#but in a much larger scale.. terrifying right?) and well actually they realize yes because they're doing it.. it's just your average citizen

[squarefriend]

Mermay ended yesterday, but I’m sitting on the beach at this very moment so let’s fucking do this:

🌴🐬BEACH HEAD CANNONS!!!🐬🌴

Chara

❤️ They are actually rather neutral over the ocean. Far more of a skipping stones and playing in the lake kind of kid. Though, they do have a respect for the water’s raw power and changing tides. (Also seeing how much Undyne loves it made them want to appreciate the ocean more)

❤️ Thanks to being attached to Frisk’s soul, they kinda have to go to the beach all the time now. They like to go out as far as they can and walk along to the bottom, or float above Frisk and try to freak them out.

❤️ All that being said, they ADORE sharks. They nerd out every time they get to go to the aquarium. (Then get kinda embarrassed about it).

❤️ They have (on more than one occasion) convinced Frisk that because they’re a ghost they can see all the ghosts of everyone who’s drowned, and that yes, pirates ARE coming to get them...... It backfired at the notion that now Frisk WANTED to go meet the ghost pirates.

❤️ Had a brief period of wanting to be a mermaid, purely because A) Not a human and B) Typically man eaters. It suited their style

Frisk

❤️ They LOVE the ocean.... or rather, they love the beach. There’s one right at the edge of Ebbott City, so in the summer, they get to go up every weekend or so. And you can bet on that weekend, they have an absolute ball with whomever family/friend took them this time.

❤️ Their favorite part is exploring. They love to run around on the beach, looking for shells or any critters, as well as going out into as deep as the can in the ocean (usually only to be called back by their mom). Speak of the devil, Toriel bought them a snorkeling kit for their gotcha day and that thing has been used religiously ever since!

❤️ Every time they go the the car to go home, Frisk has to be checked by an adult (not either of the skelebros, they are WAY to lenient on this one) to make sure that they don’t have any stow away sea critters. One too many times of Frisk trying to keep a pet crab.

❤️ They take swimming lessons from Undyne! There were only a couple of misunderstandings over wether or not a humans could breathe underwater, but its all been sorted out! They’re doing really well!

❤️ They refuse to learn how to dive. Undyne has been trying to teach them for MONTHS now. It’s cannon ball or nothing, and they’re determined to keep it that way.

Flowey

❤️ Back when he was Asriel, he’d wanted to see the ocean. They don’t exactly have HUGE bodies of water in the underground like that, basically only the river. And no one swims in the river. Add in Chara’s talk of mermaids and their stories about lakes and skipping stones and all that.... It had been a big goal of his. Now that he’s there, and without the capabilities to swim or get in the water, and without the person who said they’d show him the surf.... it’s uh, it’s lost its appeal.

❤️ Frisk and Papyrus tried to get him to go out in one of those dog floaties. It looked pretty ridiculous and nearly tipped over a couple of times. Inevitably it was decided that it was just best to just keep him on the shore or in the shallows strapped to someone’s chest.

❤️ Usually he just sits on the shore with Paps, Frisk, or Toriel. He (begrudgingly) likes to make sand castles. He’s actually gotten quite good at them. Either that or eat nice cream.

❤️ Papyrus made him tiny sunglasses. He wears them every time they go to the beach.

❤️ When he does go into the water, he likes to stick his head under the serf and try to find fish. He actually managed to catch one in his mouth once, both impressive and terrifying.

Toriel

❤️ She is fond of the beach. Not so much the water, but she does enjoy the occasional swim with Frisk. Would probably like going out on a boat, though she has never tried it.

❤️ Usually while the rest of the family swims, she’s on the shore in her beach chair, reading a good book and keeping a watchful eye on her kids. She can usually get through half of the thing before its time to go home.

❤️ That being said, when she does go out in the water (usually to cool off or check on Frisk and/or Flowey) she is remarkably good at floating along. That, and she’s abit of a beast when it comes to X-treme monkey in the middle. That lady is huge and can use that height when she needs to. Also she has to shake off when she gets out of the water.

❤️ She ALWAYS has a beach bag on her, and in that beach bag is pretty much anything you’d ever hope to need. Pool toys, goggles, fresh water, extra sunscreen, at least three books, money, Your scocial security number, you name it.

❤️ Toriel’s usually the go to ‘hold tired swimmer gently’ person. And has done so for everyone in the main cast but Mettaton and Undyne. You could just fall asleep in those big ole’ arms.

Sans

❤️ He’s, as with most things, pretty nuetral about the ocean. Though, he adores the fact that it’s a day he can just slack off and relax in the sun (and sometimes water). He’s usually on the beach in a beach chair or sitting in a pool floaty, just drifting along. Sometimes he’s just latched onto Paps or Toriel, it’s kinda a wild card where he is at any given time.

❤️ He has never been sober ONCE while at the beach with the family. Mostly thanks to the fact that he somehow always has a martini in hand. No one knows where he gets it, let alone how it is almost always at least half way full. Needless to say, he’s at least buzzed by the end of the day.

❤️ Every time they go to the beach, he wears the most insane sunglasses. I’m talking Elton John style, but if they came from dollar tree. Normally it’s a pineapple pair, but they change on a whim. Once again, no ones entirely sure where they come from.

❤️ He briefly moved the illegal hotdog stand to beach, before the threat of getting fined was close enough to scadattle. This, the limited addition ‘Colddogs’ (now for 5g, wait he meant 50g, actually its 500-) became a thing. They were followed shortly by ‘Frozendogs’ (available in 50 flavors!)

❤️ The two never breathe a word of it, but every once in awhile Papyrus will rent a canoe and the two of them will go out on the water. They only do this at the dead of night, when the water is still and clear. Way out past the buoys, where it’s hard to see the shore, the moon and the stars bounce off the water in a shifting, funhouse esc reflection. Being out there, together, in practically silence..... It brings a lot of comfort to the two of them. It reminds Sans that yeah, this is real, and some things are worth remembering.

Papyrus

❤️ Paps is very fond of the shallows, but not a huge fan off big, open water. Unless he’s in the comfort of a canoe or boat. It’s just too big of a space. One can feel so... alone out there. But!! If he’s in chest or higher or with a group of close friends, he’s good!!

❤️ He bought special spandex gloves to wear in the water, ones that cover his fingers and palms without being skin (bone???) tight. They help him tread the water better, since he’s the opposite of buoyant. Which is definitely the only reason he bought them! No other reason in sight! Why would you even ask that?!

❤️ He, Undyne, and Frisk play ALOT of beach games, all far more extreme than their originals. The current turnomemt is over X-Treme volleyball, this time featuring antigravity magic and spears. Frisk is, somehow, winning.

❤️ A good portion of the time, he eats nice cream and makes sand castles with Flowey. Their creations are startlingly structurally sound and flourished. Though, they are also usually next to a life sized sand-Papyrus. No one knows where the sand came from.

❤️ He tried catch and realease shark fishing with Undyne once. It um, got interesting to say the least. Especially when they tried to use Papyrus as live bait. They only had to go to the ER twice!

Undyne (Aka my entire reason for writing this)

❤️ Undyne doesn’t love the ocean. She doesn’t even like the ocean. She ADORES the ocean. You can find her there almost every day after work, sun or storm. She never realized how much she would thrive in salt water until she was there, and now she can’t believe she lived without it. Its so raw and passionate and buetiful, and she’s just at home in the waves.

❤️ Her favorite time to be out is during a good storm, when the ocean is at her roughest. Undyne has learned how to boogie board and body surf since she got on the surface, and uses those huge waves to catch some air. She WANTS to learn how to surf, but has yet to find someone to teach her. Storms are also the best for letting the water roll over her and letting herself drift in the tides, both are pretty damn amazing feelings.

❤️ Because she can breathe and see under the water, she also likes to swim out really deep into the open ocean. No one in the family can follow, but it gives her a lot of time to think. Also, there are sometimes HUGE fish out there, which she greatly enjoys seeing and interacting with. She’s. she’s fought a tiger shark before. And probably other, larger and more dangerous things. (Also when she gets home, Alphys always talks about how her kisses taste like salt. Undyne loves it).

❤️ Before she became Asgore’s body gaurd, Undyne was pretty much out of work. Not a whole lot of people wanted a massive, sharp toothed, she-shark selling retail in their stores. But, being a fish and all, she got managed to get a job as a life gaurd over the summer! This ended in her actually giving swim lessons to a couple of kids (starting with Frisk)!! She is actually a pretty good trainer and still teaches a few kids every once in awhile over summer breaks.

❤️ Her and Asgore went on a fishing trip once! The boat nearly capsized, Undyne ended up going in to fish instead of using the pole, there were life lessons taught about patience, and Asgore got horrendously away sick. Needless to say, it was a good trip. They still have pictures on Asgore’s fridge!

Alphys

❤️ As much as her girlfriend loves it, she’s not actually a huge fan of the water. It’s overwhelming and dries out her scales, and when she’s in super deep it makes her really uncomfortable. She’s stared into oblivion before and, well, it’s not a good feeling. The deep sea reminds her of that.

❤️ That being said, she LOVES the beach itself. She could sun bathe for hours while Undyne is swimming. Just pop on her head phones, lay on the sand, and embrace her lizard heratage! Also, she likes to watch her hot girlfriend do hot things like catch fish in her teeth and throw skeletons, so it’s a win win.

❤️ Naturally, this means a lot of her and Undyne’s date end up at the beach one way or anouther. Every time they go now, Alphy makes a point of collecting a seashell. They all hang on a string over her bed, it’s her favorite part of the room.

❤️ More times than not, if the sand is particularly nice and warm, Alphys falls asleep on it. Like, hard core passed out asleep. She just loves the fluffy parts of the sand so much??? And it’s so comfortable??? And she’s gotten more than afew overheating from sleeping ALL day, but she can’t help herself. It’s just too cozy!

❤️ Her favorite thing about the ocean is always going to be seeing Undyne’s smile though. She loves it. She loves the way her girlfriend’s kisses taste after she’s been in the sea. She loves how content the girl is after a good swim, and how cuddly they get in the living room. She loves smelling the air and holding her hand and seeing the sun on the water. She wants to spend forever in her arms, on the sand, eating nice cream and watching the sun set.

Mettaton

❤️ So. He’s a robot. Alphys is currently working on waterproofing his body, but until then he’s shore bound. That doesn’t mean he won’t done his best sun hat and glasses, steal a life gaurd’s chair, and pose dramatically on the beach though!

❤️ Truth be told, he actually quite enjoys long walks on the beach. His boots are well protected enough to go a way into the water as well, so he takes them sometimes with Alphys. Also, night time on the beach holds SPECTACULAR song writing material! There’s something so inspirational about the atmosphere.

❤️ That being said, summer concerts are the bomb. Litterally. There’s pyrotechnics. He’s not as big a star as he was in the underground, but some local beach performances are well within his pay grade. The thrill of the stage! The cries of the people! The personality and connection to his adoring fans! The one time he crowd surfed! The fashion! It’s all just perfect!

❤️ He also frequents beach side shops, thanks to the atmosphere and outfit selection. One can NEVER go wrong with a floppy hat and a sheer coverup. It’s just impossible.

❤️ He relates WAY too hard to the little mermaid, both in the original story and Disney. There’s just something that hits too close to home about longing for humanity and a new, more comfortable body... He gets Ariel man, he gets her.

Asgore

❤️ He likes to go on long morning walks on the beach alone. There’s something comforting about the sun rise and the sound of the waves rolling around him. There’s something even more sweet about the rare conversations, only lasting a hello and small talk, all few and far between. Sometimes he finds himself wishing he had a dog to walk with him, but in the end decides against it. He’s been alone a long time, he can last one more day.

❤️ He really enjoys going shelling. Sometimes, he even likes to paint his finds and put them up in his windows. Frisk helps him, he likes that.

❤️ He’s become a vollenteer to help find and aid sea turtles’ hatch sites. He loves watching them hatch and get to the sea safely. Though he’s not supposed to, he’ll protect them from the gulls.

❤️ Thanks to being in so close to the sea, he had a brief phase of being rather in love with verities of seaweed and kelps. He tried to keep afew using water tanks, but could never quite get them right. Ah well, at least the petunias and roses are doing nicely.

❤️ He has a hard time reading or watching things about mermaids. They make him sad.

#undertale #whole cast #Asgores section made me tear up a lil ngl #I love him so much #Also!!! Fun fact of the day!!! #A lot of the stuff put on Undyne’s section are based on my own experiences and feelings! minus the breathing under water parts tho #I just. love the ocean man. #Can you tell I wanted to be a mermaid as a kid? #Because I wanted to SO bad #long post

[c-is-for-circinate]

The Three Dragons, or, Repentence, Revelry, and the Hero Resolve (a tale of Onde)

So when I offered to go telling stories from my D&D game the other, I got several votes for the elves, and I wrote that one out, but several people were also very interested in the dragons, and, well.  The Hero Resolve is one of my very favorite not-technically-a-god-but-honestly-might-as-well-be NPCs in this game, and making up folklore for a world that doesn’t exist is pretty damn awesome, so--

Once upon a time, there were three evil dragons.

.

Things tend to come in threes in stories.  On Nokomoris, where the entire eastern side of the continent has been settled for tens of thousands of years by dwarves, gnomes, and humans, tales of people-in-threes are everywhere.  This tale in particular, which has been told and retold so many times in a million forms that it’s barely recognizable, is sometimes told about a dwarf, a gnome, and a human villain, a trio of bandits or thieves or murderers or the like.  It’s also sometimes told about three trolls, or three vampires, or three unwary foxes, or anything at all that might bring harm to a small village in the middle of nowhere.

The way the story is most truthfully told, the way that matches up, more than it doesn’t, with the world that actually happened--begins with three dragons.  They were all of them adults but far from old yet, and they lived together in the mountains somewhere, in one lair shared between the three of them.

The largest and strongest and proudest of them all was the black dragon.  His very favorite thing was to come roaring in to a village or farm and strike terror into every heart, to ravage and ruin it and leave half of it to spoiling without even taking it for himself, and send the survivors terrified away to tell tales of his power and glory.  He was, he knew in his heart, the very very best; and he was full of violence and wrath, but his greatest sin was pride.

The fastest and cleverest and most joyfully cruel of them all was the green dragon.  Her very favorite thing to do was to catch just a scant clawful of little squishy two-legged people, and promise their survival if they’d play her game and could win it.  She never played fair but sometimes she let them go, if they’d entertained her just exactly the right amount to tickle her happy.  The world was, she knew in her heart, the most wonderful toy to be played; she knew vengeance and anger, but her greatest sin was cruelty.

The third dragon, the blue dragon, was the youngest and smallest of the three.  They were not as strong or as fast as their friends, though they were sturdy (and any dragon is strong and fast enough.)  They were not as clever or as vain, but they were wise (and every dragon is smart and beautiful enough.)  They were, in fact, very much the most practical dragon of the trio, and very much the most beloved.

(But C, you say, that’s not how dragon stats compare in 5e at all.  It’s blue dragons with the high str and cha, black dragons with the high dex.  The adult blue dragon CR is higher than the others!)

(But y’all, I say--this is a fairytale.  And also not all chromatic dragons exactly match their written stat blocks.)

(Yes.  I said “not all chromatic dragons”.  Back to the story.)

The third dragon was the practical one, as I said, and was very much the one who made it possible for three adult dragons to live and hunt and pillage the countryside together instead of fighting each other to miserable pieces.  The blue dragon had seen very easily how the three dragons might fight, and might destroy one another in the process, or might go their separate ways and each take his or her or their own small patch of territory, to defend from heroes and larger dragons alike--or they could band together and rule and ravage the skies. 

The blue dragon made sure that when they chose which village to attack, it would be large and mighty enough to satisfy the black dragon’s vanity, and that they didn’t accidentally step on anybody interesting enough to satisfy the green dragon’s need for a challenge.  They made sure that any survivors left to spread their tales could not raise an army against them, or find the secret trails up the mountainside to the dragons’ shared lair.  They ate nearly every two-legged victim the green dragon might have let go.  Their greatest sin was callousness, for they cared about no one at all besides their two dragon companions, and them only barely at that.

And so the three dragons fought, and flew, and thought themselves invincible for many years.

.

Now, there’s another figure that’s a cornerstone of folk tales throughout Nokomoris, and that, my friends, is the Pretty Witch.  Oh, she’s a princess sometimes, buckled under by the weight of trying to protect her kingdom, but on the whole, princess stories never really took off around here.  The great romantic heroine of the ages is the village witch.

Usually she’s a druid or a sorceress, to go by d&d terms.  Sometimes, in the stories, she summons a fae or a demon or a celestial or an elemental from another plane to help her against some great threat, and they fall in love; other times she captures an enemy and keeps them in her hut, and they fall in love as she nurses them to health and also interrogates them for their evil plan; in yet other stories, a brave hero faces all the witch’s challenges and proves they can protect her.  Some of the best stories, of course, combine all three.

Most real village witches never reach such a fairytale happily-ever-after, of course, or even get past casting second- and third-level spells.  The vast majority of village witches are either old enough to be someone’s (or everyone’s) mother or too busy to be interested in most offers of romance, and plenty of them are both.  That part’s true enough of the witch in this story, too.

Her power, on the other hand...

Well.  There are always exceptions.

.

The story says that one day as all three dragons swooped together onto a village on the edge of their territory, they watched a small woman step from a hut on the side of the village and raise a staff.  The story says that, mid-swoop, they began to feel themselves shrink--that the black dragon found his scales running together and turning soft and brown-pink-pale, and the green dragon found her claws growing short and weak and flat on her arms, and the blue dragon found their wings disappearing from their back even as they tried to pull up and fly away.

The story says that by the time the three dragons hit the ground, they were dragons no longer.  Every story argues, a bit, about what they were and which one was which, but--in every good bit of folklore about three people out in the world, there’s a dwarf, a gnome, and a human, so that must be what these three were here, right?

(It wasn’t, in reality--but it doesn’t really matter.   They were all people, soft and squishy two-leggers, and what does it change if all three were halflings or tieflings or even dragonborn, any more?)

They hit the ground on two legs each, naked and brown and pink and suddenly, for perhaps the first time in their long dragon lives, scared.  And all at once, they began to run.

(But C, you say--what about legendary resistances?  And anyway Polymorph is a concentration spell, one witch can’t cast it on three dragons at the same time anyway.  Hell, if they were swooping down on the village, fall damage alone should have knocked at least one of them out of it when they hit the--)

(Shhh, shh, I say.  It’s a story.  This isn’t how it really happened.  Of course it isn’t.  It really took days, or a team of adventurers, and probably both, and there were traps and wands and artifacts of all kinds that went into the doing.  This is only the version people tell each other--and it’s a better, shorter one, and lets us get to the rest of the story much quicker, usually.)

(But really, you say, even still, it’s just Polymorph--one good injury and they’d be right back to being themselves.  Surely three adult dragons would know enough about magic to realize that.  Surely one of them would be smart enough to try and injure themselves or one of the others to break it, right?  Maybe the blue one.)

(You have to let me get back to my story, for that.)

So--yes, yes, you’re right.  They all three of them hit the ground and fell immediately unconscious, how’s that?  Or perhaps only one of them did, but that was very much enough.  However it happened (and it must have been more than a thousand years ago, it must have been before Kera the Conqueror swept through the lands, must have been a thousand or two thousand years before your mother was born), however they fell, whatever they saw--the three ex-dragons did not become themselves again.  The spell did not break.

(Not even True Polymorph can do that, you say--

Yes, I say.  I know.)

(And why do we keep interrupting the story like this, anyway?)

(Well.  Because it’s a fairytale.  It’s the lore of legends.  This is a story to tell at bedtimes and campfires and long afternoons spent working with your hands while the children at your feet learn to spin yarn and shell beans and mend things.  This is the sort of story that’s meant to be told with interruptions.)

.

The man who had once been the black dragon woke up, and discovered that he was still a man, and he fled.

He had no direction in mind; his head was clouded, and his eyes were weak, and his feet were soft and clawless and he had no wings at all, and he had never run across ground like this before in all the many years of his life.  He had no thought save escape, and he ran without stopping except to fall to his knees and drink from a nearby stream like a dog before he forced himself up to run again.

He collapsed, eventually, outside a woodcutter’s hut.  He could not even bestir himself when the woodcutter and his wife brought him inside to nurse him back to health.

It took a full week before he could do more than stand and hobble, and in that time the woodcutter’s family nursed him with nothing but kindness, and man who had once been a black dragon found himself struck to the heart by it.  He had done so many things in his time as a dragon that he had been proud of, but now it seemed that he was a person, weak and desperate, and would be for the rest of his life.  It was unthinkable that a mere woodcutter like this should nurse a great black dragon back to health.

It was unthinkable for a person to have done the things the man had done, when he was a dragon.  How could a man live in this world of men, having done such things?  How could he be proud of who he was?  And so, faced with the kindness of the woodcutter’s family, the man who’d once been the black dragon began to feel the most tremendous guilt that has ever been felt in all the world for the things he’d done.

(Oh? Do you doubt him?  But man, or dragon, or dwarf, or tabaxi, whatever he was--he’d always been the best.  If he couldn’t be the very best killer, he could at least be the best at guilt.)

He would atone, he decided.  He would atone for the rest of his life.

When the man who’d once been a dragon could stand and walk without pain, dressed in the woodcutter’s old clothes and boots, the woodcutter finally asked what his name was.

“Repentance,” the man said, and went on his way to seek it, and that was the last anybody ever saw of the great black dragon.

.

(Oh, you think there’s more?  Of course there is.  A man appeared in the city to the south, and set himself to punishing every evil, including himself, however he could, and there are enough stories about him to last hours.  None of them are happy, of course--even when he found love, he could not allow it to bring him joy, because of course he deserved none.  And so the man Repentance found himself bringing sorrow even now to those who came to care about him most, caught in an endless loop of sin, and so he could never forgive himself or be redeemed, no matter what.  But at least he wasn’t a dragon.

Is that better?)

.

The woman who had once been the green dragon was even now a little cleverer than her first friend, and when she stood and realized that she was still a woman and not a dragon at all, she fled with a goal in mind.

It took days of careful, desperate travel, but she knew all the secret paths back to their lair in the mountains, where the three dragons had kept all the wealth and weapons they’d claimed as treasure over the years.  The woman draped herself in finery that seemed coarser and fouler-smelling now than it had when she was enormous and beautiful without it.  She put on the armor she’d plucked from the backs of knights, and then took it off again when it was too heavy, and eventually she had dressed and armed herself and filled a pack with as many riches as her new weak arms could carry, and set off again before anyone else could arrive to find her.

She found a port, and made her way onto a ship, bound over the sea to a land that had never known her as anything but this.  She sailed for days, and planned out her future.

She had lost her claws and so much of her power, but the world was still built of games, was it not?  And she could still play, with money and cleverness and secrets.  She was beautiful, apparently, by the standards of people, even if she was so much less awesome and terrible than she’d once been.  She could make claws out of daggers and a life out of this.  She could be a lady, a thief, a queen.  She could make do.

(You think she should be despairing, vengeful, angry?  Woman or dragon, gnome or goliath, no matter what--she was always ready to carve joy out of any chest she could find.  Why not find it again?)

When she disembarked in the new land, the guard at the port asked for her name.  “Revelry,” she said, and went off to seek it, and that was the last anybody ever saw of the great green dragon.

.

(Oh, it’s a parable now, is it?  Well.  What good folk story isn’t?

You want the rest?  She became a bandit queen and a baroness, and was feared and adored by many, and gathered riches and servants and lovers and secrets.  You could tell stories for days about the wicked and cruel exploits of the Baroness Revelry, and some of them would be sexy, and some of them would be fun, and some of them would leave you feeling queasy in the pit of your stomach afterwards, and in some of them, you’d be on her side.  After all, at least she wasn’t a dragon.

Is that enough?)

.

When the person who had once been the blue dragon awoke, they saw the witch of the village.  They saw the look in her eyes.  They saw the deep forest, and their own new delicate feet and hands and bones, and the torches from the other villagers approaching.

They stayed put.

The witch stayed, too, and watched them, and when the townspeople arrived she sent them away.  The witch was a very long way from young, and not as beautiful as she should have been, for this to be a really good story, but--for all that, there was something of power in her eyes.

“What will you do now?” the witch asked of the person who had once been a blue dragon, who had not taken their own eyes from the witch’s face and her gnarled broomstick.

“I don’t know,” said the person who was not a dragon any longer, who did not see any benefit to lying.  “What would you have me do?”

They were both quiet for a long moment as the witch looked the ex-dragon over, with her thoughts as impenetrable as a witch’s mind ever are.  Then she said, “Come inside.  I have floors that need sweeping and wood that will need chopping for the winter.”

.

The person who’d been a blue dragon slept on a pile of blankets on the witch’s floor.  The witch gave them chores to do in return.  They fetched water from the well, and scrubbed and cleaned, and learned to cook and tend a garden.  It was not a thing like being a dragon, except for all the wrong reasons.  The witch was small, and kind, and old, and not a bit of her was weak.  The no-longer-dragon had never known anyone as relentlessly practical as themself before.

Nearly every day people from the village would come by.  Some would come begging for help with colds and children and cows, and the witch was always kind to them, while her new lodger watched from the corner with sharp dragon-gold eyes.  Others would come with gifts, a few eggs here or a sack of flour there.  Sometimes the villagers with gifts had asked for help in the days before, and sometimes they hadn’t.

The person who was no longer a dragon asked questions, sometimes, and the witch would answer them, sometimes.

“Why do they bring you tribute?  Do you require it of them?”

“No,” said the witch, and, “they do it because it is kind, and right, and makes their world better in the long run.  Now go tend to the garden.”

Or, “Why do you not take over this village and half the countryside?  You have the power for it.”

“Because I do not wish it,” said the witch, and, “because they do not need me to, and because they and I are all happier that I do not.  Now go and tend the garden.”

Or, “Why are you kind to the ones who do not bring you gifts or tribute?  They do nothing for you, but you are generous to them.”

“Because,” said the witch, “it is kind, and I am able, and they are not, and that is what it means to be a person.  Now go and tend to the garden.”

Every time she answered a question, the witch would send them out to tend the garden.  The ex-dragon was careful with every plant, because it was only foolish to be careless with a witch’s garden, and learned to water every one exactly as much as it needed.  They learned to harvest berries and vegetables and herbs, and tend to the flowers and shrubs that produced nothing of any value, but only grew.  And they began, little by little, to understand.

.

Eventually it was winter.  The witch showed the one-time blue dragon how to drag their blankets closer to the fire, and how to chop the firewood and bank it at night to keep it going so they would both stay warm, and all the other things that needed to be done with the world frozen in white.

There was no more work to do in the garden, but by then the no-longer-dragon’s questions had changed, too.

“Why did you turn me into this?”  The witch could have picked anything, after all--a rabbit or an insect or a stone, and never thought about it ever again.  But she had chosen a person, who could walk and talk and think and work.

“Because it would save this village,” the witch said.  “I had not a care for you at all.  Now come and learn this potion.”

Or, weeks later, “Why did the villagers forgive me?”  They still came every day, and nodded to the ex-dragon when they passed, and didn’t flinch to do it.  They were not witches.  They didn’t have her power.

“Because they don’t know who you are,” the witch said.  “Or because they know and don’t care, or because you have done them no harm since coming here, or because they are too dead to hold a grudge, or perhaps they haven’t forgiven you at all and are only pretending.  Now go and bring this amulet to the miller and his wife.”

Or, after even more weeks, when it was nearly spring--”Why did you let me stay?”

“You know the answer to that already,” said the witch.  The person who had once ravaged the entire countryside as a great evil blue dragon found that they did know, after all.  It was the same reason as the bushes with no berries and the amulet for the miller, and everything else, too.

“Is there a difference between a dragon and a person?” the dragon-who-wasn’t asked.  “Between a tiefling and an aasimar and a human?  Between anything at all?”

“You know the answer to that, too,” said the witch, and of course, of course they did, by now.  “Ask what you really want to know.”

“Do you care now?” the person asked.  “Do you care about me, even though you didn’t then?”

The witch’s hard face softened, then.  “Do you?” she asked in return.  “Have you learned to care, after all that?”

The person thought about needy bushes and hungry inchworms and a thousand trips to the well on foot, about tea with the miller’s wife and little brown eggs from the seamstress’s daughter.  They thought about whether they already knew the witch’s response to this question too, in their heart, and what it would mean if they were wrong.

“You know the answer to that,” the person who was a witch’s apprentice now said, because they had learned well, and because some things hurt too much to admit if they’re not returned.

Then the witch stepped forward, finally, and pulled them into her arms like a mother.  “You’re my own child, now,” she said.  “Everything changes.  The past only matters because it gave us what we have now.”

.

(Does it seem too easy?  It’s not.  Growth never, ever is.

It took more than a summer and a winter, when it really happened.  It took more pain and more yelling and more doubt to build that trust.  But it did grow.  And the story’s tidier, like this.)

