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carewyncromwell · 1 year

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“All I want is the wind in my hair -- To face the fear, but not feel scared...”

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🌹 HPHM Cardverse developed by @ariparri // learn more about Abraxan Derby here! 🌹

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Abraxan Derby was a sport both native to and most popular in the Land of Clubs. This didn’t mean, however, that it didn’t have its fans elsewhere. Even in the Country of Spades, where street cars were pulled by mechanical creatures rather than flesh and blood ones, there were those who loved the freedom that the white winged horses represented. One of those such Spades was the young woman who would eventually become the Queen of Hearts -- Carewyn Cromwell.

From the time she was a little girl, Carewyn had always been enamored with the idea of flight. She found peace looking out from the highest height she could whenever she most wanted to be alone, and her older brother Jacob -- who worked for the Jack of Spades, Duncan Ashe -- used to love treating Carewyn to rides in the royal zeppelin whenever he could wrangle it. The young redhead’s love of flight also extended to winged horses. Although growing up in a rather poor home had made it so she couldn’t afford to travel and thus had only ever learned how to ride mechanical horses, Carewyn loved the thought of one day riding a real horse, especially an Abraxan. She got her chance, surprisingly enough, the day that the Country of Spades’ university hosted an Abraxan Derby competition.

The Land of Clubs and the Country of Spades shared a border, and it couldn’t have been more stark. As soon as one left the perimeter of the trees of the Clubs’ northernmost forest, they would be immediately greeted by a wide-open, industrial landscape decked with high-rise buildings made of iron and glass. It was only this forest and these buildings that separated the grounds of the Land and Country’s respective universities...and it was to hopefully foster good relations between these two schools that this competition was held.

Carewyn herself wasn’t attending university yet -- she was still only a lass of fifteen, though a very capable one. She’d more than made an impression at the court of Spades, after all the times she’d gone to visit Jacob and his “boss,” the Jack of Spades. Some even suspected that the hard-to-please Ace of Spades wished to enlist Carewyn to work for her in some not-too-distant future, though Carewyn didn’t show any particular enthusiasm for the idea. Instead Carewyn chose to work as a shopgirl part-time, so as to help financially support her family. As soon as she was done with her classes, she’d immediately dash out to catch the trolley, putting on her best shoes and her nicest pair of gloves while riding to the general store, and then she’d quickly fix her short ponytail and give herself a quick look-over in the shop windows she passed on her way over. Once she’d arrived, she’d immediately get to work behind the counter, bustling about to help the store owner with his customers and setting out on foot to deliver packages of goods across town.

This day in particular, at the end of her shift, the store owner sent Carewyn southward to deliver some packages to the university dean’s house. It was an address Carewyn was used to visiting -- the dean had a wife and several daughters, all of whom he loved to spoil with gifts, so him ordering stylish new dresses, jewelry, and shoes was a regular occurrence. Carewyn tried not to feel too jealous when she saw the pretty pearl drop earrings one of the dean’s daughters took out of the smallest of the boxes: the only earrings Carewyn had been able to afford were the rusted, clumsily-carved, flower-shaped studs she was wearing now.

Once Carewyn had finished her final delivery, she set off on foot back uptown so she could take the streetcar home. Her way was halted, though, by the commotion in the streets.

During the first round of the university’s Abraxan Derby, a particularly nasty foul had resulted in one of the Land of Clubs’ horses getting badly spooked by some firecrackers in the Spades’ side of the stands and its rider getting thrown off his horse as it took off into the air. This very same Abraxan ended up just as spooked, however, when it flew right into the path of a zeppelin, weaved down right into the path of a very loud construction site, and then finally zipped right into the very loud incoming traffic of several dozen streetcars.

Alarmed by the sight of the poor, panicking creature, Carewyn pushed her way through the bewildered, wary bystanders, fearlessly rushing up toward the winged horse. Although truthfully she hadn’t known how to calm a real, living horse any better than anyone else around did, Carewyn tried her best, speaking to the white steed as calmly as she could.

“Easy now,” she whispered, taking off her black lace gloves as she approached, “easy...”

The horse flapped its wide wings as if to ward her and everyone else off, but Carewyn nonetheless stood her ground. Several law enforcement officers tried to intervene, whether by urging Carewyn “out of harm’s way” or to grab the horse’s reins, but their loud voices only served to make the Abraxan more nervous.

“Stay back!” Carewyn hissed at them under her breath.

She turned back to the Abraxan, keeping eye contact with him as she kept a respectful distance. The creature was not going to let any of them get any closer, even if they did want to help -- that much was obvious.

Carewyn racked her brain, trying to think of what to do. She had to calm the poor thing down...

The red-haired shopgirl took a very careful step forward. The Abraxan padded the ground anxiously, its eyes locked on her. Not entirely sure what made her do it, Carewyn offered the horse as brave of a smile as she could and started to sing to him.

“The pale moon was rising above the green mountain...

The sun was declining beneath the blue sea

When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain

That stands in the beautiful Vale of Tralee...

She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer,

Yet ‘twas not her beauty alone that won me --

Oh no, ‘twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning

That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee...”

It was a modest, old-fashioned melody -- a folk song, full of admiration. And perhaps because of the sweetness of Carewyn’s voice and the smile that made her voice and eyes sparkle, it held the Abraxan’s attention, making it focus on her enough that it slowly settled down. Finally Carewyn was able to get close enough to touch it, but she moved slowly, holding her hand out in mid-air a foot or so away from its nose for the horse to smell. At last the Abraxan blustered softly through its teeth and bridged the gap between them, bringing its soft, velvety nose up to her hand. Carewyn’s eyes shone like stars as she brought both of her hands gently along its snout and stroked its neck.

“Oh, you are beautiful, aren’t you?” she whispered. Trailing a hand along its back and wing made her wistful in a way she could hardly explain. “You poor, sweet creature...it must be so much louder here than you’re used to. It’s no wonder you’re so frightened...”

“Indeed.”

Carewyn looked up.

The crowd parted for a young dark-haired man only about a year so older than Carewyn to pass through. He was dressed all in loose-fitting, breezy green, and something similarly bright white walked alongside him. The young man’s Abraxan’s wings were folded up at its side as he led it through the crowd toward Carewyn.

“I’m afraid the stables and woods back home are remarkably quiet, in comparison to your city,” he said calmly.

His black eyes ran over Carewyn’s hands up onto the horse’s face and then back onto her with interest.

“...I must thank you for restoring some peace to her spirit.”

Carewyn blinked at the young man in surprise.

“...She’s yours, then,” she surmised.

“My teammate’s, yes,” said the green-dressed man.

Before he could say anything else, however, the traffic in the street seemed to reawaken. It seemed that now that the Abraxan wasn’t flying around like crazy, all of those people who’d been on their commute home or to work had lost their patience.

“Oi, can you take it outta here?!”

“Get outta the way, will ya?!”

“Move it already!”

The Abraxan started to neigh restlessly at the blaring horns and clanging bells, and Carewyn hurriedly tried to calm it by stroking its mane.

“You horrid people!” she scolded them. “Don’t you see you’re making it worse?”

“Clearly they don’t,” the man said very coolly.

Bringing a tanned hand through his own horse’s mane, he quickly leapt up onto its back and took hold of the reins.

“Can you ride, miss?”

Carewyn was taken aback. “...I know how to ride a horse, yes.”

A mechanical one, at least.

“Well, then,” the man said, undaunted, “best be off.”

With this, he took off into the air.

Carewyn glanced at the white Abraxan at her side and then up at the green-dressed man flying just over her.

Well, it really was the best way to get this poor thing back where she belonged, Carewyn supposed.

Despite her slight misgivings, she climbed up onto the winged horse’s back. Taking hold of its reins, she then took a deep breath.

“Let’s go, girl,” she whispered in the Abraxan’s ear.

She flicked the reins. The Abraxan reared back, its wings fully extended, making Carewyn’s heart slam against her ribcage as she clutched its neck harness for support -- and then, just as abruptly, the horse had taken off, soaring up into the air.

It was stunning. Oh, Heavens above, was it a thrill! To be so weightless and so above it all -- it was like pure, exhilarating freedom was coursing through her veins with the heat of hot iron!

Carewyn felt her face flushing with joy -- she felt like a child, uncaring that her hair had come loose of its usual ribbon or that it was flapping loose in her face. She didn’t care how she looked in that moment, or what anyone might say. In this moment, here -- she’d never been happier, in her memory.

The green-dressed man flew up alongside her, his soft black eyes and large white smile rather bright as he considered her.

“Your course is worth several rubies,” he said.

Carewyn glanced up at him questioningly.

“You are a very skilled rider,” he clarified himself. “You’d be an admirable opponent, or ally, were you to fly in the derby.”

Carewyn shook her head modestly. “Thank you...but I’ve only ever ridden mechanical horses, prior to today. I’m hardly experienced enough.”

“But does your inexperience not make your talent all the more remarkable?” the young man challenged her. “You bonded with your steed with nothing but heart and instinct, rather than tried-and-true knowledge or experience.”

“Yes, but if people were relying on me to help them succeed, I wouldn’t want them to choose me just with their hearts,” Carewyn said very firmly. “I’d want them to know I was the best choice, that I’d be the best I could be -- be everything they need me to be, and then some -- and that I’d do the best I could for them, too.”

The green-dressed man cocked his eyebrows. “It seems your standards for yourself are even higher than your flight trajectory.”

He soared around her in several graceful loops, his hands not even touching the reins. Carewyn watched him with admiration despite herself -- he was a very, very talented rider.

“Urge her up with a light tug to the reins,” the green-dressed man encouraged her. “Then lean to one side, pressing your foot up against her flank.”

Carewyn did so, and soon she was soaring up and over him. Her face brightened with a smile, and the green-dressed man grinned at her as they weaved back and forth.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Carewyn!” she cried over the wind. “Cromwell!”

He swept right up alongside her, their horses’ wings brushing up against each other’s.

“I am Orion!” he answered as he passed.

Orion came up and over Carewyn, completely upside down, before charging ahead.

“Are you a performer, Carewyn Cromwell?” he called back over his shoulder.

Carewyn flicked her reins, determined to catch up.

“No! I’m a shopgirl at Pique’s General Store. And a student -- though I hope to work in law someday -- ”

She came right up alongside him, so close that their shoulders touched.

“And what of you, Orion?” she asked him. “Are you a professional Abraxan Derby player? Or do you hope to be?”

Orion beamed. “I wish to fly free. That is all I dream and wish.”

Carewyn felt her smile widen, both empathetic and charmed despite herself.

“And to win your matches, I would think,” she said a bit more coolly.

“That wouldn’t hurt,” Orion said amusedly.

For the next half-hour, Carewyn rode alongside Orion, perfectly matching his speed even as he weaved up over and around her. At several points she even overtook him, dodging and soaring like a shooting star around him. Orion’s black eyes sparkled brightly as they flew together -- as brightly as Carewyn’s own blue eyes were, if any outside observer were to have taken notice.

At last, the two made it to the university, to where the rest of the Derby players were waiting. The next match was set to begin, and the Land of Clubs had been a little tense about how long their captain had been gone. Orion, however, soothed their concerns with relative ease, his smile and aura remarkably calm.

“A rider without his steed is akin to a shooting star pinned to the earth. Although yes, one could shine brightly while stationary, that star would lament being so locked in place, unable to fly across the sky.”

His eyes flitted over to Carewyn brushing her loose hair out of her face as she disembarked. As she did, she reacted with surprise as her hands ran over her ears and a flash of faint resignation rippled over her face.

Orion approached her, and Carewyn immediately put on a smile as she faced him.

“Well...” she said slowly, “I suppose I’d best be getting on. I hope your match goes well...with how good of a flier you are, I’m sure you’ll be brilliant...”

“You’re welcome to stay and watch,” Orion invited her.

Carewyn’s smile softened. “Thank you...but my brother will be getting off work soon -- he’ll be worried, if I’m not home when he gets there...”

She curled her loose hair behind her ears. Orion noted immediately that she was only wearing one flowery earring made out of crudely-shaped steel.

“Did you lose your earring?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Carewyn said offhandedly. “I suppose it must’ve come off, while I was riding. But it’s all right -- I’ll save up for a new pair.”

She extended a hand to Orion. He looked down at it, before gently taking and shaking it.

“My team and I owe you a debt, Carewyn Cromwell,” said Orion. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense!” huffed Carewyn. “Why, I only did what anyone would’ve done, in my place...”

She brought a gentle hand along the back of the Abraxan she’d ridden, and the winged mare brought her nose up to Carewyn’s cheek with an affectionate murr.

“Perhaps,” said Orion, “but you were ultimately the only one who did it.”

He inclined his head to her, his black eyes glinting with a touch of mischief as he smiled.

“I lament that we probably won’t meet again, unless by chance. But perhaps if you were to become a performer, as I supposed you might be, you might have more reason to travel to the Land of Clubs.”

Carewyn beamed. “Or maybe once I graduate university and have made my own way in the world, I’ll have more chance to go where I want. Then I can visit you, just as well as you can visit me.”

Orion’s eyes sparkled. “May we both chase that freedom.”

~*~

By the following night, Orion had already departed back to the Land of Clubs. That next week, though, Carewyn was startled to receive a tiny package in the mail, addressed from the Land of Clubs. Inside was a pair of sparkling emerald green earrings shaped like clubs and a very short note --

I hope these are a suitable replacement for the one you lost. As much as your talent in flying is worthy of rubies, I thought the stone of intuition better suited your aura. If nothing else, a green clover seems good company for the Rose of Tralee.

I sincerely hope our paths will cross again.

Fairfarren,

Orion Amari

Carewyn wore those earrings nearly every day from then on, taking exquisite care of them all the while. She even wore them after she moved to the Kingdom of Hearts and -- not long later -- became their Queen. By that point, Orion had likewise become King of Clubs: a role that Carewyn knew very well Orion would’ve likely never chosen for himself, however much he felt an obligation to his people, country, and allies to care and provide for them.

As much as the two royals had to perform on protocol, though, they still always enjoyed whenever they had the chance to collide again. At least then, for part of that time, they could chat, banter, and confide like ordinary people...as friends would...free of their duty and obligations, if only for just a little while.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #cardverse au #hphm cardverse #carewyn cromwell #orion amari #my writing #aesthetic #moodboard #yay queen of hearts and king of clubs!#yeah I kind of intend to leave their relationship vague in this universe #you can see it either romantically or not because really either way these two really respect and understand each other #I love giving these two a history with abraxans though because in my canon for them they both have abraxan patronuses!! ;~;#the rose of tralee is a traditional irish folk song that was popularized in the victorian era #so yeah -- its era fits the steampunk country of spades and its theme suits the woodsy land of clubs!#'pique' is what the french call the suit of spades :D

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varric-tethras-editor · 3 years

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Silvhen Mahariel OC Answers

I found this template by @justafewocprompts and decided to tell everyone about my Warden Silvhen Mahariel. It quickly got away from me and became.... quite long.

Please enjoy.

Character’s full name:

Silvhen Linise Mahariel

Reason or meaning of name:

Silvhen: sal’melin, given name, mean. Someone who thinks of others before herself, lit. “thought people, thought of people”

Linise: lenal’melin, Mother’s name, mean. Child of fire

Mahariel: lethal’melin, clan name

Character’s nickname:

“Silvhenan”

Reason for nickname:

Alistair Theirin thinks he is immensely cute and funny with his girlfriend. He learned that the Elvhen word for “heart” was vhenan and decided to get clever.

Birth date:

29 Kingsmere, 9:11 Dragon

Physical appearance:

Reference photos (will be eventually) provided

Age:

18 at the start of Fifth Blight

How old does he/she appear:

Representative of actual age, but is short and small.

Weight:

105

Height:

5’0

Body build:

Very small frame with surprising dense muscle in arms, abs, and thighs.

Shape of face:

Oval with petite chin

Eye color:

Forest green

Glasses or contacts:

N/a

Skin tone:

Porcelain with rosy, windswept cheeks

Distinguishing marks:

Mauve, brown twisting, vine-like vallaslin

Predominant features:

Petite, pointed ears

Hair color:

Light Wheat-Toned Blonde

Type of hair:

Fine but thick with silky texture

Hairstyle:

Short pixie cut

Voice:

Higher-pitched and chime-like.

Overall attractiveness: Decently attractive, but often overlooked. Figuratively, and literally. She’s small.

Physical disabilities:

Only has 7 toes. Lost three when she was 13 and on her (first) mission to move from apprentice to hunter. She claims this is the reason for her clumsiness but her companions have seen her slice through darkspawn too effectively to believe that excuse any longer.

Usual fashion of dress:

When exploring or wandering around she wears typical fennec leather or wolf leather leggings and cloth tunics cinched at the waist with belts; both for combat enhancement and because most clothes are too big. Foot wraps because she is a Good Dalish Girl.

Favorite outfit:

She wore a skirt for the first time this year when Leliana leant one to her for a tavern outing one night in Denerim. Despite knowing the vast impracticalities of skirts, Silvhen could not stop admiring how it twirled around her and she felt very pretty that night. (Especially when Alistair couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs and the blush off his cheeks.)

Jewelry or accessories:

Usually wearing various enhancing pendants and rings. Always wears a special silver ring that Morrigan found in a Denerim market and bought for her. Silvhen knows the importance of the gesture and never takes it off.

Personality

Very kind and selfless. Slow to anger and quick to compromise. Effervescent and clumsy. Loves to laugh and smile. She has a strong sense of community and prioritizes others, always.

Good personality traits:

Magnanimous, always sharing and giving to others. Very diplomatic even though it intimidates her to be a Grey Warden sometimes. Patient and quick to come up with solutions. Immensely friendly and welcoming to all people regardless of race, class, or background. Remembers absolutely everything about her friends (birthdays, preferences, favorite things, etc.) and loves being able to finally give gifts freely.

Bad personality traits:

Over-trusting, impulsive, bad at math and payment due to growing up with trading in her clan. She often gets taken advantage of by merchants if she is shopping alone. (Wynne has noticed this and usually tries to follow Silvhen around the markets to glare at any merchants who try any shady business.) She also likes to start a lot of projects/missions/quests and abandon them when she gets distracted. Oftentimes she is already looting the bodies before the fighting is over and her companions do not appreciate it. They usually overlook it, however, when Silvhen shares all the gold and goods that she finds.

Mood character is most often in:

Casual and agreeable.

Sense of humor:

Light sparkling laughs when others make jokes. Not loud or overly joking herself, but loves being entertained by her friends. (She thinks Zevran is the funniest of all her companions but would never admit that out loud to Alistair.)

Character’s greatest joy in life:

Meeting new people, from all walks of life. Especially all her new, interesting, and diverse companions!

Character’s greatest fear: Losing all her friends. And the Archdemon.

Why?

Her friends are the reason she perseveres and fights for a safe Fereldan and without them everything would be for nothing.

Have you seen that creature? It is huge and scary and Silvhen is very small.

What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil?

Well, she’s already lost her childhood best friend, had to forcibly become a Grey Warden, and learned that she is to be the saviour of all of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight so nothing else could probably really phase Silvhen at this point. Maybe if she woke up with nug arms it would be pretty difficult to use her daggers though…

Character is most at ease when:

Sitting around the campfire with her companions, drinking Oghren’s ale, listening to Leliana’s music and trying to hide her laughter when Morrigan and Zevran tease Alistair.

Most ill at ease when:

Having to deal with political leaders or nobles. She always remains kind but gets nervous about the consequences of her making a political or social gaffe.

Enraged when:

People belittle her and her race/culture or when people imply she cannot do something because she is an elf or a woman. This is the only time when her kindness slips, usually. All of her companions relish the moment that someone says a slur or offensive comment because they find it very entertaining to watch her tell off bigots.

Depressed or sad when:

She is alone. Being lonely makes her sad, but also she will usually only express her sadness when alone. She doesn’t want to risk making other people sad alongside her.

Priorities:

Beat up the Archdemon

Save Ferelden and her friends

Spend the rest of her life making Alistair Theirin know how loved he is

Life philosophy:

Be kind to everyone and everything. The world will repay what you provide, always.

If granted one wish, it would be: That she could travel with more than 3 of her companions at any given time.

Why?

She feels bad when her friends have to be left behind. She feels fortunate to see as many amazing places as she does and wishes she could always share that with ALL her companions!

Character’s soft spot:

Her companions.

Is this soft spot obvious to others?

Yes. She literally never shuts up about how much she adores her companions. She gets drunk in taverns after one mug of Ale and starts gushing to strangers about her love for her companions. Sometimes she doesn’t even need the mug of ale.

Greatest strength:

Her empathy and compassion.

Greatest vulnerability or weakness:

Her empathy and compassion.

Biggest regret:

Not being able to save Tamlen, and feeling like she gave up on him.

Minor regret:

Stealing her dad’s staff to “practice magic” in the forest when she was 6. She had never seen him scared before, and that was the night she learned about Templars.

Biggest accomplishment:

Becoming a Grey Warden and helping to save the people of Ferelden.

Minor accomplishment:

Winning the rock skipping contest at the last Arlathvhen. Of almost 200 Dalish contestants she bested everyone and won an ironbark dagger.

Past failures he/she would be embarrassed to have people know about:

It took her two tries to eventually move from apprentice to hunter. She attempted the first time right after turning 13. She finally succeeded when she was 15 and had worked on developing her patience further.

Why?

She was very gifted, but impulsive when she was young. She felt she had much to prove since her father was a mage (the clan’s First under Marethari Talas) and she was not. She was eager to prove herself and instead was very hurt. She ended up losing three toes in the end, instead of her whole foot, but was very embarrassed and felt she let down her Father. She tells everyone that she lost her toe in the second hunting excursion and doesn’t tell anyone about her first attempt.

Character’s darkest secret:

Silvhen desperately wishes that she would have been born a mage, like her late father.

Does anyone else know?

Not anymore, but she thinks that she might eventually confide this in Alistair. Tamlen was the only person she had ever told.

Goals

Drives and motivations:

Making the world a better and kinder place. Keeping people safe and making them feel loved.

Immediate goals:

Gather allies. Slay the Archdemon. Save Ferelden from the Blight. Find a place that serves authentic Dalish Hot Pot Stew.

Long term goals:

One day, once Fereldan is safe, she would like to settle down with Alistair and spend her entire future loving him and being loved in return. She also wants to be a mother, but keeps this dream a lot closer to her chest.

How the character plans to accomplish these goals:

With the help and support of her companions!

How other characters will be affected:

There will be lots of bruises and scrapes. Some broken bones and many gauges. Scars will form, but so will friendships.

Past

Hometown:

Nomadic Dalish

Type of childhood:

Raised by members of the community as well as her single father. Her mother passed at child birth, due to poor maternal mortality rates among the Dalish.

Pets:

Silvhen was given a Halla by her father after she lost her toes to help aid in her recovery. She named her Atisha, meaning peace or calm as a reminder that impulsivity would not yield positive results. Atisha has become positively enamored with Morrigan, much to her displeasure. Silvhen likes to say it’s because Morrigan wears so many shiny baubles, and that attracts Atisha to her. Morrigan scoffs at this, but Silvhen has caught Morrigan shape shifting and calmly wandering the forests with Atisha when no one at camp was paying attention.

First memory:

Her father performing magic tricks for her as a child in their aravel.

Most important childhood memory:

Becoming friends with Tamlen. He had fallen down on the outskirts of camp and scraped his knee and was afraid to tell his mother that he had snuck out of camp. Silvhen brought him home to her father who healed his knee with magic.

Why:

Tamlen was her best friend for her entire childhood. They grew up alongside one another because Tamlen’s mother was neglectful and abusive. Silvhen realized later that her father, by healing Tamlen’s knee, had saved him from a rough punishment. Tamlen was the person she confided everything in. They spent all of their time together, shared jokes and tears. When Tamlen’s mother passed away when they were 12 he was essentially raised by Dianisamhal, Silvhen’s father for the years until Dianisamhal died.

Childhood hero:

Her father

Dream job:

Keeper (impossible and secret due to her not being a mage)

Education:

Homeschooled in a sense. Given the traditional Dalish education which consisted of more lessons in culture and lore, hunting, survival skills, and clan trades. Was mostly illiterate until becoming a Grey Warden. Alistair helps her learn words that are more difficult by reading posters around markets.

Religion:

Taught extensively about Dalish and Elvhen lore and gods. The Creators were prayed to and honored while growing up in her clan.

Finances:

Living in the clan they didn’t have much of a class system or difference in wealth versus their neighbors.

Present

Current location:

Wherever her travels have taken her today. Anywhere in Ferelden at any given moment.

Currently living with:

Her companions! They all share tents while travelling but she usually tries to share with Alistair most nights because she gets very cold and she likes how big and warm and safe his body feels.

Pets:

Her halla, Atisha, and her Mabari, Doghren.

Religion:

Believes in the Dalish gods casually and culturally. Not exceedingly devout but does believe.

Occupation:

Grey Warden

Finances:

She is not to be trusted with any of the parties finances. She does not understand how the Thedosian currency operates and is consistently overcharged and overpays. She is also too kind for her own good so she is constantly giving coin to strangers and beggars. (The only time she did not give coin to a person asking was when dealing with Goldana, Alistair’s horrid sister. Silvhen wanted to give that lady nothing more than a swift slap to the face.) The others no longer trust her judgement or knowledge in money and make sure she never has more than 2 gold on her at any given moment, for emergencies.

Family

Mother:

Linise Aralla Mahariel (mean. Child of fire. [Linise was born in the Denerim Alienage during a fire that encompassed many of the buildings.]) (mean.

Relationship with her:

Passed during childbirth. Her father does not talk about her mother incredibly often but she cherishes the stories and information she does have from both him and from old journals of her mothers who was a writer and poet.

Father:

Dianisamahl Eolaselan Mahariel (mean. Filled with laughter.) (mean. Knower, an agent of knowledge.)

