#and some look like their skulls were constructed by dripping mud on them

[archester-creations]

just out of reach (yoi bb 2/5)

Dull pain was the first thing he registered. It pounded out from his skull with the beat of his heart. Yuuri lifted himself up and his vision swam. Rain drizzled around him, painting the world in muted greys. Trees surrounded him and a rock was behind him. Carefully, Yuuri felt at his own head. Past the wetness of his hair- the wetness that dripped down his entire body, making his clothes cling to clammy skin- was a bump that smarted even at his ginger touch. Apparently he’d fallen and hit the rock. Yuuri turned to see a touch of red on the grey surface. The feeling that he should be more worried passed through him. Because not only did he hit his head, he didn’t remember being outside. Or… and he wracked his brain the best he could… anything past his name. Yuuri . The rain and the muted world settled him, though. Etched into his skin and into his bones like a calm salve.

He stood up, going still for a few seconds when his head went dizzy and his vision checkerboarded. A breath filled his lungs to capacity and the feeling faded. He bit his bottom lip. Chewing on the chapped flesh till it went smooth. The ground was mostly dirt with patches of grass. Each tree rose tall overhead so the rain rolled over leaves and tripped over branches. Whatever had happened, he'd ended up right in the center of the trees. They spread out around him in a circle, as if waiting and watching to see what he'd do. Again, Yuuri got the distinct impression a shiver of discomfort should have gone down his spine at the thought. But it didn't. Somehow the thought just… fit. Like he was meant to be judged by the trees around him. Every blade of grass and tree and bush tilted toward him with an ear out and gaze firm, placed under trial by the very nature he woke up in the center of. Though what they would judge him for and what their verdict would be, he had no idea. Yuuri only hoped it would be good. He dipped his head respectfully in gesture to it all, feeling oddly like it was expected of him and distantly that the action would be deemed as strange in a time and place he didn't remember. Then he stumbled off, following the dirt despite there being no path. Again, it just felt like something he was expected to do. Even as his feet slipped on a patch of mud he couldn't find worry swelling in his chest. Trusting that if he fell, he'd be unharmed until he reached whatever place he was meant to go.

What time passed was unclear. The rain still drizzled warm and foggy. Trees passed, most the same kind, but he could tell they were all different. Like something in him was as aware of them as they were him. Yet, it could be hours or days that passed and he couldn't be sure he'd know the difference. In this place time was the construct and nature was the reality. Even his body didn't seem to process the length, not developing a single stitch as he followed the instinct through the ups and downs and turns. Yuuri got the impression whatever or whoever he'd been, he'd needed good stamina. He walked up another hill. Just past here , the air seemed to whisper. Noise filtered in and it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't heard anything past the rain till now. His shoes squished uncomfortably against muddy grass, the fabric of them already soaked through. At the crest of the hill he looked down into a clearing.

Civilization. Or, something approximating it. There were brown tents in a circle, canvas lifted on poles above each one to protect from the rain. Under the trees closest to the circle were two horses, huddled away from the rain and presumably tied up. Carts stood like sentries between the two, but a little offset. All set up with a semblance of being able to simply lift up and away at a moment’s notice. Whoever made this small camp were obviously travelers of some kind. As he got closer different sounds filtered in. A muffled singing. Some sparks of laughter. A loud feminine voice followed by multiple voices groaning. No doubt coming from one of the tents. His steps sped up, helped along by a sudden slip in the mud.

Walking into the camp was like coming out of a haze. Sensations he didn't realize were missing- and some he did- crawled into his skin. Hunger and pain and stiffness and the worry that'd been with him so long he knew it'd been an old friend even without his memories. Though now that friend settled awkward, like a skin that fit too tight but he didn't know how to shed now that it'd settled back onto his bones. He hugged his arms to him. Cold drifted in, his skin clammy under his fingertips, and he shivered. The trees were distant eyes. They remained comfortably on his back, though they'd sharpened and Yuuri had the feeling he'd made it to their first test. What it was, though, he had no idea.

It felt more than awkward to follow the sounds toward the correct tent. A part of him badly wanted to leave. To continue walking and hope the trees would provide some different test. But a secondary, harder shiver went through his bones all the way into his chest and he felt his teeth rattle. Water dripped from his hair down into his eyes. His glasses were speckled with it, and fogged, and no doubt bent. If he was allowed inside he'd have to clean them off and unbend them. (Metal frames were a blessing.) The sound led him to the largest tent in the middle and he hesitated in front of it. It was canvas, he didn't think he could just… knock. Still his hand wavered like he wanted to try, an instinct he didn't really understand, before it went to the side of his mouth to hopefully increase his volume. “He-hello? Hello?”

There was silence for long enough Yuuri was worried no one heard him. Footsteps followed it, getting closer, and Yuuri took a step back out into the drizzle before the canvas was lifted aside to reveal a person. They were taller than Yuuri. Long silver hair fell over slim shoulders. The glow from a fire inside cast them in an ethereal light and a feeling like awe settled over Yuuri’s shoulders. For a moment, words were lost to him. Then he remembered where he was and that it was cold outside and that this was likely a test he’d surely fail if he simply stood out here, gaping at a stranger. He swallowed. “I-” followed my instincts, which I’m pretty sure were directed by nature . Definitely not. “got lost and stumbled on your camp? I'd very much like to come in. Please?”

Bright blue eyes widened, flicking up and down multiple times- no doubt taking him in. Then the guy turned away from him, back to the other occupants. “Yakov, Georgi!” They sounded panicked and confused. Yuuri could relate. Grumbling came from inside and those eyes were back on him. They looked like water. And they looked concerned. Before he could open his mouth to say he was fine, two more forms pushed the first to the side. An older man frowned at him, great wrinkles scrunching up in lines Yuuri didn’t fully feel were made from smiling. Not all from frowning, either thought. Just more that his life was filled equally with both. The other form had blue eyes, but they were darker than the first, and black hair, darker than his own. A black cuff curled around his left ear.

“Who are you?” The old man demanded. His voice was rough, like he spent a large amount of time yelling. 

“Uh-” Yuuri floundered. “Yu- Yuuri, sir.”

“You sound unsure.” The man narrowed his eyes and Yuuri felt unease shoot down his spine. He hadn’t meant to sound unsure. That was his name. It was the one thing he knew .

“Yakov, look at him, he’s shivering. Let’s question him inside,” the other frowned concernedly. Behind him, the first person seemed to agree. With a ‘humph’ Yuuri was led inside the tent and to the fire. There were two other people inside next to it. A short-haired redhead and a long-haired brunette curled into each other. They both looked up as soon as Yuuri shuffled further in. Their eyes were questioning and he both wished he had the answers to whatever those questions might be and desperately that they wouldn’t ask. He was placed in front of the fire and he tried not to sit too close to it, eyes on the colours flickering inside it as the others sat on the other side. The first person, the one with long silver hair, wrapped him in a blanket without a word and he jumped at the unexpected contact. Georgi- if the old man was Yakov, this one had to be Georgi- handed him a bowl and he took it. Immediately the heat began to warm his hands. “So your name is Yuuri?”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes.”

“What were you doing out in that?” Yakov asked.

“I… don't know,” Yuuri said. It wasn't a lie. Not really. He couldn't remember why he'd been outside, all he knew was a feeling of memories he just didn't have and nature’s test. Would they throw him out if they thought he was crazy? That'd surely cause him to fail the test. Best not to mention it. “I can't remember anything?”

“Nothing?” The silver-haired one asked.

“Just my name.”

“Oh,” the silver-haired one said, a long, drawn out sound. Yakov humphed again.

“Guess that would explain why you seemed hesitant on your own name.”

“Right!” Yuuri agreed and then immediately flinched at his own volume. It didn't seem to bother anyone else.

“He doesn't remember anything, Yakov, we should keep him.”

“‘Keep him’?” Yakov repeated. “He's not a pet.”

“I don't know, I think he looks a little like a puppy.” A smile followed the words and it was pretty, but it sent a shiver of fear down his spine. Especially when it was directed at him. He gulped. Arms wrapped around his shoulders and red hair filled the corner of his vision.

“I think Vitya’s right,” the voice half-pouted, half-purred next to his ear and he felt fear . “It'd be a shame to kick a puppy out in this weather. We could probably even find a use for him, right Minako? Georgi?”

“She's right, Yakov,” the other woman said with a smile Yuuri wasn't sure was actually kinder.

  Before Yuuri knew it, he was a member of a theatre troupe. He could only hope he’d passed whatever test he’d been given.

#yuri on ice #katsuki yuuri #viktor nikiforov #viktuuri #yakov feltsman #mila babicheva #okukawa minako #georgi popovich #minako okukawa #yuuri katsuki #minako x mila #twelve kingdoms au #yoi big bang 2021

[sisterdragonwithfeathers]

I'm collecting pictures of giraffes for a project my mom's paying me for and let me tell you giraffes look so much weirder than you think they do

#feather rambles #some of them almost look like horses #some of them have such a pronounced bump on their foreheads it looks like a third horn #some of them have unreasonably FLUFFY horns #some of them look weird and bony #others are too smooth to look like a proper giraffe #and some look like their skulls were constructed by dripping mud on them

[sp00kworm]

A Figure by the Lake

Pairing: Jason Voorhees x Female Reader

Warnings: General Slasher Warnings, Stalking, Violence.

A/N: This was an exchange piece with the fabulous @of-devils-and-drawings​ who deserves all the love in the world. I present, the softest of Camp Blood Killer, Mister swamp water man, for your entertainment, in six thousand words. I based his looks off of Jason Lives so take that as inspiration!

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Camp Crystal Lake. Now, it was a refurbished, new living area for holiday makers once again. The small town fifteen miles away had seen enough of the bloodshed to last years, but none of them dared go near for fear of the death curse lingering around the place. The revenge of the Voorhees family. Pamela and Jason. All swore blind the legend was real. Jason Voorhees had lived in the woods for twenty years without his own mother’s knowledge before seeing her slaughtered and extracting his revenge on any who dared to set foot on his territory. The man who filled your car hummed, chewing a toothpick as he eyed up the luggage in the back of the car.

“Where you headin’ missy?” He asked as he replaced the cap on the fuel tank and walked back to your window, wrapped tightly in a thick, sheepskin coat and a heavy scarf. He replaced his gloves and shuddered in the snowy cold as you smiled pleasantly, stroking your Pitbull with gentle movements of your hand. Bronson barked cheerfully from the seat next to you as the man peered into your window.

You were ready for the horror-stricken face as you opened your mouth, “Crystal Lake.” You uttered, “My family has an old cabin up on the outskirts of the place. They’re developing the land. Letting people buy holiday homes.” You continued, watching the local’s face turn dark.

“Do you know what happened up there?” He asked as he sparked up a cigarette, blowing smoke up into the air. You knew for sure it could blow up the gas he was stood next to, but the man didn’t seem to care.

 You knew what happened. The 1980s slaughters were known the world round. A woman and her love for her son, and her son who only sought blood-soaked revenge. You looked at the date in your car. Friday the 13th. You had to smile. Jason’s birthday was the 13th of June. A Friday. It was somewhat ironic.

You shrugged your shoulders at the man, “I know. The killings. I’ve heard the stories in the dinner. I had lunch before stopping here for some gas.”

He shook his head, “Slaughter you mean. There’s been enough killing around here. People stay away. Ain’t no good to come from poking a phantom’s nest. You be careful, ya here? Jason ain’t dead and gone, and he won’t be for a long time.” He slapped the top of your car, “That’ll be thirty bucks for the gas.”

You handed him the money and rolled away from the small gas station, trundling up the new road which the developers had put in for the town. It was a smooth journey until you met the old roads. It was about fifteen more minutes of slow driving through into the old, run down roads that led to the cabins. It was slow going through the mud, and you thanked the gods above when you finally made it to the cabin and parked, just as the snow began to slowly drift from the sky. You thanked the gods again that you had brought enough groceries for the stay. Two weeks in the peace and quiet would be nice. You pulled on your coat and got out of the car, sighing as you looked at the sheer amount of luggage you had to move from the car into the house.

 The noise of a car had drawn him from where he was washing in the streams. The icy cold water still dripped from his hands as he watched from the treeline. The cabins were being worked on, he knew that, but the construction workers were gone for the winter, and Jason was left alone once again. No one had ever shown up in the winter. He watched you shiver and unload the car, making trips back and forth with the load of things you needed. Jason watched you mess around with a large looking dog for a while before he took his shirt and coat from the tree and headed back towards his own home to make his plans. Jason thudded through the undergrowth, exhaling air that turned into mist through the holes of his mask, as he ducked through the trees and into his own, small hut. He closed the old door and peered around before heading towards the rickety chimney he had built. Jason lit a fire with the dry logs he had piled up the wall. It was silent as he lit the fire, the flames taking to the logs quickly from the kindling.

 The phantom watched it burn and pushed his cold hands closer to the fire, feeling the heat in his undead fingers. The dead skin pulsed with warmth until he pulled away to say hello to his mother.

“Hello, my sweet boy. Did you have a good day?” Pamela asked from his stand. Jason nodded as he plucked the skull from table and gently touched the top of the bone, looking at the eye sockets as his Mother smiled back at him.

“Did you see someone, sweetheart?” She cooed, “Did you get rid of them for me? You’re such a good boy, Jason.” Pamela’s blue eyes were soft as Jason looked away from her. He placed her down as he shook his head.

“Did she get away?” She asked softly, “Oh that’s alright my boy.” Jason shook his head ‘no’ again, “What’s wrong then?” She looked at him again and smiled, “Watch her. Winter visitors are such a pleasure to have.” She cooed as Jason touched the moth-eaten jumper and carefully turned her towards the fire, “Thank you, sweetie.” She cooed as Jason settled down next to the fire. He pulled out a pine tree branch and opened his box, intending to put it into the scrapbook he had managed to snatch from one of the visitors a long time ago.

 It took hours to get all the shopping and your luggage away, and even then, it took you a while to get a fire going. The cabin was new, fitted with central heating, but you looked for the logs the company had left and eventually curled up in front of the fire, Bronson by your feet, soaking up the heat from the flames. You hadn’t cooked. It was too late, so you settled for one of the ready meals as you soaked up the heat, wiggling your feet by the fire as you looked at a book open on the side of the couch. The snow was getting worse outside, blowing a gale at the windows. You hoped the power would stay on. They’d installed on-site generators in case of a power failure, but you found yourself enjoying the dark, the fire and a small lamp illuminating your book as you spooned poorly made lasagne into your mouth.

“Well, Bronson, it looks like we’ll be getting a lot of work done while we’re out here.” You hummed as you leaned over to pet his head, stroking the blue coloured fur with a smile, “Though we might not if the power drops out.” Bronson sighed and settled back down to sleep as you got up to throw away the rubbish from your dinner. As you washed the dishes with a sponge, you looked out of the window at the snow. It was slowing down. You smiled as the snow caused the automatic porch light to come on again, and you squinted into the light, looking for any sign of life. You blinked and looked harder into the snow as a shadowed figure appeared at the end of the garden, stalking along the fence. You blinked again and the black shadow was gone.

“It might be a bit of a weird holiday this one, Bronson.” Your dog only grumbled from where he had climbed onto the sofa, laid on his back, soaking in the heat from the fire.