(And if the forgiveness here surprises you on either side, or the willingness to try, well--)

(Witches are practical down to their bones, and whether they use it to be cruel or kind or selfish or saviors-of-all is down to them, but they all know there’s no sense in discarding an outstretched hand when it’s offered.  It worked, this time, for the right people with just the right amount of neediness and hope.  Sometimes the world does that.)

.

By the time summer came around again, the witch’s apprentice had had plenty of time to think and ponder and consider who they were to become.

The only difference between a dragon and a person was their shape, after all, so what was evil for a person must also be evil for a dragon.  What was wrong for a person must also be wrong for a dragon, and always had been, whether the dragon they’d been had known it or not.  So: they had done great evil, long ago and far away, and could not make it undone.  What next?

The witch, who was just as practical as her apprentice, sat and talked to them as they cooked and knit and worked potions and spells together in the hut all winter long, and by the time the world was warm again, the apprentice had made a decision.

“I can’t stay,” they said.  “I’ve done too much harm in the world.  I need to go out and do it good instead.”

“Because you think it will fix things?” the witch asked, to make sure, and also because she had grown to love her apprentice as her own child and did not want to see them leave, either.

“No,” said the apprentice, who had learned well.  “Because it’s kind and right and I’m able.”

“So be it,” said the witch, and hugged them close, and said, “Be Resolve, then, and return safe when you can.”

“Resolve,” the new druid said.  They went off not to seek it, for they’d already found it in their own heart, but to see it through.

And that was the last anybody ever saw of the blue dragon.

.

And that’s the end of the story.

.

(Well.  It’s an end.)

(Oh, you want to know about the Hero Resolve?  There are months‘ worth of stories about that, and you’d probably know a few dozen of them yourself already, if you lived in Nokomoris.  They all go more or less the same way, really.)

(The Hero Resolve arrives in a town, or a valley or kingdom or mountain or an island in the middle of the sea, and someone, somewhere, is suffering.  They find somebody with the power to do something about it.  It might be the sufferer themself, sometimes, but usually it’s not.  Maybe it’s the local lord who’s too distracted to notice the problem, or the local witch who’s too overwhelmed to cope.  Maybe the local bandits are too incompetent at stealing to provide for their children.  Resolve isn’t always picky in the way you’d expect, when they choose who to give advice.)

(The advice isn’t always easy to follow, mind you.  There’s hardly a good story in that.  But if they do follow Resolve’s suggestions--they’ll live happily ever after, eventually.)

(If not, Resolve will generally have to beat them up first, with shillelagh staff or beast form or just a bit of bare-handed cleverness, probably, depending on who’s telling the story.  But everyone else will live happily ever after anyway.)

(And that’s it.  That’s the Hero Resolve.  They roamed for years, back and forth across the continent, to every place you could ever name.  They fixed a lot of problems.  They probably took a couple levels in monk or something.  Every culture on Nokomoris has some variant on the Stubborn Hero stories if you ask.)

.

...

...

(Oh, you want more?)

.

(Well then.)

.

Once upon a time, as the Hero Resolve was out wandering the land, they came upon a rumor of a great evil on the other side of the sea.

(There, that’s how these stories are supposed to start, right?)

Since they had nothing else better to do that afternoon, they packed up their staff and their lunch and all their magic items, the bow with a string spun from spider-silk that could send an arrow through solid rock, the cloak that looked like a midsummer sky dyed with berries grown in water from the Spring of Life, and so on and so forth, as y’do.  They took a boat and sailed over to the kingdom on the other side of the sea and asked the crew and the passengers what they’d heard in these rumors about a cruel baroness who tormented the land with her powers, and pondered how they’d deal with the problem when they got there.

They had just about enough information to go looking for the Baroness’s castle when they disembarked in port, and found it in short enough order.  Some versions say they asked a magpie for help.  Other versions say the Baroness sent the magpie herself, to invite the renowned hero into her parlor, looking for another game or--

Or who knows what.  The important thing is that Resolve found themself ushered into a lavish entryway draped in silver and velvet, and from there into an even more lavish parlor draped in damask and gold, and then into an even more lavish dining room draped in platinum and silk.  They were still dressed in their sea-salt-stained traveling leathers, with their spidersilk bow and their sky blue cloak.  They had their iron knife at their belt, and their staff that had been a gift from the witch when they first left home, that looked like nothing so much as the gnarled stick of a broom with the bristles pulled off.  And there in the dining room of sumptuous luxury, they sat down to wait.

When the Baroness herself came in, she was--well, nobody is quite sure what she was, gnome or tiefling or even a tall graceful elf, in a world before elves.  She could have been dragonborn or human or one of the cat-people, bird-people, turtle-people from the south, who knows?  It’s different every time somebody tells the story.  Everybody agrees, though, on this: that she was as breathtakingly beautiful as a single moon on a pitch-dark night, and that her eyes glittered the color of gold.

Their eyes met, the Hero Resolve and the Baroness Revelry, two pairs of dragon-gold eyes in faces that should not have held them.  For one long, breathless moment, it was as though no time had passed at all, and then they fell into each others’ arms and hugged with arms they’d never had to put around each other before.

.

Resolve and Revelry slept that night curled up like lovers in Revelry’s enormous fur-draped bed.  They spoke, a little, about where and how and who they’d been in all the years since they’d seen each other.  They hid more.  The Great Hero Resolve had made a whole life out of seeing the end of the sort of deeds the Evil Baroness Revelry had made a life out of seeing done.  There was only so much they could admit to each other of themselves.

And yet...they were still both of them so very much themselves.  Revelry’s grin and sparkling wicked wit still brought Resolve to helpless laughter.  Resolve’s steadiness and dry understated insight warmed and calmed a thing in Revelry’s chest that had not been calm in so many years.  They had neither of them been quite this happy in all the time they’d been apart, and now, back with each other again, it seemed like the real loss hadn’t been their claws and fangs and wings at all.

Resolve was used to sleeping lightly and waking early.  The witch always rose with the sun, and it was only sensible for a hero on the road, whether they camped by the side of the road or in haylofts or let themself be made a guest of anywhere.  They opened their eyes with the first light of dawn, and looked down at the woman sleeping next to them, and thought about the sharp edge of their iron belt knife, which had killed fiends and monsters and people.

It would be simple, to do the job they’d come here to do.  They loved their oldest, dearest friend, of course they did, but--

How does an evil thing love?  It seemed impossible that Resolve could have ever really loved their dragon-companions, back when they were still a dragon, before they understood what love or evil or being a person even meant.  It seemed impossible for Resolve to still love her now, and if Revelry was still the same as she had been, how could she ever love anything at all in return?

The Hero Resolve felt the hilt of their knife on the floor beside the bed, and watched their long-lost heart’s companion sleep until Revelry opened her eyes, glinting golden in the morning sun.  And looking at those eyes, Resolve let the knife go, and promised themself that they would try again tomorrow.

That day they breakfasted together, and Revelry showed Resolve all the halls of her manor and all the gardens of her estate, and Resolve showed off some of their many shapes and forms, and they told longer and truer stories about their lives.  Resolve tried to grasp for their namesake every time they caught a glimpse of the evil in Revelry’s stories, again and again, all afternoon and all night.  They slept tangled together in the same bed again.

And so they lived for a week, with Resolve trying to find conviction within themself and failing, with Revelry discovering more joy in her long-lost friend than she’d felt in all the years in between, with Resolve’s iron knife tucked safely beneath their pillow in Revelry’s bed every night.

.

On the seventh morning, Resolve got as far as drawing the knife in hand.  They’d thought a million times this week about attacking their old friend in the middle of the day, and every time they caught sight of those old familiar eyes, they lost the nerve.  Murdering a sleeping lover in her very bed...it was cowardly and dishonorable, of course, but it would be effective.  Effective mattered more than honorable.  Resolve had learned that from the witch all those years ago.

Results mattered more than intentions.  Fine, Resolve loved Revelry with so much of their heart that this might break them forevermore.  So what?  Revelry was a monster, a scourge on the land around her, a murderer and worse.  That mattered.  Resolve’s own heart would heal, or wouldn’t.  They’d slaughtered too many people in their own time for their feelings to be worth more than the lives of Revelry’s future victims now.

And yet, as they sat poised with knife in hand, watching Revelry sleep...once more, they hesitated.  And this time, when Revelry opened her eyes, she saw the knife before Resolve could tuck it away.

“Are you going to kill me, my love?” Revelry asked, as calmly as a still summer morning.

“Yes,” said Resolve.  “Yes I am, because whatever you are to me, you bring so much suffering to the rest of the world.  It’s kind and right to do this, and I’m able, and whatever else I am or ever have been, I choose to be a person.”

Revelry nodded a long, slow nod in the quiet of the room’s dawn light.  Resolve waited for her to grab for a weapon or a spell or Resolve’s own staff, for the Baroness had become quite a wizard in her own right in the time since they’d known each other last.  And they waited, poised and frozen, until Revelry said,

“Then I’ll let you.”

Resolve drew back in shock and confusion, and Revelry continued, “I’ve felt more joy this week with you than from any thing I’ve seen or done in all the years we’ve been apart.  I’d rather you kill me than watch you leave again.  I’d rather know I could at least make you happy.”

“This won’t make me happy,” Resolve snapped, with tears in their eyes.  “It has to be done, even if it does ruin me to do it, but that doesn’t make me happy about it.”

Revelry frowned, then, and for the first time began to reach below her own pillow.  “Really?”

“You know I love you,” said Resolve, and all in a flurry their iron knife met the rod Revelry kept tucked safely to hand in bed every night, just in case--though this hadn’t been the way she’d expected to use it.

“Then I can’t let you kill me,” Revelry said, rolling to her feet and facing off against the great hero now, both of them barely armed and dressed in bedclothes, squaring off with the enormous fur-draped bed between them.  “I love you too much to let anything make you miserable, including yourself, whatever you think about your morals now.”  And then they fell to fighting.

It was a strange, furious half-battle, both of them trying too hard not to hurt the other in spite of themselves, desperately working to keep their voices down before the servants of the house could hear and came running.  They twisted and fought, arguing the whole time--

“I can’t just let you keep doing the things you’ve always done!  You were given a chance at a whole new life, and still you’ve chosen to be a monster!”

“Why do you care about them?  What are any of them worth that you care more about them than yourself?”

“Because they’re people!  And I’m a person!  And so are you, but you don’t want to be!”

“If I stop tricking idiots to their deaths, will that make you happy?  And keep you from trying to do something ridiculous and self-destructive like murdering your own lover in the name of honor?”

“It doesn’t count if you’re only doing it to please me!  I can’t be the only thing in the whole world you care about!  Your entire morality can’t just be me!”

“Well why not?”

And they fell back, both of them panting and bloodied, in now-ragged night gowns, staring at each other from opposite sides of a destroyed room.

“I don’t care about torturing them,” said Revelry.  “It’s fun.  I don’t care if it makes me evil, I don’t care about them or their feelings or their stupid little lives, but I care about you.  I’ll stop it all, if you ask me to.”

“This is a terrible foundation for a relationship,” Resolve said.  “But fine.”

.

(Yes, I’m taking liberties with the story.  Know your audience, they say.  Most of the time that bit’s just a lot of arguing, or more violent and less dramatic or romantic depending on who’s telling it, but who doesn’t love a good half-naked sword fight?  Why ruin the tattered nightgowns thinking about the fact that the two major participants are mainly caster-classes, anyway?)

(One of them is clearly an illogical idiot, you say.  Fair enough, but let’s table the discussion there before you and your neighbors get into your own virtual brawl over which one it is.  They’re both illogical idiots.  That’s how love--and fairytales-- work.)

(Want a life lesson from this one?  Don’t turn a single person into your entire moral compass and your whole world.  Also, don’t try to force yourself to stab the person you’re in love with for the Greater Good.  None of this exactly how it actually went, and it only worked out in the end with a whole lot of luck and a lot more hard work than we have time and space for here.  This is a fairytale.  It’s not meant to be exact history.)

(But yes, from me to you--it did really end happily-ever-after, even when it actually happened.  Or at least, as-happily-as-ever, which is about as good as real life ever gets.)

.

In the end, Resolve and Revelry slipped off in the middle of the afternoon, without a single word to the servants or any sign of their going.  Revelry brought a single small bag of tools and treasure, less even than she’d taken from her old hoard when she first began this life, and they boarded a boat back across the sea under fake names, with secret grins that threatened to burst out into laughter at every moment.

Resolve brought Revelry back to the home of the witch who they still called Mother, and introduced her by name, and did not explain the details of their past, although the witch was canny and clever and figured it out right away anyway.  Eventually, when Resolve ventured forth across the land once again, Revelry came with them, and together they learned to turn saving-the-world into a game interesting enough to keep Revelry’s attention even when Resolve wasn’t watching them at every moment.  She never did quite learn to embrace guilt or regret, but she grew to find a soft spot for scrappy, clever underdogs who just needed half a chance to learn to fight.

They did eventually come to the city where the man Repentance lived and worked, and met him and embraced him again, for a while.  He still remembered his love for the blue dragon, but he could not forgive his one-time companions for their pasts any more than he could forgive himself.  Revelry, at least, was easy for him to condemn and hate, but most especially he could not understand how Resolve might have come to see the evil of their past crimes and yet still willingly laugh and live and find joy in it all anyway.  In the end they parted ways quickly, for while they all three of them now sought to bring good to the world, Resolve and Revelry chose to pursue it through happiness and hope, and Repentence could only see regret.

And so they traveled on for many years, and lived very nearly happily for very nearly forever after, and that’s all there is to the story of the Hero Resolve and the Baroness Revelry.

.

The end.

.

(No, I mean it this time.)

.

(Look, that’s the end of the story!  There’s plenty of other little side-stories and folktales in there, but whenever anybody on Onde actually tells this story, this is where it ends.  That’s how it goes!)

(Yes, I mean it.)

(Yes, I realize I've said that these are two extremely high-level spellcasters, both of whom remember spending centuries of their lives as nigh-immortal dragons and one of whom has barely found enough of a sense of right and wrong to qualify as Chaotic Neutral.  And I’m suggesting they lived out the rest of their short natural lives as a couple of flightless humanoids and never found a way to correct their lives or forms.  And they never ran into any desperate tragedy of disparate species lifespans, or had to deal with archdruid timeless body, or--)

(Yes.  Yes, I did say at the beginning of the post that this was the story of my very favorite near-godlike NPC, but--)

.

(Okay.  Okay, fine.)

(There’s one more thing to know.)

(This isn’t part of the story, though, so don’t go spreading it around.  Nobody on Onde knows this part, except for those that do.  And that’s a story for a very different day.)

.

True Polymorph is a ninth-level spell.  It can transform any willing wizard or druid who’s already at a high enough level to cast it into a fully-grown adult green or blue dragon with ease.  It’s permanent, if you concentrate on it for a full hour.  And dragons can cast spells, even the sorts of spells that would let them turn back into an old humanoid form that’s gotten comfortable and familiar, and maybe they rarely learn to do much in the first thousand years or so of life, but most dragons aren’t forced to live as humanoids for a couple of decades or centuries to figure out how, so--

Well.  True Polymorph lasts without being concentrated on, anyway, once it sticks, but--even it doesn’t tend to hold up well to dropping to zero hit points or running afoul of a Dispel Magic, after a while.

(Yes, the RAW are ambiguous, here.  And?  This is Onde.  True Polymorph can guide the world into holding a new shape indefinitely, but it can’t rewrite the truth of existence.)

A fully-grown adult dragon may not find themself reduced to zero hit points all that often, but Resolve and Revelry weren’t about to give up adventuring just to return to their old forms forever.  Dispel could get...awkward.  There had to be a safer way, didn’t there?

“How did you make it stay?” Resolve asked the witch, so many years later that even an archdruid such as the witch had become old.  She shook her head.

“There’s a spell,” she said.  “With components I never saw in all my life before or since.  They’re long gone now.”

(Was it a spell?  Was it a one-use spell scroll, enchanted in centuries gone by and long forgotten?  Was it a magic item?)

(Does the nature of the MacGuffin matter, in the end, or just its effect?)

“But the spell exists” said Resolve--and, well, what are heroes for if not tracking down mysteries and finding components?  Plane-shifting to gather sap from the forests of the gods, or the bones of every material plane, or the dust from the plains below Sigil itself, or--well.  Does that matter, either, the how?

It’s very difficult to tell a legendary hero that there’s no way.

.

(They transformed the man Repentance back, too, when they changed themselves.  It took them two days to hunt him down and slaughter him, two dragons against one, when he decided that it was his duty as a dragon again to do exactly the thing that dragons were for.)

(It goes like that, sometimes.  Not every redemption arc quite works.  You can tell yourself that he let his oldest companions rip his throat out, in the end, out of the last shards of love for them or horror at what he’d become.  It might be true.)

(Everybody learns.  What they learn, on the other hand, is entirely up to them.)

.

There are people to the west of the Western Wall mountains, in the dragonlands where all colors of dragon are common, and known, and feared, who tell a story about a high valley in the dry lands of the peaks, surrounded by dense pine forests and bare dust-blasted stone and open sky.  If you need something--if you truly need something, and you’re desperate enough to do what it takes to get it, you can climb up there looking and ask.

You’ll get advice from somebody, if you’re lucky, if you can make it past the storms and the woods and the heights up the secret paths to get there.  Follow it no matter what, however hard it is, and things will turn out happily ever after for you in the end.  If you reject the advice, things will turn out happily ever after for someone, probably, but there’s a good chance you’ll get your ass kicked on top of the problems you already had, first.

It’s not a bad place to retire, when you’re old and enormous enough to call yourself truly Ancient.  Ruling the whole world is a nice idea to toss around every couple of decades, but really, it’s such a lot of work, and--really, it’s enough of a job just being your wife’s conscience (or letting your spouse be your conscience), let alone taking on an entire planet full of other people too.  Better, really, to let things go along on their own way.

It’s not a bad place to raise children up here, either.  Oh, there’s plenty of bloodlust and rage in most wyrmlings of any color, but--what’s bloodlust and rage got to do with anything?  How is anyone supposed to learn how to be a person, without somebody there to teach them that they are?

They go their own way, when they’re old enough, and some of them for the better and some of them for the worse, but--

Well.  That really is beyond the end of this story.  There’s no telling what hasn’t happened yet.

.

As to ‘happily-ever-after’...

That’s a fairytale ending, of course.  Resolve and Revelry have been to the feywild plenty enough times to know a fair few fairy tales direct from the source themselves, but at this point, we’re not really telling a campfire bedtime story any more, is it?  Now it’s just backstory for a couple of NPCs who are still alive.  They’re as happy as any old married couple who’s had centuries to grow into each other.

They’re not quite gods, because even an ancient dragon with an archwizard’s spellbook or an archdruid’s control is still a creature of flesh and blood and bone, and mortal in their own way.  Some villain or hero or furious ex-student, some god or quest or just old age and ennui will get them eventually.  No telling how, though, or when.  No telling what might happen in the mean time.

No telling when the Hero Resolve might pull on a different shape and go on walkabout for another few years once again, with or without their love at their side, and see what they’re able to do for the world.

#C the DM #worldbuilding #fairytales #d&d #dragons #C writes stuff #I've been sitting on this story for AGES #so glad I was able to incorporate it into this D&D world #original fiction #story time

[devnicolee]

The Chosen Ones (5)

Warnings: Slow burn 

Word Count: 10,079

Pairing: M’Baku x Original Character

M'Baku's hands painfully clutched the sides of the window, half of its shattered glass scattered around his feet. His eyes were transfixed on the path of smoke slowly dissipating into nothing like he was hypnotized, as if his intense stares alone could bring the woman who flew out the window moments prior back to him. Every second that passed and every mile she traveled farther away from home and him, his frustration and rage at the people left behind grew. It only took moments, barely enough time for the group to catch their breath and truly process everything that transpired, for his rage to boil over. 

"I hope all of you are happy," he said slowly, voice quiet and deadly as he turned around to face Asha's family and the remaining council members. Despite being in the presence of the Dora and the Black Panther, most of the group shrank in his shadow. Usually, M’Baku’s bark was bigger than his bite, not nearly as terrifying or intimidating as his appearance would have someone believe. But it seemed his gentle giant personality flew out the window with the love of his life and before them stood, simply, a raging giant. 

"Excuse me?" T'Challa asked as silence fell over the group. "Are you blaming this on us?" T’Challa was frustrated, already internally blaming himself for how utterly spectacularly his plan failed. He genuinely thought he was helping, and perhaps foolishly, did not even once consider this outcome. He expected outrage, anger, of course. No decision he made came without those from someone. But this? This type of catastrophe? He was wholly unprepared. But he did know that hearing someone voice the thoughts already swirling around in his mind caused rage to flare up in him.

"Well, who else is to blame King T'Challa? You are the ones who were forcing her to hide and pretend and lie. You all created t-this system that treats her like a second-class citizen, that allows people like that woman to attack her. What in Hanuman's name did you expect? That she would be able to sit here and take that all her entire life?" M'Baku yelled, his voice booming, vibrating throughout the large throne room. 

"Not that I need to justify the choices of this family to you or anyone, Shuri and I have been trying to help Asha. You wouldn't even know her, wouldn't be able to sit and judge us if I had not forced her to join the tribe and take that job in Jabariland in the first place! She didn't even want it. You have known her for what? A month? We," he emphasized, gesturing toward the sister he had left, "have been here by her side her entire life!" T'Challa voice raised to match M'Baku's as the men traded verbal jabs at the other, neither willing to shoulder the blame the other carelessly tossed at their feet.

"Yes, and some help the two of you have been while she was being emotionally abused and mistreated in her own home. This," he scoffed, "this isn't a life! What you and your parents forced upon her isn't a life. And you didn't fight for her to have the life she deserved. From where I am sitting, you never have. If you had, it wouldn't have taken 25 years. If you had, she would not have felt the need to flee out of your window to Hanuman knows where!"

"And what of you hm? Did you ever stop to think about why Asha didn't flee up to the mountains to be with you the first chance she got? Since you know her so well... since you offered her freedom and a real life that we didn't? Because maybe Asha understood what it could cost all of us, maybe she understood there are larger obligations at play. But you don't care about the cost! To us... or to Asha for that matter. You don't care about what is best for her and her family. You just care about her being who you want her to be. You don't love her for her, you love her for her powers. How is that any different than Hasani? Or my father who demanded she be who they wanted?" He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself before adding, "If you knew my sister as well as you think you do, you would know that she would never choose to sacrifice this family for herself." 

"I knew you didn't deserve to be King, time and time again you prove that you are just a boy. A child who has no concept of leadership," M'Baku spat. "Because if you did, you would have been willing to sacrifice it all for her.  It would never have to be her choice! You all had countless opportunities to do something different, to avoid the consequences of being indifferent to hate. When your parents or the Council plucked at the threads holding your sister together, you did nothing. Because you do not care about her, you only care about your family's grip on power, just like your father."  

T'Challa's eyes flashed red as M'Baku's words sank in. A king no longer stood before him, the Black Panther and a very overprotective brother did. His suit instinctively wrapped its protective fibers around his body, launching him into attack mode. The only sounds in the room were sharp breaths and the collective bang of the Dora banishing their spears, ready to defend their King if needed. There was no room for God, Bast or Hanuman as the safe space separating the two vanished completely. Verbal blows were over, physical ones were zooming toward them with the speed of a panther as T'Challa said in a low voice, "Do. Not. Ever. insinuate that I --"

"Alright, enough boys, enough!" Nakia yelled, cutting off her boyfriend and pushing her way between the two men. Her hands pushed against each of their chests to force them apart. She didn't expect to actually move them, and she didn't, but it gave them both a physical signal to retreat to their figurative corners. They could argue all day if they wanted but Nakia knew it would be a worse end to an already terrible day if T'Challa killed one of his council members.

"You are all dismissed," she called out forcefully to the remaining council members, who no one else seemed to realize were still there. They all seemed to be too invested in the drama, feeling that the council meetings had gotten far more interesting now that T'Challa was king. And though Nakia actually did not have the authority to end any meetings, they all scampered, quickly gathering their things to leave. Once the last soul exited, leaving M'Baku and the Royal Family behind, Nakia added, "We all failed her and so we all shoulder the blame for this. Had we not... she would here and not... not lost. Arguing over who failed her the most and who loves her the most won't help us find her or help us get her back. So, let us focus on that for now and then Asha can tell us all how much we failed her in person. Agreed? Good." She answered herself, not waiting for either man to respond before redirecting her attention to Shuri. "Now, Shuri, can you trace the signal from her beads?"

Shuri had been silent those far, watching the two men argue from the window. She wiped the stray tear or two from her eyes as she walked back to her original seat and picked up her tablet. After a couple of seconds, a large-scale 3-D map of Wakanda was projected at their feet. The group moved out of the way to get a better view, looking down to see a thin red line labeled "Princess Asha Udaka" appear and slowly zigzag its way out of the inner dome around the Capitol. The dot traveled a short distance in the wilderness before stopping abruptly above the Land of the Heart-Shaped Herb.

"Her trail ends here," Shuri stated, pointing at the end of the line. 

"So she is there?" M'Baku stated, half as a matter of fact statement and half as a question. "Let us go and get her." 

"I didn't say she was there. I said her signal ends there," Shuri snapped back, understandably still angered at M'Baku's earlier attack as they were directed at both she and T'Challa.

She continued tapping away as Nakia said, "How is that possible? Override her tracker bead and find her that way."

"I am working on it," Shuri responded immediately, clearly agitated. There was silence as Shuri tapped away on her screen, eyes growing bigger. 

"What is it, Shuri?" T'Challa asked.

"She destroyed her beads, either accidentally or on purpose. We won't be able to find her this way."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, if she manually turned off her tracker, I would be able to override it but I can't. And right before it stopped transmitting a location, her health bead sent out a distress signal, then stopped tracking and recording all health data. That bead never turns off, it can't. It records everything to the minute. So, best guess, and my guesses are usually never wrong, she destroyed them." 

"I thought you couldn't destroy vibranium?" M'Baku asked, not truly understanding how the beads or vibranium worked. 

"You can destroy anything if you have something powerful enough. Asha's powers certainly aren't enough to destroy vibranium, you know - reduce it to atoms. But with enough sustained fire, it can melt. And the beads are made of more than vibranium. Once exposed to an open flame for too long, the tech can be rendered useless. The point is, her beads won't help us. She could be fine and not want to be found. But... she could be hurt and be unable to tell anyone. We just don't know, so we have to find her the old-fashioned way." 

"She didn't leave Wakanda, nothing has crossed the exterior border in the last hour," Okoye offered as she checked a log on her beads. 

"So aside from the border, where could she be headed in that direction? Any place of significance to her?" 

"That path is on the road to everywhere significant. The border, Warrior Falls, Jabariland, the Hall of Kings... It also depends on if she is looking for a place to be alone for a few hours or shelter for days. The mountains could give her shelter but who would she go there for besides you? Warrior Falls is her favorite spot but she won't find shelter there." 

"And I doubt she would choose to go to the Hall of Kings," Shuri added. "It houses the Garden of the Heart-Shaped Herb," she added for M'Baku's benefit. "No one has been there for over a month. After Killmonger destroyed it, the priestesses refused to return, saying Bast cursed the land." 

"My son... perhaps we should just let her be," Ramonda offered, approaching the group from her seat off to the side. Everyone's heads turned, almost as if they forgot she was even in the room. Her words coupled with the almost annoyed look on her face caused a cloud of anger to settle over the group once more. 

"What? How could you suggest such a thing, Mama?" Shuri asked in disbelief.  

"Your sister can only bring this family ruin. Why bring her back here to further destroy everything? Whatever she is searching for outside of this palace may be what is best for her." 

"Asha is our sister. She is a member of this family, a leader in this country. The only people who have destroyed everything are you and Baba for creating this mess. We are finding her and we are bringing her home." 

"I am just sugg-" 

"That is the end of this discussion. And you would do well to never make that suggestion in my presence again." His tone almost as lethal and harsh as the one he banished Elder Shani with earlier. T'Challa turned his back to his mother before continuing, "M'Baku and I will take the Talon and clear every inch of Wakanda like a grid. The body scans will identify her tattoo. You all stay here in case she returns."

He did not wait for confirmation or approval from anyone else for a plan, deciding if someone had a better idea then they would have said it already. He motioned for M’Baku to follow him out of the throne room without another word.  

****

The ride on the Talon was virtually silent as the airplane piloted itself and T'Challa intently examined the sand table in the middle of the ship that reflected the passing landscape beneath them. He transitioned for pacing, throwing aggressive glances at the table, to standing hunched over it, staring at the sand disheartened and frustrated. The sand rapidly transformed into the different trees and rivers they passed over and people they passed over, all the dark gray color of the sand. T'Challa warned M'Baku that they would be waiting for purple sand, that it would be her. M'Baku let T'Challa do that while he just stared out of the window at the sea of black as if he could see Asha's body in the darkness. 