Relationship with him:

Silvhen loves her father very much and had a wonderful relationship with him. Unfortunately he was killed by bandits attacking the clan. Silvhen was 16 when this happened and was devastated.

Siblings:

None, only child.

Relationship with them:

N/A

Spouse:

None

Relationship with him/her:

N/A

Children:

None

Relationship with them:

N/A

Other important family members:

Tamlen was always considered a sort of family member for Silvhen. He spent most nights with Silvhen and her father eating dinner together and playing.

Favorites

Color:

Green

Least favorite color:

Red

Music:

Anything Leliana plays is immediately Silvhen’s new favorite song. You can find her gently humming them for a few days afterwards, without fail.

Food:

Growing up Dalish she never had a terribly diverse cuisine. Now that she travels all over Ferelden she tries new things, but still typically prefers to eat stews, jerky, and vegetables. However, she has grown to appreciate hot, sweet rolls that some bakeries make.

Literature:

She was mostly illiterate in common until joining the Grey Wardens. She used to read her father’s Elvhen magic manuals though, and found them very interesting. She also loved listening to the clan’s hah’ren tell stories to the children and often joined in the tellings.

Form of entertainment:

Her friends are where she derives much of her entertainment. They are all so diverse, humorous, and interesting! She really enjoys observing and people watching, and asking questions about others.

Expressions:

She doesn’t have many common phrases that she uses. Mostly lots of laughter.

Mode of transportation:

Walking, mostly.

Most prized possession:

The rose that Alistair gave her, and the journal/sketchbooks of her parents.

Habits

Hobbies:

Now that she is learning to read common better she has been enjoying reading various books. She still struggles with adult novels but she found few advanced children’s tales in a Denerim bookshop and reads them in the morning when her companions are still asleep. She also enjoys taking walks around nature and finding various flowers and leaves to pick and press. She keeps a journal of all her favorite flowers she has come across while exploring.

Plays a musical instrument?

No. And she cannot sing well either.

Plays a sport?

No. But she does hunt.

How he/she would spend a rainy day:

The same as any other day? There are still things that need to get done and water doesn’t stop that!

Spending habits:

We know how Silvhen is about this and we love her anyway.

Smokes:

Silvhen and Tamlen definitely would sneak away in their adolescent years to smoke various versions of elfroot and deep mushroom once in a while. Occasionally while walking through the forests in Southern Ferelden she spots the best kinds and brings them back to camp where she and Zevran stay up late and giggle with one another around the campfire.

Drinks:

Occasionally she will have a drink or two socially with her friends but cannot consume much due to her being so small and such an infrequent drinker. She does enjoy making out with Alistair while drunk though, so he often has to watch her while they go out to taverns together to make sure she behaves herself.

Other drugs:

She has concocted a mixture of various root powders to help with either energy or calmness. She uses thee as needed and gives servings to her companions as well. Wynne and Morrigan keep asking her for the recipe but she won’t share it with them.

What does he/she do too much of?

Overthink her decisions.

What does he/she do too little of?

Indulge in things for herself.

Extremely skilled at:

Hunting and using every part of an animal. She is quick and efficient with her kills. Then she creates wonderful stews and jerkys from the meats, she uses the bones for glue and crafts and to make beads. She uses the hides for leathers and clothing or armors. All of her companions seem thoroughly impressed by this trait but Sten especially so. After watching her do this ritual from start to finish one afternoon he called her “kadan” for the first time. She has never forgotten that moment.

Extremely unskilled at:

Cooking, except for her smoked jerky she makes from her hunts, which her companions adore. The rest of the meat she must give to Sten and Wynne who prepare most of the meals at camp.

Nervous tics:

When she is uncertain or anxious, and her hair has gotten too long she twirls the tiny pieces around the edges of her neck. She usually cuts it short for this reason, as well as practicality.

Usual body posture:

She almost always stands very straight because she is short, and slouching wouldn’t do any favors.

Mannerisms:

Very casual and breezy among her friends or common folk. More timid around leaders or nobles.

Peculiarities:

Her accent is quite prominent and it sounds odd but endearing with her higher pitched voice.

Traits

Optimist or pessimist?

Optimist

Introvert or extrovert?

She gets her energy from being around people but isn’t always outwardly exuberant. She laughs along and joins in the conversation but isn’t the center of attention or the loudest in a room.

Daredevil or cautious?

As a child she was impulsive, but learned patience with age and practice.

Logical or emotional?

Logical

Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat?

Methodical and neat.

Prefers working or relaxing?

Working.

Confident or unsure of himself/herself?

Quietly confident. She is a little worried about how she will face the archdemon, but knows that she has friends and allies to help her.

Animal lover?

Yes

Self-perception

How he/she feels about himself/herself:

She is generally pleased with the person that she is, however she doesn’t feel as though she’s done anything truly “great” in her life so far to make her mark on the world. She’s eternally grateful to Duncan for not only saving her life but also for giving her the opportunity to achieve that greatness.

One word the character would use to describe self:

Considerate

One paragraph description of how the character would describe self:

A Dalish elf who travels with those she loves and tries to do the best for others. Loves the nature that surrounds us and the people that inhabit it. Wants to make the world a better place through kindness, compromise, and laughter.

What does the character consider his/her best personality trait?

Her patience

What does the character consider his/her worst personality trait?

Naivety

What does the character consider his/her best physical characteristic?

Her smile and lips.

What does the character consider his/her worst physical characteristic?

Her ears, but simply because she thinks they are too small. Other elvhen children used to tease her and call her a “shem” because her ears were smaller and less pointed, so to compensate when she turned of age she chose a very deliberate and bold Vallaslin to ensure that everyone she met would immediately know she was an elf.

How do the people in the character's life view him/her:

The literal most kind person they’re ever met. Alistair sometimes secretly believes she might be divinely blessed because he has never in his whole life met someone so kind and considerate and patient and Maker’s breath how did he get so lucky to be cared about by someone like her he’s no one special-- *Silvhen kisses him to shut him up*

What would the character most like to change about himself/herself:

She would like to have a better understanding of the world outside of life lived in a Dalish clan. She loved her upbringing but sometimes she feels overwhelmed and insecure as a result of things like money, politics, and street smarts.

Relationships with others

Opinion of other people in general:

She thinks people are the most beautiful things about the world. Growing up Dalish she loved the land but she’s always had a fascination with people. She finds other races and cultures interesting and enlightening and enjoys hearing tales from all over Thedas.

Does the character hide his/her true opinions and emotions from others?

Not usually. She prefers to be sad while alone, however.

Person character most hates:

Goldana, Loghain, and (secretly) Isolde and Eamon. Basically, any human who has ever wronged Alistair.

Best friend(s):

Tamlen (childhood through start of blight)

Alistair, and Leliana now.

Love interest(s):

Alistair Theirin <3

Person character goes to for advice:

When she wants validation she goes to Leliana. When she wants tough love she goes to Wynne. When she wants to get the truth fast and dirty she goes to Zevran. (Or when it’s about sex she goes to Zevran.)

Person character feels responsible for or takes care of:

Herself. Her pets. Alistair, in an emotional sense.

Person character feels shy or awkward around:

Politicians and Nobles.

Person character openly admires:

Alistair, Alistair, and Alistair. Also, Leliana.

Person character secretly admires:

Wynne and Morrigan. Silvhen sees Wynne as a sort of Mother figure that she never quite had. Silvhen thinks Morrigan is the most fascinating human she has ever met but usually doesn’t bring this up because she knows Alistair doesn’t care for her and that her fascination would make Morrigan uncomfortable.

Most important person in character’s life before story starts:

Her Father and Tamlen.

After story starts:

Alistair, and all of her companions.

#silvhen #mahariel #dragon age #dragon age origins #dao #my ocs #oc prompts #oc answers #TELL ME WHAT U LUV ABT MY OC PLS SHE WANTS VALIDATION #silvhen mahariel

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apinklion01 · 3 years

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I thought of several headcanons for each element's egg for Flight Rising, feel free to add to them or use them with credit to me :D Earth eggs: Start out without any cracks, but slowly erode making it appear to be a rock from the area its in. most of them appear to be a sedimentary rock. A few can show igneous rocks, which often leads to confusion with fire eggs. When an egg is close to hatching, patches of the stony outside begin to fall off, showing a smooth eggshell that sparkles like minerals. Most dragons prefer to keep them to remember their hatchling's birth, and string them into necklaces. Wind eggs: When laid, the egg starts out with a singular swirl at the top. Over the following days, more swirls appear, giving it the illusion of them moving. the eggs are the thinnest out of the elements, and will move when there's an outside sound. When the egg is close to hatching, the swirls will start to thicken and then thin out, depending on when the hatchling is resting from its attempts to break free. Fire eggs: The eggs are laid near a hot lava surface, but are gradually pushed inside. Depending on what kind of lava it is, the resulting hatchling will have a certain heat tolerance. Putting it in magma is considered rather dangerous for both the parents and the hatchling, as they may not be able to survive without air. A lack of warmth or too much may cause the egg to rot. When they hatch, the rocky surface, covered in igneous rock, starts to crack, showing a fiery embryotic liquid inside the egg. Steam may hiss out, so new parents are advised to keep a small distance in case of flying hot eggshell pieces. Water eggs: Though commonly laid in salt water, it is possible to lay them in fresh water, as well as estuaries, or where both salt and fresh water meet, though this is quite rare. The resulting hatchling will have a tolerance for the water its laid in. salt water eggs only grow coral if they're laid in coral reefs. Most of the time the eggs are surrounded in barnacles. fresh water eggs are covered in algae or other sorts of material. When the egg hatches, it leaks bubbles, and a a result, parents are advised to keep a constant eye on their hatchling and take it to the surface for it to breath air in case they don't develop their water magic fast enough. Eggs are to be kept underwater for the majority of the incubation. If a storm causes the egg to drift ashore, the egg may not survive, and will rot. Ice eggs: Laid most commonly on tundra fields or nearby forests. parents are advised to avoid permafrost areas as the egg may develop a hard icy outside layer. The highest egg rot rates often occur from this mistake. An egg that does survive in a permafrost nest will be very tolerable to the cold, but will never be able to survive in warm or hot climates. Ice eggs may have different colors depending on the surrounding ice, but all must be kept cold. If they're placed in a warm environment, the eggshell will melt, and the hatchling inside may not survive or if not developed, will rot. Shadow eggs: Mostly laid in marshy areas or swamps, though a few have been known to be laid in a meadow or a field. Parents often cover them up in grass or moss to prevent other dragons from stealing them, though the nest may still be discovered since bioluminescent plants or fungi tend to grow near the eggs. The eggs start to glow brightly near hatching. There's a superstition that eggs born on moonless nights will have strong shadow powers, and those born in the day have the weakest powers, though this hasn't been proven nor disproven. Light eggs: The brightest and shiniest of all the eggs. Most parents lay them in nice fields or areas where the sun shines. They must be kept at an even temperature, though rarely will they be moved to the shade. Some clans sell the egg fragments as makeshift jewelry, though the majority will be eaten by the hatchling. A light egg hatchling in a total eclipse is seen as bad luck, but one born at the end of an eclipse is seen as good luck. Light eggs born at night are gifted with being able to see in the darkness, though there's also caution against one being born in a blood moon... Lightning eggs: Though also bright, rarely will they outshine light eggs. Most are kept in high places where lightning has struck, and parents consider it a blessing if an egg hatches in a storm. Their nests are mostly guarded by cacti or prickly bushes, though the parents will abandon the nest and create a more friendlier one upon the hatchling's birth. Some dragons place wires to attract lightning to the nest, however this practice is dangerous as it can cause fires, and harm the small hatchling. Nature eggs: start out as a seed from a tree in the area, though most commonly a coconut of all things. A sprout slowly grows, and when the egg hatches, a tree or similar plant will continue to grow from where it was laid. While an egg, its treated like a plant, given plenty of sunshine, a bit of water, and always kept in healthy dirt areas. Parents are hopeful if an egg hatches during a light rainstorm or a sun shower, as they might have stronger nature magic. However other creatures may mistaken the egg for a plant, so they'll resort to hiding them under a spiky bramble cover. The bramble cover is removed once the eggs begin to hatch, signified by the eggshell splitting open with roots. Plague eggs: Though translucent, the egg has a shell that appears to be like a snake egg. The eggs are meant to be kept in humid locations, though more often than not they'll be introduced to a puddle that'll contain diseases in the hopes they'll gain immunities. The eggs are kept in rotten carcasses to scare off any intruders or egg stealers, though the inside is often covered in any vegetation available. When born, the egg will release an unusual smell that isn't unpleasant. Parents are advised to prevent their hatchling from eating their eggshells, which are promptly thrown away into a fire. Arcane eggs: Unlike the other eggs, these ones float upon being laid due to the arcane area having an unusual gravity. The eggs sometimes make an unusual echo that most believe to be the hatchling's voice. Parents often make sure the eggs are placed into a small hollow cavern to prevent the wind from blowing them away. Some may even place spells to ground the eggs if they feel unsteady or are first time parents. Eggs will start to rotate near hatching, and when the hatchling escapes the egg, it'll create a small firecracker sound, and the hatchling will fall gently into the nest, covered in soft moss and vegetation, or sometimes into a parent's claws.

#flight rising #[[ thought of this after making the nature egg headcanon ]]#[[ and the rest followed afterwards ]]

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shepherd-of-the-stars · 4 years

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Quest of a Prince Ch. 2

Updating a fic after 2 years? More likely than you think. Also the first chapter has finally been edited and I am embarrassed to say that I made like 20 spelling mistakes. Oops.

Also I forgot to explain in the first chapter but Volkhvy (singular, volkhv) are pagan priests, the spiritual leaders of the Slavic people.

Word count: 5,815

Summary: Before an heir can take the throne, a quest is bestowed on them from the Goddess of Fate. If they complete it, they will be considered blessed by the gods and rule gloriously. Prince Ivan's quest is to journey into the Frozen Sea to the Forest of Ice. There, he will find a beautiful creature that lives in the deep that will give him a treasure greater than gold. Kingdom AU. Merman!Alfred and Prince!Ivan

Chapter summary: The creature they seek is found. But can he give them what they need?

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Also avaliable on ao3 and FFnet

Chapter 2: Beauty

The first thing Ivan felt was heat. It wasn’t warmth like basking in the sun, but heat like a dragon had breathed its fire into his body and scorched him from the inside. His body lurched as he vomited and coughed out the water from his lungs, staining the crystal clear water right below his face.

His vision was blurry, and his memory just as much. The thoughts in his head flowed like thick mud, but slowly, pieces of his memory returned. He could feel the hardness of wood under his hands and the gentle rocking of his rowboat. Or perhaps that was just his head swaying from dizziness. He remembered the water. He remembered drowning. But something had saved him when he had already accepted his fate.

Something glinted in the candlelight beside him making him turn his head, but his entire body froze when he locked eyes with the creature staring right back. Those same blue eyes that he saw before he had been dragged into the deep waters were locked on his. He didn’t dare blink, fearing that if he did, his dream would end and the creature would vanish into thin air.

Without the veil of water altering his view of the creature, Ivan found that it was not as beautiful as he once thought. Its eyes were a dull blue, hair the color of sand, and a face that placed him at an age perhaps a year below Ivan. It seemed to be male and was decorated with jewels in a fashion that, to Ivan, looked like a child who had ransacked their mother’s entire collection and thrown it on themselves. There was no order, no coordination, just accessories worn on his body for no other reason than to just have them on.

“Beautiful” was the word he had used just moments before to describe this creature, but now, after seeing him in the dim light, the new word that came to his mind was “ordinary.” The only thing beautiful about him was his tail. From the waist down, he had the tail of a fish with scales the color of his eyes lined with gold on the rounded edges. Was this really the creature he was looking for? The Goddess had described them as a creature more beautiful than he could imagine, but as he was looking at the face of the creature in front of him, Ivan felt like this wasn’t the creature he was seeking.

Regardless of what he thought, this creature was still one of myth. “Merfolk,” they were called. They were shy and fast with the only recorded encounters being sightings of them basking on rocks, or the echoes of their voices traveling across the open ocean. Their voices hold magic and they’re rumored to be so beautiful that just one sighting will poison a human’s mind and lead them to a watery death. Perhaps Ivan was just not one to appreciate beauty. Or maybe he was just too tired to see it.

“My thanks to you for saving me,” he finally spoke, his voice raspy. The creature responded with a nod so small that Ivan wondered if he had imagined it. Did this creature even understand him? “Are you the creature of the deep?” he asked, praying that the creature had the gift of tongues. Most mythical creatures did. Or at least, they’re said to. Ivan’s never encountered one before.

He made a face that Ivan recognized as confusion, and in those few seconds, Ivan was left to wonder if that confusion stemmed from not knowing what was said, or from not knowing how to answer. The creature began looking around as if trying to see if Ivan’s question had been directed at someone else. But when he saw no one, he returned his gaze to Ivan and wrinkled his nose in thought.

“I am a creature… and I live in the deep…” He spoke the words slowly as if he was unsure of himself. His voice was soft and sounded so human-like that if Ivan closed his eyes, he would not have been able to tell the difference between a man and this mythical being. Ivan’s doubt continued to grow, but this was the only intelligent creature, besides his crew, that he had encountered in almost two months, so he had to try.

He straightened himself and smoothed out his soaked clothes until he was, at least, moderately presentable. “I am Ivan Braginsky, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Rusnia,” he spoke in a proud voice, only a slight tremor from the cold, “I am on a quest to retrieve the greatest treasure of the Frozen Sea, hidden in the Forest of Ice. I am to bring this treasure back to the Goddess, and only then will I be deemed worthy to rule.” When he finished, he stared back at the creature’s face of stone.

“Why should I give it to you?”

The answer made Ivan choke. How could this creature be so blunt? Did he not for a second consider it? “Well- Because I am the future king!”

“In a land I don’t live in.” The creature scuffed and crossed his arms. “I have a king, too. I obey him, not you.”

Oh the arrogance! It made Ivan want to strangle him. His patience had already been drawn thin from endless days of searching, and now this creature wanted to be difficult and bratty? “Seeing that this sea is part of my kingdom, I demand that-” He stopped short when the creature grabbed on to the edge of the boat and leaned forward as if preparing to leap. On his face was an expression of disapproval, a face that said “if I don’t like your words, I don’t have to tolerate them. I’ll just go and you can do nothing to stop me.”

So with a deep breath, Ivan swallowed down his words and smiled with gritted teeth. He took a moment to recollect himself and, hopefully, restart their conversation. This quest was not meant to be easy. It was a test of his being, and it seemed that right now, it was his patience that was being tested.

“What is your name?” he finally asked. “I have given you mine. It would only be fair for you to give me yours, yes?”

There was a long moment of silence as Ivan waited for the creature’s answer. He seemed to be thinking about what Ivan had said while also considering the fact that just moments ago, Ivan demanded that he give up the sea’s greatest treasure. His bottom lip jutted out in thought in a way that Ivan thought was childish. Then at last, he gave an answer.

“Alfred,” he said, his grip on the edge of the boat relaxing just the slightest. “You may call me Alfred.” With how long he had taken to answer, Ivan questioned if the name he was given was his real name, or if he had chosen one that was human enough for Ivan to pronounce.

“Alfred,” Ivan repeated. “Well, Alfred. As the Prince of Rusnia, I humbly request that you offer me your greatest treasure. In return, I give you my word that I will grant you anything you-”

“I want to be the king of your kingdom,” he interrupted with a smirk.

“Anything,” Ivan continued, “within reason.”

“I believe my request is very reasonable.”

Ivan watched as Alfred leaned on the other side of the boat as if he were lounging on pillows in bed. Surely this couldn’t be the creature the Goddess spoke of? How could a figure of such importance be so... haughty?

“My kingdom is very wealthy,” he went on, trying to go back to what he had been saying before Alfred had cut in, “if it is a chest full of jewelry or gold you desire, I will be able to provide.”

“I don’t need them.” Taking his eyes off Ivan, he gestured to the jewels decorating his slender body. “I collect these from the vessels that die here. I have plenty. They mean nothing to me. Just trinkets for my entertainment.”

“Then why did you take my rings and my crown?”

“I took your rings because I was bored and there’s nothing to entertain me ‘cept the fishes.” He propped his head under his hand and looked at Ivan with a bored expression. “As for your crown, I didn’t take it. It simply fell off when you were in the water.” Reaching behind himself, he grabbed the silver circlet and inspected it in his clawed nails.

“Here.” He tossed it to Ivan so carelessly that the prince almost dropped it back into the water trying to catch it. “Have it back. It’s not pretty enough so I don’t want it.”

“It is not meant to be pretty,” he said with a huff as he placed the crown back onto his head with numb fingers, “This crown is to signify my status as the Crown Prince.”

“So you’re telling me that if I were to wear it, I would become the crown prince?” The glint in his eyes made Ivan put his hands on top of his head to keep Alfred from possibly snatching his crown.

“No! That is not how it works. There is a ceremony, there are vows and speeches, and you need to be born of royal blood for any of that to happen.”

The last part had made Alfred snicker as he covered his mouth with his webbed hands. “Royal blood. Royal blood does not exist! Unless the blood you bleed is made of liquid gold, or can heal the sick with it, your blood is the same as any other human’s blood. In the end, you all meet the same mortal fate. Saying you have royal blood is just to make you feel better about yourself and put yourself above others. ‘Royal blood’ is just a title for those who end up on top. And when you lose that title, you’re nothing but a commoner. Do not talk to me about royal blood. You are not my king.”

The mood had shifted. Alfred’s eyes glared down at the waters and his prideful voice lowered almost to a whisper as he neared the end of his speech. Something flashed in his eyes that looked almost like pain, but it had come and gone so quickly, Ivan thought he had been fooled by the flickering candlelight.

The prince knew Alfred was right in everything he said. Ivan had done nothing to deserve his title as prince, and if he were given the choice to give it up, he would take it. But the truth of the matter was that he would never be given that choice. It was his fate to be king, and by the Gods he was going to use his title right.

He waited until he was sure Alfred was done before he continued to speak, this time lowering his voice to be level with him. The prince spoke to him, not as a royal, but as a human. “I know I am not your king, but this quest means everything to me. If you would allow it, I would like to request an audience with your king since you will not reason with me.”

Alfred finally turned his head away from the water and looked Ivan up and down with disdain. “That won’t happen. He is busy.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know!” He had cut Ivan off before he had the chance to finish his question and returned his gaze to the waters.

Ivan remained calm the entire time. He recalled his teachings, telling him that ruling using emotion is no way to rule. Emotions cloud judgement. Good judgement can only be made when the heart is calm and the mind is clear.

“Alfred, you are my only hope.” Ivan held his hands out to Alfred, palms facing the ceiling of the cave in a gesture of respect. “If I do not complete this quest, I cannot rightfully become king. I need to become king to fix my father’s mistakes. He was a terrible and unjust king and I hope to repair the damage he has done. But it is not something I can do without your aid.

“Please,” his hands still trembled from the cold. If he did not return to his ship and change out of his wet clothes soon, this conversation with Alfred would be his last. “As prince and future king, I am begging you.”

For the first time since their conversation had begun, Alfred looked at Ivan with a face that wasn’t scornful or taunting. He looked at Ivan as if he had finally registered the importance of Ivan’s quest, and perhaps considered giving him what he needed to complete it. But that look only lasted a few moments. Once Alfred’s eyes landed on Ivan’s shaking hands, his face turned to one of concern.

“I believe there are more important things for you to worry about right now.” And before Ivan could stop him, Alfred gave himself a push and slipped back into the dark water. Gone.

It was like his entire world had crashed down, crushing him under the weight. Without his hope, he felt like he had been struck with a battle ram and thrust back into cruel reality. Alfred had denied him, and there was nothing that he could do.

He tried and failed to close his hands into fists, joints aching from the bitter cold, so he slowly pulled them under his cloak in an attempt to return their functionality. His whole body shook as it tried to provide the heat he needed to survive, and with his hands so stiff they couldn’t close, he had no hope of grabbing on to the oars.

“My Goddess,” he closed his eyes, “if you are merciful, I pray that you will allow me to pass this trial.” His voice was barely above a whisper, the heat of his breath making clouds slip from his lips.

Then, as if his prayers were answered, his boat lurched backwards, moving towards the way he came. Words of gratitude were sent up to the heavens, but the soft sound of splashing interrupted his peace.

Leaning his body to the side, he looked to the bow of the boat and realized that his vessel was not being moved by Her will. It was being pushed by something of this world. A head of yellow popped out of the water and smiled at him as Ivan stared in confusion.

“Alfred? But… why?”

Alfred rolled his eyes with a snort. “A dead king can’t rule a kingdom. I’m going to return to your ship so you don’t die. It would also give me time to think about my wish.”

“So you will consider my offer?”

“How about you worry over yourself first, Prince Ivan? Now sit still.”

Warmth and hope blossomed in Ivan’s chest, sending a chill through his body strong enough to make him jolt. But for Alfred, and for his kingdom, he did as the merman instructed. He sat still and allowed Alfred to push him all the way back to the ship, weaving through the caverns like he knew every path better than he knew his own name.

Then it hit him: Alfred knew all along. He wasn’t sure for how long, but Alfred knew that Ivan and his crew were here and had only now decided to show his face. How long had he been watching them? If Ivan had never fallen into the water, would he have stayed hidden forever? Ivan had opened his mouth to confront him about it, but when he saw the determined look on Alfred’s face, he pressed his lips together and held his words inside.

Alfred revealing himself to Ivan was something he saw as a blessing. Alfred saving him when he could have let him drown was another. Alfred spoke his language, was considering his request, and was helping Ivan back to his ship when his hands couldn’t move. Those too were seen as blessings. For a brief moment, Ivan wondered that with so many blessings, when would his luck eventually run out?

But he shook his head softly to dismiss the thought. All of it was fate. Every step had already been planned out and all he had to do was move forward. Or in this case, he had to move backwards. With his back turned towards their path, it was up to Alfred to bring them back to the ship. He trusted Alfred not to push him into a cave with no exits, or over the side of a waterfall. He trusted him enough to let his eyes slip close, the quiet splash of the water against his boat sounding like a lullaby to his freezing mind.

