#JYRA

[badarchitectrecords]

Listen to “You’ve Got Heart” by Jyra!

#Jyra #new music #pop #indie #Youtube

[jojofox]

30. Video Game

I chose Hollow Knight! This is another old oc of mine :) their name is Jyra, and they would sometimes have an item that they found that they would give to the player. Sometimes, they would just talk about the sights they've seen and their favorite parts of some locations, like the Blue Lake.

List

#my art #cringetober 2023 #hollow knight

[unknownjpegs]

the way

Even in the dark and even in the rain, Xavier knows the way to the farm. He knows the exact cut through the forest that’ll lead them into a sprawling field. He remembers it in the daylight; honeyed sun making him lazy and warm and content, laid on his back with another man’s hand on his stomach as his hooded eyes watched white clouds slip by. Under the heavy burden of the storm, the field looks lonesome. Widely empty. Devoid of him. Still, Xavier finds he spot in the fences that is easiest to hop—he’d tripped over it the first time he’d ever come crashing into this field. Back then, he’d been lost. Now, he would have this entire land memorized. Forever.

Eddard helps Jyra over the posts. His hands are giant and cup her waist easily, lift her like she weighs absolutely nothing so she doesn’t tear her skirts on the wood. Her soft, pink cloak is drenched and clinging to her petite frame. Xavier’s own hood flattens to his skull under the torrential rain—Eddard hasn’t bothered with any of it. His face is set in that grimly determined grimace that Xavier has come to understand.

She can’t be under the rain much longer, he’d told Xavier, who was quick to agree. This weather battered them both, but Jyra’s pale face was miserably red from the onslaught of cold. She was braving it, though, teeth chattering and arms wrapped around herself, stumbling with them. Not making a fuss, not asking to stop, not complaining. All the same; a weathered illness could kill. You get cold one day and never warm up.

Xavier had not necessarily meant for this detour, even though the closer they got to it, the more his heart burned in his chest. He’s been here (he’s never left here), back when he had come home to try and find—to look for—hoping he’d still be here. To find only the father, no son. He’d not stayed long after that, because the barn had loomed over him, empty of nothing but memories and the smell of hay. Because Tino and—and he—didn’t look alike, features set all differently. And yet being around him, around the man, all he could think—

“Not much further,” Xavier says as he passes the well. He wants to pause, wants to sit on it, wants to remember and can’t. He bunches shoulders to the wind, that has kicked up again and sliced across his cheeks cruelly. Once glance behind his shoulder shows Eddard’s arm tucked around his mistress, his big body attempting to shield her from the spirited storm. It had come on quickly, mercilessly, right after Lark had departed.

Looks like sun for the rest of your journey, Lark had said, with his eyes to the sky. How fortunate for you. Damned fucking thief had cursed him; or his witch had, maybe. For fun.

In the distance, he sees that barn first. His eyes skate over it and to the house instead. His heart thunders, harder and harder. His body cannot catch up to what his brain already knows; that he is not in there. He is not waiting for him. He will not open the door and lean against the frame and ask here to help with the farm chores then, knight? And smile at him, with that handsome face. Xavier’s hand flattens to his chest, attempts to keep himself held together as he closes his eyes and presses forward.

“Be polite,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Manners are important with him. Doesn’t take to disrespect. He’s a kind man; possibly the kindest you’ll find. But, he has his ways.” Xavier laughs then, recalling a day when he’d come by and got caught standing, just staring. Are you going to stare at my son with your tongue out like a dog? Or will you help him cut the fire wood? He was that kind of man. Perceptive, quick tongued and funny and yet after, when they’d joined for dinner he’d given Xavier two helpings. Soldiers rations had been so bad back then, and he was so thankful he almost couldn’t accept it.

The wind threatens to push them back as Xavier reaches the house first.

His heart in his throat. The windows are boarded against the storm. The house is strong, though. Built by the very man inside of it. Xavier tucks his chin down to his chest and then hammers a fist against the door. Once. Twice, then a third time, louder and harder each time. When no one answers, he raises it once more, shaking from fist to elbow from the cold pour of rain.

Then the door swings open.

Benji, Xavier’s heart traitorously thinks, immediately.

Tino stands there, with a flash in his eyes. Prepared—ready, for anything. Xavier quickly swipes the cloak down from his head, wet strands of his hair sticking to his face. There’s a long moment where the two men only stare at each other. Rain threatens to spill over the threshold into Tino’s home. Xavier quickly bows his head.

“Uncle,” he greets with a hoarse voice. There’s a stretch of silence—or, rather, rain filling that silence, howling wind behind him, Jyra sniffling softly, Eddard’s mumbled words to soothe her—and then he looks back up. Tino has his long pipe in his mouth, puffing contemplatively.

“Guests this time, eh?” Xavier swallows hard and nods, eyes downcast to the slowly dampening floor in front of him. “You know the rules.”

“Rules?” Jyra pipes up from behind in a delicate, thin voice. It’s wavering from the cold, hiccuped and stuck in her chest as she clears her throat.

“We’ll help clear any of the debris from the storm in the morning.” Xavier can’t help but smile, his eyes finally rising back to the man. It hurts to look at him as much as it is welcome. To be this close to someone; this close to the memories of his youth. “Is that enough?”