"Why do you love her?" 

M'Baku wondered if T'Challa got pleasure out of asking him deep questions out of the blue. "What's not to love?" M'Baku asked, not looking away from the window. At the returning silence, he grinned slyly and glanced back to see a very unsatisfied look on his face. He understood, understood the question and its purpose. If his thoughts were any indication, perhaps T’Challa worried that he was merely infatuated with his sister, not actually in love with her. He knew he did not need to but he did care about convincing T’Challa that that was not the case here. That his love was real and not some childish fantasy or obsession with magic.

"You know I noticed her at your challenge. There I was, down the mountains for the first time in my life, determined to die for that throne. And when I looked at the crowd, she was the first thing I noticed. My eyes drew to her like a moth to a flame. It was fleeting though, I could only focus on her for a second for there was fighting and honorable dying to get on with. And then the first time I saw her... truly saw her, in Jabariland… I mean, Hanuman. I have been with a great deal of women in my life but I had never seen one like her before. I saw it - that sadness you spoke of. But I also saw fire, passion, fierce determination. What do I love about her? I love the way you can see her heart soar at every compliment or kind word. I love the way her eyes, already filled with fire, light up when she discovers something new about herself. I love how she values family despite hers being so fragmented. I love that she is so dedicated to Wakanda, loves Wakanda so deeply despite not receiving that love in return. I love her quiet strength, her endless compassion."

He paused for a few moments, turning around to lean back against the wall of the ship. A hearty laugh escaped his lips as he stared across the ship at nothing. "You know the first time I realized it?" he asked as he walked up to T'Challa, looking down at the sand table. "We uh... we have this small cliff across from the Lodge. From there, you can see the best view of the sunset in all of Wakanda. To most of the tribe it isn't anything special, truth be told. Myself included, having had access to it my entire life. It became mundane and ordinary. But Asha, she likes sunsets so I took her there while she was in Jabariland. And you could see her whole being fill with joy and excitement, like this ordinary, mundane cliff was the best thing she had seen in her life. I don’t know, up until that point, I had tried to keep my feelings at bay. I didn’t deserve her I told myself. But the idea that she could love something so boring and ordinary made me feel like maybe she could love someone who was boring and ordinary. Who did not possess the power she did.” 

The two men fell silent for a moment, T'Challa not knowing what to say. After a few minutes, M'Baku added, "You were not totally wrong earlier. When I was young, I wanted so desperately to be like her. I would pray on my knees until they ached to be blessed with a gift. I thought I had grown out of that. But your sister... I just wanted her to see what I saw, to accept the freedom I could offer, to choose me. Because if she chose me, if she could love me, then maybe I was not as ordinary and boring as I always felt. But I didn't think about the cost to her or you all, what was the cost to mere mortals in the face of her powers? But that... that selfishness isn't her way. All I saw was two people who were wholly unfulfilled. And I was so desperate for her to be mine so I could fill us both… so she could be free and I could be a part of something that was not ordinary that I never stopped to consider that maybe it is time for her to be hers. Time for others to stop forcing their wants on her  and that includes me."

T'Challa simply stared at him, not expecting even half of an answer as detailed, nuanced and passionate as that. “I-I am sorry. For the throne room,” he started to say but M’Baku stopped him. 

“We both said things, things I know I regret and you did not deserve or earn. Let us leave them in the past, yes?” M’Baku asked, extending an olive branch to his king. T’Challa nodded but before he could say anything else, a flash of purple sand caught his eye. 

"I found her!" he called out. 

M'Baku moved quickly to the sand table where purple sand was interrupting the field of gray while T’Challa directed the Talon to turn around and slowly lower to hover above the trees. "She is in front of the Hall of Kings." 

M'Baku touched the purple sand that represented her horizontal body, expecting it to crumble in his hand like sand usually did to but it remained solid. He held it in his hand, silently pleading with Hanuman that she was alive and well.

"We cannot get any closer?” M’Baku asked as T’Challa activated his suit and motioned for him to follow him down the ramp. 

“Out of respect for Bast’s whole place, we do not fly or hover the Talon directly over the Hall of Kings or its immediate surroundings. 

M’Baku nodded then questioned, “Any idea why Asha would come here?"

"My father used to come here and pray. Only the Panther Tribe and those who tend to the Garden are even allowed here. It is sacred ground. Asha has never even been here." 

"And they believe it is cursed now?" M'Baku asked, an eerily feeling falling over him as they moved through the darkness with little light to guide them. But he could not tell if that was because the land was actually haunted or because he was simply overthinking after what Shuri said. 

"That is what the priestesses have told us... that Bast was enraged at the destruction of the Garden. Everytime they come here, they say they are overcome with dark thoughts, visions of Bast. They hear cries and rustlings in the trees," T'Challa answered.

"And you believe them?" M'Baku pushed a low hanging branch out of their way as they approached the clearing she was supposed to be in. "I do not hear anything."

"The priestesses have tended to this garden for most of their lives with Zhuri. It is their whole world. They have no reason to lie," his voice trailed off as the reason for their journey came into view. "Asha!"

T'Challa and M'Baku raced forward when they saw her body in a heap on the forest floor. As they approached, T'Challa quickly inspected the area and noticed the scorched black Earth branching out from beneath her body, her lack of shoes, and the cuts littering her arms and legs. Her face was hidden from view, covered by all her braids. She was knocked out cold. M'Baku reached her first, recognizing that T'Challa should have due to his enhanced speed, but understanding and appreciating the gesture. 

M'Baku knelt down into the soft earth beside her, gently shifting her head so her face was facing up. He was startled at the lack of warmth in her body. Usually the girl felt like a furnace but now? She was as cold as ice. M'Baku felt her coldness as if someone had replaced his own blood with ice. He was so sure, convinced they would find her alive and well, probably  too convinced. He had not prepared himself for any other possibility, refused to even consider it. Now all the other possibilities were vying for his attention, demanding he reckon with the reality that Asha was no goddess at all... she was human, a mere mortal like the rest of them. 

"Check her pulse," T'Challa said, his voice even and cold. He knew from the way M'Baku held her cheek, the way the man seemed paralyzed that all was not right. He had not allowed himself to consider this either, forced the thought out of his mind every time. But staring at her, wishing for a different scenario would not change the current outcome. They needed to know and prolonging it would not ease their pain.

M'Baku nodded, signaling that he heard the question. He couldn't get his mouth or vocal chords to work enough to verbally respond. He took a deep breath, sent a silent prayer to Hanuman before starting to move his hand down to her neck to find a pulse. For a moment, he thought back to their time in the mountains, that sunset on that cliff. It truly was a perfect moment, a perfect stolen moment that ended too quickly. Asha seemed to believe that was all they were, all they would get: a selfishly seized stolen moment that was not actually in the cards for either of them. But M’Baku refused to believe that as he prayed to Hanuman. He prayed that life, no matter how strong or feeble, would still pump through her veins when his fingers pressed into her neck. Because he knew she deserved more… and he knew that they deserved a lifetime of moments designed especially for them and freely given to them to fulfill. 

****

Asha groaned as she opened her eyes, shifting a bit as she registered the hard forest ground beneath her and the pain radiating through her body. One look at the sky above her caused her to sit up quickly, completely ignoring the immediate frustration and pain born from crashing to the ground. She quickly noticed several things that were not as they should have been. It was pitch black outside when she left the palace but now? The sky was ablaze with deep hues of purple and blue, lights that moved across the sky like a living organism. If she were not so perplexed, she would have been content simply lying there to admire its beauty. 

She didn't even really understand how she got here - she crashed in the forest, that much she remembered. But now? She was surrounded by tall swaying grass like that of the Alkama Fields, not the towering thick trees and greenery that surrounds the Hall of Kings. She stood up quickly, dusting the dirt off her purple dress and turned from side to side, trying to notice any landmarks or buildings that would help her discern where she was now.

She walked a few paces ahead of her before an eerie feeling settled over her causing her to stop in her tracks. There was nothing out of the ordinary ahead of her and yet, the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. She turned around slowly, the sight behind her rendered her speechless. And thank Bast it did or else she would have let out a blood-curdling scream and she doubted theblack panthers staring at her from this tree would have appreciated that. She counted 10 or so of them as her eyes swept across the tree frantically. Her legs turned into jelly as examining stares passed between her and the majestic but deadly creatures. They seemed to regard her with interest, while Asha was too busy looking from the tree to the very short span of grass that separated them.

That is an easy leap for any one of them.

Asha's mind started racing, trying to access years of knowledge about Panthers and quickly sift through it all for something that could help her. As if her knowledge was a roaring rapid, the facts flew past her at an unnatural speed, uselessly until one old legend jumped out at her. Many believed that the Panther Tribe had a deeper connection with all panthers, those on the island and those in the wild, and so no panther would ever harm them. However, now seemed like a poor time to test that theory in Asha's opinion.

She pushed down with her hands, deciding that flying was far safer than walking and would help her find her way home. However, much to her shock, nothing happened. She tried again, facing scrunching up in intense frustration and concentration as she tried to force fire out of her extremities to gain flight. But she couldn't even get sparks... she was completely and utterly powerless. She groaned softly in frustration, not understanding how she was rendered powerless - something she had hoped and prayed for - the one time she actually needed them.

As she stood there examining her hands, her legs started to feel warm. She ignored it initially, hoping it was her powers finally starting up again. That was until the unmistakable smell of smoke reached her nose. She looked behind her and realized the grass around her was slowly catching on fire.

"Oh no," she said quietly, trying to wave the flames away, using all the tricks she knew to absorb fire but nothing worked. She backed away from it, edging closer to the tree of panthers who seemed completely unperturbed by the fire coming closer to them. Every time she tried to channel her powers and absorb it, it grew larger and spread faster. Soon, she was surrounded. Asha covered her mouth with her arm, trying to avoid breathing in the smoke that was now obstructing her vision. Deja-vu poked through the haze of panic settling over her - she had been here before.

She lifted a hand to the flames, praying that she, at least, still had her ability to touch fire and be unharmed. But that proved to be wishful thinking as well. She cried out in pain as the fire burned her skin and caused the palm of her hand to turn red and immediately blister.

She clutched her burning hand to her chest, tears flowed freely at the throbbing pain radiating from it. She had never known the pain fire caused and now she wished she still didn't. She looked around wildly, trying to find an escape from the blazing inferno that seemed intent on killing her. With no other plan or recourse available to her, Asha simply yelled out "Bast! Help me!" Who else was there to seek help from at this point? There was no living soul anywhere near her, she was sure of that.

She was just about to close her eyes, resigned to dying alone in this inferno far from home, when a glowing light caught her eye. She looked up and the smoke seemed to clear just enough for her to see a panther approaching her through the flames. If Asha hadn't been so awestruck, she would have collapsed with fear. This was no ordinary panther, she realized. Its skin appeared to be made of diamonds, glistening and shining in the light of the flames, and was as tall as Asha herself. It walked through the flames as if they were nothing more than colorful air that had no effect whatsoever. When it was close enough, Asha was able to look in its eyes. They were a rich purple, almost like someone hand-picked the finest jewels and plucked them in its eyes. It reminded her of something, something distinct that she couldn't quite put her finger on with the haze of panic around her. 

Bast. 

She didn't know how she knew but she knew. It couldn't be anyone else. 

She and the panther stared at each other for, what Asha considered to be, an uncomfortable amount of time. Asha realized how often she blinked as she stared into its jeweled eyes, examining the intensity in which this animal tilted its head from side to side to study her. 

"If you are Bast, give me a sign? Or you know... be quick about it if you are going to kill me?" She whispered, laughing uncomfortably to herself. She wondered if she was losing her mind, here in this unknown place trying to escape fire by talking to an animal.

The fire. Asha was so taken by this panther in front of her that she had forgotten about the flames so quickly, flames that she had been terrified of only moments prior. She looked around wildly, realizing that the smoke was no longer affecting her. She could breathe easy again, it felt like nothing different than standing in a field of flowers. And almost as beautiful, she thought to herself as she watched the flames rage around her for a second, relieved now that she knew it couldn’t hurt her. She knelt down and bowed her head, understanding who was causing this, who was in front of her.

"Open your eyes, Asha."

Asha lifted her head at the sound of a voice to find a woman where the panther once stood. Asha looked around and found untouched, seemingly perfect grass, replacing the burning field that was there before. She also realized that her hand was no longer red and pulsing with pain. All the evidence of the last five minutes seemed to vanish, like it never happened. 

"Y-You are Bast?" Asha asked, her voice echoed the disbelief in her head. The answer was obvious, other-worldly radiated off the woman before her. She certainly was not human. Her deep chocolate skin glowed like the sun, adored from head to toe in gold robes. Nestled on top of her long, flowing black locs was a simple golden crown with purple jewels settled around it. The rest of the world fell away as Asha stared at her, captivated and sure that she could look at her for the rest of her days and it would never be enough.

"You called for me, did you not?"

Asha blinked a few times, her desperate calls for Bast almost forgotten. It felt like ages ago now despite only being minutes. But she hadn't actually expected the goddess to show up; after all she called on Bast for decades and she never came to her aid those times. "Y-yes, yes I did. Thank you f-for saving me. I suppose I didn't think you would show up," Asha admitted with an apologetic tone. There was an awkward pause as Bast simply stared at her across the field, clearly waiting for Asha to speak. "I am in the Ancestral Plane, yes? I died after my crash?" Her tone was surprisingly calm and casual, as if she was confirming the weather and not her livelihood. 

She laughed lightly, "Yes and no, you are in the Ancestral plane but no, you are not dead. You came close, that is certain. That flight was a dangerous venture even for experienced flyers. But worry not, you are very much still among the living." 

"Oh." Asha stopped her silent walking just behind Bast, causing the Goddess to instinctively stop as well and turn to her. Asha looked to her left and saw yet another set of panthers leering at her from a tree beside her, each woman standing on either side of its trunk, staring at the other. Asha's eyes flinted from Bast to one panther in particular. Most stared at her with interest for a moment before going back to sleep or turning their attention elsewhere. But not this one, its deep brown eyes bored into Asha's soul so intensely that even when she turned away, it felt like a laser on her profile. 

"You almost sound disappointed by that fact." Bast responded, interrupting her staring match with the panther. Asha turned her attention back to Bast, an amused look on her face. 

"Oh no, I mean I am happy to be alive. I guess I am just confused. Why am I here then?" 

"Well, I wanted to speak with you. I have been watching you... waiting for the opportunity to approach you. The moment finally presented itself. You have visited us before."

"Yes, in my dreams. I did not know what it was though, but I thought it was just some place I made up. And I never make it past the flames. Wait - what do you mean you have been watching me?"

"I have been watching you as I do with all I have deemed worthy of a gift, waiting for them to reach out to me. I meet with all the gifted at some point in their lives. When they have reached a point in their self discovery, I find that most need to be pushed forward, as you do now. Some reach that point earlier than others though. The waiting can be difficult, as it was with you but you finally got there."

The breeze passed by the two women as Asha stared at her. She opened and closed her mouth, 15 years worth of questions, anger, and frustration rising to the surface but Asha wasn't able to put any of it into words. 

She settled on saying, "'The gifted?' That sounds like the Jabari?" It didn't feel sufficient but she was still gathering her thoughts. 

"Yes, on this Hanuman and I agree. He calls them the Chosen, I call them gifts but they are all the same. All chosen... all gifts to Wakanda, especially now since your brother has reunited all the tribes. It just seems, unfortunately, that my people have yet to catch on as the Jabari did. But I am hoping the Jabari can lead them on that path of understanding. Your father was a particularly tough subject, clearly my plan to humble him with a gifted child did little to help him see the light. I am always right, people believe. But even once a century or two, I get it wrong." 

"Doesn't sound like much of a gift," Asha muttered to herself, upon processing the idea that her life was nothing more than a pawn in Bast's master plan. Asha suddenly felt angry, anger that felt like it appeared out of nowhere all of a sudden. But really, it had been building, boiling below the surface for 15 years.

"What was that child?" The tone of Bast's voice signaled that she was not asking because she had not heard. She just wanted Asha to say it out loud. 

Asha drew herself to full height, standing tall before her goddess, anger still steadily rising. "I said it doesn't sound like much of a gift... to have your existence used as a pawn in someone else's life. I endured years of pain and abuse for what? My father left this world hating mutants just as much as he did before he had me. You are Bast… all mighty and all powerful and you couldn't humble him a different way? Dangling my life in the balance was the only way? Is that what you want me to believe?" 

"I leave my people to make their own choices. I give the signs, I give the lessons, sometimes I give explicit instructions... it is your choice to follow them. Your father chose many times not to follow, did not recognize the signs or actively chose to ignore them. I realized quickly that there was little I could do for a man like that." 

That isn't good enough, Asha thought angrily to herself. But she didn't respond, she just turned her head away from Bast, frustration clear and evident. She turned to find that damned panther still staring at her, and somehow it made her even more angry so she looked up at the sky, hoping its beauty would calm her. But it didn't. 

"Your life was never in the balance. You grew up strong and powerful, as I intended," Bast added, breaking the silence between them. "I was always here for you but I thought you had forgotten me... you stopped praying."

And with that simple phrase, Asha snapped. She scoffed loudly as her anger boiled over, "'I stopped praying??' I prayed to you every day for years. I begged and begged, pleaded and cried for you to take this gift back. I begged to be normal. Were those prayers not loud enough? Were the sobs and agony of one of your gifts not loud enough to earn an audience?" 

"And you weren't there! I stopped praying because you weren't answering, or giving any indication that you heard me at all! Is this what you intended? I mean, look at me! Look at my life!" Asha yelled exasperated as she paced by the tree, ranting angrily. "My mother hates me, my father went to his grave hating me, the only real family I have are T'Challa and Shuri, I am not connected to my home or country in any real way, and I have spent my whole life lying and hiding."

Asha roughly wiped the tears before adding, "A-and to top it off, I have a man back there who I am madly in love with that I don't deserve," a small sob escaped her lips. "That I can't be with because of things I didn't ask for. Because of you! Because of this life you forced upon me… This life that you call a gift but has been nothing but a curse for the last 15 years. A-a-and you call me here and what? Expect me to thank you for it? You call me here after 15 years of misery, 15 years of watching my life fall apart and you say it is what you intended?? This is NOT a gift!" She shouted, her voice startling a few panthers in the trees. 

Asha's chest heaved slightly as she tried to calm herself after unloading years of pent-up anger onto Bast. She couldn't help but blame Bast for every bad thing in her life right now, after all she just told her that she orchestrated it all. All that pain, all that tragedy she flew away from, she laid it at Bast's feet. She didn't know why or what she expected in return. 

"I do not expect you to not be angry with me, child. Your anger is fair. But where you see a life of darkness, I see one overflowing with potential.” Bast’s eyes were filled with understanding, despite just being yelled at. “But you are tired. And I understand that too." 

Asha nodded, she was tired. That was how she felt, simply exhausted. Life... her life was too much work right now. She looked around, the soft swaying trees, the serene violet sky, the peace. There was such peace here, there were no powers here. Asha craved for it. 

"You could just... you could just stay here," Asha whispered to herself.

"This place is not for you. You have many years ahead," Bast answered, voice matter-of-fact and clear.  

"Why not?" Asha asked, now considering the notion seriously.  "Y-You get to choose right?? That's what we are taught, what all the stories say? Well, then choose to let me stay!" 

"No." Bast answered again. "You have a job to do. You cannot do it here." 

"Fine, send me back, but take my powers. I do not want them." Asha began to bargain. In her mind, Bast owed her something, owed her what she asked. If she couldn't stay here, she could bring one aspect of this peace back with her. She could finally get Bast to do the one thing she had begged her to do her whole life. She can set her free. 

"No, you were chosen. Wakanda needs you, as you are today." 

"You have my brother! He is the protector of Wakanda. Whatever job you need to do, he can do it!" 

"Your brother is not enough. For centuries, the Black Panther has been enough. But your father made terrible mistakes, mistakes that have altered the future of Wakanda. And your brother, rightfully, has opened Wakanda's borders. With it, new dangers unlike any we have ever seen will come. He needs you. Wakanda needs you." 

"No... no!" Asha cried out in frustration, falling to her knees before her goddess. She hunched forward as her hands grasped the ground in front of her, her nails digging into the soil. She wondered if Bast thought this was amusing, how quickly her anger turned to desperation. "I cannot do this. I asked you for years and you ignored me. Listen to me now, please. I am begging you. I d-don't want this anymore. P-please." Asha's voice broke as she sobbed on the ground before Bast. She imagined she looked as pitiful as she sounded. 

"Stand up, Asha Udaka," Bast commanded from above her. "You are a gift. You were made from me, my children do not kneel or grovel at my feet." 

Asha steadied her breathing, stopped her silent sobbing as best she could, before standing before Bast once more. "Do you know why you have never made it past the flames before? Because you are so terrified of who you are. Instead of accepting them, accepting the fire and all that comes with it as part of you, you shun it, you run from it, you hide from it. And you are right, with a life like that, you will never be happy. You will always be afraid, you will always be running, you will always be living with the constant fear of being burned. You will always be tired."

Bast took a step toward her before continuing, "Or... you could make the choice to do something different. The life your father promised you is not the life you must have. Perhaps the role you believed you were going to have in Wakanda is not the role you are destined for. It will be hard, I will not tell you otherwise. Going back is hard. There are very few on Earth whose lives aren't exhausting, that is the burden... the sacrifice paid for breath pumping through your veins. But it will be worth it, it is always worth it." 

Asha looked around, everywhere but at the woman in front of her, unsure of what to say. Was it that easy? Trusting her, having faith in her after feeling forsaken and forgotten for so long? 

Bast's hand cupped Asha's cheek gently, wiping away the tears that still streamed silently down her face. "You could stay here. Truthfully, it is not my choice, it is yours. I will not stop you... Your brother had to make the same difficult choice not too long ago. He is destined to be the best of them, the man to lead my people to new heights. He returned home because there was work to be done. I believe he is better for it. I believe you will be better for it as well."

"How? What can I offer Wakanda? Or anyone like this?” she gestured to herself, imaging what her emotionally-broken form looked like to Bast. “Half of the country hates me, half of my family hates me. My brother had a role - King. I have nothing but powers that most of the country would rather me not use."

"That is far from true, my child. You have everything, everything you need already. You are rare... destined to be the best of them, I know this. And the path to that power hasn't been easy. You can hate me for it but this was the path you needed, this is what Wakanda needs. You have the power no other gift has had, power to do things the normal hand would not dare dream of - the power to undo atrocities and build lasting bridges all across Wakanda. You are rare... destined to be the best of them. I know this because I willed it. You just have to learn to love it, for all its beauty and terror. And then use it to save my people, save Wakanda's future. And then, you may find that giving and receiving love from others, and knowing you deserve it, is far simpler than before." 

Bast squeezed her hands tightly. Asha didn't know what future she could save, what she could do for Wakanda. But as she stared around at the panthers and the Ancestral Plane, she knew one thing for certain - she couldn't stay here.

A small whimper next to her caught her attention. The black panther in the tree next to them was no longer just staring at Asha, it was sitting up as if it sensed her soul was about to leave. It almost looked like the idea pained it. As Asha stared at it, she realized that something about it seemed oddly familiar. She knew this didn't make sense, she had never seen a real panther in her life to remember one. But she could not help but think this one seemed to know her. She suddenly remembered what her brother told her after his visit here. He was there. 

I wonder... she started to think, taking a step toward the tree, when Bast squeezed her hand again, stopping her movements. "It is time to go now, Asha. I fear we are sending you home with more questions than answers. But you will see me again when you have done what you are destined to do. Then you will get those new answers you seek, understand?" 

Asha gave the panther one last look of longing, knowing whose soul inhabited it, wanting nothing more than the same opportunity to talk to him as she just had with Bast. But she knew this was all in Bast's plan so she answered, "Yes," before turning away from the panther for the last time. 

Bast opened her arms wide and Asha tentatively walked into them, immediately leaning into the hug as she felt warmth and safety she hadn't felt in ages rushing through her. Bast smiled and whispered, "You know... I must hand it to myself. The Golden Trio... you all are the rarest flowers in my garden. Brilliant, capable and meant to help us in such different ways. You are the three pillars on which the progress of Wakanda will stand upon. In the absence of one, she would fall. It is a heavy burden I ask of you and cruel that I should ask it without offering any guidance. But like all my gifts, you must walk it alone. Right the wrongs, protect our future. And then we will speak again. Goodbye until then Princess Asha."

*****

Asha's eyes fluttered open, blinking profusely to adjust to the dim light surrounding her. Her head fell to the side as she laid there, recognizing the space as her bedroom in the palace. . She shifted beneath her deep red duvet cover, an audible groan escaping from the pain radiating through her body. Asha couldn't think of a time her body felt such extreme pain like this, feeling like she was just flung and subsequently trampled by a border tribe rhino. But she knew she had little space to complain. The fact that she was alive was a gift from Bast, that fall should have ended her life. 

Bast... her meeting with the Panther Goddess was fresh in her mind. It felt more like a dream, except she remembered it so clearly, so vividly. Usually dreams disappeared from her memory within seconds of waking up. But this seemed to be burned into her brain, like Bast wouldn't let her forget a second of it.

She started to sit up, deciding to find her family and apologize for her impromptu escape when a soft but firm hand stopped her movements. "Lay back down, Asha. You need to rest." 

Her heart leaped into her throat as she heard his voice. She looked up and saw him sitting on the edge of her bed. She didn't understand how she missed him, he seemed too big for her space. But she supposed she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts. "M'Baku?" 

A small but distinct smile fell on his face as he heard the relief in her voice, there was no hiding it. He squeezed her hand, the pair simply staring at each other as he helped her ease back onto the pillows beneath her back. She stared at him, happy but extremely confused. 

"W-what are you doing here?" 

His hands left her shoulders, rubbing up and down her arms in a comforting fashion. She appreciated the warmth of his hands, helping her realize how cold she was. She felt like her body would never be warm again. 

"I was worried about you. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Um... Let me get you some water yes? Stay here." Asha took in his nervousness, the anxiety in his voice. He was clearly trying to find busy work, something to do that was not simply staring at her or having the difficult conversation looming over him like a dark cloud. She watched him grab the water pitcher in the sitting area of her quarters. She stared around her, the profound desire to get up coursing through her. She just wanted to sit on the couch and talk to him, not lay in her bed like a patient. She swung her legs out of bed, ignoring the exhaustion and pain it caused to do such a little task. However, she would soon learn to regret that decision as she pushed off the bed to stand. The moment her legs took on her full weight, they turned to jelly. She crumbled back to the ground, with a soft thud. 

"Asha!" He ran back over to her, forgetting her water. "What do you need?" 

Asha tried to stabilize her breathing to talk, but nothing would come out. She had been so preoccupied, so trapped in her own thoughts that this was the first moment she actually registered how exhausted she felt. As if she could visualize it in her mind, she could see her internal tank empty, something that had never happened in her life. Panic settled as her eyes moved wildly around her room, trying to understand what she needed in this unforeseeable scenario. Her eyes fell on the raging fire in her sitting area. Was it that easy? she asked herself as she stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace. Her intense staring and look of longing did not go unnoticed by her companion. He picked her up bridal style, the young princess too tired to even be excited by being in his arms, and sat her as close as humanly possible to the fire without sticking her body in it. She hesitated for a moment, knowing it was crazy. But the flames seemed to call out for her, beg for her, growing taller and wilder as she watched them. She reached her hand out into the fire, the warmth immediately washing over her like someone basking in sunlight. She held her hand there, eyes closed, as her body soaked up all the fire in the hearth. Warmth spread through her arm and into every area of her body until she could feel it in every finger and toe, finally feeling full again. The price of her resurgence was the loss of fire in her room but she didn't feel as though she needed it now. She was not at 100%... she knew it would take some time to get back where she was. But this felt good.

"Better?" M'Baku asked softly from behind her, a comforting hand still on her back. He figured it worked, instead of deathly cold, he could feel the warmth circulating beneath her skin now. It wasn't as powerful as once before but it was there. 

"Much. Not 100% but close. T-thank you." 

He picked her back up and carried her back to bed. Once she was settled, he sat down on the side of the bed next to her. 

"You gave us quite a scare. Flying away like that. On your third try? You could have died."

"Flying is the only way to escape a brother with super speed. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of nowhere and couldn't hold myself up any longer. I didn't mean to scare anyone.” 

“You could have died, Asha,” he lectured. His words fell on her ears like a parent scolding a child instead of like a… she still didn’t know what they were. 

“No one would have cared,” she mumbled under her breath. She couldn’t even stop herself from letting it slip but as soon as it did, she wished she had. The hurt on his face was clear. 

"The King, Shuri, Nakia and the Dora care about you deeply Asha."

"Are they the only ones?" She asked softly. 

