intently at the stick.

Faustus rested his hands on his knees and watched his daughter with curiosity and some amusement. Moments passed. The little girl continued to stand motionless, seemingly about to burn a hole in the stick with the sheer intensity of her gaze. The old grandfather clock ticked quietly on the other side of the living room. Nothing appeared to be happening.

The older equine opened his mouth to speak but paused when he noticed a faint light surrounding the stick held firmly in his daughter’s grasp. His eyes widened, and a soft gasp of astonishment escaped his velvety muzzle. He leaned forward in anticipation. The stick began to glow, then to smolder. Fontania’s expression hardened. A moment more and there was a hiss before the stick suddenly flashed as bright as a struck match.

BANG! The outer end of the stick exploded as if struck by lightning.

Faustus flinched at the sound, but as sawdust wafted down to the rug, his charcoal lips drew back into a broad smile. “You can channel—You’re using magic, Fontania!”

The little girl stood still, momentarily stunned by her own destructive demonstration. Gradually, a grin spread across her muzzle, and she turned, beaming, toward her father.

“Did you see, Pa-pa? Did you see!?”

Faustus stood up, skirting the ottoman and throwing his arms wide as he nodded enthusiastically to his daughter. “Yes, yes, I saw!”

The young equine whinnied and bounded across the rug to throw her arms around him. With a laugh he leaned down and lifted the girl from the rug so that their faces were level. She giggled and held the two sticks up for him to see, both now sharing their distressed truncation.

“Shall we show your mother?” asked the stallion. Fontania nodded confidently.

Faustus set his daughter down on her feet again and she rocketed out of the room, her fine, fair tail streaming out behind her. He straightened his silk smoking jacket and followed her at a stroll, knowing the folly of trying to match her reckless abandon.

The clatter of small hooves again filled the long hallway, and it was with little difficulty that the senior Eraclare located his exuberant offspring. Entering his wife’s sunlit study, he spied the lady of the house speaking with one of the black-clad servants—A bay mare of rich red-brown fur, and Fontania’s nanny. Fontania herself was enthusiastically tugging at the side of her mother’s elegant gown.

“Freya, darling, do you know what our dear daughter has discovered?” inquired Faustus.

“I have felt it,” replied the tall, white-grey mare. “Roberta has told me they were practicing out in the yard this very morning.”

“I can channel now, Ma-ma! I can channel!” said the little girl, bouncing up and down.

“You’ve inherited your mother’s talents, Fontania. Nothing shall stop you now!” chuckled her father.

“She’ll need proper instruction to make use of them,” said her mother.

Faustus smiled at the graceful woman. “And who more qualified to provide it?”

“You’ll teach me, Ma-ma!?” asked Fontania breathlessly, still holding onto the gown.

Freya smiled and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “In time… For now, you must listen to Roberta; she will help you with the fundamentals.” The little equine’s eyes widened. She turned with a squeal to the Morgan maid. “Let’s gather more sticks, Ms. Roberta!”

When the nanny’s questioning glance was met with a simple affirming nod by the girl’s mother, the young Fontania sprang forth from the study and cavorted through the house towards the back door. After a quick curtsy to her lord and lady, Roberta dutifully followed her charge back out into the yard.

Now alone together in the study, Faustus Eraclare embraced his wife. “Aren’t you proud, darling?” he said, scarcely able to contain his joy. Freya touched her soft velvet nose to his for a moment before speaking. “I will be… Once she develops her skills. A little sorceress running around is not safe for anyone, including herself… But if she concentrates on her studies, she’ll make a master mage.”

Faustus hugged his wife, holding her close to his chest and kissing her on the forelock. “I’m sure she will, darling. I’m sure she will.”

* * *

“I think that shall be more than enough for now, Miss Fontania,” called the girl’s guardian from across the expansive lawn of the Eraclare estate. The cooling autumn weather had brought with it wind, and that wind had provided many fallen sticks for exploding. “Look Ms. Roberta!” cried Fontania, triumphantly waving a larger branch over her head as she galloped across the grass.

“Oh, that one is quite impressive,” remarked Roberta, humoring the child, who had amassed a rather sizable collection of twigs this morning. “Will you be detonating it as well?”

“No, this one is my sword!” replied Fontania, kneeling down in front of her stockpile.