"Hey!" Giving a firm shove, Alfred made the boat lurch with such force that Ivan had almost fallen over face first. "Don't sleep." With a hard glare, he pushed the rowboat a little faster. Worry wrinkled his brow and his haste to get back to the ship made him bump and scrape against the cavern walls. Ivan had found it to be somewhat endearing. It almost seemed like Alfred cared about his wellbeing. But Ivan reasoned with himself that the merman was only keeping him alive to be able to fulfil his wish.

Soon enough, the sounds of chatting and clanging metal reached their ears. The stone walls around them grew taller until light from the sun burst through. Disregarding his aching, burning muscles, Ivan forced his body to sit up straight and proud with only the slightest look of pain and fatigue gracing his face. One by one, his crew turned to them, but only when they saw the creature pushing the boat did they come running forward to the edge of the water.

"Your Highness, is that the creature?"

"Did you find it, Your Highness?"

"Where is the treasure?"

The ones who had rushed forward ignored Ivan to be the first to lay their eyes on the creature that had eluded them for almost two months. But a few of the humans pushed the others out of the way to get to the prince. "Your Highness, you're drenched! What happened? You're turning blue! Will you move?" The second question was directed at the men who cared more about Alfred than they cared about their prince. With them crowding around him, they couldn't help him back to the ship.

Their disregard for Ivan's safety had angered Alfred so much that he slipped back under the water and lifted the rowboat right out of it, holding it above his head. Ivan gasped and held on to the sides for dear life as he watched his crew jump back several feet from the water's edge. But instead of tossing him like everyone had expected, Alfred had set the boat down gently on the ledge, pushing it towards the ones who wanted to help.

"He fell into the water. It was an accident," Alfred lied. The crew fell silent hearing him speak and no one dared to even move. "What are you all? Stone? Your prince is dying and you lot just stand around and gawk!" His fist slammed down on the rock, forming small cracks and making the crew leap back another step.

Two men, who looked lankier and less brutish than the others, glanced at one another before rushing forward to grab their prince. They looked at Alfred with a hint of fear in their eyes, so Alfred moved further into the water to show that he wouldn't attack. Alfred watched with worry as they helped Ivan out of the boat. Ivan’s legs almost gave out under him when he stepped off, but the servants served as his crutches.

Alfred's eyes followed them, stalked them, watched as they helped Ivan up the ramp onto the ship. Even when they had gone inside Ivan's cabin, Alfred circled around the hull of the ship to see if there was a way he could see inside. He was like a fly outside a glass window, fingers touching the hard wood of the ship as if the hull would magically open up and let him in. But it never did, leaving Alfred to swim around and around, his head occasionally poking above the water to see what was going on.

He was well aware the crew was watching him, but he didn’t seem to care. All he cared about was Ivan’s safety. It’s been ages since he had spoken to anyone, and Ivan was just too much fun to lose.

It felt like hours had passed since Ivan was ushered inside, but had only been mere minutes. Then at last, one of the servants who had helped Ivan onto the ship came down the ramp and locked eyes with Alfred. The merman swam closer to hear the news, his arms resting on the rocky ledge. He waited as the fidgety servant took steps forward and back, clearly still scared of Alfred. Even when he stepped forward, he was still tugging on his short, blond hair.

“Are you,” the servant paused to clear his throat, “are you the one called Alfred? I-I mean, ha, you are the only Merfolk here. Who else would be called Alfred. Prince Ivan had-”

“How is he?”

The servant squeaked and began fiddling with his clothes like he had done with his hair. “Um. Prince Ivan is well. All thanks to you. He has changed into warmer clothes and is regaining the heat in his body. He told me to come out and give you his thanks.”

“And to make sure I haven’t left?”

“I-...” He glanced over at the ship as if asking Ivan for the answer. “Y-... yes…”

“Assure him that I will not leave just yet. I believe I have figured out what it is I want, so he won’t be getting rid of me that easily.” With a smirk, Alfred lifted himself up and sat down on the ledge with his tail partially in the water. “But do tell him to hurry. I am impatient.”

The look Alfred gave the servant made him nod vigorously before sprinting back to the ship so quickly he had almost tripped over his own shoes. Alfred laughed under his breath at the clumsiness. It had been so long since he had company and he had forgotten how fun it was to mess with people. Speaking of, it seemed the rest of the crew had built up the courage to come a little closer. Alfred watched them as the eight men whispered between themselves, then one man gave a huff and pushed them aside.

From the way he looked, Alfred assumed this man was a class above the others. His blond hair was neater, his clothes were not torn, and his chest puffed like a walrus as he came forward to Alfred. Not that any of those things held his attention for long. His eyes would not stop staring at the man’s eyebrows. They were well kept, but they were so thick and dark that Alfred had trouble looking away.

“Oi. You can understand us, right?” he asked as he squatted down an arm’s length away from Alfred.

The merman didn’t respond immediately. His gaze moved from the man in front of him to the ones crowded around in the back, then back to the man with the odd eyebrows.

“No,” he lied, then looked away from him, “I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.” He had to keep himself from smiling as he swayed his tail left and right, making small ripples in the water.

At his answer, the man chuckled and shook his head in an unbelieving way. “Creature’s got humor, lads!” he called back to his crew, “Raivis had called you ‘Alfred,’ right? Is that your name?”

“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't.” He flicked his tail with a bored look on his face, the motion making the sunlight glint against his shimmering scales and the jewelry decorating it. From the side of his eye, he saw the man waddle closer before sitting next to Alfred with his legs folded.

“Charming. I like that. Name’s Arthur, but the others call me Captain.” He held out his hand for Alfred to shake, but when Alfred had only given the hand a glance, he retracted it and put it back on his lap. “So, Alfred, how have you come to acquire those? If my eyes don't fool me, I can confidently say that the chaplet you wear on your head is the one named Tears of Fire which belonged to Lord Adrian’s daughter. Do you know what happened to her?”

Alfred didn’t like the look on his face. It made him feel like he was walking into a trap. “Why should I know your human friends?” Reaching up, he took the piece off his head and admired it for just a second. It was beautiful, but simple, and just like its name, the tear-shaped rubies that hung down from the main loop made it look like he was crying fiery tears.

“She was lost at sea,” Arthur told him, “Lady Hanna was an offering to our previous king from a land across the waters. She was meant to be his concubine, but she never made it to our kingdom. That chaplet was given to her as a wedding gift.”

Arthur had barely finished his story when Alfred had tossed the piece at him. “Seems like she would rather die than be under him.” Arthur’s expression when Alfred said that proved Ivan’s words from before to be true. Even without saying a word, Alfred could tell that Arthur had thought the same. The previous king truly was a horrible man.

“You’re lucky none of us were loyal to that cockstain, otherwise, magical being or not, you would have been beheaded.”

“Shame to the old king,” one of the men in the back muttered, then spit on the ground. A few men followed behind him, all muttering various insults and laughing as they grew more and more vulgar. But Alfred didn’t laugh, he looked disappointed.

“I didn’t know humans were so disrespectful towards their king, dead or alive.”

“Not all our kings, lad. Just this one. The whole kingdom is lucky he was a deadbeat father. ‘Cause of that, our prince is nothing like ‘im.” He bowed his head to the ship making Alfred wonder if Ivan had come out. But when he looked and saw no one, he turned back to Arthur. “Wouldn’t be here risking his life if he was. The lad has so much to prove, not just to the people, but to himself, most of all.”

Everyone was silent after that: some out of respect, some out of pity, and some who weren’t brave enough to say what they thought in their heart.

(-w-)

As the sun fell, the men began to return to the ship to resume their duties. But for hours, they had crowded around Alfred and flooded his ears with tales, some true and some legend. They let him experience a land he could never reach and opened his eyes to their world. Some tales had made him bend over in laughter, and some made him clutch his heart in admiration.

They were a good group of men, he realized. Even though they were boorish and coarse, they were friendly and offered good company. But now, Alfred sat alone with his back against a boulder while the men were inside the ship having supper. Ivan’s servant, Raivis, had told them that Ivan was well and resting, so Alfred had no reason to hope that he would come out to speak to him any time soon.

He had almost dozed off as he basked in the warmth of the bonfire beside him when the sound of footsteps brought him out of his sleepy state. To his surprise, Ivan and three of his servants were making their way down the ramp towards him. One was helping Ivan walk with a basket on her arm, and the other two each carried a crate.

Now that he wasn’t drenched in icy water, he looked neater than what Alfred had observed before. His heavy, fur cloak kept most of his outfit hidden, but when Ivan moved his arms, it gave Alfred a glimpse of the plain but finely crafted clothes he wore underneath. While his crown and his clothes made him look royal, to Alfred, he just didn’t seem like a prince. He seemed like a normal person.

“You are still here,” Ivan stated when he was close enough for Alfred to hear.

Alfred’s face broke into a smile as he stretched lazily and groaned. “As if I’d dare leave, Your Highness. What have you got there?”

“Our dinner.”

Alfred’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Our dinner?”

Ivan nodded and sat down next to Alfred as the crates were opened up and food was set out. Alfred had expected it to be served only to the two of them, but enough plates were set out for five. Once the crates were emptied, they were flipped over and used as makeshift tables.

“Shouldn't a prince like you be eating alone in his warm, comfortable cabin?” Alfred said it in a tone that was almost like he was mocking him. But Ivan didn’t take offense, he simply chuckled and shook his head.

“I prefer not to eat alone. Without company, the food turns bitter.” Ivan’s smile was soft and genuine, making warmth grow in Alfred’s chest.

More and more, Ivan’s image as a prince began to fade, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to say that it was a bad thing. Ivan wasn’t the type of prince to put himself above the others. Even now, he sat on the cold ground with Alfred and the servants as if they were the same class. He shared his food with them, laughed at their stories, and told some of his own.

Some time later, more of his crew came and crowded around them. All were eager to hear how Ivan had found Alfred, waiting for a glorious tale. But Ivan didn’t change the story; he told the entire truth. He told them how he was a fool thinking he could catch Alfred with his bare hands, and how Alfred had toyed with him like he was an idiot. Never in his life did Alfred expect a prince to label himself as a fool or an idiot, and here Ivan was labeling himself as both.

Ivan had turned to Alfred and told him, “I was fortunate that he decided to save me. If not, then…” His eyes seemed lost in thought, but his stiff smile stayed on his face.

To break the silence, the crew offered words of gratitude to Alfred for saving their prince. Some had pat him on the shoulder, and some bowed to him in a show of respect. To Alfred, it was just bizarre. He had once thought that Ivan wasn’t ready to be king because he wasn’t authoritative enough. But now, he saw that even though Ivan didn’t seem to hold the usual qualities of a strong king, he had a crew that respected him because of his actions, not his status.

Over the days, he spent almost every second of his time with Ivan and his people. He learned many of their names, tried all their food, and heard so many of their stories. Alfred didn’t want the days to end. After so many years alone in the dark caves, he wanted them to stay forever and keep him company. But it was a dream he would eventually need to wake from.

“Damned creature,” he heard one night after everyone had retired. The voice had come from up on the deck where he couldn’t see. Alfred didn’t recognize the gruff, male voice so it must have been one of the men that stayed away from Alfred and busied themselves with chores. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He’s just a freak,” came another hushed voice, “His father must have bedded a fish when all women rejected him.” The two men snickered then one of them shushed the other.

“Quiet, or the prince will hear us.”

“Damn him too. He’s found the bloody creature and still won’t take the godforsaken treasure from his hands so we can leave this frozen hell and go back home!”

The words had hurt, but those men were right. Alfred was selfish for keeping them here, and even though they seemed happy to keep him company, he was keeping them from returning home to their families and their lives.

Morning came and Ivan came to visit him as the sun rose, just as he had every morning since Alfred was found. He brought breakfast with him to share together, but today he was alone.

“Good morning, Alfred,” he greeted, his voice soft as it always was, “Did you rest well?”

Alfred only grunted in response, his head resting on his arms as his body from the chest down was still in the water. Thoughts raced around his head as he watched Ivan set out the food. It was dried meat, roasted fish, and sliced cheese. The same meal everyday.

“You heard it as well, then?”

Alfred’s eyes flickered up to Ivan. “Heard what?”

“What they said last night on the deck.” Ivan’s voice sounded tired, but a smile still graced his face as he looked out at the sea.

“Am I that easy to read?”

Like Alfred had done before, Ivan gave him a grunt in response. “They were rude, but their words hold truth. Our supplies are dwindling. If we ration what we have, perhaps we can stay for two more weeks. After that, we have no choice but to return home.” Those words brought sorrow to his face.

From his expression, Alfred knew what Ivan had meant to say.

I have to go home without the treasure. I failed the quest.

“You know, Ivan,” he paused, waiting until the prince turned to look at him, “you’ve already granted my wish.”

“I have?” A flash of hope crossed his eyes, then the realization that he had forgotten to ask what it was in the first place. “What was your wish?”

Alfred unbuckled a belt from his hip, something he’s never worn until today. On the belt was a sword, the sheath black as night and decorated with gold designs. He held the sheath of the sword tightly in his hands and looked down at it until the memories pained him so much that he had to look away.

“This sword belonged to my father, King of Svetloyar.” He watched as Ivan’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re a prince?”

#rusame #rusame fanfiction #hws america #hws russia #quest of a prince #hws rusame #i know the crew did a 180 with their treatment of ivan #but in their defense if my sister came half dead with a dragon carrying her i would pet the dragon first you kno #you can drink respect my prince juice everyday but how many times in your life do you get to see a mythical being???#i would have hopped my ass into the boat to get a closer look #also i posted this a while ago on ao3 and ffnet but ive been too lazy to upload it here because of formatting stuff

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slasherkisss · 5 years

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CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 3]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N Thank you for all of the support on this series so far, everyone! I’m amazed so many people enjoy it. The chapter after this one will contain some NSFW and sexual themes, this one is just...setting up the mood so to speak. I hope you enjoy it either way <3

The days after meeting Jason felt more like a dream than the actual encounter. No matter how many times you had attempted to convince your mind that your encounter was merely a vibrant, dream hallucination, you simply could not bring yourself to admit the blatant lie you were attempting in the back of your mind. It wasn’t a dream, your more vibrant half barked out with teeth bared, because you had seen the pairs of footprints when you had went outside to check the next day. You had looked for the missing lilac scarf you had offered the man in place of his cold nothingness and he had accepted. The sight of Crystal Lake, frozen perfectly in the moment you had met, etched itself into your mind like an acrylic painting.

It would be less frustrating if you had some sort of closure. A signal to remind yourself that he was real. That this whole thing was true to your memory, which had already faltered you so many times in the past that you would not give it the satisfaction of doing so again. Yet, in the days that ticked by with each second feeling like hours in the forefront of your disinterested cranium, there was nothing but frustration. You began counting each hour of the day, muttering the numbers to yourself out loud as you washed dishes or cast a glance at the clock on the wall that you were, honestly, still not sure if it told the right time. Two days, fourteen hours, forty seven minutes, fifteen seconds….Two days, fourteen hours, forty seven minutes, twenty seconds….

Then you found the first gift.

The term was used loosely, of course, because many people could consider it a threat over a gift. You had opened up the door to your home, intent on shoveling some snow out of the way of your continuously icy porch, but, were stopped by the sight before you. It was the skull of a small animal, unidentifiable without its fur but omnivorous according to the teeth that shone pearlescent in the light. Its hollowed eye sockets stared into you, startling you at its appearance. It was arranged in such a way on your front porch mat that you could not think it a mistake. For there was no other part of the animal. There was no other sign something had moved it there aside from footsteps in the fresh snow that looked all too big to be yours.

You leaned downwards, picking up the fragile bone with the most delicate grip you could manage. Resting the skull in your palm, you rotated your hand so that you could observe the item from all angles. It looked...natural. A skull dug up from the resting place of something long passed away. It had decayed years ago, leaving only its bones in its wake. It looked small...but the teeth were fierce, pointed canines curved sharply with molars resting the back. Your lip twitched slightly. Did this remind him of you, you wondered? Or perhaps you were reading too much into it. Perhaps he did mean it as a threat...Perhaps he wanted you gone?

No, you reasoned. He knew where you lived. If you had been a threat, you would have died days ago.

Instead of wondering further, you simply took the skull inside. You located a spot on the windowsill that faced the front of your house, dusting off the perch lightly before placing the skull down on it, adjusting it in just the perfect position so that it was displayed proudly before the glass. You gave the bone snout a gentle stroke, another smile growing on your lips as you looked out the window, tilting your head as you tried to imagine him sliding into your porch, setting down the bone and leaving without even waking you up. It was...flattering is the word you chose to think, though most would not be too sure you should.

You felt a need to rebuttal.

Running up the stairs to your home, you entered your bedroom. A box lay next to your bookshelf, unattended to and not yet unpacked as you had been saving it until the last minute like any true house mover. There was always those final boxes that never seemed to make it out of the packed state, stuck forever in the way that they were. You fixed that with this one, freeing the contents as you pulled the tape along the edges off and flipped the closing sides open with a flourished heave.

It didn’t have too much in it, the simple decorations you had wanted to organize against your bookshelf where you did not have enough books to quite fill in specific gaps. Fingers grazed at the items within it as you tilted your head, biting your lip as you made an effort to locate the perfect item in which to return your current suitor’s communication. That’s what this was, right? Suitor in the sense of the old fashioned way of wooing women. Of leaving them gifts and courting them in a series of content and proper rituals. That sort of thing. You weren’t really sure, but, this felt right, and you had been known by more than one person to go with what you simply felt, not what your mind completely dictated was reason to you.

Your hand caught on a jewelry box, its sides chipped and paint faded. It had been your grandmother’s when she was a little girl and, to be honest, you weren’t quite sure why you had kept it in here. You were not close with your grandmother, with her living halfway across the country with no real interest in visiting you or your mother. You didn’t even wear jewelry, save for the occasional black choker to go with a stylish outfit when an outing demanded more than one simple accessory. You had worn earrings once or twice, but, found them annoying to take in and out, ending up with the same sapphire studs in your holes for longer than you probably should have before eventually allowing them to close up. Regardless of its origins, you dug through it, searching for something that might have been fitting or, at the very least, could be used for some sort of decoration.

You fished out a pearl necklace from it, the natural forming calcium carbonate weighing heavy in your hands. You tilted your head to the side as you considered the option of it, lip finding its way into your mouth and between your teeth as you thought. He wouldn’t have much of a use for it, that’s certain...Then again, there were rumors of him still loving his mother as well, as she was the one who had killed for him in the first place. Would homage to her be too forward? Or would he feel as though you didn’t care about him if you did this? It was always good to talk with parents, of course. Maybe she would like you? You ignored the fact that she had died in your mind, momentarily forgetful of the fact in favor of choosing the pearl necklace and walking gingerly down your staircase instead. While passing in the living room, your fingers ghosted across the items you had within it, settling on your bookshelf as you peered through the options.

Your hand happened upon an older copy of a childhood classic. A leather bound, shapely copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. You pulled it from its spot against your shelf, fondling it idly with a smile. These fairytales had always been your favorite, the grotesque endings so refreshing from whatever modern adaptations there seemed to be out there. The twisted way Cinderella’s stepsisters paid for their transgressions with the loss of their sight made you smug with a sense of justice. Yet, you also pitied the wolf in Red Riding Hood. A creature that was simply looking for its next meal, unsure of where it would be….When a human wanders into the forest, you thought, it is the forest who controls them now. What happens to them is of its own design, as the realm is not of their own. One had to respect where they were, because nature was always ready in one form or another to take what it deserves.

You put the pearls on top of the book and carried them out to your front porch, gazing around at the wintered wasteland for a few moments before gently placing them at the very edge of the porch steps. Snow sunk into the leather but did not wet it. The droplets that fell from the sky merely accentuated the pearls beauty. You bit your lip, suddenly unsure if this was the right thing to do. Would he accept the gifts? Would he find them offensive, maybe? Perhaps he wouldn’t realize they were for him and you should leave a note.

These thoughts bit at the back of your brain as you left the items where they were, closing your door and standing in the center of your living room, looking around almost aimlessly as you gathered yourself up. He would know, you determined with a final affirmation within yourself, and there would be no need to worry about it. The communication of gift giving was a carefully planned one, and no one would engage in it should they not know what they were getting themselves into.

You hoped. You really hoped anyways.

The day came and went and, as if you were a child on Christmas morning once again, you felt yourself giddily rushing down the stairs and out into the porch. Your feet were bitten by the icy snow underneath them as you forgot in your rush to put on proper footwear for the weather, but, you barely registered the bitter pain against the tips of your toes. For the book and necklace you had put down were gone. Like alchemy in their place was yet another skull. This time it was of a bird, an owl you assumed due to the wide nature of its eye sockets and the minatureness of its beak.

It joined the first skull on your windowsill, displaying itself proudly as you ran back into your home to locate another gift, now fully invested in the pattern you were about to encourage between you and the mysterious killer of Crystal Lake.

The pattern repeated itself for several more days until it became somewhat of a daily routine for the both of you. You would wake up to a new present each morning, usually a skull but sometimes it had evolved into winter flowers and rocks from the edge of the frozen lake, smoothed by years of erosion against the shore, and you would in turn leave the present of jewelry or a book or whatever else you had in your home you felt you could part with. Once you had dared to leave a note with your items, it was simply a piece of paper with a heart drawn on it. When it was taken with the gifts you had left, you felt pride swell in the pit of your stomach with the hope that he knew just what you were insinuating with the single shape. When you receive the present of what looked to be human teeth resting in a neat pile, a heart drawn next to it crudely in the snow, you knew that your affections were returned.

This lead to, more often than not, the daydreams of Jason filling your already chilled mind. You imagined what he would be like in your home, his hulking form sitting on your couch as you leaned against him and read a book. You pictured him leaning down and allowing you to press a kiss into your cheek. Your mind then wandered to the thought of more than kisses, picturing the torso hidden under his tattered clothes and, without a doubt, the cock that would match the proportions of the massive man, and you had to bury your face in the pillow you were hugging to push it away properly.

The knock on the door shortly after the imagery was startling. It sounded heavy set, the solid thuds of a fist that made the wood of your fragile home groan in protest. Your heart skipped a beat, daring to hope of just who it was. Standing up, you put the pillow you had been holding down against the couch and hurried out to the door. When your hands rested on the cool metal knob, you felt...somewhat hesitation. An inkling of unsureness creeping up your spine like a parasite until it wrapped your brainstem, your mind growing fuzzy as you thought of the consequences this could possibly lead.

Consequences? Your mind scoffed at your thoughts, for if he wanted your death he would have dealt with it. If there were consequences, you thought snarkily to yourself, he wouldn’t give you such gifts. He wouldn’t pull a human’s teeth out for you. Give him a chance, you silly girl. Give it to him.

With that you opened the door.

Jason stood there, lilac scarf wrapped around his neck. The sight made your heart leap with appreciation, knowing he kept the fabric with him. His breath came out in puffs through the holes of his hockey mask. Bits of frost still clung to the yellowed mask, making him look almost like a statue in the light of the slowly setting winter sun. It was endearing, you realized with a blush warming your cheeks. It was handsome. He tilted his head at you and you grinned back.

“Hello, Jason. It’s good to see you.”

He didn’t respond and it was only then you chose to look down. He was holding things, you realized, and had extended his hands to you in order to get you to see them. One hand held the tomb of fairytales you had given him in your first tentative gift exchange, its leather cover now dusted with frost and wetness.

The other hand held a severed human arm.

There was a moment that your stomach lurched at the sight of it. It was your turn to tilt your head as you stared at the limb with borderline fascination in your eyes. It looked like it was fresh, but, just old enough so that it didn’t drip any crimson blood down in the snow and on your flooring, which you were thankful for. You didn’t think you had any books that stated how to get blood out of hardwood.

“Is that another gift for me?” You dare to question.

When you’re met with a nod of confirmation, the smile leaks onto your lips without you having to force it. Hands extended, you wait patiently for him to place the item in them. He understands after a moment of staring, reaching out and placing the arm between your fingers. It’s bare, the skin pale and slowly greying with the frost and rigor mortis setting in. It’s colder than you would have thought, and you could see the splintering of the bone inside of the severed area as parts of the ripped flesh dangled slightly, blowing in the wind that echoed through your door. The person had freckles, you noticed. You brought the object close to your eyes to observe if, the scent of rot vaguely registering itself in your nose as you ran your fingers over the palm and bent each of its digits testily. They gave friction against your actions and you found it...amusing in a way. You tried to imagine it as your high school bully’s arm and it gave you a twisted sense of solace.

“Thank you,” You hummed with a grin, “I like it a lot. I don’t know where I’ll keep it, though...It might smell if it’s inside. Maybe I can have it in the back shed…”

As you mulled, Jason proceeded to dare to reach out, tapping your shoulder in such a gentle way that you startled out of your thought process. He held up the book to you, staring at you with silent intent. Your eyes searched his, flowing from his face down to the book in hand and you tilted your head. A sense of understanding...and then guilt...flooded your system.

“Oh,” You mumbled, “You don’t know how to read?”

He shook his head no.

You dared to take this as an opportunity. Lowering the limb to your side, you reached out your free hand and offered it to him. The air was tense now as you felt yourself say the words most would have been terrified to even consider, yet, they flowed like melted butter from between your lips.

“Would you like to come inside? I could show you the stories in them, if you’d like.”

You expected him to back away and disagree as he did the first time you met. You expected him to take offense in one way or another and decide it was time to murder you. You expected anything else but the sight of him hesitant at first, but, slowly reaching out his hand and placing it in yours. His fingertips were cold from the frost of the outside. One digit was easily two of yours, maybe three. His palm completely consumed your own and your skins finally touching sent a tingle of delight down your spine. You didn’t believe in soulmates or love at first touch, certainly, but...the feeling you had upon gaining his grip was nothing short of electrifying.

