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#homestead delectables
terrence-silver · 8 months
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Do you think Terry likes hanging out at Beloved's place?
The man who canonically relishes breaking into people's houses in order to snoop around and gather intel? Does he like hanging out at the home of the person who undoubtedly matters most? Someone who isn't even a rival? A foe? Is that the question? This guy? Here exclusively featured breaking and entering (at the cost of nearly getting caught)?
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You kidding me?
It is like a dream come true!
Because what better way to have a perfect (and voyeuristic) insight into the life, comings, goings and someone's inner bubble than ingratiating oneself enough to be invited over? Not that Terry Silver needs an invitation, per se (he ain't a vampire) --- it is nourishment to his ego if he gets an invitation (he feels like he's won a thing), though, of course, but he doesn't require it, because his tremendous lack of boundaries is such that he'll just climb in through your window, over your garden wall, gate or slither in through the chimney, if need be and take what he wants regardless. No entry point is too ridiculous. It ain't ridiculous if it works. He is just as prone to letting himself inside of someone's home and, well, looking around without the host's consent or knowledge (in fact, that makes it all the more fun and titillating for him), but the very fact that he's cordially a regular guest and he can just first hand see where beloved lives, how they live, what their surroundings are, their memories, their hobbies, interests, their trinkets, their items, their things, their trash, their most personal belongings, their intimacy is...delectable.
Delicious.
It is beloved's life laid bare for him and him alone and he feels absolutely entitled to it, like he already owns the place way before he's ever even called over, but when he's there 'hanging out' as it were, it is truly official; this house, this flat, this apartment, this homestead, this rental --- it is his. Much like beloved's his. Alongside everything pertaining to beloved. Place doesn't even have to be some top notch luxurious condo, villa, mansion or estate. Could entirely the most ordinary, lived in home imaginable and perhaps that's what makes it more interesting. It doesn't matter. There's an extremely possessive noun attached to this bit of revenue now though sheer association with beloved in his mind and Terry develops a territorial streak towards it. In no time at all, not only does he 'like hanging out' there, but he starts sabotaging everyone else who once liked hanging out there too. Friends. Family. Other guests. Visitors. Formal. Informal. Doesn't matter. He pushes out the competition cleverly and quietly, so it is never noticed any pushing was done in the first place. There can be only one. They've no business here. What's their business in his spot?
It all belongs to him.
He doesn't want anything touched by anyone.
Used by anyone.
Changed by anyone, unless he conducts changes himself.
He doesn't want anyone inhaling the general air of the place.
Does want beloved's things seen, stroked -- perish the thought, damaged.
The place is like a museum to him, and beloved along with it.
So, does he like hanging out there? I don't think the word 'like' quite encompasses it properly. To him, it is like beloved's world condensed into a bubble in the palm of his hand and he can do with it as he pleases, with this home. Safeguard it. Take it. Protect it. Renovate it. Make it better. Destroy it. Crush it. Ridicule it. Love it. Use it as blackmail fodder. Consume it. Hate it. Turn it inside out for his own satisfaction. Burn it down. Treat it like something hallowed and priceless. The options are endless, but if one thing is for certain, Terry cannot have an emotion as mild and blasé as 'liking' when it comes to things pertaining to those he's fond of, even if that includes the very roof they live under. He feels everything about the house where beloved lives, the same way he feels everything about them too.
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sad-sweet-cowboah · 2 years
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hi hi! love your writing and am so excited ur taking requests! i was hoping for a little Arthur and fem!reader nsfw action 😅
on the outskirts of camp, reader is eating a few raspberries after dinner and gets complimented by Arthur for help with the stew. she then teases him about getting dessert. they have to keep their banter quiet but reader knows what to say/do to make him sweat. but so does Arthur and they just threaten dirty things to each other, both trying to keep it together with others so close?
then she gets the final word by popping a berry into his mouth before sauntering smugly back to camp and leaving him there totally flustered? i basically just want them to suffer in a fun way 😂
The Mercy of Tease & Temptation
Warnings: This one is chock full of suggestiveness!
Word Count: 1,848
A/N: This one is shorter...but short and sweet and definitely a fun little tease. Hope you enjoy!
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It seemed as if everyone in camp was in a better mood than normal tonight. 
The air was clear and warm, stars painted across the sky, dancing around the half-moon. The amber glow of the campfire cast across tent canvases and the trodden grass, smoke billowing into the cobalt expanse above.
Or perhaps it was the stew.
It was finally this particular night when Pearson finally allowed you to dabble with the so-called “recipe” he served day in and day out, or whatever it was he acquired from the Navy all those years ago. But you couldn’t imagine having such a limited supply of ingredients upon a ship, months out at sea. 
Meanwhile in your childhood, barefooted and rosy cheeks smeared with soil, you were often gathering wildflowers and herbs to dry and cook with on the homestead your family nestled in. Your mother, God rest her soul, taught you how to make even the simplest of meals taste like a delectable dish from the kitchens of Saint Denis, or at least how she described it. That’s where supposedly your grandparents were from, thus starting a tradition that passed down to your generation. 
Even when you yourself hadn’t experienced such a delight, you held those memories near and dear, and served to others whenever applicable. Cooking was your passion and you made a personal goal to share your love with others, whether it be in a glamorous city or just throwing a few ingredients together in camp. You were a few years into your outlaw life and Pearson held rule over the food stores. You hoped to weasel your way in the moment a spoonful of bland...mush...passed your lips. 
Sure, you contributed your fair share of meat to the coffer, subtly suggested adding some oregano or mushroom to liven up the tastebuds, but the old coot wasn’t having it. 
You don’t know what stars settled into alignment that made him change his mind, but he finally stepped back and allowed you to the pot. Now, it almost seemed as if the whole camp was in celebration. Some were helping themselves to seconds. Even Bill and surprisingly Micah were complimenting the taste in their roundabout ways. 
“Think you could cook like this every night?” Karen had asked after gathering her second helping. “Don’t think I could go back to eatin’ what it was before!” 
You had glanced over at Pearson when she said that, noting the look of poorly hidden irritation on his face. It may as well be the first and last time in the kitchen. 
But even Dutch himself seemed to be swayed by your masterpiece, sporting a huge grin beneath his moustache as he savored every spoonful. If you were lucky, maybe he’d “order” you to help Pearson from now on.  
Despite your own filling helping, enjoying the savory flavors aroused your sweet tooth afterward. You’d grabbed a handful of raspberries and settled on a log toward the edge of camp, watching from afar as everyone else eagerly finished the last of their meals. Popping a berry into your mouth, the sweet and tart medley danced on your tongue, washing away the last notes of your dinner. 
A flicker of movement caught your eye. Turning directly towards the source, a smile crept onto your lips as you saw who it was. Arthur, ever so large and lumbering, making his way toward you. 
“Hey sweetheart,” he greeted. 
“Hey there,” you responded, patting the empty space beside you. “Care to join me?” 
He did just that, settling himself down on the log, letting out a groan as he did so. “That stew was somethin’ else,” he sighed, leaning back to pat his stomach. “You sure you ain’t work at a restaurant before joinin’ us?” 
You giggled at this. “Arthur, I’ve told you before, I learned from my momma. Besides, you can take some credit too. You did help me.” 
You were no stranger to skirting through fields and wandering into forests for ingredients, especially by yourself. Arthur however insisted to accompany you for protection. It was unnecessary, but you did thoroughly enjoy his company. The knowledge he held about certain plants was welcomed as it made gathering much quicker than originally anticipated, turning what would have taken at least half the day into a few hours. 
Arthur chuckled himself, shaking his head in denial. “Nah, it’s all you, darlin’. I jus’ wanted to make sure you was safe.” 
“And made my job easier by gathering all the right ingredients,” you reminded him. “Don’t think anyone else coulda done it better.” 
A small smile appeared on his face, ducking his head in a telltale sign of the rarely shown softer side he possessed. It was much better than him immediately denying any sort of compliment towards him, which he often did early on in your relationship with him. 
“I reckon you’re the winner here,” he finally said, giving you a sidelong glance. “Ain’t ever seen anyone so happy to eat stew before.” 
“Just contributing in my own way,” you responded with a grin. “Momma used to get so excited watching everyone enjoy her cooking, might as well make the most of her knowledge.” 
“Then let's hope ol’ Pearson lets you back in after tonight,” Arthur chuckled once again, sitting up to cast his gaze across the camp, toward the man himself finally helping himself to a serving. 
“Maybe,” you shrugged, hoping he wasn’t too disgruntled after everyone clearly showing their preference. You placed another raspberry in your mouth and held another out to Arthur. “Care for dessert?” 
Arthur glanced at your hand and took one with a smile. “Surprised you ain’t make anything outta these.” 
“I could next time,” you said thoughtfully. “Nice raspberry pie sound good?” 
He hummed in response, his tongue flicking out to consume the berry. “Ain’t had a good pie in a while...love to taste yours.” 
While an innocent comment, you couldn’t help but to smirk. You and Arthur were not strangers to one another intimately. “That so?” you giggled lightly. “Well Arthur...my pie is always ready to eat.” 
He gave you a look of confusion, though it only took him a few seconds to understand your true meaning. He snorted and shook his head. “You serious?” he laughed. 
You grinned at him again. “You did say you’d love to...so why not?” you rested your hands on either side of you, arching your back and flipping your hair in a suggestive pose. 
Arthur looked you up and down. Even in the dimness of night, there was a certain gleam to his eye for the briefest of a second before he turned his head away. “We’re in camp, sweetheart...” he murmured, though failed to hide the interest in his voice. 
“Even better,” you said, reaching to trace your fingers along his arm. He tensed at your touch, prompting him to look back to you once again. Batting your eyelashes, your hand moved onto his thigh. 
There seemed to be a shift in his demeanor. His gaze locked to yours, eyes narrowing in thought, “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, ya know?” he spoke lowly. 
The tone in his voice nearly cast a shiver down your spine. “My favorite type,” you countered, giving his thigh a squeeze. 
He groaned at your touch, every muscle flexing before you. “If we wasn’t here—” 
“You’d do what, exactly?” you prompted him, your voice light and innocent. The hand on his thigh trailed up, tracing along his midline to the exposed triangle of skin on his chest. “Unless you wanted to...take me right here.” 
He huffed in response, like a green stallion, ready to burst with boundless energy. “Keep goin’ and I might,” he growled. 
A smirk painted your face, pleased with how easy it was to rile him up. “Oh, Mr. Morgan...how do you expect to do that? Surely that would attract some attention?” 
“Not ‘less I bind that pretty lil’ mouth of yours,” he rumbled. 
A vivid image flashed in your mind. The thought of his bandana wrapped around your face, tied up like a damsel while you were completely at his mercy. It was simply a fantasy; you hadn’t dared asking him to perform anything of the sort before, but damn did it make you...excited. 
“Keep me quiet, like you’re robbin’ me?” you quirked an eyebrow at him. “Take me like the big, bad outlaw you are?” 
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “You don’t mean that, do ya?” 
“I do,” you whispered your confirmation, running your hand down his torso, tracing your finger along the cylindrical, cool metal of the bullets. “Always wanted to know what it was like, gettin' tied up by you...” 
As he took your words into consideration, a smirk slowly appeared across his face. “That make you feel some type o’ way, do it?” 
A hum rumbled in your chest as your palm idled along the handle of his side gun, purposely hovering close to a certain, sensitive spot of his body. “Like you won’t believe,” you speak in a honeyed voice. 
Arthur’s hand suddenly shot out, gripping your wrist with an almost painful force. You nearly reeled back in surprise, until he leaned close, his stare boring into your very soul. “Ya sure you want that?” he questioned slowly, his tone holding the same air of intimidation that made its presence during robberies. 
You sucked in a sharp breath of air. You never knew how much this could turn you on until this moment. The very idea of him taking you right here and now, upon this half-rotted log just out of earshot of the others, brought forth a new wave of pure need. The temptation to submit to him and let him use you to his advantage until you were a melted mess. 
A thousand ideas whipping through your head in whichever manner this could happen, and to execute it successfully to leave you both feeling satisfied. But...they were only ideas. And you were only playing as a tease. 
You smiled innocently at him as he stared you down in ever growing impatience for your response. As dastardly as his behavior was sometimes, he’d never hurt you, nor even attempt something without your consent. The next move weighed delicately on your response, a determination whether to unleash both of your pent-up need, or just let it fizzle out, leaving neither of you satisfied. 
With a grasp of clarity, you instead opted for a third route. There were two raspberries left in your hand, and you quickly popped one of the two into Arthur’s mouth. 
He made an oddly muffled sound, immediately releasing you and leaning back in surprise, nearly spitting the berry out in the process. His eyes betrayed both confusion and infuriation as he tried to collect himself again. 
You only smirked, popping the last berry into your mouth before standing up and beginning to saunter back into camp, swaying your hips as you did. You glanced over your shoulder and said to him, “I’ll be down by the water in an hour.” 
You’d be at his mercy soon enough. 
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empty-masks · 2 years
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Book Two, Chapter Eighteen
CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror
“Dragon hunting has been a terrible necessity for homesteads and upstart towns for decades, and it’s hard to not see why. Dragons, as a species, are twice as intelligent as Humanoids and five times as clever. The smallest of their species is as big as a single-story house, with hardened scales running the entire length of their body. Their claws and teeth are enormous and terribly sharp, and their wings are powerful enough to blow people off their feet. And, they’re dangerously biologically versatile.
“There are four different body types, and five (technically six, though much of High Dragon society does not consider Sonic a true “element,” rather a mutation) different “elements” that Dragons can appear to be. Each combination of these aspects causes every encounter with a dragon to be potentially unfamiliar, even for veterans of the hunt. A Fire-element Wyvern has the potential to bathe the landscape in flame, thanks to their anatomy allowing them to easily lean forward while flying. An Electric-element Wyrm can wrap itself around a grounded object while it arcs destructive lightning from its mouth. A Rock-element Drake will be the closest thing to nigh-indestructible you can encounter; the only viable solution being to tear it apart from the inside. 
“Though these aspects alone make the Dragon a fearsome foe, the environment around the beast should be taken seriously as well. Their home is more than just the place they sleep, it’s miles of land carefully tailored to the needs of its master. Does the Dragon feel threatened by its Humanoid neighbors, and wishes to shore up its defenses for the potential storm? Then expect to gain no quarter from the journey to its bed. Expect species of predators, specially cultivated for their ferocity, to stalk and attack you with every step you take. Expect grand traps to be built, pitfalls and spikes and boulders and poison. Expect to feel nothing but pain until you reach its inner sanctum, where you will instead find bountiful prey animals, bred for the purpose of being each individually delectable to the Dragon’s palette. They will landscape the area closest to their bed to be nigh paradise for them, and whether that means only their mountaintop is boulder-free, or their field is full of flowers and happily grazing herds of cattle, is specific to the Dragon at hand.