“And you will fix the crank on the well.” Tino puffs some more, his face cracking open into a warm smile. “Inside. Why are you so thin? Not eating enough, clearly. And she,” Tino steps aside to allow them to enter. He tuts, shaking his head. Eddard has to fully duck under the doorway as he helps Jyra inside. “We will get her warm.” Xavier turns to the lady then, carefully pulling away the hood of her cloak. Her brown hair is nearly black from the water log, strands of it sticking across her cheek bones. Makes him laugh a little as he pushes one back and behind her ear.

“Tino is good,” he promises, eyes glancing up to Eddard, who looks, as he always does, like he’s simply assessing with bored (and very, very aware) eyes.

“How do you know him?” She asks, curious despite the obvious aching. Xavier can’t answer, finds himself utterly unable as he glances back to Tino, who shuffles around his modest, beautiful home in search of dry things for them to put on. He swallows the thick lodge of pain in his throat and rubs her shoulders.

“Tino is good,” he softly repeats.

#writing #hj #2023 #fantasy au #xw #tl

[nenan]

Jyra photographed by Coughs for Lonelystar

#lonelystar.us #lonelystar #lonely star #clothing brand #coughs #bluedrag000n

[luciaiscool7]

Cleverman

Victoria Herche's work, “Queering the Dreaming: Representations of the ‘Other’ in the Indigenous Australian Speculative Television Series Cleverman,” speaks to how Cleverman breaks down Western Eurocentric conceptions of a superhero, recontextualizing the genre for an indigenous audience- Griffin, the serie's showrunner was inspired by his son's excitement over Teenage Ninja Turtles: "I suddenly wished we had something cultural—something Aboriginal—that he could cling to with as much excitement as he did with this” (Herche, 33). As we spoke about in class, this breaking of superhero tropes plays out in Koen's origin story as someone not "deserving" of being the Cleverman by the (apparently) spotless morally pure standard of classic superheros. As pieces of media, superheros are inextrically linked with political undertones, even government propaganda, for example, in the case of Batman in the 80s as a representation of a masked vigilant justifying fear of racialized "criminals" in urban spaces and the War on Drugs. I think given this history, by making Koen morally dubious right off the bat, Cleverman reverses the tropes of superheroes who are portrayed as unquestionably good agents (who are actually doing weird bad stuff) and 1) gives Koen the ability to be a complex character, 2) doesn't allow audiences to fall into the trap of uplifting and valorizing a superhero without critical thought, and 3) challenges the idea of "deservingness" which historically (as well as currently) is not often afforded to people of color. I think Cleverman is very intentional about depicting ideas of "deservingness" as goodness versus "criminality" as badness. For example, the scene where the Hairy girl, Jyra, is killed while her brother, Djukara, tries to resist the oppressive police force. This scene and Djukara's subsequent violent incarceration shows the systemic connection, justified by dehumanization, between believing a group of people do not deserve living security, liberation, self determination, etc and criminalization of their movements towards those things.

@theuncannyprofessoro

#oxyspeculativetv

[rollercoaster59]

retardoet poor jyra

[rachelkruglyak]

Cleverman

A scene from the Australian television show Cleverman begins with Latani, a young hairy woman telling her younger sister Jyra a story about how on really hot days the sisters would roll around in cool mud. There is a banging on the door and a man says the Containment Authority (CA) has permission to search the premises. Upon Araluen’s cue, Jyra and Latani race into a bedroom and shut the door. The pounding increases. Latani and Jyra’s brother Djukara grabs a knife. The man says the Hairies should get on the ground. Araluen and her husband, Boondee, drop to the ground, but Djukara remains standing. When prompted, Djukara drops the knife. One of the CA members says to search the rest of the place. Latani goes into the closet, but Jyra isn’t so lucky and is grabbed. She begs to be let go. Latani watches, scared. The family is dragged to a parking garage. A woman reporter tells her cameraman to get shots of the crowd. Djukara is tasered. Jyra is forcibly separated from Araluen, who fights back and is tasered. Araluen asks Djukara to take off her handcuffs. She is clearly in pain. A CA guy then grabs Djukara by the neck, but Djukara flips him over. Djukara rips off his shirt, revealing his super hairy chest. He battles with the CA guys until he is tasered. There is a gunshot and Jyra falls to the ground. Araluen and Djukara are horrified. Boondee lets out a pained cry. Jyra is shown lying dead with a bloody hole in her chest. Araluen lets out pained cries. The reporter says to her cameraman “Tell me you’re getting this.” A CA agent rips Araluen away. 

In this scene, the CA members murder Jyra in cold blood soon after Djukara reveals his hairy chest. As Victoria Herche notes, “Cleverman uses a number of visual signifiers to set the Hairies apart as “other-than-human”: the thick body and facial hair…The authorities view them with paranoid suspicion and treat them in ways reminiscent .. of .. colonial violence… (Musharbash 138)’” (Herche 39).The othering of the Hairies is directly linked with a racially-motivated murder of a child from a different group who has done nothing wrong by oppressors in authority.

