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saturnville · 10 months

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nightmare

45. “I had a nightmare about you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

author’s note: this was a part two that i never realized could be a part two until someone inboxed me and asked for a continuation of “the soldier’s lady.” this sat in my drafts for two years. so thank you to the supporter whose message encouraged me to finish it 🫶🏾 @queen-dk

Alone he was. Alone, frozen, starved, and afraid. Lost between the beautiful, green mazes. Surrounded by thick stumps covered in damp moss, assaulted by crawlers at every direction, destroyed by his enemies.

Voice too coarse, too far gone to utter even a prayer to the Master he served. His hand, covered in blood and gashes filled with dirt and debris, clasped around his throat. His dry lips parted and nothing more than a small gasp dribbled out.

He cleared his throat. A sandpaper-like substance shimmied along the sides of his throat. He spat it out on a pile of crushed leaves and opened his mouth once more, managing to call out. He was greeted with silence.

Painfully, he scrambled to his feet. A string of obscenities passed his lips. His hands patted his waist in search for his sword. He only felt the tattered fabric of his kilt. Through blurred vision, he searched around, circling himself for his sacred weapon.

Loudly, he cried out again. He was answered with the rustling of the leaves and the clapping of a dangerous thunder. His chest heaved as he looked around, stumbling in every which direction.

Alone, he was. Alone, frozen, starved, and afraid.

She awoke suddenly with a gasp. Thin lavender slip damp with sweat, soft skin heated from distress, she sat up slowly. Her eyes darted around the dark room, save for a beam of moonlight against her bed frame.

With a shaking hand, she brushed the stump of her hand across her forehead, sweeping away the perspiration that rested there.

Her non-dominant hand forced the warm covers off her body. Slowly, she swung her slender legs across the edge of the bed. They dangled, her heels jabbing the wooden frame.

A soft breath flew passed her dry lips. Her hands were a net for her head as she buried her face within her palms. Her cardiac muscle beat harder than wooden sticks against the tenor drums she saw a young boy playing weeks ago.

He was back home, yet subconsciously, she still worried for his well-being, for his safety. For almost two weeks, he’d been walking through the halls of the estate, healthy and strong in stature. Her worry was no longer necessary, but it never seemed to subside.

Theo nibbled along the inside of her cheek. Should she do it, she thought to herself. The young woman reached across her pillow and snatched her robe that warmed it, sliding it over her arms.

Her bare feet smoothed the cold floors as she padded around her bed and out of her bedroom. She started straight down the hallway and made a sharp left turn. In front of his bedroom door she stood. Hesitantly, she knocked softly.

A warm light peaked from the bottom of the door and gentle movements could be heard from the other side. She twiddled her fingers around a loose thread on the stomach of her slip.

After a few moments, the door opened. Theo smiled awkwardly, feeling small under his naturally intense gaze. She had trouble lifting her head to meet his.

“Why’re ye up, lass?” His voice was like water on a hot day—clear and crisp. Aila rolled her shoulders then shrugged.

“Had a nightmare about you,” she said quietly, her eyes nowhere near his. “Wanted to make sure you were okay...”

The man cracked a smile. His teeth peeked from behind his pink lips. Such a pretty sight, she thought to herself. He said nothing, only opened the door wider and nodded for her to enter.

She was hesitant. It was the first time she’d been in his room in the wee hours of the night. Theo stood in the middle of his bedroom, eyeing the knickknacks and other articles around. His desk was in the corner and it was littered with papers, some of them smeared with dark ink she assumed he knocked over.

His clothes were folded messily and tossed on a chest to her right. She shook her head. His messiness would never go away, it seemed.

Ahead of her, the flames of the fireplace danced and leapt swiftly.

“Tell me about this nightmare,” he asked of her. He palmed the door and closed it gently. Theo tore her eyes away from the fire and wrapped her arms around herself. Jamie moved to sit on his bed, hands rubbing his covered thighs.

“You were alone,” she started, eyes locked on the dancing flames in front of her. “had spent days alone in an area you did not know. Cold, starved, and afraid. No one could get to you.”

Jamie cocked his head to the side.

“I had nightmares like that all the time when you were gone.” Her voice was so small that he could hardly hear her. “I was scared you’d die out there alone. Hell, I thought you were dead the whole time you were gone.”

“Theo...” he inched towards her. His large hand cupped hers gently. “Ye should know ye canna get rid of me that easily.”

“You say that like you’re made of metal,” Jamie chuckled with a shake of her head. While any other time she would’ve scolded him for joking in a serious matter, she couldn’t help but feel the weight lift from her shoulders. He didn’t think she sounded ridiculous.

“Might as well be...come here, lass.”

With no sense of urgency, Theo’s legs carried her slowly to his bed. The weight was back. His soft demand made her nervous.

Jamie sensed her uneasiness and smiled. “Why’re ye nervous?”

“I...I don’t know,” she mumbled. Again, he ushered her over and she joined him on the bed. It was comfortable, she thought, as the bed dipped just slightly. Jamie laid against the pillow, while Aila sat upright, her legs crossed and her hands in her lap.

“You’re kind of intimidating,” Theo said after some moments. She turned her head and saw an amused grin on his beautiful lips.

“Is that so?”

Theo nodded. She scooted closer to him, finding it easier to relax. She shimmied onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Jamie turned his head to look at her. “Yeah. Maybe it’s your eyes. They’re pretty but intense. Or the scowl you always wear. You’re gonna mess around and lock your features into place.”

A hearty laugh fell from his lips which pulled a giggle from hers. “You truly believe me that?” Theo nodded . “Indeed, I do.”

“I thought about ye all the time,” Jamie said after some time. The portraits on the wall seemed to be less important as her attention was pulled from them. She met his eyes, “what?”

“I’m convinced,” he started. “that if I hadn’t thought of ye the way I did, I wouldn’t have survived. Ye were the one thing I held onto, Theo. I ken I had to come back to ye.”

“You’re just saying that,” she blew off bashfully. She moved to turn her head to face the ceiling but his hand grazing her skin halted the movement.

“No,” he said lowly. “Ye were the only thing I had to hold onto. And...ye mean a lot to me, lass.”

Theo found herself smiling. It was awkward and her lips quivered as they curled upwards, but nevertheless, she smiled a smile he found beautiful.

Jamie’s eyes fell from his eyes to her lips, tempting to pull her head close to his face and just taste them. He wondered if she tasted like the tea she drank twice a day—once in the morning and once a night.

“Can I...”

“...please,” she breathed.

He wasted no time in bringing his mouth to hers. She released a mewl of satisfaction. Her hands found his hair, and she gripped his frizzed curls tightly. He groaned softly into her mouth and she swallowed his sounds like a delicious meal.

His hands shook as they took place on her thighs. His fingers dug into the flesh and she whimpered softly. Theo’s fingers raked through his hair and massaged his scalp. Achaius felt his insides twist like a freshly wrung towel.

He'd never thought the day would come where he'd confess his feelings for her, let alone have her rocking on his lap like a ship on water and assaulting his neck. He enjoyed it more than words could explain.

"Jamie," she whimpered when it became too heated. She wanted him, but she couldn't put herself in such a position at the given moment. If they continued on, she was convinced things would've escalated in a manner she was unaware if she was ready for. “Can we just—“

Jamie sensed her growing anxiousness and tore his lips off of hers, and placed his hands on her middle back. His ocean eyes bore into hers and she was convinced if she stared long enough, they’d turn into a whirlpool and suck her in. Jamie brought her hand to kiss lips and kissed it gently. “Rest. And when you wake up, I’ll still be here. I promise.”

Theo nodded and rolled over to her side. She didn’t make it too far, as Jamie’s arm bracketed her to his side. She giggled softly, but accepted his closeness nonetheless.

“Good night, Theo.”

“Good night, Jamie.”

#saturnville #original writing #original content #original characters #original story #black!reader #jamie fraser x reader #jamie fraser fluff #jamie fraser x black reader #jamie fraser x female reader #jamie fraser x black!reader #the soldier’s lady pt 2 #old fic turned new #historical drama #inspired by outlander #outlander #outlander x female reader #outlander x reader

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polytherian · 1 year

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#🐾.txt #otherkin #therian #therianthropy #plurality #nonhuman #alterhuman #was bored here’s something different

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xalygatorx · 5 months

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Unbound | Chapter 1, "Too-Interesting Times"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Áine has pulled herself from the wreckage of the Nautiloid with little more than a worm in her head and some miscellany in her pack. She picks up some equally infested companions along the way—a cleric with an odd artefact, a portal-stuck wizard, and a haughty pale elf. They get acquainted and seek to stock up on supplies while figuring out what their next steps should be.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of fantasy violence; lightly proofread; will not operate on a posting schedule (this is a for-fun project for me)

Word Count: 6.8k

Listening to: It Will Come Back - Hozier, Harpy Song from the BG3 soundtrack

For perhaps the fourth time already that day, Áine Ts’sambra was recanting every time she had ever wished for her life to be different. It seemed that the accumulation of all the time she’d wished for better or hoped for more or even prayed in rare instances for less had all balled up into the atrocity that had befallen her and countless others in being scooped into a Nautiloid ship and having an illithid tadpole implanted in her eye socket.

Even now, she could feel the little thing twitch and occasionally give a wriggle, and it was all she could do to not to be sick on the dirt she trod, which would make for a nasty bit of path for the few companions she’d already scavenged around the wreckage. She wasn't sure why they were following her—she knew as little as, if not even less, they did about what they were in for with these horrible little crawlers. But she did remember what that githyanki woman on the ship had said just before they’d sawed through some imps—that if these parasites were left to bake, they’d become the very things that had abducted them in the first place.

She shuddered. She couldn’t help it. But the half-elf cleric at her side was immediately wary at even the faintest twitch of Áine’s lavender flesh.

“You’re not turning, are you?” Shadowheart asked. Áine noticed one of her hands had wrapped around the hilt of her mace, but rested there. A precaution.