“If there is one thing to note about these natural fortresses they build, it’s that they are, most of the time, for the express purpose of keeping Humanoids out, and achieving it in a way that’s obvious even to the simplest animal. Dragons have accumulated enough shared knowledge through the years the Humanoids have been on the planet to understand that, even if they manage to fry a posse of rowdy hunters, there will be hundreds, if not thousands more to come after. Fighting Humanoids is a death wish thanks to our tenacity, technological ingenuity, and sheer strength in numbers, and most Dragons understand this keenly. Their kind does not reproduce quickly, and the mortality rate for young Dragons has increased significantly thanks to poachers, so most Dragons feel the need to keep their head down to ensure the safety of their species. 
“Some Dragons, however, do not believe in such a life of quiet solitude. Some Dragons believe that it is their place to use their power as they see fit, to shape the landscape in their image, rather than the Humanoids’. They take great offense to the notion that they should be idle and invisible in their existence, and they will go out of their way to destroy everything that you know for the sake of making their point. Enraged Dragons of this ideological bend have the potential to turn dozens of miles of civilization to rubble when motivated. They build their territory from the ruins of the Humanoid towns, dotting the land with macabre trophies of their former conquests. They decorate their beds with the armour of heroes and adventurers, and they line their walls with their weapons. These Dragons are nightmarishly efficient in acting on their cleverness, and will not hesitate to turn you and your party into mincemeat without sufficient preparation in advance.
“Though, when encountering a Dragon, do not initially assume the worst. Their culture is one of hospitality and respect, and if you are willing to converse on their terms, they are more than likely to refrain from attacking. Their kind has a natural form of telepathy, and they are able to speak the Humanoid language directly to the mind of the recipient, as their tongue is mostly unknown to even those studying it. Again, so long as you are submissive and willing to listen, you will be rewarded for your patience with conversation unlike any you might get with a Humanoid. Dragons have been known to trust us even as far as aiding towns against attacks from other Dragons, as recorded in a select few backwater towns’ mythos. Thanks to the power of diplomacy and understanding, the relationship between our two species had turned into a noble symbiosis.”
    — An aside on Dragons from The Eternal Autumn’s Definitive Bestiary, Vol. IV, pg. 237.
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And as the last bout of flames dies out, charred bodies still clinging to the weapons they had dug into the Wyrm’s hide with, the last survivor of the Dragon hunting party realizes that any amount of reading they could’ve done would not have prepared them for this very moment. The heat is real, nigh unbearable and unlike anything they have ever felt before. They had read that Dragons were not magical creatures, but rather their internal biology was advanced enough to create chemicals needed for their breath weapon. There was nothing magical about the fire that scorched their armour, which intensified the pain all the more for them.
In fact, as the beast roars in pain, trying to undo the barbed spearheads, armour-piercing bullets, and blood-slick daggers from its body, they find that the only appropriate action left is to lay down their arms in the ash and beg it for forgiveness. Fusillade be damned, the fools had built their livelihood next to a living, angry volcano. There is nothing left to do but hope that it may see their pitiful form, blackened with a paste of soot and sweat and blood and dirt, and spare their life for as long as it may wish.
    Exasperated, the Wyrm searches the landscape. There must be one more, it had only taken out seven— and there they are, hands clasped together like the insect they are. What a display, spear stuck in the dirt and his helmet by their side, groveling as though they were a peon who had failed to meet their quota of grain. Even though the pain is great, the Wyrm finds it dulled by the presence of such submission from the creatures that just made an attempt on its life. It speaks to the Humanoid, burrowing through its mind and soul, commanding them to remove the weapons from its body unless they wish to join their friends. They do as they are told, and the Wyrm is left coiled, out of breath, with nothing but its own mind to contemplate the events that had just unfolded.
It has been long since the nearby town has sent warriors against it. Perhaps the last straw was the shipment it had destroyed weeks prior (even though their cargo consisted of ash it had created, mixed with foul smelling chemicals, to create an odd, oily substance). That must be it, yes. And if the force they sent was this large… the Wyrm again scans the landscape. There must be more. Eight is too small for the weapons they wielded, and for the notoriety that the Wyrm had accumulated. If the Humanoids found a famous Dragon’s ash to be desirable for trade, then there must be two, if not three more forces of similar size waiting somewhere in its territory. This, it knows for sure. There is never just one head to the hydra.
It tells the survivor to halt its activity. Lowering its head, the Wyrm asks them where their friends are. They respond after a pause, feigning ignorance about the coming force of soldiers the Dragon can so clearly feel. The Wyrm rephrases the question, asking them from which direction they’ll be coming from next. They again pause, an expression of confusion passing over their face. Patience rewards the Wyrm however, as it gets its answer. The west. They’re coming from the west, and as they say this, they take a step back from the Dragon, holding up their arms in surrender. It frowns. The Humanoid thinks it is going to be merciful, and let them go on account of their sense of duty to it? If life had been so simple, then it would not have had to incinerate seven other soldiers. The Wyrm tells the survivor to find hope in their continued existence, as it will be continuing no longer. In one motion, it swallows them whole. No need to chew something so insignificant.
There is nothing left on this side of the territory. The Wyrm takes off, heading westward.
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Leon finds himself elbow-deep in dirt, and uncertain of whether he remembers the exact spot for his stash. Azariah is cooling off underneath a nearby tree, conversing with Olive about how she didn’t think the Hare would have super speed, but it’s really cool that he does, and that how they can’t wait to hear what it’s called by the weird thing that visited them in their dreams. Cherry, on the other hand, is leaned up against a nearby tree, holding his head in his hands and trying to keep himself from sobbing. The Orc groans, continuing his digging. Judith nervously peers over every now and then to check on the progress, given that they had seen smoke in the distance when they’d first broken into the territory’s fields. Eventually, he hits something soft. As he does, a massive, blonde werewolf breaks from the forest and into the field adjacent, snarling and panting from the sprint it must’ve just made. Simultaneously, the shadow of a winged serpent passes overhead, the wind rushing through the trees and grass as it lands opposite. The two figures stare one another down, and everyone in the party stops what they’re doing to turn and witness the standoff.
The physical exertion of transforming on its own burns a lot of energy, and often this is taken almost directly from body fat. Gaining enough muscle to become a living tank, a mountain of bundled power in the form of a stark white beast, comes at the cost of feeling very, very sore and very, very hungry. And the Wyrm can see it in his big, blue eyes, the furrow of his brow, and the thick, dripping saliva that falls to the ground in heavy globs like foul-scented syrup. Though he isn’t the first lycan of any kind the serpent had encountered, he’s most certainly the biggest.
Where he had already stood several heads taller than most in his more mundane form, his lycanthropic form makes Judith’s look like a puppy in comparison. The sheer bulk puts him on par with most lycans whose forms are bigger animals, like bears, and his general ferocity often outstripped them on combat prowess. He’s a mean bastard with a size to match his cruelty, but to a Wyrm he seems no more dangerous than the average humanoid. After all, aside from his dripping jaws and thick, gnarled claws, he’s unarmed.
The two slowly circle, keeping their gazes razor-focused on one another the whole while, sizing one another up. It isn’t hard to understand who this scaly nuisance is, after having heard so much hearsay, and being offered the occasional contract to go and catch it for business purposes. From snout to tail tip the damn thing’s longer than most of the trees around there are tall, and worse are its wings. Blondie’s a big man, but his arms don’t extend wide enough to even come close to its wingspan. And the general shape of the beast— most dragons look odd or unique even among their own kinds, similar to how even two werewolves, take Judith and Blondie for instance, can look so wildly different— is menacing by nature. It’s a long, slender creature with a wide and cobra-esque crest running along either side of its neck and head. Its wings are like a bat’s, designed instead for speed and power.
Its underbelly is a soft beige, and the color runs up to the bottom jaw. Said jaw is part of a thin, serpentine head that’s mostly flat, with a wedge shape. From the side it generally resembles that of a snake, specifically the sort found on sea snakes, built for aerodynamic potentiality. The eyes are largely forward facing, like a bird of prey, resulting in a look that could almost be considered goofy, were it not for the cold, piercing stare they bore. With the addition of a scaly, permanently furrowed brow, it has a general air of condescension in its slithering, hostile voice that injects itself into Blondie’s skull, telling him what he ought to do, what he was meant to do, what his kind was meant for.
The wolf ignores the snide and frankly disgusting remarks in favor of admiring its scales and crest. Vivid, ruby red scales with the occasional black or orange gave it a fiery appearance in accordance to its nature, with the red largely dominating its flanks and the black presented in a long stripe running essentially opposite its underbelly coloration; the black does, however, find itself swirling down under the eyes, back across the cheek and onto the crest, following along the far edge until they meet the wings at the shoulders, or what could be considered its shoulders. The wings, he notices, are entirely black.
At the moment, the crests are still rising to their full extension, a vastly different structure than that of a typical cobra’s hood due to a Wyrm’s most natural structures being built for speed. The crest in this case is actually a complex system of bone, skin, and blood; it closes when it needs to reach top speed, and extends in a threat display, or perhaps to dissipate heat. He bets someone would give him a pretty penny for the thing, but his thoughts are interrupted by a sudden pang.
The Dragon can see it in his eyes, a hunger. Not a lust for power, not something easily manipulated with treasure and baubles covered in gold and jewels, but the deep, primitive emotion that drives the animals around its home— real, actual hunger. Its crest extends to its full size as the blood fills the beige underbelly on its front, turning the entire thing into a swirling mess of red and black. He’s eying it up not like a hunter its prey or a warrior his enemy but a hound before a food bowl, absent and unable to think of anything but the deep belly pains coming before a long awaited meal. The crest does not appear as a fearful mask of destruction, hellfire beneath scales, but as the sweet, softer portions of moving meat.
The Wyrm knows hunger, knows how to appeal to it. And it tries, it tries very hard, with its dripping, honeyed words and hastily veiled loathing, but it gets no response. There’s no ground to be gained through intimidation in Blondie’s mind, no deeper reasoning to connect to. He’s not the small army it expected to come to take its place, its treasures. Its reputation. Blondie’s not there to fight it, he’s there for something else, but before it can inquire further to press the mental questioning and get an answer out of the dull-headed dog man, the white heap of fur, claws, and teeth launches across the field with a speed the Dragon thought unattainable by hand or foot.
It screams shrill and hateful as yellowing claws snatch at the scales of its tail, digging in deep and drawing blood as it beats its wings once, flattening the grass surrounding and lifting into the air with a great clap of thunder— only to be throttled back to the hard, unforgiving earth like a living hammer, striking its head against the ground in a great arc and snapping one of its wing’s fingers. It screams again because of that, then begins to scrabble and crawl away with both wings despite the broken finger in an attempt to put distance between it and the blank-stared werewolf.
It has enough slack in its tail to turn around at a safe distance and build up a fiery blast. He lets go of the tail to prepare to move, all while he watches the creature carefully. The reaction becomes apparent in the throat as it bubbles up quickly; at first there’s a soft glow at the base of the neck, where the crest meets the shoulders the wings attach to. It travels, in a half-second, up most of the way through the throat, where it shifts to an intense red glow through the beige underbelly, and when finally the glow disappears up into the mouth, there’s a bright, orange light in its nostrils. Then, with a shudder of its crest, it swings its head forward and spits like a cobra, launching its fire in a great spray.
He launches himself to the side, getting hit only by the lesser flecks at the edge which stick to his black coat, and rushes forward on all fours. His claws gouge the earth as though he’s pulling the entire world behind him, and before the Wyrm’s mouth shuts it’s struck in the throat by a gigantic forearm. It feels as though struck with a steel beam wrapped in a thin, meaningless cushion that only adds to the weight of the strike.
“I could use a new pair of boots, snake,” he growls out. It’s tumbled back more than a meter, and by the point he realizes it’s been charging another blast, the light is already in its nostrils. He’s not as lucky this time, and the fiery spray catches not only much of the grass around him on fire— the earlier blast of which had set a large patch alight, and that is still spreading behind him— but much of his coat, both the leather and his fur. He’s quick to try and shake it off, but most of it doesn’t want to detach. It clings to him like fleas, deep, burning fleas. Burning his lush fur, scorching his skin, driving him mad.
There’s a sickening laugh in his mind as Wyrm begins on a slow crawl toward him, using not its wings but the serpentine movement of its body, still upright, to close the distance. How easy it was to subdue lesser creatures with its blessings of fire, how delicious he will be, how he’d be eaten alive and subjected to a slow, painful death, as all of his kind would be in time, these are what it poured into his mind, acidic and bitter.
He can see it further down its tail, the slight shape of something still alive, still moving, in pain. He can’t die here. He has a rabbit to skin, he has a task to finish, he has a paycheck to collect. It’s that rabbit’s fault, it’s that entire party’s fault that he’s going through this pain, and once he’s through with the flying soon-to-be-boots in front of him, he’s going to debone each and every shitheel miner in that group alive while the others watch.
The fire spreads fast, despite the generally wet nature of the Eternal Autumn, and it takes up much of the field soon. Blondie hurts, his muscles burn from the extended shift, no food, and little sleep, and everything around him burns. Fire, it’s all fire. And a laughing, hateful voice in his mind, its repugnant, condescending tones reverberating between the walls of his skull like a discordant hiss. He screams, then tosses himself forward, a ball of white fur and flame, his claws and fangs sinking deep into the crest of the dragon before it can attempt to lift off again.
Its whole body thrashes wildly as it attempts to shake him off, a skin-peeling screech  mingling in the open air with the wild cries of the burning werewolf.
A deeper glow begins in its throat, at first a simple hue as it had been before, though it turns white and vivid still deep in its craw. The light is stronger than earlier ones, and it bulges the throat of the Wyrm as it creeps up, steadily enlarging and intensifying until it wavers between a distinctive blue, an eerie green, and the original white.
The bulge in its wildly varying colors takes time reaching the top of its throat, but before it can transfer to the beast’s mouth a flaming arm locks around the creature’s neck, and then another does the same on the opposite side, and like a vice grip they both rush toward one another, crushing the dragon’s crest and shutting its windpipe alongside its fire-pipe.
Blondie can feel the entire creature’s thrashings turn from fear of injury to fear for its life, fear of him, and he relishes in it. The voice behind his eyes goes from shrill commands of the self-designated superior to fearful requests, and he hears the tone falter.
He hears it whimper like a child. A weak, sobbing, broken and beaten child, being punished for something it didn’t do.
It doesn’t want to die.
He doesn’t care.
