#arne the farmhand | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whump-me-all-night-long · 7 months

Text

Midsummer Nightmare

AI-less Whumptober Day 1: Drugging

Masterlist

TW: human whumpee, fae whumper, drugging (duh), hmm hunting mention? not really sure what else, but enjoy!

---

Stopping to wipe his sweat-damp forehead with the back of his wrist, Arne squinted his eyes against the sun. It was starting to set, but he figured he still has a couple hours before nightfall.

Frowning down at his meager bounty for the day—two rather skinny rabbits and a half dozen unbroken eggs he’d found amongst a fallen nest—Arne considered: he could head home now, but he could already picture his mother and sisters’ faces, already too thin with hunger, sun-beaten and weary.

He knew that they’d say it was fine, that he had done the best he could, that all the animals worth hunting had already fled north in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat of summer. He knew this, and yet, he couldn’t help the disappointment sinking and settling deep in his gut.

As he turned to head back to their cottage with a heavy-hearted sigh, a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. Spinning around, bow at the ready, he nearly gasped as his eyes landed on what, for a moment, he thought might simply be a trick of the heat: a beautiful, plump doe, grazing peacefully just a few yards from him.

Notching an arrow—the feathers of which his youngest sister, Lucia, has carefully attached—Arne drew his arm back, keeping his aim steady as he took deep, stabilizing breaths.

On the exhale, he let the arrow fly loose, but, as it barrelled straight towards the doe, it seemed to almost wiggle in the air, veering enough off-course to fly over the doe’s head. To Arne’s astonishment, the doe merely glanced up before meandering off, away from Arne.

Unable to allow his prey to escape so easily, he pulled another arrow from his quiver as he followed the beautiful beast on light, near silent feet. This time, when the doe settled, Arne allowed himself to creep even closer to her, making sure he wouldn’t miss again.

The second shot hit the doe right in the heart, causing her to collapse with an eerie quietness. As Arne stepped forward to claim his prey, he suddenly became aware of another presence. Kneeling next to the still beast, he looked around, settling one hand lightly on the hilt of the knife he kept at his side at all times.

“Good shot.” The voice was soft, smooth, like warm honeyed tea sliding down your throat.

Arne spun around, fingers tightening around his blade, as he located the figure.

At first appearance, the stranger looked so out of place, it was borderline absurd to the point that Arne had to resist the urge to laugh.

They were tall, with pale golden hair that barely brushed the nape of their neck. Even with the stranger in the shadows of the trees, Arne could see their unnatural golden eyes glinting with curiosity. Even the stranger’s clothes were off-putting: finely made black cloth with golden threads adorning it, fitted closely and precisely to the stranger’s frame, as if it had been made specifically for them. Nobody in Arne’s village could afford to purchase or make fabric like that, even if they could spare the time and energy it would take to travel to the nearest town to acquire it—which they couldn’t.

“Who are you?” Arne asked, attempting to keep his voice flat and even, not threatening but not allowing any nerves to show, either.

The stranger smiled, showing off pearly white teeth that seemed a bit too sharp- Arne blinked and the stranger’s smile looked normal.

“My name is Ikalos,” the stranger said, in a subtle foreign lilt. They weren’t difficult to understand; in fact, their voice had a melodic cadence to it. “I apologize if I startled you. I’m unfamiliar with this area, and I seem to have gotten myself turned around. Would you mind pointing me to the nearest town or village? Anywhere I could find a meal and lodging for the night, really.”

Shoulders relaxing, Arne offered the man—for, now that he got a better look at him, Ikalos was quite masculine, despite the strange beauty he had—a tentative smile. “Sorry for my rudeness, I’m just not used to seeing people this far out. A lot of them fear the forest, even if they say they don’t. My village is the closest to here, only a mile or so hike, and then another half mile to my family’s home. We have plenty of room if you would care to stay the night.” Arne hesitated. “Not a lot of people in my village are all that welcoming to strangers, if you know what I mean.”