“No, I’m fine,” Áine reassured her, scoffing at her own choice of words immediately after. “Well, that’s a stretch, but I’m just as ‘fine’ as I was a few moments ago. Don’t worry, if I start to go, I’ll try to say something. I’d rather die than turn.”

“No one is going to turn,” the wizard tailing along behind them hastened to reassure either her, himself, or the universe at large. “We will find a more than capable healer, get the wrigglers gone, and then, I don’t know, find a tavern or something to celebrate.”

“If you’re seeing anywhere around these parts reminiscent of somewhere that would have a tavern, I’m beginning to worry about your brain too, wizard,” Shadowheart remarked.

“Again, just Gale is fine,” Gale insisted. “And fair… I’m not having ale-based hallucinations. If that were a symptom, maybe ceremorphosis would be a more pleasant sendoff, but I hasten to reaffirm, that it is not.”

“I prefer a dry red, myself,” their most recent party member remarked. Even hearing Astarion’s distinguished voice at the present moment made Áine’s head smart. She’d not headbutted anyone in, well, quite a while, and there was an art to it. An art she’d needed to abandon as soon as he had her pinned in the dirt with a dagger to her throat and she didn’t have a good angle.

“You know, I heartily agree with you there,” Gale said with feeling, sounding devastated now that there was no drink to be had. “Especially after the day we’ve all had, I’d wager we could all use a stiff beverage.”

“You can say that again,” Shadowheart sighed in step with Áine, who was now more focused than ever on finding them a safe spot to camp. “Do you have a drink of choice, Áine?”

“You’re going to call me unoriginal, but I also enjoy a wine,” Áine admitted. “Or a bit of brandy in some tea. That’s special for colder nights though.”

“Mm, that sounds divine,” Gale commented. “Although I’d guess it doesn’t get too cold around here, even at night. I’m sweating through my robes back here, a sight you ladies certainly do not need to behold.”

“Seconded,” Astarion said. “That there’s an unpleasantly moist Gale back here, not that I’m breaking a sweat, mind.”

“Oi, thanks,” Gale snapped.

“Only a little further, you lot,” Áine raised her voice to hush the whiners in the back. “We can set up on that bit of plateau if everyone agrees to that.”

“It’s an ‘aye’ from me,” Gale commented. “Anything to get off my feet for a few moments. Had I known we were to be abducted, I may have picked to wear some walking shoes.”

“Indeed,” Astarion murmured, wincing as the dress shoes he was wearing continued to wear a sore on the back of his heel. Of all the ironic things to take him down, why did it have to be aesthetic? Not that he had much else to choose from in regards to what to wear, but these strange folk didn’t need to know that.

Áine and Shadowheart shared a private, humored glance at their adopted companions’ comments. Given Shadowheart was mid-journey when she was captured and Áine had been mid-journey for who knew how long now, they both had appropriate footwear to be wandering these sparse foothills. “Okay, okay, let’s get a fire going,” Áine said as they reached the spot she’d indicated, setting down the supply pack that she and Shadowheart had procured from a corpse before finding themselves in a spat with some intellect devourers within the ship’s shattered hull.

“I’ve got it, go sit,” Áine reassured Gale as he started to try and make himself useful by gathering some nearby branches from the ground.

“Are you quite sure?” Gale asked.

“No need to tell me twice,” Astarion commented, finding a flat rock to lounge across and gaze at the sky as it turned to a milky, purplish dusk. His brow creased as he glanced between the sky and then at their newly appointed “leader”—the sky mirrored the hues of her half-drow complexion, the bare beginnings of sundown. It was just in her skin and pearlescent hair that her elven traits made themselves known, however.

Save her pointy ears, she was a notable mix of her human heritage as well, down to the very human eyes that caught his and gave him a withering look at his indolence. He snorted softly and rolled his eyes back up to the sky, slowly darkening to reveal the stars. Poor dear had eyes the color of dirt. Ruination to an otherwise perfectly good elven face, drow as it may be.

Between Shadowheart and Áine, a stable campfire had formed between their makeshift tents, happily crackling wayward embers surfing the night air. Astarion remained on his perch while Gale, Shadowheart, and Áine circled the fire, splitting the small rations of stale bread and cheese they’d looted earlier and finding that the coast did get surprisingly chilly come sundown. “So what was that about tea and brandy, Áine?” Gale remarked, earning a tiny laugh from both Áine and Shadowheart.

“I’ll keep an eye out for a bottle while we’re supply-hunting tomorrow,” Áine promised, chaffing her hands together and holding her palms toward the flames. “The tea might be a little tougher, but who knows? This isn’t an area I’m familiar with, so whatever old shipments we find might have some surprises.” The idea seemed to mollify her some about their situation as a whole.

The truth was, she was doing everything she could to put the parasite at the back of her mind. Figuratively, of course. Doing so literally might hinder her chances of finding someone to yank the awful thing out. And back to existential dread, she thought with a barely stifled groan.

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat, Astarion?” Áine offered.

“As, uh, appetizing as near-molding bread and cheese sound,” Astarion mused, sitting up from where he’d languidly laid against the sun-warmed rock until its heat had faded with its source, and making his way toward one of the tents Shadowheart and Áine had pitched nearby. “I’m more inclined to rest than eat at the moment. I just have this awful headache…”

Áine smirked a little to herself and rolled her eyes. “I do, too. He’s milling around my camp at the moment, and not to mention my head hurts to boot.”

Gale snorted and Shadowheart’s lips pursed into a line to withhold a laugh of her own. Astarion smirked, dropping his head forward to conceal it as he replied, “Touché, my dear.” At least he wasn’t short some banter for whatever road lay ahead of them with the company he currently kept. He retreated to the tent, setting up on one of the bedrolls inside for his nightly reverie. “Is there a reason I’m expected to share lodgings?”

“Because we only found two tents in all the bags we looted on the beach,” Áine said patiently, even as Shadowheart rolled her eyes and Gale sighed toward the fire. “If we’re lucky, it’ll just be for tonight.”

She was met with a hmph from the direction of the tents and decided to find humor in the decidedly stuck-up behavior of the high elf they’d adopted roadside despite his attempt on her life. Áine supposed it showed her for trying to be indiscriminately helpful in these newly trying times. Not that it hadn’t always been, in her experience, a risk to stick one’s neck out for a stranger, but the stakes were higher now. She could take it as a reminder, seeing as nothing had really happened but some head trauma, and move on.

Her forgiveness had surprised Shadowheart and endeared her to Gale, but it seemed like an expectation from the subject of her excusal, Astarion. Even so, it was difficult to parse between what was a genuine reaction from him and something edging toward rehearsed. It would either get easier with time, she imagined, or the mask would drop as he got to know them all and felt a little more at ease. Áine was grateful at least that Gale and Shadowheart, despite her secrets, were more open books in that regard. All she wanted from every aspect of her current situation was more transparency and some answers.

“So you’re a bard then, Áine?” Gale asked, bringing her attention back to the present.

Áine followed his gaze toward her bag set near the other of their two pitched tents, out of which poked a very basic wooden flute. “I am, indeed,” she said with a little puff of pride in her chest. “You mentioned you’re a wizard? How did you come into that?”

That was enough to consume conversation for the evening and Áine was glad. She wasn’t quite in a headspace to talk about herself or ruminate on their predicament, but she could most certainly listen and Gale was more than happy to talk and regale (no pun intended) his life in Waterdeep and discuss his favorite tomes on countless subjects of his studies. The three still at the fireside eventually felt the day’s events sink its claws into their bodies and minds and retired to the remaining bedrolls until morning broke anew.

Astarion was up with the sun and, very much like a sleepy cat, tailed its rays to where they spread across the edge of their little plateau, settling himself in and feeling the pleasant heat begin to permeate his clothes. The concept was still so novel, that he could just exist in the sun again without disintegrating into ash finer than even that settled around the base of their extinguished campfire. He still had the barest instinct against traipsing into the light, but the pull was even stronger to enjoy whatever this was while it lasted. It simply had to be the parasite, he’d decided, and despite its constant threat of ceremorphosis initiation, it made him loath to get rid of the little bugger. Maybe there was a way to control it instead… After all, it perhaps was also the only thing keeping him from being swept back under Cazador’s thumb.

No, the parasite was indispensable for the moment. There were more pros than cons for him and it might be his only avenue at breaking free of the Szarr estate for good.

Voices from below were enough excuse to shelve his thoughts for the moment, thoughts dangerously bordering on reflection that would dredge up the most painful, humiliating memories he’d accrued over the past 200 years, and there was stiff competition for what could be considered most painful or most humiliating. Swallowing against the acrid taste of bile that rose in the back of his throat, he focused on the voices, which seemed to be coming down from the crypt entrance they’d passed on their way up the hill.

He scented her before he heard her, and even more so before he saw her. Áine had to appear in his peripheral on her own, as he actively didn’t turn his head to regard her, even as she asked, “Spot anything of interest down there?”

The fresh scent he’d caught upon her arrival originated from a sprig of mint she absentmindedly crushed between her back molars, the herb’s strong sting of flavor doing well to both help wake her and focus her mind. It was strong, but a pleasant way to force one’s self awake.

“To be determined,” Astarion sighed, stretching back to rest his weight on his hands. “They don’t seem to be from the ship from what I could tell. Probably just run-of-the-mill graverobbers.”

Áine frowned and observed the stonework below, her eyes catching on movement whenever one of the persons in question came into view. “Bit of an odd hit, isn’t it?” she asked. “That place looks old as the dust that’s settled on it. Can’t be anything of use still in there.”

“You’d be surprised, darling,” Astarion mused. “Things often get missed by quicker digs. Takes someone who knows where to look.”

Áine looked at him, her eyes finding his as he continued to gaze down toward the crypt. He had the most vivid crimson eyes she’d ever seen, even on her fully Lolth-sworn drow cousins. She’d initially wondered if he had a little drow blood in him too to cause such a shocking pigmentation for his eyes, but nothing else about him looked remotely drow.