#@theuncannyprofessoro #oxyspeculativetv

[keepwalkingmusic]

Fresh Picks: Alejandra O'Leary / John Gallen / ILYHYUGA / RODRIGUE / Florentin Nogara / Tom Norton / Kunem / Mcclendon / RoseDog / Jyra

Fresh Picks by Amelia, the following tracks are a selection by me that definitely deserve more attention than Miley Cyrus! Noise by Alejandra O’Leary One-Way Boat Trip by John Gallen i cant come back to you. by ILYHYUGA Rienphobe by RODRIGUE Confiture de fraises by Florentin Nogara Walls by Tom Norton LIV by Kunem Change Your Mind by Mcclendon Someday I Know by RoseDog No Rainbow by Jyra

View On WordPress

[graywyvern]

( me / via )

"The second floor was also home to some absolutely terrifying sport jackets for men. I imagined it was what Anita Bryant’s linen closet would have looked like after Hurricane Andrew: violent mangos, pinks and aquamarines starched into jackets of such female bedspread intensity they might cause even Ricardo Montalbán to run toward the volcano."

    unwizardly intake · iwis     gill ozone

harrow fraught odds     clasped by light

Whicken.

"finally I coerced ChatGPT to come up with the goods:

Here are some examples of invented Venusian words:

Gorvix - a Venusian greeting similar to hello Grynex - a formal greeting Kryvok - a confident greeting Lyve - a peaceful greeting Vyvex - a lively and energetic greeting Zyvex - a celebratory greeting Xyrk - a bright and optimistic greeting Jyra - friend Nyvex - goodbye Syrkon - beautiful Rokvok - strong Lyxor - peaceful Vyxen - love Zyrk - star Kryve - wisdom Fryx - light Xorve - future Lyrkon - adventure Gryz - to dance Kryv - to explore Lyv - to love Vyzx - to shine Zyrkon - to travel Xorv - to create Ryx - happiness Nyv - sadness Kryvex - curiosity Fryvix - excitement Lyx - peace Vyv - passion Gryvix - to play Kryz - to work Lyvex - to relax Vyxen - to love Zyrkon - to journey Xorve - to create"

--miekal

Two People at a Masquerade Party.

[444names]

theological angels + kyrgyz forenames

Abadrin Abah Abanykei Abar Abari Abat Abriel Abrigue Abrixa Addon Adeel Adeen Adiel Adies Adiliel Adina Adkir Adrael Adreel Adremiel Ahmaltana Ahmetat Aibarches Aidaiym Aidal Aidan Aidaniel Aidiel Aidil Aidilana Aidin Aidinai Aidis Aigabriel Aigaiym Aigel Aigoriel Aijamael Aila Aimael Aimal Aimurzaz Ainana Aincifera Ainuri Aizaphian Aizazra Akmael Akmai Akmana Akmargiz Alianai Alikara Alikarana Alinat Aliym Almaaliah Almaila Almamah Almariman Altana Altaniel Altyna Amalik Amebat Amicharim Amiel Amin Amin Amir Amir Amira Amphiel Amsiel Anambriel Anamiel Ananina Arazrafil Arazrayan Archus Arda Ariniel Arut Asambriel Asanai Asanykers Asarub Asenes Aser Aseral Aserin Ayan Ayaniel Ayanykei Ayas Ayassiaha Azachiel Azaddon Azaphiel Azemha Azemirgiz Azephah Azguel Aziel Aziel Azima Azira Azizat Azra Azragul Bakiel Bakir Baktiel Baktielu Baktiguel Baninai Bega Begabana Begabat Begai Begim Begiz Begul Begulzat Benemina Camel Camsiel Cashmet Casiah Casiel Chassiel Cherafil Ches Chiel Chim China China Choel Cholot Cholpen Chon Damaniel Damel Damiah Damsiel Danai Danailel Danies Daraphon Dari Dariel Darut Daydaiym Diahael Diahar Diahmel Dianai Dilel Dimazel Dina Dinai Dinieliah Dinurdel Dona Dumaalik Dumat Elda Eldaiyan Eldanael Eldar Elgiz Elgizazem Eliel Elik Emiahron Emichuel Emiel Emir Eraphan Eraphiel Eriel Erkai Erkariel Ermebana Ermes Ermet Ermwood Erut Gabah Gabanue Gaddomiel Gadrae Gail Gaiyan Gauhael Gauhamai Griel Grin Grinions Guluchiel Gulzatbek Hadrimah Hael Hambri Hames Hamir Hamphsiel Hana Hanael Hanaelan Handuzzir Hara Haralina Haraphon Harchiel Hariel Herael Ilya Ilychae Imaliel Islan Islana Islat Isra Isul Isulzat Izadra Izamet Izaphiel Izat Jamal Jamalpen Jambekjan Jambriel Jamiliel Jega Jegiz Jeholpene Jehons Jehuel Jehuesel Jehushmes Jequndaik Jequnduz Jereel Jeriel Jophaniel Jophara Jophon Jophones Jyra Kauhael Kauhan Keil Keilat Kera Kerael Keran Kerub Kerub Kiel Kira Kunkaikal Kunkal Kunkaliah Kunkarael Kylyan Leil Leilel Leilet Leilince Letanion Lucipah Maalphiel Mael Malar Malpona Maraliel Marina Maza Meshiel Mira Miral Miranykei Mirayanan Mirbek Mirtuel Muaqqibek Muaqqiel Muel Munduz Murbek Murimae Nael Naiym Naminar Narub Narut Nazachan Naziel Nazrach Netzat Niel Nitha Nithasiel Nurae Nurapha Nuraphon Nurbennin Nurdel Nuriel Nurieliym Nurimal Nurimin Nurina Nurjama Nurjana Nurlat Omal Omamila Omara Omariel Omat Pahar Paltat Penemes Penetza Phiel Phies Phina Phkiel Phoel Pona Pons Poys Priel Priel Prim Prixa Pura Purlan Purzach Qaphaddon Qaphqiel Rachues Rael Rafil Ragul Ralina Ramel Rana Rari Raya Reel Reen Sachemek Sachera Sachushan Saila Salinue Salitigue Salpen Salpoyel Samai Samana Sames Sanael Sangimai Schera Sedies Sedina Sedis Senes Senniel Sera Seral Sereshiel Sers Serut Seziel Sezimina Sezir Shael Shan Sianael Siel Simal Sulpon Temha Temurbek Temurixa Tenem Thael Tharigel Tharut Timichiel Tzaph Tzaphiel Tzat Tzatharin Ulat Uralana Urdeel Urinaiym Urlan Usel Useriel Userub Uzzimael Vehona Vehonem Vehus Virbek Virgul Virtue Virtuel Wood Woriel Worimat Wormes Yajubim Zachus Zama Zamaramek Zamathara Zambek Zambrim Zameel Zamil Zamirbek Zara Zardan Zari Zariel Zaries Zathron Zatron Zephiel Zoph Zophariel Zophinat Zophkiel Zophqiel Zophsiel