Ikalos nodded, clarity glinting in his eyes. “I do understand, yes. Well, if you do not mind, I would like to join you on your walk back, if only to ensure I don’t get myself twisted back up in this damned forest.” He paused, licking his lips. “I can even help you carry this doe back, since it seems you have enough you’re already carrying,” eyeing Arne’s bow and quiver, the rest of his bounty for the day, and the belt slung low across his hips, where his knife and waterskin hung.

Arne smiled. “That would be great, actually, now that you mention it, it is pretty hot outside.” Unfastening his waterskin, he held it out. “Would you care for a drink? I can’t promise how cold it is, but it’s fresh at least.”

Ikalos pulled his own skin from somewhere that Arne hadn’t noticed before. “I appreciate your offer, but I’ve been staying plenty hydrated. This is a delightful fruity wine that has been passed down in my family for generations. Light and refreshing, without the alcohol being overpowering. Would you like a taste? It truly is the least I could do.” He held it out between them.

Shrugging, noticing the sandpaper-like texture of his lips, Arne accepted the skin gratefully, noticing in the back of his mind how soft and supple the skin was. Uncorking it, he took a tentative sip, marveling at the airiness of the drink, how he felt rejuvenated almost immediately. “This is delicious!” he exclaimed, attempting to pass it back but Ikalos waved him off.

“Please, drink your fill. I’ve had plenty of the stuff over the years,” he said. “By the way, I didn’t catch who you said you were. May I have your name?”

After another, deeper gulp of the wine, Arne held his hand out to shake Ikalos’. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. My name is Arne. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“It truly was a fortunate twist of fate that you caught my nose— I mean, my ear. I heard your footsteps and had to try to find you myself. This really is quite ideal timing for myself, but, well, that’s a long story.” Ikalos grinned, this time his teeth definitely looked too sharp.

Blinking away the sudden blurriness in his vision, Arne frowned. “I’m sorry, I think you lost me.” Shaking his clouded head, Arne turned away. “Anyways, we should probably head back now, if we want to reach the village before total nightfall.”

As he turned, though, the air seemed to shimmer and warp before him, and his limbs seem to stop obeying him, becoming impossibly heavy. “Woah,” he murmured. “I- uh, I’m not feeling too- um, too well.”

Too-cold hands gently guided him onto the forest floor, making him sit down rather harder than he was expecting. Those strange—inhuman, Arne was realizing, too late—golden eyes stared deep into him. “It’s alright now, Arne, everything will be perfectly okay, my dear,” Ikalos said softly, gently. “But for now, Arne, go to sleep.”

At those words, Arne’s eyes slipped closed and his consciousness left him.

---

Taglist: @ailesswhumptober @thelazywitchphotographer @whither-wander-whump @theelvishcowgirl @deckofaces @badluck990 @whumperofworlds @cupcakes-and-pain @misspelledwitch

#AIlesswhumptober2023 #leigh writes #midsummer nightmare #arne the farmhand #ikalos the spare #whump #whump writing #human whumpee #fae whumper #drugging #noncon drugging #hunting mention

53 notes · View notes

tweedpawn · 7 years

Text

Chapter 1: The Papers

Spring’s End, 15th day, 11,920th year

The rain had been falling for days during the beginnings of a hot summer on a tiny planet so far away. This little home of many creatures that rose and fell in its rhythm drifted as a gentle little pebble in a vast ocean it did not know or understand. It was a blue planet, with a great Pangaea across her side and smaller freckles of land on her back.

The oceans were wild and already turned from their welcoming blue, to a cold rough green glass that shifted and churned under the heavy winds. The great coastal capital, Skagrit, illuminated the dark waves, inviting last minute fishermen to hurry home.

She was a great city. Echoes of the ocean’s bounty and color were built into her skyscrapers and art. The city of Blue Glass. The finest capital on the planet of I’na. Her people were the most brilliant, and each shined their own glittering scattered light. The great economic powerhouses resided there, and their darker “patrons of the underworld” made their fortunes.