With a shy smile, you lead him inside of your home. He followed.

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #friday the 13th #jason voorhees imagine #slasher x reader #cabin fever series

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ganymedesclock · 5 years

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Since the Blins are basically reinvented every game and not a lot is clarified about them I just wanted to post my framework of headcanons and purloined details!

The entities that came to be known as the Blin were originally created by Demise, and were called goblins. In the demon hierarchy they’re considered “Lesser Kindred”- more animal than demon, and were barred from holding positions in the demonic elite. Expected to carry out many tasks as either unskilled laborers or shock troops, they were built to several molds and a fair number of demons freely “tinkered with” their subordinate goblins, sometimes to the point of torturing them.

It’s unsurprising, then, that during the Surface War, their numbers dwindled almost as much from mass desertion as it did from the savage treatment of their masters and the pressure of Hylia’s forces. The ambitious and adaptable goblins proved much more successful than their demon masters, and after Demise’s failed resurrection and the forging of the Master Sword, the survivors of those who had remained loyal divided between those who went wandering in search of the demons, and those who joined their deserting brethren.

In modern Hyrule, little evidence of their former connection to Demise remains- the occasional lone prophet or even full clan following the “Eye Below The Earth” arises, but most Blins regard such parties as suspect, and with the precarious peace between the Blins and Hyrule, such outcast scions are seldom able to organize themselves with much power. A handful seem to have disappeared or died under mysterious circumstances, however...

Much of the remnants of Demise’s original position have been co-opted by the comparatively recent worship of the Blood King, the most prolific religion across Blin clans. While all Blin are at least partial descendants of the original Goblins, they have emerged into several nearly distinct species, both in adapting to their environment, and the survivors of the demons’ magical experiments.

The word “Blin” is in fact a cultural term translating loosely to “people [of],” or “family [of].” The Blin people are staggeringly physically diverse, but still entertain a close camaraderie and oftentimes cohabitate in the same areas. According to their belief, their family trees are united at the Blood King, an ancient god-ancestor figure adopted into their line by sacred covenant. This, as recounted in popular Blin legends, brought an end to the war between clans, and carried with it a promise that the Blins would thrive freely across the lands.

Bokoblins [”Family of Boko” (a kind of dense, springy tree found primarily in Faron province) ]

Standing a full head shorter than a grown Hylian, the Bokoblins are long-limbed, gangly, and many possess a catlike grace and stealth. Largely arboreal foragers and hunters, they may occupy woodland ruins, but are known more for their deep woods “bower” villages with tent-like structures raised on platforms. These villages are often rather sophisticated, with mechanical drawbridges, lookout towers and camouflage.

Their spoken language, bokokri, has several dialects, and the nuances between words are often very difficult to detect if one is not exposed to the language from a young age. It features a great deal of trilling and careful control of tones, and has sometimes been stereotyped as a “shrieking” guttural language.

The domestication of kargorocs began originally with bokoblin culture and many clans make use the large birds for hunting, along with tamed wolfos. Some clans have left the forests and taken up more agrarian lifestyles in open fields or wooded meadows.

Given their most common position on the southern fringe of Hyrule, many bokoblins are more gregarious than their inland kindred and may trade for supplies with nearby settlements. The hamlet of Ordon is reputed to have a winter solstice festival celebrated jointly with a nearby bokoblin settlement, featuring dancing and decorated wooden masks.

If called to warfare, bokoblins have plied impressive ambush and flanking tactics, making use of longbows and spears designed for hunting and fishing before disappearing into the brush with the aid of a scattered handful of deku nuts.

Moblins [”Family of Deep Stone”]

Growing to nearly twice the size of the bokoblins, the “nobility of blins” are stout, stocky creatures. Ambitious builders and miners, they are most commonly found to the far west, in the foothills of the mountains separating Hyrule from Holodrum. While all Blins are gifted at seeing in the dark, the moblins are especially renown for this ability- though rumor somewhat belies the truth. Most moblins suffer from notoriously poor visual acuity that is offset by keen hearing and smell as well as an excellent ability to track sudden movement. Regardless, a pair of quartz eyeglasses are considered a must for well-established moblins and are ubiquitous throughout their parliament house.

Moblins are the most sedentary and entrenched of the blins, carving villages and cities out of cliffs and canyons. In a past era, they entertained great prosperity thanks to agricultural techniques and crops that made good use of rocky, arid soil, but many moblin cities are experiencing a decline in the wake of the devastating War of The Bleak Mountains against the Gorons, as ore veins are exhausted and aqueducts fail or are sabotaged without the resources to repair them.

Even so, the moblins bear hallmarks of a well-established sort, ornamenting themselves with complex tattoos and jewelry. Trade goods from their capital city of Deepfurrow fetch a lavish price even in Castle Town’s markets, and more than a few have cannily sought to revitalize their flagging people by exploiting this Hylian fascination. This is met with some unease, as many of the most coveted are jewelry pieces of personal significance, such as betrothal gifts or those given from a parent to their child upon the latter’s coming-of-age.

And even beyond their glory days, enemies who try to pursue the moblins deep into their tunnels will come to face the fearsome might of siege engines that were built to drive back Goron soldiers and succeeded, and lines of well-trained pikemen and cannoneers.

Miniblins [”The Small Family”]

Mistaken by historical Hylian scholars as the children of other blins, the diminutive miniblin adult stands shorter than any other blin. Like bokoblins, they inhabit much of Hyrule’s southern woodlands, though they are the least likely to operate in cohesive clans, and can be found almost anywhere there are other Blins.

Uniquely possessing horns and small, sharp-hoofed feet, the miniblin are excellent climbers and swift across short distances, if not particularly gifted at swimming. Seeing themselves as naturally set at a disadvantage, they tend to embrace cultural mores that prioritize success rather than honor or decorum, which leaves them widely regarded as a somewhat unsavory, calculating bunch.

The miniblin are direct scions of ancient magic experiments, and thus have more demon blood than other blin families- a few are able to manifest strange powers as a result. However, this has also left them largely without a homeland, as their ancestors were scattered and only over time taken in by other blin clans that had the resources to do so. Their small size, reputation, and the health problems many are prone to compounds to leave them in poor standing. They’re highly social and tend to band together for safety and camaraderie in numbers, though the average band of miniblins are tenuously related at best.

Even nonmagical Miniblin are best not ignored as potential enemies, as they can make very effective scouts and spies, and the more vindictive among them arm themselves with barbed spears and tridents to hobble their opponents by striking their legs.

Bulblins [“Family of Bulbos”]

The Bulblin clan began their lives as a particular group of hylians banished to the edge of the Gerudo Desert and a group of nomadic herdsmen bokoblin that took them in. As time passed, the two intermarried heavily, and the plains and savanna-dwelling bulblins were the emergent result.

While often believed to have horns, this is actually a form of carved tusk ornamentation that the bulblins use from their namesake bulbos- originally oasis-dwelling wild hogs herded for food and hides, it was a late Lor-Dynasty leader who began to cultivate them as war steeds, leading to success as mounted raiders that changed their culture drastically.

Bulblin clans vary in aggression and ambition, but most are willing to involve themselves in desert caravans, and as they have grown in strength, strategy, and numbers, both Hyrule and the Gerudo capital have been forced to take them seriously. In recent times, a monarchy of sorts has emerged among the bulblins, obtaining the loyalty of multiple clan leaders. While said monarchy has proven able to call a halt to, or focus tenfold, the activity of raiding parties, they are largely unrecognized by both of the powers they border- but quite a few individual merchants or organizations have courted the bulblin ruler’s favor in exchange for safe passage through their lands.

Aside from bulbos, bulblins also utilize horses. Raiding parties are known to use sophisticated tactics, synchronized and coordinated with horn flutes and other instruments. Rumors have arisen from the frontier of a branch of bulblin mages who utilize jangling instruments to drown out, disorient, and disrupt enemy magic users.

#Legend of Zelda #readmore #and now; it is time for me to pass out

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ketzwrites · 6 years

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The Tale of the Warlock and his Shadowhunter

They say the Warlock was the most powerful sorcerer that ever walked on the face of the Earth. For centuries, people would come to him and he would grant their wishes, but for a price. Jewelry, gems, rare artifacts. Whatever was precious, whatever was as important as the wish requested. The Warlock would listen, take the payment, and then perform his magic. Crops would grow food even in the harshest of winters, children were born healthy despite all odds, monsters were slain by magic weapons. All and more.

Until he didn’t anymore. Most people who sought him would not come back. The few who did told a terrible tale. A curse had befallen the Warlock and his forest was now haunted by a Shadow. Anyone carrying riches was attacked and the air was sucked out of their bodies. The powerful Warlock had lost his magic and now he laid powerless in his mansion, a captive in his own house.

A hundred years passed and the land forgot about the Warlock. He was no more than a legend, a tale to tell the children. Nobody dared to venture into the haunted forest, least the demonic creature would find and kill them. Life was hard, but it was preferable to death.

But, to one young Hunter, not going into the forest meant death. He was the oldest of his siblings and he had to bring food into his house, or nobody would. Still, no matter how great of a hunter he was, one autumn, the young man couldn’t find game in the shallow parts of the forest. No animals on land or air, nothing he could kill with one of his arrows.

Distraught, the Hunter decided to risk it. He carried no jewelry, no gold, and no rare artifacts. The Shadow would not want him. With that in mind, the Hunter braved into the deep of the forest. He traveled for days until he first saw signs of animals, but night was about to fall.

Exhausted and hungry, the Hunter mounted his camp. That night, however, was not like the others. It was cold, as cold as a winter night. Even fire couldn’t keep the Hunter warm and, the more it burned, the less air there was. It was difficult to breathe and the Hunter knew something was watching him from the shadows of the forest.

But just as suddenly as it came, it was gone. The Hunter could breathe again in the morning and he continued his journey. He could hear the animals now, movement all around him. With his bow and arrow ready, the Hunter followed a path of traces. A figure moved and the Hunter was about to shoot until he realized it was no animal, but a man.

Startled, the Hunter apologized but the man didn’t seem to mind. He had berries with him and promptly offered them to the Hunter. They ate them together and the Hunter explained what he was doing that far into the woods. The mysterious man listened carefully and grew greatly concerned when the Hunter told him about the events of the night before. The man declared that the Hunter would spend the night at his house henceforth, where he wouldn’t be cold or in danger anymore.

Touched by the man’s generosity, the Hunter accepted the offer. They returned to the man’s house together, only for the Hunter to learn it was no house, but a castle. Strangely, the castle was empty; no family, no servants. It was just the man and him.

But the Hunter didn’t care, not when night fell and he was warm and safe. On the next morning, the Hunter declared that he must pay for his host’s generosity. So deep into the forest, the Hunter finally found the animals. He returned to the castle with two fat rabbits. That night, the two men dinned like kings.

The same thing happened again and again. The Hunter would go out during the day and bring back food. The two men would dine together and then stay up through the night, talking and exchanging stories. All the while, the Hunter would also spare some of the food to bring back to his family. Soon, the Hunter had gathered enough meat to last through Winter. He could go home now.

But he didn’t want to leave the other man all alone in the forest. In their days together, they had grown attached and the Hunter felt protective over him. However, when the Hunter asked the man to come back with him, the man refused. He couldn’t leave his castle. There was a curse and, if the man wandered off too far away, terrible things would happen. The man had chosen to be alone rather than let others suffer.

The Hunter would not have it. If there was a curse, all they had to do was break it. The man laughed at the statement and told the Hunter that, to break that curse, one would have to kill the Shadow that haunted the forest. It was an impossible task. When the Hunter asked why it was impossible, the man explained that one would have to stab the Shadow right under its heart. Nobody would ever get this close, though.

Irreverently, the Hunter said that if that was what it took to free his host, he would do it. Seeing that there was no changing the Hunter’s mind, the man rushed to another room in the castle. When he came back, he carried three gifts.

The first was a ruby necklace; this would both attract the Shadow and alert the Hunter to its presence. The second was a Seraph Arrow; the rarest of metals and the only one that could kill the Shadow. The third was a ring. This last one carried no magic, no powers. It only had the man’s initials carved on its surface. It was the one the Hunter treasured the most.

Armed and blessed, the Hunter went into the forest as night fell. The gentle chill of the night quickly gave way to icy cold breezes. Mustering all of his courage, the Hunter parted with the first gift. He laid the ruby necklace on a large rock and then found a hiding spot nearby. If this was a hunt, he would have to lure his prey in.

Cold turned freezing and suddenly breathing was hard again. The Hunter had his bow in hand, a quiver of arrows at his back. The ruby necklace began to glow, and the Hunter moved a hand to get the silver arrow. That was when he felt it; a warm breathing on the back of his neck.

Moving fast, the Hunter avoided the Shadow’s attack. It had a human form and the face of a man, but it moved like an animal. A demon to be sure. Its claws wrecked through the tree the Hunter had used as cover, but the Shadow quickly realized his target had escaped.

The Hunter didn’t have time to think. He got up and put some distance between himself and the creature. Not enough, though, and the Shadow’s claw got him this time. The Hunter fell to the ground, struggling for air. He grabbed the Seraph Arrow, but then the Shadow was over him. It broke the arrow and knocked it from his hand, parting him from the second gift. A twisted smile formed on its grotesque face as the Shadow pinned the Hunter’s hand to the ground.

Grasping and panting, the Hunter realized he was suffocating. He looked around and his eyes stopped at the hand the creature was holding down. It was the hand wearing the ring.

The Hunter would not part from it.

Summoning all his strength, the Hunter was able to throw the Shadow away from him. In a desperate move, the Hunter grabbed the Seraph Arrow and positioned it just in time. The Shadow had gotten to him again, hovering over the Hunter. But, as it did, the Shadow impaled itself on the Seraph Arrow, right under its heart.

Its screech deafened the Hunter for a moment. The sunlight covered the Earth, warming the Hunter’s body and vanishing the Shadow’s vestiges into dust. It was done.

When the Hunter returned to the castle, hurt but triumphant, the man was waiting for him. However, he was not a mere man anymore, but the Warlock. The man’s eyes, before brown and warm, were now gold and powerful. But his smile remained the same, so the Hunter smiled back.

Once the Hunter presented the Warlock with the dust, the curse was completely broken. A rush of magic exploded through the forest and everything seemed to come alive around them. The world where the Hunter had grown up paled in comparison to this. The legends he had heard had talked about magic and a time where the Warlock lived and ruled, but nothing had prepared him for this. The Hunter kneeled, overwhelmed by such power.

That made the Warlock smile and touch the Hunter’s face gently. For his services, the Hunter’s family would never want for anything ever again, the Warlock declared. All they needed would be provided. His brothers and sister would know no suffering, no hunger, no cold. The Hunter thanked him and meant to get up, but the Warlock stopped him with a gentle finger.

As for the Hunter himself, he had kneeled as a Hunter, the Warlock continued, but he would rise as something more. The Shadowhunter, slayer of demons. For his courage and kindness, the Shadowhunter would be allowed one request and the Warlock would happily grant it to him. Whatever riches, whatever land, whatever his heart desired. It was his; all he needed to do was ask.

The Shadowhunter rose and stared into the Warlock’s golden eyes. There was only one thing his heart desired and that was the Warlock himself. He never wanted to leave, for as long as the Warlock would have him.

That was the easiest request the Warlock had ever granted in his long, long life. In hand in hand, the Warlock and his Shadowhunter when back to the castle. Just as the rest of the world, the castle had come alive once more. It was no longer empty but full of outworldly creatures. Sorcerers, creatures of the night, beings of the forest, and even shapeshifters. They embraced the Warlock and welcomed the Shadowhunter.

In that world of magic and power, they lived happily ever after.

#malec #malec fic #magnus bane #alec lightwood #I was bored #sue me #drabbles

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ask-a-cool-spaceguy · 5 years

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I do hope you enjoy angst, hun. ‘Cause this is probably my most angsty character of all-

“Gweth was a very feared creature in his younger years. A colossal slender lavender dragon, beautiful and dangerous. Gweth got easily, stealing every treasure he saw to add to his growing hoard, burning down cites, and pelage a village or too. Gweth finally found a home atop an enormous mountain, over looking a peaceful village of commoners. Gweth observed these peasant day by day, planning on burning them to ashes initially. That was until a lowly farmer girl named, Shay, found her way up the mountain and discover Gweth. Shah threatened Gweth to leave her family and neighbors alone, or she’d kick the crap outta him herself, mhm. Gweth… found this oddly amusing, a tiny peasant trying to intimidate him. This one was braver than most, and that peeked his interest enough to not immediately crush her beneath his claw.

Gweth expelled his original plan to burn down the small town for more territory, but says he is willing to entertain Shay with a chance to change his mind. The next few hours Shay and Gweth flew around the village, observing the townsfolk and their friendly nature, all of them were amazed at the sight of a real dragon! Gweth had never felt so welcomed before, these humans adored him, they showed him their customs, gave him gifts, there was an odd fuzzy feeling inside. Shay took her newfound friend to her farm, and to end off their day, they watched the sunset on top of the tallest hill on her orchard. Gweth begrudgingly admitted his intentions had changed, and he wanted to form an arrangement. He would protect these villagers and their home, so long as they would welcome him into their society. Shay agreed enthusiastically, jumping up to hug his giant talon to express her joy, whilst Gweth felt the fuzzy feeling grow inside once more.

Gweth dedicated himself to his family, especially Shay, whom he visited regularly. Due to his troublesome amount of mass, Gweth sought out an old friend, a witch named, Indigo. Indigo crafted her dragon friend stylish golden magical jewelry. When Gweth wears these, he will be transformed into a not-so-powerful human form of himself, still retaining his dragon features, but not as threatening or huge as his normal form. Gweth spent most of his days in his human form, flying around the village to guard the boundaries of his home. But, he would stop in to indignantly check up on Shay. For some reason, he always found himself worrying about her, what’s the harm in stopping by once in a while? That “once in awhile,” turned out to be everyday soon. The two traded tales of adventure, picked fruit on the farm, basked in the sun, and took flights during the night. Gweth found himself always thinking of her, her voice and accent, the way her nose would crinkle when happy, how bright her damn eyes sparkled when she laid eyes on him. It took many conversations with Indigo to convince him that what he was feeling was love.

On a mission, Indigo sent Gweth in a spiffy suit, and with a bouquet of roses, over to Shay in the middle of the night. Gweth talked himself in and out of knocking on the door for about an hour- However, when he finally got up his courage, he heard a loud shriek from the sky. Quickly he recognized it as another dragon, quite a large one too, over looking his territory. Gweth’s insects snapped inside, and immediately tore off his jewelry, soaring up and tackling his enemy. The battle was fierce and a struggle for nearly twenty minutes, but Gweth came out victorious, having pinned his opponent and burned him to a crisp. Triumphantly, Gweth glanced in hopes to meet the proud eyes of his family, but all he saw was fire. In his blind fit of rage, Gweth had destroyed his village, his family, his home, everything.

Frantically, Gweth found his jewelry and returned to his smaller size, rummaging through the wreckage, and trying to calm the survivors. They fled from him, and all he found was burnt corpses. Tears whelped in his eyes, as she called out desperately for Shay, the anxiety in his chest making it harder breathe. Had he killed her? Was she really gone forever? All because- He heard weeping from a few yards away. Quickly, Gweth flew to the source, finding a badly injuries Shay, clutching onto the bodies of her family. Sighing in relief, approaching her slowly from behind, reaching out to place his claw on her back. Shay flinched away, turning to him, her face soaked in tears, yet furious.

She smacked him away, and angrily hissed, “Don’t you dare touch me.” Gweth stared in shock, still reeling from the battle. “I… I was j-just- I thought-“ Gweth attempted to speak, but found no voice, Shay was wailing in grief. She had lost her home, her family, her livelihood, all taken away in the matter of minutes. Shay punched him, square in the jaw. It didn’t hurt, yet Gweth felt a sharp sting in his chest, it stung more than any battle wound he had in his lifetime. “Leave, now. And if you ever try to find me or any of my people again, I will fucking kill you.”

No. He hasn’t killed Shay. He had done something worse. Something he would never be forgiven for, and that rotted him from the inside. Gweth hesitated, before flying away silently, fighting the urge to look back. He flew for hours, blocking out all his emotions. He had no right to cry. He didn’t deserve to cry.

Indigo was greeted by a knock on the door half past one in the morning. Groggily, she opened the door to see Gweth, with a somber look on his face. She smiled softly and asked what he was doing out so late. His only response was to collapse onto his knees and hug her tightly, sobbing into her robe. Indigo didn’t think twice and hugged back. After a long conversation, Indigo was up to speed, and completely heartbroken for her friend. Gweth asked his she would help him one last time. His last wish, was for Indigo to curse his jewelry, to make it bound to his skin and never allow him to be a fully fledged dragon again. With some convincing, Indigo agreed. However, she added a loophole. The curse will only lift, if Gweth learns from his mistakes and forgives himself, the curse will be no more.

Gweth travels all across the land now, no territory and no place to call home. He’s become detached and aloof, avoiding contact with others, even Indigo hasn’t heard from him in years. Gweth has become a lost soul, no wanting to be found or remembered. A small vampire girl, named Hoilday, stumbled upon Gweth one late night when traveling through the forest, and became quite attached to him, despite his distaste for her. The two now wonder together as a dysfunctional pair of “friends,” and it looks like Gweth might be getting a second chance at building a family again.”

———————————————–

“Damn that really pulls at your heartstrings huh?

That was really good though! small grammar mistake in the first paragraph I think, but still really well written! Good job Zodi!”

#I love this-#Poor gweth #submission #long post

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1800areyouslapping · 6 years

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Yandere Shimada bros for older ordinary female reader please? Maybe either all human OR Hanzo and Genji are oni/naga that have accepted reader as their mother after she helped/raised them briefly? Noncon and nothing underage of course

Non-Con/Yandere/Naga!Shimadas/Psuedo-Incest/Oviposition/Breeding. Sheesh, this is unnecessarily long, sorry lol But for some reason this woke me out of my creative hibernation, it’s all I got, and now it’s time for me to go back to sleep. Around 4k.

As a little girl, you were the type to run off into the neighboring woods and come back with a wounded animal or two, much to your parent’s dismay. A dog; a homeless kitten you were permitted to keep. One time it was a turtle you found on the sidewalk in town. He lived in your backyard’s pond until the day came when he just wasn’t there anymore. Another time, a lost baby duck in the middle of the road, nearly run over by a car. Your mother called a local wildlife conservation group to come and pick the poor thing up. It couldn’t live with you, mother had said, the cat would tear it to shreds.

You loved taking care of them, mothering the motherless. Giving love, and feeling needed.

In your mid-twenties, you inherited your childhood home on the edge of the woods (father died of a heart attack, mother succumbed to cancer.) During your grief, you came across two of the most precious, mythical creatures. Both of whom needed your motherly love more than any helpless creature you’d ever stumbled across. Two naga boys. Brothers who lingered around your home, stealing yard ornaments, sneaking in through the doggy door to take food.

You “caught” them one night. To your great suspicion, your instincts told you the boys wanted to be caught. They lingered at the edge of your bed, peaked over the mountains of blankets, watching you sleep. You’re not sure what it was that kept you calm. You didn’t scream, didn’t kick nor fight. Whether it was the numbness from loss, or your overwhelming urge to coddle, to mother, to feel loved; the two adolescent boys with human torsos and lower halves of snakes didn’t scare you. You hardly questioned their existence in your universe.

The older one, Hanzo. The younger one, Genji. They had lost their parents just as you had lost yours. They had nothing to fear from you, they latched on the right sap.

You raised them; watched them grow; they were your world. And boy, did they grow. Grow and grow ‘til your little home couldn’t accommodate them anymore. Not that it ever properly housed two nagas; you would come to accept that they needed your loving nurturing, your babying, your presence more than your roof or your food; they much preferred hunting wild animals. They turned from baby-faced teenagers into sharp-featured, stunning, otherworldly creatures within the blink of an eye. Handsome boys; your boys.

Grumpy Hanzo with his perfectly kept beard, and his man bun fade; you caught him preening all the time. He loved getting caught, you knew this. Because that meant you’d come and do the preening for him. Casanova Genji, he would have broken hearts if there were any around to break with his charming, hypnotizing smile, and his unruly hair; you had to beg him to sit still, and had to wrangle the boy every time he needed a trim.

Both of them with their unique shimmering, long, and powerful tails. Hanzo’s dark blue, Genji’s a forest green. The first time you bathed them you found that their scales responded to touch; they changed colors. From sea greens, to light purples, shiny golds, rich silvers, and even hints of pink on occasions. Both of them with their fine, soft mains that line their tails from the small of their back all the way to the tip of their body, fanning out. The hair was always a favorite of yours to comb and run your fingers through.

Rasing them into adulthood was no easy task. They were territorial from the moment they accepted you as their mother. No neighbors pet was safe (no matter how far their homes might have been from yours), they all ended up dead, toyed with, and eaten. Their remains, in your yard. You chided them for hunting the animals, they continued to do it. You wrote it off as something that was in their nature, there was nothing you could do to change it.

They would also steal things. They’d sneak into their homes and bring you back gifts, leaving them at the foot of your bed for you to find in the morning. Before they’d grow out of stealing and pilfering household pets many of your neighbors would move, stating they no longer felt safe living near the forest.

“Today it’s a necklace, tomorrow it’s dear old fluffy from down the street,” a former resident had gripped to you. He dropped by before he took his family and left, an oddly traditional fellow. He shook his head, placed both hands on his hips. He had no idea you were harboring the source of the problem. “The next day? It’ll be one of my kids going missin’.” He looked distastefully at the forest. “Somethin’ sinister’s made a home in there.”

You forced a smile, wished him well. Tried not to let the offense you took from his words spill out of your mouth. You felt protective, ready to verbally tear his head off. They didn’t know any better, would never hurt a human.