“You’re staring at me,” he accused her lazily, his gaze finally parting from the crypt to level with hers. “Why?”

Áine shook her head, giving him an embarrassed smile. “I honestly just got lost in my thoughts. I meant to ask if you were someone who knows where to look. If that’s how you know that.”

Astarion smirked but believed that she truly had just been staring through him rather than at him. He’d mostly just wanted to see how she’d recover from his blunt question. With grace, it seems, he thought, a mental note taken. “My prime skillset is knowing where to look, my dear,” he informed her in low, silken tones. “Second only to knowing what to do with what I see.”

Áine’s eyes narrowed at the turn the conversation had taken. She sighed. “Right, lot of help that was,” she murmured as she stood up and brushed herself off. The chuckle she heard issue from the pale elf at her feet just amplified her growing exasperation. Normally she would think that this was the result of someone’s mask falling off, but she had a strong feeling this was just his mask more firmly fastened.

This particular mask wouldn’t work on her, however—she didn’t fall for this sort of thing, to a point that the minimal love interests she’d run through over the years had called her things like “heartless” or “broken” or a “tease.” Her body didn’t bend to a touch alone, her knees didn’t shake for a whispered word. She needed all of it or none. She needed to care for someone to want them. Whether that was a product of her innate identity or a byproduct of past trauma, she was yet to understand. Her hunch was that it was both, a deeply unique-to-her set of preferences and desires exacerbated by a learned need to shield herself and keep advancing parties at arm’s length.

She’d dealt with feeling inconvenient, incorrect, and “needlessly picky” for the entirety of the romantic portion of her life, from the time she’d had her first crushes as a girl, usually undone before they could begin. She’d felt siloed, like everyone else was either mad or in on information that had passed her by in its entirety. But as she’d grown, she’d made peace with the fact that this was simply how she was, and there was no changing that. Her heart and all the strings it attached to existed in a gray area she was still coming to understand, herself—she couldn’t blame others for not understanding it when she still didn’t fully herself, but she could also readily protect and validate it while she learned.

And a high elf with a pretty face and a purr of a voice when he wasn’t outright whining wasn’t quite enough to break her. Were he not so haughty, cynical, and short-tempered, she may be a little more concerned for herself.

Áine made her way back to the campfire, setting to work at reigniting the bit of tinder so she could put together something for their breakfast. Shadowheart and Gale were rousing nearby and she figured Astarion would have to be half-starved after skipping over eating anything the night before. Gale joined her fireside as she poured some water from her canteen into a metal pan over some oats that she began to heat over the fire into some porridge. “Good morning! Can I help with anything?”

She reflexively began to politely refuse any help, but paused, glancing down the hillside toward a crate she and Shadowheart had passed over the day before when it had only contained some cutlery and dishes. “Actually, that would be grand. Do you see that crate down there, by the…well, by the dead intellect devourer?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Gale said with a chipperness that made her laugh. “Need something from it?”

“It’ll have some bowls and silverware for us to portion this out. Shadowheart and I passed it by at the time not realizing we’d have quite a group by daybreak.”

“Say no more, I’ll return momentarily.” Gale set off in the direction of the crate and Áine kept her eye on the path he trod, more or less to make sure the brain creature she’d pointed out to him as a landmark was, in fact, as dead as it looked.

“Eying up Gale already, are we?” Shadowheart teased Áine as she settled in next to her. The cleric pulled her long ebony locks over her shoulder and began replaiting them with practiced nimble fingers. “I can’t blame you, I suppose, he does have a certain light about him when he’s chatting books.”

“I’m mostly making sure that awful creature doesn’t spring up and attack him since it’s my fault he’s out there in the first place,” Áine explained, not biting down on the offered bait. Satisfied that the intellect devourer was certainly dead if it hadn’t attacked him yet, she looked at Shadowheart. “I told him about the dishes we found yesterday and he’s collecting them so we’re not all hunched over one pot eating hot porridge with our hands.”

Shadowheart smirked at the mental image Áine painted as she tied off her braid. While Áine stirred the porridge in the boiling pot, Shadowheart nodded toward her starlight tresses. “Would you like me to do yours as well?”

Áine usually made do with winding her hair into a bun at her nape, but she recognized a gesture of friendship when she saw it, so she said, “That would be nice, thank you,” and let Shadowheart plait her hair while she cooked.

“Well isn’t this cute,” Astarion commented when he returned to their immediate campsite and took in the sight of the two half-elves by the fire. “One would think we’re on a holiday rather than counting down the seconds until the worms in our brains decide to turn us into tentacled monstrosities. Maybe you two could braid those as well.”

“Are you always so personable in the morning or are we just having a lucky one today?” Shadowheart quipped with an annoyed look his way, still working diligently even as her gaze averted. Nonplussed, Áine passed Shadowheart her leather hairband over her shoulder so she could fasten her work. Gale arrived back with the bowls then and traded spots with Shadowheart to help Áine portion out their breakfast.

“Darling, any morning that starts with my presence is damn lucky,” Astarion retorted, his dulcet tones saccharine and dripping with sarcasm.

When Shadowheart rose to her feet, Áine passed her up a bowl of porridge and a spoon. “Well let’s hope it’s not our only streak of luck today,” Áine commented before warning Shadowheart, “It’s quite hot, be careful. It’s also likely quite bad, but we need something if we’re to keep ourselves moving today.”

“You’re right. And I’ve had far worse regardless, I promise,” Shadowheart reassured her. “I thank you for it.”

“It looks atrocious,” Astarion commented as he peeked into Shadowheart’s bowl.

“Oh don’t worry, there’s plenty for you too,” Áine said, ignoring his ungrateful griping.

“I’ll pass,” he said. “But I appreciate the thought, my dear. I think.”

“You need to eat something, you spoilt brat,” Shadowheart groused after she swallowed a bite of her breakfast. “It may not be you were used to back in the city or on a silver spoon to boot, but you’ll collapse mid-battle if you don’t eat at all.”

He scoffed at her words. “Silver spoon? Do I strike you as a spoiled little rich boy?”

“Yes, actually,” Shadowheart said. “Perhaps not rich per se, but certainly spoiled.”

Something dark passed through his eyes, noticed only by Áine, who thought that just might be the first genuine bit of feeling she’d yet seen on his pointed, handsome features.

“What did you do back in the city, Astarion?” Gale asked conversationally as he put down his own bowl of porridge. Relaxing some now that the tension had been broken, or at least shelved, Áine began to eat as well. It wasn’t bad, but it was unbelievably bland. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do about that though, she didn’t even have salt. If Shadowheart and Gale were choking on her creation at least, they were being very polite to contain it.

“Oh, I was a magistrate,” Astarion said, startled out of his souring mood. “It’s all rather tedious.”

“I dread to think of the rulings you may have passed down,” Shadowheart commented as she scraped her bowl clean with the edge of her spoon. The grating noise clearly bothered Astarion and Áine had to wonder if Shadowheart was doing it because of that. “Bad hair day? 10 years in the barracks.”

“I’ll have you know I endeavored to keep the peace as well as I could in that despicable city,” Astarion snapped. “That alone was a full-time job.”

“Well, I certainly know who to come to for any future legal advice,” Gale commented before turning his attention to Áine. “So, fearless leader, where to today? It may behoove us to get a move on, at the very least to find someone else to fight before our little camp turns on itself.”

Shadowheart at least had the decency to flush with some measure of chagrin at the way she was acting being highlighted by Gale’s words. “Apologies, you’re right, Gale. There’s no need for that.” Astarion huffed but didn’t press the issue.

Áine pursed her lips against a laugh and instead said, “Astarion spotted some activity this morning down in that crypt we passed last night. Might be a good bid for some more supplies. More tents, even.”

“Finally someone speaking sense,” Astarion sighed theatrically.

“What if they’re survivors of the crash? Like us?” Gale asked as he collected empty bowls from Shadowheart and Áine and wrapped them up in a cloth to wash out at their next opportunity. “What if they’re more potential allies?”

“Then we’ll still need more tents,” Áine said, drawing a chuckle from all parties, Gale included. “We can just see what they have to say when we go down there, of course. But just…be equally ready for the possibility that they’ll be territorial looters.”

“Fair enough,” Gale said, straightening and looking toward their tents. “Should we leave these up then? Will we camp up here another night?”

Áine looked at their little spot with some consideration. “I suppose so. I don’t see why not anyway,” she said. “Especially if this doesn’t turn out to be a quick trip, it’ll be nice knowing we can come straight back here. Just take anything you don’t want potentially pilfered with you.”

“Ah, right. Of course,” Gale said and set to work organizing his pack.

“Thank you for breakfast, by the way,” Shadowheart said, meeting Áine’s eyes as the half-drow stood up, leaving the cooking pot in the fire to burn the bit of remnant porridge from its basin while they explored. “I know you were anxious about how it turned out, but it’ll stick to our ribs effectively and it was kind of you to make it.”

Áine smiled at her. “Very kind. And thank you for this,” she said, smoothing the glistening white braid Shadowheart had made of her hair over her shoulder. “I can’t remember the last time I had a plait in my hair.” She could actually, she realized. She was just relieved to have a different connotation for the style now.

Shadowheart beamed at her. “Well, it suits you very nicely.” The group parsed out what they decided to take along with them on their run down to the crypt, obscuring anything else of importance however they could. When they all appeared ready, Shadowheart suggested, “Right, shall we go see what new horrors await us?”

As it turned out, the folks down by the crypt were, in fact, graverobbers and looters interested in both the crypt and the crash site wreckage and not anyone infected and interested in partying up. Upon insulting their “fearless leader” by calling her a cur, Áine had heaved a tired sigh and angled her crossbow up at a precariously hanging slab of rock, and then loosed the bolt that would bring it crashing into the offending two members of the looting party.

And that, it would seem, was just the beginning of a ludicrous dive into an ancient forgotten crypt. Shadowheart and Áine were already somewhat acquainted with the other’s fighting style and fell into a rhythm with ease, Shadowheart primarily delivering heals to the party as they fought their way through the looters on the exterior of the crypt and then a new group they met further in.