 The next day was just as cold, but the snow had stopped falling. There was a decent covering on the ground, and you opened the door with a smile as you looked at the drifts. Winter was done properly up here by the lakes. You turned to see Bronson in the door, his large mouth open as he waited for the signal to be allowed out. With a whistle, you tugged him back inside to put his jacket and harness on before tapping his butt and watching him sprint into the drifts.

“Bronson!” You laughed as you walked into the snow, wrapped tightly in a heavy coat, scarf, gloves and hat. It was below zero. You laughed at your dog as he snorted and buried his face into another snowdrift. He barked and followed you as you trudged through the snow, towards the treeline. The Pitbull on your heels snorted and barked as you walked into the woods, your hands in your pockets, clutching his lead and the bags you had brought with you just in case.

 Jason watched from the trees as you disappeared into his woods. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and followed, the logs he had come to collect hefted on top of his shoulder. Lumbering behind, he watched from around the trees as you ventured further and further from your own cabin, and closer and closer to his own home, on the outskirts of the lake, hidden behind broken trees and rotting areas of swampy water. It was frozen still this time of year. He followed quietly, keeping his smell away from your giant dog as he watched you climb over the rotting trees and roots that blocked the pathway to his home. Jason stood still, his breath stopping all together as his eyes danced across the surroundings.

 You frowned at the heavy tree in your way and whistled softly as you climbed over the heavy log and then watched Bronson bound over the top of it, his ears flopping as he panted and looked around the snow. You both scrambled over a set of upturned roots before peering into the white surroundings. Bronson pushed his nose into the snow and snuffled around your feet as you looked between the trees. A shack was sat between another upturned giant tree and a set of rotting stumps. The wood was old and rotting in most places. You approached the old panels slowly, Bronson snuffling alongside you as you both approached. It was a very old cabin, homemade from heavy timber. The roof needed replacing, small parts of it having caved in with the rot and winter snow, but it looked lived in. With a frown, you approached the front door. It was as old as the rest of the place, the hinges rusted and the lock a simple deadbolt. It was undone. You swallowed and swung the door open. Bronson peered inside as well, quiet, his ears pressed flat to his skull. You both were quiet as you looked at the smouldering fire and the tins littering around. They were stacked in the corner on top of a very old dresser. A few bones were stacked too. A knife was sat next to the bones and what looked to be a small carving project. Carefully you peered at the small figurine being shaped from the deer bone. It was a beaver. You looked around again at everything.

 A rocking chair swayed with a squeak by the fire, rocking back and forth as the cold wind rushed inside. Everything was rotting. You entered a small bedroom, Bronson protective on your heels as you opened the door. It swung open and revealed a dry room. A table was sat in the corner with a makeshift bed in the other, piled with old shirts, blankets, and pillows. You looked at the table and gasped. A faded photo sat on the top, next to a moth-eaten jumper. You approached and looked at the skull sat next to it. Pieces of dried skin littered the tabletop as well, curling black lumps that looked putrid. The photo was of a young woman and her boy. The blond woman grinned back at you. Pamela Voorhees. You swallowed and tugged Bronson by his collar.

“Come on, Bronson. We don’t belong here.” You ushered him out and looked around the place one last time before you closed the door and rushed through the snow once more. Bronson whined as you both hopped back over the log, trudging back through the snow, “I think we have a certain resident to appease, boy.” Following your own tracks, you were unaware of the killer watching you disappear back into the snow.

 Jason watched you leave with uncertainty boiling in his stomach. You hadn’t done anything to his home. He threw the logs down by the fire and turned to his Mother.

“Maybe she’s a good girl, Jason? Watch her for me sweetie.” She cooed. Jason nodded sombrely and made sure to lock the door as he left his home, covered in a heavy jacket and his work gloves, a machete sheathed on his hip.

 Cooking for one was difficult, and soon you realised you would have more than enough for you and someone else. Bronson was busy chowing down his own food in the corner, and you sighed softly as you plated the leftovers onto another hot plate. You looked out into the cold, still night and wondered if this would be enough to appease the giant killer that might be lurking. It was stupid. He was a ghost story. But you knew to believe in the warnings of spirits. Carefully, you found a plate cover and covered the meal before opening the front door and placing it, shielded from the cold by the entryway box for tools. It wouldn’t remain warm forever, but if he was watching, you knew he’d be curious enough to investigate, spirit or undead monster. You placed the meal down and closed the door, locking it in a small fit of paranoia as you headed back to finish cleaning up before bed. Bronson slumped down by the fire as you finished putting the pots away and headed upstairs for a shower. You sighed at the white canvas you set up by the window, still with no ideas about what to put on it. Hopefully, hot water would ease your nerves.

 The door opened with creak and Jason peered at the light spilling from the house, breathing slowly, evenly, in the trees. You peered out with a plate in your hands, covered to keep it warm, before you tucked it against the toolbox and closed the door once more. Curious. Jason waited. He watched as you moved upstairs, curiously, following you around the house, watching from the bottom floor as you pulled the jumper over your head. His eyes went wide as you pulled off your tank top underneath, revealing the bra you had on. Set, he couldn’t pull away his gaze as he watched skin move and ripple, tilting his head as he moved to catch sight of your backside as well. Naughty. He chastised himself as he turned, moving back to the front of the house to investigate the plate you had put on the porch. His mask turned his breath into steam as Jason stood over the plate. He knelt and picked up the plate in one gloved hand. He opened the top and looked at the hot food on the plate. It looked like the meals his Mother once made. Jason felt conflict churn his guts. Mashed potato. He adored mashed potato as a child. Jason looked at the door in front of him. He glanced at the blade at his hip and the knife by his thigh. He could open the door himself, crash through the wood and slaughter you. Instead, he stole the food away, scaring as Bronson yawned inside, rushing back into the trees with thoughts he shouldn’t have churning in his head.

 “Jason. Have you ended her?” Pamela asked from her seat in the rocking chair. Jason looked at the head and shook his head as he sat by the fire, grinding the details into the beaver’s face with his small skinning knife, “Why not, darling?”

Jason looked at his feet, sheepishly, and pulled out the meal from behind him. He held it up to his mother’s head.

“Oh, my darling boy, she’s a good girl, isn’t she?” Pamela cooed. Jason felt phantom hands stroke his head before he drew out the spoon, he had whittled it some time ago. He could eat but being undead meant it wasn’t necessary. Still, he pushed the mask up enough to reveal his mouth and cautiously ate a spoonful of the cooling potatoes. He grunted, the memory of the food he used to eat as a child making his chest ache painfully.

Pamela smiled from her place in the chair, “Yes, my boy, she is a good, good girl. Just like you, my perfect little boy.” He continued to eat thoughtfully, beside the fire, before realising he had finished the entire thing. The killer looked at the plate sadly before picking up his beaver again. He eyed the little creature’s eyes before setting to work on finishing the tail. Pamela hummed a song before melting into the background again. He remembered to set her head down for the night before he trundled back into the blackness, the empty plate, and the small bone carving in hand.

 The snow when you woke up was horrendous. You peered down the driveway and sighed at the layers of snow melting on your porch. It was terrible weather. You shuddered as you climbed out of the bed, immediately wrapping up in your gown before you patted Bronson, beckoning him up as you started the day. You descended the stairs with a yawn and a stretch over your head. Excitedly, you remembered the plate you had left outside of the door. The keys jingled in your hand as you unlocked the lock and slid the chain bolt free. You swung open the door and watched Bronson bound into the snow again. You watched him for a moment before giving him a tut of disapproval. As you took a step forward, your slipper met the plate. Sadly, you looked down, only to smile at the sight of the empty plate and a small token next to it. You picked up the plate and the small carving. A beaver made from bone sat perfectly in the palm of your hand, its front teeth opened wide as though it was ready to chew through a new piece of wood. You laughed at the carving as you tucked it into your pocket, shouting for Bronson back. The dog bounded back into the house and you looked at the treeline before closing the door and setting to towel drying your now wet dog.

 Jason looked on from the woods as you laughed with the dog in the lounge. He watched as you placed the small beaver on your fireplace. The killer nodded to himself before hiding away in the trees to continue to watch you in peace.

 Over the course of the first week, you made sure to leave food for the legend out on the porch. Every morning it was gone, your plate returned alongside some trinket the man saw fit to leave for you. On the seventh day, you opened the door and saw that the plate was left alongside a small pocketknife. The blade wasn’t long. It was a switch blade and you snapped the thing open to look at the pointed end. It was clean, polished with metal cleaner to be shiny. You smiled and took it inside once again, placing it on the small shelf with the other goods, on display in the window. The snow was still present. Icy but slushy under your feet. You made breakfast and showered before you ventured out into the cold, this time, turning to the right, heading towards the famous Crystal Lake edge as Bronson snorted and ran beside you. The track down to the lake wasn’t huge, a short walk in all reality, but you enjoyed it nonetheless, peering up at the trees as the crows called overhead. Bronson barked and rushed forwards with a stick, his tail wagging as you took it from him and hurled it as far as you could in front of you on the track. He followed happily and you both continued towards the water’s edge. Bronson sniffed at the water curiously before deciding the icy water wasn’t worth the time jumping in. You peered around at the huge lake.

 It was easily a mile across, you surmised, from bank to bank, and the roots of the trees had recently been cut back to give it a more open appearance. It wasn’t as overgrown as it once was, the reeds kept back at the pier and tugged out from around the sides to prevent the water from looking too murky. With a cold inhale of icy air, you wandered closer to the edge, looking at the murky water as Bronson snorted and walked around, sticking his face in every pile of mud he could find under the snow. A crow called again above you. You looked up at the tree and frowned at the bird before it squawked again and fluttered off, leaving a black feather to float down into the snow. Bronson gave the feather a sniff before he moved into the snow again, shoving his face underneath the piles. The pier was new. The rotting boards and support structure were new, the wood painted a white colour. It would probably need redoing when spring rolled around. You walked up, towards the end of the pier and looked out at the icy lake. Parts of it were frozen, thing sheets floating around and clicking into each other. You watched a duck tuck itself into the reeds on the bank as Bronson barked at the end of the pier, gaze set on the trees. Murky water slopped against the wood with a gust of icy air and you shuddered before turning back to your dog.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” You chuckled as you turned around and carefully walked back towards the banks.

 Your foot slipped beneath your own weight. Ice, hidden by the white paint, made your grips slip. Suddenly, the water lurched towards your face, icy pain imminent. You closed your eyes and gasped, winded, as arms snapped tight around your waist and heaved you upwards, away from the icy water. Wheezing, you turned your head to look at your saviour. Icy, blue eyes stared back at you through a grubby hockey mask, and you peered down at the dead hands holding you tightly against the man most now only knew as legend.

“Jason…Voorhees…” You wheezed as you were manhandled away from the pier. Bronson barked at the creature and he bared his teeth before he jumped for his arm. Jason’s eyes flicked, and in a swift movement, he snatched the dog by the collar, holding you with one arm, the other holding the hound at arm’s length. Bronson yelped as the grip twisted into the fur on the back of his neck.

“Let him go!” You coughed weakly. Jason’s eyes flashed between you both before he dropped you and offered you your dog. He dropped Bronson on the floor, lowering him to his feet, giving you enough time to wrestle a lead from your pocket to hold him at bay. He cowered behind your legs as you looked up again at the Camp Crystal Lake Killer.

 “You’re real…” You whispered, gazing up at the giant. He was dead, clearly, the skin mottled and dark, pale in other places with rigor mortis, the blood stagnant. Yet, any wound seemed to not have left a scar. You looked at the hands and watched him twitch the fingers. Jason shifted, uncomfortable with the staring, and turned his eyes on Bronson again. The Pitbull cowered behind you.

“I’m sorry if we’re trespassing.” You whispered before finding your voice, “Did you, uh, enjoy the food I left out for you?” You asked the giant man. He paused in his staring, the hockey mask turning to the side, as though bashfully, as his massive head nodded.

He held up his hands in front of him and you watched his right hand move to his ask before dipping down with flat fingers, the palm upturned.

“You sign?” You asked with a smile, “That means ‘thank you’ right?”

Jason nodded twice with two slow movements of his head.

“Well, you’re welcome.” You smiled at him as genuinely as you could manage, “Though I don’t know if you really needed the food. You seem to be able to look after yourself.” With a small sigh, you rubbed the top of Bronson’s head, fear making your heart beat double time, “Are you going to get rid of me?” You asked quietly.

 Jason’s eyes widened a little as he listened to the fear lacing your voice. He shook his head firmly before holding his hands up again in front of his chest, fingers twitching before he signed to you slowly. His thumb pointed to his chin with his fingers curled into a first. He moved his hand forwards before holding up his other hand and pointing a finger out from his right. He connected the finger with his left hand. You frowned, confused, before watching him stick his finger into his other hand repeatedly.

“Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?” You asked gently.

Jason nodded, confirming your guess, before signing the two words again slowly for you.

“Okay, I believe you.” You smiled as Bronson peered back from behind your legs, his nose sniffing at Jason’s heavy combats. The giant recoiled from the dog, his hands clenched by his stomach before Bronson deemed him not a threat, and simply sat down, staring at Jason with soft eyes. Curiously, Jason reached to pet Bronson, his large fingers flipping the dog’s ears around as he gave him a small scratch behind them.

“He likes you.” You laughed softly before awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, “Would you like to come and eat with us?” You asked.

 Jason felt his heart catch in his chest. You asked him to come and eat with you. He was embarrassed. It was very forward. He took a step backwards, glancing at the treeline in contemplation as he wondered what sort of motive you had for inviting him to dinner. Words were empty. He knew that. Jason had been lied to again and again. He knew though, that you did intend to give him food. You left it for him every night. He wished his mama were there with him. He reached for his hip and shook his head.

“She’s a good girl, Jason.”

His mother was right. Jason nodded and looked at the snow covering the ground before stepping away from the lake and pointing back through the trees.

“Sure. I’ll lead the way.” You smiled as you tugged Bronson along at your side. Jason followed to your right in comfortable silence, observing your grins and smiles at your dog with a smile of his own, hidden behind the ruined hockey mask.

 “Is that shack in the woods yours, Jason?” You asked as you reached the edge of the trees. You looked up at the phantom as his fingers curled into a fist and he dipped it down, nodding his head at the same time. You looked over the snow drift and smiled, “It’s a nice place. You seem to be able to look after yourself.”

Jason shrugged his shoulders, his jacket rippling with the movement before he wiggled his hand and his head in a ‘sort of’ motion. He was embarrassed by the praise, though you couldn’t see his face. His blind eye twitched as he watched you trip in his periphery. With a snap of his arms again, he snatched you up from falling face first into the snow.

Winded again, you looked up at the killer as you span in his arms, “Thank you, Jason. Sorry, I’m such a clutz.” You laughed as he placed you firmly back on your feet and held out his hand towards the dog lead. Bronson was happy to bound over to the giant, and you laughed as Jason was tugged around by the dog. Bronson barked, leaping into the snow, only to be fished out a moment later by one, giant, powerful hand. Bronson looked at him with a dumb smile before Jason placed him back on his feet and let him walk in front of the two of you.

 Your cabin porch, at least, was free from snow. You slammed your feet on the wood and watched Jason do the same, shaking snow from his shoulders before he reached down and unclipped the dog lead from Bronson. The Pitbull gave one large bark and licked at the yellow workers gloves over Jason’s fingers before scratching at the door to get back inside.