==============================================================
The party’s about thirty minutes of rushed walking away from a lose-lose situation when they’re bathed in a vivid white light, which fades into seafoam blue-green as a sound that dwarfs thunderstorms rushes through them. Every rock-filled bone in their bodies shake, and when they turn their head to glance toward the path they had just tread, through the trees is that strangely colored light. Above the canopy is a massive, roiling plume of similarly colored fire and dark black smoke.
Leon pulls on his mask and the rest of the party does the same before they continue moving.
“What do you suppose that is? Never seen anythin’ like it,” Olive mumbles through her mask.
“Nothing good,” both Leon and Judith say.
Azariah sighs, shaking his head. “Alright then, if you two ain’t gonna be helpful, a better question— where to next?”
Book 2 End.
============================================================== 
[ Table of Contents ]
Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.
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ryanrock0 · 4 months
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Exploring the Heartland: Unveiling Iowa's Crown Jewel
Regarding hidden gems in the heart of America, Iowa often finds itself overshadowed by its more well-known neighbors. However, those who take the time to delve into the Hawkeye State's offerings will discover a treasure trove of natural beauty, cultural richness, and captivating attractions. Among them, one destination stands out as the unequivocal crown jewel, earning its title as the number one attraction in Iowa.
The Enchanting Amana Colonies: A Glimpse into Iowa's Past and Present
Tucked away in the gently rolling hills of eastern Iowa, the Amana Colonies emerge as the state's foremost attraction, seamlessly blending history, culture, and charm. Comprising seven villages, these colonies have preserved the communal spirit and heritage of the German Pietists who settled here in the 19th century.
A Journey Back in Time
Step into the Amana Colonies, like stepping into a time capsule. The meticulously preserved villages of Amana, East Amana, West Amana, South Amana, High Amana, Middle Amana, and Homestead offer a glimpse into a bygone era. Strolling through cobblestone streets and exploring well-preserved architecture, visitors are transported to a simpler time, where communal living was the heartbeat of these settlements.
Each village has its unique character, contributing to the overall tapestry of Amana's allure. From the communal kitchens where traditional Amana recipes are still prepared to the handcrafted furniture shops and quaint boutiques, the Amana Colonies allow visitors to connect with a piece of America's past.
Artisans and Craftsmen
One of the highlights of the Amana experience is the opportunity to witness skilled artisans and craftsmen at work. The colonies are home to various workshops where traditional crafts such as woodworking, quilting, and pottery are practiced with unwavering dedication to authenticity. Visitors can engage with these artisans, gaining insight into the meticulous craftsmanship passed down through generations.
The Amana Colonies also boast a vibrant arts scene, with galleries showcasing the work of local artists. From paintings to sculptures, the creative spirit of the colonies extends beyond the traditional crafts, providing a rich cultural experience for all who visit.
Culinary Delights
All exploration of the Amana Colonies is complete with indulging in their delectable cuisine. The communal kitchen tradition, where residents gather for hearty meals, has been preserved, and visitors can savor the same authentic recipes enjoyed for over a century.
From family-style restaurants serving mouth-watering comfort food to charming bakeries offering freshly baked goods, the Amana Colonies tantalize the taste buds. Local specialties like sauerkraut, bratwurst, and Amana ham are culinary delights that showcase the unique German heritage of the settlers.
Festivals and Events
Throughout the year, the Amana Colonies come alive with a calendar of events and festivals celebrating their rich cultural heritage. The Oktoberfest celebration, with its lively music, traditional dance, and authentic German beer, attracts visitors from far and wide. The Christmas season transforms the villages into a winter wonderland, with festive decorations, holiday markets, and seasonal events for the whole family.
Something always happens in the Amana Colonies, whether it's a springtime celebration of the arts or a summer festival showcasing local talent. These events provide entertainment and deepen the connection between visitors and the living history of this unique destination.
Natural Beauty Surrounds
Beyond the charming villages, the Amana Colonies are surrounded by the breathtaking natural beauty of Iowa. The nearby Amana Colonies Recreational Trail offers a scenic route for hiking and biking, immersing visitors in the serene landscapes that have inspired generations.
The Lily Lake and the Iowa River provide opportunities for fishing, boating, and other water activities. Nature lovers will appreciate the diverse flora and fauna that thrive in the region, making the Amana Colonies a cultural gem and a haven for outdoor enthusiasts.
Plan Your Visit
For those seeking a genuine and immersive experience, the Amana Colonies are the epitome of what Iowa offers. To plan your visit, consider staying in one of the charming bed and breakfasts or historic inns that dot the colonies. These accommodations provide not only a comfortable stay but also a chance to connect with locals who are passionate about sharing the history and traditions of their home.
While Iowa might not be the first state that comes to mind when planning a vacation, the Amana Colonies prove it deserves a place on every traveler's itinerary. Steeped in history, brimming with culture, and surrounded by natural beauty, the Amana Colonies shine as the number one attraction in Iowa, beckoning curious souls to discover the heart and soul of the Hawkeye State.
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brazostours · 6 months
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Sip, Savor, & Explore: Waco Wine Tours & Culinary Adventures Await
Waco, Texas, is a city that offers much more than just its famous silos. It is a destination where you can embark on a Waco Tours filled with flavors, from the finest Texan wines to delectable culinary experiences. Let us dive into the world of wine and culinary adventures that await you in Waco.
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Wine Tours In Waco To Freshen You Up
Start your journey with Waco Wine Tours along the Central Texas Wine Trail. Explore vineyards like Valley Mills Vineyards, Waco Winery & Vineyard, and Red Caboose Winery & Vineyards. Sample an array of locally-produced wines while chatting with winemakers about the unique terroir and grape varieties that give Texan wines their distinctive character.
For an authentic experience, delve into the local farms and artisanal producers, like The Waco Downtown Farmers Market. Here, you can meet farmers face-to-face, taste seasonal produce, and learn about sustainable farming practices. Consider booking Waco Wine Tours on a farm at Homestead Heritage for a farm-to-table meal.
Culinary Adventures In Waco To Die For
Waco Foodie Tours Or Food scenes offer diverse cuisines from Mexican tacos to gourmet burgers. Gather fellow foodies for a self-guided food truck tour, rating each meal and crowning the best dish of the day.
Also, you can enhance your culinary skills with cooking classes and workshops during Waco Foodie Tours Or Food, offered by local restaurants and culinary schools. Learn the art of Texas barbecue, Tex-Mex classics, or gourmet desserts, leaving you with newfound expertise and delicious recipes.
Conclusion
Waco Wine Tours and foodies’ adventures promise a rich tapestry of flavors, stories, and experiences that will leave your taste buds and senses satisfied. Are you ready to sip, savor, and explore the culinary delights that await you in this Texan gem?
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avnnetwork · 7 months
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Escape the Ordinary: Adult Birthday Ideas in Sunny South Florida
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Introduction:
When it comes to celebrating another year of life, there's no better place to do it than in sunny South Florida. With its beautiful beaches, vibrant nightlife, and diverse culture, this region offers a plethora of options for an unforgettable adult birthday celebration. Whether you're turning 21, 30, 50, or any age in between, South Florida has something to offer everyone. The process of brainstorming birthday ideas for adults in South Florida is a stimulating undertaking, considering the vast array of possibilities that exist. In this guide, we'll explore a wide range of unique and exciting birthday ideas that will help you escape the ordinary and create lasting memories on your special day.
Beach Bonanza:
One of the most iconic features of South Florida is its stunning coastline. Why not kick off your birthday celebration with a beach bonanza? Gather your friends and family, pack a picnic, and head to one of the many beautiful beaches in the area. Whether it's Miami Beach, Fort Lauderdale Beach, or any of the smaller, more secluded spots, you'll enjoy the sun, surf, and sand. Rent beach equipment like paddleboards, jet skis, or even organize beach volleyball or a friendly beachfront yoga session to keep the fun going. Finish the day with a beachside bonfire and marshmallow roasting for a memorable night under the stars.
Yacht Party:
Take your birthday celebration to the next level by chartering a private yacht. South Florida is home to a plethora of yacht rental companies that can cater to your every need. Spend the day cruising along the Intracoastal Waterway or venture out into the open ocean. Most yacht charters come equipped with a professional crew and can be customized to include catering, music, and even water activities like snorkeling or fishing. Toast to your special day with champagne while enjoying breathtaking views of the coastline.
Art Deco District Night Out:
For those looking for a more cultured birthday experience, explore the historic Art Deco District in Miami Beach. Begin with a guided walking tour to learn about the district's unique architecture and history. Afterward, visit one of the many trendy bars or restaurants in the area for craft cocktails and delectable cuisine. The vibrant nightlife in South Beach ensures that your birthday celebration will continue long into the night. Visit https://rebelwinebar.com/best-adult-birthday-idea-in-fort-lauderdale/
Wynwood Walls Art Crawl:
If you have a passion for art and want to celebrate your birthday in a creative way, Wynwood Walls in Miami is the place to be. This outdoor art gallery features stunning street art from local and international artists. Organize a self-guided art crawl with your friends and explore the colorful murals that adorn the neighborhood. Many restaurants and bars in the area also feature artistic decor and craft cocktails to complement your artistic adventure.
South Florida Wine Tour:
For wine enthusiasts, a South Florida wine tour is a fantastic way to celebrate your birthday. Book a tour that will take you through the lush vineyards of the region, like the ones in Homestead and the Redland. Enjoy wine tastings and gourmet food pairings at each winery, all while taking in the beautiful scenery. This sophisticated celebration is perfect for a more refined birthday experience.
Everglades Airboat Adventure:
If you're seeking an adrenaline rush on your birthday, head to the Everglades for an airboat adventure. Glide through the swamps and marshes, spotting alligators, birds, and other wildlife along the way. Many tour operators offer private airboat rides, allowing you to customize your adventure. It's a unique and thrilling way to celebrate your special day.
Cuban Fiesta in Little Havana:
Experience the vibrant culture of Miami's Little Havana for a birthday celebration full of flavor and excitement. Start your day with a salsa dancing lesson or a cigar rolling workshop. Then, explore the colorful streets and shops, trying delicious Cuban food and cocktails. Finish the night at a lively salsa club where you and your friends can dance the night away to infectious Latin rhythms.
Fort Lauderdale Water Taxi Pub Crawl:
For a more laid-back yet fun birthday celebration, consider a Fort Lauderdale Water Taxi pub crawl. Hop on and off the water taxi as you explore various waterfront bars and restaurants along the Intracoastal Waterway. You'll get a taste of Fort Lauderdale's vibrant nightlife while enjoying the scenic water views.
Nature Retreat in the Florida Keys:
Escape the hustle and bustle of South Florida's cities by heading to the serene Florida Keys for a nature-focused birthday celebration. Rent a beachfront cottage or bungalow and spend your day snorkeling in crystal-clear waters, kayaking through mangrove forests, or simply relaxing on the beach. The Keys offer a peaceful and picturesque setting for a more introspective birthday getaway.
Conclusion:
South Florida offers a diverse range of adult birthday celebration ideas that allow you to escape the ordinary and create unforgettable memories. Whether you prefer the sun and sand of the beaches, the art and culture of the city, or the natural beauty of the Everglades and Florida Keys, there's something for everyone in this sunny paradise. So, embrace your next birthday with a unique and exciting celebration in South Florida, and make it a day to remember for years to come.
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willowhillhistory · 8 months
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The Happy Valley, by Harriet Beecher Stowe
Published in The Christian Union, 27 Park Place, NY, on August 7, 1872:
The terrible heats of the last few weeks have sent our city population flying "thick as the leaves of Vallombrosa," and we among them have been swept in the tide up the Hudson to Albany, and then up, up a long, slow grade in a palace-car at night, feeling ourselves ascending, and the unmistakable vivid clearness of mountain air blowing refreshment through us, till finally, after passing Sharon Springs, we stopped in Cherry Valley.
Where is Cherry Valley? If we thought our telling would bring all the world to see, we would stop here and now, and not utter a word; for the charm of Cherry Valley is its greenness, its seclusion, its pastoral stillness and quietude, its Arcadian air of unworldly rest and peace.
It might be a valley in the Delectable Mountains that Bunyan writes of, whence in a clear day you should see the battlements of the Celestial City; it might be the happy valley of Rasselas, or any other dreamland where it is always afternoon.
To come down to prose, Cherry Valley is in that belt of hill country that overlooks the valley of the Mohawk. It is said to be 1,300 feet above tidewater mark. It is a quaint old place, with what many places in America are destitute of - a history. Here are farms and homesteads that have been in the possession of the same families for one, two, and three generations, and a rich moss of tradition has grown up under their quiet shades. Here are streets, of those lovely, cool, roomy, breezy old houses that people knew how to build a generation ago, and that have hanging about them a fragrance of old days and old times, like the rosemary from a cabinet.
One such mansion we visited lately, standing on a high green hill, and overlooking a lovely landscape of hill and dale and woodland. The house is in that best style of architecture and keeping - that which suggests that its inmates are having a good time in it, and mean to use every bit of it for household enjoyment. You come through a quaint little garden, bright with all the nice old-fashioned flowers, and the old house stands back of it, like a good grandmother, with its arms wide open to take you in. A broad veranda of generous proportions leads to the open hall door. Then you come on that great, wide, generous front-hall, wherein they of old time delighted, - a hall wide enough to live in, set out with old-fashioned sofas and ottomans and tables and chairs, with a tall old clock gently ticking away the peaceful hours. From this hall open pleasant rooms in all the four corners; one large charming parlor, whose windows look out on the beautiful hill-and-valley picture below the house. Here you find cozy family rocking chairs and easy chairs, that look as if they may have cuddled generations - chairs, not stiff and new out of upholsterers' shops, but chairs that are used to entertaining, and half-alive with a hospitable tenderness, and that seem to long to have you sit down and rest in them where others have rested before you. At the further end of the hall is a quaint old staircase, leading to an upper hall of the same dimensions with the lower, and on which all the chambers open. This upper hall is set about with couches, and little stands and tables convenient for books and work, and is the undress family reunion room. It opens by a wide window on to the roof of the veranda, which forms an ample and sunny [illegible], and commands a lovely prospect.
Here an ancient couple, old in years, but young in heart, keep tryst and rendezvous for a generation or two of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren, who probably regard it as the veritable Garden of Eden.
Stories of the past grow thick and blossom here in many a tender tradition. Cherry Valley was yet a youthful settlement when the Revolutionary War began, and was made the victim of that insane and unprincipled measure of the then dominant party in England, which did not hesitate to stir up and set upon these infant settlements the wild and bloody ravages of the forest. The valley of the Mohawk was the camping ground of the Six Nations - now melted away, and gone like the night-dews; and in one of their marauding raids they wholly destroyed Cherry Valley, burned the houses, massacred some of the people, and swept others into a bitter captivity.
This peaceful, lovely house, with its flower gardens and bowers of rest, stands right upon one of the spots of these night tragedies. The whole family was murdered, and the house burned to the ground.