#444names #444 names

[l17421806-blog]

#autumnvibes #saturdaynight #familytime

코인김프수익 30-60%   상세한건 여기로오세요

채팅링크 https://open.kakao.com/o/sFnRocqe

안정적이고 안전한 부업  함께해봐용⠀

#고요한사무실 #독감예방접종하고들어오는길

#아아아파요소리지름 #주사가아직무서울나이🤪

#연휴끝 #주말끝 #had_a_good_time

#목걸이는먹는건가요 #미모열일서지안

#다음주는출근이다 #야호🤗

잘 다녀왔습니다!👨‍👩‍👧

#강원도여행 #평창여행 #풀빌라 #🌳🏊‍♀️🐑🥩🍻

#역시한우🐄 #오붓하게 #디너타임

#맨발로마당휘젓고다니는 #자연인서지안

#역시고기는 #여보가구워주는게젤맛나😘

오늘도 #초록초록🍀 #파랑파랑🌈

#대관령 #하늘목장 #날씨도완벽❤

#산책 #초록초록🌱 #너무상쾌해💕

#나비따라꽃따라 #바쁜서지안

#출근길 #덕수궁돌담길 #늘싱그럽구나🍀

#순간포착전문 #포토그래퍼 #서여보❤

#금융권말고 #사진작가했어야하나 ㅋㅋ

#저녁산책🌳

4oOKP

12628

jyrae

[artwalktv]

Two sisters are faced with the grim reality of what it takes to make their dream come true. (*This is a film depicting the realities of trafficking. Viewer discretion is advised.)  Director's Notes Premiere Article: https://bit.ly/3bsnNXY ----- Client // SOS International  Production Company // Jyra Films Executive Producers // Kyle Rogers, Phil Putnam Service Production Company // Story We Produce Producer // Jaume Rigual Line Producer // Paulette Arrieta Writer + Director // tao/s 1st AD // Michelle Circuit Cinematographer // Lluís Marti Production Designer // María Fernanda Contreras, Silvisabel Fajardo HMU // Maria C Barrera Wardrobe // Angela Patiño Post-Producer // Sunshine Clay @ Bruton Stroube Edit // Lucas Harger @ Bruton Stroube Color // Martí Somoza Sound Design/Score // Steve Horne @Bruton Stroube VFX // Samm Hodges Talent // Sofia Carrizales, Andrea Alexa Mondragon, Monica Bejarano, Fernando Sanchez Special Thanks // Sanctuary Content, Preston Lee, Noah Thomason, Elle Ginter

#Videos & Films

[unknownjpegs]

rat and executioner

He uses his chest armor, propped up against a tree as a mirror. It hardly works—Xavier’s is dusty and dented and more than a little worn. He thinks about polishing it sometimes, but it hardly feels worth it. Just gets dinged up again, don’t it?

Still, this is a ritual for him. Never grows tired of it, even if sometimes his emotions waver over the old tradition. Days when he feels elated, hopeful, fingers working through his hair quickly. Excited. Other days when he’s staring at himself, at the dull and warped reflection, his green eyes forest like and sad, he wishes he could stop. Never would—never would. Yet, his heart grows so heavy sometimes, waterlogged and leaking.

Xavier begins by coming out his gnarled red hair. Admittedly doesn’t do this bit often enough. Uses his fingers mostly to yank through his waves. Most days, he thinks of cutting his hair short, but then, well, he wouldn’t have the braid. When that’s over with, he stretches out his back and then sits again on the ground. He pauses, wonders, will I look that different to him when he sees me after all these years?

“I could help you.”

The lady’s voice yanks him out of his reverie, pulls him instantly to a present that doesn’t smell of hay and horse and him. Xavier looks over to her as she approaches. Those softly slippered feet that are sure to be hurting in time. He thinks they’ll have to stop in a town, buy her something better. Can’t risk bringing her in, but how do you get a woman shoes if she can’t try them on? He bites his lips, still looking at her feet before she shuffles closer.

“Ser?”

“Oh,” he tilts his head back to take her in. Despite travel, Jyra doesn’t look tattered or worn. Yet, at least. Only a little tired, likely use to longer rest than he can allow them. Up as soon as the sun begins to touch the sky, orange and pink and beautiful. “With what?”