“Here. You can come in if you want? It won’t take too long to make something.” You offered. You smiled up at Jason and he felt his resolve melt a little as he tentatively took a step into the house. His figure filled the doorway before he peered around, looking for a threat that might jump out at him, before he relaxed enough to carefully step into the lounge area.

“You don’t have to take your shoes off if you don’t want.” You offered as Jason looked down at his boots with concern. They were dirty and your floors were very clean. With a tilt of his head, he leaned over to undo the laces of his boots and carefully tugged them off. He even managed socks. You were amazed at how well put together the gentle giant was for an undead corpse.

“Thank you.” You smiled as you slipped the harness off Bronson and removed your own coat and shoes. Jason looked back and took his coat off as well, thumping over to the coat rack to hang his own mucky coat over a hook.

 “You can sit in the kitchen if you like?” You headed towards the small kitchen in the back and smiled as Jason followed, stepping around the rug carefully before he peered over your head, into the well-equipped kitchen, “Do you like music, Jason?” You asked.

Jason repeated the sign for ‘Yes.’ back to you and nodded his head before continuing, ‘Not too loud. Soft.’, But you didn’t seem to understand those signs.

With a nod you reached over the counter and smiled as you showed him the small manual radio. You swivelled the knobs and caught the frequency of the local radio station. It was something weird and country sounding. You showed Jason the radio, “You can twist the knob to tune into different stations. Try and find something you like.” He took the small thing from your hands and eyed it before quickly setting to work spinning the knobs, searching for something for you to listen to. As he played with the device you pulled out the things for dinner. Jason grew tired of the knobs quickly and settled on where it had been before he had messed around, the soft country playing in the background as he watched you cut vegetables and add them to the pot for a stew. His curiosity made him accidentally turn the wrong knob on the radio and the giant jumped with a grunt as the music screeched. He almost threw the thing, but before he could, you already snapped the volume back down.

“Be careful, Jason.” You chuckled before wiping your hands properly and covering the food, “Now, maybe you should teach me some of that signing? It might be handy.” He nodded and stood from the table, following you to the lounge.

 The food in front of him looked delicious.

“Oh, she is a good girl, Jason.” His Mother cooed from wherever she was, he couldn’t see her, “She’s looking after you, my dear. She could be good spouse material for my darling baby boy.”

Jason shook his head. Surely his mother didn’t think that. She had never mentioned wanting him to settle down. He curled in on himself a little. He knew he wasn’t handsome or even worthy of someone doting on him.

“Are you okay?” You asked nervously, “I thought you might like this, since you like mashed potato so much.”

Jason nodded his head and signed, ‘Thank you’ before he picked up the spoon and then remembered his mask. He looked at the gravy dripping from his spoon and placed it back down into the bowl. With a huff he pointed to his face and looked away.

Instantly you understood what he meant, “You can take it away if you would like?” You asked, chewing the inside of your cheek.

He nodded enthusiastically before placing on finger under his nose and curling it away from himself. Before you could ask him to do it again, he grabbed hold of his shoes from the door, and tied them swiftly. He shrugged the jacket on and took the bowl gratefully from the table. With a nod, he disappeared out of the front door and rushed away as fast as he could manage with the bowl of stew and potatoes.

 You found a book in your cabin later. American Sign Language 101. You looked through at the basic words and frowned at the pictures for the word ‘ugly’. Jason had called himself ugly. You rubbed at Bronson’s ears and shook your head as you looked at the fire burning in front of your feet.

 The next morning you turned from your canvas to a knock on the door. It was still early. Bronson perked up from where he was laid by the fire. Curious, you laid your brushed on your small table and headed towards the door. You opened the door and smiled.

“Jason, what are you doing here?” You asked before the bowl from last night was thrust into your hands.

‘Thank you.’ Jason signed.

“You’re welcome, big guy.” You opened the door a little, “Do you want to come in or are you busy?” You asked, revealing the paint streaked apron covering your body.

Jason shook his head and raised his hands once more, ‘Walk?’ He asked carefully.

“Sure. Bronson needs one anyway.” You left the door open with Jason stood in it as you took your apron off and whistled for Bronson. The dog trotted to the front door and greeted Jason with a lick to his gloved hands. You pulled on your shoes and coat before snatching Bronson’s lead and the book you were looking through last night. Jason pointed curiously as the big book and you held it up for him to see.

“It’s a Sign Language book. I wanted to learn a little bit more, so I can understand you better!” You smiled up at the giant as he appeared a little flustered and lost, his hands twitching by his thighs before he closed your door behind you and pointed in the direction of the lake. You followed with Bronson close on your heels.

 Your visits to the lake became a daily routine. Jason would walk you there just before lunch and you’d both return just in time for you to cook dinner. Jason was conflicted every time you asked him into your home, but he followed you in each time. His Mother was positive. She appreciated what you were doing for him, and Jason was thankful for someone who cared. He even did odd jobs around your cabin, chopping wood and leaving it for you as well as fixing a fence after Bronson chewed a slat free.

“Jason, are you okay?” You asked as you placed his food in front of him. He could see you were nervous, wondering about something. Worrying. The giant reached out and took your hand in his own. He was about to recoil, remembering the cold temperature of his flesh, yet you didn’t flinch away from the icy grip. You squeezed his fingers and looked into his eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ He signed after letting go of your hand.

“I’m just…” You sighed as you sat down, “It’s what you said when you first took that dinner.” You looked the phantom in the eyes, “That you were ugly.” You made the sign with your finger and scowled, “But I…All I’ve seen is a lonely man who has done nothing but help me…and be sweet.”

Jason looked away, peering into the food you had served him before he turned in his seat and repeated the sign back to you.

‘Ugly.’ He snapped his fingers together with a sigh and you shook your head at him.

 “You’re not…” You chuckled, “Well I’ve never actually seen your face…” You confessed. The killer shook his head resolutely, his hands clutching at the strap of his mask.

‘Ugly.’ He signed again as he leaned back, protective of the hockey mask covering his face. With a smile, you nodded at him and eased back over your own food.

“I understand. You’re not ready to show me…” You stood up slowly and held your hands away from him, “But, when you are ready, just know that I’ll accept it, no matter what.” You promised before you leaned forwards, and pressed a soft, single kiss to his forehead. The mask was as cold as his skin, and you leaned away, dazzling the phantom with your smile.

Jason’s hands shot out, catching you by the wrists before he gently eased them up towards his face, his blue eyes gazing at you in awe as he let you brush the strap on the back of his head. Firmly, he held you in front of him before he raised his hands and fumbled.

‘I love you’ He signed, ‘Protect you.’ He promised before he took hold of your waist again and tugged you into his lap, wrapping his giant arms around your body before he pressed the cool mask to your face.

 “Jason…I’m not here forever…” You whispered against his cold face, “I have to go home.”

His arms tightened as fear pierced his gut, ‘Stay?’ He signed with sad eyes, ‘Come back?’

You gave him a watery smile before nodding, “I…I can.” You thought on the life you had, back in the heat, the warmth of a residential house. Small, cramped, surrounded by other people. Your job wasn’t even most of your income. Your art could flourish. You could be with this loveable, giant phantom. No one would ever know. You took a deep breath and stood up, pressing another kiss to Jason’s head, “I’ll find a way. I have enough money to stay another few weeks anyway.” You grinned, “We can figure it out from there…” You took a giant hand and pressed a kiss to the cold flesh, “I think I love you too.” Jason made a soft noise as he grappled you back into his arms.

 A Figure by the Lake, you thought, as you worked on the canvas the next day, looking at Jason as he walked back towards the water.

#jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees x female reader #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #ft13th #camp blood killer #camp crystal lake #crystal lake #jason #jason voorhees x you #slasher #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher reader insert #reader insert #my writing #art exchange #exchange piece

[thenixart]

Unedited Dorohedoro fanfic (opening of chapter 1)

Bioremediation

What do we say to Death?

-Location: Hole?-

“Uhg...” Consciousness comes back to Ton like a hammer to the side of his head. Searing pain radiates from his temple to his ear that only increases as he gets up. He groans, “Oww.”

Taking stock of his surroundings, Ton is absolutely certain that he is no longer in the Hole shopping mall. There was no sign of the door he just opened or the wave of sludge that washed over him. Not even the hallway he’d just been in with the numbered doorways. The place he was in now looked decrepit, like a building long abandoned and left to rot. The ground was uneven, cracked and broken in places, large slabs that looked like they’d been moved and some point before being dropped. Massive metal pipes, plastic-covered soft grungy tubing, corroded iron girders, walls with struts, and studs visible. It felt like a half-finished construction project left in the rain.

And it reeked.

A familiar kind of raw sewage, wet mud, and rotting corpses kinda smell. The boss’s scent. Strongly emanated from the thick sticky reddish-black liquid dripping from him. It was some kinda sludge, grainy and thick and not unlike the stuff he’d see in the bathtub as a kid after the boss had done his weekly shower. He had an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach about this. Using his relatively cleaner undershirt he wiped the muck from his face and set about trying to find his comrades.

“Saji!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. One hand cupping the side of his mouth and the over carrying his now ruined undershirt. “Tetsujo! Ushishimada! Damnit guys where did you go?”

There’s something niggling in the back of his mind like he’s forgotten something very important, something he saw in the dark fluid that washed over him. As he walked he realized that this place is far far larger than it first appeared, starting to look more like a rotted rundown city not unlike Hole. Just worse. And in places freakishly organic. 

He stops and there is a hole in the ground not too far ahead filled with clay-colored bubbling muck. An arm sticks out of the hole and lays limp along the ground. Seeing what is probably a person in trouble he rushes to action. 

“Hey! Hold on tight!” He grabs the hand and pulls, bracing himself with his weight on his back leg and not the leg close to the edge of the hole. The pit looks nasty and he doesn’t know if the edge is stable or not. The mud makes a horrible sucking sound as he wrenches the person free. Whoever they are they’re fairly slim with long hair and absolutely covered in the muck.

Using his undershirt he cleans the person’s face and after clearing the layer of grime his heart jolts-- “Natsuki!”

He clutches her close and can’t help but shout, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Wake Up! Natsuki!!”

Then he realizes that she isn’t breathing. 

“Shit!” He lowers her back to the ground and tries to pull up those CPR lessons from back in the day. Medicine along with fighting were the two main things that the boss actually taught them. He inhales as deeply as possible then locks lips with her and forces that air into her lungs.

“Natsuki! Don’t die!” He downright orders as he starts with chest compressions. Using his full upper body strength he pushes down directly on her sticky bare chest and then releases and counts. One... two… ten… thirty… forty-two… sixty-six… one hundred! “I said breathe! Damnit!”

Natsuki complies with wet coughing that forces red slime out of her mouth and nose. 

“Thank goodness!” He sighs in relief and cleans more of the gunk off of her. His shirt now irredeemable is left on the ground. As he looks at Natsuki’s naked huddled form turned away from him his mind swarms with questions and the nagging feeling that he’s forgotten something important. 

“Hey,” He says to get her attention as she seems to be very distracted about the whole nearly drowning thing. Ton takes off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. “Natsuki, how did you get here? Why are you butt naked? And how did you get to Hole?”

She says something. He knows she’s saying something. He’s looking right at her and can plainly see her mouth moving and she’s even gesturing with her hands. She’s saying something but he heard nothing. It felt like there was water in his ears and something he needed to remember. Whatever had happened to her didn’t change the fact that they were still lost in a strange and possibly dangerous place.

Compared to the other heavy lifting he’d done that day carrying Natsuki was a breeze. Hell, she was even smaller than Dokuga and Ton knew for a fact that he could bench press the other man without breaking a sweat. He picked a direction and kept walking.

And walking.

And walking.

And he is forgetting something important.

A flash of memory passed him by so fast that the only thing that registered was the sound of torn flesh. Ton becomes aware that he has a splitting headache. For some reason, it feels like it’s been hurting for a good minute and he just didn’t notice. Natsuki taps his shoulder and he notices that their surroundings are dimmer and the walls are oozing sludge. An uneasiness settles into the pit of his stomach and he has her hand him one of his knives from his jacket. He carries it in his mouth just in case danger appears and he keeps walking.

The feeling of danger passes and Ton fills the time and silence with idle chatter. Worry gnaws at his gut as they find no exit or any other people around at all. He knew he’d been walking for damn kilometers at this point. Worry turns to dread when he sees a hole filled with sludge. His protests that it couldn’t be the same hole that he pulled Natsuki out of are killed by the sight of his crumpled and dirty undershirt beside it.

He has remembered the thing he forgot.

The realization of death feels like the floor falling out from under him. He feels the pain in his head and ear and ah… That’s why he couldn’t hear Natsuki. The thing in the sludge tore through his head.

They were nowhere. Alone together in the void and fully dressed.  He was so very tired. 

“You’ve been here a long time, huh,” Words came slowly as his mind grew foggy. “I… wasn’t able to help you… I’m sorry...”

The darkness closed in.

Rough slender fingers closed around his hand and squeezed. 

With a jolt, they are thrown from the abyss. It feels like his body is full of pins and needles as his surroundings come into focus. They were laying in a hallway full of numbered doors in a pool of blood and back powder. What?

“Ok! I haven’t had a trip like that since that time Maki gave me a bad batch of Black Powder.” Natsuki’s voice croaked as she rubbed her temples. 

“Natsuki!” Ton shouted and engulfed her into a crushing hug. “Thank the devil! You’re ok!”

She hugs him back just as tight. When he lets go he notices her expression and the fact that he can see right through her to the door behind. Oh.

“Ton...” She says and her smile is tinged with sadness. She pokes him in the chest and he notices that he too is transparent. Weird. Weirder is the faintly glowing blue cord going from her wrist to his on the hand that she’d grabbed not too long ago. “I’m pretty sure we’re dead. Maybe ghosts or something?”

That made sense, given the whole weird ass gunky… limbo? (Limbo? That’s a word he hasn’t thought about in a very long time.) that they were just in. Plus his memories of something taking out a chunk of his skull and slashing up his ear. If the blood on the ground was his then he was extremely dead. But…

“That’s… not possible.” A touch of the past flashed behind his eyelids of a quiet conversation. A heavy hand on his head and flowery incense. A woman’s voice. That may be what happens, but that’s not remotely fair. And damn the devils for it. “Sorcerers go to hell when we die. Like immediately. Only humans turn into ghosts.”

Natsuki shrugged and an ‘I don’t know’ sound. “Big bro, all I know that this isn’t hell and that I definitely died.”

“...how did you die Natsuki? Last I heard Doguka sent you on a solo mission. Did something go wrong?”

She stood and turned her back to him. He heard her take in a deep breath then release it. “I was leaving the manor. For some reason, Dokuga insisted that I leave through the back exit. On the way out I ran into the boss. He… licked me. On the mouth. It was weird. Then he told me he wanted me which you know super exciting--”

“Eww! You like fifteen and he’s almost thirty!”

“Sixteen!”

“Same difference! Still nasty!”

“As I was saying. Super exciting! Butterflies in my stomach and everything. Then he kissed me (btw the boss really needs to brush more often like hot damn) and...” She paused. He could see her hands shaking even while hidden inside of her poofy hoodie. “He used En’s magic. He filled my insides with mushrooms and cut me to pieces with his knives. He was… smiling. Smiling as he killed me.”