It is curious to see how the tragedy and terror and agony of the past, toned down by time and distance, come to add only a softened interest, a charm of romance, to the scenes of to-day. Everywhere in Cherry Valley we are pointed to places and scenes made memorable by these tragedies. In one hospitable mansion, while a gay party were promenading the well-kept grounds, a tree was shown in which it was said the mangled arm of a lady had been found, thrown there by the Indians. The story is told of another woman taken captive, to whom was allotted as her first work the task of stretching and drying the scalps of some of her own kindred who had perished; and another of a woman who, with her three little children, lay under the shelter of a hollow log, while the Indians ran backward and forward over it, filling them with constant horror of discovery. In the grave-yard is the tomb-stone of one who as a boy was with his mother taken captive and carried to Canada, while all the rest of the family were slaughtered. We need to recall these traditions to see how real and how terrible was the Revolutionary struggle of our fathers.
It ought to be in justice remembered, when we think of the barbarity of this movement, that Lord Chatham and William Pitt put all their force against this policy.
In our childhood, we remember, our blood used to boil and our veins tingle when we read in the Columbian Orator the speech of Lord Chatham on the policy of employing the Indians against the colonists of North America, and it is a comfort to know that all of the indignation, wrath, and denunciation that the English language could possibly carry was spent upon the party which perpetrated this inhumanity. It is a pity Lord Chatham's speech has vanished from our reading-books, for it is one of the most splendid specimens of generous, indignant eloquence that the language affords.
Cherry Valley to-day is an innocent, quiet Arcadia, lying within an hour's distance of three of the most fashionable summer watering-places, so that a short ride may bring you in sight of all the pomps and vanities that one may desire to see. Sharon Springs and Richfield now rival Saratoga in attraction, and number their thousand. Cooperstown is another most attractive and much frequented point.
[...]
The hospitality of Cherry Valley is proverbial. Lawn-teas, pic-nics and croquet parties vary the summer days; everybody seems to know everybody, and a stranger is taken in and made to feel at home at once. We have heard that it is still safe to go to sleep there as it was in Litchfield, in our childhood, with outside doors and windows innocently wide open for the moon to shine in. If it be so, we shall not tell of it, lest an army of New York scalawags should take passage at once on the palace-car to Cherry Valley. These palace-cars from Albany to Cherry Valley are in fact no small feature in the attractions of getting there. You don't want to be pounded and squeezed and made a cinder-bank of, so that your own clothes abhor you, in getting to the garden of Eden itself.
This idea seems to have taken possession of the minds of those who are charged with taking you from Albany to Sharon and Cherry Valley, for they provide cars so elegant, and easy, and every way delightful, that it is worth going just to get the ride in them, even if you had no purpose of doing anything more.
One begins to respect one's self when one rides in such luxury, and to consider that one belongs to the royal family of America, and conduct one's self accordingly. Instead of having your eyes put out and your traveling dress soiled with cinders, a wire-gauze window admits light and air, and affords perfect protection.
Ah, well-a-day! These nice palace-cars had but one fault in our eyes. They took us from Cherry Valley as well as to it. We had been there only ten days, and yet such pleasant ones that, as the Irishman said, we were all ready to become a native. And we looked back on its green peaceful retreats with something of a sigh. Why can't we always live in these pleasant places? Why can't all the pleasant people live there just where we can see them every day?
Well, in some other world there will be brighter and better reflections of these lower places, and all those who come shall come to stay, and go no more out forever. Then, in those valleys of greenness, the Good Shepherd shall walk and gather together in one those that are gone, and those that are going, and us that wait and long.
In these summer journeyings we see so many people who are walking in sorrow; so many living, when some great shock, some life-sorrow has cut the nerves of earthly joy, never again to reunite. Well, patience, dear fellow-travelers; if there were not something better than this life for you to turn to, the dear Lord would never have cut the cords that bind you here; but these sorrows are heavenly voices saying to the soul, "Rise up, my love, my fair one, come away, for, lo, the winter is over and past, and the time of singing of birds has come."
[Thanks to Sydney Waller for providing me with a photocopy of this article.]
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25mn · 10 months
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Sour Cherry Pie Variations
To make Sharp Cherry Pie, you will require:
Elements for the twofold covering - Your standard suspects for an all-spread outside layer: flour, margarine, sugar, salt and ice water. Furthermore egg wash to brush the hull so it turns a wonderful brilliant earthy colored tone! Acrid Cherries - New is ideal, however frozen or canned work as well. Sweet cherries can likewise be utilized, yet I would then utilize some more lemon squeeze and lower how much sugar utilized so it's not overpoweringly sweet. Sugar Lemon juice Vanilla concentrate Almond remove - Just a touch! Almond remove adds an extremely fascinating flavor profile, however when utilized in overabundance it can demolish everything. Cornstarch - For thickening the natively constructed cherry pie filling. Margarine - I like to spot the loading up with a couple of shapes of spread, for additional extravagance! You can avoid this step assuming that you like.
Where could I at any point track down sharp cherries? Tragically, here in the US, new sharp cherries can be challenging to track down and are in season for a truly brief period: from June to July. They likewise don't keep going extremely lengthy whenever they are picked, which is the reason most supermarkets won't try selling them, so your smartest option would be a ranchers market or a pick-your-own homestead! (Here in New Jersey, Alstede Homesteads has them in the mid year - both at the ranch and at a few ranchers markets in North Jersey.)
Since they are extremely well known in Iranian food, you could likewise attempt Persian and Center Eastern stores, assuming you live almost one.
When you find these cherries, you will actually want to handily recognize them from their sweet cousins because of their size (more modest) and radiant red tone. They are additionally more delicate than the sweet assortment, so handle them tenderly!
In the event that you actually can't find tart cherries, simply head to the frozen passageway at your supermarket, where you will probably track down them in frozen structure!
A newly heated harsh cherry pie.
Step by step instructions to Make Cherry Pie Natively constructed pies can be very scary, however they don't need to be!
I used to be absolutely frightened of pies. All the chilling and "don't do this" and "you Need to do that" or "your pie will be a flat out calamity". Gaaaaah! There truly is a great deal of panic based manipulation where pies are concerned!
The truth? Pies are not that hard to make. Furthermore, in any event, when you misunderstand them, they are as yet delectable! In addition, how are you going to improve on the off chance that you don't rehearse?
Indeed, making pie without any preparation is somewhat of a beautiful source of both pain and joy. You'll need to trust that the hull will chill, you'll need to cook the filling (so you don't wind up with a runny pie as well as a wet base) and you should trust that the pie will cool prior to cutting. However, that doesn't mean it's troublesome! Only a tad tedious.
Lesson of the story? Heat the damn pie! 😉
Suggested devices and gear: food processor, cherry pitter (this one is great as well!), pie dish, moving pin, baked good wheel shaper.
Flour, sugar and salt in the food processor. Adding the virus spread. Pea size pieces structure and that is the point at which now is the right time to add the water. Showing the ice water being added. A photograph of when the batter begins shaping. A plate of pie mixture. This is the way I make this sharp cherry pie recipe. As usual, you will see as the printable (and more complete) variant of the recipe toward the finish of this post!
Stage 1: Set up THE Outside layer. In the food processor, join the flour, sugar and salt. Beat a couple of times to blend. Add the virus spread and heartbeat to cut the margarine into the flour, halting when the blend structures pea-size pieces. Gradually sprinkle freezing water, a smidgen at a time, pulsing until a mixture begins meeting up. You will see a couple of enormous bunches framing and that is the point at which you ought to quit adding water. Move the mixture to a delicately floured surface and, utilizing floured hands, accumulate it into an enormous ball. Partition this ball fifty and level them into plates. Then, at that point, cover each plate with cling wrap and refrigerate for something like 60 minutes (and as long as 2 days) prior to utilizing. Pitting the harsh cherries with a cherry pitter. A bowl of pitted cherries. Custom made cherry pie filling in a pot with a wooden spoon. Stage 2: MAKE THE CHERRY PIE FILLING! Begin by pitting the cherries, if utilizing new. I strongly suggest utilizing a cherry pitter for that, like this one (which pits 6 cherries all at once) or this one (which pits every cherry exclusively). Prior to cooking the filling, feel free to rub the hollowed cherries just to guarantee you haven't missed any pits! Nothing more regrettable than eating acrid cherry pie and gnawing into an undesired pit. In a little Dutch broiler or pot, join the hollowed cherries, sugar and lemon juice. Cook, over medium intensity, until the cherries have delivered a lot of juice. Blend the cornstarch in with a couple of tablespoons of water in a bowl. Dissolving in water will make it simpler to integrate into the filling! Assuming you're stressed over diluting the filling, you could take a ladleful of the delivered squeezes and break down the cornstarch in that. Mix in the disintegrated cornstarch and keep cooking until the filling thickens. Eliminate the filling from the intensity and mix in the vanilla and almond removes. Allow the cherry filling to cool prior to collecting the pie.
Moved pie batter. Pie outside layer in pie dish. Adding the filling to the pie outside layer. Cherry filling in pie dish. Making a cross section outside. Brushing with egg wash. Pie fit to be heated. A photograph of the prepared pie! Stage 3: Collect AND Prepare THE Sharp CHERRY PIE. Carry out one of the chilled pie circles on a floured surface until it's around 12 creeps in measurement. Move to a 9-inch pie skillet, cautiously squeezing the batter into the base and sides of the dish. Empty the filling into the hull, spreading it equitably with a spatula. Then, at that point, dab it with 3D shapes of cold margarine. That isn't compulsory, yet I find that it makes this pie additional rich and flavorful! Carry out the second plate to 12-inch round and utilize a baked good wheel (sharp blade or pizza shaper likewise work) to cut ten 3/4-inch wide strips. Orchestrate the strips on top of the filling, shaping the cross section. How would I make a grid? You'll begin by spreading out 5 equal strips, with around 1/2-inch space between them. Then, at that point, crease back each and every other strip and spot a strip oppositely to the equal strips you have proactively laid. Unfurl the collapsed strips over the strip you recently positioned, then crease back the strips that are under the strips you recently collapsed. Lay another opposite strip, then unfurl the collapsed strips. Rehash, cautiously stringing strips over and under, until the cross section is finished. Press the edges of the strips into the base hull edges to seal. Woodwind or pleat edges of outside layer. Brush the grid hull with egg wash, then, at that point, sprinkle with sugar. Heat at 425ºF for 15 minutes, then, at that point, lessen temperature to 375º and keep baking until the covering is brilliant brown and the filling is effervescent, around 45 - an hour longer. Assuming you notice that the outside layer is sautéing excessively fast, cover with foil or with a pie hull safeguard. Eliminate pie from broiler and let it cool prior to serving.
Olivia's Tips For best outcomes, refrigerate all your pie covering elements for something like 30 minutes prior to making the hull. For the best tasting covering, utilize high-fat, European-style like Plugra or Président. In the event that a cross section covering appears to be threatening, you can do a standard top outside. Simply make a point to cut some vent openings so the steam can get away, generally your pie will get wet! In the case of utilizing frozen cherries, defrost them then, at that point, place them in a colander to deplete and get ride of any overabundance water from ice gems. A serving scene: A couple of cuts in plates a few cuts still in the pie dish. You can likewise see a bowl of new harsh cherries, a couple of forks and a napkin.
Serving Ideas Cherry pie is generally served warm or at room temperature. It goes perfectly with some whipped cream or, in the current style, with a scoop of vanilla frozen yogurt!
On the off chance that you've heated your pie ahead and have to warm it to serve warm, I suggest doing it in the broiler, at 250ºF assuming the pie is at room temperature or 350ºF is the pie is cold. Simply leave your pie in the stove for 15-20 minutes if warming cuts, or as long as 30 minutes for an entire pie.
Sour Cherry Pie Variations While an exemplary cherry pie is a gem in itself, switching things around a bit is consistently fun!
The following are a couple of ideas:
Utilize sweet cherries in the event that you can't track down harsh cherries. All things considered, decline how much sugar to 2/3 cups and increment the lemon juice to 1 tablespoon. You can likewise make this pie with rainier cherries or dark cherries. Make a piece fixing, or streusel, rather than a cross section outside. Simply blend 1 cup of earthy colored sugar in with 1 cup flour, then, at that point, add 1/4 cup spread and work into the sugar/flour combination with a fork until consolidated and brittle. Top the pie with this blend prior to baking! Make a dark timberland cherry pie by utilizing a chocolate pie hull as well as by adding a layer of chocolate ganache under the cherry pie filling. Here is a great recipe! Substitute a portion of the cherries with your number one berries, like blueberries or blackberries, for a blended berry/cherry pie! A nearby of a newly prepared cherry pie.
Capacity and Freezing Directions As per the USDA, organic product pies are protected to be left (covered!) at room temperature for as long as two days, because of their high sugar and corrosive substance, which hinder microorganisms development. Be that as it may, assuming you favor you can store it in the ice chest, where it will keep well - covered freely with cling wrap or foil - for as long as 5 days!
Sharp cherry pie can likewise be frozen for up to 3-4 months! Just let it cool totally, then wrap firmly with foil or cling wrap and spot in a cooler pack. When prepared to serve, defrost for the time being in the cooler and warm in the broiler - at 350ºF - until warm, around 30 minutes. I prescribe protecting the outside layer to keep it from getting excessively brown.
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maryslanker · 1 year
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From Homestead to Table: The Advantages of Grass-Fed Butter
Grass-fed butter is an undeniably well known decision for the individuals who are searching for better and more practical choices with regards to their food decisions. Not at all like traditional butter, which is produced using milk created by cows that are principally benefited from grain, grass-fed butter is produced using the milk of cows that are raised on a tight eating routine of grass and other scrounge. Here are a portion of the advantages of grass-fed butter.
Higher Supplement Content: Grass-fed butter is higher in supplements than ordinary butter. It contains more significant levels of nutrients A, D, E, and K, as well as omega-3 and omega-6 unsaturated fats. This settles on it a better decision for the people who need to add more supplements to their eating routine.
Better for the Environment: Cows that are raised on a grass-fed diet are frequently raised on more modest, family-run cultivates that are more maintainable and have a more modest carbon impression than huge, modern ranches. By picking grass-fed butter, you are supporting economical cultivating practices and diminishing your effect on the environment.
Rich Flavor: grass fed beef has a rich, smooth flavor that is perceptibly unique in relation to customary butter. The verdant eating routine of the cows gives the milk an extraordinary flavor profile that means a more delightful butter. This makes it ideal for buttering on toast or involving in recipes where the flavor of the butter is a significant element.
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Higher Smoke Point: The higher fat content of grass-fed butter likewise implies that it has a higher smoke point. This makes it ideal for high-heat cooking techniques like sautéing or roasting, as it won't consume as effectively as different sorts of butter.