M'Baku bowed his head, avoiding her expectant stare as he thought of a response. He cared about her, deeply so. But was now the time to have this conversation? After she almost died? He supposed it was foolish to back down now. This was what he wanted this whole time, to express his feelings. But now that it was here? He wished he had a few more days to get his thoughts together. 

"No, not just them. There are some that care about you more than you know, more than you will let them show you." 

It was Asha's turn to avoid his stare, his expectant look. She was in love with him, there was no secret about that. But 12 hours ago, there were so many barriers in their way. Now those barriers turned to wreckage and recycled into new barriers. They were different, but how different if she still felt unable to commit to him and this? 

"The woman you want... she is not who I am always M'Baku. If this day hasn't shown you. You watched her attack me a-a-and I just sat there. I surrendered so easily like a c-coward. I- is that the woman you want? Truly?" 

"Asha, stop. You are that woman, I see her every time I look at you. What other woman could have survived what you survived tonight? You are strong, you are deserving. You just have to believe it."

She nodded softly, looking out the window of her bedroom, confused and struggling. Her mind like she was standing in the Great Mound, watching hundreds of trains whiz by her and she could not grab hold of any of them. So many thoughts, so many tracks moving in different directions. Here she was again, standing at the crossroads of what she wanted to have, what reality dictated she must have, and what the world deemed her worthy of having. There was not a fiber of her being that didn't want M'Baku, but did she truly feel she deserved him? Bast told her she did… everyone told her she did… but did any other opinions matter if she still felt unworthy?

And this being the first moment, she really considered the possibility of being with him and its implications, would the Jabari even accept her? Many of them did not want to rejoin Wakanda in the first place? How would they feel if their chief married a lowlander? How would the Wakandans feel if their princess married a Jabari? That was a bridge the two tribes hadn’t been crossed once in history. 

Beyond that, it was difficult to focus on sorting out her feelings for M'Baku when she knew her tribe was at risk, all because of her. She was surrounded by the very real reality that Elder Shani was trying to tear their house down. Her engagement was off, of that she was sure. Why would she uphold the end of the bargain when Shani figuratively set their deal on fire? But did that mean she was relieved of her obligation? Does that mean after giving her the ammunition to tear their world apart, Asha could just escape to Jabariland and live a different life? She was still the princess, after all. Her obligations to marry were gone but her obligations to her family, to the throne, to her people were very much present. 

And then there was Bast. Apparently, there was work to be done. Could that work be done from Jabariland? Or did she have to stay here? What future did she have to protect? How does one even begin to learn to love themselves or powers they have been conditioned to hate? She wished she had more time to ask Bast questions as a million tumbled through her mind right now. Now, she just felt like she wasted the short audience Bast gave her ranting like a child. The goddess wasn't wrong - it was cruel to ask her to do whatever job she needed doing with no guidance, no direction. She wasn't equipped for this... any of it. 

"Asha." M'Baku saw it clearly in her face, she was drowning, unsure of what to do, her confusion and concern etched into her face. She looked older, more tired and weary than he had ever seen her. Like in one day, she lived a thousand lives. He knew that look, saw it on his own face a million times as chief. He knew what it looked like to carry the weight of the world and he also knew how grateful he was to the people in his life who forced him to lay that weight down, who gave him a break for a moment. He just wanted to help her do the same. "How about we do this? We deal with the big questions tomorrow. And tonight, we just be. No big questions, no overthinking,” he gently tapped her head, causing her face to scrunch up and the first genuine smile he had seen all night grace her face. “No decisions, no complications. We just rest." 

Asha's heart immediately felt lighter with his permission not to think for a moment, his permission to lay her baggage down and rest her arms for a while. It would do her a world of good, she knew that. She nodded, smiling at him. "Let's just be. Sounds like a plan to me." 

M'Baku leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, Asha's body heating up at his touch. He looked at her for a moment before getting up from the bed, "I will take the couc-"

A small hand grabbed his, tugging him back. Her dark brown eyes looked up with him, unspoken pleads clear and on the tip of her tongue. "Stay. I want you to stay." 

Her meaning was clear, but M'Baku searched her face for confirmation. There were no reservations, no doubts. He rounded to the other side of the bed and slid in. She immediately nestled into his side, attracted to him like a magnet. 

"I would care," he whispered as she laid on his bare chest, her small frame dwarfed by his. He didn't hear a response but soon, he felt the unmistakable wetness of tears and knew she heard him. 

"T-thank you," she whispered back, throat tight as she tried to keep her emotions in. He kissed the top of her head before closing his eyes, another eventful day behind them and the start of something beautiful ahead.

****

Tags:  @destinio1 @muse-of-mbaku @missmohnique @jellybean531 @afrolatinpami @leahnicole1219 @archivistofwakanda

#Black Writers #black panther fanfiction #black panther imagines #black panther fics #m'baku x reader #m'baku x oc #m'baku smut

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2020 - 18 (photograph)

Extra, extra, read all about it: someone’s about to fucking die. As they should, because who the hell honestly believes that Commander Shepard and Commander Shepard are straight anyway?

(ME1)

---

“Do you think either of them know they were seen yet?”

“Doubt it. Definitely explains the last name thing, though. How long do you think it's been?”

“Can't have been more than 5 years, they both did N7...”

Alistair was starting to get tired of people whispering. Didn't they know it was rude?

Ok, maybe his nerves were still a little frayed from the whole touch the Prothean beacon, figure out Saren is trying to kill everyone, become the first human Spectre thing. Nobody could blame him that he was a little cranky that morning as he left his office to get the Normandy where it needed to go. The fact it was actually his ship definitely didn't help either. After years of being enlisted or an officer, having free reign was... deeply uncomfortable.

He'd probably get over it, but... yeah it felt weird.

Still, even in his terrible mood it was impossible to miss the stares and the whispers from the crew whenever he walked by. Part of him had wondered if it was them gossiping about how he'd gotten the Normandy off Admiral Anderson, but... it didn't feel right. Professional whispering from the ranks was one thing, but this felt... oily. Salacious, maybe. Definitely something personal, which just amped up the gossip even more.

Now, had he been in a better mood, Alistair probably would have ignored it. The thing was, he wasn't. So he would have to be forgiven if he took a right when he should've gone straight and walked straight behind the two gossiping crew-mates. Neither of them noticed him, of course. He was quiet like that.

“What was that about N7?”

He shouldn't have enjoyed just how much air the two men cleared when they jumped out of their skins, but forgive him if he wasn't feeling just a little petty that morning. They were both 3 shades lighter as they turned to face him, and the sweat was really starting to pour down their faces. On his scale, he'd call that shit terrified.

Good.

“C-Commander Shepard, sir! W-we didn't see you there!”

He smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Yes, that tends to happen when someone comes up from behind you. Now, to reiterate. What was that about N7? Have either of you been asked to join the training program? My congratulations if so, it's an honor even to be asked.”

He would know – he had it tattooed above his ass. And he definitely knew nobody on his ship was in active training at the moment. It was one of the perks that came with being the Normandy's CO. The other was getting to see moment like this transpire before him.

The larger of the two was sweating bullets as he tried to figure out what to say. “N-no... nothing like that, sir.”

“Just...” the words failed the smaller one. His face screwed up as he seemingly gave up whatever he was holding back. “How long have you been married to XO Shepard?”

…

Alistair blinked slowly. “What?”

If he hadn't known better... someone had just asked if he was married to his XO. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard, his best friend and probably the closest thing he had left to family.

What the entire fuck?

Big one rubbed the back of his neck as his face began to take color again. “It... was on the extranet a few days ago. Pictures of you two together. It implied that you two were married. We thought it would explain the shared last name and all...”

Alistair let a sigh leak from between his teeth as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “A tabloid with nothing better to do, I assume.”

He let the pinch go, shaking his head. “Mind sending that site to me? I think I need to do some correction next time we dock at the Citadel.”

The two were already racing for their omni-tools, but he could tell the question still loomed in both their eyes. After all, he could just be trying to quash the story to keep his so-called marriage quiet. These crew, lovely as they were, didn't know he or his XO well enough yet.

Maybe that was why he rolled up his sleeve to expose his tattoo. “And by the way, I think this should clarify your questions.”

He tapped the wing colored in the gay pride flag for emphasis. The other, shaded in trans pride, went without saying. Years later, he was still glad he had gotten it during pride, even if it had been somewhat of a spur of the moment choice. Ironically enough, he had gotten it with Bo – she had the lesbian colors around her ankle.

You know, because she was a fucking lesbian and he was gay as hell.

“O-oh... yeah I guess it would.” Someone's face was turning red. “Sorry, Commander...”

“Just don't spread it around anymore.” Down went his sleeve. “Now, I'm going to go see where this website is hosted...”

With that he left them, the details blooming to life on his omni-tool screen. Once they got back to the Citadel, he and Bo were going to have to take a little trip...

---

“I'm going to murder them when I get my hands on them.”

“Don't worry, I won't stop you.”

The port hissed as Bo and Alistair left the Normandy's decontamination lock and entered the Citadel docking bay. It had been a few days since the discovery on ship, and now they were at the heart of the matter. Someone was about to get their clock cleaned, and it wasn't going to be mechanically.

'Don't forget ,you two, you don't have to testify against each other in court since you're married and all~!'

Al shot a glare back at the Normandy as he pressed the communicator in his ear. “Joker-”

'Just kidding, commanders. I know what teams you two play for. I guess we'll know you found them when we see the blood spurting.'

“You better fucking believe it.” Bo's eyes were practically glowing with hostility as she stomped down the walkway that connected their ship to the dock. Around them hummed the activity of the Citadel proper. Ships sailed above their heads, people went about their business... and somewhere, a tabloid was about to get the unholy shit kicked out of it.

Alistair checked the details on his omni-tool as they began to walk. “I traced the website's ISP to a building in the Wards. Chances are, they're there.”

“If not, they're going to tell us where the fuck they are.” Her knuckles were white as she slammed them together. “Damn straights and their height kink. How the hell could anyone think I was straight?”

Yeah, that was his question – she was built like a tank and had pink hair. How the hell could anyone read that as straight?

“I mean, they thought I was straight somehow, so they don't have a great judge of character.” Alistair tapped at his omni-tool. “It would be faster if we got a taxi, but walking is an option too. Up to you honestly.”

Bo didn't answer him. He realized why once he figured out he had lost his handy patch of shade. The other Spectre had left him in order to go storm over to a nearby newsstand where people were whispering. Given a few were running...

Well, he ran over to make sure nobody died.

“I can't fucking believe this!”

She pounded her fist on the counter, and Alistair felt like doing the same once he saw it. A new story had popped up, front cover with a picture that definitely wasn't photoshopped. Bo was front and center, chatting with a rather lovely lady. Anyone who could read body language could guess the two were probably flirting, which is probably why someone had been so quick to take it. Above the photo, a bold headline proclaimed “Commander Shepard: Newlywed in Bisexual Affair?”

Oh boy... whoever took that was a dead man.

Bo rounded on him, fire in her eyes. “Taxi. Now.”

Alistair didn't need to be told twice – they were soon in the back of a cab, headed towards the Wards. To say a burning silence fell over the back was putting it mildly. Bo was gearing up to kill someone, and he... well he didn't want to be next in the tabloid.

The cab driver unfortunately didn't have the sense God gave to rocks as he surveyed the two. “Trouble in paradise, huh? Well, there's always divorce court.”

Alistair grabbed for Bo before she could crash the cab. “We're actually going to clear up we're not married!”

“Ah, that's a shame. You two make a cute couple, being the first two Spectres and all. You could've made some wicked strong biotic kids.”

“Sir when I tell you I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now, please believe me and keep driving.”

By the time they were dropped off in the Wards, Alistair was pretty sure he had lost 10 pounds keeping the cab driver alive. His arms were killing him as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a nondescript office building. It had a listing on the side, telling the different businesses inside. Their next stop was on the fourth floor... so if anyone got tossed out of a window, they would probably live.

“Alright, so let's figure out what we're-”

He didn't get to finish his statement. Bo was already walking in like a woman on a mission, leaving him in the dust. All he could do was chase after her, eventually catching up on the stairs to the second floor. All the while, a receptionist chased after them.

“Excuse me, you can't just-”

Bo turned back to face her dead on. “Spectre business.”

Their tail shook a little, but... Al was pretty sure it was because she was kind of into that. She was definitely blushing a little as she backed up. “R-right... fourth floor is what you're looking for, ma'am.”

Alistair sighed as he held up his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, we'll be done quickly. Thank you for your information.”

And then he was chasing after Bo again as she took the stairs two at a time. Before long, they were standing on the fourth floor's landing. There was only one door here, labeled with a sign that called themselves Citadel Daily. They were one of many tabloids that supplied the Presidium and Wards with the lack of news people loved, and no doubt they were one of the more popular ones. After all, they were creating quite the buzz about humanity's first two Spectres.

A buzz that was about to be repaid with a lot of violence if he didn't mediate.

He managed to grab her wrist before they went in. “Let's just... try talking first.”

“It's not you they're calling a cheat, Al.” She tugged her arm away. “I'm handling this my way.”

And then she pushed the door open, probably burying the knob in the wall. All motion stopped on the other side as she stormed into the room, coming to a stop at the heart of it. All Alistair could do was enter after her pulling the door out of the wall as he did. Yep... the handle went straight through. That was going to require a patch.

Bo glared at the room filled with desks and people. Someone was reaching for a camera, a device that abruptly died as her eyes glowed red. She might not have been good with technology, but she knew how to break it just fine. No more devices came out after that – they were smart.

“I'm only going to say this one, who the fuck is John Jacobs and when are they getting the fuck out?”

Nobody moved at first. Alistair could hardly blame them as he scanned the room. Mostly, he just saw shocked wanna-be journalists and gossip columnists who had never expected this kind of treatment. After all, they weren't printing anything particularly hard hitting. Of course, their mistake had been printing about the Shepards... which was a bad idea to say the least.

He spotted someone twitching in the corner of the room. Rather than alert Bo, he began to pick his way over. Nobody would look at him, but that was fine. He had his eye on the man trying to hide behind his desktop, looking at though he might piss himself.

And as he should – from the looks of things, he was working on his latest article.

“'Commander Shepard spotted coming out of a bar with-'” He shook his head, sighing. “Mr. Jacobs, if you were even half a journalist you would know I can't drink on my medication. That's just sloppy work right there.”

The man definitely pissed himself as he backed up in his seat. “C-Commander Shepard!”

“One of them, anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Bo, found him.”

Maybe that was mean, but the photoshop job on that picture had been particularly atrocious. So maybe he didn't feel bad that hell on wheels was storming over, ready to put her fist straight through this guy's head. At least he'd stop it if it came to murder...

Maybe.

Bo came to a stop in front of the desk. His desktop fizzed and died as she loomed over him. Alistair definitely smelled piss and something else as the full weight of his crimes fell upon him. And of course, nobody was dumb enough to take pictures. After all, they were Spectres and about ready to prove what happened if you tried to smear them.

Though... was it actually a smear if they did make this guy's life a living hell?

“John Jacobs?”

His answer came out shaky. “Y-Yes, that's me. I didn't expect the story to get so big, b-but-”

Too late. He was already out of his seat by the collar of his garish shirt. Bo had him at eye level, and Al was there to avoid the pants region as he watched the carnage unfold. Someone nearby had a camera up  - a blue-eyed gaze quickly put a stop to that. Bo wasn't the only one who knew how to break technology.

“What the fuck was going through your demented little fucking head?” She brought him closer. “You got some kind of height kink, you nasty fuck?”

John was sweating bullets. “N-no! I just... a lot of people think you two are married! It's the same last names!”

Yeah, Alistair was doubting the lack of height kink, but at least he was trying to be honest. He was still probably going to get the shit beaten out of him, though. He kind of deserved it, what with insinuating they were not only married but... ugh...  straight.

Really, how the hell did anyone think that of them?

Bo's eyes said murder and her fists were willing to comply. “Let me put it to you this way, that receptionist down there is more my type than this manlet will ever be.”

“Hey, I'm a maligned party too, don't take out your frustration on me.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck anyway – talking about his height was a sensitive subject. “Anyway, we're very clearly not married.”

“Or straight.”

He nodded. “Or straight, yes that's kind of important. So maybe you should print a retraction on those articles and apologize so you don't get thrown out a window. You'd probably survive, but it would sure hurt a lot regardless.”

Judging by the grip on his collar, he wasn't going to get out of this without some form of damage... but maybe they could keep him from getting tossed out a window. Besides, if he pissed himself anymore he was going to start leaking on the floor. Talk about gross.

John's eyes traveled from Shepard to Shepard. “T-this is cen-”

“Oh come the fuck on, she's ready to murder you do you really wanna complain about censorship? Read the room, man.”

Normally, Alistair didn't swear. However, this man clearly didn't have sense in his head, so maybe shock methods were needed. At least he shut his mouth that time as he thought the offer over. Maybe he should think a little faster.

Bo started to move to the window. “Well, he had his chance.”

“No, wait, stop!” Both his fists couldn't fit around her wrist. “I'll print the retraction!”

She stopped a few feet from the open window. “And you'll stop writing about us. No more Shepard stories, understood?”

He started to look like he wanted to argue, but... that window was pretty damn close. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he considered his options. Then he got inched a little closer, and the decision was clearly made.

“U-Understood... I won't print anymore.”

And then he was dropped to the floor in a sad, soggy heap. Bo wheeled around and glared at the entire room. Alistair stepped forward as well, feeling much more pleasant as he surveyed the terrified reporters sitting before him.

“I hope you all understand, that goes for anyone here. Nobody gets a free pass out of defenestration, understood?”

And then his eyes glowed as another camera died. “No story about this either, by the way. I've added you guys to my omni-tool news feed, so don't think just because we're off saving people that we won't hear about it.”

Given everyone else looked like they might need a change of underwear once they left, that was another pact sealed. With any luck, they wouldn't get too stupid about their stories. Of course, if they did... it wasn't like they were going to move buildings.

“Good talk.” Bo was already throwing the door open. “Let's get the fuck out of here, it smells like piss.”

Alistair was already following her out, sighing in relief as the door shut behind them. At least nobody had died, or even been really bodily harmed in the process. As far as missions went, this was one of their more successful ones.

Then again, Bo hadn't gotten to work her frustration out, so...

“Want to hit up the Alliance training course to work out that energy before we go see Anderson?”

“Fuck yes.” Bo was already heading in that direction. “I still should've thrown him out the window. Damn your sensibilities.”

Eh he could take her being mad at him if it meant nobody died. Dissatisfaction was part of being a commanding officer.

---

Retraction on previous stories concerning Commander Bo Peep Shepard and Commander Alistair Shepard

The Citadel Daily would like to publish a retraction towards two stories it printed. Along with this, we extend a heartfelt apology to-

“Well, I guess they got the message.”

Joker was chuckling as the message read over Alistair's omni-tool. All three were gathered in the cockpit a few days later, after a successful mission on a nearby planet. The news had come in as they were on the shuttle, and he had been waiting to listen.

Bo nodded as the message finished. “They fucking better... still don't know who took those damn pictures. They're lucky I didn't find them...”

Alistair nodded as he killed the feed. “Oh, speaking of. Turns out they're a freelancer. I think I have a beat on them-”

No doubt he was starting another hunt for some poor sap, but... well, again, he didn't feel bad. After all, they had thought he was straight. Someone had to pay for that grievous misstep. And with any luck, maybe this one wouldn't wind up out a window either.

You know, maybe being the CO wasn't so bad after all. He got to schedule time for defenestration duties. Talk about a perk of running the show...

#writober2020 #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Alistair Shepard #Bo Peep Shepard #Commander Shepard #paragon shepard #renegade shepard #you can figure out who is who pretty quickly #if not they're color coded for your convenience

[smokin-gun]

New “chapter” coming up. It’s just to keep the ideas flowing even if the writing isn’t quite where I want it. I apologize if this shows up as wonky, long, and horribly formatted. I will fix on my PC tomorrow if it doesn’t quite do what I want. Written in my phone so please excuse the errors.

———————————————-

The hair stood on the back of his neck and widened eyes turned slowly towards the figure behind him. He didn’t need to see him. The memories rushed back to him in one swift moment. That voice made him feel as if he were three fulms again, ashamed of everything he’d ever accomplished and threefold ready to scale the walls of Ishgard to escape it.

Nyx found himself staring with one eye, a terrified pool of amber, at the man standing not four strides away from him. His stance was seemingly carefree, but his frame was rigid and standoffish without being overly so. It didn’t fool the Seeker into a false sense of security. He knew this meeting wasn’t on pleasant terms.

“Ye fucked off fer what... fifteen seasons? An’ everyone thought ye died... bu’ ye dragged her useless arse back here of all times? Are ye fuckin’ yankin’ me?”

The Miqo’te’s words were harsh, clipped, and thick towards the other, whose lips still remained upturned and smirking. It grated on him... how absolutely ridiculous...

He started to take a step towards Nyx but paused when the larger Seeker started for the gun strapped across his back, “Dunnae take another step. Yer nothin’ t’me... Old man”.

This seemed to please the stranger further and he reached upwards to push some of his straw hued hair from his face. His eyes were darker than Nyx’s, bordering on being orange instead of amber., and gave him a much more menacing gaze when he smiled.

“You’ll have to forgive me, A’rihan. I actually never intended to run into you, however, Rook informed me that you’d actually chosen to inherit my little Ishgardian secret... I find it intensely fascinating!”, he flung his arms wide and his teeth flashed in the light of the aetheryte. Behind him, his tail flickered about like a curious coeurl, animated and excited. Nyx visibly stiffened at the realization that Rook had set him up.

“I always knew your sister would never step foot in this place but I never once in my days thought you, of all people, would actually end up here. Saying I’m proud would be taking it too far, but at least you’re not a complete failure”.

Nyx’s lips pursed and an inhale of air hissed through his teeth. Any other time he’d have breached the gap between them, but it would unfortunately mean touching the disgusting man. Instead, he persisted in watching him with fleeting interest. He did what he could to withdraw from tossing him over the edge of the towering city.

“Dunnae tell me ye came all the way back from the Hells t’shit on me... wha’ d’ye really need...”, his fingers itched to draw his gun and his nerves were fading.

“I suppose you could say I’m here as a messenger so please don’t shoot me... pun intended”, he motioned towards the gunblade resting against the other’s shoulders, “... I imagine you won’t appreciate the news one way or the other, but I had a bit of information to give you and shock factor tends to get to people’s heads a lot quicker, as I’m sure you’re aware”. He shifted his stance and placed his weight on another leg as his eyes met Nyx’s with the face of his smile.

“They’re looking for you now, more than ever. The only reason I was able to find your location is because they’ve known this entire time, A’rihan. You know it to be true. But what you’ve not been cognizant of... is that you’re tied to them more than you know”.

“Tha fuck’re ye on aboot?”, Nyx’s ears had fallen against his skull and his teeth clenched shut so that the skin around his jaw pulled taut.

“Garlemald, boy. Did you never question why you were never accepted by any of the tribe? I can assure you it was not because of your controversial conception... It was because I-“.

“Stop”, the Seeker bristled and his fingers had balled into fists at his sides. He’d completely forgotten the howling gales around them despite the whipping of the ponytail behind him, “Dunnae say a thing more or I���ll sink a bullet in yer forehead”.

“Do I even need to say more? Surely you’ve figured it out by now”.

He was about to continue when a clicking of heeled boots sounded next to them. The hazy street produced a figure, one of smaller stature, that neared them. Nyx heard the voice before he saw the face, “My dearest A’trellon, that’s quite enough for now... You’ve had your moment, but I’m afraid it’s time to head home... You’ve been very bad and we both know you’ve said a bit too much, hm? You know they’re going to have to give you a few pinches when you return”.

“Antiquia...”, both of the men stuttered the word out as the woman came into view. In both hands were some form of handgun, most likely altered to suit her combat needs, and each was pointed at the two. The darker skinned beauty smiled at them with ruby lips as raven hair laid in shiny curls around her face. Eyes as red as the blood moon leered at them with an energy that conflicted with her confident smirk. A third, much smaller orb tested just above her brow and between her eyes. As she looked to Nyx, she offered him a wink followed by a nod with her chin, “A’rihan... oh I’m sorry, you still go by Nyx don’t you? Such a silly nickname... nothing about you is dark or imposing really... but I do have to thank you for keeping my pet preoccupied while I searched for him. It’s too bad I’m a little busy right now or I could have had a two for one... Oh well. It really just means another trip to this charming, quaint little establish. Cute, really”.

A’trellon glared at her but seemed neither stunned nor surprised by his predicament. Instead, Nyx watched in absolute confusion as he walked over slowly and offered the woman his hands. She lowered the gun fixed on him and began attaching a device around his throat that resembled a dog collar. When she’d had it properly affixed, her crimson eyes searched Nyx’s and her smile never faded, “Now, do be a good boy and make our second trip a little easier. See how well behaved your father is, A’ri- Nyx?”. She turned from him, lowering the other gun much to his surprise, and began disappearing into the fog that surrounded them, “Can’t wait for you to see your home, Little Miqo’te”.

A’trellon disappeared with her and his newly reunited son made no attempts to rescue him... but the younger’s realization had hit him... Where had he been born exactly? There was no third eye... Miqo’te couldn’t be... No. Pet?

“...There’s no feckin’ way...”.

#nyx ashkala #ffxiv #mateus #miqo'te #crystal data center #crystal rp #balmung #final fantasy xiv #character development

[lyesera-thoughts]

Therapy: Sleep paralysis vs Shadow People

For a long time as a child, I had a very FIRM belief in the afterlife. I was raised in a predominately Catholic home. My father is a Protestant, however my mother’s family was the closest to us when I grew up and they are all Catholic. Neither my father nor my mother would agree to give up the “religious right” to their children.

My brother and I have never been baptized and are even bastards to my mother’s church as my parents were married outside of the Catholic church (in fact in no church) due to my father’s refusal to join the Catholic church. For other reasons, this has caused strife in my family as I have never been religious and my parents seemed to think they raised me differently. That’s a post unto itself.

However, while I have never grown to have a belief in a singular sect of religion or in a God(dess) of any sort, I did, 100% believe, there was a life after this. Of some kind. And that ghosts and spirits were real.

I also used to believe that I had proof. Experiences of supernatural origins that couldn’t be explained in any other way...

That was until I got older. We’ll get into that.

I have always been afraid of the dark. Until I was 15 or 16 years of age I would not sleep in the dark. My parents would compromise with leaving a hall light on and leaving doors open. As it was, when we finally stopped that, I started sleeping with a stereo on. This stereo had a bright blue led that lit my room up entirely. To this day I despise being in a room in the complete dark and have “episodes” where I actually feel like I’m being hunted in the dark and cannot sleep unless the light in the room is on.

When I was very young, elementary age years, I used to wake up in the middle of the night, just about every night. Sometime after midnight, before early morning hours that my parents would wake up for work. Probably between 2 to 4 AM. And I would stay up all night, in the living room, because it was where I felt safe. I would turn on every single light surrounding me and watch TV because I couldn’t stand the silence. Or more specifically, the noises in the silence.

When I entered my teens, I started sleeping more through the night, but still had a common occurrence of waking up in the middle of the night. I would just stay in my room until sunrise. One night, when I was 14 years old I woke to a noise.

My bedroom at this time was laid out as such:

The scale isn’t perfect, but I had a full size bed (hand me down from my parents when they replaced theirs), that I shoved in a corner because I couldn’t feel safe enough to sleep if my bed wasn’t in a corner. I slept up against a wall. When I sat up and leaned over the other side of the bed, I could see clearly into the hallway. The light to the hallway was immediately outside my door, as my room was nearest the steps to the downstairs.

I heard this noise, as I said. It sounded like it was something right outside of my room. I sat up and leaned over. And there was a figure under the light in the hallway. A bright, white light, and this figure was humanoid and black.

The stereotype non-human black. A shadow black. It wasn’t much taller than me or my brother, so older child/teen sized. It’s shape made me think male but what terrifies me still to this day were glowing red eyes.

I shoved my ass into the very corner so my back was against the wall, upright and facing my open door. I pulled my legs up and hugged them as I waited to see if this picture of nightmares would walk into my room.

I stayed there for hours, until the sun came up. Only then did I dare look again. There was nothing. I tried to tell my parents about it. They wrote it off. “You were dreaming”. “It might’ve been your brother using the bathroom” (when they heard how tall). Yes my room was across from the bathroom, but I knew it wasn’t him. His eyes didn’t glow red.

My next memory was when we moved. My parents got their own house finally. A one floor, three bedroom, not that far from where we used to live; where I had the first “encounter”. I’m about 16 or 17 now. My new room looks like this:

Again not to scale. It’s smaller than my old room, I had to trade that full sized bed for a twin. I also had a closet, which had a shelf next to it. It was a wire shelf with a bar for hangers. I had some every day use items hanging from it. Coats and such.

It’s early morning, but not night. It’s like, people are awake and I can hear them. It’s what wakes me up, them moving around and talking. There’s sun coming through my window’s curtains. I don’t wake up suddenly, it feels like my normal return from sleep. Slow and easy. Comfortable. Until...