She buries her face in her hands and he’s there instantly one arm around her shoulders and another on her head. He makes a soothing sound because his words fail him. He wanted to say that the boss would never because… well, the boss half-raised him and the others. Saved their lives and gave them a reason to live. Sure he was pretty cold and blunt but he… Ton, Saji, Ushishimada, Tetsujo, and Dokuga… they all loved the boss and it was clear that they were loyal. That Natsuki was loyal. Why would the boss…

The one who killed me was a Crosseye! I’m sure of it. Risu’s voice bubbled up from a traitorous part of his mind. As Natsuki turned to cry into his chest he felt the phantom pains of his knives turned against him by Risu’s magic. Powerful rare magic. Yeah… the numbers on Natsuki’s smoke readings were pretty damn good and defense magic? Well that’s really fucking useful, isn’t it? If they’d have met under different circumstances if she hadn’t been a Crosseye and able to use her magic? Well, neither he nor any of the guys would have hesitated to take her head for the boss. That was the stone-cold truth yet something about it made him nauseous. 

Natsuki was a nice person. Hell, from what he heard about Risu before his death the kid was bright eyed and bushy tailed too. Actually in it for the cause and not the money.They were killed by the boss. The faces on the thing that killed me had cross eye marks, his brain supplied. Natsuki and Risu didn’t deserve to die.

“You can let go now.” Natsuki said, pulling away from him. She rubs her eyes and looks very tired. “Alright. So… what next.”

He shrugged. “No idea. Wanna find the others?”

“Why not?”

------

It doesn’t take them long to find Ushishimada, Tetsujo, and Saji who are now rather loudly looking for Ton. Which was nice. 

“Where’d that dumbass go?” Ushishimada was saying when Ton and Natsuki caught up with the rest of the group. Rude. Ton stuck his tongue out at him. 

Natsuki waved her hand in front of Saji’s face as he read a sign about where exactly they were. “I don’t think they can see us.”

“Nope. Let’s see if this works,” Ton took in a deep breath, “HEEEEEEEEEEY GUUUUUUUUYS!!!!”

No response. Huh. The guys continued with their conversation and Ton shuddered when Tetsujo walked right through him like he wasn’t even there. Tetsujo stopped and his shoulders tensed and his eye darted around. Oh! Perhaps? Before he could try again his attention was drawn to the horrible wall of ooze pulsating further up the hall. About around where he’d woken up. Very familiar black slime.

“Ewww, you see that?” Natsuki said, pointing at it. Ah good, he wasn’t just seeing shit. 

“Whooa!” Tetsujo’s hand flew to his sword because apparently he saw that shit too. 

“What’s wrong Tetsujo?” Saji did not see it.

“I--I dunno,” Tetsujo was on high alert now. Granted it didn't take much to really set him off. Man carries his sword even to the bath, he’s got issues. Not saying that the rest of them don’t have issues but Dokuga and Tetsujo were the most paranoid people Ton knew. “But just now something..”

The phantom wall of slime vanished the moment Ushishimada’s shout caught their attention. He’d picked up the powder trail and found the door marked with Ton’s blood. Door nineteen.

“Shit! Ton we have to do something!” Natsuki shouts as she reaches out for the guys. Her touch fails to even raise the hair on the backs of their necks as they open the door. Ton’s nerves feel like they’re on fire, his attention locked onto the bloated monster inside of the room and the meaty sucking noises it was making. It wasn’t the only thing he saw. From the blood spatter patterns and bullet holes in the wall it looked like there’d been a gunfight in here recently. Even from this angle Ton could clearly see that it looked like the boss had been partially decapitated, the top of his head flopping a bit as he… ate. The boss was eating something. 

“...Is that really what the boss looks like now?” Natsuki’s voice was barely audible as the pain in his ear returned. His head throbbed and half of his face felt raw and torn. There was static in one of his legs and it felt like his guts were falling out. 

Ah, well that’s that then. 

A hollow feeling slithered inside of Ton as he detactedly watched Tetsujo, Saji, and Ushishimada’s excitement at finding the boss turn into unease and confusion and then morph into horror as they discovered what Ton had already figured out. There was something weird about seeing your own corpse. Even weirder to see someone who you genuinely loved just going ham on your carcass like your guts were made of bacon. Something that was almost a laugh escaped Ton’s ghostly lips as the puns caught up with him.

Though looking at the boss, he definitely didn’t get that big by just eating him. Hell most of his carcass wasn’t even in him yet. There was a lot of blood everywhere. And there was no way the boss could have gotten to this room on his own and as strong as Dokuga was this was pretty damn far to carry that thing on his own. And definitely no way that Dokuga would have made such a sloppy attempt at decapitation if he had reason to harm the boss. So a firefight in which someone hurt the boss and the boss ate the resulting bodies. As well as Ton because... he’d shown up. The boss had still been hungry and he’d shown up and as far as the boss had been concerned Ton was food.

The monster that was the boss pulled his torso closer and seemed to hesitate for a moment before digging its claws into the flesh of his chest and tearing it open to get access to the organs inside. Ton felt that. Pain seared through his ghostly body and his ribs snapped and popped in time with his real ones as the boss tore out his ribcage. 

Saji was the first to act. His voice was shaky, begging, and on the verge of screaming as he tried to pull Ton’s remains away from the boss. “S...Stop. Stop it already! That’s your friend! Have you forgotten that?!”

Was the boss ever actually their friend? The part of his heart that would always remember being beaned in the face with a burger, the one and only time the boss shared food that was meant for him. The fun trips to the fancy restaurants.The fighting as a team. But… really it was more the boss tolerated them while they loved him unconditionally. Well sort of. The boss… Kai… saved their lives when they were kids. Gave them a reason to keep on living in these shithole worlds. Not the reason they told themselves or the recruits but reason enough. To be useful. To feel protected. To be provided for and free from want. That’s probably as close to loved as a bunch of losers like them could get from someone (something because the boss was never quite like a proper person now was he?) that powerful. They used the fear of Kai to use others. And the boss used them. And threw them away once they were no longer useful to him. Simple.  

And yet it made the traitorous part of Ton’s heart burn with rage.

They’d been loyal! Saji deserved better than to be on the verge of tears playing a pathetic game of tug of war with one of his best friend’s rib cage while begging the man who half raised them all to remember that comrades aren’t snacks. They’d been kind! Ushishimada should have been home, helping Ton cook up a hot breakfast for their brothers in arms instead of sinking to the floor in grief.  They tried to make things better! He didn’t want to see Tetsujo vomit from stress and feel the need to draw his against someone he trusted, it was like watching something get irreversibly broken. 

THEY DESERVED BETTER!  

Like a match in a methane mine heat burned through the numbness of Ton’s incorporeal body. (And how dare that bastard actually finish eating his body while the others were breaking down!) There was a fight brewing and the odds are astronomical bad. Neither he nor Natsuki could really touch anything or be heard. Tetsujo was the most ready to fight but he was emotionally shaken. Saji was still in denial and Ushishimada was in a worse state. And Ton knew exactly how fast Kai’s horrible horrible tube mouth was even if the monster could barely move the rest of its overstuffed body. Then the odds decreased rapidly when it called upon the magic it stole from Natsuki.

Fuck.

That didn't stop Ton for instinctively reaching for his knives. What did stop him was the large gloved ice cold hand grabbing his wrist. Colors muted and time slowed enough for him to actually be able to track the movement of that whip quick tube mouth as the monster simply bit a chunk out of Ushishimada’s chest. Instantly killing him with Saji following soon after and about as gruesomely. From the corner of eye a shadow flies out and over the corpses of his friends, pausing briefly and then flying back out of sight. 

“Ton!” Natsuki calls out in alarm and he sees a similar shadow wrapped around her. 

“Hey!” He shouts turning around quickly the hand still firmly grasping his wrist. The figure before him causes a shiver to run down his spine. Her face was a skull partially obscured by a gas mask not unlike the mask of that Aikawa dude (the one who tried to stop the boss who the boss turned into... ), there was even a thick black tube running from her mask that dropped down in loops around her waist like biomechanical intestines. Thick leather armor reminiscent of firefighter gear largely concealing her figure. She towered over him and Ton was not a small man. The black scythe in her other hand felt like a solid threat.

“You are dead,” Death said, sounding tired which given all of the recent killings she probably was, “Rejoice. These problems are no longer yours. You can rest, forget, and move on. Your friends will meet again in Hell.”  

His friends will meet again in Hell? “But I’m still here now. I could help Tetsujo survive.”

“Buy doing what? You are one soul against a mountain of angry dead. Even if you did manage to kill the host, and he’d probably thank you for it the poor boy’s been trying to stop himself for years… even if you did kill him your living friends are unlikely to survive the birth of that thing. Either they’ll be eaten very soon or just after the kid gains its own physical form.” 

“Host? That thing?” There were puzzle pieces coming together but so much that he still didn’t know enough. And why… hadn’t they been taken to Hell? Ton had to assume that those shadows that ghosted over Saji and Ushishimada’s bodies where their souls getting harvested. But… “Why did you say my friends will meet up again in Hell?”

“You certainly are nosey,” Death sighed. One of her tubes looped around him and she let go of his wrist. She altered her grip on Natsuki to a singly less restrictive loop around the girl’s waist. “And I still have so much work left to do.”

“Ok but--” Ton started only for everything to go dark.

#thenixkat #dorohedoro #fanfiction #crosseyes #natsuki drhdr #ton drhdr

[garmthehellhound]

Interlude: A Visit

“Dark, I’m heading out for the day!” Connor called into the kitchen where the smell of cooking meat was lazily drifting around the house.

“Alright be back tonight okay? She called back.

“Always, love!” Connor said.

But he hadn’t gone more than three steps before Dark came running out from the kitchen, her apron flying and she jumped into his arms, planting a soft kiss on his lips

“You aren’t leaving without that.” She said, giving him that mischievous grin

“Never.” He said, his own mouth turning up in a smile and giving her another kiss.

Ten minutes later he was pedaling down the road on his bike. He’d never really learned how to drive, truth be told he didn’t want to, he wanted to always feel the breeze and smell the fresh air on the wind when he traveled. It gave his mind much needed peace, especially where he was going.

The road was familiar, it was like going home in a way. Problem with that was, where Connor was going wasn’t anywhere he really wanted to remember. He did what he always did when he made this ride, he thought of how much better he life was now. He had Darkany and the kids in his life, they were his family now, more than family. But it was hard keeping the old memories away. Every tree and stone along the way seemed to hold a story of the way it used be before he had them. The road cut through a long clearing in the woods. Connor stopped long enough to look out across the fields of grass and wild flowers. He wondered if all the bodies from that long ago battle had still been found and buried. He doubted it, some of them had been so broken that there was no identifying them or even what side they were on. Connor closed his eyes, and he could still hear the sound of the battle, the war. The roar of the guns, the clash of iron, the choking smoke, the smell of the blood and the mud. He began pedaling again, and just let the feel of the wind blow across his face.

Beyond the woods and the clearing, the city of Fairbrooks Maine, was still trying to rebuild from the war. Connor looked down at the city. Buildings were still in ruin and the sound of construction could be heard.

To outside world beyond these woods and this city, there was no war. The official government records stated it was domestic terrorism that led to all of the destruction. A sign entering the town said “Welcome to Fairbrook.” But someone had spray painted a silvery angular skull design with what looked like antennae or horns coming out of the top of the head.

Connor recognized that design all to well, that design meant either life or death to residents of this town.

He closed his eyes and it brought back memories of the clawing dark fog that coated the city, promising death who all who wandered it without a mask with that symbol. Connors hands, almost as an instinct, went to his bag where his mask and his hatchets were. He stopped himself when he reopened his eyes and remembered it was all in the past.

He kept pedaling, entering the once cursed town.

He passed the old stadium, which was still a ruin. Before the fog, before the cults, before the war, it was used as an event hosting site. College hockey games and other big events had been held here. On the day of the fog, it had been set up for a boxing match and that had marked it for what it would become, a slave pit and Connor’s home for the months he spent as a pit fighter, the best they ever had. Connor didn’t give it a second thought. His mind was focused on the hospital.

The hospital was one of the building that had the least amount of damage done. But it had also seen many deaths over who would control it. It wasn’t cruel and bitter irony, who would control this building that had all the tools to save lives, and yet so many had died for it.

Her room was much the same. Flowers had been brought to her by other relatives. Not that he ever saw them. Connor suspected he was the only one who visited her. The hospital staff took care of her, Connor paid them well to look after her. She looked to be somewhere in her lates fourties, but there was no life in her vacant expression. Her long pale blonde hair draped in her face casting it in partial shadow. Her scarred and worn hands were folded in her lap, An IV drip in one wrist. He reached out and gave it a squeeze. He remembered the touch of her hand in his big one, back then It was calloused and hard, warrior’s hand. For all the time he spent with her, she wouldn’t recognize him now. Even if she wasn’t gone.

“Hello Ana.” Connor said.

A green shawl was draped around her shoulders, Auntie-A’s shawl. He’d given it to her when he’d brought her here. Looking into her face you would never have guessed this woman was a savior, a hero. She had given her life for humanity, and the world didn’t know it.

This woman, who had found him, little more than a wild animal. But she recognized him as human on the inside, when everyone else saw him as the demon prince, a monster in the black fog, the one who turned the fighting pits into a massacre. Ana was the one who had given him his name, when he couldn’t even remember his own. She’d called him Garm, and it had stuck. And when the smoke had cleared from that final battle, and the black fog had disappeared, he awoke on the battlefield amongst the corpses, human once again and he remembered everything. His time as the Hellhound, as Garm, and he’d found her back in the stronghold, her enemies dead and his commander, leader, friend, sister, in the state she was now clutching a dead baby to her breast. Her child, another victim of this war, and Ana herself little more than a corpse herself. He’d carried them both out of there, brought her to a doctor. He’d stayed with her for weeks at a time, until he knew there was no bringing her back.

Connor spent hours talking to Ana, about everything, about Darkany, the kids, his home, the new life he’d made for himself. And how much he wished she could be a part of it.

“I promise you, one day I’ll bring Dark here to meet you.”

He rose from his seat gave her a kiss on her forehead and squeezed her hand.

“I don’t know where you are, Ana. But I hope one day you come back to us.”

[scrivenerofmossflower]

Martin of Mossflower Chapter 9

Word Count: ~4.1 k   read on ao3  Second in the series Martin of Mossflower. Beta-ed by @raphcrow but as always I continued meddling with it.  Chapter Summary: After dealing with the Gloomer, the woodlanders hold a celebration to welcome new friends and remember lost ones.

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Tsarmina was awake and waiting impatiently by the time the Gloomer arrived on the banks of the River Moss with Brogg and Scratt in tow. The pair were struggling to control the great beast, paws digging into the loam and mossy ground of the woods, bodies arched back with the effort. Fortunata led the way, skittish and jumpy and looking over her shoulder so frequently the queen was surprised that they’d arrived at all.

There was reason enough to fear. The Gloomer was a brute of a water rat Verdauga had captured and imprisoned underneath Kotir long seasons ago. In the dripping, echoing cavern beneath the fort, the Gloomer had lurked like the worst stories whispered by pirates, of the monsters of the deep, the hulking beasts that hunted in the black unknown. What fur he still had was black, gray, and waterlogged, his skin like slick, stained leather, his teeth yellowed and gnashing with gluttonous, disgusting appetite, his eyes sightless, bulging in his skull. The Gloomer heaved on his leads, this way and that way, almost pulling all three of his handlers off their feet. He sensed the waters of the river and strained towards the promise of his usual territory.