Astarion picked off their enemies, in full or at least staggering them, with arrows loosed from his shortbow, hanging back with Shadowheart to let the heavy hitters take the frontlines. Or at least that had been the plan until it was in this fight that Gale realized just how many of his magical abilities the parasite had rendered useless. While Shadowheart had focused her healing magic on Gale after he’d hit the floor within an inch of his life, Áine and Astarion had been left to clear the room.

Truly she fought like no bard he’d ever seen. The moment Gale went down and it became a game of defending two members of her party while one healed the other, something had changed in the way she handled herself. She maintained a certain grace while she fought, but she hit harder and struck with a certainty that may normally belong to someone twice her size and perhaps in more of a melee-focused formation. It was impressive and Astarion knew he was kidding himself in full if he didn’t admit he found it as such. It was an admittance he’d be keeping to himself, however.

The little hellion was somehow winning, despite four armed grown men coming at her from all sides. He shot one through the throat as he went for her left flank and the gurgle caused her to look back, first at the fallen barbarian and then following the trajectory of the arrow back to Astarion. His lip curled slightly in a smile when their eyes met and she gave him something akin to a quick nod of gratitude.

She whirled back in time to dodge the one remaining looter as he swung a shortsword at her, cutting the air next to her forearm. She reached back for what she expected to be a dagger in her pack, gripped it, and plunged the weapon into the man’s eye socket, through to his brain. When he crumpled to the ground, she realized she’d stabbed him with her flute instead.

Shocked, Áine regarded the instrument sticking out of the fresh corpse’s face, her shoulder slackening with defeat as she mourned the loss of her only instrument.

Astarion, behind her, had found the killing blow very amusing and sidled up to stand next to her and get a better look. “Poetic, considering your calling,” he remarked. He could’ve laughed aloud at how exasperated her expression had become.

“I can’t believe I did that,” she groaned. “I used to keep a dagger in that sheathe and I just… Habit. Godsdammit.”

“For what it’s worth, it does paint you as a bard to be reckoned with,” Astarion pointed out, his nose wrinkling a little at the macabre state of the corpse’s eye socket. “But I highly doubt even if you could get it out that it would still be usable. Just in case you’re considering it.”

“It’s a lost cause, I know,” she said, sighing. He found it amusing that she was more bothered by the loss of her instrument than at the act of stabbing a man in the brain with the equivalent of a fancy wooden stick. Much less amusing was the other sort of wooden stabbing weapon that could kill him with a quick thrust into his ribs.

Astarion glanced back toward Shadowheart and Gale, who was looking more stable now and just in a state of deep self-deprecation. He looked back down at Áine and dropped a hand on her shoulder to steer her back toward the others. “Come now, darling girl, there’s far more in this world for instruments than that little flute,” he said.

Áine smiled, knowing she was being silly. The flute had little to no sentimental value for her, and this was unfortunately not the first time she’d lost a flute to a fight, all because she was notorious for reorganizing her bag and then forgetting where she’d put things in the heat of the moment. “Thank you, by the way,” she said as they walked.

“Hm? What for?”

“For saving my neck from that barbarian when you did,” she said. “Shadowheart would likely have more work had you not.”

Astarion smirked. “It’s simply too pretty a neck to waste, dearest.”

“You two were magnificent!” Gale exclaimed as Áine and Astarion approached. Only when Astarion dropped his hand from her shoulder did Áine realize two things—that he’d kept his hand on her shoulder that whole time and also how cold his hand was. “I only wish I could say the same of myself. I swear everything I told you about being an Archmage is true, it must be the parasite interfering with my connection to the Weave…”

“It’s a team effort,” Áine said kindly before he could start beating himself up too much about discovering his new magical hindrances in the thick of battle. “We all made it through, I see that as a win from all angles.”

Gale sighed but smiled all the same. “You are too forgiving, my friend. And you, too generous,” he said to Shadowheart, who helped him to his feet. “I feel better than I have in years under your care.”

Shadowheart preened just a little. “Happy to. Helped that the both of you did well to buy me time,” she said earnestly to Áine and Astarion both. In Áine’s peripheral vision, she saw Astarion wordlessly incline his head to the cleric, which she took as an official truce from their earlier scrap in the camp.

“Right, let’s see what these charlatans have in their pockets,” Áine said. “And, um, if anyone happens to find a flute that’s preferably not stuffed with ocular viscera… Well, I’m interested.”

In all the barrels, crates, pockets, and bags that the group pawed through, they managed to scavenge quite a haul, including three more tents, a larger variety of foodstuffs, a healthy sum of gold, and a few bottles of ithbank. And while another flute wasn’t found, even further along in the crypt, Gale did find a lyre that he brought to Áine for inspection.

“It looks a bit damaged, but it might prove a nice project,” he suggested.

Áine was fascinated by the new instrument and, while she wasn’t yet sure how to play it, the opportunity to try something new was even more enrapturing than finding a new flute. “No, this is lovely. Thank you, Gale!”

Astarion had never seen anyone so lovestruck by the sight of a dusty old slab of wood and some strings. The lyre was nothing special at all, but she held it like it was made of glass. A quiet hmph passed his lips as he went back to scouting the area, finding a promising-looking chest in one of the adjacent chambers. He gave it an experimental press of his fingers, but it was not unexpectedly locked tight. He crouched down and retrieved his picks from his bag, beginning to work them within the keyhole and comfortably losing himself in the little focus project.

Distantly, he heard Gale remark upon some of the books on the dusty old shelves within the room and heard Shadowheart say that she’d found a strange button on the far wall, inquiring if she should push it or not. Astarion only realized he was being watched after the lock gave a familiar, particularly satisfying click of surrender and slid open like a slacked jaw. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, watching Áine from the corner of his eye.

She stood leaned against the stonework of the doorway, just watching his hands work and then succeed in freeing the lock. “I am,” she admitted. “You made that look very easy.”

Astarion sneered and straightened to flip the chest lid open. “It is easy.”

Áine rolled her eyes, but the smile remained on her lips even so. “Right.” She heard her name pealed from further in and she responded, “Coming,” as she moved off the wall and walked deeper into the room. Astarion, mildly disgruntled at the interruption, glanced over to watch her go before returning to his looting.

Shadowheart’s discovery of the button on the far wall led them to a previously sealed door that swung open with a heavy thud the moment they agitated the mechanism. They found themselves in a somehow even more ancient temple room riddled with indecipherable plaques and dead, armed scribes amidst a sunlit statue at its center.

“What could have possibly been so subversive about their teachings that these scribes would be armed in their daily work?” Shadowheart wondered as they made their way inside, cocking a bewildered brow at the giant statue. “And whom was it for?”

“Call me crazy,” Áine said, also looking at the statue. “But I think that might be Jergal.”

“You’re crazy,” Gale took her up on her offer. “I’ve not heard tell of or seen his name worshipped for…centuries at best.”

“Does this look like a new crypt to you?” Áine asked.

“No, but it doesn’t look old enough for that to make sense,” he suggested, adding, “I don’t think you’re crazy, by the way, that was a joke.”

Áine had to stifle a laugh, but at his concern rather than his joke. “I know, I set you up for it.”

“I’ve found another button,” Shadowheart announced from across the crypt. “Shall I?”

“Do it, you won’t,” Áine threw out and she heard the click as the button was depressed into the wall. She turned around to see what it did and saw the wall slide open beside Shadowheart.

When the cleric looked back to the group, however, she paled and pulled her shield off her back. “Look alive,” she warned them and Áine turned to see one of the skeletal scribes shudder to life under Astarion’s loot-hungry hands, all the bones they’d bypassed on their way in rising to meet their uninvited guests.

“Now that’s quite unfair,” Astarion commented in response to Shadowheart’s words, which Áine could only take as a sly joke to the undead they now faced.

The scribes were dispatched fairly quickly, and their persistent silencing gave Gale some practice in shelving his magic during a fight, which could only benefit him, Áine figured. He still had his power, but it seemed he was unfamiliar with its bounds again, and more than anything she wanted to ensure each member of their party could defend themselves should the need arise. And, given their situation, arise it may.

When all necromanced parties were but a pile of bones once more, Áine led the way into the opened chamber, wary of any obscured traps that could activate on entry. It seemed they were in the clear though, at least for now. As Gale parsed through an old book, Shadowheart and Astarion checked through the different vases and chests in the room, and Áine regarded the sarcophagus snugly set against the far wall.

“All that to protect some dusty old baubles,” Shadowheart commented when she saw Áine hesitate before the casket. “Hardly seems an astute use of their power.”

Áine whispered an apology to whoever’s grave she was about to disturb and placed her hands against the heavy lid, giving it a proper push. What she didn’t anticipate was having help.

Not from her companions, oh no. No, from the bony hand that emerged from the gap between the lid and the casket, skin stretched thin across pointed knuckles. Áine stumbled back from the lid straight into Astarion and Shadowheart mid-pilfering. Shadowheart dropped the small jug she was inspecting to reach for her mace and Astarion simply froze with his arm halfway inside a vase, caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The lid pulled back in full and up rose a veritable mummy of a figure cloaked in ancient cloth robes and a layer of dust. The being’s eyes opened and accusatorily fastened upon Áine as he settled back to the ground, stepping forward as he regarded them.

“What a curious way to awaken,” the mummified figure said, his voice deep and gravelly with echoes of the ages.

“I said I was sorry,” Áine said, half-delivered as a joke. She really needed to find coping mechanisms that didn’t hinge on humor.

“Indeed,” the figure said dismissively. “Tell me. What is the worth of a single mortal life?”

Áine glanced toward the others, but it seemed he was most interested in asking her. “Um… If I answer incorrectly, are you going to attack us?”

“I would see little point in that. ‘Tis not a riddle, ‘tis but a question,” the figure said, a thread of impatience just beneath the surface. “Wilt thou answer my question?”