Jyra crouches, wrapping arms around her knees. Her smile is softly beautiful. She looks like all the paintings of women he’s seen, radiant, with graceful cheekbones and dainty chins. Her nose has a smattering of freckles, not even a fraction of the ones that wash over him. But she’s different, because she smiles at him. She shouldn’t grace him with such favors considering the difference in their stations, and it always makes him a little anxious.

“Your hair,” she offers, looking at where one of his hands has poised itself. “I am,” Jyra pauses and her eyes divert to the ground, her cheeks spilling beautifully pink. “Well, I am good at it.”

Truly. Her own hair was braided in fine fashion; it had been tucked up properly when they’d first started traveling together. Only now, she let it hang over her shoulder. Sometimes, Xavier had such a strong and mysterious urge to take it in his hands and feel how soft it was.

“Ah,” he replies, suddenly not knowing what to say. She looks so kind that he thinks, maybe. Wouldn’t it be nice? To have someone be kind to him? But, he thinks instead, of him, forcing Xavier onto a hay bale with those strong arms. His hands brushing into his red hair, fingers more deft than they’d seemed. Braiding from the temple back and Xavier getting to look up at him while he did. And he had looked; eyes lifted and staring, watching while he’d talked. Xavier can feel that voice. Somewhere.

“I’m sorry, my lady. It’s that—Someone very special to me used to do this. And I—” Xavier swallows the roughness in his throat, looks at the warbled view of himself in his plate armor. “I do it to remember him, is all.” And begs for it to not stay a memory forever. Can’t bear it only ever being a memory.

There’s a brief pause before Jyra leans closer to him.

“Would you like to talk about him, maybe?”

Xavier is stunned that she’d ask. So much so that he openly stares at her, with his jaw unhinged. She’s grinning ear to ear when she courageously leans in and touches his chin. Jyra gently prods his mouth close and he laughs, turning away from her because, its not right for him to stare at her like this. Nor was it for her to touch him. And yet.

He looks back to the armor and his hands begin working through his hair. He starts the braid at the same place, every time, and he follows the path it had first been braided into so long ago.

“He almost killed me with an axe, the first time we met.” He starts the story for her there. It’s his favorite part.

—

The tree blocks the path onward. The kings road has narrowed, a dusty trail between dark, thick forestry—it presses in on them, heavy and creaking with the wind. Alive and full of—well. Xavier stares at the fallen tree and already knows what’s going to happen.

“That looks bad,” Eddard says, on the other side of Hilda, his mare. His voice is flat and tired, but it has a note of knowing tension. Hilda side steps, immediately anxious and aware, nostrils flared. Xavier pats her neck softly, murmuring to her soothing words before he glances up to Jyra.

“Stay on my horse,” he whispers to her. She looks down at him, brows pinched in confusion. She doesn’t have any idea what a tree on the road means. “When they come out, turn Hilda and run. Eddard and I will come find you after—”

But when he looks down the way they’d come, the man is already there. Blocking them against the tree—and when he looks back to that, head snapping quickly to the side, she stands there now. Trapping them in. The wind rustles the leaves, a soft skittering sound as one slips over the road. It makes Hilda snort, stomp a hoof.

Xavier takes two steps back from his horse and slowly unsheathes the sword at his hip. Hilda is trained well, but still makes noises of contempt, muted nickering sounds, eyes rolling a little. He thinks for a moment to yank the horse around, to turn her and see if Jyra could make it past the man. But when his eyes return there, he watches as he hefts a poleaxe.

Horse slayer. Used to spear the poor creatures directly in the chest and bring them—and knights—down to die on the ground. Xavier’s mouth goes dry.

“Can you help us?” The woman calls out and he doesn’t want to turn his head from the man, who is cloaked and dark. Even from this distance, Xavier can tell he’s big. Not always a good thing in a fight, but—

“She’s asking for help,” Jyra says quickly, hopefully. “Maybe—”

“Yes!” The woman laughs as she begins to approach. “We’ve lost our way.” Xavier feels sweat gathering on his back, sliding down, making him shiver. His sword is a familiar weight in his hands, comforting, but not enough. She’s small, like Jyra is, but bulky with gear. Thick, padded armor and a cap on her head that nearly obscures bouncing brown curls. But they poke out wildly (remind him, distantly of curls he’d brushed his hand through, had kissed) and her face is pale and beautiful.

She has a slash of a scar across her eye and a sword on her back.

“He’s done that,” Xavier says, pointing to the tree.

“With his bare hands,” the woman replies, hands on her hips. He doesn’t like the way she says it. Not to impress; to warn. “Are you going to help us, or will this become difficult?”

“I have coin,” Jyra says, her voice a high note of frantic and Xavier briefly shuts his eyes. He wants to tell her, this is not a story. And some thieves do not just want coin.

“Well,” the thief claps her hands, laughing, looking at Xavier with big, delighted eyes. He hears the sound of heavy footsteps, but her eyes are so terrifyingly red and predatory that he can’t look to watch the man approach them. He feels prey fear skittering up his spine. Xavier thinks, he could take them. They’re underestimating him, because he’s young and he’s pretty—and they always underestimate him for that exact reason.

But Jyra. And Eddard. His sword dips slightly and the woman smiles wider.