Better Surface: Grass-fed butter has a smoother, creamier surface than traditional butter. This makes it ideal for use in baking, where surface is significant. It additionally butters all the more effectively on toast and different food sources.
Conclusion
Grass fed butter is a better and more feasible decision for the individuals who are cognizant about their food decisions. It has a higher supplement content, is better for the environment, tastes really rich, has a higher smoke point, and has a preferred surface over ordinary butter. By picking grass-fed butter, you can uphold manageable cultivating rehearses and partake in the delectable and nutritious advantages that it brings to your table.
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mushpamensa · 2 years
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First Sparkle strawberry of the season. So delicious. Nothing like store bought strawberries. Seriously, if you can, grow your own. You may find fruits and veggies you thought were the worst are actually quite delectable! . . . #sparklestrawberries #strawberry #homesteading #growyourownfood #nofilter (at Wilmington, North Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cdx7nfzLLfZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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kaminobiwan · 4 years
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inhibition
pairing: obi-wan kenobi  x  jedi!reader
summary: Fluff. Sap. Domesticity with a little bit of plot sprinkled in. Dash of sa(n)d, but that's to be expected at this point. It’s Tatooine, y’all.
a/n: Having not read Kenobi yet I actually have no idea how Obi-Wan’s demeanor is towards young Luke, but it’s fic so who cares. They get FAMILY VIBES
This one got away from me. Positively wrenched out of my grip and flew away, leading to the longest fic I’ve ever written, but I think the end result is so worth it. Requested by @snips-n-skyguy0501 and an anon that wanted breakfast in bed and forehead kisses — I hope your foot feels better, Sam! (Taglist)
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In the slick of the heat of Tatooine, there isn’t much you could really do but sleep it off.
Even with tiny windows, the determined rays of the planet’s twin suns never failed to make their way into the small compound that had served as your sanctuary for the better part of the past half decade. You can feel the warmth of the dawn seeping in, lingering on your features, but you’re not ready to come back to the living just yet.
It’s not usually that you lay in bed for more than a couple hours past sunrise, but given the past few days, you definitely deserved it — repeated visits to the Lars homestead had acquainted you with some of their regular customers, other families that lived in the Great Chott. With Obi-Wan being the least inclined out of the pair of you to interact with anyone not in immediate danger (“saving his sociability for you,” as he called it), you’d been the one to volunteer some of your talents when you could in exchange for food or parts. This week had seen a favor to one of the couples that bought water from Owen and Beru, with you helping to repair a lower-end vaporizer that had seen shinier days.
The trips across the salt flat had inflicted more of a beating on your feet than normal, and your shoes hadn’t been enough to protect you from the coarse desert floor. You’d come home the night before looking worse for wear, left hand rubbed raw from tinkering and right foot split open by an unforgiving blister, but Obi-Wan had patched you up without hesitation and insisted that you let him wrestle your weary bones to bed.
Now, your lover lays ever-present at your back, but judging by the heavy unmoving arm strewn across you, he’s not fully up either.
Without raising your eyelids, you turn in his grasp, the weight upon you comforting despite the swelter. You hear Obi-Wan mutter something incoherent, but you pay it no mind as you crane your neck slightly in search of his face. Lips meet a bearded chin first, and a hum escapes him, louder now. Still determined in reaching your goal, you stretch, limbs awakening, but mind lagging as it tries to shake free of the clutches of slumber.
It’s a race to consciousness as Obi-Wan starts to stir as well, evidently joining you in your quest for a kiss, and finally, after a few minutes more of half-asleep fumbling, it happens — mouths moulding together blissfully, weak and sweaty from the blazing heat, but your heart flutters at the taste of him.
When you open your eyes, a blue gaze is waiting. Obi-Wan smiles at the way your noses touch, unwilling to separate much from your embrace.
“Good morning.”
You yawn before responding, jerking as Obi-Wan juts an evil finger in your side midway. You’re not sentient enough to shoot him a half-hearted glare, so instead, you mumble it back and accidentally smack him in the face as you move to rise. 
He stops you before you can, chin hooking onto your nearest shoulder and tugging down, and you slump back to the sheets with a subdued giggle. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” you reply, and he nods, obviously pleased. “I have you to thank for that.”
He mouths at the skin behind your ear, only half-listening, but still fully fixated on you. You wonder if you’ll ever completely get used to his unbridled affection, even after more than five years living together in isolation, free to feel and show your love blatantly and unapologetically.
Not without a price that had been paid, but it was soul-healing love regardless.
“The Marstraps and their garden are doing well,” you comment absently, more to fill the silence as he lavishes you in physical worship than anything. “Maybe we should get into hydroponics.”
A sound of indifference.
“Did you know they have a daughter?” At that, Obi-Wan stills, face buried in your hair. You think his hand twitches at your abdomen, but in your groggy state, you can’t be completely sure. He never seems to know what to say when you talk of such things. Not then, not now. 
It’s not like you mean to imply anything by bringing it up, really. It’s more of...a gauge, of sorts. You’re probing. You’re not even sure why.
“Her name is Camie. She’s very sweet.”
Obi-Wan lifts his head lethargically, looking like he wants to utter a thousand words and nothing all at once. This time, he really does grip your hip, thumb grazing your ribcage thoughtfully, but you take it upon yourself to change the subject before things get too complicated.
“What time is it?”
“Still early,” he rumbles, and the gravelly tone sends satisfying vibrations to where your torsos are pressed against each other. “You’ll be able to get a couple more hours of rest.”
“Hmm.” His words trigger your body to succumb to the drowsiness you hadn’t quite gotten rid of, and your eyes droop contentedly again. “Will you be joining me?” 
Obi-Wan slips his other arm from underneath your neck, languidly sweeping over your form and nudging your temple fondly with his nose. “Unfortunately, no,” he murmurs into your hair, “but I think you’ll appreciate why.”
Your eyebrow lifts at the cryptic line, but you’re already falling back asleep as he lifts himself fully from you, and you give into the tiredness as his footsteps fade from your hearing.
———
Moments later — you’re not sure if he’s made good on his promise of extra hours — you feel the pressure of puckered lips against your eyelids, the scratch of his beard poking the thin skin around your eyes as you arise for the second time. This time, however, the enticing smell of food invades your senses, and you realize with a start that it’s not the boiled mealgrain that you usually have in the morning.
“Is that — ?” You shift in bed, reclining upon the headrest, but not yet sitting upright. You’re wide awake now, blinking alertly to find the source of the delectable aroma.
“Iktotch toast,” Obi-Wan announces proudly, setting a tray stacked with plates of steaming food on the table beside your shared bed. “And my attempt at a gartro omelet. Though, I couldn’t get all the necessary ingredients.” He sits on the edge, hand finding your blanketed shin and caressing it like second nature. “Just a fair warning.”
The thin sheet falls to your stomach as you twist to get a good look at his cooking, and you’re rewarded with the sight of brightly colored eggs and buttered bread topped with carbosyrup. Compared to the monochromatic meals you’ve come to expect day to day, it’s a welcome change.
In your excitement, you forget about the abrasions from yesterday, the still-raw skin of your palm screaming out in protest when you try to prop yourself up. Obi-Wan spots the small wince, and reaches for you as you cradle your stinging hand to your chest. “Better doesn’t mean good, apparently.” There’s a teasing to his locution, if only because he knows you too well. You don’t want to make a fuss out of it. You’re bested, anyhow, when he squeezes the blistered foot and you yelp. “Here, too. It still hurts? Shall I redress the wounds?”
A shake of your head precedes your response, as you assure him, “No, there’s no need. Truly.” Still, he’s adamant on being of more assistance, and it seems today is a good day. He’s happy, playful, even — it’s instants like these where you catch a glimpse of a different man, the echo of an old friend.
“Anything I can do to ease the pain?” Obi-Wan smirks, but it’s free of sarcasm as he leans above you, his hair falling in his eyes. It’s grown longer now, not quite the lion’s mane of a mullet he’d sported so many years ago, but unrulier than the clean-cropped cut that he’d had during his last years on Coruscant.
Another life. 
Though, you suppose, the rugged desert look is growing on you.
“A kiss on the bandage, maybe,” you quip, just as light-hearted, basking in the mood — what a rarity, nowadays, but always because of each other. “Perhaps it’ll help it heal faster.”
Obi-Wan scoots downwards, ruffling the sheets and uncovering more of your pajama-clad figure to the world, and grabs for your toes —
“Not there! I meant the hand,” you cry, just short of a laugh. “Were you really about to kiss the bottom of my foot?”
He joins in your amusement, chuckling as he traces his way back up to you with light kisses that begin at your legs. One on the knee, then on your navel, and right under your breast — the tease. His hands follow hotly along the trail his mouth leaves, yet it’s a heat you’re all too willing to endure. “Darling, you’d know I’d kiss you anywhere,” he says, grin honest and eager, and you smile suggestively at him from your place upon the pillows.
The moment turns soft, though, when he takes your injured hand, touching his lips to the pads of your fingers, completely avoiding the wrappings. Instead, he marks the exposed skin peeking from the bandages, leaving warm touches where he can reach. You let him make his way up your arm, relaxing the muscle and leaving it pliant in his hold, and these kisses are tender, sincere, adoring.
His lips brush the inside of your elbow, and you catch his gaze then, eyes serious and lacking the mirth of before. He beams, nevertheless, and it takes another four pecks up your shoulder, collarbone, and neck until he finally reaches your mouth. Your lips connect in a quiet climax, tension releasing and hushed sighs escaping the both of you as hands find cheeks and jaws to hold. His beard is longer, too, and a subtle drag of your fingers along his scruff doesn’t go unnoticed as he groans into the kiss.
Sluggishly, as if he’s struggling against the pull of quicksand, Obi-Wan pulls away, your digits still tangled in his auburn locks. “Eat,” he murmurs, placing one last kiss on your bare palm. As he places the tray in your lap, you sit up properly, kicking the last of the covers aside. “Company is coming.”
———
Company was actually more of a child-sitting gig, with the Lars traveling to Anchorhead and reluctant to let their nephew tag along just yet. The four of you had all agreed it was best to shelter the boy until you and Obi-Wan had gotten better at shielding the signatures of three Force-sensitives, and while you were quickly growing used to the strain of the constant use of the Force, there wasn’t a need for unnecessary ventures outside of the community when Luke could just stay with you and Obi-Wan.
On the other hand, if you asked Obi-Wan, he didn’t see why a trip to Tosche Station couldn’t wait until next week, seeing as how you couldn’t walk much without pain. Luke would undoubtedly aggravate the blister when he begged you to play.
But you hadn’t asked Obi-Wan, you dutifully reminded him throughout his musings over the food, unconcerned at the prospect. Breakfast had been as delicious as it had smelled — your taste buds had been assaulted with the flavor, but it had been a gratuitous ordeal that had reminded you of a bustling diner and the toothy grin of a Besalisk. “Just missing the powdered Christophsian sugar,” you’d praised, and he’d barely hidden his glowing simper as he cleared the dishes. You know his apprehension at looking after Luke today is more out of concern for you, rather than lack of willingness.
Just as there were good and bad days of disposition, Obi-Wan’s interactions with his old student’s son were varying. Some visits were joy-filled and vibrant with childish merriment, at the mercy of Luke’s wild imagination, but it wasn’t uncommon for Obi-Wan to retreat to your bed, floored by the striking resemblance the boy had to his father, the memories he tried so hard to forget rushing back in a dark cloud of resignation. Luke was under the impression that his favorite playmate suffered from intermittent cases of sand-fever, trusting enough to believe the excuse. Though he loved you just as much, it was Obi-Wan that Luke idolized the most, and you couldn’t at all blame him for feeling disappointed when Obi-Wan was too unsteady to come out and say hello.
But today, the promise of a happy afternoon rang throughout the air, and you allowed yourself the indulgence of looking forward to the rest of the day. At five years old, Luke was an adoring child, innocent in ways you’d never been able to see, not even with Anakin. He reminded you of a fresh snowbank, ironic as it was, pristine and untouched by the world. Your heart ached to keep it that way.
Luke launches himself at you as expected when he arrives, Owen being kind enough to deliver him instead of letting Obi-Wan make the ride over. Just as well, too — after the doting attentiveness of the morning, you didn’t want to stray too far from Obi-Wan’s side. The former Jedi catches the boy in midair, strong arms wrapping around his tiny frame and swinging him away from you to save you from exacerbating your wounds, and Luke screeches in hysterics as he’s tossed in a wide circle. He attacks Obi-Wan with energetic pokes when he’s finally set down, the older man letting out a surprised oof when he’s headbutted rather hard in the stomach. You muffle a guffaw in your elbow as Obi-Wan shoots you an accusatory scowl, massaging his middle as he assures Owen he’ll return his nephew in one piece. The farmer thanks you both, leaving without a second glance, and Obi-Wan is whisked away by the young Skywalker to entertain his latest fascination with womp rats.
———
They return before dusk, smelling like sweat and death, acrid scents practically steaming off of their robes. You cover your nose as Obi-Wan staggers in through the side door, steadying a chittering Luke as he trips over the trapdoor to the cellar. “Target practice,” Obi-Wan explains, somewhat apologetically. “His aim needs some work.”
“I blew a rat’s head off!” Luke declares boastfully, and cackles while running a victory circle around the kitchen. “It just exploded!”
You turn aghast to Obi-Wan, who ushers the boy into the refresher and instructs him to wash up. As Luke rinses off the trace of the outdoors, you stop Obi-Wan before he can come any closer. You can almost taste the sour aroma that wafts off of your husband. “Don’t tell me he means an actual womp rat. They’re twice his size. If you’re letting him near those predators, Obi-Wan, I’m going to —”
“Relax!” Obi-Wan exclaims defensively, palms raised as if to shield him from your wrath. “It was just a profogg. And we weren’t hunting in the beginning, just setting stink capsules near the hut. Poor thing got too close when we set it off and its friends decided they wanted revenge.”
The clarification does little to placate you, the knowledge that it’s most likely rodent guts contributing to the fumes only further motivating you to stay at a distance. But Obi-Wan has other plans, and a mischievous expression takes over his features as he runs at you, grabbing for your face as you squeal. “Disgusting! Obi-Wan!”
“Not even a peck for your one true love?” He asks, and you bat his hands away. “I was willing to kiss your foot this morning.”
“But you didn’t,” you remark impishly, holding in bubbling laughter. “I’m not kissing you while you smell like an eopie’s ass.”
“Language.” He seizes your wrists as you squirm, though your spirits are still high. You arch backwards, grappling to escape. “Luke might be listening.”
You catch your breath without inhaling in his direction, but it fails when you descend into snickering when a small voice protests, “No I’m not!”