Thousands of polished glass medallions decorated the sides of her buildings. They looked like great sunken structures with magical fish that stayed warm and dry inside. Their interiors cutting through the night with gold. Lights dusted the outside streets like seafoam.

A lamp shined through a tinted window, granting a green halo in the glass. Shimmery

letters flickered like fish scales:

Sansarc Private Investigation

Independently Owned

1977 N. Reynolds St.

The tenant of the business, and its loft, was Minisala Sansarc. He preferred to be addressed by his last name. Sansarc felt that his first name was ominous. He lived an easy life, he overworked himself out of passion. At his temples, one could see spreading wings of silver. His hair was always tidy, though his clothes were often wrinkled with a tiny stain spot either on the sleeve or collar. Like the rest of his kind, He had lovely, sable colored, rabbit ears.

Tonight, the particular combination of a warm radiator, soft lighting, and melodic rain had caused Detective Sansarc to drift asleep over the work on his desk. His face balanced on his wrist, his mouth hung open. Brief lucid moments danced in his fluttering dreams, before they shattered by the sound of a door opening and closing.

Sansarc saw a young boy enter into his office freely, and then drop off a paper. The child was in a great hurry. The more papers he delivered, the better he got paid. Sansarc cursed the hour, wishing that he would have just gone to bed. He thought nothing of the newspaper, for until that day there had been very little that he desired to know about immediately.

The Papers had a very different opinion on the matter. They had found an unprecedented story with stereotype, secret, and possibly murder. The reptilian minds of those who profited from the stories hoped it was murder.

Because near trees very much like the ones that now bled ink and letter, there had been a great tragedy in the western settlements of I’na. Those were feral places. Death happened, frequently from farming machinery and swift animals. The settlers had to be paid to move out there.

It was a land of open spaces, cozy burrows, and “quaint” matters. They had large families out there. Homes were spaced out. But there wasn’t exactly an effort to push for innovation or commerce. The only ones who did were the Iron Chiefs who took great pride in their “company towns”.

Now, the communities were five fewer. Five youngsters, between the ages of 11 to 15 vanished in the night like from a folk story. There had been a few other vanishings up until that point, but Sansarc would be unaware of them until a month from today. For this particular case, there had been witnesses:

13 year old Claude Chatan, 16 Year old Tadoka Grey Ears, Fern only 8, and finally the fortunate son of the local bank owner, Bipkin Red barely past the age of 11.

They recalled seeing three men in the fields that evening, according to the papers. Those men had come with glaring eyes, strange weapons, and black cloaks. The children were mostly unreliable, as they were the ones who escaped had fled to the river or the nearby forest.

At first, there was barely a whisper about it in the presses. Then a few juicy details came up that the reporters just could not resist biting into:

Arn Chatan, age 13, cousin of Claude Chatan. Head of the Engineering Club in Skagrit’s Prepatory Academy of the Arts and Sciences. A True Son of the Capital. Now Gone.

Della Frey, age 15, broke speed records for her age group in 100 meter, 200 meter, and 400 meter dashes. Set to compete in the international games as the first athlete from the settlement of River’s Bend. Was her disappearance related to the Mob?

The other three had been farmhands, barely important in the eyes of Skagrit, but that did not stop the papers from wailing and moaning about their innocent lives suddenly in jeopardy and won’t someone please step forward with any information on their whereabouts? There was blood in the water, and the sharks were already making calls for their portions.

Indeed, had Detective Sansarc, independently owned and operated, known what would happen later in the day, he would have not glossed over the details and then tossed the paper into his kindling pile to fuel the oven for his morning tea. He would have given the writing a more discerning gaze.

It was hard to feel connected to strangers, even little ones. Sansarc thought little more about the news of the day, going back to analyzing the books of a local textile factory that was suspected of money laundering and the recently divorced wife of the owner wanted to know if the bills went to that little hussy that wrecked her home.