“Lay it down, knight,” the man says behind him. His voice is slightly accented and soft. When Xavier tilts his head to look at him, he’s obscured entirely by a hood. An executioners hood, it looks like. For a brief, solitary moment, he wants to laugh at that. An executioner and a thief. Instead he slowly sheaths the sword.

“It was my fathers,” Xavier replies, slowly bending to put it to ground.

“Who gives a shit?” the woman laughs. But the executioner gently puts a booted foot on it and shoves the sword away carefully. Seems oddly respectful about it, until the sharp blade of the poleaxe comes up to meet Xavier’s throat.

“Please! No—Don’t hurt him,” Jyra is whimpering as she scrambles from the horse, as she drops down clumsily. Her stumble is caught by Eddard, quickly, whose darted to the other side of Hilda—Maker fucking bless the man, but he immediately puts himself between her and the hooded monster. A blade sinks into the ground directly between them, though. Their backs are to her now.

“Step toward my husband again, bitch—I’ll open your fuckin’ throat.”

Fat tears roll down Jyra’s cheeks—they’re pale, color drained out of her, red rimmed eyes giant which makes her freckles stand out. Xavier’s eyes met Eddard’s. Sweats collected on his forehead as his hand slowly goes to his belt knife.

“I don’t recommend tha’.” The lady thief stalks toward them. “Move away from the horse, or he’ll lose his head.” She’s barking at them now, and Eddard seems to try and angle their departure from Hilda in a way that still keeps Jyra behind him. He’s tall—not like the one standing beside Xavier, weapon cool and ready against his throat. But the kitchen servant looks capable, in ways that they might underestimate. He’d taken that knife with a hand that seemed like it understood how it worked.

But Jyra. They can’t, not with her.

“Get him on the ground. Don’t like how big he is,” the woman says petulantly. All at once Xavier’s feet are swept out from under him and he clangs to the ground, chin snapping up and sharp canines cutting into his lip. The blood is immediate and hot, tangy and slips out from his lips messy with spit. Jyra’s calling out again—a plea for mercy, but the giant’s foot pins him down. Grinds, hard. No mercy for him. Not now.

She begins her ransacking, tearing open packs, digging through things. Xavier watches the poleaxe sink into the ground directly beside his shoulder. A warning. He closes his eyes and breathes evenly. Hopes that these thieves don’t see what his thief had seen—that Jyra was someone important, of value. Otherwise he and Eddard were looking at slit throats and Jyra—well, it’d be worse for Jyra.

When the bags are done, the woman stands in front of Xavier and smiles. There is a long stretch of time where she merely looks down at him while he looks up, flat to his stomach. Blood drips onto the dirt below him. His hands grip into it. Fury slips through his bones, makes him snap his teeth together, glare at her. It only seems to make her smile grow wider and wider and wider. Then she turns and begins walking toward the other two and Xavier regrets it.

“Leave them alone!” He shouts, trying to struggle his way out from under the beast above him. “I said, leave them alone, you fucking—” the boot crushes harder on his back and makes him wheeze, makes blood spit out from his mouth in a tiny splatter.

“Leave them alone, leave them alone,” she mocks him, in high pitched joy. “Oh, Leon, don’t kill him yet. I want him to watch.” And then the brute bends, picks Xavier up by the neck of his armor and makes him kneel. The poleaxe comes up again, the thin blade catching underneath his chin. It splits his skin, only a little—but that little bit shows how sharpened it is. How much this monster must love his weapon.

“I won’t let you hurt her,” Eddard says, the shhhing sound of his belt knife leaving the sheath loud. He says it confidently—chin tilted down, eyes hard and toward her. Xavier licks the blood off his lip, breathes haggard and hard. The executioner shifts slightly and ah. That clicks into place with husband. He does have a weak point then. It’s the little thief. And if Eddard can exploit that…

But she only laughs and draws that sword from her back. It’s polished beautifully, lovingly cared for. She hefts it a little, swings it in an arc, handle gracing the back of her hand, in expert form. Catches it deftly. Fuck, Xavier thinks. Fuck, she’s trained.

Then, instead of cutting Eddard’s head from his body, she drives it into the wet earth.

“Princess,” she whispers, leaning over it, smiling. “Little bit greedy, ain’t it? Two men and you? One on either end of ya, if I can boldly ask?”

“Do not—” Eddard begins, his cheeks ruddy, same time as Xavier,

“How dare you—”

And Jyra’s giant wet eyes look horrified with the knowledge that someone can simply speak to her that way; didn’t even need to use a blade to hurt her. The insult has cut deep to the romantic, tender girl’s heart and Xavier bites his bleeding lip and looks to the dreary, gray sky. How to get this fucking executioner to focus on his wife, to get his sword. To help.

“Chivalrous. M’killing them slow, then.” She leans further over the sword, chin to the hilt as she smiles. “Pretty girl, watch. I want to give you nightmares.” Then she swipes her hands up and over her eyes, as if playing a game with a child. Xavier watches, in mute and terrified fascination as she slowly drags those hands down her face—what was once a red brown has gone entirely milky white. Fingers hook into the lower lids and drag, make them look haunting and dead. “Bleh,” she says, unceremoniously.

Then the rats descend.

Screaming, shrieking, hundreds of them. They blanket the forest floor in writhing, black, gray, white mass. Xavier watches them, his mouth gaping open. Hears Hilda screaming, hears her heavy hooves trying to stomp, until she gives up and runs. Her gallop echoes in his ears, in his head and heart, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the pestilent horde. The plague that’s swarming them.