Tsarmina grabbed a long dagger off one of her soldiers, ignoring the way the Gloomer’s blind eyes followed her, tracking her movement by sound. She crouched over one of the dead otters and sliced deep into its side, coating the blade with dark, sticky blood. Careful to stay out of reach of the Gloomer’s gnashing teeth, Tsarmina brandished the bloodied dagger under his nose for several seconds until she could be certain he had gotten the scent. She sprang back just as the Gloomer lunged for the dagger, laughing.

“Hahaha, what I wouldn’t give to see those poor otters’ faces once they realize you’re coming for them,” she said, lips pulling back into a fearsome, wicked grin. “Fortunata! Brogg, Scratt! Let it get close enough to the river.” She stepped back and allowed the small party to pass, keeping her distance. Tsarmina did not fear the Gloomer, but neither was she a fool.

She lifted both paws, taking another step back for good measure. “On my mark, then,” she said imperiously. The trio scrabbled in the spongy turf, trying to avoid being dragged headlong into the River Moss.

“Milady,” Fortunata said, her voice trembling with nerves, “Hurry, or it will have us in the water!”

Tsarmina ignored her. “When I drop my paws, you’ll—”

Too late. The lead Fortunata had a stranglehold on snapped, and Scratt and Brogg were pulled over onto their faces and dragged through the bank mud before gathering their wits enough to let go. The Gloomer entered the water with a noisy splash, sending a wave of muddy water over the two hapless sergeants.

The Gloomer circled in the water for several minutes, Tsarmina watching it impatiently. Finally and without warning, it ducked underwater, making its way upstream so swiftly a small v of water trailed behind it.

Kotir soldiers dashed along the bank, cheering it on.

“Look, he’s after something!”

“Hey, Gloomer, eat an otter for me!”

“Don’t eat them, kill ‘em all!”

“Rip ‘em to bits!”

One ferret a bit farther ahead than the rest skidded to a stop. “Something’s bobbin’ in the water, mates! I think it’s an otter!”

The soldiers bunched up together at the curve of the bank, cheering as the Gloomer reached the dark shape. Tsarmina caught up and forced her way to the front, elbowing aside a stoat who didn’t move quickly enough for her liking. It only took a glance to see what the Gloomer had between his claws, teeth ripping savagely at its belly.

It wasn’t an otter. It wasn’t even living. It was a patchwork doll, roughly shaped like a cat, with a badly painted, comically angry face painted upon its head and a stiff bark crown attached to its head. It was mostly stuffed with dead leaves, but for its torso, where Tsarmina could see chunks of fish meat and guts, mixed with some dark fluid that was quickly dissipating in the water.

Bait, a false trail, they’d been tricked! Tsarmina shrieked fury at the sky, lashing out around her indiscriminately. The soldiers trampled over each other in their rush to get away from the suddenly furious queen.

“Idiots! Buffoons! Traitors! You’re cheering the destruction of your queen! That—that disgrace, that monstrosity—ohhh, when I get my claws into those woodlanders, I’ll, I’ll—”

“Like it, cat?”

Seething, Tsarmina glared across the river. There was a squirrel sitting in the tree right across the way, just above where the Gloomer was dragging the effigy under the waves. She was smirking, bow held loosely in one paw but with an arrow notched to the string. The lightweight tiara on her head glinted in the setting sun. “I rather liked the touch of mixing a bit of otter’s blood with the fish guts,” she continued. “More than enough of that to go around, given how many you wounded.”

“Archers!” Tsarmina yowled, claws flexing as she wished fervently she’d thought to keep her own bow in hand. “Archers, where are my archers!?” The archers fumbled to string bows and notch arrows.

The squirrelqueen watched this with disdain. “You’re not going to win this, cat,” she said. “We’re dug in, here to stay. Before much longer, you’re going to be just like that one—fish bait!”

“Fire!”

A volley of arrows sailed across the river, but the squirrel was off and away through the treetops long before any of them landed.

Tsarmina seethed on the bank, staring blindly at where Gloomer and the doll had disappeared, scratching at her fur and breathing heavily. Behind her, the soldiers milled about, looking at each other and shuffling their feet. You could never quite tell what Tsarmina might order them to do next, especially when she was in a temper, and she was certainly in a temper now.

“Fortunata!”

The vixen winced, and cursed her luck. She slunk closer to her mistress. “Yes, milady?”

“I’m leaving half a platoon here with you—you ought to have enough brains between the lot of you to figure out how to get that thing out of the water and collared again. I don’t care how you do it or how long it takes, but get it done.”

Fortunata swallowed. “But—recapturing the Gloomer, milady? Only your father has ever—”

Tsarmina whirled on her servant, dragging her to her face by her cloak. “Do not tell me what my father has or has not done,” she snarled. “I said, do it, even if you have to use yourself as bait to get it out of the river. Is that understood, vixen?”

Gagging and choking at the tight grip, Fortunata nodded frantically. “Of course, your majesty! I understand you perfectly!”

“Good.” Tsarmina released her, and turned, striding away from the river, her cape swirling behind her. “Scratch, half your squad will stay here. The rest of you will accompany me back to Kotir.” She narrowed her eyes, stalking through the deepening shadows of Mossflower Woods. “It seems we will be teaching some rather painful lessons when we return…”

Brockhall was situated deep in the eastern stretches of Mossflower Woods. The sett had been built by Bella’s ancestors in days long gone from living memory, and thought and foresight and good woodland common sense had all been poured into its construction. A venerable oak of immense girth, wide enough that six badgers holding paws couldn’t encircle its trunk, stood sentinel over the entrance. Brockhall itself was made of several branching tunnels, scaled to be comfortable to even the greatest of badger lords. Infirmary, dormitory, kitchens, spacious storerooms and larders, a main hall large enough to accommodate the main Corim and most of their allies, and enough small sitting rooms that even with Brockhall filled to capacity, a solitary creature might slip away for a few moments of peace.

As Verdauga had sickened and Tsarmina dug her claws in, woodlanders had trickled away from the settlements. Bella had immediately opened her home to them, offering them sanctuary and a place to nurse the budding resistance. The Corim had been established within those hallways, had drilled and prepared in the glades and clearings about the ancient oak.

The otter crew returned in the late afternoon, a few hours after the Loamhedge mice and their Player guides had reached Brockhall. Upon hearing Skipper’s report, Lady Amber immediately swung off through the trees, accompanied by a pair of her squirrels, to keep an eye on Tsarmina’s forces and mark their movements. More personally, Lady Amber wanted to see the cat’s face when her monster water rat found the effigy Skipper had gleefully planted.

It was too late to welcome their new friends in true and generous woodlander style that night, so Bella had suggested they defer the feast until the next day. The suggestion was gratefully accepted by all but the littlest ones, who hadn’t been on the adventures of the day and were not (they protested through huge yawns) remotely tired.

The next morning dawned peaceful and cool, the early morning mists twining about the roots of the trees, as if the forest itself were aware of the upcoming festivities and trying on gauzy scarves in anticipation. Since before dawn, the cooking and baking in Bella’s well-appointed kitchens had filled the halls and surrounding woodland with tempting aromas. Abbess Germaine presided over the kitchens, welcoming any and all who wished to attempt some favorite family dish, or experiment and try something new. Sayna and Goody had busied themselves with finding bunks for the new arrivals, and ensuring there would be enough plates, cups, drinks, and space for everyone. Skipper’s crew brought two good-sized perch from the river; Amber’s squirrels contributed several loaves of nut bread and early summer fruits; the Stickle hogbabes had banded together with their father to decorate a great spongecake, though the result looked less like a cake and more like some sticky, mud covered concoction. Ballaw had snuck a slice of it and promised that, in spite of its appearance, it tasted divine, baked as it had been by Goody. He’d then been summarily banished from the kitchens, and conscripted by Goody to help her decorate the hall and lay the table.

Martin, Gonff, and Timballisto were kept running about, taking messages from Germaine in the kitchens to Sayna in the dormitories to Bella in the cellars to Goody in the main hall.

“Mum, Goody asked if you think the ivy or the lilac will be better to drape the mantelpiece with.”

“Tell her the lilac. I think it’s more spring, though some ivy might offset it nicely. Would you ask Bella if we can make up some beds in the eastern sitting rooms? I fear we may run out of space in the dormitories.”

“Miz Bella, Abbess Germaine needs more honey for ‘er baked chestnuts. ‘Ave ye got any stored down here?”

“There should be a comb or two in the earthenware jar in the corner, there. No sneaking tastes, Gonff, save it for the cooks! And find out from Germaine if she needs any more cider while you’re up there!”

“Goody, Bella wanted to know if you had plans for the centerpiece?”

“I thought a few small posies would be lovely, but make sure you ask the abbess if there are any special dishes she wants to display. Oh, and Timbal! If you see that husband of mine, tell him to take the kids out to gather flowers—it’ll keep them all busy and out from underpaw.”

As the day wore on and the sun passed its zenith, the scattered creatures all gathered in the main hall, finding space for themselves on the long benches, the hearth, the floor, even the shelves lining the rustic baked clay walls.

“Quiet, everybeast, please!” Bella called, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. “The food will be served after the talking has been done!” Slowly, the hubbub subsided, helped by the promise of the upcoming food.

“Thank you,” Bella said, standing near the hearth and smiling benevolently around at her friends. “Welcome, one and all! Welcome! First, there have been a few new developments in the struggle against Kotir, not least of which is the arrival of some new allies. First, the Rambling Rosehip Players have agreed to lend their abilities to our cause. I’m sure—”

Ballaw was up on his feet before Bella had finished her sentence. He made an elegant leg to the three corners of the hall in proper theatrical fashion, and drew himself up. Ignoring the titters, he declaimed, “Good creatures of Mossflower, my ‘eart was moved deeply by your plight. Though we be only travelin’ actors, rest assured that our skills are many an’ varied, and we shall dedicate them all to your cause! Nay, we are willin’ to lay down our very lives—yowch!” He rounded on Rowanoak, who had tweaked one of his ears. “Rowanoak, m’ friend, y’don’t interrupt an actor in th’ middle of a monologue.”

“I do when it means you’ll be nattering on for another quarter hour while the food in the kitchens goes cold,” she said.

Ballaw’s eyes widened at this reminder. “Good lord! Ah, yes, ahem, a very good point.” He turned back to the hall to general laughter, and waved both paws. “So, er, thank you for your hospitality, Bella marm, and know we’re with you, one and all, wot?” This last was delivered with far greater speed, and Ballaw plopped back into his chair to ringing applause.

Vurg nudged Martin in the side and said, lowly, “There’s trouble brewin’, and no mistake. I wager by the end of the night those two will be in a full battle of ballad composin’, and lovin’ every second of it.” He nodded towards Gonff, who indeed looked delighted with Ballaw’s wit and eager to pit his own against it.

Martin glanced at his friend, and smiled agreement at Vurg. He would have said more, but Bella had waved for silence again.

“I would also introduce you all to Abbess Germaine, who has come to Mossflower Woods with the Brothers and Sisters of Loamhedge. I’m sure the Abbess, too, would like to say a few words.”

Germaine rose with a grateful smile. “Thank you, my old friend. My mice and I wish to thank all of you for allowing us to settle in your beautiful country and, more so, for making us feel so very welcome even at a time of great trouble for you. We are a peaceful order of builders and healers; please, feel free to approach us with your injured and ill, or simply fretful little ones. We will do our best to help. All we ask in return has already been given—namely, your friendship and companionship. Perhaps someday, when the shadow of Kotir has been banished from the land, we can speak of a greater peace, and how to preserve our legacy of security, safety, and settlement.”

Cheers and applause once again rang through the packed hall. Many creatures offered the Abbess promises of aid and welcome in the days to come. Martin’s ears pricked up at this idea of legacy, and he raised one paw to trace the fuller of the sword pinned at his shoulder. A legacy of security. a dream like that might change the world. If he could have some small part in building it…

Order was almost restored when a young squirrel piped up. “Caw, is that roast chestnuts I can smell?”

“Yes,” Abbess Germaine called back with a laugh, “With honey and cream made to an old Loamhedge recipe. I took them out of the oven myself. Is the talking done, Bella?”

“Nearly, Germaine. It’s been many seasons since I tasted Loamhedge roasted chestnuts. However, before the food is served, I would like to take a moment to recognize the courage shown yesterday by Skipper and his otter crew. They were able to buy enough time for the Rosehip Players and the Loamhedge mice to reach Brockhall safely, and certainly struck a hefty blow to Tsarmina’s pride.” There were snickers and smiles exchanged all around. The story of the decoy queen had been gleefully retold; by now everybeast knew it.

“However,” Bella said, tone turning solemn, “Four brave otters fell in the skirmish against the Kotir forces. It would be remiss of us to forget their sacrifice. To Alluvia, Rip, Rill, and Estun. A moment of silence for fallen friends.”

Silence filled the hall. There was a distinctly gruff sniff as Skipper wiped his eye. Martin stared down at his paw resting on the table. These four had been the first to fall in this struggle, yes, but they weren’t the only deaths that could be laid at Kotir’s doorstep. As much as Martin wished they might be the last, deep down he was a practical soul. He looked around at his friends, his family—Gonff, Skipper, Bella, Goody, Ben, Amber, Vurg, Sayna—and considered their faces, memorized their features. Seasons and fates, allow him to keep them all safe during this coming war.

“To friends, here and lost,” Bella said, raising a goblet in her paw.

“To friends, old and new,” the hall echoed back.

Bella sniffed deeply, then let out a breath. “Thank you, friends. Now, stay where you are. The food will be brought out to—”

Before she could finish, there was a commotion from the corner where most of the actors had congregated. The pretty young squirrelmaid Celandine had shrieked as if someone were trying to murder her.

“The floor is moving, oh, help, the earth is quaking! We’ll all be killed!”

Buckler, the solitary mole who travelled with the troupe, chuckled as Celandine was lifted bodily off the floor by Rowanoak. “Ho urr, missie, ’tain’t t’urth shakin’. That be molers loike Oi!”

Space was hurriedly cleared and a flagstone lifted from the floor. It took only a few moments for the soil there to tremble, before hefty digging claws broke through. They framed a gruff, whiskery dark snout, already turned up in a good-natured smile. “Good arfternoon to ‘ee, Bella marm,” Foremole rumbled, hauling himself out of the tunnel. “Sorry ‘bouten ee tunnel. Cooken smells roight noice.”

He popped out of the tunnel with a small shower of rich, damp soil, much to the little ones’ delight and Celandine’s dismay. A score and a half of grinning moles followed him, greeting their friends and quickly catching up on events. Buckler was quickly welcomed within the ranks of the Mossflower moles, particularly once they found his second cousin was Billum’s great-aunt. Martin and Gonff waylaid their mole-friend young Dinny, and regaled him with the tales of their recent adventures in turn, wrestling on the floor as they did so. It ended with both Martin and Dinny perched atop Gonff, chattering away.

“Where’ve you been keeping yourself, Dinny? It’s an age since we saw you!”

“Oi been keepin’ outten trubble, Marthen. Oi’m not liken you’s two, gettin’ catchered by ee cat an’ foightin’.”

“Then what have you been doing?”