The rains never let up for that day. Leaving papers soaked and damaged from the damp. This fueled more sales, and the ink jockeys just could not keep up with the demand. The paper boys were going to be sick for days from this one. A new boy stepped in, carrying his bag full of papers.

“Ya got ya pape’ today, Sir?” He asked, a gangly lad of barely eleven. He looked the type who bullied a kid or two for his “cut” of the sales. Sansarc waved the kid out, surprised when the lad insisted that the Detective had not gotten his paper and that he’d better buy one.

Sansarc did not like the way this was going to spill into his day. Breaking News usually affected his clients somehow. Someone sees a new article about some murder, robbery, or jealous lover and they start jumping to wild conclusions.

Like Aliens. Boy, I bet a silver I’ll hear that one today. Aliens, Star Children, the luck-damned badger-man were going to show up by the end of it. Grieved patrons usually went after the most exotic solution, especially if it was easier to accept than the fact that personal negligence was the reason Aunt Sally took a tumble grabbing her can of peas.

The phone rang, it was an Editor from StarBurst News asking if he was busy for the afternoon and if he would be interested in being hired in an investigation of sorts. All Expenses Paid.

Sansarc set up an appointment, he always preferred meeting clients in person first. And it took only an hour before a suited up, sharp-faced, broad with in a pair of pants that looked like a dress and a soaked blouse that had the pungent burnt scent of hot ink came through his door. Her ears were stained black, possibly permanently, and flecks of black splatters danced across her face like - blood? No, they were clearly more like stars.

“Detective Sansarc, I assume? Senior Editor, Mason Antho, from the StarBurst News. I had one of my editors contact you.” her rich voice was like an expensive tonic sweetened with honey, but heavy on the oak. It spoke with authority and confidence.

“ Are you the one who is officially hiring me?” asked Sansarc, his dark eyebrows pressed together. Please not another runaround with too many hands in the case.

“I am. I heard you were the best at traveling for the job.” Mason strutted to one of the chairs, but did not sit. She moved like one of those long legged hunting dogs the rich kept on leashes made of gemstones. Her face even had a graceful longness to it, and the way her ears held made her look like one of the stylized print ads for the latest in dresswear. She looked like a living sales pitch for glamor.

“This must be quite the job if the Senior Editor of a paper is asking me to travel on an expense paid gig.” Sansarc said carefully. He did not want to seem like he was officially committing. Jobs that involved the higher ups on the social ladder usually were death traps filled with pissed off mob bosses and rampaging husbands.

“You better believe it, Champ. I heard you can travel anywhere, faster than anyone else. Hell, you can get visas to White Stone. And they never let anyone in.” replied Mason.

More like they don’t want anyone out. Sansarc thought grimly. Fast travel? Oh please don’t this be what he thought it was going to be.

“Now here’s the deal, I want an exclusive on the story out in the papers. I want interviews, some dirt dug up, maybe find a body if you can manage it.” Mason started speaking quickly and aggressively.

“So, send your reporters.” Sansarc frowned at the job description.

“My reporters are idiots. They throw the cameras in everyone’s face and then they trample the flowerbeds while they’re at. We got a bunch of grieving mothers out there and the last thing I need is one of my people making everyone clam up. I want those people talking out there. Only to us, of course.” replied Mason.

“Vulture.” Sansarc felt a horrible taste in his mouth. It was like the acid from his stomach was creeping up to have its share of insults to hurl at this woman.

“Takes one to know one.” Mason said cooly with a smirk. Classy.

“I ain’t doing it.” said Sansarc. He started to get a pounding headache from this woman. He got up to grab a decanter of firebreather, a drink made from the fire-hot fermented roots of the Firra plant. He poured himself a drink and began to chew on the side of his mouth.

“$300.” barked Mason.

“I’m busy.” replied Sansarc.

“ Yeah? Who you working far? I’ll double them.”

“You already have.”

“ $500, or I’ll bury you in the papers.”