Eddard pulls Jyra, swiftly, into his arms—but that means he can’t use his knife. She’s clinging around his neck, barely suppressing a scream as the man attempts to shake his legs to stop the rats from worming up his body.

And the woman laughs, but her laughs slowly become an open mouth of rat sounds. Squeaks and shrills.

“Leon—kill the knight,” she says, in the voice of a thousand rodents.

Xavier thinks, no. Please. I told him to wait for me. I told him I’d come back.

***

“Need that back,” Lark says, pushing a knife into his boot. His eyes scan the room in attempt to find the last one, but the swish of his cloak draws his eyes.

“Need a new one,” Matilda sneers, in her pretty way; which would annoy him usually, but she’s wrung him out. Satiated him into submission, or at the very least, he’s not as quick to snip back at her. The cloak is perfect for him, so naturally, it’s short on her. Skims up across her shins, her pale skin revealed. And although he’s seen her stark naked, Lark perks up a little at the delicate bone in her ankle.

“Like that one just fine.” He leans back with his hands braced on the bed they’d just made a thorough mess of. “Fits me.” Lark is not self conscious of his height, in a world of tall, gallant knights. Being short makes it easy to get into places he shouldn’t—and besides. Not like it deterred her from him. His eyes linger on those pale ankles, her bare feet.

Matilda can practically read his mind—or at the very least, his perverse and open stare—so she slides her leg from the cloak. She’s nude underneath it. He’ll smell like her now; herbs and spices and something sensual he can’t name. It lingers on his tongue. She has creamy skin, soft and warm and his hands, in his gloves twitch.

“Give me my cloak,” he says and raises a hand for it. Instead, she trails to his provisions. A hint of her body is revealed from the slit in the cloak. It almost makes him groan. She puts a fingernail against an apple, half poking from his pack. She begins to dig into it. “Matilda. Do not bruise my fruit.” It makes her snicker and he rolls his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Make sure you don’t rest on the road until you’re well deep in the forest. Eat the apple when it’s too thick for anyone to see you from the road.” All things he knows—and she says it in a dreamy, soft voice that makes him think she’s less telling him thief knowledge than she’s thinking aloud. She turns to him then, the cloak opening again and making him fall flat back against the bed with an annoyed huff. He listens to the swish of the cloak, glances down as she finds herself between his knees.

“Was meant to be on that road by now,” he mumbles. She leans over him, the cloak opening, falling over her bare shoulders. Lark’s eyes trail over her collarbone, down her breasts—focus far too hard on her pert, pink nipples. The witches hands come to rest on his thighs and her gaze strays down to his belt—that he’d just gotten back on. “Matilda, I am losing daylight—ah.”

He falls quiet when her knee wedges between his and drag over what’s already beginning to harden again, not unkindly. Suggestive, even as her grin curls a little mean.

Alright, Lark thinks. Maybe another.

—

He should stop them.

Lark’s teeth sink into the half eaten apple. A bit of juice slips down his chin and he scruffs it away with his gloved hand. He should definitely intervene. Especially when Mouse does her plague thing—nasty that. Lark watches the rats, swarming, roving and loud. He bites into the apple again, gets a chunk and chews.

Then he looks at it, in wonder. Maker. Did women always know something he didn’t?

It makes Lark sigh as he tosses the core into the forest. He kneels on the branch, pulling the crossbow from its latch on his back. Steadies himself as he raises it. He breathes in, holds that breath in his chest with practiced, steady motion and when he releases the bolt, it finds the target. Straight into the tree just directly beside Mouse.

Then he has to jump, quickly, because the poleaxe becomes a spear—crashes through the branches and slams into the tree. It had only narrowly missed him, nearly caught the shoulder of his cloak, or his actual shoulder. Would have pinned him, shattered his bones. Lark has seen Leon use that weapon in ways that make men into pulp.

As he steps onto the road, Lark scoops up one of the many rats. Pinches it between his fingers. It shrieks, scrambling until he lifts a finger and pets it softly on its belly. The little creatures squirming halts a little before he can plop it into his palm.

“Hoo there, Pied Piper.” Lark calls out, avoiding more of the rats as he continues forward.

Mouse looks at him, with those horrendous white eyes. Her mouth is open and a rats tail whips from it, up along her cheekbone. The revulsion is instant, a crawling, disgusting feeling covering his body.

“Put my rat down,” she says in that layered, terrible voice.

“Hello, Leon,” Lark calls, ignoring her.

“Lark,” the giant, hooded man greets back. “Are you well?”

“As one can be during these dreary and miserable times.” He shakes a rat from his boot. “Would you kindly release my knight? Don’t much like the look of that blood on his chin.” Xavier is panting, pulling in air through a wheeze. He’s got a rib injury, an old one, that makes Lark a little nervous to look at him and see that wet red. His eyes dart toward the woman and the servant, like he’s trying to get Lark’s attention to them.

Instead, he rolls his eyes.

“Apologies about your poleaxe, friend. Needed to disarm you.”

“I am not truly disarmed, Lark,” Leon replies. Then he releases Xavier, pushing him gently away. The knight scrambles up and looks like he might go for them—but Leon raises a hand in warning.