“Tunnelin’ an’ buildin’ an’ such. Parten o’ Moledeep were gettin’ all a-tremble. Had t’go careful-loike to fixen.”

At that moment Gonff succeeded in rolling over enough to get his paws at Martin’s sides and heave him bodily off. “Let me up, mates! It’s time to eat!”

The humor of the situation and the delight of seeing more friends had put paid to the lingering solemnity in the hall. The food was brought out to sighs of anticipation and exclamations of delight. As well as the Loamhedge chestnuts (which Bella took a good portion of), there were oatcakes with cream, honeyed scones, blueberry and blackberry cobblers, celery and herb cheeses, acorn, oat, and barley breads. October ale, pear cordial, apple ciders, and fresh milk were all available to wash it down.

The Corim leaders had gathered near the hearth, their numbers augmented by Foremole, Rowanoak, Ballaw, and Germaine. Martin, Gonff, Timballisto, and Dinny all sat nearby—not officially members of the core council, but listening attentively to those who were.

“Now that winter has truly relinquished its grip, I think we can expect more of these skirmishes,” Bella said, shaking her great head. “It’s more important than ever that those woodlanders who can’t climb trees and swim rivers are given sanctuary here.”

“My squirrels spread the word as far and wide as we were able yesterday,” Amber reported. “There are some who either don’t want or need the offer, but most were grateful.”

“Yes, they’ve been trickling in all day,” Sayna said thoughtfully. “I’ve managed to find space for everyone, but we’re nearing capacity, Bella. We might need to seek some other asylum, at least to house non-combatants until the worst is over.”

“My crew can harbor in Camp Willow,” Skipper said. “Naught can catch an otter what’s in the water, and the camp’s only ‘alf a day’s march from Brockhall. Close enough, but it won’t strain yore resources, Quartermaster Sergeant. Keep the beds for those that needs ‘em. We don’t strike our colors and run at the first sign of trouble.”

“Nor do mine,” Amber broke in.

“None doubt your courage, Skipper, or yours, Lady Amber,” Germaine broke in diplomatically. “But it seems to me we’re jumping ahead a bit. We can make as many plans as we like, but unless we have a guess of what Tsarmina is planning, we’re limited in our movements. Acting is always better than reacting, and that cat is a canny one. If we can get ahead of her, all the better.”

“A spy network?” Rowanoak mused. “The idea certainly has merit…”

“That’s all well and good,” Martin murmured to Gonff, “But sooner or later we’ll have to fight. Tsarmina isn’t going to just leave, and Kotir won’t go away if we just close our eyes.”

Vurg had caught the commentary, and clapped Martin on the back. “Aye, sooner or later we’ll have to fight. But a forthright charge isn’t wise, not yet. If we can whittle down their forces, and dishearten them, we’ll stand a far better chance when that battle can no longer be avoided. Wisdom wins wars, not just great acts of courage.”

“Let us attend to one thing at a time,” Bella said, recalling the council’s attention. “I agree with Germaine. First, we need a good spy to keep us abreast of Kotir’s movements. Any suggestions?”

Ferdy and Coggs eagerly volunteered themselves, trying to look both fierce and stealthy. Though there were a handful of stifled chuckles and amused glances from the corner of the eye, Skipper and Amber handled them deftly, promoting the pair to Captains of the Home Guard, a title that, hopefully, would keep them at Brockhall and out of the woods.

Bella watched the pair of little hedgehogs rush off to make themselves badges, and shook her head. “Neatly done, you two,” she commented, raising her mug of ale in tribute. “But we still need an actual spy.”

Skipper tapped his rudder thoughtfully against the floor. “I’ve got a beast in mind, but give me time to approach ‘im ‘bout the job. He’d be the best cove for it, but he’s a mite shy of attention.”

“We ought to cast an understudy, in case he doesn’t accept, wot?” Ballaw said.

There was quiet around the hearth as the council thought, bringing up and discarding ideas.

“Could the squirrels…?”

“Risky. Possible, I grant ye, but risky.”

“I suppose it’s the same problem with the moles.”

“Urr aye, marm. Thur be gurt danger innit, but ’tis possible.”

“What of us players?”

“What, sail through the gates of Kotir and put on a show for th’ cat? Brave, I grant ye, but ‘ow much information would ye get doin’ that? Nay, friend.”

Gonff glanced at Martin, who nodded encouragement. “Best spy I know is Chibb,” Gonff threw out, loudly enough to catch their attention, as well as that of several nearby creatures.

“Chibb? He’s not one of us!”

“He’ll want payment.”

“I wouldn’t trust a robin.”

“I would,” Martin put in stoutly, defending his friend’s idea. “Chibb could get close enough to Kotir to hear whatever’s being planned, and fly away faster than any of us on foot. There’d be no trail to follow, either.”

Bella pounded on the arm of her chair until silence was restored. “A strong argument. And if he wants payment, so be it, we can pay him. I think it’s a good idea.”

“And there’s no reason we cannot use both Chibb and Skipper’s friend, if he proves amenable,” Germaine said sensibly.

“Hurr, a burd ’tis, we’ns say let Chibb be a spoiy. Save us’ns doin’ the job. Asoides, we doant ‘ave wingers to floiy wi’.”

There was still some desultory muttering, but when Bella pushed for a vote, it passed unanimously. Chibb it was to be, whether joined by Skipper’s friend or not.

Tomorrow, they would set out to recruit him.

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#Martin of Mossflower #redwall #my fic

[guildless-rebel]

The Diary of a Guildless Rebel

{Hey friends! I'm gonna start trying out different stories/fics. I want to get more practice in writing and try to make/consume/be consumed by more MtG content since it's near and dear to my heart. Here's the first one I've had swirling around in my head for a while!Please read and enjoy! Positive and constructive feedback is always greatly appreciated!!}

-

10,067 Z.C., 19th District,

Today I watched him take down an entire Boros patrol in a matter of seconds-with his bare hands! Roki and I wouldn't leave him alone during our whole trip through a long stretch of recently acquired Gruul turf. We begged him for combat tips, or any bit of wisdom he would share but he just stayed silent.

It got dark halfway through, and much to our protest, Roki convinced us to set up camp for the night squatting in an abandoned Simic laboratory. While we waited for the campfire to warm up dinner, I asked Okarwa as many questions as I could. Where did he learn to fight like that? Where did his scars come from? What was his home like, and did he miss it?

He remained elusive, trying to dodge the questions. It was a feat just to get his name, Okarwa. He wasn't hiding something, nor did I feel him to be untrustworthy. It was almost as if he wanted to answer, but for some reason he censored himself. He was in pain, but not from his body, or mind. I could feel it in his heart.

We have been travelling together for four days now, so I asked him where he was going after the rest of us made it to the Undercities forge district. He just stared blankly into his tea and shrugged. I almost felt bad for him.

We have our cause, and our dedications. We fight to make sure that everyone in our city is free of their own accord. We resist to show the Guildless there is hope and there is life beyond the all encompassing stranglehold of the guilds. And even if no one helps us, even if we lose our possessions, our friends and family, we never lose our hope. We run today, to fight tomorrow.

But him, he runs from something deeper. Something he might not ever be able to outrun. It brings me hope, and makes our cause seem winnable. Almost.

I made sure to cover our tracks, and place some runes around the perimeter of the ruined laboratory. Hopefully no Gruul beasts or beast masters wonders into our home of rubble. Although, I relish the thought of Okarwa slugging a centaur and sending him halfway across the district. Maybe tomorrow Roki and I can cheer him up, get him a blade. It's the least we could do to show appreciation. Plus, we might be able to some get answers, and set the others at ease. Better get some rest.

-

10, 067 Z.C., 19th District,

I couldn't do anything. I was useless, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. We barely had time to react to the sound of thundering hooves before a ragebeast blasted through some ruins ahead of us. The group in front of us was lost in the thrashing wreckage of dust and stone. I did the only thing I could do. I threw down more runes and called for my squad to regroup with me. Inside the runes, we would be invisible to the beast. Run today, fight tomorrow, right?

I shouted for the squads behind us to run, not sure if they would hear me over the sound of crushing rock. A small boy, maybe 13, fainted at my feet. Instinctively, I hoisted him up on my shoulder, and breathed in a mouthful of dust as someone ran right past my runes. I didn't want to watch someone else die, but I couldn't help but look to see what fool was running the wrong way.

It was Okarwa. He bounded towards the beast, head on and bellowing a war cry. In one leap he landed on the beasts front left shoulder with a vice grip. The dust had completely consumed the two as I gathered the rest of the group and pushed them to start running away.

We sprinted, not caring about what ground we were losing in our journey. Our only instinct was to survive. I started tossing runes on the corners of buildings, and intersections of alleyways trying anything to make sure that the beast couldn't follow us. A deafening howl pierced my ears, and I almost dropped the boy draped on my shoulders.

I fell to one knee as I felt the exhaustion of my spell casting catch up with me. I turned away from the rage beast, and covered the boy with my body just as a spray of rubble pelted the plate mail on my back. I could see the corners of my eyes going dark. Sweat dripped from my face onto cobblestone. I steadied my breathing. People need me. Need us. We can't lose here.

I lifted the boy back onto my shoulder and started to run, or at least what would pass for running in this situation. The very earth seemed to be splitting apart, and my knees felt like mud. I could see the others hiding under rubble, and in abandoned ruins. I knew they couldn't hear my voice screaming for them to run. I knew they couldn't hear anything. Fear is a powerful, powerful weapon.

Another skull shattering howl sent me back to my knees, and I felt my lungs failing to take in enough clean air. I let the boy down again, and turned around to see something I would never have thought to seen in this life or the next.

Okarwa stood at the edge of a crater. A whining ragebeast writhed under mounds of rubble, one of its eyes missing. Okarwa lept to the top of the mound, and jumped back down towards the exposed neck of the beast, his fists balled together arching over his head. A sickening crunch echoed through the ruins. Then he collapsed.

The boy stirred and tried to stand, but I held him down. I pointed to the only mostly intact building that I saw, and then let him up as he scurried to the building.

I collapsed to the floor, and tried to catch my breath in the settling dust. I tore off my plate mail, letting it fall away with the rest of the wreckage and tried to jog to where Okarwa and the dead beast lay.

I desperately fought the urge to vomit at the sight of my friends, brothers and sisters, bloodied bruised and unmoving. I fell to my hands knees, panting over Okarwa. His chest heaved, and that was enough for me. I grabbed his body, which was much, much heavier than the boys, and slumped him across my back. I roared to my feet, and stumbled down the alley.

And that's it. That's all I remember. The next thing I know, I'm waking up in a camp listening to Roki sharpen his sword on a whetstone. It hurts to breathe-heck it hurts to write. Roki told me not to talk or move until he found a healer who could help, but I couldn't risk losing this tale.

I think I might die if I keep writing though. I need to take a nap, just for a while.

-

10,067 Z.C. 19th District,

I don't feel much better, but apparently I was well enough for Roki to hug. He cried for a minute, unable to make words. I got him to calm down and start giving me details about what happened. I wanted nothing more than to fill in the blanks, after pouring over what I wrote yesterday.

Roki said his squadron in the rear guard managed to gather 3 other brave souls that he led towards the scene in an attempt to rescue any survivors. He told me we lost too many that day. That we couldn't mobilize anymore. He scattered the rest of the squadrons into the city until further notice. I must have cried all the tears I had left in me.

I asked Roki if they held a service yet. For those who lost their life. He said when I can walk, that I should see for myself. He pointed out of the destroyed window that we now used as the entrance to our small encampment. I heard lots of moving around, but it looked like everyone was inside the camp.

Much to Riki's protest I rolled off the matted cloth I was laid on, and slowly got to my hands and knees, and then my feet. Annoyed, Roki got under my arm, and placed his own around my waist. He walked me to the window, to another sight that I would have died before dreaming to see.

Okarwa solemnly sifted through rubble and destroyed stone buildings. He tossed loose rocks and boulders away, until he lifted a body across his shoulder. A woman, her body limp and lifeless, was pulled from the stone and draped over his shoulder. He walked off the pile of rubble, and laid her down on some soft earth. He started to pile crushed sandstone over her body until she was concealed. I watched, fresh tears welling in my eyes, as he traced a glyph into the dust above her final resting place. He held his head down for a moment, before returning to the pile where he plucked her body.

I choked up, coughing up blood, and wincing in pain of both flesh and mind. Roki quickly laid me back down, barking orders as he ran outside. An old vedalken woman with pale blue skin sat beside me, and lifted my head to reach a cup of water she held. She set down the water and her hands glowed a dim white as she passed them over my amdomen.

"It's his lung. It needs to be drained again." She said to Roki now enetering the room with Okarwa.

"Please, I know you've done so much--" Roki was caught off by Okarwa who raised a hand in protest. He dropped to both knees and held both of his hands over my abdomen. A bright golden light filled the entire building, and I felt a searing pain shoot through my whole body. I fought back the screams, and squeezed the rubbery blue hand the vedalken held out.

Okarwa stood back up and spoke again since the night we all shared tea. "Let him rest. He will need all his strength if we're all to make it out of these ruins." Roki fetched a discarded a tunic turned blanket and draped me from the neck down. I reached for my pack, to try and grab my journal, but the Veldalken easily countered my motion with her long arms.

Okarwa furrowed his brow. "No, no, he must write." The vedalken stared at Okarwa in confusion. "Nothing is more important. Your people will know of your courage. He must tell your story." Okarwa headed for the exit once more, this time interrupted by Roki.

"He must tell our story."

#magic the gathering #mtg #fandom #god i really have no clue how to tag stuff like this #fan fiction #mtg fan fic #writing practice #cool story #ravnica

[rumraisinregret]

Unhooded chapter 4: Heavy Lifting

Varda breathed a sigh of relief as she walked away from Abelas. She went into the bustling camp, watching Fen’harel’s people go about their daily lives as she tried to calm her nerves.

She had seen it coming, the questions, the suspicion, she just thought there would have been a more immediate threat of violence involved. She thought it would be an actual interrogation, with ropes and truth serums and fingernail pliers.

But Abelas had been gentle with her, surprisingly so considering all she had heard of him. She had managed to answer his questions truthfully without giving away too much, but it was a close call. It was a stroke of luck that he had taken the bait and asked about her past. It had distracted him from the task at hand, gave him the impression she was weaker than she was. Which wasn’t entirely a bad thing, given the current situation.

It’s not that she didn’t have painful memories from her time with her clan, she still dwelt far too much in the self-doubt and feelings of worthlessness that they had sown into her life. But she had determined a long time ago not to let them rule her. She had seen her mother roll over and accept the derision of the people she should have been able to trust the most, the people who had saved her and taken her in. To bend over under that kind of abuse was something Varda would not allow herself. All the thoughts of her past did now was serve to fuel her anger and passion.

Her anger could not accomplish much, she knew this; it gave her strength to persevere though.

But her passion for helping people – for healing hurts so no one had to ever feel like she had, like her mother had – that could change things. Maybe not the world, but if one person smiled because of her, found restoration because of her, that would be enough.

And Abelas had been… unexpected. He was polite when he wanted to be, kind when he didn’t mean to be, and so delightfully tall. She felt silly for thinking it, for musing on anything about a man’s physical appearance, but it had so surprised her that she almost couldn’t help it.