“You gotta be kidding.” Sansarc balked. He nearly dropped his shot glass. What could they dig up on him? He had no spouses or lovers. He lived alone. Oh, there was that incident that got him kicked out of law enforcement. Sansarc never took care to conceal the matter.

“I’ll figure you out and rip you to pieces. You think I’m gonna be the only one calling you? When those morons at the Bugle get the idea in their heads , they’ll be all over your ears like flies on haraka.” Mason was growling now. Her nose twitched like a hound’s. She was now merely inches from Sansarc face, possessing the greater height on the man.

“Well, maybe I’ll work for them!” Sansarc bared his teeth at Mason. The woman scoffed.

“They won’t pay you.” She grinned a predatory smile. She had him by the throat now. No wonder she was the senior editor. Working for this lady must be like working under a knife chandelier. “Fine. $500. All Expense Paid. I’ll be there when I can” he replied, his dark eyes shooting daggers at the broad. “You’ll be there tomorrow.” She said.

Sansarc was glad that he had yet to burn the paper he had placed into the kindling. He stuffed the print into a weatherproof bag, fuming to himself about how much he wished he could have shoved that damn woman into the mud. He could have at least thrown his drink at her and ruined that expensive outfit she had.

He was able to secure a ticket easily. No visa needed. The frontier was considered “Skagrit operated”, but not necessarily its responsibility. The government gave out a hundred dollar stipend to head out and “reclaim your heritage”. The Banks took about 25 and that was the way of progress.

Sansarc hailed a taxi to the train station. It was going to be a long ride, 27 hours to be exact. No wonder Mason wanted him out by tomorrow. One less opportunity for the rivals to pick him up him for their research. Sansarc hated that woman, but had to admit that she knew how to keep herself ahead of the pack.

Lights shined through evening fog. They were golden halos guiding late-night wanderers. There was a slow rhythm to the town tonight. Sansarc could feel it in the meandering shuffling of passengers as they said farewells and brought their luggage to the platform.

It was romantic, in that silver screen sort of way. The rehearsed entrances and scripted farewells going for their final takes. Dames getting reassured that their bucks weren’t going to get too lonely out there in them company towns. Bucks telling the does that things were gonna get better real soon.

Sansarc hoped that at this hour, the lounge car would be open. He boarded the train early and sought out his cabin. The bright side about working for the wealthy was an upgrade or two. If he was going to have to suffer a red eye train ride through the boonies, he was going to do it in comfort.

The lounge car was not taking drink orders just yet, but already it was filled to the brim with tobacco smoke and chatter. Not much raucous. It was dusk, after all, and there was a little bit of respect given for the twilight. Sansarc took an early spot on a barstool.

He brought out a notepad and started to write down a few things to keep in mind. Don’t allow broads from the paper into your office for starters. Sansarc smirked to himself. He thought about what sort of men would be wandering out in the wilds snatching little ones like a nightmare.

The tobacco was spiced and smoky. Intoxicating. Sansarc was writing into a flow of thoughts when a bar keep walked up.

“May I interest you in a pack?” he asked. Sansarc scarcely looked up, only to avoid being called arrogant. He barely saw above the barkeep’s name tag.

“I don’t smoke.” he replied.

“No? But it’s traditional to have a little tobacco before the start of a journey. To insure a safe trip?” the bar keep replied. It was a voice with a bit of a haze to it. An accent that couldn’t entirely be placed. The inflections purely intentional and less of habit.

“ I’m not into that kind of thing.” Sansarc frowned. His head was starting to feel fuzzy in an odd way. Was it the booze from earlier? He had a drink before heading out to the station.

“What a shame. Safe journey, I look forward to seeing you at the end of it.” the bar keep stepped away. Sansarc grimaced. He hoped that he wouldn’t regret coming to the lounge car. He felt a chilled draft. I didn’t know an air-cooling system was installed.

The final announcement for boarding was made. More long goodbyes. Sansarc thought on his last relationship. A pretty little dame who loved lilac perfume and ruby lipstick. She always carried a black lacquer mirror, and enough money to pay for her lunch. Sansarc had just started his business. So worked up in his first case, he barely missed her when she walked out.