I can’t move.

Not a single finger or toe. I can’t talk. I can breath and I can look around with my eyes and there is a little shadow girl by my closet door.

Again, the figure is completely cast in black. Shadow black. But there’s a shape that makes me think girl wearing a dress, with a poofy skirt. She’s just standing there, across from me, just in front of the things I have hanging from that shelf. I can’t move and I am terrified.

I have this strangely clear thought of “move my toes”. Like that Kill Bill movie, but before that came out. I manage to move a toe, then my fingers, and just as I scream for my mother, who I can hear moving around, the shadow is gone.

My mother is there in seconds, fully dressed. My brother and I are the last to wake, mom and dad already had a friend over. I tell her what happened, she looks suspiciously at my closet then tells me to get dressed and come get something to eat.

This time, she takes me a bit seriously. She believes in an afterlife. She had been getting strange feelings from the house. She confessed to me well after I moved out of the house (my parents still live there) that while she was having medical problems that were affecting her sleeping, she stayed in my old room so not to disturb my father. She woke up with an intense feeling of being watched. She never slept in my old room again. That feeling had scared her so much.

I felt a little validated.

But then...I left for college. I met my fiance who does NOT believe in an afterlife. He’s very science oriented and without my parents around I’m not being exposed to religion anymore, nor do I have anyone who listens and believes when I talk about the afterlife.

Years go by. I have night terrors/nightmares. I am working through this in therapy, as it has apparently caused me to have full conversations with my fiance while I’m dead asleep. I mention my old “encounters” and how I used to think they were something supernatural and how I do kind of mourn that lost piece of my childhood. I had a belief in something and now I don’t. 

She tells me about sleep paralysis. How it’s common to see shadow people during that. I do some research and apart from the first time, it makes perfect sense to me, scientifically.

And some months after this I have my third experience. We’re in our new room, significantly larger. 

I’m alone, it’s not very late at night and my fiance is still downstairs. Sleeping nearest the dresser on a king-sized bed that, at the time, was on the floor as we hadn’t invested in our frame yet. At this point, I have finally moved past the sleeping against a wall necessity. I wake up to a feeling of being watched and open my eyes. I was expecting to see my fiance.

I’m sleepy, but I realize I can’t move. I have a very short burst of fear as I see a tall figure at the end of the bed, looming over me. A shadow wearing a hat. Like the Indiana Jones type hat, maybe a fedora? The hat is also shadow but I can make it out as well I could make out the dress on the girl. Again, despite being all black, the shape makes me think this is a man. 

And I’m just...done. I’m still recovering from constant pain and anxiety. My sleep is precious and needed. The fear goes away and I tell myself “this isn’t real” and I blink. I can move and he’s gone.

This is, as of right now, all the sleep paralysis moments I can remember. I don’t recall if I had them before, but I have a vague-ish feeling/memory of possibly seeing a shadowy someone sitting on a chair that was in my childhood bedroom. Which is why I may have kept escaping to the living room way back then.

I expect to have it happen again.

There are still nights that I have to talk myself out of the feeling of being watched in my own room when the lights are out. There are still nights I wake up anxious and feeling not safe.

I don’t know what it is. There’s a part of me that still wants to believe in an afterlife. That these are other entities and that my life is more than the time I have on Earth. 

But at the same time, there’s serious doubt that this is anymore than my brain fucking with me. As I already know that I have anxiety and depression, which are indicators that my brain chemistry and functionality is already different.

So take from this what you will. It just was a curious exploration into old memories and recent memories.

#therapy #random thoughts #shadow people #sleep paralysis #what's the difference

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of May 29th, 2019

Best of this Week: Doomsday Clock #10 - Geoff Johns, Gary Frank, Brad Anderson and Rob Leigh

And yet another wrinkle is added to the DC Universe.

Or should I say, “Metaverse” now? Yes, after I think three months since the last issue, Doomsday Clock returns with yet another strong issue that expands upon the mythos of the DC Universe and just how Doctor Manhattan viewed and affected things at the many different positions of time that he has been able to inhabit.

The issue is framed around an actor by the name of Carver Colman, a very huge star in DCs 1954, who has been referenced or used in previous issues. This gives some kind of continuity in the context of the story as Johnny Thunder was seen watching his movie in the retirement home al the way back in issue two or three. Colman, unfortunately, has a secret that gets him killed soon after wrapping up the filming of his biggest hit, The Adjournment and as we make it through the issue and the back and forth of his life, we find the biggest change to Doctor Manhattan’s character and how he has to bend to the rules of this new universe.

Doctor Manhattan actually meets Colman in 1938 when he was a struggling actor who had just lost his job delivering mail to a movie studio after an unfortunate accident and things he saw. Manhattan takes Colman out for some food, attempting to use him as a rod to focus on to look towards the future as he can’t seem to do so on his own after arriving. He does so and is able to see a year into the future, then four and so on. His abilities work again, but then he hears something strange.

A radio report of a man lifting a car into the air. The first appearance of Superman on April 13th, 1938. Suddenly, it was gone, the crowds of people were gone as if they never existed. He follows the path where Superman existed in 1938 and finds the Justice Society, having formed and waiting for Superman to answer their summons. Jay Garrick “Flash”, “Green Lantern” Alan Scott, Hawkman, Doctor Fate and others, waiting for the Man of Steel to join their ranks and suddenly, they too have never heard of him.

Manhattan follows the many arrivals of Superman, from 1956, to 1986 and sees his arrival change again and again, noting the many deaths of Ma and Pa Kent and how this “Universe” seems to use Superman as a focal point, even going to a thousand years from now when Superman was briefly part of the Legion of Superheroes. So to test how things revolve around Superman, he changes the past by moving the Lantern away from Alan Scott, killing him, and drastically changes the future, creating the New 52 Timeline.

Everything is recontextualized as Manhattan sees that this action changes this universe and that it’s constant state of flux affects the wider multiverse. From the parallel worlds, to the anti-matter, to the Dark Multiverse, Earth Prime is a “Metaverse” in his words. The others change to match whatever is going on in the Prime World and once it realizes what he’s done, it begins to fight back. Manhattan sees Wally West trying to fight his way back to the Universe. This one action causes a chain reaction that will lead to his inevitable confrontation with Superman where Superman either kills him or he kills the Metaverse.

Cutting back to 1954, Manhattan is at Carver Colman’s home on the night that he’s murdered. He doesn’t do anything to stop it.

There’s a saying that “the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” In the Watchmen Universe, Doctor Manhattan was allowed to do or not do as he pleased because that world was a little bit more grounded or at worst cynical. Though, one might say that because he refused or didn’t care to use his power at a larger scale, Ozymandias’ “evil” won. Though Ozymandias thought what he did was the right thing, this series proved it it be disastrous in the wake of Rorschach’s journal being published, but initially Veidt’s plan did succeed. Doctor Manhattan escaping to the DC Universe put him into direct conflict with the Metaverse and its Hope. Its innate desire to have the good triumph over evil won’t let Doctor Manhattan get away with inaction and in his words, “To this universe of hope… I have become the villain.”

Words can’t describe how hype I was for this. With each and every issue, a new layer is added and brings us closer and closer to the epic conclusion that only Geoff Johns and Gary Frank can realize. I also love how they’ve expanded on the importance of Earth Prime, seeing as how it has indeed gone through many changes. It’s good to finally have an explanation that implies that even through the many reboots and retcons that if DC wanted to, they could tap into those timelines as main universes at any time. Everyone’s favorite time period matters or will matter again soon.

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

"One last adventure together…"

Runner Up: Batman: Last Knight on Earth #1 - Scott Snyder, Greg Capullo, Jonathan Glapion, FCO Plascencia and Tom Napolitano

Joker's words to describe his and Batman's last run together in the hell that is the world after some unexplained event killed numerous heroes, villains and just about anything else. It also describes what MAY be the last time we see Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo do a big Batman story together and I already feel like we're in for a BIG one.

After a curious case of large scale chalk drawings,  showing a dead Batman, leads the Dark Knight to the Crime Alley he inadvertently sets off a trap laid by an unknown assailant using the decomposing body of a ten year old child. He later wakes up in Arkham Asylum, apparently having been there since KILLING HIS FAMILY in Crime Alley all those years ago. Capullo does a great job of setting atmosphere and making things unsettling as even a small fly buzzing around and "Dr. Redd Hudd" looming over a straight jacketed Bruce Wayne looks creepy.

Arkham appears to be just a regular Asylum with Alfred showing up and trying to convince Bruce that Batman was all in his head, showing him a mock costume they made to keep him calm with a cowl stitched to a straight jacket. Bruce sees through it all and fights his way through Arkham until Alfred reveals the truth. He only wanted to keep his boy safe because half of Gotham was just gone. Years had passed and Batman has no idea what happened.

He later wakes up in a desert and coincidentally finds the head of The Joker. He wakes and immediately begins cracking jokes as Batman takes him and they begin to walk to Coast City. I don't know how much of this is real and that adds to the mystique of the story. We're never given an explanation as to how he got there from Arkham or how Joker is surviving.

They arrive at Coast City and the decayed corpse of Mogo looms over a giant crater and ruins. Joker says that all of the Lanterns fell and rings are just there for the taking. Suddenly the duo are attacked by projections of babies before being saved by Vixen and Poison Ivy. Ivy then knocks Bruce out just in case and he wakes up surrounded by the new Amazons; Vixen, Donna Troy, Poison Ivy, Supergirl and Wonder Woman.

Wonder Woman explains that one day, Luthor just… convinced most that they should just take what they deserve. He told them that goodness was a lie and they just ate it up. It echoed the future that Luthor saw back in Justice League/Legion of Doom #5, but given that this is a Black Label book, one wouldn't be wrong if they didn't want to think of this as the explanation of that timeline because they're not in the same canon.

Wonder Woman also tells Batman that the one wielding the Anti-Life Equation may be one of the Boys and pleads with him to join the Amazons in Hades.

But Batman is Batman and he decides that he's going to put a stop to this.

Last Knight on Earth reads like an alternative ending for Scott Snyder's Justice League epic. Even though that story is far from over, not even close, there's this unsettling feeling that, if Scott didn't have to have the heroes win in the end, this should be the absolute endgame. A world, no UNIVERSE possibly, under siege by someone wielding the Anti-Life Equation, hope dead and dying and the ever creeping feeling of dread knowing that somehow life and death have lost enough meaning that Joker as a decapitated head still lives… this story is terrifying.

Honestly, this might be some of Capullos best art to date. With Glapion and Plascencia's help, this book feels so atmospheric and dark. Glapion accentuates Capullos lines and shading well with dark-dark inks, making Batman appear to be shrouded in it even in the sun. It's haunting, especially in the Arkham scenes where things are absolutely not as they seem and dark secrets hide behind and within the walls. Plascencia, on the other hand, can make even light and vibrant colors threatening. The red sand on Jokers jar is intense  and the Green Lantern babies are deadly. Hell, Coast City, Hall Jordan's crown jewel, looks unbelievably desolate, colored like a wasteland. Capullo pulls all of this together with as much detail as he possibly can and his work shows.

Faces are expressive, from Batmans fear, to Alfreds regret to Jokers madness. Body language is utilized greatly as Batman fights like a caged animal. He's taken aback by Jokers head, but still finds his resolve. Wonder Woman is still fierce, but even her edge has dulled with the sheer lack of hope that running away and going underground has given her.

This story is terrifying and I absolutely love it. From the creepy visuals of Capullos art, to the expression of thought because of the mature liberties Black Label books can take, it's all beautiful. This one is absolutely going to match my love for Batman: Damned and every one should go and read this. High recommend!

#comics #dc #dc comics #geoff johns #gary frank #doomsday clock #doctor manhattan #watchmen #the multiverse #superman #alan scott #dc universe #scott snyder #greg capullo #last knight on earth #batman #joker #the joker #dc black label

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 88: The New Lars

“This looks weird, but don’t jump to conclusions.”

Island Adventure is my lowest-ranked episode of the series, but it’s not my least favorite. All in all, I actually enjoy watching it. The problem, as I explain in greater depth in the review, is that it conveys a horrible message about consent in teen relationships and lionizes Sadie for a bevy of abusive actions, ranging from emotional manipulation to physical assault. And that makes it worse to me than an episode that I just don’t like watching. This is a kid’s show, and it’s not great for a kid’s show to espouse harmful message to kids, particularly when consent is such an important issue in the real world and in Steven Universe.

The New Lars isn’t nearly as bad, but it’s important to compare the two upfront, because both of them rely on the same conceit: Lars is a jerk, so it’s okay when bad things happen to him. The tricky thing is that seeing jerks get their comeuppance is an essential trope in comedy, so it should be okay for bad things to happen to him, but this is the second time that “bad things” involve ignoring Lars’s consent in a way that isn’t inherently comedic. There are fantastical elements to both stories, but forcing someone to do things that they explicitly don’t want to do is a bit more harrowing than, say, getting squashed by a falling anvil. Both episodes are from Raven Molisee and Paul Villeco, two extremely talented animators that I usually love (they did Mirror Gem and Rose’s Scabbard for Pete’s sake), and I wish I could get into their heads just to figure out why they’re so into abusing Lars in a way that evokes actual abuse.

Fortunately, a lot of my problems with Island Adventure aren’t present in The New Lars. We get a crucial slippery slope element to Steven’s behavior that Sadie’s early-episode subterfuge doesn’t grant (we learn that she hid their only way off the island immediately after arriving). Yes, he’s prying a bit too much into Lars and Sadie’s relationship in the first scene, but as soon as he mind swaps he states his determination to “respect Lars’s body and his privacy.” His good nature is his undoing, as he’s unable to play it cruel with Lars’s terrified parents or play it cool with Buck and pals. And it makes sense after seeing positive reactions for following his gut that he takes it over the edge to try and meddle in Lars’s love life. It’s not right, but it makes sense.

(It requires a Steven from a different era of emotional immaturity as well, but this team also did Sadie’s Song so I’ll count their restraint here as a victory.)

((Bear in mind that they also��did Warp Tour and The Return and Keeping It Together and Message Received in case y’all think I’m just gonna sit here and pretend Molisee’n’Villeco aren’t amazing.))

Most importantly, Steven apologizes for his actions. If Sadie had shown an ounce of real remorse in Island Adventure, all would be well. The issue isn’t characters behaving badly, because this show would be garbage if everybody was perfect. The issue is not acknowledging bad behavior, and even rewarding it while piling on the victim of it. This episode knows that Lars is the wronged party and that Steven did a bad thing, even if he had good intentions, and in doing so teaches a lesson about consent instead of showing abusive behavior and shrugging it off.

It’s notable that Steven never does anything like this again. Just three episodes later in Kiki’s Delivery Service he accidentally enters Kiki’s dreams and is flustered and apologetic right away despite doing nothing harmful. The best way to make lessons stick is for the characters themselves to learn them, and a big part of Season 3 is showing how Steven has been shaped by past episodes.

And it turns out, a story about how Lars is treated is exactly what I needed. Because after nearly ninety episodes of the series, this is the first time I’ve actually liked Lars as a character. For the whole episode. I’ve always felt something was missing from his generic meanness, but everything clicked when I realized that the self-awareness that fuels his awkwardness is only a small part of his problem: he’s too aware of his status as a side character to be happy.

When Mayor Dewey acknowledges that Beach City is a magnet for disaster in Political Power, it’s a great gag that reveals hidden depths about the character. Lars’s bitter “Every day in Beach City is weird, that’s why I hate it here” is similarly revelatory, but about a character we’ve seen much more of. Lars has been the brunt of weird suffocating plants, a weird mouth-burning prank, a weird island trip complete with weird invisible monster, a weird haunted lighthouse, and now a weird body hijacking. He’s also witnessed the ocean weirdly disappearing and Beach City under siege from a weird space eye and a weird space hand, alongside who knows what else. And the kid who’s always bugging him to hang out is himself weird. This weird kid just took over his body and everyone, including Lars’s own parents, took the kid’s side. Of course Lars sees magic through a sour lens.

It’s so much easier to empathize for someone as ornery as Lars when there’s a good reason behind it, and noticing just how lousy life can be when you’re a regular person in a world of magic is a great reason to be ornery. It’s an excellent contrast to his former friend and fellow frustrating character Ronaldo, and allows Lars to grow within the context of a magical show. I’m not saying Lars is only irate because of this situation, people can be jerks just because they’re jerks and he’s a jerk in mundane situations, but after so many episodes where he seems to learn something and then goes right back to being a jerk, it’s such a relief to get this kind of depth.

And seriously, thank goodness Matthew Moy is still capable of emotional range after spending so many episodes voicing a jerk. He shows it off a bit when Lars admits he’s depressed in Island Adventure (which would’ve been a better character moment if it went anywhere in that episode), but voicing Lars as Steven must have been a blast. Even as a kid, it always bugged me when mindswapped characters switched voice actors, because that’s not how voices physically work and I was a stickler of a kid. Moy shines as an exuberant, doofy, melodramatic invader in his character’s head, to the point where you can tell when Steven is being himself versus when he’s trying to impersonate Lars. That ain’t easy!

On top of this, Moy still shows his practiced mastery of Lars’s crabbiness spectrum. I like his withering asides about Steven interrupting his workday, even though I’m all about deducing the laziest animal (Koala all the way by the way, sleep>slowness on the lazy scale), and I love his reaction upon waking up, where his justifiable fury with Steven is ramped up further by his family and peers backing up the kid. As in Joking Victim, Moy shows off his flair for comedic screaming, which also ain’t easy.

What’s doubly nice is that Kate Micucci also gets a showcase of her growing character that isn’t Sadie’s Song. While we wisely avoid too much detail about the exact nature of their relationship (not just because this is a kid’s show, but because it’s none of our business) Sadie is done with Lars’s nonsense, and I love hearing such decisiveness from the Big Donut’s resident wallflower. This episode could have crashed and burned if not for Sadie’s fed up reaction to “Lars” declaring his love for her, and Micucci sells it perfectly while still making the most of Sadie’s shyness in asking Lars to hang out in the first place.

This is also a great episode for other townies. Onion gets a hilarious cameo, and the Barrigas give a sterling first impression as loving but beleaguered parents. But come on, we gotta talk about the Cool Kids. Right off the bat, we get definitive proof that they’re not big on Lars (especially Jenny). It’s not shocking that such a jerk would be unwelcome, but it speaks well of the group that they keep giving him chances, and that Buck is quick to think the best of Lars when given the opportunity. It’s well-established that these are good kids, considering how awesome they are with Steven, but The New Lars shows that they’re even better than we thought they were. And we get a zany off-screen dance competition subplot. 

I’ll be honest, I was shocked by how much I liked this episode on rewatch. Season 3′s midsection contains a cluster of episodes that I’d literally never rewatched since they first aired, so I let a bad first impression shape my views a little too much. At that point in the show I was so done with Lars that I wasn’t willing to give him a chance, but knowing where his story is finally going made me reevaluate his behavior here. Because things do get sort of different for him now after numerous false starts. He’s still gonna be a jerk and make mistakes, but seeing what his friends and family think of him seems to jolt his system in a way Life Lessons With Steven couldn’t.

Knowing where a story is going isn’t enough, though; if it was, I’d like Sadie’s Song a lot more than I do, because I am all in on Sadie Killer and the Suspects. I think I was so against Steven’s actions in The New Lars that they loomed larger than the part where he and the show acknowledge that he was wrong. I rewatched this three times for my review, because I was all primed to dislike it again and want to give episodes like that a fair shot (which, yeah, meant I slogged through Sadie’s Song multiple times, you’re welcome), and the apology just makes everything better. I can focus more on the episode’s strengths, which are stronger than they first looked, and appreciate that this is a story about a kid making a mistake and learning from it. I wish Island Adventure had concluded with a similar realization, but I’m thrilled to see a show grow in its storytelling. 

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Again, this was a surprise. I don’t wanna overcorrect and put it in my Top Fifteen or anything, but man this is more solid than I remember. Goes to show how far hindsight and a solid apology can take a story. If you’re like me and didn’t like The New Lars back when we were lousy with new episodes in the Summer of Steven, give it another chance.

Top Fifteen

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Winter Forecast

When It Rains

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

No Thanks!

     5. Horror Club      4. Fusion Cuisine      3. House Guest      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

#the new lars #steven universe #su #steven universally #review

[hiskidsarerunning]

Pretty simple. I’ve been thinking about this issue for a while. In my first hearing of all this I became frustrated because, from my experience, aggression towards the aggressor doesn’t normally yield successful results (in response to the violence occurring throughout the protests). I thought so because I’ve been fighting control for a long time and I’ve exhausted my methods and have hardly begun to yield successful results through it. I want BLM to succeed. I spoke out strongly against my lil powerhouse-of-a-oppressor until my face turned blue and, after much wear and tear, I just ended up having a mental breakdown instead. So I wondered, how would this do the trick in teaching the oppressors how to treat the oppressed? The way we treat others teaches others how to treat us—if they have compassion/empathy. But hang on—I talked to my friends and remembered that it’s not about what’s happening but, rather, why it’s happening and it’s incredibly important not to lose sight of this. I also see it as being monumentally important to delve into the meaning of why it’s happening. In order to do so, however, it needs to be a philosophical discussion. It needs to be a discussion with the very people involved, of course. And it needs to be a discussion regarding our mental health and our use of power. I know this notion isn’t exactly profound—this idea’s been circulating forever with very little breakthrough. What I’m saying isn’t exactly news. This very government was initially founded on the idea that no branch should have access to a high percentage of power. The same goes for the people under the control of that government. Since those people are not performing their duties properly/ethically, it is our duty as a larger crowd, with more power by number, to take this power back. It is also monumentally important for us to understand every feeling coming through this process, assessing what those feelings mean, and then moving forward together in acknowledgement of those feelings.

First I’ll begin with a story. For the past year I lived in an apartment downtown. I didn’t know two out of the four roommates before I moved in. I didn’t know that the next entire year would be absolute chaos and anguish to the point where I spent most of my time away from my house so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. C (I won’t reveal her actual name) was a problematic roommate and over the course of the year I experienced abuse of power in a new and extensive way. She locked the ac/heating system so we couldn’t access it, would send aggressive messages, would frequently take things away from our use (took all her dishes away), would behave disrespectfully to us as we would enter/leave the house (scowl/make rude comments), tried to charge us for things we didn’t buy, and kept most of our security deposit. At some point towards the end of our contract/rental agreement, my roommate decided to apply for a position as a sheriff. All of us were mortified. Thankfully, the sheriff’s department decided to check in with all of us first through interviews/questioning to see if she was, what I assumed to be, stable enough for the position. There were a lot of extensive questions regarding whether we would trust her with our life, how she treated power, if she could delegate or resolve problems efficiently, etc. We finally thought we would receive justice because of the way things had played out and the fact that we were now being asked about it. All of us answered honestly. The sheriff’s department thanked us for our honest responses. To our surprise, she started training a week later. That’s when I realized that our statement was probably effective in conveying how much power she had over us and whether she could use it—not how she used it/whether she used it correctly. I feel absolutely infuriated that something like this is able to happen right in front us. Ladies and gentlemen: this is your so-called justice system. Not exactly just. Powerful, yes, but not just.

This position is given to those who have a sense of power/have control over others. My position/responsibility is also given to those who have a sense of control or power over others. It’s very possible to abuse my position—I can teach people what to think and I can tell people what to do with it. I can technically abuse my power and brainwash hundreds upon hundreds of generations on what to think instead of how to think. I could indoctrinate my own agenda very easily. I could move people around, punish them, and remove them from the premises and I can even do that because I have enough rage and frustration, due to past experiences, to back it up. I take this into consideration every single day I’m in my field, and frankly, I’m terrified. I have high anxiety and frequently feel like I’m going to break down due to the pressure of it every day. I’m surprised I keep it together but this doesn’t come without recognition and effort. If our law enforcement doesn’t go carry the same weight or hold the same sense of responsibility, then they aren’t eligible to hold their position. It is important that as a teacher, I use my position of power and influence not to take away but to give. It’s my civic duty to give a voice to people. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had friends voice to me that they feel like their voice doesn’t matter/why should people care what they think? It absolutely breaks my heart to hear that. It breaks my heart to know that people think that their voices or opinions have little to no influence or importance on this society—in sharing their triumphs/happiness as well as their sadness. Even on a platform such as this, for entertainment and connection, you see through this BLM movement just how much your voice matters. It doesn’t only matter that you raise awareness to the cause—your individual experience in this matter matters so much. The movement isn’t about facts and numbers (though they’re responsible for giving it more validity for naysayers) but rather a very old thing that we frequently dismiss as being unimportant: feelings. Feelings are what make us human and it’s when we feel like they’re not listened to/unimportant that we start feeling a little less human.

The concept of “control” isn’t foreign. I grew up with people who fled from control in their homelands and sought refuge in this country. The way that it works is pretty simple: someone will use anything that benefits them to try to get one over you. Racism, ageism, religious affiliation, ableism, sexism, wealth…it’s all the same (power) but the name/excuse has changed. Those who are insecure about their own position will attempt to gain control through another source that guarantees power/supposedly cannot be challenged. Control isn’t logical (which, unfortunately, means that the intended audience will have little to no interest in reading this), it’s about having the upper hand and keeping you in your place. This will be done with various threats, commands, punishments, arguments, instilling confusion, etc. I know from having been dealt this and from having dealt this out myself. Takes a moment to recognize and you know when you’re doing it. You won’t feel better because the person in front of you won’t (again, if you have empathy) or people around you will tell you. Is someone giving you ultimatums? Control. Did someone physically threaten you? Control. Is someone playing games with you? Control. Commands? Control. I’m gonna take a slice out of this conversation to bring you into an even more nuanced form of control: ambiguity. We don’t have all the answers to life’s questions, of course, but if people make you feel like you need to question your own mentality and you actually do and then the results you yield from this new mentality are problematic…Yeeeeahhh. That’s control too. Leaving people to doubt themselves is also a mental tactic in gaining control. Not all control comes in obvious forms. Again perhaps this was all astonishingly obvious and if it was, good! We’re on the same page for sure. Not all control is bad. Control is necessary, to a degree. It’s necessary in maintaining peace and order but it’s most effectively established through respect. You find a way to equally respect everyone and boom—you’ve got the honest-earned control and order that you seek. The end of this essay will come to a conclusion/resolve but the matter of the fact is that the world will not so easily come to the same.

Look—I know that it takes a couple steps backwards and a lot of dark memories to acknowledge our own faults. I know that I used to be stubborn (not all stubbornness is bad though) and problematic because I wanted control over what I felt was out of my control. That’s why we seek to gain control and, sometimes, that’s why we do it in such horrendous ways. Sometimes we don’t realize we are because our own friends and entire systems that surround us make it out like it’s okay. Sometimes they do it because they’re scared they’ll lose something if they don’t. Wham. That’s privilege (affluence/support) and entitlement (the green light to continue on with what we’re doing) for you. A small scale and more personal example would be when we talk badly about someone else and have our friends nod to us because they “deserve it” and are “mean”. People do that for us because they’re good/validate us to make us feel better…not because we’re off the hook. Them doing so doesn’t permit us to turn off our internal commentary/release us from responsibility or blow off that from others who don’t validate us. That’s why, personally, I like to listen to both perspectives—not only the ones that validate me. If I sought out or only listened to views that encouraged my own, then I just wouldn’t understand or know how to deal with a world very different from my own. Then, when faced with that world, I would lash out like a hostile and fearful animal. Been there, done that. When you enter that world, you substitute familiarity with control in order to recreate your comfort. That’s how we got here. Some people were validated, repeatedly, until they no longer were and when they weren’t they became scared/more violent. Me writing “they” makes it sound like it’s someone else. It could be you. I encourage you to take a look around and recognize the patterns of affirmation around yourself. For starters—if you generally feel like you can do most things you want/have a problem with people who tell you that you can’t or even people who make you feel like you can’t, then you’re there. Being there means it’s time to tune into the critics—inner and outer.

#BLM #black lives matter #justice #reform #long write #essay #self reflection #self improvement #learning #knowledge #solutions #help #important #change #brutality #respect #writing #heard #my writing #support #california #america #north america #united states of america #movement #humanity #humans

[rhetoricandlogic]

The Dragonslayer of Merebarton

— by K.J. PARKER —

AUDIO VERSION

I was mending my chamber pot when they came to tell me about the dragon.

Mending a pot is one of those jobs you think is easy, because tinkers do it, and tinkers are no good or they’d be doing something else. Actually, it’s not easy at all. You have to drill a series of very small holes in the broken pieces, then thread short lengths of wire through the holes, then twist the ends of the wires together really tight, so as to draw the bits together firmly enough to make the pot watertight. In order to do the job you need a very hard, sharp, thin drill bit, a good eye, loads of patience, and at least three pairs of rock-steady hands. The tinker had quoted me a turner and a quarter; get lost, I told him, I’ll do it myself. It was beginning to dawn on me that some sorts of work are properly reserved for specialists.