Placing the prized stick aside, the girl selected a small branch and held it out in front of herself, much as she had done nearly a week earlier. This time however, she stared at the stick and within moments it began to hiss. With a confident smirk, Fontania willed the branch to violently rearrange itself into a woody mist of steam and splinters.

After watching her charge claim her umpteenth victim, Roberta lowered herself to the lawn opposite the child and smoothed her black dress neatly by her sides. The little girl cast the stub of her stick to the lawn and reached for the next one.

“Miss Fontania… Now that you’ve become quite adept at that skill, why don’t we try something new?”

The smaller equine looked at the chosen stick in her hand, then up to her nanny. It wasn’t the first time the suggestion had been made, but after a week of obsessive stick-blasting, the idea of expanding her magical repertoire was beginning to have more appeal.

“What are we going to do, Ms. Roberta?”

“Let me show you…” replied the mare as she picked up a small stick of her own and placed it in an open palm before cupping both hands under it. Fontania watched intently as the stick began to glow, then slowly rose from the older equine’s hands as if attempting to reverse the course of the season.

“You’re moving it!” blurted the child. “Like you do with the silver!”

“It’s called telekinetic levitation, Miss Fontania. You may learn how to do it too.”

Having leveled off about a foot above the cupped hands of her teacher, the stick drifted toward the girl.

“Cup your hands.”

Fontania did as she was instructed, and the stick calmly deposited itself in the palms of its new master.

“How do I make it… Levitate?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about the stick just yet; channel the magic as you’ve done before.”

The child’s face tensed with concentration as she glared at the stick.

“You must calm yourself, Miss Fontania. Allow the magic to flow through your hands.”

The little girl frowned at the notion, but then took a deep breath and let her posture settle.

A faint light began to appear from her palms, illuminating the underside of the stick before gradually engulfing it. “Very good! Now keep it flowing” remarked Roberta. Fontania did not look up, instead keeping her gaze on the stick and her breathing steady.

“This method of levitation is natural, like channeling itself, so it is something you feel more than consciously think about… Let the magic rise from your palms like the steam from your supper.”

“Like steam…” whispered Fontania, still focused on the stick.

The intensity of the light grew stronger until the stick itself began to glow. The little girl tensed with excitement, but once again calmed herself. Thin wisps of vapor began to rise from the stick. As the seconds passed the wisps began to rise with greater velocity.

Roberta chuckled apprehensively. “Perhaps I should have chosen a different metaphor…”

By the time a loud hiss was emanating from the unfortunate twig, Fontania’s face had turned to a frown.

“Why isn’t it levitating, Ms. Roberta?”

“I think you’re still channeling directly into the stick, Miss Fontania. But don’t be upset, it takes much practice to precisely control magic, and you are only still beginning...”

“I wish that it would levitate now!” whined the little girl, causing the stick to crackle and pop.

Before a minor disaster could arise, the older equine magically lifted the tortured twig into the air and propelled it several yards away with a flick of her hand. It left a trail of wispy smoke in its wake, popping and sparking in the grass as if pulled from a bonfire. Following in kind, the maid hurriedly rose and stamped the stick out with her hoof.

“Let’s do that again, Ms. Roberta!” said Fontania, trotting over to examine the extinguished embers.

“Perhaps it would be better if young miss tries some exercises which do not provoke a conflagration,” replied the mare, exasperated. “Your hands could have been burned if that stick had remained in them.”

Having brought her prized bough with her, the little girl held it up and looked from it to the maid. “But why, Ms. Roberta? It doesn’t hurt when I make the sticks explode.”

“Your textbooks you will describe such things in greater detail, but it all depends on how the magic is channeled. When you hold the stick like a wand, the energy flows from one end to the other; pour too much in at once, and the far end pops from the sudden heat, but applied more slowly and evenly, it will begin to burn. A fallen stick does not a wand make, after all.”

Fontania frowned at her once-prized stick, apparently less assured of its significance now.

“Heat is just one result of channeling; it can also be manifested as kinetic energy, like with levitation,” Roberta continued.

“How do I choose which one I want?” asked the girl.

“It isn’t something that can simply be instructed; you need to feel the magic and direct it with your will… Some things may come more easily to you than others.”

Roberta smiled. “I know that isn’t the most helpful answer, but for now you just have to keep practicing your channeling. I’ll see if we can fetch you some supplies that won’t be so… Combustible.”