“Mouse?” He holds the rat aloft slightly. Slowly, the rat queen unfolds from her position over her sword. She tilts her head, a white eye aimed at him. Then she grunts and slaps hands over her eyes. Upon removing them, he’s greeted by that red-brown—and the rats scatter. Back to wherever they go when they’re waiting for her. Even the cute, white one in his hand scurries, down his arm and away.

“You tryin’ to steal my mark?” She snaps, petulant and annoyed.

“This is Red Barron territory. You paying him out a cut?”

“Killed the Red Barron,” Leon says in his gentle voice. Alright then. It was Pied Piper and The Executioner King’s territory now. Pleasant.

“Then I will simply be taking my knight and leaving.”

“Lark!” Xavier seethes, stepping toward him.

“Headache,” Lark snaps back. The knight’s face turns red in anger and Lark knows that anger. Knows that, Leon without his weapon is still terrifying. Still dangerous, but that Xavier, when mad, is a thing of primal, dog like fury. His eyes slide to Mouse, who has a hand on the hilt of her sword.

The cordiality between the three thieves is not necessarily born out of having the same career—or having worked together in the past. They’re dancing around what all three of them know is the truth. Xavier could kill Leon. Lark could kill Mouse. This is why things haven’t gone sideways yet—that being the key fucking word and is Xavier get’s up in arms, if he dives for that heirloom sword—Lark snorts and folds his arms across his chest.

“The servant and the woman too.”

“I’m keeping the woman.”

“You are not,” the servant man snarls, clutching the woman closer. Though the rats are gone, he’s not yet put her down. Lark slaps a hand to his forehead in exasperation. This is why he just didn’t deal with women like this. Noble, high and mighty, snotty with noses in the air, pinching their skirts as they walked. She looked properly terrified from Mouse’s rat show, but it doesn’t make him empathetic so much as it makes him tired.

“Mouse,” he says, stepping toward her. Leon shifts and he watches Xavier’s perceptive, gleaming eyes catch that movement too. He’s not stupid, not the way they always think he is; pegged the big guy for the soft one. Of course. “You owe me.”

She stares at him, lips pouty and eyes ice cold. She lifts the sword from the earth and then swipes it through the crux of her elbow to clean the dirt. She sheaths it slowly and tilts her head this way and that.

“Their lives are yours.” She looks back at the servant and the woman, curls a sneering lip. “But I’m keeping their fuckin’ gold.”

—

When the thief duo departs, much richer than they’d started, Lark approaches the lady. Wants to see a bit what the fuss is. She’s shaking, all over, trembling like a leaf, or a wet kitten. He thinks she’s pretty, of course. They’re bred to be that way aren’t they? He can smell her noble blood and finds it lacking, but yes, she’s pretty. High cheekbones and fine brows. Truthfully, Lark would have gone for the servant before her, who he also offers a respectful brow.

“Thanks for not letting us die,” he replies, in a deadpan voice. Yes. Okay, Lark likes this one.

“Lady,” he greets, with a little bit of a bow.

“Thank you. Y-You have my gratitude and we are in your debt.” She is tucked slightly behind the servant a little, her hand wrapped around his arm. For a moment, Lark considers what Matilda might actually have done in this situation—of course, she’d probably end up friends with the Pied Piper and it’d just be a fucking mess for him.

Ah fuck. Thinking of her again. He blinks rapidly, forgetting for a moment he’s meant to respond.

“Apologies, my lady. Believe my lady cursed me—anytime I’m ‘round one of the opposite sex, visions of her flash behind my eyelids.” The woman, noble (or not, he snickers to himself) and dignified looked more than a mite mortified by him. Tucks herself further behind her servant. “Don’t feel too badly for me. She’s wearing naught but my cloak, so it is not an awful curse, I assure you, princess.” Her recoil was even harder at that.

Actually, Lark had paid a curse-sniffer to check for that; let the haggard old, sweaty man shove his nose right into his hair and scramble about him. In the end, the poor blind man had only shrugged and said, ‘Pologies, master, don’t fink you got no curse. Finkin’ you got yourself a l’il curse o’ feelings, s’all.

Hm. Well. He turned from her then, back to Xavier.

“Told you so,” Lark said as they approached one another.

“Don’t get me started—I’m very mad at you right now.” He slides his sword into his belt, adjusting it a little. The blood on his chin is mostly wiped away, but it lingers around the corner of his mouth. Lark takes his face in his hands, rubbing his thumb there, grinding the red into his pale skin. “A witch.” He says softly, pinching brows together.

“Ah, the medicine didn’t work?”

“No—it smelled awful and did nothing. A witch, Lark?”

“A very, very beautiful one.”

Xavier claps hands over his shoulders in exhaustion.

“Thank you,” Xavier says earnestly, patting Lark’s cheek in affection, shaking him slightly. He’s so tall, he makes Lark feel miniature sometimes, like he could pluck him up and toss him over his shoulder. “You could come with us, you know. I could use maybe a little extra protection.” The thief snorts and rolls his eyes skyward, looks at all that gray. Oddly enough a flock of black birds dart across the sky, smooth and agile and beautiful.

“Think I have better things to do, Baby. You finish your quest. Thieves don’t have those, you know. Just marks—and—” He blinks at the sky, watches the last bird slide away. “Hm. Forgot what I was going to say.”

“I have to find my horse.”

“She went that way.” Lark offers, helpfully, with a toothy grin as he points down the way he’d just traveled from.

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