It hadn’t been easy for her being the tallest elf in her clan, sticking out like a druffalo in a herd of halla, a trait she had inherited from her mother. Being taller than every man in her life had been awkward, to say the least. Most of them seemed intimidated by her height, many of them even commenting on it. She didn’t know how many times she had heard, “You’d be cuter if you weren’t so damned tall.” That one got old real fast.    

But Abelas didn’t seem bothered by it. Why would he? He towered over her. He seemed quite the opposite of bothered by it. She had thought that he was going to try to kiss her earlier. The way he had looked at her mouth after he had caught her had been so heated; the way he had licked his lips had made her sure he was going to do it. But then he pulled away, leaving her disappointed.

She made herself stop thinking about him. She didn’t like the desire that pooled in her belly at the memory of his arms around her, his breath on her face. – Stop it – She had only just met him. And she wasn’t here to fall in love.

And that reminded her of poor Souren, whom she had left by himself in the medical tent. After Abelas had left them, Souren turned to her with a dopey smile and expressed his relief at finally being alone with her. He had used some sappy romantic line on her, but she stopped him before he got too far. She smiled politely at him and as gently as possible explained to him that she was not looking for any kind of amorous entanglement. He immediately apologized and she assured him that it was alright and all was forgiven. But because she was a coward, she had fled with her own apology before she had to talk to him any longer. And then she had quite literally bumped into Abelas’ strong, broad back. – Stop it. –

She looked around her. She had gone farther into the interior of the camp than she had been before and saw a large canvas canopy rising ahead of her. There was a gathering of people eating at some tables that had been pulled out from under the tent into the sunshine. Varda glanced over those in front of her and saw the chief healer sitting at the table closest to her.

She walked to his side and cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

He turned his haughty gaze on her. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

She made herself keep her eyes fixed on his face instead of rolling them into the back of her skull as she so suddenly and violently wanted to do. She plastered a pleasant imitation of a smile on her face for good measure. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to thank you for the invitation to help you in your noble work of seeing to the health of the people here,” she said with as much humility as she could muster. “I accept the offer. Please feel free to call upon me whenever you have the need.”

He peered at her through narrowed eyes. “Just like that?”

She nodded. “I realize that we may have started off on the wrong foot. I’d like the opportunity to change your opinion of me, especially if I can do so while using my skills as a healer.”

One of the healer’s dining mates spoke up with a chuckle, “Ah, c’mon, Mathon, you’re always such a stick in the mud.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, “give the girl a chance.”

The healer, Mathon she presumed, exhaled audibly through his nose with his lips puckered. He looked like he had just eaten ten lemons. “Fine. I’ll send someone to get you if you’re ever needed.”

As if you weren’t the one to ask for my help in the first place, you ass, she thought.

“Thank you,” she simpered. “You can find me in the smithy after it’s built or in my quarters in the grove on the south side of camp.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said with an unconcerned wave over his shoulder. He had already turned back to his friends around the table.

Varda considered making a rude gesture to his back, but walked away instead. She and her father were new here, who knew how long it would take them to find their place in this environment they were entirely unfamiliar with. It wasn’t worth it to start fights, at least not so soon. She didn’t yet know what the plan was.

She turned away from the dining tables and returned to her father. Maybe she could help build something after all.

****************

The next few weeks passed with little else to occupy her mind other than the ache in her muscles. Abelas and Mathon slipped out of her thoughts as she focused on the task at hand. She was able to help Faron and a couple of the other builders more than she thought she would in the construction of the smithy. She never did pick up a hammer, but she became their go-to person any time they needed something heavy lifted.

Once the walls and roof started to go up in the second week, she was called upon more often. She would stand well out of the way and use her magic to heave whatever it was that need to be heaved, beam or stone, toward where the men waited to secure it into place. The workmen seemed entirely indifferent as the objects came flying at them. They just waited patiently while she positioned them properly under Faron’s direction, and pounded in the nails and pegs while she held it in place.

It was during one such instance that a visitor came to observe the construction process. The roof of her father’s blacksmith stall was almost finished, and they were working on piecing together the stones for the furnace and chimney. Despite the bright sunshine, the weather had finally begun to change for the cooler, but Varda didn’t notice it. Her muscles strained and shook with the effort of holding her arms above her head for what seemed an eternity, focusing on holding a particularly large stone in just the right way with the force of her will alone. A sheen of sweat covered her body and dripped down her forehead. The builders slung plaster into the cracks between the masonry they had previously laid until the rock was secure and she could release her hold on it.

Faron called for everyone to take a short break and Varda breathed a sigh of relief as she let her arms fall. She turned to get a drink, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, and saw Abelas by her canteen, standing like he was carved from marble. His eyes jumped to the stonework behind her when she spotted him, but he had been a fraction of a second too slow. She saw him. He had been watching her, Creators only knew for how long.

He bent to pick up her canteen as she approached. “You have impressive control over your magic,” he said when he handed it to her. “I was unaware you could wield magics other than those used for healing.”

It was the first time he had spoken to her since that day by the Eluvian. She had seen him from a distance on several occasions in the past weeks, barking orders to some subordinate or leading a group of green recruits in their drills. If he saw her, he would nod tacitly, but return quickly to his tasks.

She took a long drink before she answered, studying him out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing the dark brown leather armor that most of the soldiers wore around the camp, but he had on the hooded cloak that seemed to denote him as one of the former Sentinels from the Temple of Mythal. Most of them still wore their hoods regularly. It set them apart from everyone else, made them seem like more of a cohesive unit than they were in practice any longer. The only ones Varda had ever seen without their hoods up had been Adhlea and Souren as they traveled together.

The cloak Abelas wore today was fur-lined, reminding Varda of the chill in the air and that she only wore a thin tunic. Perhaps she should go and get some warmer clothes from her quarters.

“My mother was very thorough in my education,” she finally replied. “She taught me many different kinds of magic.” She took another quick drink. “Is there something I can help you with, Abelas?”

His brow shot up, seeming to remember his purpose. “I am looking for your father. I still need to speak with him about your connection to the Inquisitor.”

A spike of fear stabbed her, but she covered it with another drink from her almost empty canteen. “He’s at our aravel. He’s been busying himself with some small repairs while he is unable to do any forging,” she explained once she had regained her composure. “I will take you there if you’d like.” When he started to protest, she added, “I have to stop in at my quarters anyway.”

He sighed and nodded. “If you insist.”

Just then, Faron walked up to them calling her name. “Varda, I almost forgot, my wife wanted me to tell you that they have some big pots in the kitchen that aren’t being used for cooking anymore. She said they’re yours if you want them.”

Varda’s eyes lit up, she had been asking around for some pots for weeks. “Yes, I do want them!” she said with a smile. “Thank her for me!”

Faron lifted an arm to scratch at the close cropped hair on the back of his neck. “Yeah, will do. She said you’re going to have to get them yourself, and soon, or the cooks are going to toss them. They’re taking up too much space.” He nodded at Abelas with a “Commander” and returned to the rest of his team.

She beckoned to Abelas. “This way,” she almost squeaked, putting her hands together happily. “Let me take you to my father now, so that I can have time to go get those pots. It’s going to take me a while to carry them all back to my tree.” She started off toward the south side of camp.

He caught up with her before she got too far. “I can help you carry some,” he offered tentatively. “You shouldn’t run yourself ragged.”

She stopped in her tracks. “Really? You would do that?” she asked excitedly, staring up into his eyes. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips.

He nodded tacitly again. She bounced on her toes as they turned in the opposite direction and headed instead toward the commissary.

***************

When they arrived at the kitchen and asked about the spare pots, they were led behind the great ovens that were large enough to feed this camp of several thousand elves, to a rack of cookware and cutlery just outside the back of the kitchen. The pots in question, two pyrophite and one iron, were stacked on the ground beside the rack. They were all huge industrial-sized stockpots, Varda could barely reach her arms around them. She would have needed to make three separate trips if she was by herself.

One look inside the vessels, at the pitted and corroded bottoms, explained why they were being retired from food preparation. The cook who led them explained that someone had tried a recipe a few weeks prior that had eaten away at the metal in the pots.

“If you want ‘em, take ‘em, just don’t cook with ‘em or you’ll get sick,” the cook said.

“Oh, I’m not going to cook with them,” Varda assured her. “Thank you.” She went to pick up the one on the top. It was unwieldy and she nearly fell over, but she was able to stand with it after a couple of tries. She glanced at Abelas and saw that he already had the other two hefted in his hands still stacked together. He almost made it look effortless, but she saw his biceps and forearms bulging under his armor. She suddenly wondered what his muscles looked like under all that leather. – Stop it. –

They began the much slower journey to her quarters with their arms full. They walked for several minutes, Varda adjusting her grip every few feet and swearing under her breath, when Abelas stepped in front of her. “What-?” she said as she was forced to stop. He put his pots on the ground at her feet, gently pried her fingers from the handles of hers, and stacked it with the others. Then he bent and lifted the whole thing with a grunt.

“Oh, you don’t have to-,” she started, but he was already moving away.

“Why do you need these?” he asked through gritted teeth once she caught up with him. She could see that his upper lip was starting to sweat and would bet he wished he wasn’t wearing the fur-lined cloak now.

“I’m going to start making baskets,” she explained as simply as she could. “The pots are for boiling reeds to make them pliable.”

He shifted to glance at her without turning his head. “Baskets?”  

“There aren’t any basket weavers here amongst the other craftsmen. I’ve noticed a need and I intend to fill it,” she chuckled. “You’d be surprised how useful a good, sturdy basket can be.”

He huffed slightly, but didn’t say anything further. She suspected it might be because he couldn’t.

She wiggled her fingers in his direction and raised her hand as if she were lifting something in her palm. He breathed easier as her magic took some of the weight of the load off of his arms and back. He looked at her with a very small relieved smile and they continued to her quarters in silence.

Getting the pots up the narrow stairs at the base of her tree posed a whole new set of problems, especially since Abelas couldn’t see where he was putting his feet, but with her direction and his superior sense of balance, he managed without incident. He set them down with a thud where she told him to on the floor of her small kitchen.

She pulled out a chair for him at her table and he sank into in gratefully.

“Water?” she asked, already pouring him a cup from the pitcher she kept in her ice box.

He took a long draught from it after she handed it to him. And she refilled it when he gave it right back.

“Thank you,” he breathed. He sat at her table nursing his second cup for several minutes, catching his breath and looking curiously around her home.

And it had become her home since she arrived. There were little personal touches of hers spread throughout the living area, now. The crockery vases on the countertop and table, filled with late-blooming autumn wildflowers, had been a gift from Faron’s wife. She had found some more chairs for her kitchen table, though none of them matched. It could now seat four, but there hadn’t been an occasion for her to entertain anyone besides her father. She had also rearranged the furniture so that the couch faced out of the western side of the tree, and added a few Dalish-made pillows and cushions from the aravel to brighten up the barren space. She liked to sit there in the evenings with a cup of tea and watch the sun set.

To her mortification, a dirty teacup and her dinner plate from the previous night were still on the low table in front of the couch. But if Abelas cared, he didn’t say anything.        

“I’ve never been in any of these flets since Faron started building them,” he finally remarked once he had recovered.    

“Flets?” she asked leaning against the edge of the counter.

He nodded. “It’s what we call this type of house built around the trunk of a tree. In the days of the empire, they were usually much grander than this,” he stretched out his arm, encompassing the whole of her little world, “but you seem to have made it comfortable.”

She raised one eyebrow at him, not sure if that was a compliment. “Thank you?”

He looked up at her questioning tone and shrugged. “It’s certainly more comfortable than a tent, anyway.”

“Fen’harel wouldn’t give you a flet if you asked?”

“I have no doubt he would, but I have no reason for one.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I have everything I need in my tent. And it keeps me on the same level as the rest of my troops. Reminds both of us I am not any more important than they.”

She nodded, appreciating his sincerity. Abelas struck her as a decent person, possessing a kind of noble humility that she was fairly impressed by despite her better judgement.

He pointed to the stairs leading up. “I assume the upper level is much the same. But I’d rather like to see it.”

She stood up straighter at that, her eyes widening. “You want to see my bedroom?” she spluttered.

It took a moment for what she said to register. And then he sat his cup down heavily, his eyes widening in turn. “No,” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, “that is of course not how I meant it.”

“Good, because it if was, you’d at least have to take me to dinner first, Commander,” she teased, emboldened by his discomfiture.  

He stood then and to her surprise, there was color rising to his cheeks. “Thank you for the water. I should be on my way to speak with your father.” He crossed the room quickly and was already on his way down the stairs before she could react.

She rushed to the edge of the platform where she could look out over the clearing and his retreating form. “Thank you carrying the pots!” she called down to him.

He raised his hand above his shoulder in acknowledgement, but did not turn.

As she stood, arms crossed, staring at the chair he had just vacated, she replayed the last several minutes in her head. Shame was already rising in her at the way she had teased him in his embarrassment. She sighed, shaking her head, and cleared away his half empty cup.  

#fanfic #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #abelas fanfiction #abelas #abelas x lavellan #my writing #Unhooded

[beeswritinghive]

What We Are

 Tsuzhu. That was her name. She used to run across the hills laughing, chased by the boys when chores were light. Mother went too and from the river, day in and day out. She gutted and cleaned and cooked. Tsuzhu wanted to be just like her mother, dependable, a provider. Father worked on one of the larger farms of the Orchards in Nectarbreeze, collecting the honey and nurturing the soil. She wanted to be just like her father, careful and fearless despite all the gross bugs and muck. She was a countrypaw if ever there was one. She rolled in the dirt and wrestled with the other children. They would explore the far banks of the river, they tested the bees and got stung and reprimanded in equal measure. Most days were the same, chores in the morning and free roaming in the afternoon. Evenings brought help with cooking and cleaning. Once a week there was a feast for all, to ease tensions and ensure community.

It wasn’t a glorious, opulent lifestyle, but Countrypaws were simple folk. Tsuzhu never thought much on grand adventures, or wonders from outside the mists.

One day though, the mists fell, and so much happened in such a short time. When the fires started, she was with her mother. They sunk into the river and drifted south with the current. Though the sickly sweet aroma of burning blossoms carried on the breeze, it was a terrible reminder of what they had narrowly escaped. The Jinyu passed them on the way north, and with small luck, they managed to find refuge from the oncoming storm of war. Though stories drifted, and strange faces drifted passed over time, they returned to rebuild the orchard with the other families. Tales of heroics and terror, of harsh whips and tight chains. But they were safe now, heroes from beyond the shores had come and saved the day. The entire continent rippled with the after aftershocks of full scale war, but the distant farms and orchards like Nectarbreeze skated by the concentrated brutality.

Tsuzhu saw the after effects, but the scope of carnage was something she had prayed to never see in person. How could she hope to stand where adults had fallen, what could a child do against cracking whips and blades of steel? All she wanted was to fish from the river, or tend the trees that gave her family life.

The years passed and her body grew, though her mind less so. To return to a simple life was a hard thing, every shadow loomed all the darker. Every bark or cry sent cold shivers down her spine. Nothing came, though, for a long time, and it was not perfect but life seemed normal a second time.

A last time.

Unlike when the Mogu tried to rise, and enslave her kin anew, the spark was not as silent and methodical. It was not a cunning trap that marched in on key sides, with nets and rope. It did not come during the day, though she couldn’t even tell the sun was just rising at the time.