* * *

As autumn progressed, the young Fontania Eraclare found that even without mittens she could warm her hands by simply willing magic through them. Despite her teacher’s warnings, she also found that with practice, she could now reliably ignite sticks and explode them. Though her father continued to be delighted by her demonstrations, she was none-the-less told to only engage in such destructive activities outside in the yard, away from anything flammable.

“Have you seen her with those knitting needles, darling? I could have sworn she produced a tiny bolt of lightning while going through her exercises today! Simply marvelous!” Faustus beamed as he stood by the crackling fireplace, snifter in hand.

“They’re mage’s quills, dear. And yes, she’s developing her channeling most rapidly,” said Freya, not looking up from the living room’s grand piano.

“Ah, quills, I knew that… But with Roberta teaching her, you can’t be sure,” chuckled the stallion.

His wife continued to play a serene melody. “If Fontania keeps up this pace, she may be allowed to enter school early.”

Faustus glanced up from his brandy mid-sip. He swallowed. “Enter school… Early?”

“Yes, -she would benefit from a more focused environment.”

The stallion brushed a drop of alcohol from his ascot, then softly strode across the room. “I’m all too aware of how important one’s early years are for cultivating magic use, darling, but…”

“But what?”

“She is so joyful here… And with Roberta instructing her, it’s not as if she isn’t receiving proper guidance. Let her enjoy her childhood—she’ll attend school in due time.”

Freya watched her husband trade his glass of brandy for the violin on wall.

“Fontania will need instruction greater than Roberta can provide… Besides, she’d be around children her own age as well—Mage’s schools aren’t graduated strictly by years, you know.”

As the mare’s fine fingers depressed the ivory keys, Faustus put bow to strings and joined in accompaniment.

“I know you only want the best for her, darling, so when Roberta has taught all that she can, that’s where you’ll step in… A senior professor of the university is certainly more than qualified!”

“You know I can’t teach her full time, Faustus… And my instruction would be far more useful to her when she is older.”

The stallion sighed in tune with the lament of his instrument.

“I understand, darling… But perhaps we can just… Keep playing it by ear.”

The mare paid mind to her keys for a moment more, then frowned.

* * *

The morning sun shown in the large windows of the dining room, bringing with it warmth enough to cast off the late season’s chill. The porcelain plates clinked as breakfast was served.

“What do you say, Fontania?” quizzed Faustus Eraclare from the head of the table.

“Thank you, Ms. Wheatley!” shouted the little girl, seated to her father’s right.

The chestnut-furred maid spread a silk napkin over the girl’s frock. “You’re very welcome, young miss.”

With the table now fully provisioned, Faustus smiled and nodded to the younger mare, who curtseyed in turn before taking her leave.

“Well, dig in!” he said, picking up his utensils.

Fontania didn’t need to be told twice and immediately began shoveling roasted carrots into her mouth. The older equine thoughtfully chewed his food, then dabbed his grey muzzle with a napkin before sipping a steaming cup of tea. “You’ve quite the appetite this morning!” he remarked.

“Ms. Roberta says I must feed my mind!” said the little girl in between mouthfuls.

“I see you’re taking her advice quite literally,” said her father.

“Mmm! When did you learn to cast, Pa-pa?” asked Fontania, with her mouth full of carrot.

Faustus leaned back in his chair. “Well, as a boy, I spent much of my summers on the lake… There were some truly fearsome fishes in those depths, I’ll tell you!”

“Pa-pa!” Fontania groaned. “I mean channeling!”

“If I recall, the channel was already dug many years before…”

The intensity of the child’s glare nearly brought the stallion to laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… To tell the truth, if you asked your mother, I still haven’t learned a thing about magic.”

Fontania tilted her head as she reached for her orange juice. “But you can channel, can’t you Pa-pa?”

Returning to his plate of food, the stallion sighed. “Yes, I have the capacity to, I’m just not very good at casting…” He smiled at his daughter. “Didn’t practice enough when I was young, I’m afraid.”

There was a momentary silence as he chewed, and she drank her juice.

“You have time to practice now, don’t you Pa-pa?”

“I suppose I do, don’t I? But it’s much easier to learn while you’re growing… In fact, if you don’t develop your channeling before you mature, you won’t be able to reach your full potential as an adult.”

The little girl contemplated this before setting down her empty glass.

“Pa-pa… If you didn’t practice channeling when you were little, what did you do?”