Áine let out the breath she’d been holding and said, “Erm, sure… The worth of a single mortal life…”

“Pennies, at best, no?” Astarion suggested unhelpfully behind her. She put an elbow in his ribs.

“He doesn’t speak for me,” she quickly asserted to the mummy as Astarion made an unbecoming oof noise behind her. She gave the question genuine thought before answering with a small helpless lift of her hands, “I suppose I can’t truly say. How do you put a cost on something like a life?”

Something about her statement seemed to amuse the undead man, but he returned to a neutral expression. “Very well. I am satisfied.” He took another step closer and Áine felt Astarion and Shadowheart both tense behind her. “We have met and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.”

Without another word or glance, the mummy turned and left the room and the gaggle of bewildered adventurers behind him. No one moved for a solid minute, waiting for the inevitable heel turn or unsprung trap to take them out. When nothing happened, Áine relaxed her stance and stepped away from the two behind her, warily peeking around the corner of the chamber door. As far as she could tell he was gone, but she could hear distant footsteps that may imply he was just in a different part of the crypt. In any case, he didn’t seem to mean them harm.

“What a nice mummy,” she commented offhand, although her voice was still a little hitched by nerves. “Let’s finish up and get out of here.” Áine peeked into the sarcophagus and scooped out a bit of gold and an amulet while the rest of her crew tidied up their own searches behind her.

Under her breath, she said with palpable exasperation, “Shouldn’t have wished to live in more interesting times…”

Next chapter: Chapter 2, "A Strange Sort of Bard"

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colderdrafts · 5 months

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question:

What should we do/say to surprise morgan? I just re-read your writing about them and they always seem so playful with their sentry, I want to see them catch off guard for once! your thoughts?

Smack them with a newspaper whenever they're being unpleasant

Jkjk, it's not exactly easy catching Morgan off guard, but you can learn to watch for their weaknesses and strike when they show themselves.

If you just wanna prank them, get to high ground when they're distracted. They may not think you'd start climbing in the middle of the day. When they start looking for you, plop down on top of them from above. You'll get a nice serving of flailing spider limbs and spooked hissing.

Be extremely weird back. Whenever they're doing a creepy 'loving' spiel, up the ante and be creepy back. They'll be surprised but they might like it, so tread with caution here.

Let them know you know what they're doing when they retaliate. Just talk casually when they do it, showing no reaction at all. "Ah yes, your words don't work anymore, so now you're picking me up." or "Your eyes are real pretty shiny when you're trying to be intimidating." etc.

Careful riling them up, tho. They'll catch on quickly and play with you, but they may also stick you to a wall or themself once they're done with that.

If you wanna do it in a different way, you can also choose to just be genuinely sweet, and/or protective of them. If a common-folk invades your space or is rude to Morgan, be the first to strike and tell the intruder to piss off. You being protective of them will genuinely surprise them.

Go to them when you feel bad, anxious or in need, especially if you're the kind who'd resist them a lot. They'll automatically act to support you, but they'll be pleasantly surprised when you actually ask for it. Solidifying that they're a source of comfort.

If nothing else works, you can always tease them in a way that suggests you leaving, or you have another custodian to go to. It probably won't end well.

______________________________________________________________

As twilight approaches, you're set for the day, sitting on a fallen tree trunk and sorting what you've gathered today. The call of evening insects accompanies the faint sound of Morgan close by sorting their own haul a few meters from you.

You glance over at them, wondering if you should put your piles together instead, as something gently brushes against you hand.

Looking down, you find a small, brown spider sitting on the mushroom in your hand. It seems to be carefully investigating with a pair of legs whether the skin on your hand is safe to climb onto.

You flatten you hand to let it crawl on so you can move it without much issue. This little crawler is nothing compared to the manifestation of horror you're dealing with every day. Still, you can sorta see the resemblance, as you watch it's little legs move, gauging and analyzing everything around it. You wonder if Morgan was this careful when they were smaller as well.

"Hey, Morgan?" you call over your shoulder, still admiring the little creature on your hand.

"Hmm?" comes the inquiring response.

"I found a new friend," you reply, chuckling. "They kinda look like you."

It's almost a sound like a whiplash when Morgan is in a hurry to get somewhere, going from A to B in a split second. Today, that second leads directly with their front pressed closely against your back and a pair of legs slammed into the dirt in front of you. You stumble back in shock, dropping the poor spider somewhere in the grass below.

"Where?" Morgan hisses dangerously, staring into the woods.

You take a second to breathe in, coming down from the sudden scare.

"Fucking hell, what going on with you?" you complain, palming at their pedipalps that's closing in around your shoulders.

"Where are they?" Morgan repeats with annoyed urgency, tightening their grip.

"Probably crawling around somewhere in the dirt trying not to be stepped on!" you scold them. "It's just a spider, what's the big deal!"

"Spider-" Morgan repeats lowly, carefully glancing down at you. Then their eyes settle on something in the grass below, and they breathe out shakily. "Just a spider."

#colderwriting #about morgan #thanks for the question! <3 #I was going to just give bullet points answers but then it turned into a lil thing too oh well #drider x reader #drider #drider x you #monster x reader

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notknickers · 7 months

Text

tma fears and könig

(i have incorporated my headcanons and my interpretations of könig with this: it's not like we are given much canon material to work with, anyway. just warning about it, because if you see me belabour a point with iron confidence, but cannot place where that came from, the answer is simply "from my head".)

@eyerotyourbrain : the intersection between different types of brainrots that affect the tma girlies (gender neutral) and the cod girlies (also gender neutral) with specific regards to jared hopworth and könig may remain a mystery, but the intersection between könig and the fears isn't anymore. not to me, no sir, it never was!

it has been revealed by yours truly under the cut, if you're still interested.

(i sincerly hope you are, because this thing took me three days!!! 😂)

first, however, mandatory self-identification: i am wholly of the stranger, with just a bit of flesh. it would be nice to know who i am dealing with, in turn.

(please, don't be yet another eyevatar 😭)

the buried: könig is no stranger to poverty and crushing debt, or at least, his younger self was acutely aware of this. squalor, negation and absence were young könig's everyday reality for years. the way it has left a mark is how, once he managed to dig himself out of penury, the toll those years took on him still manifests in his preoccupation with keeping afloat, insisting on living way below his means even though he doesn't need to anymore.

the way this fear manifests in könig is twofold: on the one hand, as stressed by his choice for a job, he will do anything for that paychecque, to keep the money flowing; on the other, the spartan lifestyle free of self-indulgence and frivolity, contrasted by a tendency towards hoarding what few possessions he has, until, one day, perhaps his tower of junk will collapse and bury him whole.

if he were an avatar of the buried, his distinctive feature would be the dirt under his chipped, bloody nails that coats his fingers no matter how many times he washed his hands and a sense of unease and preoccupation he exudes, which turns to crushing despair everytime he stands too close to anyone.

the corruption: still due to the aforementioned poverty, filth was another thing that characterised könig's childhood: rotting food, crawlers and vermin attracted by it, dirty clothes, infrequent grooming and those fleeting moments of joy and distraction, playing with worms in the mud, picking snails after the rain or poking nests with a stick...

not an entirely negative thing, as living communally in barracks with many others, breathing the same air, sharing the same space and learning to be self-sufficient and resourceful while making do with what the military allowed is not for the weak of stomach.

the effects are still visible today, in the man könig has become: the loathing towards filth still manifests in a usually impeccable presentation of his person and his military quarters at the base, an exemplar of order, tidiness and cleanliness.

only for könig to fall into utter disrepair the moment in between deployments, when he is in his small, claustrophobic flat, full of hoarded possessions untidily piled in every corner, with countless roaches and other bugs raising generations of egg spawns, a mould-infested shower he rarely uses, as he barely keeps himself clean, and also infesting other fixtures in both loo and kitchen, such as sink and fridge. the squalor from which he fought so hard to escape always claims könig, drags him back in its unsanitary clutches the moment no one is looking.

however, the real mark the corruption left is könig's tendency towards obsession. if the somewhat unhealthy relationship he has with his job were not enough to show this, paying attention to the way he conducts his interpersonal relationships will.

even here, the ways he behaves are very disconnected, going from keeping to himself for fear of ceding to his instincts, to obsessing over a friendship or romantic relationship to the point of stalking - breaking and entering without a sign (unless he wants to leave one) is a joke for someone of his skills.

he is deathly afraid of abandonment, a thing that might come across as surprising, considering how independent and self-reliant könig is. but once he finds the unconditional care and the gentle love he craves, even the threat of that being taken from him affects him deeply and has him behaving irrationally. not overtly violently, as he worships his lovers with all of himself as the loyal puppy he is, but he will beg and cry not to be abandoned, clinging to that person both bodily and metaphorically for all his emotional needs. if that fails, that's when he will start imposing his presence where he is not wanted, until he finds a way to let go and disappear for another long bout of being on his own, lest his worst, most needy traits come out again.

love of any kind has been so scarce in his life, when it takes hold of him, it's like a parasite planting its roots in his flesh and sapping him of all sense as it grows and grows, leaving könig a pliant, clingy, but unpredictable husk.

if he were an avatar of the corruption, his eyes would always be bloodshot and his sclera an unhealthy, yellowish hue.

the dark: brackish water, when unpaid bills led to cut utilities but thirst hit all the same, is nothing könig did not already experience. and survived.

neither is the darkness of the wardrobe könig's parents confined him in as a child when they decided he was being too much, adding hours for every whimper and sob they heard coming from it, then, often, forgetting and just leaving him in there until little könig took it upon himself to risk further punishment by breaking out.

wardrobes, lockers, niches of every kind... places of fear and torture that, with time, turned to comfort and solace. somewhere könig could hide from shouting and bullying, find the peace and quiet he needed. the shroud of darkness as a mother's caress.

now, as a grown man, (besides the occasional pang of horror a flashback brings along, pulling him back in that wardrobe) fear of the dark is the furthest thing from his mind. dark is a friend, a cherished companion.