Vicious rumbling shook their hut, Tsuzhu thrown from her bed while her mother gripped tightly at the wall for support. Somewhere outside, a great flare rose up, fragments of earth and scorched stone ricocheting through their home. Tsuzhu tried to drop to the ground, covering her head and her eyes. Stinging pain and dribbling hurt oozed from her arms, her back, and her legs.

“Run, Tsu!” Her mother cried, hands already pulling the child from the dust and shoving her to the door. Tsuzhu stumbled, coughing as tears washed down her cheeks. Some odd sound croaked out of her throat as she wheeled about, vision blurry and mind fogged. Cries were beginning to fill the orchard. Alarmed cries, pained cries, and something much worse, like the yowling of a dying beast that only grew more and more intense. Tremors erupted again, sickly green light began flooding in on all sides, smashes burst from all directions as huts snapped into sprays of splinters and twigs. The home in front of her was one such, crumpling before popping in a spray of smoldering fragments and throwing the child back across the ground.

This can’t be real.

She thought, she prayed, she cried. Tsuzhu stumbled forward, she threw a hand up and called with a hoarse bark as smoke fumed up from the hole that was once her home. Some massive, sulfurous stone lay where her mother might have been. She couldn’t even tell if there was blood from the impact or if the fire engulfing the rock had eaten it away already. Then the stone began to rise, rolling and stretching as it did so to reveal some horrific mockery of a face, carved into the construct as if by a child and forever locked as if screaming.

Someone’s hands at her shoulders pulled her away, rapidly giving her instructions and warnings, urging her to run but mostly pulling her along as she sputtered and scrambled behind. Waves of flame roiled up from one side as they ran, so they quickly skirted that road and turned another way. More crushed homes gradually greeted them, and worse. Cackling fiends crawled over the trees, wreathed in flames and throwing the pungent fire carelessly. Baying hounds from eldritch nightmares trampled down the road both over and into prey. With every turn and cut off road, they picked up more survivors. Then lost more. With twice as many casualties sprawled across the dirt or left to burn in the homes they died in. Every turn she retched anew, every bloody scream she winced.

Until she came across one of the other children.

The refugees were swift to scramble away despite her stop. A few of the adults tried to reach back and stop her, but she was a step beyond them, and terror was a powerful motivator. Tsuzhu fumbled and loped down from the path, between ruined shacks, staring intently despite stinging eyes at a pair of scaled beasts that ripped and snarled between gore filled chomps. Ripped open at the middle, eyes staring up in misty release, one of the younger boys. Had he stumbled out, like her, into the chaos? Was no one there to grab him, or were more bodies nearby that had failed to escape?

Mother and Father had joked, when she was younger, that if she kept trying to heft so much soil, if she kept carrying the ladders and the fish, they’d never need for a boy to round out the family. Whether or not that held deeper meaning was not for a child to guess at, but if they had ever had a son, he wouldn’t have been much older than the lifeless mess before her. Lifeless like her family, like her friends may very well be now. Like her father had become, during the Mogu raid. When she could do nothing but run.

She was still young, yet. If she ran, she might still live a long and peaceful life. Everyone else’s instinct, young and old, had been to run after all, why should she be any different? She just needed to make the orchard’s edge, into the distant fields she would know better than these... These... Things. She could weave and sneak down, down to Paw’don, where the militia would protect everyone.

So why would her feet not turn her away?

The hounds turned, finally, looking up as amidst the brimstone and smoke they caught whiff of her scent. Blood dripped from their teeth and seeped over their maws as they advanced and growled at the Pandaren. Her fists clenched, shoulders hunching as she leaned forward. To their surprise, she roared, throwing herself at them with abandon and fury. She fell into them and it became a whirl of gnashing teeth and slamming fists.

Their undersides.

Her mind snapped, and all her decisions automated into instinct. If they were like any regular beast, their weak sides would be beneath, near the joints and the gut. Her claws were not the sharpest, her arms were not the biggest, she was not the fastest child when she would race against the others. But she was the one here, now, rolling through blood and worse in the mud grappling monsters. With vicious tearing, she jammed her claws under the neck of one, raking as she held it with her other arm. It jumped and tossed, keeping her away from the second in it’s frenzy.

Rip and tear... Rip and tear... RIP AND TEAR!

Her claws grew slick, that’s how she felt it was working. More, and more, and more. Until she gripped the jaw and wrenched with all the might she had. It popped and twisted sickeningly,she released and slammed her elbow into the skull before throwing it off into the burning rubble of a nearby hut. It cried, but she didn’t have time to think, only act. The second hound pounced, but she was ready. She gripped in like the first, one arm wrapped over the neck, letting it tire itself with flailing and rolling. Her other arm pulled back, and she slammed her fist into the monster’s head. Over, and over, and over. Slamming and crunching. Sometimes she slipped and smashed it’s jaw, or it’s shoulder, but she never relented. So thorough was she, that she wasn’t actually sure when the beast had finally died. She did remember roughly when she heard each crack of bone as the skull caved, and the jaw shattered, and teeth spilled over the ground, but she didn’t care to mark it or pause.

When her shoulder finally cried in agony from the exertion she crumpled, sobbing and rasping and still trying to gurgle vicious shouts and enraged howls. Her good hand patted about, gripping the first object she could reach. She’d need a tool, any kind of tool, if she was going to get up and continue the bloodshed. The tooth of her first kill seemed a reasonable choice. Perhaps even poetic for the circumstances, but her mind had no room for such trivial distractions. After just long enough to gather her stamina, she pushed her aching body up, sleek tooth shank gripped tightly in her left hand as she lumbered toward the road.

Vengeance was all that she cared for.

She swayed and looped around the orchard and the village, pouncing from behind smoke and leaping from rubble to cross large gaps. Tsuzhu fell upon imps and hounds alike, viciously stabbing with her new weapon and then skittering to the next kill with each adrenaline filled breath. None were nearly as difficult and drawn as her first two, though she was far from clean. The bodies she left behind were half dead, in most cases, or blinded in others, all bloody at the least. At first, from the sheer numbers, she questioned if she was the only one left, the only one who had fought back.

Then, she found her.

Another Pandaren, standing in the road. Layered in wide plates, a single armored pad over her right shoulder. She wasn’t quite so tall as her mother, but she was much thicker and she stood with a certain stoic posture despite the crawling fiends and hounds that circled and snapped at her. Some kind of warrior, a fighter with both hands to her blade. One demon suddenly leaped, but barely did it cross the distance before falling apart in a flash. The Pandaren had moved, sliced through the air in a surge of jade, yet though she awaited in another stance Tsuzhu couldn’t understand what had just happened. What she did know is that the warrior had killed a demon, and her eyes went wide as this happened a second time.

She called out to the warrior, though if her voice shaped words she couldn’t recognize from the sounds and the haze in her head. The Warrior though snapped to stare at her, and the pinning focus swept a cold chill down her spine. Her posture, her presence, her focus, the Warrior was a tried and true killer. The cold kind, she could feel it. Not like herself, or the monsters that clawed and feasted on the chaos.

Another fiend leaped, and another almost immediately following. The Warrior spun and caught the first mid air, again, but the second wreathed in flame crashed into her. Her hair seemed to singe, only briefly, before her massive arm gripped the demon and crushed it’s neck, throwing it aside like refuse before squaring her stance and preparing.

“Run!” The Warrior commanded. Tsuzhu assumed it was directed to her, but even the demons seemed hesitant at the call. As a child, even deranged and blood covered as she was, she could only watch in awe.

A warrior. A real one. Cutting swaths, like in stories... She thought as the demons all began to rush in now, like a swarm. Look how she kills, how strong... I need to be that strong. I need to know how to kill, like she does.

Petals and embers from the breeze began to drift in from all directions as the warrior danced between bounding cretins and howling stalkers. Each swing was followed by a flare of bright, green energy. Not the sickly sort that the flames of the demons gave off, but a pure essence, like jade. The bodies crumpled and seeped as they fell around the Warrior, sliced open, into pieces. More began to surge from the edges of the orchard, maybe even from the hills passed. How many had there been? Had the others managed to run away?

A terrifying roar went up from nearby, soon after a similar joined it. The ground trembled around Tsuzhu, and she stumbled before thumping onto her rear. With crashing steps, the rocks from the sky now in humanoid shape, they marched and rushed toward the Warrior on the road, followed by swarms of imps and packs of hounds. The child was ignored as the demons surged, but that was not why her jaw clicked open and hung wide. The Warrior stood, near surrounded with a wave of monsters bearing down upon her. Then sheathed her blade at her hip.

Though she couldn’t hear, Tsuzhu stared, and saw the Warrior’s lips press tightly, corners pulled back and teeth gritted. The jade glow returned around the blade, softly at first before growing intense and engulfing the sheathe. In the air, the dancing petals and singing embers began to vibrate and pull inward, all swirling toward the Warrior on a breeze even she could feel from so far away. The demons did not slow, nor sway, but the urgency did not rush the Warrior a single bit. Unmoved, undeterred, she stretched her stance wide, one hand holding her sheathe steady as the other gripped her blade’s hilt tightly. The Warrior took in a slow, calm breath, chest swelling, arms flexing, Tsuzhu saw it all. Then there was a war cry like no other, booming and firm that echoed into the hills. The blade ripped free faster than the child could perceive, but what she did follow was the eruption of jade as it carried the petals and embers in all directions. They sliced, the embers burst, bodies in all directions ripped and punctured, sliced and fell. Even the infernals were pushed back, stony limbs cracking as the empowered embers and jade fire burst and wedged through their shells.

Many demons died as the whirlwind washed over, but not all, the wounded and the remaining stumbled and roared their return before attacking anew. But the Warrior had already advanced. Both hands on her sword, she crashed like the waves over rock, slamming fiends with her body and slicing through flesh like stone parting the river. No matter the numbers, despite the cracks in her defenses and the blood trickling from scrapes and punctures along her arms and sides, the Warrior did not relent.

It was some time, but soon Tsuzhu was standing, surrounded on all sides by bodies. Not just Pandaren, her family and village, but demons. So many demons. Her home was ruined, but the aggressors, the monsters... They had paid.

Thanks to Her...

She stumbled, ambling to her newfound hero. Standing before the Warrior as she panted, both of them clutching their sides and heaving in breaths. The much, much older woman sized Tsuzhu up. That gaze, the cold and distant bore as she saw much, much more than the child could even guess. Tsuzhu wasted no time.

“What are you?”

The Warrior thought for but a moment, before exhaling slowly, in measured pace. “A Warrior.”

“Are you a monk? A hero? Some kind of master?” Tsuzhu pressed, taking a step forward with a dangerous glaze in her eyes.

The Warrior grunted, shaking her head twice before pausing. Her unarmored shoulder rolled, back stretching to a rigid posture, straight and controlled. “I am a Blademaster, perhaps. So I would call myself, at least.”

“Who are you?” The child continued.

“Suyo, of the Blade.” The elder responded. “Who are you, child?”

Tsuzhu blinked, for a moment, going blank as her mind tried to think. Everything felt like a lifetime passed. Her head was still hazy, memories awash in a filter of blood and screaming.

“Run, Tsu!”

The words echoed through her mind, and her lips peeled back into a brief scowl as she choked a sort of grunt. “Tsu.”

“Just Tsu?” The Warrior queried. Her tone remained very clipped. Little emotion seeped into the words, though there was a ghost of some... Concern, perhaps? Or maybe Tsu was just imagining it.

“Just Tsu.”

Suyo hummed a moment, brow furrowing. Then she turned, without another word, and set to cleaning the blood from her blade. Tsu just watched, intently, twitching faintly, fingers tightening and rapping over the wicked bone shank. The Warrior peeled her armor just enough to glance at the wounds dotting her flesh, rumbling under her breath softly before wiping herself down with a rag from her belt. Then with a toss the cloth slapped into Tsu’s shoulder, and without thinking she began dabbing at the blood on her own body.

“You should seek the ones who ran south, child. I know at least several small groups managed to flee while I held the road, others may have escaped into the wilderness but I would not suggest that route, the demons may already have fanned out. They do not oft stick to their assault points.” Suyo waved one hand down the road before sliding her blade over her shoulder and into the sheath at her back. For a moment she stared south before turning back to the child, brow arching as she noted the young one had taken another step toward her.

“... I’m not going south.”

“You can not stay here, I am afraid. Seek shelter, child, and one day you can-”

“I AM NOT A CHILD!” Tsu snapped, fists clenching as she thrust herself forward on one foot and growled up at the older woman.

Suyo tensed, briefly, though her posture did not change. She frowned, deeply, brow furrowed as she considered. “What are you if not a child?”

Tsu didn’t pause. “I am a monster.” The words seemed to shake her. Her small body trembled and tears began to drip down her cheeks anew, over the dark fur that painted her face in a similar pattern.

“... Young one, you can not possibly know that.”

“I stand here covered in blood... The blood of beasts I killed, and the blood of my people. My family! What am I if not a monster!” Tsu heaved and choked between every breath, but her legs refused to give and her back stretched up in mimicking the Warrior’s posture. “I’m not some young girl anymore!”

Suyo stared for a few moments, peering intently at the child. “... You are not a monster, Tsu. I have slain many monsters. You are right, however... You are no longer a child.” Leaning forward, the Warrior lowered just enough to level her eyes with Tsu’s. “However, you must still choose what you wish to become.”

“I want to learn, I need to know how to kill, like you do.” There was no hesitation, Tsu set her gaze and stared with as much cold focus and steel she could muster. Just like how she saw the Warrior appraise her enemies. “My life is gone... My family is gone... There’s nothing left in me but this need... This burning desire... I will become strong, and I will kill all these... Things... I will grow to destroy everything that threatens my people, ever. I will sate this pain and anger in my heart!”

Suyo did not flinch. She could not let the child see any such sign of weakness. But those words, and the ferocity with which this child roared them, and the anchor in her stance despite the wobbling of her knees. There was no lie, and no question. This was a young girl burned deeply by the world. It had left embers, and those embers would be dangerous. Left untouched, they could consume her from within.

But molded and fanned, fed the right fuel...

Suyo crushed those thoughts in her mind. A child was no suitable subject to be thrust such a burden onto. To take up the blade, like she had in her own youth.

Yet...

The fire would remain, and the child would ache, no matter what path the Blademaster might leave her to. If there was no lie in the young one’s voice, she had no family to seek or return to, and in her state with that frothing tenacity, she would possibly even hunt down the demons she hated so much. The young one had so much life left in her, yet her future was tainted forever more by flame. Suyo was aging, and her life was slowly coming to it’s weakest years, with no story or glorious death to show. This could be a contingency... But it was no call to make without surety, and it would not be without great sacrifice and commitment on both sides.

They both had to be sure.

Tsu could see it in the older woman’s eyes, and her youthful drive urged her to speak first. “I will endure whatever the cost. I’ll accept whatever the terms. I must learn that power. I will become strong, no matter what. Take me, teach me, shape me! Give me a chance to make something out of this!” The child threw an arm back, gesturing to the remains and the destruction. “Please!”

Suyo eased back up, standing in the gentle breeze and soft, sickly glow of unnatural flames. She remained, for a time, silent and contemplative. Eventually, the Blademaster had to respond, and she gave little more than a quiet nod. That was all Tsu needed, though. The child fervently nodded in return, and the pair weakly marched from the ruined fields. For now, there was an agreement. Later, though, was when they would formally confirm Tsu’s apprenticeship.