“Go.” While he’s distracted, you push Obi-Wan towards Luke in the refresher, hard. “It’s time for a trim. I think you have profogg gunk in your beard.”
He stumbles back, too late to stop your words from being heard, and Luke yells, “You told me it was a womp rat!”
Another bout of laughter arises in your throat, and Obi-Wan fixes you with a withering glare you’re too perceptive to fall for. “Thanks,” he grumbles, none too grateful, and disappears into the sink.
———
“Careful of your fingers — you don’t want to cut yourself.”
After the bits of wildlife had been safely discarded down the drain and the boys had changed into fresh clothes, you watch as Obi-Wan guides Luke’s wobbly hands down his own stubbled throat. The sight of the shaving cream that covers most of Obi-Wan’s face is priceless, but you opt for appreciation rather than humour as the touching moment transpires.
“Better to cut me than you, but let’s aim for no one, alright?” Luke nods, tongue poking out in concentration as he shucks off more hair from Obi-Wan’s chin. He’s holding the razor with both hands, standing on a stool while Obi-Wan kneels to stay within reach. “Firmly, but with precision. Very graceful.”
Luke’s hyperactivity is nowhere to be found, and you admire his focus. Maybe you should have him shave your husband more often. Both the Lars and you would certainly benefit from the resulting tranquility.
But, no — you’d miss the beard too much.
“Done!” Luke leans back and throws his fists up in delight. Obi-Wan is quick to snatch up the tool to avoid any accidents, and places it back in its compartment as he turns to the boy overflowing with pride.
“Let’s check, shall we?” He rises from his knees with a low grunt and the pop of his joints — one you don’t miss, but refrain from pointing out. For a second, all you see is the back of Obi-Wan’s head as he washes away the lather, then it’s the dismayed twist of his mouth as the uneven patches of missed hair gleam in the mirror.
Luke bounces up and down, making an effort in vain to assess his work. Obi-Wan quickly readjusts his features as you hide your face, silently shaking with amusement. “Did I do okay?”
Obi-Wan squints down at him warmly, brushing the boy’s bangs out of the way. “Yes, An — Luke, you did.” Luke cheers underneath the large hand on his crown. “You did splendidly.”
In a flurry of shouts and whoops, Luke ducks out of Obi-Wan’s arm and exits the refresher, unaware of the almost-slip, but you freeze, more shocked than you have been in months. Years. Obi-Wan’s never done that before.
He meets your wide eyed stare in the mirror, all remains of Luke’s comical shaving job gone, neither of you able to verbalize exactly what you’re feeling.
But eventually, the impact of his blunder fades, and you break free from the fog of your stupefaction.
Your bandaged hand finds his shoulder, soaking up the droplets from his shower, and rubs consolingly, back and forth. You hope it conveys all that words can’t say. A pang strikes you as Obi-Wan lets out a trembling exhale, the unfinished name falling away to the empty room, and you resist the impulse to crush him into a hug.
He needs space.
The watery eyes you expect to see are dry in seconds, and all is well again.
———
You look on as Obi-Wan props Luke’s tuckered form into Beru’s waiting arms, meeting her gaze with a gentle understanding. She secures him into the passenger seat as she mounts the landspeeder slowly, seemingly sensing the hesitance radiating from two of you, uready to let the day end. When they finally depart, Obi-Wan watches them leave from the entrance of the dwelling.
“It’s alright to love him, you know.” You approach him once Beru and Luke are barely a speck on the horizon. You come up to latch around his chest, tiptoeing to kiss his back. “It’s okay to be attached.”
He shifts, rotating so that his back is to the wall after he’s sealed off the door. His own arms raise to encircle you, and you lean your cheek against his bicep before he plants a kiss to your forehead. It spells devotion as you sink further into him, muted ardor enveloping you both. “I know.”
“Do you?” Your voice is quiet to preserve the shroud of calm. “I worry you’re holding back, and you don’t have to. Not here.” Another kiss to his skin. “Not anymore.”
You feel the deep inhale more than you hear it, and his breathing soothes you more than you ever thought possible. It’s proof he’s here, real in your grip. You have each other. “I’m not,” he promises, lips stuck to your hairline. “Though you should know, my heart is reserved for you.”
That brings a laugh out of you, tinkling and bright. You clutch him tighter, warmth swelling inside you in spite of the cooling air of the evening. “You have room for Luke in there.”
Obi-Wan examines you closely, pausing only for a second before he speaks again. “Perhaps more than just him.”
And there it is, the admission you’ve always been curious for yet never wanted to ask. Your breath hitches — only a tad, but you know he picks up on it, and you peer at him cautiously. It’s a conversation you’ve avoided so many times before. 
Admittedly, today was the perfect day as any to prime the subject. You’ve never been sure whether Luke has assured Obi-Wan that he wants nothing to do with parenthood or if it inspires a desire to have a son of his own.
It’s not revisited until you’re crawling back into bed, back to his bare chest, and the ghosting touch of his hand smoothing down your front draws your attention away from the sensation of his body enfolding around yours. He’s trying to be discreet, you can tell.
“Practicing?” You whisper, with only a hint of knowing so as not to scare him off. There’s no need, you realize, when you feel his mouth twist into a lopsided smile against your nape and his fingers spread unabashedly across your stomach.
“Perhaps,” he repeats, and it’s enough.
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prestigeprojectrp · 3 years
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In the wild, untamed forests of upstate New York there sits a massive, elegant manor. Surrounding it — a sprawling estate, boasting a large corn field, pumpkin patch, a family graveyard, and Twin Ravens manor, so named for the twin sisters who owned, operated, and died on the property back in the 1800s. Just off of Journey's End road, the mansion is tucked far away from any other homesteads, making it the perfect place to host a haunted weekend.
Come to Twin Ravens Estate and experience the ghostly echoes of the manor's dark past. Stay the night if you dare — guest experiences are frequent and intense! 
For two nights the manor and estate will be reserved for a private event, by invitation only. You may arrive at any time on Friday, October 30th, and stay until Sunday, November 1st. Please present your invitation to the gatekeeper upon your arrival.
*** This event is open to all members of Prestige Project RP, and is NOT mandatory! It is a good opportunity to meet new people and get your spook on, though, so we highly recommend that your celebrities attend! For more information, see below the cut! ***
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Wander among the headstones of this centuries-old graveyard and enjoy the spooky, scenic atmosphere. Guests have reported sightings of a small ghost child playing in the cemetery, so keep your eyes peeled! Opposite this is the massive corn maze that’s been constructed over the last ten years. Try to find the exit if you dare — ghouls have been known to haunt the endless twists and turns!
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Surrounding the entire estate is the dense Corpsewood Forest. Hay rides are available from 4pm till 11pm, down a dark, winding path through the thick trees. You’ll make several stops along the way, including the site of a deep, abandoned well. Some folks say they can still hear the screams of the young boy that fell into it hundreds of years ago...
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Wake up with a hauntingly delicious charcoal-tinted coffee and delectable pastries at Black Death, a small café that is only a few minutes walk from the manor. Within sight of this coffeehouse is Elixir of the Old Gods, a tavern that looks like it’s owned by a coven of witches, in both decor and liveliness. 
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Last Rites is a full-service restaurant for staff and guests alike, serving up all sorts of Halloween themed appetizers, main courses, and desserts. The cost is included in your stay, so try one of everything, if you’ve got the stomach for it!
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onlyhorn · 3 years
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@rcguna​ gives Rem a birthday gift!
By the time Rem gets her gift from Raguna she’s already had a wonderful homecooked breakfast in bed from her lovely fiance. Would she expect anything less? Pancakes with his own recipe of strawberry syrup. Cheese omelet with hash browns. Thick cut and perfectly crisped bacon. Delicious! But when she’s finally out of bed and dressed Raguna has a small but long and finely wrapped box for her.
“Happy birthday, my love, my Remedy~” He’s playfully singing for her, not well in tune (this may be somewhat intentional if only to get her giggling in her own beautiful voice) but the song is enthusiastic nonetheless as he recites ‘happy birthday’ before holding it out.
When the box is opened inside she would find a lovely Chef’s knife. The blade was sleek and shockingly sharp to the touch (because really, who doesn’t test for funsies), and imprinted with several flowers quite reminiscent of those that the couple grew outside of the homestead in the warmer months. They may not be colored the same radiant blue of her eyes that the farmer was once again lost in, but the faceting of the design catches the light beautifully. So too was the handle, shaped to fit her hand and balanced to feel natural when in use. Perhaps a bit more attention was paid to the weapon–er, knife… but can one fault the farmer’s enthusiasm for making her another gift?
The important thing here is… does she like it? Is she impressed? It should be a given he smithed it all himself after all, and her reaction was eagerly awaited.
________________________
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It all starts with a tired, sleepy yawn. Arms reach out high over her head, torso lifted up to allow herself to stretch more appropriately, only to then be greeted by the rest of her awakening senses when the sweet smell of strawberries and the savory scent of cheese and potatoes fills the air of her bedroom.
When glancing off to the side, she spots it; a buffet fit for a Roswaal-sama, a lovely breakfast that looked almost too delicious to pass up!!! Pancakes that were stacked high, topped with a beautiful ruby glaze of strawberry syrup, and a little dollop of freshly-churned butter on top, as well as a serving of a golden omelete served with strings upon strings of perfectly browned hashbrowns, and perhaps the most tantalizing of all… thick, sliced bacon, which on its own looked like a gift from the gods!
Normally, Rem was against eating so promptly early in the morning, but today was a special day, isn’t it? (She should know, Raguna’s been softly teasing her about it for what felt like the past two weeks leading up to it.) It comes as no surprise to her that her lovely fiance had decided to greet her this morning with an absolutely delectable breakfast… And truly, it would be an insult not to feast her eyes, and her mouth, on the various delicacies left for her to enjoy!
Little did she know that while she was feasting on this delicious breakfast left for her, Raguna was finalizing preparations for when she finally left their bedroom. It takes almost a half hour to finish all the food (she ate that quite fast, didn’t she?), get dressed, and prepare herself for another wonderful day to spend with the man she loves—
Only to then be greeted by no-other than the breakfast-maker himself, very clearly singing in awful tune to get her to laugh, which he succeeds at almost instantaneously. A combination of the hearty meal coupled with the corny morning greeting… oh, even when he made himself look ridiculous, Rem couldn’t help but feel her heart flutter more and more whenever she’s around him! He calls her his Remedy, but couldn’t she say the same about him? Hm… perhaps not. Ragmedy doesn’t have a nice ring to it. Heh.
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“ Good mooor~ning, troublemaker. “ Ah, just listen to the return of her own sing-song voice, so much more in-tune than his previous attempt and, perhaps most important, all the more lovely. Rem had figured what to expect from him when she first spotted him with his hands behind his back, clutching what she could only assume was a gift. Adding onto that comical factor from before, he does an awful job at hiding the surprise!
The jig’s up! The present is presented, and the maid quickly takes it in her hand with a mischievous little giggle. “ Oh, my, I wonder what could be in this little box..~ “ A gift, obviously, but the question is, what kind? A toy of some sort, reminding her of herself or of Raguna? Maybe even a little pair of fuzzy mittens for when the weather gets cold? Oh! Or maybe, A cutesy little bow to tie in her hair, something to match a tie he got for himself, wouldn’t that be adorable?
Too bad the item in the box was the exact opposite of adorable…. at least, in terms of its general use.
A knife!?
Goodness, he really did make her a knife! Even if it wasn’t cute, it’s very obvious that the design is of his own making! The floral pattern on the blade gleamed with the tilt of the metal against the soft lights nearby. She stares at it holding it by the handle and gently inspecting it with her fingertips… And yes, she is tempted to poke the very sharp tip with her index. Poke. Ouch! Yup, that’s sharp!
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“ I never would have thought that I’d find a knife to be such a romantic gift for a birthday present, honey. “ She flips the blade skillfully in her hand. If Raguna wasn’t already used to her skills in the kitchen, the action could have been seen as a threat. thankfully, she knows how to handle her blades. “ Did Beatrice put you up to this? I was complaining about how dull the other knife seemed to be getting recently… “
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“ But I distinctly don’t remember you being aroound for that itty-bitty conversation. “ Oh dear… This meant that Beatrice wasn’t going to be safe from her love and appreciation either, if that turns out to be the case. Regardless, Rem leans forward, setting the knife down on the nearby table so that she isn’t holding it while she plants a long and meaningful smooch right onto his blushing face. 
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“ I know it’s my birthday, but I would really like to try to use this knife later today. How about we make my birthday dinner together? We can even invite Beatrice to help and get her hands dirtier for once, hm? Of course, I might get sleepy after a big meal too… “ Oh no. “ So I’d also appreciate it if you, you know, ‘helped me to bed’ after we finished~. “
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- The Archive of Magic
Beast Tamer Newt to Wed
Newt Scamander with fiancee Leta Lestrange, brother Theseus Scamander, and unkown woman at flourish and Blotts' "Fantastic and Where to Find Them" book launch
Newt Scamander off the market, Ladies? Can it be true? Dashing & young magizoologist (I had to make very long arm for my trusty dictionary for that tongue-twister!) Newt Scamander has been spied amongst the London literati, tete a tete with a demure young slip of gal with the memorable moniker: Leta Lestrange, his fiancee no less, at the launch of Mister Scamander's much bruited new tome 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them' at Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley. Little is known of Ms Lestrange, who has yet to be launched into 'society', other than that she has recently started work alongside Newt's brother Theseus at the Ministry of Magic... A little bird (An owl in fact) told me that Ms Lestrange and Mr Newt Scamander were contemporaries at Hogwarts as youngsters! Can it be that the delectably handsome Mr Scamander pitched a woo to the starry-eyed young slip of girl over a Charms class? Mr Scamander was obviously an A student! Ms Lestrange's fiance is currently the talk of the town with his book on outer magicanimals being touted as the next non-fiction cross over hit of the year. Rumour has it that Mr Scamander is currently pondering a very generous three book deal from Obscurus Books that a literary insider described as having "... more zeros than a noughts and crosses game!"
Mr Scamander will find the newly accrued literary lolly coming in most handy, if the rock I glimpsed on Ms Lestrange's finger is any indication of their magpie fondness for bright shiny things like… diamonds and silvet! Should Mr Scamander accept the generous offer from Obscurus Books, readers can expect him and his new wife to set up home in a more salubrious perlieu of London than his current more modest domicile.