whoever tries to use it to their advantage against könig should be more afraid for their lives, than the other way around.

if könig were an avatar of the dark he would envelope his chosen victims in sightless, feelings-less darkness out of mercy, hoping for them to tap into their inner strengths and emerge more resilient.

in his spare time, he would totally hang out with the sandman and the beast that killed robert montauk.

the desolation: under the detached, composed, even careful exterior to the point of avoidance, something burns, powerful enough to scorch the earth all around and ensure nothing ever grows again.

for könig, this rage and resentment found the constricting touch of discipline in the army, at first, and in the years that bring calm in hindsight.

yet, subdued at great cost though it may be, that voracious flame still hungers and finds release on the battlefield, where, as far as könig is concerned, anything is allowed.

he knows the fire is as dangerous to his targets as it is to him and he is not afraid. one day, that terrible heat will turn inwards and engulf him whole in self-immolation and he won't return.

if könig were an avatar of the desolation, he would be driven less by spite, than need. but he would make for quite the herald of self/destruction for self/destruction's sake all the same.

the end: it's not that hard to believe that könig, still in his prime, is actually rather surprised to still be alive. between parental abuse and bullying that earned him the kinds of beltings and beatings he thought would kill him as he endured and all the hell he has been through as a soldier, not to mention the kind of health issues that come with his size), he hasn't known a moment in which he hasn't felt like he was on borrowed time.

like the clock meant to measure his life broke and when he didn't simply ceased, a rather different one with impossible hours took over and when its invisible hands join on the designated sign one last time, he will be no more.

if he were an avatar of the end, that pocket watch would be his artefact and he would use it to those who call to him, knowingly or not. in the meantime, he will have to settle with sending as many lives to crush through the end line with more mundane means, but with the same zeal as the most devoted acolyte.

may every life he takes fuel his own, instead of consuming him more.

the eye: quiet and unseen. that is what avoiding to make himself a target has always entailed. failure still marrs his face and body in hideous, disfiguring scars. making noise, being noticed at the wrong moment - which, it seems, for young könig the moment was never right - has never paid.

but to avoid something, one has to know it well and that is what könig perfected: knowing, learning, observing, hiding.

just because he doesn't always hold the gaze of his interlocutors, or his eyes wander while he speaks or listens, it does not mean he isn't paying attention to every word, every detail. and when you turn away, you will find his eyes boring holes through you, going through every piece and scrap of information he has at disposal to assemble and make sense.

and with his education being spotty, as his formative years were spent surviving, observing as learning has been an invaluable tool. a testament to it, his being a highly valued asset.

if he were an avatar of the eye, the fear that unkind eyes might once more lay on him would be driven to full-on paranoia of being watched and known and bared open and he would do anything to prevent that. he would probably be a very violent avatar who would soon leave the eye for something that better suits his need for protection, as his mind just couldn't take it.

the flesh: what hasn't this man's flesh known? perhaps gentleness, something he could use more of, something he certainly longs for.

it has known brutality, of which it still bears the marks.

it has known change, as the beastly god in man form könig is now was once rather different. a memory of a softer, scrawnier, gentler past self he keeps locked, clinging to it as he rejects and hides from it.

it has known the harrowing of being remade anew, whilst still being trapped in its confining form, the form of what he was and, in part, will always be.

if to tom haan meat is me, to könig, meat is weapon and barrier, honed and perfected to its use and through its use.

if könig were an avatar of the flesh, he would be too busy having nasty, disgusting, bloody sex with jared hopworth in my fics, for him to have time for anything else. sorry not sorry.

the hunt: for someone who spent years of his life being prey, only two choices were available: surrender to death, or upgrade to hunter. könig is still alive, so you know what choice he made.

studying his targets, learning their habits, navigating their environment, calculating escape routes to bar or exploit, forcing to a corner... that's a huge part of his job.

and the killing, of course.

the beast in him is there, pulling, tearing, stirring, wanting out. and it does come out. merciless, ravenous, bloodthirsty. once it smells blood, that part of hunting that is all about patience, strategy and calculation is eclipsed and the berserker beast takes over, dipping claws in eyesockets, tearing limbs from cores, digging in viscera and delighting in the screams.

feeding. filling. quenching.

until next time.

if könig were an avatar of the hunt... who's to say he isn't already? one thing is certain, however: he will never be prey again.

(although, care to sink your teeth in monster!könig? brave - or lustful - enough to let him do the same with you...?)

the lonely: isolation to the point of alienation.

from being denied counting on anyone but himself, to dedicating his existence towards never needing anyone and engaging fully with his killing business, the only place that exists for him in civil society is the one he carves with bloody claws... and, by now, the interest wanes more than it waxes.

he has been forsaken too many times. betrayed by those supposed to love him and barely given a chance to love the company of any, after that.

a little, unchoked spark for connection still exists there, but it's only a matter of time until it won't anymore. still, how nice it would be if it manifested... perhaps, in the solitude of his mind, he even dreams about it and the many forms it could take. perhaps he is not so far gone. yet.

would it even be possible, now, when avoidance and compartmentalising are all he has known?

if könig were an avatar of the lonely, i don' tknow that he would much care for peter lukas and his ilk...

the slaughter: how do you feel about those scenes of extreme, brutal, senseless violence set to brautiful, haunting and entirely out-of-place music? because i think that's what könig sees and hears when all that makes him human, all that makes him who he is has shrunk so far, deep inside that all is left is an amorphous amalgam of pure... what can you even call that?

the broken child is gone, so is the reserved, quiet man. no trace of the disciplined and strategically adept colonel.

yet, something that holds all three in spirit and shows all through könig's untamed and implacable, instinctual frenzy. second nature.

and it's music and movement and dancing to that gory tune that drowns out all but the screams and tender flesh turning to wet pulp, and he knows the everchanging steps by heart.

if könig were an avatar of the slaughter, he would long to hear the piper one last time, only to be denied.

the spiral: könig has stopped being afraid of losing his mind because he knows he went mad long ago. whatever emerged is what is left. what will always be.

one thing he does not fear and trusts unconditionally are his thoughts and his senses, however. himself. that self he has earned at such high cost. whatever his self might be. what is a self, after all, if not a reflection on the mirror of circumstances?

no matter. whoever he is, he knows he can confide in. at least, on the well-navigated path of war-making. as for less certain terrrains...

but that is enough.

if könig were of the spiral, i don't think he would be aware of his... d̸̡̯̼̗̦͓̹̝̖̫͛̍̽̀͌̇͘͘͝ì̶̛͖̞̯̠̟̥͉̺̈̑̾̒͂͝ͅs̵̨͓̲̮̳̖̣͈͑̾t̷͙͈͍͌̅̾͛̔̌̚̕͝͝ŏ̷̱͔̱̱̜̗͒ͅŕ̷̟̬͊̒͂̇͐͒́t̶̨͎͊͋̄͛̈̀̚͠͝i̷̛̠̗̯̾̽̅̾̽̕͘̚͝o̷͎̞͉̺̝̍͐̐̊͘n̷̢̩͉̥͕͓͈͈̳̽̀̐͜

the stranger: who's to say who lies under that mask? he must be human, of that you are sure. what else, otherwise? yet, how many have had the chance to make sure?

how many masks would they have to lift, before finding something at least resembling the expected? and would that be him? the real him? are you sure?

inhuman proportions. inhuman temperament. always hiding in plain sight.

at least from a distance, as, sometimes by choice, sometimes by necessity, unknown is all he really will ever be to most.

if something took his place, could you really tell? would you even care?

one thing is sure: he could teach you the insides, if you were willing to learn. but would you like that?

if könig were of the stranger, the entity known as Ⴆɾҽҽƙσɳ αɳԃ ԋσρҽ would instead be known as ɮʀɛɛӄօռ ǟռɖ ɦօքɛ ǟռɖ ӄöռɨɢ. nothing would be different, otherwise.

(would love to see the ragtag team of institute assistants and avatars of the slaughter try stopping another unknowing. we would all be nameless dolls. no doubt about that.)

the vast: if there is someone aware of his insignificance, that is könig. when you scream loud and often enough, but no one comes, it is easy to get the message and surrender to how obvious it is that you don't count. something he seems to have accepted. a pawn in a bigger game that he is willing to be part of, as long as he is rewarded for it.

if war doesn't kill him, the uncaring universe will and he has made peace with that fact a long time ago.

until then, he'd rather avoid open, unending spaces that leave him vulnerable in conflict. cramped, tight quarters are always preferable.

if he were an avatar of the vast, he wouldn't be able to stand simon and his carefree, playful attitude. give könig a couple of centuries and he might reconsider.

alternatively, he would be the titan in fallen titan.

the web: hm, the mother... könig sure loves whimpering for his mummy with tears streaming down his cheeks and desperation in his eyes, if you catch him at the right moment.

(at least, when i'm writing him, he does... >.>)

otherwise, growing up the way he did, könig probably developed a natural aversion towards scheming, even when lies to protect himself were his only, often unsuccsessful, option.

being averse to schemes is not the same as being incapable of recognising them. but, at some point, anything can look like one and isolation becomes the only defence.

unless the scheme is grand enough that playing his role in it will benefit him more than it doesn't. for the right pay and a chance to walk away when he wants, there isn't much the man won't do.

if könig were chosen by the web... he would finish what was started and bash annabelle's skull in once and for all.

the extinction: what horrific creatures humans could one day become has always been under the surface and könig knew it in the past, as much as he sees it now, in what he does, how he does it and how other mirror his actions without regrets.

technology only makes it easier, but it's a tool in greedy hands. whatever animates those hands has always been there.

and the military has taken ample advantage of it: advances in media technology, for better means of propaganda, advances in weaponry, from the atomic bomb to drones, to make killing many as easy as pressing a button: no boots on ground needed.

this man clad in kevlar like second skin knows it well: he is part of it and has no strong feelings either way and no intention of quitting.

distopia is now, luv, and it makes. him. hard!

factions rising, factions falling. faces changing, but their spirit always the same and könig will be alongside them, exacting his pound... or his euro, his dollar, his ruble, his yen, his bitcoin, his ethereum...

he is prepared. he will survive and he will thrive and then he'll cease and nothing will matter anymore.

fatten his bank account, pump him full of secret military drugs and point him in the right direction. that's all he knows. that's all he asks.

if könig were an agent of the extinction, he would enjoy bringing about annihilation quite a lot.