Ah, the irony.

Stupid of me to break it in the first place. I’m not usually that clumsy. Stumbling about in the dark, was how I explained it. You should’ve lit a lamp, then, shouldn’t you, she said. I pointed out that you don’t need a lamp in the long summer evenings. She smirked at me. I don’t think she quite understands how finely balanced our financial position is. We’re not hard up, nothing like that. There’s absolutely no question of having to sell off any of the land, or take out mortgages. It’s just that, if we carry on wasting money unnecessarily on lamp-oil and tinkers and like frivolities, there’ll come a time when the current slight reduction in our income will start to be a mild nuisance. Only temporary, of course. The hard times will pass, and soon we’ll all be just fine.

Like I said, the irony.

“Ebba’s here to see you,” she said.

She could see I was busy. “He’ll have to come back,” I snapped. I had three little bits of wire gripped between my lips, which considerably reduced my snapping power.

“He said it’s urgent.”

“Fine.” I put down the pot—call it that, no way it was a pot anymore. It was disjointed memories of the shape of a pot, loosely tied together with metal string, like the scale armor the other side wore in Outremer. “Send him up.”

“He’s not coming up here in those boots,” she said, and at once I realized that no, he wasn’t, not when she was using that tone of voice. ���And why don’t you just give up on that? You’re wasting your time.”

Women have no patience. “The tinker—”

“That bit doesn’t go there.”

I dropped the articulated mess on the floor and walked past her, down the stairs, into the great hall. Great, in this context, is strictly a comparative term.

Ebba and I understand each other. For a start, he’s practically the same age as me—I’m a week younger; so what? We both grew up silently ashamed of our fathers (his father Ossun was the laziest man on the estate; mine—well) and we’re both quietly disappointed with our children. He took over his farm shortly before I came home from Outremer, so we both sort of started off being responsible for our own destinies around the same time. I have no illusions about him, and I can’t begin to imagine he has any about me. He’s medium height, bald and thin, stronger than he looks and smarter than he sounds. He used to set up the targets and pick up the arrows for me when I was a boy; never used to say anything, just stood there looking bored.

He had that look on his face. He told me I wasn’t going to believe what he was about to tell me.

The thing about Ebba is, he has absolutely no imagination. Not even when roaring drunk—whimpering drunk in his case; very rare occurrence, in case you’ve got the impression he’s what she calls basically-no-good. About twice a year, specific anniversaries. I have no idea what they’re the anniversaries of, and of course I don’t ask. Twice a year, then, he sits in the hayloft with a big stone jar and only comes out when it’s empty. Not, is the point I’m trying to make, prone to seeing things not strictly speaking there.

“There’s a dragon,” he said.

Now Ossun, his father, saw all manner of weird and wonderful things. “Don’t be bloody stupid,” I said. He just looked at me. Ebba never argues or contradicts; doesn’t need to.

“All right,” I said, and the words just sort of squeezed out, like a fat man in a narrow doorway. “Where?”

“Down Merebarton.”

A brief digression concerning dragons.

There’s no such thing. However, there’s the White Drake (its larger cousin, the Blue Drake, is now almost certainly extinct). According to Hrabanus’ Imperfect Bestiary, the White Drake is a native of the large and entirely unexpected belt of marshes you stumble into after you’ve crossed the desert, going from Crac Boamond to the sea. Hrabanus thinks it’s a very large bat, but conscientiously cites Priscian, who holds that it’s a featherless bird, and Saloninus, who maintains that it’s a winged lizard. The White Drake can get to be five feet long—that’s nose to tip-of-tail; three feet of that is tail, but it can still give you a nasty nip. They launch themselves out of trees, which can be horribly alarming (I speak from personal experience). White Drakes live almost exclusively on carrion and rotting fruit, rarely attack unless provoked, and absolutely definitely don’t breathe fire.

White Drakes aren’t found outside Outremer. Except, some idiot of a nobleman brought back five breeding pairs about a century ago, to decorate the grounds of his castle. Why people do these things, I don’t know. My father tried to keep peacocks once. As soon as we opened the cage they were off like arrows from the bowstring; next heard of six miles away, and could we please come and do something about them, because they were pecking the thatch out in handfuls. My father rode over that way, happening to take his bow with him. No more was ever said about peacocks.

Dragons, by contrast, are nine to ten feet long excluding the tail; they attack on sight, and breathe fire. At any rate, this one did.

Three houses and four barns in Merebarton, two houses and a hayrick in Stile. Nobody hurt yet, but only a matter of time. A dozen sheep carcasses, stripped to the bone. One shepherd reported being followed by the horrible thing: he saw it, it saw him, he turned and ran; it just sort of drifted along after him, hardly a wingbeat, as if mildly curious. When he couldn’t run any further, he tried crawling down a badger hole. Got stuck, head down the hole, legs sticking up in the air. He reckoned he felt the thump as the thing pitched down next to him, heard the snuffling—like a bull, he reckoned; felt its warm breath on his ankles. Time sort of stopped for a while, and then it went away again. The man said it was the first time he’d pissed himself and felt the piss running down his chest and dripping off his chin. Well, there you go.

The Brother at Merebarton appears to have taken charge, the way they do. He herded everyone into the grain store—stone walls, yes, but a thatched roof; you’d imagine even a Brother would’ve watched them making charcoal some time—and sent a terrified young kid off on a pony to, guess what. You’ve got it. Fetch the knight.

At this point, the story recognizes (isn’t that what they say in Grand Council?) Dodinas le Cure Hardy, age fifty-six, knight, of the honors of Westmoor, Merebarton, East Rew, Middle Side, and Big Room; veteran of Outremer (four years, so help me), in his day a modest success on the circuit—three second places in ranking tournaments, two thirds, usually in the top twenty out of an average field of forty or so. Through with all that a long time ago, though. I always knew I was never going to be one of those gaunt, terrifying old men who carry on knocking ’em down and getting knocked down into their sixties. I had an uncle like that, Petipas of Lyen. I saw him in a tournament when he was sixty-seven, and some young giant bashed him off his horse. Uncle landed badly, and I watched him drag himself up off the ground, so desperately tired. I was only, what, twelve; even I could see, every last scrap of flesh and bone was yelling, don’t want to do this anymore. But he stood up, shamed the young idiot into giving him a go on foot, and proceeded to use his head as an anvil for ten minutes before graciously accepting his surrender. There was so much anger in that performance—not at the kid, for showing him up, Uncle wasn’t like that. He was furious with himself for getting old, and he took it out on the only target available. I thought the whole thing was disturbing and sad. I won’t ever be like that, I told myself.

(The question was, is: why? I can understand fighting. I fought—really fought—in Outremer. I did it because I was afraid the other man was going to kill me. So happens my defense has always been weak, so I compensate with extreme aggression. Never could keep it going for very long, but on the battlefield that’s not usually an issue. So I attacked anything that moved with white-hot ferocity fueled entirely and exclusively by ice-cold fear. Tournaments, though, jousting, behourd, the grand melee—what was the point? I have absolutely no idea, except that I did feel very happy indeed on those rare occasions when I got a little tin trophy to take home. Was that enough to account for the pain of being laid up six weeks with two busted ribs? Of course it wasn’t. We do it because it’s what we do; one of my father’s more profound statements. Conversely, I remember my aunt: silly woman, too soft for her own good. She kept these stupid big white chickens, and when they got past laying she couldn’t bear to have their necks pulled. Instead, they were taken out into the woods and set free, meaning in real terms fed to the hawks and foxes. One time, my turn, I lugged down a cage with four hens and two cocks squashed in there, too petrified to move. Now, what draws in the fox is the clucking; so I turned them out in different places, wide apart, so they had nobody to talk to. Released the last hen, walking back down the track; already the two cock birds had found each other, no idea how, and were ripping each other into tissue scraps with their spurs. They do it because it’s what they do. Someone once said, the man who’s tired of killing is tired of life. Not sure I know what that means.)

A picture is emerging, I hope, of Dodinas le Cure Hardy; while he was active in chivalry he tried to do what was expected of him, but his heart was never in it. Glad, in a way, to be past it and no longer obliged to take part. Instead, prefers to devote himself to the estate, trying to keep the ancestral mess from collapsing in on itself. A man aware of his obligations, and at least some of his many shortcomings.

Go and fetch the knight, says the fool of a Brother. Tell him—

On reflection, if I hadn’t seen those wretched White Drakes in Outremer, there’s a reasonable chance I’d have refused to believe in a dragon trashing Merebarton, and then, who knows, it might’ve flown away and bothered someone else. Well, you don’t know, that’s the whole point. It’s that very ignorance that makes life possible. But when Ebba told me what the boy told him he’d seen, immediately I thought; White Drake. Clearly it wasn’t one, but it was close enough to something I’d seen to allow belief to seep into my mind, and then I was done for. No hope.

Even so, I think I said, “Are you sure?” about six or seven times, until eventually it dawned on me I was making a fool of myself. At which point, a horrible sort of mist of despair settled over me, as I realized that this extraordinary, impossible, grossly and viciously unfair thing had landed on me, and that I was going to have to deal with it.

But you do your best. You struggle, just as a man crushed under a giant stone still draws in the last one or two desperate whistling breaths; pointless, but you can’t just give up. So I looked him steadily in the eye, and I said, “So, what do they expect me to do about it?”

He didn’t say a word. Looked at me.

“The hell with that,” I remember shouting. “I’m fifty-six years old, I don’t even hunt boar anymore. I’ve got a stiff knee. I wouldn’t last two minutes.”

He looked at me. When you’ve known someone all your life, arguing with them is more or less arguing with yourself. Never had much joy with lying to myself. Or anyone else, come to that. Of course, my mother used to say: the only thing I want you not to be the best in the world at is lying. She said a lot of that sort of thing; much better written down on paper rather than said out loud in casual conversation, but of course she couldn’t read or write. She also tended to say: do your duty. I don’t think she ever liked me very much. Loved, of course, but not liked.

He was looking at me. I felt like that poor devil under the stone (at the siege of Crac des Bests; man I knew slightly). Comes a point when you just can’t breathe anymore.

We do have a library: forty-seven books. The Imperfect Bestiary is an abridged edition, local copy, drawings are pretty laughable, they make everything look like either a pig or a cow, because that’s all the poor fool who drew it had ever seen. So there I was, looking at a picture of a big white cow with wings, thinking: how in God’s name am I supposed to kill something like that?

White Drakes don’t breathe fire, but there’s this stupid little lizard in Permia somewhere that does. About eighteen inches long, otherwise completely unremarkable; not to put too fine a point on it, it farts through its mouth and somehow contrives to set fire to it. You see little flashes and puffs of smoke among the reed beds. So it’s possible. Wonderful.

(Why would anything want to do that? Hrabanus, who has an answer for every damn thing, points out that the reed beds would clog up the delta, divert the flowing water and turn the whole of South Permia into a fetid swamp if it wasn’t for the frequent, regular fires, which clear off the reed and lay down a thick bed of fertile ash, just perfect for everything else to grow sweet and fat and provide a living for the hundreds of species of animals and birds who live there. The fires are started by the lizards, who appear to serve no other function. Hrabanus points to this as proof of the Divine Clockmaker theory. I think they do it because it’s what they do, though I’m guessing the lizards who actually do the fire-starting are resentful younger sons. Tell you about my brother in a minute.)

She found me in the library. Clearly she’d been talking to Ebba. “Well?” she said.

I told her what I’d decided to do. She can pull this face of concentrated scorn and fury. It’s so intensely eloquent, there’s really no need for her to add words. But she does. Oh, she does.

“I’ve got no choice,” I protested. “I’m the knight.”

“You’re fifty-six and you get out of breath climbing the stairs. And you’re proposing to fight dragons.”

It’s a black lie about the stairs. Just that one time; and that was the clock-tower. Seventy-seven steps to the top. “I don’t want to do it,” I pointed out. “Last bloody thing I want—”

“Last bloody thing you’ll ever do, if you’re stupid enough to do it.” She never swears, except when quoting me back at myself. “Just think for a minute, will you? If you get yourself killed, what’ll happen to this place?”

“I have no intention of getting myself—”

“Florian’s too young to run the estate,” she went on, as though I hadn’t spoken. “That clown of a bailiff of yours can’t be trusted to remember to breathe without someone standing over him. On top of which, there’s heriot and wardship, that’s hundreds and hundreds of thalers we simply haven’t got, which means having to sell land, and once you start doing that you might as well load up a handcart and take to the roads, because—”

“Absolutely no intention of getting killed,” I said.

“And for crying out loud don’t shout,” she shouted. “It’s bad enough you’re worrying me to death without yelling at me as well. I don’t know why you do this to me. Do you hate me, or something?”

We were four and a quarter seconds away from tears, and I really can’t be doing with that. “All right,” I said. “So tell me. What do I do?”

“I don’t know, do I? I don’t get myself into these ridiculous messes.” I wish I could do that; I should be able to. After all, it’s the knight’s move, isn’t it? A step at right angles, then jump clean over the other man’s head. “What about that useless brother of yours? Send him.”

The dreadful thing is, the same thought had crossed my mind. It’d be—well, not acceptable, but within the rules, meaning there’s precedents. Of course, I’d have to be practically bedridden with some foul but honorable disease. Titurel is ten years younger than me and still competing regularly on the circuit, though at the time he was three miles away, at the lodge, with some female he’d found somewhere. And if I really was ill—

I was grateful to her. If she hadn’t suggested it, I might just have considered it. As it was; “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Just think, if I was to chicken out and Titurel actually managed to kill this bloody thing. We’ve got to live here. He’d be insufferable.”

She breathed through her nose; like, dare I say it, one of the D things. “All right,” she said. “Though how precisely it’s better for you to get killed and your appalling brother moves in and takes over running the estate—”

“I am not going to get killed,” I said.

“But there, you never listen to me, so I might as well save my breath.” She paused and scowled at me. “Well?”

Hard, sometimes, to remember that when I married her, she was the Fair Maid of Lannandale. “Well what?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Oh,” he said, sort of half-turning and wiping his forehead on his forearm. “It’s you.”

Another close contemporary of mine. He’s maybe six months older than me, took over the forge just before my father died. He’s never liked me. Still, we understand each other. He’s not nearly as good a tradesman as he thinks he is, but he’s good enough.

“Come to pay me for those harrows?” he said.

“Not entirely,” I replied. “I need something made.”

“Of course you do.” He turned his back on me, dragged something orange-hot out from under the coals, and bashed it, very hard, very quickly, for about twenty seconds. Then he shoved it back under the coals and hauled on the bellows handle a dozen times. Then he had leisure to talk to me. “I’ll need a deposit.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. There was a small heap of tools piled up on the spare anvil. I moved them carefully aside and spread out my scraps of parchment. “Now, you’ll need to pay attention.”

The parchment I’d drawn my pathetic attempts at sketches on was the fly-leaf out of Monomachus of Teana’s Principles of Mercantile Law. I’d had just enough left over to use for a very brief note, which I’d folded four times, sealed, and sent the stable boy off to deliver. It came back, folded the other way; and under my message, written in big crude handwriting, smudged for lack of sand—

What the hell do you want it for?

I wasn’t in the mood. I stamped back into the house (I’d been out in the barn, rummaging about in the pile of old junk), got out the pen and ink and wrote sideways up the margin (only just enough room, writing very small)—

No time. Please. Now.

I underlined please twice. The stable boy had wandered off somewhere, so I sent the kitchenmaid. She whined about having to go out in her indoors shoes. I ask you.

Moddo the blacksmith is one of those men who gets caught up in the job in hand. He whinges and complains, then the problems of doing the job snag his imagination, and then your main difficulty is getting it away from him when it’s finished, because he’s just come up with some cunning little modification which’ll make it ever so slightly, irrelevantly better.

He does good work. I was so impressed I paid cash.

“Your design was useless, so I changed it,” he’d said. A bit of an overstatement. What he’d done was to substitute two thin springs for one fat one, and add on a sort of ratchet thing taken off a millers’ winch, to make it easier to wind it up. It was still sticky with the oil he’d quenched it in. The sight of it made my flesh crawl.

Basically, it was just a very, very large gin trap, with an offset pressure plate. “It’s pretty simple,” I said. “Think about it. Think about birds. In order to get off the ground, they’ve got very light bones, right?”

Ebba shrugged: if you say so.

“Well,” I told him, “they have. And you break a bird’s leg, it can’t get off the ground. I’m assuming it’s the same with this bastard. We put out a carcass, with this underneath. It stands on the carcass, braces it with one foot so it can tear it up with the other. Bang, got him. This thing ought to snap the bugger’s leg like a carrot, and then it won’t be going anywhere in a hurry, you can be sure of that.”

He frowned. I could tell the sight of the trap scared him, like it did me. The mainspring was three eighths of an inch thick. Just as well Moddo thought to add a cocking mechanism. “You’ll still have to kill it, though,” he said.

I grinned at him. “Why?” I asked. “No, the hell with that. Just keep everybody and their livestock well away for a week until it starves to death.”

He was thinking about it. I waited. “If it can breathe fire,” he said slowly, “maybe it can melt the trap off.”

“And burn through its own leg in the process. Also,” I added—I’d considered this very point—“even without the trap it’s still crippled, it won’t be able to hunt and feed. Just like a bird that’s got away from the cat.”

He pulled a small frown that means, well, maybe. “We’ll need a carcass.”

“There’s that sick goat,” I said.

Nod. His sick goat. Well, I can’t help it if all my animals are healthy.

He went off with the small cart to fetch the goat. A few minutes later, a big wagon crunched down to the yard gate and stopped just in time. Too wide to pass through; it’d have got stuck.

Praise be, Marhouse had sent me the scorpion. Rather less joy and happiness, he’d come along with it, but never mind.

The scorpion is genuine Mezentine, two hundred years old at least. Family tradition says Marhouse’s great-great-and-so-forth-grandfather brought it back from the Grand Tour, as a souvenir. More likely, his grandfather took it in part exchange or to settle a bad debt; but to acknowledge that would be to admit that two generations back they were still in trade.

“What the hell,” Marhouse said, hopping down off the wagon box, “do you want it for?”

He’s all right, I suppose. We were in Outremer together—met there for the first time, which is crazy, since our houses are only four miles apart. But he was fostered as a boy, away up country somewhere. I’ve always assumed that’s what made him turn out like he did.

I gave him a sort of hopeless grin. Our kitchenmaid was still sitting up on the box, hoping for someone to help her down. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m hoping we won’t need it, but—”

A scorpion is a siege engine; a pretty small one, compared to the huge stone-throwing catapults and mangonels and trebuchets they pounded us with at Crac des Bests. It’s essentially a big steel crossbow, with a frame, a heavy stand, and a super-efficient winch. One man with a long steel bar can wind it up, and it shoots a steel arrow long as your arm and thick as your thumb three hundred yards. We had them at Metouches. Fortunately, the other lot didn’t.

I told Marhouse about the dragon. He assumed I was trying to be funny. Then he caught sight of the trap, lying on the ground in front of the cider house, and he went very quiet.

“You’re serious,” he said.

I nodded. “Apparently it’s burned some houses out at Merebarton.”

“Burned.” Never seen him look like that before.

“So they reckon. I don’t think it’s just a drake.”

“That’s—” He didn’t get around to finishing the sentence. No need.

“Which is why,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, “I’m so very glad your granddad had the foresight to buy a scorpion. No wonder he made a fortune in business. He obviously knew good stuff when he saw it.”

Took him a moment to figure that one out, by which time the moment had passed. “There’s no arrows,” he said.

“What?”

“No arrows,” he repeated, “just the machine. Well,” he went on, “it’s not like we use the bloody thing, it’s just for show.”

I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times. “Surely there must’ve been—”

“Originally, yes, I suppose so. I expect they got used for something around the place.” He gave me a thin smile. “We don’t tend to store up old junk for two hundred years on the off chance in my family,” he said.

I was trying to remember what scorpion bolts look like. There’s a sort of three-bladed flange down the butt end, to stabilize them in flight. “No matter,” I said. “Bit of old rod’ll have to do. I’ll get Moddo to run me some up.” I was looking at the machine. The lead screws and the keyways the slider ran in were caked up with stiff, solid bogeys of dried grease. “Does it work?”

“I assume so. Or it did, last time it was used. We keep it covered with greased hides in the root store.”

I flicked a flake of rust off the frame. It looked sound enough, but what if the works had seized solid? “Guess I’d better get it down off the cart and we’ll see,” I said. “Well, thanks again. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

Meaning: please go away now. But Marhouse just scowled at me. “I’m staying here,” he said. “You honestly think I’d trust you lot with a family heirloom?”

“No, really,” I said, “you don’t need to trouble. I know how to work these things, remember. Besides, they’re pretty well indestructible.”

Wasting my breath. Marhouse is like a dog I used to have, couldn’t bear to be left out of anything; if you went out for a shit in the middle of the night, she had to come too. Marhouse was the only one of us in Outremer who ever volunteered for anything. And never got picked, for that exact reason.

So, through no choice or fault of my own, there were nine of us: me, Ebba, Marhouse, the six men from the farm. Of the six, Liutprand is seventeen and Rognvald is twenty-nine, though he barely counts, with his bad arm. The rest of us somewhere between fifty-two and sixty. Old men. We must be mad, I thought.

We rode out there in the flat-bed cart, bumping and bouncing over the ruts in Watery Lane. Everybody was thinking the same thing, and nobody said a word: what if the bugger swoops down and crisps the lot of us while we’re sat here in the cart? In addition, I was also thinking: Marhouse is his own fault, after all, he’s a knight too, and he insisted on butting in. The rest of them, though—my responsibility. Send for the knight, they’d said, not the knight and half the damn village. But a knight in real terms isn’t a single man, he’s the nucleus of a unit, the heart of a society; the lance in war, the village in peace, he stands for them, in front of them when there’s danger, behind them when times are hard, not so much an individual, more of a collective noun. That’s understood, surely; so that, in all those old tales of gallantry and errantry, when the poet sings of the knight wandering in a dark wood and encountering the evil to be fought, the wrong to be put right, “knight” in that context is just shorthand for a knight and his squire and his armor-bearer and his three men-at-arms and the boy who leads the spare horses. The others aren’t mentioned by name, they’re subsumed in him, he gets the glory or the blame but everyone knows, if they stop to think about it, that the rest of them were there too; or who lugged around the spare lances, to replace the ones that got broken? And who got the poor bugger in and out of his full plate harness every morning and evening? There are some straps and buckles you just can’t reach on your own, unless you happen to have three hands on the ends of unnaturally long arms. Without the people around me, I’d be completely worthless. It’s understood. Well, isn’t it?

We set the trap up on the top of a small rise, in the big meadow next to the old clay pit. Marhouse’s suggestion, as a matter of fact; he reckoned that it was where the flightlines the thing had been following all crossed. Flightlines? Well yes, he said, and proceeded to plot all the recorded attacks on a series of straight lines, scratched in the dried splatter on the side of the cart with a stick. It looked pretty convincing to me. Actually, I hadn’t really given it any thought, just assumed that if we dumped a bleeding carcass down on the ground, the dragon would smell it and come whooshing down. Stupid, when you come to think of it. And I call myself a huntsman.

Moddo had fitted the trap with four good, thick chains, attached to eighteen-inch steel pegs, which we hammered into the ground. Again, Marhouse did the thinking. They needed to be offset (his word) so that if it pulled this way or that, there’d be three chains offering maximum resistance—well, it made sense when he said it. He’s got that sort of brain, invents clever machines and devices for around the farm. Most of them don’t work, but some of them do.

The trap, of course, was Plan A. Plan B was the scorpion, set up seventy-five yards away under the busted chestnut tree, with all that gorse and briars for cover. The idea was, we had a direct line of sight, but if we missed and he came at us, he wouldn’t dare swoop in too close, for fear of smashing his wings on the low branches. That bit was me.

We propped the poor dead goat up on sticks so it wasn’t actually pressing on the floorplate of the trap, then scampered back to where we’d set up the scorpion. Luitprand got volunteered to drive the cart back to Castle Farm; he whined about being out in the open, but I chose him because he’s the youngest and I wanted him well out of harm’s way if the dragon actually did put in an appearance. Seventy-five yards was about as far as I trusted the scorpion to shoot straight without having to make allowance for elevation—we didn’t have time to zero it, obviously—but it felt stupidly close. How long would it take the horrible thing to fly seventy-five yards? I had no idea, obviously. We spanned the scorpion—reassuringly hard to do—loaded Moddo’s idea of a bolt into the slider groove, nestled down as far as we could get into the briars and nettles, and waited.

No show. When it got too dark to see, Marhouse said, “What kind of poison do you think it’d take to kill something like that?”

I’d been thinking about that. “Something we haven’t got,” I said.

“You reckon?”

“Oh come on,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep a wide selection of poisons in the house. For some reason.”

“There’s archer’s root,” Ebba said.

“He’s right,” Marhouse said. “That stuff’ll kill just about anything.”

“Of course it will,” I replied. “But nobody around here—”

“Mercel,” Ebba said. “He’s got some.”

News to me. “What?”

“Mercel. Lidda’s boy. He uses it to kill wild pigs.”

Does he now?, I thought. It had occurred to me that wild boar were getting a bit hard to find. I knew all about smearing a touch of archer’s root on a bit of jagged wire nailed to a fencepost—boar love to scratch, and it’s true, they do a lot of damage to standing corn. That’s why I pay compensation. Archer’s root is illegal, of course, but so are a lot of useful everyday commodities.

“I’d better ask him,” Ebba said. “He won’t want to get in any trouble.”

Decided unanimously, apparently. Well, we weren’t doing any good crouching in the bushes. It did cross my mind that if the dragon hadn’t noticed a dead goat with a trap under it, there was no guarantee it’d notice the same dead goat stuffed full of archer’s root, but I dismissed the idea as unconstructive.

We left the trap and the scorpion set up, just in case, and rode in the cart back to Castle Farm. To begin with, as we came over the top of the Hog’s Back down Castle Lane, I assumed the pretty red glow on the skyline was the last blush of the setting sun. As we got closer, I hoped that was what it was. By the time we passed the quince orchard, however, the hypothesis was no longer tenable.

We found Luitprand in the goose pond. Stupid fool, he’d jumped in the water to keep from getting burned up. Of course, the mud’s three feet deep on the bottom. I could have told him that.

In passing: I think Luitprand was my son. At any rate, I knew his mother rather too well, seventeen years ago. Couldn’t ever say anything, naturally. But he reminded me a lot of myself. For a start, he was half-smart stupid, just like me. Hurling myself in the pond to avoid the flames was just the sort of thing I might have done at his age; and, goes without saying, he wasn’t there when we dug the bloody pond, twenty-one years ago, so how could he have known we’d chosen the soft spot, no use for anything else?

No other casualties, thank God, but the hay barn, the straw rick, the woodpile, all gone. The thatch, miraculously, burned itself out without taking the rafters with it. But losing that much hay meant we’d be killing a lot of perfectly good stock come winter, since I can’t afford to buy in. One damn thing after another.

Opito, Larcan’s wife, was hysterical, even though her home hadn’t gone up in flames after all. Larcan said it was a great big lizard, about twenty feet long. He got one very brief glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, just before he dragged his wife and son under the cart. He looked at me like it was all my fault. Just what I needed after a long day crouched in a briar patch.

Luitprand played the flute; not very well. I gave him the one I brought back from Outremer. I never did find it among his stuff, so I can only assume he sold it at some point.

Anyway, that was that, as far as I was concerned. Whatever it was, wherever it had come from, it would have to be dealt with, as soon as possible. On the ride back from the farm, Marhouse had been banging on about flightlines again, where we were going to move the bait to; two days here, while the wind’s in the south, then if that’s no good, then another two days over there, and if that still doesn’t work, we’ll know for sure it must be following the line of the river, so either here, there, or just possibly everywhere, would be bound to do the trick, logically speaking. I smiled and nodded. I’m sure he was perfectly correct. He’s a good huntsman, Marhouse. Come the end of the season, he always knows exactly where all the game we’ve failed to find must be holed up. Next year, he then says—

Trouble was, there wasn’t time for a next year.

By midnight (couldn’t sleep, oddly enough) I was fairly sure how it had to be done.

Before you start grinning to yourself at my presumption, I had no logical explanation for my conclusions. Flightlines, patterns of behavior, life cycles, cover crops, mating seasons, wind directions; put them together and you’ll inevitably flush out the truth, which will then elude you, zig-zag running through the roots of the long variables. I knew.

I knew, because I used to hunt with my father. He was, of course, always in charge of everything, knew everything, excelled at everything. We never caught much. And I knew, when he’d drawn up the lines of beaters, given them their timings (say three Glorious Sun Ascendants and two Minor Catechisms, then come out making as much noise as you can), positioned the stillhunters and the hounds and the horsemen, finally blown the horn; I knew exactly where the wretched animal would come bursting out, so as to elude us all with the maximum of safety and the minimum of effort. Pure intuition, never failed. Naturally, I never said anything. Not my place to.