It’s better if they don’t cry. Anything, but the crying. Sansarc looked at the windows as the train began to leave the station. The wrought iron and steam gave way to distant lights of homes and advertisements. The booze came heavy as the last of sunlight faded and all that could be seen was the black outlines of houses, trees, and telegraph poles against a navy sky.

The city left a fading red haze on the horizon, and Sansarc pretended that it was the sun being stopped by the cops for packing heat. They’d get their money from anything. When he was younger, the haze on the skyline used to mean that the sun never set. Now, it seemed to never rise.

There was a lingering feeling in the air. It felt like the mad buzzing of insects. Sansarc looked around him. He took a moment to observe the patrons. They felted staged and artificial. The first barkeep had been replaced by another fellow who lacked that complex quality the first one possessed effortlessly.

They all moved back and forth between stations. Tick-tock. Sansarc had thrown away the belief of spirits and sentient lands long ago. Still, the habit of assuming their permanence lingered. He would occasionally have a moment of icy clarity to the world around him and it would terrify him. Because in those moments, came the doubt.

Disembark at Sandhill, Came the call. He originally had no intention of doing so. It was the largest city in the frontier. It made its fortune by centralizing the routes and shipping everything by ferry or rail. Home of the original Stock Market.

But why there? It then dawned on Sansarc. Of course, they actually have a police presence. Yes! That was something he hadn’t considered before. He was finally smiling to himself.

The frontier towns were known for loose laws and lackluster enforcement of proper order. Their idea of order came from the nomadic rangers that were loosely organized to make sure the people stayed safe from wandering predators, and to help lost travelers. The story was that they lived the “old fashioned” way of bison-skin tents, and were considered the first on the scene if there was a risk to a town. A risk like kidnapping.

Sansarc thought the idea of a random bumpkin roaming at night on horseback, with no proper management, was the type of hare-brained, olde-timeyism, that allowed five children to go missing in the first place.

And all it takes is one sick bastard to...No, it was three, according to the witnesses. And who else goes wandering the fields at night?

Sansarc gritted his teeth. He was now glad he was going to a proper town to get started on this. Mason had wanted him in that tiny little frontier community. But if Sansarc was going to uncover some secrets, he would need a trail. There might be a connecting disappearance.

“Hey mista’, wou’ ya moind lightin’ me? I wanna have a last leaf before I go in.” asked a pretty little thing. She had a fashionable little black bob of hair. Her face was adorned with far too much blush. Her ears, however, were dyed a particular shade of red, almost the same color as her lipstick.

Sansarc grabbed a box of matches from the counter and obliged. Right when the flame kissed his fingertips, he killed the little flicker and pressed its charcoal stub into a glass dish.

“Thanks guy. So, you going out to the iron towns? Me? I’m gonna see my mama. You know, you never know who ya gonna miss…” the girl started to ramble. Sansarc wanted to slink into his stool and escape this cockleburr of a conversationalist. In thirty minutes, Jane Winterstaff revealed her entire family history, the latest in telecommunications, and exactly what brand of chartreuse contained arsenic.

There were times when Sansarc cursed his particular brand of introversion.

The Daily Sandhill Fall Harvest, 10th day, 11919 Boy Missing in Silver Lake Local authorities have reported that Sandusky Martin, Age 8, is missing. His parents called the local sheriff after the boy did not return home from corn shucking. He is described as short-eared, at 3’4, with 46 lbs to him. Sandusky Martin has 2 siblings of similar appearance, and was last seen wearing his brother’s blue coat, a pair of loose brown pants, penny loafers, and carrying a locket with his grandparents’ hair in it. Police do not believe that the disappearance is related to incidents in Sandhill. No signs of predators were found in the area.

#Sansarc #DellaFrey #Skagrit #Rabbits #original #fiction #writing #sci-fi & fantasy #science fiction #tweedpawn #sfw

1 note · View note