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bookishcatcafe · 3 days

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Ristretto in Pink (A Huskerdust Fic) Part Five

“They moan, passing upon the clouds, the horned and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned the giantantlered, snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun.”- Ulysses James Joyce (p. 414)

Why did the film bring such a reaction to me? I’ve never done that in all the years I’ve seen that flick. Why now? Why now? The stomach churns and in silent reflection, there it is…OIL!

Angel breathed heavily, leaning a hand against a light-post, and wiping his lips of what was his popcorn. His ears were ringing as he felt the sidewalk tilt to and fro, leading him to flop onto the street, only a hand catching his fall and barely creating a scratch. Behind him, out of breath, was that cat of the day. He stopped himself behind Angel and panted as he tried to get the words out.

“W..Wh..Why did you leave like that! Are you okay?” He notices the puke and sighs, offering a handkerchief, which the spider hesitantly takes and wipes his lips with. Angel coughs and lays his head behind his crossed arms that sit atop his knees. A moment feels forever. In the silence of this part of town, minus faraway gunshots, laughing, and car crashes, the sudden rush turns silent too as the pair sit not as observers of silver frames, but as participants pulled together by Fate’s thread.

Such a thread seems unforgiving, making one captive to their passing companions or lack thereof. Both had erred in their afterlives, knotted as a blind hydra, abused in their individual metamorphoses; both without the nectar of the one Eternal Rose, dripping liquid light, and eternal redemption.

“I’m sorry.” Angel sniffles underneath his apology.

“I’ve never once…reacted that way before…I-“ Husk sits beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t need to apologize.” His eyes dilated as he looked at Angel.

“You never need to apologize for something like that. We…have emotions…sometimes we just get all caught up in em that…we lose sight of what’s in front of us.” Husk’s chest felt a slow warmth from beneath his heart. He opened his wings, not in some sight of grandeur, but of polite compassion and wrapped one around his new friend.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to, you don’t owe me any explanation. Just at least, when you’re ready, let’s get out from the gutter else we’re going to get in a shit ton of trouble.” Angel looked to Husk, his face a gentle blush when he lifted his head, the world was shiftless and unmoving. Angel saw the subtle smirk on the man’s face and to him it was good.

The two were quiet as they walked back to Angel’s apartment. Without speaking, he had let Husk into his place. Without speaking, he went into the kitchen and made some glasses of water for the pair. Without speaking, Fat Nuggets quietly sauntered over, nuzzling at Husk and Angel, before going back to his fluffy bed and flopping asleep.

It was through this silently agreed silence, that Husk felt Angel did not want to talk just yet, except to just soak in the moment while his nerves calmed down.

The radio was quietly humming as Angel turned it on. The hum grew into static and then into soft violin.

Angel rubs the back of his neck and closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of homemade soup trickling down his throat, the radio on in quiet ambience, while the family cat purred against his leg. His mom came from behind, ruffling Anthony’s hair gently, humming to the song.

Anthony moved away from the table, the cat taking his place, while he took his mother’s hand and brought her with him into the living room a couple feet away from the kitchen, and swayed to the music. He twirled her around and she did the same. She brought out a handful of coins.

“For the movies later, Anthony. Don’t go spending it all at once! There’s extra for concessions.”

“Thanks, Ma.” The door swung open, Anthony’s father stomping in, his face covered in a layer of dirt, blood on his hands. Anthony turned his face to see his father, his mother’s expression changing, and after a moment of silence after the door slammed open all that could be mustered up were:

“Arackniss is dead.”

Anthony sat in his chair, staring past Husk’s shoulder into the wall. Tears flowed down his cheeks. Finally, he noticed his parents were gone and Arackniss was somewhere across the other side of Hell or who knows where.

“My brother is dead. My brother is dead and it’s all my father’s fuckin fault! If he didn’t…if he didn’t rope us into his fucking money-making, blood money, stealing—FUCK! I dunno where we’d be if we weren’t in that mess! I’d be with Ma! I’d be with Sis! I’d be with them for eternity, but I’m here smoking dope, sucking dick, and barely scratchin by for all the rest of my afterlife!” Husk sat there and listened, looking at Angel, saddened by his distraught emotions, he does not talk back.

“I had a life up there…I had a better life with my ma. I just—Husk I fucking miss her. I’m just a bottom feedin loser. I died cause I couldn’t cope with losing my brother. I couldn’t deal with being who I was there. I had to hide it, else my pa or worse my brother would kill me. Ma knew, dad knew too, they all fucking knew. I’m just too dumb to see it. I was just too dumb to take notice. And they say life starts on the day you die, whoever said that can eat it!” He breathed hard, his heart beating out of his chest, and without warning Fat Nuggets was nuzzling by his leg, oinking to be held.

Angel dust sighed, looking down at his Nuggets, and picking him up, holding him close to his face as the pig licked at his cheeks.

“Angel, I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be? You don’t need to apologize for me. I’m the one having a fuckin existential breakdown here.”

“Because I’m sorry you are feeling this way. We all did shit to end up here, whatever that was, truth is I’m just a loser like you are.”

“Loser? I ain’t no loser.”

“Hey we’re losers together. It’s a compliment!” Anthony started to laugh.

“I’m just jerking your dick, Whiskers. I got it. I…I got it.” He sipped his water and looked to his upper cabinet, which held bottles of liquor and wine.

“You wanna have a drink?”

“Only if you want to.”

“You said you’s a bartender, right? Mind making us a couple of specialty drinks?” Husk smiles and nods, standing up and walking toward the shelf. He took a gander at the inventory.

“Damn, you’re stacked with good shit. You really must be getting good pay from doing all your porno shit.” He grabs a couple bottles.

“You okay with whiskey?” Husk asked.

“Could you make something with rum instead?” The cat nods and grabs the bottle of rum.

Angel and Husk sat in the living room on the couch, the radio still playing quiet classical music. They sat sipping pina coladas.

“This is really good, I can never make these right.”

“It’s all about the ratio, plus if you like it extra sweet you just add a bit more juice, ya know? Can’t be no different from your barista gig.” The liquor began to take hold.

“No. No it really isn’t any different. Coffee instead of alcohol.”

“And sober customers instead of blacked-out ones.”

“For the most part, coming from you Mister Drunk at 8 in the morning.”

“Touche, haha, fuck you.” Husk laid back and exhaled.

“You know, to be honest I cannot really remember much outside of my life here, it’s been so long that I don’t even remember how I died.” Anthony turned to him.

“What do you remember?”

“Only thing I can recall was I did the same shit up there, down here, gambling, magic, booze an-“

“Magic? I mean I shoulda guessed, but still.”

“Hey don’t be making fun of my own gigs, you still take dick in alleys so I’m told.” Anthony snorted.

“Touche.” Husk chuckles and takes another sip. Despite his clear lapse in memory, the cat was opening-up to him. Anthony hadn’t planned on exposing too much of his past, yet as it happened, his emotions took hold of him. He crossed his legs and sat back too, staring at the ceiling, the cat seemed to be doing the same shortly after him.

“Anthony.”

“What?” Husk turns to Angel, his ears flickering.

“My name on Earth was Anthony. No one else here calls me that ‘cept my boss.” Husk looks back up to the ceiling, his cheeks flushed as the liquor flowed through his system.

“Anthony.” He smiles.

“That’s a cute name.” Anthony blushes hard and without turning his head he looks down between them, and sees as Whiskers held his hand with his.

#hazbin hotel #huskerdust #gay #fanfic #fanfiction #my art

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jamiesfootball · 9 months

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jamie could have the eliot scene where he tries to go talk to his dad and his dad doesn't answer, and it could be like james just got out of prison and jamie wants to go see if they can Fix Things between them now that jamie's life at least isn't so violent anymore and maybe he can help james get on track on the outside so he won't end up back in and and and

and james doesn't answer because he blames jamie for him getting caught in the first place, and jamie tells him about hacking through the door, and he doesn't answer that either but he throws something at the door and jamie flinches back all the way off the porch. and then he just goes home.

and roy's like how did it go? and jamie says it went the best it could have.

Eeeeeeeeeeee ok ok ok but. but. Here's the thing. Jamie's dad is very Nate's-dad-coded to me. So in my mind I had it going more along the lines of The Three-Card Monte job.

Like this:

Even from the street Roy could hear the laughter spilling out of the Crown and Anchor, and after a long day of reconnaissance it called like a reward in waiting.

Roy didn't mind doing legwork for a con- in fact he appreciated Ted's insistence that the team dot their t's and mind their p's and whatever else he wanted them to inflict on the rest of the alphabet. Better prep made for a safer job. Roy had worked for enough men who'd sacrifice the time upfront if it meant getting to the next score faster; he respected that Ted wasn't one of them.

As their feet sloshed through the snow, Jamie kept a running commentary on the dirt he'd dug up in the breakroom. While he'd waited for his crawlers to skim the server (which to hear him tell it, was so laughably out of date that buying something on the company's Wi-Fi ran a bigger risk than riding passenger in Colin's Fiat), he'd learned from Jeanine who'd heard from Alan that Erik-with-a-'k' Davies was the one who'd decided to pass on Jim-from-R&D's project proposal after quarterlies came in low.

Thank fuck Roy'd never had a real job. He didn't know how people put up with it. He'd rather stab his eyes out than pretend to care about breakroom gossip.

But that wouldn't stop him from doing his job. He dutifully noted all the names - Jeanine, Alan, Jim, Erik-with-a-'k' - knowing that even the smallest details could mean the difference between making a cover or blowing the con.