They longed to stay with you, but it was in their nature to find a cave and make a nest for themselves in the woods. A treasure trove in the woods. Luxuriously made up, every time you visited they had new things. More blankets, more oils, more trinkets, more jewelry. You questioned where exactly they got their things from. They would state that perhaps your ignorance was for your own good.

Turned out they hadn’t grown out of the petty theft after all.

They were always less active during the fall, nearly slept all day by the fireplace in the winter. When they grew out of your home, you’d check up on them in their den to find them curled around the natural hot spring located deeper inside of the cave. Woe is the life of a cold-blooded creature.

Another winter has just passed; cold and long. It’s the first spring day where the rise in temperature is noticeable. Bees are buzzing around your garden. Birds incessantly chirping trying to entice mates. You have a good feeling the boys will be up and about, lively as they ever are at the start of spring, and will be expecting you. You’re shocked they haven’t shown up at your doorstep yet, each dragging along the corpse of their fresh spring kill.

You know the way to their den by heart, naturally finding the entrance shrouded by vines and moss in no time. You enter, you know you’re welcome, careful not to slip on the dewy rock underfoot. There’s murmuring coming from deep inside the cave. You walk forward finding the boys lounging in the hot spring, rather than around it, deep in conversation with one another.

Genji notices you first. His attention whips to you. He slithers quickly out of the water. So swift you can barely comprehend his movements. He gasps. “Mama!” Genji exclaims. He grabs your shoulders, kisses your cheek deeply. “We were just speaking of you.”

He rears up. Stands tall, towering over you. Water rolls down his chest, his hair is messy with it. You’d like him to get back down to your level so you can tidy it. “Were you?” You look around Genji to Hanzo, who looks perturbed for what reason you don’t know yet. With him, it could be anything. “Sweetie, how was your hibernation? Each time I trekked for a checkup the both of you were too out of it to even acknowledge I visited.”

Neither of them answer. Genji searches your face, his tail flitting back and forth wildly. Restless, like he needs to blow off steam. Hanzo continues to stare, his own tail doing the same thing across the service of the steaming water, mouth in a hard line. Something is… off.

“You smelled of a man,” Hanzo says. “You still smell of that man.”

Your mouth drops open. That sounded like an accusation. “A-and?” You look up to Genji, shrug your shoulders. “I was lonely.” You reach out to brush your hand over his arm. “I didn’t have my boys to keep me company.”

You’re not sure why you find yourself explaining. Telling them that he’s a nice man, who could fulfill needs they aren’t responsible for. You think that one day he may even be trusted enough to be introduced to them. It’s the vibe they’re giving off, the same kind of vibe they’d bring back with them after they had slaughtered yet another beloved pet, and laid it at your feet.

“It is as we thought,” Hanzo says. He emerges from the water. Is at your back faster then Genji was at your front.

Genji nods in agreement, his tail whips faster. His energy is giving you a fleeting feeling in your belly. Hanzo places a hand on your shoulder, instinctively you place your own hand over his. “You’ll always be my special boys, no matter who else comes into my life,” you reason. Hanzo’s grip tightens; your heart races.

Genji’s eyes brighten as if he has the solution to the unspoken problem. “There is no need for anyone else.” He eyes your body, his hand trails down his front. His cloaca opens slightly, his sexes peaking. Your breath catches in your chest, you understand now. The aura in the room, the cave is thick with a sexual charge. They’re fully mature now, and it’s mating season.

You pat Hanzo’s hand. “What you’re feeling is natural, but,” you shake your head regrettably, “I can’t help you with this.” You feel sorry for them. You’ve never seen another naga, and you haven’t the slightest idea of how they could satisfy their urges without another one around.

“You can,” Hanzo says. His grip tightens. His hard body presses against your back. “You fulfilled your role as our mother to perfection, now you will be just as good a one to our clutch.”

“No, no.” You attempt to pry his hand from your shoulder. His fingers are digging. It is unwise for you to remain here. “I should go,” you say.

Genji reaches out, cups your face. His cocks pop out, one smaller, one bigger, both symmetrical to his size. Hanzo’s do the same. Pressing hot against your back, leaking on your shirt, the wetness sliding down your spine. You shiver, smack Genji’s hand away, and tear your shoulder from Hanzo’s grip.

“That’s enough,” you demand, mustering all the motherly authority you have in your body. “Put those things way, you can’t mate with me.” You’d argue that they shouldn’t be mating the same person either, but you don’t feel that the reminder that they are -brothers- matters much at this moment.

“But we can,” Genji says with earnest. “Our birth mother was human.”

Your eyes glass over, you’re dizzy. You’ve never been frightened of them before. Now that they’re crowding you, they smell of sweat and hormones. Their primal instincts have taken over their sound minds… the back of your shirt is soaked. You’re scared. Their feelings are misplaced, and not because they’re naga, but because you are you and they are who they are.

Out of all the times they had spoken of their parents they never once mentioned their mother being human. You feel a jarring pang of resentment from this. What else have they been keeping from you? “Well,” you gulp, bring a shaky hand to your chest, “I said no, and that’s the end of it.”

You try to slip out from between them. You can’t believe you’re going to run but you are. You’ll never receive the chance. Hanzo scoops you up. Effortless, one arm wrapped around your waist. White-hot pain surges through your shoulder, brief, it’s gone in an instant. Not even enough time to scream before your limbs are falling limp, useless to your sides. Your toes droop, pointed towards the floor, your head lolls to the side.

“Hanzo,” you whimper. He licks languidly at the bite. His fangs may be pointy and sharp, but he didn’t tear, didn’t writhe his head like he does when he bites into the prey that he means to eat. You’re not bleeding too badly, the wound isn’t fatal. His venom paralyzes, it doesn’t kill.

Now you’re a weeping, living doll at their mercy. This isn’t the first time you’ve been bitten by one of them. The first time it was Genji, he was young. He was playing with you and got too rowdy. He bit you, instantly falling into a sobbing mess when you screamed and clutched your arm in pain. He didn’t know any better; they… still don’t know any better…. he wasn’t fully grown so the venom took longer do its job.

You fell to the floor in your kitchen just short of getting to the phone. The analog clock shined brightly. You watched the minutes tick by while Genji cuddled and sobbed into your neck, blubbering about how Hanzo would rip him apart when he found out he had killed mama, and he’d let him. He wanted to die, he didn’t want to live without you. You found the sentiment to be rather melodramatic, if you could have laughed it off, you would have. Now seeing the lengths they are willing to go to keep you to themselves, you realize that their feelings really do run that deep.

Hanzo holds you, Genji removes your clothes. Piece by piece it all falls to the floor ‘til you’re bare, and there’s not a thing you can do about the chagrin you feel from being utterly exposed in front of your boys. They explore your body with unabashed interest. Groping, tugging, caressing. Praising the softness of your skin, marveled by the bumps that raise from their touch.

“Humans kiss with their tounges,” Genji says. They are no strangers to how human sex works or physical human affections. You never bothered to police what they consumed through media. Never monitored their internet time. While this is the first contact they’ve had with a female body (to your knowledge) they’re not totally ignorant. Regardless, something tells you that instinct is going to be a greater teacher than anything they ever found on the internet.

Genji lifts your chin with a finger. Kisses you once, testing. Kisses you again; slips his tongue into your mouth. He reaches further inside, exploring just as he did your body. He breaches the back of your throat. You gag. You can’t breathe, fantom limbs reach out to push Genji away. He realizes this and withdraws his tongue. He pets your face apologetically. “Sorry, sorry.”

The venom doesn’t wholly inhibit your ability to speak but does make it a daunting task that takes far more concentration than it usually would. Thank God, because you probably would have told him it was okay.

Hanzo curls his tail into a seat, places you in it, holding you upright with the thinnest part of his tail wrapped tightly around your waist. He spreads your legs so they can explore more. Genji looks, while Hanzo continues to open you up. Using curious, rough fingers to spread your folds and prod at both of your holes. Commenting on your warmth and how the smell of you makes his stomach tighten and his cocks throb.

Your skin tingles all over, your face is hot. You’re paralyzed, not numb. Can feel every touch, every bit of Genji’s fevered breath as he lowers himself and hovers over your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your labia. Hanzo’s powerful chest. His stomach muscles flex and ripple against your back. The solid muscle that is his tail under your thighs; the cool, smooth scales that protect it. His erections twitching and leaking, sticky against your bare skin.

Hanzo licks along the shell of your ear. Hums when you moan: a strangled sound. Genji decided to explore your sex the way he explored your mouth, reaching much farther than he was able to go in your throat. “Feels good?” Hanzo questions. “Do you see now, mama? We can fulfill your every need.”

You don’t want to see, eyelids stuck open in a perpetual stare, you have no choice. Genji looks serene down between your legs. The widest part of his tongue disappears between your slit. His wet lips meet the wet folds of your pussy. The long, slick muscle writhes and circles around your insides. It isn’t physically painful, what they’re doing to you. That doesn’t change the shame; this isn’t right. Doesn’t change the betrayal of trust that keeps a steady flow of tears streaming down your face.

But your tumultuous feelings also doesn’t change that it -does- feel good. The venom forces you to relax; forces you to hard focus on the sensations running rapidly through your body. Hanzo’s curious tongue and soft lips on your neck. His low, gruff grunts. The scent permeating your nose that is so distinctly male. The frustrating pressure in your belly. Genji’s merely enjoying his time, there’s no finesse to his method, without meaning to he’s keeping you on the edge.

Your clit pulses, crying out for attention that it won’t be getting. Genji retreats his tongue, buries his nose into your folds and breaths deeply. Keeps doing so all the way up to your belly, eyes shut tight, completely immersed in your scent. He opens his eyes and he gazes up at you wistfully, drunk and happy. “Mama, you are so pretty,” he sniffs again, nuzzling his face into the soft parts of your lower tummy, “smell so good, you are perfection.”

Genji backs off with a delighted smile.

Hanzo drapes you on your back over the midsection of his tail, supports your neck by curling the thinnest part around it. Hanzo holds your hips steady with a bruising grip, presses the tip of his smaller cock to your entrance and sinks in. He hisses out of pleasure, the apples of his cheeks flaming red. Hanzo’s thicker, longer length slides between your cheeks, pokes into your back. You almost mustered up the strength to request that he take it slow. It’s too late now.

The stretch burned enough to pull the air from your lungs; but you’re wet, he’s messing your walls with precum, so you adjust quickly. Hanzo doesn’t thrust, rather moves you up and down on his cock. Taking more of him each time ‘til he’s pressuring your cervix, opening it a little more with each jab.

He’s priming you to accept his clutch. At first, you wince at the foreign feeling. Then you start to feel high, thoughts swimming, a rush of endorphins coursing through your veins. His seed is doing something to your womb. Numbing it, turning it into a tingly heating pad within your body.

Hanzo’s eyes smolder, bear longing. Even as he has you in the exact way that he desires you. He bounces you, fully seated, on his cock. Faster and faster ‘til your heels are bouncing steadily off of his sides, lewd, wet slaps echo off the walls of the cave, your arms swinging deadweight. The frustrating pressure that Genji left in your belly finally comes to fruition. You cum, and so does Hanzo. Thick, healthy ropes of it, so much it seeps and spills from your body.

The room spins, your vision blurs. The exchange between his two cocks is near unnoticeable. Only when he hisses, long and drawn out, his fingers dig painfully into your hips, and the first egg stretches you wider, do you realize he made the exchange. The egg moves at a snail’s pace through your canal. Bulges through your pubic mound, lower tummy, and disappears when it finally exits his cock and settles, weighty inside of your womb.

He pushes out another one, baring teeth, and closing his eyes in concentration. The egg easily joins its sibling, swimming in a sea of seed. He sighs blissfully. “That is much better.” Hanzo rubs your belly. “They will fertilize by morning, grow bigger. You will be so round, mama.”

You swallow to bring moisture back into your hoarse throat. “How do you know these things?” you ask.

“Father left behind a journal.” His fingers fan out over the expanse of your belly. Adoring, and in love with the small baby bump. “He was able to teach us, even though he is gone. I think I will do the same, for our children.”

A journal. You had spent so many years doing your own research, sifting through the plethora of false information and fairy tales in pursuit of being as educated about them as you possibly could be, and there has been a journal written and containing information from an actual naga? If you could slap him, you would. You want to beat your fists against both of their chests.

Speaking of Genji. For a boy that you know to be restless and impatient, he has been exceedingly quiet, up until now. “My turn, Hanzo.” His voice is strained, nearly as shot as your own is.

Hanzo agrees. “Take care,” he says has he hand you over to him, “the eggs can–”

“I know this,” Genji snaps. “A lecture on being careful is unneeded.” Poor thing is pent up. Frustration painted all over his face. What is normally a cheeky but kind face is hardened and hungry as he splays you in his lap the same way Hanzo did.

Hanzo lets the attitude slide with a grunt. Too tired, far too satisfied to argue.

Genji keeps you secured with the tip of his tail wrapped around the section just below your breasts. Nothing’s slow or careful about the way he enters you. He’s all in in one fell swoop. Leans forward and holds onto the both of your tits, grips tightly as he thrusts with vigor. Intensely looks you in the eyes. He pants, you can feel his hot breath on your face. Sweat beads in his hairline. It rolls down his forehead and drips onto your lip.

He cums loudly, his stomach convulses, his pecs flex. He whimpers, as if the pleasure felt so good it hurt. How much cum he left inside of you, you can’t tell. Can no longer feel anything but the tingling and the eggs. Genji doesn’t remove his hands from your breasts. He’s latched on, they’ll be black and blue by the time he’s done. Rather he slithers and shifts, thrusts until his egg-laying cock meets your cunt, and slips inside with ease.

“Oh, mama, mama, mama,” he chants while he pushes. The sound of it sends electricity through your abdomen. Your face flushes from how much it affects you. The wanting and neediness in his voice is unfair and chips away at your will. Genji chokes out a one last “mama.” Your stomach rounded another inch with the inclusion of two new eggs.

“Genji,” Hanzo yawns, “keep her elevated.”

“I know, I know,” Genji says. Tone much more agreeable now than before. “Until the plug forms, I remember.”

The moment’s pass. Both of the boys fondle your belly. Hanzo assures you that the venom should be wearing off soon, but does not apologize for using it in the first place, it was “necessary.” He’s not wrong. They converse about your living situation as if you’re not seated, naked, legs thrown over Genji’s shoulder and rump pressed against Genji’s stomach, his arm curled around your thighs. It’s decided that you’ll be living with them now, it’s time they took care of you.

When they feel its time, Genji opens your legs, and Hanzo inserts two fingers inside of you, taps on something hard formed over your cervix. “It is there, we can bathe her now.”

Hanzo lifts you up bridal style. He carries you over to the onsen. Slithers in and lets the hot water do most of the work. Carefully he leans you back into the water so Genji can wash your sweat-matted hair. He takes extra special care. Scratching your scalp, massaging your temples. The water helps awaken your muscles. Your toes flex, your fingers twitch.

You’re able to hold your own head up again, even if your exhaustion makes it feel near impossible. Hanzo cradles you against his chest, gliding a hand over your back. Genji is casually speaking about how they’d like you to name the babies when they’ve hatched. He doesn’t doubt you’ll be their favorite person, just as you are theirs.

“Do you think they’ll listen to me, the way you two do?” A rhetorical question. Not meant to be funny, but they chuckle.

You fall asleep with both eyes and hands on your belly. You admit to yourself, you like the way it feels. Smooth, hard like the pregnant bellies of friends and coworkers that allowed you to touch theirs. You’re not sure what it is, whether its the shock or the mother in you that keeps you calm. It’s certainly the mother that looks forward to the process, to being pregnant. Four little nagas, that’s a lot of work; that’s a challenge. That’s a lot of love to give and receive.

#hanzo x reader #genji x reader #naga!genji #naga!hanzo #yandere!genji #yandere!hanzo #older!female reader #noncon/yandere/ovipostion/breeding/psuedo incest #whether or not the brothers thing squicks you #is well #up to you #the prompt is warning enough about that #Anonymous

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shslgymnastnerd-blog · 5 years

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OOC - Summary of Moonlight Mist

Overview:

Moonlight Mist is a manga project that Koji Matsuba (Shinobu’s father) started a year after marrying Kotoha Marukichi, though he had been writing notes privately as a hobby since he was in high school.

The story begins with a class of middle schoolers taking a field trip into the nearby Forest of Mystery. While the trip is only supposed to last a day, five students wander away from the class and end up becoming lost in the woods: Aki Akakawa, Yukito Aotani, Haruka Midoriyama, Seitaro Kishima, and Mirabelle Champrose. As night falls, they make camp near a river and hope for rescue to come soon. However, a dense fog descends upon them as they sleep uneasily.

They awaken having been somehow transported to the Myst Continent, a world seemingly taken right out of their fantasies of dragons, elves, and magic. They learn that the land has been in turmoil for centuries. There had been a great war between various powers both mortal and divine, and in the dying breaths of a god the land was cursed. Time now stands still: Day and night never change, leaving different regions in perpetual light or darkness. The seasons have been frozen as well, wreaking havoc on the climate of the continent.

The populace has had centuries to adapt, but tensions still run high as factions fight over resources and territory. The lost students find themselves struggling to stay safe in an unfamiliar land riddled with both overt dangers like bandits and invaders, and more subtle political threats like a king’s iron rule.

But they have one defense against it all: An oracle declares them all the Divine Children foretold in a prophecy by the dying god. In legends passed on through the populace of Myst, it’s believe that heroes born from another world will appear in their land, ushering in an era of justice and mercy. Of course, interpretation of these legends can vary greatly. Some people take the “divine” and “justice” parts very seriously and believe they are demigods smiting the wicked, and some people resent the idea of foreigners upsetting the centuries-long status quo…

The lost children, ambushed by lowly soldiers of the corrupt King Albinus, are protected by the oracle who gives her life up for them. From this sacrifice materializes five jewel-empowered trinkets that awaken the students to magic powers of their own. They transform themselves into the heroes of legend, styling themselves after the heroes in their own stories back home, and fight off the attackers.

The adventure sees the students grappling with the duties that have been thrust upon them so suddenly, while also searching for a way back home. Their morals are often challenged throughout the journey: Is Yukito right when he says that their priority should be getting back to their world safely, or is Aki right in saying they should take long detours on errands and missions? Can Mirabelle give up a life of luxury living among dragons, do the right thing, and go back to save her classmates? Is there a way to make everyone happy when addressing centuries of multilayered strife between different people? And is everyone truly bound by the destiny assigned to them?

Several arcs in, there have been some major shake-ups in the story. First, Aki, Haruka, and their companion guide Kuromura manage to find a way back to Earth after a grand battle, but are separated from the rest of the party, with Yukito forced to take up leadership of the other group. Worse still, they find out that the fantastic creatures and people of Myst have also found their way to Earth and show every indication of wanting to conquer this land, too. Magic and mundane are now in war with each other, and the students find themselves fighting to be the saviors of two worlds.

After everyone is reunited, they learn of a royal commander who is actually a human girl from their world. In fact, she is the long-lost cousin of one of their own. Kikyo finds herself owing a life debt to Seitaro after he rescues her during a disaster, and this begins her own arc as her loyalties slowly begin changing. Ultimately, Kikyo joins the heroes as their sixth party member, and they stand united against her former king.

Currently, the story is in the middle of an arc that examines the heavy weight laying upon child heroes. They face scorn from people who see them as mere foolish children, or who hold them to the same responsibilities as hardened adult veterans. They’ve been so far away from their normal support networks that they don’t know what to do as normal teenage problems begin creeping up on them. And there are hints of strife between the students themselves: Kikyo has not been fully forgiven by everyone for the crimes she committed under the king’s orders, and Yukito is asserting himself as a more capable leader than Aki.

With the king now personally invested in seeing their entire group eradicated thanks to Kikyo’s betrayal, what will it take for these lost children to endure the trials ahead…?

- - -

Characters:

Aki Akakawa: The primary protagonist of the story. Like many shounen hero, he’s impulsive, hotheaded, and stubborn, yet ultimately brave even in the face of the highest odds. He is gifted a ruby pendant infused with a magical power that lets him become The Hero Crimson, who is designed after the typical warrior class in RPGs.

Yukito Aotani: A cold and aloof classmate that Aki has formed a sort of rivalry with. While in school it began as somewhat friendly competition over test scores (Yukito always won in everything except sports), the dire threats of their adventure brings their personality conflicts to the forefront, putting their friendship on the edge. With his sapphire bracelet, he becomes The Archer Indigo, filling out the ranger archetype, right down to having animal companions he seems to like better than people.

Haruka Midoriyama: Aki’s childhood friend. They used to be inseparable, but middle school saw them being sorted into different homerooms; Haruka’s time off was further devoted into her track team, and as a result they’ve started drifting apart. She is just as boisterous as Aki, but it comes tempered with her attempts to nurture her peers – whether they want her help or not. Her emerald ring lets her transform into The Thief Verdant, a dashing and nimble rogue. And, yes, her name is a reference to the Midoriyama of Sasuke fame, though this isn’t directly acknowledged in-universe.

Seitaro Kishima: One of Haruka’s classmates from her homeroom, who is a shy nerd with a lot of anxiety about being outside or in the middle of crowds. With his topaz brooch he becomes The Wizard Gold, keeping a safe distance from danger as he used mage powers to rain havoc upon foes. In recent issues, Seitaro has begun the reasons behind his anxieties, from the tragic disappearances of his relatives to his growing discomfort with the changes adolescence brings.

Mirabelle Champrose: An exchange student that’s quite popular in Aki’s year… among anyone that isn’t Aki himself. Or Yukito or Haruka or Seitaro. Mirabelle’s charming elegance goes hand-in-hand with a fussiness and an unwillingness to do physical labor, something that becomes a frequent problem during their adventure. Despite it all, she truly cares about the people around her and slowly learns how to get along with them, and as The Priestess Rose she dutifully heals their wounds, even when they’re feuding. She still fawns over the garnet earrings that empower her, though – girl’s gotta have her jewelry!

Kuromura: A fox-like creature that the oracle cared for as a stray animal. Despite that, Kuromura is very much sapient and can talk out loud, serving as a guide, a mentor, and a voice of reason as the students try to find their way through this unfamiliar world. Curiously, Kuromura has a black opal set into their head, but they cannot remember ever being able to cast magic…

Albinus Frost IV: The king of the Frostbitten Crown who continues his family’s bid to expand influence over all the land. Safely entrenched in the bitter-cold mountains to the north, he sends armies out to conquer their neighbors, steadily taking over town after town. Though he claims to be doing this all for the good of the citizens, refugees fleeing from the towns he takes say that he imposes strict control on them all, keeping villages under martial law as his guard closely monitor financial spending, food rations, and communications with other towns. Woe betide those who are vocal about their displeasure; reports suggest many dissidents have disappeared without a trace.

The Diva: First seen clad in full armor, the Diva is a commander of Albinus’s armies, using her music to enchant soldiers with strength and bravery. In time she is revealed to actually be a young human girl, and even later her true identity is revealed to be Kikyo Shimori, a cousin of Seitaro’s who went missing with her family eleven years ago during a hiking trip. In reality they accidentally wandered into the mist world, and Kikyo was somehow separated from her parents (who she assumes are dead) and raised instead as a bard-slash-spy for the Frostbitten Crown. After an arc in which Kikyo’s loyalties are called into question, she finally defects from Albinus and puts herself at great risk saving Seitaro’s life from his generals, resulting in the amethyst circlet materializing before her. With this, Kikyo awakens to her power as the Diva Violet, and thus proves herself a true ally of the team.

- - -

Trivia:

The most popular ships in the fandom are Aki x Haruka, Aki x Yukito, Yukito x Mirabelle, and Yukito x Kikyo. There is also significant support for Aki x Kikyo, Haruka x Mirabelle, and Seitaro x Mirabelle.

Shinobu happens to have a few advance spoilers in regards to canon ships: Aki x Yukito is endgame! The original intention was to make Aki x Haruka canon, but over the years both the in-character dynamics and Koji’s own feelings about his work have changed.

Shinobu also knows that future issues will, over time, make it clear that Seitaro is definitely not cis and is likely nonbinary. Koji started writing this arc as a way to try and connect with Shinobu, especially during some of the rockier month of their relationship when Shinobu was questioning if his parents even cared about what he wanted in life. At times he acts as a sort of consultant, helping his father understand what Seitaro might be feeling right now.

Haruka is another character based closely off Shinobu. At the beginning of the story she symbolized Shinobu the ace athlete: Always determined, always energetic, always ready to give 100% in any situation. As the reality of Shinobu’s life became clear to Koji, he’s since taken a more nuanced writing with Haruka, acknowledging the constant pressure that she faces as both and athlete and as the caretaker of the group. Much of her arc now is her and her teammates learning to accept that just because she’s their emotional pillar doesn’t mean that she’s invincible, and that’s okay.

An anime adaptation of the manga is in progress, and is currently in the earliest arcs, before the temporary group split.

#ooc #long post #not actually important to shinobu himself #but it's here for reference

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melaenis-ficente-blog · 7 years

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Counting Treasure || One-shot

Summary: Mel readies Maggie Rose for bedtime.

tw: some gore/blood its fine

It’s a strange mystery, the things that your children take from you—what they take, why they take, and how. When Magdelena was still in the egg, Mel did not think questions such as this. She thought in different questions. She theorized about the temperature of the egg, how large it would grow, its peculiar weight, and the rhythm of its heartbeat, which she could feel by placing her hand upon its shell. The egg was just an egg to Melaenis then. She was the most spectacular magical experiment that Mel had ever achieved.

But then she’d hatched, and Magdelena had blinked open her beautiful eyes, blue, not like her mother, but like her father. She wore the dragon’s scale, breathed with a dragon’s breath. She had a sharp nose like her mother too, and a natural inclination for anything and everything magic. Even her curiosity Mel liked to think was a gift that she gave her daughter.

But while Mel and her dragon had always lived by the moon, Magdelena lived by the sun. When the moon came around, and Mel felt her body filled with magic, power, and lust—lust for the sky, for the hunt—her daughter grew sleepy, those big, beautiful blue eyes, eyes from her father, drooping, as she yawned and showed off the rows of her pearl-white teeth.