Faustus gazed into the distance and twisted the end of his moustache. “Ahh… I suppose I was occupied with boyish pursuits; rough-housing, sailing, sports… Mostly mischief, though I did take to dueling quite well in college.”

Fontania’s small white ears pricked up. “You were sword duelist, Pa-pa?” asked the girl, kneeling in her seat and leaning forward over the pristine white tablecloth. “Can you show me? Can you show me!?”

Her father chuckled and raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “Well, since your mother is busy at the university, I suppose we could save your exercises for the afternoon… But you must promise to do them later.”

“Of course, Pa-pa, that’s easy!”

“Good! Then let’s go to the living room” said Faustus, getting up from the table.

Fontania squealed and jumped off her seat before taking off at a sprint ahead of him.

When the stallion arrived at their destination, he found his daughter bouncing on her hooves next to the fireplace, expectantly eying the pair of crossed sabers mounted above it.

“I want to see these swords, Pa-pa!”

Faustus stopped at the fireplace and gazed at the aged weapons. A smile formed on his lips, and he carefully dismounted one of the sabers. He placed his right hand beneath the hilt, and with a tug he freed the blade from its scabbard and drew it with a soft metallic scrape.

The little girl’s attention was rivetted as her father adopted a hanging guard stance and proceeded to demonstrate a variety of cuts and parries. The blade glinted in the beams of sunlight shining in the windows. He grinned. “What do you say, very dashing, no?”

Fontania merely looked on with eyes wide as the stallion got down on one knee so that she might take a closer look. The sword’s dark patina only made it more mysterious. She reached out for it. “Don’t touch the blade now,” her father cautioned. “The edge is still keen!”

He set the scabbard down on the hearth and held the weapon with just his thumb and index finger around the grip. “Here, hold it with both hands… I daresay this sword is a little large for you!”

Following her father’s instructions, the girl took the saber. Once she had it in hand, he released it. The blade dipped as its weight became her responsibility, but with her two-handed grip she foisted the weapon into a guard position. Its length nearly equaled her height.

Emboldened by the deadly artifact of gleaming steel and ornate brass, Fontania stepped forward and attempted to imitate the motions of her father. The oversized sword wobbled to-and-fro, and the girl’s small arms quickly began to ache under the strain.

When the stallion saw his daughter winding up for a swing, he snatched up the scabbard and shot it out in a flash, arresting the fall of the blade before it could deliver an accidental coup de grâce to the elegant rug.

“Ah ha ha…” Faustus laughed as he hurriedly took the saber back from the girl. “Your mother would have a fit if she saw that!”

“I was being careful, Pa-pa!” protested Fontania, still catching her breath.

“Let me get something a little more manageable,” said Faustus, standing up and sheathing the saber.

With gentle hands he restored the weapon to its home over the fireplace, then walked across the room. On a decorative plaque sat a fan of foils, all much smaller and finer than the stout saber. The stallion returned carrying a pair of them. “Here, one for each of us!” he said with a grin.

* * *

--- Stay tuned for Part 2, tomorrow night! ---

#anthro #equine #writing #fantasy #magic #avania #demonus #eraclare #fontania #faustus #freya #roberta

[retvenkos]

burning up |

Avatar the Last Airbender - An OC Story.

word count: 1.1k

tw: burning imagery, betrayal, heartbreak, angst

A/N: so, uhhhh.... my little sister and i are reading the A:TLA comics and was reminded of the amazing series “Runaway” by @renjunsuwus,,,, and i did a thing. All credit for the idea goes to Ashley, and please check out everything she has on her page!

Summary: After a betrayal, (Y/n) has nowhere left to go. She was a runaway now, but just where she was going, she didn’t know.

(Y/n) had been running from the moment she was born into this burning, war-torn world. Her whole life had been spent running from one pain to the next. If it wasn’t her parents pushing her away it was the Academy - the soldiers turning her corrupt, bleeding her into a monster that she never intended to become.

And if it wasn’t the Fire Nation forging (Y/n) into something beyond recognition, it was her own guilt eating her from the inside out, a cavern that was never quite empty but raw and heaving, still. (Y/n) had always been her worst enemy - the one thing she could never live with and the one thing she could never leave behind.