"Can't believe I had to use a photocopier to make copies of the building schematics," Jamie complained for the umpteenth time. He stood back to let Roy open the door for him, despite the fact that it was Roy who was carrying his duffel full of tech. "In this day and age, a company worth billions should really consider digitizing-"

Six things happened at once. Years of experience gave Roy the particular skill to parse the components of a situation in order of importance.

The most concerning, the domino that set the rest in motion, was how Jamie's body froze, a fear response where he'd been at ease a second ago.

Instinct had Roy stepping in front of him, an arm slung protectively over his chest to hide, block, or push him away, whatever was called for.

His eyes hit all the exits: no one blocking the kitchen or alley, and the door behind them remained clear.

Identify the people of interest in the room, the other potential targets he might need to shield: Keeley and Rebecca at the bar, their heads thrown back in laughter. Colin, pleasantly bored or bored-ly pleasant, pouring out a lager for an older bloke.

Assess the older bloke; the only other other person sitting at the bar. Grey slicked back hair and a receding hairline. Steel-toed boots, worn through and poorly kept, so not an actual laborer. Clean, new denim and a mass market coat. An unspoiled duffel bag on the seat next to him. Fresh out of prison, then.

Either hearing the door swing open or feeling the cold breeze that gusted in behind them, the older man turned to look over his shoulder. Head-on he seemed younger than lines on his face implied, and his cheeks flushed ruddy with drink. He grinned (Manchester dental work), and under the guard of Roy's arm, Jamie flinched.

"Well, well, well. Look who's decided to show himself." The old bloke chuckled; it didn't reach his eyes. "If it ain't my own flesh and blood."

#i said this was the leverage au i wouldn't be writing #it still is #but here have this #leverage au #ted lasso #roy kent #jamie tartt

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blacknidstang · 3 months

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Slowly drifting to sleep by thinking sbout dead sammy's body rotting in the ground idk why it's so comforting but i hate how their body's are always burned. Can't flowers grow from the remnants of their bones?? Can't they rot until they become woven with the earth??? I want Sammy's body unraveled and fallen apart, decomposed, chewed up by dirt, a perfect nest for all the crawlers and flowers

#Dean lowkey could have this he was buried for 4 months #but rest lf times NO ONE GETS TO EXPERIENCE THE EARTH'S EMBRACE :(((((((((((#spn #sam winchester

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liv-is · 9 months

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yours and his alike. {🌹}

Hello! More The Romance of the Demigods content! This little snippet is the byproduct of my non-chronological sort of... habit now. I made a document (I called it the Sanctuary. LOL) listing all the scenes I am excited to write. I closed my eyes and picked one, so here it is! Trying to get a better sense of Eve.

I think this one avoids major spoilers but still. If you prefer to read chronologically.... beware! 💜

cw: emetophobia / mention

In the reflection of the water’s surface, Eve beheld the face of one who, out of spite more than anything else, refused to vomit.

The pools were beautiful. Glossy ripples pulsed through the surfaces when disturbed, settling into a steady glass-like sheen when not. In her wandering, Eve had noticed how some appeared nothing short of bottomless. Even those that appeared to sink no deeper than ankle height on her, she could not be certain that they would not swallow her whole. Not a hint of her left behind. Such was the nature of the Fae domain.

So, even as she stumbled beneath the dizzying sense of some unfathomable weight on the softness of her brain, Eve was careful not to stray off the mossy path. When she knelt, it was with a stony and spiteful determination—she would not vomit.

She could, in the eye of her mind, envision the resulting series of events with grim clarity: one Fae (or more, with her fortune) happening to spy upon her vulnerable state, spewing the contents of her pitiful human stomach into the serene pools of the fabled Aiamede. And with an unnatural speed, they would spread vicious word throughout their network of siblings that the human paladin had shamed herself into their pristine waters. And it would eventually make its way to Nysa, to Kesh, and to Irial. And when she saw him next, he’d be wearing a smile that would drive her to violence.

So she stared into the pool, and focused on breathing deep. In the time since their arrival, her sense of being slammed about by the whim of a giant had only intensified. Some invisible force tugged and squashed her spine and stomach. And she looked every bit of it, too—her eyes were burdened by ghoulish dark circles, and the skin of her face had developed a most charming gleam of sweat. The bun of dark hair atop her skull clung to the barest pretense of form. Behind her head, she could see on the dark earthen ceiling the gentle breathing of the light that lived within the Aiamede’s flora and tiny crawlers thereupon. The perfect frame for the picture she made.

It was only with titanic mental fortitude that she forbade herself from dwelling upon what the Fae had told her, upon how she’d embarrassed herself with her response. They would love for her to be sick at the thought of Kesh and Irial, together in any one of these pools. At the thought of his hands on her. At the thought of them speaking of Gods-knew-what.

Her fingernails dug trails into the maroon dirt as she weathered the last roils of her stomach. Eve squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to believe that she were not clinging for dear life to the soil. One beat of her heart. Two. Three.

With a deliberate exhale, Eve straightened her spine. She opened her eyes to see Cirsi crouching across the pool from her.

The water rendered a hypnotic double image of their tail of bone swishing languidly this way and that. Their wings were folded closed delicately behind their back. They regarded her through pale and glassy eyes that revealed nothing, as Eve was rapidly coming to expect.

Earth-sick. The words rippled across the pool. They were not unkind.

“Whatever,” Eve grunted. “So you’ve come to find more gossip for you and yours.” She made herself begin to rise, slowly.

Not to find. To deliver. To the Star come to the earth-beneath-earth.

Eve felt her stomach lurch. She answered with a rough shake of her head—then aborted it, for it sent her surroundings spinning. She opened her mouth, and nothing came out of it.

There is talk.

Heat swelled beneath Eve’s skin. Talk. She knew well, now, the traps that awaited her should she venture unwisely into the clutches of Fae conversation. She had been so foolish once—never again.

So she hoped.

Eve turned away, lest Cirsi catch sight of the blush that threatened her cheeks. “None of you seem to ever cease chattering. So I suppose there’s always talk.”

There was a flick as Cirsi’s wings opened, and a flurry of movement. Eve glanced back in time to watch their cloven hooves alight upon her side of the pool. Most interesting talk, pulsed the lights around and above them.

The Fae was small, Eve was reminded, now that they stood before her. The highest curve of their onyx horns reached just to her collarbone. It bolstered her in a way that it shouldn’t have.

“I’ve never been concerned with anything less.” It wasn’t true, but Eve said it anyway.

Of the Star’s own desires, she has never been concerned? Cirsi tilted their head. Eve was coming to despise those unblinking eyes, wide and shimmering and all-seeing.

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you and yours think you know of my desires—“

Refute us, then.

“You would like that.” A sour taste revived itself inside her mouth.

We should like that.

Eve paused for a deliberate breath through her nose—in, out. “Piss off,” she said, finally. She turned away from the Fae once more, long ready for the end of this encounter. “Find somewhere else to feed.”

The Star must forgive us our curiosity, murmured a breeze that had not been there before. We aimed only to hasten the inevitable. We are so rarely met with mortal visits. It delights us that we might behold your story.

As if leashed, Eve found herself jerking backwards, turning on her heel to jab a gloved finger in the Fae’s direction. She no doubt looked unwell. “There is no story,” she hissed, “and there is nothing which you have the right to hasten.”

The Star—

Once she started speaking, Eve found herself unable to contain herself. “I am not a plaything of yours, and neither is she. If you were ever a force benevolent to man, you would leave her be, and let us see to our task here.”

Cirsi’s eyes flared, all six of them. It was the most emotion she had seen from them yet.

In your grand mortal sight, you misunderstand. You. You are the interloper, the surrounding pillars creaked. It is you who seeks more than just the Faeling’s touch, as those among us whisper. Unless we are mistaken.

Eve sucked in an indignant breath. The words had struck like a spear through her chest. She thought of how she’d carelessly revealed to the Fae folk her weakness. Now, she reaped the consequence of her mistake. Eve began to realize for certain, then, that no matter how she protested, she could not erase what she’d spoken into truth.

And now, when she needed a voice with which to shield herself, the iron grip of overwhelm was not so easily shifted.

The water laughed at her. Then it is only her touch for which you would so ardently vie. Though the veil hid the lower half of their face, Eve could not dispel the sense that Cirsi was smiling. And why should we concern ourselves if so? She gives her touch freely. Take it, and be content, if that is your design. Yours and his alike. Yours and all man’s alike.

“You have no dominion over her bonds,” Eve bit. The fear came back—that she and Irial were the same. Undeniably the same. Despite everything, she kept her hands at her sides. “She’s not one of you—you and yours have made it so.” She was sick. Sick with anger. Her hands and forearms trembled. Gods, if she had her sword. “You and yours, who share her blood—“

No. The moss shivered. When Cirsi stepped backwards, Eve was momentarily stunned. The Fae looked, for a breath, like any swordsman Eve had ever disarmed in a duel—taken by surprise and forced onto their back foot. Their small hands, typically clasped together serenely in front of them, raised and parted to trace lightly at their face. For the first time, those eyes were trained downwards. Lightly clawed fingertips grazed over their temples, down their cheeks. When they met Eve’s eyes again, she was struck by the emotion there. Unreadable, but undeniable. It is not so simple a thing.

Eve’s vision was drawn by a shift in her peripheral. When she looked to the side, she saw a curling current of myriad colors bleed through one of the pools. In it, the colors swam one way and another, searching for their part in a greater image. Slowly, slowly, shapes took form. For a moment, the pool hurt her eyes to behold—as if her vision had been forcibly unfocused. She struggled for several seconds to make sense of what she saw.

Some decades past. Beyond your years. After the upheaval of Earth and Sky. I was summoned by Father. He tasked me thusly—seek out this creature, half-Fae. Bring it here, before Our court. We would look upon this thing.

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#writeblr #wip excerpt #writblr #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #wip #{roses there are many}#my WIPs

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