When she was younger, Mel curled Magelena up In her arms and gently rocked her as she sat outside in her garden. Her daughter’s throat rumbled with snoring soon after she started. Mel believed it was the scents from the garden that lulled her more than any story, though that’s what Howl liked to do—tell their daughter stories, like she was a common Mundus child. Mel knew better. Or so she thought she did. Really, though, Maggie was a mystery. Children often are.

Now Maggie was too big to curl up in the arms of her mother. She had fashioned her own bed out of stone and coal she’d collected from the forest. She’d started a little hoard too, adorning the sides with earrings she nabbed from Mel’s jewelry box, vials from the kitchen, old tea bags she dug out of the rubbish bin (Peculiar! said Howl.) Then her nighttime routine became one of counting. Some children counted sleep, but Mel and her daughter counted treasure. One cork stopper, two feathers from Diaval, three beads from a broken necklace, four earrings, five tea bags… and so on and so forth until Maggie curled up and let out another rumbling snore.

And bigger still, Maggie grew and so her hoard grew too. And the hours of her bedtime began to expand and she stayed up later as she counted and counted and then whizzed up the stairs in search for something new—

And Mel realized, then, one night, that it was not the hoard, but the hunger that kept her daughter awake and restless--

She was old enough to hunt.

And so at the tender age of just three moons, Melaenis took her daughter into a clearing deep within the forest. She was the size of a large dog now (though it pained Mel to compare her miraculous accomplishment to something as boring and ordinary as a dog) and romped ahead of Mel, stretching out her beautiful, feathery wings. She let out a soft cry into the night, a sound almost like that of a bird. (Would she not roar, then, Mel wondered. Would she inherit her father’s voice and her mother’s hunger?)

“Yes,” Mel chuckles now though. “Almost, Maggie.” And she stops in the clearing and then sheds her satin robe, so she stands stark naked underneath the moonlight. Mel takes a deep breath in, drawing the night into her lungs.

The dragon opens her eyes.

The fire catches on Mel’s hot skin, consuming her in seconds. She hears Magdelena cry out again, but it’s not a sound of fear, but one of jubilation. Mel spreads her wings and they brush at the sides of the trees, making them bend back and give an awful groan. Her neck stretches, her jaw opens and she breathes out a short jet of fire into the purple night. Its there and then gone, like a torch struck. Her back claws dig trenches into the grass and then she folds her wings back in.

Her daughter zips in front of her, flying in beautiful, graceful circles, chattering happily. Then she flaps toward Mel and lands clumsily on her snout. Her hands grip the tough leather of Mel’s nostrils, though Mel doesn’t feel a thing. She snorts out hot, black smoke, ruffling her daughter’s feathers. The ends catch with ember but Maggie coos soft and then blows a puff of smoke over Mel’s snout. The rings dance up into the air.

Now we hunt, she says to her daughter. Come. Follow.

And with a mighty flap of her wings, they rocket into the air, climbing acre after acre, higher than Maggie has ever gone—unless when flown curled up in her father’s talons. But Maggie lets out another loud, high-pitched cry of joy. Her daughter is not one that has ever tasted fear. Not yet. She does not know the meaning, nor the colour, nor the sound. She lets go of her mother’s nostrils and lets herself free fall through the air, only to unfurl her wings and catch herself right above the tops of the trees. She lets out another soft twitter as she flaps once, then twice, grabbing at leaves as she goes. Her mother flies above her, her shadow over her daughter—blocking out the stars and the moon.

Magdelena does not need the moon. It’s not the moon that she hungers for at all.

Mel knows what her daughter needs. She sucks in the air and can smell every living creature down below in the forest and every slumbering Mundus in town. Their blood is a bouquet of tastes for the dragon. It would be easy to circle back and take the town in a beautiful ring of fire. Every time Mel turns into a dragon, she considers this. It’s the dragon’s most fundamental instinct: to claim territory. To level kingdoms, then build their own kingdom from ash.

But she resists, like always. Tonight, they fly over Swynlake, over Enchantra, over the peaceful farmland. Mel guides her daughter far away until the land rolls into the green hills of the wastelands. Here the magic triples in the air. It’s full of wild monsters, such as themselves, though none quite as great.

The dragon is the king and the queen of all beasts. When Mel’s shadow rakes over head, she can feel all those creatures below shiver and hold their breath.

She smells a herd of deer, grazing kilometers away. Magdelena, she calls in her head to her daughter, and her daughter looks up, then rapidly flaps her wings to climb the air.

Ride my back, she instructs her. Watch.

Maggie does as she’s told, catching onto Mel’s dragon’s spikes. She curls her long tail around one and folds her wings in. Then Mel swoops.

She slices through the air like a sword. One clean cut, that’s all it takes. Mel has now done this for years and knows how much power is in one single swoop of her great wings. As she descends down onto the nerd, she is silent. They only have half-a-heartbeat to panic. Half-a-heartbeat is not enough time.

By that time, Mel closes her claws over the deer—one in one foot and one in the other. Her neck strains and catches another between her teeth, crunching it into bone and muscle at once. Her wings knock several other deer onto their clumsy backsides, the horn on one of her wings slicing one’s stomach open.

It is over in less than a second. The air is full of blood, the peace on the moors broken. Mel’s tongue curls the dead, half-eaten deer back into her throat and then releases the two in her claws, both punctured, dead, and now bleeding.

Maggie cooes on her back. She imagines if her daughter were a human girl, it would sound like a delighted little laugh. The shape of it would be a bell. And oh, Mel would ring such a bell all day long and never grow tired of its singing.

For now, she simply rests over the dead bodies of the deer and lowers her neck so Maggie can more easily slip down. She does so, giving a tiny flutter of her wings so she floats as gently as a feather onto the grass. Then she scampers toward the dead deer and plunges her feathered head into the body cavity. Mel lets out a satisfied growl. In the skin of the dragon, it is so easy to be proud of her daughter—to see her clean the insides of the deer and think only that she was just like her mother before her.

Mel does not need to feed the dragon more than it has had tonight. Besides, her dragon wants for other things. Its hunger can be quenched for a while with the taste o f blood and meat from deer, sheep, and cow, but it does not fill the hollow place inside her. Only magic can do that. Only the taste of sorcery—the smell of enchanted gold—

And, sometimes, if she looked at her daughter long enough, the dragon felt satisfied too.

Tonight was a night such as this. Maggie cleaned out the first deer then moved onto the second, eating all of the entrails and all that tender muscle and meat. She snapped at the bone, crunching it down with her impervious teeth so it was like fine power to her—as white and pure as salt or sugar, and Mel knew from experience, just as satiating. Soon there was nothing but a carcass left, to be picked off by flies. Maggie turned back to her mother and flocked toward her. She licked at her bloodied muzzle and then gave a big, wide yawn.

Ah, there was her little, tired darling. Ready, finally it seemed, to go to bed.

Mel leaned forward and nuzzled Maggie gently, then helped her once again onto the top of Mel’s head, where she curled around one of Mel’s horns. They once again took off into the air, leaving the dead behind, leaving the magic wastelands too. Mel did not go here enough, she thought in passing. Perhaps tomorrow night Mel would come alone and seek for something more to quench her thirst. But tonight, she needed to put Maggie to bed.

So through the stars, back into the clearing. Mel landed much softer this time. Her robe was still there in the grass. It was as though no time had passed at all. And for creatures such as she and her daughter—dragons, which were ancient monsters, who could not feel time tick, turn, or age them—perhaps none had.

In another flare of fire and smoke, Mel returned into her human skin, now covered in a layer of soot. She draped her robe around her anyway, tying it loose around her waist, before she headed back into town. Beside her, Maggie yawned again, her trot much slower. Mel smiled down at her. “Just a little ways, my love. And then we’ll count your hoard.”

Maggie trilled soft in the back of her throat and scampered a little quicker. They slipped like shadows into the alleyways of Swynlake, not noticed by a single living soul.

The door to Howl’s home opened and Maggie scampered right in and up to her hoard of stone, coal, and treasure. She climbed into it and looked at her mother with her father’s blue eyes. Waiting.

“Oh, you want me to start?” Mel teased her daughter, but she lowered herself onto the carpet, folding her legs underneath her. She reached forward and gently touched the first treasure with the tip of her finger. “One cork stopper from your father’s potion bottles. Two feathers from nasty little Diaval. Three beads from my necklace. Four earrings, five tea bags…”

And on and on, until she was sleeping, a mystery to her mother again.

#bdrplabors #lmao #thats my only reaction to this #story

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princecharmingtobe · 7 years

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Worldbuilding: Science and Cultural thoughts for D&D/Pathfinder worlds

My friend made this huuuge facebook thread just dumping all their thoughts about how worlds like this might work, and when I said she should share it on tumblr she gave me permission to do it for her.

Note: Do not try to argue with me about this stuff because I don’t know shit about shit, I’m just copy/pasting.

So giant spiders shouldn't be able to climb on walls or ceilings? That feature only works because small spiders weigh so little. But what if giant spiders constantly used their web for wall and ceiling climbs, like their legs would occasionally touch their buts to reweb them to make them sticky. So spiders with web boots. But also spiders who are super clean because dust makes walls impossible to stick to so they are always cleaning, and a good tell that there are giant spiders in any given cave or dungeon is that it has no dust or grime anywhere?

Also let's talk about ecosystems. Specifically Giant turtle ecosystems. So there's turtles, then the largest natural animal turtles, but then DnD has GIANT turtles, and then dragon turtles, and then Turtle Islands. So what in a Turtle Island (island on the back of it's turtle) Was a natural predator against Leviathans and other giant sea monsters (as it's just about the biggest thing in the ocean) And because of that Dragon turtles would live near it (cause turtles in DnD might not eat other turtles.) And the dragon turtles would eat the sharks and killer whales, which would make the rest of the island safer from normal turtles. So the party could come to this island just INFESTED with turtles, and it would make a fun campaign setting.

Fun fact. In any world where dragons exist, the planet would have to be closer to a larger sun, and have a stronger magnetic field, and far less greenhouse gasses. Proof: For dragons of size to exist in any reasonable population, they would need to eat by the ton. We're talking (conservatively) a rhinoceros worth of food per day. But it could be elephants, Giraffes, etc. So for a population of dragons of size to exist, you would need a LOT more graze animals. Which means you'd need a LOT more grass, possibly grass that grows 5x faster than normal grass. To do that, the grass would need more solar energy. Which would mean a bigger/closer sun, but then the world would be too hot to sustain water, unless it had a stronger magetic field and less greenhouse gasses. So for future reference DM's. The sun is HUGE in the sky. Note a large sun would mean longer days (slightly) and therefore shorter nights (slightly) It would also mean Aurora Borealis and Aurora Southernalis would extend to pretty much everywhere but the equator. So pretty night skys for your DnD worlds.

Elves would have the best Alzheimer's medicine and the most cures for cancer and autoimmune disorders. Elves live a really long time, and the longer one lives the greater one's chances of developing these diseases.

The bronze age of most civilizations would never truly end. In any world where oozes and rust monsters exist, stone and bronze weapons would be seen as a stylistic choice especially for different job types.

In desert civilizations, it is entirely likely that the barter system would rely on clever poetry. In any history where a sphinx is even a possibility, entire civilizations would essentially create riddle and poetry games to teach the younger generations how to survive such creatures. This would eventually effect the barter system, and charisma roles would be based equally upon intelligence and one's ability to discern the riddles given in everyday speech.

It would likely be a major festival event, or an event at children's birthday parties, to set treasure chests on fire. And would be considered a sign of good luck if no one got hurt while the chest was burning. This would start as a habit for combating mimics, but eventually likely develop into cultural rituals that would encompass more people than could ever remotely run into mimics. (I argued against setting them on fire and suggested an archery contest to shoot them instead. Don’t wanna burn up my loot!)

So we all know in real life some holidays start as some pretty dark rituals. It's entirely possible where some cities or cultures that don't have a lot of mages have holidays where they throw copper pieces at one another, especially at people they like. (In a playful way). This is because in cultures that ever had an inquisition in their history would likely have used the throwing money at mages to reveal things like shield spells and stoneskin spells. "revealing a mage trying to hide among people, as most of the best defensive mage spells have some reaction to missile attacks. Even weak ones like throwing copper pieces at it. It would also likely create sayings SUCH AS: "Not every problem is a Mage, you can't just throw money at it to make it go away."

It's entirely probable that it would be considered good luck to pour out honey or jam from a jar when you purchase it or get it as a gift. Historically, in any world where oozes live, it's not only likely, but probable that some king or noble was assassinated by some member of their royal court putting a small glop of an ooze or slime into a glass jar and giving it as a gift. Then the person being assassinated would get eaten from the inside out by said ooze or slime.

It's likely that many cultures would prohibit any "halloween" esque holidays where humans dress up in costume. As it would be too easy for actual monsters to do harm to its citizens under the guise of pretending to wear a costume.

It would likely be good form to pay for any kind of wild game in silver, instead of gold (if it's worth enough to cost that.) This would start as a means of checking for lycanthropes, from both parties (even if silver itself doesn't actually hurt lycanthropes unless it's weaponized.) As in most cultures, no one would want to feed a lycanthrope or give them money to keep living in civilization.

In upscale parties, especially ones hosted by royalty. It is likely that a small blood tithe would be paid by everyone in attendance. This would be an act that would drive younger vampires mad with bloodthirst, and help protect high societies (who are the ones most typically plagued with vampires) from undead infiltration. Also some versions of vampires don't bleed.

Being given a healthy Redwood seed from an elf would be a tremendous gift and a sign of friendship. Redwood and other giant trees would also be more common in any worlds that include elves. As these are the trees most capable to be lived in and on, due to size and strength. And being given a cultivated and healthy redwood seed from an elf would be similar to being given a dowry or the preparation for a house in ones future. Though the value of this gift is technically lost on humans as they don't live long enough to see such a tree grow, to a young elf it would be the equivalency of being given a home for ones future in that country/tribe/nation. And even humans who receive such gifts could use it in tasteful jewelry to prove oneself as elf-friend.

In a world with dragons, scavenger birds would be seen as symbols of peace. Dragons would operate much like large dinosaurs did in our history. And it was common for the predatory dinosaurs to allow scavenger birds to pick food clean from their teeth. This served to feed the bird and protect the dinosaur (or dragon in this case) from disease. So flags with scavenger birds on them would be signs of a nation, army, or individual, coming in peace for mutual benefit. (My addition: Conversely they may just become associated with dragons themselves and invoke the fear of dragons. A large number of them may mean a dragon is near, and they may even come to be considered bad luck. Also a thought: Certain dragons may not have need of them. A red/gold dragon could potentially burn away any un-ingested food bits, or a black/copper dragon's acid breath might get rid of it?) But that can burn precious fire, which only confident dragons would do regularly. (point)

In a world with dragons, roving caravans would not be made of wood. They would quickly learn to use other materials. Furthermore, mirror shields would be a common defense against dragons, especially in sunny regions as an attempt to blind an attacking dragon while one searched for cover would be most people's only defense (besides not being noticed in the first place.)

Whispering someone you know's full name in their ear as a greeting would be very common in a majority of civilizations. This safeguards from all sorts of illusions and shapeshifters. Say "hi" hug or shake hands very closely and whisper their name, to prove you are who you look like and know them the way you do. Anyone who fails to do this would be held in high suspicion. And giving away someone's full name without their consent would be seen as an insulting act of the highest order.

Large ships would likely be painted in special waterproof paint in shades of blue. This would be combative against large ship attacking sea monsters.

Police forces in cities would have dogs specially trained to hunt the smells of things like goblins,hobgoblins, and kobolds. (though for kobolds it would depend on if the local government allowed them to live there or not, some do)

When traveling in large forests. It is customary to paint large sets of eyes on ones armor clothing and shields. Not only do some snakes spit venom at eyes, but large eyes can scare of predators with only animal level intelligence.

As elves do not often have young. The murder of an elf (even relatively unimportant elves) can bring entire nations to war, and if not, it at minimum can incur feuds that outlast entire human bloodlines as brother/sisters and parents of said elf hunt you and your descendants down.

#dnd #d&d #dungeons & dragons #dungeons and dragons #pathfinder

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idreamofhazel · 7 years

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Homesick Part Two: Homecoming

Read part one here.

Summary: You weren’t able to spend Valentine’s day with Sam, but you both make up for it by getting each other the best gift.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: none

A special thank you to @impala-dreamer for looking it over and giving me some fluffy ideas! You’re the best!!!

Sam and Dean were gone for two more days than expected, causing Sam’s homesickness to grow exponentially and your anticipation to build excruciatingly. This was the hardest secret you’d ever had to keep. The urge to call Sam and release it, to hear the happiness in his voice while he shared it with Dean, was almost unbearable. What kept you from telling him over the phone was the desire to also see his reaction, not only hear it.

Their extended trip also put Sam’s returning date a day after Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s day was nothing to a hunter, really; only masochistic ones would put themselves through the pain of romance, celebrating the civilian holiday while omnipresent threats loomed over their heads. But you and Sam were different. You always did a little something for each other on this holiday, like a box of chocolates to share, but this year it seemed that nothing would happen. And it upset you, far more than you thought it would.

Your mood plummeted instantly when you received the text, throwing you into the pit of Valentine’s day despair usually reserved for forever-alone people. Hormones were most likely to blame and you found yourself wanting only to curl up under a blanket and listen to sappy love songs while single-handedly eating a tub of ice cream. So that’s exactly what you did. And that’s what you were doing when you got the first text, at ten thirty in the morning, from Sam.

“When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.”

You grinned uncontrollably despite yourself, huddled under the covers, the phone screen lighting up your pity-party tent.

“Shakespeare, really? ;)” you sent back.

“Only because it’s true. There’s more coming :)”

You could do nothing but shake your head, your cheek muscles aching because of the size of your smile. There had been no real reason to doubt Sam. He always came through, able to find a way to make the best out of any situation, and now because of his messages, your mood lifted and you felt like getting out of bed.

Then he sent another message. “I also got you a little something. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t. I can’t wait to see it. I got you something too.”

Sam had just created the perfect opportunity for you to share the big news with him. He would give you your gift, and then you could deliver yours in a message, as if it were a regular gift exchange. Your gift would blow him away, though. Even if he had somehow managed to fully participate in the commercialism of the holiday by getting you a piece of jewelry or a bouquet of roses, he would be the speechless one.

The best way to deliver the message would be through a card, so you went to the store, clad in sweatpants and a jacket, taking full advantage of your pregnant status. At the small convenience store in Lebanon, you went straight for the card section where you received another text.

“I still fall in love with you everyday.”

It was another cheesy love quote, but you didn’t mind. They were making your heart soar while you looked for the right card. You needed something sweet, but simple, with some blank space to write in your personal message.

Choosing a card was difficult. You had forgotten how droning it could be to look over so many cards of varying colors and designs, all with similar messages tweaked for so-called variety. Maybe this was a wash. Maybe you were better off buying construction paper and making your own like a twelve year old girl.

“Last minute shopping?” asked a woman who suddenly appeared beside you, her eyes roaming more over the cards than looking at you. She wore a warm smile and matching sweater, forest green and knitted.

“Yeah, just searching for the right one,” you trailed off, returning your attention back to the cards.

“I used to consider myself somewhat of a card expert,” she continued, “I used to make them myself. You have something particular in mind?”

Her readiness to open up to you and help caught you off guard at first, until you gave her the hunter’s once over and realized she was as civilian as civilian could be. It wouldn’t hurt to have some help, so you took her up on the offer.

“Well, I have some news to deliver with the card.” You patted your stomach and her face lit up as she caught on.

“Oh congratulations!” she beamed, then hummed and tapped her chin while she searched the cards. “How about this one?”

She picked a card out of the plastic slots and held it out as your phone buzzed again. There’s a million things I could say to you… the outside of the card read.

“This one’s all me. I can’t wait to see you again. I’m counting down the hours, honestly. I miss you so much when we’re apart. I’ve never felt this way before. You’re special, not just to me. You’re amazing. I can’t even describe it. I can only say I love you.”

“P.S. Dean yelled at me because I took forever to type that message. ;)”

When you finished reading Sam’s most recent text, you cried uncontrollably, right in the middle of the card aisle. It didn’t matter that you wanted to stop. You couldn’t.

The helpful woman was alarmed, rightfully so, and moved to comfort you. “What’s wrong? Are you ok?”

You wiped your runny nose with your sleeve, beautifully and with all the grace expected of a woman in your state. “Y-yes, I’m fine, I just, he sent me a text and the card, he’s been sending me messages since he’s gone. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Oh, honey, here.” She dug inside her purse until she found some tissues, which she shoved into your hand. “It’s the hormones. Don’t worry, it’s totally normal. Does the card work?”

You opened it up. But only one that says it all perfectly. I love you. Always. You began nodding quickly.

“I thought you could, you know, add it in there.”

“Yeah, the message, yeah. It’s perfect.” You sniffled and patted your eyes dry with one of the tissues. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome. I hope he loves it!”

A few hundred miles away, Sam was still sitting in a motel room with Dean, pouring all of his attention into his notes, lest Dean yell at him again. He awaited the reply to his latest message, to see if you were tired of the cliche gestures yet, but it didn’t appear as if you were. His phone went off and he quickly read your response.

“I bet he did. But he’s just going to have to deal with it. I love you too Sam, more than anything. Come home quickly <3”

If only you knew how quickly he wanted to come home. His gift was waiting, tucked discreetly into the corner of his duffle, wrapped professionally by an employee at the store. He was nervous to give it to you. It was unconventional, to say the least, and he wondered if it would be too much. But he had already bought it, it was something that was important to him, and he believed it to be important to you, too. It would be the culmination of your combined love; a symbol and a gesture that said, this is it, that decided to forget about the worries and concerns of the future. It was about time, Sam thought, to throw a bit of caution to the wind and make something of this love you had for each other. So that’s why he didn’t return the gift, instead concerning himself with how to give it to you.

Back at the bunker, you sat at a library table, pen in hand, tapping it rapidly as you stared at the inside of the card. Under the printed message was plenty of blank space. You could write a paragraph, or keep it simple with only a sentence. There were so many ways to say it, some of them cute, some of them lame--so lame you scrunched your nose at yourself, wondering where in the world those ideas came from. The answer was hormones. You blamed it all on the hormones until you finally grew tired of stressing and instead, began writing what came to mind.

Actually, there’s one more thing I can say, one more thing I can add to this card, because one more thing is being added to this family.

You didn’t add anything more, except a heart. Sam was smart. He would catch on.

Sam had at least twenty-four more hours until he was home, back at the bunker and with you. He and Dean were staking out a home, waiting for the creature to appear. He was terribly distracted, playing out different scenarios of the gift-giving moment in his head, some of them where you were elated, some where you were unsure, and some where he had to explain the gift. Those were the worst scenarios, but he knew you were smart. You would know what the present meant as soon as you opened it. He was getting hung up on the other negative scenarios, though, so much so that Dean had to wave his hands in front of Sam’s face and repeat a question. He needed to focus. He could worry about these scenes on the way home.

Fast forward through those twenty-four hours, through your equally-obsessive planning on how to deliver the card, through another mood swing, and through an unexpected mad dash of cleaning, you got a text from Sam that said they were an hour out. You grabbed dinner and the card, placing them both on the war room table. Then you sat down, right where Sam could see you as he walked in. Or maybe you should be in your room, so it wasn’t so obvious. Or maybe the kitchen, like you had been busy with dinner. Or maybe it didn’t matter and you should stop worrying about it and just wait. Ten more minutes.

Panic started to set in during the silence; all of the reasons why this wouldn’t work popping up out of nowhere and cramming your imagination with horrible visions, visions of Sam becoming upset, of Dean agreeing that it wouldn’t work. Of you having to leave, raising this baby on your own.

Just then you heard the creaking of the metal door opening and footsteps on the metal staircase, the sound of Sam and Dean’s voices carrying over their stomps. You chest rose and fell with one deep breath and then you got up from the chair, looking up as the descended the stairs. They looked good, not too beat up, thankfully. This had been an easy case for them.

“Hey,” Dean said, giving you a quick hug before walking towards the hall, “I’m forbidding you from staying behind again. Lover boy here was a huge sap the whole time.”

You smiled, not being able to say anything while Dean walked to his room. Then you laid eyes on Sam. He was happy to see you, but there was nervousness under the surface. He dropped his bags on the floor and set a small square box on the war room table. Your eyes followed it, wondering what was inside.

“I wasn’t that bad, really,” he said, stepping towards you and pulling you into a hug.

“Never,” you mumbled into his shirt.

“How are you? Were you sick?” He pulled back and looked you over.

“No, I guess I just needed the extra rest. So, when do I get to see what’s in that box?”

He uncharacteristically began fumbling with anxiety, his gaze falling to his feet as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, any time I guess. But, do, do you want to go first?”

You laughed nervously in turn, shaking your head. “No, I think you should go first.”

“Ok.” He spun around too quickly, grabbing the box and almost shoving it at you, using an unneeded amount of force in his actions. You could see a bit of sweat on his brow and his smile was strained. The box was far too big to be an engagement ring. You ruled out a proposal, so you had no idea what could be inside. You began tugging at the red ribbon tied around the box, perfectly like you saw in movies, done up nicely in a shop. “It’s a little different. You can be honest about it,” he added, an almost undetectable shake in his voice.

You ignored his comments, knowing how self-doubting he could be. Whatever it was, you were sure to love it. He never went wrong with gifts, or with anything really. The ribbon untied easily and you let it fall to the floor as you pulled open the top and gasped. Inside laid a neatly folded flannel shirt, tiny, definitely made for a baby, and a pair of the smallest boots you had ever seen, sitting right on top. All you could do was cry, with happiness and with love, because without even knowing, Sam had been desiring the exact thing you were about to give him.