So: I knew what was going to happen, and that there was nothing much I could do about it, and my chances of success and survival were—well, not to worry about that. When I was in Outremer, I got shot in the face with an arrow. Should’ve killed me instantly; but by some miracle it hung up in my cheekbone, and an enemy doctor we’d captured the day before yanked it out with a pair of tongs. You should be dead, they said to me, like I’d deliberately cheated. No moral fiber. Ever since then—true, I shuddered to think how the estate would get on with my brother in charge, but it survived my father and grandfather, so it was clearly indestructible. Besides, everyone dies sooner or later. It’s not like I’m important.

Marhouse insisted on coming with us. I told him, you stay here, we’ll need a wise, experienced hand to take charge if it decides to burn out the castle. For a moment I thought he’d fallen for it, but no such luck.

So there were three of us: me, Ebba, Marhouse. The idea was, we’d follow the Ridgeway on horseback, looking down on either side. As soon as we saw smoke, Ebba would ride back to the castle and get the gear, meet us at the next likely attack scene. I know; bloody stupid idea. But I knew it wouldn’t happen like that, because I knew how it’d happen.

Marhouse had on his black-and-white—that’s breastplate, pauldrons, rerebraces, and tassets. I told him, you’ll boil to death in that lot. He scowled at me. He’d also fetched along a full-weight lance, issue. You won’t need that, I told him. I’d got a boar-spear, and Ebba was carrying the steel crossbow my father spent a whole year’s apple money on, the year before he died. “But they’re just to make us feel better,” I said. That got me another scowl. The wrong attitude.

Noon; nothing to be seen anywhere. I was just daring to think, perhaps the bloody thing’s moved on, or maybe it’d caught some disease or got itself hung up in a tree. Then I saw a crow.

I think Ebba saw it first, but he didn’t point and say, “Look, there’s a crow.” Marhouse was explaining some fine point of decoying, how you go about establishing which tree is the principal turning point on an elliptical recursive flight pattern. I thought: that’s not a crow, it’s just hanging there. Must be a hawk.

Ebba was looking over his shoulder. No, not a hawk, the profile’s wrong. Marhouse stopped talking, looked at me, said, “What are you two staring at?” I was thinking, Oh.

I’m right about things so rarely that I usually relish the experience. Not this time.

Oh, you may be thinking, is a funny way of putting it. But that was the full extent of it: no elation, no regret, not even resignation; to my great surprise, no real fear. Just: oh, as in, well, here we are, then. Call it a total inability to feel anything. Twice in Outremer, once when my father died, and now. I’d far rather have wet myself, but you can’t decide these things for yourself. Oh, I thought, and that was all.

Marhouse was swearing, which isn’t like him. He only swears when he’s terrified, or when something’s got stuck or broken. Bad language, he reckons, lubricates the brain, stops it seizing up with fear or anger. Ebba had gone white as milk. His horse was playing up, and he was having to work hard to keep it from bolting. Amazing how they know.

On top of the Ridgeway, of course, there’s no cover. We could gallop forward, or turn around and gallop back; either case, at the rate the bloody thing was moving, it’d be on us long before we could get our heads down. I heard someone give the order to dismount. Wasn’t Marhouse, because he stayed mounted. Wouldn’t have been Ebba, so I guess it must’ve been me.

First time, it swooped down low over our heads—about as high up as the spire of Blue Temple—and just kept on going. We were frozen solid. We watched. It was on the glide, like a pigeon approaching a laid patch in a barley field, deciding whether to pitch or go on. Very slight tailwind, so if it wanted to come in on us, it’d have to bank, turn up into the wind a little bit to start to stall, then wheel and come in with its wings back. I honestly thought: it’s gone too far, it’s not going to come in. Then it lifted, and I knew.

Sounds odd, but I hadn’t really been looking at it the first time, when it buzzed us. I saw a black bird shape, long neck like a heron, long tail like a pheasant, but no sense of scale. As it came in the second time, I couldn’t help but stare; a real dragon, for crying out loud, something to tell your grandchildren about. Well, maybe.

I’d say the body was about horse-sized, head not in proportion; smaller, like a red deer stag. Wings absurdly large—featherless, like a bat, skin stretched on disturbingly extended fingers. Tail, maybe half as long again as the body; neck like a swan, if that makes any sense. Sort of a gray color, but it looked green at a distance. Big hind legs, small front legs looking vaguely ridiculous, as if it had stolen them off a squirrel. A much rounder snout than I’d expected, almost chubby. It didn’t look all that dangerous, to be honest.

Marhouse is one of those people who translate fear into action; the scareder he is, the braver. Works against people. No warning—it’d have been nice if he’d said something first; he kicked his horse hard enough to stove in a rib, lance in rest, seat and posture straight out of the coaching manual. Rode straight at it.

What happened then—

Marhouse was five yards away from it, going full tilt. The dragon probably couldn’t have slowed down if it had wanted to. Instead—it actually made this sort of “pop” noise as it opened its mouth and burped up a fat round ball of fire, then lifted just a little, to sail about five feet over Marhouse’s head. He, meanwhile, rode straight into the fireball, and through it.

And stopped, and fell all to pieces; the reason being, there was nothing left. Horse, man, all gone, not even ash, and the dozen or so pieces of armor dropping glowing to the ground, cherry-red, like they’d just come off the forge. I’ve seen worse things, in Outremer, but nothing stranger.

I was gawping, forgotten all about the dragon. It was Ebba who shoved me down as it came back. I have no idea why it didn’t just melt us both as it passed, unless maybe it was all out of puff and needed to recharge. Anyway, it soared away, repeated the little lift. I had a feeling it was enjoying itself. Well, indeed. It must be wonderful to be able to fly.

Ebba was shouting at me, waving something, the crossbow, he wanted me to take it from him. “Shoot it,” he was yelling. Made no sense to me; but then again, why not? I took the bow, planted my feet a shoulders’ width apart, left elbow tucked in tight to the chest to brace the bow, just the fingers on the trigger. A good archery stance didn’t seem to have anything to do with the matter in hand—like playing bowls in the middle of an earthquake—but I’m a good archer, so I couldn’t help doing it properly. I found the dragon in the middle of the peep-sight, drew the tip of the arrow up to find it, and pressed the trigger.

For the record, I hit the damn thing. The bolt went in four inches, just above the heart. Good shot. With a bow five times as strong, quite possibly a clean kill.

I think it must’ve hurt, though, because instead of flaming and lifting, it squirmed—hunched its back then stretched out full-length like a dog waking up—and kept coming, straight at me. I think I actually did try and jump out of the way; just rather too late. I think what hit me must’ve been the side of its head.

I had three ribs stoved in once in Outremer, so I knew what was going on. I recognized the sound, and the particular sort of pain, and the not quite being able to breathe. Mostly I remember thinking: it won’t hurt, because any moment now I’ll be dead. Bizarrely reassuring, as if I was cheating, getting away with it. Cheating twice; once by staying alive, once by dying. This man is morally bankrupt.

I was on my back, not able or minded to move. I couldn’t see the dragon. I could hear Ebba shouting; shut up, you old fool, I thought, I’m really not interested. But he was shouting, “Hold on, mate, hold on, I’m coming,” which made absolutely no sense at all—

Then he shut up, and I lay there waiting. I waited, and waited. I’m not a patient man. I waited so long, those crunched ribs started to hurt, or at least I became aware of the pain. For crying out loud, I thought. And waited.

And thought: now just a minute.

It hurt so much, hauling myself onto my side so I could see. I was in tears.

Later, I figured out what had happened. When Ebba saw me go down, he grabbed the boar-spear and ran towards me. I don’t imagine he considered the dragon, except as an inconvenience. Hold on, I’m coming; all his thoughts in his words. He got about half way when the dragon pitched—it must’ve swooped off and come in again. As it put its feet down to land, he must’ve stuck the butt of the spear in the ground and presented the point, like you do with a boar, to let it stick itself, its momentum being far more effective than your own puny strength. As it pitched, it lashed with its tail, sent Ebba flying. Whether or not it realized it was dead, the spear a foot deep in its windpipe before the shaft gave way under the pressure and snapped, I neither know nor care. By the marks on the ground, it rolled three or four times before the lights went out. My best estimate is, it weighed just short of a ton. Ebba—under it as it rolled—was crushed like a grape, so that his guts burst and his eyes popped, and nearly all his bones were broken.

He wouldn’t have thought: I’ll kill the dragon. He’d have thought, ground the spear, like boar-hunting, and then the tail hit him, and then the weight squashed him. So it wouldn’t have been much; not a heroic thought, not the stuff of song and story. Just: this is a bit like boar-hunting, so ground the spear. And then, perhaps: oh.

I think that’s all there is; anywhere, anytime, in the whole world.

I tried preserving the head in honey. We got an old pottery bath and filled it and put the head in; but eight weeks later it had turned green and it stank like hell, and she said, for pity’s sake get rid of it. So we boiled it out and scraped it, and mounted the skull on the wall. Not much bigger than a big deer; in a hundred years’ time, they won’t believe the old story about it being a dragon. No such thing as dragons, they’ll say.

Meanwhile, for now, I’m the Dragonslayer; which is a joke. The duke himself threatened to ride over and take a look at the remains, but affairs of state supervened, thank God. Entertaining the duke and his court would’ve ruined us, and we’d lost so much already.

Twice I’ve cheated. Marhouse was straight as a die, and his end, I’m sorry, was just ludicrous. I keep telling myself, Ebba made a choice, you must respect that. I can’t. Instead of a friend, I have a horrible memory, and yet another debt I can’t pay. People assume you want to be saved, no matter what the cost; sometimes, though, it’s just too expensive to stay alive. Not sure I’ll ever forgive him for that.

And that’s that. I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.

#K.J. Parker #The Dragonslayer of Merebarton #short story

[serenitykrp]

—WARNING : suspect may be armed and dangerous! XERXES LIBERTAS, code named CORONA BOREALIS, is a PASSENGER on an unidentified firefly-class ship, traveling through the ‘Verse under the radar. They are known for being adaptable, individualistic, easy-going, daring, and whimsical, but beneath the surface, they have proven to be impulsive, uninhibited, violent, uncaring, and chaotic. Although their origin lies somewhere on their home planet ARIEL, they have been caught by stardust and lost to the great expanse.

YOU ARE YOUR OWN EXPLOSION, BRING US YOUR VERY BEST VIOLENCE.

the basis of his beliefs is freedom. there is nothing more important than freedom to him, and it greatly shows how that belief forged his personality. uncaring of others, he’s always ready to just do whatever he wanted. at times he would be in the mood to answer your questions in great details, but other times he will simply ignore you. he is the embodiment of unpredictability and liberty, chaos within human form.

that did not necessarily mean he was all bad, no, there were other traits to him. such as how he truly just let anyone have their own opinion and let them do whatever they wanted. the honest belief that everyone should just be themselves and not something else. the side of him that could easily get used to different environments without complaints, the daring nature of his that led him to be fearless in deciding to be whatever he wanted and whatever he wanted even though so many bad things could happen to him if he did pick his own choice in the matter.

there’s this whimsical flair to him, you see. despite how much pandemonium could be brought out due to his beliefs and actions, he’s more relaxed and harmless unless in a situation where violence is needed. otherwise, he seemed more playful and like an amusing sort of nonsense that’s not easily deciphered.

THERE IS NO NEWS, THERE IS ONLY THE TRUTH OF THE SIGNAL.

I. STELLAR NEBULA

he was the son of rather well-off doctors. a boy with expectations brought down upon him. he was not treated as a mere child, rather he was like molten metal forged to whatever his parents wished for him to become. they tried to input as much knowledge as they could into his mind, as if his brain was merely a computer they could stab a usb inside in order to copy and paste files.

he will grow up to be succesful, they said. he will become a great doctor just like you. and none bothered to ask what the small boy truly wanted. but even he couldn’t bother to ask himself, for he was unaware if he was even supposed to ask himself anything. so sheltered was he, that he didn’t even know what it was like to be able to decide for himself.

this was how the boy known as jang hyunseung grew up. a mere extension of his parents, with choices decided by said parents. he was less human and more robotic despite his flesh, blood, and beating heart. a poor soul that never managed to actually grow and stuck inside a body that did. this was the unfortunate life fate that he faced—

until the cage and opression was broken down all around him.

II. MASSIVE STAR

he was in his teenage years when he first travelled outside of ariel with his father. it was supposed to be a learning experience, to understand what life outside ariel was like and what not.

persephone, a land where two ends of the spectrum could be seen so visibly. the planet where he’s seen slaves and could not help but compare himself to them. after all, he was chained down like them by invisivle shackles held by the adults he knew in his life. that realization had happened slowly as he grew up, noticing certain things like how others were able to make their own decisions, to be able to do things they wanted to do, and just be free. but he had yet to rebel, far too fearful and unsure. because what will be there for him when he did break out from his cage? he had nothing but this identity that was created and built by his parent.

it seemed that fate had wanted to give him the chance to be able to be himself and give him something to rely on, for when he was seperated from his father, he was whisked away by people who knocked him out in one go ( which isn’t that much of a feat as he wasn’t really a fighter at that time ).

and when he woke up, he’s faced with individuals so different from each other, with appearances and personalities greatly varying ( even those strange tribal tattoos all over them ) and the only exact same thing connecting them being that of the strange, tribal-esque bird mark. when they realized he was awake, they had blatantly told him that they needed him to heal a member of their’s because they found out he was a medic ( or at least skilled enough to be one ) and would be able to help them out.

personally, he didn’t know what to do. but spotting the weapons on them had made the decision making easier. turns out his patient was sick and injured, and all he needed to do was get the right materials and medicine for the guy. bur he was a curious child, and he was told information was key, so he had to ask what the birds on them meant, what group they were and the list went on.

he was fortunate to gain his answers easily enough. soon, he was practically going down the history and culture of this nameless gang that believed in a strange ‘god’ that was built on the beliefs of freedom. the moment he knew about their beliefs, their god, and the individualism, he could not help but want to be apart of their rag-tag gang. from what he garnered, the gang allows any one to come on board and he wanted in.

this was a once in the lifetime chance for him—to be able to gain liberty like this, was that not a miracle?

III. RED SUPERGIANT

he found himself not missing what used to be his life. sure, it took time to adjust to this life of meandering about, scavenging for useful items, limited rations, and so on and so forth—but he was free. he was liberated from the mould created by his biological family, and now he had a million of choices to choose from and do whatever he wanted.

after all, this group of their’s was so disorganized and chaotic, yet that was their peace. it’s normal to argue, normal to fight, normal to do anything because it’s their option to do so. he found himself starting to care less about being polite or to comply to others when he didn’t want to, and eventually could care less about everyone else as long as he’s able to just be him.

they constantly wander about in the black, even during the war. he regularly found himself healing some strangers when he felt like it, but also leaving others to die if he didn’t want to bother. maybe he’s cruel, maybe he’s kind, but in the end all that mattered was that he’s doing it all by his own choice.

unfortunately, he got involved in a scuffle that led to the loss of the lower half of his left leg. it was only thanks to favors, having another medic, stealing and the like that they could heal him and get him a sturdy bionic leg. this would also be what would really inspire and motivate him into learning how to fight, how to protect himself, and would lead to the birth of his love for battle and violence. this incident really became a blessing in disguise for him.

he would eventually become less of a medic and more of a bounty hunter, starting off easy before going for higher. he admittedly enjoyed the hunt, and also loved the violence that came with it. he became less of a medic and more of a fighter, but perhaps that was what he truly was meant to be. and with that realization, jang hyunseung died and xerxes libertas was born.

IV. SUPERNOVA

the war is devastating, the after effects were prominent. he’s got a fake leg to prove it, and the fact that their group has changed over the years. xorvea’s blessed them with freedom of choice, and many has decided to stay or go, to live or die. he’s seen many companions that died as a part of them, or just left to find more stability. out of all the faces eh could see now, he could only recall two others from when he initially joined.

it wasn’t only that, the planets have changed too and he couldn’t help but be rather awed and a bit terrified of how everything could change so easily. he found himself able to relate to those planets like shadow and harvest, though, once he had been the complete opposite of what he became today like it. except, the he of today is something he enjoyed whilst he’s sure those planets would like to rewind back to the past when it was prosperous.

that aside, he found himself interested in the life of an underground fighter. they had managed to take in various people and he’s met some because of that. the tournaments and the amount of money one could rake in for it was something he would love to participate in. with such thoughts in mind, he vowed to leave the rest once they reached beaumonde ( as persephone’s flashier and larger scale tournaments seemed too much of a hassle ).

he did as he vowed, and received the parting words from his fellows that he usually had said many times prior—

may xorvea bless you with their freedom, never chain yourself down and be you, and know that if you wish to ever return, or is in need of assistance, we are there in the peaceful chaos.

V. NEUTRON STAR

becoming an underground fighter was extremely fun. beating other people up, bloodlust and adrenaline fueling him, and gaining money from it all? it was something he deemed as his 'calling’ of sorts. but routine bored him and eventually he’s just fighting to get enough money to go wander about again.

but he didn’t want to return to that group of his ( which he had just recently found was called avesby the people who knew of their small and rather unimportant gang ). no, he wanted something new, a change of dynamics and all. don’t get him wrong, he loved the people of aves, but he wanted to experience something different.

which was why, when serenity came in he decided to get on board ( and paying the necessary amount ) on a whim. not necessarily a part of the crew yet—because aves would come first no matter what—but it was new and he would enjoy being a part of it until he started to feel like going into the black with a new motivation and goal. perhaps, he might actually decide to stay? who knows, all he knew was that he was free to decide whenever.

#sy: follow #jang hyunseung

[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘Fatigue’ (S02E34) Analysis

Well, it’s been a while since one of these statements kept me so riveted.  This was well-written, deeply creepy, and featured the return of a character who is rapidly becoming the herald of some of the scariest and most ambiguous stuff in TMA.  Come on in to hear what I thought about the fantastic ‘Fatigue’.

TMA is often at its best when it’s delving into the realms of the surreal.  Many of my favorite episodes are hard to define and harder still to parse through as far as lore goes, because the way it’s written is part of the horror.  ‘Fatigue’ is a great example of that sort of statement, with a statement-giver already on the edge of utter collapse after not having slept in … a very long time.

Through this, we get a surreal delve into a world and an experience that could be hallucination, twisting horror, or both. Michael’s frequent appearances give everything the edge of something terrible happening, and at least one disjointed scene—that of Lydia running through city streets with impossible turns—sounds a lot like she had already been consumed by Michael.  Given her state of insomnia, it’s hard to put everything down to him, however, and a lot of it sounded less like his own modus operandi and more something else entirely.  From the tooth in the coffee reminiscent of ‘Thrown Away’ or ‘Anatomy Class’ to the entirely unique and fabulously disturbing billboard outside Lydia’s house, this was a nightmarescape that was its own thing, and utterly riveting because of it.  There are so many questions about Michael’s involvement in this story, and given her state of mind and his own ambiguity, it’s impossible to say if Lydia was one of his victims, or he merely hovered around her like a vulture.  Maybe a bit of both?

If he was hovering, what was the goal?  What draws him to certain people?  He’s stated in the past that he’s mostly a neutral party as far as the larger games go, and he’s interested in maintaining balance, but that’s large scale.  There’s a very definite malicious joy he seems to take in choosing people—seemingly at random—and tormenting them.  But why?  Does he get anything out of it, or is it more like a kid pulling wings off a fly? Is it torment for torment’s sake? In Lydia’s case, was he the cause of her misery, or merely enjoying the view? 

Michael is probably the single most terrifying thing in TMA for me right now, because he’s so utterly alien and unpredictable.  His motives are unparseable, his manner is deeply disturbing (kudos again for a stellar voice performance on him that lingers in the back of my mind every time Lydia mentions his laugh), and even his nature defies understanding.  He’s clearly interested in people, but why or what for is unknown.  He is an Unknown, and that makes him particularly worrisome.

So, yes, I loved the statement, and the meandering nature of it.  I loved the growing horror of the woman on the billboard (the first real squirmy creeped-out event in this podcast for me for a while), and the exhausted despair of the narrator.  I loved that every appearance of Michael only deepens the mystery surrounding him.  I always enjoy TMA, but it hasn’t actually scared me for a while.  This episode got me, and I love it for that.

And of course, Michael’s not the only mystery of the episode.  Sims, in some fabulous bit of rationalization, decided that more police involvement would only lead to more complications (and it certainly couldn’t be because he’s so spectacularly bad at social situations that Basira likely hopes never to hear his voice again), but he actually did something vaguely clever and bought a motion-sensing camera to put in the tunnels instead of wandering around them aimlessly.  And his cleverness paid off.  He not only caught Not-Sasha coming and going (that storyline’s now been put on the boil, and I have a feeling it’ll blow up in Sims’ face here fairly soon) as well as something that looked like a middle-aged man that could move the floor around the trap door and climb into the archive to rifle around looking for … something.

Could this be Tom?  I had thought it could be Trevor up until this point, but moving the floor sounds like something supernatural that looks human, and that sounds far more like the Not-People than our dear homeless Vampire Slayer, especially if Not-Sasha is working with him (I doubt Trevor would have much time for her).  Either that, or she’s allied with some other entity we’ve not even considered.  Either way, I doubt whatever is living in the tunnels and conducting nightly raids on the archives means Sims well.

That leads us to the other thing we learned this episode: there is something in the Archives that Not-Sasha and her mystery friend want. That could well be why she initially replaced Sasha, and now she’s brought in help to search.  Maybe they have a timetable of some sort?  And what is it that’s hidden either in the archives of the tunnels that they’re searching for?  And if Sims confronts Not-Sasha alone (which, let’s face it, he probably will) what will she do when she realizes how close he is to the truth about her?

Sims seriously needs a proper confab between him, Tim, Melanie, and Martin if he wants to confront her safely.  The archive provides him a measure of protection, but I wouldn’t want to test that in a direct confrontation.  It certainly didn’t stop him getting stabbed when he tried to deck Michael.  It didn’t stop him getting half-eaten by worms.  So having some friends with him, or at least some colleagues, is the best possible thing he could do.

Of course, I’ve stopped hoping for Sims to actually do the smart thing (a glimmer of creativity with the camera aside).  He’s burned every bridge he’s got with the possible exceptions of Melanie—likely because of lack of exposure on her part, as I don’t see her putting up with his shit for long—and Martin—mostly due to stubborn caretaking instincts on Martin’s part.  But it’s doubtful he’ll trust them enough to ask for help, or at least he’s shown no signs of willingness.

Conclusions

This was a hell of an episode.  A great statement with some fantastically creepy imagery, and the return of Michael’s particular brand of sadistic scariness.  In addition, we have gotten our first glimpse of whatever person or thing lives in the tunnels, and Sims’ suspicions are finally focusing themselves on Not-Sasha. I have no idea where all this is leading, but I get the feeling that, with only six episodes left in the season, things are going to get particularly bad before they have a chance to get better.

#The Magnus Archives #analysis

[kheprrison-arts]

Mianite Wilderness

Fandom: Mianite

Chapter: 3

Summary: After being left by Dianite, the storm passes and the heroes find themselves on another trek.

Haven’t read the other chapters?

Story Index

Syndicate

Jordan peeked out of the pit from under the pelt when the storm let down a bit. Dianite hadn’t come back yet since before the blizzard started. “Anything?” I asked when Jordan sat back down.

“No,” he said, “Its been a long while, too, so he might’ve dug himself a hole to stay in during the storm.”

“Or he abandoned us,” Tucker said, his legs crossed and his back hunched a bit. We were all getting tired and who knows how long we’ve been up– none of us could sleep because of the storm and I knew no one would sleep in case something happened.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Sonja said, “you know he said something about wanting to actually help us.”

“Help us if we agree to save this place.”

“Honestly I feel like we have no choice,” I said, “I mean if we want to go back home.”

“That’s a good point,” Jordan agreed, “I have a feeling Dianite knows more about this than we think he does, especially if he knows that we aren’t from this world.”

We all talked to keep ourselves busy, but most of the conversation was about Dianite and whether or not he’d come back. Sooner or later I must’ve fallen asleep. I don’t even remember closing my eyes for a long time, I thought I blinked. Like I blinked and all of a sudden it’s the next day.

I had a feeling I fell asleep because I had jolted when a noise erupted from outside of the camp, like growling and hissing. A fight was going on outside between two animals. Two animals that don’t exactly sound friendly. I looked around and saw that everyone else was frozen in place, their faces plastered with fear while we fell silent and listened.

The more I listener the more I realized that not only It was literally right outside our camp but both animals are big and cat-like. The hissing and growling sounding almost like some mountain lion. I wouldn’t be surprised because we’re pretty close to the mountain itself, but too far for a mountain lion to actually try and hunt us. Let alone two of them. One of them sounded much larger and deadlier than the other, it’s growling and hissing almost like that of a much bigger lion but this one had a reptilian rumble to it almost like an alligator.

I quickly scrambled over to look out from under the tarp when it clicked on what was going on. I looked past the rubbish and saw something terrifying. I was correct about the mountain lion but what was scary was when I saw Dianite. He was crouched down on all fours, almost imitating the mountain lion as it swiped at him. What scared me about him was that he had almost completely changed. He looked larger. A lot larger. His eyes completely white like Mianite’s eyes back home and his bottom canines elongated and curled upwards like a bore’s. His shoulders more broad and the hair on his head sticking up on end like long needles and the plates on his back sticking up and ruffling like I had thought they would before. When they ruffled they made an annoying shuttering noise. I also noticed that indeed they made him look larger.

He stood up on his legs, seemingly tired of the mountain lion, breathed in and roared at it and shuttered his plates. The road is loud, ear piercing yet deep. The shuttering is also loud and annoying, this time in a more high pitch tone than before. My ears rang when he let up and I saw the big cat cower away. I noticed the way Dianite stood resembled that of a bear, he’s slightly squatted and his arms hanging to his sides.

“Dianite?” Tucker nearly shouted after peeking out from next to me.

I knew it had to be Dianite because of his red scales, his one beige horn, his dark burgundy hair, and the animal skins covering his body. He twisted around and I could see all the muscle movement in his body. I tried not to imagine what he could do to someone with just a hand. He dropped to his fours and stalked over to us, not at all sinking for his weight. He sniffed the air in front of us and huffed out before speaking, “You didn’t eat all the food, did you?”

I snorted and moved out of his way, Tucker had already sat back in his spot. And Jordan moved out of the way to make room for Dianite when he just slid in head first and took up most of the space between us. Tucker yelled when Dianite took the pot the stew was in and held it over him as he tipped his head and just drawn whatever was left. And there was still over half the pot left in there. We all just watched him as he drank the whole thing then set it down away from the fire.

“Sorry,” he grumbled tiredly, “hadn’t ate in a few days.”

“How long ago did the storm start?” Jordan asked, his voice mimicking the look of disbelief on his face.

“Two days ago,” he said. He sounded like he was questioning himself but then he spoke again, “the storm’s eye just passed over us, and if we leave now we can get to my camp. It’s more safe there.”

“We’re leaving this place, ” Tucker asked, “why?”

“Well for one it’s my camp and all my shit is there,” he shrugged, “and two it’s more safe– like I had said. It’s closer to the mountain and for some reason a lot of the storms pass the mountain with no problem. Plus the shelter I made is under some boulders and an uprooted tree, so that makes it even more safe.”

“We should pack up now then if it’s as safe as it sounds,” Sonja said, “we might be able to get there before the storm comes back.”

“The eye is most likely going to pass by come tomorrow evening,” Dianite said, “it certainly smells it.” None of us questioned how he could smell the storm because we knew he was just going to give us a look and some sarcastic answer, so we all shut up and packed up the camp. I gave Sparklez’s jacket back and Dianite let me use the pelt as another coat. He even promised me that he’d stitch me a nice, warm coat if he got the time.

So we headed off. Awkwardly shuffling through the forest that had been pelted with tons of snow in (apparently) two days. We followed Dianite who stayed in his big… I guess monster form. He stayed on his fours and trudged along, stalking like a tiger or bear. Every once in a while we would stop to check and reset traps he must’ve set up before the storm. Some of his traps were buried in two feet of snow, some of those that were buried happen to have frozen rabbits.

“So what will be doing after the storm?” Jordan asked when we started to walk again after Dianite reset the trap and put the rabbit in the bag around his waist.

“If you would like,” he said slowly, “you can cut open the tree bark in these pines and grab some fish bait for me. Because my camp is near a river and I’d like to grab more fish before they migrate again. Other than that, uh… I’m not sure.” He looked over his shoulder and at Jordan, “maybe we can share about each other’s worlds if you really are from another,” he turned his head back to look ahead of him again, “I don’t really have much to share, though.”

“How come?” I asked, I walked next to him and he was still so much taller than us and he was on his fours and not sinking In the snow. I just barely came up to his shoulder in height.