Should Mr Scamander accept the generous offer from Obscurus Books, readers can expect him and his new wife to set up home in a more salubrious perlieu of London th an his current more modest domicile. You may have noticed that this paragraph replicates that on the opposite pages. Because that's what we have to do in the film. Another little bird, (yes, an owl) tells me of unsettling rumours that Mr Scamander's current neighbours will not miss him if he dicides to up sticks and make his homestead in pastures new! There have been dark mutterings of disgruntled complaints as peaceful nights are disturbed by the wild shriek of heretofore unclassified animals forming part of the strange household Mr Scamander keeps in his modest London townhouse. The weird ululations of magibeasts, nameless and without phylum pierce the gog-bound moonlit London nights, troubling the sleep
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andtails · 4 years
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A Prelude to Chaos Control - Chapter 1: A Brighter Day
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Note: I hope you enjoy this story! You may also find this story on FanFiction.Net or Archive of Our Own.
Story Summary:  "It's my fault the Chaos Emeralds were lost, so it's my duty to find them before Eggman does!" An immediate prequel to Sonic X, this story explores Tails' struggles with self-worth as he attempts to build a detector to locate the mystical gems. Action/adventure elements with brotherly moments between Sonic and Tails contained herein.
Chapter 1: A Brighter Day
Waking up a few minutes before his alarm clock was set to go off, a young, orange fox rose out of bed, stretching his thin, furry arms. After a few brief yawns, muffled by his large white gloves, he firmly planted his feet to the floor as he began to collect his bearings.
Rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes, the fox cub approached the window dividing his modest bedroom from the gorgeous view from the second floor of his home, drew the curtains, and slowly opened the window. While the rejuvenating sunlight warmed his fur, and the brisk breeze replaced the stagnant aroma of his bedroom with the refreshing smell of the outdoors, Tails looked out over the world beyond. As he slowly filled his lungs with the outdoor air, he listened to the sound of flickys chirping in the distant forest to the east and the shallow waves of the ocean waters to the west, steadily crashing against the mountainside.
“Today is going to be a good day,” Tails said as he placed his hands on his hips in determination.  
After making his early morning prediction of the day’s events, and stealing one final stretch, Tails stepped out of his bedroom into the narrow hallway leading to the staircase.
“Wonder if Sonic’s still asleep,” he pondered to himself as he crept his way across the second floor stretch, walking past his big brother’s bedroom in the process. Twitching his triangular ears in the direction of the occupied bedroom, Tails could only make out the consistent sound of light snoring coming from the blue hedgehog.
Walking a bit more briskly, but still light enough to prevent the bitter end of Sonic’s well-deserved slumber, Tails finally made it to the main floor of their home, comprised of a moderately-sized, sparsely-furnished living room and an open kitchen, complete with a small table wide enough to accommodate a gathering of four.
Stepping outside to begin his daily morning routines, Tails performed a visual survey of his property for any damage caused by the thunderstorm the prior evening. While Tails could be fearless when fighting Eggman’s array of mechs alongside his big bro, the young kitsune had a devastating fear of thunderstorms, a phobia that caused him to roll into a fetal position and bury his face into the fluffy protection of his twin tails.
After walking along the perimeter of his yard, Tails was relieved to find that his home completely withstood the ravaging storm. Then again, why wouldn’t it have? Even a tornado would’ve failed to do a modicum of damage to the brilliantly engineered, albeit almost plain-looking homestead. In fact, if it weren’t for the large satellite sticking out from the top of the roof, the adjoining workshop that was at least twice the size of his living quarters, and the large runway strip that led right off of the cliff overlooking the ocean, most would consider the house nothing extraordinary.
But this was to the liking of Tails, a scientific and mechanical prodigy who prioritized utility over style and would rather prevent unwanted attention.
“That’s Sonic’s job, after all,” Tails said to himself, lost in a daydream while gazing upon the deep blue ocean, a sight that never ceased to bore the young fox. This was in stark contrast to his older brother, who was unable to swim and feared any body of water larger than a pitcher. Not as much as Tails’ overwhelming fear of lightning, but still enough to refuse Tails’ offer to provide him with basic swimming lessons.  
Tails made a quick stop to the mailbox before coming back inside, grabbing a freshly delivered letter. Sitting down at the kitchen table, he delicately opened the envelope to reveal a typed message on thick cardstock paper, complete with official-looking letterhead.
The letter read:
Dear Sonic the Hedgehog and Miles “Tails” Prower,
On behalf of the Mobian Federation of States, I would like to commend your continued support in the collective struggle against Dr. Ivo “Eggman” Robotnik to keep the citizens of Mobius safe from his evil schemes.
In recognition of your outstanding bravery and commitment to protecting the innocent, the President of the Mobian Federation of States has indefinitely extended your service contract and increased your compensation by 15 percent.
May you stay in good health and continue the good fight.
Sincerely,
General H.W. Pitliff
“Outstanding bravery, huh?” Tails questioned to himself, putting the letter down and resting his head with both arms against the table. His muscles tensed as memories of being saved by his big bro filled his thoughts. Feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness followed suit, creeping back up from the recesses of his mind.
Tails was a master mechanic whose quick cognitive processing power had helped Sonic thwart Eggman’s dastardly deeds time and time again, but despite this, the prodigious fox was often overcome with anxiety, feeling he wasn’t living up to his big brother’s legacy and, worse yet, only serving as a liability on the battlefield, cowering with fear the instant the duo were separated in the heat of combat.
As far as he could tell, he’d always been like this; back in the day, Tails was constantly bullied for his twin tails, a rare genetic mutation that made him stand out amongst all other Mobians. Coupled with the lack of parents to provide a warm, comforting home, the abnormal kit roamed the lands until he first met Sonic, who’d later adopt him as his little brother. Just being around him washed away his loneliness and crippling self-doubt, but even living with the one whom he greatly admired hadn’t cured his emotional woes.
“Clearly this letter was intended for Sonic,” Tails said with a sigh, twirling the letter along the surface of the table with a finger.
“Intended for me?” came a voice from behind the young fox. Tails turned around to see Sonic, wide awake and emitting his ever-present positive aura.
“Heya Sonic,” Tails said, his sadness instantly replaced with joy upon his brother’s unexpected arrival to the kitchen, smiling wide enough to brighten anyone’s day.  
Before Tails could explain the good news, Sonic dashed over to the kitchen table and snatched up the expensive-looking paper. He gave a long whistle as he finished reading the letter.
“Let’s do something fun to celebrate!” Sonic exclaimed. “Anything you’d like to do, Tails?”
The young fox pondered potential ideas for a few moments, rubbing one set of fingers against his furry chin in thought.
“Well, I guess my idea of a good time vastly differs from yours!” Tails said, giggling to himself.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Sonic asked with no hint of seriousness in his voice.  
“Oh, nothing,” Tails replied. “I was just imagining you sitting quietly in a library reading a book.”
Both Sonic and Tails laughed at this ludicrous idea.
“Well,” Sonic said. “I’m sure we’ll think of something to do.”
“As long as we don’t break the bank, I’m up for almost anything,” Tails said, subtly reminding Sonic that they shouldn’t dent their savings account by partying. While the duo was not strapped for cash by any means, especially since they had just received a raise from their freelance government partnership, Tails was solely responsible for balancing the checkbook and ensuring that their household remained fiscally solvent, a duty that he took quite seriously.
“Of course,” Sonic agreed, as he began to playfully rustle Tails’ hair. “Now, how about we fuel up before our morning run?”
******
Some time later, after Sonic and Tails enjoyed a delectable three-course breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and toast, the brothers began their morning run preparations. Sonic, who had already gotten a few stretches in while Tails finished washing the dishes, dashed outside in anticipation of his favorite pastime. Meanwhile, Tails prepared more slowly, ensuring that he didn’t cramp-up after consuming more food than someone his size should be able to stomach.
“C’mon, Tails!” Sonic called from outside, as he performed his signature foot tap. “The day is wasting away.”
“Coming, Sonic!” Tails replied, hopping on one foot out the door as he slipped on his sneakers.
“Ya know,” Sonic began, chuckling at the sight of Tails hobbling out of the house. “You’d save so much time if you just wore your shoes everywhere like me.”
“Yeah, and get dirt everywhere,” Tails retorted, continuing a long-running debate between the two companions that pitted convenience against cleanliness.
Instead of prolonging this friendly spat, though, Sonic took his place at the edge of the yard, facing the direction of the wooded path to the east that served as the daily stomping grounds for the two brothers. Taking the hint, Tails quickly joined him.
In unison, Sonic and Tails gave their pre-race countdown.
“Three…two…one…go!”
And with that, they were off.
******
Making their way through the green planes on the outskirts of the Mystic Ruins, any passersby would likely only see parallel blue and orange blurs speed past them, with the former going slightly faster than the latter. While Tails could run at impressive speeds on-foot, there was absolutely no way the young kitsune could keep up with the “fastest thing alive” without using his trademarked twin tails as propellers.
“C’mon, Tails,” Sonic playfully taunted as he began running backwards for comedic effect. “You’re too slooo-oww!”
Aided by Sonic’s goading words of encouragement, Tails kicked it into high gear, spinning his Tails faster in order to prove his speedy brother wrong.
And he almost did.
Flustered by Tails’ rapid advancement, Sonic spun back around to continue their friendly racing competition.
“First one to that oak tree is a rotten egg-man!” Sonic declared, widening the narrow gap between the companions.
“You won’t win that easily,” Tails replied, ensuring that Sonic would have to work up a sweat if he were to beat him.
As Sonic was about to touch the oak tree, solidifying his continued winning streak, he heard a yelp from behind.
Tails had focused so much on rapidly spinning his tails that he didn’t see the incoming tree trunk that stood as the only obstacle between him and victory. Not having enough time to increase his altitude, Tails’ dangling feet collided with the trunk, causing him to lose his balance mid-flight and dive headfirst into the ground. Before impact, however, Tails took to his spherical shape, rolling down the remainder of the path towards the oak tree, only his namesakes distinguishable in an otherwise blurry orange ball.
Sonic watched in awe as his little brother quickly recovered from the fall by adapting his signature rolling technique. Unfortunately for the blue hedgehog, though, Tails was rapidly rolling towards him much faster than he anticipated. Without enough time to defend himself, or jump out of the way, Tails barreled right into Sonic’s chest, launching the hedgehog back-first into the oak tree.
After sliding to the ground, and shaking the imaginary flickys from his vision, Sonic looked down to see the young fox, resting on his lap, panting heavily, sweat soaking through his orange fur coat.
“Are you alright?” Sonic asked. He took no damage from Tails’ unintentional attack, but even if he did, his priority would always be the safety and protection of his little bro.
“Did I…” Tails struggled to speak between gasps for air. “Did I…win, Sonic?”
After a few moments of pause, Sonic replied, “Yes, Tails…Yes you did.”
“Hooray,” Tails said in a slow, quiet voice, hardly able to keep his eyes open from utter exhaustion.
“Good job, buddy…I’m proud of you,” Sonic said. Tails smiled brightly before dozing off to sleep in the comforting arms of his big bro.  
Sonic allowed himself to get comfortable, not wanting to disturb Tails’ peaceful slumber. Placing his arms behind his head, gazing up at the mid-morning sky, Sonic allowed his mind to wander.
Tails needs this. He tries so hard to make me proud. Little does he know how much I already am.
Basking in the comfort of the cool breeze and the warm sun peeking through the tall oak’s wide branches, Sonic succumbed to sleep himself, allowing his arms to fall from behind his head and gently land beside Tails.
******
By the time Tails woke from his morning nap, the sun was already high in the sky, reflecting over the small lake just down the hill from the tree. Apart from a slight stiffness from lying in a semi-awkward position, the fox felt well-rested and in good spirits.
I wonder where Sonic is.
Of course, Tails didn’t need to look far. Not seeing him within his peripheral vision, he tilted his head up to see his big brother sleeping soundly behind him, resting against the oak tree which now served as a permanent reminder that, with great perseverance, even he could overcome his obstacles.
In this case, it was finally beating Sonic at his own game.
Careful not to disturb the heavy-eyed hedgehog, Tails slowly rose from his comfortable naptime position, planting his short legs firmly to the ground while brushing himself off with his gloved hands, even though he wasn’t dirty at all. Tails peered down at his older brother, still sound asleep after their thrilling race a short while ago.
I suppose it’s time to wake up.
The orange kitsune looked around to see how best to disturb Sonic’s slumber. He didn’t need to look far, noticing a small branch a few feet away with a small green leaf attached to the far end. Chuckling to himself in anticipation, Tails grabbed the twig from the leafless end, got down to his knees, and slowly drew the branch closer to his sleeping friend. Tails was careful to ensure that the wood didn’t touch his face as he positioned the leaf below Sonic’s black nose.
The sensation of a flat, smooth surface rubbing against his nose slowly brought the sleeping hedgehog back into consciousness.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle,” Tails said, as if talking to a baby, attempting to laugh his brother awake.
“Heh heh, cut it out!” Sonic said between bouts of laughter.
This, of course, only egged Tails on further, as he tickled Sonic’s sensitive nose more ferociously than before, causing the hedgehog to roll from side to side while laughing so loud as to disturb the birds roosting in the tree above. As Sonic stopped rocking and rolling below the big oak, he slowly tilted his head back, opening his mouth in preparation for a signature Sonic sneeze.
Tails was caught unawares, lost in his quest to continue tickling his older brother until he couldn’t take it anymore.
“AaaaCHOO!” Sonic sneezed, directly in Tails’ direction. Of course, while the force of the sneeze was small, the loud noise caused Tails to lose his footing and fall backwards. Almost by instinct, Tails rolled back into a ball before making impact with the ground, causing him to roll downhill.
By this point, Sonic resumed his raucous laughter, although not from tickling, but from his little bro’s comical clumsiness.
Splash!
Sonic stopped his laughter and immediately faced the nearby lake. At first, he only saw the patch of disturbed water, bubbles rising to the surface, but then an orange shape began bobbing up and down in the lake. Only the back of Tails’ head, his back, and his namesakes were visible as his seemingly lifeless body floated still in the deep blue water below.
“Tails!” Sonic exclaimed as he ran to save his little brother from drowning.
Sonic dove headfirst into the water mere feet from the lifeless fox. The blue hedgehog flapped his arms in the surprisingly deep waters for a few seconds before securely placing his hands on Tails’ shoulders, half-sunk below the water’s surface. It was at that moment the small kitsune’s propeller tails sprang to life, raising the fox above the water, leaving Sonic to fend for himself.
“Ho ho ho!” Tails bellowed, imitating the laugh of a certain evil mastermind while depicting a fake moustache with his finger. “It looks like I’ve finally got rid of that meddlesome hedgehog!”
Sonic, meanwhile, continued splashing about in the water, doing his best to keep his head from bobbing below the surface. After a few more laughs, Tails hovered close to the drowning hedgehog, extending an arm out to help his blue friend out of the lake. Sonic gladly accepted the assist, their hands locking together before Tails transported them both back to the safety of the oak tree.