“I, it’s ok if you don’t like it,” Sam began, but you couldn’t find the words to stop him yet, “I’ve been meaning to, you know, talk about this with you, but then I saw those and I just had this idea and, this was stupid. I know. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you like this, I’m-”

“Dammit, Sam, would you be quiet for five seconds so I can talk? Just read this!” you grabbed your card and shoved it at him, barely being able to see where it should go through the tears in your eyes. You couldn’t stop crying.

You watched through blurry vision as he tore open the envelope and slipped the card out, waiting expectantly as he read the front then opened it. You could see exactly when he read your note. And exactly when he realized what it meant. Tears welled in his eyes as looked up at you, all trace of nervousness gone, replaced by awe and love. You nodded, neither of you able to speak, before he lunged forward almost violently, card still in hand as he grabbed your arms, pulling you into him tightly and crashing his lips into yours.

You stood that way for a seemingly endless amount of time, your hands gripping the box between you tightly, Sam’s fingers pressing into your forearms, both of you amazed that your lives were so fortunate.

The moment was perfect, even as you pulled apart and gazed into each other’s eyes, relishing the moment until Dean walked in, searching for dinner.

He looked at the both of you, tears stains on your cheeks and clutching each other almost desperately, and became confused.

“Did I miss something?”

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#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester oneshot #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural oneshot #ITS SO FLUFFY #if you die of fluff blame beka #because she killed me with her ideas #and then we died together

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dazzledbybooks · 5 years

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After the War of Kinds ravaged the kingdom of Rabu, the Automae, designed to be the playthings of royals, usurped their owners’ estates and bent the human race to their will. Now Ayla, a human servant rising in the ranks at the House of the Sovereign, dreams of avenging her family’s death…by killing the sovereign’s daughter, Lady Crier. Crier was Made to be beautiful, flawless, and to carry on her father’s legacy. But that was before her betrothal to the enigmatic Scyre Kinok, before she discovered her father isn’t the benevolent king she once admired, and most importantly, before she met Ayla. Now, with growing human unrest across the land, pressures from a foreign queen, and an evil new leader on the rise, Crier and Ayla find there may be only one path to love: war. Crier's War (Crier's War #1) by Nina Varela Publisher: HarperTeen Release Date: October 1st 2019 Genre: Young Adult, Fantasy, LGBT Links: Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41951626-crier-s-war Amazon: https://amzn.to/2SVjF57 B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/criers-war-nina-varela/1129558376#/ iTunes: https://books.apple.com/br/book/criers-war/id1448154886 Bookdepository (CD): https://www.bookdepository.com/Criers-War-Nina-Varela/9781094025483?ref=grid-view&qid=1564567702509&sr=1-1 Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/hk/en/ebook/crier-s-war Google Books: https://books.google.co.uk/books/about/Crier_s_War.html?id=JuGBDwAAQBAJ&redir_esc=y Favorite Quotes: “Fever and fervor”, said Junn. “There is very little difference, in the end.” “Humanity is how you act, my lady,” said Jezen. “Now how you were Made.” "Like she was more than a human girl. Like she was a summer storm made of flesh." "Crier was beautiful. Created to be beautiful, but it was more than that. [...] It was the way her eyes lit up with interest, the way her fingers were always so careful, almost reverent, as she flipped the pages of a book." "A thought came to her: a story of its own, one that only just began writing itself in her mind: a story of two women, one human, one Made." "A drop of water gleamed on Ayla's lower lip. Strangely, it made Crier want to--drink." Excerpt: Original link/Excerpt extracted from: https://www.epicreads.com/blog/criers-war-sneak-peek/ Alternative links: https://aerbook.com/books/Criers_War-227827.html?social=1&retail=1&emailcap=0 Crier’s War FALL, Y E A R 47 A E Chapter 1 When she was newbuilt and still fragile, and her fresh-woven skin was soft and shiny from creation, Crier’s father told her, “Always check their eyes. That’s how you can tell if a creature is human. It’s in the eyes.” Crier thought her father, Sovereign Hesod, was speaking in metaphor, that he meant humans possessed a special sort of power. Love, a glowing lantern in their hearts; hunger, a liquid heat in their bellies; souls, dark wells in their eyes. Of course, she’d learned later that it was not a metaphor. When light hit an Automa’s eyes head-on, the irises flashed gold. A split second of reflection, refraction, like a cat’s eyes at night. A flicker of gold, and you knew those eyes did not belong to a human. Human eyes swallowed light whole. Crier counted four heartbeats: a doe and three kits. The woods seemed to bend around her, trees converging overhead, while near her feet there was a rabbit’s den, a warm little burrow hidden underground from wolves and foxes . . . but not from her. She stood impossibly still, listening to four tiny pulses radiating up through the dirt, beating so rapidly that they sounded like a hive of buzzing honeybees. Crier cocked her head, fascinated with the muffled hum of living organs. If she concentrated, she could hear the air moving through four sets of thumb-sized lungs. Like all Automae, she was Designed to pick up even the faintest, most faraway sounds. This deep into the woods, dawn had barely touched the forest floor—the perfect time for a hunt. Not that Crier enjoyed hunting. The Hunt was an old human ritual, so old that most humans did not use it anymore. But Hesod was a Traditionalist and historian at heart, and he fostered a unique appreciation for human traditions and mythology. When Crier was Made, he had anointed her forehead with wine and honey for good fortune. When she came of age at thirteen, he had gifted her a silver dress embroidered with the phases of the moon. When he decided that she would marry Kinok, a Scyre from the Western Mountains, he did not make arrangements for Crier to take part in the Automa tradition of traveling to a Maker’s workshop, designing and creating a symbolic gift for her future husband. He had planned for a Hunt. So Crier was not actually alone in these woods. Somewhere out there, hidden by the cover of shadows and trees, her fiancé, Kinok, was hunting as well. Kinok was considered a war hero of sorts. He’d been Made long after the War of Kinds, but there had been numerous rebellions, large and small, in the five decades since the War itself. One of the biggest, a series of coups called the Southern Up-risings, had been quelled almost single-handedly by Kinok and his ingenuity. On top of that, he was the founder and head of the Anti- Reliance Movement—a very new political group that sought to distance Automakind and humankind even further. Literally. Most of their agenda centered on building a new Automa capital to the Far North, in a territory that was uninhabitable to humans, instead of continuing to use the current capital, Yanna, which had once been a human city. It was, frankly, ridiculous. You didn’t have to be the sovereign’s daughter to know that building an entirely new city would require ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million kings’ coffers of gold, and why would such a vain effort ever be worth the time and cost? It was a fantasy. Before Kinok had begun the Anti-Reliance Movement, about three years ago now, he’d been a Watcher of the Iron Heart. It was a sacred task, protecting the mine that made heartstone, and he was the first Watcher to ever leave his post. Which, of course, had caused much speculation among Automakind. That he’d been discharged, banished for some serious offense. But Kinok claimed it had been a simple difference of philosophy regarding the fate of their Kind, and no one had uncovered any reason more sinister than that. The one time Crier had asked him about his past, he had been elusive. “Those were dark times,” he had said. “So few of us ever saw light.” She had no idea what that meant. Maybe she was overcomplicating it: he’d been living in a mine, after all. Still, the secrets he held—about the Iron Heart, how it ran, its exact coordinates within the western mountains—made him inherently powerful, and different. Many of her father’s councilmembers—the sovereign’s “Red Hands,” as they were called—seemed drawn to Kinok. Like Hesod, Kinok had a certain gravity to him, a certain pull, though where he was serious, Hesod was jovial. Where Kinok was controlled and quiet, Hesod was loud, quick-tempered, often brash. And determined to marry off his daughter to Kinok, despite all the whispers, the speculations. Or perhaps because of them. Months before Kinok’s arrival, Crier and her father had taken a walk along the sea cliffs. “Kinok’s followers are few and scattered, but he is gaining influence at a rate I hadn’t thought possible,” he’d explained. She had listened carefully, trying to understand his point. She had heard of Kinok’s rallies, if “rallies” was even the right word—they were essentially just intellectual gatherings, where small groups of Automae could share their ideals, talk politics and advancement. “Scyre Kinok is a philosopher, Father, not a politician,” Crier had said. “He poses no threat to your rule.” It had been late summer, the sky clear and delphinium blue. Crier used to treasure those long, slow walks with her father, hoarding moments like pieces of jewelry, pretty things to turn over and admire in the light. She looked forward to them every day. It was their time—away from the Red Council, away from her studies—when she could learn from him and him alone. “Yes, but his philosophy is gaining traction among the Made, the protection and rule of which are my—and your—responsibility. We must convince him to join a family structure. To bridge the divide.” Crier stopped short of the seaflowers that had just begun to bloom by the cliff’s edge. “But surely if he does not agree with the tenets of Traditionalism, he will not agree to the kind of union you propose.” She couldn’t bring herself to say marriage yet. “One might think so, but I have reason to believe he will accept the opportunity. To him, it will provide power and status. To us, it will provide stability and access. We will be able to track what the Anti-Reliance Movement is attempting to accomplish, and better rein it in.” “So you disagree with ARM,” Crier said. Hesod hedged. “Their views on humankind are too extreme for my taste. It is one thing to subjugate those who are inferior and another thing entirely to behave as if they don’t exist. We must build policy around the reality of where we came from. We were not created in a void, history-less. It is ignorant to think we cannot learn from humanity’s existing structures.” “You find ARM too extreme. . . . Would you consider its leader dangerous, then?” Crier asked. “No,” Hesod said coolly. Then he had added: “Not yet.” And so she had understood. Crier was the bandage to a wound—one that was minor, for now, but had the potential to fester over time. A hairline fracture in Hesod’s otherwise ironclad rule, his control over all of Zulla, everything from the eastern sea to the western mountains—except the separate territory of Varn. Varn was part of Zulla but still ruled by a separate Automa monarchy. Queen Junn, the Child Queen. The Mad Queen. The Bone Eater. Hesod didn’t need any more splintering. He wanted union. He wanted to keep the same thing Crier knew Kinok wanted: Power. Now: the branches above Crier’s head were half naked with approaching winter, but the trees were so densely packed that they blocked out almost all the weak gray sunlight, shrouding the forest floor in shadow. Overhead, the leaves were like copper etchings, a thousand waving hands in shades of red and orange and burnished gold; underfoot, they were the pale brown of dead things. Crier could smell wet earth and woodsmoke, the musk of animals, the sharp scent of pine and wood sap. It was so different from what she usually experienced, living on the icy shores of the Steorran Sea: the tang of sea air. The taste of salt on her tongue. The heavy smells of fish and rotting seaweed. It took half a day’s ride to reach these woods, and so Crier had been here only once before, nearly five years ago. Her father enjoyed hunting deer like the humans did. She remembered eating a few bites of hot, spiced venison that night, filling her belly with food she did not require. More ritual than meal. The core of her father’s Traditionalism: adopting human habits and customs into daily life. He said it created meaning, structure. Under most circumstances, Crier understood the merits of Hesod’s beliefs. It was why she called him “father” even though she’d never had a mother and had never been birthed. She had been commissioned, Made. Unlike humans, all Automae really needed was heartstone. Where human bodies depended on meat and grain, Automa bodies depended on heartstone: a special red mineral imbued with alchemical energy; raw stone mined from deep within the western mountains and then transmuted by alchemists into a powerful, magickal substance. It was how Thomas Wren, the greatest of the human alchemists, had created them almost one hundred years ago when he’d Designed Kiera—the first. Automae were modeled this way still. Crier crept through the underbrush, keeping to the darkest shadows. Her feet were silent even as she walked across twigs and dry leaves, a red carpet of pine needles. Nothing would be able to hear her coming. Not deer, not elk. Not even other Automae. She paused every few moments, listening to her surroundings: the sounds of small animals skittering through the brush, the whispers of wind, the back-and-forth calls of the noonbirds and the old crows. She was careful to keep her heart rate down. If it spiked too suddenly, the distress chime in the back of her neck would go off at a pithc only Automae could hear, and all her guards would come running. The ceremonial bow was heavy in her hand. It was carved from a single piece of dark mahogany, polished to a perfect sheen and inlaid with veins of gold, precious stones, animal bone. The three arrows sheathed at her back were equally beautiful. One tipped with iron, one with silver, and one with bone. Iron for strength and power. Silver for prosperity. Bone for two bodies bound as one. Snap. Crier whipped around, already nocking an arrow and ready to shoot—but instead coming face-to-face with Kinok himself. He was frozen midstep, partly hidden behind a massive oak, half his face obscured and the other half in watery sunlight. Every time she saw him, which was now about ten times per day since he had taken up residence in her father’s guest chambers, Crier was reminded of how handsome he was. Like all Automae, he was tall and strong, broad-shouldered, Designed to be more beautiful than the most beautiful human man. His face was a study in shadow and light: high cheekbones, knife-blade jawline, a thin, sharp nose. His skin was swarthy, a shade lighter than her own, his dark hair cropped close to his skull. His brown eyes were sharp and scrutinizing. The eyes of a scientist, a political leader. Her fiancé. Her fiancé, who was aiming his iron-tipped arrow straight at Crier’s forehead. There was a moment—so brief that when she thought about it later she was not sure it had actually happened—in which Crier lowered her bow and Kinok did not. A single moment in which they stared at each other and Crier felt the faintest edge of nerves. Then Kinok lowered his bow, smiling, and she scolded herself for being so silly. “Lady Crier,” he said, still smiling. “I do not think we’re supposed to interact with each other until the Hunt is over . . . but you’re a better conversationalist than the birds. Have you caught anything yet?” “No, not yet,” she said. “I am hoping for a deer.” His teeth flashed. “I’m hoping for a fox.” “Why is that?” “They’re quicker than deer, smaller than wolves, and cleverer than crows. I like the challenge.” “I see.” She shifted, catching the faraway scuffle of a rabbit in the underbrush. The shadows dappled Kinok’s face and shoulders like a horse’s coloring. He was still looking at her, the last remnants of that smile still playing at the corners of his flawless mouth. “I wish you luck with your fox, Scyre,” she said, preparing to track down the rabbit. “Aim well.” “Actually, I wanted to congratulate you, my lady,” he said suddenly. “While we are out here, away from—from the palace. I heard you convinced Sovereign Hesod to let you attend a meeting of the Red Council next week.” Crier bit her tongue, trying to hide her excitement. After years of near-begging, her father had agreed to let her attend a council meeting. After years of studying history, philosophy, political theory, reading and rereading a dozen libraries’ worth of books, writing essays and letters and sometimes feverish little manifestos, she would finally, finally be allowed to take a seat among the Red Hands. Maybe even to share her proposals for council reform. As daughter of the sovereign, the Red Council was her birthright; it was as much a part of her as her Pillars. She was Made for this. “I think you’re right, you know,” Kinok continued. “I read the open letter you sent to Councilmember Reyka. About your proposed redistribution of representation on the Red Council. You are correct that while there is a voice for every district in Zulla outside of Varn, there is not a voice for every system of value.” “You read that?” Crier said, eyes snapping up to his face. “Nobody read that. I doubt even Councilmember Reyka did.” She couldn’t help the note of bitterness in her voice. It was foolish, but she had thought Councilmember Reyka, of all people, would listen to her. Her argument had been that in places with higher-density human populations, the interests of those humans should be somehow accounted for in the Hands who sat on her father’s council. Though she had to wonder if when Kinok mentioned her phrase, “systems of value,” he was more interested in his own values—those he was attempting to spread through the land, via ARM—than those of the human citizens. Still, it flattered her that he’d read it. It meant her words had more power, greater reach, than she’d realized. She hoped Reyka had read it too, but with no reply, she’d been left to believe the worst. That Reyka thought her naive and foolish. Sometimes, Crier wondered if maybe her father thought that, too. He’d refused her for so long. But Reyka had always shown something of a soft spot for Crier. As the longest-serving member of the Red Council, Reyka had always been a fixture in Crier’s life. She’d visited the sovereign’s estate quite frequently. When Crier was younger, Reyka would bring her little gifts from her travels: vials of sweet-smelling hair oil, a music box the size of a thumbnail, the strange dark delicacy that was candied heartstone. Crier had come to think of her the way human children in storybooks thought of their godmothers. She couldn’t say that to Reyka, or to anyone. It was such a weak, soft-bellied idea. So she just thought it to herself, and it made her feel warm. “Well . . .” Kinok stepped forward a little, light sliding across his face. His footsteps were silent amid the blanket of dried leaves. “I read it twice. And I agree with it. The Red Hands shouldn’t be based on district alone; it leads to imbalance and bias. Have you mentioned this issue to your father?” “Yes,” Crier said quietly. “He was not incredibly receptive.” “We can work on that.” At her look of surprise, Kinok shrugged one shoulder. “We are bound to be married, are we not? I am on your side, Lady Crier, as you are on mine. Right?” “Right,” she found herself saying, staring at him in wonder. What new opportunities might come to her in this marriage? For months now she had thought of it as nothing more than a prolonged political maneuver, unpleasant but ultimately bearable, like the stench of rotting fish in the sea air. It had not occurred to her that she might be gaining an advocate, as well as a husband. “And if we are on the same side, there is something you should know,” said Kinok, lowering his voice even though they were entirely alone, no living things around but the rabbits and the birds. “There was a scandal in the capital recently. I know only because I was with Councilmember Reyka when she learned of it.” Crier almost questioned that—it was no secret that Council-member Reyka hated everything about the Anti-Reliance Movement, including Kinok himself. But another word caught her attention. “A scandal?” she asked. “What kind of scandal?” “Midwife sabotage.” Crier’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, sabotage?” she asked. Midwives were an integral part of the Making process. They were created to be assistants to the Makers themselves, a bridge between Maker and Designer. They helped newly Made Automae adjust to the world. “What did the Midwife do?” “Faked a set of Design blueprints for a nobleman’s child. It was a disaster. The child was Made wrong. More animal than Automa or even human. Their mind was wild, violent. They had to be disposed of for the safety of the nobleman’s family.” “That’s horrible,” Crier breathed. “Why would the Midwife do such a thing? Was it madness?” She knew the condition plagued some humans. “Nobody knows,” said Kinok. “But, Lady, there is something you should know.” There was something strange in his voice. Warning? Trepidation? “This was not her first Make,” Kinok continued, meeting Crier’s eyes. “She had been working with the nobles of Rabu for decades.” A pit seemed to open in Crier’s belly, but she was not sure why. “Who was she, Scyre?” she asked slowly. “The Midwife. What was her name?” “Torras. Her name was Torras.” Crier gripped her bow so tightly that the wood creaked in protest. Because she knew Midwife Torras. She knew it, because that was the Midwife who had helped Make her. As soon as the Hunt was complete—two rabbits and a fox ensnared—and their party had returned to the palace, Crier retired to her chambers, poring again over the Midwife’s Handbook, a thin, leather-bound booklet she’d come across in a bookseller’s stall in the market last year and bought with so much enthusiasm that the stall owner seemed a little alarmed. She reassured herself that an infraction of the kind Kinok had mentioned was nearly impossible. There was no way her own Design had been tampered with, of course. She was far too important. And besides, if there were something off, something Flawed, something different about her, she’d know it already . . . wouldn’t she? Chapter 2 Luna was killed in a white dress. A week had passed since her death, and the dress that had been stripped off her body and dangled from the tallest post was still fluttering in the faint breeze. It was some kind of symbol, or warning. By now the dress was soaked through with rot and rainwater, but there were still some parts white enough to catch the sunlight. Catch the eye. Ayla could not stop glancing over, and every time she did, she felt the gut-punch of what had happened to Luna all over again. And now, days later, the reminder rippled through the other humans like the dress itself rippled in the summer wind. No one even knew what Luna had done. Why the sovereign’s guards had killed her. Ayla continued on her way through the marketplace. She usually worked in the orchards at Sovereign Hesod’s palace, sowing seeds and collecting bushels of ripe apples, but one of the other servants was practically delirious with fever and Ayla had been ordered to fill in. For the past week she’d joined the group of exhausted servants who left their beds halfway through the night, just so they could make it to the closest village, Kalla-den—a good four leagues of treacherous, rocky shoreline from the manor—and set up their wares by dawn. It would’ve been miserable no matter what, but being greeted in the marketplace by Luna’s empty dress made it all the worse. It was like a ghost. Like a pale fish in dark water, flickering at the edges of Ayla’s vision. Ayla had worked in some capacity at the sovereign’s palace for the past four years. And it had been months since she’d finally made it out of the stables and into the orchard-tending rotation. Some days she was so close to the white stone walls of the palace that she could smell the burning hearth fires within, taste the smoke on her tongue. And yet . . . she still hadn’t managed to get inside. Nothing mattered until she got inside. And she’d vowed to do so to exact her revenge—even if it killed her. But now Ayla stared out at the marketplace, at the crowd of sleek, beautiful Automae—leeches—and tried to keep the hatred and disgust off her face. Nobody bought flowers from a girl who looked like she’d rather be selling poison. “Flowers!” she called out, trying to keep her voice light. It was almost sunset, almost time to give up for the day, but there were still far too many unsold garlands in her basket. “We’ve got seaflowers, apple blossoms, the prettiest salt lavender up and down the coast!” Not a single leech glanced in her direction. The Kalla-den Market was a kingdom’s worth of chaos stuffed into an area the size of a barn, and it was so noisy you could hear it from half a league away. The marketplace was vendors’ stalls shoved up against each other three deep, their carts and baskets overflowing with candied fruits, pastries, fresh-caught fish, oysters that smelled like death even under the weak autumn sun. It was leeches huddled around baskets of heartstone dust, dipping the tips of their fingers into the powdery red grains, bringing them to their lips to test the quality. It was whole chickens or goat legs rotating on spits, roasting slowly, smoke filling the air till Ayla’s eyes watered; it was wine and apple cider and piles of colorful spices; it was a crush of grimy, skeletal, desperate humans hawking their wares to an endless stream of Automae. And of course, the rows and rows of Hesod’s prized sun apples, gleaming like so many red jewels—nearly as crimson and bright as heartstone itself. But the majority of the Automae seemed to treat the market like one of those traveling menageries—Step right up, folks. Gawk for free. Look at the humans. Look at the flesh-and-bone animals. Point and stare, why don’t you. Watch ’em sweat and squeal like pigs. The only good thing about the market was Benjy. She looked over at him as she called out Flowers! again. He was the closest thing to a friend that Ayla would allow herself. She’d known him since she was twelve years old and haunted, hollowed by grief. In the thick of it, still. Unlike Ayla, Benjy was used to the madness of Kalla-den. He even seemed to thrive in it, his brown eyes bright and sparkling, the sun bringing out the freckles on his brown cheeks. The first day Ayla had joined him here in the market, he’d nearly taken some eyes out while pointing at all the exciting things he wanted Ayla to see—colorful glass baubles, mechanical insects with windup wings, twists of sugared bread shaped like animals. On the second day, Benjy showed Ayla the secret underbelly of the market: Made objects. These were forbidden items created by alchemists—Makers—and passed from hand to hand in the shadows, hidden by the dust and the crowd. Objects smaller than Ayla’s little finger but worth double her weight in gold. For humans, possessing a Made object was forbidden, as Made objects were the work of alchemy and considered dangerous, powerful. After all, Automae themselves were Made. Perhaps they didn’t like any reminder that they, too, were once treated like trinkets and playthings. Made objects were completely illegal, and therefore incredibly tempting. Ayla had no use for temptation—except in one single case. The locket she wore around her neck. The only remnant she had of her family—a reminder of the violence they’d suffered, and the revenge she planned to take. She didn’t even know how it worked, if it even did work, but she knew it was Made, and that it was forbidden, and that it was the one thing she could call hers. “Are you going to help me or not?” Ayla said now, prodding Benjy in the ribs. He yelped. “I’ve been yelling my head off for an hour; it’s your turn.” He looked down at her, squinting in the dying sun. “Take it from someone who’s done this a hundred times. The day is over. All anyone’s willing to buy right now is heartstone.” Ayla huffed. “You of all people know if we don’t sell every single one of these flowers, we won’t get dinner.” “Trust me, I’m aware. My belly’s been growling since midmorning.” “You got any food squirreled away back in the quarters?” “No,” he said mournfully. “I had some dried plums stowed away in the old gardener’s lean-to, but last time I checked they were gone. Guess someone else found them.” He tugged at his messy dark curls, wiped the sweat off his forehead, fiddled with one of the garlands they had yet to sell. That was Benjy—always in motion. It would make Ayla anxious if she weren’t so used to it. “The world is just full of thieves, ain’t it,” Ayla said with a hint of amusement. Benjy picked a petal off one of the seaflowers. “Like you’re not a thief yourself.” She grinned. When Ayla first met Benjy, he had looked more like a deer than a boy. Long-legged and awkward and perpetually wide-eyed, sweet and young and angry, but a soft kind of angry. A harmless, deathless kind of angry. His family hadn’t been killed by the sovereign’s men. He’d never known them at all—his mother had left him on the doorstep of an old temple, still wet from birth. If it were Ayla, she knew she’d be consumed by the need to track them down, to find her birth mother, to ask her a thousand questions that all began with why. But Benjy wasn’t like that. He’d survived under the care of the temple priests for nine years, then ran away. Three months later, Rowan took him in. Benjy’s anger was different now—he’d grown, learned more about this broken world, learned about the Revolution. Some bitterness had seeped into him; some passion. But he was still soft. Would always be. For years, that softness had annoyed the hell out of Ayla. Made her want to grab his shoulders and shake him till some fury came out. After all, it was fury that had kept Ayla alive all these years; fury that had lit a flame inside her chest and made her keep going out of sheer anger. When she had no hearth fire to keep her warm, she’d picture the look on Hesod’s face when his precious daughter lay in Ayla’s hands, broken beyond repair. On the days her belly seemed to crumple in on itself from lack of bread, she’d picture some older, stronger version of herself looking Hesod right in his soulless eyes and saying: This is for my family, you murderous leech. Ayla scanned the crowd, feeling horribly small and soft, a mouse surrounded by cats. Automae looked human the way statues looked human—you might be tricked from far away, but once you got up close you could see all the differences. Most leeches were around six feet tall, some even taller, and their bodies, no matter the shape or size, were graceful and corded with lean muscle. Their faces were angular, their features sharp. They were Designed in Automa Midwiferies, each one sculpted to be beautiful, but it was a chilling kind of beautiful. Some sick practice in vanity: How big can we make her eyes? How cutting her cheekbones? How perfectly symmetrical her features? There was also something odd about the look of a leech’s skin. It was flawless, sure—no pores, no peach fuzz, no freckles or sunburns or scars, just smooth, supple skin. But more than that, it was the way they looked carved from stone, indestructible. It was the way their skin stretched over their hand-designed muscles and bones. Like it could barely keep all the monster inside. The leeches had let themselves forget that they’d been created by the same humans they now treated worse than dogs. In the forty-eight years since their rise to power, they’d conveniently let themselves forget their past. Forget that they were once merely the pets and playthings of human nobility. Ayla did not let herself think about her own past, either—the fire, the fear, the way loss lived in the cavity of the chest, the way it chewed her up from the inside out. Thinking like that wasn’t how you survived. She and Benjy packed up the stall before sundown, aiming to be long gone by the time darkness fell over Kalla-den. As they took a shortcut through a damp alley, baskets of unsold sea-flowers strapped to their backs, someone fell into step behind them. Ayla glanced back and, despite herself, she almost smiled when she saw Rowan. Rowan was a seamstress who lived and worked in Kalla-den. At least, that’s what she was on the outside. To people like Ayla, she was something else entirely. A mentor. A trainer. A protector. A mother to the lost and the beaten and the hungry. She gave them refuge. And taught them to fight back. You wouldn’t know it from the looks of her. She had one of those faces where you couldn’t quite tell how old she was—the only signs of age were her silver hair and the slight crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes—and she was short, even shorter than Ayla. She looked rather like a plump little sparrow hopping around, ruffling her feathers. Sweet and harmless. Like so much else, it was a carefully constructed lie. Rowan was no sparrow. She was a bird of prey. Seven years ago, she’d saved Ayla’s life. She was so cold that it didn’t feel like cold anymore. It didn’t even burn. She barely noticed the winter air, the snow soaking through her threadbare boots, the ice crystals that whipped across her face and left her skin red and raw. She was cold from the inside out, the coldness pulsing through her with every weak flutter of her heart. Dimly, she knew this was how it felt right before you died. It was comforting. She was so cold, and so tired of being alone. So tired of hurting. The last thing she’d eaten was a scrap of half-rotted meat three days ago. Maybe four. Time kept blurring, rolling over itself, going belly-up like a dead animal. Ayla wasn’t hungry anymore. Her stomach had stopped making noises. Quietly, it was eating what little muscle she had left. There was a patch of darkness up ahead. Darkness, which meant something not covered in snow. Ayla stumbled forward, the ground tilting in strange ways beneath her feet. Her eyes kept falling shut against her will. She forced them open again, head pounding, vision reduced to a pinprick of light at the end of a long, long tunnel. The darkness—there. So close. Gray, a stone wall. The dark brown of cobblestones. It was a tiny gap between two buildings. A sloping roof caught the snow, protecting the ground beneath. Ayla dragged herself into the dark snowless space and her knees gave out. She hit the wall sideways and fell hard, skull cracking against the cobblestones. And there she lay. “Hey.” Her eyes were closed. “Hey! Wake up!” No. She was finally warm. “Wake up, you idiot!” A sound like striking an oyster shell against rock; a sharp, stinging pressure on Ayla’s cheek. Heat, for a moment. Someone was talking, maybe, but they were very far away, and Ayla couldn’t make out the words. The exhaustion closed over her head like water, and she let go. It was only later that she learned just how far Rowan had dragged her body to warmth and safety, before nursing her back to health. Back then, Rowan’s hair had still been brown, streaked silver only at the temples. But her eyes were the same. Deep and steady. “You were ready to die,” she had said. Ayla didn’t answer. “I don’t know what happened to you, exactly,” said Rowan. “But I know you’re alone. I know you’ve been cast aside, left to die in the snow like an animal.” She reached out and took Ayla’s hands, held them between her own. It felt like being cradled: like being held all over. “You’re not alone anymore. I can give you something to fight for, child. I can give you a purpose.” “A purpose?” Ayla had said. Her voice was weak, scraped out. “Justice,” said Rowan. And she squeezed Ayla’s hands. “The moon is full,” said Rowan now, looking straight ahead, in the hushed, coded tone Ayla had come to know so well. The three of them moved easily through the crowd of humans, used to dodging people and carts and stray dogs. The chaos of the Kalla-den streets was a strange kind of blessing: a thousand human voices all shouting at once meant it was the perfect place for conversations you didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Clear skies lately,” Ayla and Benjy said in unison. Nothing to report. It was Rowan, of course, who had taught them the language of rebellion. A sprig of rosemary passed between hands on a crowded street, garlands woven from flowers with symbolic meanings, coded messages hidden inside loaves of bread, faerie stories or old folk songs used like passwords to determine who you could trust. Rowan had taught them everything. She’d saved Ayla first, Benjy a few months later. Took them in. Clothed them. Taught them how to beg, and then how to find work. Fed them. But also gave them a new hunger: justice. Because they should never have needed to beg in the first place. “What news?” Benjy asked. “A comet is crossing to the southern skies,” Rowan said with a smile. “A week from now. It will be a beautiful night.” Benjy took Ayla’s hand and squeezed. She didn’t return it. She knew what the code meant: an uprising in the South. Another one. It filled her gut with suspicion and dread. They turned onto a wider street, the crowd thinning out a little. They spoke more softly now. “Crossing south,” Ayla repeated. Her heart sank. “And how many stars will be out in the southern skies?” Rowan didn’t pick up on her skepticism. “Oh, I’ve heard around two hundred.” “Two hundred,” Benjy repeated, eyes gleaming. Two hundred human rebels gathering in the South. “High time, loves.” Rowan was gone as swiftly as she had appeared, leaving only a crumpled flyer in Benjy’s hands—a religious pamphlet, something about the gods and believers. Ayla knew it would be riddled with code—code that only those in the Resistance could decipher. Part of Ayla worried that Rowan was still harboring hope for these uprisings, for what she called “justice,” because of her grief for Luna and Luna’s sister, Faye. After all, they’d been two of Rowan’s lost children, just like Ayla and Benjy. It was known within the village that any orphan kid could find food and comfort with Rowan. Ayla remembered when Faye and Luna had come to Rowan’s after their mother had died. Ayla had taken to Luna immediately, a girl with shy smiles and sweet questions. Faye had been pricklier, distrusting, far too much like Ayla for the two of them to get along. But still, they’d grown up around each other. And Ayla knew that Rowan’s soft heart grieved for the two sisters. Those two girls she’d tried to save. Two girls who, in her mind, she had failed. And in that grief, Rowan was willing to send more innocents off to find more of her “justice.” Over the years, they’d received word of a few uprisings here in Rabu, but each one had been bloody—and quelled quickly. The Sovereign State of Rabu was controlled by Sovereign Hesod. His rule had come to extend to all of Zulla except for the queendom of Varn. Though he claimed he did not hold all the power, as the Red Council—a group of Automa aristocrats—was supposed to share governance of Rabu, Ayla hardly believed that to be true. Hesod was enormously wealthy and influential. He was also power-hungry. It had been his father who led the Automa troops in the War of Kinds. It was he who first declared humans should be separated from their families. And it was on his personal land, the vast grounds of his seaside palace, that Ayla, Benjy, and four hundred other human servants lived and worked. The Red Council was cruel, merciless, and worst of all, creative. That was part of the reason the Revolution was so slow-going—people were just so damn terrified of the Council and its ever-tightening laws. Even Ayla had to admit their fears were well founded. Luna—and her disembodied dress—was proof of that. Benjy looked at Ayla as they hiked up the steeply sloping path toward the palace, his eyes full of hope and excitement. The message was clear: he wanted to join. Even after the disastrous uprisings of last year. She shook her head. No. He knew better. He knew she couldn’t leave now, tonight. Not when she was this close to the inside of the palace. And Crier. Benjy’s smile vanished. “Ayla.” “No,” she said. “I’m not going.” Did she want what he wanted? Did she want the leeches dead? Of course, but not like this. Not when it only meant a trail of human blood, not when it was doomed to futility. She was not ready to lose anyone else. The last time there had been an uprising in the South, it was quashed almost immediately—and that uprising had been massive, with nearly two thousand humans marching through the streets of the city Bram, armed with torches and saltpeter, aiming to take the heart of the city where the most powerful Automae lived. They had been defeated in a single night. The Automa who had led the counterattack—who had destroyed them—became a decorated war hero. A household name, a household monster. Kinok. Benjy fell silent, but Ayla could finally feel his anger—could tell that it was now directed at her. His strides grew long, determined, as they reached the narrow path that curved up toward the palace. She could see the peaked roofs of the palace towers now in the distance. She hurried to catch up with him, panting in the heat. By now they were farther from the crowd. She grabbed his shoulder, and he stopped walking so suddenly she nearly crashed into him. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said through gritted teeth. Ayla struggled to catch her breath. “You could always . . . watch the comet without me.” The words grated in her throat like she’d swallowed a mouthful of salt. His dark-brown eyes locked onto hers. The breeze danced in his messy hair. He’d grown taller than her, and broader too. She held his gaze. For a full minute, he said nothing. They just stood there, breathing hard, looking at each other. Thinking the same thing: it was too soon. Ayla wanted to say: Don’t leave me. Ayla should have said: Leave me. Because maybe it would be better that way. Benjy’s anger seemed to transmute into sadness, his lips parting. Finally, he said, “I won’t do that. I won’t go without you, and you know it.” She did. And that scared her more than anything. He wouldn’t leave her. It made her heart rage. Leave, she wanted to scream. Don’t stay for me. But then another part of her, buried so deep it had almost, almost, gone silent, knew she couldn’t do this—do any of it—without him. His lips were still slightly parted, as though there was more he wanted to say. She knew how badly he needed this. Revolution. Blood. Change. She waited for him to keep going, to try again to convince her. But he also knew how much she wanted what she wanted: Lady Crier’s blood on her hands. So in the end, Benjy just sighed. More and more servants began to pass them on their way up the narrow path, and Ayla put a few paces between herself and Benjy, kept her eyes on the rutted path as they marched the rest of the way back to their quarters in silence, the past piling into her thoughts like shovelfuls of dirt. After what Ayla had come to think of as that day, the day that changed everything, the splitting point in her mind, the thing that cracked her life into a before and after, the waking nightmare, the bloodstain, the splintered bone that would not heal, that day, Ayla had allowed herself one week to mourn. Even at nine years old, she’d known that it was all too easy to drown in grief—get pulled under and never come back up. One week, she told herself. One week. One week to mourn the deaths of her entire family. Mama. Papa. Her twin brother, Storme, who had loved Ayla more than anything else in the whole world. Who had been wrenched away from her, trying to protect her from Them. Storme, who, from the sounds of his screaming cut short, had met his end then and there, just beyond the walls of what had been their home. You couldn’t depend on much in this world, but you could depend on this: love brought nothing but death. Where love existed, death would follow, a wolf trailing after a wounded deer. Scenting blood in the air. Ayla had learned that the hard way. Now she was sixteen, and everything she wanted was just inches from her fingertips. When Rowan had first rescued her, Ayla only had her pain and her anger. But one day, about a month after being with Rowan, a group of nomadic humans had come into town. Rowan had given Ayla a choice. Leave with these traveling humans, leave all of her pain and her memories behind and start anew. Or stay under Rowan’s wing. Rowan would care for her until she could find work. And Ayla would learn to fight, learn to live, and plan for justice. Ayla had chosen the latter. And Rowan, keeping her promise, had found Ayla work as a servant of the palace. Hesod. The leech who’d ordered the raid of Ayla’s village. It was Hesod’s men who had broken into Ayla’s childhood home, who had murdered her family just because they could. Hesod prided himself on spreading Traditionalism throughout Rabu—the Automa belief in modeling their society after human behavior, as though humans were a long-lost civilization from which they could cherry-pick the best attributes to mimic. Family was important to Sovereign Hesod, or so he and his council preached. The irony was not lost on Ayla. And now she worked for him. It disgusted her, every second of it, but it was the only way she could get close to Hesod. She’d come so far. She was not going to throw it all away for some doomed dream of revolution. Rowan had always told her that justice was the answer. And for a long time, Ayla had believed her. She’d believed that revolution was possible, that if humans just kept rising up, refusing to submit, they could really change things. But Ayla knew better now. Over the years, she’d seen how hopeless Rowan’s dreams were. Every uprising had failed; every brilliant plan had been crushed; every new maneuver just resulted in more human death. Justice was a god, and Ayla didn’t believe in such childish things. She believed in blood. Review: Crier's War by Nina Varela is definitely a unique book. It makes me feel slightly torn because I don't think this book was for me. With that being said, it is not a bad book just not something that I loved. Crier's War is getting a ton of great five star reviews so don't let me discourage you because if this is a book you want to read, then I say go for it. I am going to go through the things I liked and disliked. Let's start with all the positive thoughts. Likes: The Concept: I though the concept of Crier's War was great. In a lot of ways it makes you wonder if our world would ever end up completely ran by machines. There is so much machine learning out there that it has you wondering. That is a tangent for another day. In Crier's War, the machines rule. Humans are trying to fight their way back to the top of course. Why would we want to be ruled by machines? This world is so interesting because the Humans used to be on top and now they aren't. The Humans: I really liked that the story didn't show the humans taking everything as a oh well this is our world but instead they were fighting to make things better for themselves. They wanted better. They didn't agree with the machines taking over the world. I think it was all the humans that kept me going. I wanted to know what would have to this society. Dislikes: The Plot: I didn't find myself invested in the plot. I didn't understand where it was going most of the time either. There was no surprises. I just felt like it was a let down. The Romance: I felt like this was all pretty forced. People are saying how much they love it but I just don't see it. The characters never really got together. I feel a big part of this is to satisfy a LGBTQ+ quota and I don't think it did a good job of it. It all fell really flat and boring. I just didn't get the connection. Crier: Her chapters were not the best. I felt she was super whiny and I just didn't want to commit to her. She was not a character I liked. All the angst she has is exhausting. The Pacing: This book was super slow. I felt like it was dragging on. Neither Like or Dislike: The Setting: I am putting this one in the neutral zone because I feel indifferent. I love when a world is described to me. I usually thing it is beautiful. I felt like the descriptions in Crier's War were really drug out. I love beautiful fast pace descriptions and I just didn't get that with this book. Most of the book was super slow to me. Overall: Crier's War is not a bad book. It just wasn't the book for me. I still encourage you to pick it up and try it for yourself because everyone is different when it comes to reading a book. You always have to try things that you may not like so that way you know what you like. You can always disagree with me. I encourage it actually. About the Author: Nina Varela is a nationally awarded writer of screenplays and short fiction. She was born in New Orleans and raised on a hippie commune in Durham, North Carolina, where she spent most of her childhood playing in the Eno River, building faerie houses from moss and bark, and running barefoot through the woods. These days, Nina lives in Los Angeles with her writing partner and their tiny, ill-behaved dog. She tends to write stories about hard-won love and young people toppling the monarchy/patriarchy/whatever-archy. On a related note, she’s queer. On a less related note, she has strong feelings about hushpuppies and loves a good jambalaya. CRIER’S WAR is her first novel. You can find Nina at any given coffee shop in the greater Los Angeles area, or at www.ninavarela.com. Links: Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18450258.Nina_Varela Website: https://www.ninavarela.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/ninavarelas Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ninavarelas_/ Tour Schedule: October 1st The Unofficial Addiction Book Fan Club - Welcome Post October 2nd Kait Plus Books - Interview Luchia Houghton Blog - Review + Favourite Quotes It Starts at Midnight - Review Jrsbookreviews - Review Some Books & Ramblings - Review October 3rd NovelKnight - Guest Post Bluestocking Bookworm - Review + Playlist + Dream Cast Writing with Wolves - Review Unputdownable Books - Review BookCrushin - Promotional Post October 4th Damn Mysterious - Interview Utopia State of Mind - Review + Favourite Quotes Flipping Through the Pages - Review The Reading Corner for All - Review The Hermit Librarian - Review + Favourite Quotes October 5th Pooled Ink - Guest Post The Layaway Dragon - Review + Favourite Quotes Here's to Happy Endings - Review Morgan Vega - Review + Favourite Quotes everywhere and nowhere - Review October 6th Library of a Book Witch - Review Portrait of a Book - Review Moonlight Rendezvous - Review + Favourite Quotes Dazzled by Books - Review + Favourite Quotes Sometimes Leelynn Reads - Review + Dream Cast October 7th The Shelf Life Chronicles - Guest Post Jessica Writes - Review + Favourite Quotes The Clever Reader - Review Mahkjchi's Not-So-Secret Books - Review + Favourite Quotes JHeartLovesBooks - Review