His ear twitched. “I have amnesia,” he answered simply. “I don’t entirely remember my childhood. I don’t even think I’m actually 518, I think I’m older than that. I don’t remember my family, my friends. Honestly–” he stopped walking– “honestly the only person I actually know is Mianite.”

“Really?” Tucker asked, stopping next to me.

“It might be because of my seething hatred for him.”

Dianite had walked over to one of the pines and showed Jordan what he had meant. He threw his fist at the frozen tree, breaking off the ice, then peeled off some of the tree bark and revealed… “worms?”

“Yes,” he said, “good fish bait.” He grabbed one of the small jars hung around his waist and opened it. He continued to pick some of the worms out of the tree and dropped them inside where they wriggled and writhed with the others that were in there already. He then handed the jar to Jordan. “That is your job. Don’t lose the jar or I’ll lose you.”

“Yessir,” he bowed his head and we continued to walk. I had chuckled at Dianite’s threat because honestly it seems like a light hearted threat but we all knew he would abandon us in this forest to die alone if we fuck something up. Maybe that wasn’t something to laugh at.

We made it out of the forest, Jordan catching up to us quickly and handing the jar to Dianite who took it and thanked him, then he wrapped it in the string around his waist and stood straight. “We seemed to have went a bit off trail,” he said while he looked around, “but in general we went the right way.”

“How can you tell,” Tucker asked, “because everything looks the same.”

“For one,” Dianite snorted, huffing through his nose a few times, “I can smell my camp over east. And two… I believe I mentioned that my camp is right at the bottom of the mountain–” he pointed at the mountain ahead– “that mountain.”

“Oh,” was all Tucker said before Dianite sulked ahead. His ears were raised in alert, worrying some of us. “What’s, uh, what’s up?”

“Shut up,” he snarled, “stay here, stay low I’ll be right back.” He then took of, definitely running like a bear through the snow.

“And here we go again, abandoned in the middle of nowhere,” Tucker sneered. “I bet the storm is going to come back before he does.”

“Don’t say that,” Sonja said, “he’s probably just checking the perimeter or something for that mountain lion from earlier.”

“Yeah, well…” Jordan said, looking at the sky, “i think we’re losing daylight.”

“Yeah, we are,” Tucker said. “I’m going ahead.”

“Whoa wait no,” I stopped him before he could go anywhere, “we were told specifically to stay here and if Dianite figures out you left he’ll literally hunt you down and tear you to shreds,” I warned.

“I’m sure I’d die of hypothermia before he has the guts to tear me apart.”

“Tucker, don’t go anywhere,” Sonja said softly, “you don’t know what’s out there. You can’t go without Dianite or you’ll die.”

“That’s why I’m going. I’m going up the mountain to see if he’s telling the truth,” he explained, “I’ll come back if I find anything.” He turned and ran before any of us could grab him.

“Tucker!” Sonja shouted and tried to follow him, only fall over in the snow. Jordan and I ran over to her to help her up. “We have to go after him,” she said.

Jordan and I exchanged glances. “I’m sorry, Sonja, we can’t risk having Dianite’s fist half way up our asses,” he said. I resisted a smile from his comment and nodded to show I agreed with him.

#Mianite #Mianite Wilderness #Dianite #Mianite fic #Mianite Wilderness fic

[hah-studios]

Pleasant Company

A snippet of an old story I had written. I have always been a nut for fantasy and dragons so I’d thought I’d show off some of my original writing.

Lyra wondered if this wouldn’t be happening if she had been a more obedient servant, less talkative and independent. Maybe then they’d be feeding some other servant girl to the dragon.

           But being fed to a fire-breathing beast wasn’t the first unfortunate thing that had ever happened to her. The first real tragedy she ever faced was when she was seven, a little rebellious child with messy red hair who quite suddenly lost her father. Her mother had died giving birth to her so she was raised by her older brother Alfric, and their father who also happened to be the mayor. Despite never knowing her mother those seven years had been the best of Lyra’s life, while the other children in the village of Nor had to work and do chores, she and her brother learned to read and write and be pampered by the mayor’s servants. She had had no idea that these people only took care of her for the money, but the day her father died and his subordinate Thriggers, took the position as mayor she soon learned. The bloated man turned her and her brother into his indentured servants, telling them they’d have to work off all the money they cost being children who had to be fed and taken care of. Alfric constantly told her Thriggers was a liar whenever they were alone, but Lyra didn’t need to be told, she knew, she understand the world was incredibly cruel. But as she spent the next nine years milking cows, chopping wood, washing clothes and whatever else she was told to do she was still thankful, as least she still had Alfric, her only friend and family. The village people had locked him in a cellar to keep him from trying to rescue her and ruin the sacrifice.

The dragon had started terrorizing the village about a month ago, Lyra had been helping tending to the fields when a sudden shadow blocked out the sun, she heard screaming and looked up in time to see wings and claws before the beast lunged down and swiped up two of the village’s sheep and leaving a trail of fire in the wheat. The creature continued to pay them visits, stealing livestock and burning either their fields or a building, so far no one had been killed or seriously injured by Thriggers continually said it was only a matter of time. After a month Thriggers’ friend Brock, the slimy advisor Alfric always told Lyra to stay away from came up with a “brilliant plan”. People who were pestered by dragons always solved the problem with a maiden sacrifice.

Naturally Thriggers’ spoiled daughters were out of question, and all the other girls whose family flattered Thriggers, which led to the servants. And he decided on the one who didn’t call him mayor, who dared to look him in the eye and tell him she couldn’t cook an entire pig in a matter of seconds no matter how hungry he was, the servant who was the daughter of the man he had longed to replace.

Of course Lyra had put up a good fight at first, until Alfric tried to save her and got a nasty blow to the head by one of the larger farmers. Frightened for her brother she said she’d go with no qualms if they just left her brother alone. They agreed to it quite easily, Alfric was a strong young man and a good hunter; he was much more useful than his sister in their eyes. So they locked him in the cellar, tied Lyra on a stake and were now carrying the stake to the mountainous terrain where they knew the dragon resided. Lyra thought of how cowardly the men in the Nor village were, instead of coming together and simply slaying the dragon they’d rather sacrifice a young girl on the off chance the dragon would leave them alone.

Something told Lyra the dragon wouldn’t be that flattered by the gift, but as long as this kept Alfric safe, at least for a little while, it was worth it.

Hopefully I’ll fill the beast up for a few days and Alfric can just escape, he had always talked about leaving when I was strong enough.

           Finally reaching the designated spot they stuck the stake into a clump of dirt to hold Lyra upright, her eyes scanned the clouds and rocks but there was no sign of the dragon.

“You remember your promise,” she called to them as the men quickly left, “You don’t hurt my brother!”

But the men were already gone and Lyra was there alone, waiting quietly for death. She felt a little pride for taking this so well, though she had never expected she’d die a human sacrifice. Wanting to distract herself from the inevitable and how terrible Nor was she thought back to when her father was alive, to when her life was happy. Her father always held her and Alfric in his lap when he wasn’t working, telling them stories about the land of Espar where Nor was just one of the millions of villages on the great continent. There were really large villages called cities, and even places called kingdoms where kings and queens lived. There were also other creatures besides humans in Espar, elves, dwarves, griffins, dragons and more, (though he had said dragons had vanished to their kingdom and hadn’t been seen in years, Lyra almost wished she could tell him wrong). She had always desired to leave Nor, even when her life was good, to go and explore and meet all these incredible creatures. But she’d die just meeting one.

           The sudden sound of wings made her heart nearly stop, the fear she had kept subdued rising in her throat making her unable to breath. She closed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the dragon. Was it hovered over her right now? Would it snap her up without a sound? Would it burn her first before swallowing her whole? Her father had said they could talk to other creatures, would it mock her fear before ending her?

She heard the heavy thud as the dragon landed and heard its claws scraping against the rock. Tears started to leak from her close eye-lids, she wished she had had a chance to tell Alfric how much she loved him, she wished the stupid dragon would just hurry and get it over with.

Suddenly Lyra fell to the ground as the rope tying her to the stake was cut; she opened her eyes in shock, for half a second wondering if some dashing prince had come to save her like in the stories.

But no, before her was the dragon, it’s scales were a dark gold, its amber eyes stared down at her, the horns decorated its jaw and behind its ears giving it a threatening appearance, its mouth was barely an inch from her. As it slowly opening its jaws, revealing rows of sharp teeth she covered her head and waited for death.

“Are you a human or a hedgehog?”

Lyra’s eyes popped open at the unexpected question, where had that rumbling voice come from? She dared to peek through frizzy strands of hair to see the terrifying beast still leering over her uncomfortably close. But it made no move to attack her.

Instead it stared at her quizzically, curiously, she realized its eyes were green with hints of amber, and its scales were a deep gold that was actually quite beautiful.

Feeling slightly braver with the dragon simply watching her she sat up, her muscles still tensed, ready to jump and run. But she had to wonder… “What did you say?”

The dragon’s ears pulled back against its skull and for a moment Lyra feared it was a hostile action, but then it turned its face away and appeared to be…nervous?

Then her eyes bulged when the dragon opened its mouth and spoke, “It-it’s a joke. Because your hair…it’s all curly and tangled, it reminds me of a hedgehog. I haven’t seen one of them in these mountains yet but I saw pictures in our scrolls so…” He trailed off awkwardly.

Lyra couldn’t think of anything to say, not only was this dragon not eating her but it was making a joke, it was the last thing she had expected and it made no sense from what she’d been told as a child listening to old tales about the dragons.

The dragon seemed to be uncomfortable with the awkward silence, moving away it stood up and shuffled its feet much like a human would do. It only made Lyra even more confused.

           “I am Hylvan,” the dragon finally spoke, turning his eyes on her, now that he talked and introduced himself Lyra suspected she might as well call him a male which he clearly was.

But that didn’t mean she’d treat him like a friend. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

This Hylvan looked shocked at such a thought, “Why in the name of Dragonale would I do that? What have you done to deserve me slicing you open?”

She swallowed, at least she knew his choice method; she gave his long dark talons a wary glance, “Because…you’re a dragon.”

“Yes,” Hylvan said, like it didn’t answer any question, “And you’re a human female who looks to be half-hedgehog.” He bared his long white fangs in what could have been a grin then made a sound that could have been a snicker.

Lyra gave the dragon an exasperated look; he truly was the farthest thing she had expected even a good dragon to be like. “I am your maiden sacrifice,” she replied, “You were supposed to eat me and leave Nor in peace.”

Hylvan scrunched his long muzzle at her, giving her a look between pity and disbelief, “Why would I do that?”

“Because that’s what dragons’ do-” she began but was cut off when he waved his long, rather strong looking tail.

“No, I mean why would I leave Nor alone after having you as a sacrifice? I assume you’re talking about my stealing your livestock, I am sorry about that but I must eat. But, honestly, why would having you as a sacrifice stop me from doing that?”

Lyra opened her mouth to answer, and then realized she didn’t have a good reply. “Um…because you would be overwhelmed by gratitude and would want to show such by leaving the village alone,” she offered awkwardly.

Hylvan threw his head back and made a harsh, vibrating sound that made Lyra’s bones rattle, and cover her ears, she assumed he was laughing.

“That is ridiculous,” he finally said, still chuckling, “I’m sorry, miss. But even if I was grateful for them giving you to me, the fact is as a living sentient creature I need to eat. While I’m not saying you wouldn’t be tasty, the fact is you’re awfully gangly and skinny, you wouldn’t be a mouthful. So even if I did eat you I would still be hungry and therefore go and find more satisfying, fatter food. And even if this Nor gave me their fattest villager I would still be hungry eventually no matter what.”

He laughed again and shook his head, “You humans and your eccentricities.”

Lyra blinked, feeling slightly like an idiot for thinking she would be saving her brother from starvation or dragon fire via this idea. But she also couldn’t help a wave of relief that made her shoulders droop. “So, you won’t eat me?”

Hylvan shook his head, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Thank you,” she replied humbly. She would live…she would live…

           “Well, now that that rather awkward misunderstanding is behind us, may I ask the fair lady’s name?”

Hylvan laid down before her, making himself comfortable and Lyra allowed a small smile to grace her lips, now that the threat of being digested was gone she thought Hylvan to be a charming dragon, albeit a slightly scatter-brained one.

“My name is Lyra Giltbrook,” she answered.

“That’s a pretty name,” he said politely, resting his head on his crossed forelegs. “If you don’t mind more questions Miss Lyra… Why were they sacrificing you?”

She furrowed her brow in confusion, “I told you, because you were eating the livestock.”

“But why you specifically,” he explained, “Was it the luck of a draw? Did you volunteer?”

She cast her eyes downward and shook her head, “No, it wasn’t a luck of a draw and I didn’t volunteer. I was chosen.”

“Why,” Hylvan asked quietly.

“Because the only person in that village whose ever truly loved me was my brother,” she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone, “Even my old nursemaid shunned me after my father, who was mayor, died and that awful Thriggers came to power.”

“What happened to you and your brother then?”

“We became servants, having to do whatever we were told, even had to do the work of some of the lazier servants. Apparently my father was more hated than the village let on and chose to make his children suffer.” Lyra had no idea why she was telling a dragon her life story, but she realized that she needed to get it out. She needed to tell someone.

“That is truly awful,” Hylvan murmured with sympathy, “Did your mother do nothing?”

“Oh, she died when I was born,” Lyra said, turning away, “It was a long time ago.”

She started when she felt Hylvan’s heavy claws on her lap but then realized it was supposed to be a comforting gesture. For some reason it drove her to tears and she clutched the claw between her hands, so happy to find a kind soul that wasn’t her brother, so happy to have told her story to someone who would offer his sympathy.

           “You’ve truly had a hard life, Miss Lyra,” Hylvan breathed pityingly, “I’m sorry.”

She wiped her tears away and smiled at the dragon, “I’m sorry too, here I was expecting the worst and you are the kindest soul I’ve met in a long, long time.”

Hylvan pulled his scaly lips back in a dragonish smile, “I just haven’t had the pleasure of company in a while.”

She tilted her head, “Why’s that? Don’t you have friends and family?”

Hylvan flinched at those words and pulled away, standing up and walking a few paces away, “No, no I don’t.”

A wave of guilt instantly crushed her, “I-I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything!”

He turned his broad head to look down at her, his green eyes twinkling with assurance, “It’s fine, you were more than willingly to tell me your story…however, I am not ready to share my own.”

“That’s fine,” she quickly replied, “You don’t have to.”

Hylvan gave her a look of gratitude before lifting his snout up and surveying the sky that Lyra only now realized was getting darker, the villagers had waited before bringing her here.

“It will be night soon,” he said then turned back to her, his ears perked as he gave her a curious look. “What are you plans?”

“My plans,” she echoed in confusion.

“Since I’m not going to eat you, will you return to your brother? Or perhaps go and find a new home elsewhere?”

Lyra stood up, dusting off her faded blue dress before turning to look where the villagers had vanished, a part of her longed to go back to her brother, to assure him she was alive and well. But another part feared what the village would do if she came back, would they try again? Would they chance using her brother as a sacrifice instead despite him not being a maiden, despite he was more useful than her? Perhaps she should leave to start a new life; perhaps she could go to the capital city, Lorus. Alfric had spoken of going there, they could sneak away together and not have to worry about Thriggers, or Brock, or Nor ever again.

           Hylvan’s voice, now at a much quieter volume, broke her from her thoughts, “You’re free to spend the night with me if you wish.”

She turned to him in surprise only to see him looking anywhere but at her, he looked, dare she say it, downright bashful and it brought a smile to her lips. “Is that alright? Spending the night with you? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

Hylvan’s ears perked up merrily at her words and he lifted his head, “Of course! I told you before I hadn’t had the pleasure of company in a long time. You can stay as long as you wish.”

Her smile grew brighter and she nodded, “Then I accept your invitation. Where do you sleep?”

With his tail the dragon pointed upward, her eyes following Lyra spotted the hole of a cave in the large rocky mountain. She gulped; there was no way she could climb that.

Hylvan must have read her thoughts, stepping forward he extended a foreleg to her, palm up, “I can carry you.”

She looked at his claws warily, she realized it wasn’t fear of the dragon hurting her that made her hesitate, rather her fear of being up so high.  But Hylvan looked at her with such earnestness with a mixture of the shyness she had seen earlier. This great fire-breathing beast that stole sheep only wanted a friend, someone to talk to, he wanted the same thing Lyra had wanted for a long time.

           Steeling herself she nodded and Hylvan picked her up, holding her to his chest. She immediately grasped at the smooth, tan scales of his chest and held her breath as her heart started thumping.

With one flap of his wings Hylvan was airborne and Lyra left her stomach on the ground as he quickly ascended and arrived at the entrance of his cave in almost no time. But despite the quick trip Lyra’s legs still wobbled as he placed her down and lead her inside. She followed after; not wanting to be left on the precarious ledge, inside the cave was warm and dim. She noticed a small pool of water, secluded in a corner, continuing deeper into the cave she saw a pile of bones and swallowed, despite herself she checked for a human skull or two, but to her relief there were only those of cows and sheep.

           At the back of the cave Hylvan had made a large bed of what looked to be uncomfortable rocks, but lying next to the pile was a heap of sheep wool.

“Sheep’s wool is pleasant to the touch,” Hylvan explained, catching her looking at the heap. He was sitting beside her, apparently anxious to see how she liked his home.

“Then why don’t you use it for your own bed,” she asked curiously.

Hylvan wrinkled his nose, “On a humid day rain is pleasant too, doesn’t mean I want to sleep underwater.”

She chuckled at the dragon’s logic, “Yes, I suppose your right. This cave is cozy, did you build it?”

Hylvan shook his head and walked over to a secluded corner, “I found it; I imagine it was another dragon’s home years ago but he’s long gone now.”

Lyra vaguely recalled a village elder mentioning that Hylvan wasn’t the first dragon to ever terrorize Nor.

Hylvan returned with a crisply burnt animal hanging from his jaws and Lyra recognized it as one of the sheep that had been taken a few days ago.

“Are you hungry,” the dragon asked around the mouthful of meat.

Lyra nodded, “Yes, I’m famished actually.”

           Hylvan placed the sheep down and started to carve it into pieces, “Didn’t they feed you in that village?”

“Yes,” Lyra replied, eagerly taking a piece of roasted sheep and taking a bite, it was a bit charred but to her it tasted heavenly, “But only the rich could feast on whole animal, servants were just giving small offerings.”

“No one starved at my home,” Hylvan said as he too started chewing on his own piece of meat, “Groups of us went out and collected livestock to return home, true the ones of higher rank had first pick but we always made sure no one was without.”

Lyra had started listening with baited breath as soon as Hylvan had uttered “home” she was starving to hear more about dragons and their homes. But Hylvan apparently had noticed he had started talking about his home, and didn’t continue, instead changing the topic. “Do you think you will go back for your brother? I personally don’t think you should go back and live in that village but perhaps you and your brother could go somewhere new?”

Lyra stared down at her piece of meat, “Alfric and I had always talked about leaving the village, of going to Lorus and finding jobs, of making our own lives… But I don’t think that’ll happen.”

“…You two could stay with me,” Hylvan offered quietly.

Lyra smiled gratefully at him, “That’s not what I meant. I mean maybe it’s best if he thinks I’m dead. Then there’ll be nothing tethering him to Nor; he can go and have the life he deserves.”

“Do you really find yourself such a burden,” Hylvan asked, starting to chew on a bone.

Lyra didn’t answer.

           After they had finished their meal Lyra asked, “How did you find this place, Hylvan?”

The dragon had been busy breathing fire over his rock bed to warm it; he turned to her when she asked this, smoke rising from his nostrils.

“How did you find this cave,” she prompted.

“It was actually the strangest thing,” he said, sitting up and his eyes cast upward in memory, “There was something…some kind of feeling. That told me I needed to come here, I couldn’t ignore it. And I still feel it, it’s almost as if…there’s something here. Something I need to find.”

“I often got the same feeling from this mountain,” she admitted, looking around the cave as if the answer to the strange feeling was hiding in the cracks of the walls.

Hylvan pulled his scaly lips back in a smile, “That I’m not crazy, I’m glad.” A sudden yawn overtook the dragon as he stretched his large jaws wide; revealing his sharp, white teeth and a pink, forked tongue.

“I think it’s time to turn in,” he decided, “I’ve heard that you humans like to sleep on soft things, feel free to make a bed of the wool.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, walking over and fixing herself a spot as Hylvan used his tail to sweep the remains of their meal into his bone pile.

“If you need anything please ask,” Hylvan replied as he started to turn circles around his bed of heated rocks, reminding Lyra of a dog. “You can drink from the pool if you get thirsty.”

“Yes, thank you,” Lyra said, curling up into the wool that was warm from being so close to Hylvan’s own bed. “You’ve been very kind.”

“It was no trouble,” Hylvan replied, his voice bashful. “Good night Miss Lyra.”

“Just Lyra,” she replied.

“Alright, goodnight Just Lyra,” the dragon chortled in his rumbling way.

She chuckled, “Good night to you too, Hylvan. Sweet dreams.”

She heard the rocks shift as the dragon finally lay down with a huff, after a few minutes she heard the rumbling sound of his snoring and she smiled to herself as her eyes grew heavy, Hylvan truly was nothing like she expected.

#dragons #orginal work #hah studios #snippet #pleasant company #fantasy writing

[elizabethcariasa]

Stock market turmoil is a good time to take capital gains (or losses) into tax account

For folks with money in the stock market, the coronavirus' effect on their holdings is more terrifying than Michael Myers, the persistent slasher of "Halloween" horror movie fame.

I confess. I've been glued to cable TV financial channels this week. They're showing, for owners of stocks, a real-life horror movie. The evil and infectious COVID-19 monster is maniacally slashing investment gains.

Who or what can show up (soon, please!) to stop this crazed killer of our planned comfortable retirement?

OK, I might be taking this sequel — and that's what it is; market corrections and recessions have happened before — a bit hard. That's because now I am much closer to retirement.

When Black Monday in 1987 and the recent Great Recession's decade of decline happened, I knew I had many years to recover. And my holdings did.

My one current investing consolation is that the hubby and I took my year-end tax moves advice and rebalanced our portfolios appropriately for our ages. I confess. I was in financial vehicles that were a bit more adventurous than advisable for a person of my age. And yes, for a while I rued and stewed about giving up some of the early 2020 market heady increases.

Now, however, I've glad went more cautious and are just hunkering down. Freaking a bit, but mostly hunkering.

A lot of folks, however, obviously are bailing on the markets. That's their choice and it could be yours, too, if this slide turns into a full-fledged stock avalanche.

In that case, I wish you and your financial strategy well. And if you have or are considering selling assets, I also want to share a bit about the associated tax matters.

Capital gains (or losses) considerations: Yep, I'm talking capital gains and, likely in this market atmosphere, capital losses.

A capital gain is what you get when an asset you hold over time increases in value.

For example, you bought 100 shares of a stock when it was worth $20 a share, resulting in a total asset holding worth $2,000. You sell all that stock after it goes up to $30 a share, giving you $3,000 or a $1,000 gain over your $2,000 purchase.

If, however, you decide to just bail and sell the stock that's now worth only $10 a share ($1,000 total), you'd sustain a loss of $1,000 — your $1,000 sales minus your $2,000 initial purchase. That's a capital loss.

Capital gains tax timing: Let's be optimistic and say you sold your asset for more than you paid. Yes, this could happen, even with this week's drops, if you bought a stock many, many years ago when it was very cheap.

That's an example of how in investing and taxes, like in comedy and life, timing is everything.

If you sold that stock within a year of buying it, these sales are classified as short-term capital gains. In these cases, you'll owe ordinary tax — that's the tax rate that applies to our basic earned income, ranging from 10 percent to 37 percent — on your $1,000 profit from the earlier example.

But if you'd held that stock for more than a year, then the tax code and Internal Revenue Service consider that long-term capital gain. The taxes on long-term gains are 15 percent or 20 percent, typically lower than what you'd pay on your ordinary income or short-term capital gains.

The long-term capital gains tax rates essentially are a tax reward to folks who are willing to take longer term risks with their investments.

Income's effect on capital gains taxes: The precise capital gains tax rate you'll pay depends not only on how long you own an asset, but also on your income.

The higher 20 percent rate for long-term gains is paid by wealthier investors. Really rich investors, however, also face the Net Investment Income Tax (NIIT), which is an additional 3.8 tax created as part of the Affordable Care Act. The NIIT pushes the top long-term capital gains tax rate to 23.8 percent.

At the other end of the earnings scale, lower-income taxpayers tend to pay the 15 percent capital gains rate.

And some could collect gains tax-free. A 0 percent tax on capital gains is available to folks in the

The Tax Cuts and Jobs Act (TCJA) made a lot of changes to tax rates, but it kept the three that apply to long-term capital gains. However, it did establish separate income brackets, which are adjusted annually for inflation, for these taxes.

The table below shows the income brackets by filing status to which any long-term capital gains you realize in 2020 would apply when you file your tax return next year:

 Tax Year  2020

Capital Gains Taxable Income Brackets by Filing Status

 Long-Term   Capital Gains  Tax Rate

 Single

 Head of   Household

 Married  Filing Jointly  or Surviving  Spouse

 Married Filing  Separately

 0%

 $0 to $40,000

 $0 to $53,600

 $0 to $80,000

 $0 to $40,000

 15%

 $40,001 to  $441,450

 $53,601 to  $469,050

 $80,001 to  $496,600

 $40,001 to   $248,300

 20%

 $441,451  & more

 $469,051   & more

 $496,601  & more

 $248,301  & more

And if you made some portfolio moves in 2019, those will be reported on your Form 1040 you'll file by this coming April 15. The 2019 tax year long-term capital gains rates and income brackets that apply to current taxes are:

 Tax Year  2019

Capital Gains Taxable Income Brackets by Filing Status

 Long-Term   Capital Gains  Tax Rate

 Single

 Head of   Household

 Married  Filing Jointly  Surviving  Spouse

 Married Filing  Separately

 0%

 $0 to $39,375

 $0 to $52,750

 $0 to $78,750

 $0 to $39,375

 15%

 $39,376 to  $434,550

 $52,751 to  $461,700

 $78,751 to  $488,850

 $39,376 to   $244,425

 20%

 $434,451  & more

 $461,701   & more

 $488,851  & more

 $244,426   & more

And yes, there are other capital gains tax rates for other holdings, like collectibles. For this post's purposes, though, the focus is on the capital gains taxes for basic asset sales.

Selling caveats: OK, you've taken some antacids and decided to tough out the current market dive. Or you've had enough and are putting in the sale call now.

Here are a few more things to think about before you do either.

First, if you're still watching and leaning toward staying with your investments, take some comfort that right now you really haven't lost anything other than maybe some sleep.

Nothing happens, not a single thing, financially or tax-wise until you actually sell your assets. You can be watching the plunging markets in horror, but unless you've actually sold the asset, those losses are just paper losses. You don't suffer losses or collect gains and pay any associated tax until you literally realize them by selling, for better or worse, your holdings.

Basis basics: Second, your gains probably won't be as clear cut as this post's example. To get to your taxable profit (or loss), you do subtract asset's basis from the price you got upon its sale.

But your cost basis typically is more than just what you paid for the asset, which was what I used in my simplified, for-illustration-purposes-only example. In addition to your purchase price, an asset's basis also includes things like commissions, fees, any previously taxed reinvested earnings and in some cases deprecation of the asset over time.

Losses can pay off, too: Third, if you sold at a loss, you still might be able to take tax advantage of this transaction. You use those loss amounts to offset any capital gains you might have. This includes not just total asset sale profits, but also other gains you might have in the tax year, such as capital gains distributions that usually show up in stock funds at the end of the year even if the overall value of the fund drops.

Many sellers this week probably incurred capital losses.

And if your capital losses are larger than your gains, you can use up to $3,000 of that amount to reduce your ordinary income. Any more than three grand in losses can be carried forward to future tax years to offset, again at the maximum $3,000 per tax year, capital gains then.

Finally, if your stock holdings are in a retirement account, either a regular 401(k) or traditional IRA, the capital gains tax rates don't apply to these financial instruments. Although your money is in stocks, the tax law requires that when you do take out the money — and eventually you will be required to do that at age 72 under the recently revised required minimum distribution (RMD) rules — those withdrawals will be taxed at your ordinary income rates. Again, those range from at from these deferred

Yes, there's a lot tax-wise to think about when it comes to your portfolio. But you need to take taxes into account even, or perhaps especially, when outside circumstances like coronavirus are forcing your investment decisions.

And if you're young and adventurous, take heart. Your investments will recover. Some market analysts say the current downtown offers a great buying opportunity.

You also might find these items of interest:

Timing differences in Vanguard's issuance of 1099s

Cryptocurrency tax compliance effort a success for asset owners and IRS

Senators duke it out over capital gains inflation in letters to Treasury Department

Advertisements

  // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ // <![CDATA[ (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]> // ]]>