Sonic laid flat on his back upon returning to dry land. Tails joined him, still laughing under his breath.
“I thought I was a goner for a second!” Sonic exclaimed, shifting his head to see his younger bro staring back.
“Yeah, but you should know that I’d never let you drown,” Tails replied with a hint of humorous sarcasm.
As Sonic and Tails’ laughter slowly started to die out, the two companions stared up at the clouds, allowing enough sunlight to naturally dry their wet fur from their lakeside escapade.
“You know, Sonic,” Tails began, placing his arms behind his head in a fashion not unlike Sonic. “Don’t you wish that everyday could be like this?”
“What d’ya mean, little buddy?”
“You know…just the two of us hanging out and having fun. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more at peace.”
Sonic looked over at his younger brother once more, all but confirming Tails’ current emotional state as he stared at the sky, a smile on his face, not a care in the world.  
“Ya know, Tails,” Sonic replied as he stood up from the refreshingly warm grass and lowered an arm in Tails’ direction. “As long as we keep Eggman at bay, what is there to stop us from always having fun?”
Tails thought to himself as he allowed Sonic to pull him up from the ground. “I guess nothing, now that I think about it.”
“Then it’s settled,” Sonic said, pressing his fist against the palm of his other hand. “We won’t allow anyone to stand in the way of our adventures, and if they do, they’ll have to answer to us!”
“You said it!” Tails replied, flashing a thumbs up that was quickly met with Sonic’s own mere moments later.
“Now let’s say we get ourselves home,” Sonic said, pointing back in the direction of their abode. “It’s almost time for lunch.”
Tails nodded in agreement. “Maybe after lunch I can get back to working on my latest project.”
“What about our party plans?” Sonic asked, as they both started walking towards the direction of their shared abode.
“To be honest,” Tails replied, “spending a nice, quiet afternoon in my workshop is as much excitement as I’ll ever need.”
Sharing a few more laughs, the brotherly duo enjoyed a brisk walk back to their cozy, mountainside home.
******
Spacious by design, Tails’ workshop, directly connected to his shared home, was an absolute paradise for any professional mechanic. Spanning several yards in all directions, and equipped with two floors, the well-organized space was full of workbenches, high-tech computers, complex tools, storage cabinets several times taller than Tails himself, and a host of spare parts, components, wheels, gadgets, widgets, doodads, and other advanced contraptions beyond the comprehension of most.
The mid-afternoon sun poured through an open window on the east side of the facility as the young kitsune sat at his messiest workbench, tinkering with a handheld device with one hand while taking a large bite out of his half-eaten chilidog with the other.
A droplet of sweat rolled down Tails’ forehead as he focused on meticulously taking apart the contraption, a ritual that he had repeated several times that afternoon alone.
“Maybe if I recalibrate the sensors, I’ll be able to get a reading,” Tails theorized to himself as he continued unscrewing components with his specialized multitool, his head bent over multiple work lamps.
“So this is the project, huh?” Sonic said from behind Tails’ chair. Sonic didn’t enter the workshop particularly quietly, but Tails was so involved in his work that he didn’t notice his big brother’s approaching steps.
“Woah!” Tails exclaimed. The surprise caused him to stand up with a jolt, only to hit his head on one of the overhead lamps. Rubbing the new bump on his noggin, Tails accidentally swiped the device and several loose components off the desk with his wandering tails. Reacting quickly, Sonic snagged the device and a few components before they could fall to the ground. The remaining pieces scattered around Tails’ chair, flipped over after his fright.
“Gosh, buddy…are you okay?” Sonic asked. He set the items he saved down on the table in order to properly inspect Tails’ head.
“Yeah…I think so,” Tails replied, moving his hand out of the way to allow the hedgehog to feel through the fur for any damage.
“It looks swollen already,” Sonic said, identifying the cranial bump. He looked down at his fingers to find a small amount of blood from Tails’ wound. “I’ll go and fetch a bandage and some cream,” he said, allowing the young fox a glimpse of his lightly bloodstained glove.
Before he could respond, though, Sonic was already gone, leaving a blue afterimage in his wake, before quickly returning with the items he promised: a square-shaped, sticky bandage and a small tube of antibiotic ointment.
“Thank you, Sonic,” Tails said in a somber voice, looking up at his big bro with wide eyes while Sonic applied the cream to the bruise.
“I shouldn’t be thanked at all,” Sonic replied, as he affixed the bandage to the bump. “After all, it was because of me that you got hurt in the first place.”
“But it was due to my clumsiness that I got startled over something so trivial,” Tails argued, always preferring to find fault with himself over others, especially when compared to Sonic. At this point, Tails was sitting back on his chair, looking down at Sonic’s shoes as the hedgehog eyed the fox with concern.
“Well, I gotta make it up to you somehow,” Sonic replied.
Still looking at the floor, Tails noticed his components scattered all around him. Ignoring his big brother’s offer, Tails got up and began picking up the pieces. Before he could grab the third component, however, Sonic dashed around the desk, swooping-up the pieces as he went, and placing them back onto Tails’ workbench.
“Heh heh, thanks Sonic,” Tails said, smiling while placing an arm behind his head. Sonic simply replied with a thumbs up.
Tails looked back at the device, resting undamaged near the pile of components. Tails got to work organizing the parts into smaller piles on the desk, giving at least some breathing room for the device so that he could better work on deconstructing it later.
“Mind if I help too?” Sonic asked.
“Well,” Tails replied. “I suppose organizing these components isn’t too difficult, so we can separate them out together.” Sonic rolled another chair over from a different workbench a few feet away and placed it next to his fox companion. He sat down, and they both got to work.
After a few minutes of meticulous organization, Sonic broke the silence.
“So, what’s the device you’ve been working on?” Sonic asked, eyeing the contraption that he saved from colliding with the floor moments ago.
“Oh,” Tails replied, just realizing that he never actually explained the project to Sonic. He picked it up and showed it to him. Its circular shape was covered by a glass screen, a small button resting at the top. It almost resembled a pocket watch, albeit larger and more technological looking.  
“Well, you see, Eggman hasn’t caused any mayhem for a while, right?” Tails said, as he set the contraption down on the desk again.  
“Right,” Sonic replied. “But what does that have to do with your project?”
“I’m getting to that,” Tails replied with a patient smile. “I fear that the good doctor may be up to no good, possibly trying to collect the Chaos Emeralds after they were scattered during our last showdown.”
“Oh yeah,” Sonic replied, thinking back to the last time they battled the evil mastermind. He remembered fighting one of the doctor’s large mechs before using the power of the emeralds to transform himself into Super Sonic, granting him a temporary boost in power that allowed the glowing, yellow hedgehog to fly and deal greater damage for a limited time.
At this point, Tails stood up from his chair once again and began pacing, fingers scratching his chin as his eyes looked down in thought.
“The process of re-collecting the emeralds is incredibly tedious,” Tails continued. “But what if we could track them down easily using a detector?”
After a few moments of pondering, Sonic replied, “That sounds like a brilliant idea, Tails!”
“Thank you very much,” Tails said, performing a humorous bow with his right arm against his belly as if he just concluded a theatrical show in front of a live audience. “But there is one problem that I’m unable to figure out.”
“Oh?” Sonic replied, stunned that his little brother encountered a mechanical quandary that he couldn’t solve with ease.
“Yeah,” Tails replied. “The issue is that I can’t get the detector to register the presence of the unique energy that emanates from the emeralds.”
“Huh,” Sonic replied, scratching his head. “If it’s any consolation, I probably could’ve taken out Eggman’s mech without the emeralds, so I probably shouldn’t have used them.”
“It’s fine, Sonic,” Tails replied, remembering how the mech had held him captive, unable to break free from the giant machine’s heavy grasp. He began to breath heavily as the memory of Super Sonic cutting through the thick arm of the robot and teleporting him to safety made him feel worthless, the self-loathing invading his thoughts once more. “I was the reason why you resorted to using the Chaos Emeralds in the first place,” Tails continued, a few tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
Sonic, unable to see his brother in pain, extended his arms. “It’s okay, Tails.”
Wiping the tears from his blurred vision, Tails saw Sonic approaching him for a hug. As soon as he entered into his brother’s embrace, his heart rate slowed and breathing eased.
Still choked up while hugging the blue hedgehog, Tails began to speak again.
“I figured that a device to help us gather them back up would make things right.”
“I’m sure this will make things easier,” Sonic replied, rubbing Tails’ back, “but don’t think for a second that it was your fault.”
Sonic ended the embrace, still holding onto Tails’ shoulders. His young companion sniffled a bit, looked down at the floor once again.
“Now how about you take a break from work and I prepare us some ice cream sundaes?” Sonic offered. This caught Tails’ attention.
“But it’s only three in the afternoon!” Tails countered, concerned about spoiling dinner.
“Okay, mother,” Sonic replied in a teasing voice, eliciting a playful shoulder punch from the orange kitsune, whose spirits appeared back on the upswing.
“Tell ya what,” Sonic offered. “I’ll prepare our treats while you finish cleaning up down here. Sound good?”
“Yes it does,” Tails replied with a smile, his eyes still slightly red from crying.
As Sonic left for the kitchen, Tails’ smile began to fade.
He stared intently at the semi-organized piles of components remaining on his workbench. He felt a little better, but the guilt, shame, and sense of incompetence were still ever-present in his mind.
Tails sighed as he returned to his workstation, sitting back down to continue the organizing that he and Sonic started.
“I’ll try my absolute hardest to make things right,” Tails said out loud to himself. “For the safety of my friends, and to prevent Eggman from gaining absolute power, we must prevail.”
I must prevail.
*****
Chapter 2
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dr-pepper-cherry · 4 years
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No Man’s Land & Boot Hill
No Man's Land
Far out from the stretches of Pentagram City, past jagged mountains and smaller communities, there lies a vast land that, from what can be understood, has never been touched by the hands of Hell's elite.
Or any hands, from the looks of it.
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Despite the grip that has held a majority of Hell in condos, businesses and other properties, this vast and empty desert has, for the most part, been left on it's own. Maybe because some believe that the desert is cursed as misfortune and suffering tend to strike any entrepreneurs that are foolish enough to start businesses here.
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Or maybe because many find it as little more than a barren wasteland and consider expanding out to a land with nothing of value to be completely pointless.
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Whatever the reason may be, this region of Hell is often left untouched and left for whoever would be crazy enough to wander under the permanently golden skies and through uncivilized lands.
Which is all the more reason for adventurers to explore a ignored world.
Whether the reason is to wander a land left untouched, to build a new community in the shroud of the sands or simply to hide away from debt collectors, these lands are open to whoever is willing to enter and attempt to survive all the way out in unfamiliar territory.
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Of course, survival out here is easier said than done.
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No cartographer has ever charted a map through the No Man's Land, often just marking it as a blotch on their maps. So essentially, anyone who ventures in is walking in blind.
While many of the dotted shacks and camps around the desert houses drifters and strangers, they also hold bandits and raiders, who are less willing to barter goods than they are to take it off any demon who was unlucky enough to catch their eyes.
And rumors of the No Man's Land curse may be true as anyone who travels in by car or plane are likely to be caught in what many have dubbed the Dust Devil Storm, a chaotic whirlwind of terrifying power that seems to follow anyone in said vehicles until it catches them in a neverending swarm of twisters and lightning.
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Not even the strongest or best equipped car, motorcycle or plane can enter too far into the desert without being swallowed by this monstrous storm and left to decay.
With such hazardous conditions and deadly outcomes, surely no one in their right mind would venture out here, would they?
Well, you'd be surprised.
Demons are a rather resilient and resourceful bunch, especially those who would travel through the No Man's Land.
While cars and other motor vehicles are forbidden from entering, other modes of transportation are viable, albeit slow. Horses, camels, wagons and chariots can venture into the desert without too much issue.
Pools of fresh water are surprisingly plentiful the farther you go, with rumors that there may be an oasis somewhere out there.
And, while rather scarce, towns, homesteads and other abodes of life do manage to stand on there own in the unending sands, whether from simple camps to full on towns.
And out in the desert, there is a town that has been considered the most safe and secure in the No Man's Land. While it may still be behind the times when compared to Pentagram City, people often smile when they approach the gate to the town, marked by the name resting on the gate.
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Boot Hill
A welcoming sight from the sands that have kept this town safe, Boot Hill is a vast improvement from the other towns of the wasteland an adventurer can encounter. For one, it's an actual town.
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Boot Hill has a bit of everything to help replenish, refill and reload whatever your worries be. The Hammer & Nail Smithy for those who seek to fix or upgrade their weapons and gear which also sells some firearms on the side, The Diamondback clothing and leather shop for all your sewing, repairing and prepping needs, the General Goods store for those who need better tools and supplies, The two-story Hugnkiss Hotel for rest, relaxing and "other" pleasures, Ma's Restaurant & Bakery for filling food and delectable pastries, and The American Venom saloon, stocked full to the brim with the best drinks this side of the No Man's Land. Along with the Canyon Runner Post and Telegraph Office, the First National Boot Hill Bank, Dr. Mortimer's Hospital and Mortician Office, the county jail and about fifteen different homes for the residents, it's a taste of a civilization that many desperately miss.
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But with all the comforts of home living and plenty of supplies to spare, it does drive a question to any who venture in: Why hasn't Boot Hill been raided by bandits? Surely their numbers outweigh the residents and could easily take over or attack, couldn't they?
Well, they probably could. If it wasn't for the townspeople and not just Sheriff Henry Plummer and his many deputies who once made the Innocents gang.
Boot Hill is run entirely by the infamous gunslingers of the past, all of which are proficient with a pistol. From Ned Kelly, who still has his famous iron armor hanging on the wall of The Hammer & Nail Smithy, to Billy The Kid, who became the fastest courier of the Canyon Runner Post Office. From Johnny Harlan, who brings his unnatural speed to serving drinks at his American Venom saloon, to even the Dalton brothers, who now run the bank instead of rob it.
But why would they take to this newfound life and away from all the action, you may ask?
Some stick to Boot Hill out of necessity, whether to stay out of sight and mind of bounty hunters or revenge seekers. Some out of disdain for the modern era, with complex technology and infuriating slang threatening their line of work. But most have came to Boot Hill because they have retired from the lifestyle. Whether it was out of tiredness of having to fight every greenhorn with an ego looking to prove themselves or out of paranoia of a knife to their back, they have chosen to hang up their holsters and attempt to make with a regular life.
But just because they have retired doesn't mean they won't go for their gun if provoked. They may be a little rusty, but they still got the know how and talents that got them here in the first place.
Boot Hill is place where the gunslingers of the past take to, free from the influence of the city and to live a relatively peacefulness in a town they are familiar with.
And they aim to keep it that way.
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I own none of the artwork or pictures.
This was written to add more locations and areas outside of Pentagram City.
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