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CITIZEN FILE RETRIEVED: LEE MARISOL ...

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name / lee marisol d.o.b. / 06.21.94 age / 25 pronouns / she/her job / projectionist at a theater societies / necronomicon groups / n/a

WHATS YOUR WEIRD?

finding the necronomicon is like a promise from the cosmos that the world can be better. she’s been a burden, a tempest in a teapot, since the day she was born. there has always been too much inside her to contain, lashing out in fits and starts. emotions that burst electric and crackling from her unbidden, the vacillation of fierce pride and utter self loathing. like a wind chime in a storm she shakes and sings, a furious clang and clatter more discordant often then sonorous.

the book becomes her conduit. she pours over the pages that teach her ancient runes and long lost symbols, a language relegated to the depths of time. the witches’ alphabet, theban script, the inscriptions of lines and angles and circles that channel that overpowering and overwhelming will of hers into something useful, a focused stream of ability and desire.

becoming a witch is based in will and want and marisol has been overflowing with desperation and desire for as long as she can remember, and it becomes a promise of something greater on the horizon. her stomach turns the first time she slides a knife over her palm to give of herself for this magic. the charcoal that often etches over the woven length of canvas now graces the wood flooring of her room, inscribing circles and runes, a deft and delicate hand intent not to smudge or obscure the lines lest the incantations run awry, the effects dimming.

she takes, and takes, spends days in bed or bandaging her hands as she trades of herself for good fortune, for favor, for financial security. she secures for herself the things she thinks she deserves. she delves deep into the arts of summoning, never attempting but always tempted, the promise of the otherworldly too enticing, piquing a desperate curiosity. who could she help with this, and who could she hurt?

WHATS YOUR STORY?

the first thing her mother gives her is a burden.

a name to bear like a cross.

marisol, marisol.

a strange name for a strange girl, stumbling in too many syllables to trip up a tongue. it’s heavy. it bears the weight of her mother’s expectations and of her indifference.

marisol is an infant and unassuming, unimportant. round cheeks and a squalling, healthy cry and a mother who is happy to begin smoking again, to return to the bottle, to lose the baby weight. she will always bring that up, she will always tell marisol - as she strokes waving, tousled hair, as she bandages her knees and elbows, smothers her in sunscreen, as she makes halfhearted bibimbap from leftovers - you ruined me, little girl, she’ll say to her. singsong. musical. she smells of whiskey and cigarettes and musky perfume.

the wallpaper is peeling. just a little bit in the corners, where few would notice, but marisol does. marisol sees the tarnish on her mother’s jewelry and the threadbare bottoms of her socks. marisol is hawk eyed attention to detail. picking out weaknesses in the facade of a woman who paints herself as someone bigger than the world.

she watches her mother as one might a performer.

lee minyoung has a damningly average name and disposition and intellect and beauty. in all respects she is exceedingly, incredibly typical but for one desperate need, an overpowering urge to be beloved. she desires power and adoration and builds herself, to the best of her ability, into the image of that. soft silks and glasses of champagne, expensive bags purchased with maxed out credit cards, a score that begins to drop. layers of makeup painting heavy over flaws both imagined and existant.

marisol is born a burden and a stain, a tarnish on her reputation. the divorce follows swiftly after her birth, a man who becomes a child support check sent from busan every so often, a check that lines her mother’s pockets with borrowed finery, while marisol listens to her mother twitter and laugh on the phone, in the hall, in the living room.

lee minyoung has a reputation around town. little tweaks and fixes here and there have earned her a greater beauty than she once boasted, and there are plenty who are happy to buy into her delusions of presented grandeur, her falsity of regality and noblesse. lee minyoung sweeps around the room as if on a film set, black and white film reels of leading ladies inspiring the grace and poise of each gesture and movement. affected and fictitious but in a small town like this no one bothers to look too deep. they’re happy to coo about her lost love and how cruel it was of him to leave her, how unfair it was for him to take her youth and leave her with a child to raise alone.

and lee minyoung uses that sympathy to work her way upwards. it’s a slow and steady move, with many heights and hollows, peaks and valleys, and marisol learns to focus on other things. to take the gifts when they come in an attempt to curry favor with her mother ( as if her mother were to care a bit for her opinion ) and to turn a blind eye when things fade. she learns that her mother will always define herself by the power of others and she learns to believe it pathetic, affected hubris that churns her stomach.

her mother is a tyrant in her life, a figure that whispers in her ear so sweetly, oh marisol, you ought to watch your weight. oh marisol, darling, shouldn’t you do a bit better? oh marisol, you stupid little thing, shouldn’t you know better than that? marisol, don’t you see how hard you’re making things for me, your poor dear mother? marisol, can’t you be a good girl, a kind girl, can’t you be my dear little sunflower and listen nicely, sweetly, shine brightly?

marisol learns to hate the sound of her own name. marisol learns to hate her mother, a revulsion for the pathetic creature that she is, so pitiably dependent on the world around her for validation. she stomps through the greenery of the forests and rolls across the cobbled hills with the clack of skateboard wheels, wind in tangled hair and the sun painting red across her cheeks, freckles blooming in place that her mother advises her to have removed - laser treatments aren’t nearly so expensive these days.

she’s twelve when she meets him. with wide haunted eyes and a family shrouded in mystery, in a real wealth. he can be like your brother, her mother cooes at her, and mari answers with a scowl and fingers pushed back through her hair, squinted eyes skeptical on the boy. she doesn’t want to play this game again. the game of pretending she thinks this is some kind of misguided playdate. pretending that this is simply her mother’s new work friend. that her mother hadn’t taken on this stenographer position in the hopes of working her way up the ladder like this. besides, it’s better than the ones that look at her funny and the anger in her mother’s eyes now, as she grows up. like there’s an unspoken contest marisol was never made aware of, never asked to enter. his father is an overbearing man, powerful and full in the knowledge of that, proud and suffocating. she begins to choke beneath the weight of them, smoke in her lungs.

marisol learns to find comfort in her own strength. spits venomous barbs at those that call her a bastard child, bruises her knuckles against the jawbone of the boy who calls her mother a whore, screeches and grapples like a wild, rabid thing when the girls corner her to mock her. it goes against the proper and the expected. she smokes until her lungs burn black and acrid, drains the screaming in her chest with alcohol stolen from corner marts. scowls in the back of the living room when the local police officer hauls her home with a warning and lectures her mother, who turns the favor on her.

her mother would love to say that with age comes a softening of sensibilities but this is in point of fact untrue. with age comes fire and fury, with age comes a mercurial energy that likens her to a wildfire or a sandstorm. she is a scourge, consuming, a frenzy of self loathing and second guessing. she is the smell of smoke and evergreens and honey mint tea.

she is a creature born of secrets and burden and she grows to find currency in that. to fit together the puzzle pieces around her, to delve deeper into the secrets of a strangeness she has always taken for granted. obsessive she dreams of a greater power and capability. her ferverish passions illuminate themselves in charcoal stained fingers, in smudged pastels. she paints herself as much as she does her canvases, leaves the mark of it in her wake. books fill with scribbled words and sketchpads pile up. she has never been a stranger to expression, this girl who breathes emotions like fire from the mouth of a dragon. she loves ferociously and needs desperately and does this with an intensity that may perhaps astonish. as if the suppressed and cold machinations of her mother must have created a girl who can do nothing but feel and express with the most honest and unflinching expression.

when fire and fate steal from her the closest of her friends, she sends herself away to a nearby city, to a modestly sized university. for three years she wastes her life pursuing a degree that in the end means less than the paper it’s printed on, she presumes. she crafts herself into something more, and by the time she returns to junae she’s got an apartment leased, the key money painstakingly hoarded. it’s small but it’s hers, and in direct reaction to her mother’s overbearing and crowded decor it is a stark and clean minimalism to be found there. soft fabrics and sharp edges in equal measure. an easel in the corner and a tarp beneath it, a scattering of books on shelves, a two monitor rig on the desk that doesn’t quite fit in the room, but she cobbles together her scraps of wealth in freelance work, graphic design and writing, proofreading and transcribing. whatever she can get her hands on. she wastes away on endless shifts running the old school projectors at the art house theater in the town’s center, a relic of a lost time.

she waits and she seethes and she burns, and one day, one day she finds something.

it’s in the library. she is a frequent visitor of dusty tomes and quiet halls, and there is a moment she stands transfixed, fingers on the papery, thin spine of the book. the words inside are a mangled and garbled expression at first, notes in the margins and overwrought detailing, exquisite coloring and intricate detail. it tells of casting bones, of blood magicks, of secret runes that promise untold power, whisper of fulfilled desires. and she is a greedy thing, this hellion girl, and she falls too eagerly into the waiting trap, jumps into the maw of the beast.

she takes to witchcraft like a fish to water. that overwhelming will in her finds a conduit in this and she bestows upon herself power her mother could only ever have dreamed of. it is little things at first, small steps forward, and more later. but her greed grows as great as her mother’s ever was, and more, and she drowns herself in the possibilities of it, wades deep and deeper until she is in full over her head.

#pa.app #pa.kang seulgi #pa.necronomicon

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