There had been moments when (Y/n) thought she had found peace - those nights spent on the other side of the Academy’s walls when she was wrapped in another’s arms, looking up at the stars and imagining them to be something beautifully cold. For a moment she could see them as something else - not burning up and combusting from within, but made of ice and reflecting down on them, a respite from this world. She would look at Taki beside her, taking in his calm and pensive expression, and she would kiss him to get rid of that raging fire in her chest - to find warmth without the burning flames. Taki would squeeze her hand with all the strength he had, and there was once a time (Y/n) thought that it was from love.

But now she knew the truth.

“You’re fire nation.” And his voice had been cold and empty, but burning with a frozen fury. (Y/n) hadn’t breathed. It had taken everything to not fall on the spot. “I could never love you.”

Now, (Y/n) was running - pushing her way through the trees and not caring how the branches scratched her, how the twigs tore at her clothes, how she was fumbling in her escape and ruining herself along the way.

She had loved him and trusted him, but now she was running. Things always seemed to come back to here - the unforgiving ground beneath her feet, the burn in her thighs, the bile in her throat, and the pain.

Oh, that pain; how it dragged her down.

(Y/n) fell to her knees at the base of a pond, too tired to go on, too full of the fire that consumed her - their tongues greedy as they devastated all that she was, leaving her to smoldering ruins.

She should have known that it would come to this - it always did. (Y/n) had spent her whole life being pawned off to others, being fixed with that cold stare and told through spite and anger that she was nothing and that suffering would be her penance for the inconvenience she had caused. There was no escaping the ire of everyone around her; there was no respite from the fire. She could run, but there was nowhere where she would be free from the flames.

(Y/n) hadn’t realized she was crying until she was heaving, and the water in the pond rippling outward from her falling tears. (Y/n) saw her likeness swimming within the water - unbranded and unclaimed. She would never be a Yuyan Archer, now. She had never wanted to be one - never wanted to become a weapon for others to use, another soldier in a hundred-year war without end. So why did she feel so hollow now, that her path was her own?

It was that guilt again, tearing her apart. (Y/n) screwed her eyes shut, and against the dark of her eyelids, she saw a tattoo swimming there - one that would have branded her for life, making her the Yuyan Archer she never wanted to become.

All of that anger rose in (Y/n)’s chest and she lashed out, pushing her hands into the pond and slapping the water onto her face, as though she could rub herself free from the ink that never made it beneath her skin. She hadn’t been marked, yet, but it felt she had. (Y/n) dug the heels on her hand into her flesh, feeling the sting of her cheeks; it burned.

When all that she had was raw and dripping, (Y/n) curled in on herself and waited. What she was waiting for, she didn’t know, but she knew it would come, eventually. All she had now was instinct, and the weapons strapped on her back. 

For others that wouldn’t be enough, but (Y/n) had lived on less, before. At least this time, she wouldn’t allow herself to be fooled by silly things like love. 

There was no such thing.

There was only fire, burning and crippling and fatal. There was nothing that could stop it - not the water in this pond, or the water in her eyes, or the oceans that she would traverse to get away from all that had once been.

The world was burning, and (Y/n) would watch it go up in flames. 

One day, the tongues of the fire would reach her. They’d crawl up her skin and envelop her, and the fire in her belly would reach up to meet it. And when she was burning, (Y/n) would look up into the night and see the stars for what they truly were - fires burning in the cold sky above, blinking out of existence because they dared to burn too bright.

(Y/n) stood and got her bearings back, checking the weapons she still had and fixing her appearance into something less lost, something a little less broken. She brushed off her outfit, as though trying to rid herself of the battle that had happened just moments before, and with a deep, steady breath, she convinced herself that she had left it all behind, burning in the heart of the Fire Nation Capital, still smouldering to ash.

Steeling herself against all that had ever been, (Y/n) pushed forward, using all the skill that she had ever gained to evade those that had taught her. For the rest of her days, she would be a runaway, but at the very least, she could be a good one.

When she was far enough away to be safe from discovered, (Y/n) had the chance to look back. For a moment, the thought tempted her, but she had looked back before - once, when she believed that Taki loved her, when she fathomed a life in another’s arms. She would not make that mistake again.

“I won’t be coming back.”

And she meant it - the burning in her chest told her so.

-- taglist: @coffee--writes​ // message me if you want to be added to the taglist!

#avatar: the last airbender #atla #atla oc #fanfic #avatar fanfiction #angst #alright but go stan ashley and her work it's wonderful and i'm very much in love with it if you can't tell #and also stan her because she got my awkward dm and enabled me to write this